Measure for measure

Measure for Measure


Disclaimer: They (almost) all belong to J. K. Rowling and her publisher. I’ve only borrowed them for some playing, but I promise, as soon as I’m done with them (or better said, as soon as they’re done with each other) I’ll give them back.

Author’s Note: If the idea of a young woman falling in love and having sex with an older man squicks you, then - please - do me a favour: Go away. You won’t like this story.

The story was written before \"Harry Potter and the half-blood prince\" came out. Therefore it\'s only canon-compliant until \"Harry Potter and the order of phoenix\".

Chapter 1: After the Battle

The last she’d seen from him had been a silver white flame, enlightening the scenery with a shine as bright as the sun. For a moment like eternity, everything around had stopped. Even the storm he’d conjured had subsided for these few seconds.

Then a scream broke the silence - triumphant, celebrating and as inhuman as the cracking of ice. It had made Hermione shudder and it washed every emotion away. There hadn’t been rage or grief or hatred, but only cold determination. Raising her wand, Hermione had spoken the ancient curse and watched how white light, almost as bright as the shine with which he had disappeared, streamed from the tip of her wand to the dark figure at the edge of the platform. As it hit her, she’d whirled around and for a second Hermione had looked in cruel, bottomless dark eyes, filled with rage and hatred. But then she heard the cranky voice of Alastor Moody, clear and cold: “Avadra Kedavra!” The green light of his killing curse mingled with the white of Hermione’s spell and she’d watched how the enemy fell, the woman’s body sinking down like a puppet with cut strings.

Bellatrix Lestrange was dead. The evil witch who’d made herself successor of Voldemort, the wizard who’d terrorized the magical world for decades; the woman who’d sworn to avenge his death, had followed her lord and master. And with losing - for the second time - their leader, the Death Eaters had tried to escape, not fighting anymore, but running in the hope to save their lives. But there had been Aurors, casting stunners and other charms and suddenly a voice. “We won! We’ve done it!” Someone stopped the storm; moonlight came through the clouds.

Hermione’s knees gave way. She sunk down, trembling and wrapping her arms around herself, tears running over her face. She’d never before felt so cold, empty and alone .

She didn’t know how long she’d sat so. She hadn’t felt the cold or the wetness through her clothes. Alastor Moody needed to pull her up and to shake her to make her look at him. His natural eye had glimmered with tears too and with a tenderness no one would have expected from the old Auror, he’d taken her in his arms. “Come, my lass. We’ll get you back to Hogwarts. You’ll catch your death here.”

“Death …” Hermione repeated in a whisper. “Alastor …”

“Yes, my lass.” His voice sounded indefinitely sad. “I know. I’ve seen him too.”

“What shall we do without him?” Hermione asked.

“He would have said: Live ,” Alastor Moody answered. Rummaging in the folds of his shredded robe, he produced an old, rusty coke can. “Here,” he said, “Our portkey.” He took Hermione’s hand and holding it under his gnarled, bony fingers he folded it around the can. “On the count of three - one, two three.”

They landed directly in the Hogwarts infirmary, which had been noisy and crowded. The other members of the Order of the Phoenix already arrived there. Some of them had been injured, but they’d been expected by St. Mungo’s healers. Hermione, still braced up by Alastor Moody, had been approached by Hogwarts’ mediwitch Poppy Pomfrey. “Are you hurt?” she asked, her wand already gliding along Hermione’s body. “Hmm,” she murmured. “Blood sugar low, blood pressure down, pulse slow, temperature too low - you’re drained and suffering from hypothermia.” She directed her wand at the Auror. “And here we have just the opposite: Blood pressure too high, pulse too fast - you will ie down here!” She pointed to an empty bed.

Alastor Moody stamped down with his artificial leg. “I have better things to do!”

“So have I! Therefore you’ll lay down, Moody!” the mediwitch commanded. Lowering her voice she then asked, “You know already, don’t you?”

Hermione had only been able to nod, but Alastor had found words, “We saw him…”

“It’s unbelievable. I can’t imagine Hogwarts without him,” the mediwitch wiped a tear away.

Alastor Moody, sitting down on the bed, nodded gravely. “He wasn’t the only one, Madam Pomfrey. We’ve lost Remus Lupin and the Preston girl too.”

“And Snape,” the mediwitch added. “Harry told that he’d been killed shortly after he’d entered that thing you were on.”

Alastor shrugged his shoulders. “I won’t pretend I’d be grieving. I could never stand the bastard.”

Hermione swallowed. Although she hadn’t liked Potions master Severus Snape either, she found Alastor’s eulogy too harsh. Slowly she said, “He was a brave man. And I hope he’s found his peace now.”

“I hope we will all get peace now.” The mediwitch had never been one to dwell on things which couldn’t be changed. “Hermione, come with me. I’ll get you some chocolate and a sleeping draught. Then you’ll go up to your chambers and directly in bed.”


Hermione hadn’t followed the mediwitch’s order entirely. She’d eaten the chocolate and walked into her chambers, but after changing into jeans and an old sweater, she’d neither taken the sleeping draught nor had she gone in bed. Instead she sneaked out again and up to the Main tower, using the personal password he’d once made up for her. The spiralling staircase lifted her up, not to the headmaster’s office, but to the floor above where she entered the room once set up as Transfiguration lab.

Now she sat on the rug in front of the fireplace, her back against the old sofa, watching the flames.

The war was over - this time really and finally. How long had it gone on? Hermione remembered: When she’d come to Hogwarts almost fifteen years before - an insecure eleven year old with bushy hair and front teeth like a rabbit - most people in the magical world had believed that the war against Voldemort lay behind them. The evil wizard - so it had been said - had been destroyed when he’d tried to kill the baby Harry Potter who was Hermione’s friend and classmate.

