“Why didn’t you wake me.”
Gellert didn’t raise his eyes from the book he was reading from at the sound of his voice, but he smiled when Albus bowed down, leaning on him almost all his weight, arms around his shoulders. Albus took the volume and the quill from his hands and left the latter on the desk and the former on the edge, barely on its surface; the velvet spines were ragged and it was a miracle that it didn’t fall.
He liked to write when he read, a dialogue between writer and reader Albus had only recently begun to imitate. It made him uncomfortable, but at the same time, why else would he own books if not to read them and write on them and even destroy them even if he wanted to. It wasn’t as if he had never stuck pieces of paper inside his books to make some observations, he guessed the academic part of him, or maybe it was the student that he once was, had taken too seriously the not writing on school books rule.
But he didn’t go to school anymore. He didn’t even teach there. It made no sense to keep his books pristine, not when he thoroughly enjoyed reading what Gellert had to say about this or that passage more than the actual passage. Your library looks brand new, he had said to him, staring at the piles of books scattered in his room during that summer, and Albus had heard the accusation behind his words, have you even opened them? But then, Gellert’s books had been spineless stacks of paper, poorly repaired and unreadable because of his handwriting covering almost every free space.
Gellert made room for him in the brown armchair and pulled at his robes so he could curl up next to him.
“It’s still early,” he answered, kissing his forehead, his hand sliding easily under his shirt to caress his naked back. “And I prefer you being well rested.”
Albus hid his face in the crook of his neck just to breathe him in, his scent, sweet. He recognised his own too, faint in his skin. He was too nervous to pull from the yarn of reproaches, Gellert was right.
“You should sleep.” He made the pocket watch turn wandlessly to see the time, it clicked, hitting the wood of the desk. Midnight. “Come back to bed.”
Gellert shook his head, in the silence of the room he could hear his heartbeat, like a bird caged inside his chest. He didn’t insist. They had gone through the spell enough times for it to feel easy to perform. It could go terribly wrong and it was their only choice. How would they find someone without a name, a picture, a trace of magic? They didn’t even know if they were looking for a muggle or a wizard and still they trusted a legend would show the solution to all their problems.
Perenelle had liked the idea, the Sainte-Chapelle had been built with enough magic engraved in its stones to contain Loxias and she was familiar with it, it was the same as in the underground city of Paris, all labyrinths of catacombs. And with Loxias too, Albus suspected, but there weren’t records that included Perenelle before nor outside her marriage with Nicholas, as if she had been born the day of the wedding only to accompany him in immortality.
She speaks as if she knows him, he had told Gellert a few days before, they had been going through the script, the questions to ask, the ways to convince the Master, and she had been especially picky with the words she wanted them to use, changing the sentences, rewording them, mumbling them under her breath to check they sounded clear enough. Loxias likes to play with words, with meanings, she had said, and the warning in her voice hadn’t admitted any replies. But Gellert hadn’t been worried, not at all, at that point, he also felt as if he knew Loxias too, or so he said. Don’t you, Liebling? After wearing his shoes, I can’t help but feel, he had laughed, connected, I don’t know, linked to the old chap. You must ask him, if there is time, about… about what comes next. What hell comes for the one who cannot truly die.
The darkest hour arrived sooner than they expected. He caressed Gellert’s face to not scare him, he was half asleep, and they got dressed. They had already left everything prepared, he waited for Gellert to check he wasn’t wearing anything sharp.
Inhospitable, desolate Paris gave them a grim welcome and they followed each other through the sharp wind and heavy rain, it was Gellert who cast the spell to avoid them getting drenched. Perenelle was already waiting for them, a white shadow at the steps of the chapel. Nicholas, of course, was nowhere to be seen, he had locked himself in the laboratory the moment they had started to make preparations for the spell, day and night spent there but no one in the house had commented anything. Mostly because his argument made sense, it could be an unnecessary loss of time and a great risk for all of them if it went wrong. But Perenelle had argued back. If they succeeded, it would be almost over. And they had agreed to disagree, as they always did, Albus had felt like a too old boy, watching his parents try not to fight in front of the children. He had tried to speak to him but Nicholas had had nothing to say to his former protegé, nothing proper, at least.
It took a few hours to set the guards, spells more ancient than time fell from their lips as if they had been using them all their lives and lit up the chapel from the inside, like an inverse sun. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the mediaeval wizards, centuries before them, performing the same chants inside lords’ and kings’ castles, creating charms so colourful they’d be stunned, unable to deny the magic that ran through their veins and couldn’t be taken from them. Their gift. And how sad it was that all that greatness was gone. The stunning shapes and colours were inseparably linked to the actual spell and wizardkind had been condemned to hiding. But the thought was too scary, too similar to the angry boy he had been in his youth, it was better to yearn. It was better to wish for the impossible. It was easier to live with the reality they had. Most days at least.
Blue and red and gold and the purest darkness engulfed everything that didn’t include the circle of light Perenelle had created. He held his breath.
Gellert’s hand brushed his and he interlinked their fingers instantly, for a long minute they stared at the stained-glass windows. Albus couldn’t bring himself to see the place as something more than a means to an end, heart in his throat, he turned to Gellert, still marvelling at the architecture, the sharpness of everything, the pictures in the glass, the majesty of such a small chamber. It was beautiful, he could rationalise beauty, but at that moment, he wasn’t able to feel it.
“Whenever you are ready,” he said, squeezing his hand, and it came out barely above the whisper.
