The Comedy of Errors

The Comedy of Errors

Disclaimer: see Chapter 1

Chapter 2: School’s out

“Thank heavens, the brats are gone!” Poppy Pomfrey, Mediwitch at Hogwartd Mid Minerva’s best friend, pulled her white nurse’s cap down. Waving it after the trail of smoke the Hogwarts’ Express had left as it rumbled out of the station, she used her free hand to loosen her bun. “We can let our hair down and feel like human beings again!” she announced cheerfully.

Albus, standing between her and Minerva on the terrace in front of the staff room, laughed. “Poppy,” he said, amused, “one would think you didn’t like the sweet, innocent souls we’ve the honour to educate.”

Poppy, her blonde hair now flowing down her back, looked sceptically up at him. “Sweet, innocent souls? My arse!”

“Poppy!” Albus chuckled. “Now you’re sounding like Severus.”

“Hey!” He promptly got an elbow in the ribs. “That was low, Albus Dumbledore!”

“Besides,” Minerva stated dryly, “she really didn’t sound like our dear potion master. He wouldn’t have used such language.”

“Oh yes!” Poppy sighed. “He’s even too uptight for that. It’s one of his problems if you ask me. He should relax, use ‘language’, shag a woman…”

“Perhaps you should seduce him?” Albus grinned. “As a favour to all of us?”

“Snogging as therapy?” Poppy laid her hand on his arm. “I know another case that needs it. So if you’d sacrifice yourself and shag our dear divination teacher, I̵perhperhaps follow your example and give Severus’ broomstick same urgently needed exercise.”

“Ugh!” Albus shuddered. “Shagging Sybil would certainly overstrain me. Having my untimely se pse prophesied always gets me down - literally.”

“And the idea of sleeping with grumpy, greasy Severus makes me consider joining a nunnery,” Poppy said.

“So we won’t get any sexual therapy at Hogwarts,” Albus chuckled. “It’s a pity, isn’t it?”

“I’d reconsider joining the nunnery if you show me the haystack.” Poppy batted her eyelids in a comical imitation of what some women found seductive.

Albus promptly bent down to her, looking deeply into her eyes. “Poppy - I thought you’d never ask!”

Minerva laughed. “You’re impossible - both of you!” She’d long since become used to Poppy and Albus flirting with each other so outrageously, and knew that they were only so cheeky with one another because it was absolutely clear that neither of them really meant it. Poppy, like Albus widowed during the war against Grindelwald, was now in love with Alastor Moody, a close friend of Albus’ and a fellow member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Nevertheless – with Albus now putting his arms around Poppy and pulling her close, looking over her blonde head at Minerva and grinning - Minerva suddenly found that she didn’t like her friends’ joking much on this particular morning. They were overdoing it, weren’t they? If one of the students or another staff member saw them it would certainly give the wrong impression. And Alastor - he was already jealous of Albus! They didn’t need to provoke him more.

Minerva breathed deeply. Looking at her still hugging friends she said crisply, “If you would excuse me? I have some work to do.” Turning with her emerald green robe sweeping around her legs, she entered the staff room where Binns, the ghost teaching history, lingered as always over a chair near the bookshelf. Energetically she marched up to her study in the Gryffr tor tower.

The round room with the two windows - one looking down on the courtyard, the second towards the lake - had always been one of her favourite places in the castle. Once she’d become head of Gryffindor and had taken over the study from her predecessor, she’d spent an entire week of her summer holidays cleaning and decorating it. By now it felt even more like home to her than her chambers - probably because during the term she spent more time in her study than in her private rooms.

Sitting down in the comfortable, high-winged chair in front of her desk, Minerva looked at the picture of her late husband which stood in front of her. It showed him only a few days before his death, standing at the lake, the soft wind of a glorious spring day playing with his shoulder length, white curls. Even at the age of 143 years, Augustus McGonagall had been a handsome man: Tall, but not as broad shouldered as Albus, but fine boned and elegant with the long legs and the narrow hips of a runner. The most impressive part of his long, small face had been the blue-grey eyes, surrounded by long, dark eye lashes. But the feature Minerva had loved most about her husband’s face had been his generous mouth with soft, pink lips.

