A Winter Tale

A Winter Tale


By: Max

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

[Disclaimer see chapter 1]

Chapter 12: The ball and the boy who lived to save the day


The ball was in full swig and obviously it was once again a success with the guests and students and teachers of Hogwarts amusing themselves immensely and after Severus - who wasn’t much entertained by the music the “Wicked Witches” were playing, but obviously liked watching the Malfoys struggle to keep up with showing manners while they surely wished to hex at least 99 % of those present - had taken over from Harry in once again saving Hermione out of the claws of a certainly too amused minister of magic, Albus could give himself at least a moment’s rest. Taking a goblet with champagne from one of the trays hovering along the walls of the great hall, he sank down in one of the chairs at the round table under the big Christmas tree, stretching his long legs and wriggling his toes in the polished black shoes he was wearing. Know that he were to stand to dto dance through a long night, he’d of course provided himself with a cushion charm on his feet, but by now it seemed to have wore off and so his old feet were aching.

Looking to the dance floor in the middle of the hall he watched Hermione waltzing in the arms of his potion master and although Severus wore his usual black - admittedly he’d made concessions to the event in changing the plain teaching robes with a velvet dress robe, the high collar embroidered with tiny, silver snakes and binding his hair back in a neatly pony tail. By no means a handsome man, Severusked ked now rather good in a dark, patrician way. And with gracious moving, smiling, dashing Hermione in his arm - Albus was convinced that even Filch would have looked glorious with her as a dancing partner - Severus was a sight. And now she rose her head, looked in Severus’ eyes and he whispered something in her ears - Albus didn’t need expendable ears to know that it was probably something pretty malicious towards the minister - and Hermione laid her head back, laughing and showing not only Severus, but Albus her throat - creamy white skin, so silken one meant to see her red blood running through it. It didn’t need more - in the moment Albus saw her throat, the misery he’d pushed in the darkest corner of his mind over the last hours, so well hidden that he’d almost managed to forget about, was back.

He remembered - and oh, how well he remembered! - how this throat of hers felt under his lips, he remembered the warmth and the pulsing of the blood on it and the sweet smell and the salty taste of her sweat and the sound she’d made as kissed her then, something between a whimper, a moan and a chuckle. And he remembered how her young body felt against his, the wonderful, torturing pressure of her firm breasts against his chest and her flat belly against his round one - and damn him, he’d never should have allowed her to kiss him when he was in his old body! It would have been bad enough to live with the memory of Hermione and his younger body, but it was agony to remember that she in Rome had kissed him passionately as he’d been his true self, the old man with the weak, softened body. To live with this memory without storming to the dance floor, throwing her away from Severus and pushing her in the next dark corner he only managed in telling himself once again, that she’d only done so because she’d been drunk and in the dark. She hadn’t seen him by this kiss; she hadn’t been aware that her lips were on a mouth so old and weathered like his.

Suddenly Albus heard a voice rubbing down on his nerves like sandpaper. Cornelius Fudge had approached the table, seating himself down next to Albus, a glass with fire whiskey in his hand and a fake as false as Leprauchon’s gold in his face. “If I were in your shoes, Dumbledore,” he said, “I wouldn’t let my young wife dance so close with a former death eater.”

Albus forced his features back in the benevolent smile he mostly used when talking to Fudge and he even managed to produce a twinkle before he answered: “You wouldn’t like being in my shoes, Cornelius. Especially the left one is just becoming rather tight.”

Fudge laughed as if Albus would just have told him an obscene joke, then he leaned closer, his breath smelling after the fire whiskey. “You rather surprised us with this marriage of yours. Who’d have thought you’re such a dog, getting yourself such a toothsome sweetheart to bed. A head girl for the headmaster - tell me, Dumbledore: Who’s giving who head then?”

It was probably an one time moment in the history of Hogwarts and - as Albus thought immediately - one Severus Snape would have dwelled in happily for a century to come if he’d have witnessed it: Cornelius Fudge, minister of magic and proven pain in every British wizards arse, had truly and really managed to get Albus Dumbledore at a loss for words. For a few seconds he could only stare at the minister, unable to belief what he’d just heard. And then, as he found himself thinking about a real nasty tongue swelling jinx, perhaps connected with a big furuncle on Fudge’s thick bottom he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice gently speaking his name.

