When Minerva pulled aside the curtain the next morning, the white-cold December sun glinting off the wet stone nearly blinded her. The day promised to be lovely, so she woke Albus and persuaded him to take an early walk to find breakfast.

The view from the Rialto Bridge was glorious. The blue-green ripples of the Grand Canal reflected the old buildings that lined it like an audience of stately elders, and the sounds of the old city waking up rang pleasantly in Minerva's ears.

They strolled through the market, already filling with black-clad ladies on the hunt for the freshest vegetables and seafood, and a few blocks further they found a café in the Campo San Silvestro. It was crowded with Monday-morning Venetians at the bar, downing their espressos before heading out to work.

A man stood and offered a seat at one of the few tables to Minerva and Albus.

"Prego, signora," he said, gesturing for her to sit.

She hesitated, but Albus said, "Go ahead. I'll get us some coffees."

"Grazie," she said to the Italian man, and took the seat he had vacated as Albus headed to the bar.

She entertained herself by studying the café's other patrons and wondering what their days would hold. They were, by and large, men, seemingly a mixture of businessmen in black wool coats and fedoras and workingmen in heavy jackets and knit hats or flat, billed caps. A priest in a black cassock, short cape, and what looked like a tufted box perched atop his head, sat in a corner, sipping from a tiny cup and reading L'Osservatore Romano, frowning through round, wire-rimmed spectacles.

A pair of carabinieri, Italian policemen, entered, their crisp, brass-buttoned uniforms and bicorn hats drawing Minerva's eye. She smiled to see a young man slip out the door behind them, clearly opting to abandon his breakfast in favour of a discreet escape. It reminded her of the way her students sometimes attempted to avoid her in the corridors if they hadn't completed their homework or had performed poorly on an exam.

Albus arrived bearing their coffees and a plate of cornetti, which were warm and filled with vanilla cream.

"A decadent breakfast after last night's overindulgence," she said, eagerly tearing off a piece of pastry and popping it into her mouth. It was buttery and creamy, with a hint of lemon sugar.

Albus dunked his into his espresso and took a bite.

"Delicious," he said. He pretended to pout when a blob of cream from the end of his cornetto ploppedonto the surface of the table. Minerva smirked and offered him her index finger. He took it in his mouth, taking a little longer than necessary to lick the cream from it.

"What's that?" Minerva asked, quirking her chin at the folded newspaper Albus had dropped onto the table with their breakfast.

"The International Herald Tribune. I liberated it from the bar while I was waiting for our coffees."

"Dare I ask what's been happening in the world since we've been on holiday?"

"This is a few days behind the times, of course," Albus said, taking his spectacles from his coat pocket and putting them on. He unfolded the paper and looked at the front page.

"It appears that Indonesian nationalists continue to expel Dutch nationals from Dutch New Guinea," he said.

"I imagine it won't be 'Dutch New Guinea' much longer."

He looked up at her over his glasses. "Indeed. The era of European colonialism seems to be drawing to a close."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Rather the opposite, I think. But change, even good change, rarely comes without cost."

"No, I suppose it doesn't."

He resumed his perusal of the front page, his brow furrowing.

"What?" Minerva asked.

"Another victim from the rail crash in Lewisham has died."

"That's too bad. What an awful tragedy that was."

"Mmm," Albus said absently as he continued to read the story. Something was clearly on his mind.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

He looked up as if surprised to find she was still there. "I'm wondering if I should try to get in touch with Alastor."

"Alastor? Why?"

"Just to check that it's been properly investigated."

"Surely that's a task for Muggle law enforcement?"

"Yes, but whenever there's a large Muggle accident, we need to ensure that there was no magical involvement."

"Why would there have been?"

"No specific reason. But this was an odd accident. Witness accounts say the second train was running at nearly full speed in a dense fog, and the driver ignored several warning signals. One wonders if he was in his right mind."

She leaned closer to him and whispered, "You think it was Muggle-baiting? Something like a Confundus? Or even an Imperius?"

"No, not really. It was likely just a terrible accident. But one wants to be certain."

Minerva mulled this over as he turned the page of the newspaper. She wanted to ask him more about the accident, but before she could, he changed the subject abruptly.

"Ah! It seems Wally Grout broke a record for catches behind the stumps in his first test match in South Africa."

Minerva looked at him blankly. "I have no idea what you're on about."

Albus looked up from the paper. "Cricket."

"You follow cricket?" Minerva asked, surprised. Albus had no interest in sport, magical or Muggle, as far as she knew.

"Not at all," Albus said. "But your brother does. He finds cricket better than Quidditch, he tells me."

Minerva snorted. "He would. Any other essential news I should know?"

Albus turned several pages, scanning them.

"Does the name Elvis Presley mean anything to you?" he asked.

"Not in the slightest."

"It says he's an American 'rock-and-roll idol,' whatever that is. It seems he is being required to join the United States Armed Forces, and millions of young girls are apparently quite unhappy about it."

Minerva shook her head.

Albus's eyes skimmed the article. "It further reports that his song 'All Shook Up' has reached number one in the charts for 1957."

"That is ungrammatical."

