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Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end... To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.
New York, December 1926
One minute he was browsing the bookshop’s overladen shelves, searching for the latest edition of Magical Morality and Ethics: Modern Approaches. The next he was somewhere else entirely.
Albus sensed the familiar magic the moment he stepped through the door, traces lingering in the air like dust. A telltale prickling across the palm of his right hand, faint but unmistakable.
There was no sense in running or raising the alarm. So he amused himself by studying the eclectic mix of books on display, running a long forefinger appraisingly up-and-down the volumes with the most pleasingly decorative spines. This elicited an appreciative chuckle from A Beginner’s Guide to Imps and Pixies, and an ominous shiver from The Complete Book of Necromancy, Volume 3. Gellert would make himself known in his own good time, no doubt with an impressively theatrical flourish. He always did have a flair for the dramatic; it was a weakness they shared.
One of many. The thought rose unbidden to the surface of his mind. He allowed it to float away with practiced ease, a leaf on the surface of a stream, resisting the urge to grasp it and examine its intricacies. That urge would serve no purpose.
He moved away from a precariously laden shelf of history books to peruse the small and rather hodge-podge fiction section: fairytales, romances, detective stories with moody cover illustrations featuring wizards in high-collared trench coats standing in dimly-lit alleyways and glamorous, bored-looking witches. He hummed softly to himself as he examined each book in turn (The Mystery of the Missing Manticore looked like a page-turner; a Christmas present for Minerva, perhaps?), before alighting on a worn volume bound in rough grey-green board, Dorian Gray embossed on the front cover above a cloud of motionless gilded butterflies. A curious choice for a magical bookshop.
Even more curious was the fact that the book was neatly tied with a gold ribbon.
No sooner had his fingers closed around the volume than the bookshelves disappeared in an impressive (and entirely superfluous) puff of bright silver smoke, and he found himself standing in the spacious living room of what looked like a very expensive New York apartment, still clutching the volume of Dorian Gray in his hand.
“I thought you despised Muggle literature,” Albus commented mildly. He dusted down his suit and looked around, taking in the opulent furnishings: the elegant eighteenth-century French mantelpiece, the cream-coloured sofa and chaise longue with a scattering of velvet cushions, the heavy Persian carpet covering polished floorboards. A spectacular chandelier with hundreds of softly burning candles that hovered near the ceiling like fireflies was the only conspicuously magical touch in the apartment. A large gramophone player crouched quietly in the corner, as though biding its time, waiting to blare into life.
“I despise most Muggle literature,” Gellert agreed pleasantly. “I make the occasional exception. I seem to remember you had a particular fondness for Mr Wilde.”
An American accent. That was… unexpected. Albus assessed at the man standing opposite him, willing himself to catalogue the essential details with scholarly detachment. Tall, dark, sharply dressed in a tailor-made Muggle suit (Amos & Hedge, if he wasn’t mistaken). Albus couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Gellert in Muggle clothes, although perhaps his tastes had changed in recent years. Several of his more hardline followers vocally eschewed non-magical attire as a symbol of oppression.
In hiding, it seemed. This didn’t bode well.
“It’s a first edition,” Gellert continued conversationally. “Signed by the author. Merry Christmas, as the Muggles say.”
Albus placed the beribboned book carefully on one of the ornate side tables, trying not to think about the fact that the world’s most dangerous dark wizard had just given him a Christmas present. It was the most thoughtful gift he’d received in years.
“Well – aren’t you going to thank me?”
“A most considerate gift,” Albus responded carefully. He stopped short of asking the obvious question, reluctant to give Gellert the satisfaction of demanding to know why he’d been whisked away to a luxurious apartment that was (presumably) located in quite a different part of town from the shabby magical bookshop. If he simply waited, experience told him that Gellert would get to the point eventually.
