fanmix: things better left buried
It is both my birthday and the holiday season, and for these reasons, I lost my mind a little and decided to devote an entire afternoon to a fanmix project. Why? Let's just say that I was inspired by the release of the Tales of Beedle the Bard, as well as the fact that I've always wanted to do an AD/GG fanmix.
These drabbles are somewhat chronological snapshots which I will loosely rate "R" for um, mentions of naughty things and Gellert's cursing at the end (in which I combine my favorite swear words of the English and German language).
fanmix zip file
Meet me in the summertime, We can move the air
Summer. The time when those unbearably hot days fade into cool clear nights, stars bright and the lights of the town shining in the darkness. The grass has not yet lost the fresh green quality that spring brings, and the children play about in the streets.
An idyllic time, or so it's meant to be. But here in Godric's Hollow, Albus feels nothing but stifled. The light in the house is bleak, the windows shuttered, and as Ariana wails in her room, he knows that he needs to escape.
He runs blindly all the way across town, an uncharacteristic lack of foresight, before finally collapsing beneath a tree.
A snap is heard and a boy drops from above him. Bathilda's nephew, they had met in passing only earlier on that very day and Albus had thought nothing of it, lost as he was in his misery.
The boy's eyes are alight with mirth, a wicked smile plays across his face, and suddenly Albus feels free for the first time all summer.
I fell out of heaven to be with you in hell, my sin's not quite seven
Lightning alights over a meadow in Godric's Hollow, an unusual happening but not one caused by the oft-fickle power of nature. Rather it is from the not-quite-dark magic crackling along the wand of the young Gellert Grindelwald. His face is bright, although from exhilaration or the lightning, Albus cannot be sure.
All he has ever wanted is the chance to prove himself as brilliant as he's always known that he is and to explore his own power to its very ends, further than any other had allowed him before. A simple desire, he has always thought, and a desire shared with this unlikely boy from the continent.
Desire. A funny word, one caught up with many tricky complications, and hasn't he always tried to remain detached from the entrapments of emotion? A desire for power or a desire for Gellert, he no longer knows which has become more vital to his being.
In that moment, he thinks that they are one and the same, and that there is nothing to be lost in pressing his companion close up against the fence behind them and kissing him as if their tomorrow may never come.
So don’t play with me, ’cause you’re playing with fire
His mother always strove to teach him mercy as a child, to instill in him an appreciation for all beings. Civility, morality, all that which a good English wizard should possess. However, the years since those days seem to stretch on for an age, and it's been a long time since he's considered advice from his family.
Supposed civility and morality brought the Dumbledore family nothing but misery.
Still, there are some lessons that can never be forgotten, and he feels a twinge as his dearest friend describes the necessity of death, of destruction, of unleashing the greatness of their combined power.
But then Gellert will fix him with that fierce stare, flushed with passionate ambition, and Albus tamps down any misgivings. He is drawn to the force of this boy like a moth to a flame, and in the face of that fire, he is unable to refuse.
Nor does he want to.
All this waiting is just hesitating for nothing, And the fault lines, And all the conjecture from both sides,
Why oh why can't we change things
Aberforth is yelling again. It's all he seems to do anymore, unless he trades his vicious words for a stubborn silence. With Ariana, he is soothing and caring. With Albus, his words cut like glass.
Gellert clenches one hand into a fist as the other hovers over his wand. He stands impatiently outside the front door of the Dumbledore cottage, resisting the urge to tap idly against the door, pent up as he is with anxious energy. Albus bade him to wait outside, hadn't wanted him to get involved in his mess of a family.
A mess, that's all they are, and an undeserving mess at that. At first, he felt some sort of pity, no matter how slight. Later there was a certain amusement at Aberforth's resentment, resentment that Gellert had dismissed as simple jealousy.
Now there is only anger turned to loathing. They are spoiling all that is perfect, from those vaulted dreams to those other considerably more private and personal matters of the heart.
Another shout is heard, and he wrenches open the door without a thought.
There was no way that he could have known that it would be the beginning of the end.
And it chars my heart to always hear you calling, Calling for the good old days, Because there were no good old days
Albus's desk is a mess, papers strewn across it and every other flat surface of his room, all save his still-rumpled bed. At the top of the pile lies an arcane tale of a mysterious warlock unlikely rise to power. They had meant to pore through it today, sprawled out together on that rumpled bed, laughing and snarking at each other even as they took notes.
Today is not what it was meant to be. Today is not a day for shared thoughts and exhilarating closeness.
