The ‘chills’ were the common name used to speak about the weakening, appalling, dreadful, nightmare-filled freezing shaking shivers the alchemist who spent too many hours inside a laboratory had to go through once every few months to expel the remaining sulphides from the body. The Alchemist’s Golden Fevers had a better ring to it but the term had been outdated since the 1600s, after that terrible incident that had involved Marie Meurdrac, using a tribikos to retrieve the vapour in a room full of sick, and renowned, alchemists.
It was truly a shame that there were no literary texts from the time recording the testimonies of those who saw the glass container full of alchemic urine, the writers that chose to tell the story had not been there and they had a tendency to hyperbolise. On the other hand, the alchemist involved in the affair made sure to either disappear from the courts they worked for for a few years or write a rather shameful pamphlet they’d spend the rest of their days trying to run away from. Historians differ on the different practices performed in the quarantined room; at the end of the day, wizards from the past could not be judged with present eyes.
The sickness passed in a few days, leaving the body purified and the mind clear, the more time spent laying on the floor, or any cold hard surface, the quicker it passed. And for the Golden Fever alchemists, the event made them memorable, they wouldn’t have made it with their own work about the Art, the only one worth mentioning from the bunch involved was Meurdrac. Nicholas always made sure to tell the story to his new apprentices, maybe because it was funny, maybe because he had already been around at that time to hear it first-hand, his students always left knowing it.
Albus rose on the fourth day, clear-headed and calmer than he had felt in weeks, he abandoned the cold floor, had a shower and changed his clothes, and left to find some life downstairs.
“Look who’s back to bless us with his presence.” Nicholas took off his glasses and dropped the letter he was reading on the table with a dramatic flourish.
Perenelle laughed and, with a gesture of her hand, she made another cup fly from the kitchen. The kettle filled it up with warm herbal tea.
“Say you told me so already and let me have breakfast in peace, I’m begging you, Nicholas.”
He offered Albus a scone, a smug smile still on his face, but didn’t continue teasing him. Perenelle laid a hand on Albus’ shoulder.
“How was the trip to the past.”
He huffed. “I’m grateful I didn't have to deal with my dead sister if that’s what you are asking.” He added two sugar cubes to his cup. “It’s good to know I have more terrible memories to hold on to now than I did in 1901.”
Flamel almost spit his tea, he coughed soundly. Perenelle threw him a death glare, he was poorly trying to cover his laughter.
“I had forgotten how impossibly gloomy you come back from these, Albus, dear.”
The memory hadn’t been exactly bad, it hadn’t even belonged to a distant past. He had got stuck in the night before, in the moment in which the fires of the laboratory had gone out, spoiling everything that was cooking at that moment, all of Nicholas’ projects gone to waste in an instant. He was glad, he had had more time than anyone else to analyse it.
Nicholas and he had climbed up the stairs almost running. The utter pure obscurity that had engulfed the house could have been breathed in, almost tangible, heavier than normal air. It had been a miracle that Perenelle hadn’t locked the door, or maybe she had, maybe the darkness had debilitated every magic it had seen as competition, because they had found it ajar.
They had been one in front of the other. Perenelle, with her knuckles white from clenching her wand in her hand, wide-eyed and still as a board, had been holding her breath, waiting for a reaction. But Gellert had stood there in silence, a strange glow came out of the Deathly Hallows, surrounding him with a warm, orange aureole. The spell that held the night sky in the room had broken, mirror pieces had scattered on the floor, sharp as knives.
Albus had grabbed Nicholas’ hand to stop his movement, blocking him before he could even raise his wand at Gellert. Before the alchemist had been able to turn his face towards him, surprised and enraged in equal parts, Perenelle, noticing the struggle, had turned her head slightly towards them. Dehors , she had mouthed, tous les deux .
And he had had to almost drag Nicholas out of the room, pushing him until he had been able to close the door behind them.
“Albus, if you ever dare to do that again–” He had been out of himself as if what had frozen him like a statue of salt in the room had become rough water under his skin the moment they had left.
“You think I’d let you hurt him?” His tone had been hostile, barely above the whisper. “Because that’s what you were going to do.”
“Love can blind us wh–”
“Get yourself a mirror then!”
It had shocked Flamel to the point of not giving him an answer. And they had both stayed with their backs to the wall, waiting, for the worst, for the best, for some sign of life or death to come out of the cabinet. After half an hour, Gellert had rushed out of the room and, once Perenelle had appeared on the door, safe and sound, an awkward expression on her face, her eyes, pools of white. Albus had followed Gellert instants later.
When he had come back downstairs, he had found them speaking in the living room, a steaming cup of coffee on the table, untouched. Perenelle had been sitting on Nicholas’ lap, he had held onto her like a drowning man. It had been the first time Albus had seen him like that, about to break down.
“ Mon coeur, tu te trompes. Il aurait pu te tuer. ” Nicholas had said, hiding his face against her shoulder, tears had shone in his eyes.
And it was true that at that moment Gellert could have killed her, Albus had thought it too.
“ Et pourtant ce n’a pas été le cas .”
Their hair was white as fresh snow but they couldn’t be more different. He looked ancient, powerful, he had seemed it even in his nervous state. Roman nose and thin complexion, like an ear of wheat.
She had exchanged a look with Albus when he passed to check if there was something in the lab that hadn’t spoiled. Her beauty, on the other hand, was ageless, high cheekbones and soft features, there was something doll-like about her. In her eyes, he had appreciated the signs of having seen, clearer irises, a few broken capillaries, redness around them.
“Dis-moi que tu ne vois pas le risque qu’un homme comme lui signifie.” Tell me you can’t see how dangerous a man like him can be.
“ Et alors?”
