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At first, Gellert thought he had hallucinated again, and that the young man floating outside his window was one of those whom he had killed and failed to remember the face. It was a common occurrence these days—being locked in a tower with no escape for twelve years straight would do that to you. But no, much to his surprise, when the supposed ghost raised his wand, the window actually opened.
Gellert would have thought he had hallucinated that too, had there not been a storm outside and the howling wind not swept through his empty room with a might that could wake a dragon.
That window had been sealed shut by Albus Dumbledore himself.
For a moment, Gellert waited for an alarm to be triggered, for some of the wards surrounding Nurmengard and especially his holding cell to stir and send out warnings to all the guards and the Aurors stationed nearby. In reality, as far as he could tell, nothing happened, which was beyond impossible. It had only been a little more than a decade—Albus’ wards could not have worn out so soon.
And he could not have died already, could he? The thought upset Gellert much less than he thought it would. Albus was older anyway, it was only courteous of him to die first, and who had ended his life was a much more intriguing question. A pursuer of the Elder Wand? Another promising dark wizard on the rise? This pale young man right here in front of him?
The young man in question was now cramming himself through the window with a frown on his face that clearly conveyed annoyance. The windows on the living quarters were much larger, Gellert mused momentarily, but he had made the ones up here uncomfortable to climb through for a reason—he himself was no stranger to this choice of exit. After all, this room had been designed specifically to keep its inhabitant inside. The fact that said inhabitant had ended up being the designer had not been in his plan at all.
Despite all the discomfort, Gellert’s uninvited guest landed on the stone floor soundlessly with the lightness of a goosefeather.
Now he was a very handsome man, but the beauty was not the first thing Gellert noticed.
There was something about his skin—the way it sat unnaturally on the face, pulled slightly too tight across his features, lacking the suppleness that should be there in youth. It looked like skin, yet felt like wax. If the young man would just stop moving, he could easily be mistaken for a beautiful corpse.
Overuse of dark magic, Gellert made an educated guess. Blatant abuse, even. This was someone who not only cared not for his blessed appearance, but actively hated it.
Highly skilled in Legilimency as well, it seemed.
“Good evening,” Gellert greeted him casually, still sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Do you speak German? No? French? English? Russian? Gree—”
“English,” came the curt reply.
Ah. A student of Albus, then. All British wizards went to Hogwarts, he knew that had not changed.
“Did you kill Albus Dumbledore?” Gellert asked expectantly.
For a couple of seconds, the handsome stranger remained silent. The facial expression was an interesting one: hard to read, but only because there were so many things present at once. Gellert thought he could make out at least some bewilderment, which probably meant a no. Was that disappointment he was feeling?
“Unfortunately,” his visitor said in the end, “I have yet to have the pleasure to.”
The young man had a very nice voice to go with his nice looks, and unlike his face, the voice had stayed perfect. In a casual conversation, which Gellert supposed this was, it came off soft and light—polite, friendly, and incredibly disarming.
That was definitely a learnt skill, like that accent and that diction.
“What a shame,” Gellert said. “Here I thought Albus has met his end at last, seeing how you have yet to be chased all the way to Wien by an army of Aurors. Do tell me how you sneaked past the wards—that is something even I would struggle with.”
A faint smile appeared on the young man’s face. Proud, this one. Such distinct pride that could easily grow into hubris and deadly arrogance. Before he even opened his mouth, Gellert knew there would be an answer because this young man here was so obviously the sort to gloat.
“It’s a concealment spell.” See? “More of a three-step ritual, really, and a bit of a hassle to prepare, but theoretically, for as long as the sun is hidden, so am I.”
And anyone skillful enough to do that undoubtedly would have the ability to remove Albus’ little spell on the window.
“What about all this height?” Gellert asked even though he remembered the ghostlike floating vividly. “The walls are unscalable. Where’s your means of transportation?”
“I can fly unassisted.”
There it was again, the unconcealable pride. The barely-veiled smugness in the tone and the facial expression. The secret yearning for praise and recognition.
“Self-levitation? There is a spell for that now?”
