Queenie met him again at the gates of the cemetery; they had seen Elphias Doge a few hours before, he wanted to give him the list of names the man was meant to investigate in the Ministry archives; it was better to not leave any loose ends. All belonging to the same person, variants of the same surname used over the years of working for different ministries, most of the time from opposing countries. At the end of the day, there were people that only lived for chaos.
Gellert wasn’t sure if Alexander Karkarov was in Paris just yet but he had a gut feeling he hadn’t stayed back in Hungary with his runes and the endless drowning forests. Where else to go to find some entertainment than to the city of lights. He regretted having let him see too much of what he was planning to do, even if he hadn’t pretended to.
He had chosen to give Doge the opportunity to make amends, not with Albus, which depended solely on him, but with history. That was the only thing Gellert could grant him. Albus’ forgiveness was something very few had been able to get, and the Doge seemed aware of it, he had been almost docile, sheepish, autumn brown eyes and autumn brown hair, he hadn’t even asked about Albus.
As he had observed him add a third tablespoon of sugar to his tea, Gellert had been able to grasp something shared between Elphias Doge and Albus, something very English he couldn’t really place or point at. Doge had promised answers as soon as possible, he had enough contacts to get them in no time. The yearning to be right, to be good, to be useful, that dripped through his words was a confirmation of his allegiance, of his compromise.
It had made Gellert wish he could feel some type of sympathy for him, but he didn’t. He reminded him of Krall, with his self-imposed morality that changed with the wind and his desperation to be seen, and Doge had a former-acolyte-type-of-aura to him that he dreaded.
Queenie smiled brightly at the sight of his long dark coat, the one that had accompanied him before the war, almost a uniform. “You’re in character.”
“So are you.”
She looked down at her own clothes, the bright pink hat matching her coat and gloves. “Playing a role makes it hurt less,” she said, taking the arm he offered, and leaving the umbrella between them. “Everyone is so sad these days. I don’t know anymore who I’m reading, if it’s just myself or everyone else.”
They started walking, their feet leaving footprints in the muddy ground. He still remembered the way to the crypts, intuitively, he followed the path without even thinking about it twice.
“You too.”
“Queenie,” he said in a sing-song, “I’d love to be alone inside my head while we speak.”
She smiled guiltily. “Sorry. Can’t help it.”
He shook his head, it didn’t really matter, his occlumency walls were strong and her intentions weren’t ill, she’d only be able to grasp the shadow of his feelings. After all the years they had known each other, it was still fascinating, how powerful the American witch was, how strong her legilimency, natural to her like breathing. He suspected she was even better than Albus’, and that was no small feat.
“Why did you need to talk to me.”
Queenie pressed her lips in a line, her curled blond hair was frizzy from the terrible weather and she walked leaning her weight slightly on him, unstable with her heels in the mud.
“I need to go away.” She sighed. “Far. Very far. Send me anywhere.”
They had arrived at the gates of the crypt, he brought out the Elder wand out of his pocket and performed a quick spell. The family emblem of the Rosier family engraved in it gleamed for an instant. He turned to Queenie.
“I’m afraid I cannot do that right now, my dear. You are needed in Paris.”
“They are asphyxiating me. My sister. My friends. They all say I’ve lost my mind…”
He didn’t need to ask, she was going to tell him anyway. It all came back to the same thing, the root of all conflict between Queenie and herself was what everyone else thought, it had always been.
“They are crucifying me for leaving a good man… as if they had been the ones married to him.”
They walked in quietly in the dark, a few torches were lit at the end of the corridor. He cast a lumos to be able to properly see the indications on the wall. The way to the crypt he had held the rally in so many years ago had been labyrinthic and not very intuitive to follow, he needed to make sure no passages had collapsed, forcing them to change their route.
Gellert sighed. “Well. People feel more entitled to speak their thoughts when there is some kind of common morality behind them, don’t they?”
The grey bricks engulfed them, for a while it was only them and the indiscreet sound of their steps. Queenie waited until they entered the crypt to continue, if she had spoken before, her words would have become an endless whisper of her voice, the echo of an echo of an echo, deafening.
“But they are right. He’s always been good to me. Jacob.”
He remembered the place, in his memory it was bigger, crowded with people who chanted his name, crowded with people ready to die for him, for the cause, for ideas he had thought right and true for too long. He wanted to think he had forgotten about most of them, to believe that at the end of the day, he didn’t think about a revolution anymore. It was funny how the greater good of all had actually transformed into the greater good of all, with no irony behind it, no wizarding supremacy to support it. But he had wanted the best for the world before, he still did, that hadn’t changed.
He looked around for any sign of Trelahar.
“Why do you feel guilty for wanting more?” Cassandra, why on Earth aren’t you here. Merlin and Morgana.
