A Winter Tale

A Winter Tale

by: Max

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

[usual disclaimer]


Chapter 8: Fights and friendship

Somewhere, far away, a clock chimed - not very loud a sound, but in its gravity enough to knock Hermione out of the light sleep she was sleeping on the bed next to Albus’. She wasn’t too unhappy about because the dream she had dreamt, had been disturbing. She’d seen Albus - not the old one in the bed next to her, but the strong, young Albus of the night before - laying at her feet in a pool of blood and the blood had floated over her naked feet and a part of her had wished to run away while another, stronger part had commanded her to stay and to protect the pale body of her lover against the dark shadows which where around him, coming closer and gripping with hands like claws to him. She’d threw herself over him, crying and kissing his cold mouth and at this moment he’d opened his eyes and they had been his old eyes, pale with age and endlessly tired and sad and then he’d spoken - and he hadn’t sounded like Albus, but like Severus, silken and forbidding in the same time: “Don’t love me for I am ...”

Just this moment the clock had chimed and now Hermione sat on her small bed, sweating and her heart hammering hard and fast in her breast. Taking a deep breath, she looked over to the bed and the sleeping form of her husband. The enchanted candle on the night stand lightened only over his head and the heavily plastered chest and shoulder, the sight under it was dark. But there was a dark shadow on Albus’ chest and looking up to it Hermione saw that she wasn’t alone at her husband’s bedside.

Opposite of her on the other side, almost melting into the darkness behind him, sat Severus Snape on a high backed chair, his head resting sideward, his black hair falling over his face as a curtain. But what touched Hermione most about the potion master’s posture was that his left hand laid on the bed, the tips of his fingers just touching - almost shyly as if they wouldn’t dare making closer contact - a strand of Albus’ long hair. Hermione felt a rush of affection to the dark man opposite her she’d never thought she’d be capable off - especially not about a man who had been the incarnation of an unfair, arrogant and injustice bastard to her. Even in defending him against Ron and Harry, she’d often doubt his ability in feeling something other as hatred, anger and dismay. But now she was sure she’d never doubt his humanity again.

“He loves Albus,” Hermione thought. “He loves him as much as I do.”

Huuh? What had this been? Hermione sat straight on the bed, swallowing hard. Had she really just thought of loving the headmaster? Shaking her head, she tried thinking it again: “I love Albus.” It felt odd - odd because it didn’t feel wrong! Hermione, analytic girl she was, tried again, but this time with “I care for the headmaster”. Yes, this felt better. So to the next tray: “I admire Albus Dumbledore.” Right again, but there was still something more to it as “adoring”. Or did admiration include a flattering in the stomach by thinking of the adored? Hermione didn’t think so and closed her eyes again for looking deeper in herself and to this flattering. An image sprang to mind - the image of a man with auburn hair and azure blue eyes, smiling down on her and laying his head back then, moaning. And with this image memories of touches, on a mouth on her breast, of fingers stroking her, of being filled - memories she’d tried to avoid thinking of all day long - suddenly popped up and played havoc with her entire body. Despite of being cramped and exhausted and feeling sticky and dirty Hermione suddenly felt a shot of arousing running through her. It made her body hum with desire, her nipples came to live, prickling and pressing against the fabric of the school uniform she still wore. “This,” thought Hermione wdistdistant amusement, “probably answers the question at least partly: I lust after Albus - my Albus, the young one.”

But did this desire make for loving him? Hermione wasn’t sure about. She’d watched her former dormitory mates so often falling in and out with what they called “love”, she simply couldn’t believe in things like “I want sex with him, so I must be in love with him” anymore. Passion - so much Hermione, through hardly 18 years old, had already understood, didn’t come automatically with love. But what when the passion for a man was connected with caring for him, with respecting and adoring him?

Hermione wasn’t sure what this meant, but she was willing to sort it out - methodically as she always did. First thing probably was to define love. Hermione remembered that she’d tried that once before as a small girl when talking with her mother. Her mother had talked about caring and feeling responsible, about understanding or at least the wish to understand the object of love, about feeling close and about enjoying time with it.

Care? Check - Hermione was certain, she cared for Albus - and yes, this meant both of them, the strong lover from the last night and the almost fragile looking old headmaster in the bed next to her.

