A Winter Tale

A Winter Tale


By: Max

Inspired by the WIKTT Marriagw Chw Challe but but not following it exactly

[Disclaimer see chapter 1]


Chapter 17: An old man’s darling

“... and I really can’t understand these people! Sometimes I really ask myself for what we teach and pray year after year what we’ll get in the end adults as irresponsible like that!” Minerva McGonagall said. The transfiguration teacher and deputy headmistress of Hogwarts sat on a chair in front of her superior’s desk, her hand gripping the edges as if she were ready to jump, her back erected, all muscles tensed and her green cat eyes furious. “And you can’t imagine, what she told me as I got her at last to the floo. She said, she’d noticed the boy had been a ‘bit feveri but but because he’s always prone to colds, she didn’t think much of it.” She shook her head. “Didn’t think much of it ...,” she repeated. “That could become her epitaph once: ‘She never thought much of something.’”

“Minerva!” Albus reprimanded his deputy with a smile. “Mistress Phelps didn’t commit a crime ...”

“Didn’t she?” Minerva looked at him. “I’d say not looking after her boy and sending him back to us bacteria’s mother ship is almost a crime! Albus, we’ve by now got 22 cases of measles! The hospital wing is full, Poppy had to call in a healer from St. Mungos because she can’t tend to so many patients, Hermione and Severus worked all night to brew enough pepper up and fever sinking potions - and there’s no end in sight! This morning we got three children morowinowing the symptoms and one of them isn’t a Hufflepuff, but a Slytherin, Albus! That means the infection is spreading.” She rang her hands. “What are we to do if more students become sick?”

“We’ll do what we’ve always done before in such cases,” Albus answered calmly. “We’ll open the emergency ward over the informatory, we’ll ask St. Mungos for more support and we stay calm. A measles infection in a school certainly isn’t what one would wish for Christmas, but it isn’t a catastrophe neither, dear Minerva.”

Minerva McGonagall obviously didn’t agree. Shaking her head, she cried: “But Albus - what’s about our seven and fifth years? ’re ’re to do their exams in only a few weeks, they can’t afford to miss classes! And we’ve got already two sick fifth years and one feverish seventh year. None of them is good enough to make it through the OWLs or the NEWTs without full time studies!”

Albus sighed. Taking up his glasses, he massaged his nose and said: “They will need a few private lessons then. But can’t we handle that? It’s only a question of organisation and ...,” he gave Minerva a charming smile, “...h yoh you as the master of organizinme sme schedules ...”

“Ssssst!” Something very small and glittering buzzed out of the fireplace and landed with a silver “clink” in front of Albus on his desk.

Minerva jumped on her chair. “What’s that?” she called.

Albus was already on his feet. “That’s ...,” he started. Then he waved his hand. “Never mind. Minerva, where’s Hermione?” His question sounded very urgent.

Minerva looked at the watch on the mantelpiece. “11:20,” she said. “Advanced potions for seventh years, all houses ...”

Albus stormed already up the stairs behind his desk. “Meet me in the dungeons!” He called, run to the window and opened it. Pushing Hermione’s ring over his little finger, he concentrated, changed into his animagnus form and took flight, out of the main tower and with forceful strokes of his wings over the wings to the backside of the castle. There he closed his wings and, pressing them tightly to his body, let himself fall down, head forwards. Only a few inches over the ground he opened his wings again, using them for bracing down the fall, landing on his spread claws. Once again he changed, this time back into his human form, and sprinted to a little door in the wall. He didn’t need his wand or a spell to open it - all doors leading out of the castle were enchanted to open automatically when the headmaster stood in front of them. Yet this wasn’t quick enough for Albus’ hurry - pushing through it he throw it out of his ankles and it landed with a loud “bang” in the hall of the dungeons.

Albus hardly noticed it. He was already in front of the next door - the massive oak one on which a sign said “Potions classroom - Professor S. Snape, P.M.” Albus knew: Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have been a good idea to storm in the potion class room without knocking - not only because Professor S. Snape P.M. loathed interruptions in his lesson, but because his classes, especially the advanced seventh years, preparing for their NEWTs, often worked with dangerous substances. But this surely wasn’t a “normal circumstance”. Hermione had sent her ring and this could only mean, she was in serious trouble. Nevertheless Albus tried to calm down. It wouldn’t do storming in and frightening the students. If one of them would become jumpy and come to close to his cauldron, he could perhaps blow up half the class room.

So Albus opened the door slowly and - despite his heart hammering so hard he thought it could be heard all over the castle - stepped in quietly, his eyes searching for the familiar frame of Hermione. She’d obviously expected his entrance. Although she’d been bent over a cauldron, her eyes had flickered to the door immediately as he’d opened it. Now she gave him a tiny, relieved smile, but in the same time her eyes and her chin moved, pointing slightly in the direction of the teacher’s desk. Albus, though he’d actually have liked to take her in his arms, feeling for himself she was uninjured and in one piece, followed the lead and he didn’t like what he saw. Potion Master Severus Snape leaned on the edge of his desk, is tis trademark pose with his arms crossed over his chest, but he didn’t look at his students, but fixed on a point on the opposite wall of the room as if he’d try to get a hold of it. His always pale face was white, the black eyes lay deep in their hollows, glittering like onyx and his black hair looked even lanker than usual, one strand sticking on his sweaty forehead. He hadn’t noticed Albus’ entrance - and Albus knew that this was a very bad sign. The always vigilant potion master even didn’t notice as Albus stepped down through the room until he stood next to Severus.

On his way Albus had not only felt all the students’ eyes on his back, he’d even noticed that the classroom’s temperature was much too hot. Besides he’d seen the instructions on the chalkboard and cursed inwardly. The students were brewing the highly dangerous ward enforcement potion and Albus, a potion master himself, knew only too well that one wrong step by preparing it could easily lead to disaster - especially in the middle phase of the process when the potion was extremely unstable. A bit too much heat under the cauldron, a clockwise stirring instof aof an anti-clockwise, a little too much asphodel - and loo, the potion would explode quicker than Neville Longbottom could announce having a problem with his usual “oops”.

