Charlie Weasley, Paper Husband

Epilogue - 8

She hummed. "No, but it's alright for you to look anxious, even reluctant."

He nodded. "Should I make a show of resisting?"

"No, of course not," she laughed.

It was a relief to hear her laughing.

She said nothing of it, but it was herself Hermione was holding up with her grip on Charlie's arm, clinging to it as they stepped into the clinic and the smell of the place engulfed them. The scent of latex, antiseptics, artificial fruit and peppermint - this was her parents' smell. Her body reacted to it, her cheeks flushing and her eyes stinging as if she might cry.

It could have been overwhelming if Charlie hadn't deliberately distracted her with more silly questions, whispering them in English until she shushed him through gritted teeth.

Hermione sang out a greeting to the lady behind the counter. "Helloooo. Carolus Balaur for Dr. Monika, please."

An assistant appeared and led them back to an exam room. Charlie paced once around the chair, "What do we have here? Looks like a restraining device right out of Azkaban."

"No more English, darling," Hermione reminded him. "Have a seat, nicely now. It won't hurt you."

Charlie sprang into the chair. It creaked and listed like a badly made rowboat.

"Char–Carolus!" she scolded. "Easy."

Outside the tiny exam room, the clinic was busy, noisy with suction and running water, whirring unseen machinery it was best Charlie didn't understand. Hermione stood beside Charlie's seat in the Azkaban armchair and strained to discern voices in the racket. She was listening for her parents for the first time in years, and her eyes were stinging again.

Charlie needed more distractions and he craned his neck toward the wall of windows, twisting in the chair, looking out at the trees planted along the street. There was a pair of black and white birds in them, chattering to each other.

"Look, Australian magpies, love," he whispered. "They're different than our Eurasian ones."

Hermione sighed and shuffled obligingly to the window. "Brilliant. I hear the magpies here are much more vicious than ours too."

Charlie caught her by the waist and pulled her to stand next to where he sat, her arm draping around his shoulders, their heads level enough for him to tip his against hers.

"Vicious? Must be a misunderstanding," he said. "We'll introduce ourselves to them on the way out. They'll be lovely."

She turned to smile at him. "My creature curator," she said.

He held her tighter, teasing. "That's the main reason everyone comes to Australia, isn't it?"

She clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes.

"Just relax," he whispered against her neck. "You're going to see your mother, and talk a little. At this point, she expects nothing from you. So it's not like much can go wrong. We're just evaluating where your spell has left them so we can decide on a next step. If you decide you don't want to try the De-bliviator here today, that's perfectly alright. We'll find all the excuses we need to come again and again."

Hermione blew out a breath. "Maybe I should have booked the appointment with my dad. Less emotional. No, harder to read. No - I don't know, Charlie."

A laugh rang out from just outside the exam area. It was her – Ann Granger, who thought she was Monika Wilkins. She was coming.

"Breathe, Hermione," Charlie said, easing out of their embrace.

Monika rounded the corner, eyes down, reading a chart labeled with Charlie's very odd pseudonym on it, singing out in exactly the same cadence Hermione had used to greet the receptionist, "Hellooo!"