Much Ado about Nothing

Much Ado About Nothing


By: Max

[Disclaimer: They’re all owned by J.K. Rowlings and her publishers. I only borrow for a little playing, but I promise: As soon as I’m done with them, I’ll give them back.]

Chapter 1: The Sorcerer\'s Apprentice

Good! The sorcerer, my old master
left me here alone today!
Now his spirits, for a change,
my own wishes shall obey!
Having memorized
what to say and do
with my powers of will I can
do some witching too!

Go, I say,
Go on your way,
do not tarry,
water carry,
let it flow abundantly,
and prepare a bath for me!

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

“It’s my decision!” The young woman rummaged with both her hands through her short cut brown hair, her gaze blazing at the three young men who sat like chickens on a perch on the worn sofa in front of the fire place. “I really don’t know why you’reing ing such a fuss about! Hogwarts is not out of the world and I’m not going there to becoming the caretaker’s assistant, scrubbing floors and cleaning toilets, but to getting my mastership. So where’s the problem?” She directed her brown eyes to the lanky dark-haired young man who sat on the left side, just poking the fire with a stick. “I thought at least you’d understand, Victor!” she said accusingly.

“Why me?” The young man looked defiant and crossed his long legs in black trousers.

“Because you’re ambitious too! And because you say you love me,” the girl said with the patience of a healer talking to a mentally handicapped child. “That’s why, dear Victor.”

“I’m ambitious ven it comes to important zings,” Victor answered. He obviously felt a bit provoked what made for a heavy accent in his talking.

Hermione turned her eyes. “Like quidditch?”

“Like quidditch! I’m a professional, you know, Hermione!” The young man’s black eyes looked now stern.

“Oh, heavens!” Hermione sank down in the chair opposite the sofa. “What have I done to deserve that? Is quidditch all you ever think about?”

The three young men looked at each other. Victor grinned, the red-head smirked, the green-eyed sighed. “At the moment we actually aren’t thinking about quidditch,” he said. “We’ryinrying to understand why you want to become the slave of the old hag. Why don’t you stay at the University?“

“Yes!” Victor looked with puppy eyes at the young woman. “You could stay at the University, writing your post doc thesis - Professor Bellini would love to have you as his assistant. You said so yourself. And you could marry me and we could have …”

“… a nice, little house with a nice, little garden and a nice, little baby!” Hermione interrupted him, sounding the opposite of delighted. “Victor, how often do I have to tell you, that I’m not ready for the marital idyll you’re dreaming from? I want to become a transfiguration mistress.”

Now it was the redhead who spoke: “But you are a muggleborn, Hermione …”

“Ah?” Hermione became small eyes. “What does this mean? That I’m not fit to carry the title ‘mistress’?”

“Nonsense, Hermione.” The boy with the green eyes sighed. “Ron didn’t want to say that. He only wanted to say that …” He looked for help at his friend.

“That it is highly unusual for muggleborns …” stammered redheaded Ron. “I mean doing a mastership in the old fashioned way. It’s more of a pureblood thing, you know?”

Victor bent forward, took a biscuit from the plate on the table and bite in it. “Actually,” he said chewing, “I don’t know of a muggleborn master. And I don’t know why you think you’d need the mastership.”

“Right,” Ron seconded him. “For what the hell do you need the mastership? Even the Auror’s Academy doesn’t have a master as a teacher. And the Merlin’s College does with a professor too …”

“Therefore they’re second best!” Hermione said energetic. “Besides: Hogwarts has a miss &ss …”

“Of course!” Victor sounded sarcastic. “When it comes to snobbism, Hogwarts is always in the lead. One wonders why Hogwarts does with only one Transfiguration mistress. They’d actually need a second one - for conjuring toilet paper with the Hogwarts crest!”

“Uhm …” Ron crocked his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Hogwarts actually has two transfiguration masters. The headmaster is one too …”

Hermione di82178217;t hear him. She looked daggers at her lover. “May I remind you, dear Victor, that you’re talking to a Hogwarts alumna?” she asked sweetly.

“You don’t have to.” Victor sent the daggers back - one for one. “You are too good in snobbism yourself. So there isn’t much of a chance I could ever forget that you were once the star pupil of the self-proclaimed most renowned wizard’s school in the world.”

“Self-proclaimed?” Hermione shook her head. “Hogwarts isn’t in the need for self proclamations. It is simply the world’s best wizard’s school. Or would you want to maintain, Durmstrang is better?” she asked sweetly, but poisonous.

“At least the Durmstrang teachers and pupils aren’t as full of themselves as the people at Hogwarts!” Victor ranted. He’d obviously for a longer time harboured a disliking of the English wizard’s school and saw now a chance to show it. “The Hogwarts people always think they’re the salt of the earth. And whatever happens in the wizard’s world - Hogwarts’ Headmaster gives a comment to it. The man’s omnipresent. You can’t open a newspaper without looking at him.” Her Hermione had become thin-lipped while hearing to him. Now she asked sarcastically: “Are you jealous on Headmaster Dumbledore, Victor? Don’t you like it, that the wizard who defeated Grindelwald and Voldemort is hold in higher esteem than a quidditch champion?

“Hey!” The boy with the unruly black hair and the green eyes raised his hands. “Don’t start a row! We can discuss this like sensible adults, can’t we?”

“Actually I don’t know why I should have to discuss my decision at all”, Hermione said haughtily. “As I’ve told you before: It’s my career and sR’s my choice. And I’ve done it! I’ve written a letter to Professor McGonagall, asking if she’d take me up as her apprentice. And she’d answered already and invited me to Hogwarts tomorrow to discuss the matter. And if she wants to have me, I’ll become her apprentice. Period.&1;
1;

“Just so? And what’s with us then?” Victor asked. “If you’ll become the old hag’s personal slave, you won’t have any time left …”

“I forbid you to name Professor McGonagall an ‘old hag’,” Hermione thundered. “Second: I will not become her personal slave.”

