A Winter Tale

A Winter Tale

by: Max


Inspired by the WIKTT Marriage Law Challenge, but not following it exactly

[Disclaimer see chapter 1]


Chapter 23: The expected unexpected letter


“Mister Granger! Hi, Dicky!” The voice of the old man made the blond boy turn around on the stair he’d just entered after calling his usual, friendly, but quick “Hi, Jimmy” to the porter’s lounge. But now Jimmy waved with a big, creamy envelope. “You’ve got mail, Dicky! A guy came in, bringing this for you one hour ago …”

“Dicky” took the envelope and by looking at the elegant, dark green handwriting on it his face became serious. His lips moved as he read the address: “Richard Granger, Esq., Hotel Solitude, Three Oaks Street 911, USA, New Orleans”. Slowly the boy turned the envelope around and looked on the backside as if he couldn’t believe what he saw there.

“Bad news, Dicky?” the old porter asked, smiling friendly.

The young man still starred at the two letters on the backside of the envelope. “S.S.” – no more, no less. But to him the two green letters looked like curling snakes and he felt a cold shiver running down his spine.

“Dicky? Are you okay?” the porter asked again.

“Sorry, Jimmy.” The boy tried a smile. “The letter’s a bit of a surprise.” Stepping up the stairs, he called over his shoulder: “But don’t worry – I’m fine …”


A minute later the boy entered a comfortable room on the second floor of the hotel. Laying the envelope cautiously on the paper laden desk in front of a window, he went to the little bathroom. Although it was December 3, he found the weather in New Orleans very warm and felt always rather sticky when he came back from the university to the room he’d rented.

Looking into the mirror he splashed cold water in his face. Even now, after almost three months, he wasn’t used to the blue eyes and the silken blond hair he saw in the mirror. For 18 years it had been green eyes and unruly, black hair and although he’d often wished it more manageable, he now wished the dark strands back.

Yet it had been his idea to become another person and at the time he’d asked for it he’d thought of it as his chance to become free finally. He remembered the beautiful room he’d paced through and how he’d said: “I know I disappoint you, probably you’ll find me even ungrateful, but I want to go away when this is finally over. I will help to fulfil your plan, but under one condition: You’ll help me to get a new life afterwards. I will have a new identity, another face and at least for some time freedom.”

If Albus Dumbledore had felt disappointed, he’d probably learn from the letter on his desk. But at this summer day in his study he hadn’t shown it. He’d only said: “I understand, Harry”. The way in which he’d developed the plan for Harry getting his freedom had made Harry wonder – had the old man already expected him to ask for it? He hadn’t asked – he hadn’t wanted to know. He simply had been glad for a few days later an owl had approached him. The mail it had given him had been very short: “You’ll find everything you need at vault 7842 at Gringotts. The password is ‘exit’. Good luck. A.D.” Attached to it was a little, golden key.

Harry had burned the letter and hung the key on an enchanted chain around his neck. He’d spoken with no one about it, not even with the old man. Yet he’d often laid his fingers on the key. In the last weeks before he used it he often felt as if the key would belong to another reality. The reality he’d lived in for this summer – an exceptionally bright one – hadn’t suited what the key stood for. He’d never before found Hogwarts and with it the entire magical world so calm and peaceful. For six long and blissful weeks he’d never felt the slightest burn in his scar. If not for Hermione becoming paler and quieter every time he saw her Harry really could have believed that he’d only have to worry about his NEWTs. And while his school mates had celebrated the fall of the marriage law and discussed the constitution Dumbledore as the new minister of magic had in only a few days boxed over all hurdles – he’d obviously had worked on it years before and even prepared the members of the Wizengamot to support it – Harry had waited.

It had almost been a relief then he’d been awakened in the night on August 10, with a burning, stabbing pain in his forehead. He had run to Minerva McGonagall, but he wouldn’t have needed Dumbledore coming to Hogwarts only a few hours later, not twinkling and sucking lemon drops, but only saying: “Tomorrow at midnight he’ll attack …”

And then the last day at Hogwarts: The school had been evacuated in the morning at 11:00 h. The Hogwarts express, guarded by an entire army of aurors, some of them in the train, others flying on broomstick over it, had left, only a few seventh years who were already members of the order and a few teachers had remained. And there had been Severus Snape. He’d suddenly appeared in the great hall as if he’d never left Hogwarts, but on second sight Harry had seen that Snape in the weeks he’d lived hidden had changed. He’d gained a bit of weight, he’d even got a bit of a tan and his characteristic sneer had made place for a worried expression.