"Perhaps it's an Americanism." He folded the paper, set it down, and removed his glasses, stowing them in his breast pocket. "Anyway, I suspect proper grammar is the least of Mr Presley's concerns, given his impending induction and the relations between the Americans and the Russians."

"Do you think there will be war between them?"

"Not open war. Neither Eisenhower nor Khrushchev wants that. But I'm very much afraid there will be bloody conflict one way or another. Since the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu, Ike has been boxed into actively opposing the communists in Indochina."

"Ike?"

"General Eisenhower. Or, rather, President Eisenhower. Everyone called him 'Ike' during the war."

Minerva's lips curved in an amused smile. "Including you?"

"Not to his face. But I did meet him."

"How did you come to meet an American general?"

"Churchill asked Lycurgus—Minister Greengrass—for magical help with Operation Overlord. The invasion was such a crucial operation for the Allies, I suppose he decided he needed all the help he could get. Lycurgus asked me and a few others to advise General Montgomery, and we met with the other Allied leaders, including Ike, on two occasions."

Minerva remembered her suspicion that Albus had helped in the Muggle war and was pleased to have it finally confirmed.

"What did you do for Montgomery?"

"We provided magical support to Operation Fortitude, which was a massive diversion plan to make the Germans think the Allied invasion would occur in Pas de Calais and Norway. Filius and I—"

"Filius Flitwick?"

"Yes. I brought him in when it became clear that we'd need advanced Charms expertise. We essentially provided a decoy invasion force that appeared to be preparing for operations in southern England."

Albus chuckled. "It's perhaps crass to admit it, but we had fun working up realistic Muggle aircraft, tanks, and such that appeared to work without risking anything useful falling into German hands. We also concocted a small force of soldiers. I Transfigured a variety of animals, and Filius created charms to have them behave as soldiers would, at least to remote observers. At one point, I even Glamoured myself to resemble General Patton—he was the man everyone expected to lead the invasion—so I could show myself to a German prisoner of war who was being transferred home for medical treatment. The prisoner very obligingly passed what he saw on to the German commanders, and Hitler ended up keeping the bulk of his Panzers and his Fifteenth Army at the Pas de Calais while the Allies conducted the real invasion at Normandy."

Minerva shook her head in wonder. "Amazing."

"It did work out nicely."

Minerva thought back to the Muggle radio broadcasts they'd listened to in the Great Hall on D-Day. It had been during their first affair, when she had been utterly besotted by her lover's brilliance but still naïve about his involvement in the serious business of war.

She wondered, with a frisson of worry, how often he would be called upon to use his unique abilities during future conflicts. She hoped the relative peace wizarding Britain had enjoyed in the past few years would last and there would be no Muggle wars large enough to require magical intervention. But she couldn't count on it. Her husband's power and intelligence would always be in demand somewhere, and she knew she couldn't ask him to refuse to use his gifts if they were needed.

They finished their breakfast and decided to stroll around the city while the weather was good. After walking along the Grand Canal for a while, they ambled down some side streets. Merchants were busy setting out their wares in shop windows, and Minerva and Albus went into several shops to browse. One small bakery had a line of people coming out the door, and Albus was enticed by the seductive smell of freshly baked bread wafting from within. He insisted they go in.

"We've only just had breakfast," Minerva objected.

"We can pick something up for later," Albus said, guiding her by the elbow into the back of the queue.

He tipped his hat at the stout lady in front of them. "Buongiorno, signora."

The lady nodded at him in acknowledgement and turned back to peer anxiously at into the shop, perhaps hoping that her favoured items wouldn't sell out before she reached the head of the queue.

After several minutes, Albus and Minerva had reached the bakery doorway, and Minerva had to admit, the delicious aroma made her stomach gurgle despite their recent indulgence.

Once inside, Albus was drawn to a brown pandoro, its domed top dusted with powdered sugar, but Minerva pointed out that it would get sticky if they carried it around with them, so they ended up compromising on a warm, fresh ciabatta, which Minerva insisted would make a more wholesome snack.

That accomplished, they wandered through the streets, peeking into various shops until they reached a small square off the Piazza San Marco. Minerva was delighted to find the Antica Legatoria Piazzesi, an old paper shop she remembered having visited with her father during their trip. He'd fallen in love with the shop's exquisite handmade paper, and Minerva decided she wanted to bring him a gift.

They went in, and after perusing the shop's handsome wares, she selected notebook covered in a blue-ink print of the Doge's Palace and bound in deep navy leather at the spine and corners. The paper that filled it was so creamy that Minerva couldn't resist bringing it to her nose to inhale the rich scent. Her father would love it; he liked to use Muggle notebooks rather than cumbersome rolls of parchment for his observations during his travels, and this would be perfect for the trip to Persia he'd been hoping to take.

For her sister-in-law, Katherine, Minerva selected a set of Muggle stationery in a yellow marbled pattern, housed in a box lined with the same print in elegant black and white. It would be useful when Katherine wrote to her brother, who had married a Muggle girl and lived in a Muggle flat in London.

