As she likes it

As she likes it

Disclaimer: Please, look at chapter 1

Author\'s note: The story was written before HBP.


Chapter 2: When you are old and gray and full of sleep

“Good morning, Albus!” a cheerful voice sounded in Albus’ ear and made him wonder: What was this woman talking about? Or better yet: Why was she talking at all? And in English? He’d very much enjoyed how she’d - silently! - massaged coconut oil on his shoulders, her naked breasts touching his chest and her dark eyes holding a promise of what would come after the massage.

“Albus! Lazy bones! Are you still sleeping?”

If he wouldn’t have been trying so hard to maintain his dream - and it had really been a nice one – he’d probably have answered that he would have very much liked to still be sleeping, thank you very much, but couldn’t because someone was a) talking and b) rummaging around him. To a) he would have liked to comment that it should be made illegal to sound so cheerful so early in the morning and to b) - could this female nuisance perhaps stop babbling and come up with something more useful like brewing coffee or serving him a hangover potion? Or perhaps both - first the hangover potion, then the coffee? His first attempt to open his eyes had got him a headache suiting a giant and - hell, as far as he could get his slushy brain to work, he remembered he’d been drinking fire whiskey and old, French cognac. So why was his mouth tasting as if - no, he didn’t even like to specify it.

“Albus? Would you like coffee?” asked the voice from downstairs.

“Hmm!” he gave back, turned around and pulled his pillow over his head.

It didn’t help him much. Hermione obviously had decided that he shouldn’t go back to the sweet dream where he didn’t have a headache, but rather a lush, raven haired girl massaging him. Her voice rung in his ears: “Albus, dear? I’ve got fresh fruits and eggs, but if you want porridge you should tell me where I can find the oatmeal.”

Raising his head he grumbled “Right shelf!” and fell down on his mattress again.

“Ah - you’re alive and awake!” Hermione sounded as if she’d seen that as a personal success.

Albus sat up, rubbing his eyes. Actually he felt neither awake nor very much alive, but over the course of a long life he’d learned a few lessons. One of which was: Never argue with a female Gryffindor who has decided to look after you. In such cases resistance was futile and a sheer waste of breath. “Hermione?”

“Yes, Albus?” she answered promptly.

“Duck!” he commanded and waved his hand. “Accio hangover potion!” He heard how the vial jumped out of the shelf over the sink, shot through the kitchen, raised up to the gallery on which his bed stood, crashed against the balustrade and tumbled down. Fortunately Hermione was quick on her feet. With a tiger jump she caught the bottle before it shattered on the floor.

“You know, Albus, without your spectacles your aim is lousy!” she commented.

“How do you know I’m not wearing them?” he asked, pulling his blanket up.

“Because I just saw them in the fridge - next to a pair of really ugly, yellow socks!” Hermione answered. “I’ll bring them and the potion up.”

“No!” he protested. “I’m not dressed!” Besides - he looked down on himself - he had an erection and a dire need to empty his bladder.

“Don’t fuss! I won’t look at you!” Hermione’s steps could already be heard upon the stairs. Appearing on his gallery she came to the bed and handed him his spectacles. “Here.”

“Thanks,” he grumbled, put them on and looked at her.

It was worth it. She’d grown up nicely since she’d left Hogwarts and although she was too thin for his taste - she had something, especially when she wore a dress for once. And the one she’d chosen this morning was lovely: Honey brown, snuggling close to her curves and the skirt ending a hand broad over her knees, showing her long legs. She certainly wasn’t a breath taking beauty, but with her short, brown hair and the chocolate brown eyes in the clear face she reminded him at one of the young woman in a Botticelli painting.

“You look lovely, Hermione,” he stated.

“Really?” She beamed at him and whirled once round on her heel, then bent down and gave him a peek on the cheek. Putting the vial with the hangover potion in his hand, she smiled. “And now you can get up while I get down. You shower and shave, I prepare breakfast.”

He gulped the potion down and felt immediately better though the stuff tasted horrible. Swinging his legs out of the bed - Hermione was already on her way down to the kitchen - he asked: “Hermione, how did I deserve the honour of your early visit?”

“Well,” she seemed to hesitate, “I scanned the house before I entered. If you hadn’t been alone, I wouldn’t have come in. But I haven’t seen you in weeks and you’re not the quickest one in answering owls. Besides,” once again she made a little break before she preceded, “I’d like to talk about something with you. Or do you have an appointment this morning?”

Albus patted on bare feet into the bathroom, but left the door open. “You should know: I never make appointments in the morning. Besides: its Saturday, isn’t it?” He gave the door a little kick, emptied his bladder and looked - slightly irritated - down on his still stiff member. Shaking his head he grumbled: “Feeling neglected these days, old boy? I can’t help you at the moment.”

Stepping under the shower he sighed. His love life - at the moment - it was non existent and actually, after the trouble he’d been in only a few weeks before, he wasn’t in the mood to start something new.

It had really been bad luck. His relationship with Athena Tsavdirodis, the beautiful Greek Charms professor at Oxford, had been running smoothly after he’d managed to make it clear to her that he wasn’t a man to plan a future with, but rather allow his lady friend her freedom. Really, it had been nice with her and he was sure it could have gone on pleasantly for a long time if only - well, it had been his mistake. And even an embarrassing one. At his age a man should have actually learned that he shouldn’t divert his affection - or at least that he should keep his ladies apart. To become caught in flagrante delicto with a new conquest by the steady lady - if someone would have told him about something like that, he’d have thought: “Idiot!”

