As she likes it

As she likes it

Disclaimer: They (almost) all belong to J. K. Rowling and her publisher. I don’t intend to make money with them, but have only borrowed them for some fun. I promise, as soon as I’m done with them (or better said, as soon as they’re done with each other) I’ll give them back.

Author’s Note: If the idea of a young woman’s falling in love and having sex with an older man squicks you, then - please do me a favour: go away. You won’t like this story.


Chapter 1: Hermione’s plan

It had all started on her twenty-sixth birthday. Hermione Granger, Doctor of Transfiguration and junior professor at the ancient Merlin College in Oxford, England, had invited all her friends to a party. Looking around then, she’d discovered that she was surrounded by parents. The friends of her schooldays - Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, his sister Ginevra and Neville Longbottom - were all married and obviously determined to populate the world with as many little wizards and witches as possible.

Harry had started the trend four years previously by marrying - rather surprisingly for the people close to him because they hadn’t even known them to be dating - Luna Lovegood. Exactly nine months after the wedding Luna had delivered a black-haired, green-eyed, very lively set of twins.

Ron, always Harry’s faithful sidekick, had obviously seen that as a challenge. He’d immediately stopped chasing silly blondes and had instead - to the delight of his entire, family except for Ginny who’d hoped for a sister-in-law with some brains - married a silly brunette. Although they’d certainly worked hard, Padma Patil-Weasley and her Ron hadn’t managed a double-pack with the first shot, but they’d made up then with a daughter in January and a son in the December of the same year. And that was not enough: at Hermione’s birthday Padma, despite having both arms full with children, had, blushing and giggling, announced that she was pregnant with her Number Three. This had obviously given Ginny - three years married to Neville Longbottom - an idea. After keeping her two-year-old son back from eating the flowers she’d got for Hermione’s birthday, she’d looked challengingly at her always-dreamy husband. Having known Ginny for fifteen years, Hermione now waited daily for Ginny to inform her about her second child-to-be.

Yet what had really piqued Hermione had been Fleur Weasley, Ginny’s beautiful sister-in-law. She’d packed her exquisitely clothed three-year-old daughter in her husband Bill’s arm and then laid a consolatory hand on Hermione’s shoulder. With her strong French accent most men found dead sexy she’d said: “Chère Hermione, you know one doesn’t need to have children for a happy life. I’m sure you’ll find fulfilment in your work. And, instead of a baby, you will get a Merlin Award.”

Since then - and it was almost six weeks later - Hermione had chewed on these words. She’d always been a methodical girl and therefore she’d planned out her life. Nine years previously, after the final defeat of Voldemort, she’d sat down and had written down what she intended to achieve in the next few years.

The plan was still in a drawer of her desk and,as it happened, she’d followed it pretty well. She’d finished school in 1997; she’d started her education as a Transfiguration specialist in the same year; had got her diploma, all to plan, in 2001 and had become apprentice to the Transfiguration Mistress Minerva McGonagall then. In 2003 - even quicker than planned - she’d done her Mastery exam; since then she had worked as junior professor at Merlin College.

However, her being one year ahead her plan in academic matters didn’t change the fact that Hermione had missed three important points in private ones. Her plan said clearly:
2002 - Meeting Mr Right
2003 - Wedding
2004 - The first child

Being an ambitious girl, Hermione had of course tried to accomplish these?. In the first half of 2002 she’d spent at least two evenings a week on dates. She’d even gone out with the former Captain of her Quidditch house team though she’d never been interested in the sport and could hardly think of anything more boring as talking about. And Oliver Wood - said Quidditch player, now a professional in the same team as Ron - had hardly spoken about anything else.

After two hours with him Hermione had quite the vivid nightmare. She’d seen five children in Quidditch robes talking Quidditch in rooms decorated with Quidditch posters, and herself sitting among them, polishing the handles of broomsticks and smiling as if she’d become drugged. This fantasy had made her wish to run away screaming and she’d sworn to herself that Oliver - despite being the most handsome of her admirers - wouldn’t father her children. As nice it would have been to get sons with his looks, Hermione had read too much about inheritance. The idea of having children as Quidditch-crazy as Oliver, but with her bushy hair and the big front teeth she’d had as a child - no, really, she’d rather not.

So she’d next tried a colleague - a brilliant scientist, really. Unfortunately, he was almost one head smaller as her. And, what he lacked in height, he made up in girth. When she counted also his bad breath and his habit of starting every second line with “methinks” and a chuckle – which worked on her nerves like a toenail scraping over a floor – she’d only taken one evening to determine his deletion from her list of potential candidates.

Number Three: Emerett Brackle, Charms Master at the ministry. He didn’t look bad, he didn’t talk Quidditch and he’d told Hermione while inviting her that he liked “sense of family” in a woman because family would be very important to him. As nice as she’d found that - his bringing his mother, a sturdy witch who reminded Hermione very much of a dragon guarding her eggs, to the first date seemed Hermione like overdoing the “family thing”. .

Heathcliff Smith, apprentice to the Arithmancy Mistress at Hogwarts, had been Hermione’s next date. He’d invited her to a Muggle Club in London and no, she didn’t mind going Muggle for one evening; but sitting under walls decorated with chains and talking about the best way to fasten handcuffs to a bed was not exactly what she’d term a nice evening. At least the evening had broadened her view of the world. Until then, she’d always thought that one would only need to stay away from the Slytherins to avoid confrontations with the kinky. With Smith she’d learned that the Hufflepuffs weren’t as boring as they were reputed.

Alexander Frackles, her next date, was a Hufflepuff too, working at Hogwarts as Care of Magical Creatures teacher. Yet dealing with Magical creatures had obviously got to him. During dinner at the Three Broomsticks he’d talked exclusively about mating rituals, starting with dragons and unicorns, then going over centaurs and manticores and acromantulas. Hermione had always thought that one couldn’t learn too much, yet that evening she’d realised that she had never really wanted to know that manticores had three penises each. Yet she suddenly understood why acromantulas struggled and fed their partners after mating. On the way back to the school where Frackles had meant to show her how a Giant Squid caught his bride, she’d found herself thinking about a new mating ritual: struggling and hexing the partner before mating!

In summer, now desperate, she’d met Titus Ollivander. He’d seemed to suit her profile for Mr Right: he was intelligent, ambitious, kind and nice to look at. He’d even been talented in the bedroom, as Hermione had learnt in her attempt at a relationship with him.

Yet after a few months he’d started to talk about his dream of the future and there he’d shown himself as what Ginny used to term “a chauvinistic boar”. To him it had been clear that Hermione would give up her career to have his children and supporting him in his ambition of the Merlin Award as Potions Master.

Unfortunately Hermione had got more than enough Potions suffering through seven years of Hogwarts’ Potions Master Severus Snape. After doing her NEWT in Potions, she’d sworn to herself never to approach a cauldron again. The idea of becoming the assistant who had to cut ingredients and do all the work too boring for the master himself hadn’t appealed to her. She’d made this pretty clear to Titus. In reverse she’d learned that he found her a “frigid women’s libber with the sex appeal of a Transfiguration essay written by Minerva McGonagall”.