“Because it should have been enough! And their intentions are good!” She stopped speaking and took a big deep breath, her voice was quiet, fast, angry. “It was ridiculous to be speaking cradles when on the other side of the ocean there were people killing each other then, it still is now. Jacob didn’t understand I didn’t want to raise a child in the debris of a war, he didn’t want to hear that I had killed, that I had–”
“Self-defence is not–”
“For you. For me it is.”
He raised his hands in a sign of peace.
None of the location spells he tried worked. Something was wrong. He had a gut feeling, Cass had never been able to arrive at the crypt. And still, there was someone else’s magic around that was familiar enough to make the back of his throat itch.
“I thought you wanted just that when you left to marry him in America, Queenie. Have his children. A family. Forget about all the tragedy.”
Queenie sat down on one of the steps and watched him cast another spell. “I don’t even know what I wanted. To stop being selfish, to do what I was meant to instead of–” Instead of falling for someone else, he understood. “It should be studied. How in times of war humans search for love desperately. It must be something…primal. I wouldn’t have crossed the fire if it weren’t for that hopelessness I felt, to love, to be loved.”
Yes. But no. During war one didn’t search for love. A bit of warmth, yes. Some type of comfort, that too. Wizards deep down were closer to animals than he liked to admit. And in the middle of the battlefield, one would search for warmth; in the cold, another body was always welcomed and many chose to call that love too. But he wouldn’t tell her that. Besides, it wasn’t as if love weren’t found there too, hidden under dust and debris. He knew it better than anyone.
He wouldn’t ask her what else she had been expecting from a muggle man either. And he wouldn’t have meant it like that. Wizards had already adopted old-fashioned ideas, muggles seemed to have it as a hobby, creating new ways to ruin their own lives with impositions they couldn’t bring themselves to follow. Truth, freedom and love, damned the one who tried to rule those values, only a fool would think themself capable of controlling wizardkind, humankind.
“I’ll tell Albus to use it for an article, there is probably some science behind it.” It made her smile sadly, could she feel his yearning? Could she guess his disquiet? “You want to disappear, and I’m supposed to guess that our dear Vinda doesn’t even imagine you want anything of the sort.”
Queenie shook her head. “The silence she’s condemned us to is killing me.” Her voice broke. “I can’t read her. And she doesn’t want me to either. At night, she comes back wrecked, and all my questions overwhelm her. Abernathy is clueless, I’ve searched his mind for anything that’d give me a sign, anything, but.” Her mouth twisted as if she tasted something bitter. “And Carrow, she’s nothing more than a fucking vulture.”
If Gellert had ever heard her swear before, he couldn’t remember it. He nodded, he wouldn’t reveal to her that Vinda had asked him to keep her busier, running up and down the city in search of information, using polyjuice to get in the right places at the right time, balls, meetings, reunions. Seeing old family friends and old family members and not being able to say a word about it. Because who, if not a born and raised pureblood, could shred her skin and slide between thorns and roses and come out unscathed.
Secrecy was in Vinda’s nature, a quality he very much appreciated and could equally despise when it came to the woman behind the mask, his friend; he couldn’t imagine how Queenie must be dealing with it now that they had crossed the line of friendship. Now that the green-eyed monster of jealousy had been invited to the party, oh, how easily could it eat one’s insides. Carrow could be bitchy if she chose to, Queenie was an easy victim and she had got under her skin.
“You know, the rest of wizardkind can’t normally read their lovers either, I don’t know how much of a consolation that is.” He commented lightly. He’d kill for a glimpse of Albus' mind. “It can really drive one up the walls.”
“Sometimes I’m scared I’ll never know her. Not truly.” She stayed quiet for a bit, considering her words. “Do you know she has a brother? You must. I don’t think they speak anymore.”
Gellert nodded. It was more than most knew, he knew it was no use in telling her. Secrets could do too much harm and Evan Rosier was a well-kept one. He remembered him, tall and proud and devilishly handsome, if Vinda had been her mother’s spitting image, so had been Evan. But Evan had been docile, loyal to his house, his blood and his lineage, he had been willing to sacrifice it all for it to continue. His sister included.
He had danced in the fire but never crossed it and when the first war came, he bet for both sides and took refuge in the south of Spain. Many others followed. Gellert remembered many of the names of alleged chess masters when that had never lifted a piece. Vinda would never forgive him for that.
Is this the man you’ve sacrificed your name for? Evan had become a cruel man by the time Gellert had met him for the first time. What has he given you that you can get inside the family?
It had probably been meant as a twisted joke, a play on their incestuous blood, a play on their heritage. Vinda had seemed to know the answer even before he had finished the question. Trust.
Evan had laughed. Right. Dad’s very sick, Briar Rose, you could still come back. Spit on his face before you have to spit on his grave. Or cry. You could cry too, he’d love to see you cry. Do you know that when I have a daughter he wants me to call her Vinda? The name is already engraved in the family pantheon, rewriting something else would look dreadful, and he made me think…
At that point of the conversation Vinda had made a sign to Gellert for them to leave, her pureblood honour had still been something she cherished. She’d tell him the whole family story a few months later, he hadn’t needed to ask.
