Much Ado about Nothing

Much Ado about Nothing


By: Max

[Disclaimer: see chapter 1]

Chapter 14: The king in exile



“I can’t help myself.” Minerva McGonagall rolled the parchment she’d just read up, put it in a pocket of her green robe and looked at her friend Poppy who sat opposite to her in a cosy chair in front of the fireplace, knig sog something in green and silver. “I worry about the girl. There’s something in this letter - as cheerful as she tries to sound and as witty as she describes life at the university. I can’t lay my finger on it yet, but I find something amiss.”

Poppy bent down to the cradle which stood at her feet, changed the silver wool against green before she set her needles in motion again. Without taking her eyes from her work, she said: “I don’t know Hermione as well as you do, but I can imagine the situation isn’t easy for her.”

“Oh yes!” Minerva said eagerly. “In Hogwarts she was surrounded by people she’s known almost all her life and she could always relay on our support. Yet in Venice she has to prove herself on her own. I only wonder …” She fell silent, sighed and rose up. “Would you like a cup of tea too?”

“If I can have it with a drop of your Scottish whisky?” Poppy smiled.

“Of course.” Minerva ringed for a house elf that appeared immediately. The transfiguration mistress ordered tea for two; the house elf bowed and disappeared. Walking over to the cabinet and getting a bottle for whisky out of it, she said, her voice sad: “I’ve thought Hermione would have come to see me as a friend. I know I’m much elder than her, but …”

“&#; sh; she nevertheless likes you very much,” Poppy finished thne. ne. “Your motherly feelings for her are reciprocated. You’re like a second mother for her. She once told me so herself.”

Minerva came with the bottle to the table in front of the fire. Putting it down, she sighed again. “I’m obviously a mother who failed in winning her daughter’s trust.” Sitting down, she proceeded. “That’s what bothers me about her letters. There’s never something personally in it. Not a single word about missing Hogwarts - and I’m sure she does! And not a word about her private life, about people she meets, about her joys, her sorrows …”

The house elf came with the tea tray. Minerva thanked and released the little creature, and then she poured tea for her friend and her, adding generously whisky to it.

As she gave Poppy her cup, the mediwitch put her needles down and, sipping at the hot liquid, said quietly: “Perhaps you should mention to Hermione that you don’t show her letters to some one …”

Minerva looked puzzled. “You think she minds that I sometimes read the one or another passage to you or Sproutie?”

Poppy shook her head with the still blonde hair. “Certainly not. But she minds him. Their relationship is pretty tense at the moment.”

“Him?” Minerva had become huge eyes. “About whom you’re talking?”

Poppy smiled and patted her friend’s hand tenderly. “Oh, Tabby - sometimes you’re not all out of this world! If you really didn’t notice it you’re probably the only one here.”

“What didn’t I notice?” Minerva sounded a bit annoyed. She hated it to be in the dark.

“Our headmaster and your former star pupil being in love with each r, or, of course. The sparrows on the roof are singing arias about it, Minerva!” Poppy said.

Minerva breathed deeply and put her cup on the table. “I have noticed!” she said crisply. “The tension between the two of them sometimes was almost tangible. And how she looked at him when she thought no one would watch her …”

“… and how he watched her when he thought no one would look at him!” Poppy smiled. “And his smile when she entered the hall for breakfast! Considering how grumpy he normally is on mornings, I always found it very cute.”

Minerva nodded gravely. “I always thought so - though it made me sad. If only she wouldn’t be so terribly young! She would suit him perfect and I think he wouldn’t be a bad man for her either. She’s his match - as young as she is. Give her ten years more of experience and self-confidence and she could become the woman who’s able to give Albus a run for his money.”  “I wouldn’t wonder if she’s doing just this at the moment,” Poppy had emptied her cup and started knitting again. “Perhaps she’s just keeping back because she wants to grill a reluctant lover? You know how Albus is. He hates not to be informed …”

“Lover?” Minerva looked shocked. Raising her hands, she studied Poppy’s calm face. “Moment! I know that Hermione and Albus have developed a crush on each other. But lover? That implies that …. Poppy!”

“Yes, Minerva?” The mediwitch looked as if she would amuse herself too the fullest.

“Albus is almost 100 years the girl’s senior! And she was his student and his apprentice! It would be highly inappropriate!”

Pophanghanged her wool again. Looking at Minerva, she chuckled: “You’re one to talk, Minerva Stuart McGonagall! I’ve heard about a certain student at Oxford who always almost fainted when a certain law professor came along her way. And it’s said that the student in question - actually on her way to a doctorate in transfiguration - heard law lessons and sat there, looking as if she were on cloud 9 ½.”

“But he wasn’t my professor - actually …” Minerva sounded rather lame. “Besides: Augustus is only 43 years my senior.”

“Some people found nevertheless he’d be much too old for you,” Poppy answered quietly. “And wasn’t it Albus who defended you against your infuriated parents with saying, age wouldn’t matter if love had developed? And …,” Poppy laid her knitting in her lap and put her hand on Minerva’s arm. “You said once something which impressed me deeply. I thought of it as Alastor proposed to me. You remember? Ro Hooch asked you once if you wouldn’t worry about the age gape between Augustus and you. It would make for you becoming perhaps a widow after only a few years of marriage. And you answered …”

Minerva smiled. “I know - I said that I rather want 10 years with a great man than 100 years with a git. I still think so.”

“Perhaps your almost daughter Hermione think so too?” Poppy asked. “Perhaps she thinks that 10 years with Albus Dumbledore - who is, as you will admit, not only a charming, but truly fascinating man - mean more than 100 years with a moron like Titus Ollivander? And would you deny her this only because some silly people would think it inappropriate?”

“No.” Minerva shook her head. “I certainly would not. But …,” she poured herself and Poppy tea and whisky again, “30; 30; if she’s really with him, then I understand her behaviour even less. I mean I wouldn’t expect her to tell me. It’s her and Albus’ privacy after all. But why doesn’t she come over now and then? She didn’t visit once since she left. And why did she leave at all? I mean, Albus is here - and in the moment he’s more here than he was in years! Why isn’t she with him when they are an item?”

Poppy sighed. “I’m afraibus bus plays hard to get at the moment. You know how he is: Facing dark wizards isn’t a problem for him. But when it comes to love he gets the jitters. He knows perfectly well how to deal with affairs. But believing in love? Making himself vulnerable to another human being? You know what he said as I teased him on our wedding about finding a wife himself? He became rather serious, saying he wouldn’t be so ‘apple cheeked naïve’ anymore to believe that a woman could bear living with him. He’d be too settled in his ways, too egotistical and much too sceptical for love.”