And even worse: both of the women hadn’t reacted as the relevant literature demanded. Instead of scraping each other’s eyes out, the Greek and the Danish witch had founded an entente international against Great Britain, represented by Albus Dumbledore. He had become yelled at and insulted in at least ten languages - Birthe, the Dane, was Ambassador of her country and as such she’d seen a bit of the world - and hexed so badly he’d needed his old friend, ex-Auror Alastor Moody to get the boils on his backside healed. Although Albus hadn’t intended to show his rear end soon to someone again - one sat rather uncomfortably on a butt emblazed with the boil written inscription “bastard”.

That was eight weeks ago now and since then he’d been a good boy. He hadn’t flirted with a woman, he’d spent his days working on a Transfiguration project and he’d gone to bed alone every night. Yet he didn’t intend to keep the celibate life up. One of the advantages of his age was that he didn’t need sex anymore, but not needing it didn’t mean that he didn’t enjoy it and want it.

During the war he had abstained from sex. He’d needed his strength for the fight against Voldemort and he hadn’t felt up to dealing with the responsibility for a lover additionally. Every woman who’d become close to him would have been a target for Voldemort and this he would have never risked.

However, the war was over and he was a free man. He even didn’t need to think about his reputation as Headmaster anymore. He could do what he wanted, he could be with whom he wanted and - well, after two years of enjoying his freedom to the fullest, he sometimes found himself - no, not bored, but wondering if that would be all. He adored women, he enjoyed sex, but he sometimes wished for more, for something what would last, for someone who wouldn’t only take him upon her chest, but upon her heart.

He’d never been overly romantic, but more of a pragmatic, sometimes even a cynic, but now he sometimes wished to fall in love again and to have someone to belong to. Of course, he had friends - wonderful friends, connected to him over the years - and with them he’d found something like a surrogate family. Nevertheless he sometimes felt lonely.

Completing his shower, he cast a drying charm and went over to the mirror. Since he’d been shaved in the hospital, he had grown his hair, but not his beard. Whenever he’d tried he’d found that his chin itched after two or three days without a shave. Besides - he was a wizard. He didn’t need to bother with foam and knife. A simple wave of his hand was enough to get the stubbles away and the soft prickling of the shaving charm he found even refreshing. Another charm detangled and combed his hair and then he was ready. Walking back into the bedroom he pulled a long silken shirt - blue with a row of golden buttons - out of the closet and slipped in. A pair of green socks with yellow ducks followed, then the black boots - done and ready. And out of the kitchen it smelled deliciously after fresh coffee, scrambled eggs and toast.

Looking over the balustrade down toward the living room he saw that Hermione had already laid the table in front of the big window facing the sea. She’d even thought of flowers - a bunch of golden dahlias stood on the middle of the table.

Hermione - between the thousand of students he’d met at Hogwarts she’d always been someone special. He remembered how she’d come to the school, a bony girl with bushy hair, big front teeth and huge brown eyes looking out of a pale, tensed face. She’d fought so hard for fitting in the magical world and for finding a place of her own. He’d watched her, quickly learning that she wasn’t only ambitious, but warm-hearted and brave. And the older she’d become, the more she bloomed up into an endearing girl with a brilliant mind. He was fond of her and even more - he’d come to see her as a friend.

Walking down the stairs he entered the area of the cottage which was used as the kitchen. Hermione had just spooned porridge from a pan into a bowl and smiled at him. “Now, sleepyhead - feeling better?”

He picked a piece of apple out of the fruit salad she’d prepared and, chewing on it, beamed at her. “I feel great. And you’re an angel. Spoiling an old man with such a great breakfast! You know, for such a fruit salad,” he got himself a piece of a peach, “you would get almost everything from me.”

“Almost everything? That sounds good.” Her tone was light, but there was something in her eyes which made him look closer at her.

“What’s the matter, Hermione?” he asked.

She took the bowls with the porridge and the fruit salad and walked over to the table. “Let’s have breakfast first, Albus.”

“Oh, oh!” He followed her with the coffee pot. “Is it so bad that you think I can’t deal with it on an empty stomach?” His curiosity was piqued and sitting down, he asked: “Give me a hint - is it a private or professional problem?”

She poured coffee in his cup and answered without looking at him. “Rather private, I think. I mean,” she obviously was nervous and almost dropped some coffee upon the table while filling her own cup, “it’s connected to my career too, but - well, it’s nevertheless private. Uhm - you do take cream in your coffee, don’t you?”

“I always do.” He took the carton with the cream out of her hand and poured a generous portion in his cup. “Now you’ve made me really curious.” Grinning at her he added: “Curiosity always drives my appetite away, you know? And I’m at an age where regular meals are important for the health.”

“Oh, Albus!” She buttered a piece of toast. “It’s a rather long story.”

“As I’ve said: I don’t have an appointment this morning. And none for the afternoon either. Even tonight I’m free, so you can tell me the story of your life, starting with the moment of your birth,” he offered.

Now he’d made her smile. “Too bad - I doubt you’re interested in the story how of how I bit Heidi Thickman in the nursery.” Nibbling at her toast she became serious again. “You know, Albus, at the moment I’m thinking more about my future than about my past.”

Albus sipped at his coffee. “And what does the future hold for you?”

“That’s just the question, Albus.” Hermione breathed deeply. “I’ve thought a lot about it during the last couple of days. As far as my career is concerned at the moment it’s a waiting game. I’ll finish my project around Christmas and then - well, I’ll probably work on Pendenance’s projects then. I can’t achieve anymore at the moment. So what am I to do until I can acquire a lab of my own?”

Albus swallowed his porridge. “Perhaps one of his projects is exciting?”