That pretty much put paid to her bearing Titus’ successor. Still, this didn’t end up bothering Hermione too much.. Half a year after she’d finished her relationship with Titus she’d fallen in love again and this time the man had looked absolutely perfect. Leander von Melanchthon, guest professor from the German Paracelsus University in Freiburg, was all Hermione had ever wished for: brilliant, charming, kind, well-read, cultivated, witty and handsome. Hermione had immensely enjoyed working with him and yes, she’d fallen deeply for him. It had gone so far that she’d totally forgotten about his being eighty years her senior. Yet there was one thing about him she couldn’t overlook: Professor von Melanchthon was married and had three sons all older than her.

Some long talks, an embrace, a kiss - that had been all and it wasn’t even enough, for Hermione, to make the thing a “romance”. Yet a revelation it had brought her: the father of her child would certainly not be a young man. Hermione had always been more mature than other girls her age and she’d always been attracted by men with experience and charisma.

And having thought so far, she couldn’t stop herself any more. She had to acknowledge that it had already been the case years before at Hogwarts. In her second year there she’d developed the first crush of her life. The object of it - alas, her youth at this time excused her falling for a git like - Gilderoy Lockheart. And besides, she hadn’t been the only girl at Hogwarts to swoon about the blond teacher. At least half of the female students had been after him - which had made Hermione feeling very uncomfortable. Even at that age she hadn’t liked to be part of a crowd and she’d been sceptical about things and people with mainstream appeal.

With her next subject of affection she’d laid down her membership in the club of giggling girls to again become Hermione, the one with the odd taste. Although she’d never talked with anyone about it, she’d been sure that even her closest friends - and that meant something because Ron always maintained he wouldn’t wonder about anything when it came from Hermione - would want her to get a padded cell at St Mungo’s, the wizarding hospital, if they knew.

Nevertheless, Hermione found Hogwarts’ Headmaster Albus Dumbledore fascinating. Of course, he was already around a hundred and fifty years old, but in spite of his white hair and the wrinkles in his face Hermione never saw him as an old man. Dumbledore - tall, broad-shouldered - didn’t behave like one. He didn’t even move like an old man, but indeed radiated energy and power with every step. And his voice, though always slightly hoarse, didn’t sound like an old man’s, but had something which gave Hermione goose pimples. She was too young to deem his voice “erotic”, but whenever she heard it she wished that he would come closer to her and speak only to her.

And his eyes - Hermione knew that most people would name Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose as the most prominent feature in his face, but for her it had always been his eyes. As a serious, probably even too-serious child, she’d already felt drawn to the youthful exuberance of these blue eyes by their first meeting. And later, when she would watch him looking down from the head table to his pupils, she always felt touched by the love and the warmth in his eyes.

As much as she liked his eyes, his hands she adored even more. Long and elegant, the tips of the fingers tapered, the perfectly groomed nails shining like polish: his hands held a magic of their own - and more besides. While watching his hands, Hermione always felt close to him. While he had his face almost perfectly under control, his hands often betrayed him and Hermione, attentively watching them, had learned to read their language. She knew that his balling his hands to fists didn’t mean that he was aggressive, but rather that something had gone under his skin.

Anger and resentment his hands showed by being laid together at the tips and watched intently by their owner. And when he became impatient, he sometimes would scrape his index finger with his thumb.

Although Hermione had been so fascinated with him, she hadn’t talked to him much in her first years at Hogwarts. The Headmaster, acclaimed even by his enemies as one of the mightiest sorcerers alive, was a very busy man. Not only did he lead the wizarding world most renowned school with almost a thousand pupils, but he also played a rather important role in the English wizards’ politics. He held the position of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, the legislative and judicial organ of the magical world; he was Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards; and beside his official duties, was advisor to the Minister of Magic and so settled in this position that people often speculated about his becoming the next Minister. Yet Hermione knew that Dumbledore wasn’t interested. He loved Hogwarts and, besides, his Potions Master, owner of an acid tongue and a brilliant mind, had once noted the point by saying, “Why shouldn’t he want to become Minister? He’s already the man who makes Ministers.”

During Hermione’s fourth year at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore had taken up even more work. A dark wizard who’d named himself “Lord Voldemort” and who’d already tried to take over the wizarding world sixteen years previous had risen again, spreading death, horror and fear over the world. The current Minister, Cornelius Fudge, whose weakness was only dwarfed by his ambition, hadn’t wanted to see the danger. Instead of fighting against the Dark Lord, he fought against the people telling the truth - like Dumbledore and Hermione’s friend Harry who was, through a prophecy, connected to Voldemort.

At this time Dumbledore, who’d already on Voldemort’s first ascension fought against him, recalled the resistance group named “The Order of the Phoenix”. And with that Hermione had finally come closer to him.

Hermione was the friend of Harry Potter - and Harry Potter was Voldemort’s main target. Voldemort’s first reign had ended as he’d tried to kill baby Harry. His curse had backfired and almost-destroyed him. Voldemort had lost his body and he’d taken years to get a new one. Yet besides this wish for revenge it was a prophecy which made Voldemort want Harry dead. In it was said that only one of them could survive - after destroying the other.

So close to Harry, Hermione’d become a target too. Besides, she’d wanted nothing better than to help Harry against the Dark Lord. Therefore she’d become a member of the Order of the Phoenix in the summer before her sixth year at Hogwarts. And, to keep Harry company, she’d spent half of the summer break with him in the Order’s headquarters at Grimmauld Place.

Dumbledore had stayed there too and though he’d often been out on missions - at the headquarters he’d been almost personal and Hermione had seen sides of him Hogwarts students didn’t normally know about.

She cherished especially the memory of one night. A hot day had ended with a thunderstorm. Yet the rain Hermione had hoped for didn’t come and the air hadn’t really cooled off. Hermione wasn’t able to sleep in the heat. After tossing in her bed for almost two hours she had stood up and sneaked down the stairs to the kitchen to get herself a glass of cold water. While climbing up again, she heard soft music - someone was playing a harpsichord suite by Bach.

Hermione had always been curious - and in contrast with her friends who liked bands like the “Wicked Wizards” and the “Weird Sisters” she’d grown up with parents who loved classical music and she’d learnt to adore it too. So she followed the silver tones through the hall on the first floor until she came to the last door there. It was ajar, a small band of light shining out of it and falling on Hermione’s bare feet.

Listening to the music, Hermione wondered who was in the room: and hoped it wouldn’t be Potions Master Snape. The idea of sharing a love of Bach with him didn’t appeal to her. Yet she was pretty sure it wasn’t he. He detested all things Muggle.

The harpsichord started again, now on a tune which reminded Hermione of water cheerfully splashing over stones. Yet now the player stumbled about an arpeggio and started it once again. Hermione’s curiosity grew - until now she’d thought one of the wizards in the house had managed to bewitch a Muggle radio to work without electricity. But now it was clear: in there someone played - and Hermione was dying to know who it was!

The clink in the door wasn’t big enough to see through. Yet if she pushed - only a little - she would be able to gaze in. Hermione raised her hand, laid her palm against the wood and pushed it forward. Unfortunately the door creaked. Hermione jumped and blushed and then the music stopped and she heard the familiar, husky voice of Albus Dumbledore. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

Breathing deeply, Hermione fought down the impulse to run away and opened the door a bit wider, “Sorry, Headmaster - it’s only me. I heard the music and became curious.” Looking at him she swallowed. He’d obviously already prepared for bed. His long hair was bound back in a ponytail and he was naked except for a blue towel around his hips. And now he stood up, reaching for his dressing gown which hung over a chair. For a moment he stood in front of Hermione and she couldn’t help gazing at him through her eyelashes.

