As she likes it

As she likes it

Disclaimer: Please, look at chapter 1

AN: Many thanks to my wonderful beta Annie! You\'re doing greatly!


Chapter 4: The fountains mingle with the river …

Normally Albus didn’t think much about his height, but during receptions like this he was glad of being taller than most other people. It gave him a chance to look over a crowd and even better: It made it possible for him to breathe freely even when he was surrounded by too many people.

As always when the Brethren of Transfiguration masters and mistresses prepared for their annual master ship exams, the hosting university - this year the venerable Cagliostro University of Venice, one of the most renowned in the wizard’s world - had invited them to a reception. It was a big occasion and the hall and the cloister of the University were very crowded. Albus didn’t mind much. As a veteran of countless official gatherings he’d equipped himself appropriately. He wore silk - and not only because of the soft blue under and the blue golden outer robe suited him well, but because he knew how hot it could become in rooms filled with hundred of candles. Earlier he’d visited the dean of the university - an old friend - to hear some of the newest gossip told. Well-appointed like that he didn’t mind the usual small talk. He could even do it without concentrating on it and using his tallness to have a look around.

A few steps away from him stood a dark haired witch in a bright, orange robe. He’d already seen her as she’d entered. There she’d been in the company of a lanky, pale young man who’d looked as if he’d sooner be sick. Albus hadn’t needed to ask a colleague about them both - he’d immediately known that she was one of the young members of the Brethren who had to present their first apprentice.

Now, two hours since he’d seen her first, her youngster was gone - probably he wanted to get some rest before starting on his exams over the next few days. His mistress, standing next to the fountain in the middle of the cloister, looked rather lost now.

Albus, while chatting away with three colleagues next to him, rummaged in his memory. The Brethren had this year twenty four candidates for master ship and although Albus would personally only examine six of them - he’d been elected to preside over the entire exam, therefore he’d read all of the papers. Now he tried to sort out which of them belonged to the blond boy and his young mistress. It wasn’t too difficult: Nineteen of the presenting masters and mistresses he knew and from the six he hadn’t met yet three was male. One of the mistresses he didn’t know had a female apprentice. The remaining two - one was Professor Kimiko Sakura from the University of Yokohama with her apprentice, a Mister Kensai Yamaro. The other was Professor Corrieke van Eyckens from the Dutch Ministry of Magic in The Hague with her apprentice Johannes de Vries.

Smiling down at the wizards surrounding him, Albus said: “Would you please excuse me? I think I should look after a lonely young colleague.”

As he walked through the cloister he came across the buffet where he ordered two glasses of champagne. With them in his hands he directed his steps to the fountain.

As the dark haired witch saw him come towards her, she smiled a little awkwardly. Albus bowed in front of her. “Domina,” he addressed her with the old academic title, “we haven’t had the pleasure before. I’m Albus …”

“Dumbledore,” she finished for him and now her smile became broader. “My name is …”

“Corrieke van Eycken,” he took over.

Both laughed and Albus reached her one of the glasses. “Je gezondheid!” he said.

“Oh - you’re speaking Dutch?” She looked at him out of big eyes before she sipped at her champagne.

Albus drank too, then cheerfully replied: “My Dutch reaches for four words: Fiets, idioot and gracht. I learned them all in one day.”

“How so?”

“A friend in Amsterdam invited me to a bicycle tour along a gracht. He said, riding a bicycle -in Dutch called ‘fiets’ - wouldn’t be more difficult as riding a broomstick. Unfortunately I am a lost case when it comes to riding broomsticks - and on a bicycle I’m not much better. I fell in the gracht. My friend called me an idioot then while the man who pulled me out offered me a genever and thought me the to say ‘Je gezondheid!”

Once again the dark haired witch laughed and Albus discovered that he liked the melodious sound of it. She wasn’t a ravishing beauty with her rather sharp nose, but her voice - a dark, smoky alto - had something. And the body under the orange robe - very nice with firm, round breasts.

“You know, Professor Dumbledore, that you’ve just destroyed my illusion of you being a great hero?” she asked him, her eyes glittering mischievously.

“That’s fine with me,” Albus replied. “Then you can get to know the real, rather un-heroic me.”

She tilted her head, looking up to him. “The rules of this game would now demand some giggling and saying something like ‘but the man who defeated Grindelwald and was the leader in the war against Voldemort is supposed to be a great hero! And I’ve heard so much about your bravery!’”

“But unfortunately you weren’t told everything about me?” Albus grinned. He’d felt bored all evening and was glad that he’d now met someone to piffle with.

“Honest answer, Professor Dumbledore?” she challenged him.

“First: It’s Albus - we’re members of the same Brethren, aren’t we? Secondly: I like honesty. I really do. I even try it sometimes myself.”

“Really?” She laughed. “I’ve heard you’re a charmer - and this I was told as often as I got to hear about your brilliance and bravery.”

“Well - on some occasions I manage to combine honesty and flattery,” Albus sipped at his drink. “I think this is just such a lucky moment.” Bowing his head, he smiled at her. “I’m glad I’ve met you. The evening had just started to become boring.”

She sighed. “Now you’ve got me. I actually just wanted to disappear.”

“What a pity!” Albus was really a bit sad. He’d looked forward to talking a bit more with her.

“I’m sorry, Albus.” She smiled awkwardly again. “But I was dinning with my candidate and he infected me with his nervousness. It spoilt my appetite which was actually good because the dinner tasted horrible. Yet now I’m starving. I only hope I can get a few sandwiches in our hotel.”

“You didn’t receive a good dinner? Here? In Venice?” Albus shook his head. “That’s a shame - and I take it personally. I’m half-Venetian and I lived here for a few years. So would you allow me to invite you for another attempt with Venetian cooking?”

Now Corrieke van Eycken blushed. “Professor, I didn’t want to …”

“My name is still Albus. And I insist on giving you a proper Venetian dinner!” He took the glass out of her hand, put it on the tray of a house-elf who was just passing and offered her his arm. “Please, Corrieke - give me a chance to save the honour of the Venetian chefs!”


The clocks of Santa Maria della Salute, announcing midnight, just sounded over the water of the lagoon as Albus stepped up the stairs to the park of Palazzo Houdini on the Isola Magico, an island in front of Muggle Venice. The night was clear, but cold and Albus wrapped his robe closer around himself. Although he felt a bit chilly, he couldn’t get himself to enter the house yet, but rather marched to the terrace from where he could look out to the city. As a child when visiting his grandparents he’d always been fascinated by the fact that he could see Venice - the cupola of Santa Maria, the big tower of San Marco and the roofs of the palaces - from the Isola Magico, but couldn’t be seen from there. At the time he’d wanted to become a Charms master and although he’d later decided that Potions and Transfigurations were more to his liking - his fascination with the ancient wards shielding the Venetian magical community - one of the biggest in Europe - from the Muggles had never faltered.

