marriage law au (multi)
Harry Potter has a set routine when it comes to Monday mornings - he rolls out of bed, usually on the left side, brushes his teeth, gets dressed in proper Auror training robes, and is needled to eat at least half of his breakfast by a croaking Kreacher. After that, a quick stroll to the nearest Apparition point has him in the Ministry lobby by 7:55.
The Ministry is abuzz with something this morning, more so than usual. People flipping rapidly through the Prophet and talking in fervent whispers. Glares sent towards Wizengamot seat members makes Harry assume there’s been a mess up in the most recent trials - someone got acquitted that the public didn’t want to be, or someone was sentenced when they were clearly innocent.
He doesn’t pay it much mind, just ducks his head under the lilac memos in the lift and minds his own business.
For the upteenth time, he wonders what he’s doing here.
He’d spent the better part of the last four years feeling a range of confusion to pure disgust at the Ministry, and yes, Kingsley is doing a hell of a lot better these days, but there’s still centuries of ingrained procedures that the wizarding world can’t get out of its system. He’s seen the dark underbelly of the corruption - it’s ugly, to say the least.
And yet, when Kingsley had asked, had offered him the opportunity, he hadn’t known what else to do but jump back in.
A rush of people get on the lift at the Department of Magical Transportation and Harry checks his robes for his wand on instinct. That’s it, really - when Kingsley had asked, he’d said yes because he hadn’t known how to be anything but in a fight.
Auror training is alright, though. He has Ron, always, and the group of people they’re training with are far removed from Dawlish and much more like Tonks. He could trust these people, Harry thinks, when the time comes for it.
Ron’s nursing a cup of coffee at the door to the training room - no food or beverages allowed inside - when Harry finally arrives, and the messy hair is no different than every other day. The red ears and the Prophet tightly clenched in his hand is another thing.
“You hear?” asks Ron immediately upon making eye contact.
“You know I never hear anything,” Harry laughs, but it doesn’t get anything but a wry chuckle out of his best mate.
The Prophet is handed over to him in a flurry of falling pages. “They can’t do this to us, Harry, they can’t.
It’s tucked tightly under the rest of the headlines, because there are many headlines nowadays. The text is still bold enough to draw attention, and there are a series of words that Harry can’t make sense of, ten years of existing in the Wizarding World not preparing him for it.
Blood Clause Passed: Estate Confiscation Found Fitting Resolution
“That’s what I thought at first - trust me, it doesn’t make sense to anyone right now,” Ron groans, “But here, here’s the rest of the article on - gimme a second - this page right here.”
“So let me get this straight,” Harry says, skimming quickly and trying hard to get his hazy morning brain to focus, “The Wizengamot just passed a law that allows them to confiscate estates if people don’t get bonded the way they want to? This is about land?”
Ron shakes his head. “It’s more than land. The strength of each family’s magic is pretty much tied to where we grew up. So the Burrow is kind of the hub for all of our magic - like obviously, we can perform magic anywhere, right? But it’s because we have a root somewhere.”
“That’s why wizards are terrified of getting disowned,” he continues, brushing some of his red hair out of his eyes, “No root means your magic gets a little wonky. Sometimes you can really lose your power.”
“But what about me and Hermione, and -”
“It’s very old pureblood specific, this law,” Ron grimaces, “I think I know what they’re getting at - you know, no more consolidation of all the intense magic by the big racist families. Good in theory, I guess, but if you look at the details, it’s going to cause a mass panic. The after-effects of this is going to reach everyone.
“I can’t believe Shacklebolt let this pass.” Ron adds on disbelievingly, as if the Prophet is going to turn around and suddenly become the Quibbler.
“Well, he’s one of those old pureblood families himself, isn’t he? He can’t really say no, Skeeter and the rest of the press would tear him apart.”
“This sucks. I think Dad had you and Hermione folded into The Burrow ages ago, so it’ll impact you two, too. Sorry, mate.” Ron looks at him apologetically, as if Harry’s throat hadn’t tightened up at that.
