Ten out of Ten by Morriganmercy

Prologue

- NOT MY STORY! All credit goes to @morriganmercy on a03!

Lucius Malfoy was yelling.

It seemed an altogether unsophisticated sort of display for someone who prided themselves on social superiority, but Hermione was glad of the noise. Despite the deeply unsettling fact that she found herself in complete agreement with the Malfoy patriarch, there was a kind of profound relief in listening to someone express their outrage in such an explosive manner. Hermione's had yet to progress past silent, disbelieving despair.

An outburst would come later for her, of that she was sure. But by then, this meeting would be long adjourned, and her complaints would fall from the Minister's deaf ears. She would probably come to regret not taking this chance to say her piece, but the mere moments in which she'd been able to pry her eyes from the parchment in her hands were more than sufficient to recognise the carefully blank expression stretched over Kingsley's features. He was delivering a masterclass in indulging a grown man's tantrum. Nothing anyone in this audience had to say would sway him.

Hermione's thumbnail slipped once more into the tear near the top left corner of the page in her grip—the rip that had developed around two o'clock this morning, a few hours after the letter was delivered by certified owl. Constant worrying between her fingers in the meantime had advanced its progress nearly to the letterhead stamped across the top of the sheet. In a few minutes' time, there would be an irreparable schism between Ministry and Magic on the page.

Ironic, given that the words on the parchment spoke of making bonds rather than breaking them.

It took Hermione several seconds to register the sudden silence in the room, and she glanced sideways in time to see Lucius collapsing back into the chair next to his wife. Narcissa Malfoy sat ramrod straight, eyes fixed pointedly ahead as though she was determined to take in as little of her surroundings as possible.

Kingsley sat still for several seconds, marked by the quiet ticking of an ornate gold clock on his oversized desk. He seemed to be waiting for the next barrage of complaints, but when none came, he spoke.

"I appreciate your concerns, Lucius," he began, hands clasped comfortably over his middle, "but as you know, the stipulations of the legislation are clear: your son has been assigned to marry Ms Granger, and he will do so if he does not wish to return to Azkaban."

The sound of the prison's name uttered in Kinsgley's deep baritone seemed to rumble straight through the youngest Malfoy. He shuddered in his chair, the first sign of life since he'd entered the room five minutes ago.

Hermione hadn't had any idea what to expect when she'd received a second letter, this one written on Malfoy stationary rather than Ministry, requesting her presence at an appeal the following morning. She had mostly been too preoccupied with the idea of being forced into marriage with Draco Malfoy to consider the fact that he would be just as displeased with the idea of marrying her. She had been surprised that the Malfoys were able to secure a private meeting with the Minister on such short notice, but given the intensity of Lucius's displeasure, perhaps Kingsley had actually been taking the path of least resistance by hearing him out without delay.

"This assignment is a travesty," Lucius hissed. "We were told that matches would be based on magical compatibility."

"And so they are," Kingsley returned.

Draco snorted.

A flash of indignance cut through the frigid dejection in Hermione's chest at the noise. Of all the thousands of people she could have been paired with, it had to be someone who considered her inferior. She was tempted to be grateful for the match just to spite him.

Though she hadn't heard anything of Malfoy since his release from Azkaban, as soon as she'd laid eyes on him that morning, she could see that nothing in him had changed. Despite the fact that they were gathered there to discuss a decision that would alter the entire course of both their lives, his gaze had skated over the chair in which she sat as though it were empty. The only evidence that he was aware of her presence was in the haughty set of his shoulders, the faint curl of disdain on his lips. And though they sat close enough now for their arms to nearly touch, rather than the warmth of an actual human body next to her, all she could feel was a shroud of arrogant indifference.

"Kingsley," she started, her voice hoarse with disuse. "Surely compatibility is a spectrum. There must be other suitable pairings."

"Suitable, yes," he agreed. "But not ideal. We are talking about the fate of the wizarding world, Hermione, and individual sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

She bristled at the phrase, but he ploughed on. "We are asking all eligible citizens to give of themselves for future generations."

"Give of themselves?" Hermione repeated in disbelief. "I gave my entire childhood to the war, and it wasn't enough? You need the rest of my life, too?"

"Gave your childhood," Malfoy mocked with a sneer. "Merlin, spare me."

"And yours was stolen," she snapped. "You've already served a sentence for your crimes. Are you so eager for another one?"

"That depends," he drawled. "Are you referring to being married to you or returning to prison?"

"Either," she spat.

"Good point," he said with a smirk.

Hermione rolled her eyes, turning back to the Minister. "This sentence is absurd, Kingsley, I mean—"

"Twenty years—"

"Is the minimum for murder," she complained.

"Maybe you can just kill me then and do us both a favour," Malfoy offered.

"I'm not ruling it out!" she shouted.

"This is not a negotiation!" Kingsley boomed suddenly. Hermione felt her chin draw back in surprise. He continued in a lower voice, but the tone was no less severe. "You will marry or you will spend twenty years in Azkaban. There are no alternatives."

He eyed each of them in turn, but no one spoke. The heavy weight of hopelessness slid back into Hermione's gut as the Minister looked down at the legislation in front of him again.

"Now," he went on, "consideration has been given to the fact that many matches will be comprised of strangers. For that reason, you will have two weeks after the ceremony in which to get acquainted before you are required to consummate your union—"

"This is fucking disgusting," Malfoy burst out, sounding truly angry for the first time. Hermione watched as he got to his feet and stormed out of the room.

It hurt.

It shouldn't have—she knew what he thought of her—but it did.

Hermione never could have imagined a future for herself in which she would marry someone who was disgusted by her, but two days later, that's exactly what she does.