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 14: In for a duck, out for a ...


Hermione remembered well: Only a few days before she’d wished not only peace, but a hearty laugh to “all men of good will” and - being in an extraordinary kind mood then - she’d included potion master Severus Snape in her wish. But by now she was thinking of her father’s trademark warning: “Be careful with what you wish. You may get it.” And with that came a forceful need not to hex, but to throttle said potion master just for the fact, that he laughed. And how he laughed! His entire body was shaking with it, tears rolled down over his cheek, his pale face had become red and the sound of his deep laughter roared through the staff room and made the chandelier ring.

Yet the absolutely worse thing about the potion master’s laughter was not that he laughed at Hermione’s cost, but that this damned laughter was infectious! It made Harry chuckle - with a face even more purple than the potion master’s because he actually knew that he shouldn’t laugh on Hermione’s account, it made Albus - and wasn’t he actually a champion in keeping a straight face even under the oddest circumstances? - studying the hem of his sleeve as if he’d expect to find there Merlin’s long lost invisibility spell and even worse: Hermione herself felt the corners of her mouth twitching although she still felt an urge to slap Snape, although she’d cried after the discovery of being a duck and although she’d provided Albus with a few haematoma on his shin bone by kicking him under the table for telling. Yet she simply couldn’t resist joining the potion master in his laughter. Fair girl as she was, she had seen that the thought of her as a duck was quite funny and Merlin help: Although she’d wished for something more heroic or at least more useful - it had been fun to glide over the pond and to play with the cloud.

Besides: Albus hadn’t spent almost one hour of comforting and calming her for nothing. He’d told her she couldn’t be absolutely sure about being a duck because growing feathers and liking water could mean a lot of other animals - like great crested crebbes, gooses (she fiercely hoped she wouldn’t become a goose in the end. Probably Severus Snape wouldn’t make it in one piece through the laughter this would provoke him to) or gulls (“Albus - gulls don’t paddle around on ponds!” - “Don’t they? If I were a gull, I would!”). And he’d made her seen the advantages of being a duck too.

“First and best,” he’d said, “a duck can fly. That comes in handy quite often”.

Hermione still had sulked. “A duck can’t fly as fast and good as a falcon.”

“Yes, that’s true, but as far as I know, ducks are better at long distances. They’re crossing the Atlantic, don’t they? Gyrfalcons don’t go this far - even in very strong winters they rarely make it farer away from their native Nordic Islands as to Denmark or the north of Germany.”

“I actually don’t intend on flying over the Atlantic,” Hermione had said. “If I ever want to visit America, I’d take a muggle aeroplane - surely it is much more comfortable than flying all the way as a duck.”

“Then think of other advantages,” Albus had tried again. “Ducks can swim.”

“Great!” Hermione had made a face. “I hope you don’t forget to tell the giant squib about me. I’d hate to become his dinner - even if he’d prepare me as duck a’l orange.”

“As far as I know, he doesn’t like ducks. Too much feathers, you know? They’re probably not good for his digestion,” Albus had answered thoughtfully.

“I don’t want to be impolite against him or you, Albus, but I must admit that gaining knowledge about the giant squib’s digestion never ranked high on my to-do-list,” Hermione had answered sourly. “To think of myself as something a lot of people and animals could find delicious is one of the things I really dislike by becoming a duck.”

On this place Albus had obviously decided to change his tactic from making her look at the bright side - which she couldn’t find as bright as he did - to distraction. He’d taken her in his arms and nibbling on her ear, he’d whispered: “Would you mind too if I’d find you delicious in your human form?”

Although Hermione had seen through him, she hadn’t mind. On the contrary - feeling his warmth against her still naked skin had reminded her of how his presence in her mind had felt and so she’d turned her face to find his mouth with lip lips. And in contrast to the kiss they’d shared earlier in his office, this hadn’t been only tender and sweet. Hermione had seen to that in using her tongue - first for stroking over his lips, finding them a bit raw as if not kissed often enough. This, she’d thought, would have to be changed - and for convincing him about that, she’d once again used her fingers for stroking his head and while doing so deepened the kiss with her tongue meeting his and playing with it. He’d purred - as she’d expected him to - and pulled her closer and she’d reached under his outer robe to the silken under robe, feeling his heart beating under her palm and through the smooth fabric. His nipple pressed in her hand and her ministrations had become rewarded - he’d cupped her breast and breaking the kiss, had bent his head down and kissed her peek.

By then she’d discovered that she liked his long beard better than the short one she was use with. The short one was always a bit scraped, but the long, silver whiskers and the hair beneath felt like silk on her skin. And lying naked in his arms while he was dressed in his full headmaster attire - it had felt wildly arousing. She’d wished for more - and now! But as she’d let her hand wander down over his belly to his belt - and now, she didn’t mind what he’d named his “pot belly”, on the contrary: She’d like it as a part of him - he’d caught her hand with his left and used his right to lift her chin up to him so that she had to look in his eyes.

“Later, my Lioness, later,” he’d said and to her disappointment he’d laid her down on the mattress, rose and pulled his robe back in form. Smiling and waving his wand he’d not only tidied up his hair, but made her clothes jump back on her body. “It seems that the Hogwarts meal times and our romantic moments aren’t compatible yet. Perhaps we should work on that ...”

Hermione had been on her legs now too and - feeling still very excited - she’d caught him in an embrace, whispering: “Minerva’s gone, so we could skip dinner, couldn’t we?”

