Complications

Because nothing is ever that simple

Harry was enjoying a quiet 'morning' at five pm, preparing for a delightful evening of night shift, bodily fluids, injuries, and curse reversals, when a post-owl dropped off a very thick, official-looking letter, and flew out the open kitchen fanlight window without so much as a by-your-leave.

Kreacher, who'd been lurking by the stove, trotted over, leapt up onto one of the empty chairs, and sniffed it, "Not, cursed," croaked Kreacher, his nose quivering. Harry wasn't sure what to make of the that little pause.

He pointed his wand at the offending letter, and used a swish and flick to flip it over, unable to forget Hermione's pronunciation of the incantation. The letter was addressed to 'Harry James Potter (OM.)' That, thought Harry, narrowed it down to either the Ministry – various bits persisted in sending him letters he wasn't interested in, like the Department of Mysteries, who wanted him to talk to them. Harry felt that as they'd been no help in the actual war, they could have a Mystery he wasn't helping them with. Besides, it was like doing someone else's jigsaw puzzle. Harry did often help with Teddy's but felt that was completely different, as Teddy was a child.

The only other person that would send a letter of official looking to Harry, addressed like that was Horace Slughorn. And Harry had no interest in being invited to one of 'Sluggy's' little soirées. He didn't teach at Hogwarts any more, and Harry felt being trapped in a party with people wanting to talk about the war closely resembled what he imagined getting therapy would look like, but with canapés. Harry didn't have anything personally against canapés, but he had better things to do. Basically, anything else at all, and he was quite busy, thank you very much, as a registrar Healer.

So the letter got a short flying trip into the fireplace, where it stubbornly refused to burn.

"Bugger," said Harry. Someone had gone to all the effort of charming the letter fire-proof. That pointed at it being The Ministry. A quick summoning charm had it back on the bread-plate cooling off in a jiffy.

Harry ate bacon and eggs, even if maybe he should have had less cholesterol in his diet. As a wizard, it didn't really matter that much. Besides, it was very comforting to get to eat the bacon and eggs. A fellow could remember being younger, and not getting to eat it when he cooked it, after all.

Once his plate was clear, Harry used the knife to open the possibly hot parchment envelope.

A bundle of parchment bulged ominously. Harry pulled it out, only smearing the tiniest bit of egg on the bundle. Which unfolded into… something all in Latin. The top had a heading in very large print, and his name and address was written in just below, also in quite large print…

'Harry James Potter of London, England.'

Harry tried the obvious thing, and went to the very back page, and had a look at that instead.

Which was a letter, not in Latin. Signed by a Francis Doge for 'Hortnum and Swithers.' Harry started reading. It started with simply 'Dear Mr Potter,' Which seemed oddly non-threatening. Harry flicked back one page. And the big Latin document was signed by someone something illegible Greengrass; and dated, and Harry was pretty sure the date written in was anno domini seventeen ninety-one. Harry felt the hairs on his back of his neck lifting.

He went back to the letter. From… lawyers acting for the Greengrass family. The executors of a bequest, set up in seventeen ninety-one. Bequeathing … the eldest marriageable Greengrass daughter or son as appropriate, to whosoever cured the curse on the family. Harry sighed, and felt a disappointing weight forming in his stomach, somewhat ruining breakfast. Great, an ancient marriage contract. All he'd done was do his job. It's not like he had done it to … Harry stopped and cleared his mind. There was no way he was letting some three hundred-year-old bequest forcibly anything Daphne Greengrass. She'd already had a pretty atrocious life; she didn't need her own personal Goblet of Fire experience. And that had his skin itching a bit, just thinking about it. Even if she was pretty. And sarcastic. And quite determined to look out for her poor sister. Harry quickly cleared his mind rather than recall the sight of Daphne Greengrass in lingerie, or worse, topless. His left hand shook a little on the table, but he was fine.

He re-read the letter, carefully. It had the awkwardly complicated look of something where Harry would have to visit them in person, and do paperwork, and … definitely not have poor Daphne Greengrass having a Goblet-of-fire experience; and he certainly wasn't forcing the poor girl to marry him; not after her other two crummy marriages. No, he was going to have a perfectly normal night-shift, and organize to see those lawyers at some date, and get this sorted.