Did she feel responsible for him? Hermione chewed for a moment on her under lip - as always when thinking hard - then she nodded. Yes, as funny as it would sound if she would have to explain it to Harry, Ron or Ginny: She felt responsible for Albus - responsible without doubting that he was highly capable in looking after himself - if he wasn’t just been attacked by a dozen of death eaters and their monstrous semi god.

To her next point: Understanding. Hermione was - and not only in remembering his sphinx face from the morning - pretty sure that she didn’t understand him. For this she didn’t know him well enough and for this she probably was too young. He had almost 150 years of experience ahead and Hermione didn’t doubt that he had used his brilliant mind during this time. So his decisions, his doings and avoids, based on more as she could already comprehend. But this didn’t change the fact that she actually wished to understand him better that she longed to learn more about him and - yes, this lead to the next point - that she wanted to come closer to him. He was the most fascinating person she’d ever set eyes on and yes; she did enjoy time with him. Okay, she hadn’t enjoyed breakfast this morning, she hadn’t liked being paraded on his arm through the entire school, but she had looked forward all day to the evening - and not only because she wanted to learn about becoming an animagnus, but because doing so meant time with Albus.

Did this mean that she loved him? Still Hermione wasn’t sure, but just in this moment Albus began to stir and tried to turn around in his sleep, moaning by it. Immediately Hermione and Snape were on their legs, bending over the bed.

“Albus?” Snape whispered.

Albus opened his eyes and tried again to turn, but his plastered shoulder didn’t support him and he fell back with another moan.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to turn over your injured side,” Snape said calmly.

“Severus!” Albus fixed his eyes on him. “What you’re doing here?”

“I try to knit socks,” Snape answered with his usual sarcasm. “Really, Albus - how does it look like?”

“Honestly?” Albus tried a smile and a twinkle. “I think it looks like glucking over me.” He tried to raise his upper body and to reach for the water can on his night stand.

Hermione was quicker. “Let me help you,” she said, purring water in a glass and supporting his head with one hand while the other put the glass to his lips.

“I think your wife’s better in glucking as I ever could be,” Snape stated dryly and seated himself again.

“Don’t say ‘how Gryffindor of her’!” Albus warned with a smile, feeling obviously better after the two gulps of the fresh water. “If my skin wouldn’t itch so much under thissterstered plaster, I’d probably enjoy laying here with Hermione glucking over me.”

“You know I’m getting always toothache when I have to swallow too many sweets?” Severus asked.

“Oh, by talking about sweets ...” Albus looked to Severus, now really grinning. “”You don’t have by any chance some chocolate with you? I could do with a bit.”

“No, I haven’t.” Snape rose. “But because you’ve already disturbed my beauty sleep and I know, you won’t stop bothering before you’ve got what you want, I’ll fetch you some.” He sounded like a father who didn’t want to admit how much he loved his child and Hermione had to stop herself from giggling as the potion master limbed out of the room.

The moment the door clicked behind him, Albus gripped Hermione’s hand and looked very seriously to her. “I need to know: Did you encounter any death eaters as you found me? Was Severus seen by them?”

“Yes. We met Lucius Malfoy and he even had some kind of fight with him.” Hermione blushed and swallowed hard. “I ...” she stammered, “I became furious and if Professor Snape wouldn’t have taken both our wands ... I mean, Malfoy’s and mine ...” swallowing again, she quietly said: “I was just firing a crucio at Malfoy ...”

Albus closed his eyes and sighed. “I hate what this war makes out of us,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry ...” Hermione hang her head because she didn’t want to see disappointment in his eyes.

“Hermione ...” Albus’ voice sounded urgently. “We’ll have to talk about that later. Just in the moment I need your opinion: Did Severus blew his cover?”

“Yes.” Hermione nodded. “Yes, I think he did. I mean, he protected me against Malfoy. Yet he says he obliviated him afterwards ...”

For a few seconds Albus was silent. Then he said slowly: “I don’t trust obliviating spells - at least not so much I’d risk a life on it. So it’s finally over.” He sighed once again, then he smiled weakly. “Actually I’m glad about. Only ...” he looked seriously again. “The next weeks we will have to look after Severus closely, Hermione. He’s grounded now in the castle and I don’t think he’s going to like it much.” He wanted to say something else, but Severus Snape was back, two steaming mugs in his hand. He handed one to Hermione, then he bent down over the bed and helped Albus up, settling him carefully against the pillows and then helped him to drink the hot chocolate.

