A Winter Tale

A Winter Tale

by: Max

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

[usual disclaimer see chapter 1]


Chapter 6: The Ivory Prince


At the first moment Hermione thought he were a stranger and keeping with both hands to the blanket, she made a squeak and sat up in bed, starring at the naked - no, not entirely, but only wearing a light blue towel around his middle section - man who’d just appeared in the bedroom. Although Hermione certainly wasn’t used to men - neither familiar nor strange ones - in a bedroom she was supposed to sleep in, she couldn’t deny that this certain man was a definitely handsome representative of his male mankind. The long, well-defined and - for a male - amazingly straight legs, the small thighs, the flat belly, a well-muscled chest and broad shoulders gave him the appearance of a dancer and the head above the handsome body wasn’t bad either: Surrounded by a shining halo of dark golden hair, shoulder length and curling slightly at the ends, the stranger had the broad forehead of some one who was used to deep thinking. A few fine lines, already craved in the skin, told that he sometimes wrinkled his forehead by doing so. His sleeves showed the sensitivity and vulnerability Hermione adored in men, especially when it came in contrast to a patrician nose, high cheekbones, a generous, but firm mouth and - in this case surrounded, but not hidden by a short, auburn beard - a strong chin, showing that the owner of this features wasn’t only a man who knows what he wanted, but also was in use with getting it.

Hermione swallowed and looked in the eyes of the man who now - slowly, but with grace - came to the bed. Although blue of this clear eyes was deeper and more intense as Hermione was in use with, the sight was familiar. Hermione had looked in this eyes during the entire afternoon and evening. She’d got strength and warmth and courage from them. And even now, as this eyes looked out at her from a younger face, Hermione thought she’d see something like love in them - fatherly love, caring love, protecting love.

He was the first to speak. “I told you,” he said, seating down on the bedside, “I’d improve my appearance a bit for you ...”

“That’s certainly an improvement!” Hermione burst out - and blushed in the same moment, slapping her hand over her mouth. Heavens - this had been a true Ron! Even he wouldn’t have found something more tactless to say in this moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean ...” Hermione began to stammer.

Albus smiled and tugged at the blanket. “May I ...?”

“Of course! It’s your bed after all!” Hermione cried.

“It’s ours now, Hermione,” her corrected her kindly, slipping under the blanket und stretching next to her. “And for the improvement of appearance - I’m glad you approve. I don’t expect some one your age to like my old self ...”

“But I don’t find ..” ..” Hermione searched for a word and couldn’t find one. “You’re always quite a sight and an impressing figure, but ...” Once again words failed her. “Sorry, I’m babbling nonsense,” she finished lamely.

“The situation could make for it,” Albus said, turning at his side, looking at her. “But you’re doing amazingly well, considered the circumstances.”

Hermione felt almost insulted by his praise. “What did you expect?” she asked him, but didn’t wait for an answer. “You’ve saved me from a fate really worse then death - and I don’t mean this literally. Losing my magic would have been worse then dying. And marrying Malfoy would probably mean death. So you’re saving my life - and I’m well aware that you do so on great personal costs. I will have to live up to that and I will do so as I’ve promised only a few hours before.”

Albus sighed, but smiled and took her hand. Kissing it lightly, he said: “Bravely spoken again, my dearest Gryffindor. But you’re wrong in one important point and I’d like to make this entirely clear. You know - at least I hope you do - that under other circumstances I’d never laid a finger on a student of mine. I’d even never have thought of a pupil in my care as of somebody one could lay a finger on. Yet with the situation as it is ...” He kissed her hand again, but this time not the back of it, but the inside of her wrist where he blood pulsed under the skin. “I’m a human being - a male human being, Hermione. In the moment I’m even one in the body of a young man. As such I’d make myself a hypocrite if I were to maintain that having a lovely, brave and intelligent young witch for a wife would be a ‘sacrifice’. I will defile neither you nor me in this way. We’re - in this you were right - both not here because we would have chosen so, but this shouldn’t prevent us from making the best of it ...”

