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Chapter Text

Synopsis:

Caught between ephemeral darkness and a Fiendfyre Deluge, some of the less prominent players on the board are forced to make their moves, heart in hand. Resolutions are made, last kisses are had, laments written, new professions started and somewhere in the middle of all that carnage, Quentin is just trying to navigate his new reality.

Overall, there is a decided abundance of depression and related symptoms, so really, if you are susceptible to depictions of emotional darkness, this part I advise you to read with caution. 

Chapters: 28

Chapter Text

   That peaceful quietude of the February evening unsettled him. Quiet evenings always did. There was something so fundamentally wrong with quiet early evenings, like the warning of a great storm, he could feel it in his shoulder-bones, but today, it was of a different nature. Something was amiss. 

   Yes, something was very amiss, he mused as he waved his old ash wand about to right some of the pictures on the wall. A small earth-shake a few minutes ago had let the glasses clink a wee bit in their places, but nothing he wasn’t accustomed to. It had been happening a fair bit these past few weeks, perhaps the Goblins again. Hardly anyone would have supported him in that claim, but then again, hardly anyone spoke Gobbledegook these days, so hardly anyone was privy to the information that a select few Goblins had been digging pretty much in his backyard to retrieve a few priceless artefacts from times of Merlin’s and Morgana’s children in some older ruins underground. Then again, hardly anyone nowadays would have bet any varying sum of money on the fact that either Merlin or Morgana had had children to begin with, let alone together. It figured. The great wizards and witches of each time period always ended up fucking. Merlin and Morgana and their ugly marriage dispute – he had read the recount, fascinatingly amusing if not for the fact that she had gone absolutely barmy after the silent divorce – or whatever shenanigans the Founders had gotten up to in their spare time. If one looked in the right places in the castle, one could obtain an almost traumatising amount of information on the matter. She had once even opened a secret chamber at Hogwarts in a washroom with her special abilities, though they had never gotten around to exploring it in their search for somewhere quiet to be left alone in. Emeric and Egbert the champion Metamorphmagi had famously fancied each other, whether in their female or male forms, that had apparently not mattered, and some sort of cheating scandal had led to the whole relationship falling apart in a grand duel including power-lust and bloody murder. He supposed the Peverells didn’t fall under the umbrella, but then again, they had only been brilliant inventors, not necessarily the brightest magicians of their time, and additionally brothers. Not that wizardkind wasn’t known for excessive incest, but in this case, perhaps they had been respectable enough not to. Well, of course a large portion of it all could be chalked up to rumours, he wasn’t entirely sure what of all these stories and fragments he believed, but if his life had taught him anything, it was to put stock into the impossible. 

   It wasn’t all chinwag, either – he had seen it happen before his very eyes. The thought made him want to heave – fate indeed. He would rather not have been eye witness to one of those escapades of history. 

   But yes, something was amiss. Something past the temperature that would freeze any man’s bollocks straight off, and the regular earth-shakes, and the strange folk coming and going on occasion. Outside, the snowflakes were once more dancing merrily, and a gust of cold air at once wheezed through under the creaky door – he would have gotten it fixed had it not fit the ambiance. Nothing to suggest that anything was out of the ordinary, but he had learned to read between the lines. But for now, the truth would out – if it wanted to, anyways. So he continued his cleaning, partially manually, partially magically, it gave him a better feeling of accomplishment. Not that he was fundamentally unsatisfied with the life he had carved out for himself these past decades, but life wasn’t just surviving. Occasionally, one might have come to theorise it even included thriving. Or at least the closest approximate to it. Everybody was dealt a hand, and could acquire cards over their lifetimes – just that his hadn’t always been a hand of straight aces. But he made do.

   He wondered what the Goblins were so desperately looking for – so desperately and clandestinely that they hadn’t even been seen draining barrels, though, with their livers and stomachs, that would have been a waste of money, and if Goblins were anything besides sharp-minded, it was greedy. No, there had to be a rumour of worth in those ancient catacombs, not that he himself had ever found anything. Then again, many tunnels had naturally collapsed over the centuries despite the system having been carved into the bare stone, and the anti-detection magic was strong enough to give a grown man breakouts of cold sweats and discomfort. He wasn’t necessarily an adventurous type – adventurous enough to investigate what possible horrors lay beneath his property, anyways, that was a must – so he had eventually just given up. If something was that heavily warded, it probably was for a reason, and it was best if it was never found before it fell into the wrong hands. And of the wrong hands, there were plenty these days and times. 

   He almost dropped the broom he had been holding onto, lost in thought, when a white, shimmery apparition burst through the wall and came to a halt before him. He barely had the time to register it as a small Patronus in the shape of a fox before it already began yapping.

“You have to come up immediately, I beg you! He got hurt, I- I don’t know whether he’ll... Please, come up, as-“

“I need to call up a rendering, merda, hold him still!”

“As fast as you can, please, I beg you!”

The fox apparition proceeded to jump at him, vanishing just a few inches before his nose, the white remnants disappearing like burning parchment, tearing themselves to pieces and flickering out of existence. Shoddy casting, though, the emotion in the message had clearly carried forth the urgency of the message, as well as the emotional state of the caster. Powerful, though – with the average person, it was not simply as though a Patronus was a recording of all noises, it typically just relayed the voice of its caster, not that of others nearby though he could only identify the caster. That didn’t sound good. That didn’t sound good at all. With a flick of the wrist, he locked the front door – as though in this weather, anyone would come still at this hour – and apparated upstairs. He wasn’t typically a supporter of apparating just about everywhere – what did one have functional legs for, after all – but the urgency convinced him to put aside his rules for the moment. Warmth welcomed him when he landed conveniently and quietly, right beside a chair on which he could have caught himself should he have had the need, and with a sigh, he grabbed the Floo powder from the mantelpiece, shooting a coy look at the portrait straight above it. 

“I’ll be back in a heartbeat, little blossom, just a matter of time before that idiot would get himself into some kind of trouble again... Incendio.”

That left, of course, the problem of the other fireplace he was about to fall out of being warded very heavily and with magic so old it was rather hard to circumnavigate. Not that he couldn’t – he had a few tricks up his sleeve from his time abroad and listening at opportune moments – but it was going to be a rough journey, even with the connection being naturally boosted for his own family privilege and as an emergency evacuation point, of which there were nine. That, however, was a one-sided thing, only the other fireplace could call his whenever the owner pleased. But he himself was much more than the shadow in which he lingered would have let the innocent onlooker believe. He knew just how to reverse the magic, force himself through a few loopholes, and, eventually, with a bit of sweat having collected on his brow, he could quite proudly say that he had once more outsmarted some of the cleverest wizards of the past. People kept thinking he couldn’t. The fewer times he proved them wrong, the longer he could remain a dark horse. He had a feeling being entirely underestimated would one day come in very handy. The fireplace was functional. Well. Functional was an umbrella term. There was, by his estimation, a twenty-five percent chance he would lose a limb or two in the process. But those could typically be regrown, and a limp or a crutch would go well with his image anyways. The colouration of the fireplace was dipped a bit into an unhealthy shade of emerald green, but it would do. Having a whole lair of arcane magic underneath his house likely helped with that part, not that he was keen on telling anybody. 

“Hogwarts Headmaster’s Office!” he called out clearly as he stepped into the flames. 

   He was right, naturally – the journey was an utter dog’s breakfast, and he was quite surprised to both land on his feet and still be in possession of all of his organs as he came out in the ancient office, and to the startled gasps of plenty a portrait. Really, who could stand having that many portraits in one room, did they ever shut up?! Having generations of entitled pure-bloods look over your shoulder, what sort of twisted idea of torture was that exactly? There was the chance, of course, that the current occupant had simply gone deaf these past two centuries. Not that he was willing to test his chances lest he end up transfigured into a wolf. The thought alone made him shiver. The mildly senile Headmaster of Hogwarts rose unhurriedly, though his hold on the wand was still as tight as it had been thirty years ago, or almost three hundred, ready to brandish it should he have need. 

“Aberforth.”

“Headmaster.”

“When you first cast the Felifors in my class, what happened?”

Aberforth let out a loud groan. Security questions, really, in this day and age? One could have come to think that Scotland out of all places had no need for them yet, considering the knight in shining armour that half the populace believed his sodding brother incarnated. Then again, he better – it was his manic former that was ruining the world with his continued lunatic existence. 

“I turned Monhagan’s abhorrent abomination of a naked cat into a naked cat carrying a similarly-coloured cauldron on its back instead of getting it to become a full cauldron.”

“Indeed, indeed... Merlin, that was a horrific sight, it was,” Dippet mused, stroking his beard. “Yes, you must excuse me, this connection shouldn’t work this way around.”

“I’m getting tired of people thinking my brother is the only clever Dumbledore alive,” he just commented with snide – he had never gotten on too well with Dippet, anyways. “Why does Malfoy think I need to come to the castle yesterday by the sound of it? What sort of trouble has my precious brother gotten himself into this time?”

“Albus? None that I am informed of.”

“Then would you explain to me why I was just nearly given a heart arrest by a fox Patronus that told me I needed to come up this instant because he got hurt, all including Portuguese curses and all? He made it sound like my brother was dying, one could think you’ve heard of that if it were currently happening.”

“Odd... yes, quite odd... Dilys, you wouldn’t mind- Dilys?” Dippet asked, but the portrait of the famous headmistress – there really hadn’t been many women in the position despite Hogwarts always claiming it was just and fair – and healer was empty. “Strange, she typically has her evening chat with my cousin Hubert at this time. Let me see... Accio Infirmary Ledger.”

He caught in his bony old hand a little booklet, and flipped through the pages with his wand. Aberforth knew it was directly connected to the well-kept reports of the Hogwarts hospital wing, and updated itself as soon as a new case was opened there as well. It was the Headmaster’s privilege to know of all injuries treated under his castle’s jurisdiction, and it if hadn’t once helped Aberforth talk himself out of three months of detention, he would have found the thing utterly in disagreement with privacy and personal information secrecy. 

“Nothing in here,” Dippet eventually nodded to himself, righting his hat. Which wizard wore a hat in his private chambers? Let alone a hat that outrageous? 

“Armando,” at once a breathless voice from one of the portraits sounded, though it wasn’t the revered mediwitch and Headmistress Derwent. “You need to come, it’s little Albus, he-“

“We’re on our way,” Dippet assured. “Hospital wing?”

“Yes! Pammy’s replacement is utterly incompetent, has no idea what to do-“

Aberforth didn’t have the stomach to listen to the instant barrage of comments that came from the vague direction of the portraits – they were evidently in disagreement about the abilities of the replacement nurse. With any luck, the man was a bit less overbearing and sugary sweet than his former. Within a few instants, the fireplace was lit once more, and Dippet took some Floo powder. He could have just apparated, and side-alonged him, but of course, it needed to be yet another fireplace. Well, better than Portkeys. But that lay in the family. Mum had been bedridden a half week after jumping over from the new communities. It should have been indicative of how her life on the Isles would go. But if his family was good at anything, it was at ignoring intuition. He wondered whether his son too... 

“Hospital wing!” Armando called out, and he followed right after the fire was done flaring, two or so seconds only. 

He didn’t like all those eyes in his back, anyways, judging him just for the simple fact that he had a larger-than-life reputation to live up to. He wondered whether Slytherin’s two little brothers had ever felt like that too. Especially considering he had reportedly been a twin, and that twin had vanished mysteriously before ever being born, with only bones remaining. Or Hufflepuff’s older sister. Gryffindor had famously been a single child – then again, only a single child could have developed that many complexes about bravery and stupidity. Nobody with a sibling would ever have been that stupidly reckless, though, Albus, the prancing peacock, did sometimes just love to prove him wrong on that. Helena had definitely felt like she had spent her entire life in her mother’s shadow – what had she been supposed to do? Her mother had likely been one of the smartest witches alive, and intellect wasn’t exactly incarnated more strongly into one’s children. She had been doomed from her birth onwards. Thank Merlin himself that his brother was a pansy, that child would have been doomed too. Though, perhaps then it and Aberforth could have bonded a little over their shared hatred of standing in Albus’ shadow. Not that he was mostly to blame for it, either – but that didn’t exactly change Aberforth’s life dramatically, nor did it their relationship. 

With these thoughts, Aberforth was spat out in the Hospital wing, a familiar grand room with a ceiling so high a giant could have comfortably been treated inside – though, how that would have gotten inside was a mystery indeed considering the doors were so small you could barely wheel a bed through – and many beds lined up that were only illuminated by orbs endlessly floating in the air. 

   But the room wasn’t nearly as comfortable now as it had been last time he had visited, and for that, he blamed not only his intuition, but the smell that hung in the air. 

   Pickles. 

   Not that it actually did. Objectively, the abomination didn’t smell like pickles. To most people, it smelled like a mixture of rusting metal, something charred and overly pervertedly-sweet fumes. But to Aberforth, who had only ever once been hit with this particular nightmare of a curse, it would always smell like fucking pickles. What a joke, really. He couldn’t even eat them anymore, let alone smell them – it made that tremor in his left arm act up, that one that had never healed and still told him when a change in the weather’s temperament was due. What a useless skill to have for an inn-owner and a barman! Thirty foot radius around pickles, and he was either having his tremor come out or he was hanging over the nearest potty. How many times had he sent his goats Leeva and Tixy to his neighbour’s vegetable patches to eat selectively the cucumbers, and the zucchinis for good measure as well just so he wouldn’t have to stand that smell wafting through his inn or, even worse, his private rooms?! Then again, what was he to do when every time he smelled pickles he was reminded of that time some overly potent psychopath had shot a bloody Cruciatus at him to prove a point? 

   That the hospital wing didn’t smell like somebody had only had pickles on a sandwich, but that his brother had reportedly taken ill to the extent that it would necessitate a terrified Patronus message did not bode well in Aberforth’s books. 

“Xoco?” Dippet asked into the room, though he really didn’t have to. The bed closest to the fireplace was occupied, and three people were bowed over a body that was oddly still. 

From his angle, Aberforth couldn’t see much, but he could feel the panic in the air. It was a queer experience to approach the bed, as though his feet were walking without his say-so, and though he knew exactly what had happened – or could at least imagine the overall outline – it just didn’t want to connect in his mind. Normally, it would have – he had a strong stomach, and overall a good constitution. Merlin, when Albus had told him he had had a son for thirty years, it had barely rattled him. Well, enough to be foolish enough to attempt to threaten his brother, who had once more showcased that he could be very dangerous and chose not to be. At least that he had going for himself, decently developed impulse control. At least nowadays. Aberforth didn’t typically shy away from the truth, he didn’t live in his fantasy world, he lived in reality and reality was brutal, cold and heartless just as much as it could be kind, and warm, and utterly full of compassion. To bear the hard times was just as much a life skill as to enjoy the good times. But here, he just didn’t want to believe the scene. 

   He assumed the tall, darker-skinned – at least in comparison to the typical unbaked loaf of bread the British were – lad was the replacement nurse, some substitute from Brazil, he had heard. The kid standing next to him was likely the student apprentice. And the other, he recognised, the Malfoy lad that had been the king of his own year at Hogwarts even having been quite frankly disinherited and kicked out of his ancestral home at eleven. For that, Aberforth had to commend him – not many were that dramatically rebellious at that young an age, to speak out against their forebears and survive the ensuing ordeal still with a good head on their shoulders. Malfoy had given him good business over the years, especially with his mildly illegal underhand goods exchanges, all of which Aberforth assumed had wandered into a potion or another over the years. The lad was alright, he supposed – bit talky, but he tipped well and never brought any dangerous business or people to the pub. Though, he always did look more composed than now. It was a rare insight though Malfoy didn’t keep his cards close to his chest, but shivering and drenched in tears was a new look, though he did still seem entirely focussed on his goal. Despite it being so obviously an agreement between the two of them that wasn’t exactly inspired by romance – though, Albus had that daft look on his face he always had when he fancied someone – Malfoy genuinely seemed to care, and be utterly distraught. Perhaps nowadays Albus did occasionally know how to pick a decent man for himself, if it hadn’t been for the prominent counter-example he was so keen on. He was still so keen on, for whatsoever reason. Nowadays, he couldn’t exactly run the I’m young, dumb and he’s pretty excuse anymore. Despite still being a daft gobshite most days, the other two had most certainly changed. Regardless, that blank horror on Malfoy’s face made Aberforth not want to look down, in all honestly, but his curiosity eventually did get the better of him. 

   And in that moment, he knew exactly what had happened. 

   And who had done it. 

   Anger nearly roared out of him as he beheld his older brother. He looked so... pale. Albus had debatably inherited most of mum’s skin tone and yet, he was beige as a sheet of parchment fresh out of the stationary. He had been hurriedly lifted onto the bed, vest hanging open and blood soaking through his torn shirt and onto the clean bed-sheets, arm bent at the most unnatural angle and one of his bones literally standing three inches out of his arm, his hand actually nearly crushed, head twisted to the side and drops of blood falling from parted lips, all buttons gone and his trousers having thereby opened, his leg also twisted, his right trouser leg essentially just some strips of fabric listlessly hanging down. Aberforth had seen it once, on a victim of a lightning strike. Albus seemed to have done it similarly, leading the magic downwards into the ground when he had been hit. A hue of perverted magic lingered over his entire right side so prominently that even just feeling it made Aberforth mildly sick, let alone thinking- 

   Someone had shot his brother with a Cruciatus so strong it had broken just on first sight a dozen of his bones. It was hardly a riddle who had done it! Though, it was a riddle how the fuck that bastard had been able to do it – that infantile artefact of theirs should have strangled him for even having the thought! Albus had assured him of it a few days after that lunacy in Hamburg, looking weather-beaten and twenty years older and coming only with the intention of drawing some more protective spells around the inn. Aberforth had cussed him out – he was very capable of erecting his own shields around his own property, thank you very much. And that advancing eve, he really hadn’t had the stomach for dealing with his brother, who had once supported that sort of madness. It bordered on a miracle – or his brother, as per usual, closing his eyes to the obvious – that he hadn’t prepared himself for the eventuality – Aberforth hadn’t known the bastard for long, but long enough to know that only death would stop him, and he supposed that, should he have mercifully croaked it at some point, Albus would have felt it, blood-bound and all. As insane as it was in its nature – they had been children, Merlin’s bollocks! – at least it had saved his brother from dropping dead these past few years. So how in-

“Headmaster! Send for more healers, I need-“

“Someone needs to do something, he’s-“

“Oh, Merlin,” the student aid mumbled so quietly it was barely audible. “His heart is slowing too much!”

“I need more wands for the spells, I cannot do this on my own and-“

“What heart, he clearly left part of it-“

“Report,” Dippet interceded just as Albus was being shaken by a convulsion that pushed the bone further from his arm. 

An icy shiver pooled in Aberforth’s stomach – he had never thought he would feel like that again, like he had whenever their sister... Why had he not agreed to meet his son?! Why had he declined the possibility?! 

“We have no time for a report, his heart- Headmaster, a part of his heart is missing, I have put him under a stabilising charm, but that is nothing but a temporary fix so he does not hurt himself even further in his agony, he was thrashing when Professor Malfoy brought him in. He is dying, Headmaster, we need more competent-“

“Don’t say that!” Malfoy shrieked loudly. “Don’t fucking say that, you’ll-“

“Cruciatus, yes?” Aberforth asked cynically, which was the first time any of them seemed to even notice his presence. 

Malfoy blinked a few times, eyes still filled with large, heavy tears, before beginning to rattle down a few sentences. They sounded bleak, hollow, so full of emotion that they were devoid of it.

“I’m sorry, I- I- He just fell into my chambers, just like that, he must’ve apparated in, I- I knew he was doing something dangerous out there and I didn’t stop him and- and then I couldn’t get the Floo to let him through at first and-“

“You couldn’t have stopped him, lad,” he answered with a sigh. Nobody could stop Albus when he had a fixed idea, and that bastard had long been his first and foremost thought whenever thinking about literally anything. 

  The next half hour passed in such a blur that Aberforth couldn’t tell up from down anymore, just that he was eventually covered in blood and his voice hoarse from barking at everybody else. It turned out that the replacement nurse was skilled enough, but not in a pickle – great at all school illnesses, not so much a war healer like his brother that knew how to treat excessive bodily trauma, the kid was obviously traumatised from the get-go and stood in the way more than she helped, Malfoy tried his best not to be a blubbering mess but failed utterly, Dippet didn’t seem to be an expert at healing spells, and it was only with the help of Derwent, who showed up in her frame soon after, that anything worked, even if...

   Aberforth supposed it went like that. In extreme situations, the human body oftentimes just functioned. The brain got turned off, and you just did things on instinct. Albus had only ever spoken of the Muggle war – his most heroic deed, and the one Aberforth respected him most for considering how much he had spoken against Muggles as though he had wanted to become their dad incarnate after all – when he had seen the bottom of ten shots of Firewhiskey or something adjacently intoxicating, and even then, he had recounted it all so neutrally, so unfeelingly. As though it didn’t influence a man to see people die left, right and centre. Of course, he had brought those states of panic back home, and what Aberforth assumed had by now turned into an addiction to alcoholic substances, but other than that, he was surprisingly functional considering he had a god complex and a half and could therefore not stand nature going its typical course. Perhaps that was that – people were only made for a certain amount of pressure before they inevitably broke. But their endurance was grander than that. Aberforth was glad for that human strength, really – he didn’t want to imagine what it would’ve been like without that, seeing Albus in that kind of state. 

   They didn’t love each other, that was pretty much impossible at this point, after everything Albus had and hadn’t done. But Aberforth certainly didn’t want him to die, and most certainly not like this. Not because of that bastard, not at his hand, even if that should theoretically have torn him straight along. Albus deserved better than that, at least. 

   It was a complicated, dangerous procedure that the replacement nurse proposed, but something Aberforth actually knew from experience had a mild success rate. Granted, Albus would likely lose a few brain cells over it, but being taken down a peg couldn’t actually hurt him all that much. A mate of Aberforth’s had once drunkenly fallen off a cliff, had broken a hundred and three bones in her body – a record for the century so far – and they had been forced to knock her out cold with ten simultaneously-cast Petrificus Totalus. Basically knocking her out to near-death had given the healers enough time to deal with the injuries, saving her life – the oxygen obviously not going to Albus’ brain that much anymore and risking other bodily injuries played a huge part, but that front, the replacement nurse apparently had covered, and spectacularly so. Granted, the blood magic he used to guide the blood through Albus’ body whilst the others were casting healing charms at his commands was illegal across all communities in the world, but that would be a footnote no matter what happened to Albus. 

   Aberforth didn’t allow the fear in. He couldn’t. 

   Not when Albus’ heart – apparently missing a huge chunk – stopped the first time, for fifteen whole seconds that had Aberforth hovering over his chest with his palms out first, ready to administer compressions to kick-start his brother’s heart before it jerked back into fluttery action, even though he knew that several of his ribs were already broken and the shards driven into his heart could make it even worse.

   Not the second time, when it stayed out for the same amount of seconds, just as they were making the incision to his chest to deal with the underlying problem.

   Not the third to seventh, when Aberforth could see his brother’s brutalised heart, lying cradled in his chest amidst rib fragments and so much blood it almost made him dizzy, and when it only skipped a few instants before pumping again, though it mercilessly spilled blood everywhere when it did considering the part it was missing. It was shredded, how it even still functioned... 

   Albus was strong. He had survived their childhood, the war, everything in between. They were supposed to be phoenixes by nature. Even the Obscurials lived abnormally lengthily, his own son now twenty-eight, nearing twenty-nine...! Albus was one of the most magical people in the whole of history, he couldn’t just lie here and bleed out like the rest of the mortals! As much as Aberforth hated it, his older brother was more than that! More than him, more than their sister, more than mum and dad, more than the bloody bastard in any case! It couldn’t end like this, it just couldn’t. 

   Last time he had seen Albus, he had punched him in the face. That was the last he had seen of him, that couldn’t be-

   He couldn’t allow the fear in. 

   Not the eighth time his heart stopped, either.

   Aberforth had lived for many years, and had seen many things, curses and hexes and jinxes and fistfights and actual murder, but never once had time slowed down to this degree, not even that unremarkable late summer afternoon in the kitchen where he had been brazen enough to duel with two of the most powerful wizards of all time without really losing much ground in the process. He could see it. He could see his older brother’s heart. He could see it lie there in his chest, motionless. It- 

   It didn’t beat again. 

   It felt like the whole world was taking a breath, but never following through. Like the whole world collectively opened its mouth, but never actually inhaling, so much that it soon began to feel hollow, nauseating. That same feeling shot through Aberforth, the same feeling he had already felt three times in his life when other members of his family had passed away. He remembered at once mum forbidding them to have a funeral for dad. Mum, on the kitchen floor lifeless and Ariana crouching in the corner, weeping. The shock and shattering sensation cracking his chest apart when Ariana had fallen, he hadn’t even seen her before she had dropped, his back to her. It was the same, it felt the same, here, just that now- 

   Albus always got himself in trouble, and most frequently because of his horrid choice of partners, but he couldn’t just- 

   It was like Aberforth’s heart stopped, too, only he was and remained aware of it and his surroundings. 

   He saw the shadow of black when nobody else did. The shift in the atmosphere, like a different type of magic. It wasn’t like any he knew, except it was. It violently recalled a Tuesday afternoon in his inn, and beseeching a young man ten years his junior to keep his belongings safe, and out of the public eye. To be utterly careful. He had felt the artefact, it had the same magical signature. It wasn’t like that magic in the caves underneath his inn, or the magic of Hogwarts, or that of Nocturn Alley, or any other location or creation he had ever witnessed. Considering the circumstances, it was hardly complex to guess what concept was starting to advance on his older brother. 

“Oh no, you won’t!” he hissed in the direction of the shadow that never took permanence, and would not have been recognisable as such if not for the sudden absence of light, or, rather, natural light. 

The light orbs still burned as brightly as they had before. Nobody had added or removed some. And yet, the light simultaneously felt more hollow and warming. There was only one branch of magic that dealt with that kind of dichotomy, his brother had mucked about with it already, and had seriously thought he wouldn’t notice. Albus always thought he was being particularly clever when most of his actions really were quite transparent to somebody who knew him. No, he knew what that meant. He knew what the shadow was, that feeling, that sensation that made all his hairs stand on end and his arm tremble, but not with fear. He wouldn’t let this claim his brother, out of all things, not this. He turned to him, looked right at his brother’s face, now even paler, as though colour was being actively drained. It must’ve been a minute, or more, the others were hurrying around and working magic and despairing and the voices-

“You’re a fucking phoenix,” Aberforth barked at his brother’s lifeless body, holding back the ache of tears, the room shutting up. “So act like it, you bastard! You won’t go before me, do you hear me?! You WON’T! I won’t let you! Rennervate. Rennervate! RENNERVATE, FUCK’S SAKE!”

   But Albus’s heart didn’t commence its beating. It just lay there, still. His brother always seemed so monumental, he couldn’t just- 

   He was a phoenix, might not have thought himself deserving of one, but- 

   Where was that dratted creature?! If his Obscurial son, who had certainly killed dozens of people in his life if accidentally, could get a loyal phoenix familiar, where was Albus’? He had done things wrong, he was to blame for deaths and actions, but overall, overall, he wasn’t a bad person, he did what he could, he had his shortcomings, things that infuriated Aberforth, he wasn’t always proper or composed or even decent, but- but Albus was fundamentally a good man! Where was Albus’ phoenix when he needed it?! Shouldn’t he have gotten one, why didn’t he? Why did his son get one but Ariana hadn’t, and Albus hadn’t, and he hadn’t?! He couldn’t let this happen, he couldn’t! His brother wouldn’t die like this, not of a literal broken heart because that – anger poured out of his every pore – bastard had-

   That left only one option – his brother’s body wouldn’t care if- But his surviving self would, disregarding the improperness of it all, for Aberforth placed both of his hands on his brother’s broken heart and began pouring in his healing magic, relentlessly and forcefully, further and further and further. It wasn’t accompanied by a spell, it was the accumulation of all knowledge he possessed, had ever learned, would ever need, all poured into exhausting himself to regrow tissue, to replenish his blood, to restore function. He couldn’t mend the broken bones, that would take a more skilled healer than him, but the broken shards could be whisked away with a quick Ossio Dispersimus, and a rapid barrage of Episkeys could heal the bones, it would take time, but Albus wouldn’t die of his broken bones, he was dying because he had likely splinched his heart apparating out of the danger, the fucking idiot. Of course, he apparated away from his insane sweetheart and he left half of his heart behind. Only Albus would be that pathetically literal. He was a romantic, but Aberforth wouldn’t allow for that to be his unhappy ending. Albus was a right cunt, but he did deserve better than this. He deserved much better. That Malfoy lad hadn’t been so bad for him, Aberforth thought as he continued to pour his magic in, sending it to repair the torn tissue and gathering the blood from the extended spillage to reintroduce it to his system artificially. He couldn’t close all the wounds, but he could construct a barrier so strong it could practically function as magical moving tissue that would support the heart’s integrity so that it wouldn’t fall apart entirely. Considering how strong Albus usually was in terms of magic, it might even absorb it and create a magical makeshift implant out of it. He shot a row of impulses of magic into it, similarly to how he would perform compression if need be. Aberforth had no idea of internal healing, but he hoped-

   Aberforth was so tense that he screamed with joy when it flickered back. When the brutalised organ pressed against his palms began jerking first, then started pumping, still willing to splash blood about but not actually managing considering Aberforth held a tight magical barrier around it. 

“De arromba!” a voice rang from beside him. “Whatever you are doing, do not stop! Do not stop! Unless you feel at risk of dying yourself, of course. Thessa, I need bandages, and a lot of them, the ones drenched in Dittany and abutilon megapotamicum, and the basket for bone reconstruction. Professor Malfoy, I need your hand for cleaning spells. Headmaster, please alert more skilled healers at St Mungo’s. Headmistress Derwent, it would be an honour to have you assist this procedure with your excellence. Hold the spell, please, for as long as you can. We might yet be able to make a difference!”

   Aberforth didn’t really care, nor could he bear to listen to any other shouted orders if they didn’t involve his name in any ways. He steadily held the pressure of the spells as a cage around his brother’s heart, no matter how light-headed he was from the abuse of magic. Albus wouldn’t die today, not like this, not because he had tried to save his own skin. Not that it mattered, not that anything mattered. 

   Albus was alive. For now. That was not accounting for how Aberforth would actually kill him for all of this.

Chapter Text

   Aberforth Dumbledore had been vaguely certain of the existence of the Deathly Hallows since he had been fifteen. 

   Yes, Albus and his utter lunatic of a chosen second pair-part had been, well, utterly lunatic. But not about this. Too much had hinged on this, he had come to see since. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that they were likely the most intelligent people around most of the time, if not always. Though they were formidably fucking daft on the emotional level, the intelligence they’d both had. And for not one, but two minds like that to recklessly obsess over a children’s fae-tale book, well, there had to be some truth to it. How the tosser had known it, Aberforth wasn’t sure, but he would’ve bet his left foot it had something to do with that Seer-streak he boasted with so much nowadays. Aberforth would’ve called that utter drivel if it hadn’t been for diaries of his great-great aunt Siobhan, who had been best buddies with, you guessed it, one Nathanael Grindelwald. Aberforth had almost burned the thing whole in consequence, but then again, that particular Grindelwald, he supposed, had actually been of use to the world in saving a whole city from extinction, if only the magical population. It figured. That family historically didn’t give a rat’s wet fart about Muggles. And it wasn’t as though they had been particularly covert about it either, not that he had remembered much of it the following twenty-five odd years or so. But it had taken Aberforth precisely a week before he had been pretty certain that that wand the likeness of that murderer Deverill carried at Hogwarts was in all likelihood the same as that which the bastard himself had been seen wielding, and if not that, that he always signed not only with the Hallows symbol, but smirked when he drew the line for the wand had all but hardened it in Aberforth’s perception - the bastard had found the Elder Wand somehow. 

   Which meant the Stone and Cloak had existed at some point as well. That he didn’t have them was clear as day – otherwise, he might’ve actually just come out and said it. Aberforth was sure as shite that Albus knew it as well, though there was plenty little he could do about it objectively, considering that daft enchantment of his. He didn’t have the guts to just take it and break it, if the bastard even took it to those romantic rendezvous where they were getting up to- Aberforth felt sick. Out of all rotten things in the world, that was perhaps the most pungently disgusting. 

   He didn’t have the Cloak, luckily. Aberforth was about ninety-nine percent sure he himself had held it, though, examining it from all sides before practically ordering the lad that had brought it to him to hide it in the depths of his closet and never unpack it again because somebody was searching for it, and wouldn’t hesitate at anything. Not that the bastard would have needed the cloak, really – he could sneak up on anyone regardless, or take any form. Not that any of it mattered, really, like the Cloak of Invisibility was going to have an impact on the war. 

   But having probably just seen the literal incarnation of Death linger past his brother’s bedside, it made a man think. 

   Albus’ chest – closed up and bandaged heavily despite the bones having somehow been put back into position though the curse damage prevented them from healing quickly and cleanly, and the replacement nurse had therefore forced what had looked like a half bottle of Skelegro into his comatose brother – was moving with somewhat of a regularity, and it was the middle of the night. But neither him nor the seven other people that had by now arrived had any intention of either going to sleep or leaving him unobserved. It was too big a crowd, but Albus had always attracted attention, even when he had been little. Always the special one. Dippet had let slip he would confound the two healers from St Mungo’s, they couldn’t afford news of Albus dying on them several times reach the world or else those fanatics or the bastard’s people would immediately take action. His brother was, strictly speaking, on house arrest, wasn’t every day that one was killed by apparating into a castle that should have been warded so much you couldn’t come in even as the person in charge, and had over forty bones broken by a nasty Cruciatus. It was Azkaban for Albus if that got out, and Dippet was luckily politically competent enough to have cursed the information already. 

   The only person remotely giddy was the replacement nurse, but then again, he’d saved a life that had seemed unsavable, that must’ve been a kick for a healer that didn’t typically do more than cure children’s flus and heal a broken leg here and there. That Runes professor Yaxley was doing double-duty, one arm wrapped around Professor Burke – one of the only remaining professors from Aberforth’s school times and also one of the only truly likeable ones who had never seen his brother in him, only a boy interested in Potions and Herbology – and one around the Malfoy lad, all three of them seeming absolutely miserable. For a second, that odd image festered in Aberforth’s brain – they were almost like a family, really, Yaxley the family father certainly being in his sixties if not further, with Professor Burke, the motherly type, he would’ve ventured to say eighties and looking great for it, and Malfoy their middle-aged son or son-in-law grieving over their son-in-law or son, depending on which way one spun it. Aberforth was surprised Bagshot hadn’t yet come storming in, she had always fancied herself as a benevolent, overly involved absentee aunt, always sticking her nose into the matters of others because her personal life clearly wasn’t intriguing enough as it was.

   He felt so clearly out of place – these people were colleagues, of course, but they had the air of a family as well. Of course, how would you work with someone for twenty years every single day from first light to last and beyond without attaching yourself? Besides, Albus had always made quick friends with everybody, indiscriminate of their potential and their possibly bad influence on him. Bit hypocritical, Aberforth conceded – his friends practically all lived far away so he could decide on his own wish and will when and if he met them. He liked his peace and quiet, emotionally, anyways. He spent all day talking to people, he might as well be in charge of how often he met his friends. How Albus could tolerate both and screaming children at the same time...? Mad lad, he’d always been. So he’d built himself a little family here – Aberforth couldn’t begrudge him for it. His interest in calling his brother in any way remotely his family had ceased when Albus had been made his direct superior by some stupid ancient law. Not that that had been his fault, that whole charade, but he might as well have acted like an adult, and not a love-driven Mooncalf. They were all so happy, his esteemed colleagues, falling into each other’s arms, and Aberforth was sitting there, observing it all. He just felt a sensation of utter dread. 

   Albus had died. 

   He’d come back to life, of course, drattedly beautiful phoenix, but he had died. Or his heart had stopped beating, however one spun it. That last minute, he would have, if not for Aberforth’s healing, he supposed. He felt a bit faint, still, but that replacement nurse had given him a Pepper-Up, which was working as intended, though Aberforth would have preferred a quadruple dose. It was at times like these when he formidably regretted sobriety. 

   But Albus had died, nevertheless. Aberforth knew it more than the others, because he had seen it. He honestly wasn’t sure whether he was more shaken by his brother’s demise or that thing coming to claim him, that it existed. Of course, people had claimed it. But Aberforth wasn’t people. Aberforth was a reasonable, disillusioned adult. He knew precisely what was real and what a fantasy. He didn’t even like metaphors particularly much, if one could just say the truth out loud. And that expected rage – that bastard had caused Albus’ death, of course he would have! – was staying tucked away elsewhere. It was all so surreal – like it was a story, and Aberforth was just reading it. Like someone else’s memory, experiencing it in a pensieve. He hadn’t ever thought about what would happen should anything happen to his brother – lest he actually manifest it into reality – but this, this wasn’t how he’d thought it would go. He believed Albus had referred to it as ‘shell-shock’, or something of that style. Of course, they weren’t the epitome of brotherhood. They hadn’t even been as children. They were different enough to suspect breaking of wedlock, not that wedlock was worth a damn, in Aberforth’s humble opinion. Then again, Albus and him looked exactly like their parents, just... in different ways. He had found it difficult to see himself in his son, or see Ophe in him, too – he just looked so different from both of them, but if a blood test had confirmed the entire thing...? Regardless, Aberforth didn’t quite know what to feel. Usually, he supposed humans would have felt angry, or relieved, or joyful, or hopeful, or frightened, or accomplished – he had just saved his brother’s life, and a lot of people gave a damn about his royal highness – or saddened, but Aberforth couldn’t really bring himself to feel any of them. 

   “Aberforth, could I have you for moment?” Dippet asked when the night had advanced rather far, he thought it five, or something similar. 

The Healers were confounded, Albus stable if comatose, his bones properly adjusted though the replacement nurse predicted he would struggle with both his magic and his hand movements for a while considering the damage he had taken. He had given an official diagnosis, too, to everybody who had wished to hear it. A fully-fledged out-of-control Cruciatus – just one curse-wound, so unless the bastard aimed like a right Robin Hood, he had done all that damage with one Torture Curse, which was just utterly ridiculous, but then again, he had the Elder Wand, and issues – had hit Albus in the hand, shattering his bones and travelling all the way through his right arm, cracking some of his ribs and being eventually forced out through the sheer power of Albus’ magical core, just an inch before it would have attacked the spine, lungs and heart. His skin was blackened and veiny, but that would heal in time. A few wet bandages soaking in Dittany and other substances, and he would be good as new externally in two, three weeks. The nerve damage and his body’s response to the curse were unpredictable, and the nurse didn’t want to venture a guess. Good on him – neutrality was better than hope or disappointment. As to the emotional damage – Albus had always been a fragile lad, so this would probably be an utter disaster. But it could give Aberforth an excuse to finally draw himself up before Nurmengard. He was still itching to, in all honesty. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t given ample warning before. 

“Yes, Headmaster,” Aberforth sighed – blimey, he needed something to eat, he was practically famished from all that healing. “What do you want?”

“I regret to ask under these circumstances, but are there any people you believe should be notified about Albus’ state? Close friends, family, etcetera?”

“Why don’t you ask Malfoy? He’s much more involved with my brother than I am.”

“You seem to be handling this a great deal better than he does. I think he blames himself for this incident,” Dippet lamented.

“And how’d that make sense?”

“It is rather quite obvious that dear Albus left the castle grounds this afternoon, or evening, this would not have happened here. Only, I did see and speak to Albus at dinner, only an hour before Quentin reported he apparated into his chambers, and I never did see them in the same place today. In fact, I did not see dear Quentin at any meals besides breakfast.”

“Polyjuice,” Aberforth groaned and shook his head. “Of course. He’s not been cleared from ministry suspicion and placed under house arrest for two weeks and he takes the whole day off to gallivant out of the castle,” to meet up with his barmy former lover-boy, “and of course his best friend would selflessly offer himself for a Polyjuice scheme, not the first time this past month Malfoy’s done it, huh? Merlin’s bollocks, I always knew I was the smarter of us two.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Who might have cursed him?”

“Oh, I have an idea alright,” Aberforth snorted derisively. “I would rather not share it before I make any wild speculations on the off-chance I’m utterly wrong.”

“Are my students at risk?”

“Oh, no. If anything, they’re safer now.”

Even if that glorified marriage bond my arsehole brother made didn’t STOP the bastard from torturing him, just the act itself should’ve gotten him good. Likely doesn’t punish him for the emergency apparition heart-splinching, so he’s likely not been at the edge of death, but he’ll likely not be functional to lead that hive of hypocritical clots of herpes. 

“And about that, you are certain?”

“You usually put so much stock in my brother’s words – would you not believe them coming from my mouth?”

“You must admit, you may be close kin on paper, but not in actuality.”

“I still know the shite better than most people. Doge, Flamel, maybe MacMillan but I wouldn’t say so. Same for Bridgesmith and the Lestranges. He likes the overseas contacts, but isn’t keen. Maybe the Salamanders, maybe that MACUSA lad, though, best not to involve anyone who works at the ministry, Doge is only a contractor, so he’d be fine, the elder Salamander not so much, definitely not the MACUSA lad, he’s just been here, too. We don’t have any family left, we’re all we’ve got nowadays, so nothing to see there. Any other questions?”

“Elphias, and Nicolas.”

“Well, Bagshot’s already here, Malfoy is, so are Yaxley and Professor Burke, and, well, I’ve been called up too. The fewer, the better. Best if nobody really knows my brother’s gotten himself Crucio’d so all-encompassingly he broke dozens of bones, there’s only a select few who’re capable of that kind of destruction, and I’d rather not see a discussion who out of the cesspool of degenerates it actually was.”

If Dippet was put off by his way of speaking or stating the facts, so nonchalant and neutral, he didn’t let it show, instead stroked over his robes, what a hideous sight. Aberforth hadn’t noticed it before, but that man fancied himself worse than Albus! With him, you could already believe he was a bastard hybrid of a peacock and a parrot – pearot? Parcock? Neither worked in Aberforth’s mind, though, anything involving the word cock suited his brother alright – but Dippet? He was a whole new species of awful. 

“Another question poses itself to me, in your brother’s continued absence. You recognised the Cruciatus Curse instantly, and likely often have albeit involuntary dealings with darker magic.”

“Suppose so.”

“And you are quite capable as a wizard, I remember it from teaching you.”

“I suppose I am not as incapable as people claim I am in comparison to my hero of a brother.”

“Fabulous. You are hereby hired!”

“Hired?” Aberforth gawked, for the first time that entire shit day a little bit frightened. “For what, exactly?”

“For the post of temporary substitute Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, of course!”

   Yes, Aberforth was going to kill his older brother if – when – he woke up. 

   He had to admit – his brother’s classroom design was comfortable, though perhaps a bit too flooded with light. The ceanothus bushes were a welcome contrast to the pansy hydrangeas from beforehand, and smelled a decent bit better too. It reminded Aberforth a little of Professor Selwyn’s classroom, though he really had loved his gold-ornamented windows a little too much. With any luck, the tables remained the same, and he would find the little chessboard Ophe and him had used to play on quietly in theoretical lessons. Best not to think about Ophe now. He had bid his farewells naturally now thirty years ago or so, when they had last seen each other, though she had probably seen hell for just sneaking out. He should’ve known that something had happened. Well, he had, but he hadn’t expected a babe. Merlin’s bollocks, he’d been fifteen, the first thought had never been a babe. He’d practically still been one himself. He’d thought maybe Ophe’s family had some other blood-purity duties to fulfil elsewhere. That they’d found a marriage-match for her across the sea with some other Gaunts and she hadn’t wanted to hurt him, something of that sort. When she’d never returned, had never written any letters, well, Aberforth had drawn his conclusions already. Not much he could’ve done about it, though, he wished now that he had. He wouldn’t’ve made a passable father at sixteen, but still better than that adoptive mother little Aurelius had been given to, by Albus’ reports. He had a son, he needed to remind himself of it every now and again, and sometimes, it was the only thing on his mind. He didn’t want to imagine how much more complicated everything would now be, though he couldn’t bring himself to blame it on his brother – Albus probably hadn’t chosen to end up on the wrong end of a Cruciatus. 

   Well, if Aberforth wanted so badly to be a father, it was probably a good exercise to somehow deal with pubescent youths, as were currently streaming into the classroom and then stopping dead in their tracks at the sight of him, before hurriedly mumbling to each other as they found their seats. If he didn’t owe Dippet that blasted favour for the moonshine incident of 1922, he’d never even have considered doing something this hare-brained. The only thing he was decent at with kids these days was staying out of their way. 

“Hey, aren’t you that tavern-owner in Hogsmeade?” one of the more gabby types asked soon. Aberforth had to admit, he had a big mouth for a Ravenclaw.

“The name’s Dumbledore. Aberforth Dumbledore. And it’s an inn, or a pub. You’d know, considering how much illegal Firewhiskey you’ve purchased off my person over the years, the lot of you.”

That seemed to have been an adequate opening line, for the chuckles in the room were genuine and not truly embarrassed or anything of the sort. It was much harder for Aberforth to read the mood of an entire room like his brother could so well, whereas his brother was hilariously inept at reading people in a one-on-one.

“Where’s Professor Dumbledore?” was the next question, though relaxed enough. Not that Aberforth had ever been someone that demanded respect just by the sheer circumstance of his existence. That was his brother’s spiel. 

“My darling brother has gotten himself in with the wrong company, food-wise, and is indisposed until further notice. I am substituting for him this one time, so don’t expect to see my face around here any other time this week, I’m not keen on teaching idiot children.”

“Oi, we aren’t idiots!”

“And we ain’t children either!”

“Prove it,” Aberforth snorted provocatively. “Right now, you’re just a bunch of youths with big mouths and nothing to back it up with.”

“Professor Dumbledore can vouch for us! He says we are-“

“‘A comparably entertaining mixture of adulthood and foolishness of youth,’” a young woman with black curls inserted herself. Aberforth knew her already, or at least her face – the Malfoy lad had worn it a few weeks back when he had gone to the Flamels to check up on Albus. “That hardly speaks in our favour. You do all realise that was his polite English way of telling us we’re acting like a bunch of idiots most of the time and he greatly enjoys watching us fail?”

Aberforth couldn’t forebear a little snicker. Astute observation. Maybe she was the ‘adulthood’ Albus had spoken about. Now that he thought about it, he recognised her from a Prophet cover last year, one of the folks going to Paris with Albus. Granted, spending that much time with him extracurricularly, she’d probably have a better grip on his personality. And was clearly already deeply intertwined with his brother’s flavour of espionage. Still, nobody could know she – or Malfoy wearing her skirt, what a sight – had been at the inn recently.

“And you are...?”

“Thakur, Sir,” it came back quick as a whip. Sharp, too, the woman. Small wonder Albus was recruiting her, no matter how consciously he was actually doing it. 

“Right. Well, you seem like you’ve got my brother figured out. He definitely is the ‘polite English way’.”

“And you are...?” the gabby lad from beforehand questioned – they definitely didn’t fear him, either. Good. Aberforth had never wanted to be feared, or admired. 

“Your name, considering I’m gonna be having conversations with you a lot?”

“Lovelace, Sir.”

Wasn’t he also one of Albus’ little projects? One could have thought he would have minded his tongue more. Then again, his brother had gone from stuck-up rule-follower to whimsical jester. Whilst that was a little bit more endurable, Aberforth also couldn’t help but theorise it came directly from Blondie with love, and that was always a mildly sickening thought.

“Great. Why are you questioning me?”

“I just thought. If you’re saying it like that, you must be not the ‘polite English way’, or do I have that mixed up?”

“I am, indeed, not.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m the polite Irish way.”

“And that means?”

“That I could and would destroy each and every one of you in a minute of flyting at maximum,” Aberforth snorted nonchalantly. “I’ve got the temperament for it from me nan, my brother got the irenic streak from our gaffer. So no, I will in no way be like my brother, if that is what you are expecting. I won’t hesitate to tell you that you are utterly wrong about something. Or that you quite frankly have no knowledge and no experience. You don’t, at school, you know nothing. Tell me, how do you tell if somebody’s been Imperio’d?”

“They act out of character,” a young man said after Aberforth barely inclined his head. “Do things they’re not ‘sposed to. Look a bit blank, overall, I don’t know whether that’s always the case but we all looked blank in the face, not pale, just blank, when the Professor did it.”

Granted, Aberforth hadn’t really considered that Albus had been practicing on them over months, by the decree of that odd law from a few years back. Aberforth supposed it was alright, teaching the students to be prepared, to shake the curse off, especially considering the bastard’s fanatics were practicing it like it was a Disarming Charm, just taken to extreme. Was good that the lads and lasses nowadays were prepared for that coming for them at the most inopportune moments. But he really didn’t want to be the poor sod who had to cast a hundred Imperiuses in a day, not with his brother’s tendency to light magic, anyways. That must’ve screwed up everything from his mind to his actual digestive system. That third point, facial blankness, was one he’d have recommended as well. 

“Hm. You wanna know an easier way?”

“There’s an easier way?”

“Make them lie.”

“What?”

“Make ‘em tell you a lie, or something embarrassing. If someone’s been cursed, they’ll tell it straight. The Imperius reaches into a person and makes them do whatever the caster wants, it turns off all shame, all embarrassment, all logic within if either the caster’s too strong, or you’re too weak. If you know something about ‘em that they usually wouldn’t want to tell, and their lie is so convincing it might as well be truth, well, then you’ve got a further indicator.”

“And how can you tell someone’s lying?”

“Oh, it’s like starting at the basics with you, innit? Thought my brother would’ve had that part covered by now. Then again, he can’t lie to save his arse, he’s never been able to. Eyes, lips, eyebrows, forehead, head tilt, nose, cheeks, vein at the neck, hand movement, shuffling, change of typical behaviourisms, unusual body position, voice pitch, imperfections or perfections. Deviations from normal behaviours, their absence, their extremes. Ask me three basic questions.”

“Any questions?”

“Yes, any simple questions. Nothing that requires more than three words as an answer.”

“What’s your name?”

“Good shot,” he snickered. “Aberforth Magnus Broderick Liam Dumbledore. Not technically one I could answer in three words or less, but you couldn’t know that.”

“You got that many as well?”

“What, did you think Albus could hog Albus Percival Wulfric Brian and I’d just get Aberforth? Nah, our parents weren’t that petty, to either of us. All or nothing. And before you ask, no, I don’t know how either of us ended up with the combination. Albus for our dad, me for some famous ancestor, but the rest you know as much about as I.”

“You got the better end of the Wulfric-deal though,” another student commented rather quietly, but it did make a tiny grin sneak to Aberforth’s face. 

“True. Questions?”

“Age?”

“Forty-four.”

“Gender?”

“Male. Or man.”

“Occupation?”

“Innkeeper, bartender.”

“Favourite magical creature?”

“Phoenixes. Now ask me a question so utterly inappropriate it must force me to lie.”

“When did you first fuck someone?”

Oh, they had gall. Aberforth almost couldn’t believe they were remotely well-behaved around Albus. They clearly were enjoying their liberties and aware of their social surroundings. To some, it had probably even occurred that he didn’t have the administrative power to take House Points, though that would’ve been a joy. Professor Aberforth Dumbledore taking points from Gryffindor, Albus would've had kittens. 

“Eighteen,” Aberforth answered smoothly. “Now, was that the truth or a lie?”

“Lie,” Thakur stated with such self-evidence that she must’ve understood the exercise.

“And why?”

“Your eyebrow twitched.”

“Could’ve been the question.”

“Or not.”

“Solution?”

“Other question. Do you hate your brother?”

“Sometimes.”

“That was the truth.”

“Yes, it was. I can’t imagine anyone liking my brother on all occasions. Why was that the truth?”

“Because you didn’t control your face. It was much more expressive.”

Aberforth nodded and leaned to the desk behind him. 

“Now, this one you’ve got to watch out for, can’t lie to her. And I’m a fair liar, actually. Take a lesson on quick-wittedness and perceptiveness from Thakur. And no, I won’t tell you the truth. I think we’ve addled enough. Tables out of the way, wands out. I want to see fighting. Build teams, pairs, threes, fours, fives, whatever you want. Draw a proper shield around your duelling ground. Play dirty. The opponent is going to play dirtier. What are some of the most important rules of duelling?”

They thought for a second before a few hands shot up. A bloke by the name of Murphy got lucky.

“Eyes in the back of the head, and expecting the unexpected.”

“Did your textbook teach yah that?”

“No, the Head of MACUSA’s Law Enforcement did.”

Well, it wasn’t bad advice, even though Aberforth wasn’t so keen on his face. Had almost given him a bloody heart arrest in Hogsmeade the other month, the man, could’ve been the bastard as well. He’d associated that face with the bastard, to think Albus’ friend was back in control was disquieting. 

“Well, I suppose that lad’s got a bit of experience with the lack of spatial awareness considering who got the jump on him and how easy it was. Do I have to repeat myself, build groups, shield charms, anything goes that’s legal and non-lethal, or only causes mild injuries. No breaking of school rules or you’ll be before the Headmaster before you can think to pocket your wand.”

   Aberforth was doing utterly poorly with the second-years. The seventh-years, they had been obnoxious, eager to question any and every authority and decision, but at least they’d been attentive. Well, Aberforth supposed the personalities in the class, no obvious suck-up, and them all a bit quicker of wit but not necessarily overly smart resonated with him more than the utterly bouncy second-years that were so excited to have another professor, they were like a bloody murder of crows in a Gringotts vault! 

   Aberforth’s teaching career was exactly three hours old when he was ready to throw in the towel. The only positive about any of it was that he was distracted from the fact that Albus was still lying there in the hospital wing on death’s door and Aberforth was stuck doing shit about it. Dippet was probably gathering all of Albus’ more trustworthy confidants. Doge, that man practically licked Albus’ shoes and thought far too much of himself in terms of how important he actually was to Albus, some early-earned loyalty that maybe not even a curse could reverse. Flamel, whom Albus hadn’t been able to shut up about since 1898, except only ever so recently, which would have given away to any with a moderately functional brain just how important that replacement set of parents really was to his brother. Possibly that Scamander fellow, whatever his name was, had purchased some dragon eggs in the pub once with the intention to release them into the wild, that kind of vigilantism that Albus would have fallen hook, line and sinker for had that lad not been his student once and perhaps a bit young. 

   If Aberforth thought the second-years were bad, the fourth-years were just a Confringo to the face. He almost envied his brother’s comatose state when he built himself up before them and quietly endured the fact that about seventy percent of them thought him exactly what he presented himself to be – an impolite, gruff, tipsy pub-owner. It probably didn’t help that he couldn’t ever get that alcoholic smell off his person, not even with charms and perfumes, and he wasn’t even a drinker, quite the opposite, he was twenty-seven blasted years sober! He had a glass of Butterbeer a year when returning from Ariana’s grave on her anniversary, toasting to her and smiling to himself when her portrait would gift him a rare smile, and that was it! He hadn’t had a glass of Firewhiskey or anything remotely related in two decades, give or take, besides that once in Albus' office, and after Albus had told him he had actually fathered a son. That wretched pub smell simply followed him wherever he went. Oh, and blame his brother for having the foresight to die on him when he had been in normal clothes, not donning over-the-top colourful or elegant robes. Blame his brother even more for looking perhaps a bit more distinguishedly handsome, which was seemingly all the fourth years could care about. Their opinions were made before they even sat, and Aberforth had no love or perseverance left to convince them otherwise. It wasn’t unusual that he went a night without sleep, but it wasn’t every day that his brother died and he had to resurrect him. If anyone had told him yesterday he’d have his brother die to the bastard’s Cruciatus and he’d be teaching fourth-years as a substitute for his brother, he’d had stayed away from that Blasting Curse he must’ve taken to the head to imagine something that barmy. And that giggling, too, as though they were covert! As though he couldn’t hear them! Did they behave like that around Albus too? How could he stand it?! Aberforth was almost about to obtain some new admiration for his older brother’s nerves. Had his son ever been like this? Not bloody likely, growing up under the watchful eyes of a religious extremist. Had he ever been like that, giddy and ready to have crushes? And how would Aberforth have dealt with that? 

   Being asked by that right cunt Dippet two hours before the first class whether he’d substitute for his professor brother, him, the inn-keeper, well, Aberforth hadn’t even had time to have ideas what to do with his classes. He had no idea about students, progress, troublemakers, and wasn’t in the mood to raid Albus’ adjacent office just to find something. Considering just the taste of the magic close to the office door, he’d hooked up some sort of blood wards around the whole complex since Aberforth had last been there, likely a knee-jerk reaction after the ministry raids of late. 

   Fourth year... what had they done in fourth year? Was a bit hard now, after three dozen years or a mite bit less, he supposed, to recall to mind what he had actually been taught. Fourth and fifth came to him more than the others, considering Ophe and him had been in the same class, Gryffindor-Slytherin DADA. What a joke, what a nightmare, usually. Selwyn had taken great enjoyment from pairing them up as such as well, telling them to use their mutual disagreement to fight better. Aberforth supposed the man himself would have liked an easier bunch to teach as well, but between him – who had known every answer but who had wanted to foster a certain image of his person that was not just like his older brother – the mini-Black – who had had a crush on Selwyn so obvious Aberforth retrospectively regretted not having introduced him to Albus, whose affection had been similarly unveiled, with the intention, of course, not to have Albus fall head-first for the first foreign pretty boy coming to town because he couldn’t have his Defence professor – Ophe’s nutcase of an aunt Tyrania Gaunt – who, he supposed, couldn’t entirely be blamed for her nutcaseiness considering her parents had been cousins, and she set to wed her older brother, but who had gotten herself expelled on the account of her utter incompetence and madness after repeating fourth year thrice, the only reason Aberforth had ever been in one year with her to begin with – and that vile, arrogant priss of a Greengrass that now had seven children and pretended to be a Lestrange by blood –Aberforth didn’t know how Albus could stand her company without seriously contemplating manslaughter as an option – Selwyn must’ve had a hard time getting himself up for work knowing they would be one of his classes. Now standing before the combined force of hormonally-crazed fourth-years, Aberforth thoroughly pitied the man. 

   He let them write an essay on Trolls, and told them it was way beyond their level, so if anyone seriously didn’t get it done right, they would be getting a Troll-grade as a reward. He had no ambition to read those things, let Albus deal with it, or somebody with more patience. When he noticed they were all giggling and doing anything but focussing, he snorted, shot a few well-placed Silencing Charms and erected a barrier between each person so that they couldn’t talk to each other. Wouldn’t stop them from passing on notes, but it would save his own sanity to a certain degree. 

   The sixth-years were actually somewhat endurable, but only because they seemed like a quiet, studious bunch. He simply let them study with their books and catch up on old homework, being on standby for a few questions. They were clearly intimidated, and exhausted from deadlines and assignments, glad for a fixed time to actually be forced to do things instead of procrastinating out of overwhelm. Aberforth had never even seen a sixth-year Defence classroom from the inside, so he doubted he had the necessary qualification, even with his decent OWLs. Better still than the bastard, but then again, he would’ve had a dozen straight Os just like Albus if he’d actually been interested in scholarly achievements. When the large school gong freed him from the agonising afternoon, he almost couldn’t quite believe it.

Him, Aberforth Dumbledore, having somehow survived an entire day as a Hogwarts professor. That he’d see the day. Mum would’ve been proud, he supposed. Though, she would’ve been too stubborn to be, she’d always been. What a fucking fever dream all of this was, really. At least no hurried Patronus had come again – which consequentially meant that Albus had neither woken up nor had another appointment with Death itself. 

   Fabulous – he was already looking forward to Albus berating him for not teaching like he would have.

Chapter Text

   Lisky was going to kill Sir. 

   Lisky really was, this time. Lisky had thought it many times beforehand, but this time, it might actually come to pass, she thought as she fixed her furious eyes on Føjan whilst simultaneously still keeping the fire under the ridiculously over-sized cauldron - filled to the top with potatoes dancing in the water - at a medium-level heat.

“What did Sir say, exactly?”

“‘Tell my Elves I’m in the cottage,’” Føjan squeaked, grabbing onto his run-down pillow-case coverings. It was ridiculous, Lisky thought, that other House Elves wore discarded household items instead of having proper clothes, like Sir charmed them. That Lisky and Bisky and Misky too had once preferred to do this, before Sir had enlightened Lisky, Bisky and Misky. “‘And they are very welcome to visit me waving a frying pan if they have an issue with me stealing their biscuits with the full intent of replacing them in due time.’ That is what Master- Mister Grindelwald says to Føjan. Mister Grindelwald looks different when he comes, too, with brown head-hair and eyes and much taller, but Føjan still knows it is Mister Grindelwald because of his magic.”

Lisky had never understood how witches and wizards were so easily fooled by appearances.

No witch or wizard recognised Sir when he was wearing one of the other skins Misky had developed with Sir, but it was so easy! Sir’s magic looked almost exactly the same, whether Sir was wearing a suit or a dress or a night-gown, and whether Sir had used magic on himself or whether he had drunk a potion to make himself different. Sir was Sir, no matter whether he was stout and strongly built, or whether he was so tall Lisky didn’t even reach to Sir’s hipbones like usually, or was masquerading his hurts, or had thick, dark-brown hair, or was rounder around the chest, or wearing the bodies of Mrs Carrow or Frau Dahlheim or Herr Pichler, or had curly black hair, or freckles, or a little belly, or whether Sir had charmed his hair chest-long and green. Lisky liked remembering Sir like that, young and carefree, fifteen years ago and desperately trying to prove to Lisky, Bisky and Misky that they didn’t need to fear Sir, even if Lisky, Bisky and Misky utterly destroyed Sir at Schaffkopf. Really, for Sir having taught Lisky, Bisky and Misky the card game, Sir really had no business being so bad at it! Lisky, Misky and Bisky had had Elven Wine, and Sir his beloved nature-spirits, and emboldened by winning three rounds in a row and several glasses, Lisky had challenged Sir to grow his hair out and turn it green. Lisky would never forget that dangerous but acquiescent shimmering in Sir’s then-still-healthy eyes, and how he had grown out his hair without even raising his wand – Sir was very powerful indeed – and how Bisky had held it the next morning when Sir had been utterly sick. Lisky just remembered the warmth of the evening, and how happy she had been to make Sir feel less lonely.

Sir was lonely a lot, so much Lisky thought Sir maybe didn’t even realise it because it was so normal for him. Sir was so stressed these days, he never had any time for himself anymore. Lisky missed those times, when it had been just the four of them, and maybe some others already moving in. When mornings had been quiet breakfasts for ten, and those flabbergasted expressions on the new witches and wizards when seeing Lisky read a book to her sisters.  

Regardless, Lisky put her hands into her sides provocatively. Føjan was still very young, but Føjan needed to master the future and past tenses one of these days! It had annoyed Sir so much when Lisky, Bisky and Misky had been younger that Sir too had spoken in the wrong tense sometimes, and Lisky, Bisky and Misky had put in an extra effort into understanding and replicating his words. 

“And Sir thinks he can get away with an excuse like that?”

“What- what does Lisky mean?”

“Sir cannot simply steal Lisky, Bisky and Misky’s Keksdose, those are our biscuits, we made them, if Sir wants biscuits, Sir either has to ask, or make them himself,” Lisky stated fiercely, deciding to let the fire burn on its own before she made the water boil over in her anger. Bisky joked that Lisky had a temperament much like Sir, which was why Sir loved Lisky most. That was ridiculous, of course – Sir loved them all equally, and if anyone more, it was Misky. Sir had been much more worried about Misky when she had been hurt than Sir had been about Lisky six years ago when she had contracted that terrible cold. And besides, Bisky was the temperamental one, she was clearly projecting. “And what does Sir think coming in here telling Føjan this?”

“What does that word mean?”

“Which word?” Lisky asked irately. 

“What Mr Grindelwald steals.”

“Stole, Føjan,” Lisky groaned. “A Keksdose. Lisky, Bisky and Misky's Keksdose. It means biscuit tin.”

“But aren’t those synonyms?”

“Sir is clever,” Lisky barked back.

Similarly to how Lisky and her sisters knew numerous terms of address to accommodate the different cultures brought to Nurmengard, they also knew some synonyms even though it was very hard to learn them. Sir had done something to Lisky’s and Bisky’s and Misky’s brains so that those words were now saved as proper names and not as words anymore, since House Elves could memorise as many names as wizards and witches. Lisky would have liked to speak German like Sir so Lisky could understand Sir and didn’t have to guess when he spoke from his mannerisms and tonality, but even though he had taught Lisky a few words, it was not enough. Sir had taught Lisky, Bisky and Misky in English because Sir had always dreamed big, to have a castle full of friends from all different places in the world. Sir had said Lisky and her sisters couldn’t learn more than one language because of their kind’s brain hurt from history, because other wizards and witches hundreds of years ago had made it so. Lisky hated those wizards and witches – Lisky would have loved for herself and Bisky and Misky to learn German secretly to surprise Sir for Yule or his naming day, though Lisky did not know when Sir had been named. Sir had named Lisky, Misky and Bisky on the same day, the thirtieth of April, or, in the House Elf calendar, the sixty-first of Spring. With wizards and witches, it was often close to their day of birth, so Lisky supposed it was in January, or Winter, sometime. That was usually the time when Sir self-referred as one year older. Lisky didn’t know when she had been born, and where, so she hadn’t asked Sir, because Lisky knew Sir didn’t care for maturing more. 

“Sir did many things for us that make Lisky, Bisky and Misky more capable than other House Elves. Føjan will handle the food-making now. Føjan needs to levitate the potatoes out and into the casseroles in the cabinet above. Then bring them to the vanishing point, make sure they are on the heating charm, all of them – and don’t burn yourself.”

With these words, Lisky turned on her heels, straightened her emerald-green shirt, and walked to a place in the kitchens from which she could safely apparate. Sir wanted Lisky to come waving a frying pan? Lisky would give Sir just that!

   Lisky knew something was wrong the second she apparated into the softly-shielded cottage. Sir had always been very good at shielding and hiding things, much better than most wizards and witches. They always made their spells too strong and upsetting, but Sir knew exactly how to make a shield that wouldn’t ever make Lisky dizzy. But this shield could not distract Lisky’s feeling for magic as she opened the door of the guest bedroom – there had been dark magic cast here, and very recently. Lisky did not find dark magic upsetting, but she had a strong sense for the kind, and that it had been of the three spells wizards and witches called unforgivable was evident as well. In theory, there were seven spells of that kind, seven spells that left the same residue in the air, but wizards and witches had not yet discovered the other four, and House Elves had, for generations, kept the existence of them a secret even from their masters and mistresses. Most wizards and witches, even Sir, were cruel enough, they did not need more spells to hurt others. And half of the spells were Goblin magic, so the words could easily backfire. It was too dangerous. Lisky did not like having secrets from Sir, who had always been interested in Lisky, Bisky and Misky's magic and seeing them as equal to Sir, but these Lisky needed to keep. Sir had once said that he could sense such traces with his own magical perception, but that most others of his kind could not. Sir was very special, Lisky thought, as she advanced through the room to where the air had turned strange. What Sir perceived as a feeling, Lisky and her sister could see in faint colourations, and despite the cottage lying peacefully and quietly, with the electric lamp burning artificially, a cloud of thrashing, swirling burgundies and indigos hung by the sofa.

   Dark magic in the vicinity of Sir was not concerning – most of the time, he looked lightly red or blue, as a shimmer at his edges. Sir cast a lot of dark magic, though Lisky thought that was perhaps a bit of a misnomer – not all magic was dark. House Elves had used to have a name for it, but it was forgotten to time. The only difference between what wizardkind called light and dark magic was simply the place of origin, and the social acceptance. It was easier to call them feeling-magic and health-magic to Lisky, overall – light magic drew on sentiments and made spells with that as an amplifier, and health-magic took the health of the caster or the health of somebody else and converted that into additional magical power. Many spells were neutral, and some isolated ones were both. Sir had found these observations interesting, and had theorised that the Unforgivables were actually a combination of both health- and feeling-magic, as they took a certain toll on the caster, but could only be cast if there was something Sir called agency, which Lisky understood as willingness. 

   So to overall feel the feeling of this mixture-magic lying on even as much as Lisky’s tongue was not something she was unused to – Sir’s office oftentimes tasted like it, though not as much recently. Sir had definitely used to cast the spells more often, and Lisky was very glad that Sir had slowed down a little bit and let others now do it for him, it injured him too much. But there was another thing that alerted Lisky far more than the magic. 

“S-sir?” Lisky asked quietly, carefully, knowing that Sir did not like to be disturbed right after casting such curses.

In a way, Lisky and her sisters were bound to Sir, and therefore noticed when his health declined, it was a safety measure he had installed after he had been so brave with one of his visions. Elves would never have touched time magic, they had in the past, and that was precisely the reason they had ended up like this, Sir said. So powerless and servicing the wrong people. Sir didn’t choose to do time magic, either, and it showed on him how hurtful it could be. After Sir’s big vision that had taken his eye’s light away, he had bound himself and Lisky, Bisky and Misky together so they would always know, at least if Sir was grievously injured. Not for stubbing a toe, or a light headache, but the more life-threatening versions, into some variations of which Sir always managed to get himself despite better judgement. A few weeks ago, Lisky, Bisky and Misky had known that something had happened long before Sir had been brought back home with all that dark magic coursing through him. Sir always got himself into so much danger, Lisky and her sisters appreciated now knowing when Sir was hurt, even though it only alerted Lisky, Bisky and Misky for the scariest things. Lisky knew by that painful tugging in her hands that Sir was hurt. And that Sir was near, too. And hurt badly. 

   “Sir?” Lisky asked again, voice now shaking. 

Indigo was what Lisky associated with the first of the unforgivable spells, the one that wizards and witches used to curse and hurt others, and burgundy was for magic of wizarding blood. Sir’s aura was often entirely burgundy, he put himself into so much danger most of the time! Sir could just use someone else’s blood, but no, Sir always had to get himself in trouble. Had- had someone hurt Sir? When? Why hadn’t Lisky felt it at Nurmengard? How could somebody have come into the cottage? Sir only allowed Miss Queenie and Mister Aurelius in, and Madame Rosier too, sometimes. Nobody else even knew Sir had this cottage, it was his private home when he needed to be alone, and-

   “SIR!” Lisky squeaked when she saw Sir. 

No, no, Sir couldn’t be...! Sir had just told Føjan that Sir had stolen the Keksdose! It was standing there, on the table, opened, with two cups of tea and- 

This couldn’t be real!

“No... no, Sir! Sir!” 

The indigo and burgundy were swirling so strongly around Sir Lisky could hardly make out Sir’s shape, but he looked pale, like a light waning, flickering out of existence. The cloud was thrashing, back and forth like an angry spirit, like Lisky imagined Mister Aurelius’ spirit did when he was in his other form. Lisky had only seen it in a news-parchment before, though. Sir was in that cloud! All that magic was converging on Sir, coming out of his body!

“Sir!” Lisky pleaded before she dove into the cloud.

It was hard to see inside, the magic was suffocating, but Lisky didn’t care. Sir was- 

Sir wasn’t wearing a transfiguration anymore, and Sir’s eyes were empty. So empty and soulless! Just staring upwards at the ceiling, arrested in place. Sir didn’t blink. Sir’s face was white like flour and- 

There was blood. Too much blood even for Sir's experiments!

There was magic! Still active magic! Magic was attacking Sir right now! 

Lisky thoughtlessly cast a charm to arrest the magic, to stop whatever curse had been put on Sir, but it didn’t work. It continued moving. Lisky could feel it, how it walked over Sir’s entire body, moving just as restlessly as the magical cloud above. 

Lisky put her hands on Sir’s arm, knees hitting the bloodied floor, and Lisky felt something slither underneath the shirt sleeve. 

Magic! Another magic parasite?! Was there still more of it left? But why did the air look like Sir had been hurt? Like somebody had cast the spell to hurt him? That didn’t make sense! This didn’t make sense! Lisky’s heart began to thump loudly. And why blood magic, too? 

Lisky tore away the fabric, and made it vanish on the spot. 

By the Elder Elves! 

Sir’s skin didn’t look human! It was charred, blistering rapidly, bleeding from cracks and crevices and as though a thin net of cobwebs had been woven over Sir’s skin, veins of indigo and red of blood creeping all over his arm, what- what had Sir- what had-

A blood malediction? Sir had explained them to Lisky once. Had somebody taken Sir’s blood and had cast an unforgivable curse on it? Was that even possible? Sir was very good at the unforgivable magics even though that frightened Lisky, to think that Sir sometimes used the curse for killing, that he would hurt his soul in such a way. For wizards and witches, the soul was the most important part of the body, and without it, no-one could live. For House Elves, Lisky didn’t know – it had used to be the heart, but now, after centuries of what Sir called slavery, Lisky didn’t know what the most important part of her was. 

Lisky’s fingers curled around Sir’s wrist, and Lisky waited several heartbeats of her own before she could feel a movement underneath Sir’s skin. A heartbeat?! Or it could be- 

Lisky wasn’t sure whether it was the parasite magic or Sir’s pulse, so Lisky reached over Sir's body to his other arm, gingerly took the other wrist into Lisky's hand. The bone was broken. The arm didn’t respond like a usual arm would have.

Sir- Sir’s arm was broken, too? Had the parasite broken it?

Sir’s leg had been broken recently when the parasite had hurt him, was this still that? Had it moulded and coalesced even further? Sir had told Misky Sir had been in a bounty of earth, whatever that meant, so maybe he was still suffering the consequences of that bounty? Why- but why all the different magics, it didn’t make sense! And- And Sir’s wrist- 

With a little squeal, Lisky let go of the still wrist and searched for Sir’s throat, veins of different colours creeping in like branching, sprawling trees- if they reached Sir’s face- Sir’s brain- Sir would never forgive Lisky and Sir himself! Lisky cast a powerful charm over Sir’s head to protect him, and could see the magic stop spreading, at least, before Lisky scrambled to find Sir’s pulse-

It was there!

Sir lived! 

Sir lived!

Sir’s magic pulsed, that Lisky knew, but magic of powerful wizards sometimes pulsed still after death. Sir lived! By the Elder Elves, Sir lived! 

But Sir was weak. Sir’s magic was very weak, Sir felt so small without it! Why was there magic moving under his skin, all over Sir?! It didn’t make sense!

“Sir!” Lisky called again, but Sir didn’t respond. Sir seemed catatonic. Lisky slipped on the blood when she leaned forward. “Sir, Sir, please wake up, Lisky is worried!” 

Lisky shook Sir, but the touch of Sir’s injury was almost too nauseating to maintain for more than three seconds. Lisky’s hands hurt afterwards, and she protectively clutched her arms around her frame, tears brimming in her eyes. Sir was so strong...! Sir was always so strong, he would one day rule the world and he never slept enough and never ate enough and never thought about himself enough and never did enough for his own person – and Lisky would know, now that she was an illuminated Elf, how important it was to sometimes read a book because she wanted to – but Sir always survived, Sir suffered the visions and all of his other injuries and had seen so many horrible things and was doing so many bad things too, but never had Lisky seen Sir like- 

Not even after the vision, Sir's arm was broken, he was drowning in the magic, it was eating Sir-

“Sir...” Lisky sniffed, trying to keep herself contained. “Sir, please, please, Lisky and Bisky and Misky need y-you! Sir, please wake up! Please tell Lisky what she can to do help Sir! Lisky doesn’t know what happened!”

Sir looked so fragile... Of course Sir hadn’t been taking good care of himself after the terrible time in prison where nobody had given Sir food or drink, Misky had fainted when seeing Sir in his true form afterwards, with all the ribs showing and his legs so thin, but Sir had never looked this worn-out. How could this be possible?! Sir had once told Lisky very quietly, and drunkenly, that Sir had made an error with magic of blood once and that it now sometimes hurt him when he had false thoughts, but- 

There was so much blood-

And there were bones coming out of Sir’s arm, Lisky saw now when she looked more closely past the streaming blood and the blisters, that some of it was not putrefication but actual bones and-

The cloud- the cloud suffocated Lisky, and, desperate for breath, she shuffled back against the table, knocking one of the teacups over. Lisky could hear the tea-drops falling to the floor slowly, like time was nearly frozen. Lisky held her hand out protectively, trying to end the magic on Sir, but nothing changed. Why wouldn’t the magic stop?! Why did it act as though Sir was still under attack, but there was nobody there! Was there somebody here?!

Lisky firmly closed her eyes for just a few moments before snapping them open, ready to perceive any given magic across the room, a mixture of shades and consistencies considering it was a wizarding home, but there was another presence on the sofa. Like another magical person other than Sir had sat there. There were two teacups, too-

   Somebody had done this to Sir!

 “Sir, please, wake up! Lisky doesn’t know anything about this magic and Sir didn’t want Lisky and Bisky and Misky to get Mr Belenus last time and Sir was really mad and if Lisky and Bisky-“

The puddle of blood grew out of the cloud. Little liquid shapes stretching, as though something was alive in them. Sir- The cloud was angrier now, thrashing about, and Lisky was afraid, she could feel her little heart skipping beats irregularly, like she didn't get enough air. Lisky shuffled back further, cold tea dropping to her fingers as she clutched the leg of the little coffee table. The cloud began moving even more uncontrolledly, the indigos taking an upper hand and exploding like little fire-works that Sir sometimes set off over Nurmengard when there was something to celebrate, or like this shielding spell Sir kept malpracticing on purpose just to trap other people when he duelled. Then it was the burgundies, like blood splatter exploding over the indigos, a beautifully terrifying spectacle, that was what Sir would have said...

Wouldn’t he?

The cloud spread, and Lisky let out a small noise of protest before trying to contain it. It was gnawing at the table. At the sofa. It was spreading. Sir- Sir was still inside of the cloud, whether he was producing it or whether it was befalling him, Lisky couldn’t tell, but she couldn’t do this on her own, she wasn’t strong enough to save Sir all by-

Lisky waved into existence a copy of herself made of silvery mist. It was just like a wizard’s Patronus – Lisky didn’t dare ask Sir about his because wizards could get corrupted by too much light magic if they used much dark magic and it could hurt him, and if he didn’t demonstrate it he probably didn’t have one – only that it didn’t need a positive memory. That was something only wizards needed, because they hadn’t invented this type of message carrying. It was unsuitable for their physiology so they needed to go through a few extra hoops. All House Elves could do it, but didn’t do it much – it was for emergencies only. 

