A Winter Tale

A Winter Tale

by: Max

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

[disclaimer see chapter 1]

Chapter 9: Birds of different feathers ...


“Nothing ages more quickly as news.” Walking in the great hall on the morning of her 18. birthday, Hermione suddenly remembered her husband saying so. She first hadn’t believed him, but as she now sat down on her place at the Gryffindor table, she found, that he’d been right ag Her Her entrance didn’t cause looks and whispering anymore - the sensation of having a head girl - and yes, she still wore the badge because Minerva had with a swift “I would want to see some one daring to accuse Albus of nepotism!” refused to take it back - married to the headmaster had ebbed away. And actually, Hermione thought, this didn’t only concern her school mates, but Hermione herself too. After only eight days of marriage a certain routine had settled in - a routine, on the first sight so perfectly satisfying, that even Harry, after Hermione had told him about in a long talk, didn’t looked worried at her anymore. He’d even said: “I’m glad this ...” he still had a problem with the word “marriage” connected to the living arrangement his best friend and the headmaster, “works so well for you.”

Only Hermione wasn’t “glad”. She blamed herself heavily for not feeling so, she argued with herself, she even named herself an “ungrateful bitch”, she kept telling herself that living with Albus Dumbledore was certainly not worse then living, often lonely in the head girl’s chamber, that it sometimes even was more fun and laughter as she had have in years for Albus was not only kind and treating her with more courtesy as she could ever have got from a boy her age, but he was mostly cheerful and he obviously liked to spoil her with flowers and gifts.

Yet these gifts, Hermione thought, showed just the problem she was chewin bec because after his first one - the study with the wonderful little library - she’d never got something she found suiting her. In moments of feeling sarcastic - and Hermione had have so much of them over the last days she already believed that spending pretty much time in the always acerbic potion master’s company already hubbeubbed off on her - Hermione rather felt as if her husband would work himself through a “How to make my witch happy” book of the rather cheap sort because the witches this book knew about were obviously the Lavender Browns or Narcissa Malfoys of this world - women only interested in her appearance and measuring their husband’s affection on the money he spend on their gifts.

Yet Hermione Granger wasn’t interested much in Parisian dress robes - though she’d to admit that the one she had found just this morning on her bedside, decorated with a note saying “Happy birthday anve ave a nice party - A.” was rather a glorious piece. If she’d wear it after using the “witch’s very dream” hair potion (the gift she’d got at the morning before and it was a rather beautiful vial it was in), perfumed with “Enchante de Paris” (out of a truly lovely glass flagon which had appeared at her potion notes as she’d opened them in her study only two days before) and with the necklace (opals and diamonds again, suiting her ring) Albus had given her on the evening after the attack, she certainly would make a stunning impression. Perhaps this was what he wanted? Hermione didn’t know, but she knew that in this sector she wouldn’t even try. She was Hermione Granger, the bushy haired Gryffindor bookworm with ink spots on her finger, a quill in her hair and academic challenges in her mind - and if this Hermione Granger didn’t suit Albus Dumbledore’s ideas about his wife, she couldn’t help it.

She remembered only too well that she’d promised to respect him - and yes, this certainly meant she have to try fulfilling his wishes too, but he’d promised the same to her - and she couldn’t remember she’d heard something like “respect her if she changes to become a creation of yours”. The very idea of doing so made her furious - so furious she sometimes wanted to shout at him. Only she didn’t dare - and not only because he still wasn’t only her husband, but the headmaster she’d learned to adore and to respect more as ever other living soul, but because she knew herself too well. If she’d break through the barrier their mutual politeness had built between them, she wouldn’t stop at telling him that she disliked being treat as she’d got no brain, but she’d probably even tell him that she’d almost wished him back on his sickbed because by then she’d felt close to him.

Even now the memory of the hours th spe spent together recuperating after the attack was very precious to her. Almost everyningning when laying next to him in bed - next to him, but not close anymore because he now always kept space between them - she comforted herself with reliving this moments again: The sweet little flirting while she’d fed him his pudding, how he’d invited her at his side and she’d fallen asleep, her head on his healthy shoulder, her hand on his cheek and his smell in her nose, feeling sheltered and happy; his defiant “If I may remind you: We’re lawfully wedded”, as Poppy Pomfrey had “caught” them in their embrace - and Poppy hadn’t ranted, but only smiled - and later this evening after they’d had a “picnic in bed” - sandwiches with delicious smoked salmon for Hermione and a fluffy omelette for Albus - he’d asked her to help him entangle his hair. Because she’d always liked brushing hers the muggle way better as doing it with magic, she’d offered him a brushing too and he’d happily agreed, once again purring and moaning in pleasure while she’d worked on his silver mane - and oh, how much she’d enjoyed feeling the silken strands under her fingers, smelling of his unique scent. After almost half one hour of brushing and entangling tenderly she’d finally bound the hair back to a pony tail, teasing him that his hair needed more time as most women’s. The evening had ended with her falling asleep in his arm again.

