Measure for Measure

Author\'s Note: \"Measure for Measure\" was written before HBP came out. So it\'s not suiting the new canon - but hopefully the old one.

Many thanks to my beta-reader, the wonderful Angharad. If you like my stories, you should read hers too!


Measure for Measure


Disclaimer: see chapter 1

Chapter 3: The Power of Love

Ugh - why did her classroom have to be on the south side of the castle? In winter Hermione found it nice because it afforded her a great view over the cloister to the clock tower and the mountains beyond. But in summer she strongly disliked it, especially on days as hot as this. The sun had blazed all day through the windows and on the stone walls, and although Hermione had cast one cooling charm after another, she felt as if she were in an oven. Besides, it was Friday, and Hermione was looking forward to a free weekend. First, however, she had to suffer through eight hours of teaching, starting with the third year Hufflepuffs - a class Hermione always found exhausting because it contained four problem students. To have them for a double period was draining. And the subsequent class of Gryffindor fifth years tended to be very lively, with two pranksters to keep Hermione on her toes.

Yet the hardest hours of the day were the last two in the afternoon, the Slytherin sixth years - most of them talented, but critical of their young Gryffindor teacher. And at the moment Hermione found all Slytherins especially difficult. It was now five weeks since they had lost their head of house and three weeks since Alastor Moody had taken over. The Slytherins obviously weren’t too delighted to have the former Auror as their master, because most of them had been very loyal to Snape. After his death they had banded together, building up a wall against every influence from outside.

Hermione didn’t envy Alastor his job. He would need a lot of time and patience to win the trust of his charges. But she was sure he’d manage. If anyone had a chance it was Alastor. During the years Hermione had known him, she’d learned that the former top Auror hid an interesting personality behind his sometimes eccentric behaviour. He was highly intelligent, independent in his thinking, interested in and open to a lot of things, broad minded, a powerful wizard and a wonderful friend. To Hermione he’d become almost something like a surrogate father - someone she trusted entirely and was very fond of.

Stacking her books and papers, Hermione picked the pile up and left her classroom with a relieved sigh. She longed for her cool chambers - and perhaps a swim in the lake before dinner? On the other hand - she hadn’t slept well for the last few nights. Her stomach had been troubled, probably from the calamari she’d eaten last weekend when she met her friends. She’d thrown up twice and hardly had an appetite.

Although her loss of appetite probably wasn’t connected to the calamari, but to the fact that she felt rather helpless as far as her love life was concerned. In Venice she’d sworn to herself that she would convince Albus about being with her and, lying in his arms after a glorious lovemaking session, she hadn’t thought it would be too difficult. He’d wanted her as much as she’d wanted him, and he’d even admitted that he had “a weak spot” for her. Considering how careful he was with words, that counted as much as another man talking about love.

The morning after, Albus had taken her in his arms. For a while he only held her, his lips in her hair. Then he kissed her forehead. “Piccola - I thank you for two wonderful nights. You made me feel alive and happy. I’ll never forget it and you’ll always have a place in my heart. But I still don’t think I’d suit you. I’m too old, Hermione. So I think we should end this now.”

Hermione didn’t answer, but only kissed him, thinking to herself that the last word about their relationship had not yet been spoken.

But she’d underestimated Albus’ will - and his talent in avoiding her. In the four weeks since she hadn’t once managed to get him in private. Admittedly, he was now even busier than during the war. The trials of the Death eaters had begun, and in addition to spending a great deal of time at the Ministry, Albus was dealing with the problem of finding a new Potions Master. The few who met the high Hogwarts standards didn’t sit at home, twiddling their thumbs and waiting for offers, but were teaching at universities or working in labs. And what made the situation even worse, Snape had - in contrast to the other masters at Hogwarts - never tolerated a second Potions Master alongside him. He hadn’t even allowed a qualified assistant instructor, but only - after Albus had put his foot down - an apprentice, the shy, pale former Slytherin Algernon Brittle. He was in his second year, and even if he had been up to taking over more classes than the second and third years he was teaching, the law didn’t permit an apprentice to be for more than two weeks without a master. So Albus had taken him - and the first and fourth years, which meant sixteen hours of teaching every week. The older students were taught by a retired Potions master - and complained about him daily, because the almost two-hundred-year-old wizard was so deaf his pupils had to yell in order for him to hear their questions.

So Hermione’s chances of catching Albus in private were very small - he had hardly any private moments. She only could hope it would get better after the summer.

Huh - what was that? Around the corner of the corridor Hermione heard angry voices.

“… hilarious gnome of yours only got away all the time because no one ever took him seriously!” a boy mocked.

Another one joined him. “And even if someone tried to hex him - tiny as he is he can easily duck every curse!”

A few boys laughed, but one shouted angrily, “At least our head of house wasn’t a Death Eater and a bastard, like your late Snape!”

“One more word, Faustini - and I’ll hex you!”

Hermione pulled her wand out and hurried over.

“With the exception of your lot, and a few whores in Knockturn Alley who liked his money, no one mourns for Snape. Quite the con …” The Ravenclaw didn’t get to finish his sentence.

Hermione sprinted around the corner. She was too late, and it got worse - the boy from Ravenclaw had ducked the jinx the Slytherin had aimed at him. It bounced off the wall and hit Hermione directly in the chest. The force of it almost made her fall, but one of the Slytherins reacted and caught her. Struggling for air, Hermione leaned against him for a moment, then braced herself. “Thank you, Mister Rogers,” she said. Looking at the now pale Slytherin who’d fired the jinx, she commanded icily, “You’ll accompany me to Professor Moody.” Pointing with her chin to her books and papers which had fallen on the floor, she asked, “Could someone pick up my things perhaps?” She didn’t dare bend down herself - she was still dizzy, and didn’t want to fall on her face in front of the students.

