Work Text:
28. März 1998 5th May 1998 Referenznummer: 7491
An: Dieter Eppstein, Kanzler
Zaubereiministerium Österreich
Etage 5, linker Korridor, Raum mit dem runden Fenster
Weiterleiten an: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic
Ministry of Magic, London, Great Britain
Betreff: Testament des Gefangenen Nr. 1, Gellert Grindelwald
Dear Mr. Shacklebolt,
I am forwarding a letter to you that I received from the authorities of Nurmengard, of which Grindelwald was – as you may know – the last remaining prisoner. He was found dead a few weeks ago.
I am aware that you have a lot of work on your hands (alas, congratulations!) but the matter should be dealt with swiftly and cannot be pushed back as Nurmengard has trouble preserving his body.
Also enclosed you will find Grindelwald’s testament, if you can call it that. He did not possess anything, but he asks the most peculiar of things: To be buried together with Albus Dumbledore.
All further correspondence can be directed at the authorities of Nurmengard prison.
Regards,
Dieter Eppstein
*
There was a bakery in Mould-on-the-Wold. The baker had a daughter who was too young and too beautiful for her own good, as Mrs. Archer and Mrs. Cemetry said when they had tea with Mother.
The daughter had a son. Christian, he was called. He was just as old as Albus and he had no father as the other children said. He was strange, they said, he did not talk to them. He only talked to snakes, they said.
The Archers looked after him anyway - a favour to the baker, an old friend, Mother explained.
Albus, soon to turn six years old, only went to stay at the Archers’ house when his brother was sick or his baby sister wouldn’t stop crying.
The Archers were a nice, old couple who treated them all like grandchildren, feeding them biscuits and milk from the cows in their yard, granting them sweets when their mothers refused them.
Albus liked reading with Mr. Archer and baking with Mrs. Archer and studying the beetles in the high grass next to the forest while the other children played catch in the distance.
One summer day he was sitting in the grass that almost reached up to his shoulders and smelled heavy and sweet in the sun, breaking half of his biscuit to crumbs to offer them to the ants that were crawling around on the ground, watching curiously how much they could carry.
He was so focused on the ants that he did not notice the snake approaching until it was so close to him that it only had to leap forward once to bite his naked feet. He stilled, looking at the snake. It had the colour of grass and of the dirty ground and its small dark eyes stared up at him.
There was a sharp hiss and he jumped a little, his heart stuttering with fear that he could have disturbed the snake so much that it would bite him. Father said some snake bites were poisonous. He did not know if this snake was poisonous.
But the snake did not bite him. It didn’t even acknowledge him further. It slid past him across the ground and when he turned his head it had wound comfortably around Christian’s bare calf. (His trousers were too short, usually, and patched up in places – things that Mother and her friends discussed in a tone he did not quite understand but knew to mean something not good.)
Christian stared at him with wide eyes as if he hadn’t ever seen Albus before.
“Oh, hello,” Albus said, standing up. Some ants crawled across his feet and he stared at them for a short moment, seeing if he stood in the way of his crumbs. “Is that your snake?”
Father did not let him touch snakes until he had taught him all that were poisonous and all that were fine and how to be careful with the animal. And since Mother did not like snakes, they only made slow progress.
Christian stared at him while the snake crawled up into the leg of his trousers and up under his shirt until it settled around his neck, hissing quietly.
Christian tilted his head a little to listen to the snake and then, very slowly, shook his head. “Friend,” he said.
Albus had never heard Christian speak before. Well, he supposed he had spoken Parseltongue only a minute before but that was not a language Albus could understand. He sounded like the men on Father’s records – a little cracked.
“That is nice. I don’t have friends, just my brother and sister but they cannot even speak yet.”
Christian kept looking at him, his eyes just as dark as the snakes. He hissed lowly as if whispering to the snake, so Albus said: “You don’t have to whisper. I cannot understand you, anyway.”
Christian startled but his eyes moved to the half of the biscuit that was still in Albus’s hand before they flew back up to his face. He knew that the other children always took away Christian’s biscuit as soon as Mrs. Archer had turned her back on them. He had told Mother about it once while she put him to bed and she had said that it was not right but that he should not get into trouble over something like a biscuit.
