A Winter Tale

A Winter Tale

by: Max

Inspired by the WIKTT Marriage Law Challenge, but not following it exactly

[Disclaimer see chapter 1]

Author’s Note: Thanks for all reviews! I really appreciate them.


Chapter 11: A break


“Marital life doesn’t become you, Albus,” Severus Snape stated cooly. “Your concentration is slipping.”

“Wise cracking doesn’t becomes you, Severus,” Albus gave back, harsher as he’d actually had wanted. Taking his spectacles down and massaging the bridge of his crooked nose with two fingers he added: “It was a long day ...” Had he hoped to distract his potion master with that? Or had he even hoped for a little mercy? He should have known Severus better. He never stopped before he’d said his say and so it was this time too.

“I am not in wise cracking,” Severus said now, leaning back and crossing his long legs in the usual black trousers. “You’re looking dreadful, Headmaster. And I was wondering ...” Now he hesitated, cleared his throat and started again, his voice now warmer. “The potion, Albus. I wondered if it perhaps doesn’t agree with you ...”

“It’s not the potion, Severus,” Albus broke in, putting his spectacles back on his nose and looking weary over the pile of parchment spread over his desk. “I haven’t taken it in a while.”

“But ...,” the potion master started.

“Don’t tell me I should!” Albus crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m well aware that Lucius won’t lay low for ever. He can strike at every moment and no, Severus, I’m not to neglect my marital duties.” Albus wasn’t aware how much alike his sarcasm was to the potion master’s when in defence, but Severus noticed it and rose one elegant eyebrow.

“The girl’s going under your skin, Albus,” he said. “It seems I’m still able to underestimate a Gryffindor’s capability in nerve shattering ...”

“Oh, I don’t think they’re able to top a certain Slytherin on that,” Albus sighed. “Can we talk about our plan now?”

“Our plan?” Once the potion master’s eyebrow rose. “But of course we can talk about this insanity of yours. Only I’d like to know why we shall do it just now. I mean, I know why I’m up at this time in the night. I’m the school’s resident insomniac. But why are you fleeing the bed you share with your young wife?”

Albus sighed again. Then he rose and walked over to the perch where Fawkes slept, his head under a wing. Stroking the bird’s neck with one finger Albus said quietly: “What do you want me to confess, Severus? That I, an ancient wizard of 163 years, find it rather difficult to cope with the fact, that I’m married to an 18 year old witch? This I can easily confess because it’s the truth. But - and this may amuse or shock you - the difficulty lays not in finding her nerhatthattering, as you so unpleasant put it. My troubles are rather in the line of liking this certain Gryffindor.”

“You’re fallen in love with her?” Severus Snape sounded not shocked, but very amazed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Severus!” Albus said weary. “At my age one doesn’t fall in love anymore - and especially not with a mere child.” Albus sat down behind his desk again.

“The mere child - as you name it - is just developing one of the most interesting theories about the souof mof magic I’ve ever heard of, “ Severus said calmly. “After two weeks of working with her I have to admit, that she’s much more as a little know-it-all. She’s got a mind, Albus - and it’s a brilliant one.”

“I’ll tell her.” For a moment a smile flickering over Albus’ withered face. Sighing again, he said: “Back to this insanity of mine - do you really think we can risk Voldemort going first?”

“Albus ...” Severus rose and began to wanders through the headmaster’s office. “In the moment he’s too weak to move - and even before he never tried. His hubris doesn’t reach this far. He knows they could overpower him.”

“This, my boy, is what I start to doubt.” Albus took a lemon drop out of an inner bag of his robe, put it in his mouth and sucked thoughtfully. “Weakness in the flesh - or whatever the thing is he keeps his spirit in by now - always his hubris grow. And now even his pride is hurt. His hubris made him attack me and he certainly didn’t count on a serious drawback. So he’s probably desperate now - and this will make him more dangerous as ever.”

Severus stopped his pacing in front of the painting of the former Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black who pretended to be asleep, but couldn’t resist to glimpse now and then on the potion master. “Dangerous, desperate, mad - yes, yes, but ...,” Severus said, looking to the portrait. “What do you think, Phineas Nigellus?”

The wizard in question faked a yawn, then he opened his eyes and said: “As much as I hate to admit, Severus - I think Dumbledore’s got a point. He-who-must-not-be-named won’t get enough in ruling over the wizard’s world. He wants more - and for getting more he’ll want to get the evil.” Don’t fudge, Severus - not facing the truth won’t help you.”