“No.” The young man smiled. “I discovered how to fly when I was eight. There is neither a spell nor a wand involved.”
“Oh, shit.”
What did you know, there existed a person more magically talented than Albus after all.
“Thank you,” the genius replied in German, eyes briefly casted downwards, the tone reverting back to the original polite, soft-spoken impression for some inexplicable reason. All of a sudden, gone were the smugness and the pride, and in came a bizarre bashfulness that had no business being there.
But then he looked Gellert in the eyes again, and that previous instant felt like nothing but an illusion.
“You are different from how the papers described you,” he said. “I expected you to be more…”
“Evil?” Gellert suggested.
“Inspiring.”
Oh.
“Now that’s a little offensive, don’t you think?” Gellert chuckled. “Give an old man a break. I’ve been locked up here for years.”
“You are seventy-four, that is hardly old for a wizard.”
Gellert gave him a shrug.
“Why are you here anyway, my dear?” he asked. Not to free him, that was for sure. That very pretty wand was still out, seemingly held casually by the side even though the tip was consistently pointed towards Gellert and his bed. If the young man were an admirer, he would be the sort who aspired to replace his idol, not revere them.
“I wanted to see if I could,” came the reply.
“And now?”
The young man tilted his head—a tiny movement that reminded Gellert somewhat of a snake preparing to strike.
“I suppose I want to talk. About Albus Dumbledore, for instance.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you,” said Gellert. “You Brits probably know him better than I do.”
“You called him by his first name.”
Ah, shit. He had, hadn’t he? Exactly once, too. Seemed like while he was busy appraising his visitor, the young man had been doing the same.
“That can mean a lot of things.” Gellert shrugged. “If I knew yours, I would call you by your first name too, but that does not mean I have any knowledge of you other than just that, does it?”
The wand in that long, slender hand barely moved, but it was enough for Gellert to spot the slight twitch. An impulse to curse, he realised, held back at the last minute. Considering the way it was handled—almost like a muscle memory or a habit, this must happen quite often. Someone with a temper, were we, without the privilege to let it run wild? Now the sudden bashfulness in that little “thank you” made so much sense. This, Gellert concluded, was a young man who was used to pretending he was good while he was anything but.
Gellert must admit, after twelve years alone on a tower, he had nearly forgotten how fun exploring a person could be, until suddenly, he got this. This genius. This beauty. This marvellous portrait of an unhinged young man who certainly had a steady trajectory to becoming the one who might murder Albus Dumbledore successfully.
And that was exciting, among other things. If Gellert had been younger and not known better, he would have called this strike of lightning, love.
“If you don’t wish to talk, then I shall be on my way,” said his handsome young man.
“And give up?” Gellert asked lightly. “You don’t seem to be the type. Come on, we have a whole night. Until the sun rises, didn’t you say?”
“That’s a lot of time to waste,” the young man replied.
“I can make it worth your while.” Gellert smiled. “Surely there are things you’d like to know other than how Albus Dumbledore duels. I do pride myself to be an accomplished wizard in the dark arts, you know.”
He seemed to think about that for a moment, with the face of a calculated politician or a clever shop assistant about to tell you they could give you a discount because you were such a valued customer. You would believe him, of course, because he looked so sincere, and you would immediately think that he would probably get into trouble for favouring you. And then you would say, oh that’s no trouble, darling, that’s just 20 Galleons.
Before you knew it, your gold was gone, and you had bought three items more than you had intended before you walked into the shop.
Gellert knew the type—he had been one for a short time in his twenties. What he had also done was abandoning the shop owner in the middle of a raid and escaping with all the goods, then started his own business with them afterwards. Really made him wonder if the young man here had ever done the same.
“I do have a few other questions,” the darling said, sweeping his gaze across the tragically under-furnished room, perhaps in search of a place to sit.
Gellert patted on his mattress just for fun, knowing his offer would be declined.
And it was—declined, that was. Or rather, it was promptly ignored as the young man conjured a simple chair and sat down right where he stood—near the window, far away from Gellert and blocking the only exit. Yes, this was certainly no rescue attempt. It was even hard to say whether Gellert would live to see the morning light just from the look of things.