“Would you like to have my biscuit?” He said, now. Stretching out his hand to offer what was left of it. “The ants got one half of it, they use it to build their home, did you know? But you can have the other.”
Christian moved slowly as he took a step forward and took the biscuit from Albus. He studied it intently, the snake hissing on his shoulder.
He bit into the biscuit while staring at Albus and when he’d swallowed, he gave him a small smile.
Albus beamed at him.
*
When Dobby the house elf dragged a frowning, wailing Winky into his office, alternating between smiling at him and frowning with a worried glance at Winky, he was surprised to hear his request.
They were looking for work, Dobby said, but they wanted to get paid for it. Winky flung herself to the ground in his office at that and Dobby helped her up again.
“Well, if you would like to be paid, you shall be paid, of course,” he said and Dobby’s eyes grew round with happiness and surprise.
“Really, Professor Dumbeldore, sir?” Dobby clapped his hands, ignoring Winky’s horrified glance.
“Really. Now, what do you think? Ten Galleons a week and weekends off?”
He could see on Dobby’s face that his offer had been too much, immediately. His eyes widened even more, in shock now, though, so that he looked almost as miserable as Winky.
“Oh, oh! Professor Dumbeldore, sir, no – I think… I think one Galleon a week would be better and – and one day off a month? Dobby likes being free, but Dobby also likes working, sir.”
“If you are sure - I would also offer two weekends off a month.”
But Dobby shook his head. “No, Professor Dumbledore, one day is all Dobby wants.”
“All right, a Galleon a week and a day off a month it is then.” He stood up and stretched out his hand for Dobby to shake.
Dobby looked confused for a moment. Then he stood on his chair and shook his hand enthusiastically. “Thank you, Professor Dumbledore, sir! Thank you very much! Dobby is happy to be working for Professor Dumbledore! Dobby will keep all his secrets and the school’s secrets and never tell anyone!”
“As kind of an offer that is, please, do not worry about it too much. You can talk as freely as you like. In fact, I would not mind you calling me a barmy old codger, it is not a secret after all.”
“But Professor Dumbledore, sir, no – Dobby wouldn’t!”
He smiled at Dobby. He knew Dobby wouldn’t, although he would not be wrong if he did. The papers called him way worse regularly and he had always delighted in the more creative names his students came up with for him.
“Just know you do not have to punish yourself on my behalf, should something ever slip.” He winked and turned to look at Winky who was still lying on the ground in the middle of his office. “Now, Winky, what would you like to be paid?”
Winky sat up and glared at him so sharply that he was distantly reminded of Minerva whenever Severus booked the Quidditch pitch first. “Winky refuses to be paid! Winky is a good elf. Oh what a shame! Winky would never want pay!”
“But Winky is free, now!” Dobby said. “Winky deserves to be paid!”
Winky put her hands over her ears and made a high-pitched sound to drown out Dobby’s voice.
“I think Dobby is right,” he said gently. “I did not mean to insult you. You are an honourable elf, but that does not preclude payment. But I will not force you to accept any wage, of course.”
“Winky doesn’t want to be paid!”
“All right. Then I am more than grateful for your kind offer to help the other house elves in the kitchen. Please let me know should you ever change your mind.”
Winky shook her head morosely, but Dobby gave him the widest smile he had seen in a while.
*
Gellert was staring at him in the most peculiar fashion. It was one of the rare occasions that he could not read on his face what he was thinking and it unnerved Albus quite a bit.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asked as they entered the kitchen of his house and put down the bags of groceries they had just bought at the market.
“You gave your raspberries to that Muggle girl,” Gellert said, leaning against the table. Albus looked at him, puzzled.
“And…?”
“You love your raspberries.”
“Well, yes. But she does too, obviously and they did not have any money left to buy them. We can go raspberry picking again.”
“Did you not say that her mother was the woman who had disputes with your mother when she was still alive? Over being suspicious and stand-off-ish?”
Albus sighed. “Yes. But that has nothing to do with her daughter. What has that girl ever done to me? Nothing, she was just sad that she could not get raspberries. It is no big deal.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Gellert’s mouth as he stepped forward and put his hands around Albus’s face. “I don’t know how you can bear it.”
“What?” Albus asked confused, as Gellert’s thumbs stroked his cheeks.
