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June 30th midnight 1997
As the bell tolled twelve, the headmaster of Hogwarts was not sound asleep as he ought to have been, but sitting in bed, wide awake, a bit more bothered than he should by the dream he just had.
The very same creature had reappeared——the one that had torn his home into shreds in his dreams the night he turned eighteen. But instead of blazing fire, a couple of charcoal-coloured feathers hang listlessly on his frame, and only glimpses of dying sparks could be seen. Its eyes were dark pits, radiating death and decay.
Just like his right hand, Dumbledore grimly acknowledged.
He could almost smell the musty stench that clung to the bird like a shadow he could never get rid of.
When he dies, would this happen to Fawkes, probably not, the bird would probably return to where he came. Dumbledore find it slightly amusing to be able to think about “when he dies” as if it had been something as casual as “when next semester comes”.
The depressing scene shifted, revealing the surroundings of the phoenix. Cold stricken, he was shivering in a storm, staggering to keep his place on the top of a tower. He croaked in despair, for his loose feathers could barely shield anything. The sound was like rusty chains scraping one another, yet another sign of the limited time he had.
For some reason, the giant bird seemed to have noticed him and glared pointedly at him, pit-like eyes reigniting with vicious resentment. Dumbledore felt a piercing pain in his chest that he couldn’t make sense of. As if the bird’s glare had been poisonous arrows shooting at his heart. However, before Dumbledore was overwhelmed, the bird’s expression morphed into something different.
Maybe he should’ve studied Fawkes more closely, Dumbledore amused himself. He would’ve recognized that expression had it been on a human’s face, but on a bird’s, he couldn’t tell. He watched as the bird gave one final shriek before tumbling down the tower, still as a statue, his eyes deadly calm and indifferent, colder than the snow that completely extinguished the bird’s flame, as if he had witnessed it so many times that it was no longer interesting.
What good would helping do, he had sealed his fate a long time ago. Wasn’t that what the dream was trying to tell him in the first place?
The phoenix, the storm, and death. Ha, the irony tasted as bitter as spoiled butterbeer. The dream could mean but one thing, the day that they declared war on fate was actually the final straw that lured him to his doom today.
Dumbledore should have gotten back to sleep right away yet the dream still kept him from grabbing any before dawn break. Finding himself restless, he got out of bed and headed for his favourite spot in Hogwarts——the top of the astronomy tower.
To Dumbledore’s surprise, the night breeze that gently brushed through his hair and the stars that beamed down at him weren’t able to calm his nerves as usual, nor was the peaceful panoramic view of Hogwarts underneath. He used to love watching the children chase each other across the courtyards, pulling off pranks and bursting out rings of laughter. After nightfall, the ripples of the Great Lake would dance and sparkle under the starlight, the intense glow of Filch’s oil-lamp would flicker and fly from window to window as he sniffed out any traces of naughty children who weren’t in bed.
Tonight, however, he felt as if he was surveying the whole scene through a veil of some sort, what used to be so close, seemed to be completely out of reach. Though he knew his bare hands couldn’t possibly pass clean though the thick stone walls, it sure felt like it.
Perhaps this was the distance of life and death. Was this how Hogwarts was like to the ghosts? Did the ghosts count as dead man like he did?
“Ready to say goodbye?” A voice clear and bright that somewhat reminded Dumbledore of the dying bird, but in an exact opposite way, cut through the damp silence like a sharp blade. It came from the pool of shadow behind Dumbledore who, for some reason, seemed not at all surprised but rather relieved.
“What? You have come to claim it?” Dumbledore joked without turning to face the intruder, his eyes still drinking in every bit below that would be soon behind him.
Laughter, cheerful as a creek, ran through the tranquil night. “You are so humorous, Albus. How can I ever wish for your death? You know what I’m here for. I came, as always, because you need me.” His words were sugar-coated like the whisper of a lover.
Because he needed him.
The Schatten had always appeared when Dumbledore “needed”, or rather, when Dumbledore stood bewildered in front of a crossway, trying to sway him.
