“Do you think Loxias liked the stained glass windows in the Sainte-Chapelle?”
Albus didn’t answer, he had his back turned to him. Gellert stared at the ceiling, wondering, trying to picture himself in the other Master of Death, walking the streets of Paris. They were too far apart in time and history and the texts hadn’t been kind to Loxias. But they hadn’t been kind to him either in the past. What would history make of him? And of Albus?
He wasn’t worried about what had happened, he didn’t feel any type of guilt, it always ended up like that with them. They thought they wished the other’s death only to realise he was the only thing that kept them both alive. This time had taken surprisingly long for both of them to realise that they couldn’t escape the other.
He regarded Albus walk naked into the bathroom and observed his own nails marked on his back with a smile of satisfaction, he had even drawn blood in some of the long scratches that adorned him. He had clung to him with desperation, he knew, but he tried to look for signs of embarrassment in his own mind and there were none, still high on endorphins.
Hadn’t Albus held him with fear, as if he’d vanish if he let his guard down? Fingers digging in his skin, too harsh, and roughly grabbing his wrists to block his movements, his hand around his neck almost making him see stars at the edges of his vision, gripping his hip and pulling Gellert against him with enough strength to take all the air out of his lungs with every thrust. It had made him feel wanted, desired. Loved .
He wished he didn’t enjoy so much the turmoil inside Albus’ mind, noticeable in his every movement, he had been drowning his thoughts in something so physical, so delightfully painful it had brought afloat a vulnerability he had been hiding for weeks. But hadn’t Gellert let him full access to his head in return? It had been fair. It really had. And it hadn’t been a big deal. They weren’t new to each other, nor to doing what they weren’t supposed to. It hadn’t been a big deal.
“We shouldn't have done this,” Albus said, throwing him a wet towel for him to clean up.
He resisted the urge to turn face down and just scream and instead rubbed his chest, his stomach, his inner thighs with it. Reality had settled again and he already despised the uncomfortable weight on his chest of his own anxieties, one thought led to another and soon his entire brain would collapse with so many unfriendly voices, always his own.
“Do you regret it?” He asked, after having rolled off the bed and dragged himself to the bathroom.
Albus had got out to leave him space. His apathy would have made his blood boil if he hadn’t been so tired and sore and sad. He washed his face, his hands, his inner wrists, with cold water and leaned out the door, Albus hadn’t answered his question. He had picked up their mail from the desk and was going through it, ever productive. He lifted his gaze only when he finished reading the letter between his hands.
“Did you say something?”
Gellert walked closer and picked up the remaining letters. The blood pact laid next to them, when he had arrived Albus had already taken it off and he wouldn’t be the one to place it around his neck after that. Albus stopped him before he would throw himself back on the bed, passing a hand around his middle, resting it on his waist.
“I did not,” he answered, turning his neck to look him in the eye. It felt good to be able to stand so close to him again, his presence, magnetic, his touch, necessary.
“What did you say.”
“Nothing.”
“Gellert.”
Albus’ eyes scanned not only his face but the marks he had left on him, guilt made his gaze shine in a special way, like stones left on the shore by the sea, he couldn’t explain it but he recognised it instantly. So Albus did regret it. His fingers traced his collarbones and Gellert bit his lips to avoid breathing in sharply from the pain.
“Leave it.”
“Tell me what you said. Just a minute ago.”
He could feel his touch, colder and colder by the second, the healing spell emerging from it, he held back a groan.
“I was wondering,” he started, and the pain burned brighter with his words, Albus released him from his magic, “if you regret it.”
He squinted his eyes, looking for signs of insincerity in his gaze. “That's not what I've said and you know it. We shouldn't have done it.”
“Can't go back now, can we. Why say it.” Albus’ hand was travelling up his neck slowly, he swallowed hard. “Why cry over spilled milk if–”
Albus kissed him softly, barely brushing his lips against his, and leaned his forehead against his. His lips were chapped, his breath warm against his cheek, Gellert ran his thumb over his lower lip to see it had stopped bleeding, in the first kisses he had drawn blood and he had continued tasting copper until the end. Albus kissed him again.