“Bisky, Misky, come quick to the cottage! Please! Please!” Lisky yelled, her voice giving out towards the end. Lisky felt so abandoned and sad, and at once, the pain in her palms returned so much that she winced and couldn’t hold on to the table any longer. 

It was Sir...! Sir was suffering more! 

What had happened?! Why- had somebody else cursed Sir? But who?! Whom would Sir let into his cottage that would then hurt him like this?! Sir was a very good judge of character – Sir had expelled exactly the right House Elves, and everybody who spoke against Lisky, Bisky or Misky was reprimanded, always! Sir knew people! And Sir didn’t trust anybody, not even Lisky and her sisters entirely. Did this mean somebody had betrayed Sir? Somebody who had access to the cottage, like Mr Aurelius, or Mme Rosier? But Lisky could trust Bisky and Misky, Lisky knew that. 

The fireworks of magical aura only intensified as Lisky attempted to move away from it whilst still casting more and more spells that became more and more convoluted and complex and desperate in order to somehow make it stop. Lisky knew that the aura wasn’t entirely real, it was just a manifestation of the magic that was oozing out of Sir, whom Lisky couldn’t see in the cloud anymore, not even his silhouette, but if it was getting worse and worse, so was Sir- 

If only Lisky could have known why it was getting worse! How the magic was actively being inflicted to put a stop to it! Had the plea to come looking for Sir with the Keksdose been on purpose?

Had Sir sent code?

Had Sir expected someone to betray him?

Had Lisky not read the message correctly, was Sir suffering this much because Lisky hadn't listened?!

Sir had said that perhaps one day people would come to hurt Lisky, Bisky and Misky, which was why they were supposed to stay concealed and very careful and dress themselves in rags whenever they left Nurmengard so they would not be recognised and hurt. Had someone come to hurt Sir because of his braveness and his willingness to lead? People always said bad things about Sir, Lisky read it in the news-parchments every day when Sir was done with them, he always let Lisky read through them as well. Lisky would not have said that Sir was a perfect person, but Sir had been so good to them, and Mr Aurelius, and Mme Vinda, and all the other children, and Sir had offered to take in Sama so she wouldn’t suffer so much and odd Deirdre too, Sir clearly had a wonderful heart he just did not want to show to many people because he was scared it was doing to make everyone think he wasn't strong enough to save the world from the catastrophe! Sir was doing what was necessary to stop the earth from hurting, how did the world not see it? Who would assault Sir like this in Sir’s own cottage?!

The puddle was growing, and running between the floorboards. Around the table leg. Something cracked- Sir couldn’t lose much mo-

   A crack of apparition sounded through the air from the guest bedroom, where Sir had told Lisky, Bisky and Misky to go first. 

“Bisky! Misky!” Lisky called out anxiously, her voice constricting in her throat. Sir was- Sir was suffering so much, with broken bones and all that blood-

The sofa stood so that Lisky too had not been able to see Sir coming in through the door.

“Bisky, Misky!”

“Why is Lisky’s voice shaking?”

“It’s Sir!” Lisky exclaimed shakily, so glad to see her sisters. “Sir got attacked by something, or- or someone!”

“Here?”

“Lisky thinks so! Look! Sir- Sir doesn’t move, Lisky doesn’t know this magic, Sir is barely breathing! Look at all this magic! Lisky doesn’t know what caused it, Lisky-”

“But Misky didn’t feel anything,” Misky contemplated. “Misky feels when Sir is unwell.”

“Maybe it’s new magic Sir didn’t account for,” Bisky threw in before drawing in a gasp when she saw the cloud. “Sir! SIR!”

“SIR!” Misky yelled as well, dropping into the puddle of blood beside Sir. “SIR!”

“Be careful, Misky, the cloud hurts.”

“SIR!” Misky yelled again, diving into the cloud without second thought and vanishing in it. 

It upset Lisky. Misky had just been in so much danger with the angry parasite and now she was diving into an unknown cloud of magic that- that could be more dangerous than anything Misky had ever encountered?! Lisky dove in right after her sister, and dragged her out by an arm around the waist, ignoring the wailing sound Misky made when she was being dragged back. 

“Lisky! Let go! Sir is injured, he needs-“

“Bisky and Misky need to help Lisky cast stopping spells and spells to put the blood back in Sir’s body and to dispel the cloud.”

“What happened? Lisky, what happened?”

“Sir stole our Keksdose, and- and Føjan told Lisky and she came here to talk to Sir and Sir was lying here in this- Sir was injured and the cloud was thrashing and Lisky is really scared- but Lisky, Bisky and Misky need to cast stabilising spells now!”

“Sir! Sir, is Sir conscious?”

“No, Bisky, Sir is unconscious and catatonic and he doesn’t blink, blood magic and- and Lisky thinks the torturing curse attacked Sir together and- and he couldn’t protect himself- Lisky thinks there was somebody else here so she and her sisters can’t trust anyone-“

“But Sir is- Bisky needs to see!” Bisky exclaimed and too dove head-first into the cloud, much to the protest of her sisters. Lisky had to physically restrain Misky, whose breathing still came too slowly and too irregularly, in following suit, and she protested quite loudly and knocked against the table, the second teacup falling as well and unleashing an avalanche into the cloud. The magic had almost reached the Keksdose. It was precious, and with a flick of the wrist, Lisky made it close itself and shoved it to the other end of the room, no matter whether that would damage the Vanillekipferl and the L-, M- and B-shaped Spritzgebäck inside. It was Sir who had taught them all about it, about how to make German biscuits for Yuletide and all the recipes from Sir’s Omi, though Lisky didn’t know what an Omi was, Sir who had told Lisky, Bisky and Misky to find things they could claim as their possessions so they were free Elves, with clothes and books and little money-pouches, and this Keksdose was one of the first things they had taken for this, it could not-

Bisky was breathless when she existed the cloud, panting for air, her hands covered in blood and white liquid-

“It hurts to touch Sir- there is some magical parasite under Sir’s clothes-“

“Parasite?!” Misky squeaked. “Like the one that attacked Misky?”

“Perhaps it’s remains of that-“

“Then Misky will go in.”

“Misky can’t, this is far too dangerous, Misky has only just-“

“Misky is the only Elf who knows what this feels like!” Misky contradicted Bisky and finally tore herself free to practically jump into the cloud. 

Lisky voiced her disapproval, following right behind – Misky was only just getting better! Sir had just sent Misky to apparate to Russia and she had been really travel-sick in the evening, unable to fall asleep, even though she had been all stories and talk about Sir having had a confusing vision and helping Sir with it and how they had eaten stew for breakfast and how Mme Rosier had not recognised Sir even though Sir had been so obviously himself- 

It didn’t matter now! Misky couldn’t just throw herself into danger like that again! Misky had already been inattentive when Lisky, Bisky and Misky had tried to remove the magic parasite from Sir’s leg, Misky had already stood too close and the parasite had attacked her, and now she-

In the cloud, Misky was sitting by Sir’s leg, touching his skin after seemingly having ripped his trouser leg off. Bisky would hate that, Sir had looked so snazzy this morning at breakfast-

Sir’s leg was tiny in comparison to the other, but not nearly as injured as the arms were. Here, only a few dark veins were pulsing, no blistering or bleeding, though Sir’s skin did look more alive than it should have. Why was Sir always getting himself into trouble?! 

“Misky shouldn’t just-“

“It is not the parasite,” Misky stated with a cool, collected voice. “And it isn’t magic of time. It is only blood magic and the torturing curse, but- but they are intertwined somehow.”

“Like somebody cast the torturing curse on his blood?!” Bisky shrieked, Lisky hadn’t noticed her come in as well. Lisky could barely see Bisky through the intense nebula of exploding indigos and burgundies, spasming, intertwining, pushing each other away, more and more coalescing and turning into a shade of purple Lisky had never seen before. 

“Misky doesn’t know.”

“Misky should come out of the nebula now!”

“So should Bisky!”

“Bisky isn’t going until Misky goes.”

“Misky isn’t leaving at all! Sir needs Misky!”

“Sir needs for the curse to stop!” Lisky argued. “Sir’s curse needs to be stopped. How can Sir’s curse be stopped?”

“Has Lisky spelled it to stop?”

“Does Bisky think Lisky is stupid?! Of course Lisky has spelled it to stop! Nothing happened! Somehow, the curse must still be cast on Sir, remotely, from away from here. The connection must be broken. Otherwise, Sir cannot survive.”

“Maybe if a barrier is made?” Misky suggested, her hands still on Sir’s skin. “Or is the source of the curse in this cottage? If Misky, Bisky and Lisky put their powers together and made a strong shield, like Sir can make them as well?”

“Misky has a good idea,” Lisky affirmed her sister, “but Misky cannot cast this from within the cloud. Bisky, Misky, please come out of the cloud, it is hurtful.”

   Lisky and her sisters tried what Misky had suggested, but it did not touch the cloud, which remained hovering over and around Sir. The curse was not being cast from the outside. There was also some more matter lying on the sofa that Bisky had noticed, on the right side, a bloodied piece of skin that looked very flushed and reddish. It felt magically different from Sir, more chartreuse in colour, which was typically how wizards apparated. In Elves, this was more mossy-green, which confused Lisky – were their apparition methods or constitutions that different? Regardless, perhaps Sir had tried to apparate out to save himself from the curse? But why was there no chartreuse over Sir’s body then? Had Sir fought with someone and that someone had apparated and splinched themselves? But wouldn’t there be magical colours from the fight, like apricot of shields – Sir’s shields were always a bit apricot and Lisky liked that very much because most shields she had seen were usually pumpkin-coloured and Lisky didn’t like pumpkins – or black spots in the air of spells crashing and breaking, or the sunflower yellow of disarming spells? It all didn’t make sense to Lisky as she tried to help her sisters build a strong barrier of Sir’s preferred magic around the cottage. The skin-piece would be evidence, but for now-

It didn’t help. Sir had closed his eyes, but other than that, Sir was still bleeding heavily, no matter how much Bisky tried to force the blood back into Sir’s body, which, aside from the bleeding wounds, began looking more and more the colour of news parchments. Sir was strong, so strong, but if Lisky and her sisters didn’t find a way to stop this soon-

“What if Bisky, Lisky and Misky take Sir’s wand?” Bisky suggested, her bloody hands hectically cleaned on her silvery shirt. Silvers were for memories, and Bisky remembered most out of all three of them, always told the best stories. The red smears on her dress looked like Misky, who was too interested in danger and advanced transfiguration, which was carmine, and Sir’s doings, had just smeared her favourite colours on to irk Bisky. 

Lisky, herself fondest of the foresty green of creation of things, found her mouth standing agape.

“Is Bisky insane?! Sir would be fuming with anger if he knew Bisky had ever suggested such a thing!”

“Bisky doesn’t care how angry Sir will be, Bisky is scared that Sir- Bisky would rather have Sir very mad at Bisky than Sir dead.”

“Dead?” Lisky shrieked – perish the thought! “Sir would never do that to Lisky, and Bisky, and Misky! Where would Lisky, Bisky and Misky go if Sir weren’t there?!”

“So Bisky needs to help Sir!”

“But Sir said Lisky should never touch Sir’s wand again after Lisky placed it into Sir’s hand after a vision once! Don’t Bisky and Misky remember? Lisky told Bisky and Misky right afterward!”

“But there is no other way Sir can be helped! Lisky tried stopping the spell, and Misky and Bisky helped Lisky draw a shield around here, but Sir is still suffering just as much. We need to cast with stronger magic, and a wizard’s wand makes magic stronger.”

“No, it just directs magic. By the Elder Elves, did Misky ever pay attention in training?”

“But Sir once said that his wand doesn’t direct magic but amplifies it. Sir knows much about wandlore, especially now that he is training with Mr Aurelius. Would Sir be wrong?”

“Maybe Sir has a special wand.”

“It looks different from other wands,” Lisky pondered, wiping her hands dry as well. “Maybe Sir found a special wand. Lisky has read once in the text of the free Elf Loii that he discovered some wands that made wizard magic stronger than it was.”

“So Bisky was right! Maybe Sir needs his wand for the magic to stop. And if Sir cannot hold it, one out of Bisky, Lisky and Misky needs to for Sir.”

“But Bisky- House Elves aren’t supposed to wield wizarding wands! Many have died doing so.”

“Then Bisky will die! Sir has saved Bisky’s life, Bisky will do everything she can to save Sir’s life! Sir will make the entire world better for Elves, Sir has told Bisky Føjan is only at Nurmengard to learn the ways of the enlightened Elves, because he is very young and still mouldable, but that Sir wants Bisky, Lisky and Misky to help Sir with it because he doesn’t have as much time. Sir will make the world a better place for Elves, and also for other magical beings, Sir has promised that. Bisky needs to do everything she can to make this come true.”

“But Sir- Sir will hate Bisky.”

“Bisky would do anything to make sure Sir is alright. Sir is Sir. Sir is the greatest wizard to ever live.”

“Bisky is right. But Bisky will not have to do it alone. Lisky will help. Lisky- Lisky will hold Sir’s wand as well.”

“Misky as well!” Misky chimed in. “Misky, Lisky and Bisky will save Sir!” 

Chapter Text

   Aberforth did return to the Hospital Wing at once, he just couldn’t stop himself. 

   Where was he suppose to go, the Hog’s Head? Damn the former owner for contractually binding him to keep the name. Aberforth hadn’t actually cracked his brain open about alternate names – what for, a lawsuit of breach of contract? – but he was certain there had to be something better out there than the Hog’s Head. Pigs – or hogs, for that matter – just weren’t good companions! They had nothing on goats and sheep. Maybe he would’ve kept it animalistic, the name, but again, didn’t have the liberty to think about it even in the vaguest and slightest. Regardless, another night’s shift tending to the wounds of the drunkards and turning a blind eye to the simple misdemeanours and covertly reporting to Hartcrest, the only remotely competent lad at the ministry, about the more horrid things he heard? He could’ve done without it, even with that holiday to that flat he still had on Mullet. The Irish were practically giving out home property for free, tied to a citizenship, of course, get some of the folks that had migrated to England back to the homeland with seaside views and a good community. You couldn’t find cheaper living on the Isles. If you were part Irish, that was. In Aberforth’s humble opinion, the Isles would’ve been better off ruled by the Irish anyways – they had more perspective. Aberforth had always felt like he’d come more after their old nan than after their gaffer, and Albus the other way around, it wasn’t as much a matter of them coming after their mum and dad as it was the generation above. Of course, Aberforth couldn’t be entirely sure, seeing as that their maternal grandparents had been on the wrong end of the European genocide efforts in the Americas. Not that there was a right end to be on – it was either being a monster, or dead. He personally thought it was better to die a good man than to live an evil one, but that also meant that he knew next to nothing about their grandparents. He would’ve loved to meet their paternal nan Imogen, after everyone had talked of her like this local heroine, but not in his brother’s annoying heroism but rather just being an appreciated local legend because of her spirit, but she had passed away a year before his birth. Of course. Albus, that git, who would’ve been utterly mismatched with her, had still met her, but he hadn’t. He was already glad he hadn’t inherited their gaffer’s name Oziah, Aberforth Oziah Broderick Liam, that might as well have taken someone’s eye out. 

   No, overall, Aberforth really wasn’t in the mood for serving beverages to drunkards and being a covert spy when his brother was probably still an inch away from dying, though, if the replacement nurse hadn’t at least reconstructed his carpals at this point, what was he even doing with his time?

   Aberforth had just come across the corner that led to the crossroads just before the hospital wing – one branching off to it, another to the Great Hall, the last one to the grounds though nobody in their right mind ever took that exit because the portraits were that vile and demeaning – when a piece of parchment almost slapped him in the face, he barely managed to grab it before the offence. What a nerve! He almost wanted to burn it altogether, but his curiosity got the better of him. 

Aberforth, 

If you could find the time, please meet me in my office in the dungeons. Albus said something to me before when he apparated in, and he always says you know him in and out, much to his dismay, so I thought you might have a valuable conclusion to offer. 

Quentin

   Oh, delightful... The last time he had been called to the dungeons, he had literally been fifteen and had been caught sneaking out potions ingredients for a special project of his. That way, he had never been able to pay some of the nastier boys in the year back for their comments and spells, it still clung to him to this very day that he had just forgotten to put on a proper cloaking spell, as though his brother was the only one in the family who had been able to make themselves invisible. Aberforth had once gotten a bloody nose when Ariana had used her premature magic to turn herself completely invisible, he had bled all over his favourite shirt, Albus had fainted and dad had almost had a heart arrest laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Bollocks, this felt like being a student all over again, and suddenly, Aberforth felt so much more like four years younger than he had any business feeling. They were both over forty-five now, surely no such difference existed nowadays. Aberforth groaned, vanished the note without a word and turned on his heels, letting muscle memory lead him and trying to be relatively inconspicuous despite all of the portraits looking at him. Considering he was an innkeeper and pub-owner in the village, he was known to many people even if they didn’t all know his name, they knew him by what he stood for, or what they thought he stood for. Sometimes, it was valuable to defy and misconstrue expectations, that would one day come in handy. Didn’t exactly attract the witches nowadays, but Aberforth was getting a bit old for dalliances anyways. 

   The walk to the dungeons was familiar, and so was the sneaking – he had been in closest quarters with a Slytherin once upon a time, though Ophe had been everything but a Slytherin. Perhaps the hat had seriously thought she needed to be more like a Slytherin, blasted, bigoted piece of useless fabric. Then again, Ophe had never had a healthy amount of self-assuredness and confidence, and a little ambition for the budding singer and melody-writer would not have gone amiss. Aberforth had long left that past and part of his life behind and had moved on – after all, the fatal blow had come not a week after Ariana’s murder, not that Albus or anyone else would have been buggered to notice. He abhorred the young man he saw when he looked backwards in time, that self-important and egomaniacal bastard Albus had become, seeing nothing but his own good despite claiming himself so invested in the greater good. To him, those summer days, nothing had mattered besides his pretty new friend and newest obsession, certainly not Aberforth and most certainly not Ariana. He could have at least learned to cook, the bastard at least had been able to make the most unfortunately delicious omelettes that Ariana had so adored. Aberforth had tried, of course, but he had never quite gotten himself to hate them, especially not the ones with onions and rosemary. It seemed when he remembered it, Blondie had put in more of an effort to care for Ariana than Albus had. In that newlywed phantasm landscape, Albus had been so good at ignoring everything, he hadn’t even noticed when Ariana had bled. Now, granted, she had handled her newly-blooming femininity like a true professional, having Aberforth more worried than she had been, but still. Of course Albus wouldn’t have noticed at any other point before that Aberforth had entertained his own relationships. Last time the bastard had come around, he had taken every bad trait of his brother and had amplified it by just however much the Elder Wand now boosted his power. 

   If anything, meeting the bastard had somehow actually humbled his older brother instead of actually inflating his ego impossibly more like last time. Aberforth would almost have called it a good thing that his brother now spoke like an actual human being and not what he thought was the most polite masquerade to wear, but at which cost? So he could get himself Crucio’d just because? Aberforth had it up to here with the bastard. He would’ve made a right Slytherin, so would his brother have. Granted, with Albus, the general air of Gryffindor barminess still outweighed even his thirst for knowledge or his ambition, but it was practically common knowledge at this point that the Hat had placed him in the house of lions to become one because he already had been all others, a lesson in humility. Then again, his brother had never been good at humility. 

   When Aberforth came by life-sized portrait of the nightshade blossoms, drawn so finely one could literally with a single command of the wand part the leaves and enter a hidden space behind it, it hit Aberforth so convincingly and suddenly that he felt like somebody had hit a Bludger to his thorax.

   Merlin, Ophe and him had a child. A twenty-eight-year-old child. Who was living with the bastard himself and probably getting good father-son time with him. 

   Aberforth felt the distinct urge to empty himself into one of the decorative cauldrons nearby, but somehow managed to locate himself not a minute from the Slytherin Head of House office. Best not dally, before he could actually be sick at the thought of the bastard playing dad with his son. 

   “Nice décor,” Aberforth commented thinly when he closed the door, observing the office of the Head of Slytherin House. 

He had to admit, it had gotten a decent bit more bearable since the days when he had been called here to do lines under Carrow, what a nasty bugger, that Astronomy professor. Aberforth still had the scarring from her pheasant blood quill on his arm. Albus, of course, who had never seen a single detention in his life, let alone in Astronomy, had always thought him a liar for it, that such things could not exist at Hogwarts, that Headmaster Black would not allow for it. The right idiot had never served a detention with Black in his life, otherwise, he would’ve known. Latest by the touch of that one’s eagle blood quill. Back then, Carrow’s office had been so poorly lit, it had been hard to even make out the parchment before himself, which had only made his lines more crooked, and her more keen to let him repeat the whole thing another night. Sometimes, he had wondered whether she’d done it on purpose. It had improved, he had to say. Not only because the terrariums did not contain spiders but snakes, and were not full of webbing, but luscious exotic plants and snakes that weren’t exactly... black. Nor green, really. One particular specimen was just drawing itself up from a branch, not that Aberforth was frightened of snakes. He’d once stepped into a nest of pretty dead toads surrounded by hissing little snake-like things that had made him feel rather numb all over when he had looked into their freakishly weird yellow eyes when doing room-cleanup. It had taken a few seconds for the dots to connect, and by that point, he had burned them with actual Fiendfyre and had handed both their breeder and the sets of bones over to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – or also the DRCMC. They had hushed it up, of course – there hadn’t been a successful breeding of Basilisks in Europe in three centuries, let alone a whole nest just sitting in a room in Hogsmeade, adjacent to the foremost European wizarding school. Well, at least he couldn't complain that life at the Hog's Head ever grew distinctly boring. 

   Under Malfoy, he supposed the Head of House office had begun being... well, less than utterly disgusting, anyways. The snakes were still there. So was the obnoxious silver-green colour scheme. And that utterly massive human-thick snake curling itself all the way around the office like some doom-bringing metaphor of an ouroboros didn’t exactly help with putting Aberforth at ease, but he had to admit, he couldn’t bring himself to hate what Malfoy had done with the place. He supposed the lad was alright, anyways, for a bleeding Slytherin. Malfoy didn’t bother pretending like he was busy, or like he had an impression to make, interacting with his snakes or anything, but instantly rushed to him upon his entry, which, given how spacious this office was in comparison to Albus’ humble little thing, took a few moments in which Aberforth looked around curiously. It didn’t even feel like it was located in the dungeons, the windows had been charmed to not display only murky lake-water, but an interesting scenery of underwater plants that were by no means real, but rendered rather expertly. It figured – he might not’ve been a pansy himself, the lad, Aberforth could sense that type of thing, but considering the last two school dances that had gotten him into the papers, it was obvious the potioneer had a passion for herbology. 

“Thank you for heading down. How were classes?”

“I live.”

“Me too. I don’t know how I even stood straight before the students and pretended like nothing was going on. I could barely breathe half the time.”

Aberforth didn’t know a politely appropriate manner of saying do I look like I give a damn, so he simple nodded.

“What have you called me down here for?”

“As I stated, Albus said something- now, I would prefer to wait until we’re all here. Nicolas is still browsing my library.”

“Nicolas?” Aberforth asked, furrowing his brows. 

“Flamel.”

“Of course Flamel is here.”

“Didn’t you tell Armando to fetch him?”

“In principle. I didn’t think the old fart would actually leave Paris for it. What does he have to do with anything? And why isn’t he here but in your library? And why do you have a library?”

“I am a renowned potioneer, of course I have a library. Albus has one too. Bali has one, so does Yaxley. Armando does too... well, that’s about it, I think, though, Hector might have star-charts for decades in his office library, maybe even centuries. It’s often copies from texts in the library upstairs so we don’t have to run through the entire building just to verify a source in a text, but... I’ve got twenty years of monthly issues of Cauldron Curiosity and Alchemy and Artistry lying about and both of those don’t fly to France to my knowledge.”

“I was rather asking why Flamel out of all people gets called to a clandestine meeting in the dungeons. I’m surprised he found the way.”

“We walked together. He almost managed to guide me to different thoughts, can you believe it? He has that way to just... bundle your thoughts or make them disperse, exactly the way you need it. And I called him here because, to my knowledge, you and him are the only other two people beside Albus and I who know that we’re...” Malfoy cleared his throat. “You know.”

“Fucking.”

“By Salazar, is that your intuition, premonition, information or stereotype?”

“I would say it’s a healthy dose of all four,” Aberforth snorted and crossed his arms. So he had been right, splendid. Only made him mildly sick again. 

“Afternoon tea?”

“How about breakfast, I haven’t had any.”

“Me neither, I kept getting sicker thinking about food than actually eating it. I suppose I can organise that, give me a moment. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“As comfortable as anyone can be in this blatant display of Slytherinism.”

“You should’ve seen the office before I took over,” Malfoy called over his shoulder before vanishing through a door to the left. “I found thumbscrews and seven blood quills, and I thought that all died out when Carrow Senior did. Now, where have I put my...”

   Yes, the office was suffocatingly green, Aberforth decided when he nipped on a black tea, leaning back in his chair. Malfoy had informed Flamel, but he apparently took a moment to walk. Which shouldn’t have amused Aberforth, but he could just see that image he had once seen in the newspaper of a radiantly uncomfortable Albus and him twenty years ago or so, and that tall, slender version of death incarnate creep towards him. It made a shiver run down his spine. He wondered how Albus managed to stay sane with somebody around that was that defiant of the laws of nature. He had to admit, now having the potential of a meeting with the old alchemist Albus had raved about so much in the past until he had learned to control himself, and still spoke of very much as though he had found a replacement for their dad, it did tickle Aberforth a little. There had to be something about that man, and though Aberforth had resolved never to make friends or even tentative allies with his brother’s bosom buddies, he had to admit, this was likely the most intriguing of them. 

   Through the door, and slowly, came the oldest living being Aberforth had ever laid eyes on. Literally. Not even turtles lived that long, he would’ve known, he had once taken care of a Galapagos turtle for an Irish friend that had lived on the family island for generations, that thing had been easily nearing two hundred. Sure, phoenixes were deemed immortal, but they also weren’t ever around, and Aberforth hadn’t actually ever seen one. Not even once. Albus had, of course, regaled him in his Academy exploits and having fed one, and then most recently about the encounter with his son’s, but still... The myth was that they were immortal because they kept burning up and crawling out of the egg again, but they changed, that was the thing. Any phoenix alive could’ve been from the literal age of the dinosaurs, or yesterday’s fresh hatchling. Nobody could actually verify that on a bird that never appeared to anyone and then also went up in flames every few odd weeks depending on how it felt, completely renewing itself. Even Dementors died. They eventually just lost their essence and withered away. So when an over six-hundred year old being came through the doorframe, Aberforth had to admit, for all his knowledge of that man’s – and his wife’s, too, Merlin, they must’ve had either the most entertaining or peaceful marriage of all time – existence, he was quite flabbergasted. Some things, you just didn’t see very often. 

“Ah!” the old man exclaimed. Aberforth wouldn’t have supposed his voice would be so... soft. He had thought it would crack. “Bon dieu, and you must be Aberforth!”

“Suppose that’s me, yes.”

“You look just like a man I once knew when he was quite young still, Loredius was his name. We knew each other way before his first marriage, let alone the one that gave him your name. I believe it may have been the fourth, in my recollection.”

“I did have a great-great grandfather or so who went by that name,” Aberforth conceded. 

Loredius and his seven marriages would have been an entertaining adult story for a sherry by the Yule tree, except that was the type of thing told around family, and of that, he didn’t exactly have much left. When Albus and him were telling family stories, they’d both been there, and it was most notably all Albus trying to talk himself out of his guilt issues. Suppose he needed some breathing room every now and again, but then again, this had all been his fault. Now, Aberforth wasn’t excluding other factors might have been at play as well, but to absolve Albus of guilt because of his youth or his general gobshiteiness just wasn’t how the story went.  

“Oh, you look like you were carved from his very bust! Albus never did, from any angle, but you...”

“Pardon me, but you two don’t know each other?”

“Not yet, no,” Flamel confirmed with a grin that could almost be labelled mischievous, “though, I have been curious for many years.”

“What- but that can’t be possible!” Quentin interceded almost angrily. “You’re Albus’ brother, and you- well, you might as well be his mentor or one of his best friends, how have you two never met before?! Not even for a round birthday?!”

“Albus... he is a complicated man,” Flamel spoke soothingly before moving to a chair in the slowest and most ridiculously strange small pitter-patter steps Aberforth had ever seen. So far, Aberforth was only impressed by the man’s ability to be right as he had imagined him. Any self-respecting ghost would’ve been impressed by his ability to be so other-worldly. “Hesitant to let areas of his life intertwine for fear of loss and it carrying over into other domains. Many of his close friends have not yet met, for distance or by design. All the more appreciative am I now to meet you, if only it were not for the direness of the circumstances... Nicolas Flamel, enthused alchemist, and husband to my wonderful wife Perenelle.”

“Aberforth Dumbeldore.”

“Enchanté. Alas, I suppose there is little we as his friends and family can do about his actions, is there? In what do you require our assistance, Quentin?”

“So-“ Malfoy began only to cut himself short and let his hand run through his trademark Malfoy hair. He only confirmed it – his brother had a thing for blonds. “Well, you know Al and I are- you know, together and all.”

“You are? That is lovely to hear,” Flamel answered giddily, folding his hands.

“Don’t tell me Albus didn’t actually tell you.”

“I admit, after the rather... indicative encounter in my living room a few weeks ago, the subject did not naturally come up again between your leave-taking and Albus’.”

“You didn’t- you didn’t talk about me just coming in and-“

“What ‘indicative encounter?’” Aberforth snorted and reached for a tartlet. He was starving. “Don’t tell me he caught you in intimate embraces.”

“We shared a- well, admittedly rather heated kiss hello, not that that’s- that’s not of any significance, actually. Well, it didn’t leave room for interpretation, anyways. Didn’t you ask Albus about him having a man in his life? I do assume at least the fact that there are occasionally some may have come up over the years, yes?”

“Occasionally,” Flamel conceded, reaching for a little cinnamon pastry with bony, skeletal fingers, and smiling benignly. “But as I indicated, Albus is a complicated man – and I would never force him to speak. He knows this, and so, over the years, he has only spoken to me when he was either comfortable enough, or needed urgent advice. And in the few days since your visit, Quentin, I am afraid there were rather quite a few other things to discuss, such as the functionality of a novel potion, an altered Calming Draught, which works without side-effects with him, as well as other quarrels pertaining his private life and his return to Hogwarts in safety.”

Malfoy himself hadn’t touched any of the goods on the table, despite not having had breakfast. For essentially friends that occasionally fucked, he really was quite invested in this entire affair, wasn’t he? Odd, really – he was most certainly only interested in women, any blind man could’ve come to the same conclusion. There was a short, poignant silence before Quentin brought up the meat of the matter. 

“I am concerned about the last thing he said to me.”

“What did Albus say?”

“He said... ‘stay at Hogwarts’, though... well, the last word didn’t come out right anymore, he’d already... I don’t even know how he came in, I just heard a crash and there he was, on the floor, bleeding out, I-“

“He shouldn’t have been able to apparate in.”

“He did. He’s apparated us from his chambers to the Headmaster’s Office once before.”

“Oh, I have no doubt he can apparate within the jinx,” Aberforth groaned. “But from outside into it? That is much harder, I don’t think anyone’s ever attempted that before, not even the Founders themselves, the barrier is to be absolute.”

“Albus is a brilliant wizard.”

“Albus isn’t almighty, either. I don’t think he typically would’ve-“ Aberforth began, then all the components suddenly clicked into place, and he gripped the table just to steady himself. 

   So that was what had prompted the bastard to do it. 

   Oh, Albus, Albus, Albus, cheating on the most potent dark wizard of all time, he truly was quite a barmy idiot. Or, rather, he was idiotic wrapped up in an extra protective coating of mad. Of course, Aberforth had long suspected that Albus had been avoiding him like actual Dragon Pox for two, and only two reasonable possibilities – one, something terrible had happened to Aurelius, the possibility of which he considered as rather low considering Albus had essentially been away from parchment, and certainly from his uncomfortably stilted visits since approximately September, and had since still given information about his son, or two, Albus had become actually crack-brained enough not to leave it with one kiss but had actually begun a relationship of sorts with the bastard. Albus wouldn’t dare show his face at the Hog’s Head for two reasons, and only two reasons, and out of everything, it was much likelier that he had not only begun kissing, but actually- 

Aberforth was going to be sick again. Of course, this assessment had offered itself to him since November at the latest, but that still didn’t mean that he didn’t utterly abhor even the very thought blooming into existence. Albus had always had a weakness when they’d been pretty – there had been that lad Caspian, utterly unsuited, of course, every bit as dumb as Albus had been smart, before those few in between that had, in rapid succession, betrayed him with another man, that time when Albus had only ever come to the tavern when another man had cheated on him, about every four months or so like clockwork, the only one Aberforth had ever beforehand found at least mildly bearable had been some lad named Yanto, but that one had come and gone quicker than the blink of an eye – but the bastard had become everything but. Even objectively, he just looked utterly terrible. If he wasn’t literally bound by oath not to put any spells on Albus, Aberforth would have been the first to call Imperius for the sheer impossibility of Albus making such a mistake. His brother was, of course, too sentimental for his own good, but he was also superficial enough and caring about appearances enough not to jump straight into bed with that. At the same time, my, with how Malfoy had done his Polyjuice scheme and how Flamel had found out, surely they were still together as well. And judging by how Malfoy was acting – or simply by the fact that he hadn’t killed Albus yet, he didn’t know. And Aberforth would’ve bet his left foot the bastard hadn't either, he never had liked sharing his prey. 

Given that his last act had been to tell Malfoy to stay put, in the safest place in the entirety of Europe, Aberforth could be pretty certain Albus knew what was coming for him. Merlin, Albus really had bollocks of lead to cheat on someone like the bastard with a Potions professor. Regardless of how the Potions professor in question was probably debatably Albus’ best choice to this very day. 

   “You seem to know more than me.”

“He cares about you more than he should,” Aberforth snorted derisively. “He was under the Cruciatus, and a ridiculously-overpowered on at that, and the only thing he could think of was you.”

“But why me? Sure, Albus... well, he’s more emotionally invested in this... agreement of ours than I am, but... he’s not in love with me or anything. We- well, we’re not even exclusive, we have designed it so that we may take other partners if we please.”

Aberforth forewent that entirely – he was categorically uninterested in his brother’s relationships and just how many men he was doing whatever with. it wasn't that he hated all pansies, but Albus was truly atrocious at it. 

“Oh, no, he isn’t in love, I’ve seen his face when he is, it’s a spectacle and a half. But nevertheless, you must’ve been the last thought he had before and during the curse.”

“Surely I’m not that important to him.”

“No. But if you trace back his last actions-“

“ Oh, merde...” Flamel mumbled under his breath and put his cup down. He, at least, seemed to finally have caught up. Aberforth didn’t have to speak a word of French to get that by implication. “Oh non, c’est dure¹.”

“What?” Malfoy seemed to panic. “What is it?”

“ Oh, mon pauvre petiot...²”

“Really?”

“Yes! Tell me!”

“Really, you haven’t put two and two together yet? You’ve spent what, a year or so fucking my brother and you still haven’t figured it out?”

“I- Aberforth, tell me!”

“And there I thought my darling brother liked them clever,” Aberforth bemoaned fakely. “Just think about his last acts. He tells you to stay here. With his last breath. He’s got several dozen broken bones and that is all he can think about. He apparates into Hogwarts, which shouldn’t be possible, and he doesn’t apparate to the Hospital Wing, but to your chambers, to pass on that message. Beforehand, he gets gloriously, possibly life-threateningly Crucio’d.”

Malfoy’s face dropped, that concentrated, panicky expression now making way for utter terror and fright. Albus must’ve discussed contingencies with him, he was enemy number one of thousands of lunatic fanatics despite the recent positive words lost about him by a certain someone. They must’ve talked about how, if they ever made their relationship public, that it would put Malfoy’s integrity, health and life in danger considering how many people out there were keenly eager to prove their worth to somebody who literally killed for a living! They must’ve discussed the danger of it. Otherwise, Albus was even stupider than Aberforth was willing to give him credit for.

“You think he got tortured and revealed... something about us?”

“No, you idiot, he got tortured because he revealed something about you two and your little affair. He only had one point of impact. One Cruciatus.”

“His entire hand is broken.”

“A powerful Cruciatus. There are a few people out there with anger-management issues and no morals, I doubt any of them would have an issue casting a bone-shattering version.”

“Or his hand was broken before,” Malfoy challenged, “and the spell was cast to masquerade torture.”

“Unlikely. Or, rather, Albus would never give a secret of this magnitude away over a broken hand. I’ve broken his jaw twice, he didn’t even get misty-eyed over it. My brother was at war, he got himself shot several times, he’s let others put him under the Cruciatus to be able to teach it better.”

“What he means to say,” Flamel interceded gently, but determinedly, “is that there is a possibility that someone may have discovered of Albus’ affections for you, and that Albus himself selflessly undertook the act of warning you ahead of time. Considering these indicators, I believe it of the utmost importance that you listen to him, and leave not the safety of the grounds of Hogwarts at the very least until he reawakens.”

“Well, what if he doesn’t?” Malfoy asked provocatively. “He would’ve died last night if not for you, whatever the hell you did to him. He would’ve died, somebody tried to kill him for- for-“

   The facts once more arranged themselves, and Aberforth almost laughed – of course. 

   Of course, even if the bastard broke with their oath, Albus would still be the one hurt more over it. The infallible god, or how he liked to present himself, had lost control over the spell, likely because their little elopement had interfered with it. After all, the stipulations were precisely not to cause harm, Albus had said that. That they couldn’t even utter the thought. So, the bastard hadn’t ever uttered the thought. Aberforth doubted he had uttered the thought before Crucio’ing him all those years ago. He had seen the challenge and offence, and had just acted in his perverted nature, even then. He’d probably been quicker than the pact could have ever reacted. The pact didn’t stop, didn’t physically impede with the process of hurting the other, as Aberforth understood it, but rather punished the person that wished to cause the harm until they couldn’t physically cause it anymore. Albus had demonstrated, what a nasty sight to be strangled by silver chains just for hating an utterly deranged psychopath for his crimes against life. Aberforth, again, would’ve bet his left foot that the bastard had just cast the spell without even thinking about it as a knee-jerk reaction – which, of course, begged the question of how his brother could seriously have begun a relationship with someone whose knee-jerk reaction was a fucking Cruciatus – then the artefact had gone absolutely berserk and had likely reflected all the damage backwards, and under the intense pain of a reflected Cruciatus, the bastard had lost control over the spell and it had just kept going until Albus had apparated out, or until his magic would have given out if Albus hadn’t. Now that was brutal, even for Aberforth’s standards. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just- I can’t believe any of this is happening...”

That was the sight of a man who’d gotten himself in with something way above his head. Aberforth almost could’ve pitied the fool for getting himself involved with Albus out of all people. His brother was already a menace in regular interaction, but in his newly-assigned position as the saviour of the free world? Forget it. 

“Forgo not the concept of hope,” Flamel chimed in unhelpfully. “Albus has ever believed in it faithfully even when he could not find it within himself. The last thing he would want is for you to think him dead before his time.”

“He was dead, last night, he would’ve been if not for your- what if you hadn’t come, or hadn’t been home, or I hadn’t been able to cast my Patronus right, or-“

“You were able to. You were able to do it, and helped save his life. This, I must urge you to recall whenever you find yourself in such a downwards spiral. You did it right. You did not make any mistakes, you took precisely the right steps. Perhaps these words will ring hollow, for we have not known each other long, but I find myself in great admiration of the both of you for saving his life together. Albus can surely be lucky indeed to call you his friends, and family, even though he may always act aloof about the matter.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Aberforth mumbled under his breath – as though Albus cared for him further than he could toss him aside whenever something more interesting happened. That he cared, yes, that was obvious indeed, but never enough to make Aberforth the most important thing. He’d miss his funeral for some friend’s wedding. 

“Then what do you suggest I do, now, twiddle my thumbs? Pretend there’s not someone out there who could at any moment tell Grindelwald if push comes to shove that Albus and me- I can’t just stay here for the rest of my life!”

So he really didn’t know. Albus really hadn’t told him anything about their little love affairs, neither the past nor the present nor how he still desired it for the future. What an utter tool his brother could be, sometimes, Aberforth would almost have shaken his head. 

“It’s not your fault, lad,” he sighed. “You’ve gotten yourself in with someone who’s in way over his head at all times just as much. My brother may be the most brilliant man alive, but he’s never been the clever type.”

   They talked for a while longer, though Aberforth had the distinct feeling it was a bit unjust that Malfoy had not even the first hint of an idea the kind of person his so-called lover truly  was, whilst it seemed to have become rather obvious to Flamel and him himself decades ago. Flamel did set him on edge with his behaviourisms, that instantly endearing attitude that even Aberforth found rather hard to resist, like you were staring at a monolith in nature, and the monolith was busy complimenting you on every single fibre of your being. Benevolent certainly fit him, irenic just as much, either by experience or age, or both. It wasn’t exactly hard to see how Albus had begun trusting him so instinctively. He had that air about himself. Of course, the conversation didn’t really have a specific worth of any kind considering they were essentially arguing against a wall of fear and probably rightful abject horror, so Aberforth at one point just stopped talking and tried to ponder how he could escape this conversational nightmare, being stuck with other people from Albus’ life that would never even have met, let alone talked if it weren’t for the one person that bound them together. Aberforth didn’t much fancy being a side character in Albus’ shit-show of a life, but having to interact with some of the other understudies? It was obvious as brightest daylight that Flamel was the replacement for at the very least their dad, if not their mum also, and Malfoy was just a toy to spend time with when his precious brother couldn’t have the one he actually wanted to play with. Or couldn’t quite commit himself to because even Albus couldn’t dream himself into a fantasy where he could stand committing entirely to the bastard – for not even a second did Aberforth harbour the illusion that Albus could have preferred this jumpy, excitable, foul-mouthed Potions professor over the maniac he called his soul-mate. Aberforth did wonder how someone could have a soul-mate if one didn’t have a soul left. But that was of no consequence. 

   Albus had probably just single-handedly caused the first great wizarding war by means of a cheating scandal.

   What an achievement.

   Aberforth eventually tried to propose himself out of company by saying he wished to check up on Albus, but that ridded him only of Malfoy, who seemed so shaken it was practically a miracle he was still hanging in his desk chair somehow. Flamel, on the other hand, was only too keen to visit Albus. Did that go both ways? Had the Flamels ever had children, a few centuries ago or so when they hadn’t been brittle and unnatural? Was Albus the easy replacement for them as much as they were for Albus? Beat Aberforth, really. Stupidly, it was also impolite enough to be considered offence to actually leave him going to the Hospital Wing all by his lonesome, push came to shove, Albus would kill him if his precious replacement father even got scared by one of the nastier ghosts in the castle. That man was so overdue, he’d climbed into a coffin three times over just to be pulled out of the grave again. So they crept together, up the stairs, down corridors that suddenly seemed like they had elongated tenfold since Aberforth had come down to the dungeons, what a nightmare. How had Flamel even gotten here, if it took him thirty minutes just to walk down a corridor? The man must’ve practically lived on the toilet considering how long it took him to get there. Usually, Aberforth didn’t care about politeness, but he couldn’t help it now – and he had that strange feeling that his image of the man, all dim of wit with age and completely beside himself despite Albus rendering him as brilliant, had been utterly misconceived and the alchemist was actually sharper of wit than anyone else in the castle, with Death literally having had his eye on Albus.  

“You look as though you theorised precisely what happened,” Flamel unhurriedly interrupted the silence when Aberforth felt like he might actually have needed a sprint sometime just to make up for lost time.

“And you?”

“I have my theories.”

“Splendid.”

The silence lasted three minutes, which usually would’ve gotten Aberforth halfway. This time, it didn’t even last him ‘till the end of the corridor. He was about to go mad with this.

“Out of interest, was it the puzzle pieces that you placed together that gave you your theory, or did you recognise the curse?”

“It’s the Cruciatus Curse, of course I recognise it. I might not have my NEWTs, but I’m not exactly dumb.”

“I never meant to imply. Albus has always been formidable at recognising the magical signature of a spell, and I wondered whether this is a rare talent found in you also. I meant to ask whether you recognised not the curse itself, but magic of it. The origin, you might say.”

“In a roundabout way, you’re asking whether I’ve got the foggiest who cast it. By personal experience.”

“Yes, this would be what I inquire for.”

“And how do you know I can trust you? Just because Albus does does not mean I do.”

“Naturally. It would rather be the opposite, if Albus trusted me, you would not, would that be correct?” the alchemist chuckled mirthfully. “As to answer your question, how can I prove my intentions pure?”

“When’s Albus first been in love?”

“I wouldn’t know. I only know sometimes, by his words, not a full history of all instances. I can theorise, of course, by his words, but Albus has ever been... uninclined to share many details of his private life besides necessity, for a fear, I believe, that it will make them realer.”

“Why do you think I would recognise the curse?”

“Albus disclosed to me that you had suffered it before.”

“Once.”

“Once may in any case be enough to recognise something familiar. If a signature was given once, perhaps the brain remembers it when checking for it another time.”

“Do you know the circumstances of me suffering it?”

“And do you believe it was the same person? A motive may exist. Or it may not.”

“You believe it was,” Aberforth stated as they came around a corner slowly, actually taking a few moments to integrate that into his worldview. So Albus had told Flamel about his regular hikes and romantic tea-times? Really? He would have thought his brother shier about such matters, and more considerate of the fact that his six-hundred-year-old acquaintance perhaps shouldn’t know something that precarious. “You believe he’s been doing something that harebrained, and you didn’t try to stop him?”

“Your brother is a good man, but he can be very stubborn. And neither did you.”

“Albus wouldn’t listen to a word I say, in fact, he would do actually the opposite of what I say. Unless it is the thing that he wants to hear underneath it all, then he would just take it for my approval and go through with it regardless.”

“Yes, that sounds quite like Albus, doesn’t it?” Flamel chuckled softly. “He always has to go with his head through the nearest wall, no matter the consequences. So you concur, then.”

“Concur? On what?”

“The version of events. The caster of the curse.”

“A few dozen bones is excessive, even for someone with anger-management issues. Besides, I’ve been on the receiving end of a knee-jerk Cruciatus for the same reason, that same destructive and compulsive jealousy. I’d recognise it blind. So you know. When did he tell you?”

“He told me of an incident in late September, he was quite... clueless as to how to behave. Until recently, this matter did not resurface, though, I believe he did not wish for a meeting soon after the incident with the demonstration. I believe he felt rather betrayed, being exploited before a world audience.”

“Serves him right for ever putting a modicum of trust in that man.”

“Albus does not deserve your hatred. He is only doing what he thinks is best, for the world and himself as well.”

“Oh, splendid,” Aberforth hissed, “I’ll tell him that whatever the hell he did, it was the best decision for him, considering it would literally have killed him. Perhaps then we at least would’ve been rid of his utter lack of adult decision-making abilities.”

That side-eye of Flamel had a specific burn to it, and not something Aberforth truly appreciated. 

“I believe,” he continued nevertheless without a showcase of disapproval, “that Albus may have declared this unwillingness to reunite. I witnessed him after an encounter in Paris the year before last, where he returned covered in injuries donated by a magical artefact you should be well-acquainted with, by his words.”

“So he’s told you everything, then?”

“We shared a household and many hours for several years. The existence of such an artefact was rather complicated to veil, especially with its ingrained brutality. I often donated potions to heal his ailments after an attack.”

“I didn’t think my brother was so prone to hatred.”

“He tends to hate himself rather than others, for that precise artefact’s existence. It has conditioned him away from normal feelings, and has made them spiral into his own self. Surely you have noted as well that, underneath the bravado of his person, he himself is his biggest critic?”

Aberforth hadn’t much thought about his point, and to be outwitted by a fossil triggered his defensiveness more than he would have liked. 

“And surely you are realising you are acting like an estranged father to him.”

“Oh, I would be proud,” Flamel only answered merrily, “so proud indeed, to call Albus mine own. But this decision is his to make, not mine. Whether he considers me family, or friend, or instructor, or teacher, or whatever else. Regardless, I witnessed him after this encounter, very much brutalised by the artefact, and it made me think, indeed: for all that he is excellent at bottling up his every thought and feeling, do you think it within the realm of possibility that he loses control over this sometimes, and quite dramatically so?”

“You mean whether, as a sort of... counter-balance, when he does open his mouth about such things, they just all come out and he can’t stop it?”

“Precisely. Have you observed such tendencies?”

Aberforth thought back to that night a year ago, where Albus had gotten himself intimately acquainted with a whole bottle of Firewhiskey and had accused him of murdering their sister, where Aberforth had tried to hit him out of his stupor and it still hadn’t helped much, considering how belligerent he’d still been the next morning. 

“Can’t say I haven’t.”

“Perhaps this was one such occurrence, then.”

“You think he just snapped? My brother, the faithful diplomat? Over what?”

“You didn’t see him after and around the speech. It is a miracle my wife did not realise the full depths of his emotions, considering how he wore them on his sleeve.”

“So she doesn’t know.”

“He told me in confidence. I saw no reason to betray it.”

“Not even to your own wife.”

“Especially not. I imagine she would have a good talking-to for him in store that would rival anything you could ever think of, and injure him even further. Perhaps one day, he will tell her, but for now... I consider it within the realm of possibility that... maybe something angered him, some behaviour, there was another encounter, and harmful words were traded to the point where Albus... simply sought to impart injury without thinking straight. Surely the existence of another would impart injury, no?”

“To the most jealous person in the whole wide world? Yeah, I couldn’t possibly think why that would be a good pressure point,” Aberforth huffed sarcastically. “But d’you really think my brother’s that dumb?”

“Not dumb,” Flamel corrected. “Injured. Driven into a corner, lashing out like a caged tiger.”

“Lion.”

“Pardon me?”

“He’s a Gryffindor, he’s a lion, not a tiger.”

“Oh, pardon me, I did not wish to insult the loyalty you carry to your house. Albus may not display it, but his magic is... different.”

“Yes, I know, nobody ever ceases to mention how much better he is than me.”

“He performs spells with such a careless nonchalance sometimes, his very understanding of magic itself is different from that of most people, except for perhaps two, three living individuals.”

“One. Only one matches my brother’s magic, or can surpass it. There’s nobody like those two. Why d’you think they keep ending up circling each other? And who d’you think’s more powerful, considering Albus always gets the short end of that stick?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. I personally think Albus has spent a lot of time conditioning himself into believing his power is surpassed by others because he fears the responsibility, and how it could corrupt him, like it did then. There is no telling what he could do, if his power were restrained. If here were in danger. If he was angry, if he allowed himself to be. Sometimes, it could frighten a man to think of an apex predator with unknown skills driven into a corner like that – who knows what it may do in response to such treatment?”

“Get himself nearly killed, that’s what.”

“Yes, that is rather surprising. I wonder why the artefact didn’t intervene.”

“Because that bastard casts that curse as a knee-jerk reacting without even thinking about it, I assume it only realised what was going on after the fact.”

“Which is why the curse spiralled.”

“Oh, you noticed that too?”

“Healer Canul confirmed it, and his healing, whilst experimental, seems quite apt to me. You see, I too was a healer once, for nearly two hundred years, contracted by both Muggle and wizarding authorities. I can differentiate between a Cruciatus Curse that has lost control, and one which was deliberately cast.”

“Great. That leaves us with the question of what the hell we are supposed to do with this situation.”

“I do not suppose we really can do anything. I suppose this injury is bound to its counterpart – neither will awaken before the other does, or, in this case, Albus will awaken first.”

“That heart-splinching doesn’t add to his tally. Which means he’s gonna be up earlier than Albus.”

“In this case, we can only stand by his side and hope he heals soon. The magic you performed was inspired – do not let anyone tell you you are not formidable in your own right. 'As any' he 'belied with false compare,' or so William would have said.”

“I’ll try and remember it,” Aberforth sighed as they came up on the Hospital Wing, finally, though, he hadn’t found himself minding the old alchemist’s company so much these past few minutes. “Either one of us is going to have to instigate a serious talking-to when he wakes up.”

“Not instantly. If what we predict holds true, his agony will be unbearable.”

“He got dozens of his bones broken, that’ll hurt.”

“I meant the emotional agony,” Flamel stated quietly. “He was so torn about this idea, about attempting to manipulate, about putting his own emotions on the line for it. He was trying to do good, he once told me any minute he takes for himself, at detriment to his own emotions, would be a minute not used for nefarious purpose, for inflicting hurt and anger onto the world. His pursuit was noble indeed, and I fear when he reawakens, he will be more vulnerable than ever. Perhaps a scolding could wait until he knows how glad we are that he lives?”

“But only barely,” Aberforth conceded through gritted teeth – he supposed his brother would be unbearable, once he woke. Perhaps it was best if he didn’t, for a while. It would save everyone a lot of trouble, but him most of all.

Chapter Text

   Lisky didn’t know whether she had ever had a night so scary and exhausting – Lisky could have fallen off her feet and begun crying. 

   Sir-

Sir was alive, but only barely so. 

   So many hours. So many frightening hours. So much blood. So much time- Hours since Lisky had found Sir in the cottage. The thought made Lisky’s throat constrict with worry and anger.

Lisky had seen Sir so injured over the years. Lisky had accustomed herself to the thought of Sir one day... with Sir's dark visions and his recklessness, that one day, something terrible would happen, or that somebody else would make something terrible happen. 

   When Sir had lost his eye, he had bled so much and his magic had made the entirety of the first floor of Nurmengard – then Schloss Drachenthron – explode. It had been shortly after that Sir had decided to change the name, when his first design, with dragon doorknockers and large murals depicting his favourite species, had been blown to bits. Looking out of the windows, Lisky could still sometimes see the craters of where the debris had hit, and Sir lying curled together in the middle on the floor, with snowflakes slowly falling down on his lifeless skin. Sir had looked otherworldly, as though he had fallen from the skies themselves. Losing Sir’s eye had hardened him, had made him more tight-lipped, less gentle, less comfortable to be around. Lisky could understand – Sir had once told Lisky that Sir had seen himself rule the world when he had been very young, but that time, Sir had seen why he needed to rule the world, what he needed to save it from. That it would be a terrible catastrophe had hurt Sir, Lisky knew that. Had made Sir frightened of whether he was good enough, strong enough, and Sir never liked to feel frightened. Sir didn’t like negative feelings. Sir needed to be fierce and strong and determined to rule the world before the catastrophe.

So gone had been evenings by the kitchen fireplace, and playing Schaffkopf. Gone had been many discussions about cooking, and doing so together. Gone had been hovering over plans together, gone had been the pleases and thank yous, gone had been talking about magic and laughing together. Gone had been the plants for flowerpots of all citrusy fruits, and darker walls, and an Italian-inspired architecture with columns and statues and open arches and accentuating blues. Once, Sir had confessed to Bisky that Sir had foreseen himself in a vision calling the stronghold the Fliederburg, but that he had never followed through because the person he wanted to rule beside him had betrayed him. Whenever Lisky thought of Nurmengard now, she was proud – searching for a new name, Sir had asked Lisky, and Lisky had written a few letters on the page she had liked. Sir had taken them, had cast magic on them, and had therefore determined the most magical combination of letters. Lisky would never forget the warmth and childish excitement in Sir’s eyes when he had seen the name of his castle, and how warm Lisky too had felt knowing that she had helped Sir find the perfect name for it. 

Only a few weeks ago, Sir had been really hurt by the battle in Prussia, and had come back to Nurmengard unconscious. Then the parasite that had eaten Sir’s leg! Then before that, Sir masquerading as Mrs Carrow and coming back near-drained of all of his power in an ill-fitted dress! Then before that, only two years ago, Sir returning from prison malnourished and with his ribs showing, each one of them – Lisky, Misky and Bisky had missed Sir tremendously during this time, especially because he had gone to America several months before that. Sir had been gone over a year, and Nurmengard had not been the same with Mme Rosier leading, especially because she was not as nice to Lisky as Sir was, not even remotely. 

Sir always got hurt. Sir lived dangerously. Sir was dangerous. 

But Lisky had never seen Sir like this. 

   The night had arrived, settled in, dragged out, and had given way to light, but only barely so. Clouds were racing over the sky, deep and drowning out all natural light. Dawn had come three hours afore, and it was no brighter it seemed to Lisky, as though the very sky was mourning.

Sir wasn’t getting better. 

Sir was suffering from something, some unknown ailment neither of the Elves seemed to be capable of dispelling, even with Sir’s wand firmly in hand. Lisky had been right, it was different from other wizard wands in how it worked fundamentally and made power stronger, but it could not make Sir’s condition go away. But the wand had made it so that Sir wasn’t losing the blood anymore, but that it was put back into his body as soon as it exited, and Misky had even been clever enough to suggest adding an additional step of cleaning in case the floorboards weren’t perfectly clean before Sir hurt even more. But Sir was still pale. Misky had made it warm around Sir after most of his garments had been removed to see the injuries, and Sir was in a worse shape than they could have feared, even now that the indigo from the torturing curse had almost vanished, only the smallest little particles of it still hanging in the cloud. 

Lisky suspected therefore that the torturing curse had not been originally cast on Sir, but perhaps rather that Sir had cast it and it had perhaps backfired. Lisky didn’t know whether the three unforgivable spells known to wizards and witches were capable of that, but the ones the Goblins knew were, at least if wizards were to use them. 

Lisky hoped that Zerra would be capable enough to lead the forces of Nurmengard without notification. Perhaps Sir had been a little right in employing new Elves, at least like this, Lisky, Misky and Bisky could now dedicate more time to Sir and his dangerous pursuits. Sir really needed some-Elf to look after Sir sometimes. 

It was the first time since yesterday evening that Lisky had the time or space of head to actually worry about such matters. Surely Mr Aleksandr could manage the kitchen as well on isolated occasions, but Lisky really liked Mr Aleksandr, and didn’t like leaving him all on his own with all the work. But Sir was more important, in any case. 

Sir was so pale, Lisky almost couldn’t hold the food Bisky had made for them in. Bisky always needed to eat when she was nervous or frightened, so it had not surprised Lisky when Bisky had begun using the kitchen and some of the dry ingredients Sir kept in the cupboards because he too liked to cook. But that didn’t change how Sir looked, full of lacerations and cuts and forming bruises and still magic moving underneath his skin, relentlessly and unpredictably. When Lisky had carefully cut into one of those moving places to determine whether it was indeed a magical parasite, if not the same as that which had formed two weeks afore, there had been absolutely nothing. Just Sir’s magic moving under his skin. Lisky found this very strange because it was obvious that this very magic was actively injuring Sir, tearing through his arms specifically, but also his chest, his abdomen, his right side. Why would Sir’s own magic be hurting him? Why would Sir’s magic travel over his entire body and tear into him, cause cuts from the inside, make blood hubs explode? Had Sir done something that had so disagreed with his magic? Or had someone found a way to weaponise Sir’s magic against himself, turn it into a poisonous substance for Sir? Sir liked to call this process ‘speculative guesswork’, and seemed to find it very intriguing, but Lisky hated it. Lisky liked evidence, plain and simple. Lisky wanted to know what was wrong with Sir, so she put her glass of water down so quickly that some of it jumped to the table, still drenched in remnants of tea. 

   “Lisky, Misky and Bisky need to investigate this.”

“This?” Bisky asked, eating a small bite from her bread, which she had freshly baked. 

“Yes, Bisky, this! How did this happen? Who did this to Sir? What did Sir say before he left? How can Sir be helped? What did Sir do? What had Sir planned for yesterday? What-“

“Misky doesn’t know. But Misky knows Sir was wearing the improvement transfiguration when he left yesterday morning. Sir asked Misky three times whether everything was properly in place. Sir even asked whether he looked ‘decidedly more masculine than last Saturday’, because the clothes were so colourful.”

“Sir requested those colours personally! Sir said that he would like ‘something extravagant and elegant, reminiscently nineteenth-century in purple primarily, but with golden accents, feathers, perhaps, something that elongates my legs and-‘

“So Sir wanted to look elegant,” Misky concluded. “Sir never likes to wear colours.”

“Bisky was surprised, but didn’t ask why. Sir never would have told Bisky.”

“Sir never wears gold, or purple. Sir always wears blacks and blues and silvers. Even in the improvement transfiguration. Sir once told Lisky Sir doesn’t like purple at all because it reminds him of something evil in his past.”

“Some dark magic is purple. Maybe Sir was hurt by dark magic before, and doesn’t like to remember it?”

“Maybe. But wizards don’t see magic in colours like Elves do, so this is only a theory. Did Sir say anything else?”

“Sir said he was nervous, and then chuckled, and said, ‘like always’.”

“But Sir is never nervous.”

“Who, what would make Sir nervous?” Misky asked curiously. “Sir wasn’t nervous when he spoke before so many wizards!”

“And Sir meets many people. Sir was nervous before he met the wizard minister of Germany.”

“Really? But Sir is never nervous before political meetings.”

“Sir said it was because the wizard minister knew Sir when Sir was very little.”

“Misky can’t imagine that.”

“Sir knew a lot of people when he was younger.”

“No, that Sir- that Sir was young once. Sir is so tall and strong, Misky finds it hard to imagine Sir may one day have been as small as Misky.”

Lisky had once seen a picture of Sir when he had been very small, and had only been able to tell that it had been Sir overall because Sir had already had his eyes. Sir’s eyes were magical. Wizards called those markers anomalies, Elves didn’t really have a name for them, but they marked a very special wizard, with extraordinary talents. With Sir, this was the reception of time magic into his mind, and Sir was very brave and strong for enduring it and using it to do good in this world. 

“Misky needs not think about young Sir now. Who was here is the most important thing.”

“Who would Sir be nervous to meet? Not Mr Aurelius or Mme Rosier.”

“Ms Queenie came come into the cottage too.”

“But Ms Queenie doesn’t hurt anybody. Ms Queenie told Lisky how beautiful her shirt was just a week ago, and whether Ms Queenie could borrow the design. Ms Queenie also makes clothes, Bisky.”

“Really? Bisky has to talk to Ms Queenie. Maybe Ms Queenie can convince Sir that black is not his colour but blue! Bisky has tried in vain for many years, and Sir listens to Ms Queenie more than to Bisky.”

“Not now, Bisky,” Lisky groaned – whenever there were pretty things, superficial Bisky got ever so distracted. “Lisky can see many pieces of evidence. Sir left early this morning in ‘elegant’ and ‘extravagant’ clothes at his request. Sir stated he was nervous. Sir is never nervous, and Bisky can recall Sir only ever once stated he was nervous, before meeting the minister of Germany. Sir is never nervous when he meets the minister of Austria. A second person was in this cottage, and not long before Lisky came. This second person apparated out, and injured themselves in the process. Sir seems to have had tea with someone. And Lisky theorises that Sir did not have anything to eat, and therefore came to Nurmengard to steal the Keksdose.”

“So Sir did not expect to have tea.”

“Is there maybe poison in the tea? Sir never drinks tea, only when he had a very terrible vision. Otherwise, Sir always drinks coffee, or water, to meals and snacks.”

Bisky had meanwhile let her fingers hover over the liquid of the spilled teacups and shook her head soon after. 

“It is just normal tea. Very mild green tea.”

“Misky has noticed something else.”

“What is it, Misky?”

“Sir- Sir doesn’t wear- tweed, is that what Bisky would call it?”

“Call what?”

“The coat there. On the coat-rack. That doesn’t look like something Sir would wear. It looks out of place.”

Bisky jumped into action quickly, apparating beside the rack and examining the fabric with ginger fingers, letting it hover down, turning it inside and out, reaching into the pockets and finding within-

“There is a secret space in the chest pocket,” Bisky announced. “But Bisky cannot open it.”

“A magician’s coat!”

“Why would Sir have met a non-magical person?”

“Sir could have met the dead-raiser.”

“The dead-raiser wouldn’t wear a blue tweed coat, Misky,” Lisky lectured her sister with a roll of her large eyes. “Is it sealed tightly?””

“Yes. Only the wand that cast it could open it. Perhaps Sir, or a very powerful wizard or witch otherwise as well, but not Bisky. But Bisky has found something else!” 

“What is it?”

“Look, Lisky, Misky,” Bisky cheered and apparated back to their side. “A watch!”

“A watch?”

Bisky presented, carefully cradled, a beautiful watch for the pocket, along with a silvery chain-string. It seemed to show the time, the weather, the date, the lunar cycle, the planetary alignments in the background as well as some other things Lisky couldn’t decipher, and was clearly brimming with magic. On the back of it, the initials P.O.D. were engraved in a very artistic font that didn’t seem like Sir’s own, so it was likely not the German way of writing. Lisky tried to match these initials to a name – she knew that an ornamental watch with initials likely meant that the initials were short for the name of the wearer, or someone they cared about – but did not manage to do so – Lisky knew no-one that had these initials. Mme Rosier didn’t match them, neither did Mr Aurelius, nor Ms Queenie, nor Mr Aleksandr, or Mr Pichler, or Mrs Carrow, or Mr Myrill, or anyone that Lisky knew in the castle of Nurmengard, or beyond. Lisky also knew the minister of Germany was named Gustav Kirsch, and it also didn’t match therefore. Or maybe it was Sir’s watch for the pocket? Maybe for one of Sir’s numerous transfigurations? Sir had told Lisky that Sir wore many names, Éduarde, and Herr Maier, and Franziska Schüller, and Friedrich, and some others Lisky had forgotten now, but none of them rang a bell with her either. 

“Lisky, Bisky, look!” Misky exclaimed at once when she had played with a few buttons on the watch, and a back-compartment sprang open. A little slip of paper fell out, folded and flattened by having sat in the back of the watch. 

“What did Misky do?”

“Misky just played with the buttons, and then noticed magic coming out of the watch, and Misky made the little wheels spin further and further until it was most magical.”

“What does it say?” Lisky questioned impatiently and picked up the paper from the ground, holding it close to her eyes before beginning to read.

My little Short-Snout, 

I write this note in the hope that you will one day find this watch, and play around with it – you always did like to tinker and play with magic, my brilliant boy. I have enchanted it so that it will only unfold its true magic if you or your brother and sister operate it. I have hidden notes for them as well, if they artificially set the dates to their birthdays and -times just like you just did. I knew that you would figure it out first. You always loved your mother's riddles so much, you are so much like her, all of you, in your own ways. You didn't get much from your silly old father, and in a way, I am glad - I have turned out so pitiful in the end. 

I don’t have much time now before Solomon will come to arrest me, and I know your mother doesn’t want me talking to you children again after what I did, and I understand that. Violence is not the answer. I wish it will never be yours, my darling Short-Snout. But I cannot simply leave without saying goodbye. When we knew your sister was going to die, one day or the next, I just could not let it stand, a craze of anger and revenge for which I now despise myself. Violence, I see now, is never the answer - it only breeds more violence. Violence I have unleashed upon our family, to your mother, for she had already lost her parents, her grandparents, her aunts, her three sisters unavenged, now her husband, and her little daughter too, at the hands of those boys that had already brought old Mariam’s ward to the Muggle hospital, and had killed some of the sheep on the Sorensens’ farm. How long before another tragedy? Such were my thoughts, then, a coward's thoughts. I ought to have reported, not avenged. I plan to surrender myself peacefully, in the hopes that our family can live happily from here on out. I only ask, my little Short-Snout, that you take good care of yourself, and think not too often of your silly old father. Perhaps all will be well. Your dear mother – not that we had drifted apart before my actions, by no means, but love can bloom in even the strangest of crevices, and we have always promised each other we would follow its call whilst still being there for our family – has recently been more interested in an old school friend of mine, Beri, and well, I suppose I could die contently should she find her happiness with him, he's a decent lad and I know he'd make a good father to you three. Regardless, you were always such a clever boy, I’m sure you’ll find your way in the world even without – especially without – your idiot father. You’ll be brilliant, I just know it. And I know you will want to feel compelled to be the man in the house now, but you are only ten, please, if there is a grain of respect left in you for your silly old father, do not shoulder the weight of the whole world. Be a child, be innocent, if you can be. Most importantly, be yourself, you and your siblings - you are all such marvellous beings in your own right, your mother and I never quite knew what we did to be blessed with three such extraordinary children. 

Hoping that one day you will find it within yourself to forgive me for my actions, 

Sending you the strength of all the giants, 

Dad x

   “What does any of that mean?” Misky questioned soon after, and Lisky put the piece of parchment on a part of the table that was dry. 

“Lisky doesn’t know. It sounds like a letter written from a father to a son.”

“So maybe from Sir’s father?”

“But why would Sir’s father write in English? Sir’s father was German, right?”

“Lisky is right. That wouldn’t make sense. Misky, what date did you set?”

“The twentieth of- July or August, Misky isn’t sure. It looks like both. And Misky made the planets move all over the watch, but Misky isn’t sure what that means. Just that Saturn is now right behind the little cloud.”

Lisky read the letter again, but couldn’t identify any of the references. There were hardly any names, Solomon, Mariam, the Sorensens, Beri, but Lisky knew none of them. Lisky knew that a Short-Snout was a type of dragon breed, Sir had talked about all dragon breeds many times and wanting to see and interact with all of them – Sir had been so giddy a few weeks ago when he had been able to take care of dragons when in his Franziska-form – but it was just another dragon-breed that didn’t seem as special as an Ayida, which Sir would never have admitted to be his favourite dragon because it was so colourful, and Sir rather liked the more imposing, darker dragons. Lisky read the letter a third time, but still could not filter out any more substantial information – Lisky wasn’t even sure whether the sister mentioned was still alive or not at the time of the letter being written, let alone who she would have been. It all didn’t make any sense. And most importantly, it didn’t give Lisky any clues as to who had visited, and how Sir could be made better. 

And that was the only thing that mattered.

   Misky had begun crying soon after, seated firmly by Sir’s side and having begun carefully cleaning his hair from all the blood and using magic to dispel the dark energy that still hung around him. Even though Bisky had argued feverishly to remove Misky from being too close to the unknown danger, Misky could not be persuaded away, and now that the cloud had almost entirely lifted and Sir was mostly only surrounded by mild hints of colour, Lisky didn’t have any arguments left for persuading Misky either. It was no secret to the three Elves that Misky, the youngest, was most attached to Sir, having only been a few weeks old when Sir had purchased them, whilst Lisky had been almost two years old already. Sometimes, Lisky wished she could have met her mother nowadays, but then Lisky always imagined how disappointed her mother would be when learning Lisky and her sisters had decided to be free Elves, that they were wearing charmed clothes and getting presents for Yuletide and had hobbyhorses and behaved more like witches and wizards than was deemed acceptable for Elves. Lisky still remembered fragments of her mother, though Lisky didn’t know a name, but Misky didn’t remember anything. To Misky, the only person that had been there at the time was Sir, and Misky’s sisters. It was only natural that Misky cared more for Sir if Sir was the only adult Misky remembered from her tiny years, and the person who had taught her to speak right, and how to do all basic duties of Elves, and how to be an independent Elf. Bisky still seemed to think that the solution could be found in the coat, or the letter, or the watch, but having hovered over it for two hours now, Bisky had still not found any new evidence. Lisky had made for Nurmengard to tell Zerra to be in charge of the kitchen until further notice, and that she was only to send a message if there was an emergency before returning to the scene of the crime. Zerra was very good at following orders. 

   But Sir’s state had not changed. Sir was still lying on the ground motionlessly, and still bleeding, and Sir’s magic was still hurting him, and neither of Lisky, Bisky or Misky knew why. Lisky couldn’t stand the sight of Sir like this and how helpless it made Lisky feel, so she decided to pace outside, and possibly collect some more clues there, but outside, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. The flowers were typically destroyed by winter, Lisky could smell the sea but not hear it, the shields were still the same colours that Sir usually liked to draw, perfectly in place and the only other flavour of magic were the spells Lisky and her sisters had drawn yesterday. From the outside, nobody could have suspected the bloodbath inside. Lisky liked mysteries in books, but in reality, it frightened her not to be as clever as the investigators on the pages.

   When Lisky returned inside, Misky was still cleaning Sir’s hair, though Misky’s tears had dried up. Misky was also humming to herself, a melody Lisky recognised as one that Sir also hummed sometimes. Sir liked music made by Muggles, where there were a lot of instruments and different passages and everything was complex. Sir had stopped humming too after the vision, but had been doing it more recently. Sir had overall become much gentler again recently, perhaps he could allow that now that he had found so many friends that would help him make the world better. Three Winters ago, Sir would not have been so worried about Misky. Sir would not have been so nice to Lisky, Bisky and Misky when they disagreed on something. Sir would not have been so friendly to Mr Aurelius’ familiar. Sir had talked of his emotions more recently again. 

   “Maybe Sir was meeting Vision-Albus,” Misky suggested meekly after a while.

“Is Misky insane?!” Lisky and Bisky barked almost simultaneously, Bisky letting go of the coat, and Lisky almost tripping over her feet. “Why would Misky think that?!”

“Sir said last year that Sir had received a letter from Vision-Albus.”

“A letter! Misky, if Sir met Vision-Albus, Sir would have to fight Vision-Albus because he stands in Sir’s way!”

“Yes, Vision-Albus betrayed Sir, and now makes everything more complicated for Sir!”

“But Sir said he was feeling very hopeful about Vision-Albus’ letter. Do Bisky and Lisky not remember how Sir cooked this terribly under-seasoned food and talked to Mr Aleksandr to-“

“But Sir would have to fight Vision-Albus! Even if Sir and Vision-Albus were friends once as Sir said in his speech! It doesn’t matter what Vision-Albus says in a letter, Sir would still have to fight Vision-Albus because he stands in Sir’s way, and Sir must save the world! Sir has to eliminate all threats to victory, and Vision-Albus is a threat. Sir was likely very happy about the letter because it proposed either an alliance or surrender under certain conditions.”

“Yes, Misky is wrong.”

“Very wrong.”

“But what if Sir and Vision-Albus did meet and fought?”

“Vision-Albus doesn’t cast dark magic.”

“Besides, is Misky blind?” Bisky asked annoyedly. “There was no fight here! There was only a torturing curse cast once, nothing else! Sir would never be caught off-guard by a torturing curse! No binding magic, no shielding magic, no disarming magic!”

“But what if Sir cast the torturing curse? And it was deflected?”

“No wizard can deflect an unforgivable curse.”

“Wizards can stop being under the mind-controlling curse, though.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Misky! Sir is very powerful, more powerful than any witch or wizard Bisky knows, and the news-parchments say tha-“

“Maybe-“ Misky said quietly, then looking away. 

“Yes, Misky?”

“It’s silly, Bisky, forget it.”

“Bisky wants to know.”

“Misky doesn’t want to say it. Because it’s so silly.”

“Bisky wants to know now!”

Misky turned her eyes away and stroked through Sir’s hair with hastier movements.

“What if Vision-Albus wasn’t only Sir’s friend?”

“But Sir’s ally? Sir sometimes says he wishes he had someone to rule with him. Sir once mentioned to Lisky that Sir would have called Nurmengard in this ally’s name, but he was betrayed.”

“N-no,” Misky stammered and looked out of the window. “Sir- Sir isn’t like other wizards, right? Sir- Sir likes wizards.”

“Of course Sir likes wizards! Sir likes all magical creatures, Elves and Wolves and even Blood-Fanged! And Sir doesn’t even care for the difference between witches and wizards!”

“Misky meant- Misky meant whether maybe- maybe if Sir likes wizards, and Sir always calls for one wizard when Sir hurts... Sir has so many friends now, but Sir never calls for another friend. Mme Rosier is Sir’s best friend, right? But Sir doesn’t call for Mme Rosier. Or Sir's other old friends, Mr Aleksandr, or Mr Augustus, but only a friend Sir hasn’t seen in many years, and that is against Sir now. Maybe- maybe Sir liked- maybe Vision-Albus is- was Sir’s special friend.”

“Of course Vision-Albus was Sir’s special friend. The news-parchments say Vision-Albus is as strong as Sir! Nobody else is as strong as Sir! Vision-Albus and Sir must have known that too. Sir must have planned to rule together, and Vision-Albus betrayed this! And Sir is always so tired from being all alone in charge of something so important, what if Sir gets sick or- Sir just wants to have security for his people, and Vision-Albus-”

“Misky- Misky means-“

“Yes, what does Misky mean?”

“Well, Sir says Sir likes wizards. Sir says he finds wizards gorgeous, not witches. Sir once said to Lisky Sir only wanted to have a wizard partner, not a witch partner. What if Vision-Albus’ was Sir’s wizard partner?”

“Albus Dumbledore?” Lisky squeaked – that couldn’t be! 

Lisky, Bisky and Misky had once spent a lot of time trying to find Vision-Albus, kidnap him and present him to Sir so Sir would stop feeling so scared and lonely when his visions hurt him so much, and made him incapable of casting magic, and threatened his brain so much. Lisky, Bisky and Misky had searched all news-parchments, and had asked all other Elves they had encountered whether they knew a Vision, or an Albus, or a Vision-Albus, and there seemed to only be one on the entire planet, and that was the man that opposed Sir so much! And then Sir had recently said they had been friends?! Lisky really didn’t know up from down on this matter. Lisky had decided really not to like Vision-Albus, even after hearing an impassioned two statements by first an Elf called Aldetta and serving a family in France, and then one called Tissy, who apparently served in England and hated it there, especially the children who always hurt him with their little experiments. Lisky had thought to perhaps persuade Tissy to come to Nurmengard, but Tissy was very loyal to the wrong people. Regardless-

“Misky is losing her mind,” Bisky proclaimed. “Ever since Sama came to Nurmengard, Misky has been different, thinking about feelings and wizard partners and suggesting- if Misky ever suggested this to Sir, Sir would be furious! Sir would be so furious, Misky wouldn’t be-“

“But what if it’s true?!” Misky claimed ferociously, though she was close to tears again. “What if Sir-“

“Stop thinking that, Misky! Misky will get herself into terrible trouble if she keeps thinking like this. One of Sir’s allies betrayed Sir, and somehow, Sir’s rightful curse rebounded on Sir, or- or maybe it was duplicated, and the betrayer apparated away-“

“And why couldn’t that betrayer be Vision-Albus?!” Misky questioned heatedly. “Vision-Albus has betrayed Sir once before, why not again? Sir dressed-“

“Misky, get these things out! Misky is going to get into terrible trouble if she thinks more about this! Just because Misky is suddenly interested in having an Elf-partner-“

“Misky is not interested in having an Elf-partner!” Misky exclaimed, having jumped to her feet. “Misky is only theorising! Misky just had an idea! Why does Bisky have to ruin Misky’s idea?!”