It was some time after their duel, when he first saw the shadow of his old foe. He was to decide the fate of his beloved, imprisonment without magic or death. Alone he had to make this decision, and alone he was tortured by nightmares that eventually dragged him in front of the mirror of Erised. He knew he shouldn’t, but the urge to see Gellert Grindelwald, even only a mirage, outweighed everything. He closed his eyes and let the curtain fell, yet what greeted him wasn’t the young dark wizard nor the old. It was literally a cold, glassy void.
He had deprived himself of all desires.
He should be delighted, he told himself. After all, wasn’t this what every bit of him had dreamt of ever since her death? But somehow, he couldn’t feel it, nor could he feel anything for that matter. His chest felt as cold and empty as the piece of glass in front of him.
Horrified, Dumbledore slowly backed away from the glassy void like it was the most terrible beast known to mankind and that was when he turned and saw it.
It was the most gruesome man imaginable, if it could be called a man that is. Chains thicker than his forearm left red and purple marks on his four limbs and held him kneeling on the uneven freezing stone tiles. Ragged strips of cloth hang loosely on skin and bones and where his flesh would be, there were concave decade-old scars and thorns jutting out here and there——they were left there when the chunks of flesh was torn out by barbed whips. Some bones might be broken. His patellae might have been gouged out but one cannot be sure for anything might have happened to him.
However, if one had looked pass the strings of greasy white hair dangling before his face, one would have most certainly wished to flee. His two-toned eyes fixed on Dumbledore as if predator on prey. His lips, once stitched close and had been recently freed of it, pulled out a grotesque smile, completed with seeps of blood and raw flesh. As he did so, his left icy blue eye pierced clean through Dumbledore, boiling with jagged hatred and pride, while the silvery white one stayed completely still and emotionless to conceal the obsession and madness.
He looked like Loptr himself right before Ragnarök.
“But I won’t be needing anything anymore in assumably,” Dumbledore paused to check the position of the moon, “20 hours. So, what do you wish to accomplish?”
Dumbledore let him live, or rather, made him. Even faced with the possible future torments that his one true love would suffer, and knowing very well that his dearest would hate him for that cruel decision, Dumbledore still couldn’t bear to live in a world in which Grindelwald didn’t exist. He knew for sure he would despise himself even more for his selfishness till his final breath, but he simply couldn’t.
“Accomplish?” The voice behind Dumbledore repeated sarcastically and let out a bitter laugh, “what can I possibly accomplish with you committing suicide in 20 hours.”
Dumbledore sighed, “It isn’t suicide, we had that argument last time——”
“And you won, I know.” The frustrated voice cut Dumbledore off impatiently, “There’s nothing I can do.” The voice broke ever so slightly.
Dumbledore let out a deep sigh and turned to say something, but the words caught once he laid eyes on the figure before him.
It was a young man that looked as if had just come to age, but Dumbledore knew he was only sixteen. He was a bit taller than Dumbledore, 2 inches, Dumbledore recalled. His sleek golden locks flashed even in the shadows and his eyes, oh those eyes, those eyes had always out shone the summer sun. His blue-eye always reminded Dumbledore of the sky, wild and care-free, and his silver one was fierce and sharp as a blade, a blade so sharp that could conquer any foe. The sleeves of his fine linen shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and the tip of his leather boots were a bit coated with mud.
It was Gellert Grindelwald, on their very first encounter.
Just then, clouds hurried away from the crescent moon, bathing the figure in a soft fuzzy glow as if he had been drawn straight from the mirror of Erised all those years ago.
“You must be Albus Dumbledore.” “Gellert” grinned and held out his hand.
Dumbledore was at a loss for words. “Grindelwald”, or as Dumbledore would like to put it, the Schatten, had grown younger throughout the years, but never had he appeared in…in…in this form.
Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes were fixated on him as if he was trying to peer through the century in between. Unsure of the time that had passed, he felt his eyes growing sore and looked away.
“Of course it would end like this.” Dumbledore murmured.