“Un pouvoir si brut dans de mauvaises mains pourrait être la fin–” Such raw power in the wrong hands could mean the end–
“Tu ne me connais pas du tout après toutes ces années ou… ” Nicholas had seemed to be about to protest again but Perenelle had chuckled softly, holding his face between his hands, reassuring, serene, loving. “Fais moi confiance, Nicholas. T’ai-je jamais déçu ?”
But he had just held her tighter. Perenelle had made a sign to Albus when he had come back, stay , it had meant, and he had made a sign back to her, letting her know he needed to get his wand. When he had come back down, Nicholas had been nowhere to be seen.
“I’ll do it,” he had told her, knowing that, in truth, he had been delaying the inevitable. “Anything you say.”
She had smiled pitifully, playing with the handle of the cup. “You know, Albus. I think It’s good you are on the same side in this… in this life. I believe he would have been the one opening Hell’s doors on Earth otherwise.”
“What do you mean.” She had spoken the prophecy Gellert had told him about many many months ago, only with other words.
“Nostradamus was always crossed out of the list, prophecies are never self-fulfilled. But visions…I was the one that sent Nostradamus to find Gellert, they thought if there was someone with the potential for such destruction, it was him.” She had shaken her head. “But I thought, I wrongly thought what we had all seen was the worst he had in him. It is like the Hallows were meant for his hands.”
Albus had followed her to the cabinet afterwards, black magic had come to his fingers easily, the thrill of darkness had felt good, it always did. It hadn’t taken him much time to learn the intricacies of the spell. Perenelle had regarded him with a strange glint in her eyes.
“I would have sworn you were an elemental wizard until this night, Albus. Funny, one should think that things stop being surprising with age. They don’t. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
Flamel offered him an invitation when he had finished his tea, Albus could see that he had been waiting to do it impatiently. He huffed, rolling his eyes and Nicholas laughed. Perenelle stuck her head out of the bedroom door and exchanged a look with her husband, she couldn’t help laughing too at his expression. They had definitely spoken about it before.
“In case you didn’t have plans for tonight,” he commented when he was able to stop.
At that exact moment, Gellert came back from the street, interrupting the scene. A small tabby cat walked between his legs about to make him trip at every step. For half a second, he just stared at him, lips ajar. He then took a seat next to Albus, the tiniest smile drawn on his lips, he was happy to see him awake. Nicholas offered him a cup of tea which he refused.
He had been with Vinda, there was turmoil in the highest circles of societies, everyone knew something was coming but not from where. He had also spoken to Karkarov. A note from Trelahar had arrived, something had held her back. Theseus and Newt were in Barcelona, some beast had been freed there illegally, Tina Goldstein had been the one to write to Queenie. Too much had happened in the days he had been lying on the cold floor, waiting for the fever to pass. Albus felt guilty, Gellert seemed to speak just for him to hear, the rest had already been informed. His eyes were fixed on his own hands, not avoiding Albus’ gaze, not searching for it either.
Gellert recognised Anton Vogel’s round calligraphy from the note he had between his hands, Nicholas and Perenelle explained to him with more detail than Albus would have liked how Vogel had spent the two and a half years he had stayed in Paris trying to get his attention. Invitations, letters, notes, flowers, Albus had not bothered to answer any kindness he had tried to offer.
He refilled his cup and added three new sugar cubes to it.
Vogel hadn’t been ugly, actually, his conversation had been interesting, he had been eloquent and had had a knack for riddles that had matched Albus’. Besides, his political speeches had been fine, not great, but rather tolerable. And Albus had just spent a whole summer listening to Gellert’s brilliant mind, anything he tried to compare paled quickly enough for him to lose attention in the span of a few minutes.
Vogel had taken it personally, he had made a quest to conquer him out of every forced interaction they had shared in balls, congresses and reunions, while at the same time fueling every fire that claimed, in their circle of intellectuals, that Albus Dumbledore was arrogant, proud, pretentious and pompous. Still, Albus had considered briefly using him for a while, to hide his loneliness, to finally learn German, to see to what extent Vogel would humiliate himself for him while trying to keep the mysterious foreigner well-read pose, but he had discarded the idea the moment he not so accidentally locked them up for two hours in one of the side rooms of the Opéra.
He didn’t leave rue de Montmorency, 51, in the next weeks, just to avoid the rumours about him that had clearly spread like the plague. It hadn’t been about anyone knowing who he slept with, it had been about the shame they had tried to make him feel. From then on, he had stopped trying to fit in with people who had so clearly been below him, too self-centred to actually do something for the improvement of the world anyway. The opium dens and brothels from the wrong side of the town had been kinder to him, more forgiving of his actions and his nature. There, the adjective ‘wild’ had still been used to speak of men like him, the negative connotation had disappeared from it.
Of course, he had ended up meeting Gellert there too. And he hadn’t minded at all, too numb to feel any pain, only allowed to marvel at how handsome Gellert had grown in those years of separation, at how he had carried himself, at how unashamed he had been of everything, catching his eyes with his every movement, his gaze on him at every moment. Albus had missed his presence monitoring his every movement, someone that saw him and knew him. He had adored how Gellert hadn’t had the guts to approach him, condemned to yearn for him. The punishment had been mutual in a way, Albus had chosen it voluntarily. When he left Paris, he didn’t say goodbye to anyone.
And after the years of decadence, he had seen Vogel at different events at which the same conversation always occurred. He wondered about the places Albus went to, different to the ones he frequented since they never met each other, he asked about his investigations or commented on his latest article. And the conversation died soon after.
Albus was sure he wasn’t even interested in him anymore, he was just a thorn Vogel hadn’t been able to get out of his side just because he had liked the idea of Albus too much to let it go and try to befriend him. But how he dreaded the thought of meeting him.