“We are not fighting about this. It has happened, we weren’t supposed to do it because neither of us want my head messing with yours. No regrets, we’ve had fun, we clearly missed each other. Let’s try to avoid a next time for now? It’s a matter of,” he looked to his left to find the word,” self-preservation?”
And Gellert knew he couldn’t say it in the circumstances they were in, he knew it would only bring discord between them, more, but he had until very recently enjoyed a great deal having someone mess with his head like that; make him question himself, his feelings, make him think thoughts that weren’t even his, thoughts that were his and he hadn’t known. He almost felt lonely, all alone inside his head all the time. Albus’ absence felt like abandonment, even when it wasn't.
So he asked instead, walking to the window to peek out of the curtains at the first lights of the day, soaking the grey city of Paris in a golden dust. It rained again. “Was it you or was it me?”
Because he had felt in control of his mind despite having dropped all occlumency the moment the first kiss had stopped being innocent and their clothes had started falling on the floor one by one, pooling at their feet. And it had been strange, how balanced it had felt. And still he had chosen to lose that control purposely, leaving every door unlocked, just in case Albus wanted to look through his memories. He hadn’t, but he had yearned for the connection just as much.
Did it make sense? Was he that fucked up that even having every reason to suspect Albus’ loyalty, he wanted his company in every possible sense? His power, against him, and his mind, yielding as a consequence. Was it all about feeling understood, seen, loved? Was he making something so vain and personal the reason why he’d let war run free again? Or had he always made the same choice in the past, and only at that moment had he made it fully conscious?
“Can't remember.”
Oh, so it had been him. Good. It was even better if Albus had been the one to start it, he wouldn’t blame him for going along. It was right, they, together, were right. In all the madness, it was the only thing that made sense, he was tired and bored of forcing himself to pretend otherwise. Gellert sat down at the feet of the bed and broke the seal of the first letter.
They had been speaking, Gellert had taken the long way to the hotel in hopes of finding him on the way back, if not still there; Albus always chose to walk by the Seine so early in the morning, still dark, no one else in the streets, only the noise of his own thoughts. He had barely knocked, not to wake him in case he was asleep, but Albus hadn’t even gone to bed yet, he had opened the door seconds later. He had been worried to see Gellert there, he had seemed to be expecting bad news.
He wasn’t sure at what point talking had become kissing but he remembered them speaking very softly and the rumble of the door closing behind him, his hand brushing Albus’ in the small corridor. Why had they stood so close to the other? It must have been then. Yes, it had been then.
“Your magizoologist is coming to Paris. There's–”
“A thunderbird loose, I know. Newt sent a note a few days ago,” he added. “He didn't think he'd be able to catch it in the Pyrenees so.”
Gellert huffed, letting the letter fall from his hands in a dramatic movement. “Oh, no, with the nice weather we were having,” he deadpanned.
Albus shook his head slightly, a smirk on his lips. He recognised Voguel’s round calligraphy, cursive in the paper between Albus’ hands and waited for him to tell him something about it. Albus stayed quiet and Gellert continued with the next letter, throwing its envelope and aiming at the pile of papers on the desk. It hit the edge and fell down on the floor. The smile on Albus’ face widened, with a movement of his hand he made it fly back on the desk.
“This one's for you,” Albus offered him another one, open, the seal almost intact.
He picked it up and turned it in his hands, the address was his aunt’s in America. “Have you read it? I would have shown it to you.”
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, he didn’t mean it. “Anything else from Treleahar?
“No.” He chose to ignore what had just happened and sat back on the bed, the sheets and the quilt had fallen at some point and they hadn’t bothered to put them back in place. He stepped on them. “ Liebling . Come.” He patted the spot next to him once. “Speak to me, come.”
His hair stood on end at the skin-to-skin contact, he wished he could control how every part of his body reacted to him, coming alive, looking for his touch. And at the same time, he didn’t. Gellert put down his aunt’s letter, not having read a word yet. Annoyed, he turned to face him and noticed the shape of his teeth on his shoulder, the space up to his neck, marked with now dark bites.
