A law to herself

Chapter two

Hermione was as mad as hell, and she wasn’t going to take it lying down. Instead of going to Transfiguration – under the circumstances she didn’t think Professor McGonagall would mind, and, under the circumstance, she really didn’t give a shit if she did mind - she headed up the Astronomy Tower for some fresh air to clear her head, because only a clear head was going to get her out of this mess.

The boys had wanted to come with her but had accepted her excuse that she didn’t want them to get into any trouble. She thought she could get away with bunking off a class this afternoon – the teachers were unlikely to give her anything other than pitying looks – but they might not be so fortunate. She also wanted some time to herself to try to absorb the news, before she tried to think of some way out of this bloody mess.

What she wanted to do was wallow in self-pity and misery for a couple of hours, in an attempt to get it out of her system, without having to worry about putting a brave face on for the boys. She knew they were worried – she was worried – but they would be even more worried if they realised how close she was to just sitting down and giving up.

She’d barely had an opportunity to begin to feel sorry for herself when a familiar voice came from behind her: “The future Mrs Malfoy.”

Draco lounged against the doorway in a pose that he fondly imagined made him look indolent and stylish, but which Hermione, more accurately, thought made him look like a complete twat.

“What do you want?” she snarled. It appeared that, not content with ruining her life, he had come to gloat as well.

“I thought it might be a good idea if we had a little talk; I take it from your outburst this morning that you don’t want to marry me?”

He seemed - uneasy – was the only word that Hermione could think of; and that was odd. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had seen Draco look anything other than supercilious and superior, and they had all occurred during the final battle.

“I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man in the world,” she snapped.

If anything, he seemed pleased by her answer. He moved cautiously over to her. He propped his back against the tower wall and slid down until he was sat at her feet. “You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world,” he said quietly.

Hermione looked at him carefully, he seemed sincere, but he was a Malfoy; could he be trusted? She copied him and sat down. They eyed each other across the space between them, trying to work out each others intentions.

“So,” she sneered, “a mudblood not good enough for you?” It was the obvious reason for being opposed to marriage.

He looked offended for a moment, and then he seemed to resign himself to the suggestion of bigotry. “I can see why you’d think that, but that’s not it at all, I promise.” He sighed heavily. “I - like - Pansy,” he said. “If this stupid law hadn’t come along, we’d be getting married soon, but Dad’s got to be careful these days and toe the line, so I’ve got to marry a mu-muggleborn. And if I’ve got to marry a muggleborn, he thinks I ought to have the best muggleborn in the school.”

Hermione digested that in silence. Draco fumbled inside his robes and brought out a flask, and offered it to her. “Drink?”

She took it gingerly. “Lust potion?”

“Brandy. You look like you could do with it.”

She sniffed at it, and then took a swig. She choked on the burning liquid, and tears came to her eyes. She wiped them on the sleeve of her robe, and then handed it back. “Thanks; I think.”

Draco took a swig himself, but managed not to choke. “So you’re sure you don’t want to marry me?”

“Certain. Why on earth would you think that I would?” she said, amazed that he could think such a thing.

“Money; power; good looks; charm.”

“I’m not interest in money,” she said. “And I’ve never noticed you being charming to me in the past; I don’t see why marriage would change that.” He passed back the flask; she took another gulp before adding. “Anyway, Muggles marry for love.”

“Lucky muggles.”

Hermione was beginning to feel a little lightheaded. She hadn’t had a lot of breakfast and she wasn’t used to drinking anything more than a couple of glasses of wine with a meal.
The Brandy seemed less of a shock, the more you drank: the first mouthful had felt like liquid fire; the second was only slightly warming. By now her throat was numb.

Draco watched in admiration as Hermione knocked back Brandy as if it was water; it didn’t seem to affect her ability to ask awkward questions in any way.

“So why don’t you tell your Dad you don’t want to marry me.”

“’Snot that easy,” he said, shaking his head. It was his turn for a drink; he didn’t think she’d ever hand the flask back. He took a couple of long pulls at the flask – to catch up with Hermione – and then held it out to her again. Her need, he supposed, was greater than his. She certainly seemed to think so. “Here, s’your go.”

She took a long swig - “Why not?” - then another. She was definitely feeling light headed. She wasn’t sure whether Draco was slurring his words, or her hearing was at fault, but he wasn’t making a lot of sense. Something about Dad liking to get his own way, only being afraid of Professor Snape and his mum, Dad only wanting the best for him and buying him the best broomstick, and all the convoluted political advantages to marrying her.

