The Rendezvous

Disclaimer: see first chapter

Warning: Hermione is going through a bout of depression; she might not act like herself for a couple of chapters.

Well, there's a lot of mail this morning! The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, Ron's answer to my birthday card...I'm not going to break off all contacts with him; I promised I would remain his friend...and a big envelope from the... YLC. I hate the YLC!

"Miss Granger,

Counsellor in meetings with a matrimonial purpose."

They hardly left me a week to recover from the sabotage of my life they're responsible for, and they're already trying to do it again. I don't have a way out of it. I've signed that damned contract. To postpone the rendezvous won't be of use. I complete the reply-coupon as it should be. I even confirm that I will be present. Then I go to bed; I find I cry better in bed.

I haven't been able do anything useful with my day, today like yesterday, since I've received the summoning (I can't decently speak of invitation) to go to the YLC. I have enough saved money for a promotional insert for S.P.E.W. in the Prophet, but I can't concentrate on the text I'm supposed to write nor on finding an attractive slogan. Every single one of my thoughts brings me back to tonight's event. I already know that I will reject this suitor. Ninety percent? Why would I care for their ninety percent when Ron dwells in my heart? However, I have worked like mad not to have him dwell in my conscious thoughts as well. It hurts too much to think of him. We should be happy, planning our beautiful future together, discussing the colour of our cottage's drapes, training in baby making. Instead of this, because of a stupid Nineteenth Century tradition, we've been separated. Yes, I hurt. I take sleeping drugs every evening. I work fifteen hours every day to prevent me from thinking. And that miserable "Company" orders me to meet a candidate for marriage when I still haven't overcome the loss of the one I really wanted.

It's time to get ready. I choose the less fitting dress in my wardrobe; I look like I've donned a potato sack. I don't know whatever shred of courtesy holds me back from choosing the robe I wear when I brew potions; maybe it's because of all the maroon stains that draw a belt around my hips. I take my purse, reach the nearby alleyway that I use as an Apparition point, and arrive at the YLC.

The receptionist leads me to one of their private lounges, where my pretentious suitor is already waiting for me. I get into the room, and there I see something that has me out of my depressive state for the first time in a week: Severus Snape holding a bouquet of red roses in his hand.

The die is cast. I'm going to meet my fiancée tonight. It is true that the woman is not yet officially my fiancée, but that is only a detail. I should be able to fool her thanks to my talents for acting and to the right props: a ring (retrieved from the left hand of my mother's corpse years ago) and a bouquet of red roses. I wear my best robe, or I should say the newest one, for all my robes are made according to the same model. I am all set; the only thing I'm missing is the lady.

What if she were truly ugly? No, it would not do to count my chickens before they are hatched. If she is that unbearable to look at, I will simply tell her that I am not interested. I might not be an Apollo myself, but that is no reason to marry a plain Jane. How would I be supposed to fulfil my husbandly duties if that was the case? If I am going to enter into matrimony, I may as well take advantage of one of the benefits that come with the status. When I think of it, to have a woman to warm my bed is probably the only benefit to the status. In my case, it is the only available way to keep my job too. Ah, the clock chimes seven p.m. The door opens; she is right on time. That is at least one quality. She comes into the room and... Were I a flibbertigibbet, I would have fainted on the spot. Granger, a suitable match for me?

I have to pinch myself; I rub my eyes without any discretion: Snape is looking for a wife? He's even made an effort. I can see that his robe is new...its black colour isn't bleached or faded...his hair doesn't look as greasy as I remember it, and he holds a bouquet of red roses. I am traumatised. All of this, the absurdity of the situation, the tiredness, the stress and despair, catch up with me, and I burst out laughing like a hysteric. Besides, I feel hysterical. I laugh, and I can't stop myself, even though my belly and my cheeks hurt. He doesn't seem to appreciate it.

Is this a joke? I am going to lodge a complaint with the Company. Granger, my ninety percent match? If I did not have that sword of Damocles hanged over my heard, I would walk out on her, I tell you. Moreover, she has the gall to laugh at me; she isn't decent enough to try and feign feeling faint. On the other hand, I could make the most of her breaking-off with the younger Weasley. A despairing woman is always in need of comfort, which I am ready to offer until she signs the official papers stating that she is my wife. Besides, the Ministry would not dare to attack me personally if I am married to one of Potter's best friends, a war heroine, as long as her campaign for the freedom of house-elves does not go anywhere near success. That's the idea! I am going to play the part of the remorseful Death Eater who is persecuted because of his past, and she will probably accept me without any questions. Now, she is calming down; time to tackle the woman, er, problem at hand.

"Good evening, Miss Granger. I will not pretend that it wasn't a surprise to see you cross the doorstep, but I would not say it is a bad surprise."

She looks at me, astonished. Yes, Miss, I can do politeness, even gallantry when it is required.

"Good evening, Snape." She crosses her arms in front of her breasts. "Spare me your nice speech. You have hinted more than enough in the past at how much you 'appreciated' me. Anyway, I'll save you time: it's 'no'. I don't want to get married, and even less with you."

I see. I will have to show how persuasive I can be.

"Maybe you could at least listen to me out of courtesy?"

"You... you are serious?"

"If I weren't serious, I would have left the room without even speaking to you while you were mocking me. But I am willing to place the blame for your reaction on the surprise."

"I'm serious, too, and it's still 'no'. Good-bye."

Is she going out? I only just have the time to put myself between her and the door. As a result, she moves back. I take the opportunity to move towards her, and before she can begin to escape again, I shove the bouquet into her hands and lead her by the elbow to one of the armchairs that dress the room. She is too stunned to react. We are both seated now. A tray with two glasses and a carafe full with an amber liquid appear on the coffee table between us. I pour some of the liquid into the glasses and sniff it: Firewhisky. Blessed be the YLC! The alcohol ought to help with my plan.