His grandfather had told him once that the Venetian wizards and Muggles once had lived in peaceful co-existence. And even more: When the Muggles had been sick they’d come to the Isola Magico to get help from the Mediwitches and healers there. But then the Catholic Church had started a campaign against the wizards and witches. Although they’d never been able to burn a real wizard, the magical community of Venice had decided to separate from the Muggles. In 1486 the Charms Masters on the Isola Magico had set up the wards which didn’t only hide the island, but enabled ships to sail around without even noticing it.

Albino Houdini, Albus’ grandfather and descendant of one of the Charms masters involved, had told his grandson then how the Muggles had wondered and searched for the island. “They couldn’t find it anymore. Yet their priests had an explanation. They said God would have thrown the island in the lagoon and all people who lived on it as punishment for their sins. The Muggles believed it and with time they forgot all about the Isola Magico.” He’d chuckled then. “Can you imagine, grandson: its five hundred years now that we have lived in their neighbourhood without them knowing.”

Albino Houdini hadn’t lived to see the changes made after his departure. In 1943 the Venetian magic community had decided to show themselves to the Muggles again. Albus, who’d been involved when the English wizards had a few years before found an understanding and agreement with their Muggle government, had been one of the advisors for the Venetians. He’d often wondered what his grandfather would have said if he’d known about his grandson’s involvement in that. Albus was almost sure: Albino Houdini wouldn’t have been delighted.

Yet that wasn’t the only thing he wouldn’t like about his grandson. Albino Houdini had been proud of his name and having only a daughter - as much as he’d loved her - had always made him sad. On the day Albus had married his grandfather had told him that he’d made up a new testament. “Aberforth will inherit some of my money, but the palazzo and the vineyard and my other investments will go to you - in the hope that you’ll at one time have sons and that perhaps one of them will like to live in Venice and to take on the name ‘Houdini’.”

A few months later the old man had passed away - and today Albus was almost glad about. His death had spared Albino Houdini the disappointment of learning that there wouldn’t be a wizard named Houdini in Venice again.

What would become of Palazzo Houdini and Chateau Dumbledore? During the war against Voldemort Albus had written a will, leaving all his worldly goods to Molly Weasley. She was a relative of his - around a few corners - and she had enough children.

Tearing himself away from this subject, Albus watched a gondola coming along the beach. A woman’s laughter sounded up to him and reminded him of the witch he’d spent the last hours with.

Corrieke van Eycken was an amazing young woman. Over dinner - a wonderful risotto and scalapine al limone - they’d talked about history and food and music and she’d told him a little about herself. She was Muggleborn, forty six years old and divorced. Born in Utrecht, she’d attended the Dutch wizards’ school, but had studied in Oxford and done her apprenticeship with Jean-Yves LeForst, the Transfigurations master at the French wizarding school Beauxbatons.

“I loved teaching very much, but at Beauxbatons there wasn’t a vacancy as I became a mistress. And in Zwolle, at the Dutch school I couldn’t get a job either.” She’d shrugged her shoulders. “Well, they don’t think it necessary to hire masters there. I asked because I really would have liked to teach there and because I’m convinced that our children should learn from the best. Yet they told me a mistress would want too much money and - what I really found rich - probably feel superior to the other teachers. So I’m working at the ministry now - not a very interesting job, but one can’t demand too much. At least my job gives me enough time to do some research on my own.”

In Albus’ mind it had immediately clicked. Minerva complained often enough that she couldn’t find a decent Transfiguration teacher; Hermione had told him that she worried about the standard at Hogwarts - and here, in front of him, sat a Transfiguration mistress who loved teaching, had experience with it - and at a good school too! - who even spoke perfect English.

He’d made an internal note: He would have another look at her apprentice’s papers and he’d see to the young man himself. Besides that he’d go to the library at Oxford after the exams concluded. There he’d certainly find the thesis and some other work of Corrieke van Eycken. If it was good enough - and actually Albus didn’t doubt it because she obviously was very intelligent - he would recommend her to Minerva.

Corrieke - actually she wasn’t his type of woman. He’d always liked self-confident and elegant woman, he even appreciated some glamour. And he’d always been fond of hot-tempered, passionate woman who were able to stand up against him. If he got to choose between a woman who cried when hurt and one who threw dishes at him - he would take the dish-thrower. Fury he could handle - he even sometimes managed to change it into sexual tension. But crying women were a nightmare to him.

Corrieke - she certainly was able to give a man a piece of her mind. But over all and despite of her quick wit she obviously was a very sensitive and vulnerable person. Besides - she was too young for him.


The wind had freshened up and Albus was really freezing now. Stepping through the park he opened one of the French windows and entered the ballroom of the Palazzo. Knowing the room as well as he did, he needn’t bother with enlightening the candles. The moonlight flooding through the windows was reflected by the mirrors and that was enough light for him - and even enough to make memories resurface. Once he’d danced in this room, a beautiful young woman in his arm. And she’d smiled up at him, love and tenderness shining in her eyes. He remembered how her fingers had tickled him on the neck and how he’d watched them in the mirrors, full of pride and happiness. And there, on the little stage at the upper end of the hall, under the tapestry with the Houdini crest - a wand, guarded from two lions - had his grandfather sat, his long, silver hair falling down over the old fashioned black robe with the white lace collar.

Albus remembered the voice of his bride: “Your grandfather looks like an old lion. He makes me look forward to our future. You’ll become an impressive old man too and I’ll fall in love with you all over again.”

Albus shook his head and marched energetically through the room and to the door which led to the entrance hall. Dwelling on memories certainly wouldn’t make feel him better.

In the hall he was expected. Soli, the old house-elf in charge of the household, sat on a pillow at the foot of the stairs. She’d been dozing, but as she saw Albus, she jumped on her feet and curtsied. “Domine is back! May Soli get Domine something? Fruits? Cake? Wine? Cocoa?”

Albus sighed. “Soli, I told you not to wait for me all night!”

The house-elf looked at her feet. “Soli can’t sleep when Domine isn’t back,” she said stubbornly.

Albus sighed again. He’d had this debate before and it had become something of a routine. “Well, Soli - if you’re awake I’d like to have some cocoa. I’ll be in the study.”

