Epithalamium (Harry Potter for grown-ups)

Chapter Forty-Two

When Albus awoke the next morning, it took him several moments to work out that the heat of the body curled up against him was not the continuation of a lovely dream.

But no, it was Minerva, warm, naked, and very, very real, breathing heavily and steadily, the pale skin of her back making momentary contact with his chest with each intake of breath. He lifted his head, and it took some willpower for him not to reach over and brush the hair from her cheek so he could watch her face—or one side of it, anyway—in repose, as he all too rarely saw it.

Instead, he settled his head back against the pillow and contented himself with breathing in her scent and enjoying the feel of her close to him.

How is this possible? he wondered to himself.

A few months ago, he had been settling in as Headmaster of Hogwarts, busy also with his work on the Wizengamot and a million other things besides, barely thinking of Minerva McGonagall—at least, not in his working hours, which was most of the time. He had thought himself . . . if not content, exactly, then settled in his discontent and resigned to being alone among the throngs of people who needed him on a regular basis for his unique talents but never as a man.

Then Minerva had shown up in his office, offering her professional services, and he had suddenly been acutely aware of her absence from his life over the long years. That day, he had experienced the same feelings of longing and helplessness he had those years ago, when he had known with every neuron in his considerable brain that his desires were wrong and dangerous for both of them, but had pursued them anyway. So, when she came for the interview, he had found himself offering her the job just as he had once found himself kissing her in his chambers just after 1943 had turned over into 1944—without intending to, but immediately glad he had before the stupidity of what he had done assaulted him.

But it was no longer 1944, and she was no longer eighteen. The Albus Dumbledore of 1957 didn't have a dreadful appointment to keep nor any more terrible secrets that might change the love and respect he had come to crave from her into the scorn and disgust he had secretly felt he deserved. If she could forgive him, could he not forgive himself?

Perhaps.

She is a miracle, he thought suddenly. His personal miracle. He supposed he might have to re-evaluate his disbelief in a benevolent God.

After a few minutes, he couldn't resist touching her and carefully moved her hair out of the way so he could kiss the back of her neck. She stirred against him, and he inched himself closer up against her, his hand coming to rest on her breast.

She could feel him draw closer, and she moved back to press against him, then raised her outside knee, giving him silent permission to . . .

Yes, that . . . oh!

They made love without speaking, the only sounds in the room their breath and the gentle creaking of the old bed frame.

When it was over, she sighed her contentment. "Oh, Albus . . . Albus . . ."

"Yes, my love?"

"That was a very nice way to wake up."

"Wasn't it?"

She said, "If the world were fair, it would always be like this."

"You wouldn't get tired of it?" he asked.

"Of course not," she answered. "Why? Do you think you'd tire of it?"

"Not in a million years. But I might expire after not too many of them. I'm not as young you," he said.

"Oh, pish. As if you're an old man! You certainly make love like a young man."

"I'm glad you think so," he said. Hesitating, he asked, "And have you made love with many young men?" He tried to keep his tone light and joking, but she turned over to look at him.