“Hem …” Ron Weasley, the red head and Hermione’s friend since they met at school in their 11th year, cleared his throat. “Are you really aware what an apprenticeship in the magical world means, Hermione? It’s a bit more as only becoming some kind of an ‘assistant’ to an elder wizard …”

“It’s a magical bond, sworn with a blood oath and it means absolute loyalty, even past the time of the apprenticeship,” Number Three oe soe sofa, Hermione’s green eyed friend Harry Potter, said.

“You have to swear that you ‘faithfully serve your master’ and there’s nothing about ’40 hours a week and with 30 free days a year’ in the contract, but a lot about devotion to your master and obeying …” Victor added now.

“Thank you very much for pointing that out!” Hermione jumped on her feet again. Pacing through the room she said: “I’ve read all about the bond between a master and his apprentice. So I’ve learned that it’s about loyalty by both parties involved. The master has to become his apprentice’s mentor, he’s to give all his knowledge and support to his pu- an- and that’s why I want an apprenticeship! Being one of five or six post doc assistants hanging around a professor and doing his dirty work isn’t good enough. It mostly means that you have to teach the first years and to support your prof in everything he’s too lazy for doing himself. On inventions and in science you can wor you your spare time - if there’s any left. And if you’re having problems with something you’re working on, you can’t count on my help from your boss, but you can be sure: if it’s good he’ll take the credits for it and you’ll have to fight for getting at least your name on the papeoo. oo. Thank you very much - this I17;v17;ve had with Bellini over the last few years and I’m fed up with it!”

“And you really think with McGonagall you’d be better off?” Now Victor was shouting. “You’re naïve, Hermione! She’ll make you grade essays until you’re blue in the face! You’ll teach first years - and then it even won’t be first year students at a university, but first years in a school, eleven year old children who don’t have the slightest clue and interest in your subject! And if McGonagall wants you to, she can order you to sweep your class room floors!”

“But she won’t.” Hermione sat back on her chair again. “I know her and I trust her. If she takes me up as her apprentice I’ll get a chance to become an animagnus. Bellini can’t do that - he never managed it himself. But McGonagall is one of the five registered animagni in our time. And perhaps …” looklooked at Harry and there was something like envy in her eyes. “Perhaps she’d even allow me to ask Dumbledore fofew few lessons in occlumency and legilemency.”

Harry sighed. “You know, he only taught me because of Voldemort. I had to learn to close my mind. But having some one in it, messing around with my memories, wasn’t pleasant. I mean, with Dumbledore it was more bearable as with Snape, but I couldn’t say I liked it.”

“Yes, Harry …” Hermione smiled at him. “But I’d like nevertheless to learn. And now the war is over and with Ron’s father we’ve got a minister of magic who’s able to handle his office without asking for Dumbledore’s advice three times a day. So Dumbledore should have a bit more time at hand now …”

“Question is if he’s willing to spend it with teaching you,” Ron said sceptically.

“Because I’m muggleborn?” Hermione turned around at him, her eyes once again blazing. “I don’t think he’s got a problem with that.”

“I don’t think so either,” Ron answered. “But just the other day my father was complaining. He wanted Dumbledore to negotiate with the vampires, but the headmaster refused, saying he wouldn’t want to dabble around in politics anymore and he’d be quite content in only being Hogwarts’ headmaster and having at last something like a ‘private life’ again. And it’s said that his ‘private life’ - having the rather lush forms of one Aurelia Willington - would be quite demanding.”

“You mean, the old dodderer is having an affair?” Victor grinned. “And with Aurelia Willington? Wow! She’s a bit old, but still nice to look at. And pretty well wed wed in all the right departments …”

“Victor!” Hermione rebuked him angrily. “Headmaster Dumbledore isn’t an ‘old dodderer’. He’s 123 and that’s not very old for a wizard with his power.”

“But he looks as ancient as Merlin himself!” Victor said. “And he needs a can and …”, he chuckled. “I really wouldn’t have thought he’s still up to bedding something as alive as Aurelia Willington. The last time I saw him, he looked as if he’d get a heart attack quicker than an erection.”

“If memory doesn’t fail me,” Hermione sounded icily, “you saw him last on the first victory anniversary celebration. That was more then six years ago. He’s been recuperating from the injuries he got in the war …”

“Ah. And now he’s done with recuperating and looks like young spring again?” Victor asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry sighed. “In fact, Victor - Dumbledore looks better now. You know he was heavily injured in the final battle. Voldemort and his death eaters saw him as their first target and tried to make minced meat out of him. I don’t know how many spells hit him while he tried to back me, but one of the healers who tended to him after the battle told me that getting Dumbledore back in shape was like doing a 1000 piece puzzle. Even days afterwards they weren’t sure the aurors had collected all of him as they’d picked him up to get him to the hospital.”

Hermione swallowed. She’d suddenly got a dry mouth. Even now, seven years after the battle against the evil wizard Voldemort, who’s dark shadow had hung over all her youth, the memories of the day he and his followers had stormed the Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft made her shudder. She remembered only too well the screams of the victims and the cold, green light of the killing cursech wch would have hit her if not the headmaster’s phoenix had lifted her away in the last moment. She remembered only too well how she’d searched for cover behind an overthrown table in the great hall after she’d killed a death eater and how suddenly the entire hall had rocked in its foundations as an entire horde of enemies had approached, casting curses at the headmaster who’d towered over Hermione. They’d tried to fight him down, their curses bouncing from his shielding charms, shouting through the entire hall. One of them had hit the huge candelabra just over Dumbledore. Hermione had seen how it became lose and she had screamed and her warning had made Dumbledore whirl around. But he hadn’t been quick enough. The candelabra had hit his right shoulder and Hermione had heard the cracking of bones and then, even worse, the sound of a wand slithering over the marble floor. She’d caught it just as Dumbledore fell on his knees next to her. In the same moment she’d heard a high-pitched laughter.