Looking at the picture, Minerva placed her head in her hands and sighed. She was used to feeling drained and tired at the end of a school year - the last weeks were always pretty hectic. But she wasn’t used to feeling so depressed and irritable. Of course, she hadn’t slept well during the last few nights. And just this morning at breakfast she’d gotten an owl from Ignatius Pemperbroke which had annoyed her. He’d asked her to come for a visit to his estate - and he’d written, “I’ll of course ask my sister to be there too.”

Heavens, in which dusty corner had this man slept during the last 100 years? He obviously had missed the fact that chaperones had come out of fashion! Minerva certainly didn’t need someone to watch over her virtue. She’d always been woman and witch enough to look after herself. Besides, she certainly wouldn’t mind giving up her “virtue” again. She’d loved her husband passionately and he’d returned her feelings. Even after almost 50 years of marriage they had enjoyed sleeping together very regularly. Now she missed the sweet hours and gentle tou and and the intimacy and the feeling of being a woman. She woulve lve liked to have a lover again, but about one thing she was certain now: Ignatius wouldn’t be the one. He probably was Victorian enough to believe in the “first comes the wedding, then the sex” concept, while Minerva certainly didn’t intend to buy a pig in a poke. Even 50 years ago, as a young witch, she wouldn’t have done so. Augustus had been her first lover, but even as inexperienced as she’d been at this time - Minerva was a Gryffindor. For her it was always “all or nothing”. Keeping not only the man she loved but herself back from what they both longed for - she wouldn’t have known why she should have done that.

A knock on the door roused Minerva from her musings. With a sigh - she expected a colleague who’d forgot something and wanted her to help him out - she called “come in” and felt relieved when she saw Poppy, her bonnet still in her hand, entering.

“Hello again,” Minerva greeted her friend.

Without further ado Poppy sank down in one of the visitor’s chairs next to Minerva’s desk and smiled at her. “Don’t you have a little drink to offer a hardworking mediwitch?”

Minerva looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and then, with one raised eyebrow, at Poppy. “It’s just eleven, dear. Don’t you think that’s a bit early?”

Poppy shook her head. “Not on the glorious day we once again got rid of the brats.” Stretching like a cat, she beamed. “Imagine, 10 weeks without ‘Madame Pomfrey, I think I’ve caught the turisian flu’ and ‘I don’t know how I got hexed’; 10 weeks without our potion master acting as if I’d drunk the skelegrow myself just to annoy him by asking him to brew more, and 10 weeks without,” now her eyes were glimmering with mischief, “fighting once a week with the Deputy Headmistress for every potion I need to buy at the apothecary and always hearing ‘Can’t you ask Severus to make it?’”

Minerva, who’d stood up and walked to the closet, now looked over her shoulder at her friend. “I’m responsible for our money, you know,” she said.

“Yes, of course.” Poppy crossed her legs. “And you’re protecting every knut of HogwHogwarts money as a mother dragon her eggs.”

“What should I do?” Minerva had taken a bottle of old Scotch out of the closet and was now filling two glasses. “Since the war’s end we’re getting more students every year, but the Ministry doesn’t provide us with one sickle more than we need to survive. And even for this money, Albus must fight like a tiger every year. I don’t know how we could do without his talent for wringing out donations from every wealthy wizard who has the misfortune to cross his path.” She gave Poppy one of the glasses and sat down next to her.

Poppy sipped at the whisky. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that,” she said. “You know, even during the time the Ministry worked against him, Albus was always able to keep our ship afloat.”

“Yes.” Minerva let a sip of the whisky roll over her tongue, enjoying the smoky taste. “But we’re living from hand to mouth and I don’t like that much. I’d feel better if we had some security. And Albus isn’t getting any youngee she shouldn’t have to work so hard.”

