Much Ado about Nothing

Much Ado about Nothing


By: Max

[Disclaimer: see chapter 1]

Chapter 15: Escape from reality

Sinking down in his chair and stretching his long legs Albus looked with a sigh to the piles of parchment on his desk. It was the middle of March and he actually was in use with being very busy in spring, but this year it was even worse then usual. Hogwarts got to feel the effect of the after war baby boom now. Instead of the 40 or so new students who came in “normal” years to Hogwarts, the register showed no less then 128 entries. Even the amount of muggleborn witches and wizards had increased, which meant that Albus had to prepare for not only visiting five or six pairs of muggle parents, but ten. And not enough with that: More pupils meant more teachers and hiring them and fitting them id ord organizing more classes made for more paperwork.

Albus knew that he was not the only one suffering with it. Minerva worked already much too hard too and although she never uttered a word of complaint - in the last weeks she’d become more and more tight lipped and tense. Her patience was running short - no wonder with teaching all day and sitting at her desk then until midnight. And though she tried heroically not to show her temper against the students, she’d exploded more then once in the staff room or in talks with Albus in the last days.

It couldn’t go on like this. Albus was aware that he had do something and he even knew what he’d have to do. Although his dislike of bureaucrats and bureaucracy - he’d always trto kto keep it away from his beloved school - he wouldn’t come around with hiring a secretary for the school. Next year Hogwarts would - for the first time in its existence - have more than 1000 pupils and there would be almost 70 members of the staff. That t tht that some one had to take over the paper work before Albus and Minerva would throw it in. And becoming rid off the daily struggle against the parchment piles on his desk Albus would at last get a chance to do again what he actually saw as his job: Recognizing and ironing out minor difficulties - before they became big problems.

In the moment he often felt that he was failing in this. Struggling with the paperwork, he couldn’t maintain to know what the sparrows on the Hogwarts roofs were chirping. And even worse: By looking down at his students during the meals he sometimes saw third and even fourth years he didn’t know more about than their names! Especially the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had become too distant. On the Slytherin and Gryffindor table he mostly looked in familiar faces, not only because he taught their second and third years, but because this houses still kept more troublemakers than the other two. It still was mostly Slytherin vs. Gryffindor when students overdid hexing each other so badly it demanded for the headmaster’s attention. It was still the speciality of the Slytherins to come in trouble about what Minerva called “inappropriate behaviour against a student of the other gender” - though Albus mostly thought it was more in the line “with a student of the other gender”. And the competition for the rank as Hogwarts greatest prankster was still an almost internal Gryffindor affair.

Other headmasters probably found it “normal” that they only came in contact with the “difficult cases” among their students. Some of Albus’ predecessors, when asked about the role of a headmaster in the daily life of a school, even said that he shouldn’t be involved too much, one of them - the self-willed Phineas Nigellus Black - even maintained that a certain amount of invisibility and mystery only added to the headmaster’s authority. But Albus didn’t like such concepts much. He’d once become a school teacher because he liked children and enjoyed helping them on the difficult road to adulthood. The more he became threw in paperwork, the more he missed the children.

Sighing again, he pulled a bag with ice drops - since his visit in Germany almost two years before they’d become a favourite of his and thank Basti Melanchthon’s regular visits to his parentsus&#us’ stock was always well filled - dropped one in his mouth and started to sort through the unopened mail which had come during the morning he’d spent in classes.

Ministry papers to read and to answer, a few job applications he would have to talk with Minerva about, a lot of invitations to social gatherings and conferences, the usual letters from parents complaining about their little geniuses not becoming recognized as such by ignorant teachers and then - no, not a roll of parchment, but a muggle envelope in factual white, the address formally “Headmaster Prof. A. Dumbledore, T.M., P.M., Hogwarts school of wizardry and witchcraft” written in blue ink, on the back a dark red seal showing a little dog.

Albus smiled, opened the envelope, pulled three pages of muggle paper out and started to read:

Venice, June 23 ….

Dear Headmaster,

considered I haven’t seen you for five long weeks you actually don’t deserve to become addressed nicer, but generous as I am - and besides knowing that you’re probably working like a galley slave with a captain fond of water skiing - and after getting you a little stopper with the formal address I’ll start again:

Beloved Albus,

Oops - now I’m stuck because you know already that I miss you. And just having named myself “generous” I can hardly complain about feeling neglected and getting only very short notes from you.

That makes then for starting immediately with the “news from Venice” you wrote you’d long for - what I actually doubt. If you really were so curious, you would move your rather appetizbuttbutt here to get the news straight from the horse’s mouth (and no, I don’t think you should visit our dean, though his teeth make him a strong candidate for talking out of a horse’s mouth).

The news now: I (that’s me, your former apprentice and current lover - at least when you’re not so busy with your school you forget all about me) managed for the first time to make our new developed liquid changing charm work and you’re certainly delighted to learn that you’ve been right once again (you know, it’s sometimes maddening how often you’re right! Couldn’t you - for my sake and welfare - not be wrong once about something in transfiguration? I mean, in other things - like my feelings for you - you’re often enough, so it would be only fair you’d go wrong in transfiguration once too). It really is based on the time-space relation.

Don’t grin so smug, Albus! And don’t say “I told you so!” It’s bad style to rub it in. Besides I needed months of research to prove this suggestion of yours. And yes, it was necessary to work through hundred of books and muggle publications because I still don’t believe a footnote saying “Albus Dumbledore reckoned so while pounding me through the mattress” would do for the publication in “Transfiguration International”.

