Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).
Please see the Notes at the end of the Chapter.
Note 18/04/2020: Edited, unbetaed
Chapter 4: Many Happy Returns
Hermione lifted John's mattress with one hand while dragging the other under it and over the bed base. Nothing. She huffed and took the hand away and dropped the mattress with a plop. Looking around, she sat cross-legged on the floor, contemplating her options.
She had always excelled at research, even as a child. It had been a handy skill to have in Hogwarts, and live-saving during the war and every mission thereafter. Her father had always said that you could find a solution to every problem with time, dedication and patience; and up until today, he had been right. Apparently, discovering a basilisk was easier than buying John Watson a birthday present.
The truth was, she had not accounted for having to buy a present. Although she knew John's birth date, she was not supposed to. But then Mrs Hudson had mentioned it over tea one afternoon, thinking aloud about what she could buy him, and now Hermione felt obliged to do the same.
At first, she thought it would be easy. After all, she had lived with John for some time now, they even had two deep, heartfelt conversations in one week. She knew all the things that were too mundane to put in a report: John took his coffee without sugar and a splash of milk, prefered to pay in cash, and never carried an umbrella with him. Hermione started by discarding stereotypical gifts such as ties, scarfs and cufflinks. A bottle of Ogden she would give Sirius was an encouragement John did not need, and a book seemed too impersonal - and John hadn't touched a book since she moved in.
She had run out of ideas, but not resources. So that morning, when John had left for work and Mrs Hudson, was visiting a friend, she had run upstairs to John's room, determined to find some clues. Back to the present, Hermione ogled the shelves hanging over the desk. A total of ten books, fours classics, five medicine-related, one self-help. She stood up and opened them, looking for something stuck between the pages. She closed the last one with a sound of defeat. Damn army veterans. There was nothing personal in the room: the clothes were functional and not at all fancy, there were no trinkets, the notepads were empty. John had even left the hideous birds painting that Hermione was sure came with the room, and that was more telling about how he saw the space than anything else. The only personal belongings that stood out were the gun in the underwear drawer, and the crutch tucked away behind the bed.
Hermione heard someone opening the front door, followed by the noise of keys and the rustle of feet. She tiptoed downstairs and jumped the last steps to reach the chair in front of her laptop before John could make his way up. Thank Circe he was a man of habit, and he always stood at the foyer opening whatever post he had received. She was typing nonsense on an empty document when John entered the room, bringing with him the smell of warm species and herbs. Her stomach growled.
"I hope you're hungry," John said. He started taking boxes out of the plastic bag and putting them on the kitchen table. "There is this new Indian place near the practice, and I thought it might be nice to have something not reheated for once."
"You're a gem, John, I was starving."
"Have you forgotten to eat again?"
She looked at him and shrugged, dismissing his expression of disbelief as she took a bite of a crunchy samosa. "My research project is proving to be more difficult than expected."
They sat down to eat, enjoying the food and sharing meaningless chatter. Hermione, however, could almost hear the engines inside John's brain spinning. He had a very expressive face. With the last bite of korma chicken, John got up to start making tea for the two of them.
"So… Mrs Hudson told you that my birthday is this month." Said John, handing her a mug.
So that's it, Hermione thought.
"That she did. I think because she wanted to recruit me to make your cake until she saw how little I know about baking."
John chuckled and looked down at his cup.
"I've been thinking, and maybe my birthday is as good a date as any to meet some old friends I haven't seen since... Well, I haven't seen them in a while."
Hermione was not expecting that. "That sounds great, who are these old friends you're thinking of inviting?"
"Oh well…Probably Greg and Molly."
Hermione, the secret service agent, knew perfectly well who Detective Inspector Lestrade and Dr Hooper were. Hermione, the writer, had to pretend otherwise.
"I can't say the names ring a bell."
"You might know them as Lestrade and Molly Hooper, from, you know… the blog."
She hummed on the rim of her cup. "Are you planning on doing it here?"
"Yes." He cleared his throat and patted the couch, looking around. "It's time to make new happy memories, I reckon."
Hermione nodded and took the newspaper, thinking about how she was going to write it in the report she delivered to Mycroft every week. John was starting to move on. As much as she disliked it, maybe her days in this house were numbered.
