(dear miss granger, the letter had started, embossed on official looking ministry letterhead. that alone wasn't a cause for alarm; she received any number of letters from the ministry in an official and unofficial capacity. as a taxpaying citizen, and as 'hermione granger, archivist.' it was the next line that had tea cups shattering in their cupboards, the curtains in her sensible flat going up in flames. 'being a witch of childbearing age and good health, you are hereby reminded of your obligation under the 'restoration of wixen society and repopulation effort (2008)' to marry. dispensations may be provided for changes in health status or preference that may preclude your marriage. the name of your partner is provided below. understanding you may not be acquainted, the law provides for thirty days of courtship. should a marriage not take place after that point, the penalty will include confiscation of your wand.'
the law. the stupid bloody law. how had shacklebolt let this happen? she'd been so certain when she'd seen him the prior christmas that it wouldn't pass, railing against it over the shepherd's pie until harry had kicked her under the table. but he'd nodded. shacklebolt had not given any indication that the law would survive, with strong opposition on both the muggleborn and pureblood sides. and yet —
crookshanks growled, a vase full of fresh flowers she'd purchased from the muggle shop down the way exploding into an array of harmless glass pebbles. she might be destructive in her fury, but she wouldn't put anyone at risk. dropping her eyes to the parchment again, hermione freezes. there, in looping script as though written in by hand, a name:
severus tobias snape
impossible, she thought to herself. surely he, of all people, would be exempted. either by age or .. or.. or what? he's not that old and you've seen him yourself. he's the same miserable g — the voice in her head sounds shockingly like ron, and she smothers it, dropping heavily into the chair pulled up to a kitchen table that lists to one side. letting the parchment flutter to wood, she buries her face in her hands for a moment, thinking hard. severus snape had survived the final battle, against all odds and not for lack of trying. she'd been there personally when madame pomfrey had brought him in, had worked with her to try and stabilize him — out of her depth, then. he'd been in hospital for weeks, then submitted to a very public trial including testimony from herself, harry, and others including draco malfoy.
then ... he'd vanished. other than rare social occasions, hermione hadn't seen professor snape in years. three years — no, four. the last meeting of the order. he was leaving as i was coming in.
there had to be a way out of this. surely he didn't wish to marry her anymore than she wished to marry him. she just had to look hard enough, find a loophole or another law on the books that contradicted this one and then they'd both be free.
standing up suddenly enough that crookshanks fled off the table with an offended mrr, hermione waved her wand at her still smoking curtains. she had work to do.
—
a week later
the flat is .. well. it's clean, at least. books put away, not piled on the coffee table. blankets normally piled on the couch neatly folded and stored in their basket. even crookshanks had been brushed, though the half-kneazel resented the very concept of the act. she couldn't fix some of parts of the flat — the overstuffed furniture that was comfortable, but not elegant; the bookshelves stuffed to bursting with muggle and wix tomes alike. but it was presentable.
she swallows, remembering earlier that morning as she'd reviewed all her notes over the past week. she'd practically lived at the ministry archives for the past week, until they had to politely (and then not so politely) ask her to leave. and there was .. nothing. not a single law she could find that didn't grant the wizengamot the authority to do this, nothing that would contradict a law requiring marriage. on the contrary, she found a number of laws she dearly hoped were no longer enforced related to marriage itself, particularly between purebloods.
for once, the archives had her let her down. and she and professor snape only had three more weeks to .. become acquainted, prior to their marriage. three weeks had hardly felt possible, given the circumstances! there was so much to talk about and the courtship rituals were quite strict. she had to register the location, time and date of their meeting. the description of the nature of the call (she'd scribbled having tea) and the anticipated outcome (friendship?). the owl she'd received back from the ministry had included a tersely worded note letting her know that mister snape had been informed of the request.
fussing with a pillow, she starts at the knock on the door. four o'clock. in the afternoon. on the dot, not a second later. smooths her hand over her jeans, tugs at her shirt (nothing fancy, just a blouse — oh merlin, should she have done robes?). a part of her hadn't thought that he would come. perhaps he'd fled to another country. perhaps he'd declared himself sterile or unable to —
bloody hell, the door.
rushing to it, she pulls it open, hoping she doesn't look hurried. hoping that the extra time she'd taken to pull her hair back made her look more mature. )
Prof — That is, Mister.. Ah. (bollocks. she hadn't thought what to call him. fumbling for a moment, she blanches, then holds the door open wider. ) Please. Come in. I've water on for us.
