Much Ado about Nothing

Much Ado about Nothing


By: Max

[Disclaimer: see chapter 1]

Chapter 13: Some like it hot


Still half sleeping Hermione turned around in the huge bed, her hand searching for the firm, warm form of her lover. The last three mornings waking up had been wonderful because she’d found Albus next to her and her days had started with snuggling to him and with soft kisses and tender caresses. Even with her Albus wasn’t much of a morning person - he always needed some time before he felt ready to face the day. But he liked cuddling and Hermione found it cute, how he purred when she cradled his head against her breast and combed her fingers through his tussled hair.

But this morning - her last before she’d leave for Venice - he didn’t lay next to her. Grumbling disappointed, Hermione opened her eyes and rose up. “Albus?”

“Yes?” He stood at the French window to the balcony, his hair falling down over his bare back. On his right shoulder blade Hermione saw a scrap - she’d left it there the night before by their passionate love making.

Climbing out of bed she walked over to him, laying her arms around him, shoving his hair to the side and blowing a kiss on his neck. “Good morning, my love,” she whispered.

He took her right hand, pulled hers to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Good morning, Hermione.” His voice sounded sad and serious.

“Huh?” Hermione shook her head. She had decided not to become sentimental about leaving. For the next three years she would have to live with bearing a few days of separation from him rather often and she didn’t intend to spoil their precious time together with complaining and whining about it. “Are we a bit melancholic this morning?” she teased him.

He sighed and turned around, his face grave and a bit pale. “Hermione, I didn’t sleep much last night,” he said. “I thought about us and the last three days …”

His eyes were almost grey in the cold light of the morning and there was something in his gaze which made Hermione suddenly feeling chilly. Becoming awar her her nakedness, she reached for her dressing gown which hung over the settee in front of the fire place. Slipping in, she asked: “What’s the matter, Albus?” And, in an attempt to lighten the mood and to drive the fear away she suddenly felt, she added: “Your thinking didn’t lead you to the result that three days with me are already more than enough, did it?”

Now he was reaching for his dressing gown too. Wrapping himself in the flamboyant blue and golden silk he marched over to the bed. He put his spectacles up, but didn’t look at Hermione, but sat down, head and shoulders bent.

“Albus?” Hermione swallowed. She was afraid - something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

“I’m sorry, Hermione.” He still didn’t look at her, but studied his hands. “I wouldn’t have expressed it like that, but actually - you’ve hit the nail on the head, as always. Three days have to be enough.”

“What?” Hermione didn’t understand. “You don’t want to tell me that you’ve got enough from me, do you? I mean …” She couldn’t avoid her voice sounding almost hysterical and shrill. “You said you’d love me!”

“I do, Hermione,” he answered calm. “I definitely do. I love you - more than it’s good for you and for me. My love got us in this situation …”

“This situation?” repeated Hermione. “You make that sound like ‘Headmaster, we’ve got a situation. The great squib got diarrhoea and now all merpeople in the lake are vomiting.”

He smiled wearily. “I think I’d rather deal with that, Hermione.”

Hermione became impatient. “Albus, you obviously have forgotten that I’m only a harmless Gryffindor. At seven in the morning I don’t feel up to follow the complicated thinking of a Slytherin brain. So would you please explain to me - slowly and clearly - what your problem with our situation is?”

He looked up at her. “Must I really? Isn’t it obvious?”

Hermione felt like stamping with a foot. “If it were obvious,” she said through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t ask, would I?” Her voice became sharp.

Albus wrinkled his forehead. “Hermione, there’s no need to let the hellcat out. Starting a row really won’t help …”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, prayed inwardlr par patience and said then as calmly as she could muster: “I’m sorry, Albus - but I’m just getting the feeling that you want to get rid off me. I couldn’t say I’d count that under pleasant surprises in the morning.”

He breathed deeply. “It seems to be something all women tend to do: Whatever happens - they blame the man …”

Hermione didn’t like to be counted under “all women” and she didn’t like his tone and the entire discussion. “Albus …” It wasn’t easy to keep her voice down, but she didn’t want to become accuse of being “hysterical”, therefore she forced herself. “I know it isn’t easy for a Slytherin, but I’d like to get a clear and unambiguous answer from you. Is this an attempt to call our relationship off? Yes or no?”

He rose up. “Yes,” he said. “And no …” Pacing through the room, he proceeded: “I want it to change - back to the friendship we’ve developed, the fruitful working relationship …”

“What?” Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. “Back to our oh-so-fruitful working relationship? Just so? With a snip of your fingers?” Her voice became cynic. “How could I be so stupid to believe the last days could mean something to you? It was all about fun and only a naïve, silly Gryffindor like me could have thought that you could take it serious. Let me guess, Albus: What number on your list am I? Aurelia Willington, Francesca de Santis-Valerio, this lady in Vienna, me - that makeur iur in two years. Considered you started approximately 100 years before this average gets me a number around 200, doesn’t it?”

“Hermione …” Now he raised his voice. “Stop it!”

“What? The counting? Wasn’t it you who always said one should face reality? I’m just following your advice!” She was furious and desperate and she knew: The moment she’d stop yelling at him she’d start crying. But not in front of him! She wouldn’t show him how much he’d hurt her and how utterly idiotic she felt. How could she ever have been so stupid to believe in the sweet words he’d whispered? Hadn’t she been warned? Hadn’t she known that he was a notorious womanizer?

“Hermione …” He’d calmed and stood now in front of her. “Please, let’s try to talk like sensible adults …”

She couldn’t look at him. Even in her rage she knew that a look at him would make her heart break. Or was it already broken? Could a broken heart beat this hard?

“Piccola …”

To hear the nickname was like getting stabbed with a knife. She wanted to cry, to throw herself in his arms, to plead to him for not sending her away; she wanted to wake up from this nightmare - now! - And to find him next to her, smiling tenderly.

