Archive of Our Own

Elphias had been let off her early from work. He’d heard the news, of course, but it hadn’t seemed quite real. Or, rather, it seemed real but not of much importance. He was a very old man. Old men die. That’s not very surprising, is it?

His journey back home was something of a blur. He felt a little numb, he couldn’t remember opening the bathroom door, nor could he remember mumbling greetings to the various Muggles he passed by even though the words had certainly left his mouth.

He walked into his home in a stiff and awkward fashion through the untamed wilderness of his narrow garden. He hung his coat up, slowly and deliberately. He conjured a fire on impulse, illuminating his tiny lounge-cum-study. He made up a dinner for Eliot and set it on the kitchen floor. He wandered up to his bedroom, cast a sound-muffling charm, backed himself against the wall and … fell.

He slid down onto his bottom and cried. The pain was unbearable – his throat ached, his head throbbed and his eyes threatened to burst. He wailed and screamed and choked out a dozen pleas to whichever God would listen. He begged them to bring Albus back and let him say goodbye – though not in so many words.

Alas, no answer was forthcoming and he eventually regained some semblance composure. He wiped his eyes and nose on a sodden shirtsleeve and looked about himself, swallowing back snot and bile. He was immediately struck, in that moment, by a vivid memory. He’d been in an identical state almost a hundred years ago.

Then a young man, he’d come back from his travels to discover an Albus who had moved on; started and ended a passionate relationship and suffered yet another loss. The Albus he spent the following weeks with was distant and self-loathing. It was made clear by implication that, under no circumstances, would the two of them build the life together that Elphias had once dreamed of.

Throughout that stressful time an awful pinching dread had built up inside of him and, once he was free from prying eyes and ears, it had all come pouring out. That had felt like grief as well. He’d mourned the loss of their short romance. It was the first and last love affair he’d ever known. It had caused him pain that was only exceeded a few moments ago.

Once the memory had passed from view, he brought himself to his feet. He rooted around his bedside drawer, passing by endless scraps of paper, old diaries and notebooks to collect his most prized possession: his photo album.

He sauntered down to his armchair and took a deep shaky breath before continuing. He flipped through the baby photos and his pre-school years to get to the first one of Albus he could find – it was from their First Year at Hogwarts. They were beaming, side to side, amongst the great throng of other first years. He’d been so relieved to find out that students from different houses were allowed to stand together for the official picture.

The next one was the most precious. They were fifteen, a few months into their tryst, and Tabitha (the only other soul that knew) had taken a heart-breaking picture. They were smiling at the camera but every now and then, coyly and fleetingly, they entangled their hands together. Elphias drew his finger over the card, as if to recapture the feeling.

His eyes threatened to tear up again and he pulled his face away. He stared across the room at the miserable state of his sad little home. He considered the miserable state of his sad little existence. He took another shaky deep breath and continued on. The next few pictures were innocuous but afterwards came the gap.

It took decades for another photo of any note to turn up. They’d never stopped speaking and writing, of course, but since that whole mess with Gellert and Ariana, though there’d been much warmth of feeling, there’d been no warmth of touch and any photos had been dreary and official. Then came the seventies, so many pictures of the Order – Albus always looked the part of the dignified and wizened leader and Elphias the part of the doddering old sap he now played full time.

‘Time aged me so terribly but it didn’t touch you, did it?’ Elphias allowed himself the slightest of chuckles before moving on. Dwelling on anything too long, even something light-hearted, would bring back the waterworks.

The first photograph from the eighties was from Albus’ one hundredth birthday. For reasons which still alluded him, Albus had driven most of the dinner conversation towards the topic of Elphias and his many successes.

‘You seemed so proud of me. Were you, though? Did you really believe the things you said?’ That was too much and he slammed the album shut.