“Albus?” The cavalry had came to his rescue - in form of Hermione, flanked by Severus who smirked down on Fudge as if he were something Filch’s cat Miss Norris had pulled out of a dirty corner.

Albus managed a “Yes, my dear?” which sounded hoarse even to himself and rose up.

Hermione led her hand slid down from his shoulder to his arm, but didn’t look at him, but smiled to Fudge, showing her perfect teeth by it in a way every model in a toothpaste advertisement would have been proud of and said: “Minister, I hope I’m not interrupting something important, but I’ve longed all evening to get my husband for a dance - and with the band just playing our song ... would you kindly excuse us?” And without waiting for an answer from fuddled Fudge, she took Albus’ hand, purred a “Please, Darling” and pulled her husband with her to the dance floor.

“I didn’t know we have a song,” Albus said, reaching there and taking Hermione in his arms.

“We’ve just got one,” Hermione smiled in his eyes. Wearing high heels, she was for once almost as tall as he was and her mouth almost touched his by speaking. “Albus? May I hold your cloak while you hex him? You’ve just looked as if he’d said the naughtiest thing thinkable.”

“He did.” Albus started to dance. “And you’ve just saved”
”

“... his sorry arse?” Hermione finished the line for him, moving graciously through a rotation in his arms. “I actually only did because Severus begged me to.”

Albus felt a pang of jealousy as he heard her use the potion master’s given name so casually. Probably Fudge had once in his life been right about something? Albus swallowed, forced a smile again - by now the muscles in his face were already aching - and said: “I actually never thought of Severus as the merciful type. Especially not when it comes to me suffering at Fudge’s impertinence.”

“It wasn’t mercy, Albus. It was sheer egoism,” Hermione chuckled. “He said he’d loathe me to slobber all over my potions because you’re in Azkaban. Besides he’s afraid of what Harry and I would do to get you out there.”

“Hmm - I’d like to know. It would be worth a few days in a cell, I think,” Albus answered - and cursed himself in the same moment. Hadn’t he sworn himself he wouldn’t flirt with her anymore? He knew only too well where this lead - and loo, they were already on this road again with Hermione laying her cheek on his, moving closer and whispering:

“But I would miss you - even for a few nights.”

“I’m sure you’d get yourself comforted quickly,” he heard himself answering - and couldn’t believe he’d really said that. Her back under his hand tensed and he felt how her entire body became rigid. “Hermione ...” He started, feeling more ashamed of himself as he could remember for all his life. “I am ...”

“No, Albus Dumbledore!” Hermione interrupted his lame attempt to apologize. “You’ve said quite enough for one night.” Her voice had became a bit louder by saying the last words and he broke in:

“Hermione, please - we’re in public!”

“Don’t you worry, Headmaster!” Now her voice was a whisper - a deadly, cold whisper. “I won’t disgrace you - or me - in making a scene in public. I even won’t make you one in private. But I’d be very grateful if you’d spare me your company until I’ve cooled down enough to resist the urge to hex you into the next year.”

Her eyes blazed with a fury which made Albus swallow what he’d just wanted to say. And now she didn’t dance anymore and he couldn’t do otherwise as bowing to her - the only chance to make her departure look as if in agreement with her. Watching for a second her back as she swept to the table where Harry, Ginny and Ron sat, he finally turned himself and walked over to the Weasley’s table. Arthur was deep in conversation with his neighbour Alastor Moody while his always ebullient Molly looked longingly to the dance floor, her foot clapping lightly in tact with the music. With all willpower Albus possessed he forced a smile and lied to her: “Hermione just reminded me that I haven’t danced with you yet - what’s quite a shame. So would you do me the honour?”

Considered that he’d just insulted the girl Molly saw as her second daughter, he wouldn’t wondered to become rebuked by her, but for his luck Molly hadn’t noticed Hermione’s rathuickuick exit. So she beamed at him - so full of trust and affection he almost blushed - and sprang to her feet. Laying her hand on the arm he offered her, she said: “I’d love to dance with you, Albus” and walked with him to the dance floor.