“But Domine should get to bed!” the house-elf cried. “Domine needs his rest.”

Albus smiled at the little creature. “Cocoa please!” he said and walked through the hall toward the study. As he’d arrived that morning he’d only asked a house-elf to put the shrunken box with the papers for the exams on his desk. Now he expanded it with a wave of his hand, opened the lid and searched for the paper of Corrieke van Eycken’s candidate.

Sitting down Albus started to read. The boy had worked on liquid Transfiguration, a subject Albus was very familiar with. It was Hermione’s speciality and he hadn’t only read all of her papers before she’d published them, but had often discussed them in length and detail with her.

Corrieke’s apprentice had read Hermione’s paper too - he quoted it on the third page. Reading the footnote Albus got stuck on the name: “H. Granger”.

He certainly hadn’t intended to muse about Hermione. Just on the contrary: The last fourteen days he’d cautiously avoided thinking of her. He still was angry with himself. He should have known better than falling in her bed and - hell, why had she seduced him? She was too clever to believe that sleeping with her would change his opinion in matters of procreation. And she knew that he’d cast a lasting Contraceptus Charm on himself. Besides he trusted her. As much as she wanted to have a child, she would never try to trick him into fatherhood.

So why had she wanted him? Curiosity? Some form of academic interest? Hermione had always been inquisitive. Yet he didn’t like the idea that he’d been something like a research project. On the other hand: He’d felt wonderful being her guinea pig.

It was quite ironic really. At one time, as head of a house at Hogwarts, he’d once a year taught his fifth year’s sexual education. And once a year he’d told them not to believe in kitschy love novels and cheesy Muggle movies. “First nights - and I don’t mean only the one in which you lose your virginity, but every time you come together with someone for the first time - are rarely an overwhelming success. Making love is team work. It needs trust in each other and knowledge of your own and your partner’s body to become as good as we wish it to be,” he’d said. “During first nights both participants are often nervous and insecure. That can go so far that women become too tensed to reach climax. And men sometimes become the victim of performance anxiety. They ejaculate too quickly or aren’t able to perform at all. That doesn’t mean the man is a soft egg or the woman is frigid. It rather means they’re sensitive - and that should never be seen as something negative.”

With Hermione he hadn’t been nervous. And she hadn’t been tensed. Making love to her had felt right - perfectly right. It was as if she’d been made for him and as if he belonged to her. And afterwards, for a little, wonderful moment, before his conscience had kicked in again, he’d been happy.

Even now, two weeks later, he didn’t know what to think about that. He wasn’t used to feeling happy after sex. Normally a climax left him drained, empty and lonely. And sometimes it even went so far that he wanted to be alone.

Hermione, he‘d enjoyed to hold and he’d wished to fall asleep in her arms and to wake up next to her in the morning. Tearing himself away from her had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but he’d known that he had to go. If he hadn’t left her in during the night he would have fallen even deeper for her.

It was time to face the truth: He was in love with twenty six year old Hermione Granger. He’d always been fond of her, he’d always thought her very special and now he’d fallen for her.

Perhaps that was what people called the “irony of fate”. For years he’d believed he would have outgrown romance. Now he’d fallen in love again, but with a woman who could easily be his great-granddaughter and who certainly deserved someone better than a wrecked cynic like him.

Besides, she wanted a child from him - but not so urgently that she would want to live with him for it. Probably it was better like this. It gave her a chance to find a man who really suited her while he would proceed with his life as he was used to. And though it sometimes seemed meaningless to him - well, he’d soon become used to that too.

Yet there was something he didn’t want to become used to: having lost Hermione’s friendship because he’d behaved like an idiot. He hadn’t talked to her since their night together and he knew, the longer he waited, the more difficult it would become.

The house-elf had brought him his cocoa. With the steaming mug in his hand he leant back in his chair. In former times when he’d been away for exams, he’d always sent Hermione an owl. She was very interested in new developments in their field and so he’d reported to her, mostly getting one of her witty letters back.

Sipping at the cocoa he sifted through the papers on his desk, but found that he couldn’t concentrate on them. So he put the cup on the desk, sighed, opened one of the drawers, pulled a piece of parchment out and dipped his quill in the ink.

“Venice, October 21 - Darling Hermione …” He looked at what he’d written and furrowed his brow. He usually addressed her with “Darling Hermione” or “My lass”, but now it suddenly looked wrong. He didn’t intend to write a love letter, did he?

With a wave of his hand he deleted the address and wrote: “Hello, Hermione.”

It didn’t look right either. Too distant, to cool - and Hermione, sensitive as she was, would feel hurt.

Next try: “Dear Hermione”.

Hmm - that sounded odd too. She would think he was about to start with something like “Our night together was a mistake”. Yet he certainly didn’t intend to talk about that night and therefore he deleted the introduction once again, deciding that he’d stop fussing now. He’d talk to her as he’d always done and so he wrote: “My lass.”

Unfortunately the paper had become raw now. The ink was flooding too broadly and there was even a blot.

Albus remembered how his mother had told him once that delivering a sloppy, blotted letter would show disrespect against the recipient and so he cursed, rumbled the parchment, threw it in the fire and pulled a new one out.

“Venice, October 21 - Darling Hermione, I hope you’re well and I’m sorry I didn’t write earlier. I was rather busy in the last days,” he wrote and rolled his eyes. Actually he’d spent most of the last two weeks sitting on his terrace, looking out at the sea and pitying himself. He’d become so whiny that his phoenix - and after half a century with him Fawkes had become tough - had had enough. On Monday he’d disappeared. Albus was sure he’d gone to Oxford to stay with Hermione. He liked to be with her and he visited her so often that even Minerva joked about it. “Everyone who’s with Albus needs a break and a good, healthy dose of sanity now and then. Therefore Fawkes is always fleeing to Hermione.”

Back to the letter - he’d chewed at the quill’s end long enough. “Now I’m in Venice for the annual master exams. We’ve got twenty four candidates what means we’ll need the entire week - including two long nights for grading their tests - to get them ready in time. I’ve just read the paper of one of the candidates - a young man from the Netherlands- you’d probably find interesting. He works on liquid Transformations too and quotes your last paper. Nevertheless I’m - on first sight - not convinced with his idea. He dabbles around with freezing his objects - which, if memory doesn’t fail me has been attempted by Makarov and not with much success. I actually would like to read his paper again - could you perhaps get me a copy out of the Oxford library?”