Now a few of the students bent down. Hermione took a deep breath. Her chest hurt and there was something else. Turning her head - oh, she shouldn’t have done that so quickly, for now her stomach was cramping too - she looked at the Ravenclaw who’d provoked the Slytherin. “Twenty five points from Ravenclaw for insulting a late member of the Hogwarts staff.”

A Slytherin girl was offering Hermione her books, but before she could take them the boy who’d caught her did so. “May I take your things to your chambers?” he asked. “I’ll put them down in front of your door.”

“That would be nice, Mister Fenton-Fuller,” Hermione said. “Thank you.” Another deep breath. “Mister Rodgers - let’s go!”

Hermione was glad that the boy trotting behind her was quiet on their way down to the dungeons. Her chest was still aching every time she breathed and the nausea had become worse. Luckily Alastor didn’t reside in the Potion Master’s office. Seeing the ugly things Snape had kept there in jars - like newt eyes, crocodile testicles and flobberworm intestines - and smelling the potion ingredients would have made Hermione heave in an instant.

Knocking at the door with the sign “Prof. A. Moody, Master of Slytherin House,” she closed her eyes once again. Heavens, since when had she become such a soft egg that a bouncing jinx, cast by a student, could get her so down? Only a short time ago she’d have managed to withstand a stunner cast by Harry or Ron. Could a few weeks without combat training really cause her to lose her form so completely?

Obviously it could because Alastor immediately gripped her arm after opening the door. Leading her to one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk, he asked, “What happened, lass? You look like you could kip out of your shoes at any moment!”

Before Hermione could answer, she heard William Rodgers’ voice, “I tried to hex a Ravenclaw, sir. He ducked and the jinx bounced, hitting Professor Granger. I’m sorry.”

Alastor had made Hermione sit down and was stroking her hair. “Breath deeply, lass!” He barely looked up at the boy. “I’ll deal with you later! Get down to your common room.”

“Alastor …” Hermione jumped on her feet and ran to the little washroom attached to the office. She just managed to make it before her nausea overwhelmed her and she threw up violently.

Alastor had followed her and, kneeling down next to her, held her head. “Hell, lass - you’re vomiting as if you’d like to see last Sunday’s breakfast again,” he grumbled. “I think it’s the infirmary for you.”

Hermione’s stomach was empty, but the dizziness hadn’t gone. For a moment she closed her eyes and leaned her head against Alastor’s shoulder. “Give me a moment, Alastor. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think so.” Holding her with one hand, Alastor pulled his wand out. “Accio glass!” A glass sailed into his hand. He tipped his wand against it and it filled with water. “Here - rinse your mouth out.”

Gratefully Hermione obeyed. “Thank you, Alastor.” She tried to stand up, but her knees were too weak. Alastor caught her. “Oh, oh - you need a stretcher!”

“No!” Hermione protested. The idea of being carried through the castle didn’t appeal to her. The entire school would be talking about her weakness. “Really - I’ll manage on my feet.”

“Hmm …” Alastor didn’t sound too convinced, but put his arm around her waist. “We’ll go to see Poppy. And afterwards, I’ll grill the young man.”

Hermione didn’t feel like fighting his decision. She was too dizzy and suddenly so exhausted that the infirmary sound like a good idea. The infirmary meant lying down - and she urgently needed to lie down. Supporting herself on Alastor’s shoulder, she staggered to the door with him. “Alastor, there’s one thing you should know. Rodgers was provoked - heavily - by the Ravenclaws. They were mocking Snape.”

“Oh hell,” Alastor grumbled. “I could never stand the git, but he obviously wasn’t a bad Head of House. The kids…” he stopped to look at a painting of a rather grim looking old wizard and murmur a password. The wizard in the portrait waved his wand and the wall opened, revealing a small staircase. Alastor led Hermione up as he continued, “…are still amazingly loyal to him.”

“He favoured them shamelessly,” Hermione said, leaning on Alastor.

“Hermione, I don’t intend to favour the Slytherins, but you’ll have to admit - being a Slytherin is hard nowadays. Most people treat our house as if it had been a baby Death Eaters training camp. My charges have to prove they’re not guilty …”

They’d arrived at a small hallway with round arched windows on the one side and three oak doors on the other. Hermione was hit by a new wave of dizziness as she looked into the light. Stretching her free arm, she braced herself against the wall.

She heard one of the doors opening, but she didn’t look at it. She was too busy breathing.

“Hermione, Alastor - what happened?” Albus was at her side, laying his hand on her shoulder.

Hermione’s chest still hurt and her stomach was cramping again. Nevertheless she tried to smile. “Don’t worry, Albus …”

“Hermione was hit by a bouncing jinx,” Alastor explained. “She puked like a drunken sailor and now I’m getting her up to the infirmary.”

Albus put the pile of papers he’d been holding in Alastor’s hands. “Just keep that for me.” Without further ado he lifted Hermione up into his arms, looking down at her, his eyes full of worry. “Let’s go.”

Hermione closed her eyes and snuggled her head against his shoulder. It was good to be in his arms. His smell, the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms seemed to soothe her troubled stomach. And even breathing became easier. “Albus - I’ll be fine,” she whispered.

“That’s for Poppy to say. At the moment you look like death twice warmed over. Alastor,” Albus’ voice sounded very angry, “who did this to her?”

“William Rodgers - one of my seventh years. I’ll give him a severe detention.”

“No, I don’t think so. You’ll send him up to me later,” Albus ordered.

Hermione had rarely heard him sound so “headmasterly” and she couldn’t remember him ever overruling one of his Heads of House. “Albus, the boy was provoked,” she said. “The Ravenclaw he directed his jinx at had mocked Severus.”

“That’s no excuse.” Albus stormed up the stairs which led to another corridor. Opening a door with his elbow, he entered a room with a single bed. Hermione recognized it as the teacher’s chamber in the infirmary. She’d been there before, when Minerva had suffered from the flu the previous year.

