The Tempest - or: Max does more writing ... ;-)

I wasn't here for a long time. Real life made me busy and besides ... I was writing and once I wasn't only writing for my living, but just for the fun of it. And I've had a lot of fun with the two stories I wrote.The first one, "A Winter Tale", is now up at FF.net and AFF.net. And it found a few readers who obviously like it. The second one I'll probably publish on AFF.net too - after the first one is done, of course. Until then ... perhaps some one likes to read it here already? Yet I have to warn you: My beta is still busy with the first story, so this is how I wrote it - with all the usual mistakes. I hope you can bear with me.The TempestBy: Max[Disclaimer: I unfortunately don't own Harry Potter. It belongs to J. K. Rowlings and her publishers. So I've only borrowed for a little playing ? Besides I've got an "inspiration" for this story by Rilla's wonderful "Fire and Ice". If you didn't read it yet, do so - you find it at http://sycophanthex.lordandladysnape.com/viewstory.php?sid=401&PHPSESSID=fb9dd24e5a0f63e0e4a9bae35336d555]Chapter 1: Narcissa's Journal, part 1: A light in the darkness, part 1Sometimes I think you read too much muggle psychology. Or what was it what got you the idea that it would do me "a lot of good" to write the story of my life down? You think it will help me to get it "out of my system" and you've talked about "catharsis" and - you always know how to get me! - that you would like to learn more about me.I lay next to you, my hand on your naked chest, feeling the beat of your heart under my palm and as always when you'd made love to me - or, when we had made love to each other as you'd insist to name it - I felt not only sated and content, but at home, for the very first time of my life. Then you started to talk about the journal you want me to write during the long hours I'm alone every day because you have to go away and as you stated you'd like to learn more about me, I asked you: "Why? You know what counts about me: That I love you. What more do you need to know?"You rarely become angry. Your kindness - not a fa?ade, not something you show people because it makes it easier to manipulate them, but a kindness which comes from your heart - I didn't always understand and appreciate, but now I couldn't live without any more. Yet I love your temper too. You rule it with hard discipline and all your willpower, but your eyes betray your always calm voice, sparking and radiating the sheer power which is you. "You're more as that!" you said firmly. "You were a person of your own before I came in your life and you'll be one when I'm gone one day. You don't need me to define yourself."I didn't answer - not this night. But now, after I've thought about you'll get an answer and I'll know, you'll like it because it's almost so "salomonic" as some of the answers you give to important questions. It's "yes" and "no".Yes - I am a person of my own. I lived 43 years without you, or, better said: Without being close to you. And I know I'll probably have once to live another 43 years without you again and I will manage, becoming a person of my own again.But - I see you look now at me, laughing and saying: "But me no buts, dear" - you're wrong when you state I wouldn't need you to define me. What makes the person I am, the person I've come to like over the past months, the person I'm even sometimes proud off, is - no, not your love for me although it is next to my son, of course the most precious thing I have. But what defines me is my love for you. It's the tenderness which fills me so much that I sometimes think I'm going to burst when I look at you, sleeping in my arms; it's the passion you're able to enflame in me; it's my pride on you and more as anything else an overwhelming, sometimes terrifying need to make you happy. I would give my life for your happiness laughingly, I would fight monsters and the evil for a smile of you and it is for the knowledge that I am able to make you happy, that I am proud of myself.You say I'm so "passionately discreet" as you are curious. Maybe you're right. But for you I'm to give up the discretion of a lifetime. To you I will tell my story - and by doing so I probably get my son to understand too.I grew up in darkness. Our house was dark, my father was dark, my sister and my brother were dark and my mother, although she was the one I got my blonde hair from, was a person who lived in the darkness too. I can't remember I ever saw her room - decorated in such a dark red it always reminded me of dried blood - ever lightened, not even on the rare occasions I came there during a day. The curtains were always closed and mother mostly lay on her four poster bed with the red hangings, suffering from a migraine or what she called her "depressions". Today I know it was probably neither depressions nor migraine but the after waves of too much alcohol and other drugs. But as a child I always thought I'd be the one who were responsible for her suffering and if I only would manage to become a better person she'd probably become healthy and then she would rose and lighten a few candles and drove away the darkness. But she never did and she died shortly after my sixth birthday it didn't make a big difference to the way we lived our lives, being linked through our blood and our name, but not in our hearts.Our name - I always found them very fitting. "Black" like the darkness surrounding us. "Black" like the hair and the eyes of my father and my brother - and probably like their souls?My father was very proud of our name. He rarely spoke to my sister and me - we were only girls after all and we wouldn't have been both born when his first child would have been already the heir he desired so much. It is like that in the most pure blood families. When they get daughters, then only because even their magic can make sure their firstborn is already the son. I sometimes wonder how they think they could survive without us women - but today I'm actually glad about this traditional way. I would hate to have a daughter to worry about and I would even more hate if she would become treated by her father as my father treated Bellatrix and me.But even without speaking much directly with us - we were in the room where he taught our brother and so we heard how he said at least once a day: "You're a Black - don't ever forget it! It's something you have to live up to!"Even then as the small child I was I sometimes asked myself: What was it about the Blacks that Tiberius would have to live up to? I know our family had once been rich - our uncle still was. But my father as the second born and fallen out with his elder brother had only the big, but almost ruined Mansion which would actually have needed an entire army of house elves to be kept in shape. Yet with my father dabbling around with the muggle financial market, the famous Black fortune had been lost and all attempts of father to