Hermione nodded - and pushing herself up to a courage she actually didn’t feel, pulled her hand free from the blanket and laid it - cautiously as if she’d expect him (or herself?) to shy away, on his shoulder.

Albus smiled. “Two little things more ...” he said - and suddenly he looked awkward. “Before we ...” a little hesitating, a smile, then with firmer voice - and it was then that Hermione noticed that the hoarseness she was used to hear in his voice was gone - he proceed: “I’d like to know: Are you a virgin, Hermione?”

Hermione blushed. He didn’t expect her to tell all about her former love life - or, better said, the lack of having one? It wasn’t if she were ashamed of sleeping with Victor, but the one shag with the quidditch champion was not a memory she was very fond of. Besides: It had been a long day and she was tired. If she were to make confessions about former lovers, it would be only fair game to expect some from him too - and considered his age and his looks Hermione wasn’t sure he’d have a chance to become ready with confessions before dawn. So she only shook her head, looking at him.

His smile deepened. “I’m glad about that,” he said and became serious again. Now his eyes looked almost grave. “I take it we agree in not wanting to procreate?”

This time Hermione nodded, her eyes wide - of this she hadn’t thought! But she was glad he obviously had.

“With the marriage law as it unfortunately is, the usage of contraceptus charms and potions is by now restricted and as you surely are aware of,” he said, “the ministry has ways to discover the usage of such magic. I don’t want to get us in trouble about that.”

Hermione’s heart began to speed up. Wasn’t it enough she had to sleep with a man she hardly know? She really didn’t feel up to do it in any especially tricky way!

Albus once again seemed to know what she was thinking. He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Hermione,” he said. “I only wanted to tell you that I’m to solve the problem the muggle way - and idea we shall have to thank Severus for.”

Hermione could in no way imagine how Severus Snape came in this, but she found, that for once her inquisitive mind even didn’t want to get exact knowledge. The thought of Albus and Severus Snape talking about sex was - mildly said - disturbing. The idea of them talking about sex involving a certain Hermione Granger was - no, she really didn’t want to think about that, especially not, when Albus obviously had decided now to use his mouth for something else as talking. It came now closer and closer and then it stroked softly - oh so soft and warm and not more touching as the wing of a butterfly - over her cheek to her temple. Hermione trembled under the dry lips on her skin. She couldn’t help her body becoming rigid, but not in fear or disgust, but in expectation and - yes, Hermione couldn’t deny it even if she’d have want to - something like joy. This man next to her, this handsome stranger with the familiar eyes and the gentle mouth which now blew feather light kisses over her forehead and the bridge of her nose, made her pulse going faster and her stomach doing funny, little jumps. It almost felt as if she’d swallowed not only one, but an entire herd of bumblebees, humming and flying in her belly now and - no, it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. Just on the contrary.

Now a hand - soft and elegant with long, slender fingers, the nails slightly glimmering in the light of the candles - joined the mouth, stroking her hair out of her face, exploring the hairline with only the tips of the fingers and Hermione felt as if she’d melt under this gentle touches. The rigidness of her muscles disappeared, letting back warmth and an awareness of every bone, every sinew, every fibre, every pore of her body she’d never experienced before.

The mouth now was on its way to her ear, nibbling lightly and the deep voice resonated through her as she whispered: “Trust me, Hermione, will you?”

She couldn’t answer. She was sure her voice wouldn’t obey her, but - to her amazement - her hands moved. One found its way to the back of his bend head where it met silken hair, the other stroke over his shoulders and his biceps - firm and solid and smooth as marble, but alive and warm. Hermione closed her eyes. She wanted to concentrate on the skin she felt, on the smell of his body - still lemon and lavender, but now suddenly not calming and comforting anymore, but exciting. Her fingers moving on their own accord, she dwelled in the fragrance and the feeling of his scalp under her fingertips. He made a sound - deep and throaty, like the purring of a big tomcat. Hermione, always a quick learner, tried again massaging his scalp lightly. Once again her purred and Hermione felt as if she’d just got the jackpot. Never ever she’d have thought it possible that she - Hermione Granger, bushy haired Gryffindor know-it-all and by her best friends always treated like a mixture between alien (“She uses her brain - isn’t this alien?”) and a gender less something, would be able to make a man purr with only stroking his head. And even more: This wasn’t a hormone-driven, needy 19 year old quidditch player who’d probably got an erection every time a woman looked at him. This was - even in this younger body - Albus Dumbledore, a grown man and the most impressing one she’d ever met. To hear him purr was like drinking champagne and suddenly Hermione felt light-headed and wanted to try again, but this time with her hand a bit closer to his neck, just there where she felt his spine meeting the skull.