Harry cleaned up the table, and picked up the bundle of paperwork. He frowned at it, and realized it would cast a pall over even a night shift. He apparated up to the office, and scratched out a quick letter to Hortnum and Swithers, asking for an appointment to discuss the matter, preferably in the next five or six working days, in the afternoons, because he had night shifts till next week.

Harry folded up the letter, sealed it up, grabbed his jacket and headed off to the Owl Post office.

Unfortunately, his night shift had more than its fair share of difficulties, with several attempted suicides.

On the way out of St Mungo's he swiped a bottle of Draught of Dreamless Sleep from the dispensary, because he knew he'd need it. Harry got to bed at about eight am, and took a measuring cup of potion, and collapsed.

Kreacher woke him in time for 'breakfast,' with mail on a silver salver.

Harry sat up, found his glasses, and read the letter; from Hortnum and Swithers. They could do next Tuesday, at one thirty, apparently.

That was all well, and good, Harry thought, but it was predicated on Monday night being a quiet one at St Mungo's. Rather predictably, a league quidditch match between the Tornadoes and Wigtown ended in fights, and the victims, accompanied by MLEP officers, all needed treatment. And because he had to get up early, to go to those lawyers, there was no way he could take Draught of Dreamless sleep. Boringly repetitive nightmares took up most of the precious sleep time.

A tired, cranky Harry Potter sat down in a meeting room at Hortnum and Swithers on Tuesday.

Francis Doge was a tall, thin lawyer with a silly looking blonde moustache, but he had provided tea, so Harry was less cranky fairly quickly.

"I take it by your demeanour," said Doge, "That you are not inclined to marry miss Daphne Greengrass?"

"I think having Greengrass suffer through yet another marriage to someone she didn't choose would be hellish," said Harry, having had an almost nostalgic dream about a Hungarian horntail before waking up at ten am, covered in sweat.

"You are aware of miss Greengrass's … personal history?" asked Doge politely.

"We've talked at length – not about this bequest," said Harry. And from the sick feeling in his stomach came a thought.

"She does know about this, doesn't she?" asked Harry. Doge blinked at him.

"A simple yes or no would suffice" said Harry.

"The bequest was something of a surprise to Hortnum and Swithers," said Doge.

Harry could only stare at Doge. He closed his mouth and swallowed "A surprise?"

"It was enchanted to buzz like a wasp in the event that the er… family illness ended," said Doge awkwardly.

"Oh."

"We spent some time getting a pest exterminator in," said Doge, smiling awkwardly. "It was in our archives."

"How… how did they do that?" asked Harry.

"Umm. We'd rather not say" said Doge. So blood magic then, thought Harry.

"Is there some way I can… not do this?" asked Harry.

"Well, of course the bequest is ... well, your property, that doesn't mean you have to use the betrothal."

Harry frowned, that seemed complicated.

"The bequest will remain your property, and in the ah, fullness of time your children would inherit it."

"My what would what?"

"Well, your son, in the fullness of time, would have a betrothal agreement that you or your descendants could choose to exercise."

Harry stopped and thought about that – his… hypothetical future son could one day look across the potions class, and just say 'Oy, Greengrass, we're getting married.' That… sounded awful, the sort of thing that would have some hypothetical future Greengrass girl horribly anxious. And the idea of Greengrass having some daughter who was then effectively in a cursed contact to have to marry a Potter, well… that had his fingers and toes tensing up.

"No" said Harry. "I want to stop this thing. Now, forever, so it can't hang over her head, or anyone else's."

"Well, I do have to point out that in the event miss Daphne Greengrass married, then the bequest would in the first instance, apply to miss Astoria Greengrass." said Doge. "I would assume that you know both of them, having been the Healer that cured them both."

Harry made sure not to think about the Greengrass sisters having a pillow fight on his bed in lingerie. He was, he knew, fine, well, sleep-deprived, and having an annoying legal issue that would really annoy poor Greengrass. Who already needed professional help to get over her… issues. Harry gritted his teeth and cleared his mind again; he was not fantasizing about helping Greengrass with her relationship issues. And he'd do that. Thought Harry firmly, by not forcing her to marry him. Or, he shivered, any future child of his with any future Greengrass girl.