Albus laid her cautiously down on the bed while Alastor threw the papers on the chair next to the bed, opened the door and called, “Poppy! Poppy - you’re needed!”

The mediwitch rushed in, the ribbons of her bonnet fluttering behind her. “What happened?” she demanded to know, already pulling her wand out.

Once again Alastor explained, while Albus bent over Hermione, stroking her hair softly. “Poppy will help you, Piccola.”

“Yes, she will.” The mediwitch pushed him away. “But first the two of you will disappear.”

Albus looked at Hermione, opened his mouth, but closed it without saying anything.

“We’ll wait outside!” Alastor announced, opening the door and limping outside, pulling Albus with him.

“Men!” Poppy commented, shaking her head. Then she smiled at Hermione. “Let’s see.” She waved her wand and made Hermione’s clothes vanish. Hermione looked down at herself. She had a big black mark on her chest - no wonder it hurt so much. “Hmm - full hit,” Poppy grumbled. Letting her wand hover over Hermione’s body, she murmured a diagnostic spell, raised her eyebrow, moved the wand a bit deeper over Hermione’s stomach, grumbled another spell and furrowed her brow. Her wand pointed now at Hermione’s groin. She cast a spell, shook her head, repeated it and looked up at Hermione. “So - let me heal the bruise on your chest. You’ll feel better then.” Another wave of her wand and Hermione felt immediately how the ache ebbed away and breathing became easier.

“Thank you, Poppy!” Hermione touched her chest bone. “I feel much better.”

Poppy sat down on the bedside and studied Hermione’s face. “Why didn’t you come earlier?” she asked.

“I could hardly come before I was hit,” Hermione tried to joke.

“Indeed. The question is, what kind of hit are we talking about?” Poppy’s blue eyes watched Hermione intently. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

Hermione swallowed. “No, Poppy. What’s the matter? Am I sick?”

“No, you’re not sick. But when did you have your period last, Hermione?” Poppy asked seriously.

“Oh, it’s rather irregular, but I’ve cast a lasting Contraceptus charm, so I don’t need to worry,” Hermione said lightly.

The mediwitch sighed and took Hermione’s hand. “It’s very rare, Hermione, but it has happened before …”

“You mean?” Hermione sat up, became dizzy again and fell back at the pillows. “Poppy, it’s impossible! I can’t be …” she couldn’t bring herself to speak the word out loud.

Poppy didn’t have such a problem. Calmly she confirmed, “Hermione, you’re pregnant. Five weeks, which means in eight months you’ll have a baby.”

“Oh Merlin.” Hermione closed her eyes. Like most young women she’d thought about having children one day, but the “one day” had always seemed far away in the future. And now she was pregnant and - Albus! It was Albus’ child she was expecting. What would he say?

“Hermione …” Poppy was still holding her hand. “I take it you didn’t plan to have this baby?”

“No,” Hermione said. “Certainly not.”

“Well,” the mediwitch swallowed. “You’re a witch and as such you can decide whether you have the baby or not. There are potions …”

“No!” Hermione laid her hand protectively over her belly. “No, Poppy! I didn’t plan on having a baby, but it’s there and I could never do something …” She fell silent. Hundreds of thoughts whirled through her head. She would have a baby! What would that mean for her life? And Albus? He certainly never intended to sire a child - not with her.

“Hermione.” Now Poppy was hugging her. “I’m glad you’ll keep it. You know, some people say that Contraceptus will only fail when the witch and the wizard sleeping together actually wish it.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said, “but this I can’t believe. The wizard in question certainly didn’t wish it. And I … well, I wouldn’t have asked for it right now either.” But there was something in her that was full of joy, and there was warmth and the image of a baby with eyes as blue as the summer sky. And perhaps it had inherited Albus’ beautiful hands too? And his broad forehead?

“One never knows, Hermione,” Poppy said now. “But about one thing I’m certain - the man you’ve chosen is certainly someone special, and with you as the mother it will be a great kid.” She took a deep breath. “Hermione - will you marry the father?”

Slowly Hermione shook her head. “I don’t think so, Poppy. We’re not an item. We were only together for a very short time.”

“Oh my - that will make it rather difficult for you, dearie. You know, our world is rather old-fashioned when it comes to things like having a child out of wedlock. But,” she patted Hermione’s hand once again, “here at Hogwarts you’ll be safe. A few of the governors and parents will make a fuss, but Albus is absolutely fuss-resistant. He’ll probably say, ‘Such things happen - and she was hired as a teacher, not as the resident saint‘. And then he’ll probably offer to become the child’s godfather and with him at your side no one will dare to talk badly about you.”

Hermione felt suddenly dizzy again. What would Poppy say when she learned that Albus was the child’s father? And even worse, Minerva! And the boys! Harry’s relationship with Albus was difficult - only a few days ago he’d told Hermione, “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but part of my happiness about the war’s end is that I don’t have to deal with Dumbledore anymore.”

Harry had never forgiven Albus for placing him with his aunt as a baby, dooming him to growing up in a cupboard under the stairs and never knowing love during his childhood. And based on that, Harry had added a grudge about Albus not revealing the prophecy that Harry would have to kill Voldemort or be killed by him. The result of that had been – or so Harry saw it at least - that Harry’s godfather had died, another thing Harry blamed Albus for.

Of course Ron shared his best friend’s opinion about the Headmaster. And Ron had once - during their seventh year - developed a crush on Hermione. It had led to two dates and Hermione learning that she really didn’t like wet kisses and clumsy hands fumbling at her breast. Besides it had felt so absolutely wrong - like kissing a brother. Hermione had told Ron this, but it hadn’t sat well with him. To learn now that Hermione was pregnant by Albus - Hermione was sure that neither Harry nor Ron would like that.