Gellert squeezed back, a tense smile on his lips. Before entering the salt circle, he pulled Albus by the shirt and hugged him tightly. I love you, he mouthed against his skin. No matter what. He wouldn’t tell him again to warn him if the spell needed to be broken, nor to be careful. Why would he. What would it do if it all failed. He couldn’t be anything more than careful, he couldn’t be anything more than perfect, it was a matter of right or wrong, black or white, night and day, and there was too much at stake. His words against his skin made his hair stand on end. Albus caught Perenelle with the corner of his eye, hidden in the shadows, waiting for them. Once inside the circle, she lit the last candle to lock them inside.
And they had practised enough times for it to go smoothly. Gellert had chosen not to wear anything Loxias could use against him. Rings, earrings, bracelets, all lay on their bedside table in a pile of silver, gold and stone. I feel naked, he had said, sliding the blood pact around his neck, just before leaving, the lightning outside had stopped him from answering, followed by a loud thunder. Albus wished the Hallows felt equally uncomfortable, like wearing too many clothes in winter. They didn’t. He had got used to wielding them too quickly, he feared, his magic buzzed with the newfound power under his skin, engraving itself in his blood.
And Gellert hadn’t said anything, the same way he didn’t the night Gellert became Master of Death, but Albus was certain he had felt the hunger too, the inexplicable magnetic pull between them growing stronger. Because they were now fully equal and Death must have already realised she has not one but two new fiends, one soul dwelling on two bodies. The nature of their Mastery was too peculiar.
He called Loxias name. Light and darkness were balanced between the two in a matter of seconds and Gellert gave him a last look before closing his eyes shut. A pained expression crossed his features, but when he opened them, it wasn’t him anymore.
Albus felt the wind on his face despite being indoors, as if the storm outside had entered with the old Master, the rage of the elements. Gellert had succeeded in becoming an empty shell, a vessel for another damned to visit the realm of the living, Albus felt his presence, shrinking inside his body, on the verge of disappearing. It was supposed to be like that.
Loxias smiled and it was all wrong on Gellert’s face, Albus wondered why he had been so worried about Loxias trying to trick him.
The old Master released his breath slowly and looked at his hands for a long time before turning around. His eyes traced the circle of salt and he stretched his arm to grace the barrier that separated them from the rest of the chapel with the tip of his fingers. Sparks jumped wildly but he didn’t take a step back. His eyes shone like stars. Albus allowed him a few minutes of wonder, to study the pictures in the stained glass, he seemed fascinated by them until he suddenly wasn’t, directing all his attention to him.
“You. You don’t know what you’ve done, you cannot even fathom–” he stopped speaking, taking a few steps closer, scanning him and easily locating the Hallows on his body. He looked mesmerised, Albus wasn’t sure about what exactly, being back? Seeing the Hallows again? And it was Gellert’s voice, but it sounded nothing like him. “This is dark. This magic. This is dark, dark. As if–,” and he didn’t finish the sentence, he looked at him warily, then. “Madman, are we alone?”
“Just us,” he answered and hoped Perenelle’s magic went under Loxias’ radar. “And my name is Albus Dumbledore.”
Loxias seemed satisfied, with the answer and with the name. He got distracted again by the glass, catching the light, glowing with it.
“It’s been a long time since I was last here, Albus Dumbledore.” And he locked eyes with him as he pronounced his name.
The pressure of Loxias’ magic against his made him breathe in sharply, his lungs stopped filling completely when he tried to catch his breath. The pain that was born from it was dull, but it wasn’t asphyxia. Loxias grinned and the most visceral sensation broke through him like a cut. He felt cold sweat at the nape of his neck, sticky. Strike one. Loxias had failed, but his smile was almost pitiful. It was that of a hopeful man.
“It’s so cold in there. So cold, Albus Dumbledore, you cannot imagine.” He said, justifying himself. “And there is silence. In the beginning, I thought I heard the wind rattling day and night and day and night and day…it wouldn’t stop. They were my own screams, when I realised that it all went quiet.” He was very close now, Albus considered taking a step back and, realising how crucial it was for the course of the conversation that no weakness bled through him, he kept his posture. “It’s high. A tower. There is an echo. And it is cold. There is cold,” he repeated, and Albus wasn’t sure if he was speaking about someone or if the cold had been personified by Loxias’ head. “You’ll see soon enough, you’ll feel it yourself.”
“A tower?” He held his gaze until Loxias retreated into his own personal space as if pushed back by invisible hands, after having taken a blow.
Albus using his magic on him frustrated him, he looked around again and Albus saw a caged animal. And that look, that exact look he had seen before on Gellert’s face. The pain in the middle of his chest started spreading. This wasn’t Gellert. They weren’t remotely similar in any way. But he couldn’t use his imagination to put another face in front of the one of the man he loved. The Hallows’ warmth gave him comfort. Loxias didn’t seem to notice his inner struggle, his eyes fixed on the figures in the darkness, angels, saints. Albus seemed to disappear for him at times.
“She’ll keep you in the dark, you’ll be condemned. Damned. Nevermore alive, but never dead.” He covered Gellert’s face with his hands and let out a strange laugh. “Albus Dumbledore, do you know what you’ve done to yourself? And she doesn’t visit often either.”
Loxias must have some access to Gellert’s thoughts, maybe not to his memories, he could feel his occlumency like a shield, strong and unblemished, but to some part of him, it was sure.
“I won’t be alone, Loxias. That’d be solace enough.”
