Normal Days

The very next day in the sleepy morning of Godric Hollow, and not Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore awakes from his slumber to an owl indigenous to the rainforest of Wales pounding on his door with its tiny little clawfoot.

“My, my what a beautiful bird you are.” Albus flicks his wrist to unlock the window, the bird flying to his awaiting hand. A small scroll is attached to it. 

“You must be awfully hungry. Pindle.” A small elf cracks into the room. 

“Good morning Headmaster Dumbledore, Pindle be bringing your creatine and pumpkin juice. What else can Pindle be doing for yous?” Pindle says. The young elf wears a stupidly bright orange pillowcase with moving blue moons that go through the moon cycle every other fifteen minutes—it was one of Albus’ favorite curtains till he realized that it would give the garden gnomes epilepsy if they stared at it too long. 

“Thank you Pindle.” Albus takes the proffered drink, “could you get some owl treats for our small guest here?” Albus moves his wrist and Cha Cha flies to the elf’s shoulder. “I’ll fetch you once more when I write a reply.” Pindle nods then walks out of the room.

Albus’ glasses fly from his nightstand to his nose. These were his at-home glasses, so they were a blue and green glitter combination with a bright purple chain. 

Dear Professor Dumbledore. The letter starts. Which was a good start. Too bad it went downhill from there. I’m very drunk but I’m still very good at writing letters. I’m THE BEST at writing letters. You can’t even imagine how amazingly, awe-inspiring, god-tiered I am at writing this letter right now. There’s a paragraph break, then the color of the pen changes 

Anyways, Oliver and I are engaged! I love him so much, Professor Dumbledore. He proposed to me in a field. It was so cute, the last time it was in a library but this whole nature thing is amazing. Also we’re stuck in Wales because of a prank gone wrong so if you run into my brothers Fred, George, Gred, or Forge, tell them that I’m going to BLOODY END THEM. Another paragraph break and now a delightful blue color. 

Also, no idea how to get back. We figured it was some kind of portkey thing but we’ve been here for a WHILE. We also found someone that wants to date you? I don’t know, can’t really say much about that. We ran into him when Oli and I were trying to rob a bank with Sirius. The last part was supposed to be scratched out, but Percy missed so badly it was underlined. Another paragraph break and pen color change. 

So he really likes you and wants to date you. If you could come and pick us up on the way here that would also be much appreciated. By the way, Sirius is pretty much innocent, my bitch ass pet rat was the one who did all the murdering and shit (Ron told us what happened) and oh my gosh I can’t believe Scabber would do something like that. Percy then spends the rest of this paragraph talking and swearing profusely about how bad Peter Pettigrew is. 

Anyways, catch you later Professor Dumbledore. Bye, Percy (soon to be) Weasley-Wood. 

“Well…what an interesting young man.” Dumbledore downs his creatine. It looks like today he’s doing arms. 

The sun slouches at the very top of the sky, scattering its sun beam in sweltering arrays. It directs a special malice to the opening of the cave where two-and-a-half tempurpedic mattresses decidedly marked their territory. This is not a joke, at one point when Percy was transfiguring the mattresses, they became sentient and started trying to knock the other mattress out. It wasn’t until Oliver and Sirius put sheets on both of them that they calmed down. 

Despite being in Wales, with fuck-ass weather, the sun wanted to make today an especially more fuck-ass day in comparison to the rest. No wind. Just humidity and radiation. Yummy. 

Oliver walks back into the cave, hair wet from waking up early and being productive, like a normie. 

“Perce, hey Perce.” Oliver kicks the bed with all the emotional maturity of a toddler who just learned their parent’s real name. “Wake up. Perce. C’mon, Perce. It’s noon.” Instead of getting a reaction from Percy, who is out cold, the mattress kicks back. Oliver goes flying out of the cave into very expensive and gaudy robes. 

Oliver’s heart tells him that he just collided with another person, but his cumulative years of head injuries tells him that a cement wall just punched him. 

“My head.” Oliver groans. 

“Here, dear boy.” A hand gently closes around Oliver’s forearm, then tightens its grip. And in that moment, Oliver almost said goodbye to that entire arm—but didn’t have enough time to dwell on his limb when he was launched from the ground from the strength of the other person. A good amount of airtime passed before his feet found solid ground. And in that timespan, gravity did not exist, muggle physics didn’t exist, he passed through each atmospheric layer of the earth, orbited in space, and flipped off an alien before coming back down. 

