Measure for measure

Measure for Measure


Disclaimer: see chapter 1

Chapter 2: Back to Normality?

With a sigh, Hermione closed the door of her chambers behind her. She’d only been back to the castle an hour after she spent the last two days with her parents. Albus had sent the students home for a prolonged weekend. Hermione hadn’t felt like participating in the celebrations all around the wizard’s world. She’d lost too many people in this war. Sirius Black, Harry’s godfather - killed by Bellatrix Lestrange during Hermione’s fifth year at Hogwarts; Victor Krum - her first love - fallen by a Death Eater attack during a Quidditch match in her sixth year; Rubeus Hagrid, grounds keeper at Hogwarts and Hermione’s friend, her classmate Neville Longbottom - fallen in the battle against Voldemort; Valerian Vector, one of Hermione’s favourite teachers and colleagues - tortured and killed by Bellatrix Lestrange. And then Remus Lupin - Hermione had attended his funeral only the other day. Harry had organized it and so the man who’d been a friend to his parents had been buried on the left side of Lily and James Potter’s grave.

Hermione had cried at Remus’ funeral. But now she was on her way to another one and she already knew that she probably wouldn’t cry. Severus Snape had been the bane of her student’s days. He’d hated Harry’s father and he’d expanded his disgust not only to Harry, but to his friends too. Hermione couldn’t count how many detentions she suffered from Snape and how many house points he’d taken away from her. He’d never lost a chance to show her how much he disliked her and so potions had been the only field in which Hermione had never got top grades.

As a colleague, Snape hadn’t had chances to bully her anymore, but he’d never missed an opportunity to make her life as difficult as possible. Hermione had always known that he’d used his position as head of Slytherin House to work against her. Especially in her first year as assistant instructor, Snape and his Slytherins had worked full force against Hermione. She’d only taught two Slytherin classes - third and fourth years. But it had been incredibly hard to deal with them. They’d disturbed her teaching whenever they could and when she’d taken house points away, they’d only grinned because they’d known that Snape would give them the points back as soon as possible.

After two weeks Hermione had had enough. She’d started to use silencing charms and had surprised her Slytherins with unannounced tests. It had helped - at least a bit.

But then they’d started to boycott her class by in coming too late, by refusing to listen or by giving silly answers. Hermione had given them detention. They hadn’t appeared. After half an hour of fuming in her empty classroom - Hermione had known, that Snape had wanted her to go to Albus so later he could come back to her, sneering at her lack of authority. Then she remembered that she’d been given a general password for all common rooms of the castle. And so she’d marched down to the dungeons and in to the Slytherin common room. The students there almost fainted – Never before had a Gryffindor entered their sanctuary. And a Gryffindor assistant instructor threatening five Slytherins in their own common room with expulsion was in every case a first in the history of Hogwarts. It had made for five very shocked students trotting up to the Transfiguration classroom where they’d served two hours of hard work while their Head of House had stormed up to the Main tower in the Headmaster’s office to complain about this break of protocol by Hermione.

Hermione had never learned how Albus had calmed the Potions master down, but the Slytherins had become careful around her.

Nevertheless, Hermione had always known that she’d never get along with Snape. She respected his skills as a Potions master; she admired the courage with which he acted as a spy in Voldemort’s inner circle; but she’d detested the way he treated students.

“Hermione!” Albus came down the stairs, clothed in black and looking rather pale.

Since the morning she’d waken up next to him, Hermione had only seen him at Remus’ funeral. She’d known that he was very busy - conferences at the Ministry, preparations for the Death Eater trials at the Wizengamot; the search for a new Potions master. Nevertheless she missed him. So she smiled at him now. “Hello, Albus.”

For a moment he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Hermione. I know you didn’t like him much.”

“He was a brave man and a brilliant Potions master,” Hermione said.

Albus only nodded and opened the castle’s door for Hermione. Offering her his arm he led her down to the path. After walking a moment in silence he said, “Hermione, I’m sorry that I didn’t find the time to speak earlier with you, but I was hardly at Hogwarts. But perhaps we could have dinner together today?”

“I’d like that.” Hermione squeezed his arm.

He breathed deeply. “What about a little excursion in the Muggle world?” he asked. “I have a craving for Italian food and one evening without seeing another wizard.”

“Where will we go?” Hermione asked.

“That will be a surprise. I’ll pick you up at eight.” He breathed deeply. “So - and now to the funeral.”

“Albus,” Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. “I’ve heard that Professor Snape …,” once again she corrected herself, “Severus came from an old and wealthy pureblood family and he owned a big mansion. Don’t wizard’s mansions normally come with their own graveyard?”

Albus nodded. “Snape mansion does indeed have a graveyard. But Severus didn’t want to be buried there. He hated his father - understandable considered how the man treated people. Hogwarts felt more like home to Severus than the mansion ever did. Therefore he asked me once to be buried here.” They’d arrived a little meadow close to the Forbidden Forest where a coffin, covered with the green Slytherin flag, stood in front of an open grave.

The group gathered around was small: Minerva McGonagall and her husband; Herbology teacher Dee Sprout; Astronomy teacher Stella Sinistra; Charms master Filius Flitwick; DADA teacher Alastor Moody; the mediwitch Poppy Pomfrey; flying instructor Rolanda Hooch; Snape’s apprentice Algernon Brittle; Minister Arthur Weasley and his wife Molly; the ministry’s Potions master representing the Federation of Potions Masters that Snape had been a member in; the former Slytherin prefects Blaise Zabini and Cassandra Hednogg and the actual Slytherin prefect, a blonde girl named Theodora Roberts.

Although Hermione hadn’t liked Snape - to see how few people stood around his grave depressed her. She knew that none of her colleagues had cared much about the Potions master and that they’d only come because they’d feel obliged to Hogwarts and to their headmaster who probably was the only person really mourning.

