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It was a cloudy morning, the kind of June day that wanted to be September. The fog of the previous night still hung in the sky, so low that it kissed the dew on the grass. It was wet and slightly warm, the air as thick as soup, a fever dream -- as these summer days often were, blending into one another blindingly.
On this particular morning, Albus was on his way to Madam Bagshot’s place and he was carrying a large bowl of homemade pumpkin toffee, knuckles white around the edges as he struggled to hold what shouldn’t have been such a bulky shape. The toffee was supposed to be a gift for her book release two months prior. Albus reckoned that was the sort of thing adults were meant to do: bring their neighbors gifts and make small talk, but so far, he hadn’t been very good at it.
The problem this time was that he hadn’t actually read the book. It wasn’t that he didn’t like to read, or even that he wasn’t interested in the subject, and Madam Bagshot wasn’t half bad of a writer, but Albus just couldn’t concentrate. Truthfully, he could barely concentrate on walking in this fog. One ankle boot hit the ground after the other and his vision blurred, as though he were under the Imperius Curse.
Everything in his life up until this point had always been planned, his every action directed to its zenith -- a world tour with his best friend Elphias Doge and an alchemical internship with his favorite scholar Nicholas Flamel. He had a goal, and a plan, and a fantastic reputation, all perfectly orchestrated. It was well known that Albus Dumbledore was going to be someone. Then, his mother had died and his entire world had crumbled to a wasteland.
The fog rolled in.
There was simply no time for Albus to mourn, even when breathing became a conscious decision and he had to hold back his tears. He had younger siblings to care for, a home to maintain and presently, neighbors to appease with customary gifts. The world spun on, regardless of who lived or died on it. He sniffed and took another laborious step.
He was just approaching the stoop when the stranger sprung like a shadow at his feet. Albus nearly dropped the bowl, jumping several feet back. His heart raced, tensing against the glass.
Cautiously, he peered over the edge.
“Who’s there?”
The stranger straightened, facing Albus with a cocky grin. He was short and lithe, with wispy blond curls and lips stained red. Somewhere, Albus had read that vampires are simultaneously childlike and primordial. His heart raced.
“Forgive me,” the stranger said, and like that, the fog made a clearing around them. Magic, Albus supposed, of the wandless sort, which was almost as impressive as the boy’s beauty.
“The raspberries in this thicket make a plentiful harvest. A good breakfast too.”
Albus barked an awkward laugh, looking from the stranger’s face to this basket of raspberries he was holding. He could feel himself flush. Of course it was the raspberries. Nothing so exciting as a vampire had ever showed up at Godric’s Hollow, and none ever would.
“Forgive me for intruding. You must be Bathilda Bagshot’s nephew.”
Madam Bagshot had mentioned something about the nephew expelled from Durmstrang, although at the time, Albus hadn’t really paid attention. Surely, he had thought, a drop-out would be make a better companion for Aberforth. Looking at the boy now, with his refined mannerisms and contagious smile, Albus couldn’t imagine what would possess them to cut his education short. He seemed nothing less than a young gentleman.
“Gellert Grindelwald,” Gellert met his eyes and then looked curiously at the toffees, “Are you looking for my aunt?”
“Perhaps I was originally,” Albus said before he could help himself, “But for much longer, I’ve pined for companionship in this dreadful, boring place. Will you walk with me into town?”
Gellert frowned and Albus’s stomach flopped painfully.
“I’m charmed,” Gellert said, “but I’ve just promised that I’d pick some raspberries for my aunt’s scones. Although, I seem to have done a better job of picking them for myself. Would you like me to take that in to her?”
Albus tried to hide his disappointment behind a warm smile. “Please,” he said, “Tell her Albus Dumbledore bids a belated congratulations on her book.”
It was then that Gellert leaned in, with no warning whatsoever, and kissed him. His lips were soft, warm and tasted of raspberries. It was only a brush, quick and chaste, but Albus’s heartbeat accelerated as though Gellert had planned to eat him alive.
A flood of thoughts coursed through his mind as he scrambled to hide the panic on his face. This is just how they are on the continent, he thought frantically. They’re more physical there, even with strangers. The kiss felt too intimate to be a gesture but too soft to be a goodbye. He was certain he was reading too much into it, it had to be customary -- where exactly had Madam Bagshot said he was from again?
If Albus had been flushing before, his face was likely the color of Gellert’s raspberries by now.
“I’ll be seeing you, then,” Gellert said with a merry wink. Albus felt the weight of the toffee bowl leave his arms, and vaguely processed the sound of Madam Bagshot’s front door hinging shut.
Perhaps, he thought to himself, luck had just found his life a new zenith.
***
“It’s very kind of you to help with our chores,” Albus said, “Although I’m still not clear on why we can’t use magic.”
The summer was finally heating up, which made mucking the goat pens easier. There was nothing Albus loathed more than mucking when the ground was wet. It took forever and soiled his clothes to their stitching, a stench even laundering spells couldn’t fully get out. Even still, there was something comical about Gellert, in his fancy Durmstrang britches, fur robe tied around his waist, hoisting shovelfuls of muck into a pile.
“It spooks the animals,” Aberforth paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, “You know that. We’ve done this every summer since we were boys.”
“You could put them under a tranquilizing charm,” suggested Gellert.
Aberforth rolled his eyes. “Yeah, there’s a winner of an idea. Drug the goats and charge up the place with spells, and see how it all plays out.”