She wasn’t sure she was happy with being compared to the best broomstick, even leaving aside the obvious jokes about being a good ride; actually, she was damned certain she wasn’t happy being compared with any object. She was a person, even if the law didn’t recognise her as one.

She cut through his burbling with a simple question: “So you’re not going to do anything about it then?”

Draco didn’t appreciate being interrupted at the best of times, and he certainly didn’t like being interrupted when he was in full flow of feeling sorry for himself. “If you’re so clever, why don’t you find some way out of it?” he snapped.

“I will,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I bloody well will. I’m not being treated like a sodding brood mare by a bunch of Victorian old farts.”

Their not-quite-camaraderie was disturbed by the silky tones of Professor Snape himself. “Tut, tut. What will Professor McGonagall say, Miss Granger when shnds nds out that her favourite student is skipping classes and indulging in a drunken debauch? You really could have waited to celebrate your nuptials until after classes. You could be expelled for this you silly girl.”

“Expulsion is the least of my problems,” she said, speaking very clearly. Was that sympathy she saw?

“Whatever your problems, Miss Granger, drinking is not the solution to them.” That was sympathy; she had never heard him speak so gently to anyone, let alone a Gryffindor.

He seemed to be getting further away though, but she had the urge to say something, although she couldn’t express herself as clearly as she had hoped. “Severus,” she said, “I’m not a Cleansweep 2000.” She then promptly passed out.

Draco eyed Professor Snape warily. “Aren’t you going to deduct points?”

“What?” His eyes focussed abruptly on Draco. “It wouldn’t be any fun if she was unconscious, would it. Help me get her to the infirmary. She’ll need to sleep this off in peace and quiet.”

Hermione was surprised when she woke up to find herself in the infirmary. She was pleasantly surprised to find that she had none of the symptoms that, according to the tales told by the boys, should follow drinking heavily: no pounding head, and no feeling sick although her tongue did feel a bit sticky.

She opened a wary eye; immediately opposite her on the bedside table was a little blue bottle. Hangover potion, she thought, but who was responsible for administering it? She didn’t think it was one of the standard remedies Madam Pomfrey kept on hand. It could only be Professor Snape then. There was something nagging her, something in the back of her mind, something to do with Severus – she sat bolt upright.

There he was, sat in a chair next to her, looking at her with an expression that she would have called concern if it had been on Harry’s or Ron’s face.

“Shit!” she said. “I called you Severus.”

“I find it interesting that, of the many transgressions you committed this morning, that is the one that causes you most concern.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m going to get expelled for drinking or skipping a lesson, not under the circumstances; but I do think you’re likely to make my life a living hell for using your first name. More of a living hell,” she corrected, adding even more sourly, “If that’s possible.”

“There are worse things in life than being married to a Malfoy.”

“Name three,” she said.

He looked vaguely amused, which did nothing to improve her mood. It was bad enough being in this situation, without providing amusement for other people as well.

She glared at him and continued, “It’s not the being married to a Malfoy that’s the problem anyway. Malfoy Manor is big enough, I suppose; we could probably manage to avoid each other for most of the day, like, like, Mr Collins and his wife. It’s the breeding that I object to.”

“I thought all women loved babies.”

“They don’t,” she said shortly, “Particularly when they are forced into producing them. I hadn’t planned to have children until I was at least 30, if at all. I had plans; I was going to have a career, travel, have fun, not be tied by the foot by some squalling brat.”

Snape had some sympathy for that view; he wasn’t very fond of children himself. He had always been told that it was different with your own, and that what seemed annoying and irrita in in other people’s children became merely amusing and endearing in one’s own. It seemed a hell of a risk to take, relying on that being true. It wasn’t as if you could have a child on sale or return and send it back if you didn’t like it.

Severus’s response was forestalled by bus bustling arrival of Madam Pomfrey. “I’m glad to see you feeling better, Miss Granger, though it’s really no more than you deserved. I really expected better of you.”

“If you can’t have a drink to celebrate your impending engagement, when can you?” snarled Hermione.

Madam Pomfrey put a hand to her throat. “No,” she said, “not you as well.”

Hermione nodded, suddenly overcome with tears. She sniffed hard, determined not to break down. Any snivelling was to be done strictly in private, or, if pushed, in the company of the boys; she had to be strong to get through this, because she was going to get through this. At least Draco seemed to be reasonable about the whole business, if rather weak-willed; he wouldn’t be any help in standing up to his father, but neither would he be taking his side.