“Hmm!” he made - but then rose his head and looked to her, his eyes so dark now they almost looked black.

Still holding his head in her hands, Hermione moved under the blanket, closer to the warmth of his body. He moved too and by doing so slid one arm under her neck. Skin met skin and Hermione almost laughed out loud as she saw the expression on his face. What had he expected? That she’d came in a flannel nightshirt, covered from head to toe, in their marriage bed? She’d knew as well as he what they would have to do there and at least for one thing she had been sure: This new husband of hers wouldn’t do his “marital duty” in commanding the candles off, pushing her nighty over her belly and performing what her former dormitory mates Lavender and Parvati, Gryffindor’s resident specialists for all matters of sex, always named the “rham-wham-thanks, ma’m” number. So what good would it have done to get in bed with a nighty? And besides: Living in an ancient castle in the coldest part of Scotland didn’t make one keep a wardrobe full of flimsy, silken night wear. Sensible girl as Hermione was she always wore warm and rather unspectacular pyjamas - most of them gifts from her mother and therefore in form and fashion rather “cute” as seductive. The idea of wearing one of them in her wedding night hadn’t even crossed Hermione’s mind. She’d hopped naked and in the belief in bed that neither she nor Albus would miss fumbling with fabric.

Obviously he’d expected otherwise. Yet the look on his face wasn’t shocked. It rather was surprised - pleasantly surprised. Hermione liked that - after the discovery of the purr, she’d just met her inner sex-goddess, until now a part of her she didn’t even know of possessing. It made for bravery and with a courage Hermione wouldn’t have expected from herself only a few hours before, she pulled her husband’s head to her and kissed him.

Again Albus was surprised, but not for long. Hermione just got a little chance to tease his lips with her tongue, but then the took the lead, opening her lips with his gently, but firmly - and starting to explore her mouth expertly, driving Hermione’s inner sex-goddess, the just found, away. She couldn’t enjoy it anymore, because she suddenly felt as if she would melt to a puddle. Yet in the middle of the puddle something arose - a need for more, a longing for touches on all her skin. Her nipples sprang to live, prickling and firm, heavy warmth unfolded between her legs.

And still Albus only kissed and hold her and it wasn’t enough. It was far away of being enough. Never one for patience when action was asked, Hermione pulled and pressed him closer to her and now at least his chest touched hers and she felt his heart beating. He understood - his hands started to wander, over her shoulders and arms to her sides, stroking down to the curve of her tights, warm and firm and calling every pore of her skin to attention. Hermione heard herself suddenly moan in his mouth, her fingers stroking his back as he broke the kiss and let his lips roam over her chin and throat, while - at last! - one hand gently cupped a breast. The other took the blanket and then he rose head once again, looking to her. “Let me see you, Hermione,” he asked and it was her, who pushed the blanket out of the way, presenting her naked flesh to him.

He laid on his side, one arm still under her neck and by the look in his eyes Hermione felt another sensation, entirely new: For the first time in her life she could think of herself as beautiful. She knew - so sure as she knew that Hogwarts was in Scotland - that he thought her a beauty and she wasn’t surprised as she heard his voice, hoarse again, saying: “You’re lovely, Hermione - lovely and beautiful and gorgeous and a feast not only for the eyes, but for hands also ...” And by saying so the tip of his index finger painted a line on her body, from her throat between her breasts to her mound. “You feel like a peach ...” and bowing his head over her, lightly nibbling on her shoulder, he said, “... and I’m very fond of peaches.”

Hermione felt suddenly a bit tippsy - as if she’d had more then the one little glass of champagne and she found herself laughing and asking: “More as on lemon drops?”