He sneered, glancing away for a brief instant. “Is that what you think?” He asked softly. “His magic may be in the Hallows, but can you feel how faint it is? Almost as if it could disappear without leaving a trace.” He pursed his lips. “And him with it.” He put a hand to his chest, over his heart, his demeanour changing, he spoke brightly. “Our souls are volatile, unfit for these kinds of relics, sadly.” Seers, he meant. He saw Gellert then, not the one he knew now, but the boy he met in 1899, starry-eyed, ambitious, angry, charming. It was terrifying.“Not that I regret anything, I knew my reign over Death wasn’t meant to last but– Well, I also guaranteed its existence, however short. With you here…I don’t see how he could manage.”
“I’m not interested in using them, nor in keeping them reunited. And neither is he. This power is a means to an end.”
Loxias walked closer to the salt line, he seemed to be getting used to the new body, he flexed his fingers absent-mindlessly, walked in circles when Albus stopped being interesting. He was more interested in the shadows than in the light, his focus shifting away from the candles and the windows, he was trying to see where his eyes couldn’t reach.
“Is it? Has he told you that?” He asked, laughter in his voice. “And did you believe him? I’m hearing something else.”
Albus forced himself to not allow at that moment the seeds of discord to take root. He feared Gellert wouldn’t want to give it up when the time came, he feared what would happen then. Would they fight? Would they be able to? And who would the Hallows reject if they did?
“This power is a means to an end,” he repeated and his voice didn’t waver.
“This power is a birthright!” He shouted back and Albus felt the floor moving under him, the wind shaking the entire building, about to rip it out from the Earth. Perenelle’s guards flickered for half a second and Loxias’ eyes sparkled at the sight of the lights.
Albus shook his head. “It’s not meant to be had.”
“It’s not meant to be lost!”
And it was an instinctive answer to his attack. He regretted it when it was too late. Albus had thrown him to the ground with a movement of his hand, so sudden, Loxias had only had time to stop the fall with his hands. But he had been so close, so quick to pounce on him, Albus wouldn’t have been able to stop him from knocking him down in time without magic. Loxias didn’t raise his head until he caught his breath, his hand covering his ribs, a betrayed look in his eyes. He wasn’t sure whose.
“Loxias, I’m afraid we are short of time.” I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Gellert.
“It is really a shame that it’s you and not him.” He spat blood on the floor. “You are a shade more talented but you are not the better wizard. He’s the one that truly wants.” He rolled on his back, passed his tongue over his teeth. “One body can host a second one when done right.”
And Albus’ blood burned, Loxias had stopped speaking to him and started talking to Gellert. Could it be considered an insinuation when the offer was so direct? But Albus couldn’t interrupt him, he couldn’t lose the words he needed to keep inside his head, in a chant, not if he wanted to keep the spell stable. The Elder Wand was burning the palm of his hand, the ring, he felt like in flames. Loxias shook his head, laughing, Albus had destabilised his own magic at the provocation; Gellert’s hair, a golden crown on the tiles. Albus hoped he was fine, he hoped things were easier on his side but Gellert’s magic seemed to be also at the edge.
“You hypocrite man, you claim to despise greatness and still wear its crown, cape and sceptre.” Loxias took a deep breath and put his hands in the air, closing them in fists. “Loss. That’s the only loss you’ll ever know, there is none like this power taken from you, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” He was openly cackling at his struggle. “Gods, you two are no different to those boys.”
“Arcus and Livius?” He asked, an afterthought, too busy trying to match the amount of darkness Gellert was using to give Loxias space with light.
“Are those their names?” He turned to him, he even bothered to sit down, crossed-legged. “I only remember their faces, vaguely now.” At least they were getting close to something. “Boys. Not men. Not older than sixteen or seventeen. I warned them. They’d bring death to the other, it was unavoidable.”
“Did you see them come?” How, how, what did you do, how did you locate people you hadn’t even met, people that weren’t even born when you first caught a glimpse of them.
“But they wouldn’t listen, the blindness of youth. In a pair one is always better, there are two solutions, leave one to be the master and the other the apprentice or stay alone. There can’t be equality, she doesn’t allow it.”
He was getting tired of the same speech. “Are you familiar with socks? Both necessary. Both fulfil the same function equally well.”
Loxias didn’t appreciate the sarcasm nor the comparison, he stared at him, annoyed by his interruption. He already considered Albus unworthy of the power, but he wouldn’t underestimate his power anymore, there was something sheepish about his demeanour. Albus tried another method.
“So tell me. From one Master to another. How did they do it.”
Again, Loxias didn’t answer what he was being asked, fixed on his own narrative. He didn’t seem to realise, his voice had lowered. It was probably the first and last time the story would be told out loud. “They were so eager to taste power, so hungry to meet Death, the fools had come just for the Wand.”
Very few were the documents that considered Loxias a true Master, too many legends surrounded him, Loxias had been the Master very briefly, he had been killed shortly after reuniting the Hallows.
“Well, history only attributes you to the Wand,” Albus told him.
“What?” The outraged tone sounded funny, it was still Gellert’s voice, but he had never used it that way. Loxias crossed his arms over his chest, a sense of disappointment in his movements, slow. “But I told them. I told them about the rest.”
He hummed. “I took you for a cautious man.”
