Helen

c.1

Hermione was asleep when her world broke.

Her room, high on the fifth floor, was set back from the rest of the rest of the house in a private wing of its own.

The maid on duty that night was recently employed, and not a very fast learner. When the news reached her, the first thing she did (after telling everyone she saw, of course, was race to the fifth floor to tell the Mistress.

But the door to Hermione's apartment would not open. It was common knowledge to all of the help that every night at nine o'clock, Miss Granger would firmly shut and lock herself off from the rest of the house, not to be disturbed until breakfast.

So, instead of slipping the standard message under Hermione's door, the woman simply left, not to be bothered.

And on Miss Granger slept, unaware that, around her, her carefully constructed universe tumbled.

Hermione woke in the morning feeling very satisfied with the world. Following a quick stretch, she padded to the bathroom, and back into bed.

While she waited for her breakfast, Hermione also awaited The Daily Prophet, more slow-coming than usual that morning.

When Laurie arrived with her food, Hermione couldn't help notice something off about the girl. Her lips were tucked from the moment she walked in with the tray, as if trying to smother a grin. Hermione stared at Laurie as she arranged her breakfast. But she made an effort not to meet her mistress' eyes.

"Laurie, are you feeling alright?" Hermione asked as the girl turned to leave.

"Why, yes, Miss Granger. Enjoy your breakfast." And she left, throwing one very amused glance behind her as she shut the door.

What in the world is wrong with that girl? Hermione asked herself, looking down at her breakfast.

It doesn't matter. It's probably something about a boy. And with that, she shook off that strange sense of foreboding , and began to eat, still waiting on the Prophet. It didn't usually take this long. Sometimes, there was an owl on her window when she woke up. It must be big news. Whenever there was something interesting in the paper, everyone bought a copy, taking the company longer to owl them all out. Hermione found herself looking forward to reading today's headline.

Finally, with barely two bites left, a flecked brown owl tapped impatiently on the window by her bed, a rolled newspaper clutched in its talons. Hermione undid the catch and bird soared in, dropped the paper, accepted her payment, and was gone.

She broke the tape and unrolled the paper to an ad sporting the words : Sleakeazy's Hair Hair! So chic, so eazy! Magical hair recovery for unfortunate heads! With a snort, flipped it to the front—

And spit egg onto her own father's printed face.

DAD?! Her dad wasn't supposed to be in the wizarding news! What in Merlin's left bullock was he doing on the front freaking page?!

With her heart hammering a mile a minute, she scraped her half-chewed food off the paper to see the words that accompanied the picture.

MICHAEL GRANGER'S SHOCKING STATEMENT AT WORLD FAIR LAST NIGHT SPARKS INTRIGUE AND CONTROVERSY

Eyes wide, Hermione quickly took in the rest of the article.

Michael Granger, little-known father of Head Girl at Hogwarts, Hermione Granger, made quite an entrance into the United Wizards tent at the World Fair last night. Granger, a muggle, certainly surprised everyone when he calmly assured the Order of the Phoenix that he was, indeed, familiar with the wizarding world, and was here on a very specific mission.

"No need to worry," Granger assured us. After a brief introduction, he informed us that he was "here on behalf of my daughter. Hermione Granger. I'm not sure most of you have heard of her." Of course, there were some murmurs of recognition in the fully-attentive crowd.

Miss Granger may not be a hot topic, but those who know of her know she is muggle-born, her status a great boost to the reputation of those of likewise birth, but never in our wildest dreams had we imagined her sire to look so- well, prominent. Cleverly suited in a top-of-the-line tuxedo, with a sharp, well-groomed face, we were certainly taken aback at the sight of him. But what shocked us most was what he had to say about his daughter.

"You probably weren't aware," he started, clearing his throat, "That my daughter, Hermione, is heiress to a great fortune, recently totaled at 140 billion (*muggle*) dollars (*roughly 14 billion galleons*). My and my father's life savings.

After a short pause, he broke his actual news.

"But, only if she marries by her next birthday. If not, I'm afraid the money will die with me. Thank you."