Minerva rose. Slowly she walked to the window where she tugged thoughtfully a wilted leaf from a hibiscus. “He wanted her to go to Venice,” she said quietly. Marching to the fireplace, she threw the leaf into the flames. “He didn’t go to her installation though he was invited by the dean. He said he’ave ave to attend an important meeting at the ministry and sent me.” She took one of the photographs from the mantelpiece and started to polish the silver frame with her handkerchief. “Hermione was disappointed. She didn’t say so, the good child, but I could see it in her eyes.” Putting the picture back at its place, she turned around, her eyes blazing. “Why didn’t I notice it earlier? It’s obvious! He tries to avoid her!”

“Yes, so I think too,” Poppy agreed. “As I said: Albus plays hard to get. She loves him, he loves her - in other cases twoulwould make for ‘happily ever after’. But with our dear headmaster it means that he does the diving duck, probably thinking it would go away if he only hides long enough.”

Minerva closed and opened her hand - not aware how much this gesture was alike to a cat putting her claws out and in. “Poppy,” she looked at her friend inquisitively, “do you really think he knows about her love for him?”

Poppy hesitated for a moment. Then she said: “You know, I normally don’t talk about things I see while on duty. But in this case …” Breathing deeply she said: “I’m pretty sure this love was at least once ‘consumed’ as you’d say.”

“Please?” Minerva raised an eyebrow.

Poppy sighed. “Oh, Minerva - do you remember the conference in Germany during the summer break? You were there with Albus - and by coming back you almost threw him on the hairs to me because he’d got this nasty bump on his knee. Now tell me: Did he flirt with one of the Transfiguration mistresses in Germany?”

“No, he didn’t.” Minerva wrinkled his forehead. “He actually was mostly with Hermione …”

“You see?” Poppy said.

“No.” Minerva sat down again. “What shall I see? I mean, it’s quite normal he’s with me and Hermione isn’t it?”

“I think you were with them all the time,” Poppy giggled. “Or were you? Then you can perhaps tell me how he got not only love marks on his neck, but a mark from teeth on his shoulder …”

“He had …?” Minerva swallowed. “You think …?”

“Tabby!” Poppy grinned. “We’re talking about Albus. And about Hermione. Neither she nor he are people stopping on the half way …”

“Uh!” Minerva obviously was for a moment at a loss for words. “But if they really … I mean, if they have …. You know what I mean …”

Poppy once again looked very amused. “I think I do, Minerva. You mean if they’d shagged each other …”

“Poppy Pomfrey-Moody!” Minerva sounded infuriated. “One doesn’t talk about one’s headmaster like that!”

Poppy grinned. “That goes only for headmasters who aren’t as shaggable as ours, Tabby.”

“POPPY!” Now Minerva looked as if she’d faint. “What would your husband say to that?”

“What he always says when I state that I find our headmaster quite sexy: That he’d dismember Albus if he’d lay a finger on me.” Poppy took up her knitting again.

Minerva shook her head. For a few minutes she became silent, obviously brooding. Then she suddenly jumped on her feet. “Poppy! If Albus really made love to the girl …” She started pacing again, her robe swishing over the floor. “I’ll kill this insufferable Slytherin!” she hissed. “First he seduced the girl, and then he left her!”

“Uh …” Poppy looked up from her knitting. “I wouldn’t be so sure about him seducing her. Hermione is a rather determined girl if she wants something, isn’t she? I wouldn’t wonder if she’d overrun Albus.”

“However!” Minerva turned around, her robe swirling around her. “He makes her suffer! She doesn’t come her because she’s hurt! Her installation - that was after Blocksberg! And it should have been one of the happiest days of her life, but he spoiled it for her! The poor darling probably cried all night because he let her down! Oh, let me get him in my claws! I’ll scrape his innocent baby blue eyes out! I’ll hex his lemon drops for making him chock on them! Oh, Albus Dumbledore! Just you wait until I’ll get you! You’ll get a piece of my mind you won’t forget for the rest of your life!”

“Uh, Tabby …” Poppy interrupted her friend’s ranting. “I understand you’re pretty upset …”

“Upset?” Minerva came back to the fireplace. “I am not upset!” she stated there. “I’m furious!”

“Yes, Minerva,” the mediwitch nodded. “But you can hardly waltz in Albus’ office, taking him task for …”

“Why can’t I?” Minerva broke in, her fists balled. “I very well can! And I will!”

“Minerva!” Poppy patted on the chair next to her. “Sit down and try to calm your Scottish temper. You know yourself, you can’t. His love life - messed up as it probably is - is his affair. Or, as my husband would say in his nice, clear way: It’s his fucking business. In the sense of the word. The only person, who could take him task for it, is Hermione. And she obviously doesn’t want to - for reasons unknown to us.”

Minerva was still fuming. “How could she with this unbearable, impossible, irresponsible, reckless bastard hiding at Hogwarts and avoiding her like the plague? Some one has to talk sense into him!”

“Minerva …” Poppy sounded suddenly thoughtfully. “I think I’ve just getting an idea …”

“Yes?” Minerva sat at last down, but tugged nervously at her sleeve.

Poppy grinned at her. “If our suggestion that he avoids herrighright, the girl is in need for a little female solidarity. So what about your birthday next week? I know you don’t like parties, but you could invite a few friends at Friday or Saturday …”

Minerva suddenly beamed. “Poppy, you’re a genius! I invite friends to dinner - Alastor and you, Sproutie and Andrew, Albus and my dear Hermione.”

“And it will be rather informal invitation like ‘Oh, Albus, by the way: Wouldn’t you like to come over for dinner at Saturday in the evening? It’s my birthday and I thought I’d like to see a few friends …’” Poppy giggled. “Even our omniscient acting headmaster won’t reckon that Hermione comes over from Venice …”

“Hmm …” Minerva brushed dust only she could see from her robe. “There’s a problem. In the moment Hermione sets a foot at Hogwarts he will learn about it. You know our wards are giving notice to him about every visitor attending the castle. And you know Albus: He is quicker in finding excuses than mice in finding holes!”

“Yes, you’re right,” Poppy agreed. “Before Hermione makes it up the stairs Albus will already have sent a note, expressing his deepest regrets for letting you down, but he can’t help it because he just got an owl, calling him to Timbuktu where he has to catch a flying carpet running wild. And you can bet your butt: He won’t come back as long as Hermione is around.”

“Which means, that I won’t invite my friends to our flat,” said Minerva. “We all need to see sometimes something else than Hogwarts, don’t we? Therefore we’ll celebrate my birthday at the Three Broomsticks where one can apparate without our headmaster being the wiser. And to see his face when he finds himself eye in eye with the woman he wants to avoid, will be my special birthday gift! Our oh-so-clever Slytherin, the master of strategy - I think it’s time he gets a lesson by Gryffindor females!”

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

As she’d got the invitation Hermione had thought about a polite, but firm decline. Minerva celebrating her 82. Birthday with “a few friends” - that could only mean that she’d invite Albus too. And the thought of meeting him had been enough for Hermione pushing the paper away she’d been just working on - much to the amazement of her assistant - and leaving the lab, saying: “I need a little fresh air.”

