(drabble) black, white, and red all over
black, white, and red all over, AD/GG, drama/angst, 367 words
Hypocrisy. That's what it is, plain and simple. Hypocrisy splashed across the front page of his morning newspaper, vile falsehoods made truth by the harsh black and white. The great Albus Dumbledore, champion of the weak and repressed, is going to save them all from the German tyrant. A fucking farce, that's all it was.
"I disapprove of the happenings in continental Europe and have been asked to put a stop to it," Albus Dumbledore says in an official statement. "However, it is unclear whether my involvement is necessary at the time." Disapprove. Such a mild word given the reality. Is he an unruly toddler who needs to be put into his place, then, and not a Dark Lord with the power to set the sky alight? Schweinehund, his mind accuses, traitor. Gellert has always hated how Albus knows just what to say to make an insult truly effective. Viciousness hidden carefully behind a kind façade.
A picture accompanies the quote, Albus with a vaguely befuddled look on his face, as if the reporters had caught him off guard. They probably had, the miserable bastard wouldn't have said a word otherwise. Notoriously tight-lipped, as he was known to be, keeping his secrets close to the vest. Or perhaps, Gellert snorts, he hides them in his beard.
They probably all think him enigmatic, a sign of true brilliance. Gellert knows the truth. Albus keeps his silence out of shame, and the thought makes Gellert throw the nearest glass against a wall. It makes a satisfying shattering sound, and the splinters scatter to all corners of his office. One lodges itself into his hand and the blood wells up, a deep life-giving red, and he thinks that he should like to make Albus bleed. Splatter that perfectly pale skin and wouldn't the bright red of his hair be put to shame then.
Gellert stands up and tosses the newspaper into the fireplace. The feeling of hatred passes, as it always does, he can never quite manage to hold onto it. It slips away as easily as he cleans up his office with an idle wave of his hand, leaving him with nothing but the hollow feeling of betrayal.
Hypocrisy. That's what it is, plain and simple. Hypocrisy splashed across the front page of his morning newspaper, vile falsehoods made truth by the harsh black and white. The great Albus Dumbledore, champion of the weak and repressed, is going to save them all from the German tyrant. A fucking farce, that's all it was.
"I disapprove of the happenings in continental Europe and have been asked to put a stop to it," Albus Dumbledore says in an official statement. "However, it is unclear whether my involvement is necessary at the time." Disapprove. Such a mild word given the reality. Is he an unruly toddler who needs to be put into his place, then, and not a Dark Lord with the power to set the sky alight? Schweinehund, his mind accuses, traitor. Gellert has always hated how Albus knows just what to say to make an insult truly effective. Viciousness hidden carefully behind a kind façade.
A picture accompanies the quote, Albus with a vaguely befuddled look on his face, as if the reporters had caught him off guard. They probably had, the miserable bastard wouldn't have said a word otherwise. Notoriously tight-lipped, as he was known to be, keeping his secrets close to the vest. Or perhaps, Gellert snorts, he hides them in his beard.
They probably all think him enigmatic, a sign of true brilliance. Gellert knows the truth. Albus keeps his silence out of shame, and the thought makes Gellert throw the nearest glass against a wall. It makes a satisfying shattering sound, and the splinters scatter to all corners of his office. One lodges itself into his hand and the blood wells up, a deep life-giving red, and he thinks that he should like to make Albus bleed. Splatter that perfectly pale skin and wouldn't the bright red of his hair be put to shame then.
Gellert stands up and tosses the newspaper into the fireplace. The feeling of hatred passes, as it always does, he can never quite manage to hold onto it. It slips away as easily as he cleans up his office with an idle wave of his hand, leaving him with nothing but the hollow feeling of betrayal.