Archive of Our Own

It had barely been two months since the events of Bhutan. Gellert Grindelwald had no trouble escaping first the Aurors and all the others who fancied themselves fighters for the light. What a simplistic way to see the world—his revolution, his intention, he had mused. Were his intentions not good? His actions for the betterment of all of them?

The Himalayan winds still whispered in his memory, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, the echoes of spells cast in desperation. The air in Nurmengard, by contrast, was thick with the weight of iron and old magic, the fortress’s stone walls absorbing every secret, every betrayal like a silent witness.

Fleeing the country and returning to Nurmengard had also been easy enough to accomplish. Most of his followers had by now returned. Some ended up captive. Others, he thought, were probably lost to him, would never return to his side. Maybe they thought of his campaign—of him—as a failure they swiftly tried to distance themselves from. So be it. There was no place at his side for those weak of heart and character, he thought to himself in grim satisfaction.

The tower’s high windows framed a sky perpetually overcast, the grey light casting long shadows across the cold stone floor. The fire in the hearth crackled half-heartedly, as if even the flames were too weary to burn brightly.

He had expected Aurors from every country around the globe to show up at his stronghold, but it seemed the world leaders—the new Supreme Mugwump—were smart enough not to come close to Nurmengard. Sure, they had arrested several of his more well-known followers. Vogel had tried to defend himself by claiming he had been imperiused. Not that Gellert had expected anything else from a weakling like Vogel.

All of this he only registered in passing, as if dulled, slowed, and quieted. His mind was focused on Dumbledore.

The name alone sent a jolt through him, sharp as a curse. He could still see the way Albus took every single step in deliberation that day in Bhutan, the set of his jaw, the flicker of something unreadable in those sky-blue eyes. The memory was a ghost, lingering just out of reach, taunting him.

He would never have admitted it to anyone. He tried to push this realization as far away from his own thoughts as possible—but it was the truth. Numbing and painful. All-encompassing.

The glass of firewhisky in his hand was cold, the amber liquid catching the dim light like a captured sunset. He swirled it absently, watching the reflections dance on the walls—distorted, fleeting, just like the fragments of his own resolve.

He was tired of remembering, of feeling. He tried to focus his thoughts on his campaign—trying and failing to rid himself of the lingering pain. Without success.

He was functioning. Gave orders. Spoke to his followers who needed reassurance, guidance. But his insides screamed. His feelings tore at his heart, at every fibre of his being, demanding to be acknowledged.

The study was a tomb of silence, broken only by the occasional crack of the fire or the distant murmur of voices in the halls. The weight of the Elder Wand, resting on his desk, was a physical ache—a reminder of power, of purpose, of everything he had sacrificed and everything he had lost.

And so, it was no wonder he found himself deep in thought, alone in his study after a draining day of work, a glass of firewhisky in hand.

Gellert took a sip. The liquid burned as it went down, but the warmth did little to ease the chill in his bones. The room was a cave of shadows, the only light coming from the dying embers in the hearth and the flickering glow of the whisky in his glass. The air smelled of old parchment, wax, and the faint metallic tang of magic long spent.

Their last conversation.

“We can free each other of it,” Dumbledore had said about their pact, as if he were proposing a cure—not wording a deep betrayal.

The memory of Albus’s voice was a blade, twisting. He could still hear the hesitation in it, the way his breath had hitched just slightly, as if the words cost him more than he wanted to admit. The muggle restaurant had been luxurious, the air thick with the scent of rain and the tension of unsaid things between them.

It had hurt. Like the time he had chosen his siblings—a dying sister and an ungrateful brother—over their plans for the Greater Good. Or when he had chosen to support the corrupt Ministries in defence of the Statute of Secrecy they both had unmasked as deficient at best and dangerous at worst when they were young men.

Dumbledore’s stinging words had become reality when the blood troth broke—shattering into small pieces. Nothing was left of their promise.

And so, he finally had to see reason. Let go of his foolish hope.

Albus would never come back to him. They would never change the world—together, side by side as equals.

The thought was a funeral pyre, consuming the last remnants of a dream he had carried for so long it felt like a part of himself. The flames licked at the edges of his vision, leaving only ash and the cold, hard truth.

He wanted to hurt Albus just as deeply as he himself felt hurt. Betrayed.

He knew he had found exactly the right words. When they fell from his lips, he knew he had voiced Dumbledore’s deepest fear: that there was no one in the world who could ever love him as deeply as Gellert had. No one who could understand his very being.

The satisfaction of it had been bitter, like the dregs of the whisky. He could still see the way Albus had flinched, the way his eyes had darkened—not with anger, but with something worse. Something akin to grief.

He was all alone.

And so was Gellert.

The realization was a knife, twisting slow and deep. He had spent so long surrounded by followers, by power, by the noise of his own ambition, that he hadn’t noticed how empty it all was. The fortress was vast, but it had never felt so small, so suffocating.

What had felt like triumph for a split second had wounded him just as deeply as it had Albus. They were both alone now. Separated.

He had seen his own pain reflected in Albus’s eyes—his defeated look—before he had turned away. Leaving Gellert behind.

He could still see the way Albus’s shoulders had hunched ever so slightly. The short second of triumph had tasted stale on his tongue.

In a desperate attempt to comfort himself—just as much as Albus—he had even tried to assure him of his sincerity, speaking the deepest truth of his heart:

“I was never your enemy. Then or now.”

He had wanted to reach out, to close the distance between them, but his hands had remained at his sides, fists clenched so tightly his nails had bitten into his palms.

Albus had not stopped. Not even hesitated.

Once again, he had chosen his family. His friends.

Gellert had felt weak. Pathetically so, for even trying. He had hated the defeated sound of his own voice—a whisper, barely steady.

By now the night had pressed in around him, the darkness so complete it felt like a shroud. He had not lit another candle, had not moved to stir the fire. The cold had seeped into his bones, but he had welcomed it, let it numb him, let it match the ice in his veins.