“Albus! I’m working for Eustachius Pendenance!” Hermione rolled her eyes. “The most exciting thing that may happen in his lab is if a turtle falls from the table!”

“Really?” Albus grinned. “He manages to get them so alive they fall from tables? Amazing!”

“It’s probably their way to try suicide,” snorted Hermione. “For them it’s a broken neck by falling from the table or becoming painfully slowly bored to death.”

“Well, Hermione - you aren’t married to Pendenance,” Albus said. “When you’re done with your project, you can move to another university. I think you’d get along nicely with Bottini in Venice. If you want me to I will speak with him.”

“Thank you, Albus.” Hermione played with her spoon. “But I actually didn’t think about moving to another university. I like Oxford and actually - working for Pendenance mostly isn’t bad. When I come up with a good idea, he lets me do it and doesn’t ask too much. I’m sure he wouldn’t even mind if I didn’t want to work fulltime for some time.”

Albus raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to work fulltime for some time? Hermione - what are you up to?”

To his amazement she blushed. “I’ve told you it’s something private.”

“Oh? You’ve found Mister Right? The one and only one? The lad you’ve always dreamed off?” By asking he felt an odd prickle in his stomach. Of course, he wanted Hermione to be happy, but - if she’d gotten seriously involved with a man she probably wouldn’t want to spend as much time with him anymore. He would miss her. And he’d probably be a little jealous of the boy.

“No, Albus.” She stood up and went to the window, looking out on the grey sea. “I don’t believe in this ‘the love of my life’ stuff anymore. I’m twenty six years old and I haven’t even met a man who has the potential to become my love for the next year! Probably I’m too demanding or too clear-minded for romantic stuff like that. Or I’m simply not able to love. I don’t know.”

Albus leant back and crossed his long legs at the ankles. “I know you won’t like to hear that, but from my perspective twenty six looks very young. Perhaps you’re too impatient? Yet that would be something you have in common with your foster mother. Between her thirtieth and fortieth birthday Minerva told me at least once a year she’d forsworn love forever because she’d never meet a man meeting her high standards. She was wildly determined to become an old spinster before she met Augustus.”

“Yes,” Hermione said and turned around, facing him again. “But you know what happened then. They both wanted children and they wanted them badly. Therefore Minerva suffered through four miscarriages. Even as a witch: The older one becomes, the more risky pregnancies are.”

“Minerva was only in her mid-forties. That isn’t too old for a witch. My mother was older,” Albus disagreed. “Besides you probably know too, that sixty percent of all pregnancies - and that goes even for young witches - go wrong in the first three months. Mostly the woman doesn’t even know that she was ever pregnant.”

“Yes, yes,” Hermione said impatiently. “Nevertheless: I don’t want to become an old mother. I want to have a child when I’m young enough to have it without much risk. Hence I want to become pregnant soon.”

“That’s a good idea,” Albus said. “You’re just at the right age for becoming a mother. And I’m sure you’ll make a great one.”

Hermione came back to the table. “Yes! I think so too. And you know it would suit my life just perfectly now. I’ve even got enough money for it. I’ve worked a bit with what my parents left to me and it’s become a nice sum now. Besides I know where we can live. Ginny and Neville will move to Abingdon soon. They’ve bought a cottage there and next to it is another one for sale. I’ve already spoken to the owner. I can easily afford it and would even have enough left to support the baby and I until it goes to pre-school and I can work fulltime again,” Hermione told, her eyes beaming. “My baby could grow up with Ginny’s kids and Ginny would even look after it when I’m at work. It’s ideal now.”

“Hermione,” Albus softly interrupted, “do I understand right that you plan to become a single mother?”

“Yes, I do.” She looked challenging at him. “You won’t become square now by telling me that one doesn’t have children out of wedlock, will you?”

He breathed deeply. “I think you should know me better. I’m certainly no prude. And I don’t doubt that a woman is able to raise a child on her own. Nevertheless I think a child is probably happier when it has a father too.”

“Well, I’d like it very much if the father of my child became involved in its upbringing,” Hermione replied. “But it’s his decision. If he wants it - fine with me. If he doesn’t want it - fine with me too. I can deal with the child on my own. Besides my child won’t be lacking male role models. Harry, Neville, Ron and his brothers will be there as uncles.”

Albus nodded. “I see. You’ve obviously planned your project thoroughly.” He smiled. “And? Have you already picked a father for your child?”

“Yes, I have actually,” Hermione confirmed firmly. Twisting her napkin, she explained: “I’ve made a list with all of the qualities the man needs to have and some that I’d find nice if he’d have them. And then I’ve thought about all the men I know and compared them to my list.”

Albus couldn’t help laughing. “Only you can do something like that, Hermione! Let me guess: You’ve already figured out too when, where and how your child shall become conceived?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, I’ve thought about it, but that’s not the most important point right now.”

“Of course.” Albus poured himself a second cup of coffee. “First you have to evaluate your list. I hope you thought of your candidates fertility too though I wonder - how will you learn about that?”

“Simple: I ask the man I want to father my child.” Hermione picked a piece of a banana out of the fruit salad and licked at it. “Albus - I’ve done the evaluation already. Of all the unattached men in my acquaintance I found only one who suits my profile and who I’d like to have a child with.”

“Then let’s hope he’s fertile!” Albus grinned.

“Well,” Hermione swallowed and looked at him. “Are you?”

“What?” Albus thought he hadn’t heard right.

Hermione cleared her throat. “Are you fertile, Albus?”