She’d never seen him in anything other than his glorious, heavy robes, buttoned up to the chin. Now she learned that it wasn’t only the skills of his robemaker which made him an impressing sight. Without his robes he was even more imposing. The broad shoulders and the long arms were amazingly well muscled; the strong chest with the flat, pale pink nipples looked very male despite the fact that he only had a few hairs on his chest bone. He’d acquired a rather round belly underneath, but Hermione found that it only added to his appeal. It showed that he enjoyed the good things life had to offer. And in combination with the narrow hips and the long, straight legs it made him look younger, almost boyish.

Now he’d wrapped himself in a sky blue silken dressing gown and, looking at Hermione, he smiled, “I’m sorry - I should have cast a silencing charm. I didn’t want to disturb someone with my playing.”

“But you didn’t, sir!” Hermione answered, “I was in the kitchen getting a glass of water. On my way back I heard you playing and became curious. Your music sounded lovely.” Shuffling her feet she added, “I adore Bach. Not being able to listen to music as often as I’d like to is one of the things I don’t like about our world.”

“That’s why I often go to Muggle concertos,” Dumbledore answered, sitting down again in front of the harpsichord.

Gathering all her courage, Hermione asked, “Would you perhaps play a bit more, Professor? I’d so like to listen.”

Now it was his turn to look awkward. “I’m terribly out of practice, Miss Granger. During term I rarely have time to play.”

“What a pity!” Hermione quietly closed the door behind herself and came nearer to the harpsichord. Dumbledore smiled at her and pointed with his chin in the direction of the chair at the window, “Take a seat, Miss Granger.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hermione sat down and looked expectantly at him.

He shoved his sleeves back, revealing a pair of strong lower arms, covered in auburn fluff, and then began to play.

Hermione couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. The contrast between his long, white hands and the ebony of the keyboard, the grace of his fingers dancing over the keys and their strength fascinated her. And the piece he was playing - peaceful and lovely in its mathematical severity - was balm for her nerves. She hadn’t even known how tense she was but now, listening, she suddenly became drowsy. If he had played longer, she’d probably have gone to sleep on his chair. But he stopped after a while, rose and held his hand out to her, “I’ll get you to bed, Miss Granger.”

Hermione had held his hand like a little child that night and, after being led up the stairs, she’d fallen asleep with a smile on her lips.

It had only been half an hour she’d spent with him that night, but it had led to a connection. Back at Hogwarts thereafter he’d sometimes smile at her and she’d known then that he remembered the night at Grimmauld Place too.

And then, only a few days before her sixteen birthday, she’d come down to the dungeons for her Potions class. She’d just unpacked her things when Potions Master Snape swept in, his black robes billowing dramatically around him as always. This time, however, he didn’t stalk up the aisle, but instead stopped in front of Hermione. “Miss Granger, pack your things. The Headmaster wants to talk to you. The password is” - he looked as if it would pain him to speak it - “Jelly Beans.”

Hermione’s stomach clenched as she nodded, “Yes, sir - I’m going.” She knew that Dumbledore wouldn’t have called for her if not for something very serious.

Five minutes later she was knocking at the heavy oak door to his office. “Come in!” she heard his voice and, entering, she saw him stand behind his desk, wearing a steel blue robe embroidered with gold. He approached her and took her heavy satchel. Setting it down on one of the chairs in front of his desk, he led her to the sofa at his fireplace. Looking gravely at her, he said, “Hermione, I have sad news for you. Your parents had an accident with their car last night. They’re both dead.” Sitting down next to her, he took both her hands in his. “I’m terribly sorry, child.”

In the first moment Hermione didn’t feel anything. She sat there, looking in his blue eyes and hearing herself ask, “Do you know how it happened?”

He nodded. “You know we have a phone number for Muggle parents to reach us. This morning at eight o’clock your parents’ lawyer called it. I became informed and by now have spoken to the man. Your parents were at a dentists’ congress in Manchester. On their way back, only a few miles away from your home, a drunken driver knocked their car from the street and into a shallow river. Your father died immediately, your mother passed away after two hours in hospital.”

Hermione swallowed. She suddenly remembered her parents as she’d seen them last, standing in front of their house, waving after her as Arthur Weasley had picked her up to take her to the headquarters. Her mother had smiled, but her father - who’d always been the softer one - had almost cried. And he’d called, “Take care of yourself, Hermione! We love you and we look forward to Christmas!”

She wouldn’t see them at Christmas. And not the next summer either. She would never see them again. She was sixteen years old and her parents were dead. She would never hear her father’s soft voice; she would never laugh with her mother again; and no one would tease her by calling her “bunny” anymore.

Tears were running down her face and suddenly she felt an arm around her shoulder. Albus Dumbledore pulled her onto his chest, drawing his hand softly over her hair. “Yes, child - cry. Don’t be ashamed of your tears. You’ve lost your parents and they’ve been wonderful people. I know they loved you very much and they were very proud of you. But you don’t have to bear that alone. Your friends will be there for you and Professor McGonagall will look after you and I’ll be there too. You don’t have to go through such a hard time on your own.”

She didn’t later know how long she’d cried on his shoulder, but he’d held her all that time, soothing and consoling her.

It was her who found her distance again. Looking in the fire, she asked. “Headmaster, I didn’t have any relatives except for my parents. My godmother is a friend of my mother, but I don’t get along very well with her. Besides, she even doesn’t know that I’m a witch. If she’s to become my legal guardian, I will have to tell her. And, considering that she’s a Muggle psychiatrist, I don’t know how she’ll react.”

Dumbledore sighed. “She needn’t necessarily become your legal guardian. You can have one from our world. Augustus McGonagall is used to dealing with Muggle authorities in such cases. He can certainly work something out for you too. Do you have an idea who you’d want to have for a guardian?”

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. The only wizarding family she was close to were the Weasleys, but they already had seven children of their own to look after.

Albus Dumbledore gave her a moment, and then asked softly, “What do you feel about Professor McGonagall?”

“Do you think she would do that?” Hermione liked the idea very much. She adored her head of house and liked her husband also.

“I’m sure she’d feel flattered if you ask her. Or should I talk with her?”

Hermione chewed once again on her bottom lip. “I’d hate it if she only became my legal guardian because she feels obliged,” she stated quietly.

“Dear child! Minerva would probably throttle me for saying that, but I know that you’re her favourite pupil. She likes you very much,” Dumbledore smiled at her.

“And Mr McGonagall?” Hermione asked.

“Augustus certainly won’t mind - quite the opposite.” Dumbledore inhaled deeply. “Hermione, between you and me, the McGonagalls wanted very much to have children of their own. They were for a long time very unhappy about not getting one. So I’m sure they’d adore having you as their ward.” With a little sigh he proceeded: “The McGonagalls won’t be able to replace your parents, Hermione. Nobody could do that. But I’m sure they’d do their best to help you through.”