They waltzed through the first steps of a slow dance and despite the self-hatred Albus suffered with - it was comforting to feel warm, motherly Molly close to him. Yet as she started to talk, misery hit him once again because her first words were: “Hermione looks so lovely tonight! I’ve always thought her a wonderful girl, but now she’d become a beauty too.” And with the frankness he’d always liked on her, she proceeded: “And it’s amazing how she keeps up with the situation. It can’t be easy for her. I mean - don’t get me wrong, Albus: You’re a wonderful man too, but ...”

“... I’m old enough to be her great-great-grandfather,” Albus said calmly after Molly had fallen silent, “and under other circumstances Hermione would never had married me, but probably your youngest son.”

To his surprise Molly shook her head. “I don’t think so, Albus. I love Ronald as I love all my children and I’m very proud of him, but I’m not one of the mothers so befuddled with their brood, they can’t see them for what they really are. Ron would never have been a match for Hermione. What she needs is somebody who’s able to stand up to her, somebody she respects.” Squeezing his hand lightly, she smiled and said: “She could have been served worse then with you, Albus. And you know ...,” she sunk her voice to almost a whisper, “... as we entered the hall this night and I saw her stand there, next to you ...”

“You became aware again that we’re a very odd couple - she just starting to bloom and I ...” His tone had become so furious, he ha sto stop himself. Shouting at the dance floor wouldn’t do, it would only add to his embarrassment.

“Albus!” Molly sounded shocked. Looking up to him, she took a deep breath, then she said her voice almost as crisp as Minerva’s when rebuking a pupil: “This was not what I wanted to say! And his even was not what I thought.” Now she spoke gentle again, almost like a mother comforting her child: “She loves you, Albus. It’s in her eyes whenever she looks at you.”

Albus fell out with the tact of the music, almost stepping on Molly’s toes, bracing himself for force he said: “I beg your pardon, Molly.” Both knew he didn’t mean his dancing, but Molly Weasley had never been a witch to been stopped this easily.

Quietly, but firmly she said: “Is this why you never married before, Albus? Because you can’t believe in being loved?”

Albus suppressed a sigh. It hadn’t been a good idea to ask Molly for a dance. It was obviously not his day with ladies, especially not with ladies so strong and stubborn as Hermione Granger and Molly Weasley. Once again he wished himself back in the solitude of his office, but because he couldn’t escape, he said with forced calm: “Molly, the girl is just 18 years old. At this age a girl doesn’t know what love means.”

For a moment the witch in his arms was silent and he started to hope she’d spare him further comments to the subject, but then she opened her mouth again. “I was 14 when I’ve fallen in love with Arthur.”

“Who’s only two years your se,” A,” Albus reminded her.

“This is not the point, Albus. The point is: I was four years younger then Hermione as I fell in love - and this love still lasts. After almost 30 years and six children I still love Arthur as I loved him in being a 14 year old girl in Hogwarts. And if this isn’t enough for you - look at my daughter! Would you belittle her love for Harry in saying ‘She’s just 17\'? Do you really believe that Hermione’s feelings for you aren’t more as a silly schoolgirl’ssh? sh? Then you’re not the man I took you for.”

Once again this evening he had to sink his head, saying: “I’m sorry.”

Once again the witch in his arms didn’t forgive him. With a severe: “You really should be!” which made him feel like a rebellious toddler, Molly Weasley energetic took the lead in their dancing, shoved him back to the table where her husband sat, got out of his embrace and sat down with a curt: “Thanks for the dance, Headmaster.”

And once again he only could bow and walk away, but this time he made straight to the bar where Dobby, the free house elf, wearing not only socks, short and shirt, but five hats as a sign for being free, sd thd the strong drinks. Albus ordered himself a glass of fire whiskey, emptied it with one gulp and ordered Dobby to refill it again. As he just set it at his lips he heard the silken voice of his potion master.

“Don’t you want to dance with Minerva, Albus?”

“Oh, thanks.” Albus drank the fire whiskey and hold the glass to Dobby again. “I think I’m done with dancing this night.”

