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Professor Dumbledore used to consider himself someone with a good eye for holiday destinations. While he rarely bothered taking time off and had spent the last few summers decaying quietly in his office chair like a forgotten tea biscuit, he still believed he could trust his taste to pick a pleasant spot for a well-earned break.
Well, that opinion shattered when he arrived at the gates of a remote fortress high in the snow-draped mountains, where the greatest tourist attractions were ominous silence and rats starving to death.
And, of course, him.
"Is that you, Dumbledore? Why, welcome to my kingdom." The sarcasm in his old, croaking voice, rough from disuse, was unmistakable. His Austrian accent pierced through his English more sharply than Albus remembered.
The Headmaster gave him a curt nod (certain the other man was observing him intently). His eyes swept over the cell. From what little he could discern from the dimly lit corridor, the cell had barely changed since his last visit, though nearly ten years had passed since he last found himself between these walls.
When he said it like this in his head, it made visiting prisons sound like a hobby. What was he doing with his life, again?
He cleared his throat politely and turned to his host. "It's been a while. I'm afraid I can't truthfully say I'm impressed with your throne room's new décor – I can barely see the tip of my nose."
"Well, you're the one with the wand. I see you just fine. My eyes are ageing, yes, but they're far more used to the dark than yours. The question about your identity was, of course, rhetorical; I don't know another wizard who'd wear plum-coloured velvet for a jaunt to a prison. Let me guess – fell out with your sofa and skinned it alive, so you could wear its patterns as a trophy?"
"I was told it was a bold statement. Colour and style aren't necessarily enemies of practicality. Still plenty of pockets, you know?" Calm as a winter morn, Albus ignored the jab about spoils of war. He made no move to draw his wand. Not yet. "I do like to dress up when I'm among people, or have you forgotten?"
"Forgotten? No… I haven't forgotten a thing," came the muttered reply from within the cell, serious for the first time. "I'm merely unclear on which people you believe you're among. There's only me, and not all those you'd ask would call me a person. And even if I was worthy of the title, I'm the only people in this blasted prison. In which I regret not having built a fireplace in."
"It is a bit chilly, yes. Mountain air, I imagine."
"More like the fact that no one thought to insulate the window in this cell." He gave a grumble. "I don't even know why it's there. Can't see out. Couldn't tell you what season it is."
"Winter. December, to be precise. And not that I'm averse to chatting about the weather, Grindelwald, but I have a nagging feeling you asked to see me for another reason. Why am I here?"
"Well… because you showed up? I expect you Apparated..." Grindelwald hobbled closer to the bars. He was hunched and paler than a ghost. The remaining strands of his hair had lost all pigment.
In the gloom, his face looked more worn than Albus had imagined. It struck him then, unbidden, how old they both had grown.
"I'm a busy wizard. Care to tell me what it is you want?" He wasn't impatient – not truly. He was bluffing, striking while the iron was hot… despite everything being rather cold around here.
He had time. More than enough. But his curiosity, piqued after an owl had brought a notion to him the previous month that the sole prisoner of Nurmengard had been asking for him for weeks, was beginning to overcome his feigned indifference. He'd hesitated long over whether to come, but ultimately rationalised there was no reason not to, no harm in visiting an old enemy, with time away from Headmaster duties, and Hogwarts not expecting him for another three days. Minerva, for one, had heartily approved his "holiday" in the Austrian Alps, insisting he'd long needed fresh air.
Truth be told, he might have neglected to tell her where in the Alps he was headed – and whom he was visiting for a chat... or for a session of subtle manipulation, if a proper conversation was resisted.
Which it was. However, the pretence of impatience, of him so uncharacteristic, surprisingly worked.
The silhouette behind the bars hunched further. His voice changed. "Very well. I don't suppose you'd care to come in?"
"Would that even be possible? This is a prison." Albus felt absurd for even entertaining the idea.
Grindelwald shook his head and rasped, "This cell hasn't been checked in years. I daresay if the guards didn't collect chocolate frog cards with your name on them, they'd have forgotten I exist. Not that I mind."
"You cannot be serious."