“But Minerva - you know him!” the mediwitch said. “The everlasting fight with the Ministry and the quest for donations always was a kind of challenge for him. He’d miss something if we ever got a generous Minister of Education.” She chuckled. “And honestly, Minerva, aren’t you sometimes glad that the Ministry keeps our overactive Headmaster busy? You know what happehen hen Albus gets bored.”

“Ugh!” Minerva made a face. “Don’t remind me! I’m still suffering from his ‘let’s get a better understanding of each other’ program last winter. Living in the dungeons and acting as head of house for Slytherins would have been bad enough, but knowing at the same time that Severus was messing around with my cubs! It certainly made for a better understanding between Severus and me - insofar as we’re both praying that Albus will never become so bored again!”

Now Poppy giggled and, putting her glass down on the little table, said, “That makes it clear. You will have to be with him over the summer. Just imagine, Minerva, what harebrained schemes he could develop while he’s alone in Cornwall.”

“Did he tell you that he invited me?” Minerva was amazed. Since their late night meeting in the kitchen the other week he hadn’t mentioned it again.

Poppy smiled at her. “Yes, he did - twice to be exact. Just now he said he’d really like to have you and that you would need some relaxation in nice company. The idea of you being alone in the castle all summer worries him.”

Rising up, Minerva took the now empty glasses, cleaned them with a swish of her wand and grumbled, “I don’t know if I’d like to become part of the Albus Dumbledore charity program for lonely widows.”

“Minerva!” Poppy had risen too and stepped over to her friend, laying a hand on her shoulder and squeezing it lightly. “You know, Albus is your friend. And he certainly didn’t invite you out of pity.”

“Oh, Poppy!” Minerva McGonagall rarely let someone see her weak, but now she leaned her forehead against Poppy’s for a moment. “I wonder myself what’s up with me. I’m touchy, irritable, nervous…”

“In short, you’re in dire need of a holiday,” Poppy said energetically. “And you’re not the only one who’s overworked. Albus is too.”

Slowly Minerva went back to her chair and sat down in it, suddenly feeling very old and tired. “You know, Poppy,” she started after a moment of thinking, “it’s worrying me that I’m so drained after this year. The war is over, we’ve rebuilt the castle, our community is finally recovering from the terror and developing a true democracy. We don’t live in fear anymore and Hogwarts is back to being a school and not the centre of the resistance. So why do I feel so tired? During the war I worked more and yet I can’t remember ever being so exhausted.”

Poppy, who had sat down too, folded her skirt over her knees and smiled at Minerva. “During the war none of us could afford to become exhausted,” she said. “We knew that even one little moment of inattentiouldould cost lives and we were - especially in the last two years - aware that we would be attacked sooner or later.” Her voice became quieter. “Do you know when I really realized that we were at war and in permanent danger? Just now I remembered that moment.”

“Will you tell me?” Minerva asked after a moment of silence.

Poppy looked almost awkward. “Perhaps it sounds silly to you because it was actually something rather small. In summer ’96, three or four days before the term started, Albus came to me for his yearly checkup. And for the first time since I’d worked at Hogwarts he carried his wand. And even worse, as he undressed for the exam he took the wand out of the sleeve of his outer robe and put it in his shirt.” Poppy breathed deeply.

Minerva nodded. “I understand that it shocked you. I felt the same when I noticed that he carried his wand inside the castle. For years he’d kept it in a drawer of his desk, saying he wouldn’t need to be ‘armed’ inside artsarts.”

Poppy swallowed. “The wand’s back in his drawer. When I hugged him I didn’t feel it in his sleeve. But I’ve noticed that he has lost weight. And he looks very tired. I think he feels like you. For the first time in years you can afford to be tired and exhausted, and now not only your bodies, but your minds demand rest and care too. Both of you will need, for once, not to look after other people, but after yourselves or,” she chuckled and gave Minerva a nudge with her elbow, “after each other - which would be even better.”

“Poppy!” Minerva smiled, but her eyes remained serious. “You’re the one who’s always flirting with our Headmaster.”