“You speak to me.” When he didn’t answer, he added, “Nostradamus has died, you haven’t said a word about it yet. Not to me, not to Perenelle.”
Gellert leaned closer, placing his chin on his shoulder. “You two are speaking behind my back?” He rolled his eyes, it wasn’t a real accusation. “I haven’t said anything because there is nothing for me to say.”
“If you don’t mourn when it’s due, you'll drag the grief everywhere you go.”
“It’s not that. I don't have the right to mourn.” He sighed. “I would have killed them myself if it had meant I'd continue living. It was either Nostradamus or me.”
Albus’ hand drew the shape of his most recent scar, all the way from his side to his hip bone.
“How does that work.”
“The seer that stayed was meant to die. That's what Perenelle said.”
He nodded, dragged his lips up his cheek. “Funny, you were planning to stay, were they–?”
“Yes, they were planning to leave. But you arrived and the plans changed.” He lowered his gaze to his hands, fingertips slightly stained from dark magic still. “And they got a vision. The vision. And so did I. Again, death, war. Nostradamus has, had, a tendency to auditory visions, sometimes prophecies, but they didn’t enjoy the sight, I guess, maybe, they knew...”
Albus hummed.
“I thought I was stuck,” he continued. “The cards didn’t show me much when I was in Hungary. Apparently, there wasn’t anything else for me to interpret with the questions I was asking. Can you pass them to me?” He could have extended his arm to pick the sachet himself, Albus was just a bit closer, he let him bring the cards out and offer them to him. “Look.” He shuffled them, leaving out the ones he wanted to show him, the colour passed before his eyes in a blur, he could recognise them without having to see the pictures clearly, by their texture. “This is what I saw then. And a third one, blank. A future that hadn’t been written yet.”
“The Star. The Wheel of Fortune.” Albus took both in his hands when he offered the two cards, reading the names under the pictures, he must understand that they were major arcana. “What do they mean.”
“The Star tends to represent the sight, either a seer or a vision. Light. It lights up the night for the travellers, you see?” He signalled the figures in red and black, guided by the star, golden, the paint there was brighter. “And the wheel of fortune, well, imagine.”
Albus regarded them for a while, turning them in his hand. “Could you have saved them?”
“No,” he answered, putting them back inside their sachet and standing up to leave them on the desk again. “One had to go out. It was Nostradamus or me.”
Albus rested his head on his side, his lips traced part of the scar, his hands caressed his calf, up to his thigh. “You have stopped looking for answers in the cards.”
“I have,” he confirmed, running his fingers through his hair. He had started checking them at random, ignoring what they showed and blaming himself for not asking the right questions. Of course Albus had noticed, overnight Gellert had dropped the surly façade he had been wearing for weeks like a broken armour. Albus drew a line with his tongue on his skin, along his midriff, stopping at the navel. He closed his fist, pulling his hair slightly. “Stop, you know how that ends.”
He pushed him without much strength and Albus let himself fall on the bed. He laid next to him, face down. I love you, he wanted to say to him, I love you more than life.
He picked up the discarded letter, stretching his arm above him, and brought it out of its envelope.
“She sounds, I don’t know, Gellert, a bit...”
Dearest nephew,
Why follow blurry dreams when reality is clear enough? The stars could show Excalibur but they wouldn’t put it in your hands nor reveal how to find it.
There is only one reason why I accepted to leave you all alone with that dreadful vision of yours. I knew Albus before he was born, and I dare say you know him even more intimately than I do now. Forgive me if I cannot comprehend your words, I believe you blame a man who has descended the abyss just to sit by your side in the darkness for exactly that.
Let me remind you of your mother, because her memory will always haunt us both. Didn’t you accuse her of being blinded by what she thought was destiny? And, didn’t you hate her for it?
