Much Ado about Nothing

Much Ado about Nothing


By: Max

[Disclaimer: see chapte



Chapter 7: Night time confessions


And they’re running! Wet and wetter
get the stairs, the rooms, the hall!
What a deluge! What a flood!
Lord and master, hear me call!
Ah, here comes the master!
I have need of Thee!
from the spirits that I called,
Sir, deliver me.

Back now, broom,
into the closet!
Be thou as thou
wert before.
Until I, the real master
call thee forth to serve once more!

“The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
Translation by Brigitte Dubiel

A mug with steaming cocoa in his hand, Albus approached the balcony of his bedroom where Francesca stood and looked over the roofs and grounds of Hogwarts. She turned around as she heard his steps, taking the mug from him. Laying both her hands around the warm china, she drank half of it, then gave the mug back to Albus who emptied it and put it on the little table in the back of the balcony.

“I missed your cocoa,” Francesca said softly, turning around to the rail again.

Albus stepped behind her. “I missed you,” he said, opened his robe and laid it around her.

Francesca leaned back in his warmth. “Liar!” she said. “If you’d have really missed me, you would have called. Or visited. And don’t tell me you were too busy.”

Albus sighed. “If I may remind you: Last time I was in Venice you didn’t want to see me because …”

“… Leonardo would have gone ballistic,” she giggled. “He was so jealous about you!”

“Considered you’re here now, I take it Leonardo’s jealousy doesn’t bother you anymore?” Albus kept his tone lightly, but laid his arms around her tender waist.

Francesca responded by putting one hand on his. “You know how I am. Possessive men I can’t stand for long. I need my freedom.”

“Yes, I know …” Albus bent down and kissed her hair.

For a while both kept silent. Then Francesca said quietly: “Your Hogwarts is still beautiful.”

“So is Venice,” he answered.

Once again none of them said a word for a few minutes, and then it was again Francesca breaking the silence with a sigh. “You know we wouldn’t have worked, Albus. I sometimes think we’re too alike. We both love our freedom, we’re both too proud to admit that we’d need some one; we’ve got both too much of a temper. I would have fought you only to prove to myself that I’m not becoming dependent on you - and you would have hurt me for the same reason.”

Albus pulled her a bit closer. “You’re probably right, Francesca. Only …” He didn’t finish.

After a few seconds Francesca did for him: “You’re sometimes a bit lonely.”

He nodded. “Yes, sometimes. Waking up in the middle of a night …”

“… Next to some one you don’t really care about …” she proceeded.

“Perhaps we should have tried harder, Francesca,” he said, sounding sad.

She shook her head. “No, Albus. It would only have made it worse. Our problem was that neither you nor I really believed in us. We waited both from the very first moment on for the other stepping out again. I trusted you, but I didn’t trust me. And you …”

He sighed sadly. “I trusted you and I trusted in my feelings for you, but …” Once again he let the line hang.

And once again it was her who finished it: “You don’t trust in love anymore. But if a relationship should work, at least one of the participants must believe in it and must be willing to fight for it. We didn’t. We both chickened out at the first possible opportunity.”

“But at least we saved our friendship,” Albus said seriously. “It means a lot to me, Francesca.”

“To me too, Albus.” She snuggled her head against his shoulder and suddenly chuckled. “And isn’t it nice we sometimes can enjoy it as a vertimatimate friendship?”

“Hmm.” Albus moved his right hand upwards to her firm breast. Cupping it softly, he whispered in her ear: “Was that meant as an invitation, my dear?”

“Would I’ve come to stay for the night if I wouldn’t have hoped for an invitation to share your bed, Albus?”

“And you’re not too tired after the ball?” he asked.

“Are you?” she asked back.

“No, I don’t think so.” He took his hand away from her breast, waved it and murmured an incantation. Her robe, undergarment, stocking and shoes vanished, followed by his boots, socks and under robe. Wrapping her outer robe closer around her, he cast a spell to keep it from falling open and then a warming charm.

By feeling it, Francesca chuckled again. “Still up to the old triR…”

“Do I hear a complaint here, Francesca?”

“Certainly not.” Francesca leaned back at him, wriggling her butt against his already half erect penis. “You know I’ve always liked your tricks …”

“That’s good to know …” Albus let his hand wander over her body. 24 years ago as he’d first met her during a holiday in Venice; he’d fallen for her brilliant mind, her independence, her passion and her humour. But by then he’d found her almost a bit too bony for his taste. But now she’d gained a bit weight, her body had become softer, her breast a bit fuller. But what he liked even more was that she felt familiar. He knew how he could please her, he knew how she liked to be touched and he knew about her ability to receive and to give. With her it was more than sex. Their mutual affection and the closeness they’d developed over the years made their encounters - as rare as they had become during the last years - to be more than just satisfaction for the body. With Francesca Albus had come close to “making love” again - and this feeling he hadn’t got since his wife had left him.

So he closed his eyes and concentrated on his hands, just reaching her breasts, dwelling on their soft roundness and perfect form. Massaging them gently, he felt how her nes bes became firm under his palms.

“Albus …” she pressed closer to him.

He bent his head and kissed her neck, in the same time teasing her stiff peeks with his fingers.

It obviously wasn’t enough for her. She moaned and spread her legs. “Albus - don’t tease me. I’ve waited all evening to get you for myself.” Taking his right hand, she pushed it down over her belly to her mound. “Please …”

Slowly he let his hand wander down between her legs. She was already dripping wet and as he gently, only with his index finger, touched her centre, she sighed. “Oh yes - touch me. Make me come.”

