Mismatched

And yet, to say the truth, reason and
love keep little company together now-a-days; the
more the pity that some honest neighbours will not
make them friends.
- A Midsummer Night's Dream, William Shakespeare

June 30

Until now, Hermione Granger had never hated her wand.

She remembered with perfect clarity the day it had chosen her. Professor McGonagall had escorted her and her parents to Diagon Alley, a bustling high street that chirped, squawked, banged, and hissed. Her mother's hand had gripped her own, tight and clammy with nerves. Her father's hand had rested on her shoulder, firm. Ready, if needed, to pull her from the dangerous unknown and back to the safety of her before life, where she had been a precocious child and not a burgeoning witch.

Hermione's uncertainty had vanished the moment she set foot in Ollivander's shop, when a box had leapt off the shelf and landed at her feet, much to the proprietor's delight. Handling her vine wood wand for the first time had felt like seeing the ocean. The world had spread before her, vast and limitless. When Ollivander had told her of her wand's dragon heartstring core, shifting mythology to reality in the span of five words, Hermione felt like she could soar.

A new life had chosen her, and she was determined to prove herself worthy of it.

Even through the trials of Hogwarts and the trauma of war, Hermione had never considered renouncing her wand. She was smarter than the blood prejudice that had stained her childhood memories. She was stronger than the obstacles powerful people had placed before her. She was certain of her magic, confident in herself, and felt destined for greatness. She could solve any problem, discover any solution.

Until now.

"Ms. Granger?"

She accepted her wand with numb fingers, more instinct than conscious decision. Her mind felt stuck, snagged on the pronouncement like a knit jumper on a jagged nail. One hard pull threatened to undo her.

"That can't be right. You must've made a mistake."

Molly Weasley's sharp objection broke the silence. Hermione tried to match her bearing—back straight, expression unyielding, gaze steady and sure—and felt some of her control return. They hadn't always gotten along, but Hermione had needed a mother, a mother who remembered her, and Molly hadn't flinched. She wasn't alone; someone was willing to fight for her.

"I remember every wand I've ever made," replied Garrick Ollivander. He'd put on some weight since Hermione had last seen him at Shell Cottage. He looked old but healthy, his mind as keen as ever. "Per my analysis, Ms. Granger and Mr. Malfoy, as unlikely as it may seem, have compatible magics: the devotion of the unicorn core and the strength of the heartstring; the versatility of hawthorn and the vision of vine. There may be other matches for these two wands, but the Ministry tasked me with finding the best match. This is the best match."

Molly scoffed. "Narcissa, you can't possibly accept this."

"I support the Ministry's effort to eliminate blood prejudice however it sees fit." Narcissa Malfoy recited the answer as if reading from a script, but what she lacked in passion, she made up for in conviction. She turned to the Ministry official, a slight man with thick-framed glasses named Herb Connelley. "What are the terms?"

Herb passed Narcissa his open scroll. "To remain in compliance with the Magical Being Preservation Act, matched individuals must wed before the year's end. The wedding must be magically and legally binding. The date, venue, and flavor of cake are up to you."