Three days later, on a rainy September afternoon, Hermione stood next to the McGonagalls - Minerva looking rather strange in a black Muggle coat and a black hat while Augustus wore his suit as if he’d never worn anything else - in the graveyard in her home town. One hour earlier they’d signed the papers of guardianship at the Ministry of Magic and, although Hermione mourned her parents very much, having the McGonagalls at her side helped. Besides, Augustus McGonagall’s being a lawyer not only experienced with Magical law but with Muggle too made it easier to sell the house and to transfer the money Hermione’s parents had left her to the magical world.

Hermione’s sixteen birthday - still mourning for her parents, she hadn’t wanted a party. Yet she got gifts - a hand knitted, burgundy red sweater from Molly Weasley, a book about magical places from Harry and Ron, a scarf from her dormitory mates, a lovely quill from Ginny and a card from Minerva McGonagall inviting her for dinner in the evening. And during this dinner Hermione got the two birthday gifts she most cherished. The first was a beautiful necklace which had once belonged to Minerva’s grandmother. “You would have liked her,” Minerva said as she laid the golden band around Hermione’s neck, “and she would certainly have liked you. So I think it’s right you get her necklace. You’re part of our family now.”

The second gift was a gaily wrapped box Minerva gave her with a smile. “There’s something else from someone who doesn’t want his name mentioned.”

In the box Hermione found a Muggle CD player and a few CDs. Looking at the player Hermione said sadly, “But such things don’t work at Hogwarts.”

“This does!” Augustus gave Hermione the earphones. “Just try!”

Hermione put the earphones in her ears, switched the CD player on and heard with delight the first tones of the Third Brandenburg Concerto. “It’s enchanted!” she exclaimed, “How lovely!” Switching the CD player off, she spontaneously hugged Minerva. “Thank you! That’s so wonderful!”

“I didn’t make it. You know I don’t know a thing about Muggle technology,” Minerva said.

“Well,” Hermione crooked her head, “you know the creator of this wonderful item. So you’ll tell him how much I love it and how happy it makes me, won’t you?”

Augustus laughed, “Minerva, if you’re going to hug him, warn him first that the hug comes from Hermione. We can’t have him fainting in shock.”


Hermione had been deeply touched. That Albus Dumbledore, although he had so much work, had found the time to enchant a Muggle CD player for her! That he’d thought! It made the CD player even more precious to her.

In the following months the item had become a source of comfort and strength for her. She only used it at night when she’d lain in her four-poster bed in the dormitory, but then the music - mostly Mozart and Bach - had been a light in the darkness. It had given her hope.

She’d needed it because life at Hogwarts was become more and more overshadowed by the darkness Voldemort and his Death Eaters had spread all over the magical world. And then, in a cold February night in 1997, the Dark Lord and his allies struck. They attacked the castle.

Luckily, the inhabitants of Hogwarts had been prepared. Albus Dumbledore had been forewarned. He and his Charms Master Flitwick had weeks before made up emergency Portkeys for evacuating the students. He’d set up a plan and together with Minerva McGonagall he’d made sure that every person in the castle knew where to go and what to do in case of an attack.

As the wards of Hogwarts fell, most of the pupils, led by caretaker Argus Filch, Divinations teacher Sybill Trelawney and the Muggle Studies professor, had already arrived at the Aurors’ Academy in Cornwall while the staff and the few older students who were already members of the Order of the Phoenix had started to defend the castle and their lives.

In the first half hour of the battle Hermione hadn’t hoped they could win. Dementors and Death Eater were all over the place; curses and jinxes were fired; cries and screams carried through the halls. The members of the Order had been so outnumbered that Hermione, fighting with Harry and Ron in the Entrance Hall, had felt as if she were trying to stop a flood with her hands. The Dementors had made the situation especially difficult. Casting Patronus charms while ducking curses at the same time made for drained energy and loss of hope. Yet then, suddenly, a flame erupted in front of them. Albus Dumbledore, using his Phoenix Animagus form, Apparated, his hair and robes descending around him. A silver stream sprung out of his wand, took the form of a huge Phoenix and drove the Dementors away. A few minutes later the first Aurors arrived and from then on the day belonged to the side of Light.

The end of the battle - Hermione would never forget how she’d kneeled behind a broken table in the great hall, surrounded by bodies. Potions Master Severus Snape had fallen, shielding Harry and Hermione against a killing curse fired by their classmate Draco Malfoy. It had been the last thing Draco had done - one minute later he’d been hit by a Reducto from Hermione. Obviously he’d been drained too. He’d fallen immediately.

Then Voldemort himself had appeared, shielded by five of his Death Eaters. He’d obviously thought he’d already won. This hubris of his was his downfall. Instead of attacking a weakened Harry who’d been hit by a stunner only a few minutes before and taking over Hogwarts, he’d started a speech. “You know,” he’d said with his high-pitched voice, “you never stood a real chance against me, little boy. But you’ve fought bravely and therefore I’ll grant you and your friends a quick, merciful death.”

“I don’t think so.” Albus Dumbledore came through the door behind Hermione and her friends, his voice calm and clear.

“Dumbledore!” Voldemort’s red reptile eyes were glimmering with mockery, “My old friend! I missed you already! You know, my victory wouldn’t be complete if you survived this day.”

Albus Dumbledore didn’t look at him, but at the three students behind the table. Hermione watched how he moved his left hand and then felt his magic crackle around her. He’d cast a shield around them and now, without moving his lips, he commanded in a whisper, “Reducto - now!”

Hermione tensed her muscles and jumped on her feet, wand raised and directed at the Death Eater at Voldemort’s left. “Reducto!” she screamed, hearing Ron and Harry next to her joining in.

It was as if their spells had been driven forward by a force behind them. They hit the Death Eaters like a wave rolling over them. Three of them fell immediately, one of them even hitting the Dark Lord as he did. Yet Voldemort remained on his feet as did the two Death Eaters next to him, and one even managed to direct his wand at Albus Dumbledore. She didn’t think. She simply raised her wand and screamed “Expelliarmus!”

“Avada Kedavra!” the Death Eater yelled.

Hermione felt someone crumple against her, making her fall down again - and then a green light crashed against the wall. She saw Albus jump, landing hard on the stone floor next to her while the wall collapsed. For a moment Hermione couldn’t see anything through the dust, but then heard Albus’ voice, sharp and commanding: “Now, Harry - on the count of three! One - two,” he rose up on his knees, “three!” A blue light shot out of his wand.

Harry was on his feet, sending a green light after Dumbledore’s spell. Hermione saw Voldemort become surrounded by the blue light and then Harry’s green mingled with it and Voldemort screamed - an inhuman sound, like the shrieking of a banshee - and then he fell down and suddenly wasn’t there any more. Where he’d fallen only his robe, green, poisonous stinking smoke rising up from it, lay.

“Is he gone?” Ron asked.

“Yes. He’s dead. Final …” Albus didn’t finish, but sank down. Hermione just managed to catch his head in her arms before it hit the floor. Laying it down in her lap, she stared in terror at the blood at her hand. It had come from the Headmaster’s right shoulder where his robes were tattered and soaked with blood. And there was even more blood - his left hip was bleeding and his leg lay at an odd angle. Yet what terrified Hermione most was the blood running out of his pale mouth and oozing into his beard.

“Gods - he’s dying!” she whispered.

Suddenly there was someone in a green robe - an Auror. He pressed one end of a band into Hermione’s hand and wrapped the other end around the Headmaster’s wrist. She heard “keep with him”, “Portkey” and “St Mungo’s”, then the Auror touched the band with his wand and Hermione, holding Albus as firmly as she could, felt the familiar, sickening whirl of a Portkey transportation.