“Much more!” he assured her, cupping once again her breast with his big hand. “No lemon drop will ever feel so wonderful as this ...” he whispered, his mouth almost on her skin and now gliding to her stiff and demanding nipple.

A jolt like electricity ran through Hermione as his lips finally touched her, kissing first, then his tongue started licking, the tip of it playing with the peek, every time when reaching for it sending another shower through her. It went from scalp to toes and let a need back to be touched and to touch herself and so one of her hands found back in his hair - so silken and warm, so alive - to more stroking, while the other fingers fund once again smooth skin - again his shoulders, but from there over his back to the swell of his buttocks, still covered by the towel. By this she remembered how Victor had pushed her to reach for his cock. She hadn’t liked it then, but now she wanted to feel his manlihood, only she didn’t dare to reach for it. Shyness and something like fear overcame her. What if she wouldn’t find an erection?

Hermione really wasn’t much experienced with men - especially not with adult men. She didn’t have the slightest idea about what he expected from her, how he wanted - or even needed - her to touch him. What if he didn’t desire her? What if she was alone with the longing his tenderness and closeness produced in her? The nervousness about it made her once again becoming rigid and suddenly wishing he wouldn’t try so much to seduce her. Why couldn’t they do it the easy way with him drinking a lust potion and with her closing her eyes and thinking of - no, not exactly England, but perhaps of the fact that pulling teeth the muggle way needed longer, was even more unpleasant, but was nevertheless something thousand of peoples survived every week without lasting damage?

Albus mouth wandered again - this time over Hermione’s belly, where he kissed her belly button, then deeper south, gliding over her left tight to her leg. Hermione’s breath stopped - and so obviously did her mind. The last coherent thought was: “Will he really go there?” - and then a tender hand parted her legs and the mouth reached there - just on Hermione’s lust centre, making her moan and scream and struggle for air. She hadn’t been prepared for this - she’d even never thought that a touch so lightly and soft could cause her body such wonderful, breath taking sensations. Every thought of “let’s just get over with” were blown away as his tongue circled around her clitoris and made her feel as if she’d explode in pleasure the next moment. Never before - certainly not with Victor and unfortunately not even when her own fingers worked on building pleasure - it had felt like this. Hermione actually wished time would stay, only for a moment, only for a little chance to sort out and savour the perfection of this. But in the same moment she knew she couldn’t have beared a delay - she wanted more, she needed more as only the butterfly kissed he blowed against her and the tickling of his beard against her almost oversensitive flesh. There was an emptiness within her, a heavy and sad emptiness, a urgent need to get more and she arched her back and spread her legs to get closer to the auburn head between her tights and still it wasn’t enough, though she sucked now her little bud. Hermione almost cried in relief as finally a finger joined her lover’s lips - a long, tender finger, first teasing her entrance and then, gently and almost too slow for her need - pushing in her channel. Hermione heard herself scream and moan and becoming silent again, then now the finger had found a spot in her which had seemed to wait for becoming stroked. A push there sent Hermione over the edge, a red wave seemed to take her higher and higher and higher until her entire being was filled with pleasure and lust.

But still it wasn’t enough and she heard her own voice, almost unrecognizable for its hoarseness, beg: “Please, please, Albus ...” She didn’t know for what she asked, she couldn’t think clear enough to figure it out, but Albus obviously knew. Hermione moaned in disappointment as he suddenly turned away, getting himself rid of the towel and stretching to get something from the night stand. While he was busy with opening a little box, Hermione couldn’t resist a glance to his groin. There she saw the prove for him being aroused too. His cock stood proudly, the head already glimmering wet. Hermione dared a second look to it and swallowed. Her experience with cocks were limited to boys - and even there she’d only shortly seen Victor’s to which he’d vainly referred as “my big wand”. Hermione was sure: Albus couldn’t call his member a “wand” - or since when did wands come in such diameters? Yet it wasn’t only thick - it was just long enough to look well proportioned and so straight Hermione felt remembered to the way its owner always looked when walking through the great hall: Proud and confident.