As she’d come back from class the next day, he’d been still in bed, but freed from the bandage and - with Woopy assisting him - working through a huge pile of mail. Hermione, not wanting to bother him while he worked, had retired to her study, doing her home work. Once again at this afternoon she’d looked after him, but by then Minerva had sat in a chair next to the bed, talking school’s business with him. So Hermione were gone for dinner in the hall. Afterwards coming back, hoping for an evening with Albus, she’d found Snape in the bedroom and he hadn’t looked as if he’d like her to become a participant in his conversation with Albus.

The day after Albus had been out of bed again - and since then Hermione had only seen him once for more as a polite inquiry after her well-being as he’d given her a lesson in becoming an animagnus. This two hours - though spent in his office - had been fun because Hermione hadn’t only got to enjoy a little insight in the working of a brilliant wizard’s mind, but enjoyed how he was ableconnconnect teaching and learning with having fun. She’d always thought of Minerva McGonagall’s stern teaching methods highly, she’d even sometimes found Molly Weasley’s swarming about Albus Dumbledore as transfiguration teacher slightly overdone - but after her lesson with him she found herself in league with Molly, although adoring Albus as a teacher too didn’t help her much. On the contrary - Hermione found, that missing the closeness of her first days was more then enough. She really didn’t need longing for getting at least his attention as her mentor on top of the cake, especially because it had already a layer Hermione firmly tried avoid thinking of: sex.

Until now Lucius Malfoy - though it was said that he was back in his mansion - hadn’t budged in matters of the marriage law. This meant - at least in theory - that Hermione and Albus weren’t bound to the “twice a month” rule. Yet in actual practise Hermione thought it unwise to give Malfoy and the ministry a chance to get the couple. So sooner or later Hermione and Albus would have to do their “marital duty” again - and this was something Hermione really didn’t want to think of because the very thought of it made her aware of something which hurt her pride: Despite the circumstances, despite the fact that she actually was angry with him - she longed for his touch so much it almost hurt. When lying in the bed next to him, smelling his scent and feeling his warmth despite the distance he was keeping, her body became wide awake, remembering the handsome young man who so very much excited and pleased it. The need had became so strong by now, that Hermione this morning had given in and pleased herself while in the bath tube, dreaming of Albus’ hand stroking her instead of her own, imaging his mouth on her breast and his cock moving inside her. This fantasy had given her a brain-shattering climax in which she’d found herself screaming his name. Afterwards she’d been only too glad that he again had left their rooms before her. She really didn’t want to look in his eyes after what she’d just done.

As her thinking had reached the point, making her afraid of blushing, she heard the door behind the head table click, a first year Hufflepuff - as all first years seating on the upper end of his house table, directly under the eyes of the teachers - chirped a “Good morning, Professor Dumbledore”, other students followed and Albus’ voice, as always a bit hoarse, but firm, greeted back with a benevolent: “Good morning, dears.” He sat down, looking once again like the very model of an imposing headmaster with a midnight blue robe, the hems decorated with embroidered golden stars. He hardly had sipped at his tea cup as Professor Sprout already bent to him, telling something what made him smile and clap his hands and through the chatter of the hall Hermione heard him say: “Excellent, dear Dee, excellent! I look forward to a visit in your green house, only I’m afraid I won’t manage today for I must go away for a meeting.” Hermione suppressed a sigh. He’d already told her so the evening before, apologizing for not being with here on her birthday, but suggesting she should invite her friends for a “party” in the evening. So she’d done almost defiant though she actually never had been keen on parties. Yet if he wished her to, she’d celebrate a party - and she was fiercely determined not to leave the Gryffindor common room before midnight.

“Happy birthday, Hermione!” Ron, Harry and Ginny had arrived, carrying a package, wrapped in red and golden paper. It was so long Ron had to carry one end while Harry kept the other and it needed Neville and Lavender clearing the table to make space for it.

Hermione hugged her friends and looked to the package with huge eyes. “What’s that?” she asked.

“I’d say, it’s a birthday gift. But if you’re not in need for one, you only have to say. We’ll certainly find a poor house elf who’d appreciate it,” Harry joked, pulling at the package.