“And?” Poppy studied Minerva’s face.

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Minerva assured her. “I know it’s only in fun. You see him only as a friend, but not as a man.”

“What?” Poppy shook her head and laughed. “Is that how you see him? If so, I’ll have to check your eyesight, dear. As far as I’m concerned, I certainly don’t look at Albus as a genderless something. He’s a man and if you ask me he’s even a damn handsome one. And if I weren’t so much in love with my Darling Alastor, I certainly wouldn’t mind Albus parking his slippers under my bed. Besides,” she bent to Minerva, lowering her voice a bit, “it’s said that our dear Headmaster is quite talented in ars amatori. And as the healer who gets to check him once a year, I can assure you that he’s in great shape for a man of his age.”

“Poppy, sometimes you’re really frivolous!” Minerva scolded her friend. “One doesn’t talk about one’s superior like that.”

“That,” Poppy giggled, “goes only for superiors who aren’t as sexy as ours.” Rising, she walked over to the window and looked down at the lake. “It’s actually a glorious day, Minerva. And we’re on holiday, so we really shouldn’t stay inside. What do you think about a trip to Muggle London? I need a summer dress for our trip to Greece and you could probably do with something light for your visit to Cornwall.”

“I still don’t know if I will go there,” Minerva said.

Poppy turned around, grinning at Minerva: “You will go, Minerva - healer’s order!”


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


Standing on the balcony of his office in Hogwarts’ main tower, Albus Dumbledore looked down on the path which led from the school’s entrance down to the gates. Two figures were just walking down there and while watching the two of them Albus smiled. Minerva and Poppy - the two members of his staff closest to him, the two women he considered friends.

At first sight the two looked very opposite. Minerva, dark-haired, tall, moving with feline elegance - she was not only a classical beauty, but a perfect lady. Albus was aware that some people, and probably most of her students, found his ever disciplined, severe deputy rather cold. Yet he knew her better. He knew that she needed this discipline to keep her hot Scottish temper at bay and he knew that Minerva, although she despised molly coddling her pupils, cared deeply not only for her Gryffindors, but for every student at Hogwarts. And as distant and often critical as she was with him - she’d proven more than once that she was absolutely loyal. Actually - he’d always appreciated that she wasn’t approving of all he did and planned. While discussing things with her he’d often seen the flaws in his plans. And her advice had always been wise. Minerva was intellectually and mentally his match, and over the years he’d grown quite attached to her.

Poppy - blonde, blue-eyed, warm, nicely rounded Poppy - seemed at first sight closer to him than Minerva. The mediwitch was spontaneous, direct, outspoken and had a quick wit which worked even in dark times, and had therefore often helped Albus when he’d felt down. He enjoyed their flirting and the teasing; he felt warm and comfortable around her and he appreciated her skills and dedication as a healer.

But as much as he liked Poppy, Minerva was more important to him. Yet in the last months he’d started to worry about her. He’d known how close she’d been to her husband and as a close friend of Augustus’ he’d known much he’d loved his wife. It had been an exceptionally happy marriage, and sometimes Albus had almost envied the both of them. The way they communicated by only looking at one another, how their hands found each other in times of distress, how they were always there for each other - they hadn’t been only lovers, but friends and comrades. Seeing them together had often made Albus aware that he actually was quite lonely. Of course, he’d never lacked female company and he’d even been in love occasionally. His heart was - how had his wise mother once labelled it? “highly inflammable”. He had always enjoyed flirting with women and no, he couldn’t deny it, he had always enjoyed sex too. Yet he had always been aware that wanting a woman wasn’t the same as loving her. And despite his reputation as a womanizer, a part of him had always hoped to meet the woman who’d become the one and only for him, friend and lover and wife and mother of his children.

Once, a long time ago, he’d thought he’d found her. Octavia had - at least so he believed when he married her - been everything that he’d wished for in a woman: Intelligent and ambitious, beautiful and passionate, independent and nevertheless able to love.