Sedona is lovely, the wind isn’t half as unbearable as I thought it’d be and summer is starting to arrive. The days are getting longer. The desert looks like burning embers under the evening light. It’d kill me to die away from the place I call home, don’t leave me to melt under this sun, Gellert, you owe me that much; bury me in Godric’s Hollow.
This time he reached for the pillow and put it to his face, not bothering to read the valediction. He screamed, it was muffled, eyes tightly shut to avoid tears forming in them. He felt like crying, like throwing up, like dying there and like walking away, all at the same time. Albus caressed his back, his hand stopping at the nape of his neck, he felt his hot breath against his skin, his lips on his shoulder, and then, his teeth.
“It’s okay, she’ll be fine, we’ll be fine, she's just scared,” repeated again and again, until he turned and kissed him to stop the stream of comforting words.
“Liar,” he mumbled.
Albus pulled him closer and held him against his body, ignoring everything that came out of his mouth, his embrace tighter with every cruel word he threw at him. He didn’t understand why he didn’t fight back, why Albus wasn’t reacting to any of it, it made him angrier, he aimed to hurt and Albus just took it.
The vision knocked him out without warning, a flash of white.
Please, don’t do it, you’ll kill us all, Cass Trelahar was telling him, and her eyes grew wider the moment she uttered her own death sentence; the moment of realisation, she whimpered like a child.
But he wasn’t himself, his body was someone else’s. She was covered in mud and dry blood, the night was too dark to see where they were. She clung to his arm with all her strength, leaning all her weight on him, but he shook her off and turned away. Her body made a loud thud as it hit the ground.
Ariana avoided his eyes when he looked at her, fixing them on the ground where she must be, behind him. In the light of the fire, her strawberry-blonde hair shone bright red. She sighed. The other wasn’t going to snitch either.
He swallowed back her name and leaned his head on the curve of Albus’ neck, he was back in the room with him. His ears were plugged and his own voice reverberated inside his head as he spoke.
“Did you. Did you see that too.”
Albus kissed his temple, his fingers traced small circles at his sides. He hadn’t, he could see it in his eyes. It was better like that actually. Gellert touched his cheek and leaned in for a kiss, he knew he was trembling, it worsened when Albus hugged him tighter.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” his voice came out too thin, he felt his heart beating at the back of his throat, he’d vomit it if he could.
Albus’ eyes were shiny with tears, the blue in them, a few shades too dark. He lowered his gaze and it killed him. “You didn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m sorry. When she got married, she’d bring out the lovers from the deck every time she asked the stars how to keep me alive, so she stayed with my, with him.” He swallowed hard. “I think she didn’t want to be alone when it happened, she’d known for a long time that she’d die and,” he coughed, choking on his own saliva, “and what was a bit of pain in exchange for some company, but he never loved anyone but himself. And I was in Durmstrang and I don’t know if it was him who didn’t let her write to me or if she chose not to but. But. Er hat mir nicht mal gesagt, dass sie tot war. So konnte ich nicht –”
Albus caressed his wet cheeks with his thumbs, cradling his face between his hands, his forehead against his, his voice was desperate, an angry whisper. “I know. I understand. Gellert, I promise I understand.”
“Do you.”
“Yes!”
He hated to see Albus cry, he hated to be the one to blame. His mother had died leaving him to die too in the hands of the one he loved the most, that had been the prophecy, that had been the prophecy, but was it about him or about herself? He hoped Albus had understood the story because he was sure he wouldn’t be able to speak it again out loud in a better state.
His father had raised him with silence and the buckle of a leather belt, his mother had raised him with whispered songs and her healing touch, not much of a guide in his childhood when he’d wake up in the middle of the night with a blur of images in his mind, his eyes clearer and darker at the same time, mismatched. Hide from him until it’s gone, when you are older you’ll go away, someone else will teach you what I can’t, and you won’t have to hide anymore. When his time to leave for Durmstrang arrived, he made sure he didn’t turn back until he was sure she couldn’t see him.
If he left all behind, all that belonged to her, all that was outside of himself and of what he had lived and of what he had seen, Albus couldn’t be blamed for any scheme against him. Would he have to carry the blame all alone if his aunt died overseas? He wouldn’t let Albus share it, it was his fault alone.