Hermione cringed at the thought of telling the boys. And for a moment she felt tempted to run away. Simply packing her stuff, getting her money from Gringotts - she’d saved a nice sum since she’d become a well-paid member of the Hogwarts staff - and escaping into the Muggle world would solve her problem not only with telling the boys and Minerva, but with Albus too. Her parents were tolerant, broad-minded people - they certainly wouldn’t be delighted about their only daughter being pregnant by a man who easily could have been her great-grandfather, but they would help her to get a Muggle education and a job which would make it possible for her to raise her child.

Or perhaps she could go to America or Australia? She was a Transfiguration mistress with top grades; she’d been the apprentice of a master who was known as the greatest wizard alive. One of the wizards’ colleges in Australia or America would certainly offer her a job and then she could raise her child without any financial problems. And she could spare herself all the fuss made by her friends! She’d only have to say that she’d gotten this irresistible offer from the college in Little Boredom, Arkansas or Buttoftheworld, Australia and that she’d always wanted to see more of the world than Hogwarts and England.

It would be the solution to all her problems. In America or Australia she could even tell people that she’d become a widow in the war and that her baby… Her baby, the child she was expecting. Oh heavens, she could perhaps lie to strangers, but she certainly wouldn’t lie to her child. How inconvenient it was for her - her baby had not only a right to know who its father was, but to be with him too. This baby wasn’t only hers, but Albus’ too - and that made it the descendant of one of the oldest wizarding families in Europe. The baby had a right to know about that.

Besides, it was almost certain that a child of a Muggleborn witch and a wizard would be magical too. And that meant that the name and the heritage of this baby would appear in the Hogwarts register within the hour it was born - and about one thing Hermione was certain - there was no place on earth she could hide when Albus searched for her. And learning that he’d become a father without her telling him - Hermione would rather not find out what he would have to say about that. What had Minerva said once? “Albus rarely becomes furious - but the two or three times I’ve experienced it I’ve always wanted to take cover behind the next thing available.” Hermione herself remembered one time when she’d seen Albus really angry - during her third year at school when Dementors had swarmed the pitch during a Quidditch match. The Dementors hadn’t frightened her as much as Albus in his fury. And the only reason why Ron never could tease her about ducking under the bench she’d been sitting on was because he’d dived under it already.

So keeping the baby away from Albus wasn’t an option. She would have to face him - and the entire magical world.


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


Albus was tired. The past two days he’d again spent in court for the trial of Timotheus Boscastle-Ainsworth, a man who’d once almost become Minister of Magic and who all his life had been an esteemed member of Wizarding society. Even Albus had been shocked when he’d learned that the owner of one of the greatest potion labs in Europe had been a supporter of Voldemort and later of Bellatrix Lestrange.

The second day Albus had found even worse. The Wizengamot had started with the trial against Marcus Jullus Lestrange, the 22 year old cousin of Bellatrix Lestrange’s late husband, who’d been her right hand and lover. He was also a former Hogwarts pupil - Slytherin of course - and a great cousin of Severus Snape. Albus remembered only too well how his Potions master had fought to keep the boy away from Bellatrix Lestrange and that Marcus Jullus Lestrange had been something like a son to Severus, who’d suffered a great deal when the boy had joined the Death Eaters.

Severus’ relationship with him, his firm belief that Marcus Jullus actually wasn’t bad, had prompted Albus to ask Augustus McGonagall to defend the young man. And as fiery and brilliant as Augustus had been during the time he’d worked as a prosecutor, as belligerent and determined he was as counsel for the defence. He’d cornered the prosecutor so often that the man asked for a delay to prepare himself anew. Albus could already see that the trial of Marcus Jullus Lestrange would take another two or three days.

He’d always been convinced that every accused - whatever he’d done - had to get a fair trial, no matter how long was needed. But with running a school and teaching himself, Albus simply had reached his limit. He couldn’t stretch himself any thinner. For days he hadn’t gotten more than four or five hours of sleep and still his desk was flooded with urgent owls and papers; his secretary looked rather desperate, his - Severus’ former - apprentice was almost in tears every time Albus saw him and - heavens, there was this Potions master business and - well, solving the Potions master problem would solve another matter too, but he needed time to work it through! And time was what he didn’t have.

And there was Hermione - or more precisely, a note from Hermione, saying, “Albus, I’m sorry to bother you, but I urgently need to talk with you in private. H.” The “private” was underlined - and didn’t the tone sound almost hostile?

She wasn’t the type of woman to make one of these dreadful “You can’t leave me - I love you too much” scenes. He knew her, and he was sure that her pride would prevent her from pleading. After he’d told her that he didn’t want to proceed with their little affair, she would probably rather swallow the descendants - all two hundred and twelve of them - of her friend Neville’s toad than to show him that she still wanted him.

Drained as he was, Albus nevertheless didn’t fail to see the irony in that. During his long history with women he’d twice or three times been asked for his love. He’d always hated to refuse, he’d felt miserable about it, but he’d known that love wasn’t something one could command.

Love couldn’t be ordered. He had never been so aware of that as in the last few years. He’d become - and he couldn’t remember when this had happened last to him - a victim of his own feelings. If he could have ordered them, he would commanded the love he felt for Hermione away. It was so entirely wrong! It went against everything he had always believed in. Hermione had been his student only a few years ago; she’d been even more - his apprentice, entrusted to him to be educated and looked after. And he’d always taken his responsibilities towards his pupils very seriously. Discovering that Hermione meant more to him than every young person he’d ever taught - finding himself endeared by her smile, enchanted by her quick wits and her warmth, fascinated by her brilliant mind and indefinite thirst for knowledge - had confused him. And learning that his body reacted to her, that looking at her made him wish to pull her in his arms and into the next dark corner - it had been a profound shock and something about which he was terribly uncomfortable.