Now Albus stepped in front of the coffin. Looking at the small group around he started to speak, his voice very hoarse, “Friends, colleagues, students - we’ve come together here to bury Severus Snape. He was one of the bravest men I’ve ever known and I will miss him very much. His brilliant intelligence, his courage, his thirst for knowledge, his devotion to his students and the school and his loyalty to the Order made him someone I appreciated and - as much as he would allow me to - cared for. As a young man he made a mistake he soon regretted bitterly. But he had the courage not only to confess his mistake - and as the one he confessed to, I know he was willing to accept even death as punishment - but to work as a spy against his former master. He risked his life on an almost daily basis and without him we wouldn’t have stood a chance to win this war.” He breathed deeply and for a moment he looked down at the tips of his black boots. “Severus wasn’t an easy or nice person. He was bitter and it was hard for him to open to other people. But I know that he cared for his students and that he fought to keep them safe. I hope that he’s found his peace now.” Turning around he raised his wand over the coffin. “Requiescat in pace, Severus Snape.”

Together the others murmured, “Requiescat in pace, Severus Snape.”

The Slytherin prefects stepped to Albus, taking the flag from the coffin, folding it and bowing. Albus and the guests bowed too, then Albus murmured a spell. For a moment the coffin hovered, then it moved slowly into the grave and disappeared. Another murmured incantation made the grave fill up with soil. A rock rolled over it and an inscription appeared on it: “Severus Snape January 22, 1964 - May 3, 2005.”


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Three hours later, Hermione stood in front of her mirror - a Muggle one because she’d never liked the talking wizard’s mirrors - looking down at herself. She’d never been very interested in fashion and she actually didn’t like shopping much, but her wardrobe was nevertheless well stocked - courtesy of her girlfriend, Ginevra Weasley, who worked as the fashion reporter for “Witch Weekly”. Once a month Hermione used to meet Ginny for a weekend in London where she had a small, but nice flat and although Hermione told Ginny every time she didn’t need any clothes, they usually went out shopping. And although Ginny came from a pureblood wizard’s family she knew more about Muggle fashion than Hermione would ever learn.

Today Hermione was glad about it. The beige dress she was wearing she would never have looked at twice if she’d been out for shopping on her own because on the hanger it had looked plain and boring. There was nothing about it as the fine, soft fabric and the colour - which on the hanger hadn’t made much of an impression. But on Hermione, it seemed to shine. And the cut accentuated her figure with the firm breasts and the narrow hips. Yet the best on the dress was a heavy leather belt Ginny had got Hermione. It made her waist look almost fragile.

Besides: The dress ended one hands width above her knees - and Hermione had always found her legs rather nice.

Yes, looking at the mirror she liked what she saw. Only question was if Albus would appreciate it too. He certainly was used to elegant women, wearing expensive designer clothing, artificial hairdos, sophisticated make up and Parisian perfumes. Yet Hermione’s hair was cut short - when she let it grow, it was so bushy that she would have needed to tame it with a spell twice a day - and except for a little lipstick, she never used any make up. She didn’t like it - and she always found that putting on make up was a waste of time.

Perhaps she should try one of the make up charms Ginny was writing all the time about? On the other hand: As much as she wanted to look nice for Albus, she wouldn’t want to be anything else than what she was. If she was to keep him - and she wanted very much to keep him at least for a while - he would have to deal with Hermione Granger, Muggleborn, blue-stocking bookworm with bushy hair and ink spots on her fingers.

A look at the clock on the mantelpiece - and Hermione chuckled. It was seven minutes after eight. She’d known Albus wouldn’t be punctual. As perfectly organized as he’d always been doing Order business - in private he was always rather unpunctual.

Hermione knew the reason behind it. For decades now, Albus had lived under high pressure. Being Hogwarts’ Headmaster, leader of the Order, master of the wizard’s court Wizengamot, member of the International Wizard’s Confederation, the brethren of Transfiguration Masters and advisor for the Minister of Magic had made for a schedule which didn’t give him much personal freedom. Being at least a bit unpunctual in private was Albus’ little protest against the many restrictions he’d suffered in the last years and Hermione would have been the last person to begrudge him the little freedom in that.

Besides: He was knocking now - nine minutes after eight. Hermione opened the door with a smile and looked at him. She liked very much what she saw: A tall, broad shouldered man with short white hair, beaming blue eyes behind round Muggle glasses, dressed in a marine blue blazer with a double row of golden buttons, a lightweight white sweater with turtle neck, grey trousers and black loafers.

“Sorry, Hermione, I’m too late. But just the moment I wanted to leave my office, I received a firecall.” He kissed her cheek and held her on arm’s length, smiling at her. “As headmaster I’m glad you normally don’t show these legs. You’d cause all male inhabitants of the castle to fall for them. But as a man, I think it’s a shame you hide them. You look very lovely, Piccola.”

“Thank you, Headmaster. You’re looking rather handsome yourself,” Hermione gave back. “I like you in Muggle clothes.”

Laying the black cardigan she’d had in her hand around her shoulders, he offered her his arm. “Shall we go? I’m starving.”

Actually Hermione would have liked to kiss him - properly, not only on the cheek - but she was hungry too. So she took his arm and walked down the stairs with him.

The castle was very quiet at this evening. Normally it seemed to burst with life - thousand students made for a lot of noise and running up and down the hallways. But now almost all of them were away and even most of the teachers were gone to visit their families and friends. After the war everyone seemed to enjoy the freedom to travel and to celebrate.

But although the castle was almost empty, Albus didn’t lead Hermione to the entrance hall, but through a side corridor down at the dungeons and to a small door. A carriage waited in front of it. Albus helped Hermione in and the thestrals pulling the carriage started to gallop down the path to the gates.

Looking at Albus Hermione asked cautiously, “Did you already find a new head of Slytherin?”

Albus shook his head with a sigh. “It’s difficult. A Head of House should be someone who’s not only got some authority, but experience in dealing with students and the way things are done in Hogwarts. The chance to find a Slytherin Potions master suiting this description is nil. And in the staff we have only two Slytherins: Alastor and me. And he isn’t keen on the job. So in the moment I act as Head of House for the Slytherins - until I persuade Alastor to take over.”

“Do the Slytherins already know they’ll have to deal with you?” Hermione asked.

“No. But they’ll survive as their parents and predecessors did. You know, I was Head of Slytherin for almost twenty years before I became Headmaster.”

Hermione leant her head on his shoulder. Until her sixth year at Hogwarts, she believed that Albus had once been a Gryffindor like herself. “You know, that I once was really shocked when I learned that you’re a Slytherin?”