They landed at the floor of an emergency room at St Mungo’s. A healer was already expecting them, levitating Dumbledore onto the examination table while a nurse helped Hermione to her feet.

“Are you injured?” she asked.

Hermione shook her head, “No, but the Headmaster…”

“Don’t worry - we look after him!” The nurse led Hermione to a chair. “Sit down. I’ll come to you as soon as I can.”

Hermione watched as the healer cast a diagnostic charm, his wand hovering over the Headmaster’s body. “For heaven’s sake - what’s the man done with himself?” he murmured and turned around to Hermione, “Were you there as he became injured?”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded, “he jumped over a fallen chair and fell hard on the stone floor. And perhaps he was hit by a curse too. You know Hogwarts was attacked by Death Eaters and Voldemort…”

The nurse cringed. “Don’t say the name!” she whispered.

Hermione felt a rush of fury. If the people in the magical community hadn’t been such cowards, Voldemort would never have gotten so much power. Loudly and coldly she said, “You don’t need to fear Voldemort any more. He is dead.”

The healer bent once gain over his patient. “That’s good news,” he said, “but, as far as your Headmaster is concerned - he was hit by more than one curse. At least one of them was the Cruciatus. He was also in the way of a cutting curse and he’s broken his shoulder, a few rips and his hip. And, considering his being out cold, I wouldn’t wonder if his head was injured too.” He cast another diagnosis spell, this time over the Headmaster’s head. Shaking his head then, he called the nurse. “Nina - I need healer Ratherbrooke. Our patient has got an intracranial haematoma and heavy concussion.”

The nurse nodded and hurried of the room.

Hermione watched silently as the healer made Albus’ shredded robe disappear and started to heal the many wounds on the pale body. He’d obviously totally forgotten about her and she didn’t want to disturb him.

“Jeremy,” Nina the nurse was back, “Ratherbrooke is currently busy with two other patients. He says you should cast a stasis charm. He will come as soon as he can.”

“Damn!” the healer cursed, “The man’s lost a lot of blood. I really don’t want his coma to become deeper thanks to an added stasis charm.”

Hermione closed her eyes and swallowed. “Will he survive?” she asked.

The healer only said, “I hope so,” After murmuring another spell, he looked at Hermione. “Nina - get someone to tend to the girl. She looks like death warmed twice over.”

“I want to stay with the Headmaster,” Hermione stated stubbornly.

“You can’t help him at the moment, girl. But I promise we’ll do what we can for him.”

Someone knocked at the door. A young nurse pushed her head in, “Jeremy, are you tending to Professor Dumbledore?”

“Yes. And I’m waiting for Ratherbrooke.”

“I’m actually searching for a girl - Hermione Granger, a Hogwarts student. It’s said she came with Professor Dumbledore,” the young nurse said.

Hermione rose up, feeling dizzy. “I’m here.”

“Ah - you’re Hermione Granger? Would you come with me, please?” She took Hermione’s arm and led her to the door, smiling kindly at her. “Professor McGonagall is here.” She opened a door on the opposite side of the corridor and let Hermione into a waiting room in the middle of which stood Augustus McGonagall , his blue robes torn and his hair tousled. Seeing Hermione, he opened his arms and pulled her close. “Hermione - I’m so glad I’ve found you! Are you well?”

Hermione hugged him, laying her head on his shoulder for a moment. “I’m fine. How are things at Hogwarts? Is Minerva well?”

“Yes. She’s very much worried about you and Albus; but Hogwarts is safe again. The Aurors have taken over.” He stroked her hair tenderly . “Hermione, the war is over.”

“But we’ve lost so many people!” Hermione started to cry.

Augustus pulled her close once again. “Yes, Hermione, I know. But their deaths weren’t senseless. They saved our world, Hermione - and so did you and your friends.”


Augustus had taken her back to Hogwarts where she’d taken a shower and had fallen in her bed like a stone, sleeping for almost twelve hours.

The next days the wizarding world had celebrated the victory, but Hermione and her friends hadn’t felt like partying. They’d mourned the people they’d lost in the war - their friend and Hogwarts groundkeeper Hagrid who’d been the first victim as the wards had fallen, their housemate and friend Seamus Finnigan, the Hufflepuff prefect Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Ravenclaws Morag McDougal and Lisa Turpin. And Hermione had even grieved for Slytherin house - the house which had lost the most people - although only two of the seven victims - head of house Severus Snape and the prefect Blaise Zabini - had fought on the side of the Light. The five others - Draco Malfoy, Millicent Bulstrode, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle and Theodore Nott - had died as Death Eaters.

Three days after Severus Snape and Hagrid had been buried on the Hogwarts grounds as they’d wished, Hermione had sat in the library. School hadn’t restarted yet gain, so she was enjoying the peace there. More so as she was reading about Transfiguration instead of preparing for a battle. She’d just found a really interesting text as Minerva entered, smiling for the first time since the battle. Patting Hermione’s back she said, “I’ve the most wonderful news, Hermione! Poppy Pomfrey just came back from a visit at St Mungo’s. The Headmaster isn’t only out of danger, but he is to come back to Hogwarts tomorrow. He will still need to stay at the Infirmary and it will be a long time until he’s really recovered, but he’ll at least be at home.”

“Oh, that’s really great!” Hermione beamed at her foster mother, “What do you think - could I perhaps visit him soon?”

Minerva squeezed her shoulder gently. “Poppy hopes very much you’ll visit him rather often. The Headmaster isn’t allowed to read or to perform any magic and he can’t leave his bed. That means he’ll get bored to tears in only a few days. Knowing him I’d say he’ll need a lot of diversion or he’ll drive poor Poppy mad.”

Hermione chewed at her bottom lip. “Minerva,” - when they were alone, she was allowed to address her professor with her given name - “could I perhaps go down to Hogsmeade? Or - even better - could you perhaps give me a Portkey to London? I’d like to go to a Muggle sweet shop. And perhaps Poppy will allow the Headmaster to hear music? I could lend him my CD player and buy him some new CDs.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, Hermione! He’ll love it!” Minerva stroked Hermione’s hair. “And you know what? I won’t find the time to buy him a ‘get better gift’, but I’ll pay for the CDs. And,” she chuckled, “perhaps you could find some terribly bright, ugly socks? You know the Headmaster adores extravagant socks.”

“Minerva, could I perhaps take Ron and Harry with me? They could do with some diversion as well.”

Minerva furrowed her brow. “Hmm … it’s dan -,” she stopped, shook her head and smiled, “I was about to say it would be dangerous. I’m so used to thinking of danger. But the war is over! You can enjoy life.” Turning around, she marched to the door. “Give me five minutes, and then you can get your Portkey for three.”

The shopping tour in London had been fun. Harry in particular had enjoyed the trip into the Muggle world where nobody knew him and he wasn’t asked for autographs or pictures. Yet the next afternoon, walking up to the hospital wing with a bag of sweets, her CD player, a few CDs and a gaily wrapped pair of socks in her hand, Hermione felt nervous. Minerva had taken her aside after lunch, looking a bit worried. “Hermione, when you come to the Headmaster - don’t be shocked. The healers at St. Mungo’s had to shave his head because of the injury. And, you know, he was heavily cursed, so his broken bones couldn’t be magically mended. He’s plastered all over and can hardly move. But Poppy assured me that he looks much worse than he really is. She’s sure he’ll be as good as new in a few weeks.”