Hermione soon learned that this belief had been wrong. Voldemort had risen again. In the autumn of Hermione’s seventh year at Hogwarts, in a stormy November night, Voldemort and his followers had attacked. In a fiery battle Harry had fulfilled the prophesy given before his birth. He killed Voldemort.

The magical world once again believed in the -illusion of peace. Yet Hermione - together with Harry and their best friend Ron who were members of the Order of Phoenix, the resistance group which fought against Voldemort - had known that the war wasn’t over. Voldemort’s right hand, Bellatrix Lestrange, had escaped and although she hadn’t been seen for years, Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, leader of the Order and master in collecting information, had known that she was preparing to take over the magical world.

The time Bellatrix Lestrange had worked in hiding Hermione had used well. She left Hogwarts with top grades before attending the Merlin College in Oxford. In the record time of only four years, she became the youngest witch ever be honoured with the title, “Doctor of Transfiguration” by her alma mater.

Afterwards, she came back to Hogwarts as assistant instructor and apprentice to the wizard who was seen as the mightiest and most powerful alive -- Albus Dumbledore.

It hadn’t been Hermione’s idea to have him as her master. Although she’d always respected him, she hardly knew him. During her time as a Hogwarts student she’d never spoken more than three or four lines with him and although he’d always been polite and kind - Hermione had found him unfathomable and even a bit frightening. She had been aware that the leader of a resistance group couldn’t always handle people with velvet gloves, yet she’d sometimes wondered how he saw the members of his group. Where they real people to him; breathing, feeling human beings? Or were they pawns on his chess board? How did he live with sending them into battles or on dangerous missions?

It had been his deputy, Hermione’s former Transfiguration teacher and head of house Minerva McGonagall, who’d persuaded not only Albus Dumbledore to take up an apprentice, but Hermione to apply for the job.

As reluctant as Hermione had been - the three years as Albus’ apprentice had been the best in her life. Born as the only daughter of Muggle dentists she’d always felt like an outsider. In kindergarten and the Muggle elementary school she’d attended, she’d been the “odd child” which never fitted in. She’d never been invited to birthday parties and no other child had wanted to play with her. So Hermione had started to read every book she could lay her hands on. In Hogwarts her insatiable thirst for knowledge and her ambition to show herself worthy to be a witch had made her someone seen as a “teacher’s pet” and a “know it all”. Yet she’d found friends - Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Admittedly, Hermione had always been the brain in the team, always the one who’d preached sensibility and therefore she’d often enough been at odds, especially with the impulsive, hot-tempered red-head Ron Weasley. And her time at school had been overshadowed by the war.

As Albus’ apprentice, she’d experienced something she hadn’t known before: Pure, unadulterated fun. She’d worked hard, but there hadn’t been a day her master hadn’t made her laugh out loud at least once. He’d loved to tease her and it had needed only a few weeks until she’d felt so at ease with him that she’d teased him back. During the first days with him, Hermione had been sure that she would never see the headmaster as anything else as a figure out of a fairy tale. He’d celebrated his 150th birthday in the year she became his apprentice and Hermione had thought that he really did look like the very model of a wizard: Tall, broad shouldered, the still strong body in a glorious dark plum velvet robe; his white beard reaching down almost to his belt and his mane of hair like a wave of spun moonlight falling down his back. Standing on the stairs of the Hogwarts entrance hall, he’d reminded Hermione of a lion - proud and confident in the knowledge that he was the sole master of his land.

But as imposing as he had been when showing himself in public - in private, in the sanctuary of the lab they’d shared, Hermione had always quickly forgotten about his age and fame and glory. When he’d looked at her over the rim of his golden half moon spectacles his azure blue eyes had mostly cheerfully twinkled and when he’d laughed, he’d looked young, sometimes even boyish.

The longer they’d worked together, the more he’d opened towards Hermione. He’d let her see behind his calm façade and she’d learned that he deeply cared about people, that he was able to love and that he was sensitive and vulnerable.

And then, the year before, shortly after Hermione had done her master’s exam and become Professor Granger, second Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts, Bellatrix Lestrange had announced that she was back. She’d kidnapped, tortured and killed Hogwarts Arithmancy master, Valerian Vector.

Albus had been devastated. For almost thirty years Valerian Vector had taught at Hogwarts, reliable, logical and with his calmness often enough the one who’d soothed the entire staff. Albus had accused himself of not paying closer attention and he’d mourned deeply. Three days after Valerian’s funeral Hermione had found him in the middle of the night, sitting on a rock by the lake, silently crying. For a moment, Hermione had been shocked and scared. Albus losing hope - that would have meant that their cause was lost. But then she’d remembered that even the great Albus Dumbledore was a human being - one who’d lived for decades with a heavy weight on his shoulders; one who’d lost friends and students and who’d nevertheless wouldn’t stop fighting. And so she’d stepped closer to him and had laid her hand on his shoulder. “Albus …”

He’d looked up to her and in the clear light of the moon she’d seen how he’d struggled to suppress more tears. But he’d failed and so she’d sat down next to him and had pulled him in her arms, cradling his head against her shoulder. She’d stroked his hair, wondering how silken it felt; she’d comforted him and it was at that moment she no longer saw him as the much older man, but had felt almost like a mother.

Perhaps it had started that night. Hermione had never wanted to figure it out. She’d always pushed the thought about him as a man away, telling herself that it was the lack of eligible bachelors at Hogwarts - the only man under 50 in the castle had been Potions master Severus Snape who had disliked Hermione as much as she’d always detested him - and the fact that the last she’d enjoyed sex had been years ago in Oxford which had made her aware of the fact that her superior and friend wasn’t only a man, but a handsome one with beautiful hands and a voice - always slightly hoarse - which had gotten to her.