Later Harry had wondered why he’d felt bored in the afternoon which followed the departure of the train. He stood with Hermione – she’d come in the morning with Snape and had refused to leave again – and Ron in the windows in the headmaster’s drawing room. Outside Snape, tiny Professor Flitwick and McGonagall had checked the inner wards guarding the castle while aurors, commanded by Alastor Moody who looked almost happy had worked on the outer wards.

At teatime Dumbledore had appeared and for aent ent Harry almost hadn’t recognized him – and not only because Dumbledore who Harry had never seen in something other than robes, had worn muggle shorts and a blue shirt, but because he’d shaved and cut his mane. But even without the silver halo around his head he looked imposing – perhaps even more, because his changed appearance said clearly that he was ready for combat.

But no one had said a word about it. Ron had only swallowed and Harry had watched Hermione who stood with erect back, her hands protecting over her now pretty swollen belly, but with a soft smile in her face looking up at her husband. And Dumbledore, sounding as casual as on a normal afternoon, had asked her for “a little stroll to the lake.”

Harry had always admired his friend’s courage, but as she’d taken her husband’s hand this afternoon, he’d almost fallen on his knees in front of her. And later then he’d seen the couple – they’d stood for a long time at the lake, Hermione in front of Albus, his arms around her middle, his hands on her belly. Although Harry hadn’t seen their faces the the distance, he’d been sure that Hermione hadn’t cried. But Ron had – banging both his fists against the windows, he’d suddenly shout: “If you or he doesn’t kill this monster, I’ll do it with my bare hands!”

Harry had simply taken his friend in his arms and on his shoulder Ron had cried. “Look at Hermione! She loves him and her heart will break this night …”

Harry didn’t think so. He knew as well as Ron, perhaps even better, how much Hermione loved her husband. But he also knew that she wouldn’t allow her heart to break. She was expecting a child – and for this child she’d remain strong.

As the night had fallen over Hogwarts, they’d sat in the hall for dinner – and though Harry had found the situation highly bizarre because it looked so “normally”, he’d understood why Dumbledore had invited all inhabitants of the castle to this dinner. It was his way of telling them, that they would fight for “normality” – for a world in which they could live without the dark shadow over their heads.

Suddenly there had been a big uproar with aurors shouting stunning spells and Snape doing a jump over the table and throwing Hermione on the floor and protecting her with his body. The reason for all this excitement had stood in the middle of the hall, untouched by all the spells directed at him, smiling a cool smile and – after Albus had roared “Out! It’s a friend!” – Saying: “Really, Dumbledore – we gave you a warmer welcome.”

The man who had obviously made it through all the wards without even one of his perfect combed black hairs falling out of form, had looked like a film star: Tall, slender, a perfect handsome face with dark, black eyes and dressed in a grey muggle suit with a pristine white silken shirt. He’d radiated wealth, elegance and so much power Harry had found it frightening.

Dumbledore had walked through the hall to greet the man and after shaking his hand he’d announced: “May I introduce you to Conte Louis Alexandre de Beauregard? He’s …”

Harry was sure: Dumbledore had intended to say something like “a friend”. But the Conte had taken over. “… What most of you would call a ‘vampire’ …” he’d finished Dumbledore’s line. “I’m the chosen leader of our community. And we’ve decided to become your allies. We were for a long time thinking and talking about association with you and your new minister’s constitution finally convinced us.”

The Conte hadn’t come alone. With a wave of his hand he’d made a group of 20 fellow vampires appear – all exceptionally beautiful, well dressed and, as Harry later had learned, very powerful. They had probably – as Ron had said later – “saved our sorry arses” as an entire herd of dementors had broken through the outer wards. The wizard’s patronuses had kept tat bat bay, but destroyed they’d become by the vampires ancient magic.