“Because Misky’s idea is insane! Vision-Albus is a coward and Sir only said nice things about Vision-Albus because Sir had to for the masses at the gathering, not because Sir actually thinks that! Misky always has insane ideas! Misky will get hurt if-“

“Misky doesn’t care! Misky thinks she’s right! Why is Misky so insane for thinking-“

“Bisky! Misky- please, calm down. Sir isn’t going to get better from Misky and Bisky yelling at each other.”

“But Misky is out of her-“

“And Bisky is completely against-“

“Misky, Bisky, please. How about Misky tells Bisky why Misky thinks Sir could have met Vision-Albus, calmly, and then Bisky tells Misky why Bisky thinks Misky cannot be correct?”

They looked at each other for a few moments before Misky turned her eyes away to Sir and sat down beside him again, stroking over his arm in measured movements, and Bisky huffed and crossed her arms. 

“Lisky shouldn’t encourage Misky’s delusions.”

“Misky doesn’t have delusions!” Misky yelled back and Lisky sighed. 

“Misky, Bisky and Lisky haven’t found any evidence that would tell them what happened. Why not let Misky speculate? Maybe even when Misky isn’t right, Misky will say something that sparks an idea in Bisky, or something Sir said that Bisky didn’t remember before, or if Misky gives Lisky an idea? There is no evidence, so Misky, Lisky and Bisky need to do ‘speculative guesswork’ like Sir does. Why does Misky think Vision-Albus could have been Sir’s wizard-partner?”

Misky thought for a few seconds, probably also trying to calm down. Misky’s hands tried holding Sir by the shoulder, before fidgeting with his hair again. Lisky rarely saw Misky this nervous, which Lisky didn’t know how to interpret. 

“Sir likes wizards,” Misky began quietly. “Lisky, Sir does like wizards, right? Like other wizards like witches. Misky cannot be the only one Sir has expressed this to.”

“No, Misky is not. Lisky has seen Sir kiss wizards before, back when Nurmengard was still being made. Lisky has never seen Sir kiss a witch, though. Sir dances with Mme Rosier, but Lisky doesn’t think Sir wants to do more than dancing.”

“What does Sir’s liking matter?” Bisky asked sourly, arms still crossed. Out of the three of them, Bisky was always easiest to offend. Lisky loved Bisky, of course, but Bisky could be just as annoying with her snap judgements as Misky could be with her emotionality and her jumping to conclusions quickly. Lisky often ended up being the mediator between her two younger siblings. 

“If Sir liked only witches, Misky’s point would be disproven by default, because then Vision-Albus couldn’t have been Sir’s partner. But if Sir likes wizards, and- and would like a wizard-partner, and not a witch-partner, then at least the possibility exists.”

Bisky huffed and turned her head away. 

“Whether Sir wants to have a husband or a wife doesn’t matter. Vision-Albus cannot be Sir’s husband. Vision-Albus betrayed Sir. Sir would never be that stupid.”

“Liking someone isn’t stu-“

“Misky. Please tell Lisky and Bisky why you think that Sir and Vision-Albus could have been partners in the past."

“Sir- Sir said in his speech that he really admires Vision-Albus, and that they were great friends a very long time ago.”

“Yes, friends, Misky. Friends are not partners. And Sir never lies.”

“But Sir also couldn’t openly tell everyone in the world that he and Vision-Albus were together! Sir couldn’t do that, even if he wanted to. Nobody would believe that.”

“Because it’s mad, Misky!”

“Bisky, please. Let Misky speak,” Lisky sighed, folding her hands – this was going to be a long afternoon. 

   Eventually, Misky’s theory amounted to guesswork, and guesswork alone, but Lisky still found it rather well-argued. Misky thought because Sir called for Vision-Albus because they had been more special to each other than anyone else in Nurmengard was to Sir. Bisky had argued that Sir never admitted it, but was sometimes powerless with his visions, and that Vision-Albus perhaps could have been strong enough to do something about how much they hurt Sir. This, Lisky found a better argumentation, considering Sir could be emotional, but never melancholic, or longing for the past. Sir looked to the future. There was also the clear evidence that Sir had said Vision-Albus had sent a letter, and that it had made him feel ‘a gust of hope,’ and also a ‘flicker of esperance’, which Lisky didn’t know what it meant, and then Sir had said it had made him feel ‘a modicum of a daydream, to penetrate the blackness and soothe the sepsis of mine own heart and soul.’ Lisky didn’t really know what the last part amounted to entirely because she didn’t know the word sepsis, but soothing a heart, and a soul, and doing something to blackness, and feeling like hope and a daydream, it had to be something positive, right? Misky then suggested that Sir was never nervous, so what if Sir was only nervous when he was meeting somebody he liked perhaps a bit more than Sir usually liked people, that that didn’t have to be Vision-Albus, but any man, and Misky brought forth as well that Sir had specifically requested looking masculine according to Bisky, and that Sir had also wanted for something elegant, suggesting perhaps a rendezvous. Even though the thought that Sir had perhaps gone to privately meet a wizard made Bisky unwell, Lisky could tell, but Lisky found it overall well-reasoned, even if she could not imagine that Vision-Albus would have been the mysterious partner. Especially because the watch for the pocket carried different initials. Though, Vision-Albus’ real name was Albus Dumbledore, so perhaps the last initial of P.O.D. could have stood for Dumbledore? But Lisky didn’t know enough about Vision-Albus’ life to make any sense of the message. 

   “Well, if Vision-Albus injured Sir like this, he is a terrible, terrible wizard, and Sir deserves better!” Lisky eventually proclaimed. “And whether Sir met Vision-Albus or not, that doesn’t help Lisky and Bisky and Misky make Sir better. Sir is still suffering from his own magic, and no matter who did this and what happened, it doesn’t help fix Sir.”

“Lisky is right. But even with the coat and the strange watch for the pocket, can we exclude people Sir has asked to come here previously?”

“Does Bisky suspect Mme Rosier? Or Mr Aurelius? Or Ms Queenie? Or perhaps someone else?”

“Not Mr Aurelius and Ms Queenie. Bisky knows they do not cast dark magic. Bisky would see it. It would be very strange if they suddenly cast such magic. Mme Rosier... Bisky does not know. Mme Rosier also doesn’t cast much dark magic. And why would Mme Rosier apparate away so hastily she would splinch herself? This all doesn’t make sense to Bisky.”

“To Lisky neither. But- but Lisky, Bisky and Misky should probably make a schedule for the future. Lisky, Bisky and Misky need to take turns supervising Sir and Sir’s health, and one needs to be at the castle to make sure nobody suspects Sir’s weakness, and one needs to sleep, and this needs to be rotated.”

“Misky will not leave Sir’s side.”

“Lisky or Bisky will call immediately when Sir’s health is changing. Misky, you can take care of Sir first. And Bisky should sleep. Lisky will return to Nurmengard and pretend that everything is normal. Lisky, Bisky and Misky have to hope Sir gets better soon. Sir would not want Mr Belenus involved again, Sir was very angry last time Mr Belenus was called without permission.”

“But what if Sir doesn’t get better?”

“Lisky, Bisky and Misky will have to figure that out when the time comes. Take good care of Sir, Misky.”

Sir needed to get better soon, because what Lisky didn’t tell her sisters was that Sir’s magic was waning, and that Lisky had never seen Sir this weakened. And that, for the first time since Lisky had met Sir, Lisky was not certain Sir would be there for the next sunrise.

Chapter Text

   Why, with Wednesday come and gone, Aberforth truly felt like his brother deserved more of his recognition, albeit begrudgingly. 

   Of course, Albus had always been a mite bit barmy overall, but it was truly only Wednesday, and Aberforth was dangerously close to either out of a crying, screaming or surrendering fit. 

   How did Albus manage this?! Granted, Aberforth had never been good with children, but he wouldn’t have called himself so utterly terrible that only three days of slipping into Albus’ shoes would literally drain his soul more than a Dementor would have. Though, that was perhaps in poor taste to dear old dad. Not that Aberforth truly missed him, he’d gone too soon to miss him. Albus always had, he’d seen it in his eyes whenever he had been compared to him, but for Aberforth, he’d simply been taken away too early. Odd, really, that Albus had been such a daddy’s boy and Aberforth such a mummy’s child, considering who they had turned out to be. Now, granted, Albus wasn’t exactly effeminate most days but he did love his colours and sparkles and his unnecessary flourish. Perhaps the students loved that as well, as something to mock and run their mouths about so they were distracted and wouldn’t interrupt the lessons so much. He would have loved to claim all of his classes had gone as well as Monday’s utter dog’s breakfast, but they truly hadn’t. He wasn’t sure whether he despised that bunch of third-year machines – they hadn’t let him rest for a second and had questioned him about God and the entire human world to the degree where Aberforth had felt like passing out from so much social contact – that brood of overly confident fifths – coating the substitute professor that was essentially solely responsible for the Butterbeer inflow to Hogwarts and would certainly not sell them even a pint in the future no matter their age, in a gaggle of Pixies, what sort of conduct was that? – or that seventh-year class – vastly inferior to the counterpart on Monday morning, and so in each other’s hair over some infant house-related quarrel that they had ended up spelling each other – more. All in all, he had only had two bearable classes, seventh on Monday morning – he couldn’t believe those were year-mates of that flock of idiotic pigeons that had shot spells at each other in the middle of class – and this midday second-years, relatively quiet compared to the other course, and with one little midget coming up to him after class and asking for Albus’ well-being, clearly some sort of Lestrange by the looks of him. Which had made him think back to the other class, and that clear leader of them, whom he had retrospectively connected. 

   Great. Aberforth Dumbledore was teaching Pandora Greengrass’ brood. That he’d see the day. That they’d survive the day – what an utter snobbish priss that one had been, he couldn’t believe at least one child had turned out mildly bearable. And polite, too. 

   Regardless, as Aberforth was, once more, hurrying down from the second-floor classroom, he truly did wonder how Albus had escaped decades, literal decades of this without severe mental damage. Perhaps that was why he was readily jumping back into Blondie’s arms – Aberforth seriously considered whether terrorist and barmy lunatic wasn’t a better life choice than Hogwarts professor. 

   Or whether they were one and the same thing – after all, Aberforth hadn’t felt this murderous since 1901 or so, give or take. Albus probably would’ve argued his mere presence unearthed murderous tendencies in his brother, but then again, that was his brother’s inability to keep anger and disappointment apart. Albus had never been good at reading negative emotions of others, too caught up in his own. In truth, Aberforth had gotten over his anger the day of Ari’s funeral, with that truly cathartic punch in his brother’s battered face. He’d known then that his brother, no matter how much he’d always hate him, he just wasn’t worth it. He didn’t care enough to be mad, Albus was just somebody that shared his blood. It’d take a lot more to make them proper brothers. By that, he stood, though, recently, Albus had done quite well getting himself back into the possibility of Aberforth feeling anything but disappointment. For example indignation at how utterly idiotic that supposed smartest man alive actually was. It figured – for all that Albus was academically smart, he certainly wasn’t so bright in other realms. Smart of mind, surely, there was no denying that. He could deriddle things that couldn’t be deriddled. Smart of magic, too – his brother was that one in a million. But smart of soul? Smart of heart? Merlin’s bollocks, Albus had to be one of the people stupidest of heart he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. 

   But that his brother had the patience of the actual deities by not letting his profession make him utterly insane had become rather evident. He supposed he would just have to make Albus’ life a living hell once he awoke, just that little bit more. 

   If. 

   Since yesterday afternoon, it had become more and more of an if than a once, or a when. His vital signs had gone down to bare minimum, and even the additional bubble of air wrapped around his mouth as a variation of the Bubble-Head Charm – perhaps that replacement nurse was good for something yet – didn’t seem to make it much better. His heartbeat was horrendously slow, though, at least his heart apparently still accepted Aberforth’s magic to heal better. He knew from experience that internal injuries could not be mended nearly as quickly as broken bones or cuts. Those dozens of bones were slowly regrowing, they had the luxury of time, better take it slow when Albus was under with no prospect of waking anytime soon than to force it and cause complications. But the elation from saving his life had all but faded – currently, he was withering, certainly not really healing. He was functioning, but not more, and only with the help of magic. Three days now after the fact, and reality was slowly settling in. Malfoy was now grim as opposed to sad, Doge had still not returned to the family – suspicious enough, though, luckily, it didn’t seem to have really reached Law Enforcement that Aberforth was teaching, that’d come over the weekend, he supposed, so Doge would likely be forgotten as always – that Runes Professor Yaxley sat with him daily for at least an hour to read to him like a father would to his children though perhaps not about complicated nonsense in runic rituals, Aberforth was teaching Defence, Dippet had distributed a schedule to supervise Albus’ body, and Derwent’s portrait had been moved to the main room to spout helpful advice at all times of the day and take the night-watch. Yes, and then there was Bagshot. 

   Bagshot, as always, was the most excruciating. Merlin’s bollocks, he’d gotten used to the creeping death Flamel smiling at him devoid of pity but with respect, which, yes, precisely what Aberforth had wanted, but that the alchemistic fossil guessed it so well freaked him out whenever he did it. But Bagshot? Merlin forbid. The last two days, Aberforth had quite certainly pondered whether he disliked her or her great-nephew less; she was certainly good competition with her constant proverbs, baked pies, sitting by his side crocheting and telling stories, tearing up every so often, hogging his bedside, not even letting Malfoy have a quiet moment to himself, always embracing him when he looked like he would rather be anywhere but in her arms. Apparently, torture ran in the family. Aberforth didn’t think her nearly as barmy as the papers claimed – though, that article the Prophet had run for her employment, by the Founders, that’d been a riot and a half – so either Albus had been daft enough to tell her – she was a gossip of the finest, had never been able to keep a thing to herself, she’d chatted him up about Albus and his precious young lover-boy not two days after Aberforth had first see them snog thinking themselves shielded behind that massive yellow bush in the garden and whether he would be keenly interested in allowing them to spend more time together, prompting him to return something so profane she had paled, then blushed, then paled again, leaving without another word though nowadays, that seemed like a typical Friday night at the Hog’s Head – or she had guessed it on her own. Aberforth didn’t know just how intuitively intelligent the professors were overall, but considering how they all doted on Malfoy – granted, he seemed to be the youngest besides Albus at fifty or so – he supposed some of them had guessed or had an inkling. 

   Of course the devil woman was sitting by Albus’ side, blasted luck. He’d sent the wee ones out a few minutes early to have a moment with Albus to berate him for not recovering so well, maybe whispering in his ear that he was drawing his ire, that usually guilted his brother into defending himself pretty quickly, but no such luck. But, considering there was nobody else around at the moment, perhaps he could finally get another thing over with. He had to. 

   Though, he hated playing Albus. 

   Especially when it pertained to this. 

   “We need to have a little talk,” Aberforth announced without preamble, and Bagshot looked up hurriedly, confusedly, as though she was trying to put images together. Not as though she hadn’t ever seen him since Godric’s Hollow, but after a few visits, she had luckily gotten the memo that he didn’t want to talk to her, that he wasn’t his older brother. 

“Aberforth,” she mumbled before hurriedly standing up, knitting needles falling to the floor with an ungodly amount of noise. “Oh, honey, now that we’re alone, I am so sorry for your-“

“Yeah, save it,” he groaned – the last thing he needed was for the woman to act all... motherly around him. There’d only ever been one woman allowed to do that, and that’d been mum. Just because she couldn’t have them – not for a lack of ability but a lack of ability to find a willing man – didn’t mean she had to make others, unsuspecting bystanders, her little brood. “Don’t need to hear it. We need to talk nevertheless, considering my brother probably hasn’t found the time to fill you in on a few details since he came back to Hogwarts.”

“He is comatose, Aberforth! Allow me to express my-“

“Bagshot, I’m not in the mood,” Aberforth huffed and quickly cast an Imperturbable variation around them that would be less noticeable. Odds that his brother would hear were rather slim, and if that subject jerked him awake, Merlin bless. Derwent wasn’t in her frame anyways, but best not to take any chances with this topic. “Albus talk to you about how he came back from exile?”

“No. Why would he have?”

Aberforth groaned and summoned the nearest chair to himself, though he used his wand for it. Normally, a flick of the wrist would’ve been enough, but he often purposefully used his wand to render the illusion of mediocrity of his magic. Nobody needed to know of his true skill, it would only catapult him into the public eye, and that was a place he wanted to stay away from to the best of his abilities. He’d have to have the conversation with Doge too, though, the latter had always been a bit more amenable to the general concept of reason, being a lawyer and all. 

“Of course he didn’t, the idiot. Not at all, then.”

“Well, we spoke at meals, but by and large, of course, I had to compliment him on his gowns for the Ministry Ball, and berate him, the utter lout wouldn’t even tell me he was going beforehand, and to the most important event of the year, and would not tell me what lovely conversations he had with the international audience, can you believe-“

“Oh, fucking hell, he’s lucky he’s got a brother that picks up his slack. That gobshite Travers undid the spell on the grave.”

“Whose grave?”

Merlin, had Bagshot lost sight of her mental faculties in the last three decades? She’d been barmy, of course, a bit light-headed at all times, but still somewhat sharp, at least in her realms of interest. Never the cleverest in catching up with social cues and easily fooled, but to this degree?

“Mum’s. Ariana’s.”

“And?”

“And Albus, the utter idiot, couldn’t bring himself to lie in his declaration of, what’s that law again, 716 and ish? Travers accused Albus and I before two ministers and some almost dozen employees that her death-day and the day Albus declared your bastard nephew left were surprisingly congruent, it being the same day, same year and all.”

“Don’t talk about him like that.”

“If anyone’s allowed to call my brother an utter idiot, it’s me, he owes me that.”

Bagshot looked unsettled, if only for one second before the slightly daft expression she always wore returned to her face. It was surprising, really, how little she had changed, just shorter hair that had barely turned greyer, only her clothes had gotten more colourful, though, Aberforth had to admire the handiwork that had gone into them, considering she crocheted and knitted them all herself, without the use of magic. He had a degree of respect for magical folk that didn’t let their wand take care of every little thing, even if their style screamed lonely-Kneazle-lady. That expression could only mean one thing.

“Bagshot,” Aberforth hissed, actually surprised for once. “Don’t tell me you care.”

“Well, someone’s got to,” she replied with a nasty bite to her voice. “Even if it’s about a person of the past, not one that currently lives as he once was.”

“How- you know what, I’m not even going to ask, you’ve always been utterly insane. He’s a fucking madman, d’you keep track of how many people your bastard nephew’s got on his conscience, not that he ever had such a thing?”

“Too many.”

“One is too many.”

“He remains my nephew. No, I don’t approve, should I ever cross paths with him again, surely I would do what his dear Omi would have done were she alive, if she’d seen him now, he’d think twice whether what he’s doing is all so valuable, but sadly, Helene is no longer with us, and he would never listen to his mother, so that would fall to me. Luckily, as long as I keep approximately to the same community as dear Albus, I do not have to worry about the woman I’d become if I actually had to do it.”

Aberforth shook his head. Of course, trust Bagshot to be utterly crazed enough to still care for her crazy ward, despite the, what, three months only he had lived there. The woman really needed to get a cat more, or take in another stray. Maybe that other kid that looked suspiciously much like the bastard that had been there that summer camp at Hogwarts, had nearly cleaved Aberforth’s lungs out of his chest, like it was last century, probably a close family member, cousin, bastard brother, etcetera. Aberforth would’ve ventured son just as much if the bastard hadn’t been even more obnoxiously a pansy than his own brother, he’d never met anyone that obviously disinterested in women. He’d probably never done it with a woman, despite his willingness to always go to extremes. In this case, that probably clashed with his desire to be right and rightly insufferable. Regardless, the woman needed more sane company.

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Pass your judgement on someone else,” came the quick, sharp reply – oh, she did have her wits about her occasionally, did she? “What did you say the ministry uncovered now?”

“Merlin, that he left the same day Ariana died.”

“So what?”

“Oh, so what?” Aberforth snorted. “Thick as thieves they were, and that happening on the same day? Travers may be an utter piece of shite but he isn’t dumb. Neither are you. He correlated the events. Took my brother and I all our combined acting talents to dissuade him from the fact.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you need to act?”

Aberforth gaped at her, almost feeling as though his eyes were bulging out of his skull. She couldn’t be serious. Sure, the woman had the ability to hyper-focus on something and forget all things around her, but that she hadn’t put two and two together over thirty years, and the bastard never coming back, and that funeral? 

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“No, young man, and mind your language around an old lady, no?”

“You have to be... Merlin’s bollocks... you don’t think that could have something to do with each other?! Or does that habitually happen in your extended family, that somebody just drops dead and another flees the country? No relation?”

“No,” she emphasised with a roll of the eyes, “my question was why it was necessary to lie to Law Enforcement about it. I had gotten around to believing it wasn’t a lovers’ quarrel that lay at the root of it latest by day’s end.”

“Oh, so you knew as well?”

This time, she actually raised her eyebrows with a huff. 

“Why are you Dumbledore brothers so allergic to believing I can competently analyse what happens around me? Had Albus in my office last year... Der Arme ist ja aus allen Wolken gefallen!¹ Nah, how does one say, utterly flabbergasted, poor Albus, that I’d have guessed that all the hand-holding and cuddling and wistful looks weren’t just platonic, I’d have to be utterly daft! Like he forgot I’ve known my nephew since he was a tiny pea in a blankie, and saw him several times a year, I do believe I was and remain Erika’s favourite aunt, despite there being no family relation, my nephew Friedrich could never be bothered, of course, to find me any more likeable than any of his other relatives, and that I only had a decade on him, how’d that have helped with seeing me as an aunt, really...”

“Bagshot.”

“Right, right... well, I’d known my nephew since he was tiny, as if I wouldn’t recognise when he’s acting entirely out of character, I hadn’t seen him that happy in years, since... Well, as if I wouldn’t recognise when he melted like over-ripe pudding, all squishy when dear Albus would do anything, I was most concerned they’d never tell each other and would be daft enough not to see the obvious, but they luckily weren’t that stupid.”

“Oh, how we could only wish they’d been.”

“Who are you to begrudge them their happiness?”

“The person that it cost,” Aberforth just answered. “Merlin’s beard, woman, cease your sentimentality, whatever they were or weren’t, that doesn’t matter for the outcome. You know just as much as I that he had his hand in it. Caused it.”

“Then why not blame it on him for the eyes of those over-eager boys at Law Enforcement? They ever so eagerly jump on the facts you provide, you merely have to be careful which breadcrumbs you toss their way.”

“Because not only would Albus and I, eye-witnesses, not have reported the whole thing, complicity gets you a nice stay at Azkaban, especially the longer you hush it up and the more Law Enforcement hates yah, we were also hiding an illegal Obscurial! We admit that, any of that, we end up locked up in this climate. So, anyone asks, Ari died a year earlier, you understand? 1898. Same date, same time of day, just in 1898. We changed the date for mum so she wouldn’t’ve outlived her, last presents and all. That summer, Ariana was dead, do you hear that? She didn’t survive past the summer before.”

“A year earlier...” Bathilda pondered and gathered her knitting needles. “And what then, if not a lovers’ quarrel, caused the hasty exit? Surely the ministry would not like to hear how enamoured the poor boys were with one another?”

“Them wanting to go travelling and me not going back to Hogwarts. Don’t ask me, ask this gobshite when he wakes up, he improvised on the spot, didn’t even have the courtesy to fill me in.”

“So you talked to me to get the story straight.”

“Certainly not to reminisce about your family members. I can’t believe you actually still care about him.”

“Nobody else does, do they? Everybody should have some family out there. Besides, he never had it so great with his own, Friedrich evidently copied all of his parenting from his father Jucundus, who put my poor sister through hell already, and from father to son, not the furthest way to those of feebler conditions, really, Erika wanted to leave so many times and live with me or her mother, but she never dared, how the papers ripped her apart when they married, could barely get herself to care for the boys sometimes with how she saw Friedrich in them, told me once she didn’t want any children anyways, and then everything that happened to Gentian, my poor little nephew, only grew to six of age, and he was only ten then, that’s too young an age to see such things, and to cast that curse then, we others, we would never cast it regardless, and forced to cast it at ten... and then all those visions, they would render him bed-ridden, no friends-“

Aberforth had enough of the sentimentality for a mass murderer, so he switched to the thing that actually interested him about the whole sob story. His own family story wasn’t precisely a bed of roses, and yet neither him nor Albus had turned out this barmy; for all his brother’s tendencies to stupidity, he was still fundamentally a decent man. 

“Gentian, yeah?”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him, that time Ariana had one of her episodes, when he came home the next day, any loud noise, he’d jump to the ceiling, kept it together at yours, I suppose, but once he didn’t need to be strong for Albus...”

Bile rose to Aberforth’s stomach, as though the bastard had any right to be scarred by it, he hadn’t known Ariana. Not even in the slightest, not with pretending to care in reading the stories, showing her magic, corrupting her into hope. But that was the second time somebody brought up that name, and Aberforth already knew from Albus’ scattered rapport that he’d- wait, had she said boys? Wasn’t hard to put two and two together, that Friedrich was the pansy’s father, Erika the mother, but boys? Multiple? The bastard had a bastard brother? How had he never hear- 

‘You wouldn’t understand! He does, he understands it all, better than you ever could, he’s been through it as well, and he actually cares about how I feel about it!’ Aberforth heard Albus yell in his head, spiteful, and retrospectively, Aberforth thought himself quite daft for not putting two and two together then, and then not when Albus had talked about it recently. 

‘Somebody with the condition touched him in an outburst’, and then that other indicator, ‘he lived with one of the condition for a few months as a child’, yes, there was no doubt about it. The pieces fit together rather neatly, now didn’t they? Sometimes, being ignorant didn’t exactly reap the biggest rewards, he knew it as well, but most days, his instincts were a bit more polished than this, no? 

“Obscurial too?” Aberforth ventured. 

Oh, that was too disgusting. The bastard having an Obscurial sibling too? No wonder Albus had practically flown at him! Was that why he had interacted so unabashedly and unafraid with Ariana, charming her effortlessly with his flippant, soddy nature? Why he had put in an effort in the first place, with her, but most certainly not with Aberforth? 

Compensating. He had been compensating for his own brother, a-

   Aurelius. Aurelius. 

   He heard the next words through the cotton the anger had stuffed in his ears. 

“That isn’t a story for now, is it? The fewer people know, the better, they’d just see it all wrong, that curse... the poor dear breaking his soul before going to Durmstrang, and then how alone he was afterwards, of course the parents would feel conflicted, did the right thing, I always said, before anything worse could happen-“

He’d killed him. The bastard had killed his own brother, probably had leftover guilt the size of Ireland and now had access to another Obscurial he could pamper and control and experiment with-

Oh, Merlin, Aberforth was going to be sick. 

“And now no-one’s left to care besides me and his dear mother, bless, so-”

It was at that moment that Aberforth managed to stand up just gracefully enough to perhaps earn a modicum of sympathy points for his composure before his reputation fell as quickly as the acidy vomit that dropped into the nearest waste-basin. 

   It’d been a warm summer night when they’d done it. Merlin, it felt like centuries now, like a fever dream. Now, granted, that bottle he’d snatched, perhaps that had helped too with everything being a bit on the less clearer side. It was a folly of youth now, nothing more in his mind, and had been that for so many years, vanishing simply because that first time, well, it’d been nice, complicated, confusing, connective, but, over time, the first week without his drinking problem and in sobriety with cherry or apple juice at Gallagher’s, or the first time he’d felt like he wasn’t in his brother’s shadow, or the first time he had owned something for himself, the first time one of his goats had had kids, those had become so much more important in the memory of his life. Not that he hadn’t occasionally thought back to it, but then again, Ophe hadn’t been his grandest, greatest or most inspiring romance. Just the first. And they had been dear to one another, but love? No such thing had been involved. Simply kindred spirits spending time with one another. He remembered much more clearly the sneaking around, or how she’d sung under her breath when she had learned, or that odd tone of voice when she had spoken in the snake-tongue, or how miserable she’d looked at the Slytherin table, when she’d been born a Hufflepuff in nature, when Aberforth had bought her a copy of Sense and Sensibility she’d only ever read in his company, and had tasked him with safe-keeping, a Muggle book in the hands of a pure-blood, such different times – Aberforth had seen Woolf, and Austen, and Carroll, and Shelley, and some Brontës, and Hugo, and Verne, and some significant Shakespeares in Malfoy’s chambers when he’d been. Seemed times had changed in Slytherin House. No wonder Albus fancied the man, he was similarly intrigued by Muggle literature, enough to translate it. It had only been when Albus had charged into his pub, like the very devil’d been on his heels, with information from none other than the bastard himself, that Aberforth had been practically held at wand-point to recall that night to his memory. Before, it hadn’t meant anything, hadn’t been all so relevant. But now? 

   Now, that was the night. That was the night he had fathered a son. 

   It seemed so outrageous now, in retrospect, that moment he had forgotten like so many others recontextualised and filled with so much life. Literally. His son was falling prey to the Obscurus more day by day, as they all did, but he had lived miraculous twenty-eight, now almost twenty-nine years. And Albus had done a blood test, he’d said. Considering they hadn’t had another sibling who could have reasonably had a child, and his brother wasn’t related closely enough, well, it had to be Aberforth, it all matched. He’d never doubted it for a second, really. The evidence matched, no matter whose mouth it came from. He’d been uncharacteristically slow on the uptake, but eventually, with a day’s worth of distance, it had all come together – he, Aberforth Dumbledore, was a father. Hallelujah, he was just as much of a nut-case for a novella as his two siblings, and he’d always fancied himself the normal one, that was being compared to a ridiculously old Obscurial sister and a poofy older brother with complexes so gigantic he’d taken up with a psychopath and had let that psychopath quite frankly crack him in two. But no, of course, that luxury could not have remained his, for he, of course, had fathered a child at the crisp age of fifteen. 

   Albus would never stop being up his arse about it, and for once, well, his brother was competently right about that assessment. At fifteen, Aberforth hadn’t known shit about where babes actually came from, not that school had covered it, he hadn’t exactly had a lot of mates that would’ve been smarter or more informed, and, well, mum had had better things to do than to teach her sons not to go off having any little ones anytime soon, especially considering the elder had turned out so clearly disinterested in women, blasted bollocks, Albus had thought himself so stealthy when, in all actuality, he had hidden it that poorly. Mum’d never have minded, with her little scone, she’d once told Aberforth she’d suspected it since he’d been fifteen or so, and considering she’d never talked to his conscience...? Aberforth’d known more about Ariana’s physical form than about his own, interest, questions, to better care for her when Albus had clearly not even noticed her cycles. Had he even known what they were? Though, that frankly fearsome MacMillan might’ve talked to his conscience, why, after she’d gotten over her crush. Poor girl, to have a crush on Albus, the least convincingly normal man of all time. Or maybe that was just the case to Aberforth – the papers seemed to genuinely believe it was Albus’ direst wish to settle with a wife and a brood, when he had quite literally danced with his lover that night. Hilarious, in Aberforth’s opinion, to witness the delusions of the masses, and those in charge of the feathers.

   “Heard you went head-first into a bin earlier,” Malfoy just commented when he joined him at the makeshift dinner table erected for the professors that were keeping watch. Somewhat miraculously, nobody in the student body seemed to have been idiotic enough this week to injure themselves tremendously, so they were presently still alone. 

“Bagshot and her mouth, I swear...”

“She’s quite the hassle, isn’t she? Eggnog?”

“’scuse me?”

“Fancy a mug of eggnog? Only, it’s without the alcohol, and with dried, crushed oil of Umbrella Flowers and rosemary, I couldn’t resist, I’ve got so many bushels hanging in my second store-room, might as well be making brushes of it at this point. Bali needs to get those monsters under control...”

Aberforth might’ve not said it out loud oftentimes, but he had a keen and flourishing interest in the brewing of ales, liquors and various sundries. Despite only being able to try the tiniest of sips and usually ending up spitting it back out again. He’d only had Firewhiskey twice these past three decades, that night he’d heard of having a son, and when he’d confronted Albus about it. Potions had been one of his O-subjects at Hogwarts, simple as breathing. And fascinating all the more.

“Non-alcoholic eggnog, you say?”

“Yeah. I’d get out the alcoholic version, but I’m afraid that, if I start drinking, I won’t stop until he wakes, and that could take weeks. Can’t be inattentive as a Potions professor, I caught three little twerps trying to smuggle Fluxweed into the Wiggenweld.”

“What kind of idiot would try to put Fluxweed in that? It must’ve been a practical, they’d have blown that whole cauldron out of its hinges.”

“Right? Urgh, what a nightmare. I almost didn’t catch it in time, too, I’m that worried.”

“Then it truly is best if you do not additionally consume something that will negatively impact your attention. Does it taste remotely like regular eggnog?”

“Suppose. Care for a mug?”

“A thimble to start. I’m peculiar about what I drink.”

“Bartender’s curse?”

“Suppose,” Aberforth admitted – he begrudgingly found that Malfoy lad not too horrible to talk to.

Really, couldn’t Albus always have shown a modicum of care for his own good instead of just rendezvousing the most ill-suited men of Great Britain and beyond? And Aberforth had to admit, that thimble was good persuasion for a whole mug, surprisingly light and airy for eggnog, which usually couldn’t be really drunk but just... taken up with the spoon, really. Like pudding. His brother loved it, but then again, he was a simple man, give him pudding in all flavours imaginable to the human mind and he’d be happier than he had ever been. 

   They soon fell into somewhat of a comfortable, yet not too exhausting discussion of potions, considering the lad was apparently responsible for brewing punches at all Hogwarts occasions, which, in all fairness, weren’t suitable for a pub, but still piqued Aberforth’s interest. That he wasn’t so obnoxiously cheery in his grievances, well, that only made him more bearable company. Watching Doge, who had bed-watch, from afar, they dug into a hearty stew, one Aberforth remembered from his days at Hogwarts, not really speaking much, neither in the mood. Granted, Aberforth would’ve rather liked to eat alone, was the only time he truly could be nowadays, but Malfoy was the smallest possible evil. He didn’t have the spirit for facing that nutter Bagshot again, nor for letting Flamel speak to his conscience, or having Doge make awkward conversation with him for the sake of propriety, or any other constellation, Merlin forbid it involved the other professors. 

“Must be hard, this.”

“Being essentially held hostage by Dippet to teach classes? Yeah, you tell me.”

“I meant more... well, look, I know you and Albus, you’re not splendid when it comes to being a family, I get it. I have a second cousin I get along with alright, but that’s that for my family. They would’ve burned me off the tapestry four decades ago if I weren’t a professor, and my great-gran hadn’t taken pity on me enough to get me through those first years.”

“I don’t care much about the sob story, I got enough of it.”

“I heard. He alright, you reckon, your boy?”

Few things could genuinely surprise Aberforth nowadays, my, with all the shite Albus had put him through these past decades and his childhood, essentially everything he’d experienced since he’d been a midget of eight, but this? He wouldn’t have thought Albus so careless. Or so... involved.

“What do you know?”

“Not much. Albus isn’t a keen sharer. But... he did tell me you had a boy a long time ago, and that he’s... well.”

“You can say it, lad.”

“Well, terminally ill,” Malfoy just shilly-shallied, better that way, still. Aberforth didn’t need to hear those words, didn’t need Albus’ fancy-man telling him he’d gotten an Obscurial son. No matter whether he was still alive at this age. 

“Oh, yeah, suppose that he’s too. Doesn’t surprise me, growing up the way he did.”

“And living... abroad.”

“That too. Don’t know how much of that was his choice. Didn’t think Albus would share that with you. With anybody. He’d be too guilt-ridden to do it, I thought.”

“It needed out, the summer before last. He was up all night crying,” Malfoy stated with a dejected voice, eyes darting over until he looked down, “what a terrible sight, he’s always so cheerful for everybody else, most people think he genuinely enjoys every single thing he does, he’s so playful and flimsy and soft, but then when he’s alone, he self-medicates and drinks too much, and really quite frankly doesn’t take any care of himself, it’s so frustrating. He's my best friend, my partner, I wish he'd let me in more sometimes, let me help, even if it's just a little bit. Well, anyways, we talked it out the whole morning, that guilt he felt over not having been there, that anger at himself, the fear of what he’d have to leverage and what if he couldn’t leverage anything, the sadness, having somebody who could die any day be in his family, it got too much, it just needed out. I just happened to be there when it did. Can’t believe that burden on his shoulders, really.”

“On his shoulders?”

“Yeah, his shoulders, of course. I can’t imagine. I just can’t imagine what it would be like, must be like, to have so integral a part of your family held hostage like that, and by the spiky blond out of all people, Salazar have mercy.”

Yes, Malfoy really had been his brother’s most mature choice. Couldn’t he have realised that two decades ago, Malfoy had to have been employed that long, no?

“The ‘spiky blond’?” Aberforth inquired neutrally from the side. 

Malfoy looked at him hastily, his eye darting for a second before he consigned himself to a small sigh that left only his chest, not his body overall. 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry about that, inappropriate, I know. It’s just been that running gag ‘tween Al and me. Just, you know, pretending the world isn’t as horrid, me giving commentary about, what gives, I have that luscious family hair, I’m a proud blond, and whatever the hell that is supposed to be, it’s neither luscious nor blond, well- it just offers itself for jest. Albus, he likes diving into that sometimes, just laughing about it, it helps him, stops him from being so horribly constipated, emotionally, I mean. He’s got the combined weight of the world on his shoulders, least I can do I make him laugh with my spiky-blond humour. Sorry, inappropriate.”

Aberforth indulged him, simply because the lad seemed to be pure-enough of heart to give a shite about his bigger brother. Couldn’t be said about a lot of people, that they were actively seeking to make him feel a little bit better, and not failing horribly at it. 

“I used to call him Blondie, what do I know?” 

Oh, Malfoy’s face was almost comedic like that, twisted and stretched. Those eyebrows couldn’t’ve gone up any further before meeting that pristine hairline. 

“You did?”

“Absolutely.”

“Really?”

“Shamelessly.”

“You knew him? Personally, I mean?”

“Sadly.”

“Albus... well, he never gave the impression he disliked him then. Did you?”

“Albus has lapses of judgement. I hated him from the second I met him.” 

Aberforth wore this as a badge of pride. That, at fifteen, he’d taken one look at a person, had deemed them evil, and was now watching them literally become the world’s most effective and disgusting terrorist of all time. Gallows humour, of course, considering the crazed bastard wouldn’t stop and Aberforth didn’t even have the power to put a dent into his campaign, certainly not without setting his son free for sacrificial offering or whatever else passed for a pleasant pastime in Austria these days. He’d assessed him entirely right, then. He’d seen what Albus had been incapable of. He’d been smarter than Albus for once, of course he wore it as a badge of pride. 

“And Albus was charmed.”

“Oh, he was charmed alright,” Aberforth snorted mirthlessly. “He loved to have smart friends. He was friends with Bagshot at sixteen, with Flamel, with half the professors, several other international researchers.”

“And Grindelwald was smart.”

“Right git he was, but you couldn’t deny the wits, even at sixteen.”

“What made you hate him that instantly?”

“Prissiest piece of shite you’ll ever have met. Arrogant, vain, thought everybody but Albus below him. Not only Muggles, but everyone who wasn’t as smart as him, which was everybody, sad to admit that. Right German pansy coming into the village, thinking England the quaintest place on earth, and wrapping my brother around his little finger like it was the easiest thing. First glance, I could tell he thought I was nothing but a dim-witted idiot from the countryside who deserved to be living in shackles in that bright new world of his. I made my peace with it.”

“Hm,” Malfoy acknowledged, not truly betraying an emotion, sipping on his eggnog and eventually nodding to himself. “Longest I’ve ever heard you speak in one go.”

“Fuck off,” he replied, lazily, without the bite. Yeah, Malfoy was alright. 

“Gladly. Got those essays aplenty to look over and despair with ‘cause everything’s more important than atrocities on the Essence of Insanity, which, within itself, I should find rather ironically amusing, considering they’re all writing like they’d consumed a vial or two.”

Aberforth didn’t exactly chuckle, but felt his face relax nonetheless. 

“Been good for him, you have.”

“Couldn’t protect him from his fate, could I?” Malfoy asked back with a harrowed tone of voice, vanishing his dinnerware and sighing to himself, casting one last look at Albus before he left hurriedly. 

Chapter Text

   Lisky did not know what to do anymore. 

   Sir was alive, but Sir had still not woken. It had been three days since Sir had fallen ill, and if anything, he was doing worse than before. Lisky did not know how this was possible considering Sir was safe and very much looked after by three ferocious Elves who had tried cooling Sir's body, warming it, putting different salves stolen from the Nurmengard infirmary on all the wounds just to see them be physically rejected, as though Sir’s body did not want to heal. 

   With a heavy heart, Lisky had noticed all the scars on Sir’s left arm, those were older. Lisky usually didn’t see Sir without a shirt on, that was usually more what Bisky and Misky saw, and at first, when Lisky had cleaned all the blood away, she had been frightened, and angry that her sisters had not told her beforehand that Sir was still purposefully injuring himself, especially because Lisky still didn’t know why. The shape of them would have suggested a few months ago, but Sir had- Sir had seemed hardly different a few months ago! A bit air-headed, but... It made Lisky wonder sometimes. Wonder what else Sir was hiding from Lisky, and wasn’t talking about to anyone. And why Sir hurt himself. Wasn’t Sir suffering enough? Had Sir not had enough injuries in his life, and with his visions too? Sir’s body was littered with little traces of the past, some not that little either, the gruesome wound on his arm, and some of the lines on his back, and so much more! Lisky accepted that Sir sometimes made himself suffer, Lisky thought perhaps Sir did it to make himself stronger if he felt weak, but at the very least Sir wouldn’t have needed to do it alone! If Sir wanted to be stronger, Lisky could help! But Sir never talked things through with Lisky, or Bisky, or Misky, and then Sir always ended up in terrible situations. 

   And now, Sir wasn’t waking up anymore. 

   And Lisky had tried to keep up the brave act for her sisters, but she couldn’t do it anymore. Lisky had tried to assort the evidence for all days since, had tried to get the other messages from the watch that the letter had mentioned, but to no avail – the only magical date was the one that Misky had found. And maybe Lisky couldn’t find anyone with the initials in the Nurmengard registry – Mr Pichler had allowed Lisky to look into all that were openly living in the castle because Mr Pichler seemed to like Lisky – or remember anyone in the news-parchments because the watch was hundreds of years old, and even the son it was addressed to was long dead, and only the great-grandchildren or further back were still alive, and the magic had simply tired itself out, and it was a miracle of magic that Misky had found the hidden compartment in the first place. Lisky had even begun playing detective in Nurmengard, and hiding herself so she could follow those people around that had indigo auras around them, or that Lisky thought could perhaps have done such a thing to Sir, but they all behaved completely normally for them. Nobody walked unusual paths, or did unusual things in Lisky’s perception. Lisky didn’t understand what had happened to Sir. And why it was still happening. Of course, Lisky knew that there were many magical conditions, and she had investigated that of Mr Aurelius because it seemed most similar, with magic attacking from the inside, but Sir showed no signs of blackness, and Mr Aurelius had said that it could only happen to children, and Sir was very much older than a child. 

   Lisky was nervous about the next step, especially because she hadn’t discussed it with Bisky or Misky, because Lisky knew Bisky and Misky were going to contradict Lisky anyways. Bisky and Misky could be paranoid for their own reasons, Misky because she didn’t want the people closest to her to be hurt, and Bisky because she was superficial and suspected the worst in people sometimes. Lisky loved her sisters, but sometimes, as the oldest, Lisky needed to take charge and make difficult decisions. Even if Lisky was frightened, and knew that her sisters would disapprove of her decision.

   Tentatively, and with a pounding heart, Lisky carefully knocked on the large wooden door on the sixth floor of Nurmengard. Normally, Lisky would always have had Sir to protect Lisky, but with Sir having- With Sir being- Lisky couldn’t bear to think of it. 

“Yes?” Mme Rosier questioned harshly – it was early in the morning, and Mme Rosier was dressed in only a gown for the night. “What do you want?”

“Mme Rosier,” Lisky squeaked, feeling her pulse at her throat, practically tying her airway shut. “Lisky- Lisky thinks Mme Rosier is needing to come with Lisky.”

“At this hour,” she stated tartly, crossing her arms. “And what for, precisely?”

Lisky looked around – the sixth floor was deserted at this hour, and only inhabited by a few people anyways, Mrs Dahlheim, Mrs Carrow, Mme Rosier, Mr Augustus when he wasn’t sick anymore. Mr Pichler lived by the offices on the second floor, and Mr Myrill lived with the children and the young of the castle at their own choice, Mr Aleksandr lived by the kitchens. Still, Lisky didn’t want to reveal anything to anyone, and was only talking to Mme Rosier because Sir was not recovering. If anything, Sir was getting worse. How was Sir getting worse?!

“Sir- It is about Sir, Mme Rosier. Lisky really thinks Mme Rosier is needing to come with Lisky,” she repeated urgently and quietly, purposefully making use of a tense form that Lisky knew was prototypical for Elves. It alienated some of the good-blooded witches and wizards when Elves spoke too much like them, so Lisky spoke differently with the good-blooded or ignorant than Lisky spoke with Sir, or Lisky’s sisters.

“His visions?”

“Please, Mme Rosier, Lisky cannot say. Not here.”

“Very well,” Mme Rosier said, conjured an over-coat for herself and stepped into heels. “Upstairs?”

“No. In- in Sir’s home away from home.”

“Switzerland or Germany?”

“Germany,” Lisky confirmed quietly for she hadn’t known that Mme Rosier knew about the Grindelwald family mountain house in Switzerland. “Mme Rosier cannot apparate in, but Lisky can take Mme Rosier.”

   Apparating a witch or wizard was complicated when the witch or wizard actively or subconsciously resisted the apparition by a lesser creature. Lisky knew, of course, that she was not a lesser creature, and that that was just what witches and wizards believed, like they believed themselves more important than Goblins and Wolves and Blood-Fanged and Water-Breathers. Lisky didn’t know why witches and wizards believed this, why they felt so strongly the need to be superior to something or someone, even those that were almost entirely like them, but Lisky had learned not to question it. Sir would have taken time to formulate an answer, but would have found one – Sir always found the answer to everything. 

“What is Mme Rosier doing here?!” Bisky questioned instantly when Lisky came out of the guest room with the witch. Bisky sprang to her feet and balled her fists. “What is Lisky doing?!”

“Lisky is helping Sir.”

“Lisky cannot be sure that it wasn’t-“

“ Mon dieu, Gellert...” Mme Rosier aspirated when she saw Sir, hurrying to his side and kneeling beside him. “Gellert, est-ce que tu m’entends?¹”

Sir was still lying on the floor, though now on a blanket Misky had taken from the guest bedroom so Sir’s back wouldn’t lie on the bare floor. Lisky had taken her blanket from her bed, had enlarged it and had made it transparent so Sir could be comfortable, but his body still visible to Lisky, Bisky and Misky so they would see if something hurt Sir again, and where. Sir’s skin was just as reddened, and Lisky knew that it was a great risk to show Mme Rosier Sir like this, because Misky had said that Mme Rosier had been very surprised to see Sir with his eye hurt a few weeks ago, and had even asked a question to verify that Sir was indeed Sir, so Lisky thought perhaps Sir had never shown Mme Rosier before that Sir couldn’t see with both eyes anymore. Sir would have thought that a weakness, but Lisky had thought Sir had perhaps shared this with Mme Rosier at least, they always seemed like such good friends… Misky had said that Sir had altered Mme Rosier’s memory afterwards but she seemed to recognise Sir instantly regardless. Sir’s eyes were still open, and Sir’s old arm wound was there, and Sir’s other injuries as well-

“Sir has not woken since Sunday evening,” Lisky supplied helplessly to describe the situation. 

“And you did not think to tell me, you foolish Elf?!” Mme Rosier hissed, wand instantly drawn. “I am ‘is second- non, recently, ‘e ‘as made me ‘is equal, and you think you know better than me what ‘e needs?”

“Sir said before never to call anyone if Lisky, Bisky and Misky hadn’t tried everything they could think of. And Lisky, Bisky and Misky-“

“You did not think to tell ‘is substitute that ‘e may be seriously injured?!”

“Bisky suspected-“

“Bisky will go to Nurmengard in Lisky’s stead.”

“But Bisky-“

“Bisky will go,” Lisky commanded fiercely, putting her foot down, and after some grumbling, her sister actually complied, vanishing with a venomous look and pursed lips. Bisky was not going to forgive Lisky unless Sir got any better because of Mme Rosier. So Lisky had to hope Mme Rosier was going to help a lot. “Sir was incredibly mad when Lisky called Mr Belenus for help when Sir- when a few weeks ago-“

“What ‘appened a few weeks ago?”

“Sir- Sir’s- after Sir was unconscious after Sir’s speech- a week afterwards, the magic made a parasite and it hurt Sir a lot, and put Misky in a coma, and Lisky called Mr Belenus to help, and Sir was very mad with Lisky because- because Sir isn’t wanting anyone to see him suffer. Because Sir always needs to be so strong to stop the catastrophe, but Sir always forgets to take better care of himself instead of destroying himself.”

“You would be wise not to utter such things in his presence,” the witch proclaimed icily and waved her wand about to ascertain Sir’s condition. 

Soon, a visual of Sir hung in the air, with Sir’s heartbeat – it was so slow! – echoing through the room, and the injuries all showing in little dots his body was littered with. Lisky knew all of it already – yesterday night, Lisky had sat by Sir’s side the entire time with Lisky’s hand around his left wrist to feel Sir’s heartbeat. It had gotten even slower over-night. Lisky didn’t understand! Any slower, and Sir would be in danger, so Lisky had decided to talk to a competent witch, who could call a healer, and alter the memories of the healer afterwards. Lisky could do many things Sir could not, magically, but Lisky, like other Elves, could not alter the memories of anyone, not Elves, and not witches or wizards. 

“Lisky tells Sir this all the time. Lisky is a free Elf,” she stated proudly, building herself up, “but Lisky takes her orders from Sir, and only from Sir. What Sir says is what Lisky follows, not anyone else. Sir is often seriously injured after his visions, and Lisky never tells.”

“Then why, pray tell, ‘ave you now decided to tell me?”

“Because Sir isn’t getting any better! Sir’s own magic is attacking him, and Lisky doesn’t know why! Lisky, Bisky and Misky have tried all relieving charms they know, and healing charms, and Elf magic, and combined Elf magic, and shielding charms if it were coming from the outside, and diagnosing charms, and yet, Lisky does not even know what Sir suffers from, why Sir is injured this way! Sir- Sir’s magic suggested blood magic, and a torturing curse, but-“

“A Torture Curse, you say?”

“Yes,” Lisky confirmed quietly. “But Lisky does not think a normal torturing curse could make these injuries. Something else must have happened.”

“‘ow do you know it was a Torture Curse?”

“Lisky can see the colour of magic. And witches and wizards have an indigo aura when they cast this curse, or it is cast on them. Lisky knows this. Sir had this aura, though it has now faded.”

“What injuries does ‘e ‘ave?”

“Sir’s arm is broken entirely, every bone, but Elf magic cannot repair the bones, and neither can Skele-Gro, Lisky has tried. Lisky thinks Sir cast the torturing curse, and it turned against Sir for some reason.”

“Turned against ‘im?” Mme Rosier pondered, standing up before seating herself on the nearby sofa. “I ‘ave ‘eard of the Killing Curse turning against the caster if there are ancient magics involved, but not the Torture Curse. He casts it expertly.”

“Lisky knows this. And Lisky could not imagine someone as powerful as Sir miscasting a curse he has cast many times. And Lisky knows blood magic was involved, Lisky saw it. And the blood magic doesn’t make sense. It could be a blood malediction but if it were, the curse would still be there. It would be all indigo in the air around Sir, and that isn’t the case. The damage is there, but the curse isn’t active. And yet, Sir’s magic is actively destroying him. There are no other traces of magic on Sir, it is all Sir’s magic. But- but it hurts Sir, and Lisky doesn’t know why, and Sir’s breathing has become shallower since yesterday, and- and Lisky knows Sir will be very angry, but Lisky would rather have Sir angry at Lisky than Sir dead, so Lisky defied Sir’s orders and went to Mme Rosier because she is a very powerful witch and maybe a witch knows better what happened to Sir than Lisky does.”

Mme Rosier didn’t acknowledge the compliment, but Lisky was used to that from witches and wizards like Mme Rosier. Instead, Mme Rosier waved her wand over Sir again.

“He is stabilised?”

“Yes,” Lisky replied. “The magic attacked Sir vilely on Sunday but by Monday, Sir was barely bleeding, and Lisky, Bisky and Misky made it so that Sir’s blood is first cleaned, and then put back into Sir’s body.”

“You suspect blood magic, and purposefully reintroduce his blood into his body instead of-“

“Lisky made sure,” Lisky interrupted sternly, though her heart was making her throat constrict again, “that nothing was wrong with Sir’s blood, that there was no other magic on it. The blood is just like other blood, there is no venom or poison or magical substance in Sir’s blood, and it only contains Sir’s personal magic. Lisky has known Sir for almost twenty years, and has assisted on many of Sir’s injuries over the years from duelling or other magics. Bisky often helps Sir when Sir experiments with blood magic, Bisky knows exactly the composition of Sir’s blood and magic because Bisky is Sir’s safety when he experiments, so Bisky would have noticed if there was something in Sir’s blood that isn’t always there, and has been for twenty years.”

Mme Rosier didn’t say anything for a few minutes, analysing the situation and the silvery representation that hovered over Sir’s body. By the way Mme Rosier furrowed her brows, at least Lisky knew that Mme Rosier was genuinely surprised, and genuinely concerned, and could maybe be ruled out as a suspect. Lisky would really have liked that because she didn’t think she could heal Sir alone, that Sir needed someone stronger than Lisky to help, no matter how much her sisters would protest. 

“A broken arm.”

“Lisky doesn’t know why, though. Lisky thinks maybe the torturing curse that turned against him. It is Sir’s wand hand.”

“His wand hand... yes, where is his wand?”

“Lisky has seen it on the kitchen table,” Lisky stated carefully. Lisky, Bisky and Misky had cast with it afterwards, and Lisky wasn’t sure- Mme Rosier would be quite angry with Lisky if Mme Rosier understood that Lisky, Bisky and Misky had used the wand, even to help Sir. Elves weren’t ever supposed to touch a wizard’s wand. Elves had been very hurt for that in the past, with brands and curses and even worse things than that. Lisky knew that Sir was very gentle with Lisky and the others, but Sir was very- 

“Prior Incantato,”, Mme Rosier commanded and Sir’s impassioned voice came into the room so suddenly that Lisky squeaked. 

“Crucio. Accio Keksdose. Tempus. Incendio-“ the voice listed, though Lisky didn’t really recognise most of the spells that followed. 

Maybe Sir had invented them and never talked to Lisky about them. But they did make Lisky feel warm, or perhaps that was hearing Sir’s voice, even if it was neutral and Lisky herself didn’t feel like Sir was there, just hearing his voice... it made Lisky feel more soothed. Eventually, after thirty or forty spells, Mme Rosier stopped the spell, and the house felt much emptier when Sir’s voice was gone. Lisky was incredibly glad though that her magic hadn’t shown on the wand record. Maybe it only recorded loud spells, like incantations, and Lisky didn’t need magical words to cast magic. Elves didn’t need to say words, but concentrate on the colour and feeling of the magic very much. 

“Gellert, what were you doing?” Mme Rosier asked with a sigh as she scrutinised Sir again. “Did ‘e say anything to you or the other Elves?”

“Misky stated Sir donned a specific transfiguration,” Lisky began, not keen to unveil Misky’s insane theory. Lisky could believe that maybe Sir had wanted to take some time off of work and meet a wizard privately, but certainly not Vision-Albus, not after the betrayal that had made Sir so angry.

“And Bisky said Sir dressed finely, in purple and gold. But Sir said nothing else to Lisky, Bisky or Misky. Sir rarely does. Sir often doesn’t talk when he should. Sir never tells anyone what he is doing, and then always ends up injured. And Lisky thinks Sir is allowed to have many secrets, but if Sir had not told Føjan Sir had borrowed something that belongs to Lisky, Bisky and Misky, Lisky might not have found Sir for weeks! Lisky would have looked, but Sir doesn’t want Lisky to come here without Sir saying so, and Sir often vanishes for weeks without saying anything.”

“I am well-acquainted with ‘is tendencies to vanish,” Mme Rosier stated thinly. “And they are none of your business. Go now, the castle will not run itself.”

“Lisky will not.”

“You dare resist the orders of a witch?”

“Lisky is loyal to Sir, and Sir only,” Lisky stated once more very proudly, pulling her shirt over her knees. “Lisky has made sure that Zerra manages the kitchens. Sama is healthy now, and can help, and Føjan is young, but shows potential. Misky is in the kitchens as well, to pretend that everything is normal. Lisky, Bisky and Misky have taken shifts, and have promised each other neither will be leaving Sir’s side until Sir is better.”

“Then get out of my way, at least. And fetch me a decent thing to wear.”

   Lisky did not leave, she could not. Lisky was accustomed to Mme Rosier being much less friendly than Sir, and ordering Lisky around as though Lisky served Mme Rosier, not only Sir. Lisky was not even an Elf that served Nurmengard – Lisky only served Nurmengard because it was Sir’s castle, and because Lisky had helped come up with the name, and because Sir had freed Lisky, Bisky and Misky, and had given them space to be their own Elves, with their own interests and favourites. Sir had been very keen to have Lisky, Bisky and Misky have favourites of things. Of all things. Of colours, and spells, and flowers, and chairs, and books, and everything Sir had been able to find. Sir had said it was to help form an opinion, which Elves typically did not have nowadays. Lisky knew that they were only free because Sir had decreed it so, and that Sir had had to do a lot of things to free Lisky, Bisky and Misky that Sir had made Lisky, Bisky and Misky forget, but Lisky was glad nevertheless because she felt much better now as a free Elf than before as a bound one. Lisky wanted to give Sir the world for freeing Lisky and her sisters, and would never have let her eyes off of a potential suspect. Bisky’s theory was paranoid, Bisky could sometimes be, but Lisky thought she could not be careful enough when Sir was suffering so much. Therefore, Lisky let Bisky bring a dress, and whilst it was one Sir would have worn – a bit less sleek than Mme Rosier usually, and a bit more fur-focussed – Mme Rosier didn’t say a word as she donned it and fixed up her hair with pins before a hovering mirror. To get Bisky to leave was a hassle, but Lisky eventually managed, and could turn her full attention to Sir and Mme Rosier again. 

   It almost satisfied Lisky on a gruesome, deplorable level that Mme Rosier seemed almost more unsuccessful at uncovering the clear mystery than Lisky and her sisters had been. Granted, they had cleared away some of the evidence to Sir’s room following the wild, ‘hare-brained’, Sir sometimes called it, theory that Misky had proposed, the coat, the watch, the little letter, the second teacup, the biscuit tin had been taken back to Nurmengard, all as a test to Mme Rosier – she had not glanced at the table for even a moment, fully focussing her attention on Sir. But Mme Rosier seemed, underneath her righteous façade, just as clueless as Lisky, Misky and Bisky, if not, Lisky thought with contempt, perhaps a little more. Lisky knew Mme Rosier was clever, and talented, and more perceptive than Sir, and that Mme Rosier was very necessary to prevent the catastrophe, but Lisky really wished Sir could have chosen Mr Pichler, or Mr Aleksandr, or Mr Myrill as Sir’s second. Mr Aleksandr in particular was very good to Lisky, sometimes even complimenting her on her clothes and involving her in discussions on the books she was reading. Mme Rosier was from an old family, Sir had said, and therefore biased against Elves since the crib, and that it would likely be a fruitless pursuit to gently attempt to educate Mme Rosier otherwise, but Lisky really wished it could have been someone else. Someone maybe a little warmer than Sir. Sir was good to Lisky and her sisters, but Sir really needed someone close that was a little bit less heartless, as a good influence. 

   Lisky was immensely satisfied too that she had privileges to apparate straight into the seaside cabin – when Sir had first taken Lisky to see the vastness of the ocean, she had cried with joy and an incomprehensible feeling of loss – and Mme Rosier did not, but it also meant errant runs, such as, later in the day, fetching Mr Belenus from the infirmary. Lisky was uncertain about involving someone else in the procedure, but if it needed to be someone, she supposed Mr Belenus was alright. Lisky had seen Mr Belenus treat several injuries of Sir before, and Mr Belenus had always done well. 

   And Mr Belenus had such a quiet calmness to his motions, it reminded Lisky of Sir. Predatory, analytic, so nuanced and cold and yet brimming with such flames of unbridled interest, whatever subject Mr Belenus thoroughly investigated, he usually found a solution to. Lisky knew that Mr Belenus’ mind was very dark and twisted, that Mr Belenus had made curses to hurt people, that curse expert did not mean only a curse-healer but also a curse-inflictor, that Mr Belenus was a regular in the prison wing Lisky could never bear to go to, and not to heal the prisoners but rather to, as Sir had once said, ‘develop a repertoire of colourful tools to open even the most stubborn of mouths, and the most resilient of minds to make the interrogations a little less... monotonous.’ Sir sometimes frightened Lisky, but she rarely ever allowed herself to think that. Sir had saved Lisky, Bisky and Misky from a terrible life, and Sir was doing what he thought was the best to prevent the catastrophe. Whatever the cost. 

Mr Belenus did not seem to mind Lisky observing his casting and analysis with eagle eyes, but Mme Rosier did. 

“You will not leave, will you?”

“Lisky is Sir’s faithful assistant. Sir gave Lisky her freedom so she would always be capable of choosing her own path. Sir promises freedom to all witches and wizards and Wolves and others, and Sir has done this with Lisky and her sister. Mme Rosier is going to have to restrain Lisky if Mme Rosier wants Lisky to be gone. And Lisky will defend herself.”

“Insolent Elf,” Mme Rosier just hissed before shaking her head. “Stay if that is your direst wish.”

Lisky could see that it was Mme Rosier’s direst wish to banish Lisky, or restrain her, but Mme Rosier also knew that Lisky, Bisky and Misky held a special standing in the castle. Sir had once, after someone had hurt Bisky, called the entire castle together and had declared that whoever was to raise a hand against Lisky or her sisters was raising a hand against Sir, and that his punishment would be easily tenfold of the original offence. Lisky was proud to aid a wizard who was so determined to right the wrongs of the past, and give Lisky and her sisters freedoms Elves were forbidden from having just because wizards and witches needed to be strong by oppression. In the elder days, wizards had even counted by the seasons of the Elves, Winter, Bloom, Summer and Fall, with each having a little over ninety days to count, but now they counted, at least where Lisky lived, by numbers and emperors of Muggles, if Lisky had understood that correctly. 

“What could cause this? A blood malediction?” Mme Rosier asked after Mr Belenus had waved his wand for a while. 

“No,” Mr Belenus answered. Lisky liked Mr Belenus’ voice, it was scratchy, warm, melodic. “Unless he cast a blood malediction on his own blood, then no. No, I know a malediction when I see one, they’re my specialty area, I make them.”

“‘ow did you know it wasn’t one?” Mme Rosier addressed Lisky. 

Lisky straightened her shirt-dress, a more functional one than typically considering she didn’t want to soil it with Sir’s blood. 

“Lisky was seeing the colouration of the magic around Sir when Lisky arrived.”

“Colouration?”

“Yes. Lisky was seeing indigo for the torturing curse, and burgundy for blood magic. Lisky has seen Sir experiment with blood maledictions, then Sir flickers in a mixture of light pink and greenish yellow. Sir did not have pink-yellow around him when Lisky arrived.”

“Interesting,” Mr Belenus only commented – Lisky would never have shared much about her perception of magic if it wasn’t integral to saving Sir. “Unorthodox, but correct. He got a Cruciatus to the arm just the other week when you brought him back from Prussia, this is the exact same signature, only that it was much more forceful. There is a hint of the metallic here, too, and there is active magic in his blood that seems to be preventing the healing. But his blood seems to be completely in order, nothing- well, he could stand to eat more fish. Or dairy products. He could overall stand to eat a little bit more healthily, but nutritional intake likely isn’t on the top of his to-do list.”

“You are ‘aving too much fun,” Mme Rosier lectured. 

“I develop and heal the darkest curses known to mankind, allow me some levity here. No, the Elf is right, the magic doesn’t seem to be out of the ordinary except for the spot where I recently had to remove a parasite from his leg. There’s an odd magical signature on this, an unusual amount of magic overall, but that may just be his own magic attempting a bit more feverishly to heal the whole affair. Odd thing is, this is familiar. I don’t know what about it, the taste in the air, or... say, Elf- Lisky, right?”

“Yes, Mr Belenus.”

“Say, Lisky, you found him, right?”

“Yes, Lisky found Sir on Sunday evening. Sir was unresponsive,” Lisky stated and proceeded to give Mr Belenus all details Lisky knew. Mr Belenus’ face grew more and more focussed as Lisky listed things that Sir had shown as symptoms. 

“I’ve seen a signature such as this before... but where...” Mr Belenus pondered before he snapped his fingers. “Yes! Yes, that girl I treated in ’03! Yes, she had markers consistent to these.”

“What was ‘er ailment?”

“Was wed against her will, had to make a contract on the wedding day against adultery, signature in blood. Breaking with that agreement almost killed her. She was comatose for three months, it took me until I quizzed the husband, equally thrilled about the whole affair, I can tell you that, to figure it out.”

“Are you trying to tell me Gellert was forcibly wed to someone?”

“Not out of the realm of possibility, but... thing is... The only version of events that I could envision here is that he raised his wand against the second or a third party of a blood contract, and the spell he cast reflected on him. Only, if he has such an agreement, he wouldn’t have been able to even lift the wand. That kid I treated, it turned out she had a dream about someone and that contract almost killed her in her sleep, it wasn’t even a conscious thought that put her under for weeks, it was her subconscious. He wouldn’t have been able to go past voicing the thought, let alone casting the actual spell. Usually, I would have claimed Imperius, but you can’t cast an Unforgivable under the Imperius. This raises more questions than it answers.”

“A blood contract,” Mme Rosier pondered, “of that magnitude, it wouldn’t be a sheet of paper as Lotte designs them. What shape could it be?”

“Anything. Likely a container of some sort, but considering only a single drop of blood is needed for the coalescence, it could be as small as... say, an inkwell, a toy figurine, a hidden compartment on the wand, a wrist-watch, a brooch, puh, anything, could even venture a ring, really. Ring any bells?”

“Yes, but the item in question I ‘ave not spotted on his person in two years. If this is indeed the result of a broken blood agreement, what is the treatment?”

“There is no treatment. Unless you have the artefact, and-or the consent of the possibly numerous second parties sanguinely bound to this agreement, there is nothing that can be done. We should get him back to Nurmengard, make him comfortable, give him nourishment potions to replenish his strength. Madame, this could be over later today, or never.”

“Very well,” Mme Rosier stated neutrally, though her face changed entirely, from concern to power that sent ripple-waves of magic through the room in a way Lisky only knew it from Sir. For the first time, Lisky realised just how powerful Mme Rosier truly was, and it frightened Lisky. “Return ‘im to Nurmengard with the aid of the Elf, and do everything in your power to restore ‘im to ‘ealth. Until ‘e is sufficiently cured of ‘is ailment, Nurmengard and the Greater Good are under my command.”

Chapter Text

   He thought it pretty odd that he couldn’t open his eyes. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while now, without any real sense of time passing, revisiting moments that he was rather certain had happened to him at some point in the past. Otherwise, it would have just been odd, to be seeing so many flashes of light and dark without meaning behind them, like he was attached to the memories of another. Why would he have been? Had he ever been, where did the thought originate from? 

   He was too tired to fully investigate whatever fragment passed by, and all the unanswered questions he could feel linger under the surface. He could feel them, and simultaneously, he found himself so free of norms and regulations, letting his mind drift, diving into the moments that presented themselves by the wayside, in little puddles of information, flickering and shimmering and attracting his attention.

   There was, of course, the memory of a white ape-sloth hybrid the name of which just did not want to come to him, a being he had by now identified as a Dougal or a Demiguise, he wasn’t exactly quite so sure which way around it went. And there really wasn’t much in this puddle, just this creature. Just that they were holding hands and strolling over a meadow, dodging with startling accuracy little heaps of excrements of some sort of other creature he could only see from the corner of his eye as something that had antlers? He wasn’t entirely sure. Just that, whenever he visited that memory, he was rather happy indeed. 

   Then there was a bridge over a long-winding, rapid river, a hanging bridge affixed to two large stone bricks on either side, and looking entirely too untrustworthy for his personal feelings. He knew he had traversed it, for he had also had flashes of what it looked like on both sides, but for the moment, whenever he revisited it, he saw only the shaky construction of the bridge, heard bells ringing and saw colourful little pieces of fabric waving about in the wind scribbled on to the last possible inch, and tall, snow-covered mountains in the distance. If he strained his eyes, he could even see some sort of animal with large antlers, but that oftentimes was just beyond his reach. He wondered when he had been here, why it had left such an impression – and why it all made him feel so small and helpless. 

   He had laid eyes on a piece of parchment several times now, but the further he looked, the less he could actually decipher. That it was some sort of language he didn’t speak had become rather evident at this point, using more punctuations marks than he was accustomed to, and looking rather scribbled and untidy, whoever had written it. Additionally, it seemed to be in verse form, perhaps a script page of a drama, or the words to a song, or a poem. The letters were all print, but certainly written by feather, and he had a feeling the content was warm, and full of love. 

   He kept seeing a box. That was perhaps the most prominent memory of them all, a blue box, something that was made of metal and had played host to something that looked like little crescent moons and some long lines of something that had crystallised was probably some sort of delicacy, bread, cream or otherwise. He couldn’t entirely rule out that it were simply biscuits, and the object therefore a biscuit tin, but somehow, it didn’t quite so neatly fit together in his mind. Especially because the tin caused one, and only one emotion within him – red, hot, burning anger, and he didn’t know himself well at this present moment, but to be angry at biscuits seemed truly uncharacteristic for him. No, there had to be another reason, he was likely taking the biscuit tin as an umbrella statement for a person, or a situation, or a causality of some sort. 

   Distantly, as all of these flashed past with a startling accuracy and realism, he wondered what exactly he was trying to forget, or why he was only remembering fragments of whatever his existence seemed to accumulate to. But those thoughts were quickly replaced by other fragments that kept drifting by, like little puddles he couldn’t stop placing his head in. It was funny, really – whenever he had a clearer moment and began to ponder his existence, it felt like he was being pulled straight back in, not that he minded – it was simply that the fragments he saw were connected to such odd feelings, like somebody had thrown them all up and randomly combined them. Like they were out of order, disconnected, like the sensory impressions did not match the pictures, and the emotions caused. Like the sound was for a different memory, like layers that were wrongly arranged between the memories. 

   Such was the case with the dragon. He was fairly certain it was a Swedish Short-Snout, but he had absolutely no idea how he knew that, but couldn’t quite say whether the ape-sloth from before was called Dougal or Demiguise. It just instantly clicked. To his shame, he had to admit it had taken him full seven rotations of the memory to understand that it wasn’t actually a Swedish Short-Snout, but rather a toy version of it. A few laps later, he had realised it was edible, simply because he associated the smell and taste of marzipan with it. He could see it fly, even, somebody making it come over, the tip of a bright, birchwood wand – how did he know that? – and he could see two others of the same kind, but their names, he had forgotten. Seeing such a creation, so clearly magical and seen from the eyes and perspective of a child, he had later realised, should quite frankly have astonished him, and all the more unsettling was the feeling so truly tied to it – a bitterness in the gut, a taste of abandonment. How in the name of Merlin did a flying marzipan dragon connect to abandonment? 

   Seated in a gazebo, he couldn’t help but notice that it was a bit off for a traditional gazebo, as he had previously thought. Surely, a plant of great size was intertwined with even the very pillars, and climbing all over the walls, but it rather seemed to be some sort of internal dome, not large but still round atop, with leaves blocking and twisting streaming-in sunlight further than the dirty glass above did. An alcove of some sort? The green leaves seemed vibrant and alive, rustling almost as though they had a life of their own, and little whitish, yellow blossoms were adorning the trellises. The bench he was seated on was old and weathered and the plant, whatever it was, had begun even conquering it. The only part of the room untouched by leaves and flowery debris was the table, shaky, and currently occupied by numerous sheets hastily thrown together, star-charts and constellation analyses, with three feathers lying by, a book opened and a cup of steaming tea standing on the side, almost covered by the amount of parchment. Here, too, the emotion did not correspond – he had a feeling he might rather have enjoyed a journey to the stars or dealing with them, but here, he only felt alone, a veritable pit in his stomach, not only like he was alone, like there was no other human presence, but also that he felt like his existence alone was different, that he was alone in a condition or something of that sort. Perhaps an illness, perhaps Lycanthropy if tracking the stars was of such import? Why would he have felt so detached from the rest of the world in such a lovely place?

   Despite him having the feeling these were entirely mismatched, he also had an inkling they were intimately connected, despite their obvious mismatched nature. Which concerned him all the more – what kind of memories were this, where there was so much dissonance between emotions and scenery? What significance did this hold? 

   And why, why, did the people he saw have no faces?! 

   When he did see them. So far, he had espied three, luckily all so different in hair colours and clothing choices that it had become rather easy to tell them apart. Still, at first, he had attributed this to a lack of mental clarity, but the further he felt like he was waking from some sort of mental journey – it reminded him of younger days, and a brief flash of little dough parcels, whatever the significance was behind that – the further it unsettled him that the faces of those people he did see remained utterly blank, no noses, no eyes, no mouths. 

   There was a man, tall and lean, with a quite formidable beard, hair a mixture between light browns and reds, and clothes with an enormous amount of frills and trousers that highlighted a slim waistline, two button-rows even, and a vest of rich brocade in reds that suited his hair. Then there was the second, whom he had a little more trouble placing with a gender considering they were essentially wearing a dress or robes of some sort made of beige material, and had shoulder-long white hair. Their figure was lean as well, almost too much so, he thought, their bones clearly defined. And the third was wearing an overall of sorts, a worker’s uniform made of blue fabric he couldn’t name but that felt soft to the touch to him, black hair styled with gel of some sort and sticking up, and dandelions floating around him in circles. At least in this regard, he couldn’t discover any dissonance – for each of these three figures, he felt the exact same, how one would feel for a family. It was odd, really. Perhaps the white hair came from age, and the middle figure was a grandmother or grandfather? The first and third, they felt relatively young in comparison, perhaps his brothers? The youngest with some flowers, perhaps a son? Was this his family? 

   Then there was the matter that, whenever the blue flowers were waving gently in the wind, perhaps even in a storm of colourful birds he somehow knew were called goldfinches, a pit opened in his chest, and it never began to close entirely unless he was ripped from the puddle into which he had longingly gazed, gasping for breath and feeling like no human could ever feel such sadness. Why could flowers make him so sad?! What had they seen? What had he, to feel so for a bunch of light blue flowers swaying in the wind? Were they poisonous, and somebody that had mattered to him had died to their toxins? Had they been someone’s favourite, perhaps that of a sister or a mother, or a lover, and that person had passed away recently? They were just a few blue blossoms attached to each other, and growing to the purple in the middle, what was so special about them? 

   At first, he hadn’t asked any questions. 

   He had just let himself be guided through the memories, fuzzy as they had been in comparison to his view now, much more unobscured. He thought perhaps a few more rotations, and he could perhaps understand a little bit more on the fundamental level, though he doubted it. Realisations had been few and far in between so far. But the more often he reunited with the memories as they flew past, the more he began to ask himself what it meant for him that he could only essentially remember eight things, and the feelings connected were all over the place. Was a connection in his mind malfunctioning?  Or were they properly connected, and he was simply not associating the meanings right? He had also attempted to place the puzzle pieces together, the different images, but he could draw only few conclusions from them. He was close to an animal of some sort and this union made him incredibly happy. He had felt helpless by a river, perhaps he was scared of water, or the construction of the bridge? A piece of parchment made him feel love, perhaps it was words composed by a child of his? Was he a father? The writing looked young, childish, if not in his language. Or perhaps he generally couldn’t read? No, that was not it, in the star-charts, he could decipher words. A blue box enraged him so much that it sickened him. A marzipan dragon made him feel abandoned, it seemed like something a child would enjoy, perhaps a parent that had left? As for the others, he had no further conclusions, not for the little alcove, not for the cornflowers, not the faces. 

   Whatever the puzzle was, he had not the wits to deriddle it. Perhaps that was precisely the purpose. Perhaps this conundrum wasn’t meant to be solved. 

   He still couldn’t open his eyes, but he felt like he was trying with every fibre of his consciousness. He wanted to see, not only be skipping from pond to pond in his own mind. It felt like there was something monstrous he should have been aware of, but he just wasn’t getting to it. Like it was buried deep at the bottom of a lake, a lake too deep to be dived into just like that. Like a golden coin glittering in the depths, only visible in the perfect stillness of the water, and momentarily, he saw naught but a flicker every so often. He didn’t question much that the water had a turquoise quality, and that this was rather odd for a lake, some things, he supposed, he would just have to take for granted. 

   Like the water metaphor. 

   He recognised a metaphor when he saw it, even when he didn’t remember but eight scenes of apparently his entire life, and still felt as though they were horribly mismatched. But the sheer abundance of water-related imagery, it had to mean something, right? Was he a swimmer, or a diver? Did he fear the water, and was therefore confronted by it all the more? The bridge scene would have confirmed it, though, the harder he thought about it, the more he attributed that feeling of helplessness to the truly wobbly look of the entire construction, clearly water pouring down from nearby mountains, at any second, the few hastily-nailed-and-roped-together wooden boards could give in. Perhaps he was rather afraid of fire? Perhaps he had suffered a fire-related injury? He couldn’t be certain. Just that the whole water-theme was practically beating him over the head repeatedly, as though it wanted him to see something that should’ve been hidden poorly in waters so crystal-clear, but indeed, he felt as though he was only grasping in the murky, muddy depths, or like he was trying to see the bottom of a raging ocean. 

