Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Forbidden Ship	By : Nerys Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Voldemort Views: 18410 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series nor any of the characters from the books/movies. I don't make money from writing this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 30
- 31
- 32
Tag: NoSex
xxx
Authorise
With a charming smile, Tom Riddle approached the stout, blond-haired woman twiddling her thumbs behind the counter.
"Hello. I'm—"
"Ticket, please," the woman rudely interrupted.
Baffled, he looked around the empty waiting room. He could safely launch a Bludger here and not hit a single soul.
"There's no one—" he started.
"Ticket," the woman said; her beady eyes narrowed as she impatiently tapped with her finger on the sign plastered on the booth's transparent dividers that announced service would only be provided to ticket holders.
Raising his eyebrows at the absurdity of it, he walked to the machine, pressed the damn button, waited for it to rattle and then pulled out his ticket. Forty-three, it stated in big bold numbers. He held up the ticket overly demonstratively and sarcastically to the witch who now pointed to the sign that strangely enough stood on forty-one.
Yawning, the witch pressed a button; the cards flapped around; a bell chimed, and she called out,
"Forty-two."
You have got to be kidding me.
He sat down in the nearest chair, crossing his long legs and folding his arms. It could be amusing to see how long this puppet show would last. The woman searched the empty room for movement, then inspected her fingernails, did another call out for forty-two, rummaged through some files in the cabinet beside her. An errant male co-worker passed by her booth, coffee in hand, striking up a conversation. They laughed, undoubtedly exchanging useless pleasantries and anecdotes of their pitiful, meaningless lives. When the man had finally moved on, the woman looked straight at him and called out once more for forty-two, then sighed, grabbed a form from one of her many piles, scribbled something on it he could not see before stamping it and throwing it in the letterbox on her right. Then she reluctantly slammed that button, turning the flaps. The bell chimed.
"Forty-three."
Exhaling deeply to lower his temper, after all, the absurdity of it was practically unbelievable. He rose from his seat and approached again.
"Your ticket," the obnoxiously power-tripping witch said.
He pushed it towards her without a word. She stamped it and also threw it in the letterbox on her right.
"How may I help you, sir?" she asked with the fakest smile he'd ever seen, and he'd worked retail himself.
She must have a miserable life to get her jollies from harassing honest citizens like … well, not him, but you get where he was going with this.
"I'm here to obtain a marriage license," Tom said, sending her his equally fake (yet less obvious) smile in return.
The woman grabbed a form from the third pile on her left.
"Name?"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"Is that Riddle with e l or l e?"
"L e."
Their conversation went on like this for quite some time, and the only way he could keep up the marvellous mood he woke up with this morning was envisioning the many ways he could torture this witch later. When the entire form was filled in, the woman looked up and said,
"Identification, please."
He handed her his and Hermione's passport. The woman stared at it, then sighed exaggeratedly.
"Birth certificates are required."
"That isn't stated in the ministerial brochure 'Always at your Service'," he countered. "It says you need identification and that a passport or driver's licence will suffice."
"You do not have yours and your wife's birth certificate with you?" the woman said overly sweetly.
He'd love sewing that mouth together.
"No, I do not."
She pushed the passports back to him.
"I'm afraid they are a requirement under title 3, subsection 6, amendment 5, subclause c. Without it, I fear I cannot help you."
"This is ridiculous," he said. "You need a birth certificate to get your passport. Since I have a passport, it means this ministry has already acknowledge the verity of my birth certificate and identification and handed me this passport."
"Title 3, subsection—"
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you," he said, getting impatient and realising he'd have to pony up the money for the damn birth certificates, too. He'd steal it back from her later. "So, can you supply me with our birth certificates?"
To his surprise he wasn't directed to another counter, but the witch in front of him sighed, as if he was asking her to complete an impossibly difficult and most exhausting task, and said,
"Name again?"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle."
She stood up, opened the filing cabinet's drawer and ruffled through the documentation.
"Racount, Redmayne, Ricker, Rimmel." She turned her head toward him, frowning. "You wouldn't happen to be Muggleborn?"
"Halfblood," he said through gritted teeth, already having a feeling where this was going.
The woman ruffled through the files once more, finally closing the drawer, empty-handed.
"You're not in here, which means you're in the Muggle archives." Her attitude did not improve upon finding this bit of personal information out. "Perhaps your Muggle parent did the administration of the household? They wouldn't have known how to handle proper Wizarding registration. You'd have to go to your local Muggle registry office and obtain it there, I believe. Your wife's name?"
Like she didn't remember. His soon-to-be wife was bloody famous for helping Potter "vanquish" Lord Voldemort. He rather enjoyed the irony of that.
"She's Muggleborn," he answered, cursing this entire situation and the power hungry bigot.
"Well, then I can't help either of you," the woman said cheerfully, like that was a happy circumstance.
"Yeah, yeah, I heard you. I want to speak with a supervisor."
