Scrimgeour's Decree

Disclaimer: see first chapter

Reread by Dacian Goddess.

The younger Weasley boy came to hang around in the shop at the end of the afternoon. He wandered among the different sections, handling the products and looking at them with vacant eyes. Well, that’s what I’ve heard from my employers, for in my laboratory, I can only see the sky through the Velux window. That’s what the Ministry pays its staff for, while I’m slaving to finish the modified Web-footed Potion, which is supposed to turn the drinker’s hands into webbed ones for half an hour. Weasley and Weasley plan to slip it into cookies.

It seems that the Weasley matriarch managed to worm the whole story out of her son yesterday. He took the test of the YLC with Granger, and they came out with a compatibility rate of only twenty percent. Honestly, one does not need the YLC to draw the same conclusion. Even McGonagall—God rest her soul—had already made the same claims in the staff room while she was still alive and I a teacher. Had I known about it yesterday, I would have come down from my laboratory to taunt Weasley a bit; angry red becomes him very much. Well, let’s turn our attention back to the new order: to create a nail varnish that can change colours at will.

I choke when I read the Daily Prophet spread on my kitchen table and the Ministry parchment lying next to the rag. I cannot believe Scrimgeour has done this. I am convinced that he wants to deprive me of my livelihood. The main title is “Scrimgeour’s Latest anti-Death Eater Decree”. The parchment informs me of my fate.

“Mister Snape,

Dolores Umbridge, Under-Secretary for the Department of Law Enforcement.”

I doubt the Healers at St Mungo’s would issue me a false medical certificate; I don’t suffer from a particular condition—I’m certainly not a werewolf—and I am not responsible for a family. Among the three possible solutions to my quandary, getting married with a jobless woman is the simplest, but in forty days only? Is my job worth the loss of my freedom?

I had to tell my employers about my problem. I expect them to have a good laugh at my expense; they don’t.

“Damn it!” George Weasley exclaims. “We can’t let this happen. You’re necessary to our plan for development.”

Now, that’s information that I could use against them later on—if I have a future. They tell me to get back to work while they think about a solution. I should have been wary of a Weasley solution.

George Weasley gives me a parchment at the end of the afternoon; it is an appointment to take the Yenta Livery Company Tests the day after tomorrow, during my working hours, which means it is an order of my bosses, but also that they will pay for it.

“Have you gone off your rocker? What makes you think that I value this job enough to get married to keep it?”

“Come on, Snape! We’re not deceived!”

A mischievous glint lightens his eyes; it’s so Malfoy-esque that I shiver.

“You very well know, as we do, that nobody is willing to hire a former Death Eater, whatever absolution he might have got. What will you do when you’re unemployed? Besides, we propose you a raise: ten percent to help you cope with the added expense a spouse will cause.”

I make a show of thinking about it when, actually, I have already come to that conclusion by myself. And the pay raise is a nice surprise. Let’s see where I can take them.

“Thirty percent.”

“Fifteen percent.”

“Twenty percent.”

“Granted!”

He beams at me.

“You’ll invite us for the wedding, won’t you?”

I cast him a dark look—is he laughing at me?—and go back home.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the Yenta Livery Company’s receptionist welcomes me in a syrupy voice, the one people use when they have recognised me and try to cajole me in not torturing or menacing them.

I give her the parchment with the appointment and remain silent.

“If you will follow me, Mister Snape.”

I find myself in a small room which houses the famous Geneamorological machine that makes the YLC’s reputation; it looks very much like a barrel organ. She gives me the tests, briefly explains to me how to complete them, and leaves me alone.

I feel like I’m exposing myself. Some questions are very personal, so much so that I’ve never answered them in my heart of hearts. I have never wanted to know if I loved my parents. Luckily, there is a box for “I don’t know.” And what gives them the right to ask me if I suffer from sexually transmitted diseases, if I enjoy threesomes, or if I earn my partners’ praise? The worst part is I, like all customers, had to sign a magical contract to ensure I have answered the questions with sincerity. I go along with it or I go back to Azkaban; I have never faced such a dilemma. I finally opt for sincerity. I tell myself that the only one to read the answers will be the machine anyway.

After an hour in hell, I wait for the result. What if nobody is compatible enough with me? I would not be surprised. What could I do to block that idiot Decree? Didn’t I prove my innocence?

“The result is ready, Mister Snape.”

The receptionist’s voice brings me back into the here and now. I haven’t even noticed that I am standing. It seems that I have spent the waiting time pacing. The receptionist has enough good sense not to smile. I can see the green board that she is holding, and she guesses my untold question.

“Thirty-eight witches have more than forty percent compatibility with you, Mister Snape. Three of them have more than seventy percent. Do you want to meet some of them?”

“What can you tell me about the three highest scores?”

If I have to tie the knot, I’d rather the string be made of silk.

“The highest score is ninety percent. She’s immediately available for matrimony—”

I interrupt her. Ninety percent is an unequalled rate as far as I know, and an available witch is exactly what I need.

“I want to meet her.”

She opens her eyes wide.

“Certainly, sir. We do have lounges at our disposal for such meetings so that our customers can get acquainted on neutral ground.”

“Send her an owl. I want to meet her tomorrow evening.”

“Maybe it’d be best to wait one more day,” she countered. “You know, a witch always needs time to get ready before she meets a suitor.”

Come to think of it, a wizard also needs time. If I have to convince a woman to marry me before the first of April, I would do well to research how one courts a woman. It should not be that different from service with the Dark Lord, but there is no harm in being sure.

“Very well. The day after tomorrow, in one of your lounges, at seven p.m.”