Voldemort, the evil himself, a tall, thin figure in a black robe, under the hood a pale, gaunt, inhuman face with lidless, red eyes, snakelike and surrounded by an aura of cold and cruelty, haidedided in the hall, flanked by a death eater with a silver arm and a female in high heeled leather boots. As she’d seen Dumbledore - just standing up again, blood from a wound on his forehead running down over his face, soaking his long beard, his right arm hanging powerless at his side, his wand still in Hermione’s hand, she’d screamed in cruel delight. “Let me kill the old fool, ma …”

She hadn’t finished her line. A cold voice behind Hermione had - sounding almost casual - said: “Avadra Kedavra!” And then the green light of the killing curse had hit the woman and she’d fallen in front of her master’s feet, eyes wide open win amn amazed expression.

Hermione hadn’t dared to look over her shor, br, but she’d felt - with relief - the powerful presence of Hogwarts’ potion master, Severus Snape. Next thing she’d heard had been his hissing: “Don’t, Potter!”

Harry - this time 17 year old, a lanky boy in a dishevelled Hogwarts’ robe - had suddenly risen next to Hermione, a deadly determined expression in his pale face. “He killed my parents!” His voice had ringed like a steel blade falling down on stone. But in the same moment as he’d casted the killing curse against Voldemort, the dark lord had attacked him too. The curses had got at each other in air, green sparkles shouting around and the ceiling of the hall had seemed to fall down and everything was turmoil and chaos and screaming and out of the corner of her eyes Hermione had seen a death eater trying to get the potion master, and she’d used the wand in her hand - Dumbledore’s wand - to kill the enemy, and falling he’d lost his mask and she’d seen a pale face and blonde hair and recognized Draco Malfoy, her school mate and arch enemy. And then another green light and Dumbledore was suddenly in front of her, pushing her against the wall, shielding her with his body while in the same time levitating the table in front of them with a flick of his left hand. The table had jumped in the air, the curse had hit and burned it, smoke and fire had filled the room, and through the roaring of the fire Hermione had heard Harry’s voice: “Die, monster, die!” And then a clunk of something massive had tumbled against her, she’d smelled the stale scent of blood and, falling down, her head had hit the floor, she’d sunk in darkness.

When she woke up she’d felt like she’d been trampled over by an entire herd of hippogriffs. Every bone in her body had ached, every muscle had burned. She’d needed several minutes before she could finally open her eyes – only to close them immediately again because the bright light in the room had hurt. A strange voice had politely said “Drink this, Miss Granger” and she’d felt something bitter running down her throat and then she’d fallen in sweet oblivion again.

It had taken almost three days before she’d become clear-headed enough to talk with Mister “Drink this”, learning that he was a healer and that she was in the Hogwarts infirmary. The battle was over and they had won. Harry had killed Voldemort, his followers were dead, or captured and in the wizard’s prison Azkaban. Yet the price of the victory had been high: Almost 30 students - among them Hermione’s friends and class mates, like the always-clumsy Neville Longbottom, and her dormitory-mate, Lavender Brown - were killed; her former DADA teacher, the friendly werewolf Remus Lupin had fallen; Ron’s eldest brother Charlie was dead; Hogwarts tiny charm master, Filius Flitwick, died while shielding one of his pupils; 42 aurors dead - the list was long, and even longer was the list of people injured. Potion master Severus Snape laid with a broken spine in St. Mungo’s Hospital for magical maladies and would need weeks to recover; Transfiguration mistress Minerva McGonagall had suffered three “crucios” and would need a long rest to recuperate; her colleague, Astronomy professor Sinistra, had lost an eye and would have to learn to deal with a magical one; Hermione’s girlfriend, Ron’s sister Ginny had been kicked down the marble stairs and had broken several bones by it. And for the headmaster - Harry who’d seen him at St. Mungo’s, had swallowed as Hermione had asked for him. “He lives - and the healers say, he’s got a lot of willpower. So his chances aren’t too bad …” Swallowing again, he’d looked at Hermione. “He saved my life …”

“Mine too,” Hermione had nodded. “I’ll have to thank him as soon as I’m out of here …”

Two weeks later she’d been released from the infirmary and sent back to her muggle parents for convalescence. But on her second day in London she’d already been on her feet again and gone out to do a little shopping. First she’d visited a muggle’s sweet shop where she’d bought a big bag full of lemon drops and sherbet lemons. Then she went to Harrod’s, where she’d found a pair of fluffy, thick, warm woollen socks in a rich burgundy. Walking with her parcels to St. Mungo’s she’d felt a bit awkward. She hadn’t really known Hogwarts headmaster too well until then - during the seven years she’d spent at Hogwarts she’d rarely spoken more than three or four words with him.

His liking of muggle sweets was common knowledge in the school. Yet the socks - this was another case. In his first year Harry had found the mirror of Erised - a magical mirror which showed people their heart’s greatest desire. Harry - being an orphan, raised by relatives who didn’t care or love him - had of course seen himself with his parents in it. But as he’d asked the headmaster what he’d see in the mirror, the old wizard had answered: “I see myself holding a pair of nice, thick woollen socks.” He’d explained then that people would always give him books to Christmas and he’d wished so much to get, at least once, nice socks.

Harry and Ron hadn’t believed him. They simply couldn’t imagine that the mightiest wizard alive could care about something so mundane as a pair of socks. Yet Hermione had believed it - at least in so far as she’d got the meaning behind it: The heart’s desire of the old wizard was a world in which he could care about something as mundane as his cold feet instead of war, destruction and attacks. This was why she’d bought him the socks. But the closer she’d come to the hospital, the more insecure she’d become about it. Wouldn’t he find such a gift too personal? He was her headmaster after all, an authority re, re, a mighty sorcerer and some one she respected more then any other wizard she’d ever met.

In the hospital she’d finally shrunk the package with the socks after she’d talked to the nurse at the reception desk. She’d ordered Hermione to talk to healer first to get permission to visit the headmaster. “As far as I’ve been informed, he’s still very weak and probably not up to having visitors.”

So Hermione had hidden the package with the socks in an inner pocket of her robes on her way to the third floor. She’d suddenly found her idea to give Dumbledore socks pretty silly.

The healer had been nice. Smiling at her, he’d said: “I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will like your visit. Only he shouldn’t overdo it yet. We’re now pretty sure he’ll recover, but he’ll need a long time to do so and he still needs a lot of rest.”