With the pact gone, his hope had shattered. He had built his life on the belief that he and Albus were meant to stand together, to reshape the world.

A duel had become inevitable.

He could see it already—the flash of spells, the crack of magic, the way the air would hum with the weight of their clash. The thought should have filled him with purpose, with the cold clarity of battle. Instead, it was a knot in his gut, a sickness he couldn’t purge. When they would be forced to cross wands, he did not know. He had seen visions of their fight even before he had met Albus for the first time, all those years ago in the summer of 1899 in Godric’s Hollow.

He had thought he could prevent his vision from becoming reality with their pact. The blood troth had been a desperate gamble, a way to bind fate to his will. He had watched the magic weave between them, bright as a promise, and for a moment, he had let himself believe it would be enough.

Did Albus believe that had been his only intention?

Binding his hands so he could not move against him?

Many times, Gellert had tried to convince himself that had been the case—and nothing more. Especially in the days, weeks, and months after he had left—or more accurately fled—Godric’s Hollow.

The memory of that flight was a brand. He could still feel the way the night air had torn at his long blond hair, the way his chest had ached with every breath, as if his heart were trying to escape his ribs. He had not looked back. He had not dared.

His broken heart had hurt so much that it had been easier to pretend Albus had never meant that much to him anyway. The lie had been a shield, brittle and thin. He had thrown himself into his plans, into his followers, into the noise of revolution, anything to drown out the silence Albus had left behind.

The pain he had felt then—and still felt now—spoke a different truth. It was a shadow that never left him, a ghost that walked beside him, close enough to touch. He could still feel the shape of Albus’s absence, the way it pressed against him like a second skin.

There had been moments when he had either been too weak to withstand the truth, or when he felt euphoric. Only in those extremes was he able to let his mind wander freely, indulge in the deeply hidden feelings and memories he usually tried to ignore.

Memories of a time he had been happy. The thought was a physical ache. He could almost see it—the golden haze of that summer, the way the world had seemed to hold its breath, waiting for them. The air had been thick with the scent of grass and magic, with the promise of something vast and uncharted.

When he felt loved for who he was. The memory of Albus’s hands in his hair, the way his voice had dropped to a murmur, the way his eyes had darkened with something like wonder—it was a knife, twisting slow and deep. He had never felt so seen, so known. And he had never felt so terrified.

When he could love freely in return. The fire crackled, the sound sharp in the quiet. He could still feel the ghost of Albus’s lips against his, the way his breath had hitched, the way the world had narrowed to just the two of them, suspended in time. It had been so easy, then, to believe in forever.

In those moments, his mind brimmed with vibrant memories of the summer of 1899.

Their first encounter. The way Albus had smiled at him—shy, averting his gaze, cheeks slightly flushed. He had been so young, so uncertain, his hands clumsy with the weight of his own ambition. And then there had been Albus, standing in the doorway, the light behind him turning his hair to fire, his eyes wide with something like awe. The memory was a physical thing, a warmth in his chest, a tightness in his throat.

The uncertainty they both had felt. Neither of them had known what to say, what to do. The air between them had been charged, electric, the silence thick with unspoken questions. He could still feel the way his heart had hammered, the way his fingers had trembled when he reached for Albus’s hand.

Their first kiss—tentative, uncertain, and then suddenly undeniable. He could still feel the way Albus had hesitated, the way his breath had hitched, the way his lips had been soft and warm and trembling. And then there had been no more thought, no more hesitation—just the two of them, lost in something vast and terrifying and beautiful.

Tentative touches in the darkness. The nights had been endless, the world reduced to the sound of their breathing, the brush of skin against skin, the way Albus’s hands had mapped him like a cartographer, learning every inch, every secret. The darkness had been a cocoon, a place where nothing else existed, where the future was a distant, irrelevant thing.

Bittersweet memories of times long gone—and still painfully close.

The thoughts and memories swirled through his mind, keeping him awake, even though he was exhausted.

He drank his firewhisky to numb his mind—to find rest. The liquid burned, but the warmth was fleeting, the numbness never quite enough. He poured another measure, the bottle trembling slightly in his grip. The room spun at the edges, the shadows deepening, but the memories refused to fade.

Unblinking, he stared into the glass. The firewhisky caught the light, the amber liquid swirling like a living thing. For a moment, he thought he saw something move within it—a flicker, a shadow, a trick of the light. He leaned forward, the glass held between his fingers, his breath fogging the surface.

At first, he did not register the movement on its surface.

The light shifted. The liquid rippled, not from his hand, but from something within. The fire in the hearth flared, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. The scent of ozone filled the room, sharp and electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Sky blue eyes.

The colour was unmistakable, even distorted by the amber liquid, even blurred by the flickering light. His breath caught, his fingers tightening around the glass. The reflection was small, fragile, but it was there—Albus, staring back at him from the depths of the whisky, his expression unreadable, his eyes wide with something like shock.

The vision wavered, the edges blurring, but the eyes remained—bright, vivid, impossible to ignore.

The world seemed to narrow to that single reflection, the flickering amber light of the whisky distorting the image just enough to make it feel unreal—like something glimpsed through time rather than glass. The room fell away, the shadows deepening, the fire guttering low. There was only the vision, only Albus, only the terrible, inevitable pull of what was to come.

The vision was small, distorted, but unmistakable.

The whisky seemed to swirl of its own accord, the liquid darkening, the reflection sharpening. He could see the outline of Albus’s robes, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his mouth was slightly open, as if he were about to speak. And then - Albus.

The name was a prayer, a curse. He could feel the weight of it in his chest, the way it pressed against his ribs, the way it stole his breath. The vision was a living thing, pulsing with a terrible, inevitable energy. He watched as Albus stumbled, losing his footing and like in slow motion sank to his knees.