Without that the victory wouldn’t have been possible. The death eaters had quickly learned that they weren’t fighting for power, but for their lives and so the battle had been long and hard and brutal. But from all the images of this night, burned in Harry’s memory – Flitwick already fallen, but raising his wand and stopping a death eater who’d tried to curse Minerva McGonagall; Snape, all the night a dark shadow behind Dumbledore, killing almost nonchalantly Bellatrix Lestrange; Hagrid using a death eater he kept on one leg as a weapon to beat another one down; Ron, who’d already stunned three enemies, being caught in the last moment before the green light of a killing curse could hit him by Rolanda Hooch, who’d shot out of the sky on her broomstick and at last Dumbledore, surrounded by an aura of pure, white light, raising his wand and killing Voldemort before the rock the dark lord had thrown against him, made him fall – the one Harry knew he’d never forget was the picture of Hermione, sitting on the battlefield, Dumbledore’s head in her lap, stroking a white, short strand out of his forehead and smiling down on her beloved with a tenderness which almost made Harry’s heart break. He’d thought she’d gone insane, thenthen, stomping closer, he’d seen Snape, falling on his knees next to her and saying with a gentleness Harry wouldn’t have believed him able to: “You’ve done it, Albus. Now you may rest …”

It was then that Harry had finally got it: Voldemort was destroyed – and this time forever. His death eaters were on the run, the aurors following them. Hogwarts and the magical world were safe, the war was over and he, Harry Potter, hadn’t become a killer. Albus Dumbledore had given his life to save Harry.

Harry had broken down next to the body of the old wizard who had been his mentor and the next thing he’d ever had to a grandfather. But as he’s tried to hug him, Snape had kept him back with a death grip: “Don’t! His spine is broken! You’d kill him if you move him.”

“He lives?” Harry hadn’t believed it.

Snape had looked at him, his black eyes groundless poles. “His magic is gone and he’s heavily injured. He probably won’t survive the transport to the castle.”


Snape had been wrong – not about the magic and not about the broken spine, but about Dumbledore surviving. He’d survived not only the transport back to the Hogwarts’ hospital wing, but three days later another one to his mansion. And while the magical world had celebrated the victory and Arthur Weasley as Dumbledore’s successor in the office as minister of magic, Harry had received a note from Snape: “Dumbledore wants to see you. The floo in the hall is open. S.S.”

Only one hour later Harry had tumbled out of the fireplace in Dumbledore Hall. Hermione had greeted him – pale and very distant – and led him up to a beautiful bedroom where he’d found the old man in his bed with Snape in a chair at his side. Dumbledore had looked like death and for a moment Harry had thought he’d come too late. But then Snape had rose and waved him to step closer. “He’s just asleep, but it won’t last long. Seat down and wait until he wakes up again.”

“Is he …?” Harry didn’t know how to ask.

“Dying?” Snape had raised an eyebrow. “Not today. Don’t worry, Mister Potter – he will, as always, spare you. He probably will even show his famous twinkle. But I warn you nevertheless: One wrong word and I’ll kill you – slowly and painfully. You’ve hurt him enough – now let him have his peace. And ...,” the potion master’s voice hadn’t been more than a whisper, but it had sounded more forbidden than if he’d shouted at the top of his lungs, “… perhaps you will try at least once to think of him instead of yourself.”

Harry wasn’t convinced he’d managed this in the way the potion master had expected. Dumbledore had not given him much of a chance for it. His first words after waking up had been: “Still here, Harry? Why?”

“I thought …” Harry had stammered, “I mean … Hermione and you … and this situation …”

Dumbledore had chuckled – a weak sound, but nevertheless a chuckle. “I’m dying, Harry – and this is something no one can help me with. Hermione has Severus and the Weasleys at her side …”

“You want me to go, sir?”

“Harry, I want you to become the man you’re supposed to be …” Harry had needed to bend down over the bed, because the old man’s voice was no more then a hoarse whisper. “A strong wizard, a loving husband, a friend to his friends, a good father and hopefully a good godfather to my child,” he said and although his face had been as white as the pillow he was lying on, his blue eyes had sparkled. “But I think you need some time to think and to rest now …”

And so Harry was gone. He’d said farewell to Ginny who’d understood and had promised him to wait. He’d hugged Hermione who’d been very quiet and he’d told Ron who hadn’t been too pleased. Afterwards he’d gone to Gringotts and in the vault he’d found a passport with the name “Richard Granger” and with the picture of a blond boy; two vial; a muggle credit card and two letters. The first one told him that the potion in the first vial would change his appearance suiting the picture while the second would make him Harry again. The other letter was addressed to the director of the magical university in New Orleans, recommending Richard Granger – “a cousin of my wife” – as a student.

So Harry had left the wizard’s district, had taken the potion in a dark corner and then used the credit card to buy a ticket to New Orleans. There he’d found himself the little hotel and after a few days simply strolling through the streets, he’d decided to attend the university, but not moving in there. He simply didn’t want to become involved with too much socializing – he preferred the freedom and the peace he’d found by being a stranger in the muggle world.

