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It was an old Albert style wooden flute, growing dust in the corner of the house. Albus had never learned how to play. His da, too, had seemed to spend more time polishing it than playing. Once Albus had watched from the shadow of the door as his father sat at his desk, shoulders hunched, elbow jerking wildly as his hands worked along the length. Albus had snuck in after his father retreated to bed, and removed the flute from its sock – warm still, almost vibrating with the ghost of its crescendo, the end damp with spittle.
In the dark, short shallow pants.
The road was deserted, not a soul existing outside the shelter of the barn, where light butter yellow spilled out to war with the sunset. The folks spilled out, too, for some air or some chat, the lines of dancers too long to fit squarely inside. Fiddle and whistle trilled dimly up the lane.
Up the field, Albus sat on a low stone wall. His knee jumped up and down in time with the jig, the slip, the reel. Sometimes the foot got involved, tapping or lifting, like the dancers would do. H’up – two, three. H’up – two three. H’up – two, three, four, five, six, seven…
Fingers tapped on the flute sock, a dull, pitchless sound. He opened it then, assembled the pieces, placed his fingers over the holes. Dropped his chin, twisted his neck, and gazed down its length. Its mouth was a dark circle, tight and cold. He’d cleaned it over and over, but it was still a dead man’s mouth.
“You’re supposed to blow.”
Albus jumped, almost dropping the flute. A figure had appeared from among the trees, a case slung over one shoulder.
Albus breathed a laugh. “You sure gave me a turn there—” he started, glancing up to recall the lad’s name. Instead he was met with a stranger’s face.
The breath left Albus’ mouth. Blonde curls. Bone structure. Mismatched eyes — shocking, but playful.
He was a handsome stranger. A very handsome stranger and all.
“Are you not going to play?” asked the boy, glancing Albus up and down with the trace of a smile.
So handsome he was almost hard to look at. Laughing nervously, Albus replied, “Oh, I can’t, sure. I don’t know how.”
“What were you doing, then?”
Albus hastily began dissembling the flute. “Excuse me now, but I don’t believe I recognise your face.”
“Grindelwald,” replied the boy, adjusting his case to extend a hand.
Albus stood slightly to shake it. Firm grip. Eye contact. Very, very handsome. “Dumbledore.”
“The eldest, yes? Albus, is it not?”
Albus blinked. “And how is it you know that?”
Grindelwald smirked as he strolled ahead. “My aunt told me you’d be at the dance, but here you are up the hill from the dance. She also said you might enjoy the company, but perhaps you’d rather be alone with your flute.”
Albus spluttered and grew hot in the face.
Grindelwald grinned as if it was just the reaction he was after.
“Of course, of course, you must be Professor Bagshot’s nephew,” said Albus, smiling at the ground. He glanced up once more, marvelling a trifle at this very new and interesting feature of Godric’s Hollow.
Extending his arms, Grindelwald smiled as if to say, the one and only.
Neither boy dropped his eyes even when the conversation wavered there.
Albus coughed. “And what’s that you got there?” he asked, nodding at the case. “Fiddle, eh?”
“Violin.”
“Ah, yes, that’s a fiddle.”
The air seemed to quiver with the music of the barn: the beating of drums, the stomping of feet. It swelled in Albus’ chest. Eventually he grew shy and stared down at his hands and the flute which was in them.
“May I see that?” asked Grindelwald, and in the same breath flicked the wand that had appeared from his sleeve. The flute shot from Albus’ hand and Grindelwald deftly caught it.
Albus was on his feet. He glanced around, but it was quiet where they were. He looked back to Grindelwald as the other boy examined the flute with interest. Albus slipped his hands into his pockets, attempting to wipe the sweat off them as he did. “They’re giving lessons, you see. Down the barn.”
“Ah, so you are to learn?”
“Not at all, I’ll only be donating it. They don’t mind the aul wooden ones down there.”
“You do not wish to have lessons?” asked Grindelwald, looking up again.
Albus raised a hand to take back the instrument, but Grindelwald did not move. Albus dropped his hand quickly and shrugged. “… I’ve not the interest.”
Grindelwald narrowed his eyes slightly. “And… oh, forgive my questions?”
“Not a bother.”
“Why are you up here, when they are down there?”
Blushing, Albus replied, “I was late, see. Didn’t wish to interrupt.”
“You will not dance?”
Albus scoffed, and shook his head.
Grindelwald thought for a moment, twirling the flute in his hand. “Well, I am thinking to head down myself. I may pass this on to them, if you like?”
Albus wrung his hands. He looked at the flute, then back at the boy who gazed innocently back. Albus put on a smile. “Ah, I’m sure it would be better to do so myself.”