Even as a young man he’d liked his lovers adult and experienced. And now he should be lusting after one who was hardly out of her student’s robes? When he first discovered it, he’d felt like a dirty old man and he’d needed some time - and a passionate affair with the beautiful and loveable American ambassador - until he’d thought himself above it.

But then came the attack on the oil platform, and as the curse had hit him and he’d been falling, time had seemed to stand still for a few seconds. And at that moment he saw Hermione - strong and brave - and he regretted that he’d never taken her in his arms, that he’d never been with her. In this precious moment he knew that she wanted him too; that there had been something special between them and the thought that he would go without her knowing that she’d been what had made him smile, even in wartime; that she’d been what had kept him going; that she’d become his living, breathing symbol for what he fought for, had hurt even more than the wounds he’d gotten during the battle.

Coming back, finding her in the lab - he needed her more than he’d ever needed another woman before. With her he’d felt alive again and with her he’d found himself again.

Yet he couldn’t keep her. As much as he wished for her, as much as he longed for her - to keep her would have been unfair. She was so young and what she needed was a man she could spend her life with; one who was able to keep up with her and her energy; who’d share her life and would remain at her side. He was too old, too tired and too drained. He wouldn’t be able to give her what she needed and deserved. Loving her meant giving her the freedom to find another man and to become happy with him.


Looking at his clock, Albus sighed. He’d spent almost all day in the classroom - and now he understood why Severus had always complained about the “dunderheads” he had to deal with. In each of his classes was at least one student who managed to melt cauldrons, cause explosions or poison himself or his classmates. This day alone Albus had twice sealed a cauldron right before it would have exploded, and he’d done a tiger jump over two desks to prevent a student from putting something in his potion that would have blown half the classroom away. He’d also sent two students to the infirmary - one because he had cut his own fingers instead of the asphodels, and the other because hanging his head over his cauldron had caused boils to spread all over his face.

Now it was six o’clock and although Albus would have liked to sit in front of the fire and have at least a cup of tea in silence - he’d have to go down to the dungeons to look after Algernon Brittle and his always failing skelegrow - and really, he didn’t understand why Severus had taken an apprentice who even needed a recipe to brew potions out of the third year syllabus.

Dinner at seven then - and at eight he’d meet Hermione at the lake. He urgently needed a bit of fresh air and a little stroll on such a nice summer evening wouldn’t hurt Hermione either. Since he’d gotten her to the infirmary a week ago he’d only seen her at meals, and although Poppy had assured him that Hermione didn’t have a health problem, he worried about her. She was pale and seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.


He’d expected her at dinner. Although it was Friday evening and almost half of the teachers were already gone for the weekend - Hermione was in the castle. So why hadn’t she presented herself at dinner? The question had bothered him so much he asked Minerva if she knew where Hermione was.

“She’s probably working on the OWLs. You know how she is,” Minerva answered. “She likes to have things done on time - and with the term’s end in only two weeks – it is time to grade the exams. I would appreciate it if more of our dear colleagues were working on the exams already.” The usual rant followed, but Albus didn’t listen to it. He picked at his food, thinking of Hermione. What was it she needed to talk with him about?

Well - in a few minutes he’d know. He was on his way down to the lake, hands in the pockets of his light, white summer robe. Around the castle a lot of students were on their way - the summer evening seemed to have lured most of the castle’s inhabitants outside. Admittedly - there were a few clouds in the sky now. Perhaps they’d get a thunderstorm during the night. Albus certainly would like that. Rain and thunderstorms he’d always loved. In his young years he’d sometimes fly in his phoenix form through a thunderstorm, enjoying it as a challenge. Even now he sometimes stood naked on the balcony in front of his bedchamber, enjoying the rain and the wind on his skin.

Now Albus could see Hermione - and he couldn’t help smiling. She sat on a bench, in her dark blue teaching robes, looking almost like a student - and she was reading a book. She was so absorbed in it that she didn’t even notice him until he sat down next to her.

“Good evening, Hermione.”

“Oh.” She closed her book. “You’re punctual.” It almost sounded like a reproach.

“Sorry for acting out of character,” Albus answered lightly. “I was in need of some fresh air. I’ve probably been spending too much time in the dungeons.”

Hermione had pulled her wand out, shrinking her book and putting it and the wand in a pocket of her jeans. Rising up she said, “Let’s walk a bit, shall we?” Noticing his slight hesitation she added, “Don’t worry, Albus. I won’t pull you behind a bush and seduce you.”

There was bitterness in her voice and he felt hurt. Standing up he said, “I didn’t think you would.”

“And here I believed that was the reason for meeting me here, in sight of the castle and with the students running around.” Hermione kicked a little stone into the lake, watching how the water splattered around.

“The reason was my need for fresh air,” Albus responded calmly. “Hermione - what’s the matter with you?” he asked then, looking anxiously at her. “Why did you want to see me?”

Hermione walked two steps, then looked up at the castle. “I’d have liked to break it gently to you, but I don’t know how. So, to be blunt - I’m pregnant, Albus.”

Albus stared at her. He was almost sure he hadn’t heard that right. “You’re what?” he asked, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

“Pregnant,” Hermione repeated. “I’m going to have a baby.”

Albus still couldn’t believe it. “Pregnant,” he whispered. “But how?”

Hermione tried a smile, but it looked rather sad. “Well, Headmaster - I don’t have to tell you the story about the bees and the flowers, do I? And as the one who teaches sexual education you actually should know that Contraceptus charms can fail.”

Albus closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply. And once again - but it didn’t help much. He still felt totally overwhelmed. And - and … “Hermione - I’m the father, am I?”

This had been the wrong question. Her eyes were blazing and her voice sounded chilly. “I can assure you, I normally don’t jump on men. You were the exception to the rule. But I’ve learned my lesson. I certainly won’t do it again.”

