Measure for measure

Measure for Measure


Disclaimer: see chapter 1


Chapter 7: Pigs have wings


Harry Potter tugged at the collar of his dark-red Auror’s robe before he entered “Riccardo’s”, the wizards’’ restaurant at the end of Diagon Alley. Although he worked only a few feet away in the Ministry of Magic, he’d never been there. He could easily have afforded it because he wasn’t only well-paid, but had inherited a fortune from his parents and godfather. Nevertheless, Harry Potter, celebrated hero of the wizards’ world, didn’t feel like a part of the magical high society. Just the opposite, his opinion about his place had been formed by the first pure-bloods he’d met: Draco Malfoy, heir of one of the proudest and wealthiest families in the magical world, and Severus Snape, last descendant of the oldest magical clan in England.

Harry had detested both of them, and the more he’d learned about the people who saw themselves as the elite of the wizarding world, the more he’d come to believe that society was analogous to Slytherin - and what was Slytherin, other than a training camp for baby Death Eaters?

Learning that the Hogwarts headmaster, the wizard he’d once adored and seen as something like the very model of a sorcerer, had been a Slytherin had been the last straw in their already difficult relationship.

Harry had found it exceptionally hard to forgive Dumbledore for placing him in the care of Muggle relatives who’d detested everything connected to magic. They’d treated him like dirt; they’d made him sleep in a cupboard under the stairs of their house; they’d never given him a kind word, but instead had made his childhood cold and loveless.

Albus Dumbledore obviously hadn’t cared. For more than ten years, Harry hadn’t even known that there was a magical world and that he was a wizard. Dumbledore had never appeared. The first meeting with him Harry could remember had taken place in the Great Hall at Hogwarts - and Harry didn’t actually have any idea why the headmaster had looked so interested in him.

Yet he had trusted him that first year at Hogwarts. He hadn’t always understood Albus Dumbledore’s ways, but he’d believed him a good, kind and caring man. And yes, he’d liked how the headmaster had looked at him. He’d always felt chosen and cared for.

In his fifth year at Hogwarts, his trust in Albus Dumbledore had shattered. The year had started with a Dementors’ attack on Harry and his Muggle cousin. His only chance to save himself and the other boy had been to use magic. He’d of course known that he wasn’t allowed to. Using magic around Muggles was generally prohibited, especially since Harry was underage and, therefore, not allowed to do any magic outside Hogwarts. Breaking the rules had put Harry in front of the Wizengamot where Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, had tried to get Harry expelled from Hogwarts.

The days before the trial, Harry had spent in the Order’s headquarters under the care of the Weasley family and his godfather, Sirius Black, but nevertheless he’d waited every hour of the day for Dumbledore to come and speak to him. Yet there hadn’t been a sign or a word from him. He’d first appeared when Harry was standing before the wizards’ court; and although the old wizard had saved Harry and got him back to Hogwarts - Harry had felt sincerely let down because Dumbledore had neither spoken a personal word to him nor once looked into his eyes.

At Hogwarts, it had become even worse. Dumbledore had carefully avoided meeting Harry, but had ordered him to take Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. Harry’s hatred of the Potions master had developed into a refined loathing. He’d suffered from Snape’s messing around in his mind; he’d been in pain and full of fear because Voldemort had tried to take him over; he’d been tortured by Dolores Umbridge, the “High Inquisitor” Minister Fudge had sent to Hogwarts, and Dumbledore still hadn’t helped him.

Even worse, at the end of the year, Voldemort had lured Harry away to the Ministry where Bellatrix Lestrange had killed Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black. Then, at last, Dumbledore had revealed the truth about the prophesy to Harry. He’d told him that he would have to kill Voldemort or would be killed by him. This prophesy had been the reason why Voldemort had wanted Harry to come to the Ministry - and if he only would have known before! Sirius wouldn’t have died then. And that Dumbledore hadn’t looked him in the eyes all year because he hadn’t wanted Harry to become even more a target for Voldemort - Harry had heard this, even understood it, but it didn’t mean anything to him anymore.

Harry had blamed the headmaster. He’d yelled at him, he’d destroyed half of his office in a furious tantrum and he had, from that day on, never spoken a personal word with Dumbledore. In his fifth year Dumbledore had avoided Harry, but in his sixth and seventh year, it was Harry who avoided the headmaster. It hadn’t been easy because Dumbledore had decided to teach Harry Occlumency himself, which meant that Harry had to see him once a week. But Harry’s rage had at least helped him to keep Dumbledore out of his mind.

The battle against Voldemort - Harry was well aware that he couldn’t have defeated his archenemy on his own. It had been Dumbledore’s spell that had brought down Voldemort’s shield and it had been Dumbledore who’d been behind Harry, guarding him. And at the oil platform when they’d finally found Bellatrix Lestrange - Harry knew he wouldn’t have survived without Dumbledore covering for him. Harry was even aware that he actually should have thanked the headmaster, but over the years he’d become so used to avoiding him that he couldn’t find the way back.

Learning then that Dumbledore hadn’t only slept with Hermione, but impregnated her, Harry had become totally enraged. Hermione was something like the sister he’d never had, part of his surrogate family, someone he cared deeply for. He’d always thought that she and Ron would make a wonderful couple and he’d hoped Hermione would finally make up her mind and marry his best friend. Dumbledore had spoilt this too, and not enough with that! He’d cheated on Hermione, he’d humiliated her, and he’d shown again that he didn’t care about other people’s feelings.

Harry and Ron had expected that Hermione would leave her new husband after he’d been with that other woman. Harry had even offered to let her stay at the house he’d inherited from Sirius and bring up her baby there. She’d refused, and then just the other week, she’d ordered Harry, Ron and Alastor to the “Three Broomsticks”. Harry had always known that his friend had a temper - he’d witnessed countless rows between her and Ron - but nevertheless he hadn’t been prepared for the dressing down they’d received that evening. Ron suspected Dumbledore of having used a lust potion or perhaps even the Imperius curse on Hermione - uuh! Hermione had almost bitten his head off!

“Is there no end to your thickness?” she’d hissed. “As an Auror, you’re supposed to know that no potion would last for weeks without me becoming aware of its effect! And about being under Imperio, I’d know too. Besides, why should Albus have tricked me? He certainly didn’t need to because I wanted him myself and I still do. He’s the most fascinating man I’ve ever met and I’m proud to be his wife.” Then she’d become even more furious. “I demand you respect my choice! Albus is my husband and the father of my child. He’s a very important part of my life; and I expect my friends to accept and to respect that. In short, I won’t deal with people who behave with hostility toward my husband.”

