To my loyal readers, thank you for sticking with me for so long. I promise to finish Rainbow by the end of this Summer and dedicate myself to Fireworks after that. I believe Fireworks will be my last full length story in this particular universe.

This story rattled around my brain before it stormed its way out, and was written to Justin Nozuka, A Fine Frenzy, Frou Frou, Imogen Heap, Sia, and Emily Osment's 'Drift'. It's already completely finished. I hope you like it.

I am just another number...stack me up, I'll crumble and drift along.

|… H …|

When I was eight years old, I was obsessed with the color yellow.

Partly because I really liked eggs but mostly because I really really liked the way the color looked. Everything I owned was a variation of the color – I didn't even discriminate, I just loved every possible shade of yellow. Everything I owned that year was that bright tint – golden boots, ocher mittens, straw-colored scarves. I liked it so much that I wanted everyone I loved to wear it too. I worked really hard on making a Hufflepuff House sweater with Mum for Alfie's birthday, got Uncle Edward a wooden box that I painted canary yellow in the fall (I have no idea what I expected him to store in there, like a body or something?), and charmed my Grandmother into giving me enough Knuts to buy these sparkly yellow earrings in Diagon Alley. Mum told me once that I'd spilled pumpkin juice down the front of the only white thing I owned on purpose, to get that yellow in there.

She had also said that was the year she knew for certain that I was going to carry on the family tradition of being Sorted into Hufflepuff.

I remember how it felt to like it. I remember how much I used to like just looking around my room and feel utterly satisfied as my eyes ate up the honey gold shades and the soft golden sheets and the neon yellow of the walls. Sure every other room in the house was dark blue or dark green, but what was that compared to the beauty of my bedroom? Eight-year old Hannah spent hours in her bedroom just feasting her little eyes on all of it.

Once, Alfie asked me why I liked it so much and I think I tried to tell him that it reminded me of the sun, of Mum's favorite dress, of the eggs I liked to eat. I figured maybe since he was fifteen and usually thought I was a baby, he might not get it. But all he did was stare at me thoughtfully before plopping himself on my comforters too.

"So you like it because it reminds you of happy things?"

That had sounded about right so I'd nodded.

"Does that mean it makes you happy?"

I remember thinking about the question as deeply as my eight-year old brain could, then looking at my older brother and saying yes. He'd looked thoughtful and I'd moved over so he'd quit squishing my hand. He was really warm though so I ended up smashing into him anyway.

"Nothing makes me that happy," he'd said after a moment.

I'd been wildly offended.

"Not even us?" I'd squawked. "Mummy and me?"

He'd looked at me as if I was an idiot and rolled his eyes.

"That's definitely not what I mean, Hannah Banana." I wrinkled my nose while he ruffled my hair, none too gently. "People make you happy, Han. I mean, colors don't make me that happy. People do. You and Mum always do."

I remember thinking again, weighing his words again like they were the most important thing in the world. When he slung his arm around me to tickle me sideways, I forgot all about what I was going to say.

Now, I remember being so happy, so pleased by just the sight of the color yellow.

So happy…

…just because of a color.

Alfie was right.

People make me happy.

...well.

People made me happy.

…|…

"Abbott." I looked up, barely batting an eye when Head Auror McDowell barked my name. "Report finished?"

"Jotting down the last few notes, sir."

He nodded, appeased. The brief downtime between high volumes of reported Dark Artifacts meant more time to file the reports that had backed up in the last few days. It meant more time for paperwork in the big office, more time to examine the evidence.

I returned to the report, read it through automatically and emotionlessly.

Two years ago, it would have boggled my mind to know – to really know – just how many people are rotten to the core. There are so many diverse reasons leading to the path of evil but the path ends the same. Some of the things that we've found on raids in houses of those who love the Dark would have absolutely blown a younger me away. What other than evil could desire the death of another living thing? How could anyone be that cruel? How could anyone want something badly enough to kill for it?

Now, I only finished dictating the last few items of the inventory of the raid. When it was done, it would go off to Auror Pottleby, the specialist who would detail the works himself. I was no longer surprised by evil, only tired of it.

"Hannah."

This time the interruption came from Brown, newcomer to the Department. Perhaps, I disliked him because he wasn't English. Perhaps, I disliked him because he spoke too much. Perhaps, I envied him his much apparent love of life.

Perhaps, he reminds me of someone.

I squashed the thought before it blossomed and fought not to frown when I looked up. When he waited for me to ask me what he wanted, I simply stared. He turned red, predictably, after a few moments of my gaze and staggered through his question.

"Do I- I mean, after-after you, right?"

I stared, then shook my head patiently.

He stammered something about delivery and I cut him off.

"Please take it to Auror Pottleby." He looked uncomfortable and I experienced a brief moment of something like pity. "I was already done with it. If he gives you permission to read it, you may."

He looked relieved as he took it from my hands.

I turned back to my desk. One report done, one left to be finished between the lot of us in the two days until Sunday.

I tried to feel something about another week coming to a satisfactory close. Another Friday afternoon spent working. For one awful moment, my eyes opened wide and I saw into the maw of darkness; the endless stretch of days, of days, of countless days, of a family house that held too many memories, of writing reports on how evil humanity could be, of my apartment whose walls were not yellow, of two graves that never went untended, of never being able to sleep peacefully ever again, of a journal filled with entries that were less than a paragraph long, of fear of a little blonde girl with pigtails, being alone alone alone. I felt myself crack open, a fault line in my head, and knew myself to be bleeding.

Then I blinked.

The gaping future disappeared.

It passed as if it never were.

"Abbott."

I looked up mechanically.

"Mind helping me with this one?" Auror McCabe smiled. "It's the Blacksmith estate case from Monday. You're a whiz when it comes to evidence review."

I tried to offer him a smile in return but my lips wouldn't turn up in time. He didn't seem to notice the effort.

I abandoned the attempt.

"Certainly."

|… T …|

The dream is always the same. Dark skies and a full moon, and a graveyard whose markers are worn down until the names are barely readable. Max, at least, has escaped and I feel incredibly relieved in the dream. My older brother, the one person I would freely admit to putting before myself, is safe and I am the only one left to suffer this hell.

That's alright.

I would do much to keep him from being caught.

In the dream, I walk behind Father. His cloak is dark, almost as dark as a pitch black night, darker even than the cloaks he favors. It is the color that tips me off first, even in the dreamscape, that the evil permeating the dream is real and substantial, that it is close and waiting to descend. Somehow, it never fails. I dream this dream, I worry over my brother, I see the cloak and I know-

The worst is yet to come.

I follow him mindlessly, or at least…automatically. Mechanically. Like my legs are stuck to this path, to this winding road, to this place behind my Father, to this road to destruction. In the dream, I am never able to deviate from this predetermined pattern. Sometimes, I am aware that it is a dream. Sometimes, I simply watch as if it is happening to someone else. The rest of the time I am fully in the moment, fully in the experience.

It's the third one that has me waking up breathing hard, sweating, eyes moist and heart full.

Tonight, I am doomed to experience the dream in that third way.

I am terrified, mechanical legs moving and moving and moving without any free will. He is a Death Eater – I am one in training. He will live up to his name this night, as he has before, but I am destined to see him uphold the title. I can't possibly live through this again.

The path widens to the clearing ahead, the moonlight is so full and clear and a heavy and startling.