“Hermione - I’m sorry.” He looked at her. “I apologize for the inappropriate question and …”

“… the trouble you’ve got me in?” Hermione snorted. “I was pretty much part of that, so I should probably apologize to you. But on the other hand,” she breathed deeply, “I don’t expect you to become involved in the upbringing of my child. If you want me to, I’ll even …”

“Moment, Hermione!” Albus interrupted her. “You don’t expect me to involve myself in the upbringing of your child? Your child? Isn’t it ours?”

Hermione crossed her arms over her breasts. “Who’s going to get the thick belly? You or I?”

“Hermione, I’m well aware of the biological part of this.” Albus felt anger creeping up. What did she take him for? A rogue who would impregnate a woman and then leave her alone? He wouldn’t maintain he’d behaved like a gentleman around her, but Merlin, sleeping with the wrong woman didn’t make him a complete rascal! “Even with you suffering through all the inconveniences - we’re together in this. Hostility towards each other won’t help us.” During their conversation they’d walked along the shore. Now they reached a place with a few rocks. Albus sat down on one of them. “I must admit I feel rather overwhelmed. I need a moment to think.”

Hermione once again kicked a stone in the water. For a while she was silent, then with her back still turned to him, she said, “Albus, I’ve thought about the situation too. And I’ve come to the conclusion that it will be best that I leave Hogwarts. The Irish Wizard’s College in Galway needs a second Transfiguration master.”

“Hermione!” Albus interrupted her. “You know yourself why the IWC needs a new Transfiguration master again. Their first one is Ian Gellan - and he is not only unable, but a bully who treats his minors like dirt. You wouldn’t last a month with him.”

“I survived seven years with Snape,” Hermione reminded him. “I don’t think Gellan would be worse.”

“Hermione, why are we talking about your leaving Hogwarts?” Albus asked.

“Heavens,” she whirled around, looking at him. “How thick can a man be? If I go to Galway,” she was now speaking in the tone of a very patient teacher talking to a very slow student, “no one needs to know about you being the father of my child!”

“And why should no one know about it?” Albus demanded to learn. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“Oh Merlin! This can’t be happening!” Hermione rolled her eyes. “I know you’re a man and I know men are vain and uber-sensitive when it comes to their fragile little egos. So please forgive me for not treating your finer feelings as carefully as you’d want me to. But at the moment I really do have a few other problems than you feeling hurt!”

Albus once again breathed deeply - and counted to twenty, as his mother had once advised him to do before yelling at someone. Then slowly he said, “Hermione, I understand this situation is very difficult for you. But running away to Galway or insulting me isn’t a solution.”

“And - and you know a solution?” Hermione sat down on a rock next to Albus, folded her hands in her lap and looked at him. “Let me hear it.”

Albus closed his eyes. Calmly he said, “There’s only one. You’ll stay at Hogwarts, you’ll marry me, we’ll bring up our child together …”

“And then we’ll divorce? When, Albus? When our child is potty-trained? When it’s ready for elementary school? Or when it starts Hogwarts?” Hermione almost yelled. “Let’s marry and plan the divorce - what a romantic proposal!”

This time Albus needed to count to fifty before he felt able to keep his voice down. Nevertheless he spoke through gritted teeth. “Be sensible, Hermione. We’re not talking about romance, but about giving our child a proper upbringing.”

“A proper upbringing in a happy family - with parents who only married because a Contraceptus charm went wrong.” Rising up again, Hermione kicked another stone in the lake. “Forget about it, Albus. I won’t marry a man who wouldn’t even look twice at me if he hadn’t accidentally knocked me up.” She turned around again. “And that is that. I’ve informed you, I’ll give you a chance to see your child if you want to, but I won’t stay at Hogwarts.”

She wanted to go away, but Albus was on his feet and gripping her arm, he held her back. He was really furious now. “Stop! We’re not finished yet.”

“I am!” Hermione pulled her arm out of his grip.

“Pity. I’m not. Henceforth you’ll hear me out,” Albus hissed. “You won’t leave Hogwarts. You will stay and marry me. And as long as our child needs us, we’ll deal with each other.”

“You can’t order me to marry you!” Hermione yelled. “And I will not!”

“Don’t yell at me!” Albus warned her. “You don’t want to make me angry.”

“Don’t I?” Hermione braced her back, raised her chin and looked into his eyes challengingly. “Do you intend to hex me, Albus?”

“No, certainly not. But if you try to keep me away from our child, I’ll fight for custody …”

Hermione paled and backed away. “You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I’d loathe it, but …” Albus let the line hang. He made a step towards her, but she backed away, looking almost terrified at him. “Hermione, please - let’s try to handle the situation sensibly! It’s not about us, but about our child. We’re responsible for it and we owe it to do everything in our power to make its life as happy as possible. And that means we owe it at least a try at becoming a family.” Taking his spectacles off he sighed. “Hermione, I’m well aware no woman as young as you wants to marry an old man. But look at it logically - we’ll need around fifteen or sixteen years to bring this child up - or perhaps even less. Perhaps eleven will do because our child probably will attend Hogwarts then. Eleven or twelve years - that’s not even ten percent of your lifespan! You’ll still be a young woman when our child will be ready for Hogwarts. And I promise I’ll give you a divorce then without any discussions or objections. Until then I won’t demand any more from you than that we share our obligations as parents. My flat in the Main tower has rooms for a wife and children. You can live there and if you want to, you can even have your own entrance to your section. I won’t bother you, Hermione. You shall have your freedom as far as it is possible under such circumstances.” He took her hand and this time she didn’t shy away. Looking down at her pale face he begged, “Please, Hermione - for the sake of our child - marry me.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Pulling her hand out of his, she sat down on one of the rocks, pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them and looked at the lake.

Albus sat down on another stone, waiting patiently. He still felt as if he’d fallen out of his reality. Was this really happening? Was he really and truly to become a father?

