Albus woke up feeling like his head was being pounded continuously, each thud echoing through his skull. He felt hot all over. He tried to call for his brother, Aberforth, but his throat felt like sandpaper, each attempt to speak hurts. The sound that escaped his lips was a hoarse croak, barely audible.
He was too dazed to notice the bedroom door swinging open.
Aberforth stormed in, irritation sharp in his voice. “Albus, are you deaf? Didn’t you hear me calling? Wake up! I still need to feed the goats, and you need to—”
He stopped mid-sentence, his scowl faltering as he took in the sight of his brother—pale, sweat-drenched, and barely able to lift his head.
"Albus?" Aberforth continued, concern replaced his irritation. He crossed the room, his heavy footsteps echoing in the quiet room. He reached out, his hand hovering over Albus's forehead. His brow furrowed as he felt the heat radiating from his brother's skin.
“You’re burning up,” he muttered, straightening abruptly. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the door.
Albus barely registered the retreating figure before the darkness pulled him under again.
When he woke, his head still throbbed, but the fever had lessened. He sat up slowly, reaching for the damp cloth on his forehead. A faint warmth stirred in his chest as he realized—Aberforth must have taken care of him.
Then, raised voices drifted from downstairs, followed by the slamming of the door.
Albus swung his legs over the side of the bed, attempting to stand. The room swayed, forcing him to grip the bedpost, then the wall, as he steadied himself. Just as he reached the top of the stairs, Aberforth appeared, stomping his way up.
“Albus, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” His gruff voice carried both exasperation and unmistakable concern. “You should be bloody resting. Get back in bed.”
“I’m sorry, I just heard voices and got worried,” Albus admitted, his voice still hoarse. Aberforth huffed. “It was nothing. Just that German boy. Apparently, you two had plans, but I told him you were sick and to scram.”
At the mention of Gellert, Albus’s tired eyes brightened—only for disappointment to settle in when he realized they wouldn’t be able to continue their research on the Hallows today.
“Did he say anything else?” Albus asked, trying to sound casual. “Nope. I slammed the door in his face—he was too annoying,” Aberforth replied bluntly. Then, after a beat, he added, “And you need to get back to bed. What if Ariana gets sick too?”
At the mention of their sister, Albus sighed. “You’re right.” Aberforth sighed as well but didn’t argue further. Instead, he stepped forward, gripping Albus’s arm and helping him back into bed with surprising gentleness.
“I’ll bring you some soup. Then you can take a dose of Pepperup Potion.” Albus managed a faint smile. “Thank you, Aberforth.” Aberforth merely grunted, already making his way out of the room.
A short while later, he returned with a steaming bowl of soup and a vial of potion, setting them down on the bedside table. “Eat up. And don’t even think about skipping the potion.” As Albus reached for the soup, Aberforth added, “I’m taking Ariana to the market today. We won’t be long.” Albus gave a small nod. “Be careful.”
Ariana lingered near the doorway, her expression distant, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She barely met Albus’s eyes as she murmured, “We’ll… bring you something.” Her voice was quiet, uncertain, almost rehearsed. Then, without another word, she turned and followed Aberforth out.
Albus watched them go, a dull ache settling in his chest—not just from the fever but from the weight that always seemed to press upon their family. With a quiet sigh, he leaned back against the pillows and picked up his soup, listening to their footsteps fade down the hall.
Albus quickly finished his soup—not that he could taste anything—and swallowed the potion. The dull ache in his head eased slightly, but exhaustion still weighed heavily on him. He tried to sleep, to let the rest take over, but no matter how he shifted, his mind refused to settle.
With a sigh, he summoned a book. He had barely turned a few pages when a soft knock came at his window. Frowning, Albus set the book aside and pushed himself up, his limbs sluggish and unsteady. Wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, he made his way toward the window, each step slow and careful.
When he unlatched it, a familiar face greeted him. “Hello, Albus. How are you?” Gellert’s lips curled into a small smile, mischief flickering in his eyes. “Your goat-loving brother informed me—in rather colorful language—that you aren’t feeling well today.”
“Gellert,” Albus murmured, his voice soft and laced with exhaustion. “Well, yes, I’m feeling rather unwell today.”
“I can see that,” Gellert said, his brow creasing slightly. “Come now, let’s get you back to bed. You’re shaking.” Before Albus could protest, Gellert gently guided him away from the window, steadying him as they made their way back to the bed. Albus sank into the mattress with a sigh. “What are you doing here, anyway?” Gellert smirked, tucking the blanket around him with deliberate care. “I wanted to check on you, liebling.”
Albus felt warmth creep up his neck at the endearment, his fevered flush deepening for reasons entirely unrelated to his illness. “Why the window and not the door?” Albus asked, amusement threading through his weary voice.
Gellert smirked. “Well, I had a door slammed in my face this morning—courtesy of your dear brother. I wanted to make sure I could actually see you. Hence, the window.” Albus chuckled softly and took Gellert’s hands and intertwined it with his, “Why aren’t you resting like any sick person would do anyway, liebling?”
“I wanted to but I can’t.” Albus exhaled shakily
Gellert’s gaze softened as he studied Albus—his usually sharp, bright eyes dulled by fever, his face pale except for the faint flush across his cheeks. His breathing was slow, measured, as though trying to fight off the exhaustion pressing down on him.
Without a word, Gellert gestured for Albus to move aside. When Albus hesitated, Gellert took it upon himself to help, his touch careful but firm as he guided him to make room. Albus, too drained to protest, let himself be maneuvered.
Soon, Gellert was beside him, the bed dipping under his weight. He adjusted the blanket over both of them, his fingers grazing Albus’s wrist before resting lightly on his arm. “Better?” he murmured.
Albus, despite the fever still clinging to him, felt a quiet sense of comfort settle in his chest. He gave a tired nod, his grip tightening slightly around Gellert’s hand.
For a moment, Gellert simply watched him, his usual sharp arrogance replaced by something gentler, something more intimate. Then, as though deciding something for himself, he reached up and slowly ran his fingers through Albus’s damp hair, combing through the strands with a careful, rhythmic touch.
Albus sighed at the sensation, his tense shoulders finally loosening. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion but no longer burdened by restless thoughts.
“Just sleep, liebling,” Gellert murmured, his voice quieter now, softer.
Albus didn’t respond—not with words. Instead, his grip on Gellert’s hand slackened slightly, his breathing evening out as the warmth of Gellert’s touch finally lulled him into much-needed rest.