The combination of just this potion and an obviously shattered potion master supervising it - Albus could hardly think of a worse situation or one which would need more care in dealing with. Even he couldn’t hope to manage it with wandless magic, but he didn’t want to frighten the students even more with presenting his wand. So he only pulled it out so far out of his sleeve so he could reach it quick before he rose his hand to lay it on his potion master’s shoulder. Yet now Severus had noticed him. Raising his head as if he’d needed all his will power to get his eyes away from the spot on the wall, he tried a sneer, but only managed a grimace and his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper as he said: “Headmaster - to what do we owe the honour of ...”

To Albus’ horror he didn’t finish, but suddenly closed his eyes, gripped on Albus’ robe and sank down, his knees giving way. Albus managed to catch him and cradling the younger man’s body against his own, feeling with worry that Severus’ robe clung to his shivering frame. Over Severus’ shoulder he bellowed to the horrified students: “Watch your potions! I take care of Professor Snape.”

“Let me do that!” A crisp voice sounded through the room. The cavalry in form of Minerva McGonagall had arrived. Sweeping down the aisle, she pulled her wand out and conjured a stretcher, hovering next to Albus who still held the unconscious potion master in his arms, cautiously laying him down now on the stretcher. Then he allowed himself a sigh and a light stroke over the boy’s face, ice-cold and trembling under his touch.

“Measles?” Minerva asked very quietly.

Albus nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Poor boy.” Minerva looked down on the potion master. “I’ll get him to Poppy.”

“Thanks!” Albus slipped out of his upper robe and covered Severus with it. He wanted very much to bring him to the hospital wing himself, but he knew that his chances of finishing the potion lesson without disaster were much bigger then Minerva’s who certainly was an experienced and powerful witch, but even in young years not much of a potion brewer.

Turning around to the class, Albus took stock quickly. Hermione, partnered with Hufflepuff Ian McCormick, just stirred their brew with care, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. The mixture in her cauldron blubbered slightly in dark purple - just as it should be during this phase.

Ron and Harry, the team over the next cauldron, didn’t look happy. Ron was very pale, his freckles a stark contrast against his white skin, his blue eyes was as big as saucers and his hands seemed to tremble. Harry, just stirring, looked a mess: His unruly black hair was sweaty, his tie crumpled, his grey sweater slipped, the white shirt hanging lose over his trousers. Yet his face showed concentration and his potion - though not so advanced as Hermione’s - looked right.

On Harry’s left were the Patil twins - Gryffindor Parvati and Ravenclaw Padma - working. They whispered together nervously, they looked a bit desperately at Albus, but their potion seemed to be doing well.

Next pair: Slytherin prefect Blaise Zabini with Ravenclaw’s Cho Chang. They were pretty behind with Zabini still cutting roots while Cho Chang sat next to him, legs crossed and looking as if all the uproar in the class room only bored her. Her bad luck was that Albus saw the Egyptian beetles next to her - still like they had came out of the store. Knowing from his own experience, that even his always well-cut fingernails had suffered by smashing and powdering this beetles he looked at the girl’s long, red nails and said calmly, but firm: “Miss Chang, I’m sure Mister Zabini would approve very much if you could bring yourself up to preparing the beetles.”

Instead oe “ye “yes, sir” he’d expected Cho Chang batted her eye lids and complained: “But I am wearing nail polish!”

Zabini turned his eyes. Obviously he’d heard this argument before - and indeed: Mixing muggle- or magical nail polish in the potion certainly wouldn’t improve it.

Albus tried his rarely used, but always nicely working Slytherin smile - the one from which Hermione said it would lead to thinking of an ice cube as a cosy place to seat on - and said: “Don’t you worry, Miss Chang. I will take care of that.” Waving one finger he removed not only the polish, but shortened her nails until they looked like a surgeon’s.

But doing so had been a mistake as Albus learned the next second in hearing a sharp hiss. It came from the cauldron Draco Malfoy shared with his house mate Pansy Parkinson who jumped at the sound, looking absolutely horrified. Albus understood her. He didn’t like the grey, bubbling, hissing liquid in the team’s cauldron either. For being exact: He disliked it almost as much as he found the smirk on Malfoy’s face infuriating. The brat obviously thought that a class with the potion master breaking down wasn’t enough entertaining and tried to have fun with frightening his team partner. The problem by it only was, that he wasn’t aware of his potion - and no, Albus actually didn’t want to know what the little idiot had done exactly to mess it up like that - would explode in the next minute.

In the contrast to him Albusw - w - and besides he knew, that sealing the cauldron wouldn’t solve the problem, not in this state. It was already too late for that. He had to get rid of the cauldron as quickly as possible and he was more then glad to have his wand at the ready. Pulling it out, he directed it at the potion, thundered “portus!” concentrated - and couldn’t think of another place than the Slytherin’s bath room in the dungeons, just around the corner from the potion class room. Around it was Slytherin dormitories, but Albus was sure: At this time of the day this department of the dungeons was deserted. Even the house elves cleaning the rooms where by now ready with it. So he transported the cauldron to the bathroom. It had hardly vanished when he heard already the ear deafening hollow noise of its explosion and the shattering of bricks, glass and tiles. The chandelier in the class room ringed, the desk Albus leaned on seemed to jump and he fiercely hoped that the after waves of the explosion wouldn’t do damage to another potion.

Luck was with him - he only needed to stabilize the flames under two cauldrons, then he could smile at the terrified students. “That was tight. I hope it shows you why you have to watch your cauldrons.” Walking to the door, opening it and looking down the hall, where dust still whirled, he said: “I wouldn’t like blowing up more of the castle the walls are always sulking for weeks after explosions. So I’d be grateful if we could finish this lesson without further damage.”

He was hardly back at the desk when the door opened and the care taker Filch stormed into the room. Obviously he couldn’t see much through the fume of the cauldrons, but he didn’t care about that and started to rant immediately: “That’s an outrage! Some one just blew up the entire bathroom! I need your help, Professor Snape, for catching the culprit. He needs to be expelled ...”

“Argus ...” Albus interrupted.

The caretaker came closer, looking puzzled at his superior. “Headmaster?”

“The culprit was I,” Albus said with a hint of amusement. “But I’ll get you help for restoring the bathroom and cleaning up the dormitories - at least so much they can be used in the night. Mister Malfoy will lend you a hand and of course, a wand.”

