Hermione stared at the bright red seal of wax on the envelope in front of her. She’d done every charm she could think of to check its authenticity and they all came back the same– it was an official missive from the Ministry of Magic. She still couldn’t believe it. She’d heard whispers of the Marriage Law, of course. There’d even been an expose about it in the Daily Prophet, but the Daily Prophet didn’t work in truths–they worked in scandals. They hadn’t told the complete truth in any article during her time as a student, and it hadn’t changed in the last seven years after the War. Why should she have believed it now?
Even when some of the people around her started marrying quickly, she chalked it up to a seven year itch of sorts. After all, with Magical Britain finally in a place of stability, why shouldn’t more people start getting married? And if she was a bit surprised, well, she would be the first to admit she’d been caught up in project after project after the War. First, it had been ensuring every “criminal” was released from Azkaban. Second, she completed her eighth year at Hogwarts. Following that, there’d been a stream of activity–trying to find her parents, removing the curse from her arm, a three year stint working for Gringotts, writing the legislation to provide better working conditions for house elves, and finally, settling into a trade.
She hadn’t been able to find her parents. It wasn’t until she’d settled in apprenticing with Mr. Ollivander, Garrick, that she began working through that grief. Wand woods, wand cores, and the like, they were sensitive to everything, especially the emotions of the one working with them. She’d had to learn to be brutally honest about what she felt and letting herself feel it after years of pushing it away for later. It seemed it was finally later. Poor Garrick had seen her ugly crying far more than even Ron and Harry at this point.
So, as she stared at the envelope, she could be completely honest about how she was feeling. Disbelief was still chief among her emotions, desperately clinging to the idea that this was a Weasley prank of the highest order. They’d been experimenting with prank Howlers, hadn’t they? Surely the Ministry wasn’t stupid enough to pass a Marriage Law? Not when the people were finally beginning to trust them again? The next was betrayal. How could the Ministry do this? After everything her generation had sacrificed and experienced, the Ministry expected them to just brush it off and start popping out children? Rubbish, absolute rubbish. On top of that, why didn’t Harry or Ron sit her down and explain that the Law was a real concern? Then, of course, came the anger. It churned inside of her and she could feel her magic reacting, settling on her skin in a glimmering display of power. She snatched the offending envelope up and apparated.
Kingsley’s office was almost exactly the same as it had when she’d spent hours there working on the House Elf Legislation for Protection or H.E.L.P. She didn’t compliment the new paint color, instead slamming the envelope in front of him and knocking over his inkwell.
“I object!” she hissed, her hair crackling with magic.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were going to be here,” Kingsley said evenly, Vanishing the ink. “You’re not my scheduled appointment, Hermione. How did you get past Percy?”
“Percy Weasley and I have enough history that he’s learned when to duck and cover,” Hermione stated primly.
“I must admit I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before now,” Kingsley admitted.
“Because I didn’t think the Ministry was stupid enough to actually do this! I thought the twins were pranking me!”
“My hands are tied,” he sighed, “I still haven’t figured out how the legislation actually passed. There had to be bribery of some sort”
“They matched me with Blaise Zabini,” Hermione scowled, “Even I know he’s desperately in love with Pansy Parkinson. He swore on his life and magic to wait six years to give Pansy time to heal before marrying her. Do you know when that six years is up? The day after we’re meant to be married! I have a week to figure something out!”
Kingsley simply grimaced in sympathy.
Hermione bristled. She snatched up her letter and leaned over the desk. Her voice was deadly when she spoke. “Mark my words, I will tear the Ministry of Magic to the ground and root out the vestiges of prejudice that you have allowed to exist.”
Kingsley winced. “Good luck with that, Hermione.”
Hermione left.
Three days passed. Three days of figuring out why her friends hadn’t sat her down (we thought you had some wicked secret plan set up, do you mean you’re not actually secretly married to Krum? Granger my fine associate and I–too right, Gred, I am very fine, top quality–we thought you were planning a coup and were awaiting our orders).Three days of writing Zabini without receiving an answer. Three days of planning both for her “marriage” and the complete obliteration of the Ministry of Magic. It was driving her mad. She and Zabini only had 4 more days to get married.
On day four, she changed tactics and wrote to Pansy instead. She finally got a response.
Granger,
Lunch at the Poisoned Apple. 1 pm.
Hermione read it again three times before she actually believed it. Her disbelief didn’t stem from the fact that Pansy answered, but that she’d invited her to the Poisoned Apple. One had to be a legacy, and almost always pure-blooded to be granted unlimited access to the Apple, and Hermione was neither, but Pansy most certainly was. It was with a healthy dose of trepidation that she met her there.
Pansy was waiting in the vestibule. She was paler than Hermione had ever seen her. Hermione stood uneasily as Pansy’s eyes raked over her. While she was used to Parkinson’s judgment, this felt like something else entirely, because this was a matter of the heart, and Hermione had witnessed time and time again what love could do. Love created Tom Riddle, lack of love created Lord Voldemort, and Lily and Harry Potter’s selfless love saved them all.
“Shall we?” Pansy asked, her voice rougher than usual.
“I’ll follow your lead,” Hermione answered demurely.
Pansy arched an incredulous brow, but otherwise said nothing as she led Hermione inside. The host sat them without much trouble in a secluded spot in the dining room.
Once they’d ordered, Pansy spoke again. “Well?”
Hermione appreciated getting to the point..
“I’m sure you know Blaise and I were matched. Just as I know how you and Blaise feel about each other, unless you’ve both been rather successfully tricking everyone. We’ve all lost enough, and frankly, I’m not going to be responsible for ruining your happiness.”
