Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are not my creations.

A/N: This is my one-shot take on the MLC and what I thought Hermione would do if faced with marrying a pure-blood stranger and giving up the life she wanted. Originally, I thought it would be a longer fic, but I found that everything I wanted to say could be contained in this rather short piece. Enjoy!

To Choose a World

Hermione plucked at the veil over her eyes, allowing the gauzy material to slip through her fingers as she stared beyond the lacy fabric obscuring her vision and into the mirror in front of her.

Two seamstress witches knelt in front of the stool she perched on, still murmuring the charms that manifested in stitched gold thread at the base of her dress. They had fifteen minutes left to prepare her to walk out the door to meet her father, and the young witch looked every inch the bride, layered in a gown of white fairie silk, train draped to fan behind her on the floor, the fabric shining with it's own light and the reflection of the many candles and torches that hung on Hogwarts' walls.

But the quality of radiance that so became the young woman ended with her clothes, and the features behind the shimmering veil were drawn and composed with the solemn sorrow of a woman who walked not to her wedding, but to her execution.

The charms finished, and the two witches bobbed their heads as they scurried out, leaving the young woman alone with her increasingly dark thoughts.

At the end of the summer after her sixth year, she had wakened from a nightmare as the world rejoiced the second - and permanent - collapse of Lord Voldemort at the hands of Harry Potter and his valiant friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. Relieved that the seventh year stretching ahead of her would be peaceful and quiet instead of scarred by the disasters and problems that had ended their previous six at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hermione had looked forward to her journey on the Hogwarts Express and the beginning of her classes.

Normalcy lasted two months. On the first of November, the Daily Prophet had announced the Ministry's enactment of Article Two Thousand Eight Hundred Ninety-Four, colloquially termed "The Marriage Act". Pureblood intelligence and magical power had been waning for two hundred years as they continued to inbreed, scorning the magical strength and new blood from an increasing Muggle-born and half-blood population. Unable to convince purebloods submerged in attitudes of their own supremacy to encourage their sons and daughters to wed outside the narrowing circle of high society, the Ministry had decided to force the issue, rather than stand by and allow the old lines to breed themselves into extinction.

Five hundred couples, comprised of a pureblood and a Muggle-born each, had been determined and matched by the Ministry from the entire wizarding population of Britain. The Ministry had carefully selected the brightest of those from non-magical parentage, the best talent, the most power, the highest OWL scores. From the purebloods they chose those from the top tiers of a complicated hierarchy, oldest sons and daughters, heirs to large fortunes and estates, prominent members of society. From an outside perspective, the choices made by the experts were logical, personalities screened to ensure the highest possible harmony between partners, genetics tested to breed for the best possible traits and outcomes.

Two days after the Prophet's announcement, Hermione received a letter from a large screech owl informing her that her husband had been selected: one Rudolph Lestrange, whose parents were now-deceased, British-born Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange, but whose property was an estate in Switzerland. They were to be wed between Christmas and Easter, and the Ministry congratulated her on the upcoming nuptials that they were demanding. Refusal to comply would result in the breaking of her wand and her expulsion from the wizarding world.

She sat frozen in her place on the bench at Gryffindor table, her brain taking a full five minutes to comprehend the short missive, her ears ringing with fury and disbelief. Ron seized the parchment, read it swiftly, and stood, rage in every muscle of his body as he strode up to the High Table, note crumpled in his hand.

"You save the world...and this is what they give you?" Harry asked in bafflement, reaching to squeeze her hand in comfort. His fingers halted a few centimeters from skin, unable to rest on her hand, or even to brush it. He swore loudly, withdrawing as his fingers began to burn with his repeated attempts to make contact. The fidelity charms had already been activated, and none of her male friends would ever be capable of touching her again.