“Which I am.” Loxias seemed to not be listening again. He was hugging himself, Albus realised. “I thought the worst enemy was under control with the Hallows, I should have been more wary of men.” He reached for one of the candles and sank his fingers inside the warm wax, to the knuckle, unbothered. Was he feeling the burn? And Gellert? “What is my legacy, Albus Dumbledore?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
Loxias snorted before he could speak it. You killed Barnabas and got the Elder Wand. Loxias had been expecting, if not that answer, a similar one. He raised his head again, eyes fixed in the darkness. He must be blinded by the candlelight or playing with his eyesight.
“One thought it was a bluff. The other knew better, refused to leave empty-handed. It had been the first who found the Deathstick.” He paused. “But they missed the Stone. They missed it in plain sight.” And took a deep breath. “The girl made sure to come pick me up when they had already left so I laid there for a while, heard them fight. They parted ways without violence but it was all already written in the stars, their ending wouldn’t be much better than mine.”
The girl, she, Loxias was so used to dealing with Death they had become acquaintances, Albus guessed.
“Loxias,” he called, and the former Master’s sadness seemed to embrace him too. “We are looking for–”
“When she comes to visit, she curls up in the dark next to me like a small animal. My jailer is sweet. She, she… Do you have sisters, Albus Dumbledore?” He tilted his head and all vulnerability left with a screeching laugh.
“We need to find–”
“A traitor, yes, I know, I’m also up here.” He touched his temple with two fingers in a gesture he had seen Gellert, but also Perenelle, make before. The mind, the sight. Loxias was cruel again.
“No. No traitors,” he denied it. “A duke. We are looking for a duke.” Merlin and Morgana, what are you thinking about, Gellert?
“Then you should have better used the Stone to bring back a baron. Or even better, a king. They’d have been far more helpful than me.”
“Loxias.”
“Oh, no. Time’s running out.” Albus didn’t like the mocking tone, the smirk on his face. “Nice chat, Albus Dumbledore. I have to speak to someone else now.” As he stood up, Albus realised where his eyes were fixed. In the darkness, he had found Perenelle. “This power came to me, I deserved it, I didn’t search for it like those who came before. And you hated it. You hated that I was worth it.” Albus and Perenelle exchanged a serious look, she shook her head slowly. “What could he know about dreams.”
In a fit of anger, Loxias stepped on the candle and extinguished the flame, turning it into a pool of wax. The magic that held the circle together, a prison for the ones inside it, flickered and Loxias dragged the hot wax with his foot to break the salt line. The barrier that locked the chapel shone in its walls in orange and golden tones, strengthening; Perenelle made Albus a gesture, barely showing him the palm of her hand. Stay where you are. And Albus knew he couldn’t do anything else than stay a spectator of what was about to occur, a statue, surrounded by mounds of salt.
Loxias walked towards her. From where he was, Albus could see his form morphing into someone else’s, leaving nothing of Gellert. Loxias, the man. It almost made him leave the circle too, turning it useless and unfixable. Perenelle threw him another look. How would he be able to play such a trick, such an illusion on both of them. Because she saw him too, recognition flashing behind her eyes as she took in the new features, not very surprised about the trick either.
The flames of the candles rose higher, producing straps of thick smoke. It wouldn’t take that much time for the chapel’s air to become unbreathable, the candles would consume soon and they’d asphyxiate.
“You erased me,” Loxias said, toneless, merely stating a fact.
He stopped just before her, in life, they had not been just acquaintances. Loxias had been a tall man, taller than Perenelle, taller than him or Gellert too. Raven black hair. His clothes, of course, more than outdated, Albus was surprised to see muggle clothes on him, a collarless long narrow coat, trimmed with gold braid, a matching waistcoat and a ruffled shirt.
There was a watercolour painting of Perenelle and Nicholas from that time, from a long-forgotten Samhain spent in England at the court of George II or George III, he recognised the style, the buckle shoes every respectable man wore at the time. Her hair had still been copperish and Nicholas had been represented slightly taller than her when reality said the opposite. Albus had heard them joke about it some time.
“You took the Cloak and then you erased me from History.”
Perenelle stared back at him, no word leaving her mouth, not even a waver; the moment she spoke, Loxias would be released into the world, and the invocation, interrupted. Outside, the storm shook the city, lightning and thunder, the pictures from the stained-glass windows coloured the floor with every flash.
“You can’t hate me more than I hate you now,” he smiled wide. “Look how the tables have turned.”
Albus trusted Gellert had already started to fight Loxias, at the risk of hurting himself too most probably. Survival of the fittest. His magic wasn’t unstable but his presence waned, Albus had to make an effort to feel him in the room. He breathed in slowly, his own pulse beat wildly in his ears, deafening, and his trembling hand closed around the pendant. Gellert’s heart throbbed weakly between his fingers, the metal was freezing, a warning, the state wouldn’t last. I love you, I’m sorry, I love you.
“I would have given you eternity if you had asked.” He raised a hand to her face, but didn’t dare to touch her, so he let it fall again at his side. “Was the alchemist worth it? I know he wasn’t. I hope you regret leaving every day of your immortal life. Because I understood you, we understood each other and he-” His low voice was higher with every overly enunciated word. He coughed and it was a nasty sound. “He was just a fancy. A shinier, younger toy. How long did it take you to get bored of someone who doesn’t dream, who doesn’t see.”
She discreetly closed her fist behind her back, it took Loxias seconds to recognise the nervous gesture right away. He was drinking her in as if afraid she would evaporate if the wind blew stronger or if the lights grew dimmer.