During the days Hermione usually managed to discipline her mind, but the night had been another subject. She dreamed about Albus and in these dreams he kissed her and they made love and when she woke, she was bathed in sweat and her body almost aching with need and lust. Hermione had always found it quite ironic that her dream sex had been so much better than what she’d ever experienced awake.

The worse thing about these dreams had been that Hermione had been pretty sure that Albus, despite his age, would be able to fulfil her expectations. She didn’t know much about his private life. Minerva McGonagall had once mentioned that Albus had once been married and had lost his wife during the war against Grindelwald. From Molly Weasley, mother of Hermione’s friend Ron, she’d learned that Albus - although very discreet - was known for “liking a bit of fun” and then, only a few months before, Hermione had even met the lady who’d provided her boss with this “bit of fun”.

It had been during the last summer break. Hermione had spent it with her parents who’d retired and now lived in the country. One evening, she accompanied her mother to the Glyndbourne Opera festival. During the overture of “Figaro’s wedding” Hermione suddenly caught a sudden whiff of a familiar and unique fragrance in her nose - rosemary soap, lemon drops and cypress. Turning around, she’d looked into the twinkling eyes of Albus. Yet he’d looked strange because he’d hidden his beard and long hair behind a disguise charm. And he’d worn an elegant, dark blue Muggle suit, a white shirt and a burgundy tie. And on his arm had laid the hand of a lush red-head with warm hazel eyes, wearing a breath-taking orange dress which had made her look like a flame.

In the intermission, Albus had introduced the ladies to each other, presenting his company as Angharad Wilkes, American ambassador in London. And from the way he and the American had acted, it became clear that they were very familiar with each other.

Hermione had rather mixed feelings about Angharad Wilkes. She was the type of woman Hermione actually liked - independent, intelligent, ambitious, witty and charming. So she’d been glad that Albus was with someone like her. She would have hated it if his lady friend had been one of those pure-blood society hyenas she detested so much. On the other hand she’d been jealous. To think of Albus in the arms of another woman had pained Hermione. And sometimes when he hadn’t appeared at breakfast, but she’d seen him later, cheerfully humming, she’d wanted to shake him and to yell at him, “Why her? Why not me? Why don’t you even notice that I’m a woman too - a woman who wants you!”

Now he was dead. The Order of Phoenix had won the war, but lost its leader. Hermione would never look in his eyes again; she’d never see his twinkle again; never hear his smoky voice again; never feel his big, warm hand on her shoulder again; never get a chance to lay in his arms; never be kissed by him. He was gone and her world had lost its shine.

Staring into the flames, Hermione thought of the evening before. The Order had met in an unplottable house at the coast. They’d all known what would happen the next day. Three weeks before, one of Albus’ sources had found out that Bellatrix Lestrange and her minions had set up their headquarters on a deserted oil platform in the Nordic Sea. Albus had been there - he’d explored the place in his phoenix Animagus form.

The information he’d brought back had shocked the Order. Bellatrix Lestrange had started to breed Dementors - the soulless, artificial creatures who’d once guarded the wizard’s prison Azkaban. In a few weeks she would have an army of them and then neither the Order nor the Aurors would stand a chance against her.

So the conclusion had been clear: To strike before the Dementors were ready to attack. But there had been a problem: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Order member and leader of the Auror’s department in the ministry, couldn’t trust his own men anymore. He’d known that at least one of them was a traitor, but hadn’t found out which one yet. So the Order had only included a few really trustworthy Aurors - like Harry and Ron, Kingsley Shacklebolt and his partner Till Harding and Nymphadora Tonks and her partner Alexander Bagsbuck.

They’d known they would be outnumbered by Death Eaters. They’d not counted on the advantage of surprise, but of a storm, conjured by Albus.

Yet sailing through this storm in little boats, hidden under disguise charms and then breaking through the wards had been hard work. And the battle - the Death Eaters had known that it was their last chance and so they had fought brutally and with all their might.

Actually it bordered on a miracle that the Order had only lost four members. Hermione knew that Albus had feared the worst. The night before, as they returned to Hogwarts, they shared a cup of cocoa in the kitchen. Albus had been very quiet, but when Hermione had touched his arm, he’d smiled at her.

“Will we succeed, Albus?” she asked him.

He nodded. “I’m sure we will. Tomorrow at this time the war will be over - finally.”

“But we won’t celebrate,” Hermione quietly stated. “We will once more grieve.”

“Yes, Piccola,” he answered, using the nickname he’d given her during her first year as his apprentice. “We will once again lose people close to us.”

“Are you afraid, Albus?” she asked before she’d thought.

“Of course. Only a fool wouldn’t be. I’ve already lost so many people - I sometimes think I can’t bear more losses.”

“Don’t you fear for yourself?”

He smiled and took her hand. “No, Piccola. I’ve had a long and rich life. Death will be the last challenge.”

“I’d hate to lose you,” Hermione whispered. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“I’ll try to survive, Hermione. Promise!”


It had been the first promise to her he hadn’t kept. He hadn’t tried; just the opposite. He’d thrown himself in front of Harry as Bellatrix Lestrange had aimed a killing curse against him. Albus had saved Harry’s life by sacrificing his own.

Laying her head on her knees and wrapping her arms tightly around her legs, Hermione started to cry. She didn’t hear the door open; she didn’t register the slow, tired steps and the rustle of the dropped cloak as it fell on the sofa. She didn’t even notice the hand which lay on her shoulder. It was the voice - exhausted and even hoarser than usual - which woke her out of her haze.

“Hermione …” He’d gone on his knees next to her, smiling wearily.