The dark-haired boy on the ground, kneeling, head down. His breathing is labored, as always, and a foot nudges him only to elicit a sound that can only be qualified as a gasp.

I am terrified, I am scared, I want to leave. Every part of me is itching to escape this damned place, to veer off the path, to break free and run for my life. But it is a dream, and I am bound.

The Dark Lord in his terrible glory, the visage twisted inhumanly, his slit of a mouth opening to issue the order and Father moving forward to obey with pleasure.

The light, the light, the green…and I am awake on a nonexistent breath.

The worst part about the dream is that it is not-

-a dream.

I pass a hand over my face, still the shout that rings through the air yet, then stare at the ceiling for another minute.

It isn't a dream. It is a memory. And hindsight flavors the memory with fear, with disgust.

I'd followed him alright, but eagerly. I'd entered that clearing with only desperate fervor, a far far cry from the dream Theodore Nott. The dream Theodore Nott is the present Theodore Nott. The past Theodore Nott had wanted to please his father but had been chaotically glad that his older brother had gotten away. He had been confused about some things and deadest on other things. He'd been begging to prove myself, excited, breathless with it. He had been zealous, nipping at the leash up until the moment the boy wizard had died.

It isn't just fear or disgust that taints my memories and my dreams. It's an odd mix of self-hatred and shame and denial, of the heavy guilt of the wrong survivors. It's what keeps me breathing heavily, the hand that makes sure I always experience double-vision daily – view my life as what it could have been if I'd been born to the Light, view my life as it might have been had I given myself wholly to the Dark – and pushes me to penance.

I cannot forget.

The son suffers for the sins of the father.

I can never forget.

… | …

"The law?" I arched an eyebrow, lounging as I looked at Max from the comfort of the armchair across from his study desk. "A Marriage Law?"

Maxwell didn't smile; just straightened papers on his desk before meeting my gaze head on.

"It's a mandate, Dodge."

He rarely calls me by that particular nickname, unless he's being very serious. Ironic, isn't it? For most people, their friends and family say their full names when they are in trouble. Quite the opposite for us. I sat up in his favorite armchair and tried to look like I gave a damn in this stifling heat. Honestly, the Ministry had been bound to come up with something to keep everyone from killing each other. I hadn't the faintest idea why he was looking like I was facing the gallows.

"So we have to get married by a certain date?"

"No," he said slowly. "Not quite."

I waited for him to come out with it.

"From what I know, there is no mandate for actual marriage."

"Then why are you looking at me as if I'm heading to Azkaban?"

He seemed to take a shallow breath, looking every inch like the worried older brother I'd known before he'd left the house before the War.

"You will be bound to someone by Ministry Law."

…

I sat up.

"As in-"

"-she's been chosen for you."

I stared at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"A Marriage Ordinance in every sense of the word," Max said softly, handing me a roll of parchment. As I unscrolled it, he continued. "The details I managed to get are very clear on that. The Ministry is pairing up witches and wizards within a certain age group, on factors that are not…immediately…clear."

My eyes snapped to his face.

"Random assignment?" I asked dumbly.

"I honestly don't think so," my older brother said. "But whatever it is they are using as the process to decide which wizard goes to which witch is so well-protected that I couldn't get even a whiff of it."

Merlin.

This was so much more serious than I had thought.

"So not random assignment."

"No, Theo."

My brain went foggy as I tried to imagine the scope of such a law – nothing like this had been implemented in this history of Britain's Wizarding World. That they could tie you to someone you have never met and enforce the bonding, that they could break up-

Immediately, I went into panic mode.

"What about you and Marla-"

"It doesn't appear to affect those younger than sixteen or older than twenty-six years of age. It also doesn't affect those who are already married, though fiancées may summarily be ripped apart." He smiled. "Thank heavens I couldn't wait to marry her in January."

Muted relief washed over me. They were safe. He was safe.

"Good," I breathed. He needed to be happy. I needed Max to be happy. "Good."

My eyes returned to the scroll blindly. There wasn't much point in me reading it since the bare minimum was outrageous enough to know. And I had to return to work within the hour, within the next thirty minutes to apprise Blaise Zabini of this new knowledge. If any of us had known, we would have shared it already.

They didn't know.

Not that not knowing mattered.

"Thanks."

My brother nodded, stood and crossed in front of his desk to perch on it and look at me. He'd always been the less self-contained one, more effusive, much more dapper. When I didn't say anything, he frowned and dropped a hand to my shoulder. You're not alone, the gesture said, you're never alone. I knew it enough to rack up a smile as I took my leave, but this was about as different as Max and I were going to become. That the Ministry had taken it upon itself to actually…arrange…the futures of wizards and witches under their jurisdiction meant that there was magic behind this.

And wherever there was magic, there was bound to be consequences.

My first instinct was to bury myself in the library to look to precedent. Obviously, this precedent would not be English. It would be international. But it worried me that magic might be behind the law. It would be irrevocable once implemented which, I glanced at the calendar as I strode out of his study, was less than twenty-four hours in the future.

What excuse would they offer the populace? What could Shacklebolt possibly say to condone these actions? Would they even bother? Would London care? The War, so fresh on everyone's minds, made it difficult for those directly affected to really…think about anything else. Perhaps, that was the point.

We were already focusing every bit of energy on recoup.

Apparition took even less time than it usually did for me and I was in my own study before long. Four letters written, addressed to my best mates. My mind was already a whirlwind. What could this woman be like, my future wife? Older, younger? What could I do with another person to worry about? Max and my best mates and Marla were enough for me to look for and look after. And I was going to be an uncle in less than four months, what with Marla expecting. What would she be like?

I prayed that she was good, that she was kind, that maybe she wouldn't mind being pledged to a former Death Eater.

I prayed that she would understand.

I prayed that I would understand too.

|… H …|

These days, I wake up the same way I did during Wartime - instant alertness, adrenaline pumping through my veins, fingers curled around the warm wood of my wand. I don't rise into consciousness slowly. I am propelled from sleep straight into awareness, as if Death Eaters wait for me to wake every single day. Back when I was younger, it was stages. It was a lot of blinking and Mum and Alfie barging in and-

-well, I used to slowly come awake.

That hasn't happened in a long time.

Today was no different. I took a moment to ascertain my surroundings were safe before my fingers relaxed on my wand and I rolled over to stare at the ceiling. When I glanced over at my desk, my journal was open to the exact same page that it had been yesterday. I'd meant to write something. I returned my eyes to the ceiling. It took less than a minute before I heard the scratching at my window.

I wasn't expecting anything today.

Cho usually wrote in from Hong Kong on Sundays. If she'd written early, it meant something was happening. But that conclusion didn't make sense either, since she would have used a Plunko's note if it were urgent. So…

…what could this be about?

I sat up, wary and gripping my wand as I headed towards the far wall of my bedroom. An owl, a Ministry owl. For a moment, I experienced acute confusion. Had I forgotten to file the Mansfield Park report? Or had I been scheduled to come in today?

I cursed, opened the window, took the proffered message and paid the owl to leave.

An official Ministry seal?

My coworkers had taken it upon themselves to finish the report, and my intradepartmental communication was never through something as easily compromised as an Owl. Which meant another Department, and something either official or formal. My mind moved faster than my fingers but eventually I broke the seal and unrolled the parchment.

