London. Grey and foggy and dirty and crowded and noisy London. Albus would have preferred to bring this meeting closer to home, to his Highlands. Hogwarts had a hundred thousand rooms they could have used for the damned meeting and still there they were. They didn’t trust him. They didn’t trust him either, not anymore, not yet. And they were right not to trust them, they had already seen to what extent their power for ruination could go against each other, on opposite sides of the war; it was reasonable not wanting to know, to even imagine, what could happen if they fought together.
Together, as they should have been since the beginning. Together. Together.
The first person he had talked to about the issue was Aberforth. He did it in private, made sure he wouldn’t make a fuss about it in front of anyone, paid him a bitter visit. The tavern had been empty and Albus wasn’t in the mood for politeness and walking on eggshells with him that time, he couldn’t have been more direct.
“There will be another war,” he had said as a greeting when he took a seat in front of him. “I wanted you to know.”
Aberforth hadn’t graced him with another look and had continued to dry the dishes with a cloth. It had been dark, only a few candles drawing shadows on both their faces, so much like their father both of them, so different from Ariana’s. When he had been about to stand up and leave, Aberforth had put a bottle of firewhiskey in between them and had taken out two wide glasses. He filled them up until they slightly overflowed, small circles of liquid gold around them.
“Drink.”
“Abe.”
“Fucking drink. You are going to tell me something worse now, aren’t you? You always started with the good news when we were kids, now comes the bad. You fucking drink.”
Albus had taken the glass and had brought it to his lips, the familiar smell burning his nostrils, but he had put it down before drinking. “I don’t know if I want you to hear this after a drink. I know you have the endurance in you but.”
He shut up. Aberforth had put the glass down with the strength of a bull, breaking it against the counter, the glass shattering and the alcohol pouring down from between his fingers. His eyes had widened, as if he hadn’t realised what he had done, fixed on him, betrayed. He had this gift of knowing when Gellert was around him again, he didn’t know yet what gave him away all the time. It didn’t matter, it was better like that.
“No.”
“No, what.”
“No.”
Albus pointed to the broken glass with his finger.
“Aberforth, you are going to hurt yourself with that.”
“He killed her.”
Not again. It had got old years ago, it almost didn’t affect him anymore.
“I killed her, actually. It was my spell.” You know that, you stopped speaking to me for years, why change the narrative when Gellert enters the picture .
Albus had watched as Aberforth’s hand dropped the rest of the glass on the countertop. He had looked so much like their father at that exact moment, maybe he was the one that looked like him the most, same reactive temper, the same severe aura. Albus had learned to neutralise all of that, to remove from himself everything that tied him to a father who had had the right to kill and had been punished for it. And still, he hadn’t been able to escape from it: the three of them had bored the same eyes, the same power, the blood of the phoenix running through their veins. If only it hadn’t rot in her, if only the power hadn’t eaten her alive.
Aberforth had disappeared for a few minutes behind the curtain, into the backroom and Albus had drunk half of his glass, cleaning Abeforth’s mess with a swift motion of his hand. When Aberforth had come back, it had been as a destroyed man, so different to the angry boy that had tried to fight Gellert in Godric’s Hollows by the end of that fateful summer.
“He killed her.” He had repeated as he had taken a seat next to him, abandoning his place behind the bar.
“He didn’t.” Albus had breathed deeply, he had finished the glass without even feeling the burn down his throat. “And I’m not here to talk about the past.”
After that, Aberforth had been almost willing to listen, Albus had shared most of the information he had about the future war while he had listened. At some point, they had finished the bottle and started another.
“I’m not asking you to fight, Abe. I’m just warning you, maybe you’d want to go away…”
“Fucking shame for my house and yours, wouldn’t it be? Gryffindor bravery for what, I almost cried when I was sorted. Can’t do this now.”
Albus had chuckled, for a moment it had almost been like before. Before the war, before Gellert, before Ariana’s death, before his father’s imprisonment. They had never got on well but they had loved each other like brothers should have. Why had they spoiled it?
“And him?” He had asked suddenly. “Are you?”
But the question made no sense. Are you what. Are you still in love. Are you on the same side now. Are you with him. Are you mad. Are you. Yes. Yes. The answer is yes.
“Sometimes I fear the Gods will take him away in the middle of a vision,” he said, instead. “And you know the worst part? I blame myself for every second he has to go through that.”
Aberforth had nodded, satisfied with the answer, and he had drunk up the rest of his glass.
“Shit. You are weak.” He had smiled to himself. “You do that a lot, you know? Blaming yourself for things you can’t control. You couldn’t even read to her before bed, she’d come begging to your room and you’d always say no because you were busy torturing yourself, not being able to relieve her suffering. So fucking selfish.” He had laughed sharply. “I was the one who spent every moment with her, thinking she would die on me at any moment. While you were with him.” A pause, his voice got lower, more blurred. “She was so scary, Al. She was so fucking scary when she got like that. I never got the nerve to use the Imperius curse on her and you did it every fucking time. Do you ever think about the relief? After she. You know. The relief. I felt it. I know you too.
But Albus had already been standing up, unable to continue listening, his words would fall on deaf ears. He had chosen to erase that part of the story, he had chosen to believe he really did it out of good faith. Because he had done it out of good faith. Hadn’t he? It had been for her own good. It really had.