At the first sight of Albus Dumbledore in his sick bed Hermione had almost fainted - and she’d been only glad that he’d been sleeping and not seen how she’d braced herself against the wall for support, looking, horrified, at him. She’d remembered Harry saying: “They had to shave him - beard and head …” But she hadn’t imagined how strange and ill the headmaster - at Hogwarts always an imposing figure in magnificent robes - would look without the flowing silver mane and the long white beard. Over the last years the war had taken his toll on him and Hermione had often thought that he looked old and tired. She’d gotten used to seeing dark shadows under his eyes. But he’d nevertheless always been a pillar of strength - broad shouldered, tall, his back always erect and the chin up, his movement amazingly graceful and quick for a man of his stature and age - and she’d thought him invincible.

Now he’d looked defeated. His face was deadly pale, his crooked nose had never been this sharp and hawk like and his lips seemed as white and bloodless as the pillow he laid on.

But what had Hermione shocked most had been his hands. She’d always thought his slender hands with the long fingers beautiful and she’d always liked to watch them - not only when he’d used them for doing magic, though Hermione had always been very impressed by the amount of magic he could do by only crooking one finger, but when he was talking too. And in her fourth or fifth year at Hogwarts she’d learned that watching Albus Dumbledore’s hands were more then just an aesthetic pleasure, but a chance to get a look behind the always calm façade the old wizard showed the world. While his voice and his eyes rarely betrayed him, his hands showed his true emotions. And he knew it. One of his trademark gestures - laying the tips of his fingers together - Hermione had learned to recognize as something he did mostly when he had to force himself to stay calm. She’d seen him furious once - and since then she’d known that he had a hell of a temper which could have been frightening if he hadn’t always ruled it with iron discipline and willpower.

Yet she’d learned something else by watching his hands: He was vulnerable. It wasn’t only rage that made his finger tremble. Pain and sadness and feeling hurt made for the slight trembling, also, and then he didn’t lay his fingers together, but often made fists as if he’d want to punish himself for being weak.

With learning this during her seventh year Hermione had felt as if she’d become closer to the headmaster. Until then he’d always been an enigma, an unpredictable figure out of a fairy tale. But discovering his vulnerability had made him human and - even more importantly - likeable. Until then she’d felt impressed by him, impressed and sometimes irritated. Now she’d started to like him.

And it was for this affection that she’d fought against tears as she’d stood in the small room at St. Mungo’s, looking at the lifeless, white hands of her headmaster. His long legs and his under body were covered by a white blanket, but his chest, heavily bandaged, was exposed and on it laid his right hand, index- and middle finger plastered and the wrist in a thick bandage. The left hand lay on his side on the white blanket, the skin translucent over the bones, looking as if it would never move again.

Hermione had needed all her will power not to run away, but to step closer to the bed. She’d felt like an intruder. But the mediwizard had said Dumbledore would like her visit and she should wait until he’d woken up, and so she’d sat down on the wooden chair next to the bed. Yet she hadn’t dared to watch the sleeping man. Instead she had let her eyes wander through the room to the little table under the window. It was laden with flowers - a big bundle of beautiful yellow roses, a bunch of tiger lilies, a pink orchid, a big vase full of the bright golden dahlias Hogwarts Herbology professor Dee Sprout was so proud of breeding - get well cards and gifts.

On the nightstand next to the bed lay some personal things: The headmaster’s wand - birch, 11.5 inch, almost white from age and usage - his golden half-moon spectacles; his wizard’s watch with the moving planets; a long, artfully entwined golden chain with a medallion and a key on it.

She’d almost jumped as she’d suddenly heard his voice - even hoarser as she remembered it. “Hermione - how nice to see you.” Albus Dumbledore had opened his blue eyes, but now, looking at her, he wrinkled his forehead and twinkled - not his usual cheerful, but a rather irritated twinkle.

Hermione had bent over him. “Are you in pain, sir? Shall I fetch the healer?”

“No, no!” He twinkled again. “I’m fine, don’t worry. But if you could gme mme my glasses? The nurses are always taking them away. I’d like to see your pretty face properly.”

“Of course, Headmaster.” Hermione was already on her feet, taking the golden spectacles from the nightstand and cautiously placing them on his nose. “Better now?”

“Much better! Thank you!” Now he managed a smile and looked immediately much younger and better with it. His cheeks even got a little colour as he asked: “How are you, Miss Granger?”

“Actually that was what I wanted to ask you,” Hermione giggled a bit nervously. “You’re the patient …”

“Yes …” The Headmaster sighed. “As much as I hate it. Being a patient is terribly boring.”

“The healer said you’d need a lot of rest,” Hermione said. “You were terribly injured.”

“I know. But it’s nevertheless boriOne One can’t sleep all day.” Dumbledore sounded almost a bit sulkily. “And the food here is awful!”

Hermione smiled and pulled the bag with the sweets out of her pockets. “Are you allowed sweets?” she asked.

“Oh?” Now his cheerful twinkle was back. “I smell lemon drops! You’re saving my life, Hermione! I’ve already thought about asking Arthur Weasley to get me some - but then Molly would have had my head – and his. When Arthur was in muggle London the last time, he came back with seven new plugs and then he disappeared for days in his lab, playing with them and causing two explosions.”

Hermione laughed, pulled a lemon drop out of the bag and unwrapped it. She wasn’t sure how to get it to him. He obviously couldn’t use his right hand - the shoulder and the entire arm was wrapped in bandages. And the left elbow was in a plaster too, so she didn’t know if he could use his left hand. Shyly she asked: “Do you want a lemon drop, Headmaster?”

“Oh yes!” He opened his mouth like a baby waiting for becoming feed.

Hermione laughed and popped the drop on his tongue. “I hope I got the right brand.”

He sucked happily, his eyes half-closed. “You’ve got my favourites!” he said then. “One more and I’ll feel like a human being once again. But now tell me: How are you doing? The last thing I remember from the battle is falling against you. I hope I didn’t break too many of your bones …”

“No, you didn’t, sir,” Hermione rushed to assure him. “I’ve only broken two ribs, but they’re already healed again. In the contrast to …” She fell silent. A sickbed with a heavily injured patient surely wasn’t the right place to speak about the pain and mourning.