“Your brilliant mind; having it confined by so much virtue.”
Now it was Albus’s turn to smile. He put his hands over Gellert’s and rolled his eyes. “You are being dramatic.”
Gellert shook his head. “I admire you, Albus. You and your good heart.” He leaned in to kiss him, then and Albus’s chest had never felt so full love as it did in that moment when he smiled against Gellert’s lips.
*
He took some time settling in at Hogwarts. It was not as magical as he had foolishly hoped when he had departed London for the place, he considered his last resort for finding a purpose.
He had not felt suddenly alright the moment he set foot on the grounds of Hogwarts, he did not feel instantly at home in the office that was cold and impersonal and far less welcoming than the Gryffindor common room.
But he had committed to the job for at least a year and so, he unpacked the few things he had brought and left the sentimental ones in the trunk under his bed and started teaching.
He spent afternoons with Professor Merrythought, head of the Defence Against the Dark Arts Department who was kind and encouraging in his plans for lessons. It was also Professor Merrythought who usually left him no choice but to join her at mealtimes even when he didn’t feel hungry at all, and it was Professor Merrythought who had his back when he first got into a dispute with headmaster Black over his refusal to use the old textbooks that were showing in great detail the torturing of Muggles and Muggleborns.
Slowly, stacks of parchment clustered the round table in his office, he put the silver instrument that Bathilda Bagshot sent him for Christmas up on it as well and he even dared hanging a picture of his time with the Flamels on the wall.
There came nights when he read through the box of old letters and cried into an old shirt that had lost its smell a while ago already. And when he woke up the next morning, he didn’t put it back into the trunk but stored it in the back of his wardrobe. And there came nights that he spent looking at the picture of a young girl and two young boys in a countryside village that disappeared in the drawer of his nightstand at dawn.
But it was none of that that made him realise he had found a home in the castle.
Surprisingly, what made him finally feel at home – as at home as it would get for him at least – was the realisation that he did make a difference for the children that he taught.
It was spring when he had a student crying in his office for the first time.
It was Saturday and one of Ravenclaw’s fourth grade girls was writing an essay on why using the Furnunculus Curse on another student was inappropriate when suddenly she broke out in tears.
He looked up from the homework he had been grading and was stunned into speechlessness for a moment. He had never been very good at dealing with crying people and nobody had ever told him what to do when a student started crying. He had not even thought about it up until this moment.
“Miss Birkett,” he said softly, getting up from his chair. “What happened?”
The girl shook her head, hiccupping words that were unintelligible while she wiped at her face with the sleeves of her robe. His gaze fell onto the piece of parchment she had been writing on and took it from her table while he sat on the chair next to her.
Cursing other students is inappropriate because nobody deserves to be hurt. Even if that nobody held your hand in Hogsmeade and promised to visit during the holidays and then kissed your best friend. At school we solve –
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, staring down at the quill in her hand, her face still red and blotchy.
His heart softened for her. If there was one thing he could understand, it was heartbreak and the pain of betrayal. “There is no need for apologies. I think a cup of tea would be just perfect right now, don’t you?”
She shrugged slowly, still refusing to look at him. He flicked his wand and summoned the tea set painted with pink flowers that he had acquired just recently. He sent the water boiling in the pot and poured it over the leaves into two cups.
“I gather there is a story beyond the spectacle that took place in my class on Thursday,” he said while leaning back and crossing his legs.
The girl closed her hands around the cup and nodded, looking up at him carefully.
“Would you like to talk about it instead of writing down something you do not actually mean?"
She sighed, looking at her tea. “I did not mean to hurt him. Not really. I just messed up the curse.”
“I believe you.”
“I was just…” Her voice quivered a little.
“You were just distraught.”
“Yes.”
“I understand that.”
She looked up in surprise. “You do?”
He gave her a small smile. “Yes.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks again, but this time she did not look away. “Thank you,” she whispered.
*
They wanted him to kill Gellert. He could see it on their faces, could see that the Aurors taking him away was not satisfying enough. But Albus was relieved. He could not feel it, yet, could not feel anything really, except for the all-encompassing exhaustion that made him feel as if his whole being was drained from him, but he was relieved. For the only thing he had not been prepared to do was to kill Gellert.