“Oy, Albus, stop it. I don’t want you coming back for an answer! Count on me for your war,” his right hand on his heart, “I mean it. I don’t want to fucking see your face unless you fucking need it, though. Nor his. I don’t want to see him.”
Albus had been closing the buttons of his jacket, closer to the door than to him. “I am not planning to put you two in the same room for now, rest assured.” I don’t think he’d enjoy the reunion either , he didn’t add.
“Take care! You better take care! Fuck!” Aberforth had shouted behind him. “Of him too, I don't think you are coming out of this one without him.”
He hadn’t looked back but the words had slipped with him into the winter night. Me neither , me fucking neither.
The first war had felt like a personal matter, him and Gellert taking everything unsaid to the battlefield, not being able to aim at the other and still trying to hurt the most with everything they did. He had chosen to look away from the bodies, from the muggle lives lost in vain, he had chosen to discard politics and think only of how terribly personal it all had felt, how blinded he had been by his own grief, by his own pain. He hadn’t even considered the other side, he had followed orders because he knew everything would be against him. And then, when he had been in front of him, after years of avoiding him in crowded rooms, bleeding and panting, the first impulse had been to kiss him.
I am glad you are not dead, I am glad you are breathing and bleeding because you are not dead. And everything you do is against everything I am meant to fight for, but I don’t even want to fight for it anymore, we went too far. We went too far. I love you, I love you, I need you to keep breathing, I need you to keep your eyes open for me, please, please, please, keep your eyes open. I’ll make it stop, I’ll make the pain stop, just keep breathing, just open your eyes.
And everything had ended after they had been far away from the battlefield, hidden in a cottage on the Scottish coast, mending broken bones and stitching wounds with needle and thread. And the guilt had eaten him alive only later, only when Gellert had spoken to him about what he had gone through, about what he had been trying to do, about how everything had slipped through his fingers, too vast to be controlled, too much collateral damage to take into account. And they had fought. They had fought like hyenas, they had meant it all to hurt, words had come easy to them. They always did when they aimed to kill.
He didn't know how it had happened, he had probably rolled up his sleeves without thinking twice, in the heat of the discussion. And Gellert had seen it, his arms, how deep the scars ran despite the time that had passed. He had been quiet then, they could have heard a pin drop, his eyes full of tears. He had reached to touch Albus and then he had stopped himself, hand mid-hair, the tears already rolling down his cheeks.
“You don’t get to do this to me.” His voice had been steady despite his state. “You can’t leave me here. I didn’t know…you should have…” And he had stood up from the bed, discarding the blankets, only to instantly sit back down, his legs giving up on him.
They hadn’t spoken much after that. During the next days, they had been close as siamese, stitched together, always skin to skin. Gellert’s despair distorted his visions to the point of having to fall back on old vices, their minds too broken to even try legilimency.
When the war ended they heard it on the radio.
“We should be dead. We should have been left to die with them,” Gellert had said.
“I don’t regret it.”
“I do.”
And after that the communication between them had been fickle but existing. They didn’t speak, or they barely did to avoid conflict. But they had missed each other and their bodies spoke for them eloquently enough for it all to make sense. The certainty of having escaped Death only by cowardice. It was not like they hadn’t helped save lots of people, but at the same time, it was not like they hadn’t spilt blood for the sake of it. For vice. There hadn’t been a side worth defending and they could only see it after it had all happened.
It had been good knowing the other existed, that the other was still alive and fairly well. Conference here, rally there, seeing their lives in newspaper pictures. After the war, they had needed to check for themselves, to feel the scars under their palms, to feel their heartbeat, a hand against their chest. Gellert had hung the chain of the blood pact around his neck one of those nights.
“So that you think of me,” he had said, as if he wasn’t Albus’ first thought when he woke up and the last when he went to bed, to see the hours pass looking at the ceiling, wondering, knowing there would only be nightmares if he slept.
But Albus hadn’t been able to wear it, he had taken it off instantly, he had abandoned it inside one of his pockets, thinking about how cruel it was for him to give it back just then. Gellert had been hurt by it and had left afterwards, lips trembling and shaky hands.
And now the pendant hanged from his neck. Now they were getting ready for a second war, making preparations and arrangements to avoid more damage than the last time, fully aware of the impossibility of doing the right thing because there was no right thing. People would die, and more than once, they’d be the ones to speak the killing curse.
It made sense for them to warn the rest, family and friends first, they wanted to allow them to fight or fight, they owed it to them. So there they were, hiding behind a New Year's celebration that would mean the future for all of them.
Of course, the hotel was located in muggle London, it was the only way to reunite the lot without raising eyebrows left and right, and still the air of uneasiness suffocated him as he walked up the stairs to Gellert’s room. The day wasn’t festive.
He let himself in and walked inside the darkened chamber. If Gellert had heard him, which he probably had, he didn’t raise his head from his hands.
Albus sat in front of him on the bed and dragged him closer, looking for warmth. As he held him, lips on his blonde roots, he eyed the tarot cards on the sheets, Gellert recurred to them only when anxiety ate him alive. Albus regretted not having paid more attention to Divination when he was a student, discarding it as useless until he had met Gellert. If he wasn’t able to alleviate his uneasiness at least he’d be able to comprehend what created it. But he couldn’t. Ten of swords, seven of swords, inverted three of cups. It didn’t mean anything to him.