Dear Miss Hannah Abbott,

As of today, the Ministry of Magic has instated a new Marriage Law that will apply to witches and wizards of ages sixteen through twenty-nine.

Though this may appear to be a sudden and drastic measure, be reassured that the Ministry has taken the necessary steps and precautions to ensure that each and every witch and wizard is paired with someone suitably compatible. We are matching wizards and witches with their soul mates, the ones that have the greatest potential of providing mutual happiness.

It should be noted that these matches are not random. For security reasons, the specifics of the extensive process behind the Marriage Law Mandate will not be disclosed. Be reassured that your match is the best choice for you.

The Ministry requires immediate cooperation from the populace, as it will be in your best interest to contact your betrothed as soon as possible. The magic that binds the witch and wizard together is already in effect.

Miss Hannah Abbott, your betrothed is Sir Theodore Nott.

Further documentation and paperwork will be Owled to you on the morrow. Please sign the attached blank sheet and return it. We wish you good luck with your marriage.

Have a magical day!

Melda Babcock
Department of Mysteries Officer
The Ministry of Magic

I blinked.

Nott.

And then I blinked again before the world went black as my mind raced feverishly.

Nott.

A Marriage Law? A Mandate? Why?

I blinked stupidly.

Theodore Nott.

An actual law?

It could not be.

The awful feeling that had crushed me at the office returned, except this time the future was a raw wound and not a hungry mouth. I just don't understand. This new darkness had a name as despised as He Who Shall Not Be Named, one that had spelled death for my loved one. Instead of the endless stretch of days, I saw a sharp face and a cruel smile, all backlit by the sickly green of the killing curse. Nott's face blotted out the days, blotted out the reports, blotted out the apartment and its grey walls, and the loneliness until all I could feel was hatred swell up like a balloon inside my chest.

No.

Theodore Nott.

It just could not be. This was obviously a ploy. The hatred made it hard to feel incredulous but, slowly, incredulity crept in. This didn't make sense. When could the bloody Ministry have found the time to push a marriage mandate through government? And how did they go about choosing partners? And why was this happening? I struggled to breathe, noticing vaguely that this was quite close to a panic attack, and did my best to drag air into my lungs. How could I be expected to marry his son?

Marry the son of the man who had taken Alfie from me?

This wasn't really happening.

This is a dream, I thought in a daze. A terrible dream and...I need to wake up now.

I was not consciously aware of my decision to snatch the nearest cloak off the peg and Apparate myself to London. All I knew was that his father's face hung in front of my vision like a moon, like a great big full moon, ready to decimate the life that I'd scraped together in the ruins of the War.

The Ministry was chaos. Witches and wizards waiting in a harried line for the moving tollbooths. People in tears, people shouting, people with their hands in their hair and violent emotion on their faces. I bypassed it altogether and used the toilet for bureaucrat workers. I refused to believe this was my new reality. It wasn't much better on the inside but I threw myself into a full lift and ascended to the Department of Mysteries.

The first familiar face was that of Neville Longbottom, who was looking uncharacteristically handsome and desperate, in front of the lift. He and three other Unspeakables seemed to be all the Ministry had put out to man the gates and speak to growing crowd of witches and wizards. I elbowed my way to the front. He was a friend. He would clear this up.

He would know.

"Neville," I mouthed, trying to motion him over. "Neville!"

His eyes locked on my face before a flicker of recognition cross his own. Before he could say anything, a wizard on the other side of the crowd shouted something that sounded an awful lot like fire. The crowd surged once, one of his fellow Unspeakables broke into the crowd to find out what was the matter. At once, Neville Longbottom's eyes zeroed on mine again.

"Is it true?" I shouted frantically above the noise. I shook the parchment in my fist. "This is true? It's law?"

He looked as if he regretted saying yes. It was in the way his eyes didn't slide away, the way his face went blank. Almost as if he knew whom I was paired with.

"There must be someone else I can talk to," I said doggedly.

Neville Longbottom shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Hannah." His face resumed its usual steadied calm, as if I'd settled him. "There's no one at the moment - we're so swamped that I can barely keep this crowd back. What's done is done. Magic…magic is behind it."

Magic.

I went limp.

Magic was behind this?

Magic was behind Theodore Nott?

It would not be borne.

|… T …|

When I ripped open the letter the next morning, I'd settled into a state of numbness that could only come with a sleepless night. The numbness didn't lift when I'd read the name Hannah Abbott. For a minute, I blinked over the need to lie down and tried to remember why that name sounded vaguely familiar.

Had she been in my Year?

If she had, she hadn't been Slytherin since I'd have known. My brain conjured an image of blonde hair and light eyes, and other than Marietta Edgecombe I couldn't really remember any blonde Ravenclaw girls – my Year or otherwise.

"Hannah," I said to myself. "Hannah Abbott."

Zabini would know.

I wasted no time on the Plunko's notepaper since we only corresponded with that when there was something urgent and business-related. And I didn't have a day to wait for an Owl. As I reached for the Floo Powder on the mantel of my bedroom fireplace, a sheet shimmered on the nightstand.

I stopped, snatched the sheet up without looking at it, and stumbled through the fire and into Zabini's own bedroom. Predictably, the man was awake. Not only was he awake but he looked freshly bathed and dressed for the day. He looked as if today was simply another day. When his eyes landed on me, his jaw dropped.

"Theodore?"

I paced the carpet in answer. He called for tea.

"Who is Hannah Abbott?" I asked shortly.

His eyes widened.

"That's your pair?"

I nodded.

"Pansy Parkinson."

I stared.

"Merlin, she's yours?"

He nodded.

"You haven't slept?" he asked drily. "That worried, eh?"

But his face shuttered almost as soon as he asked the question. I had no time to wonder why.

"Hannah Abbott," he said slowly. "Our Year. Hufflepuff Halfblood – if I remember correctly, she made Prefect for her House. Not sure where she's from but, unfortunately, both her mother and brother were killed during the War."

I could feel the blood leave my face.

Blaise watched me in silence. But he knew me too well to not know what I was thinking.

"I'm sorry, Theo."

I sat down heavily.

A Hufflepuff whose family was killed during the War by Death Eaters. The scenario was the worst possible one.

"Who-"

Blaise shook his head. So the perpetrators were unknown? This was so much worse than I'd thought.

"Do we know where she-"

He shook his head again, a bit blankly.

"I know a lot," he said softly, "but I don't know all. There's a good bet that she's in London. I may or may not correctly recall that she works at the Ministry but that's as much as I remember, mate. I'm sorry."

That he apologized again made me feel much worse than I had before.

Hannah Abbott, my intended, was a victim of the War. Her family had been murdered by the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters. She was a Hufflepuff, had been enough of an avatar of her House to become Prefect, and was a bureaucrat now even with whereabouts unknown. Should I find her first? I thought feverishly. Should I seek her out myself?

Perhaps enough of the fever was on my face since Blaise gave me a strange look before he summoned a house-elf to bring about a spot of tea. When the house-elf departed, he dropped a hand on my shoulder.

"I'll try and find out what I can about the deaths."

I nodded blankly.

The tea came.

…|…

Fatigue set in slowly. By the time I returned to my own home, I was ready to simply sink into the bed with a Sleepless Potion to ensure some sort of peace of mind. Thankfully, Zabini had talked me out of finding her myself. How I had intended to find her…I'm uncertain. The fatigue was ruining everything.