Strolling down - her lab was on the second floor in the huge, old building where the transfiguration faculty of the Cagliostro University resided - to the entrance hall, she directed her steps to her favourite place in the university: The old cloister with the garden and the beautiful fountain in the middle. Because it’s nearness to the office of the dean - who always showed a lot of Italian temper when disturbed by noisy students or too loud talking professor - not much people came to the cloister if they hadn’t to. But Hermione loved it. The garden was like a peaceful island in the middle of the always stormy sea which was the Cagliostro University.

Sitting down on the bench next to the fountain Hermione looked at Minerva’s letter. In the last six weeks she’d spent almost every day a few minutes in the garden and though her new project was a challenge which kept her very busy - the subject she’d chewed on by cooling her hands in the fountain had always been Albus.

Since the conference at Blocksberg - now almost four months ago - she had neither seen him nor heard a word from him. The first weeks - still during the summer holidays - she hadn’t worried much about it. She’d made her point as she’d seduced him. With that she’d showed him that he couldn’t simply deny their love and that she didn’t intend to let him off the hook so easily. She knew herself that she’d by that had been a bit unfair against him. She hadn’t only left his bed while he was still sleeping, but she’d even put a silencing charm on his watch what had meant: He’d slept in. Minerva, missing him at breakfast, had been the one who’d run up to kick him out. So he hadn’t got a chance to talk to Hermione before breakfast. And afterwards he hadn’t succeeded either. Directly after breakfast the ceremony for taking up the new members had started and after it the second part of the conference with Albus as the first speaker. From there on it had become a bit difficult to avoid him, but Hermione had managed in always being next to him when a lot of people were around and quickly disappearing as soon as he wasn’t talked to by colleagues. Yet he’d tried to get her - and once he’d been so close that Hermione had taken refuge in a wash room.

But by running away from him she’d planned already her second stroke. She’d counted on seeing him again at the installation and she’d looked forward to the second round “Hermione vs. Albus”, being sure it would end once again with him knocked out. She’d already prepared a little speech about the stupidity of denying what he obviously needed so much as she did. And missing him dreadfully, she’d even intended to offer him another “deal” - something like “Let’s see eacher her now and then - without any commitment, without making something more out of it than spending a little time together.”

She’d been almost sure he’d play along. The night at Blocksberg - hadn’t it showed something to him? Hermione had become surprised by it - very pleasantly surprised. As she had planned her “attack” on him, she’d counted on their mutual sexual attraction, of their passion and the simple fact that he’d be needy after a few days alone. So she’d been sure that it would become a rather raw and wild encounter. And after his display of jealousy at the afternoon - huuh! She’d never thought it possible, but jealous, fuming, raging Albus she’d found so sexy she’d almost jumped on him at the quidditch pitch.

But then, in his bed, she’d learned something new about him. It hadn’t been passionate sex he’d craved for, but tenderness. She’d planned to show him that couldn’t resist her, but in the end he’d shown her that it wasn’t only passion which connected them, but love.

Before Blocksberg she hadn’t been sure about his feelings. Of course, he’d said more then once that he loved her - but how much meant a “Ti amo” uttered in the middle of a passionate act? Hermione had wanted to believe it, but she was too realistic to forget entirely about his history with women. As much as she’d enjoyed the skills, the subtlety and the finesse he showed - it had made for her becoming even more aware of the fact that he’d come through a lot of beds. And for one thing she was sure: Even with an one night stand, some one he didn’t know long and wouldn’t meet again afterwards, Albus would always try to please as best as he could. For only thinking of himself and his own satisfaction he’d got too much style and - he simply was too vain for it. He was - something Hermione found rather cute - proud of his ability to please women and the idea that one who’d slept with him would tell her friends the other day that he’d be a lousy lover would probably irk him more than 22 articles about him being “senile” in the “Daily Prophet”.

But how could a rational girl like Hermione under such circumstances believe that an “I love you”, said in bed, really meant something to him? Until Blocksberg she really had considered such statements as a part of his usual routine. But in Germany he hadn’t been driven by need and lust only and she hadn’t been “gloriously fucked” - as she’d inwardly had named the other encounters with him - but worshipped, adored, cared for and loved.

In Germany he hadn’t said that he loved her. He’d whispered how much he enjoyed her, how wonderful she felt, how beautiful he found her, how tight she was, how arousing, how silken her skin would feel. But in the moment he’d lost control he’d held on to her as for dear life and then he’d said: “Don’t leave me!” English - not Italian. And sounding almost desperate.

She’d clinked to these words for the next weeks though she’d seen the irony of it. As he’d said he’d love her, she hadn’t entirely believed him. But his “Don’t leave me” she took serious though she knew: He would never deny that he’d spoken about loving her, but he’d rather swallow his tongue than to admit that he’d said “Don’t leave me”. If she’d ask him for it, he would certainly start a longer speech, explaining to her, that he had only meant something like “Don’t disappear just now when I’m so close” and he would swear every oath that it had been only about sex and certainly not about love.

But Hermione knew it better. She knew that on that precious moment he’d let down the walls he’d built around his heart, that this one line had been the truth he’d even denied himself and that his desperate plea was the reason why he tried to drive her away. He’d been left once - and not only by a woman he’d loved and trusted, but by his very own wife.

Hermione was sure: His marriage had meant the world for him. He was a honourable man and a promise from him always meant something one could absolutely trust in. A marriage vow - promising a woman to love and to honour her until death would part him from her - he would never have given easily. He must have believed the love which had led to this marriage indestructible. Losing it had broken his heart; being left had destroyed his trust. And so he was running away from Hermione because he feared that she would leave him too, opening the old wound which obviously never had properly healed. The softest touch on it made him suffer again.

In the first time after their encounter in Germany Hermione had been all optimism. Who if not her could heal the wound? She would tend to it with love, tenderness and passion. She would show him that he could trust her, that she wouldn’t leave him, that her love for him really was invincible and indestructible.

But as he hadn’t appeared to her installation - and he hadn’t even sent her an owl, but only asked Minerva to give her his regards! - She’d become insecure again. She was still convinced about her love for him, but what about his feelings? One of the most important days in her life, the arrival at a goal she’d worked for since she could remember - and he hadn’t been there at her side! Urgent ministry business - she hadn’t believed in it for a second! He hadn’t wanted to see her. And it had hurt. However she had tried to explain it to herself and to justify his staying away - it had hurt like hell and she’d been furious with him and she’d spent the next three evenings in writing letters to him, starting with angry attacks and reproaches and ending in tears with the plea: “Don’t let me alone! I need you.”

Of course, she hadn’t sent the letters - none of them. They’d all landed in the fire.