"About what? That this place is forgotten, and I along with it? Or that I'd rather starve to death than continue this miserable existence? Because I've been telling but the truth for a few minutes now – though yes, the Chocolate Frogs bit was hyperbole, as you noticed. Now, Dumbledore, shall I kneel like in the good old days? Shall I beg you?"
"Do you even know how?" Albus asked, half under his breath. "I don't think you've ever had to beg for anything."
Grindelwald stepped closer to the bars, one eye pale, one black, both fixed on him. He raised a hand, and gripped them gently, leaning on them. "Please."
Somehow, somehow it sounded sincere.
Albus opened his mouth, caught off guard merely by the word. "Forgive me – I must have misheard. Is this some new form of manipulation?"
"No." Grindelwald shook his head. Pleading. "It's... the truth. I wanted... I'd hoped... Albus, could you just–"
But Albus was already reaching for his wand, already unlocking the intricate magical protections on the door, defences that shouldn't have yielded so easily. Then again, he was Albus Dumbledore, one of the most powerful wizards alive – and still, only human. Not unfamiliar with bending morality for the sake of knowledge… or for the sake of other things. His curiosity had led him into worse moral lapses in the past (genocide planning, to name one of them).
He opened the cell door and stepped inside. The shadows swallowed him whole, and he merged with them. Despite the tiny window, the draft wasn't as sharp as the dark, empty corridor, though it wasn't much warmer either.
He shut the door behind him, locked it again, and cast a charm against eavesdropping. He wasn't going to risk that much. He could take Grindelwald, but not the outside world.
He stood straighter than the man before him – and that, perhaps, was the only real difference between them, besides the fact he had more hair.
He had once feared he might end up behind bars himself… and perhaps he should have. Perhaps that would've been justice.
He shook his head. Those thoughts would never leave him. He'd never convince himself that intent and action weren't one and the same when it came to sinners.
As he entered, Grindelwald immediately reached out, and Albus felt a hollow pang in his stomach – except the gesture wasn't aimed at the Elder Wand.
Instead, the pale, trembling hand – lined and thin, with small cuts – quietly reached for Albus's. So that's why he wanted the bars between them gone. The only other plausible explanation was symbolic balance.
Albus said nothing, just took the hand. It was ice cold.
Grindelwald stepped forward awkwardly, keeping a careful distance. "I wanted to say this to your face. That's why you're here. Why I stopped writing. I never thought you'd actually step inside the cell. You shouldn't trust me." He gave a sad little smile, thumb brushing across Albus's palm absent-mindedly. "Although I suppose I'm hardly much of a threat now."
"What could you possibly need to tell me that warranted such humility?" Albus asked warily, cutting straight to the point.
Grindelwald looked him in the eye. He drew a breath. "I've wanted to tell you for years..." He faltered.
"Yes?"
"It was me."
Those three firmly spoken words rang in Albus's mind like an echo of a death knell.
He hadn't expected it. He wasn't prepared, even after all those decades. It knocked the air out of him, his face drained of colour. He was struck dumb – from rage, or from shock, he couldn't tell.
"You can stop tormenting yourself. Stop blaming yourself. My spell killed her. I'm the one responsible," Grindelwald repeated urgently. His hand still clung loosely to Albus's. It seemed he expected Albus to let go any moment.
"Why? Why tell me?" Albus whispered, his voice quiet but sharp. He didn't pull his hand away – suddenly needing the support, even support from a murderer and dictator. No better option was available. Perhaps never had been.
He felt hollowed out. They'd never spoken of it. He'd never spoken of it to anyone. He and Aberforth had tried once, but well, family talks were never their forte. He wasn't sure if he was ready to bring his mind back to it (if he pretended it had ever left).
But now he was left with no choice. Perhaps it was for the best; he'd hidden in the safety of the mask of the respectable old wizard for far too long.
"After your last letter... I thought perhaps the time had come for truth," the prisoner said, his accent buzzed more heavily.
Albus's eyes had finally adjusted to the dark (it wasn't that difficult if one was used to seeing more than just light). He studied the man before him. Paper-thin face, barely holding together, crumbling day by day. He watched the slow, muffled flicker of emotion, as though Grindelwald was curating what was allowed to show more carefully than ever.