   But right now was the first time he had ever felt conscious of having a body. Surely, it seemed so obvious now. He had walked, he had sat on the bench in the alcove, he had held a being’s hand. Of course he had a body. But he hadn’t felt it before. Now, he did. Now he felt the weight of his own self, though he was uncertain where he was, what he was, and whatever else was happening. Just that, whenever he tried to open his eyes, something stopped him. Had a great accident befallen him and he was unable to see? Or was he merely not strong enough to open his eyes? 

   No matter – perhaps if he forced it, it would only make things worse. Instead, he decided to pursue the only other lead he had left, after having used his time excessively pondering the people he had seen, and only coming up thinking the possibly-oldest smelled like metal, the red-head like perfume and the dandelion-child like... cinnamon? Which was, within itself, an interesting conclusion – he knew the concepts of metal, perfume and cinnamon, had distinct images for them. He had even tried go with that flow, follow an associative chain, jump from the dandelion-child to cinnamon, then think about what he connected cinnamon with, but that had only ended up confusing him so much that he had eventually lost his ability to think for a while. But he felt more conscious now, more stable. There was only one other image he had yet to place, and that was of the little dough bags. 

   So he dove head-first. He couldn’t remember their names, just that he saw a plate before himself, of eight little bags of pale dough artfully twisted at the top to remain tied shut, and arranged around a little bowl that was filled with a dangerous-looking orange paste of some kind. Why exactly it was dangerous in his mind, he didn’t know, but when he attempted to think all flavours through, his mouth was immediately rather set on fire, and he decided dangerous seemed to be a synonym for inhumanely spicy. Why would a human being voluntarily consume more than a half spoonful in a whole dish? Perhaps the bags were filled with something that naturally soaked up the spiciness, like meat, or chees- yes, that triggered an association! Oh, multiple, actually! Multiple images that were streaming in, of what he thought was perhaps called datshi or something of that sort. 

   Even though he had the urge to follow down the cheese’s offered pathway, he decided to dive into one complexity at once. It was odd, that he should have had a sentimental response – a response of any emotion, that was – to every image-pool he had so far been engulfed in, so it felt rather queer that this particular one, these rather odd dough bags, did not trigger anything he may have been missing. What had he felt? Happiness. Helplessness. Love. Anger. Abandonment. Dejection, he had now come to classify it. Family. Sadness. Which ones were left, then, in primary emotions? Guilt. Fear. Shock. Disgust. Hatred. Excitement. Pride. Jealousy. Loneliness-

   The feeling came so suddenly, he had no way to prepare for it. Suddenly, he was very aware of his existence if only by the fact that his entire body seemed to have been set ablaze from the inside. He could feel his veins, his arteries, he could feel the blood, and he could feel it burn. Everything in his entire body kicked into gear as defence mechanisms began sprouting madly, and within a few seconds, he had both realised that he had eyes, and that he could actually open them, with how the magic coursed through him like mad. He didn’t see anything but white, overwhelming for his eyesight, which led him to the conclusion that he must not have seen worldly light for quite a time if the burning in his eyes was to be believed as an indicator of-

   “Albus,” a voice beside him stated so blankly that it sounded as though it had been spoken by a machine. 

Was that his name? It didn’t seem like any word he knew. Yes, it made sense, it felt right. He fought to keep his eyes open, but the force required seemed like so much, he could barely keep them from utterly snapping shut. He couldn’t even see his surroundings before the environment went back to black, and he resigned himself to surrender once more. The feeling of utter fyre in his veins was slowly ebbing down regardless, which made him feel less like he needed to escape from the confines of what seemed to be his bodily casing. 

“Oh, by Rowena, Albus!”

Somehow, the voice drew him in, sparked curiosity, and he ventured another daring attempt, pressed with all his force – despite only having seen something very boring compared to his colourful memories, he yearned for more. He had seen so much of these few moments and puddles he had kept diving into, he was beginning to be seasick. He couldn’t do much this time, didn’t have the resolve, but he could see a smallest ray of light before it was dark again, he didn’t have more in him. It seemed to have been enough though.

“Albus, bless you! Bless you, you’re awake!”

He tried to move his lips, but found them quite... dysfunctional. Just like his eyes. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he open his eyes? He pushed once more, but this time, it felt like a Goliath task – he just couldn’t force himself against the restraints. 

“Xoco! XOCO!” the voice yelled out frantically – at least his ears were functioning, otherwise, he truly wouldn’t have known that he was awake. Then again, before, he hadn’t been aware that he hadn’t been, so something must have changed. Had he dreamed? And why was everything so... intransparent in his mind? 

“Yes?”

“He’s awake! It’s Albus, he’s awake!”

“ De arromba! ¹ Since when?”

“He opened his eyes just now! Just for a second there, but I saw it, and his heartbeat is quicker now, I think he’s finally woken up! Or starting to, there’s that.”

“His ey- oh, merda, he is still under the whole-body charm we placed on him, it likely cost him an almost infinite amount of energy to interfere with the spell... Oh, with his state, I didn’t expect this before Monday by the earliest... Let me simply... Finite!” the voice called, and he could feel the pressure on what he assumed were his facial features ease up, like it was the receding tide, like an infection slowly being moved backwards.

It itched like hell, though. It was like his entire face was being walked over by the tiniest of tiny feet, and most importantly also underneath his skin. Logically, he knew it was the after-effect of returning from an immobilisation, that the blood flow was the thing that made his skin tickle so much, but that didn’t exactly help in alleviating the sensation. He was so occupied by making the itch go away without actually having the ability to scratch it that he only noticed after a long time that there was still a conversation running parallel to his desperate attempts, and that he had been likely grimacing quite wildly. No matter – he just wanted that merciless tickling to cease!

He – Albus? – really tried to listen, but they were going far too fast for him. It didn’t help that he thought perhaps the conversation was led in different... realisations of language, different- yes, different languages, one that felt very oddly boring, and another which felt much more like giddiness and... a sweet-spicy taste? He tried to steady his breathing, though he found he could not truly control the process. Why was that? Yes, breathing was a reflex, but why couldn’t he alter it? And why did he not feel the air in his chest?

When something warm was placed at his cheek, he opened his eyes on reflex, trying to protect himself, likely, and found himself looking upon the first facial features he could actively remember. Blue-brown eyes, the both of them. Odd. Then grey-black hair, full lips, a large nose. Everything was still blurry at the edges, much more than the person’s face wasn’t evident. A man. Yes, that he knew, it was obvious. That wasn’t one of the empty faces he had seen. 

“Regardless, this is the best of news, after Thursday...! Professor Yaxley, remain his watch as I fetch some ingredients.”

Yaxley, yes. The name connected. This was Yaxley, of course. Wait, who was Yaxley exactly? Besides in possession of warm, really delicate fingers that still lay cosy against his cheek, which had begun tickling marginally less. 

“Hesitate with informing the others. I doubt an abundance of suitors at this moment is recommendable.”

“I will inform Headmistress Derwent so she may pass on the information discreetly. I do feel as though the Headmaster ought to know.”

“Yes, well, he should, but don’t get the children mixed up with it.”

“The children?”

“Those his age. Those three have been the bane of my existence, the whole lot of them. Everybody under fifty. And that dratted historian, too.”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“You also know what you’re doing. I sincerely doubt that that solicitor has any fundamental idea of healing. And he attracts an unnatural amount of attention.”

“Neither do you.”

“But I can keep my mouth shut. And I should like to think I’m not standing in the way.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about. Like the words were empty, with no meaning behind them. Just words, no connections. He heard steps distancing, tried to combat that feeling, or non-feeling, rather, whenever he attempted to draw breath. Why couldn’t he breathe, why couldn’t he feel the extension of his chest whenever-

“Hey, Albus...” the voice – Yaxley – mumbled softly and crispy-clearly as a spring of some kind, reaffirmed by a stroke of his cheek. “Can you hear me?”

“Y-yes-“ he croaked in reply, his throat constricting around the noises. 

Merlin, he felt like he’d been stranded in the vastness outside... the name wouldn’t come to him. Library. Yes, library, there were so many books there, and palm trees, and talking cats. Regardless, he was rather certain that the squeal hanging in the air wasn’t made by his malfunctioning vocal chords. It seemed uncharacteristic. Perhaps that person, Yaxley, professor, too... Well, perhaps he wasn’t in the habit to squeal. 

“You can talk.”

“Y-yes...”

“Oh, do not strain your voice, for now. Just nod, if you can. Or blink. I’ll keep a close eye on you.”

He nodded – it felt odd. Why was that?

“Are you in any pain?”

He shook his head. Still that odd feeling, right at the base of his- where his face ended. Neck? Or was it above that? He couldn’t quite tell whether it was the intersection between neck and head, or neck and body, but something felt odd in the region. 

“Thank Merlin. Do you remember who you are?”

What was that question? Why wouldn’t he? Had he hit his head somehow? That was where memories and the self were stored, no? Was that why his neck felt so weird, had he sustained some injury of it? He couldn’t nod or shake his head in reply, simply lay there trying to come up with a short, poignant answer that would encapsulate that he was-

“Confused,” the man by the name of Yaxley finished his thought. “Is that it?”

He nodded gratefully – it wouldn’t have come to him, not so concisely. Surely, he had memories, but a part of him knew that they were far from complete, and even then, those that existed were quite damaged, apparently. Or altered, somehow. Certainly not normally functional.

“Alright, we will work with that. By Rowena, you gave us a mighty-enough scare, luv.”

Luv? That felt different. That seemed... odd? Luv, that seemed so... romantic? Was this man his partner? But, and here he could only theorise considering that he seemed injured – one of the first questions had been for his physical pain, they must have been concerned about it, ergo expecting he might be in it, ergo he had some sort of injury that would cause him pain, ergo he was likely lying in an infirmary somewhere – if this man had sat patiently by his bed-side, would he not have seen him in his memories? He had seen only three, would a loving partner not have left an impression, if faceless and confused? Or was this a new thing? 

“What-what ha-hap-“

“Sh,” the man – Professor Yaxley – hummed gently. “One thing at a time. Let Xoco come back first with everything, bandages and potions and all.”

“But-“

“You’re the most patient person I know, surely you didn’t misplace that ability just because you were out cold for a few days, huh?”

He wanted to protest, but it felt right, it felt... yes, it felt like it fit, the patience. Maybe he was typically patient. He just wasn’t at this very moment because... well, because it was somewhat frightening not to know what was happening. Where was he, who was he, what was happening, why was he-

“You were injured, luv, take it slow.”

He didn’t feel like a person that could take it slow. After- well, he didn’t even know how long it had been! The further he tried to think back, the farther he was out of his depths. It wasn’t even only the details that didn’t want to come to him, it were the broad strokes, the gists, the surroundings, the background colouring that wouldn’t yield itself. Merlin, when he thought about it, and thought about Professor Yaxley, he couldn’t even remember what this man was supposed to be a professor for! And that, of course, offered the question why he couldn’t recall the first name of a person that quite openly called him luv, even if it was just a figure of speech! Wait, what was he? What profession did he have, what did he do with his life? Albus, that felt like his first name, but what was his last name, then? He didn’t even know his own last name! Then Professor Yaxley, he looked middle-aged, which begged the question of his own age. In the memories, he had thought himself the age of the man with the auburn-reddish hair, and much older than the boy with the dandelions, but- but didn’t that mean he too was in his middle ages, fifties, sixties, seventies? If so, how much was he missing?! He could have lived entire eons, entire encyclopaedias worth of knowledge and wisdom or shenanigans and failures, and he didn’t remember any of them, had somebody tampered with his memory, had there been an accident in his mind, had he fallen and hurt his head in a manner where he didn’t remember most anything but shades about this person he was supposed to be, and if so, how did Professor Yaxley demand of him to ‘take it slow’?! 

   The rapid-fire questions about his physical health – did he have any pain, no, did he have any feeling in his limbs, well, now he at least knew he had limbs, though he couldn’t move them at all, could he speak, evidently, could he swallow, yes, but with difficulty, could he recall his own name, well, huzzah, not quite so much, and could he drink this, and that, and that too, and perhaps this other thing as well and why was he grimacing like mad if he wasn’t in pain, because his face still hadn’t stopped tickling entirely – only made him more impatient, more like a raging river, like the one he had taken the bridge to cross over. A bridge to cross over a river, why did that feel so familiar, so ominous, so... important? 

“Just tell me,” he eventually croaked when he couldn’t take it any longer. He felt like pressure was building up in his body, right-sided, and like it was threatening to suffocate him. 

“I think it would be best if you could first answer my questions-“

“Tell me,” he thundered, though his throat felt parched, the words hurting more with every syllable he produced. “Just give it to me straight, what the hell is going on with me, what happened to me, why am I confined to this bed without even being able to move, what-“

“If you could only answer a few questions about your physical state beforehand, and allow me to ascertain whether there is a necessity for a potion-“

“I don’t want another potion, I can’t feel anything in my body anyways! Just tell me what’s wrong with me!”

“Let me talk to him,” a familiar voice said from the side.

   Albus was unbearably ashamed. Undeniably appalled, when it took several beats of his heart before he could identify it. Had it just taken him ten seconds, if not over a dozen, to identify his mentor, his dear friend, his wonderful-

“Nico?” Albus croaked helplessly and disappointed with himself. “Nico?”

The old being from his memory puddles, Nicolas! How could he not have accessed the name?! How could he have forgotten the man that had protected, nurtured, calmed, inspired, moulded him into that which he was today?! Instantly, his brain was flooded with memories, like a torrential surge of potion fumes, algae pesto, carvings on ancient wood flowing into place, heaps of books like geysers, scarab and imperial tortoise beetles, croissants aux amandes, veritable waves of parchment overflowing on old tables with scorch marks and blade imprints, ginger, lavender, burnt sugar and sage, earth interlaced with coffee grounds, apples fresh from the tree, and between it all intertwined the stories like rivers unfolding from the source.

“ Ouais, petiot,” the old alchemist confirmed with a voice so full of tenderness it cleaved his chest in two, metaphorically, anyways. “Ouais, petiot, c’est moi. Regardes, c’est moi,” he added, and soon, he had moved his face into his line of sight. “Respires avec moi, mon petiot, est-ce que tu peux le faire? Est-ce que tu me comprends?²” 

“Yes,” Albus answered, the French didn’t want to come to him. “But- but I can’t say- I- I just want to know what is-“

“I will tell you, if you promise me you will breathe.”

“I promise.”

“Good, good. Would you like to hear how you were injured, or merely the injuries themselves?”

“I want to know why I can’t move!” Albus hissed, trying to fight against the restraints again. He couldn’t even tell what they were, and usually, his magic- 

His magic felt so dim, it was practically a candle three minutes from burning out. For a brief moment, that feeling of being submerged, head pushed underwater, with such force it knocked the air from his lungs. Why couldn’t he feel it when he attempted to draw breath?! Why was he bed-ridden, why did his magic feel so... so weak, so frightened, like a creature trapped in a cage with thin steel bars and pushed underwater trying to escape, what was happening to him, why hadn’t he been able to remember Nicolas Flamel, his best friend?!

“Breathe, and I will talk. Breathe, then I will explain your injuries first. Healer Canul, perhaps you may have a... comment on dit ³, this formula of Babbington, including the Knotgrass...?”

“For the throat?”

“Yes! Yes, precisely this. He has not spoken in several days, perhaps this could ail the suffering of his voice. Alright. Petiot, whilst your wonderful healer fetches something for your throat, allow me to explain your bodily condition. Please, feel free to interrupt me at any moment.”

“Why am I restrained?”

It only became apparent to him after he had uttered the words, that he was indeed restrained, that there was something holding him down, maybe even subduing his magic. Beforehand, it hadn’t even really occurred to him that he was in fact magic, a wizard, but now, it seemed rather obvious. Yes, he was a wizard, Nicolas was his friend, he had lived with him for many years... 

“Many bones in your body are still being mended and properly adjusted, therefore, we decided to place you under a very strong Body-Bind so you would not accidentally injure yourself. You must endure this for a little while longer, but I assume tomorrow, perhaps it can slowly come off so you can come to. Your healer has removed the spell on your face, and throat, so you may vocalise. The rest of your body should be numbed and immovable at this moment. I promise you, petiot, you will be able to move again very soon.”

“How many?”

“Excuse me?”

“How many bones are being mended?”

“A counter-question – perhaps you could add them as I list them?”

“What for?”

“We fear that your brain might... be compromised to a certain degree as well.”

It would explain why things didn’t add up! Why, well, why everything was so disconnected, like pieces of driftwood pushed at the insistence of uncontrollable waves. 

“Compromised?” he asked nevertheless.

“Yes. Hence, I would like to assess its basic functionality, or whether perhaps... t’as une commotion cérébrale ⁴ or something of that sort. Please, add with me. Your phalanges distales.”

A commotion cérébrale? It translated naturally in his mind, and that took a lot of strain off his shoulders. So an accident involving his memories was not suspected, merely a concussion, merely having hit his head. His body was not restrained because of a mental issue, but rather the mental issue was sort of a side-effect of the bodily ailment that had befallen him. With several broken bones, apparently. Perhaps he had fallen, and had been knocked unconscious? He remembered having a concussion once, very young, but the details, as before, just didn’t want to come to him. 

“All of them?”

“Yes, sadly. Do you know how many-“

“Five,” he cut in quickly. It seemed to be knowledge he had free access to. But all five? That seemed excessive. Normally, nothing instantly attacked all-

“Precisely. Tes phalanges du milieu.”

“Four.”

Those too? What did that-

“Tes phalanges proximales.”

“Five.”

“How many is that?”

The numbers were hovering before his mind, five, four, five. Four, five, five. Five, five, four... A woman was gently chuckling in his mind, warmly, comfortably, homely. Who was she? Had she taught him? He tried to visualise their accumulation, but they simply blurred into each other. He had to take one of each away from each other to count. He knew it took him shamefully lengthily, and all but confirmed what he had already subconsciously feared to be truth – something was very wrong with the way his brain operated. Would a concussion do this to him?

“Fourteen,” he eventually concluded. “I had fourteen broken bones?”

“No, petiot,” Nicolas stated so utterly blankly that he knew instantly. Knew that it wasn’t just a few broken bones. It was more than that. More bones, and more injuries besides. He knew his friend. He knew that tone, he knew the gravity of the situation. “I was merely beginning so you needn’t memorise too many numbers. You struggled a little.”

“I had to- I had to add them. Manually.”

Merlin, that felt miserable. Oh. Merlin? He had heard this word before… yes, Merlin was- Merlin was a wizard, he saw drawings flash before his eyes. Old ones, centuries old. Perhaps so ingrained in language that it had become almost like a deity to swear by?

“That is alright, Albus. Take it slow. You must know at once that your consciousness at this very moment is a phenomenal blessing. You have done better than anyone thought possible. You are strong, so very strong, petiot…”

“It’s bad.”

“Petiot, think not of it now, hm? Take it slow. One breath at a time.”

“I can’t feel my breathing.”

“Non?”

“No, I- I can’t feel anything under my throat, what- what is-“

“You will, I promise. You will again. If you endure this for a little while longer, you will be able to move again. Patience, petiot. How about I continue the list? And you count with me, hm?”

“But- but I can’t move, when-“

“ Patience, mon cher petiot. Je suis tellement fier de toi. Plus fier que tu pourrais l’imaginer. Tes métacarpes. ⁵”

“Eigh- no, f-five.”

“Tes carpes,”

“Eight?”

“Yes. Please, add this for me.”

“F-fourteen, right? And then five…”

The process was exhausting, having to move the number over from one side to the other. He miscounted twice, but eventually arrived at twenty-seven, which seemed to be correct. 

“Ulna, radius, humérus, scapula, clavicule,” Nicolas listed carefully, and those were easier to add, considering it was just one at a time. 

That made thirty-and-two. He did not like the image that was unfolding the further it went upwards. A broken hand was one thing, perhaps an Erumpent had stepped- an Erumpent? Ah, yes, a large magical creature! He remembered it suddenly, and felt rather warm – perhaps he liked these creatures in particular. Though, he felt a warmth and softness unlike any other he remembered for that being with the white fur he had held the hand of, it had been so… human-like, for a creature. So empathic and clever… 

“ Et huit côtes et ton sternum étaient fracturés. ⁶”

But every bone broken from the furthest phalange to the sternum, located right over his chest? Wasn’t that- wasn’t that very much, and very atypical for any given injury? He moved the numbers about again, for a few moments.

“Forty- forty-and one.”

Forty-one?! How would one even break forty-one bones? And those ones in particular? No injury seemed to relate to this. Nothing in his brain could explain to him just how he had broken that many bones, Merlin, forty-and-one?! A broken bone itself seemed to be no large impediment, it didn’t feel like it was very dramatic, he had only felt confusion at hearing that all of his phalanges were broken, but aside from that? 

“Yes. They are still mending themselves. It is early Saturday morning, petiot, very early, actually, and you have been here since the night from Sunday to Monday, so we expect your bones having properly grown into place by tomorrow.”

“I- was I- was I out the whole time?”

“Yes. Here,” Nicolas motioned gently and placed a flask at his lips. “Drink slowly.”

He acquiesced with the request, feeling once more some semblance of watery wetness slither into his throat, though, this one truly felt more like a snake, and less like water. It went through to his throat remarkably though, he didn’t once feel the need to cough. He felt the magic, felt it slowly creep into his skin and soothe the ache that had spread there from talking, before leaving him feel perhaps a bit too slimy for his taste. Regardless, it eased the pain, that- that made it at least partially better. It left him, however, trying to fruitlessly analyse the facts again – he had been out for… six, five, six days, simply submerged without control of his own thoughts, it explained why the journey though his remote memories had felt so endless. Spending that many hours simply in the confines of his own mind, that it hadn’t crazed him… And forty-one of his bones were broken, but not, as one might have expected of a fall, all over his body, but isolatedly as though… as though they had been broken deliberately for an image, destroying the entire arm, leaving no bone intact on the way. But how then had he obtained such mental convolution? Why- why didn’t everything want to come to him, why were his memories blocked? He wanted to know! He couldn’t just lie here waiting for somebody to tell him what was wrong with him!

“How?”

“ Pardonne-moi? ⁷ ”

“How did I break forty-one bones? Why can’t I remember any of it? Why- why can’t I remember who I am?!”

“You can’t?”

“No! I- I don’t even know my- my name! Well, I know Albus, but nothing else! Not my age, not- not what I do, I- I know that you are- are my mentor and friend, but-“

“Magic.”

“Monsieur Flamel, perhaps it would be wise not to-“

“He deserves to know.”

“But perhaps we could-“

“I know Albus, I have lived with him for many moons. I know that, once his curiosity is ignited, well-“

Ignited, that felt uncomfortable. Why did the word make him feel uncomfortable? First his odd reaction to fyre, then this? And all that water, all those times he had encountered it, in puddles and the river and the geysers of parchment, why did everything keep being so watery, and why did fire make him twitchy? 

“-he is insatiably keen on finding out the truth, ignoring sleep, rest and sustenance in favour of the knowledge he seeks.”

“His psyche-“

“I know of his psyche. I will care for it, no matter what happens. He burns for the information, and it is best to relay it quickly before... before he begins searching by force.”

Again, that odd feeling. Had he been burned, escaped a fyre of some sort? But would that not have hurt? And why would it have broken bones? Why did water feel so much more soothing, and fire felt like something he was genuinely afraid of? 

“On your head. But hurry, please, his bandages need to be exchanged by breakfast-time.”

He didn’t quite know how the next few minutes passed, he forgot as soon as words were spoken, and sensory impressions did not connect. Surely, this was more than a concussion! Why did he have such-

“A type of magic broke your bones,” Nicolas cut through the emptiness and drowsiness. “It travelled from your hand to your chest, where your magic, we theorise, stopped it from hurting you further. You- you also suffer from a heart condition.”

“I do?” 

That was new. He could tell even without having any memories of who he actually was. 

“Yes. It seems that, as this magic injured you, you fled via apparition, but splinched yourself.”

Splinching... apparition, yes... he had heard those words before, instantly ugly wounds falling to his mind like raindrops on hot stone. 

“My heart? I- I splinched my heart?”

“Yes, petiot. I thank the heavens, indeed, that someone competent knew how to heal you. The magic that befell you, both its traces lingering in your arm as well as the broken bones, it would have taken time, but you would have healed well. But the heart injury is what caused you to be... to be gone from us for almost a week.”

“I- I did that.”

“No, you mustn’t begin along those lines, petiot. Yes, you may have accidentally injured yourself, but I need you to recall to mind that this magic was ongoing as you vanished. You could possibly have been injured more if you had stayed where you were.”

“I was being- being hurt and I vanished and hurt myself more.”

“Yes. But there is no telling what may have happened had you remained. And you are with us now. We were afeard, Tuesday to Thursday, we were, but you have woken. Tout est bien qui finit bien. ⁸ You live. You- you will be physically alright, perhaps you will struggle with the process, but... your odds of a relatively untroubled physical health exist.”

There was no reassurance to be found in the words, and he mulled them over quietly, pondering them, trying to figure out just why they didn’t feel reassuring. That he had been worse over the week, worse than now? He didn’t know, he wouldn’t have, how could he? He’d been floating from puddle of obscurity to puddle of uncertainty! When the silence continued, he finally understood what had been said, between the lines. 

The entire tone of it, that he would live, that he would be able to use his magic, that he would heal, but spoken in such a defeated tone, not of somebody wishing that he may not have survived the agony, but rather... rather concerned because the injuries seemed to be of the least importance, ergo- 

‘Physically alright.’

He would be physically alright. But mentally? Emotionally? Something had happened that Nicolas thought had the potential to-

“Which magic was cast on me?”

“A- a curse, Albus, petiot. You- you do not remember this, do you?”

“No, and I rather would like to know what-“

“ Oh, endurer cela une fois, c’est l’horreur, mais deux fois? Je pense que ce serait de la torture…⁹"

“ Alors ne me torture plus!¹⁰” he replied, surprised that the answer came in French. So he didn’t only understand it, but could actively produce it. “Qu’est-ce-“

“Sometime on Sunday evening, you were purposefully hit by a dark curse, which broke your bones and left your arm heavily injured in terms of its composition.”

“Which curse?!”

“The Cruciat-“

   ‘CRUCIO!’ it at once rang in his brain as though one had banged a gong right beside his ear. 

   And oh, he knew that voice. He heard it twice, two layers of voices, the same person-  

   His chest constricted, such an ache. He felt it. The curse was ravaging him. He was screaming. He heard his voice. He heard their voices scream. Everything was on fyre. The whole world burned. Flashes of the knobly wand. Blond hair, and a bright chuckle. The incandescence, the white-hot fury- Weißglut flooding his every nerve.

“He- Quentin, is he safe, is-“

Everything else was drowned out, he couldn’t breathe. The heat drew the oxygen away. His chest was melting with fervour and fury. There it was, that storm of Fiendfyre ready to engulf him whole.

   And no tidal wave, no tsunami came to put out the terminal fyres.

Chapter Text

   How dare he?!

   How dare Albus betray him?!

   After everything, after all those days together, seventeen verdammte meetings, and his royal highness Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore thought to end it like this?! That mirthful smirk a haunting grimace, a fright of a monster worse than Gellert himself, who had jumped through all hoops of pleasantries and casual seduction just to eventually fool Gellert as though they meant nothing?!

   They were each other’s lives! Had been, had been, how could it ever be the same again! There Gellert had thought he had actually mattered to Albus, Albus, oh, the enemy, the wretched fool of a traitor! How many useless, shameful tears had he cried devolving into madness over his youth sweetheart, and Albus laughing to himself, rather preferring to give himself to a lesser man, and ridicule him in the process?! How dare he?! How dare Albus speak of him like this, and to such a completely irrelevant man?! What did that Potions professor have that Gellert did not?! 

   Gellert had everything! 

   He had power, wealth, knowledge, wisdom, wit, skill, character, he had the blasted Elder Wand! 

   He knew quite certainly that that professor could not outdo him in any of them! He had tens of thousands listening, clinging to his every word, he owned a castle, for crying out loud, even a manor would pale in comparison if the outcast even had any such likes to show for, in terms of knowledge, none knew more than Gellert and perhaps Albus, none! Yes, Gellert had made the shameful mistake of actually reading into an article that snake had published in a magazine quaintly labeled Cauldron Curiosity – one of his assigned gossip collectors had done him that favour, as he had put the snake on one of the lists just to be certain considering that, even at that time, he had seemed like a closer confidant to Albus, akin to an Ethel or a Myrill on his side – and said article had read rather professionally if a bit dully on a language level, but still! Oh, what wisdom could eclipse Gellert’s knowledge of the end of the world as it was known, and how to combat it? Oh, as though anyone could so easily outdo Gellert’s quick wit and even his atrocious puns when he let himself loose, Albus had been so enamoured with it, how could anyone so simply have him defeated on such terrain?! Albus had practically clung to his lips whenever he had been witty, sarcastic, amusing or ironic, finding it shamefully amusing! In terms of skill, not even Albus had him outdone, he had always been the more scholarly of the two, and Gellert the more practically-inclined. Fifteen minutes, and Gellert could have stood there, bleeding from an actual uterus, it was that time of the month! A few seconds, he could cross-breed Fiendfyre with a protection spell of his choice and raise a firestorm to burn it all! Gellert could out-logic the Imperius Curse, could apparate eight thousand kilometres, had climbed the highest mountains of this earth, could make a whole quadrant of forest rise at his command, could revive any dead creature of his choosing, could incarnate them with spirits dragged from the netherworld, his shields were, without the usage of arcane magic and its prolonged investigation quite on par with those of the wizarding schools of old, none rivaled him in the realm of blood magic, blood maledictions, blood enchantments, blood rituals, blood perversions and purifications, he had invented so many new spells and even shapes and tastes of magic he couldn’t recall them all! 

   Oh, and character? What character could surpass Gellert’s, who endeared with flowers and poetry and hikes through abandoned landscapes and suppressing even his darkest instincts just to be companionable, what precisely did that whore have on him?! Yes, that had been carried to him as well, a shameless Frauenheld who took to bed with everything that even in the remotest carried some form of bosom and was over the legal age, and seemed to have fathered quite a few bastards, though, it were likely fewer than the papers claimed, and Albus thought to climb into sweet blissful confidence with that sort of a man, telling him about everything, when he, in all likelihood, didn’t even in the remotest sense have any talent to back it up with?

Gellert would know – he’d once been a whore, only the real deal, and with actual men. At least he had been focused enough to draw some strategic value out of his demeaning role!

   And the Elder Wand? Whatever that silly professor-darling of Albus’ waved, it certainly wasn’t elder, and it most certainly wasn’t Antioch Peverell’s fabled artifact, an amplifier for natural magic unlike any other wand that had been built and preserved through time. Even in metaphorical wand, Gellert was rather certain he had him beat, though, Albus had always only been too easy to please. 

   And yet, Albus- 

The vases shattered. 

   Lisky, that foolish Elf, had put a constant renewal charm on them sometime yesterday, and Gellert couldn’t stand it! Whenever he exploded them, in intervals varying between one to four minutes, they seamlessly forced themselves back together in a constant loop, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he would have admired the continuous magic if he hadn’t been so furious at her! Couldn’t she just let him be angry?! Couldn’t she just let him destroy something because the love of his fucking life had broken him again?! Oh, Albus could dally, Albus could run away, but cheat on him?! Behind his back be made love to- no, be fucked by another man!

   How dare he do this to him?! Was this his revenge?! Yes, alright, Gellert had miscalculated in how the imbecilic British ministry would take his insinuations of their abuse of power, that, instead of splitting themselves apart from the past to make a point, they had aligned themselves with the old, what a fundamentally, strategically stupid decision! And yes, alright, Albus had borne the full brunt of this mishap, but Gellert had found he had quite certainly explained it correctly! Perhaps he could have informed him, but it had been supposed to be a present! A pleasant surprise! Getting the ministry off his back, like he had deserved it! Relieving some of his stress as a gesture of faith and good-will, as though one prematurely informed someone of a present for one’s thirtieth anniversary! Then indulging him in not one, but several dances that night to somehow patiently explain the whole predicament, as though it was Gellert’s task to explain his present, as though he was to blame for the idiotic behaviour of the British, and then leading him out to have a wonderful rendezvous even despite Albus’ recalcitrant nature, charming him and kissing him and being utterly delightful with him, with spontaneous poetry, and what had Albus done? 

What had Albus done?!

He had betrayed him!

He had lain with another man! 

And seemingly without remorse, as though he wasn’t by nature already bound to Gellert if not by the actual blood pact they had made all those decades ago! Now, Gellert could begrudgingly tolerate that there had been almost three decades between then and now, and a man, any regular man, indeed, did have the occasional need, so he supposed he couldn’t entirely be furious at Albus especially considering he too had been involved in the occasional raunchy escapade here and there. But they had been together! They had been kissing since September, they had been openly kissing in public, they had kissed near every meeting since, fourteen minutes to impress him there, then strolling through that Muggle market with no sense of any concerns as a couple, an actual couple making an appearance, even a little birthday kiss had been in the cards for Gellert, and then during this last meeting, kissing Albus that much, beguiling him, having him so receptive, that must have counted for something! Albus had been his partner, he Albus’, there was no doubt about it, and yet whilst he had felt shameful about kissing a completely boring man to get some of his friends out of prison, Albus was, what, just having fun on some sort of overly pavonine ego display?! Was letting another man please him like Gellert could best, that morning, that same day! That same day Gellert had thought to please him so, another man had already done the deed for Albus’- 

   Oh, he was glad Albus had come to see a different side of him now! 

   Albus didn’t know what he had caused with his betrayal! This would change everything. Oh, Albus Dumbledore should have known better than to invoke his wrath, once he was on his feet again-

   He couldn’t stand! He couldn’t even stand on his own two feet, and why, because of that stupid, childish pact of theirs that was practically forbidding him from exacting just punishment on the mad traitor that had once more broken his hea- 

   No, no, Albus Dumbledore had broken much more than that. He had declared war on him, and, oh, how Gellert would love to go into battle. Nobody spited him like this. Nobody toyed with him like this, defied him, fooled him, caused him emotions besides anger, and then stabbed his chest so efficiently. Nobody got away with something like this, nobody, not even Albus, most certainly not Albus. 

   ‘Bastard’, the word rang through his brain like mad. Albus, yes, perhaps to his face, that was allowed, as good-natured banter, but to another, to a lesser man?! With such spite?!

‘He’ll pique himself on it and think I’m ACTUALLY interested’, it raced through Gellert’s brain. Long had he theorised it was all just a game to Albus, but now?! Now, oh, now he knew it had all been a long game! And Gellert had lost it! Had lost himself, oh, he would show Albus the true meaning of Fiendfyre! The true meaning of anger, of rage such as it burned within him now, with every breath and every movement of his shaking hands, a small price to pay for having given Albus what he had deserved!

‘Life-partner’, Albus had called this whore, ‘life-partner’! How dare he?! How dare he take another partner whilst he was with Gellert already?! Even if this had existed prior, how dare he keep Gellert in the dark, pretend they were together, just the two of them, through blissful letters and romantic dinner-dates and all those insecurities Albus had pretended to have, that brilliant act, Gellert could vomit! How dare he do all of this behind his back?!

‘I would never be utterly witless enough to begin a relationship with HIM.’ How could Albus even say such things?! How could he even think them, after everything they had been through, how dare he devalue him so much? He had jumped, nay fallen to have a relationship with him all those years ago, practically begging for it, and now, he suddenly didn’t want to anymore?! They had been in one for months! Months! Since September, since they had begun kissing again, at the latest since October when Albus had kissed him after they had gotten the boring formalities and technicalities and trivialities out of the way, and now, now, he suddenly pretended like it had never happened, to somebody who called him something as ridiculously common and impersonal as ‘love’, and pretended like they weren’t the most fascinating, most polarising, most memorable, and well-matched couple of the millennium?

‘He is the root cause for all of my misery, I have barely slept a night these past five years, and after Prussia? I could never forgive.’ As if, as if Albus had lost any sleep over Gellert’s campaign, their campaign, perhaps only in utter shame at having forsaken his place at the helm of the organisation, to revolutionise the world. That Muggle war had broken him enough, as if Gellert had done anything to worsen it, and with what, exactly? Gellert had seen Albus back in the papers succeeding at life all those years, twenty years of watching the other through the papers and seeing all of his achievements and how he was wasting away in mediocrity and insulting the memory of his forefathers and the very existence of magic itself, an affront unlike any other, and now he wanted to complain that a few articles run on Gellert would have so dramatically altered his life?! As if! Albus and all of his perfect test scores and aced exams and living the high life in the artist district under the wing of those liberalist alchemists, probably sleeping with every available man there had been, what had he said?

‘You’d love the whole of it, if only for the men. They are truly spectacular’, as if he hadn’t had every one of them with a grin, just to spite Gellert, who had been going through the worst torture of his entire life in the dungeons below, feeling Albus’ presence in the over-world and yet, the older had never once done anything to help him out, or to even express apologies for not helping him out, bones breaking one by one without healing, and Albus fucking-

   The vases broke again, and the closet’s wood became spectacularly cracked. 

   How dare Albus betray him like this?! And chain him to the bed, as well?! What Gellert had done had been mercifully kind, just a simple Cruciatus, no matter how it had gotten out of hand because the Pact, that irenic piece of useless silver junk had instantly suffocated him and broken his bones alongside it. Gellert could have done so much more, so much better, if not for that artefact! Oh, the Phantom of Place Cachée may have tortured him better than anyone else, but Gellert had learned, studied, committed himself, he was better than that beast could ever be, especially after Arabia and venturing into necromancy proper. The best of torture came not as the victim begged for life, but as they begged for death, and such begging he would have inspired in Albus if- 

   He felt the unbearable, sudden pressure on his arm a second before he understood what was happening, and by the time he did, one of the bones in his lower arm was long cracked in two. He yowled out in agony. He had spent so many years in pain, he didn’t know how to live without it. So many scars on his body, and how many of them Albus’ fault?! His entire left arm was a battlefield of red slashes, angry marks of violation and perversion, all to hate him, all to forget him, he couldn’t count the days and instances he had allowed their Pact to ravage him simply because, simply because the physical agony had been kinder than the emotional one, because it had given him a reason to cry, physical pain allowed for tears, and emotional pain was for the weak and faint of heart! He wasn’t that, he was strong, he was- 

   Albus deserved this, he had betrayed him! He had shamelessly flirted with him, had wrapped him, him, Gellert Grindelwald, around his little finger as his play-thing and now, he just expected there to be no retaliation?! Oh, Gellert would give him revenge, the best of revenges, cold, calculating, bloody and wishing he had never been born! 

   The second bone snapped instantly, and he yowled again, tears shooting into his eyes. 

   Why didn’t the Pact see when he was right?! Why hadn’t he been smart enough to factor that into the equation of the magic?! Why hadn’t he accounted for being rightfully angry at the other party, in such instances?! And how could Albus walk free, how could Albus be so devoid of injury when he betrayed him?! When he broke all promises they had made to each other then and now, their contracts, their love for one another, as though it lived nowadays, but even the faintest traces and remnants still- 

“ Ich hasse ihn,” Gellert mumbled maniacally under his breath, “ich hasse ihn, er hat mich belogen und betrogen, warum darf ich ihn nicht hassen?!¹” 

The answer, simple as it was naïve – foolish children, not accounting for adulthood, for lies and manipulation. Gellert could never have imagined, then and now, that Albus would know how to outsmart the artifact and betray him in this manner. The anger swelled, but could not drown the pain out, could not entirely eradicate it, and his thoughts became more and more unfocussed and dim as the pain rose to near-unbearable levels. Every bone in his body, he thought, may already have been broken before, and patched back together, he was a wizard, it took him a few minutes. In third year, he had broken his own bones on purpose to see whether he could put them back together with magic, dropping a stone on his hand, if he was incapable of doing it right, he could still let a professional fix it. It had taken him five tries to get it properly done without losing himself to the agony. Now, it was child’s play, but his magic didn’t work. It didn’t correspond. The curse had drained him, he knew that too, had drained his magic and it came in bouts and under duress. 

“ Wie konnte ich ihm vertrauen, wie konnte ich ihm mein Herz schenken, ohne-²“

Then the pain reached a boiling point, and exploded out of him uncontrollably. The cupboard torn to splinters, the pictures exploding from the wall, the clothes cut to shreds, the vase shards cutting into his skin, the shields absorbing the impact, and the madness within. He screamed, though he couldn’t hear it, as the magic forced its way through him and burned him, bones mending and breaking in an endless dance of perverted magic, and he lying in the middle, at the mercy of it all, with one thought and only one at the top of his mind before the darkness of the agonies enveloped him whole.

Er wird es bereuen, mich je provoziert zu haben. ³ 

   I lie in bed through sleepless times of terror

I wish my nights were filled with visions now

Not memory of my fantastic error

   The feather cracked – a iambic pentameter?! Of course, of course even in composition, Albus would ghost in his mind and ruin it all, he had used to be all free-verse and unshackled! And now, of course, of course Albus would- 

   Gellert did not mind the iamb as a metre, neither the trochee. They worked, as a quick waltz, up and down, step and pause, a pointed little dance of lines, but his topics did not align with the format, for, as one who described nature unbound and the beauties of this earth, such metres were only required for quick pacing, that of a rushing river, or a spring’s dance of petals and other subjects, or something similarly recurrently evenly paced, certainly not the might of an avalanche, or a thunderstorm, or a- yes, perhaps waves, too, it would have worked well on, as they always did come in the same intervals and playing with cadences may have indicated wave height. The typical subject, a mouse lying in wait, a petal drifting on the lake’s mirror, a lover sprawled out in bed, a butterfly’s pattern, the erratic Taubenschwänzchen of his brief childhood home in Baden swallowed by the hedges of Weideröschen, or raindrops falling into one’s eyes whilst observing the optical illusion of a rainbow, they required as free a form as they were subjects. 

   And here he lay – he couldn’t stand, not with aid, not alone – with a broken feather, and he composed iambs about Albus?! No, he didn’t deserve even the iambs, he deserved no further lines, but whenever Gellert thought of him, something in him broke, if only it could only have been his useless, pathetic heart! No, he needed to take his anger somewhere it could fester and bleed, and if that was on the page, with- yes, perhaps the restrictions would help, then he could approach it with a more analytic mind, give his aching body a little rest of the torment that Albus was to blame for. All this agony, Albus had inflicted, by sneaking into his chest all those years ago and making him become attached, all that agony afterwards when Gellert had done the right thing, walking away from the negative influence that had turned him soft, how would he have conquered the world with so mellowed a heart? And all those years of tolerating the Pact’s endless barrage of violence against him, it was all Albus’ fault, the Pact had been Albus’ idea, and now it hurt him unreasonably much! It just constantly hurt him, unjustly and unfairly. Even that, even just disagreeing with its existence, and greedy talons under his skin, and some part of him was bleeding again, there was so much pain, and so many numbing spells by the useless Elves, he smelled it in the air but didn’t know where it came from. 

   He needed another feather, and restrictions, and bounds to adhere to so his mind would not spiral. A pyramid, he had not done those in years. Those that grew larger to the middle, and rhymed complicatedly, a testament to his unique brilliance, yes, that was needed. A pyramid-like poem where he needed to pay specific attention to rhymes within and across stanzas and where the middle line of all, the very central line of the entire poem, was quite the one that conveyed the message clearer than the entire poem ever could. Yes, that he would embark on – to soothe his own pain, to write the agony and anger blood-red on the page. Who had need of ink? Some part of him always bled anyways, he may as well put it to good use. 

Was blind, believed you thought me meaningful

That I was more than just your game of gall

That to your every whim you made me bow

I can’t believe that was the aim of all

That grieve I do you under blanket’s wool.

   The Elves had given him Gentian’s blanket, probably to soothe him, but it just tempted him to feel anything but anger, and he- no, he would never feel anything but, not after what Albus had done to him! How dare they be so presumptuous, he should have their sanity for it! Thinking he would need a soothing blanket, that he would even need to grieve! Him, grieving, what, precisely? The lack of his own intellect and intelligence and instinct?! The lack of Albus’ comportment? His betrayal, should he grieve that Albus had risked their entire future, the future of the world?! They could have made peace, for the sake of the wizarding world, Gellert would perhaps even have adopted some of Albus’ wishy-washy methods into his campaign just to pacify the other’s need for constantly being nice even to probably the spiders in the corners of his chambers. No, he needed to change the line, this was not in the remotest how he felt! He could not be allowed to devolve into anything but anger, Albus did not deserve yet another tear from his tortured eyes!

That grieve I do you My hatred festers under blanket’s wool.

Your words tore tendons of my tortured thought

Your dastardly confession to a blond

That man you danced with at that hallow’d ball

Betrayal and no courage to avow

You wretched liar kept me in your thrall

Was right to let you suffer at my wand

My countless months of strategy for naught.

If only now my heart would cease to ache

Affection for you festered in my chest

I cried, I screamed, allowed you to my heart

You never gave the hint of an allusion

You let me build a home in the collusion

As though your cheating was foregone conclusion

Have you manipulated me with art?

With fervour’s passion you complete your quest

Of making all my resolution break. 

For months dismissed I claims of other men

As though of all them you would be a fraud

I laughed at rumours of the fairer sex

Your exploits ridiculed in our powwow

Your method has me utterly perplex

Such strategy and cunning I applaud

Will never fall for your pretence again. 

My instincts I ignored so faithfully

Let you run rampant, setting me ablaze

Your toying with my mind, I disallow

So I succumb to fervid fury’s haze

I curse now my complete naïvety.

I trusted you enough to gift you flowers

To think you couldn’t break our ancient vow

I guess we always lived in iv’ry towers.

   Leaning back, he found it hadn’t helped at all, letting it pour to the page in the burgundy of his blood. It had only made him angrier. Angrier, that he couldn’t do anything but lie in bed uselessly and write poetry, as though that would change the world! He didn’t have the clarity to write instructions for an attack. Britain would suffer for its impertinence, that of its ministry, and that of its patron saint. He could only hope Albus was doing worse than him, he deserved-

“ Er hat mich betrogen!” Gellert yelled to the displeasure of his tortured vocal chords, so used to voicing his screams of agony, not that he truly cared about the physical pain, “Er hat mich belogen, betrogen, an der Nase herumgeführt, zum Narren gehalten, ich darf doch wohl wütend auf ihn sein! Er hat angefangen! Er hat mir das Herz entrissen, und jetzt soll ICH dafür den Preis zahlen?! Warum?! Warum leidet er nicht mehr als ich? Warum-⁴”

   He couldn’t stand, he could hardly move! Humiliating, to barely even be able to eat, and have the Elves charm away his filth because he couldn’t stand! Because he couldn’t even vanish his own- 

   He couldn’t do what he always did, pace about, channel the anger through his body, let it run rampant within himself until he found something or someone to destroy. There was so much filth in the dungeons, could he not break one of them?! Why did the anger have to break him, why couldn’t he use it to break others?! How was any of this just?!

   Gellert’s anger was so manifold, he couldn’t breathe sometimes. He couldn’t sleep – and when he did, he had actual nightmares – he couldn’t eat – and when he did, he experienced the multifaceted tastes of his own stomach’s acids colourfully – and that fire within burned him alive, and for once, he didn’t actually like the feeling, but he just couldn’t stop. It was all-consuming, this rage, licking at everything. How could he not have recognised Albus’ deception? How could all those references have passed him straight by? The ‘plenty of men’ here, the ‘if only for the men. They are truly spectacular’, the ‘sharing a few kisses that winter break’, making deliberate mention of Minchin Hill, their place, now Gellert did not doubt for a moment this had all been fabricated, just to test his reactions, to test just how much it would alienate and injure him should Albus deliver the final blow, if he was still attached to him. And he had been, oh, how Gellert had attached himself once more, believing in romance and making himself more pleasant company than he was, and charming the other instead of just telling him the truth, that Albus was being an utterly ridiculous, small-minded, peace-and-sweets-loving, lily-livered little priss that didn’t have the talent nor the conviction nor the knowledge to change the world, just an average, boring man wasting away like any other boring man. Spectacular, as if! Albus, that he didn’t laugh! The only reason he had entertained him in the later days was because he had felt attached, because Albus was moderately talented at kissing and such likes, and because he was somewhat moderately powerful, and Gellert needed to make all things powerful his, such was the natural order of things, absorbing to grow more powerful himself. He would not be challenged. He could not be challenged. He would show the world what real power looked like, not power given by incestuous blood or money or political connections, real, magical power as it should govern the world.

   He had trusted Albus, how he had trusted him, enough to give him so much of himself, and what did Albus do? How could he not have anticipated this more accurately, despite the occasional moment of clarity? Sometimes, he had pondered whether Albus was deceiving him, but Gellert had been so soft! So abhorrently soft, to believe Albus genuinely cared when there was another pretty man in the room, he’d always tended to those instead of actual substance in the person. Gellert had gone so tender, composing poetry for him and giving him nicknames, and Albus, behind his back, behind his knowledge, laughing about him, talking about him, ridiculing him for some unimportant whore?! 

   How could he not have foreseen this?

   Oh, but he had. 

   It all made sense now. It all made sense now, the entire vision that should have forewarned him, but which he had ignored simply because the components had not made sense. Fragmentary, and though Gellert still could not disentangle every single part of it and see it for its own truth, he understood the gist of it now. He knew who the blond was, the touches, he had foreseen himself casting the curse on Albus, and drowning in it because of their childish blood pact. He had foreseen the breaking of his own hand, bone by bone, he could be certain he had done this to Albus also, otherwise, the Pact would not have replicated so accurately. His curse broke bones – how many, he couldn’t say, everything after the utterance was a fevered delirium of pain and pleasure from having brought swift justice, from having outsmarted the Pact. He had foreseen it all! Even a sentence uttered in Albus’ little charade with his ‘life-partner’, Gellert felt like he was caught in a mirroring reality! How could Albus, Albus Dumbledore, the most book-smart man in the whole world, relegate himself to calling some unimportant, impolite, untalented whore his ‘life-partner’ when he could simultaneously have- when he had simultaneously had HAD Gellert Grindelwald, the most powerful, the best wizard of all time?! How could Albus settle for less, for so much less, for- And only to spite him, likely, only to spite him, he had shown him deliberately that morning before their rendezvous, and that another was doing the same thing, as though- 

   Albus had lied to him, Albus had fooled him, and Gellert had believed it! Albus had sounded so starved, so neglected, how he had likely internally thought it all a riot! That same morning, that whore had already pleased Albus in that precise manner, and- and he had pretended like it had been years, he had begged, he had put on a perfect little show, and Gellert had bought the act, he had bought it all! All that trembling and the feeling as though it had been so much time and as though he had really missed him, and Gellert- Gellert had even been forthcoming, asking him for different preferences to adjust his perfected act, as though any of Albus’ little suggestions could have improved Gellert’s mastery! He had called him his bird of fire, how flagrantly humiliating! And then, in that perfect moment where Albus had acted out his enjoyment so perfectly like Gellert had once for the obscene of the sang-purs in Russia, he had struck- 

   He had even had the gall to look at Gellert! Observe him in his enjoyment, and then the final blow...! 

   How dare he abuse the moment like that?! How dare he break their connection before- Oh, it all made sense now, the falling asleep, the purposeful distance here and there, the even more intentional little kisses and the teasing and playing with Gellert’s feelings at every turn, laughing at him in France and then inventing some insufficient masquerade as to why he hadn’t laughed, it had just all been him, his inexperience, as if! Inexperience, if this were his common mornings- no, he had talked of Quidditch practice, and having only an hour, it must have been-

   An hour-

An hour before he had fallen into the cottage covered in cobwebs and accusing Gellert of giving him an allergy – what balderdash, what humbug, all invented to make him feel bad! – he had been given pleasure by that whore and he had the gall to Portkey in possibly still smelling of it and- 

   All those lies about the ball! About house unity and keeping the children from fighting- And underneath it all, two ‘life partner’s dancing and fooling the rest of the world, pretending like they were just close friends and all the papers had bought it, were advertising him like cattle whilst Albus could, in secret, live that debauched- 

   What else was he doing?! What else was being done to him?! The thought of Albus being claimed by-

   Everything in him screamed, the bones that bent, the skin that tore, the remains of all sanity in his heart snapping at once. Blind, he was blind with fury and agony. Blind, helpless- No, he wasn’t helpless, he was never helpless, he was- 

   He was nothing, apparently, to Albus, he was nothing but a toy he could play with, abuse to his heart’s content, and leave lying by the wayside or drive a dagger into, or, in this case, so many daggers and swords and curses Gellert had lost count. He couldn’t breathe- 

   Albus should have been his, his alone, nobody else’s, they belonged together, perfectly in tandem, just the two of them discovering the secrets and boundaries of this earth and the magic within and broadening it for all futures to come, they- they could have invented new flowers and colours, could have written anthems and odes; together, Albus and him could have swum to the deepest depths of the seas, and journeyed perhaps even to the stars, him, him and his beautiful-

   Albus, his phoenix- 

   How dare he take the future from them?! Didn’t they deserve it after their past, after all the pain in their lives and their messed-up families, didn’t they deserve to be each other’s? What did they have left, a judgemental brother, a disinterested mother, curse them all! What did any of it matter?! Albus had destroyed it all! It hurt, it hurt so- 

   Anger, no, he needed to focus on the anger, if he let even a modicum of confusion or actual pain- No, he would focus on the anger, even if it was the last thing he did, he would not be enslaved by his weakness, his incompetence, he would-

   Gellert knew only two things with certainty now.

   Albus was still out there, and he was alive. 

   And that, Gellert was going to make him regret. 

Chapter Text

   Out of all the ridiculously unbelievable things ghosting in Albus’ brain, that Aberforth had apparently substituted for him in all of his fourteen weekly Defence classes truly was the utterly most riotous.

   Albus had spent the past two days in a haze. How else had he been to spend them? Half of the time, he was pitifully drifting in and out of consciousness, losing himself in the grey zones between that were more exhausting than staying awake and falling into the embrace of slumber alike. And with every breath that daemon hanging over his core, his magic blackened, feeling empty and sore. Whenever he was awake, he wished to just fall into endless slumber. Whenever he was asleep, he prayed the nightmare would just stop. 

   It were the times between and aside when he truly realised all existence was void. 

   He had sparked, and he had caught aflame, and oh, how brightly he had burned. But he was no phoenix, had never been, only a coward fleeing from his truths. The fire had consumed him, and he was but a broken shell, not a newborn life ready to explore the world. It was just ashes. All just ashes, falling through the cracks of his failing grasp. 

   Apparently, Quentin had poisoned him. Or that was what the official version said, anyways. Somehow, they had invented some fabulist’s tale of a potion brewed so utterly disastrously wrongly that Albus had gone into shock, had toppled over, the potion had weakened his bones and that was why his arm was so broken that only a few minutes ago Xoco had finally released him from the chokehold of a Body-Bind that Albus’ magic had been excessively struggling against. He believed he had never understood Gellert better than-

   Oh, even the very thought!

   He couldn’t. 

   He heard it all through a haze, all the tears at his reawakening, all the minutiae when they thought him awake, the organisational matters he couldn’t have cared less for. The realisation of what had happened had kicked free all the other memories from before, and he attributed it only to just how broken his body truly was that he had not yet endured the longest fit of panic known to mankind. He had burned that morning, he remembered that. Nobody would tell him what it had looked like. But he was damaged goods, they all radiated with it. He hadn’t outright spasmed, how could he have with the spell on him? How would he, considering he had forty-one broken bones that were still being mended about five times as slowly because the Skele-Gro just wouldn’t take a hold? Curse damage and all, Xoco said. Vile curse damage interfering with the process. Not that he cared, not that he could. It felt like a fever dream, and he had never longed so much for snow and ice, for water and swimming to the depths of the ocean, or falling breathlessly to his demise. 

   They were all there. 

   So many tears, and yet, they couldn’t put Albus back together. He was past the point where tears or any other form of water could have put out the fires in his chest and mind. He was burnt-out. The fire had taken him, had licked on his heels, then spread over his skin, until it had consumed him whole. Now the tears fell onto ashes charred and grey, and dissolved them more than they bound them. He should have felt flattered by how he had been missed, but only discomfort remained. How could they mourn him, the man who had betrayed them all? 

   Bathilda had been besieging him, with pies, an odd flavour of affection and unsolicited advice, the thing she was best at, truly. Albus couldn’t stand her nonchalance.

Elphias was there and clueless as ever, with that look on his face as though he was surprised that Albus would ever get himself in trouble. Albus couldn’t stand his cluelessness.

Quentin was practically constantly holding on to him somehow, to the point where he despised his touch – not that anyone else needed to be alerted to what had been their glory days, when Quentin’s death sentence was practically signed, and he seemed to know it too. Albus couldn’t stand his affection.

Yaxley was reading to him at least once a day, which he found oddly comforting, just texts about recent discoveries in runic rituals of the Breton druidic covens, as though he could read Albus’ mind in that regard. Perhaps he had seen the pictures in the papers, Albus dancing with their minister.

Nicolas was so utterly full of pity, it made Albus nauseous with disgust – it was all his fault, he didn’t deserve any of the sentiment. A part of him wished it could have just ended that way, how poetic, too. Just burning to death in their magic. Then at least the world wouldn’t ever have to worry about him again, and he would be relieved of his suffering. It felt like being eighteen. It felt so much like tears on his lips, and blood streaming from his palm, and flickering heterochromatic eyes staring back at him from the conjured illusion hanging in his one-room apartment in Bhutan.

Armando was so utterly ignorant of Albus’ blatant negligence of duty and breaking of the actual law that Albus wanted to scream at him to just deliver him into the waiting hands of the ministry – what could the Dementors take what hadn’t been taken already? 

The only person that acted remotely the way he was supposed to was Aberforth, with condescension and a certain amount of startling care that was still interspersed with a sense of hatred Albus felt was appropriate. Albus didn’t know what Armando had done to force his little brother to teach classes in Albus’ stead, but that alone could have explained that murderous gleaming in Aberforth’s eyes. 

   His magic was broken. 

It was clear as day, now that he had regained control over his body. His entire right arm felt devoid of it, and now that he had seen it... They had undressed him over time, it seemed, gone was whatever he had been wearing that day in Austria, in Germany- 

   Oh, the words alone, they were like a repetition of the curse- 

   He had seen his arm before Xoco had wrapped a stabilising cast around it completely non-magically, tendons of the curse, how blackened his veins were, how charred his skin, like he really had been in a fire. It reminded him of Ariana, or his mother though there was a fiery, irritated redness having spread over his entire arm, like his blood vessels had popped and instead of discolouring as would have been common for a bruise, they remained entirely reddened, splotches and strands intertwining with the darker lines for contrast. Like blood splatter, just underneath his skin, colouring it. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, and he had dedicated much time to the study of diseases, magical or otherwise, as well as this specific curse to better teach the protection from it. He had endured it before. He had cast it before. He had cast it on his students two weeks ago. Not two weeks ago, he had lifted his own wand against seventh-years Alice Saddock, Sebastian Silverstone, Evelyne Assam, Pollux Black, Lenia Shacklebolt and Morticia Rowle, that week’s group. He had watched their fright, he had tempered his curse, he had cared for them with light juices to counteract the heaviness of the curse. And now he lay wasted by it, and by- 

   He couldn’t think of it, and yet, it was all he could think about. 

   His arm, regardless, remained unfeeling. The touch of fingertips, he had not felt. Xoco had cast a mild numbing spell to prevent any pain, but Albus didn’t think there was any pain to feel if his entire arm was numb. They had very cautiously tested its reactions, and he could, under difficulty but not duress or strain, move each of his fingers, even slowly curl them together into a fist. Xoco labelled this a miracle, but Albus knew that the problems with his arm were not physical, they were magical, traumatic. Perhaps he could not move it completely naturally now, but come six months and physical training, no doubt would it look much better. But his magic didn’t move towards the arm. He hadn’t even attempted to channel it, but he knew what it was like to have magic restrained. He could feel his innate magic flowing through his entire body, a sensation he was so accustomed to that only the lack and absence of it was noticeable without extreme focus. But his arm, it felt like a dead attachment to his body. Potions seemed to attach themselves, however slowly, but his own magic had done nothing to heal himself. Fright, or irrevocable curse damage? Not that Albus could think straight enough to actually... ponder the consequences of it. Whenever he did, he was torn apart again. 

   That they should end like this, in such brutality...

   That the world would crack apart, not once, but twice over this curse-

   They called him ‘confused’ when he barked at Bathilda to stop pitying him because, out of all people, how could he ever have deserved it? They called him ‘exhausted’  when his chest began flaring with the feeling of the curse over and over again, and he internalised it all, remaining mostly emotionless. They called him ‘struggling with the new reality’ when he refused to move on his own simply because he saw no sense in it. They called him ‘concerned’ when his anger rose like bile and he swallowed the acid back down whenever he thought about how he had ruined Quentin’s life. He had tried so hard to protect him, had broken the law for their protection, and yet he should have been the one to personally alert the enemy to-

The enemy.

   Vile, and violent, he recalled himself thinking once. Dark, and domineering. Vindictive, and vainglorious. Devious, and dangerous. Vain, and venomous. Why had he not listened to reason, to his every cautious instinct that had yelled to stay away?! Had he not seen the betrayal, had he not been forced to exile by it, how could he have allowed himself to fall so deep once more? Why had he listened to his chest and his addictions, like a helpless, hopeless- 

   Himmelfahrtskommando, that was what he had called it all those years ago, explaining, with a mirthless, superior chuckle, that it was likely named for the ascension to heaven that one underwent by Christian mythology when one died, translating most literally to something along the lines of commando of the drive, or journey, to heaven. 

   Of course, the notion wasn’t foreign to him. Many years ago, twenty-nine, to be precise, lying on the floor of his dirty one-room apartment in Bhutan, and suffering the aftermath of the special momos, like Fiendfyre burning through his veins. Amphetamine and Wormwood seeds interlaced with crushed Billywig wings, placed covertly in the vegetable filling – it had reacted poorly with all sorts of meats – and wrapped in dough pockets, one could even eat them with any given traditional or experimental sauce, the taste was practically indistinguishable. Just one of these was enough to induce what they were predominantly taken for – dreaming. 

   Lucid dreaming, to be precise. 

   It was there, in the land of dreams, that he had lost most everything of his resolve, and when he had once cursed, screamed against the heavy side effects, he now was most glad for them. Or normally was, anyways. He likely would’ve sold his soul for a special momo right now, regardless of the outcome, the side effects. Any world where this wasn’t his reality, where this curse had not befallen him, where Gellert had not-

   He had looked so different in his wildest dreams. 

   They both hadn’t grown those five-ish inches upon adulthood, though, their hair had a little. Neither had had a beard, and Albus’ curls had lost no shade of auburn, nor their bouncy curliness, whilst his, they’d been just as fashionably and artificially styled as always, that same warm shade of honey-blond. They had matured, but not aged, their facial features similar yet older and more defined, even with Albus, and he had finally not worn only hand-me-downs or Hogwarts robes, but proper robes worthy of a powerful wizard. He hadn’t had that little stomach he’d been self-conscious of at the time, but rather a slim waistline accentuated by a wrapped part of fabric, and puffy sleeves, jewellery, necklaces, bracelets, a little crescent moon for an earring as well as a delicate chain of miniature amethysts cast in silver, and most notably a cornflower pin at his heart, embroideries, he had looked like a blazing firestorm in motion. He had worn something more subdued though equally impressive, tailored trousers, wide at the ankle, and a cream-coloured shirt and a satiny cornflower-blue vest where the flowers had been alluded to with darker lines, silver earrings, one simply a depiction of the sun with rays leading outwards, the other a long, intricate chain of tiny gemstones of sapphire, their pact dangling from a necklace, Elder Wand firmly in hand, and grinning madly at the opponents that had collected around them. A fight for show, not one for something else, likely at a duelling championship, he now thought. Their actions had been matched, coordinated, perfectly in synch, like a storm of raging fire and soothing water, with Albus the one powerfully on the offence, and him defending them perfectly. Rings, Albus had espied, utterly delicate and silvery, and they had loved as they had lived, freely, openly, mirthfully. With such esprit and will to live, no matter where they had been, a tent and hammocks pitched between trees so large one could not see the end of them, or in a hut in the shade of a monument of history, or running holding each other’s hand, oh, there had been so much running, and laughter, and flowers, and lying on untamed meadows, and sun-rays catching between the leaves that constructed the canopy of the forests mystique and wild. 

   Small wonder Albus had never wanted to wake up from these lucid dreams again, where he had had the power to make them run, or take a rest, or kiss, or switch ownership of the Elder Wand, or run giggling from an instance of theft of pastries and various sundries under their Cloak of Invisibility, or go to any location he had seen in any book, or love in the grass of one of those meadows full of wildflowers. A perfect reverie in ecstasy, no worries, no fears, no sadness whatsoever, just the two of them, where he had been able to alter the situation, had it been too cold, he had made it warmer, had he wanted to see the other gazing up at him with marvel, he had made it day, if he had wanted to be touched, kissed, loved, revered in any way, he had made it become truth, if he had wanted to replay a scene as often as had been needed, he had simply used his power, and if he had wanted any moment to last longer, feel better, be easier, he had decreed it so. 

   To this day, he did not have ear-holes, for this precise reason. To this day, he liked suits more than actual robes, especially of this kind. To this day, he accepted his stomach the way it was. To this day, he maintained a beard, and had no intention to ever rid himself of it again. To this day, he didn’t bother adding an additional auburn shimmer to his hair. To this day, he maintained his defensive stance in combat. And to this day, he buried this memory, he hid it deep and held it close so he would never fall prey to that substance mixture again, since, at the time, the aftermath had never quite bothered him as much as the lack of the dreams had. 

   Even considering the aftermath had always been the same. Shame. Having lost control over his bodily functions, and the mixture having exhausted his magic, having dragged him under for a half day or more, and then that fire. As though one had increased his blood temperature by ten degrees, and it was burning. Like every single vein and artery in his body was fuelled by liquid fire, coursing through him, and making him exhaust his lungs and throat until the pain had ebbed down, lying on the floor unable to move. He did well to remember the pain and shame and disgust at himself after such an episode, another relapse in Bhutan, later the East Indies, Indochina, it had always been the same. At first his desire sated, his shame too large, but over time, when conjuring the image via blood magic had not sufficed any longer to stop his heart from breaking in his chest, he had fallen again. Again, and again, and again, he couldn’t remember now how many times it had been, eventually. The last had been in Kalimantan, where the children had found him, Kirana and her adopted siblings, and the only time he had ever been admitted to a hospital for it. The shame of having  been on record with it, to have everybody around him there judge him for his digressions, it had finally snapped him out of it. No more. Never again. 

   He would’ve killed for another shot, right now. Even himself. Especially himself. 

   Any memory was better than the last he had. To burn in fire, and perish in the aftermath, and the last word from the lips of the love of his fucking life that. Three syllables to break him forever. Gellert had never needed more. He had broken him without a word last time. It was only reasonable the man who always needed to be more than before would one-up himself again. 

   If not a reverie, he wished they could over-dose him with Dreamless so he would never have to wake to reality once more, but none would grant him the wish. He felt like Theodore, confined to that Muggle infirmary begging for relief, and yet surviving all the more. Perhaps surviving was harder than dying, but Albus didn’t have the strength. He had finally done it. 

   His antagonist had finally won, once and for all. 

   It may have been Monday, or Tuesday, Albus wasn’t sure, when he found himself halfway sitting in the bed that had been made for him, to strengthen his core, not that he thought it worked. He couldn’t channel magic through his arm, it felt crippled and contained to his left side, he had tried. Xoco said this was normal, but what did he know? He’d never been cursed into near-death by a former of his. His resignation had dipped into anger earlier in the day, that nobody would just knock him out! He had been resting in the bed all night without finding sleep, and the only tiny flicker of light had been Yaxley’s daily readings, this time about some sort of silverberry variety leaves and how runes were carved out of them, placed onto rocks of a certain age, and how this could enchant a location for safety and a regulated airflow. Nobody would give him a draught against his mind’s begging for relief, ‘it reacts poorly’, ‘you aren’t ready for such strong potions’, ‘petiot, the Wormwood seeds are dangerous in the combination with the specific variety of Skele-gro that is still rebuilding your-‘ and whatever other drivel of that sort. Had they not gotten the notification that Albus didn’t care whether his arm would ever function again? They might as well amputate it, not like he had use for a limb that was completely devoid of magic. What was he going to do with it, wave it around? He couldn’t even hold a cup with it, could barely move his fingers, as though he’d ever write again! 

   And to make matters worse, just a few minutes ago, Aberforth had taken the shift of ‘looking after him’, which, by now, meant keeping an eagle eye on him because he had half a mind to apparate to his chambers and just administer the potions he needed himself. Though, his arsehole of a younger brother that had apparently ‘saved his life, and should be recognised for it’ really was the lesser of two evils. When Quentin sat by his side, Albus couldn’t even look at him, overwhelmed with sadness that was worse than the anger he felt at Aberforth for actually saving his life, and not letting him expire like he had been supposed to, like he had wanted to. And if anyone treated him with satin gloves for one more day because they thought he was worthy of their affection, care, or even glance, he was going to lose it! His brother was sipping on a tea. 

“Being on the receiving end of that sucks, huh?”

“Gloat,” Albus spat venomously. “Why don’t you? I bet you’ve gotten exactly what you wanted. Haven’t you been dreaming about this for decades, that I’d suffer the same as you, just worse? That I’d ‘know what it’s like’ or something like that?”

“I admit it crossed my mind on darker days,” Aberforth simply answered nonchalantly. “But in this specific case, I didn’t actually want to gloat.”

“What then?”

“Have you so little faith in me?”

“Does it matter?”

“You do. You really don’t trust me to be a proper person in this situation.”

“Would you trust yourself? If it’s crossed your mind, how do you expect me to believe your word?”

“Because I’m not actually that much of a prick, you know? I know I give you a hard time, but I certainly didn’t want you to die. In fact, if you asshole dare to die before me, I’ll bring you back from the netherworld just to kill you again, you know that, right? Damn, Albus, I just wanted to express my sympathies.”

“By gloating.”

“No, by relating our experiences. He cursed me, then he cursed you,” he stated simply. The first time since anyone had made mention of- Albus hissed, he couldn’t help it. Even the thought, the concept, it just stung. “We’ve both been on the receiving end. I know what it’s like. I thought you’d be relieved knowing that we finally share something, and find some damned comfort in the fact that you’re not the only one who’s been on the receiving end of that one.”

“I’m sure we aren’t the only lucky ones. That doesn’t make us special.”

“Especially unlucky, though,” Aberforth pondered with a shrug. 

“Depends on your perspective.”

“Don’t think that’s ever true, brother, dear.”

“We deserved it.”

“Speak for yourself- wait, what?”

“We deserved it. What does it matter, anyways? Hardly unlucky, to be punished for one’s actions. I had it coming. You challenged him to do it, what did you expect he’d do, twiddle his thumbs? Someone who always needed to win?! You should’ve known better than that. If you hadn’t done that-“

“You’d be still living your happily-ever-after?” Aberforth snorted reproachfully, “yeah, I don’t think so. You weren’t exactly the pinnacle of a healthy relationship, you know?”

“Oh, like you’d know, not even knowing you had a fucking child. Even I knew that sticking it to a girl just like that probably wasn’t the smartest idea ever, and I had no intention of ever doing that.”

“Oh, but obsessing over each other like mad and idolising even the most disgusting things about each other or completely forgetting everything and letting yourself be corrupted just as much as you did corrupt him, that was healthy or what?! It took you two months, Albus, to go from the person that turned me into sodding Black for being out after curfew to resurrecting dead animals and making blood pacts with random strangers! I understand that being in a relationship changes a man, but it shouldn’t make them a completely different person.”

“I made him better.”

“And he made you worse,” his brother rolled his eyes, “is that so great a trade-off? Saviour-complex much?”

“Says the person prancing about like a peacock claiming my life’s his gift. You know, you really didn’t have to. Next time, just let me bleed out, I don’t want your help.”

Aberforth seized him up, fiery eyes meticulously moving about to his heart’s content. Not that Albus could actually go anywhere, confined to the bed. Albus wasn’t keen on a fight – though, perhaps he could tempt Aberforth into bashing his head in so much that he would have no choice but to fall unconscious, perhaps even forget anything had ever happened – but Aberforth didn’t seem to be all so tempted. He leaned back, teacup placed on the little table beside the bed. 

“That bad, huh?”

“Like you care. Go on, collect your laurels, let everybody think you’re the superior one of us. Must feel nice, to finally get what you always wanted, if only because I’m dead.”

Something changed on his brother’s face, if only for a moment, like a quick shadow waltzing over generously yet briefly. He didn’t break the stare, he couldn’t afford it. 

“I’m certainly emotionally smarter than you, we don’t even have to argue about that. But that’s not the fucking point, Albus, I was trying to relate our experiences. He cursed you, he cursed me. I’ve suffered the same thing, same person and all, you resilient gobshite, I’m tryna tell you you can talk to me if you need to.”

That effectively took all wind out of his sails, or, more accurately, ruptured the inflated balloon of hot anger that had accumulated in his body. Aberforth, his shitty little brother, offering him to talk about anything other than how to part ways as quickly as humanly possible? 

“Did- did you just offer me to talk to you?” he asked, completely gobsmacked, still. 

“Yeah, I can’t quite believe it either,” his little brother grumbled and stroked over his goatee. “Take it with a grain of salt, I won’t always be as keen as I am now.”

Albus actually had a small chuckle left in himself. He didn’t know when he had last laughed, probably something Gellert had said. He didn’t even know where it came from, just that it was actually sincere.

“That wasn’t meant as a joke.”

“It was funny nevertheless.”

“You’re an utter arse, Albus.”

“Likewise.”

“And here I was thinking you were going to stop attempting to provoke me. Look- it’s probably partly your fault, whatever the fuck happened. Everybody else won’t tell you that, but they also don’t know you like I do. Odds have it you are somehow at fault. Thing is though, you can’t even drink without help, so I doubt you should be blaming yourself right now. You know, I’ve resolved to only finding you an utter sod when you can walk again, and I think you shouldn’t try to beat me at that.”

“Are you trying to tell me you- you like me?”

“Merlin’s blasted feckin' bollocks forbid, no!” Aberforth shrieked, almost falling off his chair. “You dim-witted oaf, are you trying to be funny? No, of course I don’t like you, you almost got yourself killed, again, at the hands of that pubescent maniac, again, for what, the third, fourth, fifth, how manieth time it is, I don’t even give a shite. You’re just more valuable to me alive than dead. And after everything we’ve been through, I think you owe me dying of old age or something and not yet another tragedy. D’you reckon you can manage that?”

   Albus didn’t know what to answer, so he turned his head away and looked out of the window. It looked so peaceful outside, meadows coated in snow with more and more falling, and the towers and mountains all around under this blanket of white, but it all just reminded him of the last time he had seen the snow. He would never see it the same way again. Like ear-rings and auburn hair and wearing proper robes. Aberforth raised an essential question, one Albus couldn’t answer. Yes, he always survived. And for the last few years, why, with having survived Gellert the first and second time alongside with countless relationships falling apart and things not always going his way, never finding that happy ending for himself, Albus had truly prided himself on his continued existence. He wasn’t healthy, he knew it too. Perhaps no word had been found for what he felt for the simple reason that, according to those in power, people were not supposed to feel like this. Maudlin sentimentality was seen as for the weak, and even in a more emancipated society than the Muggles, traits associated with femininity in masculine individuals were still focussed on too much, seen as degeneration of nature. The strong, the powerful, the rich, they were not to feel weak in the mind. Emotions were supposedly a woman’s domain, hence any malfunction in them was also a woman’s domain’s malfunction. But that all set aside, Albus knew he was not right in the head anymore. If it wasn’t Gellert’s fault, well, then the war. Sometimes, he couldn’t eat properly for weeks, he had states of panic, he saw the dead risen again, he experienced shadows of the pains of war, flash-backs and such likes came, and his nightmares were most colourful. And yet, he had never given up, he had done precisely the opposite, that, even if he could not be happy, he might as well make sure others could be. If he was abused only as a stepping stone, if that was his contribution to society, so be it.

   These past few days were the first time he wanted to do it, in a very long time. He wanted to give up. He knew just as well the hurt it would inflict if he went prematurely, but couldn’t he for once be egoistic, do what was best for him, not the grander scheme of things? Was he truly a slave to the emotions and feelings of others? Could he not die, on his own terms? Could he not end, end when he wished? What was there to go on for, anyways? Now, he would never get Aurelius back. Any last lingering hope the war could be avoided by his preferred teaching of love was now forever lost. His own hope was lost – he was gone, Albus had gambled and had lost him, permanently. One of these days, one of them would learn the truth, and would be offended enough to give him over to the hands of Azkaban. Dementors. He would rather go before it, though, to be buried beside his father, loveless, lightless, with no attendees to mourn him, perhaps it was for the best. 

   “You can’t,” Aberforth said somewhere distantly. “You can’t.”

“What worth to a life that lives not?”

“You take what you’ve been given, and you do as best you can.”

“I did. And look where it got me.”

Surrender should have felt like agony, and tasted like bitterness, but now, it tasted of nothing but relief and sweetness. He had had those thoughts before, they were nothing new. He had never made a move, had never made any plans, and hadn’t this time either. But just to know that he may be at peace if he did decide to sketch, perhaps that was the most comforting thing he could have thought. Perhaps sometime soon, this agony would come to an end, and he would be swept with the rivers, extinguished ashes scattered with the wind. Would that be so bad?

“I’m glad you’re here, Aberforth. I really am,” he mumbled, voice thick with emotion. 

If indeed these were goodbyes or final words, it was comforting to know Aberforth, despite everything, was still his brother, and still his family. Here for him, having visited him day by day, and staying by his bedside, offering him even as much as an open ear, albeit in his own, gruff manner. It almost made him feel a little better overall, like he could talk without his heart pouring out of his chest, like he could... pretend to be normal.