“I understand you want to leave Paris, Queenie.” And give her time to miss you, let her see she could lose you. “But I can’t send you away just yet. The only thing I can do right now is ask you to be patient.” He took a deep breath. Vinda had met her successor a few days before, he didn’t know if the Rosiers had been quick to engrave her name to the family pantheon or if they wouldn’t add her, letting her take Vinda’s old spot, as his brother had predicted in the past. The family tree must be there, though. “I encourage you to reach the end of that corridor and turn to the left.” He pointed with his index to one of the doors of the crypt, the one closest to the north. “Turn every corner to the left until you find a mausoleum.”
Queenie’s eyes widened.
“You got bored waiting for me to finish here and started walking in that direction. The magic in the stones felt familiar. We are agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t get lost on your way back.”
As she turned away to leave, she scared off a golden-eyed tabby cat that must have been asleep inside a hole left open by one of the fallen bricks. It jumped as if electrocuted and rushed to find a new hideout in the shadows. Queenie brought a hand to her chest, breathing in sharply, and they exchanged a look. Gellert couldn’t hold back a smile she mirrored before continuing her way, the tip of her wand lit up, the only source of light in the new corridor.
Gellert turned to one of the minor crypts and entered the darkness, the empty eyes of the skulls regarded him perform more pointless tracking spells, bare teeth in a perpetual smile, amused by his growing frustration. He continued walking the tunnels, dark like the lion’s den, not worried about getting lost. The moment he chose to walk to his right, he’d find himself back in the stone amphitheatre: the structure of the building was circular, every crypt was interconnected with the next one. He sighed and it echoed against bone and stone. When he was about to continue to the next crypt, he caught sight of another tabby cat. Or maybe it was the one from before. It sat very still, looking at him blankly. It didn’t run away when he approached.
“Trelahar didn’t send you, did she?” He asked quietly but the cat continued staring, immobile like a statue. He raised his hand slowly and showed it his open palm, the animal smelled it and, after a few instants, it lost interest and went back to its position. “I’ll take that as a no.” It let Gellert scratch it behind its ears and, when he stopped, it pressed its head towards his palm, following the movement. It made him smile softly. “Who do you mourn down here?”
The cat stretched and jumped from where it stood, in front of one of the columbariums, to the floor. Gellert was able to read the name engraved. Leta Lestrange. Oh. He must be in the Lestrange crypt then. He lifted his wand to see the names around her, the next one was the Black Crypt, the previous one was the Kama’s, the following, the Volant's. He had already gone through the Delacour's, the Vaillancourt’s and the Zabini’s. He felt a shiver run down his spine, again, the familiar magic trace.
The picture chosen for Leta Lestrange’s plaque had been taken with a muggle camera, it didn’t move like the neighbouring ones. Theseus Scamander’s hand could be seen at the corner, around her waist, he recognised the sleeves from the auror uniform, cut. Gellert stared at her face, she looked uncomfortable by having her picture taken, her arm reached for the one next to her. The smile was awkward, she wasn’t even looking at the camera, but the happiness in her eyes was undeniable. When had it been taken? A birthday? A Ministry party?
Leta had run away from home early enough for her family to have any other picture that showed her at the age she died engraved there. She looked brave enough, willing to fight for truth, for freedom and for love. I see you now. Gellert touched the dry rose that lay on top of her name with his fingertips and brought it back to life, a glassy shimmer covered the petals as if freezing them permanently.
The crack from the apparition scared the cat, which hid behind his boots, jumping ungracefully until it was completely out of view. He snorted, amused by it.
“Rosier?”
Vinda pressed her lips together, the polyjuice potion was wearing off and her features were mismatched with some other witch’s but he could see her. Brown pinned-up locks and black curly hair, green and blue eyes, a coat and half a hat, hunting boots and heels. One of her hands, hidden behind her back, Gellert didn’t have to see it to know her nails were digging on her palm. To his surprise, she started the conversation in English.
“Abernathy overheard a conversation between Anton Voguel and my– and Evan Rosier.” She coughed, her voice had come out uneven. “Voguel doesn’t believe in what the newspapers are reporting and he seemed interested in some type of political allegiance.” She sighed. “Expect some kind of communication soon or feel free to open it. Through him, of course,” through Albus, she meant, she had pointed at Gellert as she had said the pronoun, “I don’t think he’s very fond of you after last time.”
“I didn’t expect him to be.” Gellert picked up the cat from the ground, it didn’t try to slip away. “I’ll talk to Albus.”
“I keep hearing rumours about a ball, I’m guessing Beltane, but it’s just a–”
“Good.” He interrupted her, she was starting to trail off. “Vinda, one second. Breathe in.”
She lowered her eyes for an instant at the cat, still in his arms.
“Breathe in," he repeated the request.
