Chapter Text
Aberforth sank into his armchair, which he’d transfigured to resemble the one he had back in his pub - no ostentatious and overpriced Austrian furniture for him, thanks very much - and Aurelius looked at him quizzically, with the sort of curiosity that was more characteristic of his brother than him, that made him feel tired and old just to respond to. But he was glad for it as well - a curious and energetic Aurelius was a hundred times better than a wan and bedridden Aurelius.
“A boy named Nicholas? I don’t think so, Father. You know I spend most of my days studying.”
Aberforth leaned towards the coffee table, picked up a glass and began pouring himself a whisky.
Aurelius glanced at him curiously, setting aside his book. “Why is that?”
Aberforth sighed as he stared into the fire. “Albus has a son,” he said, gripping his glass and suppressing the urge to hurl it at the wall. “A son from another universe, as it turns out.”
Aurelius’s brows shot up in surprise. “Uncle Albus? But I thought he was-“
“He is,” Aberforth muttered. He ground his jaw, hoping the boy would not question him further. It was bad enough that he’d seen the newspapers during their first week in the castle, not just the gossip rags with the shocking headlines that he’d seen surreptitiously passed around - and which had made him angry on behalf of his brother, for he couldn’t deny that he was still protective of him, no matter what he said to the man himself - but just the ordinary ones with the photo of Albus kissing Grindelwald on the battlefield. And the moving photo made it clear too that Albus had been the one to initiate the kiss, which was even worse.
He’d said as much to Albus, when they’d had dinner later that week. He’d wanted to punch him in the face, if he was being frank, just as he had at the funeral, but Albus had looked so thin and exhausted, with the chest injuries that were taking longer than they should to heal, that he’d felt upset for even thinking it. What was worse was that Albus had looked as if he were expecting it, and though it shouldn’t have upset him, given how Grindelwald had destroyed their family, it had.
He downed his glass and then poured himself another. “He was created with magic,” he said finally.
Aurelius looked at him in stunned silence. Finally he said, “Entirely from his blood? That would be extraordinary magic, to be able to clone yourself-“
“He’s not a clone,” Aberforth interrupted, his irritation rising by the second; not at his son of course, but the entire situation. He could feel a migraine approaching. He drained his glass and poured another.
Aurelius watched him closely. “Alright,” he said, rubbing his face. “So someone else’s blood as well-“
Aberforth ground his jaw again.
Aurelius stood and walked towards the fire. He stared into it a moment before turning around and - rather brazenly, he had to give him that, though that was probably the American in him - addressing the topic again. “Father,” he said carefully, “are you saying that - that,” the boy could hardly fathom the thought of it himself. “That Grindelwald-“
Aberforth scowled. “It’s an abomination,” he spat.
Aurelius continued to watch him carefully. “Because of the magic or because of Grindelwald?”
Aberforth dragged a hand over his face, which was now throbbing painfully, especially his temples. Would the misery never end? Would they never be free of Grindelwald’s grasp? “I think I’m going to call it a night, son,” he said finally.
“But where is this boy now?” Aurelius asked, blatantly ignoring his words. “I would like to see him.”
Aberforth sighed, but he couldn’t bring himself to get angry at his son. He had his mother’s gentle nature after all, always so patient and caring towards the owls and children in the castle, and always followed by them whenever he ventured out of their rooms.
“He’s stuck between universes,” he muttered. “He was flickering, like a Muggle light bulb.”
“What will happen to him now?” Aurelius looked worried, for a child he’d never met, and one that was probably dangerous as well.
Aberforth took another swig of his whiskey and squinted at the potions he kept in the cupboard across the room. He couldn’t think on it any longer. He needed an anti-migraine potion and fast, but he would finish the bottle of whisky first, he was not inebriated enough yet. And he would rather answer all of Aurelius’s questions now, rather than be plagued by them at breakfast.
“They have sent for an Italian wizard,” he said begrudgingly. “He’s an expert on the multiverse. I don’t wish to talk about this any further, Aurelius. I feel as if there are goblins drilling in my head.”
Aurelius studied him for a moment and then he sighed. “Father, I do not wish to anger you,” he began slowly, “but I really think you and Grindelwald need to reconcile, for the good of our family.”
Aberforth nearly choked on his drink at these words, coughing and hacking until he was red in the face. “What?” he spluttered, looking at his son in disbelief. “After the way he treated you?”
Aurelius shrugged. “I’m alive, aren’t I? He gave up his wand to save my life, Father. And my magic, I have my magic back. I can control it,” and he waved his wand, making the cushion before them rise in the air, and then promptly turn orange. Aurelius grinned as if he were a Hogwarts first-year. “I’ll be studying for my OWLS shortly, and Grindelwald is paying for my tuition, you know he is.”
Aberforth stared at him, at a complete loss for words. It was as if his son had just defected, or happily admitted to treason. He knew he should feel outraged, enraged even, but he was so exhausted from the fight he’d just had. And he knew he was still shaken from witnessing his curse almost kill a child, even as he hated to admit it. His hands were still trembling. Nicholas had run into the room just as Ariana had. And what if he had been the one whose curse had killed her? He’d been so certain that it had been Grindelwald’s curse. He pushed away the thought and loosened his collar, ignoring his palpitations as he poured another drink.