“Hm, well, I’m only here so you recover better, keep that replacement nurse in check and make sure he listens to Flamel’s expertise. If I’ve got to spend one more session with your fourth-years, you won’t have to worry about not outliving me anymore if you know what I’m saying.”

“Murder or suicide?”

“I might seriously consider both as an option. What’s wrong with those kids? Tell me we weren’t as unbearable when we were in fourth year.”

“I was categorically only interested in studying at that point in time, and you did not care to be beloved with all the girls. Besides, you had a certain lady-friend at the time already. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

“But Ophe and I would never have been that obnoxious. Nobody even knew we were seeing each other. Can’t they just be... normal? Was my son ever like this, you think?”

“Probably not. And the fourth-years are challenging, but at least their flirtations are harmless. They’re not actually having children in sixth year, you know, at the ripe age of sixteen?”

“Oh, that was just unnecessary, you shite,” Aberforth groaned. “You’re never gonna stop with that, are yeh?”

“Why would I? You’ve been harassing me for decades that I was interested in someone when I was nearing eighteen, and you...”

Albus heard Gellert’s bright laugh, like playing a triangle, and the pit in his stomach opened again. He let his sentence drizzle out, his thoughts instantly grew more fussy, uncontrollable.  

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

“What do you want me to do? Or not to do?”

“Albus, that bastard doesn’t deserve even a second of your attention. No matter what you did, this isn’t right.”

“I was playing with fire. I got burned. You should be destroying me over this.”

“You’ve suffered enough. I’ll make your life a living hell when you’re better. Even I have better sense than to harass you now. You look like you could make ample use of a jar of pudding. Can slurp it up through a straw, too, which means you won’t get inferiority complexes over not being able to eat a week after you died. Only you would do that, by the way.”

Aberforth didn’t even give him time to respond before he was on his feet, a surprising display of agility, and stalked off, clearly unconcerned about leaving Albus all by his lonesome for a few minutes. He was glad for it, honestly – usually, he was only alone when there was a shift-change or something, which meant that the previous person to supervise him was chatting with the upcoming one and far enough from his bed as to not either wake him or unsettle him. Albus closed his eyes, relieved – he needed a few moments of silence. 

   Aberforth indeed brought a jar of pudding, and seemed to have specifically bribed the House Elves for it – only Aberforth really could have, considering it was pistachio-flavoured. Bearing in mind how long he had taken, he had likely snuck into the kitchens past the Hufflepuff dorm, and Albus could not have been gladder for being left alone for a while. A rendering of his vital signs was still called up beside him anyways, and should his heart-rate or something other reach a critical high or low, it would likely notify somebody nearby anyways. It was good to be alone, really – his thoughts were swirling too much, and he didn’t want anyone nearby reading them on his face. 

   And he brought him silence, which was much needed over the blabbering of all others, silence that felt like it was the right thing, not a forced situation. After clumsily shovelling some pudding into himself with his left hand – Aberforth having taken the liberty of hovering the bowl at a reasonable height, it was almost making him feel like a competent human being – he began feeling rather drowsy, and blinked from existence for a while, into that grey zone between awake and asleep that he had gotten to know so intimately these past few days, just drifting in his agony. He heard his voice, and no matter what else he tried to recall from that entire afternoon, the scenery was always white-blinding pain, the taste always rotten honey, the smell always burnt, and the sound always that one word. He couldn’t even remember what Gellert had worn. What he had. It was only that word, replayed, over and over again, and the fear he had felt in that moment. Now, he couldn’t even bear to bring himself to talk to Quentin, he was that ashamed. He had told the enemy. He had ended Quentin’s life – he was forever restrained in place, it was only a matter of time before the sword would fall to cleave his head. He had doomed him – how could he look into his eyes?

   Upon resurfacing, Aberforth was either still, or already there again, letting him wake up before the questions began.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Like you want to hear it?”

“Yeah, I’d rather drink a whole cauldronful of Living Death, but you seem like you need to share.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I’ve known you since you were little, you shite. I know you eat it up and then turn it against yourself if you don’t talk to somebody. So, talk. In your state, I doubt your words are fitting for Flamel, and I don’t think anyone else here knows you’ve been seeing him.”

“No. Only you and Nicolas.”

“Why Flamel?”

“I needed to talk to somebody who knew. At that point in time, he was the only other person who knew. And-“ I saw him, and I saw in him family, more than in you, “and he- he has this way of giving advice that- that motivates you to be better.”

“So what happened, then? I’m assuming considering how concerned you are about Malfoy, it had something to do with him?”

“I- I let a memory slip. A- a terrible one, and- it was in a- we- I can’t, Aberforth, I can’t-“

“Yeah you can. Merlin feck it, you can.”

“I can’t even remember most- most of the day, just- just the agony of- please, don’t force me to-“

“So, he saw a memory. Of you and Malfoy. Probably wasn’t something coy like a glance across the corridor. Now, why exactly were you mind-sharing again? I thought that was something that got buried with the turn of the century, no?”

“Ho-how do you know we were...”

“Because you’re an expert at Occlumency, you don’t just ‘let a memory slip’, you’re too good for that as much as it pains me to admit it. So, mind-sharing. Again. Which, really?”

“We- we were close, I mean- we- he- I mean, in that moment, we-“

Aberforth looked like he was going to be sick, and belched as covertly as anyone could. Albus had never seen him physically upset at any such insinuation or revelation, considering how he threw them around so easily and gracelessly.

“You fucked.”

“That is perhaps a bit-“

“Too accurate? Oh, Merlin, Albus, I mean, I knew you were, but the confirmation, good Lord above,” he launched into a rant the type that Albus had rarely ever witnessed from him, “that’s dinner off the table for me. Bah. You are such an idiot, and so tasteless, my God, Albus, since when have you misplaced the concept of standards?! Seriously, out of all men, all men in the entire world, and compared to something the likes of Malfoy, you pick Blondie?! Blondie, really, I can’t imagine he’s particularly characterful nowadays considering his entire character is probably kill all the Muggles and do it efficiently, so how in the name of all that is holy and hallow-“

“He isn’t.”

“Don’t you start trying to tell me he isn’t keen on killing Muggles. I’ve had the spiel by Bagshot already, how she still cares so much for her chaotic little bundle of evil, I assume that is how she would label the monster.”

“Blond,” Albus just answered, choked up.

“Huh?”

“He isn’t blond.”

“White-haired, big difference.”

“Brunet, actually.”

“Huh?” Aberforth asked again, leaning forward.

“Do you remember that incident in Diagon? Where somebody came in and-“

“Cast that fucker’s symbol, yeah, I recall. Memorised that face good and well, odds have it a person like that comes to an inn like mine as opposed to the Broomsticks, that way I’d be able to send for Hartcrest the second he entered.”

“That’s him.”

“What?”

“That- that’s him. Or, mostly, anyways. It’s... much closer to his face than... that other face.”

“You’re talking shite, Albus, what?”

“He isn’t blond anymore. He’s taller. And- and-“ and he’s blind in one eye and I’m beginning to doubt it was the truth because he only ever lied to me, nothing was ever the truth, be betrayed me, and then he almost killed me. 

“You’re tryna tell me Blondie as pictured in the papers isn’t actually what he looks like. But rather that unremarkable middle-aged sod from the papers that one time.”

“Unremarkable, yeah. As though he’d win his grand revolution with a face like that.”

“Are you trying, seriously trying to tell me Blondie-“

“Not blond anymore.”

“Not what I was going for, Albus, thanks very much, that Blondie made himself be that fucking ugly just to win the world over? That this is a design?!”

“Suppose. Or he lied. He always does.”

“Wow, congratulations, he’s even more of a psycho than I originally anticipated. Any other faces that I need to be on the lookout for in the papers? And why in all that is holy did he decide to invade Britain that one time?!”

“Because I had to cancel.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“You- Albus, Malfoy’s a good look on you, but this? Are you trying to get yourself utterly disembowelled?”

“Maybe. What does it matter to you?”

“What does it- oh, never mind. So, Malfoy obviously doesn’t know you’re cheating, and Blondie- well, Brunettie- the sodding bastard, anyways, doesn’t know you’re cheating? Never thought you were one of those guys.”

“I- I wasn’t- it’s not like- Quen and-“ Albus began, but the words wouldn’t leave him. 

It had all seemed so congruent in his mind, when he had conceptualised it. It had seemed sufficient for him. Quentin and him had an open relationship, he had even once inquired whether taking another temporary lover would be alright, and Quentin had issued the one condition of talking to him about his hair. As a joke. Now, granted, Albus did not feel- had not felt the need to do so considering the blond was just a farce, so... he had felt so in the clear. And obviously he - just the thought cut off his breath and left him aching. They hadn’t been together! They had exchanged a few kisses here and there, so what? They had no longer been little boys that didn’t actually need to start the relationship loudly for it to be one, especially standing on opposite sides, one would have had to negotiate fiercely to arrive at any sort of beneficial agreement for either party, as leaders of opposing movements, whether by design or that of others. If clandestine little kisses now qualified for a whole relationship, Merlin, Albus would’ve had five partners before him alone, and afterwards? Merlin forbid! He couldn’t even begin to estimate how many people he had kissed in his life, but it would certainly not be two hundred only! In actual relationships, he was somewhat confident he hadn’t exceeded between two and three dozen, though he had never sat down and compiled a list, why would he have? It wasn’t about the number, it was about the feelings within. And when they had all inevitably failed, well, it was best not to see the number grow, for one’s own self-confidence. But to somebody as dangerously possessive...

“I thought I was gonna die back then, when he cast it on me, it was that intense,” Aberforth stated unexpectedly, and though there was no specific emotion contained within his voice, even just the words were strange indeed. “Can’t even imagine what it feels like nowadays, going out of control and cast with that wand? Merlin’s bollocks, you have my compassion.”

“You know?”

“Know what? That it went out of control? Yeah, Albus, everyone knows, the nurse knows, Flamel knows, everybody does, it’s not hard to identify that one going completely out of control. It shows.”

“No, I mean... about the wand?”

“Albus, d’you think I’m a complete dud?” Aberforth laughed mirthlessly, “that I wouldn’t recognise that childhood obsession of yours when he had it? Please. Give me some credit sometimes. Night Malfoy’s Patronus came, I forced myself through the Headmaster Fireplace from the inn and single-handedly saved your life, I’m not nearly as incompetent as you think I am. Not that it matters. Look, you’ll heal, alright?”

“There is no magic in my arm. Nothing.”

“So what? Did you ever notice I switched from being a leftie to being a rightie over the years? Why d’you think that is?”

“I- I assumed you figured you could channel your magic better?”

“No, because that bastard’s curse hit me in the shoulder, and I still get premonitions about the weather, nervous tremors, mirage pains, shivers, bouncy magic, the whole range of it. So, when I figured my magic was going to be unstable with my left, well, I switched to the right. Took a while, but then again, you’re only what, fifty, you can adjust. So what if you’re a leftie in the future, won’t kill yeh, will it? Might take you down a peg, but in all honestly, you were always ridiculously over-powered, so welcome to the magical abilities of the upper end of the magical capacity, and not the singular throne above it all. You’re a clever lad, you’ll figure it out.”

“I- I’m sorry.”

“You better well be, I know you didn’t do shite to stop him. Can’t change the past, though, can only change the future. So, do better in the future. And just stop it with the self-blame, alright?”

“You said it was my fault.”

“I misspoke. You probably could’ve prevented the whole thing, right? Some easy-fix solution. Like, not fucking two men at once, that ought to do the trick. Or, I don’t know, not keeping that ridiculously many secrets and maybe talking about it. Hey, I mean, there would be the alternative of not getting anywhere near as barmy with the bastard, but I guess that ship’s sailed thirty years ago, not even a war could make you stop caring about him in some perverted way. Maybe not mind-sharing with a psychopath when you have that kind of information hidden in your brain. Or maybe just not- you know what, to give you any other advice, I’d have to know details, and I’d rather die than to get those implanted into my waking thoughts, and don’t tell me you could Memory-Charm me because you don’t have control over your magic and with your luck you’d make me forget about my sham marriage to Jazareth, which was the nicest of my two marriages, don't make me remember Neeve, and I will kill you if you make me forget Jaza. Despite the Sapphic subtext of that one. Well, more Imani that I got along with, technically... And the whole thing with MACUSA on my back, what a mess. Regardless, out of all people you should let break you, Blondie isn’t one of them, he didn’t get to do it once and he did, didn’t get to do it twice but he did, and then didn’t get to do it thrice and still did. Next time he even so much as breathes, he’ll have me to deal with, nobody gets to almost kill my shite brother thrice.”

That had to go down in record as the longest Aberforth had ever spoken to him without interruption, and it led Albus to gape, wide-eyed. Wait, had Aberforth just-

“You- you’re married?”

“Was,” his brother merely nonchalantly confirmed. “Twice, actually.”

So not only was his brother now apparently Irish, was a certified apothecarian, had changed wand hands because of Gellert and was best friends with the Irish minister, now he had also been married twice? He didn’t know whether it was sleep deprivation, having been put under the Cruciatus Curse or informational overload, but he quickly felt woozy.

“I think I’m going to pass out.”

“Have fun with that. I have to figure out how to covertly assassinate your fourth-years anyways, you’ll be doing me a favour by being quiet and unconscious.”

Chapter Text

   Stars were sprawled over the midnight sky, yet Gellert’s eyes brimmed so with tears that the celestial bodies became but swatches of light mingling with the darker shades of the Milky Way’s nebula.

   His head lolled to the side, listless – it had taken so much effort to walk up, life-ages of this earth, but it had been his only pursuit of the day. Whichever day it was. Home, somewhere closer to home than his chambers, so professional, so angry, so suffocating. Large shapes of blackness rising to the left, with edges firm yet swaying- trees, those were trees, he remembered. The swatches of light moved slowly when he moved, stayed perfectly in place when he didn’t, became more and less large when another tear began collecting in his eye, and when it ran down. Absent-mindedly, he traced the tender, dainty touch of one, feeling it run over his cheek’s bones, and vanish into stubble he had been surprised to feel on his cheeks. It had been a while since he had had a beard. Prison. Yes, in prison. And blackness, on the other eye, whilst his right could see- 

   Van Gogh, that was what it reminded him of, he thought distantly, removedly, as he aimed to grab the glass beside him, missing it entirely. He had no concept of space, or time, or consequence anymore, even the parchment hovering listlessly before him and the feather he still felt in his left, they blurred before his eyes, though, he felt as though he would take to it. Yes, Sternennacht, van Gogh, Gentian had so loved tracing the lines with his fingers on the print, that middle intertwining bit according to him spirits embracing each other, how Gellert missed those blue-green eyes... 

   Beside him, a glass filled with water, and subdued within the finest Steinthaler’s Florales could offer, a bottle bought on sentimental instinct fifteen- no, twenty years ago, white lilac, something forgotten in his cabinet for so long, he had been surprised to see it when scrambling for his herbal liquor and finding he had run out. It was more alcohol one might have used for the baking of cakes, or the embellishment of desserts, though the percentages did not disagree with a possible drinker, perhaps twenty-and-five or so. This bottle may have easily sold for ten, fifteen Galleons then, he didn’t recall, a time when he had still been rather pinching pennies though not nearly as penniless as he could have been, had been before, and it was beautifully ornamented to look just like a full lilac flower head with dozens of little blossoms. Gellert had spent so much time earlier just tracing these blossoms, feeling the anger that had infested him for the past few days recede slowly and drain out. He did not have the power to sustain it any further, to drive it, to nurture it, gone was all of his monumental strength and resolve, leaving only his brutalised body. The fires were dying out, having drained all health from him, and now, the rushing rivers came, leaving his heart aching, cracking, breaking. 

Shards have lodged themselves between my ribs

And every breath, they scratch the fragile bone

As weave their merry way they do

Directly to my feeble heart

A blade’s deep sharpness dual-sided do they loan

Melancholy so sullenly to heart mine drips.

   On his heart-strings played a musician, as though they were to trace the wet outlines of a glass, creating a melody of underwater, submerged longing, his left barely having the strength to place these words on the parchment with enough precision for the ink to take, and that taste of lilac in his mouth. Here atop the mighty castle of Nurmengard, Gellert felt as though for all it stood, he was crumbling apart. Mid-February, he supposed it was, now – the blanket over his shoulders did nothing to shield him against the snowfall, not that he cared. Any physical feeling had long made way for the emotional complexities. He had been injured before, this was nothing new to him. But had he ever felt like this? Had he ever felt this lost and forlorn, the root cause of his own misery? Surely, he had hurt, he had cried so many nights for Albus-

Hate has made way for the louder ache

I wish I could embrace still sweetest glow

Of anger’s touch and Fiendfyre

That burned before my loneliness

Which now besieges me forlorn in my château

My waning constitution shakes another quake.

   Anger was so easy, wasn’t it? Anger was always his first emotion. Always his first instinct. Anger was strong, anger was simple to unleash, easy to deal to others, easy to use as endless motivational fuel to drive whatever desires one had. It was the only emotion he had been raised with, anger. His mother’s nothingness, his father’s fury. Everything else was so complicated, so complex, anger was easy, it could burn, it could rage, it wasn’t nearly as painful as any of the other alternatives. And his anger, how brightly it burned sometimes. Had he been in possession of his magic a few days ago, perhaps blue would have turned into the colour of the sky, and perhaps even the colour of clouds had he tested his Fiendfyre. He could not recall ever having been this angry before, and over such a period of time, and so much stubbornly to a fault, to his own demise, to bringing himself to the edge of consciousness each time because the anger had so violently contradicted the Pact that he had simply injured himself so much in his thoughtlessness that he had tortured himself unconscious over days. He didn’t know whether his magic had restored him or his Elves, or perhaps even Vinda. Even the thought of somebody, even his Elves, even Vinda, whom- whom he distantly recalled he had called to his rank, called to lead, even them seeing him in such a state of vulnerability, usually that would have driven him mad enough, but now? Now, it merely exhausted him, and- and made it all the realer, that he couldn’t deal with emotions. That, once more, he was chained to his own feelings, and couldn’t escape them. Rage, incandescence, so much easier than admitting that- 

How could you betray the truth we forged?

How could the sanctity of us mean naught

To you as with another man

You lay in shameless treachery

I cherished equity more than I ever ought

Perhaps this ‘bond’ of ours was something I engorged.

   Had Albus not seen them the same way? More and more, that fear rose to the surface. That- that all those wonderful, splendiferous moments between them had not felt to Albus as they had felt to him. To Gellert, those last few rendezvous, like a fevered reverie of his wildest, most untamed dreams! A morning spent giving into curiosity and showing Albus his true self. Had Albus not liked his honesty? Had he found the fright so appalling that he had turned to another with fewer malfunctions and deformations? None but his Elves and Queenie had ever seen his true face like this, Vinda’s memory had been deleted numerous times, and yet, he had allowed Albus to see him, see him openly and for what he was on the grounds of not lying to him. Then calming him, and discussing politics with him, holding himself back, giving him all that space to lay out his version of a revolutionary plan, and those beautiful kisses by the beach, Gellert’s heart- His lips trembled when he reached for the glass again, drowning the subtle stings in the floral liquor that made him feel more connected to Albus, and yet also like he was so much further away from him. Then the stroll over the Yule market, Gellert- Gellert had not felt so comfortable in the company of another since- since Albus, the century before. The first time in the twentieth century that- that he had felt willing to proudly show himself dangling off the arm of a beautiful lover. And sharing a piece of cake, what had he said? ‘Now is not after, not anymore, anyways. Now is now, and I am glad to live with you in the moment’. How- he had admitted so clearly to wish to be with Albus, and Albus- had he just not heard it? Had he ignored it? Or- or had it just not meant-

   I meant nothing to you, didn’t I? 

You trade me in for model dumber, plainer

And you’ve become the snake you kiss

To fool me with your every word

I never thought you were so skilled an entertainer

And to believe with all of it I did comply?

   Albus had betrayed him, had played him in all possible ways. 

   It didn’t anger him now. Now, those were precise dagger thrusts. Precise little blades that became perfectly inserted into where it ached the most. He had allowed Albus in, had given him flowers, and terms of endearment, and poems, and had unveiled his very soul, or the part, at least, that he had thought Albus would enjoy. Not even out of calculation, but simply the wish to be honest in a relationship of equals! That, after everything he had done, after everything he had changed for Albus, Albus still would have preferred-

Did he love you better than I could?

What does he give you to prefer his kiss?

So gullible to think you cared

About the ways I changed for you

Below me there has opened wide a deep abyss

I wonder how you planned this all in humble sainthood

Cold infests my darkest hopes and fears

A shiver permeates my reason’s brain

I cannot think of anything 

But you and what I did to us

Have I become a monster, horrid, inhumane?

I drown so violent in true heart-broken tears.

   Unforgivable. 

   For the first time, as he clutched the glass of lilac liquor, he realised what that word truly meant, and what future possibilities it offered. Albus would never forgive him. He couldn’t. Even if he had wanted to, the curse he had cast- 

   He had cast the Torture Curse on his partner, his beloved sweetheart, his brilliant phoenix, without even thinking! And- and had thought Albus had deser-

   Albus would never forgive him. Gellert had ruined it. He had- he had ruined it, again. It changed nothing about Albus preferring another man, a man- what was so special about him? Did it bother Albus so much that Gellert tended to all things darker? Or was it the past, Gellert having run away? Was he really so hurt from the past five years? Had- had Gellert’s presence in the papers hurt him so? Perhaps the foolish ministries demanding he fight him, and the constant pressure...? Even before, they had been broken. Albus had- Albus had cheated on him. He had broken their partnership, but- but those things could be survived, if honest action was taken by both sides. Nothing but a misstep. It could be forgiven. A Cruciatus Curse could not. Albus may have begun- 

   But Gellert had sealed their fate. Again. Would he ever even see Albus again? In the papers? What- the curse had spiralled, he had felt it too, the Pact constricting around him in the most persistent, vibrant feeling he had ever felt, the most feeling he had ever held contained within his body. He could have combusted, he should have. It had all gone wrong. It had all gone wrong. One moment, those words spilling from his lips uninvited to enchant Albus, he hadn’t been able to stop the outpour of sentiment anymore, he had needed to tell Albus how he felt about them, how much he wanted for them to live with one another, breathe together, lean to each other, ignore everything else around them, devoid of responsibilities. Vinda was right there, couldn’t she manage the Greater Good in his name and hers? Couldn’t he be allowed those years he had missed, and Albus and him in harmony? The weeping willow flickered before his inner eyes, branches swaying – such irony. He should have known that lovers kissing first under the downcast branches of a weeping willow... It bore witness to the tragic, the doomed. He remembered telling Aurelius, voicing what he had not dared to in so many years, that- 

   That the thought of wedding Albus was not out of this world, and teaching their little Mäuslein to stand beneath the branches... 

   He would never have any of it. 

   And yet, his brain was filled with all of it, with the bouquets of lilacs and cornflowers, and the soft expressions, and the wish for a normal life, in a normal house, with normal curtains and flowerbeds, with an annoying pet and- 

   One moment, he had followed one of his most insistent little voices, and the next, they had been exterminated at Gellert’s hand. Neither of the Elves had said it, but Albus hadn’t been there. He must have apparated out. He must have saved himself from certain death. Would- would Albus be alright? Would- would Gellert ever see him in the papers again? What would he look like then? Twenty-five years of admiring Albus through the inks and headlines, near two years of a dream now shattered. Why couldn’t he ever get it right?! Why did he fail whenever he tried for happiness? Was it just not something he was privy to? Something he was forbidden from? Had his life’s work precluded him from ever being fulfilled?

   Had he forsaken his right to happiness the moment he had cast his first Unforgivable? 

   A monster, that was all they had ever seen in him, and he understood. 

   He was. 

He had always been. 

Just a monster with no remorse, no regret, no understanding. Albus must have seen it too, and searched for somebody better. Someone who wouldn’t hurt him. Someone who would be kind to him, and treat him as he deserved. Had he known? Had he suspected it would come to burn like this? Had he expected he would see the monster underneath one day? Albus had always been more emotionally intelligent than him. He would have seen such things when Gellert had been unable to. He didn’t care about how the rest of the world saw him, let them claim him monstrous, hideous, heinous. But Albus, who obviously hadn’t felt as strongly about him to begin with these past few months? Whom he had disappointed, time and time again? 

   A snowflake fell to his eyelash as he leaned against the balustrade, helpless. He would never kiss Albus again. Never feel his hand in his. Never hear that brilliant laughter, never that scratchy, raspy assertiveness, never that warmth, that utter warmth that worked better than any ritual and any magic. Albus was his magic. Albus was the strongest, most miraculous magic in the world, and he would never see him again. Two years ago, this would not have mattered, but now? He liked him. Gellert liked him so much it hurt, it ached everywhere and then some more. Not quite yet an all-consuming feeling, something humanity had certain labels for, but... After those afternoons which felt like years, years of illusions in which he had convinced himself that Albus liked him just as much... Albus had just cut his losses. It was only seventeen little afternoons. Even if one overgeneralised and calculated in six hours per meeting, even more... – and some of them had been short to only two hours, the first, the ninth, the fifteenth, the sixteenth – this was only a hundred hours or so. Even if one said eight hours, and calculated it all together, glassy-eyed, Gellert realised this was anywhere between four and six days. Not even a week. They had collected not even a week this side of the century, with the meetings scattered over two years, it had only felt like so much more. All just a fever dream of landscapes and foods and wild hopes and even wilder dreams, now shattered at his own hand. They wouldn’t add another hour. Not another second.

   It was- 

   Over. 

   Permanently this time. Gellert knew it, he did not need to be a Seer to do so. He had no chance with the eldest Dumbledore anymore, the evidence was right there – or precisely not there.

   For the first time in two years, Ignotus’ fiery wings did not illuminate the night sky when he needed him there.

Where are you my feathered friend of fire?

Have I now fallen from you graces good?

My Feuervogel I have thrown 

To floods of anger and our doom

Your trust a blessing mythical, a legend knighthood

Have I become to you mere bones placed on a pyre?

   Was this condemnation? Was this the truth, a representation of it? That with this act of horror, he had finally severed all ties he had ever held to the Dumbledore family? If their familiar would not come...? 

   Aurelius had told him his phoenix came to Gellert when he had need. Ignotus had come to him, not... just before the meeting, a few days earlier, simply manifesting to existence. Perhaps Aurelius had still called him for Gellert, but that he would have settled with him, instead of his companion?

   And now, when he needed him most, there was no trace of him. In tragedies, such things amassed, did they not? He sobbed, a few breaths that came out creaky, patchy. Last he had sat here to ponder, the beautiful phoenix had sat in his lap and they had had dinner together. It had felt like the starting point of something miraculous and beautiful. Now, Gellert just wanted to cry into his feathers, hold him tight, and pretend like it would make it alright again. He needed something to hold, something warm, something living, something that wouldn’t judge him. Something he wouldn’t have to Obliviate after. Azul...

‘Are you EVER going to give the spiky blond his eagle back?’

‘Nah. He holds my nephew hostage, at the very least I can take his bird.’

Azul was in England, he assumed. Safe and sound. 

‘I’ve grown him his own needle tree he can sit in right next to the window,’ Albus had said. Gellert couldn’t even be mad. Albus had talked about the bird so fondly from the get-go, had asked about him, had wanted to know his name, had- had been so much more forthcoming than Gellert could ever be with a familiar. Perhaps it was right, that he was with Albus now. Albus would love him better than Gellert could. Gellert would only hurt him, come time. It seemed everything he touched, he destroyed. 

‘ Zerstöre noch eins deiner Kuscheltiere, und du wirst nie wieder ein neues bekommen, verstanden?!¹’

One of his earliest memories, his mother shouting at him in a rare outburst of emotionality. He hadn’t listened, at three, four, something. He had never listened. He thought himself so brilliant, all the time, but what if he wasn’t? What if he was just… stupid? What if he had inflated it all, had made it all be so much more important in his head than it had actually been? Underneath, he had always wanted a family. A better one than his own, making one himself. What did he have to show for? Three Elves. Nothing more. What was so wrong about wanting a partner, a family, children? For so long, all of this had become completely irrelevant, something moved to the end line of the horizon, the beautiful sunset after all the battles had been fought, and the world won. But now…? Had he simply engorged their tale because he wanted these things so much? Had his entire perception about their renewed relationship been so… out of touch?

Blind was I by fortune and my glee

How stupid could a human being be?!

Manipulation is my game

At which you beat me so triumphant 

Now empty words can’t comprehend my misery

Believed our summer’s fever now returned to me. 

   How could he have been so blind, so blind not to see there had been another? The radiant, brilliant smile Albus had worn in the papers, Gellert had seen the dance near ten times just to see Albus in all of his might, and to think, perhaps, one day, this routine would be theirs, if Albus only was patient enough to teach...? He had said Gellert had the innate talent, just not the know-how. How could he not have seen this? How could he not have heard this, Albus had been constantly speaking about his colleague, and so much more restrained than about all the others, how had it not become apparent that he had had something to hide?

   Heart now splinters with the price of death

To think your skin graced by another’s lips

My eyes exhausted and bled dry

And yet, the deluge perseveres

To think another left soft kisses on your hips

A knife, a shot, a slash, I cannot draw more breath.

   Gellert couldn’t stop crying. He wanted to, his head was killing him, every little heartbeat and, after hours and hours, it felt like every step taken by those living below him in the castle thinking not their leader had fallen from grace, all of those steps echoed through his brain and drove even more of the little concessions into his eyes. It just wouldn’t stop. It just wouldn’t stop. Nothing else mattered, the snowflakes, the taste of lilac on his cracked lips, and the scratch of the wool on his shoulders, his thighs. How he wished he could simply have frozen, could have been cold, could have been persuaded into another state of mind. How he missed the anger. 

Heartbeats splash as to myself I clutch

And see before myself your wanton tryst

That I was arrogant enough

To think it all just fabrication

As though a world with us together could exist

The boy in me has never felt bereaved as such.

   They had always been an impossibility. Not in their natures, not their powers, not their heritages, but their positions. How had they been supposed to work, as leaders of opposing movements? How would any of it even have functioned, if they could not agree on any issue between them? Albus, he didn’t even want to be the leader of his side of the story, others had forced him to be. Was that why he despised Gellert so much? Why- 

   He had been foolish to believe that they could be together just like that. That they could live in blissful ignorance, removed from world politics and their own opinions. Just them. Just kissing. It was all he needed, now. He should have forced the conversation more, he should have- 

   Albus would never have talked regardless. 

   But he could have tried... tried, for their greater good, for their future, for their happy-ever-after. But instead...

Trusted craven lies so eagerly 

I sink to boundless oceans of my shame

Harsh twist of the emblazoned knife

You sunk into my very chest

And here I was unready for our closing game

That our last legend could be told so meagrely.

   He had never imagined it would end like this. 

   That their final nail in the coffin would be... a Cruciatus Curse, how ironic it actually was once one thought about it. It was what had ended them last time, Gellert’s lack of restraint when Aberforth had challenged him. He had never actually cast it on a human before, only ever once on a familiar of a dormmate that had mauled him in his sleep, he had been so concerned about the notion of agency and it backfiring on him. That he would cast an Unforgivable Curse on the man he was bound to, and- 

   For a terrible second, Gellert wondered whether Albus lived. 

   He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t have...

   No, the Pact would have taken him in return. Albus had saved himself. He was healing. He was going to be brilliant. And Gellert would never stop being so horribly ashamed of himself. For wrapping this type of bow around their tragic tale. As if it hadn’t been bad enough last century, Gellert had made it even worse. He had somehow made it even worse than all he had done to Albus before. It should not have been possible, but then again, he was the man who broke impossibilities, and cast them in his sleep. This was their final story, their final inferno – and it ended in tragedy, unsatisfactorily. 

   Perhaps that was their function in their lives – tragedy, to spurn them on. 

   Just that Gellert had no resolve or strength left in his aged bones. 

Have I seen the truth of your deception?

Have I been led behind the curtain call?

I don’t know who you are, my soft

And harmless summer boy is gone

It’s now become perpetual, the inner rainfall

I laboured under my misguided preconception.

   Had Albus purposefully misled him? Had all of it been strategy and cunning? Or- or had he simply not thought Gellert important enough to know? Had his aim been to injure, to burn, or had there been no aim contained within his actions? Had Albus wanted him to see those images? Had Albus wanted him to see the truth? He had been confrontational enough, twice that day already, once enough to draw injury from their blood agreement, had he merely been preparing for the explosion? Albus- what had been his goal? Gellert would never have thought him capable of deceiving another being so, but he had been leading his own ministry by the nose as though it were nothing. Who was to say the expert in Occlumency, better than him, could not do the same to him? Had Gellert been let in on the final script, or had Albus merely shown him parchments empty, or halfway scribbled on? Had any of it been truth, had any of it been lies? His error, constantly, to think Albus was incapable of all the things he had mastered, when they were one and the same. Operating simply by the delusion of Albus’ presumed innocence of all those years ago. At sixteen, Gellert would not have truly thought himself capable of killing. Torturing, even worse. Now, this was second nature. Who was to say Albus hadn’t grown up as well? On the receiving end of his anger, how had Gellert kept persuading himself that Albus did not have his own weapons, his own arsenal to draw from, threats coming forth quickly, accusations, and Albus, so strong, so fierce, never backing down. Even proudly displaying his weaknesses, a thing that Gellert could never have done. It was possible that Albus had simply toyed with him, had simply been an actor adhering to his own script, the director to their tragedy. Plotting out the moving pieces and the pawns, and that the catastrophe of act five had simply gone as he had planned all along. 

Had this been Albus’ great plan all along, and Gellert just a pawn on the board? 

Had Albus deceived him all this time? 

Fiendfyre’s wild deluge madly patters

And shatters all that makes a man of me

So foolish, yet so obvious 

That you would seek to break me back

Well, you can wake up from that nonsense reverie

Quite no one wants to see me lose the last who matters.

Yet I cannot bring myself to plan

My agony could swallow up the world

I’ve wept so much I’ve been bled dry

And hear my heart's thuds in my mind

I wish it weren’t that one word I at you hurled

Your hatred must be larger now than when I ran.

   Stars remained sprawled over the midnight sky, yet Gellert’s eyes brimmed so with bitter tears that the celestial bodies became but swatches of light mingling with the darker shades of the Milky Way’s nebula, or was that the dust of a sunrise peaking past the heavy clouds, colouring them?

   Van Gogh’s Sternennacht, that was what it reminded him of, he thought numbly, disorientedly. Gentian had so loved the picture, misunderstanding it as a street illuminated by lanterns during a snowstorm, he had loved the two larger swirls of colours in the middle embracing, it had made him feel safe, and warm, and-

   Beside him, a glass filled with water, and subdued within the finest Steinthaler’s Florales could offer, a bottle of white lilac, something forgotten in his cabinet for so long, he had been surprised to see it when scrambling for his herbal liquor and finding he had run out. When had that been? He couldn’t remember coming here. When had he made for his oriel? And what were those pages upon pages of parchment beside him? Curiously, he lifted one to his eyes, waiting for the ink to flow into words between the dizziness of his head and the darkness in one. There was such emptiness. His memory was unfocussed, blurry, and yet, at some point, the unfamiliar words began organising themselves into sense units, and the deluge of his own Fiendfyre became interpretable as the metamorphosis he had seemingly undergone. 

Never will you take apology

We’ve come to drama ours, catastrophe

Our denouement is swallowed by 

A tidal wave I’ve shaken loose

No longer are we torn in just philosophy

I might as well advance with our necrology.

Chapter Text

   Albus had tried to avoid it for a very long time – it being Thursday, now, after all – but one of these days, Quentin and him had to be alone, with no Xoco in sight, and nobody else to keep them company. Just Quentin sitting by his side, and Albus so obviously awake. He had tried to pretend to sleep still, but considering all of his physical reactions still showed on the magical rendering beside the bed in which he was now seated at least cross-legged, it had been completely in vain. 

   “You’re nervous,” Quentin stated after a whole lot of pretence-companionable silence, stroking over his shoulder. 

Albus wanted to squirm under the touch – he didn’t deserve it! Did Quentin not understand that, as soon as- as soon as he was alright, the other would be too, and it would only be a matter of time before he would come to pursue and end him?! There was no telling- in his most vibrant nightmares, he saw only the most terrifying outcomes for his partner and friend, and each one was worse than the previous one, whilst Albus had the definitive knowledge that it would be nothing in comparison to actual reality. He trusted that he had more aces up his sleeves than Albus knew existed. 

“How- how do you know?”

“You have a resting of eighty, approximately, which was down to fifty sometimes last week, and you’re currently at... let me see...” he bowed over and let out a small chuckle. “A hundred and thirty-two. So either you’re very excited about seeing me, or you’re incredibly nervous. Considering the sweat that is breaking out on your forehead, I’d say nervous.”

How was he even supposed to reply to something like that? Quentin didn’t have to be astute of observational gift, though he typically was. How- how could Albus ever apologise for putting the finishing touches on – no, lo and behold, being responsible for the very draft of – Quentin’s death sentence? It may not have held the moniker of Unforgivable as that which had been done to him, but he found it similarly terrible. At least what Gellert had done- 

   Albus didn’t know whether the screams of pain were in his head. Whether he had screamed, whether- 

But he heard them. It might have been pain itself, or his synapses, or just overall his body, and he was just imagining this high-pitched, unbearably bone-tearing, skin-flaying noise. 

   It felt like war. 

It felt just like that, how nauseating even a simple memory could be, the buzzing of his own blood in his head creating a static noise, and everything outside sounding metallic, inhuman. How the edges and surroundings blurred focussing on one, just one singular occurrence. Albus had lost so many memories of the war it might have been weeks, perhaps even months, that he could not clearly recall, and although the weather and constant loops of same-looking injuries on same-looking people – all in the same uniforms, with the same dirt smears, and only faces to distinguish them by – had not made it any easier to remember. It had been standing up, and forcing some meal down, and getting to work, whenever during the day- or nightlight hours, no reprieves and no rewards. So much of the surroundings and conversations had become white noise, and Albus remembered only those parts that had been specifically impressive, sometimes positively, like a life saved that had not ever looked like it could be, but most predominantly the bad ones. The wounds on his own body, the lives failed to save, or when bombs had come down far too close to the workspace again, when, suddenly, the field infirmary had become the centre of the battlefield again. 

   It felt just like those memories. It behaved just like it. 

   Come time, it would-

   “Do you know what day today is?”

“Thursday? Xoco said Thursday when he brought the Nourishing Potion.”

“It’s a week past Valentine's Day,” Quentin answered gently and squeezed his shoulder again. 

“Really?”

“Thursday, the twenty-first of February 1929, yup. How do you feel about that?”

“Like last year, I thought it couldn’t be worse, and look at me now.”

“Always room for improvement, hm? We’ve been together almost a year now, can you believe it? Feels like yesterday. I did have something planned for the two of us, but you wouldn’t mind if he put that on ice for the moment, right?”

How could Quentin even begin to think they were alright? The way he seemed to have fallen into his chambers, and had-

Aberforth had told him he really had died that night. That it was only due to his magic that he hadn’t, that he had literally taken his heart into his hands and fixed it up enough for it to now somehow function again. If he had needed any more reasons to hate Aberforth from the bottom of his heart, he had donated plenty. He should have just let him perish. What significance was there to his survival? 

How could Quentin think, therefore, that they were together? That- that Albus cared about Valentine’s Day, or that they- if this was what had befallen Albus, who was clearly dear enough to warrant such a reaction, how would a stranger, the stranger that could be blamed for all of this, be treated? Albus recalled the speech in Nida, and the mercies – the mercy of death, really, would not be granted to Quentin. But he would wish for it, plead for it, scream for it with his undying breaths. How could Quentin believe that everything was fine, that Valentine’s Day mattered, considering-

“You think I’m terribly mad at you,” the Slytherin professor spoke, almost as though he could keep track of Albus’ mental entanglements.

“I can see that you aren’t,” but I don’t understand why! You avoided me three weeks after the Obliviation incident, which I thought was fairly little though my crime was justified at least in the theoretical framework of morality, choosing the lesser evil of interfering with many people’s memories for a life, but now?! It was my fault, all mine! I showed this memory, I couldn’t contain it, I brought myself to a situation with an accomplished master of the mental arts and expected nothing to slip through?! How stupid am I? How much-

“You want me to be terribly mad at you.”

“I thought it would be only understandable. Reasonable. Inevitable.”

“Because you think you revealed to somebody pretty bad that we’re together.”

“I know I have.”

“Well, that blows. Only, I’ve known that since Monday last, and, well, I’ve had one and a half weeks to come to terms with it. You just have to tell me one thing, Albus. Just one. Did you do it on purpose?”

“No! No, of course I didn’t do it on purpose, but I did, that’s-“

“So whatever you revealed, it was accidental.”

“Yes, but-“

“And you could do nothing to stop it from surfacing.”

“No, but-“

“Well, then I’m not nearly as mad at you as I could be, if you did everything you could.”

“But I brought myself into the situation that caused it in the first place, if I had not-“

“Albus, you forget,” Quentin answered sharply, pursing his lips, “that you died. You died, right in front of me, if it weren’t for your quite frankly terrifyingly dark-horse brother, we’d be picking a slot for you right now, or would already have you six feet underground! I could’ve lost you that night, don’t you understand?! However mad or not mad I am at you, don’t you think that I could have lost my fucking best friend so suddenly would give me some perspective? Of course I’m mad at you! I’m mad at you for getting yourself into such trouble, I’m mad at you for not telling me you would be at risk if you left, then I wouldn’t have allowed the Polyjuice swap and you would’ve had to find another way and maybe the circumstances wouldn’t have amounted then, you know how I’ve been spiralling these past ten days, Albus?! Of course I’m mad at you! But that is nothing compared to the horror, the sheer terror I felt thinking you- you might not make it to morning’s light, alright?! We can talk about the rest later, we- I’m probably going to throw something at you because- well, because your brother and Nicolas, they were pretty unanimous in suggesting I might die if I leave the castle and you know I’m an adventuring spirit and don’t do well with confinement and limiting my social interactions, and that you- and yes, I know, I know I said I was a mature adult and I could handle it, but I was never accounting for you to be the person that puts me at risk by unveiling it to the opposition, and I know you don’t like the term opposition because that paints you and us here as a cause and we’re just because the others have decreed it to be so and I understand that, I just- Salazar’s bollocks, I have to take a breath sometime. Look- you put me in mortal peril, but you died, and that’s too much for a person to handle, so forgive me if I focus on the thing that’s actually happened, not the one that might come to pass. You haven’t even talked to a mind healer yet!”

“I’m not going to talk to a mind healer,” Albus replied stubbornly. 

“I’m afraid I’ll insist on that.”

“And I’m afraid I can’t do that. Imagine that person’s identity is revealed. I would have to work with advanced blood magic to keep the tongue from being loosened, and if the torturer figures that out, they may as well discard of the person to bury the evidence! Nobody around me is safe, don’t you understand that?! Especially not now! Nobody will ever be safe again! I’ve just single-handedly likely given away the Isles to attacks left and right, everybody that was living still relatively safely and peacefully will now have to fear for their lives, and that is just the average wizarding citizen! What do you think will happen to my colleagues, my former students, my friends?! Everybody is in danger now, don’t you understand?! I’ve put every single person that has ever known me at risk of-“

Something cold touched his philtrum, and instantly, a terrible, terrible smell came wafting up to his nostrils. He hadn’t even noticed how black his vision had gone, how- how the blood was racing in- Merlin’s beard! Merlin’s beard, what-

“What is that smell?!” Albus shrieked uncomfortably, trying to back away from the flask relentlessly forced under his nose. 

“Quentin Malfoy’s Special Spirit of Hartshorn,” he heard a smirk from the side. “Works perfectly on most individuals, though it can induce sneezing.”

“What- what is that?! Get it off of me!”

“Not a chance.”

“Quentin, I’m serious-“

“Deep breaths, Albus, darling. Deep breaths.”

“Are you kidding me?!” he shrieked again, “I’m never going to take another breath with whatever this is under my nose!”

“Fine,” the other relented and removed the bottle. Tears had risen to Albus’ eyes, it had been that disgusting. “Less quarrelsome now, I suppose.”

“What- what abomination of daemons was that?!”

“As I said. My own recipe. How many people d’you reckon I have faint off of wrongly-brewed potion fumes a week? And that’s not to mention all the kids that come around for emotional advice and talk themselves into a tizzy. I always have something strong on me like that, some idiots brew that colossally, if I added a Rennervate on that, it’d send them straight to the hospital wing.”

“And why was it necessary to hold it under my nose?!” Albus complained, blindly reaching for something to wipe his nose with – it was basically crying after that assault. 

“Did I not just say I use it when the kids talk themselves into a tizzy? Granted, you’re a bit older, but you were doing the same thing.”

“I was telling you the tru-“

“Doesn’t make it any less of a tizzy, you idiot.”

“But I was-“

“Will you be quiet, idiot?” Quentin hissed. “Whatever you did or didn’t do, you’ve already died for it, you quixotic wannabe Jesus! Don’t you think that’s enough for the moment, you blasted phoenix? Do you have any idea how it’s felt, having your heart give out right in front of me? Even your brother’s been personable, he’s been teaching your classes for you, without much a complaint, even, and he’s still here, should that have escaped your notice, you’ve been awake since Sunday and he’s still here, and certainly not because he has to teach in your stead, he could just go back to the pub and run it, but he hasn’t been in Hogsmeade for what I think is since I called him up that night, you should’ve seen him that night, he was wild, I tell you, he was wild, he just took your heart into his hands and made it whole again and he’s been cussing at everybody who thanks him for saving your life, he literally burst himself in through the fireplace and did it almost all single-handedly and then has been teaching for you! I’ve been working here twenty years now, I’ve never seen Bali, Yaxley or Armando that concerned! When will you stupid, daft, dim-witted, dumb, numbskull, monkey-brained idiot of a Flubberworm finally realise that we all care about you and are so filled with gratitude that you survived that we couldn’t even be furious if we wanted to be! I mean, you are making me angry, right now, at you, at your stupid single-mindedness and egoism, at your lack of care for yourself, at everything! I mean, my best friend was CRUCIO’D TO DEATH AND-“

Albus jerked, whether it was the mention or the tonality or just the sheer volume, but it was enough for Quentin to notice it, and even if that he could not have seen, the permanent shiver in Albus’ chest was hardly overlookable. 

“I- I’m sorry, Glumbumble. I’ve got so much coursing through me, I shouldn’t let it out on you. Least on you. I’m sorry. As if Yaxley didn’t trim my feathers enough about it...”

“He did?”

“He knows. I mean, he guessed, what, immediately the next morning when he came in, took me aside over the week and told me about Bathilda’s betting pool and all, and told me to my face that he knew I wasn’t in it with my heart, and you probably were, and that if I dared to hurt you, well, I’d face his wrath, which... sincerely frightens me, I’ve had the speech much in my years, but from Yaxley, Merlin’s beard, he didn’t go this hard on me when I messed up that summer fling with his daughter four years ago! Though, he did tell me he’d be a shoulder to cry on if I ever needed it, and that that same thing held true for you as well. So, if you ever need to whinge, Yaxley’s willing and apparently ferocious about you. He read to you every day when you were out, too. Don’t know what’s suddenly gotten into him, but if that utter stoic is that ferocious about you, you may want to take the hint.”

A terribly awkward thought at once attached itself to Albus’ brain, and he needed to follow. Surely- surely that was not the case, no? He had never thought about it. Yaxley was older than he looked, after all, considering his hair was still black and his cheeks far from sinking. 

“When- when was he born?”

“Yaxley?” Quentin inquired before shrugging. “Dunno. Seventies? Sixties? Something around that time? He never does celebrate nor does he like people to know, does he? Wait, wait, I remember Bali recently saying something about that, wait a moment. Have to hurry to my palace of memories for that on- seventy-two! She told him to act his age at seventy-two, when he was doing that ‘trust the Prophet further than I can throw it’ contest. Why?”

“1856.”

“Ah- yes. You’re back in your brain, mathematically, then? We were a bit concerned, after you took so much time counting all your bones together that-“

“My father’s year.”

“Huh?”

“My father is- was from 1856.”

“Huh, really? D’you reckon they were school mates? But why would he never tell you?”

“Yaxley? He’s never been fond of sentimentality, has he?”

“True, true... well, anyways, that man puts the fear of Slytherin in me, so just because of that, I’m going to have to make sure I treat you like a faetale princess. Can I interest you in a back massage? I also have alcohol-free eggnog. Like, a whole cauldronful in my chambers, I was forcefully conscripted to give your brother a demonstration.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your brother is feral for my new alcohol-free eggnog. Well, his amount of appreciation would classify for feral in most people, he’s just barely raising a brow, but I feel like I’ve been getting a better handle on how he’ll react. Come on, Al, can’t you let me pamper you at least a little bit? We missed Valentine’ Day, for crying out loud, and it's my favourite holiday of the season!”

   Albus dissociated into dissonance, but that was overall more pleasant than his other thoughts. He didn’t let Quentin to his back, how could he? Somehow, distantly, he remembered that, before all the internal cracking- each time the memory came back, his whole body spasmed, and Quentin had to rub soothing circles onto his hands. He had massaged his back too, Albus had only even consciously remembered when Quentin’s hands had begun kneading gently, and he had jerked up as if stung by an adder. He sensed that that would be the way it would go, memories coming in only when he found himself in similar situations, blocked off by the most memorable event of the day. Which meant every moment could possibly provide a challenge. Which, within itself, was frightening him into shivers, no matter how much Quentin tried to keep his hands steady and gently tried to help him move the digits, especially on the right. Of course, Aberforth had said it, that he likely wouldn’t ever cast properly with his right again, but... Yes, of course, Albus was vaguely ambidextrous at least when it pertained to unleashing magic, but what about writing? Holding cutlery? Would the function ever return to his hand, and if it was such an uncertainty, why even try in the first place? He could barely make a fist, and doing so took him a minute and only if Quentin helped a little bit! Was the journey really worth it, and if so, what for? So he would have to live out the remainder of his days contained at Hogwarts because he couldn’t move against Gellert, not even in the slightest, but would have to, well, then he would eventually just be taken into custody for negligence of duty or some fabricated offence like that, and sent off to Azkaban. What sense was there in living on? He could no longer protect- 

   Quentin was too eerily capable at predicting when his mood shifted into dangerous territory, and then always did something to change it. It was always something different. That dratted potion he had brewed, or a sip of something to drink, or forcing an almost-disgustingly sour lemon drop into his mouth, or giving him a candy to chew on that was, on the last stretch, so unexpectedly devilishly spicy that Albus’ whole face felt like it was burning, or a loud noise, or an unconventional sentence. He didn’t know for how long they sat there, both on Albus’ bed, Quentin telling him stories but interrupting himself whenever he noticed Albus growing too nervous, it made him even more nervous, more unstoppably jittery that Quentin should be that forthcoming, when he clearly didn’t deserve it. At some point, it also seemed as though he had smuggled in some variant of a Calming Draught, but had clearly conferred with Nicolas considering it didn’t make him nauseous nor left him feeling as though he had to empty himself into the nearest bin. It didn’t do much, but enough to notice that Quentin had grown quieter, and that there were a line or two more etched onto his face.

   “Something is ghosting through your mind.”

“Bless, your magic is back.”

“No, I- I just know. I can see it on your face.”

“Clever. Well, it’s stupid, alright? And it has nothing to do with the situation now, it really doesn’t.”

“Then with what?”

“It’s difficult to describe, really.”

“Attempt it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Xoco says you should attempt to move tomorrow, a few steps about the place to see how your limbs correspond, so he can adjust his concept of physically therapeutic measures.”

Even that made Albus jerk. 

“I know you’re scared, I’d be. But you’re going to have to promise me to at least give it a try, alright? Now, Bali has said she wants to be in charge of your physical recovery considering she’s the only one of us who’s regrown several limbs and had to learn to operate them again, and I don’t think Bali’s such a bad pick, hm?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Alright, evasion it is, we’ll talk about that tomorrow. Well, you can actually save the remaining amount of my sanity that is currently being reduced to a puddle of melting goo by my inherent idiocy, would you be up for that?”

“I suppose...?”

“Alright, then here goes nothing. You know that portrait of Hyseberht Hufflepuff by the left side entry to the Great Hall?”

“Vaguely. I never come from that side, it only leading to the dungeons in a roundabout way.”

“Describe it to me.”

“Ah... Hufflepuff’s grandchild Hyseberht is clad in yellows and brows and holding a fruit bowl.”

“You’d think that, right? Did you know there’s not in fact a single item of fruit in the bowl?”

“There is not?”

“No!” Quentin exclaimed giddily, as though he was the first to ever have stumbled over a secret. “Not a single one! It’s all magical creatures! The kiwi is a Golden Snidget, the apples are dragon eggs, the grapes are Doxy eggs, even the bowl itself, the miniature cornucopia he holds, is a Flubberworm! It’s all just various types of confusingly-sized creatures that are rendered as illusions of fruits, likely a play on just how massive that man was in his life, and his love for creatures and the short time Hogwarts had a subject for those creatures but only because he got the job because of his last na- I digress. I only realised this on Sunday.”

“That- well, that’s clever, but... but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you know how I got to it?”

“Not in the slightest, Quentin, I-“

“I was so tired from the night-shift looking over you, I took the wrong turn, ended up in the corridor and saw the kiwi move. I thought I was going utterly insane! Turns out I just hadn’t been looking these past- well, since I was a boy! Longbottom and I took that entrance thrice a week for certain when we were late for breakfast! And yet, I never, never noticed it was all just creatures despite it quite literally being so obvious now that I walked past yesterday to study everything in more detail. Like, it was so obvious, I didn’t ever see it. It’s a fruit bowl, of course it’d contain fruit. It’s logical, it makes sense. But not all that glitters is gold, right? Well, anyways, now, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to unsee it.”

“That- that is interesting, however-“

“What I mean to- no, I think this is actually not the right analogy here. Forget I talked about Hyseberht.”

Albus had no idea where Quentin was going with this? An analogy of... Hufflepuffian spirit? That he was supposed to eat more? Open his eyes and not be blind?”

“Okay?”

“D’you know the mural on the ground-and-a-half floor south corridor?”

“Which one? The Selkies, the Gillyweed infestation or the Isle of Man landscape?”

“Latter. Oh, this’ll ruin you, but four years ago or so, I walked through there, minding my own business, from the corner of my eye, I see-  that stone, d’you know, that stone tower?”

“Vaguely?”

“And the patch of heather beside it.”

“Yes. I always liked the colour, it was... with the greenishness, it has a unique tint.”

“Right. I’m gonna ruin your life now.”

“Do so at your pleasure.”

“That patch of heathers is showing you the finger.”

That was not what Albus had expected to hear. Medieval names came up quite certainly all the time considering the castle had seventeen times as many portraits as it had actively living human beings roam its halls, and most of these had been hung sometime between 1000 and 1300, but the mural was relatively recent, so recent, it had been made in Albus’ time away from Hogwarts. He’d almost had a heart arrest coming upon the Selkies the first time, made by one of Theseus’ yearmates.

“Huh?”

“I’m serious. If you look at that patch of heather coming from Arithmancy Classroom Three, it looks just like it and I swear, standing before it, it’s not like it at all! It’s just a patch of Salazar-forsaken heather, but you look at it from that angle, I swear, I swear there’s a resemblance that’s uncanny, and I mean uncanny, Albus! It’s utterly crazy, but I can’t unsee it, every time I come down that corridor that Isle of Man mural is literally giving me the bird, and nobody, and I mean, nobody else has ever seen that, I think, nobody takes a second look at that thing! And it’s not even objectively doing it, that’s the thing, I’ve just seen it once, and now every single time I come by, I see it! It’s like it’s permanently engraved and I’ve asked at this point like a hundred people and nobody’s ever seen it, I’ve given up honestly, it’s just a trick my brain plays on me.”

“That- I’m sorry that the Isle of Man is giving you the bird,” Albus pondered, aware of how insane that all sounded, “but... what does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s a fitting analogy, trust me.”

“I do. But for what?”

Quentin gathered himself, a few deep breaths, which told Albus everything he needed to know, though he felt too fundamentally exhausted to quite comprehend the message behind it all, where the analogy was to lead. 

“Monday- Monday to Tuesday, last week, I didn’t sleep Sunday, how could I, we were all standing by waiting for the other shoe to drop, that there’d be a snag to it, that you wouldn’t just... live like that... regardless, I made it through Monday, really thanks to your brother and Nicolas, really, they were truly wonderful, and helpful, yes, even your brother, he was the one who told me to stay put at Hogwarts, really, and made it all clear, that that was the best thing to do, I- well, I went to bed early that day, but then that night, I- I had this most vivid nightmare.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s- it wasn’t per se bad within itself, or- well, it was just one image, really, that I remember, but I jerk up bathed in sweat and- and Merlin, my half-sleepy brain at four in the night, it had this one thought, probably because you were on my mind so much and you’d just gotten injured to that degree, I just related the dream and the image, and by Salazar’s delusions of grandeur, I have had this utterly ridiculous thought stuck in my mind, and I just can’t get it out. Like- like that Isle of Man mural. Like... I saw something I shouldn’t have seen, not because it was forbidden or because it was that dangerous or anything, just because it wasn’t true, but it’s been sticking to me.”

“What was your dream?”

“And you know what’s worse?” Quentin bemoaned, ignorant of his question, “what’s worse is that I’ve been finding evidence for it actually being true! Imagine that, I’ve gone that barmy! I keep finding evidence in support of this fever dream, and I am going utterly mad, because there’s no way in hell that can be true, but I keep seeing- it’s complete nutter behaviour, I know. I’m literally finding faked evidence- favidence? No, that doesn’t sound at all like a portemanteau of the two concepts, fakevidence? No, that’s even worse, mind me. What I’m trying to say-“

“What was your dream, Quentin?”

“Just- just this one image. It was dark, but- but not naturally dark. More like... those frayed zones between reality and a Dementor, you know? Where what you, what we all would like to think are robes, are blurring with reality itself, a smoky, neither-here-nor-there, layered and very uncomfortable thing to look at. My family once made me visit Azkaban, you know, after my father was imprisoned, to show me what I had done to him, presumably to give me the guiltiest conscience of all consciences, but... didn’t work, of course, I thought the bastard deserved all that soul-sucking and constant beleaguering for what he did to my mother, but... well, anyways, it was just like that, the entire image was just like that. Only- only in the middle, there were eyes.”

“Like- like a spider’s many eyes or...?”

“No, just two. It was... very mind-boggling though. It was one in like... like brown, caramel but less yellow, maybe, and another in a sky-but darker colour of blue,” Quentin stated pensively and Albus’ mind, just as his heart, stopped. It just stopped, every single reference to those- “I can see you put the dots together, but- it wasn’t quite right. Because I don’t think it was just one person. Like, the left I saw was this brownish colour, but that would be the right on a person, and that’s not- well, right, is it? And then the sky-blue- it reminded me of your eyes, only a bit lighter, and a bit milkier. More like- d’you remember Furrowstone, a few years back? Yeah, almost exactly like hers. I still couldn’t shake the feeling it was a left eye, and a right eye, and I just wasn’t seeing the other two eyes, you know? Because... because urgh, the left-and-right reversal scrambles my remaining intellect, but- I thought I was seeing someone’s left eye, which was in this brownish shade, and someone’s right, which was blue. Look, it’s dream logic, whether this makes even in the remotest any sense to you, I don’t know, it doesn’t have to. Just, when I woke up, I heard this one sentence, one that you’ve said before, well- ‘I feel like it’s my personalised blood malediction’, you said, last year, and- it must’ve been you talking about something so dark-magic and terrible so close to you being injured, but my brain cooked up this utterly crazy idea.”

That Albus had gone to see him. That Albus had risked it all and now he knew about Quentin’s involvement and- Albus was no idiot, he knew he had caused the most grievous of injuries himself, which meant that, at this time, physically, the other almost had to be perfectly functional again, it was Albus’ heart that kept him chained to the bed, not his arm injury, and that would not have reflected back because of the pact. Which meant any anger would come swifter than he could anticipate, and even swifter than he could prepare for. 

“My brain- the darkest, most idiotic corner of my leftover sanity has decided to hyper-fixate on finding evidence for the absolute madness that it would be if, in our lovely triangular joke of the eagle molester, the spiky blond and pretty boy-“ and here, Quentin took a significant breath, “if the latter two amounted to one another.”

Chapter Text

   It should have made Albus’ heart arrest in his chest, but for some reason, it didn’t. It just didn’t. For some reason, nothing happened, besides his mouth actually speaking the truth.

“One and the same...”

“Yes! Yes, precisely, my brain’s been completely aflame thinking what if they actually weren’t different people but what if you and- but it’s insane! How’d that even be possible?! Like, yes, you like men, but- the spiky blond seems to me like the kind of man who’d be obnoxious about it, and see lads like you don’t have enough rights, and take that personally, and make it worse for every homosexual man, woman, child and otherwise being involved, so considering that hasn’t happened yet and hasn’t yet been made a focal point of the agenda would communicate rather clearly that that isn’t even the case, so-“

“Your evidence?” Albus inquired sharply.

Despite him really just wanting to croak it preferably yesterday, yesterweek, or yesteryear, Quentin could not- he could not know, it was too shameful. It was all too shameful, to tell somebody- When Perce had confirmed his cognisance, well, that had been different! He’d seen it in another’s brain! When Bathilda had confirmed her suspicions, well, she’d been there, and she’d known him at that age! Why, even Aberforth had known him at that age, and had just actually agreed that Albus had made a difference, if only the smallest one, and had taken much more in return, that he had to accept and acknowledge. Regardless, when he had told Nicolas, well, Gellert had just been a boy! Albus had mentioned the dishonourable discharge from Durmstrang parenthetically, nothing more; to Nicolas, he’d just been another swishy late-Victorian boy with an obsession for all things gorgeous and a feather from which the rhymes had seemed to spout so madly and perfectly it had near-always arrested Albus’ heart to hear them, let alone hear them about himself. Once, Gellert had taken to serenading him truly like had been 1599, standing below his window with a piece of parchment and calling verses up to the first floor, likely in an attempt to make the self-conscious Albus feel properly romanced. Which had worked, of course. To imagine him now, it was so dichotomous, it oftentimes tore Albus apart just for the sheer contradictory nature of it all. 

“I’m not accusing you! I’m deluding myself, Al, I don’t seriously believe that! I don’t have any evidence, that’s the thing, only... well, it’s child’s play to figure out that chaotic ward Bathilda talks about is him, I mean, especially considering I met Cosimo, and how utterly fed up you look whenever she comes around with another story, it just all fits time-wise, but- look, I know your tone when you’re hurting, and yes you are, but I know the tone you use for pretty boy, and it’s not even in the remotest the same! And that’s the thing, Al! You told me, you’ve told just about everybody you spent the years after graduation in Asia! Bhutan, East Indies, you mentioned Saigon, Ceylon, Indochina, etcetera, you have the most enlightening stories when you feel like telling them, I remember that one you told when we had all that regional food for Hammersmith, how brilliant was that! Only, it must’ve been a tough time after everything that you told me and with pretty boy as well, so... so your stories are few and far in between, who could blame you. But, just... my brain has been stuck on this ridiculous what-if scenario, like, what if you and the spiky blond- it’s insane, see, all my evidence is actually faux evidence, it’s just that I now see that face, and that I know what he looked like because you said Cosimo was the spitting image, well, that doesn’t help either, especially because I now essentially have Cosimo but with white-blond hair in my mind and two differently-coloured eyes and it does not do the boy any favours and literally tears a hole in my brain whenever I think of it so please, please I’d love if you could just verbally slap me across the face and tell me I’ve gone utterly mad, could you do that for me? Like, just a decent backhand, please, so I stop devolving in this and start seeing ghosts where there aren’t any and fucking murals that are showing me the finger.”

   Albus wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to! How he just wanted to take Quentin and shake him and tell him it was all a fabrication of his over-active imagination, and yes, of course it didn’t make sense, he’d pissed off to Gryffindor-damned Asia before the middle of October had gone by that year, how was anyone to make a relationship work in the span between graduation at the end of June, and an overly hasty flight to the literal other end of the world three and a half months later?! It was insane! That just all wasn’t plausible in the slightest, was it? How could one entertain a relationship that would destroy one for the rest of one’s life in three and a half months?! What sort of an idiot would one have to be to- to fall that deep, to fall that all-encompassingly, especially if one had only used about two months of this time period for the relationship, and the rest had been... minutiae of grief? It all didn’t make sense, of course it didn’t! 

   Except that it did. 

   That it always had.

   And, no matter how much Albus hated it, that it always would. Because sometimes, the universe showed its hand, and placed together in a fateful encounter those that should not meet lest they destroy the world. Even if something happened one in a million times, it still happened to someone. Someone still got unlucky or blessed enough to experience that one-in-a-million situation. Albus had. He had met the love of his life in the quaint English countryside, and now he could not help mourning everything about it. He could just say no. Yes was the far crazier, far less sense-making answer here! So what, not only had he found the love of his life at seventeen – most people would have found that laughable, pathetic enough considering adults never did think children could feel anything properly – but that person had also grown up to be the darkest wizard of all time, of at this point likely hundreds of millions before him, and yet he happened to be the most murderous, most magical, most talented, most offensively dark of all of them?! How was that even within the realm of possibility, that Albus should be this unlucky? He could just say no, it was just one syllable, two sounds and letters, three little symbols in phonetic spelling, how hard was that exactly?! But no, even as a two-letter word, it seemed like a Goliath task to Albus. How was he supposed to say it, when yes was so much easier, so much more intuitive? When yes was the right answer, no matter how utterly pea-brained it actually sounded? Yes, yes, yes, of course they were the same person! It was hiding in plain sight! Of course Bathilda would be completely insensitive about sharing stories about her ward around Albus, because she was Bathilda, and thought everything could be fixed when sitting under a self-crocheted blanket whilst sipping her disgusting fennel tea! Or just talking it out, as though that would actually work! They’d tried, and now, Albus couldn’t use his right arm anymore and had single-handedly doomed every single person in-

   “Albus?”

“Hm?!”

“Where did you go?”

“Hazelnut,” Albus mumbled abruptly, each word a precise slash of the sword, removed from his emotions, because he couldn’t let it stand. He just couldn’t. He had lost himself, he had delved into those eyes for a pastime, he couldn’t tolerate them not being described accurately. “His eye was- was the colour of hazelnut, or- or unbaked gingerbread, it was warm, and kind, and always full of sparks. The right one was arrogant, and cunning, and brilliant. And his presence, like- like the feeling after rain. It was like rebirth. Like everything... started. Like nothing else mattered.”

It should have felt cathartic – people always said talking made it better – but it didn’t. It just caused further agony to roar into flame in his chest, to think they’d gone in and out of season twice now, and twice as unsuccessfully. And both times, it had ended almost the exact same way, with one word, and the consequences thereafter. It was only ever laughter that burned, and tears that sparked phantom aches in his chest, and flaming-hot memories that merrily seared their holes through his brain.

   A minute passed, he was certain of it. Another minute, too. 

“Albus- Albus, surely you don’t mean to tell me that-“

He could have just said no. But then again, how could he have? He had never actually been asked this question before. He had no prior knowledge on how to act, how to behave when somebody suddenly asked him out of the blue whether they had been together in the past... Law Enforcement wouldn’t have dared, and no one else had yet drawn the hare-brained conclusion as Quentin had. How could somebody have? He was right, of course! He was right, he would have simply made it worse for all inclined men involved. The only reason he hadn’t was because Albus had told him not to. Because Albus had threatened him. Because- and now, that would resolve itself, and he would make it so much worse for everyone involved. 

“Albus- Glumbumble, would you please just say that my- that I didn’t just accidentally pull a Tabetha and- and-“

It would have been so easy just to say no. After all, it was the right answer. It wasn’t correct, but it was right. This could not be Albus’ past, for the sheer circumstance of the presence, how much torment it would have been if it were right. Now, every time Albus even as much as thought a name, or saw an image, and that pain returning to his arm. Now every newspaper, he would have to hide the tremor in his arm. Aberforth had painted it as so facile, that he would simply change his wand hand and that was that, but what for? So he could cast the vilest of curses before students that were too young to see them, let alone be subjugated by- 

   Oh Merlin. Murphy, Lexington, Samsby, Lovelace, they weren’t done with their practicals yet! They hadn’t been put under the Cruciatus Curse yet, and Albus-

   He was going to be sick. 

Blood began thumping in his ears, so loudly he could practically taste it on the tip of his tongue. 

He couldn’t do it! How- how was he supposed to- 

Let alone have control over his magi-

He couldn’t cast spells, how was he-

But if he didn’t do it, they would fail their-

  “Albus, you have to be shitting me, just please tell me you didn’t-“

   He couldn’t call for aid, none other could cast it! Theseus, but he- but he worked for the ministry, which meant the ministry would know he couldn’t cast spells, let alone powerful ones! It would alert them, which meant-

He would be uncovered! 

His extracurricular stay abroad would be discovered and they would throw him to the wolves, they’d proven their capacity just a few weeks ago! 

How was he supposed to pretend?! He didn’t have his magic! He was bedridden, how had the staff even managed to stop them from investigating? How long before another attack, like Bordeaux, only with the death toll of Hamburg and the potential destructiveness of Paris? How long before it would burn, all of it, because Albus had-

Because Albus hadn’t been able to sit down and talk it through and just admit- 

Or just come straight out and say there wasn’t a relationship-

Only that would’ve ended things earlier, or endangered Quentin earlier- 

   He could have just addressed it that afternoon in the cottage by the sea, or evening, or whenever it had been, that there was already someone and whilst it was all open and comfy-cosy, he wasn’t so sure exactly how a potential-

He would have overreacted-

But not in a Cruciatus Curse, right?

It wouldn’t have escalated, but Albus always let it escalate, he never, never, never just talked about things and cleared things up and dealt with things head-first and he had already lost his nephew over it and now he would possibly lose his best friend and former lover over it because Quentin would not ever want to be in his company again if he didn’t now say NO, but he just couldn’t get himself to say no, how could he have said no to the question, because it was all he ever thought about and it was the truth, the brutal, scathing, heart-breaking and aching truth that it was all the truth and all not a lie and Albus was rather certain that no self-respecting person could ever look into his eyes again after that revelation, he didn’t know how Perce did it or how anyone else did it, Nicolas, how could he even look into his eyes after everything Albus had shared with him, he should have been disappointed, angry, he should have cussed him out on the street and somehow he hadn’t for some strategic purpose because it was safest to be closest because it would provoke a knee-jerk reaction from Albus and nobody wanted Albus’ true might against themselves but now such cards were not on the table anymore and it hadn’t activated the pact to torture Aberforth all those years ago so the option of hurting him just through attacking the people closest to him became an ever-realer-growing option which also meant that all people closest to him were now at the highest risk and there was nothing he could do about it and it was all just due to his inability to ever think anything through to the end and actually commit to something and stand strong to defend himself and those he cared about he always preferred uncertainty and now it would cost students their degrees and former students their jobs and former yearmates their lives and all those involved would be utterly miserable because he could never get himself together and just be certain and strong and like a leader the people had evidently chosen him to be but that he didn’t want to be but had to be but couldn’t be but needed to be and now he had doomed everybody with his lack of foresight and just his lack of ability to act like a normal huma-

   “So it’s like Hyseberht after all,” was the first thing Albus could consciously recall hearing. 

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Hyseberht,” the voice stated again. “An analogy. I just realised I had picked the right analogy after all.”

“That’s splendid. Care to explain to me why he’s passed out shaking, and I needed to force a triple draught down your incessant throat?”

“I- I had this ridiculous theory that turned out to be- you already know, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to be more specific about what I know and don’t know. I know a whole lot if you ask the right questions, but I am also willing to share fairly little of it. For numerous reasons, first and foremost my disliking of your person.”

“Hey, I thought I wasn’t bad! You said I was ‘good for him’.”

“First of all, that is hardly an achievement considering how negligent he is with his health, second of all, just because you somehow manage to be good for him doesn’t mean I like you very much. I have a history of not liking Albus’ little shenanigans in the masculine department, I’d rather not break that streak so I can still faithfully claim he’s an utter failure picking a decent man for himself.”

“So you know about him?”

“Afraid you’re gonna have to be more specific, there’s two billion people alive right now, wizards not even included in that, which means a billion men, so...”

“Aberforth,” the voice hissed, then continued quietly. “I mean- Grindelwald.”

“Sure I’ve heard that name before. Not a fan, personally.”

“Don’t play stupid. You said you were there for the whole thing, and considering you literally figured out Al and I were together just looking at us once I’m sure you catch on fairly quick.”

“Are you attempting subtlety? Because I don’t think you’re doing it right. This is more the broadsword variety of subtlety instead of a dagger.”

“Well, excuse me for not being subtle with something I’m sure you already know!”

“What do I know, precisely?”

“Stop being a fucking git and tell me whether they were or weren’t!”

“Were or weren’t what? And I suggest you keep your voice down before you alert those dungfaces Silverstone and Rowle because I’m pretty sure I knocked them out cold and if I have to endure one more moment of their silly house rivalry bickering in the shape of words, looks or spells, I am going to hex them back into the Middle Ages.”

“What even happened?”

“Whatever happens when you put overzealous Gryffindors and Slytherins in one room together, they’ll kill each other eventually, was like a battleground Chimaera versus Basilisk in there when I came in. If they had a modicum more self-restraint, they’d keep their forked tongues and silly roars behind their teeth instead of bothering me with it. That Rowle clan is probably gonna send me a lawsuit in the mail soon considering I couldn’t care to cushion his fall.”

“Did you cushion Silverstone’s fall?”

“Nah, he just fell into a dummy that caught his fall somewhat. I hate them all equally, don’t you know?”

“I didn’t know you were so indiscriminate against Slytherins.”

“My son’s a half-Slytherin. Literally.”

“What do you mean ‘literally’?”

“His mother was a descendant of the tosser himself, suppose that makes my son one too. Can hardly afford to be picky there, can I? But that’s besides the point, what exactly was what you were so animatedly yapping about?”

“Did they or didn’t they?”

“Do what? Blood magic, yes, drugs, no. Necromancy, yeah, day-drinking, not so much. Plan the demise of the civilised world, unfortunately, know how to feed a family, absolutely not, they were categorically irresponsible. Be up my arse about just about ever-“

“Together,” Quentin stated with emphasis. 

“Together what?”

“Were they- were they together?”

“If you’re asking like that, I’m sure you don’t need me to answer that question. Could just ask the shaky lad here, though, I doubt that’d do him any good. What precisely did you do to make him react like this?”

“I- I had this utterly crazy prediction of lunacy that- that him and- you know, him, were-“

“Fucking?”

“No! Merlin’s beard, I mean, Albus was a kid!”

“Seventeen to eighteen, that’s hardly a child.”

“You’re just saying that because you had a child at that age.”

“Ouch,” Aberforth commented lazily. “I thought you wanted to get into my good graces, not fall from them dramatically.”

“I- wait, wait, you didn’t contradict me.”

“Not my job to. I’m sure my brother has a better insight into his own private life, and, well, huzzah, there he is, opening his eyes. Wonder how you slept that long with us yapping about. You know, next time you pass out dramatically, you might wanna finish whatever point you’re making so your lover doesn’t bother me with it. I’d prefer if you could leave me out of it entirely, actually, the very thought makes me want to vomit. Repeatedly. I need to get back to class, anyways, see whether World War Two has already devastated your precious blueblossoms or not.”

Albus heard steps leaving, and felt a shuffling, likely someone standing up from his bed. Soon after, a continuous rhythm had established itself, of steps leaving, then coming, then leaving, then coming, then leaving-

   Quentin was pacing. 

That was new. Albus didn’t like it. Desperately, he tried to recall how their conversation had gone, but it was all white noise. Just that- just that he seemed to have revealed to Quentin somehow that- that he and him had-

  Oh Merlin. 

   Oh, Merlin, that couldn’t be the truth. Quentin couldn’t know, could he?!

All this time, Albus had tried to expertly- 

What he had thought had been expertly anyways-

Quentin, yes, perhaps once or twice, he had come close to the truth, but not actually, not truly, not the whole truth and nothing but the-

   White noise, there was so much white noise again flickering in his head like- Albus had read about this, the Muggles managing to transfer an image to a screen that would relay this image, a Scotsman by the name of Baird had invented the technique, he imagined the screen to sound just like it, animate and crackling and-

   “Al- Salazar, Al, you- you have to breathe, alright? You can’t just always stop breathing.”

“W-why not?” Albus wheezed back. He hadn’t noticed the approaching steps this time. 

“Because I’m not sure it’s all that healthy, hm? Do I have to get out my Hartshorn again? I will, don’t you doubt me.”

“I-“ Albus began, but his voice cracked in the middle of the movement of his tongue. 

Albus had been hiding it so well! He really thought, all these years, even from those closest to him, he had hidden it decently well under the guise of a friendship and them thinking him sentimental enough to mourn it, even with that much time having passed. 

“I...”

Usually, he would at least have been able to deny it! Or somehow fashion some tacky, tasteless joke out of it, like he usually did! Albus may have been emotionally compromised to say the least, but overall daft? Overall incapable of sharing- the only moment in the last decade when he had really unwillingly shared something with somebody had been- oh, well, two years ago? Two years it was now, he supposed, that Aquila had been his assistant with the third-years, and had seen his Boggart, though she had ever left it uncommented, as though it had verily never happened, which Albus had always appreciated. Surely she had had a lot of questions, but perhaps... seeing as that she had likely remembered that he had been to war a few years prior, if only because he had patiently answered the arising questions one session after somebody had given the first impulse, perhaps she had connected the lifeless body rather to someone who had died at war, and not instantly Albus’ own sister. 

“I-“

“Breathe, Al. One breath at a damn time. You’re going to hyperventilate again if you keep at it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does to me, you silly cretin,” Quentin sighed from the side and Albus could feel the indentation of the bed. “Merlin... Merlin’s almighty beard, I don’t even know where to- You have to answer me this, Al, is it true? You and Gri-“

“Don’t say that name to me.”

“I- ah, well, alright. When I- when I brought up the analogies, it was more like Hyseberht and his fruit bowl, wasn’t it? Hidden in plain sight, and- and nobody ever notices, because- well, I suppose because of socially ingrained- look, I don’t have the spirit for self- and other-analysis right now. But- it’s true, then, you used to be- like, you and...?”