From England he hadn’t heard much. Sometimes in the university’s library he would have a look at the “Daily Prophet” and once, by reading it, he probably amazed other students because the picture of sneering Snape with the headline “A hero is back to life” had been too funny and had made him laugh out loud. But more he hadn’t heard.

Yet he thought he’d know what the letter meant. He’d immediately recognized the handwriting – he’d seen it often enough under one of his potion essays. And knowing, that Snape never would like him, Harry only wondered why the letter was so heavy. The line “Dumbledore died at …” didn’t need such a lot of parchment. So what else could Snape have written him?

The only way to find out would be reading and so Harry went back to the desk, opened the envelope and looked flabbergasted to the long roll of parchment which fell out. Rolling it up, he saw it was covered with Snape’s elegant, but tiny handwriting – the potion master had sent the longest letter Harry had ever got.

Yet at least he stood true to form – he’d started without an address.

“Dumbledore Hall, November 7, 2006

Albus had asked me to write this letter and because it’s probably the last thing I can do for him I’ll try to do it the way he wants it in giving you a full record of what happened after your departure.

As you probably have learned before you went: Arthur Weasley became – as Albus planned it – Albus’ successor as minister of magic. One of his first actions was to set up a date for a new election on September 10. To not only ours, but probably the amusement of most British witches and wizards too, Cornelius Fudge used this once-for-a-lifetime opportunity to make an even bigger fool out of himself as he already was known for. He claimed to get the office back with maintaining that Albus had tricked the last election and that neither he nor Arthur who’d lied about Mrs Weasley’s and my death were trustworthy. It was probably the most stupid thing he’d ever done in his entire history of doing stupidity because Albus’ star shines brighter than ever before. ‘The wizard who’d saved our world twice’, ‘the heir of Merlin’ – I’m quoting newspapers which can’t find praise enough for our former headmaster – is a legend by now and even the tiniest critic on something he’d done leads the mob to becoming murderous.

So Weasley’s election as the new minister was even more convincing than Albus’ a few months before. Although I was never as convinced about Arthur Weasley’s qualities as a leader as Albus, I’m now to admit that he does well in the office. He proceeds on Albus’ way of democratizing our world, he proceeds in the integration of other magical beings and he’s by now even in a good way to make the ministry work efficient.

One of his biggest assets in my opinion was that he asked the Conte Beauregard and his people to help with getting rid of the dementors. As you perhaps know, they were artificial creatures, breaded with rather dark magic to do duty in Azkaban. Now they’re gone and Azkaban is under the supervision of aurors.

By talking about Azkaban: In the moment the prison is rather full with captured death eaters, but Lucius Malfoy is not one of them, although he isn’t redeemed entirely yet. He’s still under supervision of the ministry and he paid a large amount of money for an institution which will take care of Voldemort’s surviving victims.

In Hogwarts – to go on with what will probably interest you – not much had changed. Minerva McGonagall is still Headmistress with Professor Sinistra as her deputy. Bill Weasley became successor of Professor Flitwick, an Italian named Gianni Cerleto is the potion professor and your friend Remus Lupin was again installed for the position of a Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. Under given circumstances it is to be hoped that he’ll stay for the next 50 years which will probably please the new transfiguration professor Nymphadora Tonks who’s supposed to become Madame Lupin soon.

Molly Weasley meanwhile is hoping for another wedding. Her son Percy – still working in the ministry, but by now quieter and less pompous – will marry his new found love Isadora Cracklebell and probably provide the wizard’s world with a lot of new Weasleys soon.

The rest of the Weasley family is back at the Burrow, but I’m glad to say that Molly Weasley nevertheless comes almost every day to the Hall in helping Hermione who actually should give birth to her child in the next two or three days. Considering that and the fact that Albus is close to his end, she’s in good health and shows admirable bravery.

Now we’re on the part I’d rather avoid writing, so I’ll make it as short as possible. Albus is still with us – very weak, mostly sleeping, but he’s alive and his mind is still as clear and sharp as ever. According to the healers and himself, he doesn’t suffer pain, but his demise is inevitable. Since two weeks ago he isn’t able to digest more than a little soup and so it’s only his willpower and my potions which keep him alive. He’s got only one wish left: He wants to see his child.