I had to write her a note.

I cannot begin to try and describe to you what it felt like to sit down to pen her letter. Had the Ministry imagined boundless joy with their news? Had they envisioned witches and wizards writing…happy…words to the person they'd just found out they were bound to for the rest of their lives? Were we supposed to fall in happily, quickly, realign our friendships and relationships to fit this new person in?

Were we supposed to say anything useful at all?

I had no idea what to say to her, this girl.

Who was she? What had her Mum and brother been like? Was she alone in the world? Did she…

…was she happy? Could she be happy? Could I make her happy?

I don't even remember what led me to writing the introductory thing that I put to paper – it was superfluous, almost perfunctory, in how bare the words seemed. Introduction to myself, really, and that I would like to meet her sometime soon. I dropped off to sleep soon after my owl winged its way through the sky.

I slept like the dead, all day, until early the next day when I was awoken by the familiar scratching of an unfamiliar owl.

The letter was mine…seal intact.

|… H …|

I couldn't have brought myself to touch it, regardless of the owl pecking my fingers away. It had been shocking enough to realize whose owl it was - God knew I didn't even want to let that creature into my home - but it was persistent. I took the letter, gave it some food, sent it on its way, then promptly sent my own beautiful Sophie off with the thing unopened. The rest of the night was spent trying to get back to sleep, and the morning was miserable. Coworkers were gathered in furiously whispering huddles everywhere, all throughout the building. It was the only thing I heard in the hallways, on the lifts, in the loo. Every whisper just brought up the wretchedness of the situation but we couldn't stop.

It felt like those of us under the Mandate were trapped in a run-away carriage we hadn't the faintest idea how to get out of.2

Needless to say, the morning was miserable.

My head was swimming. I felt mad, reckless even. One minute, I was completely focused on tallying the number of artifacts found on our last hunt and the next minute I was flooded with a feeling of such manic hatred that I was half scared I'd lose control of my magic or my emotions. I couldn't do this. I couldn't accept this! There had to be something - anything - in old law that prevented this kind of magical tying. How could the Ministry do this? hadn't Professor Umbridge's liberties at Hogwarts prompted something to make sure power couldn't run unchecked? Could Shacklebolt be called before the Wizengamot? Could the magic be reversed? Or maybe I could ask them to take me out of the pool altogether? Or maybe they could draw again – just me and a pool of eligible older men? What about Cho-

- fuck, I'd forgotten to Quill her. I hurried back to my desk, went digging through my drawers for the Plunko sheet that was our special means of instant communication, and wasted no time in getting to the point.

Who is it, Cho?

You tell me first.

Even Cho didn't know who'd been responsible for the deaths so I saw no reason to hesitate. But the fact that he was a Death Eater… His name conjured up that same bubble of immense hatred, an emotion so dark and deep that it took me a few moments to force my fingers to move over paper.

Theodore Nott.

A full minute passed before her small neat writing scrawled across the sheet of parchment.

I am so sorry.

As was I, although all the connotations of the word 'sorry' added together could not adequately-

-I shoved the thought away as best as I could, forging ahead with the conversation.

You?

Longbottom.

Whoa.

That's...unexpected.

Unexpected doesn't cover it. On my way back into the country. Dinner tomorrow, Enchanted Eats at 6?

Plunk me when you get here.

Unexpected, indeed. The most popular girl in school and the most bullied boy. Thinking about them was distracting enough to get me through the rest of the day but, before long, I just-

-how?

How could this be? I'd long ago stopped believing in the idea of a Creator, of a Power, of a just Being that overlooked things. I'd stopped believing in the infantile saying that good things happened to good people. Bad things happened to good people. Terrible, unspeakable, unforgivable things happened to good people. Sometimes those same things happened to bad people too. But there was no fairness, no sense of justice in the world unless it was justice meted out by your own human hand. Because I could not love Theodore Nott. I couldn't even look at him as a person, as an individual, as anything other than the son of Nott Sr. I could not imagine that justice would include a plot in which my….my…my life was tied to his, without my consent, irrevocably.

Perhaps my life hadn't been sunshine before this Marriage Law, but it could be nothing other than hell now.

You have a plan for yourself. You have an idea for what you want your life to be. You have goals you would like to meet and a purpose you would like to fulfill and then suddenly…what? None of that matters a whit in the long scheme of things because you are now tied to the son of murderer? Someone who might be a murderer himself? A wearer of the indelible Dark Mark? Someone who fought on the wrong side, the evil side, someone who you would have given anything (anything at all) to avoid? And then they tell you that this person is The One?

The Ministry was a steaming load of shite.

I could not be the only person in this situation. I couldn't be the only one staring up at their bedroom ceilings, trying to fall asleep the day after their life had been blown to bits. I couldn't be the only witch in this damned country stuck with someone who effectively represented a fate worse than death.

Even as I fell asleep, I plotted and fretted and tried to see a way out.

I couldn't find it.

So I got up at first light the next morning, and went in to work.

"Abbott, what are you about?"

I shrugged as I passed Auror McDowell and sat at my desk. Everyone else functioned like a dysfunctional family unit here but if they were family, then I was the distant relative that no one was quite sure what to do with. I suppose McDowell would be the gruff uncle. Why he was asking any sort of personal question was beyond me.

"Just thought I'd get a head start on this week's work."

When I looked up, he was eyeing me like I was a recalcitrant daughter.

"Sir?"

"You fall under the Law, don't you?" I froze. He continued. "That's why you're here. He that bad?"

Damn it, emotions really were killing me. I was still frozen.

Without another word, McDowell returned to his desk.

"I've got two reports that I could use your keen eyes on."

They floated through the air before he finished the sentence, and landed on my desk loudly. I couldn't fight the wash of relief. Nothing was said for the next seven hours. I got up, got lunch, came back, pushed through his two reports and finished one for Auror Blackstone. The sifting through the details was mechanical but complete. It blocked everything out as I scoured for inconsistencies, details, and missing information. By the time I finished, the falling twilight and pitter patter of rain filled the room.

"Abbott."

I looked up immediately to see my boss standing in the doorway.

"Sir?"

He examined me closely before shaking his head.

"Tomorrow," he said gruffly, and waved a hand.

I nodded and got back to the incident report for the little bit of time of left.

Cho and I weren't really very touchy people. I didn't often think about the way I used to be in Hogwarts because it was difficult. But when we met in front of Enchanted Eats, we stared at each other for only a moment before meeting halfway.

"I'm so sorry, Han," she whispered into my hair. "I wanted better for you."

The awful bubble of hatred curled up in my throat. I forced it back.

"I know," I whispered back.

There was nothing else I could say so I squeezed her a bit harder before I let go. When I stepped back, I tried to summon a smile.

"Hong Kong?"

She rolled her eyes.

"As chaotic as always." She said that but she really did love her family. "My sister-in-law is pregnant and it was a big celebration."

Now that brought a genuine smile to my face.

"Should I be calling you Aunty Cho already?"

Cho smiled back then took my arm to lead me into the restaurant. She was regal enough now to command anyone's attention and we were seated before anyone else.

"Have you talked to Neville?"

Cho looked startled.

"Why should I? Did Nott try to contact you?"

I looked at my plate and reached for my cutlery, nodding slowly.

"What did he say?"