“He always sends some kind of note here when he’s in Paris, this is new, this has a name, someone else knows you are here,” Nicholas said, standing, picking up his cup.
Gellert gave him a look of you never mentioned any of this once he was out of sight that he returned with a slight shake of his head, why would I, it’s so unimportant.
The cat walked on the table and Albus made space for it on his lap, it accepted the offer and let itself be pet behind the ears, purring like a small motor. Perenelle and Nicholas didn’t seem surprised to see it, he guessed it had been around before, a plate of milk had been left on the floor.
“She likes you,” Gellert said when it laid down to show him its furry belly. “She never does that when Vinda is around.”
I wonder why, he didn’t say.
Once it got bored, it followed Nicholas to the kitchen, leaving them alone. He offered Gellert his cup, half empty, Gellert took a sip and made a face, putting it back down.
“Too sweet,” he coughed, standing.
Albus rolled his eyes and followed him upstairs before he changed his mind and decided to go outside again. He could feel he was bothered, not by the anecdotes; at the end of the day, hadn’t they spent more time together during those years than with anyone else? Maybe not speaking, but always orbiting the other. They both shared bad experiences with Vogel, he would have stabbed Gellert in the back before fleeing if he had had the opportunity.
“You are upset,” he started. “Rightfully so. And I should have explained to you how the alchemist’s fever works before I inevitably caught it because it was going to happen.”
Gellert had crossed his arms in front of him the moment he had closed the door, leaning on the desk to face him, already expecting the apology. He raised his eyebrows at his words as if considering the truth behind them.
He had felt Gellert’s presence all the time he had been sick, always next to him, like a shadow. He had felt his lips on his forehead, a way to check the temperature clearly copied from him after who knew how many common colds spent in hotel rooms. It was a gesture Albus himself had copied, without realising it, from his own mother, one of the very few things he had kept from her; Ariana liked to ask about it, their mother had always claimed the same, that she may have been surrounded by wizards, but that there was magic that escaped their power. The pang of tenderness he had felt every time Gellert had done it had tormented and comforted him through the nightmares in equal parts.
“Perenelle kicked me out of the cabinet until I could, I quote, sort out the bundle of sorrows I have inside my head and bring some kind of stability to my magic before I break everything around me with my weak tolerance to adversities.” He scoffed. “Albus, if you fucking laugh, I’m walking out of this room.”
Albus took a seat on the bed, lips pressed in a line. He licked his lips. “Harsh,” he managed without smiling. “Very harsh.”
“I couldn’t even cast a simple accio, she was lenient with me.”
Gellert was wearing glamour, he realised, the visions mustn’t have been kind to him during those days, biassed by his own thoughts. He needed to get closer to him, this anger didn’t come from any other place, it was worry, raw and twisted by the days of turning the same thoughts inside his head.
“I know,” he started.
“You know ?”
Albus sighed, he chose his words carefully, he didn’t want him to snap.
“I felt you. Your presence. Next to me, on the floor.” I felt your cold fingers brushing mine at night, you dragged the covers to the floor to sleep next to me, you didn’t move from my side, you didn’t move from my side until this morning, I heard the sound of the pen against paper, you were writing notes or drawing, I heard the mumbling in another language as you traced runes, I know because you traced the rune of life on my palm with your index, I know because every time the fever rose the magic around us seemed to boil with it. “I couldn’t speak then. Now that I can, I thank you for keeping me company.”
He offered Gellert his hand and Gellert took it warily after a few seconds, he pulled his sleeve for him to sit down next to him.
“People die from that.”
So Nicholas had decided to torment him after the most recent events or so it seemed. He tried to pull away when Albus laughed, but he squeezed his hand, not letting him set free yet.
“Do you know Flamel and you have known each other for a long time?” he asked.
Gellert frowned. Albus softened his grip once he was sure he wouldn’t leave.
“He was the one that stopped your spell from burning the entire city to the ground.” He added more details, he could see in Gellert’s expression that he remembered most of it. “Père-Lachaise, before the war. Many people died in the rally, there were aurors, they attacked first. It got messy pretty quickly. You used–”
“Dragons. Bluebell flame dragons. I remember.” He blinked and looked away, trying to picture the scene in his mind. “What? He was there?” He spoke softly, as if wary that anyone would hear him.
“You cursed him.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“Why hasn’t he said anything?”
“Well, since you are under his roof now, bringing it up will only make things between you two uncomfortable, don’t you think?” He smiled when Gellert let himself fall on his back, on the bed, keeping his hand interlinked with Albus’ and covering his face with the other. “That, and also the fact that Perenelle would crucify him, you’ve been his protégé for a few years already.” He laid next to him. “She frowns upon those kinds of grudges, in all these years they’ve had the time to develop different views on their immortality and how to affront what in a hundred years will be a trifle.”
He wanted to reach out, touch his face, kiss the worry out of his knitted brow. To his surprise, Gellert turned and started to slowly pull at a loose thread on his sleeve, his hand caressing his knuckles. He would let him break the shirt if that meant that they’d stay that close for just a bit longer.
“Nicholas was a vengeful man in his youth, it was the main reason why Perenelle rejected his marriage proposals one after the other,” he added, even more quietly.
He raised his eyes, mischief glinted in his eyes. “How do you know that. They haven’t told you.”
And in another time he would have been more reticent to actually tell the simple true story, Gellert liked to solve mysteries himself, he was going to give him the answer.
“Sometimes people reference past events in conversation, you know? That and a trip to the Paris National Archives does wonders to one’s knowledge about XVII century gossip.” Gellert leaned closer, his hand closed around his wrist playfully, an incredulous smile on his face. “But I haven’t told you anything about this and you’ve never heard or will hear this information. In your life.”