The Headmaster suddenly laughed, the sound bizarre between the four dark walls. He didn't know whether to feel disappointment, wonder, satisfaction, or even a glimmer of hope. "I can hardly believe it – you'd rather I hated you than continue despising myself. What happened to your sense of self-preservation? I should be wondering now whether you're a trap in disguise – someone masquerading as my old, deadly foe."
Grindelwald ignored the barb – and the compliment. "You mean you don't hate me yet? What difference does it make to me if I confess?" he burst out. "Dreißig verdammte Jahre! Dreißig! I've had plenty of time to think about what can still be put right and what's irreparably broken. The left-hand side of that list is pitifully short, but some of it is achievable." He exhaled sharply. "I want us to leave that mystery behind for good. I'm offering you absolution, Albus. Doesn't that count for something?"
"It probably means more to you than to me," Albus sighed, before raising his voice with confidence. "The fact that you've lied to ease my heart after years of enmity says a great deal about your transformation. Prison suits your character – though it's tragic to witness the change born of despair."
"I'm not lying, for Merlin's sake – I am not that desperate," Grindelwald snapped, offended. "I swear it, though I know my word holds little weight. I had time to reflect, Albus, and I remember everything. And I–I regret it. I'm sorry. Truly."
Albus steadied himself to keep his tone neutral. "You don't owe me an apology. You never wronged me. You merely kept your promise and pursued your goal – with me by your side, initially, as we agreed. The rest of Europe is owed your remorse."
Grindelwald gripped his hand tighter. "But the rest aren't listening, they haven't in years. You're the last pair of ears."
"True. And I don't know what you think you remember," Albus said, meeting his gaze with a frown, "but in your newfound magnanimity you've forgotten I'm not so easily deceived. Not unless I choose to be, closing my eyes before the ugly truth. Though I suppose you can't really know much about that; I only saw clearly once I decided to sever ties with you, after all. Fact is, neither you nor I – nor Aberforth – will ever know whose spell ended her life. Regardless, the guilt is ours, yours and mine. Shared."
"Listen, I didn't confess just so you wouldn't believe me and continue wallowing in guilt for something that was not your fault," Grindelwald bristled, finally releasing his hand. He stepped away, frustrated, arms crossed. "Do you seriously think I'd lie about that? Is that what I am in your eyes? A liar? Why would I do it, Albus, why?"
Albus exhaled gently, stepping carefully on fragile ground. "Well… I'd like to believe some lingering affection for me compelled you. But honestly – you don't know why you've said it yourself. So, it's hard to tell where the dangerous truth lies."
Grindelwald glared at him. The silence was absolute. Nearly painful.
In the cell's corner, yet another rat breathed its last breath. Nobody noticed.
He gave a defeated wave of the hand. "Why do I even speak to you? You know my mind better than ever."
Albus chuckled quietly, mournfully. "Because you've missed me terribly, Gellert."
"Stop reading my thoughts," the prisoner hissed in a cold voice. His shoulders quivered, though.
"One doesn't need Legilimency for this. Your mask's slipping, my dear. Your face gives away more than it used to."
"Is that so? Then kindly read where you can shove it," Grindelwald growled, bitter, stepping another significant inch away (space in the room didn't permit more). He gestured to the cell door. "Please, escort yourself out, the staff are off duty."
The rage in his voice could've fooled most, but not Albus. He knew shame. He recognised vulnerability in a man who hadn't got anyone to perform for in a long time, and it showed. Grindelwald wasn't pretending half as well as he once could.
"Thank you, but I think I'll stay a little while longer," Albus replied calmly. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Cut the game. I can tell when you go on the defensive for no good reason."
"You know what's a pity?" Grindelwald's voice dripped with spite. "That you never had the courage to truly surrender to the darkness, and so you'll never understand. You never went deeper than a passionate fascination – and let's not kid ourselves, a large part of your interest in the Dark Arts was you trying to get into my pants. Still, you would've worn black magic well. Better than that purple, at any rate."
Albus sighed, slow and patient. He supposed he'd got what he wanted. They were talking now.
Instead of some biting retort, he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around the old man he'd once defeated, once imprisoned, once broken – something many would savour with schadenfreude, but he felt only sorrow.
The Dark Wizard stiffened and drew in a voiceless gasp, almost as though he'd just been stabbed, not hugged.