In wonderment and amazement, Oliver looked to the person connected to the hand to see what kind of fucking elder god he got mattress-tossed into. 

“Professor Dumbledore!?” And just like that, Percy was up from the mattress, glasses on and smoothing down his hair. 

“I didn’t do it, sir, it was the twins.” Spilled from the ginger’s mouth, autopilot words since Percy was still trying to wake up and not vomit on the mattress who was sneaking up on the other mattress Sirius was on. 

Dumbledore lets out a breathy laugh. “I don’t doubt you didn’t, dear boy. Here.” From the folds of his robes—a very realistic depiction of a hurricane forming within an ocean, the gales from the animation making his robes sway—he produced a small vial. “Some pepper-up potion, it seems like you’ll need it from the letter you sent.” 

“Oh, uh. Thank you, Professor.” Percy downs the potion in one go. 

“The both of you have been having quite the adventure.” Dumbledore says, his eyes twinkling. “I must say, with the love you two have found, I’m quite looking forward to my blind date. But! I’ve been in contact with both Mrs. Weasley and Mrs. Wood. They are aware that both of you are safe and about the portkey mishap. As it turns out, Forge and Gred had tampered with the wards at Hogwarts to allow a portkey, but there tempering was fixed before their portkey could activate.” Dumbledore pauses, then adds, “I have not informed them of your engagement.”

“Mum must have killed them.” Percy says, feeling a tiny bit of guilt for them (just a smudge, if he’s honest). 

“They are quite alright, but tried to assert that they are suffering from hearing loss. Mrs. Wood also told me to inform the both of you that Brutus is in good health.” 

Both Percy and Oliver perked up at that. Despite getting Brutus a few months ago, they’ve grown very attached to the slobbering giant. 

THUD 

“AHH!” Sirius runs out from the cave, “Those bloody mattresses are trying to murder me!” 

“No, they’re trying to murder each other, you’re just getting in the way,” Oliver asserts. Buckbeak was the only one to escape the accidental manslaughter from last night—the mattresses are afraid of him. Dumbledore peeks in the cave, observing the very advanced level of transfiguration with curious eyes. 

“Well then, noon is coming fast upon us, let’s get going to town, shall we?” 

The walk goes by significantly faster, Percy and Sirius trying to keep up with Dumbledore. Percy tried small talk, but quickly ran out of breath. By the time Faith’s signage was in plain sight, they were jogging to keep up with Dumbledore’s pacing. 

“My, I must say how fast muggles work to set up their towns.” Albus observes, now walking idly through the main street. Some of the workers loiter around their respective stores, smoking and talking amongst each other. 

“We’re going to that restaurant, at the end.” Oliver says, the only one not out of breath. 

“Oh! It’s so colorful.” Dumbledore says, dropping a small bit of his grandfatherly act. 

“Yup!” Percy sucks in a deep breath as he bends over to make sure his lungs are still going. Merlin, does Dumbledore ever fucking skip leg day? 

“Your date should already be inside. We’re going to be introducing Sirius to muggle toys.” 

“Aren’t they the same as wizard toys?” 

“No, they’re significantly better. Do you know what a Rubik’s cube is?” 

They part ways, Dumbledore going up the steps to the Rainforest Cafe, while Percy, Oliver, and Sirius go to hunt down Faith town’s gift shop. 

Right before the door, Albus stops. His thoughts clashing in on themselves. Firstly, the matter with Sirius Black. On the one hand, he should report Mr. Black to the proper authorities, make sure he gets a proper trial, and then reintegrated into wizarding society. But letting the Aurors know about Mr. Black will implicate Mr. Weasley and Mr. Wood into hiding Mr. Black. 

Minnie and her lions, never failing to become thick as thieves with trouble. 

Then, there’s the curious case of Mr. Weasley and Mr. Wood themselves. Dumbledore lied, the corrections to the wards were only found after questioning the Weasley twins. The only way they could have gotten this far out was if someone intentionally dragged them out to Faith. Or one of them was strong enough to redirect a portkey from one of the most magically-heavily places within the UK. 

And there’s only one person that has that amount of power and foreplanning. 

Before Dumbledore can think anymore on the matter, the door opens for him. 

“Gellert.” Like a prayer, a threat, or a song, the name cuts all the same. 