I shrugged. She narrowed her eyes.

"How did he say it?"

"Owl." I took a bite of the chicken. It was very good. "Let me try yours, Cho."

She wasn't mad when I reached across the small table for her beef.

"You didn't look at it," said Cho, "did you?"

I shook my head.

"I haven't talked to Neville," she replied firmly, "and don't think I will unless I have to."

I sneaked another bite from her plate.

"Why? Independence?"

When she shook her head, I stared at her. I didn't understand. She had a great one – an amazing one, really. Neville was quiet and steady, and more over he wasn't bad to look at in the slightest. He'd grown into himself and grown into his power, and while every now and then you could see a peek of the shy nervous boy he'd been before, he was also a dependable man. He was honorable. And, most importantly, he was good.

He was a good person.

"I mean, I love my independence and I don't want anyone to get in the way of that but…he's not my choice. I don't want this so I'm not going to go after him."

Understandable.

"You really should try my chicken," I said around another bite. "It's very good."

|… T …|

I'd slept at my brother's last night. Every time he cooed at her stomach I pretended to gag, but when he wasn't looking, I asked Marla if I could speak to my niece too. We didn't actually know if it was a girl but I had a funny feeling that she would be. Max and Marla didn't care either way. I could admit to myself that I did it because I needed family, needed the quiet assurance of my brother's presence, needed to see him interact with Marla and look at what life with love could be like. He had dragged me off to his study again, handing me a cup of coffee.

"Theo, who is she?" He'd sat back down, cradling his own teacup. "I assume that something is very wrong."

I didn't feel like coffee but I sipped it anyway.

He waited me out.

I sighed.

"Hufflepuff."

When I looked up, his face was an odd mix of surprise and disbelief. Aye, that was pretty much what I felt.

"A Hufflepuff?"

I nodded.

"She was in my Year."

"Merlin-"

"Not the worst of it, brother," I continued with a sigh, "her brother and mother died during the War."

Max's face had slid into a very faint look of horror. My brother had always been quite expressive.

"Who is she?"

"Hannah Abbot."

The look of horror immediately became more apparent, before slowly sliding into one of abject pity. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something and then shut it immediately. We'd both stared at the fire before I trundled off to bed.

Was she angry? Was that why she didn't respond? Was it a mistake or a pointed response to an overture she didn't want? What the hell was I supposed to do now? What could I do?

I'd figured out for myself what she did for a living.

An Auror.

I don't think my heart could have dropped any further.

An Auror, by way of Hufflepuff, whose Muggle mother and beloved brother had been presumably killed by Death Eaters.

Fuck, fuck, fuck me.

No matter which way I went, I was completely boxed in. She was the exact opposite of a woman who would ever be content to be tied to anyone who hadn't fought for the Light. And my father had been nowhere as famous as Malfoy but…my last name would be enough. She would have known what I was before she'd went any further. Perhaps her return of the letter really was her answer.

I nursed my tumbler of Firewhisky and stared into the fire.

There was nothing for it. I had to try and see her. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

|… | …|

"Is Auror Abbott here?" I asked, staring at the grizzled older wizard in front of me. Bottle green robes and a neatly cut beard was at odds with the scar that dragged the left side of his face down.

He stared back.

"You are?"

A million things went through my mind but I hadn't the faintest idea what to say to actually get myself in there. Thankfully, providence stepped in and the door widened.

"Did someone say my…"

She was…pretty. I hadn't expected it. Her voice was lyrical, a lilt there that I couldn't place. Her blonde hair was streaked with slightly darker colors and swept up into a bun so tight that it looked painful to me. She'd been looking at the grizzled wizard when she'd started to pose her question but was already turning to look at me. And when she saw me, she trailed off.

Her eyes were brown, large in a face that looked a like it wasn't used to being thin, and they were void. As in…they were devoid of emotion. I couldn't read at all. She was as blank as a slate, no emotion, not even the typical so-called 'spark' of recognition. Just her voice trailing off and her mouth closing and her blank blank eyes taking me in. For a moment, I was frozen and dry-mouthed.

I took it all in in a second.

She knew who I was.

"Are you Hannah Abbott?"

She didn't so much as nod in acknowledgement.

"I'm-"

"I know who you are." Her voice was cool and detached, much the same as it had been when she'd been asking her superior who'd been saying her name. She turned to him. "I'll be back in five minutes, sir."

She didn't wait for her superior to say anything but walked past me unhurriedly. I followed without question. If she knew who I was, then she knew what I was. She'd done her research. When we got to what passed for a break room in this Department, she opened the door and went inside and took a seat. She watched me sit across the table from her.

In the light, she was familiar. I vaguely recalled her being close to some talkative boy, a Prefect. I instantly snapped to attention when her mouth opened.

"Why are you here?"

I turned the question around in my head.

"We're to be married," I said slowly. "I wanted to meet you."

"Is that why you are here?"

I watched her watch me and tried to understand her.

I had- I mean, I did. Want to meet her, I mean. And she was not really what I'd expected...although her lack of enthusiasm was so much more than I'd hoped for. I wasn't expecting open arms and a welcoming committee and I didn't know her in the slightest. Her face remained unmoved, those eyes unemotional.

"I want to know you."

Her lips thinned and something flashed in those dead eyes, so suddenly that she looked hard.

"Well, you've met me. We've had a single class together."

Another strike against me. She switched tack suddenly.

"What is it that you do?"

"I co-own a legal and financial services company."

"Legal?"

I spread my hands.

"The Muggles are ahead of their time in that arena. While we have our own version of what they call a tribunal and a jury, there is no real outlet for smaller disputes or detective services. Wizards are good at finding things. But when they aren't…my partner and I step in. And if they need to investigate or require counsel, we do that too."

"For a fee, of course."

It was her tone, more than the words, that summed up what she thought of me. I said nothing.

"You've accomplished what you came here for," she said coolly. Her hands pushed against the table and she stood, steadily. "I must be getting back to my office now."

She strode to the door before I even opened my mouth.

"I didn't."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I didn't accomplish what I came here for," I said firmly. "I want to know you. I want to get to know you, you know, and I can't do that in five minutes."

She looked at me blankly for a minute before turning on her heel.

I watched the space that she'd occupied and wondered if it would feel cold when I passed through it.

… | …

The male papers, the most oddly sexist piece of work I'd read recently, were delivered four days later. It reiterated that the Ministry of Magic had chosen the perfect person for me. It explained that it hoped that we'd met in the seventy-two hours after the Marriage Law was implemented. To force closeness, the magic would drain the energy right from our bodies if we weren't together. Some mystical mumbo jumbo about clashing auras looked like it was talking about getting along. If we didn't get along and subsequently weren't physical with each other, then every man with functioning equipment and a like for lady parts would be after her until I got physical. Or vice versa. I didn't have to marry her, the papers seemed to say, but I did have to be with her. Another segment explained that every protective instinct in me was going to roar to life…literally. The exact phrase was "the protection instinct will be almost animalistic…it will overwhelm everything else". All of this was delivered with the very reassuring line that that was as much as the Ministry was "sure of for now".

I felt so disgusted by our governing body by the time I got to the end of the scroll that I called for a shot of firewhisky.

Our leadership, ladies and gentlemen.

At least, I wasn't in it by myself.