After failing miserably on his own to find a gift, Hermione decided to ask Mary for help. They agreed to meet Mary near Portobello market, and start from there. After making a list of several ideas and discarding them all, they had stopped at a cafe. Mary had taken out her phone to read John's blog, looking for inspiration.
"Anything we've missed in the previous thousand times we've read 'The Speckled blonde'?" Hermione asked.
Mary made a very obscene gesture with her hand and continued scrolling down. After some minutes, she sighed and put the phone away.
"Nothing," Mary said. "It's more like a study on Sherlock Holmes. He's everything John writes about."
Hermione perked at that. She looked at the woman across from her, who looked puzzled. "What?"
"Mary, you are a genius. Come." Hermione finished her coffee and stood up, dragging Mary outside and starting dodging people on their way up the street.
"You know I love a good compliment, but why exactly?"
"John absolutely loves to write. He's no Dickens, but he's okay," Mary rolled her eyes, with a small smirk dancing on her mouth. "He hasn't written anything since Sherlock died. There are no pens in his room, the notebooks are blank, there are no notes or documents on his laptop. So my gift is the little push he needs for writing again. I'm thinking about a vintage notebook and a fountain pen, I think there's a shop near –"
"Hey! Hermione!"
Both women turned towards the voice. Mike Stamford was standing outside a small pub with a pint in one hand. Hermione, who was still holding Mary's arm, went towards him.
"Mike! Fancy meeting you here."
"Likewise." He stretched his hand to Mary, introducing himself. He took a sip from his pint before asking. "You were talking about John's gift, yeah?"
Both women looked at each other to which Mike laughed.
"Don't worry, I won't tell. But I'd stop talking about it, John is in the loo, he'll be back in a few minutes."
"Who'll be back in a few minutes?" As if summoned, John appeared through the door with his own pint, staring at his phone, to then look at his companion and the two women beside him. "Hello there." He hugged Hermione and then looked towards Mary. "Sorry, I can't say we've met. John Watson."
"Yes, I have yet to be granted the honour to visit Baker street." She extended her hand and flashed a smile to Hermione, who in turn blushed. "I'm Mary, Mary Morstan. A pleasure to meet the famous John Watson at last."
"So you are Mary. Hermione talks loads about you." Hermione threw a glance to Mike, who seemed to be thinking the same as her. John's eyes were fixed on Mary, and it took the sound of crystal crashing with wood before he got conscious of the people surrounding them. "Why don't you have a pint with us?"
"Thank you, John, but we still have some things to do, right, Mary?"
"Well, surely we can-" Mary turned to Hermione as she gave her a little nudge. "No, yes, you are right."
Hermione couldn't disguise her smile when she saw the lingering stares between Mary and John while exchanging goodbyes. During the rest of the afternoon, Mary was uncharacteristically quiet, but paying particular attention to choosing John's gift. And she couldn't help but laugh internally when that night, in a very casual manner, John had commented that any of her friends were welcome to his birthday. Later in her bed, after promising John she would let Mary know about the extended invitation, she thought about the ironies of life. Or more likely, how John seemed to have a type. Mycroft was going to have a field day when he knew that the good old Dr Watson wanted to replace a sociopath with an ex-assassin.
The thirty-first of March of that year was one of the warmest Saturdays London had seen in the last decades. The sunlight seeped through the thin curtains, hitting the sole occupant of the bed in the face. Hermione turned, trying to get some more sleep. The night before, she had stayed up late, all because her best friend had insisted on modelling her entire wardrobe through a poorly streamed Skype call. It was near two in the morning when Hermione, who was already dozing off, stopped Mary's debate about whether to wear shoes or trainers, telling her that John couldn't care less. She was about to fall asleep again when the noise of a hoover going off woke her. Confused for a moment, Hermione let herself fall backwards on the mattress groaning, her head pounding to the beat of "Hallowed Be Thy Name". She got up and opened the door, finding Mrs Hudson dancing in the living room.
"Good morning dear, oh, you look awful." The infernal noise died down, and the old lady went to the kettle. "I'll fix you a cuppa."
"Thanks, Mrs Hudson." Hermione dropped into one of the chairs, cradling her head in her hands. It was way too early to be sarcastic. "How do you have so much energy at... 9 in the morning on the weekend? I am knackered."
"That's because you are not getting a comfortable sleep. I'll give you one of my herbal soothers, they'll relax you."
She was about to ask what kind of herbal soothers she took when they heard John's voice coming off the stairs.
