fic for slam_girl: If I Wrote You (Dumbledore, Snape, Tom, Grindelwald, G)
Title: If I Wrote You
Author: googlebrat
Recipient:slam_girl
Rating: G
Character(s): Dumbledore with Snape, Tom Riddle and Grindelwald mentioned
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: This was inspired partly by the Dar Williams song of the same name (http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/d/dar_williams/if_i_wrote_you.html) I hope it's not too angsty for you!
--
"Forgive me."
"What for? You didn't kill her." The words might have been reassuring had Aberforth's tone not been quite so disgusted. "Wasn't that what you told the Aurors when they came around? What we all told them? What we agreed?" He almost spat the words at Albus now, bristling with a fury too great to be held in. "Accidental death. Self-defence. Magic gone wild and no way to calm her. Terrible tragedy, but what could anyone do?"
"Aberforth." It would have been easier if he could have got angry in return -- if he could have drawn on some inner rage to cleanse away the guilt weighing down his soul, but it felt like a physical pressure on his back, leaving him helpless. "No-one meant this to happen."
"But isn't it convenient for you that it did?" his brother returned sharply. "You can go away now, resume your great and wonderful wizardly life with Grindelwald. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"We're not going away," Albus said quietly. "Or, I'm not." And Gellert…Gellert was already gone, guessing perhaps that the tactful thing at the funeral was for him to not be there when blame was circling them all like a vulture. Maybe he had expected Albus to follow. Albus hadn't asked and neither had he.
"Ah. The limit of what you'll allow for your friends is when they start using Unforgivable Curses on family members, is it? I'm glad it's drawn somewhere."
"Aberforth..." It was hard to look at him. There was too much anger there, too much condemnation in his eyes, and yet so little that Albus could contradict. "It might not have been him," he said quietly. "You can't blame him for that. We don't know -- it could have been any of us."
That was the point - too much magic in that room and spells ricocheting everywhere, combining and recombining in strange shapes and new magic. None of them knew, but each of then harboured suspicions.
Aberforth laughed bitterly. "You don't get it, do you?" he demanded, seeming almost astonished by that. "I don't blame him. I blame you." He took a step closer, fists clenched, and Albus wondered for a moment if he would end this conversation with another broken nose. Of course, he could stop that, but right now it felt too much like what he deserved. "You could have stopped this. You could have stopped this by listening to me when I said that I would stay home and take care of Ariana -- or at least by doing a proper job of it yourself! Every time you passed up a chance to give her some company rather than go talk and plan with Gellert, every time I offered to stay home and you said no.. you made this happen. You told him your plans were more important than family, and then acted surprised when he believed you."
Albus could only stare at him, sick feeling welling in his stomach. How many times had he neglected Ariana, casually, without really thinking twice? And Aberforth had asked, and reminded, every time he wrote home, and he had always assured him that yes, the girl was fine. There would always be tomorrow to spend time with her, today was for important things.
And sometimes you ran out of tomorrows.
"I don't blame you or him for that final curse," Aberforth finished. "You're right, that could have been any one of us, and I'll stick by self defence if that's what it takes to keep us out of Azkaban. You needn't worry about that. But for.. for your inaction, for what you didn't do, and wouldn't care enough to let me, for that.. yes, I blame you for that. And no, I won't forgive you. You made this happen, Albus. Don't you dare tell yourself otherwise."
They were the words of an angry teenager, too upset and recently bereaved to truly think about what he was saying, but they burrowed deep into Albus' heart, too deep to easily be discarded. There was no response, no excuse to give. Work which had seemed unbelievably important and urgent only days before felt suddenly meaningless by the grave of their sister.
Later, there was an owl from Gellert, the bird dropping the envelope into Albus' hands before he had chance to refuse it. He set it to one side, unopened. Perhaps it hadn't all been Gellert's fault, but that didn't mean it was something he felt able to read and deal with right now.
Maybe tomorrow.
***
"I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt if I want to...I can speak to snakes too. They find me, whisper things."