The noise in the tent was remarkable, every witch and wizard speaking in alarmed tones to whomever would listen—"

Hermione stopped reading abruptly, pushing her tray away and climbing down from her bed, the offending issue clenched in her fist.

Once she was decent enough, she stalked out of her room, down the long corridor that separated her form the rest of the Manor, and onto the wide main staircase. Not wanting to waste any time at all, Hermione slid down the banister, an angry scowl etched onto her features.

Near the bottom, she saw the door to the foyer open and a man enter the hall. As she approached (quite quickly) she saw he was in deep conversation with just the man she wanted to brain.

Instead, she settled for crashing right into him, sailing from the bottom of the stairs, knocking him clean over.

Once she saw sure he was adequately pinned, she put her face close to his and spat, "What the hell is the meaning of this?"

Her father, looking satisfyingly frightened, stammered, "Oh, Hermione dear! I-I-I-I meant to tell you about that yesterday, but, but you-you-you-you-you-"

With an enraged huff, she pulled him up by the collar.

"I asked you," she growled slowly. "What this means."

Her father gulped, glancing glance at the stricken voyeur standing awkwardly in his hall, before replying, "It means… you have to get married, Hermione. I… I'm sorry."

Suddenly panicked, Hermione let go of him and held her head. Almost hyperventilating, she gasped out, "But… why?"

"Because I'm afraid, Hermione. Of dying without seeing my grandchildren. Of you, the last Granger, dying with that name." He sighed and placed his hand on her heaving shoulders.

"Hermione, look at me. Look," he demanded, pulling her face toward him.

"Darling, I'm old. I'll be sixty-seven in May, and if I were to die tomorrow, I would not rest in peace, knowing that I left this world without ensuring the Granger legacy."

Hermione shook her head fiercely. "Shit, Dad, you could have just told me. Why the… drama?"

At that, a smile ghosted across Mr. Granger's visage. " Ah, yes. Well, you see,,, this is the reason for all that…drama." He pulled Hermione in to the foyer and opened one of the French doors.

She almost couldn't believe what she was seeing. Outside her house stood a bajillion men, in living color, each one staring up at her, hope sparkling in his eyes.

And in the center of the crowd, positioned directly in front of the doors, stood one Ronald Weasley, obviously really frickin' pissed.

All the air left Hermione's lungs.

Oh, Circe's sweet nectar. What has he done?

C. 2

Hermione shut the door with a slam and, once again, grabbed her father by the collar of his suit.

"What do I have to do to get out of this? I'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Yes. I'll even the Lady Godiva thing, maybe. No, probably not that. But anything else."

"I'll tell you what," he said, gently prying Hermione's fingers from his expensive jacket. "You marry one of the men out there, have a few babies, and I'll never bother you again,"

She started at the completely serious man incredulously,

And she screamed,

Just a little. Not nearly enough to express even a fraction of her whole frustration.

A frantic knock sounded at the door. As Mr. Granger answered to it, Hermione stalked into the hall, looking around for the man who'd been talking with her father. He was standing exactly where they'd left him, struck with confusion and uneasiness.

"You." She pointed an accusing finger at him and marched right into his personal space.

"Yes?" he squeaked, mortified.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Ji-" he started in the same frightened, high-pitched voice. Clearing his throat, he said, deeper, "Jim Orton, Miss Granger. It is a pleasure to meet you."

And, of course, he attempted to take her hand and kiss it politely, like any gentleman would.

But he soon realized his mistake as instead of grasping her hand, she squeezed his, twisted, and demanded, "And have you, Mr. Orton, come here to court me?"

The fire blazing in her dark eyes thoroughly terrified Mr. Orton, and his voice retrogressed to that of a castrated dormouse.

"Ah-yes, Miss. Ow. Ow!"

At that precise moment, Mr. Granger appeared, a concern/angry/confused Ron Weasley in tow.

"Her-Hermione!" her father stammered. "That is Jim Orton, head of the Orton family! Un-unhand him a-at once!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but let go of the whimpering man's hand.