"I've got everything on the shopping list!" The wood on the steps creaked under John's weight. Judging by the noise, Hermione calculated probably about three or four bags full, maybe from the Tesco Express on Melcombe Street. John entered the room a few seconds later, carrying all the groceries in four full bags, which he left on the floor. "Everything but the party hats. I can't believe you thought I was going to buy them, Mrs Hudson."
"But it's a birthday, John!"
"I'm turning 38, not 5!"
"Did you get the birthday decorations?"
John looked at Mrs Hudson, and pinched his nose, closing his eyes. "Yes."
"Wonderful." Martha clasped her hands in front of her. "I'm going downstairs to get the duster. Oh, I'm so glad we are going to have guests. Don't forget to put the food away."
John drawled an exasperated sigh and Hermione got up, hugging him.
"Happy birthday John." She searched his eyes with hers. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
"Want a bit of gin in your tea?"
"Oh, God, yes."
After a couple of spiked teas, a row between John and Mrs Hudson about cleaning the railing and an almost accident hanging the 'Happy Birthday' decorations, Hermione decided that she deserved a hot shower before getting dressed. John had already emptied the bathroom and had gone to get changed, and Mrs Hudson was probably doing the same. She was finishing up her make-up when a long ringing of the doorbell followed by a short one resounded into 221B. Leaving her room, Hermione went downstairs and saw Mary, dressed in her best pair of slacks and a dressing shirt with colourful butterflies, talking to Mrs Hudson. She stopped mid stairs and stared at Mary with a mocking smile.
"Oh, shut up." Said Mary.
"I haven't said a thing, Mary. Come, John will be delighted to see you."
John was already next to the kitchen, his hands behind him while gently swaying on his toes, dressed in a pair of jeans - new, as Hermione noticed- and a dark blue check shirt. He smiled politely at Mary, who handed him the exquisite bourbon she had bought for the occasion. They did some small talk, soon joined by Mrs Hudson and Mike, that had arrived a few minutes after Mary. Close to mid-afternoon, the bell rang again, and John brought the two remaining guests upstairs. Hermione that had settled herself on the black leather armchair examined the couple that had just arrived. Lestrade shifted his gaze from the spot she was to the rest of the people, while the splash of colour that Molly Hooper was had a shy smile on her face, her hands folded before her midsection. Hermione felt Mary's hand on her elbow, beckoning to stand up. She guessed, for everyone that knew Sherlock, having someone in his usual places was still confusing. John cleared his throat and opened one of his arms, signalling to Hermione.
"Greg, Molly, this is Hermione, oh and Mary, a friend." Mary got up and placed herself next to Hermione. "Mary, Hermione, Greg and Molly."
"Hi, nice to meet you, John had told me a lot about you two." Greeted Hermione. Greg and Molly, in the perfect example of British politeness, did not mention that John had not talked to them in months before the invitation. Greg looked around him, as if not knowing what to say. Molly, on the other hand, commented on the state of the flat.
"I think I have never seen this room this clean. I could do a post-mortem on that table."
Hermione and Mary look dumbfounded to the petit woman while the others laughed, and Greg commented that he had missed Molly's humour.
The party continued with food and laughter, but Hermione kept her eye on John. As the hours passed, his eyes darkened, and his words were limited to answering questions. Around midnight, Molly nodded to the door, and one by one, they left until only Hermione and John were left, each in an armchair.
Hermione got up and took out a package wrapped in dark blue wrapping paper from one of the drawers on the shelf.
"For you," she said.
John looked at her and then at the gift, which he picked up with both hands. He turned it over a couple of times until he found the tape that closed it, and broke it. Inside was the notebook Hermione had bought, with a drawing on the cover much like the paper covering the walls around them. The fountain pen was black with silver accents, and it was hooked to the rubber that closed the notebook.
"I bet you thought I'd forgotten." Hermione knelt down beside him. "I think your therapist is right about writing. But I think maybe you have to do it on your own terms, in a different format. So I thought maybe an old-fashioned method wouldn't bring up as many memories as your blog. And well, although the idea is mine, Mary has chosen both. She had me go into at least ten stores to find the perfect pen."
He stared at her, only to take the pen between his fingers, assessing the weight. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"Happy birthday, John Watson."
The next morning, Hermione saw the notebook on the coffee table, open on the first page, with the pen in the middle. At the top of the page, in flat, almost illegible handwriting, it said "A New Beginning."