Albus choked on his coffee and started to cough. Hermione jumped on her feet, came around the table and thumped his back. “You know you’re really the only one I’d like to have a child with. And you like children and you’re great with them and you told me once that you’ve always wished for one. And I’d really, really like to have a baby with your eyes. Just imagine what a great child it could be! I’m sure you’d have a lot of fun playing with it. And you wouldn’t have to bother with dirty nappies and screaming during the nights. That would be my part. You could have it all: A baby and your independence. I would never try to restrict your freedom …”

“Stop babbling, Hermione!” he commanded.

She looked at him out of huge, chocolate brown eyes.

“And don’t look at me like that!”

Hermione swallowed. “You don’t want a child with me?”

Albus put his spectacles down and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger. “Hermione Granger, you’re insane!” he stated. “Completely and utterly mad, cracked, mental, nuts! Just look at me! I’m an old man who could easily be your great-grandfather! I’d have never thought I’d suspect you of once sleeping in class, but in sexual education you obviously missed something important: To become pregnant you need to sleep with a man, Hermione! And you can’t tell me that you’d want to sleep with me! I’m almost a hundred and forty years your senior!”

“I’ve never seen you as an old man, but as a very attractive one.” She still stood next to him and suddenly her hand was on his shoulder, her fingertips touching his neck. “Albus - I would very much like to sleep with you.” Her voice wasn’t more than a whisper and her fingers stroked over his neck, sneaked in his collar and touched the swell of his pectoral muscle.

Albus closed his eyes. She smelt lovely, like vanilla and bergamot, and with the warmth of her young body and her hand on his chest - it got to him. His cock was saluting the woman who’d come so close to him and he so obviously wanted very much to make an even closer acquaintance with her. Breathing deeply, Albus caught the hand stroking over his chest. “Hermione, even you won’t get me so far along that I forget to cast a Contraceptus charm,” he said.

“Even I?” One quick turn and she sat on his lap, wriggling her butt against his erection and laying an arm around his shoulder. “You’re aroused, Albus!” she announced triumphantly.

“Of course I am. I’ve said, I’m an old man, but I didn’t say I’m a dead one. And,” he shoved her softly, but firmly away and stood up, “I’d like to stay alive. Therefore I’d rather stay away from you. Minerva would kill me if I laid a hand on her darling girl.”

Hermione never was one for giving up easily. Embracing him, she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. “I’ll tell her that I seduced you,” she purred.

“She would nevertheless hex me!” He once again shoved her away. “When it comes to women, Minerva trusts me about as far as she can throw a hippogriff single-handed. Besides I still think your idea harebrained, Hermione. One doesn’t plan a child like a science project.”

“Why not, Albus?” she asked, sitting down at the table again.

“Hermione, really! You know yourself!”

“No. I don’t. So please, explain it to me! Why shouldn’t I plan to have a child?” she asked.

He sighed and shook his head. “Hermione, a child should be conceived in love; it should be expected in joy and start its life surrounded by tenderness and the care of both its parents.”

Hermione studied him with her head crooked. “I didn’t know you were a romantic, Albus.”

“Obviously I am when it comes to children,” he stated dryly.

“That probably comes from always longing for one,” Hermione shot back.

Albus rolled his eyes. The entire conversation felt unreal to him, but knowing Hermione and her stubbornness he was aware that he didn’t have much of a chance to stop the debate now. “Hermione, I won’t deny that I longed for a child of my own. But that was ages ago! I’m an old man now. I’m at an age where I should look after my great-grandchildren and bore them with stories about the war. And you, Hermione - you’re young and lovely and you‘ve got a brilliant mind. You’ll find a young man to fall in love with and you will want to have a family with him …”

“And if I don’t find him?” Hermione interrupted him. “Or if I find him too late like Minerva? Besides: If he is Mister Right he won’t mind that I’m already having a child.”

Albus once again closed his eyes and begged for patience. “Well, Hermione,” he started once again, “then let’s talk about another point. I take it you’d like to have a child with some magical talent?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered. “But I didn’t pick you to breed a genius, if that’s your point. I want you because I’m fond of you and because I …,” she hesitated and searched for words. “I mean - it sounds perhaps silly to you, but I wouldn’t want you to go once without leaving someone behind.”

“You mean, such an old family like mine shouldn’t die out?” he sounded sarcastic. “But that’s just the problem, Hermione. Do you remember my brother? I loved him dearly, but we both know: Aberforth was almost a squib. And he wasn’t the only one in my family. The Dumbledores are old nobility, pure-blooded, arrogant and inbred like hell. We suffer from what’s called ‘incest depression’, caused by having fewer ancestors than other people. Just for example: At the place in your family tree where you have sixteen ancestors, I have only thirteen. And it becomes worse: Four generations back you have thirty two ancestors. I have twenty three. That means my chances of fathering squibs or oddballs of every kind or even a handicapped child are pretty high.”

“If you procreate with another pure-blood,” Hermione stated quietly. “But I’m Muggleborn which means that my magic is dominant. The statistics show clearly: Muggleborns can even have magical children with Muggles. If the child didn’t inherit any magic from you then mine would make up for it. Besides: One of the advantages of being Muggleborn is that I could easily deal with a non magic child. In contrast to most pure-blood wizards and witches I know how to live without magic.”

“Hermione, I really don’t doubt that you’ll become a wonderful mother, but really: I can’t see myself as the father of your child.”

Hermione tried a little bit of the porridge. “Oh - it’s cold now. Shall I warm it up?”

“As far as I remember, I’m a wizard. I could warm up the porridge myself.” He smiled at her to soften his words. “Besides I was just stating that I can’t see myself as the father of your or any other child.”

Hermione put some porridge in her dish, pulled her wand out and cast a warming spell before she sprinkled salt over it. “I’ve heard you, Albus,” she replied lightly. “And I understand you’ll need some time to think. I won’t bother you until you’ve considered it thoroughly.”