In another display case, a set of calligraphy pens caught Minerva's eye. The handles were of clear glass filled with brilliantly marbled scraps of paper of various colours. Just the ticket for Einar, she thought, who had a small collection of Muggle biros he enjoyed using instead of quills. This would be like a cross between a quill and a biro, Minerva thought. She selected a pen with a blue pattern and a pair of nibs, and a bottle of ink in a matching brilliant blue.

"Ravenclaw colours for my father and brother, and Hufflepuff yellow for Katherine," Minerva told Albus as she handed the items over to the clerk.

When they left the paper shop, they took the opportunity to pass through the Piazza San Marco again and gaze at the basilica.

"Shall we climb the bell tower?" Minerva asked as she peered upward, her palm shading her eyes from the sun.

Albus glanced around. "It's a bit crowded," he said.

A throng of visitors had converged the church—many more than on the grey day they'd first visited it. There was a long queue to get into the campanile.

"The view from the San Giorgio bell tower is better, Albus said.

"All right, let's go there."

It was a short, pleasant vaporetto ride from San Marco to the island of San Giorgio Maggiore, site of the famous Renaissance church of the same name.

As boat neared the island, they turned back to look across the Lagoon at the Piazza San Marco. In the clear, late-morning sun, the Moorish columns of the Doge's Palace appeared to rise directly from the water.

"It looks like something out of a children's fairy story," Minerva said. "A Muggle story, I think. Perrault or Andersen."

"Did your father read you Muggle fairy stories?"

"Oh, yes. Gran did Babbity Rabbity and all that, but I liked my father's Muggle stories better. I went through a phase where I wanted only the really gruesome ones."

Albus laughed. "A bloodthirsty child, were you?"

"Not bloodthirsty, just morbidly curious, I suppose."

"And what was your favourite?"

"I was fascinated by 'The Little Mermaid'."

"I don't I recall that story."

"It's the one where a mermaid falls in love with a prince she's saved from drowning. She sacrifices her voice to a sea-witch so she can grow legs and be with him. But he marries someone else in the end, and she dissolves into foam."

"Poor mermaid. Is it terribly gruesome?"

"Oh, it's very bloody. The sea-witch cuts off the mermaid's tongue, and she puts some of her own blood into a potion. After the prince betrays the mermaid, the witch offers her the chance to become a mermaid again if she'll stab the prince in his marriage bed and drip the blood on her feet."

"It sounds quite violent."

"She doesn't do it, of course."

"This was your favourite story?"

"When I was about five. For me, the worst—or, I suppose, the best—bit was that, after the mermaid turns human, whenever she walks on land with the legs, it feels as though she's walking on daggers."

"And what made that the best bit?"

"It seemed an appropriately horrible punishment for such a stupid girl."

When Albus raised his eyebrows, Minerva said, "She gave up a perfectly lovely life under the ocean to be nothing more than a pet to a spoiled prince who never thought of her as anything more than an amusing decoration."

"Ah, but she loved him."

"That only makes it worse."

His eyes danced with merriment at this proclamation. "No one could ever accuse you of being a sentimentalist, my dear."

"Nonsense. I'm perfectly sentimental. When it's called for." She added quietly, "Of course, I realised later that the story was just another cautionary tale about wayward girls who open their legs—quite literally—for men who have no intention of marrying them."

"A colourful way of putting it, but you have a point," Albus said. "I'm so glad you've decided to avoid a dire fate by convincing me to marry you."

She biffed him gently on the arm with her fist. "It was your idea, Dumbledore."

"The best one I've ever had, Madam Dumbledore." He pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.

She was quiet as they watched San Marco recede in the distance.

"Does it bother you when I call you that?" he asked, after a moment.

"No. Why should it?"

"I just wondered. Since you are keeping your name."

"We could hardly keep our marriage quiet if I changed it to yours. Besides, I'm rather fond of my name. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not. It's a lovely name."

"So is Dumbledore."

"You think so? I've always thought it a bit odd, myself."

"Unusual, maybe. But I don't know much about Welsh onomastics. It's an old name, isn't it?"

"I'm not sure, although I haven't made a study of it. As far as I know, the first records of a 'Dumbledore' came from the sixteenth century. I know we are related to the Abberffraws going back to the eleventh century. How and why we became Dumbledores is lost to the mists of history."

"Pity."

"We can't all have your family's splendid pedigree."

"I don't know how splendid it is."

"The McGonagalls go back to the Viking era, yes?"

"Yes, although they weren't 'McGonagalls' back then. I don't know what they were called. There was an Einar Thorbjornson from whom we are apparently descended who fought alongside Thorfinn the Mighty in the eleventh century. That's probably how we ended up with land in Caithness after he won. And after we became 'McGonagalls', we held on to the Norse given names."

"'Minerva' isn't Norse, though."

"No, that's from my mother's side. My second name is the Norse one. 'Sigrid.' 'Aithne' is from my gran."

"'Minerva Sigrid Aithne McGonagall'," Albus recited. "It has a lovely lilt to it. Adding 'Dumbledore', would be gilding the lily."

"It would put me even with you, though, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. That's five names."

"Five is far too many to live up to," he said.

"I think you've managed."

When the boat drew up to the dock at San Giorgio, and Albus and Minerva joined the small crowd waiting to disembark.