At the top of the hall, students had frozen to watch as Ronald Weasley passionately argued for her freedom with their one-time Transfiguration teacher and current Headmistress, Professor McGonagall. But Hermione's eyes had fastened elsewhere, on a black gaze equally locked on her, night-colored eyes darker than usual with a storm of otherwise unexpressed emotion. Anger, fear, vast sorrow and endless guilt crashed together under his brows, and with them seethed something more frightening: helplessness.

As the last made its appearance, the reality of the orders she had been handed from an institution she had spent six years working to defend started to soak through, and she rose abruptly, fleeing the hall for the safety and privacy of the Head Girl's room, barricading herself there, deaf to the entreaties of her friends, of her Headmistress. There was only one voice she wanted to hear, and she knew that, for the sake of propriety, he would not come.

The sound of trumpets blasting their triumphant call returned Hermione to the mirror, the gown and her impending imprisonment. She was to finish the term at Hogwarts, take her NEWTs, and then become a broodmare, incarcerated in a palace-sized cell in the Swiss Alps, halfway between Bern and Zurich. As she stepped off the stool, she reached for the wand she had stowed in her dress sleeve, the trick of keeping it there unobserved second nature after the treacherous battles of the war. The length of wood would be her sole reminder of her childhood entry to the wizarding world. Her betrothed was allergic to Kneazles - and Crookshanks had been given to Ginny four weeks prior so that all of her clothing could be decontaminated. Her books would be left behind, and added to the professors' stock of extras for each class. Her intended, without ever laying eyes on her rapidly growing personal library, had insisted that with his large numbers of volumes, she would not need her old tomes.

She looked into the glass one more time, studying the tight mouth, the drawn-together arch of her eyebrows, the brown eyes that spoke of only sorrow, and allowed her glance to travel down the bright dress, the only part of her being that seemed to believe in the supposed happiness of the day.

Straightening her back, before they could miss her as she was supposed to meet her father in the entrance hall, Hermione stepped out of the small, make-shift dressing room, and into the cold entryway.

She caught her breath as pain lodged beneath her ribs. Her father was not yet waiting for her. The lean figure dressed entirely in black in front of her was that of her Potions Professor, his robes covering a body she knew too well for a student and not well enough as a woman.

He faced her as she entered, sensitive as always to the sound of movement, and the rustle of her train over the stone. Their eyes drank greedily of the other, as if they would never get enough, knowing that their memory of now, when they stood just five meters apart, would have to last them a lifetime.

Hermione recalled, with a clarity that made her heart burn, the first time she had seen him as a man instead of her sardonic, impossible-to-please professor.

He was standing in Grimmauld Place, alone on the second floor in the make-shift potions lab, his hands automatically dicing roots for a cauldron than bubbled beside him, eyes unseeing as he measured and added one ingredient after another. His proficiency astonished her - she had never watched him actually brew before - but it was the quiet economy of his movement that stopped her in the door, making her feel like an intruder. She could feel the grief in the room, see it in the curve of his shoulders. The rest of the Order was downstairs, holding a lament for the Headmaster, but the man forced to perform the unpleasant job was consigned to bear his burden alone.

Her tongue had stumbled, unable to formulate a coherent thought of sorrow, gratitude for the many efforts he made on their behalf, and understanding. So she had simply joined him at his table, glancing at the recipe propped open before him, and added her hands to his, chopping, pressing juices from fresh stalks, sliding it all into the cauldron as it was needed, stirring clockwise, observing as, at regular intervals, he had moved the glass rod in the opposite direction, a single widdershins motion mixed in with the rest.

When they had finished, an air of finality had settled over the room, including its occupants, and Hermione found herself lighter - not happier, but simply as if her grief were contained, managed, done. She had mourned her Headmaster and leader of the Order to her fullest, and when her professor straightened, she saw the same sense of completion in his eyes. He had favored her with a serious look as smoke rose between them from the pewter basin.

"Thank you, Miss Granger." It was easily the most civil sentence he had ever spoken to her, and Hermione inclined her head in acknowledgement of the price she had seen him pay to follow Dumbledore's final orders, respect lighting in her face.