Sipping at his cocoa which had become almost cold now, he looked at the half filled parchment. What now? For a moment he wondered whether or not he should tell her about Corrieke and his hope that she could perhaps become the new Transfiguration mistress at Hogwarts, but then decided against it. Hermione didn’t gossip, but nevertheless this was something he would have to talk with Minerva about first.

But - yes, he would tell her about Tessarini asking for her.

Dipping the quill in the ink again, he wrote: “This evening I attended the usual reception which was as boring as usual.” Huh - for this he wouldn’t get a writer’s award, but well - it was there now and he wouldn’t start correcting it again.

“At least it was nice to meet Tessarini again. I haven’t seen him in ages. He asked for you and he told me he was very impressed with your last paper. Did you hear that he’s got the Houtard chair in Paris? You know it’s one of the best funded labs in Europe and he told me he’s to gather a new team. To me it appeared as if he was trying to sound things out - probably because he’d like to offer you a job. If you’re interested, let me know. I’m to do the exams with him. So I’ll have a lot of opportunities to talk with him.”

So - he’d written almost two inches now. He could come to an end - what meant he’d have to stop talking shop and write something more private. Once again he chewed at his quill. What would he have written under normal circumstances?

He would probably have invited her to come over to Venice for the weekend. Yet at this particular moment in time this didn’t look like a good idea. If she didn’t come he’d feel hurt. And if she did - no, Venice and Hermione weren’t a good combination just now. He didn’t trust himself and he certainly wasn’t keen on making a fool out of himself.

So no invitation. But he’d ask for Fawkes. He missed the phoenix and asking for him would be harmless enough. So he breathed deeply and started to write again: “I take it the feathered nuisance called ‘Fawkes’ has taken refuge with you again? I hope he doesn’t nest in your lingerie …”

Oops - writing that certainly wasn’t a good idea. Becoming frivolous around Hermione wasn’t a way to find his way back to a platonic friendship. Deleting the line he started anew: “I hope he doesn’t bother you too much and you haven’t run out of apples to feed him. I actually miss him - and you. So I’m looking forward to seeing the both of you again when I’m back in England next week.”

So - he found he hadn’t done too badly. He’d showed her that he still cared for her without revealing too much.

A peppy “Yours - A.” and he was ready. Rolling the parchment up, he sealed it, drank the rest of his cold cocoa, took the paper from the Dutch apprentice and marched out through the hall and up the stairs. The door of his bedroom was open; he threw the paper and his outer robe on the bed and climbed up the stairs to the owlery in the tower of the palazzo where two eagles and a barn owl slept on their perches. As he entered the room the trio woke up, the barn owl hooting excitedly while the eagle owls merely stretched their wings.

Albus approached one of the eagle owls and stroked with one finger over its neck. “Are you up to a trip over the sea?” The owl presented him its leg; Albus tied the letter to it, gave the bird a treat and opened the window. “Have a good flight!”


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


Hooting in front of the window woke Hermione out of her sleep. It was raining once again. The water dropped from the roof and ran down the street in front of the house. With a groan Hermione kicked her blanket away, stood up and trotted on bare feet to the window. Opening it, she let the owl in, offering it her arm to sit on.

Although the bird was dripping wet and obviously exhausted, it immediately offered Hermione its leg with the roll of parchment. “Good boy!” Hermione praised the owl, untied the letter and went over to her living room where she placed the tired bird on top of the bookshelf. Getting her wand she cast a drying charm on the owl and put a bowl with treats next to it. The owl liked that. Ruffling its feathers it picked a cracker out of the bowl and nibbled graceful at it.

As she unrolled the parchment Fawkes who’d slept on a bookshelf in her bedroom thrilled a cheerful note and flew over, settling down on Hermione’s shoulder. Hermione reached up and stroked his neck. “Good morning, Fawkes!” Showing him the letter she said: “Look - a miracle has happened! Your wizard has remembered my existence. Isn’t he gallant?” Fawkes trilled again, then started to rummage in her hair. Hermione sighed. “Good old Fawkes! I’m glad you’re here!” Moving into the kitchen she started to read the letter, furrowing her brow the further she ventured into it. “You know what, Fawkes? Your human’s handwriting looks nice, but reading it is like deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphs. I’m afraid I’ll never get used to it.”

Arriving in the kitchen, she read the first paragraph of the letter, then prepared coffee and sat down to read the rest. At the end she swallowed and wiped energetically a tear away. Fawkes looked at her and she smiled wearily. “I’m not crying because of your wizard, Fawkes. I didn’t really expect him to confess his undying love for me. It’s only,” she sighed and tugged softly at the Phoenix’ glorious tail feathers, “that sometimes I feel a bit lonely. It’s Friday - and my date for the weekend is a phoenix. How pathetic is that?”

Fawkes obviously found that a phoenix for a date would deserve a bit more of enthusiasm. He hooted and glided up to one of the bookshelves where he started to clean his plumage. Hermione emptied her coffee mug. “It seems my evening date just cancelled our appointment. Well then - I won’t become bored.” Rising up, she placed her empty coffee mug in the sink, cleaned it and put it back on the shelf. A look in her fridge - once again empty except for a bowl with noodle salad Marc had given her - convinced her that she would have to do some weekend shopping after her work in the lab.

It was around tea time as Hermione, a cradle with vegetables, fruits, pasta, breed and cheese on her arm, crossed the bridge which connected the Muggle and the magical areas of Oxford. On its opposite side was a little park and there, on a tree, sat Fawkes. He was sulking because she hadn’t allowed him to accompany her. But she knew how she’d lure him from the tree. Placing herself under it, she pulled a tangerine out of her cradle, peeled it and offered Fawkes one half. “Hallo, birdie,” she smiled at him. “Don’t you want some fruit?”

Fawkes crooked his head and looked out of one black eye at her. He obviously was arguing with himself as to whether he’d rather sulk or have half of the tangerine. His stomach won. Gracefully he sailed down onto Hermione’s shoulder, took the fruit with one claw and nibbled at it. Hermione sat down on a bench and pulled a bag with blueberries out. Showing them to Fawkes she asked: “Like some? I bought them especially for you!”

Fawkes, thoroughly thrilled with the prospect of some delicious blueberries, hopped down onto the bench, picked a berry out of her hand, swallowed it and then nuzzled tenderly at Hermione’s ear. She laughed and petted his head. “What lemon drops do for your wizard, fruits do for you.”

A few steps away from the bench where Hermione sat, two boys had been playing ball. Now they curiously came closer to her. The smaller one, a dark haired child, asked: “Is that a phoenix?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered with a smile. Stroking with one finger over Fawkes’ neck, she added: “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

“Is he yours?” the other boy, a blond with freckles, wanted to know.