While Zabini seemed to be uncharacteristically happy with his future wife, Malfoy had gotten Granger. This looked to be as bad as my case, if not potentially worse. Their first meeting had ended with her threatening him and him yelling. Their time together had culminated fiery blow-out after fiery blow-out. His instincts had kicked in to rescue her from a mishap somewhere in London but then something had happened the next morning. Whatever happened had made Malfoy so angry and unsettled that Zabini had organized a stag night to cheer Malfoy up. That, predictably, ended in a bit of disaster.

Fast-forward to the present and I'd had a full week with no hint of Hannah Abbott. The nightmare about the young man in the clearing was repetitive, constant, a Muggle movie that played over and over without end every time I closed my eyes. The papers at least cleared up the mystery of the sudden onset megrim. I'd felt progressively weaker all week, and knew that this was only going to get worse. Every day, I went to work and ate lunch and moved through the two cases I currently managed without much fuss. But, I'd been dropping like a stone into bed minutes after getting home from work.

Except today. I closed my eyes and the blood rushed.

I opened my eyes and the rush receded.

"Damn it all," I muttered as I sat up, "awake it is then. Tippy!"

The house elf appeared immediately.

"Master?"

"Sleep potion from the silver cupboard, not the blue."

At least it was Friday? And I hadn't a plan in the world for the weekend - I could afford a sleepless night tonight, should things get worse before the stroke of twelve. Just as I gritted my teeth and laid back down, the fire glowed green and Blaise's head floated in the flames. I dragged myself out from under the covers and dropped to the floor a safe distance away.

"Looking a bit ill there, mate. Do you need anything?"

"Trying a sleep potion first," I said drily. "Have you had a look at the papers with Drake yet?"

His smile went dry too.

"They've only decided to shackle too people together for life…with magic…with no way to break free…yes, we've had a peek. Will you see her tomorrow?"

If this headache didn't disappear, I would have to.

"I'm trying to respect her space," I said quietly. "She doesn't want this."

"But neither do you," Zabini frowned. "And I know you, mate, I do. Theodore, you're a good per-"

"She doesn't want this."

Logs crackled in the silence. The fire burned a little brighter as he thought of ways to say what he thought I needed to hear. I stared at one particular log under his chin that must have been perfect kindling. As I watched, it went right up in flames.

"She's trying to get it annulled."

"I-…what?"

He bobbed his head in the fire like it was a yes/no question.

"Annulled, mate. As in break off your marriage."

"But-"

-we weren't married. Yet.

"I know," he said. "But she's trying to prove a point. Word gets around slowly but I heard from someone else that she wrote something of a defense of her plea up. I can't get a copy of it though."

Merlin, she really didn't want this.

And that made me feel horrible. Was it me? Or would it have been any man? Or perhaps was it that I was a Death Eater? I understood her reservations if it was the last accusation and I didn't blame her ( I didn't). I just…

Merlin.

I was reaching for parchment and a quill before my mind fully processed the action. Zabini watched the movements with veiled interest. I summoned a faint smile for him.

"Thanks. Parkinson?"

It was the only prompt he needed. His eyes went dreamily unfocused for a very brief moment before he smiled beatifically and told me they would be meeting tomorrow in Diagon Alley for lunch. After that, some sort of outing at Cornelius Park. It was morbidly nice, listening to someone who had such high hopes for the next day.

While he talked, I wrote. I asked her whether she would be at work tomorrow, whether she was experiencing any symptoms of malaise, and if we could meet up the day after tomorrow. By the time I was done, Zabini was done too.

"You're looking worse by the minute. I just wanted you to know," he said gently, "so get some rest. I'll see you on the morrow?"

Aye.

Tomorrow.

… | …

"Thank you for meeting me," I said politely.

More like thank Merlin for the circumstances. Hannah Abbott looked worse for wear. During the first meeting, I'd gotten the impression that her face wasn't naturally so thin nor her eyes so large in her face - the effect was trebled now. Her gaze was slightly bloodshot, she looked pale and her hair pulled away from her face, escaped strands tending to curl at the ends, the bags under her eyes looked like dark smudges. The worst part was that all of this worked together to make her dead eyes even more lifeless. I was shocked by the figurative rearing of my instinct's head – I had to fight the need to reach across the table and touch her face.

"Have potions worked at all for you?" she asked in her detached voice.

"Less than moderately well," I replied. "You?"

She shook her head.

"Less than poorly. I don't usually sleep well and now I sleep even less."

As soon as the words were uttered, her expression looked as if she'd given too much away. Obviously, she didn't want to talk to me at all. The desire to touch her was still there. I nodded.

"How many hours do you work?"

"Excuse me?"

"Hours? Work? Do you keep a normal business day or do Aurors work at all times?"

"All times," she said with obvious reluctance to share intimate details, "depends on the time and what's happening. This happens to be a slow week."

"We need to see each other," I said slowly, "because we cannot function this way. Today, we should try for an hour. But we need to work out a schedule."

She looked...positively neutral. I swallowed my anxiety, tried to put a good face on it, pushed forward to ask for her time.

"When can you meet tomorrow?"

"For how long?"

"For a significant stretch of time," I said firmly. "At least an hour."

"I don't know," she shrugged.

"Because your schedule is all over the place?"

"Slow for us means a little more time to sleep but not what it might mean in your line of work."

I tried not to wince at how perfectly bland she was.

"How much time to sleep?" I asked curiously.

"Five or six hours on a good night."

Merlin's Balls, that sounded rough. To be honest, since Zabini and I had opened up our business, I hadn't had that much time to think about what working hours were like for everyone else. Malfoy's businesses thrived under his mother's investing acumen and Malfoy's own brand of impatience. Crabbe and Goyle were living off whatever their estates brought in, and all their parents were still alive. I hadn't ever known someone who worked for money - even Max hadn't been formally disinherited. And even though I was working, I wasn't working for the money. I was working because…

Well, because I wanted to. I wanted to work and I wanted to help. A lot of people lost a lot of things thanks to the War.

Like the girl in front of me who couldn't keep her eyes on me long enough to feign interest. We stared in opposite directions and inside my head I winced. I wanted this to be better. I didn't want her to not want this. I wanted to want this. I wanted to not feel the weight of a thousand sins sitting in my shoulders. I wanted to act on whatever this magic was doing to my instincts – to touch her face and assure her that this would be okay. I wanted to expel these ghosts, these anxieties, this feeling that nothing could ever be right again. For a moment, I selfishly wanted to be able to do penance without caring. But I didn't know how. And I'd been selfish enough for three lifetimes so I couldn't start now.

So I ordered tea, and stared in the other direction, and said nothing.

Forty-five minutes went by.

We parted ways at the door without a word.

|… H …|

After the third day, when I'd gone to try and get it repealed, I'd understood that magic was at work.

No one would ever entertain the idea that whatever foolish method they had used was not foolproof. No one would listen. No one would appeal the Law. No one. But the Law existed. And magic existed. And the clause that allowed for us to be exhausted outside of each other's presence existed. Every slammed door contributed to a fury that I can't even begin to hope to describe.

The hatred was eating me up, eating up what had before been time for self-contemplation or leisure. It was eating up the spaces between thinking about one thing and then thinking about the next. It woke up with me every morning of that terrible week and went to bed at my side every night. I recognized that I could not possibly function under the weight of all this emotion.