At Monday Pete Glasunov joined our team then and I actually could kiss Luciano (despite he’s really got teeth like a horse) for hiring him (you don’t think, I should kiss the dean? Well, you’re probably right. His wife doesn’t seem to mind his teeth and she really has a very Sicilian temper). I couldn’t have done without Pete’s work and generous input and I must admit that I was flattered to no end as he agreed to become a member of my team. He’s seven years longer in the business than I am and he’s really brilliant. I think he could get his own team - and probably he will when I’ll leave Venice. I hope at least Luciano will give him a fair chance for my job then (perhaps after a little push from my former master? Think about, Albus! You know that Peter’s career is only on hold because his former master is such a bastard extraordinaire!).

But tha217;217;s - as you would say - in the future. At the moment Pete and I are doing some “fine tuning” on the spell. He managed already to get it work once, but the students can’t do it yet and I actually don’t believe it is such elaborate transfiguration it can only be done on master level. I’m convinced we can get it down to bachelor level.

You can imagine how excited I am about this development. I’m sure we can get it through to a publication around Christmas and that means that I won’t leave back unfinished work when I’ll come back to Hogwarts (and to you, my love - what’s even better) in 15 months (or, for being exact: In 60 weeks, 420 days and 10,080 hours).

Yet I actually hope I won’t have to wait so long for seeing you again. I really don’t want to nag on you and I know: If you could get yourself a few free hours, you would visit me. But my knowledge of that doesn’t change that I miss you dreadfully and that I sometimes, when I crawl in our empty bed find myself fighting against the temptation to apparate to Hogwarts and to run up the stairs and to sneak in your bed - and if it were only for a “sleep well and sweet dreams” kiss - though I won’t deny that I certainly wouldn’t mind a rather detailed kissing. And I certainly wouldn’t run away if tongues were involved. And if it would end with you “discovering the wet folds which are the centre of my lust” and would “please me as no other man could” - oops, Darling, did you just fall from your chair?

No, you mustn’t worry about my sanity and you don’t have to send Poppy over. I’m well, really. I’ve only spent some of my lonely nights with reading the love novels (“So romantic and uuuuh - erotic!”) my cleaning woman always slobbers about. And I’ve of course only done so for improving my Italian - especially the special idioms for pillow talk. And if the thought of hearing me talk like one of the heroines out of this novels (“Angel of mine - I could rather stop breathing than loving you! Just take me - I’m all yours! Make me melt in your strong arms …” and if you don’t know what to do with the mess of melted Hermione: Just wait for this brilliant article about liquid transformation in “Transfiguration international”. There you’ll learn) makes you shudder then don’t run away, my broad shouldered, incredibly handsome, breath taking manly, dead sexy hero. Let me see in your cerulean, azure blue, beautiful eyes and save your self from a fate worse than listening to Trela … sorry, Professor Trelawney (you don’t need to look so head masterly at me - though this look makes me always wish to jump at you) in getting me a private lesson in Italian pillow talk.

And now, Belovedest, close your eyes - oh, no, better not (but when would you ever follow an order by me? I’m sure you haven’t closed them). Even you can’t read with closed eyes - or can you? Anyway: Try to imagine you’d have closed your eyes. Can you feel my lips now? I kiss your forehead, the tip of your nose, your mouth … and I’d kiss even more of you if you wouldn’t be on your desk with all this noisy predecessor portraits around you.

I love you, Albus and I hope to see you soon.

Yours - entirely
Hermione

As always: The letter made Albus smile. It showed everything he loved about Hermione: Her intelligence, her wit, her warmth, her enthusiasm for her work. And heavens, he missed her too! The last year - sometimes he almost couldn’t believe it really was already over a year since he’d got her back - had been wonderful though he hadn’t seen her as often as he’d wished for. Yet the nights, the few weekends and the precious two summer weeks they’d spent together had been like a dream.

Yet this was what bothered him still about their relationship. Keeping it secret, they lived it outside their daily lives. Of course - they talked about their work and about their mutual friends and acquaintances, but nevertheless Albus mostly felt as if he were out of reality with her. Just looking at her made him forget about the worries and sorrows he’d let back at Hogwarts and holding her in his arms he felt a happiness he’d never experienced before, even not in the best times during his marriage. With Rhianon he’d enjoyed that he hadn’t to act the Headmaster, but was simply seen and loved as a man. Yet he had always been aware of the danger in this. Rhianon had loved him only as the man because she didn’t know the headmaster and feared the wizard.

With Hermione it was different. He knew that he was beloved as a man, but he knew also that she was aware of the headmaster and the wizard. And this made for feeling totally accd and and - something which still amazed him - understood. With Hermione he’d found the perfect harmony and just this was what sometimes bothered him. He simply couldn’t imagine living this harmony as a part of their daily lives. With her in Venice and with him at Hogwarts every meeting meant that they were concentrated on each other and that both of them made the other one for this few hours the most important thing. Yet with her coming back to Hogwarts, with meeting not only for a few hours, but living together - as she’d demanded - on a daily base?

Albus knew how often he spent the evenings in his office, how often he was so occupied by his work that he forgot about time. How would she deal with that? And how would she deal with learning that he wouldn’t spend every free minute with her? He knew that he sometimes needed time of his own. Even with loving her as much as he did, he was sure that he would never want to give up the freedom to do a stroll around the lake or a fly over the forest now and then. And sometimes - not often, but once in a half year - he even liked to spend an evening in the company of Alastor and Augustus, talking about old times and drinking the one or other fire whiskey. Him being a “men’s man” - as Rhianon had named it - had always been a problem in his relationships. He’d become named an “egotistical bastard” for it, he’d become accused of neglect more often than he could count and he’d more then often during such a row thought: “I’m simply not cut out for a steady relationship!”