He knew a murderer when he saw one, you see, and this one right here did not even seem like he possessed a conscience.
**
As expected, Gellert Grindelwald had an extremely guarded mind. What Voldemort had not expected, however, was how the man behaved. He knew him to have a friendly facade, but this was not that. This… this laid-back demeanour, this devil-may-care attitude, it was one of a man who had lost all his ambitions.
It irritated him immensely, for Voldemort could still see that there was a hidden sharpness which lay beneath the smiling face. After all these years, Grindelwald had managed to keep his mind from wasting away, and yet, the man had given up on fighting.
He would be lying if he said he did not feel disappointed.
But there was something about Grindelwald, something about that shabby man with scruffy long hair and beard in an unkempt grey robe that insisted on being given attention. Perhaps it was the composed way in which he received his unexpected visitor. Perhaps it was how he sat on a dingy bed and somehow made it look comfortable and grand. Perhaps it was the discrepancy between the legend and the man—one infamously cruel and larger than life, the other so approachable you could imagine grabbing a beer with him in a bar.
And so they talked, of magic and new inventions, of wild uncharted territories no one dared to tread, of lost tales and myths buried in the flow of history. Gellert Grindelwald really did know his dark magic. Although one would not say he was talented, the man sure had the wildest theories and a most unconventional mind.
He was a little bit mad, that was Voldemort’s assessment.
It took a while for them to reach the topic he wished to discuss the most.
“Theoretically, how many pieces do you think a person can split their soul into before they go off the deep end?”
“In what way?” Grindelwald asked, not missing a single beat.
“By making a Horcrux, for example.”
The man eyed him with unabashed amusement, casually scrubbing his chin and seeming to ponder about the subject.
“Most people only create one in their life, yes?” he mused aloud. “But then they have all died, which makes what you are suggesting a legit question. Personally I’d say three is the best—it’s the most stable number. One in the body, two in spare parts. It’s symmetrical. Balanced. Reasonable.”
Voldemort quietly counted his numbers in his head. It was too late for the stable three now. In retrospect, it was true that everything was pretty much golden right up to the cup of Hufflepuff, and the moment three turned into four, there was more than an inkling telling him that something was not quite right. There was no going back though, so the only thing he could do at the time was to put off creating another Horcrux until now.
“What about the limit?” he asked. “What if, say, one decides to push the boundaries as far as possible, for academic purposes?”
“That's a good question; I have no idea,” said Grindelwald. “Though there is that notion in the East that the soul is made up from three main parts and seven complementary ones. Nine for females, if I’m not wrong. If we go with that—”
“Ten?” said Voldemort. “That sounds a little excessive.”
“I’d say seven for men and nine for women.” The man shrugged. “But the thing is, all those parts are supposed to reside in one body for the person to fully function. It’s a big deal if you lose one, let alone six.”
Well, shit.
Grindelwald propped his face onto one hand and rested the elbow on the knee, looking as contemplative as they came.
“Is that your problem?” he asked casually. “You’ve gone past three?”
Voldemort schooled his expression into a familiar mask of neutrality and feigned vagueness.
“It’s just a hypothetical situation,” he said.
“And hypothetically, you want to know which number is the best to stop at after three?”
He was sharp, Grindelwald—Voldemort would give him that. He was the kind that would be a nuisance to have in the shop, haggling with a smile and knowing exactly what he was buying. For an incredibly brief moment, when he said the word hypothetically, there was a tiniest glimpse of the man who once terrorised all of Europe resurfacing somewhere around the eyes, but then you blinked and he was just a bored old man in a holding cell.
You wanted an expert’s opinion, Voldemort told himself, here you go. There would be no better time or a better person for him to consult on these kinds of subjects. Grindelwald was too intrigued; he would answer anything more than eagerly.
“Let’s say four,” said Voldemort. “Would that be a good number? There are four seasons, four cardinal directions, four elements in alchemy.”
“Yes, but you see, the problem with four is that it is only balanced when distributed evenly,” said Grindelwald. “One and three is different from four. Five, however… now that’s something.”