His smile widened, he propped himself up on his elbow. “The fabricator, the, the, the minx.” He shook his head. “He wriggled out every ball Perenelle has invited me to, I always thought it was a coincidence that we never met!”
Albus nodded, amused by the fake outrage in his tone. He loved this new unexpected complicity between them, a shadow of what it had been not that long ago, faces very close, speaking just above the whisper. From that close, he could guess the darkness under his eyes, the shadow of broken capillaries, hidden by the spell. Gellert observed him too, his eyes scanned his face, eyes drifting from his eyes to his mouth.
“A small revenge for the headache you gave him back then, I imagine. I don’t know what he’s told you, but an alchemist, a mortal one, passes the fever at least a thousand times in his life.” He put a blonde curl behind his ear, he was still wearing his street clothes, hadn't even bothered to take off his coat. Gellert’s laugh was breathy, uncomfortable, he bit his lips to stop it, leaning into his touch, the entire puzzle had been solved inside his head. “I know it looks way worse than it is, my love.”
“He made sure to be vague enough for me to–”
“Wait, you don’t want me calling you that anymore.”
They had spoken at the same time.
It had broken. Whatever spell under which they'd been for the last minutes had stopped working. Albus didn’t understand the pained look on Gellert’s eyes, he had meant it, it had slipped out. For a long while they just stared at each other, he feared Gellert wouldn’t find what he wanted in them. But he pulled back slowly, laying back down on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He took a deep breath.
“Liebling ,” he said without looking at him. “You don’t realise, do you?”
He waited for him to continue but Gellert seemed to be expecting the same, he rolled his eyes. Albus moved closer to him and reached for his hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed the open palm, tracing the scar with his lips.
“I hate it.” Gellert closed his eyes tightly, as if it hurt, his touch, his words, he wasn’t sure. But he turned towards him again, locking their eyes. “I hate it when you call me ‘love’. You only do it when you are upset with me. Don’t look at me like that, Albus, you do.” He spoke seriously, his tone was grave. “That’s what I meant then. Nothing else.” He propped himself up by pushing Albus down, one hand on his chest, another next to his head, around his wrist. Albus trapped his leg between his knees instantly, blocking him back. “I’m not some love. I’m your love.” A pause. “Or nothing at all. But I don’t want to be-”
“Come here.”
He touched Gellert’s face with his free hand and pulled him closer, tangling his fingers in his hair, pushing himself up too in a quick movement to lean on his elbow. Gellert’s hand slipped and he was thrown off balance. It left them crushed against the other, feeling the other’s breath against their lips, tense bodies and heavy breathing. He could almost taste him. When his fingers grazed the skin under Gellert’s shirt, he pinned him down with more strength, leaning all his weight on Albus’ hip bones. He made them roll, trapping Gellert under him, he spoke against his cheek.
“You are right. I hadn’t noticed.” He had to resist not to kiss him then, Gellert turned his head slightly and he had to speak directly against his lips, blurry sight and heavy eyelids, his thumb drew the shape of his lips. “My apologies, I won’t do it again.”
He smiled when Albus brushed his nose with his. Albus felt his occlumency walls tumbling, like a tornado fighting itself inside Gellert’s head, but he wasn’t doing anything to provoke it, nor Gellert to stop it.
“You won’t be on time for the reunion with Vogel.” The sentence came out toneless, no stress in any word, he didn’t believe what he was saying but he reversed their positions just to prove his point. They’d fall off the bed at that rate.
“My love, is that what you have in mind now?” He pulled him closer by the belt loops on his trouser waistband, grinding their pelvis together, there was no fabric that could hide how hard they both were.
Gellert closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against his, he rolled off Albus the moment he thought he was about to give in. “It is.”
Albus turned to him. He didn’t want to be the one that kissed him first, not after all he had seen inside his head, all the instability that he created in him, if Gellert wanted to lose control, he’d do it purely voluntarily, it was the only way to wash his hands from the treason accusations. Gellert dragged himself down to the floor, putting even more distance between them, laying his head on the side of the bed. Deep breaths, deep fucking breaths until blood went back to their brains.
“You must go. We don’t know how fruitful a conversation with him could be if he is up to something. And even if he isn’t, he’d know who is.” He seemed to be speaking out loud more to convince himself than Albus. They both knew Anton Vogel, how he liked to have eyes everywhere in order to know where to step on and where to hide when needed. “I got a letter from Trelahar, it’s her handwriting but it doesn’t sound like her. She says she’s out.”
Albus rolled closer to him. “Elaborate.”
“It’s too impersonal, even in a rush she’d doodle anything behind the paper, she never signs but she lets you know it’s her. I can trace her magic in it though.”
“Can’t she have forgotten to–?” But he didn’t finish the sentence, Gellert was shaking his head vehemently. “Isn’t Karkarov in Paris too?”
“Yes, but I won’t trust him with that information, he’s working for someone else now that our deal is over.” He gave him a tight smile, he was clearly annoyed. “Karkarov likes to keep his affairs private and separated.”
Albus frowns. “I don’t want this to come off the wrong way, but I don’t understand why you keep someone like him around.” You can’t even trust him, you don’t even want to trust him. Why not push him away. Why not push him away too. Like you’ve done with me, like you do with me every time.
Gellert reached for his hand, he let him take it.
“He’s the worst at first impressions. Ask Vinda, that’s a story for the annals.” And interlinked their fingers. Albus felt him closer again, Gellert was sincere, no mistrust in his gaze. “But he’s good at what he does, the best, quick, efficient. And he knows it, which can be unnerving.” He brought Albus’ hand to his lips and kissed the back. Albus laid his head next to his, the closeness seemed to distract him for a few seconds, eyes roaming his face. “You’d be surprised by how many wizards rely on protection runes drawn by their ancestors without having any grasp on ancient rune work.”