“I will give your name,” replied Grindelwald. He winked, sending gooseflesh up Albus’ neck. “You will get all the credit, I’m sure.”
Grindelwald took a step backwards toward the barn. Albus took a step too. “Not at all. And I’d like that back now, if you don’t mind.”
Grindelwald tossed the flute into the air, and Albus lunged to catch it — but it stopped mid-fall. Grindelwald’s wand moved in a delicate, fluid motion, and a tinny sound began to tremble out of it.
Albus’ eyes widened. Grindelwald winced slightly, shook his head, and whipped his wand again. Then, almost like dancing, he weaved and threaded his wand, his arm, his shoulder, his whole body seeming to augment the motion — the music — because with the movement the most divine sound arose like birdsong from the flute.
Grindelwald opened his eyes to smirk at Albus, then turned heel to trip lightly down the hill to the barn.
The flute went with him.
“Look here, you can’t just—” Albus cried, following and glancing around in a state of panic. “They’re Muggles down there—!”
Now Grindelwald broke into a jog, and Albus rushed after him. By the time they reached the light of the barn, the flute, the music, and Grindelwald’s wand, were gone.
Some heads turned at the sight of them — Albus felt every head in the room must have turned. He’d dressed in Muggle clothes for the occasion, but it seemed his garments were still rather more colourful than most. Grindelwald was dressed very peculiarly also, in sleek black robes, and an ascot — a bloody ascot in Godric’s Hollow, for God’s sake. The pair of them stood out like a sore thumb.
Some girls at the entrance whispered to each other as they approached. But that might have been Grindelwald’s looks as well.
Following Grindelwald inside the barn, the music bellowed at his eardrums and almost immediately distracted Albus from his worries, in full swing seeming to lift his heart from his chest and course through him, sending his feet to tapping, his fingers to itching. He looked over to see the band playing, whole bodies at motion, the delightful energetic songs possessing their players like mad yokes, grinning divils with yips and shouts, sending the room to stomping and cheering and clapping in time.
An awed smile played at Albus’ mouth. He couldn’t have said how long he stood there, the other boy forgotten, until an arm hooked around his neck and Grindelwald dragged him over to where he was already talking to perhaps the prettiest girl in the room.
“And your friend will dance with my friend here, yes?” Grindelwald was saying.
“Ah, can’t we both dance with you?” sniggered the second girl.
Albus rolled his eyes, but couldn’t say he was offended. He would have chosen to dance with the boy as well, if and only he could. The thought made him blush right up to his ears.
“Why, we shall all take turns,” said Grindelwald, glancing at Albus and throwing him a wink. Albus was sure his entire face must have been pure crimson. The girls laughed, and the second one took Albus’ hand.
“Sorry now — I-I really don’t dance—” he spluttered.
“Sure we need four for a line, ya gomie,” the girl replied, and then smiled brilliantly as Grindelwald looked back around. She grabbed his hand in her other, and Grindelwald met gazes with Albus again, wagging his eyebrows.
The girls led them to the back of the lines of dancers, facing the backs of another four. In and out they danced, in and out, and then they were raising their hands and another four came under the arms to face Albus and his partners. Albus had the idea of the footwork from watching the céilí dances these past Sundays since returning to Godric’s Hollow, and he knew from the signature that it was a jig, at least. As they started, Grindelwald shouted gleefully, “Oh, is it the Quadrille?” before he was yanked forward by the girls.
In and out, in and out. The middle two then dropped hands and Albus’ girl was dragging him to the right, exchanging places with Grindelwald and his girl. A turn like that — and a little fiddly thing with the foot — then he was being dragged back to the left, and all sorts of confusion over which couple was to pass in front, or behind. Then, suddenly, the girl opposite him was grabbing his hands criss-crossed and spinning furiously around on the spot, giggling like a billy goat, and he could hear Grindelwald roaring with laughter too. Forgetting his feet, listening instead to the laughter and the music, Albus started smiling — started laughing — started having fun.
As they found their line once more and had their hands yanked up to make the bridge, he looked sideways at Grindelwald, who caught his eye and grinned. Albus grinned back. It was not the last sideways glance of the night, nor the last shared sideways smile. On the next turn, as he and his girl passed behind, Grindelwald gave Albus’ bottom a slap. And he winked at Albus again. Albus flushed hot this time, and some rounds later when things were getting warmer and warmer, hair sticking to foreheads and shirts growing damp, they somehow managed to misstep so that the two of them spun together, arms crossed, until Grindelwald dropped one hand for a moment and slipped it instead around Albus’ waist. There — for that brief, brilliant, blinding moment — their bodies pressed flush together, and Albus could feel Grindelwald’s laughing breath and curls tickling his cheek, and then they were spinning away again, dizzy and light, their partners and everyone else laughing their heads off.