“What?”
“Do as I say. Breathe in.” She raised her eyebrows but did as she was told. “Hold it. Great, breathe out.” He waited a few seconds to continue. “You looked like you needed it.”
“Va te faire foutre.” She scoffed, the effect of the potion had fully worn off, the remaining features and clothes of the other person washing off her like rain. She had started to insult him before he had pronounced the last word.
“Charming. You have enough polyjuice with you, don’t you?” He offered her the cat and after a pregnant pause where she just stared at it, she scruffed it. “Don’t pick it up like that, it will attack you.” It was surprising to see the adults the kids who hadn’t grown up with animals around made. Not even a family dog, he was sure. “Do me the favour of taking it with you on your way out, if it dies here, your entire ancestry will stink of rotten cat.”
She held it awkwardly, the cat stared pitifully at Gellert. “How did this get in? It’s… meek.”
He could glimpse Queenie’s shadow in the corridor, waiting for her to leave, not wanting to interrupt them or just trying to avoid Vinda seeing her there.
“Nature will never fail to surprise us. Be careful and don’t splinch it, I don’t think it will be meek then. Now, go.”
"Yes, sir," she answered, irony dying her tone, she never called him that in private, only when she wanted to piss him off, her way of telling him he had overstepped.
Vinda disapparated. Queenie’s steps echoed closer.
“She’s worse than I thought.” He turned towards her. “I really believed you were exaggerating before.”
In the cemetery doors, each took their path.
“Thank you.” Blinking tears away, Queenie gave him a tight smile. “It all makes a bit more sense now. Vines would have never—”
“I have no idea about what you are talking about,” he answered.
He started walking away, back to the Flamels. It had stopped raining, it didn't matter, he would have taken the riverside anyway. He hoped Queenie’s tongue didn’t go loose if she confronted Vinda. He hoped Vinda got her shit together sooner than later.
The small flames around Albus dyed the walls of the lab red. For a few long seconds Gellert just stayed by the door, leaning on the frame, not walking down the last step just to drink him in a bit longer. He was too deep in thought to notice him, humming softly as he checked his notes. It was rare to see him in a good mood lately.
Gellert couldn’t comprehend how he didn’t asphyxiate in that air, how he didn’t abhor the musty, sulfuric smell that stuck to his skin, to his clothes, to his hair. A smell that could only be shaken with strong lavender soap and stronger rubs with a coated cloth. He couldn’t help smiling at the sight.
Darkened lead, at its boiling point, twisted and turned inside a transparent protective glass recipient. At Albus’ command, it started to whiten inside the alchemic oven. He finished saying the words drawing a few unnecessary symbols in the air, a mnemonic device to remember the end of the enchantment. It all came so naturally to him, everything seemed easy when his hands were the ones performing the most difficult spells. He turned to scribble down a few more notes on his notebook and caught Gellert with the corner of his eye.
He motioned for him to come closer and Gellert walked towards him, keeping his distance from the flames, not sure about how close he could stand to them.
“Come upstairs for dinner,” he said, so softly, Albus had to lean closer to hear him.
“I can’t,” he signalled with a movement of his head to the liquid, less dense now, a milky white colour starting to settle properly in the mixture, drowning the rich brown. His eyes didn’t leave his face and Gellert had to actually look inside the pot.
“Citrinas?”
Albus snorted, shaking his head. “We stopped considering citrinas a long time ago.” He took his hand and pulled him closer to the flames for him to appreciate the mixture brewing. The smell was strong, Gellert scrunched his nose, he couldn’t take a step back without pushing Albus. “Yesterday it was all putrefaction. Nigredo. Today, purification. Albedo. Tomorrow, hopefully, rubedo.”
It was metaphoric, Albus had been working for endless hours on it already. He made a mental note to remove citrinas from his alchemical knowledge.
“Apologies, alchemist.” He said, but he was starting to feel dizzy, as if the laboratory would fall on him, suffocating him with the smoke and killing him under its ruins if Albus’ hand didn’t continue holding his. The only thing allowing Gellert to survive down there, to see the fire from up close. “Everything I’ve learnt about it was against my will.”
Albus’ thumb caressed his wrist. “And I’ll never understand why.”
He turned towards him but the intensity of his gaze made him look down, in the last few days they had barely talked, barely shared the same space. At night, Albus stayed in the laboratory and, during the day, Gellert was either outside or locked with Perenelle, trying to make sense of the power he now mastered. He glanced at the notes Albus was taking and didn’t read a word despite understanding his calligraphy better than his own.
“The Art is a stinky one.” He answered and it made Albus laugh, it felt like a lifetime since the last time he had heard that specific laugh, joyful, surprised. “And Astrology aligns more with my nature. It only made sense for me to pursue it and not this.”
“They are sister sciences. Ignoring one of the two leaves essential knowledge out of reach for the student of the occult.”