“I’ve never made a secret of it,” Albus answered calmly.

“Yes, but nevertheless, I didn’t know until my sixth year. When I first travelled to Hogwarts, someone on the train told me you’d have been a Gryffindor. I believed it,” Hermione told.

“Me? A Gryffindor?” Albus laughed. “I certainly don’t want to insult your house, but I really can’t see myself as a Gryffindor. I’m a typical cunning, scheming, manipulative, reckless, arrogant Slytherin. But how did you learn about it?”

“Severus,” Hermione responded briefly. “And Malfoy - do you remember Draco Malfoy?”

Albus shuddered. “Of course I remember him. He was - even in the family history of the Malfoys - an especially nasty piece. And wasn’t he something like your arch enemy?”

They’d arrived at the Gates now. Albus helped Hermione out of the carriage and pulled her in his arms. “You don’t mind if I Apparate us?”

Actually, Hermione didn’t like joined apparition, but she trusted Albus. Nevertheless, she felt a little dizzy when she found herself in the backyard of a big, baroque building. It smelled rather odd at the place - like bracken water and old cellar. Hermione looked around. “Where are we?” she asked.

“In Venice,” Albus answered and took her hand. “And only a few steps away from the place where we’ll get a wonderful dinner.” he walked with her through a small alley to the next channel. “Didn’t you want to tell me how Severus and Malfoy junior informed you about my being a Slytherin?”

Hermione sighed. “It actually was rather embarrassing. I was once again having a row with Malfoy and I told him that I’d despise Slytherins in general. I said that there probably had never been a decent one.”

“Utch!” Albus said. “It’s so good to learn that Gryffindors aren’t biased.”

“Well,” Hermione looked a bit awkward, “I’ve learned my lesson. Snape - Severus,” she corrected herself quickly, “had the time of his life. You should have seen his smirk as he told me - I quote, ‘Being not only a Slytherin himself, but for almost twenty years head of Slytherin House, the Headmaster certainly would find your opinion about our house interesting.”

Albus was just opening the door to a restaurant for her. It was rather small, but looked very nice with immaculate white tablecloths, candles and flowers. And Albus was obviously a regular. The landlord, a little, fat man with a white apron over his big belly, immediately rushed to the door and greeted Albus with a torrent of Italian words.

Hermione didn’t understand Italian, but the way the man was looking at her made clear that he talked about her. But Albus obviously didn’t like it much. He wrinkled his forehead and answered briefly. One word of his answer Hermione understood: Collega - Colleague. Albus had explained his relationship to Hermione.

The landlord bowed and smiled to Hermione then he led the couple to a table at the window. Once again he spoke Italian with Albus and this time he got a smile and an “eccelente!” Waving his hand Albus interrupted the landlord and looked at Hermione. “Luigi offers us a salad from frutti del mare - sea fruit - as a starter. Then he could serve us risotto - and I really can recommend it - and some grilled vegetables. Afterwards we can have scalopine al limone - calf steaks. And for dessert zabaione - egg nog. Would you like that?”

“It sounds delicious,” Hermione smiled. “Only you will have to roll me back home then.”

“Or treat you with some Grappa for the digestion.” He looked up at the landlord and ordered the dinner. “Hermione, what about a nice bottle of wine? I think a Bardolo would suit our dinner.”

Hermione liked wine, but didn’t know much about. So she smiled once again. “I trust you.”

“Good to hear.” A brief smile back, then he ordered the wine, leant back and watched the scenery outside the window. On the channel were two boats passing each other. The one was a shining black gondola, dexterously and proudly loped by a young man in the traditional red and white striped shirt of his guild. The other was a green grocer’s boat, laden with cradles full of tomatoes, aubergines, lemons, cabbage, salad, spinach and oranges.

Hermione chuckled. “If I’d see that scene on a postcard, I’d name it kitschy.”

“Some people find all of Venice kitschy,” Albus said thoughtfully. He looked up to the landlord who was just serving a bottle of wine, two glasses, a cradle with white bread and a little bowl with butter. Presenting the bottle to Albus, the Italian opened it, smelled at the cork, held it under Albus’ nose and poured then a little of the wine in one of the glasses. Albus tried the wine, let the dark red liquid roll over his tongue, closed his eyes, swallowed and nodded than his approval.

Hermione couldn’t help smiling. Men and their rituals! But when she’d got her glass and sipped it, she enjoyed the rich, earthy taste of the Italian wine. “Huuh!” she said. “That’s really wonderful.”

Albus smiled and raised his glass. “I’m glad you like it.” He let the content of the glass whirl around, studying it thoughtfully.

Hermione watched him for a while in silence. Then she laid her hand on his arm. “Are you thinking about Severus?” she asked quietly.

“No.” The answer came promptly, but then he played with his glass again. “Actually I was thinking about us - you and me.”

“Oh my.” Hermione tried a smile. “Am I going to get the ‘You’re too young and a member of my staff, therefore I never should have slept with you’ speech now?”

Obviously she’d surprised him. He looked at her as if he’d see her for the first time. “Our genial host was just congratulating me on my lovely granddaughter.”

Hermione wrinkled her forehead. “And since when do you care about other people’s opinion? I certainly don’t see you as a grandfather and my feelings for you are far away from grand daughterly affection.”

He sighed once again, put his spectacles down and started to massage the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger. “Hermione, I don’t feel for you as I’d feel for a granddaughter either. You’re mature beyond your years, you’re an independent, strong woman and you’re someone I take seriously. But all that doesn’t change the fact that you’re more than hundred years my junior. And even with a wizard’s lifespan being much longer as a Muggles - I’m a man who has the biggest part of his life behind him and you’re a woman just on the start of what is to become a full, rich life.”

This time it was Hermione who played with her glass. And she was almost glad that now a young waiter approached the table, carrying two big dishes with salad and sea fruits. “Buono appetite!” he wished by putting the dishes in front of Hermione and Albus.

“Good appetite, Hermione!” Albus smiled at her, speared a piece of squid on his fork and grinned. “Don’t tell the great squid what I’m going to do now.”

“You mean it could get him to think about having a wizard for breakfast?” Hermione took a mussel and salad.

“I don’t think he’d enjoy that. I’m probably rather tough,” Albus answered.