“One center and four corners.”
“Exactly.” The man smiled. “Five elements in Eastern alchemy. Five fingers on one hand. Five is whole.”
Five it would be then, Voldemort decided. Ravenclaw’s diadem would do, and Slytherin’s locket could remain a keepsake. That should make it balanced.
“Just for my curiosity,” Grindelwald spoke again, his tone perfectly conversational as though he was asking about the weather. “What does it feel like to split your soul?”
Painful. Cold. Empty. But you’d get used to it eventually. The pain diminished with every Horcrux made, though perhaps that was his inability to feel pain increasing as the soul was further fragmented. Voldemort was quite sure even the Cruciatus would not make him feel much nowadays, seeing how his tolerance for pain was already quite high in the first place.
“Not bad compared to the results,” he answered.
“And are there a lot of side effects? Besides… I don’t know, some minor changes in appearance?”
Voldemort tilted his head. Not a lot of side effects had been recorded when it came to Horcruxes—after all, no one prominent had ever created more than one. They said it was supposed to make you feel a little emotionally disconnected, perhaps dulling the world and your senses a little, but for Voldemort, nothing had changed in that aspect. After his second one, there was a clear drop in body temperature, and of course the whole pain tolerance thing, though he had yet to test it out thoroughly.
The most troubling side effect came with the third Horcrux: a decline in sense of taste, coupled with an alarming lack of appetite and an inability to discern when he should be hungry. The body still needed nutrients, yet he could not tell how much he needed to eat for each meal or when to. It had severely affected him for a while, as the amount of food his body required in order to function on a day-to-day basis had also changed after three Horcruxes.
“It probably depends on the individual,” said Voldemort, “as well as how many corrective methods they have used afterwards.”
“Correcti— ah, I see!” Grindelwald exclaimed, slipping back into his native tongue, his whole face opening up. In his surprise and marvel, he looked years younger than his seventy-four, suddenly as handsome as he once had been when the world first knew of his name. “Like balancing an alchemy formula, yes?”
Or an equation, but that was a Muggle expression.
“That’s the idea,” said Voldemort. “A separate treatment for every symptom.”
To cure the faults in man-made immortality.
**
That was a madman right there, Gellert thought idly as he felt genuinely surprised for the first time in years. It was one thing to practice the dark arts to your heart’s content because you could, and another thing altogether to intentionally further mutilate yourself as countermeasure to the after effects of previous modifications. Honestly, you would think a person who wanted to live forever would be a bit more careful.
And the darling was young too. No older than thirty, Gellert would say. Give him another twenty years and he would be able to take down Albus for sure, but only if he had not gotten himself into horrible deaths first, which was starting to seem like an inevitable possibility.
“There is a limit to that as well, you know,” Gellert could not help but say. “The human body can only endure so much.”
“That is where you are wrong,” the mad young man replied, perfectly self-assured. “The human body can endure for as long as the mind can. Those who break are simply too weak.”
Spoken like a true genius with visions of grandeur, or an ignorant idiot who could not see beyond his own nose. Of course, in this case, he was easily both at the same time.
“That’s because you have yet to meet old age, my dear.” Gellert chuckled. “Sometimes the spirit may be willing but the flesh refuses to go along. I am not who I was in my fifties, and you will not be who you are today in another decade or so. We are not built for eternity. Sooner or later, we all deteriorate.”
“I believe that can be changed,” said his stubborn stranger. “There are all sorts of magic to prevent aging—rituals, alchemy, potions… The real question is how to optimise them and prevent them from clashing with each other.”
“Or with your own body,” Gellert helpfully supplied. “You will have to be the trailblazer for this field, I’m afraid. Even in my wildest years, the subjects for my experiments are often not myself. I prefer… artefacts.”
The young man wrinkled his nose in disapproval, clearly not a fan of artefact dependency. It was fascinating how he had gotten more expressive as the conversation went, shedding little by little the need to cover his emotions, yet never letting his guard down.
“They said you were a collector,” he suddenly said. “Is that true?”