"You don't seem… enthusiastic" said Doge.

"I find miss Greengrass an acquired taste," said Harry. He didn't need to mention that he would like to find out how her lips tasted, that was irrelevant. "But she has to know."

"You could… tell her," said Doge. "While holding flowers perhaps?"

Harry narrowed his eyes and glared at the twat. "No, this is a legal matter. Make sure her parents are informed. Today." Doge made a note.

"The bequest doesn't have an ah, mechanism for you to reject it" said Doge slowly.

Harry took a slow deep breath and explained slowly, as if to an idiot; it seemed appropriate; "You will inform her parents by post today. She will get her own copy, at the same time. The letter will explain that despite this bequest, I am not going to let this ruin her life."

Doge tilted their head slightly. "There's not way short of a wizengamot ruling that something like this could be struck out."

"Conveniently," said Harry quite firmly, feeling like Doge was being dense on purpose "I am owed rather a lot by the Ministry, the Minister is one of my oldest friends, and I have never asked for anything… I will ask for this one thing."

"Some witches would find being rejected so, disappointing," said Doge.

"Greengrass is made of sterner stuff," said Harry, feeling deeply annoyed. And now he had more to do before work too.

Doge made some notes on parchment and read it back to Harry. "We will sent the Greengrass's a notification that while the bequest applies to you, you are … disinclined to use it." They lifted their eyebrows, "clearly, political considerations – "

"NO," said Harry perhaps a little loudly. "Because Daphne Greengrass deserves her own life, not to … be some slave."

Doge made a note of that and said, "I will make sure to mention that point verbatim" they said. "Are you really sure you can convince the Minister, and that she can swing the Wizengamot?"

"If they don't do this," said Harry "It will be time to talk to my old friend Rita Skeeter. I'm sure she could write a very… compelling article for the Daily Prophet about the way the Wizengmaot sentenced an innocent witch to marry a healer who was just doing his job."

Doge nodded, made a note and wrote on a separate sheet of parchment. "If you'd give this to our receptionist on the way out," said Doge, standing up. "You've clearly got a lot to do today."

Harry handed the parchment – it had a cryptic set of initials in it, to the receptionist, a middle-aged witch who was clearly dying to ask what was going on. She read the parchment and said "That will be eighteen galleons, Mr Potter."

Harry left feeling quite ropeable at having to pay for bad news, and decided to go do something reckless and angry; the Ministry atrium's security guard tried to talk to Harry, but he just handed over his wand, and glared.

The fact that he was cross didn't seem to stop people wanting to talk to him in the atrium, the lift, and after the fifth person said "Such a fan of you, you know," Harry was sure he was about to crack a tooth from grinding his teeth. Which was, of course, medically inadvisable; and the potion for it tasted worse than Skele-grow, and you had to hold it in your mouth, rather obviously.

Hermione's secretary took one look at him as he walked up the hallway to her desk, and pressed something on her desk urgently. "Minister, It's Harry Potter and he looks furious."

Harry nodded to – he read the nameplate 'Roberta.' "I'll wait, but I have a shift starting in five hours, so I need to see her before then."

"Will it take long?" asked Roberta.

"There's stuff she doesn't know about that I need to explain. It's going to need the Wizengamot to do something," said Harry.

"Is it… a dark lord?" asked Roberta quietly.

She looked quite worried. Harry took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly "No, it's some ancient bequest. I need the wizengamot to declare it void, or whatever."

"Something… for you?" she asked, making notes.

"One of my patients is going to be forced to marry me, just because I cured a family curse," said Harry.

Roberta paled, and covered her mouth "Oh dear. Tea and biscuits then; McVities."

"Jammy Dodgers?" asked Harry.

"Oh no she won't have those in the building – too much sugar," said Roberta, and she rolled her eyes. Harry couldn't help smiling slightly. "But chocolate doesn't count?"

Roberta shook her head "It's medicinal," she said. Harry held in a rebuttal.

He waited quite patiently in the waiting chairs, his leg jiggling. After ten minutes, Roberta levitated over a saucer with jammy dodgers and a cup of tea.

"It's International cooperation – they're trying to harmonize regulations," said Roberta, "Don't worry she'll have them out soon."

Soon was, according to his battered watch, more like an hour.