“Albus!” She couldn’t believe her eyes. Raising both her hands, she gripped his shoulders, almost amazed to find them solid. “Albus!” Her fingers glided over his neck and the tussled, half burnt beard to his cheeks, cupping them. “You’re alive!”

Who kissed whom? When later asked, Hermione didn’t know. Perhaps it had been her leaning forward and laying her lips on his mouth. But he’d met her half way!

And it was him who deepened the kiss, opening his mouth and suckling at her tongue and it was him whose hand went down to her breast, cupping and kneading it. And his other hand that rested on her buttock and pressed her against him, rubbing his erection against her mound.

It was Hermione who pulled at his collar until the buttons gave way and shoving the ruins of his beard out of her way, she sucked at his neck, almost desperate to feel his pulse and his warmth. She was so dizzy with need and longing she needed a moment before she remembered being a witch. But then she pulled her wand out of her sleeve. A flick and a murmured incantation made her clothes drop and, sinking backwards; she directed the wand at him and let his robes vanish.

Looking at him, she saw that he was injured. The stale taste she got when kissing him had been the blood from a long scrape down from his temple over the cheek to the jaw. Another scrape ran over the right part of his chest.

“You’re hurt!” Hermione wanted to heal his wounds, but he was already over her like a predator over his prey, claiming her mouth again while his hands fumbled in the attempt to guide his rock hard penis in her. But his fingers trembled and as he failed, Hermione screamed in frustration. Reaching down she helped him, pushing his hand away and leading him to her entrance.

He was big and although she wanted him more than she ever wanted another man, her body wasn’t entirely prepared. It hurt as he pushed in and she couldn’t suppress another scream although she didn’t mind the ache, but loved it as a sign of being alive, of feeling what she’d dreamed so often about and what she’d believed lost forever only a few minutes before.

Yet the scream stopped him. Looking down at her he swallowed. “I hurt you. Piccola …”

He tried to pull out, but Hermione wrapped her legs around him. “No, Albus, no!” The ache was already gone, letting back a wonderful feeling of being filled and made complete. She started to move her hips, moaning, and stroking his back.

For a moment Albus kept quiet, only looking at her. But then he closed his eyes and with a long moan he pulled almost out, pushing in again with force, pounding into her with long, hard strokes.

The coupling was without any finesse and far away from what Hermione had imagined when she’d dreamed about it, but it was what they both needed. It was a celebration of life and of the joy to be alive, of having survived a war and it drove away the dark shadows they’d lived under for so long a time. It felt perfectly right. They weren’t headmaster and staff member in this moment and it didn’t count that he was so much older than her. They were only Hermione and Albus - a man and a woman who’d been touched by the black wings of death and who’d now found together for assuring each other that they’d survived.

As Hermione came with a hoarse scream, Albus was directly behind her, every muscle in his body tensing as he found release. For a moment he fell down on Hermione, panting and covered in sweat. Hermione held him, playing in his hair and whispering his name.

“Hermione - Piccola mia …” He raised himself on his elbows and smiling down at her; he kissed her.

Hermione tried to comb through his hair, but suddenly she felt something warm and wet on her breast. Looking down, she saw blood. The scrape on his chest had opened again. “You’re bleeding!” she cried.

“Yes,” he said slowly, rolling away from her and laying on his back next to her. “I hit the platform when I fell. That was the reason it took me so long to come back,” he explained.

“You need Poppy!” Hermione said and turned to the fireplace.

Albus caught her hand. “Please - don’t!” He sounded almost pleading. “The Aurors know I’m back and they already tried to send me to the infirmary. But it’s only a scrape, really. Couldn’t you heal it? I’d do it myself, but I’ve lost my wand.”

Hermione sighed. “Poppy will want my head for messing around with healing charms!”

He crooked his head, his eyes twinkling. “I won’t tell her.”

“Well,” Hermione studied the scrape. “In any case,it must be cleaned before it can be healed.”

“I could do with a shower,” Albus said and standing up, he added with a smile: “You’ll want one too.” Taking his cloak from the sofa, he threw it over to her. “Come - we’ll go upstairs.” He didn’t bother with dressing, but walked out and on the stairs.

Hermione wrapped herself in his cloak. It smelled after smoke and oily water and she shuddered. “You fell into the sea, didn’t you?”

“Hmm - and directly under the platform where the water wasn’t nice.” The spiralling stair case had arrived at the antechamber in front of his bedroom.

“Albus - where’s Fawkes?” Hermione asked. She hadn’t seen his phoenix since the attack had started and although she knew that the firebird would become reborn if killed, she worried.

“He’s in my office - hopefully sleeping soundly. He saved my life once again by coming between me and the curse.” He grinned lopsided. “Ironic, isn’t it? Bellatrix was always convinced my love for things Muggle would be my downfall. But it was my love to something very wizardly that always saved me in the war against her and her master.”

“But you were nevertheless hit,” Hermione said, entering the bedroom behind him. She’d never been here before and she was profoundly surprised as she looked around. She’d expected something with dark wooden panels, heavy curtains and a four poster bed with velvet hangings as was usual in Hogwarts. Yet Albus’ bedchamber was a bright room, the walls covered in cream silk, the light curtains in their intense blue matching the covers on the huge, but modern bed. Glass shelves flanked the bed to the right and left, filled with books and some knick knacks like a Muggle toy locomotive; a jar with lemon drops; a Muggle CD player; the picture of a dark haired, blue eyed woman; a few spindly silver instruments and a basket with fruits. In front of the huge fireplace stood two chairs, a sofa - cream leather with blue pillows - and a glass table with a beautiful white hibiscus and a pile of magazines.

