Return of the Fairy God-Jarvey: Epilogue

By dracontia

Disclaimer: I never said they were mine, except the little beast with the big mouth.

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Healer Kornokovich smiled broadly when he saw who was entering his office. “Miss Granger! How lovely to see you. Vere you coming to discuss my recommendation?”

“Yes, sir,” she said with only a faint trace of nervousness—which evaporated into a smile as she brushed her thumb over her ring. She discovered that a year, more or less, didn’t matter much anymore. She knew she would be qualified eventually. The big uncertainty in her life was happily cleared up, and that, amazingly, seemed to make everything else manageable.

The big man pulled a sealed envelope from somewhere in his voluminous desk. “I vould tell you your results, but I am not a seer. Then again, I do not think it takes a seer to predict that you have passed all exams most handily,” he said, still smiling indulgently as he handed over the packet. He sat back with an expectant look on his face, like an indulgent uncle confident that he has given the perfect Christmas present.

Hermione colored faintly pink at the compliment and tried not to seem too eager as she broke the seal. She pulled out a parchment with some very impressive test scores… then felt something at the tips of her finger in the apparently empty envelope. Something fabric-like. Curious, she reached in and pulled out—

“These—are these mine?” she asked, staring at the mint-green robes.

“Vell, the laundry room did not put them there accidentally,” he said, breaking into a wide smile. “Of course, there vill still be a ceremony to present your degree, vhitch your family may attend—but I see no reason to let you vaste your time as a trainee vhile the proper security arrangements are made to comply vith Secrecy laws.”

“You said you didn’t know my results!” she exclaimed, still astonished.

“I did take a few liberties vith how I expressed it, Healer Granger—but I never said that I did not know the contents of that envelope,” he replied.

Healer Granger. It was all she could do to keep from squealing most unprofessionally.

“Come now—I believe you have rounds, do you not?” he asked, interrupting her reverie.

“Oh! I mean, yes, sir! I’ll get to the, um—”

“The Lobelia Sprout Plant Poisoning and Injuries Ward,” he supplied helpfully. “Report to Healer Molyneux for your schedule.”

“Right away!” she finished, shrugging out of her trainee robes and into her Healer’s robes, still crisply creased from being magically folded into the envelope.

“Oh, and… Healer Granger?” he asked, still smiling gently.

“Yes, Healer Kornokovich?” she responded, beaming back.

“The contract for our more complex healing potions comes up for renewal this week. Vould you be so kind as to take your Mr. Snape his papervork to sign personally, this time? It vould be much more lucrative for him to supply us directly, rather than to sit at the bottom of a long trail of subcontracts,” he said, presenting her with a parchment.

Hermione was speechless. “Sir?” she finally asked, wide-eyed. “How—How did you know?”

“It vas not so hard to figure out, once you started going out viff him. I cannot imagine even such a responsible young voman as yourself taking time at the end of a romantic evening to make a delivery. Although remarkably, I seem to have been the first to notice that delivery of every batch of potions coincided vith one of your dates,” he said, his accent thickening as his amusement blossomed into a friendly laugh.

Hermione blushed, even as she couldn’t help giggling at herself. So much for secrecy!

“No one will ever forget, Healer Granger,” he continued in his best kindly voice. “But it is in everyone’s best interests to forgive, especially based upon vhat I see here. You are happy, and I do not see you being happy with a vicked man. You are his best recommendation.”

“I—we—appreciate this very much, Healer Kornokovich,” she said, her eyes shining.

He tilted his head, gently deflecting her thanks. The big wizard had always felt that kindness should be as automatic as breathing, and no one thanked you for breathing. “Compassion, Healer Granger. Remember, it is the cornerstone of Healing.”

---

Hermione made sure her robes, with the contracts in the pocket, were conveniently near the bed. She wanted to wait until she and Severus were done celebrating her new status to reveal the other piece of good news.

“You didn’t,” he said aghast, pulling himself up on one elbow instead of relaxing into the pillow.

“You’re welcome, luv. You do realize that increasing your income, soon to be part of our combined incomes, is a good thing?” she asked, refusing to let go of that lovely post-climactic laziness.