Until now Albus had believed he couldn’t become surprised by negotiating partners or strategies anymore. He’d dealt with the Hogwarts board of governors; he’d been Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot; he’d bargained with politicians, ambassadors, business men, vampires, goblins, gnomes, giants and centaurs. Yet Hermione Granger was something new. Breathing deeply he said: “Hermione - even if I’d spend the next three months doing nothing more than considering your offer - as flattering as it is - I wouldn’t change my mind.”

Hermione crooked her head. “But you will think about, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know how to avoid it. It’s one of the most harebrained ideas I’ve ever heard about,” he smiled.

“You make it sound as though you think I’d be totally nuts,” Hermione sulked.

“Darling Hermione,” he reached for her hand, “you are cuckoo - no doubt about that. But I like you this way.”

“You like me this way?” There was the certain something in her eyes again.

He raised his hand protectively. “Hermione, I like you very much, but …”

“I know,” she interrupted him. “You like me, but not enough to sleep with me. I’m not your type.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ve never met a woman as insistent and pigheaded as you, Hermione! But to clear this once and forever: I like you. Period. I can’t imagine becoming a father. Also period. These two facts exist independently from each other. And now I’d like to eat my breakfast - in peace!”

Hermione bit on her bottom lip. “Sorry, Albus - I didn’t want to grate on your nerves. I’ll stop with this subject now.”

“Oh, thank you very much!” He took the bowl with the fruit salad. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?” he asked.

“No, actually I don’t.” Hermione got herself a glass with orange juice. “If I promise to be a good girl - would you then go to Tintagel with me?”

Albus couldn’t help chuckling. “Didn’t you say you’d change the subject?”

“I did!” Hermione defended herself and then started to laugh. “Really, Albus! I didn’t think of celebrating a fertility ritual there though it would be a proper place.”

“Perhaps just visiting the old place will do the trick?” Albus teased her. “Wasn’t it you who told me on our first visit there that you could feel the magic of the place all around you?”

“Grrr!” Hermione showed him her tongue. “How could I have known that you were living in the neighbourhood of a place where people once celebrated orgies?”

“Orgies? I thought they were fertility rituals. But if you like to think of them as orgies…”

Hermione didn’t listen to him, but proceeded with her speech: “Sometimes I think the really interesting things were obviously left out in History of Magic at school.”

“Considering your teacher was a ghost …” Albus grinned.

“You mean, ghosts don’t think about sex anymore?” Hermione scratched herself behind her left ear, and then shuddered. “Brrr - how could you make me think of that? I just remember the death day meal Nearly Headless Nick invited Ron, Harry and I to. Considering the state of the food there, I really don’t want to learn anything about ghost’s sex lives.”

“Really? And here I always thought your thirst for knowledge wouldn’t know any limits.” Albus chuckled. “Well, well - if you don’t want to learn something new from me …”

“Oh, thank you very much! You already taught me enough when we first visited Tintagel. Until then I thought you were a reputable, respectable gentleman.”

“Ah - and in Tintagel you changed your opinion about me?” Albus bit into a piece of peach.

Hermione nodded. “Yes. I discovered there that you’ve got the naughtiest grin I’ve ever seen on a man. And now you’re showing it again!”

He tried to appear serious though he was very amused. “I’m actually always well behaved around women. I’d never do something they didn’t want me to do.” Hell - was he flirting with Hermione? He’d never done so before. Hermione had - although she was his friend and since years out of school - still been labelled as “student”. And students were taboo. He’d have never touched one; he had never even thought about touching one.

Staying away from them hadn’t been hard for him. He’d seen - with the benevolence of a born teacher and the pleasure of an aesthete - how sometimes rather ugly ducklings grew up to be gracious, well-rounded young woman, but none of them had ever awakened any desire in him. In his lovers, he liked self-confidence, womanliness and experience. Albus had never understood why some men felt sexually attracted by innocence. Even as a seventeen year old boy at Hogwarts his interest hadn’t been directed to a girl his age, but on the thirty seven year old assistant Arithmancy instructor.

As far as girls were concerned, Albus had gotten enough from the stories his friends told when they were alone with him. Polyxenes Tonks for example, his closest friend with whom Albus had suffered through almost three weeks of horror because he and his sixteen year old girlfriend had messed up with their Contraceptus charms. It had been the first time for both of them and they’d been too nervous.

Or Augustus McGonagall - he’d needed the first half of his seventh year at Hogwarts to seduce his girlfriend. Even hearing about it - and Augustus had lamented about it every night! - Albus had found frustrating to no end. And then, after the Christmas break, Augustus had told him how he’d succeeded in the end. “It was a disaster, Albus! First I was so excited I came before I could even … you know what I mean. She was all ‘ick’ and ‘uuuh’ and ‘how squirmy’, jumped out of the bed and disappeared for half an hour in the bathroom. Afterwards she told me that I should never ever get ‘any of this ugly stuff’ on her again or she’d hex me into the next year. I needed another two hours to get her in the mood for some playing again and then - Albus, it was hell! Her hymen - it felt as if I’d run with the tip of my dangler against a rock! And she scolded me for doing it wrong and demanded I should at least do it right.”

He’d shuddered. “When I was finally through it became even worse. It wasn’t only that my thingy was numb. Even worse was that she screamed like a banshee and bled like a butchered pig. For one thing I’m sure: I’ll never ever sleep with a virgin again!”

Albus had never even wanted to try. He’d lost his own virginity the night before he’d left Hogwarts and the only screams he’d heard from his instructor in matters of Arithmancy and love - and as far as the last was concerned, she certainly was above ‘assistant’ level - had been encouragement and orders to do it faster, harder and again.