But since then she’d been preparing for the worst case: Three years without him. Perhaps she’d see him once or twice by a conference, but what differences would it make? He wouldn’t give her another chance to come close to him.

And then, after the three years? What would happen when she’d come back to Hogwarts? He would keep his promise - but what good would it be to her if he didn’t love her? If he really could stand away from her for three years - 36 months, 144 weeks, 1008 days and lonely nights - then he didn’t love her, at least not in the way she wanted him ThenThen she wouldn’t want him to keep his promise anymore.

And now the invitation from Minerva. What was Hermione to make out of it? Spontaneously she’d thought: “No!” But now, sitting on the bench at the fountain, she thought anew. Seeing Albus again. Being close to him. Talking to him. What could she lose by it? The situation couldn’t become any worse, could it? But she could win something: A piece of self respect. Afterwards she could at least look at the mirror, knowing that she wasn’t - in the contrast to him - a coward. And she wouldn’t have to reproach herself for not trying. She was after all a Gryffindor - and if a Gryffindor’s ship was to sink, it needed at least to go down with flying colours.

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

It had been Fawkes who’d saved the day, or better said, evening. A few minutes after Hermione had entered the Three Broomsticks, much to the delight of Minerva, Poppy and Dee Sprout who’d hugged and kissed her, she’d heard a thrilling sound. Fawkes had burst through the wall in a flame and, soaring under the ceiling of the room, had song a joyful tune. Sinking down then he’d landed on Hermione’s outstretched arm and she’d once again regretted that one couldn’t embrace a phoenix. But a kiss on his forehead Fawkes liked when it came from Hermione and so she’d stroked with one finger his neck while she’d bent over him, laying her lips against his silken feathers. “Couldn’t you come to Venice now and then, old boy?” she’d whispered to him. “I miss you so.”

Being busy with the bird Hermione hadn’t noticed how Albus had entered. And she’d been glad about because she was sure: He hadn’t expected her and he’d certainly needed a few seconds to come over his surprise - or should she name it ‘shock’?

Yet he’d managed it - as always - perfect. As she’d heard him greeting Minerva, he sounded calm and collected. And stepping to Hermione - after heR off offer polite greetings to the Sprouts, Poppy, Alastor and Augustus - he’d shown not only impeccable manners, but self-discipline again. Hermione was sure: If not for her blush and the tremble in her voice none of the watchers could have found anything out of the usual by the way Albus spoke to her. He sounded as one could expect from a master who met his appreciated ex-apprentice and he’d even provided her with a peek on the cheek. His lips - a bit raw and dry - had slightly trembled by doing so - the only sign for Hermione that he hadn’t been as untouched and cool as he’d acted.

Fawkes had been the saviour of Hermione and his master once again. Climbing up on Hermione’s shoulder, he’d started to “clean”r har hair as he always liked to do, picking tenderly strand for strand and pulling it through his break with uttering tender sounds.

Albus had laughed and stroked the phoenix’ neck. “Fawkes! One doesn’t rummage in a lady’s hair do! Hermione’s head will look like a bird’s nest when you’re done with her!”

“Let him,” Hermione had said. “I like it …” A bit quieter she’d added: “I really miss him.”

“He misses you too,” Albus had answered. “You’ve spoiled him with cutting his apples. Now he always rants at me when I serve him whole fruits.”

“Poor Fawkes!” Hermione had smiled at the phoenix. “No sliced apples anymore! But you know what? I’ll ask Rosmerta for an apple and a knife. You excuse us, Albus?”

With the bird on her shoulder she’d gone to the bar, glad for a little moment out of his sight to calm herself. Being close to him again had made not only for her heart beating like mad and her head feeling hot, but for a cramp in her stomach. He looked so … so entirely Albus! The blue eyes behind the golden half moon spectacles, not twinkling, but nevertheless beautiful; the bushy brows - why had she once, searching for the identity of her dream lover, not noticed that Albus’ eye brows weren’t as white as his hair, but still auburn? His nose - most people probably saw his big, crooked nose as a rather unattractive feature about him, but Hermione liked it. It suited him, it belonged to him and she wouldn’t have wanted him with another nose. And his mouth - she’d always loved his mouth. The upper lip, firm, but with an elegant swing and the sensual under lip which could become so soft and when he smiled, he showed two rows of perfect white teeth - and Hermione, child of dentists, had always wondered how he managed to have so perfect teeth at his age and with his fondness of sweets.

She would have liked to kiss his mouth. But instead she’d prepared an apple for Fawkes - much to the amusement of Augustus and Alastor who’d teased her about “developing motherly instincts” with the phoenix. And if Albus wouldn’t want to send Fawkes to Venice for his next burning? “You’re always grumbling about chicken Fawkes needing so much cuddling. Hermione would probably enjoy it.”

“I don’t grumble about his need for closeness,” Albus had defended himself. “I even allow him to sleep in my bed the first days after his burning. But I really don’t like when he forgets that he’s actually perfectly house trained.”

Dee Sprout, experienced mother of four, had known the problem: “That’s so with babies at a certain age. Over the days they can control themselves perfectly well, but when they relax in sleep …”

Alastor Moody, twinkling with his good eye, had seriously asked her: “And what is one supposed to do against?”

Dee had promptly answered: “With babies it’s a pra problem. They get nappies for the night.”

The next half hour had been filled with laughter and teasing. Alastor had suggested Albus should put chicken Fawkes nappies on and Minerva had tried to get her husband’s handkerchief for changing it into a Fawkes nappy. Augustus had of course protested and demanded she’d use Albus’ handkerchief. Albus promptly had lied about not having an unused one - “You know, I suffer with hay fever, therefore …”

Poppy had raised an eye brow: “Hay fever? You? If that’s so you should come up to the infirmary tomorrow. One can’t do much about hay fever with potions, but a few muggle injections could make it better.”

“Muggle injections? You want to stick needles in me?” Albus had looked as if she’d thread to grill him over an open fire. “I don’t think my hay fever isn’t so bad.”

“It certainly isn’t,” Alastor had grinned. With his magical eye he could see through the fabric of Albus’ robe in his pocket. “Your handkerchief looks perfectly fine and clean, you know? Only this colour - lilac! Albus, you’ve got a taste like a mountain troll!”

“Mountain trolls are having lilac handkerchiefs?” Augustus had grinned. “My, my - one is never ready with learning. I really didn’t know that.”

Alastor, gulping down a glass of fire whiskey, hadn’t mind Augustus. Instead he’d looked at Hermione who’d sat on Albus’ right side. “Lassie, you’re next to Albus. Just get us the handkerchief! Minerva is so keen for conjuring a Fawkes nappy!”

“AlastI caI can hardly rummage in Albus’ pockets!” Hermione had protested - and hadn’t there been something like amusement in Poppy’s eyes?

“Why not, Lassie? There’s nothing in it that’s ghastly or alive,” Alastor had chuckled. “The only thing ghastly and alive he hides beneath his pockets.”