get it back - even the attempts which connected him to the Dark Lord - never were successes.So Bellatrix and I actually were his only chance to get back some wealth. Marrying us off to rich wizards was what my father probably intended to do as soon as we were born and both of us we hardly elder then six or seven years as he already started to negotiate with the great families. I remember the day in my 10th summer as Filthy - the last remaining house elf in our house, a creature even exceptional ugly and dirty for one of his kind - came to take me down in my father's study where a very cold looking man in black robes looked at me as if I were a kettle on the stock market and then drawled in a bored voice: "Maybe you're right, Black. This once could become a beauty." And gripping in my hair and looking at the colour he added: "Her grandmother was Veela, wasn't she?""Yes, yes," my father answered eagerly. "She seems to have inherited a lot from her.""Interesting," the blonde man snarled. "And what's with her magic? Any good at it, girl?" he addressed me directly.I've always been proud on my magic since I got it in the age of six. And being a lonely child in a dark house with an elder sister who found it funny to make me cry I'd spent a good deal of time hidden in the attic of our house where I'd had found a few boxes with books - mostly old schoolbooks and silly books like "1001 charms for bewitching wizards" or "Beauty spells for witches", probably books my mother had read during her school days. But the best thing I'd found there was a wand - old and splinted and pretty jumpy, often sending sparks out instead of obeying to me, but nevertheless: it was a wand and I could use it for practise.But now it was the stranger's wand which was presented to me and with a malicious smile he said: "Show me what you can do with a wand, girl. Just something easy like," he looked around, then he pointed with his chin to a goblet on my father's desk, "? levitating this old thing there!"My father looked for a second angry and as if he'd have liked to forbid it. The goblet was one of the rare really valuable things he still possessed - a beautiful golden foot keeping a bowl from finest Venetian crystal. I knew he'd hate losing it, but he didn't dare to disagree with the stranger and so he only bite his teeth together as I waved the wand once - I wanted to get a feeling for it - and then, after I've got how powerful it was, directed it at the goblet, softly commanding: "Wingardium leviosa!" The goblet hesitated a moment, but as I raised the wand a big higher, it followed my lead, hovering over the desk. Sinking wand and goblet carefully back, I looked at the blond wizard with the cold eyes."Impressive!" he said with a glimmer in his eyes. "I think I'll take her, Black."It sounded as if he'd buy me - and in fact: What he made then with my father after I was sent back to my room was something like buying me: He promised to pay not only for my education at Hogwarts, but for "appropriate dresses" too and therefore my father gave his wizard's word of honour that I would at my 16. Birthday become the bride of the blonde's only son and heir.First it didn't bother me much. I was a child and the six years until I'd become 16 were more then half of my entire lifetime. It seemed eternity and so it wasn't more as a mild curiosity I felt about the boy who'd once - in a far away future - become my husband.It was Hogwarts - the fact that I would go to Hogwarts soon, following my sister who was already there - what concerned me more. As every child in the magical world I knew, that the letters were sent out in July, but nevertheless I started months before to wait for it and every time when a brown barn owl - I even knew that Hogwarts uses mostly brown barn owls - arrived at our house, my heart speed up. In June I became so nervous, I suffered almost every night through a nightmare. I dreamed of being the first Black in generations who didn't get the letter.It was a Monday - July 5, 1971 - as the letter finally arrived and even today, I see it before me:HOGWARTS SCHOOLOF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRYHeadmaster Armando Dippet, Order of Merlin First Class, Grand Sorc., Mugwump, International Confed. of WizardsDear Miss Black,We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later then July 31.Yours sincerely- Unreadable -Deputy HeadmasterI danced in joy and for this day, I didn't find our house dark. The letter was like a light and it brightened my days over all the summer. And there were other things - like the letter my father got a few days later. He'd obviously informed Achilles Malfoy about me being accepted at Hogwarts. The father of my once-to-be-fianc?e informed us that his wife Valkyrie would want to meet me at August 7 in Diagon Alley to provide me with "appropriate clothing".Despite the lack of money my father was suffering I actually thought I was dressed well. On the attic of our house I'd found tons of dress robes and all day robes in all colours and fashions and with my mothers old books I'd learned how to make them fit me. I was even so good in changing robes that my father's mistress asked me to work on hers. For doing so she always got me new things like shoes and undergarment.So I felt well dressed - in a light blue robe with only a small golden decoration at the hems - as I walked in Madame Maulkin's shop to meet my future mother-in-law who was a tall, blonde with an austere face and huge, but firm corseted breasts. To me she seemed to suit her name very well and later I learned that she really was a descendent from an old Nordic family and probably the great-great-great granddaughter of a Valkyrie.If she liked me or not I can't say. I only know that she didn't disapprove of me entirely and that was already a lot when it came from Valkyrie Malfoy who found most women simply "silly gooses - only they aren't as useful as gooses" and probably every men with the exception of her husband and her son "blabbering idiots who think the possession of a more or less working penis would make them superior." Having said so, she snorted - and snorting was something she often did and a snort was with what she looked at me, saying: "Tiny little thing you are. No arse, no tits - only legs and arms. Have you got at least some brain?" Yet she let me look for my robes myself and watching me, she snorted again: "Seems you've got taste." Nevertheless she disapproved of almost half of the things I'd picked because she found them "too ordinary" and so I got my first lesson for becoming a Malfoy: Nothing as the best will do.A few weeks later I came to Hogwarts, was sorted - as it was to expect - in Slytherin house and met my future husband Lucius Malfoy for the first time. He was - or better said, he still is (isn't it odd that even I who was never very close to him, have a tendency to speak in past tense about him as if he'd ceased to exit as I left