“Albus.” The response, the knife dragging along the throat, the chorus.

The blast of air conditioning from inside of the building is welcomed to the disgusting weather in Wales, stereotypical “tropical” music washing over the both of them. The steel guitar and ukulele music was the backing track to both of them sizing the other up. 

Age was a dangerous thing, bringing most to their demise. But time treated Gellert well, the wrinkles in his face never taking away from the shine in his eyes, the little upturn in his smirk. Even his cheekbones seemed to outlast all the people he brutally murdered in a power grab. 

“You’re supposed to be in prison.” 

“You never visited.” 

“I had the memory of its location erased.” 

“You wound me so, Alb—” The scruff of Gellert’s collar is lurched forward by Dumbledore’s iron grip. A storm starts in the Rainforest Cafe. 

“Gellert, you killed thousands of innocents.” Gone is Dumbledore’s “old person, lol” persona. What stands in place is the person that fought through dark wizards, that faced down his lover, and won. 

“Mass killings, treating hardworking men and women as cattle because of an ideology rooted in racism and bias. Each one had a name, a family.” There’s something lacking in Albus’ voice. Beyond the warmth, the edge of wiseness that colored each of his carefully worded advice. 

Gellert gets lifted off the floor as Albus continues.  “I was weak. My heart, my soul—all of it so completely yours.” He tightens his grip. 

“But not anymore.” Crack Gellert apparates out from Albus’ grip, reappearing right behind him. Gellert’s hand goes up to his threat, tentatively feeling out the bruise that is fast appearing. 

“Albus?” Gellert croaks out. But Dumbledore ignores it, putting his glasses in his hat and tossing both off to the side, his wand following. 

“You killed thousands of muggles and muggleborns with just one spell.” The hurricane on his robe stops moving. All at once, the color on his robe evens out to one solid color, morphing into a shirt and pants. Now, it was just Albus Dumbledore, without the magic and the twinkle in his eye. The man who lost a mother to muggles, a sister to wizards, left with a father in prison and a brother shamed by society. And 100+ years in the gym—six days a week. 

“Let me show you how it feels to die a muggle’s death.” Ah. Gellert’s figured out what was missing from Albus. 

His empathy. 

CRACK. 

Albus’ fist flies into Gellert’s nose, it happens so fast the Gellert’s not sure what’s happening till a second, third, and fourth punch are nailed into his jaw. 

CRACK 

SNAP 

CRUNCH 

CRACK

Splitting pain that makes Gellert see color behind his eyes, something warm and slow drips down his face. He wills his mouth to move, but his jaw is clicked closed. 

Albus picks him up once more by his shirt, and lifts Gellert. Then, everything shifts as he’s lowered backward, then launched forward. 

For a second, Gellert feels like he’s flying, blood flies from his broken jaw and nose. He can’t really open his eyes, but doesn’t need to know he’s falling when his cheek hits the dirt floor hard. Small rocks digging into his skin as his momentum drags his poor body along the stretch of the main road. 

“Professor!?” Gellert hears off to the side. But even his hearing is going, just a loud, tinny tone that drowns out the sounds coming from his left, his right ear completely shot. 

“Mr. Weasley, I ask that you stay out of this.” Comes Albus’ calm voice. Dull voice. 

“Professor, wait, h-he’s changed.” Now Gellert can really feel the result of Albus’ ministrations. It seems to be mostly radiating from his face, but his awkward landing onto the ground definitely broke his arm. His right leg also feels numbed. 

“Mr. Wood, I understand how enticing his words can be but I assure you,”

CRACK.

“They mean nothing.” 

CRACK. How were there still unbroken bones in Gellert’s face to be broken!? While Percy and Oliver try to continue to convince Albus to not kill wizard Hitler, Gellert thinks about using his magic. He really could, there was still more than a few spells that he could cast without the need for a wand or a voice. And then after that, it would be a piece of cake to heal himself, then face off against Albus once more. He’s gotten older, sure, but so has Albus. Still evenly matched, after all these years. 

CRUNCH. Albus’ well used Asics shoes slam into Gellert’s chest, effectively breaking a couple of rib bones. His breathing starts going haywire, and there’s no doubt in Gellert’s mind that a rib fragment punctured one of his lungs. 

He really should fight back, shouldn’t he? Or at least heal his poor body. Albus lines up for another stomp, not that Gellert can see it, and crushes his left side. 