For a while they had been happy. But then it had become apparent that they had quite different ideas about their life together. Albus had longed for children - the sooner, the better; the more, the merrier. Octavia hadn’t wanted children - “not yet”, as she’d always said. “Albus, you must understand me. I haven’t studied and worked for years just to give up everything I’ve achieved now. I just got my professorship. If I step out of science to have a baby now, I won’t get a chance for a comeback. You can’t demand that from me. I’d become miserable, Albus - and what would you do with an unhappy wife? And how would a child feel with a mother who misses her work? Please, Albus - let’s just wait a bit! Next year when I’m settled at the university…”

But a year later she still hadn’t wanted a baby. “I’m right in the middle of an important project. I would have to stop if I became pregnant.”

She’d always been working on an important project or fighting for her career or something else, and with every passing year Albus had become more disappointed, and the arguments had become more violent. He remembered how she’d once yelled at him, “Pity for you, there’s a brain connected to the womb you married. I won’t become your brood mare.”

He’d paid her back; he’d accused her of egotism, of not loving him, and of coolness. They’d hurt each other, and with every battle it had become more difficult to reunite. They hadn’t stopped loving each other, but their trust had been shattered and both had felt bitter and sad.

Then Grindelwald had arisen. Albus, who’d spent a few years of his early childhood in Berlin because his father had been the ambassador there, and who therefore spoke German without an accent, had volunteered to lead a task force working underground in Germany against Grindelwald and his Muggle ally Hitler.

Octavia hadn’t approved of his new engagement. “You’re not an auror, but a scientist. Why don’t you let the aurors do this?” she’d asked him.

“Because no auror can do it,” Albus had answered “The task force will operate in Germany, cooperating with the French resistance. That means that the wizard leading it must speak German and French - as I do.”

“But you’re not an auror!” his wife had said.

“I’m not bad at duelling,” Albus had reminded her.

Octavia had promptly rolled her eyes. “My husband, the lonely hero. Isn’t it nice for you that playing the saviour of our world will give you a chance to leave me, to go away from this misery we call marriage? People will see you as a hero, but me you won’t convince. I know why you’re going.”

The following two days they hadn’t talked to each other. Albus had spent the time at the Ministry preparing for his departure while Octavia had worked in her lab and - as she’d done already for months - slept in her study.

The night before Albus had to go to Berlin he hadn’t found sleep. Although it had been a stormy and very cold winter night he’d stood on the terrace in front of the bedroom, looking up at the stars. Suddenly he’d felt a hand on his shoulder. “Come to bed, Albus.”

Turning around, he’d taken his wife in his arms, burying his nose in her silken hair. For a moment he’d only held her, then, after a soft kiss upon her nose which had made her giggle, he’d lifted her up and carried her in his arms in the bedroom, laying her down on their bed. One wave of his hand had banished the flimsy negligee she’d been wearing, another one had undressed him. Although he hadn’t been a young man at this time - he had been in his nineties - his strong body had always reacted very quickly to the beautiful and passionate woman who was his wife. And Octavia had always enjoyed the effect she had on him.

Even now at Hogwarts, nearly 60 years later, he remembered her throaty chuckle and how her delicate, but strong hand had closed around his erection, pulling him down to her. “My, Albus, you have such a flattering way of showing me that I haven’t palled on you.” Then, after a passionate kiss, she’d caught his hand, which had just been on its way to her centre, and with the frankness he’d always appreciated about her, she’d whispered: “Later, Albus - let’s play later. Now I just need you inside me.”

It hadn’t been the first time she’d demanded that he enter her without any foreplay. First it had irritated him. He was a Slytherin, and as such he’d gotten what in the “serpent’s den”, as his Hogwarts house was sometimes called, the “complete education for a gentleman”. This had included access to a collection of books about sex. Even as a 16-year-old boy his favourite subject in these books had been the “how to please a woman” chapters. He’d learned them by heart and he had used his opportunities for adding practical experience to his theoretical knowledge.