The globe in front of him chirped a silver sound. He looked at it and saw Minerva, just stepping on the stairs to his office, reading a parchment by it. With a sigh he rose up, walked to the door and opened it just in the moment as his deputy arrived at the antechamber.

“Minerva - do come in. What can I do for you?”

Minerva smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Albus. I don’t need much. Only a sign to this contract …”

Albus took the parchment out of her hand. “Sit down, dear,” he offered and grinning a bit wearily, he asked: “Do I have to read the entire contract?”

Minerva let herself down on the chair in front of his desk, neatly putting the folds of her skirt around her knees. “You actually don’t have to read it. It’s a copy of the contract you made up for Severus’ assistant. Yet …,” she hesitated for a moment, and then she started again. “If you don’t want to sign now, I’d understand. You should probably see the young man before …”

“I don’t think so,” Albus answered, enrolling the parchment. “You’re the transfiguration teacher, so it’s you who have to work with the assistant instructors. Therefore I think you should hire them.”

Minerva looked down on her hands in her lap. Smiling a bit lopsided she said: “And that makes you biting my head off when he fails …”

Albus signed the parchment, spread sand over the wet ink, and then he smiled at her. “I wouldn’t. I know all too well what you’d answer. You would remind me of every mistake I made by hiring teachers. Considered my famous luck with DADA instructors, I’m really not in a position to scold you if your decision were wrong.” Putting the sand back in its box, he rolled the parchment up again and gave it back. “Besides,” he said, “the day will come you’ll sit here on this desk, hiring teacher without me adding my two Knuts to it.”

For a moment Minerva studied his face in silence. “You’re rather drained, Albus, aren’t you?” she asked then.

“Aren’t we both?” he gave back.

“Yes,” she confessed. “But I’m more sensible than you. I’ll leave my desk now for meeting Poppy, Dee, Irma, Ro and Tonks at the ‘Three Broomsticks’. I need an evening off and I think you’re in dire need of a few free hours too. Why don’t you call it a day? You look as if you could do with a bit of fresh air and some rest.”

Albus laughed. “As I shaved this morning I thought already that I’m not at my best. But if you want me to play outside, I must look awful.”

Minerva rose up. “I didn’t say that you’d look awful. But it shows that you’re overworked and tired.” Providing him with one of her rare smiles she proceeded: “I have to run, Albus. But you’ll get yourself some rest, won’t you?”

“Yes, mummy.” He smiled at her. “Give my regards to the ladies and have a nice evening.”

“I certainly will.” Minerva was already at the door. “A good evening to you too, Albus!”

After she’d left Albus turned around and looked at Fawkes who dozed on his perch. “What do you think, old boy? Should we perhaps visit a certain young lady?”

The phoenix seemed to like the idea. Becominge awe awaken in an instant, he hopped on his perch, thrilling cheerfully before he turned around and presented Albus his glorious tail feathers.

“Oh?” Albus rose up and went over to the bird, petting his neck. “You offer transportation? I didn’t know you’d go so far for getting a few apple slices.”

The phoenix thrilled again and jumped then in the air. Enfolding his wings, he hovered over Albus’ head.

Albus laughed. “Give me ten minutes, my eager friend. You know the paradox of us humans: We have to dress up when we hope to get undressed. And in the special case of yours truly …,” he critically stroked over his stubbly chin, “… a shave is in demand too. We don’t want to get our lady scrapped by kissing, do we?”

He suddenly felt full of energy again. Climbing up the stairs while already opening the buttons on his collar, he hummed cheerfully. Arriving at his bathroom he undressed with a swish of his hand, letting his robe fall down on the floor. His house elf would later pick it up and get it cleaned.

Looking at his image in the mirror he made a face. “Old fool!” he murmured. He found that he really didn’t look like something desirable to a young woman. The wrinkles on his forehead, the bags under his eyes, the pale skin and the deep lines on his cheeks - no, really not the very model of a desirable wizard in his best years. Yet Hermione didn’t seem to mind - funny taste this girl had got.

Sighing he started to spread foam over his face. Since he’d got the scar on his jaw he didn’t like shaving magically anymore. The charm used for it made the scar itch and redden. It was a bother he’d now to use a razor blade and he would have liked simply to let his beard grow again. he& he’d learned that the scar looked through and that the hair on its side looked very thin. Besides: Hermione wouldn’t like him with a beard. She’d told him more then once that she liked him much better “without that ghastly brushwood” on his chin.

“You know that it was rather often a subject in the girl’s dormitory?” she’d asked him once. “Whenever my dormitory mates pulled the male teachers through their teeth, the question arose: What does the headmaster do with his beard during sex? How does he avoid it getting in the way?”

He’d teased her then: “And you don’t want to find out?”

“In this case I’ll rather do with theoretical knowledge instead of practical experience,” Hermione had answered dryly. “So tell me: What did you do with the brushwood? Padma always supposed you’d hang it over your shoulder. Ginny thought you’d tie it up.”

“And none of you ever thought of me being a wizard?” he’d laughed. “I used magic of course! If the lady didn’t like the tickling of the beard, I let it disappear. If she liked it, I shortened it - just so simple.”

“Nevertheless - I like you better without it,” Hermione had said and blown a kiss on his chest. “I like having direct approach to the strategically important parts of you, you know?”

