I should've let you know the truth
1997
Albus Dumbledore wasn't afraid of death. He had seen enough of the world to know that it was simply a part of the grand tapestry of life, a new adventure. They say your life would flash before your eyes as you come closer to your death. And Albus saw it, not in a chaotic whirlwind but in a series of carefully chosen moments, each one a testament to the choices he had made and his losses and regrets.
He thought of Harry, the boy who had become the embodiment of his own ideals. He had seen the boy grow from a scared, orphaned child into a courageous young man, a beacon of hope in a world shrouded in darkness. He had faith in Harry, in his strength, in his ability to carry on the fight.
He thought of his sister, Ariana, the shadow that had haunted his life. Albus had failed her, failed to protect her. The guilt, the regret, it was a wound that had never healed. He hoped, with all his heart, that they would be reunited in the afterlife, that he could finally apologize and find some measure of peace.
He thought of his brother, Aberforth, the one who had always been a thorn in his side, the one who had never forgiven him for the choices he had made, for the pain he had inflicted upon their family. Their relationship had been a tangled mess of resentment, misunderstanding, and unspoken hurt.
He thought of his friends, his allies, the people who had stood by him through thick and thin. He thought of Minerva, her sharp wit and unwavering loyalty, of Hagrid, his gentle heart and boundless love for creatures great and small, of the Order, the brave souls who had fought alongside him against the darkness. Albus knew they would carry on, and would continue to fight for what was right.
He thought of Gellert, the friend who had become his greatest enemy. He had loved Gellert, he loves him still, always have and always will, he had never stopped. Albus loved him with a fierce passion that had blinded him to the darkness that simmered within him. He had lost Gellert, lost him to the allure of power, to the seductive whispers of ambition. He had tried to save him, to pull him back from the precipice, but it was too late. The darkness had consumed him, and their friendship had been shattered. If you can even call what they had as friendship, all for the greater good as Gellert always says, as something he too, had once always said.
Perhaps he should have visited him, and told him he forgave him. He should have told him that the darkness he had seen in Gellert was a reflection of his own, a darkness he’d struggled with for years, a darkness he’d tried to deny. He should have told him that he still loved him, not as an excuse, not as justification for his past choices, but because it was true. Because the love he felt for Gellert was fierce and unwavering, a love that transcended their differences, their choices, their pain.
There was no time to ponder his regrets and losses, as Severus stood before Albus, his shadowed face etched with both sorrow and resolve. His hands, usually so steady, trembled ever so slightly. The unobservant eye wouldn't notice, but Albus saw the tremor, felt the struggle beneath his stoic facade.
"Severus, please." His voice cut the silence that had settled over them. The words felt heavy, like a weight settling in Albus’ chest, yet he spoke them with a strange sense of calm, a resignation to his fate.
And then, with a voice that seemed to crack under the weight of his burden, Severus uttered the words that would seal Albus fate:
"Avada Kedavra."
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The silence of Nurmengard pressed against Gellert like a physical weight. Years in this stone prison had become a familiar ache, but today, something felt different. A chilling premonition of a past not forgotten, a whisper of loss that had settled upon him, a vague uneasiness on the back of his neck. The wind, a constant presence in this desolate place, had taken on a new urgency, swirling around the tower with a mournful howl.
He walked to the window, his gaze drawn to the vast, gray landscape beyond the bars. He longed for the open fields, the whispering winds, the warmth of the sun. But those memories were now a faded memory, a distant echo of a life that had vanished. The warmth of Albus’s laughter still echoed in his ears, and he could almost feel the warmth of his hand in his, as they ran through the fields that summer, bathed in sunlight, the magic swirling around them like an unseen current.
Suddenly, a flash of crimson cut through the gloom. A phoenix, resplendent in its fiery plumage, circled in the sky, its mournful song filling the air with a haunting melody. The notes pierced through Gellert, each one a tiny dagger. He recognized the song, it was a lament, a song of sorrow that reverberated in his soul.
It was Fawkes, he recognized despite his old age. Albus’s phoenix.
And then he knew, with a certainty that transcended all reason. He knew, with a heart that ached with a pain he had never known before, that Albus is gone.
Gellert felt a tear trace a path down his cheek, the first in years. He’d denied himself the luxury of grief, of regret. He’d been consumed by his ambition, the grand vision of a new world, a world where wizards would be absolute, where their power would be unmatched. He’d believed they would walk this path together, Albus and him, side by side.
And yet, he was alone. His ambition, his dreams, his power - all of it felt like a mockery, a cruel joke played by fate.