She wasn’t finished. She’d provided each of the three men with a personal treatment. Ron had been told to overcome his “silly jealousy” because, “You know as well as I do that we’d be miserable with each other. I’m certainly not the woman you need and you’re not the man I could live with.”

Alastor had been asked if he’d never made a mistake. “Are you Saint Alastor the Infallible? Why do you expect Albus to be flawless? He didn’t do anything to you, Alastor! He hurt me! It’s something between him and me. You’re no part of it, and if you tell me that you will give up a friendship, which had lasted seventy years, because your friend made a mistake - a mistake which even doesn’t concern you - I will start to wonder what will happen to our friendship when I do something wrong. Will you give me up this easily, too?”

Harry had been named a “spoiled, ungrateful brat” who obviously had forgotten that Albus had saved his sorry backside. “It’s time to become adult, Harry Potter! It’s time to finally learn that there isn’t only black and white, but a lot of other colours! It’s time to get in your thick head that you’re not the centre of the universe!”

The “ungrateful brat” had hurt, and it had been the reason why Harry had sent the owl, asking Dumbledore for a talk. He owed the man a thank you. In this Hermione was right.


Once again, Harry tugged at his collar. Why had Dumbledore ordered him to this restaurant? He’d thought to see him at Hogwarts, in his office. The most posh restaurant in the magical world - did Dumbledore want to show in public that he was on good terms with Harry? Was their talk to become a part of the headmaster’s attempt to repair his shattered reputation? Or did he simply want to show Harry that he felt superior?

Entering “Riccardo’s” Harry looked around. The place was really different from the dusty, shabby “Leaky Cauldron” where he usually met his friends when they were in London. The tables at “Riccardo’s” were laid with immaculate white linen and finest china. Candles in silver holders were on every table; the waiters wore light blue robes; the guests looked very elegant and the conversations were held in low tones.

The headwaiter, a small, bald-headed wizard, approached Harry, bowing slightly. “Mister Potter? Headmaster Dumbledore hasn’t arrived yet, but may I nevertheless show you to your table?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry answered, looking around nervously.

“May I take your cloak?” a young waiter asked Harry.

He felt a bit overwhelmed by so much attention. In the pubs he normally attended, one had to look after one’s own cloak. At “Riccardo’s” one certainly wouldn’t have to fear that the cloak would be stolen. Hence Harry slipped out of it, gave it to the young waiter and followed the older one through the restaurant to a table which stood in a niche, hidden from curious gazes by a few pots with palms next to a cheerfully splattering little fountain.

As a trained Auror, Harry recognized immediately that the fountain didn’t only make for a nice sight, but prevented eavesdropping on the conversation at the table. Dumbledore, who’d chosen this table, obviously didn’t want to show off - just the contrary.

Harry sat down, twisting his robe over his knees. The headwaiter smiled professionally at him. “May I get you a drink while you wait? Perhaps a Sherry?”

“No, thank you.” Harry had never drunk much alcohol and he didn’t intend to start now. “Could I perhaps have water?” he asked.

“We’ve Apollinaris, Aveda Celtic, Evian, Gasteiner, Montagnes D\'Auvergnes, New Forest Spring Water, San Peregrino, Scotch Mist and Ty Nant,” the headwaiter answered.

Harry hadn’t known ordering a simply water could be so complicated, and he hadn’t the slightest clue about the difference between Apollinaris, Evian or Gasteiner. Water was water, wasn’t it? However, the waiter watched him expectantly, he had to decide and so he said, “I think I’d like Scotch Mist.”

“Of course, Mister Potter.” The waiter disappeared.

Harry looked around. He’d actually expected to find a menu at the table, but there were only a silver vase with an orchid, a candle and two silver plates with artfully folded napkins.

How did Hermione feel at such places? Harry actually would have found the “Three Broomsticks” or the “Leaky Cauldron” cosier - but there he and Dumbledore would have been recognized and perhaps even asked for autographs.

“Good evening, Mister Potter.” Dumbledore had arrived.

Harry stood up and looked at his former headmaster. Since he’d got rid of his beard, he definitely looked younger, but his eyes were sad and he was pale. Harry bowed his head. “Professor Dumbledore,” he greeted.

“I’m sorry for being late. I was at the Ministry and on my way out I got caught by someone.” Dumbledore sat down, taking the napkin from the plate and unfolding it.

“You weren’t actually late.” Harry settled himself, too. “I was too early, sir.”

“Well - old habits die hard. I’m used to apologizing for being late. My wife likes to maintain that me actually being punctual for once would be worth an entry in Hogwarts - a History.” Dumbledore smiled at the headwaiter who had just approached with the menu - two huge pieces of parchment - and a tray with a water bottle and a glass. “John, what can you recommend tonight?”

The headwaiter poured water for Harry and offered him the glass, looking then at the headmaster. “We’ve got a duck a’l Orange today - Barbary ducks, very delicious. And there’s a lamb in lemon sauce. Or if you rather eat fish, I can recommend wild Irish salmon or a wonderful black halibut. I’ve had it myself, it really melts on the tongue.”

“The halibut sounds nice - how is it prepared?” Albus asked.

“Steamed on a bed of vegetables with a Riesling sauce and a mixture of Basmati and wild rice,” the waiter explained.

“Wonderful. And perhaps some of your Parma ham with melon before?” Albus ordered and looked at Harry. “Mister Potter - what would you like?”

Harry didn’t like fish and duck a’l Orange didn’t sound like something he’d enjoy either. Cautiously he asked, “Can I have a steak with potatoes?”

“Of course,” the waiter nodded. “Do you want an entrecote or a T-Bone steak?”

Harry once again thought that eating in the ‘Three Broomsticks’ was simpler. There steaks were steaks without any other specification and the alternative to it was Scottish Pie.

“Entrecote,” Harry said although he didn’t exactly know what this would get him.

He still wasn’t saved. The headwaiter asked, “How would you like your potatoes? Steamed, as chips, as Pommes Dauphin or grilled with herbs?”

“Grilled!” Harry ordered and hoped he wouldn’t be asked if he wanted the vegetables decorating the dish cut in the form of little hearts or butterflies.

“What would you want to drink, sir?” the waiter now demanded to know.

Harry swallowed. “Wine?” he asked carefully.