He seemed nevertheless to understand. Closing his eyes for a moment he became silent, then he said quietly: “Yes, I know - we’ve lost too much …” He sighed. “How are Ron and Harry coping?”

Hermione looked in her lap. “It isn’t easy …” she answered slowly. “I’m glad school will start again next week. I think we all need to go back to normalcy.” Almost in a whisper she added: “But we’ll miss you terribly, sir.”

“Ah - there’s no reason! I fully intend to come back as soon as possible …” Looking in her eyes, he said firmly: “We’ve fought this war to get a normal life back, Hermione. We’ve fought for students not caring about more than their exams and their dates for the end of term feast. We’ve lost people in this fight, but I think we have to honour them in celebrating life. And therefore ...,” now his twinkle was back and he smiled at her, “… I won’t stay away the the end of term feast and I’ll try to be on my feet for the traditional dance with the head girl.”

Hermione beamed at him. She felt as if he’d taken a heavy weight from her shoulders. “I look very much forward to it, sir.”

“Ah?” He grinned like a cheeky boy. “You like mummy shoving?”

“Pardon?” Hermione wasn’t sure she’d understood him right.

Albus chuckled. “So it was called at my time. And our headmistress was the venerable lady Morgaine Saint George - as my father said: As old as God and looking doubly forbidding. She was almost 170 years old when I graduated; therefore we teased our head boy that he’d have to shove a mummy over the dance floor.”

“You weren’t the head b#822#8221; Hermione had always believed that the headmaster had shown his brilliance from his first day at school.

Albus laughed. “Far away, Miss Granger. I only was a regular at the headmistress’ office because she threatened me twice a year with the sack.”

Hermione looked out of eyes as big as saucers. “But what did you do almost get expelled?” she asked.

He laughed again. “Let’s just say: My interest for learning wasn’t as well developed as my interest in girls. And the rules at my time were a bit stricter than today. Getting caught holding hands with a girl was already a reason for detention and a letter to the parents. Getting caught kissing made for a week of detention and in my case two howlers e fre from my father telling me I better not get caught again because he’d provide me with a deflating charm lasting until he saw me fit for marriage. Considered that he himself married at the age of 126 years that could have made for a long time of chastity. The other howler came from the girl’s mother, informing me that she’d hex me back under the stone I’ve crawled from if I came close to her daughter once again.”

Hermione laughed. “Oh heavens - that seems a bit much for a kiss …”

“And it was a pretty chaste kiss - I didn’t come farther than the girl’s cheek!” Albus smiled.

“Considered what students do today …” Hermione stopped, suddenly becoming aware with whom she was talking.

Albus understood nevertheless. Twinkling cheerfully he said: “If we expelled every student who’s caught snogging we probably would have to rename the place to ‘Hogwarts School for magical wallflowers and oddballs’. As suitable as some people would find me to be named the leading oddball - I prefer Hogwarts as it is.”

“I will miss Hogwarts,” Hermione said sadly. “I can’t imagine that I shall be out of school in only a few weeks.”

“Hogwarts will miss you too, Hermione. But I think you’ll find life at the university very exciting. Professor McGonagall told me you’d attend Oxford a studying transfiguration?”

“If they’ll take me …” Hermione said a bit awkwardly. “It depends on my grades in the NEWTs.”

Dumbledore laughed. “Miss Granger - we both know: You’ll pass with flying colours. And Professor Bellini at Oxford is already anxious to get Minerva’s star pupil. Yet …” He looked at her over the rim of spectacles. I acI actually hope you’ll come back one day. A war’s end always makes for a baby boom and Hogwarts will need a second transfiguration teacher in a few years. Besides: I’m an old man. In a few more years I’ll retire and Minerva will become my successor. Then she’ll need a transfiguration teacher and a new head of Gryffindor.”

Hermione blushed and swallowed. “You think, I could once …? But you know, I’m muggleborn.”

“I think that’s an advantage. Our world needs fresh blood. I’m convinced you’ll make a wonderful teacher and housemaster some day. And I’ll look forward to the day you’ll come back to Hogwarts.”

A few minutes later he’d yawned and his voice had become weary again. Hermione had left him then, but she’d laid the package with the socks on the table. Two weeks later - at breakfast at Hogwarts - an owl delivered a note. It had only been one line in a rather loopy handwriting: “Thank you for warming an olart art and old feet. A.D.”

Afterwards she hadn’t heard from the headmaster for weeks. She’d asked Minerva McGonagall two or three times after him, but the answer had always been the same: “He’ll need time to recuperate.” But then, the morning of the leaving feast, Hermione had wakened very early. The sun was just rising in a clear, blue sky. Slipping into her dressing gown and going over to the window, Hermione had looked out of over the roofs to the main tower. ts tts top stood the statue of a knight, holding a pole with a flag. In the weeks after the final battle the colour of the flag had three times changed. First it had been the Hogwarts crest on golden ground - gold like the Hufflepuff crest and meaning, that Professor Dee Sprout, head of Hufflepuff and the only house master who’d survived the battle without major injuries, acted as headmaster.

Two weeks later the flag had changed to a rich green. Hogwarts potion master Severus Snape, head of Slytherin was back and, though he was younger than Dee Sprout, Hermione had known that the Herbology witch had been glad to give the task over to the sour, but energetic man.

Snape, who didn’t like paperwork, had probably for once smiled as three weeks later Minerva McGonagall had come back to the school. As deputy headmistress she was used to the Hogwarts administration, and, with her taking over, life at Hogwarts had almost felt “normal” again. The flag showing red now - the deep burgundy red of the Gryffindor crest - was something the students were used to. During the last years Dumbledore had so often been away that they’d seen the red flag regularly.

But now, this morning, the knight had suddenly lowered the pole with the red flag. It had vanished and a moment later a new flag appeared. The knight had raised the pole and the heavy fabric on it unfolded and the Hogwarts crest on a pristine white ground had waved proudly against the deep blue summer sky.