“Yes, an avid one,” said Gellert. “But if you see something floating in the black market claimed to have been mine, it will most likely be a hoax.”
“Truly?” A twinge of interest flickered across the pale, handsome face. Yes, definitely someone who had more than dabbled into the business of contraband dealing.
“They are all heavily cursed.”
A short, tragically brief laughter escaped the young man’s mouth, which he immediately stifled and smoothed out by pretending to clear his throat. Gellert marvelled at the sound. It was so youthful yet so cold—cruel, even—fitting to the exterior like a glove.
Ah, a heartless beauty. Selfish, too, but that was a given.
“Curses can be broken,” said the young man, a little too smugly. Done a lot of curse-breaking, no doubt. “Even the most lethal ones.”
“Oh, I didn’t put the curses around them like some security barrier,” Gellert replied. “I turned them all into cursed objects, regardless of what they used to be. Dipped them in my own blood. They will fall apart the moment the curses are removed, and they will kill anyone who tries to touch them without my permission. I believe more than half the Aurors who participated in the Nurmengard raid died because of that.”
His visitor gave him a look that seemed a lot like an unspoken swear word.
Gellert beamed.
“Never thought that was an option, yes?” he asked teasingly, wiggling his eyebrows.
“It’s… creative,” was the reply.
Gellert burst into laughter at that.
Oh, the joy! If this was to be the last night he had in this life, Gellert would die happily, perfectly content. Come now, great Death, and claim me while I bask myself in the glory of this beautiful creature, the man announced to the world. There was no better way to go.
Though he did have all but one regret.
If only he had met this young man at sixteen instead of Albus Dumbledore.
“Will you do me a favour?” Gellert asked in a moment of sweet insanity.
The young man tilted his head.
“Can you be the one to kill me?”
**
Voldemort blinked, completely and utterly baffled. Grindelwald wanted… what?
“It can be tonight, or tomorrow, or, I don’t know, ten years down the line. I don’t mind waiting if now is a little inconvenient for you,” the old man said. “Whenever you feel like it, really, come and end my life.”
He sounded so nonchalant it was as if the merchandise he was offering was not his own life, and the price was not dirt cheap.
For the first time in his life, Voldemort failed to understand the logic behind a person’s decision.
“Why?” he asked, too confused to come up with something more intellectual.
“I like you,” said Grindelwald.
A lot of people had said the same thing to him, over and over again, in all sorts of situations and contexts, but in this instant, those three words made absolutely no sense at all. He could not even blame old age and senility—Grindelwald clearly still had his wit intact.
“That is not a proper excuse.” Voldemort scowled.
“Think of it as charity if you must.” Grindelwald shrugged. “Is it so unthinkable that I don’t want to spend the last moments of my life staring at this ceiling unceremoniously, dying as my body falls apart in betrayal? You are a remarkable wizard. If you were my executioner, at least my death would be exciting.”
Ah. That Voldemort understood.
It also made him incredibly angry.
Rage bubbled and burst out from within him like boiling potion in a cauldron, overheated and unsalvageable. An overwhelming urge to leap to his feet and hex the man until Grindelwald was forced into action swept over Voldemort, but with a great deal of effort, he pushed it down. That would not be wise here on this tower. Dumbledore had placed other spells around here other than the wards that locked Grindelwald in, and some of those could detect an influx of magic usage right away.
“I do not do charity,” he hissed through his gritted teeth. “Especially not for someone as pathetic as you.”
The faint ghost of a smile lingered on the man’s face still, in spite of the insult. It never seemed to go away, no matter what was happening—Grindelwald always looked as though he had just had a nice, big laugh or was about to. Funny how that had never come across well on ink and paper.
The upper lip curled up first, and then the corners of the mouth followed, forming a political smile. The pale blue eyes, grey and colourless in the dark, gazed at Voldemort calmly, perfectly unfazed.
“Now why are you so offended?” he asked. “A wise man knows when he is defeated. There is no point in clawing at walls and slamming against the bars—it will only leave you bruised and bloody. What’s wrong with finding peace in resignation?”