The movement was agonizing, each second stretching into eternity. He could see the way Albus’s hands clawed at the air, the way his body folded, the way his head dropped forward, as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him. The whisky in the glass darkened, the reflection twisting, the colours bleeding into something dark and final.

For a second, everything froze.

Then Albus fell over.

The impact was a soundless crash, a body hitting the ground with the finality of a door slamming shut. Other figures—shadows in the dim light—stood unmoving, as if struck by lightning. The vision wavered, the edges blurring, the colours bleeding into black. And then—nothing. Only the whisky, still and dark, reflecting nothing but the hollow emptiness of the room.

The vision vanished. The glass was just a glass again, the whisky just whisky. The room rushed back in, the fire crackling, the shadows shifting, the weight of the silence pressing down on him like a tombstone. He was alone. Again.

It had lasted mere seconds.

But it had been enough. It had been everything. He could still feel the ghost of it, the way it had clawed at his chest, the way it had left him hollow, trembling, the whisky glass clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

Gellert knew.

He had seen Albus die.

The words echoed in the hollow space of his chest. He could feel the shape of them, the way they pressed against his ribs, the way they stole his breath. The fire in the hearth hissed, a log collapsing into embers, the sound sharp in the silence.

Heart racing and breathing heavily, he sat there, glass still in hand, his gaze fixed—as if sheer concentration could force the vision to explain itself. Or perhaps he hoped to see it change.

Albus injured, but alive. Getting back up to his feet, supported by friends—colleagues.

He willed the vision to return, to rewrite itself. He could see it so clearly in his mind—Albus, alive, his robes and hands mudded but his body whole, his friends gathering around him, their hands reaching out, their voices a chorus of relief. But the glass remained dark, the whisky still, the reflection nothing but his own hollow gaze staring back at him.

The liquid in the glass lay unmoving.

He set the glass down with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the empty room. The fire had burned low, the embers glowing dully, the light barely enough to chase away the shadows. He could feel the cold seeping into his bones, the weight of the vision pressing down on him, the knowledge of what he had seen a living thing inside his chest.

In his rational mind, he knew he should be relieved. With Albus out of his way, there would be no one who would dare challenge him. He would not have to fight, harm, or even kill him. Whatever had happened, it would not be his fault—merely an accident. He had spent so long imagining their final confrontation, the way their magic would clash, the way the world would hold its breath as they stood on opposite sides of the battlefield. But this—this was not a duel. This was not a choice. This was fate, cruel and indifferent, stealing the moment from him, leaving him with nothing but the hollow echo of what might have been.

Gellert could finally put this part of his life to rest. Focus on his plans. Fulfil his destiny.

But his traitorous heart ached at the thought.

The pain was a physical thing. He pressed a hand to his chest, as if he could staunch the bleeding, as if he could press the memories back down, seal them away where they couldn’t hurt him. But they were already there, already a part of him, already carved into his bones.

And so, the battle between his rational mind and feeling heart ensued. Hour after hour. The night stretched on, the hours bleeding into one another. The fire died, the room growing colder, the shadows deeper. He did not move to light another candle, did not reach for another drink. He sat there, motionless, the whisky glass still clutched in his hand, the weight of the vision pressing down on him like a tombstone.

And even as he endured the dispute unfolding within him, he knew instantly:

He was not yet ready to let Albus go.

In the early hours of the following morning, he ordered Vinda to reach out to his network of informants to find out where Albus currently was. It was important to know where their enemy was—to know if he was forging plans to move against him, who he was enlisting, Gellert told her.

Vinda stood before him, her dark robes immaculate, her pale face sharp with anticipation. The fire in the hearth had been relit, the flames casting long shadows across the stone walls, the light catching the deep black threads in her hair. She was always so precise, so controlled, her movements efficient, her gaze unwavering.

Vinda was thrilled to be chosen for such an important task. Who else but Gellert’s right-hand woman, second-in-command Vinda Rosier, could possibly be more qualified? Her lips curved into a smile, sharp and satisfied. “I won’t fail you,” she said, her voice low, her eyes gleaming with the promise of loyalty. He knew she wouldn’t. She thrived in the cold, in the dark, in the spaces where others would have faltered. She was a blade, honed and ready, and he was glad to have her at his side.

So, she got to work right away, eager to prove herself once again. Glad that Gellert was clearly moving forward—planning again after the setback in Bhutan.

With a small bow and a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, she left his study.

Gellert tried to recall every detail he had seen in his glass of firewhisky just hours before. He cursed his tired, unperceptive mind.

If only he had realized earlier. But there was no use in contemplating what-ifs now. The room was too quiet, the silence too heavy. He could feel the weight of the vision pressing down on him. He stood abruptly, started pacing. His mind was already racing, already planning, already reaching for the threads of fate, determined to pull them back, to rewrite what he had seen.

Albus had been walking with a small group—four people in total. Now that he thought about it, he was fairly certain one of them had been Scamander. The others had only been shadows. He could see them now, vague shapes in the background, their faces blurred, their bodies rigid with shock. Scamander had been there, his lanky frame unmistakable, his hair a wild tangle in the wind. The others had been nothing but shadows, their features lost to the darkness.

But of course, Albus had to be in the company of the younger Scamander. Scamander was always there, always hovering at Albus’s side, always ready to carry out his errands, to stand between him and the world. He could see them now, in his mind’s eye—Albus, his suits meticulous if slightly boring, his expression unreadable, and Scamander beside him, his posture tense, his gaze averted, his loyalty as unshakable as it was infuriating. The boy seemed to be everywhere these days—hovering at Albus’s side or carrying out his errands, just as he had in New York, Paris and Berlin. Even knowing about the boy’s attachment to Tina Goldstein, Gellert found the sight of him near Albus more than irritating. The thought of Scamander standing beside Albus, of him earning his trust, his loyalty—it was a bitter, ugly thing, a taste of ash on his tongue. The thought came unbidden and sharp—someone else standing where he once had. Someone else trusted. Chosen. It was irrational. He knew that. And yet the feeling remained pulsing in his chest.