Hermione’s heart had made a little jump. White - that meant that the headmaster was in residence again! Almost five months after the final battle, Hogwarts had gotten his headmaster back, and with him, it seemed that the castle - though the damage from the battle still was to be seen - suddenly became filled with joy and warmth once moree hae hall which had lost its enchanted ceiling and had looked gloomy over the last months, suddenly was filled with laughter and chattering again. As Hermione had come down to breakfast that morning, the change had almost been tangible. The last months she’d always felt as if she’d been approaching a funeral, but now the students were finally making cheerful noise again. Yet there was a bit of tension - everyone seemed to watch the head table at which the teachers tried to behave as if there wasn’t something special about the day. Yet the golden chair in their middle was still empty, and the place next to it, in which normally Minerva McGonagall sat, was also vacant.

Sitting down on her place at Gryffindor table between Ron and Ginny with Harry on the opposite side, Hermione had heard a girl whispering: “Is it true? The headmaster is back?”

Ron had nodded. “Harry and I’ve seen him. He came an hour ago by carriage. But …”

He hadn’t got a chance to finish his line. The door behind the head table had opened, Professor McGonagall had entered, her blue eyes beaming. She’d held the door open for a tall, thin figure in dark blue robes with silver hems, leaning heavily on a walking stick.

For a few seconds the huge room had fallen so silent one could have heard the famous needle hitting the floor. The students had known that their headmaster had been injured. But most of them hadn’t been prepared to see him with short hair, beardless, a long scar on the left side of his jaw, bony and limping heavily. But his smile helped them to overcome the first shock, and suddenly, the hall had filled with clapping and whistling and screaming and feet trampling on the floor. A girl had cried: “He’s really back!,” a boy had shouted: “Welcome, Professor Dumbledore!”, another one had screamed a “Hooray for our headmaster!”

Dumbledore’s pale cheeks had gotten a bit of colour and, standing behind his chair, he’d beamed at his students, waiting for the noise to die down. Hermione had seen that his eyes had become a bit wet - and she’d needed a handkerchief herself - when he’d raised his hand. Four hundred pairs of eyes had looked at him, most of the girls crying, a lot of boys fighting against tears too. And the headmaster’s voice had been even more creaky than normal when he’d said: “Thank you, children. It’s good to be back with you.”

Hermione hadn’t expected it, but in the evening at the feast he’d approached her and leaning his walking stick on the table, he had bowed and smiled: “Are you up to a the promised mummy shove, Miss Granger?”

Yet the dance with him hadn’t been all pleasure. As he’d taken her hand she’d felt with worry how cold his fingers were and laying her hand on his shoulder she’d found the arm under it thin and almost fragile. And he’d needed his self discipline to move and so she’d asked after the first few steps: “Are you really well, Headmaster? Don’t you need to rest?”

He’d smiled down at her. “Spoilsport! I’ve rested for months and I was clucked over the entire day by Professor McGonagall and Madame Pomfrey. Look at them!” He pointed with his chin to his deputy and the mediwitch, standing only a few steps away and watching him with a worried expression. “They’re already planning to put me in bed again. Don’t ally with them - you promised me a dance and dancing it is …”

She hadn’t nevertheless felt good about it. She’d seen the sweat on his forehead and she’d been glad when the dance was over and he’d sat in his chair again. But despite his obvious weakness, she’d felt secure in his arms and she’d enjoyed his fragrance. He’d smelled like lemon and lavender and she’d needed to fight against an urge to bury her nose in his chest to get more of this unique smell which was so entirely him.


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


Although the January morning was cold and the sky over the Scottish Highlands was heavily hung with grey clouds, Hogwarts looked breath-taking, Hermione thought when she walked up the path from the lake to the castle. She felt a bit tired - it had been a long night and a rather fruitless discussion with the boys. Her already pretty tense relationship with Victor had probably gotten another crack. He simply refused to understand her decision and even worse: when she’d asked him for acceptance on the base of “don’t you want me to become as happy as possible?” he’d shouted at her, naming her an “egotist” and a “blue stocking” who didn’t care about his dreams and welfare. He’d even doubted her affection for him, saying: “If you were able to love, you’d want to be with me, you’d wish to have my children.”

This hadn’t sat well with Hermione - probably because she sometimes doubted her love for him herself. So she’d kicked him out of her flat.

It hadn’t been first time she’d done so - actually sending him away had happened once a month over the last two years. But Victor always came back, swearing his undying love and devotion and promising that he wouldn’t only understand, but support her. Only Hermione didn’t believe him anymore. Perhaps it was time to give up on this relationship. It couldn’t work with them having so different dreams for their lives.

She’d almost arrived the castle now and with every step she came closer to the huge oak entrance door she felt more nervous. Actually - Minerva McGonagall’s letter hadn’t been a “Yes, I’ll take you”, but a “Let’s talk about” - and this could mean a polite, but firm “no”, couldn’t it? And then Hermione wouldn’t only look like a fool in front of her friends, but she would have to crawl back to her professor too, asking if she could get a job as an assistant again. The idea of it wasn’t pleasant - not at all.

Suddenly the castle’s door sprang open and down the stairs swept Minerva McGonagall, her emerald robe billowing around her, her arms outstretched and her face with the beautiful deep blue eyes beaming. “Hermione - what a pleasure to see you again!” She almost threw herself at her favourite pupil.

Hermione was flabbergasted. She’d always liked the older witch, she’d known that Minerva liked her, but she hadn’t expected such a display of affection from the severe transfiguration mistress. And why was Professor McGonagall so excited? It was almost as if Hermione showing up and asking for an apprenticeship was Minerva’s favourite dream come through.

Hermione didn’t have time to think about it. Minerva McGonagall had taken her arm and led her to the stairs. “You must feel cold after the trip. Do come in and let’s go to my chambers. I’ve ordered tea and scones for you - you like scones, do you? And our house elves do them so wonderfully. Augustus - you remember my husband, do you? - always says there’s no place you get better scones than at Hogwarts.” Professor McGonagall chatted happily.