him? Perhaps it's wishful thinking what makes me do so) five years my senior, so he was already in his sixth year, leader of a group who was using every opportunity to sneak out of the school for visiting the "Saucy Sorcerers Club" at Hogsmeade and naturally he was not much interested in a little girl like me.Yet he was aware of our connection and he obviously saw me already as his possession what meant he made my elder sister stop harassing me. I never learned how exactly he did, I only know that it was the beginning of Bellatrix hating him, but at this time she didn't dare to show it, but obeyed to him. I was very grateful for it - it made my life not only at Hogwarts, but at home easier. Besides Bellatrix, who was more alike to our father as I and therefore hadn't got a marriage offer from one of the old families, soon became very busy with our Head of house, Hogwarts this time potion master Darius Lestrange. This made for me avoiding her even more as before because even to me who grew up in darkness and with a father who found it probably to use "imperio" as to say "please" - Tiberius said once father had used an "imperio" at him only to get cream for his tea at breakfast - Darius Lestrange was too much of a dark wizard. He was a good looking man - blue eyed and with blonde curls who fell down his back to his belt and his face was - on the first sight - almost too pretty for a man, but his eyes were icy and his smile forbidding and even today I shudder by thinking what my 15 year old sister had to do when she was with him in his bedchamber.Yet she pretended to love him and "it" - whatever "it" meant - and I'm not entirely sure she only pretended or even then was already debauched enough to really love "it". In every case she loved the power she saw in Lestrange and in summer 1972 after my first year at Hogwarts, Bellatrix became one day so bored during the break that she honoured me with her confidence. She told me then that headmaster Dippet was soon to retire and that her lover harboured high hopes to become Hogwarts next headmaster.I think it was then that I spoke the name out loudly for the first time. Looking at Bellatrix I asked: "But what about Professor Dumbledore? He's a friend of Headmaster Dippet, he's the deputy headmaster and supposed to become Dippet's successor."Bellatrix waved her hand. "Forget about him. Dippet likes him, but the governors aren't convinced about him. They even didn't make him head of a house." She giggled then. "Darius says it's probably because Dumbledore was a Hufflepuff. And look at him. He isn't good for anything as transfiguration and even there he mostly lets his assistant McGonagall teach the serious stuff in the high classes. He only plays around a bit with the first and second years.""But I've heard he defeated Grindelwald," I said because I actually liked our playful transfiguration master. His classes were always fun and often the highlight of my days. I had never before really played, but in transfiguration I did, changing quills to lollipops, running around in chasing the mice our teacher wanted us to change in goblets and laughing as he demonstrated us hair transfiguration with changing his auburn-silver hair to a pink hallo around his head - and seating there with the pink hair he pretended he wouldn't know how to change it back and so it was our task to look for a spell and to try.Bellatrix snorted. "Poor, sheer luck, Darius says. Dumbledore was incidentally at the right time at the right place and got Grindelwald as he was weak. Everybody with a little magic could have done it."Only a few days later Bellatrix got an owl from her lover, telling her that he was "tricked out by our dear transfiguration teacher". But he swore to Bellatrix that Dumbledore wouldn't enjoy being Hogwarts headmaster. He - Lestrange, I mean - was "to make sure Dumbledore becomes the shortest lasting headmaster in the history of Hogwarts. Give me only three months in the new term and you'll see him packing his lemon sherbets!" It came just the other way round - only it didn't need three months, but only three weeks. Then, one morning as we sat in the potions classroom, waiting for Professor Lestrange and already wondering because he'd never been late before, the headmaster himself - as ever an imposing sight in a dark blue velvet robe with tiny golden stars - swept in, smiled at us and said: "Unfortunately Professor Lestrange left us. That means you'll have to with me until we'll get a new potion teacher."I was so surprised I probably gaped like a goldfish out of water. But next to me sat Ravenclaw Persephone Fudge- the high intelligent sister of a very stupid brother who unfortunately is now the minister of magic - my girlfriend and she noticed what I hadn't seen. "Uiii!" she whispered at me. "Dumbledore's mad like hell!"I didn't understand. "How do you come to that?" I asked her. "He's smiling and he sounds as calm as always.""Look at his eyes and his hands!" Persephone advised me. "I've never seen his eyes so icy! And he doesn't twinkle, but his hands are shaking."Later at this day, as I came back to our common room, my curiosity about Lestrange's sudden exit became satisfied by Lucius who just shouted at my sister: "Lestrange is an idiot! He could have thought of Dumbledore monitoring him closely! And to get caught in flagrante delicto - how thick must one be for letting this happen? Now you only can hope that Dumbledore is discreet and doesn't tell who was fucked by Lestrange. It wouldn't do you and your family's reputation much good."Just at this moment a house elf appeared and asked Bellatrix to go up to the main tower - the headmaster would want to see her.I had to attend other classes. So I didn't see Bellatrix again for the next few hours. She didn't come to dinner; she wasn't in the common room at this evening, so I went to her dormitory in the night. She had cried - I heard it in her voice. But she didn't show me sadness - this wasn't her way. She only told me that I was - "as always" - the lucky one because the "headmaster didn't inform the ministry and the governors about the student who was with Darius. He said he wouldn't want to ruin my and your future. So you'll become Mistress Malfoy.""And you?" I asked her. "Do you love Professor Lestrange?""What good is in that?" she almost screamed. "Dumbledore only refrained from suing him for the promise on the wizard's word that he wouldn't have contact with me until I'm of age.""But you will be age soon," I tried to comfort my sister. "And if Lestrange really loves you he'll wait for you.""Oh, Narcissa - what a silly fool you are!" my sister ranted at me. "Darius is a grown man and he's a passionate one. He can't live without sex and so he'll get himself another mistress quicker as you can say 'but Bellatrix'. So Dumbledore ruined my future today - he made me lose the only man I'll ever love. But he will pay for it! I'll make him pay for it!"to be continued ...