Hermione did not know what about those few minutes had so permanently altered her relationship with the professor who had always seemed to hate her. She had expected that the next time she saw him, he would be the same vitriolic man she had faced for six years across a classroom.

But he had not. Three days later, returning to headquarters for an emergency meeting, their paths had crossed just outside the kitchen, and he had given her a nod and a polite, "Miss Granger," before entering the room, not waiting for her brain to kick back into gear with the appropriate reply.

Their contact over time had increased as he had needed a competent brewer to continue with his work at Grimmauld Place when his duties at Voldemort's side kept him from the volatile solutions and their need for constant adjustment. He had given her permission to experiment, and she had gladly taken him up on the opportunities it offered. They spoke seldom, but she had gleaned a little casual information from him when he had dropped it her way, never pushing for more, though she was increasingly intrigued by the personal life, as summer waxed hotter, of the man who had always given the impression of being so impersonal and cold.

It worked. Hermione stared at the finger she had deliberately laid open as a test for her instant-wound-closing draught, examining the flawlessly re-knit skin. It had healed, without a hint of scarring, the only blood on her hand the smudges from when she had first cut herself.

"Well done," rumbled a voice very near her ear. She spun, surprised, unaware that she had company until she felt his breath whisper over the back of her neck. Delighted that he was there, her mentor the first to witness her triumph, she reacted instinctively, bringing her newly-healed hand up to brush his right cheek, leaving a streak of red under his eyes as her hand came to rest behind his neck, pulling his head down to hers, brushing her lips against his gently, as if asking a question.

She heard his rough breath of surprise, and then discovered herself held firmly against him, the slight rasp of hair on his upper lip pricking her mouth as he deepened the kiss, his tongue darting out to press against her mouth, requesting entry, which she granted eagerly, her hands tightening in his hair as he ran his fingers down the sides of her body, a sense of desperation tinging the pleasure in the tightness of his grip, in the swiftness of his caress.

Her body heated instantly, wanting to touch more of him, but as she reached for the buttons that would divest him of his over-robe, one of the experienced hands previously exploring her curves covered her fingers, trapping them to his chest as he lifted his head, desire ceding its dominance to its younger cousins, disgust and panic.

"I..." He stared at her, at a complete loss of what to say to the student he had so unexpectedly found himself holding in his arms in the most impossibly unacceptable position, her eyes flushed with desire, her lips red from their kissing.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, releasing her and backing away. "I didn't..." He couldn't complete the sentence. He didn't want it? No - he wanted it very much. He didn't enjoy it? That, too, would be a lie.

"Professor...I..." she breathed, shock widening her eyes, "I'm so...I apologize...I never..." Unable to finish her inarticulate speech, she brushed past him, flustered, to escape to her bedroom on the third level.

But in spite of their awkwardness for a few days following, it had not been the last time they were to find their limbs tangling in search of closeness, and one very early morning, the morning after the Dark Lord had fallen into the dust, they had been sitting on the rooftop of Grimmauld Place, the house beneath them safely asleep with no one to observe teacher and student tucked together on the tiles.

"When we return to Hogwarts, you know this cannot have happened. You will have to treat me as your teacher, and you will once more be my student, and nothing more."

"And after that?" she whispered, fear seizing her. Was there no more to this story? Just a month in summer, a jealously guarded secret that brought her peace while a war raged over them?

"After that?" He turned his head to look her directly in the eye. "That is entirely up to you," he answered after a long pause. "You are young, and free to choose whatever and whoever you will. I will not be going anywhere, Hermione."

"Then I will see you in June," she replied, ducking her head to find its place against his throat and shoulder, where she could feel the rumbling of his speech before it actually left his mouth, and it vibrated through her as he vocalized.

"Make me no promises. Should you, at any moment, change your mind, you are free to do so." He sighed and added quietly as he buried his face in her unruly hair, "But I will confess that I hope you do not."