"That's your prerogative," the woman said, uncaring.
She grabbed a ministerial memo, handed it out to him with a pen and said,
"Sign, date, and initial here, please."
The form stated a request for oversight. He signed the damn thing and left his initial, because why the hell not?
Everyone had all the time in the world, right?
Date, date? What was today again?
He looked up questioningly.
The woman merely pointed behind her to the large calendar: 15th March, 2002.
He wrote it down and handed it back. The woman signed, initialed and stamped the memo before sending it off, flying away. She leaned back in her chair, rocking back and forth while lightly humming as she twiddled her thumbs again.
They would look spectacular broken into a million pieces or ripped off entirely. Perhaps a flesh-eating bacteria? A gangrenous jinx? So many options, and only ten fingers available to him.
"It might take a while," she said. "We're a busy department."
There was not even an ounce of irony in her voice as she stated that. After that while and still no supervisor, she got out of her seat and walked to the coffee machine at the far end of the room, pressing several buttons. A cup dropped and the machine came to life with a whirring noise. She returned with one steaming cup between her stubby fingers and sat down, returning to her rocking of the chair and occasionally taking a sip with an obnoxious slurping noise.
Finally (it had been 25 minutes and 33 seconds) a toad-faced woman dressed in hideous pink robes entered the office.
"What seems to be the problem, Melissa?" she asked in a sickeningly sweet manner.
"This gentleman here requires a marriage licence, Miss Umbridge, but he doesn't have the right documentation."
There was an almost gleeful, vile expression rising on that toad's face. He started to understand why the ministry required visitors to hand over their wands. This entire show would've been over already had he had his in his pocket.
Alas, an Unforgivable or any unapproved magic would set off alarms, too, or he might have considered the risk of doing the curses wandlessly. It wasn't like these two seemed capable of any sort of resistance.
Still, you never knew. It would be just his luck today.
"I do have the right documentation," he immediately countered, pushing forward their passports. "This is sufficient according to your own department's flyers."
The pink monster pursed her wide mouth and tutted at him.
"Oh dear, mister?"
"Riddle," he said, tightlipped.
Oh, how they would scream.
For days.
"Mr Riddle, I'm afraid you might have mistakenly assumed" —Did that witch just question his intelligence?— "that the flyers are a legal documentation that holds any standing here."
"They're your flyers, and I—"
"Hem hem," the witch interrupted. "They were flyers created by the previous head administrator; I fear his methods were not up to proper ministerial standards."
"Then why not change these flyers, why have people come here needlessly? Some of us have actual work to do."
Blackmail, torture, extortion, a bit of murder. He was a busy man.
"Well, we can't just waste the taxpayers' well earned money for one misprint, and there's a small byline in the fine print of the flyer clearly indicating that the information is subject to change and that no legal standing can be held by the printed folder. I'm afraid, Mr Riddle, you'll just have to go and obtain a copy of you and your wife's birth certificate. I take it you do not wish to pay for the additional cost and that's why this is an issue?"
"He and his wife are not in our directory," Melissa intervened, sharing a knowing glance with Umbridge.
"Ah, Muggleborn, then," Umbridge said, her tone even higher and decidedly more condescending. "I understand your confusion, dear , but we do need your Muggle birth certificate to authorise your marriage licence."
"I see," he said, his mood darkening beyond belief.
Still, there was no point arguing with bureaucrats like this. Lord Voldemort had better things to waste his time on. Not to mention he would definitely get his revenge on them someday soon. So, he left, ignoring the triumphant, smug looks between the two.
An hour later, he was back. It hadn't been difficult to Imperio the Muggle staff into simply handing him over the copies of their birth certificates (without paying for it, obviously ). It had taken him more time to sneak into the house, unseen, and nick Hermione's spare wand from her nightstand's drawer. He was really going to enjoy this second meeting, that was for sure. And there was no way he would admit to Hermione she was right when she questioned whether it was wise he'd taken on this task for their marriage.
Once again, he grabbed a ticket from the machine and said down.
Once again, there was a whole song and dance routine before Tweedledum called out his number. He wondered if she pulled out a ticket herself when the room was vacant just for this blatant abuse of power. That would be positively pathetic and somewhat sad.
"Hello," Melissa said, "how can I be off assistance today?"
Was her memory that shitty? He'd been here less than an hour ago.
"I'm here for a marriage license," he said through gritted teeth.
To his annoyance, the witch grabbed an empty form of the third pile, grabbed a pen and said,
"Name?"
"I was just here an hour ago. You already filled out the form," he reminded her.
"Forms vanquish if they're not authorised within the hour. Name?"
Fuck it.
He was not doing this again. He pulled out Hermione's old wand. With a swoosh above his head, he disabled the alarms. The woman rose from her seat, stumbling backwards — her hands in the air as a futile defence.
"IMPERIO!"
- 30
- 31
- 32
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Forbidden Ship