“But am I not a rope? A hole in the dirt for you to dig at and crawl out?” Voldemort could not understand it. Resignation? What a joke! “Why have you not tried to bargain with me? Offer me something—anything! Attack me, why don’t you?”
“And what? Die all the same?” said Grindelwald. “Is that what you want, my dear? A fight?”
“Yes.”
No. Not really. Like Voldemort had noted, excessive use of magic in this space would risk alarming Dumbledore, which would be the last thing he ever wanted.
It was simply an emotional response.
“The problem is, I am not a fool,” the man replied after a brief pause, barely raising his eyebrows, his tone remaining light just as before. “You are not here to free me and you never will, so why bother? It may be entertaining, but it is a waste of both effort and time, and I’m not really in the mood.”
At that moment, looking into those unbreachable steely eyes, Voldemort could see it—all the grand, seemingly exaggerated things that had been said about Gellert Grindelwald.
He was intuitive, with an eerily accurate ability to see through others without Legilimency. He was relentless, with no qualms about gore or death or anything in between. He was unpredictable, an agent of chaos, yet he was always calm. He might not be in control of the situation always, but if he was ever in a difficult situation, it would be because he had put himself in it willingly.
They were right about him, Voldemort thought.
When he received no verbal response, Grindelwald smiled again.
“You are beautiful when you are angry,” said the wizard who had once had most of Europe in the palm of his hand. “Has anyone told you that?”
Anyone who had truly seen Voldemort angry had either ended up dead or terrified of him. The moment his wand flared up with a curse, his beauty would miraculously lose its appeal, regardless of how charming he had continued to appear. Voldemort preferred it that way.
“Has anyone told you that you should be put into an asylum?” he replied coldly.
“Plenty.”
And the laid-back, easygoing facade slipped back on as smoothly as a second skin. Grindelwald leaned back leisurely, shifting his weight onto his hands and uncrossing his legs, looking every bit like the master of the castle in terms of demeanour despite his matted hair and faded robe.
“Think about my request, yes?” he said. “I mean it.”
Now that his anger had somewhat fizzled out, Voldemort must admit the notion sounded rather appealing. Imagine—creating his fourth and final Horcrux by killing Gellert Grindelwald, finishing the job Dumbledore was too cowardly to in one go. Wouldn’t that be lovely?
But Grindelwald dying now or anytime soon would bring about too much unwanted attention. Inconvenient, as the man himself had put it.
“Perhaps,” Voldemort ended up saying.
“Ah, young men and their teasing uncertainty,” said the old man. “How I’ve missed it.”
For a moment, Voldemort felt the corners of his mouth twitch in its urge to snarl. He could really do without the flirting, which the man had decided to no longer be covert with, courtesy of the new-found death wish perhaps. But it was tolerable, he supposed, compared to the disgusting desire he had been forced to endure for most of his adolescence and the entirety of his adult life.
Grindelwald’s interest contained no want of ownership, only a strange kind of appreciation a prisoner would have for their patch of the sky. Adoration would be a more accurate word.
It was bizarre, Voldemort must admit.
He had also felt seen.
“Any other questions you may have for me, my dear?”
Yes.
“What is your relationship with Albus Dumbledore?”
“Ah,” Grindelwald exclaimed softly, guiltily averting his eyes for a second in a way that was probably for show. “What’s with you and Albus?”
Well, where to start with that?
“It is none of your concern,” said Voldemort. “If you are not going to answer, then I’ll be going now. That is the last of my questions.”
The man on the bed threw his head back and stared at the ceiling, truly thoughtful this time even when he looked as though he was watching clouds.
“I suppose,” he said, a twinge of nostalgia seeping through in his voice, “you can call us old friends. It was all in our youth though, and we sort of… parted ways.”
“Friends?” Voldemort repeated, almost mockingly. That was no reaction to an old, long-estranged friend.
Grindelwald straightened himself up at that, lips curled into a lopsided smile.
“We were incredibly close,” the man admitted. “Closer than brothers, some would say.”
Wasn’t that the gossip of the century? Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald, lovers once upon a time. He should look into this, Voldemort thought, once he was done with his educational trip and had returned to England. It would be useful to have some blackmailing material of his old teacher on hand.