Hermione chewed on her first bite. It was delicious but she couldn’t concentrate entirely on it. She was still thinking about her relationship with Albus. She didn’t want it to end - and not only because he was the best lover she’d ever had, but because being close to him made her happy. Did that mean that she was in love with him?

Hermione wasn’t sure. Her experience with love was limited. In her fourth year at Hogwarts she’d fallen in love for the first time. But Victor had been a Bulgarian who’d attended the wizard’s school Durmstrang. So Hermione had spent a week with him only twice. And Titus Ollivander, her boyfriend at the University - he’d been nice, intelligent, handsome and fun to be with, but even at the start of the relationship, Hermione knew hadn’t been in love with him. She’d dated him because he was persistent and she hadn’t wanted to hurt him. And then, with getting to know him better, she’d become fond of him. But when he’d asked her to marry him, Hermione had refused. As much as she liked Titus - she still hadn’t been in love with him.

Besides she’d felt too young for marriage and children.

“Albus,” Hermione had swallowed another bite. “Before - when you were talking about us - you sounded as if we would have to settle something for the rest of our lives. Yet I was thinking about simply exploring our feelings for each other. You know I believe in solving problems when they arise - and in the moment I don’t see a problem between us.”

“Not even when I say ‘How Gryffindor of you’, Hermione?” Albus smiled.

“I take that as a compliment,” Hermione gave back. “Even if you didn’t mean it as one.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Albus’ dish was almost empty. He speared his last shrimp on his fork and put it in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed and proceeded, “If I detested Gryffindors, I wouldn’t have made one my deputy. And I probably wouldn’t have taken another one as my apprentice.”

Hermione gulped down the rest in her glass. It warmed her and it gave her the courage to ask directly, “And what about a Gryffindor in your bed?”

He wasn’t shocked, but grinned. “What a horrible thought! A Gryffindor in my bed? Aren’t they all priggish, prudish spinsters with bony butts, flat chests and funny ideas about sex like it only should be done in the dark?”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “In the dark and in missionary position. Besides: Sex comes always after marriage. Never before. A Gryffindor would never go in bed with a man who isn’t her husband.”

“Ah. I didn’t know that. But I’ve heard Gryffindors always wear flannel nightshirts when having sex. Is that right?” Albus grinned, looking very boyish by it.

“And woollen socks, Albus!” Hermione giggled. “Don’t forget the woollen socks! One can’t risk getting cold feet.”

“How could this happen? I mean, with Gryffindors it only needs three minutes and they probably always do it under the bed covers. So how do they get cold feet there?” Albus demanded to know.

“One can’t be careful enough,” Hermione answered.

Albus sipped at his glass. “And how often is it done?” he asked.

“Once a month,” Hermione responded. “More would be licentiousness.”

“Too bad.” He raised his glass to a salute. “I actually like licentiousness.”

“Of course,” Hermione stated dryly. “You’re a Slytherin.” Under the table she’d slipped out of her right shoe. Now she stretched her legs, her toes reaching for his shin bone. Finding it, she let her foot glide down on his, lifting the hem of his trousers with it. He wore long, silken socks, but Hermione worked herself upwards until her naked sole met skin. Licking seductively over her lips, she lowered her voice and asked, “Don’t you want to tell me all about how Slytherins make love?”

“Vixen!” He laid his hand on hers. “Didn’t you get a practical demonstration? I actually thought it remarkable enough.”

“Important lessons should always be repeated,” Hermione quoted one of Minerva’s favourite sayings. “Besides - aren’t you always telling how important it is to overcome the old House rivalry?”

Albus shook his head with a smile, but didn’t come to say something because the landlord came with the risotto. While he served it, Hermione pulled her foot back. She was already pretty sure: Albus wouldn’t resist her. To know that she would be able to seduce him was once again pure ego boosting. Never before had she felt so womanly and strong. And in only one or two hours she’d lay in his arms again and they would kiss and touch each other. And no, she didn’t care about the future and what would become from this relationship. During the war she’d learned how fragile life was and that one shouldn’t live in the hope of an uncertain future, but here and now.

“Hermione? Don’t you like the risotto?” Albus asked.

“Oh, sorry. I was distracted.” Hermione took her fork and started to eat. “Oh - that’s delicious. There’s wine in it, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Albus nodded. “The trick with a good risotto is to cook it slowly so that it can take up the liquid the rice is in. Often it’s made in a bouillon, sometimes it’s cooked in the ink from a squid. But I like it best with red wine.”

Hermione chewed on another fork full of rice. “You sound as if you could cook. Can you?”

“Of course I can. You know I was an alchemist. Before you can become one you have to do the exam as a Potions master.” He filled her glass again. “Cooking risotto certainly is easier than brewing Polyjuice.”

“Hmm.” Hermione chewed thoughtfully on her risotto. “Albus? May I ask you a personal question?”

“If you don’t expect an honest answer,” he grinned. “You know, I’m a Slytherin.”

“Actually I want an honest answer. But if you find my question too personal, you don’t have to say anything,” Hermione offered. “I’ve always wondered. You’re a pure-blood, aren’t you? I mean if you weren’t you wouldn’t have been in Slytherin. And your family - I’ve read that a relative of yours was Minister of Magic around 1900. That means you’re out of one of the great families.”

Albus sipped at his wine. “Being a Slytherin doesn’t always mean one has to be a pureblood. Tom Riddle was a half-blood - his father was Muggle.”

“Are you a half-blood too?” Hermione’s eyes grew big.

“No, I’m what’s called a pure-blood,” Albus answered. “Both my parents were not only wizards, but descendants from rather old magical families too. And the relative of mine who was Minister was my father.”

“Impressive.” Hermione pushed her empty dish away. “But what I actually wanted to know: How come someone with a background like yours know so much about Muggles? What gave you the image of a ‘Muggle lover’?”

“Probably the fact that I loved a Muggle,” Albus answered dryly. “And that I lived for a few years in the Muggle world.”

“You married a Muggle?” Hermione was fascinated. “A real Muggle? Not a Muggleborn witch?”

“My wife was a Muggle - and not in the slightest magical,” Albus confirmed. Once again the waiter came, taking the empty dishes away and serving the scalopine. Albus waited until he was gone, then he proceeded, “Rhiannon was an opera singer - very talented, charming, intelligent and witty.”