I wrote so often in my journal that there were double and triple entries for each day. It was the only outlet I had, and as far as outlets go, it wasn't very therapeutic. I wrote about the unfairness of the Law, the Ministry's refusal to respond to my request, how he'd thought that he could know me – as if he had the privilege - now, the way I hated Theodore Nott so deeply, so intensely that it was beginning to take me over.

I didn't want that.

And so?

I pushed him out. I let my shock intrude, bit by bit, until all I could feel was disbelief.

To think that the Ministry thought that I deserved to be paired with Theodore Nott, second generation Death Eater, was still so incredulous to me that after that first week I functioned as if that wasn't the case. I woke up, went to work, did my reports, read through incident reports, created proposals, turned in whatever paperwork was needed as if nothing had changed. My mind was a castle that he couldn't breach. I refused to spend a conscious moment on this great upset, or my hatred. I never thought about him, and avoided every conversation in the workplace that centered around the ordinance...even though the Marriage Law was on the lips of most everyone in the Ministry.

And so…these meetings took place at the same Muggle café in London proper whenever I could make time. Which wasn't more than a half hour every three days. I was willing to suffer headaches and insomnia if it meant less time spent in his presence. I had to force myself to remain cool and detached before time. Sometimes I gave myself a stern talking-to, sometimes it was a whispered prayer. At all times, I anchored myself in mundane thoughts like what I'd eaten that day, or what I planned to wear the next, or when I'd be seeing Cho again. Anything to keep my mind busy.

It always worked.

He no longer tried to talk.

Magic wouldn't be denied though. What had started out as persistent headaches had evolved into a cacophony of ills; gritty eyes, dry mouth, tremors, a lack of appetite, and an overall feeling of fatigue. Most days, I had to use magic and a lot of makeup to look alive and alert. From a purely objective standpoint, I knew that the likelihood that this would get progressively worse was rather high. But I was certain I could balance my wellness and work.

I was certain of it.

By the fourth meeting, I was taking vindictive pleasure in every new malaise he was suffering. I'd shown up, feeling particularly spiteful and being unable - maybe even unwilling - to stop it. I watched the table two places down from us for the first ten minutes but noticed that he was particularly still today. His hands betrayed a slight tremor as he reached for his teacup and his reflexes appeared fractionally slower. It filled me with such happy malice that for a moment, the rational part of me was shocked. That part was shut down. The happy malice won and I decided to cut our time down to twenty because time in this café was time wasted. I patiently waited for the clock, ignoring the thumping migraine centered behind my right eye. I had been making do without potions but would probably need a cocktail of medicinal stuff to remain on top of my duties on the job.

I hid my watching carefully, making it look as if I was staring at the wall behind him. I was certain that he knew what I was doing, though. He wasn't stupid…evil usually isn't. When he took a sip, he replaced the cup without the slight tremor. I wasn't sure whether he was losing weight but if he was anything like me, he probably was. And that filled me with such wretched glee that I almost smiled.

And that filled me with such wretched glee that I almost smiled.

"I'm cutting it short today," I said perversely, without really thinking.

His eyes lifted from the cup to stare piercingly at me. I hid the unexpected urge to flinch behind a sip of my own tea. His gaze didn't waver.

"Why?"

I wanted to smile at how hoarse his voice sounded.

"Because I have work to do."

"You enjoy this?"

I held his gaze.

"To what are you referring to?"

He looked away. When he spoke, he sounded so…resigned.

"Do you enjoy it? Both of these things? These stilted meetings…and the way our bodies are reacting?" He looked back, eyes so tired. "I would give anything to gain the power to make this work."

And, without any warning, I lost it.

The frenzy of hatred bubbled up, up, up, over until I felt like my skin was on fire with it, I was expanding with it, I was a balloon and the rage was hot air and I was rippling into a different form with son of a Death Eater, the son of the Death Eater who took away the last family I had, wanted to make things better. How wonderful, how perfectly marvelous! I felt like I could die, could burn this place to the ground, could catch fire and incinerate everything my eyes could see. He would give anything? What did he know about giving? I knew the moment my facial muscles stopped complying with me – the minute that it revealed the depth of how much I despised the man in front of me – because he froze with an indecipherable look on his face. He couldn't give me anything. So much emotion was too much – for a moment, it was like being a child and having my magic react to an overload. The table next to us was neatly sliced down the middle by a cut of wind so sudden that customers jumped out of their seats a beat too late.

I tried to tamp down on the magic in sudden fear – my last wish was to get a warning from the Ministry for using magic in front of Muggles(however premeditated this accident was). I closed my eyes, counted to ten, attempted to think about anything else but this hellish situation and the wizard sitting across from me. I tried for a full ten seconds to control myself and my magic.

When I couldn't conquer it, I stood.

I'd put up with enough for today.

|… T …|

She hated me.

I'd been lulled into thinking otherwise, since she'd been so emotionless from the first day. I'd thought that maybe it wasn't so much that she didn't like me but that she wouldn't have liked anyone who wasn't strictly a non-Death Eater. The meetings were awful, to be sure, but I'd thought that with time I might be able to...get her to talk to me. She was busy and unimpressed, and I didn't want to push her or force her or crowd her. For the first time in four meetings, I'd decided to say something yesterday when she'd decided to leave early. But I couldn't forget the climactic scene and the look...

Her face had been powerful in motion. The blankness slipped away to reveal pure…unadulterated…fury. I can't describe it. It had looked like her face was rebelling against itself – every muscle moving, every emotion mirrored perfectly, every twitch betrayed. The rage bled into hatred so pure that I drew away from her before I was aware I was moving.

She hated me.

She hated me.

She hated me.

She hated me so much that she'd lost control of her magic. It had spun away from her as a cold whistling wind, cutting through the table next to us as confusion broke out.

All I could do in the aftermath was sit in stunned silence. When she'd left without a word a minute later, I had been frozen. Literally…I couldn't move. I could barely breathe. It felt like the onset of a panic attack, airways constricting and mind struggling to race in a hundred directions. I could feel my hands shaking beneath the table and had to clench them to get them to stop. I'd left after a full fifteen minutes of getting myself together. The waitress asked me if I was alright and I'd had to wave her off.

I'd underestimated Abbott's feelings. I didn't any longer.

Work the next day was hell and the weekend was chaos. We'd gotten sidetracked with Malfoy's affairs – Hermione Granger had been attacked in her own home and Malfoy had been berserk with rage. All of us pulled together in his time of need, after receiving an owl from a St. Mungoes Healer requesting our presence. Managing to keep cool had taken the last of my potion stores, and while I'd been there, I'd stopped by St. Mungos' Potions Department to restock my own supplies and get much much more. Because nothing was ever very straightforward with Malfoy (and Granger, consequently) the couple had begun fighting fiercely by the time everyone left the hospital room.

It was oddly comforting to watch from the sidelines.

In light of Abbott's feelings, I couldn't help but envy my mates.

Zabini and Parkinson rubbed along so well that it seemed sometimes like they'd been dating before the Mandate. The two times I'd gone out to lunch with them had been a lesson in how to be a third-wheel. They were a visually striking couple too – the dusk of his skin and the dramatic divide of her paleness and inky black hair. Crabbe and Goyle weren't any different than Zabini. Malfoy, no matter how nuts Granger made him, definitely felt something for her and she for him. His stories of the pheromone mix-up made that shockingly clear. They fought so wildly that their reconciliations were just as passionate – it was obvious to everyone except maybe them that their hearts were involved.