Dee Sprout, obviously still thinking of her children and what she’d sometimes found in the pockets of her boys, had almost got the company rolling on the floor. She’d said: “Dear me - you don’t have a flubber worm under your robe, Albus, do you?”

The reactions to this had been wonderful: Hermione had blushed. Minerva had looked the perfect lady - only the corners of her mouth had betrayed her pose by twitching. Her husband had grinned from one ear to the other. Alastor had almost fallen from his chair, shaken by roaring laughter. Albus, sounding perfectly calm, but with his eyes twinkling, had said: “I can assure you, Dee: It’s not a flubber worm.”

And Poppy hadn’t once again managed to resist a chance baiting her always jealous husband in commenting Albus’ assurance with: “Indeed - it’s much bigger.”

Alastor had promptly swallowed the bait. With his magical eye rolling in its socket, he’d asked his wife: “And how, Poppy Pomfrey-Moody, have you acquired this information?”

Batting her eye lids Poppy had smiled innocently at her husband. “Darling, I’m the mediwitch at Hogwarts. In this job one gets to see a lot of interesting things …”

Augustus had stepped in. “Dears - we won’t discuss Albus’ privates in public. I’d rather like to get his handkerchief - lilac as it may be.”

Albus had grumbled. “It’s my favourite! I don’t want it to become a nappy for Fawkes. Besides: The colour wouldn’t suit him.”

“Let me reckon: The handkerchief was a woman’s gift to you, Albus?” Minerva had asked.

“Perhaps one from Aurelia Willington?” Poppy had grinned. “The colour reminded her so much of the black eye she gave you - on the second day, of course. On the first it really was black. And on the third it was rather green - not very suiting, I thought. It made you very pale, Albus. And the contrast to the blue of the other eye - no, really!”

Albus had turned his eyes. “Why it’s always me you’re baiting? What have I done to deserve that?”

“You exist!” Poppy and Minerva said in unison, both doing a perfect imitation of Sebastian von Melanchthon’s trademark answer to stupid students.

“Ah - and for what you’ve got husbands?” Albus had asked.

“You think, you should only become teased by unmarried women?” Poppy had given back. “If that’s so …,” she’d smiled at Hermione. “He’s all yours, Lassie.”

Hermione had once again felt a bit odd. There was something in Poppy’s eyes - behind the mischief what was so typical for the mediwitch seemed to be something like concern and understanding and womanly loyalty.


And now they were on their way back to the castle, Fawkes hovering over them and chirping cheerfully. Hermione actually hadn’t intended to spend the night at Hogwarts. The idea of sleeping in a guest room, under the same roof with Albus, but nevertheless far away from him, hadn’t appealed to her. The evening hadn’t got her any news - neither about her feelings nor about his. That she loved him, she’d known before. And that he … yes, that he was a master of hiding his emotions, she’d known too.

Minerva and Poppy had insisted that Hermione would stay. Minerva had said: “Tomorrow is Sunday, none of us will have to teach and so we can have breakfast together. You simply must stay, Hermione - we’ve missed you so!”

And Poppy had seconded her:” Besides you’ve drunk a bit. So you shouldn’t apparate.”

And then, to Hermione’s surprise, she’d heard Albus: “Hogwarts is still your home, Hermione. Your quarters are waiting for you.”

Her quarters? The flat in the main tower, just over his rooms? Hermione hadn’t expected they were still as she’d left them. She’d removed everything personally, thinking that he’d want the flat back as his personal guest rooms. Obviously he didn’t, once again showing Hermione that he was an enigma she probably would never solve.

But actually - at the moment she even didn’t want to think about him. She was at her wits end and felt simply numb. The evening - it had been nice, despite the longing for him and the ache she always felt when looking at him. In the last weeks the heart sickness about him had kept her so busy, she hadn’t thought about much else. But now she was aware: She’d missed Hogwarts and her friends too.

Yet one thing about Hogwarts she’d obviously already forgotten: How lousy cold the nights in autumn could become! In Venice she rarely needed more than a light sweater at nights, but now, on her way along the lake, she was freezing.

Suddenly she felt a warming charm - Albus had cast it. He was now at her side and asked quietly: “How’s life at Venice? Do you like it? Are you well?”

Hermione breathed deeply and fought for a moment against the temptation to tell him the truth - that she couldn’t feel “well” when separated from and ignored by him. But what good could it do? So she settled for a polite, distant answer: “Venice is wonderful, but as you can imagine: I’ve got a lot on my plate. I’ve got more students than I’ve thought and I have to get my lab and my project going.”

“I’ve heard you’re a big hit by the students,” Albus said. “Admittedly: You’re ruing my reputation, you know?”

“How so?” Hermione asked.

Albus laughed. “I’ve for ages worked on an image as a lazy crackpot. But last week your dean asked me if I’d be a slave driver who makes poor apprentices work day and night. You would obviously don’t know that the nights are for sleeping and that other people don’t live in their labs.”

“You were in Venice?” Hermione couldn’t avoid sounding hurt.

“No.” He’d heard it, she was sure. Breathing deeply, he said: “I wasn’t. I met Luciano by an exam in Prague.”

Hermione gave herself a push to keep her tone lightly. “Any good?”

“The exam?” Albus sighed. “Not too well. We had two candidates. The first, a young Hungarian, failed totally. His thesis was already weak and during the exam he broke down almost. Too nervous, too insecure. I felt sorry for him, but you know: A good transfiguration master needs nerves too. If you can’t concentrate under pressure, you’ll fail when it’s really important.”

“I know - but I was almost fainting before the exam too,” Hermione said, full of sympathy for the colleague who didn’t make it.

“But you overcame it,” Albus gave back. “You’re always very stro#822#8221;

Hermione sighed. In the moment she didn’t feel strong. But they arrived at the castle now and Dee Sprout who lived in a cottage near the greenhouses, wanted to bid Hermione her farewell. A hug, a promise she’d let herself been seen more often in the future, a kiss, and then Sproutie and her husband were off.

Minerva and Augustus were the next. In front of their door Augustus laid a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and looked in her eyes. “It’s good to have you home at least for a few hours. You really must come more often!” He kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, dear girl.”

Minerva hugged Hermione tightly. “Darling girl - I look forward to our breakfast tomorrow!” And then, much to Hermione’s sure, se, she whispered in her ear: “Don’t let him come away easily!”

Hermione had hardly recovered from hearing that as she was embraced by Poppy and got a “Now he’s all yours - don’t let him slip away!” in her ear.

Had she been so obvious? And what did the two think? She certainly wouldn’t seduce Albus again. She’d done so twice - and now her pride rebelled. As much as she wanted him, as much as her body longed for his touches - she wouldn’t give in. She would simply climb up the stairs to the main tower, she would politely wish him a good night and then she’d probably cry herself to sleep.