Draco Malfoy blushed - and looked as if he’d love to use his wand for hexing the headmaster back to the century heeen een born in. “That’s an house elf’s job!” he protested.

Albus didn’t look at him. He pushed his wand back in his sleeve, plaited the fabric and tugged at his hem as if he couldn’t think of something more important than getting it back to his perfect form. Then he raised his head, pulled once with his index finger at his spectacles so that he could look over the rim, directed his gaze on the pale young man and said calmly: “Isn’t it a pity? All our house elves are just very busy in the kitchen. You know, we’ve this measles infection and with all the extra food and the laundry - no, I’m afraid we won’t get a house elf for cleaning up the mess in the Slytherin rooms. Yet I’m convinced that your house mates would be most grateful if you could work a bit on it, Mister Malfoy.” And smiling as nicely as a shark would at an especially fat herring, he proceeded: “It was your potion, wasn’t it, Mister Malfoy? And as much as I dislike causing your ill head of house further distress - I’m afraid I must take 50 points from Slytherin. Besides I’d like to see you in my office when you’re done with the cleaning, Mister Malfoy. Eight o’ clock will be fine. You’re dismissed.”

At least Malfoy seemed to know when he’d lost. Without a further word he trotted out of the class room behind Filch, closing the door. Albus pushed his spectacles back on their regular place and smiled to the students. “Let’s try to get the potion ready. Does anyone need my help?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry stretched his arm. “If you could perhaps have a look?”

“Of course, Harry.” Albus walked over to the desk Harry and Ron worked at. For a moment his gaze connected with Hermione’s, but it wasn’t only love and amusement about his show with Malfoy he saw in her eyes, but once again the slight provocation and firm determination she’d looked at him with all week long. She was - no, not cross at him, but even worrying about Severus - and he knew, she did worry almost as much as he himself - and working on a difficult potion she didn’t give him a moment’s chance to forget what she’d named “the score we’ll have to settle” the other night.

For a moment Albus meant to hear Severus’ deep, rumbling voice: “Bloody, pigheaded Gryffindors” and he almost smiled by thinking of it. The boy was right - sometimes Hermione was a bloody, pigheaded Gryffindor and her talent in trying Albus’ patience was as remarkable as all her other talents. It was hardly 12 hours ago since she’d made him shout at her again - and even more: She had driven him to something he couldn’t remember he’d ever done before with a wife. He’d named her an “infuriating, mad woman in dire need of a padded cell at St Mungos”.

One couldn’t say she’d taken this well. He’d got back not only the usual “arrogant, manipulative Slytherin”, but a lesson about ruling neither the world nor his wife’s wishes. For this he’d taken refuge on the sofa in his office voluntary - with Hermione telling him: “Sulking doesn’t become you, Albus!”

Nevertheless she’d given him two hours to sulk and to try different spells for changing a sofa to a comfortable bed. As he’d just managed - not only the sofa, but a silencing spell for Phineas Nigellus who had managed to make Albus entirely flabbergasted by agreeing to what Albus named “Hermione’s insanity” - Hermione had appeared, wearing once again the flimsy nightie he secretly had rechristened “the lioness’ combat dress”. Yet she stayed true to herself. She’d once decided not to use “a woman’s weapons” on him and she really didn’t. He’d know her “I hate arguing with you and I hate sleeping without you” had been genuine - she’d proven immediately after a long sweet kiss in saying: “I love you, Albus Dumbledore - even if you’re a stubborn Slytherin MCP. But why don’t you understand? It is all about loving you and I know you love me too and why can’t I get it in this pig head of yours, that ...”

Being a Slytherin - male, chauvinistic, but in love with a certain insane Gryffindor and in need of rest - he’d saved himself a few hours of sleep in kissing her thoroughly, knowing that even Hermione couldn’t argue with his tongue in her mouth. And with his tongue between her legs it was even better - then she didn’t want to talk anymore. Yet for this he’d needed to get her back to the bedroom - he really wasn’t keen on Phineas Nigellus commenting on his performance after the silencing charm had wore off. So once again his special Slytherin talents - especially his high development of doing two things at the same time - had been asked. At least Hermione had appreciated that: His kissing while doing in the same time a levitation charm to get her up the stairs and in their bed she’d found “pretty brilliant” . His further (and deeper in the southern region) kissing had finally gotten him a peacefully slumbering Hermione and even new hope. In the four weeks since New Year he’d managed to talk her out of marital “tit for tat” ideas. By now she really and truly believed him that she didn’t have to pay back every climax he had given her in giving him one of his own. It had been hard work, but he’d succeeded in the end. Hermione believed now, that he enjoyed pleasing her no less than becoming pleasured himself. And even better: Only three nights before she’d stated, that to him an orgasm obviously was “the cream on top of the cherry which is on the rice pudding” - in concrete meaning: She’d lost her shyness in touching him even when both of them knew he wouldn’t get hard enough for sleeping with her or coming.

Hermione had learned that he was in no way frustrated by that as long as he didn’t have to fear that she would feel disappointed. And so he found himself sometimes smiling to himself, amused by the facts that 1. He liked being married and that 2. His love life at the age of 163 was more active and pleasing than in the 100 years before. Actually he could have been a very happy man - if only his wife wouldn’t have developed this utterly insane idea. But he’d convinced her in matters of sex - he would sooner or later talk her out of that too.

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

“Hermione?” A letter in his hand and reading it with his forehead wrinkled, Albus entered his wife’s study. With deputizing for Severus thorough two double classes at the afternoon and a very nervous Percy Weasley already waiting afterwards in his office, he hadn’t got a chance to talk with her since the potion class. He even hadn’t got a chance for dinner because Weasley junior had once again floated him with a huge pile of papers and so much pompous explanations about their importance that Albus had needed two hours to get rid of the minister’s over eager assistant.