In its place, there is a funeral. Ariana, pale and not yet cold, is to be lowered into the ground. A young girl released from a world that had brought her nothing but pain, and yet Albus knows that he could have saved her from that pain, if only he had bothered to try.
Gellert is gone, and there is no one to distract from his grief with a mischievous smile and a furtive kiss.
Today is not what it was meant to be.
There's a man goin' 'round takin' names. An' he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won't be treated all the same. There'll be a golden ladder reaching down. When the man comes around.
The satisfaction that comes from achieving one's ambitions is not one that can be described in mere words. For his entire life, Gellert has chased after every opportunity, relentlessly striving for the fulfillment of his purpose. It is not quite happiness that he feels, happiness is too small and simple a word for this.
Glorious may be closer to the truth. A glory that is his and his alone.
The year is 1940, and there is no place on the continent where he cannot walk without all before him falling prey to his will. The Elder Wand is gripped tight in his hand, as intelligent eyes observe the workings of his empire.
A simple curse is uttered, and his lips curve in a smile as he reshapes the nearby forest to suit his needs. Space made for a fearsome prison, yet another part of his plan that he will see come to fruition.
At his actions, screams of confusion and fear arise from a nearby village. The screams, fortuitous in their timing, drown out the persistent thought that he was never meant to do this alone.
I remember the letter wrinkled in my hand, "I'll love you always" filled my eyes
The story lies on the second page of the Daily Prophet, an article about the former Minister's daughter eloping somehow taking precedence. It is characteristic of the Ministry, Albus thinks bitterly, to bury that which should never be ignored.
The fact that he is guilty of similar acts gets forced to the back of his mind.
The urgent letters that lie open in front of him tell a different story from the ever unreliable Prophet. They tell a story of oppression, of more deaths than can possibly be counted, and country after country falling before the Dark Lord Grindelwald.
The letters contain pleas for help, a call upon the great Albus Dumbledore to defeat the world's evils and cure all ills. What would these people think if they knew that he helped forge that which he must now tear down? It is likely that they would shake their heads in denial and resume their desperate call.
There is another letter open before him. Unlike the most recent epistle from the Minister for Magic, this one is yellowed and crinkled with edge. The ink has a faded quality that speaks of many decades past. There are no words of danger and warning, but rather words of love and unkept promises.
He shoves the old letter into a drawer with a slam, and sets his shoulders in determination.
He can ignore Gellert no longer.
I was moving through the silence without motion, waiting for you, In a room with a window in the corner I found truth.
A map adorns the entirety of one wall of Gellert's study. Markings cover it, each marking denoting a victory. They are the many notches on his rise to power, a rise that has been rapid and yet a long time coming.
Almost all of Eastern and Central Europe has been covered, from Russia to his own Austria-Hungary. England, though, remains a blank slate. He has ignored it, a fact that his followers have always wondered at but never questioned.
Never had he meant to bring his fight to Albus. For reasons that he may never be able to understand, it has always firmly been an impossibility. The memories of their time together are still as sharp as if they were yesterday, and they stay his hand even as his might grows.
If the whispers from the underground are to believed, Albus will be coming to him.
A meeting once again, but not as friends or lovers or any position that could bring him salvation. A meeting as enemies and there is a part of him that already knows the outcome.
There is a part of him that already knows he has lost.
And I am a master of a nothing place , Of recoil and grace.
To say that it hurts one's pride to go from master of an empire to master of what can be considered an oubliette at best is somewhat of an understatement. Is this to be Albus's punishment, then? Armed with the knowledge of the strength of Gellert's pride, does Albus mean to tear down his very self-worth, that which he holds most dear?
A question that he has had decades to ponder. Decades and no closer to an answer, although he often finds himself torn between hateful recrimination and nostalgic affection. Around and around in circles, mind going ever so slightly with each passing year. Bitterness tinged with guilt, and an ever present feeling somewhere along the edges of his mind that could be a little bit like love.
It is with surprise that one day he receives a tattered letter from an equally tattered Phoenix. A familiar hand that writes of war, the Hallows, needless destruction, and of impending death.
The answer, he discovers, is that they are both of them lost in the end.
goddamn this dusty room, this hazy afternoon, I'm breathing in the silence like never before.
Albus is gone, and Gellert feels that his last tether to sanity has left him, alone in a forsaken world. The ghosts of his past whisper ever louder, the screams of the tortured resonate, and there's a feeling in his bones that tells him that his own death draws ever closer.
It's a shame that he should fall to one as pathetic as the so-called Lord Voldemort, fucking schweinhund upstart, he who knows of nothing true in this world.
Through his window, red flowers bloom in the distance, a color that recalls the hair of a boy that he knew long ago. If he squints with his now poor eyes, the blue of that sky is just dark enough.