“Why didn’t he join the cause. Back then. You like how he works and he’s clearly valuable.”
“He never asked me to.”
“And you didn’t ask him either?”
He shook his head, confirming it. “It works when he doesn’t have to accept orders, he does me a few favours, I do him another few in exchange. Nobody works for nobody.”
“So it’s an ego thing.”
Gellert leaned closer as Albus ran a hand through his hair, from the roots to the nape. Now that some kind of peace had been restored between them, he found himself unable to stop touching him. He needed him closer. He needed to know what had changed between them, what had brought Gellert back to him. But he couldn’t ask, so he settled for every mirror caress he received. Some part of Gellert may lack faith in him, but he couldn’t believe he didn’t love him. Was it all caused by the fear of illness?
“In Durmstrang we were taught to be loyal. To the School. To our peers. To ourselves. We came all from there with strange friendships, less kind, more twisted.”
“Soldiers.”
“Worse. We’d stab each other in the back in the blink of an eye the moment there isn’t a common side to defend.” He smiled.
Albus guessed it was a brotherhood in the most literal sense; he thought of Aberforth, not able to look him in the eye for years, avoiding him, not able to exchange a word that wasn’t meant to hurt. Aberforth, who now had opened his home to everyone who needed it just because Albus had asked him to, just because the world was more important than any personal matter, trivial or not.
Aberforth still visited Ariana’s tomb every morning to change the flowers, Albus knew he must think of him every day. Of his treason to his family, of the unfateful summer that changed everything forever, of how blinded he had been with Gellert, of how neglectful he had been with his siblings, thinking about improving the world when everything around him decayed. He’d probably kill for Albus while some part of him wished to kill him too.
“And you miss speaking your mother’s tongue,” he added, dragging himself down the bed, next to Gellert on the floor, the sheets slid down with him, tangled on his legs. “You use him for that too.”
“Yes.” He looked away from him, Albus felt his occlumency strengthening, pushing him away despite him not having tried to read him. “Stop looking at me like that, Gods.”
Albus didn’t ask, he knew how he was looking at him, he knew the hunger he felt for him translated perfectly in his expression. This separation between them was a mistake, he needed Gellert to see it too. He dared to draw a line with his finger, from his white neck down his chest, opening the first button wandlessly, in a silent question.
“You are wearing it.”
Albus brought a hand to his own clavicles and felt the chain, Gellert must have slid it around his neck at some point during his days of illness. So that it protected him, so that he felt him closer. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Let’s keep it like that for now?” He leaned his head on his shoulder for an instant and Albus agreed to it.
“Help me choose a suit, won’t you?” He said, standing up.
Gellert considered every one of them, suits, robes, ties, handkerchiefs and scarves. Albus heard the indignation in his voice when he pointed at an almost brand new lavender suit, the colour so subtle it could have been grey or white or pink, the tissue so elegant it absorbed all colour, because who-had-see-him-wearing-that-and-why-hadn’t-he-been-the-first. He laughed at the way Gellert stared at him, one eyebrow raised, actually waiting for an answer.
He caressed his face with his thumbs, vaguely tracing his features. Trying not to kiss him was becoming increasingly difficult, it was comforting to see Gellert also struggling.
“I think I wore it for a conference a few years ago, I had forgotten I have it. Do you fancy it?”
Gellert nodded, his gaze dropping to his lips and diverting away, to the ties he had displayed on the table. “Who do you think Vogel is expecting to meet?”
It was funny how Albus understood exactly what he meant.
“Probably not me, but the boy he met years ago,” he answered, taking a step closer to him.
“Not the man that asked him to stop the war?” He dropped the indigo tie and picked up the next one, with a pattern of opaque golden diamonds.
Albus shook his head. Vogel had never taken the man seriously, he had feared the boy, he had wanted the boy’s approval, the boy’s admiration, the man was just its remains. He found it almost funny, Vogel had thought him at his best when he had been at his worst and had run with it. Gellert selected a burgundy one, fiery, almost aggressive, and offered it to Albus.
“It clashes with the suit,” he said. “And with my hair.”
Gellert didn’t put it down. “So? Vogel wants to speak with the boy he could never impress, not with you, does he? He won’t sing his song if he doesn’t believe he still has something to prove.” Albus finally took the tie from his hand. “Be everything he wants you to be. Is he expecting an asshole? A genius? A brat? A friend ? Convince him you still are all he thinks of you, the idea of…” he trailed off, a smirk on his lips.
Some voice inside his brain tried to explain that it would be impossible for him to combust into flames and burn everything in his wake if Gellert didn’t kiss him. The rest of his body seemed to already be figuring out different ways to burn.
“Do you really want that? Do you want me to be that for him?”
“This can’t be about me. Nor about you,” he said, pulling him closer by the pendant. He was cross, he was trying to hide it, Albus had just pressed the right button to make him imagine the worst, his façade faltered, for an instant he didn’t look so convinced. “But about who you used to be. Or who you never were. I trust you’ll do what’s best for the greater good.”
Albus lowered his head to kiss the pulse point on his neck, he marvelled at the violence with which Gellert’s cheeks coloured, his hand closing tightly around his wrist, magic boiling under his skin, it made his hair stand on end. But when he thought he’d finally break the distance between them, Gellert took a step back.
“Get dressed already, you are going to be late.”
He obeyed. He didn’t bother to go to the bathroom to change, smugly observing Gellert try to look away and fail every time. It took him so little to stop trying to avoid him and start plainly staring. Then it was his time to blush.
“I wrote to my aunt,” he said casually after he finished tying his shoes, they had stayed in silence for a few minutes. “She’s taking her time, I feel restless waiting for her answer.”
