we used to mean something
Pairing: Dumbledore/Grindelwald
Rating: PG
Warnings: ANGST
Summary: In the 52 years of Gellert Grindelwald's incarceration, Albus Dumbledore visits him once and only once.
Notes: In the midst of having my brain eaten by Inception, I somehow ended up writing Dumbledore/Grindelwald.
No. No, I don't understand, either.
In the 52 years of Gellert Grindelwald's incarceration, Albus Dumbledore visits him once and only once.
When he sets foot in Nurmengard, he is already exhausted. It has been a grueling summer: more deaths, more fear, the Ministry still in disarray, and alas, Horcruxes still unfound. But Albus has his suspicions; he hopes that he has not overestimated Voldemort's predictability.
The prison is dark, Cursed shut, as he left it. It is easy enough to Levitate himself to the highest window, however, and he does so without much aplomb.
"Hello, Albus," Gellert wheezes when he gets to the top, eyes glinting with that same old maddening hint of insolence. "It's been awhile."
"Yes," Albus says, feeling very tired. It is difficult to muster pity when he feels like how Gellert looks. Stretched thin and hollowed out, slowly wasting away. Together, he thinks with not a little irony, they could probably make a decently whole man.
Gellert's eyes, sunken but still a sharp, manic brown, go straight to his hand. "Been blowing things up, have you? Never did grow out of that habit."
Albus doesn't answer.
"I see this isn't a social call." Gellert looks away, wraps his blanket tighter. The room is frigid. "How long have you got?"
"Not long."
Silence falls again, cold and empty.
Gellert laughs suddenly, a rough huff of noise that catches, stuck in his throat like a caged bird. "It seems as though I might outlive you, after all, old friend."
Albus quietly conjures fire into the dank space, wonders dispassionately about how Gellert has managed without for all these years. It gets better, a little, but the coolness doesn't quite dissipate completely.
"Why are you here, Albus."
He tries to imagine how to encompass the entirety of Voldemort and the war and Harry and the intervening years and fails. How can he describe the horror, the uncertainty, the destruction to someone who once caused it himself?
In the end that's all he chooses to say. "I'm afraid someone is attempting to complete what you never accomplished. All told, he's doing quite well."
"Ahhh." Gellert smiles an odd little smile, the bones of his face stark and grotesque. For a moment, Albus remembers how it used to be the most beautiful thing in the world, his bellowing laugh and high, pretty cheekbones. "So I should be expecting a visit from this exceptional protégée? Will he ask for a consultation, do you think?"
For the first time in many years, Albus grits his teeth. "Gellert."
When he only stares back in reply, Albus takes a deep breath and sighs. "Gellert, I must ask a favor of you."
Gellert gives him a cruel, shrewd look. "I think 'beg' would be a more appropriate term."
"Consider it my dying wish," Albus says smoothly.
Gellert snorts. "That's a hell of a card to play, Albus."
He shrugs.
The fire burns.
"How the hell did we get like this, eh?" Gellert sounds wistful, melancholy, like this is just another summer night conversation in the front yard of his childhood home, like Ariana isn't dead, like he didn't kill a couple hundred thousand people over the course of a year, like Albus didn't lock him into his own goddamn prison "for the greater good"; and even now, for a split second, Albus wishes it could be true, and that's how he knows it's time to leave.
"If you could go back" Gellert calls after him when he stands to turn and go, as if he can read Albus's mind (which frankly would not surprise him in the least), "what would you change?"
Albus feels, again, the weight of exhaustion upon his soul; the weight of years spent alone, fighting to uphold a tenuous dream, watching the work-his work-come undone, be destroyed, wasted by the inexorable tide of madmen in his world. He thinks of everything gone wrong that could've gone right, that could've saved so much.
"Us," he says finally, curtly, before he steps out the window without saying goodbye.
It is only after he's Disapparated and headed towards Little Whinging that he realizes he forgot to ask that favor, after all. But this is not a mistake he can rectify; there is no time. He must fetch Harry, have Harry fetch Horace, make sure Severus understands fully that he cannot show hesitation. And, of course, the Wand, the center of a million-piece puzzle he has in his hands, hoping that they will all fall into place around it the way he believes.
A long-broken leap of faith is all he has to trust now, it seems. But it will have to do.
*
At last he said, "Grindelwald tried to stop Voldemort going after the wand. He lied, you know, pretended he had never had it."
Dumbledore nodded, looking down at his lap, tears still glittering on the crooked nose.