Hermione had swallowed. “Is he still in pain?”

Minerva had gravely nodded. “He says it would be bearable, but Poppy has to feed him a lot of potions. Yet,” she’d smiled again, “I’m sure he’ll enjoy a visit from you. It will distract him from the pain.”

Hermione was very much willing to provide the Headmaster with some entertainment - if only she knew what to talk about with him! She could speak about music - the new CDs would certainly be a nice subject - but what then? She’d suddenly become aware that she didn’t know much about Albus Dumbledore. Of course, she’d read his biography in “Hogwarts - a history”, but it actually didn’t give away much about the man behind the title. There were only two lines about his private life: “Widower, no children. Hobbies: Chamber music, tenpin bowling.”

Well - about chamber music Hermione could talk, but tenpin bowling?

In the Infirmary the mediwitch Poppy Pomfrey was tidying up potions as Hermione entered. “Hello, Madam Pomfrey.” Hermione smiled at her. “I’d like to visit the Headmaster.”

“You’re a godsend, Hermione! I was just thinking about ordering a few dancers for him or of letting Rita Skeeter in to interview him - anything to keep him entertained.” Poppy Pomfrey pointed with her thumb in the direction of a door behind her. “Just hop along the corridor - he’s in the last room at the left.”

“I’ve got a few Muggle sweets. Is he allowed to have them?” Hermione asked.

“Considered that a full mouth will keep him from nagging at me, I hope you’ve got tons of sweets!” Poppy grinned.

Hermione laughed. “I’ve got a huge bag of lemon drops for him, but if they aren’t enough just give me a hint. I’ll get him more then.”

“Sugar-addicted as our patient is, this could happen soon. But now run along, child - Dumbledore will be happy to see you.”

“Until later, Madam Pomfrey!” Hermione marched through the little corridor to the last door, breathed deeply and knocked.

“Come in!” The voice sounded even hoarser as usual and a bit grumpy.

Cautiously opening the door, Hermione pushed herself inside. “Good afternoon, Headmaster.” Looking at the bed, she swallowed and forced herself to smile. Despite Minerva’s preparation she was shocked by the sight of Albus Dumbledore without his beard or his hair and his face - had it always been so gaunt? - as white as the pillow he laid on. He didn’t wear his spectacles, but a blue cap to hide his shaven head.

The rest of him seemed to be plastered solid. At least at first sight he reminded one of a mummy with the white bandages covering his shoulders, most of his chest and his left arm. The rest of him was covered by a blanket, but Hermione was sure that there were bandages too.

However, as he saw Hermione he smiled and this smile, starting in his eyes and spreading to his generous mouth - Hermione, child of dentists, admired once again the perfect set of pearly white teeth - illuminated his face and blew the awkwardness away. And then he raised his right hand and pointed to a chair next to his bed. “Miss Granger - how nice of you to visit me! Come here and sit down. I hope you’ve got a little time? You know, I’m already bored out of my itching skin.”

He reminded Hermione on an eager little boy. Stepping close to the bed, she felt a wave of affection for him and it washed away her shyness. Sitting down on the chair, she wished she’d dare to kiss his cheek. Instead she took his hand and squeezed it softly but affectionately. “Headmaster, I’m so glad you’re better!”

He looked seriously at her. “I have you to thank, Miss Granger. You saved my life.”

“No!” Hermione blushed. “You were quick enough to survive. It wasn’t my doing.”

“Without you I wouldn’t have made it,” he insisted, “But do tell me: how are you? And your friends?”

“I’m well.” Hermione fumbled with the bag on her lap. “And Harry and Ron - they’ll come around. I mean,” she blushed deeply, “Harry’s under a shock. He killed someone and it’s hard for him to deal with it, though it was Voldemort. On the other hand - we were in Muggle London yesterday and I think it did Harry good. He starts to realise that the war is over and that he doesn’t have to fear Voldemort any longer.”

“And you, Hermione? How are you coping?” he asked softly.

Hermione knew that he referred to Draco Malfoy. Swallowing once again she answered slowly: “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps I should feel guilty, but in the moment - well, I know if I hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed Harry, Ron or me. Only,” she hesitated, looking down on her lap, “I don’t think that’s a subject to talk about on a sickbed.”

“Miss Granger, as far as it’s possible with me, my head is clear,” he gave back. “So tell me - what bothers you?”

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. “Well - it’s about something Mr Crouch junior told us once. He said killing curses - like Avada Kedavra and probably Reducto too - would only work when performed with hatred towards the opponent. And,” she fell silent and searched for words, “I certainly never liked Draco Malfoy and I’ve often wished I could hex him into next week, but,” she looked into his clear, blue eyes, “I really never thought about killing him, sir.”

He nodded slowly. “And now you feel as if you’d discovered something about yourself you would rather not have known?”

“Yes, Headmaster.” He’d got it exactly.

“Hermione, of this I’m sure: under certain circumstances every person - even one as warm-hearted and honourable as you - can be driven to murder. It’s in the human nature. And, in your case, you’re suiting the nature of your house very well. You’re the epitome of what it is to be Gryffindor, a true lioness. That means that you will defend the people you love with your life. Draco Malfoy didn’t give you much of a choice. He was a threat to your friends - and the only way to stop him was to kill him,” he explained quietly.

“But the hatred …” Hermione suddenly wrapped her arms around her body.

“Hermione, technically Reducto isn’t a killing curse. Therefore it isn’t on the list of Unforgivables. Reducto is actually a mixture of the bases of two simple charms: Evanesco to actually destroy the bit being blasted and a Banishing charm to give the explosive effect.” He stretched, using his right underarm as a pillow for his head. “What makes a charm work?”

“The intent and the magical force of the caster,” Hermione answered promptly.

“That’s it, Miss Granger. You intended to stop Draco - very much so. And you’re a powerful witch. You put a lot of force behind your Reducto and you were determined to make it work.” He scratched himself on the head. “Heavens, these plasters do itch! But back to our subject: Barty Crouch probably couldn’t imagine that someone could have another motive to hatred for attacking someone. Yet your motive was not hatred, but loyalty. That makes a difference, don’t you think?”

Hermione felt as if he had taken a heavy weight from her. Smiling shyly at him, she said, “Thank you, Headmaster.” Looking once again at the bag in her lap, she decided to change the subject. “Before I forget, I’ve got something for you.” She pulled the bag of lemon drops out and laid it on the bed.

“Lemon drops!” He beamed at her. “Now you’re saving my life for the second time!” He immediately tried to open the bag, but couldn’t with only one hand.

Hermione took the bag out of his hand. “May I?” She opened it and pulled one drop out.

He watched her with twinkling eyes. “I have longed for a lemon drop for days!” Opening his mouth he waited until Hermione put the drop on his tongue. “Ah!” he sighed happily. “Now I’m feeling better! Don’t you want a lemon drop too? They’re really good!”