Dumbledore saved him from further embarrassment. Smiling at the headwaiter he said, “I think your Rioja would suit Mister Potter’s steak nicely while I’d like to get the Johannisberger Riesling with the halibut, and a San Peregrino before.”

Much to Harry’s relief the headwaiter bowed and disappeared. He inhaled deeply and looked at Dumbledore. “Headmaster,” he started, feeling very awkward. However, he’d rehearsed what he’d say for three days now and he really wanted to get his speech done. “I have to apologize. I should have spoken with you earlier. I’m well aware that I own you thanks. You’ve saved my life and risked yours to do so.”

Albus raised his hand. “Mister Potter, we were in a war. Both of us did what we had to do. I don’t think you need to thank me for it. As far as I’m concerned, I’m very glad the war is finally over, and as soon as your colleagues manage to catch Draco Malfoy, I’ll lean back, forget everything about politic and occupy myself for the rest of my days in playing with my child and my grandchildren.”

The waiter came again, bringing the water for Albus. Harry studied how the older man sipped at his glass. He didn’t know what to talk about with him now. He’d apologized, he’d thanked - and what now? He couldn’t imagine chattering politely about the “old days”. It hadn’t been good old days and he was working hard at forgetting about them. Yet talking about the Dumbledore family - no, really not. Harry still didn’t want to think about what had led to Dumbledore becoming a father. The man had slept with his best friend who was at least a hundred years his junior!

“Harry …” Albus’ voice sounded soft, but very hoarse. “I know I’ve disappointed you, and I’m well aware that I can’t make up for it anymore. Yet there’s one thing I want you to know: I’ve always cared for you. I’ve made mistakes, but certainly not out of ignorance.”

Harry looked down at the table. He hadn’t wanted to think about the past, he certainly hadn’t wanted to talk about it, but now Dumbledore had him. He’d said what Harry had wished to hear - or hadn’t he? Harry wasn’t sure about it. He’d become used to blaming Dumbledore for almost everything that had gone wrong in his life and it actually was rather comfortable to have the headmaster as the scapegoat.

Breathing deeply, Harry asked, “Why did you leave me with the Dursleys? And why did you let me stay there? You placed someone in the neighbourhood to watch over me, so you must have known that the Dursleys treated me like dirt.”

Dumbledore took his spectacles down, massaging the bridge of his nose between thumb and fore finger. “I actually thought you’d know the answers to those.”

Harry felt how the familiar anger raised in him. Heatedly, he said: “How could I? You never bothered to tell me.”

“Well.” Albus sipped once again at his water glass. “Let’s go back to the past. I think you’ll need to hear the entire story …”

“I’m very much interested in your version of it, sir,” Harry said coldly, leaning back by it and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I was the one who advised your parents to go into hiding after I’d learned about the prophecy. I believed them and you to be safe. Then, one night, Alastor Moody called me, telling me that Voldemort and his Death Eaters had attacked and killed your parents. As I arrived at your parents’ hiding place, I found a smoking ruin, a lot of nervous Aurors and a crying baby - you. The situation was entirely unclear. The Aurors had caught a few Death Eaters. Some of them were saying that Voldemort was dead, but I didn’t believe it. Besides there were still a lot of Death Eaters on the run and perhaps after you. Hence I didn’t have much time. My task was to get you to a safe place as soon as possible.”

“Why the Dursleys?” Harry almost cried. “You could have given me to a wizard’s family.”

“Yes, Mister Potter - today I know it would have been better. However, on that night, I thought it would be best if you were out of the magical world. With the Dursleys, I could use blood magic to protect you,” Albus explained. Putting his spectacles up again, he proceeded, “Leaving you there …” He sighed and looked at Harry. “Yes, I knew you weren’t treated as a child should be. But we were in a war, Harry! I knew, too, that Voldemort was alive; that he would gather his Death Eaters again and that you would be his main target. I would have liked to give you a happier childhood, but keeping you alive seemed more important to me.”

Once again a waiter approached, bringing wine and a dish with ham and melon slices for the headmaster.

Harry tried the wine he’d been served. It tasted fruity and rich. Remembering his promise to Hermione, he smiled weakly at Dumbledore. “The wine is delicious.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Albus speared a tiny piece of ham on his fork and put it in his mouth. Chewing and swallowing he said, “Mister Potter, today I know I shouldn’t have left you at the Dursleys. Perhaps it will console you to know that Professor McGonagall always told me so. I was too stubborn. For this I need to apologize.”

Harry studied the deep red liquid in his glass. The flames of the candle were mirrored in it, making the wine glimmer like a ruby. “Why didn’t you talk with me when I came to Hogwarts? Why didn’t you tell me then? It would have been so much easier if only I had known …”

“Really, Mister Potter? You were eleven years old! I was hoping fate would give you some time to have something like a childhood,” Albus said slowly.

“Okay,” Harry nodded. “Perhaps you were right in not telling me so early. Yet there’s something else what I’ve never understood. Snape - why did you let him bully my friends and me?”

Albus nibbled at a melon slice. After a little thinking, he replied, “I didn’t give it the importance it held for you.”

“What?” Harry almost choked on his wine. “It wasn’t important to you? That’s it?”

“Yes, Mister Potter.” Albus looked him firmly in the eyes. “Measured on what happened and what Professor Snape had to go through, correcting his classroom manners wasn’t high on my to-do list.”

Harry balled his fists. “You were the bastard’s superior! You covered for him! If you hadn’t held your hand over him he would have gone to Azkaban - which he probably deserved! He was dependant on you. One word from you would have been enough …”

“Mister Potter!” Albus didn’t raise his voice, but sounded nevertheless commanding. “Does the line ‘de mortuis nihil nisi bene’ ring a bell with you?” (1)

Harry snorted. “Under that preamble no one can ever talk about Professor Snape,” he almost spat the name and the title out.

“I can and I will,” Albus said calmly. “I remember him as an exceptionally brave man who gave his life for what he believed in. I remember him as a brilliant Potions master who invented a healing potion which saved a lot of people. I remember him as a loyal member of the Order of Phoenix. I remember him as the man who saved your life on more than one occasion, Mister Potter.”

“And I remember him as the teacher who made my life at Hogwarts a hell,” Harry declared with blazing eyes.

“Aren’t you rather melodramatic now, Mister Potter?”