“I like scones very much,” Hermione answered politely and swallowed - she actually rarely had scones at 9:30 in the morning after she’d just eaten breakfast. She gazed around the great entrance hall, sighing contently. It was all how she remembered it and this gave her a wonderful, warm feeling of coming home. And now a dark shadow came storming up the stairs from the dungeons, black robes flowing around him. Hermione suppressed a giggle. Potion Master Severus Snape, acting the “overgrowing bat,” as her friend Ron always said, sneering at every human and ghostly being crossing his way - he and his peculiar manners were as much part of Hogwarts as the moving stairs and the silvery ghosts hovering through the halls and she had missed all of it.

Yet some things seemed changed. Instead of marching through the hall as if he hadn’t seen her, Snape stopped and looked at her.

Hermione smiled. In her first years at Hogwarts she’d been afraid of the potion master and his acerbic tongue. But later she’d learned that the dark haired wizard’s bark was far wose than his bite, and she’d learned that he’d risked his life to spy for the order. Without him, Voldemort couldn’t have been defeated. So Hermione bowed her head now. “Good morning, Professor Snape,” she greeted him in a friendly tone.

He didn’t smile - of course not. If he would have, Hermione would probably have fainted. But he didn’t sneer either and his black eyes looked almost interested. “Miss …,” he corrected himself quickly, “Doctor Granger - what gives us the honour of your visit?”

Hermione didn’t know what to answer, but Minerva took over, looking almost mischievous. “You’d learn soon enough, Severus!”

Snape raised an elegant eyebrow. “If you say so, I’m expecting the worst, Minerva!” His voice still sounded like silk over a blade, but there was an undertone in it Hermione hadn’t heard in former times. Severus Snape obviously was amused and teasing his elder colleague. He bowed his head again and now he was almost smiling. “I have to go - my class is waiting.”

“See you later then, Severus!” Minerva took once again Hermione’s arm. Almost giggling she whispered: “It seems you’re forgiven.”

“What?” Hermione smiled back, walking up the stairs with Minerva. “That I’m a Gryffindor and a part of the golden trio or that I stole ingredients from his store in my third year?”

“I think the first he’ll never forgive you,” Minerva laughed. “The second he probably doesn’t know. Yet he forgave you that you chose transfiguration over potions. When he first heard it, he ranted for days about this waste of talent and you going the easier way …”

“The easier way?” Hermione felt insulted. “What does he think transfiguration is? Child’s play?”

Minerva laughed again and bent a bit down to whisper in Hermione’s ear: “Between you and me: When I became the transfiguration teacher here, I got not only Albus’ former office, but his mess too. By sorting through it I found one of his notebooks. It contained Severus’ grades. He’d been lousy at transfiguration!”

Hermione couldn’t resist grinning. She remembered the speech with which the potion master once had welcomed her class. He’d praised the “subtle science of potion making” and he’d ranted about “silly wand waving”. Giggling she said: “He probably never liked silly wand waving.”

Minerva laughed with her. “But at least Severus wasn’t such a lost cause in transfiguration as our former minister Fudge. I had to teach him in my second year as apprentice and he drove me almost mad. Yet I must say …” Now she grinned. “I have to think him a rather nice memory.”

“Fudge?” Hermione couldn’t believe that Cornelius Oswald Fudge, the pain in every British wizard’s neck, had ever provided some one with a nice memory - except perhaps for Dumbledore who had once had the pleasure of stunning the one-time minister.

Minerva giggled again. “You must imagine: I was young and absolutely inexperienced as a teacher. But I was ambitious and …,” she became a bit awkward. “I probably wanted to show off. So having a pupil who didn’t get it at all got under my skin. He became my nemesis and for weeks I tried everything. I explained from every thinkable approach. I demonstrated a hundred times. I let him try until the rest of the class almost fell asleep because of boredom. I even bought mice with my own money because I had run out of them and I didn’t want to give up. But whatever I tried - Fudge’s mouse never became a goblet.”

“Oh heaven’s - that’s OWL’s level! If you can’t get that you’re really a lost cause,” Hermione said with sympathy. “What did you do then?”

“After eight weeks and a lot of extra lessons I did what I should have done weeks before - I remembered that I was an apprentice and that I’ve got a master who’s supposed to support me. So I told my master …”

“What did he say?” Hermione asked.

Minerva turned her eyes. “I obviously got him on the wrong foot. He provided me with a rather lengthy speech about ‘teaching needs patience’ - making pretty clear that he thought me lacking it - and ‘you’re too severe. The boy won’t learn if you frighten the living daylights out of him’.”

Hermione made a face. “I think I wouldn’t have liked that.”

“I did neither. I fumed and thought about hexing Albus with a really nasty jinx. Only he’s too good at shielding - one never knows how he makes the hex bounce back. Yet he generously offered to take over for me, and I actually looked forward to him trying. And it was worth suffering through the speech! Mister Fudge wrote Hogwarts history on that day - he became the first and only student who ever made Albus roar in class. After half an hour with him, Professor Albus ‘teaching needs patience’ Dumbledore almost climbed the walls and thundered through the class ‘Minerva, get this dunderhead a second wand and teach him knitting! That’s the only thing he’ll ever manage with a wand!”

Hermione laughed. “Pity you didn’t. He could have become useful then.”

They’d arrived at Minerva’s chambers now. Opening the door, she let Hermione into her living room where a fire burned and tea was laid on a table in front of it. Seating down, Minerva poured two cups, then she pleated her skirt and looked seriously at her former student: “Hermione, let me say something first: I was more then flattered by your letter. I was - and am - touched. But …”

Hermione swallowed - not only tea, but the suddenly growing fear. After the warm welcome she’d been sure Minerva would take her up.

The elder witch seemed to feel how tense Hermione had become. Patting her arm she preceded: “My first reaction was ‘Of course I’ll take her’. But by thinking about I got another idea - and the more I considered it the more ked ked it. It won’t only get you what you need, but it’s even getting a chance for our discipline to get a few brilliant new inventions. Hermione …” She looked at the young witch with beaming eyes. “I want you to become Albus’ apprentice.”

“What?” Hermione almost choked on her tea. Shaking her head she stammered: “But … I mean …. I know he’s a master too … and you know, I appreciate and respect him very much … but … Goodness, he’s out of the game since years! His last publication was ages ago!”