“He’s jealous because he never figured out basic household cleaning charms,” Albus leaned his shovel against the wooden fencing and sighed, “If anyone should have been expelled…”
Gellert hid a chuckle behind an exaggerated yawn.
“And yet, it wasn’t me, was it?” Aberforth slammed his shovel down into the hard soil and turned to face him, “Have you ever stopped to think about how dangerous a person has to be to get kicked out of Durmstrang? Durmstrang! Where there are no living animals because they all get used as killing curse practice for third years before they can breed!”
“Are those the asperations your professors at Hogwarts cast on us?” Gellert smiled up at Albus, “Watch your step! I might have to cook us some delicious stew with that fatty goat over there!”
“Heaven forbid,” Albus gave an exaggerated gasp, “He cleans and he cooks for us.”
“Get out!”
Aberforth’s fist trembled up at Gellert and for a brief moment, Albus was worried that he would punch him. With a deep exhale, his brother lowered it and rested both hands on his hips.
“You are both more trouble than you’re worth.”
“Please and thank you,” Gellert said. Wiping the grime from his boots on the fencepost, he hoisted himself up and over it. He extended his hand and Albus pulled himself across as well. It was still mid-morning, the perfect summer day; The willows that towered above the pen were in full bloom and the grass was thick and green.
Wordlessly, Albus raised his wand to clean the mud from both of their clothing and took Gellert’s hand in his own.
“Come,” he beckoned.
“Where to?” -- Gellert’s accent hung on the ‘W’ in a way that made Albus’s heart flutter -- “Personally, I was thinking the library back at my aunt’s place. Beedle and I have so much more to show you. There are puzzles to ponder and codes to crack,” He nuzzled Albus’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine, “And at the end of the map, there is sure to be some treasure.”
“Mmm,” Albus smiled into his neck, “But you still owe me that trip into town.”
He grabbed ahold of Gellert’s hand and pulled him towards the road.
“What’s in town that we can’t find here?”
“Well, for a start, we can get you some lighter robes. You can’t possibly spend all summer wearing that fur tied about your waist!”
***
Albus always found the walk into town to be pleasant. The pair followed a winding cobblestone road down the hill. As the estates spread thinner, the farmland to either side of them opened up, making room for lush meadows dotted with fruit trees. The creek that ran behind Albus’s house widened into a lake at the bottom of the hill, the entire lower gradient colored yellow from the course sand. It made the lake itself look grey-green, just like Gellert’s eyes.
It was little wonder that the lake was the pride of Godric’s Hollow. Over Christmas vacations during his Hogwarts days, Albus’s mother would take the family ice-skating by moonlight across its depths. In the summer, the Dumbledores would go fishing along its rocky bank.
Gellert hummed contentedly.
“This is certainly idyllic,” he said, gesturing to the church where Albus’s mother had never missed one Sunday, “Over that way must be the cemetery where the Peverells are buried. I would like to see that one of these days.”
Albus rolled his eyes.
“You are incorrigible! There may be a grain of truth to my brother’s ramblings.”
“Perhaps,” Gellert agreed, “I have been known to wickedly corrupt young boys.”
“I’m two years your senior.”
“Then you should know better.”
Gellert leaned in so close that Albus could feel his warmth against his lips. He felt a heat swelling in his abdomen and his pulse quickened. If there was anyone else on this path, Albus prayed that they had the decency to look away, because he was quickly losing the decency to stop. Reaching down into Gellert’s curls to cradle the base of his head, Albus pulled him into a kiss. As their lips met, his tongue slid shyly across Gellert’s, before retreating back with a long sigh. Gellert opened his eyes, a mischievous smile playing out across his lips.
“Perhaps I am the damsel after all, and you the tempting devil.”
“Would you like that?”
Albus shook his head and straightened, pulling Gellert with him, hand-in-hand. The road expanded up ahead of them into a square, where shaded stands sold candy delicacies on the corners. The loud cries of newsies selling copies of the Prophet, rung shrill over the music of a busker dancing with his magical accordion.
“The tailor is that way,” Albus gestured. He reached deep into his pocket for a handful of knuts, “Go buy yourself something sensible for the season. I’ll meet up with you later -- I’ve just had an idea.”
“Much obliged.”
Gellert kissed the coins in hand, quirking a brow, as Albus departed.
Down the alley behind the grocers was Albus’s favorite shop. It was a bookstore, but unlike the gleaming front of Ballibon & Hall , the magical bookstore in central square, Thompson’s sold works of muggle literature. The store’s haphazard shelves jutted this way and that, with crates of recent publications from muggle universities lining the floor. Albus’s mother had loved this place. She said it reminded her of childhood, being the only daughter of a muggle bookbinder in America. As a boy, Albus had loved to hear her talk about it.
When Albus opened the door, the smell of musk and paper filled his nose with the familiar comforts of his childhood. The bookseller barely raised her head as he walked in.
“Excuse me,” Albus said, dodging the edge of a crate as he made his way to the counter, “Do you have any copies of Goethe’s Faust ?”
He had never actually finished it himself, but if there was any story to soften Gellert to the world of muggle literature, Albus supposed it would be that. Gellert loved folklore, he loved his homeland, and presently, Albus supposed, he loved one devilish tempter. At least, he hoped so.
Albus exchanged one Sickle for the book and a quill, and made his way to the back of the store, where the shelves subsided. He was all alone, the faint vibrations of the busker’s song outside the only sound in earshot. Sitting down at one of the old conference tables, Albus dipped his quill into the jar of burgundy ink.