Actually Hermione wasn’t found of sweets, but his enthusiasm was infectious. Popping another drop into her mouth, she smiled at him. “Professor McGonagall said you aren’t allowed to read. So I thought you’d perhaps like to hear some music.” She pulled out her CD player and the CDs she’d bought for him. “Professor McGonagall wants you have the CDs as her ‘get better gift’ and I thought perhaps that you’d like to have my CD player to hear them.”

“How nice of you. But don’t you need it yourself?” he asked.

“Well - I thought your need would be greater than mine,” Hermione replied.

“I’ve got one of my own. I’ll ask a house-elf to fetch it.” He put the CD player back in Hermione’s hand and instead took one of the CDs she offered him. “Mendelsohn-Bartholdy, ‘Elias’ - an interesting choice!”

Hermione sucked on her lemon drop. “It’s not exactly chamber music, but I thought you’d like it nevertheless. It’s such a wonderful piece. I heard it once with my parents and it reminded me of Bach.” She laughed a bit awkwardly. “It probably sounds idiotic to compare a romantic piece to Bach, but…”

“…we’re talking about the Mendelsohn-Bartholdy who adored Bach and was heavily influenced by him - at least when it came to his church music,” Albus finished for her. “I am very much looking forward to hearing ‘Elias’ again. It’s a very long time since I listened to it last.” He laid the CD on his nightstand and looked at the next one.

Hermione explained: “I thought that you probably know Bach’s chamber music very well. So I’ve bought you some solo cantatas.”

“Jauchzet Gott in allen Landen (1),” he read the title. “That’s a favourite of mine - and probably the Bach cantata I know best.”

“Hah! I knew it!” Hermione beamed. “I was sure that you like coloratura sopranos.”

“Yes, I do.” His voice had become a bit flat. “A long time ago I knew a coloratura soprano rather well. She liked to sing this cantata.”

“Whenever I hear it, I wish I could sing like that too,” Hermione said a bit awkward. “The great pieces for coloratura sopranos - it must be so wonderful if one can sing them.”

“Hermione as Queen of the Night?” he grinned.

“Oh yes! Although,” now she blushed, “my favourite character in the ‘The Magical Flute’ is Sarastro. When I first saw the opera I was twelve years old. My parents and I were visiting Salzburg and there they played ‘The Magical Flute’. Sarastro made me think of you.”

“Oh my!” he laughed. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear me sing. I love music, but I really can’t sing.”

“You can play harpsichord. That’s more than I ever achieved. I had a few piano lessons as a small child, but when I came to Hogwarts…” Hermione shrugged.

“I always wanted to get a music teacher for Hogwarts, but alas - there was always something else, something more important,” he sighed. “Perhaps we’ll manage now. For the next few years we should have peace again.”

This afternoon had been something like the start of a friendship between Hermione and the Headmaster. During the six weeks he spent in the hospital wing Hermione had visited him daily. They hadn’t just talked; but had also played exploding snap and some Muggle games; they’d laughed with each other and Hermione had read the newspapers and Muggle books for him. He especially liked children’s books like “Winnie the Pooh” and “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” and with him Hermione had won a little of her childhood back. She, who had always been too serious, had learned from the much older man how to giggle and be a seventeen-year-old girl.

As she left Hogwarts she’d kept in contact with Albus Dumbledore. Whenever she visited the McGonagalls - which was almost every second weekend - she’d had tea or dinner with the Headmaster too. They’d mostly talked about Transfiguration and sometimes Hermione thought that she’d learned almost as much from him as at the university.

On her last weekend visit before she was to come back at Hogwarts as Minerva’s apprentice Albus hadn’t invited her for tea in his rooms, but instead for a stroll at the grounds. Accompanied by his phoenix - Fawkes and Hermione had become very close friends - they strolled around the lake. Hermione had talked about her new project - liquid transformation, something Albus was very interested in too. For her it was difficult and so she joked. “Too bad you have to run the school. I could do so well with you in the lab for some experiments.”

“If you can wait until summer, I’d like to help you,” he’d offered and, becoming serious, he’d added, “Hermione, I’ll retire in the summer. Minerva will be my successor.”

She stood still. “You retire?” she repeated, studying his face. She actually thought that he looked well. His hair was grown almost down to his shoulders again and his face wasn’t gaunt anymore. He still limped a bit, but overall he still didn’t look like an old man, but springy and fit. “Are you unwell?” she asked anxiously.

“No, Hermione, I’m fine,” he soothed her. “Don’t worry about me. It’s only that I’m a bit tired and fed up. I’ve been almost eighty years at Hogwarts and half of that time I’ve been Headmaster. I think Hogwarts needs a change; and so do I. Actually,” he grinned at her, “it’s your fault. You’ve made me aware that I haven’t worked in Transfiguration for ages. Still, there are still a few things I’d like to research.”

“And where will you live when you leave Hogwarts?” Hermione was close to tears. She’d looked forward to seeing him more often and she knew that she would miss him terribly. Hogwarts without him wouldn’t be the Hogwarts she loved so much anymore.

He smiled. “I have a home to go to - or better said: I have two. My parents left me a house in Cornwall and one in Venice. So I’ll spend the summer in Cornwall and the winter in Venice.”

Hermione looked down at her feet. “I can’t imagine Hogwarts without you.”

“Hermione, don’t look as if I’d gone away to do research in the South American rainforest where no owl could reach me. You know that Minerva will make a great headmistress and,” he sighed and looked up to the castle, “as far as I’m concerned, I will adore having my freedom back.”

“Huh?” Hermione didn’t understand what he meant. “Weren’t you happy here?”

“I was very happy here,” he replied calmly. “But being Headmaster of Hogwarts means restrictions. One can’t say what he wants because one always has to consider how it works for Hogwarts; one can’t travel as one would want to; one can’t even be grumpy when one wants to because it would infect the students’ and the staff’s mood. Yet what really always bothered me - and my dislike of it grew over the years - is the paperwork. I spend most of my time at my desk working through mountains of forms and letters - and I’m so fed up with it! I want to have time for me again. I want to play on my harpsichord, I want to go to concertos and the opera more often, I want to travel when I feel for it -,” he interrupted himself. “Sorry, Hermione - I was babbling.”

Hermione petted Fawkes who now sat on her fist. Without looking at Albus, she asked, “May I see you now and then after you’ve been retired?”

“I do hope so! I’d hate it if you forgot all about me. Besides, I intend to mess around in Oxford now and again and I’d like it if you’d accompany an old man to a concerto now and then.”

Hermione smiled. “I don’t think I’d like to be with a young man. But going with you to a concerto I’ll love.”

“Don’t flatter me, Hermione! I’ve got a mirror,” he returned.


A few weeks later he had invited her to a concerto - and by this he’d caused a row between Titus and her. Titus had wanted to attend a party with Hermione on the same evening. Learning that she wanted rather to be with Albus Dumbledore had made him furious. “I don’t understand all the fuss you’re always making about the old man. He can help you with your career, I know, but really - there are so many old spinsters and hags who’d suit him. Why doesn’t he go with one of them?”

“I don’t want him to go with another woman because I like being with him!” Hermione had shouted back. “And don’t call him an old man!”

“For heaven’s sake, Mione - you spoke as if you had a crush on him!”

Hermione had exploded, “First, Don’t call me ‘Mione’! My name is Hermione! Second, I don’t have a crush on Professor Dumbledore. I respect and adore him - no more, no less. So I’d be very grateful if you’d spare me your silly jealousy!”