Bathilda Bagshot, the only one who had known from the beginning that he had fallen in love with the neighbour’s boy, only there had been no neighbours anymore. Bathilda Bagshot, who had been family despite sharing no blood with him, who had made sure to never interrupt their studies in the library, nor enter his room at night to wish him sweet dreams, who had lied to the press and the government just to protect him time after time. She had made sure his existence wasn’t lonely, she had wanted him to never stay like his mother, in unloving company, until the end of days.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the catch in his breath still there, for the last minutes he had been trying to follow Albus’ in vain.
He kissed the corner of his lips, eyes still wet, and kept them closed until he made the tears disappear, Albus didn’t want him to see him cry. Gellert stroked his cheek. Don’t, please, look at me, look at me, I love you, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you, it’s my fault.
A trail of tiny freckles, oil painted, peppered the bridge of his nose and spread, light and spaced out, barely noticeable for someone that didn’t stand so close to him. Gellert knew no one else alive held the privilege, not anymore; he feared he was undeserving, he knew he’d fight with nails and teeth to keep it.
“This war you are fighting,” Albus turned his head to kiss his palm, “is against yourself,” he said, quiet words, almost mumbled, “and it is yours alone, my love. I just happen to be in the middle.”
He swallowed hard, looked away and forced himself to find his eyes again, he needed to drown. The room felt cold, he wasn’t sure if it was an effect of the vision or if one of them was failing to keep his magic at bay. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s alright.” A tight smile drew on his lips.
“No, it’s not.”
“It will be.” And Albus softly crashed his forehead against his, giving emphasis to his words, his hands caressed his face, his arms, as if feeling the temperature lowering too. “I’ll forgive you, Gellert. I’ll be able to, you think this is the worst you’ve done to me?”
He shook his head. Albus was angry, he knew, he felt it in his own blood; but his words hadn’t meant to hurt him, it was the truth, Gellert destroyed him when he left Godric’s Hollow, everything else he had made to wound him, intentionally or not, couldn’t compare.
“No. You didn’t do that,” Albus said, catching his eyes, inevitably fixing on the scars that run from his wrists to the bend of his elbow, two clean gashes of a plum maroonish colour, never to be healed. They never spoke about it, they never spoke of the time they spent apart anymore, the years before the war had been spent in darkness, whatever they had done without the other didn’t count. “That was me, all alone.”
“I thought I was freeing you. When I left.”
Albus frowned, pushed him down for him to lie on the pillow and looked for the crook of his neck to settle his face there. “Don’t.”
“I never truly thought you’d want me away forever. I was–”
“Gellert, I know that.”
“I was a fucking coward. And I tried to make up for leaving with everything else, I thought you’d come back to me when you saw that–”
Albus covered his mouth with his hand, there was no strength in his voice. “Shut up, it’s forgiven.”
It didn’t stop him from continuing talking. “But I was wrong and I said I hated you when you saved me because you dared to do what I couldn’t and you don’t deserve–”
“I know that, I know.” Albus propped up and blocked Gellert under him, hands around his wrists when he tried to move. “Gellert, I know it. Believe me, I know.” He could taste Albus’ sigh, against his lips. “You make me feel alive. And I’d play this tug of war with you for the rest of our days. But we need to stop the real thing first, vanish the madness in your visions. After that, it’s whatever you want, okay? Ruin me, fucking ruin me if it makes you happy.”
And if he thought about it, he already had. Not that it couldn’t be partially fixed if they were victorious, but Albus had already given everything for him, his entire life was lost because of Gellert. Albus Dumbledore the good teacher, the clever politician, the sharp scholar, the trustworthy erudite, gone, ruined already. And in exchange he had given him pain and silence and. It clicked. And he almost laughed. For how long had he been ignoring the obvious?
“Albus,” he called, the intensity of his gaze made his pulse rise, he lifted his chin to find his lips, his taste was sweet. “What if I told you. What if I told you,” and he cracked a smile, unable to hold it back, “that I am the traitor.”