Perhaps Albus should have turned and walked away then, reported the boy to the appropriate authorities and thought no more of it. There were places that could deal with such people, even if they were children still, none so benign and vulnerable as Hogwarts. He did not have to make Tom Riddle his responsibility. It was true, he had come to take him, but there was nothing which forced him to go ahead and take him.
And yet…the boy was still a child.
Eleven years old, dark-haired and handsome, tall but perhaps a little underweight. Yes, he was wary, yes, he had that streak of frightening viciousness and yet who could blame him? Brought up in an orphanage, alone and parentless, perhaps this was the way he needed to be to survive.
How would he change, given time and love in an environment focused on getting the best out of its young wards, rather than designed to get them more or less alive to the age of adulthood and get rid of them? People did change -- children especially -- given a chance to do so, to redeem themselves. Tom wouldn't be the first. He had changed.
Hadn't he?
What had Tom done so far that was so bad, when all was said and done? Frightened people in a place where it might be a case of be a bully or be bullied? Killed a rabbit?
Albus had killed his sister, one way or another, with what could be seen as far less provocation. And he couldn't blame a harsh upbringing -- not compared to this boy.
People were redeemable, had to be. If they weren't...then everyone was doomed in very short order.
So, Albus warned young Tom to behave himself, that his current behaviour would not be acceptable at school but did not turn him away. He gave him the money to buy books, but did not force him to be accompanied to Diagon Alley if he did not wish to be. Was it not understable if a child raised in such circumstances became independent more quickly? It was hardly a reason to condemn him.
He would watch the boy at school, see to it that he met no problems because of his background, and try to make sure that if he reverted to the same behaviour he used at the orphanage he was corrected quickly. It would be harder for Tom to bully, anyway, in a world where everyone had magic. There would be less advantage to him there.
Perhaps, given a chance, the boy could be great.
When Albus returned to the school, there was a letter waiting for him from Gellert -- they still arrived now and again. He read it quickly, wincing a little at paragraphs here and there. It was hard to ignore that his old friend was going wrong, that some of the things he suggested would lead to trouble, and yet he so clearly expected Albus still to agree with him. Albus reached for a quill, meaning to write the response, but found himself hesitating. That happened too often now too.
The right words, the words he knew he had to send, were likely to read as nothing less than a condemnation to Gellert. Albus could remember his temper too well, the way his old friend so hated to be corrected. It was unlikely he would listen, and worse, he might end up losing his friend forever. There was a bond there bound by the presence of death, something older and more subtle than mere magics, the intensity of their connection threaded through with the imprisoning steel of responsibility.
He condemned himself for cowardice even as he put the quill back down. Perhaps someone else would talk to Gellert so that he didn't have to -- surely, he must have other friends now, closer friends who could take him aside? Surely he didn't have to take sole responsibility for this?
Perhaps, given time, he could find a gentler way to put it, a way that would not drive Gellert away. Unable to truly even convince himself of that, Albus put the letter away. Perhaps he would break the silence of years and speak to him. Perhaps even see him once more. The page remained blank as excuses jostled for position in his thoughts.
He would answer it later.
***
"You agreed with me once," Gellert snarled, and Albus wondered if anyone else could see the other wizard the same way he did. The face was worn now, with more lines than he remembered, but he could still see traces of the boy underneath, still see the Gellert who had laughed with him as they planned to change the world. "You would have helped me once. We were friends!"
But the boy had grown into a man years since; and the man had raised an army, killed more people than Albus could bear thinking about. One death, however accidental had opened the floodgates in his friend's soul and it was easy to say it was 'inevitable' but not so easy to believe.
Could it have been prevented? He thought guiltily of letters set aside without response, of other replies he had forced himself to write which spoke of nothing more controversial than the weather. Easier to avoid the argument, to skirt around the difficult subjects and tell himself that everyone had to make their own choices in life. It didn't mean that Gellert was wrong, just because Albus might disagree with him, did it? Did it?