No. He needed to focus.

What had caused Albus to fall?

He had seen no curse. No visible attack.

He had watched the memory of the vision again and again in his mind, searching for clues, for answers, for something he might have missed. But there was nothing—only Albus, falling, the others standing frozen, their faces pale with shock, their hands outstretched, too late, always too late.

What had happened after? The vision had been too brief. He hated not knowing.

Whatever it was—he would be prepared. A vow like a blade, sharp and unyielding. He would not be caught unawares. He would not let fate steal this from him. He would rewrite the vision, rewrite the future. He would not let Albus die—not like this, not without a fight, not without him.

Within hours, he learned that Albus was accompanying Scamander on an expedition in the south of Sardinia. No doubt to find or rescue some creature, Gellert mused.

The older Scamander was with them—as well as the Muggle Queenie Goldstein had married. Learning this, Gellert barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

Of course Albus would surround himself with such a motley crew—a creature-loving idealist, a rigid Auror, and a Muggle who had no business being involved in any of this. It was so like him, so typically, infuriatingly Albus.

He told Vinda she was in charge of the going ons in Nurmengard for the unforeseeable time. He needed to think—and was not to be disturbed.

“Understood,” she had said, her voice low, her gaze sharp. She had turned on her heel, her robes swirling around her, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the hall.

Then he apparated out of Nurmengard without hesitation.

The world dissolved around him. The wind tore at his long overcoat, the magic a living thing, a storm in his veins. And then—Sardinia. The air was warm, thick with the scent of salt and pine, the sun a bright, unyielding presence in the sky. He could feel the pulse of magic in the land, the way it hummed beneath his feet, the way it called to him, a silent, insistent voice.

The Sardinian landscape was a wild, untamed thing—rugged cliffs plunging into the turquoise sea, the wind carrying the scent of salt and wild herbs. The sun was a relentless presence, beating down on the rocky terrain, casting long, jagged shadows. He moved through the undergrowth with the silence of a predator, the dry rustle of leaves the only sound in the stillness. The air hummed with magic, old and potent, the kind that clung to the land like a second skin. The information he had received had been precise enough to bring him close to their location. Carefully, he extended his magic outward, cautious not to be detected, and began his search.

It took him the better part of the day.

Eventually, he found tracks—far from subtle—left by a group moving carelessly through woodland —broken branches, disturbed earth, the faint scent of human sweat and the sharper, more potent tang of magic. They had not bothered to hide their passage; it made his task easier. He followed the trail, his steps silent, his magic a whisper in the air, his focus absolute.

Not long after, he heard it.

A buzzing sound.

The forest was alive with noise—birds, insects, rustling creatures—but something about this sound was different. Wrong.

The buzzing was a low, insistent drone, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, a vibration that hummed in his bones. The birds had fallen silent, the creatures in the undergrowth still. The forest held its breath, the air thick with tension, with the weight of something vast and terrible.

His instincts sharpened. His body tensed, every sense heightened, every nerve alight. He moved forward, his steps silent, his wand already in his hand.

The buzzing was louder here, a living, breathing thing, a storm waiting to break. He stopped.

Recognition hit instantly. His breath caught in his throat. He knew this creature. He had not seen it in his visions but recognised them now. The Musca Macedda. The name was a curse, a warning, a thing of nightmares. And it was here.

Holding his breath, he stepped back slowly, deliberately, careful not to disturb the air.

The swarm was a living thing, a storm of wings and stingers, a force that could not be controlled, only avoided. He could feel the pulse of its magic, the way it hummed in the air, the way it pressed against his skin. He had to be careful. One wrong move, and it would be on him. The Musca Macedda was not just a creature—it was a plague, a storm, a force of nature given form. He could see them now, a dark, seething mass, their wings glinting in the sunlight, their bodies a blur of motion. The air itself seemed to vibrate with their presence, the hum of their wings a low, insistent drone that set his instincts on edge.

Now his vision made sense. The pieces clicked into place, the vision sharpening, the truth revealing itself. He had not seen the insects in the glass, had not understood what he was looking at. But now—now he knew. The Musca Macedda. The swarm. The deadly, unstoppable force. Just one sting would be enough to bring Albus to his knees. A single sting, and it was over. No magic, no potion, no spell could save you. The thought was a weight in his chest, a knot in his gut. Albus was out there, somewhere in the path of that storm. And he was walking straight into it.

The Sardinian Forest was a labyrinth of ancient trees and tangled undergrowth. The sun filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor, the light shifting with the rustle of leaves. The buzzing was louder now, a low, insistent hum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, a vibration that thrummed in the air, in the earth, in the very bones of the land.

Albus looked around and his chest tightened the moment he saw him. The clearing they stood in was small, the trees pressing in on all sides, their branches tangled overhead. And there, standing at the edge of the trees, was Gellert. His Overcoat dark, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable. He was calm. Controlled. Unbelievably calm. But his eyes—his eyes were fixed on something beyond Albus, something in the shadows of the forest. The Elder Wand was in his hand, its power a pulse of energy that hummed in the air.

Albus could feel the pulse of Gellert’s magic, the way it hummed in the air, the way it pressed against his skin. He wanted to speak, to ask, to demand answers. But the words died in his throat. There was something in Gellert’s expression, something that made the hair on the back of his neck rise, something that made his stomach clench with dread. Confusion made Albus hesitate—then a slight shimmer hit his eyes. Sparks of protective magic flickered in the undergrowth, rippling outward, forming a bubble of light around Albus, Newt, his brother, and Jacob. It was Gellert’s doing—he could feel the signature of it, the way it wrapped around them, fierce and protective. And then they realized. A swarm, just beyond the barrier, a dark, seething mass, their wings a blur of motion, their stingers glinting in the light. They slammed against the barrier and ricocheted harmlessly away.