After Poppy and Alastor had retired, Hermione and Albus walked silently through the corridor which led to the entrance of the main tower. The stone gargoyle opened automatically as Albus appeared in front of it. He bowed slightly, waving his hand and letting Hermione through. Behind her he stepped on the spiralling stair chase which brought them up to the ante chamber of his office.

On its left wall hung a painting of a flutist. As Hermione approached it, the flutist started to play and the wall next to him revealed the entrance to the private rooms abovermiormione was amazed. Looking at Albus she asked: “You didn’t change your wards? The flutist still seems to know me.”

Albus sighed. “He does. I didn’t change. I’m afraid I’m sometimes prone to sentiments.”

Hermione only looked sceptically at him.

Albus sighed again. “I know, Hermione. You’re hurt and disappointed.”

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “To quote one of your favourite sayings: What can’t be cured must be endured.”

Albus sunk his head and breathed deeply. “I think we should talk, Hermione. Would you care for a glass of wine in front of my fireplace?”

Hermione looked at her feet. Slowly she answered: “You know what I want. I know what you don’t want. What good shall it do to talk about it again? You won’t change your mind, will you? So there isn’t anything new.”

“Hermione …” he laid a hand on her shoulder. Quietly he said: “I love you.”

“So?” Hermione raised her head and directed her gaze at him. “You have a funny to show it.” Her voice became sharp. “Since my installation - and by the way: Thanks for sending at least your regards! I really appreciated it - I sometimes wonder. Do you really think one must deserve your love through suffering? The more I bear, the more love it shows? And when I’m proven tII’m good in suffering, I get you as a reward finally?”

“Hermione …” He looked grave. “Let’s go up and sit down, please.”

“Well - if you insist.” Hermione started to climb up the stairs, followed by him. Entering Albus’ living room she marched straight to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and sat down, expectantly looking up to Albus, who came after her and stood in front of the fire. His fingers trembled slightly as he took the little bell and ringed for a house elf. As it appeared, he looked to Hermione. “Red or white?”

“Red,” Hermione answered shortly.

“Well,” he smiled a bit wearily at the house elf. “Would you get us a bottle of the 97 Château Malfoy Grand Cru out of my stock?”

“With pleasure, master!” The house elf disappeared with a bow.

Hermione looked in the flames. The room was pleasantly warm, the chair comfortable, the crackling of the fire soothing, but she nevertheless wasn’t sure if it had been a good idea to herself there. She didn’t need another speech to the subject “Why we shouldn’t be together”. She knew how stubborn he could be when he’d set his mind to something and at the moment she was simply tired of fighting him. She knew she wouldn’t give up entirely - but now she needed a break. She needed time to think about the situation. It hadn’t been a good idea to come to Hogwarts just now when she felt already so depressed and hopeless.

The house elf was back with the wine and two glasses. Albus thanked it and dismissed the elf, and then he opened the bottle, poured a little sip in his glass, tried it, found it good and filled Hermione’s glass. “The wine needs perhaps a bit too breathe,” he said. Sitting down himself, he let his wine rotate in the glass. Watching the liquid whirl, he quietly said: “I never wanted to hurt you. But it seems I lose my grip more and more …”

“And because you hate to lose control, you avoid me,” Hermione stated. “But I’m to blame myself. If I’d have played after your rules in Blocksberg …”

He raised his hand, interrupting her: “Hermione!” It sounded almost pleadingly. “What do you expect from me? To throw all my values over board? To take you and damn the consequences? And in ten or 20 years you’ll accuse me of stealing your youth - and I won’t have an answer to it than ‘Yes, I did. Out of sheer, pure egoism I spoiled your chances for true happiness.”

Hermione sipped at her wine. “Albus - we have had this debate already. It doesn’t win appeal by repeating it again and again. So don&don’t we talk about transfiguration or the newest gossip from the brethren? Talking about us is fruitless. You won’t convince me about enjoying a separation from you and I won’t convince you that you are already spoiling my chances for true happiness.”

“Hermione, I understand you’re cross with me. You keep offering me crown, orb and sceptre and my refusal must look as if I wouldn’t appreciate your gifts,” Albus said seriously. “But I do and I’d give a lot for being able to make you my queen, to give myself entirely to you. If I were only 50 years younger, I wouldn’t hesitate. But I am an old man.”

“And that’s all that counts?” Hermione hadn’t wanted this debate, but now he’d started it - and she felt already how it went under her skin again. Rising up she marched to the book shelves in the back of the room. Stroking tenderly over some books, she said: “You know, most of my students and colleagues in Venice know I was your apprentice. And with you being quite prominent, I me ome often asked how it was to work with you and how you are.” She breathed deeply and turned around, facing him again. “Mostly I answer that you’re not only brilliant and powerful, but charming, witty, independent in your thinking, caring about your students and staff, very loyal again your friends. And when given time I tell that you’re wise and in the same time playful like a child, that you’re sometimes sloppy and unpunctual, that you like sweets and are pretty vein when it comes to your garment. And when people want to hear more, I talk about your love of music and literature, about the way you hum quietly when you’re in a good mood, about your ‘gaga old crackpot’ attitude you muster so perfect and how quick you can go from there to radiating so much power that even I feel sometimes terrified by it.” She came over to the fireplace again, leaning herself against the mantelpiece. “Until now I thought that describing you is almost impossible because even in an hour I couldn’t tell everything that makes you the man you are. But following you I could spare the effort. The answer to the question ‘How’s Albus Dumbledore?’ given by Albus Dumbledore himself is: ‘He’s an old man.’ Period.”

He’d sunk his head during her speech, looking at his hands which lay in his lap.

But now Hermione was started - and she didn’t intend to stop before she’d given him a good piece of her mind. Pacing through the room again, she proceeded. “You want me to see you as an old man. But are you aware where this leads me? Forgive me if I sound cruel, but becoming aware of your age makes me think about your mortality too. It makes me become aware of the undeniable fact that I don’t have the chance to become old at your side. You are the man of my life - about this I’m certain. But I’m also certain about the fact that I don’t have the slightest chance to have you at my side when I start to suffer with rheumatics and feel old myself. You won̵be tbe there anymore …”

“That’s why I want you to find yourself a young man!” Albus broke in. “I don’t like the idea that you would spend your middle age with watering the daisies on my grave.”

Hermione turned around, her eyes blazing. “Damn you, Albus Dumbledore!” she suddenly yelled. “Doesn’t it get in this thick head of yours that I can’t find myself a young man? I’m in love with you! I didn&7;t 7;t ask for it, I certainly didn’t. I fought against it for months! But I lost. If I want it or not: I can’t love another man. I will spend my middle age with watering the bloody flowers on your grave, but don’t you hope I’ll get you lilac in the spring! I’ll probably still be too furious with you because you in your stubbornness took so much time from me in which we could have been happy.” She hadn’t wanted it, but now tears were running down her face. Not wanting him to see them, she turned her back to him, looking out of the French window.