By the time he could no longer ignore it, it was too late for it to be anything he could deal with in a letter. It came down to this, the pair of them facing each other down alone at the eye of a maelstrom of magic, just as they had been all those years ago when their planned future had shattered along with the fragility of his sister's life. This time no observers were foolish enough to try to watch this confrontation -- the sheer amount of magic that could end up being thrown around could make it a suicidal exercise.
Then again, that had been the case even when they were eighteen, scarcely adults at all.
'You changed.' Albus stopped the words before he could speak them, recognising them for the untruth they were. Hadn't he always known Gellert was capable of this, somewhere deep-down? There was no benefit in lying just to ease your own soul.
"I changed," he said instead, sadly, and raised his wand realising there was no way to avoid this consequence of his inaction.
They would talk, later, about the greatness of the battle. It would be taught in the history books in Albus' own school, and for a few years small Wizard-born children would happily re-enact the battle of Albus Dumbledore Against The Evil Grindelwald. But winning felt like losing, and when it came to the last, when his old friend's face was twisted with pain and defeat, Albus could not strike the killing blow. Would not. Did not.
It would be too much like killing a part of himself, even if it were a part he had put away long ago. Once Gellert had been his mirror in heart and mind but he had changed. No matter what Aberfoth said, he was learning a slow and painful lesson and he had acted, too late but better than not at all, handing his dearest enemy to others to deal with.
Other people took over then, people who were good at courts and trials and rules, even if they had not the sheer power of magic required to achieve what they wished alone. Albus let them, buried himself in his work, tried to let that be a comfort.
An old friend imprisoned because of his action. A hundred people dead because of earlier inaction. It was difficult to know which to blame himself for. Could he blame himself for both?
Albus attended court for the sentencing, and found himself unable to meet Gellert's eyes. It was too easy to imagine himself there, in the dock, next to him. Across the room, he was certain, he saw his brother also listening to proceedings. He might have spoken to him afterwards, but by then Aberforth had gone. Perhaps he too could see the spectre of forty six years past on trial with Gellert.
When he returned home he found Gellert's last letter, in a drawer, still unanswered. Perhaps his actions had been answer enough.
***
"Hide them all, then! Keep her - them - safe. Please!"
"And what will you give me in return, Severus?"
"In - in return? Anything."
There was a time, Albus knew, when change would have been something he could have accepted on faith and not required more. A time when, had he been asked to protect someone, he would have done so, and loved the requester more dearly for asking.
But time passed, and a heart could harden when that was the only way for it to survive. Perhaps his outfits seemed as wildly eccentric still to his pupils, perhaps they still laughed politely at his jokes, but Albus could not afford for the bright colours and laughter to hide anything less than a sharp and wary mind. The first young man he had trusted to find a right way had raised an army and killed many, now another boy he had given a second chance was doing the same thing. Could he do it a third time, for Severus now, and perhaps see it come to pass a third time?
Everybody could change. Everybody could work through, and see mistakes they had made, and choose another direction. But so many did not, and the world suffered for it. Could he give Severus that second chance? Could he afford to do trust and lose again? Did he even have the right to?
But Severus looked at him, something helpless and desperate in his eyes, and swore to do anything if Albus kept Lily and her family safe, and how could anything like that spring from evil? Surely anyone who still held the capacity to love another so much that they would do whatever it took to protect them could not be truly bad deep down?
Albus would have protected them anyway of course, no matter what he told Severus, for their own sakes. He could no more have turned his back on the sweet young couple and their baby son than he could have scorched them himself. There had been too many lost over the years as a result of what he had failed to do, and he could not stand three more on his conscience. Especially not these three, the bright young pair he had watched mature and make a family.
But he did not tell Severus that. Severus he challenged, and watched, to see whether fear of what his Dark Lord would do would prove greater than his love for young Lily. And when that young man hesitated, and agreed to do anything, Albus felt hope prickle at his heart once more.
Of course, he could be wrong, but surely in that choice there was a chance for redemption?
Later that evening, when Severus had left, there was yet another letter from Gellert, the owl battered and exhausted from its journey from Nurmengard. His jailers seemed to see no harm in allowing the beaten wizard to send his letters, and so Gellert had kept writing over the years, his letters showing the same hurt bewilderment about Albus' choices as Albus felt about his. Perhaps he needed answers -- answers Albus could never seem to provide. Perhaps it was only that he had no-one else left to write to.