In doing so he’d learned that pleasing a woman to him meant even more than doing simply a gentleman’s duty. He’d come to enjoy it very much, and the older he became the more important the pleasure of his partner had become to him. And with Octavia, the woman he’d loved, it had been even more important than being satisfied himself.

Perhaps he’d overdone it a bit because she’d often asked him not to “play around”, but to “come to the point”. And after having learned that she often really didn’t want to be spoiled with tenderness, but wanted to be taken - sometimes even raw and demanding - he’d come to enjoy this variation of their lovemaking too. Sensitive as he was, he’d learned that it showed how much she - despite all the difficulties they were having with each other - trusted him.

Of course, Albus had known that sex - even the wonderful, fulfilling sex of this winter night in 1943 - wouldn’t solve the problems in their marriage. By coming to his bed Octavia hadn’t given him her approval of what he intended to do. But by sleeping in his arms, completely sated and content, she had showed him that she still loved him. It had given him hope for their future.

Three months later that hope had been shattered. Grindelwald hadn’t only recognized Albus as the enemy, but he’d learned about his greatest weakness: His wife.

Albus had wanted her to leave the cottage they’d lived in near Oxford to move in at his parent’s house, the perfectly warded, unplottable Chateau Dumbledore. But Octavia and his mother had never gotten along very well and so his wife had refused.

When Grindelwald had struck, Albus had been in Berlin. He’d built up an almost perfect disguise by taking over the Muggle sweet shop which had been owned by an old friend of his father. The premises near the Reichskanzlei had become not only the centre of the resistance, but had made it possible for Albus to spy on Grindelwald’s ally Hitler too.

At first sight the old man entering the shop on this cold April morning had looked perfectly Muggle. Even the constantly vigilant auror Alastor Moody, working as Albus’ assistant, hadn’t found anything special about him, but, almost bored, had helped the man to pick out some chocolate. But then the old man had paid, and one of the coins had for a moment - only a few seconds, so briefly that someone less attentive than Alastor certainly wouldn’t have noticed - changed its colour from copper to blue. The old man hadn’t moved one feature in his face, but his sad, water blue eyes had watched Alastor very intently. The auror had closed his eyes - the only sign that he’d understood - and handed the customer his chocolate and the change. When the old man had left, Alastor had - very casually - entered the office behind the shop where Albus had been working on some papers. Dropping the coin on the desk, Alastor had said, “Have a look”, before he’d gone back to serve another customer.

Albus hadn’t needed his wand to inspect the coin. As he’d taken it in his hand, it had fallen apart, revealing a tiny piece of paper where the words “Go to the peacocks” had been written.

Albus’ heart had immediately sped up. When the coin had opened, he’d already suspected the identity of the old man. Now it was clear. Only three people had known about his childhood fascination with the beautiful birds living on Peacock Island near the city: His mother, his three years older brother Aberforth, and of course his father, whose residence as an ambassador in Berlin had been near this island and who’d been the one who’d frequently gone there with his second son.

Albus had known that this unexpected visit from his father couldn’t mean good news. He’d told Alastor that he would have to deliver something, then he’d left the shop and walked around the corner to a small, lonely alley from where he’d apparated directly into the wood on the island. He’d found his father - still dressed as a muggle, but now without the disguise, seated on a bench, looking grave. Albus had sat down next to him, feeling a heavy weight on his chest which had made it difficult to breathe.

They hadn’t managed many words. As outspoken as the Dumbledores were in good days, they’d been monosyllabic on this cold morning.

“Father.” Albus had looked into the sad old eyes.

A withered hand had touched his arm. “Son.”

“Octavia?” Albus had asked, his voice not much more than a whisper.

“Yes.” His father had nodded and breathed deeply. “I’m so sorry, my boy.” Once again the old hand lay on his arm.

Albus had swallowed. “Grindelwald?”

“He wrote his name on the wall…”

Albus had closed his eyes. He’d been in more than one house where Grindelwald and his followers had been. He’d seen more than one bruised and battered corpse and he’d more than once felt helpless rage at seeing Grindelwald’s signature, written with the blood of a victim on a wall.