For my Mephistopheles, he wrote. It dried like blood across the page.
***
The first time they slept together, it was in Albus’s bed.
Morning came with her soft yellow light, sending dust swirling across the striped shadows of the blinds on Gellert’s back. Albus lay still, recounting it to himself. It had all happened so fast, his petty fears about his own inexperience unable to keep up with his desire, as one thing led to another. Gellert’s new summer robes, in their rich sapphire hue, lay abandoned at the foot of the bed like a river. Albus could see Faust peeking out from below them, a bookmark tucked between its pages.
Gellert made a noise of annoyance at the rooster bellowing from the coop below. One hand held tightly to the sheet and the other swatted up at the light, as if to dim the room by magic. Albus chuckled and Gellert turned his head around with a sleepy smile.
“Oh,” he said, “‘S You.”
“Sssh. Go back to sleep.”
“Never,” Gellert propped himself up, nestling into the junction of Albus’s neck and shoulder, “The day has begun and I shall face it.”
“You’re denying me the pleasure of being a proper host. I was going to surprise you with a full English breakfast in bed and now look at me. You’ve made me disgrace my country and perhaps the world.”
Gellert giggled. “You’re so in love with me, I might think that was your first time.”
Albus felt his cheeks go warm.
“It’s just good manners,” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, “Besides, you seem to be rather fond of me too.”
“Very well,” Gellert gave him a half smile and stretched, letting his naked limbs drape over Albus. A wave of heat rose in Albus’s belly as Gellert’s cock, soft as it was, made contact with his thigh.
“And yes,” Gellert continued, planting a row of soft kisses up Albus’s neck until he was finally suspended, inches from his lips, “As luck would have it, I am fond of you. Quite fond indeed.”
Quite suddenly, Albus’s hands found his hips and in one fluid movement, he overturned them. His lips crashed into Gellert’s, hungrily rolling them over, as he pulled him in. Gellert let out a satisfied moan from his captive position, letting his hands rest around Albus’s neck. Their tongues swirled together, deeper and deeper, until Albus finally let up.
Gellert laid back against the pillow, with a dreamy smile.
“Obviously,” he said between breaths, “I’m rather in love with you too.”
***
Gellert said they were fated to meet.
At first, Albus thought it was a figure of speech. Gellert was prone to dramatics, after all, and such a comment offhand wouldn’t be out of his character. Later, Albus learned that he had been a frequent inhabitant of Gellert’s visions while his companion had attended Durmstrang. He was caught between scoffing and blushing, the fire of indignance burning upwards through his body.
“You clever bastard!” He exclaimed, “Was that what the kiss was for, then?”
They were sitting in the Bagshot study, usual maps and books on folklore and history cast aside for a new lot. The Art of Divination : Volume III was splayed open on its spine in front of Gellert. He poured over it, flipping frantically for something. Albus wasn’t entirely sure what. He had never been keen on the sybilline arts.
“Not entirely,” Gellert said, without looking up, “Although I did have visions of kissing you when we first met.”
Albus flushed. “How much of what you do with me is just living out predestination?”
He didn’t know whether or not to be hurt. It wasn’t like Gellert hadn’t chosen that kiss, or every kiss after.
Sighing, Gellert let his eyes part from the pages.
“You know I’m not content with being an actor,” he said, “That’s the whole point. That’s why we’re going to change the world.”
This was precisely why Albus didn’t like divination. There was nothing logical about it. If Sight truly showed the future, it would be pointless to act against it. If it was merely a suggestion of the future, then the magic had no basis in empirical truth and therefore, a vision could not be trusted.
He opened his mouth, about to say as much, when Gellert’s finger went to his lips.
“I’m going to show you,” he said, “You’ll understand what I mean when you see it with your own eyes.”
“I’ve never been any good at --”
Gellert gestured emphatically to his book. “You won’t have to do anything but watch. We can build this.”
Albus peered over his shoulder, to the illustration on the ancient page. It looked like a human skull, surrounded by the coil of a snake-like rope. Looking closer at the page, Albus realized that it was not in illustration, but instead a sketch. To the right of the drawing, in the margins of the page, were the furious scrawling of notes. Albus couldn’t read the German, but he immediately recognized the handwriting as Gellert’s.
Albus could feel his heartbeat in his flushed temples, as Gellert leaned towards him.
“It’s my greatest work yet,” he whispered, “It cost me my education at Durmstrang, but it will be worth everything when it changes the world. When they can see what I see, they will realize that there is no other way.”
“Merlin,” Albus breathed, an icy chill biting goosebumps into his skin, “Gellert...you didn’t…”
“No,” Gellert shook his head, “and we won't need to kill anyone. Not with the Peverell graves so close by.”
Despite himself, Albus flooded with relief. It was only Gellert, after all, lovely Gellert with his ridiculous bouncy curls and sweet morning murmerings. Gellert wouldn’t kill someone. Gellert was the one who was here to prevent all the death and violence.
“How does it work?”
Gellert laughed. “It’s a bit like a hookah. I extract what I’m calling “pensieve thoughts” from the Sight, place them in the skulls and inhale. When I breathe out, the vision is there for everyone to see. The pensieve interacts with the runes on the skull,” he gestured to the image, where nondescript markings lined the base, “Causing them to expand and appear. A bit like a photograph.”
Albus felt a sudden heat, a wave of affection for Gellert overtake him. The boy was a genius -- a grave-robbing, drop-out genius -- but a genius all the same.