Struck by a sudden recollection, Dumbledore jerked his head towards the Schatten and blurted out, “Where are the chains.” There had always been chains, growing less though but there always had been. If this one was completely free, could it mean that something had happened at Nurmengard? Dumbledore had never been hundred percent sure of the connections between the two Grindelwalds, what if……
“Here.” The Schatten flipped his out-stretched right hand and there, at the centre of his palm, lay an intricate olive- shaped silver accessory with a swirling piece of red in the middle.
The blood troth… Dumbledore inhaled sharply, the chilly air scraping his lungs. Instinctively, he curled the fingers of his left hand and brushed them against that old scar. It was still there, nearly a century later. Yes…the blood troth was a chain like none other—— it bounds not the body but the soul itself.
Even if Grindelwald had been free, what difference would it make? His life had already been ruined, from the beautiful age of 16, with Dumbledore’s own hands. Gellert was merely a young boy seeking the legendary Hallows. If it hadn’t been for him, Gellert might never…. It was him that had given Gellert the idea, the “greater good” that justified everything. It was him that had proposed to make the blood troth, to test their will against the Fates’, which in turn sealed their tragedy and reduced them to what they were today. It was him that was, as he always had been, responsible for everything.
“What if we never met?” The words slipped from Dumbledore’s tongue before he could think it over a few more times.
“Was?” The Schatten’s jaw dropped in utter disbelief. (What?)
Dumbledore’s blue eyes darted away from the fierce glaring two-toned eyes. “I’m sorry, I- I just thought that perhaps——”
“Nein.” The Schatten cut him off, deadly serious, “Never in a million lifetimes.” The Schatten spoke word by word, his voice flat as a death sentence. (No)
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“I thought……” Dumbledore sighed, once again, “I presumed that you would be mad at me, for……everything.” Everything, the word stung like a needle. Dumbledore never knew that a simple word could carry such gilt and sorrow without breaking, but it did.
“Verdammt! What in Merlin’s name made you think I’m not mad at you?” The Schatten sneered as he paced around furiously, “How could I not be angry with you? How could you betray our cause? How could you deprive me of magic? How could you imprison me for fifty-two years? Wie konntest du nur?” His pitch grew higher with every accusation and eventually, broke. （Dam it）（How could you)
Dumbledore couldn’t meet the Schatten’s eyes, indeed, how could he? He bowed his head, lips quivering slightly. How could he harm this beautiful boy, and turn him into…into… Dumbledore shut his eyes tight, trying to stop the train of thought. He shouldn’t stop it, if anything he should be punished, he should be tortured ten times harder and still it would not be enough to make up for his cruelty. But to be confronted by Gellert in person? He had thought he could bare this.
The Schatten’s shoulder slumped, as if the final question drained him of all energy. He slid down and crumpled into a sitting position opposite to Dumbledore.
“Nevertheless, we were destined to meet.” The Schatten said quietly, but it still sounded harsh in the eerie silence.
Dumbledore knew what the Schatten was talking about. Gellert had saw him in a vision of his before they had met. Later, when he was sure it was Albus that he had seen, both of them were beyond themselves, immersed in pure joy. They had thought that even the Fates were on their side, so arrogant, so naive.
“I thought you don’t believe in fate.” Dumbledore inquired. As a seer, Gellert showed more respect to it than he had done, but in general, neither of them had been humble enough to resign to it. To the two proud geniuses, it was merely another game, only with a stronger opponent called “fate”, which only made things more challenging and interesting.
“I don’t.” the Schatten snapped, “But destiny is different. It’s a theory that I came up with later in life.” It was strange to hear such a young man say “later in life”, but Dumbledore didn’t interrupt. “You are fully aware of the nature of my visions and the so-called ‘fate’ it represents.”
“Indeed.” Gellert’s visions are glimpses into the future, dots instead of pictures. Therefore, the “fate” it carried was a false statement, for one can always decide how to connect the dots. If done properly, one might even be able to deceive “fate”.