“Pity.” Severus’ black eyes glittered. “You could have broken my record, you know? Even I never managed to piss off more then two Gryffindor ladies in one night.” Raising his glass he made a mock bow to his headmaster. “Slainthe, Albus!”


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

The phoenix flied a capriole. Rolling around himself in the cold air of the winter night, he sailed a m a moment on his back, chirping cheerfully. Then he turned around again and, beating his wings twice, increased over the falcon that glided slowly down to the dark form which was the Hogwarts school of Wizardry and Witchcraft. Landing on the stone rail at the balcony of the Astronomy Tower, he sat there for a moment quietly, his wing only half closed, the tip of the left touching the stone beneath him as if he’d try to brace it ther
T
The phoenix hooted - a soft and soundound, almost human. The falcon looked up to him out of his sharp black eyes and for a moment it looked as if he were to take flight again, but then, opening his wings only half, he let himself fall down on the balcony, where he changed to a tall wizard with a long, silver mane and a beard reaching the buckle of his red and gold robe.

The phoenix still hovered over the tower and now his chirp sounded disappointed. Albus looked up to him. “Go playing, Fawkes!” he said tely. ly. “I’m sure Buckbeak would enjoy a ride with you.”

Another chirp, sounding like a farewell, then Fawkes began to increase again over the tower until he wasn’t more as a tiny golden spot moving between the stars. Albus who’d watchem gom go, sank his head then and pulled his robe closer. Actually he’d wanted to fly from the Astronomy Tower to the Main Tower, but now he felt not only too tired for dealing with the tricky winds over the Hogwarts roofs and grounds, but too weary for changing too. He was even so exhausted he hoped he would perhaps on his way back to the Main Tower come across the room of requirement to find a bed there where he could fall in soft oblivion. He was sure: This night he could have slept next to Hermione - only this was not an option because she’d made pretty clear that she didn’t want him next to her. So if the room of requirement wouldn’t show up, it would have to be the sofa in the living room.

Albus almost smiled by thinking of it. He remembered a few nightly visits from Augustus McGonagall, looking sheepishly and saying: “Would you mind if I would sleep on your sofa? I’m afraid I’m crossed Minerva ...” And once, during a Christmas break, Albus had found Arthur Weasley on a sofa in Grimmault Placcauscause Molly had after an argument kicked him out of the bedroom they shared. Perhaps, Albus thought, the point “able and willing to sleep on sofas sometimes” was one of the demands female Gryffindors had on their “what is to be expected from a husband” -list?

He yawned and made for the door. As he just laid his hand on the cold handle, he heard a voice: “Good evening, Professor Dumbledore - or should I say, good morning, Headmaster?” On the little niche next to the door sat Harry, his back against the wall, his legs on the bench, and arms around his knees.

Albus smiled tiredly to him. “Considered it’s still dark and we both haven’t seen our beds yet, I’d say ‘Goodnight, Albus, I’m on my way to bed’ would do best,” he answered. “What are you doing up there in the middle of the night, Harry?”

“I’ve had a row with Ginny,” the boy said quietly.

“So you’re in need of a sofa?” Albus said and shook his head then. “Sorry, Harry - private joke.”

Harry didn’t seem to have heard. Calmly he said: “It was about you, Headmaster.”

Albus sighed, said farewell to his hope for finding a bed in the next five minutes, provided the boy and himself with a quick warming spell and lent against the wall next to Harry. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t think I’m a good subject for young lovers to quarrel about.”

“Oh, but you are. You are actually our favourite subject to argue about,” Harry gave back, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Ginny still adores you.”

Actually, Albus thought, it was quitnny nny how alike Harry and Severus were. They were so alike it was probably the main reason they couldn’t stand each other. Yet telling Harry this wouldn’t help - on the contrary. Probably he’d become even more angry then. So Albus swallowed a comment. Fate really didn’t like him much this days. He had put the point “Talk with Harry” on his agenda for the Christmas break and by doing so he’d hoped fiercely to break through the barricade from guilt and disappointment standing between Harry and him, but he’d wished to have this talk in his office over tea and not standing on the Astronomy Tower in the middle of a cold winter night when he felt already a complete and utter idiot. Yet he’d learned that delaying a Gryffindor only add to troubrouble - their typical mixture from courage and hot temper made mostly for boiling rages when they were tried too long. So Albus resigned in his fate, saying calmly: “So you want to see Virginia Weasley the light - or, better said, the dark about me?”