He wished to blot out his thoughts entirely, but the whiskey was useless, not nearly as strong as it should be. Certainly not as potent as the batch he brewed back in his pub. How he longed to be back there. Back brewing his whiskey and wiping the mirrors and glasses, even if it had always been dull work, compared to the work he’d intended to do. How he longed to be back there before any of this, before Albus had gone to Nurmengard to try and dissuade that vile tyrant from killing half the world. When it had been so much easier to hate Grindelwald. But that had also been a world where Aurelius was dying. Why did it have to be Grindelwald who had saved him? And worse of all, he hadn’t even gloated about it.
And then he saw his love Eira in his mind’s eye, as she’d looked the last time he had seen her, her hair long and black with primroses pinned to it, her eyes clear and twinkling, taking his hand in hers. “You need to give him a chance,” she had told him, when he’d ranted to her about the arrogant German boy who had invaded their village and his influence on Albus. “This might be the love of his life, even if you don’t like him. Why antagonise him?”
Why indeed. He drew a ragged breath, feeling the tears gather in his eyes and fiercely keeping them at bay. She had been too pure for this world, too kind-hearted, but her words did haunt him, on the days he ached the most. It didn’t help that Aurelius’s check-ups continued to result in another clean bill of health, that his tutors arrived and departed without any mention of cost.
“You asked me what I want for Christmas this year. I want you and Grindelwald to reconcile. And I want us all to have a family dinner, a real one. Us, Uncle Albus, Grindelwald, Bathilda, Minerva, Newt, and this cousin I didn’t even know I had.”Aurelius ran a hand through his hair, looking overcome. “I’ve always dreamed of having a proper family. And it would help Uncle Albus too - he’s always tiptoeing around you. That is not how families should behave. And I’m sure my mother would agree.” He looked at his father with searching eyes. “You told me she was the kindest soul.”
Aberforth rubbed his jaw. “Alright,” he said finally. “Alright, Aurelius. For you.” And for Eira, he thought, and for a moment it seemed she was right there in the room with them, standing next to their son, smiling at him. He ached to go across the room to her, to take her hands in his, but Aurelius was speaking again, and when he glanced back, the vision had dissolved. Had it been a vision or a trick of the light? Could she really be watching him, waiting to see how he’d proceed?
“Father? That’s wonderful,” Aurelius said in his American drawl. He'd always found most American accents to be grating but with Aurelius he didn't mind. It was bittersweet as well, as he and Eira had often talked of moving to New York one day.
Not running away like Grindelwald and his brother, not eloping the way they had planned to, the scandal of it, but moving properly, once he’d made enough money to marry her. A voice at the back of his mind whispered that perhaps if they had run away, she would have still been alive, and his son would never have grown up with that horrific fanatical Muggle. But he could never have left Ariana. Tears pricked at his eyes again but he refused to let them fall. He owed it to Eira to keep their son happy. And Aurelius looked so happy at the thought of this family dinner that it made his heart hurt - who was he to deny him? When the boy had grown up not only without a loving family but also within a family that had beaten and tortured him?
“As soon as we hear of the boy’s return, we should visit him. And I think we should bring a gift, something to cheer him up. I know what it’s like to have no control over your own form. It would have been a terrible ordeal for him.”
Aberforth simply stared at him. The boy was clearly getting ahead of himself. But Aurelius was unperturbed. He placed his glass on the table and reached for his jacket.
“Alright, Father. I’m off to find Professor McGonagall. I have a feeling she would know what Nicholas might like.”
***
Gellert sat in his burgundy armchair by the fireplace in the sitting room, smoking and listening to Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata, the endlessly repeating notes echoing the endless scenes from the disastrous state dinner, a dinner which should never have been arranged in the first place, and one that he should have foreseen. He would have called it off, though Nicholas would still have vanished the way that he had.
His mother had been right, living with Albus had significantly reduced his visions; whole weeks now passed where none transpired, and though his sleep had improved and his rage had considerably lessened - he fantasised less about setting his Fiendfyre loose on the Muggles downstairs - without the future constantly howling before him, it also meant that he was unable to foresee many other events.
Chief among them being those that concerned Albus himself, his safety - and also whether or not he was plotting against him, though that plagued him less these days - and the safety of Nicholas.
Nicholas. Gellert ground his jaw against the uncomfortable sensation in his chest, something that felt akin to drowning, especially when he caught a glimpse of the piano near the window. Just a few days earlier Nicholas had been sitting there, and Gellert himself had been next to him, teaching him how to play this very sonata.
He recalled their second week back at Nurmengard, when Albus was no longer bedridden, and looking much healthier too, his face less hollow, his eyes brighter, when they’d had more time to themselves, before the Statute had fallen and Vinda had taken half of France. They’d sat together in the evenings, Albus knitting and drinking tea, marking his papers or leafing through Transfiguration Today, Nicholas playing with his train set on the floor, Gellert going through their finances, including the costs he was incurring as a result of the Muggle-borns and their families.
He would occasionally glance up from his paperwork and conjure tiny mischievous dragons for Nicholas’s train carriages, causing the boy to giggle with delight and Albus to smile at him warmly. He’d understood why some people had begun calling sitting rooms family rooms. Once Nicholas had tired of his train set, he would seat the boy next to him on the piano, and he would listen to him practise, occasionally correcting his notes or showing him variations.