“I will, darling, I will …” Her arousal made him becoming entirely hard and pressing his erection against her back, his index finger found her entrance while his thumb played with her clitoris.

“Oh - so good. Yes …,” she moaned.

Albus bent his head again, this time nibbling at her earlobe. She was pushing her against his hand now and he knew she was already very close. Tugging lightly at her nipple with his left hand while at the same time entering her with a second finger of his right made her scream his name and then it needed only a little touch of her lust knob and she was over the edge, becoming for a moment rigid in his arms before her entire body trembled and she screamed again.

Afterwards she leaned against him, panting and covered in sweat. He knew she didn’t like being touched too much in this state, so he refrained to holding her with his mouth in her hair. After a while she chuckled. “You know, I always have to grin when I read your entire titles? I always think there’s something amiss. There should be the addition ‘lover extraordinaire’.” She turned around and while her mouth searched for his lips, she gripped with one hand his hard cock while her other started playing with his testicles. Now it was him who moaned. It wasn’t only him who knew her. She was familiar with him too and knew exactly how he liked to be touched. Firmly massaging his hard length while gently playing with his balls and kissing hieplyeply she made him almost whimper with need. He had to fight against his body taking over entirely, but he managed because he wanted more than only her hands and he knew that she wasn’t entirely satisfied yet. So taking her up in his arms, he stepped over the threshold in his bedchamber, pulled the robe from his shoulders, let it fall down to the floor and carried his sweet prey to the bed where he laid her gently down.

Looking down at her, he had to swallow. She was still an exceptional beautiful woman and the dark blue sheets and the light of the candles over the bed made her fine skin shimmer like gold.

“You’re so lovely, Francesca,” he whispered.

Her eyes were almost black now, but her mouth smiled at him as she opened her arms and spread her legs. “Make love to me, Albus. I want to feel you inside me …”

Sinking down on her, he braced himself on one elbow and used his free hand to guide his erection in the welcoming, wet heath. As he pushed in, Francesca wrapped arms and legs around him and kissed his shoulder. “I’ve missed you - I’ve missed the feeling of you inside me, of being filled by you …”

He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment of pure pleasure. Feeling her silken tight heat around his erection, having her small, but strong hands now gliding down his back and gripping his buttocks was pure bliss and made him forgot all his sorrows and worries. In Francesca’s arm he hadn’t to act the great wizard. With her he was simply a man.

Slowly, his eyes still closed, he began to move, totally concentrated on the warm, soft body under him. He could feel her breasts against his chest and the tickling of her pubic hair on his skin. With every stroke of him she moaned and now she was kneading his buttocks and moved with him. Their bodies were in perfect harmony and it was like dancing - just as the waltz he’d done only one hour before with Hermione who’d smelled so lovely and who’d felt in his arms as if she were made to be there. And how she’d leaned her forehead against his shoulders - her hair had been like silk under his lips and she’d smelled like heaven with vanilla. And this body of hers - the firm breasts and the tender waist, the long legs … she’d brushed his thighs and his groin every time when he turned her around and he had longed to pull her closer and to feel her skin on his and to wrap her legs around him …

Heavens, what was he doing? He slept with Francesca - dear, wonderful Francesca - and he thought of Hermione! And by remembering the dance with her he’d felt the blood flooding through his veins to his groins, making him even harder and the slow, tender rhythm he had started with had become a wild and passionate pounding and now Francesca was screaming his name and her fingers cramped in his flesh and with distant clearness he knew that she’d leave deep marks not only on his buttocks, but on the shoulder she was biting too. She was climaxing now - and he was glad about it because he felt that his arousal was slowly, but inevitably ebbing away. Thinking of Hermione in the middle of an act with another woman! Hermione - brilliant, sweet, lovely Hermione with her beautiful eyes and … no! No! She was his apprentice, she was so young, she was hardly more then a child and thinking of her and her body was as wrong as lusting after a student and he’d never ever, not even in his first years as a young man at the university, done that.

The shame about it made his erection finally subside and being aware of Francesca knowing him too well for he could pretend he’d have come too, he rolled away from her, taking her in his arms and whispering: “Sorry, darling. I’m obviously becoming old …”

For a moment he believed she’d bought his excuse. She was silent, playing with the hair on his chest, her head cradled on his shoulder. But then she turned and her belly braced her chin in one of her hands and looked in his eyes. “You are the world’s lousiest liar, Albus - at least when it comes to lying to me. So tell me: What got you distracted?”

Albus couldn’t look in her eyes. Even with Francesca being one of his best friends - he couldn’t think of something more offending than to tell a woman that he’d started thinking of another one while making love to her. So he rubbed his eyes, faked a yawn and smiled then wearily at her: “Too little sleep in the last nights and too much champagne - you know, I never could hold that stuff very well.” It was - at least partly - true. While he could drink a lot of wine and even harder drinks without feeling much of it, champagne always got at him. Yet he hadn’t drunk more then one glass of it during the ball - only Francesca didn’t know that.

She stroked a strand of his hair out of his forehead and blew a kiss on the tip of his nose. “I suppose it had been a rather long day for you. And this talking and dancing …” Pulling the blanket over him, she snuggled at his shoulder again. “Let’s sleep. You need your rest.”