Sometimes Albus answered his letters, feeling a guilty sense of duty to provide company to the man he had ensured would live his life out alone. Sometimes he ignored them, and tried to pretend that Gellert had never existed.
Today he put the letter away. It seemed wrong on the day of meeting a man he still hoped to save to think of the man he had failed.
***
The war was over. All of the papers had announced it. Things would be better now, it seemed. People were meant to celebrate.
But there were so many lost, and Albus was left with a nagging sense of dissatisfaction -- a sense that, perhaps, would only be shared by those also old enough to remember the last war. It was over for now, certainly. But all things would come again in time and, even with Voldemort dead, this felt uncompleted still.
But people needed him to smile, people needed him to be jolly, to reassure them that the world was set back on the right axis again and that there would still be a tomorrow. There were too many who needed the face of the jolly old headmaster for Albus to let them down, so he put a smile on his face and laughed and joked and loved for those still left alive. It was something you grew used to when you spent enough time with children -- young people could react so quickly to a smile, a frown, a tone of voice.
There was a letter waiting on his desk when he got back. Albus stared at it for a long moment before sitting down, and picking up a quill. Perhaps it was time to reply.
It started as the normal stilted thing, a forced polite letter with vague updates on his life and hopes that Gellert wasn't too uncomfortable where he was at present, and yet somewhere along the way honesty, perhaps unleashed by a battle too like the one that had occured several decades before, crept in.
He wrote about the battle, about how men and women who were still barely more than children themselves had banded together and shown amazing bravery to defend those who were helpless and vulnerable. 'You would have been proud of them, Gellert. I know how we used to be angry for Ariana -- how we would have fought against those without magic to protect children like her. But it is not only children like her who need help. We tried to protect all of the children.'
He wrote about Aberforth, a wound left open for long years which now no longer gaped so painfully wide. It was not healed, no, the brothers were not, could not, be the same as they were as children. But when it had mattered, when it had been important, Aberforth had fought by his side and risked as much as any of them. 'It is not that I think he has forgiven us -- forgiven me -- for what happened. I don't expect him to ever do that. But things have changed, time has moved on. I do not believe we can return to being the people we were, but perhaps we may reach a new understanding as the people we are.'
It brought him onto Ariana, a subject avoided for too many years, and he wrote about that slowly, hesitatingly, the words coming only with difficulty. Even after so long, it was difficult not to shrink from the memory, and yet some things must be faced. The death, the loss, the responsibility, the arguing, the leaving.. 'Even now, sometimes I wonder, did you leave because Aberforth was angry or because you thought I was angry? It is true, I was, though more with myself than with anyone else. There are times when I wonder if the three of us did the right thing, in splitting then as we did. It enabled us to put Ariana away individually, to move on by pretending it never happened -- or perhaps you never did that. Perhaps to exorcise the demons they must be spoken aloud and acknowledged, but teenagers know so little of that.'
He told him then about Voldemort, and of Snape too, of the boy he had hoped to redeem and failed, and of the one he had counted lost who had proved him wrong. 'I saw us in both of them at times -- the pride, the certainty that the world was wrong and we could correct it to the shape that it needed to be. You get hurt, you see the people who caused the hurt, and you fancy that if you defeat them then everything will be fine. Voldemort -- I liked Tom so much better as a name -- was ready to fight the world from the time I first met him at eleven, and I still regret that I could not stop that. Severus though, he found love stronger than fighting or fear at the end.
They say now that you did not come to England because you were afraid to fight me. I have never been certain -- was it that, or that you did not wish to fight me?'