The thought of her lips on his chest for a tinkle there and on another “strategically important place” too. Albus wrinkled his forehead. He wouldn’t deny - at least not against himself - that he hoped Hermione would like to make love to him. Yet he didn’t want to overrun her with his desire. She deserved better than a lover who neglected her for five long weeks and appeared then out of the blue, jumping at her as if he’d only come for sex. It was bad enough he couldn’t treat her as she deserved. He would have loved to give her the full programme: Opera and concertos, candlelight dinners at the poshest restaurants, dancing in night bars, balls at the ministry and what else a young woman could wish for. And yes, he was vain enough that he would have enjoyed showing off his brilliant and beautiful young mistress. When she gave some effort to it and wore something else than her usual jeans-shirt-sneakers combination under a plain working robe, he found her ravishing. And he would have loved to go shopping with her. He’d always liked well-dressed women and he would have loved to spoil Hermione with jewellery, elegant robes and sophisticated undergarment. He was after all quite wealthy and what use did it make to have money if one couldn’t spend it to spoil a beloved woman?

He’d once suggested a weekend trip to Paris for some shopping, but at this point he’d bitten on granite. Her refusal had been very determined: “Sorry, Albus, I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I won’t let you pay for my clothes. I don’t mind being your secret lover, but I would mind indeed if I would have to feel like a kept woman.” And then, sounding like Minerva when she was lecturing him about “appropriate behaviour” Hermione had preceded: “I’m aware that you’re a pureblood aristocrat ie wie with women out of your class. Yet in my case you’ll have to live with cheap cotton knickers instead of the silken luxury from Paris that the Madame Willingtons of the world wear.”

He’d made the mistake of asking her: “And if I’d like to get you a nice gift now and then?”

“Oh Mister Rochester!” she’d smiled at him for a moment, but then she’d become serious again. “I hope you’ll prove your sense of tact by making your gifts suiting the Hermione Granger standard. I wouldn’t like if you’d make me think it isn’t good enough for you.”

It had been one of the rare moments he’d felt that they were in danger of starting an argument. He’d been close to a sharp answer like “Must you always prove yourself as the very model of a Gryffindor?” But one didn’t become as old as him without learning to swallow the one or other comment. And he was well aware that the things he loved about her most were what made her the “very model of a Gryffindor”. He could hardly expect her being it only when it was pleasant for him. And he couldn’t expect she’d feel and think in everything as he did. He was a Slytherin after all - and even in being one of the “honourable Slytherins” department - his principles and values were easier to stretch and to form for suiting certain purposes as a Grydorsdors.

He was done with his shaving. Splattering his face with Lavender water he marched to his wardrobe. Hermione liked blue on him, so blue it would be - plain dark blue silk under robe, night sky blue brocade with golden trimmings for the outer robe. Putting his wand in his left sleeve, he took a little box from the mantelpiece and put it in his pocket. She didn’t want expansive gifts, but a bottle of lilac perfumed, violet ink she’d enjoy.

Looking up at Fawkes who sat on the wardrobe, Albus smiled. “Still willing to do the transportation?”

Fawkes spread his wings and glided down, offering Albus his tail feathers to grip at. Albus took the feather and felt in the same moment lifted and pulled out of time and space. For a few seconds he seemed to whirl - save as he would be in a box of glass - through a firestorm, then he had firm ground under his feet again. Looking around he saw three pairs of eyes starring at him. Fawkes had appeared directly in the corridor leading to Hermione’s lab and with doing so in front of three students who obviously had never seen a phoenix and his wizard bursting in a flame out of the thin air.

Albus smiled at the trio. “Sorry for frightening you. This phoenix is a bit of a show off …” Said phoenix didn’t seem to like that. Settling down on Albus’ shoulders, he tugged lightly at his ear. “And now he wants to see Professor Granger,” Albus commented. “Do you know where we’ll find her?”

One of the students - a tall boy in a very crumpled robe - swallowed and asked his eyes as big as saucers: “Your phoenix wants to see Professor Granger?”

“Yes,” Albus answered cheerfully. “The both are big friends, you know?”

The girl next to the tall student smiled. “Then you must be Professor Dumbledore! Professor Granger told us once about you having a phoenix.”

“Actually it’s just the other way round: The phoenix has me.” Albus grinned. “But Professor Granger liked it this way. She always thought the phoenix is the best about me.”

“Oh no, sir!” The third student, a girl with dark curls, shook her head. “Professor Granger says you’re better than her - and she really is brilliant.”

“Albus! And Fawkes!” Hermione had come out of her lab. Fawkes immediately flied over to her, landing on her shoulder. He thrilled loudly and full of delight, then he started to ruffle through Hermione’s hair. Hermione petted him. “Old boy - I’ve missed you.”

Albus looked at her - and once again he wondered about himself. She wore her usual attire and her robe looked pretty crumpled, her hair was tussled - probably she’d rummaged with both hands through it as she often did when thinking about something. On her right thumb, just stroking Fawkes - who looked as if he’d start to purr the next moment - was an ink spot. Albus had known a lot of more elegant and more attractive women and he’d even held a few of them in his arms. Nevertheless he couldn’t remember he’d ever felt so overwhelmed by simply looking at one of them. But this - this young woman who moved with the touching grace of a filly and who now beamed at him out of chocolate brown eyes was Hermione and he had to close his eyes for a few seconds, ordering himself sharply: “Albus, get a grip on yourself! Pulling her in your arms in front of her students won’t do!” But he hated that he couldn’t embrace her, that he couldn’t kiss her, and that he had to hide his love for her. He was so proud of her! And actually he’d liked to scream it from the top of his tower that he loved her and that he was a lucky man because she loved him back.

“Headmaster?” Hermione laid her hand on his arm. Waving invitingly to the open door of her lab, she said: “Do come in, sir!”

He followed her in the generous, bright lab, but his hope to kiss her there was immediately shattered. A tall young man with long, blonde hair, neatly bound back in a pony tail, brown eyes and a very well-muscled, lean body, clothed in a blue silk shirt and white trousers stood at one of the paper laden desks, smiling politely. “Good afternoon, Headmaster Dumbledore,” he greeted with a slight Russian accent.