Turning his head, he kissed her. “Francesca - dear, wonderful Francesca - I’m glad you’re here.” This at least wasnR a l a lie. He was grateful for her warmth and the comfort it was giving him. What had just happened made him feel cold and filled with - he couldn’t exactly name it. It was something like fear and shock and disgust at himself and shame. He was headmaster of a school, some one people had to trust with what was most precious to them: Their children. He was the one who had to protect not only their lives, but their innocence too and despite his cheerful attitude and his “interesting love life” - as Minerva had named him once - he’d always taken this responsibility very serious. Every teacher at Hogwarts had always been aware that the calm and polite headmaster could forgive a lot of failures and short comings and was always willing to give his fellow human beings a second chance - except when it came to teacher-students-relationships. It even didn’t need to come to sex between a teacher and his pupil. A kiss was enough for becoming sacked “in quicker a time as the kiss had lasted”, as Rolanda Hooch once had explained to a young colleague. And - once again Rolanda Hooch’s saying: “He’s got eyes in his back, he hears through walls and I sometimes think he knows before his teachers when they become interested in a student. Flirt with one - where ever you are in Hogwarts - but prepare yourself by doing so: You’ll get to hear from the headmaster.”

The way the culprit got to hear was what Severus Snape named once “The headmaster’s barbecue”. It always started with a note - an exceptionally short and cold one compared to the polite notes Albus used to send normally. It mostly only contained one line: “I’ll see you at my office at …” Yet this notes were always send so that the teacher in question got at least one entire night to get himself “pickled in his own fluids” (once again Severus) before he was in for the “thorough grilling” in the Headmaster’s office.

And now … Albus swallowed. Was he now to send the note to himself? Or should he ask Minerva for washing his head? He was sure: If she’d know how he’d thought about her favourite student he would have to be glad for getting away with his genitals intact.

Even worse: Hermione. She trusted him so entirely; she was so absolutely on ease with him. What would she think of him if she’d know that he … and yes, he had to admit it to himself: He desired her? He didn’t know when it had started, but the ball hadn’t been the first time his mouth had become dry by looking at her. Just the other day as she’d bent over her desk in these rather tight jeans of her, presenting him her firm, perfect shaped bun, he’d caught himself by looking at it and wishing to stroke it. And this evening - yes, yes, yes, he had looked at her breasts and the sight of it had made for prickle in his groin!

He couldn’t deny it anymore: He wanted her. His body reacted strongly to her and he longed to hold her in his arms and to kiss her and to make love to her. And there was a voice in his head which tempted him in whispering, that she wasn’t a student anymore, but an adult and almost a full fledged colleague. Doctor Hermione Granger, 24 years old and with that in an age not only wide over the age of consent, but in a phase of her life other women were already married and mothers of one or two children. And hadn’t Molly Weasley been 18 when she’d married her Arthur, the now highly respected minister of magic? No one had ever named him a cradle cradler though he was 10 years Molly’ senior. And his own parents - his father had been 80 years elder than his mother and they’d nevertheless loved and adored each other. And Nicolas Flamel, once Albus’ friend, master and partner, had been 120 years the senior of his beloved wife and their marriage had lasted for more then 300 happy years.

But all of this didn’t change the fact that Hermione probably would run away screaming if she knew. It didn’t change the fact that she’d probably look at him with disgust and disappointment and that he would lose her friendship and trust.

This he couldn’t stand. She was too important. He couldn’t bear the idea to live without her again. She’d become his reason to work again and with this he had found a part of himself he’d thought lost and for which he’d mourned. And the laughter and the joy they were sharing and the pleasure of feeling understood and the admiration he saw in her eyes when she looked at him! He’d once thought himself above the need for feeling admired and even more, he’d thought he’d already gotten too much of it with so much people always looking up to him as if he would be invincible and infallible. He knew all too well how much failures he’d made during his life and how much they’d cost and he remembered only too well how often he’d showed the world the façade of the strong leader when he’d actually felt hopeless, desperate and like running away and hiding. What could admiration mean to him when he always found himself thinking: “If only you’d know how I really am?”

Yet Hermione - she knew. At least she knew about his fears, his follies, and his failures. She’d been petrified because he hadn’t found the chamber of secrets. She’d suffered with Harry because he had made the failure of not telling the boy about the prophecy. She’d worried about Minerva because adn&adn’t managed to protect his deputy. She’d fought on his side and she knew that it hadn’t been his brilliant strategy or Harry’s heroics which had made for the victory, but sheer, dump luck too. She’d seen him on his sickbed, weak and far away of looking the strong leader. She’d lent him her strength by their first dance on her leaving feast and only a few weeks ago, by the anniversary of the final battle, as he’d stood at the graves of his fallen colleagues, students and friends, he’d felt her gaze on him, warm and comforting and full of sympathy. She knew that he couldn’t stand there without feeling guilty and by their way back to the castle he’d suddenly felt her hand in his and as he’d looked at her, he’d seen tears in her eyes and he hadn’t felt ashamed of showing her his tears too. And then, in their lab, she’d simply taken him in her arms and he had cried on her shoulder. Not a single word was spoken about it afterwards. But he was nevertheless sure that she knew how much he’d needed to cry on some one’s shoulder and she probably even knew that he hadn’t done that in ages, probably not since he had been a small boy.

No, he couldn’t lose Hermione. She was his friend, his comrade, she was like a part of him and he didn’t want to live without her. And therefore he would once again use his willpower to get a grip on himself. He would overcome his desire for her. She would never learn about. He’d confessed against himself, he would punish himself for it - and that would be it. There was no need to involve Hermione or some one else. He got himself in the miss of lusting after a woman so much younger and he would get himself out of it again. Period.