Instead, he occupied himself with studying the dark-haired American in the well-cut suit. This version of Gellert was a stranger to him, nothing like the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, sharp-featured young man he remembered. Yet the thrum of magic in the air felt achingly familiar, coaxing back memories of hours spent idling in Bathilda’s sun-dappled garden, long summer days and even longer nights, smiling lips and warm fingers on his skin... a time when the whole world had seemed theirs for the taking. It was intoxicating, the ease with which the past seemed to come alive again, somehow thrilling and dangerous and comforting all at once.
He needed to stay on his guard. There was no one more adept than Gellert at exploiting vulnerability, laying bare his opponent’s deepest longings with honeyed words or a sympathetic touch. Subtly manipulating long-buried dreams, desires, and resentments to further his own ends.
Gellert looked almost relaxed as he leaned against the ornate mantelpiece, distractingly graceful as always. The casual posture was a fraction too studied to be entirely convincing, but Albus doubted that anyone else would have been able to tell.
“Won’t you take a seat?” The Most Wanted Dark Wizard in the World flashed a startlingly American smile, all white teeth and easy self-assurance, and gestured hospitably towards the opulently furnished living room.
Albus hesitated, deliberately waiting until Gellert had chosen a high-backed (and distinctly throne-like) armchair before settling himself on the cream-coloured sofa opposite, suppressing the urge to draw closer. It was a mistake they had both made in the early days, over and over again: both convinced that the widening chasm between them could be breached if they only reached out far enough, argued their beliefs persuasively enough; both desperate to recapture what it had felt like at the beginning, when understanding one another was as effortless as breathing. Both consumed by the same longing to turn back the clock to that golden summer when no boundaries existed between them.
It was only later – much later – that Albus realised this lack of boundaries was the problem, not the solution.
Aberforth had tried to tell him, of course, but he’d refused to listen. It was unsurprising that his brother still hadn’t forgiven him, and almost certainly never would.
“Do you like it?” Gellert indicated his borrowed form, his tone light and conversational. An onlooker might be forgiven for thinking that he was talking about his immaculately cut suit.
Albus remained silent, keenly aware of Gellert’s watchful eyes on him, assessing his reactions. As always, being observed by Gellert was like standing in the full glare of the sun: there was nowhere to hide, and it was almost always foolish to try. He did his best to school his expression into one of mild curiosity, despite knowing that Gellert, of all people, would easily see through this pretence.
“Percival Graves, Head of Magical Law Enforcement at MACUSA,” Gellert continued, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his legs languidly, reminding Albus of nothing more than a sleek (and very dangerous) cat. “He was convenient to me, but I confess I’ve grown fonder of this body than I’d anticipated. He’s what the Americans call a ‘good-looking guy’.” Gellert flashed another of those disconcertingly gleaming smiles. “His personal appearance is already proving pleasingly useful. Not to mention his contacts – and his home.” Gellert’s gesture took in the expansive living space. “I’ve made a few changes, naturally. Graves’ taste in interior design left rather a lot to be desired.”
Albus glanced at a stunningly beautiful Baroque clock perched on the same side-table where he’d deposited Dorian Gray. He took in the distinctive black-stained wood with brass detailing, buying himself time.
“Prague?”
“The little clockmakers shop by the square,” Gellert confirmed. “But you haven’t answered my question.”
Albus turned back, finally resigning himself to meeting Gellert’s unsettling brown eyes.
“I’d prefer it if you faced me as you really are.”
Gellert simply threw back his head and laughed. Albus suppressed a shiver. He remembered when Gellert’s peals of laughter had been genuine, his merriment infectious. Had the coldness and cruelty always been there, underneath?
“The unvarnished truth – is that what you want? Then perhaps you’re in luck. What is it your beloved Oscar Wilde says? ‘Give a man a mask, and he will tell you the truth.’”
“The truth?” Albus studiously kept his voice even, despite knowing that Gellert saw through his carefully constructed façade, and that the pretence of preternatural calm and composure amused him – or perhaps saddened him. Most likely both. “You’ve never told me the truth in all the years I’ve known you. It’s a little late to start now, wouldn’t you agree?”