“Mind magic,” he slid a hand behind Gellert’s ear, gently turning his head back towards him, “What are the runes going to be? Perhaps Eihwaz for vision and Pertho for divination?”
Gellert leaned forward into Albus’s embrace, lips so close to his own that he could feel the heat of Gellert’s breath.
“Why ancient runes at all? Why not make our own? For The Greater Good, carved so deeply into the skull of Ignotus Peverell that Death himself can hear your words -- would you like that?”
Albus let out a soft moan, despite himself, right into Gellert’s mouth, as he closed the gap between them.
Yes, he decided heatedly, he rather would.
***
Albus ran a finger across the ridged lettering on the skull’s surface. Gellert had chiseled the letters in his native tongue using his wand like a quill. Even holding it in his hands, Albus could barely believe what they’d done. It was wrong, surely, but Gellert assured him that the societal benefits did outweigh the crime , that it too was for the greater good. Albus was a bit embarrassed that he didn’t -- that he couldn’t make himself go all the way with Gellert.
When they had gotten to graveyard, it had been black as pitch, the air thick and humid. All of the cloaking spells aside, Albus felt like he was being watched. Not by a human, but by Death itself -- casting dark eyes on the two of them as they meddled with his work.
They had used magic, of course, to streamline the digging. Albus was half expecting there to be no coffin under the tombstone. After all, as the legend went, the cloak had been pillaged from Ignotus and his body could have been anywhere by now. When the drilling spells finally collided with the solid stone of his tomb, Albus could go no further. He had felt faint, leaning forward on his toes and by the grace of some higher being, Gellert had nodded him off to go sit watch by the fence until he was finished.
Albus didn’t know quite what had happened from there, only that when his companion joined him again, he was clutching the yellowing remains of a human skull.
It certainly felt like it could have belonged to Ignotus, or at least another wizard of his caliber. The skull was buzzing with innate magic, a dark force so powerful on its own that the two of them together had to wrestle with it to enchant the runes. They had cleaned it, used transfiguration to attach two old hay ropes from the shed, molding them into a sturdy hose. It was an impressive invention, a darker magic than Albus had ever experimented with, and Gellert was clearly aching to try it out. He had written Albus by midnight owl to invite him over.
“Are you sure it won't wake her?” Albus asked.
Madam Bagshot’s soft snoring from the living room chair could be heard in the library. Albus wondered if she knew half of what he and Gellert got up to, both in his bedroom and in the library itself. She was clearly fond of Gellert and he, always polite and cordial to her. It worked out astoundingly well for Albus, as she never questioned why he was over and how late. Even still, Albus could not imagine she’d be happy to see this macabre invention perched on her table.
“Hm,” Gellert peeked his head out the doorway to get a clear view of where his aunt sat sleeping, head nodded out over a book, “I believe she’s good and out, but if you’d prefer, we can move to the barn.”
Albus shook his head, his hand moving from the skull to Gellert’s arm. “Here is fine, if you think it will be safe. Do you know what we can expect?”
He had readied himself for the worst, for the hookah to draw the color out of Gellert’s cheeks, crashing down feverish and frenzied. A magical force of this kind could easily take the life out of you, Albus knew. He’d been there himself, wrung dry by the experimental alchemy he’d gotten up to at Hogwarts. Of course, he’d had the help of Elphias. Ah, dear, sweet Elphias. Albus wasn’t sure what his old friend would say if he could see him now.
Gellert looked at the skull contraption with smug satisfaction. “If we’ve done it right,” he said, “It should be harmless.”
Albus nodded, unconvinced.
“If it gets too intense, you can break the vision by force,” Gellert said, “Just grab ahold of my shoulders and shake lightly.”
“ Shake lightly ,” Albus repeated, smiling, “After we’re done, I propose we celebrate by a light shaking of the mattress.”
“Devilish,” Gellert chided.
“As always. A kiss for good luck?”
Gellert offered Albus a hand up and leaned across the table to pull him to his feet. He bent over the skull and pressed his lips into Albus’s, batting his eyes closed. Albus savored his warmth as the thrill of what they were about to do ran through him. He watched Gellert’s palm close around the hose, bringing the mouthpiece to his lips. With great concentration, he put his wand to his forehead and hummed a low ethereal drone.
Gellert’s eyes flashed dangerously, pupils dilating as he pulled the thread of the Sight from his mind and gently carried it, dangling loose and white, from his wand tip to the hollow eyes of the skull. It dropped into the skull with a hiss and Gellert shut his eyes, concentrating on drawing the Sight deep into his lungs. He was trembling, from the strain of the magic or the immense concentration, and Albus struggled at first to peel his eyes from Gellert’s face, to the image that was taking place just above where they stood, a projection on the wall.
***
It started in Godric’s Hollow. Albus immediately recognized the lake, the grey-green tide softly rippling, its beach deserted but for two figures facing one another on the shoreline. They were silhouetted by the white-hot bursts of magic erupting from their wands. It was a duel, Albus decided, as he strained to see the shadowed faces of the wizards who were fighting there.
Spells crashed against one another, blue fire springing from the tip of the wizard on Albus’s far side, raging towards the other. It stopped just short of him, his shielding charm quickly followed by the clang of chains springing from his wand. They swung wildly, then twisted over like a knot and evaporated into ash.
“We haven’t changed in all this time, you know.”