He coated the tips of his fingers with cologne and drew a line behind his ears, another on the inner part of his wrists. “A man can’t live only by feeding on patience,” he said, putting it back down on the desk, he wasn’t talking about letters.
“Liebling.”
Gellert picked up the burgundy tie and passed it around Albus’ neck, pulling him closer with the movement.
“It’s driving me insane. And you too.”
“Yes.” The confirmation was exasperating, he didn’t even try to deny it.
“Everyone around me knows things I ignore, Gellert, I can’t be useful if you keep me three steps behind.”
“You are right.” He finished the knot, adjusted it to his neck. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Gellert had brought out the pendant out of his clothes, placing it above Albus’ heart, the same way he had worn it. Albus covered his hand with his harshly, blocking it there.
“I don’t want you to make it up to me, I need–”
But Gellert interrupted him with a kiss, a mere brush of lips. It was electric, disarming, so quick, it left him breathless.
“You are impossible,” he hissed, but he didn’t push Gellert’s hands away from his face, pulled him closer by his vest instead.
“Am I?”
He could read it, I love you at the tip of Gellert’s tongue, the only thing screaming inside his mind, he was trying not to say it, he wouldn’t let it slip out, he feared Albus would deny it. And he was right, at that moment, Albus would do it, call him a liar if he had to. He couldn’t understand his love, not when he could call it everything but love, not when it left them estranged and suspicious of the other. Why , he wanted to ask, why, why, why, why.
“Please, be careful.”
It made him furious, the sincerity of his tone, almost reverent, almost like he meant it. Because Albus didn’t know where he went to anymore, or with whom, and even when he did, Gellert didn’t have the right to ask him to be careful anymore.
He kissed his cheek but Albus searched his lips again, he allowed it.
Despite the hunger, despite the resentment, the kiss was surprisingly soft. The thirsty scared to drink, afraid he’d chug the water down too fast and too quick, the hungry scared to eat after being starved for too long, lips meeting lips gently, trembling. The sensible thing was to pull away before their hands found their way under their clothes, before the kisses deepened, before there was no turning back. It’d go from embers to flames in an instant, they were lucky they didn’t have to make the choice themselves. Nicholas’ voice from downstairs called Albus.
“Hurry up, seven-thirty already.”
He kissed him one last time and turned away before his warmth had left him completely. Gellert blinked white cobwebs when he pulled away.
“Shadows will follow you when you leave Vogel, you’ll have to lose them before coming back. That, if you leave him tonight, of course.”
“He doesn’t have the ability to keep a conversation going for more than an hour,” that was why his speeches were so concise, “you really expect us to be speaking all night?” And he knew Gellert meant an entirely different scenario, but he chose to ignore it, he chose to make a joke instead, he didn’t have the time to investigate what Gellert had seen but he wouldn’t leave giving him reasons to spiral. “Thanks for the warning.”
He regarded him intently, as if to engrave his image behind his eyelids.
Downstairs, he had to blink twice at the direction written on the invitation, the hotel Gellert and he were staying when they weren’t with the Flamel’s. Nicholas was worried about it, but Perenelle said it was probably a coincidence, wizards took their affairs to the muggle world when they needed them to stay secret, wasn’t that what Gellert and Albus had been doing too? The hotel was discreet enough not to be posh and nice enough not to be trashy, well located to cross from magical Paris to the muggle part in no time if necessary, it made sense for Vogel to have chosen it too.
“Careful with that.” She pointed at the pendant above his heart, in the lamplight the blood inside it swirled in shades of blue. “It’s too showy, you don’t want to give yourself away.”
Few people had seen the blood pact from up close, but Vogel had been in the right place in the past to hear about it. Nicholas thought the same, he rolled his eyes and hid it under his shirt. They were right. As he was putting on his coat, he thought it was a good moment to apologise about the way he had spoken to him a few days ago. Flamel shook his head, palms raised. It was all forgotten, he didn’t let him speak, assuming the fault. Albus caught Perenelle’s smile, she was leaning on the living room door, watching. Of course, it had been her doing, he nodded to her before closing the front door behind him.
“Albus, you look like someone who hasn't read the, how is that famous paper you have in the Isles? The Prophet ? You look like you haven't read it in a while.”
Vogel greeted him with one of his practised politician smiles and a sweaty formal handshake that made him wish to wash his hands instantly after. Well-dressed and stiff-combed gleaming hair, Vogel had planned his looks. Albus almost made a grimace at the deep green colour of his suit; the fact that it enhanced his eyes made more to his ego than to anyone around him, he looked too smug for anyone to compliment him.
He’d fuck himself if he could , had been one of Vinda’s favourite comments every time she had been the one sent to meet someone important on behalf of Gellert, short and concise, the sentence said more than a full description of the subject. Albus didn’t know if Rosier knew Anton Vogel, she probably did, they must have met at some point, at the end of the day Gellert and Vogel had tried some kind of agreement during the war, only the latter had just chickened out at the last moment. It didn’t matter, he was sure that had been her first thought of the politician too.
They had met in the emptying hotel bar and, despite having been convincing himself that it would be worth it during the whole walk there, his mind only drifted back to Gellert, to the truce that seemed to exist now between them, to the gentleness of his kisses, to his hands on his skin, to the fact that they had actually spoken without fighting for the first time in weeks. The shadow of tragedy crossed his mind when he thought of Bathilda. He hoped she’d live to write the history they were trying to make, one layer or two of neutrality and another of literary detachment, but he hoped she would write about peace instead of war for once.
“The prophet,” he repeated, the pause had been a bit too long, he needed to focus on the moment. “I haven't read it in a while, no, fiction gets terribly boring when the writing can't hold the story together.” He made a gesture to the waiter, ordering the same thing Vogel had, something dark and transparent, with a single cherry sunk at the bottom of the thick low glass. “It’s almost painful to the eyes. Besides, you are going to tell me anyway, aren't you, Anton?”
