Tests

Disclaimer : see first chapter.

Dacian Goddess, my gracious beta, has given me her input for this chapter.

I feel very nervous. Today, Ron and I are going to the Yenta Livery Company to take the Geneamorological tests. Then, we'll announce to the world that we'll get married. It isn't surprising that I haven't slept well; I hardly managed to swallow a cup of coffee this morning, and I feel I'll have trouble swallowing the light salad that I have prepared for lunch as well.

I wonder where we're going to live. Ron still lives at his parents', and my studio flat is too small for the both of us. It's too true that I don't have the means to do better. SPEW takes a lot of my time and doesn't bring in any money. Besides, no one wants to employ someone who could give ideas to their house-elves. I live on the small grant my parents give me each month and on some independent works: a bit of freelance work for the Daily Prophet, a few potions for my friends and relatives, Arithmantic calculations for Fred and George's creations, etc.

Ron doesn't earn that much money either, but he can always get a promotion, provided he learns how to control his impulsivity. That should be easier with age. I can picture us in ten years, in a modest yet comfortable cottage in the country; our two children would play outside while I would be preparing a meeting for equality of magical creatures and Ron would be at work. Hmm ... who would cook?

One o'clock already! I shove the rest of my salad in the fridge, realise I haven't written a line of the statement to the press that I have promised Radio Magica, and slip on some decent clothes before I go out.

At two o'clock sharp, I'm in the entry hall of the YLC. I know Ron will be late; he's infamous for that. Thinking of this habit of his makes me smile tenderly, and I take a seat in one of the armchairs of the waiting room. I bury myself in a book about Transfiguring furniture; one never knows, I may need the knowledge in the future.

Ron arrives at a quarter past two, red-faced and breathless.

"Am ... sorry ... last minute ... report ... for my boss ..."

I laugh.

"No problem, Ron. Catch your breath, and let's go and take those tests."

Hand in hand, we head for the receptionist, who informs us that the test lasts around an hour and that a quarter of an hour is enough to read the results. We sign the contract quickly and pay the fee. I've emptied my bank account for this: one hundred and fifty Galleons. We both look like we're impatient to be done with it.

The receptionist leads us into a small room and gives us questionnaires in the form of punch cards, like the ones used in a barrel organ.

"All you need to do is answer the questions by perforating the card near the chosen answer, and then seal the questionnaire when you're finished by affixing your wand signature at the dedicated space while saying, 'This is the truth.' Your cards will then be put into this instrument." She points to a machine which is a true imitation of a barrel organ. "You'll be included in our customers' database, and we'll be able to tell you what your compatibility rate is."

I grab the first card and the device with a sharp point beside it and tackle the first question. Ron does the same.

The questions are about various subjects and are as exhaustive as a survey on household consumption.

When are you available for marriage? Now. You never know what could happen.

Would you rather marry a British citizen? Yes. I don't want to deal with cultural differences. I already had a hard time going through the differences between the Muggle and the wizarding world.

Do you want children? Yes.

- You don't care?

What kind of a question is this?

Is the astrological sign of your spouse important? Of course not; I'm no Lavender Brown.

Pfff, I'd never thought that answering questions could be that exhausting. Some make me blush (Are you a virgin?), others outrage me (How many house-elves do you want?), or downright embarrass me (What is your current income?). At last, I raise my head and notice that Ron is done too. I fetch the receptionist, who puts our cards in the barrel organ at once...I really don't know the name of this machine, I've never heard of something like that. I wring my hands out of anxiety while beads of sweat appear at Ron's temple. We swallow in unison.

After the longest quarter of an hour of my life, a red card comes out of the machine. Ron turns pale; he seems to understand what this colour entails. The receptionist frowns while reading the result.

"Mister Weasley and Miss Granger, it seems that your compatibility rate is twenty per cent only. I strongly advise you against embarking into matrimony together. Our studies prove that couples with a rate lower than forty per cent have a ninety-five per cent chance of ending in divorce. However, we can search through our database for more compatible spouses for the both of you."

Her words slowly pierce the astonishment that has taken hold of me until I understand what she's said. Ron and I, not compatible? Impossible, I don't believe it! At last, my mouth agrees to express my incredulity.

"There must be a mistake. Put our cards back into..."

She becomes starchy and declares haughtily, "Our tests are very reliable. We have hundreds of pages of testimonies and studies that prove it."

In spite of his devastated expression, Ron nods. I, for one, don't concede defeat that easily.

"We don't have to listen to their fine words, Ron. We can get married all the same."

He turns even paler with my words; he looks deathly. I know what I'm speaking of; I've survived the war. The receptionist resumes, "The provisions made by the law for the couples tested by the Yenta Livery Company are only for those with a compatibility rate higher than forty per cent, you know."

Ron seems to emerge from his stupor.

"My parents will never agree for me to marry someone under forty per cent!"

I can hear a choked sob in his voice. Is he telling me that he won't even try to sway his parents' mind? He turns his head away. He has tears in his eyes, and suddenly, I understand. Ron comes from a pure-blood family, who only knows the wizarding world and its traditions. Though very open-minded, they'll always be very reluctant to welcome a daughter-in-law who would have a compatibility rate lower than forty per cent with their son. This is looked down upon in the wizarding world, even though the Muggle influence begins to attack its most archaic customs. Ron is afraid he would have to choose between his family and me. I wasn't offered that choice: joining the wizarding world has driven me apart from my parents definitively; but he... he has to face this choice alone. I can't make the decision for him.

The receptionist coughs slightly to catch our attention. It reminds me that I had hardly read the contract before I took the test.

"May I have a look at the contract that I've signed?"

"Of course, Miss."

While she goes and gets the contract, I glance at Ron. His head is bowed, his face is hidden by his hands.

"Ron, what's going to happen now?"

He raises his reddened, tearful eyes.

"Hermione..."

His voice is broken. He hugs me tightly without warning. Instinctively, I know this is a gesture of good-bye. I force myself to speak.

"You don't have to choose, Ron. I'll still be your friend. Perhaps we shouldn't see each other for a while so that we have time to see the situation clearly?"

He nods against my ear. The receptionist finds us in this position when she goes back.

"Here is your contract, Miss."

I extricate myself from Ron's arms, sniffing, and take the parchment from the woman's hands. I've signed a magical contract. Not to yield to its stipulations is akin to booking a six month stay at Azkaban. I can't afford it. I need my credibility for SPEW. I realise that I can marry only a person tested by the YLC, whatever our compatibility rate is; that I'm bound to that company until my wedding; that I have to answer to its requests. Translation: if a customer decides to meet me with a view to pursue me in matrimony, I have to answer his request and meet that man. My only freedom is that I don't have to marry any of my suitors.

I have a thought for the single life that lies ahead of me, for my future with Ron lost to a percentage, for my life that I have to rebuild. Tonight, I'll get drunk, alone, in my studio flat.

(1) 150 Galleons = 1087.5 euros, or 750 Pounds, or 1099.5 US Dollars.