Albus had to sit out the next dance for the heat and the heartbeat threatening to burst from his chest, sampling the Muggle beer, and Grindelwald followed him only a moment later, to his barely contained delight. There they drank and discussed at length the difference between Quadrilles and sets, and further still the new Gaelic dances that were being taught at these sort of sessions. They were each delighted to find in the other an excellent and enthusiastic conversation partner, all the earlier tension over the flute forgotten. Their two dance partners came to sit with them as well, though did not have much to contribute except to stare doe-eyed at Grindelwald, who seemed to have forgotten them entirely. Albus wished they might take the hint and leave the two boys to each other. But to be the sole focus of the boy’s gaze and attention was mildly satisfying, in its way.
Out of nowhere, Grindelwald produced his violin, and tossed Albus his flute back. So loud it was in the barn that his playing could barely be heard, but he hopped and jumped in his seat in imitation of the band, but cast serious glances that way as well, moving the bow and listening closely in attempts to emulate the Irish music.
The girls were whispering to each other, and then started giggling uncontrollably.
“What was that?” asked Albus, smiling faintly.
“She said she’d fiddle his flute,” said one, and the other squealed and pinched her friend.
“Fiddle what? What does that mean?” asked Grindelwald, smiling and gazing around at the three of them.
“Nought at all,” said the girls, still giggling. Albus was blushing hot again, feeling suddenly a little ill.
Grindelwald met his eyes and elbowed him. “You’ll tell me later, won’t you, Albus?”
The girls shrieked further, and Grindelwald smirked. Albus couldn’t seem to look anywhere at all.
Albus had just overhead another whisper that sounded like, “Bet he would fiddle it and all—” when suddenly the music stopped, and shouting was heard. They raised their heads to the entrance, where a man in black robes and a stark white collar was wreaking havoc on the dancers. For a wild moment Albus thought he was a wizard. Then one of the girls said, “Feck, it’s Father Finnegan.”
The commotion suddenly rose to a tumult, and every which way people were making a run for it. Albus grabbed Grindelwald’s arm for fear he’d lose him, and followed the crowd as they ran for their bloody lives.
“Whose father is it?” shouted Grindelwald as they legged it off.
“The priest,” explained Albus, and almost burst out laughing.
Grindelwald snorted, and jerked his arm to loosen Albus’ grip on it, only to snatch up his hand instead. They made it out of the barn and into the night, sprinting up the lane and gasping for breath and for laughter. They did not let go their hands, even when their running slowed to an amble once they were nearer home and alone on the road.
“It’s a shame, in anyway,” said Albus, glancing at Grindelwald sideways. “We might have walked them home.”
Grindelwald turned to meet his eyes. “I would rather walk with you.”
Albus felt a warmth spread over his chest at Grindelwald’s smile. He laughed a little, looking down. “You might’ve got a kiss at the door.”
“I might still.”
Glancing up quickly, Albus caught the brief cock of Grindelwald’s eyebrows. Albus’ neck was hot. Laughing again. It couldn’t be so, could it? Could he really be so wicked as this?
Grindelwald squeezed his hand, then steered him off the path and into the woods. Albus followed, feeling like he was floating on air up to heaven, or maybe sinking through the earth towards hell. To his dismay Grindelwald dropped his hand then, only to produce his wand again and wave it gently at his fiddle, which rose into the air above them as they walked, and began to play another melody. Albus listened, his heart aching with the beauty of it, the emotion and lovely sadness of it, tears stinging in his eyes.
Grindelwald turned to him as the song ended, gazing at him, and Albus gazed back. With a swirl of his wand, the fiddle began to choppily play a jig instead. They both laughed, and yet as the music surged they bowed deeply to each other.
It was incredible, how his hand trembled as Grindelwald took hold of it, gentle but firm, how the spaces between them seemed to swell and charge as they danced side by side, face to face, circling, encircling, and never dropping that eye contact. Grindelwald’s footwork for the Quadrille was much more precise, elegant and captivating, and unlike the cheerful, boisterous Irish dances, there was restraint and tension and longing in the English dance, and quite soon Albus found his whole body awakened to it. They spun slowly, hands clasping each other’s behind their backs — and as soon as Albus wished they might spin manically face to face until they fell over, fell on top of each other — he realised that perhaps he rather liked it like this, the way it was drawn out, like it might never end.