Hermione drank too - and the hot liquid tasted like heaven with sugar and cinnamon! “That’s delicious!” she said amazed. “I didn’t know chocolate tastes so great.”

Snape sneered. “In case you’ve forgotten: I’m a potion master. As such I should be able to prepare hot chocolate, shouldn’t I?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but put Albus now empty cup to the night stand, helped his headmaster lay down again, tucked the blanket a bit higher on his friend’s chest and said crisply: “And now after you’ve got what you wanted, we can go back to sleep. Mistress Granger’s expected to a potion class in the morning and I don’t want her to fall over her cauldron.”

*********


Advanced potions, arithmancy, history of magic - actually Hermione had always thought of Thursday as the day with the easiest schedule. Yet on this morning she’d felt like she’d been the ball in a giant’s tennis match. Her back ached, her neck was cramped and she was so tired she hadn’t been - something what never had happened to her before - only sleeping through Professor Binn’s lesson, she’d ever been the first student which’s head had sunk on the table. Luckily, Binns, being a ghost didn’t mind sleeping students - probably, as Ron sometimes reckoned, because he’d never seen a class of him not snoring and dosing with their heads on the desks. Yet resting in such a dreadful position didn’t help Hermione’s back and so she felt pretty stiff as Binn’s class was finally over and she wandered - once again flanked by Ron and Harry - down the marble staircase. By entering the great hall she immediately became wide awake. In the morning as she’d came to breakfast, everything had felt quite normal with students chatting and china clattering. But now the tension, hanging like a big grey cloud under the enchanted ceiling, looking grey and clouded like the sky outside too - was almost palpable. Hogwarts’ grape mill, feed by the morning mail, was in full swung and Hermione felt once again watched by hundred of eyes. She’d hardly sat herself down as Cevin Cooley a fifth year famous as much for his curiosity as his lack of tact, shot over the table: “Is it true, Hermione?”

“What?” she asked back tiredly.

“That the headmaster killed 20 death eaters single-handed, made He-who-must-no-be-named flee and then almost died on you!” The hall had fallen silent as the boy had started.

Hermione sighed. She wa sur sure what to answer and therefore very glad to hear Snape’s voice, heavy with sarcasm: “It’s not true,” he said. “It was 22 ½ death eaters and Professor Dumbledore didn’t kill them, but changed them to chorus girls in pink ties. Afterwards he taught them tango and by doing so he suddenly became aware that flirting with chorus girls isn’t appropriate for a newly wedded wizard. So he fled, letting the dark lord back with the lot. Until now it’s not known what happened then, but one normally very well informed sources states, that the death eaters chorus girls and their master are now on a tour through Japanese night clubs.”

A few first years at the Hufflepuff table giggled, Hermione felt her mouth twitch too. She discovered that she actually liked Snape’s razorblade tongue - as long as he didn’t direct his acerbic wit at her.

Obviously Minerva McGonagall wasn’t a big fan of it. Sweeping through the hall as if she’d were on wheels, she provided Snape, standing at the Gryffindor table, with one of her very stern gazes, then she climbed - her lips not more as a small line in the bony face - up to the head table and looked down at the students. The hall became immediately quiet again; every one seemed to wait for what the deputy headmistress had to say - except of a Slytherin group around Draco Malfoy. The blond young man tried to look bored as if all the rumours wouldn’t concern him, but Hermione meant to see something in his pale, grey eyes, so alike to the cruel eyes of his father. It wasn’t the usual arrogance and it even wasn’t the hatred she was used to get directed at her from him. It was - Hermione first couldn’t believe it, but looking closer to him made her secure about: Draco Malfoy’s eyes showed fear.

Minerva McGonagall had started to speak. “As some of you already know: The headmaster was attacked last night.” The hall became excited again, some students whispered to each other, Hermione heard a first year girl sob and somebody said, almost triumphant: “Didn’t I tell you?” Then Minerva’s voice sounded again: “But there’s no reason to worry. Professor Dumbledore is already quite well again. I just saw him and he asked me to give you all his regards. I’m sure he’ll be with us again very soon.” She sat down, but not without sending Hermione an encouraging, little nod.