Hermione slapped his hand. “Don’t you dare, Harry Potter! It’s mine and you know I love getting gifts. What is in it?” She asked eagerly.

Ron grinned, stroking the package proudly. “You know, we did hard thinking. We couldn’t give you a book this year because you’ve already got half a bookshop of your own ...”

Hermione laughed, turning her eyes. “In the contrast to you, Ronald Weasley, I don’t think you can’t give people a book because they possess one already.”

Ron didn’t let her spoil his mood. Grinning even more, he proceeded: “Anyway - we didn’t want to give you a book. We thought you’d deserve something to have fun with. And after we’ve got a nice donation to our Hermione’s birthday fond ...” his glance went for a moment to the head table where Albus sat and smiled over the rim of his spectacles down to the group, “we made a visit in Diagon Alley and ...”

“No!” Hermione cried, ogling over the form of the package. “Don’t say you’ve got me a broomstick! You know I hate flying.”

“Isn’t it a pity?” Harry said. “We’d really like to take you on a ride today - only you and Ron and Ginny and me and a speedy firebolt.”

“Oh thank you very much, but I don’t think falling down from a firebolt makes a difference to falling down from one of the old school brooms,” Hermione said and started to unwrap the package. Yet under the first paper she found another layer - golden with red polka dots and a note: “Precious girls deserve precious gifts. Precious gifts deserve precious packing ...” Unwrapping the second layer Hermione found a lovely box with red and golden stripes. She opened it and - now surrounded by laughing and curious class mates - discovered that the box was filled with jellybeans - red and golden jelly beans, for being exact. As Hermione looked at them, the sweets jumped out of the box, grouping themselves to a script hovering over the table, reading “Happy birthday, Hermione!” Then, with a sound like a giggle, they dropped on the table, formed a neatly row and rolled - one by one - to the paper the box had been wrapped in. As all the jelly beans laid on it, the paper crumpled around them, stretched and became a bag in the form of a huge, red wizard’s hat.

“Whow!” A third year girl screamed. “That was wicked! How did you do it?”

“We’ve got some help ...” Harry answered.

Hermione hadn’t to ask from whom - to her the signature “Albus Dumbledore” was clearly written all over the charms used.

“Huh - there’s another box!” Lavender stood next to Hermione, curiously looking to her gift. And she was right - the jelly beans had hidden a smaller box in the box. Hermione took it out and opened it to find a package, neatly wrapped in blue and silver paper.

“Babushka!” said someone in her back. “You know the Russian Babushka dolls? When you open them, you find another one in it. And in that is another one and so on. Hermione’s obviously got a Babushka package.”

And he was right because the package contended the third box (rainbow-coloured) with a package (white clouds on a blue sky) in which was a box, containing a package ... and after almost 10 minutes of cheerful unpacking Hermione came at last to a purple box, just as long as her under arm.

“Careful now!” Harry ordered.

Hermione cautiously opened the box - and almost forgot to breathe in seeing its content: The most beautiful knife she’d ever seen in her life. The blade, shimmering blue in the light of the hall, looked as sharp as a razor and was decorated with artfully engravings - runes and magical symbols. The handle was black wood, polished and with a blue stone on its upper end. It was a potion maker’s knife, made for cutting rare and difficult to handle ingredients most precisely and Hermione knew immediately that this knife was probably as good as the one Snape used himself.

“We thought you could need it for your honour project,” Harry said now.

Ron, beaming, bent closer to Hermione and whispered in her ear: “You can mince a certain potion master with - and by that earn the eternal gratitude of thousands of students.”

“Ron! Don’t be a git!” Hermione ranted, but spoiled the effect by hugging him, Harry and Ginny at the same time. “Thank you so much! It’s beautiful and I’ll always appreciate it.” Over Harry’s shoulder she looked up to the head table, but the golden chair was empty, Albus was already gone and Hermione felt it as a bitter drop in her goblet of joy. “I’ll never understand this man,” she thought sadly. “First he spends a big deal of time for charming a gift to me and then he doesn’t watch how I open it. Coming close only for running away then - it starts to look as a speciality of him.”

***********


No, actually the party hadn’t been very amusing. Loud music, butterbeer, boys talking quidditch and girls giggling about whom of the boys was the “sexiest” - it wasn’t something Hermione thought as fun of, but being stuck in the too loud common room for hours hadn’t been so bad as what came afterwards. At midnight Minerva McGonagall had appeared, calling the night off, sending her students in bed and accompanying Hermione to the main tower.

