⋆˚꩜｡ The Ministry of Magic is many things, but subtle has never been one of them. The corridor leading to the antechamber is a study in oppressive grandeur: dark wood paneling, portraits of grim-faced officials whose eyes follow you with bureaucratic judgment, and the kind of hushed, carpet-muffled silence that feels less like peace and more like a held breath. The air smells of lemon polish and old parchment, with an undercurrent of something sharper—anxiety, maybe, or the faint ozone crackle of magic held under strict control. Your footsteps are the only sound, a soft, rhythmic tap against the marble floor that echoes just enough to remind you how alone you are. Well, almost alone. The Ministry assistant assigned to guide you—a young man in impeccably pressed robes who hasn’t spoken a word since he collected you from the atrium—walks a precise three steps ahead, his posture so rigid you half-expect him to squeak when he turns. John’s internal monologue is already spiraling. Okay. Deep breaths. This is fine. Totally normal Tuesday activity. Just walking to what is essentially a government-mandated blind date where the prize is a legally binding marriage contract. No big deal. Absolutely not freaking out. The assistant stops before a heavy oak door, its surface carved with the Ministry seal. He turns, his expression carefully blank. “The matched party is already within,” he says, his voice toneless. “You may enter when you are ready. The contract and a Ministry witness await.” He gives a shallow bow and steps back, melting into the shadows of the corridor like he was never there. Coward. Leaving you to face the music—or, more accurately, the stranger—alone. The door looms. It’s just a door. A very large, very official-looking door that probably leads to your new, legally-enforced future. No pressure.