Cafe Regents near Regents canal was a perfect hideout for the stormy afternoons of mid-April in London. It was not unusual to see the small place full of people working on their laptops, writing or merely talking, sheltered from the elements. Hermione had chosen a table in the back and was staring at the paper in front of her. The first draft of the speech had been a long string of hateful words, reproaches and swearwords that would have the opposite effect of what the Ministry wanted. The real speech was not being so straightforward. She had made several moves to take the pen, lean it against the page and put it back. Hermione dropped the pen on the page, and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes. With less than two weeks to go, the blockage she was suffering was a symptom of the real problem: fear. It had never been part of her plans to be near the Ministry again. Mycroft had made sure that missions involving close contact with a wizard were taken over by another agent. Magic had no place in Hermione Granger's life, except when she had to use it on the job. She had wanted nothing to do with the magic world, nor with its politics or her old friends. At that moment Sirius' face appeared in her head. It was very selfish of her to force Sirius to hide half his life because she asked him to. Hermione supposed it didn't matter anymore. After all, the whole truth was going to come out in a few days.
It became evident in the following days that the longer her speech grew, the shorter her fuse. She had marked the second of May in red on the kitchen calendar and practically stabbed the page every time he crossed out a new day. Both Mrs Hudson and John thought that Hermione was going to a presentation she didn't want to attend and give a speech she didn't want to give. Which was no lie. They had both tried to be as patient as possible, but after Hermione had a fight with the microwave and the teapot in two hours, they decided to give her space. If Hermione had been in a better state of mind, she would have considered how unbearable it must have been for two people who had lived with Sherlock to steer clear from her. The day Hermione wrote the last word of the speech, she closed her laptop, called Mary and drank and danced to drown her sorrows. And the next morning, as a taxi drove her back to Baker Street after waking up in a random house with a random guy, she wondered why her old life still had such an impact on her present.
Hermione looked at herself in the full-length mirror, admiring the beautiful Alexander McQueen strapless dress she was wearing. It was a simple floor-length, black dress, with a delicate gold trim around the waist. Her make-up, with smoky eyes and matte red lips, fitted perfectly with her messy up-do and her black nails. Her gaze came to her left arm, where the horrid scar was left out on full display. She traced the words with her finger. Living in the muggle world, it was easier to cover it with a glamour spell than having to explain what it was and why it was there. Tonight, however, she was not Hermione Black, but Hermione Granger. And Hermione Granger had been tortured. The 'Mudblood' carved in her skin was just one of the many scars the war had left her.
"Hermione, the car is already here!"
She took a last glance and picked her small handbag and her coat. Downstairs was Sirius, waiting, looking every bit the English gentleman in his full evening dress. He had decided to make a statement not wearing dress robes and opt for the muggle alternative. She thought she could not love him more than she did then.
"You look stunning, my dear."
"Thanks. You look dashing. Bringing someone home tonight?"
"Merlin I hope not. If I do, get a psychiatrist, would you?"
Hermione gave him a tight smile. The jovial attitude of her companion did nothing to calm her nerves. If she were a believer, she would have prayed to any and every God for a traffic jam. But from the fancy flat in Covent Garden to Whitehall, she could only hope for fifteen minutes of commuting. Stepping out of the security of the back seat and facing the visitors' entrance of the Ministry stirred old feelings inside her, and the memories started filling her with every meter the cabin descended. By the time they arrived at the Atrium, Sirius had to wipe away a single tear that came down her cheek. Nothing had changed since her last visit to the Ministry, and her muscle memory took her to her right, where the large ballroom was. She could hear the voices on the other side, and the amount of magic was saturating her senses due to lack of exposure. She stood in front of the wooden doors, breathing as calmly as her body would allow her, and took Sirius' arm.
"What have you told them?"
"The truth," answered Sirius, adjusting his bowtie. "That I kept in touch with you, that I work with you and that you are under my protection."
"And how did that go down?"
"It's nothing you have to worry about."
A magically heightened voice inside the room asked for attention.
"Mister Sirius Orion Black and Miss Hermione Jean Granger."
The crowd clapped, and Hermione buried her nails in Sirius' biceps. He put a hand on her fingers.
"Chin up, darling. The show must go on."