The dishes filled, Hermione slowly began to eat, but didn’t really notice on what she was chewing.

“Hermione?” Harry, seating next to her, whispered. “Will you see the headmaster later?”

“Hmm,” she nodded. “I think I’ll visit him after lunch.”

Harry mumbled on a potato, looking down on his plate. “I don’t know if he’s keen on it - if yif you like or ...” he swallowed and spoke quietly further, “... if you think he’d like it ...” Now he fell silent.

Hermione suppressed a sigh. She knew only too well that Harry’s relationship with Albus was difficult. It had been Dumbledore who had placed baby Harry after the death of his parents at the threshold of his muggle relatives, using an ancient blood binding charm to guarantee his security. Yet the praise Harry had paid for this security - the aunt and the u he he grew up with despised the very idea of magic and so they’d never cared for Harry, but treated him with suspicion and dismay. Hermione, who had been the beloved child of caring parents, couldn’t imagine how Harry had felt by living in a cup board under the stairs at his relative’s house - but she could imagine how hard it was for Harry not only to understand why Dumbledore had done this to him, but to trust him nevertheless. And even worse: In Harry’s fifth year as Voldemort hriedried to possess him, the headmaster hadn’t confide in him whey he wanted to learn Harry occlumeny and why he’d avoided to look Harry in the eyes. Hermione knew that Albus only had done so because he wanted to spare Harry the entire, terrible truth and she knew that Harry was aware of the headmaster’s reasons too. But as Hermione knew from own experience: To know - even to understand something intellectually - was one thing. To accept it emotionally was another thing. And in this case Albus’ silence - by Harry probably still counted as “lack of trust” - had led to an event which caused at the end the death of Harry’s godfather. Even after two years Harry mourned for him, blaming himself for Sirius’ death - and probably the headmaster too.

Carefully, Hermione said: “Shall I tell him something from you?”

Harry nodded eage obv obviously relieved because he hadn’t to ask for it. “Yes,” he said. “Tell him ...” He searched for words again, picking at a potato and mumbling finally: “Tell him he shall get well soon. He’s missed, you know?”

After this Hermione suddenly felt better. She knew that this greeting from Harry would mean a lot to Albus and she almost couldn’t wait to tell him. So she skipped dessert and without even getting her heavy satchel back to her study, started to the infirmary, feeling as though a magnet would pull her. It only had been a few hours since she’d left Albus’ side, but he’d still slept then and so she hadn’t spoken with him on this day.

Panting from running up the stairs Hermione arrived in the hospital wing and stormed through Poppy Pomfrey’s deserted office to the door of the private ward the mediwitch had Albus placed in. Hermione knocked, but there came no answer. Once again she knocked, calling “Albus?” Still no answer. Panic overcame Hermione. She remembered how pale and small Albus had looked in the morning. So she opened the door with so much force she almost fell in the chamber behind. By stumbling in she saw the bed - empty, a white line covering it.

Hermione broke down. Falling on the bed, she sobbed in the cool, crisp linen.


“Mistress Granger?”

Hermione didn’t hear the voice Severus Snape who’d just entered. Her entire body was shaken by her crying and she coughed and struggled for breath by it.

“Silly girl!” Snape said, but without any malice. He stopped closer and laid a hand on her shoulder.

Hermione throw herself around and - to Snape’s surprise - landed on his chest, clinging with both hands to the fabric of his robe, sobbing ever harder. For a few seconds the potion master only stood there, looking down to the crying girl as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. Then he sighed, sank on the bedside and laid her arms around her, hesitantly stroking her trembling back.

“Hermione,” he said then, his voice warmer as Hermione had ever heard it before. “The headmaster is much better. He even felt well enough for pestering Madame Pomfrey until she released him to his chambers. She’s just helping him to get there ...”

Hermione raised her head, looking up to him out of red and swollen eyes. Sniffl{ng she said, sounding like a very small child. “Albus is ..?”

“... by now probably in his bed, or better said, in yours. Knowing him I suppose he’s already so bored that he’d enjoy getting company.”

Hermione felt as if the room suddenly had become brighter, only she couldn’t stop crying. Fighting against the tears, she let Snape’s robe out of her grip and backed away. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I slobbered all over you. You must think me very silly indeed.”

