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    Summary

    “F-0-7-4-2, that is F-0-7-4-2. You will be matched with M-0-3-2-4, that is M-0-3-2-4—”

     

    He could feel the sensation of his soul leaving his body, the cigarette falling to the floor because there had to be a mistake. There had to be some sort of mistake.

     

    “If your number was called, you have 72 hours to schedule an appointment with the Ministry Bonds Office—”

     

    He could hear Harry making jokes he didn’t mean about how could be worse, at least it’s not someone like Montague and Remus didn’t know who he’d been trying to console with that. If he’d been trying at all. Because Harry looked like he’d been fucking shot, and Molly was crying, and Ginny had raced upstairs, and Remus was just… standing there. Unable to move. Unable to run.

    In which defeating Voldemort and his Death Eaters did not lead to the rise of a brighter, more progressive future, but rather a third, somehow worse thing: a marriage law.

     

    Written for Dark Marauders Fest 2022

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