And he was so glad that Gellert had not forced him to make that choice about his life.
Gellert had looked him in the eyes as he had knelt before him. He had held his gaze as he had dropped to his knees as well. And he had wanted to reach out. To brush the dirt from his hair and the blood from his face, but Albus was still as a statue. He could not move.
They wanted to execute Gellert. Throw him into Azkaban at least (or the Erkstag, if one asked the members of the ICW off duty), the magical world’s most infamous prison.
But he vetoed. He could not do that to Gellert. He could not give up on him fully. He had seen the boy he had been. He had seen dreams and wit and tenderness. He knew there was something in Gellert that wasn’t completely lost. He merely had to find it again. He needed to give him that opportunity. He needed him to go through that excruciating process of remorse, he needed him to see and feel the horrors of what he had done and perhaps, then, his soul could yet be saved.
He had to hope for it, at least. It was the only hope he had left.
So, he proposed Nurmengard and they indulged him.
The first thing he felt again ever since he had drawn his wand on Gellert were the cheers and gleaming eyes of his students when he entered the Entrance Hall after the week he had spent away. A few bold young children even wrapped their arms around him in a joyous hug that overwhelmed him so much he stumbled a little until Minerva McGonagall pried them away from him sternly to give him some space. Little did she know that only then did he really believe that it had been worth it.
*
It was a cold Friday afternoon in autumn. He was a having mead in the Three Broomsticks with Horace, Armando and Galatea. Occasionally, they used these evenings to collectively complain about headmaster Black’s moods which usually became worse the closer it got to Christmastime, but Albus thought it would have been a good thing to do it regularly to discuss the children with all heads of houses anyway.
“Albus,” said Armando suddenly, pushing another goblet of mead in his direction. He took it gratefully and turned his attention to his colleague. “What is the story with Otis Trentham?”
Horace, who had been seemingly caught up in a conversation with Galatea, turned toward them. “Ah yes, I have been wondering the same!”
Albus looked at them curiously. Otis Trentham was a Gryffindor sixth grader and until now nothing remarkable had struck him about the boy. He had always been a quiet child, often sticking to himself but with a handful of good friends, too. His grades were on the better side of average and the most unusual thing about him was his taste in fashion, though who was Albus to judge?
“I am afraid, I do not know what you mean.”
“I hear he wants to be called Taylor now,” Armando said. “He must have decided it during summer vacation. I had him in a quarrel over it with one of Horace’s boys, Randolph Selwyn, on Tuesday.”
Albus furrowed his brow. “What was the quarrel about?”
Armando shrugged. “Selwyn said that he called him Otis and Trentham became angry. Trentham and his friend claim the opposite, that Selwyn overheard them and mocked him for it. Nothing happened, so I punished neither of them, but I was wondering what was up with that. They are all good boys usually.”
“I am sure it was a misunderstanding,” said Horace. “I know Randolph’s father and the whole family is nothing but kind. And Trentham has always been a queer fellow, has he not?”
Albus felt his spine tensed involuntarily, but he forced himself to relax.
“I think Mr. Trentham is a wonderful student. He has never attracted any negative attention, as far as I know, I cannot imagine that he would start a fight,” Galatea cut in, now.
“Well, I cannot imagine Randolph to do so either,” replied Horace. “As I said – a misunderstanding, surely.”
“Did you talk to Selwyn about it?” Albus asked Horace.
“I did. He said that Trentham is irritable about his name and he did not mean to start a quarrel.”
“And you believed what he said? In all honesty, Horace?” He held Horace’s gaze and he could see how Horace took a sip of his mead to ease his discomfort.
“Well, perhaps he made a comment that was not entirely in good faith. But that is what boys are like at that age!” He chuckled casually. “We certainly were at fifteen. And you must admit, it is an odd thing, that change of name.”
“Why does he want to change his name, did you ask him?”
“No. It will all pass rather soon, anyway, I think. He cannot just change it, after all,” said Armando.
“Why not?” Albus asked.
“But Albus, where would we be if anyone could just change his name whenever he likes. I think it is enough, already, to remember the students by their given name and not the one they enjoy every other week…”
He listened a little more to Horace and Armando discussing the quirks of teenagers, as they referred to it, until the topic drifted off to the Qudditch House Cup, the booking of the Quidditch pitch for upcoming practices and, finally, newly opened shops in Diagon Alley.