“How did you meet her?” Hermione asked, cutting a piece from her steak and putting it in her mouth.

“How does one meet an opera singer?” Albus smiled. “She sang Octavio in Rosencavalier and she was wonderful. I sent her flowers - every night when I attended the opera. And I was there every night. After ten days she invited me backstage. She said she would be curious about the madman who’d bought half a flower shop for her.”

“Obviously you managed to convince her that you weren’t entirely mad,” Hermione said.

Albus chuckled. “I’d rather say I could convince her that being with a madman can be fun.”

“Did she know you’re a wizard?”

“When we married, she knew. But it was a long way until there. When I first told her, she said ‘Now you’re really over-exaggerating, Albus!’ And when I insisted she became angry. She had quite a temper, but her throwing china at me, gave me a chance to demonstrate for her a bit of magic. And after six weeks and countless debates I was able to convince her about marrying a wizard.”

“And you lived with her in the Muggle world?” Hermione asked.

“Partly,” Albus answered. “In the first five years of our marriage we lived in a house in London. Rhiannon was engaged at the Royal Opera while I taught Transfiguration at Merlin College.” He smiled. “I became a pretty good Muggle. I even learned to drive a car and you know what? I liked it.”

“I can imagine. I learned driving during one of my summer breaks with my parents. But you should have seen Ron! He found the gears so confusing he always cheated by using magic,” Hermione laughed, but become then serious again. “Wasn’t it difficult to live with a Muggle?” She blushed. “I mean - my parents keep telling me that marriages with the partners having a lot of things in common work best - like theirs. They have the same profession, the same background; they share the love of books, theatre, music, golf and travelling. Or look at the McGonagalls! They’re both Scottish, they love reading, watching Quidditch and tours in the mountains.”

“Rhiannon and I had a lot in common,” Albus said. “We shared our love of music, we cooked together, we liked the same books, laughed about the same things and we were fascinated by history. And I’d never wanted to marry another pure-blood. I knew some of these arranged marriages and I detested them. And look at the children out of these marriages! Lucius and Draco Malfoy; Sirius Black, Severus - especially Severus. His father needed three wives and four children before he finally got his heir.”

“What?” Hermione swallowed. “How do you mean that?”

“You know the problems with pure-blood marriages, don’t you?” Albus looked very serious. “Most of the pureblood families are inbred. Always marrying in the same families makes for genetic problems. The pureblood families are producing a great deal of squibs now while the combination wizard or witch with a Muggle or with a Muggleborn partner almost always makes for the children being magical too. And in former times the treating of squibs in pure-blood families wasn’t nice.”

Hermione shuddered. “And Severus had siblings who were squibs? And what became of them?” She almost feared his answer.

Albus didn’t seem to like the subject either. His eyes became dark and his mouth thin. “Achilleus Snape - Severus’ father - was a terrible man. When he was forty, he married an eigtheen year old cousin of his - Livia Nott. Ten months later she gave birth to a daughter. It was said that her husband almost killed her for that - he’d expected a son. Three years he got him - Claudius Snape. Around this time the firstborn girl should have shown the first signs of her magic. Yet she didn’t. And shortly before her fourth birthday she and her mother died in something what Snape senior declared an ‘accident’.”

“You didn’t believe it?” Hermione asked.

Albus shook his head. “I wasn’t involved. But Augustus was. He was at that time the Wizengamot’s prosecutor. He demanded an investigation, but Snape had mighty friends. Augustus and the Aurors didn’t get a chance to investigate properly.”

Hermione shuddered. “Corruption seems to be an old problem in the magical world.”

Albus raised an eyebrow. “Do you really believe Muggle politic is better?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t live in the wizard’s world,” Hermione answered. “Back to the Snapes. What happened to Severus’ older brother?”

Albus sighed. “A few weeks after his fourth birthday he became ill and died. This time Augustus got his investigation and it became clear: The boy had been poisoned with a potion.”

“How terrible!” Hermione played with her glass. She suddenly felt something like a bad conscience about her late colleague. “Let me guess: Snape came away once again.”

“Yes,” Albus nodded. “Augustus had got hold of one of his house elves and asked her under Veritaserum. So he learned that Achilleus Snape had given the child something to drink. He’d never done that before, so it was probably the poison. Yet at the day before the trial …”

“Let me guess: The house elf died in an accident?” Hermione asked, looking disgusted.

“No - she killed herself,” Albus said. “And so Achilleus Snape came away. Augustus couldn’t prove he’d given the child the potion. One year later Snape married again - a Russian witch, pure-blood, but very poor. He probably thought a wife who didn’t have a family or money would be easier to handle. And then history repeated itself: A daughter was born and died a few years later.”

“He murdered another baby? And no one did something to stop this monster?” Hermione was infuriated.

“This time it wasn’t murder. The girl had a genetic defect. Achilleus blamed of course his wife. He kicked her out and divorced her.”

“And what became from her?”

“A wealthy and powerful woman who got her revenge in the end,” Albus grinned a bit awkwardly. “You’ve probably heard about her - she’s known in the magical world as ‘Madame Anastasia’.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “You mean the lady who runs the ‘Saucy Sorcerer’s Club’?” She swallowed and blushed. “You know that … uhm … I mean, some people say …,” she stammered.

Albus looked amused. “Prudish little Gryffindor! I know people were saying I was a regular in Madame’s noble establishment.”

Hermione suddenly felt indeed rather prudish. Slytherins were notorious for rather loose morals, but the idea of sharing her lover with the employees of the ‘Saucy Sorcerer’s Club’ didn’t sit too well with her. But who was she to criticise his conduct? She swallowed and forced a smile: “Well - you’re your own man.”

Albus’ eyebrow was still lifted, but now he grinned. “Hermione, as beautiful and as nice some of Madame Anastasia’s girls are - I have a sexual preference they don’t deal with: I need to know that the lady sharing my bed wants me as much as I want her. The idea that she only is there because she needs my money, would get me down - in the truest sense of the word. Admittedly, I won’t deny that I like Madame’s girls better than some of the society ladies who are so proud of their morals, but only married their husbands for their money. And yes, I was something like a regular in Madame’s club. She worked for the Order. In her club she heard a lot of interesting things. Some men are very much in verbosity when with a girl …” He chuckled. “You remember our former Minister Cornelius Fudge? He often wondered why I was so well informed about his plans. It was simple: He loved to boast to the girls in the club.”