“On the contrary, szívem,” murmured Gellert with disconcerting seriousness. “I’ve never told you anything else. Is it my fault that you refuse to listen?”
Albus lowered his gaze, nonplussed. The endearment had caught him off guard, as Gellert had known that it would, instantly bringing long-buried memories flooding to the surface. Loving words whispered in his ear, clever hands tangled possessively in his hair, moonlight glancing off ivory skin…
Gellert just smiled that infuriating catlike smile, secretive and knowing, and the vast room suddenly seemed stifling. He was acutely conscious now of Gellert’s magic surrounding him, as sweet and seductive as it was suffocating, like drowning in honey. As always, a small voice at the back of his mind whispered how easy it would be to simply surrender to Gellert’s absolute conviction in the righteousness of his cause, sign up to his unique brand of calculating chaos. Gellert remained as mesmerising as ever, even (perhaps especially) now that his impassioned youthful idealism had curdled into fanaticism
But he couldn’t allow himself to be swept away. Not again. That time had passed.
“Things haven’t been easy for me these last few years,” Gellert continued conversationally. “I expect you already know that. Disappearing for a time seemed… expedient.”
“By ‘haven’t been easy,’ I assume you mean that the violent attacks you’ve orchestrated across Europe have made you powerful enemies? Don’t tell me you really expected the magical community to rally to your cause?”
“The magical community has rallied to my cause,” responded Gellert complacently. “Therein lies the difficulty. The authorities” – he spat the word with distaste – “fear an uprising. There is, as I’m sure you’re aware, a price on my head.”
“So you decided to hide in plain sight,” Albus continued. “Infiltrate MACUSA and steal the identity of one of their most respected aurors.” He narrowed his eyes. “What have you done with him?”
“He’s alive,” answered Gellert with an impatient flick of his wrist, dismissing the question of Graves’ welfare as tediously tangential. “You’ve developed an unfortunate habit of focusing on insignificant details at the expense of the bigger picture, Albus.”
“Would you describe a man’s life as ‘insignificant’?,” Albus countered, although he already knew the answer.
It depended on the life, and on how much was at stake.
“Oh spare me the moral high ground,” Gellert groaned theatrically. “It’s just the two of us now. No audience of wide-eyed schoolchildren to impress. You can ‘drop the act,’ as they say around here. You said you wanted the truth, old friend; the least you can do is offer me the same courtesy.”
“I’ll promise you the truth,” returned Albus, “if you can promise me that Graves won’t come to any harm.”
Gellert sighed, rolling his eyes. “I’ll keep Graves for as long as he’s useful to me, and then” – he spread his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture of benevolence – “I’ll let him go. I know you think me a monster, Albus, but I don’t spill magical blood without good reason.”
“Perhaps,” Albus conceded. “But using people is your speciality, Gellert. You’ve never much cared for what happens to them once they’ve outlived their purpose. I believe my concern for the welfare of the unfortunate Mr Graves is justified.”
“My specialty?” Gellert’s lips quirked into an amused smile. “Tell me, szívem. Do your precious students have any idea just how ruthless you can be?”
“You’re responsible for hundreds of deaths, Gellert,” Albus pointed out. “You’re planning for hundreds more. Yet you describe me as ruthless?”
“And you, of course, wish to put a stop to all the bloodshed,” Gellert drawled, implying that this was tiresomely predictable. He gazed intently at Albus, as though he was trying to peer beneath the surface and penetrate the murky depths bellow. “Tell me, old friend. How far would you go – for the greater good? How much are you prepared to sacrifice?”
“As much as it takes,” said Albus evenly.
Gellert laughed. “Honesty at last.” He was leaning closer now, their knees practically touching.
Albus thought fast. Gellert hadn’t bothered to disarm him (not that he needed to bother drawing his wand for a simple spell like the Revelio Charm), which must mean he was confident that he wasn’t in any real danger. The apartment was doubtless protected by innumerable charms, and Albus could sense the subtly shimmering wall of protective dark magic encircling Gellert himself.