Albus had sighed, leaning his chin on her head. “Believe me: I’d love to, but - you don’t think it would be a good day to make Harry, the two staying Ravenclaws, the little Hufflepuff and Severus eat without us? Tomorrow we can probably risk to skip a meal, because tomorrow Dee Sprout will be back from her visit at her in-laws though ...” He’d hesitated, taken his chin from her head and looked at her face again: “Would you mind much if I’d invite Dee and her husband to dinner tomorrow? We could have Harry and the three children too - Severus won’t come because he’s entertaining a guest of his own at his chambers, so ...”

Hermione had interrupted, just feeling a bit ashamed because she’d forgotten about Harry all afternoon. “Of course I wouldn’t mind. But Albus - couldn’t you invite the Weasleys too? In the moment it’s only Molly, Arthur and Ginny at the Burrow. Ron’s visiting Bill in Egypt, the twins are with Charlie in Romania and Percy ...” She’d fallen silent.

“Yes, I know - he’s with his muggle born fiancé,” Albus had said. “But inviting the Weasleys is a wonderful idea. Only ...,” he’d chuckled, “... Marc will feel afterwards like a bath spoon again - totally wrung out.”

“Marc?” Hermione had asked.

“Dee Sprout’s enchanting husband,” Albus had explained, taking her hand and leading her into the hall. “He’s a muggle with a very nice farm in Sheffordshire - not far away from my place. I’ll bring you there in the spring - it’s a fine place, you’ll like it. But back to Marc: Whenever he falls in Arthur’s hand, he has to answer thousands of questions. Yet he does it with grace and the patience of a saint and last year he even thought of getting Arthur a wonderful gift for Christmas.”

“Let me guess: A plug?” Hermione had laughed, knowing how much Arthur Weasley loved his collection of muggle plugs.

“Right you are. And it was a very special one. As far as I understood it is for connecting a computer to a thing which spreads ink around. I really can’t think why the muggles want to connect such things - but Arthur was delighted.”

They’d reached the staff room then were the table had been laid for the few inhabitants of the castle who stood over Christmas. Harry had already been there, seated next to a very shy first year Hufflepuff girl - orphaned only a few months before by losing her parents to a death eater attack and now a ward of her head of house, Dee Sprout. The little one had obviously been so overwhelmed by the presence of the boy-who-lived that she’d only looked to her empty dish as if she’d hope to find there a line to say. The appearance of two seventh years Ravenclaws - Harry’s first crush Cho Chang and the spectacled self-made intellectual Ian McCarmody hadn’t helped the little one much because Cho Chang who’d always thought of herself as the school’s resident beauty queen had given her “I’m the coolest witch ever” performance again while her house mate obviously thought that dinner with the headmaster was his chance to show off. He’d immediately started to talk about how hard he worked on getting top marks in his NEWTs and that he’d just come across a “real interesting potion book” in the library and that he by now was knee deep in learning all about the usage of dragon blood in potions. “You don’t know how interesting this is, Headmaster!” he’d cried.

Hermione had once again admired her husband’s ability to look kind when bothered by a bore while Harry had turned his eyes as Severus Snape had swept in, all billowing black robes and the trademark sneer. To Hermione’s amazement he’d given the Ravenclaw an entire minute of babbling - considered how quick he always had been in talking down younger Hermione Granger (who’d by now learned not to bother him with explaining things he knew already) almost an eternity. In every case it had been long enough to make Harry look at him as if he’d think about Snape replaced by a bad impostor. But then Severus had proven it was really and truly him - with a voice like velvet over steel (the steel of a potion master’s blade, of course) he’d purred: “Your head of house will be proud to hear that you’ve managed to learn the first chapter of Heralda Fletcher’s book about dragon blood by heart, Mister McCarmody. Only you shouldn’t have skipped the foreword because there you could have learned that the invention of using dragon blood in potions making was done by an alchemist named Albus Dumbledore.” And sounding almost sweet, he’d asked: “Does the name ring a bell with you, Mister McCarmody?”

The boy blushed and looked as if he’d like to sink through the floor and Hermione was sure that it didn’t make him much better as he heard Albus saying: “Play nicely, Severus! I never can bring myself to reading forewords either - most of them are boring, aren’t they?”

“Play nicely, Severus” had worked - for ten minutes. Then the meal had been served and Cho Chang - who hadn’t been a favourite of Hermione even before she’d made Harry feel miserable in his fifth year - had made the mistake to ask Hermione in her sweetest tone what she’d done all afternoon. Giggling she’d add: “I was so amazed as I came in the library and didn’t find you there over a book.”

For a moment Hermione had fought against the urge to say - in the same saccharine tone: “I’ve snogged my husband in a classroom and if he weren’t so bloody devoted to his duties we would now probably shag like bunnies in springtime.” But to resuscitate half of the round and to obliviate the other half would only cost time and because Hermione still wanted to come to the bunny-part of the evening better sooner then later, she decided to do a little showing off herself in casually saying: “The headmaster and I worked on my animagnus training.”

Cho Chang, always true to (bitch) form, immediately directed her - admittedly - beautiful dark eyes on Albus, provided him with her most admiring gaze and said: “Oh, really? I didn’t know you were teaching transfiguration, Professor Dumbledore. Oh, I’d love to be taught by you!”

While Hermione thought: “Fat chance, sweetie! I’d throttle him first!” Albus obviously considered the second rule of his book: “If you want to stay alive, never flirt with a Ravenclaw while your Gryffindor wife is watching” and said amiably: “Professor McGonagall doesn’t like me to dabble around in her department. I’m only allowed with my wife.”