Vogel observed him with too much intensity, it disgusted him, how he was trying to check how much he had changed since the last time, how he must be comparing him to the boy he met once. Albus had made sure to make him wait a good half an hour just to test how interested he was in the meeting, to give him time to feel the nerves creeping and to give his head some yarn to tell itself. His delay had been an insinuation of how valuable his time was, of how little he cared about meeting an old acquaintance, and he just knew Anton wasn’t taking it well. Had he been younger he would have stood him up without hesitation, it was a shame this time he truly needed something from him.
He smiled at the waiter who brought his drink.
“I'm afraid we don't have the time for that,” Vogel answered, and he poorly hid the bitterness in his voice, a tight smile grew from it, “unless you want to spend the next three days here, or in my hotel room–”
“Which I don't.”
“Which you don't.” He added quickly, a mirror from Albus’ words. He almost laughed out loud, Vogel knew he would reject any type of suggestion of the kind, letting him know that his remaining affections looked like something he had to tick off his list of the things he wanted to say. “But I can tease you are not the hero in shining armour they sang about during the war.”
He took a sip of the beverage and made a face, sweet, but not the right kind, too artificial.
“Am I not?” He asked, unbothered, he tried to think of other things that had made Vogel uncomfortable in the past, of what he could do to push him to the edge.
“No. I hope the wound in your ego heals quickly.” Too eager, too fussy, too keen to try to tease him, Albus patted himself on the back internally for having chosen to make him wait.
“Do you think me that vain, Anton?” He gave him a crooked smile as he said his name and watched him swallow hard. Albus didn’t dare to use legilimency, Vogel was fairly a good occlumens, if he caught him trying to sneak inside his thoughts, he’d lose the upper hand. “Oh, you do. Well. Enlighten me, what else do they say about me. I’m not going to read about it.”
Vogel lowered his eyes to his drink and made it swirl, he looked uncomfortable in the position he was sitting, tense. He was struggling to play his role.
“That you left everything behind, Hogwarts, investigations, research. That you have broken many friendships in the field. That you…that you rekindled a friendship. And that you work for him now.”
“Do I, that’s funny. What else do they say about my friends?”
“That Grindelwald had a new vision of war. That you are manipulating him. That he is the one pulling the strings.”
“So I’m friends with Grindelwald now?”
“I know none of it is true. You are not like that. But that’s what they say.”
He raised his eyebrows in incredulity, he couldn’t help huffing, he covered it with a laugh. “And what am I doing according to you, who know me so well?
Albus couldn’t believe the gossip columns got more information right than the actual serious papers. He couldn’t believe either that Vogel claimed to know him.
He let the sarcasm slip, or maybe he didn’t catch it. “Something not worthy of your talents and intellect, I'm sure.”
The answer surprised him, it could have been something Gellert had said to him in the past, something that he never actually uttered, he remembered Gellert lowering his occlumency fields just to let him read it if he chose to, but never saying it to his face. In the past it had enraged him, ask me to join you, tell me you can’t do it without me, say you want me by your side. But Gellert had never done it, already knowing his negative answer, not wanting to humiliate himself; another part of him wanted to think Gellert had respected his decision to follow the academic path and become a scholar, he had wished him to believe that deep down, he was also doing his part for the greater good, shaping the new generations of minds to be critical, to think for themselves.
“Trying to feed my vanity, are we?” He kept his tone light-hearted and took a big sip of his drink, the sooner he finished it, the earlier he could leave. Anton seemed to be thinking the same, he pressed his lips tightly at the sight, he’d better be quick with his proposal. “And you? What have you been doing now that you don't have any ministry to let down and no wars to run away from?”
He brought a hand to his chest, made a pained fake gesture. “Auch.”
“I mean it.”
He rolled his eyes. “Travelling. Conversing with people. Seeing what they can offer. The usual.”
“The usual. So, doing what’s easy.”
And Vogel refrained from giving him an empty answer, least of all a flirty one. Albus took a deep breath, he was tired. The snow fell outside more and more violently, through the window he observed the people running to seek refuge under roofs, inside of the cafés.
“Albus. You are hostile to me. The last time we saw each other ended in disagreement, but I'm offering you, ein Ölzweig , an olive branch.”
“You let down everyone you side with, even I’ve heard how you ran to Gellert Grindelwald after you changed your allegiance from mine to his. Only to deceive him too.”
“Does one ever have a choice when it comes to Grindelwald? He had power enough to draw anyone he wanted to his side back then.”
He finished his drink and chewed on the cherry, a warning for Vogel to speed up his words. Him speaking German, peppering in the conversation a word he found interesting here and there, stopped doing the trick the third time they saw each other.
Gellert’s accent was completely different, he spoke the language like he cast magic; his voice, more melodic, charming, even the consonants were softer, the Austrian variant was very different to Vogel’s harsh phonetics. He wondered why in the past he had tried to find similarities between them, they had never been alike.
He spat the pit on his glass, it clinked once.
“The vision will come true,” Vogel said, quickly, a last attempt to catch his attention. “Like the last one did.”
“Don’t the papers say that he’s trying to avoid it too?” Who’d want to bring a new war to the Continent so soon.”
“So you are reading the papers,” he accused, haughtily.
“I tend to skip the gossip, I don’t have time for it.” He stared at him for a few seconds, he had stood up just to sit back down again. “Anton, who’d want to bring a new war to the Continent so soon.”
He realised they’d got to a point where he’d have to fight to get the information he needed, but he needed to check first that Vogel wouldn’t start a deal with lies, he looked so pleased to have picked his interest.