“How are you feeling.”
“Today won’t end well, there'd only be treason.”
Albus managed to take his hands from his face and hold them between his, they were freezing to his surprise.
“How are you feeling. Don’t be a catastrophist.”
“I mean it, Al. Do you doubt about where you stand?”
Albus took a deep breath, he wouldn’t take it into account, he knew Gellert’s nightmares pictured him stepping back, they got confused often enough with visions. He kissed his cheek instead.
“Haven’t left you when I had reasons to do it, at this point, you will be fine.” He kissed his lips then to soften the jab, he didn’t mean it, even if it was true, he didn’t want him to take it seriously. “You didn’t answer my question. How are you.”
“I can project it.”
“Good.”
Not a great answer but it was something.
He felt Vinda Rosier’s presence sliding into the room from the balcony. She raised an eyebrow at the sight, vulnerability was a strange state to see Gellert in, with him added to the picture, the sight was rare. She refrained from commenting on it.
“They’ll be here in ten.”
Gellert nodded and stood up. He paced the room, fidgeting with his rings, twisting them in and out of his middle and index. Albus let him be, not getting in his invisible path. He knew he was allowing himself to be nervous, to feel the expectation as it came to him. When they left the room he’d put the mask on and be someone else, braver, more confident, he’d become the one that knows the truth and then he could only be fearless.
When Albus lit a cigarette, he glared at him, apparently bothered. But he hadn’t taken five drags that Gellert had it between his own fingers, finishing it for him, not minding the ashes that fell on the floor, not even approaching the window. Albus couldn’t help but smile.
“Come here. Come,” he said, bringing them chest to chest, putting his forehead to his. “Would you please stop overthinking it? I’m with you. Whatever happens.”
“Would it feel personal if I wanted you to take an unbreakable vow? Last time you said that you didn’t speak to me for the next five years.” Gellert mumbled, no humour but no sting either in his words.
He was right, those had been the exact sentence he didn’t know how many years ago. Albus put his lips to his for an instant, the shadow of a kiss.
“Unbreakables can be broken, my love. Besides, she’d skin me alive before I could betray you, isn’t that enough assurance?” He signalled Rosier with his head. “I’ll keep my word.”
She nodded sharply from the other side of the room as an answer, raising her eyes from the letter she was reading, quiet like the dead, deadly like poison. She’d kill him, Albus was sure of it. She hadn’t killed him yet because of what he meant to Gellert but she wouldn’t hesitate if Gellert’s affections changed. Albus was almost glad, he’d deserve the kind of death she’d give him.
The comment made Gellert puff in agreement.
“I didn’t ask. How was your brother,” He held his hand and brought it close to his heart, changing the topic.
Albus had realised how easy it all felt now that they were on the same side, how easy it was to not restrain himself, to touch him, to kiss him, to ignore his own head telling him how bad it would be if it all fell on them. While they stood next to each other, it would be alright. It’d better be.
“Insufferable. We can count on him, though, once the lean times come, not before.”
Gellert snorted. “Of course.” A sharp smile on his lips “I might even apologise to him when we cross paths.”
“Let’s not rush a reunion.”
He remembered how shocked he had been the time Gellert had admitted that he held some kind of regret for how he acted around Aberforth, that he wondered if he’d have still pointed his wand at him had his behaviour been less possessive of Albus. But time had passed and now it had become an inside joke.
“Believe me, I'm not eager, I said I might and not I will,” he answered, tongue in cheek and arched eyebrows.
Gods, how he loved him. How he loved that man, he who held the weight of the world on his shoulders, he who saw the end of all things and the beginning of it all. He caressed his cheekbone with the back of his fingers, resisting the urge to call the plan off and hide, to go away with him and never look back.
“Let’s go, we don’t want to make them wait.” He put a hand to his lower back so that he started walking, out of the room. “After you,” he said when he reached Vinda’s height.
She weighed him for an instant, the hate in her eyes had become curiosity, he couldn’t place the moment when. Albus realised it was mutual. She’d follow Gellert to hell if he ordered it despite having no love for him or, at least, not the kind of love that was expected of her. Pureblood and proud, she had given everything up for his vision, she’d even give up her life. That kind of loyalty and faithfulness were rare in times like those. A face passed his mind but he discarded it.
Everyone knew what they were there for: the silent guests stood up when they entered the room, the daunting yellowish light of a lamppost flickered through the curtains, an ugly backlight that hid their faces. The teacups on the small coffee tables were full and boiling but the cups would stay empty for the entire evening. It wasn’t the first vision they witnessed, they could all remember the rallies during the Great War, it was better to come with an empty stomach.
The Scamander brothers were next to the Goldstein sisters while Jacob took one of the armchairs. The three shadows in the background in dark cloaks, the ones Gellert wanted to warn, impossibly important in the great picture, were standing. Albus didn’t know them yet, only their names, Karkarov, Denya, Trelahar. Next to the window, to Bathilda Bagshot’s right, Elphias threw him a scornful look. He ignored it and smiled at Bathilda.