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


“You know what, Fawkes?” Hermione tugged lightly at one of the glorious tail feathers of the phoenix who sat on the wing of her chair, graciously holding a slit of an apple in his claw and nibbling on it. “This is one of the lousiest Saturday evenings of my life. I’ve got an acute case of cabin fever and there’s no one to to to - except you, of course. But as nice as it is that you came up here - you’re one of the quiet sorts, aren’t you? I mean it has its advantages - you never talk nonsense. But just at the moment …” She sighed and looked gloomily in the flames of the fire in front of her. “I must have missed something yesterday at the ball. Obviously some one was giving out the motto ‘The world must be peopled’ while I was just out for a pee. And now it seems you and I are the only living souls not doing it!”

Fawkes was ready with his apple. Cleaning his paw he chirped comfortingly at Hermione.

“You’re obviously more comfortable with being a single than I am, Fawkes.” Hermione stroked his head. “On the other hand: Our master’s love life is going on you too. Or why have you foresworn his bedchamber and company?”

The phoenix crooked his head and looked at Hermione.

She laughed, but her eyes were sad. “No, Fawkes - I’m not jealous of Professor de Santis-Valerio. I am not. I really like her much better than that blonde ice cube Albus was with. Professor de Santis-Valerio looks much nicer and I’m really not jealous of her. He can pound her through the mattress all weekend if he wants to. I don’t care about, really! I only wonder … I mean, what’s up around me? Everybody seems to do it - even Ron managed to get some one in his bed though … you know Pansy Parkinson, Fawkes? She was a Slytherin of the ‘for what I should use my brains when I’ve got tits’ sort. But probably that’s just what Ron likes about her. And dear Harry - he probably just tries to make Padma Patil pregnant with at least triplets.”

Rising up, she began to pace through her room. “You know what, Fawkes?” she started again. “I’m going out. I simply can’t stand this room tonight. I want to have company - and a drink. Or even two. Or three. And tomorrow’s Sunday and no one will miss unimportant little assistant instructor Granger if she doesn’t show up for breakfast in the hall because had to cure a hang over. And with our master being busy with his fiery Italian he won’t need me either - he’ll probably even be glad if I stay away from him. So let’s go down to the ‘Three Broomsticks’ for a drink. I’ve always wanted to get myself royally pissed once in the company of a phoenix.”

One hour later, seating at the bar in the Hogsmeade pub “The Three Broomsticks” and starring in the smoke over her glass of fire whiskey Hermione wasn’t convinced anymore that going for a drink with the phoenix had been a good idea. The winter night was extremely cold and a storm was blowing down from the mountains. Even Fawkes had fought against the wind and made protesting sounds. Hermione was sure: If it hadn’t been for watching her, the phoenix would have used his magic for apparating himself directly into the pub or back at Hogwarts. But faithful and protective as he was, he’d hovered over her as she’d walked down to Hogsmeade. But the way he’d ruffled his feathers and the indignant look with which he’d started to clean his wet plumage as soon as they’d entered the pub had shown her clearly, that Fawkes’ enthusiasm for strolls during winter nights had limits.

The landlady of the pub, always friendly Rosmerta, had laughed about Fawkes. Having been a member of the order during the war, she knew Fawkes well and after providing him with a dish of warm milk, she’d stroked his neck. “You’re really spoiled, old boy. Other birds are living outdoors, but you always behave as if flying through a cold night could give you a flu.”

Except of that she hadn’t spoken much - at least not with Hermione and Fawkes. She obviously was another victim of the love virus which had hit the wizard’s world. Enjoying the fact that her pub was almost deserted - probably because all inhabitants of Hogsmeade were happy victims of the virus too - the landlady had sat herself at the table next to the fireplace where Hermione’s colleague Corin O’Malley, ancient rules professor at Hogwarts, had eagerly waited for her. Now he was holding her hands and looking in her eyes and whispering to her and she giggled and Hermione had to fight against the urge to call a “Get a room, the two of you!” over to the couple.

Yet Rosmerta and Corin O’Malley weren’t the only couple obsly sly in need of a room. In the dimmest corner of the pub another couple was so busy with each other that they even hadn’t noticermiermione and Fawkes entering - what get her now the chance to watch the spectacle of Tonks changing her hair colour all five minutes. As Hermione had entered, the metamorph had looked almost plain with brown hair. But then she’d obviously thought it nice to make herself suiting her partner and so her hair had become shoulder-length, lanky and black as the potion master’s who was talking to her, his head to close to her pretty face that his lips almost touched her cheeks.

Hermione, although certainly no fan of Severus Snape, could imagine what his silken voice could do to a woman who clearly was in love with him and so she didn’t wonder that Tonks’ hair had changed from black to a pale rosé and then - over bright pink - to a nice coral red. By now it was flaming purple and flooding down her back. Hermione was sure: Tonks wouldn’t need a warming charm for the way back through the winter night. She obviously was in flames and probably just joining her lover in cursing about the anti-apparition wards which prevented to make it directly from the pub in the potion master’s bed.

Sipping at her second glass of fire whiskey Hermione allowed herself a moment of self-pity. She felt lonely and unloved and she missed - no, certainly not Victor who’d only a few days ago had announced his engagement to a blonde who’d at the picture in the “Daily Prophet” looked as if she couldn’t count to three without using her fingers. But Victor had beamed as if she were the best thing since the invention of quidditch and Hermione had almost shuddered by seeing him. Had she really once believed to love him? Now she was glad that he was pale history, but - she missed having a lover, some one who’d distract her from thinking of … no, not again. Yet … this night, after the ball, she’d sneaked in the library where she’d got herself the Italian-English dictionary, searching for the word “tesoro”.