“I don’t,” said Snape, sounding cold again. “Yet I don’t think coming to Albus looking like a wailing crooner after a storm won’t do.” With one swmomemoment he pulled his wand out, directed it at Hermione’s face and murmured an incantation. She felt the effect immediately: Her eyes didn’t burn anymore and her face became cooler and more relaxed.

Snape rose, taking Hermione’s bag. He wrinkled his forehead by doing so, grumbled “Why did you learn levitating charms if you don’t know how to use them?” and once again waved his wand. The bag jumped and hovered next to him as he pushed his wand back in his sleeve and marched to the door. “I’ll accompany you to the main tower,” he announced by that.

Hermione jumped to her feet and ran after him. “Thank you, Professor Snape,” she said quietly as she had finally arrived next to him. “For everything.”

Snape didn’t answer until they reached the painting of the piano player in the gallery. There he gave Hermione’s bag a little push what made it fly to her, turned around and only said, without looking at her: “Try to get some rest.”

Although the archway in the wall had already opened Hermione didn’t enter immediately. She looked after the dark shape which was Severus Snape how it swept down the gallery as if he were on a run. And probably, she thought, as she finally stepped on to the spiralling staircase, he really was. The last two days hadn’t only changed her, but his life too. He wasn’t the order’s spy any longer - after the events of the last night Albus wouldn’t send him back to Voldemort again. From now on Severus Snape hadn’t to lead a double life any longer - and Hermione wondered how he would cope with being grounded in the castle, almost a prisoner, waiting for the day he’d finally had to fight against people who once had been his house mates and perhaps even something considered as friends. And how he’d live from now on with his Slytherins, knowing that some of them would take up the dark mark as soon as they were out of school, knowing that some of them had death eater parents who probably wanted to kill their children’s head of house?

Hermione sighed. Compared to Snape’s life her own suddenly seemed an easy one. She had friends who loved and supported her. She had a husband who cared for her and she had some thing Snape certainly n had had possessed: Hope and the firm believe that one day soon the war would be over and life - not only hers, but the life of all people she cared about - would get back to a normally in which teenagers didn’t discuss how to fight against an evil enemy, but who’d ask them out for a date and what to wear at them.

Arriving at the bed room, Hermione was welcomed with a warm smile from Albus and a dry “Ah - here you are!” from Poppy Pomfrey who’d just put an entire collection of vials to a little table next to the bed. “Albus already worried about you.”

“Sorry - I was first in the infirmary,” Hermione said, put her bag down in a corner and walked to the bed where Albus laid, his upper body still bare except of the plaster which held his injured left arm firmly in place over his chest. He was still pale and the wrinkles in his face looked sharper and deeper as Hermione remembered them, but at least his eyes, now again behind the halfmoon spectacles, had gotten their usual twinkle back. Braced on some thick pillows he patted with his healthy hand against the mattress next to him and said: “Sit down, child. You look as you could do with some rest.”

“How do you feel?” Hermione asked, seating down on the bed cautiously. Her heart jumped in her chest as one of his long fingers touched her hand and she was glad she didn’t have to look in his eyes because by now the mediwitch spoke again.

“Our dear header ier is already well enough to drive me crazy,” she complained. “He didn’t want to stay in the informatory though eh actually still belongs there. He didn’t want to eat the soup I ordered him although I don’t think his stomach is up to more after all the potions I filled it with. You know, Albus, you’re an even worse patient as your potion master and I’ve always thought it would be him who’d make me ask for a nice, quiet bed at St. Mungo’s one day.”

“Dear Poppy ...” Albus tried his most charming smile at the fuming witch. “If you’d get me something tastier as this insipid soup I promise I’ll be a good boy, drinking all potions without further complaints and not moving until you allow it.”

“Oh sweet Merlin! What did I do to deserve that?” Poppy wrung her hands, then she sighed. “Well, well, Albus - you’ve won, but only because I know not only you, but your young wife needs rest. I’ll get you a nice rice pudding - you like rice pudding, don’t you? But afterwards I won’t hear another word from you until dinner time. You will sleep and give your body a fair chance to heal properly. Is that understood?”

Albus nodded, looking entirely satisfied. “I’m fond on rice pudding,” he said.

