A Witch bearing Gifts

A week later, Greengrass shut his consult room door behind her back. Harry braced himself mentally for yet another terrible entendre. Single or double. Or possibly triple, if that was possible.

Instead, she just pulled three bundles of healers robes out of her robe pockets, all with space-expanded pockets. "For all the healers of St Mungo's," said Greengrass, "Of course, we will be selling replacement Healers robes from our new shop in Diagon Alley – 'The Witches Pocket store.'"

"So is that going to save the family finances?" asked Harry. And didn't remark on it being a catchy little name for a shop.

Greengrass blushed slightly, "No, but it's helping," she said, "four months or so more… " she huffed. "The bally bouncers try to get the girls hooked on drugs. I had to be quite firm with one."

"How firm?"

"Broke his arm," said Greengrass mildly. "I fear they just want to make sure the girls, even high-earning ones have to keep coming back to the club."

"And you're doing well?" said Harry, not pointing out that broken arms were medically inadvisable.

"I changed to a better club, where I get more from the house every night, and the tips are bigger…" she flushed, "And it's quite safe to do a lap dance in the front of house, and," she bit her lower lip "It's very profitable." she added.

"So you're quitting soon?" asked Harry.

"At current projections, with a fifty percent spread of earnings variations, in three and a half months." Greengrass hopped up and sat on the exam couch, crossing her legs. Harry didn't look at her ankles… much. They looked quite healthy, no sign of injury. And her robe hemline stopped below her knees, which was just as well.

"And that's your sister's treatment paid for," said Harry.

"And a safety net of galleons in case anything else goes wrong, and should cover preventative treatment for me too," she said firmly.

"But not… sex work," said Harry.

She visibly bristled. "I'm never doing that again."

"Sex, or… did you do sex work?" asked Harry.

"None of your business, Potter," said Greengrass bitterly, "But when we fled England, once I had my OWL's I thought I was going to be safe," she shook her head. "Family suck, Potter."

Harry nodded, "that they do," he agreed. On his runs he wondered about talking to Dudley ever again. He certainly never wanted to see Aunt Petunia this side of her funeral. Uncle Vernon – well that was, as they said, legally inadvisable, as Harry doubted he would be able to control the urge to hex him, and that would escalate… and he'd read a lot of curses while learning Defence Against the Dark Arts.

She frowned slightly "Anyway – what happened next is none of your business, but it wasn't sex-work, I just ended up married to a useless forty-three-year-old wizard."

"You were married?" Harry tried not to pry. But… also… she was using her own name.

"Benedikte was rich and good-looking," she said.

"And a lot older?"

"I was stuck living in my grandmother's shitty castle, with all my family crowded around me," said Greengrass. "I was going to have a better life." Greengrass crossed her arms, and started to jiggle her leg.

"Are you still married?"

"God no. He died," said Greengrass, leg jiggling. Harry tilted his head.

"I didn't … murder him!" said Greengrass, "I spent a day in the cells, then the autopsy report showed he'd died of a heart attack." She looked utterly unmoved, except for her jiggly leg. It that was him, it would be because he was upset, thought Harry.

"Heart attack," said Harry, easily thinking of a dozen ways to make that happen.

Greengrass sighed, "And the only potion he'd taken was a vigour potion." she blushed slightly, and still wiggled her left leg.

Harry felt his mouth open. He swallowed, and Greengrass looked away.

"Oh laugh it up, Potter," said Greengrass, "Yes, my first husband died in bed."

Harry managed to hold in all but a tiny snort. She did look like the sort of witch that should be avoided by wizards with health problems. Well, before the temporary cosmetic stuff. Now she looked like outright trouble to healthy wizards. Suffocation if nothing else.

"On top of you," said Harry snidely.

"Under, actually," said Greengrass.

Harry was about to imagine that when his intuition leapt a gap, and he realized something. "Hang on," said Harry "You said first husband?"

"Well, after Bendikte died, obviously, there was a bit of a fuss" said Greengrass. "Hence cells."

"And you got married again?"