As the music faded, they stood before each other, and Grindelwald gently let his violin float to the forest floor. Instead he summoned Albus’ flute from his trouser pocket, giving Albus the most terrific thrill, eyes startling wide. Grindelwald put away his wand then and held the flute, examined it from all angles and gave a little test blow. Albus’ heart was beating frightfully fast.
“Shall I teach you a little?” asked Grindelwald.
Albus gasped. “Would you?”
“Of course.” Grindelwald smiled, and looked up at Albus as he brought the flute to his mouth. Albus started.
“Er — it’s my da’s, see — my father’s. Or, it was.”
Grindelwald brought a hand to his head. “Oh, Albus, I’m so sorry…”
“It’s grand.” Albus took a deep breath. “He never played it. I don’t know why. But still I never liked the look of that hole, looking at me, like his… like his voice’d come out of it, or something. Like his breath was still on it. His mouth.” He shuddered slightly, and blinked it away. “I think I’d like you to play it, though. If you’d like.”
Grindelwald looked down at it for a moment, brow knitted, and seemed to think. Then he took a breath, and with his eyes still closed he placed the flute underneath his mouth and began to play.
His lips seemed to barely move at all, but his whole body shifted with it, fingers dancing on the holes. It was not an Irish song, nor an English song, but a song of the continent, Albus thought: a song of different sound but similar story, a story of longing and loneliness and home. A song for those without homes, perhaps. And then Albus wondered for the first time what this beautiful boy was doing here in Godric’s Hollow, what he was running from, or what had chased him off. He’d come here this night and learned songs that had been lost for years, songs newly invented, songs stolen and rewritten and made into something new. It was an old thing, that music, but it was a new thing as well. How free he seemed to Albus, to play his spirited jigs and also his sombre movements. His serenades and symphonies. He was in love before the end of it, though he wished it might never.
When it did, Grindelwald opened his eyes, laughing slightly nervously and looking up at Albus. He passed him the flute, and with thin fingers he adjusted Albus’ fingers on the holes, balanced the flute on the topside of Albus’ chin. Albus eyed the hole, thinking of the boy’s lively lungs, the inside of his mouth, his tongue, his lips. He glanced up, tracing Grindelwald’s smile with his eyes.
Before he knew it he was leaning in and kissing him.
It was brief — Albus pulled away quickly, startled by his own bravery. But then their eyes met again and Grindelwald closed the distance this time, kissing him deep, a hand jumping up to knot his fingers through Albus’ hair. It wasn’t teasing and playful as all his flirting before, but earnest and grateful and needy — so very needy, and Albus needed it too. It startled him, how it unhinged him, how it opened possibilities to him. Things he’d dared not think before. Things he’d dared not feel.
They kissed like that awhile, and Grindelwald’s hands were, well, everywhere. One slipped around the front. Albus crumpled and gasped.
“Do you know how to play this one?” the boy whispered, a smile in his voice.
Albus shook his head wildly. “N-no, no, I mean—” He swallowed, trying to breathe.
“Really? Not even on your own?”
Albus buried his face in Grindelwald’s shoulder and shook his head again. “Sure it’s a sin, isn’t it?”
“My, who told you that?” laughed Grindelwald.
“Me da did.”
Albus blinked. His da — had he really? Sure hadn’t he been so young when it all happened? Did he even know of such things back then?
“Well, it was alright for him, wasn’t it?” teased Grindelwald. “At least he had your mother to put it in.”
Albus screwed his eyes shut. There was something — something queer about this. The flute had been… cold, when he’d taken it out. Dull and cold. All that polishing, and it didn’t even shine.
Grindelwald swept a lock of hair from Albus’ face, and brushed a few kisses across his cheek. “Is it a sin if I do it for you?” he whispered.
Albus shuddered. Sure he already was doing it, wasn’t he? “I don’t know,” he replied, laughing breathily. “No-one ever told me that.”
Grindelwald laughed, and Albus pulled back to glare at him reproachfully. But he kissed him again anyway, sinking into it, and Grindelwald’s hand stroking him was as skilled and deliberate as his fingers on the flute. Usually he hated this feeling. So base and untempered. But now Albus felt like his blood might be boiling, his fingers growing numb, and he pressed his face into Grindelwald’s neck again as he bit his lip and whimpered against him.
It didn’t last long. But it was divine. And Albus thought there must have been old gods there with them in the woods that night, gods of Guinness and céilí dances and boys with blonde curls. Gods who watched the drinking and the dancing without condemning it, and not condemning the lovemaking either. In fact they commended it, because it was their worship, too, their prayer. Hymn without rhyme, dance without step, sacrament without sin. Each kiss and each touch and each shudder or gasp of pleasure. These Gods they worshipped in their worship of each other. In the woods, in the dark, with the fair-folk: they prayed.