Albus’s stomach clenched. Gellert was protecting them. He was controlling it. Gellert was not here to fight, not here to strike. He was here to save them. The thought made Albus breath hitch. He could see the way Gellert moved, the fluid precision of his movements, the way his magic danced and wove, a living thing, a storm given form. The swarm surged again, the wings a blur, the stingers a glint of deadly intent. And Gellert was there, a dark figure against the storm, his wand a beacon, his magic a shield.

The Musca Macedda surged again, wings slicing the air in violent arcs, hissing, striking, vibrating through the leaves. More and more of the insects appeared. Gellert kept moving. Each motion redirected a stinger, deflected a swarm, his feet weaving across the terrain like he had already calculated every path the insects could take.

One stinger flashed too close. Too fast. Albus ducked instinctively, jerking his shoulder out of its line. The insect missed him by millimeters, stabbing into the soft earth instead. A split second later Albus and his friends had their wands in hand. Enforcing protective charms or attacking.

The clearing erupted into chaos. Spells flew, the air crackling with energy, the light flashing like lightning. The swarm surged, the wings a blur, the stingers a glint of deadly intent. He moved on instinct, his wand an extension of his will. Beside him, Newt and Theseus were a blur of motion, their spells weaving and dancing, their expressions sharp with concentration. Jacob was there too, his face pale, with no magic to protect or fight back, he waved a stick to physically hit the insects.

Gellert’s wand flicked again—arc of sparks, and a small barrier pulsed outward, knocking another insect sideways into a tree trunk. He ducked under yet another darting swarm. Then a hiss of pain cut through the chaos.

Albus’s head snapped toward Gellert, his heart lurching in his chest. He was there, just a few meters away, his expression a mask of cold, calculated focus. And then—blood. Bright, vivid, a stark contrast against the pale skin of his hand. A stinger. A scratch. But the venom…

All Albus could see was the blood, the way it welled bright and vivid, the way it dripped onto the earth. The venom was already working, a storm in Gellert’s veins. He could see it in the way Gellert’s hand trembled, in the way his breath hitched, in the way his eyes darkened with something like pain.

Albus’s heart lurched. He had to get to him.

He stepped forward, weaving between flailing wings. One insect grazed his arm, buzzing like a live wire, and he twisted just in time. Another zipped past his ear, wings brushing hair and leaving a sharp sting in his nerve endings. Each heartbeat brought another near miss. He was threading through a storm of death—and Gellert, just ahead, danced through it, spinning, ducking, guiding the swarm away with movements so fluid it was almost hypnotic.

Close. So close now. Albus lunged, hands grabbing Gellert just as a stinger skimmed past his shoulder. Newt clutched his brother and Jacob. The swarm thrashed, wings slicing air, stingers jabbing, bodies colliding, but Gellert’s residual magic flickered in a shield around them, redirecting most of the insects into trees, over rocks, anything that would keep them alive.

“Hold on!” Albus barked, muscles straining, veins burning, adrenaline sharp in every nerve. His voice was a command. He could feel the weight of Gellert’s body against his, the way his breath hitched, the way his magic flickered, fragile but fierce. He would not let go. He would not falter. Not now.

Gellert sagged into him, hand bleeding, wand trembling weakly. Sparks of magic danced faintly around the group, the swarm pressing in like a living, angry cloud but the magical shield held.

Albus summoned every bit of focus. One heartbeat. Another. Concentration. Will. And then—apparition.

The world folded around them. Wind shredded through their hair. The echo of buzzing filled their ears, ringing and fading in a strange, suspended moment. He apparated them directly to the only person he believed was able to save Gellerts life.

They landed hard. Flamel’s workshop surrounded them in an instant. Solid. Safe. Ground beneath them. The scent of herbs and old magic was thick in the air, the light warm and golden, the walls lined with shelves of potions and artifacts. The silence a balm after the storm. Gellert’s body was heavy against his, his breath ragged, his magic a fragile, flickering pulse.

Gellert sagged fully now, his right hand still streaked with blood, protective charms flickering faintly, exhausted but persistent, like a ghostly shield born from sacrifice. Albus held him tighter than ever.

Gellert had been injured.

Only a scratch on his right hand—but the venom was deadly. The Musca Macedda did not forgive, did not hesitate. It struck, and it killed. And Gellert had been struck.

Albus’s mind raced. He had not been stung. The words were a prayer, a curse. The venom was in his blood, but it was not a sting. It was a scratch, a graze, a thing that could be healed. The thought was a spark, a flame in the dark. He clung to it, willing it to be true, willing the magic to work, willing Gellert to live.

Just scratched. That had to be enough.

It had to be. And yet—Gellert collapsed. The fall was sudden but Albus grip prevented Gellert from falling to the ground. The sight, Gellert pale, motionless and barely breathing struck Albus with a force he had not anticipated—not fear alone, but something deeper, sharper. Recognition. Loss, before it had even happened.

No. He could die.

They had done everything they could.

Strengthening his body with potions. Reinforcing it with charms. A rune drawn across his chest in healing salve.

When the stasis charm was lifted, it was up to Gellert’s body to fight.

As Flamel had predicted, within minutes Gellerts breathing grew labored. A fever followed quickly. Violent. Dangerous.

Albus stayed at his side. Unmoving. Watching every shift, every breath. Counting them, without realizing he was doing so—as if numbers could impose order on something so wildly uncertain.

When Gellert whispered his name, the world narrowed to the sound of his voice—soft, broken, a plea wrapped in the ragged edges of pain. The crackling of the fire, the distant rumble of thunder, the hushed breaths of the others in the room—all of it dissolved into silence.

“Albus.”