“Hermione, I love you. And I know that you’re in love with me and believe me, I don’t take your feelings easily. But neither your nor my feelings can change the facts. I’m 100 years your senior …”

“98,” Hermione corrected automatically.

“98 or 100 - it doesn’t make a difference, Hermione,” he said softly. “The fact remains: I’m much too old for you. So what shall become from us?” He started pacing again. “I’ve made a mistake, Hermione. For a few days I allowed myself to fall in the illusion that we could have - despite the age difference - a little happiness, a few days or perhaps even weeks to enjoy our love without thinking about the consequences.”

Hermione had sat down on the bed. Swallowing the tears which threaded to overwhelm her, she asked: “And why can’t we have that? Why can’t we enjoy this summer together?”

He came to her and kneeled down in front of her. “Honestly, Hermione: Do you really believe it would be easier in a few weeks?”

Hermione shook her head. “But …” Now she looked at him. “I love you and you say you love me. Why can’t we be together? I don’t care about you being elder then me. I want to be with you.”

“Today, Hermione, today,” he said with a sad smile. “But how would you feel in a few months? Or in a few years? You’re so young. You’ve all your life before you while I’ve lived the biggest part one ane already. You need some one you can become old with, Hermione. But I am already an old man. You need some one who can cope with your energy and enthusiasm, not some one who’s entirely groggy after only half a day of sight seeing. You need some one …”

“You’ve forgotten one factor in your calculation, Albus,” Hermione interrupted him, suddenly sounding calm and collected. “If would have made a job description for a future life partner, I’d probably have added ‘around my age’. It would probably make things easier. But I’m not free in my choice of men anymore. Even if the ideal candidate - an intelligent, warm-hearted, caring and what-one-could-wish-for wizard would cross my way tomorrow, I couldn’t fall in love with him. I love you, Albus. And that makes you the only man I want to be with and the only man I can become happy with.”

Taking her hand in his he sunk his head, kissing her thumb. For a few seconds he was silent, and then he cleared his throat. “Hermione, I certainly don’t want to belittle your feelings. I know they’re deep and serious. But one of the many things I’ve always appreciated about you is your ability to face facts even if they’re not pleasant. And one fact is: You spent the last two and a half year of your life at Hogwarts, a place known for a chronic shortage of young bachelors. You didn’t see much of the world outside, you didn’t have many opportunities to meet men your age. Instead you were around me and you came in use with me …”

“Albus!” Hermione interrupted him again. “You don’t want to tell me that I only fell in love with you because there wasn’t another candidate available!”

“Are you sure you didn’t?” he asked.

Hermione impatiently shook her head. “And how I am! Because I don’t see such a shortage of eligible men at Hogwarts. Basti, Ollivander, O’Connell, McNair, Vector, Snape - as I came here, Snape wasn’t married, so he belonged to the list …”

Albus laughed. “Only you never could stand him! And Valerian Vector plays, as you know, for the all male league …”

“However! I don’t think I only fell in love with you because there’s no other man,” Hermione said firmly. “I’m sure: With Snape or McNair you could send me to a lonely island for 10 years - I wouldn’t have a second look at one of them!”

Albus sighed. “But you are aware that you’ll meet a lot of interesting young men in Venice, aren’t you?”

“And you think I’ll fall in love with the next best - though I’d doubt that the next would be the best - and I’d forget all about you then?” Hermione became angry again. “Thank you for your trust, Albus!”

“Hermione, I think it would be better for you to find a man of your age. I want you to become happy!” Albus exclaimed.

“How shall I without you?” Hermione gave back. “Doesn’t it go in your head? I love you! And I will always love you and when you’ll become once as ancient and doddering as old Pemperton I will still love you. And I will never want another man, but always you. And if you love me, theay way with me! If you want me to become happy, then take me in your arms and forget all about this ‘you need a young man’ nonsense!”

For a long moment she looked in his eyes and she almost believed that he’d got it at last. But then he sunk his head again and rose up, walking back to the French window. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said, his voice so hoarse it wasn’t more than a whisper. “As much as I’d like to - no, Hermione. I can’t. You may call me a coward, you may yell at me, you may accuse me of making you unhappy, and you may blame me for hurting you. But I can’t keep you. Not under these circumstances. I want you to be free for Venice and for what life will offer you there. I want you to meet young men and to date them and to have the fun a young woman like you deserve. But I’m not so generous I could share you. The idea to sit here and to wait for the letter saying ‘I’m sorry, Albus, but I’ve meet this enchanting young wizard and we’re to marry’ terrifies me. And I’m even more horrified at the thought of myself as the old fool who tries to keep a young woman and who looks at every boy close to her with jealousy and who makes scenes because he’s afraid of losing her. I’d make your life a misery - and mine too. I want you to go to Venice as a free woman, without me as your ballast.”

For a few seconds both were silent. Then Hermione rose. “You don’t trust in my love, Albus,” she said sadly. “But what if you’re wrong? What if I come back from Venice in three years and I still love you? Would you then believe me? Would you then trust me? Or will you have forgotten me then?”

“I certainly will not.” He turned and looked at her. “Forgive me, Hermione. I know, I’ve hurt you. And believe me: If I were only 50 years younger, I would never let you go. I’d fight with all my might to keep you. But I’m too old. It’s a fact. I’m too old to fight and I’m too old for binding a young woman to me. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Oh Albus - I’m already bound to yo82218221; Hermione said. Breathing deeply, she proceeded: “I want to make a deal with you.”

“A deal?” He turned, raising one eyebrow.

Hermione’s smile became smug. “Yes, a deal. You know, living two and a half year close to the master of manipulation rubs off - even to a Gryffindor like me. I know you’re afraid of me making a scene, I know you would like to keep me as a friend. You can have that - but I want to get something back. So it’s your choice: Deal with me - and I’ll be a good girl and do as you wish. Don’t deal with me - and …”

“Face your wrath?” He didn’t sound offended, but rather amused. “I see myself being chased by furious female Gryffindors - Minerva, Molly, Ginevra Weasley … huh! I wouldn’t give much for surviving that with my privates still where I like them …”

Hermione grinned. “It’s nice you’ve got such a livid imagination, Albus. It spares me to think up threats for you.”