Suddenly he was behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “Hermione … Tesoro …” He turned her around and took her in his arms, cradling her head against his chest. “What am I to do with you?”

For a moment Hermione fought with herself. Her pride was hurt and it screamed at her for not giving in, for not showing him how much she needed him. But her love for him was stronger than her pride. Burying her nose in the folds of his robe, she lair arr arms around him. His fragrance - she’d missed it so! And his warmth and strength - she’d felt so numb and frozen without it. Now, being held by him again, it was as if the sadness and heartsickness of the last weeks would overwhelm her. She wanted to be strong too, but she couldn’t stop crying and she clinked to him, sobbing like she could never stop again.

“Hush …” His hand stroked over her back in soothing circles. “Piccola - I didn’t want to hurt you. Really, I didn’t …” Pulling her a bit closer, he sighed. “I’m obviously a master in messing things up …” Lifting her up, he walked over to the sofa and sat down, taking her in his lap. “What I am to do with you?” he repeated.

“Why can’t you simply love me?” Hermione looked up at him, her eyes red and her face puffed Alb Albus pulled his handkerchief out and wiped a tear from Hermione’s cheek. “Probably I can’t because I’m not a simply man. And you’re certainly not a simple woman. But I don’t want to make you suffer.”

Hermione used his handkerchief for blowing her nose. Still sniffing and sounding very young, she said: “Give us a chance, Albus! I don’t demand any commitment. If you want me to, I even promise to date young men. And I know you’re a very busy man, but please: Give us a little time together. Let’s see each other once in a fortnight - or once in a month if a fortnight is too much for you …”

Albus sighed. “I don’t know if an arrangement like that could work, Hermione. You deserve more than a visit now and then … and I actually dislike the idea of you becoming my clandestine affair. You deserve better.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Hermione said firmly. “To know that you love me is enough for me. I don’t need the world as witness.”

“Oh Hermione - you make it hard for me to resist,” Albus answered.

“Why do you want to?” Raising her hands, she took his spectacles down and laid them on the table. “Kiss me, Albus.”

Slowly he bent his head. “I love you, Hermione - more than you know and certainly more than it’s good for me.” Tenderly he kissed her, but only for short. Breaking the kiss, he smiled at her. “It was a hard week, young lady. I think we should call it a day now. Could we perhaps have the rest of the debate tomorrow after your breakfast with Minerva?”

Hermione swallowed and snuggled closer to him. Without directing her gaze at him, she quietly said: “I don’t want to sleep alone, Albus.”

Albus sighed. Laying one finger under Hermione’s chin he lifted her face so that she had to look in his eyes. “I’d like to hold you in my arms, Tesoro. But I’m bone-tired and certainly not up to fulfil any expectation you may harbour.”

Hermione shook her head. “Albus,” she said seriously, “sometimes you’re a git! I didn’t ask you to - forgive my French, but with you one needs to make it unmistakably clear - fuck me. I think our relationship is more then sex. And what I want this night, is feeling you close to me - not more, not less.”

Albus nodded. “Sorry. I only wanted to avoid disappointment again.”

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


Hermione wondered about herself. Normally she always tried to sort things out as quickly as possible - often even too quick because her impatience made her sometimes push too much. Victor had always complained about it and Ron and Harry had always cringed when they’d heard her categorical order: “We have to talk.”

Yet now, lying again in Albus’ huge bed, she didn’t want to talk. She even didn’t want to think. She only wanted to fall asleep in his arms.

Only her always over active mind wasn’t simply to switch off. It kept bothering her with rather difficult questions like “Shouldn’t you fight against this odd feeling of comfort you get from being here? You know exactly that you’re far away of having settled something what’s able to satisfy you and him …” and “Shouldn’t you analyze your emotions before you let yourself once become overwhelmed by them?” There was something in her that struggled against the simple joy of feeling him close, which mocked her with whispering: “Where’s your pride, Professor Hermione Granger, T.M.? You’re just on the road to become one of these dreadful women who justify their becoming her men’s doormats with whining that they love him so they simply can’t resist him.”

“I can’t” - that always had been a term on Hermione’s “things I don’t want to say ever”-list. “I can not” she always translated with “I don’t want to” or “I’m too weak”. And she wasn’t weak! And she wasn’t to become a victim of her love, some one who was on the mercy of her own emotions, defenceless and submissive to her fate named Albus Dumbledore!

Said fate just turned. He’d lain on his back until now, his right arm under Hermione’s neck. Now he was on his side in his favourite sleep position. Smiling at her, he blew a kiss on her forehead. “Sleep well, Piccola.”

Instead of an answer, Hermione kissed the tip of his nose. Then she turned to her side too. She’d always liked to snuggle her back against his chest and belly. His length made for she could put her head under his chin and with his arms around her, she felt save and content. And whatever had and would happen between them, for one thing Hermione was sure: He really didn’t want to hurt her. Whatever he’d done and said - he hadn’t done and said so because he didn’t care about her feelings. He cared very much - probably sometimes even too much, forgetting by it that the responsibility for their relationship didn’t only last on his shoulders. He would have to learn sharing it with Hermione, as difficult as this probably was for him. And she would have to learn to balance her love for him out against her fear to lose her independency.

Sighing inwardly - but not so much in sorrow anymore, but rather feeling comforted, Hermione tried to distract herself from thewihewing further on the wonderful, terrifying miracle called “love”. There was no need trying to solve the problem this night. This night she lad in the arms of her beloved and felt how his chest moved by his quiet breathing and when she concentrated on her back, she even got an entire symphony of different sensual impressions. There was the tickling of his chest hair just on her spine and in the contrast to it the smooth softness of his belly. And a bit more to the north, on her shoulder blade a little button seemed to poke against her muscle.

Little button? It was his nipple - and it actually only was so firm when he was aroused. But hadn’t he said he’d be tired - too tired?

For a few seconds Hermione fought against herself. He’d said he’d be tired. He really wasn’t a young man anymore and with her in Venice and Minerva’s apprentice too inexperienced for taking over more then two classes, Albus had a lot of work to do. And hadn’t he mentioned he’d been at an examination too? She knew he took exams very serious which meant that he’d probably spent a few nights in reading the candidates’ thesis’ and preparing his questions. And their conversations - he wasn’t in use with talking about his feelings and probably the emotional turmoil had ned ned him. It really wasn’t a wonder he only wanted to sleep. Or didn’t he?

It would only need to shift a bit, and then her bottom would touch his groin. And he was - as always in bed - naked. She would immediately know if it was only his always sensitive nipple reacting to her or something more. And heavens, it had been the truth as she’d said their relationship wouldn’t be all about sex. But that didn’t mean that she hadn’t missed sleeping with him too. And it was his fault too! During her time in Hogwarts she hadn’t been bothered with need very often. But the three days with him had waked her body. Since then she was sometimes almost climbing walls and felt a hunger she hadn’t thought possible. It was his doing! If he weren’t such a great lover, she wouldn’t want him so much.