Afterwards he’d seen that he had only five minutes left until Malfoy would appear in his office and although Albus was convinced that a little waiting would suit the young man just right, he simply couldn’t afford to let Malfoy stewing as long as he actually would have wished to, because he wanted to see his potion master as soon as possible. Of course - Minerva had already informed him that “this unbearable, stubborn Slytherin” in fact suffered from measled thd that Poppy was optimistic for his chances to get over it soon, but even without being a healer Albus knew, that an adult suffered more than a child and even worse - Albus knew too, that his potion master, though incredibly disciplined and never showing any signs of weakness, was far from being a healthy man. He suffered from exhaustion, caused not only by his chronic insomnia, but from the tortures he’d gone through by Voldemort. So even the optimistic prognosis by Poppmfremfrey didn’t relieve Albus much. He worried about Severus and he knew - although Severus would probably rather take another “crucio” from Voldemort than to admit it - that the boy waited for his appearance at his bedside. As much as the young man denied it to himself - Albus knew that he needed human contact as much - if not even more – than every other human being. And despite their many rows and their ever lasting arguments, despite how often they’d failed and disappointed each other - Severus was one of the most important persons in Albus’ life while Albus was probably the only person Severus had ever dared to show his vulnerability. Their trust in each other was mutual and went far over all day arguments.

“Albus?” Hermione tugged softly at his sleeve. “Where are you?”

He shook his head and put the letter in his pocket. “Sorry, little lioness ...” He wanted to bend down kissing her cheek as he heard a clearing of a throat and an awkward:

“Good evening, Headmaster.” It came from Harry and was followed by a “Good evening, Professor Dumbledore,” by Ron. Both boys were wearing jeans, shirts and sneakers, their school robes hanging over Hermione’s chair, in front of Hermione’s sofa. The desk next to them was covered with open books, parchments, bottles, quills, tea mugs and an open box with chocolate, another open box with the famous all-flavoured beans and a thing which had been a butter beer bottle before somebody had tired to transfigure it to - Albus wasn’t sure if it should have become a hour glass or the statue of a very well equipped woman. Knowing that the boys still felt very awkward whenever they meet him in private, he refrained from asking for the transformed object and he even didn’t kiss Hermione. It was obviously hard enough for Ron and Harry to cope with a best friend married to their ancient headmaster and Albus didn’t think that displays of marital affection would make it easier on them.

Yet it seemed that he’d once again underestimated his wife and her friends because Hermione stretched now on her tip toes, kissed his cheek and with her hand on his shoulder, brushing dust away probably only she had seen, she said: “Dear Albus - you look weary and you haven’t had dinner, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” he answered.

“And you don’t have time for it yet?” Hermione knew him by now pretty well. “Then you should at least eat some chocolate ...” And without waiting for an answer, she turned to the table, broke a generous piece from the block and fed it to him.

Her glucking made the boys smile. Ron even grinned and said: “She’s a bit bossy, this one ...”

Albus, his mouth full of chocolate, could only grin back - what made Hermione turn her eyes. “Heaven’s sake, the three of you need it! Ron would never get ready with his homework withoe boe bossing him around, Harry probably would win an award for complicating even the simple things and you, my dear husband, would work yourself in a state of utter exhaustion once again. I really don’t know what you three were to do without me!”

Albus grinned to Harry. Harry grinned to Ron. He grinned back to Albus and so, with the circle closed, Albus said very serious, but with his eyes twinkling: “We wouldn’t know either, dear.”

“Pff!” Hermione made a face and looked at the watch on the mantelpiece. “Flattery won’t get you far, Albus. Besides: It’s just one minute to eight. Don’t you have an appointment with Mister Malfoy?”

Albus bent over the table, took the tea mug with the inscription “Hermione”, drank and shook himself. “Brrr - your tea tastes like the stuff Professor Snape cleans his cauldrons with.”

“Not all of us like swmilkmilk with a drop of tea in it, Albus.” Hermione took the mug out of his hand and drank the last sip from it herself. Her gaze went back to the watch and then to Albus.

He sighed. “Do you want to get rid off me, Hermione?”

“Yes, actually, I want to.” Hermione softened her words with a smile and another kiss on his cheek. “We have homework to do. You know, we’ve learned today from our DADA teacher that we’ll get lessons about legimency and occlumenency next week - by a certain Professor Albus Dumbledore. It’s said he’s pretty brilliant and a strict disciplinarian, only he’s sometimes a bit unpunctual. In any case: We don’t want to blame ourselves in front of him. Therefore we’ll have to work hard ...”

“Oh yes, oh yes.” Albus looked ar ovr over the rims of his spectacles, once again amazed how she could brighten his mood with only a smile. “I’ve heard, the old crackpot is a real slave driver ...”

Hermione raised an eyebrow - and only whispered: “Sofa, Albus!” She still hated him to remind her of his age.

He smiled apologizing, and then he became serious again. “Hermione, after my talk with Mister Malfoy I will see Professor Snape. Madame Pomfrey says, he’s a bit better already and she even released to to his quarters. Perhaps he’s up for a little game of chess. So don’t wait for me. I may be late ...” Bowing his head to the boys, he added: “Ronald, Harry, don’t let this bossy wife of mine work you too hard. And if you need something, just ring Woopy. She’ll be happy to serve you.”

The boys bid him their farewells; he turned around and was already almost through the door as he felt Hermione’s hand on his arm. “I’ll see you down,” she said.

Albus smiled. He didn’t want to ask her in front of her friends, but a little private moment with her, even if it wasn’t more than a quick embrace on the stairs to his office, was just what he had wished for. So he took her hand, led her through the ante chamber to the staind wnd walking down one step he used the advantage of being now on the same eye level with her for hugging and kissing her. Hermione answered to his kiss, but broke hers quicker than Albus wanted. Combing his hair with spread fingers, she said: “I missed you, Albus - and I wanted to tell you that I was very proud of you this morning. Ron just said before that you were ‘bloody brilliant’. I think he’s right.”

“You were bloody brilliant, my love. Sending me the ring was a strike of genius,” he praised her.

“What could I have done otherwise? I thought about lying about feeling sick and running to you then, but with that potion and Severus looking as he’d break down every minute ...” Hermione looked in his eyes. “Albus ...” She chewed on her under lip. “About the ring ...”

“Oh yes - sorry ...” The ring was still on his finger. He pulled it up and gave it to her. “I forgot ...”