“What’s the deal then?” he asked.

“Well - you want me go to Venice and live there as a free woman. I will do so - under one condition: If I still want you after this three years, you’ll give our relationship a chance, seriously and without chickening out by the first opportunity with saying ‘I’m too old for this’. If you promise me that I’ll be a good girl and spare you …”

He looked at her, shook his head and sighed. “You never give up, do you?”

“No, Albus. Not in something as serious as this,” Hermione gave back. “We’re talking about my life here. So - what do you think about?”

He nodded. “Well - I think it’s fair. If you still want me after three years in freedom I wouldn’t have to accuse myself of influencing you too much.”

She stretched her hand out. “Promise?”

With a bow he took her hand. “Promise: If you still want to be with me after three years in Venice, you can have me - and may the Gods have mercy with my soul!”


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


“Sometimes I wonder,” Ginny Malfoy said, levitating a heavy box with books on the desk in front of her. “What the hell have we done to deserve to be in love with gits like our Slytherins? Yours can’t believe you truly love him. Mine gets the jitters by the idea of becoming a father again. You should have heard the speech he gave me yesterday!” She took a pile of books out of the box and gave it to Hermione who packed them in the empty bookshelf at the wall behind her desk.

“Did he try to warn you about the rotten Malfoy genes in telling you his entire, ghastly family history again?” Hermione asked.

Ginny sighed. “No - even Mister Lucius Pig Head Malfoy got now that he can’t impress me with stories about the Malfoys being evil, utter idiots or squibs anymore. His newest approach is his proven inability as a father. He says he messed up totally with Draco and he couldn’t stand to spoil another child’s life too.”

“Oh my,” Hermione sighed. “I reckon you’re in for a rather lengthy round of debates before you can talk sense in to him.”

Ginny gave her the next pile of books. “You know what drives me almost mad about this? It’s actually the same problem you have with Albus: Our great heroes were able to face and even to trick an evil wizard. But when it comes to their heart’s desires, they funk like Victorian virgins on their wedding nights! Lucius loves children. He melts away like butter in the sun when Persephone Snape smiles at him. And just the other week as we visited the Burrow I thought he’d gone lost because he was away for one hour. I found him then in the garden where he helped little Molly to bake sand cakes. I know he’d make a great father. I know he wants nothing more than a family - but just because he longs so much for it, he’s terrified. His greatest fear is to lose a child again like he lose Draco.”

Hermione sighed. “I sometimes really wonder that he could forgive me. If I were in his shoes …”

Ginny shook her head. “You would forgive too, Hermione. As you hit Draco by defending Albus and yourself, he was already lost to Lucius. That’s part of his reluctance to try again: If he’d think that you made him lose his son, he probably wouldn’t feel so bad about it. But he’s convinced that it was his failure and therefore he blames only himself.”

Hermione put another book in the shelf, and then she sat down on a still full box. “Slytherins and their guilt complexes!” She turned her eyes. “Albus is the master of blaming himself too. He blames himself because he put Harry in the care of the Dursleys who treated him like shit. But he’s got himself no idea what he could have done instead. Harry needed the protection of blood relatives - it was the only way to save him from Voldemort. Yet Albus blames himself for not knowing that the Dursleys were such bastards. And he blames himself for not having a genial idea how to save Harry without them. And he blames himself for not telling Harry about the prophecy earlier. He blames himself for the death of every member of the order who fell in the war and he blames himself for his wife losing her unborn child and for their marriage going down the bog and sometimes I think if in Hogwarts a sparrow falls from the roof, Albus blames himself about that too.”

Ginny nodded and sat down next to Hermione. “Why don’t they found a self-help group? They could meet once a week, telling each other what they did wrong in their lives …”

“As I know them it would become a martyr competition!” Hermione said.

“And how!” Ginny agreed. “I can already hear my husband: ‘I would want to have a child, but I don’t dare to impregnate my wife because it would make me happy and I don’t deserve happiness.”

“And Albus could try to top him with telling that he loves me, but can’t be with me because he’s too old,” Hermione said. “And you know what itches me most about the entire affair? As your Lucius did his ‘I’m the big bad death eater and therefore a decent girl like Ginny shouldn’t be with me’ stunt, it was my dear Albus who told him that he couldn’t decide about that without you. And now he decides about us - and did he bother to ask my opinion?”

“Of course he didn’t,” Ginny sounded ironic. “Slytherin heroes never do. They’re supposed to carry the weight of the entire world on their manly shoulders.”

For a while both women were silent. Then Hermione rose. “I feel for tea. What’s with you?”

Ginny giggled. “I’ll be with you. As my mother uses to say: ‘Having a cup of tea doesn’t solve a problem, but makes thinking about it easier.” Following Hermione in the kitchen, she looked around. “Your sweet Albus may be difficult as a lover, but his taste in decoration is impeccable. I really like this flat.”

“So do I.” Hermione filled the electric kettle with water and switched it on. “If I would have made up this flat it wouldn’t look much different - except of the fact that I couldn’t afford so expansive pieces like the chairs and the settee in the living room. But if I could I’d have bought them too - what’s another prove for the fact that Albus and I are suiting each other. Except of this damn age gap we’re the perfect couple!”

“It’s maddening, isn’t it?” Ginny asked sympathetically. “You could be happy together …”

“And how!” The water was boiling and Hermione poured it over the leaves in the tea pot. “The three days with him were like a dream, Ginny. I was never before so happy. And it wasn’t only the sex …”

“Huh?” Ginny grinned. “You did something else than shagging each other senseless? I remember rather nice stories about a carpet, a shower, a bench at the lake, an apple tree on the grounds - which has, as I know from experience, really just the right gradient - and a desk in a classroom. Did I forget something?”