His grip, harder on his wrists, morbid curiosity in his gaze, he wanted him to continue speaking. He felt his cheeks growing hot, it took him a few seconds to form a coherent sentence.
“We’ve blurred. Inside my head. I mistook you for me, do you understand?”
Albus stared at him and, after a few seconds, nodded.
“Do we do that in yours too?” He asked, touching Albus' temple with his index and middle.
He nodded again, closing his eyes, letting air out of his nostrils softly. “Can I say something?” His smile mirrored his and Gellert licked his lips, seeing the hunger in his darkened pupils. “Have you ever thought that, even if I held the power to kill you, I could choose not to? And fuck the prophecy. It’d still be true.”
Oh, so he had been thinking about that. He hummed, not meaning any word he said, not truly, he had chosen to ignore the prophecy the moment he met Albus for the first time. “I mean, you are supposed to be my death, you are the one I love the most. And you'll hold the power.”
“And, how many times have I told you you would be mine.”
“You accuse prophecy of using figures of speech?”
“Gellert. It’s all fucking metaphors.”
The way he said it made him chuckle, Albus stopped him with another kiss, releasing one of his hands to touch his face. Gellert tangled it in his hair, at the nape of his neck.
“I like it. Let’s keep your interpretation from now on.” He felt like burning, his insides caught on fire.
If he thought about it, it had stopped making sense. There was no tower where Albus could die anymore, not the one he imagined, the one he had always glimpsed in his worst visions. He was so far away from his castle, he had sworn he would never go back. And still, his mind had got stuck with the image, he had cursed the deck himself.
“So, traitor , let me guess, the teeth didn’t make the distinction between your kin and your own blood?”
“In my defence, who would consider oneself his own family. My own brother.” His lips drew a line. “I really was expecting someone’s bones to show me a clear answer, wasn’t I?”
Albus puffed, lowered his face and graced his neck with his teeth. Gellert didn’t stop him from kissing a new bruise, the hand on his hair closing in a fist, eyes almost misty. Outside, the storm was roaring, the thunderbird mustn’t be flying further from Tours or Bourges, maybe Orléans.
“And your magic?”
“The lack of visions was driving me insane. Not having any answers was driving me insane. Thinking you had turned on me was driving me insane. The stars only showed me new paths when I pushed you away.” He snapped his fingers and lit every candle in the room with a wandless spell as a demonstration. “I was my own demise but I saw you,” he sighed and lowered his occlumency walls, he couldn’t explain it with words, he didn’t want to; Albus’ mind crashed against his like the brave sea on a cliff, a welcomed familiarity he had dearly missed, he wanted him to see it all, he wanted him to understand as he understood.
And it might have been true, destruction brought rebirth after it, it was nature; Fawkes, the golden feathered burning corpse of a frail chick they had left in Godric’s Hollow, dying only to return from its own ashes.
Albus kissed his cheek, his closed eyelids, reddened, copperish because of the vision. He pulled him down in a hug and breathed him in, his hair, the faint smell of cologne that lingered behind his ear. Albus’ hand was already travelling up his leg. He spread them wider to leave him more space.
Gellert touched his face, a smug smile on his face. “Sure you are not going to regret it later?”
Albus raised his eyebrows, not even bothering to answer, and dragged his nails down his chest as he moved down, drawing a circle around his thighs and blocking his legs with his arms when he settled. Gellert propped up on his elbows to see his face, resting on his thigh, the smile gracing his pink lips, devilish.
Could it be possible that the prophecy talked about that kind of death? He doubted it, still he forced himself to keep his eyes open and not give in to sensations. The candlelight gave the room a saturated dream-like atmosphere, setting Albus’ hair on fire and colouring his cheeks orange and pink, his eyes looked a plum colour, indigo mixed with the warmth of the flames, sparkling. He didn’t want to miss any detail.