So we wait for one life to begin and another one …”

In this place the ink was smudged as if something wet would have hit the parchment. But above Harry saw another few lines:

November 9, in the morning

I couldn’t finish the letter because Molly asked me to sit with Albus during the night. At 2:30 h in the morning of November 8, Hermione gave birth to a son. Mother and child are well although the baby – as Molly asked me to tell you – is “a huge and splendid boy who didn’t make it easy for his mother”.

This morning I helped Hermione to the master bedroom where Albus and she named their son Leontes Beatus Dumbledore. Following Hermione’s and Albus’ expressed wish Leontes Beatus got Virginia Weasley as his godmother. You are supposed to be his godfather. So we asked Arthur to left the entry in the registry open.

13 hours after the name giving, at 11:45 h in the night, Hermione discovered that Albus wasn’t breathing anymore. His death was as peaceful as we had wished for him. He passed away without any pain and with Hermione holding him in her arms.

He wished to be buried next to his parents here at the Hall. The funeral will be on November 11, at 2:00 p.m.

For getting here quickly, Arthur Weasley gave permission to ect ect our floo to the fireplace of your university’s potion master Professor Haffkins. The connection will be open for the next 24 hours and it will allow one person to come through.

Yours sincerely
S. Snape”


Harry felt a tear running down his cheek. He’d know that Albus Dumbledore would die; of course he’d know it. He actually even had expected he would die sooner. But nevertheless he couldn’t imagine the world without the great wizard and he meant to hear the old man’s husky voice as he’d said in their last conversation: “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in our relationship, but I want you to know that I’ve always loved you.”

Harry was grateful now that he’d found the courage to bend down to the old wizard to kiss his forehead and to say: “I know and I love you too.”

It had led to an almost boyish smile on the pale face. “Now you can talk aboutlythlytherin becoming sentimental, Harry …”

Now the “sentimental Slytherin” was dead. The man who had the biggest influence on Harry’s life, the wizard he’d loved, admired and sometimes fought rry rry would never look in his clear blue eyes again, he would never hear his chuckle again.

Harry breathed deeply. Then he rolled the parchment together, looked around and marched to the closet. Taking a bag out, he started packing – his clothes, his books, the picture from Ginny, the album with the photographs of his parents. In only five minutes he was ready, he only needed two things more and so he opened the drawer of his night stand. There he found the little vial and his glasses. Tucking both in the pocket of his jeans, he took the bag and walked down the stairs to Jimmy, who snored behind a newspaper.

“Jimmy – I’ve got bad news from home,” he said. “I have to go back immediately. An old friend has died. Can I have the bill?”

“Oh, I’m sorry about your friend,” the porter turned around to the computer in a corner of his lounge. “I’ll get you the bill. Shall I call you a cab?”

“That would be nice,” Harry answered.


A few minutes later he climbed out of the taxi in front of an old house. A withered sign on the door said that this was the home of some one called “Haffkins”, so Harry knocked and heard almost immediately a friendly voice from inside:” Just come in! It’s open!” A man, who looked as muggle as can go, greeted him as he entered the hall. “Hi – I’m Doug Haffkins and you’re …” he seemed to hesitate, but then he proceeded, “the guy my English colleague Severus Snape asked me to send through the floo?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry nodded. “I’d be most grateful if you’d allow me to use your fireplace.”

“Huh!” said the young American. “You Brits are really great in being stuffy. Just come up to my study – my wife’s muggle, therefore we don’t have floos all over the place.” By leading Harry up the stairs, he said: “I’m sorry about Dumbledore. Sev told me and he said you were kind of a ‘friend of the family’. I’ve read all the stuff about this war – heaven’s I wouldn’t have wanted to be there. Were you?”

They’d arrived in the study – a mixture between a potion lab and sitting room with tons of books and magazines spread around. Harry breathed deeply, and then he took the little vial out of his pocket. “Sir …” he started.

“Heavens, boy, I’m Doug!” the American potion master interrupted.

“Okay, Doug.” Harry tried a little smile. “You’ve asked me if I were in the war. Yes, I was. I don’t know what Professor Snape told you about me, but …,” he hesitated. He knew he wouldn’t like to tell the entire story, but where to start for a short version? He decided for the super quick version. “I’m under a disguise potion from Professor Snape. If you don’t mind – I’d like to change back to my true form before I’ll go back.”

“Disguise potion? That sounds interesting. Invention by Sev?” asked the American.

