Part 5
Part 5:
“I don’t know, Hermione.” Harry said, flipping back through the filled out copy of her packet for the third time. “I mean, this isn’t like getting assigned a partner for a year of potions class, this is forever, or at least until the law is repealed. Is a questionnaire really the way to go?” They were sitting at the kitchen table, open take away containers steaming between them, neither of them bothering to eat. Ginny had a late practice, so Hermione had thought it was her only opportunity to show Harry the packet without Ginny. In honesty, Hermione had been avoiding Ginny for the better part of three days, hiding in the bedroom until she heard them leave in the morning, and staying late in the medical library at St. Mungos under the guise of some fake research on some non-existent magical malady. She just couldn’t bring herself to face her friend, not when she knew Ginny would start listing off purebloods she still had time to contact. She was tempted to just mail off the forms before Ginny could say a word, after all, they were due end of the day tomorrow anyway. What could really be done in a day?
“I know it’s not a potions partner.” Hermione said, “But I also don’t think there’s much difference between me picking someone I barely knew at Hogwarts or the ministry picking them. Besides, they’ll have all this info on my partner so maybe they’ll do a better job anyway.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing.
“Ginny thinks –”
“I know what Ginny thinks.” Hermione interrupted. “But I want to know what you think.
Should I send this in, or should I let Ginny try and find me a match?” He furrowed up his brows as he looked through the pages again, just like he used to back in their Hogwarts years as he struggled over a difficult passage in a textbook. The day the blue envelopes had arrived, Hermione had waited for Ginny and Harry to rip theirs open like she had, to read through all the matching questions and comment on which ones were the most personal for the Ministry to be asking. She waited for them to ask her what she was going to do. But they didn’t. They sat around at dinner, pointedly not talking about the packets. But the next morning, after they had left and Hermione had slunk down the stairs, guilty from hiding, she found that the envelopes had been opened, the blue shells empty on the entryway table, a wet quill beside them and two stacks of the questionnaire pages laying face down to the side. She imagined them standing there, just minutes before, running late as they hastily passed the quill back and forth so they could each write each other's name in the noted spot. She wondered if they’d even bothered to read through the questions, it wouldn’t matter to them anyway.
It was the first moment she’d realized how bitter she was becoming. How angry she was that Ginny and Harry didn’t have to bother even reading closely. Every time, over the next days, when she thought about asking Ginny’s opinion, imagined that pitying look she’d given her the night she brought up writing to Ron, that bitterness seemed to rise, filling her throat and coating her tongue. And now, here she was, down to the wire, still trapped in the indecision of it all.
“I want you to do what you want to do.” Harry said after setting the packet down. “I know that’s a non-answer, but I mean it. If you think that picking out the guy yourself will make the transition easier, then let’s find you someone. I know Ginny has an actual list she made. But, if you think that picking someone yourself may only make it worse if you end up hating each other, then I say let the Ministry pick. That way, if it goes bad, you’ll know it wasn’t your fault.” If it goes bad. That was an angle Hermione hadn’t spent much time considering. She had been more focused on what “married” life would look like with any of the guys she knew. But Harry had a point, she should be thinking about what would happen if she got matched with someone terrible, or someone that wanted more from her than she was willing to give, or someone so in love with someone else it made living with him unbearable. If it went bad, and she had to resort to leaving Britain or giving up her wand, would she be more angry if she had handpicked the man or if she’d allowed the Ministry to.
She wondered if fear was a larger factor than she was giving it credit for. The fear of rejection again, while the Ron wound hadn’t yet scabbed. And, hand in hand, the fear of not finding anyone, of confirming that she had already found the one person for her and they’d ruined it. And maybe it was that fear, instead of logic. But either way, she took the pages from where Harry had set them on the table, and folded them back over, so they’d fit into an envelope.
“I want to use the matching.” Hermione said, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “Or at least, I want it more than I want any of the other options.”
“Then that’s what I want you to do.” Harry said, and for once, she was glad that Harry never seemed to give his own opinion. That’s why she’d decided to share with him instead of Ginny, after all. While Harry was awkward when it came to heavy feelings or deep discussions, he was always ready to agree with whatever everyone else decided. Ginny, on the other hand, was fiercely loyal but also unmoving in her opinions. Hermione, in this moment, as she slipped the pages into the pre-addressed envelope included in the package, needed someone on her side without any other agendas. Harry fit that bill.
Once the envelope was sealed and set back on the table, without another word about it, Harry plunged his fork into the still steaming plastic container of chicken, humming as he ate his first bite. Hermione didn’t have it in her to do much more talking, so after filling her plate, she asked a few carefully worded questions about a quidditch game she hadn’t bothered to watch, and then let Harry rant about overzealous beaters for the rest of the meal. He didn’t seem to notice her silence, or if he did he was polite enough not to push. Later though, as he was packing the leftovers into the fridge, Hermione lingered in the doorway, envelope clutched in her hands.
“Harry?” She asked, her voice coming out far more hesitant than she expected.