“Many.”
Albus stretched his arm to grab Vogel’s glass, he had finished his drink too, only the cherry was left. He shook it softly to detach it from the bottom of the glass, sticky with syrup, and looked up at Vogel again.
“Are you one of them?”
“The opposite actually.” Anton changed his posture, leaning towards him, elbows resting on his knees, showing him his open hands.
“I remember hearing you hid for years, are you really going to get everyone’s hands dirty just to back off at the last moment?” He picked up the cherry with his fingers and put it in his mouth, sickly sweet. “One is chance, two is vice.”
Vogel licked his lips before speaking. “You must agree with me, the war left the world unfixed, but changed. What wrong could a bit more change do? It could restore a few names, clean the wronged reputations…I’ve people in Paris, the usual, you know, but they are very interested in this change .”
Albus nodded slowly, asking the inevitable question. “And how do I fit in that scheme for change ? I’m a school teacher.”
He scoffed. “You don’t know how many people wish you were just that. You got your hands dirty last time. Very, if I recall correctly. And you are not even a school teacher anymore.”
Fair accusation, he didn’t like how he said any of it, even if it was true. And he hadn’t even lived the horrors from up close, first line, like so many other students of his, fresh out of Hogwarts, to die.
“It was inevitable.”
“Well, this will be inevitable too, it’s about to explode, any day now Paris will burn again.” The certainty in his voice made his mouth go dry. “I’ve thought I don’t want to risk it this time with my allies, I prefer to choose them in advance, to avoid…misunderstandings.” He observed Albus spit out the second pit, next to the first, inside his own glass. “I know you weren’t happy with how the British Ministry dealt with the memory of the death, Albus, nor the corruption cases inside of it. Free will should be gained, not guaranteed when it comes to aurors. Your words.”
Albus stayed silent for a while, enough to make him despair, he waited patiently, if he could quote his articles by heart, he had come determined to convince him. He couldn’t help wondering, who could claim with so much certainty the arrival of a war Gellert and he had thoroughly tried to avoid, sending messengers, having spies in every court and government, making sure the waters stayed calm?
“Any man who wouldn't try to have you by his side is a fool, Albus.”
Agreed . He stood up again to finish buttoning his coat, Vogel’s eyes widened, he wasn’t expecting that reaction.
“I might… think about it,” he said, nonchalantly.
“Might,” Vogel repeated.
“Yes, might.”
Vogel stood up with him, he took a step closer. Albus touched Vogel’s arm before he reached for him, he almost jumped at the contact, suddenly growing very pale.
“He has contacted you first.”
A beat.
“Maybe.” Albus laughed openly at the face he made, the sheer panic in his eyes, shining like broken marbles. Now the green suit seemed like the right choice. The movement had been mostly out of the public eye when it had come to politics in the last year and Vogel had the right to suspect, that had been what the rest had done. With that and the half-truths his own country had spread about him, it made sense to think he and Gellert could be on the same side, plotting in the shadows. The lie came easily to his lips. “Anton, I have no idea about who you are talking about. You want to know if Evermonde has contacted me?”
Vogel considered his words for a few seconds. They hadn’t been that close in years and Albus hadn’t missed it at all. Being a coward and a traitor had really taken a toll on Vogel; his skin looked fishy and crow’s feet drowned his eyes, even his expression had changed, confidence and cockiness worn like a mask that didn’t fit anymore. It was a pity, he had once been almost handsome.
“Come to the fires. Beltane. I’ll send an invitation to Flamel’s direction, he is welcome too.” He brought fervour to his words, an unexpected passion he hadn’t seen burning since their youth. “The most important people in the Continent, people who want change. It’s the place to be, Albus, let me convince you some more, you must be there.
Vogel’s hand had closed around his arm and Albus shook him off intently, taking his hand off him politely enough to not bring violence to the gesture.
“Goodbye, Anton. I might go.” He smirked. “Maybe you are right, maybe I just need more convincing.”
He waited until the night air hit his face to drop the fake smile, keeping it on on his way out. Snow continued falling, drowning every sound that came from the city, now, apparently asleep. He walked around the streets until he lost the shadows that followed him, even without Gellert’s warning, he would have felt them. He waited a prudential time before going back to the hotel to spend the night. Under the cold sheets, he considered writing to Gellert, he couldn’t wait to tell him everything, to hear what he thought, to see the satisfied grin on his face when he heard Vogel’s legs trembled at the thought of Albus and him being allies. But it was too risky, he’d have to wait.
It was hot inside the room, if he opened a window, he’d freeze to death. It reminded him of the nights where he’d cry himself to sleep after having caught a glimpse of Gellert in an opium den, at a party, in a bar or by the Seine, on the strange days Gellert was lucid enough to sit on the riverside and draw the birds and the towers of Notre-Dame in his notebooks. Albus would keep up the pose until he was behind closed doors, only then he’d crumble. He always ended up writing letters that’d feed the fire of the laboratory, to Gellert mostly, but sometimes they were apologies, to his brother, never to his sister, never to his parents.
For a change, he wrote to Aberforth, planning to send it the next morning if he didn’t feel too silly after rereading it.
Dear Aberforth,
I don’t know if someone will come to stir the fire. I don’t know what form or shape they could take, Ministry or other, you’ve been warned.
Have you tried feeding Fawkes cherries? Bathilda’s will rot on its branches if no one picks them, they always ripen early. I think she’ll like them.
He hesitated before adding.
I hope you are well.
He folded the paper in four and slid it inside one of the dark envelopes Gellert had left inside the first drawer of the desk when they had arrived in Paris, the ones he used to send notes around.
Albus couldn’t help it, he couldn’t take him out of his head, that night, he dreamt of Gellert.