The wizard who had summoned the flames spoke first. Every hair on Albus’s body stood on end as he recognized the playful lilt, the gentle hint of a familiar accent. Gellert sounded worn, exhausted, his voice was shockingly old . The other wizard, Albus squinted at his face, could it be an older version of Aberforth?
“Turn yourself in, Gellert.”
Albus went cold. The pale blue flash of Gellert’s fire skirted his face, bathing him in a cold light that Albus could not deny. If the vision of an older Gellert had seemed ominous, he had not been prepared to see this version of himself, wrinkled and worn, his auburn hair now mostly grey.
Albus tore his eyes away, back to Gellert -- this strange, old Gellert -- to the wand in his hands that was hurling spells at Albus. It didn’t look like he was trying to kill him, no, Albus decided, just disarm -- but the fire had come so close to his skin, it was as if Gellert didn’t much care what happened. The wand he was using, Albus narrowed his eyes, studying its distinctive spherical curves. So they had succeeded in finding the Hallows, at least one Hallow, but something had torn them apart.
His breath was shallow, almost beat for beat in time with Gellert’s manic heaving.
“So be it,” His older self went stern, tendrils of water following his wand from the lake. Gellert didn’t look in time, eyes focused on Albus. The water hit its mark, wrapping around Gellert’s limbs and freezing him in place. Albus watched himself walk towards Gellert with slow, hesitant steps, wand drawn. He could watch no further. Shoving himself over the table, he grasped Gellert’s shoulders and shook him from the Vision. The figures, the lake, the magic -- it all dissipated, the room entirely silent but for Madam Bagshot’s heavy snores.
They looked at each other in frozen horror, as Albus tried to think of something to say.
“I didn’t mean…” Gellert started. He looked two shades paler and a sheen of sweat coated his brow. He was rocking slightly above his chair, as if he was about to fall head first into the table. Albus walked towards him, hoisting his arm around his shoulder.
“Let’s get you lying down.”
Albus helped Gellert up the spiral staircase, being careful to avoid the creaky spots where they hung above the living room. He pulled Gellert’s robes from his body and prepared a cool, wet towel for his forehead. Gellert was burning, overexerted and overwhelmed, uncharacteristically silent in his bed.
Sitting down beside him, Albus ran a hand through his companion’s curls, studying his face. No wrinkles yet, just high cheekbones, dry pink lips and a soft chin. It was only one potential future, Albus thought to himself, they still had time to change things.
Besides that, they had found it. And Gellert, with all the power of his brilliance and the Elder Wand on his side, had still refused to kill him. More disturbing to Albus was the idea that someday he would hurt Gellert, that the darkness and greed and selfishness within him could push Gellert out.
“I would never,” He started, “I don’t know what could possibly possess me to --”
Gellert put a chilly finger to his lips.
“I’m yours,” Albus insisted, “Always.”
“I know,” Gellert leaned up to kiss the word off his lips. He collapsed back into the pillow, eyes falling shut. Despite himself, Albus shrugged off his own robe and climbed into bed beside him, cradling his body as if he would never let it go.
***
It had taken a few days of research in the privacy of his own bedroom. There were pages and pages to look through, the letters he had exchanged with Flamel while attending Hogwarts. For the first time since Gellert’s arrival, Albus thought about what would have happened if his mother had not died. He would be concluding his world tour at the end of the month, and then off to Paris for his apprenticeship.
Flamel was a great scholar in all regards, but he was a particularly brilliant alchemist. Albus reckoned he was one of the only wizards in the world to have access to pages and pages of Flamel’s personal notes, and he couldn’t have been more grateful. Transfigurative hematomancy was a perilous and experimental magic. There was no better magical substance for binding than blood, Flamel had said, and none more dangerous.
Albus was indeed no stranger to reading about these dark and mysterious arts, but this was his first practical application. From his desk chair, Gellert watched on curiously.
Transfiguration wasn’t his companion’s specialty. No, like any two perfect halves, they operated in different spheres. Albus, bending the physical world around him, sealing and shaping it to his will. Gellert, reaching into the depths of time to divine what lay ahead. It was as he said; together, they were unstoppable. Albus couldn’t allow them to be driven apart.
“I’m almost ready,” Albus said.
The spell was better to be done wordlessly. Albus was confident that he had enough mental fortitude to perform the liturgy of the ancient ritual in his mind. Words were notoriously slippery, the four walls of language too dense to contain the intensity rooted in pure magic. Even the most basic Latinic-rooted spells complicated the force of energy that separated them -- wizard from muggle. At a glance, Albus supposed, and to the undiscerning eye, magic was a bit like science. Upon closer examination, it was more like worship.
“I must say,” Gellert pulled himself to his feet and walked over to peer over Albus’s shoulder, “I’m getting quite warm watching you. It could be the last of the fever waning or maybe the prospect of never letting you go, forever mine.”
Albus looked up, unsure whether to smile or frown until Gellert blurted out, “Will there be a consummation after the ceremony?”
Despite himself, Albus let out a little laugh. They were still teenagers after all, if not in mind, then, Merlin knew, in body.
“It is a bit like a wedding ceremony, isn’t it?” Albus ran an idle forefinger over Flamel’s bold-faced warnings and neatly folded the letters to set aside.
“I’ve never much cared for weddings,” Gellert said, “Most breakable unbreakable vows I’ve seen. My father decided he didn’t want us anymore when I was twelve, mother and I. He kicked us to the street. I guess he didn't realize he was living with a witch and a wizard ‘til I started predicting their demise. Then, my Durmstrang letters came, and try as my mother might have, she couldn’t get them to stop. You can imagine his disappointment, a good man of the muggle church establishment.”