Yet Cho Chang wasn’t so easy to stop. Still smiling, she asked: “But you’re a legilimens and I’ve heard thy can recognize the animagnus form of a witch even before the witch herself knows about it. I’d love to learn about my form!”

Before Albus could answer, Severus stepped in. Smiling like the cat who’d just got canary a’l cream, he said: “I’m a legilimens too and in the contrast to our noble headmaster I’m a bad Slytherin who doesn’t always asks for permission before entering a mind. So I alrealready tell you: You’re a cow of the Friesian variety. Very useful because of giving a lot of fine milk.”

Hermione almost choked on her peas, Harry looked as if he’d develop - for the very first time in the seven year he was in Hogwarts now - affection to the potion master, the first year Hufflepuff didn’t understand what was going on; Ian McCarmody grinned; Cho Chang blushed and looked to the potion master as if she’d just wish for dropping some poison in his goblet and it was once again Albus who had to save the situation in smiling and saying: “Severus, you’re frightening the children. Don’t believe him, Miss Chang - even such a brilliant legilimens as our potion master he couldn’t read your mind without you noticing his presence there. Besides it’s simply not true that a legilimens can see the animagnus form before the wizard in question knows about. I’m even now not certain about Hermione’s form though I were in her mind while she went through the first steps of the transformation.”

By then Hermione had felt once again the wish to get him alone as soon as possible and therefore she’d probably not noticed how interested Severus looked as her.

“Wasn’t it her second lesson today?” he’d asked then.

“Yes, it was,” Albus had answered. “She’s really the quickest learner I’ve ever had the honour to teach. She made it even to the first signs of the body change.”

“Really? And?” Severus Snape was a curious person too. “What did you show, Mistress Granger?”

Hermione still hadn’t been too comfortable with it; therefore her answer had been short and quietly: “The headmaster thinks it was feathers.”

“You’re to become a falcon too?” Harry had asked.

Hermione had blushed. “No, I don’t think so.”

And then Albus had made the bomb explode in saying: “Hermione thinks she’ll become a duck.”

At least: After almost two minutes of laughing like mad with Hermione, Harry and Albus finally laughing too, Severus wiped the tears from his face and said: “I’m sorry, Hermione - I didn’t laugh at you as a duck. But I’ve just imagined the headmaster in a bath suit, wandering down to the lake with a duck under his arm. And ...,” he burst out with laughter again, “... Colin Creevey taking photographs and selling them to the ‘Daily Prophet’.”

Albus obviously liked the idea. “Headline to that: ‘Marital idyll of Hogwarts Headmaster’,” he laughed. “Hermione, what do you think? Shall I get myself a bath suit?”

“Oh yes!” Hermione turned her eyes. “With gold and red polka dots! Pity I’ve already bought your Christmas gift. But perhaps Professor Snape would want to get you a bath suit?”

“So sorry, but I’ve just got another idea,” Snape grinned. “Mister Potter - do you perhaps ...?”

To Hermione’s delight Harry didn’t sneer at Severus, but grinned back. “Too late too. Just this afternoon I’ve ordered my last Christmas gifts. And I’m convinced that I’m to fulfil another heart’s desire of Professor Dumbledore.”

For a moment Hermione felt sceptical - she hoped very much that Harry really had overcome his old grudge against Albus, but she still wasn’t sure about it. And true - his smile looked a bit forced, but Hermione knew him well enough to see, that it was nevertheless genuine. She hadn’t the slightest clue what he could have ordered for Albus, but for one thing she was sure: Eve it it were one of those ugly Quidditch team caps Ron and Harry were so fond of, Albus would love it. Getting back at least a bit of Harry’s trust and affection was his heart’s desire and a gift from Harry would make his Christmas a real feast.

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“Good morning, Hermione - and happy Christmas!” Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor house ghost, greeted friendly as Hermione hopped - humming cheerfully a Christmas tune - down the great marble stairs to the entrance hall.

Hermione smiled at him. “And a wonderful good morning and happy Christmas to you too, Sir Nicolas!”

The ghost who hung in midair over the great Christmas tree flied down until he was on Hermione’s eye level. Bowing slightly he said: “I must say you’re looking pretty this morning. Marriage becomes you, Hermione.”

“Oh yes, it does,” Hermione beamed. She felt like hugging the entire world and she wouldn’t have mind including Sir Nicolas in that if only he’d have a body to hug. Studying his pale frame, she said: “But you’re looking a bit sad, Sir Nicolas. Did Peeves bother you again?” As every one in the castle she know, that Sir Nicolas was one of the most favourite targets of Peeves, the nasty Hogwarts poltergeist who - without students in the castle - probably was bored and therefore after his fellow ghosts. “You know, you can go to the Headmaster when Peeves becomes too nasty again? He’s in the moment still in bed, but I think in one hour he’ll have breakfast in the staff room, and then you can talk with him.”

“Thyou you very much, Hermione,” Sir Nicolas bowed again, “but I won’t bother the headmaster. He is a busy man and he deserves his Christmas break. And I’ve already spoken with the Bloody Baron. He’s in the moment with Professor Snape, but afterwards he’ll have a worth Pth Peeves.” Sir Nicolas giggled. “He’s to threaten Peeves with setting him up as the fox in the next headless hunt. I’m sure Peeves wouldn’t like that.”