“No - that’s - that’s really great. I didn’t know. Thank you.”
“It’s old magic, it’s not much. You know the Burrow.” Ron claps him on the back, still looking a bit earnest, but Harry brushes him off with a returning touch on the shoulder. They head into training, pushing aside what will inevitably be a long, long ordeal until six hours later.
***
A thunderous Hermione meets them after work, hair reflecting her mood as she plops three heavy Wizarding Law books down on the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place. “It’s absurd, is what it is.”
“This for school?”
“Yes and no,” Hermione’s nostrils flare, “I checked them out to see what we can do about that silly law.”
Harry flicks away a piece of lint from his robes. He’d read all the papers after training today, trying to wrap his mind around the agenda that’s being pushed through the courts right now. Reporters had already bombarded him on the short walk from the Auror training room to the Floo and he’d declined, wary of saying anything that could be used against his intentions.
“If it’s passed, there’s not much we can do about it.” Ron groans, coughing as a puff of dust escapes one of the heavy tomes.
Hermione’s indignant look makes both of them hide a smile. “Ronald, please, have we ever let anything so blatantly unfair go by without a fight?”
“I’m sure deep down in me, the righteousness is begging to be released. Deep, deep down.” Ron mutters aside to Harry. Harry grins.
“I’m tired of fighting, personally,” Harry says, “Granted, this all just seems incredibly weird. How would they even control this?”
“Magical traces, I’m assuming,” Hermione sighs, flipping hurriedly to section and section, “The same type of magic that informs them when an underage wizard does magic in public. Applied at this level is an insane breach of privacy, let alone an extreme attempt to control a problem that has so much more to do with than marriage and families. It’s systematic, don’t they get it?”
Ron pulls over a heavy textbook to himself. “You know them. When do they get anything?”
“They’re pushing this insanely quickly,” Harry chimes in, Daily Prophet a beacon in all of their peripheral visions. “TSix weeks to get hitched, or else your land gets removed from your name? It’s practically forcing people into unhappy marriages.”
“Or abusive ones,” Hermione says darkly. “There’s a severe power dynamic difference here. Pass me the paper would you?”
Ron passes it over to where Hermione sits, and she lays it out on the table without preamble. There, in big blocky text, reads the details of the clause that’s caused the uproar.
MEMBERS OF THE WIZENGAMOT HAVE PASSED RESTRICTIONS ON THE FOLLOWING FAMILY ESTATES:
- Members of said families listed in the Sacred Twenty Eight roster will, from now on, be disallowed from marrying other members of equal blood distinction.
- Members of said families listed in the Sacred Twenty Eight roster will, from now on, be disallowed from marrying members of Pureblood families.
- Families of Pureblood standing must have evidence of Half-blood or Muggle-Born relatives in order to be exempt from land confiscation.
- No intermarriage of magical stakeholders of the same estate.
- Individuals of Pureblood upbringing of single status or as sole beneficiary of a Pureblood estate, must participate in estate distribution.
- Individuals of Half-blood status of single status or as sole beneficiary of a Half-blood estate, must participate in estate distribution.
“A lot of words for basically telling us to marry by their rules, or get our land taken away.” Ron says. “I guess they got one thing right about the wizarding incest, though.”
“One thing,” Hermione says through gritted teeth, “Among a list of five other things that’s already causing mass hysteria. There was a girl in my lecture today who burst out into tears - Muggle-born, the type of witch that the Ministry is so called ‘protecting’.”
Ron shakes his head, leaning back against his chair to avoid a levitating hot plate coming to a rest in front of him. “So what now?”
They all scooch back as three levitating plates interrupt, coming to a rest at the table in front of them.
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione says glumly.
“Yeah, thanks, Kreacher,” Harry echoes, mulling over the clauses still laid out in front of them. It’s times like these that he aches for Remus to still be around, ever a knowledgeable and practical council for every twist and turn thrown their way. He misses Tonks too, who’d either lighten the mood with one of her transformations, or firmly vent alongside Ron. And of course, Sirius, who would have showed off the paper to Walburga’s portrait’s distaste.