Since then his lovers had always been experienced women. Girls had never held any appeal for him and besides: As nice as Hermione looked in her short dress and as lovely she smelled - she definitely wasn’t his type. Teased by his friend Alastor for being a “breasts man” he’d once raised his hand: “Look at them! They’re rather big. And I like to have them full when I’m with a woman.”

Hermione’s little apple breasts, though nicely rounded - no, they were definitely too small for his taste. And her waist was so fragile! He would fear breaking her when gripping her as firm as he liked to when making love.

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


If someone would have conducted a poll of Albus’ friends, asking for his most prominent features, the evaluation would certainly have shown him as a master in the art of convincing, persuading and manipulating. Yet as successful as he’d always been when practising his art with other people - on himself he mostly failed.

So he actually didn’t wonder as he woke up during the night after Hermione’s visit, covered in sweat, with a raging hardon and the pictures out of his dream still very vivid in his mind: Hermione, riding him with her hands braced against his chest, her head thrown back and her face showing wild lust and need.

Albus wasn’t shocked about the dream. He’d spent all day with Hermione, climbing with her through the ancient ruins on Tintagel and as he’d had lunch with her in a Chinese restaurant in Muggle London. Later he’d accompanied her back to Oxford where she’d showed him her project.

Although they hadn’t talked again about what he for himself had named “Hermione’s insanity” - there had been tension between them. Touches, even so harmless as him taking her hand for helping her over a few stones or Hermione leaning close to him for showing him something in her papers - had suddenly become something with a deeper meaning. And the way she looked at him - really, it wasn’t a wonder that she starred now in an erotic dream of his. It only showed that she’d become a woman and he - well, he was still a man and at the moment he was a man who’d lived for months in celibacy.

Kicking his blanket away, he enjoyed the fresh breeze from the sea - as always in the evening he’d opened the window in the roof over his bed - cooling his sweaty body. Yet of his erection he couldn’t get rid off so easily. And falling asleep again with it would be impossible.

Pushing the second pillow behind his back, he looked down on his body, pale and wrinkled in the cold light of the moon. It had always served him well and his lovers had liked it too, some had even praised him for his strength. To Albus himself his body didn’t hold much appeal, but he had not only a vivid imagination, but a nice collection of memories. So he turned around, took the little bottle of oil he kept on his nightstand - not only for the occasional wank, but because he never liked it when the skin on his hands became too dry - dripped some of it onto his palm and started to spread it over his cock and balls.

It felt good and closing his eyes, he thought of Francesca, the hot-tempered, racy brunette who’d been his lover a long time ago. She’d been Headmistress of the Italian wizard’s school and - as she’d whispered once during a Quidditch match into his ear - she’d liked her “title” in “every sense of the word”. After the match she’d been so eager to show him what she’d meant she hadn’t even wanted to wait until they’d reached his private chambers in Hogwarts’ Main tower.

As soon as the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance closed behind them, Francesca kissed him passionately, one hand around his neck, the other dexterously opening the buttons over his groin, sneaking in his robe and fondling his already half erect member. As the spiralling staircase reached the third floor where his chambers were located, Albus’ cock wasn’t only hard, but leaking. Francesca gave him a short shrift. Before he really comprehended what was happening to him, she had pushed him against the wall, opened his belt and a few buttons more, pulled his member out, put her mouth over it and started to work at him while simultaneously playing with his balls. Only three minutes later he came, screaming and panting. His knees became so wobbly he had to brace himself against the wall.

Francesca obviously liked that - licking her lips she looked up at him. “You get ten minutes to recuperate - and then we’ll do that again, only with a bit more finesse.”

The thought of her hot mouth around his cock, her tongue playing over his slit, her nimble fingers on his testicles - even the memory of it felt great. Although, when it came to oral sex, Angharad had been even better. She’d been a professional flute player in a Muggle orchestra before she’d come back to the magical world, becoming America’s ambassador in England and Albus’ lover.

He remembered a summer trip to Salzburg with her and how much and passionately they’d been in love with each other at the time.

The first two days in Salzburg they’d only left the bed for their meals, but then he’d insisted in showing her the city. Hand in hand they’d strolled through the crowded alleys; stood in front of the Mozart statue; visited the baroque cathedral and then, on a little ship near the house where Mozart had been born, he had bought her one of the specialities of the city: Marzipan and nougat, covered with dark chocolate and wrapped in a paper with Mozart’s picture on it.

On the street Angharad unwrapped the first of them and then, looking at it, she asked: “How are these things named? Mozart Kugeln?” Her tongue stumbled about the German word. “What does this mean, Albus?”

“Mozart balls,” he translated for her.

Angharad who’d just opened her mouth to bite the sweet, giggled. “Mozart’s balls?” She started to laugh until tears ran down her face. “I’m about to eat Mozart’s balls?”

Albus took her hand and kissed it. “It’s only Mozart balls - no ‘s’ here,” he corrected her softly.

Her green eyes shimmered with mischief. Licking over the Mozart ball, she looked up at him. “Don’t worry, Darling. Your balls I won’t bite,” her voice became quieter, “but thinking about it: Licking and nibbling at them I’d like very much. And actually,” she bit the sweet in half, put one in her own and the other in his mouth, swallowed and proceeded: “I think I’d rather have Albus’ balls for tea. They’re better for my figure, you know?”

Back in the hotel she’d once more spoiled him with her tenderness and her unique skills. He remembered how she’d taken one of his testicles in her mouth, gently sucking at it. It had felt glorious and had led him to a long and deeply satisfying climax.