“Albus, you remember Peter Glasunov?” Hermione asked.

“Of course I do. Good afternoon, Professor Glasunov.” Albus bowed slightly and forced his face in a smile.

“Please, call me Peter, Headmaster!” The young transfiguration master took the hand Albus offered him. “Hermione told me so much about you, I feel already as if I’d have the honour of having been your pupil too.”

“I’m sure Hogwarts would have been proud of you, Pjotr Nikolajevich,” Albus answered, bracing his back by it. The Russian was tall - almost as tall as Albus himself. And he didn’t like - not in the slightest - that the boy had just showed him that he saw Albus as the venerable, ancient colleague. And how he looked at Hermione! As if he’d share a secret with her! And calling him by his given name! The devil he would do. The formal Russian address was just suiting - Glasunov would recognize it as “I don’t want to become familiar with you, young man”. And Hermione wouldn’t notice that he’d just showed the youngster his place.

The silence began to feel chilly. Glasunov cleared his throat and spoke again, sounding a bit awkward: “Hermione, I just remember that I’ve promised a friend to show myself at his birthday this evening. I almost forgot about. You’re not angry for me letting you down? Perhaps you can have dinner with Professor Dumbledore?”

“Oh …” Hermione looked disappointed. “I’ve hoped we could have dinner together, Pete. You and me and Albus. Can’t you go to your friend’s party later?”

Albus had to stop himself from turning his eyes. Dinner with this young monkey? Thank you very much! And damn him - why had the guy to be this handsome? And so perfectly built? He really had the figure of a dancer with his broad shoulders, the flat belly, the narrow hips and the long legs. Albus felt like drawing his belly in, but what good would it do? Just the other day Poppy, doing the annual check, had teased him with “Either you’re pregnant or eating too much sweets,” patting what she’d named his “pot belly” by it.

No, Albus really didn’t want to dine with a former apprentice of his arch enemy who looked like Apollo doing jeans advertisement. And why did he have to bat his eye lashes like this? Wasn’t it enough that he turned now around and bent over the desk, showing Albus a perfectly formed, round butt and making him once again aware that a man of his age shouldn’t try to be anything than a fatherly friend to a beautiful young h? Sh? Sweet Merlin - if Hermione was looking all day at this butt, Albus’ would best stay seated on his because compared to this his backside looked like an old hamsters!

Glasunov was speaking again. “I’d love to dine with the headmaster and you, honey, but my friend would be so disappointed. Let’s make it another time, shall we?”

Honey? Albus didn’t know what Hermione would make from him if he’d call her ‘honey”, but he actually didn’t intend to try. He liked his genitals as they were. And besides: Who was he that he should now gratefully smile because young Apollo with the super butt promised him now dinner at another time?

He needed his discipline for smiling back - but he was aware that his eyes reminded the young man probably at a winter day in Siberia. But he wasn’t a Slytherin for nothing. Politely lying was one of his specialities. He’d trained it for years in dealing with ministry bureaucrats. So he said: “Oh yes. We should make it another time. I look forward to it …” and added inwardly “… and besides I look forward to a little ice skating in hell!”

“Well.” Hermione smiled. “Then have fun with your friends, Pete.”

“I will, Hermione.” Bending down, Glasunov blew a kiss on Hermione’s cheek. Turning to Albus he offered him his hand again. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Professor Dumbledore.”

“Have a nice evening, Pjotr Nikolajevich,” Albus answered with a slight bow of his head.

“I’m sure I will. And now I’m really off.” The young man rushed to the door and disappeared.

Albus breathed deeply, cursing himself and his jealousy inwardly. Hadn’t he known it? Hadn’t he even wished she’d get herself a nice young man? Pjotr Nikolajevich Glasunov seemed to be rather nice and he was handsome and Hermione found him brilliant he obviously liked her. He actually was just the type of man Albus would have got for her if he would have a say in the matter. So it was foolish to be jealous. He’d always known she’d leave him one day, he was prepared for it - or wasn’t he?

“Hello, Othello!” Hermione was tugging at his sleeve. “I’ve said my prayers, but I demand a last kiss before you throttle me.”

Her teasing was salt in his wound. He knew himself that he’d acted idiotically. She didn’t need to rub it in. Rather cold he answered: “You’re free, Hermione. It’s not a business of mine with who you are. And I apologize for showing up unannounced and spoiling your date.”

Hermione’s smile vanished. Slowly shaking her head she said: “Are we there again? Then let’s get it over as quickly as possible. First: I didn’t have a ‘date’ with Peter. We intended to eat together for talking about work - no more, no less. Second: Peter is just a friend. I’m not interested in him, he’s not interested in me. Third: I love you even if you act like a perfect git.”

“Hermione …” he sunk his head. “I shouldn’t have surprised you.”

“I’m glad you did.” Hermione slipped out of her robe, throw it over the chair in front of the desk and switched her notebook off. Turning around she sighed. “I’d actually like to kiss you, but you’re just looking as if you’d set me on probation for assault on your headmastership even before I start my job in Hogwarts.”

“I’m sorry.” He bent down and gave her a peek on her cheek.

“Huh! Your passion is overwhelming!” Hermione commented dryly.

“I think your lab isn’t the right place for hot kisses.” Albus scolded himself for behaving like an idiot. He’d so looked forward to seeing her again - and now he couldn’t overcome his grudge about the young man.

“Albus?” Hermione was looking seriously now. “Do you remember the promise you gave me about really trying when I’m back at Hogwarts?”

“Yes, of course,” he answered automatically, feeling a bit confused by the question. She didn’t want to step out of their relationship, did she?

“Do you feel still bond to it?”