He’d felt proud of how quickly the boy had picked up the newer, more difficult pieces, at how deft his fingers were, the way he strove to memorise the piece rather than look at the sheet music. He’d remembered playing piano with his mother, the way she would smile at him and say, “very good, my little dragon,” and how it would make him feel all was right in the world again.
He knew she would have loved Nicholas. He thought this more and more these days, the same uncomfortable crushing sensation in his chest. He pictured her standing before them with a cup of tea in her hands, her hair fully white but still long, one of her hands on the boy’s shoulders.
He hadn’t even realised he had been silently weeping until Nicholas’s fingers had stilled on the keys and he’d whispered “Papa? Warum weinst du?”
Gellert had felt angered by this, for Albus was sitting in the living room as well, drinking tea and knitting a vest for Nicholas. And Albus’s hearing was far too astute for his liking. When Gellert had frowned at him and said, in a sharper tone than he’d intended, “quiet,” the boy’s face had fallen, and tears had begun gathering in his eyes. But he’d wrapped his arm around him before Albus could intervene, and he’d murmured, “Es tut mir leid, mein Sohn.”
Nicholas had sniffled and turned and pressed his face against his shirt, the same way he would with Albus, and as he felt the boy’s small arms wrap around him, he’d felt relieved, relieved and moved by the boy’s response.
“Alright, Nicky,” Albus had said softly, placing his knitting on the sofa and standing. “Time for bed.”
Their eyes had met, and Albus had smiled such a genuine smile, and he’d known that he had handled the situation well. They had put Nicholas to bed together, read him a story together, both Nicholas and Albus erupting into peals of laughter every time Gellert did his dragon and troll voices.
The rest of that evening had exceeded all his expectations. Instead of Albus retiring early as he usually did, he had joined him for a whisky in the sitting room, and then he’d kissed Gellert’s cheek and whispered, “you’re a wonderful father, my love.”
And so he’d abruptly lifted him up and Albus had yelped, chiding him and shaking his head as the other wizard grinned and carried him towards their bedroom, for he knew that Albus enjoyed it. He had apparated them to their bed, where he had kissed every inch of his skin, until Albus was flushed and trembling, and blushing like he always did, and they’d made love in the light of the moon, which washed over them through the open windows, only open because they were too high up for anyone to see them but the Alps. But even the castle’s security spells were so numerous that to those on the outside, the castle was nothing but fog.
In the morning they had slept in, and Gellert had awakened before Albus had, his partner’s naked back exposed as he slept with his face buried in the pillow, his hair dishevelled, the freckles on his back illuminated in the soft light. Gellert had leaned across and begun kissing them slowly, every freckle, every mole, committing each new one to memory.
Finally Albus had stirred and turned on his side to say, his tone a little embarrassed, “alas, when you kiss them like that, it makes me realise that I have far more of those on my back than I initially estimated.” He added wryly, “and I can't help but remember what your great-aunt would tell us, that ageing isn’t for the faint-hearted.”
“Nonsense,” Gellert murmured, running a hand lightly along Albus’s side. “You’re as beautiful as ever. Now, where were we?”
And Albus had shaken his head but he’d smiled despite himself, and buried his face in the pillow again, and Gellert, delighted by the other man's coy smile, had continued mapping his back with kisses, and much more besides.
But what was the point in thinking of that? Perhaps those blissful days were already over. He sighed, flicking the cigar butt at the wall, where it seared the wallpaper. He watched the ash flutter to the floor, his melancholy only increasing, and it was almost worse than the days and nights he’d spent in Nurmengard without the man. Perhaps because they’d tasted such happiness again. And the hours kept dragging on. It was already 2 o'clock in the morning and the room sufficiently warm, and yet he felt cold, as if he has been out in the snow. He’d been smoking and drinking whiskey for hours now, his throat raw and partially numb, staring into the fire and thinking about the dinner, about Albus, about Nicholas, about everything. Of course he could always summon a sleeping draught, but then he wouldn’t awaken if Albus entered the room. And so he kept delaying the potion.
And the more he thought about the dinner, the more elusive sleep became, Nicholas’s tearstained face hovering before him in much the same way as the cave Albus's had. The look on Albus’s face when he and Aberforth had been fighting. The look on Albus’s face when he and Vogel had been fighting. The look on Albus’s face when Nicholas had disappeared. He felt nauseous, much the same way as he had at the opera. So much had changed and yet nothing had changed. And Albus’s announcement of their new organisation, The Order of the Phoenix and Dragon, had been overshadowed by the fighting and the arrival of the alternate Albus and alternate Nicholas. Albus had been so hopeful about the announcement of the order, saying that it would help the confederation see how united they were, and that it could be a new project for him, taking the place of his old Alliance. He wasn’t averse to the idea of it, as long as they kept the membership minimal and there were no Muggles within it - he was thinking chiefly of the pesky Muggle baker Jacob whom Queenie had fallen for, of all the people - but Albus had announced it so abruptly, when they had already agreed to announce it at the Scandinavian dinner.
