The Last Word

When I posted Dog Day Afternoon, I expected that to be my last foray into humor. But this idea came to me a few days ago, and I couldn’t let it go. We all know what the last word of Book 7 will be. J.K. has told us many times. But I don’t think she intends to use it as I’ve done.

Harry couldn’t believe it. Surely the calendar must be at fault. It couldn’t be twenty-five years already.

But the many photos lining the mantel of the Potters’ fireplace did not lie. Merlin, where had the years gone? It seemed like only yesterday that he and Hermione were clinging to each other on the battlefield, weeping bitter tears over their lost friends and comrades – mingled with tears of gratitude and unbridled happiness at what they had found together.

And today was their twenty-fifth anniversary!

Harry was determined that this be the best celebration ever. He had already taken steps to ensure that it would be unequalled. That would not be an easy task. Harry never failed to demonstrate his love for Hermione at every opportunity. Theirs was a never-ending honeymoon that baffled even their closest friends. Birthdays were cause for very special celebrations, not merely his and Hermione’s, but those of their children. But anniversaries were extra special. And this one would be the most special of them all.

Harry stood before the fireplace, his eyes moving down the row of photos that stretched the very length of the mantel. Twelve photos, just as Professor Trelawney had predicted.

That hadn’t been a real prediction, of course. Not like the two she made while in a trance-like state, wherein she had predicted first the destruction, then the resurrection, of Lord Voldemort. This had been little more than a gesture of defiance hurled in the face of Dolores Umbridge, made on the occasion of Harry’s interview in The Quibbler wherein he’d told the whole story of the return of Voldemort. After predicting Harry’s early (and violent) demise continuously for two years, Professor Trelawney suddenly announced to the class that Harry would not die young, but would go on to live a long life, become Minister of Magic, and have twelve children. No one in the class had taken her seriously. She was Professor Trelawney, after all.

But it was beginning to look like this would turn out to be Sibyll Trelawney’s third genuine prediction. The first part was still a long way off, of course, though Harry was in excellent health and had every prospect of carrying on for a long time to come. The second had not yet come to pass, but there was buzz throughout the Ministry that, sooner or later, Harry would move up to the Minister’s office, which, indeed, some believed he would do well to occupy today.

But the third item had already come to pass, which in itself argued well for the realization of the remaining two.

Of course, he thought unabashedly, I couldn’t have done it without Hermione.

In the early years of their marriage, Hermione had willingly put her career on hold to start a family with the wizard she loved. This was no small sacrifice, as many argued, not without reason, that Hermione would fit nicely into the Minister’s chair herself if she but sought it.

Hermione gave Harry six healthy children in as many years, four sons and two daughters. At that point, they decided that their family was complete. To this end, they took precautions to ensure that Hermione would not conceive again. All had failed miserably.

It transpired that the magic in Harry’s blood was so powerful that no means of birth-control-by-potion worked, either by him or Hermione. They tried one after another, and each proved inadequate to forestall the byproducts of their frequent (and always passionate) couplings. A third daughter came, followed by a fourth. Another son soon brought that tally to five (and the whole number to nine).

Spells were no more effective than potions, again due to Harry’s virility, which both a Healer and a Muggle doctor described as the most potent they had ever seen.

It was their visit to the Muggle doctor that prompted them to try non-magical methods. But laboratory-produced birth control made Hermione violently ill. She tried IUD’s, but each resulted in an infection that the most powerful potions at St. Mungo’s were only just able to put to rout.

Harry reluctantly agreed to wear condoms to prevent further conception (the tenth child had come along by then, and something had to be done). But this produced a different sort of problem. Harry was not as well endowed as he would have liked. This made no difference to Hermione, and the ardor with which she threw herself into their lovemaking sessions always disabused him of his fears that he was somehow less of a man by virtue of his “shortcomings.”

