Simply insufferable
[AN: Content warning: Contains smut and references to goings-on. Also, tries to skewer a number of thirsty Greengrass/Potter tropes, while at the same time having well… smut and goings-on.]
[AN: If you play 'Simply Irresistible' by Robert Palmer at this point, you will have some sympathy for the protagonists. Both of them.]
Harry Potter was tired. The bone-deep weariness of week after week of long hours struggling on shift at St Mungo's, and not enough sleep. Sleep interrupted by nightmares. Harry eyed the cup of tea, shuddered, and added more sugar. Which wasn't good for him, he knew it was medically inadvisable, but he was… so tired.
A tall blonde witch in her twenties stormed into his consult room. She showed signs of hyper-shnozzism, and from the way she wore formal robes, looked quickly around the room and sneered, was doubtless a conceited, stuck-up pure-blood bigot. Not that Harry was judgemental.
"Finally," said the witch, in a posh voice, "You have to save my sister." Her posh accent alone had Harry's back up. He picked up his clipboard and a self-inking quill. It was going to be like that, was it.
"Name?" asked Harry.
"God Potter, we were in the same class for five years!" she said indignantly. Harry wrote that down in the space for 'Name:' Being a medical registrar at St Mungo's had few pleasures, but this was one of them.
"So Of course I simply insisted on seeing you. My sister is dying and her only hope is parseltongue healing magic!"
"I'm not a parselmouth any longer," said Harry blandly, resisting the urge to write something else sarcastic, for now at least. He had self-control.
The blonde shuddered – she really had anger issues, thought Harry. A prescription for calming draughts. Maybe a few consults with a mind healer.
"Being a parselmouth does not clear up like… like the common cold!" she said quite loudly.
"No," said Harry tiredly, "it doesn't but regardless, I am not a parselmouth, any more. Not since the war."
"That's why the Weasley girl left, I suppose – without the dark-magic fuelled sex sessions," said the witch rather slanderously. And imaginatively.
Harry picked up a note pad and wrote that particular slander on the bottom half, and the time and date on the top. "Name?" he asked.
"Daphne Greengrass? But that's not important, you need to heal my sister!"
"You will, mizz Greengrass, be hearing from my lawyer" said Harry, who'd had enough of everyone's bullshit, and had a lawyer. It was one of life's simple pleasures.
"What?" asked Greengrass, clearly having her train of thought violently derailed. Harry did not chuckle or smirk. His lawyer said that mattered to get the maximum payment for the slander.
"Slander," said Harry, filling in her name, and signing the bottom. "As a healer I'm in a protected profession."
"You were going to be an Auror – and you defeated Him… still, Sine pisces plicus; my sister is dying, and you're just being obstructive. You learnt all kinds of long-forgotten magics from Dumbledore, you can use that to heal my sister."
Harry crossed out 'God Potter, we were in the same class for five years' and wrote in 'Daphne Greengrass' under it, and under initial diagnosis wrote 'adjustment disorder, imminent sibling mortality.'
He looked up at Greengrass, who was staring at him rather fixedly. She had heathy looking eyes anyway. Nice blue colour, darker than Ron's. Not that he was in the 'looking into Ron's eyes business.' But Hermione would look at the sky and say 'oh. The sky is colour of Ron's eyes again today.' and Harry would try not to roll his, to prevent RSI if nothing else.
"My sister Astoria!" she said firmly. "Look. She's got a blood malediction, and she's getting worse every year."
"Look, strange as this may seem," said Harry, drawing on desperate reserves of energy, "I did not learn ancient hidden magics of unbeatable power from Professor Dumbledore. What I did learn is quite classified, and is not, and I repeat not, medically advisable under any circumstances, unless you wish to have a very nasty, violent interaction with a number of very determined Aurors."
"You don't?" she asked, and visibly deflated into a slump. She sighed. "Well, you can use the Elder wand to cure her."
Harry picked up his wand, "Holly and Phoenix feather," said Harry, giving it a swish, and every-faithful, it trailed silvery sparks through the air. "Actually turns out to be pretty much the definitive healer's wand. I don't have the Elder wand, and believe me… it would rather kill your sister than heal a scratch on her hand."
"You … don't have it?" she asked. And frowned. Her grey-blue eyes were… stormy. "Fine" she said, and sighed, "so before you'll help my sister you'll insist on payment."