Sitting at her desk in Oxford, Hermione still stared at the calendar in front of her. It was October 2004 and that meant she wouldn’t accomplish her plan. Even if she met a man she’d like as father to her child the next day - she certainly wouldn’t become a mother in 2004.

Besides, she simply didn’t believe in love anymore. At least, the combination “romantic love + Hermione Granger” obviously didn’t work. Yet this didn’t change the fact that she wanted a child. Although she’d never seen herself as a motherly woman - to see a child grow up, to give him love and care was something she longed for. And now was the right time in her life! She’d achieved what was possible for her age. For the next step - becoming a senior professor at a renowned university - she was too young. In the magical world, where the average lifespan was around two hundred and twenty years, experience was highly valued. Hermione knew that in the next twenty years she couldn’t become much more than a junior professor. As such, she wouldn’t get a lab of her own, so she couldn’t do the projects she would like to do.

That meant boredom for the next twenty years. Or it meant having time to raise a child. If she had it in 2005, it would go to Hogwarts in 2016 - a good time for Hermione to start fighting for her career again.

The question remaining was how to get a father for her child? Fate obviously didn’t intend to send one her way. Just waiting hadn’t worked, which led Hermione to the conclusion that she had to work methodically on her project of “becoming a mother soon” now. A new plan - that was what she needed!

The first question to think about was what did she seek for?

Pulling a piece of parchment out, Hermione dipped her quill in her inkbottle and draw three vertical lines on it. Over the first column she wrote “Absolutely necessary”. The second was marked with “Good too” and the third with “nice, but not in every case required”.

The first column became filled quickly: Intelligent - she didn’t want to deal with a fool and she certainly didn’t want a dull child, upright, reliable, kind, well-read, loyal, caring, liking children, independent, strong, brave, unmarried.

The second column - it wouldn’t hurt for him to be a wizard. And his being musical would be nice too. Having ambitions of his own would probably make him understand her better. Humour would be great too - the child would certainly like to have fun with its father. And the man’s being well-mannered would make it easier to teach the child how to behave.

Talent for languages was another point Hermione noted. Languages were her weak spot and she’d always adored people who spoke more than their mother tongue. And it would be fine when the man was a bit older. Although Hermione didn’t intend to marry him - she would have to deal with him and that would certainly be easier with a man who already knew what he wanted.

Under “nice, but not in every case required” Hermione wrote: Tall - she was petite herself and had never liked it - charming, handsome, possessed of some style. And, because she was just at it, she added with a grin: Blue eyes. She’d always liked men with blue eyes - the brown-eyed tended to remind her of puppies. As fond as she was of pets, on a man she found the look rather unerotic.

So - the list was done. The next task was to evaluate the available men of her acquaintance.

The first to come to mind was Colin Creevey, her former housemate and most faithful admirer. He was the master of making puppy eyes at her and besides - he was younger than her, lived still in his parents’ house, had never been the brightest candle in the chandelier and as far as “well read” was concerned - even Harry, himself not exactly a bookworm, had once joked about a birthday gift for Colin: “He doesn’t need a book. He’s already got one.”

No, Colin certainly wasn’t a candidate. And Peter Graves, her work colleague who was very much interested in her, was not one either. He was a womaniser, thought himself the Gods’ gift to womanhood and hadn’t even the guts to stand up to their boss when Professor Pendenance was talking nonsense once again.

Number the next on her list: Remus Lupin, her former Defence teacher, a close friend of Harry and almost another foster son to Minerva. He’d shown Hermione more than once that he was interested and Hermione liked him. She didn’t mind that he was twenty-five years her senior and his lycanthropy had never been a problem for her either. Yet Remus had a tendency to whine at length and in detail about his fate and, even worse, he was very affectionate. A little devotion could be nice, but Remus was as sticky as a toast with honey!

Fred Weasley then, the last unmarried brother of Ron - charming, cheerful, certainly not dull, but someone who refused to become adult. Besides he was like a brother to Hermione. Sleeping with him would feel like incest.

Hyacinth Ardens-Bartier, the Potions Master at Hogwarts - he was handsome, intelligent, well-read and always trying to flirt with Hermione when she visited her foster parents. Only she couldn’t stand him. He was the perfect Slytherin: pure-blooded, arrogant and all too full of himself. Hermione was pretty sure that, if she weren’t the heiress of the McGonagalls, he wouldn’t have given her a second look.

Lorcan O’Gradey - Augustus McGonagall’s junior professor and, as Minerva sometimes joked, his “almost-son”. He was clever, strong, loyal - and very much in love with his girlfriend.

Marc Heavers, the other junior professor in her department and her neighbour. He was one of Hermione’s closest friends, someone she really liked to work and to talk with. And he was a brilliant scientist and cultivated and he looked like Adonis clambered down from his pedestal to do some toothpaste advertisement. Marc was even a talented piano player and a great cook. Oh, and he - as he’d told Hermione on their first meeting - “played for the all male league” and had a fatal tendency to fall in love with straight, older men. His ideal - or, as he said, “my all time super crush” - was no one other than Albus. Whenever he appeared at Oxford, Marc melted like butter in the sun. “Those eyes - those blue, blue, blue eyes! And those hands! I could for hours watch his hands! And to imagine he’d touch me with those hands!” he used to rhapsodise. “And then this voice of his! The man could talk me into a climax without even touching me! Hermione, honestly: have you ever heard a more erotic voice? Are you really sure the man’s straight?”

Hermione was sure. Although Albus never talked with her about his love life his fondness for elegant, lush blondes was widely known in the wizarding world. He appeared regularly in the society column of the Daily Prophet when he attended social gatherings in the company of a lady friend. And, knowing him, Hermione was sure that he didn’t just show females off in public. She knew that a wizard’s power was always connected to his life force. A strong wizard was always a strong man too and in Albus’ case - Hermione had no doubt about his being a virile and passionate man. And sensual he was too as his liking of good food and wine showed.

Albus Dumbledore - he was actually the only unmarried man of her acquaintance who suited the description on her list. With the exception of his age he certainly was ideal. As for his age - Hermione counted. In November he would become one hundred and sixty-five years old. That meant he certainly wasn’t a youngling anymore, but he couldn’t be seen as an old dodderer either. Albus had at least fifty more years to look forward to.

Besides he wouldn’t be the only wizard of his age who’d become a father for the first time. Just a few weeks ago the dean of Merlin College - a venerable wizard of a hundred and ninety years - had proudly announced that his young wife was expecting their first child. And hadn’t Albus once mentioned that his father had been around his age when he’d married?

He didn’t want to marry again. About this Hermione was sure. He was too fond on his independence and he enjoyed his freedom. But Hermione didn’t need a husband. She needed a father for her child. And if there was a man who wouldn’t care about people talking about his having a child out of wedlock Albus was that man. It happened often in the magical world because witches usually didn’t need a man to provide for the family; so Albus certainly wouldn’t have a problem with it.

Crushing her list, Hermione threw it in the fire, rose up and marched into her bedroom. She would sleep one night over her idea as she always did when she had to decide something really important. But actually she was quite sure: tomorrow she’d start planning how to get Albus for the job of fathering her a child.


To be continued

(1) That’s BWV 51.


AN: Many thanks to Volandum and Annie, my wonderful beta-readers!