Harry had to breathe deeply and to count to twenty to keep from yelling at the older man. However, he couldn’t refrain from using a sharp tone, “Headmaster, in former times I believed you knew everything that went on in Hogwarts. Obviously I’ve overestimated you. Or did you know that Professor Snape,” once again he pronounced the title with malice, “was a tyrant who enjoyed frightening and hurting defenceless children; that he was someone who made for nightmares? Didn’t you know that my classmate Neville Longbottom was more afraid of your brilliant Potions master than of Dementors, Death Eaters and even Voldemort himself?”

“Mister Longbottom was confronted with Severus Snape, while Death Eater, Dementors and Voldemort were something he’d never seen. They were abstract for him,” Albus said.

Harry felt like shaking the old man. He’d always hated it when Dumbledore responded to his rage with cool calmness. Why couldn’t he for once show emotion? Why did he always have to act as if he didn’t care, as if he was ignorant to other people’s pain? “Are you really convinced pupils should be treated like that? Do you believe in terror and cruelty are something students should be confronted with?” he almost yelled.

“Certainly not, Mister Potter. Believe me, I was never happy or in agreement with Professor Snape’s teaching methods,” Albus answered, still calm and collected.

“Why the hell didn’t you stop him?” Now Harry was yelling and hitting with both fists down at the table.

The answer came prompt, but still the old voice didn’t betray any emotions, “We were at war, Mister Potter.”

“Here we go again! ‘We were at war’ is your standard answer to everything! Probably you think having been at war even excuses you banging Hermione, getting her pregnant and cheating on her only a few days after the wedding!” Harry didn’t care anymore if the other guests in the restaurant would hear him. He felt a boiling rage and was close to throwing his glass at the headmaster’s face.

At least this time he’d gotten to Albus Dumbledore. Now, he’d lowered his head and looked down in his lap. After a long silence he said, his voice husky and flat, “Let me try to explain why I accepted Professor Snape’s behaviour towards you and your friends, Mister Potter.”

“Don’t tell me it was only an act!” Harry snorted, enjoying that he had the upper hand for once. In the back of his mind, a little voice reminded him that he’d promised Hermione not to argue with her husband, but he couldn’t stop himself anymore. “I saw the hatred in his eyes whenever he looked at me, Headmaster, and I was frightened as hell!”

The headmaster swallowed. “I won’t deny Professor Snape hated you, Ronald Weasley and Hermione. As far as you were concerned, he had reasons - not acceptable reasons, but reasons which made his hatred at least understandable.”

Now it was Harry who lowered his head. Defiantly he said, “I know my father and my godfather played pranks on Snape. However, I wasn’t responsible!” Looking up again, he proceeded, “It wasn’t fair to hate me and to take revenge on me for what my father and Sirius had done.”

“Played pranks on him,” Dumbledore repeated. Looking up at Harry he said: “You know, it was more. In one of these so called ‘pranks’ Severus was almost killed. How would you have felt in his shoes? Wouldn’t you have expected the pranksters to be punished? Wouldn’t you have expected to be saved from them?”

Harry gulped the rest of his wine down. “Well, why didn’t you punish them?”

“Because I couldn’t. Expelling Sirius Black - as he actually deserved for setting up this cruel ‘prank’, which didn’t only endanger Severus Snape’s, but Remus Lupin’s life too, would have had Sirius returning to his father. It would have resulted in him being killed or forced to join Voldemort. Besides it would have revealed Remus Lupin as a werewolf - a werewolf who had attacked a school mate.” The headmaster looked at Harry. “You know what this would have meant?”

Harry swallowed. “A death sentence for Remus …”

“Yes. That made the life of two boys standing against the justice Severus demanded - and deserved! Hence I could only order all parties involved to silence. Now think, Mister Potter. How would you have felt about that when in Severus’ shoes?”

“Miserable,” Harry admitted. “However, what did I have to do with it? I wasn’t even born as this happened!”

“True,” the Headmaster confirmed. “But when you came to Hogwarts, it felt like a déjà vu to Severus. There was the next Potter who was - as Severus saw it - spoiled and favoured by me, and even worse, he was ordered by me to protect you and to risk his life to keep you safe. I think, around this time, he loathed me even more than you. Nevertheless he went back to spy on Voldemort, knowing that he would be tortured and probably killed. What was his reward? Mister Potter, I understand you disliked him. I know you suffered. But Severus Snape was a human being too and there was a point when I simply couldn’t get myself to demand any more from him. How could I have told him off for treating you and your friends unfairly? ‘Oh, Severus, I know you’re still suffering from the Cruciatus curse Voldemort cast on you last night, but really - you must be nicer to Mister Potter and his friends! We can’t have him feeling badly about his Potions grades and lost house points!’”

Now Dumbledore had become emotional. His blue eyes were blazing as he bent over the table. “I know you don’t like to hear it, Mister Potter, but we were at war; and it wasn’t only you, Mister Weasley and Hermione who were concerned! Our entire world, thousands of people were in jeopardy. The information Severus collected made it possible to save lives - probably hundreds of them. Forgive me, but under these circumstances I couldn’t take Hermione’s whining about getting only an ‘E’ for her Potions essays or you feeling hurt by Severus’ acerbic comments about your homework too seriously. I was sure Severus would protect you with his life. That was what counted to me. The unpleasantness of being around him - for heaven’s sake, Mister Potter - if it still bothers you so much then get yourself a therapist and send me the bill for the sessions. But don’t expect me to feel guilty about having to set my priorities as I did.”

Harry ducked. He simply couldn’t help himself. He’d wanted Dumbledore to show what was behind his calm façade, but he certainly hadn’t wanted to make the man furious. He was sure nobody ever wanted this because Dumbledore enraged was frightening. There was an aura of pure magic and power around him which was almost tangible and which reminded Harry that Dumbledore had been the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared.

Harry wasn’t the only one who felt the magic that crackled around the headmaster. The hands of the waiter who had just come with the dishes, trembled as he put them down in front of his guests and he obviously was glad that his question if the gentlemen would need something else, was answered with a brief “No, thank you” by Dumbledore.

After the waiter had disappeared the both men at the table remained in silence. Harry looked down at his steak which smelled delicious and Dumbledore studied his halibut. Sighing he took finally his fork, and looked at Harry, smiling almost awkwardly. “Hermione will have my head for yelling at you. Sorry.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. “I started the row, sir. I’ll tell her.”

“It won’t help me much.” Now Dumbledore really smiled. “She’ll say, ‘You’re the older one, so you’re supposed the more sensible one’. You know, Mister Potter, she cares a lot about you.”