“However, destiny is the one and only path towards a certain destination one must reach. Life is not controlled by fate nor destiny for one has numerous ways to reach the final end, but us,” the Schatten halted long enough for Dumbledore to gaze back at him and held it gingerly, “We are destined to complete each other, Albus.” The Schatten sounded so certain as if it had been a law of nature, like the sun rises in the east.
Dumbledore did not answer. His throat had closed itself against any word he could offer. It was not forgiveness — he did not deserve that. But nevertheless, the words cracked a shell he had spent nearly a century building, and through the fissure came not light, but a pull, as if the floor beneath him had given way and he was falling, not down, but back.
Memories flooded in.
You must be made for me. He could hear Gellert say. It was Gellert, not the Schatten but the real 16-year-old burying his face in Albus’s neck. So are you. He chuckled and planted a kiss on the boy’s golden locks. He remembered lying on the meadow together one afternoon, doing nothing really, just enjoying the tickling breeze and holding hands. He could still recall the smell of grass, the chirping of birds, and yes… the warmth of Gellert’s fingers between his. The warmth……Dumbledore could feel the warmth running down his whole body. It wasn’t supposed to hurt but it did, a cold burning sensation like stepping into a hot bath with a frozen body. Then, the burn morphed…… crackling hearth, chattering kids, sweet smell…… it was so distant and foggy, like navigating a labyrinth of time and trying to backtrack to the beginning. The further he went, the harder it was. Hot serring pain shot through his mind and there, in complete darkness, at the very center, his mother’s voice, a lullaby…?
Dumbledore could feel his eyes tearing up a little. It had been too long. Everything before that incident felt like another lifetime to him, an enchanting bubble that could only be seen by the corner of his eye and would pop at first real look.
The realization dawned on Dumbledore.
“I know what I want you to do.” He murmured in a trance.
Examining Dumbledore’s expression, the Schatten’s eyes widened and shot up, as if he had foreseen an Apocalypse and it was happening right there. “You would…I-I’d never…I of all people…You must be kidding me! I couldn’t…HOW COULD YOU!” The silver tongue genius could barely conjure up a complete sentence.
Dumbledore waited patiently for the Schatten to stop rambling. “Please.” It sounded more like a statement rather than a plea. Dumbledore was sure that the Schatten would understand for explanation had never been of much need between them, reality or not. The Schatten staggered a few steps away, refusing to face Dumbledore.
“But you miss all this! Your students, your collogues, your school——”
“I do.” Dumbledore interrupted before the Schatten could say, me.
He had never missed the vitality and beauty of this world more than this moment, with himself standing at Death’s doorsteps, but it was still his dire wish, the Schatten knew that, and when the Schatten had gotten his emotions back under control, which he was very good at, Dumbledore was sure that he would obey.
The Schatten whirled round and glared at him with wild eyes of a cornered animal. “Ask me, ask me properly.” he demanded, trying to find any traces of uncertainty in Dumbledore’s eyes, as if he would pounce on it if there had been any. But at last, those blue eyes were as calm as the Dark Lake below.
“If Severus fails, will you kill me?”
Since the Schatten wished to test the stability of his mind, he might as well put it in the most straightforward way, Dumbledore thought.
That seem to be the final straw. The flicker in the Schatten’s eyes extinguished and his face grew pale. No, not pale but transparent.
Dawn was approaching. Their time was up.
Dumbledore didn’t need an answer, he had gotten that already. He smiled wistfully, eyes wrinkling, and scanned the Schatten one last time.
“Lebewohl.” A long-forgotten word found its way back to Dumbledore’s lip. He could see his terrible accent amused the boy so much he laughed. (Farewell)
The boy walked towards him, growing fainter with every step. When the boy was a foot away, he had gotten too transparent for Dumbledore to see his face properly and he could only judge the boy’s distance with the blue of his eye.
He was very close now.
“See you on the other side.” A whisper so soft Dumbledore could barely hear, and with that, the Schatten was gone, dissolved in the mist, the first light of the morning sun.
A beam of sunlight stung Dumbledore’s eyes and he realized he was still standing there, motionless.
The sun had risen.
Time to get to work.