“Thank you very much for your kind advise,” Severus said sarcastic and turned to Albus. “What do you think the dark lord could offer them for their alliance?”

“The same what off offer them: Acceptance,” Albus answered as if he’d talk about buying new cauldrons for the school.

“Oh Merlin’s ball!” Severus shook his head. “I’m just becoming witness to the greatest wizard alive finally going insane. I probably should call St. Mungo’s for getting you a nice, padded cell, Albus.” With both hands he ruffled through his black hair. “But let’s go back to the start, shall we. How will you find them? They’re in hiding since centuries and if not for the victims found now and then, we actually wouldn’t even know for sure, if they still exist. I mean, you can’t send an owl, addressed to ‘The prince of darkness’ and hope he’ll follows your invitation to tea and cake.”

“That’s right,” Albus admitted calmly. “But I can visit the places we think they’re close to. If I’m right with my thinking that they want to come back, then they’ll find me.”

“And if they’re not interested?” Severus asked.

“Then we’re not worse,” Albus answered. “I’d only wasted a bit time then.”

“And given Fudge a chance to get rid of you for good!” Severus came back to Albus’ desk and placed himself in the chair in front of it. “What ou tou think he’ll do when learning that you try to negotiate with them? I already can see the special edition of the ‘Daily Prophet’ with the headline: ‘Hogwarts’ Headmaster banned from the wizard’s world. See page 3, 5 and 7\' and on page 7 we’ll get Rita Skeeter’s exclusive report of the wand breaking.”

“I don’t intend to tell Fudge,” Albus smiled and looked at his wizard’s watch. “Severus, what do you think of sleeping over it now? Tomorrow we’ll have to attend the Yule ball ...,” He laughed because his potion master made a face as if he’d just got a rather severe case of toothache, “... and then the students will be gone and we can talk again in quiet and peace.”

Severus rose again and pulled his robe from the chair next to him. “I just start to get grateful for the small things, Albus - such as you didn’t invent the vampires for the Yule ball. For the moment I won’t ask for more, only ...,” a tiny smile crossed his face, “... get yourself some rest, Albus. I hate arguing with you when you look so groggy.”


Albus watched how Severus left his office, the black robe billowing around him. Slowly he rose then, waved a finger and commanded “nox” . The light on his desk went out and in the dark he turned, walking with bend shoulders to the stairs. As he just started to climb the first, a female voice said: “I didn’t want to disagree with you in front of your potion master, Albus, but you were wrong.”
“About what, dear Morgaine?” Albus asked in the direction he knows the portrait of headmistress Morgaine Lancaster was hanging.

“Not about the vampires of course,” the old witch said indignantly. “They aren’t so worse as your youths paint them. You were wrong about love, Albus.”

“Was I?” Albus smiled in the darkness.

“Yes,” the portrait said firmly. “Falling in love isn’t a question of age. Your age doesn’t prevent this rather enchanting wife of yours of falling in love with you and your age didn’t prevent you for loving her back. You’re only too pigheaded to admit it.”

“I promise I’ll think about, Morgaine,” Albus said kindly. “Good night then.”

“Sleep well, dear Albus!” the old witch answered.

As Albus climbed higher, he heard her already snore again. Reaching the gallery over his office, he tipped against a bookshelf, which opened and let him in the drawing room of the main tower where on the table in front of the fire an open book laid next to an empty glass and a half full bottle, carefully corked with a glass stopper. Albus picked up the book, reading its title: “Theory of the animagnus transformation”. Laying it back on the table, he opened the bottle, purred red vine in the glass, took it and went to the window.

He was bone-tired and he meant to feel every year of his life weightening down on his shoulders. And yet he didn’t want to go up to the bedchamber and with a bitter smile he thought of Severus: “Why are you fleeing the bed you share with your young wife?” How right Severus he’d been. Albus was over-tired because he’d fled this bed over the last days. Or, for being precise: Since Hermione and he were back from their trip to Rome.


Rome - the memory of it had become his personal nightmare. The night with Hermione - he couldn’t forgive himself for it. It didn’t help to tell himself that he’d gotten a bit too much of vine too - it hadn’t been by far enough to let him slip his control so much - and no, he didn’t regret that he’d made love to her rather wildly. This she obviously had enjoyed, being the passionate woman she was. But what he couldn’t forgive himself was how he’d fallen in the illusion and how probably he’d taken her with him for this fewrs. rs. “I love you, Albus,” she’d said - and in this moment she’d probably believed it, drunk and besotted as she was by his charade. And he’d done nothing to break the illusion, just on the contrary: He’d taken her in his arms, giving once more in to the temptation of fooling not only himself, but her too.