He swallowed. It was suddenly chilly in the lab. Bracing himself, he looked at her. “Do you want to release me from it?” he asked.

Hermione crossed her arms over her breast. “The devil I will!” she said, her eyes blazing. “I only want to announce that you should prepare yourself for payback. As soon as you’re bond to work seriously on our relationship, I’ll play for a while hard to get and difficult! You know I find it rather tiresome that I shall always be the one struggling to keep our relationship on track.” She walked to the door. “And now I’d really like to have dinner.”

“Of course.” Albus forced himself to smile at her. “And where do you want to dine?”

He got a smile back. “Let me think about it. I have pasta, salami, tomatoes, salad and aubergines at home. Besides I have a lover at hand who’s difficult, but brilliant in the bedroom and - as a former alchemist - useful in the kitchen. So I think I’d like to dine at Chez Hermione. And for dessert I’d like to get the cook.”

Albus raised an eyebrow. One of the things he liked about her was her talent in lightening up his mood. “How would you like the cook? Grilled or boiled?”

Hermione licked seductively her lips. “With cream, Albus!”


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


Half an hour later Albus - now only in his under robe - stood in the kitchen of the flat, peeling tomatoes while Hermione sat at the table, cutting an apple for Fawkes. Albus still didn’t feel entirely at ease again - he was too angry about himself. But he was calming down and admiring once again Hermione’s skills in dealing with him. On their way from the lab to the apparition point she’d made small talk, but since they’d reached at the flat, she was quiet, giving Albus the time he needed to get over his anger. Yet she managed to show him that her silence wasn’t hostile. Whenever he looked at her, he got a little smile, saying: “Just take your time.”

He loved her for it. He knew all too well that the scene in the lab could have lead to an argument and that his patience was rather worn out after the last weeks. Hermione - actually never shy when it came to make her points clear - obviously had noticed that he could hardly stretch himself any thinner and showed wisdom in treading him most women twice her age wouldn’t have mustered.

Putting the peeled tomatoes in a pan he looked shortly over her shoulder to her. She’d just given Fawkes an apple slice and was now tenderly petting the phoenix’ neck.

“Hermione …” Albus looked at his tomatoes and stirred them. “I love you.”

Hermione chuckled. “I know, Albus,” she said. “If I didn’t know I wouldn’t bear with you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, still stirring the tomatoes.

Hermione didn’t answer, but rose and came over to him. Laying her arms around his waist and her head against his back, she quietly said: “Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t make it so hard for yourself. But that is you, isn’t it? And I don’t want you to alter. So we have to bear it both.”

Breathing deeply, he pulled his wand out and cast a charm on the pasta and sauce for keeping them just as they were now. Then, putting his wand back, he turned around and took her in his arms. Cradling her head against his shoulder, he said: “I don’t deserve you, Hermione.”

“Who if not you?” Her voice sounded a bit muffled because her nose was buried in his robe. But now she raised her head and looked up at him. “Dear Albus - you do so much for other people. I think you deserve a bit love and happiness. And …” she laid her hands on his cheeks and kissed him, “… I’m very proud to be the one who at least sometimes can make you a bit happy.”

Looking in her eyes, he quietly corrected her: “Not only ‘sometimes’ and ‘a bit’. You’re often making me very happy and I’d only wish I’d be better in giving it back to you. You’re my causa fortunae - the reason for happiness.”

“But you make me happy too, Albus.” Rising on her tip toes she kissed him again. “As I heard your voice before in the corridor, I almost couldn’t believe it’s really you. I’d longed so much for you it almost hurt. And then I saw you and my knees became weak and I was so happy I thought I’d burst with it. And looking at you - Albus, you don’t have an idea what you do to me! I felt like telling my students ‘Look at him! He’s the most impressing man you’ll ever meet. And besides he’s the most caring, loving, tender man and without his robes he’s even more breathtaking. And he’s mine!’”

“Oh my …” Albus felt that he was blushing. “They would probably have advised you to seek a healer’s help for your bad eyesight. And besides they’d have told you that the really handsome man sits in your lab …”

“Pete?” Hermione wrinkled her forehead. “No, Albus, really! Pete is a pretty boy, no doubt about that. But compared to you he looks like a baby with a big shoe size. No, really not. I’m spoiled. I need a real man - or, for being exact: I need you, Albus.” This time she didn’t only blow a kiss on his mouth, but let her lips linger on his, nibbling softly at his bottom lip.

Albus held her, feeling her small, but firm young body against his. Again he found comfort in her warmth. As she broke the kiss, he said quietly: “Ond\'ella, che vedea me sì com\'io,
a quïetarmi l\'animo commosso …”

Hermione looked questioningly up at him. “Sorry, I’m afraid my Italian isn’t so good …”

He smiled and kissed her forehead before he translated: “And she who read me as I read myself, to quiet the commotion in my mind …”

“It sounds lovely - what was it?” Hermione asked.

Albus laughed. “I can’t hope to come through with poetry, do I? But you’re right. Whenever I try, I discover that everything is said before and mostly much more beautiful than I could express it. So I mostly refrain to quoting - in this case Dante, La Comedia Divina, the first canto from ‘Paradiso’.”

Hermione wrinkled her forehead for a second, and then she smiled. Snuggling against him, she said: “As wonderful as Dante sounds - I hope you don’t intend to see me as he saw his Beatrice. If I have to become a Beatrice, I’d like Shakespeare’s better.”

Albus laughed. “Well, you’re right - Shakespeare’s earthly Beatrice with her wits and common sense really suits you better than Dante’s distant goddess.”

Hermione laid her hand against his chest. “Besides: Dante adored his lady for her purity. But chastity is the last virtue I won’t become praised for by you.” Her index finger drew a circle around his nipple which started to tinkle under it.