On Monday morning, though, he asked Trentham to stay after class.
“Am I in trouble, Professor?” Trentham asked after the last student, his best friend, had left.
“No, Mr. Trentham, you are not. I merely wish to talk to you about a situation last week that Professor Dippet told me about.”
He could see recognition on Trentham’s face and how his shoulders tensed with it.
“It was nothing, Professor. I am sorry for the trouble.”
“I do not think you need to be sorry for anything. But I did hear that you prefer to be called Taylor these days.”
Trentham stared at him with a strange look on his face. One that Albus knew all too well was concealing much more turmoil on the inside. Finally, Trentham shrugged. “Yes. I – I would like that.”
Albus leaned against his desk. “Alright. I see no issue with that.”
Now, Trentham’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. If I may ask, what do you like so much better about Taylor?”
Trentham hesitated. “I just like that it’s… ambiguous, I think.”
Albus nodded. “Ambiguity is a wonderful thing. Is there anything else you would like to tell me in the matter?”
Trentham fumbled with the band that was holding his braid together. “No, Professor. Thank you, but… no.”
Albus smiled at him as he looked him in the eyes again. “Very well, Taylor. In that case, you may go. I am sure Professor Merrythought is desperately missing you in her lesson already.”
Trentham smiled back brightly.
*
“We should travel to Greece first,” Gellert declared one afternoon when they were lying in the grass by the old millstream. The summer sun was still up in the sky, but its rays were only a warm caress now instead of the burning sensation of the heat at noon.
Gellert, discarding all sense of propriety, had taken off his shirt along with his shoes and had laid his head on Albus’s thigh. Albus himself was leaning against the trunk of the old willow tree that had become his favourite spot to meet with Gellert and gently combed his fingers through Gellert’s hair.
“You think one of the Hallows is in Greece?”
Gellert grinned. “No. But I have always wanted to see Greece. Arguably the only Muggle civilisation that was ever worth talking about.”
Albus chuckled. “The cradle of democracy they call it.”
“Perhaps they are not utterly incompetent, then.”
“Well, what would you like to see in Greece, then?”
“The White Island. Leuke.”
“The Isle Achilleis.”
Gellert turned his head to smile at him. “Yes.”
“You know, it does not belong to Greece anymore.”
“I do not care what land the Muggles have assigned it to, now. It belongs to the spirits and they have no care for borders.”
Albus brushed a curl of hair from Gellert’s forehead. “Do you expect to see the Trojan war heroes?”
“I do not know. But I want to see the sanctuary.”
Albus smiled. “Where Thetis has brought the bones of Achilles and Patroclus.”
“Buried together for eternity.”
“They were lucky. You know, some of the old Greeks believed that humans were created round, originally. With two heads and four arms and legs and Zeus was so afraid of their power that he split them up and now, everyone is looking for their other half. Longing for it, incomplete and if two halves find each other, they are delighted beyond words and they form the strongest bond known to humankind. A bond that even the gods were afraid of. They called that love.”
He looked down at Gellert who had moved his head so that he could study his face while he talked. Now their eyes met and Gellert reached up to touch his cheek.
“Yes,” he said quietly, almost awestruck. “They were lucky. And someday, far away in the future, I would like to be buried with you. So that we can be together on the next great adventure, too.”
Albus’s chest swelled with warmth and something grand was blocking his throat while his heart beat so fast he thought it would burst. “I would like that very much,” he said. “But perhaps we should focus on this great adventure first.”
“You are perfectly right, as always,” Gellert reached for one of his hands and kissed his palm. “I would think Germany first, for the wand…”
*
Kingsley Shacklebolt was not sure what to make of the letter he had just received. There were a hundred things on his list that he had to take care of in the aftermath of the war and thinking about Gellert Grindelwald’s burial had not been on that list at all.
His first impulse had been to decline, of course. After all, why would Gellert Grindelwald, of all people, want to be buried with Dumbledore? Perhaps it was a macabre joke, something to get back at Dumbledore for locking him away. Or perhaps he had simply gone mad in his lonely prison cell and didn’t know what he was asking for.