The punishment hadn’t waited long for to come. Awakening a few hours later in the cold light of dawn, his old body still smelling after sex, his thighs sticky from her juice and his own semen, he’d seen clear again and what he’d seen he’d despised: A lecherous old man, who’d bedded a girl - young enough to be his great-great-granddaughter, using every trick in the book for presenting himself as a true and desirable partner to her.

The sight of her young, sweet body snuggled against him - he couldn’t have thought of anything more obscene. He’d felt sick by just feeling her hand on his chest - no, even worse: What had made him so sick he’d have to run for the bathroom hadn’t been the sight of her hand, but his body’s reaction to it. He had felt the familiar prickling in his groin and for a few seconds images of Hermione, panting and screaming under him, had floated his mind and they’d made him wish - no, he couldn’t bring himself to think of it, even now he just couldn’t.

And that he couldn’t show him clearly: He wasn’t only a dirty old man, but a coward too. A coward who couldn’t stand another memory, connected to the images of the night: The sight of her pale face as she’d seen him - the real him - at this morning after they’d finally met for breakfast at the dining room of the hotel. Oh, she’d been brave, his little lioness. She’d shown herself once again a true Gryffindor, suppressing the tears and even faking a smile and trying casual chatting over croissants and coffee. Yet he hadn’t need legilimency because her eyes had betrayed her forced smile. The sadness in them was evident and so was the trembling of her hands and how she’d avoided every touch and had kept distance and he’d hated himself for his shabby attempts to make it up with persuading her to take expansive Christmas gifts - as if he wouldn’t know that she wasn’t to corrupt by his wealth. Actually it was sheer malice to try - if she’d have wanted that, she could have gotten it by marrying Malfoy. And probably - strong and clever as she was - she’d have even managed to cope with the boy and then she hadn’t needed to sleep with an old man.

At the end of their Sunday in Rome she’d been close to breaking point. He’d felt it and had finally freed her from his presence in lying about a forgotten appointment, conjuring a portkey and sending her back to Hogwarts. He himself had apparated to Knockturn alley where he’d used a disguise for entering a shabby bar, getting himself systematically and royally drunk. The last thing he remembered then was stumbling through the dirty alley and in the arms of a whore. He’d paid her for taking him to her room in a cheap brothel where he’d fallen on a dirty bed and slept until he felt at least capable to walk to an apothecary who he’d got a soberpotipotion. It had helped to clear him enough for making it back to Hogwarts, but he hadn’t been of much use there, suffering with a splitting headache and feeling thoroughly miserable.

Since then he’d buried himself in work. He’d already written the letters to the muggle born new Hogwarts pupils who were to attend school in the next summer - much to Minerva’s delight because thought 20 years of pestering him to do it “at least once not in the last moment” had now got to him. Not just so much delight he earned from Percy Weasly who obviously hadn’t thought of getting mountains of parchment with Wizengamot affairs - starting with the new regulations for portkeys (17 ½ inches of parchment) over 22 inches of associations with the Amen emn embassy to the famous “letters from public” (something normally ignored by all members of the Wizengamot and especially by Albus who was a strong believer in minor complaints working out themselves - and the few which didn’t would come back and then it was still early enough to answer them) - back before Christmas and to the amazement of his teachers who weren’t in use with the headmaster floating their offices with notes about new books, new curricula and the want of reports just before Christmas.

And now, with his desk more cleared up as it had been in ages, he’d started on developing a plan for getting the vampires - one of the most unknown quantity in the magical world, but without any doubt a very powerful, ancient force - as allies in the war against Voldemort. The reasons for wanting this he’d more then only once explained not only to Severus, but to himself too: Sooner or later Voldemort would try to get at them too - and even in not believing they were as evil as often painted, even in being convinced that the Prince of Darkness as their leader wouldn’t himself and his people belittle in becoming a tool of Voldemort, Albus didn’t want to risk anything in this special field. He’d once before fought a battle against Voldemort and been only prevented from the total defeat by the wonder which had become the-boy-who-lived, but he couldn’t hope for a second miracle. This time it had to end with Voldemort’s final defeat - and for getting a chance for it Albus Dumbledore didn’t want to risk only the slightest chance in the balance of power anymore.

