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The two boys were sitting on the floor on a rug near the bed, somewhat apart. The low light of the early summer evening having been replaced by a more impenetrable darkness. But inside the room that they shared, the glow of several candles, which hung suspended in the air, cast the shadows back to the walls -- forming profiles of the two young men and also their book companions. Albus noted that Gellert's reading selection was placed in an orderly arrangement, while his own pile was settled more absentmindedly around him. They had spent the afternoon in Bathilda's library, commandeering several volumes each. Afterward Gellert had suggested (in that very convincing way of his), that Albus should stay over that night so they might read them together at a more leisurely pace.
Previously, they had only braved to exchange letters via owl -- furiously writing notes and leading questions late into the night, sometimes passing several letters each between them -- for the evening was a time when Albus was finally free from family responsibilities and expectations and could devote himself to his readings. But the conversation over their finds that afternoon in the library had been even more lively than usual, ripe with a sense that they were finally closing in on the truth to this legend. When Gellert had turned to ask him, arching his left eyebrow and the corner of his lip, Albus could not think of a single good reason he should refuse. And so after his supper with Ariana and Aberforth, and fielding the excuse of retiring early, they had met behind the back gate to Gellert's great aunt's house. While Bathilda was in the kitchen, straightening up after supper, Gellert had grasp his hand and pulled his friend up the narrow staircase into his small room on the second floor. Albus had been the one to cast the silencing spell to give them more privacy. In all of his 17 and a half years Albus had never felt so daring.
Now, Albus' eyes rose and met Gellert's glance, shining from above his book. Gellert extended his arm, turning the book around and holding it out to face Albus. Albus could see the symbol inscribed on the opened page and could almost feel the excited tension mirrored in the tendons of Gellert's fingers and the strength of his grip near the book binding. Albus pushed his glasses back further against his long nose and his lips turned slightly upward as well. This was a new feeling. Sometimes his schoolmates, or Aberforth, would call him 'aloof'. But Albus had always suspected that description was not quite the right word for what was inside of him. Here it was now. This feeling. Though it was a feeling he was quite sure that he had never felt before. It seemed to grow like a vine, twisting and turning, shock-filled through with a particular and strange kind of joy, and wrapping to enclose the both of them. Around the next corner was The Truth, and it was theirs alone to share. To discover.
His eyes rose again to hold Gellert's eyes for what seemed an ending and a beginning. Gellert's eyes. Hazel. Like a book of untold depths, shimmering back to him. Eyes that could leap quickly and exactly to the center of a thought, to the next clue in their quest. Eyes that seemed to have leapt just as quickly to the center of him.
~~~
Bathilda woke a little late that morning for she had been fighting off a chest cold. After preparing her usual hearty English breakfast (with only a slight burning of the sausages) she climbed the stairs to knock sharply three times at the second door from the right.
"Gellert, my darling, breakfast is ready!" she called cheerfully.
When only silence greeted her -- not even the creak of a bed spring or a loose floorboard -- she grew slightly puzzled. After a second knock, she turned the door handle, letting the door swing open. Candles still drifted near the ceiling of the mostly spare room, but they had long since burned to the quick, their wax hardening into cold ghostly appendages. Instead of candlelight, the dulled mid-morning sunlight fell through the single window in the room and through a transparent threadbare curtain, half-illuminating the dust suspended across the rug and two slumbering figures.
Gellert's head had fallen straight back against the edge of the bed. His normally proud mouth was relaxed and half open, his pale eyelashes closed on his cheek. His legs were stretched out along the rug, his bare feet poking out from his pajamas, near a collapsed pile of books. His left arm had fallen at an odd angle across his chest. Under his left hand and over his heart was a open book, with the embossed golden title of 'The Metaphysics of Magic and Might' visible through his fingers. His right arm was limp and outstretched towards Albus who lay on his side, half turned towards Gellert. Albus' wire-rimmed glasses were askew and had fallen part way off of his nose. His ruddy hair loosened from its tie. His arms were curled near his head, one palm over the shuttered pages of another rather heavy leather bound book. As his breath sighed in and out, it gently ruffled the pages.
Neither of the young men stirred when Bathilda gently closed the door, a small smile on her face. She'd have to warm up breakfast later then. And place a second setting at the table.