Hermione blushed, but laughed. “The bed, Ginny! We really managed twice to do it in the bed.”

“Twice in bed?” Ginny used her fingers for counting. “Seven times in three days? And with two evenings in public? My, my, Hermione, you’re either the master of the five minute quickie or you can’t have done much else!”

Hermione’s expression became dreamily. “In bed it certainly was more then five minutes …” She poured tea in two cups, gave one to Ginny and went with the other in the living room where she sat down on the sofa.

Ginny followed here and, sinking in one of the chairs, she asked: “So good?”

“Oh Ginny …” Hermione sighed. “He had me begging for mercy in our last night. I really couldn’t take more …”

Ginny shook her head. “And this man maintains he’s too old for you!”

“In bed he certainly isn’t,” Hermione said. “He knows every trick in the book. He even learned volume three ‘Elaborate games for the masters’ by heart. But as great as the sex was - we really did some talking too. And a lot of cuddling and …” She put her cup on the table with a clunk. “It’s really maddening, Ginny! I know we’re perfect for each other. If only he would see it too!”

Ginny let her shoes drop, pulled her legs up under her and looked at Hermione. “What do you intend to make it clear to him? I think you won’t simply wait three years, or will you?”

“Certainly not!” Hermione sounded very determined. “If he thinks I’d waste three years only because he’s a git, he’s a wrong as wrong can go! But I think he deserves to become grilled thoroughly. And so ...,” her eyes were glimmering now, “… I will first pickle him and then, when he’s prepared, I’ll roast him over a small flame until he’s through. When I’m ready with him, he’ll never try again to decide about our lives without getting my opinion first!”

Ginny obviously hadn’t much sympathy with Albus becoming grilled. “He asked for it,” she stated. “He could have had it the easy way. But obviously he prefers it Slyhterinish.”

“Gryffindorish!” Hermione grinned. “And who am I to refuse the man what he obviously needs? I will show him our lot never loses a prey. He likes it hot - and he shall get it hot! Hell will be a cosy picnic place against what I intend to prepare for him!”

Ginny seemed to like that. “When will you start the pickling?” she asked with beaming eyes.

“Next week this time,” Hermione drank the rest of her tea. “At Tuesday he’ll come back from his America trip wiour our father. On Wednesday he may have a little rest - I mean he’s supposed to suffer with jet lag and he’ll certainly be tired. So he shall have a day off and for getting himself back in shape. He’ll need it because on Thursday he’s to attend the annual conference of the Transfiguration master’s brethren in Blocksberg, Germany. I’ll be there too - I’ll become officially initiated there. And I’ll teach my former master his first lesson there. He will learn that it isn’t him who decides about with whom I sleep!”

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

Albus liked the meeting of the transfiguration masters. Although it once had been planned to be every year on another place, it had - mostly for practical reasons - become a tradition that one of the great European wizard schools hosted it during the summer break. The year before it had been Beauxbaton in France, two years before the tfigufiguration masters and mistresses had met in Tulstra, the Swedish school for magic, now it was to be Blocksberg in Germany and next year then the conference would be held in Hogwarts.

Albus looked forward to the four days in Germany. It was always nice to see old colleagues and friends again, it was interesting to meet the new, young members of the brethren and though one had to seat through a few lessons - patiently listening had never been Albus’ strongest virtue - the schedule didn’t contain only a party with dance and drinks, but let generous room for other social gatherings too. And not being the host this year, but only one transfiguration master - though one of the most famous - between others, Albus actually intended to enjoy the meeting too the fullest.

There only was one problem: Hermione. Since she’d left Hogwarts he hadn’t heard a word from her directly. He’d asked for an owl when she would be settled in Venice and he’d actually thought he’d find a letter from her by coming back from his trip. But no, there had been nothing. He’d worried - of course he had worried! After her rather short departure and heavens, she didn’t know Venice and she hardly spoke Italian and he knew that translation charms weren’t entirely reliable and it simply wasn&#;t h;t her style to forget about something she’d promised to do!

So he’d flooed - after half an hour of pacing through his office - Ginny Malfoy who’d greeted him with a rather surprised: “Headmaster - you’re already back from America?”

Worried as he’d been he’d probably been a bit harsh: “Yes, I’m back - but what’s with Hermione? Is she well?”

“But yes, of course,” Ginny had answered cheerfully. “I was with her last week and really, Headmaster, Venice is beautiful and your flat - lovely, really lovely. Only Hermione had so much on her plate with reorganising the book shelves and moving the furniture and decorating!”

He’ringringed by hearing that. He liked his flat and he’d actually always thought Hermione would share his taste. And what was that about the bookshelves? He’d spent an entire day in getting not only everything there what he thought she’d like to read, but for organising it neatly and for making free spaces for her books! And by doing so he’d been convinced about Hermione not only noticing the effort, but appreciating it as sigh for how much he cared about her!

But it had come even worse: Ginny had told him that Hermione had asked her to give him her regards “because she was too busy for sending an owl.”

This had been the first stroke. The second he’d got where he’d actually hoped for a little comfort: Visiting his little goddaughter Persephone for giving her the teddy bear he’d got for her in America, he’d found her playing happily with a stuffed lion - a gift from Hermione, how Tonks had told him. And wouldn’t it be exceptionally nice from Hermione that she’d spent one of her first days in Venice for getting Persy such a sweet gift? “Even Severus was touched, you know?”