Albus was at his side in an instant, the floorboards creaking beneath his hurried steps. The room seemed to hold its breath as he knelt, he brushing against the worn fabric of the sofa. The scent of dried herbs and the metallic bite of blood clung to the air, a reminder of how close Gellert had come to losing everything. Albus’s fingers found Gellert’s wrist, his pulse weak but steady beneath his touch.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice barely above the whisper of the rain outside. “I’m here.”

He did not notice the others watching—Newt, standing rigid near the bookshelf, his fingers twitching as if itching to reach for his wand; Theseus, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck stood out like cords; Jacob, wide-eyed and out of place, his mug of tea forgotten on the table beside him; Nicolas Flamel, his ancient eyes reflecting the firelight, unreadable as ever. The room itself seemed to lean in, the very walls holding the weight of their shared history.

Only Gellert existed in that moment.

When Gellerts breath finally became steady and deep, the fever brock and healing sleep engulf his tired figure, Albus allowed himself to stand. The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly. The storm outside had quieted, but the air still hummed with the electricity of what had just transpired. He was certain now. Gellert would live.

The room shifted again when Gellert awoke.

The first thing he became aware of was the dull ache in his limbs, the lingering burn of poison still coursing through his veins. His fingers twitched, searching blindly—not for comfort, but for his wand. The instinct was automatic, ingrained.

Albus understood immediately. “On the nightstand. To your left.”

A pause. The fire crackled, sending up a shower of sparks.

“If I intended to harm you,” Albus said, his voice calm but edged with something sharper, “I would not have healed you first.”

Gellert’s gaze flicked away, his pride stinging more than his wounds. The room was too warm, the air too heavy with the scent of old magic and the faint, bitter tang of the potion Albus had forced down his throat. He could feel the weight of the others’ stares—Newt’s quiet astonishment, Theseus’s barely restrained fury, Jacob’s bewildered frown, Flamel’s inscrutable calm.

When Albus asked why, silence stretched between them. Gellert tried to deflect at first, his voice unconvincing, his fingers curling into the fabric of the sofa.

Then… “I had a vision.” The words hung heavy in the air. “I saw you die.”

Silence.

Then Albus moved. He reached for Gellert’s hand. His skin was warm. Gellert stiffened—the instinct to pull away was immediate, ingrained. But it faltered. His fingers did not close, did not retreat. Albus’s thumb brushed lightly over his skin, careful, tentative. The contact was slight—barely there—and yet it felt heavier than any spell either of them had ever cast.

Gellert’s breath caught. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Neither moved. The room seemed to fade away, the storm outside, the others—all of it dissolved into the quiet crackle of the fire, the warmth of Albus’s hand, the unspoken weight of everything they had been and everything they had lost.

Reality returned all at once. The others.

Gellert’s gaze flickered past Albus. Newt stood stiffly, his expression caught between astonishment and uneasy understanding, still avoiding direct eye contact. Theseus was far less composed—jaw tight, shoulders rigid, every inch of him radiating restrained hostility. Jacob looked thoroughly out of place, confusion written plainly across his face, while Nicolas Flamel observed the scene with an unsettling calm, as though he had already drawn conclusions the others had yet to fully grasp.

Gellert’s hand tensed in Albus’s grasp. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pulled it free.

The absence of contact felt immediate—colder than it should have, sharper than he was willing to acknowledge.

“Well,” Gellert said, his voice steadier now, though still rough at the edges, “this is… unexpected.”

Beneath a mask of coldness, Gellert’s entire body still ached from the poison’s burn, a silent echo of the danger he had narrowly survived. He remembered every moment—helpless, fading, and then Albus, steady and unwavering, restoring what should have been lost. That memory pressed on him now, a quiet, insistent truth: he owed his life to Albus. The thought should have softened him, left him trembling with gratitude, yet he could not allow it. Not here, not with the others.

He glimpsed Albus’s eyes—steady, understanding—and a pulse of warmth threatened to betray him. Vulnerability was dangerous. Exposure was fatal. So, he wrapped himself in ice, let sharpness and detachment armour his voice and posture. Every cruel edge, every biting word he would soon speak to the others, was a shield against the truth: that Albus had saved him, and he would never, not openly, let anyone see the depth of what that meant.

A subtle twitch of his fingers, almost imperceptible, lingered in the direction of Albus before he clenched his hand into a fist at his side. A fleeting flinch passed over his shoulder when Jacob’s gaze landed on him, quickly masked by a cold, calculated glare. His eyes flicked once toward Newt and Theseus, and for the briefest heartbeat, the tension in his chest betrayed the closeness he had just shared with Albus, before he sealed it away behind a mask of disdain.

The tension in the room tightened. Theseus was the first to move, his boots striking the floor with a sharp, deliberate sound.

“Unexpected?” he repeated, disbelief cutting through every syllable. “Yes, this is unexpected.” His hand sliced through the air, pointing between Albus and Gellert. “Why did you save him?” His question was first directed at Albus, then swung toward Gellert. “Why did you save us?”

Gellert’s gaze swept over the group, sharp and unflinching. The firelight cast shadows across his face, hollowing his cheeks, making his eyes seem darker, more dangerous. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, his voice flat, cutting through the tension like a knife. “I didn’t save anyone but him” he said, voice flat, cutting through the tension like a knife. “The rest? Collateral. Unavoidable in the circumstances. But irrelevant to me.”

The room seemed to shrink under his words.

Theseus’s eyes widened in disbelief, a flush creeping up his neck. “Irrelevant?!” he shouted, voice rising. “Do you realize what—what you’ve just done? Do you understand—?!” His hands clawed through the air, trembling with anger, a mixture of fear and fury while he stares at Albus. “You put all of us in danger! All of us! And for what? For him?!”

Jacob fidgeted, unsure where to look, while Newt’s jaw tightened, caught between indignation and the helplessness of watching a confrontation he couldn’t control. Even Flamel’s calm gaze seemed colder now, appraising the unfolding tension like a silent judge.