He wrote of those who lived and those who were gone forever -- the bodies that seemed too young for it to be true, the minds that were broken so far that they might never realise the war had ended. He had never introduced Gellert to these children in his letters, had shielded them from his mind as though by doing so he could protect them. Now, when it was too late for the knowledge to make a difference, he described them. 'They called it Dumbledore's Army, and I was never sure I liked that; the ownership, the responsibility. Did you weep for your armies, Gellert? They called you evil and I think, by doing so, we tried to make it so that the loss of those in your side hurt you only as the defeat did. But I remember you, and how gentle you could be to those you felt needed your protection, and I cannot imagine you not being hurt by those losses. When they fell, did you feel it, as I did? Did you imagine the loss to their families, and regret?'
For the first time, he wrote of his life now in a way that was not tinged with regret. Always, before, there had been some slight guilt in doing so, as though by taking his place in a school, of all places, he had been doing less than he should be. As though he had settled for second-best, somehow, and Gellert should see that and think less of him. Now, it was different. 'I have never been able to explain, before, why it was young people that drew me, but now I believe I can. They stand at a precipice, these children, with so much of life before them, and so many choices left to make. They may make mistakes, as we made mistakes, but they still have the time to right them again. What happens here matters, perhaps more than anything that follows in their lives.'
Finally, he wrote his goodbye, knowing that it was a goodbye, for that would be how Gellert would read this. 'I am sorry, still, that things could not have been different. I see you still, your face, your mannerisms, in children that come through and that is not always a bad thing. It is those children who will fight for change -- and sometimes there must be change, though the difference is made in the way they choose to create it. I miss you still -- even now, when there are times I wish to tell you things, when I would turn to you as a friend or confidante but you are there no longer. I regret the ending, for it came in a way that I don't believe either of us intended. I regret that things could not have happened differently.
But I do not regret who I am now, for this is who I needed to be. Sometimes there is no other way. I am sorry.'
The letter was heavy, as a letter that came several decades late should be, and he had to spell it to make it light enough for the owl to carry. The bird flew from the room on silent wings, and Albus leaned back in his chair, feeling the eyes of a dozen headmasters upon him. He closed his eyes, feeling the peace in the room, the relief of an ending, the pain of a loss.
And he knew, with an inescapable certainty, that Gellert would not write again.
Author: googlebrat
Recipient:slam_girl
Rating: G
Character(s): Dumbledore with Snape, Tom Riddle and Grindelwald mentioned
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: This was inspired partly by the Dar Williams song of the same name (http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/d/dar_williams/if_i_wrote_you.html) I hope it's not too angsty for you!
--
"Forgive me."
"What for? You didn't kill her." The words might have been reassuring had Aberforth's tone not been quite so disgusted. "Wasn't that what you told the Aurors when they came around? What we all told them? What we agreed?" He almost spat the words at Albus now, bristling with a fury too great to be held in. "Accidental death. Self-defence. Magic gone wild and no way to calm her. Terrible tragedy, but what could anyone do?"
"Aberforth." It would have been easier if he could have got angry in return -- if he could have drawn on some inner rage to cleanse away the guilt weighing down his soul, but it felt like a physical pressure on his back, leaving him helpless. "No-one meant this to happen."
"But isn't it convenient for you that it did?" his brother returned sharply. "You can go away now, resume your great and wonderful wizardly life with Grindelwald. Isn't that what you wanted?"
"We're not going away," Albus said quietly. "Or, I'm not." And Gellert…Gellert was already gone, guessing perhaps that the tactful thing at the funeral was for him to not be there when blame was circling them all like a vulture. Maybe he had expected Albus to follow. Albus hadn't asked and neither had he.
"Ah. The limit of what you'll allow for your friends is when they start using Unforgivable Curses on family members, is it? I'm glad it's drawn somewhere."
"Aberforth..." It was hard to look at him. There was too much anger there, too much condemnation in his eyes, and yet so little that Albus could contradict. "It might not have been him," he said quietly. "You can't blame him for that. We don't know -- it could have been any of us."
That was the point - too much magic in that room and spells ricocheting everywhere, combining and recombining in strange shapes and new magic. None of them knew, but each of then harboured suspicions.