“I think I will get told that I promised to treat you with respect.” Harry looked at the headmaster and added, “Besides she wouldn’t like that I kept you away from your dinner, Headmaster.”

“Albus. My name is Albus - and you’re not my student anymore, but a friend of my wife,” Albus said.

Harry felt himself blushing. “Albus,” he tried and wondered - it didn’t feel as odd as he would have thought only a few minutes before. “With you being the husband of one of my best friends, I think you should call me ‘Harry’.”

“Thank you, Harry. But now we both should eat. Your steak is getting cold, and my wife always preaches to me how important regular, healthy and warm meals are.”

“And thorough chewing!” Harry added. He’d sat next to Hermione during meals for seven years. “Chewing thoroughly isn’t only important for the teeth, but for the digestion too,” Harry quoted.

“Eat your vegetables! Even you can’t live without vitamins and minerals! If you knew how many important vitamins broccoli contains, you wouldn’t just play around with it.” Albus grinned and put a big piece of fish on his fork.

Harry chewed on his steak and swallowing, he said, “I was always told I shouldn’t wolf my food down as if I had been starved for weeks.”

“I’m always told I shouldn’t eat sweets before a meal. And actually I shouldn’t eat so many sweets after meals either,” Albus smiled. “Besides, she gets pretty stroppy when I avoid cabbage. I hate cabbage, but she says it’s healthy and so I have to eat it!”

Harry loaded steak and a piece of potato on his fork. “She bosses you around?” he asked amazed.

Albus nodded. “Of course she does. Can you imagine Hermione being close to someone without mothering and bossing him?”

“You sound as if you don’t mind, Head… Albus.”

Albus looked on a piece of broccoli on his dish and shoved it aside. “It’s not only that I don’t mind,” he answered, “I actually like it.”

Harry waved to the waiter to get his glass refilled. Chewing on another piece of his steak, he studied Albus intensely. Without the beard he didn’t look only younger, but less strange, more approachable, and in his eyes was something Harry hadn’t seen there before: vulnerability. Slowly he said, “I’ve actually always liked it too. It makes me feel cared for. You know with the Dursleys I was never ranted at for doing or letting something that wouldn’t be good for me. Hermione was the first person ever caring enough about me to tell me things like ‘Eat your vegetables, chew thoroughly and drink enough water’. Today I even,” with a nod he thanked the waiter who’d got him a second glass of wine, “sometimes miss her nagging at meals.”

Albus smiled. “You’re always welcome at Hogwarts. Knowing Hermione, I’m sure you’ll get your nagging when you show up to a meal.”

For a while Harry ate in silence, but although the entrecote was delicious, he didn’t enjoy it much. He was too busy with his thoughts. Only a few weeks before he’d commanded an operation for the first time in his life. It hadn’t been a big thing - only himself, Ron and two younger colleagues checking a ruin for artefacts connected to the Dark arts. However, he’d been in charge and although he’d known that the house - a former meeting point of Death Eaters - was empty, he’d been aware that the former inhabitants of the house had perhaps sat traps and cursed wards. So ordering his young colleagues to search through the basement while he and Ron had gone down in the cellar - he’d been afraid for his colleagues. By commanding them he’d felt lonely. He’d known that no one could take the weight of being responsible for them from his shoulders.

Had Dumbledore felt like that during the war? Harry suddenly remembered one night in the winter of his sixth Hogwarts year. He’d spent the winter break at Grimmauld Place, the Order’s headquarters. Two days after Christmas, Snape had come back from a Death Eater gathering, reporting that Voldemort planned a trip to Egypt to steal an ancient magical artefact which would make him able to call up the Egyptian Death Gods. After Snape’s report the Order had decided to go after the artefact, destroying it before Voldemort could get it.

About that, the members of the Order had agreed. Yet when Albus had announced that he would lead the operation himself, Alastor Moody and Augustus McGonagall had strongly disagreed. Alastor had become furious, naming Albus a “madman” and “old fool”, while Augustus McGonagall had remained calm, but had been very determined in stating, “Albus, be sensible. Alastor, Kingsley, Tonks and I will do the job. You know yourself we can’t afford to lose you. We can’t even afford to have you injured.”

In the end the little group had gone without Dumbledore - and for the next thirteen hours everyone in the house had waited. Harry remembered how he’d laid in his bed in the floor above Albus’ room. He’d heard how the headmaster had paced through his chamber for hours. He’d fallen asleep with the sound of these steps and as he’d waken up, he’d heard the steps again.

Shortly after Harry had gone down to breakfast, the headmaster had appeared too. However, he hadn’t wanted coffee, but had gone through the kitchen out in the little garden where he’d sat for the next hours on a stone, hands in his lap, eyes half-closed, deep in thoughts.

Around noon Alastor, Augustus, Kingsley and Tonks had come back - tired, but happy because they’d succeeded. Harry remembered how Professor McGonagall - stern, always collected Minerva McGonagall - had stormed down the stairs, laughing and crying in the same time and throwing herself in the arms of her husband. Tonks and Kingsley had embraced Molly and Arthur Weasley; Alastor had caught Hermione, whirling her around in the air and cheerfully singing, “We did it, we did it!”

Dumbledore had watched the scene, his face unreadable, but slightly smiling. On that day, Harry hadn’t thought much about what the headmaster had felt, but now, after he’d had a taste of being in command, he was almost sure that Dumbledore had felt like breaking down in relief and tiredness.

How often had he gone through such nights? And how often had the people he’d sent out not come back? How had the headmaster dealt with losing friends and people close to him?

Harry swallowed once again. “I once thought you were a power-hungry Slytherin - not much better than Voldemort,” he said quietly.

Albus raised his head, looking at Harry. Obviously he wasn’t surprised that Harry had come back to that subject. “You don’t think so anymore?” he asked.

“Alastor told me you didn’t want to become headmaster and you have refused more than once to become Minister of Magic,” Harry sipped at his glass. “Is that true?”

Albus nodded. “I liked being a teacher. I like working with young people. And I hate paperwork and politics. Being headmaster means paperwork and politic and becoming Minister would mean even more of it.” He smiled. “One of the advantages of the war being over is that I’ll have time for teaching again. At the moment I’m substituting for Hermione, but I hope I can persuade her and Minerva to let me have an entire class or two next year.”

“Let me guess, you want to take over a NEWT class?” Harry asked.