Albus hadn’t been touched. He’d been angry and it hadn’t become better by breakfast as Minerva had swept in, all beaming and so excited because she’d got such a “long and lovely” letter from “our Hermione” and wasn’t she a “dear girl” and had Albus heard already what a lovely and thoughtful gift - a collection of beautiful Murano glass vials - Hermione had sent to Poppy’s birthday? Poppy had almost cried because she’d been so delighted about it and just three days before she’d got another owl from Hermione, asking if Minerva would like to participate in buying a gift for the librarian Irma Pince’s birthday. “You know how hard it is to find something for Irma, don’ou, ou, Albus?” But Hermione had managed to find “the most wonderful Venetian paper” for wrapping books and Irma Pince would certainly dance in joy when getting it and really, Hermione was such a darling and “Sweet Merlin, Albus, I know you’re suffering from jet lag, but you really mustn’t spoil other people’s breakfast by looking like a dragon with toothache! You act like Severus on a bad day! If you don’t feel well, get yourself to Poppy!”

He’d actually intended to ask the mediwitch for a potion against his headache - he always got a rather severe one after long distance apparitions. But the idea of hearing another story about “our sweet Hermione” hadn’t appealed to him. He’d rather felt like throttling Minerva’s “darling” a bit. Her behaviour was childish and silly! Punishing him with ignorance - and what for? What the hell had he done except of acting decent? And damn, it hadn’t been easy! He was a man after all and which man wouldn’t want to keep a young lover who wasn’t only brilliant and beautiful, but passionate and exceptionally talented in ars armatori? But he wasn’t only a man, but a teacher and as such he didn’t only know how the word “responsibility” was spelled, but what it meant too! And couldn’t she see it? A relationship between a man his age and a girl so young - it was wrong! It couldn’t work. He would only stand in her way.

Damn - why she had to act as if he’d done her wrong? And why was it that he always got the blame with women? Wasn’t it bad enough to love without a chance to get her for keep? She probably believed in a “happily ever after” in three years, but he’d got a tad more experience than she. He remembered the beautiful young woman who’d once promised him her love “until death do us part”. He remembered how she’d sworn to him that she would never leave him that she would be on his side until her last breath. He’d believed her, he’d trusted her and even after they’d loosed their child he’d meant their love would survive. And he’d fought and he’d tried everything possible, but she’d left him. He would never forget the last time he’d seen her. He’d begged on his knees for a second chance, but she’d sent him away, saying: “I like you very much, Albus, I really do. But I don’t love you anymore. There’s another man and I’m in love with him.”

How had Francesca once said? “L\'amore fa are are il tempo; il tempo fa passare l\'amore” - love lets the time go over; time lets the love go over. She’d been right. Her love for him hadn’t even needed much time to go over and his for hers had faded away also.

Of course: Some loves made it through the time. Albus knew about such cases - like his parents who’d kept their love through more then 60 years. Or the McGonagalls, happily married since more then 50 years now. It never failed to touch Albus how soft his always so severe deputy became when ever her husband’s name was mentioned. And Augustus - the hard boiled barrister who’d more then once made ministers and judges pale in attacking them with sheer, cold logic - it only needed a little fire whiskey too much and he became all fluffy and started to tell his friends that “my Tabby was once the most beautiful girl in the school” and that to him she still was the most beautiful woman and that his feelings for her had only changed in so far, that now, after 50 years with her, he wouldn’t understand anymore why he’d once thought three months before he’d proposed to her. “I should have done so in the moment I set eyes on her!” he always finished his reminiscences.

Yes, there were loves which lasted. But Hermione was so young and inexperienced! Her half baked affair with this quidditch champion - it had started as she’d been only 14 years old and except of this moron Hermione had never been with a man her age.

Heavens, why couldn’t she see it herself? She was so clever, but obviously her brilliance failed her when it came to her own feelings. But why she had to punish him for it? He couldn’t be her lover, but he was her friend and he cared for her and why had she to do this silly “everything or nothing” game? It was so utterly Gryffindor, but life didn’t only paint in black and white as Gryffindors used to believe!


Apparating on the yard in front of the very modern glass and concrete building - the old Blocksberg School, built in the middle age, had been destroyed during the war against Grindelwald and the German ministries had needed ages until they could agree about building it up again - Albus looked at his watch and sighed. He was once again late - too late, for being exactly. Yet his day hadn’t started well. The night he’d spent with tossing in his bed for hours, so he’d only slept in at the early hours of the morning as dawn had already begun. Promptly he’d slept in. Running down for breakfast he’d learned then, that he wouldn’t have time for tea and porridge. He’d hardly sat as an owl - and Albus could have sworn that the bird had looked angry at him! - had got him a rather furious letter from Aurelia Bones, secretary of the Wizengamot, who’d waited now for a fortnight “in patience” to get two protocols signed by him and although she wouldn’t doubt that he was a busy man with a lot on his plate, she could hardly tell her entire department to take a leave until Albus Dumbledore would perhaps find the time to scribble his name on two parchments.

Rather ashamed about his own sloppiness Albus had left his breakfast and stormed up in his office. Yet since Hermione didn’t clean up his mess anymore, his desk had again become what Minerva called “The magical equivalent to the Bermuda triangle”. He’d almost needed half one hour to find the papers. As he’d just sat down to sign them - and heavens, where he’d put his quill? - Minerva had swept in, already in her traveling cloak and ready to leave for Germany. Watching his frantic search for the quill, she’d reminded him that he was a wizard and if an “Accio quill” wouldn’t solve his problem?

It actually hadn’t because the quill had been under a pile of parchment and by being magically pulled out of its hiding place the pile had kipped and hit the ink pot and Albus’ chaos had become as blue as his mood. And not enough of almost all papers on his desk swimming in a pool of blue ink: Minerva had helped him - she’d offered to clean up while he at last signed the protocols, but by doing so she’d rebuked him not only for his sloppiness, but for signing without reading it before. “Albus, you’re impossible!” her speech had started - not surprisingly, because she mostly started with telling him that. “Sometimes I think if I’d put your death sentence between a few letters, you’d sign it too!”

He’d told her that she actually should feel honored by such a display of trust, but she’d only turned her eyes and given back: “I’m leaving now. I’ll tell Mirjam and the others that they shouldn’t wait for you. But Albus ...,” she been already on the door and had smiled her sweetest smile at him, “… if you’ll manage in one or two hours: Don’t forget to take your butt with you! You really wouldn’t like to seat without it through the entire conference!”