Albus stepped forward, his chest tight, palms out in a gesture meant to steady the storm. “Stop!” His voice rang sharp, but controlled, cutting through the rising heat of anger and hurt. “We are all alive. That’s what matters!”

Gellert’s eyes flicked toward Albus, unrepentant, icy. “Exactly,” he said. No apology. No warmth. Just the bare acknowledgment of truth. “I saved him. Nothing else matters.”

Albus swallowed, trying to keep his own emotions from spilling over. Theseus’s expression faltered, confusion and outrage warring across his face. He opened his mouth, but the words died as Albus held his gaze, steady, unyielding.

Gellert leaned back slightly, arms crossed, detached as ever, as though the room—and everyone in it—were merely part of a larger chessboard he had no real attachment to. His hand still throbbed where the venom had struck, but his expression betrayed nothing.

Albus met his cold eyes for a heartbeat, the weight of everything they had just survived hanging between them. For a moment, the room held its breath. Anger, confusion, fear, and cold detachment all tangled in the air. And slowly, grudgingly, the argument stalled, held at bay by the gravity of what had just occurred—and the unshakable truth that, for all Gellert’s cruelty and detachment, Albus was alive because of him.

Theseus stopped, though the anger in his expression did not lessen. If anything, it sharpened—redirected now fully toward Albus.

“You said you would fight him,” Theseus said, more controlled now, but no less intense. “You said you understood what was at stake.”

Albus did not look away. “I do.”

“Do you?” Theseus pressed. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you just saved him.”

Silence stretched. Albus’s hands folded together in front of him, a familiar gesture—measured, controlled.

“Theseus—” Newt began, hesitant.

“No,” Theseus cut in sharply, not taking his eyes off Albus. “No, I think we’re well past pretending this is simple.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward Gellert. Then back.

“He has killed people,” Theseus continued. “People we knew. People we—” His voice tightened. “Leta.”

The name hung heavy in the air. Gellert’s expression did not change—but something flickered behind his eyes. Not guilt—not quite. But recognition. He remembered her. The chaos. The fire. The moment everything had spiralled beyond even his control.

Albus inhaled slowly. “I have not forgotten,” he said quietly.

“No?” Theseus took another step forward. “Then explain this.” A gesture—sharp, unmistakable—toward Gellert.

“Explain why he’s alive. Explain why you care.”

Albus did not answer immediately. For a moment, it seemed as though he might not answer at all.

“He would have died,” Albus simply said, his voice low but unwavering.

“That’s the point!” Theseus snapped. “You wouldn’t even have to do anything!”

“Is that what you believe in?” Albus asked, finally turning fully toward him.

There was something in his gaze now—something deeper than calm. Something unyielding.

“That justice is served by chance? By accident?” he continued. “That his death—like that—would resolve anything?” Theseus faltered. Only for a moment—but it was there.

Gellert watched the exchange with quiet intensity.

There it was again—that same unshakable conviction he had once admired. The refusal to accept easy answers. The insistence on meaning, on intent. It had always been one of the things that drew him in. And one of the things that drove them apart.

Jacob shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m just gonna say,” he muttered, glancing between them, “this is… a lot.”

Newt shot him a quick look—half warning, half agreement.

Nicolas Flamel, meanwhile, stepped forward, hands folded into his sleeves.

“I believe,” he said mildly, “that what matters now is not what has already been done—but what happens next.” His gaze settled briefly on Gellert. Lingering. Assessing.

“You are alive,” Flamel continued. “That is… significant.”

Gellert’s fingers curled faintly against his side before stilling. He let out a quiet, humourless breath.

“I imagine not everyone would agree.” “Theseus—” Albus began.

But Gellert spoke first. “No,” he said, his tone sharpening just enough to cut through. “Let him.”

His eyes flicked to Albus for the briefest moment—something unguarded there, gone as quickly as it came—before he looked away again.

He swung his legs over the side of the sofa. The movement cost him more than he allowed to show; his hand tightened once against the edge before he pushed himself upright, spine straightening as though the effort alone could erase any sign of weakness.

“I think your friend deserves the honesty you have been carefully avoiding,” Gellert continued, glancing at Albus again—shorter this time, more controlled—before turning back to Theseus. A faint smile touched his lips, thin and deliberate.

“After all,” he added, softer now, “he is not wrong. So, Albus—tell me. Why am I still alive?”

The question settled heavily into the room; its meaning unmistakable.

Theseus’s expression darkened.

“Don’t,” Albus warned. Gellert tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Don’t what?” he asked. “Speak plainly?” His gaze shifted back to Albus, precise and deliberate.

“Or would that be inconvenient?”

“Gellert.” Albus’s voice was quiet, but there was warning in it now.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Gellert held his gaze, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface—something that might have softened, if he had allowed it. Instead, his jaw set almost imperceptibly, and whatever had threatened to surface was forced back down.

He exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders by a fraction.

“Relax,” he said, leaning back slightly. “If I intended to expose your secrets, I would have done so long ago.”

The words were light, almost careless—but they lingered, carrying something quieter beneath them. Not quite a threat. Not quite reassurance. Something chosen.

His gaze dropped, just briefly—toward where Albus had stood close only moments before—before lifting again, composure fully restored.

Silence followed. Heavy. Unresolved.

Newt cleared his throat, stepping cautiously forward.

“Professor,” he said, addressing Albus, though his eyes flicked toward Gellert, “we should… decide what to do.”

A careful choice of words. Gellert noticed. His lips curved faintly.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I imagine that is the pressing question.” His gaze lifted—meeting Albus’s directly. “What happens next, Professor?”

Not a challenge this time. Not entirely. But something close to it. An opening. Or a test. And once again, the room seemed to narrow—until there was only the two of them. Waiting. The question lingered. What happens next?