It had been Gellert himself who had contacted her. Bathilda Bagshot had been furious with him since last Samhain, she had even brought the topic up in front of Albus, names and all, and Albus had had to pretend he didn’t already know about the entire thing. He had had to hold back from saying that it had been more than justified, that Gellert had had his reasons to want to speak with the dead. Did he? Oh, I wouldn’t know, you know how he is, it must make sense in his head . He found himself giving always the same answers, unable to say something more substantial. She had taken it as uneasiness and had apologised for mentioning his nephew. She thought she knew that he still was an open wound for him. If only you knew , he had wanted to say.
She walked to them first. Albus saw how they all exchanged looks when she hugged Gellert, suddenly human, the guilty child expression on his face when Bathilda asked him if he was alright. But, of course, what they had seen of him had only been mayhem.
“I will be worse,” he answered but she didn’t smile. “I hope you are okay too.”
“How bad is it.”
Gellert glanced at Albus and looked back at her. “You can imagine.”
But Bathilda didn’t look at him. Albus felt the atmosphere charged, everyone’s magic interacting in invisible sparks and jolts.
He forced himself to take the reins, to speak, to make an introduction to what they were going to see, to try to be as impersonal as possible, to make it as political as he could, to not stare at Gellert getting ready to suffer, to not reach for him, to not cradle his face on his hands as he traced the spell.
When he used legilimency on him, he tried to be gentle, to solve the puzzles inside his head to see the vision without damaging him in any way. Sharing it in a projection would be agony, even if Gellert assured him he was used to it. But it was also the only way to make them believe.
“Wait, Flamel hasn’t arrived yet?” The younger Scamander asked, his question made everyone turn to him. “I mean, during the last war, he was…he…”
During the last war he was their saviour more times than any of them had been able to count.
“Perenelle wrote this morning, they wouldn’t make it on time,” Gellert answered before Albus could even process the question. “But they know. She’s starting to see it too, in fragments.”
Albus had sent a cryptic letter, not trusting to write anything more compromising. He knew Gellert had interacted briefly with them over the years, what he didn’t know is that they were in contact.
“You know each other?”
“All seers know each other, Al.”
Careless. He saw how for an instant, something passed behind Gellert’s eyes, not panic, not dread, but something in between. At least he hadn’t called him liebling, at least there was at least another person in the room who called him like that. But it had been so close, an interaction a bit too intimate for the rest to hear. One thing was not sticking to surnames, complicity was something entirely different and terribly dangerous.
“You know, in cases like this, it comes in handy.” He added, dryly. “Anyways, I recommend everyone to hold on to something. I’ll start with what can be avoided, I’ll continue with the inevitable if you feel like it after the first batch of images. I won’t share sounds, though, consider it a belated Christmas present.”
Albus took a step back and put his back to the wall. He could see how they could barely breathe, the pale faces, worried and old despite their young age. None of them had even taken off their coat. As Gellert drew the runes in the air with the Elder wand, he exchanged a tight smile with Elphias, testing the waters. He wasn’t happy. He wasn’t happy at all.
“Courage,” Vinda Rosier brushed past Gellert and took the empty seat closer to the door, but he wasn’t sure Gellert had heard her, his eyes already covered by the white thread.
Albus had seen the vision enough times for it to have become a recurring nightmare. Gellert had warned him, it wouldn’t be less impactful because he was accustomed to it. So he chose to look at him the whole time instead. When the vision took form in front of them, blinding and eye-catching at the same time, Albus chose to observe how the breath caught inside Gellert’s lungs, how his parted lips mumbled the right words without hesitating, ancient magic he only understood, a language nobody spoke anymore. The fire and the ashes from the vision dyed his hair and his skin, transforming him into a rider of apocalypse, Death incarnate. He realised Gellert was poorly holding back his body from shaking. After a few minutes, the blood ran free and bright through his nostrils, staining his mouth, his chin, and dripping on the floor. He continued with the projection without flinching.
It happened sometimes, the seer’s body turning against itself, trying to hold back a vision only meant for him to see.
Albus forced himself to stay still, to not approach him, to not clean the blood, to not worry more than he should. It was like that, it was like that, it was even better if it was like that, blood created an impression that would clear all doubt. As the vision progressed, he could see how the glamour dropped, the purplish marks around Gellert’s eyes reappearing, very soft, almost unnoticeable, but Albus could see them. He was nervous and magic was reacting to his feelings, failing him, showing blurry images.
A few minutes of silence followed when the darkness set back in the room, the slight glow from the outside not being enough anymore for them to look at each other without squinting their eyes. The three cloaked figures didn’t lose time, they got close to Gellert, closer than an acolyte, closer than respect. Albus almost drew out his wand.
“Sagt weiter,” he said to them, faintly, whipping the blood from his face with his sleeve.
They brushed past him into the world, ready to whisper in the right ears and never be seen. The last one touched his face before leaving, in a strange caress that Gellert didn’t acknowledge, the white veil not entirely lifted from his eyes.
“That’s what you said before Leta was killed.”
It took him a few seconds to look at Theseus Scamander. “Yes.”
But Theseus didn’t say anything else. If he wondered what it meant, he didn’t ask. Queenie cleared her throat.
“I don’t need to see any more.” Her eyes were glassy. “Count on me this time too.”
