Epilogue

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

The very existence of this chapter is due to my beta, Dacian Goddess, who convinced me of its necessity. I must thank you for the very valuable help with the adventure this story has been.

What a night! I’m really getting too big for these kind of things. And to think that I still have three more months of this. There’s an advantage, though: when I intervened between Ron and Severus, they both ceased hostilities at once after they shot a worried glance at my belly. Those two nearly ruined the New Year’s Eve party at Harry’s. Ron can’t hold his Firewhisky, and he felt the need to express his rancour for our aborted engagement yesterday evening. He even went so far as to accuse Severus of having paid the YLC to get me (if this were true, why didn’t he try to do the same and fiddle our results?), of raping me regularly, of getting me pregnant to keep his job. These accusations are perfectly ridiculous, except for the last one. It took me some time to puzzle it out, but I was so determined to prove to my superiors that I could produce high-quality work in spite of my condition that I’d hardly paid attention to anything that wasn’t related to my job, until the Prophet published in September the income scale of Decree 00/25 for the year to come. By then it was too late: I couldn’t use the information for anything. I already loved this child more than myself, and I had extorted from Severus a promise to be involved in its education.

My parents were most surprised to be grandparents already, but they got accustomed to the idea quite quickly.

“You’ve just found a job, Hermione! This could hinder your career,” my mother exclaimed.

Less than two hours later, it became, “Have you already thought about a first name? When will you buy furniture for the nursery? I ab-so-lu-te-ly must go with you. Oh, I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother! I’m so impatient for it to be born.”

My friends’ reaction was, to sum it up, “What? Already? Tell me, are you happy? Yes? Then, that’s the main thing.”

The only difference was in the person’s sincerity. Hagrid was ready to spoil mother and child in his own way; Arthur and Molly clearly thought they could have been the grandparents if things had happened differently; Remus and Tonks reacted as if I were under the Imperius Curse; Harry was delighted to be the godfather; and all wondered—without daring ask aloud—how I could sleep with the greasy bastard, however much of a hero he might be. I was very tempted to tell them all that I didn’t care if his face was ugly or not when it was between my legs, and that he knew how to use his anatomy in such a way that I forgot all about its imperfections. And at least, he didn’t treat me as if I were made of porcelain.

No, not again! It’s the third time this night that Sabine has woken up! Admittedly, Hermione gets up, but it doesn’t prevent me from waking up each time. The Weasley twins have already teased me several times since the beginning of the week about my fatigued expression. “Not that it makes you uglier,” they added. If they do it only one more time, I swear that I’ll use them to test the recipe of that undetectable potion that makes people blind, and which I found in that Lucrezia Borgia manuscript I bought last week on the black market.

I haven’t slept an entire night since Hermione entered her seventh month of pregnancy. I hadn’t imagined how much of a nuisance a pregnant woman could be for her family circle: she spends all her time in the loo, always complains that she has to walk like a penguin, can’t do her half of the housework because of her prominent belly, sleeps badly and therefore prevents her spouse from sleeping, and I could go on and on. I was very much relieved when the time came for her to give birth, thinking that all those inconveniences would cease. I didn’t attend the birth itself. I had no need to hear my wife bay at the moon for hours. A one-hour visit each day she was at the hospital was more than enough. Alas! I only had a five-day respite, the five days Hermione spent in the maternity ward.

Hermione and Sabine (I have to call her Sabine: the first time I called her “the Child,” Hermione hexed me) have been with me for two months now. Two. Long. Months. I’m positively drained. I thought that sleeping with one eye open to avoid being the victim of a jealous Death Eater was an ordeal; I’ve revised my opinion since then. A baby is worse than a potential murderer. I’ve found, at my own expense, a new form of torture.

Besides, her mother has already taken me at my word and asked me to talk to our daughter; as if a baby could understand a word of what I say. I at least have the hope that she will soon be able to sustain an intelligent conversation. She’s my daughter, after all; she should have an IQ above average. What’s more, if I handle the situation carefully, I should be able to make her into a real pest for Potter, the Weasleys and her teachers when she is at Hogwarts. I can very well endure a few uncomfortable months just for that.

Severus and I should celebrate our five-year anniversary today. We didn’t marry for love, but I’ve found a sort of peace in this union. He lets me lead my career as I intend to and doesn’t moan for hours when I need to spend a few days away from home to meet with dissatisfied Nimbus customers anywhere in the world. On these occasions, he just leaves the children, Sabine and Julia, with my parents until I return.

He isn’t chattier or more open than he was at the beginning of our marriage. However, after I observed him a bit, I learned to know him. And if I don’t get what I want with arguments or simply by asking, there’s always blackmail. It’s been so easy since I found the hiding place for his Dark Arts books. That’s how I got the second child and a move into a bigger house. I always wanted two children; I didn’t want my child to grow up alone like I did. Since I had my first child so early in my life, I thought I might as well get the second one in the wake of the first one. That’s a “problem” that won’t arise again and disrupt my career, and with a full-time nanny, I can devote my daytime to my job without fearing for them.

I look out of the window to see my daughters playing in the garden. Severus Apparates near them; he’s coming back from one of his visits to his mysterious acquaintances. The girls interrupt their games in time to greet their father and resume them while he heads for the house. A feeling of peace takes hold of me at the sight of this domestic, ordinary scene.

I can’t believe that I’ve been married for five years and that I have two children. I’m still working for the Weasley twins, whom I’ve convinced not to declare all my earnings. It’s out of the question that I have a third child just to keep my job. The two I already have take up enough of my time as it is, even though they’re calm and attentive children, very anxious to learn, contrary to the dunderheads I tried to educate as a teacher. In short, they’re my daughters.

As for my wife, I’m convinced that the ninety percent that served to justify our wedding wasn’t a lie. I won’t say we’re madly in love with each other, but I’m satisfied with our agreement. She doesn’t interfere in my life, and I don’t interfere in hers—not more than necessary anyway, and especially at night in our bed. We argue reasonably often and make up as reasonably. I never thought a woman could let her husband have his own space. Every woman I’ve known has been more on the overbearing side, but not Hermione. Even my daughters know when not to bother me. I could very nearly use the word “bliss” to describe my life.