Hermione almost felt sympathy with the poltergeist for that. In contrast to Sir Nicolas who was always kind, Slytherins house ghost, the Bloody Baron, was a force to reckon with - even if one was a poltergeist. Having been a powerful wizard once, the Bloody Baron still possessed enough magic to make after lives difficult to a fellow ghost - and he had been a Slytherin of the quick sort, which meant: He didn’t think twice about casting a rather nasty jinxes. Besides he was able and - Hermione had no doubt about that - under certain circumstances more then only willing to curse living humans too. So only the fact that he was bound by an ancient oath to serve the headmaster and the heads of Slytherin which made his presence in the castle not a threat to the students.

Saying “farewell” to Sir Nicolas and stepping through the doors out in the cold, but clear winter morning, Hermione’s curiosity was awaken. Sir Nicolas had mentioned the Bloody Baron was with Severus now? Hermione shuddered. She could think of nicer company for breakfast. Actually, after Albus had mentioned that Severus would entertain a guest, Hermione even hopehoped that the potion master would spend not only the evening, but breakfast in enjoyable company. The Bloody Baron certainly didn’t count in that category.

Hermione was just around a corner and in the rose garden which she had to go through for reaching the green houses where she was appointed to meet Professor Sprout, as she heard a door, steps and voices. A woman said in tone which was obviously supposed to be seductive, but sounded a bit bored: “I could stay for a while, you know? It’s entirely up to you, darling - and your pursue of course. But I’d make you a special prize - a stallion such as you deserves bulk.”

Hermione blushed and backeay, ay, hiding herself behind the statue of a rather stupid looking Cupid. Although her curiosity wanted to know with who the lady - probably an employee of Hogsmeade’s famous brothel, “The Saucy Sorcerer’s Club” - was, she was pretty sure that the wizard in question wouldn’t be keen to present his “guest” to just that of his students was was incidentally his superior’s lawfully wedded wife too. Nevertheless Hermione couldn’t resist running through the list of the men in residence. She couldn’t image the “stallion” was of of the teachers. And certainly it couldn’t be Hagrid because he lived not only in a cottage near the gates, but was married to the Beauxbaton’s headmistress who was a half giantess. Hermione didn’t want to know what the huge woman could do to a cheating husband, but she was sure: Hagrid didn’t want to know either. So it had to be Filch, the caretaker - and although Hermione had never liked the ugly squib, she felt a pang of pity to him. How desperate had a man to be for buying himself the company of a prostitute?

Now the man who was with the prostitute answered - and Hermione almost fell in a rose bush as she recognized the familiar baritone of Severus Snape who said: “It’s possible I’d like to see you again during the holidays, Shanda. I’ll send you an owl then - as always.”

“Well, well, Sweetheart - I hope I can make it then.” Shanda sounded a bit offended. And now Hermione saw her, coming out of the shadows of the castle - and was entirely flabbergasted. She’d always thought that a woman in that profession would have to look a stunner, but this Shanda was far away from it. She rather reminded Hermione to a pathetic tarted-up version of Molly Weasley in a too tight, too bright orange robe which absolutely didn’t suit her henna red, fizzy hair. And although her face was almost hidden under the entire make up she was wearing - Hermione could not only see that she was probably even older than the potion master and that her eyes looked sad and weary as if she’d lost every illusion years before. Nevertheless - the way she raised her hand and stroke with one finger over the potion master’s cheek, saying “Take care, Honey” showed affection and an almost motherly tenderness. And Severus, now coming out of the door, followed by the Bloody Baron who glided just through the wall above, seemed to reciprocreate this affection. His smile was sad, but warm and in his voices neither malice nor venom as he said: “I’d like to see you to the gates, but ...”

“You really shouldn’t leave the castle,” finished Shanda the line. She smiled up to the ghost. “Don’t worry about me, Severus. Lord William will look after me as chivalrous and charming as always.” And with that she took her leave, walking down the path to the gates with the Bloody Baron hovering protectively over her.

Hermione who hadn’t even knew the Bloody Baron possessed a name except “Bloody Baron” and who’d never heard some one addressing him other than as “your lordship” or “Baron” couldn’t believe her eyes and ears. She just waited until she heard Severus going back into the castle and locking the door behind him, then she sat down on the bench next to the rose bush and shook her head.

She’d knew since a long time that Severus Snape was much more than a vile temper, a razor sharp tongue and a need to present himself as an utter bastard. She’d learned to admire his courage and to respect his loyalty to Albus. She’d even learned that his intelligence and power made him probably Hogwarts only wizard who was a match to the headmaster. And she’d come to enjoy his company in the last weeks. He was of course always trying, he never let slip an opportunity to provoke her, he obviously loved to make her furious - but Hermione had to admit that the verbal sparring with him was not only an irresistible challenge, but fun. To see him now with a prostitute - Hermione suddenly felt ashamed, but not for him, but for her and her friend and even her husband. What had they done to Severus Snape to make his life so entirely miserable that he had to search for a little warmth and comfort by a whore? And it was for warmth and comfort - about that Hermione was sure.

She’d grew from an inexperienced girl with only academic knowledge in matters of sexuality to a - no, not an experienced, but to a woman with some insights who’d been able to fight even Albus Dumbledore’s personal demons. And by this she had learned, that “need” could mean much more than raw sexual desire that it was - especially with men so complex as her husband and his potion master - not a pure greed of the body, but a longing of the heart and soul also. And to know that Severus Snape couldn’t get this need fulfilled, that he couldn’t have more than a prostitute getting him something what couldn’t be more than pure substitute for the real thing, made Hermione cry and wish, she could do something - anything - to help this man out of the hell he lived in.