New Orleans time?

Please, help me out if you know: What's the time difference between GMT and New Orleans? As far as I know, it's -8 hours. Am I right?Maxiewho doesn't want to mess this up again

And here we go with "A Winter Tale, Chapter 2"

I don't want to spam, but I thought after the rather long delay a second chapter today would be okay ...So here comes A Winter Tale-----------------------------------by: MaxInspired by the WIKTT Marriage Law Challenge, but not following it exactly[usual disclaimer]Chapter 2: Looking at the winter sun"Miss Granger?"The brown-haired girl, seating at the Gryffindor table, looked up from the heavy, leather-bound book she'd read in and swallowed the piece of toast in her mouth. "Yes, Professor McGonagall?" she answered eagerly."I'd like to have word with you, Miss Granger," the professor said crisp. "Please come to my office when you're done with your breakfast.""I have a potions class to attend in only 10 minutes ...," Hermione reminded her teacher."I'm well informed about the seventh years time table, having made it myself, Miss Granger." Minerva McGonagall pressed her lips together. "Therefore I've already spoken with Professor Snape. You're dismissed from his class." Without waiting for an answer, Minerva McGonagall turned and walked to the door, chin up, back erect, her long, dark blue robe sweeping over the stone floor of the hall. "Whow - what was that about?" The boy on Hermione's left side shove an unruly strand of jet-black hair out of his forehead, his green eyes looking worried."Did you do something wrong?" the redhead on Hermione's other side asked.Hermione cautiously closed the book and shoved it in her bag. Without looking to the boy she said quietly: "I don't think it's about something I did wrong. It's probably worse.""Worse?" The freckled redhead was all wondering. "What could be worse? I mean, your parents are already dead ...""Oh Ron!" The other boy shook his head. "It's only eight in the morning and you've already managed to put both your feet in this big mouth of yours.""I ... I mean ... I wanted to say," Ron Weasley, not only best friend of the famous boy-who-lived, but of Hermione Granger too, stammered. "Hermione knows how I meant it!" he finished finally a bit lamely.Hermione tried a weak smile. Although it was now over a year her parents had died in a car crash, she still mourned. Yet she really understood what Ron had tried to express - close as he was to his parents he simply couldn't imagine something worse then losing them. Unfortunately Hermione could - at least after she'd survived her parent's death already. Her glance wandered through the great hall to the table of the Hufflepuffs where a group of seventh years had gathered around a girl who sobbed on her girlfriends shoulder. Harry Potter's green eyes followed Hermione's and he swallowed hard. "You think it's about this marriage law McGonagall wants to speak with you?"Hermione nodded, now packing a quill and a piece of parchment in her bag. "I'm afraid so.""But you're not 18 yet!" cried Ron. "So no one can ...""Ron, you forget: I've had this time turner during my 3.year." Hermione rose, throwing the heavy bag over her shoulder. "In nine days time I'll be18 - at least in the magic world. Then every pureblood wizard can ask for me ...""But you don't have to worry about that!" Ron became agitated. "I or one of my brothers will marry you. We've already talked this all over, haven't we?""Yes, Ron." Hermione looked up to the wizard's watch over the entrance of the hall. One of its hands just opened and gripped to a table with the inscription "Time for class". Hermione sighed - potion, though a fascinating subject, wasn't actually a favourite class of her because of Professor Snape's acerbic way to belittle his students, especially when they were Gryffindors. But in this time she'd much rather go even a four hours detention with the potion master as to Professor McGonagall's office. Nevertheless she tried an encouraging smile in the direction of the boys. "You should be going - and so shall I. See you later then!"On her way through the now heavily crowded and noisy halls of the school Hermione felt once again rage and misery growing inside herself. Since a few weeks ago the marriage law had ben announced by the ministry, she'd knew that her dreams about a scholarship and an education on a magical university would be shattered. It had been only for her friends comfort that she after nightlong talks with them finally maintained to believe in what she silently named "the highly unlikely Weasley solution." Hermione was too clever to believe that marriage with a Weasley - if Ron or one of the twins or Charly or Bill - would really give her back what this law had taken: The chance to become a person of her own, a scholar, a transfigurations or a potions mistress and perhaps even once a teacher in Hogwarts. The ministry had made the law to raise the wizard's population. So they wouldn't give out scholarships to the young witches they only saw as breeding stock. And with the Weasleys being a poor, but huge family, hardly able to pay for their own children further education, Hermione simply wouldn't stand a chance to attend an university.Besides: Hermione couldn't imagine to marry a Weasley. Ron was her best friend - next to Harry, of course - and his parents and siblings were very dear to her, probably they even were the next thing she'd now to a family after her parents death, but this was just a reason more for not wanting to marry in this family. She wasn't in love with one of the Weasley boys, so a marriage with one of them could only lead to disaster and misery - and how was she to look in Molly Weasley's eyes again, knowing that she was the reason for one of Molly's babies suffering?No, a Weasley for a husband wouldn't do. But being Hogwarts resident star pupil, praised by every teacher (except Snape of course