“What an idiot!” Hermione said.

Albus laughed. “Yes, he’s a bit dull. But back to Madame Anastasia and the Snapes. After Achilleus had divorced Anastasia, he married for the third time - and it was once again a very young girl out of a poor family: Septima Botsby. She was just out of school, seventeen years old - and he was around eighty. Two years later Severus was born, but that didn’t keep his father from beating and raping his wife regularly. As Severus was around twelf his mother died - she broke her neck after falling down the stairs in the mansion. Achilleus Snape had an alibi for this time - a rather good one even. He’d been at Diagon Alley where he had had a row with a shop keeper. At least thirty people had heard and seen him. So Augustus once again hadn’t a chance to get him. But three years after Anastasia Snape caught him. Achilleus had become a regular in a brothel in Knockturn Alley. Anastasia bought the house through a front man and tricked him. She knew about his liking of certain games and she provided him with a gag spiced with Veritaserum. So Augustus finally got the confession that the man had killed two of his wives and two children. The last one he’d murdered by hexing the stairs.”

Hermione felt chilly. Wrapping her cardigan closer around her, she asked, “What happened to him?”

Albus emptied his glass and ordered the waiter who was just cleaning the table to bring another bottle of Bardolo. “He got a life sentence at Azkaban. Only it didn’t help Severus much. He became the ward of his uncle Tiberius Malfoy - the grandfather of your friend Draco. Tiberius Malfoy was one of the first supporters of Voldemort. Neither his son Lucius nor Severus had much of a chance against him. As soon as they were out of school, they were forced to join Voldemort’s ranks.”

“And now Severus is dead. And about Lucius no one knows. What do you think? He’s dead too, isn’t he?”

“Probably,” Albus nodded. The waiter had got him a fresh bottle of wine and he filled Hermione’s glass again.

She looked out on the channel. It was dark now, but on the black water, lights were dancing and from the opposite side cheerful noise - laughter and music - sounded. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “when I was younger I sometimes envied Ron for being born in a wizard’s family. It was so much easier for him than for me to fit in the magical world and although he was poor - at least he wasn’t insulted as a ‘Mudblood’,” Hermione told. “But now I’m really glad I’m Muggleborn.”

Albus laid for a moment his hand over hers. “The best from both worlds,” he smiled. For a moment he looked in her eyes. “I never wished to be younger than I am. But now I do.”

Hermione knew of course what he meant. Stroking with one finger over his hand she said, “I don’t know if I’d like a young Albus. I was never much interested in young men.”

He looked sceptically at her. “Titus Ollivander is only four years your senior, isn’t he?”

Hermione was amazed. Smiling at him she asked, “I know you’re always very well informed, but I didn’t know my love life five years ago was of interest to you. How did you learn about my relationship with Titus?”

“Minerva,” Albus grinned. “She isn’t a gossip, certainly not, but she was so delighted about her darling girl Hermione becoming involved with such a nice and talented boy as Titus Ollivander.”

Hermione sighed. “That was one of the problems I had with that relationship.” She sipped at her glass. “Everyone around me was delighted. Ron and Harry were already talking about the party they’d celebrate with Titus on the night before our wedding. Molly and Minerva acted as if they’d like to start knitting jumpers for my first born, my mother worried about what dress she should wear to a wizard’s wedding and Titus’ parents came every week with another house they wanted to get us as a gift to our wedding.”

“And why didn’t you marry him?” Albus asked softly.

“I didn’t love him - just so simple,” Hermione replied. “I was fond of him and I enjoyed being with him. But I didn’t love him.” Blushing slightly she proceeded, “Do you know Professor Attenby?”

Albus nodded. “If you mean Richard Attenby - of course I know him. You were his doctorand, weren’t you?”

“Yes - and besides I had a crush on him,” Hermione confessed. “He’s a fascinating man and one can talk with him about a lot of things.”

“Like Muggle sports?” Albus grinned.

“He likes Muggle sports? This I didn’t know.”

“He loves Cricket - so much he made me watch a game once. I found it entirely boring,” Albus told.

“He mentioned once his father being a Muggleborn wizard,” Hermione remembered. “Probably he likes Muggle sports because of that.”

“Yes,” Albus confirmed. Scratching himself behind his left ear, he said, “As far as I remember Richard was a classmate of Filius Flitwick. That makes him,” he counted, “around 120. And you had a crush on him?”

“Yes.” Hermione had once again slipped out of her shoe and was now with her toes touching his knee. “As I’ve said: I like men with experience.”

“Ah?” Albus reached under the table and caught her foot. “And you’re sure you’re not having something like a father complex?”

“Certainly.” Hermione looked serious. “And I’m not gerontophile either. I only like men with intellect and experience who don’t only talk about Quidditch and aren’t blushing when sex is mentioned. Besides,” she breathed deeply, “by dealing with Ron and Harry I’ve learned one thing: I don’t like mothering the men around me. But with boys of my age I always feel as if I would have to.”

“Minerva likes to maintain I’d probably forget my butt if she didn’t remind me to carry it with me,” Albus smiled. “I consider being with me makes for a lot of mothering.” Becoming serious again he added, “Besides: There’s a lot between boys your age and a man of mine. A man around forty should be adult and experienced enough too. And with him you could have a future.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “And here we go again! Didn’t we agree we wouldn’t discuss the future, but live here and now?” She pulled her foot out of his hand and put it in his lap. “Here and now I don’t know a man around forty I’d like to have a future with.” She wriggled her toes, feeling the warmth of his body against it.

He looked down at the table. “Hermione - just imagine: What would your friends say if you’d tell …”

“I don’t intend to tell,” Hermione interrupted him. “I don’t ask Ron and Harry with whom they spend their nights and they don’t ask me.”

“Hermione …” Once again he caught her foot, tenderly stroking over her angle. “You’re tempting me.”