“Yes, Headmaster.” Harry’s voice was as chilly as the wind. “I want her to see the truth before she becomes hurt by you too.”

“And you, Harry, are the keeper of the truth?” Albus asked, cautiously keeping his voice down and calm.

The boy - no, young man because by now he wasn’t a child any longer - looked back at him and his dark eyebrows almost became one straight line. “You know, Headmaster, sometimes I think in your case the sorting hat was wrong. You’d have made a perfect Slytherin with your cunning and scheming and using people as pawns in the game you are playing with an arrogance matching Voldemort’s.”

Albus crossed his arms over his chest. “No, Harry, the sorting hat wasn’t wrong in my case for I was a Slytherin.”

If he’d thrown a bomb it couldn’t have worked better. Harry jumped on his feet, standing in front of the headmastAlthAlthough grown up over the last years to what was probably his full height, he wasn’t as tall as Albus, and therefore he’d to raise head for looking up in his eyes. “You are a ...,” he shouted.

“ ... Slytherin,” Albus finished calmly. “Indeed, I am. And I’ve never denied it.”

“But you never told it either!” Harry accused him.

“Harry, I’m the headmaster of Hogwarts. That means I’m to stand above the houses and their rivalry,” Albus tried to explain.

“Oh yes. Standing above is something you’re damn good at!” Harry looked as if he’d like to jump on Albus, fighting him with his fists. “You’re always above - above so meaningless things as the cupboard under the stairs you made me live in for years, much above about Sirius’ misery as you judged him to be stuck in a house he hated. You were even above his death. He was a pawn in your game - and who are you to care for the fates of your pawns?” He came closer, his eyes blazing with fury lon long harboured grudge. “Tell me, Headmaster: Why do we fight Voldemort? I don’t believe in your high morale motives any more. I don’t believe you do it for saving the light.”

Albus sank his head, looking down for a moment to his feet. He was so tired! But perhaps this was good so because it made for hearing Harry’s word, but only feeling a numb pain by them. Breathing deeply, he asked - and he sounded by it as if he would talk about quidditch tact“You“You think it’s abouabout power?”

“You’re a Slytherin, aren’t you?” Harry gave back and laughed hollowly. “I’ve always felt it.”

Albus nodded. Then he sat down on the bench Harry had used before. “As I was in school here, I’ve had two friends - Edward and Elizabeth. We were so close with each other as Ronald, Hermione and you ...”

Harry shifted. “I don’t think I’m interested in your antics, Headmaster,” he said angrily. “Distraction won’t work this time.”

“I’m not to distract you, Harry,” Albus’ voice became a bit sharper. “Yet I insist of the accused’s right to defend himself before becoming judged! Therefore you’ll kindly hear me out.” Calm again he proceeded: “Back to my friends - who were Slytherins like me. Elizabeth was one of the kindest persons I’ve ever met in my life and Edward only wanted to become a powerful wizard - which he was - to defene wee weak. It was them who helped me to defeat Grindelwald and without them I could never had managed. Yet Edward died in the battle - he sacrificed himself by saving young Minerva McGonagall. But Edward left back a wife and a young son. This son’s name was Harold Edward Albus Potter and as far as I’m informed, you’re named after him. He was your grandfather. And by the way: Harry Potter I was a Slytherin too - and he died only a few weeks before you were born as one of the patients he tend to in St. Mungos - a victim of Voldemort - went wild and attacked him. Do you want to learn more about Slytherins? Especially Potters in Slytherin? In the generation before mine there were once four of them at the same time in Slytherin ...”

For a moment Harry fell silent. Then he asked quietly: “What became from my great grandfather’s sister Elizabeth? She isn’t alive anymore?”