Darling - tesoro meant Darling. He’d named her “darling”. But it didn’t mean something. He often used terms of endearment not only with her, but with other women too. Minerva was often called “my dear” and Poppy he even named sometimes “sweetheart”, especially when her new husband, his old friend Alastor Moody was around. He used to growl when Albus flirted with his wife and this made for the energetic mediwitch blushing and giggling like a little girl.

No, Albus using a term of endearment really hadn’t a meaning behind showing that he was in a good mood and liking the person he’d addressed.

Yet … Albus speaking Italian … he’d once told her that he saw Italian as his “mother tongue” while English was his “native language”. And more: She still could hear his voice how he’d explained: “Italian is the language of love for me. The first tender words I’ve ever heard came in Italian and the first time I told some one that I’d love them, I didn’t use English, but said ‘Ti amo, mamma.”

And yesterday, by holding her in his arms, he’d called her “tesoro”. Didn’t it mean more to him than the English “darling”? But perhaps he’d only used Italian because he’d done so all evening with Francesca de Santis-Valerio? Once, as Hermione had danced with Ron - who’d so often trampled on her toes that she would have liked to ask his jealous watching Pansy if he’d get her in bed with smashing her toes - she’d come pretty close to Albus who’d held his Francesca in his arms. They’d talked Italian with each other - very animated; only interrupted by his deep, throaty chuckling and her silvery giggle. So he’d probably been so much in the language that he hadn’t noticed using it with Hermione too. Or perhaps he hadn’t even noticed it was her in his arms? Perhaps he’d been so enchanted by his beautiful friend that he’d thought only of her while dancing with Hermione? Probably he’d only asked her for this waltz because he’d promised and because manners demanded to dance at least once with every lady of his acquaintance. And actually - very keen on dancing with her he hadn’t been. Well, he’d said he would have tried all evening, but whenever Hermione had looked at him - which had been more often than she’d like to admit it even against herself - he’d always had have a lady in his arms and he’d always provided her with his charming smile.

Minerva - elegant and very graceful in a slow waltz with him. Poppy - blushing and giggling during a fiery tango. Tonks - clumsy as always, almost falling over her feet, kept up by Albus’ strong arms, blushing all over and then hugging him spontaneously at the end of the dance what had made Snape looking as if he’d just think about dropping poison in his headmaster’s drink. Dee Sprout - the little Herbology witch only reached to his chest, but he had bent down to her and made their dancing look very cute. Rolanda Hooch - laughing loudly after a joke he’d made and then laying his cheek against his. Molly Weasley - beaming up to him and Ginny with whom he’d shown that he mastered Rock’n Roll too and always mousy looking Agatha Sanders, director of the department of education and the ministry who had bloomed and almost looked pretty in Albus’ arms and - damn him! He’d really danced with every one before he’d come for Hermione and he’d provided every one with his much to experienced charm and he was sometimes a bloody smug and arrogant Slytherin and only harmless Gryffindors as Minerva and her could believe that he actually wanted true love. Probably he wouldn’t even recognize true love when it jumped with a blank butt directly in his face!

And why the hell did it hurt to think about? Why did it make for feeling her eyes burn? Why did it make for ordering a double fire whiskey and drinking it with one gulp? He was only her master, but not her lover and he was 100 years older and a notorious womanizer and she couldn’t fall in love with him, thank you very much! Loving Albus Dumbledore was something for cow-eyed witches who’d read too much silly love novels with the hero only waiting for meeting his true love. Or it was something for masochistic drama queens who liked suffering. But Hermione was neither daft nor a masochist and therefore she wouldn’t fall in love with him. Not even if he’d sing entire Italian operas for her and used his beautiful skilled hands for massing her neck not only once a week, but every day - she wouldn’t fall in love with him. Not now, not tomorrow, never!

“Oh, look - who do we have here? Miss High and Mighty - and all on herself with only a glass of fire whiskey? What’s up? Trouble in paradise?” A familiar voice suddenly sneered at Hermione’s ear.

With a sigh she turned around and looked in the handsome, but malicious face of her colleague Titus Ollivander. “Mister Haughty and Naughty - what you’re doing here all on your own? Is your little girlfriend too exhausted for accompanying you after the last night? Or did she run away because she couldn’t stand the codswallop you’re talking longer?”

“Huuh!” He raised an eyebrow. “Stop flirting with me! Your charm makes my knees weak.” He climbed on the chair next to Hermione and smiled a bit weakly at her. “I know you don’t like me much, Granger. But could we try to be civil to each other? I just feel rather lousy …” Looking at Rosmerta who’d come to serve him, he said: “I think I’d like some fire whiskey too.”

The landlady put a glass in front of him, and then she bent down, rummaged for a moment under the bar, put a bottle in front of the two teachers and grinned. “Serve yourself, dearies - it’s on the house today.” Smiling she marched back to her lover.

Titus filled up Hermione’s glass before he poured himself a rather generous portion. Raising his glass he looked at Hermione. “Congratulations on your Merlin Award.”

“Thank you very much.” Hermione watched how he drunk and filled his glass again. “My, my …” she said then. “What happened to you?”

“I’ve just learned that I’ve worked the last three years for nothing.” He emptied his glass again. “On the academic success!” He sounded very bitter.

Hermione felt a pang of sympathy. Certainly Titus wasn’t her favourite colleague, but he was a fellow academic and just in the moment obviously suffering a severe disappointment. “Why don’t you tell me the entire story?” she asked.