The church's magnificent façade was only yards away from the Lagoon, and the combination of the reflection from the water and the sun hitting the white marble made it too bright to look at for long.

The soaring columns created an elegant line at the front of the building, echoed inside by columns lining the three naves. While Venice's other great basilica, San Marco, was gilded and colourful, giving the visitor the feeling of slipping into an exotic past, San Giorgio was a different proposition altogether.

If San Marco was about the intimate connection between heaven and earth, this Renaissance church was about the transcendence of the soul above the earthly plane. The clean lines and white, high interior gave the impression that one was entering the vestibule of Heaven, ready at any moment to be swept upwards to join the angels. The famous dome soaring above reinforced the feeling, drawing the eye to the seemingly endless space above the crossing between the transepts. Standing under it and looking up, Minerva felt insignificant, which, she supposed, was the architect's intent. This was a space in which to contemplate the infinite.

She and Albus approached the altar. The altarpiece was unlike any they'd seen thus far. Four bronze statues knelt, holding a pair of large crucifixes over their heads. Upon the crucifixes balanced a large copper ball, atop which stood the figure of God the Father, his head encased by a triangular halo, his right hand raised in the familiar gesture of benediction. The dove of the Holy Spirit descended from below God's feet to touch the top of the front crucifix. A pair of winged angels flanked the central arrangement.

The copper ball reflected images from the church in a 360-degree vista, pulling images of the church's visitors directly into the scene. It was modern-looking, Minerva thought, worlds away from the medieval Palo d'Oro that graced the San Marco altar, with its jewels and enamels.

Above the altar, at the entry to the choir, a majestic pipe organ held sway on a balcony supported by four pillars behind the altarpiece.

Canvases by Tintoretto graced either side of the chancel: on the left, a depiction of the gift of manna to the Israelites, and on the right, the Last Supper. Albus and Minerva walked behind the altar to the apse, which was lined with mahogany choir stalls, each intricately carved with a different scene from the life of one saint or another, Minerva supposed. In contrast to the dark wood, the apse above the stalls boasted an array of windows, topped with either a rounded or triangular pediment alternating with a series of niched statues. In the choir's centre stood the statue of a cherubic St George slaying a—suspiciously small, Minerva thought—dragon.

"It looks as if they're playing fetch," Albus whispered. "It puts me in mind of Hagrid."

"Hagrid?"

"He keeps asking Silvanus if they can get a dragon for the school's menagerie."

"Is he mad?" Minerva asked, appalled.

"No, but I think he has a rather unrealistic idea of the affability of dragons."

In Minerva's opinion, Hagrid had an unrealistic idea of many things. Nevertheless, she was glad he'd found a place at Hogwarts. He'd been such a good-natured boy—a lucky thing, given his size—she'd been happy to find that Headmaster Dippet had taken him on as an assistant to Groundskeeper Ogg shortly after she'd left Hogwarts, and she was pleased to become reacquainted with him since she'd joined the staff. But he'd evidently not become any less fanciful about his "misunderstood creatures" in the intervening years. She wondered if it was because he was lonely. She made a mental note to have him round for tea at her cottage when they returned to Scotland.

Minerva and Albus explored the church's chapels, admiring the art in each. They found a wedding taking place in one and stood respectfully in the back to watch.

Albus grasped her hand as the bride and groom knelt at the altar while a young priest in green vestments prayed over them in Latin. When the priest had finished, the bride struggled to get up, achieving her feet only with the help of her groom, and when she turned, Minerva saw she was very pregnant. She glanced at a grinning Albus and couldn't help smiling herself.

The bride's condition likely explained a Monday-morning wedding with only seven attendees. Minerva and Albus watched for another few moments as the young couple took their seats and the priest continued the nuptial mass.

Albus and Minerva slipped away and joined the short queue to go up the bell tower. When their turn came, the lift whisked them efficiently to the top. They emerged to a panoramic view of Venice, the Lagoon and its islands, and much beyond, all shimmering in a bright mid-winter sun.

The Piazza San Marco, with the campanile and the Palazzo Ducale, were even more stunning when seen against the backdrop of the entire city that was laid out before them. To the west, the alluvial plain formed by the deltas of northern Italy's great Po and Piave rivers was visible beyond the Lagoon, and to the east, the expanse of the Adriatic Sea rippled in a vast green-blue blanket.

They stared down into the newly renovated Palladian cloister of the San Giorgio Monastery.

"I remember my father telling me the monastery once housed one of Europe's great libraries," Minerva said. "Napoleon looted it after the Venetian Republic fell. I wonder what became of the books."

"Lining the shelves of several lesser Buonapartes and Habsburgs, no doubt," Albus said.

"Oh!" Minerva clapped her hands over her ears.

The church bell had begun its noonday tolling, and everyone followed Minerva's example, shielding their ears to protect them from the clanging.

The sound reverberated throughout Minerva's body, which was thrilling and a little titillating, as she leant against Albus, eyes closed.

When it had finished, Albus said, "We timed that badly, didn't we?"

"We did. But I suppose temporary deafness is a small price to pay for this gorgeous view." She looked out across the Lagoon to the city.