He laughed at the sight of Gellert gripping the sheets, knuckles white, biting his lips not to make any noise, refusing to let soreness win. He miserably failed. Albus bit his inner thighs until his teeth were marked all over his flesh. When he returned to kiss him, Gellert could taste himself in his saliva, the salt in his hot tongue; he had swallowed it all, licked him clean, Gellert had had to pull his hair to bring them back on the same level.
Oh, and how his gaze burnt him, he felt drunk on him, on his inflaming touch, on his skilled mouth, on how their movements had started to make sense again, one matching the other, like a dance. He pushed Albus to roll on top of him at the same time he was pulling him closer, the movement so fast it made his head spin. He laughed and touched his face, blown pupils and uneven breath.
“Gods, I love you.” Gellert knew it was their curse, he knew it must be written somewhere, they were condemned to returning to the other and he embraced it.
“Prove it,” mouthed against his pulse point, it made his hair stand on end.
Albus held his arms to help him lower himself on him, until there was no separation between them, until it was impossible to distinguish where one started and the other finished. They fucked until it physically hurt, both of them so sore every stroke, every touch, every thrust, every caress, became painful. His breath at the nape of his neck, a heaving pant. Gellert smiled wide and felt Albus’ teeth against his skin, mirroring him.
He’d spend the rest of his life making it up to him, proving how much he loved him, how good he could be to him, he would, every pain he had caused, he’d mend They stayed on top of each other, sweaty, in love. For the next hours, Gellert could only outline his face with the tips of his fingers, red lashes and thick brows, crooked nose and pink swollen lips.
When the madness ended, if it ever did, he’d show him the sketches he had made of him, at the back of his notebook, born from stolen glances in trains and from the rare occasions in which Morpheus had claimed him first in the nights they had spent together during the last months.
And he might tell him about his patronus too. By then, it wouldn’t matter, and it would be better to tell him than to have him discover it, a white phoenix he had kept a secret since he was sixteen. Before his aunt came back, they’d have to get rid of the boggarts plaguing her house, Gellert marked the imaginary date in his mental calendar, a deadline for himself, by then he wanted Albus to know. Or maybe after that. Maybe he should tell him after.
Albus got a curl out of his eyes and he kissed his wrist, the tips of his fingers.
“Have you thought about how you want to do it,” Albus mumbled, half asleep, he propped up to shake slumber away. “Imperious curse?”
He hummed. “I’d like to try Occam’s razor first. If it doesn’t work, I guess we’ll have no other option.” It had too many side effects, they could become permanent; using the Imperious curse during sex for one, two, three, hours once in a blue moon wasn’t the same as taking turns to be under it for the rest of their lives, they had spoken of quitting the Hallows if it came to it.
They had quickly agreed to use an unforgivable curse in 1899, to be able to use the Elder Wand when they had procured themselves with it, not having investigated much. Funny, how the events had unravelled after that. Gellert, stealing it from Gregorovich alone and mastering it without all the violence he had expected to use acquiring it and Albus, only learning all about it years later, from a picture in a paper. They had been meant to do it together, their plans, their ideas, most had stayed forgotten in Godric’s Hollow. And the Hallows belonged to them in spite of it.
He took off the Resurrection Stone from his finger and made it roll between his fingers before taking Albus’ right hand between his.
“What are you doing.”
Gellert propped up on his elbow and slid it on his ring finger, drawing the scar on his palm with his thumb. Albus knitted his brows together, an amused smile drawn on his lips when he reached for the wand on the desk.
The Invisibility Cloak shone, iridescent as if under the sunshine. Not much clarity filtered through the curtains, rain and wind hit the hotel facade with violence. Gellert pulled from it, it was hooked on the chair, and sat in front of him. Albus mirrored his posture, they were very close, legs on top of each other. Gellert hid them both under the cloak and Albus stayed still during the next minutes.
He brushed his nose against his instead of breaking the silence and a wave of tenderness washed over him. I love you, the only thought inside his mind, he brushed his lips against his. Through the thick translucent cloak, they could see the rest of the room, darkening in the evening light.