But time after time, Harry’s lesser stature resulted in his condom slipping off and becoming imbedded inside Hermione. Retrieving it became a tedious process, one that effectively destroyed the mood, and souring in Harry’s mind for days after. He finally gave it up in frustration, and Hermione, mindful of Harry’s feelings of inadequacy, did not press the issue.

Their last recourse was abstinence. This was doomed from the start. Both were far too passionate in nature to keep their inner beasts tethered for long. Hermione was the more aggressive of the two, not infrequently assaulting Harry when he got home from work and ravishing him with a ferocity that a Death Eater would have coveted. These episodes, if sporadic in nature, came at the price of two more pregnancies, bringing their total up to twelve.

The last child was finally at Hogwarts, having just begun her first year. The house was blissfully quiet as Harry stared at the twelve moving portraits, exchanging a smile with each of his children. Early morning sunlight spread a golden glow across the parlor. Harry turned and entered the bedroom. Hermione was making the bed, Muggle-fashion. This always made Harry laugh inside, to think that one of the most powerful witches in the world would be comfortable doing chores without magic. Molly Weasley, and most any other pureblood witch, would have been appalled.

Harry entered the bedroom just as Hermione was tucking the crisp green sheets under the pillows. There were no blankets, as the heat of August had not seen fit to dissipate simply because the calendar had turned a new leaf. Moving on cat-feet, Harry slipped his arms around Hermione’s waist and nuzzled her neck.

“Happy anniversary, beautiful,” he purred into her ear.

“Oh?” Hermione said in feigned surprise. “Is it that time again?”

“I’m going to make this a day we’ll never forget,” Harry said in a soft growl. “One we’ll remember in every detail if we get hit with an Obliviate spell so we can’t remember our own names. And it starts right now.”

Harry slipped his hand down Hermione’s back to cup her bum, squeezing the firm mounds. She gasped as Harry’s fingers found her secret place, expertly manipulating her on the first steps of the journey that was his design, and her desire.

“Harry,” she choked, “we mustn’t...the time isn’t...”

Harry’s thumb found Hermione’s hidden button, and her knees folded under her. Harry swept her into his arms. Raising his foot, he kicked away the sheet Hermione had so carefully done up.

“Harry,” Hermione said weakly, her resolve faltering as she felt the cool sheets against her back, “you know I want to...but we can’t...”

“Yes, we can,” Harry breathed as he parted Hermione’s light, filmy robes. Owing to the heat of the preceding month, Hermione had taken to wearing only thin cotton briefs under her robes. Her firm breasts appeared, and Harry fondled Hermione’s nipples, which hardened at once.

“Oh, bloody hell, Harry,” Hermione moaned. “You know I can’t...oh!”

The breath rushed out of Hermione’s lungs as Harry again found her hidden treasure. She squirmed, her feet kicking the sheets askew. With the skill of long practice, Harry took Hermione over the edge. Her arms flailed, sending a pillow flying. She let out a deep sigh and went limp.

Harry smiled as he pulled his robes over his shoulders. Hermione’s eyes pleaded with him, her voice having gone.

“I have a present for you,” Harry said. “A very special present for a very special witch, on this very special day.”

Hermione moaned inwardly. She loved Harry deeply. She loved being with him, exploring their passions in ways that would make decent wizards blush. But the time wasn’t right. If something went wrong...

Harry lowered his robes to the floor and kicked them aside. There was a bulge in his briefs. Hermione stared at it hungrily, cursing her weakness. His eyes alight, Harry pulled his briefs down and stepped out of them. Hermione’s eyes took in Harry’s manhood, which, if less than he would have preferred, had never failed to take her to places that other witches only dreamed of. Harry grasped himself, and Hermione’s mouth went dry with mingled dread and anticipation.

And then she saw it. Her eyes softened, going moist. Harry’s eyes laughed as they embraced Hermione.

“Happy anniversary, Hermione,” Harry said.

Hermione smiled, opening herself to the wizard she loved, her eyes fixed lovingly on the thin line of his vasectomy scar.