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It seemed that Christmas as “Madame Dumbledore” was to become a series of more or less pleasant social gatherings, Hermione thought by brushing her teeth. The last evening - dinner with Harry, the Weasleys and the Sprouts - had to count as “more pleasant” while this evening, spent at what Minister Fudge liked to call “my humble home” had been not only boring, but almost embarrassingly so.

Hermione, once again feeling dressed up to the nines in a new silver dress robe (getting it from Albus this morning, she hadn’t resisted asking if Hogwarts headmaster would get a special found for his wife’s wardrobe) and on high heels (about them she’d have to talk with Ginny. Suffering for beauty was the one thing, but feeling as if getting smashed toes by it, the other) she’d got the pleasure to smile through an evening for which “abysmal” seemed to nice a description.

The dinner actually had been interesting - not so much for the food which Hermione found too heavy and too tasteless, but for the fact that she’d gotten not only Albus (“One can’t separate such a newly wedded couple! It would be too cruel!” Madame Fudge had chirped in commenting the seating arrangement), but the French ambassador as her neighbour. And this Jean-Luc Gratacarp made for interesting company - not only because he was charming and well mannered, but because he liked to talk about Paris - a city Hermione knew and loved from visiting it a few times with her parents. She’d been fascinated to hear, that the French Ministry thought of Paris as the capital of the vampire population - only that they seemed to have vanished out of sight years before after a few misunderstandings between them and the magical folk. Yet Monsieur Gratacarp was convinced that the vampires still lived in Paris and by dessert Hermione and he discussed rather enthusiastically the possibilities of the vampires’ whereabouts.

Until then Hermione had liked the evening, but after dinner it had become worse and worse. Madame Fudge was obviously a sticker to rules - old fashioned rules unfortunately - like her husband. So she’d sheep herded the ladies to one site of her over decorated, over heated drawing room, where they were to seat while - Madame Fudge said it giggling - the “men folk” was to discuss “boring politics” on the other site of the room. So Hermione wasn’t only separated from her husband - by seating on a uncomfortable sofa she only got now and then a little glimpse of his straight back in a forest green robe - but it had became even worse because she had been fallen in the claws of one Madame Beatrix “You may call me Bixi and I’ll call you ‘Mione” Gratacarp, muggleborn English witch and, as Hermione had learned sooner than she’d liked to, second wife and former secretary of the French ambassador.

The longer the evening went, the lesser Hermione thought about said ambassador because she couldn’t for the world understand why a man who obviously wasn’t entirely thick could have married something like “Bixi”. Alone this nickname! It reminded Hermione of a house elf and by all her sympathy for them - she’d never thought of house elves as icons of intellect. Besides she was sure: Even Dobby, Hogwarts free house elf, who always showed a rather particular taste in clothing, wouldn’t have wore a dress so ghastly as the mixture of dusty curtain and flimsy nothing “Bixi” proudly named “the dernier cry de Paris”. At least “Bixi” seemed to have no problem with Hermione being the wife of a man so old as Albus - she obviously thought Hermione a clever girl for catching Hogwarts headmaster and was “utterly delighted” to make her acquaintance because she’d found Albus - “You don’t mind me addressing your husband by his given name, don’t you? Or do you have a sweet nick name for him?” - Already in her school days “utterly delightful” and so “cute”. Yet - and this was obviously meant to calm Hermione in case she’d became jealous - “Bixi” wouldn’t make a pass on him, because she was so “utterly happy” with her “sweet Jean” who was “such a bunny and - huuh - French! You know what this means?” Hermione had already almost swallowed the silly umbrella on her drink by learning that Albus was “cute”. To see the ambassador now as a French bunny - what ever this meant - made her shudder and she decided to make it to the further conversation under the preamble: “Ginny and I’ll have so much fun when I’ll tell her about that!”

Nevertheless it hadn’t been easy to smile through the next hour because “Bixi’s” favourite subject was sex - in all variations from muggle sex - Hermione who’d never slept with a muggle had first wondered about the difference between muggle and wizard sex, but then learned that muggles were to use “funny toys” like vibrators and hand cuffs all the time - over “wizard sex” - a subject “Bixi” unfortunately hadn’t discussed in epic length, probably because she thought Hermione would already know everything about - to vampire sex in different numbers. One was sex between vampiresolloollowing “Bixi” a most passionate, fiery affair with so much magic involved that even muggles could feel it. It made - so “Bixi” said - sometimes even for earth quakes. Hermione had just wondered if this could mean that the vampires hide in Japan, but “Bixi” had already gone to the next section: 2.1 - sex between a witch and a vampire, another earth shaking event because the male vampires were so “utterly passionate” and - “Bixi” had whispered in Hermione’s not so willing ear - “exceptional well equipped”. Hermione had swallowed the question how “Bixi” could know about that - she really didn’tt mot more details. Besides she’d learned that there was a little problem with sex between witches and vampires: The witch, so “Bixi” had explained, was by it in danger to lose her magic because his was so much stronger. But - so at least “Bixi” thought - the talent of the vampires could make it worth to take this risk.

Section 2.2 meant a wizard shagging a female vampire - by that Hermione learned to advise her girlfriends to watch their wizards because if one had fallen in the hands of female vampire once he never could become satisfied again by a simply witch.