Right and left of the fireplace two doors stood open. Through the left Hermione saw a chamber filled with clothes - robes, muggle suits, cloaks, a collection of hats, boots and boxes keeping smaller things.

The right door led to the generous bathroom with a huge marble tub, a glass shower stall and an enchanted wall which looked like a meadow in the middle of a forest. The other wall was covered with mirrors. Albus stood in front of it and stroking over what was left from his beard, he groaned: “You don’t know by any chance a shaving charm?”

“Do you really want to get rid of your beard?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t think it could be saved,” Albus sighed.

“Well - then it will be my pleasure.” Hermione smiled. “I never liked this brushwork much.” She directed her wand at the beard, murmured an incantation and nodded. “You look much better without it.”

Albus laid his hand against his chin, twitching as his fingers touched the scrape. “Time for a shower.”

Hermione hesitated for a moment. Suddenly the thought of being naked around him felt odd. On the other hand: He didn’t seem to have any problems with it. He’d opened the door of the shower stall and smiled at her. “Shall I wash your back?”

There was something in his voice what made her nipples prickle and her desire awaken again. And the thought of his hands on her skin, of kissing him again - Hermione swallowed and let the cloak down, throwing it out on the sofa. Feeling Albus’ eyes on her like a touch, she asked: “Do you like what you see?”

“Very much so!” He bent forwards and kissed her. “You’re lovely, Piccola - lovely and sweet and,” he gripped her around the middle and lifted her in the shower, “I want to spread soap all over you.” He switched the shower on, holding his face under the warm spray. “Actually you’d think I’ve gotten wet enough today, but this water feels great.”

Hermione laughed and took the soap out of its bowl. Leathering her hands, she said, “Let me wash your chest first.” The wound was no longer bleeding, but it was covered in sweat, dirt and dried blood. Hermione carefully spread the soap over it, but Albus nevertheless bit his bottom lip and twitched. “Does it hurt?” Hermione asked.

“It itches a bit - not too bad,” he answered.

Hermione washed the soap away and looked at the scrape. “It looks rather nasty,” she stated. Switching the water off, she said, “Let me just heal it.” Stepping out of the shower cabin, she took her wand from the shelf she’d put it on. Directing it at his chest, she chanted the healing charm. It worked immediately: The wound closed, letting back a small, pink mark.

Albus moved his shoulders and chest muscles, smiling by it. “Well done - it’s much better so. Thank you.”

“If you’d just wash your face? I’d like to heal the scrape on your cheek too,” Hermione said.

“Your wish is my command.” Albus cleaned his face and presented Hermione the injured side. The scrape wasn’t as deep as the one on his chest. Under Hermione’s wand it vanished without leaving a mark. Putting her wand back on the shelf, she entered the shower again, laying her hands against his chest. “So - now you’re as good as new.”

“Oh my!” He laughed. “I don’t think even Mundungus Fletcher would try to sell me as something in ‘mint condition’.”

“Too bad. I’d buy you.” Hermione raised on her tiptoes, switching the shower on again and putting her hands back on his chest. Stroking over it felt amazing. There were only a few wiry hairs on the collarbone, but the rest of it was covered with smooth, silken skin. Underneath Hermione felt strong muscles and for a moment she wondered how he’d got himself in such great form. She’d never seen him doing exercises. But then she remembered his Animagus form. It was the rarest one thinkable: A phoenix. And as such he loved flying. It obviously made for strong muscles.

Yet there was something else about his chest: It was very sensitive to her touch. His nipples hardened under her soft strokes and as Hermione bent forward to kiss one of the rosy buds, Albus moaned. Hermione liked the effect she was having on him and let her tongue flicker over his nipple.

“Hermione …” He pulled her close and she felt his penis against her thigh. He wasn’t hard again, but his member was thick and heavy.

Hermione wanted to feel it and she wanted to have him inside her again. Taking the soap out of his hands, she stepped a little away, leathering her hands again until they were covered in rich, rosemary scented foam. Taking his shaft with her right hand she covered it with soap while her left hand went down to his testicles, rolling them softly in her soapy palm.

“Hermione - Merlin, Hermione, what are you doing?” He leant back against the wall, but arched his groin to her.

Hermione looked in his eyes. They seemed to become darker as his lust grew. And it wasn’t the only thing growing. His member did too, hardening and straining. Letting it loose for a moment, Hermione looked at it and laughed. “Now he can stand on his own!”

“Do you intend to use him to hang your towel on?” Albus asked amused.

“Actually,” once again Hermione looked in his eyes, “I have other ideas about what to do with him.”

“Oh?” He smiled and pulled her in his arms. “That sounds exciting. But I think I should wash you first.” He took the soap from her and kneeled down. Taking her left foot, he started to spread soap over her toes, massaging them gently. Slowly he worked himself up - left foot, left calf, knee, tight and down to her right foot.

As he arrived at her right knee, Hermione felt as if she’d become puddle. And then his strong hand were on her thighs - first the front side, then the back, his thumbs touching the sensitive inside. “Albus!” Hermione spread her legs, hoping he would touch her where she needed him so much. But he didn’t. Instead he kneaded her buttocks - and Hermione had never known, how arousing a massage of her butt could feel. She was trembling with need and pleading now, “Albus, please, please!”

He pulled her close and she watched with bated breath how his head dived between her legs. His hair tickled on her skin and then his mouth was on her, his tongue flickering over her throbbing clitoris.

Actually, Hermione had never cared much about oral sex - at least not when she was at the receiving end of it. Titus, the young man Hermione had been with during her time at Oxford, had sometimes tried to please her with his tongue, but Hermione had never come close to a climax then.