The bell had obviously reminded Albus that it was lunchtime.

"Shall we head down and find something to eat?" he asked hopefully.

Minerva shaded her eyes with her hand as she took one last look around the magnificent panorama.

"All right. And afterwards, Torcello?"

"I thought we could eat on Torcello. There's apparently a fine restaurant there. Horace recommended it."

"If Horace recommended it, it's bound to be excellent. He seems to know the best places to eat."

"Yes, he does enjoy his food, which is fortunate for us. He's worked with school's kitchen elves over the years to improve the fare."

As they waited for the lift, Minerva said, "I don't remember the food at Hogwarts ever being bad. A bit dull, perhaps, but they do have to appeal to the appetites of children."

"You never experienced it at its worst. Most of us just accepted it, but Horace made it a mission to liven up the menu a bit. When I first arrived at Hogwarts, it was all overcooked meat, greasy potatoes, and soggy veg."

Minerva made a face. "Remind me to thank him, then. Even if it's only weekday lunch and the occasional dinner, I'm glad I don't have to face that every time."

"Puddings were always good, though."

Minerva laughed. "And that's where you got your sweet tooth, I suppose."

"Let's just say the limitations of Hogwarts cuisine reinforced an existing weakness," Albus said with a grin.

When the doors to the lift opened, and a new set of visitors were exchanged for old, the lift lurched to life and descended. The others riding with them were speaking animatedly in Italian, paying Albus and Minerva no mind, so Minerva felt comfortable continuing their conversation.

"He's an odd duck, Horace," she said.

"How so?"

"Sometimes he seems like a caricature of a Slytherin pure-blood snob, what with his fancy tastes and his Slug Club. And other times, he seems so down-to-Earth and kind."

"He is something of an intellectual and aesthetic snob, although it has nothing to do with blood purity," Albus said. "And he is a very kind man."

"You've known him a long time."

"Yes. He joined the Hogwarts staff a year after I did. I didn't know him in school, although his first year and my seventh overlapped."

"He's a good teacher, or would be, if he didn't ignore the students who aren't adept in Po—in his subject," Minerva said, glancing around.

"As I say, he's an intellectual snob, and, unfortunately, that extends to his teaching. He simply doesn't notice the less talented students."

The lift landed and discharged its human cargo. Minerva and Albus headed out of the church towards the vaporetto stop.

"I have a feeling there's a story there," Minerva said as they walked.

"I don't really know," said Albus, "but I do know that he grew up in difficult circumstances. He doesn't speak much of it, but reading between the lines, I don't think his family understood what they had in him. He's quite brilliant. As a young potioneer, he moved in some heady circles, but something happened to make him leave private practice."

"What?" Minerva asked, her interest piqued.

"He's never said. I get the impression he's been hurt somehow and came to Hogwarts as a sort of refuge. In any event, it wasn't before he'd developed some rarefied tastes. Those are difficult to support on a teacher's salary, but he manages."

Minerva thought about the few personal conversations she'd had with the Potions master.

"I suppose that's why he's so keen to get in with the better-connected students and the ones who are likely to make names for themselves."

"That isn't an entirely inaccurate assessment, but I don't think it's the whole story." A gust of wind made Albus clutch his hat to his head, and he tightened his scarf around his neck. "He cares deeply about mentoring talented students, and he's been generous with both his time and his money for some of them, especially the ones with little family support."

Minerva's surprise must have shown on her face.

"There's more to Horace than oak-matured mead and box seats to the World Cup," Albus said.

"I suppose I've misjudged him."

Albus gave her an understanding smile. "Many people do. But I hope you'll give him a chance. He can be a fine friend."

Minerva wasn't sure she could ever become a real friend to a man like Horace Slughorn, but she decided to try to like him. He had been a good teacher to her, and he was always pleasant to talk to and interested in her thoughts about things.

She and Albus arrived back in the city and caught the vaporetto that would take them to Torcello. The ride, which took almost an hour, including a changeover at Burano, was sunny but windy and cold, and by the time they got there, Minerva found she was hungry.

Fortunately, it was only a ten-minute walk along a tree-lined canal and over a small, bridge to the restaurant Albus had in mind, the only one, as it turned out, on the island.

The pretty but unassuming façade of the Locanda Cipriani promised a relaxing meal. Fortunately, in the off-season, there was no wait for a table. A waiter immediately seated Albus and Minerva near one of the restaurant's many large windows, which afforded them a lovely view of the old church just beyond the inn's extensive gardens.

As they perused the menu, Albus told Minerva a bit about the restaurant.

"It's a great favourite among the rich and famous," he said. "Winston Churchill dined here, and the Muggle Duke and Duchess of Windsor. And the American writer Ernest Hemingway."

"How do you know all this?" Minerva asked, not looking up from her menu as she tried to decide on a main course.

"Horace, of course. He was here when the duke and duchess were and garnered an introduction, apparently."

Minerva snorted a laugh. "Why am I not surprised?"

They shared an appetiser of grilled octopus with creamy burrata cheese. For the main course, Minerva selected the house specialty, John Dory "alla Carina," prepared with capers, lemon butter, and tomatoes, with a side of rosemary potato cakes. Albus had Venetian-style calf's liver, thinly sliced, with stewed onions, served with grilled polenta. He ordered a delicate, dry Riesling Renano to accompany their meals.