“You’re lucky - it’s a rather short one,” he answered promptly. “I’ve worked for the last three years on the formula for wards and I was pretty close to finding one which would recognize and let even apparate certain, selected people.”

“That sounds very interesting,” Hermione said. “Hogwarts could do with something like that. What went wrong?”

“Considered Hogwarts: Nothing. The new formula is there, tested and ready to be performed. Knowing how quick Dumbledore is with using new inventions we’ll get it probably soon. Only it isn’t my invention.” He emptied his glass again. “A French colleague was quicker - as I’ve just learned. He proudly presented his formula today at the international conference.”

“Oh my - that’s really bad luck.” Hermione couldn’t imagine how Titus felt. She’d experienced something like this during her time at the university - only she had wasted three months and not three years.

“And you know what bothers me most?” Titus ruffled through his hair. “His salvation of the problem is eleganter than the one I was working at. I’ve overseen something - and I could kick myself in the butt for it. I was so stuck in my way; I couldn’t see what was directly under my nose. It was so obvious!” He banged his fist against the bar. “I was such an idiot! I could have done it a year before if only …”

“Titus!” Hermione interrupted him. “Things like that happen to the best of us …”

“Tell that to Dumbledore!” Titus sighed. “You know how keen he is for his staff getting academic success. He certainly won’t kiss me for failing.”

“But he won’t rebuke you either,” Hermione said. “He knows himself that one can’t succeed every time.”

Titus made a face. “Forgive me for being blunt, Hermione, but in the contrast to you I’m not Daddy Dumbledore’s favourite. He only hired me because he couldn’t find another arithmancy master who wanted to deputize for a year. But he’ll celebrate the day his beloved Valerian Vector is back.”

Hermione sighed. “Titus, you must understand. Professor Vector is spent more than 20 years at Hogwarts. The headmaster and he are something like friends …”

“Yes, yes, yes - Daddy Dumbledore and his happy Hogwarts family …” Titus drank another sip of his fire whiskey. “Do you ever feel lonely?” he asked then.

Hermione looked in her glass in which the red brown liquid whirled and smoked. “Yes,” she answered after a while. “Sometimes I feel lonely.”

“And this night is sometimes, isnt itt it?” Titus came a bit closer to Hermione, his shoulder now nearly touching hers.

ioneione looked at him. He really was very handsome with his silken blond hair and his almost violet eyes. And now, without his trademark sneer and this “I’m just what you waited for girl”-look he made a likeable companion. Probably he wasn’t as arrogant as she’d thought, but some one who just needed a bit understanding and friendship too? And besides: She was lonely and tired of it. Talking with Titus was in every case nicer than just brooding ia gla glass of fire whiskey. So Hermione smiled at the blonde wizard. “You’re right - tonight is sometimes.”

“Same here.” He laid his hand over hers. “I’m glad I met you, Miss High and Mighty …” This time the nickname didn’t sound like an insult, but as teasing between friends.

Hermione looked at his hand. Its warmth felt pleasant on her skin - and actually: It was a nice hand, slender with long fingers and a fine flow of golden hair on the back. “I think I could have got worse company too …” she told him.

“Like the potion master?” Titus asked with a little grin and a look to the corner where Severus Snape had just raised and offered Tonks - now with fire red curls reaching down to her waist line - his arm.

“Tonks seems to enjoy his company,” Hermione whispered.

Titus had come closer. “Who knows? Perhaps he’d fed her a love potion which makes her see him as a fluffy bunny?”

Tonks and Severus were now on their way to the door and passing Hermione and Titus, Tonks smiled at them. “Hello - I didn’t see you before. Did you just come in?”

Hermione had to suppress a giggle. So it was Titus who seriously answered: “We’ve been here for a while, but you were probably a bit distracted.”

Tonks blushed, but Snape raised an eyebrow. “Mind your own business, Ollivander,” he sneered and looked at Hermione. “It’s late, Doctor Granger. Don’t you want to accompany Professor Tonks and me back to the castle?”

Before Hermione could answer, Titus laid an arm around her shoulder. Directing a very chilly gaze at the potion master he said: “Hermione is with me - and as you’ve just advised me: I’m to mind my own business - like getting Hermione safely back to the castle.”

Snape bowed his head in a mock gesture. “Well, Ollivander, if you think so …” Taking Tonks’ arm again, he walked her to the door. “I wish a pleasant evening!” He managed to make it sound like a threat.

As the door had closed behind him and Tonks, Hermione growled. “He still seems to see me as a student. I wonder he didn’t try to take points away from Gryffindor for me being out after curfew.”

“I actually don’t believe he sees you as a student, Hermione,” Titus said. “But you’re a possession of his boss - and as everyone know: Snape is Dumbledore’s obedient pet death eater.”

“I’m not a possession of his boss,” Hermione stated angrily.

“Aren’t you?” Titus looked almost curious at her, but then, before she could say something, switched his smile on once again. “You looked great yesterday at the ball. I didn’t know you’ve got such great legs. You’re dancing with Potter - nice, really nice. Your skirt was flying and your legs … You should show them more often.”

“And distract students in doing so?” Hermione, after her fourth - or had it already been her fifth? - Glass of fire whiskey, felt suddenly very light headed. “Minerva McGonagall wouldn’t approve of that.”