She had a moment of weakness right before the doors opened. If she ran away, Mycroft could hide her in Nepal or something. She could go to Hawaii, change her name to Lilo and start a new life as a scuba diving instructor. Yes. That was a good plan. But Sirius was already taking a step forward, and her legs followed. She forced herself to keep her head straight, not making eye contact and trusting Sirius to lead her between the rounded tables that had been placed around the room. Hermione was overwhelmed by the number of people staring at her. The Ministry had invited everyone who had some kind of power in the magic world. It was their big moment: the return of the prodigal daughter, the third apex of the golden trio. The thump of her heart against her rib cage was so loud she thought everyone within four feet could hear it, but it was drowned by the general whispering around her, about her, her dress and her manicure. About her scar.
Then she saw a flash of red hair, and she thought she was going to have a heart attack.
The main round table was in a place of honour, close to the stage and sand far enough away from the rest to be in full view. There was an empty space facing the crowd that Hermione assumed was Kingsley's. On the left was Harry. His lips pressed in a thin line as he turned his wedding ring. To her left, Ginny in a green silk robe, the spitting image of the perfect hostess. On Kingsley's right was Ron, as handsome as ever; and Lavender, who made sure to hold his hand in hers, while showing the ridiculous diamond on her ring finger. The other two places were occupied by Neville and Luna, who wore a bright pink robe. Some things didn't change. Usually, Hermione would never choose a position where he could not see the possible exits, but this time she did not care.
As they approached, Hermione's gaze crossed Harry's. Those green eyes she hadn't seen for years pierced her to the bone. She would recognise them anywhere, under any circumstances. She had seen them shining, she had seen them sad, happy, with tears of rage and joy. This look she had only seen when Harry spoke of Colagusano, or Snape, and that almost made her cry.
"Good evening, everyone. Ladies, you all look gorgeous tonight." Complimented Sirius. He pulled out the chair next to Luna for her and put his hand on her lower back. Only then did Hermione break eye contact and sat down, muttering a greeting. No more words were exchanged and a waiter, who looked vaguely familiar, poured her some wine that she took as a lifeline. All conversation died down when the minister welcomed everyone to the party. He spoke for what seemed like an eternity about unity, overcoming adversity, and forgiveness. Neither Ron nor Harry turned to Kingsley, and Hermione kept her head down, looking at her glass. The wine had turned to bile in her mouth, the hypocrisy of it all threatening to make her vomit. Applause broke around her, and she turned to see Kingsley descend from the stage, stopping to talk to Draco Malfoy at another table. Suddenly plates and food appeared in the centre of the table, and the sound of cutlery began to fill the room. Hermione pricked the steak that had appeared in front of her. The thought that house-elves had prepared this meal was enough to lose her appetite.
"That is an interesting choice of wardrobe, Sirius." Said Ginny.
"Yes, well, I had to match up with this lovely lady." Sirius did a small frill with his hands, pointing at Hermione.
"Well, I think dress robes are much more elegant. More… magical."
"I think her dress looks nice, Lavender. It could always use some colour, but Hermione probably doesn't want any Luoping Fairies around her."
After Luna's intervention, the table fell again into a tense silence. Next to her, Sirius had put a hand on her knee.
"So, Hermione, how have you been?"
She turned to look at Ginny, confused. Sirius squeezed his hand over her flesh, and Hermione responded with a voice that didn't sound like hers.
"Good, yourself?"
"We have been good, really." Hermione flinched internally before such display of non-individuality. "We're very well, actually." Hermione shuddered inwardly at such display of non-individuality. "We've already produced the next generation of troublemakers. Haven't we, darling?" Ginny asked Harry, touching his hand. He didn't answer. Ginny seemed to expect some kind of interest in her children, but Hermione decided to drown out any comments with wine. "What about you?" pressed Mrs Potter.
"I'm single."
Lavender gave a very unladylike snort. The bag she had put over her knees moved when her phone inside it vibrated. Taking it out, she tapped the screen to open the incoming message: 'Just a couple of hours. MH.'
"I thought that muggle things didn't work with magic around." Said Neville.
"MI7 has a dedicated research team for it."
At that point, Kingsley arrived at the table and sat in the chair in front of it.
"It's an honour to have you with us tonight, Hermione."
Hermione knew Kingsley hadn't done it to provoke her. She knew there was too much at stake to lose her temper over one comment. But even though she felt Sirius tensing up next to her, the words came out of her mouth, and she couldn't stop them.