So he had to negotiate with the Prince of Darkness, even if he couldn’t get more of him as the assurance that the vampires wouldn’t become involved in the war. And this made for Albus to work on a plan for the negotiations now - at least so he kept telling himself when in the middle of the night standing on his window and looking out in the dark. Yet he was aware, he was fooling himself. Being busy with research - he’d by now read probably every important book written about the subject of vampires and he’d even spent hours in talking with this predecessors of him who had experience with the dark force - was his excuse for cancelling Transfigurations lessons with Hermione and for avoiding her as much as he could.

Only it didn’t work as good as he’d hoped because there were the nights he had to spend with her. And in them fate always seemed to laugh at him. Even when he felt totally exhausted after a long night of work, even when he was so tired he’d fallen asleep over a book on his desk - what had happened twice in the last week and he’d always got a cramped and aching neck by it - as soon as he crawled in bed, sleep fled him. His body became wide awake, his senses so sharp he thought he’d hear the never sleeping ghosts roam through the Hogwarts halls, he’d feel the magic in his colleagues and students and even the ancient within the walls of the castle. And he heard and smelt and felt the young body next to him and her warmth and her soft breathing seemed to ring through his entire being like a siren’s song. It filled him with a longing he almost couldn’t bear.

Had the thought himself lucky because he didn’t need a woman’s touch anymore? Obviously he’d been wrong in this. Obviously he’d fooled himself in believing so, but this woman, this too young girl, he needed with an he he couldn’t remember ever having felt. This woman he wanted with a passion he’d even never thought of being capable of. Laying sleepless next to her, fighting with the desire for her with all the willpower he possessed, he explained to himself, that this lust probably came from her being connected to feeling young again, that his hormones playing havoc in his old body probably were a kind of “after wave” from using the potion - only all explaining, all reasoning didn’t help him much. Of course - his conscience felt at least a bit relieved by them. Lusting after a young girl because of a potion certainly felt better as lusting after her because he’d became a dirty old man. So he could sometimes at least calm his conscience a bit, but his mind and body weren’t to trick this way - especially not because the girl in question ... only to think of her new developed nig hab habits made him feel a prickle in his groin again. For one thing he by by now sure: Hermione Granger-Dumbledore was far away of being the innocent lamb Minerva thought her to be. Even in his long and rather varied history with women Albus couldn’t remember, he’d ever met such a natural talent in getting on him as Hermione had showed over the last days.

It htarttarted already on the first evening after he was back. Instead of showing him a cool shoulder for staying away all night, instead of the ranting and crying he’d almost expected, he’d got a sweet, harmless “Hello, Albus - long day?”, followed by the innocent question if he didn’t think the bedroom pretty warm? Numb as he still was from too much alcohol, too less sleep and heavy self-loathing, he’d told her - rather harsh, he remembered - that old men like him needed warmth. And Hermione, still in a skirt - and since when were her skirts this short and tight? - showing not only a pair of very nice legs, but the firm buttocks he’d remembered only too well, standing in the door to her bathroom, said - with so much honey in her voice it would have been enough to fill the Hogwarts kitchen’s stock for at least a month: “But of course. You shan’t freeze, Albus. Don’t worry about me - I’ll cope.” And coped she had - in coming to bed in a nighty so flimsy and tiny the fabric of it wouldn’t have been enough to make a handkerchief out. Jumping on the mattress cheerfully, she’d kissed his cheek with a sweet: “Good night, dear Albus sleep well” and had in fact fallen asleep - or not?

He wasn’t sure about. He only knew that he’d spent the next two hours in moving closer and closer to the bedside because sleeping - or pretending to be sleeping as the case may had been - Hermione had deposited limbs all over him and used every chance to snuggle against him. After one hour he’d laid almost on the carpet in front of the bed. By then he’d thought himself clever in rising up, wandering around the bed and crawling in again at the empty other side. It hadn’t been clever. Really not. First he’d learned that lying now on her pillow made him even more aware of her sweet fragrance and then she’d started the game anew. After another hour he’d laid against on the edge of the bed again, Hermione snuggled against him with her hand on his chest - and yes, his always sensitive nipple had remembered her ministrations very well - and her leg over his thigh, so close to his groin the slender limb hat al tou touched the half erection he’d got by then.