➡ antisavior.
the law. the stupid bloody law. how had shacklebolt let this happen? she'd been so certain when she'd seen him the prior christmas that it wouldn't pass, railing against it over the shepherd's pie until harry had kicked her under the table. but he'd nodded. shacklebolt had not given any indication that the law would survive, with strong opposition on both the muggleborn and pureblood sides. and yet —
crookshanks growled, a vase full of fresh flowers she'd purchased from the muggle shop down the way exploding into an array of harmless glass pebbles. she might be destructive in her fury, but she wouldn't put anyone at risk. dropping her eyes to the parchment again, hermione freezes. there, in looping script as though written in by hand, a name:
severus tobias snape
impossible, she thought to herself. surely he, of all people, would be exempted. either by age or .. or.. or what? he's not that old and you've seen him yourself. he's the same miserable g — the voice in her head sounds shockingly like ron, and she smothers it, dropping heavily into the chair pulled up to a kitchen table that lists to one side. letting the parchment flutter to wood, she buries her face in her hands for a moment, thinking hard. severus snape had survived the final battle, against all odds and not for lack of trying. she'd been there personally when madame pomfrey had brought him in, had worked with her to try and stabilize him — out of her depth, then. he'd been in hospital for weeks, then submitted to a very public trial including testimony from herself, harry, and others including draco malfoy.
then ... he'd vanished. other than rare social occasions, hermione hadn't seen professor snape in years. three years — no, four. the last meeting of the order. he was leaving as i was coming in.
there had to be a way out of this. surely he didn't wish to marry her anymore than she wished to marry him. she just had to look hard enough, find a loophole or another law on the books that contradicted this one and then they'd both be free.
standing up suddenly enough that crookshanks fled off the table with an offended mrr, hermione waved her wand at her still smoking curtains. she had work to do.
—
a week later
the flat is .. well. it's clean, at least. books put away, not piled on the coffee table. blankets normally piled on the couch neatly folded and stored in their basket. even crookshanks had been brushed, though the half-kneazel resented the very concept of the act. she couldn't fix some of parts of the flat — the overstuffed furniture that was comfortable, but not elegant; the bookshelves stuffed to bursting with muggle and wix tomes alike. but it was presentable.
she swallows, remembering earlier that morning as she'd reviewed all her notes over the past week. she'd practically lived at the ministry archives for the past week, until they had to politely (and then not so politely) ask her to leave. and there was .. nothing. not a single law she could find that didn't grant the wizengamot the authority to do this, nothing that would contradict a law requiring marriage. on the contrary, she found a number of laws she dearly hoped were no longer enforced related to marriage itself, particularly between purebloods.
for once, the archives had her let her down. and she and professor snape only had three more weeks to .. become acquainted, prior to their marriage. three weeks had hardly felt possible, given the circumstances! there was so much to talk about and the courtship rituals were quite strict. she had to register the location, time and date of their meeting. the description of the nature of the call (she'd scribbled having tea) and the anticipated outcome (friendship?). the owl she'd received back from the ministry had included a tersely worded note letting her know that mister snape had been informed of the request.
fussing with a pillow, she starts at the knock on the door. four o'clock. in the afternoon. on the dot, not a second later. smooths her hand over her jeans, tugs at her shirt (nothing fancy, just a blouse — oh merlin, should she have done robes?). a part of her hadn't thought that he would come. perhaps he'd fled to another country. perhaps he'd declared himself sterile or unable to —
bloody hell, the door.
rushing to it, she pulls it open, hoping she doesn't look hurried. hoping that the extra time she'd taken to pull her hair back made her look more mature. )
Prof — That is, Mister.. Ah. ( bollocks. she hadn't thought what to call him. fumbling for a moment, she blanches, then holds the door open wider. ) Please. Come in. I've water on for us.