"Are you going to listen to me now, Miss Granger?"

I take care to hide how irritated I am in the face of her stubbornness and keep to a polite tone.

She drops the bouquet and sinks into the armchair; she nonetheless accepts the glass I offer her.

"Go on! I don't care, anyway. That won't change my decision. At least, it'll entertain me and provide me with anecdotes to tell in society."

I see red at her declaration. She keeps on mocking me, and I'd like nothing more than to demonstrate to her the proper use of the Cruciatus Curse. Yet, I must not forget my aim: to come out of this room engaged.

"I'm going to explain to you why I am in search of a companion and what I expect from her. Then, you will freely decide if my offer suits you."

"You forget something, Snape," she interrupts me. "What do you intend to offer to your companion?"

"If you let me speak, maybe you'll hear it!"

She nods and sips her Firewhisky.

"I will not go back over what I have done during the two wars against the Dark Lord..."

"Voldemort, his name was Voldemort."

She could manage to make me regret Azkaban, if she persists.

"Please, do not interrupt me! As I said, you know what I did to help the Order of the Phoenix, the sacrifice Dumbledore asked of me by killing him (this is by far the biggest lie of all my life), how I have helped Potter to bring down the Dark Lord. I had to commit illegal acts to perform my act as a spy. For all of this, I have paid...in Galleons...my debt to the wizarding world. I have found a job (She sniggers. She probably knows that I didn't have to ask for it.) that allows me to have a decent life, like an ordinary wizard. I only wish the same as anybody else: to live a peaceful life, to have a house, a job and a spouse. Maybe even children one day. I do have a house and a job, but I am stigmatised because of my past. I am rejected by everyone because of it. They all conveniently forget all the good that has come of my misdeeds. I have decided to use the YLC services to find a companion with their method. I have a better chance to find someone with whom I can build my future (even during my trial, I don't remember to having lied this much). Do you think it normal that I not be granted the sweetness of life because of my past?"

I use the good old trick of a salesman to ask a question the customer can only answer by 'yes'.

She is still sipping her Firewhisky. She finishes it, a meditative expression on her face. Is she going to answer? She sets her empty glass on the tray, and I hasten to pour another shot in it. At last she speaks. If someone had been told one day that I would be happy to hear her speak, I would have cast them a curse that would have sent them to St Mungo's.

"I understand your point of view, but it's still no. I don't want to get married."

"What about the ninety percent compatibility rate? Does this not mean anything to you?"

"Nothing at all. This company lives on charlatanism."

I feel like sentimental arguments will not be enough to convince her. I carry on, betting on the Firewhisky, and I try logical arguments.

"Do tell me, Granger: if I am not mistaken, you have a NEWT in Arithmancy, don't you?"

"Absolutely. I got an 'O'."

There a glint of pride in her eyes; this is the weapon that I need.

"Can you tell me if Arithmantic calculations are reliable?"

"Absolutely, to 97,785 %!"

"Do you know the YLC goes by Arithmantic equations to establish the compatibility rate between two persons?"

Her eyes widen. She did not know. She must have been too distracted by the end of her beautiful dreams to research the YLC methods and counter-attack. I have won! I resume my explanation just to drive the point home.

"The machine in which our questionnaires are inserted is actually a calculating machine. It produces equations from two persons' answers. The more equations that can be solved, the higher the compatibility rate between the two is."

"But... it's impossible to calculate feelings. That was proved by Archibald Livewire in 1798."

"Marriage is not only about feelings, but also about compatibility between tastes, interests, values, genetics, etc. of the concerned people. The presence of feelings will not prevent a marriage from heading for a fall, whereas the YLC calculations have proven their efficiency by the high stability rate of their customers' matrimonies."

That said, if my mother had used them, I would probably not exist.

"Do you know that the Muggles who want to marry a wizard or a witch can take the YLC tests? This institution is not a den of pure-blood snobs who would try to preserve at any cost the purity of their family's blood."

She swallows some more Firewhisky in a futile attempt at hiding her ignorance. Thanks, Weasley, for being a slave to the wizarding world's traditions! Miss Know-It-All didn't have time to do her homework, so occupied she was by feeling sorry for herself. She deserves a third helping of Firewhisky, which I of course serve her immediately.

"What must I do? I..."

Instead of answering, she swallows another generous gulp.

"Me too, I wanted... the saaaaaame thing that ev-veryone wants, at least in my priiiiivate liiiife," she stammers and slurs her words.

Good. The alcohol is loosening her tongue.

"A huuusband, childreeeen... Not too many, only two."

She suits the action to the word and holds out her hand in my direction, three fingers sticking out prominently.

"This is exactly what I wish for, Miss Granger (I don't want any children, but right now, I need to convince her). You see, the YLC probably wasn't mistaken about us."

She shakes her head in a last attempt at denial, but I can read defeat in her eyes. I toast her silently and drink to her surrender. She accompanies me and gulps down a little more Firewhisky. She sways a bit on her seat. I need to make her sign before she falls into an alcoholic coma. I stand and fetch two parchments on a secretaire; they are two copies of an engagement contract between us. As soon as she has signed them, she is magically committed, and she will have to marry me or go to prison. I sign them with the quill left there for that purpose. Then, I go back to her, put the parchments down in front of her and the quill into her right hand. She is too drunk to protest. I guide her hand to the parchment, but I cannot do more. She must sign by herself for the contract to be valid. If things do not happen that way, the magic will not catch.

"Hermione," I say in a soft voice, "sign those parchments. You'll see; it will be for the better."