“Mmm?” He said, not turning from where he was trying to fit the last of the rice in between the milk and the eggs.
“Has…” She swallowed. “Has Ron mentioned to you if he’s mailed in his packet yet?” She hoped Harry wasn’t in tune enough with her to hear the frayed hope in her voice, that tiny, sad part of her that wanted (even then) for Ron to show up on the doorstep and profess his love and apologies. Harry turned, then, leaning against the closed fridge door.
“Oh, yeah. He mailed it in Thursday. Said, he didn’t want to wait and forget about it.” Thursday. That was the morning after they’d gotten the packets. He’d barely spent anytime thinking about it. Anger rolled along Hermione’s spine, lodging in her throat. He hadn’t even considered talking to her or writing to her before he mailed in his packet? She’d spent days agonizing over it before ultimately choosing not to reach out, he didn’t even wait an entire day! She wanted to scream. But Harry was watching her, eyebrows furrowed again. So she fought it down, like swallowing bile, and nodded.
“Okay. I just wanted to know.” And turned towards the hall before he could see the shimmer of tears. As she escaped up the stairs, she paused just long enough to drop the envelope into the outgoing post basket by the door for the owl to take in the morning. If Ron couldn’t be bothered with her, she would try her best not to be bothered with him. For all she knew, the Ministry was about to match her with the man of her dreams, and she’d forget all about some first heartbreak. Maybe, she tried to convince herself, this could be good.
It was now Ginny’s turn to avoid Hermione. Not that Hermione had any solid proof of it, but ever since the deadline for submitting the marriage law packets, she and Ginny had not been in 12 Grimmauld Place at the same time during waking hours. Granted, her next training rotation at St. Mungos had begun and she was spending odd, long hours in A&E department. Since it didn’t have a floor all to itself, Hermione spent her days moving sporadically through the hospital, treating children who accidently jinxed themselves as their magic began appearing, elderly witches with burns from cauldron explosions, and any number of people with unknown rashes from ingesting any number of vaguely poisonous improperly prepared potions, just to name a few. She’d drag herself back to Harry and Ginny’s when the sky was just beginning to turn that ashy grey of Not Quite Morning. A few times she’d tried to stay awake, perching herself by the fire with a cup of strong coffee to wait until Ginny had to head to work, only to hear the sharp crack of a disapperation from the hallway. She knew that, eventually, they would talk and clear the air. Hermione would explain that she couldn’t ask Ginny’s opinion because she didn’t want to be swayed into making a choice she’d regret and Ginny would forgive her, just like she always did. But knowing they would eventually make up didn’t make the in between days any easier.
The combination of work and spending her free time worrying that she had permanently damaged her closest friendship did, however, provide ample distraction from the impending letter from the Ministry. Some moments, she found herself forgetting about it entirely, only to catch some bit of news story about the number of young people affected by the law, or she’d overhear one of her patients talking about an interview the new department head had given on the “overwhelming success” they were having in the first stage of matrimonial placement and the reality of the situation would smack right back into Hermione with the force of a bludger. She’d had to excuse herself to the employee break room on more than one occasion so she could put her hands on her knees and try not to hyperventilate. Others, Hermione noticed, seemed to be coping with the waiting as poorly as she was. She’d found Hannah Abbott, also in the healer training program, crying in a supply closet. And later, as she was walking through the lobby, she passed a couple having a very loud, tearful argument that seemed to center on one of them choosing to move back to Australia and the other staying. Everyone else in the lobby was giving them as much space as possible, but as she passed, she noticed quite a few young people looking on with a sort of sympathetic grief mirrored on their faces.
As the day inched closer, she found herself staring more intently at every man she interacted with that didn’t wear a wedding band. Could it be you? She’d wonder as she bandaged hands or regrew a leg bone. She tried to imagine herself sitting across a dinner table in some unknown dining room, passing a salad bowl to the large, hairy chested man as she healed the rake of kneazle scratches across his torso. She pictured attending an office Christmas party with the slightly older, bearded man who approved her training hours at the end of the day Friday. She may have been imagining it, but it felt like he added extra meaning when he told her he hoped she had a good weekend.
That evening, Friday, she arrived back home to a dark, empty living room. She’d grown used to it in the past week, but she was still a little disappointed that Ginny wasn’t waiting for her as she stepped through the fireplace. The name of her match would be in the post Saturday Morning, just a few hours away if the light starting to creep in the window was any indication. She dropped her coat in one of the empty chairs and kicked off her boots. Her entire body felt filled with lead, whether from exhaustion or anxiety she wasn’t sure. Crookshanks appeared in the darkened doorway, mouth tearing wide in a yawn that made Hermione yawn with him. She doubted she’d actually be able to fall asleep, but she was tired enough to try. The cat wove around her ankles as she walked, so she bent and scooped him up as she reached the stairs. He protested slightly, claws digging through the fabric on her arm and into the skin. She nuzzled her face into his back, breathing in and trying to calm her mind enough to get some sleep. Harry and Ginny’s door was shut tight, all the same she tiptoed past it as quiet as possible. Her own door was open slightly, and she let Crookshanks down so he could run in before her, no doubt to hide under the bed in protest for being carried. As she pushed open the door the rest of the way, slow enough that the hinges wouldn’t creak too loud, she stopped short. There, curled on top of the quilt, red hair splaying out of the pillow, jaw slack with sleep was Ginny.