When he’d married Rhianon he wanted a family. Rhianon had dreamed about having children too, and they’d even figured out names for their babies. But Rhianon hadn’t become pregnant. In the first year Albus hadn’t much worried about it. In the second his wife had become impatient and more and more desperate. In the third she’d been so miserable that he’d gone with her to a healer. The healer had checked both of them, finding nothing wrong. So he’d advised them to watch Rhianon’s cycle and to make sure that they had sex on her fertile days.

There the trouble had started. Albus hated to make love following the calendar. He didn’t know what he found more frustrating, to be told, “Not now, darling. Save it for tomorrow!” or “I know you have had a hard day, but we need to sleep together tonight.”

The longer it went, the more he loathed it. And finally his body refused. One day, when his wife asked him to make love to her, he hadn’t been able to perform.

That first night Rhianon had been very understanding. Taking him in her arms, she comforted him. “Albus, I know - you’re tired and overworked. Just sleep and tomorrow you’ll feel better.”

Only he hadn’t. Even his usual morning erection hadn’t helped him. It had subsided immediately after he’d emptied his bladder and even the tender ministrations of his wife hadn’t got him up again.

Rhianon had tried to remain calm, but she fought against tears. And when he failed again the next night, she cried, “I know you aren’t doing this on purpose, but I want a baby, Albus!”

It became worse during the following weeks. Four days later he’d taken her in his arms and his whimsical member had immediately reacted. But instead of a sweet hour he got a reproachful, “Why could you now and not four days before?”

From there it hadn’t been a long road to a row. When she reached her next fertile phase, Albus suffered from impotence again. The debate become rather hostile. From, “If you hadn’t overdone yourself so much two days ago, you wouldn’t be too tired today” over “I’m not a stallion who can perform on command!” to “Don’t you dare ask for sex in a few days!” followed by a furious “Don’t you worry, Rhianon! Being reduced to a progenitor I don’t find very erotic!”

It had taken two weeks to make up after this argument, but the situation didn’t get much better afterwards. Albus had started to look at the calendar too, forcing himself to abstain two weeks before her fertile days, hoping that it would make him needy enough to comply to his wife’s request when she needed him.

\"It had become a complete disaster! Rhianon had obviously thought her husband would need a little help getting started. Promptly he’d exploded into her hand which had brought her to tears again and caused him to scream in frustration, “If wanting a child means we have to ruin our sex life, I abstain! I love you and I don’t want to lose you by running after a dream.”

Rhianon had cried - and Albus, regretting his outburst immediately, had apologized and comforted her. He loved her, he wanted to make her happy, and he’d tried his best, but although he eventually managed to overcome his potency problem - Rhianon hadn’t become pregnant.

Two years - and many, many tears - later Rhianon said farewell to the dream of a child too. Only Albus’ relief - after all the misery his wife had gone through he really didn’t want a child anymore - hadn’t lasted for long. Rhianon decided to concentrate on her career again, so she’d taken up an offer from the opera in Berlin - very much to Albus’ dismay. In contrast to his wife, who’d never been interested in politics, he was very worried about the Nazis. And he was - once again in contrast to his wife - aware that the “friendship” between Germany and England wouldn’t last for long.\"

Indeed - three years after Rhianon had gone to Berlin the Nazis started a war and Albus needed to get his wife out of Germany. Shortly afterwards he went there to organize the resistance against Hitler’s ally, the wizard Grindelwald.

Albus had thought Rhianon safe in London. In this he’d been mistaken - and he learned it the hard way. On a beautiful September morning in the second year of the war against Grindelwald, Alastor Moody, who’d been Albus’ second in command and his connection to the Wizarding world in England, had appeared in the Muggle sweet shop Albus had made up for cover.

Bluntly, as it had always been his way, he said, “Grindelwald attacked your house last night, Albus. I’m terribly sorry. Rhianon is dead.”

She hadn’t stood a chance. Grindelwald and his minions had broken through Albus’ wards, stormed the house, killed the two Aurors who guarded it and murdered the defenceless woman. When Alastor arrived, they found three bodies and - written with Rhianon’s blood - an inscription on the wall: “You’re next, Dumbledore!”

Grindelwald had been wrong. Not Albus, but he had been next. Three months after the attack on his house Albus found and defeated Grindelwald in a furious duel. He’d been injured himself and Alastor had found him unconscious and close to death hours after the battle. He apparated with Albus to St. Mungo’s and then - knowing that Albus would need not only potions and healing charms, but care and warmth - he’d gone to Dumbledore Mansion in Yorkshire. When Albus had regained consciousness, his parents were at his bedside. Three weeks later they took their son to Venice and there, in the peace and quiet of the home he’d spent the biggest part of his childhood in, he came back to himself. But it had taken years before he’d felt able to love and to be close to a woman again.

His dream of a family he’d thought buried with Rhianon. And in the subsequent years he’d always comforted himself with the thought that his students were something like his children.


Now he would become a father. In a few months Hermione would give birth to a child who would be his daughter or son. He would hold it in his arms; he would see its first smile; watch over its first steps. He would change nappies; tell bedtime stories; hold a little hand in his. And this girl or boy wouldn’t call him “Uncle Albus” or “Headmaster”, but “Father”. And how would it look, the little one? Would it have Hermione’s beautiful cinnamon eyes?

“I hope it gets your nose,” he suddenly heard himself say.

Hermione turned her head and looked at him. “Last night I dreamed it is a boy. And he had your eyes and your forehead and your mouth. And I actually wouldn’t mind if he got your nose too.”

“Hmm - I’d rather like a girl with your nose and your eyes and your mouth. You’re certainly the prettier one of us,” Albus gave back.

“The boy in my dream wore a bonnet,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Albus …,” she hesitated. “I know it probably sounds terribly silly, but for the last few days I haven’t been able to help wondering. What was your hair colour before it became white?”