For getting at least a little rest, he’d finally cast a deflating charm - and because he hadn’t needed one in a century he’d used too much force by it. So for the next night he’d been at least secured - yet only by feeling as on the day almost 150 years ago as a bludger had hit him directly on his private parts which had - to quote a classmate who saw them in the shower - looked “as bright as a baboon’s arse” then. At that time he’d worried about recuperating them to full use again. This time he hadn’t had to worry long about that because in the next night Hermione’s closeness had got him the prove, that “Percival” and his cronies were still very much interested in the witch next to him. Although he really didn’t agree with them - he still was fond enough of his private parts for not trying a deflating charm again.

Instead he’d tried ignorance, distraction (working in his mind of a new curriculum for transfiguration and getting Minerva some hard work to do with it have seemed only fair to him in this moment. Minerva was a female Gryffindor too - and by now he’d felt as if he’d rather deal with all Slytherins when poisoned by a lust portion as with one, single female Gryffindor), ugly images (“Imagine Umbridge naked and chasing you, Percival!” ) and even a cold shower which had gotten his knees and shoulders such a worse case of rheumatic that by waking up he’d been close to a cry for Poppy Pomfrey - if only his knees and shoulders had been the winner in the stiffness competition. Yet it had been his cock again and dealing with an aching erection, rheumatics and Poppy Pomfrey who’d probably tell him, how “cute” a couple Hermione and he made - no, really no. He’d rather suffered through the pain until he’d manage to send Woopy to Severus for getting him a painkilling potion.

And thanks to the gods - after oong ong look over breakfast at least Severus had shown mercy and hard spared Albus the usual “You’re not a healer, so don’t dabble with medical potions” -speech.

On this morning - has it really been only yesterday? It seemed like ages now - Albus had thought he’d reached the bottom. But he’d been wrong again. It had become worse in the last night because he’d been idiotic enough to lay on his side with his back to Hermione. She’d used this position to his fullest disadvantage: Curling against his back, she’d put her mouth on his neck - just on the most sensitive spot on his hairline! - and hung an oh-so-innocent hand over his tight, so that her fingertips just touched the tip of his penis through the fabric of his nightshirt. And by doing so she’d finally broken through his defence - in the morning he’d found himself under the shower, masturbating desperately until he’d got relief - joyless and ashamed of himself.

*********************************

Standing on the landing in the festive decorated entrance hall of Hogwarts, a smile firmly plastered on his withered face, shoulders straight under the heavy red and golden dress robe, head erect and with Hermione on his arm, Albus knew that he looked again “the very model of Hogwarts great headmaster” (as Hermione had named it), only he didn’t feel so. He’d managed through another night and day, he’d even managed to pay Hermione a compliment as she’d met him in their bedroom before going to the hall - and yes, she’d deserved it and he’d been honest as he’d told her she’d look absolutely ravishing - but now he wasn’t sure if he could manage through the evening.

The Yule Ball at Hogwarts had always been a social gathering of high importance and even in times when Fudge & Co. had tried to destroy Albus’ reputation, witches and wizards had almost killed for getting an invitation. But on this evening, with the guests streaming through the great door and getting in line for becoming welcomed by him, Albus didn’t feel the pride of former years. Of course, he still loved Hogwarts with a devotion he sometimes wondered about himself and yes, he was well aware that entertaining the rich and the beautiful of the magical world made for the generous donations which allowed him to run the school as he did, but he nevertheless longed for the peace and solitude of his office. Just seating there, talking quietly to Fawkes - who’d decided this evening to show himself in the entrance hall, seating proudly, as if he’d belong to the decoration, on top of the biggest Christmas tree - Albus longed so much for it that he needed all his willpower not to run away.

Fawkes thrilled and a single, golden feather fell graciously from the tree’s top, hovering for a moment over Albus and Hermione. Then she caught it with her free hand, while the other, lying on his arm, for second pressed the fabric of his robe firmly. Still smiling and without looking to her, he whispered, hardly moving his lips, an encouraging “Lioness” and got in the same fashion a “May I hex him?” back, while Lucius Malfoy, his wife Narcissa on his arm, entered the hall. Both wore expansive dress robes after the newest fashion and their usual “Oh-it-so-boring-to-fulfil-one-social-duties” sneer while they got in line.