He is more than ready for death, and as he spots a dark shape approaching, he thinks that it's about fucking time.
These drabbles are somewhat chronological snapshots which I will loosely rate "R" for um, mentions of naughty things and Gellert's cursing at the end (in which I combine my favorite swear words of the English and German language).
fanmix zip file
Meet me in the summertime, We can move the air
Summer. The time when those unbearably hot days fade into cool clear nights, stars bright and the lights of the town shining in the darkness. The grass has not yet lost the fresh green quality that spring brings, and the children play about in the streets.
An idyllic time, or so it's meant to be. But here in Godric's Hollow, Albus feels nothing but stifled. The light in the house is bleak, the windows shuttered, and as Ariana wails in her room, he knows that he needs to escape.
He runs blindly all the way across town, an uncharacteristic lack of foresight, before finally collapsing beneath a tree.
A snap is heard and a boy drops from above him. Bathilda's nephew, they had met in passing only earlier on that very day and Albus had thought nothing of it, lost as he was in his misery.
The boy's eyes are alight with mirth, a wicked smile plays across his face, and suddenly Albus feels free for the first time all summer.
I fell out of heaven to be with you in hell, my sin's not quite seven
Lightning alights over a meadow in Godric's Hollow, an unusual happening but not one caused by the oft-fickle power of nature. Rather it is from the not-quite-dark magic crackling along the wand of the young Gellert Grindelwald. His face is bright, although from exhilaration or the lightning, Albus cannot be sure.
All he has ever wanted is the chance to prove himself as brilliant as he's always known that he is and to explore his own power to its very ends, further than any other had allowed him before. A simple desire, he has always thought, and a desire shared with this unlikely boy from the continent.
Desire. A funny word, one caught up with many tricky complications, and hasn't he always tried to remain detached from the entrapments of emotion? A desire for power or a desire for Gellert, he no longer knows which has become more vital to his being.
In that moment, he thinks that they are one and the same, and that there is nothing to be lost in pressing his companion close up against the fence behind them and kissing him as if their tomorrow may never come.
So don’t play with me, ’cause you’re playing with fire
His mother always strove to teach him mercy as a child, to instill in him an appreciation for all beings. Civility, morality, all that which a good English wizard should possess. However, the years since those days seem to stretch on for an age, and it's been a long time since he's considered advice from his family.
Supposed civility and morality brought the Dumbledore family nothing but misery.
Still, there are some lessons that can never be forgotten, and he feels a twinge as his dearest friend describes the necessity of death, of destruction, of unleashing the greatness of their combined power.
But then Gellert will fix him with that fierce stare, flushed with passionate ambition, and Albus tamps down any misgivings. He is drawn to the force of this boy like a moth to a flame, and in the face of that fire, he is unable to refuse.
Nor does he want to.
All this waiting is just hesitating for nothing, And the fault lines, And all the conjecture from both sides,
Why oh why can't we change things
Aberforth is yelling again. It's all he seems to do anymore, unless he trades his vicious words for a stubborn silence. With Ariana, he is soothing and caring. With Albus, his words cut like glass.
Gellert clenches one hand into a fist as the other hovers over his wand. He stands impatiently outside the front door of the Dumbledore cottage, resisting the urge to tap idly against the door, pent up as he is with anxious energy. Albus bade him to wait outside, hadn't wanted him to get involved in his mess of a family.
A mess, that's all they are, and an undeserving mess at that. At first, he felt some sort of pity, no matter how slight. Later there was a certain amusement at Aberforth's resentment, resentment that Gellert had dismissed as simple jealousy.
Now there is only anger turned to loathing. They are spoiling all that is perfect, from those vaulted dreams to those other considerably more private and personal matters of the heart.
Another shout is heard, and he wrenches open the door without a thought.
There was no way that he could have known that it would be the beginning of the end.
And it chars my heart to always hear you calling, Calling for the good old days, Because there were no good old days
Albus's desk is a mess, papers strewn across it and every other flat surface of his room, all save his still-rumpled bed. At the top of the pile lies an arcane tale of a mysterious warlock unlikely rise to power. They had meant to pore through it today, sprawled out together on that rumpled bed, laughing and snarking at each other even as they took notes.
Today is not what it was meant to be. Today is not a day for shared thoughts and exhilarating closeness.
In its place, there is a funeral. Ariana, pale and not yet cold, is to be lowered into the ground. A young girl released from a world that had brought her nothing but pain, and yet Albus knows that he could have saved her from that pain, if only he had bothered to try.