He makes a mental note to pay Andromeda and Teddy a visit come the weekend they return from traveling.
The quiet kitchen fills with the clinks of spoons against plates, before Hermione suddenly bursts into tears over her pasta. Ron and Harry exchange alarmed looks.
“Mione, it’s alright,” Ron says, passing her a handful of tissues as she quiets down to sniffles, “We’ll figure something out.”
“It’s not alright! It’s horrible! After everything that we’ve been - that we’ve been - and your family, Ron, how could we -”
“Hermione, calm down!” Ron cuts off her panic before she can go any further, and looks over Hermione’s head to Harry for support. “Look, Mum and Dad knew what they were doing, they know the risks! Obviously, none of us thought this would happen but you know my family. It’s not a problem. It’s not a big deal.”
Harry wants to say that it is a big deal, but as Hermione takes deep, shuddering breaths, he concedes that this might not be the time.
Sunday morning breakfasts at The Burrow had become post-war tradition, after that first weekend amidst the legal battles and the press and the whole wizarding world asking what’s next. Molly Weasley had hauled everyone in by their collars, had extended an invitation to Andromeda Black and little baby Teddy Lupin, and cooked up a feast of breakfast foods. It’d been a long-standing invitation, as all Weasley family things are, and while the cast at the dining table was different each weekend, all the Weasley children in the area showed up (Charlie ducked in and out).
This Sunday’s topic of interest was, to no one’s surprise, about the new estate confiscation. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seemed to be trying to keep a calm demeanor, although Harry could see clearly how frazzled they were - Mrs. Weasley was cooking copious amounts of bacon, and Mr. Weasley had dark circles under his eyes, a sight not unfamiliar during war time.
They had six kids to marry off now over the short span of six weeks. Harry can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. While he hadn’t known - and really, which of the Weasleys would even blame him? - he doesn’t enjoy the idea of adding onto the pressure of dodging the potential estate confiscation. The juxtaposition of the Burrow with the other Pureblood estates he’d seen was jarring and obviously not something someone higher up had thought about.
He watches Hermione fidget with her butter knife, watching the bustle between kitchen and dining table and a bunch of red hair weaving in and out of the room, and knows she’s feeling the same way.
He goes to help Mrs. Weasley with the plates, but is shooed away. Ginny rescues him from her mother’s harried movements.
“Percy’s late, of course,” Ginny tells him, taking his elbow and leading him back to his seat, “And Fred and George are dealing with something for the shop, and so Mum’s blaming her nerves on all that. But we all know it’s about the clause.”
“Did your dad know about it beforehand?”
She shakes her head. “Apparently it was from very high up. Power players really pushing their agenda.”
“Not the Malfoys?”
“Oh Merlin, no. They’ve fallen from grace.” Ginny says, sarcasm oozing from her words. She passes over the cutlery to Harry and Hermione, who stops fidgeting with the jams and busies herself with organizing the table.
“I’d think the Malfoys would have no say in government anymore,” Hermione sniffs.
“They don’t,” Ron says, leaning back in his chair and yawning. “I ran into Malfoy the other day in the Ministry lift. Lost his usual swagger now, hasn’t he? Never thought I’d see the day where he and Parkinson look uncomfortable in the Ministry.”
“Good riddance,” Mr. Weasley says as he carries a plate piled high with toast into the kitchen, “Ron, go help your mother with the bacon.”
“By help, Dad means bringing it over, not eating all of it before it gets to the table.” Ginny snickers. Ron elbows her before heading off to help Mrs. Weasley.
They’re all interrupted with a bang against the window, Errol making his morning announcement. Ron mumbles under his breath about how “the blasted bird is immortal” and goes to fetch the post. Harry doesn’t comment, suddenly hit with an intense wave of missing Hedwig. He’d barely thought about her in the past few weeks, not having time to field letters. Hagrid had offered to buy Harry a new owl, but he’d declined - it wouldn’t be the same, after all.