Hermione pushed the ring back on her finger and looked at it. “You’re still not much use with being a married man, Albus,” she stated qly. ly.

He once again cursed himself. Didn’t he know how much the ring meant to her? Couldn’t he have spared one one minute it would have needed to get it back to her? “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said again. “Sometimes I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t belittle what I love, Albus,” she smiled, but her eyes were still sad. “The ring is not so important.”

“But you are important.” He wanted to take her in his arms again, but she slipped away.

“Am I really, Albus? Then you should perhaps think again about what I want ...”

He cringed. She had once again managed to get right through him and he became once again aware that she would never give up. She - 18 year old Hermione Granger, the petite brunette with the sweet mouth and the even sweeter brown eyes, was his match. “Hermione ...” He knew, hendednded lame and he knew even better that the stairs over his office - the office in which Malfoy was by now probably boiling like his wrong potion - was not a good place for the next round of their marital battle. But he’d learned that ignoring her only made matters worse.

It was her who stopped it this time. Stroking his cheek, she said: “Later, Albus. Go and see Malfoy, before he explodes in your office. And - give Severus my regards, will you?”

Malfoy really was at his boiling point as Albus finally came down the steps from the gallery. Looking still a bit dishevelled after his afternoon with Filch, the pale young man paced nervously through the room, again and again wandering to the clock on the mantelpiece and tipping against it as if he could make it run faster. Hearing the rustle of Albus’ robe he turned around, his grey eyes blazing: “I was supposed to see you at eight o’ clock, Professor ...”

Albus sat down behind his desk and folded his long hands. “Good evening to you too, Mister Malfoy,” he said calmly. “Would you care to seat down?”

Malfoy obviously didn’t. “I d thi think this is going to be a polite conversation,” he sulked.

Albus still smiled. “It depends on you, Mister Malfoy. I’d actually like us talking politely.”

“About what?” the boy shouted. “Me doing house elf’s work? You know ...” Malfoy came over to the desk, bracing his hands on it and almost spitting his next words in Albus’ face, “... times will change and my father certainly won’t like to learn that his son and heir is treated by you like a dirty house elf.”

Albus didn’t move. He even didn’t stop his smiling. He only asked: “Was that a threat, Mister Malfoy?”

“What would you do then? Expel me?” the boy asked loudly.

Albus shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Dislike of the headmaster isn’t a reason to expel a pupil.”

His cess ess seemed to make the young man even more furious. “And what’s with disrespect? Would that make you expel me?”

“No, Mister Malfoy, it wouldn’t. I’m not in the habit of deciding only on the base of rather personal feelings. So I suggest you stop wasting our time with your rather pathetic attempts at provoking me.” Now Albus’ became sharp and cold. “Seat down, Mister Malfoy!”

It worked. Malfoy sat hesitantly and still sulking down on the chair in front of the desk. Yet he wasn’t entirely ready with provocations. Looking up to Albus, he grumbled: “I know it’s all about your mu ...” Albus was sure, the boy wanted to say “mudblood” and became furious. Obviously his eyes showed it, because Malfoy changed direction in mid word. “...ggleborn wife,” he finished.

Albus breathed deeply. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if Malfoy would have insulted Hermione. But he was glad it hadn’t happened. Although he’d never managed to like the boy: Draco Malfoy was a Hogwarts student, a pupil in Albus’ care and as such he could expect no less protection and advice than his more loved mates. And perhaps, Albus thought, the young man even needed more of it because he was walking on a thin rope. Knowing the elder Malfoy, Albus was well aware that Draco had never stood much of a chance to develop a personality of his own. To his father he was like a piece of Malfoy possession, a piece which had to work as was expected of it. Succeeding in this task - whatever it meant exactly - would earn him neither praise nor love, but failing would certainly lead his father to make his son’s life even more of a hell than it already was. Considering that, Albus swallowed the rather sharp answer he’d had already on his tongue, leaned back in his chair and said: “Draco ...”

His use of the given name made the young man tense. He looked suspiciously at the headmaster, his eyes suddenly full of fear.


Albus suppressed a sigh. He remembered another winter night, almost 20 years ago. Another young man - not blond, but with black hair and the darkest eyes Albus knew, had sat just in the chair Draco sat now in. And like Draco he’d been suspicious and provoking. Albus remembered how hard he’d tried to break through the walls the dark young man had built around himself - and how miserable he’d felt as the boy had left. He’d gone straight to the dark lord, he’d taken his mark and he’d even seen to Albus learning about it only the other morning. It had hurt Albus - soh thh that he’d needed a severe dressing down by Minerva for not giving up his position. Yet what in the end had really helped him through the next two years hadn’t been Minerva’s stern reminders of “one has to do one’s duty even if it’s sometimes hard”, but the last thing she’d said in that night. Standing already on the threshold, she’d turned again and quietly spoken: “If he didn’t care for you, he wouldn’t have wanted to hurt you, Albus. You disappointed him once - but you only could because you mean something to him. Now he proved: You still do.”

23 months later - in a winter night again - Albus had sat at his desk, working on some papers as Fawkes suddenly had chirped and had disappeared in a golden flame. Only a few minutes later he’d been back, with a tiny, dirty piece of parchment in his beak. It had been a slice from a menu - on this side the inscription “The Saucy Sorcerer” was just readable. The capital “S” was marked so lightly that a less attentive person as Albus certainly wouldn’t have noticed. But Albus actually wouldn’t have needed the “SS”. The one, obviously hasty written line on the back of the parchment told him everything he had to know. It had read: “Ariel will finally be free soon ...”

Albus had by then knew only one wizard who shared his love of the muggle poet Shakespeare - and this one, special wizard had only 23 months before refused Albus’ offer to become his apprentice with referring to Shakespeare: “Ariel wants his freedom, Prospero.”

Albus had known: His Ariel wouldn’t find it where he hoped for. Now he’d obviously learned too - probably painful and hard had learned.

In this night Albus had probably even broken Fawkes’ record in flying from the main tower to Hogsmeade. Landing on the dark and dirty backyard of the brothel he’d changed back to his human from and then he’d heard a tired voice: “If I didn’t feel so sick already, your ever lasting optimism would surely make me vomit. Why did you come, Headmaster? Do you really believe you could still save me?”