Gellert is gone, and there is no one to distract from his grief with a mischievous smile and a furtive kiss.
Today is not what it was meant to be.
There's a man goin' 'round takin' names. An' he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won't be treated all the same. There'll be a golden ladder reaching down. When the man comes around.
The satisfaction that comes from achieving one's ambitions is not one that can be described in mere words. For his entire life, Gellert has chased after every opportunity, relentlessly striving for the fulfillment of his purpose. It is not quite happiness that he feels, happiness is too small and simple a word for this.
Glorious may be closer to the truth. A glory that is his and his alone.
The year is 1940, and there is no place on the continent where he cannot walk without all before him falling prey to his will. The Elder Wand is gripped tight in his hand, as intelligent eyes observe the workings of his empire.
A simple curse is uttered, and his lips curve in a smile as he reshapes the nearby forest to suit his needs. Space made for a fearsome prison, yet another part of his plan that he will see come to fruition.
At his actions, screams of confusion and fear arise from a nearby village. The screams, fortuitous in their timing, drown out the persistent thought that he was never meant to do this alone.
I remember the letter wrinkled in my hand, "I'll love you always" filled my eyes
The story lies on the second page of the Daily Prophet, an article about the former Minister's daughter eloping somehow taking precedence. It is characteristic of the Ministry, Albus thinks bitterly, to bury that which should never be ignored.
The fact that he is guilty of similar acts gets forced to the back of his mind.
The urgent letters that lie open in front of him tell a different story from the ever unreliable Prophet. They tell a story of oppression, of more deaths than can possibly be counted, and country after country falling before the Dark Lord Grindelwald.
The letters contain pleas for help, a call upon the great Albus Dumbledore to defeat the world's evils and cure all ills. What would these people think if they knew that he helped forge that which he must now tear down? It is likely that they would shake their heads in denial and resume their desperate call.
There is another letter open before him. Unlike the most recent epistle from the Minister for Magic, this one is yellowed and crinkled with edge. The ink has a faded quality that speaks of many decades past. There are no words of danger and warning, but rather words of love and unkept promises.
He shoves the old letter into a drawer with a slam, and sets his shoulders in determination.
He can ignore Gellert no longer.
I was moving through the silence without motion, waiting for you, In a room with a window in the corner I found truth.
A map adorns the entirety of one wall of Gellert's study. Markings cover it, each marking denoting a victory. They are the many notches on his rise to power, a rise that has been rapid and yet a long time coming.
Almost all of Eastern and Central Europe has been covered, from Russia to his own Austria-Hungary. England, though, remains a blank slate. He has ignored it, a fact that his followers have always wondered at but never questioned.
Never had he meant to bring his fight to Albus. For reasons that he may never be able to understand, it has always firmly been an impossibility. The memories of their time together are still as sharp as if they were yesterday, and they stay his hand even as his might grows.
If the whispers from the underground are to believed, Albus will be coming to him.
A meeting once again, but not as friends or lovers or any position that could bring him salvation. A meeting as enemies and there is a part of him that already knows the outcome.
There is a part of him that already knows he has lost.
And I am a master of a nothing place , Of recoil and grace.
To say that it hurts one's pride to go from master of an empire to master of what can be considered an oubliette at best is somewhat of an understatement. Is this to be Albus's punishment, then? Armed with the knowledge of the strength of Gellert's pride, does Albus mean to tear down his very self-worth, that which he holds most dear?
A question that he has had decades to ponder. Decades and no closer to an answer, although he often finds himself torn between hateful recrimination and nostalgic affection. Around and around in circles, mind going ever so slightly with each passing year. Bitterness tinged with guilt, and an ever present feeling somewhere along the edges of his mind that could be a little bit like love.
It is with surprise that one day he receives a tattered letter from an equally tattered Phoenix. A familiar hand that writes of war, the Hallows, needless destruction, and of impending death.
The answer, he discovers, is that they are both of them lost in the end.
goddamn this dusty room, this hazy afternoon, I'm breathing in the silence like never before.
Albus is gone, and Gellert feels that his last tether to sanity has left him, alone in a forsaken world. The ghosts of his past whisper ever louder, the screams of the tortured resonate, and there's a feeling in his bones that tells him that his own death draws ever closer.
It's a shame that he should fall to one as pathetic as the so-called Lord Voldemort, fucking schweinhund upstart, he who knows of nothing true in this world.
Through his window, red flowers bloom in the distance, a color that recalls the hair of a boy that he knew long ago. If he squints with his now poor eyes, the blue of that sky is just dark enough.
He is more than ready for death, and as he spots a dark shape approaching, he thinks that it's about fucking time.