Grey house

A heavy white blanket covers New York; not a soul on the cold streets. It seems that not even Muggles are stupid enough to brave the snow. 

And, of course, that's where he finds Albus. 

On that bench, desperately alone, wrapped in his trench coat, scarf, hat and probably half a dozen layers of clothing underneath. He was always cold; Gellert remembers how he would curl up against him, under the blanket, looking for the slightest bit of human warmth. He had always thought that it was Albus' body as well as his heart that feared the cold. Albus who had never been cherished, never been admired properly by his fellow men. Even Elphias Doge, his precious and first friend, had not seen the point of fighting for him, of helping him escape the mire of his life in Godric's Hollow, caught between a brother of ever-renewed vulgarity and a sister whose condition was getting worse every day. Albus was not loved, or if he had been, then that was a poor love. He was suffering so much when Gellert had met him, this brilliant but reserved boy, with an ever watchful and vaguely resigned eye, as if some catastrophe must, even in moments of pleasure, occur and remind him of his duties. Gellert had returned him to his true nature, that of a scholar, an exceptional wizard. Gellert had saved Albus. With him, he had no longer known cold and loneliness; he had shone brightly.

And yet, today, thirty years later, Albus is subjecting himself to the weather, observing, without wanting to enter the bakery, the warmth that reigns there; that of happiness.

Even from where he is, hidden in an alley, Gellert can hear the laughter, the congratulations that Queenie and that Muggle, Jacob, are receiving. He will have to deal with her betrayal, but not now. It is not for her that he is here, nor is it for Newt Scamander.

The truth is that Gellert came here out of desperation.

In flashes, images of Bhutan come back to him, cruelly fresh in his memory. His hand instinctively goes around his neck, feels for the pact, but does not find it. Suddenly, Newt Scamander leaves the bakery and crosses the street to Albus. Gellert is too far away to hear what they say to each other, but not far enough to ignore the obvious affection between them. He doesn't want to think about that either, not now, at least. His eyes close until he hears the snow crunch under Scamander's feet. As he had expected, Albus had obviously declined the invitation to join the wedding.

"Albus is a sinner," Gellert mutters, not sure why he bothers to say it out loud. "And he loves it. He's always loved to suffer, to take on responsibility and guilt that isn't his own. He would relieve Atlas and carry the world for eternity if given the chance."

Gellert's fists clenched and his anger, an old friend whenever he thought of Albus, seized him. The self-hatred he's cultivated and the martinet he's flogged himself with every day for nearly thirty years serve only to mask his cowardice.

This is what this is about, what this has always been about, Albus Dumbledore's cowardice. He had been too scared to love him out in the open, too scared to know what his idiot brother, his friends, and even the fucking neighbours might think when they found out that he was... What was it they used to say, those English? Ah yes, an invert. As if he and Albus could be twisted, flawed, defective. No, they never had been; they were each brilliant and together prodigious.

It was fear, too, that had made him back away from implementing what had been their plan all along. Gellert had sincerely thought, when he had begun to make his name, some fifteen years earlier, that Albus would come back. That the greatness of their work at last would allow him to overcome the guilt that had accompanied Ariana's death and made him hole up, like a monk seeking forgiveness, in that school of magic where he was wasting his potential. Gellert had sincerely believed that Albus would eventually forgive him and return to him. He had been prepared for the fact that he would initially keep his distance, refusing to resume the passionate and selfish relationship that had been theirs, knowing that it would eventually happen.

Aunt Bathilda had once said that they were two sides of the same coin; he had absolutely disliked that expression. The two sides of a coin coexist, are of equal weight, strength and appearance. But the two sides of the same coin never see or touch each other, they are condemned to depend on the other without enjoying it. Gellert had never wanted that for Albus and himself.

And yet, he thought bitterly, this is what they have been reduced to by Albus' unilateral decision to turn his back on everything they had believed in, including their love.