“Everything,” Albus just answered hoarsely. 

They had used to be everything, and now everything was over. For good. Finally. Permanently. It struck him like an arrow to his chest to know that this was how they ended, with yet another curse, and yet another eternity of darkness. He wasn’t eighteen anymore, he couldn’t go through another one of these slumps. He just couldn’t. It had almost taken the life out of him when he had been young and spirited, when he had seen nothing of the world yet. But now, he was the unwilling leader of a cause he didn’t support the way the narratives of others drove it as they sought to install him as their figurehead. Now, he was a professor, translator, scholar and article writer, permanently employed at a magazine and an uncle to over a dozen individuals, no longer a drifting spirit with no entanglements whatsoever! He didn’t have the time to go into exile for several years. He didn’t have the spirit left with which he may have fought. 

“Well, fuck,” Quentin just made before the weight on his cover lessened. “Look, Al- This is all a bit much right now, so... I don’t know how to feel at all, I’m mad, I’m confused, I’m sorry, I’m disgusted, I’m sad, I’m- I’m far too many things at once, and I don’t want to make you feel utterly- like, even worse than you already do by saying something stupid or otherwise inappropriate, so... so how about I- I go tell Xoco I need to leave a quarter hour early, he does all your vital-check-ups, and then at full, Nicolas is going to come in, and you just tell him to read you the article in Alchemy and Artistry that he has currently dug his head into. Just- just make sure you get some rest, alright?”

   Albus didn’t answer. What was he to say? That he was afraid he would never get closure, even if he was actually laid to rest?

   Nicolas would’ve noticed it blind anyways, and considering Albus seemed to have exhausted his amount of times during daylight in which he could be taken over by some sort of variant of a fit of panic, and considering he really couldn’t sleep and wasn’t tired in the slightest and always felt utterly guilty when presenting himself in a complete vegetative state to Nicolas, who was over six hundred and whose potion could have failed him any day, Albus didn’t see a sense in preamble. 

“He knows.”

His old friend had barely adjusted his robes to sit on the chair beside Albus’ bed – how Armando had masqueraded his visit as a necessity to everybody involved was beyond Albus, just that he knew that Nicolas was spending his spare time touring Hogwarts – he had never been, despite Albus’ occasional offers – and helping with the restocking of the medicinal herbs and potions for the hospital wing, and having spirited conversations full of amusement with the former Headmistress Dilys Derwent, whom he had been great friends with when she had still lived. 

“He? Who? And what, perhaps you may enlighten me about that also.”

“Quen-“ Albus pressed out. “A-about- about certain parts of... of 18-18-“

“99,” the elderly alchemist finished for him, voice smooth as silk. “Did you tell him?”

“No. He- he just connected the dots. On accident.”

“Hm. You did not want him to know yet?”

“Never. I don’t- I don’t want another soul to know. The more people know-“

“The realer it becomes to you, and the more you may be at risk of exposure. Now... I know not your partner very well, petiot, but you may rely on my experience that he shall not betray you at his own wish. Perhaps this will exist for a moment, no doubt does he react strongly to things, with a quick reply and a vocal opinion, but-“

“He doesn’t have to want to say it.”

“Indeed. That is the far more frightening prospect. And I understand that you have allowed this to be a reason for hiding away, instead of openly saying something. I understand why you did not at first. I likely would have reacted quite similarly to you. Oh, pardonne-moi, petiot, it must sound as though I judge. I do not. What do you think you want to do now?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now that Quentin- oh, zut, je ne peux jamais produire son nom sans la prononciation française… alors ¹, now that your friend knows, what do you think will happen next?”

“Disbelief. Disapproval. Disgust. Disinterest. Disjointed.”

“Hm. Has he given you any reason to suspect this may endanger your private lives?”

“What private lives? I don’t have anything left, didn’t you get that memo? I may as well rot away in this bed. I realise now that the people I saw, my excuse for a family- it’s all just a joke. C’est qu’une blague, et j'en suis la chute.²” 

Nicolas hesitated, he always did. He wasn’t very good at dealing with anger, or the adjacently scalding-hot emotions. Sadness he could deal with rather well, but as soon as the person was mildly agitated in other manners...? 

“Albus, we do not want to see you sit, or stand, or walk. We want to see you soar, t’envoler dans les airs. ³”

“How is a bird to fly with a broken wing?”

“With patience and confidence in healing. A broken wing can be mended, most certainly with magic.”

“And how is a bird to fly in a thunderstorm?”

“ Et comment est-ce que l’Oiseau-Tonnerre monte-t-il au-dessus des nuages?⁴” Nicolas only asked back with a little sparkle in those milky-sharp blue eyes of his. “There is little that cannot be surmounted by something that lives and breathes out there.”

“And how to become a Thunderbird, then?”

“Transfiguration, of course. Métamorphose, mon cher ami. Métamorphose. ⁵”

“And who would believe the broken bird could turn into a Thunderbird?”

“We all would. Almost every single one of us, whether it is your young friend Elphias, such a lovely fellow, or your headmaster and my dear friend Armando, who truly wishes the best for you and has since you were a little boy, or dear Dilys, who thinks you rather brilliant, or the lovely ghost that your brother has been working with, Helena, I believe, her name is, she was been reading the assignments for you, or young Ms Marigold, who has been making sure there are no intersections with the occasionally-injured students, or the professor for Ancient Runes, Yaxley, who has come to read to you every day, or the lovely Professor Burke, who has helped me brew potions for you every waking minute, or your partner, who blames himself incredibly much for this befalling you and not having helped enough, or your brother, who has been by your side in every one of his spare moments and whom I have had the great pleasure of interacting with, finding him less utterly hateful of myself and just vaguely annoyed, which was a great surprise, of course! And myself, petiot, I would so love to see you soar.”

“And what if I can’t? Everybody expects me to-“

“Albus, petiot- we know that you do not think yourself capable. We all know that you feel like giving up, because the task ahead is a mountain so tall and imposing, how would one climb it? How would even a Oiseau-Tonnerre fly to the snow-dusted tops, where the air grows thin and the environment so harsh naught else survives? Moi, naturellement, et ton frère, peut-être ton amant aussi, we know that you feel like this. Et Merlin lui-même ⁶, how understandable this is! You have experienced something that no human should experience, not in its foundations, not in its intricacies, and most certainly not in such a constellation. You are explicitly encouraged not to fly instantly. To take your time. To ponder yourself. Albus, il faut que tu comprennes ⁷… we love you very much. Even your brother, in his own way. We do not give up on you. We will not. We love you, and we trust you, and we believe in you. We all genuinely believe, not of our own delusions but our decades spent with you that you can shine so brilliantly, fly so high without interruption. But-“ and here, Nicolas interrupted himself, drawing in a breath that was equal parts nasal and equal parts shivery, “should you want to give up, well… we would dread it, and hate it, and argue with it, but eventually, we would all understand, and- and give you the space you need. Everybody is given a life, a circumstance, and it is everybody’s choice how to live it, and how not to. Nobody may tell you how and for how long you are to live. If you choose to give up, I will be there. We all will be. You need to know that I will be with you, as much as you want and need me to be, for however long or short it may be. No matter how high you seek to fly, me, and many others, will erect for you an encampment with refreshments and nourishments right below you, at worst, to catch you if you fall, at best, to help push you to scale that mountain. It may seem impossible now. And maybe it is. Maybe any try will be in vain. Maybe giving up now is better than the disappointments that are to come. I do not know this. I do not know what the future holds, especially not yours. I should only ask that, should you decide to bravely venture onwards, that you do not walk it alone once more.”

   Albus did what any reasonable person would have done after hearing that heart-wrenching a monologue – his hand begged for his friend’s, his chest exploded sharply and yet in deepest grief instead of panic, and he wept, curled into a ball, for the first time since that evening letting out his true emotions, now that there was someone there to catch it all indiscriminately.

Chapter Text

“I- Is Sir sure that- that he wants to do this already?”

Gellert nodded half-heartedly. 

“But Sir is still very cold from being out for too long. Is Sir sure he can use his magic?”

   He couldn’t entirely yet. That was the crux of the matter. He couldn’t use his magic properly. Waking half-frozen on his oriel a few days ago had brought him to the startling, gun-shot realisation that he needed to get a handle on himself instead of just decaying and eventually not even really knowing how he had gotten himself to the oriel in the first place! 

   A haze. It was all just hazy, and even reading his lines didn’t answer questions for him. Gellert was accustomed to sometimes not remembering something when he began spiralling into one of his episodes of sentimental monomania, but typically, and since his twentieth year or so, he had had a tight grip on these occurrences! It was only ever recently when-

He didn’t want to recall that eve in Goldstein’s chambers. 

   His last true memory before that was anger, burning, stifling anger, being chained to the bed. Confined. Confined, all because of him and his betrayal. How he had walked all those steps and stairs, and had brought a feather, and a blanket, and parchment, and liquor, he didn’t know and likely never would. A mystery, a show of strength. Or weakness, perhaps – he could have frozen to death atop that oriel if he hadn’t come to his senses. Bisky had analysed him and had told him that he had been out most likely for over a day, in the freezing alpine winter. It wasn’t the first time. But typically, he was at least wearing a shirt and trousers to any such reckless adventures.  

   He knew just that his poetry from then had been rather... inspired, if he did say so himself. He wasn’t known to randomly switch metres in the process, or alternate footedness – free verse was much more his typical tendency. He could almost not believe such honest words about his emotions had sprung from the feather considering he usually struggled so to put anything but appreciation of the outside landscapes and the smallest things in that regard on the parchment, and now, in perfect iambs it should finally work? Why hadn’t it last time?! In Russia, decaying with the feather snapping, and no words leaving him despite feeling like he might explode. Perhaps Shakespeare himself had been onto something with the format. 

   Regardless, this changed nothing about the flickering nature of his magic. Now, he was used to his magic not always being at the height of its power, especially after injury – he could regularly not use the magic contained within him after strong visions, so he supposed he should have gotten accustomed to it over the long years harrowed by the gift of Sight, though, instead, he was rather itchy to have it back to full capacity, if he already had to switch to his left considering how often his right arm had taken the brunt of his anger the past... few weeks. He had tried to at least sleep at night and do exercises during the daylight and had attempted similarly to force some food down his throat, to little avail. A semblance of normalcy. He had to go on. He couldn’t forsake himself, thousands of people were dependent on his health, what if he couldn’t protect his own any longer? 

   Gellert Konstantin Eduard Grindelwald may have been a lot of things, but he was not a quitter. 

   But he wasn’t quite ready yet to be himself. To live as his truth. He couldn’t bear being himself, but he couldn’t bear idling either. He needed to busy himself somewhat productively. Seeing that he wasn’t fired was productive, wasn’t it?

   “No,” he answered, noting that his voice too had suffered these past few weeks. It was only yesterday that he had finally dared to ask Bisky for the date. One and a half weeks had passed since his betrayal, making yesterday the twentieth, and today the twenty-first of February. 

   A week past Valentine’s Day. 

   It put even the dark halls of Nurmengard in a more festive mood than usually for a week or so, more so than most any other tide beside Yule. Which meant that, if he were to actively leave his chambers today, he would be assaulted by friendliness. Now, the wizarding world went habitually cuckoo over this day, more so than the Muggles, and Nurmengard was far more serious than the wizarding districts and homes! But it still was not left alone by it. There was still an abundance of red lipstick, and pinkish ties and bowties, an odd concoction of perfumes and potions, as well as the overall hormonal, and considering the overall spirit of his castle, sexual craze. The only thing Gellert could really stand were if two or more were quarrelling over how to impress a subject of desire, and decided to duel for their honour and to showcase their skill to the observing wizard or witch. Those were typically rather amusing to behold, and festively blood-coloured on occasion, though he would never have allowed for all-too-serious harm. Not over something as pitiful as affection.

   Today, though, that would only remind him of the atrocity that he had made Gellert’s own romantic life by literally cheating on him with some floosie at his pathetic little school. It was best if Gellert didn’t think about it too deeply – he had no need for a replication of significant injury or almost freezing himself to death. If his opponent didn’t want him, Gellert would just have to take the world. It was one or the other, it had been from the day they had met. 

“No, Misky, I- I do not think I can cast these spells myself. I require... I would appreciate assistance.”

“Of course, Sir! What form does Sir want to switch into?”

“Franziska,” he only indicated – maybe it would be easier if he wasn’t even a man. If he was just another woman, going to work, pretending, perhaps, he had had a cold or something nastier. 

“Is Sir certain?”

“Is Misky deaf?” he hissed back. “Franziska or nothing, how hard to understand is that?”

“Misky simply thought-“

“Misky isn’t here to think. You’re here to either follow my orders, or do whatever a free Elf would do with her time. Franziska, or nothing. The only reason I do not smite you where you stand is your contribution to saving my life. Now, get on with it, I don’t have all day.”

   There were two levels of transfiguration – temporary, and permanent. Gellert was proficient at both, though, with his excellent command over magic, he had never made use of permanent transfiguration on himself for a lack of necessity. Temporary transfiguration could be washed away, or revealed by decent spell-work, though he had only ever been unmasked by two wands in his life, that of his transfiguration professor – who had eagerly agreed to tutor his talent from second year onwards, finding it relieving that a student could follow not only his every command, but understand his every word, no matter the complexity – and that of Vinda, in testing just how far he could push temporary transfiguration. Permanent transfiguration could not be unmasked by any means other than Goblin magic, but therefore, it was also permanent. It could not be erased afterwards, and the human body could only bear so many over a given period of time, hence why any given permanent transfiguration needed to first be sketched out by experts, then attached temporarily so the client could assess its functionality and how much they liked it, make numerous changes, and then finally have it all be changed, most commonly by others on an unconscious body. It was quite fascinating, to push the boundaries of possibilities – he still thanked the vision he had had that day he had been captured in New York. Not that it had been of import, really – but it had disturbed his sleep so much that he had woken late, had had no time for human transfiguration and had risked Polyjuice instead. Otherwise, the ministry would have seen him in his real form, blind in one eye and all. Sometimes, such things all happened for a reason, he believed. Fate, destiny, whilst not all-encompassing, were certainly guidelines, and considering how they were laid out for him, he also had no intention to disregard them by any means. 

   Regardless, as easy as temporary transfiguration was, as odd did it still feel to transform from man to woman. Especially when not doing it oneself. If one knew that one was about to gain chest volume, well, it was something to prepare for. And yet even with Misky blabbering through the entire process as he had instructed her to, it still came unexpected on numerous occasions. It was strange enough and cost a decent bit of effort and mental clarity to vanish some of one’s external and internal organs, but to have someone else do it? Vulchanova herself, it slowed down time almost painfully much. Gellert didn’t even know whether it was worse to vanish organs or to grow new ones. Or whether the process into or out of the transfiguration was more disgusting overall, just in terms of the feeling. It was one thing to give oneself a dozen centimetres in height, or to change one’s hair colour, or the tightness of one’s skin, but another to grow a female reproductive system from scratch. Now, granted, Gellert thought he had managed it pretty well – he had proof of his capacity anyways – and the few times he had let Misky transfigure him into the female shape, it had worked competently enough, but the sheer feeling- No, no, the internal organs weren’t actually the worst. Although, Gellert would not have called it comfortable by any means to insert an organ between his bladder and his colon or rectum, he was never quite sure where it actually went even with having looked at anatomical sketches until his eyes had burned. No, this procedure usually only made him more prone to restroom visits, if anything. But the outside sensations? If not for his scholarly curiosity and quick acclimatisation to discomforts of any kind, the shrinking and growing processes were anything but a pleasant pastime, and he preferred to simply go about it as methodically as possible, one thought, one process at a time without thinking much about anything but thinking. With his body surrendered to Misky’s – admittedly competent – hands, Vulchanova herself, it made it ten times worse that he could track the changes, especially on the outside. 

   He was ready to vomit into a nearby toilet when Misky was done, only he didn’t feel quite mobile enough to actually stand up. The fact that he almost instantly felt wetness at his thigh wasn’t any better – he’d known somewhat in the back of his mind that he had taken the body right out of service a few weeks ago after the ball after beginning to bleed, but... 

“Did- did Misky do it wrong?”

“No,” Gellert, now female, and very much exposed and bleeding, sighed back. He would have to adjust his voice himself, Misky wasn’t nearly as capable at that, and he wasn’t keen to lose his voice permanently. And it was simply too odd, hearing a man’s voice when he was bleeding from an actual reproductive system, no matter how unsuited for actual reproduction it was. He had the sudden urge to cover himself, which did not usually happen around his Elves. “Just a woman, Misky.”

“Was Sir bleeding before?”

“For about twenty minutes in the last body-time before I decided to switch out, and save this for a better day. I didn’t quite remember, but it seems I have deemed today to be the better day. Serves me right for not thinking this all the way through.”

“Sir shouldn’t have to bleed again,” Misky just mumbled under her breath. “Misky will get Sir whatever Sir needs to help. Is Misky needing to call Bisky to clothe Sir?”

“No. No, I’ll be fine, I’ll just grab a woollen skirt and a blouse from the wardrobe once we’ve got the spells settled. Thank you.”

“Misky is glad to help Sir. If Misky can do anything else for Sir, Sir only needs to say so.”

“Tell Vinda to come have breakfast with me at ten,” Gellert ordered after glancing at his simplistic clock on the wall. He had things to do, after all. He needed to have things to do.

   Even with an undershirt, the green jumper was itchy, and Gellert fundamentally had no idea how any such item had ever found its way into his private wardrobe, but he had felt instantly drawn towards it. His transfigurations always ran cold, which menstrual heat flares during the first two days typically should have counterbalanced, but instead, he was covered in seemingly permanent goosebumps and had simply grabbed the most cosy-looking thing in the entire wardrobe, which consisted out of the weird accumulation of his more typical satin dresses, now a flapper dress, and his more subdued wardrobe of mostly dark plaid shirts and thick blouses of similarly dark colours. He would have donned a fur overcoat if only to counteract the coldness, but he figured that was maybe a bit over the top for being inside. His magic still did not want to do as he wished, not entirely, anyways, and he didn’t want to have to beg one of the Elves to cast a heating charm on him. He would survive, if he had survived that apparent ordeal on his oriel. He didn’t need anyone’s help. Or, rather, the less of it, the better, so he could finally feel a touch of independence after having been confined to the bed for days. Almost weeks, at this point. Having paired the jumper with a thick, plaid-brown skirt, he had barely just made it to his dining room in time, relying on Misky casting the proper charms that would prevent him from excessively bleeding into his clothes. He’d been through that before. It was utterly humiliating, even more so than when he was in his male form suffering from one injury or another. It was so much more intimate, though he supposed societal bias and the absolute taboo on the topic may have contributed to his contemplative silence. 

   What a mistake, though, not to grab at least a handful of salty snacks before eating breakfast. Gellert was looking at his omelette and he had the distinct feeling the egg-monstrosity was staring right back at him all the while Vinda presented a seemingly-never-ending list of all things that had happened at Nurmengard in his delirium and everything that needed to be taken care of. Not that Gellert had a particular fondness for raw eggs anyways – maybe in a salad, but typically, cooked and processed, often fried or baked, was the only form in which he could do more than tolerate them. He almost felt a bit guilty, too – Aleksandr’s omelettes were excellent, just the right amount of savoury paired with a touch of warmth from the spices he included. Objectively, it was likely best to eat something healthier to eat a decent serving of breakfast, especially considering that he had seen far too many ribs again when Misky had transfigured him, but Gellert listlessly glared at the breakfast. He didn’t much have the spirit for eating, even though he knew that, out of all times, now he truly required it considering he had not eaten for days on end, and couldn’t make any statements about whether any nutrients had been provided to him when he had been unconscious. Gellert wondered whether, if he stared at his plate for long and intensely enough, he couldn’t yet persuade it to carry a Brezel or a Laugenstange. Those, at least, would have been coated in some salt, if done properly. This was probably the first time he longed for a cool glass of ayran, too – though, that was perhaps brought about by Vinda’s recount of another impromptu meeting with Andulbaith, that centuries-old decaying beast. 

   “They will not listen to me. I ‘ave never met someone so arrogant and vain, poseur. They think their longevity and entanglement with the death-magique makes them superior to anyone they talk to, even you, and most certainly me. They demand to speak with you, will not consider speaking with me. They deemed my proposal ‘irrelevant’ simply for the mouth that spoke it. The proposal is therefore denied, and they came with ridiculous ideas- Merde, Gellert, they offered retaliation, an open threat masked thinly as an offer, a life for a life, and you could choose which life to give. They strongly alluded that, if this demand is not met, the payment will increase, they are completely out of-“

“Vinda,” Gellert stated exhaustedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “A bit slower, if you could.”

“I meant to summarise-“

“Summarise slower.”

“Content, or talking speed?”

“Both. I’m- I’m menstruating, Merlin bless, and- ugh- and with just- just a modicum of- I don’t know, composure? I want to say something but every time I’m almost there, I get another- ugh, cramp. Just slow down a little bit, please.”

Vinda’s glance was assertive, strong, and scrutinised him mercilessly. Usually, Gellert would have found this rather inspiring indeed – as much as he saw in others of strength a threat of his own person, he was mature enough to have understood that none could surpass him in this lifetime, none that was born, anyways. Any day, the next Merlin could be born, though Gellert would have found it quite offensive – he was the Merlin of his time. Or, rather, the Morgana, with an affinity for darker and more bodily magics. If anything, that betrayer was Merlin reincarnate, only that Gellert would not let him win and let history repeat itself. Gellert had always found it confusingly easy to follow female role models, more so than the male ones. The females inspired him, the males threatened him. He had never quite understood why. Regardless, Vinda’s glance was ruthless and cold, and somehow let a shiver run over his spine, which made him curl his hand around his knife – she would do best not to forget that he could carve her out with it, if he found her displeasing. Even in this sorry, pitiful state of his, and having donned a different face.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“You are quite... different, in this masquerade.”

“Different how?”

The word did not want to leave her tongue, so Gellert pushed his magic into the room, regardless of how uncomfortable it felt overall with his decided lack of control over his own magic. 

“Tell me.”

“Whiny,” she eventually answered, cool and composed, but he sensed that his volatile, hissing magic had made at least somewhat of an impression. Like an animal, lashing out from a corner, he felt – how disgraceful. He needed control. He needed some sort of control, over some aspect of his life or those he ruled.

“I apologise, I didn’t exactly grow up with this,” he retorted venomously. “I’ve only been through this two dozen times or so, and you hundreds. I’m sure as a youth of what, seventeen or else, when you had inadvertently hit this number, you were an expert at handling this predicament.”

“‘ow subtle a question.”

“I have no interest in the answer.”

“Twelve,” she replied nevertheless, reassured and strong as he had come to admire her for. 

When they had first met, she had been a conditioned woman almost believing herself inferior at the hands of the teachings of others. Restricted, though with a rebellious spirit. She had confessed early that she had let her first intended vanish under mysterious circumstances, not willing to be wed at nineteen. But it was only at Nurmengard that she had truly come into her own, a woman so proud of her femininity that she used it to her advantage, and chastised everyone who reduced her to it. Vinda’s most prominent attribute, acknowledged by all, was not the fact that she bled, or looked as a model from a magazine would have, or her melodious French accent, but rather her mind, the simple, unbelievably sharp concealed dagger to his own ornamented broadsword. They said a ruler required an executioner, but Gellert thought this ridiculous – he was his own executioner, not a lily-livered, pampered rich boy requiring others to do his dirty work. Rather, he subscribed to the notion of the many heads of the mythological Hydra – sever one, and one or numerous would grow in its stead. Should any ailment befall him, Vinda would see the cause to its end, and would make it such an end, so worthy of eternal remembrance. Vinda was neither shy nor insecure; in fact, she was prone to self-assuredness and being unapologetically feminine. 

“I bloomed early. Maman was so proud. All the Rosiers that bloomed before their fourteenth ‘ad at least four ‘ealthy children. She took it as a good omen, showered me in gifts, jewels and provocative clothes, and advice, ‘ow to best content my future ‘usband, who was chosen soon thereafter.”

Vinda with a husband was indeed an image that was near physically-upsetting to Gellert. It was clear as day to anyone who had exchanged a word with Vinda that she could not have cared less for the concept of marriage or permanent commitment, let alone to a man. For a second, an intrusive thought made him bite down on a rare grin – oh, if only that young American dear had not been so heedlessly infatuated with that Muggle, they could have been a match made in hell. Queenie certainly had potential to challenge and help ameliorate his second, but had never shown such interest. A pity, really – his second deserved someone to push her to extremes, if he already couldn’t-

“Bless her deluded soul.”

“Deluded, yes. A pitiful age, twelve. Those matronly looks from the Infirmière, I wanted to strangle ‘er, or get someone else to do it for me. I did not yet ‘ave the magic, it was a choice between letting ‘er cast it for me, or mouchoirs and basic cleaning charms. ‘ow you would ever choose this, I do not understand.”

“All or nothing, Vinda, chérie. The key to human transfiguration is the underlying honesty. If I am to pass as a woman, I need to become one, to the borders of the known and possible. Otherwise, I would merely be a man attempting to conquer a woman’s body. As such, I am a woman, by traditional definition, as far as I can be to the edges of the functionality of magic.” 

Another quiet, assessing look before Vinda politely settled her cup of coffee beside her plate. 

“Was your wish for the address terms of ‘Madame’ or ‘Mademoiselle’ an ‘onest one?”

“You can do as you please. I will not chastise your speech.”

“That does not answer my question.”

Firm, and to the point. Did she sense the disgusting weakness festering beyond this transfiguration? Oh, Gellert could change most every feature of his, grow a set of rather aesthetically-pleasing breasts modelled after memories of Roman museums and statues therein, make himself bleed naturally and somewhat regularly, grow his hair out, shrink himself by twenty-and-five centimetres, expand his hips, round his thighs and give himself a very feminine-looking cupid’s bow, but he couldn’t replace the brain which steered his every thought, the lungs which drew his every breath, the heart which ached with every memory etched into it with bloodied ink of bygone affection. It was therefore of greatest import to busy his mind, and nullify the effect his heart had on his decisions, and this was best done in a different environment. 

“Which answer is the one you seek?”

“An address term, simply.”

“Why precisely does it matter?”

“You ‘ave instructed me to address you by your first name. Does this remain? And if so, which name should that be?”

“What has brought this about?”

“Gellert,” Vinda emphasised with a cocked brow, nonchalant and pursing her dark lips, “at this present moment, you sit before me in a skirt, as a woman bleeding, and I ‘ave been given no indication what I am to call you. Must I call you Franziska, as you pretend to be? Or Franzi, as we are close to one another? Or per‘aps a last name would be preferred, or Madame, or Mademoiselle, as you so aptly analysed before? Or is there yet another name to learn of, another face I ‘ave not seen? Another layer to your masquerade?”

“You can refer to me as you please. I have no care for it. I will respond to those you have proposed.”

“So to call you by a woman’s name, would it be your desire?”

“Vinda, you may call me as you please. Such is the privilege of my partner-in-crime, or in world-revolutionising.”

“If I were to call you Franziska, and speak of you as ‘er, not ‘im, would this please you?”

“You ask whether I consider myself a woman proper? I care not for the stereotypes of gender, the body I reside in. I would wear satin as a man if it suited my skin complexion, and drink plenty of white wine regardless of my form. At twelve, I grew my hair out to shoulder-length, tied it up with a ribbon when I duelled or brewed. At fourteen, I used to don charcoal around my eyes, to make them more prominent. At sixteen, I grew my hair out further whenever I wanted to and donned crowns of flowers. At eighteen, I wore rouge on my cheeks when the situation demanded it. At twenty, I wore more lace than you ever have in your life. At twenty-nine, I crafted for myself a functional transfiguration of a woman, out of scholarly interest alone, whether I could do so by myself, with naught but an Elf for aid. The body I reside in does not matter to me. I do not care for my own gender. I care for that of those which I desire, but that carries little influence for the present time. Call me Franziska, or call me Gellert, or call me by any of the numerous names and identities I have worn over the duration of my busy life. It matters little. What brings this curiosity about?”

Vinda’s reply was an expression sitting on her dark brown lips so violently polite it made Gellert want to tear something apart.

“Did you not assure me a few weeks ago that I would lead beside you?”

“I did indeed. And by it I stand. One whose dedication is to the Greater Good as I have postulated it deserves such a position by right.”

“I am to be your second.”

“No, you are to be one of two leaders. In fact, come time, we will have to make adjustments to your living arrangements. You should not live below me on the sixth when we lead together. We are to be the leaders of our campaign, our ideology. We share this, we are equal in this. You are not of lesser worth, you are of precisely the same as I.”

He realised a second too late that she had goaded him into the answer, only apparent by a small smirk crossing her face momentarily, not satisfaction at being accepted into the highest rank of leadership, but rather a gambit of hers played. 

“I lead this movement by your side, then,” she announced, “and don’t you think I deserve to know what the person I lead with looks like?”

“You see me. You see me at this present moment.”

“Or do I? I see a woman, comely, attractive, even. My eyes would wander, would I not know your truth. Most often, I see a man with icy ‘air and piercing eyes. Imagine my surprise, Franziska,” and here, Vinda’s voice dipped into venom sweet and entangled, “when I learn that even this is a lie, and you are, in fact, a completely different person altogether. Not even your eyes, with which you always boast, are real. Nothing I ‘ave seen for a dozen years comes anywhere near your true visage. And not only that, you ‘ave been Obliviating me time and time to make me forget.”

Gellert grinded his teeth, taking a deep breath to masquerade his anger with himself. He had taken very good care not to betray his true face to anyone over the years – besides the inn in Altai, Queenie and Aurelius, nobody associated with him typically even saw this face. And he, of course, but Gellert was best served never thinking about him again. 

“You should not remember such things.”

“I did not. But your last casting was sloppy. Remember, that morning you were eating with your Elf, and ‘ad clearly ‘ad a vision overnight.”

“I remember it well enough,” Gellert hissed, the vision that had announced his downfall and he hadn’t heeded it, hadn’t been clever enough to disentangle the pieces. It all made sense now, every fragment of it. “I was there for it. Sloppy how?”

“I did not recall it in the moment, but when I saw you next in that form- well, I knew it was you without ‘esitance.”

“It wasn’t erased, it merely lingered unremembered. Any moment, could have activated it,” Gellert realised with a groan. “You are right, that is sloppy.”

“Why?”

“More precisely, if you could.”

“Why transfigure? Why not at least show me the truth, if you want to lead with me? If I am to be your equal, do I not deserve to know what you look like?”

“You want to know?”

“Yes.”

That brilliant, conniving tone of hers, it drove icicles into Gellert’s chest. Perhaps she was more formidable than even him, simply in another way. What was he, if not a joke? He couldn’t even kill his biggest enemy. He couldn’t even remove his biggest enemy from his position, did everything to keep him there, in fact, had attempted to protect- Bile rose to his throat. That he would ever have been so poor of taste, to protect a man that would stab him in the back so predictably. He had never cared. Never. He had just been playing him like the strings of a fiddle. 

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” he scoffed. “You’ve seen the mess I am. You’ve seen me half-blind, haggard, emaciated, pathetically weak, just a broken shell of a man. Who would hear my truth, who would hear a cripple’s premonitions and think them believable? To lead, to do what I was destined to do, I need to look the part. Besides, I used to be-“ Gellert began, noting the hateful pain in his voice too late to stop himself. “You know, I used to be beautiful. Radiant, and I’m not being vain or arrogant, I was factually gorgeous. Half the men at the Russian court wanted a piece of me, one way or another, as an eye-catching accessory for a dinner of the high and mighty, as a distraction from their arranged marriages, as a whore to warm their beds, for a Galleon or two. That thing I’ve become through all I’ve done, I look worse than my father did at this age, and that truly is an achievement. So pardon me if, out of calculated sacrifice, I crafted a face that people would actually listen to. Some of my ancestors saved thousands with their gift, and the world barely listens to me with a respect-demanding face.”

Vinda didn’t react to the statement at all, the brutal honesty of it. Gellert admired it, though he chased for those indicators anyways, trying to calm his breathing, channel it through his upper chest – deep breaths like usually made his stomach cramp. Shouldn’t the spells slowly have taken root?! Normally, it only took about a quarter hour, even House Elf magic didn’t take that long!

“Did you ever grant their wishes?” eventually came the cunning reply. Gellert scoffed again, knife mutilating the omelette on his plate. If he couldn’t dismember her for one reason or the next, his food would have to do. “Give them what they asked for?”

“I was seventeen, and dirt poor. It wasn’t about ‘granting their wishes’, it was about survival.”

“You could have said yes.”

“A hot meal in the evening sounds delightful, doesn’t it? Not that you could imagine, only having one every few odd days, when it got bad. Why do you think most of the influential Russian families cannot stand the sight of me? I walked in and out of their manors, I know all of their nasty little secrets, I’ve bound some of them to curse and torment, but they could never confess without unveiling their own degenerations. I wonder sometimes how much beautiful chaotic dissonance it causes them to know it was I they paid so poorly for all their riches.”

“Only the men?”

“Merlin’s bollocks,” Gellert cursed under his breath, “you’ve known me a dozen years and still labour under the false illusion that I hold any interest in women? I thought you more perceptive than this. Don’t tell me you’re ashamed to think me like yourself, as though it were a flaw to desire differently from the norm. I will say this clearly, so you keep your incessant curiosity contained to discovering how we may competently rule the world: I have little interest in physical interaction with other people, but if it need be something, it would most certainly not be a woman. Let me make it clearer still: When I desire, I desire men. Men, and men alone. I always have, I always will. Reduce me to it, and I shall reduce you to something less pleasant than your current corporeal form.”

“I- pardonne-moi, but- I cannot imagine you as a man ‘o desires.”

“Many would think I do little but. Power, might, knowledge, or so they mumble.”

“Many ‘ave not known you for such time. You betray nothing of an interest, to no-one. No quirked eyebrow or smile in a moment unobserved. I am perceptive, and ‘ave not seen anything to perceive.”

“Brilliantly said,” he conceded. “And true. I do not typically dally with the throes of passion. I have more important things to do, and find myself unspirited to continue this charade. Andulbaith demands a life? One of my own, for that inadequacy to cast shield charms of his own? We will do no such thing.”

“It may escalate the relations.”

“Then I will be the first and foremost to demand their life as my price, and prize. Too long has this creature darkened my doorstep. Has anything positive occurred within the walls of late? Besides that silly Valentine’s Day fever.”

“Non. You dislike it? For romance?”

“It does not befit my current mood. I would set every heart and every vial of perfume aflame to sate my need for revenge and my thirst for control. And theirs is not romance, theirs is bluntness. They can throw their lewd glances, and compose their shameless words, and I wish to be nowhere near to it. I would leave the continent on a whim to escape it.”

“What shall be the plan, from here?”

“The plan shall be that I remain in this body for a while, and do my work at the ministry. You lead, I infiltrate. It worked well enough when I had Graves’ body.”

“With all due respect-“

“Utter those next words very wisely.”

“You were comatose for six days. Don’t you think you- you need to take more time to recover?”

“I am always injured one way or another, I’ll survive. I’ve been through worse. I can walk, I can sit, I can stand. I can function. That’s all that’s of any import.”

   So he passed his days as such. 

   He spoke to Vinda every morning over breakfast, mostly listening as she recounted the trends of the castle, the letters, the smallest details of management he was so accustomed to dealing with by himself. The attacks, the media coverage, the new arrivals, the deserters, though there had only been two that had been dealt with already, the spies, the theories, the strategies, the reluctance, the acceptance.

Vinda seemed to warm up more and more to the idea of actually leading, if not in his stead, then at least by his side. He sensed her questions, manifold, and toyed more than once with the idea of Obliviating her once he had his magic back under control. Currently, it was merely an amalgamation of utter destruction. The Elder Wand amplified everything by an unreasonable amount, and even the acacia made his spells so treacherous he preferred not to cast anything in the first place. Crippled, as he had said. He didn’t dare return to his true form. He bled, most notably the second and third day, and it slowly mellowed out after that. At the ministry, he excused himself with having nursed an influenza and feigned appreciation at their concerns. None of them mattered to him. Nobody mattered to him. Nobody could ever be allowed to matter to him again. Never would he fall into the trappings of another again. He ignored the lonely hearts, the sentimentality, the pinks and reds and pungent perfumes. He isolated himself into the most neutral corner, and scribbled down more paperwork and whatever theoretical knowledge he felt like sharing. He excused himself with the disease having corrupted his magic, that he would rather write reports. He used a voice quill of his own design, he didn’t have the dexterity in his fingers back, not even in this form.

He woke up late each day, and forced some food down. He went to his closet, and donned a skirt, and any passable jumper, cherishing in the anger he could feel whenever it stuck to him, or made a spark fly between him and something else. He skipped lunch. He forced dinner down without tasting it. He passed by mirrors, and didn’t recognise himself. He drank, mostly white wine, several glasses each evening, the taste curdling in his mouth when he remembered kisses exchanged under the cover of darkness, but he didn’t change to something else. Home from work, he changed into the sprawling satin dresses, strode about in his office, walked the corridors of his library. He stared at his exposed self before dressing, memorising the details. This was him. For however long it took. This would be his coffin until he regained functionality in all forms. Was he dreaming, or had everything before been just a fevered thought? He walked the empty corridors at night, unobserved and like a ghost, trying to strengthen his legs. He sat in the cold, skirt on the icy floor, and took to the parchment. He found himself as uninspired as he had been then, sixteen and trying to desperately get his thoughts to the parchment, not even finding it within himself to rhyme anymore. When others had made complex beauty from their ashes, Gellert had only been able to leave ugly smears of charcoal dust. It felt so crude and talentless, all of it, every word, just stilted.

Besides those times behind the parchment, he banned himself from thought of him. He didn’t matter. He never had. Gellert had left him behind once when he had outgrown their relationship- their pretence. He would do so twice, and thrice, and however many times it took afterwards. The Greater Good was more important than anything else. He needed to save the world. He couldn’t afford any distractions. He deserved the punishment, no matter the cost to Gellert’s health and sanity. Nobody treated him like this, threw him aside discarded and abused. The last person to do so had regretted it whole. This one would as well. The longer he was gone, the longer Gellert had time to breathe. The longer the other was comatose, the more time he would have to forget him. He went to bed past midnight, and focussed his thoughts only on shields. Those to erect outside, and inside. He tried not to remember the betrayal – not for the roaring fires it constructed, those that ravished him in anger, and betrayal, and hurt. The less he felt, overall, the better. He did not dream, he had no visions. He awoke in the morning to the same routine. And the next. And the next after that. Determination wavering, dimming, slowing, lessening, like a wick exhausted from the strain of flame. 

I hide in satin and sweet reverie 

And sip white wine, forgetting still that he

Did play me like his second fiddle’s strings

As though I was one of his casual flings.

Four restless days have I now been as her

Have drowned my timeless sorrows in liqueur 

Have sat beneath my castle’s douglas fir

And felt like I was but an amateur

Let you, the true impeccable poseur

Steal all my hard-earned, joyous bonheur. 

With Vinda have I spoken much of late

I dare not mention any of my hate

Afraid she might uncover all my secrets

So enamoured with you I became heedless.

I showed you all my fractured broken soul

I metaphorically undressed me whole

With ev’ry time, and ev’ry sunny stroll

Allowed deceptive sweet word to cajole

Coax me out of my famous self-control

I should have known my downfall was your goal.

Her eyes stare back from mirrors pale and soulless

In different suit of skin I am still goalless

I take no pleasure from my altered form

Melancholy may be the novel norm. 

Franziska doesn’t feel the anger vibrant

Her femininity runs aberrant

This boiling hatred which consumes me so

I really thought you were my phoenix beau.

My womanhood brings forth a symphony 

Of festering and burning agony.

   Until it wasn’t enough. 

   Until he couldn’t hide any longer.

Chapter Text

   Albus would have loved to proclaim from the highest rooftops – or in this case the very clandestinely-kept secret of the roof terrace of the Astronomy Tower, which had neither handrails nor a particular reputation for consisting out of anything but loose wooden boards that for some odd Hogwarts reason could not be magically altered without them reverting to their original state three minutes and twenty-four seconds precisely after casting – that his recovery, mentally and bodily, was going swimmingly, but latest by the point that Yaxley had to physically restrain him from physically assaulting a bird, well, Albus should have known that it truly would not be all lemon drops and chocolate pudding, but rather more of the variety of claw-marks and brotherly disappointment. 

   And it had begun rather inspiringly, if he did say so himself. Friday morning, he had made it all the way out of bed – Merlin, they’d put him in a ridiculous infirmary gown, he was going to have words with Xoco about the sickly yellow colour of them – and, with slight support at the side from Elphias – who had since been sent home with the reasoning that he himself had absolutely no grounds to remain at Hogwarts without attracting suspicion from the ministry, who had somehow not come knocking about Aberforth’s short-term professorship – he had also made it all the way to the infirmary main door, then all the way to the spiral staircase, and all the way down to the side-door to the outside world, which could only be opened from the outside as well if one’s last name happened to be Crabbe. Xoco considered that a mild miracle, of course – Albus not so much considering he hadn’t had any injuries on his legs, except for a mild bit of charring, which had, with a burn salve, been gone after thirty minutes tops. No, his legs and their functionality really were none of Albus’ most pressing concerns considering his arm was halfway limp, and his heartbeats still came irregularly, especially when he was still undecided on the whole idea of giving this whole I-am-now-a-Thunderbird a go. 

   He had to admit, Nicolas’ speech had thoroughly inspired him.

   How could it not have? Nicolas had not only spoken from the bottom of his soul and had told him that it would be alright if he decided not to go on with it, but that he would be there, support him through every step and eventually come to accept the decision. Perhaps to a man over six hundred in years, life had a completely new framework to it, and perhaps, at this age, Nicolas could understand and welcome the concept of death, if it came. A man who had lost so much over so many years – all the people that had been born, raised, had matured into adults and had grown white and frail until death had taken them – and was yet still so positive in attitude clearly needed to have come to terms with his own mortality in his artificially prolonged life of immortality, no?

Most other people were utterly dismissive of the idea of people having the right to decide over their own lives, over all aspects of them.

They would never have admitted it, of course. They would have become rather testy and uncomfortable to be around should one have insinuated any such thing. And many people did support the free decision-making of others, such as what career to choose, whom to talk to, perhaps even in marriage or love overall, or where precisely they lived, walked, bought ingredients for virtually anything, or which hobby-horses they indulged in. But fundamentally, this only pertained to decisions of life. As soon as one wished to decide upon death, it became a controversy. This, fundamentally, was a great credit to the egoism of the living – mostly, it was not about what the person wishing to die would lose. It was about the living losing them. It was even deemed utterly selfish indeed to terminate one’s own life on one’s own conditions, as though the people who grieved were more important than the individual life. As though the people who grieved were the selfless ones, when, in truth, they simply could not bear to lose someone important to them, and would rather have seen the person live out in agony than bear the burden of this pain themselves. 

   Of course, this was not true for every person. But for most of them, anyways. 

   Albus had been involved in a fair share of incidents of euthanasia, and though most notably at war, most emotionally as an onlooker in the case of his dear friend Hugo, enough to know the ropes of the guilt and relief that followed along. Enough to have a different outlook on life and all of its associated pleasures. The final days of Hugo Selwyn had not been nearly as pleasant as Hugo himself had wanted them to be, for both his wife Eileen and Albus, at that point some of his closest confidants, had accepted his wish that, should he lose his personality in his fight against the disease of forgetting which had besieged him, he expected one of them to simply smuggle a potion into his system, and masquerade it as an accident of Hugo himself. In this case, however, Eileen and Albus had been the only people willing to accept and carry out that wish – his children had been vocally against it, and had threatened with Law Enforcement should their father pass away under mysterious circumstances or any such thing he had suggested before, and all of the arguing and shouting and taking it up with actual Law Enforcement to create a precedent that had not gone in Hugo’s favour because he had not signed a document of any sort when he had still been deemed by professional healers clear-enough of mind to sign such a thing. Therefore, he had been forced to live out the remainder of his days until a natural cause of death – and it had effectively destroyed Eileen’s relationship with her entire family, children, grandchildren and all. Albus had always been firmly on her side – she had been understandably incapable of single-handedly caring for a husband who did not want to live anymore and would forget her anew with most every conversation, and had opted to give him into the care of St Mungo’s primarily, which her children had gone to court against, had won – she had just been the wife, not actually related by blood, and a woman, no less – against and had then called her a terrible person when she had left overwhelmed, to the point that Eileen, widowed, now lived in Australia to escape the Prophet harrowing her and still struggled with her own mind twenty years after the fact. 

   The recollection alone drove an icy chill into his marrow – how would they treat him, he wondered, if he made the same decision as his former superior and good friend? What would they call him, he theorised, if for once, he followed through on his instincts? He did not have to know the objective truth that, were he the fallen Thunderbird, he would be stripped of all feathers, then skin, then flesh, until naught but bones remained. As though it was his responsibility to stay alive to fight someone he literally could not fight. As though the safety of the world was in his hands. That he had been selfish, and had abandoned the wizarding world as a whole, and that he was a terrible person for putting his needs before those of others, but by Merlin, if ever he approached things from the angle of the greater good, it was wrong just as much. He couldn’t do it right. Apparently, the sheer coincidence of his biological composition determined his entire existence now. This, of course, would have made him terribly mad at his parents, who had, yes, had three out of three above-averagely powerful children, but they could not have predicted their son would have to one day shoulder this burden. And Albus would not have stated per se that he hated the amount of magical prowess he had been bequeathed with – it made a lot of things ridiculously easy, and his own proficiency inspired him to inspire the very narrative of magic itself – but merely the position it had put him in. Permanently Damocles, nowadays, and only because another had styled himself king, a king who had hung above his head a sword that he could not evade. A sword which had cut, now – and he, who had no single idea how to change any of it, how to escape it, how to- how to fix it, how to even answer to what had been done to him. 

   All spirals he had delved into after his return to the hospital wing later that Friday; ‘regressing’, Xoco had called it. That it was normal for a patient to feel worse after a positive experience because it significantly enlarged the contrast. In this case, Albus almost found it laughable – to think of his own mortality, and that of others, how could anyone truly comprehend the burden on his shoulders? They weren’t mentioned almost every day in the papers because they were deemed the saviours of the wizarding world and hated if they didn’t actually save the world. Granted, the average wizarding citizen certainly didn’t have the political overview to know that the Greater-Good movement had become the very incarnation of the mythological Hydra. Cut off one head, even the most powerful one, and two more would grow in its stead. What did people think, anyways, that the movement would collapse in on itself if the leader was assassinated?! It would only rouse them more! The only way the movement could be disbanded now was if it knowingly disbanded itself. And the probability for that, especially now, Albus considered rather non-existent indeed. ‘Regressing’, for the simple fact of his self-awareness? And what was so wrong about needing time and space to think things through! 

   It wasn’t as though the possibility of suicide was one that was thoroughly pondered in a half-afternoon! 

   Saturday morning, somebody finally seemed to have taken pity on him. Somebody here being anonymous, but he was rather almost ninety-eight percent certain it had been Praveen – nobody other than the elderly Maharasthra-transfer Elf that was going on ninety years of age and had been at Hogwarts since before Albus’ birth would have mandated Albus needed to begin this sunny Saturday morning with a bowl of aloo mater. 

   Nobody else would have known that Albus couldn’t get enough of Indian potato dishes, whether it was gobi, palak, mater or methi that came after the aloo, and how much he secretly thought perhaps it was time for guest-lecturing abroad to run away from his problems. Alright, perhaps Perce would have – of course Perce would have, but would have been too much of a git about it to actually make or let others make anything and would have forced the single spiciest Brazilian stew down his throat so he’d have a reason for his eyes to water like mad.

Somehow though, Perce had not been called in for the circumstance of his untimely passing, only Elphias, Nicolas and Aberforth. He wasn’t quite sure he agreed with Elphias as a choice over the likes of Leonid or Luce, but Elphias was perhaps more high-profilely known as his best friend, even though that had not been the case in many decades. A good friend, yes. A reliable one. But underneath it all, Albus still had the feeling that Elphias occasionally enjoyed it far too much to have a famous friend. Or to be Albus’ friend in particular. Granted, nobody truly knew how close Perce and him had once been – close enough, Albus now knew, to think of only him, Nicolas, and his own father, ironically also Percival, as family. Ridiculous, really – apart from Nicolas, all people he thought belonged to his family were ironically named Percival.

In many ways, this had been an odd sort of revelation – Nicolas as his parental or mentoring figure, that he would have put together soberly. But that he would see his father? Over his mother? Granted, his father had been far more gentle-spirited than his mother, and Albus had had a special relationship with him, enough to visit him in Azkaban, anyways. But still. And Perce as the third? No-one else? Surely there were plenty of others he could have considered family! But no, it had been Perce, Perce obsessed with Os Dentes-De-Leão, represented appropriately with dandelions swirling around his head. 

   Regardless, Albus enjoyed the bowl.

   He didn’t enjoy that, when Nicolas carefully placed his wand back into his hand, he didn’t feel it in his fingers. He couldn’t perceive the magic of it, which made it practically official – his right arm was devoid of any traces of magic. He was a complete Squib on the right arm, and Xoco tried to assuage his worries and tell him repeatedly that things could still change, but overall from the way he behaved to the way he relayed the message so laced with useless, trembling optimism, Albus got the underlying memo clearly enough. 

   He would likely never truly cast with his proper wand hand again. That curse had broken him irrevocably.

   Albus, as any halfwhat decent dueller, had long adopted the strategy of at least being capable of casting ambidextrously as a response to the common trend of in some way incapacitating the opponent by incapacitating their wand arm, hand, or entire side of the body. As a dueller, and professor thereof, Albus needed to be capable to switch hands if push ever came to shove, but regardless, he had always preferred his right. He wrote with his- he had written with his right. Who knew whether he could ever pick up a feather again? He could barely hold a spoon in his hand without dropping it, someone needed to artificially close his hand around it. Xoco called this ‘residual curse damage’, Albus, as someone who had witnessed injuries without having the ability to Episkey everything back into place, knew precisely that it would likely take months if not years of physically therapeutic exercises to even be capable of holding things, let alone developing some sort of finer motor skills. And many spells besides the ones he had picked up from duelling, he didn’t know to do with the left. A voice of reason told him to be patient, that, in time, if his magic still functioned properly, he would be capable of casting that mountain of different spells somewhat competently, but standing at the foot of it now with no evident pathway before a practically-vertical cliff, it all felt so insurmountable. It was never easy to stand at the beginning of something when no path had yet made itself known. And he knew that he would slip many times on the ascent, sometimes almost fatally. 

   It made the doubts rise all the more predominantly, that he just wouldn’t make it. Or at what cost? Or, even more importantly, what for? Albus had a responsibility, he knew it – save the wizarding world from evil, be a brilliant fighter, an even more marvellous destroyer, the selfless, righteous self-sacrificial hero everybody thought he was, yada-yada. Albus found he had never been so selfish before, pondering whether he really wanted to put everybody else’s good before his own, drag himself through every day like a machine before somehow either defeating the evil of this world, or dying in failure, and dying most certainly once his purpose was completed. Couldn’t he be granted some respite, at least, or was his respite to be the welcoming embrace of death once his goal was completed? Did he not deserve better? Or was this entirely what he deserved for everything he had done in his life? Had he been born simply to be become a tool, fulfil the purpose others had assigned to him and then vanish? Was he merely a function, a solution, a pawn? Or the queen, to be sacrificed for the checkmate? The role he had been destined to play. But was a pawn not allowed his own agency, or the queen? Couldn’t he be selfish for once, and wish to spare himself the agony? Why did he have to be the flawed hero? Couldn’t he just be a regular human being with no purpose but that which he assigned himself, perhaps to live a satisfactory life to the end of his days, however swiftly or slowly it may arrive? To do with his body, his heart, his time and his mind as he pleased, did he not deserve to be the smith of his own destiny? 

   Ordained by fate, his entire existence. Had Merlin ever felt like this? 

   When Aberforth left Hogwarts, Albus considered it a positive moment. 

   Not because he fundamentally disliked his brother, not even for saving his life – Aberforth so deserved to have done something fundamentally impressive for once – but Aberforth’s leave-taking was, in Albus’ assessment of his few, abrasive words not due to him having utterly tired of the teaching position or disagreeing with Albus on some sort of basic level like they typically did, but rather because Albus suspected his little brother thought him healthy enough to actually take over the post again. Somehow, that felt more encouraging than all the loving words that rung so hollow in Albus’ trained ears. If Aberforth thought he was ready... 

   But then came the moment of truth – the return to his office, with Yaxley and Balimena for physical support considering Quentin still ‘needed time to think’, or whatever else he called their breakup. That it was one, Albus had no doubt about. Wasn’t every day that someone figured out one’s lover had slept with the most dangerous terrorist of all time. Had called him ‘everything’. That ought to do it, the nail in the coffin of an already overdue relationship. It had been good whilst it had lasted. Regardless, all reasonable thought vanished from his brain when he laid eyes on the left-side window. An owl firmly perched on a globe, instantly making quite the spectacle. But beside it, Albus saw another set of wings spreading, and for a moment, he forgot himself. 

   The next two minutes passed in a bit of a haze, really, a haze of white dots dancing before his eyes, and fiery, all-consuming red encroaching from the side – ‘Petrificus Totalus,’ a first try, with no result, ‘Brachiabindo, Oppugno, Incendio,’ and nothing coming to pass, and with every motion, the anger boiled, curdled, driven into something madder and wilder than he was used to containing, ‘Bombarda, Confringo, Bombarda Maxima, Reducto, Pestis Incendium’, he heard himself yell, with no magic coming from his wand and his eyes burning with tears and blunt hatred so vile it tore his heart from his chest. 

   That bird. 

   That blasted, thrice-accurst enemy spy that had snuck into his chambers and- 

   Shrieks, he heard shrieks. He saw talons, feathers in the air. Coming right at him. His magic didn’t work, he needed it to perish! Albus landed a punch when it came at him, knuckle against something feathery connecting with an immense satisfaction just before his own arms moved against his will and were restrained behind his back, and he only darkly knew himself wish death upon the creature that at least had enough common sense to flee from his anger. 

   Bounds! Bounds around his body, and he screamed. Nothing else mattered, he just needed to get out! He couldn’t be restrained! He couldn’t-

   He heard shattering, he heard hurried words, anger ran mad within him, whitened his vision, his blood throbbing in his ears, the light seemed to wane, his throat parched and charred, he-

Chapter Text

   If the overall Hogwarts staff hadn’t considered him utterly barmy for apparating in on the brink of death, they certainly would now for wanting – and failing – to cast Fiendfyre on a messenger bird, Albus realised darkly when he awoke on his divan, with a knit blanket thrown over him hastily, and the skies outside having darkened. 

   Worst of all, he had supervision. 

   Yaxley seemed to have been designated out of himself and Balimena, and was sitting in a chair, arms crossed, frowning. Albus knew that look from his colleague, the one he only ever sported when he had to take fifty or more points away from his own Ravenclaws, an insult to his house pride. Out of all professors, Yaxley was most certainly the proudest of his house and their achievements. Of course, Quentin... 

   It was best to think of Quentin as little as possible. Albus couldn’t believe he had destroyed two intimate relations in under a minute. That ought to be some new record of sorts, no? Certainly for his standards. Regardless, Albus knew Yaxley wasn’t going anywhere. The official reasoning was likely looking after him, the unofficial to observe him. Tomorrow morning, he was to stand there before his students again like nothing had happened, and yet, he attacked an eagle with Fiendfyre. He must’ve been proud to have made such a monster of Albus. He could see the other’s thoughts, ‘maybe we called him to action too early’, ‘maybe Armando is making a mistake’, ‘maybe he needs to be forced to see a mind-healer and maybe he should be taken to St Mungo’s for the time being’, ‘first the exile and the intense investigations, and now this, all in the span of a month, he is ill-suited for this position at the moment’, or whatever else.

He knew those thoughts of his colleagues. For years, he had heard them around him. ‘I heard he took points again for students being loud in class,’ ‘he doesn’t ever sleep, what is Armando thinking not sending him on leave’, ‘he may be a good professor but he is nothing but a wrecked shell for the moment’, ‘can he be trusted with children’, ‘some of the parents complained about the lack of duelling exercises in class’, ‘he is as ineffective as Hugo was in his later years, maybe Armando should look for a replacement’, ‘he doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat, he doesn’t rest, whom does he think he’s fooling’, and such likes. For the first time in many years, Albus agreed so whole-heartedly. He would never see a mind-healer, regardless – he would never put anyone at risk like that. Never. Quentin would-

   He didn’t want to teach. Not tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. How was he to inspire his students when he couldn’t even decide whether to live or to die? But who would substitute him for a longer period than a week or two? In the middle of term, just as well! The professors at Academies were busy, the ones at the wizarding schools around the world were just as much mid-term, even the ones in the other hemisphere, and qualified figures in Law Enforcement were neither trained professors nor did they have any time. Armando had made it abundantly clear what he thought of Albus not being there in the middle of term to fulfil his duty. 

   He just needed to force himself through another day, all the while pondering his own moral dilemma of having to stay alive selflessly when every of his instinct screamed that, despite all the good in this world, all the lovely food and landscapes and jests and reasons to smile, Albus didn’t want to experience any of them just to notice that he couldn’t even feel the slightest emotional tug for anything anymore. Living without happiness for a decade, he had learned to cut his losses, but this was something different altogether. He wasn’t ready. He probably would never be ready again. He just needed to close his eyes, and pretend he was, play the part he was supposed to play. Be himself, when he wanted to be nothing, and naught. 

   “Please tell me that was all just a bad dream,” he therefore prompted.

“You can be glad your magic doesn’t seem to want to be channelled out of your right arm,” Yaxley replied smoothly, “otherwise, I would consider going to Armando for disciplinary measures. Being in a mild panic doesn’t justify animal cruelty.”

Albus didn’t see a sense in replying – that hope was crushed, then. For once, he didn’t truly care how people saw him. They would come to see him differently one day regardless. He didn’t want the pity if he did succeed and ended it thereafter. He didn’t want the anger if he didn’t even try. He didn’t want the disappointment if he failed trying. Most of all, he just wanted to vanish. Have people forget he had ever existed. Everyone associated with him eventually went through trouble and turmoil and instantly found themselves on a hit list. Now that all illusions were stripped, and the enemy verily his enemy... He had tortured Aberforth without activating the pact. He had tortured Albus, too. Even if that had activated the pact, and had almost doomed them both. Albus wished it had. Someone finding them both dead in the cottage, lying by each other’s side-

   The entire Lestrange family at risk, through Lennox even more so, all because of his own mistakes. How could Pandora, pregnant with triplets, be safe now? The Doges, the Blacks, the Scamanders, all of his students, Albus had just successfully put a target on the backs of everyone in the British community and further beyond that. Thousands of people that could die because of him. That would. He knew his enemy’s vengeance, and how it was served. A man who hesitated not to commit mass murder of Muggles and strode out with a smirk, what limits were there to the madness? How had Albus talked himself into thinking-

Innocents would die. And he would be to blame. Perhaps if he ended it swiftly, they wouldn’t. Perhaps- 

But that was a fool’s hope, to hope for mercy in surrender. Mercy from a man who thought the definition thereof was death, not letting someone survive.

   For now, little was left but uncovering the mysteries Albus did not quite understand yet. There were questions that burned, those he longed to answer. Perhaps Yaxley, sitting there on his chair all cross, perhaps he could provide an answer or two. 

“You were in my father’s year,” Albus only mentioned quietly, as though it was rather quite unimportant. Oh, typically, he knew who had been in his father’s year – they had either taken him to task over it, or had, numerous times, expressed they couldn’t have imagined him doing it, such a good lad, a good father, etcetera, everything any sixteen-year-old interning at the Wizengamot would have liked to hear, really. Not Yaxley though, in crisp fifteen years of teaching together. “You never said.”

“Oh, well,” he answered, taking up the cup of coffee he had taken the liberty of brewing for himself in Albus’ little kitchenette, it seemed. “I was. He was a right dud at Runes, though, much unlike you.”

That wasn’t quite the reply Albus had expected. If only because it was so neutral, so devoid of any hatred or adoration. People commenting on his father either belonged in the boxes of superiority, hatred, reverence or pity. Yaxley, it seemed, had a different – or rather no opinion.

“Is that so?”

"Yes."

"I never knew. I barely know anything about him, it seems." 

“Albus...” he hesitated before cradling his mug a little tighter. It was an ancient piece, Albus had hand-crafted it himself in mandatory rehab on Borneo. “We are both adults now, correct?”

“I do suppose at forty-seven, I may qualify for that term.”

“Oh, you’d think that about Malfoy as well, and he habitually behaves like a fifteen-year-old.”

“To everyone’s benefit, I am assured. Whimsicality inspires, and childishness lets worries drift.”

“Does he at least act like a mature adult when looking after you?”

“I- well. I- I suppose?”

“You needn’t shilly-shally, Albus, I am well-aware of your dalliance, or whatever it may be. Why, with Malfoy involved, you can be sure it’s one of everything under the sun, just about. Not that I judge, or care, really. Well, I do, but that has little to do with it being Malfoy, though... if that lad does anything to your heart, well, he’ll have me to worry about.”

Quentin had mentioned that, that Yaxley had apparently taken him to task. That Yaxley knew, as well. Of course, there were quite a handful of people who could reasonably suspect he fancied men – examples being most notably the men he had at the very least kissed if not spent varying degrees of intimacy with, they likely had a clue – but to have it be Yaxley? One of his colleagues other than Bathilda viewing him as such? It sent an icy chill to his veins. What had Quentin done to have it become this obvious? Yaxley may have been brilliant, but he was no phenomenal judge of character like Aberforth was. Despite his numerous amounting insecurities at having Yaxley know- And know that Albus was more involved, too, and with his heart-

“Since when are you so protective of me?”

Yaxley took a deep, deep breath. That should have alerted Albus, but he too found it sometimes hard to get the oxygen his body needed, so he replicated the pattern.

“Ancient history. Things... as they could have been."

"Be more cryptic, please."

"We’d reconnected, you see, your father and I, a few months before... Or, rather, we had connected. We didn't truly know each other as students, barely had any classes together, never did a project cooperatively, etcetera. It was a rather fancy traditional ball, for some sort of humanitarian cause or another, it’s been almost forty years, I don’t quite remember it down to the last moment, but I do remember that all of my friends cancelled last-minute for some ailment or whatever else, and I was rather quite glad to see him considering I was rather quite single, on my third whiskey, and had already been introduced to Rowena knows how many daughters. I was mighty glad to see him, really. I’d been off, mostly Breizh, dwellings in the high north, that likeness, and Ouagadougou for a few years. I don’t know where they’d dumped you lot, you and your siblings, but I remember thinking you three were likely quite lucky, considering how he showed me your pictures and was practically glowing when he told me all about it, he wasn't boastful at all, but just incredibly happy. I thought it untypical for a father ‘round that time, it was the nineties after all.”

Albus’ throat felt tied shut, if only for the mention of Ariana. Of course, especially older people might have remembered, but many had also forgotten. It was perhaps once a year that he collided with such a thing, not numerous times, and certainly not because one of his colleagues knew! That was almost even worse than Law Enforcement. So Yaxley had known- all this time Albus and him had been colleagues, he had known that Albus had had a sister, and he had never made to mention it? How many other people were quietly and clandestinely more aware of details about his person than should have been?!

“Alright, you reconnected. So what? I am certain you reconnected with many people in your time.”

“I did, but... it was quite memorable. I met your mother that night, for the first time, too.”

“My mother?” Albus questioned – why, with her having retreated from the wizarding world except for the most pressing organisational matters, most people didn’t recall her now. Especially considering she had grown up and gone to school abroad. Easy to forget, if one had only seen her a few times here and there. Alone, without any friends, without her family, with three children and one of them a monster. Or all of them, in their own ways. “What does my mother have to do with any of this?”

“We got on splendidly at the ball, actually. We both felt a bit like outsiders, her from America and me having travelled so much that I had lost touch. Over the following months, we began to exchange owls, I was intrigued by her upbringing and her cultural background as she recounted it. At first only her heritage – it interested me greatly, her culture of origin and the mixture of Muggle and magical cultures in the legends of her tribespeople, the different sorts of magics and rituals they practiced, especially how they compared to the rituals and runic foundations of the AWC communities, dating thousands of years backwards in time, which I am most knowledgeable in even nowadays. But these scholarly letters quickly turned... into something more familiar. She was... different. Brutally clever. Not that your father didn't have a decently smart brain in that head of his, but your mother? She was clearly where you got your legendary wits from.”

It had been over forty years, almost, he barely still remembered his parents nowadays. Yes, looking back, he knew that many hadn't had such a loving and intellectually stimulating environment growing up, but... how clever precisely his parents had been, that had been hard to gauge for a ten-year-old. Yes, she specifically had always understood all of his letters and readings and had asked questions, but...

“You were friends with my mother?”

“I suppose one could have called it such,” Yaxely sighed before single-handedly assaulting Albus’ worldview. “though... my interest did not remain merely platonic soon after, and I- well, I supposed, I could sort of sense, well... that hers met mine. At that point, I’d already become a rather close friend of your father’s, too, and- well, I didn’t want to come between anything.”

Albus couldn’t help it – he gaped. 

“You- you- you fancied my mother?”

Yaxley grimaced, an unusual look. Albus couldn’t help but reaffirm his utter gaping. Surely, he knew distantly somewhere in his brain that his parents must’ve lived, and loved, and been intimate – they had had three children, for Merlin’s sake – but why, with his father being gone so early, and his mother dying so soon, he had never quite had the time to view them as individual people, not merely mum and dad, but Kendra Bylilly and Percival Dumbledore, with their own friends and struggles and challenges. To think of his mother as a person with crushes- it made him suddenly fourteen, and completely incapable of understanding even the very notion. Perhaps if they had ever talked about it, but perhaps she had sensed that his interest at the time had all been scholarly, and that it had taken a handsome, forthright stranger from afar to coax Albus out of his shell a little. She would have hated him, with all that self-righteous arrogance and vanity. 

“If you wish to put it so crudely, I suppose I did. But as I stated before, I- although I never did meet you children, I knew from how they spoke and wrote about you that they truly cared. Now, your mother had told me that they’d been... in a sort of low in their marriage, but that there was nothing to fret about, that it was merely the excitement of having young ones wearing off, that the same thing had happened a year after the wedding, and once you could walk, and so on and so forth, and that they’d always gotten themselves madly enamoured, often with some distance, a month abroad or such likes, and renewed romancing, she told me she’d always get him calla lilies ‘cause he loved the look of them, and he would always entirely anonymously and with a great charade send her-“

“Primroses,” Albus mumbled under his breath. “Mum loved primroses. There wasn’t a day, after dad- there wasn’t a day when there weren’t primroses on the kitchen table.” And they wilted when she died, the whole bouquet nothing but mouldy stems and badly-dried blossoms. That sweet, pungent dead smell I couldn’t get out of the towels for months.

“Yes. That was their thing, giving flowers to each other, signing little letters with the flower instead of a name, too. Love letters, since they met in New York. Percival would call it his 'city of love', and Kendra would always take that as an excuse to convince him to go to Paris again like they did for their honeymoon. It was always the same story, but they loved telling it. I felt like an intrusion, even with their marriage low. A distraction, too. They clearly cared for one another, though, I sometimes felt the platonic component slightly outweighed the romantic one, but relationships of course don't need to be either or, can be both, to varying degrees, marriages aren't exactly always perfect, or always bad. It’d gotten to the point where your father took me aside, in the pub, and said he wasn’t blind, to either of us, Rowena, he’d seen too many pints already to say it so openly, he really had.”

His father, the man who had killed three Muggles for assaulting his daughter. How would he have taken to romantic competition, his wife- 

“He can’t’ve been pleased.”

“Oh, he was disturbingly jovial about the whole thing, actually,” Yaxley chuckled under his breath.

"He- he was?"

"Oh, he was. Patted my knee a fair bit and kept repeating the first and foremost priority were the children, that they’d grow up loved and protected, and that I should, and I quote, ‘bugger myself in the knee if I ever didn’t treat them like heroes and heroines’, I remember that part very clearly, though to my shame not more of that evening – I, too, had looked into too many glasses. I'm pretty sure he also mumbled something about more parents meaning more love for the children, but then so soon after- It can’t’ve been a month, even, before he was charged and taken away for life. I could’ve taken my chance, you know? But... I knew your mother would have much more important things to do than worry about some developing crush, it wasn't yet more, an affection, perhaps an attraction to some degree, with you three, she needed to prioritise you, so... I offered my help, but I also said that I thought it’d be best if she cared for herself and you three first and foremost, especially your sister’s... recent history.”

Merlin, Yaxley had it out for him today, didn’t he? Albus perceived it all through a haze of confusion. Of course, a few people knew he had had a sister, but that- the expression on his face turned graver, more spiteful, hateful. Another person who could possibly unmask him. Another person who-

“You- you knew-“

“I didn’t know, but... Well, I figured there had to be a good reason my friend suddenly went utterly cuckoo. The only thing he’d get that insane about would’ve been you three. Ariana had been admitted to St Mungo’s earlier that month, it added up. I assumed your father’s victims had something to do with that admission, it was the only way I could reasonably explain it to myself. In all of that mess, I didn't want to interfere, force myself into the situation. Only weeks after, I was offered, completely out of the blue, a temporary teaching assignment in Ouagadougou. It interested me immensely to relay the knowledge I had obtained, it was how I figured out teaching could be a passion of mine. I left, and during my third term, I met Zalissa, and my life changed forever.”

Yaxley didn’t often speak about his wife, or any other parts of his private life. Immediately in the first week of his employment he had made it very clear that he didn’t wish to be addressed by his first name, that he didn’t wish to speak much about his wife and daughters unless there was absolute necessity underlying the mentions, and that, at Hogwarts, he was a professional that expressed professional opinions, causing the perception of him to oftentimes be swayed towards impersonal, cold, very uninvolved. Albus, as someone who had taught numerous children he had known since younger days, knew the importance of keeping different lives, and setting boundaries. Regardless, the revelation utterly inflamed him! Yaxley, the utter stoic, having had a crush on his mother?! His mother having had one on Yaxley?! His father having apparently been fine with it all?! What was next, that he secretly had several half-siblings somewhere?!

“Why- why are you telling me- or, rather, why have you never told me this before?! Surely it may have been nice to give me information of my parents, considering how early they were taken from me!”

“I do not typically dwell on this past. My life... well, I am most gladdened with it, how it turned out. I will give you a rare insight to my life, by which I mean to say that Zalissa is brilliant, our daughters incredible, I have a post I could only have dreamt about as a young man, that I would one day be the head of the house I learned so much in, I learn, I thrive, I am perfectly at ease with my place in the world. There is no use dwelling on hypotheticals. I have a perfect life, I do not theorise whether I could possibly have had another, differently perfect life.”

“Then why tell me now?! If it’s that unimportant, why even tell me in the first place?”

“I had all but forgotten about all of those things, Albus,” Yaxley answered politely.

"Forgotten. That you loved my mother?!"

"Was interested in her," he corrected, once more, politely. "We did not exchange many letters after your father's trial. Perhaps she felt guilty, perhaps any hint of romance reminded her, or she thought it useless anyways, owls hardly flew between the AWC and England, and alas, it simply naturally ended. I do not know who wrote the last letter."

"Then- then why bring it up now of all times?"

“I never met you, Albus. Neither of you three. I knew you three were all geniuses, I thought perhaps Percival was exaggerating, but having known you for this decade, I can hardly contradict him. I have no doubt your brother is much smarter than people think him. I thought to tell you, perhaps, when we were first introduced, I remembered your name, little Albus Dumbledore, who last I had heard was solving his mother's most complicated arithmancy riddles and who was permanently attached to a book even at night. I thought for a moment I would perhaps say something, but Munira had just finished Uagadou, and I thought it a bit strange to walk up to you and say, hello, new colleague who has seniority by ten years, I was romantically interested in your mother once, but my third child by another woman just graduated last year."

Well, Albus couldn't say anything against that, that would have been strange.

"I forgot, too. In a way. You are your own person, not just your parents' shadow. But- well, with seeing you lie in that bed, it came to mind again, also seeing your brother and you in the same space and how alike you actually look and how much like both of them in your own ways, most notably in personality, how you have your father’s twinkling, jovial demeanour, and your brother rather your mother’s no-nonsense attitude, fierce and full of fire, I couldn’t help but recall it all. If things had been different, if your mother and I had talked more, if I had come ‘round with a casserole or something nice for you children, if I hadn’t gone back to Africa, hadn’t met Zalissa...”

It hit Albus like a whole castle’s worth of bricks. 

“You’d have been my step-father.”

“Well, would have is presumptuous. But I may have played an unexpected role in your life. Seeing you vulnerable and injured to that degree, this was called to my mind again, hence the mild hints of protectiveness when my suspicions were confirmed considering your dalliance with our Potions professor.”

“And how did that become apparent?”

“You’re the only person in the castle that can stand his antics for more than an hour at a time. By which I mean you must have both implausibly great patience, and an affinity for the man, one alone wouldn’t suffice for such endurance. I’d thought it for months, honestly. Him acting like a clucking hen around you, and then not denying a single thing when I asked, well, it confirmed the suspicions entirely. Regardless, do with this information what you wish, honestly. Can you be left alone without attacking something?”

“I- I suppose.”

“Marvellous. Someone will bring you dinner later, check in on you,” Yaxley announced as he let the presumably empty mug fly to Albus’ sink and stood up, leaving without another word, though not with any significant sentiment attached to himself. 

   It was only long after he left that Albus realised how deep of a breath he had held the entire time. 

   What the hell?!

Chapter Text

   Beryllent Yaxley had fancied his mother. Could’ve been around, all this time. Merlin, that changed everything! 

   This characterised not necessarily a negative or a positive, but, if it could be said in such a manner, a confusative. Albus lay awake for a long time in response to this revelation, clutching that odd crocheted blanket that he only after hours of intense pondering realised was likely one of Bathilda’s, trying to find both evidence and chastising himself for thinking especially his closed-off mother would have let any of it slip around him at the age of ten, or that he would have recognised it, too. 

   Yaxley was right, of course, it was all in the past. 

   Blasted thirty-eight years in the past! Merlin, that felt like retched-up Butterbeer, to think it had been almost forty years now since that incident Albus remembered so clearly. Yaxley was married, happily by the sound of it, and had three daughters past Hogwarts age! He had only started his teaching career at Hogwarts once they had graduated from Uagadou, immediately the summer after. And even beside that, Albus’ mother had been dead for now almost thirty years of it all, it being 1929 now... This summer, it would all be thirty years, all that drama and catastrophe. It was ironic, really, that this would be the year where it would end for the second time. His mother had been buried for near thirty years now, even the remotest possibility had died so long ago, it had been accepted into historical canon and could be taught about at schools, if only she had been important enough on a worldly level. Twenty-and-five, that was typically what the historians of nowadays observed. This wasn’t a moot point, it was a historical impossibility or something in that style.

   And yet, holding tightly onto that crocheted green-blue – one of Bathilda’s better designs, Albus had to concede that – he quickly fell into the hypotheticals of the impossibility. Another adult around, more safety, stability, perhaps even his mother remaining in her half-time editorial position. Not moving away from Mould-on-the-Wood, or perhaps not moving to Godric’s Hollow precisely. Oh, Abe would’ve hated him. Albus too, very likely, he had loved his father so much, and even with his reasonable mind at the time, it may have been rather hard to accept another man into that position, even someone who seemed to be as fair as Yaxley. Maybe they wouldn’t even have stayed in Britain, after all of that. Yaxley seemed to have ample ties to the African communities, and that teaching offer he had spoken about... nothing had truly anchored Albus’ mother here, had it? Just for a moment, imagining Albus might not even have gone to Hogwarts but Uagadou... He had never seen it from up close, but had read about its marvels, its importance for society and its endless caves and catacombs and flying contests and how, for all that Mahoutokoro boasted with the most intelligent students, Uagadou always seemed to inspire most inventions and sparks from the students. Albus had read plenty a paper of their student magazine when he had studied at the Academy, which had proudly carried the school paper at all news-stands. Albus’ interests would likely have been nursed and nurtured far more than at Hogwarts, and his father’s shadow wouldn’t have followed him around so much, and his own likely wouldn’t have followed Aberforth, why, with there being near to ten thousand students at all times, Aberforth would have just vanished in the masses, despite their differentiating colour of skin and hair. No Godric’s Hollow. Perhaps Nicolas – he received and sent the occasional intercontinental owl just as well as his own snow owl. No Bathilda. No crush on Hugo when he had still been his professor. No Wizengamot. No Transfiguration Today articles. Possibly not even his mother’s death.

   No Gellert. 

   Which meant no Bhutan, and everything else beyond that was speculative guesswork. Albus had always had a knack for inspiring others, but whether he would have discovered that? He likely would have gone to the Academy, why, with Yaxley teaching there. No war, far too far away from home, and the African communities were characterised by being removed from all Muggle affairs. Maybe a nice partner in a more liberal community. Maybe he would even have felt courageous enough to live openly. 

   Somehow, this ghost of a shadow seemed so much more tempting even with all of its insecurities, and Albus knowing precisely that it was an impossibility. Just the possibility that his life might not have turned out to be such utter dogshite, it gnawed at him ferociously. Of course, he had often imagined what it would have been like, if Ariana hadn’t left the house that day, if Albus had come with her as supervision, if their father had been less vengeful, if, if, if. But it had never taken his fantasies to another continent. Another continent, where he might never have run into the other. Perhaps he would have been able to make a stand, then. Proud, and strong, and uninvolved. There would have been drama – Aurelius was a brilliant exception of survival-

   Oh, Aurelius... 