As Hermione was just about to learn about 3.1 - male vampire/female muggle - she was rescued by Albus who’d got himself rid of the minister, turned around and had noticed Hermione’s begging look then. He’d came over, paid “Bixi” a compliment for her “really interesting dress” (Hermione once again found his talent for telling insulting truths with sound charming by it exceptional) and then apologized for “robbing you off my wife’s company”. But, as he’d said, he wanted to present Hermione to an old friend - the Italian ambassador. He fortunately wasn’t married (or at least he wasn’t accompanied by his wife) and he’d already heard about Albus’ and Hermione’s trip to Rome, so ttheythey had a nice subject to talk about. Nevertheless Hermione hadn’t let Albus out of her grip. Clinging to him like for dear life though she cringed every time Madame Fudge passed them, chirping how “sweet” she found “young Madame Dumbledore’s devotion to her ...” Interval for anybody to fill in “ancient” or “much too old” or “doddering” - “...husband”, she’d managed to survive the rest of the evening. Yet she had been more then glad as Albus had asked her if they should leave. U a p a port key he’d prepared before they made back to their bedchamber at Hogwarts where they departed - Albus to the left side in his bathroom, Hermione to the right in hers.

Now she was ready and in her night shirt - not the teddy bear pyjamas anymore, but not the flimsy nothing either, but a sensible, long, white shirt. Walking on bare feet in the bedroom, she saw Albus just come out of his bathroom, wearing as always one of his long, pristine e nie nightshirts. He held a hair brush in his left and his wand in his right hand and smiled at her rather cheekily. “I’ll call you Mione ...,” he said in the saccharine tone of “Bixi”. “Would you like t”
”

Hermione grinned. “Oh and how! I’ve always dreamed of being called ‘Mione’. I only wonder ...,” stepping next to him, she took the hairbrush out of his hand and pushed him to the bed, “... if Minerva and Severus would survive if I’d call you ‘Albidoo’ by breakfast - and I mean breakfast in the great hall with you on the head and me on the Gryffindor table.”

He sat down on the bedside; Hermione climbed behind his back and started to brush the long, silver mane. “Brrr!” he made - a rumbling sound, deep from his throat. “I love it when you do that.”

“I know,” Hermione said smiling. “And you’re rather cute when you purr ...”

“Cute?” Obviously he’d never before seen himself as something “cute”.

“Cute!” Hermione repeated and for making her point entirely clear, spelled to him: “C-U-T-E. Bixi thinks so too.”

“Does I being cute make up at least a bit for this ghastly evening?” Albus asked.

Hermione could hear genuine concern through his light tone. “It does.” She bent over him and blew a kiss just on the cowlick over his forehead. Brushing again, she said: “Besides: I’ve learned a lot this evening.”

“Oh, you did? What was it then?” he asked.

“Sex, Albus. I’ve learned almost all about sex - sex by muggles, sex by wizards, and sex by vampires. Do you want to hear more?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Albus sounded a bit muffled because he’d bent his head for giving hesiersier access.

“Okay. Then let’s start with muggles. They use toys - like vibrators - all the time,” Hermione said cheerfully.

“Vibrators?” Albus obviously hadn’t heard this word before.

“My, my, Albus!” Hermione giggled. “And here I was thinking I’ve got myself an experienced lover. Did you never sleep with a muggle, you biased Slytherin pureblood?”

“Actually I did. But if memory serves me right the ladies in question only used the toys I provided them with,” he answered amused. “So, pray tell me - what’s a vibrator?”

“Uff,” Hermione made. “It’s - as fare as I know from hear saying - a device in form of a penis or something like that which keeps batteries - electricity, you know? - in it which makes it vibrate.”

“Ah.” Albus turned his head and grinned. “That sounds like something Arthur would love to get. Shall we order him a vibrator for Christmas?”

“Do you want to spend a few weeks in hiding?” Hermione asked back. “With Molly after you?”

“Hiding with you I’d find very pleasant. Molly after me - no, I think I wouldn’t like that.”

Hermione was ready with brushing Albus’ hair, now she ordered it and bound it to a ponytail. Pushing it aside, she kissed the back of his neck and said: “Ready, my dear.”

“Thank you very much.” Albus slipped in bed, holding the blanket invitingly open to her. “Will you come in my arm for telling me more about what you’ve learned?”

“With the greatest pleasure - or, as ‘Bixi’ would say: I’m utterly delighted. Really, this woman seems to have a smaller vocabulary than Filch’s cat!” Hermione put the hairbrush on the night stand and lay down.

“Except when it comes to sex? She seemed rather to tell you a lot,” Albus said and laid his arm around her shoulder.

“Oh yes!” Hermione put her head on its favourite place where his upper arm met his shoulder. “She told me all about vampire sex. Do you want to know?”

“Of course I do. As Minerva always says: One can never learn enough.” Albus took his spectacles down and laid them on the night stand.

“Okay. For example: A wizard who’d slept with a female vampire never becomes satisfied again by a simple witch. I now wonder what happens to a wizard who sleeps with a male vampire ...”

“I’m shocked, Hermione,” Albus laughed. “I was convinced I’m married to a walking library - and now I must learn that you’ve never read Gilderoy Lockhart’s opus magnum “Vainglory with vampires”. There you would have learned everything about wizards shagging male vampires.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. It seems I really have missed an epochal work.” Hermione grinned. “I take it that you’ve read it? So would you care to enlighten me?”

