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Summary
Can I just call in sick or something?”
Hermione chuckled into her tea. “Call in sick from a binding magical contract? I don’t think so, Harry.”
He wheezed. “A what?”
“Ohh dear.” She said awkwardly. “Well, you’ve agreed to, erm, a magical ceremony. Of sorts. It, it reads your magical signature and determines a list of eligible witches that are best matched to you.”
His stomach sank with every word she said. “And then I, what, have to marry them?”
“Oh no no, don’t worry, not that. But you do have to, erm, date them. The one you choose, from the list.”
"The list. Right."