“Even before it's passed, it's taking effect,” Bill says tightly once he unties the letter from Errol’s outstretched leg, “Letter for you, Harry.”
He passes a white wax sealed envelope over to Harry.
“People have been jumping into nuptials like it's nobody's business.”
They all turn at the sound of Percy entering the front door, looking bone-weary and needing about three days of sleep. “The Department of Familial Affairs has been drowning in paperwork from all the split-second filed marriages.”
“That's allowed?” Arthur asks sharply.
“There's nothing barring it right now, though I’m sure they’ll put a hold on it soon,” Percy says. He pulls the plate of toast closer to him and starts buttering robotically. “People are taking advantage when they can, and as long as both partners are willing, then there's nothing to be done.”
“Serves them right for trying to pull one over us,” Ron mutters darkly.
Hermione sighs. “Yes, but I imagine it's causing a lot of rash judgments right now. Grab the nearest friend you have and go.”
“Not even friends,” Fred’s voice echoes down the stairs and a moment later he and George appear, brows furrowed and looking quite disturbed. “Harry, you got the invitation?”
Harry raises the envelope in response. George nods, gesturing for him to open it. With a quick slip of his thumb under the wax seal, a delicate card tumbles out. There on the front is an elegantly traced You are cordially invited to the wedding of. Harry stops his finger once he gets to the name.
“Wood?”
“And Flint.” Fred bursts out, and everyone pauses momentarily to watch Percy splutter as he chokes on his tea. “Where the bloody fuck did that come from, I ask you?”
“Language!”
“Sorry, Mum.”
Hermione shakes her head, unfamiliar with either party past quidditch but Ron has his fork halfway to his mouth.
“Flint? Big bloke who was Slytherin captain when you joined the team?”
“That one,” Harry nods in acquiescence. “Last I remember they were arguing over the finals during our third year.”
“Poor Wood’s finally been hit in the head with one too many bludgers,” George says sadly. “You'd think he'd be able to find anyone else.”
Harry passes the invitation to a curious Hermione. “And they're actually holding a wedding? Seems like it'd slow things down.”
“A lot of old society purebloods are doing the same,” Percy says wearily. “They file first, and then hold a ceremony - I suppose, it's a way to still maintain appearance and tradition. I wouldn't be too worried about Oliver,” he tacks on after a moment of thought, “He’ll know his way around this.”
“It's the weekend after next,” Fred sighs, “The shops mad busy these days, what do you think Georgie?”
“It's rude to decline good friends,” Mr. Weasley points out, sausage pointing in the air on the end of his fork.
“We might as well brush off the old dress robes,” George responds sadly, “I’d always wondered if Wood would get married - who could possibly win out over his obsession with Quidditch, you know? - and I feel a little robbed.”
Mrs. Weasley plucks the invitation out of Harry’s hands. “Well, you’re all afforded a plus one, so it doesn’t seem like it’s that hurried. Weddings take a lot of planning, you know.”
Everyone looks at Bill, who’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Don’t I know it.”
“It’s so sad,” Ginny says mournfully. “Weddings should be happy things, and so many people are doing this just to avoid the punishment. Isn’t anyone banking on the possibility that it might get repealed? Why aren’t people waiting?”
“Oh, you know what happens with those discussions!” Mrs. Weasley exclaims, “They talk and they talk and nothing comes of it. People don’t want to take the risk, dear.”
“Do we know who’s leading the Wizengamot discussion?” Bill asks, passing around the plate of bacon. Percy takes it and promptly doles four slices onto his plate.
“There's a discussion?” Hermione says sharply, eyes brightening in interest. “Why haven't I heard about it?”
“They're keeping it hush-hush,” Bill smiles ruefully, “I overheard the goblins talking about it. Because of how small a margin the clause passed, some Wizengamot officials are pushing for a revote. Unheard of, though, so I doubt they'd get it.”
Hermione rises from her seat at that and runs up the stairs. Ron jabs his fork into a sausage. “She's remembered something. Maybe we’ll all be saved.”
