Chapter Text
The protest was supposed to be peaceful.
According to the organisers, they let the police know the date, the exact times and routes eight days in advance, and gave them their contact information, fulfilling all requirements, because there are people who are not interested in finding loopholes to avoid extra work or inconveniences, as they believe in compliance with the law, and in return they expect the right to express their opinion without harassment.
As it turns out, these were a bit too high of hopes.
Albus hates with all his heart that more than half of the United Kingdom’s Parliament is not elected democratically, but they gain membership by appointment or heredity – in other words, if none of your ancestors was a count or a duke, just to name two of those titles that could predestine the fate of a family line for numerous lifetimes, you are excluded by default.
He also hates, with all his heart, that even the democratically elected politicians in the House of Commons seem to have lost their mind, forgetting that their work should benefit the people, not generating conflicts between employers and employees thanks to an omnibus bill in which they agreed on, accepted, and therefore assisted to a major change of the labour law: employers have to pay the same amount of tax on employees working part-time as they do on full-timers.
The results were, unsurprisingly, mass redundancies and opportunities for part-time employment closing off. If it was possible, the management offered the workers to go full-time to save their job, but in many cases, due to personal reasons, they couldn’t make it.
This is what happened to Albus, too, as if balancing between being a student teacher, the guardian of two minors, an intern at a corporation developing language learning tools for immigrants, and a Customer Support Representative at an online food ordering platform wasn’t hard enough to maintain already, making ends meet adding to the mix. Two and a half hours after the new regulation came into effect, his boss called him, only to inform him, as kindly as someone can, that he won’t have to come to work tomorrow, he should just drop in to sign the papers about the termination by mutual agreement, and they’re done, the company wishes him luck for the future.
Now, Albus knows that state aid and the token amount of money he gets for the internship won’t be enough to maintain the same quality of living they did so far, and there is absolutely no way he’s going to say no to Ariana when she asks if she may go out to watch a movie with her friends or participate in the yearly class trip, neither would he stoop so low to take away the money Aberforth earns with his summer job, which is practically undeclared work, something Albus would be in general against, yes, but everyone has to start somewhere.
So on a mild Friday evening, Albus joins the gathering crowd at the Open Air Theatre in Regent’s Park. He didn’t make a banner, only did some research on what essentials he should bring with him, as this is his first protest, but he accepts the pin with the “your ignorance is their power” sign on it. Might come handy in the future.
Around half past six the mass of people begins to march towards Parliament Square, going around St. James’s park via Horse Guards Road, until, in a bit more than an hour, they reach the final destination of the protest. Albus was staying somewhere between the middle and the back of the crowd, not in a chatty mood, despite his fellow protestors' conversations around him. He tries not to eavesdrop, but it’s impossible not to catch stories explained, with acid-like sarcasm or barely kept-back tears of anger, how they lost their source of income. Some were angry at their former employers, some expressed their empathy towards them, saying it’s getting more and more difficult, staying on the market, especially for small businesses, and if their social groups turn against each other, it just plays to the politicians’ advantage.
Albus had tried to find logic behind firing an employee who’s already trained and is able to work on their own in a fast and efficient way only because an international, profitable company has to pay a higher amount of taxes on said employee for the same number of working hours, only to hire a new one and wait at least four weeks until their quality of work would reach the standard. He couldn’t.
The way to Parliament Square was secured both by the police and volunteers, there weren’t any counter-protestors, or signs of aggression on the participant’s side. The speeches delivered on the mobile stage were heated and passionate, but not provocative, or encouraging to act against the law. It was civilians who spoke up, from various backgrounds, earning themselves long and loud applauds after their talk, banters lifted high, whistles, the voice of hundreds, thousands.
And Albus is one of them, part of something bigger than himself, or any of the other attendants.
Of course it has to go wrong. Nice things don’t just happen and remain the way they are.
It’s unexpected, how the sound system shuts down, and in the next moment it’s replaced by the voice of someone who seems to be some kind of commander among the police officers, through a loudspeaker, claiming that the protest has been declared as a threat to public security, therefore, by higher commands, the assembly must be dissolved without delay.
The thing is, the protestors, including Albus, are not interested in going home.
The human wall forms in a matter of minutes, and Albus finds himself grabbing someone’s hand to build it further, stronger. He reaches out his free hand, too, but he grabs only thin air. He’s on the very edge, left side exposed, the space next to him empty. He’s not fond of the thought of being the outermost link.
Then someone takes his outstretched hand.
No, not just someone. An angel. The touch of another mortal cannot feel this pleasurable. The angel is not only holding his hand, he entwines their fingers, resting his thumb above Albus’s own, his grip is firm, there’s strength in those delicately long digits, yet gentle, palm soft. Albus barely dares to look in his direction. With his peripheral vision he notes that the angel boy is half a head taller than him and is dressed in all black, slacks and a long-sleeved button up. The calm aura that surrounds him even helps Albus to remain more or less calm, or less afraid, when the police line, consisting of officers who are armed from head to foot, is formed, only metres away from them.