But he didn't pull away. It took him time before he slowly wrapped his thin arms around Albus and, slower still, pressed his cold nose against his shoulder. And when he did, his grip was desperate, shaky, so close to collapsing. He smelled like a century of solitude.
Albus held him with all the kindness he could muster, blinking fast. He chose to believe his repentance – he believed, because he knew that if he wasn't to be the forgiving fool who believed in mankind, nobody was. After so many years of defiance, Gellert had finally made a step toward regret.
If he hadn't tried to conceal the fact out of pride, it might have seemed fake. But he had tried. And failed, now falling apart.
"Don't think you can always win with nonverbal arguments," he rasped when he found his voice. His tone was heavy with emotion.
"Hm. It did work this time, though, didn't it?" Dumbledore allowed himself to close his eyes, ignoring the fact the Elder Wand was tucked inside his robes now within his nemesis's reach.
Not for the first time, he was profoundly glad he hadn't detailed his holiday plans to anyone, since this was not an activity he'd expected in even his wildest dreams.
"Is this real, Albus?" Gellert murmured gravely.
His whole body still shook – from weakness, reverence, fear, the shock of human warmth, malnutrition, relief. He must have been a pitiful sight.
They both must have been.
Yet Albus stood there anyway, holding the man who'd once been both his closest friend and his most dangerous enemy. When he'd agreed to enter the cell, he'd somewhat expected some tragic trick, until he saw that Gellert's aim wasn't escape but him. And escape wasn't even on the table. Albus had even half assumed his former lover sought another kind of touch by asking him to come in, and was almost ready to grant it (it was Christmas, after all, and the Headmaster himself had been lonely for decades).
But judging by the way Gellert reacted to a simple embrace, such intimacy now would overwhelm him. No, what he craved was the most basic human contact. A glance. He asked for nothing more.
And really, it wasn't so surprising. If anyone knew that Gellert Grindelwald was only human after all, it was Albus. And if anyone knew it was an achievement rather than a given – again, it was him.
So Gellert didn't have to ask for more than a glance, not actually.
He still did.
"Could… could you do something for me?" he mumbled after a pause.
"That depends what it is."
"I… It may sound odd, but… say my name again, Albus. I haven't heard it spoken aloud in over thirty years before today."
Albus's lips parted silently. When he finally spoke, his voice trembled like Gellert's hands. He felt dampness on his cheeks, no longer able to stop the tears.
"I'm surprised you still keep count," he managed. "Personally, I'd have found it tempting to stop." He gave in to the emotion. "You must understand – I never wanted this, Gellert. I never wanted you to spend the rest of your life here, even if perhaps you deserved it… I was never fair, I know, but… oh, Gellert, my dear Gellert…"
"What else could you have done?" Grindelwald pulled back a little, just enough to see his face, shrugging pragmatically.
Something in his face softened upon hearing his own name, something even bitterness couldn't erase. "I was dangerous, Albus. And I lost. You had to make a choice. From an objective standpoint, you did the right thing, regardless of what you think of that decision now. In the end, it's carved above this prison's gates: For the Greater Good. You punished the terror of the wizarding world."
Albus tilted his head. "There was a flicker of a smile in your eyes just now. You regret it… but you're still proud of it." His tone was neutral, merely stating facts.
"I won't lie, I miss my unmatched power and reputation. But it's you who should be proud in the first place. And you should stop regretting we never found all of the Hallows," Gellert said, and this time, the grin reached his gaunt face. "We weren't meant to achieve more together than bring each other ruin, you know it."
"I admit, I do still think about the Hallows sometimes. Yet I believe their true meaning was grossly misunderstood for centuries. It wasn't about becoming Master of Death," Albus murmured. "I never told you this, but… I never truly wanted that. My secret vision was of us – both of us – as Masters. Not of Death, but of anything. What mattered was that we were together."
He sighed. His youthful fantasies seemed painfully naïve now.
"Not so secret, that vision of yours. Old sap," Gellert said, wiping away an imaginary tear, though he was visibly close to another flood. He seemed rather irritated by it.
"If I recall, you were the one who said you wanted to put a ring on my finger," Albus reminded him, a wistful smile tugging at his mouth.
"Well, it wasn't my most dignified moment."
"I rather liked it."