Albus saw the dread setting on Jacob’s visage, fear and anger on Tina’s.
“What?” Tina whispered but it was barely heard.
“First thought, best thought,” she answered. “I won’t be hiding again.” Her eyes were on Vinda, whose gaze was fixed somewhere else.
But before the room exploded in chaos, three voices almost speaking at the same time, Bathilda Bagshot stood up. Albus had only seen her that affected once before, they were in the same situation now. Older than ever, frail and devastated and weak, the best witch of her generation wanted to speak and they’d listen.
“I am not fit to fight now, maybe when I was younger I could have…Oh, boys, why the Gods must put us through this again. How cruel, how cruel.”
But Gellert crossed the distance between them before she’d break down.
“No.” He helped her to sit down again and kneeled in front of her. “You are out of the battlefield this time, I need you to survive us all. If there is someone that must survive it is you. You know why. You know, I know you know.”
She was shaking her head. “I promised you mother…”
“And you have kept the promise for longer than you should have, even when I didn’t deserve your protection.”
They had discussed it. Bathilda would leave Europe, she wouldn’t survive another war if they left her there, it would be too much. She had guts and she was still bright but she was miraculously avoiding Death, they wouldn’t risk it. Besides, history would be made and it would need to be written, who better than the best historian of the century to write it down. During the last war, her house had been a safe place, a hidden getaway for every side, a cup of tea and a dry bed for the night, the place to leave letters and important information for the next one to pass on. Aberforth could be that now. He would have to be it.
“You’ll be alone in the world.”
“How dramatic, I’m not alone, auntie.”
Bathilda raised her head then and stared at Albus, a wordless warning in her eyes. Albus nodded as an answer. Of course he would be with him. Of course he would protect him. Of course he wouldn’t be alone. Not anymore. Not ever. He should have never been alone.
“Albus, dear, you’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish, won’t you?”
Albus chuckled. He got closer to them, Gellert was barely holding back a laugh. He’d never escape the golden shiny reflection of the boy that sparked life into Godric’s Hollow the moment he set foot on it, turning everyone’s lives upside down. Maybe he had never stopped being him, maybe he only hid him well. After all, Albus could see his traces in the quiet moments; in the way he waited, looking out the windows, for the first snow of the year; in the fact that he still made time to read muggle poetry, Baudelaire or Wilde always on his bedside table; in how he thrust back in bed, as if wanting to break himself against him; in how he started every letter addressed to Albus writing only his name, as if he called him.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let him stray far.” They exchanged a look, She’s been through too much because of you, and Gellert had the decency to lower his eyes, his cheeks slightly flushed.
How human he must look to his friends, Albus thought. How terribly human. It was the first time they caught a glance of what he’d always seen, it must be astonishing. Pure raw power, destruction and creation, and still humanity under skin and flesh and bone.
Gellert stood up and they were next to each other, their hands almost brushing.
“The rest of you, this isn’t a setup, we,” he glanced at Albus, “we don’t expect you to know what to do yet, nor how to react to the news I believe you expected. Either you choose to fight or flee when the time comes, we wanted to give the warning. You still have time to think. And to pull the necessary strings so that your loved ones stay safe.” He was scrutinising every face, not missing a detail, reading body language and micro-expressions, searching for a tell. “I must ask you to use this information wisely.”
How young they had all been. How terribly young when the Great War had shredded the magical world, how after it all ended the conflicts were dragged to the muggle world, a new shiny battlefield with a new set of chess pieces to move and manipulate without getting their hands dirty. How the powerful had used them as pawns and how they hadn’t been able to do anything about it without being discovered, the Statue of Secrecy’s laws so restricting the bare minimum was already too much. They had been so young. And now they had a second chance, now they could pretend they knew what they were doing, now they could avoid the avoidable, the illusion of control over the catastrophe.
“I don’t buy it.”
Albus expected it, and despite that, something shattered inside him. Elphias had observed the scene carefully, an indifferent expression on his face, but now he was walking to them, around the dusty tea tables and the tacky sofas.
“The Ministry is calm, there is no inner turmoil that could possibly result in what you’ve shown. I knew you were a madman. But now I see you are also a liar.” He took a step closer to Gellert.
Gellert snorted. “You wouldn't believe how often I get those two together.” He took a step closer, mirroring his posture, matching his attitude, another mask on.
“Who were those people.” He looked at the door, he referred to the cloaked figures, to the old schoolmates Gellert trusted with the vision. “I’ve never seen them around you.”
“Friends.”
“Liar.”
“People that know how to be in the right place at the right time, loyal enough to communicate their impressions, discrete enough to speak and never be heard. They care for the bigger picture enough to want to keep me alive.” He raised a hand before he interrupted him. “And they are interested in avoiding international conflicts, just like you. The word friend is just shorter.”
For a moment Albus saw another Gellert, the one that had fought Aberforth in the kitchen, harsh, icy and malicious, aiming to kill, aiming for blood. He now knew what it meant. Nevertheless, the effect was almost the same as with Aberforth. Elphias, shot him a frustrated glance.
“You can’t believe him.”
Albus pressed his lips in a line, the scene too familiar, the old wound starting to itch.