“Nope,” Albus answered cheerfully. “I would like to get first years, and I even dream about becoming a full-time teacher again in a few years. As soon as our child is ready for elementary school, I will resign as headmaster. Minerva McGonagall will take over and I think she’ll make Hermione Head of Gryffindor and her deputy. Then I could have Hermione’s job.” He twinkled at Harry. “But don’t tell her I’m after it! She doesn’t know yet.”

Harry was finished with his steak. Shoving the empty dish away, he said thoughtfully,“ In private you’re quite a different person from the headmaster I’ve known, Albus.”

Albus looked at him over the rim of his spectacles. “Aren’t we all a bit different in private? Perhaps you’ll become used to me? I hope to see more of you when our baby is born.”

Harry nodded. “I will be something like an uncle to him - and I’m looking forward to it.”


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


Sitting down at the bedside, Hermione sighed. She was now in the seventh month of her pregnancy and her belly had become huge and heavy. Standing in front of a class for hours was exhausting now and she was glad that Albus had already taken over half of her lessons. Next week he’d teach the other half too and now Hermione wasn’t unhappy about it anymore. She would enjoy having some time of her own and she looked forward to reading and thinking about her little project. Besides she had such a lot of work to! The nursery still wasn’t completely furnished and she needed to do a lot of shopping before the child’s birth.

Crawling under the blanket Hermione stretched and looked at the empty pillow next to her. It was half before eleven now - two and a half hours since Albus and Harry had met at the restaurant in London. That Albus wasn’t back yet was a good sign, wasn’t it? If Harry had gone for his throat, he wouldn’t have needed two and a half hours for it. That meant they were both talking, and this certainly was a good thing. Although Ron was sure that pigs would grow wings before Harry would make up with Albus, Hermione was optimistic. She didn’t believe the two would fall in each other’s arms, swearing eternal friendship - for this too much had happened between them. Nevertheless she was convinced they’d come around. They weren’t as far apart as Harry thought and if he only gave Albus a chance, he would come to see that the older man was worth his trust. Besides, Harry was something like a brother for Hermione and he would become something like an uncle for her son, and in coming close to her child, he would come closer to Albus too.

The son - he was obviously glad Hermione had lain down. All day, he’d fidgeted in Hermione’s belly and a few of his kicks had felt furious - as if he’d like to say, “Can’t you stop running around all the time?” Now he calmed down, not kicking anymore, but only softly moving.

Hermione laid her hand over her belly, stroking it in soothing circles. “I know,” she whispered. “I didn’t grant you much rest today. I promise it will become better in the next weeks. When I’ve stopped teaching we’ll spend a lot of time together.” She laughed at herself, but didn’t stop talking. “You know how I mean it. We’re together all the time, but I’m so often busy with other things I almost forget about you. It’s time to concentrate more on you and on your father. He’s still an enigma for me. I know he’s able to love and I’m absolutely sure he loves you, but I still don’t know how he feels about me.”

Turning on her side she pulled Albus’ pillow to her, snuggling her nose in it. It smelled like him - lemon drops and rosemary soap and something which was uniquely Albus.

Albus - unpredictable, erratic, enigmatic Albus. Three days ago Minerva had wondered about Hermione’s marriage again. She’d entered Hermione’s classroom in a break just two minutes after Albus had come to take over. So she’d been witness to Hermione just hugging and tenderly kissing her husband.

A few hours later, Hermione had seen Minerva for tea and directly, as it was Minerva’s way, she’d said, “You’re amazing, Hermione. I don’t know if I’d be able to forgive Augustus if he’d cheated on me.”

“You think I shouldn’t have?” Hermione asked.

“No, no!” Minerva had raised her hands. “I didn’t want to criticise you, absolutely not. As much as I detest what Albus did to you - I’m glad you found a way to overcome it. You are married to him and he’s the father of your child. I think being at odds with him would make life very difficult for you and for your baby. Only I wonder how you’ve managed.”

Hermione sighed. “I actually don’t know if I’ve really forgiven him. It’s rather that I’ve learned to live with what happened, and I know that neither Albus nor I can change it now. I try to make the best out of our situation.”

Minerva studied her face and then laid her hand over Hermione’s. “You love him, dear, don’t you?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, Minerva - I love him. He’s all what I’ve ever wanted in a man, and I want to be the one who gives him what he needs.”

What she hadn’t told Minerva, what she never even talked about with Ginny, were the nights she spent with Albus.

She’d fought for weeks against herself, cursing and scolding herself for being so weak, for not being able to forget her love and longing for him. Yet whenever she’d managed to convince herself that she could live without him, her unborn child had moved, reminding her of its existence and of the fact that there was a bond between her and Albus which couldn’t be cut anymore. Although she’d never looked into the eyes of her child, although she’d never held it in her arms, although it wasn’t born yet - for Hermione it was already a person of its own, an individual and someone she loved with all her heart.

How could she love her child and be fighting with his father? Why should she fight him? He’d hurt her pride, but what was her pride compared to her love? What could it mean when the future of her family was at stake?

She didn’t know if she’d forgiven Albus. She’d simply stopped thinking about what he’d done. Yet with giving in, the longing for him had increased until it had become almost unbearable. At the ball in the Ministry - he’d taken her in his arms and she’d spontaneously decided that she wanted to spend the night with him, and then it had happened again: he’d made her feel beloved. For a few sweet hours everything had been perfect, right and she’d been happy.

Albus - how did he feel? The way he smiled at her, the way he touched her - he was so gentle! And a few nights before he’d even said he’d love her. Hermione didn’t believe he’d really meant it. He’d said it during his climax, in a moment where he certainly hadn’t been clear minded. But even in not believing - the confession had given Hermione hope. One day he would say and mean it! One day he wouldn’t think of the woman he’d lost anymore, but would really and truly love Hermione.

The burst of a flame shook Hermione out of her musing. Rolling onto her back, she smiled at the phoenix who’d just appeared in front of the fireplace and greeted her now with a soft thrilling, twinkling at her out of blue eyes.

“Hello, Albus,” Hermione said, stretching and putting her arms behind her head.

The phoenix landed on the bed’s end and changed back in the familiar form of Hermione’s husband. Standing up, he walked around the bed and bent over her, kissing her forehead. “What a nice surprise to come back to a warmed bed.”

Hermione caught one of his curls and wrapped it around her finger. “How was your dinner with Harry?” she asked.

“He didn’t hex me,” Albus smiled. “Isn’t that something?”

“Albus!” Hermione pulled lightly at his hair. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll hex you!”