Over their lunch, they talked more about the school and its denizens, about Minerva's family, and other pleasant topics. After their dessert of panna cotta with candied cherries, they went to investigate the island's sights.

The Basilica of Santa Maria Assunta was one of the oldest in the area, its age apparent in the worn and exposed stone, like an ancient tree gradually shedding its bark. Byzantine mosaics decorated various parts of the church's interior, and though they weren't as dazzling as those in San Marco, they were lovely.

While the apse that depicted the Virgin holding the Christ child, undergirded with portraits of standing saints, was the first to draw Minerva's eye, with its gold background gleaming in the afternoon sun, the real masterpiece, she thought, was The Last Judgement and accompanying Harrowing of Hell that surrounded the door on the church's western wall."

"They don't appear especially perturbed," Albus said as they looked at the souls condemned to everlasting torment, harried by stick-wielding angels and blue demons. The figures did look rather casual, given that they were surrounded by licks of pink and red flame.

Minerva chuckled, but in truth, she found the piece disturbing, with its little pile of skulls arranged against a black background. It reminded her of the imagery she'd seen in certain books of Dark magic.

They inspected the basilica, then went to see the neighbouring Santa Fosca church. The portico that ensconced the church door was charming, and the plain, rustic interior felt much more inviting than the expansive spaces that they'd seen in larger, newer churches. Minerva could picture the people of the island worshipping here throughout the centuries.

It only took a few minutes to tour the small church, after which they climbed the stairs to the top of the campanile to take in the view of the island. Even in winter, it was lushly verdant, and it seemed miles away from the hubbub of Venice and the other islands.

They emerged into a grassy square where another tourist was taking photos of a young woman seated in a large stone chair and hamming it up for the camera, her companion snapping away at each ridiculous pose.

"This must be the 'Throne of Attila' the waiter told us about," Albus said.

"I doubt very much the king of the Huns actually sat in it," said Minerva.

"Such a sceptic."

"What would he have been doing on this tiny island?" He had his eye set on Ravenna."

"You know your Muggle history better than I," Albus said.

"Not much choice, with my father. Every trip was a history lesson."

"I can't remember, did you do a N.E.W.T. in History of Magic?"

"I did. It was an easy thing, since all they wanted was for us to regurgitate names and dates," Minerva said, her disgust evident in her tone. "I shouldn't say anything, but it's a shame the class is so dull."

"Mmm," agreed Albus. "But no one has ever been able to … dislodge Cuthbert from his post. As a ghost, he's bound to the castle, and I'm not sure he wouldn't haunt any teacher we brought in to replace him."

"Do you think he'll teach forever?"

"No. Most ghosts eventually move on. Otherwise we'd be overrun with them."

"What prompts them to move on?"

"No one knows. One hopes it's because they've finally made peace with death, but of course, we can't ask them."

A shriek of laughter interrupted their discussion. The photographer had grabbed the young woman around the waist and was kissing her passionately.

"Young love," Albus said, smiling indulgently. "Would you like to try it out?"

"What, young love or the chair?" Minerva asked mischievously.

"I meant the throne, but if you're in the mood for love, I'm sure I can oblige."

"I'll skip the throne, thank you, but I'll take you up on the other when we get back to our hotel."

"I can't manage the 'young' bit, though."

"I prefer my love more mature, anyway."

"Lucky for me."

She took his hand, and they strolled along the canal, enjoying the austere beauty of the winter-naked trees that that lined it. The sky had clouded over, and a chilly but not unpleasant sprinkling of rain dotted their faces as they walked.

They watched a houseboat chug doggedly up the narrow waterway, pulling close to the side to avoid colliding with the smaller boats anchored in spots along the canal.

"It must be a lovely way to live," Albus said. "Sailing the canals of Venice, putting out to sea when the weather is good."

"I don't think I'd like it," Minerva said. "Very cramped, and I get seasick."

"I'd forgotten that you've spent time at sea."

"Five very long days between Southampton and New York. Thank Merlin for anti-emetic potions, or I would have spent them in the loo being sick."

"I shall have to abandon my fantasies of a seafaring life, it seems."

"Have you ever been on a sea voyage?"

"The longest boat ride I've had is the Channel crossing," Albus admitted.

"Well, it may be better on one of the large luxury liners, but my ship was a smaller passenger ship, and it was very tedious. I couldn't do any magic outside of my cabin because there were always people around and very little privacy, so mostly I sat in the tiny bar and read Muggle books."

As they continued their amble, Albus said, "I'd like to hear more about your time in Salem."

"Have you never been there?"

"No. I had hoped to have a look in when I was scheduled to go to Massachusetts for a meeting at Ilvermorny, but the meeting was cancelled when an enormous hurricane hit New England, so I didn't have the chance.

"There isn't a great deal to see," said Minerva. "It's just a very plain three buildings on a couple of acres outside Salem proper. The town itself is charming, but it's also full of shops selling terrible souvenirs related to the witch trials." She shook her head. "Imagine making a tourist industry from such a thing."