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “Phoenixes aren’t owned by someone. They choose on their own to be with a wizard or a witch.”

“And he’s with you?” The darker one seemed to be fascinated. Watching how Fawkes dug in the bag for another blueberry, he said: “I’ve learned about phoenixes. They’re really rare, aren’t they? My book said there wouldn’t be much more than a hundred phoenixes all over the world and only two in Great Britain. One would be a female who’d live with an old witch in Wales. And the other would belong to Albus Dumbledore and go by the name ‘Fawkes’.”

As the magical bird heard his name, he raised his head and trilled a cheerful note. The boys stared at him with eyes as big as saucers. “Is that Albus Dumbledore’s phoenix? Fawkes?” the blond asked.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed. “That’s Fawkes.”

“Wow!” The blond was delighted. “Wait until I tell my brother!”

“Are you Mister Dumbledore’s daughter?” the other boy asked.

Hermione swallowed and shook her head. “No. We’re only friends.” She offered the bag with blueberries to the boys. “Do you want to feed him?”

The dark-haired took a berry out of the bag and offered it to Fawkes on his palm. “Is it true that he can lift three or four people at once?”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “As well as that he can Apparate even in warded areas and his tears have healing powers.”

“Wicked!” the blond said. “And how does one acquire a phoenix?”

Hermione peeled another tangerine. “As I’ve said: phoenixes choose for themselves.”

“But I’ve read that Professor Dumbledore got Fawkes from the evil wizard Grindelwald.” The black haired boy gave Fawkes another berry.

Hermione swallowed a bit of her tangerine. “Grindelwald had caught Fawkes and imprisoned him with dark magic in a fire circle. Professor Dumbledore saved him, but Fawkes was already pretty drained. So Professor Dumbledore had to coddle him up. Fawkes obviously liked that. Since then he has always stayed with Professor Dumbledore.”

While speaking the last half of her line, Hermione had raised her head to watch a man who was strolling along the river bank. He wore Muggle attire: Jeans, a burgundy red turtleneck sweater, a black leather jacket and a blue wool cap. For a moment Hermione had been insecure about him, but now he stood still and showed her his profile with a sharp, but handsome nose, an energetic chin and almond shaped hazel eyes. Hermione swallowed, stood up, waved at him and called: “Leander?”

Leander von Melanchthon smiled and came toward her. “Ah - here you are!” he greeted her, sounding as if they’d have had an appointment. Taking her hand, he bent forward and kissed her cheek. “You’ve cut your hair!” he stated.

The two boys and Fawkes watched the couple, the phoenix obviously not delighted about their meeting. He clicked his beak and hissed. Hermione turned to him. “Fawkes! Where are your manners?”

“Pffft!” The phoenix put his head under his wing.

“Moody beast!” grumbled Hermione and looked once again at the German Transfiguration professor who’d furrowed his brow. “It’s wonderful to see you, Leander, but what are doing in Oxford? Did I miss something? I can’t remember seeing your name on the visiting speakers list.”

Leander von Melanchthon smiled. “I’m not here for lessons, Hermione,” he replied and took her hand again. “Perhaps we can go for a coffee? Or do you have another appointment?”

“No, but I’ve just done my shopping. Would you mind having coffee at my place? Then I could take my groceries home.”

“No, I don’t mind.” Leander bent and went to take Hermione’s cradle, but Fawkes hopped on it, hissing at him. Leander pulled his hand away. “Huh - what’s up with this bird? Is that yours, Hermione?”

“That is a phoenix, sir!” the dark haired boy said.

Fawkes hissed again, spread his wings and lifted the cradle up. Hovering over the bench, he disappeared in a flame, directly in front of Leander’s face. He jumped his hand over his eyes. “Verdammtes Mistvieh!” [Damn beast] he cursed.

“Fawkes!” Hermione called furiously, but the phoenix was already gone.

“Wow - that was cool!” the blond boy stated.

“Where is he gone?” his friend wanted to know.

Hermione shook her head. “Sorry, Leander - I don’t know what’s got into him. Normally he’s really nice and polite.” She smiled at the boys. “It seems the show is over now. Have a nice day, lads!” She took Leander’s arm. “Let’s go to my place. I think Fawkes will be there.”

“I actually don’t know if I’m keen on seeing him again,” Leander grumbled, walking with Hermione through the park to the street. “How did you come by a phoenix?” he asked.

“He doesn’t belong to me,” Hermione felt almost a bit tired of explaining. Besides she wanted to know why Leander had come back to Oxford. “Fawkes is Albus Dumbledore’s companion. But Albus is at the moment in Venice and …”

“… therefore he asked you to baby sit his obviously not very well-behaved bird?” Leander asked the disapproval evident in his voice.

“No!” Hermione shook her head. “As I’ve just said: He’s a phoenix, not a pet. He goes where he wants and he stays with whom he chooses,” Hermione declared angrily. “And normally he’s really fun to be with. I like it when he visits me.” Breathing deeply she asked, her voice soft again: “But now tell me: what brings you to Oxford?”

He smiled at her. “I came to see you, Hermione. I thought a lot of you and I missed you.” Blushing slightly, he added: “I know that comes as a surprise to you. I should have written, but - well, I started a few letters, but then I thought it would be easier to talk to you directly.”

They’d arrived at the house where Hermione’s flat was. Hermione opened the door, let Leander in and started to climb up the stairs. “Leander,” she said softly, “it’s really nice to see you again, but …,” she searched for words.

“You’re with another man?” he asked her, standing in front of her door.

Hermione pulled her wand out, put the wards down and entered. “Come in, Leander.”

Her cradle stood on the floor in the middle of the living room. It looked rather messy with a cucumber lying next to it and the bag with the tangerines opened. Hermione sighed, collecting the cucumber and the cradle and looked up at Fawkes who sat on top of a bookshelf, peeling a tangerine and looking as innocent as a baby. “Fawkes, sometimes you’re really a nuisance!” she scolded him. “And who said the tangerines were all for you?” Marching to the kitchen she said over her shoulder: “Sit down, Leander. I’ll get us coffee.”

He slipped out of his jacket, hung it over one of the chairs at the table, pulling his cap off, revealing a bald patch, surrounded by short cupped white hair. “Hermione, you didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her while setting himself down on the sofa.

Hermione who’d just made the water boil, looked through the open kitchen door at him. “I still don’t have a boyfriend,” she answered. “It seems I’m not in very much demand.”