Yet now she already felt like exploding. Albus didn’t only use his tongue, but his entire mouth for sucking and his teeth for nibbling and as he pushed a long finger in her channel, Hermione heard someone screaming and while she still wondered who had it been, she was gripped by a wave of lust.

“Albus …” If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have fallen. Her knees were jelly and her legs trembled.

He gave her a moment to rest against his chest, stroking tenderly over her short hair. Putting a kiss in it, he said, “There’s more of you to wash, isn’t it?”

“Your back isn’t clean either.” Hermione took the soap. “Turn around.”

She started at his shoulders, once again admiring his strong muscles. His skin was creamy and covered with little freckles. On his right shoulder blade their pattern looked like the star sign great wagon with the pole star at the top. Hermione kissed and chuckled. “You’ve got a star map on your back.”

“Yes, but unfortunately I couldn’t use it in my Astronomy exam,” he gave back.

Going deeper Hermione giggled again. Around the middle he wasn’t only a bit soft, but obviously very ticklish. As she touched his sides, he twitched and laughed.

His butt wasn’t soft - just on the contrary. Spreading soap over his buttocks, Hermione found them nicely rounded and rather firm. Massaging them she said, “It’s actually a shame to hide a butt like that under robes. On the other hand it’s probably better you don’t distract the female inhabitants of the castle with it.”

“Besides: I hate trousers,” Albus responded.

“You’re naked under your robes?” Hermione asked, swallowing hard at the thought.

“Of course - as most wizards of my generation. To quote old Dribblewitt: ‘I like a healthy breath of air around my genitals’.”

“Uuuh!” Hermione shuddered. “The thought of old Dribblewitt’s genitals …”

“He names them the ‘family jewels’,” Albus chuckled. “And it’s said some women like antique jewellery.”

Hermione shook her head. “I certainly don’t.”

Albus turned around and looked at her. “And then what are you doing with me?”

“I don’t see you as an old man, Albus,” Hermione said firmly, rose on her tiptoes and kissed him.

He held her close, responding eagerly. But after a moment he broke the kiss. “Your turn - your back needs washing.” Without further ado, he cleaned her back and then her breasts and belly.

Hermione felt a bit disappointed because he obviously wasn’t too interested in her breasts. But then he switched the shower off, opened the door and reached for a towel. Wrapping Hermione in it, he quickly dried first her and then himself. Looking down at her, he said quietly and seriously, “I want you, Hermione - now.” Easily, he picked her up and carried her over the threshold in his chamber. “You’ve got lovely breasts and I want to play with them while I’m inside you.” Letting her down on the bed, he turned her on her belly and, griping her hips, pulled her up onto her knees. “Gods - your backside is glorious!” He stroked over it, his hand gliding down in her cleft. She was dripping wet and whimpered as he touched her. “Do you want me, Hermione?” he asked.

The emptiness in her was almost aching. Spreading her legs she moaned, “Stop teasing me! I need you, Albus, I need you so much!”

This time she was fully prepared for him and it simply felt wonderful. And then he bent over her and his hands cupped her breasts and his husky voice whispered in her ear: “Lovely, wonderful Hermione. You feel so incredible!”

Slowly he began to pound in her - and it was perfect. He filled her perfectly; his rhythm was perfectly and the angle - with every stroke he hit that special spot in her, causing a wave of pleasure to roll through her with every stroke and becoming higher and higher. And his hands on her breasts, playing and twisting her nipples - it was almost too much to bear.

“Albus!” She was struggling for air and trembling and sweating. And then she was falling and losing herself in lust and pleasure.

Coming back to conscious thought, Hermione found herself flat on her belly. Albus had turned and lay next to her on his back, his skin glimmering with sweat, breathing heard. But looking down on him, Hermione saw that his penis was still hard.

Turning on her side, Hermione snuggled against him. He laid his arm around her and pulled her a bit closer, his mouth in her hair. “Albus?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

Hermione laid her hand on his chest. “You didn’t come.”

“I didn’t want to.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m not ready with you yet and at my age one has to spare one’s orgasms.”

Hermione raised her head. “You’re not ready?”

His eyes twinkled. “Don’t tell me you are.”

Only a minute before Hermione had felt entirely sated, but now, looking in his eyes, the thought of having him again aroused her once more. Painting a circle around his nipple with the tip of her index finger, she whispered, “I’m not.” She let her hand wander down and closed her fingers around his erection. “You feel lovely in my hand, but,” she straddled him, bracing herself on his chest with one hand while the other guided his cock to her entrance, “you feel even better in me.” Slowly sinking down on him, she closed her eyes, concentrating on the wonderful feeling of being stretched and filled again.

This time he let her set up the rhythm and Hermione started slowly, raising up until only his tip remained in her and sinking down then again. It felt wonderful and looking down at him how he lay there, his eyes dark blue and full of desire, his mouth slightly open, his hair tussled and his nipples rosy and erect - he was the most erotic sight Hermione had ever seen. He seemed to be lost in his pleasure and to know that it was her who made him sweat and pant was an incredible ego-boast. He was the mightiest wizard alive and only a few hours before Hermione had seen him, surrounded by an almost tangible aura of power. And now he was - at least for a few sweet hours - hers.

She thought she’d lost him; she mourned and cried for him. Having him back, feeling him like he was a part of her - she was sure: She’d never experienced the closeness of another human being so intensely and whatever would happen to her, she would never forget this night.

“Hermione! Piccola …” He was speeding up now and pulling her down on him, he claimed her mouth in a passionate kiss before her rolled her over onto her back.