“But …” Now Titus mouth was so close to Hermione’s ear that she could feel his breath on her skin. “Perhaps you’d like to show them in private? You know …,” he blew a little kiss on her neck, “…. I’m a great admirer of sexy, long legs like yours …”

The touch of his lips had sent a shiver down on Hermione’s spin and his smell - the smoky fragrance of the fire whiskey and the expansive cologne with sandalwood, lime and musk he was using - seemed to awaken her body. Her nipples became alive, longing for a mouth to suck at them, every pore on her skin longed for gentle caresses and her mouth suddenly was dry. Moisturizing her lips with her tongue, she lent a bit closer to the wizard next to her. “In one point Snape was right,” she whispered. “It’s late …”

“You think we should go back?” His voice wasn’t more than a whisper either.

“Yes …” Hermione raised her hand and brushed a blonde strand out of his forehead. “Yes, I’d like to go back …”

Titus nibbled for a few seconds on her ear, and then he rose up and offered Hermione his aR“Let’s face the storm together.”

Standing on her legs Hermione felt a bit dizzy. She was glad for the support of his arm, but - hadn’t she forgotten something? She’d come with Fawkes! Turning around she looked at the fireplace, but the phoenix was gone. “Fawkes?” she asked loudly.

It was the landlady who answered: “He left a few minutes after Professor Ollivander came. But I don’t think you must worry about him. He probably is now sleeping on a warm place in the castle.”

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

Albus couldn’t sleep. It was already after midnight and after Francesca had left Hogwarts and he’d actually thought that after the nice stroll around the lake and the even nicer lunch with Francesca first on his lap, then one the table and finally on the carpet in front of his fireplace he’d fall in sweet oblivion immediately.

After succeeding by this second attempt with the passionate Italian witch he’d felt quite contend and relaxed, but now, a few hours later, he was still tossing in his bed, his body tired, but his mind wide awake and working on over drive.

He’d managed to concentrate entirely on Francesca during the day they’d spent together and as she’d started to seduce him during their lunch he’d welcomed her advances and found himself even needier than he’d have thought before. And although he’d decided the night before that he wouldn’t fuss about his failed attempt - he had been very glad the second try hadn’t only led to Francesca becoming thoroughly satisfied, but to him finding release too. As old and as weary he often felt - he certainly did feel oloughough to give up sex entirely. He’d enjoyed it all his life and even with the needs of his body not being as strong as in his young years, he still couldn’t imagine to spend his life without bedding a woman now and then. So he was relieved about learning that his body still cooperated with him.

Yet with the way his mind worked he wasn’t pleased. As long as Francesca had been present, talking to him, touching and kissing him, he’d only thought of her. But as soon as the carriage with her had disappeared down the path to the gates, he’d found himself looking up to the main tower. It had been entirely dark except of the dim light behind the windows of his living room. But Hermione’s chambers under the roof hadn’t been lightened and he couldn’t imagine she’d already gone to bed. She was even more of a night owl than he was himself. So this meant that she had gone out.

Walking up the stairs to the corridor which led to the entrance of the main tower he’d wondered. Had she decided to visit her parents? He couldn’t imagine. In a few days she’d seen them for Christmas, so why should she have gone to them now?

Was she with her friends? He’d talked with Ron and Harry at the ball and they’d mentioned that they would spend the weekend in Dublin, watching a quidditch match. Albus was sure: Hermione wasn’t with them. She’d said once that she’d seen enough quidditch for all her life and that she’d rather watch her toe nails grow than to attend another quidditch match. But she couldn’t be with Professor Melanchthon eithHe&#He’d asked for permission to stay away for the weekend because he wanted to visit his fiancé in Germany.

The McGonagalls weren’t at Hogwarts either - they were gone for a family gathering in Scotland. And Ginny Weasley had talked about a trip to France for doing an article about wizards’ vineries there. So where was Hermione?AlbuAlbus was of course aware that Hermione hadn’t to tell him about her whereabouts. But he’d worried and felt a bit relieved when he’d come to his office, finding Fawkes’ perch empty. That could only mean that the phoenix was with Hermione and that he’d look after her.

Yet two hours before Fawkes had burst in Albus’ bedroom, sitting himself on the back of a chair where he now slept with his head under his wing. Knowing that Fawkes wouldn’t let Hermione on her own, Albus had taken his coming back for a sign that his apprentice was back home sound and save.

Nevertheless he couldn’t sleep. Too much had happened during the last days and although he’d thought the night before that the decision ever to show her his feelings would solve the problem - he became now aware that he would need some time to get himself over his longing. As much as he’d like to: There wasn’t a way to switch the desire for her off easily. Something in him seemed to fight against his wish to forget about these feelings, something in him screamed whenever he told himself that he would forget, that he would come over it and something in him simply longed at least to dream about her, to think of how it would feel to hold her, to touch her, to kiss her. He knew how passionate she was and to think of her body, pressed against his, her eyes dark with lust, her skin shimmerinth sth sweat, her hands … no! He couldn’t himself permit to think of her like that. He couldn’t his body allow to take over and to become aroused by imaging Hermione. Even the idea to become hard by thinking of her was an outrage against her. She was his apprentice and although no law forbad intimate relationships between master and apprentice - to Albus it felt entirely wrong. Hermione was as taboo to him as any student. And when had he become a dirty old man, lusting for young meat? Alone the idea of her young, fresh body next to his old, scared, withered, over ripe flesh - it was wrong!