“So who brought up the talks?” Harry asks.
“The Bones,” Mr. Weasley says, “They’re mediating at least. It’s split right now, from what I hear. The ones who want to get rid of it are disorganized, because they all want it gone for different reasons. The ones who want it to stay are frighteningly stubborn.”
“Who’s backing the clause, Dad?” Ginny asks.
“Well. The Malfoys are being very accommodating to the Ministry right now,” Arthur says darkly, “Which makes sense, given the state of their Gringotts account. The rest of the faction is headed by the Bulstrodes and the Selwyns, and they’re refusing to budge.”
Ron stops mid-chew. “You’d think the old rich Slytherin families would be the ones most against this. Why’re they so hard-pressed for this to pass?”
“Public image, most likely,” Bill says, “You were all too young to remember what happened after the first war, but there was a hell of a lot of pretending to be for things that were contradictory to usual family values. I’m guessing the old pureblood families who are supporting this are trying to salvage their reputation, given how Dark aligned most of them are.
“The other ones are probably in it for the money,” Harry says darkly, “I trust Kingsley, but I don’t trust half his cabinet.”
Bill passes the marmalade to Percy, who continues stuffing his mouth like a man starved. “I’m sure some of them also hope the Ministry will turn a blind eye to their marriage arrangements if they put their full support behind it. I doubt many of them are so ready to go against their, ahem, values.”
Wood’s wedding, according to the invitation clutched in Harry’s right hand, is held at some place called White Cliffs. The portkey deposits them at the end of a long combed pathway, white marble mansion in front of them. Ivy crawls up the bottom half of the building. Swathes of some satiny fabric are looped from lamppost to lamppost down the pathway. Harry can’t help smiling at Fred’s resounding snort.
“Opulent,” Fred mutters, and George clicks his tongue in agreement.
“Fitting of a proper pureblood family, huh?” George elbows Harry in the ribs as they set off down towards the venue.
“I really thought Oliver would get married in a Quidditch bleacher,” Harry half-jokes, picturing his old captain in Quidditch robes and agreeing to a union perched on his broomstick. “Nothing makes sense anymore.”
A house elf appears at their side, old and bent at the waist as in forever a picture of servitude. Harry wonders what Hermione would have to say about this, but before he can catch the house elf’s introduction, they’re whisked inside. There are familiar high-profile faces mingling in what Harry assumes the front hall of the estate - the Ministry Ambassador to France, the head of Broom Regulatory Control department, the secretary at the Goblin Liaison office, to name a few. It’s a lot of people he hadn’t expected to see at a wedding of two quidditch players, but, he supposes this is as much a political event as it is a celebration.
There’s a clear distinction in the makeup of the guest list, though, that much is clear. Fred and George nudge Harry as they move through the front room, trailing after the house elf. The demographic begins to change from Ministry personnel to old familiar faces from his Hogwarts days, almost forgotten. Harry spots Montague, chatting animatedly with who he vaguely recalls as Derrick. Gregory Goyle waits patiently by Daphne Greengrass, as she pulls Millicent Bulstrode into a hug. Tracey Davis and Cassius Warrington exchange perfunctory nods over their champagne glasses.
He’s distinctly aware they’ve just walked into a room of Slytherins. Wood’s side of the guest list must either be late, or stashed away into a separate room. The stark contrast of the twins red hair is not gone unnoticed by the rest of the crowd, although everyone is making a great effort at pretending that that isn’t the case.
“Right," Oliver says, looking up from his attempt at a tie, "I’ve heard. Marcus’ father is backing it.”
“Really?” George pipes up with interest, “Dad didn’t mention his family was.”
Oliver hums thoughtfully. “No, I suppose not. His father’s a Bulstrode by in-laws, so he always operates under that rather than the Flint name.”
“All about that public image, huh?” Fred says cynically, “Gotta make sure the Voldie alliance gets wiped from memory.
A snort from the back of the room startles all of them. “Sure, that’s one reason why.”