“Always pulling the strings, ever the puppeteer.” He pointed back at the circle of salt, Albus wasn’t sure what he referred to when he continued speaking. “I taught you that.” He scoffed. Her cold expression didn’t change, eyes like daggers. Loxias seemed comfortable to be able to monologue, even relieved she couldn’t attack nor defend herself. But his voice was gentle, careful even. “Why make a new Master when you hated me. Why bring another child of the Star to ruin. At this point, one should think you do it for fun. But I know you don’t.” He licked his lips before showing her again his sharp teeth. “Do you still remember them? You gave them all names. Even the unborn. The more you loved them, the faster they died. I must confess after the third one, they became a blur.”
And anyone else would have exploded. Anyone else would have taken his eyes out at that exact moment. Perenelle bit her lips, lowered her eyes for an instant and raised them again. No tears fell, in her mismatched eyes Albus recognised rage, drowning. She stretched her hand and picked up Loxias’. Yellow sparks jumped at the contact, he tried to step back but she kept him in place with an iron grip.
“You killed them, you killed them every bloody time. And when you didn’t, they were fragile like little birds. Blind. They would have never seen anything more than tragedy.”
Perenelle drew something on his palm, when he knitted his brows together, she repeated the symbol.
“The future dep- Ha, it will arrive, no matter what you try to do. Always does, always will.” He answered after a bit, once he understood. She drew something else and he puffed. “War is war, it’s nature…it’s our nature as humans.”
The arc of her eyebrows accentuated, Loxias didn’t take much trouble in reading her expression, no symbols were needed, it was crystal clear. Please, it meant, please.
“We were supposed to watch over the stars’ designs, Perenelle, not try to change them.” And Loxias’ words were severe, disdainful, he didn’t seem to agree with anything she told him through the strange language they shared, of circles and taps and lines traced on each other’s palms. “Look what happened to me when I tried. My kingdom of Death, cursed to oblivion.” Albus noted two things, the first, that they hadn’t forgotten it, despite the mistakes she seemed to be making, complicating the communication, Loxias ended up understanding what she meant; the second, that it was unlike anything he had seen before, they must have been the ones to create it in the first place. Loxias laughed softly, a hand closing around her wrist. “Ah, Desdemon, away, away, away.”
The domes were barely visible anymore, dark smoke covering them. Albus realised the lesson should already be learnt; what’s not alive, better stay that way. He coughed, he had been for a while now, choking on his own saliva when he tried to breathe. In the way she had frozen at the contact, at the cruel gentleness of his voice, when in truth such a sentence must be spoken with harsh violence, Albus saw it was up to him to come out of the situation alive and with Gellert. He had waited enough. If he continued, the wait would be eternal and lonely, inside a tower.
So, with all his leftover strength, he pushed Gellert away. He destroyed any trace of his magic from the Hallows, burning his fingerprints as if they had never been owned by him and becoming Master truly, wholly. It surprised him how easy it was, how his magic receded, like a bird scared away, the rush of adrenaline burnt cold inside his veins when what seemed like prophecy, like birthright, was fulfilled. Was it treason? Weren’t they meant to always share them? He couldn’t count on Gellert at that moment and, weren’t things best made when he was the one in charge? Who else would be able to take Loxias to the place he belonged? Death herself, only Death, and she needed to be called by its true Master.
He slowly put on the hood of the Cloak, the spell to invoke Loxias still a chant inside his mind, he split it to be able to call on her. The ring was three times turned. The Wand was alive between his fingers.
And there was no loneliness like what he felt now, but it was drowned in his own magic, and it crowned him the most powerful, the most suitable man on Earth to wield the divine, godless position of ruler of all. They were supposed to meet her together, when they called her to take Loxias back, Gellert had wanted her to see them both hand in hand. Maybe a tower had always been Albus’ final destination. A tower of crimson red and gold, he had seen it before, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he spared Gellert from the worst of endings with that action?
Whatever power ran through him was aiming to break him from the inside, his heart hammered inside his chest as if considering quitting. He felt tears blurring his vision and held the pendant tighter, until it was sinking into his flesh. Deep breaths until his body got used to the new power, an opium high, euphoria. He desperately searched for anything that confirmed that Gellert was still there, somewhere.
“Death,” he called, and the even, confident voice surprised him, “take back what is yours and leave what belongs to me.”
He dragged Loxias back to the circle, unleashing chains of light to tear him off Perenelle. The circle of salt was repaired and Loxias was locked back in it. The heavy steps behind him announced Death’s arrival. Albus felt the most human part of him shrinking, twisting and turning inside himself, fear colouring the back of his throat.
Ariana walked past him without noticing his presence, almost brushing her shoulder with his elbow. He heard his own knees hitting the ground, the movement and the impact came next. The sound distracted her from a terrified Loxias, frozen in place at the edge of the circle, almost burning himself with the flames; his features and Gellert’s, impossible to distinguish from the other.
And she looked at Albus, his own blue eyes staring back at him and seeing through, unaware of the new Master there standing. She had only heard the call. He knew he was growing pale, he felt blood leaving his face and his breath catching. And he knew magic had nothing to do with it.
She was the same. She looked the same, the same, the same, it was the same white dress she had worn the day she died, snow on the living room floor, fallen never to rise. She kneeled in front of Loxias or Gellert or both and offered her hand.
The lightning shone on her hair, clearer for an instant, almost blonde, and the thunder coloured it back auburn. Albus felt liquid running between his fingers, water, but he couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere else. Ariana. Ariana. Ariana. His sweet little girl.