He didn’t understand himself anymore. He’d never seen youth as a value in itself and he’d even never seen youth as an aesthetical factor. Of course he wasn’t blind to the prettiness of the young faces which looked up at him whenever he entered the great hall. And he could see the grace with which some of the childrened, ed, reminding him on fillies. And naturally he was aware and enjoyed the change of clumsy, awkward teenagers, obviously feeling unwell in their own bodies, into graceful, confident young women. Bus as a man, by looking out for potential lovers, he’d always searched for features which weren’t connected to youth, but to adulthood. Even as a boy he hadn’t desired girls, but women. The girl he’d come in trouble with in his sixth year at Hogwarts had been a seventh year - and a very well developed one. Her body after which he’d lusted so much hadn’t been a promise for the future, but already showing all what made for a woman.

And the first woman he’d slept with as an 18 year old, had been 22 years his senior and a friend of his mother. Now, of ripe age, he still had the same preferences and even more: If asked about whom he thought as a true beauty, he certainly didn’t think of young witches, but of women like Francesca de Santis-Valerio or Minerva McGonagall or Molly Weasley - women whose faces showed that theyd ald already lived for some time, experienced, strong women with character and charisma.

In a way Hermione suited this scheme despite of her age. He knew she was to become such a woman. If she’d been born only 20 - or better 30 years - earlier it would have need an army to stop him going after her. Except of her age she was everything he’d ever wanted and thinking of her made him understand his father. Arthus Dumbledore had been 120 year old - only three years younger than his son was now - as he had met the beautiful, 40 year old Eleonora Houdini and had fallen entirely for her. He’d often told his son that he before had never thought of marriage and that he’d felt quite content as an old bachelor. “But meeting your mother changed everything. I suddenly felt lonely and unhappy and I wanted nothing more than to wake up for the rest of my life next to her. And giving me children - I wouldn’t have thought it, but it made my life complete.”

Children - Albus mostly avoided thinking about this subject. He’d wanted children. He’d once dreamed of having a big family. But the only time he’d come close had been with Rhianon. Yet she’d lost the child before he had known about its existence. Yet in his mind this child had got a life. He’d thought of it at the time it could have been born, he’d looked at children this age, thinking of the one he’d lost. And the sorting in the year his child would have come to Hogwarts - as Minerva had called the children with “D” he’d felt as if a cold hand would grip to his heart and squeeze it painfully.

And even if his child would have been a squib - he knew he’d have loved it and he would have been proud of it.

Over the years he’d often tried to convince himself that the children at Hogwarts made up for not having children of his own. During the war he’d even told himself that it was good that he hadn’t to worry about a child of his own and that having one would make him vulnerable. But he nevertheless had never stopped longing for a child who wouldn’t call him “Headmaster” or “Professor Dumbledore” or “Uncle Albus,” but “Father”.

Sitting up in his bed he now rummaged with both his hands through his hair. Mourning for what he would never have wouldn’t help him to get his urgently needed rest. What he needed now was a distraction and a bit of comfort in form of a nice, hot cup of cocoa and perhaps a slice of the wonderful walnut cakes the house elves were always baking especially for him. And the walk down to the kitchen and back again - this would probably make him so sleepy he’d fall in oblivion afterwards. Yet he wasn’t in the mood for getting himself dressed and combed again. So he climbed out of his bed, slipped in his slippers and his dressing down, made himself invisible and marched out of his bedchamber to the spiralling stair case and from there down to the dark hall to the upper landing of the marble chairs over the entrance hall.

It worked. As he reached there he felt already less melancholic. He’d always loved Hogwarts at night. The silence and the peace the castle was radiating had never failed to soothe him. He almost felt like humming as he sneaked along.

Suddenly he heard voices. In the side corridor which led to the arithmancy class room and the quarters of the arithmancy teacher a woman was giggling. Then a dark, manly voice said: “Isn’t it nice to be a teacher? I’ve always wanted to do a little snogging in this corner.”

Albus sighed inwardly. He didn’t like eavesdropping on other people’s privacy. If he’d have been properly dressed, he’d have made himself visible now and would have whistled a cheerful tune to announce to the couple that he was coming along. But naked under his dressing down and with tussled hair he didn’t want to show himself and therefore he decided simply to ignore the couple. As long as Titus Ollivander wasn’t with a student his snogging in the corridor wasn’t the headmaster’s business.

Now the woman spoke. “I don’t mind snogging in the hall, Titus - but what you’re doing …”

“But Hermione - how could I resist fondling such sexy tits?”

Albus stood as if a bludger would have hit him. His heart was hammering and the blood rushed in his ears. He wouldn’t have needed to hear Ollivander using her name - he’d recognized her voice before. And now he saw her - she’d stepped a bit back and was under one of the flickering torches. The light made her hair shine like gold and the skin of her shoulder - Ollivander had pushed her cloak and shirt already down over it - looked like marble.

Albus cnn’t stand the sight. He had advised her to go for a drink with Ollivander a few weeks before, yes, he had. He wanted her to enjoy life. And of course, he wanted her to enjoy sex too, but - he couldn’t stand to witness it. And especially not with Ollivander! He didn’t like him, he even detested the arrogant young man who now laid his arms around Hermione’s slender waist and pulled her closer to him. Albus knew: If he didn’t flee - now! - He would lose control. He would go at Ollivander; he would punch him, breaking every bone in his body. How could he talk to her like that? How could he dare to touch her as if he’d got a claim on her?

Albus couldn’t bear it one second longer. Not caring if they would hear him - probably they wouldn’t because they were kissing again now - he changed in his animagnus form and, spreading his wings, soared down the corridor and through the hall upwards to an open ow. ow. Outside a storm roared and he had to fight against the strong wind which tried to push him against the wall, but he managed to win height and rising over the grounds, hied ied out his rage and frustration in a hoarse scream.


To be continued …