Albus pulled her close again. “Well, then let’s stay with Shakespeare: I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare …*”

Hermione hugged him. “That’s more like me, you know? And after you’ve come down to earth too you hopefully won’t become shocked to learn that I - at least in the moment - prefer your tomato sauce over poetry. I’m starving, Albus.”

“Piccola …” Albus kissed her again. “I love you!”

“Does that mean I’ll get something to eat soon?” Hermione looked around him to the herd.

“Yes, Darling - lay the table and you’ll get your spaghetti.” Albus pulled his wand out again tur turned around to the herd. Mostly he preferred ‘real’ cooking, but this time he used magic to get the meal ready. It needed only a flick of his wand to add all the ingredients to the sauce. Another one got the pasta ready; the third washed the salad, arranged it neatly in a bowl and spread dressing over it.

“Hermione, I need a bowl for the sauce,” Albus said.

Hermione handed him a bowl over and watched how he made the sauce fly from the pan in it. She sighed. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

What, Piccola?” Albus asked, ordering the dishes to him.

“Playing around with liquids like that,” Hermione explained. “I’ve just the other day told a student that working on liquid transformation is rather fruitless as long as we aren’t through with the basics. But you’re doing it to get the sauce from the pan in bowl. My, Albus - I know already you play in another league. You don’t have to frustrate me with something like that!”

“Sorry,” he said, putting salad and dishes on the table. “I didn’t want to show off. Besides I’ve only developed liquid transformation because no one told me it’s difficult.”

“What?” Hermione looked at him. “How did you come to develop it?”

“Actually - it was out of laziness.” Albus sat down at the table. “My mother made me always help her in the lab - and one of the tasks I got and hated was spooning potions out of the cauldron in the vials. It’s such a bore, isn’t it? And then the cleaning of the cauldrons - and my mother was terribly pedantic about it …”

Hermione sat down opposite to him. “And so you developed liquid transformation?”

“No one told me it is difficult. I tried a few times and then it worked and I was glad because I could go over my cores quicker.”

Hermione wrapped spaghetti round her gable. “And what did your parents say?”

“Oh my …” Albus uncorked a bottle of wine. “Mamma was livid. You know, she was Severus’ mistress? From her he got the dislike of ‘silly wand waving’. So her reaction to my trick was the usual complaint to my father: ‘This second son of yours’ - my father used to say that he’d have three kinds of kids in the house: Our kids - when mother spoke about us with other people; his kids - when she was cross with one of us and her kids - when she was proud of us. So for her complaining about me I was always ‘This second son of yours, Artus’ and in this case: She was nagging about me being ‘sloppy and terribly lazy’ and she wondered what ever would become from me.”

Hermione swallowed her spaghetti and laughed. “A seer your mother certainly was not. But if you used one of her recipes for this sauce, I’d attest her that she must have been a goddess in the kitchen.”

“She was - and yes, it was one of her recipes. I’m glad you approve of it.”

Hermione was just chewing, so she answered with turning her eyes. After she’d swallowed, she said: “Approving is too small a word. I adore it.”

Albus was busy with eating too, so he smiled at her. His thoughts were wandering again. His mother. What would Eleonora have said to his relationship with Hermione? He was sure she would have loved Hermione. She was just a girl after Eleonara Dumbledore’s heart. But she hadn’t been an Italian mamma who’d cried in delight about every thing her children did. She’d loved her “brood”, as she’d named the trio, very much, but she’d seen their short comings too. And of Albus’ rather interesting love life she had never approved. Her trademark comment to it had been rather direct: “Albus is always following the direction in which his erection is pointing. Therefore he rarely finds the right way.”

Probably she’d say just that again now. And certainly she would add something about “Aren’t you old enough to think for once with your brain instead of your genitals?”

“Albus?” Hermione was finished with her spaghetti. Rising up, she put her dish in the sink, and then she came to him and laid her arms around his shoulders. “What’s the matter, Beloved? You’re looking rather gloomy again.”

“Sorry …” How often he had already apologized this evening? He’d lost count. “I’m really no good company today.”

Hermione sat down in his lap. “When you leave your office yesterday?” she asked.

“Around eleven,” Albus answered, laying his hand on her thigh. “Why do you ask?”

“Just so. When did you leave your office the day before?” Hermione demanded to know.

“I wasn’t there,” he said. “I was at the auror’s academy, preparing exams with Augustus.”

“And when did you come back to Hogwarts?” Hermione asked.

“Shortly after midnight.”

“Ah so. And the night before?”

He smiled wearily. “I know - I had a rather tiresome week.”

“Week?” Hermione raised her eyebrow. “I’d say month. And considered that you need always some time to get to rest after a day full of work, you’re probably totally drained and groggy. I think you should go to bed now …”

“Only if you come with me …” he said, his lips searching hers. Once again he’d decided to kip his scruples over board and to take what life and this lovely young witch offered him. He needed the comfort of her love, of her warm body and he longed to forget his sorrows and worries at least for a few moments. Lifting her up, he rose. “Bed sounds like a wonderful idea,” he said and carried her through the little hall in the bedroom. Laying her tenderly down on the bed, he blew a kiss on her nose before he rose again. Standing in front of her he waved his hand and murmured an incantation. Her clothes disappeared and she, stretching like a cat, smiled up at him.

“I missed you, Albus.”

“And I missed you.” He let his robe drop down, put wand and spectacles on the nightstand and stretched next to her, pulling her in his arms.

He wasn’t stiff yet, but he was sure that kissing and caressing her would get him there. Besides: She never minded to give him a little help for the start and knowing him so well as she did now, she’d become quite an expert in what she’d named once “elaborate handling of powerful wizard’s sophisticated equipment’. He knew that she enjoyed arousing him. She hadn’t only told him so often, but showed always a lot of enthusiasm.