“I can’t believe that you just waltzed into the hospital after we were together to make those deliveries,” he groaned, rolling away from her and staring at the moth holes in the canopy. Gryffindors!

“Well, it was important! They had to be delivered promptly, you know that,” she said defensively. Apparently, there would be no basking in the afterglow tonight.

“There was nothing that couldn’t have waited one more day. I built that into the brewing schedule,” he explained huffily.

“Nice time for you to tell me!” she retorted. “And I rather imagine it would have been discovered eventually. Why don’t you just sign the contract and be glad it’s sorted in your favor?”

Severus tired of trying to explain the finer points of evasion and reached for the parchments she had placed on the bedside table during the course of her explanation. After all, the contracts were there, and it was quite a better bargain for him this time around.

“I’m afraid I’ve misjudged you, my dear,” he said, shaking his head as he read everything carefully before signing.

“What on earth do you mean by that?” she asked, slightly anxious and entirely confused.

“Well, now that you’re no longer in the constant company of the-two-I-refuse-for-the-sake-of-my-blood-pressure-to-name, you are remarkably lacking in stealth, evasiveness, and general sneakiness,” he answered with a small sigh of disappointment. “‘Accio’ quill,” he muttered, finding nothing untoward on the parchments—other than the fact that it was probably still slightly less than his expertise was worth, but more than enough to ensure they could afford decent wedding bands. In a few more months... as long as they didn’t want anything too fancy. He wasn’t letting her pay for those, either.

Well… maybe for his. After all, they did want to get married sometime this century.

“Since when have I been sneaky?” she queried defensively.

“Your memory is fading in your old age, pet.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“All right, does mention of Umbridge and the Centaurs ring any bells?”

“That was more like… inspiration.”

“Hmm. Two words, then: Boomslang skin.”

“Ah—um…”

“I see your memory is returning.”

“I thought you accused—”

“Do you like seeing that vein on my forehead?”

“Of course not, darling. I know you’d rather not name the name, but I had hoped that you would be inured to casual mention of him by now.”

“Give me another year—or three. And even then, not in our bed,” he growled. “Come now, I doubt that now he could correctly identify Boomslang skin in a hurry, even if it were still attached to the Boomslang. And there is no way in hell he’d have managed to brew Polyjuice Potion correctly. That left either one of my N.E.W.T. level students or the young lady who ended up making an extended visit to the infirmary with a bad case of hairballs.”

Since Hermione enjoyed being reminded of that incident almost as well as she took to being teased about Lockhart, she responded with a sharp slap to his exposed bum.

Severus glared over his shoulder at her. “Is that how you treat your half of my assets?”

“So that’s my half,” she said with a smirk, soothing the light pink mark she’d made on that particular cheek. She could never examine his body for long without beginning to inventory his sprinkling of scars, some of which had obvious origins (Slicing Hexes left very distinct marks) and others, which were harder to identify. A bit below the spot she’d just spanked, Hermione noticed a tiny, whitish scar for the first time. “What happened here?” she asked, tracing her finger along the slightly differently textured spot near the juncture of his thigh and buttocks.

“I’m still not certain,” he confessed. “I was trying to keep Quirrell from tossing your irritating little friend to his death your first year, and all of a sudden I found myself engulfed in flames. It’s a good thing I—”

A glance over his shoulder revealed that Hermione was turning some rather alarming colors. “What’s wrong pet? Are you—what are you…” he trailed off. Suspicion replaced concern. “What do you know about this?”

Silence. Blushing.

“You didn’t.”

“Well… darling, you must understand, we were—”

“—thinking with approximately your I.Q. divided by both of theirs? You do realize that had those flames gotten a few inches higher, we might not be enjoying these agreeable carnal interludes,” he admonished, glaring at her.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she said, quite subdued. “It was meant to be a distraction, not an assault.”

“Hmph. I suppose that incident in the Shrieking Shack wasn’t meant to be an assault, either?”

Now it was her turn to glare. “What is this, ‘bring up youthful misdeeds night’? I’m no seer. It’s not as if I was thinking, ‘Ooh, best not damage this big scary chap too badly, I might want to shag him someday.’”