He felt the power of the Hallows leaving him, like water running out of him or an open wound bleeding profusely, the sensation of loss made his arms and legs tingle. It didn’t hurt. Albus’ eyes widened and he smiled.
“Can you feel it?”
“I feel you, losing it.” Albus touched his cheek and he felt electricity, power flowing under his veins, alive, alive, warm, from him to him. Gellert closed his eyes. “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “It’s nice, I feel lighter.” He offered Albus the Elder Wand. “Master. Conqueror. Vanquisher of Death. How do you feel?”
He chuckled at the face Albus made. There was no solemnity, fake or true, that would make him feel any different. Mastering Death came with no extra thrill, it was a rather dull sensation, one had to actually use their power for anyone to notice it enhanced. He wondered why hadn’t anyone written about it, Albus seemed to be thinking the same.
“We would have been so disappointed.”
He understood, if they had found the Hallows then and not all those years after. “You would have still learnt the maps from every catacomb we’ve been in by heart. And I would have still teased you about it because I would have been envious. But I don’t think I would have been disappointed.” Albus kissed his cheek and he moved to catch his lips. “Okay, it doesn’t feel much different. But we were meant to find them, I thought it then and I may still like the idea now.”
Albus shook his head, admonishing, smiling. “It’s discreet, that only confirms the other masters felt the need to prove themselves. That was their doom.”
“Fuck them. They are dead. We are not.” He stuck out his tongue and reached for Albus’ wand on the nightstand, getting out of the cloak’s protection. Albus stayed invisible under it, he could only hear his laugh. “Let me have it while you are the master of the Elder Wand.”
“Don’t you have doubts about this? You’ve–, it’s yours.”
He reached for Albus and let him pull him again under the cloak. “You are invisible and not transparent, it takes a few days to get used to it.” He rolled his eyes, he found the uncertainty in Albus' gaze ridiculous. “Are you planning to run away with it or what. You’ll return it when we are done with Loxias. Or don’t. I don’t mind using yours, and I don’t mind sharing it either. This was meant for both of us, Albus, I never wanted anything else. You could keep the other two if you wanted, back then I was only interested in the Wand and now, if we succeed, I won’t need any of them anymore.”
Perenelle had said they needed to fully trust the other for their spell to be successful, she had also accused him of being the main obstacle, why swim against the current anymore, he had been the only one left. He was meant to change it.
Albus shook his head and took a deep breath. “Promise me that–”
“I promise,” he said, smiling, before he could finish his sentence, Albus looked too serious.
“Gellert, promise me. We’ll get rid of them. We’ll hide them, we’ll destroy them, we’ll–, anything. Keep the Wand, it’s yours, but I don’t want us using the rest, least of all together. I don’t want anyone to know we had them reunited.”
His lips drew a line. He understood, a part of him screamed that it made no sense, a part of him would have still killed for the power he had tasted and given up so easily to someone who didn’t want it, to someone that had to yield it and didn’t wish it. He was old enough to ignore it, old enough to understand Albus’ concerns, they’d become a target, they’d never sleep another night in peace. He remembered Gregorovitch, powerful and terrified of anyone trying to take the Wand off his hands. And he hadn’t even been a master of Death. He knew power and he knew in what it could turn people, he knew he could also be turned, he knew Albus was certain of what they’d become. So he nodded.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I promise. We’ll hide them.”
Albus lowered his head to kiss his neck, his cheek, his hand caressed his face. “Thank you.” And, after a long pause, he added, leaning his forehead against his. “I don’t know if Loxias saw them in person in his time but I’m sure he’d like them now. The stained glass windows.”
“Bet.”
Anyone who entered the room would find it empty, the Invisibility cloak protecting them from all evil. Time seemed to have stopped for them, ephemeral masters of Death.
“Gellert.”
He tilted his head, he was dying to hear it, he knew Albus knew he knew he was going to say it. He held his face between his hands.
“I love you,” barely a breath against his lips.
Finally. It had been his only thought for the last minutes, he feared Albus wouldn’t say it back. I love you. I love you. I love you.