Hermione expected to be taken wildly and forcefully as he’d done before in the study, but once again he surprised her. He didn’t pound in her hard and quick, but made her move with him in a tender, quiet dance. Before, when he’d been on her knees with him behind her, she’d felt royally and gloriously fucked, but what Albus did now - Hermione couldn’t find another description for it other than “making love”. The way he smiled at her, how he showered her face with little kisses, how his voice sounded as he whispered her name and the gentle praise he gave her - never, not even with her first love, the Bulgarian Quidditch player Victor Krum, had Hermione felt so beloved.

“Piccola - ti desiderio …” she heard him whisper and remembered he’d once mentioned that his mother tongue would actually be Italian because mother had come from Venice. She’d asked him after she’d noticed that he cursed in Italian. Obviously anger wasn’t the only thing what made him fall back in the language of his early childhood.

But now he was back to English. “You’re so lovely, so wonderful, so sweet, so arousing - Hermione, my Hermione …”

It was as if his voice would come to her through a haze. Her arousal had built up to a point where conscious thinking wasn’t possible anymore. Flashes of pleasure shot through her and made her body tremble.

“Albus, Albus,” she whispered.

“Yes, Piccola - come! Come with me!”

It was as if she would only have waited for his command. She felt how something hot shoot in her and it made her feel as if she’d fly, weightless and surrounded by joy and indefinite happiness.


Finding herself once next to him, she felt filled with tenderness for him. “Albus - I’m so glad you’re there.”

“Sweetest heart …” He yawned, kissed the tip of her nose and fished for the blanket, pulling it over her and him.

“Are you cold, Albus?” Hermione turned on her side and snuggled against him.

“Cold and,” he yawned once again, “rather groggy.” He laid his arm around her. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Hermione asked. “If you wouldn’t be drained after a day like that I’d doubt your humanity.”

“It was a hell of a day,” he said, his voice sad. “And it feels so bloody unfair.”

Hermione had never heard him using profanities before. But she understood how he felt. “Remus and Sna …,” she corrected herself, “Severus were rather close to you, weren’t they?”

“Remus was closer to Minerva than he was to me,” Albus answered, folding his hands behind his head. “He was almost like a son to her. And he was the last of the Marauders. Harry will miss him terribly.”

Hermione sighed inwardly. It was typical for Albus that he didn’t want to speak about his own grief, but worried about Minerva and Harry. Wrapping one of his long curls around her finger she asked, “Severus - you were fond of him, weren’t you?”

For a while Albus was silent. Then he said quietly, “He was a brave man, Hermione. And his life …” He breathed deeply. “I don’t know if he ever was for single moment happy in his life. His childhood was a hell and his youth not much better. He didn’t know how it is to be loved - how should he have learned loving himself?”

“I think he loved you,” Hermione said.

“No.” Albus sighed. “I was as much as his tormentor as Voldemort. He’s one of the long list of people who’d suffered because of me.”

“He suffered because of Voldemort,” Hermione said energetically.

Albus stifled another yawn. “Hey - defending me against myself is Minerva’s job!”

“Let’s make it the job of the Transfiguration department,” Hermione gave back.

“Ah - you think defending something like me needs at least two strong Gryffindors?” He yawned once again.

Hermione kissed his cheek. “Why don’t you sleep, Albus? You need rest.”

He closed his eyes. “Sleeping sounds like a good idea.” He waved his hand. “Nox!” he commanded. The candles which had enlightened the room went out. Albus pulled Hermione close and kissed her forehead. “Thank you for being here, Piccola.”

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


“Albus? For Merlin’s sake, Albus!” Minerva McGonagall’s voice, coming from the fireplace, sounded angry and impatient. “Wake up, Albus! You’re needed!”

Hermione, slowly awakening, felt how Albus moved. He’d spooned against her back, holding her close. Now he’d turned away, rolled himself to the bedside and stood up with a groan. Scraping himself with both hands on his head, he shuffled over to the fireplace, bent down, put his head in it and growled: “What’s the matter, Minerva?”

“What a question!” Minerva McGonagall snapped. “The castle is swarmed with ministry officials, Aurors, reporters, governors and other people; myriads of owls are waiting - and you ask what the matter is! You’re needed, Albus Dumbledore - that’s the matter!”

“Oh …” Albus was grumbling. “I’ve got hit by a curse; fell in the sea; almost died and needed hours until I managed the way back to Hogwarts - and all that only a few hours before. Don’t you think I’d deserve a bit rest and a nice breakfast?”

“Don’t be such a baby, Albus!” Minerva obviously wasn’t moved by his whining. “It’s already seven o’clock. You’ve got a half hour until breakfast. I’ll make up a table for our visitors in the hall - and you may think about what you’ll tell people.”

“Minerva, you’re such a slave driver!” Albus moaned.

“With you one has to be. And now get yourself ready! Oh and by the way: You don’t need to regrow this ghastly beard. You look better without it.” She closed the connection.

With a sigh Albus stood up and straightened his back. “For one thing I’m sure: Augustus didn’t marry Minerva for her charm and kindness.” He turned to the bed. “Good morning, Hermione.”

“Good morning, Albus.” Hermione sounded awkward. She’d got up too and sat now on the bedside, the blanked wrapped around her. In the clear light of dawn it felt odd to look at her naked superior. She didn’t regret the night with him, but wasn’t sure how to handle the situation now.

Albus obviously understood. Waving his hand, he ordered his dressing gown and reached it to her. “Here.” Going in his knees in front of her, he looked in her eyes. “I’d like very much to have breakfast with you in bed, Piccola, but I’m afraid …”

Hermione laid her index finger on his mouth. “No need to apologize, Albus. You’re needed and I’ll disappear.” Looking at the clock on the shelf next to her she added, “I have the Slytherin Sixth years at eight o’clock.”