"But you enjoyed your time there?"

"I did. They were trying to build up their bench research programme, and I worked with the faculty and students on several projects related to cellular Transfiguration, which was fun."

"What sorts of projects?"

"The biggest was on cellular respiration in Transfigured beings. A couple of students were interested in the effects of Animagus transformation. We wrote a paper for Acta, and one of the students eventually came to Oxford to do her postdoc with me."

"I remember that paper—it was impressive. Do you keep in touch with the postdoc student?"

"Just cards at Christmas. After Oxford, she went back to France, where her family is. I've seen her name on a few papers since, and I keep hoping we'll end up at a conference together, but no luck so far."

"The Salem Witches' Institute was lucky to have you as a visiting scholar."

"I was lucky to be invited. Besides working with Ophélie and Amytis—those were the students—I was able to sit in on classes on magical theory, which is what they're best known for. Amelia studied there for a year before she joined the Aurors, and she gave me an introduction to the American magical legal scholar Odina Frye. Law isn't my field, of course, but she was fascinating to talk to."

"Indeed she is."

"Do you know her?" Minerva asked, surprised.

"I've met her. She advised the International Confederation on policy regarding the regulation of indigenous magical practices."

"Dad met up with her when he was in America earlier this year. I think he wants her to contribute to a new book."

"He's writing a new book?"

"Thinking about it, he says."

They arrived at the vaporetto stop, which was deserted, save for an elderly man carrying an easel under one arm and a large portfolio under the other.

He tipped his cap at Minerva and Albus, who nodded back politely.

"I've often wondered that you don't write a book on Transfiguration," Albus said as they waited for the water bus.

"I can't imagine there would be any market for my work. Basic science doesn't hold much appeal for many people."

"Perhaps not, but you could write about your ideas on the effects of Transfiguration more broadly," Albus said. "I think a lot of people would be interested in reading the perspective of an Animagus."

Minerva made a scoffing noise. "Only about the prurient aspects–do I have heat cycles, what would happen if I mated with an actual cat … that sort of thing. It's what I get asked all the time, although generally not in so many words. I doubt they'd care to hear much about my theories on cellular changes."

Albus stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I wonder what would happen?"

"What?"

"If you mated with a cat. Would there be a litter of kittens? Or a baby with a tail and whiskers? That would be adorable."

She rolled her eyes, and he laughed.

"You think you're very amusing, don't you?" she said.

"Merely pruriently curious," he said. "Do you have heat cycles?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I'm not at all sure I would."

When they got back to the hotel, each of them had a bath and did a bit of reading, Albus snacking on the bread they had bought that morning, before venturing out in search of dinner. The clouds had moved in again, and the wind blew in bitter gusts, so they stayed close to the hotel.

After their sumptuous lunch, Minerva wanted a light meal, so, on the advice of the Rubenesque desk clerk, they headed for the closest bacaro, a traditional Venetian wine bar, where they joined a small crowd standing at the bar and ordered several of the small plates of Venetian delicacies known as cicchetti, accompanied by two ombre, small glasses of house wine. Albus pouted at the notion of skipping desert, so Minerva acquiesced to a glass of amaretto.

When they returned to the hotel, Albus plopped down on the bed and pulled off his shoes with a groan. "I think my feet have had enough for one day."

Minerva took off her own shoes and sat next to him. She peeled off one of his socks, then the other, and massaged his feet, kneading the insteps and balls with her knuckles and squeezing his long toes between her fingers.

"Oh, my angel, that is heavenly," he sighed.

After working on his feet for a few minutes, she moved her hands up under the cuffs of his trousers and massaged his calves with long strokes. By the time she finished, he had fallen into a doze.

She got up carefully, so as not to disturb him, and went to the dresser. A quick rummage through the top drawer yielded what she was looking for. She took it into the bathroom to ready herself for bed.

After cleaning her face and teeth and taking down her hair, she changed out of her clothes and into the negligée Katherine had given her.

The only mirror was a small one over the sink, so it was difficult to see the fit properly, but Minera thought the gown was a bit loose in the top, so she used her wand to make it cling more closely to her breasts.

It wasn't the sort of thing she would have chosen for herself, which, she supposed, was the point. Its deep vee-neck was trimmed with lace and gathered at the waist. The fabric was sheer, with black lace insets strategically placed to conceal certain assets, but the long skirt featured a slit the ran to mid-thigh.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Minerva was self-conscious. She was attractive enough, she knew, her figure spare but feminine where it counted, although she'd never considered herself "sexy" and had never dressed specifically to be alluring.

Except, she thought with a private smile, perhaps that one night in her seventh year when she'd set out to seduce her Transfiguration teacher. Although that nightdress had been more ingenue than siren.

This one was quite different, and she wondered how Albus would respond to it. She tried not to imagine her brother's face when Katherine—who was decidedly more pulchritudinous than Minerva—had appeared in something similar during their honeymoon, and Minerva wondered if seeing women in lacy black lingerie was something most men liked. Her underthings and nightclothes had always been plain and practical, but if Albus enjoyed this, maybe she'd have to investigate making a change.