Aberforth laughed bitterly. "You don't get it, do you?" he demanded, seeming almost astonished by that. "I don't blame him. I blame you." He took a step closer, fists clenched, and Albus wondered for a moment if he would end this conversation with another broken nose. Of course, he could stop that, but right now it felt too much like what he deserved. "You could have stopped this. You could have stopped this by listening to me when I said that I would stay home and take care of Ariana -- or at least by doing a proper job of it yourself! Every time you passed up a chance to give her some company rather than go talk and plan with Gellert, every time I offered to stay home and you said no.. you made this happen. You told him your plans were more important than family, and then acted surprised when he believed you."
Albus could only stare at him, sick feeling welling in his stomach. How many times had he neglected Ariana, casually, without really thinking twice? And Aberforth had asked, and reminded, every time he wrote home, and he had always assured him that yes, the girl was fine. There would always be tomorrow to spend time with her, today was for important things.
And sometimes you ran out of tomorrows.
"I don't blame you or him for that final curse," Aberforth finished. "You're right, that could have been any one of us, and I'll stick by self defence if that's what it takes to keep us out of Azkaban. You needn't worry about that. But for.. for your inaction, for what you didn't do, and wouldn't care enough to let me, for that.. yes, I blame you for that. And no, I won't forgive you. You made this happen, Albus. Don't you dare tell yourself otherwise."
They were the words of an angry teenager, too upset and recently bereaved to truly think about what he was saying, but they burrowed deep into Albus' heart, too deep to easily be discarded. There was no response, no excuse to give. Work which had seemed unbelievably important and urgent only days before felt suddenly meaningless by the grave of their sister.
Later, there was an owl from Gellert, the bird dropping the envelope into Albus' hands before he had chance to refuse it. He set it to one side, unopened. Perhaps it hadn't all been Gellert's fault, but that didn't mean it was something he felt able to read and deal with right now.
Maybe tomorrow.
***
"I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt if I want to...I can speak to snakes too. They find me, whisper things."
Perhaps Albus should have turned and walked away then, reported the boy to the appropriate authorities and thought no more of it. There were places that could deal with such people, even if they were children still, none so benign and vulnerable as Hogwarts. He did not have to make Tom Riddle his responsibility. It was true, he had come to take him, but there was nothing which forced him to go ahead and take him.
And yet…the boy was still a child.
Eleven years old, dark-haired and handsome, tall but perhaps a little underweight. Yes, he was wary, yes, he had that streak of frightening viciousness and yet who could blame him? Brought up in an orphanage, alone and parentless, perhaps this was the way he needed to be to survive.
How would he change, given time and love in an environment focused on getting the best out of its young wards, rather than designed to get them more or less alive to the age of adulthood and get rid of them? People did change -- children especially -- given a chance to do so, to redeem themselves. Tom wouldn't be the first. He had changed.
Hadn't he?
What had Tom done so far that was so bad, when all was said and done? Frightened people in a place where it might be a case of be a bully or be bullied? Killed a rabbit?
Albus had killed his sister, one way or another, with what could be seen as far less provocation. And he couldn't blame a harsh upbringing -- not compared to this boy.
People were redeemable, had to be. If they weren't...then everyone was doomed in very short order.
So, Albus warned young Tom to behave himself, that his current behaviour would not be acceptable at school but did not turn him away. He gave him the money to buy books, but did not force him to be accompanied to Diagon Alley if he did not wish to be. Was it not understable if a child raised in such circumstances became independent more quickly? It was hardly a reason to condemn him.
He would watch the boy at school, see to it that he met no problems because of his background, and try to make sure that if he reverted to the same behaviour he used at the orphanage he was corrected quickly. It would be harder for Tom to bully, anyway, in a world where everyone had magic. There would be less advantage to him there.
Perhaps, given a chance, the boy could be great.
When Albus returned to the school, there was a letter waiting for him from Gellert -- they still arrived now and again. He read it quickly, wincing a little at paragraphs here and there. It was hard to ignore that his old friend was going wrong, that some of the things he suggested would lead to trouble, and yet he so clearly expected Albus still to agree with him. Albus reached for a quill, meaning to write the response, but found himself hesitating. That happened too often now too.