Harry groaned and wished his shift had ended eight hours ago, when it was still yesterday. But that was being a registrar. You did the long hours. Days… he often lost track of how long. The bursar on shift came and told him his shift was over when it was. They did shorter shifts than Registrars.
She reached into her robe pocket and handed Harry a photograph. Of Daphne Greengrass, holding a Daily Prophet – dated today.
And then, somewhat unexpectedly, the photo of Daphne Greengrass dropped the Daily Prophet and started unbuttoning her robe, in a quick, determined way. She'd unbuttoned the collar, and pulled her outer robe off… revealing rather more leg than Harry normally saw witches showing, and a cream camisole and slip set that she hastily pulled off…. Revealing a pink bra, a pair of lacy pink knickers, and Harry swallowed uncomfortably, stockings and a garter-belt. From the photo, Harry could tell that Miss Greengrass was in good health, had an erm, healthy bordering on low level of subcutaneous fat, and… hips that predicated little difficulty in childbirth… and Harry had to admit, larger breasts than Ginny had let him feel up under her shirt. The photo of Daphne Greengrass lifted on eyebrow, then turned around. Harry tried to react professionally to … a rather healthy… well formed gluteus maximus… or… he admitted, a perky, lush arse split by a what was actually a lacy pink thong. His pants started to get unprofessionally uncomfortable, and he looked down - her legs were erm, healthy, good muscle tone, and she clearly got exercise. A dark little voice in his head said 'looking like that, she gets PLENTY of exercise.'
The photo Greengrass turned back to face Harry, laced her hands over her crotch (thankfully) and stood still. The real Daphne Greengrass said "So what do you think?" And licked her lips in a suggestive way.
"You seem… healthy," Harry choked out, his face feeling like it was on fire.
"I'm quite prepared to marry or… something discreet, to persuade you to heal my sister, Potter," she said.
"You probably should keep that," said Harry, handing the photo back, his hand thankfully not shaking. "St Mungo's have strict rules about… that sort of thing." Technically she didn't need to persuade him; he was going to try anyway, but… it was, he supposed, more interesting than being offered a box of toffee. And better for your blood-sugar.
Greengrass sat down, legs crossed on the visitors chair. Harry tried not to dwell on… the healthy, fertile looking witch under the clothes, and concentrate on the delusional patient.
"Look Potter, you're her only hope. You've always been able to save the day by some miracle or other. All I need is for my sister to live." she eyed him "If you truly insist I'll wear a sodding Ottoman concubines collar." Harry tried to ignore that statement in the interest of his mental health. (Which was fine. Harry was quite fine.)
She stared at him "You wouldn't make we wear it in public would you? I could have high collars on my robes to conceal it?"
Harry groaned in (mostly non-sexual) frustration. "So, did Ron and George pay you to do this?" he asked. "It's not my birthday, and really, a stripper is in poor taste – no offence Miss Greengrass, you're a very attractive witch." Once you ignored her personality, which he supposed would be easy if she was semi-naked wearing a collar and leash. Harry immediately regretted thinking that, as he was now in peak trouser/pants discomfort, and quite embarrassed at even having thought about it. He wondered if he might have a problem. Well, another one.
"How I have to make my living is no business of yours… well not till you marry or contract me as a concubine anyway," said Greengrass, "Your lot took over and suddenly my family were slugged with massive bills by the Wizengamot for reconstruction. We weren't even Death Eaters. We were neutral!"
Harry blinked and tried to think – "Excuse me… you're a stripper?" he asked.
"At a club in Knockturn Alley. It has no bearing on my requirement to get my sister healed," said Greengrass.
"Surely… you can find gainful employment that doesn't involve … taking your clothes off?" asked Harry. Not that it was a bad thing but… still. Dignity and morals and stuff. Also… purely for research purposes… which club?
"I have no NEWTs, an empty Gringotts vault, and my family needs to find six hundred galleons a year," said Greengrass. "I could make more money doing… 'lap dances' in the back rooms but I just… I can, thankfully make a lot of money on the pole. Lots of tips."
Harry tried not to think about those long legs wrapped around a pole as she gyrated topless. From the pain in his pants, he was doing about as well at that as at occulamancy lessons with Snape. And adjusting his pants now was right out.