She had not, but the Ministry had permanently bent the course of her life out of shape, and in June she would trade the Hogwarts scenery for the forbidding shapes of the Alps, and the face of the man she loved for that of a stranger bearing the surname of one of her worst enemies.

"You look...stunning," he told her quietly, and for an instant, as she imagined that she would walk down the aisle to meet this man at the altar, she did indeed look beautiful, the light in her chocolate-colored eyes blazing to match the shining dress.

But the genuine happiness died as suddenly as it had flared, and her gaze dimmed, shuttered and dead. "I don't want to," she told him quietly, feeling a sudden, urgent need to explain. She had not stood so close to him since their return to the school, and the three months since the announcement of her engagement had been so torturous, Hermione thought she'd rather face Voldemort again than marry the man waiting inside the Great Hall today.

"I never dreamed you did," he replied solemnly. "They didn't give you much choice." He moved to close the gap between them, one hand coming up to graze her face, only to have her turn her head.

"You can't," she whispered, tears welling unexpectedly in her eyes. "The fidelity charm doesn't allow men to touch me." Her need to feel his hands one more time was almost overwhelming, as if two minutes of what she most desired could prepare her for decades of denial, and a wave of pure hatred scalded her. She had given her childhood to the war that had saved the Ministry from the Death Eaters. Every year since her eleventh had ended in turmoil and blood. For her efforts she was to wed a man she had never met and live in a place she had never been - all for the greater good of the wizarding world.

In a moment of unexpected revelation, she slid her wand out of the silk sleeve and stared at it keenly, as if she had never seen it before. It was her tool and her lifeline, her constant companion in a world governed by magic. It was the first thing she had acquired upon gaining entry to this private realm, and it had traveled with her into danger, joy and victory.

But the Ministry had made it her jailer, the instrument by which they tracked her, the cord that tied her to wizardry instead of the Muggle realm.

Her eyes glittered, cold and clear, as she raised them from the length of ash in her hand to the concerned, frustrated gaze of the only man she had ever loved.

For the Ministry, if her wand ceased to exist, so did she. "Refusal to comply will result in the snapping of your wand and your immediate expulsion from the wizarding world." She had given them her life, her blood, sweat, toil and tears. She owed them nothing else, and they had offered her a world of joyless duty and servile obedience, a lifetime of exile from her friends, her family and her beloved, and she was bound to their decree by a length of ash no longer than her forearm.

Such a very fragile thing.

In an instant, as if allowing the Ministry to plan her life had all been a farce and she had always intended this ending, she had made up her mind, and she tore her veil from her head, throwing it to the ground in a cloud of silken splendor, her wand clenched tightly in her fist.

"Will you meet me in June?" she asked, a devilish smile touching the corners of her mouth. Snape glanced from the wand to her face, understanding fired to life in his eyes, and he arched an eyebrow as the curve of his lips echoed the sentiment.

"Minerva will have my resignation on her desk tomorrow morning."

Wood whistling with the force of her arm, Hermione's wand met a knee padded with layers of thin cloth and snapped cleanly in two, sparks roaring from either end to scatter over the stones, smoking faintly. The fidelity charm broken as her link to magic severed, Hermione stepped forward into Snape's embrace, welcoming the fierce greeting of his mouth after months of absence.

As the scraping of chairs was heard from inside the Great Hall, the guests rising as the power from the destroyed wand and the attendant spells tied to it rippled uncomfortably through the granite, alerting the members of the Ministry present for the ceremony that something untoward was happening, Hermione reluctantly released him and sprinted to the side door.

With more life than she had had since her engagement, Hermione threw it open and paused, an angel in white against the glistening snow-covered lawn visible through the door. "Australia. June twenty-sixth. I'll be waiting."

So saying, she ducked out the door, disappearing into the landscape like a chameleon.

And as she vanished, half the confused wedding guests poured out of the Great Hall to witness a sight none had expected to see: Severus Snape holding two halves of a broken wand, a white veil still shining where it lay discarded, pooled at his feet, as he laughed out loud, his baritone voice ringing from the stone.