He pulled a disgusted face at her. “That’s an incredibly deviant line of thought.”

She giggled. “Well, much more so if you’d thought of it. I might have been more careful with that flame if I’d known I was putting my claiming mark on my future mate.”

He snorted and muttered something about pervy little girls.

She stroked the scar apologetically. “So, why is it that the only mark is all the way up here? I wasn’t exactly trying to goose you with that bottle of flame, as I recall.”

“Poppy took care of the rest. I wasn’t about to show her that particular spot, not for the sake of an inch-long blemish that I need multiple mirrors and a bit of modified yoga to see.”

Severus was beginning to feel a bit silly for raking her over the coals regarding her childish mistakes. Besides, if he weren’t careful, she might begin making inquiries into the brilliant exploits of his student career—and in the highly unlikely event Minerva had forgotten any, he felt quite sure she knew of a portrait that could refresh her memory. “They weren’t severe burns—more like a little scalding. The only reason that mark is there at all is the fact that I treated it myself, with a view towards alleviating the discomfort rather than worrying about appearances. It’s not as if it’s my best side.”

“Oh, I don’t know…” she said suggestively, rolling back onto her elbows and letting her head fall back, the better to display two of her distinctly aesthetic assets for his enjoyment. “It certainly has its aesthetic qualities.”

Judging by that unsubtle gesture, she was plainly amenable to making it up to him. “So, who finally broke through your brilliant attempts at subterfuge?” he asked, teasing the delicate flesh around her collarbone and between her breasts with the quill as he reached over to put the contracts out of the way.

“Evidently, Healer Kornokovich worked it out. I get the impression he will sort anyone who objects,” Hermione said, relaxing. She considered it highly promising that despite Severus’ sarcasm being firmly in place (which was probably a good sign that any beginning of relationship hormonal effects were well and truly done with), he still tempered it a bit with humor—for her, anyhow. With regards to the rest of the world, ‘The-Snark-Who-Takes-No-Prisoners’ reigned.

She could live with that.

“Well, since you spoiled my opportunity to luxuriate in the afterglow of the incredibly skillful and thorough job I did of pleasuring you, I think it only fair that you recompense me for all my efforts on your behalf,” he said, dropping the quill and laying back on the pillow with an expression that was a unique cross between petulant and smug. “Not to mention you owe me for various pains in the arse, not all of which are figurative.”

She almost launched into a pointed counterargument that she had done her share of ‘pleasuring,’ thank you very much, and it was he who had ruined the mood; then abruptly realized this statement, as nearly everything Severus said, needed filtering to be properly understood. Without the constant grind of academics for the first time in her life, she was able to devote considerable attention to becoming more fluent in Snape.

“Hmmm. Let me see… translating from ‘Snape-speak,’ I would say that means you’ve got all applicable bees out of your bonnet and would like to make love again. However, you are feeling exceptionally lazy, and want me to be on top and do most of the work this time. Am I correct?” she asked, smiling indulgently as she swung one leg over his hips.

“One of the compensations to bedding a know-it-all,” he replied, licking his lips expectantly. “Remind me, pet… what were some of the others?”

She reminded him.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning while Hermione slept, Severus came padding back to bed from the loo. He did so in total darkness, reasoning that it was his house and he ought to be able to make it there and back without disturbing the repose of his fiancée with a ‘Lumos’ spell.

It would be almost as much a shame to disturb the repose of his wand—which always looked complacently comfortable in its sleek, dark elegance next to her lighter, more petite and demure model—as they shared the nightstand.

He was a little less convincing as he reasoned internally that the early morning trip was a direct result of the lithesome witch bouncing enthusiastically on the vicinity of his bladder several hours earlier and nothing to do with all of his body parts approaching the half-century mark. After all, by Wizarding standards, he estimated he had a good two more decades to go before he need start giving serious consideration to the concept of middle age. If he was feeling particularly delusional, he could even get away with imagining he was still in some vestige of the prime of life.

Regardless, the not unreasonably lumpy mattress and the warm and smooth beyond all reason body of his beloved were very comforting after an au natural stroll through the drafty room.

“Love you, pet,” he murmured sleepily, twisting one of her stray curls possessively around his finger.