Perhaps an accommodation could be reached with the Malfoys? For all the need to be seen to go along with this law, Lucius couldn’t be happy at the thought of little half-mudbloods dangling from his family tree. And if anyone could find a way to bend the Ministry to his will, it was Lucius. If he could be persuaded to accept the political advantages to the marriage without any of the disadvantages of children, they might be able to get by until the law was repealed. She refused to believe that the law would not be repealed; it had to be.

She’d need a very long spoon.

“Professor,” she said, trying to keep desperation from her voice, “Could I have a word with you later about the Malfoys.”

Both Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey looked surprised.

“What do you want to know?” replied Severus.

“I’m wondering whether we could reach some sort of agreement about the marriage, an accommodation of some kind that suits both of us.”

Professor Snape’s lips twitched, almost as if he wanted to smile. “I would be delighted to help you, Miss Granger.” He was mildly impressed that the thought had even crossed her mind; she’d obviously learned that there were advantages to a slightly more subtle approach than storming into Malfoy Manor and threatening to hex Lucius’s balls off if he didn’t withdraw the contract.

Not that it wouldn’t have been fun to watch; perhaps she would have allowed him to go with her, if only to hold her cloak.

“I’m afraid it won’t help, for once the Malfoys are as trapped as the rest of us,” said Madam Pomfrey. She looked round nervously, and then moved closer to Hermione. Dropping her voice, she said, “My sister works for the Ministry. Any marriage under the law requires you to sign a special Marriage Contract. It enforces the woman’s chastity, but not the man’s, because after all that doesn’t matter does it.” If anything Madam Pomfrey’s tone was even more bitter than Hermione’s had been.

“I can live with that,” said Hermione firmly.

“That’s not all.” Madam Pomfrey swallowed nervously before continuing. “The contract enforces sexual … congress… between the parties once a month, at a time when the female is most … fertile. It also prohibits the use of contraceptives. You’d probably be pregnant within six months. You get fourteen weeks to recover after the birth, before the whole process begins again. It’s monstrous.”

Hermione’s fingers plucked at the bedcovers. She turned an ashen face to the kindly witch, who looked almost as shaken as if she’d received an offer of marriage from a Malfoy herself. “It’s worse than I thought. There must be some way … I refuse … I will not do this.”

“That’s bordering on the Dark Arts,” Snape said, matching Poppy’s hushed tones. “Why isn’t someone making a fuss about this? That Skeeter woman, for instance? If people knew they’d be up in arms.”

“There’s a secrecy charm on the contract that prevents the couples from talking about it.” A sudden noise made Madam Pomfrey jump; someone had entered the infirmary. “I hope you’re feeling a little better, Miss Granger. I suspect you fainted because you didn’t eat enough breakfast, but I don’t think you should go to lessons today, and should take it easy.”

Snape snatched the bottle of Hangover potion, and stuffed it into a pocket. Now, there was no evidence of her first, and only, drinking binge.

Her sense of relief when she saw the kindly face of the Headmaster faded when she saw the look on Madam Pomfrey’s face. Something was wrong; time to play stupid, until she found out exactly what was going on.

“Ah there you are, young Hermione. I’d heard you’d been taken ill, and thought I’d just drop in to see how you are.”

“I’m fine, thank you Headmaster.”

“There’s no need to be brave, Hermione. You’ve had a terrible shock and you need some peace and quiet in which to recover. I shall have to ask you to leave, Headmaster,” said Madam Pomfrey. Hermione was wondering why the normally calm and placid Mediwitch was so determined to prevent the Headmaster from talking to her.

It seemed that Dumbledore was as determined as Madam Pomfrey. “I’m sure Hermione is strong enough for me to have a little chat with her. In private, if you please.”

Snape and Madam Pomfrey had no choice but to leave in the face of that directive, but she didn’t leave without firing off one last warning. “I warn you Headmaster, Miss Granger may appear to be recovering but she is in no condition to cope with any more shocks.”