After a minute in silence he’d said, “I’m going home. I have to see her.”

“No, Albus.” His father had held Albus’ hand. “I was there. I identified her. You don’t have to go.”

“I’m going,” Albus had stubbornly repeated. “I owe it to her.”

“No, son. She wouldn’t have wanted that. She would have wanted to remain in your memory alive and in all her beauty.” Swallowing the old man had looked up at his son’s eyes again. “Albus, there’s something more. The healer who checked on the body,” once again he’d swallowed, “said that your wife was pregnant.”

Albus hadn’t answered. He’d fought against tears until his father had suddenly pulled his wand out. Casting a shielding charm, he’d pulled his son in his arms. “My poor boy.”

Later Arthus Dumbledore had told his son what he’d learned from the aurors. “Grindelwald knows you’re after him, but the aurors are almost certain that he doesn’t know about your disguise and whereabouts. They suppose he killed your wife to provoke you. He probably hopes you’ll be furious enough to make a mistake and thereby reveal yourself.”


Grindelwald had underestimated Albus. He hadn’t become furious, but cold. Bottling up his rage and grief, he had waited - patiently, but determined. Like a predator he’d kept his cover, in every moment alert and ready to strike. And then, one night in December 1945, Grindelwald had made a mistake. He didn’t get much time to regret it. Before he really knew what was happening, he’d found himself face to face with Albus Dumbledore.

15 minutes and a furious duel later, the wizard who’d believed himself the mightiest sorcerer alive was dead, hit by a killing curse cast by Albus Dumbledore. A few months earlier, his Muggle ally Hitler had been defeated too. The world had been safe again.

But while the wizard world had celebrated the victory and every newspaper had shown Albus’ face on the front page, he hadn’t felt like partying. He’d gone back to Cornwall to his parent’s house, and for a few weeks he’d mostly sat at the seashore, watching the waves and thinking over his life and future.

Three months after his victory against Grindelwald Albus was still in Cornwall when Armando Dippet, at this time Headmaster at Hogwarts, asked him to return as transfiguration teacher and head of Slytherin, the position he’d resigned during the war with Grindlewald. Albus didn’t have to think about it for long. He’d always loved Hogwarts and he’d always liked working with children. If he wasn’t to have some of his own, he would at least enjoy being around children in a school.

Now, after almost 60 years at Hogwarts, he was aware that his decision to return there had probably cost him a family of his own. Of course, being a teacher at Hogwarts didn’t mean one had to lead a monk’s life. As long as he didn’t snog a woman in front of the students, no one bothered about his private life. And during the years at Hogwarts he’d fallen in love two or three times. Once he’d even seriously considered marriage - only he thought too long about it. He’d still been thinking when his lady became impatient, demanding a proposal. Pressure never worked well with Albus, and so her demand had lead to a row outstanding even in Albus’ history with hot-tempered women. In the end the lady had called him a “womanizing bastard” and accused him of cheating. First he’d been amused, but then she’d started with names: Astronomy teacher Stella Sinistra; at that time DADA teacher Isabel Shacklebolt; the mediwitch Poppy Pomfrey and, of course, Minerva McGonagall. This he hadn’t found funny anymore.

“May I remind you, Aurelia, that Professor McGonagall is married to a friend of mine?” he’d asked coldly.

“As if she would mind!” Aurelia Willington had yelled. “She’s after you like a cat in heat! Everyone can see it!”

Albus had exploded like a firecracker. “I don’t mind if you insult me, but I won’t allow you to besmirch Minerva’s good name.”

“Minerva? So familiar? Of course you are with her being your whore!” she’d shot back.

“Aurelia, this discussion is finished. Please, leave - now!”

She’d gone, leaving him shaking with rage.