One of the souls left Gellert’s body. She stared at it, smoke running through her hands, and put it inside her pocket.
Gellert called her name before she stood up. Of course he was seeing her too, Death, his sister. The name echoed against the stone walls. Ari. Albus didn’t hear what he asked her. He didn’t understand her answer either. Gellert’s eyes were fixed on him, wide, grave, dreadful; he stood up and his legs failed him, Albus didn’t hear the sound of him hitting the floor until a few seconds later.
She was there. She turned, her eyes on Perenelle for a second, on somewhere else, behind them all. And then, she wasn’t anymore. Lights out. Candles of smoke and pools of wax and salt.
Hot tears rolled down his cheeks. The hood wasn’t on anymore, it must have slipped when he fell. Or not. At least, Gellert’s hands were on his face.
“Look at me, Albus, look at me, you did so good, look at me, Liebling, please, look at me.”
But he couldn’t answer. He understood every word that came out of his mouth but his throat was closed and his mouth dry. Gellert had to force his hand open, scratching his fingers and pulling them until Albus gave up the pendant and his hand was empty and sticky. He closed it again, it was inertia, and Gellert brought it to his chest, interlinking their fingers, avoiding him hurting the open scar with his nails, staining his shirt with his blood.
“Are you alright?”
And he leaned his forehead on Gellert’s shoulder, trying to let him know that he was, he was now that he was there with him. He wasn’t sure the message translated, but Gellert’s cold fingers on his skin were comforting and he closed his eyes.
“Get him out of here. We need to get out.”
Nicholas’ voice sounded strange in his ears, out of place, he wondered where he had been hiding so his magic wouldn’t interfere with their spells. But he hadn’t been there in the first place, he must have arrived later. Lightning. Thunder.
“Come, let’s go home,” Gellert spoke in his ear, his hand held his and their faces were close together.
Albus stood up with him, Gellert made sure he still had the Hallows before he exchanged another look with Flamel who was kneeling next to an unresponsive Perenelle across the room. She was sitting, cross-legged on the floor, her back to one of the walls. The protection spells she had placed made them produce a strange orange glow, she had managed to keep them up. Albus’ eyes wandered across the domes and he realised they were the only thing keeping the building standing. Gellert shouted something to her and only then she raised her head and moved, ignoring Nicholas’ arm.
They left without exchanging more words, Perenelle’s hand shook violently from holding the spell for so long but she insisted on repairing the damaged foundations of the building. Nicholas made a gesture, encouraging them to leave. The storm, on them, had already drenched their clothes. They could barely see with the heavy rain, Gellert pulled his hand.
“Let’s go.”
“Where–”
“They are fine, we need to get home now, Albus.”
And again, the wording stood out, he guessed Gellert was trying to simplify the world for him. Home. Wherever they stayed together with four walls to spare them from the rest. He saw in his eyes that he was worried. He guessed it was for him.
So he obeyed, followed him through the blur of streets, blind, trusting every step, becoming Gellert’s shadow. It was lucky he didn’t stop until they were behind closed doors, the hotel room door locked to separate them from the storm, he would have crashed into him if he had, unable to stop moving on time. Trembling, panting, Gellert took a step towards him in the corridor and touched his face, he leaned on his touch instantly.
“Hello,” he whispered, his eyes scanning his face, trying to check if something he wasn’t aware of was also wrong.
“Hello.”
“We need to take off these clothes,” he spoke softly as he opened the buttons of his damp coat and got the Elder Wand out of one of the inner pockets. Albus grabbed his wrist to stop him and it startled Gellert. He waited a few seconds to continue talking, his other hand covering his wrist. “Or we’ll catch the cold of the century.” He smiled weakly. “Let me help you.”
Albus slowly released him; he didn’t stop Gellert when he took off him the Stone, nor the Cloak. When he started undoing the buttons of his shirt, Albus mirrored his movements on him. The pile of wet clothes was abandoned in the corridor and they waited in the bathroom, naked and with their arms crossed in front of their chests to shake less violently, for the bathtub to fill up. The water was scolding hot. They didn’t even think about fixing the temperature with magic, hissing as they got in and welcoming the burn instead.
Knees hitting knees, legs drawn, shrinking in themselves to get the most underwater. Gellert shook his head after a bit, annoyed, trying to avoid the vision; his irises were clearer, cobwebs were starting to form in them. Albus found his hand underwater and clawed his nails on the scar that divided his palm in two. He reacted to the pain, eyes locking with him.
“Thanks.” He brought their hands out of the water, Albus’ hand was clean but the wound was still there. Gellert tried to heal it but he couldn’t finish the work, still too nervous to grasp full control of his magic. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled at the third try, a few blue sparks had jumped from his fingers, becoming smoke at the contact with the bath water. He didn’t drop it, keeping it in his.
“I thought I had stopped feeling your heart,” he tried to explain.
Gellert nodded in understanding. After a few minutes, he stood up and got out of the bathtub, Albus followed him, accepting the towel he offered. Reality was starting to settle in, their movements were hesitant. Trembling under the dim morning light, they wore clothes that failed to warm them. Albus knew he couldn’t dream about casting a warming spell in the freezing room at that moment, he’d break something by accident instead, or worse.
Outside, the roaring storm ravaged Paris, unbothered by any of its inhabitants avoiding the desolate streets. There would be losses. People would be found dead when it passed. A thunderbird, he thought, so capable of destruction, so unaware of being its creator; they were rarely found in Europe. Something in the edges of the world seemed to be shifting.