He had categorically refused to recognise himself in Gellert's actions, to join the wizards who had come to him from all walks of life. He had also refused to recognise the symbol of the Hallows as a rallying sign for the cause. Instead, Albus had publicly supported the Ministries and institutions they had sworn to bring down, the very ones that had allowed the Muggles who had broken Ariana beyond repair to get away with it. Worse, who had condemned Percival Dumbledore for avenging his daughter, a witch, in the name of protecting the non-magical.

Gellert had then committed what he considered to be his first and one of his only acts of cruelty to Albus.

"For the greater good," he declares, this time without lowering his voice, even though he knows that, from where he sit and under this snow, Albus could not hear him.

It was he who had uttered this words, as they lay in a meadow of soft grass, under the shelter of a weeping willow. Gellert had thought it right, had approved of the man who was still only a friend, although the word had seemed particularly hackneyed from the moment they met.

He could only imagine the horror Albus had felt the first time he had heard his words being chanted by witches and wizards who wished, loudly and clearly, for what had been born of their minds that summer in the west of Scotland. It was the first and best way Gellert could think of to hold Albus back, at least in part.

The blood pact was another.

He pushes that thought away, even though it is the reason he is here tonight.

Choosing his words as a slogan was meant to rub his hypocrisy in his face, to remind him every day, every moment, that he was a liar, a mystifier of crowds and a traitor to the values and institutions he now defended. 

But that is not all. It's never just that.

Gellert also wanted Albus to understand that he was not forgotten. That, despite the years that had passed, despite the way they had parted, he longed for him. To find him.

This plan is ours. Everything I do, everything I get is yours. Can be. Just go home.

Cruel irony, Albus chooses this moment to leave his bench. He stands up, hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the shadows dancing through the bakery window. He smiles, a sad, nostalgic, distant smile, before turning away. Curiously, he seems in no hurry to return to Scotland; Gellert wonders briefly whether Credence is dead or not. He starts walking down the middle of the wide, cold, deserted New York thoroughfare, and Gellert grits his teeth as he watches him wallow in that self-inflicted loneliness of which he has mastered.

Before he has really thought about it, he takes a step, then another, and the snow begins to crunch under his shoes. Gellert steps into the street, glances involuntarily at the light and suddenly meets Newt's eyes. The boy stares at him in silence, a glass of champagne in his hand, obviously impervious to the jubilant scene around him. He doesn't seem surprised to find him there; from the way he holds himself, with that quiet, patient strength he has come to recognise, Gellert understands that Scamander felt his presence, perhaps even saw him, when he came to talk to Albus. The fault of one of his beasts that he carries around with him, he assumes. 

They stare at each other in silence, without hostility. Gellert won't say it, won't even refuse to engage or threaten, but he is exhausted. The last few days have drained him of the little strength he had left after the election fiasco. Ever since... ever since Albus did that , he hasn't been able to sleep. Unsurprisingly, Scamander seems to perceive this and a tension he hadn't noticed leaves his shoulders. He gives him one last look before turning away to chat with Tina Goldstein. Gellert waits for a moment, then another, but Newt Scamander continues to turn his back resolutely, as if he has judged that he is not a threat he should worry about. As if he knew what had brought him here.

Gellert turns to his left and watches Albus' silhouette become more and more distant as he moves away into the New York night; the snow falls less heavily, but soon he will not see him again. Gellert feels exhausted, angry, humiliated, too, to be reduced to hiding in an alleys to watch the man who continues, in an endless cycle for thirty years, to betray him.

He could move right now. But he refuses to dwell on the past, alone in his flats in Nurmengard, faced with feelings that haunt him and assail him from all sides.

Gellert starts walking again, quickening his pace until he is less than fifty steps from Albus.

He refuses to deny what Albus has done to him, to accept, the renunciation, worse the abandonment.

This time, he refuses him the silence of his guilty loneliness.

"Albus!”