“Come on, Al, you cannot believe him.” His eyes were wide. “It is an illusion. It’s a one-trick type of thing.”
“Elphias…”
“Wars happen to be very similar once you have seen one.” Gellert interrupted him. “I wanted to keep it tame since it’s New Year’s Eve and I don’t find any personal enjoyment in reliving it. But you may be right, the trick is not very innovative, I could step up if you really wanted to see as I do.”
“Elphias, don’t.”
“Fine. Show me.”
Gellert took a deep breath, annoyed. Oh, the fate of the seer, Sybille, always lying despite telling the truth.
“You are not a legilimens, are you?”
“Gellert.” He called but Gellert gave him the look, he has asked for this .
“But I can practise legilimency.”
“But you are not a natural.” He took a step even closer, their faces almost touching. “I wouldn’t want to break you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Merely human concern.”
“Elphias, you don’t want to see it.” Albus tried again, but he couldn't get in between them now. “It’s not a pleasant experience.”
“Anyone else?” Gellert asked the room but everyone stayed quiet.
Vinda Rosier got closer, dropped on the nearest seat. Gellert and her exchanged a look and he almost smiled. She had got closer to see Elphias react to the vision, she wanted to see him suffer from up close. Albus realised everyone was expecting it, the final proof that Gellert was telling the truth after Elphias had cast the doubt. How morbid, human nature.
Bathilda didn’t stay for it, she wouldn’t want to see anyone suffer by choice and left anticlimactically. She assured them they could count on her and made them promise to give her updates on everything.
Then, Gellert made Elphias sit in front of him, on the hardwood floor.
“Ready?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll show you sound and colour, there will be faces too and...”
Albus reached for him then, grabbed his elbow, and Gellert turned, his expression softened when he looked at him.
“I know better.” I know better than to hurt him.
Albus nodded and stepped back, he stood next to Rosier.
“Il a du toupet,” she whispered to him but he didn’t answer.
As Gellert’s eyes were covered again by the future’s thread, Albus prepared himself for the worst, there’d be no turning back.
Gellert touched his own mismatched eyes with the tips of his thumb and his middle finger respectively. The aqueous substance stuck to them after he said the spell, liquid silver, swirling snow, and he brought them to Elphias’ face. He drummed his fingers on his left temple and put his thumb to his eyelids.
It didn’t even have the time to properly set on them, a white mist starting to spread, blinding his eyes. Elphias jumped back as if electrocuted. Gellert said the counterspell almost immediately, breaking the connection with a grimace, the shock from the lost contact making him grab his head, covering his face, tensed fingers and shaky hands.
Elphias hadn’t even lasted ten seconds inside the vision. His eyes were watery, and his breath, that of a drowning man. His face went from dark red to ghostly white to deep green. And then he stumbled out of the room without looking back.
Albus knew it would happen. Vinda was already aiding Gellert so he followed Elphias down the corridor, to the nearest loo. He kneeled just in time to hold his hair while he vomited. Bile, it was all bile, until he was spitting pink.
He leaned on the tile wall as he cast the healing spell under his breath, a hand to his back. It wasn’t important, he had just tried to force something out of an empty stomach and it had bled.
He remembered the first time Gellert had agreed to share something with him, after he had begged and pleaded with him for days, it had taken them to the point of shouting at each other, almost pointing wands to the other’s heaving chest, for them to reach a middle ground. And after seeing, Albus had been livid, unable to talk for the entire night, unable to let go of Gellert’s clothes, only pulling him closer, afraid he would turn to ash, scared the destruction claimed him.
“Get out.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Elphias caught his reflection on the mirror as he walked out of the cubicle a few minutes later, but lowered his eyes to his hands as he washed them. He rinsed his mouth a few times.
“I’d really hate to fight a war with you on the opposite side, Albus.”
“Me too.”
“But I will since that’s what you have chosen.”
Albus took a few steps closer but when he reached, Elphias took a step back, putting distance between them again.
“He’s done this to me.”
“You are making a mistake.” This is your own body reacting, you couldn’t take it and it turned against you, why didn’t you trust me when I warned you.
“Oh, believe me, Albus, I am not the one mistaken here.” He shook his head, an ugly expression in his mouth. “You don’t believe in the vision, you believe in him.”
“Elphias. You have seen it yourself.” He couldn’t believe the conversation was taking that turn, he couldn't mask the disbelief in his tone.
“What I’ve seen is how you look at him. Like if he was precious, like if he was the only thing that mattered. Seeing him bleed pains you more than drawing your own blood.”
But he is my own blood, he is, he is, he is, his pain hurts more than my own because it is also mine, we are the same, we are the same.
He knew it was a weak argument and still he said it. “You are my best friend.”
But Elphias sneered. “You two have a funny way of seeing friendship, you know?”
Albus looked at him, the decision was final behind his eyes, darkened, certain. He saw himself reflected on his pupils and hated it.
“ I never thought I’d part from you,” Elphias confessed, “not ever.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I must.” He took a step closer, raised his hand as if to touch his face but put it down again. Albus didn’t catch it either. “It really took you a lot to show your true colours.”
“I am not sure I ever hid them.”
Maybe he had. Maybe he had only played on the edges because it had given him enough freedom to do what he wanted, to try to do what he thought best, never showing his cards, always concealing the truth to be able to sneak around. But he knew that, Elphias knew what he did, why was he throwing it to his face?