“Your dad’s a muggle?” Albus slowly put his wand down beside him. In all this time, Gellert had never talked about his family. Albus had always assumed he was a pure-blood, from his disdain for the statute of secrecy and lack of knowledge in muggle affairs. Then, only someone who had seen the true nature of muggle-kind, careless and hurtful, could understand that it was better to keep them subservient. Albus knew. He had seen what they had done to his sister, how they had torn through his family.
“Was,” Gellert corrected him, “He’s dead now. And I haven’t seen my mother since then, either.”
Albus felt a deep pang in his chest.
“It won't be that kind of wedding, Gel,” he promised.
***
It was cold in the barn. The moonlight peaked through a crack in the roof, offering the boys a clear view of one another’s faces. Albus took one last cursory glance at his notes and then set them aside on a bale of hay. He took a deep breath.
“Before we start, Gellert, I just want to say,” Albus started. What had he wanted to say again? What could he say that wasn’t already wrapped up in the ritual they were about to undergo? This summer -- Gellert -- had been the best worst thing that had ever happened to him. Albus had never believed in fate. Of course he hadn’t. With what had happened to Ariana, and then his father, and then most recently, his mum --
He couldn’t help but wonder if it had all been leading up to this. Everything before Gellert, his trajectory and goals, the loss and the pain and the hurt, it all had meaning now. Without it, Albus would not truly be someone. Without it, Albus thought, he wouldn’t have met Gellert. He wondered if Gellert felt the same.
“I love you,” he said.
Gellert pressed his lips to his cheek, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. He squeezed one hand in his icy fingertips.
“I love you, ” Gellert whispered, “My beautiful, brilliant Albus.”
Albus took a deep breath. His wand was shaking in his hand.
“Follow me,” he said.
With great concentration, Albus focused his mind on his breathing. In his head, he pictured the blood in his body rising to the surface of his skin. He pictured Gellert, only Gellert, isolated. Not his physical form, but instead his energy. The smell of his skin. The chimes of his laughter. The flutter of his eyelids as they lay together. Albus pictured red iridescent chains of blood snaking through his skin, as though he were a ghost, and winding around Gellert’s body, pulling them together. Together. Always.
He lowered his wand to his palm, Gellert following him like a mirror. It breached the surface of his skin, the hot snap of potent force puncturing his flesh, as though it were hungry for him. Albus met Gellert’s hand, their wounds intertwining, pulse on pulse. Magic on magic. Blood on blood. His breath caught, as their wands clattered to the ground. His right hand reached instinctively for Gellert’s and he let his finger close around him, pulling the circle together.
Albus released the bind with a little gasp and closed his eyes. In that moment, there was nothing but the two of them. The barn had vanished, the moon vanished. They were indistinguishable from the magic inside of them. He could have stood there forever, holding Gellert, complete in their togetherness, if there were not one more step.
Reluctantly, Albus parted their hands just enough for a single droplet of blood to float into the air, like a speck of dust in an open window. It grew spidery little limbs, wrapping itself in silver. This was the blood troth, Albus supposed. He hadn’t been sure if it was going to take a physical form.
Albus leaned forward onto Gellert’s hands. He blinked his eyes open with a weak smile.
“It’s done,”
“Amazing,” Gellert’s face was cast in shadow, a devious smile on his lips, as he held the troth out to him.
“You’re all mine now,” he said, breathlessly, “I hope you know that I have your soul. Can’t take back a deal with the devil. Mine, mine, mine, mein liebling. ”
He pulled Albus towards him, rough and desperate, parting his lips with his tongue. Albus let out a weak little laugh and let himself be taken. He could feel cheeks warming, as Gellert pushed him stumbling back against the hay.
***
That should have been their last kiss, but life rarely sorted itself poetically.
Gellert gave him a peck on the lips before they set out for the lake the next morning. It was an unceremonious thing, almost domestic, as if the pact really had married the two of them. Albus wondered later if good bad things always felt right, right up until the end.
They woke up together in Gellert’s bed and packed a basket full of raspberry wine, bread and cheese and fruit. It was the perfect day for a picnic, clear and shiny, and exactly two months -- two sweet months -- since Gellert’s arrival. Life was rarely poetic but Albus tried to be. He couldn’t help that love made him sentimental.
Albus was quite aware that two months was a short engagement, but he had also never met anyone like Gellert in his life and standards of normalcy, he felt, should not apply to them. He’d been avoiding Aberforth, the most blatant example of average that he could dream up, for the past few weeks. It seemed that all his brother wanted to do was chide him for shirking his responsibilities and scorn his affair with Gellert. It was quite a lot of nerve for a teenage boy who preferred the company of animals to his own peers. Then, Albus thought to himself, before Gellert, Albus had preferred solitude.
There was also, of course, the matter of Ariana. Dear, good, challenging Ariana, whose sugar-sweet nature was put at direct odds with her lack of control. Ariana was fourteen. She looked fourteen, and for the most part, acted fourteen, but had to be monitored like a two year old with unlimited power.
Albus tried not to scorn her for it. She was a victim of muggle abuses. Muggles who lashed out in confusion and hate, who had no business meddling with those more powerful than them. This was the result of a society skewed in muggle favor, like Gellert’s dad, like the British Imperialist government. It made Albus sick to his stomach. What his siblings could never understand is that all of this work, all of this effort, was meant to avenge them.