Marcus Flint enters dressed in a similar suit as Oliver, even taller and broader than Harry remembered as a first-year.
Wood sighs. “You’re not allowed back here,”
“Bullshit,” Flint says nonchalantly, and he tucks the handkerchief into Wood’s front pocket for him. “One - you can’t tie a tie properly, and my mother will throw a fit. And two, we’re not subscribing to that ‘curse on marriage’ bullshit because neither of us are a bride.”
He undoes Wood’s tie for him and begins to retie it, much to Wood’s clear exasperation. It’s a fond exasperation, though - that much is palpable, and the two men are clearly comfortable around each other in a way that they weren’t in school. Fred and George exchange looks with Harry, all a little caught off guard by this turn of events.
“Long time no see, Flint.” Fred says, with all the air of someone who hadn’t hoped to meet him for the rest of time. “I see your nose healed fine from the last time we met.”
“Weasley. Weasley,” Flint acknowledges them, then eyes Harry with an unreadable expression. “Potter. And no, Weasley, it didn’t.”
“He snores,” Wood supplies helpfully.
“Sorry,” Harry interrupts, not wanting to watch a bickering match, “You said that that’s not the reason your father’s backing the estate confiscation?”
Flint frowns. “No, it’s one of them. Oliver, what the hell did you do to this tie?”
Wood snatches the offending article out of Flint’s big hands.
“What’re the other reasons?” George pushes.
“Well,” and Flint’s grin is still as crooked as Harry remembers, “My old man hates that I’m having this wedding, doesn’t he? Almost disowned me when I told him.”
Fred and George exchange a look again. “We don’t seem to follow.”
Harry struggles to sit up in the overstuffed chair. “You don’t mean- ”
“Flint Sr. pretty much hated the fact that we were dating,” Wood explains, “And he’d thought that with the whole marriage clause, we’d have to break-up and marry other people - more appropriate people, mind you - since, y’know, we both come from fairly established wizarding families.”
“But that’s not how the clause works.” Harry says.
“Nope,” Flint says, incredibly smug, “Old man didn’t realize that Wood’s family doesn’t have the kind of estate that we do. They’re far too intermarried with Muggles to count as pureblood, and Oliver’s family moved around a shitton when he was a kid-”
“To find a place with good little league teams,” Wood elaborates, and everyone in the room rolls their eyes.
“-So they never fully developed a plot of land for their magic to take root.”
“I don’t understand how that doesn’t impact your magic, Oliver.” Fred frowns.
Wood shrugs. “I’m not sure myself. But I’m guessing it’s because that’s all my magic has ever known, so it adapted.”
“Makes some sort of sense,” Harry says, thinking about how he hadn’t had an estate to root his own magic in for the first three years of his life in the Wizarding World, and still managed alright. “I mean, magic must find a way, right? Wizards from non-magical families, or like Wood’s situation. That shouldn’t be the end all be all.”
Oliver nods. “Anyways - we’re here now, aren’t we?”
They murmur their agreement. Before Harry can ask whether or not this wedding had been in the works, the clicking of quick heels on hard floors rings into the room, and Alicia, Katie, and Angelina burst into the room in a bright array of dress robes.
“Merlin,” Flint mutters under his breath as the girls launch onto Wood with an excited yell.
“My robes,” Wood sighs, as Angelina pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, “My mum’s going to have my head.”
“Shut it, you - you owe us a decent explanation and some back story and at least three drinks tonight, but for now we’ll make do with fussing over you.” Alicia wags her finger, briefly assessing Wood’s robes before turning to where Flint had been trying to sneak out of the room. “And you.”
The three girls surround the exit, blocking Flint off from escaping.
“Do we really need to do this?” Flint laments, “I get it. I’ll treat him right, I should feel lucky to have him, blah blah blah.”
“That doesn’t sound very promising,” Angelina raises a dark eyebrow. “Wood, you’re sure about marrying this big lug?”
“Don’t worry, it’s for the money,” Wood laughs, earning him a reproachful look from Flint.