As if he could read his thoughts, Grindelwald added breezily, “If you’re interested in some letters, I believe I left some at my great aunt’s house. It isn’t the most tantalising or scandalous, but it should be a fun read.”
“Is there an address?” Voldemort asked outright.
“Do you have anything in exchange?”
**
The handsome young man pretended to think, his face once again that of a falsely sympathetic shop assistant about to scam you out of your precious heirloom. Gellert liked it better when he was being more honest with his emotions, but this was still rather fun to look at. It was sweet, in a way.
The next thing Gellert knew, the young man raised his wand and ropes appeared instantly, looping around his forearm and chest all the way to the midriff, efficiently tying him up in place.
His visitor rose from his seat. With a subdued grace, he walked towards the bed, his footsteps as silent as that of a ghost.
Would this be how he died, Gellert wondered. Would this be his end?
The young man stood at the foot of the bed, drawing out the moment with deliberate suspense. He was even more handsome up close—his wax-like skin cracked and healed, white marks lightly etched all across the face, his cold, dark eyes tainted by swirling red. The pupils dilated wide, far bigger than human’s should, reminding Gellert of a cat’s eyes in the dark of the night.
And he had to be tall too, even by northern European standards, all the while clearly thinner than he should be. From where he sat, Gellert could see with much detail how the long, slender fingers were pretty much just bone and skin, as well as the faint blue veins and the delicate wrists. You would think you could snap them like a twig. You would be fatally wrong.
“May I ask what this is for?” Gellert raised his eyebrows in amusement.
The young man wordlessly flicked his wand in response, dragging Gellert’s whole body to the edge of the bed, then grabbed his chin and forced his face up.
Ah.
Someone roast him a stork.
Soft lips descended upon his mouth, unexpectedly tender and deceptively sensual. The young man had a clever tongue, which knew its way around another person’s pleasure as if passion was his business. The hand on Gellert’s chin moved to the side of his face, digging into his skin, pulling him in mercilessly.
The moment he made the mistake of opening his eyes, Gellert was caught in a predatory gaze and a blood red shade, like a mouse hearing the trap snap shut at the last second.
He had seen this coming alright—it did not mean he wanted to avoid it.
The young man looked specifically for Albus.
It was rather ironic—all the scenes from his memories were played backwards, starting from the rain of spells and the old man with faded auburn hair slamming him into the ground. Moving to the horrified and tear-stained boy standing over his sister’s corpse. Lingering on said boy in love, in happiness, in bed. Ending with a bright summer day, when Albus Dumbledore sauntered his way from the back door leading into the garden, his hair barely reaching his shoulders, seventeen years of age.
The first words he had ever heard from Albus were, “Professor Bagshot said you have the book I want to borrow.”
Gellert heard the laughter first of all, before he even came back to reality. The young man had stepped back, overjoyed and jubilant, his whole frame shook as he cackled hysterically.
“Merlin’s sagging bollocks,” he gasped, “a fucking tragic romance!”
His accent wavered when he swore, probably because he never used such coarse language around his peers and his betters, but he did not seem to care. At the moment, he was no longer a quiet spectre, but a vision that demanded attention, taking up all the space with his presence—as he should.
“I have always found it interesting how your motto seems to sound better in English,” he said, his voice rising like music. “For the greater good! It flows so well. Doesn’t feel as impressive in German.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Gellert agreed.
The handsome young man turned to look at him.
“Thank you,” he said, suddenly soft and polite again, and Gellert half expected it to be followed by for your patronage.
The lovely mouth formed the coldest, most joyous smile that had ever graced that gorgeous face for the entirety of the night.
“Gellert.”
*
When the morning light finally arrived at the tallest tower at Nurmengard, there was no trace left of the handsome visitor that came with the thunderstorm. The extra chair had been vanished. The dusty windows had been magically locked. Looking at his room which was now the same as ever, Gellert wondered if he had hallucinated all the exciting events of last night.
He supposed he would find out eventually, when it was his time to die.