"Well I hardly wanted to go back to living in one crummy room of grandmama's castle, did I?" said Greengrass. "And Valenko was Benidkite's cousin. He was younger, and fit. He did go on a bit about wanting kids, but our healer said cos I was seventeen he had to pull his head out of his arse… for once."

Harry tried not to snort.

"So second husband?" asked Harry, making a note to add to her file about checking her inherited illness before pregnancy was advisable.

"Valenko Dimitru," said Daphne, in a foreign inflection.

"And…"

"Valenko went to England, to join a crusade, for a certain Dark lord," said Greengrass, "You cannot imagine how happy I was to get a British Ministry of Magic bereavement notice by owl."

"So… ninety-eight," said Harry. Mentally making a note that she was either a blood-purist or… had terrible taste in men. Or possibly both.

"You should know the date – everyone says you acted dead," said Greengrass. "I'm amazed you pulled that off."

Not as amazed as I still am, thought Harry. I still can't work out why I didn't die.

"So, you've been married twice," said Harry.

"And since then, I stupidly dated a boy from school," said Greengrass. Her leg stopped moving.

"Stupidly?"

"Blaise Zabini is a terrible human being," said Greengrass simply. "Handsome, charming, rich, and a good kisser. But still, actually worse than both of the husbands I didn't choose."

"Worse?" Harry asked, and already thought Zabini was an arsehole – who'd dated Greengrass – the temerity of the git. How dare he. And he'd stared at Ginny's bum too. And she'd just said 'didn't choose,' which made horrible, terrible sense.

"As I have alluded in the past – wanted to do revolting things," said Greengrass "When even the man that took my virginity at sixteen didn't try to do a thing, one would expect other men to be equally circumspect."

"Sorry about that," said Harry like a polite healer.

"Oh Bendikte really tried to make my first time good," said Greengrass sourly "There is, for reference, nothing more unsexy than having sex with someone, who then tries extremely hard to make sure you get off."

"Ouch," said Harry, feeling that sounded awful. She needed some good, medically responsible sexual experiences. A treatment regimen came to mind.

"Oh it was painless, we used all the best charms and potions, just intensely annoying" said Greengrass.

"Would you say, you've been put off sex, in general?" asked Harry, having a horrible suspicion.

"In particular," said Greengrass, "People having sex with me, yes."

"Have you, um, considered seeing a therapist about this?" asked Harry, wondering if he needed to put a note in her file. It sounded like a real problem.

"I am a little busy stripping every night, trying to make money to save my sister's life," said Greengrass snidely.

"Afterwards," said Harry bluntly "I know that um, St Mungo's isn't particularly famous for treating um… mind issues, but there are things we can do… not my speciality, and I'm absolutely not helping with it." Imagining helping, yes, but actually, no.

"Well, given that you're still a wreck, I'd take my chances with living alone," said Greengrass.

"I am not a wreck!" said Harry indignantly. And how dare she think he wanted to snog her brains out then shag her repeatedly over the exam table.

"Oh please!" said Greengrass haughtily. "I'm literally an expert in sexually frustrated, messed up men. You're not getting any, which as you're handsome and reasonably well off, and I might add, possible the greatest hero since bloody Merlin… if you aren't seeing someone in bed, it's because you're a wreck." Her calf started jiggling again.

"I'm fine," snapped Harry.

"No you're not," said Greengrass, annoyingly perceptively.

"So, your new job is paying better, and has better working conditions?" asked Harry. She blushed a little and nodded. "It's paying a lot better – those transfigurations have…" she paused, "made making money a lot easier."

Harry let her go and spent the rest of shift trying not to think about her, except as someone who'd had a rotten life. And absolutely didn't do something about his bad case of over-arousal after work. For about two hours, then applied dittany. As the self-loathing lapped around his psyche, he wondered how much he'd hate himself doing cosmetic transfiguration only.

That he had another nightmare that night about Cedric Diggory dying, followed by one about Sirius dying, seemed to show there was plenty more room at the bottom.

-=0=-