Thunderbirds are related to phoenixes, while the latter are mostly non-violent, the former shall never be approached unprotected, thunderbirds are creatures that predict danger, their behaviour is a reaction humans fail to take as warning most times, Newt had written a few days before.
It was easier, he realised, if he didn’t do things for himself, it was easier to find the strength to move if it was Gellert the one who asked him silently, offering every new layer of clothing.
“Can’t feel my hands.”
“Let me,” he gently took the comb from his hands, it hurt to move every finger, and laid his hand on Gellert’s nape to motion him to turn.
“I’m starting to miss the snow.”
As he untangled his hair, his surroundings became familiar again, the grey room, the thick curtains, the desk, the Hallows lying on it, out of place. Gellert’s eyes regarded his reflection in the mirror, and it diverted to the Hallows after a few seconds. He must feel it too. Albus’ power. And his own, diminished, Albus had cast him out. He ran his fingers through Gellert’s wet hair before leaning his chin on his shoulder and meeting his eyes in the mirror.
“You are back,” he said, a smirk gracing his lips. “You left for a bit there.”
“I did, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”
Gellert made a face, shook his head slightly, it’s nothing.
“Are you angry?”
He turned to meet his real eyes now and scanned his face for a few seconds. “Am I angry? Because you are slightly absent after having performed the most ancient spell known to wizardkind and having summoned Death herself into the room? Or about the part where you saved my life and the Flamel’s, staying calm and in control when Loxias tried everything to make you fail?” He raised his eyebrows when Albus stayed quiet. “We would have died if it weren’t for you. All of us. When Flamel arrived he couldn’t do anything but watch. Him. Perenelle. And I.” He put a finger to his chest and poked after every word as if it’d make him understand better. “I owe you my life.”
“You don’t.”
“Yes, I do. And so do they.”
“No!” He declared, his voice rising. He sighed and it was barely a whisper. “You spoke to her. Before she left. You spoke to her.”
Gellert blinked.
“Albus,” he called, but shook his head softly, arranging his thoughts, “until Loxias was out I couldn’t do anything. I rushed to you the moment I was alone. Who did I speak with?”
He swallowed hard, he suddenly felt silly, it couldn’t have been, it couldn’t. Gellert brought his hands to his face.
“Look at me. Who did you see. You called upon Death but I was no Master to see her anymore. Nor speak to her. That’s a privilege only reserved for the ones dying and the Masters.”
His eyes filled with tears, the words stuck to the roof of his mouth. Gellert put his forehead to his for an instant. He took the comb from his hand and switched places with him. When he finished untangling, Gellert braided his hair.
It wasn’t until they got into bed, adrenaline and nerves having become a slow poison, soreness and fatigue setting in their very bones, that Albus spoke again. It was coherent, it made sense, no little girl had been revived, Loxias had set him up for the illusion.
“Death, when she came, wore my sister’s face.”
Gellert’s hands pulled him closer as if to fuse with him, his lips kissed the top of his head. It took him a long time to answer, a whisper against his hair.
“She does that in my visions sometimes. Perenelle says Death takes familiar forms not to scare us seers.”
“Maybe. I think I shaped her myself.”
He hummed. Albus touched his face and felt his warm breath on his lips.
“You never said anything.”
“What good would it have done then. I tell you now in hopes it eases your pain.”
Albus remembered Gellert, eloquently trying to convince him that what he was doing was only fair and kind and good for his sister. The Imperius curse on her again and again and again. Ariana’s death seemed to have stayed with Gellert too, nailed deeply inside the revolutionary boy’s mind and staying with the seer, the man, as a companion.
She hadn’t been able to make decisions for herself anyway, it only had made sense that it was Albus the one in charge of them. Because he had been his brother and he had always prioritised her health and her happiness. Hadn’t he? Both Gellert and him had known at that time that he hadn’t, not truly. And only Aberforth had dared to point it out.
“I may have wanted to see her, unconsciously.” And he lied just after that. “It doesn’t hurt me anymore.”
It was anticlimactic. So much work, so much pain, so many hours spent pursuing a dream, an ideal. In Loxias they had put all of their hopes, now maimed. Albus felt empty, his mouth tasted doom and what could have been, for better and for worse, replayed inside his head, fragmented.
He caressed Gellert’s cheeks, silently asking if he was alright but Gellert just kissed his knuckles. Their questions had been solved, the answers hadn’t been the ones expected but they could erase some incognitas from the list.
“I was right. In 1899. We would have needed violence.” Gellert was speaking about the Hallows. “To master them completely without second-hand magic.”
“Yet you stole the Wand from Gregorovitch.”
“I didn’t want to get my hands dirty with blood. And I liked your idea. I liked to think the Wand would change allegiances the moment it recognised someone worthier.” He rolled his eyes. Albus knew there was still some of that pride in him, it didn’t matter how much Gellert mocked it, or his past self, nature couldn’t be changed. “Gregorovitch must have never claimed it. That’s why it moulded to my magic instantly, nobody alive owned it truly.”
He hummed. Gellert sighed.
“It suits you, Albus. This power.”
“I know,” he answered plainly, it would be a blatant lie to deny how comfortable he felt being able to deal with power over Death, a personal darker brand of immortality. Gellert would have been able to catch it.
“Did you… change your mind about…?”
And he could hear the slight tremor in his voice. Albus shook his head and propped up to kiss him.
“Loxias was full of shit. This power is a burden we’ve chosen to share. And it’s temporary.”