Under Gellert’s proposed hegemony, there would be no need for Aberforth to chew him out. There would be no responsibility to watch his sister like a hawk. She could be free to roam the countryside as he had been when he was fourteen, finding her own special places in Godric’s Hollow that made the town slightly less miserable.
For now, however, Aberforth spent his time in the goat pen, Ariana spent her time tethered to his side, and Albus spent his time plotting a new world order. So maybe none of them were the squeaky clean image of normal.
***
There was a spot Albus had discovered as a boy wandering along the shoreline. Farther from the soft sand that attracted the bulk of the townspeople, there was a hill that separated the Hollow from the next town over. There was easy footing to climb up into the rocky crest and somewhere midway to the top, there was an outlook.
Albus had loved to perch here as a boy, reading a book, and gazing out over the lake. You could see the whole sparkling thing from here, the people so much more beautiful from far away, like specks of color drifting in the tide.
Presently, he extended a hand to Gellert, to help pull him up, where the grade flattened. He lay the checkered blanket between them and uncorked the wine. It was pillaged from Gellert’s aunt from where it had been fermenting in her cellar, made with her own home-grown berries. The taste was as sweet as Gellert’s lips when they had first met.
“This is quite the spot,” Gellert said, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.
Albus passed the bottle to him. They had not brought wine glasses. Too treacherous, Albus had decided, what with the steep decline. Out of the bottle would have to do. Besides, there was something distinctly mischievous about picnicking with one’s secret husband so far above the ground, stealing sips of wine directly from the bottle.
“You cannot imagine how dreadful this town was before you showed up,” Albus said, “I can count the decent places on one hand -- but this, this was always my favorite.”
“I feel like a king,” Gellert said with some heat. It was the sort of thing that he would take pleasure in. Gellert loved a view.
Albus opened the basket to tear off a hunk of bread.
“Some bread, your majesty?”
Gellert tittered, accepting the piece fed directly into his mouth. He sucked gently on Albus’s fingers as they departed.
The pair sat in silence for a moment, basking in the summer sun and enjoying the scenery. Then, Albus noticed something on the beach out of the corner of his eye. He swung his head around to get a closer look, whispering a supersensory spell.
“Merlin,” Albus muttered, “Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who thought it would be a good day for the lake.”
Gellert followed his forefinger to the ground, where Aberforth and Ariana were building a sandcastle along the shore. Albus couldn’t help but feel a bit annoyed. He had no right to be, of course, but it didn’t stop him. Aberforth never left the family farm! Why today of all days?
“Ssh,” Gellert whispered, reading his mind, “Let them have their childish fun. He looks almost sweet from here, no? When you can’t hear him talking?”
Albus shook his head, an icy wall of occlumency chasing Gellert out of his thoughts.
“Cock,” he said, and then softened, “but I suppose you’re right.”
***
Had Albus remembered the supersensory spell for vision alone, he wouldn’t have heard Aberforth. Years later, Albus would revisit the memory in his pensieve, trying to divine the crucial point where things went wrong. His pensieve, which used the same magic as Gellert’s hookah, and for which he had taken full credit. Gellert would blaze headlong into the future with his hookah, but Albus took to the more private study of the past.
They did look like kings up there, Albus supposed. That was how it would have been forever.
***
“Help!” Aberforth shouted, to anyone who might hear. It was mid-day by then and the beach below was mostly empty. Albus was leaned back against the rocks, against Gellert, soaking up the sun for a well-deserved nap.
He shook himself awake at his brothers calls, and lurched forward. Aberforth had waded into the water and was waving his arms frantically. Albus scanned the shoreline for any sign of Ariana, but she was gone.
“Gellert!” Albus shook Gellert awake, “Gellert, now!”
He hurled himself over the boulders on the cliffside, and sprung hastily down, Gellert in tow. The wine bottle, which had been perched treacherously between them, flew over the edge, splattering the sand with red and broken glass.
“Aberforth!” Albus shouted, and his brother whirled around, shaking his wet hair.
“She’s plunged in deeper than I can go!”
By now, a crowd of stragglers had gathered around the Dumbledore family. An older man rushed into the water, kicking sand up into Albus’s face.
“Stand back.” Albus gritted his teeth, widening his stance as he drew his wand from his pocket. Some of the bystanders were muggles, surely, but Albus could hardly care.
“ Wingardium Leviosa !” Albus flicked his wand up and over his head as he focused, not on Ariana’s physical form -- no, by now, she was quite lost to the glint of the tide. Instead, he focused on her essence, and the feeling that crept over him, a cold, chilling anger. He wasn’t sure who was angry at: the muggles who had tortured her, or Aberforth for being so careless with her, or himself, for not being there, for almost not being there in time to save her.
He was there, though. Ariana’s limp body soared out of the depths of the lake, flying through the air to where she dropped, unceremoniously, on the sand by Albus’s feet. Aberforth ran over to her, lifted her into his arms and began thrumming her back. Lakewater poured out of her mouth and she coughed, looking up into his eyes.
“Thanks God,” Tears sprung out of the corners of Aberforth’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
Albus, weakened by the intensity of the spell, rested his hands on his knees. He was panting. The anger had not stopped bubbling within him, and it was reaching a fever pitch. His well-practiced control was slipping.
“Why weren’t you watching her?” He shouted at Aberforth, “She could have drowned while you stood there, waving your hands around like an idiot!”