His butt he hadn’t forgotten as he’d finally ran down to the apparition point in front of the door. But by pulling his wand out, he’d remembered the speech he would have to hold the next morning - and that the notes he’d made for it lay still on his night stand. That had meant changing in his falcon form, flying up to the main tower, storming in his bed room, stumbling over one of the boots he’d let on the floor the evening before, crashing with his knee against the bed and, cursing so loudly it was probably to hear on all the other towers too, he’d made the house elf who was just putting fresh sheets on his bed, jump and ove over. The poor little creature had got tangled in the sheets then and he’d to save and to comfort it before he could grip his notes, discovering by it that once again he could hardly read his own handwriting.

So - now at last to the conference! There at least luck was with him: A shy looking girl, hardly more then 16 years old, wearing a green shirt with a big “B” on the front, approached him. With a heavy German accent she asked: “Are you Professor Dumbledore, sir?”

“Ja, das bin ich,” he answered in German, smiling at her. And proceeding in German - he’d learned the language during the time he’d spent in Berlin while fighting Grindelwald - he asked: “And with whom I have the honour?”

The girl smiled back, obviously relieved because she hadn’t talk in a foreign language. “I’m Susanne Fluthast, the speaker of the Blocksberg students. Director von Melthonthon has asked me to welcome you at Blocksberg and to guide you to your room.”

“How nice of her - and you, of course,” Albus said and followed the girl into the foyer of the school and up the stair chase to a corridor where he heard his colleagues excitingly run around chatter. The noise they were making reminded him very much of the first day of term in Hogwarts and in fact: Staying in a school and sleeping in rooms normally belonging to students always made for his colleagues behaving like children again. Sometimes it even went so far they behaved like students with their teachers away - like last year in Beauxbaton as a group of transfiguration masters and mistresses had decided to celebrate a pyjamas party in a common room. Since then Albus used to threat Minerva with blackmail. Whenever she nagged at him too much, he said: “Don’t try me too much! I could become tempted to let slip a story about a certain transfiguration mistress who hovered on a broomstick under the ceiling, singing Scottish folk songs! Severus would love to hear that, you know?”

Ao, ho, her treat back - telling Luciano Dantini that it had been Albus who’d bewitched his knickers while the Italian wizard had been under the shower - didn’t impress Albus much. He’d at least helped his old friend chasing the underwear through the corridor and they had had much fun by it.

Greeting to the right and the left side Albus walked through the corridor until his young guide opened the door to the last room on it, a rather plain chamber with a single bed, a desk, a chair and a closet. Yet on the desk stood a bowl filled with drops, wrapped in blue and white paper. A note lay on it, saying: “Welcome to Blocksberg, Albus! My son told me you are a sweet addict, so I thought you’d like to try German Eis Bonbons [ice drops]. Have fun! Yours - Mirjam.”

Albus - being Albus - beamed, got himself one of the drops and offered the bowl to his guide. Well-mannered girl as she was, she took a drop, unwrapped it and put it in her mouth, but looked at Albus as if he’d just grow a second head. She obviously hadn’t been prepared for sharing sweets with some one she’d heard in history lessons about and as he, sucking happily at his drop, announced that he’d find Eis Bonbons very delicious and therefore take them for his daily sweet ration instead of his usual sherbert lemons, her jaw dropped. And watching how he pulled a bag full of lemon drops out of an inner pocket of his robe, the girl looked as if she’d suddenly doubt that her history of magic teacher had told her the entire truth. Still gaping like a goldfish, she finally asked shyly: “Is it true that you once defeated Grindelwald?”

Albus laughed. “Yes, it is true. But it’s not true that I threw lemon drops at him. I wouldn’t want to waste them, therefore I used my wand.”

“Albus!” Minerva swept in. “Don’t confuse the child! It’s enough you always do with our students!” Smiling shortly at the girl, she said: “You can leave. I’ll take my colleague down with me. Thank you.”

The girl curtsied. “Thank you. And have a nice stay at Blocksberg!” She ran away.

Looking at Albus, Minerva asked: “Did you get Madame Bones her papers?”

Albus pulled his shrunken trunk out of his pocket. “Yes, I did.” Unshrinking his luggage, he directed his wand on it and murmured a spell. The trunk opened and robes and undergarments started to fly to the closet.

“Don’t you want to change?” Minerva asked.

Albus grinned, looking along his green and silver robe. “Don’t you like my clothes?”

“Wrong colour!” Minerva stated crisply. “You’re here as Hogwarts headmaster and …”

“… The Hogwarts colours are the same as Gryffindors,” Albus finished for her. They’d discussed this a hundred times and he actually liked wearing red and gold. But baiting Minerva he liked even more. “Yet I’m not here as Hogwarts headmaster, bu a t a transfiguration master, you know? Yet I’ll spare you to look all day at a Slytherin.” He marched to the closet, opened it and with the back to Minerva, he slipped out of his robe.

“Albus!” He promptly became rebuked. “There’s a lady in!”

“As far as I know,” he took a burgundy robe out of the closet, “the lady in question is married. So she should have seen a naked man’s back before. Besides …,” he slipped in the robe and closed the buttons with a wave of his wand before he turned at her, “… I wanted to show you that I was a good boy and brought my butt with me as I was ordered.”

Minerva shook her head. “Albus, you’re impossible!”

“That’s news!” he grinned.

She sighed. “Before we go down - at least! - could you perhaps comb your hair? You look like a hippy.”

“Yes, mommy.” He cast a combing charm, and then he offered her his arm. “Am I presentable now?”

Minerva took his arm, but once again she shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder if you’ll ever grow up. You’re worse then our students, you know?”

“Apropos our students …” Albus became serious. “I miss a former student of ours - a certain Hermione Granger. Doesn’t she show up yet?”