And I say that as a Slytherin who is supposedly allergic to feelings.

It felt like everything was on fast-forward for everyone else, and I didn't understand how.

The following Monday was rough. To think that we'd birthed the idea for this place in the middle of War was kind of nuts. Only two months into opening and we were taking off. The two of us had been working hard to publicize and advertise our business, and since we were the first of our kind, we had our hands full trying to schedule everyone in. And all of that stress made everything terrible. It was getting worse – the shakes, the loss of appetite, the headaches. There was no way that we could continue as we had been and expect to come out of it alright. She hated me but the magic was complicating everything – it was actually harder to see her losing weight than it was to notice a decline in my own health. We had to- I mean, we couldn't go on this way. I had to find out what I could.

I stood, pushed back the chair, and got my cloak.

"I'll be back in about an hour," I said to Zabini on my way past his office, "you'll be alright, mate?"

"Moorehouse comes back in an hour," he said easily, "and we should both be here for that."

Even if I wasn't done with my inquiries at the Ministry, I wouldn't miss a client meeting. This marriage mess was important (if I was being honest, it was the most important thing) but I would never jeopardize work for it.

I waved before crossing to the second waiting room in our office, Floo'd into the Ministry's lobby, headed up to the Department of Mysteries. It would be the most likely place to start.

"Is there anyone I can speak to?"

The neat looking witch manning the office desk looked up. She dipped her quill into ink and procured registration parchment.

"What does this pertain to?"

"Marriage Law specifics," I replied. "I would like to ask questions about the male papers."

She scribbled it all down.

"Your name?"

"Theodore Nott."

"Age?"

"Twenty-one."

The look that passed over her face was gone before I could examine it.

"I'll sign you in, Master Nott, and see if there's an Unspeakable on hand to answer your questions."

The parchment that she'd been writing on glowed briefly as I turned away to take a seat in the only chair in the room. Not comfortable, in the least. Five minutes later, I was lead to another small room where a glass clock with numbers made of what looked like tinsel took up the entire left wall. The witch in front of me was professionally warm with an unwavering gaze, and so I jumped right into it.

"I won't-" I cleared my throat. "I won't ask about the magic, Mrs. Stabler. But the reversibility of it."

She nodded.

"I couldn't tell you about the magic even if I wanted to," she said sympathetically, "but I can tell you that this is not the kind of magic that disperses. The hows and whys of the procedure are complex but the magic that is now binding you to your betrothed is strong and irreversible."

I didn't even know I was holding my breath until she said that. So Abbott and I were locked into this forever. A weight settled on my chest. I nodded my acceptance of this irrevocable fate.

"How do you know that you've picked the right pairs?"

"This War…was divisive. Every ugly thing anyone has ever thought about blood inferiority is out in the open." She looked at me frankly. "This is closure and new beginnings, in one. Your friends, people you get along with – those are non-romantic matches. The long and short of it is that the magic looked for two hearts that matched, regardless of blood or family. So the Ministry ensured that this spell's parameters made romantic love and the capacity for happiness the priority. So it's not just that you're capable of falling in love with the other person, but that you are capable of falling in love with her and being happy with her too."

"But more than one person can make you happy," I reasoned.

"Depends on what you believe in."

"How does this Law do anything but punish an already suffering populace?" I asked evenly.

"It doesn't-"

"It does," I interrupted before I reached for my cloak and rolled up my sleeve. When she saw the Dark Mark, she drew back. "Because it punishes everyone…not the ones who did the killing and the thieving and the murdering. My betrothed is of the Light."

For a long moment, her eyes remained on the Dark Mark and her professional mien disappeared. When she looked up, her eyes were sad but resolute.

"It doesn't take away from the fact that the process determined that you could make each other happy, happier than anyone else could make either of you." Mrs. Stabler's professionally attentive look returned. "The Ministry didn't do this lightly – as a government, we wanted to help society and especially our young recoup."

This was the best way they could come up with?

I couldn't work up any anger underneath the weight of my resignation so I rolled my sleeve down and slipped into my cloak.

"How much time is a pair supposed to be spending in each other's company at the onset?"

"That depends," she said firmly.

This was like pulling teeth.

"…on?"

"On a whole host of things but mostly…emotion." She turned her hands up but kept her eyes on mines. "Say, we have a pair that was already friends or possibly more before the Law. They have already built a relationship presumably based on positive emotion. They wouldn't need to spend as much time together but they probably already are in the habit of doing so. Then take a couple that had no relationship – they have neither positive nor negative emotion associated with the other person. They would need to spend at least an hour a day to create the bond the magic requires."

An hour? I was completely buggered then. An entire bloody hour.

"And what exactly does the bond require?" I asked steadily. "With the bond made, does the need to be around each other lessen?"

"It's a tad more complicated than that. The magic, in essence, is supposed to help a pair become closer. So it wants a pair to form a bond. Magic can force false emotion but…that's not the point of this. Instead, the magic enforces a necessity for…for physical proximity," she said with feeling. "It doesn't make you want to be around the other person. It just provides the incentive. If you're around each other for long periods of time, logically, it should follow that you form a relationship. The magic provides the physical aspect of the bond but the nature of the relationship provides the mental aspect of the bond. But with the bond made, yes, it's not crippling to go weeks without seeing your significant other."

So the magic, in essence, banked on two people liking each other by being forced into being in each other's company.

How in the bloody hell did she define 'incentive'? This was not an incentive, this was a penalty. Had she even heard herself use the word 'crippling'? If that wasn't damning, I don't know what was. Perhaps my face betrayed me. She tried to backpedal.

"It's a Law that has bound two people who might possibly have cause for dissent." Damn right, it did. "It's insurance that people try to get to know each other from the start."

"What about a couple who doesn't get along from the start – how much time do they need to spend together?"

"The magic reacts to that. The point is to get the couple together and any negative emotion rather-" she struggled to find a word, "-amplifies the fatigue act."

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

So, what that actually meant, was that the bond was attuned to the depth of Abbott's loathing and was only going to become more constrained? So where a normal couple who didn't feel anything needed at least an hour every single day, we needed more than that? And we barely made thirty minutes every seventy-two hours?

"And if the required amount of time is not being spent together," I said a little breathlessly, "then-"

"-then nothing good. Magic can't be reversed, and it can't be gotten around. It's like the way a competent witch or wizard utters a spell and the spell happens. Or a baby born with magic directs things with emotion or- or intention. The Ministry's not sure yet but it probably will lead to rapidly worsening health. Possibly the need for hospitalization. I can't say it enough - they need to be together or they will be unable to function."

Because I needed all my fears confirmed.

"But for the bond to form, the magic requires us to physically be around each other? That's it?"

She nodded.

"Just out of curiosity, does the Marriage Law actually require marriage?"

She shook her head.

"The Ministry understands that the wording on the initial letter and the second set of papers appears to say that it is. We are working to rectify that immediately."

The derision was clear on my face – I just knew it. I struggled to fight it back and made my face as blank as possible.

"Thank you for all your help today, madam."

I stood up and bowed before leaving. When I got to the door, her voice stopped me.

"It might be useless words to you, Master Nott, but it will work out for good…it has to."

I didn't bother turning around before I went on my way.