who'd have rather liked to pickle his tongue himself in one of his more poisonous potions) for intellect and sensibility, hadn't kept away Hermione from dreaming and hoping that despite the marriage law her life wouldn't become a waste. Perhaps a nice and intelligent young wizard who liked her brains would ask for her? Her hopes didn't reach so high she dared to dream of falling in love with the husband-to-be, but couldn't it be possible that she got a husband she liked? One who perhaps studied at an university himself and therefore would allow her to get a degree too?Hermione had hoped for it and all the days since she knew of the law, clung to this hope. Whenever panic treated to overwhelm her, she'd said to herself: "You're not a breathtaking beauty, you're not having any money, the only thing interesting about you is your intellect. So there's hope some one will choice you just for your brains - and somebody doing so surely wouldn't want you to waste the only good thing you've to offer."Now she couldn't comfort herself with this thought anymore. Considered how shaken Professor McGonagall had looked by ordering Hermione to her office, Hermione knew she had to prepare herself for the worst case. ****A desk shattered with parchment and books; a four poster bed with red hangings; a bit shabby and paled from years and years of hanging there, two cosy red and golden decorated chairs in front of a little fireplace; on the mantlepiece a muggle-photography of a happy smiling couple next to a moving wizard's picture with a red- and black-haired boy, both waving and pushing each other almost out of the frame; a ginger cat curled to a furball and sleeping in front of the fire - only a few hours before Hermione had thought of this room as her home, the place she belonged to. Of course, she had been aware of the fact that in a few months she were to move out of the head girl's room, that another girl would then live there, but from the first moment Hermione had set foot on Hogwarts, she'd felt she'd belonged there. And she had always hoped that after leaving as a student, she'd come back one day as a teacher. Now, leaning with her back against the door of this room, looking to her small worldly goods, Hermione wondered why she didn't hear fate laughing at her and her ambitions. "Be careful with what you wish," her father had often said. "Life may give it to you."He was been so right, Hermione thought. Life had obviously given to her what she had wished so much: She wouldn't have to leave Hogwarts. The huge castle with his magnificent towers, the candle-light halls, the moving stairs, Hogwarts in all its ancient glory was to finally become her home. Only the praise she'd have to pay for it ... Hermione didn't know what to think about it.Professor McGonagall's voice rang still in her ear, this sad and suddenly so old voice, with which she had said: "There's another way out: You could break your wand and leave the wizard's world. The headmaster could take care you'll get a place at a muggles college in Ireland, so you could start a new life as a muggle ..." Hermione had immediately refused. She didn't need to think about. Her magic was a part of her, a part she dearly loved, something what gave her not only pride, but strength. She would do anything - really anything, even marrying Malfoy - for keeping her magic.Malfoy . Hermione herself of the door and wandered in her room, her fists balled. Malfoy. As Minerva had told her, that Lucius Malfoy wanted her for his son and heir, Hermione had almost fainted. Even in her worse nightmare she'd never come up with an idea so abysmal, so entirely horrible! The name "Malfoy" stood for anything she detested - the dark side, evilness, abused power. Lucius Malfoy was as the devil himself - or at least he was close to the devil, wasn't he? And he wanted to petition for her as his son's bride? The bride of a boy she'd loathed from the first moment she'd sat eyes on him, the boy who'd never done anything as showing her how above he thought she was to him? Hermione's blood started boiling by thinking of Draco. She'd almost protested as Professor McGonagall had said: "Of course, marrying him isn't a option" because she'd actually wanted so much to get her hands around his neck. And what a nice wedding night Hermione could have with the pale snake named "Draco Malfoy"! Wouldn't it be fun to hex his balls off and stuff his big mouth with them? Afterwards she could transfigure him to something nice - a toad perhaps? Or perhaps an earthworm? Then she could go for a little fishing with him as the bait. Wouldn't that be a wonderful way to show the world, that even a Malfoy could be of use? Hermione knew for sure: As long as Draco didn't dare to cast an unforgivable, she could easily stand up to him. And Draco wouldn't dare, coward as he was. But with Malfoy sr. one could never know. He probably translated "Imperio" with "I persuaded somebody nicely", thought of "crucio" as something one should practice at least once a week because a good trained torture wand flick could always come in handy and spend his free hours probably with changing the green light of the killing curse in something which wouldn't make him look so pale by casting it. No, to marry a Malfoy surely wasn't a option. So it was ... Hermione sank down in one of her chairs, swallowing hard and repeated loudly what she just only had thought: "My only option is the headmaster."Her tomcat awoke at the sound of her voice, stretching and blinking to her out of blurry eyes."What do you think about that, Crookshanks?" Hermione asked her familiar. "In only nine days I'll move in the main tower. And yes, you're coming with me." Crookshanks rose, came to her and rubbed his head on her leg. "You'll have to behave then, Crooks. No hopping in bed at night anymore, no chasing around like mad ..." Crookshanks meowed and it sounded like a protest. Hermione smiled