And as if they didn’t already have enough people after them, now they had to add an Alternate adolescent Nicholas to their list. The boy was every part the assassin he might have trained Nicholas to be had he found him years earlier, and if he had not been Gellert Grindelwald, he would have perished certainly, but the boy’s hatred towards him had been unlike anything he had ever seen. If the Alternate Gellert who had raised him was the source of such hatred, why did he not just kill him? Or perhaps he already had and was now hunting other versions of himself as well. He sighed. At least the Wiltshire Albus was keeping him at bay, though why they couldn’t just get rid of him, he didn’t know. Apart from his uncanny resemblance to his younger self, the alternate Nicholas seemed to have nothing in common with the kind-hearted and soft-spoken even-year-old Nicholas. He had been able to tell from his fighting style however, that he had been trained at Durmstrang.
But if he didn’t retire within the next hour he would not be able to sleep at all, he might as well wait for the dawn, so he downed the rest of his glass and stared at the armchair opposite him, where Albus would sit. He sighed and dragged a hand across his face. It was clear Albus was not going to enter their rooms any time soon. There was no point in waiting up any longer, it was obvious that he was either still in the dining room with Flamel, despite the fact that Nicholas would be asleep in the other universe, so or he had retired in one of the guest rooms in the left wing.
When Albus had arrived with Flamel, he had barely looked at him, instead the two of them had worked silently on Flamel's spells, and when he'd enquired if he should help, Albus had said, still without looking at him, "the spell only requires two." He'd been angered by this but kept his temper at bay, and he'd surveyed the castle instead, testing its shields and glowering at the Muggle-borns and their families to discourage them from approaching him, including the pesky Arthur boy, who kept asking him where Nicholas was, and checking on his artefacts as he always did. Minerva had sent word that she was staying at an inn in southern Italy, that she and Lorenzo would arrive later in the night, to work with Flamel in unison, and Gellert had eventually retired to his office to smoke, for he’d felt like a useless appendage.
Albus's own magic wasn't of much aid either, he'd later heard, but the man had insisted on being in the room in case Nicholas might sense his presence, and he and Flamel hadn't seen each other for a while as well - Albus had always looked up to the old man. He vanished the empty whisky bottle, waved his hand over the fire to dim the flames, and settled in for a sleepless night, he wondered if he would ever be able to hold him again.
He’d become so accustomed to settling in next to him, disturbingly so, for how had he managed in all the decades earlier? Where once it had been a long ago dream, now it had become comfortably habitual, albeit one that he still marvelled at, wrapping his arms around him and breathing in the scent of his hair, more intoxicating than a sleeping draught. He’d become so accustomed to the two of them sharing a space that even his private rooms felt more desolate when Albus wasn't there. But just as he was undoing his dressing gown a vision materialised before him, and it was one of Nicholas sitting on the floor with Credence - Aurelius - and giggling as Aurelius waggled his eyebrows and changed his hair colour to a bright orange, and then made his arms stretch out halfway across the room. Nicholas was erupting in peals of laughter, his face red, as Aurelius further changed his appearance. He exhaled slowly, relief flooding his veins as he watched Nicholas smile. He would be alright. The boy would be alright. He already knew he would, of course, otherwise the Wiltshire Albus would not have told them to find the Italian wizard, but this vision had confirmed it. He concentrated his magic outwards to search for Albus, and then he apparated directly into the room.
The man was asleep, so Gellert stood by the window and watched him for a few minutes, his heart aching at how angelic he looked, and then he awakened him gently. Albus blinked at him blearily and then he frowned, sitting up and pulling the covers around him.
“What is it?” he said, looking at him warily.
Gellert sat beside him. “I had a vision,” he said, wishing he could take Albus’s hand in his. A gulf had opened up between them again, this much he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He cleared his throat. “I thought I should let you know that I had a vision of Nicholas’s safe return.”
But Albus did not look relieved by this news. Instead he said quietly, “I don’t find that reassuring, Gellert. Your visions often only show possibilities, as you have stated before.”
Gellert frowned. “This vision is different,” he said. “It is similar to the ones I saw before Bhutan-“
“Gellert,” Albus interrupted, rubbing his face tiredly. “I can’t listen to this right now. I need to sleep, I must wake early tomorrow-“ Albus settled under the covers again, drawing them up to his chin. “Good night,” he murmured, closing his eyes.
Gellert watched him for a moment, and then he sighed and stood. “Good night,” he murmured, and then he apparated back to their rooms, where he stayed awake for a long time, staring up at the ceiling.
***
After a dull morning eating breakfast by himself in the left wing dining room, for it seemed even the Scottish witch was still angry at him, and an even duller day in which everyone seemed to be avoiding him, Gellert walked into the library under the pretence of returning a book, and finally found Albus stood by the window, watching his phoenix weave among the Alps. He hadn't moved, his eyes were still fixed on the landscape beyond, but Gellert knew the man well enough to know that he had probably sensed him walk in, even without the telltale light and hum of apparition.
He looked so beautiful, so delectable, in his new woollen vest which he’d knitted himself, which Gellert now knew was called a cable-knit pattern, for he’d made one for him too, a black one, though of course he would never wear the thing. But he’d held it to his face nonetheless, the soft fabric against his face and the sweet scent of tea and violets conjuring the feel of Albus beneath him, looking up at him with those soft blue eyes as Gellert slowly undressed him. His lovely scent, when Gellert buried his face in his neck, the endearing curls at the back of his head that drove him wild. He could see them now, and they were longer than usual, which made them curl even more, and he longed to disapparate behind him and bury his face in them, and to feel Albus shiver in response, to feel his blood warm as he kissed the man’s neck.