Albus held Gellert’s gaze for a long moment. Something unreadable passed through his expression—calculation, restraint… and something far more dangerous. Then he turned.

The argument stalled, but the tension remained, coiled tight as a serpent ready to strike. The air was thick with everything left unsaid, with the ghosts of choices made and paths not taken.

“Would you and the others give us a moment?”

The shift was immediate.

Theseus straightened. “Albus—”

“Please.” It was not a request. Silence stretched.

Newt hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Of course, Professor.”

He placed a gentle hand on Theseus’s arm, urging him back. Jacob followed without protest, though not without a final uncertain glance over his shoulder. Nicolas Flamel lingered the longest, his ancient eyes moving between Albus and Gellert with quiet scrutiny. Then, with a small incline of his head, he turned as well. The door closed behind them with a soft, final click. The absence of their presence was immediate—like pressure dropping in a sealed room. The quiet that followed was not peaceful. It was charged, electric, the kind of silence that hummed with the weight of everything that had been and everything that was yet to come.

Gellert shifted on the sofa, rolling his shoulder as if testing the limits of his strength. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the shadows beneath his eyes. “Still weakened,” he remarked lightly, breaking the silence. “Disappointing.”

“Recovering,” Albus corrected. Gellert’s lips curved faintly. “Optimistic, as always.”

Another pause. “Why did you really save me?”

The question came quieter this time. Not for the others. For him.

Albus did not answer immediately. Instead, he moved—slowly, deliberately—taking the chair beside the sofa once more. Not as close as before. Not as distant as he could have been. Measured. Controlled.

“You already asked me that,” he said. “And you did not answer.” A beat. Gellert tilted his head slightly, studying him. “Not truly.”

There was no mockery in his tone now. No performance. Only a quiet insistence—something almost fragile beneath it, though he would never name it as such.

Albus exhaled softly, his gaze dropping briefly to his hands before lifting again. “I could ask you the same,” he said.

Gellert’s expression stilled. “I did answer.”

“You deflected.” A faint narrowing of Gellert’s eyes.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You may find honesty less comfortable than you imagine.”

Albus met his gaze without flinching.

“I imagine very little about you anymore.”

The words landed. Sharper than intended—or perhaps exactly as intended.

Something flickered across Gellert’s face. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.

“Is that so?” he said softly. Silence settled again. Thicker this time.

He broke it first.

“I watched you collapsing,” Gellert said, more quietly now. “In the vision. You did not get back up.”

His voice changed, almost imperceptibly—losing its edge, its certainty. What remained was something more raw. Unguarded in a way he would have despised under any other circumstances.]

“I have seen many possible futures,” he continued. “Most are… flexible.”

A pause. “That one did not feel that way.” Albus listened. Said nothing.

“I thought—” Gellert stopped, jaw tightening slightly. “It does not matter what I thought.”

“It does,” Albus said quietly. Gellert let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a scoff.

“Does it?” he asked. “Because from where I’m sitting, you have made it abundantly clear that my thoughts—my intentions—hold very little weight with you.”

“That is not what I said.”

“No,” Gellert agreed. “You rarely say things directly when you can imply them instead.”

A flicker of something—old irritation, familiar rhythm. For a moment, it felt almost the same.

Albus leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter now.

“Then let me be direct.”

That caught Gellert’s attention.

“I did not save you because I trust you,” Albus said. “Or because I have forgotten what you have done.”

“I saved you because letting you die like that—” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “—would have been wrong.”

Gellert watched him carefully. “And that is enough?” he asked.

“It has to be.”

Silence.

Then, softer—

“And because I could not stand by and watch it happen.”

The admission was small. Almost reluctant. But it settled between them with more weight than anything else he had said.

Gellert’s breath caught—just slightly. He looked away.

“Still sentimental,” he murmured. But the words lacked conviction.

Albus did not respond. For a moment, the only sound was the quiet crackle of the fire.

Albus did not move. Did not speak.

“You should have let me die.” The words came suddenly. Flat, bare of emotions. Tired.

Gellert did not look at him.

“It would have solved a great many problems for you,” he continued. “For everyone.”

“That is not how I solve problems.”

“No,” Gellert said softly. “It never was.” Another pause. Then, more quietly: “It would have solved one for me as well.”

Albus, rather confused asked. “Which one?”

Gellert hesitated. For the first time since waking, he seemed uncertain. The answer hovered—dangerous in its simplicity. Too revealing. Too close to something he had spent years burying beneath ambition, ideology, certainty.

He exhaled slowly. “This,” he said at last, gesturing faintly between them.

“You think this is over,” Gellert continued. “That we have chosen our sides, drawn our lines, and that is the end of it.” His gaze lifted again—steady now.

“But it is not.”

“No,” Albus agreed quietly. “It is not.”

The words hung between them. Acknowledgment. Not resolution.

Gellert studied him for a long moment.

“Tell me something, Albus,” he finally said, his voice lowering slightly. “When the time comes—”

“When we stand on opposite sides, wands raised—”

The image rose between them unbidden, vivid and inevitable. Not a possibility. A certainty waiting for its moment.

“Will you hesitate?” The question was soft. But it cut deeper than any accusation. Albus held his gaze. For a long time. Too long.

And in that silence, Gellert found his answer—if not in words, then in the absence of them.

Finally, Albus spoke. “I don’t know.” Honest. Painfully so.

Gellert let out a quiet breath. Something in him eased—and broke—at the same time.

“Yes,” he said softly. “That is what I thought.”

Another silence. Different now. Less sharp. More… fragile.

Albus’s voice, when it came again, was barely above a whisper. “And you?”

Gellert did not look away this time.

“If I hesitate,” he said, “I lose.” A simple truth. A terrible one.

But even as he said it, something in his expression betrayed him—just for a second. Because they both knew: that had not answered the question.

The fire crackled softly. Time seemed to stretch. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

And yet, everything that mattered had already been said.