And yes, kissing and cupping her breasts felt wonderful. And how she reacted - it was always again touching and delighting him. Her nipples immediately hardened and she moaned in his mouth and she spread her legs and buckled while her hand roamed down over his belly until it found his soft member and tenderly closed around it. She obviously had missed him, because she broke the kiss now, shoved his hand down to her mound and whispered: “Please, Albus - touch me.”

He willingly obeyed, his body following his hand until he lay between her legs. Spreading them further he started to kiss her, pushing first one, then two fingers in the tight wet heath of her. It needed only two or three strokes and a little sucking and she screamed his name, her hand rummaging in his hair. “Albus, oh, Albus! Yes, yes - oh …”

He needed his free hand to hold her in place because was buckling and wriggling. She came already; he could feel how she tightened around his fingers.

“Albus, I need you! Please - fuck me.”

He would have loved to. He even longed to. Only his body refused cooperation. He was far away from being hard and neither the inwardly spoken plea “Don’t let me down just now, old boy!” or the order “Up - now! Or I’ll squash you in jeans for the next four weeks!” seemed to impress his cock. The artist formerly know as “the big bother” had decided that five weeks of neglect justified sulking.

It wasn’t an entirely new experience for Albus. One didn’t become as old as he was without learning that one’s penis had a mind of its own. Albus even sometimes thought that he drove it rather to the extreme - in both directions. His cock was mostly more in embarrassing him with erections at very wrong moments, but refusal had been in his line also. Yet Albus was sure: The timing had never been so worse. And he didn’t have the slightest clue how he was to explain it to Hermione. She’d got more than her share of frustration on this evening already and now, as he’d just wanted to make it up …

“Albus?” She pulled at his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

He sighed. “I’m sorry, Hermione.” Great - just great. He was aga again apologizing! And he couldn’t look in her eyes by it. To see her disappointment would probably make him cry in self-pity.

Rising up, he marched to the window, showing Hermione his back. He needed a little space to collect himself and to swallow his frustration. Hoping she’d have mercy enough to stay silent, he looked out over the channel to the cupolas of Santa Maria della Salute, just fading in the upcoming night. He almost envied the building - he would have liked to hide himself in the dark too.

“Albus?” Hermione was behind.

He hadn’t heard her bare feet on the thick carpet, but he felt her warmth now. Yet she didn’t touch him and he was grateful for it. Sympathy was the last thing he wanted to deal with just now.

“You know, you asked for it, don’t you?” she said now, her voice firm and factual.

She was right. Of course she was. He should have known that he wasn’t up to it. He’d overestimated himself. And he deserved the blame for it. Yet she didn’t deserve to let her down like that and so he found himself saying once again: “I’m sorry, Hermione.”

“Well - I am not. I think you were in dire need of just this lesson,” she said. “You know your damned, bloody Slytherin pride started to get on my nerves again. Your ‘Albus the lonely hero’ stunt loses its appeal when one gets it as often as I did during the last months.”

Sweet Merlin - did she want to start an argument right now? He felt a headache coming - and was this little sound down there really the water of the channel splattering against the embankment? To him it sounded as if fate - and he’d always been sure that his fate was a rather bitchy female - was just laughing her butt off about “Albus, the lonely hero”.

He breathed deeply. “Hermione, I understand you feel disappointed and you̵ ang angry. I think its better I go back to Hogwarts now.”

“What?” Hermione sounded furious. “Don’t you dare? Even my patience has limits - and you’re just reaching it!”

“Hermione …” He closed his eyes and with forced calm he said: “Let the little rest left of my dignity be spared, please.”

Her answer hit him like a bludger. “Sometimes,” she stated dryly, “you’re really as thick as a brick, Albus Dumbledore.”

He turned around, his eyes blazing. “I beg your pardon, Hermione!”

Hermione shook her head. Sounding almost amused, she said: “Your headmaster attitude doesn’t work too well when you’re naked, sweetheart.” Rising her chin, she looked in his eyes. “To repeat myself: You’re as thick as a brick. You obviously didn’t get it in this dunderhead of yours that I value your dignity above anything else. I’d never hurt it on purpose. But your pride - or shall I name it your Slytherin arrogance? - I will fight with all my might. I will against this wall you’ve erected against you until I’m through and can finally show you, that I don’t need an invincible hero - neither in my bed nor in my heart. I know you’re a great man, Albus and I love you for your courage and your independent mind. But I love your sensitivity and your vulnerability too and - for heaven’s sake - I want to be your partner! I want to be treated as an equal even if I know that I’m younger than you and that you have more experience.” Tears were running down her cheeks now. “How often did you comfort me when I felt down? How often did you lend me a shoulder for crying on? You’re great in giving. But when will you learn that love isn’t only about giving, but taking too? When will you give me a chance to give? You came to me this evening and I saw at the first moment that you’re tired and worn out and overworked. But instead of giving me a chance to take care of you - and I’d love to - you meant you have to act the fiery lover! Why, Albus? Why don’t you give me a chance to love you?”

During her speech she’d gone back to the bed and now she sat there, shoulders bent and silently crying.

Albus fought against tears himself. She’d touched something deep in him, a part of him he’d never dared to show some one, something he’d always seen as a weakness he had to fight against.

He needed effort to move. His feet seemed to weight tons as he walked the three steps to the bed. But then it suddenly was simple to kneel down in front of her and to lay his head in her lap, saying: “Here I am - yours with all my faults and follies. Hold me and keep me - and teach me to take.”


To be continued …

* And this is Shakespeare - the famous sonnet CXXX “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”.