Albus whispered: “Only if I may hold your cloak then” and then bowed to the couple just coming up the stairs - a rather shy looking young witch, obviously another victim of the marriage law with a fat, old wizard at her side. Albus did the honours as he’d done often before on this evening - a handshake for the wizard, a courteous hand kiss and a compliment for the witch (in half a century as Hogwarts headmaster he’d got himself a rather big repertoire of variations on the subject “you look pretty”), the usual inquiry after the well-being and finally the new invention of “May I present you to my wife? Hermione, that’s Mister and Mistress Theythinkthemselvespillarsofourcommunity ...”.

And yes, he had to admit, that he rather enjoyed how some pompous old ass and their wives cringed by finding themselves presented to an 18 year old still-student girl.

By marching to this routine with the fat old wizard and his pale wife he watched out of the corner of his eyes the Malfoys. Narcissa, once in her Hogwarts days a stunning beauty, now reminded him of an ice cube - a well polished one with wearing so much jewellery even the Christmas tree with Fawkes on its top paled against her. Her husband wore black velvet as if he’d want to mock with reminding people on a death eaters costume - but even so he didn’t look as self-confident as in former years. His pale, grey eyes had for a moment in which he didn’t notice Albus’ glance on him an almost fearful expression and Albus immediately decided that he was to have a word with Severus later about Malfoy senior. Perhaps Voldemort’s last fallback had weakened Lucius’ belief in his lord and master?

Albus was determined to find out - but not now, because now he felt Hermione’s grip on his arm once again becoming firm. She was watched by - or was it starred at? - both Malfoys and for the first time on this evening Albus felt like twinkling. The look on Narcissa’s face was absolutely priceless. Albus certainly didn’t need legilimency - he could see how Narcissa Malfoy estimated the value of Hermione’s Parisian dress robe and the jewellery she wore. Albus felt once again proud of Hermione - and grateful to a certain Virginia Weasley. Knowing both girls Albus was sure, that Ginny’s sense of style had helped to make the pretty girl Hermione was to the breath taking beauty on his arm. Probably it had been Ginny’s idea to make Hermione wear her necklace as a band in her open hair (tamed and silkened by a potion) with the big opal lying on her forehead. Hermione looked like a precious, exotic princess with it and Albus knew for sure: Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t the only person who saw Hermione as the sensation of the evening. He thought so himself, he’d seen the look of wonderment in Severus’ eyes, he’d heard Ron Weasley shout a “Whow - Hermione looks cool” all over the stairs and he’d crossed Minerva with the advise “Get a grip at yourself” as she’d almost cried in delight by seeing Hermione approach.

Now the next guests marched in the hall and Albus suppressed a sigh. Courtesy demanded he’d now step down at least to the middle of the stairs to welcome Minister Cornelius Fudge who - flanked to his left by Dolores Umbridge, looking like a toad after a failed transfiguration (Albus could almost hear Minerva: “No, Miss Umbridge, you won’t receive a mark for that. I’ve said you should change the toad in a goblet. I didn’t say you should give it pink fur”) and on his right by his wife, so grey and mousy that Albus sent a warning glance up at Fawkes (“No, Fawkes - a minister’s spouse is neither a dish for a phoenix nor for a falcon!” ). Fudge boomed a “Am I late? Sorry for that - as your minister of magic I’m always heavily in demand” and looked around as if he’d expect all other guests to sink down on their knees for praising him.

Yet behind Fudge & Co. Albus saw another couple, certainly not as glorious as the Malfoys, but with their beaming they sent a rush of warmth to Albus. Making eye contact with Molly Weasley - she always was bit quicker and thinking and reacting as her sometimes very dreamy Arthur - he bent to Hermione: “Let’s walk down to welcome the minister.”

Together they marched down the stairs to the landing in their middle, in the same time Fudge, his wife and Umbridge came up, closely followed by Arthur and Molly Weasley. Once again the ceremonial took its way: Bending, greeting, paying a compliment to Mrs Fudge (though not to Umbridge - even Albus’ courtesy didn’t reach this , pr, presenting Hermione (with the sudden wish to dismember Fudge who almost slobbered by looking deeply in her cleavage), then turning and walking with them up again, yet by doing so Albus managed to fall back a bit with Hermione, so that they could welcome the Weasleys and accompany them to the upper landing. Arriving there again, Albus turned and provided the Malfoys with a smile so innocent and harmless Lucius really became irritated. Once again Albus didn’t need magic to know, that Lucius in fact wasn’t sure if he’d just had become affronted by purpose or if Albus “the doddering old fool” simply had for a moment forgotten his manners.

To be continued