“You wouldn’t dare!” He sat down on her bedside, grinning at her. “I’ve got a wife who insists on my being treated with respect. She certainly wouldn’t allow someone to hex me, and she’s a witch - a strong one. I really wouldn’t advise someone to get on her wrong side.” Pulling the blanket down a little, he tenderly shoved her shirt aside, bent down and kissed the tip of her left breast. “Besides - my wife is a very lovely woman …”

“… only at the moment she is as fat as an elephant!” Hermione sighed.

“That doesn’t change the fact that she looks ravishing,” Albus whispered, his head still bent down over her chest. “I actually think the belly,” he stroked down over it, “only adds to her beauty. It makes her look incredible female, like an ancient goddess of fertility.”

Hermione had got it now: Albus wouldn’t tell her in detail about his conversation with Harry. He saw the conversation as something “private” between him and Harry and as long as Harry wouldn’t give him special permission to talk about it, he wouldn’t.

Hermione had always appreciated Albus’ discretion. Besides, she knew him well enough to get the information she wanted from watching him. He was in a playful mood and that meant he was happy. The evening had obviously gone well, and although Hermione was curious, she decided that knowing this, for the moment, was enough for her. The rest of it she could get from Harry. He’d never managed to keep anything from her.

Kicking the blanket away, Hermione slipped out of her sensible white night shirt. Actually she hadn’t intended to sleep with Albus this evening. She’d only slipped in his bed because she’d wanted to know how his evening with Harry had been, but - who was she to shy away when Albus was in such a mood? In the last weeks, it had almost always been her who’d initiated the sex and, although she didn’t mind playing an active part, feeling desired by him was not only wonderful, but arousing.

Smiling down at the white head on her chest, she combed with spread fingers through his hair. “If I’m the goddess of fertility - and an ancient one too! - what does that make you? A male god?” She had to swallow because she suddenly remembered a statue she’d once seen: A Greek god - probably Pan - with long hair, broad shoulders, a very manly chest, a little belly and a huge, straining erection. Tugging at Albus’ robes, she murmured, “You’re wearing too much!”

“And,” he rose up and looked in her eyes, “we’re in the wrong surroundings. Let’s do a little redecorating …” He pulled his wand out, furrowed his brow in concentration and closed his eyes. Hermione watched how he moved his lips whispering a charm and how the entire room changed. The walls became marble pillars; between them stood cradles with fire, shining brightly against the night sky. The floor was polished marble now and there weren’t any chairs or shelves anymore, but only the pillars and the torches. Even the bed was gone. Hermione laid now on silken pillows, luxuriously spread over something like an altar.

It was surrounded by huge candles and their warm light made Hermione’s skin shimmer like gold. Raising her head, she looked at Albus. His robes had been replaced by a white shirt with silver ornaments.

Hermione swallowed. “Huh - how did you to that?” she asked.

“A connection between Legilimency and a Transfiguration spell,” he answered.

He sounded casual, but Hermione knew that he was probably the only wizard alive who could make a picture he had only in his mind a reality with one swish of his wand. The thought of the power which was behind this magic aroused her. It was part of what she loved about him - and not because of his fame, but for the man it made him.

Now he bent over her, kissing her forehead. “Worshipping my personal goddess demands covering her entire body in luxurious oil and kneeling down …”

His husky voice was like a tender touch and his words made her body tremble in anticipation. “Albus …” She raised her arms to embrace him, but Albus only took her hands and kissed them before he laid them back on her belly.

With a snip of his fingers he conjured a vial and opened it. Hermione smelled the rich, sweet fragrance of roses and breathed deeply and happily.

“Close your eyes, Hermione,” Albus ordered softly.

Obeying, Hermione felt the tips of his fingers, stroking over her forehead, massaging her temples, touching - as light as the touch of a butterfly’s wing - her eyelids, gliding down over her nose, cupping her cheeks and spreading the sweet oil over her lips and chin. Then his hands were on her neck and Hermione felt as if she would melt under them.

“Turn on your side, sweetest heart,” he whispered.

Hermione rolled over, showing him her back. His hands worked on her shoulders, massaging the tension away, his thumbs digging in her muscles and loosening the cramped spots. Deeper he went, spreading oil on her shoulder blades and down her spine, over her side and to her buttocks, kneading them.

Hermione’s nipples had become hard and she felt an almost aching emptiness between her legs. “Albus - I want to sleep with you. I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered.

“Patience, my goddess, patience!” He kissed the dimple just over her bottom. “Would you turn once again?” he asked.

Rolling onto her back, Hermione smiled at him. He’d kneeled next to her, but now he stood up. “Albus!” Hermione raised her arms. “Kiss me, Albus!”

His hair fell on her skin as he bent over her, softly tickling her neck and shoulders. She pulled him closer, opening her mouth and sucking at his tongue. He broke the kiss quickly. “We’re not ready yet,” he whispered and dripped oil on her chest, spreading it in circles.

Hermione wanted him to touch her nipples, but although she arched her back, he didn’t give her the attention she wanted. Instead he stroked over her swollen abdomen and down over her hips to her thighs.

“Albus, please!” She almost whimpered, but he still didn’t touch her where she needed him. His hands worked down her left leg, massing her calf, taking her foot and spreading oil over every toe. Then he came to the right leg, this time working up - and finally he arrived again at her thigh and Hermione arched her back again,“Albus!”

Without saying a word, he gripped her legs and pulled her down until her butt was on the edge of the altar. Kneeling down, he laid her thighs over his shoulders.

Hermione struggled for breath. She knew what he was about to do and the thought alone of his talented mouth and his skilled tongue on her was enough to drive her almost mad. “Albus, oh, Albus!” she moaned.

He let his tongue flicker over her clitoris and she heard herself scream his name. He knew so perfectly what she needed and he played her like a virtuoso on his instrument. Sucking, licking, kissing, teasing - he had her on the brink of orgasm and he kept her there, using his hands to hold her in place while the tip of his tongue entered her channel, kicking her over the edge.

“Albus - I love you!” she screamed.

He’d raised and, holding the backside of her thighs against his chest, he entered her, his erection stretching and filling her. “Hermione - sweetest heart,” he whispered and started to move, pounding into her with the long, deep strokes she enjoyed so much.

Every move sent a wave of pleasure through Hermione, and watching him, his forehead glimmering with sweat, his eyes dark with desire, his mouth slightly open and his strong hands holding her legs and stroking them - Hermione knew that she would never love another man like she loved him. She belonged to him and she wouldn’t give him up, but fight for him with all her power.