Now the memory of it got him off - softly and pleasantly. He felt how the seed flooded over his fingers and how the pressure slowly subsided. With a wave of his hand he cleaned himself, leant back on his pillow and looked up at the window and into the night sky.

Angharad - she’d given him three wonderful, happy years. And then, one evening, she’d come to Hogwarts and over dinner she’d told him: “You know we’re going to have an election in America soon. Jason Mourney will probably win it. He’s an old friend of my father and he’s offered me the opportunity to become his minister for foreign affairs. It would mean that I have to go back to America.”

“Do you want to become minister?” Albus asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “On the one hand: Yes. It would be a great challenge and certainly a very interesting task. On the other: I love you, Albus. I don’t want to leave you.”

He looked at her, studying her familiar and beloved face with the green eyes, the classical nose and the soft lips. “Angharad, I love you too. But I’d hate to be in your way.”

She breathed deeply. “Albus, it’s actually quite simple: I’d like to stay in England and to become Madam Dumbledore.” Standing up, she came around the table, sitting down on his lap. “Now I’ve shocked you, poor darling. But I don’t expect you to answer immediately. Just consider it, Albus.”

He had considered it and after a week he’d decided that he wouldn’t marry her. He’d loved her - very much so. Nevertheless he’d been aware that she wouldn’t fit in with his life at Hogwarts. Angharad was a politician and the wife of Hogwarts’ Headmaster was supposed to stay out of the political circus. Besides Angharad was used to living in a metropolis, meeting a lot of people every day, attending social gatherings, organising parties and conferences - and what could she do at Hogwarts? Setting up a debate club for his students? Redecorating his office? Organizing tea parties for the wives of his colleagues?

Yet the main reason for his decision against the marriage had been Voldemort. Most people in the wizards’ world had believed he’d gone for good four years before when he tried to kill baby Harry. Yet Albus had always known that the Dark Lord would one day rise again and that he would become involved in another war. He’d known only too well how it felt to fear for someone beloved and he hadn’t wanted to go through that again.

He’d loved Angharad - and therefore he’d sent her away. He’d wanted her safe - and where could she have been safer than in America, on the other side of the ocean? After she was gone he’d missed her very much. He’d needed almost three years to get over her, and even today he sometimes missed her.

Hermione often reminded him of Angharad. Of course, in matters of appearance they were very different. Angharad was a red head with the typical marble skin and the green eyes of one and although she was as petite as Hermione, she’d certainly never looked fragile. She was well-rounded in all the departments where Albus liked it.

Yet in their characters Hermione and Angharad had a lot in common. Both were honest, out spoken, courageous and self-confident women who know what they wanted. Both were ambitious, both were able to stand up for things they were convinced about, both were hot-tempered and had a tendency to become bossy, but also both of them were very warm-hearted women with a great ability to love. With Angharad Albus had shared the interest in politics, the love of music and of the fine things in life like food and drink; with Hermione he shared even more: The fascination with Transfiguration; an interest in history, literature and a liking of some Muggle things such as movies and computers. Actually Hermione was something like his ideal woman and if she would have been only a few years older …

Hell, what was he thinking? Sitting up in bed Albus shook his head. Had her insanity infected him? Next thing he mused about would probably be marrying her, starting a family and living happily with her forever.

Although – she had remembered right. He had once told her that he’d wished for a child of his own. When he’d been around her age he’d even once dreamed of having a big family. He’d seen himself as an old man, surrounded by grand- and great-grandchildren; he’d imagined how Chateau Dumbledore, the huge old home of his family, would be filled with the laughter and the noise of children.

Now he couldn’t stand living in the Chateau. The first half year after he’d retired he’d tried, but the big, empty building had depressed him. The halls in which his steps had resounded from the walls - the only sound in the house and one which had made his loneliness last like a rock on his shoulders. He’d remembered the days he’d spent there as a child and how crowded the house had always been then. His father had often invited guests, his mother had brought her colleagues and students and they’d always encouraged his brother and Albus to bring their friends.

Who would have thought at this time that Chateau Dumbledore would once become as quiet as a grave? Who would have thought that Albus would become the last Dumbledore? Sometimes, when looking at the portraits of his ancestors, he expected to read reproach in their eyes. And one painting which had hung through all his life behind his father’s desk, Albus had taken down. He hadn’t wanted to look at the family tree his mother, last descendant of the noble Venetian house of the Houdinis, had once painted. He’d known the oak with the two big roots - one for the Dumbledores, one for the Houdinis - only too well and he could easily imagine with how much hope and pride his mother had set up both the strong branches, one marked with his brother’s name, the other with his. Connected to the branches were acorns, supposed to take up the names of Albus’ and Aberforth’s children. Yet Aberforth had never married and Albus - whenever he’d looked at the family tree he’d seen his life as fruitless.

He was reminded of how he’d once consoled Minerva by saying: “We don’t need children of our own. We have got thousands of children to look after - all our students!” She hadn’t believed him and he hadn’t believed himself either. Thousand of students and some of them were still in contact with him, some of them asking him to become the godfather to their children - even this didn’t make up for not having a child of his own. Ginny and Neville Longbottom’s little one, spreading very wet kisses over his face and naming him “Uncle Albus” - it warmed his heart, but a child who’d call him “father” - damn Hermione!

She’d ripped off the old wound and now it was bleeding again! He’d thought he’d overcome the pain, but now he became aware that he’d only ran away.