“No, she isn’t. If she were she’d surely raised you. Elizabeth died as she gave birth in the age of 52 to her only son. She knew she wouldn’t make it through a birth because Grindelwald had weakened her. But Lilibeth always was very Potter-ish: Stubborn and brave. She wanted to provide the man she loved with what she thought he’d wish more as anything else: An heir. Unfortunately she was wrong - as Potters sometimes are when making lonely decisions. What Agrippa really would have wanted was to life with Elizabeth. So he was never able to forgive his son that he had caused his mother’s death and so your grand uncle Tiberius became a unhappy man himself who made the childhood of his only son Severus a living hell.”

“Severus as in Severus Snape?” Harry panted as he’d done a run. “You don’t want to tell me that I’m related to him!”

“But you are, Harry,” Albus stated quietly. “All pureblood families - and the Potters are a rather old one - are related. Even we are related. My younger sister Athena was your great-grandmother.”

“Don’t say she was a Slytherin too!” Harry once again sounded like the potion master he detested so much.

“She wasn’t. She was a Gryfor,”or,” Albus said.

“At least one decent member of the family,” Harry snorted and turned to the rail.

“Is it really so simple, Harry?” Albus rose and stepped to the young man. “All Gryffindors are kind and decent and brave and good and all Slytherins are evil? I thought by now you’ve become a bit more adult and able to see through such simplicities.”

“Perhaps ...” Harry turned around, facing the headmaster again. “I’ll become adult on the day you stop treating me as a child?” Breathing deeply he proceeded: “You know, Headmaster, the reason for my row with Ginny was, that she’d almost succeeded in persuading me to forgive you. She told me again and again, that I’m unfair in expecting omnipotence from you, that you were - though she’d be the last person to underestimate you - in the end only human too and that as a human you’d deserve a second chance. She’d really was close to get me ...” He fell silent, looking again away from Albus and down at the grounds.

“And what do you think I did wrong?” Albus asked.

Harry gripped the rails so hard his knuckles paled. “You repeated the mistake, Headmaster,” he whispered. “You remember telling me it would have been a mistake not to trust me, Headmaster?”

“Yes, I do,” Albus answered. “And I remember I told you too that I regret it.”

“No, Headmaster, you don’t.” Harry turned around again, his robe billowing. “You don’t care a fucking damn about!” he shouted. “You prove on a daily base that you couldn’t care less, that other people still aren’t more to you as pawns! You didn’t learn from your mistake because you think yourself above learning! And you know ...,” once again his voice became quiet and icy, “... I’ve actually learned to live with being your tool and future pet killer. I must admit I didn’t like much to find myself in the same league as your pet death eater spy Snape, but as I’ve said: I’ve come in use with it. But I won’t come in use with Hermione becoming your victim too.”

Albus wondered how he managed to make it back to the bench to sank down on it. He’d knew that Harry didn’t trust him anymore, he’d even knew that the boy couldn’t forgive him his godfather’s death, but once again the difference between academic knowledge and experienced emotions hit him so hard he feared to break down with. He took up his spectacles and hiding hace ace in his hands, he felt tears burning in his eyes. “I didn’t marry Hermione because I wanted it,” he tried to defend himself.

“Oh, I know!” Harry’s voice was cold. “And you don’t fail to remember her on this on a daily base, do you? Probably a Hermione always aware that you actually don’t think her good enough for being your wife, is easier to handle. Yet the biggest cruelty against her is, that you - I don’t know how and I don’t want to learn about - first managed to make her fall in love with you and now, when she’s vulnerable, you dance on her heart in nailed boots. I start to think she’d been better off with marrying Malfoy, you know? With him she’d knew that she’d have to watch her back.”

For a few, heavy lasting seconds neither of them said a word and their breathing - Harry’s deep and long, Albus’ rather short and struggled - was the only sound in the quiet winter night. Finally Albus’ voice - hardly more then a whisper - broke the silence. “I’ve obviously forgotten that being young means often being merciless too.”

“Is Hermione merciless against you, Headmaster?” Harry asked.

Albus considered for a moment, his head still in his hands. “Yes,” he said then, “Yes - in a way she is. She expects what I can’t give her.”