“She is there,” Minerva answered. “She came already yesterday in the evening for seeing our charms professor and his fiancé.”

“Ah - and where is she now?” Albus asked, trying to sound casually.

“As I last saw her, she was on her way to the Extern stones - you know this magical rocks near by? Glasunov and a few other young colleagues were with her. Glasunov seems quite taken with our Hermione,” Minerva told with an almost motherly smile.

“Glasunov?” Albus couldn’t avoid sounding sharp. Under all the colleagues around he’d have known only one he would have hated more to see with Hermione: Pjotr Nikolajevich Glasunov’s former master Antonin Menchnikov.

“Oh, Albus!” Minerva sighed. “I know you’re suspicious against Peter Glasunov because he was Menchnikov’s apprentice once. But as nasty Menchnikov is - Glasunov isn’t. And even you have to admit: His work about animagnus transformation was brilliant. He got Hermione and you some basic facts you couldn’t have done without. And considered that on what she wants to work at in Venice, it’s good for her that she meets some one who’s in this field too.”

“I don’t trust him,” Albus snorted.

“Glasunov isn’t in Russia anymore,” Minerva told him. “And as far as I’m informed his departure from Moscow and Menchnikov wasn’t on most amiable terms.” She squeezed his arm lightly. “And for lightening up your mood: Menchnikov isn’t here. I’ve just before met Ingar and she told me that Menchnikov’s apprentice failed the exam dismally. Now your old friend is sulking and cross with the entire brethren, therefore he remained at Moskow.”

“I certainly won’t miss him,” Albus said. Yet the news that he wouldn’t have to bear with the Russian didn’t much to brighten his mood. He’d actually hoped that Hermione would be done with sulking. He’d even harboured the hope she’d be there to welcome him and that he could make up with her. He missed her! But she obviously preferred the company of one Pjotr Nikoljevich Glasunov.

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

And how she did! Four hours after he’d come down to the hall with Minerva, Albus was fuming. By entering he’d seen Hermione at once. She’d stood at one of the big windows, wearing a plain brown summer robe over a cream shirt and beige trousers, her hair was very short cut again, showing the perfect form of her head and the long, delicate neck and Albus obviously hadn’t been the only one who’d found her - no, not a breath taking beauty, but very lovely. Albus had felt reminded to a painting by the renaissance master Botticelli - the sweet Venus out of his “La Primavera” with her brown eyes and the pearly skin.

To think that he would never again feel this skin under his lips and she would never again smile up to him with her eyes full of tenderness and desire - it had hurt again. And even more it had hurt that she hadn’t interrupted her conversation with the three men standing around and watching her like bears would watch the honey pot. And Yamagochi - the Japanese transfiguration master had looked as if he’d like to threw Hermione in his cave while Glasunov had been all smile with more pearly white teeth than should have been legal and Hermione - she had only casually waved her hand and called a cheerful “Hello, headmaster!” in his direction.

Had she really believed he would have come over, fighting for her attention against three young wizards slobbering all over her? The devil he would have done! She could ra wai wait for the ice skating season in hell opening! And if she really had believed he’d bother about her flirting with Glasunov - really, all this batting of eye lashes and smiling and throwing her head back! It was the eldest trick in the book! - She was as wrong as wrong could go. He didn’t care a damn about it.

Yet he cared about manners and after she’d avoided him all morning and even at lunch had managed to get herself a place far away from him, he was now really angry - at “pissed off level four” as his students would have called his state of mind.

What did tgirlgirl think? He certainly wouldn’t play childish games with her. But as soon as he’d get her alone, she’d receive the dressing down of her life! He would remind her, that he wasn’t only her former lover, but master and her future superior! As such he could expect to be treated - at least in public - with a certain amount of respect and politeness. For heaven’s sake - what did she take him for? For a boy she could play with? He would learn her better - now! Lunch was just over, Mirjam von Melanchthon had announced coffee in the garden, the crowd was flooding through the open doors outside and Albus used the advantage of his height and his long legs for approaching Hermione - and really, Glasunov stuck at her like a wet lemon drop on a velvet robe (something Albus had a lot of experience with). Smiling a rather chilly smile at the Russian transfiguration master, Albus said: “If you would excuse Professor Granger and me for a moment, Pjotr Nikolajevich? I’d like a word with our enchanting young colleague - in private.” Without waiting for an answer he took Hermione’s arm and led her energetically over to the quidditch pitch.

Hermione obviously didn’t like his treatment. As soon as they were out of hearing range of the crowd, she hissed: “Would you - please - let go of my arm? You hurt me!”

He let her arm lose and, facing her, he gave back, his voice only a hoarse, furious whisper: “What do you think you’re doing here, Hermione? You seem to have forgotten that I’m not only your ex-lover, but your former master! And as such I expect manners from you!”

Hermione’s eyes became small. “Congratulations, Albus!” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve just managed to surprise me. I thought I’d know you. But I wasn’t prepared for you lowering yourself to something like pulling rank on me!”

He felt how his fingers trembled. Closing his eyes for a moment to get a grip at his self again, he breathed deeply, balled his hands to fists and said then coldly: “I wouldn’t have thought of that either, but you obviously needed to be remembered of the fact.”

Hermione crooked her head. “Yes, probably I needed you. You know, it’s pretty hard to see you as the great master when you just act like the Othello in a rather lousy amateur production. Really, Albus - jealousy doesn’t become you. Especially not after you’ve sent me away for getting myself a nice, young man. Even you can’t expect from me I’d hop in the bed with first best. I have to do a little talking and flirting before, you know?”

“Hermione …” Albus couldn’t remember when he’d been last so furious. He really felt like throttling her. And in the same time he wanted to pull her in his arms and to kiss her senseless. He loved her - he couldn’t help it: He loved her. And he had to admit - at least against himself - that he was jealous, that he couldn’t stand the thought of her in the arms of another man. Sinking his head, he quietly said: “Now we’re in the situation I wanted to avoid at any cost.”