Aberforth clung to their sister protectively, sitting her down in the sand, as she came to, all bleary-eyed. Then, he stood to face Albus, cheeks reddening in disgust.
“Where the bloody hell have you been all summer then?” He shouted back, “The last thing I need is you prancing in at the last second, all holier-than-thou. Where the hell have you been?”
“Forgive me for thinking you had it under control,” Albus spat back, “Where would you be without me, then? Where would she be?”
“Dead, I’d imagine.” Albus had almost forgotten that Gellert was behind him, until he spoke. He wished Gellert had stayed on the cliff. It would only fuel Aberforth further and they were, after all, still surrounded by muggles. Albus lifted his wand, readying an area-cast obliviate , before Aberforth lunged forward to knock his wand out of his hand.
“Oh no you don’t,” he spat, “You don’t get to protect him. He’s slid his way into this and now he’s going to stand accountable for his crimes.”
It took Albus a second to realize that his brother was talking about Gellert. He let out an exasperated little gasp.
“For your information, I was trying to do some damage control,” He looked from side to side, at the crowd who was standing there slack-jawed and silent, “But go on then, make it about him! It always has to be about him, doesn’t it? Because God forbid I have anything good happen to me this summer!”
Gellert brushed past him, positioning himself between the two brothers. He sneered.
“What crimes have I committed, then, boy?”
Aberforth stood up straighter.
“I am not a boy! I am your own age, you daft German twat!”
“Then why,” Gellert was in his brother’s face and Albus could not look away, “Do you act like a jealous, petulant child?”
Aberforth reached into his trouser pocket to raise his wand in a shaky fist.
“What’s that going to do?” Gellert drew his own, his lithe body looking uncharacteristically threatening despite being a head shorter and a good deal thinner than Aberforth, “You can’t even manage a hovering charm.”
“Gellert!” Albus warned, but it was too late. A simmering bolt of pure magic was shooting out of Aberforth’s wand towards Gellert. Gellert dodged it, a wide, manic smile growing across his lips.
“So you do have magic after all,” he taunted, “I was beginning to think you were a squib!”
Another spell shot towards him, slicing through his sleeve. A red welt bloomed from Gellert’s skin.
“Aberforth, stop!” Albus begged, “Stop hurting --”
But he was cut off by the hiss of Gellert’s wand, and the red glow rushing ferociously towards his brother.
“ Crucio,” Gellert whispered, as tenderly as he whispered sweet things into Albus’s ear when they were making love. Crucio, with all of the intention in the world.
Aberforth’s body doubled over on the ground, as he screamed out in pain. He convulsed there, the magic burning through him, burning him up. Albus stood powerlessly, looking back and forth between the two of them.
“Enough!” he shouted, “Enough, Gellert!”
Gellert let up his wand, only for Aberforth to spring to his feet, still trembling. Not one to be stripped of his pride, he flung more spells at Gellert. The beach became a furious blur of multi-colored light.
Stripped of context, Albus thought, years later as a bystander in the pensieve, it would have been beautiful.
His brother was no match for Gellert. Every time, Gellert would beat him down, torturous and painful, and he would rise again to thrust more his way. Finally, Albus could take no more. He pointed his wand at his lover, and aimed. It was nothing more than a defensive spell, but instead of magic springing through him, he felt a big void of nothing.
“ Please, ” Albus begged aloud, “Gellert, please stop, for me.”
But Gellert was beyond reasoning. Powerlessly, Albus slumped down on the shore. He put his hands over his ears, squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed for the first time since he was a child. Make it stop, he thought furiously, Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.
***
When Albus came up for air, the beach was empty. The muggles must have been obliviated, charmed into going home and thinking nothing of it. He was alone, he thought at first, or certainly Gellert was no longer here. What had his brother done to him?
He was all alone, stranded on this vast, empty beach, he had thought at first. Then, he heard his brother’s sobs and dialed his eyes in on his hunched figure and a body. For some reason, his first thought was Gellert. The fog that summer had been so strong and when you spend every day thinking about one person, it’s hard to think of anyone else. It becomes habit.
Albus could remember the exact moment he rubbed the fog from his eyes.
For the first time in two months, he truly saw her.
His sister lay there, strawberry blonde hair loose from its braids, all splayed across the beach. She looked like the paper dolls she had cut out as a girl, enchanted to dance this way and that on the window sill. There was no life to her. She was stark white.
For a moment, she was all Albus saw and he saw her clearly.
“What have you done?” Aberforth choked out. The bellows, it seemed, had been drained from him. His brother’s body was bruised and bleeding, proof that the duel had actually happened, that it wasn’t some fever-dream nightmare.
“I didn’t --” Albus started.
Didn’t you? The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like his mother. It was the same tone she used to use when he was lying to her face, the tone that made him aware that nothing got past her. Only now did Albus realize how disappointed she would have been with him.
Albus tore his eyes away from them. He had always been good at making himself do things he didn’t much want to do, had always been a beacon of self control. One foot in front of the other, he told himself, through the heat. Through the fog. Albus pulled himself to his feet and heaved a single ankle boot towards the water. The lake looked thick, like it was about to boil over. There was a high tide.
“Come on,” He said to the sound of staggering sobs. A lump formed in his throat.
The lake looked thick and dark and Albus entertained the fantasy of swimming all the way to the bottom, letting it swallow him whole. There was temptation in never surfacing.
The lake was grey-green. Albus had never noticed how it took on an orange glare under the low summer sun.