“Didn’t you call me to become saved?” Albus had asked.

“It was not a call, headmaster. It only wastatstatement. Courtesy demands one says farewell to one’s former master, doesn’t it?” had the voice from the dark asked.

Albus had set everything on one card then. Pulling out his wand, he’d commanded “lumos”, directing the light against Severus and saying coldly: “So - that’s how a coward looks. Running away to become free - how silly and pathetic, boy. I thought higher of you.”

It had worked. The deadly pale, bruised face had blushed; the blank eyes had suddenly glittered again. “Actually it’s a pity I’m not to live up to your age, Headmaster,” he’d spat out. “Perhaps I’d then comprehend why people think you omniscient though you so often fail when it comes to judge people. You were wrong with Black, you were wrong with Lupin and you’re wrong with I’m I’m not going to run away, just on the contrary - I’m to going myself to confess at the ministry. Afterwards I’ll go to Azkaban and will be given the dementor’s kiss though I don’t think the dementors will like kissing me much. There’s not much in my soul they can feed on ...”

“Oh?” Albus had raised an eyebrow. “The last of the Snapes as a tragic hero. Great idea. If only I knew what purpose it would serve. I mean, as a soulless shelf you can hardly enjoy the applause it will perhaps earn you. Even freedom is probably too abstract a word for a body rotting in Azkaban. You know, you just remind me of the little boy who ran out of the house bare footed on a winter day, shouting ‘Mummy will feel so miserable when I freeze my feet off!”

Severus had looked as if he’d attack Albus the next second. “So much for Albus Dumbledore, the Slytherin with the golden heart,” he’d said then. “I almost could like you as a cynic.”

“Only I couldn’t like you asoulsoulless body anymore,” Albus had given back. “Why, Severus? Just tell me, why ...”

And then the boy had broken down. On the top of his lungs he’d shouted: “Because possessing a fucking soul only hurts! That’s why! And if you can’t understand it, then you’re probably the one who never had a soul!”

As he’d sunk down on the dirty pavement, Albus had caught him in his arms - and there, on the stinking backyard of a brothel, Albus and Severus had made their peace with each other and founded the friendship this had become so important to both of them.

And hadn’t it worked? Severus was alive and he’d survive the war and he’d learn to live in peace and one day - Albus was sure about - he’d even make peace with himself. And if Severus could have been rescued - didn’t he at least own an attempt to Draco Malfoy too? He surely wasn’t to become a second Severus - for this he lacked the courage and the brilliance of the potion master. But he mustn’t become a weaker version of his father.


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

It never failed to touch Albus deeply how vulnerable Severus looked in his sleep. He couldn’t count how often he’d come on the boy’s bedside, watching how his sallow face got colour and how the hard edges in it relaxed. Years ago, in one of the first nights after Severus had come back injured from a death eater gathering, Albus had been away too and therefore reached Severus’ side long after Poppy had fed him one of his own dreamless sleep potions. Thinking that Severus wouldn’t feel it in the deep sleep the potion actually should have provided him with, Albus had laid his warm hand against Severus’ always cold forehead and had stroke a strand of the silken hair away. Yet the boy had noticed it. Without really awakening, he’d whispered “Albus” and it had sounded like a terrified child saying “Daddy” while at least feeling secure in its father’s presence again.

Learning later that Severus hated it to be watched in his sleep, Albus had made it a habit of waking him by just laying his hand against the boy’s forehead. He’d never got the heartbreaking sigh again, but mostly he was rewarded with one of the smiles Severus was so mean with.

Seating down on the high backed chair next to Severus’ bed, Albus bent forward and laid his hand on the potion master’s forehead. Severus, who’d obviously only dozed, reacted immediately. The corners of his mouth twitched - so slight, that Albus sensed it more than he really saw it - and he opened his eyes. Yawning he twinkled in the light of the candle on his night stand, then he said, his voice not as silken as usual, but creaky from the infection in his throat: “Are you for today finished with blowing up the castle and messing around with my classes, Albus?”

Albus took his hand away, laid it in his lap and leaned back. Crossing his legs, he asked: “How do you feel, child?”

Severus was well enough to turn his eyes, sighing: “Albus!”

“Hmm?” Albus only made.

“Frankly said: I feel lousy,” Severus said. “Ridiculous, pathetic, miserable ...”

“I can imagine,” Albus answered. “I only don’t know what hurts more: Your throat, your head or your pride?”

“I’m afraid, it’s my pride,” Severus shifted in bed, pushing his pillow behind his head.

“May I help you?” Albus offered.

“No, you may not. I’m not that sick. I’ve only got measles,” Severus sneered. “And I warn you: If you dare to laugh at me, I’ll get myself up to hex you.”

“I won’t laugh at you,” Albus assured him.

“Oh yes - you’ve had your fun today already.” Severus crossed his arms over his chest - only the gesture wasn’t very effectual with him wearing a crumpled nightshirt. “I’ve also wondered all day how you’ve managed to appear like the deus ex machina in my classroom. You’re not really becoming omniscient in your old age, are you?”

Albus smiled. “I’m not, Severus. But I’ve got myself a brilliant wife ...”

“Hermione made you come down?” Severus was amazed.” How?” he demanded to know, his forehead wrinkled. “She didn’t leave the room and I’d noticed if she’d used the floo - wouldn’t I?”

“You would, I think.” Albus had found a little bag with a few lemon drops in one of his pockets and put one in his mouth. “Lemon drop, Severus?” he then offered his potion master the bag.

“Thank you very much, Headmaster. I’d actually rather gurgle with hydrochloric acid,” Severus answered sarcastic.

“You know, a few of your students are convinced you do so every morning ...” Albus sucked on his lemon drop, feeling a bit less weary by it.

“Albus!” Severus shook his head. “You’re really maddening. Would you please - pretty please - tell me how your dear wife informed you?”

“She let her ring fall down,” Albus said. “You know she wears an enchanted marriage ring. When she throws it away, it comes automatically to me.”

“I know,” Severus turned once again his eyes. “I feel flattered. Considered she’s the sentimental Gryffindor and so sickeningly in love with you she always gets puppy eyes when looking at this ring - and I’m actually glad she doesn’t do it more then only 28 times in one hour - one should think that throwing the thing away was a sacrifice.”