With a smile he rose up again and came to the kitchen door. Leaning on the threshold he said: “You are with me.”

Hermione poured the boiling water in the coffee pot. “And what would your wife say to that?”

Leander breathed deeply. “It’s not her business anymore,” he replied with a sigh. “Hermione, I wouldn’t have come if nothing had changed. You made it entirely clear that you don’t want to have an affair with a married man. However: I don’t feel married anymore. My wife left me four weeks ago. She’s got herself a young lover - a former student of mine. She’s filed for divorce.”

“Oh.” Hermione waved her wand over the pot to get the coffee meal out. Putting the pot and two cups on a try she looked up at Leander. “I’m sorry.”

Leander shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not. I told you our marriage didn’t work anymore. So I’m actually glad she left. It spared me a lot of trouble.”

“But you have children, don’t you?” Hermione carried the tray to the little table in front of the sofa and put it down.

“Yes, we have children. They were the reason I didn’t divorce her years ago. But now our youngest son has completed his diploma in Potions and had his first child and his older brother is already married and having children of his own too.” He sat down again, smiling awkwardly at her. “I was wondering over the last few days what a certain, lovely young witch would say if a grandfather would show an interest in her.”

“Well - it would depend on the grandfather,” Hermione replied with a smile. Handing him a cup, she examined him. He was, despite his bald head, an attractive man with his exotic almond eyes, the patrician nose, the generous mouth and the strong chin. And his body suited the face. He’d mentioned once that he’d played Quidditch for the German national team in his youth. He’d been a beater and his figure was typical for one: Not too tall, but broad shouldered with heavy muscles, narrow hips and strong legs. Yet what Hermione liked best about him was his skin. Even now, on a cold October day, he looked as if he’d come directly from a holiday on a sunny island.

He’d noticed how she was looking at him and took her hand. Pulling it to his mouth, he turned it over and kissed the inside of her wrist. “Like what you see?” he asked with a little grin.

“Yes - you’re nice to look at,” Hermione answered honestly, but pulled nevertheless her hand away. “I must admit, I feel a bit overwhelmed at the moment.”

Leander reached for his cup. “Of course. I didn’t expect you to fall in my arms immediately,” he said. “Yet I’d like to come closer to you, Hermione. I’ve had a lot of time to think about my feelings for you and I …”

Fawkes didn’t let him finish. Flying through the room he let the pare of his tangerine drop on Leander before he settled down on the back wing of the sofa in between Hermione and her visitor.

Hermione shook her head. “Heavens, Fawkes – What is the matter with you?”

“Is it possible that he’s jealous?” Leander asked, carefully keeping a safe distance from the phoenix’s sharp beak.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. He normally isn’t like that. But on the other hand I’ve never been with a man around him - I mean, except for Albus.”

Leander sipped at his coffee. “I actually don’t wonder why the phoenix doesn’t like me. Dumbledore and I don’t get along either.”

“You know him?” Hermione asked.

Leander rolled his eyes. “I’d like to know how a Transfiguration master in Europe could avoid meeting the ever present Albus Dumbledore.”

“Did you have trouble with him?” Hermione wanted to know.

“You can say so. A few years before, he examined a student of mine and dissected her totally. The girl came out of the exam in tears and Dumbledore told me coldly, if she couldn’t work properly when pressed, she didn’t deserve to become a Transfiguration mistress. Besides he was harping around on a little flaw in her thesis and made a big fuss about it.”

Hermione stirred cream into her coffee. “He has high standards,” she said cautiously.

“High standards - my foot!” Leander snorted. “I would want to hear what he’d say if someone would do such an arbitrary execution to an apprentice of his! But he doesn’t teach so it’s easy for him to knock down other people’s apprentices.”

Hermione didn’t like the subject much, but loyalty demanded her to defend Albus. “He didn’t educate while he was Headmaster of Hogwarts - he wouldn’t have had time to look after an apprentice properly. Yet in former times he did. I know three former apprentices of his. The first was Jullus Triplewith who’s now Headmaster of the American wizards’ school Salem. Number Two was Kensai Yamagochi who’s now at the University of Tokyo. You certainly know about his work in Animagus Transfiguration. The last was Minerva Stuart-McGonagall, now Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

Leander raised his hands. “Okay, okay, Hermione - you win! Dumbledore obviously did well as a master.”

“He wasn’t a bad teacher either,” Hermione said. “I was only taught a few times by him when Minerva McGonagall wasn’t in the school. But I know a few people who were his pupils at Hogwarts - like Arthur Weasley, our Minister of Magic and Alastor Moody, the Headmaster of the Aurors’ Academy - they’re great at Transfigurations.”

“Yes, of course.” Leander emptied his cup. “I’ve got it: You’re one of his many female fans.”

Hermione became angry. “I’m not a ‘fan’ of Albus,” she stated firmly. “I respect him and I like him, but I’m certainly not blind to his short comings.”

Leander lowered his head and breathed deeply. “I’m perhaps a bit overprotective with my students,” he admitted. “But we won’t argue about Dumbledore, will we? Let’s talk about you instead. How’s your liquid project going? I had hoped I’d get to read about it in Transfiguration International soon.”

Hermione sighed. “I got distracted on a side thought. It was interesting, but didn’t get me where I wanted to be. Yet now I’m back on track and,” she became enthusiastic, her eyes beaming, “I think I found something really interesting. I’ve dabbled around with a little Arithmancy and I reckon the combination of some formulas and the spells could stabilize the entire progress.”

“That sounds really exciting. I played around with Arithmancy too, but I never came to a result worth working more on it,” Leander said.

“Did you perhaps read the ‘Conney’ article last year? He works on basic Transfiguration - Arithmancy connections with slightly altered formulas. It’s rather theoretical what he did, but it gave me a few ideas.”

“Hmm,” Leander sounded sceptically. “I didn’t only read Conney, but discussed it with him. For my taste he’s still too interested in speculations. And the unknown factors he obviously doesn’t care about.”

“Leander, do you have a little time?” Hermione asked. “I’d like to show you some of my experiments.”

“Yes - good idea.” Leander looked at Fawkes who still sat between Hermione and him. “Will he come with us to the lab?”

Fawkes obviously didn’t like the idea. With an energetic “Pfffft!” he once again moved up to the bookshelf, turned around, showed Leander his backside and put his head under his wing.

Hermione laughed. “I reckon he’d rather do some sulking now.” Stepping close to the bookshelf, she reached up and petted Fawkes’ neck. “Silly boy! As if you didn’t know that you’ll always have a place in my heart, no matter whom I am with!”