Harry felt it was time to quickly rebut most of the weirder theories about him. "Look, I'm not the second coming of Merlin, I can't speak Parseltongue any more, and I didn't learn any medically advisable spells at Hogwarts," said Harry. He paused, "that's how come I'm a healer now, I suppose – while we were on the run Ron got badly splinched, and we didn't know trauma medical spells. We only had dittany. When I started Auror training, I found the medical spells more interesting than a bunch of Dark Arts stuff I already knew. So… that's why I'm a healer, Miss Greengrass." Harry didn't mention that somehow he got one hundred and six percent on the written entry exam. He'd never even told Hermione. Because they'd given him extra credit just for having illegible handwriting, and he wasn't sure Hermione's temper could stand that sort of knowledge.
"Fine," she said, "I'll marry you, but I warn you, no Greengrass witch can birth children without triggering the blood malediction."
Harry froze, "Excuse me?" he asked, "So you have it too?"
Greengrass sighed. "I'm lucky, my health is … fairly robust. I swim for an hour a day and ride horses, in addition to… my night job. Which my parents think is night filing at a law firm, so I'd thank you not to mention it."
She was… in fact a tall, athletic, almost voluptuous blonde. Harry tried to ignore hormonal thoughts, and thought about her family blood malediction. Not the living Barbie in the chair five feet away. Time to do some research.
"Bing bing!" he called out and a St Mungo's house elf appeared, in scrubs. Good old Bing bing.
"Get me Miss?"
"Astoria – " said Daphne.
"– Greengrass's file," said Harry, and Bing Bing vanished with a pop.
A massive folder landed on Harry's lap dramatically. Harry tried to hide his dismay. It was a rule of life at St Mungo's that the thicker their file, the worse their chances. Astoria Greengrass's file was over a foot thick. Which was probably a record for a witch in her twenties.
He read the summary page. Which didn't mention the curse being in the entire family.
"Miss Greengrass?," said Harry, not wanting to her hopes up too much, "Your sisters' file doesn't mention the malediction being in the entire family."
She blushed. Her ears and… milky elegant throat went pink. Her face didn't, but that was probably a layer of foundation. Gosh, quite a strong… emotional response. Harry's mind suggested that Greengrass doubtless had plenty of other strong physiological responses and that Harry should check them, thoroughly. In the interest of medical research. In depth research. Often! And he valiantly tried to clear his mind. Imagining Snape naked did the trick. The nausea was worth the cure it effected. All the blood went back to his brain and major muscle groups. Though he did have to swallow his own vomit, and that was, he knew, medically inadvisable. And he always had imagining Umbridge naked in reserve, just in case. Never use the strongest potions first, you learnt that in your first year of training. If only because it cost less – he knew he'd have nightmares because he'd imagined Snape, and didn't want to find out what happened if he imagined Umbridge naked.
"Well, we don't advertise that," said Greengrass dismissively, "Or nobody'd marry us."
Harry didn't mention the purely boobs and bum angle she'd already advertised, and pondered that her family had an inherited illness. "Have your family ever attempted muggle medicine?" She wasn't, he thought idly really a barbie, she didn't have phenomenally large breasts. Just… well, smaller than Susan's, for starters. Harry felt lingering (deeply emotional) regret at losing two redheads. Not that he had a problem at all. He was utterly fine. Well, and tired, obviously.
"Yes, in nineteen thirty-one, and it was useless," said Greengrass incisively.
Harry shook his head "Muggle medicine has changed a lot… like unrecognisably in the last decade, let alone the last fifty years. They… they are quite good with inherited illnesses."
"Are you suggesting… I go debase myself before a muggle healer?" she asked.
Harry felt a sudden idiotic impulse to say 'no I saw you first!' but instead said, much more professionally, "Miss Greengrass, your sister should go a muggle 'General Practitioner,' and get a referral. If your family could afford to use a private specialist, you could get her examined by an expert in a month or so."
"It would be easier to just scour your inherited Black family library for the dark curse that did this," said Greengrass, "I'm … willing to enter into a suitable agreement in payment for library access."
Harry groaned, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Miss Greengrass," he said tiredly "While I inherited many nasty old spellbooks, it's unlikely that the cure lies within them."
"Our only other choice is the Malfoy library," said Daphne Greengrass, "god knows I love my sister but… I'm not doing that."
Harry's chest suddenly felt hot and tight and his skin itched all over. Malfoy? Draco Malfoy having this… beautiful blonde debasing herself sexually all over him? Or… the furniture or a private dance pole. Harry felt (mostly) righteous indignation fill him.
"How sick is your sister?" he asked, grinding his teeth.
"She takes Geurfeffel's girding solution daily. With that, she can walk about, climb stairs slowly, but obviously can't ride a broom or a horse."