Rating: PG
Warnings: ANGST
Summary: In the 52 years of Gellert Grindelwald's incarceration, Albus Dumbledore visits him once and only once.
Notes: In the midst of having my brain eaten by Inception, I somehow ended up writing Dumbledore/Grindelwald.
No. No, I don't understand, either.
In the 52 years of Gellert Grindelwald's incarceration, Albus Dumbledore visits him once and only once.
When he sets foot in Nurmengard, he is already exhausted. It has been a grueling summer: more deaths, more fear, the Ministry still in disarray, and alas, Horcruxes still unfound. But Albus has his suspicions; he hopes that he has not overestimated Voldemort's predictability.
The prison is dark, Cursed shut, as he left it. It is easy enough to Levitate himself to the highest window, however, and he does so without much aplomb.
"Hello, Albus," Gellert wheezes when he gets to the top, eyes glinting with that same old maddening hint of insolence. "It's been awhile."
"Yes," Albus says, feeling very tired. It is difficult to muster pity when he feels like how Gellert looks. Stretched thin and hollowed out, slowly wasting away. Together, he thinks with not a little irony, they could probably make a decently whole man.
Gellert's eyes, sunken but still a sharp, manic brown, go straight to his hand. "Been blowing things up, have you? Never did grow out of that habit."
Albus doesn't answer.
"I see this isn't a social call." Gellert looks away, wraps his blanket tighter. The room is frigid. "How long have you got?"
"Not long."
Silence falls again, cold and empty.
Gellert laughs suddenly, a rough huff of noise that catches, stuck in his throat like a caged bird. "It seems as though I might outlive you, after all, old friend."
Albus quietly conjures fire into the dank space, wonders dispassionately about how Gellert has managed without for all these years. It gets better, a little, but the coolness doesn't quite dissipate completely.
"Why are you here, Albus."
He tries to imagine how to encompass the entirety of Voldemort and the war and Harry and the intervening years and fails. How can he describe the horror, the uncertainty, the destruction to someone who once caused it himself?
In the end that's all he chooses to say. "I'm afraid someone is attempting to complete what you never accomplished. All told, he's doing quite well."
"Ahhh." Gellert smiles an odd little smile, the bones of his face stark and grotesque. For a moment, Albus remembers how it used to be the most beautiful thing in the world, his bellowing laugh and high, pretty cheekbones. "So I should be expecting a visit from this exceptional protégée? Will he ask for a consultation, do you think?"
For the first time in many years, Albus grits his teeth. "Gellert."
When he only stares back in reply, Albus takes a deep breath and sighs. "Gellert, I must ask a favor of you."
Gellert gives him a cruel, shrewd look. "I think 'beg' would be a more appropriate term."
"Consider it my dying wish," Albus says smoothly.
Gellert snorts. "That's a hell of a card to play, Albus."
He shrugs.
The fire burns.
"How the hell did we get like this, eh?" Gellert sounds wistful, melancholy, like this is just another summer night conversation in the front yard of his childhood home, like Ariana isn't dead, like he didn't kill a couple hundred thousand people over the course of a year, like Albus didn't lock him into his own goddamn prison "for the greater good"; and even now, for a split second, Albus wishes it could be true, and that's how he knows it's time to leave.
"If you could go back" Gellert calls after him when he stands to turn and go, as if he can read Albus's mind (which frankly would not surprise him in the least), "what would you change?"
Albus feels, again, the weight of exhaustion upon his soul; the weight of years spent alone, fighting to uphold a tenuous dream, watching the work-his work-come undone, be destroyed, wasted by the inexorable tide of madmen in his world. He thinks of everything gone wrong that could've gone right, that could've saved so much.
"Us," he says finally, curtly, before he steps out the window without saying goodbye.
It is only after he's Disapparated and headed towards Little Whinging that he realizes he forgot to ask that favor, after all. But this is not a mistake he can rectify; there is no time. He must fetch Harry, have Harry fetch Horace, make sure Severus understands fully that he cannot show hesitation. And, of course, the Wand, the center of a million-piece puzzle he has in his hands, hoping that they will all fall into place around it the way he believes.
A long-broken leap of faith is all he has to trust now, it seems. But it will have to do.
*
At last he said, "Grindelwald tried to stop Voldemort going after the wand. He lied, you know, pretended he had never had it."
Dumbledore nodded, looking down at his lap, tears still glittering on the crooked nose.