He had lost Albus. His friend, his confidante, his equal, though how hard it was to admit, he had lost his heart. He’d chosen a path, a path paved with ambition and twisted by his own hubris, and it had led him to this – a gilded cage, an isolation that mirrored the emptiness in his heart, a cage Albus himself had put him in.
It was not the first time he had lost Albus, he had lost him thrice. First was during that summer, and then the second was during their duel that ended with their blood pact broken, the third time was their final duel in 1945. This time, he knew, this time, the loss was final. He had lost him for good.
He had been alright with losing Albus before, he had told himself, he had been satisfied with the thought that even though Albus was not by his side, he was still there, alive and breathing, just on different sides.
But now, as the mournful song of Fawkes echoed through his prison, a chilling emptiness resonated within him, a void that echoed the absence of his Albus, if he could even call him his. It felt like a physical wound, a gaping hole in his very soul in the shape of one Albus Dumbledore.
He remembered the summer, the laughter that filled the air, the magic that pulsed between them, their shared dreams that seemed so tangible, so attainable. He remembered the duel, the clash of wills, the shattering of their bond, the pain that had ripped through them both. He'd believed it was a necessary step, a sacrifice for the greater good, but now, in the face of this final loss, he realized he had been a fool. He had been blinded by ambition, driven by a vision that had ultimately consumed him.
He had lost Albus, and with him, he had lost a part of himself he could never reclaim.
Tear after tear fell from his eyes and he let himself cry. The years of denial, of forced stoicism, crumbled under the weight of grief. The silence of Nurmengard became a symphony of his sorrow, the stone walls echoing the sound of his sobs. It was a release, a catharsis, a recognition of the depth of his loss.
He gathered everything he had, his strength, his magic, though restrained, he was able to gather enough, enough just to conjure up an illusion, just as he had done all those years ago. The image of Albus, back from the time where they are able to laugh, smile, do magic, piss Aberforth just because they can, make flower crowns with little Ariana, a time where everything was simple and happy.
Slowly he lifted his wrinkly and boney hands to Albus’ cheeks, wanting to touch as if he could feel him. The illusion of Albus had a concerned expression, his knees buckled, and he stumbled forward, his arms reaching out to encompass the phantom figure of Albus in a desperate embrace. He clung to the illusion as if it were a lifeline, his bony fingers grasping at the empty air, yearning to feel the warmth of Albus's skin, to feel the reassuring weight of his lost love against him.
He didn't care that he was merely touching air, that he was embracing nothing but an illusion. In that moment, the illusion became more real, more tangible than anything else in the bleak, desolate world of Nurmengard.
And then, with a voice choked with emotion, a voice that had never uttered these words before, words he had hidden deep within the confines of his heart, Gellert Grindelwald whispered, "Albus, I love you. I have always loved you."
The confession hung in the air, thick and heavy with unspoken years. It was a truth he had denied, a truth he had buried under layers of ambition and a false sense of self-reliance. But now, in this hollow echo of a memory, in the face of his final loss, the truth could no longer be contained.
He buried his face in Albus's phantom chest, It was the closest he could ever come to Albus again. It was a final goodbye, a last confession to a love that had been lost, a love that had been shattered by the cruel hand of fate.
The illusion, as if sensing his pain, began to flicker, the colors fading. He clung to it with renewed desperation, his heart breaking with each passing moment. He wanted to scream, to beg the illusion to stay, but no sound escaped his lips. He simply held on, holding on to a ghost, to a mere memory.
Soon, the illusion faded, leaving Gellert alone in his cold, dark cell. The stone walls pressed in on him, a constant reminder of his confinement, a chilling echo of the emptiness that had settled in his heart. He knew his doom was near, a truth he knows like the back of his hands.
But fear had no hold on him. The prospect of death did not terrify him. In fact, it held a strange allure, a promise of release from the suffocating weight of his regret and the gnawing pain of his solitude.
He whispered, "Albus, I love you so much. I am so sorry. I shall see you soon, mein liebe." The words, spoken into the empty air, felt like a final confession, a desperate plea for forgiveness. He hoped that his words would carry beyond the walls of his prison, and hoped they would find their way to Albus’s soul.
He knew he had been cruel, his ambition had driven him to unspeakable acts, yet he yearned for a chance to atone. He wanted to tell Albus, to tell him everything, to confess his guilt, to beg for forgiveness. But it was too late. He had lost his chance, and now, he could only cling to the hope that in the afterlife, their souls would find solace in each other's presence.
And when death comes to collect him, he would welcome it with open arms.