“You can’t?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t, Headmaster?” he repeated then. “I think you could if only you would want to, if only you would learn from your mistake with me.” His voice became quiet again. “You know, I’ve always thought it’s all about me - weak, miserable, failing me - that you’re not willing to trust. I could have forgiven you that. But now we’re talking about Hermione - brilliant, strong Hermione, the girl who was in her first Hogwarts year clever enough to solve Snape’s potion puzzle, the girl who found out about the basilisk as she was a second year, the girl who made it through death eater attacks and the death of her parents with only becoming stronger then weak. We’re talking about a girl who was not only brave enough to marry you, but even managed to reach out over the age cleft of almost 150 years to love you. Why can’t you trust her?”

Once again Albus didn’t answer immediately. And once again Harry became impatient and almost started to speak again, but in the same moment Albus said: “First: I never thought you weak and failing, Harry. Believe me or not, but I’ve always adored your strength. Second: I’m well aware that Hermione is a very special person and probably the strongest witch Hogwarts had seen in centuries. But you’re wrong in one point: Hermione doesn’t love me. At least not the me you see in front of you. Hermione has fallen in love with an illusion - an illusion I made up in the belief it would help her. For this you can and shall blame me, but I doubt you can do more as I do myself.” He looked up to Harry, his old eyes burning with tears. “I can’t remember I’ve ever felt so complete and utterly lost. I don’t know what to do anymore, I have neither a plan nor an idea how to get her and myself out of this misery, I even don’t know how to make it through the next encounter with her. I’m at my wits end, Harry.”

His words seemed to touch Harry. Still suspicious, but not sounding hateful, he asked: “What have you done, Headmaster?”

Albus swallowed, keeping his voice as neutral as possible as he confessed: “If you’d ask me a few days before, I’d said: I wanted to spare Hermione doing her ‘marital duty’ ...,” he almost spat the word out, “...with an old man. But by now I have to think that I probably wanted to spare me the humiliation of raping a girl who’s repulsed by me. So I used a potion which changes my appearance for a few hours. With doing so I created an illusion Hermione fell victim to. I’ve fooled her, Harry - and I’ve fooled myself too, not only in the belief this could work, but ...” He fell silent, once again struggling for breath and fighting against tears.

“Headmaster ...” Harry sat down on the bench next to him and for a little moment he touched Albus’ bend shoulders. “This potion - was it something like polyjuice?”

Albus actually thought such details rather unimportant, but now he’d chose honesty, so he answered: “Not exactly. Polyjuice changes the user to another person’s appearance. The potion I drank changed mine ...” Seeing that Harry still didn’t grasp it, he added: “I became my younger self - Albus Dumbledore in his middle thirdies.”

“But then ...,” Harry stroke through his hair, looking absolutely puzzled. “I fail to understand the problem, Professor Dumbledore,” he said then. “I mean, Hermione knows about the potion, doesn’t she?”

“Of course she does,” Albus answered. His tiredness was even worse by now and he feared to break down on Harry’s shoulder. Yawning he almost didn’t hear Harry starting anew.

“Headmaster, you are underestimating Hermione!” The boy said very firmly. “Let me ask you one personal question, may I?”

If Albus hadn’t been so utterly exhausted, he’d probably laughed. After all what Harry had said, this respectful inquiry sounded more then strange. “You may,” he said.

“Do you ...,” Harry seemed to search for words. Clearing his throat he tried again: “I mean - do you like her - Hermione, that is.”

Despite his weariness Albus managed to produce a little smile. “Of course I do, Harry. I’d even say it’s more as liking her. I care for her and ...” Now he was searching for words.

“You’re fond of her?” Harry offered.

“Yes,” Albus nodded. “I certainly am fond of her.”

“Then ...” Harry smiled and even through the haze Albus could recognize that this was a genuine smile, “... you’re talking to the wrong person, Headmaster.” Becoming serious again, he said: “Please, Professor Dumbledore: Trust Hermione. Talk with her. Tell her what you’ve told me. Give her and you a chance to solve your problems. You know, Ginny kept telling me I could only solve my problem with you in talking to you. I think it’s the same with Hermione and you.”