Even so, it didn’t seem right to continue sitting in Graves’ comfortable apartment, engaging in (comparatively) civilized conversation, without at least attempting put a stop to the greatest threat to Magical and Muggle-kind alike in recent history.
Unmask Gellert, liberate the unfortunate Mr Graves. It was unlikely to succeed, of course, but it was worth a try.
A split second later and Albus was sprawled on the (surprisingly comfortable) Persian carpet, Gellert kneeling over him.
“Not up to your usual standards, Albus. Did you really think that would work?” Gellert laughed softly, dark eyes twinkling with mirth.
“I thought it unlikely,” admitted Albus. “But I feared you would be disappointed in me if I didn’t try.”
“Still trying to impress me,” murmured Gellert, “after all these years.”
The undisguised affection in his voice made Albus’ heart ache. He hauled himself into a sitting position, his back against the sofa. “Enough games, Gellert,” he said wearily.
“These games are all we have left, szívem. Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy them.”
Albus lowered his gaze, avoiding Gellert’s sharply knowing smile. Was that all this was, in the end? A series of elaborate games played out on a vast stage, with humanity – Magical and Muggle alike – unwitting pawns in a conflict that was, even now, more personal than either of them cared to admit? It was a sobering thought.
Gellert positioned himself next to Albus, stiflingly close, and ran his fingers lightly over the fabric of his suit jacket. Albus held his breath, but didn’t move away. The temptation to lean into the touch was overwhelming... to close his eyes and allow himself to forget, just for a moment, that they were enemies now.
“You talk to me of hiding,” murmured Gellert, “yet you waste your talents at that third rate school, squandering your potential. You’re burying yourself alive, Albus. I can’t stand to see it happen.”
“There is joy to be found in an ordinary life, Gellert,” Albus demurred.
Gellert laughed, and it was full of bitterness. “You despise ordinary lives as much as I do, old friend. Petty, insignificant people, with their petty, insignificant problems. Small people who lack the courage to fight to make the world a better place.” Gellert shook his head. “I may be hiding from the world, old friend; but at least I’m not hiding from myself.”
“You’re wrong,” said Albus with an effort. “Those ‘small lives’ lives matter, Gellert, I see that now. I’m doing what I believe is right. You’ve left me no choice.”
“Can you really be so self-deluded? You’re acting out of guilt, szívem, because of what happened to your sister.”
“Don’t you dare talk about Ariana,” Albus hissed, his veneer of calm abruptly shattered. The room swam out of focus, and to his horror he found himself blinking back tears. Gellert had promised never to speak of what had happened, and (perhaps surprisingly) it was a promise he had kept - until now.
Slowly, with unbearable gentleness, Gellert reached out his hand and cupped Albus’ face in his hand, tracing warm fingers along his cheekbone and the line of his jaw. “It hurts me to see you hide who you really are,” he murmured. “And for what? Freedom is ours for the taking. No more guilt. No more regret. I want that for you, old friend. I want that for us.”
“By enslaving countless innocent men and women?” Albus took hold of Gellert’s wrist and moved his hand away, heart heavy. “The price is too high, Gellert. The price has always been too high.”
“That’s what you’ve never understood!,” Gellert persisted in frustration. “We wouldn’t be taking away their freedom – we would be giving it back to them! Do you really think the millions of witches and wizards bound by lies and secrecy can ever be truly free? Is it fair to keep Muggles in the dark about our existence, denied knowledge of the true nature of the world?" Gellert leaned closer. "My followers will restore the natural order of things. Usher in a new age of enlightenment. And, in return, we will offer protection – for those who accept it.”
“And for those that don’t?”
“You’ve always been afraid to make the difficult choices, Albus. That is the difference between us.”
“And you persist in seeing the world in black and white, Gellert,” Albus returned, allowing a hint of impatience to bleed into his voice. “Magical versus non-magical, freedom versus slavery. If you could only spend time with them – the Muggles, the squibs, the ordinary witches and wizards who want nothing more than go about their lives in peace.”