   Albus would likely never see him again. He had failed in his mission to retrieve him and now, he would never have the chance again. He should have apparated him out at the earliest convenience. Should have taken him and run, perhaps even running the risk of upsetting the young man by dragging him away from a place he now called home. But Aurelius was a Dumbledore, and would now suffer the price of Albus’ transgressions. He was nearby. An easy target. Albus had sealed his fate, etched and stitched it into the fabric of reality. Albus by no means believed that the other’s anger was sated with a back-firing Cruciatus Curse. No, if anything, that had likely inflamed him. At this very moment, he could have been planning, or torturing, or killing people that had any ties to Albus. If Albus was on his feet again, the other was too. He wished his coma could have lasted longer, for his own sake, for the sake of the world. Always one step ahead now, the other, with his lack of heart injury. Aurelius was as good as dead, and if Aurelius was, and Aberforth understood that Albus hadn’t done his utmost to save him, that would be the end of it. Perhaps Aberforth wouldn’t do him the pleasure of ending his pitiful existence, but would never speak a single word with him, like last time, just that this time, it would be permanent. 

   Albus had to fight with actual tears when his students streamed into the classroom first thing Monday morning. To them, the last two weeks had passed most unremarkably, with the most intriguing thing that seemed to have happened having been Peeves, who had snuck into the classroom last week, and had proceeded to cause mischief to the point where his brother had apparently, in an impressive showcase of foulness and decidedly unprofessional flyting, folded the usually-so-untouchable poltergeist to the size of a thimble and had expelled him from the classroom by force. It figured – if anyone in the world could insult Peeves away, it would have been his younger brother, whose vulgarities seemed to know no end. That even his seventh-years seemed to have been rather impressed by the sheer colour of their argument didn’t bode well for Aberforth’s diplomatic streak, but he felt a strange sense of pride regardless. To defeat Peeves, one truly had to be rather formidable. Regardless, there was some isolated concern in the eyes of his students, Lovelace, surprisingly, but not Thakur. Then again, Thakur and Thompsin were still seated at opposite ends of the classroom, so she likely didn’t have a thought to spare for her old professor. Though, with Sarah’s fate up in the air, Lovelace could have been more concerned as well. He wondered whether his previous seventh-years, Aquila, Montgomery and such likes would have reacted. Still. Seeing his students, so completely unbothered and going on with their lives... 

   It was relieving, to a degree, that they were still living in their normalcy that would soon be interrupted by war. That they could still be children, at least to some degree. That they were kept safely enough at the castle that they could still have crushes, and romances, and fall out with their partners, and not have to worry excessively about the war waging in the outside world, and would soon come to its gates. Emergency plans would need to be made, perhaps an unlicensed fireplace in a hidden room in the castle to facilitate student evacuations to the other wizarding schools. Hogwarts had, overnight, turned from the safest into the most dangerous place in the world to be, all because of Albus’ digressions and indiscretions. He had made it clear that the castle was his home, he had no other place to live – now that he had terminally angered the world’s most dangerous terrorist, this would be where the sword would first fall bloodied to the ground, and no pact or anything would keep him at bay. Any day where his students still laughed, and felt secure, it was valuable for them. To see them barely pay attention, and hardly notice that he couldn’t cast and that his arm shivered, involved mostly in it being first period and their own lives and growing, evolving worlds, it soothed Albus, who didn’t feel by any means capable of standing before them, nor did he have the right. He dictated a few questions he remembered from previous NEWT exams, let them work together in groups to solve them, with a little presentation in the end. It would keep them busy with their own organisation, and let him plan the day somewhat. 

   Albus didn’t know how he made it through his first day back as a professor, but the monotony of it, and that it was only Laurentius, who came to him shyly with a little package of candies, having noticed that anything was truly amiss, it soothed Albus’ volatile condition. It felt so much like the days after the return from France, last decade. Where he hadn’t had any plans whatsoever, had dragged himself out of bed in the morning and had somehow taught all day without even noticing, glad for the distraction and the-

The control. 

The control over events, that he could determine what twenty people at one time were doing, that he was in charge of delegating, and that the worst that typically happened was a few cuts and bruises in playful duels. He prided himself on the fact that, in over twenty years of teaching, the worst injuries obtained had been one broken leg, and four broken wrists from falling oddly, and maybe a few concussions here and there. For essentially unmitigated combat training, that was rather admirable within itself. 

   The further the day went on, the further the goods and the bads began to mingle indistinguishably. His students were safe. But not for much longer. His students didn’t seem to see how bad he was actually doing. His students didn’t seem to see how bad he was doing. There was a professor, ghost or otherwise checking in with him after every period. Someone had to check in with him after every period, they clearly didn’t think he could be left alone. Someone bringing him a steaming bowl of cawl. Then again, someone bringing him a whole bowl of cawl, when Albus didn’t fancy lamb much in the first place. Sheep tasted like they smelled, and Albus didn’t like food tasting like wool. Better than goat meat, but that may have been due to having hated Aberforth’s goats for as long as he could remember, really. Albus wasn’t picky about many things, but lamb and mutton, he really didn’t need it in his food. Nicolas wasn’t leaving anytime soon, under the pretence of helping with restocking. Nicolas clearly cared for him too much. His students were occupied with romantic intermissions, especially the week after Valentine’s Day. They would become cannon fodder, not even able to keep up a shield charm for longer than five seconds.    

   Albus had categorically overslept Valentine’s Day, what a mercy. He had let Quentin know a week after Valentine’s Day that he had once been intimate with the worst terrorist in known history, what a barmy bastard he was. No paper valentines hammering away at his office door. Someone had likely taken them down. Salina was in good health, Samantha didn’t seem ailing, his Fanged Geranium wasn’t particularly hungry. Someone had been in his chambers repeatedly without his permission. 

   It was all just mechanical, really. 

   Was all of his life going to be like this? Standing up, teaching, emotionally removed, uncaring, dragging himself through for the- for the betterment of the world, for that final fight he could not even begin to fight? He couldn’t win – even if he forewent all of his morality, what could he threaten the illuminated beast with? No friends, no family, no people that he truly cared about. A man without worldly attachments became removed, not a good ruler. A man without worldly attachments couldn’t be attacked through them, if Albus couldn’t do it directly already. Meanwhile, the other- 

   There were hundreds, thousands of people that Albus cared about in some way. To see them all burn in the fires of rage-

   Yes, fire-themed language and sentiments still upset him, and water tasted stale on his tongue, like murky lake water that a Grindylow had sneezed into. 

   Albus needed to be a fearsome warrior, but how to be when one only ever lost? When had Albus ever won in his life? Half the world would have told him he was the reincarnation of Merlin himself, and ah, what a stroke of luck, truly, to be employed for a profession he hadn’t even applied for, at one of the least remarkable schools in the world. He had gotten so unlucky romantically, it was practically a joke! When had Albus ever gotten lucky, when had he ever truly won at anything? He didn’t even have a family to fall back on, all his friends were at risk of torture or worse, damn near every person he had ever interacted with had their lives endangered. Oh, so he was deemed the most brilliant man alive, tragic, only, that he hadn’t even ever been offered a book deal! It wasn’t lucky that he had published articles from a young age onwards, it was customary. There were only so few wizards and witches alive, of course they clamoured for every remotely capable person to write for their magazines. For all that Albus was always deemed the special one, he never did get any of the positive fallout, did he? So how was he to combat a man that never lost? A man that just- just seemed to always win, no matter how cruel or gruesome his actions. 

   Albus didn’t stand a chance. 

   That was, until Tuesday afternoon. 

   To his great surprise, he received an afternoon visitor to his chambers that he could confidently say had never entered them before. Though, perhaps she might have walked the corridors and bends and through all the rooms the castle hadn’t magically created in the last millennium – the original map by the Founders didn’t feature nearly as many rooms as had manifested over the last thousand years – and may have already come by this room in her infancy and younger years, when she had roamed the castle somewhat freely. 

“My Lady,” Albus inclined his head respectfully. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mildgyþ told me upon inquiry that you had been injured.”

“A potion gone wrong, nothing to fret about.”

“Or so the official wording would suggest,” the translucent ghost uttered melodically, in a distant, removed tone nevertheless, as was customary for her. A dark, helpless, emotionless drawing of her lifetime’s battles. If any ghost of Hogwarts matched his spirit, it was likely Helena Ravenclaw. “But Mildgyþ claims a more grievous injury.”

It was hard to argue with the literal ghost of the infirmary, even if she happened to be a fourteen-year-old girl that had died of the aftermath of a Triwizard Tournament circa 1306, Albus would have estimated, and was therefore oftentimes perhaps a bit emotionally... unstable. Which, yes, Albus knew that was rich coming from him, but he had never claimed he didn’t occasionally behave like a fourteen-year-old lass. Everybody did. 

“I live.”

“I sense a darkness in your heart,” the ghost continued, floating past his bookshelves scanning them with moderate interest. The dress she had chosen for today was beautifully eerie, flowing after her like a gown one might have worn to a wedding, and shimmered unusually blue. Then again, as the child of Rowena Ravenclaw – whose favourite colour had famously been the blue of sapphires, of which her lost diadem was said to hold plenty, and which were engraved still on jewellery items in display cases in the Ravenclaw common room, as well as the indestructible peacock feather quill that was given to the brightest mind of the house each year at the end of term for one total year so they may write with Rowena’s artefact themselves – she was quite in style, even if ghostly clothes were typically a bit more subdued in their colours. “One which has festered further since our last conversation.”

“It is the circle of life itself for the days to contain darker periods. For every sunny midday, there is a pitch-black midnight. For every day of snow, there is a day of fog. For every frosty chill, there is an uncomfortable sweat.”

“Unusually succinct words from a Gryffindor. Then again, you are the brightest of them I have ever talked to. Uncle Godric wasn’t nearly as clever.”

Ghosts were living legends. In his second year, when he had had some unreasonably childish fight with Elphias for a week or two, he had found himself entirely alone, and striking up a friendship with Sir Nicholas, who had quickly introduced him to most of the other ghosts that talked to strangers or ones that weren’t of the houses they were affiliated with, or saw themselves affiliated with. Albus was a rare Gryffindor who had successfully talked to the Bloody Baron, but couldn’t for the life of himself figure out how to get along with the Fat Friar. Regardless, during those weeks, he had meticulously asked them questions and had presented a collection of their answers as a special-credit project – Helena, as Albus was explicitly allowed to call her, had been among the more affable participants, really. She must have seen something of value in him considering she usually did not speak with members of other houses except for staff and ghosts, nor did she, now having worn the cloak of the Grey Lady for many a century, often acknowledge her heritage as her mother’s disgraced daughter.

“I suppose your uncle was busier being needlessly heroic.”

“Yes,” she mused – nobody had gotten Helena to chuckle in a thousand years, Albus wasn’t going to be the first to manage it. Killed so tragically and confined for eternity to an enclosed space in which her killer led another house – even though he was remorseful – what remained to be elated about? Perpetual November fog, if anyone impersonated it... “For all your ailment, I cannot say it was unpleasant to talk to Aberforth once more. I had not seen him in many years.”

“I didn’t know you and my brother knew each other.”

Helena gave out a dismissive noise that may have been mistaken for laughter if one didn’t know she had not been observed laughing once in her millennium of ghosthood. 

“He said you would say this.”

“Did he now?” Albus sighed and leaned back on his divan. “I suppose my brother has a keen sense of observation.”

“He has much more than that.”

So his brother was half-Irish, was a trained apothecarian, friends with the Irish minister and Head of the DMLE, had worked in a barber shop, been married twice, and had also apparently been friends with the Ravenclaw House Ghost, and that was only the information Albus had learned this month, it seemed. Or since the beginning of the new year, anyways. It felt like Aberforth- Aberforth was a completely different person from what Albus had known him for. Or had imagined him to be. Perhaps the gruff innkeeper wasn’t stereotypically the prime candidate for two marriages and ministerial friends. Just like Albus couldn’t ever have imagined his judgemental, snap-judgement brother to have a Ravenclaw friend, and a child with an actual Slytherin. Albus sighed once more.

“Such as an older brother who can never be bothered to show genuine interest in his life, it seems.”

Helena floated back from the bookshelves – legends claimed she had always wanted to know, but never to learn, as had been her mother’s most prominent tenet. Learning for the sake of learning, not the sake of knowledge. That, and the immense pressure on her stemming from her mother’s reputation had made her run with the diadem of Ravenclaw, and the rest of it was more tragic still.

“He did not say you would express any such thing.”

“My brother categorically overestimates his own anger pertaining to my person measured against mine own against myself. He would think he despises me more than anyone else, would wear it as a badge of pride, but little does he realise his words are harmless, and his sentiments mellow.”

Her eyes were still quick, intelligent. The students were typically left uninformed about the goings-on of the castle behind closed doors, such as that, whenever there was a conflict of interest – such as Albus teaching children of friends that, outside of Hogwarts, did not hesitate to address him by the term of uncle, or Armando teaching one of his numerous relatives, great-great-great-grandchildren and such likes – it was commonplace to call in Helena Ravenclaw as an unbiased second set of eyes to eradicate bias on the professors’ behalves. By standard procedure, Laurentius’, Lilibeth’s and Lattimer’s essays were all given a once-over by the ghost since Phineas’ times, as a nod of appreciation to the brilliantly capable young witch. 

“Mildgyþ hinted at fatality.”

“A potion, any potion, can be dangerous.”

“And any words can be rehearsed.”

“Was your aim merely to ascertain that I was alive?”Albus inquired politely, setting a teacup down on the little table before him. “I am.”

Albus liked the dress she was wearing, simple, long, traditional sleeves. Had this been the fashion of nowadays, perhaps Albus wouldn’t have minded having been born a woman, or changing into one. Not that he ever would, now even less so than before. He would turn into that cockroach animagus – though, he rather thought he might become something utterly spineless like a snail, worm or spider – before ever getting himself a female body. Maybe that Glumbumble, too, a rare magical creature animagus, then he at least by nature could drag everyone to ruin around him. Or an Augurey, the depressive grey cousin of the phoenix. Helena floated to eye level, seating herself on the little table and some of his coursework, not that Albus minded – ghosts didn’t leave any dents.

“I have seen this wish before, in the eyes of many, even the little ones. But your business is unfinished.”

“What do you know about my business?”

“Any respectable ghost could see the lure before you, and the likelihood of one becoming a ghost. This is merely not something we often speak of as to not to interfere with the natural order of things, and the wish of the living upon their passing.”

“So you’re saying that if I died now, I’d become a ghost regardless?”

“Such would be your choice, in theory. Anyone is given this choice, subconsciously. How actively one chooses, that is subject of debate. I do not recall having made any such choice, and yet, I do not regret having made it. Your question can therefore only be answered with a counter-question, which shall be: Why not finish your business as you live?”

“My business is none of my own. It is the business of others.”

“It was my mother’s wish for me to return home hale and hearty. Yet still, this incident killed three. Dunweald-“ she began before hastily turning her eyes to the horizon, seen through Albus’ little ornamental window, where the sun was touching the horizon at the present moment, “the Baron, he persists for regret and shame. I exist still for my thirst for recognition, for legacy. Only my mother did not enter this existence, for upon losing me, she had nothing to anchor her to the mortal realm. Her spirit went onwards and beyond. People speak of choice, of the dead choosing to live on, but little Mildgyþ did not do such a thing, she was a bright young thing of fourteen, with her entire life ahead of herself, of course her grandest wish was to return to meet her valentine. The Baron-  The Baron ended his own life after mine, evidently he thought he had naught more to live for. And yet, he persists. For a millennium, covered still in my blood. Had you asked him as he lingered with the living, the blood seeping into his clothes, surely he could not have imagined being the ghost of Slytherin House for a thousand years to come,” she continued in her melodic, uninvolved voice, but Albus for once heard the echoes of the agony that must accompany her every day. That she was choosing to speak from the heart... “In that which is preordained by our own sentiments, the illusion of choice is a welcome respite for the weary head.”

Albus stared at her for a very long time, unmoving and with a thousand and yet absolutely no thoughts racing through his mind simultaneously. Having taught at Hogwarts for over twenty years now and being an interested student, he knew the circumstances of Helena Ravenclaw’s death – she had envied her mother’s knowledge and standing, had run off with the fabled diadem as a youth, Rowena had never recovered from the shock of it, falling terminally ill and eventually sending the Baron, who had been deeply enamoured with her daughter, to fetch her to her deathbed to ease her suffering. Helena had refused both him and to return, the Baron had murdered her in a rage, then himself when he had woken from his hatred-filled delirium. Rowena had died shortly afterward, the official record would have stated from her illness, the bush telegraph would have suggested she had perished of heartbreak at her only child having died before her. It had taken him, ah, likely fifteen years and constant attentiveness to put all the pieces together, and that Helena herself would offer them so willingly? She had adopted the mantle of the Grey Lady for choice, precisely not wishing to be associated with her past and its horrors. Likely, she would not have shared it had she not known Albus knew the circumstances just as much, but still... Her honesty surprised him, startled him, transformed him. With milky, helpless eyes and his arm pounding, he stared at the epitome of the calm ghost before him, lingering merely three feet from him, still looking out of the window.

“My heart was shattered thrice by one person,” he ventured, his heart beating in his throat. 

“How?”

“Excuse me?”

“How did they shatter it?”

“They?”

“I prefer not to assume. In my time, there was no such bias as exists today. You need only ask Aunt Helga. Regardless, my question stands. An ornamented dagger pierced mine, it would only be in the spirit of fairness to enlighten me what broke yours.”

Albus thought for a few moments, collecting himself, fidgeting with his hands, putting the right words to properly put such precise blows to his heart to words that could encompass their complexity.

“A panicked run, a- a return of terror, a jealous curse.”

Helena pondered this information thoroughly, though she did not seem to have a revelation as such. 

“The study of arithmancy tells us that three is a potent number in most all things, such is five. In the search for a novel spell, it is prudent to begin with such an amount of syllables. Three components to a wand, three acts to a novel, veni, vidi, vici. Three betrayals to your heart. As you speak of it now... this jealous curse was the most recent of them. And that which confined you to the infirmary.”

“Yes.”

“The Torture Curse.”

“Yes. How do you know?”

“The dagger of one who was irrevocably enamoured with me brought my heart to rest. I tend to assume the worst. Do you suppose they will wake to regret, like the Baron did?”

“In arrogance lives no room for regret. In self-importance exists no space for admittance of mistakes.”

“What caused you to allow for your heart to be broken thrice?”

Why had Albus allowed for it? Why had he opened his heart, or, rather, why couldn’t he simply close it off, and move on unperturbed? Of course, all those reasons, he knew. He knew it, he had known it for decades, since that dinner at Bathilda’s. There would never be another. Once bound without bond, without force, without need but by sheer willingness and affection, how could one walk free of one’s own demons?

“Love. Shock. Addiction.”

“And you think this will be the final betrayal? Or will you allow yourself to be captivated again, by addiction, by shock, by love?”

“My love has waned many years ago, and yet never will it cease to dawn anew.”

It was eerie to touch a ghost, but even eerier when a ghost touched one. And yet still eeriest when the touch made a tear freeze on the cheek in its trail, falling as a frozen droplet to Albus’ trousers, and the trail remaining cold. Her presence was ethereal, her eyes full of similar sorrow, as though her death lay not a thousand years in the past, but merely one day. 

For the first time in- in eons, it felt like, Albus felt understood. Felt seen in his struggle. Of course Helena would understand, having been murdered at the hands of jealousy and possessiveness, of course she would understand when Albus had gone through the same thing. Her eyes were bluest sapphires, inherited from her mother, as she whispered her truth to him.

“One who is to become a ghost dies as though they live. But I see not this same notion in your eyes, the way you carry yourself, the way you have for many, many years, ever since you were little. I think dying as though you lived, that is not your destiny, and in your bones, you already know it.”

“Then, my Lady, what is my destiny?”

“You live, of course, little lion. You live as though you die.”

   And somehow, that was precisely what Albus had needed to hear.

Chapter Text

   The day Gellert Grindelwald broke was unimportant to humanity. 

   Pathetic, to think he had only lasted about a week in the female transfiguration before he had had to confront the final reality – there were too many emotions for his body to encase. For any of his bodies to encase.

   He stood at the point of no return, where not even the forceful incarnation of his numerous personalities into different physical shapes could yield any notable result anymore. His lines on the parchment were weak, his magic flickering, his resolve waning, his eyes unfocussed no matter which transfiguration they were adjusted to, his arm jumpy and shaky, even the smell of his own blood had taken a turn for the unbearably sweet of late, when it still poured from the wounds on his arms. Gellert was so used to the pain, it barely even bothered him. If at all, it gave him something to focus on, something to anchor to. It didn’t matter which shape he incarnated, whether he strategically threw all of his traits into one cumulative transfiguration.

Whether he channelled all of his anger into the icy-blond, let Misky give him even sharper features and he himself let his voice be raspier.

Whether he allowed himself to be that perfection of his true self, with hazel-brown eyes and distinguished highlights of grey, to actually admire the brilliance behind the daemonic scheme to drive Gellert to ruin though he rarely found the peace of mind to admit such brilliance, for it equalled weakness on his own part and instantly brought out the fury in his core again.

Whether he let Misky grow him a uterus and he felt just so utterly hopeless and surrendered that he couldn’t even sit straight, and barely kept his eyes on the paperwork amounting on his desk.

Whether he let his true, crippled self feel with its very heart, and crack apart over all the implications of the betrayal, how the other had just toyed with him, manipulated him, a glance here, a touch there, just to drive that final dagger into his chest with such precision and perfection. It didn’t matter, he had tried it all, with similar outcomes. 

   He- He, the enemy, the- 

   He had broken not only one, but all of his personalities. 

I still ache from your betrayal

And I find it hard to process

My emotions on the living page

To nature I most notably digress.

But now with force it always presses

That I am forced to reckon

With my tempestuous emotions

Whilst fate still does me beckon. 

My fate it is to rule this barren earth

To bring, to gift, to usher in a peaceful dawn

Distraction cannot rule the mindless masses

Not merely someone else’s silly pawn.

   Gellert was destined to rule the world. Destined to find the Deathly Hallows, own them, use them, and become through them the first recorded Master of Death, a being of unparalleled power in this world and its annals. Gellert Grindelwald had been born the most powerful person of his time, ahead even of his antonym or synonym or whatever else one could describe the other as, his genes and biology and some lucky coincidence of nature had resulted in his magic being unbridled, unparalleled, uncontrollably majestic and mighty. He was already simply a being for the history books; like one could measure the tallest, oldest, quickest person in the world, Gellert happened to be the strongest, on a magical level. Surely he couldn’t outrun professional runners though he preferred to think that, as a natural dueller who honed his abilities almost every day and engaged in other sporty activities most every other day, he was quite athletic if not nearly as much as he could have been, though he certainly did not have the time to mindlessly jog in the valley, or uselessly lift weights for some reason or another. But Gellert was the most magical person alive, perhaps, come time, the most magical person to ever have lived, outranking Merlin and Morgana, and the Founders, and most certainly Vulchanova, and even that silly British professor he- 

   In as such, as the most powerful person of this world – he had a magical talent, for Vulchanova’s sake, his opposite didn’t even have that – obtaining the Deathly Hallows made him virtually unbeatable, at least on paper. The Elder Wand in his hand, and Gellert had comfortably known for twenty-three years now, almost, that none in the world would ever beat him in a duel. Already a contender for the most powerful beings in existence, and now with his power amplified tenfold? Because that was precisely what the Elder Wand did. All other wands in existence were channelling devices, taking the pre-existing magic and guiding it into shapes and forms, for beginners to comprehend the flow of their own magic, for ease of application later on in life, though Gellert could perform most every spell and notion wandlessly, thinking of a wand merely as an appliance, not a necessity. The Elder Wand, however, was, to his knowledge, the only known instrument in the world that did something entirely different, which was amplifying. It took the pre-existing magic, and boosted its power in the unique combination of design, wood, core and length to come out on the other side ten times stronger. It was perhaps the trickiest wand in the world to get used to, especially to a temperamental caster – every spell, orchestrated as before, came out ten times stronger than it had before. Therefore, any magic cast through it needed to be tempered, the magical effort reduced, otherwise, one might just as well accidentally set oneself on fire, as it had happened with Gellert’s first spell cast through the ancient artefact. A simple Incendio pointed at a heap of dry logs, and he had almost burned the whole forest, including himself, to a charred crisp. 

   By all measures of power, even in knowledge, invention and experimentation, Gellert could comfortably say he had broadened the very definition of magic itself, in discovering new spells that had never been cast before, in weaving together spells that should not have been bred, in theoretical work that had unearthed some of the fundamentals of magic as they had never been explicated before. He would be the rightful owner of the Deathly Hallows, making him most fundamentally the most powerful being to ever have lived, with magic beyond anyone’s imagination, power, knowledge, might, the Hallows, a castle full of supporters, a formidable expert in duelling, transfiguration, potioneering, the mind-arts, charms-work, architecture, the art of manipulation, the art of the word, one of the most powerful Seers to ever have lived, one who had climbed the highest mountains, could apparate further than anyone else in this world. 

   It was his destiny to rule the world. Nay, it was his birthright. 

   No-one would take this from him. No political figures, no stupid professors, and most certainly not his own inability to deal with a single betrayal! So what if his emotions had been betrayed?! His emotions didn’t make him a leader, they only made him a liability. His emotions made him a person, and a person could never lead adequately anyways. Personal bias needed to be eliminated for the Greater Good as he had postulated it, his own quarrels, qualms and quandaries needed to be put at a lower importance, such was his philosophy, as he had always done. The Greater Good was the only mistress – or master, rather, in his case – he would ever have willingly committed to, chained himself to, sacrificed all of his life for. He needed to be functional, if not as a person, then as a leader. His personhood couldn’t be allowed to interfere with the Greater Good. He needed to banish all emotion from his life, and use the scavenged leftover remains, the bones as a foundation for the anger that would fuel him in the years to come as he built his empire, no matter the price, no matter the cost. 

   One day, this world would be his, and everyone would finally see him as he deserved to be seen, not as a disgraced, unloved, unimportant, disregarded mud-blood that only ever caused trouble and couldn’t be trusted with its own decision-making. He was more than that. Better. Better than all of their small-minded ideas of him, that he would grow up to marry a wife and take a simple job at the ministry and live out the remainder of his days in gloriously revolting mediocrity. 

   He was better than this. 

   He was so much better than this. He wasn’t the slave of his own emotions. 

   And yet, no matter how much he tried to talk himself into the importance of his own motives and ideology, and the unimportance of his personhood, it wouldn’t take. It just wouldn’t grow roots within him, wouldn’t attach itself, even. 

My core and mind and soul and heart

Scream violent or else they cry 

Unfelt has been such vile damnation

Since I was seventeen, and barely getting by.

   It always came as such. It was always anger that came first. It danced, and such a whirlwind storm. Anger had always come first, it was easy, so easy to be angry. There was always something to be angry about. It was significantly less plausible to always find something to be glad about. Gellert wasn’t a pessimist or an optimist, he viewed the world with perfect clarity, and in as such had no need for beautification or significant other tendencies. That bastard had betrayed him. Had bedded some unimportant whore and had lied to his true, committed partner about it. Was that why he had been so distant, so removed, because, deep down, there had been another, another the other had, in his utter failure and idiocy, thought was perhaps better than Gellert?! No, how could the other have been stupid enough to think Gellert wasn’t the best he could ever get? Gellert was the best. He had to- 

   He had betrayed him, earlier that morning even. Just an hour, perhaps two before he had appeared in the cottage, he had betrayed him, and yet, he had come in pretending like nothing had ever happened, even calling the whore his ‘life-partner’, as if! Gellert had been his life partner! They had agreed to be! They had agreed they were, they were in the now, that their bond, their relationship, their supremacy had been reignited, Gellert had expressed it as such in the Kaffeehaus and the other had had nothing to say against it! And now, he was to blame!

   It was all his fault! 

   The betrayal, the manipulation, the successful charade, endearing Gellert with those touches and words and the lies about their renewed romance and it had all just been a farce! He- he deserved to be injured, chained to the bed, broken like he had Gellert, he deserved it and so much more! And yet, to voice such thoughts, and the Pact constricting around his throat again, or his arms, or infecting his blood, or doing whatever else to bring him to slow down, as though the artefact was right! It was the other who had betrayed him! The other who had plunged a broadsword into his chest by betraying him with another man, Gellert could only hope their enchantment was punishing the other more than he could take. That alone made chains of silver drag him into the abyss of intoxicating agony, but he didn’t care, he didn’t care even in the slightest! 

My core burns brightly now with anger

So incandescent it’d burn my trembling fingertips 

Liar, hero, that I’d see the day of your betrayal

My previous brutality I know I could eclipse.

   Just another manipulation and Gellert had lost their game. Checkmate, and Gellert hadn’t even put up a fight. Whenever the anger subsided, there were two options – sadness, and admiration. Gellert thought himself pathetic for even invoking the first of the words, and rather preferred to think of it all as the leader, as Gellert, sharp-minded and analysing every detail and step in the other’s grand deception, such a brutal, precise game of chess they had played. He had made Gellert think he was hardly even paying attention to the board and yet, with subtle distractions at the side, the other had managed to somehow defeat him without even raising a brow. It was all so perfect a deception, really. Eight meetings in relative diplomacy but with the intimacies always originating from the other, always a little step further to endear him, to draw him in more, the perfect seductress waiting and preying and eventually finding the target so easily. Whether it was the anger the second meeting and forcing Gellert’s hand in healing him, purposefully rendering himself weak to make Gellert feel like he had been winning, or luring him in by sleeping around him, or touching his mind bluntly, all that implicit magic of great power so effortlessly charmed, always asking to be enchanted or distracted just to see how Gellert would do it, possibly to hold up a mirror as to what would be needed to enchant Gellert in return. Six, a rare breach of character, but even that could have been manipulation, seeing how far they could take each other, whether they could perish together as they had lived together. Seven, leaning against him and then pretending it had all just been a mistake, an old mechanism, and Gellert had almost believed him. Almost. And eight, then, the completely unexpected kiss. Denying, moving away, and then yet another kiss to leave him even starved for so, so much more, simpler than just one kiss, pretending like he actually wanted him. 

   He had forced Gellert to write the first letter thereinafter. 

   From then on out, Gellert had been on the back foot without even noticing it consciously. The other had more brazenly asked for reunions, had laughed at his quite frankly silly jokes, had donned such a pleasant masquerade, even the recount of his war experiences could have been a form of bait to see whether Gellert would use or abuse it. He had even gotten Gellert to think to use the Elder Wand as a negotiation tactic, and then another kiss. He had driven all the narrative, and again, the withdrawal in the evening, making sure Gellert knew he wouldn’t get more before giving him more shortly afterwards. Always pretending to be so concerned with his morality, how could Gellert not have seen through the charade? Even that morning’s ambush, he had come to fully enjoy the act whilst he had then not proceeded to give Gellert what he had desired so much from the other’s hands. And then he had run, to stir even more of that insecurity, with that quite frankly- How could Gellert have been stupid enough to believe the other actually lost it like that in a pressure situation?! It was pathetic! No functional human being could ever be- be that dysfunctional!

Business before pleasure then, reunion thirteen, and yet kisses in the dark, humiliating him when he had offered- Oh, his true personality had shone through then, hadn’t it? What the other truly thought of them being intimate, just a small, so pointed little moment of inattention, before completely slipping into character again. Fourteen, no kisses at all, and showcasing his true power, then a little kiss for a birthday present, then all that utter drivel about his exile, as though he could have been actually mad about being made to stay with his dear papa and maman, not having to keep idiotic children from even more idiotic doings! The ball, and further, and further, and then the last meeting, drawing him in, seeing how far Gellert would go before, in the heated moment the final sword had fallen. When Gellert had done it all, had charmed him all afternoon, had shown him a memory he had never shown anyone else before, had entertained him almost feverishly, desperately, had charmed him tea and had composed a poem for him once more, had delegated himself to- he had fully committed himself to Albus that afternoon, and in the very most promising moment, in the crescendo of the afternoon as he had demeaned himself enough to essentially kneel before Albus, at the very least metaphorically if not that it could be interpreted physically as well from their positioning, when he had weakened him into the most humiliating place imaginable, only then had the professor shown his true, monolithic brilliance. 

   Only then, with Gellert utterly subjugated, had he sent the final blow, in his mind, the recollection of another, another which he had portrayed as better, only then had he unleashed his true opinion, the final blow to Gellert, whom he must have known to be jealous easily, especially of those that claimed for themselves what was rightfully his.

   It was perfectly executed, planned for years, inspired. It was a master-class in seduction and deception, a true diamond amidst the gemstones, a marvel of nature to witness such a scheme. 

My mind congratulates you for your brilliance

We spoke so many times you had me fooled

With every scheme and every of my gambits

Quietly, clandestinely were you the victor as we duelled.

   He was so much better than Gellert. So much more formidable. His patience- his patience unrivalled, his power lay in his simplicity, being underestimated and striking only in the perfect moment, he had always been like that, reactive, defensive, a true master of his craft. He towered over Gellert’s defeated self, victorious, and Gellert had lost all of his motivation to ever execute another scheme again, to ever lie again if he had been lied to so much. Was this what it felt like to lose, so hopeless, so- 

So defeated? 

So small?

So- so empty. 

My soul sings sadly, sombre, timid hopelessness

That everything we ever laboured hard to craft

Is naught but broken ashes in my helpless hands

That I fell for the lure of what you always autographed.

Gellert had truly thought- thought they were again. Gellert had truly thought they may never love each other once more, both so crippled from their past, but- but that they would be together, finally, forever, for- for the sake of being whole again. They- they had been destined to be together, right? They were- for what other reason had they been born the most powerful wizards of their time, two boys only a year and a half apart, and utterly, madly infatuated only with other boys? For what reason had their paths crossed as early as their youth, earlier before still, with his great-aunt having talked about him before they had ever met, with even the professors at school having conspired to force them together across half the continent, for what other reason were they so diametrically opposed if not the unity they could create together? They were always in perfect balance and donating to each other the perfect attributes to facilitate each other’s growth, he had always given him perspective, and care, and understanding for the plights of others, and in turn, he had donated decisiveness, strength, open-mindedness. Subtlety and bluntness in a perfect waltz, the intro- and the extrovert impressing each other and dressing in each other’s clothes, both metaphorically and literally. He’d looked so ravishing in black, so elegant and attractive, and Gellert may not have expressed it in the moment, but lounging in the dawning sunlight wearing naught but one of Albus’ hand-me-downs, he’d felt so right. Like he belonged. 

   How could he not have felt the same? How could he not have reciprocated, when- when Gellert had tried so hard to be lovable? Or if not lovable, at least not detestable! Had he not- had he not been romantic enough? With flowers, and birthday gifts and poetry serenades and- and never going fast, always slowly and leaving the other room to walk away, hadn’t he been good? All of the other’s words, their truth, their hate, a cacophony filling his head and making it pound. He- he cared, so much, he had thrown so much of himself into this, no strategy, just- just wanting to be with the other! Those last few meetings... he hadn’t even employed strategy anymore, couldn’t the other see it, how- how mellow, how emotional he rendered him, how much of him was still in his self, how much he could give? 

   Or had he seen from the very start it was to end in tragedy? That Gellert would eventually do something so unforgivable that- that he would finally have a good reason not to ever care for him again?

He- 

   He missed him, so much that it burned, and melted, and charred, and reduced to ashes, and then some more. Was it so wrong to think perhaps at sixteen, he had found the love of his life, and despite all of his meandering in-between, he still- 

He still wanted to live the rest of his life by his side?

   Why couldn’t the other feel the same about him? They had been separated for thirty years and now- and they had built something so beautiful from the ashes of yore, such a gentle, careful understanding where Gellert had been able to just close his eyes and be safe. The other had made him feel safer than his own magic, and now- 

   Now he would never feel safe again.

My heart- 

My heart bleeds. 

My heart bleeds in the combination of it all

I thought, I hoped, I prayed for perfect second spring 

Too many years had we been separated since the past

And every waking thought became the blade-work’s sting. 

He woke up to the endless repetition of these patterns. Anger, then mental clarity, then hopelessness, then sadness, always the last, always the last before it inspired the circle to begin anew because he could not be allowed such sentiments. 

   He was the leader of the greatest movement in the world. Come time, he would be the leader of all the world, he needed to function. A general did not cry. A general could not be allowed to feel weak, or doubt himself, or feel hopeless. A general existed to drive the masses, heartless and cruel, but to great effect. 

   It didn’t matter which face he donned, which organs he carried around, which paths he walked or what he did. It didn’t matter how much be begged to just be angry, to turn it into his drive. Or to commit to melancholy, or to drown in his heartache so he could finally surpass it. 

   He was a child again, a child of ten not knowing where to go with all of his tempestuous emotions. The parchment absorbed them, but they never ceased. Once one was exhausted, another came to take its place, and by the time he returned to the original, he found it fully replenished, reincarnated and revived, sometimes even with even further insights attached. 

   He spiralled. 

   He lived the saying of the vicious circle, unable to escape. 

I beg myself to know how to unite

All these conflicts into dominant extreme 

I cannot bear disjunction forceful

Of this white-hot-fevered terror-dream.

I haven’t slept a night in weeks

Since that which saw us perish, die 

No vision has come since to haunt me 

Why would it, when the worst was our goodbye?

This overwhelm I try to combat

Try myself at simple incarnation

Split apart my very essence to my benefit

Quite anything to deal with shiv’ry agitation.

So Grindelwald stands for the fury’s frills

And Gellert thinks the scheme so smart

Franziska slumps, surrendered sigh

As for myself, the anguish tears apart. 

My body’s cries I can ignore 

I’ve lain in death so many times before

Have stood at hell’s and heaven’s door

I’ve begged for entry in those days of yore.

How I felt locked lonely at the age of ten

When night and night I saw the flash of green

And mercy was my frightened argument 

My fault life left your eyes aquamarine. 

I dreamed myself to different realms of being

To reckon with my suffocating grief

Lay staring bleary-eyed at naked ceiling 

Forget, forget that I was your life’s thief.

A modicum of juxtaposing doefulness 

Besieges me now constantly through every face

That I would have the time to dream like all those years ago

Now would that be so shameful a disgrace?

Have never drowned in endless contradictions

Am torn to shreds at my quaternity 

Or however many sentimental currents more

Give me a reason to renounce this for eternity.

Give me a reason to admire your sagacity

Or let me be consumed by hatred ardent

Make me amenable to resignation

Or watch me strung up by my ailment.

But to suffer all of these at once

Wreaks havoc on my burdened brain

I would attach the faces permanent

If that meant sweet relief of all the pain. 

   Gellert lost all track of time, measured only by the screeching of the feather on the parchment, and how much ink spilled in anger, how many quills cracked, how many tear-stains dried ugly on the yellowed sheets. He didn’t hear the voices around him, knew only of their presence. Once cycled through, he simply began anew. 

   Anger, respect, capitulation, sadness. 

He donned hair icy-blond, and let the curses flow from his wand like torrential waterfalls. 

   Fury, recognition, surrender, misery. 

He donned perfection of his natural shape, and tried to scheme and plan for a future that was better.

   Hatred, reverence, hopelessness, anguish. 

He donned braids and curves, and went to work without a sense of reason.

   Rage, admiration, dejection, grief. 

He dropped it all, and cried alone. 

   In the end, he grew closer and closer to the rules of traditional sonnets, the more structure, the better – without structure, he spiralled further; without handrails, he lost his balance. Began to weave in alliterations, anaphoras, began to count the syllables again. Everything needed to be perfectly in place. Everything needed to be perfectly controlled, in order. 

   It was his life-line, the rope tied hastily around his waist as he perished in the maelstrom of his own volatility. 

   It was the only thing he still held any dominion over, his own lines. But this, too, waned the second he intrinsically understood that, whilst incandescence, deference, despondency and heart-soreness were powerful emotions within themselves, they by no means covered the spectrum of his sentimental detonation. How soon before other traits, other feelings would demand their time? How much time before he would have to incarnate them too, in different shapes and bodies, before denial, embarrassment, fear, guilt or tiredness could demand their own time in the show-lights? 

   How long before his body could not withstand any longer?

And if my mind you did manipulate

And if my core to ire you condemned

How have you brought my soul to speculate?

How have you made my heart so hemmed?

Am stupefied to see your sapience 

And ardent to announce my anger

And lend a helping hand to hopelessness

And win the wailing of my woe.

Four co-live in my hollow-heavy head

And many more without manifestations

How many more emotions to the human brain? 

How long before demand of deviations?

Denial could me deeply desecrate

And tiredness tempted to be a trait

Lying in loneliness at lost-night late

Ere to embarrassment it may equate

Anxiety aplenty I await

And greedy guilt can generously grate 

A chronic callous craze it could create 

Is finding fear and fright far from my fate?

–

How many more emotions to incarnate?

Chapter Text

   “I have questions.”

   That was certainly one way for the Hogwarts Potions professor to burst through the door, dramatic flourish to his emerald robes, and a bottle in his arm. Albus politely put his cup down on the designated saucer, taking a deep breath. The last few days had passed in an utter haze, conversations with Nicolas, Balimena, another with Yaxley, and that life-changing one with Helena, who had since come by every day to check in on him... 

   He may have made a decision, but he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t be sure. Merlin, it had only been a few days, the question of mortality wasn’t so easily pondered in a few days. Somehow, Albus had managed to survive through the teaching week without any significant losses, though he still took all meals in his chambers and had cancelled office hours for the week, thinking himself quite strong if he survived the student onslaught for six hours of any given day, the only exception being that mild fit of panic he had had when seeing the paper slip on which Tabetha had noted down the premonition of his terrible demise, hastily vanishing it to Merlin-knew-where so he wouldn’t have to see just how accurate the Divination Professor had been, once again. For all her typical balderdash, these yearly predictions of hers were nothing to mess with. He was rather certain this untimely demise she had been on and on about would have been the time three weeks ago. Otherwise, he had nothing to look forward to but another gruesome death. Splendid. 

   He had much to catch up with, regardless of which way he eventually would end up leaning, to death in freedom or life in bondage. 

   He had written a list. 

   He had never done that before. 

   “I don’t think I’m allowed to have alcoholic substances yet,” Albus hinted when he saw the label on the bottle, chipped but clearly reading Firewhiskey, considering the state of the bottle and the way Quentin leaned to the doorframe, also already having found its way partly into his stomach not very distantly in the past. 

“Oh, no, this isn’t for you. This,” he raised the bottle demonstratively, “is for me.”

“Big plans?”

“I think I need a base-level of plastered.”

“You do?”

“To understand just how it came to pass that you and- you and the spiky blond used to, you know, be soul-mates or whatever? Yeah, I think I need to be utterly soused to comprehend that.”

“Has it occurred to you that I may not be in the mood to colourfully elaborate on my intimate past?” Albus asked delicately as he tried to let vanish some of his more atrocious essays. 

Aberforth’s time in power clearly had not ameliorated either their diction or their referencing. It worked somewhat comfortably – whilst magic still made him feel odd, at least casting with his left worked relatively well, with the occasional hiccough here and there. It felt odd, considering his palm was, with its scar, a little more sensitive than his other hand, and he noted even the finest little scratches on his wand-handle. Luckily, his handle wasn’t palm-adjusted by any means, which facilitated switching. Still. His every instinct, thirty-five years of reflex had taught him to grab the wand on his right. Even his holster was on the wrong side now. His heart, too, occasionally betrayed him, a phantom ache spiking here and there, and the unfamiliar magic he had still not gotten used to. It felt sore, the thing, brutalised, it ached with every heartbeat to the point that he had gotten rather splendid at ignoring the ache altogether after Xoco had confirmed it was merely muscle soreness of sorts after all the invasive procedures and the foreign magic.

“Dumbledore, I’m not the type of guy who goes oh, you owe me an explanation for, how dare you, having had lovers! Lovers, in the past, why, at forty-seven, you ought to be an utter virgin and I don’t tolerate any other lovers in your life, you know I’m not that type of guy-“

“I am a virgin. I’d previously alluded to that.”

“I hardly think virginity is determined by how many organs you’ve had in your organs or the other way around,” the other commented dryly and dropped on Albus’ divan with such force that the item of furniture moved backwards on the carpet. “I don’t think virginity is bound to how many men you’ve shagged the stereotypical way, or how many men you’ve been shagged by the stereotypical way.”

“Ah,” Albus only made. Now was certainly not the point in time when he felt utterly convinced to talk about such intimacies. No, he had never technically had intercourse with a man, one way or the other, he had absolutely no interest in it. He had tried it once with a woman, but that had evidently been so catastrophically uninteresting to his body it had lost interest faster than he could have by any means sustained any positive sentiment towards it, let alone the... physical requirements for a halfwhat decent affair. “Good to know.”

“I would by and large say I lost my virginity at eighteen,” Quentin blabbered on completely unperturbed – Merlin, he was giving Perce a run for his money though he draped himself much more theatrically, “when a certain person I should not mention because she is most certainly nowadays married to one of the higher figures in government was very kind to me under the bleachers when Slytherin was getting its arse utterly demolished, remember that game? Championship pot, and the snakes lose in five minutes, half the students aren’t even on the stands yet. Terrible timing for getting handsy under the stands, I tell you that. Regardless, I’d like to think that was the moment, not when I was twenty-one and first actually shagged someone. Wait, what was I saying?”

“You’re not the type of guy who would blame me for my virginity, or, according to your definition, utter lack thereof.”

“When was it for you?”

“What? In my books, I cannot precisely predict an event from a future I do not want to see.”

“That someone else did it for you, for crying out loud.”

“You do not want to know that.”

“You don’t know better than me what I want to know.”

Albus didn’t answer, instead looked at his bookshelves. Avoiding the divan – it had been the only item of furniture prominently featured in the shared memory – had become his most preferred pastime, sitting either in a solitary chair by the kitchenette, always nursing some warm beverage, or in his office. He couldn’t even really look at the thing, and most certainly not at the empty tree by his window that he had not had the magical spirit to let go up in blazes, nor the empty globe. His attack on the eagle had tempted Salina to flee as well. He should have felt a tremendous sense of guilt and loss, one for attacking an actually-innocent creature, and one for possibly losing his darling familiar who had kept him company for seven years now, but underneath it all, he didn’t feel much. His emotions had all but receded into the background colouration of- of nondescript grey, really. Now, he only needed to force himself through his profession with as much grace as he could, and use the available hours to ponder his predicament. 

“Oh, Salazar, it was Grind-“

“Don’t say that name to me,” Albus hissed. 

He hadn’t even read the papers, relying entirely on Nicolas to feed him the recent news, which were... regurgitated. Nothing new was happening. Of course, the old attacks, they came every week, some place in the Muggle world that was carefully scouted so there would be no casualties in anything but financial depths. But there was nothing else, luckily. No attacks in Britain, even the ministry was staying fairly quiet, in all honesty, the Prophet, it seemed, had rather toned down its full-frontal attacks and, dare he call it such, populism. 

“You’re going to have to hear it eventually.”

“Well, you don’t have to bring that point about earlier than necessary, do you? Even my brother has more common sense than you.”

“Ouch,” Quentin just commented lazily and made to unscrew the bottle, then took a small sip that seemed to burn just by how much he scrunched up his face. “Spiky blond or pretty boy then?”

“I would prefer if it could be neither, and you could state the purpose of your visit. I thought you just made it rather clear I owed you no explanation.”

“Albus, you literally- I mean, I know we are in an open relationship, but you didn’t think it could probably be... useful information for me that I’m dating one of Gr-“

“Out, if you want to torture me. I can do that by myself.”

“Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean it that time. Just-“ he began before leaning his head backwards to the carving of the peacock, and then some more as his head dangled over the edge. He took a minute before coming back up, and Albus almost emptied his mug in the mean time. “I mean- I mean I know you’re a secretive person, but- but I just thought we were good enough friends for you to tell me that. It must’ve been hell, and I just wonder how you didn’t say a thing. I could’ve been there, you know? Alright, yes, I’m judgemental but I get over myself in time, I just- I just thought you thought more of me.”

“It isn’t about being friends. It’s about putting you in further danger. And- and I didn’t want you to know. I don’t want anyone to know. Never.”

“Do you regret it that much?”

“Never. Yes. No, for another reason. Yes for yet another. Please, if you want to sink some sort of sharp item into my chest, do it swiftly and don’t amble so much. After all- after us, don’t I at least deserve a swift execution, however you are to do it? Need you torment me before you make the guillotine strike swiftly?”

“What precisely do you think I’ll do?”

“I do not know. That is precisely what ails me.”

“Do you really think- do you really think I would do something terrible to you?”

“I don’t know,” Albus confessed and raised his arm with a hint of exhaustion. “Not the best when it comes to beneficial decision-making, am I? Or assessing situations correctly, either. This constitutes a crime punishable by law, your options are near-limitless. I have three weeks’ worth of essays to annoy myself with. Strike swiftly so I may return to them. That is, after all, my purpose.”

Quentin’s green-brown eyes lingered on him for a few moments before Albus couldn’t bear it any longer and looked away. He couldn’t have this conversation yet. Normally, it took Quentin longer to come around. He had been ignorant only for a week, last time, it had been three. Couldn’t he at least grant him the mercy of just that little bit more time? He barely managed to talk to Nicolas without embarking on another sobbing fit, and could barely talk to Helena Ravenclaw without feeling a sense of melancholy a millennium old, and he wasn’t sure it was only her influence on him. He hadn’t felt up to office hours – in all honestly, he hadn’t felt up to existence, but he had to. If only temporarily, if only for the benefit of his students at the moment. 

“Here,” Quentin hummed and let a little vial hover over to him before brushing his hair back and fixing it in a ponytail with a ribbon he commonly wore around his left wrist. “Calming Draught. Xoco said you could have a small dose if you needed it.”

“I’m all- I am immune to crocodile products, apparently. I need a potion with an altered recipe. It’s in my potions cabinet, labelled Philtre Calmant Engelgardt.”

“Engelgardt?” Quentin quizzed as he had already, with startling mobility for the amount of Firewhiskey he seemed to have consumed, stood up and walked over to Albus’ restroom. After the affair they had entertained, Quentin knew where most of the essentials were hidden in Albus’ living quarters, though, them consisting only of main room with library, kitchenette and a cosy corner, a restroom and a bedroom, it was hardly a challenging task to find a potions cabinet. “Like the avant-garde potioneer?”

“Precisely.”

“And that works better on you than the standard one?”

“I don’t have the spirit to explain, but yes.”

“That is great to hear. A man shouldn’t live without having at least the Calming Draught to fall back on, if only in theory,” the other mentioned in passing as he approached, placing the vial in Albus’ hand. It was almost empty, though Albus had been very conserving with it. A little spark rushed into his left when their fingers brushed, and on instinct, he looked up at Quentin, whose eyes were wider and more- just more than usually. The Potions professor looked back, his fingers lingering for a few seconds before a small expression of pity made his lips almost vanish in a thin line. “I guess... I guess I just don’t understand it all, Al. It all seems so... uncharacteristic. You, and- well, it just doesn’t make sense in my brain.”

“Some things don’t make sense. They just are.”

“I really don’t mean to be an arse about it. Albus, Glumbumble, you know that, from a platonic point of view, I love you, I do, just... I guess I just don’t understand what would’ve- I mean, why you would have- with him out of all people...”

The insinuation didn’t sit right with Albus. Of course, he had closed his eyes, blinded himself to the truth, the darkness that bloomed as soon as Albus had left the scene, but he just couldn’t convince himself the lighter parts had all been a masquerade, had all been a charade to draw him in. No, there had been such potential for madness, for evil – but also for good. It was likely in the absence of good that the evil had thrived, perverted itself into something even more profoundly dark, so much so that it now drained the energy of light, and didn’t only emit its own darkness as a contrast. That darkness had swallowed him whole, now, had drained his own light. 

“What would you have said if I had worked up the courage to tell you a decade ago? Had gotten stupidly drunk sometime after the war and just told you everything there was to tell. Would you have judged me then? If I’d told you I met a boy and fell in love and- and that it all went to shit but that it took me until the trenches and the constant company of death to fall out of love because I fell out of love with everything, even the thought of happiness, let alone the notion, what would you have said? If I’d said there was no other man for me, not for the long run, anyways, that I’d been grasping at straws and trying my hardest but wasn’t ever getting over it all, what would you have said? Surely, you’d have been surprised I fancied men-“

“But I wouldn’t have found it all so remarkable,” Quentin sighed. “But- but that’s hindsight for you, isn’t it? It’s hard to evaluate something from a different perspective when it’s been shoved down your throat. Your brother said he wrapped you around his little finger like it was nothing.”

“My brother is being uncharacteristically kind.”

“So it was more of a mutual wrapping, then.”

“Everything was mutual. It was the euphony of mutuality, every decision, every action, every word. I was the adult, legally. I couldn’t have borne it had it not been entirely mutual.”

“Hm. Drink your Draught, and sit with me, will you?” 

   It felt odd, to let the large bottle of Firewhiskey collide with the tiny vial of Calming Draught, with even the thought of who had co-created the recipe making Albus wonder whether it may not have been more calming not to take the Draught in the first place, but overall, odder still to sit on the carpeted floor of his living room snuggled under Bathilda’s crocheted blanket, right next to Quentin though they didn’t touch. Quentin hadn’t said a word in minutes, was likely, just as Albus, waiting for the potion to settle in. Albus wasn’t sure it would. He still wasn’t, even with the altered recipe. 

   He’d made a list. Riding a broomstick to the highest point of the castle had made it, reading The Importance of Being Earnest had made it, so had pudding. All those worldly pleasures, the little ones, the insignificant ones. No matter which way the coin fell, that way, he could be sure he had done the little things. A frightening step, really, to make such a list. It could tempt so easily into realising that there was nothing left to be enjoyed, but then again, no one had absolutely nothing they enjoyed. Whether it was a piece of classical or modern music, or a book, or a person or a flower, a tree, a dish, an animal, there was always something. Albus’ list had filled quickly, and he thought to use it in a multipurpose manner – if he was to die indeed, it was a list of things he still needed to do to be at better peace, if he was to live indeed, then those very points would become his reasons. It helped that the only people who seemed to understand the true nature of his feelings were, a, Aberforth and therefore out of sight and out of mind, b, Nicolas and therefore utterly supportive of either decision, or c, Helena Ravenclaw for some reason and therefore rather melancholic themselves. 

   Regardless of how utterly lonely he felt – he wanted to be, somehow, didn’t want others to so clearly observe him in his misery, whilst also bemoaning the way it all felt to be so unseen – he just needed to function for a little longer, for however long it took for the world or himself to make a decision. 

   And though the potion for its co-designer left so bitter a taste, it also had the calming effect Albus had almost gotten accustomed to, especially on the body itself, tension flowing from his temples, his shoulders, his chest most predominantly. Internally, he didn’t feel as much calmer, but at the very least a little bit less tightened and all knotted up. It was like this, sipping on more tea and ignoring the smell of alcohol from next to him that Quentin finally asked the daring question, the one that seemed to linger on his mind, and Albus found himself even more surprised by his own honesty. Then again, what did he have to lose?

   “Why him?”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s him?”

“You mean an attractive, gentle-spirited, ambitious, brilliant, amorevolous, mysterious and mischievous boy from the continent?”

“Arrogant, vain, judgemental, I’d heard.”

“You’ve been talking to my brother then.”

“Was he not?”

“Yes. But also all the other things. Yes, arrogant, arrogant enough to inspire me to at least be proud of being powerful. Yes, vain, vain enough to convince me to shed my father’s hand-me-downs and try some slightly snazzier clothes. Yes, judgemental, judgemental enough to leave some of my preconceived notions about magic and my very purist worldview behind.”

“Mischievous.”

“Once mixed a potion into the goat food that made all of Aberforth’s goats turn green. The skeleton in my wardrobe. Etcetera.”

“Mysterious.”

“A Seer from the continent wearing most notably blacks and skipping through the Muggle countryside.”

“Amorevolous.”

“Merlin, Quentin, did you memorise all of them?”

“No, only the last three. My ears peaked at that last one. What does it even mean?”

“Affectionate.”

“So he was? I struggle to imagine that. Not your word, merely... him, affectionate...”

“Naturally. Constantly seeking contact, through word, gesture or touch. Why does it matter?”

“Just- just, why him?”

“Why one of Yaxley’s daughters, apparently? Why Lexaria? Why Madeleine?”

“Neither of them is the love of my life,” Quentin hinted pointedly. 

“Well, maybe if you’d had a love of your life, you’d understand,” Albus hissed back, decidedly turning his head away. 

Nicolas had never questioned him. When Albus had told him the whole story, Nicolas had, a few days later, told him that he much understood the feeling of having met the love of one’s life, why, with him having made her acquaintance by fifteen, and having been hopelessly enamoured latest by eighteen. That sometimes, even in the life of a six-hundred-year-old, things had happened in the youth years, and that those happenings persisted through literal time periods of history. Nicolas was a descendent of the actual Middle Ages by every definition, having been born in 1320 and all. That was still over a hundred and thirty years before the fall of Constantinople! That same time ‘till the first print of Gutenberg! A hundred and seventy until Columbus would sail for the Caribbean Islands and be the first herald of slavery and mass murder to the entire American continent. 

“I just don’t understand how he could- I know you, Albus, I know who you are, what you think, what you believe in, how- just how could you fall in love with a-“

“You want to know? You really want to know so badly?!” Albus hissed and put his wand to his temple, an unusual motion with the left. 

It burned to drag the memory out, but luckily, it was a repeat offence. He’d drawn it out so many times, he could’ve done it in his sleep, it didn’t actually matter whether his magic was a bit shaky, or whether he was using the wrong hand, or whether he had a trauma very likely. He was smart enough to see one when it occurred, even within himself, especially within himself, it had all the signs of one anyways, mentions of a person, event or otherwise some connective tissue made his heartbeat spike and everything within him clench, he reacted oddly to stimuli such as noise, light, heat metaphors and even though the warm tea only comforted him, seeing steam rise from it at first made him uncomfortable, he had the strangest physical signs of discomfort, he had gone under in panic not fewer than seven times since last weekend alone, he couldn’t sleep without Dreamless, he smelled things more prominently, his entire arm was a loose cannon and could occasionally act up in aches, flares, twitches, jerks, running either entirely too hot or entirely too cold, and most importantly, he’d done it all before, it wasn’t like there was any novelty to the experience anymore. So it burned, it snapped him in half like a spring’s first-grown twig, but he didn’t care, quite frankly, when Quentin was being insensitive and incomparably stubborn about something he should have known might just as well send Albus into a fit of madness or panic. Granted, he likely didn’t suspect it was this very boy the memory of whom now hovered in the room who had injured him to this degree, but he was still being insensitive and unwelcoming, a character trait Albus wasn’t used to at all from his friend. 

   Whilst Albus took another small, covert sip of the non-standard Calming Draught – he felt the effects on his body, but felt like he could do with just a little bit more if he was to stand the conversation that Quentin seemed to have decreed they would have – Quentin just sat there. Albus didn’t spare the memory a glance, he couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear to think that pristine little thing before him would torture his brother, and kill his sister, and then torture the entire rest of the world and kill whomever he pleased and the final slash of the sword overcoming their enchantment for another case of torture. 

   Curious – that would have made him quite jumpy these past few days. It seemed at least Engelgardt et al. had some use even if it made him furious to have to rely on a potion discovered by the very person who had put him in this predicament in the first place, immunisation and all. 

   “Salazar have mercy,” Quentin eventually brought out under seemingly intense difficulty. 

“I told you. Cosimo is a startling likeness.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen and a half.”

“Bloody hell,” the Potions Professor growled and took a rather unseemly large sip from the bottle. “I’ve sworn an oath not to ever comment on the beauty of someone under the age, but by Salazar himself, that kid’s- something. Is that really what he looked like?”

“I may remember more unfavourably than he was. I have a tendency for-”

“‘Unfavourably’?” Quentin near-shrieked. “Wait, ‘unfavourably’? Are you- are you telling me he was possibly even more- that kid looks like Michelangelo would’ve called him a perfect human! Salazar, how did that,” he seemed to gesture at where the image had lingered, “how did that turn into the spiky blond?!”

“It didn’t. The face for the media is just a transfiguration. It’s nothing like the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“Human transfiguration. Easy as breathing to- to a master of the craft. Could turn himself into me so convincingly that age even Abe was fooled. It’s a face the world would listen to. It’s all just a lie. Everything is always just lies, and deception, nowadays.”

“How do you know it’s just a farce?”

“I just know. You realise that that is sort of my entire act? To know the night-owl, apple-fanatic, turtleneck jumpers of it all, and the ice cream flavours and the favourite poets and stories of pie-eating contests and cooking qualities. That’s all I’m good for in this world, bizarre trivia knowledge.”

“And what lies beyond the masquerade?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said this was all your act. So what becomes of you when you don’t act?”

“I mourn the loss of the love of my life,” Albus hissed bitterly. “What do you think I do? Every morning when the owls come with the papers, I see the name I would have seen beside mine, perhaps even quite literally whenever I sign any given document, justifying the most terrible of miseries with words that sprung from my feather, inflamed and revolutionary at an age where all I cared about was how Muggles had made my family crumble apart, in my childishness, naivety blaming the easy culprit instead of turning inwards. What do you think I do, every time someone comes to once more ask me questions and asks me to fight when- when my hands are tied.”

“For love,” Quentin choked out, seemingly utterly intimidated and emotionally touched by the notion. “Of course! All this time, and you can’t step in because-“

“Don’t be idiotic,” Albus snorted. “Not for love. I haven’t felt it in a decade, I could sacrifice it in a heartbeat. My heart is but a canvas many monsters tested their claws on, most notably myself and time. How it has remained intact enough for me to breathe, I do not know.”

“For what then, if- if not love?”

“For oath,” he added cynically, looking over to his friend with a derisive grin. “Did you think two volatile revolutionaries madly in love didn’t think to take precautions against desertion? I cannot draw a sword any more than- than one can be drawn against me. Even the very thought would cripple me. I am physically incapable, not emotionally. I would throw myself to the flames if that could help. Only, try telling the free world that – I, who conveniently is the most powerful magician- or, rather, was, before all of this, the most powerful magician of their side can’t fight a violent terrorist, why, exactly? Because they used to be para- lovers, and used illegal blood magic to bind themselves together for eternity, I can already hear the locks clicking on my cell. All involvement is under penalty of Azkaban, didn’t you know that? Granted, the Dementors will probably take to their non-existent heels when they see the mess I am, but...”

A pause, Quentin simply hesitant. It wasn’t often that Albus was so- so open, so cynical in his company. Usually, Nicolas bore the brunt of such outbursts, maybe Aberforth when he’d seen the bottoms of too many glasses. Never Quentin. The poor professor may have had two years on him, but he was younger in spirit, almost innocent in comparison. Albus didn’t want to hurt him, cause him discomfort, take his beautiful, magnificent wild spirit away with grief persevering. 

“Please tell me your brother at least wasn’t a twat about that.”

“Oh, do you mean my brother who already despises me for the sheer fact that I don’t desire women? You mean that guy who couldn’t ever be happy for me because deep down, he thought he deserved it more? You mean the person who still prides himself upon having seen through the mask, or whatever else he’d call that he thought he had it all figured out back then, who- who heard our conspiracies, who knew the words were mine, and who has taunted me with the oath for decades, who thinks I’m utterly useless and I can only do wrong, that guy? Well, I have to admit, he’s been rather affable these past two years. It’s a welcome change of pace.”

“You’re serious.”

“What reason would I have to joke, deceive or lie? Especially now.”

“What a bastard,” Quentin hissed, such protectiveness it coloured his voice with fury. “I mean, I know I’ve been acting poorly, but family is supposed to stick up for one another! He was there, and- I mean, you can’t’ve been that dysfunctional, right? I mean... it turns out I don’t know you as well as I would have liked, but still, you’ve got a reasonable head on your shoulders, you wouldn’t idolise a complete nightmare of a relationship.”

“I was by law supposed to care for him. Abe was my ward.”

“At seventeen.”

“Our mother had died, our father two years prior. No grandparents, aunts, I had graduated. I was legally an adult. I was responsible. Instead, I spent more time at Bathilda’s than at my own house. In the fields and forest, practicing illegal magic. Abe brought more money into the household than I did. We didn’t like each other anyways, and-“

“Still! Merlin, you’d been through some traumatic shit with your parents, weren’t you allowed to just... be a child as well? I mean, seventeen, that’s still a child. By Muggle law, certainly,” his friend analysed, stretching his legs. He clashed spectacularly with the beige-brown carpet, that much Albus had to admit. Albus could have hoped that several sips of Firewhiskey would have eradicated the other’s unfathomable curiosity or had at least fogged up his mind significantly, but he either seemed to have developed a complete resistance to alcohol or had watered it down significantly in the bottle. His curiosity far from sated, it seemed, he asked another pointless question. “How did it happen that- that you went from friends to lovers?”

“It didn’t. We- there was no friendship to begin with. Ten days, and- ten days, and we were lost to each other.”

“Did you know then... that he was the one? I mean... you frame it as such, talking about the love of your life... that must mean you thought he was the one, right?”

“I didn’t know immediately, but I knew it was unlike anything I’d ever felt. It took a month before the notion had anchored itself with... with both of us. We were children, sometimes. Tiny, really. H- Expelled before the OWLs, Quen. Just done with fifth year, I- I mean, I had my NEWTs at least, but... We were so young. So naïve, so helpless. We’d seen the darkest and most twisted already, we hadn’t been children since ten. We were alone, always alone. It wasn’t that people misunderstood us, it was that they simply didn’t understand in the first place. We were antonyms and synonyms, mirrors and reflections. It felt historic, like the whole world changed. It fed all my darkest instincts, and- and opposed, it fed all the brightest corners of light, those that hadn’t been loved and cared for, maybe never. It was radical, invasive, revolutionary for the both of us, we were the same and the complete opposite. I’ve romanticised it a million times over the last thirty years, I- I can barely keep track nowadays of what was truth and what all just imagination. I’ve lied about it so many times, I’ve sometimes believed my own lies. Then I recalled- then I recalled swaying to Mozart, or running through the wheat fields hand in hand, or the intense looks thrown my way, like I was the only thing in the world worth looking at.”

Quentin listened with bated breath, letting Albus say those terrible things he had always known to be true, that it had been obsessive and unhealthy, that it had been nurturing and supportive, and everything between those. It had been perfect, terrible, everything in between. It was too much for words, or, alternately, the words had not yet been found. 

“Was he good to you, at least? A considerate, good partner?”

Albus just turned his head over, giving the other all he needed to hear in a simple facial expression.

“Bollocks.”

“Hm.”

“He called you that- that German word, right? The one you told me to use, ‘Liebling’, was it?”

“I did. I was- I was called the words for sunshine, or... or sweetie, or... or little bread crumb or whatever other mad compound that could be sanely or insanely constructed and made infinitely more adorable by the addition of the various German diminutive suffixes. Merlin, there must’ve been hundreds. I asked once for the word to indicate beloved, because- because I wanted to cause the feeling, of being valued, cared for, helped, supported. Though, the translation rather meant favourite. I used it after that, I tried- I tried to learn a few words, I only knew English and a few words of French, it felt- it felt right to...”

“Oh. Were there many terms of endearment? Really?”

A mirthless chuckle left Albus’ chest, now feeling less tense and constrained. 

“You need to detach yourself from the notion of evaluating a child through the lens of a person you hear of in the papers three decades later. Surely you are not the nineteen-year-old version of yourself nowadays.”

“It- it’s just hard to imagine a person like that as a child. Even worse, a youth. Wasn’t he expelled for dark magic?”

“To my knowledge, yes.”

“But that was before you met.”

“It was why we met. Exiled to great-aunt Bathilda in England because no one else would offer it. And no, before you ask, I don’t know why the expulsion, I never asked. I had a feeling I didn’t want to know. I closed my eyes, let myself fall. Fire and ice, explosion and perfect calm. I didn’t care about the blood magic. I found it intriguing. Fascinating. I didn’t care about the hatred towards Muggles. I felt it too. I breathed it. I didn’t care about the necromancy. It was frightening, but not harmful. Unethical, but it felt brilliant to have a little squirrel hop around me, no matter whether it was dead or alive. I’d never kept a familiar around well, never had one before, only the family owl.”

“He revived a whole squirrel. At that age.”

“A moose or elk cow in fourth year winter break, hardly a challenge. That squirrel... that was me.”

“You-“ Quentin shook his head to seemingly clear it, then gaped. “You did- I thought you’d never done necromancy before!”

“Just that once, to solace you.”

“Did you kill it too or what?”

“Bathilda’s cat did. It doesn’t make it better, but... I’m ashamed of it now to assure you, even to feel flattered to be a... a necromancer. I was thrilled then because it was the most complex necromantic procedure found in the books, and infinitely more dangerous considering it involved blood magic, and I got it perfectly right the first try, and had a squirrel follow me around five days after before I felt the effect and needed to cut the spell.”

“Slytherin’s balls, that’s messed up.”

“I never said it was good, merely what I craved so desperately. I never claimed I was a good person. Merely in comparison, every shade of grey is brighter than obsidian black.”

Quentin mulled that over for a little while before sighing, another sip finding its way to his stomach. Had he- had he upped his tolerance magically somehow? Albus had never seen his colleague so coherent when drunk. Maybe the potioneer had invented a certain something for such an eventuality. 

“So you just utterly lied to Law Enforcement when Travers came in summer camp. Telling them you’d only done blood magic in Auckland.”

“I couldn’t tell them the truth.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t have a license at the time, and some of the magic I did was explicitly against the law, license or not. I never harmed anyone, not even myself, I had a competent-enough instructor, but... you know Travers is looking for a reason. I couldn’t give him any.”

“Plenty of youth have been let off the hook. Most crimes are time-barred in Britain.”

“Still. Travers would get me for something, I just know it. Besides, blood-bonds do not get time-barred for good reason. It shouldn’t exist, much less be practiced. It is neither romantic nor does it contribute to a healthy living, it is just a possessive, destructive idea that was all too alluring when I didn’t want to lose what I craved, what I thought was mine by right. Worst of all, I can’t break it. Merlin, even if we both wanted to, there’s no guarantee the spell would take instead of destroying us both. I couldn’t tell anyone, especially not the past years.”

“You really can’t fight. Like, literally. You can’t even raise your wand.”

“I can’t even voice the thought of it. Why do you think I’m still alive? Or, somehow, at least, regretfully.”

Quentin had no comment to offer, but unexpectedly reached for Albus’ left hand, cradling it in both of his own, the heated skin near-pulsing against Albus’ cold hands. Since the- since then, he hadn’t had warm hands anymore. Before long, Quentin had turned it over and had let his index finger carefully stroke over the scar which marred Albus’ palm. 

“You must feel so suffocated by it all.”

Albus didn’t give an answer because, deep down, he knew suffocation wasn’t the only thing it had always made him feel. Belonging, safety, superiority. But now...? With everything that had happened, he would need to rewrite the laws of his own mind anyways. He found himself in such an odd place, at the cusp of death, and the edge of living. Despite never saying the other’s name or even using a personal pronoun, he felt more reckless, more self-assured. What did he have to lose, eventually?  

“Who else knows?”

“Of this, or... that there was something more than friendship?”

“Does the list differ?”

“Partially. Abe, Nicolas... Perce, you, you know the whole story.”

“Perce? Graves? Why does he know?”

“Because he’s clever and also because he just so happens to be the Head of Magical Law Enforcement of MACUSA, he has people-skills. And he investigated the artefact which holds our blood.”

“Elphias doesn’t know?”

“No. Bathilda knows we were... well. She said it was impossible to ignore, apparently. Like we exuded it naturally. I told Newton Scamander of the agreement the year before last. That concludes the list.”

“That’s all. All people you’ve ever told.”

“Yes. You can talk to Abe, talk to Nicolas... maybe Nicolas, rather, you may actually get a reasonable answer out of him.”

“Hm... Is this how you did it? The scar?”

“Yes. I was so frightened the first time, it was done for me. By the time the agreement was made, I could slice without second thought. Second nature. I still do it whenever I practice. I did. I don’t think I could anymore, with my magic gone.”

“I’d noticed, a few months ago... in the papers... that he had one as well. I had just sort of thought those who practiced blood magic had a scar in their hand, that- that that was sort of a common denominator. But- but now that I think about it, the right hand is odd for someone who wields with the right. But it matches yours.”

“Yes. Palms bleeding and our hearts beating out of our chests,” Albus recalled with his own heart fluttering, whether that was because of Quentin’s finger still tracing his injury or because it hurt so much, he didn’t know. “I’d never felt that proud, that strong. I was twisted, easily beguiled. New magic excited me, and those realms of magic I had never looked into because they’d been forbidden before. It was the thrill of the forbidden, and I captured and freed within. I thrived in it. Blood magic, even the necromancy, the delusions of grandeur, that we’d rule the world together. That we sodomites, just us two flowery, feminine boys could rule the world, that we’d be the standard, we’d be the idols. That one day, everyone would want to be like us, and didn’t want us to be like them anymore. A part of me wishes I could still live in that summer, just a few more days of blissful ignorance before- Just a little bit more tenderness, a bit more love.”

“Pardon me, but- your... ah- time together-“

“Call it what it was. You needn’t be shy now.”

“It was more of an intellectual relationship... or? It sounds like you were more focussed on future-planning and theories and experiments and such.”

“Oh, we experimented plenty,” Albus snorted cynically. “Sometimes even with science, when we found the time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you think- really, you think we sat side by side, straight, and plotted our grand revolution? Connected in our minds, and naught else? Please. I just showed you the undeniable beauty, do you think seventeen-year-old me was unimpressed by the most beautiful person he had ever seen? Oh, and trust me, it was probably at least mildly enlightening to kiss a boy for the first time after fawning over every pretty one for a decade give or take.”

“I don’t know, was it?”

“Ask, I doubt you’ll get an answer. Though, whoever manages the mail, probably Rosier, will have a laughing fit of the finest.”

Quentin’s cogwheels took a while longer than Albus would have thought, but then again... to imagine the other as anything other than a brutal killer probably took a significant amount of convincing. Not everyone had the misfortune of knowing the shier, emotionally-needy side of the monster. 

“You- you were- but-“

“By Gryffindor, yes, I was the first.”

“Seriously.”

“Yes.”

“Seriously. You were the spiky blond’s first kiss.”

“Yes.”

“But he not yours.”

“I told you, Hellea McCrody on a dare. Another girl ambushed me with it once, poor darling, I turned into a veritable pillar of salt. Then a fifth-year when I was in seventh. I had a dalliance with a Muggle boy from the village for a winter break. I’d gotten around at least a little by that point.”

“You’re kidding me. Blood magic, necromancy, getting expelled-“

“But no kiss, no. Absolutely no interest, no necessity before. Too utterly shy, too frightened, terrified of rejection, of opening up like that. Of letting someone in somehow. Ten days before that was defenestrated gracelessly.”

“Gracelessly?”

“You’d hardly call- like ten seconds of me being petrified because I didn’t think it would happen at all, let alone like that, and someone just putting their mouth to mine, you’d hardly call that graceful, would you? That is not bearing in mind the jumping away and literally wanting to flee the house that was Bathilda’s and leaving me sitting there flabbergasted. Merlin, I almost had to give pursuit to the front door to catch up and repeatedly assure I was interested, just felt like an Erumpent had stomped me into the ground. We never did first times well. It was one of our only imperfections. Yes, Quentin,” Albus snorted and finally pulled his hand away, “in addition to a deeply intimate, physical and emotional relationship, we also managed to somehow sustain an intellectual one.”

“It- I don’t doubt it, you’re just making it sound like it wasn’t so... physical, so... full of emotions.”

“Because it’s easier to think it was just intellectual, just planning and plotting. I don’t need to recall all the mornings in bed, the endless embraces where we couldn’t let go or else our hearts would fall out of our chests, the quiet moments, the unobserved ones in which we were just youths. In weakness and strength, it didn’t matter.”

“So- so the moral of the story is that you and- and the spiky blond- that he-“

“You can say it.”

“It was- mutual.”

“Everything was. We developed accordingly. We wanted the same things, at the same time. Yes, Quentin, it was mutual.”

“Do you think-“ Quentin began before halting in the middle of the sentence and fiddling with the label of his bottle. “Forget it.”

“Just say it. Do I look like I could really be doing much worse?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, then what was the entire last hour or two for? Not injuring me by talking about how the love of my life became so unrecognisable that you can’t even fathom kindness, affection, genuine, boundless love? Because- because it was there, from both of us. Everything was. I cried, but I also wiped tears off of cheeks that weren’t mine. I held, and was being held. I- I loved boundlessly, and was being loved boundlessly just as much. Your ignorance blinds you to the truth of it, that I was genuinely cared for, that we were both vulnerable, oftentimes prone to emotion, like an avalanche into each other’s lives. We loved, fully, wholly, unstoppably. Say your piece, be done with it.”

“Well, I was just- well...” Quentin fumbled again, putting the bottle aside. “And- and I’m- I didn’t think he’d be... emotional in the first place, how could I after the last five years, but- but you’re telling me... you’re telling me of a boy that... that cried, Albus- I- I’m just wondering whether-“

“Spit it out.”

“Whether you’re the only one that never... that didn’t- you know, after all this time-“

“Didn’t get over it?” Albus asked back in a hiss. “Thinks about the other near every day, helplessly, hopelessly? Wishes times were different, that, maybe, with no war to eradicate love, it could still linger? You’re asking whether I think-“

“Yeah. It’s a stupid question. It answers itself. We don’t need to-”

“What do you think, then?”

“I- well, I don’t truly know. If anything has become clearer to me this eve, it is that I base my expectations on my perception of the present, and am startlingly incapable of constructing a different image based on the distant past. I know the man from the papers, and I cannot imagine love to be in his repertoire, even in his past. But here you sit, and- and tell me so unabashedly that he loved, and brightly, and tightly, and- and you’re telling me he cried, felt lonely, acted like a boy, just like a regular, normal, un-psychopathic boy, and I wonder... I wonder whether I- whether my biases cannot give a correct prediction or answer. But- but it seems what I think... it’s not important, is it? You’re a fairer hand at assessing him. What do you think?”

“You’re asking me whether-“ Albus hesitated, then took a deep breath, collecting himself before saying the name for the first time since it all. “You’re asking me whether it is within the realm of possibility that Gellert Grindelwald is still in love with me?”

   And in that moment, Albus made a decision. 

Chapter Text

   “What I’m about to tell you will seal the fate of our future as partners. Or, rather, as separated.”

