Lost Image | dramione

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"This is pointless," Ron blurted, tossing their copy of the Prophet off the table where it landed, crinkling, onto the floor.

"I think what you mean to say is that this is ridiculous- there is very clearly a point to it," Hermione amended, digging the newspaper out from under the table and laying it flat in front of her. She had to read it again. If she read the finalized Marriage Law one more time, surely she would see a loop-hole.

It was barbaric. She knew the Wizarding world was a little behind on the times, but besides the generally degrading Law itself, the smaller details were blatantly androcentric and chauvinistic. For example, the Wizard had to petition the Witch for her hand. "An eligible Witch may maintain up to three petitions for the two week interim period, upon which the final choice will become her de facto husband." The Witch could not petition whoever she chose, and no more than three applications were allowed.

"What if there are more than three?" Ron asked. Hermione didn't realize she had even reread that part out loud, but she rolled her eyes at Ron's comment.

"Haven't you been paying attention? Only three. Anything else won't be regarded as valid. A woman gets only three choices, and none of them might even be her choice- ugh! Absolutely backwards." Hermione was so frustrated she almost threw the paper back to the ground herself, but her fist remained clutched around the wrinkled pages. She needed to read it again.

It wasn't without precedence. The Law was taken, almost word for word, from a document dating back to the 1600's. They had had the same problem with low birth rates among pure bloods, and an increase in squib births. The recommended fix for the problem was obvious: no more inbreeding. This had led to many pure-bloods fleeing England, only returning when the Law was revoked.

Apparently, some genius had also discovered that the highest number of magical births happened in the case of a pure-blood/muggle-born combination. Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to trust the findings of a wizard genealogist from the 1600's, but oddly enough within the magical community even painfully dated discoveries could turn out to be completely accurate.

Hermione sighed, kneading her forehead with the heel of her hand. Half-bloods like Harry had nothing to worry about- for now. The Ministry was only enacting section one of the Marriage Law, affecting pure-bloods and muggle-borns. Hermione suspected this was meant to bring people together after the harsh and nearly genocidal war, so she could in some ways appreciate the decision. Especially when she saw the indignant (and occasionally violent) reactions of the Slytherins as they picked up their morning papers.

The Prophet had been printing hints about the Law's enactment for weeks now, but no one could have suspected it would have gone through so quickly. They had two weeks- that was all. Two weeks, and Hermione was expected to find a pure-blood husband.

The implication for their little group was obvious.

Hermione looked over the edge of the paper at Ron, trying to be covert. He was, as usual, stuffing his face. To his credit, he did have a look of intense concentration on his face, so he wasn't just blowing this off. He was thinking. Good. Hermione wasn't sure she had the courage to breech the subject, herself...she wanted him to do it. Ron was never the king of tact, and she was counting on that now. She wanted him to blurt out the obvious answer to their dilemma.

Not that she wanted to get married at all, but the safest pure-blood she knew was her dear friend. After the war finished, in the summer before they started their belated seventh year at Hogwarts, the two of them had even dated for a time.

It didn't last.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the annoyed memories of waiting for him to kiss her again, of attempting a proper date, of arguing about every little thing...