He’d imagined washing Albus’s hair in his grand claw foot bath, shampooing it slowly and eliciting soft sighs from the man, as he had when they were younger. Reading next to him in bed, listening to his breathing, Albus's head resting on his shoulder as he read, Albus's fingers intertwining with his. Albus wandering around the left wing in one of his oversized dressing gowns with his hot cocoa in hand and humming one of his silly music hall songs.
Lorenzo was already casting the necessary magic to retrieve Nicholas, but he needed the dining room to himself, so Minerva had told him that Albus had retreated to the library. The Italian wizard had already located their son, had already found a way to speak to him, and now he was in the process of unweaving the threads of the universe and bring him into theirs, and then he would write him into their universe.
It was impossible magic, and the Confederation were not happy about it, and normally the thought of there being someone else in the world with this kind of magic might have annoyed him. Lorenzo had assured them that it would only be a matter of time, and he'd seen the relief in Albus's eyes and hoped that the rift between them would close. He'd told Albus he would check the security and then make him a cup of tea, but by the time he'd returned Albus had already disapparated.
Gellert approached the window, standing next to him. Albus continued to study the Alps, his eyes following the phoenix.
"I'm sure Lorenzo will find a way," he said, his own eyes following the phoenix. Though he still greatly disliked the bird, it did have a certain elegance when it was flying. "Otherwise your other Albus would not have told us about him."
Albus didn’t reply, his gaze still fixed beyond the window, and Gellert sighed, raising the book in his hand and sending it back to its shelf with magic. He was about to exit the room when Albus spoke, his voice quiet enough that he had to walk closer to hear him.
"It was what you wanted," the man said, his eyes still fixed on the bird, which was now perched on the back wall. “Wasn’t it? For him to return to his own universe."
Gellert stared at him, unable to fathom what he was hearing. "What?" he uttered finally.
"I sometimes wonder if you still merely tolerated him. Simply for my sake."
"Tolerated him? Albus-"
”I know how much it annoyed you when he would enter our rooms at night.” His voice wavered for a moment, and then it sounded clipped again, distant, as if he were speaking from far away. “When you knew he was struggling with his visions."
"How can you say that?" Gellert looked at him as if he’d gone mad. "How can you say that, Albus, when you know I care for him?"
Albus shook his head. "Even now you can't say it," he said bitterly, folding his arms as he stared resolutely out the window.
Gellert grasped his arm, but whether it was because he was on edge or the movement was too sudden, Albus flinched and Gellert dropped his hand as if he’d burned it. He turned and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore the voice that whispered at the back of his mind, saying: it’s because you are a monster, a tyrant. The same voice had plagued him at the opera when he had seen Albus and Nicholas in the booth with the snake Anton, the one that had convinced him that they were lost to him forever.
Lately it had been saying other things as well, haunting his waking hours, that Albus, for example, was avoiding the marriage proposal because he was simply biding his time until the entirety of his alliance, artefact collection and Nurmengard had been dismantled, until he had been effectively defanged and contained by the Ministry. That they had only reunited because Albus was worried about the Muggles, about him carrying out his war against them.
"Albus, what more do you want from me?" he said finally, his voice rising as he turned toward him again. "I have sacrificed everything for you. I gave up the campaign, I gave that abominable speech, I allowed the Muggles into our home,” he laughed humourlessly, half to himself. “I hosted a dinner for your Supreme Mugwump, for all those sycophants, allowed you all to pack away my artefacts,” he seethed as he remembered it. Had he not done enough?
He grit his teeth. “And Merlin knows I have tried my best to be a good father to the boy, have tried my best to be a good partner to you-“
He was shouting now, he knew, but he was so frustrated with the situation, with Nicholas missing and the dinner party and the fight with Vogel, the fight with Aberforth, Albus looking upset and disappointed, disappointed in him, as he always was, because no matter how much he had sacrificed for him, how much he tried to be cordial and democratic and tolerant, it was never enough. He had even asked him to marry him, and the man still hadn’t responded.
“Nothing I do is ever good enough for you,” he ranted, tearing a hand through his hair as he began to pace the room, the blood rushing in his ears. “You wanted me to compromise and I have, haven’t I? Haven’t I, Albus? And where is your compromise? You promised we would dissolve the Statute and then you plead with me to help restore it, saying it wasn’t the right time. I even asked you to marry me, to make it official, and you just ignored it, because you find it reprehensible, don’t you? To marry me in front of your beloved Confederation? Just tell me, Albus, what more do you want from me?”
Albus stood stock still, his gaze still fixed on the Alps, but a single tear was rolling down his face and Gellert watched it in despair. Their relationship was meant to be easier now that he had given up his campaign, now that they were living together again. So why was it so difficult? He would erupt - despite trying very hard not to, Gods how he tried - and then Albus would withdraw into himself, and then he'd erupt because of that and again, Albus would withdraw into himself. They had to meet each other half way, there was no other way.
A pesky voice at the back of his mind whispered that if he would just not lose his temper, then Albus wouldn't withdraw. He recalled again what Albus had said to him, on the day he'd imprisoned him and interrogated him about Vogel. "If you don't control your temper, there will be nothing left. Just you and the wasteland." It had angered him, and if it had been anyone else he would have struck him for his insolence, he would have strangled the life out of him, but he could see now that it would only have proved the man's point.