tiredly. As Minera had told her, that she was to live with Dumbledore in his private quarters, Hermione had said, before thinking about: "But I've got Crookshanks and he's got a phoenix. Can one keep a cat when a bird is around?" The moment she'd spoken, she'd became ashamed of harping on something so small when so much bigger things were at stake. Yet Minerva had not only understood, but granted Hermione one of her rare touches. Stroking lightly over her student's hand, she'd answered: "Don't you worry, Hermione. Fawkes and Crookshanks will be fine together. Fawkes is quite fond of cats, you know?" Considered that Minerva was an animagnus and her animal form was a tabby cat, Hermione thought she could trust her jugdement.So there was no need to worry about Crookshanks - what meant: Hermione couldn't avoid any longer to think about the man she'd get as a husband.Albus Dumbledore. People said he was the greatest wizard alive, powerful as Merlin himself, mighty as the founders of Hogwarts, the only enemy Voldemort feared and probably the only one who stood a real chance to defeat him. Hermione didn't doubt all this and as Minerva had told her, that she'd live with Dumbledore, a tiny part of her had felt something like pride that a man like this cared so much about her. And there was been a tiny voice in Hermione which has said: "Think of the possibilities! Living with the greatest wizard alive, learning from him ..." She always admired how he did wandless magic - just so, with one wave of the hand, sometimes even only with a flick of a finger. If he would teach her that - it would be worth .... how much would it be worth?Hermione rose and went to the mantlepiece where she took a silver bell and ringed it. The house elve's service was one of the privileges which came with becoming head girl and after almost seven years in the magical world Hermione had learned, that the tiny creatures really loved to serve wizards. After learning that Hermione never tried again to "free" house elves - S.P.E.W., the organisation she'd founded during her fourth year, was by now forgotten and the elves had forgiven Hermione that she hadn't understood their ways. So she was now content in dealing with them, she even sometimes liked to talk a bit with one of the strange creatures. Yet the one, now with a "pop" appearing in front of her, she'd never seen before. It wore - as all Hogwarts house elves - a crisp white tea towel with the Hogwarts crest, but it seemed to be older as the other elves and it looked more dignified. In the contrast to the most other elves who were often a bit overexcited by becoming ordered, this one didn't bump up and down and it even didn't look to her as if she'd keep the hail of the world. Instead the elve looked almost curious to Hermione, his - or hers? Hermione was never sure with house elves and had therefore always to ask for the name first - ears pricked, his eyes interested, but with a self-confidence Hermione had never before seen in a house-elfe. Actually Hermione had long ago learned that house elves didn't like to answer personal questions and tried to avoid it whenever they could, nevertheless she asked: "Who are you? I've never seen you before. Are you new at the castle?"The house-elve bowed. "The name's Woopy and I is a very long time here, Miss Hermione." She pronounced the name as if it had a special meaning for her. "It's nice to meet you, Woppy," Hermione said with a smile. Once again Woppy bowed. "It will be my pleasure to serve Miss Hermione too," she answered.Hermione became more and more curious. The house elve wasn't like the other and the way she'd said "too" - it had sounded as if she'd meant something special. Or somebody special? Hermione couldn't resist asking: "Who do you serve?""I serves witches and wizards," the house-elve replied. Hermione smiled. Despite the circumstances, the situation began to amuse her and she was grateful to the little creature for the distraction it granted her. "Any special witches and wizards?" she tried therefore again - and regretted it immediately, because Woopy sank her head and looked to her naked feet. As Hermione just wanted to apologize for the personal question, Woopy spoke. "I isn't to tell you," she said, sounding embarassed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked," Hermione answered immediately. Thinking of what house elves liked best, she smiled and said: "Could you perhaps bring me a cup of tea?"It worked. Woopy rose her head, her eyes beaming. "Woopy will!" it cried and was gone with a "pop". Hermione sighed. "Strange, this house-elves, aren't they?" she said to her tomcat, who laid now on the back of her chair. Crookshanks of course didn't answer, so Hermione lend back, waiting for the tea.A few moments later the house elve appeared again, carrying a tree not only with tea, but with a chocolate cake on it too. "Your tea, Miss Hermione," it announced.Hermione took the cup and closed her hands around, grateful for the warmth of it. "Thank you, Woopy. But I didn't ask for cake. I don't think I'm hungry." "Miss Hermione should eat the cake. She'll need her strength," the elve said, disappeared and let an amazed Hermione back.Slowly she rose from the chair and wandered, the cup still in her hand, to the window. Being on the south side of Gryffindor Tower she could see the main tower. On his roof stood - so high above over all other buildings that it looked like a child's toy - the statue of a wizard, proudly holding a pole - and yes, this day a flag was flying from the pole. Hermione sighed relieved - and almost laughed about herself. Yet she remembered very well the few days in her fifth year as the ministry had still tried to deny that Voldemort was back. They'd sent a high inquisitor to Hogwarts and for a few days it had seemed as if this cunning, cruel politician had really managed to wrest the school's lead out of the headmaster's