Hermione flicked on the desk lamp, the room glowing a dim gold, as she moved to the side of the bed.
“Gin?” She stage whispered, and when the girl didn’t wake, she gently shook her shoulders. Ginny’s eyes snapped open, wide and confused for a second before she settled on Hermione’s face.
“You’re back.” She said, voice cracking. She cleared her throat, “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“What are you doing in here?” Hermione said. She couldn’t stop the smile that was tugging at her lips when Ginny patted the bed next to her. How she’d missed her friend.
“I didn’t want you to be alone when the post came. Harry offered to stay awake too, but he has to work tomorrow.” Hermione dropped her bag onto the floor and climbed on the bed as Ginny pulled herself into a seated position.
“I’m sorry.” Hermione said and Ginny smiled.
“I know.” Ginny said, “I just wish you hadn’t shut me out for the most important decision of your life.” Hermione scoffed,
“I’d hardly consider this the most important decision.” Ginny just shook her head.
“Well it’s definitely up there. This guy is going to be around at all our birthday dinners, and Christmas mornings, so he has to be at least a little cool.”
“If he sucks,” Hermione said, “Then I’ll leave him at home and come by myself. Just because the Ministry is making us get married doesn’t mean they get to tell me that we have to do everything together.” Hermione meant it as a joke, to make Ginny laugh and solidify their non-fight as over, but as she said it she was overwhelmed with the sadness and truth of the statement. She was going to be married, magically bonded, and there was a pretty good chance they (at least at first) wouldn’t particularly like each other. They’d be strangers. She felt Ginny’s hand stroke through her hair, tugging at a few of the tangled curls.
“If he sucks, I’ll kick his ass.” She said, mock seriousness in her tone but a very serious glint in her eye. “Say the word and I’ll hex him until his toes turn black and his dick falls off. You know I will.” Hermione laughed, slightly hollow sounding but still a real laugh.
“I don’t doubt it for a second.” She yawned then, leaning back against the headboard and staring out the quickly brightening window.
“You should try and sleep.” Ginny said, shifting off the bed and moving to the desk chair near the door. “I’ll be here the whole time and I’ll wake you the moment the post gets here.” Hermione would have argued, would have wanted to stay up and keep talking with Ginny about everything she’d felt over this week, but another yawn tugged at her jaw and she felt her eyelids growing heavier and heavier. A little sleep wouldn’t hurt.
“Hermione.” Ginny’s voice reached her in the tangled, hazy dream. “Hermione.” She was awake, staring up at the ceiling, her neck slightly stiff and terribly uncomfortable still dressed in her healer robes. Ginny was there, beside the bed, the daylight through the window backlighting her like a halo. “It’s here.” She said, holding the blue envelope too close to Hermione’s face.
“We already opened ours.” Came Harry’s voice. He was dressed in his auror uniform, tie slightly crooked. “I didn’t want to leave until you had yours.” He said, glancing at his watch. She shouldn’t have gone to sleep. Her brain felt muddled and slow as she pushed herself up and reached for the envelope Ginny was still holding out. It was blue, just like before. This time, though, when she ripped it open, the parchment that came out was a shimmering red, like a skinned animal. She dropped the blue envelope into the rubbish bin beside the bed. At the bottom of the bin were still the ashes from all the notes to Ron she’d burned. Dread was swirling somewhere around her stomach, fingers quaking so hard she was surprised she didn’t get a papercut as she unfolded the parchment.
There was a large paragraph at the top, something that looked like instructions, perhaps, but Hermione couldn’t do more than glance at them. Her eyes were searching the page, trying to find the name of the man she would be marrying in five short days.
“It’s on the second page,” Ginny said. She’d moved back in the room to stand beside Harry, giving her a bit of privacy while still being present. Hermione dropped the first page and blinked as she took in the second. This one wasn’t thick with dense text like the first. It was, in fact, almost entirely blank. There in the center, in bold unmistakable writing was:
Muggle Born/Half Blood Partner: Hermione Granger
Ginny said something, but Hermione couldn’t make out the words. They sounded far away, miles and miles away. Like being shouted at from a moving car, the words lost before they reached her. There, just below her own name, was a name she hadn’t even thought to consider, hadn’t even entered into her nightmares. Panic rose in Hermione’s throat like bile. Then, quick after, actual bile. She grabbed at the rubbish bin pulling it to her just in time to vomit into it. Ginny and Harry were at her side at once, Ginny holding her hair, Harry pulling the parchment from her grasp. As soon as he read it, it dropped from his hands like it burned him. Still retching, Hermione watched through watery eyes as the paper fluttered to the floor, landing face up perfectly in her line of sight.
Pureblood/Half Blood Partner: Draco Malfoy