He saw again the look in Albus's eyes, the tears welled up in them, the way he had faltered and stumbled over his words, not because he had been hiding an affair but because he'd been afraid. Afraid of what he could do, perhaps, because Albus knew he would never harm him. He could reduce whole cities to ashes, he could torture Muggles and wizards alike for days, he could slit the throats of animals and any acolytes who dared insult him, but he would never lay a hand on Albus.
But Albus had looked at him in the same way when they'd watched the older Gellert being led away by the Aurors, when he had asked him, "do you think I will strike you?" and Albus had said uncertainly, with the same tears in his eyes, "I don't know."
He exhaled slowly, ignoring the crushing sensation in his chest, and said in a low voice, "You need to talk to me. You're withdrawing into yourself again. You are silent for days and then you make these remarks in that calm British way of yours, and then I," he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I erupt. I erupt, I know. I am working on it, Albus, but we agreed that you would work on not withdrawing into yourself, even if I am angry. If you are upset at me, you can say it, Albus."
He glanced at him, but Albus's eyes were still fixed on the Alps, though he looked more guarded than he had a moment earlier.
"I will continue to try to keep my temper at bay, but if - if it is not working, I give you my word that I will disapparate and return to my office. McGonagall has this book," he tried not to grimace. "A sort of handbook for couples, you could call it. This book of hers - well it has recommendations for arguments. If one party is upset and cannot continue the conversation, then he should retire, and only return to the conversation when heads have cooled."
The corner of Albus's mouth quirked. And then the professor turned to him, wiping his eyes and looking more like his Albus again.
"You read this book?" he said, half in wonder, looking as if he could hardly comprehend it. "Mrs Beet's advice for a happy marriage? Happily ever after is a process, not an ending?”
Gellert placed his hands in his pockets. "I did," he said gruffly. "It's mostly nonsensical of course, but parts of it are," He grimaced. "Parts of it are adequate."
"Adequate?" Albus said. He chuckled a little and Gellert felt his heart lift at the sound. He longed to press him against the window and kiss him until there was no breath left in him. And then the man smiled softly and said, "coming from you, that's high praise, I should think."
He touched the other wizard’s arm. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, “I’m so tired, Gellert. This war - I didn’t think it would last this long. And we are not getting the full reports. I know people are dying, Muggles and wizards alike.” Albus drew a breath. “We will have to face them,” he said quietly. “Vinda and Quintus. It has to be the four of us.”
Gellert sighed and sat on the window ledge. “I know.”
“And soon, Gellert. This war must be over by Christmas. I have already fully healed from my injuries and you, yours. We have no excuse.” He looked into his eyes searchingly. “There is no reason for you to worry. I have faced them before, remember?”
He knew that, of course he did, and he’d read The Daily Prophet’s breathless account of the fight at the British ministry, when Albus had squared off against Quintus and fifty acolytes. This had been rounded up to a hundred by the newspaper, which was now operating out of a secret hideout somewhere in Scandinavia - “probably to boost morale,” an embarrassed Albus had said. And of course he knew what Albus was capable of, despite his gentle nature, quaint hobbies and general impishness. He’d known it from the moment he’d first met him and sensed his magic. That was why he had been such a hindrance to his campaign, why it had been necessary to find ways to slow him down, if not eventually to kill him. And why he would have been such a strength to it. Even now, Albus still surprised him with just his nimbleness, the way he’d summoned the wand from his fingers during his fight with Vogel was still infuriating to think of; it had been so effortless. It hadn’t been the Elder wand, he’d reasoned, but then even when he’d imprisoned the man with the strongest security wards, the most potent dark magic, he’d still found a way to absorb his magic, as well as summon his wand.
It almost made him want to laugh; he’d even thought about slightly poisoning him, as a precaution, so he wouldn't have to place him in chains, but the man would likely have found a way even then. And he'd known, despite his assurances to Vinda over the years and despite his annoyance at himself, that he could never have brought himself to torture the man; killing him had seemed easier, kinder, especially if he could ensure someone else would carry it out. He didn’t even want to think about what Albus might be like as an old man, when he’d had years of practice at this sort of behaviour, and having met the Wiltshire Albus, but knowing that he was the only one who could make him waver with just a suggestive comment, who could make him tongue-tied and blush like a schoolboy, and much more besides, he could ignore the rest.
And yet, despite knowing this, he still didn’t like the thought of him facing Quintus again. He just had a bad feeling about it, one that made him grind his jaw and long to reduce a whole city to ashes. It was the way Albus had said “the ransom is me”. It was probably nothing, the man was probably just worried about Quintus’s plot to kidnap Nicholas as Albus had reiterated whenever he tried to question him about it, for the man was not infallible, after all. For Albus’s greatest weakness was his concern for others, he had seen it when he’d chosen to give up his wand for Nicholas’s safety. His aversion to killing was another. And perhaps that was what worried him, that when it came down to it, when it was time to deliver the killing blow, that Albus would hesitate and that it would cost him his life. And he knew better than anyone how dangerous Quintus was, which was why he'd chosen him to be the mole at the Ministry. How he’d tortured animals as a child, how he’d practised the Imperius curse on Muggles in his village. The former was cowardice, the latter a waste of valuable magic, and these tactless activities would have hindered his campaign, interfered with his efforts to recruit the moderates in Wizarding society.