She longed to touch it, but once again Albus was quicker. His grip to the base was firmer as Hermione would have done and she cringed by seeing it. Yet the long, tanned hand on the white firmness looked the most erotic sign Hermione had ever seen and she watched in awe as he covered his penis with a condom. Done he turned once again to her, one finger teasing her nipple, his mouth nibbling once again on her shoulder. Hermione opened her arms and legs for him - she’d waited long enough and by now she really needed him. Yet he once again hesitated, looking up to her with serious eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you, little one,” he whispered. “It’s for you to say when you’re ready.”

His concern didn’t only touch her, but made her finally overcame her shyness. Pulling him close and laying one leg around his she answered: “I want you. I really do.”

Now he glided over her, spreading her legs wider with his knees, his cock pulsing against her entrance and finally slipping it. Although Hermione was more aroused as ever before, she had to struggle for breath, surprised by being stretched to almost a hurt. Yet what a sweet pain it was to be filled like that and to made feel complete with it! Hermione felt tears running down her cheeks and a tenderness for the man in her arms which almost was too much to bear.

Albus kept still. Braced on his elbow, only connected with her through the bridge of flesh his member in her built, he looked in her eyes. “Are you feeling well, Hermione?” He asked.

“I feel wonderful!” Hermione moved her butt to prove it. She had now adjusted to his size and it felt - perfect, wonderful, lovely, exciting, great. Yet she still wanted more - more of him and their closeness, more of the sweet pleasure even the smallest move of him caused, so she pulled him closer, her lips searching for his mouth, tasting herself on it. She wondered - the smell in his beard didn’t revolt her, on the contrary, it made her even more aroused. She clung to him, her hands again in his hair and now he didn’t only purr under her ministrations, but moaned and began to move - slowly and cautiously first, but feeling her eager response, he speed up until their bodies found a rhythm suiting their mutual need and wanting. And now he managed to hit the spot his finger had discovered earlier again and with every stroke on it made Hermione cry and struggle for breath and clinging more to him, her hand still ins his hair, the other on his back, her lips on his neck, kissing and sucking and savouring the taste which was so entirely him.

Hermione forgot about time - were it seconds or minutes or even hours? It felt like sweet eternity, like every fibre of her had at last found its destiny and in it a rightness she’d never experienced before. If she would have been able to coherent thinking, she’d probably laughed out loud, remembering the endless talks of her former dormitory mates about the difficulties of doing “it” right and the need to show oneself as a talented mistress by it. Yet she couldn’t think. Her mind didn’t allow any thoughts because it was entirely filled with love.


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Surely cradled in Albus’ arms, the head on his shoulder, playing lazily with the few hair on his chest, Hermione felt as satisfied and content as never before. Her body was tired, her tights and her belly even aching slightly as if she’d just done a long walk, but her mind was clear and her senses even sharper as normally. The smell of the long body next to her, the silken smoothness under her fingers, the contrast between his ivory skin and the dark blue sheets of the bed, the soft light of the candles and their almost inaudible cracking, the only sound except of his quiet breath - Hermione felt as if all this would just become burned in on her memory so she would never forget it. And wasn’t this moment something on which she would feed in bad times?

Hermione braced herself up on one of her elbows and looked to him. “Albus?” she said and using his given name didn’t feel strange anymore. How should it with the memory of him panting and moaning in her arms? He’d looked so vulnerable during his climax, so far away from his all-day confident, calm and always a bit distant self and with that so entirely hers. No, calling him by his given name wasn’t wrong anymore - the man next to her, the man which warmth she took in with her fingers and her skin, was really and truly her husband. It was only that Hermione wasn’t sure how she’d feel when he was back in his “real” body - and with thinking of this her insecurity was suddenly back. He was the headmaster after all, a man not only twice, but almost tenth her age!

“Yes, my dear?” His eyes - still the eyes of the young man - showed suddenly melancholy and worry.

“The potion ...,” she started a bit awkward. “When will it wear off?”

Albus sighed. “Severus said the effect of it would last four or five hours. So you’ll probably be deep in dreams when it happens.”