“Oh my - let’s hope the baby inherits yours.” Albus smiled.

“Why? I’m mousy brown. I don’t think that’s very appealing,” Hermione said.

“I like your hair. It’s not mousy, but golden brown. But I was a redhead.”

“Ugh - like the Weasleys?” Hermione made a face. “Ginny always complains about her ‘impossible’ hair.”

“Mine was a bit darker than the Weasleys. Nice people called my hair colour ‘auburn’,” Albus told her. For a moment both remained in silence again, then Albus said, “We’ll have to tell Minerva. She will have to take over the dangerous lessons for you and she will have to release you from night duty.”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “Poppy told me already, but I didn’t want to tell Minerva before you knew.”

Albus gave her a lopsided grin. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have liked to learn by being castrated at the same time.”

“I’ll tell her,” Hermione offered.

“No.” Albus shook his head. “I won’t hide behind your back, Hermione.” He sighed once more. “Under the circumstances, I don’t think a big wedding would be appropriate.”

“No, certainly not,” Hermione immediately agreed. “If you ask me - I’d prefer it as small and simple as possible. I’d hate to have to act the happy bride …”

“I understand.” Albus swallowed. He felt terribly guilty. Every young woman, so he’d learned, dreamed about her wedding as “the happiest day of her life”. And he remembered with how much joy Rhianon had prepared for it and how much she’d enjoyed that she had not only gotten a Muggle, but a Wizard wedding too. And here he was now with the young woman who would be the mother of his child - and he couldn’t even give her the wedding she deserved!

There was only one comforting thought - that she would get a second chance in a few years. There would be a young man who’d give her everything she’d ever dreamed of.

“Albus - I’ve read that Muggle weddings are acknowledged in our world,” Hermione said now, her voice sounding flat. “That means we could simply go to a registry office …”

“Yes.” Albus nodded. “If you prefer it that way we’ll go to a registry office. And I think we should do it directly after term’s end. Then we’ll announce it and when the students come back in autumn, it’ll already be old news and no one will make a big fuss about it.”

“That would be in two weeks.” Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. “Well - why not? I only have to talk with my parents first. I think they deserve to learn about it before we marry.”

“Of course,” Albus agreed. “Do you want me to accompany you to your parents’?”

Hermione shook her head. “No. I don’t think that would be a good idea. They won’t be too happy, so I think it’ll better if I talk to them alone first.”

“What about your friends? Shall I talk to the Messieurs Potter and Weasley?” Albus asked.

“Ugh!” Hermione shuddered, then smiled bravely and quoted him, “I don’t want to hide behind your back.”

“You’re the pregnant one. So you need to be spared and spoiled,” he reminded her.

Hermione didn’t answer, but looked again out at the lake. After a long silence she said, “Don’t get me wrong, Albus. I certainly didn’t intend to become pregnant and I hate that you shall be forced to marry me. To you it must feel as if …”

Albus stopped her by laying his hand on her arm. “It takes two people to make a baby. I’m as much responsible for that as you, if not more. I was the one who even didn’t think of casting a Contraceptus charm on our first night.”

“You did one the second night?” Hermione asked.

“Yes.” He sighed. “You know, men can’t do one that lasts longer than a few hours, but in Venice I thought of it.”

Hermione sounded ironic. “Not too bad, Albus. First shoot, full hit. And you know, I’ve read that the fertility of men goes down with age.”

“Well,” he shrugged his shoulders, “if you want to you can blame me.”

“It wouldn’t change anything, would it? Besides, you’ll get your punishment. You have to marry me,” Hermione said dryly.

“I don’t think that’s a punishment, Hermione”, Albus gave back firmly.

“However - what I actually wanted to say,” Hermione played with the hem of her sleeve. “Albus, I was shocked when Poppy told me that I’m pregnant. But now, after a week - I want this baby, Albus. And I’m looking forward to having it.”

Albus had to swallow a lump in his throat before he was able to answer. Quietly he said, “I’m glad you feel that way. And I’ll be always proud of you and our child. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful mother.”

“Always the gentleman,” Hermione stated, sounding slightly ironic. “But I’m sure you’ll be a good father too.”

“I will try,” Albus promised. Looking almost shyly at her, he added, “I know, at the moment the baby is very tiny and there’s nothing to feel. But when it starts to move - I mean when it kicks and your belly gets big and …” he hesitated, breathed deeply and finished at last, “If you could bear with me, I’d like to participate in that.”

Hermione laid her hand on her still flat belly. “I won’t only tell you, Albus. I will probably storm your office and demand that you lay your hand on my belly and feel how the little genius is kicking me. And if he bothers me too much, I’ll rant at you!”

“The little genius?” Albus asked. “Isn’t that expecting rather a lot?”

Hermione laughed. “It wasn’t me who called the baby ‘the little genius’. It was Poppy. She doesn’t know you’re the father, but she asked me if he ‘was be up to my intellectual standard’. I told her baby’s father is the most intelligent man I’ve ever met. Since then she insists that I - to quote her - ‘breed a little genius’.”

“At the moment I have a few doubts about the father’s intelligence,” Albus said. “But I think yours makes up for that.” He grinned lopsidedly. “Perhaps the fact that the little genius could become a Gryffindor will save me from being killed by Minerva.”

Hermione rose up and stepped next to him. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she said, “Please tell her, that the baby and I would like to have you back in one piece. You know, I was prepared to raise the little one alone. But I’m glad I won’t have to. I think a child needs a mother and a father.”

“So do I.” Albus stood up too and, looking down at her, he said,: “I didn’t intend to father a child at my age. But I’m nevertheless looking forward to it, Hermione. And I’m grateful to you for giving me something as great and wonderful as a child. I promise I’ll do what’s in my power to make it as bearable as possible for you.”


To be continued …