“At any rate, we shall face them together,” Albus said, his gentle voice bringing him out of his troubled thoughts. “I won’t be on my own.” He hesitated, and then he added, “And I know what you have sacrificed, my love, and I know that you are making an effort and I do appreciate it. I know the dinner was a difficult situation for you, regardless of Vogel and Aberforth’s presence.” He shook his head. “I did not think Vogel would try to attend, and for that I am sorry. And well, since he was the one who conspired with Vinda, I could hardly expect you to give him a warm welcome.”
He sighed and placed a hand on the stone ledge of the window, as if he were trying to steady himself. A ray of sunlight fell across his face and dappled his hair, making the auburn strands shimmer. Gellert suppressed the urge to pull him down onto his lap.
“But my love, you cannot let people get the better of you by erupting at them. I know that you are capable of winning any fight, but you could have killed him. And that would not have helped your reputation, which we are trying to restore. As for Aberforth,” Albus shook his head. “He has always tried to press your buttons. He shouldn’t have goaded you.”
“He also shouldn’t have said the vile things that he did,” Gellert said fiercely, rising to his feet and pacing again. “Even if no one will recall that he said them. It is despicable.” I would cut the tongue out of his head, he thought to himself darkly, if he knew it wouldn't upset his brother.
“Yes, well,” Albus placed his hands in his pockets and turned towards the Alps again. “It isn’t the only time he’s said those things. But I daresay, after that curse nearly hit Nicholas, he has to confront some things about himself as well. And I think the ball is in your court on this one. He knows that he not only started the argument, but he also lost his own temper and nearly killed his own nephew. You could choose to lord it over him or you could choose to reconcile. It is up to you, of course.”
Gellert considered him. Albus admitting that Aberforth had started the argument and had always goaded him had definitely soothed his ire. And the way he’d uttered ‘my love’, even under the circumstances with his brother and nearly killing Vogel, it was the opposite of what you’d expect from someone who was merely biding his time until his politics was dismantled and the war was won.
“I will try, of course,” he said begrudgingly.
“Thank you,” Albus said, looking at him earnestly, and then he stepped toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, my love.”
Gellert looked at him in surprise, and Albus looked bemused at his expression.
"Why do you look so surprised?" he asked.
The professor studied him for a moment with those earnest blue eyes, and Gellert saw it dawn on him, and it was just as well, for he would rather not bring it up again.
”Oh," Albus said, and he hesitated.
Gellert sighed internally. "It's alright," he said waving a hand. "We don't have to talk about it."
Albus looked as if he were about to speak, but then he hesitated again, turning slightly, and Gellert could see that he was searching for the right words. And then Albus reached for his hand and intertwined their fingers, almost shyly, in the same way that he would when he was a boy, finding even the smallest intimate gestures a little nerve-wracking. It was still endearing, even three decades later, and he couldn’t help but smile despite himself.
"It’s not that I don’t want to marry you," Albus said softly, looking at their intertwined fingers instead of at him, “it’s just that, with all that is going on, the war and all of it, it doesn’t seem right.”
Gellert stared at him for a moment, his head spinning. So the man was not opposed to their marriage? He was simply concerned about the timing? “I thought you had placed me on some sort of probationary period,” he remarked finally, keeping his tone wry. “That I was to complete something akin to Hercules’ twelve labours before you would even consider it.” He rubbed his face. "And well, I know I've been irritable. But I apologise, Albus, especially for losing my temper at the dinner.” He squeezed the man’s hand. “I just need you to tell me your answer,” he said, his voice resolute. “Whatever it may be.”
”But you know my answer,” Albus murmured, still gazing at their intertwined hands. "Isn't it obvious?"
“Albus,” Gellert said, drawing him closer. He cleared his throat. He took both of the man’s hands in his and fixed his gaze on him intently, until the professor finally looked at him. He relished the way Albus's breathing quickened and took it to be a good sign. Unless he was dreaming, of course. He paused for a moment, and then he locked the library doors with a wave of his hand and cast an Impervious charm around them for good measure. They were not going to be interrupted again.
Albus gazed around him as the silvery but transparent filaments wove around them. “Goodness,” he said, sounding overcome, which Gellert also took to be a good sign.
“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Will you marry me?” So help him God, for he would never say these words again. He was a man of dignity after all, he did not personally need to be married; after all, it was for Albus's sake that he was making the effort. He already knew that Albus was his, in every sense of the word; he did not need a ceremony or the eyes of nosy people upon them to know it.
“Yes," Albus said softly, his eyes bright despite the shadows under them from worry over Nicholas. He ducked his head for a moment, and then he reached for Gellert’s hand and pressed it against his chest, holding it there. “Yes, with all my heart. You know I already have. Even - well, even if the blood troth broke. You know I still carry it. My half of it."
He hesitated for a moment, and then he reached into his pocket and brought out the broken piece of silver, which twinkled on his palm. "You see? It is always with me, I - well, I hadn't the heart to even pack it away."
Gellert stared at him, half in disbelief, still stuck on the first part of his statement. “Yes?” he repeated, his eyes fixed on Albus. “This is really your answer?”