“Look around you,” Gellert hissed. “Do you honestly believe that Muggle societies are worth preserving? Everywhere I look I see nothing but fear, oppression, prejudice. The greedy and narrow-minded are rewarded for their mediocrity, while true originality is punished wherever it has the audacity to blossom.” He gestured towards the volume of Dorian Gray. “Your beloved Wilde, imprisoned for being like us. Don’t you see? Muggle law would punish us for being open about who we love; Magical law would punish us for violating the International Statute of Secrecy. The secrets and lies must end.”
Who we love. Albus tried very hard not to think about what this meant.
“Even if you’re right, global conflict isn’t the answer. Times are changing, Gellert.” A half-smile ghosted across his lips. “You’ve never understood the advantages of patience.”
“Patience,” Gellert repeated scathingly. “Diplomacy. Persuasion. You would have us waste years – centuries – trying to change hearts and minds, waging war with words alone, while innocent people continue to suffer.” He shook his head. “No, old friend. The time for patience is at an end.” He leaned closer, a fanatical gleam in his eyes. “It’s true that a new world is dawning, Albus. I merely wish to hasten it’s arrival.”
Gellert seized his hands abruptly, and Albus’ breathe caught in his throat. A jolt of pure longing surged through him, almost indistinguishable from the thrum of Gellert’s magic.
“Don’t pretend you don’t still feel it.”
“I don’t think about it. You mean nothing to me – not anymore.”
“Another lie,” Gellert murmured. “You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”
Albus lowered his gaze, knowing if he allowed himself to look into those dark eyes, so strange and so familiar at the same time, he would be lost. The palm of his right hand tingled, the prickling of an invisible scar.
Slowly, almost gently, Gellert pressed their palms together, fingers interlaced. Albus knew he should pull away, but he couldn’t seem to find the energy to move. His mind was clouded, enchantment befuddling his senses.
“Do you remember?”
Had Gellert really just spoken, or was his voice merely echoing inside Albus’ head?
“I remember.” His own voice sounded slow and strange to his ears, dreamlike.
“Good,” Gellert purred. “That’s good. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how I can make you feel…”
Albus’ heart beat faster, acutely conscious of the pressure of Gellert’s hands intertwined with his own, warm breath ghosting across his skin. Fingers brushed lightly across the back of his neck, drawing him close.
“Look,” Gellert commanded, and Albus found himself strangely unwilling to disobey. “Try to understand. This is who you really are.”
The world was burning, smoke billowing from ruined buildings, broken bodies lying abandoned in the streets. The scene should have been horrifying, but somehow the chaos of destruction on such a grand scale was exhilarating. The smell of smoke, the roar of fire in his ears, the sight of the towering flames - it felt good; it felt right. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this bloodshed was necessary, cleansing the world of prejudice and corruption. Society would burn to the ground, but only so that they could built it up into something new. Something better.
“Join me, szívem,” Gellert whispered, the words sending a shiver down his spine. “Let me set you free.”
Albus broke away with a supreme effort of will, wrenching his hands out of Gellert’s grasp. The vision subsided, the outlines of the apartment solidifying around him. He was shaking, his breathing irregular, but his mind was finally clear.
“If that is who I’m supposed to be, then it’s better for the world that I stay buried.”
Gellert smiled sadly. “It’s as you said - you would have been disappointed in me if I didn’t try.”
He rose to his feet, smoothing down his rumpled suit, and extended a hand to Albus. After a fraction of a second’s hesitation Albus took it, allowing himself to be helped up. Gellert kept hold of his hand for a moment, kissing it softly, almost reverently, before straightening Albus’ tie and stepping away
“You can’t escape your true nature, Albus. You will use people in the service of your own ends, just as I will. People will die for your cause, just as they will die for mine.” Gellert sighed. “So – there it is. We have nothing left to say to each other.”
“Let me see you,” Albus pleaded suddenly. It was a reckless request, but he was overwhelmed by the desire to see beyond Graves to the man beneath, to see how the years had altered the wild-eyed boy he had loved. Were his many crimes now etched into that once-beautiful face, like Dorian’s corrupted portrait? Would it matter to Albus if the curve of those irresistible lips had hardened into cruelty, if those bright blue eyes were now empty and cold?