Whelp. That was the side with the heart, isn’t it? 

From his childhood days, which he reflects on in his old and wrinkled age, Gellert could see the future. Small doses of what could happen, some important and some not so much. It’s how he knew that Albus would come knocking on his door and splash him with mud. How that blasted Newt Scamander would ruin his plans. 

His newest vision, pristine and so vivid in his fading memories, was of him and Albus in this Rainforest Cafe, happily chatting and sharing appetizers and drinks. They would talk about their life post-war, Gellert establishing his franchise in Faith, Albus about his days in the gym. In the vision, Albus kissed him just as another thunder storm started. And Gellert wanted that future more than anything else in the world. Because power felt so dull when he could have Albus looking at him like he did during that first summer. 

But his last thought, as the flashing color behind his eyes finally calmed, struck something in his bruised and beaten heart. 

He didn’t even get to say goodbye. 

“Holy shit did Professor Dumbledore just kill Gellert Grindelwald?” Percy asks, not really sure what the fuck is happening. 

“He stopped breathing.” Oliver says, already running over, Percy on his heels. 

“Hey, guys, I think I figured out this—bloody hell.” Sirius drops the completed Rubik’s cube, following close behind Percy. 

Oliver’s knees hit the ground first, old chants falling out of his mouth. It was muscle memory, the way his magic rose from his core to fill out the pathways along his arms and fingers. Percy was doing damage control, pulling Professor Dumbledore off to the side to calm him down. Merlin, beating the most infamous dark wizard with his bare fucking hand? Absolutely mental. 

The biggest thing to focus on was the lungs. Somehow, the soul was still stuck right underneath the layer of skin, but its connection was fraying with each passing moment. 

So first came the lungs, Oliver made quick work of gathering each bone fragment in his hand, never cutting into the body, but willing each piece to pass through the body. Then reattaching each bit of bone, correcting its place and alignment, too. 

“Stop! Mr. Wood, you must stop. You cannot bring such evil back into this world” Dumbledore commands, and Oliver can feel something pulling at his shoulder, a heavy weight meant to impede his movements. And it almost stopped Oliver from continuing his work, if it hadn’t disappeared immediately after. 

“Professor Dumbledore, please stop trying to curse my fiancee.” Percy says, firmly, castle the counterspell and putting strong shield around the two of them. His fiancee!

Next was the face, smashed beyond recognition. Albus’ punch melted the skin on Gellert’s nose and jaw away, leaving a horrifying visage of worn down cartilage and smashed in teeth. Oliver focused on that, realigning the teeth and regrowing the cartilage, then the skin. In the back of his mind, he remembers doing this very same process to Professor Flitwick after a bad run in with fiendfyre from Dolohov’s wand. The flames chewed away the sides of his face, leaving everything but his nose exposed to the grime of the war. No one was ever the same after the Battle of Hogwarts, but it ached something fierce in Oliver’s chest whenever the charms professor would flinch away from their floo network. Lucky for him, Dolohov was already dead by the time Oliver got to Professor Flitwick, or he would’ve dragged out that bastard’s death.

Well, that was that. Just needed to sew his soul back to his body, then he would be right as rain. As Oliver finally gets out his wand, because even after doing this a few times with some of the younger students, sewing souls was still new enough to him to need a wand, he sees someone in his peripheral. 

“Oh, shite.” Time’s frozen over and Oliver can remember, with gut-dropping certainty, just what fucking happens when time freezes over. 

“This isn’t war times, Oliver.” Death—who likes to go by Tony, yawns, scratching his stomach. “Why do you ask for my power?” Unfortunately, Death looked nothing like he did in the stories. No imposing figure in a black coat, with burning eyes and skeletal face. Instead, Tony was an unassuming white man who really gave up on dressing for his job. A solid pair of pajama pants with little unicorns on it and a very stained and baggy shirt that read “Guns Don’t Kill People, I Kill People” in a nice gothic font were Death’s chosen wardrobe for the day. 

“Your shirt is pretty funny.” 

“Thanks.” 

Oliver recognizes he’s getting off track, so he clears his throat and locks the fuck in, “To save him.” 

Tony guffaws, summoning a Corona Light from the Beyond, “But he did this to himself, didn’t he? Doesn’t he deserve this?” He chugs the thing in one go. Then remembers his manners. 

“You want one?” 