“Have you found an alternate match?” Pansy asked cautiously.
Hermione frowned, “No. Unfortunately not.”
Pansy’s face shuttered. “Then what is the point of this meeting? To pass along a message to Blaise?”
“Actually, I’m presenting a solution to the both of you. If I have my way, none of us are going to Azkaban, you and Blaise can be happy, and I can stage a bloodless revolution.”
Pansy looked intrigued. “Oh?”
Hermione pulled out a palm sized scroll and wandlessly enlarged it. “I’ve spent the last three days learning absolutely everything I could about the spells involved in making sure the Marriage Law is enforced. They’re utterly ancient and complex. They can’t be broken, but they can be stretched. For example, Blaise and I must be tied in the bonds of marriage by midnight Sunday night. But tied in the bonds of marriage doesn’t mean completely married, it means we have to have the handfasting started by midnight.”
“You can’t break a magical handfasting once it’s started,” Pansy pointed out frostily
“You haven’t let me finish,” Hermione explained, gesticulating toward the scroll.
“Granger, I can read Medieval Trollish better than I can whatever you have on that scroll.”
Was that a joke? From Pansy Parkinson?
“I was in a bit of a hurry,” Hermione responded sheepishly. “But to continue my explanation, I know the handfasting can’t be interrupted. However, if Blaise and I start the handfasting aspect of the ceremony at say 11: 59, we satisfy the Marriage Law, and then at 12:01, Blaise could start his vows to you.”
“What?” Pansy asked incredulously.
Hermione felt her face redden a little. “I’ve been through countless calculations, and the only way I can see this working without one of us ending up dead or in Azkaban is if the three of us bond. Three is a very magical number, as you know. It would give the bond more stability and protection. If one of us were hurt or injured, we would have a bigger pool of magic to draw on. I don’t plan on being a needy partner. I only ask for respect, a little bit of space to call my own, and access to a good library. I’m even willing to sign a marriage contract stating that I don’t want any of your money or inheritances if need be. As for children, my set of children,” Hermione grimaced at the phrasing, “could come from a fertility ritual.
“I only ask that they’re treated equally with any of you and Blaise’s children. I, of course, would be more than happy to treat any of your children as my own. I’ll admit, especially growing up in the Muggle world, that a triadic marriage isn’t something I thought I’d ever consider or end up in, but I can’t think of a better way to do this and, frankly, I think it will be a lot easier to parent four children under the age of ten with three parents instead of two. Especially, considering I’m still doing my apprenticeship. I don’t ever want any child to feel like they’re an afterthought. I recognize I have many habits I’ll have to change when the time comes, and I’m terrified of what kind of parent I’m going to be, but I want to give them my best. It’s easier to be my best with support. Besides, I imagine after what we’ve seen, we’re all going to have our bad days.”
“I wanted to give your best friend to Voldemort,” Pansy stated, her eyes intense.
Hermione nodded. “You did. You’ve also made fun of me, called me horrible names, and hexed me. You might have even wished me dead and meant it. Blaise wasn’t any better. But the fact of the matter is that we were children raised in the crucible of war. We never had a year without some death or danger. You were raised to believe in certain traditions and values, and so was I. I’ll admit it took me years to stop thinking like a Muggle with magic. There isn’t a Wizarding culture class at Hogwarts, you know. And you lot were quite awful, thanks to your parents, but I suppose after over sixty years of various wars and attempts at rebuilding, it’s nearly impossible for prejudice not to thrive. Especially with the threat the Muggle World Wars brought to everyone. But we can’t go through it again. Not us, not our children, not our children’s children. We have to change, Park–Pansy. We have to be better. And if being better starts with marrying you and Blaise, and raising fantastically smart and beautiful children that know they’re loved and know their history more deeply than any of us ever did, well, I’m willing.”
Pansy was strangely silent, looking at her as if she’d never seen her before. Hermione resisted the urge to squirm under her gaze. Finally, the other witch seemed to recover.
“No talk of overthrowing the government?” Pansy quipped.
Hermione relaxed a little. “That’s a given.”
Pansy took a drink of her tea. “You’re not anything I expected you to be. I was planning on poisoning you.”
Hermione sighed, “I expected you might. I brought a bezoar. Then again, I’ve carried a bezoar since sixth year. You’d be surprised at the amount of times Harry or I’ve had to shove one down Ron’s throat due to his eating habits.”
Pansy threw her head back and laughed.
It was a sound Hermione had never heard before, not like this. As she watched, Pansy’s skin began to twitch and bubble. Hermione instinctively grabbed for her wand before remembering they’d checked them at the door. She was torn between running and discovering exactly who she’d been talking to. She had to remind herself that the Poisoned Apple was a neutral zone of sorts. When ‘Pansy’ stopped laughing and looked at Hermione again, Hermione’s breath caught in her chest. She was face to face with Contessa Helen Zabini– the Black Widow of the Wizarding world and Blaise’s mother.
“Polyjuice?” Hermione confirmed.
“An easy ruse,” the witch confirmed. “You’ll do.”
“Pardon me?”.
“You’ll do,” the witch repeated with a smirk, “I will speak to Blaise and Pansy and sort some details out. Expect my owl no later than sundown tomorrow.”
Their meals appeared in front of them already wrapped for take away. It took everything in Hermione not to gape like a fool.
“I will see you at the wedding, Hermione Granger. I look forward to furthering our relationship.”
It took Hermione fifteen minutes to gather herself together after the Contessa left. She retrieved her wand from the gracious host and left, rubbing the Bezoar in her pocket. She didn’t bother sucking on it. The Contessa, if the rumors were true, knew too many poisons anyway. Best to just go back to planning for revolution and her wedding.