She took a last glimpse in the mirror and went into the bedroom.

Albus's eyes were still closed, so she cleared her throat, but he didn't stir.

She tried a little louder.

Nothing.

Hmm.

She retrieved her wand, and, with a wicked smile, she waved it once. It emitted a sharp crack!

Albus woke, uttering a guttural, "Huh," before his eyes focussed on Minerva standing in front of the bed.

He blinked several times.

"What is this?" he asked.

"This, you'll recall, was Katherine and Einar's gift to me," Minerva reminded him. "To us, rather."

As she waited for him to say something, her fingers toyed nervously with the lace at the top of the slit.

He stared at her in unnerving silence.

"Sorry I woke you. Maybe I should, um…" she stammered and turned to head back into the bathroom.

"No," he said, "come over here where I can see you properly."

She put her wand on the dresser and approached the bed. As Albus's eyes moved over her body, she felt more exposed than if she had been naked.

"You are so beautiful," he said finally.

She let out a breath. "Thank you."

He rose from the bed. "Turn around. Let me see the whole effect."

When she'd completed the rotation, she was relieved to see a grin widening across his face.

He moved close to her and leant in, murmuring, "Beautiful," again, his warm breath tickling her ear. His finger slipped inside the edge of the gown and traced the lace down the neckline, raising goosebumps on her flesh.

He lingered there, then slid a hand inside the gown to toy with her nipple, the sensation electrifying her nerve endings and building the warmth in her lower belly.

His lips made their way down the side of her neck, planting tiny kisses along his path, and when he reached the valley between her breasts, his tongue darted out to trace tantalising designs on the delicate skin there.

She carded her fingers through his hair, thankfully free of the Muggle cream he'd used to slick it back the day before, and kissed the crown of his head.

He dropped to his knees pulled her to him, pressing his face against her belly, kissing it through the thin fabric. His right hand ran up her leg, opening the slit so he could move his lips to the inside of her thigh.

She hissed when his teeth grazed her. He sucked hard at the tender skin, and she knew he'd marked her. The thought was unexpectedly arousing.

He stood and took her by the hips, backing her up to the bed. She sat, and he knelt again, pushing the gown up and insinuating himself between her legs. Instead of bringing his mouth to her heat, he kissed and licked her inner thighs, switching from one side to the other, hands on her knees.

"Albus …"

She spread her legs wider, emphasising what she wanted.

"Patience," he said between kisses and nips. "Patience."

She leant back and closed her eyes, enjoying the tickle of his moustache and beard against her sensitive parts.

When he finally put his mouth where she wanted it, she felt she was dissolving. His tongue and his warm breath on her made her legs tremble, and it took her a moment to realise the sounds she heard were her own voice, mewling little cries of pleasure.

He stopped before she came and moved up her body, tugging aside the gown to bare a breast to his hungry lips. She wrapped her legs around his hips, trying to draw him closer.

"De … depulso . . ." she panted, trying to cast a wandless Vanishing spell on his clothes, but she couldn't focus enough to achieve it.

He stood, a maddening smirk on his lips, and began to undress, entirely too slowly for Minerva's taste.

When at last his shorts fell to the floor, he stood in front of her, his erection heavy and full, looking at her spread out on the bed.

He took himself in hand and said, "Is this what you want, Minerva?"

"Yes."

She thought she might explode with frustration when, instead of coming to her, he began to stroke himself.

Two could play at that game, she thought.

His eyes widened when she slid two fingers into herself. She moved her hand rapidly, and when she added some theatrical moans to the performance, he stopped pleasuring himself and watched her.

"Why did you stop?" she asked breathlessly. "Don't you want to come? I know I do, and since you won't help me…" She added another hand to her work, moving it in sensual circles over her most sensitive spot.

He took up his cock again and stroked it, his eyes focussed on what she was doing.

When she removed one hand from her centre to flick and pinch her bare nipple, he pounced, swiping her other hand out of the way and guiding himself into her.

She thought she might come as he began to move, but he suddenly pulled out of her, and she groaned in protest, but he left her only long enough to grab his wand from the bedside table where he'd left it and raise the bed a few inches so he didn't have to stoop over.

He tossed the wand on the bed beside her and slid into her again, grasping her under the knees for more leverage as he thrust, their skin meeting with a rhythmic slapping sound that pushed Minerva's arousal to its breaking point.

She hooked her heels around him, crushing her heels into his buttocks, trying to pull him even closer. He stopped moving, allowing her orgasm to peak, then, as it ebbed around him, he moved slowly, drawing it out with each push into her.

Her pleasure cried itself out in nonsense sounds, and his followed soon after, silent but forceful, she could tell from the way he trembled and shuddered.

He released her legs and moved away, taking his wand again and casting cleansing charms on both of them before joining her on the bed. They got under the bedclothes and held one another, not speaking.

As the sound of his breathing grew deep and rhythmic, Minerva pulled the bedclothes up to her neck. The negligée apparently had had its intended effect, but it didn't provide much in the way of warmth. One might as well sleep nude. Nevertheless, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, maybe she'd ask Katherine to recommend a place to procure more lingerie. After all, practicality wasn't everything.