"It wasn't by choice, Minister."
"Still an honour."
"You should be grateful." It was the first time in ten years that she'd heard Harry Potter's voice. It had never had so much disgust directed to her. "We could have sent you straight to Azkaban."
"Harry, that's confidential information." Said Kingsley.
"Instead, you blackmailed me." Hermione rebutted. Sadness and anger mixed in her veins, creating an explosive cocktail. "What a good job you must be doing if you need to be rescued by a traitor."
"Please." Sirius intervened. "Let's try to be adults for a couple of hours."
Harry took a deep breath and closed his fist on the napkin. At the next table, a glass exploded, and Hermione wasn't sure if it was her fault or Harry's. A waiter came over to clean the windows, and that's when Hermione recognised him. He turned to Kingsley, who was cutting up his steak.
"What is Theo Nott doing as a waiter?"
"Working."
Hermione turned to Sirius. "I remember him, he had almost perfect grades. And money. When I left, he had donated half of his fortune and was supposed to start as an intern for the international cooperation department. What happened?"
"He fell under the umbrella of the 'Equity Law'."
"And what is that?"
"Anyone with ties of the first degree to a death eater would be forbidden to access public positions to prevent the influence-peddling that has occurred in the past," Harry recited. "As well as being rid of all their money because we cannot know its origin."
"That's awfully unfair."
"We did what was necessary to clean the Ministry," Ron spoke for the first time. He sounded like all the alt-right followers she had seen in social media.
"And how come Malfoy is not? Because he was valuable for you?"
"Well, if you had so many objections, why didn't you say something? Oh, that's right." Harry gave her a smile full of disdain. "Because you left."
"Yes Harry, because it worked so well for me when I tried to antagonise you the first time."
"Please, a moment of attention." The usher, standing by the lectern, waited for silence. "Now, war heroine Hermione Granger has kindly agreed to delight us with some of her inspiring words. Please give her a warm welcome."
"Come on, heroine." Whispered Harry as he applauded. "Time to face the music."
The anger she felt, swirling inside her veins, tangling with the magic that pricked at her fingertips, was everything she needed to stand up and make her way to the stage. Although her knees wobbled as she walked up the stairs, she was determined to show the rest of the world why she had almost sole-handily steered the outcome of the war. She approached the stand, momentarily blinded by the white lights and deafened by the sound of the camera shutters. She took a deep breath and began.
Notes:
First, thanks to all of you that had left reviews, or had marked/followed this story. I think that watching the number of people reading it is what awoke my muse!.
About the chapter: Yes, I love Hermione. I adore her character and I am loving every second of delving into such a delightful personality. I think she had one of the most complex backgrounds and I hope to make her justice. I am trying to depict her as the flawed person I imagine her to be, so I am trying extra hard to not make a Mary Sue out of her (any comments on this, is there is a point where I am making her too perfect will be welcome). Furthermore, we get to see our HP characters. Some of you might not agree with me with how I have portrayed them. In the next chapters, I'll explain why Hermione left, and I hope that retrospectively it'll make sense. As a warning, probably Harry will be the one that might seem a bit OoC in comparison to canon. Honestly, I think that Harry has a vengeful streak, and lets his anger take control sometimes. You might argue it was the piece of Voldemort inside him, but I think some of it was his.
About the dates. According to Sherlock's timeline, I found in Sherlock's wiki, the blog post "A new beginning is from the 20th April 2013, the year Sherlock comes back. Because it makes more sense with my story, I've changed the date to the 20th April 2012, the year that Hermione moves in, almost a year after Sherlock dies. Therefore, the events of this chapter take place between April and May 2012. I've also tried to document myself about the possible ages of the characters. I found online that John had 36 years in ASiP (2010), while Sherlock was 33, Hermione 31 and Mycroft 40 by that time.
The reason for the title: Many happy returns, as you probably already know, is a common greeting in someone's birthday. Also, Hermione returns to the magic community, although she won't say that it is a happy occasion.
Luoping Fairies: I made this up. I wanted a magical creature that was attracted to bright colours. Luoping is a colourful region of China. That's it. I think the name sounds magical enough.
Next chapter: Hermione delivers her speech, John and Hermione have a much overdue conversation, and she lets go of her past. Heavy emotions ahead!
I hope you've liked this,
Beth