The hypocrite, he dared to lecture him. Gellert rolled his eyes and pointed a finger to his chest. “Must be the reason why you’re so well versed in it.”
Albus touched his cheek, one sleeve of his robes, meant for the profession, brushed his skin. The clothes were softer than he expected them. He hadn’t realised how close they were to each other. An image passed his mind in a flash and he cursed his own imagination, hoping Albus hadn’t been able to catch it, too busy checking his marked eyes, Gellert had stopped paying attention to his occlumency a while ago.
“Must be.”
They were both flushed, the smokes from the lab and the heat of the flames colouring their faces, cheeks burning red. Albus’ attention went from the bruising under his eyes, the remnants of that vision, to his lips. He caught himself just in time, his attention back to the cauldron.
“I’ll come upstairs in a bit.” He lowered the flame with a movement of his hand, the white liquid had started to boil wildly, releasing a myriad of bubbles.
“I’m not the one requesting it.”
Albus sighed, his mood had changed. Gellert observed him control the fire, muttering a spell to keep it in check, a few degrees under the boiling point. He washed his hands in a basin thoroughly and obeyed, leaving him behind and walking upstairs. He didn’t even turn back. Gellert rushed behind him, if he stayed a second longer down there he’d collapse. He washed his hands in the kitchen.
Albus hadn’t woken him any of the nights he had bothered to come back just to lay down for a few hours, leaving early enough for Gellert to have to pretend he was still asleep. Every touch between them seemed accidental now. The bed was slightly bigger than the one Albus had had in Godric's Hollow, enough for them to lay down without having to be on top of the other in a tangle of limbs. They seemed to be making the most of it.
Dinner was familiar. Not as in something he was being used to, but as in having everyone play the role of a family. Albus was the child Nicholas and Perenelle never had and it was clear in the way they joked, remembering anecdotes, alternating them with news and matters that were relevant to their goals. They spoke about the future, they named people Gellert had never heard of, alchemists that were publishing new papers, enemies, friends of Flamel, brilliant promising wizards that applied to stay the summer with them, various colourful people known by everyone but him. Albus’ admirers from the time he lived in Paris, he remembered having met a few of those.
Gellert could imagine what this home, this love, this family they made, had meant for the young man, the boy, Albus had been when he had left Godric’s Hollow, heartbroken and devastated by his past. A second opportunity at not failing at being a son.
He observed them bicker and smiled. Albus’ mentors, the ones he trusted; the Flamels loved him as much as he loved them. He had never known how close they were, he had only imagined their relevance in his life. Now he understood the fierceness with which Albus defended them, the power their words had. They mattered to Albus.
Perenelle stepped on his feet under the table when Albus and Nicholas left to do the dishes, or better said, to have their own conversation in the kitchen. They held steaming cups between their hands, herbs Perenelle had prepared to help with their sight, to clear it more, to make it easier for the Gods to go through them.
“You’ve been quiet, dear child.”
“Child.” He repeated, swirling the dark liquid with his spoon. “I’ll be thirty soon.”
“That’s a child to me, Gellert. I’ve lived a thousand lives, in my eyes you two are still very, very young.” She reached for his hands and held them, opening his palms to examine the lines in them. Her touch was cold and silky, her hands seemed to be made of crumpled paper, soft like the silk of full chrysalis. “When were you born, what time of the year.”
“I was born under Scorpio,” he answered instead, and she smiled, he had guessed her question.
“Ambitious. Passionate. Reserved.” The last word she said with an edge, she didn’t like to not know him inside out, he had refused to speak about his childhood, about his mother, about the world he had known before meeting Albus. Perenelle hummed. “Yes, it suits you, you wouldn’t have come so far without that passion.” She caressed the M on his left hand, noticing the scar that was left from having created the blood pact and raised her eyebrows. “Seers, we tend to gravitate towards water. I was born under the sign of the crab, and so was our beloved Nostradamus.”
And so was my mother, he didn’t say. “I thought Nostradamus was a Virgo.”
Perenelle shook her head. “They were, their ascendant sign was a Virgo, and so was their moon. But the sun was in Cancer.”
For a while, they just sipped their tea. Nicholas had opened the conduit that communicated the laboratory fire with the chimney to warm the house. Spring seemed reluctant to set in, what a cruel April.
“My Nicholas is a Taurus,” she said softly.
“Stubborn like a bull, let me guess.”
It made her laugh, a clear laugh, like the river tide. “Indeed. But also very patient. And hardworking, and loyal, and gentle.”
It was strange to hear her talk about her husband, for an instant Gellert thought he could see the woman behind the sight, a woman still madly in love, more human than what she presented herself like. They were speaking quietly, just in case the other two decided to eavesdrop.
“They are very similar.” His eyes drifted to the kitchen. “Albus is a Leo. 30th of July.”
“I know. Strong, confident, generous.”
Gellert lowered his eyes to the tea. If you continue, you’ll start bringing out the bad. Or worse, I will, he kept to himself.