Harry made a note on his consult pad – to look up the girding solution; that sort of thing usually had nasty side-effects. Or at the very least tasted bad.
"Geurfeffel's is metallic, stains her teeth black, and tastes like cum," added Greengrass bluntly. "The side effects include temporary infertility."
"Like cum?" said Harry, tempted to write that down.
"Well, I'm not always well, and Madam Pinkersly insists all dancers show up for their shifts," said Greengrass.
"You claimed earlier that you were um… not doing that."
"I've had partners, obviously," she said. "Including exes who turned out to only be interested in me getting naked and … well, doing things I didn't like."
Harry nodded woodenly. He had no idea, but probably could refer to Sirius's mouldering porn magazines for information. They probably had quite beastly stuff in them. He'd check later. Thoroughly, till he was utterly spent and satiated.
"So… what will I have to do for you?" asked Greengrass. Harry resisted saying anything unprofessional. He instead made his neatest notes on a blank page of his pad about how to get a GP to refer her sister, and handed it over. "Nothing, Miss Greeengrass. There are oaths as a healer. Take your sister to a GP, the NHS will make that free, and as I said, the referral to a specialist. Given her health, I have to say go private, find… some money."
"I do not wish to sell sexual favours to a collection of sweaty old men," said Greengrass primly.
"I'm not suggesting you do. As a healer, we do see a number of working girls and… " Harry sighed, "find another way. They come in with perforated bowels, with infections."
"Which is why marrying you is a great solution," she said, nodding. She really had a one-track mind.
Harry sighed, "No it's not, Miss Greengrass. There was an… incident with Gringotts at the end of the war, and they wanted a lot of gold to let me access the remaining money I had."
"What?" she asked, looking puzzled.
"I am not rich, Greengrass. I get some money, I assume from rentals, and my salary here. Apart from that, the old family pile of galleons is no more. Well… vastly reduced."
She frowned at him. "You assume?"
Harry shrugged.
"Oh god," she said. "You need an accountant."
"Yes, not a stripper," Harry quipped.
"My cousin's an accountant. He can work out where your money is coming from, find your tenants… Merlins nutsack, and make sure you're getting paid," said Greengrass more forcefully.
"Your cousin?"
"Terrance Prewitt and co." said Greengrass. "He's a squib, so it takes him a bit longer to get places, but he's a good accountant. Daddy still gets him to do the family accounts."
Harry's brain jarred to a halt. Prewitt. He knew that name.
"Hang on!" said Harry "Your cousin Terrance is a squib accountant. And a Prewitt? My friend Ron mentioned they have a cousin who's an accountant."
Daphne Greengrass nodded "He's a distant cousin. His sister Mafalda says the Weasleys and Prewitts treat them like… well they don't get invited to parties."
"Mafalda?" asked Harry.
"Mafalda Prewitt, she's our age," said Daphne Greengrass. "But Uncle Sebastian and Aunty Fillagreen decided Hogwarts was too dangerous in the eighties, and moved to France. Mafalda went to Beauxbatons, lucky cow. She got NEWTs. The law firm she works for is… the one paying me for night filing. Well… as far as mummy and daddy know."
Harry felt a little shocked to discover cousins of cousins were people he knew, and he felt uncomfortable about the way the Weasleys avoided their squib cousin. And he also wondered what Mafalda Prewitt looked like? Another red-head? This one a lawyer? His bits tingled at the thought of … another Ginny, but this one not thinking he was animated by Voldemort. Or just endlessly angry like Susan, with erm, body image issues.
"Well, just one thing" said Greengrass, drawing her wand.
"What?" asked Harry. Was she going to make a medically inadvisable magical oath?
"Obliviate!" and a flash of red light.
-=0=-
Harry finished shift feeling quite disturbed – the quite mental Daphne Greengrass had offered him some 'Amalgamation Agreement' in payment for … somehow healing her sister. Though, he did have the name of an accountant, and he had, and he felt quite clever about that, given her a referral to a NHS GP, to get a referral to an Endocrinologist. Having one sister with the disease, but not suffering symptoms, and the other sick meant that they'd have a nice baseline for the results. He felt that that gave her, well, her sister a fighting chance of a cure.
Greengrass was fairly pretty, but … hardly his kind of people. And honestly, she worked as a filing clerk. Not that Harry was intrinsically judgemental. Or memory-charmed. He was fine.
-=0=-