Gellert smiled again, a complicated expression on his face. “No,” he murmured softly. “I think not.”
The rejection hurt more than it had any right to. “Why not?,” Albus asked, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.
“I prefer you to remember me as I was,” answered Gellert simply. “For now, at least. I’m not without my vanity, you see.”
“It won’t matter,” Albus persisted, beyond caring how desperate he sounded. “I assume I won’t remember any of this? You must have ensured that whatever happens here will vanish from my mind the instant I leave this place.”
“Naturally,” Gellert confirmed. “But I will remember. And I choose to remember you like this – while you still look at me with hope. With some remnants of what you once felt for me."
Albus exhaled shakily. Maybe Gellert was right; maybe it was better this way.
“You know I’ll keep trying to stop you.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“And you know I’ll win. Eventually.”
“Ah, now that’s where we must agree to disagree, old friend,” Gellert laughed, retrieving the copy of Dorian Gray and pressing it gently into Albus’ hands. “Until we meet again,” he murmured, as the apartment rippled and faded from view.
When Albus opened his eyes he was back in the bookshop as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, clutching a signed first edition of Dorian Gray in his hands.
New York, January 1927
The man was blonde, with high cheekbones and bright blue eyes. Albus didn’t allow himself to think too closely about what that meant.
He was trying not to think at all. He’d almost succeeded, the relentless thrum of his thoughts temporarily drowned out by the clink of glasses and the chatter of conversation. He'd been quite content to sit alone, occupying himself by watching the disparate crowd - at least until the blonde-haired, blue-eyed stranger had slipped into the seat beside him, and Albus found himself torn between the desire to stay and the equally pressing desire to leave.
“I really must be going,” he forced out eventually, reaching pointedly for his coat.
“So soon?” The stranger pouted in exaggerated disappointment. “Will I see you again?”
“I’m afraid not,” Albus replied, studiously averting his gaze. “I leave New York in the morning.”
“Any chance I could persuade you to stick around?," the stranger ventured. "I’d like to get to know you."
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
The stranger raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Care to elaborate? That sounds very mysterious.”
“Not at all," Albus chuckled. "I’m really very ordinary.”
“Is that so?,” queried the stranger, who didn’t seem entirely convinced.
Albus downed the last of his whisky and stood up with an air of finality, trying not to think about the stranger's eyes on him as he carefully wrapped his silk scarf around his neck and buttoned up his long woollen coat. He was about to step away when he felt a hand on his arm.
“You’re scared,” said the stranger, more seriously now, sympathy written large on his face. “You don’t need to be. I know how to be discreet. Besides,” he shrugged, “times are changing. Who knows? Maybe one day we won’t have to hide anymore.” He leaned back in his seat, puffing thoughtfully on a cigarette. “The two of us walking down the street together, holding hands, and nobody batting an eyelid. Imagine that.”
Albus smiled, hesitating for just a moment longer. “Imagine that,” he said.
--
Albus stepped outside into the cold night air, pulling up his coat collar against the falling snow.
He was in no particular hurry to reach his destination (and he felt strangely reluctant to disapparate), so he forced himself to continue walking, conscious of a familiar creeping emptiness. The aching sense of loss grew stronger with every step, until he started to fear it would swallow him whole.
He observed himself with a practised sort of detachment, like his body belonged to someone else. He was trembling, more than could be accounted for by the slight chill in the night air, and his right hand ached dully – a sense memory.
Grindelwald. He was nearby, of course, imprisoned by MACUSA. Albus had refused Seraphina’s invitation to interview their prisoner face-to-face. Perhaps it was simply cowardice that held him back, but something – an instinct that he didn’t like to interrogate too closely – told him to wait.
When the time was right he would look into those familiar eyes again, and then –
Albus trudged silently through the snow, his mind on an uncertain future.