“With pleasure.” Albus stretched like a big cat and pulled Hermione a bit closer. “The most important thing in the book was that the vampires - all of them - have sworn chastity after the encounter with Lockhart. He was of course quite discrete, but it seems tcelecelebrated a kind of an orgy with him first and then ...”

“You mean, he was so lousy a lover?” Hermione giggled.

“Just on the contrary, my darling. He was so great they thought every other lover afterwards could only lead to disappointment,” Albus explained, his eyes twinkling. “But tell me, dear - didn’t you learn something about wizard sex too?”

“Unfortunately not too much,” Hermione gave back. “Bixi probably thought I’d knew already everything - with having such a cute wizard as you as my husband. Or she isn’t much interested in that.” Turning around on her belly, she braced her head in her hand, looked him in the eyes and said: “Albus ... you promise, you won’t laugh at me? I once really believed in wizard’s sex as something very special.” Albus grinned, but said nothing. Hermione pulled lightly on his beard. “Don’t look so Slytherin or I won’t tell you anything!”

“Wouldn’t you burst then?” Albus grinned even more.

“Albus! One word more and ...” Hermione had to think about something to threat him with.

“... You will make me sleep on the sofa?” he offered.

“And freeze myself all night because you’re not there to warm me? The devil I’ll do. You stay where you are - but if you don’t behave I’ll use a tickling charm on you!” Hermione grinned. She always found it rather funny how ticklish he was.

“Please - have mercy! I promise I’ll be a good boy,” Albus cried, his eyes twinkling.

“Good. If you’re a good boy, I’ll tell you a bedtime story,” Hermione kissed his chin - or better said: his beard.

“Oh - I love bedtime stories. Is it one about a wicked witch?” Albus asked.

“No. It’s about a wicked wizard and a sweet, very nice witch,” Hermione answered.

“Do I know the sweet, very nice witch?” Albus wanted to know.

“You do - but now be quiet and listen!” Hermione ordered and started: “Once upon a time there was a sweet, very nice, muggle born Gryffindor witch. She was a bit naive - probably because she was only 16 years old and rather inexperienced with wizards she she let herself in to date - twice or three times, but certainly not more - a wicked wizard from ...,” she blushed and said, “No, don’t mind the house. Its better you don’t know. You’re already smug enough in playing always the omniscient. Anyway: I met this boy and by the second or third date he tried to persuade me for shagging in the greenhouses. He kept telling me that he’d know all about wizard’s sex and how great it would be and because I’m muggle born I couldn’t even imagine to what highs of pleasure he could bring me with it ...”

“Tsss, tsss, tssss!” Albus made. “I’ll have to talk with Severus about his pupils. We can’t have Mister Zabini running around, telling the Slytherin secrets to muggle born Gryffindors.”

“Albus!” Hermione shoer her head in wonderment. “How did you know it was Blaise Zabini?”

“Slytherin secret, sweetheart,” Albus grinned. “One more of it ...”

“Of course!” Hermione turned her eyes. “And next thing you’ll tell me is that there’s really something special about wizard’s sex - but probably only when done with at least one Slytherin involved.”

Albus suddenly looked serious. “Actually, Hermione, there is something special. Isn’t it always when magic is involved? I mean, it has nothing to do with Slytherins. It probably even works with only Gryffindors involved - at least I reckon so. I never asked Augustus or Minerva and I doubt they’d tell me, but ...”

Hermione, always thirsty for knowledge, became at once very interested. “What is it, Albus? A charm? A spell? Something connected to legilimency?”

“Hmm - none of this,” Albus plaited his beard. “It’s difficult to explain and I can’t show you. Unfortunately we will never be able to do it because ...,” he fell silent.

Hermione fidgeted in impatience. “Because of what? Please, Albus, tell me!”

Suddenly the twinkle in his eyes was back. “We can’t do it because a duck is too big and too wet for a falcon, you know?”

“Oh, Albus Dumbledore!” Hermione cried and jumped on him, laughing and tickling him. “One day I’ll get my revenge on you! Teasing me all the time! You’re such an impossible, terrible Slytherin!”

With one quick move Albus had her in his arms, with a second he turned around, pinning her to the bed with his weight. Looking in her eyes he said: “Confess: You like Slytherins.”

“Never!” Hermione tried to kiss him, but he turned his head.

“I’m a proud Slytherin. We’re not in the habit of kissing women who don’t like us,” he teased her, keeping his chin up.

“Oh, don’t you worry!” Hermione had managed to free one hand and used it now to pull his head down again. “You don’t have to kiss me. I’ll just kiss you.”

For a few moments they kissed - a sweet and tender kiss, but as Hermione tried to make a bit more out of it, Albus broke it and turned back on his side of the bed.

Hermione swallowed - and cursed herself inwardly again. Hadn’t she still learned her lesson? Albus had once told her, he couldn’t use the potion more then twice a month - not if he wanted to avoid lasting damage. And by now she could have got the message he’d sent her more then once: Without the potion he didn’t want to sleep with her. Period.

The only problem with accepting this decision of his was that she hated to accept without knowing the reason. In this special case: She was not sure if his refusal was based on not wanting to or not being able to. And she could hardly ask him, couldn’t she? To tell her that his 163 year old body wasn’t to cooperate with him on that would be embarrassing for him. And she’d sworn herself she’d let his dignity intact. So she would not ask and she would not allow her body to take over again. That she longed for his touch that she couldn’t get enough of him - this was her problem to deal with. And she would deal with it and she wouldn’t make him miserable again. So she turned around, snuggled to his side and said quietly: “I’m sorry, Albus.”