hand. She'd even named herself headmistress then. Yet the castle hadn't obeyed to her. The stone gargoyle watching the entrance to the headmaster's office hadn't led her through and the wizard on the main tower had lowered the flag and stood there, his pole planted next to his feet, looking as if he would never again raise it. And despite the terror of this day - Hermione had every time by glancing at the main tower felt as if she'd actually should mount a broom (although she always became sick in doing so) and fly to the roof for giving the wizard a kiss. She'd never done it, but since then she'd always felt a quick shoot of relieve when looking to the wizard and seeing the flag. Today it was the Hogwarts crest on a deep red background. Hermione looked closer - yes, the flag flying in the cold icy wind was definitely showing the Gryffindor colour. Hermione knew what this meant. The flag was enchanted so that it always showed the colour of the authority in charge of the school. The Gryffindor red stood for Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor house. So much Hermione liked the Gryffindor colour - her favourite for the flag was white. It meant that the headmaster himself was in residence and by knowing that Hermione always felt secure and protected. She was sure she wasn't the only one who saw it this way. Dumbledore's presence seemed to radiate calmness and warmth to all Hogwarts, even if he didn't present himself to the meals in the great hall. It was enough to know that he was there, in his round office in the main tower. Yet not seeing him for meals meant mostly a crisis - or was it only Hermione's imagination which made her believe so? She wasn't sure about, but when he came to the meals, even at breakfast always looking a magnificent sight with his heavy, glorious embroidered robes and the long, silver hair softly shimmering in the light of the great hall, she felt better. Admittedly it hadn't been like this ever. Hermione remembered well how she'd set eyes on the headmaster for the first time. She had been an insecure, nervous 11 year old by then, totally overwhelmed of suddenly finding herself in the wizard's world, but with everything she was already determined to show that she belonged there. Walking behind Professor McGonagall down the aisle of the great hall, she'd seen Dumbledore first, a figure out of a fairy tale, so strange, so far away, so absolutely incomprehensible.Yet over the first months in Hogwarts Hermione had mostly felt irritated when it came to the headmaster. In her eyes the greatest wizard alive was to be a man of high authority, serious, settled, aware of his position, an icon of dignity and quiet wisdom. Only Dumbledore was neither quiet nor serious nor - so at least young Hermione found - very dignified. On the contrary: Always cheerful, with a sunny smile and the twinkle in his blue eyes he looked as if he'd thought of life as fun. And he was playful like a toddler, Hermione thought often and sometimes even with a little disgust. He seemed to love nothing more as to play around with his magic - changing decorations during meals, amusing himself with making all Hogwarts inhabitants sing silly songs, deputizing in the transfiguration class and not teaching anything decent and useful, but how to make disgusting bright lollipops out of quills. Once Hermione had even watched how he'd during a meal played a prank with Professor Snape who really wasn't amused as his lamb chops started to complain about feeling neglected because he only picked on them. Hermione had sympathized with Snape at that. To her it seemed simply inappropriate that a man as great as she wanted Hogwarts headmaster to be was wasting his magic at such frivolities. She didn't understand how he could give the Slytherins - especially Draco Malfoy and his cronies - such opportunities to name him a "doddering old fool who should be certified" and a "senile idiot who's long lost his grip and power".For the first three years in Hogwarts Hermione never felt confident about Albus Dumbledore. She never talked about, not even with Harry and Ron. On the contrary - "If you can't trust Dumbledore, who can you trust?" became one of her trademark sayings whenever Ron and Harry doubted Snape's loyalty.It needed a certain quidditch match in her 3. Year to show Hermione that the Slytherins were really and truly and deeply wrong about the old wizard. It needed the feared dementors of Azkaban to step in this match, making Harry fell from his broom 50 feet above the ground, producing sheer panic not only by the students, but by some teachers too. In the middle of the chaos they produced, suddenly Albus Dumbledore became the central figure, standing in the station, his robe billowing and his hair flattering in the wand, wand raised, stopping Harry's fall only a few feet over the ground with one flick. And then his voice had boomed: "Expecto patronus!" A silvern stream had shoot out of the tip of his wand, had became a huge eagle, spreading wings which seemed so big they almost had filled the station. The eagle had taken flight against the dementors who fled in a last, ear-shattering rustle of their black cloaks.Hermione, always a step ahead her class, had by then already knew, that a patronus charm, so huge as this eagle, so strong it could drive away an entire herd of dementors, could only be cast by a very mighty sorcerer. But even without this knowledge - Hermione would have got it then. The Albus Dumbledore she'd seen at the quidditch ground had radiated pure, sheer power, a power so overwhelming it would have been terrifying if Hermione hadn't felt that it was handled with the greatest care and self-discipline. From this day on Hermione had never again doubted or underestimated the headmaster. She'd never again cringed when she'd heard one of the Slytherins belittle him. On the contrary - she'd sometimes even laughed on them, thinking: "How thick must one be for believing in Dumbledore's harmless old fool attitude?" Yet against herself she had to admit: For a few months after the quidditch match his playfulness had still irritated her - even so much that it came immediately to her mind as she was for holidays with an aunt of her who was a muggle scientist, specialised in animal's behaviour and its connection to human psychology. Hermione found the subject fascinating enough to have hourlong talks with her aunt und so one evening the aunt mentioned playfulness on animal. Hermione, thinking of Dumbledore, asked for what evolutionary reason an animal could have got something so useless as that. Her aunt had smiled then. "First - playfulness, or the need to play as we see it, isn't useless at all. Quite the contrary. We're convinced that it was their playfulness what lead to development of first cultural steps with the bonobos. This are very interesting animals - close relatives to the chimpanzees, sharing almost 95 % of their genetic with mankind and very, very clever in not only handle tools, but in teaching it to their offsprings. We believe that they discovered tools by playing - slapping stones against each other for the fun of making noise, testing how stone against nuts would sound - and there you go: It doesn't sound especially interesting, but it's a way to open nuts which are too hard for getting cracked with the teeth. So playing lead to getting more food - an improvement and of course an advantage in the evolution. The second point is: Playfulness in animals - and I dare say in adult human beings too - is always a sign of intelligence. An animal who needs all his brain just for getting food and sleep and shelter doesn't play. It will always be too distressed. Only the individuals who can manage the necessities of their life without reaching their intellectual limits are able and willing to play."Hermione had been very impressed by this and since then she saw Dumbledore's "frivolities" with other eyes. Getting elder and becoming securer herself, she'd even started to like the warm humour and the self-irony he was showing with it. Yet her admiration, liking and trust for the headmaster didn't change the fact that Hermione hardly knew him. Only twice in all the time in Hogwarts he had spoken more then a few polite words to her - and the memory of this moments with Dumbledore wasn't something Hermione was keen to recall. It was only one year ago, on a winter afternoon like this, that librarian Irma Piece had came to the desk Hermione was working at in the library and had whispered: "The headmaster asked me to ask you if you'd come kindly to his office. He wants to talk to you." She'd given Hermione the password and a few minutes later Hermione had found herself crying in the headmaster's fatherly embrace after he'd told her about her parents death.Three days later he'd stood with her on the graveyard next to a small church, looking very strange in a black muggle-coat with black suit, tie and white shirt under it, his hair and beard hidden under a disguise charm. Hermione remembered how his hand had felt as he'd laid it under her elbow for support, a strong grip from which she got energy in a moment in which she'd felt drained and weak. And she remembered something else: His smell. She'd first got it in her nose as he had her comforted in his office - an unique mixture from the lemon drops he was so fond of, sandalwood, herb lavender and something she couldn't recognize, but found not only pleasant, but calming too. Thinking about the headmaster's unique smell lead Hermione, still standing at the window, to the thought she'd tried to avoid since Minerva, probably wondering how quietly Hermione had accepted the idea of Dumbledore as her husband, had blushed deeply and mumbled: "And for the ... uhm ... ahem ... I mean ... for the very private matters of marriage ... you know about what I'm talking about, don't you? ... you will have to talk with Albus ... I mean with Professor Dumbledore ... uhm ...I'm sure he'll make it so easy to you as possible." Was it still being in a shock that Hermione chuckled by remembering this? She'd never before seen crisp Professor McGonagall so wriggly - she'd really looked as if she'd rather tango with a mountain troll as going further with this subject. But with her stammering she'd given Hermione at least time to keep herself away from giggling hysterically by the image which formed in her head: Herself waltzing in the headmaster's office, casually saying: "Professor McGonagall asked me to ask you how you think we shall do our marital duty. Shall we work on a time table or do you prefer spontaneous sex?" Actually Hermione couldn't imagine that the headmaster - or Albus how she should learn to call him - preferred any kind of sex over a good night's sleep, being 163 years old! And the idea of the body underneath all the heavy robes - and all this hair! How did - if he did at all! - avoid to get his beard tangled ... - no, Hermione didn't want to think this thought to the end. Not now. She'd probably learn soon enough - in only nine days she'd lay in his bed, hopefully not hysterically giggling about the irony that her lover was born a victorian, but she felt like one in closing her eyes and thinking of England. At least there were two thoughts with which Hermione could comfort herself. First: it couldn't be so worse as her first time last summer when she had met her poor attempt of a first love Victor Krum again and learned by it, that he was not only as thick as a brick, but except on his broomstick probably the clumsiest human being alive. The only good thing she could say about sex with him was, that he didn't talk quidditch by it - but probably only because saying "quidditch" would need longer as he'd last. And the second comfort was Hermione's good, old mantra: "If you can't trust Dumbledore - who can you trust?"