Poppy Pomfrey nodded and went to the fire place, ringing the little bell on the mantle piece. With a “pop” Woopy appeared, bowing eagerly. “Woopy, would you kindly order some rice pudding for your master?” Poppy asked her.

“I is flying to serve!” the house elf cried delighted and with another “pop” she was gone.

Madame Pomfrey turned around and looked at Hermione, still seating on the bed. “And now to you, young lady. You look as you’d break down every moment I really don’t need another member of the Dumbledore family as a patient right now. So you’ll get yourself some rest too. Admittedly ...,” she looked to the bed, wrinkled her forehead and raised her wand, “sleeping in one bed with Albus won’t do. He’s always fussing and would disturb your slumber with it and you shouldn’t bump at his newly melted bones. So ...” with a quick wave she conjured a smaller bed, looking very much like the bed in her hospital, next to the huge one. “Off you go to the bathroom - and I don’t want to see up before tomorrow in the morning.”

As Hermione, freshly showered and now wearing her pyjamas and her dressing gown, came back to the bed room, Poppy was gone, but Woopy was there, bending over Albus and carrying a bow with rice pudding. Yet her keeping the bowl and Albus his spoon didn’t look every comfortable for either of them and so Hermione stepped to the bed, sat down and took bowl and spoon, saying: “Please let me help you.”

Woopy jumped up and bowed again. “May Woopy do something else for you, master, mistress?”

“Thank you, Woopy - I don’t think we need anything else in the moment,” Albus answered kindly.

The house elf disappeared and Hermione filled the spoon with pudding, bringing it in front of Albus’ mouth. Smiling to her he opened it, chewed, swallowed and said: “That’s much better as the soup Poppy’s always hunting me with. Do you want a bit of it too?”

“No, thanks,” Hermione answered, feeding him the next bite. “I’ve had lunch in the hall and ...” the next bite landed in his mouth, “Harry asked me to give you his regards.”

Albus looked for a moment sceptical as if he wouldn’t believe her, but then he smiled. “When you see him next time - will you tell him that his regards were appreciated?”

“I will.” Hermione gave him the next bite and noticed that feeding the headmaster didn’t feel odd. It actually felt good to seat here with him, watching how he enjoyed the sweet pulp.

And obviously he liked it too because after swallowing another bite he suddenly laughed. “You know, you spoil me?”

“I think you deserve a bit spoiling,” Hermione answered, thinking of all the years he’d lived alone in this chambers. She had never thought about him as being lonely before, but - who had looked after him in former times? “By the way - where’s Fawkes?” she asked.

“After a burning he always needs a bit of extra attention,” Albus answered. “So I asked Severus to look after him. The both get along very well. I think they’ll do each other good.”

“I’m glad Fawkes is with the professor,” Hermione said quietly, feeding Albus the last bite of the rice pudding. “Shall I get you more?”

“No, thanks - I’m quite full and by now really a bit tired.”

“Then rest.” Hermione rose and put the empty bowl on the table in front of the fire. As she turned back, Albus was just moving closer to the left bedside. Almost a bit sheepish he said: “Poppy was wrong. I don’t fuss in sleep.” He stretched his healthy arm to the now empty place next to him. “So if you’d like to lay down here? I mean ...” now a little pink appeared in his cheeks, “Poppy’s beds aren’t very comfortable.”

“But I really shouldn’t bump in you ...” Hermione wanted very much to lie at his side and she felt deeply moved by his wish to have her there, but the idea of hurting him she strongly disliked.

“This side of mine isn’t injured,” Albus said. “You may bump on it as often as you like.”

“Madame Pomfrey certainly wouldn’t approve,” Hermione said, but climbed already in the bed on his right side, stretching down under the blanket Albus had lifted for her.

He chuckled. “Who are we to share the secrets of our marriage bed with Poppy? She won’t ask and we won’t tell ...”


----------------------------------------------------

Author\'s Note: I\'m a lucky - I - I found a beta reader. Yet she hasn\'t started her job yet, su wiu will have to bear with my mistakes a bit longer. But I promise: The next chapters will become beta-read before published.

Thanks to my reviewers! I moved the story now - I hope at last I did (I\'m new at this web publishing business, so I\'m still a bit insecure) and I hope nobody will throttle me now for having it placed wrong.