Albus tried to show a neutral face though he felt a pang of guilt by thin of of Hermione and her ring. He didn’t want to speak about it, so he tried to change the subject. “By the way: I saw Mister Malfoy before I came to you.”

Severus’ black eyes watched him closely, but to Albus’ relief he took up the new subject. “Which member of this exceptional nice family do you mean? My good old friend Lucius or his enchanting offspring?”

“The last. The first I’ll meet tomorrow. He invited me to a ‘private dinner’ in his mansion.”
Severus sat up abruptly. “You won’t go, will you?”

“Of course I’ll go.” Albus took another lemon drop. “You know as well as I do: If we can make him change sides, we’re a big step ahead.”

Severus would probably have shouted, but his sore throat didn’t allow him more than a whisper: “And by losing you we would be lost! You know, Malfoy is the dark lord’s right hand and even with his master in hiding, Malfoy is as dangerous as a snake after half a year on a yoghurt diet.”

“Severus,” Albus said calmly. “Malfoy is without doubt a force to be reckoned with and I don’t underestimate how dangerous he is. But he isn’t an idiot. Even if Fudge would probably celebrate my premature demise with a champagne party - he could hardly do so in public.” Albus smiled. “You know, my intuition tells me that Malfoy senior is - at least in the moment - not interested in killing me. I’d say, I’m alive more useful to him, especially when he really wants to change sides.” Severus moved a bit deeper under his blanket and closed his eyes. Albus waited patiently, sucking on his lemon drop. After almost one minute he asked mildly: “Are you tired, child? You’re still unwell, you need rest.”

“I’m thinking, Albus - and please, don’t call me ‘child’. You know, I hate it when you do that,” Severus answered with still closed eyes. Opening them again, he said: “You could be right about Lucius. He wants nothing more then power and in the moment it’s you who keeps it. You’ve won the marriage round against him and you were the winner in the last encounters with the dark lord. Lucius isn’t one to stay faithful on a loser’s side, so ...” He plaited his hair and nodded. “You’ve got a chance with him, Albus. Nevertheless I’d feel better if you wouldn’t go to him on your own. Why don’t you take your wife with you?”

“What?” Albus almost choked on his lemon drop. “Is your fever increasing, Severus?”

“No, it is not,” Severus gave back coldly. “My head is absolutely clear - and I meant it, Albus: You should take Hermione with you.”

“My 18 year old wife as my bodyguard?” Albus shook his head.

“At least you don’t refer to her as a ‘mere child’ anymore,” Severus stated and rose a bit. “Albus, you actually know it yourself: Without Hermione your precious Potter wouldn’t have survived his first year. The girl isn’t only able to defend herself; she could probably hex you, me and Lucius at once into the middle of the next week without stopping to talk about by it.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I won’t take her with me,” Albus said - and knowing, that Severus was no less pigheaded than Hermione, decided to offer something else. “What do you think about Lord William as my bodyguard? He wouldn’t show himself to Lucius, but he could watch ...”

“Hmm,” Severus made. “At least it’s better than you going on your own.”

By now Albus felt a bit insulted. Looking to his potion master over the rim of his spectacles he said: “You know, Severus, I’m not the weak old fool Malfoy junior sees me as.”

“Malfoy junior is an idiot,” Severus stated coolly. “Which reminds me: You attempted to talk sense to him - it failed, didn’t it?”

Albus sighed. “One can’t say yet. In the moment he certainly doesn’t want to consider. He thinks he can deal with Riddle ...”

“That’s what I mean when I name him an idiot,” Severus said. “No one can deal with the dark lord. Master Malfoy will learn that soon enough. Perhaps he’d crawl then back to you, Albus ...” He didn’t finish, but only looked at his friend and superior.

Albus got himself another lemon drop. Thoughtfully sucking on it, he said: “We’ll see ...”

A few moments both men were silent. Severus tugged at his night shirt, closed a button on it and opened it again scratching his chest.

“Itchy?” Albus asked with sympathy.

“Bloody!” Severus made a face. “And Poppy gave me such a nice prognosis for the next days. Tomorrow I’ll probably look like a pimpled teenager ...”

“Shall I get you some anti itching gel?” Albus offered. “I was once pretty good in brewing it ...”

“Thank you very much, but if y rey remind you: I’m a potion master myself. And thanks to your wife and her work our stocks are well filled. Oh and by talking about your wife ...”

Severus sounded casual, but Albus, knowing his potion master well, felt especially alarmed by his almost bored tone and his half-closed eyes. And wasn’t it typical for Severus to let the sentence hang unfinished, watching through his eye lashes how Albus would react? Albus would have bet his favourite woollen socks - Christmas gift by Harry and really wonderful warm - for Severus just preparing a nice little bomb for explosion. He even was pretty sure to know what the bomb contained. He only wondered: How the heck the boy knew about? Of course - Hermione and Severus had found an understanding; they even developed something like a friendship. Nevertheless Albus couldn’t imagine she’d talked with Severus about their marital battle and the reason for it. Albus had in the last days sometimes considered if he should talk with Severus about it - he actually was in use with the potion master as his confident even for personal problems - but he hadn’t done because it seemed unfair against Hermione. Severus - and for that Albus would have added his entire stock of lemon drops to the socks - was probably the very last person who’d understand Hermione in this and compared to what he would have to say about, Albus accusations of her being insane would sound soft. So Albus braced himself for defending Hermione in a point he absolutely didn’t agree with her. But she was - right or wrong, in good times and bad times, in mutual bliss and in the middle of a battle - his wife and the woman he loved. To Albus Dumbledore this mean, that nobody - not even his best friend and almost son Severus Snape - would get a chance to insult her in front of him.

So he breathed deeply, looked at his friend and said his voice firm and sharp enough to be a warning: “What’s about Hermione?”