“A bit arrogant sometimes, but he's very clever,” she added, lowering her voice even more, she had said it with fondness, a smile dancing on her lips. “I understand you have reservations after what we have been shown and, believe me, I share them too.” She finished the contents of her cup. “But he looks determined to prove us wrong. The stars, they are not yet aligned. And you are suffering because of it, you must detach from the vision.” She turned the empty cup to interpret the remaining leaves. “I’m biassed, I want to believe this destiny to be just a possibility. Everything around Albus pulsates with raw magic and, even during the darkest of times, his magic doesn’t weaken. It is as if he had been brought to the world to suffer, can’t this be part of a greater plan too?”
Gellert swallowed hard. He wondered why couldn’t he be the one asking the question, why he was so determined to push him away and pull him close at the same time, so violently he feared he’d break him. But he wouldn’t change anything, he couldn’t, not yet.
Albus had been through hell because of him many, many times. He had accepted his suffering and had wanted to take the weight of Gellert’s too even at seventeen. Why would he turn on him now? And still, the cards and the teeth and every star seemed to be trying to warn him about it.
Nicholas entered the living room a few moments later. “Mon coeur, est-ce que tu as vu-?”
“You left them in the bedroom,” she interrupted him and he rolled his eyes.
Less than a minute later he crossed the living room back to the laboratory with his glasses hanging from his fingers. He kissed Perenelle’s hair as he passed and made a face at the leaves at the bottom of her cup.
“Ça c’est un chien, non?”
“It’s the moon, Nicholas. Where do you see-?” As she turned to properly see his face, in a fast, annoyed, movement, he stole a kiss and walked out of the room before she could scold him, smiling brightly.
Perenelle didn’t continue talking until he had left, apparently embarrassed for having fallen for it, the subtlest of colours had risen to her cheeks. She pressed her lips together and offered her palm to Gellert, to have his empty cup to read, but he put his fingers inside and ruined the placement of the leaves at the bottom, not even looking at the omen himself. She opened and closed her mouth, no sound left it.
“Shall we start?” She asked, after a beat, and motioned to her cabinet.
He would have seen the starry sky in the ceiling, spelt there with all its constellations marked, and the bookshelf-covered walls, from the tiles of the floor to the heights of the stars, if Perenelle didn't keep them in darkness for their sessions.
“Remember,” she started, closing the door behind them, she would repeat words he had already engraved behind his eyelids to give him time to wear the hallows on his body.
He had started to feel them all as a living thing divided in three, a living thing with wants and craves and a taste for blood. He remembered the pull of the wand the first time he held it, how it demanded death. The stone, on the other hand, had made him wary of those around him, it had found enemies in those he had dared to call friends. The third hallow evened them out, two pulling forces stopped by a third. But the cloak felt strange on his shoulders, slippery; it moved as if manipulated by a changing breeze even inside closed spaces.
“Use light to protect yourself, use light to empty the case your body is. Leave space for another soul. Become no one.”
Gellert obeyed. He opened his palms, holding the wand between his index and middle finger and started pronouncing the words. The temperature of his body lowered steadily, degree by degree, until he had to clench his teeth to avoid them chattering, and the familiar shot of adrenaline hit..
“And darkness, bring it from the depths, retrieve it from your own self. The weapons you'll carry are destruction and a lantern.” He heard Perenelle’s voice almost far away, around him, surrounding him. “This will be your only guide, lose it and you will be trapped with the Other. Remember, Loxias will try to keep you from home, but you mustn't burn yourself with the fire either.”
As he finished the spell, the tip of the Elder wand lit up with a bright flame-like glow. As he created the lightning, he felt his body functions paralysing, like venom spreading through his veins, leaving him empty. A case for someone else to occupy. Wasn’t he always meant to be just that? A way for the Gods, an agent of prophecy. Easy. It was easy to be just that.
“Balance the night and the day inside yourself and, in the space between them, you will be able to ask your questions.”
He could see her at the other side of the room, the light illuminating them both, so bright it created no shadows. At her sign, Gellert started to speak the words of the next spell, bringing darkness into him. It came bleeding down the walls in vaporous stains, pooling around his feet and growing in concentric circles. As it reached his hands, the tingling sensation accentuated and he made an involuntary movement. The lightning suddenly died.
It was as if his head had been submerged in water, he tried to speak but his throat felt constricted, he tasted blood at the back of his throat. He opened his eyes, blind. Darkness had blinded him, he felt it occupying every empty space inside of him, searching his mind, bringing out memories. His body moved on its own volition.
He wasn’t holding the wand anymore, it was stuck to his open palm, the ring was scolding hot, burning his skin to the bone, the cloak weighed him down, the weight of a thousand worlds. And still, he walked forward.
He knew where Perenelle was, he felt her presence like a lighthouse in the middle of the storm.