Hermione emptied her glass again and reached it to Albus for a refill. As he took it, she laid her hand over his. “I hope very much I’m tempting you.” He had to use both his hands for pouring wine in her glass, so her foot was free to touch his groin again.

“Hermione, you’re really making it hard for …”

“Making something hard is a good idea, I think,” Hermione purred. He shook his head and wanted to say something, but Hermione bent forward and put her finger on his mouth. “I don’t want to talk about the future. I simply want to have this night with you. Not more, not less,” she demanded. “At least not for now.”

She wondered about herself. She’d never been so bold before - and no, it certainly wasn’t the wine. Although she didn’t drink often, she’d have more at parties with her friends without becoming intoxicated.

Albus had crooked his head, taken down his spectacles and was now studying her. Without his glasses he looked younger and vulnerable. “I’ve never even thought about touching a student of mine, Hermione,” he said quietly.

“I’m not your student anymore,” she reminded him. “I’m an adult.”

“Yes.” He put his glasses up again. “But you’re very young. And I can’t help it - I feel like a dirty old man lusting after someone as young as you.”

Hermione pulled her foot a little back and looked at him. Seriously she said, “When you do that you belittle not only yourself, but me too. I’m young - from your perspective very young. But I was old enough to fight through a war and I’m certainly old enough to decide for myself with whom I wish to sleep.”

Once again they became disturbed by the landlord. This time he served two steaming mugs and a dish with cookies.

Hermione sniffed at her mug, then sipped. “Hmm - delicious!” But as the landlord disappeared she came immediately back to her subject. “You know if you’d tell me that I’m not your type of woman, that you’re not interested in me, I would accept that. But refusing me although you like me simply because I’m too young …” she searched for words.

Albus took her hand. “Being too young is actually a failure which becomes smaller every day.” He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Would you like to go boating with me?”

“If it doesn’t include you conjuring a storm and attacking an oil-platform,” Hermione smiled, “I’d love it.”

“Well, then …” He turned around and waved at the landlord. The man nodded, disappeared behind his counter and came a minute later with a little tray to the table.

To Hermione’s amazement Albus pulled a credit card out and gave it to the landlord. As he went back to his counter, Hermione said, “You’re really full of surprises - a wizard with a Muggle credit card!”

He laughed. “As I’ve said: I’ve one foot in the Muggle world - and credit cards are practical.” He got his back, signed the bill and rose up. A few words in Italian to the landlord, then he offered Hermione his arm. “And now back in the magical world …”

Stepping on the street along the channel, Albus led Hermione a few steps to a little bridge and down a few stone stairs to the bank. Pulling his wand out, he murmured something in Italian. Only a minute later Hermione heard the soft sound of a gondola approaching the bank. It stopped next to Albus and Hermione, the gondoliere - a tall man in a black robe with a hood - bowed, but didn’t say a word. Albus helped Hermione on the upholstered bench, sitting down next to her and laying his arm around her shoulder.

As they were settled, the gondoliere began to lope his boat through the small channel. Hermione snuggled against Albus, looking up at the dark buildings around her. A few windows were lit and out of one came loud music. Another gondola passed, the voices of its passengers sounded angry. A woman was ranting: “A ride in a gondola is supposed to be romantic! But with you all the time nagging about the prices here …” Her companion answered promptly: “I can’t find it romantic that this Venetians treat their guests like turkeys to pluck! I only wait for someone wanting money from me for breathing their stinky air!”

Albus laughed. “Poor guy! He could have spared a lot of money if he’d have gone to Las Vegas instead of …”

Just this moment the American in the other gondola grumbled, “I really don’t understand why we must come here. We could have all this in Las Vegas - cheaper and cleaner!”

Hermione looked at Albus. “Didn’t they hear you?” she whispered.

“No - they neither see nor hear us. We’re in a magical gondola. It’s something like our Knight Bus - only that there’s more than one of this boats in Venice,” Albus explained.

“And where are we going?” Hermione wanted to know.

Albus pulled her a bit closer. “Just wait and see.” The gondola was now gliding through a much bigger channel where a lot of motor boats and gondolas went on their way. Albus pointed up to a white building with a big cupola. “That’s Santa Maria della Sante. I think it’s even more beautiful than San Marco.”

“I think in summer I’ll come here for some sight seeing,” Hermione announced.

The gondola had turned away from the city now and was heading in the dark. It swung now more than before and Hermione heard water splattering against it.

Albus bent to Hermione. Stroking softly through her hair he quoted, “A ride in a gondola is supposed to be romantic.” He kissed her at the left corner of her mouth.

Hermione turned her head a little and kissed him back, tenderly nibbling at his bottom lip while she let her hand wander from his shoulder to his chest.

Albus deepened the kiss, opening her mouth with his tongue and playing with hers. Hermione closed her eyes and enjoyed the kiss. It set her entire body on fire. Her nipples hardened and between her legs wetness and heat was spreading. Shoving her hand down over his belly to his groin she fondled the heavy bulge there.

Albus moaned in her mouth and shifted, slightly spreading his legs. Hermione took it as an invitation to stroke his testicles, but obviously it hadn’t been meant like that. Albus broke the kiss and caught Hermione’s hand. “Piccola - I just remember again why I hate trousers. Wearing them while getting an erection is really unpleasant. I wonder how Muggles deal with that.”

Hermione couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Is it possible that you’re rather touchy, my hero?”

“When it comes to my privates, I’m very sensitive.” He stroked with one finger her neck. “But I actually hope they’ll become gently looked after soon.”

“I think they will.” Hermione kissed the tip of his nose. Looking around she asked, “Albus, are you sure that we’re right here? It’s so dark.”

Albus turned her head to the left. “Look there, Darling. Do you see the lights?”

Indeed - there were lights dancing on the water. “What’s that, Albus?”

“The Isola Magico,” Albus explained. “Venice’s magical community - it’s one of the oldest in Europe. Some people even say it’s older than Muggle Venice.”

“It’s an island?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” Albus answered. “A rather big one. It’s got a harbour of its own; the university is there; the Italian Ministry of Magic; a school; shops and even some farms where fruits and vegetables are grown. And it’s heavily warded. Muggles can’t see it and even if they’re very close to it, they don’t hear anything from it. In times when wizards were hunted by Muggles, the Isola Magico was refuge for witches and wizards from all over Italy. It was completely independent and it’s said that some of the people living there never in their life leave the Isola.”