There are shouts and chants coming from the demonstrators, demanding the police to let them exercise their rights, some of them are civil, some of them, well, not so much.
The frenzy breaks out when the riot police start to remove people from the crowd by force.
Handcuffs are out and in use. Someone gets tasered. Then comes the tear gas, and before Albus could blink two, the wall of people dissolves, and his (he has no right to think of the boy as something that belongs to him, he reminds himself immediately) the angel squeezes his hand, and turns towards him in an angle that makes his body shield Albus from whatever danger he expects to come upon them.
“Let’s relocate to somewhere else, alright? This is getting out of hand.” All Albus can do is nod in agreement, then the angel is guiding him through the mass of people, hurriedly, yes, but his movements are calculated, practised, as if this wasn’t the first time that he had to escape from a risky situation. Part of him is proud of himself, actually, for having the presence of mind to focus on anything but the halo of golden curls framing the angel’s face, and he scolds himself silently for not being able to recall the colour of his eyes when he looked at him. “I live near Piccadilly, about half an hour's walk from here, it’s a lot safer than this place right now,” he explains with the most enchanting German accent Albus has ever heard.
The first mystery he’s just managed to solve about the angel.
He's almost proud of himself, almost. The only thing that prevents it is the heavy body slamming into his side, knocking him down to the pavement. His left shoulder takes most of the blow, it hurts, it’ll bruise for sure. At least the person at fault didn’t fall on top of him. Opening his eyes, he tries to stand up immediately, only to be pulled into the arms of someone slim and tall.
“I haven’t noticed he’s coming in your direction, and you were on the ground by the time I realised what happened,” the angel rambles in a shaking voice, embracing him tightly. “I’m so sorry I was so inattentive, verdammte Scheiße, now you’re hurt because of me. Fuck. Forgive me, and please, please tell me you’re not in too much pain?”
Albus had never taken religious studies, but even he knows that such profanities are not allowed to pass an angel’s lips. He can’t risk him getting punished for words of concern, and maybe, care.
“It’s okay,” Albus assures him, or at least tries to, “I’m not that hurt, it’s barely just a scratch. I’m fine, really. You did nothing wrong, don’t worry.”
The sound that escapes the angel’s throat is one of pure relief. For a moment, a careful hand brushes over Albus’s hair, then he’s released from the hug. At least for the rest of the way towards the angel’s home they continue to hold hands.
As it turns out, the angel lives in the attic of a three-storey building, alone.
“I know it isn’t much, but it’s more than enough for me,” he admits after the door is closed, and Albus is standing in the small living room, not really knowing what he should expect from the situation.
“I think you have quite a lovely apartment,” Albus says, meaning every word. “Thank you for helping with getting out of that chaos. Without you I’d probably be sitting at the nearest police station, handcuffed, trying to recover from getting tased.”
A dangerous light flashes in the angel’s eyes as he answers, then it’s gone before Albus could think about it further.
“They better wouldn’t have dared to try. I’m worried about the teargas, by the way, it can stick to the skin, and you were exposed to it. I have clean towels and a nearly endless amount of running water. You can shower if you want, or you can wash your face a little, if you’re more comfortable with that, so you won’t have to deal with irritation or any other side effects later.”
Should any other stranger Albus has just met about one and a half hour before offer him to shower at their place he has never been before, he would be out of the door instantly. But his angel – possessive pronoun may be damned – is not a stranger, not anymore, probably never was.
The reason he’s hesitating to accept the help offered is definitely not distrust.
“I don't want to be a bother,” he tells his angel, as if it wasn’t already obvious that you he’s everything but that. The objection is already clear on his face, but before he could say anything, Albus continues. “But you’re right, I’d hate to wake up to my skin burning tomorrow, or temporarily losing my eyesight. Thank you for helping me.”
His angel has never been more appealing under the time of their rather short acquaintance than in the moment his lips curl upwards into a smile.
“You’re most welcome.” A moment of consideration, then he adds. “Your clothes could be contaminated as well, you know. I have way more than I need, so if you want to borrow some, I’m at your service.”
Albus is not keen on the thought of refusing his angel’s attempts to care for him anymore. A few minutes later he’s in the bathroom, using your angel’s lavender-scented shower gel and shampoo to wash away the dirt, tear gas and sweat from his skin, two towels, a pair of underpants, shorts, and a t-shirt sitting on top of the washing machine, waiting only for him. His left shoulder aches, at some places the skin is already swollen and purple, but otherwise it’s not too bad, he can move it without any unbearable discomfort.
Trying not to waste too much water, he cleans himself up quickly but effectively, and when he emerges from the room, he finds his angel sitting at the small dining table, seemingly lost in his thoughts. As soon as he notices Albus, his face lightens up.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks, already standing up. “I have tap water, some lemon coke, orange juice–”
“Tap water is fine, thank you,” Albus nods, and, almost shyly, adds: “Do you happen to have an extra bag for my clothes? They don’t fit into mine, and, uh, it’d be a bit easier to bring them home than in my hand. But only if that’s okay for you.”