But there was the matter of Dumbledore’s grave, anyway. Harry had told him that Dumbledore’s wand had to be returned and the grave had to be redone and sealed and perhaps moved on the grounds.
The matter hadn’t been a top priority in his book, but he might as well take care of it now. Kill two birds with one stone. So, he apparated to Hogsmeade where all the residents were happily helping the reparations at Hogwarts – most happily since they were free to step onto the streets without Death Eathers harassing them, now. And with all the injured at the battle, healthy enough to be out of hospital but not fit to travel, business flourished again.
He met McGonagall and Harry on the grounds of Hogwarts, looking up at the castle, obviously debating how to coordinate the rebuilding of the Viaduct.
“Good evening!” He greeted and they turned to him in surprise. He did not like the way they both flinched for a second, hands reaching for their wands, but he supposed the effects of war would take more time healing than the rebuilding of the castle.
“Kingsley, we did not expect you today,” McGonagall said. “We thought you did not have time to come.”
“I did not plan on coming, but I have a matter to discuss.”
“With whom?”
“With both of you, I’d think. It’s about Dumbledore.”
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“I got a letter from the Austrian Chancellor today that Gellert Grindelwald has died –“
“Yes, I saw it,” Harry said.
“You saw it?” He and McGonagall had spoken in unison and he could see the same incredulous look on her face as he was sure he was wearing.
“Voldemort killed him. He was angry, the connection, you know…"
It had all been explained to him by Hermione Granger, but he could not say that he understood completely. It did not matter now, though. He did know that Harry had had insights into Voldemort’s mind at times and that was all that mattered.
“He was looking for the wand, for Dumbledore’s wand. Grindelwald lied. He told him he never had it. He laughed at Voldemort,” Harry explained.
“But – why?” He asked. “I mean, I know that Rita Skeeter claimed they were friends for a short time in their youth, but that was a century ago and Dumbledore defeated him…”
“Grindelwald really asked to be buried with him?” McGonagall asked, as if a sudden thought had struck her.
“Yes. He wrote it down as a testament. They found the piece of parchment on his body; he must’ve kept it in his cloak. It was his only wish.”
Harry looked contemplative. “Grindelwald died to protect Dumbledore’s tomb. Perhaps it was an attempt at redemption, too.”
“Why would he protect Dumbledore?”
“Because they were never enemies, not really,” McGonagall said quietly. “Neither of you was born yet, but you should have seen Dumbledore during Grindelwald’s campaign. It was painful. It was –“ She shook her head resolutely. “As much as I despise this insolent rubbish that awful woman dared to write, she was right that they were close in their youth. And as implausible as it sounds, I think Grindelwald always remained important to him.”
“I think so, too,” Harry said.
Kingsley stared at them both. “You know, that is a little vague to justify burying one of the most dangerous wizards in history on the grounds of Hogwarts. And with Dumbledore at that.”
“Do you want to justify it? I think there was enough talk in the public about Dumbledore’s life already, don’t you?” McGonagall said.
“It’s simple,” added Harr. “Dumbledore wanted to be buried at Hogwarts, Grindelwald wanted to be buried with him and I think Dumbledore would’ve liked that.”
Kingsley eyed Harry intently, then McGonagall who’d nodded in agreement, then he tilted his head. “There is something you’re not telling me, right?”
Harry and McGonagall shared a quick look, obviously feigning ignorance.
“Of course not!” McGonagall said but the twinkle in her eyes clearly told a different story, and she did not try to hide it.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry said innocently.
Kingsley sighed. “Okay. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll trust you. Maybe we’ll have to move the tomb a little, but I will have Grindelwald buried here with him. Usually, that would be a question for a school board but since we don’t have one right now, I will just consider this an unanimous decision.”
Harry and McGonagall seemed obviously content and Kingsley bid them both goodbye soon afterwards, heading toward the ministry to send an owl to Nurmengard.
What he missed over the wind that was grazing the highlands was this:
“How do you know it, Potter?” McGonagall asked without taking her eyes from the castle.
“When Grindelwald laughed at Voldemort, he told him that he was ready to die, that there was so much Voldemort didn’t understand. Professor Dumbledore was always very clear about what Voldemort knew nothing of.”
McGonagall’s tired face was twisted with a warm smile as she glanced at Harry. “He was, indeed.”