"Cheap lines always worked like magic when it came to you."
"Can you blame me? You were only capable of cheap ones."
Gellert shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. "Remind me why I ever chased after you?"
"I believe it was my dazzling personality. Oh, and the eyes – you mentioned them once, I think. Actually… that was more than once you said that."
Gellert rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "All right, fine. Let's leave that subject. The real question is why you still chase after me. Times have changed, as you once wrote to me. Well, why haven't you got yourself a lover thirty years younger? You're a free man, the most famous wizard in Britain. Friends galore, a school full of students eager to learn. What are you doing in a desolate Austrian prison full of nightmares?"
"I thought that was obvious. I'm visiting an old friend who lives in a remote area." Albus's tone turned more serious. "You know, five years after our duel, I admitted to myself how terribly I missed you. Of course, we hadn't seen each other in years even before that, but you were still out there. Free. I could've written. Invited you to tea – where we'd glare across the table, but after three hours of silence, you'd lean forward and absent-mindedly take my hand, and that memory would sustain us another five years. You would never have turned down my next invitation. But ever since you've been here, in the prison I personally put you in, I've been alone. I've never found anyone like you. Truth be told, I don't think there is anyone like you, unfortunately for my poor taste in men. Though, perhaps, I never looked that hard…"
He intertwined their fingers, distracted for a moment by the echo of the dusty past that pumped in his own chest.
Gellert tilted his head in the cell's dim light. His face carried the weight of ages, fatigue, guilt, regret, self-loathing, blood spilled, and yes, affection.
"Tell me, Albus… would it be too wrong if I kissed you now?" he asked.
Once he had started asking for more, he couldn't seem to stop.
"I think it would be highly inappropriate," Albus answered swiftly. "But also, perhaps, the only right thing to do at this point."
It might be the Austrian Alps would make a rather exciting holiday destination, after all.
Grindelwald smiled softly. Then a bit dreamy look settled in his eyes as he leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Albus's lips.
Dumbledore met him halfway.
Two old men, too weary, too lonely, still inexplicably drawn to the destructive brilliance of the other. They had no real chance of resisting – not each other, nor the years, nor the deep ideological rift between them.
The relieved kiss lasted as long as their breath did, as long as they could pretend they were back in a time nearly ninety years ago. It was easy to get lost in the illusion. But when reality inevitably knocked, it was harder to justify. It was clear they were doing something they'd later regret (or they should by all means). Whether one framed it as kissing an old flame that would be best left gone out, a lapse from ideals, or fraternising with one's archenemy, it was a very stupid thing to do. Best kept between the two of them and the rats, then.
Whether they were in their right minds was, frankly, debatable, even after they stopped kissing.
"We still got it, you and I," Gellert whispered teasingly into the charged air, their lips still maddeningly close. "Won't you stay the night?"
"I thought you wanted me to leave," Albus smiled gently before letting practicality take over. "Though I'll grant your theory about the guards being a bit too bored of their jobs may have merit, I suspect it would be noticed if I didn't return. You could be accused of kidnapping."
"That would certainly polish my reputation. At least then they might remember to check on me," the prisoner muttered darkly.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't do mine any favours, dear." Dumbledore shook his head.
He imagined the Daily Prophet headline and involuntarily shivered. That Skeeter woman's glasses would fall off in shock if she got her hands on such material for an article.
Still, part of him wondered if the kidnapping might almost be worth it.
But no, no, he couldn't give in. He still had work to do. He'd long since accepted he would die alone and miserable, but he couldn't afford to go discredited. His political clout remained too useful in pursuing higher causes.
"I think you're untouchable in the wizarding world." Gellert scoffed. "What would they write? That you're consorting with Dark wizards you personally imprisoned? Having sleepovers in their cells? No one would believe that, Albus."
"Oh, if they dug up our full history, they might sell it as a compelling tale. All it would take is for them to find out that–" Albus began, then wisely stopped himself. Best not to dig his own grave while still alive.
Except Gellert saw right through him.
A familiar, smug smirk spread over his face. "What? Something you'd like to tell me?"
But Albus wasn't about to give everything away so easily. He laughed, his eyes gleaming with tiny sparks. "Why, yes. Happy Christmas, Gellert."