The war was over, and from behind his half-moon glasses, Dumbledore could sense the great calm that descended on the Wizarding World. The beautiful victory had shone light in the darkest of places. He had been happy, but now...everything was different.
Only he remained in danger, not from Voldemort, not from Azkaban, but from his own weary heart.
Never had the Headmaster felt such an inclination for another. Despite his age, his wisdom, his logic, he could not escape from the rising feeling in himself. Like a soft disease, soothing him...
He sucked on a lemon drop and closed his eyes. Hogwarts was safe now, he mused, there was no need for him anymore. His Eye was there only for an attraction. There is Dumbledore, the Oldest Wizard, the Greatest Wizard.
But the old man was in love, they had said, love that was killing him. Love that was so overwhelming it hurt. That love was for Hermione Granger.
The young witch he had seen grow up; the muggle-born that was now a wonderful woman, vibrant, pretty and intelligent, working in the midst of the Ministry, with no boundaries.
No, an old man must quench his thoughts. He must not think so deeply on things that hurt him. He, a grandfather!
Besides, she belonged to Ron now. Not his, never his... He remembered the time that she had asked for his hand, the night Harry Potter died, and he had held it, not daring to breathe...hoping the moment would never end... But it did. And soon, his own life would end, perhaps now, perhaps tomorrow...and the sole word that would pass his lips in his dying moment would be...Hermione...