“Albus, my Albus …”

He sped up and once again Hermione was in a wave of joy and lust, feeling wrapped in love and happiness. On the edge of her consciousness she noticed that he was coming too, all his muscles tensed and his hoarse voice chanting, “Hermione, Hermione, Hermione - sweetest heart, my darling Hermione.”

Suddenly he was too far away. She wanted him close and opening her arms she whispered, “Come to me, Albus!”

He braced himself on one hand, breathing hard and then smiling at her. “Just a moment, my heart.” Swallowing he stretched his back and waved his hand. The room changed back and he let himself sink down on the bed next to her, pulling her in his arms and holding her close. “Piccola …”

Hermione snuggled her head against his shoulder, happily smelling his unique fragrance. Her hand was in his mane, playing with its rich silken fullness. “I’m happy,” she whispered against his skin. “I wish we could always be like that. This moment for eternity …”

“Hermione, dearest …” He pulled the blanket up and wrapped it tenderly around her. For a while he held her, his mouth in her hair, his fingertips lazily painting circles on her back. “Hermione,” he cleared his throat, “could you perhaps stay tonight?” he asked quietly, sounding almost shy. “I’d like to wake up next to you, sweetest heart.”

Hermione hesitated and as always he immediately noticed it. Letting her go, he shifted a bit away, folding his hands under his head. “Sorry,” he said, his voice flat. “I shouldn’t have asked. I understand you like sleeping in your own bed better.”

“Albus,” she laid her hand on his chest, “it’s not about sleeping in my own bed. It’s,” she chewed on her bottom lip, looking awkward, “you snore, dear. And heavily!”

“Really? I didn’t know.” He smiled at her. “That is the reason you never sleep here? Why don’t you simply cast a silencing charm?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Why should I? When I sleep, I sleep,” he answered, pulling her close again.

“I talked in my sleep during my sixth year - at least the girls in my dormitory said so. I hated it when they cast a silencing charm on me. It always made my skin itch,” Hermione told him.

“Hermione, I’m convinced your charms are better than the charms of your former dormitory mates. Besides, I’m a sound sleeper. To get me to wake up you need more than a little charm.”

“Oh yes, I know.” Hermione laughed. “Last time when I was here and couldn’t sleep because you were snoring so loudly, I first gave you a push. I thought if you’d turn to your side, you’d perhaps sleep without snoring. You grumbled, turned and for five minutes I thought the problem solved. Yet then you rolled on your back again and the snoring started anew. Hence I stood up, but by searching for my dressing gown I fell over your slippers and could only keep myself upright by bracing myself against the bookshelf. Your jar with lemon drops tumbled down and a few of the drops hit you. You didn’t wake up. You only grumbled - and snored louder. I already wonder what I’m to do if our son decides to be born in the middle of the night. I’m not sure I’d like to conjure a cannon to shoot you awake while I’m in labour. Is there a trick to get you out of sleep?”

“Hmm,” he considered his answer for a moment. “Alastor used to throw a wet spoon at me. Augustus once hexed my bed away. Minerva yells when she needs to get me in the middle of a night. I actually prefer to be woken up with a kiss.”

“Well,” Hermione snuggled closer to him. “I’ll call Alastor when I need you.”

“Cruel woman!” He laid his hand on her belly. “It’s time I had some male support.”

“In snoring and sleeping in? I’ve always thought you’d manage that on your own without any problems.” Hermione yawned. “Bah - I’m tired, and I’ll have a hard day tomorrow.”

“Then you should sleep now, Hermione.” Albus kissed her forehead. “Nitey night - and don’t let the bed bugs bite!”

“I’ll tell them they shall need to toddle over to you!” Hermione yawned again. “Oh, before I forget about: I’ll have dinner with my parents tomorrow. It’s my mother’s birthday.”

“Oh …” Albus didn’t sound too delighted. “Unfortunately I’m away too. Yves de Beauregard and I are going to dinner with Rogier Fleming, the owner of ‘Witch’s Desire’.”

“The potions lab?” Hermione asked. “They make perfumes and beauty potions, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Albus confirmed. “The biggest commercial lab - and by the way, it was your friend Ginevra who got us this contact. She was doing an article about beauty potions and spoke with Yves and Mister Fleming about it. He told her he’d had big problems in getting young Potions masters to work in his lab. Ginevra made him talk with Yves about it and now we’re working on a project: Fleming will give Hogwarts a complete lab for the students and we’ll take up a few beauty potions in our syllabus. Perhaps a few students will be interested then in a career as Potions masters in Mister Fleming’s lab.”

“He - that sounds exciting!” Hermione said. Giggling she added, “Sorry, but I can’t help thinking what Severus would have said if you’d have demanded that he teach beauty potions. However, Monsieur le Conte looks like a man who already knows all about them.”

“If not, he’ll learn soon.” Albus smiled, but became immediately seriously again. “Back at our subject, I don’t like the thought of you outside the wards on your own at night. Malfoy still isn’t caught.”

“Albus! He won’t dare come close to Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “Besides I’ll Apparate, step through the Gates and then I’ll already be inside the wards. Inside …”

“… you’re not safe,” Albus interrupted her. “The wards only prevent Apparating and casting an Unforgivable Curse. Jinxes and hexes …”

“I can block!” Hermione stroked over his cheek. “Albus don’t make a fuss! I don’t intend to go on a tour through the highlands on my own.”

“I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. I have a bad feeling about it,” Albus declared. “You know what? We’ll ask Alastor to pick you up at the gates.”

“No, we won’t,” Hermione disagreed. “He’s having dinner in Poppy’s chambers tomorrow. I certainly don’t want to interrupt that.”

“Augustus - I’ll ask Augustus,” Albus suggested.

“Oh, Albus, really! I don’t need a babysitter for the few steps!” Hermione protested. “Augustus is rather busy in the moment.”

“Well, then I’ll come back earlier,” Albus decided. “I won’t have a peaceful moment if I am thinking about you being out on your own at night.”

“Albus, that’s nonsense!” Hermione shook her head. “Let’s have a compromise, shall we? I’ll ask Sebastian to come for me. You know he’s a Charms master and a practised duel champion. Is that good enough for you?”

“Hermione, I worry about you. I couldn’t bear to have you injured.” Albus held her as if someone was threatening to pull her away from him.

“I know, Albus. But I really hope Malfoy gets caught soon. I don’t want you to worry and I don’t like needing someone guarding me.”




(1) Nothing but good about dead people.

To be continued …