“I can’t defend you anymore.”
“You choose to not see me anymore the same way you choose to not see the vision. Tell me why you are so bothered by the situation and let’s talk this through as we’ve always done.”
But Elphias turned back, not facing him anymore. Albus looked for his eyes in the mirror. In that light he looked like the last of autumn leaves, brown and wet and cracked, devoid of life and colour, no light behind his empty eyes.
“You’ll tell on us.” He heard himself say, why did his voice sound so small?
“Probably.”
Albus nodded. More than twenty-five years worth of friendship thrown away in an instant. If they asked him, he had had way better reasons to do it sooner. Now it almost felt uncalled for.
“I wish you the best. And I hope, when you’re calm...”
Elphias laughed dryly. “Don’t you dare act like the bigger person. You lose your power over me today.”
The words felt like cold water being poured on him, he opened his mouth but no sound came out.
“You put the fate of the world in his hands, this is what you get!” He had shouted with his all, breaking. “Gods, Al, you can’t be this fucking blind!”
He didn’t hold back after that, it was rotten work.
“Tell yourself whatever you want if it helps you sleep at night, Elphias. I’m not the one burning bridges here.”
“He’ll be the death of you! Of all of us! Can’t you see that!”
Albus sighed. “Take care, Elphias.”
“Don’t.” He hit him with his shoulder when he walked out into the corridor, hard, almost making him turn.
Albus took a few deep breaths, he had been through too much to cry for something that didn’t bring him physical pain. He didn't think about the knot in his stomach, the fire at the back of his throat.
He remembered how the tears had come out of his eyes when the falling debris from a building hit his ribs and broke four of them. It had been in the middle of the war and he had continued running, fighting, throwing spells and curses to protect and kill on equal parts. That had been a reason to cry.
This, this was just life. Nothing had been taken from him, Elphias would continue to be alive and well, going to bed under the same stars as him, fighting a war and trying to do the best for his country. Albus could live with being a bad friend, maybe it was true, maybe he was, maybe he had invited a few close friends today knowing they’d fight the war for him, that they wouldn’t leave his side. He could live with that weight on his shoulders.
On the way back to the salon he found Vinda and Queenie, cups of tea in their hands despite being in the middle of the corridor, admiring the view from the window. It had started to snow.
“Vous avez pris votre temps. ”
“Already considering ways to make me disappear, are we?”
He regretted not having answered in French when he saw Queenie’s puzzled look. Vinda shook her head, she wouldn’t explain.
“You stayed,” he said to include Queenie in the conversation.
“I have all my affairs in order, I thought I could make myself useful here.” Queenie pressed her lips together. “The rest will be back once they have digested it, their thoughts were…, I could barely understand them, one thinks herself familiar with the destruction and then…, the images, it all has been a bit of a shock but... “
“But not for you, you were already warned.”
She dropped her eyes guiltily, no sound leaving her parted lips, confirming Albus’ suspicion. Vinda held his gaze without faltering.
“Happy New Year, Dumbledore,” she said, casting him out of the conversation, no malice in her voice but an edge he didn’t know where to place.
He mirrored her words and walked the corridor back to Gellert’s room.
He let himself in. In the dim light, Gellert took cards from the spread deck in front of him, he had a blanket around his shoulders, his hair hid his face. As the last time, he didn’t acknowledge him.
Albus sat next to him on the floor, bumping their knees.
“It went as we expected.”
Gellert touched one of the cards, dragging his nails on the image as if wanting to scratch it. “Three traitors have left tonight.”
“A risk we knew we were taking.” He leaned closer, putting his lips to the curve of his neck, delighted in how the contact gave Gellert goosebumps, he dragged his lips upwards. “Traitor is a big word.”
“Liebling .”
Elphias is one of them, I know, of course I know, it is not news, I know that too, I know that, I know, I should have known, I didn’t want to know. He is not a traitor now but he will be, he will be, he has already told me he will be. I know. I know.
“How are you feeling. Look at me, let me see your eyes.” He put his hand to Gellert’s cheek to make him turn his head; a few capillaries had broken inside the white of his eyes but it was nothing serious. “How are you feeling.”
“Did I go too far?” Accusing, not regretful.
Albus pulled away slowly and sighed, opened his mouth but didn’t speak, let his head rest on the feet of the bed. The white ceiling paper was cracked in lightning patterns. Gellert tensed next to him and Albus searched blindly for his hand.
“I really think he didn’t believe it the first time,” he started. “After that…Well, he vomited, a bit too affected to not believe, wasn’t he?”
Gellert stayed quiet.
“What did you show him?”
He realised that the last day of the year wouldn’t graze them with the tiniest of lights in the dying sky, in the now deserted streets. Dreadful, grey London, they were only illuminated by the red of the candle flames. How festive.
“Nothing you haven’t seen. It was one of the ones I’ve shared with you.” He swallowed hard. “ He barely…” Gellert quieted down, dropped his hand, picked up the cards and slid them back inside the brown leather sachet. “He’ll come back to you, Albus. Everybody does. Everybody who knows you wants you around. He’s not immune.”
“He hates me now.”
“He loves you.”