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


Entering the hall of Palazzo Houdini, Albus slipped out of his outer robe and smiled at the house-elf who’d waited for him. “Soli, didn’t I tell you not to wait for me?” he asked.

“But there are letters for you, Domine!” The house-elf pointed to the table. “And perhaps Domine wants dinner?”

“No, thank you very much. I’ve had dinner in the city.” Albus stretched his back and reached for the four rolls of parchment on the table. The first two came from the Ministry of Magic - one was an invitation to a gathering, the other a list with dates for the Wizengamot. Letter number three came from an old friend in Egypt who announced a visit. Seeing the handwriting on the fourth letter made Albus’ heart speed up: Hermione had answered.

Climbing up the stairs he broke the seal and enrolled the parchment. As usual when writing a private letter, Hermione had only used the parchment to roll two sheets of Muggle paper in it. Besides that she’d sent him the copy of an article out of Transfiguration International. Scanning briefly through it, Albus smiled. Hermione, being true to form, hadn’t only sent him a note about the liquid Transfiguration project he’d talked about, but the entire article.

And there was her letter, written in her fine hand: “Oxford, October 26 - Dear Albus, you’ve really got a memory like an elephant!” it opened. As always Hermione had jumped with both feet right into the subject. Albus liked that and reaching his bedroom and lowering himself down onto the bed, he smiled.

“Makarov’s work with liquid Transfiguration you’ve talked about is now almost fifty years old and therefore it was quite an enterprise to get the thing. But here we go and actually I’m glad you made me search for this because the article is really interesting. The spells Makarov used remind me of Bergstrom’s work on spell closure. Is the candidate you’re to examine working on a connection of that theory too? If so, I’d like to learn more about it, especially because I’m just thinking of a few new evaluations. You know, at the weekend Leander von Melanchthon came over to Oxford (he’s separated from his wife now and going to get a divorce) and we had a very interesting conversation. He gave me a new idea that I’ve already talked with Pendenance about. He too thinks that it’s worth working on and promised me to support a request for funds from the Ministry. If I could get it, I’d be for at least three years out of the woods - and coincidently: Thanks for talking with Tessarini, but you can see that I’d rather like to stay at Oxford, especially if I can get a project of my own here. My first independent one! It really would be great if I could earn money for it.”

Albus let the letter sink and took his spectacles off, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He’d suddenly got a headache and as much as he liked Hermione being enthusiastic about her work again – the fact that Leander von Melanchthon was involved in her newest project he didn’t like. And what was that about the German being separated from his wife? Did Hermione intend to start something with this arrogant prick? Really, he thought she’d have better taste! The man was as possessive about his women as Othello and besides, he was much too old for Hermione! She couldn’t be serious about him. Melanchthon really wasn’t good enough for her.

Albus snorted - and heard suddenly a little voice in the back of his head. It sounded like Minerva as it scolded him: “What a hypocrite you’ve become, Albus Dumbledore! Melanchthon is at least fifty years your junior! As far as his age is concerned he suits her much better than you.” Besides he couldn’t deny that Melanchthon wasn’t only an able, but even a brilliant Transfiguration master. In matters of brains he certainly was a match for Hermione.

Placing his spectacles once again upon his nose, Albus started to read the next paragraph. “You can imagine how excited I am about that and - Albus, I know it’s asking a lot, but it’s the first time I have to write a paper for the Ministry and so I hope you will help me with it. I mean, I don’t expect you to support it officially, but if you could read and perhaps edit it? It would help me so much.”

Once again Albus stopped reading. He scratched himself behind his right ear. Why did Hermione ask him in such a tone? Wasn’t it clear that he would help her? He’d always supported her. Why should he stop now? Because she had first talked with Melanchthon about her new project? Even if she’d done so in bed - he wasn’t so mean that he would now draw back his support.

He’d been aware that life would go on after he’d slept with Hermione and above that: He’d hoped she’d get over it quickly and - well, he’d wished she would find a man to fall in love and to found a family with. She’d obviously done just so - and what did it matter that he couldn’t stand Melanchthon?

Sighing Albus looked at the letter again. “You know, Albus, I long to talk with you about,” she’d written. Albus couldn’t help wondering what Melanchthon would say about that. The man liked him as much as he’d like to get boils on his backside. He certainly wouldn’t approve of Hermione’s friendship with Albus.

To quote one of Hermione’s favourite sayings: Oh hell - why was life sometimes so complicated? Why did Hermione just have to pick out a man Albus had never liked?

Back to her letter: “I hope Venice isn’t too tiresome for you. Pendenance was for days grumbling about the mass of candidates at the exams - you know his elitism when it comes to the Brethren. But I think to get some fresh ideas younger members can’t hurt our club. I only don’t know if I like that you have to examine so many of them. Yet that’s probably sheer egoism. I don’t like when you’re away for weeks. And there’s someone else who misses you very much: Fawkes. He’s been exceptionally gloomy and depressed the last days and, I’m sorry to say so, not at his best in matters of manners. I reckon he shares your disapproval of Leander and shows this in behaving rather badly around him. Whenever Leander comes close to him, Fawkes hisses and clicks his beak. On Saturday he even let tangerine paring drop on Leander’s head.”

Albus couldn’t help grinning. He found that Fawkes showed once again fine taste. And why was Melanchthon complaining? Tangerine peel wasn’t so bad, was it? Considering what else Fawkes could have dropped on his head, the man really should be glad it was something so nice smelling and easily removable. Besides: Fawkes was a very loyal bird. He’d once decided that he belonged to Albus and with a phoenix this meant through the good and the bad times, in sickness and in health as long as Albus would live.

Yet the loyalty wasn’t one-sided. Reading the next paragraph of Hermione’s letter Albus furrowed his brow. There she’d written: “What worries me even more than his behaviour: Since a few days ago Fawkes seems to have lost his appetite. I tried with apples and even bought blueberries for him - you know how much he normally loves them. However, he didn’t eat them. He only sits on top of my bookcase and looks sad.”

Albus scraped himself again behind his ear. Although the phoenix couldn’t speak, Albus saw him as a close friend. He’d lived with him for half a century now and so Albus knew what it meant when Fawkes lost his appetite and became moody. He obviously was close to a burning day again. In the next week he’d lose feathers until he looked like a plucked chicken. And then he’d burst into flames and be reborn from the ashes.

Even Albus didn’t know how often the phoenix had already gone through this regeneration, but having witnessed it a few times he’d learned that Fawkes needed a lot of care and comfort. And he would - as always - get it.