She hummed interrogatively at him, waking slightly as she snuggled against his body and felt the chill of night air and hand washing that clung to his skin.

“Just renewing the spell,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“Love you, too,” she yawned. Their body temperatures melded into uniformly soothing warmth, and they drifted off to sleep again.

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In the offices of the International Fellowship of Fairy Godmothers and Related Do-Gooding Beings, Madam Mab was breaking in a new intern. Pip had managed to finagle his way into a supervisory position, and she missed all thirty-two officious, overeager, highly organized inches of him. Gizzywiggle was hyperactive and solicitous and couldn’t organize a sock drawer if every pair was color-coded beforehand.

“It’s her,” he said, placing a slipping and sliding pile of paperwork, documents askew in their folders, on the desk. “Fletcher.”

That earned a grimace from his boss. “If she wants to get off probation, she’s got to straighten her tutu and start flying right—or whatever it is that Jarveys do to get around,” Mab grumbled.

“Remind me again, Ma’am—why do we employ non-fairies?” Gizzywiggle asked.

“There just aren’t enough of us, Gizzy my dear,” she said sadly. “Loss of habitat… Lack of inclination towards the vocation amongst the younger set… Recruiting of all the taller pixy kin for Eastern European and Asian gymnastic teams…”

Before Mab could wobble off into the misty land of reminiscence, Gizzywiggle quickly interrupted. “I’ll fetch Fletcher for you.”

Within moments, the young fairy returned with the rather un-fairylike being in question. Reggie hastily tugged her pink tutu into place as she gracefully slunk into the room.

“Regina Fletcher, Master Fairy God-Jarvey… provisionally—ready and reporting for duty, Your Royal Chuffing Crankyship!” She lifted her silvery eighteen inches or so of body into the air, balancing on her pewter-tipped tail and hind legs as she saluted. It would have looked like a respectful gesture had she not worked two digits of her paw apart, back of said paw facing her supervisor, as she made it.

“Save it, Fletcher,” Mab growled. “Look, as much as I disagree with your methods, I’m NOT maliciously blocking your advancement. I can’t do that.” No matter how much I might like to, she thought.

“Damn right you can’t. Union Regs say I can’t be passed over for promotion more than three times without a formal reprimand for wrongdoing, and the formal hearing necessary for such a reprimand,” Reggie said. “And you know what that means—witnesses, proper representation—”

“I know Union Regulations!” Mab almost shouted.

“Sorry to interrupt—but Madame Mab, we’ve got a problem,” Pip, now supervisor of the Office for the Administration of Unusual Situations, squeaked apologetically as he stuck his head in the door.

Mab sighed. Everything was a problem as far as Pip was concerned, especially now that he had his own department to run. “What is it now?”

“Longleaf in the Training Division asked me to bring this to your attention, since she’s swamped with new recruits. There’s a trainee who has passed all the exams, but she’s—she’s having trouble placing him in an apprenticeship.” Pip brought yet another file (neatly tabbed, perfectly sorted, and meticulously aligned with the center of the folder, evoking a nostalgic sigh from the bespectacled fairy) and placed it on the desk for her perusal.

Mab turned the pages with a flick of her wand. Her eyes, magnified to bug-like proportions by her glasses, flickered rapidly as she read.

“Fletcher, you’re probationary period is over. Go with Pip to meet Motoyoshi, your new apprentice,” she said abruptly, looking up from the file and slamming it shut.

Reggie shouldn’t have been whooping in celebration. If she had been a little more restrained, she might have noticed Mab chuckling evilly behind a mountain of files…

FIN

Author’s Note:

If you were planning on being offended by the gymnast reference, please bear in mind that my Grandmother was an Eastern European rhythmic gymnast in her youth, and my husband is Asian. No insult was intended!

Don’t despair, oh fans of Reggie! After all… she did say that Fairy Godmothers get to attend weddings, right? Not to mention, I suppose one or two people might be interested in finding out why Mab was so despicably gleeful about assigning Reggie to train this Motoyoshi fellow. There might be a story in that, if I’ve not been locked away by then. Do they let you use the internet in a loony bin?