“Will it hurt you?” Hermione asked, her hand still on his chest.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll only feel my rheumatism once again - but I’m in use with it.”

“I didn’t know wizards get rheumatism too,” Hermione said and her voice sounded like a small child’s.

“Wizards are only humans,” Albus answered with a smile. “So we get all kind of illnesses muggles are suffering with too. Only we’ve got the advantage of having potions for curing or at least helping us through the most of them.” He caught one of her curls and rolled it round his index finger. “Aren’t you tired, Hermione?”

“Are you?” she asked back.

Albus smiled and stretched. “As I’ve just said: I’m only human. So - as every human male and probably even some male animals too - I’m tired after an act of love making.”

“Then I should let you sleep,” Hermione said, chewing on her under lip once again.

Albus laughed, angled for the blanket and laid it around her shoulder. “If only you wouldn’t burst with questions! I think I can manage to answer at least a few of them before sleep overwhelms me. And let me guess: The first one is how we’ll spend our honeymoon ...”

The lightness of his tone made Hermione smile. “Will we have something like that?” she asked.

“I’d actually love it,” Albus answered, once again becoming serious, “but we’re in the middle of a term, in a few weeks we’ll have christmas and in a few months your NEWTs will come up, so I don’t think I should keep you away from classes too long. Even I couldn’t stand Minerva’s furor if I were to spoil her star student’s chances for top marks. Besides it seems that I’m up to another little fight in the International Wizard’s council tomorrow. Our dear friend Lucius Malfoy seems to have found a new way to interfere in the ministry’s business for getting his master’s dirty deeds done. This time he uses his probably heavily gold-supported influence on the French minister to alienate wizards and vampires even more. And in the contrast to our dear minister and his once again installed state’s secretary Umbridge I think we can’t afford hostility against us and the old forces. It could easily make them lose their indifference against us - and if they were to become Tom Riddle’s allies, we were in even deeper trouble.”

Hermione shuddered by the thought of it. She’d never seen a vampire because it gave only a few of them anymore and none of them wanted contact to wizards, but from what she’d learned about them and their very strong, ancient magic she didn’t want to meet one - especially not with the vampire as an enemy. Thinking of such a prospect made her own fate once again looking pretty unimportant and small. “I’m sure the council will see your point,” she said therefore, not entirely sure if she wanted to give him support or if she needed the comfort of believing it herself.

“I hope very much so,” Albus sighed. “Yet I’m aware that I’m far away of being very appreciated by the council.”

“But why?” Hermione cried. She remembered how shocked she’d been in her fifth Hogwarts year as she’d learned that the Wizengamot and the International Council had - as Draco Malfoy had so nicely said - “sacked” the headmaster because “they’ve finally checked that the old fool had long lost his marbles”. Behind it was the simple fact that Wizengamot and Council hadn’t want to deal with the truth. They’d rather called Harry a “liar” and Albus “senile” as to admit that Voldemort was really and truly back. But by now they should know better, shouldn’t they? “Can’t they see you were always telling the truth, simply looking further in the future as they are able to?” she asked him.

Albus smiled a bit bitterly. “Cassandra,” he only said. “Does the name ring a bell?”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “She was a seer and always right.”

“And therefore people didn’t want to hear what she had to tell,” Albus finished for her. “The truth makes people feel uncomfortable. They don’t want their illusions destroyed.” He rose his head and blow a little kiss to the tip of her nose. “But let’s come back to a young lady who’s always brave enough to face truth. How do you want me to deal with our marriage in public? We can’t keep it a secret, you know. The entry in the ministry’s register should by now be done and I wouldn’t wonder if Lucius Malfoy learns about it at breakfast by getting showering with express owls. He won’t be the only one, Hermione. We are to become the talk of the day. So I think it would be best if I’d announce our marriage at breakfast in the hall. Doing it myself seems to me a better way as waiting for the rumours and to get you in a situation in which people bother you with questions and suggestions.”

“You’re certainly right,” Hermione answered. “But what am I to do after the announcement?”