Harry opened the vial and drank the bitter content with one gulp. He felt immediately how he became a bit smaller and how his sight became blurry. Putting his glasses up, he smiled at Doug. “I think it’s an invention by Professor Snape.”

“Wow!” The American looked at him out of big eyes. “You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”

Obviously his “fame” had made it to America. Harry sighed – he would have to become use with people starring at him again. “Yes, I am …” he answered therefore a bit cold.

“Pity we didn’t meet earlier! But I don’t think you want to hang around all day here, chatting with me.” Pointing with his chin to a small fireplace in the wall, Doug said: “There’s the floo, floo powder is on the blue bowl on the mantelpiece. Just serve yourself – and tell Sev he should publish about this disguise potion. Sounds damn interesting …”

Harry was sure: If he didn’t go, the friendly man wouldn’t stop chatting. So he took a handful of floo powder, interrupted the still talking American with a firm: “Sorry, Doug, but I have to go. Thanks for your help!” threw the floo powder into the flames and stepped in, calling: “Dumbledore Hall.”


The spinning went on for almost five minutes and Harry feared already something had got wrong as he suddenly fell out of the fire, finding himself once again on a beautiful rose and blue carpet. Directly in front of him was a pair of polished black boots and as he looked up at them, he heard a familiar, cold voice: “Good morning, Mister Potter.”

Harry, still feeling a bit dizzy, rose up and brushed the sot from his clothes. Pushing his glasses back on their right place he looked at Professor Severus Snape who sat on the sofa in front of the fire place, a book in his hand. “Good morning, Professor Snape,” he said, feeling a bit disappointed. Snape’s letter had sounded rather civil and so Harry had actually hoped to get a warmer welcome than this stare out of unreadable onyx eyes. Swallowing he asked: “How’s Hermione?”

Snape closed for a moment his eyes. “She sleeps,” he answered then curtly. Rising up, he ringed a little bell on the mantelpiece. “You didn’t have dinner, I take it?”

“I came immediately after I’ve got your letter,” Harry answered. “Thank you for informing me.”

Snape didn’t answer, but looked at the house elf – a bony thing with swollen, red eyes – that’d just appeared. “Elli, could you serve Mister Potter a fendwindwiches? He comes directly from America and hasn’t had dinner. Afterwards it would be nice if you’d get his luggage up to the red guest room.”

Harry looked around the room. It was an octagon with four windows on one side and four windows on the other side. Between the walls were white shelves with hundred of books. The ceiling above was decorated with white and golden mouldings and a beautiful fresco. On the side with the windows stood a desk, almost too delicate for all the parchment spread over it.

Snape saw Harry’s looking around to understand. His voice sounded very cold as he said: “This was Albus’ study, but Hermione asked me to use it because it’s got the public floo.”

Harry swallowed. He’d felt that this beautiful, bright room had belonged to the headmaster and to think – no, he wouldn’t cry in front of Snape. Instead he asked quietly: “May I see him?”

“If you want to …” Snape’s voice was still cold. “The body’s down in the drawing room. Augustus McGonagall, Arthur Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Remus Lupin are keeping wake.” Bracing his shoulders he proceeded: “I don’t think you need me here. I’d like to go down again. If you want to join after your meal – it’s the first door on the left in the hall.”

The open tomb stood on a bench, covered with blue silk and surrounded by candles. Arthur who’d silently hugged Harry as he’d entered the room, led him closer to it, his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t be afraid, Harry – he was at peace,” he whispered.

Nevertheless Harry had to fight against tears so much he was for a moment almost blinded by them. But then he looked down at the tomb and into the small face of the man who’d saved his life.

The dead Albus Dumbledore looked as if he was asleep and dreaming a wonderful dream. His face was not only peaceful, but happy with his lips slightly smiling. He wore a creamy white shirt which made him look almost ethereal and his hands – long and white – lay on his chest, a dark red rose between them.

Harry had feared he’d start crying, but looking at this quiet face was like a comfort and Harry suddenly remembered how Dumbledore had told him once that death wasn’t something to fear, but “the last challenge”. So Harry bent down and kissed the cold forehead, whispering: “Where ever you are – you’ll master this challenge with grace too. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.”