“Have you solved your problem with me, Harry?” Albus fought to keep his eyes open.

“I think ...” Harry hesitated and looked for a moment to the sky. Then he said: “Not entirely. But I feel better. And you will feel better if you talk with Hermione, Headmaste

“Probably you’re right, Harry,” Albus said slowly. He couldn’t think anymore, he hardly could speak; he only wanted to sink down and to sleep.

“Will you try then?” Harry asked.

Albus fought another wave of exhaustion, nodding slowly then. “I promise I will ...” He thought of saying something about going to bed now, of telling Harry he should get some rest too crossed his mind, but he was too tired for forming words and opening his mouth again.

“Headmaster?” Harry looked at him, then he shook his head. “Ginny and Hermione are going to kill me,” he said quietly and then, louder, once again: “Headmaster? Professor Dumbledore?”

“Sorry ...” Albus voice was thick with sleep. “I only need a moment’s rest, then ...”

“I don’t think so.” Harry rose and took Albus’ arm, pulling him gentle, but firmly up. “I don’t think I’d survive Ginny’s and Hermione’s rage if I would let you sleep here. So let’s get you in your bed.”

Stumbling almost in the threshold, Albus tried to kick himself out of the stupor his mind were in, but couldn’t get himself to do more then shuffling down the chairs and through the hall, led and supported by Harry. And Albus was glad for the help - he knew he wouldn’t have managed the way without the young man.

As they reached the spiral staircase, Albus almost slept on his feet, leaning hard on Harry, who laid his arm around the headmaster’s middle section and said, by now almooundounding amused: “I take it your bedchamber is above the living rooms?”

“ .... mione doesn’t want me the...” Albus murmured.

Harry shook again his head. “She won’t hex you while you’re out,” Harry promised. “She prefers her victim conscious.”

A few seconds later they arrived at the door of the bedroom. Harry knocked and called: “Hermione? Are you there? I’ve got something here what actually belongs to ...” He didn’t come to finish, because Hermione opened the door, wearing her teddy bear pyjamas and looking rather young with her tussled hair. Seeing her husband hanging on her best friend’s shoulder, she paled. “What happened? What did you do to Albus?” she cried. “Is he injured?”

Albus actually was sleeping, but her terrified voice he heard. Forcing his eyes open, he muttered: “Don’t worry - I’m fine!” fixed the bed and tried to shuffle there, but once again he stomped and would have landed flat on his face if Hermione hadn’t caught him.

“My, my,” she said, helping him to bed where he immediately fell down, “if this condition is your fine one, I really hope I’ll never get to see you feeling bad.”

Albus didn’t answer. In the moment his head had hit the pillow, he’d fallen in the deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. Hermione turned around to Harry with both her hands braced at her sides and her eyes blazing. She looked like Molly Weasley in preparing to give her men folk one of her famous dressing downs. “What have you done to him?” she demanded to know. “Did you get him drunk?”

“He isn’t drunk! And I didn’t do ...” Harry blushed, just remembering how hard he’d been against the old man. “We met on the Astronomy Tower and it was dark and I didn’t see he was so groggy,” he started to defend himself, sinking his head and awkwardly shuffling his feet.

“And you couldn’t imagine that he, a man of 163 years, wouldn’t be fit as a fiddle after such a long day?” Hermione said accusatory, bending over Albus and taking his spectacles up. “Did you have an argument with him?”

“Hmm,” Harry nodded. “You know, I saw you leaving earlier on the ball, looking as you’d start to cry as soon as in private and ...”

“... you decided to fight my fights for me?” Hermione shouted.

“No, Hermione. It was my fight - as good as it yours!” Harry raised his head and looked her directly in the eyes. “I think I should leave now.”

“Don’t you dare, Harry Potter!” Here sae sat down on the bedside, pulling Albus’ wand from his sleeve and laying it on the night stand. “First you’ll help me to get my husband undressed. He can’t sleep with shoes and in his dress robe!” She began to open the buttons on Albus robe.

“Hermione ...” Harouldouldn’t resist a grin. “May I remind you you’re a witch? So why don’t you try some magic?”


To be continued …