Old man indeed! How had Ginny in her direct way expressed it? “If all old men were so great on it as yours obviously is, I’d look forward for retiring to a nice old people’s home.”

It certainly wouldn’t hurt him if Hermione would wriggle her butt a bit, would it? And perhaps he was already sleeping. Then he wouldn’t even notice it. But she would feel that there was nothing and feeling nothing would certainly calm her and then she’d fall asleep too.

Oops - there was something! And it even wasn’t something of the “I only wanted to show that I’m still alive” or the “If I would become asked very nicely, I could perhaps find myself willing to raise up”-class, but it certainly belonged in the “useful erections” department - not as hard as a rock, but in its solidity promising to go there rather quickly. And as Hermione brought her backside a bit closer, the owner of the something - obviously not sleeping - let the hand which laid on her side glide down on her belly.

Hermione actually found that his hand laying there without moving was nice, but if it would go - up or down - she would like it even better. Yet if he didn’t, then the next move was hers again.

Smiling she stretched her leg and laid it back, over his. The new position was nice - very nice even. His cock was almost where she liked him most and for a moment she was tempted to take matters - or better said: His erection - in her hand. But as much as she wanted to feel himp inp inside her - she also wanted Albus to play along. The statement his body made wasn’t enough. Of course she knew: If he wouldn’t agree with his member, he would have shifted or have said so. Or he’d probably turned on his belly. But nevertheless: She wanted to play a duet and this meant that it was his turn now.

She didn’t have to wait long. His hand was now stroking over her belly to her mound and, cupping it, a long fingert bet between her legs, finding her clitoris and teasing it. Hermione suppressed a moan, but couldn’t avoid buckling for coming closer to the finger. Obviously this was what he’d waited for. She felt the tip of his cock on her entrance and held her breath, waiting for the familiar, sweet little pain of him entering and stretching her. And there he was, slowly and gentle, filling her while in the same time his left index finger caressed her and his right hand kneaded her breast.

She couldn’t move much in her position, she even couldn’t touch more than his underarms - what she did, with her fingertips stroking over the smooth muscles, dwelling on the silkiness of his skin - but in the moment it felt wonderful the way it was. She knew that he would understand her passivity as a display of abandon and trust and probably it was what he needed in this night too.

He still didn’t move much. His strokes were soft and slow his caresses tender and light. He didn’t work on building up hot passion, but filled her with warmth which seemed to spread from the middle through all her body, making it twinkle with pleasure and joy. She felt worshipped and adored and cared for and wrapped in love. There were tears running down her cheeks because he was touching so much more than only her body. It was as if he would have reached her very soul and she couldn’t understand anymore how she could have ever doubted him. And he - she was sure he felt it too.

Still the pleasure was enfolding to its full bloom and filling her and it was sheer bliss and then, as she thought it couldn’t become more intense, she heard his voice, not more a smoky whisper: “I love you, Hermione. Ti amo. I love you so it makes me sometimes afraid of losing myself …”

The confession - independent, strong Albus showing his vulnerability like this - was her undoing. Something in her exploded, sending millions of sparkles through her. She heard some one moan and scream and then she seemed to fall, but he was there, holding her and she found herself in his arms, covered with sweat, her heart beating like mad and struggling for air.

“Albus …” It wasn’t easy to order her body to entangle from him and to turn around, but she had to. She needed to kiss him and to touch him. Laying her hands on his cheeks, her mouth searched for his and she kissed him with all the tenderness and gratitude and love she felt for him.

But there was sill “something” and “something” was hard and had become trapped between their bodies. Hermione felt almost disappointed because he hadn’t joined her in her climax. Quietly she sd: &d: “You didn’t come.”

Albus turned on his back, pulling her to him. Kissing her forehead, he answered: “I didn’t want to. It only would have distracted me. This was all about you.”

Hermione let her hand glide down, laying her fingers around him. Gripping him firmly around the base made Albus moan and swallow. But then he took her hand. “You don’t have to please me, Hermione. Making love is not about ‘tit for tat’. I know you’re tired and you need rest.”

Hermione slowly pulled her hand out of his and let it wander deeper, to his testicles. The skin there felt like velvet and she dwelled in its delicacy and the reaction she caused: He was keeping his breath and his hand on her arm was trembling. Blowing a kiss on the corner of his mouth, she said: “You’re wrong, beloved. Not about making love and its meaning of course. But you’re wrong about me being tired. And you’re not the only one who gets great pleasure from giving. I enjoy it too and I wto pto pe yoe you, I want it very much.” Shifting down, she took the tip of his erection in her mouth, teasing it with her tongue before she went deeper and started to suck at him.

“Hermione …” He buckled and she had to hold him down with her left hand while she used her right for playing with his balls, rolling then softly. His breathing became harder and irregular and he spread his legs and moaned again. “Hermione … oh, sweet Merlin, Hermione, what are you doing …”

She was sure: She’d never heard something more erotic than his smoky voice, trembling and almost cracking. He was on the edge and to know it was her who got him to whimper and to moan made her become aware of her womanhood as never before. She wasn’t rather plain blue stocking, over intellectual Hermione anymore, but a woman with the power to make him her prey, defenceless and entirely at her mercy.

“Hermione - don’t! Please, stop! Don’t!”

She was almost in a haze, but his voice came through and it sounded desperate. And then she felt his hands on her shoulders, pulling her up.

“Please, Hermione …”

“Yes, my love?”

“I …,” he breathed hard. “I want to feel you. I want to come inside you …” It was almost a plea.

He couldn’t have said something touching her more. She wouldn’t have minded to let him come in her mouth, she even had been curious about his taste, but - his need to be inside her, to feel her cloo hio him meant more. And so, without a word - she couldn’t find one - she straddled him, guiding his cock in her channel again and sinking down then on his chest, her lips finding his again, her hands caressing her face, she started to move. It didn’t need much. She felt how he became rigid, all his muscles tensed, only his hips buckling once more.

“Hermione!” One frantic stroke and he was over the edge and once again Hermione became almost terrified about the intensity of his climax. His body seemed to send out his magic, filling the entire room with sparkling energy, radiating through the walls and reaching out to the sky. Hermione wouldn’t have wondered if the castle would have rocked in its foundation and for a moment she had a vision of students sitting up in bed, rubbing their eyes and asking each other what it had been what had waked them.

She didn’t wonder that Albus suddenly became limb and his hand fell powerless from her shoulder. “Hermione …” His voice sounded drowsy. “Love you …”

She rolled to his side, snuggling against him. “Sleep, beloved - just sleep in my arms.”


To be continued …