They’d made all their way in silence, but as they reached the wall of the gallery and the musician had began to play his tune, Minerva had laid a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and said - sounding a bit awkward by it: “Poppy - you know, she doesn’t gossip, but she knows that I care for you - told me how she found the headmaster and you on the evening after the attack. She thought it a touching sight and ...” she cleared her voice, “I’m really glad the two of you are going along so well. Augustus kept telling me that your binding charm showed a strong connection, but nevertheless I was relieved to hear it from Poppy too ...”

For a moment Hermione feared she’d start crying, a part of her even longed to do so, to fall on Minerva’s shoulder and to tell her all about her longing and the pain of missing the man who slept next to her. But another part forbad Hermione to do so - not only because she liked Minerva too much for making her worry again, but because of Albus. Even if he didn’t love her the way she wished he would - he was her husband and she owed him loyalty. Crying at Minerva’s shoulder would feel like betraying Albus who actually hadn’t done anything wrong - except of not giving her what she really wished more then anything else.

Fighting with all her will r, Hr, Hermione managed to fake a smile good enough Minerva bought it and said with forced cheerfulness: “I really appreciate your concern, Professor McGonagall.”

“Dear girl - go to bed. Albus surely waits already.” Minerva McGonagall affectionately patted Hermione’s shoulder, turned and marched away.

Hermione breathed deeply, then she called: “Good night, Professor! And my regards to your husband!” She stepped then through the arch way and after the wall had closed, she allowed herself to lean against the cold stones. Alone - for the first time on this day she was alone and able to whip the forced smile out of her face. By now her muscles ad already felt cramped and it was sheer relief to let down the mask. Hermione even allowed herself a few tears before she turned, whipped the tears away and stepped on the stairs which lifted her up to the landing in front of the bedroom. Marching around the corner in her bathroom, she undressed, brushed her teeth and hair, splashed a bit cold water in her face and slipped then in her pyjamas - this time the blue with the little teddy bears. Her mirror promptly commented it with: “Don’t you think you’re looking a bit too childish in this? If I’d want to seduce a man ...”

“You’re a mirror - you can’t seduce somebody!” Hermione hissed, once again feeling a strong need to throw something hard in the annoying thing. But she knew from trying once, that it wouldn’t stop the mirror. The one she’d once hit, had immediately restored itself, telling her in a very insulted voice, that she’d have to learn facing the truth at least twice a day.

On bare feet Hermione marched to the door where she waited for a moment, listening to the soft music out of the bedroom. Albus, in the contrast to many other wizards a regular in the muggle world, owned a hifi set which he had enchanted to work with magic instead of electric and he liked to finish his days with hearing music in bed. This time it was Bach - a sonata for flute, bassoon and harpsichord, a piece of almost mathematic clearness, severe and with the beauty of a single, white rose. Hermione, who’d during the party felt as if the rock of the “wicked witches”, a favourite band of almost all Hogwarts students, would shredder not only her ears, but her nerves too, now enjoyed the silver sound of thute ute as if a tender hand would stroke and calm her nerves. As daughter of two talented amateur musicians, she’d grew up with Bach and Mozart and her mother playing the piano while her father played oboe.

Quietly opening the door, Hermione slipped in the bedroom. Albus was already in bed, as always wearing a snowy white nightdress with a golden embroidered, artfully intricate monogram at the chest. “APWBD” - Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore - it was quite a mouth full, but - alas - the wizard owning the name was quite a hand full too.

He’d already bond his hair back to the ponytail he always wore in bed and his wand and the spectacles laid on the night stand.

Hermione liked to see him without the spectacles. He seemed less of the imposing headmaster then, less distanced and a bit more vulnerable. Yet as he climbed on her side of the bed, he turned around and took the glasses up once again, watching her with an expression she couldn’t read.

“Good evening, Albus,” she greeted him.

“Good evening, Hermione,” he gave back polite, his voice as neutral as his eyes.

Hermione breathed deeply and virtually took run. “Thank you very much for the gifts. The robe is lovely ...,” she swallowed the “if only I’d know when I should wear something this extravagant” and bravely spoke further, “..and the knife I adore. Your charm work on the package really was brilliant.”

“You’re welcome. I haI have to admit, I only was one of the donators to the knife. The idea to get you a potion master’s knife was Harry’s. I think he wanted to show you some ‘acceptance’ for your choice.”

“I thought already so and I appreciate it very much,” Hermione said. She hadn’t wanted to ask her friends, but now she couldn’t resist her curiosity any longer. “I’ve wondered how they got this knife. I mean one doesn’t come across something so special and precious in the apothecary in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley. Did you help with that too?”