“We both know those can happen at the same time.”
“Yes.”
Gellert stood up and left the deck on the desk, one of the candles that burnt there had consumed itself while they spoke, a pool of blue wax almost reaching the parchments. He took out the box of matches from the first drawer and lit another one.
“Albus, you are prioritising something bigger. And so is he, by tomorrow the Ministry will already know. That’s where his loyalties lie. Your words, not mine.” Gellert kneeled in front of him and offered his hand “The floor is cold, get up.”
“What happened after I left.” He took his hand and stood, pulling him into a hug, his lips finding the pulse on his neck easily, burying his nose against his skin.
“A bit of commotion. Too many questions I don't have the answer for... We are breaking families here. The poor muggle, I pity him, he was so out of place.” He put his arms around him, his voice almost devoid of emotion but terribly soft, terribly tired. “I wish I hadn’t bled, it’s always so Greek tragedy. You need to tell Scamander, the auror, about your friend’s position.”
As he listened, he realised that was the only moment in the day he had filled his lungs with air, Gellert’s warmth against him bringing him back to the present moment, his presence grounding him.
"And your people?” He asked as an afterthought, the odds said at least one of the traitors would come from that side.
“I’m not worried, I keep them as close as enemies. Well, slightly less.”
“What does that even mean?” He smiled as Gellert pressed closer to him instead of jolting back when he put his cold hands under his shirt, tracing his spine.
“Use yourself as an example, you are the one I keep the closest.”
“I’m not an enemy.”
“You are worse. If I were to decide you'd never part my side.” He spoke against his lips, thin fingers closed around his neck without strength. “When you left, for an instant, I thought…”
Albus snapped. He made their teeth clash, pulling at his clothes to bring them even closer together, to dissolve against him. The blanket fell to the floor. A certain type of hunger finally freed. He could feel Gellert’s hip bones against his, sharp as knives, how his mouth opened to grasp for air without breaking apart, equally hungry, his hands starting to pull and tug at his collar. How his body responded to his touch, aflame, alive, his pulse matching his, heart skipping beats and blood boiling.
“You think too much.” With his hand on his waist in a painful grip, Albus pushed him down on the bed.
They lost their shirts and vests soon after, they had had enough practice during the years mending gashed shirts and fallen buttons to care. As he dragged down Gellert’s trousers, Gellert tangled his hand in his hair and pulled him up, teeth against teeth, bone against bone, making him gasp from the pain; suddenly all edges, scratching and biting, meaning to leave marks, anger the driving force of his movements.
“What’s wrong.”
“Nothing,” Gellert panted against his mouth. “Keep going.”
Albus blocked his wrists on top of his head and pressed down against him. “What’s wrong.” He brought his hand in between his legs, making him whine, caressing his thighs with the tip of his fingers, feather touch. “What’s wrong. Speak to me.” Albus grabbed him then, hard, harder, to get a reaction, but he twisted, trying to crawl out from under him.
Gellert wouldn't say a word, he managed to free one of his hands and closed his fist against the blood pact, pulling hard, making Albus choke and gasp in the flash of pain. When Albus moved against it, deepening the gash around his neck to kiss him, the silver chain tangled around Gellert’s neck too. Immediately, he slid his fingers between the chain and his skin, trying to avoid it hurting him too, but the thinnest lines of blood were already blurring, mixing with his sweat.
“Stop it! What the fuck are you even thinking about.”
Albus dragged his teeth down his neck, biting down hard, licking sweat and blood and marking his clavicles with purple bruises, dark and ugly, almost flesh and bone, they'd scar. Gellert grabbed his face and crashed their lips together again, kissing him deeper and deeper, tangling a hand in his hair. The chain hung again from Albus' neck, cold and lifeless, its glow the only telltale of its magical origin.
They looked at each other, panting, mouth on mouth.
Gellert, expectant and hungry, his lips wet with blood and saliva, his mismatched eyes wide, pupils blown, regarded him. His demeanour had changed, some kind of fascination dying his gaze, something strange, vulnerable behind the evaporating wrath. Albus was allured by it, he dragged his thumb against his lower lip to clean the blood, lowered his forehead, putting it to his. Gellert clicked his tongue.
“You don’t,” he started, but he interrupted him.
“Yes, I do. I want you.”
Gellert let out a breathy laugh at his passion, his yearning, his fervour.
“Fine.”
It felt like melting against him, the occlumency walls cracking and his own mind slipping through them, liquified, dissolved. Light engulfed him, light and warmth and colour, electricity travelling inside his veins: the violence of the storm, the chaos amid the catastrophe, the hecatomb of the world. Cathedrals falling and seas opening, rivers of crimson and dirt, blinding sounds and piercing flashes of thunder on his skin. Madness between his fingertips, a taste of doom at the back of the throat.
He let out a shuddering breath against his jaw.
“Told you.”
But Albus kissed him until he had Gellert trembling under him, his legs around his pelvis and his nails running against his shoulder blades. His name the only word on his lips, like a prayer, repeated until it lost all meaning. Until he became the only thought inside his head, emptied of ruination. He loved him more than life, he loved him more than death. As he sank into him again and again, it was his only certainty. If Gellert would be the death of him, so be it. The death of him, the death of him, the prophecy said, so be it.