Hermione was becoming more than a little worried by Madam Pomfrey’s insistence that she wasn’t up to hearing whatever it was that the Headmaster wanted to tell her. Whatever it was, it didn’t appear to be good news. She had thought that things couldn’t get worse; she hoped that was still true. The The Headmaster settled himself comfortably in the chair recently occupied by Professor Snape, and beamed at her. His cheerful expression was doing nothing to calm her; she had noticed in the past, that the more twinkling and happy he seemed the worse the news he was about to deliver. She had a nasty feeling it would be a request to marry Draco and keep an eye on Lucius for him, just to make sure that his return to the fold of Wizarding society wasn’t a blind.

She didn’t think she could afford to make that kind of promise; in fact, the best thing she could do is promise Lucius to do precisely the opposite. He wouldn’t be happy with a potential spy in the family at all, and he probably had a thousand and one very nasty ways of communicating that displeasure to her.

The one good thing about dealing with Slytherins is that they didn’t expect you to be noble and self-sacrificing; they preferred other people to be the sacrifice.

She only hoped Dumbledore wasn’t going to burst into tears; no one could say that he stopped short of emotional blackmail to get his own way. During the later stages of the war, Harry had taken to carrying a handkerchief with him for all meetings with the Headmaster – just in case.

“Now, dersderstand that Mr Malfoy has made an offer of marriage to you on behalf of his sone, and that offer is unwelcome.”

Hermione bit her tongue; pointing out that calling someone a whey-faced ferret wasn’t a traditional method of accepting a proposal wasn’t going to help anyone. Particularly if he had come up with a way for her to avoid the whole bloody mess – perhaps going to Beauxbatons, maybe he had connections that he could use to get her a job there. She’d never wanted to go into teaching, but it was certainly better than being married.

Just about. There would still be children involved, but at least they would be out of nappies.

“Yes, Headmaster,” she said dutifully.

“I can understand your reluctance to consider marrying a Malfoy; his rejection of Voldemort did seem a little convenient didn’t it?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” she said, with a slight smile.

“Call me Albus, dear.”

“I couldn’t do that Headmaster,” she said, horrified. “That wouldn’t be respectful.”

He patted her hand soothingly. “That’s all right Hermione; you don’t mind if I call you Hermione, do you?”

She shook her head; what other response could she give? But she carefully removed her hands from under his and tucked them safely under the blankets. Where was her wand when she needed it? He was beginning to worry her.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about the law, we can only deal with its consequences as best we can. I’m sure you can understand that the increase in squibs and stillborns is a dreadful problem, and that something needs to be done about it, no matter how difficult it is for you personally.”

It didn’t sound as if the Headmaster was going to have anything useful to suggest; she was just going to be treated to a mouthful of platitudes on the theme of the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few. ‘You try having the babies then’, she thought, determined look through the Restricted Section to see if there was a potion that could create a male pregnancy. She was fairly certain that if men were required to get pregnant their opinion would change very quickly.

Dumbledore continued, unaware of the seething resentment his words were generating. “But I have come to you to make a suggestion that, while unorthodox, might at least make the whole process less of an ordeal.”

Oh fuck.

“Obviously Malfoy is an unsuitable choice. My fellow Order members agree that it would allow too much power and influence to fall into his hands.”

That was big of them, looking after her interests like that.

“We think it would be better if you were to marry someone who is a respected member of Wizarding Society; whose role in bringing down Lord Voldermort is well known, and who could protect you from the attentions of the more dubious elements in our society. Somebody mature ….”

Hermione filtered out the rest of the droning. He couldn’t be suggesting himself, could he? Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, wasn’t taking advantage of this obscene law to make an offer of marriage to one of his students because he wanted a little halfblood of his own.

Dear god; she supposed she should be grateful that Filch, as a squib, was debarred from making an offer. At this rate, the bastards would be queuing up round the block to marry her.

She realised that the Headmaster was looking at her expectantly, having finished dropping hints the size of elephants about his suitability as a husband. He hadn’t even had the courtesy to actually come out in the open about it; she was supposed to fill in the blanks herself and then fall on her knees in gratitude at being saved from a fate worse than death.

Sod that for a game of soldiers.

“A mature man?” she said pensively.

The Headmaster nodded.

“Someone who could protect me from the Malfoys?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Someone respected as a result of the war?”

The Headmaster attempted to look modest.

“It would be such a sacrifice on his part.”

He wasn’t succeeding.

“I mean, marriage to a pupil; just to protect me from the Malfoys. How selfless, how noble, how truly Gryffindor of him.”

Now he’d started to preen.

“But do you think he would agree?” she asked.

“He?” Confusion was written across his face.

“Professor Snape. That is who you meant isn’t it, sir?”