As he’d began to build up the one-room cottage he was now living in he’d told his friend that he didn’t want the old house-elves up in the Chateau working too hard and that he’d always wished to have a house of his own, designed for his needs and clearly arranged. Besides he’d talked about enjoying being closer to the sea. But now, thinking about it once again, he couldn’t deny any longer, that he’d chosen the location for the cottage - a cliff over a cove - because the trees behind spared him the view of the Chateau. And that he’d wanted to live in a house where nothing reminded him of his family and the traditions and how he’d neglected his responsibility to it. The little house with its wooden walls and the big windows looking out to the sea was like a shelf he’d erected around his vulnerable self.

Pulling his blanket up again Albus turned to his side and closed his eyes. Immediately the image of Hermione came up again, smiling at him. She would look so endearing with a baby in her arms.

Heavens, how had he got to that point again? This idea of hers was pure insanity. How could she think he would approve of something which sounded to him like breeding?

On the other hand - it was really flattering that she’d chosen him. Out of all the men she knew - and in Oxford a young witch could certainly meet a lot of intelligent and handsome wizards - Hermione found him the … what? Certainly not the most desirable one. But perhaps the most interesting. And with a woman like her that meant something. She was - about that Albus was sure - the most talented and brilliant witch of her generation and she’d always kept to high standards. Even her first love, the Bulgarian Quidditch player Victor Krum, hadn’t only been a champ on the broomstick, but a gifted and clever wizard. Albus remembered how self-confident the sixteen year old by had presented himself as the champion of his school in the Triwizards’ Tournament. He’d done well and he’d shown taste and cleverness as he’d chosen Hermione though she certainly was more demanding than the flock of female admirers following him wherever he went.

Perhaps Hermione would have had wanted him as the father of her child if he’d still been alive. But Victor Krum had become a victim of Voldemort - one of the many people Hermione had lost.

During her seventh year at Hogwarts Albus had sometimes thought that Hermione and Ron Weasley would become a couple. The youngest of the Weasley boys, often underestimated because of being always overshadowed through Harry’s fame and Hermione’s brilliance, had certainly harboured deeper feelings for her. And she was one of the people who knew that Ron was more than Harry’s faithful sidekick. He was an able wizard, showed especially in Charms a more than average talent and did exceptionally well in matters of strategy. Brains he certainly didn’t lack, yet he didn’t exude much self-confidence.

On the other hand: Ron’s mind certainly wasn’t an academic one. He was more adept on the practical side. And with that he would not have become a good partner for Hermione. He probably understood only half of the theories and concepts Hermione loved to ponder about. Considering that patience wasn’t exactly Hermione’s strongest virtue Ron definitely was better served with Padma Patil for a wife.

And Ron as the father for Hermione’s child - Albus started chuckling. He ought to tell her that he had had auburn hair once. With him as the father her chances to get a redhead were very high. He could already imagine it: A girl with bushy, carrot hair, freckles, big front teeth and a crooked nose, standing in front of Hermione and yelling at her: “Couldn’t you have got me a father with a nicer hair colour and a normal nose?”

He would spare Hermione’s child such a fate. As flattering as it was that she’d picked him - her ideas about raising the child absolutely didn’t sit well with him. She wanted to have it for herself - and what role would he play then in the baby’s life? The one who came with a bag of candies at the weekend for a little visit? The one who perhaps in summer got to spend a week with his child?

No. Absolutely not. If he would ever agree to procreating, then only under the condition that he could become a real father, living under the same roof with his offspring, changing their nappies, comforting them when they cried at night, watching their first smile, their first steps, their first words. Having a child somewhere would never be enough for him. He wanted to be a father on a daily base.

He could imagine how lovely it would be: A child playing in the park of the Chateau; a little girl using the banister of the great stairs to slide down as he’d done as a child; a little hand in his hand when he was strolling along the beach; a little voice asking question over question.

Yes, yes - he wanted a child. Hermione had picked up on his weakest spot. But he wouldn’t become the father of her child.

Sitting up in his bed again, he grinned in the darkness. Knowing Hermione he was sure: She wouldn’t stop pestering him. Yet now he had an answer to her request - and even one which would immediately slow her down. As soon as she asked him again, he would agree - and then tell her his conditions. He would demand her to live with him and the child in Chateau Dumbledore at least until the little one was old enough for Hogwarts. And he would of course want the child to have his name. The simplest way to achieve that would be marriage.

The thought of Hermione’s face when he would propose to her! That certainly was something she hadn’t involved in her perfect plan! And perhaps it would do her good to learn that one couldn’t plan such things as an academic project. He didn’t want to hurt or mock her, but - she’d been the one who’d overrun him with such an idea at breakfast! A little payback in form of a proposal would only be fair. And thinking about it: Why should he wait with his plan until she asked him? Why not surprise her too? He could already imagine the scene: Hermione opening the door of her flat for him - and getting huge eyes because he’d present her with a huge bunch of red roses. He normally never gave red roses away - as a man with some style he much prefered orchids - but in this case he was in for a “the more cliché, the better” stunt.

Therefore he’d enter her flat and fall on one knee, telling her something like: “I’ve thought about your offer and decided that I want to have a child with you. Marry me, Hermione! Let’s give our child a complete family!”

He was sure: She’d faint when hearing that! And then she’d start to pedal backwards - and it would be fun to watch the always eloquent Hermione for once be at a loss for words.

He would of course have mercy with her. They would laugh and he would take her in his arms, telling her that he hadn’t really meant it, but had only wanted to show her how it felt to be steam rolled like that. Then he’d explain to her why he couldn’t be the father of her child and she’d understand his reasoning and she would never talk about it again and their friendship would be saved. One day she’d find her Mister Right and then she’d become a mother - and he would find a way to deal with the jealousy he’d feel.


To be continued …