“Yeah.” Tony snaps, and a Corona gets manifested on top of Gellert’s corpse. His hands were a bit bloody, but Oliver didn’t mind so much. 

He chugs it a bit before he remembers Tony’s question “Nah, I think he’s been pretty redeemed.” 

“But all those muggles, those innocents that Albus walk talking about.” Tony points to a frozen Albus and Percy, “Don’t they deserve their revenge?” 

“Yes, of course they do. But he’s changed.” Tony snorts, another beer in his hands. “Even a changed man has skeletons in their closet, you’re proof enough. And you’re biased! You haven’t been impacted by Grindelwald’s crimes.” Then Tony circles around Percy, tone still light but reproachful, “But what if he’d kill Percy Weasley, instead? Would you be so quick to heal him?” 

“But he didn’t.” Oliver is firm. 

“Yes. Instead he killed children. Babies, too. In their cribs as they slept, while they screamed for their mothers and fathers who were already dead. He does not deserve your redemption, he does not deserve ourmagic.” Death creeps closer, and right. He might be a washed up immortal eldritch horror. But he’s still an immortal eldritch horror. 

So instead, Oliver sighs. “If you’re going to talk about ‘our’ magic then unfreeze Percy, too. Let him put his own opinion on this.” Tony nods his head, then snaps again. This time, Percy’s body jolted from his position on shielding Oliver and Gellert from Dumbledore.

“Oliver, what?” Then Percy catalogs the situation.  “Oh, shite.” 

“Hi, Percy. How’ve you been?” 

“Pretty bad. I died.” 

“I know, that was me! Sorry I couldn’t send you guys off without a warning, the transfer happens pretty fast.”

“Why did you—” Percy gets cut off by Tony pointing at Gellert. 

“What use is it to save this soul?” Then, Tony starts ticking off his points. “Evil, greedy. The world would be a net positive without it.” Percy, who’s caught on to Death’s game, narrows his eyes. 

“You don’t care about the balance of the world. What do you want for it?” 

Death laughs again, the sound booming against the silent world around them. “So clever, No wonder you married him.” Death says to Oliver, pointing towards Percy. Then, his voice is stone, “I want Voldemort. His horcruxes, every last one of them.” 

“Oof, tone shift. That’s your serious voice.” Oliver does jazz hands, then downs the rest of his beer. 

Tony tilts his head to acknowledge the comment, but keeps his eyes locked with Percy. An unassuming white man, yes, but once his face belonged to someone else. And if Tony smiled a little too wide, or showed a little too much teeth, the resemblance of Antonin Dolohov would come back in full force. Death still insisted on shortening the name to Tony, which bugged Potter to no end since he saw a teenage Tom Riddle that looked nothing that fit the name “Tony”. 

Tony never liked Percy much, citing that he made Oliver much too human for his taste. Percy doesn’t like to dwell on what that means. 

“Deal.” Percy says, and all at once, Death lightens up, chuckling a little bit. 

“See, wasn’t that simple?” He reaches forward, and Percy shakes his hand, shivering a bit at the cold touch. 

“Here.” Another snap, and Gellert’s purple soul is sewn back into his body. “And, a little parting gift.” Oliver hears a metallic clang on his left, and gasps when he sees his ax. 

“Thanks!” Death winks at him. 

“Gotta make sure my favorite Dark Lords-to-be have their best weapons.” 

“Your what?” Percy gets ignored as Death continues on. 

“I’ll be in touch, but I need to go—I’m hosting a game night with the other eldritch horrors.” 

“Have fun!” Oliver waves. 

“I will!” Death waves back, then disappears as time resumes. 

Gellert wakes up with a gasp, clutching at his chest. He can still feel the phantom pains of his face and chest injuries, but a tentative feel reveals that they’re not there anymore. Looking up, Percy and Oliver tower over him, but get out of his way. Percy helps to stand him up, and on unsteady feet he manages. 

“Dear boys, why did you bring him back?” 

“Professor please, like we’ve been telling you, he’s changed.”

“People like him cannot change.” Dumbledore asserts. And Gellert knows that he has a point. That beneath it all, Gellert doesn’t feel remorse for most of the lives taken. But there had been one. 

“Albus, please.” Gellert’s voice is rough, probably a side effect of coming back from the literal dead. His words do their job, making Albus give pause. So Gellert continues, still leaning heavily on Percy as he looks up at Albus. 

“I’m sorry.”