Albus laughed. “No, I don’t think so. I’m going to cancel classes for the rest of this week. The children shall have a chance to celebrate and the staff will need the four days to recuperate and to prepare for peace time.” He kissed the left corner of her mouth. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”


Hermione had just showered and dressed in a burgundy sweater and black jeans as it knocked at her door. Opening she saw Harry in his dark red Auror’s robe, looking rather official. “Morning, Harry.” Hermione stepped aside and let her friend in.

“Morning, Hermione.” Standing in front of her fireplace his green eyes studied her then wandered over to the open door of her bedroom and the untouched bed. “Where were you all night? I was here around two o’clock, but you weren’t there.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Hermione answered.

Harry nodded. “Do you already know that Dumbledore survived? Shortly after midnight he came back. It’s amazing! He was once again saved by Fawkes, but blown down from the platform. And he really got in trouble when he fell in the water. He’d lost his wand, the water was terribly cold and he couldn’t Apparate because the under side of the platform was still warded. So he had to change into his phoenix form to get himself into one of our boats. But suffering with hypothermia and drained as he was, he couldn’t immediately Apparate again. When he managed, we were already gone - and none of us had looked for Fawkes!”

“I didn’t think of him,” Hermione said. “I was so shocked about Albus …”

“Of course - we all were,” Harry interrupted impatiently. “That’s why I came here after he was back. But you weren’t there. Where were you?”

Hermione felt how she blushed and tried to hide it in turning around and slipping in her plain, dark blue teaching robe. As casually as possible she said: “I was in the study over at the Main tower. Albus came there …”

Fortunately Harry didn’t notice how awkward she sounded. He had to tell more. “The Aurors guarding the gates got the shock of their lives!”

“Aurors at the gates?” Hermione interrupted. “What are they doing there?”

“We didn’t catch every Death Eater yet,” Harry explained. “And Shacklebolt and McGonagall thought Dumbledore dead and didn’t know how the castle would react to that. You know it’s connected to Dumbledore. And now imagine how surprised the colleagues at the gate were when Dumbledore Apparated in front of them! They thought him an impostor under Polyjuice and nervously as they were, they tried to stun him.”

“Following the old Auror’s principle: Stun first, ask later,” Hermione commented ironically.

“You wouldn’t wait until you got killed either. Besides Dumbledore isn’t one to let himself become stunned. He shielded himself, but without a wand, his shielding charm wasn’t perfect. It fired back, knocking Jefferson and O’Gradey out. And now imagine: I was in the hall with Kingsley, Moody, the McGonagalls, Arthur Weasley and a few other people. We brooded over maps of the castle and discussed the wards. And suddenly a voice behind us says, ‘No, Minerva, there’s no connection between the outer wards and the anti-apparation field inside.’ McGonagall let drop her wand, Kingsley couldn’t find his and even Moody starred at Dumbledore as if he’d believe him to be a ghost. And Dumbledore grinned at Kingsley, ‘Oh, by the way, Kingsley: You should send someone down to the gates. I’m afraid I’ve knocked two of your men out’.”

Hermione laughed. “Knowing him, I’d say he enjoyed that entrance.” Walking to the door she announced, “Harry, I’ve to go down for breakfast. Do you want to come with me?”

“Yes, of course.” Harry followed her out in the corridor. “I wouldn’t like to be in my colleagues shoes. Kingsley was pretty mad.”

“Well - being knocked out by Albus Dumbledore isn’t a shame. Kingsley should know that. He was once stunned by Albus too.”

“Yes, but on that day Dumbledore was fit and he had his wand,” Harry said. “But what made Kingsley so angry was the thickness of O’Gradey and Jefferson. You know it was full moon and a clear night. And at the moment Dumbledore passed the outer wards, the castle reacted. The flag on the Main tower changed. O’Gradey and Jefferson would only have needed to look up to know that the man at the gates was really Dumbledore.”

“Well - on a night like that …” Hermione commented. She laid her hand on his arm. “Harry, I’m sorry about Remus. I know you thought very highly of him. He was a wonderful man.”

Harry looked down at the stone floor. “The last of the Marauders,” he said sadly. “He was the last friend of my parents left to me …”

They’d arrived at the entrance to the Great Hall. Harry opened the door and let Hermione through. Looking around he pointed with his chin to the table where his colleagues and a few ministry officials sat. “I have to join them,” he said.

“And I have to go up to my colleagues,” Hermione smiled at him. “We’ll see each other later.”

While walking down the aisle and up to the place at the right corner of the teacher’s table, Hermione felt a slight ache in her thighs. And just this moment Albus entered the hall through the teacher’s door and for a few seconds their eyes met. Hermione felt herself blushing and sat quickly down, studying the cup in front of her.

Minerva knocked with her spoon against her glass. “Silence!” she commanded.

Everyone in the hall looked expectantly at Albus who stood in the middle of the teacher’s table in front of his golden chair, wearing a dark blue robe. “Huuh - he looks strange without his beard!” Hermione heard Jemina Talbotts, the Arithmancy teacher sitting next to her whisper.

Albus cleared his throat. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Knowing how quickly news travels at Hogwarts, I suppose most of you have already heard that Bellatrix Lestrange and her followers were defeated last night. At the moment, the Aurors are after a few last Death Eaters, but I think it’s safe to say that the war is finally over.”

The students started to cheer and applaud. Albus waited a moment, his head lowered, his eyes resting on the table. Looking up again, he proceeded, “As happy as I am that the war is over and that we’re finally safe: We have lost many good people. This night four brave, honourable people died.” A wave of his wand and the Slytherin, the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor flags hovering over the tables lowered, a black ribbon appearing at the tips of their poles. “We mourn for Jeremy Abott, Ravenclaw House; Jennifer Weston and Remus Lupin, Gryffindor House and Severus Snape, Slytherin House.”


To be continued …