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


To see Hermione again Harry had almost feared most. He couldn’t imagine how she felt, he couldn’t think what to say and how to comfort her and he actually even wasn’t sure if she would want to see him. He hadn’t been there for her, he’d ran away in a time she probably would have needed every one of her friends and now – no, he wouldn’t, couldn’t blame her if she’d quit their friendship and so his heart sped up as a house elf knocked on the door of the guestroom where he’d just showered after spending the last hours down in the drawing room, sitting silently on a sofa with Ginny at his side.

“Mister Potter …” The house elf had red cried eyes too and its ears hung down. “Madame asks if you’d like to come to see the young master.”

“Of course. I will dress and then I’ll go. Where will I find yoistristress?” Harry asked.

“Mistress and young master are in the master bedroom – just one floor down, the second door on the left.”

Although Ginny had already told him in their short, whispered conversation that Hermione was “incredibly brave”, Harry wasn’t prepared to see her smile at him as he shyly approached. She wore blue pants and a blue shirt and had a tiny bundle, wrapped in a light blue fluffy blanket in her arms.

“Hello, Hermione,” Harry managed to say.

“Hello, Harry.” She really smiled – not as bright as he knew she could, but friendly and warm. “It’s good you’re back.” With one arm she hugged him, and then she looked down on her baby. “May I introduce you? Leon, that’s your godfather Harry Potter. And this, Harry, is Leontes Beatus Dumbledore. And you’re lucky: He’s just fed, dry and in a good mood. He may even refrain from showing you his lung’s capacity if you take him.” And with that she put the baby in his arms.

Harry stood for a moment motionless and without daring to breathe. He’d never held a baby before and this one seemed to be extremely tiny and breakable. Besides he didn’t see much of it because the blanket was half covering its face. Only a few silken, dark hairs looked out. But then suddenly a tiny hand found Harry’s finger and closed around it. Harry looked down at it in wonder and said: “Oh my – he’s tiny!”

“He is not!” Hermione sounded almost insulted. Tenderly tugging the blanket out of the infant’s face, she said:” Molly she’she’s even bigger than Charlie was – and Charlie was her biggest baby.”

Harry got to see the baby’s face now. To him it actually looked like all babies, but then the child opened its eyes – and Harry had to swallow. He’d thought he’d never see these eyes again. “He looks like …” He fell silent, not sure if it would be good to mention Leontes’ father.

“He’s got Albus’ eyes.” Hermione obviously didn’t mind. “And look at his forehead and his mouth and this long, energetic chin. He’s Albus all over. He’s even inherited Albus’ hands and feet. And …” she tipped tenderly against the baby’s nose, “I wonder if this sweet tiny nose would once become rather big and crooked. I really don’t know where my part on him is, but Severus says he’ll probably show when he starts talking and drive mad mad with a million questions.”

Harry still didn’t know what he was supposed to do with the infant. Awkwardly he said: “I don’t know much about babies, but this little fellow looks rather cute …”

“I think he’ll look ever cuter when he’s asleep – he’s already becoming a bit fussy.” Hermione took the baby out of Harry’s arm and put it down in the cradle which stood next to the bed.

By looking down at the cradle Harry’s gaze glided over to the night stand – and then he had to swallow again: On the little table laid a wand – a white wand, a wand Harry remembered only too well – and next to it Albus’ golden half-moon spectacles.

Hermione had noticed his gaze. Stroking over her son’s head, she said quietly: “I know he’s death, Harry. And I promised him our son wouldn’t grow up in a museum surrounded by sad memories. But at the moment I can’t give his wand and his spectacles away. I simply can’tow sow she was crying and taking the spectacles in her hand, she said: “I used to tease him – I kissed him and blow against his glasses. They got steamed up and he took them down, saying: ‘Pity – I actually like to see your face. It’s worth looking at …”

Harry sat down next to her and laid his arm around her shoulder. “Hermione, I’m so sorry …”

Sinking on his chest, she sobbed: “I know I have to live without him, Harry. And I will manage – I promised him I would. But at the moment I feel so lost. I loved him so much and he was – oh Harry! I wish you’d have known him better.”

“ew hew him well enough to know he was a great man,” Harry said, feeling tears running down his cheeks too. “And I know that you made him a happy man, Hermione. He loved you very much. And Snapote ote me, he’d probably only survived so long because he wanted to see his child.”

“Yes, he did.” Hermione pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and blew her nose.

“Was it haver ver the last months?” Harry asked quietly.