Albus put Hermione’s letter aside and rose up. Walking down to the study he looked at the plans for the next day. Between eight and twelve he’d supervise the written exams. Afterwards he had an appointment until lunch. Yet this he could cancel to Apparate to Oxford where he’d look after Fawkes in this his time of need.

“Domine?” The house-elf, standing in front of Albus’ bed, looked almost fearful. She obviously didn’t like that she had to wake her master. “Domine!” she repeated. “It’s urgent! Please!”

Albus turned around and opened his eyes. It was dark outside, a storm was roaring over the lake and he felt as if he had fallen asleep only a few minutes before. “What’s the time?” he grumbled.

“Half past four in the morning,” the house-elf answered. “But the signorina insists on Soli waking Domine. Signorina says it’s about the bird of Domine.”

“Fawkes?” Albus sat up and reached for his spectacles. “I’m coming.”

“Soli is telling signorina.” The house-elf disappeared with a “plop” and Albus swung, with a sigh, his legs out of bed, commanded with a wave of his hand his dressing gown to him - he’d as always, slept naked - and slipped it on. Yawning he trudged to the door and down the stairs to the entrance hall.

Hermione sat on one of the steps, looking like a drowned rat with cluttering teeth. Her dark red sweater was as wet as her jeans and her trainers dripped water upon the marble floor. In her arms she cradled Fawkes, wrapped up in her cloak. As he heard Albus’ steps, he started to whine quietly.

“Albus!” Hermione was on her feet. “Fawkes is ill!” She handed him the bundle with the phoenix. “He doesn’t want to eat, he doesn’t want to fly and he slept all day. And now he loses feathers!” She sounded almost hysterical. “I’m so worried about him.”

Albus stroked Fawkes’ head and promptly a feather got lose and sank down towards the floor. “Poor lad!” Albus pitied his phoenix and smiled at Hermione. “No need to worry so much, Hermione. But let’s go upstairs into the warmth, shall we?” He started to climb up, cradling Fawkes to his chest.

Hermione followed him. “Albus, can you help him?”

He opened the door to his bedroom, warmed by a bright fire. “He’ll be fine, Hermione. He’s close to his burning day. Beforehand he always feels and looks dreadful.” In front of the fireplace he dropped to his knees, pulled the phoenix out of Hermione’s cloak and put him in a cradle, wrapping him in a fluffy blanket. Fawkes seemed to like that. The sound he made was almost a purr and then he closed his eyes, put his head under his wing and fell asleep.

Albus rose up, looked at Hermione and smiled. “Thank you for bringing him. I actually intended to come to Oxford today to collect him.”

“You’re sure he’ll be fine after his burning?” Hermione asked.

“Of course! For a few days he’ll feel rather helpless and in need for a lot of pampering, but in three or four weeks he’ll be as good as new,” Albus assured her.

“I’m so glad!” Hermione took a step towards him and then hugged him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I was out of my mind with sorrow.”

Wrapping his arms around her he pulled her close. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. I should have been there.” He felt her trembling in her wet sweater and tugged softly at it. “Take that off. I’ll get you something dry.”

Hermione stepped back, slipped out of her shoes, opened her jeans, pushed them down and pulled them and her socks off.

As Albus had asked her to undress, he hadn’t thought of anything else than to warm her up, but now he suddenly couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. The way she moved - she had the grace of a dancer. And her long, tanned legs were beautiful. He felt how his body became awake and swallowed, fighting against his arousal. However, Hermione didn’t give him a chance to calm down. Looking provocatively at him, she pulled her sweater over her head, let it drop, reached backwards and opened her bra. It followed her sweater in falling on the floor while she closed the distance between Albus and herself.

Albus couldn’t move, but only watch as she opened the belt of his dressing gown. Then her hands stroked his naked chest, sneaked around his waist as she came closer, snuggling against him. Almost casually she stated: “I’m feeling warmer already.”

Even a saint would have had difficulties in resisting her. Yet Albus never had been a saint. He was a man and even more: He was a man who’d fought for days against the memory of this limber body, of the silken skin, her unique fragrance and of the soft lips which were now gliding over his jaw.

“Hermione …”

What had he wanted to say? He forgot all about it as she rose up on to her tiptoes, her breasts pressed against his chest and her lips covering his. With a groan he opened his mouth and claimed hers in a deep, passionate kiss. She clung to him, wrapping a leg around his, her hands rummaging in his hair while his went down to her buttocks, cupping and kneading them. But now she shifted and one of her hands reached down to his half erect cock, closing around it and massaging him expertly.

He felt dizzy and breaking the kiss, he struggled for air and pushed her forward to the bed. “Hermione - oh heavens, Hermione, what are you doing to me?”

She sank down; her body in the light from the fire shimmering like marble. Albus slipped out of his dressing gown and kneeled over her, showering her breasts with kisses. Hermione gripped his member once again, this time with her right fisting the shaft and with the left fondling his balls. “Albus - I need you! Fuck me now! Don’t make me wait!” she moaned and buckled.

He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so needy. Using his knees to spread her legs, he guided his erection to her entrance, entering her with one forceful stroke.

“Albus!” she screamed and he felt her nails digging in his back. “Oh yes, Albus! Yes!”

Gripping her buttocks with both his hands he started to pound in to her. She was so hot and tight and wonderful and he knew he wouldn’t last long and for once he didn’t care. His blood was humming in his veins and he couldn’t hold himself back. His body had taken over and was driving him and he felt as if he’d lost himself.

“Albus - yes, yes!”

Her voice brought him back to himself and he looked down at her, his eyes connecting with hers. “Hermione - sweetest heart!” he whispered.

“Albus!” Her hand came up to his face, tenderly stroking his hair out of his forehead. “Dearest Albus.”

He wanted to tell her how wonderful she felt and how much he enjoyed being with her, but suddenly her eyes widened and her body became tense. For a moment time seemed to stand still. He felt how she tightened around him and then he heard her voice, husky with arousal and filled with wonder: “Albus - I’m coming.”

He watched how she closed her eyes and how her entire body trembled with the intensity of her climax. He was sure he’d never seen anything more erotic as Hermione panting and moaning in her pleasure. Yet it wasn’t only erotic, but at the same time touching. There was something like amazement in her face, as if she couldn’t believe what had happened to her. And then, suddenly, he felt his body again and an arousal so forceful he couldn’t fight it. He was falling, but there was Hermione and she caught him and held him while he lost himself in lust and joy.


To be continued …