The gondola had arrived in the harbour of the island and was now docking between other boats. Albus stood up, gave the gondoliere some coins and helped Hermione out and up to the street which lead to a huge plaza surrounded by beautiful buildings with arcades. In then middle a fountain cheerfully splattered.

Hermione looked around. “That’s beautiful, Albus! I really must come here in summer.”

“It’s worth a journey,” Albus said, walking with her over the place to a small alley. After a few steps he stopped in front of a renaissance building. In the light of the lantern over the big oak door Hermione saw a stone crest - a phoenix holding a wand in its claws. Above it was a Latin number Hermione read as “1648”.

Albus opened the door with a wave of his hand. “Come in,” he said and with another wave of his hand he lit the candles in the hall they’d entered.

Hermione almost jumped as she heard a “pop”. A house elf, obviously rather old, but wearing an immaculate white tea towel with the phoenix crest, curtseyed in front of them, beamed in delight and started to talk in quick Italian. Hermione only understood the house elf addressing Albus as “Maestro Albino” - and they were rather familiar with each other.

“Grazie, Milli!” Albus smiled at the elf.

It curtseyed once again to Hermione and disappeared with another “pop”.

Albus waved his hand again. His Muggle clothes changed in a wizard’s robe and he was stretching his shoulders. “So - that’s better.” He took Hermione’s hand. “Welcome to Palazzo Houdini. May I show you the bedroom?”

Hermione was a bit confused. “Yes,” she answered, but still looked around in the hall, registering two beautiful statues of naked Goddesses. “Albus, this house here - does it belong to a friend of yours?”

“No,” he replied cheerfully and started to climb up the stairs. “It belongs to me. My mother was the last Houdini. My brother and I inherited the house from her. But Aberforth never liked Venice much. So we decided that he should have the Dumbledore Mansion in Yorkshire while I got the Palazzo. The house in London we still own together - we have agreed that he doesn’t brings goats there.” Albus opened a white door, waved a hand to enlighten the candles and a fire and let Hermione enter.

She looked around - and smiled to herself. The room was rather like to his bedchambers in Hogwarts: Bright colours and a mixture from modern furniture - like the huge bed, covered with green and silver silk and the two comfortable sofas in front of the fireplace - and some antique pieces like a glass case and a matching cherry wood secretary which stood next to a French window in a niche.

Through the window Hermione saw over a terrace, lit by two lanterns at the left and the right of stairs which led to a garden bordering the lagoon. Hermione pointed with her chin to the French window. “May I?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Hermione walked over to the window, opened it and stepped out on a half round balcony over the terrace. The door was flanked by big pots holding orange trees, the smell of the blooms and fruits hung in the air, sweet and lovely. And then there was the sky - deep blue velvet with glimmering golden stars which were mirrored in the black water of the lagoon.

Hermione breathed deeply and laid her head back to look up at the stars. Albus was behind her, so her head landed at his shoulder. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “This house, the garden, the night - I couldn’t have asked for something more romantic.”

“Sure?” He laid his arms around her waist and pulled her a bit closer. Nibbling at her ear, he whispered, “I can think of something to make this night even more romantic.”

Hermione entwined her fingers with his. “Like?” she asked. His closeness, the warmth of his body, his unique smell and his mouth at her neck aroused her. And now his free hand was gliding up over her side to her breast, cupping it. The light pressure of it felt wonderful and made Hermione purr.

“You’re wearing way too much,” Albus whispered. Freeing his right hand, he let it hover over her chest, murmuring an incantation. Hermione’s clothes vanished, only her light brown pumps remained at her feet.

The night was pleasantly warm, nevertheless Hermione trembled lightly.

“Are you cold, sweetest heart?” Albus asked, his lips on her shoulder.

Hermione swallowed. “No. Just on the contrary. I feel rather warm …”

“In certain places?” His left hand was once again at her breast, kneading it softly. Yet the right one lay motionless on her belly.

Hermione took it and pushed it down to her mound. “Here I feel warm …”

As his fingers dived between her legs, he chuckled. “Indeed - rather warm and wet.”

Hermione closed her eyes. For a few seconds she enjoyed the tip of his index finger playing with her clitoris. Then she said quietly, “You’re wearing too much, Albus. I want to feel your skin.”

“I’m at your disposal.” He removed his robe and took Hermione in his arms again.

As she leant back against him, she felt his erection poking at her backside. It felt glorious and Hermione suddenly wasn’t interested in his hands or kisses anymore. Her centre felt almost achingly empty. Wriggling her bottom against him - and heavens, he really was rock hard and big and the idea of feeling him inside her again made her entire body hum with need and desire - she bent forward and said, “Albus, I need you inside me. Please.”

His hand was between her legs again, stroking down, his index finger entering her. “Hermione, Piccola …”

“Albus - I don’t want only your finger! I want your cock!” she almost cried.

“Darling - you’re so tight. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Once again his carefulness touched her. “You won’t hurt me,” she assured him. “I’m ready for you and I really, really want you.”

“Sweetest heart …” Now his left hand was on her hip while his right guided his member between her legs. The tip touched her lust knob and Hermione moaned. And then it glided down, parting her folds and arriving at her entrance.

Hermione kept her breath, waiting for the wonderful feeling of becoming stretched and filled again. But Albus hesitated, the silken tip of his penis trembling. Gripping the rails firmer, Hermione pressed back against him, taking him in as deeply as possible, her buttocks meeting his groin.

“Hermione …” He held her hips with both hands now. “You feel incredible! So hot and tight!”

“And I love having you in me.” She started to move, her eyes closed, entirely concentrated on the feeling of him in her. There was again the slight ache of being stretched, but it was sweet pain, mingled with lust and deepening it. She’d never felt so completely and entirely aroused in so short a time and she knew she wouldn’t need much to achieve a climax. And now he was moving with her, his hands playing with her breasts, kneading it and pressing her hard nipples between index and second finger in the rhythm of his strokes.

“Albus - oh, Albus!” Hermione came in long waves and it felt like falling, but she was held and safe in his arms. And she knew: Here was where she belonged. He was the one who made her complete.


To be continued …