“I need to start over. The light…it’s unstable, I can’t bring out what the spell demands…It asks…They ask...” Gellert shook his head slightly and went back to the place he had occupied before, in the middle of the pentagram. “If I.”
He breathed in sharply as he felt the blood run down his nose, into his mouth, he felt it coat his fingers when he brought a hand to his face, his clothes. Now that the demands of the hallows had been fulfilled, he felt all power coming back. Relief washed over him.
And still, he couldn’t conjure light. He grabbed the pendant around his neck instinctively and blue sparks left his fingers in bursts of light. He blinked the darkness away then. He could see again, this time, half-blinded by the light. It was all coming back, the darkness dissipated and he felt light coming from somewhere else, washing the room in a dim sheen, it came from Perenelle’s wand.
He took off the cloak, opened the clasp around his neck and let it fall, let the ring clink on the floor, dropped the wand, it made a dull noise against the tiles. It startled her.
“I’m sorry.” He raised his eyes. “They wanted blood. I thought it’d be quicker if I just gave it.”
She scanned his face, eyebrows raised, Gellert could see the tension in her jaw, in the tight smile he gave him when she put a hand on his shoulder, finally breaking the distance between them.
“We are finished for today. Tomorrow we’ll continue.” She squeezed his arm as she lowered her hand in a strange caress. “I didn’t expect you to be so familiar with darkness. You scared me for an instant, you know?” She laughed, regarding the blood, still flowing down, staining the floor. “Take care of that and go straight to bed. Tomorrow we’ll continue from where we left off, yes?”
Gellert nodded and swallowed hard. It was all blood. He left the hallows behind and mounted the stairs, not stopping, not even when he caught a glimpse of Albus and Nicholas outside the cabinet, leaning against the wall. He kept his head low until he had the sink under his grip.
For a while, he just stared at his reflection, at the blood flowing, droplets on the white sink, dissolved by the running water.
Something had happened. Something had happened when the light had gone out. But the sounds had been too muffled. Perenelle’s hand had been steady when she had touched him but her wand hand had been shaking. He turned up the tap and let the cold water fall on his hands. He located a few clean clothes on top of the toilet with the corner of his eye.
He felt Albus' eyes on him as he cleaned up the blood from his nose. The flow was too heavy, he must have stained the stairs, he looked like he had killed someone with his bare hands. The shirt and the pants were ruined too, maybe he could save them if he started cleaning the stains while the blood was still fresh.
“Need to use the bathroom?” He asked, knowing the answer.
Albus leaned on the door, alchemist robes still on, he didn’t bother to speak. Angry, worried. Gellert could feel his magic around him, his gaze was severe, stern. Come closer, Gellert wanted to scream at him. What are you waiting for, come closer. Gellert stayed a few minutes with his head down, two fingers pressing the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding. He was trying not to swallow blood but the coppery taste already stuck to his throat, it itched.
“I'll do it,” Albus said.
Gellert used a wet cloth to clean the remaining blood off his face. “You don't have to,” he answered.
“I said I'll do it.”
“And I said you don't have to if you don't want to.” He wrung out the cloth and wet it again, the water came out a brownish pink.
Albus took a step closer to him and leaned on the sink, still not touching him. “It's fucking you up.”
And he could see how he was holding back, his mind fighting the need in his hands. Albus crossed his arms in front of him when he noticed Gellert staring at his naked fingers, no rings covering them.
“It will fuck you up just the same.” You don’t want this, like a blessing and a curse, I chose this as if I didn’t already own enough curse in my veins. You don’t need another burden, you don’t want to master Death, why would you choose more suffering.
“I've already spoken with Perenelle.”
Gellert hung the cloth from the tap and walked into the bedroom. He took his clothes off and changed into one of Albus’ old shirts.
It hadn’t hurt, it had been just blood, some broken capillaries but no real pain. The skin inside of his nose burnt but it was all so human, nothing magical to his pain, nothing compared to what the sight did to him. This was his flesh reacting to the powerful magic it intended to contain, to let it pass through him and to control it. He was almost disappointed, it should feel more special, more sacred, more hallowed. It didn’t, but it also meant his body could handle it.
“Well, don’t say I forced you after this. You’ve made this choice.”
“As if I ever had another,” he answered, and he didn’t take his clothes off, he stayed in his alchemist silken cloak.
“Are you going downstairs again?”
Albus raised an eyebrow, as if there was anywhere else to be, it meant.
“You are going to be sick. Nicholas has said so.”
“And who’s going to take care of the fire while I’m not there.”
“Liebling, I believe alchemy has evolved enough in the last two centuries for you not to have to be there every waking hour.” Say you don't want to be with me. Say it, say you can’t stand me anymore, say it, say it. Now it’s when you say you hate me.
“The old ways are better, cheating alchemy comes with the price of time. It doubles, triplicates. The formula-”
“Go.” He interrupted him, he wouldn’t have Albus use his teacher voice with him, they’d end up fighting. “Leave already. Leave me alone. That’s what you want. Leave.”