“At any cost, Albus!” Hermione promptly repeated. “Don’t forget: It was you who drove us there. You didn’t ask me. You decided …”

“I had to!” he tried to defend himself. “And it doesn’t change the fact that I expect you to behave in public! In private you may do with me whatever pleases you. But in public …”

“I may do with you whatever pleases me?” Hermione raised an eow. ow. “Good to know. But you’re right, Albus. I shouldn’t have showed my anger about you in public. I apologize and I promise: It won’t happen again. You’ll become treated as one’s former master, future employer and renowned colleague should be. But for our private relationship: Don’t forget I’m free. That means: I - and only I - decide who I flirt with and who is to share my bed.”


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


Turning around in the small bed for the 152 times - or so at least it felt - Albus sighed. He’d gotten what he’d asked for, but it had been a Pyrrhus victory. Having Hermione at his side during the rest of the day, acting the perfect junior partner, assuring every one how much she enjoyed the conference and looked forward to Venice and how grateful she was to her master, Albus had felt like the lamb on the roast and even worse: During the party he’d become ashamed of himself. On their way to dinner Hermione had discovered that he was limping - during the day the knee he’d boxed against his bed in the morning, had swollen and pained him now - and she’d been all sympathy. He’d got offered her arm for support: “You should spare yourself, really, Albus! An inflammation added to your rheumatics would be so bad. And you’re not a young man anymore …” and she’d only left his side during the party for getting him drinks: “No, really, Albus - spare your knee! I’ll get you whatever you need!” And pitying him because he couldn’t dance she’d refused all offers to dance herseoo. oo.

Albus had felt like the perfect killjoy. He knew how much she liked to dance and there were so much nice young men looking at her longingly and Glasunov - Albus had to admit that he’d acted decent all evening and the way he watched Hermione … and heavens, the boy was really handsome with his blonde hair and the brown eyes and he hadn’t one stone too much weight on his slender body. Albus was sure, Hermione found the young Russian attractive - and why shouldn’t she? She was free and she could decide for herself with whom she wanted to be and he would have to learn living with her belonging to another man. He’d sent her away because he didn’t want to be in her way and he couldn’t have the cake and eat it too. So he’d decided after one hour at the party that he would remove himself now, giving her a chance to enjoy the evening.

Rising, he’d smiled ad Minvera, Mirjam, Glasunov and Hene wne who’d shared a table with him. “Dear ladies, dear colleague - I’m an old man and not on my best today. Therefore I’ll use the fact that Mirjam dropped her wards for comfortingly apparating directly in bed. Good night and have fun!”

But now he couldn’t sleep although he’d provide himself with a pain killing potion for his knee and although Mirjam’s ice drops really were delicious and although he’d cast a silencing charm for not becoming disturbed by his cheerful celebrating colleagues. He felt simply miserable - lonely, sad, discouraged, an old fool who wasn’t good for nothing anymore and who longed for a girl he couldn’t have.

“Plop!”

In the moment he heard the soft sound of an apparition he felt a warm body next to his - and then, before he was able to get his wand, a mouth was on his and small hands glided over his body, one on his chest, the other wandered already down over his belly in his lap.

“Herm …” he managed, but then she silenced him with her tongue sneaking in his mouth and her hand closing around his soft penis. Every thought of resistance was blown away by the passionate kiss and her tender caress. His body hummed with desire and he felt how the blood rushed to his groin. He embraced her, dwelling the glorious feel of her silken skin against his. But she slipped away, her lips wandering down over his chin to his throat, where she briefly nibbled on his Adam’s apple before she went down on his chest.

“Hermione, you’re mad!” he whispered. “Utterly, entirely ma …” he ended in a moan because she sucked on his left nipple.

“I told you I’d decide about whom I sleep with!” She sounded almost amused. “And I’ve decided that I want you.”

“Hermione!” He was amazed about himself: Obviously a few of his brain cells were still working! “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Really?” she asked, but before he could answer, she’d shifted again and now she took his half erected cock in her mouth. Tenderly sucking at it, her hand went down to his balls, cupping them and kneading softly.

Albus closed his eyes and laid his hand on her head. He couldn’t resist any longer - and he even didn’t want to anymore. It wasn’t only her ministrations which overwhelmed him, but to know that she still wanted him. “I’ve decided that I want you” - her voice still ringed in his ears, absolutely confident and in this seducing as a siren’s song. He’d always needed and wanted the explicit consent of his partner. Taking a woman against her will was something he even couldn’t imagine and he’d always found that an expression of desire worked on him like an aphrodisiac. In Hermi#821#8217;s case it meant even more. Her decision to sleep with him, to come to him of her own free will without him doing anything to seduce her - it was what he needed to justify his desire for her.

“Hermione …” He was fully aroused now and needy and as wonderful as it was to feel her lips on his erection - he wanted more. He wanted to feel her close to him, he wanted to please her. “Hermione …” Why it sit so difficult for his lips to form another word than her name?

“Hmm?” She’d raised her head. Blowing a kiss on his throbbing member, she asked: “What do you want, Albus?”

“You!” he answered. “Please - I want to feel you close!”

Her hand searched for his, her fingers entwined with his. “You only had to ask, Love,” she chuckled and shifting, she came up to him. Laying her mouth on his, she straddled him, took his cock and guided him into her.

He could only moan as she sank down on him. It felt even better than he remembered, unbelievingly good and wonderful. Her hands were on his chest now, playing with his stiff and almost oversensitive nipples. But it still wasn’t enough. He pulled her down, her breasts against hiss chest, her head cradled on his shoulder and, with his hands on her buttocks; he started to move, slowly, entirely concentrated of giving her as much pleasure as possible. He’d learned that she liked it best when he began with long, strong strokes and then slowly speed up - and this was about her and what she wanted and needed. This was to be the swan song of their love and he’d use the experience of all his life to make it unforgettable to her.


To be continued ….