“It is really my answer,” Albus reiterated, and his eyes began to tear up. "Gellert, of course-" But he had no chance to finish his sentence, for Gellert grasped his face with both hands and kissed him, knocking the breath out of him, as he'd been longing to do all day.
And now he had every reason to, for Albus - his silly Englishman, his only equal, his love - would finally be entirely his, legally and officially as well as privately. But most importantly, Albus wasn't worrying about what others might think; he looked a little overwhelmed and overcome but he wasn't eaten up by anxiety and guilt. He still struggled with his neurasthenia sometimes, especially when his brother was near, but they had come a long way from the days when Albus would blanch when Gellert so much as leaned in to kiss him. And he had kept his word to him, hadn't he? He had more than compromised, and Albus had acknowledged that. He had already helped save his school and he'd given refuge to all the Muggle-borns, taking on all the costs that it entailed, and he was now part of the Confederation's official efforts to defeat Vinda and Quintus.
He would never like the Muggles, he would never like democracy, and he was already planning to run for office again, even if he had to do so democratically, for he would not rest until the Statute was defeated, but he had compromised and Albus had chosen him over public opinion, over his brother's opinion, even with that troublesome weasel Travers calling for his sacking, a weasel whom he would personally pay a visit to soon. For anyone who attempted to work against or so much as behave rudely towards Gellert Grindelwald's spouse would have him to answer to.
"I love you," he murmured, running his hands down his sides.
"I know," Albus whispered, and then he drew his own arms around him, and they kissed in the light of the setting sun, the whole library bathed in shades of gold and red, so that the spines of every book appeared to glimmer, the chandeliers, the gilded edges of the paintings.
They kissed as if they had all the time in the world, and not as if they only had hours left, or mere minutes left, before retreating to opposite ends of a war, before being dragged through the mud by the press, before being killed, either by someone else or by the other. Instead they kissed as they would during that fateful summer, when they had been so certain of the days before them, of their love encircled and further strengthened by each rotation of the sun, of all the best days still being ahead of them.
“We must set a date,” Gellert murmured in the other man's ear. “We must wed as soon as possible. I think it is the perfect time. After all, why not grant people a chance to dance and feast? To forget their sorrows for a day?”
”Well, when you put it like that,” Albus said, his eyes twinkling. “What about in the Spring? May, perhaps? We might even be able to return to England by that point.”
“That is far too long a wait," Gellert said, shaking his head. “I shall be too old and grey by that point.”
Albus laughed. “You are already grey,” he murmured, his tone impish as he tugged on Gellert's locks playfully. “But it only makes you look more handsome. And if you are old, then so am I.”
“And still the loveliest sight,” Gellert said huskily, his fingers roaming beneath the other man's vest. Albus's uncharacteristically bold words and the way he had tugged on his hair - as he would in their more private moments - had begun to arouse him and he found himself wondering if they might be able to relocate the conversation to their rooms. “The most beautiful and talented man," he murmured in his ear, "the most eligible man in all the Wizarding world in fact, and you are mine entirely.”
Albus chuckled, grasping his fingers and drawing them back from under his vest. “Alright, what do you propose?”
Gellert smiled. “Next week,” he declared. “We could marry here, in the library. I built it for you, after all.”
A small silence followed as Albus looked taken aback. “Next week? But we have the Scandinavian meeting, and - and surely that’s too soon?”
”The meeting isn’t until the Thursday," Gellert interrupted smoothly. "We could marry on the Tuesday.”
“But that would only gives us five days.“ Albus looked faint.
“It’s all we need,” Gellert said soothingly. “We have magic on our side after all. And you did say you would prefer a quiet one.” Not a chance in hell, he thought to himself. Only the best for his Albus, and no expense would be spared. But they could talk about that later, once Albus's British sensibilities were soothed.
“And just think how excited Nicholas will be," he wanted to say, but he couldn't, not yet, and the pained sensation in his chest returned. But it had been the Wiltshire Albus who had told them to summon Lorenzo. And if anyone could discover the solution, it would be a version of Albus, of course, he thought wryly, the pain in his chest lessening.
“Alright,” Albus said, chuckling as he shook his head. "Alright. I can't believe I'm saying this, but alright." He slid his arms around Gellert's back and lifted his head to kiss him, when there was a knock on the door and after a beat, Minerva stepped into the room.
“Nicholas,” she said, her voice wavering, and there were tears of relief in her eyes. She wiped them hurriedly and gestured toward the hallway. “He’s back. He's sleeping now, but Lorenzo has brought him back.”
Gellert and Albus looked at each other in shock, neither of them able to speak, and then they kissed, with palpable relief, so overcome and overjoyed that they forgot for a moment that Minerva was still in the room.
She cleared her throat and added loudly, "Also, Aurelius is here."
The two wizards separated, looking at her in astonishment. "Aurelius?" Albus repeated, looking befuddled.
"Indeed," Minerva said, and then she gestured towards the tall shadow in the hallway. "Come on then."
The two wizards stared as the younger wizard entered the room, awkwardly holding a giant plush phoenix. "Er, hello," Aurelius said, running a hand nervously through his lengthy hair as he held out the toy.
The room was utterly silent, Albus and Gellert staring at him, then at the toy, then back at him, and Minerva looking rather befuddled herself.
"For Nicholas," Aurelius added, clearing his throat. "My cousin?"