Only a few weeks later the next dark wizard had risen, and in this case Albus felt immediately involved because the man who called himself “Lord Voldemort”, and who had spread terror all over England, had once been Tom Marvolo Riddle - and a pupil in Albus’ care. Although he’d taken over the housemastership in Slytherin when Riddle had been in his fifth year, then left halfway through his sixth, Albus had felt responsible. And with the Ministry being in an uproar and more busy with internal arguments than with fighting Voldemort and his followers, Albus realized that he needed to become active himself. He’d founded the Order of the Phoenix, gathering strong wizards and witches around him. Being the Headmaster of Hogwarts and the leader of the resistance he’d lost his chance to find a wife and to have a family.

The first war against Voldemort had lasted for 11 years and it had cost hundreds of lives. It had ended with Voldemort’s attack on the Potter family. But in contrast to the rest of the magical world, Albus hadn’t believed that Voldemort had died. He hadn’t managed to kill baby Harry, he’d obviously been heavily injured, but Albus had known that Voldemort would come back. So for him the war hadn’t been finished.

And he’d been right. 11 years after the attack Voldemort had shown himself again. But it had taken four years before the ministry finally admitted that the evil wizard was really and truly back, and that the magical world needed to fight against him again. Those four years had been exceptionally hard for Albus. He’d felt like Cassandra, and he’d been aware that even old friends had started to doubt his sanity because of his “always harping on the old subject”.

He’d become lonely during this time, and he’d felt the weight of his years pulling him down. But there had been a few faithful,al fal friends - and the most important among them had been his deputy.

Albus remembered how she’d shown her loyalty when Minister Fudge had tried to get him for treason. Albus saying that he certainly wouldn’t go to the wizard’s prison Azkaban had made Fude sneer at him, “You intend to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Dolores and myself single-handed, do you, Dumbledore?”

And then Minerva’s clear voice, announcing with cold determination, “He won’t be single-handed.”

He’d stopped her because Hogwarts had needed her, but in doing so he’d felt pride and a rush of warmth and joy. Having friends like her - knowing that had kept him going during those days although it had become even harder. Minerva had been hit by four stunners and had struggled for her life, and he hadn’t had a chance to help her because the Ministry was still after him.

He remembered how she’d come back to Hogwarts, still needing a cane, pale and looking fragile. She’d entered his office, which still was in shambles after Harry Potter, almost out of his mind with grief about the death of his godfather, had thrown a tantrum there. But Minerva hadn’t looked at the destroyed furniture and the broken silver instruments. She’d looked in his eyes - and for a moment he’d wondered if she’d learned legilimency now. She had seemed to read his mind, seeing his grief, the doubts, the misery. And for the firste the they’d known each other, she hadn’t sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk, waiting until he placed himself behind it again. On this day she’d approached him and, leaning her cane on his desk, simply hugged him, laying one hand on his neck and pulling his head down onto her shoulder. It hadn’t been the embrace of a lover, but of a mother, and for the first time since the death of his wife he’d allowed himself to let down his walls.

As Minerva sat down, he knelt in front of her. Burying his face in her lap, he cried while she silently stroked his hair. She’d given him the time he’d needed before she’d shown herself once again as the sensible, wise woman she was. Pulling out a handkerchief - and no, he hadn’t wondered that it wasn’t something lacy, but one of the huge, white linen ones out of Augustus’ drawer - she’d wiped the tears from his face, looked at him and said, “Blaming yourself won’t do any good, Albus. You were not responsible for Sirius. It was his decision to go to the Ministry. And as far as Mister Potter is concerned, you did what you thought best at the moment. One day he’ll see that too.” With her hand still on his cheek, she proceeded, “People call you the greatest wizard alive, Albus - and I believe you really are, but not because I think you unfailing, but because I know your ability to learn from your mistakes and to correct them. You won’t repeat one - and that will make you the one who will win this war.”

She’d been right. He’d learned from his mistakes - with her help - and he’d won the war - once again with her help. But she’d lost her husband in it - and now he sometimes felt as if the last battle of the war hadn’t yet been fought. The battle for Minerva to find life and happiness again - she had to fight it herself, but he would be at her side, helping her.


To be continued