Hermione shook her head. “No, Harry, it was not,” she said almost dreamily. “People kept asking – and it drove me almost mad because – Harry, these last three months weren’t bad. They were …” She swallowed and put the handkerchief back in her pocket. “Perhaps it sounds odd, but we were happy. He didn’t suffer any pain. Even his rheumatic didn’t hurt him anymore because with his broken spine he couldn’t feel his legs. Sometimes he said he missed his magic, but it was only when one of us had been too long with him and he got the feeling that he demanded too much. We learned that soon and changed not only our schedule, but became more attentive with him. We tried to get the things he’d need in his reach – it wasn’t difficult because he didn’t need much. He slept a lot; he liked to hear music and could do so for hours. He liked when Severus or I read to him – mostly poetry. And we talked ….” She started to sob again. “That what I’ll miss most – lying in his arm, talking with him …”

“I should have been there …” Harry felt miserable.

“Nonsense,” Hermione said crisply. “Severus complained already about the house being more crowded than Hogsmeade on a free weekend. Molly was here every day for a few hours, Minerva came over every second day – Albus already teased her that she worked her deputy even harder than he did. On the weekends Ginny always came and Tonks rarely let a week go without coming here twice. Remus often sat with Albus and Moody came every morning to read the newspaper to him. You know, sometimes – as grateful I was for the help and as much as I knew that Albus enjoyed it – I was even glad when Severus and I were alone with him. And Severus was kind of jealous on certain things. He never allowed some one to wash or bath Albus – it was his task and even I wasn’t allowed to help. He was the only one who carried Albus in the garden when the weather was good enough. And in the last weeks as Albus mostly didn’t want to eat anymore, it was Severus who persuaded him with indefinite patience. He even brewed lemon drop juice for him …”

“He really loved him …” Harry said.

“Yes, Harry, he did. I knew you never liked him. But Albus loved him back and I don’t know what I would have done without him,” Hermione swallowed again. “Will you do me a favour, Harry?” she asked then.

“Whatever I can do.” Harry promised.

“Be nice to Severus. He can’t show it, but he’s even more heartbroken than I am. I have Leontes and I have friends, but Severus feels absolutely alone now. Albus was the only person he ever felt accepted and loved by. Severus really doesn’t know how to live without him.”

“He’s got the best friend one can get,” said Harry. “He got you.”

“I hope it will help him,” Hermione said, “and what probably will help him too is work – Albus persuaded him to go back to teaching.”

“Uuuh …” Harry said. “I mean – I thought…” he really didn’t want to say anything against Snape, but truth was truth. “He never liked teaching much, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t like teaching ignorant dunderheads who thought potions are something best bought in an apothecary,” Hermione said. “But he won’t have to teach such students anymore. He’s going to become a potion professor at Oxford. There he’ll get the elite of potion students and hopefully at least the appreciation he deserves. Johannes – you remember Albus’ cousin? – Says he always thought that Severus at Hogwarts was a waste – despite the fact that Hogwarts is the most renowned wizard’s school in Europe. But Severus is the last apprentice of Nicolas Flamel and is supposed to become even greater than his former master.”

“I know he’s brilliant,” Harry said. “Even as one of the ignorant dunderheads who’d like to buy all potions he ever needs in an apothecary, I’ve got that Snape is a great potion master. But what will you do now? Staying here with the baby?”

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “Albus was already not too happy about the time I was here without doing something useful. So I’ll go to Oxford too. I’ll become Severus’ student again. Besides I’ll get a degree in transfiguration and I’ll work on legimency.”

“And your son?” Harry wanted to know.

Hermione smiled to the cradle where the baby slept. “He’ll probably become a bit spoiled. I actually wanted to take him and Woopy with me to Oxford, but Molly became very strict. I’ll have to apparate with Leon to the Burrow before I go to the university – she’ll keep him. And considering how entirely over the moon she and Arthur and Ginny are with Leon, I’m afraid he’ll grow an ego there bigger than even his Slytherin father had one.” Looking back at Harry she asked: “And what’s with you? Will you stay in England?”

Harry nodded and even managed a smile. “Yes, I think so. ve ave a godson to look after, haven’t I?”

“So you’ll attend the Auror’s academy too? Ron’s already there and Moody will be happy to see you there,” Hermione said.

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I’ve got enough fighting and destruction for the rest of my life. In America I had time to think about my future – and my past. It was your husband who prevented me from killing. I think I should live up to that. So it’s …” he smiled a bit awkwardly, “… potions again, perhaps even potions with Professor Snape because I’ll need a degree in potions to become a med wizard.”

To be continued …