“You keep saying that,” Quentin grumbled in reply. “Keep saying that, and it keeps being untrue.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I. You’ve attempted to break up with me over fifteen different things, mostly because you thought you know what was best for me, and I won’t stand for that. If you don’t like me anymore, if you want to take another partner, or if you just think it’s not enough between us, well, then fine, of course I’ll take the hint. But not because of some outside force.”

“I am truly serious.”

“Albus, you-“

“Quentin Althea Malfoy. I need you to listen to me. I- my courage is waning, my heart a dastard, I- I cannot hide this from you for a second longer, and I swear on my- my darkest nightmares that this will be the thing that terminates us. Please, believe me that you won’t- you won’t forgive this or tolerate this as you did other things.”

“Why forewarn me then?”

“Because- I don’t know, because... because I just want you to be ready for terrible news. And- and that you needn’t take my feelings on the matter into consideration, that I expect, that I know you will end it. That you just say the word, and it’s over.”

“Albus, I’ve seen you Obliviate a Great Hall full of people, and I know you fooled around with the world’s most dangerous terrorist and avidly practiced blood magic and even necromancy, that you apparently did something to utterly put my life in danger, and I’m sitting here. Alright, maybe not gleefully, and I’d need some time to figure it all out, but- what can be worse than that?”

“Is that a challenge?” Albus asked mirthlessly, his anguish carving lines into his already-harrowed face. 

Coming by a mirror to see just how much his hair, especially his beard, had grown out of control, he had found himself finally looking close to fifty. Time had been kinder to him than others, but at forty-seven, age, it seemed, was finally catching up with him.  

“Look me in the eye and tell me I’ll end things.”

“You’ll end things,” Albus obliged, his milky blue eyes meeting Quentin’s strong, green-brown ones. He had never noticed just how soothing it was to look into them. “I have an unforgivable secret. Oh, I have a numerous amount of unforgivable secrets, but- but this is the one that will make the ba- break the camel’s back.”

Quentin scrutinised him for at least two minutes, with eyes far too attentive for how much he had drunk. Really, he must have consumed some potion or another to maintain such mental clarity. His hand came to rest, his body stiffened, his shoulder in juxtaposition slumped. 

“Very well then. Allow us a kiss goodbye, my darling Glumbumble.”

“If I were a terrible person, would you still...”

“I like to draw lines, leave no open endings. If you truly think whatever you are about to tell me will cause me to end our relationship, please allow me to draw a line underneath our wonderful year with each other. Well. Not quite a year yet.”

“No?”

“Two more days, and we would’ve made it, it being the second of March today and you having been that beautifully Gryffindor-ish? Ah, well, having mustered the courage to confess. Must you ruin everything nice?” Quentin snickered, though the darker emotions kept shining through.

“One,” Albus grumbled with realisation, “not my fault last year was a leap year.”

“True. Sure you can’t break up with me tomorrow?”

“We’re ten minutes from the midnight hour.”

“Sure has to be a long kiss, then,” Quentin remarked with that genuine sparkle in his eyes. 

“Is it really that important to you?”

“Slytherin, no. I’m just trying to lighten the mood. I don’t think you’ve laughed in weeks.”

“I don’t think anything can make me laugh anymore.”

“Then allow me to fulfil you otherwise,” his lover whispered, quickly placing his calloused hand at Albus’ cheek, drawing him over, in, closer-

   It felt glorious. 

   Quentin’s lips were so familiar at this point, but the whole world had broken apart since their last kiss which had been hasty and with Quentin’s lips still tasting like him after their quick distractive escapade on his divan. Now, they tasted like Firewhiskey, strong and biting, forceful and precisely as deeply as Albus secretly required it though he didn’t feel like kissing. He felt so weak, so hopeless, so powerless; a demonstration of strength and power surely did not go amiss. On the contrary, Quentin soon became the only thing Albus could truly hold onto in the storm of his own emotions as they betrayed him. His rock, his steady, and he had let it all fall apart. This was the end, their curtain call, their last dance. It crashed onto him with such startling force that the only thing he could truly do was to inch closer, to cling tighter, to kiss with more conviction and affection than he had, he found, in a very long time, relinquishing control. Not many of his kisses were the last ones – there typically were no such things, no deliberately planned last kiss in the thunderstorm of an expired relationship, only kisses that grew bittersweet in the memory and didn’t quite taste bittersweet when they occurred. The bitterness burned Albus’ tongue, the sweetness an addictive, and somehow, nothing else stained his memory but the ache and appreciation he felt simultaneously. Losing Quentin- 

   It was one thing to know that there was an expiry date on something, and another to check it and find it long overdue, find something having spoiled due to one’s own inattention, or one’s otherwise unwise actions. It had all been so casual, and Albus had adored it for what it had been, easy, carefree, and just so utterly supportive. Ridiculous to think, now as he buried his hand in Quentin’s long, luscious blond hair, that Quentin, who hadn’t even been interested in men, had been one of his best partners, always so good to him. So real, and raw, and honest, so liberal and enlightening. Albus wondered whether he had truly ever grown so well alongside another person, enough to still like and approve of himself by the end of it, and beyond the point. Whether... whether perhaps Félice had been such a positive influence? Whether Caspian, his longest relationship clocking in about almost two years shortly before the war – part of the reason why they had split – had taught him nearly as much. Or- no. No, he had only ever changed him for the dramatic, not the healthy, Caspian at least had been a good listener and not entirely too concerned with Albus’ status as one of the most magically apt people in the world. Bayu had made him grow spiritually, had eased him into the ropes of meditation and care for one’s own self. He would probably have an aneurysm seeing how poorly Albus treated his own body on occasion. But his outlook on the world, on honesty, on togetherness? Nobody had taught him like Quentin, and to think he could have had it years earlier, to think he could have made it last longer, he could not have lost it so easily if only he had been honest, if- if he had followed his brain instead of his-

   Whatever rotten, needy part of him had made the decision eventually, it didn’t matter. Quentin was just one of the casualties of his war. 

   It made Albus kiss more desperately still, that he would never get it again. Maybe it was good that there were no goodbye kisses – especially if one of the parties just didn’t ever want to let go again. He didn’t want to. Quentin wasn’t- he wasn’t the other, but- but maybe, in his life, Albus didn’t always need the thing he most desired, maybe something- maybe something else would have done the trick as well. Maybe he would have been happy, strung along as a side romance- nay, strung along as a side shag or kiss whenever the other had wanted it. Just some affection, sometimes, someone to lose his worries with. One of his gentlest relationships with a man five years his junior going by the chosen name Lumi, just kisses and caresses and embraces all day around as the other had discovered he indeed perhaps wished to spend time with men also, sometimes, though perhaps not most predominantly. Albus had been so glad to be of help, even if that had meant that, as soon as his utility had come to an end, he had been practically erased from the other’s life altogether. Not everything needed to be perfect, spotless, flawless, immaculate. Sometimes, things could just be good, and Quentin and him had been. 

   They had been so good. 

   All their little moments flashed before Albus’ eyes, eggnog-sticky kisses when Quentin had first climbed into his lap, their recent weekly greenhouse dates with some fruit punch, the giddiness at a break successfully and clandestinely spent in one of Hogwarts’ numerous broom closets, their heated afternoon in the Forbidden Forest and tracing all of his lover’s well-formed abdominal muscles with his fingers, Quentin snickering at him when the Glumbumbles had besieged him, how Quentin had slowly but surely told him more about his family life and complex position as a halfway-disgraced member of high society, twirling and swirling and enchanting each other with fire and flowers, Quentin reading his translations constantly, or him falling out of the Flamel fireplace in a Ravenclaw uniform, skirt and all, the candlelight in his eyes and the perfect pitch black of his suit in the restaurant, the steaming lasagna on the table and Quentin’s fingers dancing over his leg, the calm, mature counters he had given Aberforth that afternoon at the Hog’s Head, resting his head on Quentin’s thigh in the wilderness of Dartmoor with his thrilling novel in his hands, that extremely awkward breakfast the morning after they had first kissed, Quentin’s birthday and how gleefully the other had accepted his gifted and truly fashionable self-made bookend, how sweet the other had been to give him prompts to begin the educational conversation with the Gryffindors, how passionately he had kissed him when they had returned from their three-week hiatus and how passionately they had made love thereafter, how Quentin had held him during the Prussia-event, even deflecting Bathilda in his favour, how concerned his little fox had been when Albus had had to flee the country, placing the pocket-square in his pocket before the Ministry Ball, conspiring with Elphias and numerous other friends for a truly unforgettable birthday celebration, when he had asked for his hand in the dance a month in advance, and countless smaller, yet no less meaningful moments of the comforting, loving, raunchy, mirthful, harmonious variety sprang to his heart, overwhelming it, cracking it, shattering it, mending it, and everything all over again. 

   Quentin and him had been so good. 

   And he’d gone and ruined it all, not least of all because a deep, dark, dreary corner of himself still argued faithfully and yet frantically that the person who had almost killed him was a better-suited lover than a genuinely good-hearted, mischievous, caring and brilliant man who had done nothing to deserve what Albus had brought to his doorstep. 

   So he kissed Quentin until his breath ran dry. Until his chest wouldn’t stop aching for a second, as though the kisses, alternating between despair and desolation, were his saving life-line, everything anchoring him to reality, to a past where his arm wasn’t burnt to a cinder, where they had been in a supportive, loving relationship between greatest friends, where Quentin had been safe and alive and well, where the other had just been a little side venture to feel powerful and in control of his destiny instead of a possessive, jealous monster that had almost forced Albus’ death, where it was all still jests and practical jokes and moments of sincere, emotionally-mature understanding between them. He couldn’t stop kissing him, clinging to him, pathetically, needily, greedily. 

   Quentin falling out of his life, the only good thing, it sometimes felt like, he had managed to keep sustained healthily. 

   How could he ever let him go? How could those lips, now lacking the taste of alcohol that had gotten lost between them, ever leave his? That hand at his arm, squeezing so tightly it possibly left a mark, how could he move away from it? Their chests so close together, the other’s perfume, his heart, still only held together by Aberforth’s magic and now a bit of his own, thumping so heavily it made him nauseous, that smell in his nostrils, the taste on his lips-

Why did he have to lose every single good thing that had come into his life?!

   Albus felt tears of anguish stream down his cheeks when Quentin’s lips finally relinquished their hold on his own, and he felt all at once like he was plummeting downwards. 

“I- I cared for you, so, so much, Quentin,” he brought out under immense difficulty, needing to voice his feelings despite knowing it was all so selfish and immature to burden the other with it, “I- some days, you were the only guiding star in my firmament, and- and I need you to know that I’m sorry, sorry for everything I’ve done, sorry for the anguish I have caused in the past, and even sorrier for the anguish I still will cause. Everything I touch- it always turns to ashes, and I- and I acknowledge that it’s all me, I am the problem, I leech the energy from others because I don’t have any left, I ruin the lives of others because my own is such a wreck, I- people keep telling me that I’m the voice of the light, but- but I’m not a good man, I’m a magnet for disaster and tragedy, and- and I should never have allowed for us to begin this, I should have pushed you away from the very start to save you from my shadow, but I was selfish, and- and immature, and I cared, and I wanted something good to happen to me, and you were something good, and I took you, and I dragged you into my life, and then into my misery, and then into my list of casualties, and-“

“You’re breaking up with me. For real this time,” Quentin’s reply came slow as the movement of the mountains themselves. 

“No. You’re breaking up with me.”

“I’m not breaking up with you, Al, you can’t force me to. Sure, I’m incredibly frustrated with you, and confused, and- and a whole bunch of other things, but if you give me time-“

“No.”

“No?”

“No, this- this isn’t an order. This is a promise. This is me, telling you what is going to happen in the next... quarter hour if I can get myself to admit the truth. You will do it, I know it, and- and it’s- it’s perfectly reasonable, actually, it’s- you’ll hate me, and it’ll be right, you should, but I just-“ he bit down hard on his lower lip, more tears shooting into his eyes. “I just-“

Quentin shushed him so gently it cracked his heart apart, and a sob found its way through his throat, then another. There was such boundless, selfless love within the other, and Albus didn’t deserve even a fraction of it. 

“I had- I had such a crush on you, I’ve- for a decade, probably since before the war, I’ve-“

“Sh,” he made again, now with soothing circles drawn over his shoulder. “Cry first, speak second.”

“No! No, I- I can’t- I need to tell you this because- because I don’t deserve you caring for me like this, you shouldn’t be supporting me, you shouldn’t want to be in the same room as me-“

“For that youth romance of yours? Please, Albus, I’m not precisely stoked, but I’m more shocked you wouldn’t actually tell me, warn me, at the very least, tell me if was someone that’s now on the other side, just for my own safety as well.”

“It’s not about that!” he exclaimed helplessly through another sob. “I don’t want you to care for me because I’ve got a secret far worse than this and- and you already know it, you just don’t realise that- that it’s all just the blunt truth and- 

“Well, whatever it is or isn’t, you’re not going to tell me if you’re busy crying the entire time, Albus. Tears first, words second.”

“No!” he shrieked, something twisting in his chest again. “No! No, I have to tell you, now, because- because if I don’t do it now, I don’t know whether I ever will, because- because I killed you, and- and I... and I’ll never be able to forgive myself for it, I-“

“Now you’re not making sense anymore, Glumbumble... I’m here. I’m right here, sitting next to you, I’m not dead nor anywhere near to it. How can I prove to you that I’m alive, that I’m well, that I-“

“Now... Now you are, but tomorrow? Or the day after? He’s never going to stop until he finds you. Your sentence is set in stone, it is only a matter of time until it is finally etched in. I- I signed your death sentence and-“

“Can you let my death be my worry? Please, you’re beginning to frighten me, Albus, you sound like you are- like you are removing yourself from reality again like you did last week and I don’t want to see that happen again. Please just- just breathe for me. I don’t have my smelling salts on me, so... please just breathe for me.”

“You- you’ll hate yourself for caring, you’ll shove me away-“

“Let that be my worry. I deal with my own actions, Albus.”

“What I did was terrible, inexcusable, un-“

“I am my own person, Albus Dumbledore,” Quentin stated with a professor’s authority. “My decisions are my own.”

“I- I lied to you, I deceived you, I off-loaded things onto you under pretences and then I- then I put your life at risk for months and then I killed-“

“Get your over-thinking, self-important head out of your ass!” the other exclaimed a great deal more loudly than he had seemingly expected himself to. “For Merlin’s and Morgana’s sake, when will you realise that it takes two to tango? I’ve known you twenty years, I’ve liked you eighteen of those, ever since you made me laugh so hard it eventually ended up being the memory I cast my first successful Patronus of, I’ve loved you for certainly a decade of those, you’re my best friend, one of two, anyways, you could’ve killed a man for no reason other than sadism and I’d still stand by your side and support you and try to help you as best as I can! Maybe we won’t have a relationship afterwards, but I sincerely doubt you could make me want to not be your friend anymore. I know you, I know the man you’ve been, the war healer, the scholar, the peace-maker, the- how many evenings have you stayed up late to correct student essays, how many nights did you spend sleepless because of some student ailment or another, you, Bali and Armando have been here longest despite you being the second-youngest with Xoco now, you’ve tirelessly worked towards helping and healing every single person you’ve ever come across, you’ve dedicated your life to helping children find their path in this world, you constantly fight for the rights of everyone that has been discriminated against, you call bias to attention at staff meetings, you protect people with your life, you are one of the biggest defenders of the rights of those that aren’t pure of blood, half-blood, Muggle-born, I’ve seen you take days out of your holiday time to explain to agitated Muggle parents the very fundamentals of magic, you supervised summer camp and didn’t even want pay for it, Albus, I’m serious, if- if you did something bad, well... don’t you think you’ve done so much good for this world that it can’t all be that terrible? Please, listen to me, Glumbumble,” Quentin reaffirmed so softly it almost didn’t leave his vocal chords, one hand at Albus’ cheek, and tears running over his thumb. “I can’t watch you destroy yourself like this. Breathe with me. That’s your number one priority right now. Nothing else matters but you breathing at regulated, mandated intervals, do you understand? Be fucking selfish for once and breathe.”

   Albus did as he was told, the hand on his chest indicating his movements. Mindlessly, he followed the other’s commands, so emotionally exhausted from everything that he could barely keep his eyes open whilst he knew that the land of dreams had become the cragged hell-scape of nightmares. Eventually, the tears dried up. Eventually, Quentin’s hand broad over his ribs felt like he was quite literally keeping his heart in place. 

“I did what I did for the greater good,” Albus gathered the courage to say, the words causing ripple-waves of discomfort, like pouring molten metal into more molten metal, so smooth and eerie and silver-perfect. “Or so I claimed.”

“What precisely did you do?”

“When in truth... it was all the greater good of my own heart, unfixable thing, to mend it with the only substance I knew would mend it temporarily. Until I overdosed. Until I went too far, and now, I won’t be able to protect anyone anymore.”

“Are you telling me- well, quite frankly, I’d noticed you were either particularly partial to the Dreamless or the liquor bottle of late, but...”

“My greatest addiction was no bottle, or vial, or powder, or needle-sting. My greatest addiction has always been a person.”

“Who?”

“You know who,” Albus answered quietly, dejectedly.

“Oh. Yes, I suppose. But how can you overdose on that?”

“I was only ever granted two months. I got sixty-seven days with the love of my life, nothing more. No letters, not a single word, only newspaper articles painting the devil- and painting it right. He’s mad, he is. At first, I just wanted to do good. I just wanted to protect Nicolas, and find out about the man I later learned was my nephew, and- and get to the bottom of the mystery of the vision, but-“

“Sixty-seven- Merlin, that isn’t enough.”

“Eighty-five, now.”

“Hm?”

“It’s eighty-five, now. Of course, I’ve calculated that too. I wanted to do it right. If I can’t raise my wand, then I won’t raise my voice. I thought to try reason. Diplomacy. Only, it’s hard to be diplomatic around terrorists. Even harder still to be diplomatic around boys you used to love. It was bound to be more than diplomacy from the first time we laid eyes on each other, but I thought myself better than that. I thought- I thought him more despicable in person still.”

“Wait, Albus, you have to start at the beginning, I don’t think I’m seeing entirely where you’re coming from.”

“The year before last, I- one evening, I got horribly drunk and I- I wrote a letter.”

“A letter? To whom?”

“You know that already, don’t you?”

“Gr- the spiky blond. You wrote to him,” Quentin’s voice came slowly, but laced with realisation. “What did you write? And- oh, Slytherin himself forbid, if you were plastered, was it coherent?”

“Coherent enough, I suppose. I mentioned that some explanations were needed, about- about the topics I addressed. Putting Nicolas at risk, Aurelius, the vision in Paris. I ordered a quid pro quo.”

“What did you have to leverage to achieve it?”

“Nothing much, really. I had to endure some tea-time snacks, but that wasn’t so bad. The tea was bland, but it was a mountain hut in the middle of nowhere, I couldn’t expect a brilliant cuppa there out of all places. I suppose it was implicit that it would be for old times’ sake, that I was owed at least a plate of food and a moderately decent cuppa for all the emotional damages.”

“You- you met him. In person. Not some... some members of the inner circle, the man himself.”

“Yes. Please, could you imagine a control-freak delegating me to someone else?”

“Fair point.” A little hesitance clung to Quentin’s voice as he pondered. “You- you said it didn’t- it didn’t end... well...”

“I’d never been that injured. Until the war. Until the resurgence. Until now.”

“He broke your heart.”

Albus didn’t answer, he didn’t have to. It was obvious enough. It was true. Even when he had stretched himself in useless, childish forgiveness these past few months, he had never been able to even begin to fathom the notion of having perhaps broken his own heart. Not for him. Ariana, yes. But never the other. 

“Purposefully? Intentionally, or...”

“I don’t want to talk about that. Ever.”

“Alright. Yeah, yeah, sure, of course, Al... and then these past few years, never letting anything slip, with all the strain, the political, social pressure... Sytherin’s balls, that must’ve been hell and beyond. I- I can’t even imagine how that must have felt. I admire your self-restraint. I mean, even with a bond binding you not to punch each other in your perfect teeth, Merlin, I would’ve honestly risked it.”

“It was easier than it ever should have been.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. H-“ Albus swallowed before feeling Quentin’s hand close to his, intertwining their pinkie fingers, squeezing. “He was affable. Rambled about food. We had a small ideological squabble, some... starting difficulties in the region of diplomacy. It was breathtaking, this quaint little hut three thousand feet or so above a valley, everything exploding in various shades of green and colours of flowers all around. I was so nervous, I barely-“

“The potion!” Quentin exclaimed at once. “The silver-tongue potion! Is that really what you needed it for?!”

“I resolved to buy you a vineyard by the end,” Albus just answered, resisting the urge to lean over. “Your potion saved my arse so many times that meeting, I couldn’t even count it. Not ten minutes in, he bluntly asked why I had summoned him to an audience, stating that he doubted it was because I wanted to show off ‘the rather strikingly handsome face’ I maintained. I think I even showed him up once or twice. In the end, he gave me his memory of an amalgamation of his visions, made me promise to return it sometime.”

“Hold up- hold up, he said what?”

“No doubt to unsettle me.”

“Were you unsettled?”

“Thanks to your potion, I could somewhat save my skin, though... I don’t remember how, nowadays. I was so stressed, I barely remembered the taste of the food afterwards.”

Quentin took a deep breath, then a slow sip, drawing up one of his legs.

“I can’t even imagine how- like, you must have been Occluding like your life depended on it. Nay, your life did depend on it. How- wait, so I’m getting this quite right, you were extremely plastered, near-demanded explanations on numerous topics-“

“I did request a face-to-face. It is easier to read between the lines on someone’s face than those of someone’s feather, especially a naturally-talented wordsmith.”

“But you still demanded to be- to be met somewhere clandestinely to get explanations and walked away giving nothing away and with a memory of a vision- oh, I remember that! You kept investigating that vision, you mentioned that numerous times! You talked to Nott about it, I remember Travers being all up your arse about that, too... That you went to the library, didn’t you once come my way with a stack of books the size of a human being that you borrowed from the library? Did you eventually figure out anything about it, that vision? Anything the world hadn’t?”

“I interpreted something into it that- that seems to be a plausible explanation. It’s sort of... well, it was important for a while, but- but I haven’t done the legwork in a while because- because it’s not nearly as prominent in Britain as it is on the continent, or at least I haven’t heard- it’s being investigated, the Germans are investigating heavily, someone has kept me updated here and there, to my luck. But I’ve never put much stock in preventing a future that is not yet sealed, push comes to shove, you’d only make it worse, or cause whatever is to happen. I- I don’t have the mind right now to discuss that old hat.”

“Sure, sure... I mean, that was ‘round the time of camp, wasn’t it? Merlin, that’s ages ago now. Wait, you met- I just realised that, that was- that wasn’t last spring, that was the one before that, right? You met- Oh!” Quentin exclaimed at once and almost dropped the bottle. “Oh! Oh!”

“I assume that means one penny or another just dropped?”

“Cherry traybake!”

“Excuse me?” Albus wrinkled his forehead. Of all things to expect, that had not been one of them. He had expected himself to struggle more, to- but if he was to die, couldn’t he at least make a valiant effort? What did it matter if Quentin knew it now or by the time he died? It would all come out regardless at some point. He would break at some point regardless.

“We were having cherry crumble traybake!”

“Ah... I suppose? It’s the Elves third-favourite crumble traybake, so I suppose... at some point we did?”

“When we were making the common room!” Quentin exclaimed giddily, “and I dropped a whole piece on the floor because you got assaulted by the eagle-“ he stopped abruptly before taking Albus by the shoulder. “The eagle! By the Founders, Albus, the eagle! You looked me straight in the eye and told me it was from- and I thought you had the single driest humour of all time, but- but you weren’t even kidding, were you? You’d actually just gotten a letter from him! Oh my heavens, I’m right, aren’t I?! They’re all the same person! They’re all the same!” Quentin shrieked, his voice having taken on an almost glass-breaking tone of shock. “Pretty boy, the spiky blond, the eagle molester, they’re the same! All this time, I thought they were separate entities and- When you got- oh fuck.”

“Now the penny dropped.”

“Oh- oh fuck, I’m so sorry!”

Albus was so flabbergasted by Quentin’s genuine apologetic tone that he couldn’t help but gape. It didn’t make any sense. Why would Quentin- what would Quentin be sorry for? Albus had just told him- he had figured out in no uncertain terms that all letters delivered by eagle had been from him, Albus had been colluding with the enemy for months, for years at this point, he had let the eagle live in his chambers before he had almost murdered it in his emotional chaos, he’d told Quentin everything, one of these moments, he had to come to the conclusion that- that he had kissed him, that he had- one of these moments, it had to click- 

Quentin was still apologising furiously to the point where Albus interceded just by sheer force of lack of social skills. 

“Huh?”

“I- you- oh fuck, you got an eagle message in the Great Hall that once, and- and I alleged it was a love letter! You got a letter from him and I- and I in my infinite- oh fuck me, how could I have been so insensitive?!”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I- you got that letter delivered to you from the eagle, in the Great Hall, and- and I shushed everyone at the staff table, and- well, I must’ve uttered some variation of lo and behold, our little chick has received a love letter! And all the while, you’d actually gotten-”

“Billet-doux,” Albus remembered, startled to have all but forgotten that morning. ‘A needlessly pompous friend taking a piss,’ he had called the whole affair. Merlin, that felt like decades in the past now. “That- that’s what you called it. I remember. I’d almost forgotten that. That were his first words to me in almost thirty years. Azul snatched the ham from Armando’s toast.”

“Azul?”

“The eagle. Has a name. Azul. It- right, you took the mick out of me like that morning. I admit, that was expertly done.”

“I- fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? You needn’t be sorry for that.”

“I made everyone look at you when- had you even heard from him since... since your time together?”

“Only through the papers.”

“And I- I made everyone look at you when you got the first letter from the love of your life? Oh heavens I can’t believe I was that insensitive. I’m whole-heartedly sorry.”

“You didn’t know. That was literally the last person in the world to ever send me a letter, you couldn’t have guessed if I’d told you to pick the least likely option. I wasn’t ever- I wasn’t ever offended, it actually helped me. I think I would have- I wouldn’t have been nearly as fine had I gotten it alone, I would’ve been in my head about it, especially... well, it was the day after because the eagle didn’t come on time, I would’ve wrecked my brains more and you actually did me a favour.”

“Really? Still, I- I never meant to make a joke so tasteless. I- I ran the real risk there of utterly cracking you open, because- because I wanted the attention, making a joke at your expense... I should have been more mature, I should have seen that your turmoil... But the eagle came once or twice, didn’t it? So there were numerous letters.”

Albus gazed at the bookshelves, all those volumes of literature, science, fiction, all those cautionary tales that should have taught him better. 

“If only.”

“Not only letters.”

“No. If only there’d only been letters.”

“You met again afterwards,” he realised, stretching his leg out – Albus couldn’t believe this conversation, the entirety of it, was happening on the carpet of his living room, him with an alternated Calming Draught practically disabling his reasonable thought, and Quentin, who had gone through a quarter bottle of Firewhiskey only since his arrival and seemed to be completely clear, mentally. Anywhere, but not here, now. “Oh! Oh, that’s why you said eighty-something! Oh, alright, now the beginning of your story makes sense, I thought we’d never get there. Merlin’s beard. A dozen times, a bit more, you’re saying?”

“I can take it.”

“What?”

“Whatever words you craft, I can take them. You may make them as blunt, as hurtful, as destructive as you wish.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I met the enemy,” Albus stated, feeling the magic invade his body at once – it should have spared him, should have broken, that evening. He wished it had. He dreamt it had, to give him a fighting chance. Only, that made it so much worse. “Numerous times.”

“Exactly.”

“Yes, precisely.”

“Right?! Merlin’s tits.”

“So go on. Voice it all. Let me hear it. Pull off the leeches.”

“I’m beginning to think we don’t mean the same thing,” Quentin stated slowly. “Because I think you’re the greatest guy ever right about now and I’m not getting the feeling you think yourself that.”

“You mean to say the worst.”

“The worst? Why would I say that?!”

Albus gave him a disbelieving look he usually reserved for the occasions when one of his friends told him some unbelievable tall tale.

“I had organised tea-time dates with the worst person in the world! Organised hikes through the countryside. We were in a rowing boat once. Had ice cream. I agreed to research for him, to partner with him for that wretched vision of his. I laughed when he joked. I listened when he made his points. I let him- I let him in, I-“

“Albus! You- you went back to the man that broke you apart and tried to talk to him reasonably.”

“You cannot talk to someone like that reasonably. I couldn’t change anything.”

“And? You- do you have any idea how big of a man it takes to even consider approaching the other side? To attempt to make peace? Albus, you- you’re brilliant.”

“I should have known better.”

“You really think that...?”

“I laughed when he joked.”

“Well, if it was as stupid as that berry-joke you improvised, which, in retrospect, I now realise you might not have improvised at all and that might’ve been actually true, well- Albus, you’ve laughed at thousands of my stupid little jokes by now. Laughing is instinctive. You’d catch anyone off-guard with a good joke.”

“We ran out of reasons but we still met.”

Quentin’s finger quickly moved from holding his own to wandering over his hand, soon holding the entirety of it. The warmth was almost too much, too strong, too overpowering. It was too gentle, too kind. If Albus hadn’t left all of his tears earlier in the conversation, their last kiss... 

It really was over. It hadn’t really clicked yet, with how tender Quentin was with him. He had no business being this tender. This caring, and soft.

“I would normally tell you- I’d tell you never to go back. To move forward, to cut all ties. I’m- I’m strongly opinionated about this, you know? You wouldn’t believe how many pure-blood fathers I’ve clashed with over the years because their children were hurting from their abuse, there are so many each year, especially in my house, and... and with my own father, you know I have a strong opinion on abuse of any kind, that doesn’t always go over well, I have accidentally hurt children because of my tendencies to claim justice for them, but- the amount of character strength, of hope it must’ve taken you... The things that monster’s done to this world, and- and I don’t know anyone else pure enough of heart and good enough to sit down and just talk. Or- or walk, or even listen and try to understand. You- you always say you’re not a politician, but secretly, you’ve been better than all of them combined, because you actively tried to make piece, and at such a cost to yourself.”

“I got lost in it.”

“He beguiled you, you mean?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I don’t know who beguiled whom.”

“I couldn’t ever imagine staying sane. You got lost, you say, well, I think that’s completely understandable! You were meeting him, who- well, I’ve heard you talk about him before, you somehow manage to keep it all so clearly separated, but the warmth, the love that shines through whenever you talked about your past together... the normal politician has nothing to lose, and they couldn’t overcome their ingrained biases to do anything even remotely connected. You risked losing yourself, everything you were, you risked your own sanity to make peace. How could I not admire that, Albus? No matter what happened, how- how could I not think you the strongest, fiercest person in the world? No matter... no matter the mistakes you made, or... or how affected you were, or... or how much you actually just sunk back into the past, you tried, you risked everything- I mean, if Law Enforcement were to hear of this, they’d smite you! And you did it anyways. Merlin, Albus, did you even tell anyone about all of this?”

“Nicolas. Abe, sort of. Or, rather, Abe always guessed within a fraction of a second, like he could smell it. The less I said, the less it was true. Perhaps in the beginning, it was good intentions, then my nephew, perhaps it was really my will to change the state of affairs that drove me, but... but there was only so long that I could pretend to be decent. We soon became... how- how was I supposed to stay neutral, peaceful, calm, with the love of my life? I saw the monster, I always did. But he was still so much like he used to be. Brilliant, and bright, and stupidly obsessed with all things gorgeous and pretty, and funny, so stupidly funny... Charming,” Albus added, biting his lip, “introspective, normal, sensitive, everything nobody else ever saw, the whole world saw that professional mask and I behind the curtain. I saw the duality, and- and I saw the person I needed, and- and I just gave in at some point, I couldn’t be better, stronger, more resolved. I’ve- I’ve lived a half-life my entire life, almost, I just- I know, it doesn’t justify anything, it never could, I should have been better, more forceful, I should never, never have allowed for any of it to happen, let alone make all the crucial moves...”

“What you told me recently... that was true as well then?”

“I never could bear to lie to you.”

“Kissing.”

“Yes,” Albus confirmed, a lump in his throat making the word come out crooked. 

“He cooked dinner for you.”

“Yes.”

“The thing about the seafood platter?”

“Actually, he loved the alternative, commoner food.”

“Romantic dinner dates.”

“Rarely, but yes.”

“That’s how you know it’s not his real face. That he’s not actually what he looks like in the papers.”

“Yes.”

“Did you kiss often?”

“A few times.”

“How many?”

“I can’t give you a concrete number. Five of the- six of the added days.”

Quentin took a deep, deep breath before gripping the carpet with his other hand, the bottle discarded by the side. 

“You and- I’m sorry, I have to ask it, Albus, you- you and Grindelwald, you’re seeing each other? As in, you’re dating. Each other.”

“Not anymore.”

“Why?”

Albus couldn’t help it – his arm trembled. Then jerked, and by the time he had raised his hand to somehow keep it in place, the message had all but transpired clearly enough.

“Oh fu-“ Quentin began shakily. “He- HE did this to you. He- he cursed you?”

“I never stood a chance.”

“I thought- but didn’t you tell me you made a bond, couldn’t even raise your wands? I know those in the Malfoy tradition, my stupid mother let herself be convinced into one, I only figured that out when she got admitted to St Mungo’s recently, can you believe it? She could’ve told me she didn’t report because she physically couldn’t, but no... but I mean... wouldn’t that be a betrayal? What you described didn’t sound like a monogamy-clause or those that we burden the Elves with, more like a... desertion of ideals and all. Wait, why- why would- I mean, I understand he’s a nutter and all, but-“

“I always thought his worst quality was his coldness, his distance, his removedness, but it turns out... his fire... his affection... his- his investment is infinitely more dangerous.”

   It had burned. 

Albus remembered only fragments of the actual agony, but that was enough. He remembered a bone snapping here and there, when he listened, which in consequence meant that he never did listen, never rested, never could. Albus had broken many bones, but never like this. The physical trauma alone, Xoco said, would perhaps never be resolved entirely. He couldn’t have curled his hand around the bottle like Quentin did, couldn’t have frustratedly torn off any remnants of the label, leaving the fragments sinking into the beige threads of his carpet. He remembered that terror, that fear he had never felt before. Oh, Albus knew the grand collection of all things in the realm of negativity, but he had never been this frightened before. Scared to lose his life, more scared still that Quentin would lose his. It was this fear, nothing else but this primal fear that had triggered the apparition, the thought alone that had spat him out in Quentin’s chambers. How he wished he could have treasured life now, but the emptiness within him only seemed to grow boundlessly.

“He knows about me,” Quentin stated mechanically, dejectedly, completely emotionlessly. “About us. Because you told him. Or otherwise let it slip. You literally- It was you who gave us away.”

Quentin would die, and soon. Or, perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps he would wish to. Plead to. Beg to. But Albus had seen the methodology, the victimology. He had heard that speech just as everybody else had. A mercy to die. It was only a matter of time now. Any day now could be the one. If Albus was teaching again, surely the other was back too. It made his chest constrict so painfully he could not draw breath anymore. 

“If you decide,” Albus brought forth under immense difficulty, “to turn me in to the authorities, for the sake of our friendship, our alliance, our dalliance of past days, for twenty years in which we cared so much, I ask for a favour.”

“And which one would that be?”

The wariness was there now. The understanding. Now, finally, the pieces had clicked, and Quentin understood.

“A small vial of an imperfectly brewed Draught of the Living Death, with over-due juice from the Sopophorous bean. I ask that you smuggle it to me before I am taken away.”

“But, Albus, over-due juice of the Sopophorous bean, even just a small vial, that’d kill-“ he cut himself off abruptly before backing away, his eyes widening. “Albus, you can’t mean-“

“I won’t die as my father did, losing my mind to the near-kisses of Dementors, losing my identity in my final years, alone, secluded in a cell. I’d rather die on my own terms. I’ve wanted to for a very long time anyways.”

Quentin stood hastily, not giving him even the hint of an answer. The assertive glance, from above, soon turned to scrutiny whilst Albus simply slumped against the wall, a far cry from everything he had ever been. A month ago, he’d been so full of determination, so full of strength and resolve. But the moment the curse had connected, it had all been eradicated. Drained and bled out of him. His heart had broken in his chest. He still didn’t remember most of the day without instantly jumping into the cold, hyperventilating embrace of panic. He just remembered how much it had hurt, more than anything had hurt his body his entire life. The bullets during the war, a far cry from what had been done to him. He would never be alright again. How could he live with the thought? How could he comprehend that notion, that he would always be broken in some way? 

“You were right,” Quentin eventually said. “You were right, that is a deal-breaker.”

“For what it may or may not be worth, I never wanted to endanger you. But it is all my fault, and I take full responsibility. You are entirely right in blaming me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m not going to amble. Yeah, Albus, ‘tween us, that’s no more. Look, I- I believe in you, and- and that you couldn’t harm a fly on purpose, but... and I’ll be there, whenever you need me, but- but not as a partner. Not after that. It’s not even the truth, too. I mean, fuck, of course it's- but it’s the secrecy. I can’t stand that you didn’t- that you didn’t know me enough to understand that I would always support you, come hell or high water, even if something like that happened. I don’t want to give you any false hope. We’re over. Permanently. I’m incredibly sorry, but… I have to be resolute about this.”

Chapter Text

   Misky the Elf would never have admitted this to her sisters, but Misky didn’t remember her real mother or father. 

   The only person Misky remembered was Sir, a completely different Sir, however. With blond-brunet hair, a smirk unlike any other, often dressed in only two layers of clothes and constantly doing magic, more than Misky had thought any person could do magic without exhausting themselves. Misky remembered Sir as wild and strong, easily excitable and even more easily irritable, remembered Sir’s whispers in Misky’s innermost thoughts and Sir’s mind impressing and etching itself into Misky’s whilst also being completely different from other wizards. 

   Not that Misky had known this at the time – she had thought all wizards were like this, twice as tall as her and so incredibly magic, and interested by every single thing around them. Meeting another wizard had been a grave disappointment. Misky chuckled now whenever she remembered that she hadn’t even understood the concept of witches until she had been four years old and someone had come to Schloss Drachenthron that had looked so drastically different from Sir that Misky had thought there were more species of beings than just wizards and Elves. Misky remembered how much her sisters had laughed at her when she hadn’t understood, but Misky in turn remembered how Lisky had fainted when Sir had cooked for them for the first time, and how Bisky had shrieked when Sir had brought home a cadaver for the first time ‘to practice on’. 

   Sometimes, very quietly so that no one could hear it, Misky thought of Sir as her maker. Through a book, Misky had learned that there was something called adoption in the wizarding world, where someone took the child of someone else and cared for it, and sometimes, very quietly so Sir would not ever find out about it, Misky pretended to think Sir had adopted Misky and had made her what she was today. Misky felt a lot of conflicting sentiments about her upbringing, her position in this world, and, most recently, about the new Elves. All of them. Especially Deirdre, whom Sir seemed to like most, and who couldn’t stop blabbering about Sir. Misky had once suggested making a flower-garden, but Sir hadn’t listened, and now Deirdre suggested the same and Sir jumped at the idea?! Misky was concerned as well about Føjan becoming the new Misky because Sir had only picked Føjan because he was so young and could still be made to be a better Elf than other Elves. Misky was concerned about Zerra too because Zerra was more efficient than Lisky and Lisky was the most efficient Elf Misky knew, and she didn’t want her sister to be replaced by a boring Elf that didn’t have a personality but rule-obedience. Misky was unsure just what she felt for Sama, but it was different from anything Misky had ever felt before. Lisky and Bisky seemed to think Misky liked Sama in a romantic way, but Misky didn’t know what it was like to like someone in a romantic way, and Misky had never spoken to anyone who had talked about someone in a romantic way, hence Misky was utterly confused about it, and preferred to occupy her thoughts with Sir’s health. 

   Not how scared Misky was before she went to sleep. Misky had recurring nightmares since the bad parasite that she would wake up one morning and Sir would be gone. Misky could not fathom the thought of life without Sir, to imagine the rest of Misky’s life without-

   Misky put on a brave face and high spirits to inspire Sir when Misky apparated in to wake Sir, having been designated because Sir always required aid with his transfigurations in the morning, and was positively surprised to see Sir, at eight! Sir was already sitting at his table with feathers and rolls of parchment. 

“Good morning, Sir,” Misky tweeted. “Is Sir wanting any breakfast?”

Sir didn’t reply. 

“Sir?” 

Sir still didn’t respond when Misky approached on the charmed stone floor, always warm enough. Only when Misky had reached the table did she truly see the situation as a complete picture. 

Sir was seated at his table, yes. There were rolls of parchment, and feathers, and an inkwell seemed to have been knocked over at the side, though the ink almost seemed to have dried already. But Sir- Sir looked very different from usually. Sir was in his original form, the one Misky liked most because it felt most like the Sir that had raised Misky, and if Sir had not blinked every few couple of seconds, Misky would have thought Sir had been petrified in his chair. White lines were covering Sir’s cheeks all the way down to his jaw and contrasted with the darker circles under his eyes, and it took Misky a few seconds to understand that the white lines were salt remains from tears. Sir had cried. A lot. Sir was also wearing the wrong clothes for Sir’s body – Sir never wore jumpers, only Sir’s female body did, sometimes, recently. Maybe Sir had fallen out of his transfiguration? Maybe-

“Sir? Is Sir hurting?”

Sir still didn’t reply, his face didn’t change, his lips didn’t move. Misky risked a look at the table though Misky knew better than to read, and was surprised to see so many even lines on the parchments, not letters written by people or reports, but short lines, all the same length. Like the poetry-books Sir liked to read with a cup of vanilla coffee sometimes. It was all in Sir’s private scribbles, the letters that, whenever Misky saw them, made her feel like home. Was Sir writing poetry too, like the people in the poetry-books? 

“Sir? Can- Can Misky bring Sir something, or- or did Sir have a vision, or-“

A knock on the door interrupted Misky’s soft pleas and she made a very daring decision to apparate right outside of the door to intercept the intruder, who was dressed in a very comfortable shade of pastel purple with black accessories. 

“Oh!” Ms Queenie exclaimed, raising her hand to her chest. “You scared me!”

“Misky apologises.”

“Oh, no worries,” Ms Queenie tweeted much like a little bird, “I didn’t grow up with House Elves, so even though I worked at the ministry, I still get a bit easily startled when you appear outta nowhere like that. It’s nothin’, really.”

“Can Misky be helping Ms Queenie?

“Maybe. But you have to promise me to keep it our little secret for now.”

“Misky will not make any promises before Misky has not heard the favour she is to be giving.”

Other witches, Misky knew, weren’t fond of Elves being self-assured, but Ms Queenie was always kind with Misky, even giving her compliments about her clothes sometimes. 

“Can you check on Gellert? Only... I know he’s inside, I can feel it, but... well, I came by yesterday evenin’, and then earlier in the mornin’, but he doesn’t open. I think he’s very distressed about somethin’, I just wanna make sure he’s okay.”

“Distressed?” Misky inquired politely even though she was very concerned. Sir... Sir was always injured nowadays. The last few weeks had been- Misky didn’t want to think about it. 

“Hm,” Ms Queenie reaffirmed with a sad nod. “I can sense how people feel, you know? Whether they’re doin’ alright, or not so alright.”

“Sir is saying Ms Queenie can read minds.”

“Sometimes,” Ms Queenie chuckled lightly, though it sounded strained. “I can’t read his mind, though, it’s too carefully guarded. He always keeps his thoughts so close to his chest, but... for the past two weeks, I’ve been feelin’ a lot of distress and anger and sadness from him, which I typically can’t.”

“Because Sir is very strong.”

“Or his emotions are not as overwhelmin’ that I would feel them halfway across Nurmengard. When they got so strong I sensed them without even listenin’, I wanted to check in, but I couldn’t come up, there were shields drawn. But then yesterday evenin’, it got worse than before after it had calmed down a little, and I could walk to his door unimpeded, but... Misky, you’ve known him for a very long time, right?”

“Misky has known Sir for almost twenty years,” Misky stated proudly. 

“You must know as well as I that- that sometimes, his emotions are very loud and hurtful.”

“Sir can feel a lot. Sir feels a lot of anger and betrayal.”

“And sadness. Can you- can you just make sure he’s not in any grave danger, or a grave danger to himself? I-“ Ms Queenie began before lowering her voice, “last time I could perceive his emotions this openly, I saw scars on his arm that I’ve only ever seen on people that hurt themselves sometimes, with razor-blades or sharp stones or glass, and- and I just want to make sure the poor dear didn’t go too far in his agony, could you do that for me? Just see whether he is okay?”

Misky had seen the scars too. Sir was very quiet about all of his wounds, the large one on his arm or the little lines over Sir’s back, or his eye nowadays, or the limp in his leg. Misky was always wondering whether Sir was sometimes hurting himself because something was hurting him in his heart and he wanted something else to hurt more. Sir was lonely, Misky knew that because she knew what loneliness felt like. Lisky and Bisky may have been content seeing only Sir in their lives, but Misky wanted to travel one day, and meet many new friends, and sometimes, living in Nurmengard could be very lonely because most witches and wizards didn’t like Misky just because she was an Elf. Misky had been enjoying talking to Sama because she was very lonely as well and even though neither of Misky and Sama ever said it, it was nice to have each other now. Lisky and Bisky, especially Bisky, were always so concerned for Sir’s body and whether it was hurting, but Misky knew that something was always hurting, and Sir was strong enough to bear it. But Misky knew that Sir had a lot of feelings he didn’t tell Misky and her sisters about. It was easy to ignore them when Sir never mentioned them. 

Misky knew, because she had a lot of feelings too that she didn’t talk about.

Misky made a very complicated decision then that Lisky and Bisky would likely reproach Misky for a lot, come time. But Misky could not bear to see Sir so injured. Sir was Misky’s dearest wizard. Misky had been so scared whenever Sir had been injured in the past, Misky didn’t want to feel that suffocating helplessness anymore that Lisky sometimes placed on Misky because Lisky thought herself superior to her sisters just because she was older. Misky could take responsibility. Misky was almost seventeen, Misky could make her own decisions!

“Does Ms Queenie think she can help Sir?”

“I don’t know. He is a very complicated man, with very complicated emotions.”

“Misky is needing to know, can Ms Queenie help Sir?”

“I- I would try my best, of course! But I can’t make any promises, he can be... resilient sometimes.”

“Then Ms Queenie is needing to come with Misky, and cannot tell anyone that Ms Queenie came with Misky.”

“Don’t you worry, dearie, I can keep a secret.”

Misky opened the door with the flick of her wrist, she had that kind of privilege in the halls of Nurmengard. Misky hated the name, had loved Schloss Drachenthron much more after Sir had explained it. Misky liked names that meant something and hadn’t just been made from some letters Lisky had picked. If Misky had known Sir was letting them pick letters, she would have picked some too! Especially s, and o, and th, which Misky thought was one sound but needed two letters, and l, and maybe also m. All combinations sounded so mysterious and powerful in Misky’s brain, but Nurmengard was so... meaningless. Not that Misky would ever have dared to voice the thought, but what Sir had called dragon-throne castle had been so much more interesting. Misky had once seen the Ayida dragon in Africa and Sir was very much like a dragon, so Misky didn’t understand why Sir had changed it when he had accidentally destroyed the castle during his bad vision. 

Sir hadn’t moved from his position at all, as though he was petrified in space, and Misky made sure to close the door immediately when Ms Queenie had entered. Nobody else could see Sir like this. Lisky would hate Misky for bringing in another witch or wizard because Lisky wanted to be a detective and pretend that anyone had hurt Sir, but Lisky was not going to find the culprit in the castle! The culprit lived in a castle called Hogwarts and was responsible for defending children against the health-arts, but nobody ever listened to Misky!

“Gellert? It’s Queenie, I just wanted to check in.”

Sir didn’t answer, again. Usually, Sir always made very sure to keep his masquerade intact, working very hard to have every hair in place, and allow no one to see Sir’s true face, so to have Sir simply sit there without a word frightened Misky. Sir had not been the same since Lisky had found Sir in the sea-house, erratic and quiet at the same time, but never like this except for the first days after Sir had woken up and had continuously injured himself with his magic again, this time thick, silvery strands constricting around him and his magic pushing even Mme Rosier out. 

“Gellert?”

Still no answer, and Ms Queenie walked around the table to stand by Sir’s side, leaning down to observe his face and monitor his reactions whilst Misky stood before the table, wrapping her hands around her lean frame. Misky always saw Sir at his most vulnerable, especially after his visions when he needed to don a different face. Lisky still jerked back on occasion when she saw Sir’s dead eye, but Misky saw Sir’s dead eye at least once a week somehow, and was used to it entirely. Misky knew Sir best. 

“Oh, honey...” Ms Queenie whispered with a heavy touch of affection in her voice, instantly reaching out to stroke over Sir’s shoulder. 

And that was the first time Sir showed any reaction. Misky could quickly see how Sir’s empty eye and Sir’s familiar blue eyes were growing larger, and a few seconds later, Misky understood that it was the liquid collecting in them acting as a mirror that soon dropped from Sir’s eyes when he blinked, and a tear rolled down his stained cheek. Sir looked so quiet and blank, the tear stood in a stark contrast, it made Misky’s chest feel too small. Ms Queenie noticed it very quickly too and wiped it off Sir’s cheek with a touch that seemed as soft as that of fog before Ms Queenie righted her body. 

“Would you be a dear and fetch a large blanket?” Ms Queenie asked Misky and she nodded, instantly summoning that woollen blanket Sir loved so much. 

Sir always said it reminded him of home, so maybe he had had it since he had been little? In the meantime, Ms Queenie took out her wand and waved it about gently to heat up the air a little bit and give it a smell of the forest before tapping Sir’s elegant chair and making it quickly become a pink sofa that Ms Queenie moved back a little bit, stifling her surprise at Sir’s current clothes with moderate success. Sir was wearing clothes Sir would have worn when making himself Franziska – Misky liked this body most because she had helped actually make it – but they looked very odd on Sir now. A long skirt in dark blue was covering Sir to half of his ankles and the heeled shoes were lying kicked aside likely because they had become too small. Ms Queenie wasn’t perturbed for long, though, draping the blanket over Sir’s shoulders and then Sir’s legs as well because it was that large.

“I’m goin’ to sit down with you now, honey,” Ms Queenie announced softly, “and I’m gonna embrace you if that’s okay for you. If not, you can push me away, of course, but I just need you to know you’re not alone, okay? That, no matter what happened, you don’t ever have to talk about it, but you can, I’ll listen, and I’m sure your lovely Elves will listen too, right, Misky?”

“Misky will always listen to Sir!” Misky affirmed as strongly as she could even though she felt very frightened by Sir’s sudden change of feelings. 

The Sir Misky remembered from her very young days was still full of spirit and a certain sense of vain accomplishment whenever Sir had done something right. Misky had come to love the flavour of Sir’s magic when he had done something successfully, but Misky also remembered, in a dark corner of her mind, all the misadventures and the failures after which Sir had been very angry at everything, and Lisky had said not to disturb Sir under any circumstance. Misky knew that Sir could be angry very quickly, and had learned to see the markers of the anger on his face, but seeing Sir like this, so completely... empty? Sir had been in so much pain, and now, Ms Queenie said Sir was emotionally hurting as well? What from? 

Then, something very confusing happened – Misky heard a voice in her head. 

Misky knew what it was like to hear Sir’s voice in her head, but Misky had never heard another voice in her head but Sir’s. Ms Queenie’s voice sounded even softer and tenderer than it sounded when she spoke, and Misky had no idea how to make it stop. Was Ms Queenie really in her head? Sir had said that Ms Queenie could read minds, but could Ms Queenie read minds of Elves too? Normally, wizards and witches could not read the minds of Elves! Misky held onto something when the voice continued. 

<Please, dearie, sit with him too, hold his hand, I think he’s very lonely and needs every little grain of love we can give him. Maybe someone- maybe someone died, or something else very terrible happened, we’re his friends, we need to be strong for him now.>

Misky didn’t usually touch Sir, Elves were not supposed to touch witches and wizards beyond necessity. Additionally, Sir didn’t always like to be touched by anyone regardless, needed to be in control of who was in his space, so Misky and her sisters were very keen to give Sir his much-needed space. Of course, Sir and Misky embraced sometimes, for Yule, when Sir made Misky and her sisters the beautiful clothes they could be free in, but deliberately holding Sir’s hand? 

Misky pulled herself up onto the sofa very clumsily and hesitated before taking Sir’s hand – Misky had never comforted anyone before, much less Sir, and to be responsible for him... But Misky needed to be strong for Sir now. 

“Honey...” Ms Queenie whispered very softly again, deliberately not staining her voice with pity, which Sir hated a lot. “You’re full, I can feel it. There’s not a single place left in you where it could all go... Maybe it’d be best if- if you just let it pour out for a while. It’s okay to be hurtin’, honey. There’s wisdom in knowin’ when to let it out so it doesn’t hurt you any further.”

   Misky was very uncomfortable with the situation. Usually, Sir didn’t like anyone seeing him vulnerable. Not physically, certainly not sentimentally. It was rare that Sir shared anything about his mental state with Misky or her sisters, so to see Sir be so... overwhelmed made Misky very frightened. Sir was always so powerful, it frightened Misky to see more. Deeper. Like Misky wasn’t supposed to see. It had taken Misky a lot of convincing to sit beside Sir on the pink sofa. To place Misky’s hand over Sir’s. Sir’s hand was very cold and stained with ink. Misky could feel Sir’s pulse in one little vein that ran over one of his knuckles, slow and yet sometimes picking up pace erratically. Ms Queenie kept stroking over Sir’s arm, quietly saying many things that sometimes Misky couldn’t even hear, but she assumed it was encouragement and, considering Ms Queenie’s tone of voice, also filled with a lot of friendship. 

   Misky had realised four Winters ago that she didn’t know what friendship felt like. Misky knew being a sister, and a servant, and a willing employee. Sir had been Misky’s master at first, then her employer, who gave her clothes and let her have possessions and sometimes even told Misky and her sisters to keep the change from transactions so they could buy themselves something when they were next carefully concealed in one of the wizarding shopping districts. When Misky had first bought a little red vase, with Sir’s signature but actually with Misky’s own money, Misky had understood the feeling of freedom. Now, every little item Misky bought felt like another stone in her step to freedom. Lisky was very economical with her savings and Bisky bought bigger, more valuable items, but Misky liked buying many small things to decorate, she was very good at weaving and braiding and had bought very many pearls and beads for bracelets over the years to make little braids that dangled from her bed as well as a little mobile and other hangings. At the moment, Misky was working on a small curtain to hang between her space and that of her sisters so she could have privacy, which Sir also said was instrumental to being free. Regardless, Misky had had sisters, and an employer, and a master, and even a guardian before though she didn’t dare claim it loudly, but Misky had never had a friend before. So Misky had asked Sir what friendship looked like, and had realised in the conversation that Sir subjectively also didn’t really know what friendship looked like, but that he craved it just as much as Misky, giving her an objective definition she had since looked for in other people. Misky was very glad and proud that Sir had found someone who treated him like a friend. 

   “He cheated on me,” Sir eventually mumbled with so quiet a voice that Misky could barely hear the softest wisps of it, but her heart rejoiced at the sound. Sir’s voice always made Misky feel better unless Sir was angry. “I thought we were- I thought we were together, but...”

“He...?”

Sir just made a small noise that seemed to indicate agreement. It made Misky’s heart hurt a little, and she turned to see Sir better. 

“Why?”

“Don’t know.”

“With whom?”

“Malfoy.”

Ms Queenie hesitated for a few seconds before reassuringly squeezing Sir’s arm. 

“The professor from the dance?”

Sir made a noise that he usually would have called pitiful.

“Are you sure, honey? I mean, the tabloids are one thing, but-“

“I saw them fuck, yes, I’m sure,” Sir barked back, his magic very suddenly filling the room and momentarily choking the air from Misky’s very lungs. Sir was powerful, yes, and Sir sometimes lashed out, but usually- Misky gasped for air as Sir continued. “Do you have any other fundamentally stupid questions for me or can you just leave me the hell alone?!”

“Oh, honey... how dreadful...”

“Cease your pity.”

“Honey, if he- you must be feelin’ so wretched!”

“Stop doing that,” Sir replied fiercely, seeming more like himself now.

“What makes you think you’re so unworthy of pity?”

“I have no need for pity. I don’t want it. Leave me alone-“

“Was it your father or your mother who forced you to be strong?” Ms Queenie continued, completely unperturbed by the dangerous hues in Sir’s tone. When Sir spoke like that to Misky, Misky apparated away if she could! Did Ms Queenie have a death wish? “Because someone, somehow, forced you to be very, incredibly, unnecessarily strong as a young child, didn’t they? You had to be so fierce and powerful to live up to someone’s expectations, to make it through a hardship... maybe, considerin’ your independence, you had to be strong for yourself because nobody else was strong for you... It doesn’t matter, eventually, because now, you think of acceptin’ help as a weakness of your own person, because you have conditioned yourself into thinkin’ you should be strong enough without it. And under help, you’ve come to subsume everythin’, compassion, kindness, sympathy, you won’t even let anyone empathise with your struggles because- oh, because that could make them real, and viable, and mean that you may actually have a cause for concern, is it that? If someone gives you permission to be sad, you think you’ll be sadder? You’re scared of more emotional overwhelm?”

Misky was ready to apparate away at any moment – nobody spoke to Sir like this! Nobody that lived, anyways! Misky had seen Sir kill for less, for far less! But Sir didn’t seem angry. Sir seemed... slow? 

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m a Legilimens, honey, I know the type. Every parent, even those with the best intentions, often those with the best intentions, leave scar tissue somehow. Every human has scar tissue. However, most humans are also given wonderful assets, tools to live their lives as happily as they please. But you’re beginnin’ to make me think your guardians weren’t all so generous in gift-givin’, were they?”

“Learned that from Afeni, have you?”

“I didn’t need to, but yes, Afeni has been incredibly magnanimous with the knowledge she passes on to others. Your people, Gellert, have a lot of issues. You have alluded on numerous occasions that you are just like them, that all of them combine into the Greater Good with you. So, that either makes you have as many issues as them, or, probably more accurately, if you’re their leader, you’re also the one with the most issues.”

Misky gasped, her grip on Sir’s hand tightening. Who did Ms Queenie think she was to attack Sir like this?! Misky at once felt incredibly possessive and protective of Sir – no one talked to Misky’s Sir like this! Not even Bisky! 

“I don’t have issues,” Sir hissed back, though Misky missed the characteristic bite. 

“Then tell me, how did you resolve the problem?”

“Which problem?!”

“Well, I know you don’t want my sympathies. So I’m not gonna give you my compassion.”

“Good! I don’t want any of it!”

“Then tell me how you did it.”

“Did what?!”

“Well, upon learnin’ that your partner cheated on you, how did you lead the ensuing conversation? Were you forgiving? Accepting? Angry, reasonably shocked, hurt? That he’d choose another man over you, what did that cause in you? Did you tell him it was over? That he had to win your trust back? Did you just leave, hurried away as quick as you could so he wouldn’t see that he actually hurt you? What did you say to him if you did say something?”

Oh! Oh, Misky thought triumphantly – she had been right! Sir did like wizards! And Sir did have interest in a wizard partner! No, not only that, Sir had a wizard partner! Or had had? Misky wasn’t entirely sure what cheating meant in any other context other than not following the rules of Schaffkopf or chess, which she had observed witches play in the courtyard when the weather was finer, and forbidden spells in duelling, but Misky theorised that it was likely in all cases connected to breaking the rules to get an unfair advantage. So Sir’s wizard-partner had broken rules? Maybe Sir and his wizard-partner had set up a contract and the partner had broken their end of the bargain? Sir did like to make blood-contracts with others to bind them... But who was the other person? Misky had heard the name Malfoy before, it was an important family, one with pure blood, but that meant there were likely many of them…?

Sir didn’t answer for a very long while, seated in perfect, deceptive tranquillity, trying to moderate his breathing but Misky knew that Sir’s slow breaths were shallow and barely masqueraded that his heart was racing. Misky felt the pulsations in the vein, and how hot Sir’s hand was beginning to grow. 

“Crucio,” Sir aspirated so quietly that Misky thought at first she had misheard a breath. 

Misky had heard that word before, from Sir’s mouth, Misky had even once cleaned up the floor afterwards. Blood was so eerily close to Misky’s favourite colour that it made her feel a little bit uncomfortable, the burgundy to carmine. It was only Ms Queenie’s outraged backing-away that alerted Misky to the social unacceptability. 

“What?” Ms Queenie asked, sharp as a dagger all of a sudden. 

“Cru-cio,” Sir mumbled again, his voice breaking in the middle. 

Ms Queenie was quiet for a few moments before taking her hands away from Sir, and for the next few moments, Misky was uncertain whether she had ever been as afraid of Mme Rosier as Misky was now of Ms Queenie. Ms Queenie was always so kind and bubbly, and now...

“I knew you- I knew there was something off about the way you felt! I knew you were hiding something there! Please tell me you didn’t cast it.”

“I do not dabble in shallow threats.”

“Please tell me you cast it on that professor and not him!”

Sir didn’t say anything in reply, and Ms Queenie at once stood and began pacing the room, dress billowing after her in beautiful waves. 

“Gellert Grindelwald, you utter- on the risk- oh, that was the fundamentally stupidest thing you actually could’ve done, d’you know that? Casting an Unforgivable on the man you want to spend the rest of your life with, have you completely lost your mind?!”

“Oh, but putting your Muggle toy under the potions version of the Imperius was so much better, was it?!” Sir retorted so loudly that Misky’s shoulders jumped.

   Ms Queenie looked like the mountain goats – Sir called them either ibexes or chamois – when they noticed Misky had unexpectedly spotted them right by the windows of the kitchen, all frozen in their motions, eyes wide and disbelieving. Misky, meanwhile, despite the static energy radiating off Sir in waves, again felt very triumphant – Misky had guessed right! Sir had cast a torturing curse on someone! Sir had met someone romantically! And that rendezvous had gone utterly wrong, Misky had been right! Maybe wizards couldn’t cast unforgivable curses on people they loved and the love made it turn around and hurt the caster? Regardless, Misky had interpreted it all correctly, the teacups, the beautiful clothes, the perfect transfiguration, the nervousness! Sir had met his wizard-partner! Sir had a wizard-partner, Lisky would never believe it! 

   Meanwhile, Ms Queenie’s eyes had filled with tears and she had made fists. Had Sir said something wrong to Ms Queenie? Misky was very uncomfortable when people cried, she didn’t know how to adequately reply to it, her voice was not heard and her contact unappreciated.

“Well, at least I know now that what I did was wrong!” Ms Queenie replied angrily, imposingly. Misky would never have thought Ms Queenie could be so frightening, so Misky grabbed Sir’s hand a bit tighter to protect him. “I was being childish and I clearly didn’t have enough faith in myself to have faith in him yet, no sense of self-worth! If we had simply sat down and talked it through properly, none of this would ever have happened! Jacob wanted to be with me, and I with him, and- and, well, he could’ve opened up his bakery anywhere, but- but my fears got the better of me and I made a ridiculously stupid decision, I see that now.”

“He’s just a Muggle, what does it matter?”

“And he’s just your former boyfriend from thirty years ago who most certainly doesn’t love you anymore, what does he matter? What does it matter if you’re not even in love with him?”

“We are destined to be together!” Sir proclaimed desperately, his voice crackling with a pleading tone, hand turning and curling around Misky’s, whose heart instantly began beating swifter. 

“Says who?”

“Says everything!”

“Well, maybe somebody should’ve told him, ‘cause he clearly seems to be uninterested in that perfect destiny you plotted out for you two. If I’ve learned anything from what I did to Jacob, it’s that you can’t force your will on other people, you have to talk to them and just hope they agree with you, but you didn’t do that, did you?”

“He blocked! Every time I tried to address anything-“

“You probably caught him unawares! Overwhelmed him! You two are in such a complicated position, maybe he just needed time to think!”

“I gave him time, I gave him months, and he returned to me, and kissed me, and-“

“You broke his heart! Of course he’s blocking!”

“You don’t know anything about his heart or mine or-“

“Oh, so you didn’t hurt his brother, were complicit in the accident with his sister, and then left him alone to deal with everything? And then you didn’t tell him you were going to take over the world like that? Be on every newspaper, in every mouth, if there was any semblance of love left in him, that probably broke him apart even further!”

“How do you know-“

“Aurelius told me,” Ms Queenie dismissed Sir, still pacing, “what, did you think he would keep his traumatic family story all to himself, the poor dear? He’s already so unstable and fragile, his uncle really did him a tremendous favour by making him worry about even more! He’s so concerned his father and you are going to kill each other he doesn’t even want to begin thinking about ever meeting him! And besides, you didn’t come to the conclusion he maybe doesn’t want to be with you? I met him, remember, I tried to look into his mind and it didn’t work because he’s that closed-off against even himself- And then with all that happened recently, why do you think he’d rather opt for a less problematic partner, you know, one who isn’t a wanted fugitive in fifty communities across the world and wanted for forty-three- forty-THREE murders in one evening alone, and- and who’d be willing to talk about destiny and being together forever, but who would also throw out a Cruciatus Curse at the slightest inconvenience! Didn’t you tell me you couldn’t hurt each other? And then you go ahead and do it anyways, break some magical rules just because you’re ridiculously powerful, he’s probably already frightened enough of you and then you take away his only security? Would you want a boyfriend who tortures you when you do something wrong?!”

Misky couldn’t always tell what Sir’s emotions really meant, but Misky could feel the recalcitrance at first nevertheless, mellowing itself out into something far more frightening than Sir’s blunt anger and resilience against better judgement – acceptance. Understanding. Acquiescence. Misky thought it was extraordinary that Sir didn’t get mad with Ms Queenie – Sir always got so furious when someone criticised him, and Misky would rather have liked that as opposed to not knowing quite how Sir would react. Misky rather liked a gruesome certainty than possibilities. 

“N-no. No, of course not. But I was-“

“Trigger-happy,” Ms Queenie retorted. “Impulsive. You clearly never learned to actually articulate your emotions, when something makes you angry, you just unleash it, no questions asked!”

“What would you do if your intended was with another man an hour before a rendezvous and you’d only find out about it because you saw it in his mind?!”

“I’d be furious! Of course I’d be furious, I’d probably slap him, and yell at him, and tell him I never want to see him again, but I wouldn’t cast an Unforgivable against him!”

“You lack conviction.”

“You lack basic human decency!”

“You’re insignificant and unimportant!”

“Small wonder he cheats on you if that is what you’re like to him,” Ms Queenie shot back, and that seemed to permanently change the charged atmosphere in the room. 

Sir’s vice grip lessened instantly, his shoulders slumped. Misky understood intrinsically that this topic was a bit too complicated for her to understand fully and that it was likely better not to wreck her brain about all the sentences that had been spoken, but she made sure to keep Sir’s hand from slipping out of Misky’s simply because Sir seemed to hurt a lot. When Misky risked a look from the side, Sir’s eyes were blank again, vacant and his lip was trembling a little bit, any hint of determination washed away to make way for something way stranger, way... more vulnerable. Misky didn’t see Sir have negative emotions often, and not knowing how Sir would respond to them... Ms Queenie ceased pacing, looking at Sir sternly for a minute or so before Ms Queenie’s brows softened and her warm, blonde hair swayed as she walked closer, just in time to see Sir’s throat bob several times as he attempted to swallow before pulling in air through his nose and biting his lower lip, closing his eyes and his head moving to hang. A small shake like a cough but less forceful went through Sir’s entire body and by that time, Ms Queenie had traversed the gap between herself and the pink sofa, shoes clicking on the stone floor, and had squatted down before Sir, taking his hand.

“Honey, I didn’t- I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you’re right, aren’t you?” Sir said in an odd voice Misky had never heard before, dejected and nervous. “In his eyes- in his beautiful, blue, marbleised eyes, what am I but dark tidings and heavy memories? He told me once he was disgusted by me. And now I’ve gone ahead and given him proof of my monstrosity.”

“Then... then maybe you should tell him that.”

“It’s unforgivable, Queenie. It’s in the nature of the word.”

“That don’t mean you can’t make amends somehow. Acknowledge that what you did was childish and stupid. That you overreacted. That what you did was wrong. Perhaps... some day, that’ll be enough.”

Ms Queenie stroked over Sir’s hand with eyes full of warmth that made even Misky feel a little safer. All this talk about wizard-partners and torturing curses and Sir being so vulnerable, it all went over Misky’s head. Misky had never felt love before either, so she was uncertain how to interpret Sir’s acknowledgement as someone who felt such things. But nevertheless, Misky wanted to protect Sir. Especially now that Misky knew Sir’s secret, and Misky’s sisters did not. 

“I should give him time.”

“No. No, you need to be patient, honey. Time is not yours to give. You need to simply show him you are capable of understanding that, currently, nothing you can do will change his mind. How- how long did you- cast?”

“I don’t know. I cast, and our agreement intercepted, and I lost control over the spell. He apparated away, but... I don’t know how hurt he is. Was. Is, I don’t know. I haven’t dared to consult the papers on the matter.”

“I haven’t heard anything negative... But still, your curses are very potent.”

“I know. I- I’m just so confused, a part of me wishes I had cast more, a part of me that I hadn’t cast at all, that- that it was all an accident and- and he never wanted me to see, and another thinks he manipulated me step by step over two years and I wasn’t good enough to see it, and- and this is his revenge, and-“

“That’s alright, honey. It’s alright not to know up from down. It’s not been long, has it?”

“Three weeks or so. I don’t know what day today is.”

“Sunday morning. Third of March.”

“Then three weeks.”

Whilst Sir gave Ms Queenie more details, Misky could not help but feel a little elated for Lisky’s theory to be correct, that somebody had been there and had apparated out. That Misky had been right about Sir having a wizard-partner, that Sir was confused, nervous... Despite Misky not understanding all of the specifics, she still made sure to hold Sir’s hand very firmly whilst he spoke, gave details Misky could not understand entirely until Ms Queenie was giving Sir more soft advice that sounded so... Sir liked to use the word mellifluous, and Misky thought it meant sounding very pleasant like a river gurgling or birds chirping in the morning.

“No apologies for something that cannot be excused,” Ms Queenie was just saying, “no inquiries for his health, a future meeting, his feelings. You’re not in charge now, he is. No matter what he did. Try not to do anything to displease him, don’t mention him in your speeches, don’t draw the ire of the British, etcetera. You have to give him time. Cheating is awful. It’s a betrayal of trust. It’s lies and deception, and that shouldn’t happen in a relationship. Of course you can make rules for that, and- and take other partners if it’s discussed, but I just recklessly assume he didn’t ask permission.”

“I would never have granted it. It’s ridiculous. We’re perfect together. Why would either of us need more than perfection?”

“I don’t know. Just because you see it like this doesn’t mean he does too, you know? Not everybody thinks what you think. Regardless, cheating is awful. But- but an Unforgivable Curse is worse, we agree on that, right?”

“I suppose.”

“So even though he wronged you first, you committed the objectively larger offence. So- so you have to approach him, though you can’t apologise. You have to let him see that you regret it. That you don’t like having done it. You need to be patient.”

“I’m terrible at being patient.”

“I know. I know, honey, but we can work through that together, alright? Do- do you want to try to make this right? Do you still want to chase your destiny?”

“What choice do I have? I’ve sealed my destiny.”

“Regardless of the option of choice, would you like to pursue what you think is your destiny? Him and you. Somehow?”

“Of course. Of course!” Sir exclaimed bitterly. “But even if- even if I could somehow persuade him to- to forgive me, there would still be the other he clearly likes more than me.”

Ms Queenie pursed her lips.

“Did he say that?”

“He called him his ‘life-partner’ in his mind. He seemed happy, satisfied. The whole world saw that ball, poorly masqueraded as a house-unity stunt to me, and- and as a lonely-hearts-ad to the gutter press. He’s never been open about his desires, that he’d consider to dance in public and- and make other people suspect, even whisper...”

“But then why kiss you? Numerous times, too!”

“To manipulate me? I used to be brilliant at manipulating people, and he’s like me, so... so maybe, it was all just a farce, just a ploy. He always knew my biggest weakness was my feeble heart, and I offered him the opportunity to destroy it, practically on a silver platter.”

“But would he do that? From what you hear, he- he’s just a good-spirited, gentle darling to everyone around him.”

“I am a Hebridean Black. Anyone who beholds me knows that if I am displeased with them, they will be destroyed. He- he is a flower that blooms in the shade, perfectly magnificent and dazzling. But underneath that, he is carnivorous. Opportunistic. He wouldn’t hesitate to take any given situation and spin it to his own benefit. Just another vengeful god, but- much more nuanced and subtle. I should know this flavour from Vinda, but he has always been second to none. Unparalleled. One word uttered in the right context, and people fight for him. I hurt him before, in the past, and now he has come to exact his revenge. It was him who wrote the first letter. Him, who wrote the second. Him who kissed me first, who kissed me again- him, who began the events that would lead to our first intimacies this century, him who reached out afterwards, him who- who pushed me time and time again. You heard his Howler. You heard what he can be like.”

“Everyone gets angry sometimes,” Ms Queenie reasoned placatingly. “He sounded hurt by your actions. Affected, like he really cared. Do you have so little faith in him to think he would abuse you for revenge?”

“I know him.”

“You didn’t think he was capable of cheating on you. Perhaps... perhaps you don’t know him as well as you think you do?”

“Even worse,” Sir produced miserably. “We were supposed to be the modern incarnations of Merlin and Morgana. I cannot stand to think that we were born as two, two who are fated to be enemies. I cannot stand to think we were born just to be tragic.”

“Merlin and Morgana were enemies. Their duel is legendary, a showcase of reported excerpts is still being performed at Ilvermorny every year! ”

“Great,” Sir sighed, “a custody duel of divorcees. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. Aurelius can be the bone of contention to match, considering I can’t convince my faulty transfiguration to ever be functional enough to actually carry.”

“Hm,” Ms Queenie unexpectedly chuckled. “A divorced couple that knew each other since they were little, one of them wearing colour unexpectedly often with an affinity for light magic, the other in constant blacks with an affinity for the dark arts, having it out for the sake of it? Reminds me of someone.”

Sir grumbled, but good-naturedly, seemingly in slightly better spirits.

“Brilliant...”

“You’d make a handsome Morgana. Though, the skirt is an odd length on you in this form. It should either be above the knee or reaching down to the floor.”

“I’d look hideous regardless.”

“Teenie and I spent time by the west coast for a while, the wizards there often wore long skirts and simple button-up shirts instead of robes, why, with California always being so unnervingly warm... You’re so tall, I’m sure you’d be revered for your looks.”

“How precisely does this help me?”

“I’m trying to cheer you up, silly,” Ms Queenie bubbled and intertwined her fingers with Sir’s. “You can’t always mope and hurt yourself.”

“Can’t I?”

“No, of course you can’t! The more you mope, the more it won’t be enough anymore, and you’ll have to search for alternate mechanisms. I really don’t want you to get more hurt than you already are.”

“What does my health matter?”

“Don’t you have a revolution to lead?”

“Vinda is doing splendid without me. I made her my equal. She can handle it.”

“Just because she can doesn’t mean she should, hm? This is your life dream, not hers. You need to be strong and patient now. Try not to do anything to further agitate him. Tell him that you realise you did something wrong. Maybe it’ll take years, maybe longer, but...”

Misky could see by how Sir shook his head that he didn’t want to entertain even the idea of that. Years seemed terrifying to Misky. Sir had chuckled when Lisky had begun behaving a bit more rebelliously a few years ago, saying she was finally acting like a regular human being entering her pubescent phase. Misky didn’t know what that meant, but by the way Lisky had blushed, it had likely been something very embarrassing. 

“What about Jacob?”

“What about him?”

“Haven’t you given him enough time? Almost two years now. Shouldn’t you reach out, sometime?”

“I thought he was ‘just a Muggle’.”

“Your Muggle,” Sir inhaled shakily. “My silly boarding school professor. We sure know how to choose them, do we?”

“Speak for yourself. Jacob is a decent man, kind, generous, lovin’, acceptant...”

“So is he. And so much more. I don’t want to have to get over him a second time. I don’t think I’ll like me when I’m done with it.”

“Then let’s make a pact,” Ms Queenie answered eagerly. “We get you back into shape, maybe take a walk somewhere, get you to eat right- Misky, dearie, he hasn’t been eating very well, has he?”

“Ah- Sir- Sir is doing his best,” Misky answered clumsily, very surprised to be addressed. 

“I’m not,” Sir sighed and let go of Misky’s hand to ruffle through Sir’s listless hair. “I don’t think I’ve finished a meal in a month. If I even endeavour to.”

“Then maybe we should start with that. How about you get yourself washed up and dressed, and then we’ll have a large breakfast and talk it all through again?”

“I don’t know whether I can talk about it all just yet.”

“I can look into your mind as well, honey, if you want to... or, you could write it down...? You’re writing again, hm?”

“I tried. I have no idea whether it is any good.”

“Doesn’t have to be. You didn’t write to write well, did you? You wrote to get it out of your system. It looking nice or sounding nice is just a pleasant side effect.”

Sir reached for the stack of parchments, eyes meticulously wandering before he picked out two sheets and handed them to Ms Queenie, who had stood up again. 

“I think these could explain how I feel.”

Ms Queenie read them quickly, pretty eyes darting over the lines, whilst Sir took Misky’s hand again and quickly talked in her mind, with a voice so warm that Misky almost didn’t recognise it.

<You’ve been wonderful to me, Misky.>

<Misky is only doing what she thinks is best for Sir.>

<I apologise for being such a pain recently.>

<Sir isn’t needing to apologise! Sir is doing his best, Misky is sure of it. Misky just wants Sir to be able to do all the things Sir enjoys again, because when Sir is happy, Misky is happy too.>

<Was für eine herzallerliebste kleine Elfe du doch bist.>

<Sir?>

<Nothing. Do you have anything to do, any tasks in the castle?>

<Does Sir want Misky to leave? Sir only needs to say so!>

<I was rather asking you to stay. If you could make time.>

<Misky can always make time!> Misky assured as swiftly as she could, just as Ms Queenie was finishing with the parchment, eyes now fully gleaming. 

“I think I know exactly what you should do to win your darling back.”