“There’s no need to be sorry, Hermione. You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice was calm and sad. Breathing deeply, he raised his hand. “Nox!” he commanded. The candles vanished.

Hermione swallowed again. She could have kicked herself! Now she’d done it again - he was one distance and probably it would again need a few days until he let her close. “Good night, Albus,” she said, fighting against tears.

“Good night, Hermione.” Now at least he laid his arm once again around her shoulder and pulled her close.

A few minutes both were silent, their breathing the only sound in the dark. Then Albus said: “I am sorry, Hermione. I wish - I really do - I could serve you better ...”

Hermione shot almost around. Bracing herself with one hand against his chest, her other hand searched and found his face, stroking forehead and cheeks. “Albus, please - don’t think like that! I hate the idea of you thinking that you would have to ‘serve’ me. It’s not all about sex, it really isn’t!” she almost cried. “You know I enjoy sleeping with you. You’re a wonderful lover, the most tender and passionate and sensitive and experienced a woman could wish for. Yet the sex isn’t what makes our marriage and my happiness about - and yes, Albus, you’ve made me a very happy woman. I enjoy talkwithwith you, I love it when you tease me, I feel warm and contend when you hold my hand, I was happy this afternoon as I read on the sofa with my head in your lap, I love it so very much to cuddle with you and I look forward all day for sleeping in your arms at night.”

He didn’t say anything, but his hands were in her hair now, stroking it tenderly - and this made her feel more secure and so she proceeded: “You know howhinkhink of sex with you? It’s like the cherry on top of the pudding. And our marriage pudding is at least to me the most delicious pudding ever and I surely mustn’t tell you that a pudding doesn’t need to have a cherry on top for being just wonderful.” She suddenly felt how he shook and trembled under her hands and something wet was on his cheek. “Albus - are you well?” she asked frightened - and then she heard him laugh so hard he almost chocked by it.

And he needed a few seconds before he managed to say: “Remind me tomorrow, Hermione: I’ll have to tell the house elves never to serve pudding with a cherry on top when I’m eating at the head table. I don’t think you’d like me to explain to a healer at St. Mungo’s why I broke down in laughter over a simple dessert.”

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

The second time it was pleasant - and not only because Hermione was prepared, but because she awaited him eagerly. Hovering once again over the mattress in the empty classroom, she closed her eyes, listened how he softly cast his “legilimens” and then entered her mind. She almost giggled as she felt his presence again - bright and pure and warm and familiar. Yet this time he was in for a surprise, because Hermione had used the three days between her last sessions and now. She’d got herself a crash curse in occlumency - the art of closing the mind against intrusion. Only that she used it just the other way round: She didn’t close her mind, but opened it to show Albus a few of her most precious memories.

Through their connection she felt how amazed he was to see himself, laying injured in their bed and becoming fed with rice-pudding; how he wondered as she sent him the picture of himself as she’d seen him at the ball, waltzing sweepingly with Dee Sprout and she knew, he didn’t only see the image she sent him - Albus tenderly stroking Fawkes; Albus laughing with her; Albus seating on the bedside while she brushed his hair; Albus waking up, looking a bit dizzy, but smiling; Albus on his desk in the office, every iota the imposing headmaster and Albus how he’d kissed and stroked her last time in this classroom - but felt the emotions she connected with this pictures of him too. Her love, her pride on him, the tenderness, the admiration - everything was there too and she gave it to him without expecting anything in return.

But then something came back and suddenly she found herself in his memories and she saw herself: A bushy-haired 11 year old girl in a brand new Hogwarts robe, chewing nervously on her under lip while pulling the sorting hat over her head; the same girl beaming and running down to the Gryffindor table where she was greeted by her house mates. She saw herself during her second year, laying petrified in a bed in the informatory and it was night and he sat next to her and she felt how much he’d worried about her. Another image came up - Hermione, Ron and Harry coming back from a day in Hogsmeade, for once chattering and laughing and being careless teenagers. Hermione knew that they rarely had felt this way and she didn’t have to wonder that in his memory this picture was connected with sadness and grieve. He knew how much and often they had been burdened with weights too heavy for their young shoulders and almost like a fire she felt now, how much he hated this war which had stolen them their careless youth.

More images, more feelings - she had never known he watched her so closely and was so aware of the role she played in the “golden trio”. And then she saw herself how Minerva had led her to him for their binding and the image of her in his mind almost took her breath away. He’d seen her as a beauty and behind the tenderness and pureness which was him she felt somethinge - e - and it was like heat radiating from the passion in him. Another image - only a glimpse - made the picture complete: She saw herself as she’d laid in his arms last time in this class room, naked, her lips swollen from his kiss and she felt love and desire.

But then he closed his mind - slowly and soft, as he’d pull a curtain over it. His presence stayed - once again calm and leading her back in her mind and down the path to the meadow. And there was the pond again and she glided in it, relishing the cool water, again completely in her element and it made her almost forget why she’d been so eager to go into the pond. But now she remembered and bending down her head she looked to her image in the pond. First she only saw something grey - but then the picture became clearer: Gray, bigger then a duck, with much more imposing wings and a long, elegant neck, swinging up to her head in an elegant “S”.
With one cry she was out of her trance. “Albus! Albus! I’m not a duck. I am a swan.”


To be continued …

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I have to thank my beta reader Kristle. She’s not only quick, but she is good, isn’t she?