Albus scanned his face, he took a step closer and raised a hand just to lower it before he could touch him. “Do you feel sick.”
He wanted to cry. “No. Albus. I don't feel sick.” He sighed. “I want you to stay the night. Do you think I like to pretend I’m still asleep when you sneak in? So as not to scare you away like some fucking wild animal? You can’t even look at me and I just–” Why can’t you fucking bear the sight of me? Do you still want me? Do you want me? Do you love me? Or are you just fucking trying to prove a point? Is this about your ego now? “But you want to go away, so go.”
Albus raised his eyebrows and ignored half of what he had said. “What do you mean, you are the one that goes back to the hotel the most for the night.”
A beat.
“So maybe you'd sleep a few more hours if I'm not here?” He lowered his voice, he knew if he didn’t it would only go up from there.
“Is that really your excuse?”
“I'm sorry, what are you implying?” Gellert took a step closer to him, maybe if they were closer his words would make more sense, maybe if they were closer, they wouldn’t be heard downstairs.
“Nothing.” He was quick to answer. “I'm not implying anything. Listen I'll-”
“Leave. Yes, I know you will.” Gellert turned away, he wasn’t even angry, a wave of sadness washing over him, he closed his eyes tightly before they filled up with tears. “I don’t want to fight. You don’t want to be with me, fine. Go.”
He picked up the sachet with his mother’s deck of cards and opened it, letting the deck fall into his open hand.
“If one of us is avoiding the other, it’s not me.”
“Sure it’s not, Al.”
Albus seemed to be about to say something else, but he changed his mind when he saw what he was doing. He sighed instead, exasperated, and left a second later. Gellert heard him walk down the stairs as he sat on the bed. He started turning the cards.
The tower. He huffed. The tower again. The tower, the tower, the tower. He continued, barely looking at the picture anymore, unfocusing his eyes voluntarily, he could still distinguish its silhouette.
Albus got to the end of the stairs and into the lab. A few minutes later, Gellert heard him climb up the stairs again to come back for the wand he had forgotten on the nightstand. He felt the bed sink behind him from Albus’ weight, one of his knees brushing his back as he reached for the wand.
The tower. He let another one fall from his fingers, not looking at him. The tower. Another. The tower. The tower.
He breathed in sharply and the cards slid from his fingers and scattered on the bed, on the floor. He felt Albus’ hand around his waist, his body against his, the warmth of his face in the crook of his neck, his lips at the nape. Albus held him tight for a few seconds, breathing him in.
“I’m not avoiding you. I’m not, but the moment I start thinking... I’m keeping my head busy, ¿okay? I need to keep my head busy.”
The words had been a breath more than a sound. Gellert turned, covering his hand with his before Albus could move away, interlinking their fingers.
“What happened downstairs?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Two options.” Gellert took a deep breath, defeated. “You either tell me what happened or you spend the night here. Choose.”
Albus lowered his eyes to the cards, he let out the air out of his nose softly, not exactly a snort, at the irony. Both knew Gellert wouldn’t force any of the outcomes, he just needed to create some kind of truce between them.
“So that’s how it is.” The smallest of smiles quirked his mouth.
Gellert would have killed just to be able to kiss him at that moment. But Albus stood and picked up one of the cards that had ended up on the floor, he left it next to Gellert, over the sheet.
The picture changed.
The picture had changed.
When he had touched it, the image had changed. Gellert hadn’t caught what had substituted it, but it had stopped showing the tower for a flickering moment.
Albus gave him an apologetic uncomfortable smile, he must have interpreted his shock as worry. He wasn’t meant to touch the cards, no one but the tarotist could, and it wasn’t the first time he had picked one up mindlessly. He felt him tense, only speaking after a few seconds as if giving Gellert time to tell him off.
Gods, when had they taken so many steps back, it made his heart ache.
“Give me a few hours, can you do that?”
Gellert nodded. Albus left again and he picked up the cards, analysing them one by one under the light of the candles. He couldn’t have imagined it. Maybe Albus’ magic had interfered. He left them on the windowsill, exposed to the air and the moonlight, the sachet not completely fastened, and let himself fall on the bed. Hands in the air, palms wide open, dark magic had tinted his finger pads black, not very different to how ink would have left them. By the morning, it would have disappeared. If not, by the next one, or by the one of the day after that.
At midnight he felt Albus lifting the covers to get in, he passed a hand around his middle, pulling him closer and Gellert turned to face him immediately.
“Were you having a nightmare?”
“You have a fever,” he mumbled, half asleep, caressing his face.
His skin was burning under his fingertips. Albus kissed his palm, his forehead, the tip of his nose.
“It’s from the fumes,” he answered. "I'm alright."
His warmth engulfed him, he didn’t need to clench the blood pact for Albus’ heartbeat to lull him to sleep that night.