Minerva patted once again her arm. “You know, he isn’t simply another master. He’s probably the mightiest sorcerer in the last 500 years and the most brilliant transfiguration master in centuries. And that he is - as you put it - out of the game is quite a shame especially because now, after the war, he has time for doing serious work once again.” With a little sigh she added: “Yet serious work - that’s what was always his problem. I’m sure: More then 75 % of his inventions never made it to publication. Albus doesn’t like the research part he he mostly refuses to take one of his ideas serious enough to work on it in detail. He doesn’t even notice that the transfigurations he does to entertain himself would be worth serious effort and development. Only the other week he became bored in a staff conference. He started to play with his cup, making it waltz over the table and pat Severus’ arm. Severus of course tried to push it away, so the tea was spilled. I took the cup away then and rebuked Albus. He grinned - and started to play with the spilled tea. First he made cubes from it, building a little tower on the table …”

“Cubes from liquid?” Hermione eyes widened. “That’s nice entenmennment indeed!”

“It became even better. As I rebuked him again, he teased me with changing the cubes to a mouse. I hadchanchange into my animagnus form to catch it.”

“What?” Hermione couldn’t believe it. “But changing liquids to something animated is …”

“… obviously not impossible - at least not for Albus Dumbledore,” Minerva said dryly. “We poor souls of transfiguration workers would give our right arm to get the knack of it and he does it just for the fun at the same time as sucking on a lemon drop.”

“Do you know what incantation he used?” Hermione was all curiosity now.

Minerva sighed. “Hermione, he didn’t speak one! He even didn’t use his wand! He only wrinkled his forehead and waved his hand. It’s frustrating! And as I asked him afterwards how he did it, he wasn’t interested in it at all. He grumbled something about ‘I don’t see the problem - you simply have to concentrate a bit’ and started to talk about the ball he wants to hold to celebrate Valentine’s day. It’s maddening! I tried to pester him about working on it, but he told me - as always - he wouldn’t have time and besides it wouldn’t be that interesting. When I insisted, he offered to think about it and to tell me the incantation, then I could work on it. Yet, you know I can’t do that. I can’t use a colleague’s ideas - especially not a such an elaborate one! But losing it just because the colleague isn’t in the mood for doing the necessary research and for developing it further makes me sick. It’s a shame! And it’s a waste and I could kick him. I won’t stand it any longer.”

“But how could I?” Hermione stammered. She felt confused. On the one hand the idea to work with Dumbledore sounded simply wonderful. Even without knowing about tricks like changing tea into a mouse - she’d known he was great, and as his apprentice she could become great too. On the other hand: Hermione was a methodical person and she took her work seriously. Even as a child in Hogwarts she’d frequently found the headmaster’s playfulness irritating, and sometimes even maddening. In contrast to her classmates who’d always enjoyed when he’d deputized for Minerva, Hermione had never much liked Wit With Dumbledore it was all about fun - and one always had to search for the real knowledge behind it.

“If there is anyone who can, it’s you.” Minerva McGonagall’s strict voice interrupted her thoughts. “He’s the mad genius. You’re the methodical scientologist. That makes for a perfect team. And you like him, do you?”

Hermione felt overwhelmed. This was going rather too quickly for her taste! “Of course I like the headmaster,” she answered warily. “He saved my life - and besides that, he’s a likeable person. It would be hard not to like him, but …”

Minerva didn’t give her a chance to complete her “but”. Energetically as always, she said: “Of course you don’t know him well. But you’ll get used to him. He’s sloppy, unpunctual, badly organized, his attention span is pretty shortm and he needs often a severe kick to make him finish what he’s started …” she sounded as if she was talking about one of her first year students, “… but I’m sure you can handle him. Don’t let him get away with charming you - he’s good at it. He even gets me sometimes. But he needs a strict hand …”

“Uh ….” Hermione felt a need to shake herself. “Ah, Professor McGonagall - you want me to become the headmaster’s apprentice? I mean this wouldn’t include me bossing him around …”

Minerva beamed at her. “Just call me Minerva, dear girl. You’re to become a member of the Hogwarts staff!”

“Yes, Minerva.” Hermione expected every moment to hear the “plop” of an apparition and the cheerful laughter of her friends, telling her that one of them had taken polyjuice to imitate Minerva McGonagall and to play a prank on her.

But it obviously wasn’t a prank because now Minerva became serious again. “He needs to be bossed around, Hermione. Most men do.” She looked on her watch. “Albus should be back in his office now. So …”, raisraised, “let’s go and tell him.”

Hermione couldn’t do anything but run after her former professor. “Ah, Minerva - you talked with the headmaster already, didn’t you?”

Minerva, walking down the stairs, looked back over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “But of course I didn’t!” she said crisply. “If I’d have done he’d have found time to find a hundred reasons against this and I would have needed hours to talk sense into him. He can be very pig-headed.”

Hermione inwardly started to write a list: Sloppy, unpunctual, easy to distract, short attention span, pig-headed - didn’t that sound like the beginning of the “100 things my master drives me mad with” book? She was almost sure: With a little thinking and more talking to Minerva she could easily find the missing points like “is a sweets addict” and “shares lemon drops wherever he goes” and “has got funny taste in clothes”. Hermione shuddered at the idea that he would make her wear heavy robes, too. She’d even found the short school uniform robe rather uncomfortable. To imagine herself in something like the brocade tents Dumbledore used to wear made her already feel sweaty. She’d probably feel boiled in her own juice from wearing something like that, and she’d surely tumble down every staircase at Hogwarts by always tripping over the long skirts.

Minerva was in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to the headmaster’s office now. Raising her hands she cried: “Mars bars!” The gargoyle moved to the side, opening the wall and revealing the spiralling stair chase behind.

As Hermione entered the stairs behind Minerva, she found herself inwardly giggling. As child she’d believed Dumbledore omniscient. He’d always seemed to know everything and he’d always given the impression that he’d been prepared for everything. Whatever would become from this conversation now - to see the headmaster caught by surprise would be fun.
To To be continued …