“Here you are,” the angel places the glass of water in Albus’s hand, who can’t tell if the brush of fingers is intentional or not. “And of course I have. I’m actually glad you asked, one moment and I’ll fetch you one.”
Albus doesn’t ask why his request makes his angel glad, just drinks his water and accepts the white canvas tote bag featuring the Fernsehturm in Berlin.
“Danke schön,” Albus thanks him in German, and the angel’s smile widens.
“You’re delightful, I hope you know this. Also, if you need a place to crash tonight, I hereby offer you my sofa, or bed, whichever you prefer, and I’ll occupy the other reclining furniture.”
Although spending more time with his angel is tempting, Albus knows he should go home to his siblings. Aberforth may be asleep already, tired after a long day of heavy physical work, but Ariana is probably still up, waiting for him to arrive, so he once again expresses his gratitude for the angel’s help, and gets himself ready to take his leave.
They’re at the door when he remembers he hates saying goodbyes, moreover, he’s terrible on a good day, and embarrassing on a wrong one, should such a situation come.
“Have a good night,” he murmurs, barely daring to look up at his angel. “You definitely saved mine.”
“Think nothing of it,” the angel answers with a light voice. “Will you do something for me, please?”
What kind of question is this after tonight?
“Of course.”
“Take care of yourself on the way home. Be safe.”
Albus manages to nod, almost bumps his head into his angel’s chin when he moves to stroke Albus’s upper arm as a silent thank you, then leaves.
He’s already going down on the escalator to Piccadilly Circus Underground Station when he remembers the colour of the angel’s eyes, one grey, one dark brown.
Mismatched.
Heterochromatic.
Beautiful.
Taking the metro, the Northern line, to be more specific, then the bus gets Albus home in a bit more than an hour. The walk from the bus station to the two-storey house, which is, as intimidating as it is, on his name, as the eldest Dumbledore sibling, now the head of the family, is barely five minutes.
They had moved twice, when he was younger, from Mould-on-the-Wold to Godric’s Hollow, then, following his father’s death caused by a hit-and-run, here to Elstree, where they stayed even after their mother passed away in a cardiac arrest, two and a half years ago, when Albus had just turned eighteen. Him coming of age was the only reason that his siblings were not taken away, as he was eligible to be their legal guardian. A small blessing in disguise.
“Finally, I almost started to worry you’re sleeping somewhere else tonight,” Ariana welcomes him with a reprimand that is far from enough to hide that she’s genuinely happy to see him.
She’s sitting on the staircase with a book in her hand – she has taken a liking to secondhand book stores recently, spending most of her pocket money purchasing old science books for pennies, sometimes surprising Albus with language textbooks, too, if they’re on sale.
“I have trouble recalling it ever happening before,” he replies, joining Ariana on the fifth flight of stairs, though, if he wants to be honest, he’d prefer the table by far. “Abe’s asleep?”
“Yup, he passed out around ten. He keeps saying he loves his job, but he’s exhausted all the time. Tomorrow he has to go again, then he’ll have two days off.”
“The baby goats make him happy, I guess.”
“You can’t imagine, he keeps sending me pics of them all the time, it’s a miracle he’s not been fired, I have no idea how he manages to get away with it,” Ariana shakes her head in disbelief, honey-brown locks bouncing around her face. “Speaking of getting away with things. These are not your clothes.”
“For how long have you been so well acquainted with the contents of my wardrobe?” Albus raises an eyebrow, being well aware how his cheeks are reddening, as if he was a child caught with something forbidden.
“First of all, this tee is navy blue, your shorts are black, and you never wear dark colours during summer. Secondly, I saw the clothes you wore when you left, and these are definitely not those, which leads to one possible conclusion, namely you borrowed a new set from someone, and your own ones are in that tote bag, which isn’t yours, either.”
Albus groans to himself silently, equally proud and scared of his little sister, who’s getting too smart for her own good. Not that he was planning to lie in any of their siblings' face about the encounter with the angelic boy or the events at the protest, the latter will make it into the news, that’s guaranteed, he just doesn’t want to seem, for lack of better words, hapless or unthoughtful, as he’s supposed to be the responsible one of them.
He tells Ariana how the protest turned violent as the police claimed it a threat to the security of citizens, so they interfered and forcibly dissolved the crows, using tools of restraint as well, then described his angel-like saviour who got him out of the chaos, and only let him go with a calm heart when he was clean and taken care of.
“So, he’s kind, handsome, already holds you dear and likes you back,” Ariana draws the conclusion. “Albus, he’s the perfect boyfriend material. Go and get him before someone else snatches him away.”
As a matter of fact, Albus has never had an explicit conversation about his romantic or other interests with any of his siblings, yet somehow both of them are aware of his lack of interest in girls.
“I’d love to get closer to him, or at least thank him properly for helping me out,” he explains, while having no idea about how he should execute it, “but let’s be realistic, I don’t even know his name.”
Ariana is not having any of his excuses.
“But you know where he lives, don’t you?”