Severus still didn’t open his eyes totally. Scratching his right forearm, he said: “She seems to develop a new project - a very peculiar one, if you ask me. Just the other day I was in the library and as I mentioned to Madame Pince that I’m in a hurry because your wife would wait for me in the lab, she asked me if I could give Hermione a book she ordered. It was one we don’t have in the library, but as you know Madame Pince sets her mind to getting us every book out of the ministry’s or St. Mungos or Oxford’s library. This one for your wife came from St. Mungos and it’s called ‘Basics and advanced recipes for fertility potions’.”

Albus wasn’t optimistic enough to hope he could escape his potion master, but he was on the other hand Slytherin enough not to give up before he really was defeated. So he put another lemon drop in his mouth and said lightly: “Sounds like an interesting reading.”

“Of course.” Severus had his eyes open now. “Oh, Albus - could you perhaps open the window and put this pig out? You know, I don’t like the beasts flying around in my bedchamber.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. Crossing his arms behind his head, he stretched his long legs under the blanket and said: “I hope I’m not becoming the godfather. Potter would never forgive me if I were to take that honour away from him. Yet I may call Molly - she surely can teach me to knit little jumpers. I’m only not sure about the colour. You know, I’m rather fond of our green, but for this child it’s probably Gryffindor red.”

Even Albus’ patience had limits and it had been tried enough over the last days. He cracked his lemon drop in biting just through it and said with his best headmaster’s voice: “It’s enough, Severus. I don’t intend to sire a child.”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Considering that your wife obviously wants to get one ...” Once again he let the line hang, enjoying how Albus’ eyes became small. “I’ll call Molly.”

Albus swallowed the last piece of his lemon drop and tried a smile, feeling himself how weary it was. “Dear Severus - I don’t have to tell you the tale from the bee and the flower? You know already, that it needs two people to make a baby ...”

Severus seemed to amuse himself immensely. “I’ve always admired your talent to deal with the inevitable, Albus. To see you lose it would be very sad indeed. Yet I don’t think you’ll do. A few days and you’ll resign in your fate ...”

“I will not!” Albus disagreed firmly. “Severus, I won’t deny any longer that I’ve fallen in love with my wife - as hilarious as this may seem at a man my age. But even so - I will not agree to this insanity of hers.” He rose up and began to pace through the room. “I married her because I wanted to give her the future she deserves - an education, a career of her own, challenges, experiences. I won’t contradict all my beliefs in her and her talent in helping her to throw away her future for a silly idea. She’s 18 - that means she’s got at least 40 years more to find herself a nice, young wi ...”

“Oh please, Albus!” Severus broke in, his voice despite the hoarseness like a whip. “The famous nice young wizard with the wish for a nice, young wife to have a nice, big family with is as high on Hermione’s wish list as a nice, young witch and a nice, little cottage with a nice, little garden is on mine! Hermione isn’t to marry a mediocre bore who sees her as his broodmare and she certainly is not to become a second Molly Weasley.”

“That’s just why I don’t want herbecobecome pregnant at the age of 18,” Albus shouted.

“You’re a bit inconsequent, Albus, aren’t you?” Severus sounded still amused. “First you want the nice young wizard for her. Then you don’t want her to become a second Molly ...”

“Pl, Se, Severus!” Albus came back to the chair. “I want her to get an education and her career and the nice young wizard and children - but just in this order.”

“Ah,” Severus nodded. Looking innocently, he asked: “And why can’e hae have a child and then the education and the career and - if she wants to - a nice wizard? I mean, she’s your wife and you’re not to leave her back a poor widow. She’ll inherit a mansion, a staff of house elves and enough money to pay for three nannies if she wants to. So why shouldn’t she get a baby?”

Albus couldn’t believe his ears. “Severus, forgive me, but are you sure your fever isn’t increased? You are - if I may remind you - the one who made sure he’d never father a child. And you expect me to sire one? Now? I’ve always thought you don’t like children.”

“That’s not about me, Albus,” Severus answered quietly. “That’s about you - and you like children. Besides: When I think about all the little dunderheads I had to teach over the last years - the poor excuses of wizards and witches like Goyles, Notts, Parkinson and the Malfoy brood - then I start to worry about our community’s future. A child from Hermione and you - it certainly wouldn’t be another idiot.”

“But it would become a fatherless child!” Albus said tired. “Call me old-fashioned and sentimental, Severus, but I believe a child should have two parents, mother and father. I don’t doubt Hermione wouldableable - even in her young age - to bring up a child on her own, but why should she do it the complicate way if a few years of waiting would get her a chance to have a real family?”

“Or not - as the case may be,” Severus said. “Hermione could easily find herself in the same situation as Minerva one day. Minerva was sensible: She got her education and her career first. Then she found herself the nice wizard, married him, but couldn’t get a child anymore. End of story.”

Albus sunk his head. “I’d never thought you would agree with Hermione about that,” he said quietly.

“It’s still not about me, Albus,” Severus sighed.

“No. It’s about Hermione ...” Albus almost whispered. “I want her to live a happy life. When this war is over, she shall have a chance to get everything she ever wanted ...”

“Then it’s settled.” Severus laid back. “Do you need a fertility potion, Albus?”

“You don’t understand, Severus,” Albus sounded desperate. “I don’t want her to carry ballast ...”

Severus sighed again. “Albus, I’m afraid it’s you who doesn’t understand. The girl loves you. I don’t know why and in the moment I even doubt you deserve it. But it’s a fact: Hermione Granger loves you. She loves you, but she has to accept that she’ll lose you rather soon. Even I can understand that she wants at least a child from you.”

“As a surrogate for me?” Albus shook his head. “I don’t think ...”

Once again Severus interrupted him. “Merlin’s balls, Albus! Don’t behave like an idiot! Thickness doesn’t become you. Of course Hermione doesn’t want a child as a surrogate for you. But she wants to keep at least a part of your love for the future without you.” He shuddered. “Brrr - I can’t believe you made me say that” Even if I bloody meant it - I hate it when you make me sound like Uncle Severus advising the lovesick!”

For the first time in the last hour Albus smiled. “I actually like it. It shows you got a heart ...”

“Out, Headmaster!” Severus pointed to the door. “Go to get your wife pregnant before the idea how I’m to suffer with a child from her and you make me cry!”

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

Once again: Thanks to all my reviewers! You\'re making my days.

And of course: Thanks to Kristle who managed this entire, long chapter in only one day.