“No, I didn’t.” Albus smiled. “Virginia Weasley is so formidable as her mother. She asked Severus where he got his knife and after learning how much such thing costs; she came straight to me and asked if I’d spend a few knuts on it too. She’s really an extra ordinary girl.”

“Oh yes, she is!” Hermione felt warm by thinking how much trouble Ginny had undergone for giving her such a special gift. “I’ll have to thank her again in the morning.”

“Hmm ...” Albus made, turning his back again and laying his spectacles back on the night stand. “I wondered ...,” he started then, “I mean it’s the weekend tomorrow - and with Christmas and the terms end coming closer I won’t have another one free, so ...,” folding his hands behind his head and speaking more to the ceiling as to Hermione he said: “I’ve asked Minerva to deputize over the weekend and I’ve already told our dear minister that I won’t be available because of a pressing private matter. Would you perhaps like to become this private matter, Hermione? I thought we could go to Rome. I lived there for a few years as I was with Nicolas Flamel and I’ve always liked the place. There’s a very vivid and nice wizard’s community, where we could do a spot of Christmas shopping, in the evening we could go to a concerto in a church ...”

Hermione was between kicking herself in the butt - as hard as possible and best when wearing high heels - for grumbling about feeling neglected all day (how could she have forgotten that her husband was a very busy man?) and dancing in joy. “Oh, Albus!” she cried excited. “I’d love going to Rome with you. I always wanted to go there, but my parents didn’t care for such crowded places. Can we visit the Forum Romanum? And the Sixtina? I long to see Michelangelo’s paintings, you know? And the catacombs and the ...”

“Oh my - I actually didn’t think of moving to Rome again, Hermione!” Albus grinned. “I’m afraid we won’t manage all Rome on one weekend. Rome is huge and filled with wonders. But I promise: if you like it there, we’ll come back for another weekend.”

“Albus, can we have Italian food while in Rome?” Hermione asked. She loved Italian food and the thought of risotto - rich and full with vine and the rice stroking the tongue like silk - and frutti del mare and scalopine and home made pasta made her mouth water.

“Dearest!” Albus laughed heartily. “I think getting you English food would be a task worth a wizard when in Rome. Italian I even can manage in the muggle way. And by talking about that: You don’t mind playing muggle for a few hours? All the real nice restaurants in Rome are muggle and the concerto I’d like to hear ...”

“Albus!” Hermione interrupted him laughing. “I’m muggle-born! And as much as I adore your robes - I’ve always thought muggle-attire is much more comfortable. If you don’t mind being in the company of a girl in jeans and sneakers - I mean we’d have to walk some steps by visiting all the places I’d love to see, so ...”

“... you’ll get to know my ability for finding dark corners,” Albus said with a boyish grin. “I’ve never cared for long walks on streets and I certainly don’t care for muggle transportation. But I’m pretty good in joint apparation.”

Hermione giggled. “As long as you don’t apparate us in the Pope’s private garden - though I’d rather like to see it ...”

“Don’t remind me of missing the target!” Albus laughed. “My brother Aberfort once - more then 120 years ago when memory doesn’t fail me - wanted to meet a muggle lady - and please, don’t ask me for details about her! His liking for goats was already highly developed at this time - in front of the Buckingham palace. Unfortunately he missed his apparition target and so he landed just on the queen’s bedside. He swore it was only old Victoria making a pass on him what got him to change in his animagnus form - which was a goat of course - and taking run. The queen - so he told - became the jitters, screaming hysterically, the guards came and caught him and our father, this time minister of magic, became so furious he changed Aberfort in a frog and kept him for four weeks in a jar in his office.”

Hermione laughed so hard she almost fell out of the bed. Whipping the tears out of her eyes, she said: “Albus, sometimes I think you’re making these stories up!”

“Only a bit, my dear,” he admitted. “It wasn’t four weeks, but only two - and our mother visited him once a day and caught flies for him.”

“Albus Dumbledore!” Hermione cried. “Did some one already tell you, that you’re sometimes impossible?”

“Hmm,” he made. “Some one? Actually it wasn’t some one. It was all people I’ve ever met and most of them didn’t say ‘sometimes’. They said I always am impossible. I suppose it’s a part of my charming self - don’t thi think?”

Hermione turned her eyes. “I give up!” Yawing heartily, she looked at him. “Don’t you think we should go to sleep now? I want to be fit for Rome.”

“Then I’ll have to rest too for keeping up with you.” He waved a finger. “Nox!” The candles and the music went off. “Good night, Hermione. I’m looking forward to Rome.”

“So do I, Albus,” Hermione curled under the blanket, once again wishing she’d have the courage to snuggle close to him. “Good night, Albus.”“