“You have two possibilities,” Albus answered so quickly, Hermione became aware that he’d already thought over that too. “You can stay at our quarters until the grape mill calms down - and it will calm down after a few days, be assured. Nothing’s elder and more boring as yesterday’s sensations, so in a week or two probably nobody will bother you much about our marriage anymore.”

Hermione didn’t like this idea too much. “It would feel like hiding behind your back,” she said. “I don’t like it. I’ve done nothing I’d feel ashamed of, so I can face the world.”

Her reward was a big smile and another kiss, this time at her forehead. “You’re making me a proud man, Hermione. Married to such a courageous and lovely witch - I actually shall have to thank Lucius for it.”

Hermione chuckled. “I don’t think he’d appreciate your expressed gratitude - though the idea of his face by getting it is nice.”

“When you are to face the world with me tomorrow, you’ll get at least to see Malfoy junior learning about us.” Albus grinned, looking very young by it. “Perhaps I should inform Poppy first. The mediwitch falling from her chair herself wouldn’t be of much use if Master Malfoy faints from shock. However: I hope our ‘back to normality’ way of dealing won’t become too hard for you.”

“I won’t be alone in it. Harry and Ron and Ginny will be there - and Professor McGonagall of course ...” Hermione encouraged herself.

“And don’t forget Severus,” Albus said firmly. “Being witness to a binding means more as just standing by. Severus is well aware of that. He pledged loyalty to our bond - and with that loyalty to you. With him this means a lot ...”

Hermione looked for a long moment in her husband’s grave eyes. Memories of the 1436 time she had defended Snape against her friends crossed her mind and quietly she said, more establishing a fact then asking for it: “You’re his friend.”

“No.” Albus shook his head and his face became very sad. “I trust him with more as my life - I trust him with the life of my pupils and with yours. And I truly wish I could be his friend because he urgently needs one. But unfortunately I am not. Instead I am his nemesis, his torturer, his prison keeper, the man who sends him in the hands of evil again and again, the man who destroyed more then once the little hopes Severus still keeps. To name me his friend would be hypocrisies as it worst and cruelty.”

“But you care for him!” Hermione almost screamed.

“Yes, I do.” Albus sighed. “He wouldn’t believe it, but I care even deeper for him as for Harry. You know, I appreciate and love Harry, but Severus is the closest thing I have to a son.” He turned around to his side, now facing Hermione again. “On behalf of Severus I’d like to ask you for a big favour, my dear.”

“Yes?” Hermione sounded eagerly.

“Minerva told me, you’d like to do your honour project in transfiguration,” Albus said.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed. “I’d like to become an animagnus.”

“You know I was Minerva’s predecessor as transfiguration teacher?” Albus asked her. “I’m even a master of it myself, so I could teach you that and you could do a potions project for the NEWTs. You’re outstanding in potions, as Severus says, so you’re qualified for it - and I’d be very grateful if you could bring yourself to do potions instead of transfiguration.”

“Uff,” Hermione breathed deeply. “I don’t think Professor Snape would like to have me around in his lab. You know, he isn’t exactly a fan of mine. And until now it was always Slytherins doing honour projects in potions. I don’t think he’d take up a Gryffindor.”

Albus smiled. “Allow me to know him better as you do. He’d rather swallow his sharp tongue as to admit it, but he’d feel honoured. Besides he urgently needs a helping hand - and one he can trust not poisoning him like he’d to fear with a few of his pupils. His work as a spy takes a great deal of strength out of him and his ambition to keep up nevertheless with potion making doesn’t help with getting him the urgently needed rest. And more - I think with a little time and patience you could become the friend he needs.”

“Me?” Hermione’s eyes became as big as saucers.

Albus laughed out loud, lifted the blanket and looked along his body. “No, Hermione,” he chuckled, “I didn’t lost them.”

She didn’t understand, still being busy with chewing on the big bite of his idea of her befriending the potion master. “What?” she asked therefore.

“My marbles, darling.” Albus really was amused. “They’re still were they belong.” He turned on his back, stretching by it with feline grace, then he yawned.