“Arcus and Livius–”
“ –were fools. We needed the Hallows to meet our goal and they have proven useless. The Wand is yours. The rest will go back to their rightful place, where we’ve founded them.”
The Cloak, to Perenelle; the Stone, to the descendants of Salazar Slytherin.
He wondered how Nicholas and Perenelle were spending the night, if he had decided to lock himself in the laboratory or if she had locked the door of the cabinet behind her. There seemed to be a lot to speak about. How much didn’t Gellert and him know about their past? He couldn’t help but wonder about the centuries lost to the memory of immortality.
“The Gaunt family,” he mused. “I think I went to school with one.” Gellert stayed silent for a long while, playing with his hair, when he spoke, he went for sardonic. “What if we just made a list of all the current dukes in the world. And kidnapped them.”
Albus kissed his forehead and continued in a serious tone. “We should start alphabetically. Put them all in a dungeon in Nurmengard.”
“Nurmengard has no dungeons.”
“Give that story to someone else.”
Gellert’s smirk turned into a grin, he kissed his mouth, his teeth. The stories about Nurmengard were many, and it was one of the favourite ones of its inhabitants, Gellert’s followers had made sure the rumour took hold during the beginning of his movement. It had all been closer to terrorism than to politics, what was a dungeon story if not great propaganda?
The hot bath, the warm clothes and the heavy blankets seemed to have made the feeling of coldness even worse. Embraced under the covers, he pulled them up to hide them both, trying to get more warmth from skin-to-skin contact, they took a few layers off. And they waited for Morpheus’ blessing, for his pity.
Gellert was disappointed, he wasn’t going to say it out loud, but Albus felt the turmoil inside his mind. By the time the new vision reached him, he’d be on the path of despair. We’ll find a way, he wanted to tell him, we haven’t lost yet. But he couldn’t bring himself to sound sincere, at that moment, he struggled to believe it too.
“Al?” His eyes were clearer but he might be spared for the night. “If what comes tomorrow is doom and we–”
He kissed him, Gellert wasn’t very worried about finishing the sentence either, too distracted by the shared warmth, the pleasant touch of his hands holding his face. They were too close to see the other, their bodies tangled in a knot.
“Don’t say something awful, please,” he mumbled, they had run out of air.
His fingers were tracing the shape of his cheekbones and Gellert smiled at the plea.
“Lately it’s been feeling like we are the only ones in the world.” Albus knew what he meant. Desperate times called for even more desperation. It was a beautiful way to speak about fear. It had been a long time since he’d felt the need to see Gellert at all times, to touch him, to make sure he wouldn’t disappear the moment he blinked, like a dream, an illusion. “I’m grateful. Even if it’s the end.”
He swallowed hard before answering. “Corny.”
He couldn’t allow himself to say anything else without his voice breaking. What an honour to stand at the edge of the world with you. What a blessing it’s you and I. Gellert’s thoughts were crystal clear.
It was nice, his body against his, the covers hiding them from the world. In a few hours, they’d have to leave their hotel room and continue with a plan that involved too many possibilities for them to guess. Newt and Theseus must already be in Paris. They knew from Queenie that Tina Goldstein had arrived earlier. Albus wondered if she’d tell her that she was going away for a while. Or Vinda. Queenie must be pacing her hotel room, waiting for the knock.
You don’t know what it’s like to be me, Queenie had screamed at her sister the last time they had met, must I always come second to you? Must I always be perfect or nothing? Vinda, Gellert and him had exchanged looks in the adjacent room, not even the sound of the teacups on their plates had been heard during the exchange. Tina Goldstein had left in tears or so Queenie had said and they had ended up in the same room, the four of them, scalding hot tea in their cups, mouths full of cigarette smoke.
Gellert had offered her a small piece of paper folded in four that he had been scribbling on the desk and Queenie had already known it contained the geographical coordinates where he guessed Trelahar could be, alive since the Stone hadn’t been able to bring her to them. He had taken off an earring and offered it to her, delicate silver leaves in a twisted branch; it was easier to find someone when one used something that belonged to them. When Vinda had raised her eyebrow in a silent question, Queenie had ignored her.
Alive or dead? Queenie had asked Gellert and he had turned to Albus. Let her choose, and if she can’t, you will choose for her, Albus had answered and Gellert had nodded in agreement. I trust you know how to be merciful, Queenie, he had added, and in his eyes, Albus had seen the glint of prophecy.
After that, the three of them had agreed, over the third and four tea cups of the evening, that Albus would never be able to understand what it was like to be a second son, to have to live up to the expectations of someone else that was you, only better, in everyone's eyes. Aberforth had never told him anything about it, he had never seemed to feel lesser. Not that they had spoken much about feelings ever, but his nature wasn’t that, he had been certain Aberforth hadn’t even considered it in all the years. Besides, Gellert couldn’t have an opinion about it either, he was an only child. But I see things you don’t, he had answered his accusation, and I’ve met everyone’s siblings here. My opinion is worth double. Albus had given up arguing, three versus one, he hadn’t been planning on winning. The tabby cat had been lying next to him.
Gellert’s eyes closed after a while. It didn’t take him much longer to fall asleep, his face hidden in the curve of his neck, his arms around him. He must be cold too. Albus tried to mirror his calm breathing, to focus on every part of his body that touched his. He felt disheartened. In a matter of hours, their way out of the mess they were in had been lost, or maybe it never existed. When Gellert woke up from the first nightmare, he found him still awake.