“You’re really tired,” Hermione stated. “And you need rest too, but ...” She simply couldn’t resist - his stretching had reminded her to a question she longed to ask since he’d mentioned being a transfigurations master himself. “One last question - then I let you have your rest. What is your animagnus form?”

“You’ve got three guesses.” Albus smiled.

“A lion?” Hermione shot immediately.

Once again he stretched, his arms now over his head. “Nope!” he said cheerfully. “And Severus would say now: ‘How Gryffindor of you!’ Next guess?”

“Hmm ...” Hermione had been so sure about the lion. Now she had to think for a moment. “A horse?” she hesitatingly said. “I mean, a white thoroughbred stallion would suit you too.”

“Wrong again, but I feel flattered.” Albus grinned. “Let me help you a bit: In my anigmagnus form I’m small enough you could keep me on your lap.”

“You’re not another cat?” Hermione reckoned. “So ... hmmm ...” She didn’t have an idea.

Albus laughed once again, the he rose up. “I’ll show you - but laying on my back isn’t a good way to change as I’ve learned by bad experience.” Standing in front of the bed now, he moved once his shoulders, then he seemed to melt and suddenly he was gone. Hermione jumped in surprise, searching the room for an animal. Then she heard a sharp crackle and the rustling of strong wings. A falcon rose up from the carpet next to the bed, getting himself with two strokes of his wings up to the ceiling, hovering there for a moment and sailing down then graciously to the foot of the bed. Hermione was now - in her curiosity not aware of being still naked - on her knees and hands to get a closer look at the bird. It was beauty with a wide, white breast, the feathers at their ends speckled with black, the wings just opposite with black feathers, surrounded by white and the head like an expertly done japanese paint-and-ink-painting. Hermione longed to touch the bird, but didn’t dare. “May I stroke you?” she asked awkwardly.

The falcon bent his head to the side, getting his sharp, grey beak out of her way and looked to her out of his onyx eyes. Hermione took this as a “yes” and carefully stroked with only one finger over his neck. “You’re beautiful, Albus,” she said.

The falcon opened his beak, making a sharp sound, then he rose his wings and stretched, growing back to the now familiar form of young Albus again.

“I’ve never seen such a falcon before,” Hermione said. “What kind is it?”

“It’s a falco rusticolus - gyrfalcon. They’re very rare in England because they actually live in North Europe. So I wondered a bit how I came to acquire this animagnus form, but I have a few nordic ancestors. Perhaps the gyrfalcon comes from that,” Albus explained, crawling back under the blanket.

“It’s really lovely!” Hermione staid, still delighted.

“It’s quite useful too,” Albus smiled. “When I’m in a hurry to go somewhere, I don’t have to walk down all the way to the apparition point at the gates. I simply start from the tower. And having a falcon’s sight sometimes is an advantage for a headmaster - one learns a lot by looking down from above.”

“Ah - that’s why you’re always so quick in travelling!” Hermione said. “I’ve always wondered if you’re perhaps able to take down the anti-apparations wards at Hogwarts.”

“Having built them up myself, I actually could,” Albus answered, once again yawing. “But it would need more time and strength as simply sailing down from the tower. And it wouldn’t be less fun because Fawkes and I are often making a race out of it. And if he doesn’t cheat with his magic, I even sometimes win. Oh - by talking about Fawkes: You don’t mind if I go to get him? He doesn’t like sleeping in my office. When I make him to, he’s always sulking for days. Besides he’s my alarm clock, without him I’d always sleep in.”
tualtually ...” Hermione looked a bit sheepishly, “my cat is in use with sleeping at my feet ...”

“Hmm - that’s nice! A fur ball for a foot warmer. Don’t you think you could perhaps persuade him to warm my feet too?” Albus smiled.

“I will try. So you don’t mind if I get him? He’s in a cradle in my study ...”

“Let’s get our familiars,” Albus rose and so did Hermione.

This time she was aware of her nudity and quickly summoned her dressing gown. Yet Albus didn’t look at her. He was already on his way to his bathroom and as he disappeared through the door, Hermione felt a pang of sadness. Obviously the sweet hour - and it had indeed been a sweet one - was over and with it the closeness and intimacy she’d enjoyed so much.