The right words, the words he knew he had to send, were likely to read as nothing less than a condemnation to Gellert. Albus could remember his temper too well, the way his old friend so hated to be corrected. It was unlikely he would listen, and worse, he might end up losing his friend forever. There was a bond there bound by the presence of death, something older and more subtle than mere magics, the intensity of their connection threaded through with the imprisoning steel of responsibility.
He condemned himself for cowardice even as he put the quill back down. Perhaps someone else would talk to Gellert so that he didn't have to -- surely, he must have other friends now, closer friends who could take him aside? Surely he didn't have to take sole responsibility for this?
Perhaps, given time, he could find a gentler way to put it, a way that would not drive Gellert away. Unable to truly even convince himself of that, Albus put the letter away. Perhaps he would break the silence of years and speak to him. Perhaps even see him once more. The page remained blank as excuses jostled for position in his thoughts.
He would answer it later.
***
"You agreed with me once," Gellert snarled, and Albus wondered if anyone else could see the other wizard the same way he did. The face was worn now, with more lines than he remembered, but he could still see traces of the boy underneath, still see the Gellert who had laughed with him as they planned to change the world. "You would have helped me once. We were friends!"
But the boy had grown into a man years since; and the man had raised an army, killed more people than Albus could bear thinking about. One death, however accidental had opened the floodgates in his friend's soul and it was easy to say it was 'inevitable' but not so easy to believe.
Could it have been prevented? He thought guiltily of letters set aside without response, of other replies he had forced himself to write which spoke of nothing more controversial than the weather. Easier to avoid the argument, to skirt around the difficult subjects and tell himself that everyone had to make their own choices in life. It didn't mean that Gellert was wrong, just because Albus might disagree with him, did it? Did it?
By the time he could no longer ignore it, it was too late for it to be anything he could deal with in a letter. It came down to this, the pair of them facing each other down alone at the eye of a maelstrom of magic, just as they had been all those years ago when their planned future had shattered along with the fragility of his sister's life. This time no observers were foolish enough to try to watch this confrontation -- the sheer amount of magic that could end up being thrown around could make it a suicidal exercise.
Then again, that had been the case even when they were eighteen, scarcely adults at all.
'You changed.' Albus stopped the words before he could speak them, recognising them for the untruth they were. Hadn't he always known Gellert was capable of this, somewhere deep-down? There was no benefit in lying just to ease your own soul.
"I changed," he said instead, sadly, and raised his wand realising there was no way to avoid this consequence of his inaction.
They would talk, later, about the greatness of the battle. It would be taught in the history books in Albus' own school, and for a few years small Wizard-born children would happily re-enact the battle of Albus Dumbledore Against The Evil Grindelwald. But winning felt like losing, and when it came to the last, when his old friend's face was twisted with pain and defeat, Albus could not strike the killing blow. Would not. Did not.
It would be too much like killing a part of himself, even if it were a part he had put away long ago. Once Gellert had been his mirror in heart and mind but he had changed. No matter what Aberfoth said, he was learning a slow and painful lesson and he had acted, too late but better than not at all, handing his dearest enemy to others to deal with.
Other people took over then, people who were good at courts and trials and rules, even if they had not the sheer power of magic required to achieve what they wished alone. Albus let them, buried himself in his work, tried to let that be a comfort.
An old friend imprisoned because of his action. A hundred people dead because of earlier inaction. It was difficult to know which to blame himself for. Could he blame himself for both?
Albus attended court for the sentencing, and found himself unable to meet Gellert's eyes. It was too easy to imagine himself there, in the dock, next to him. Across the room, he was certain, he saw his brother also listening to proceedings. He might have spoken to him afterwards, but by then Aberforth had gone. Perhaps he too could see the spectre of forty six years past on trial with Gellert.
When he returned home he found Gellert's last letter, in a drawer, still unanswered. Perhaps his actions had been answer enough.
***
"Hide them all, then! Keep her - them - safe. Please!"
"And what will you give me in return, Severus?"
"In - in return? Anything."
There was a time, Albus knew, when change would have been something he could have accepted on faith and not required more. A time when, had he been asked to protect someone, he would have done so, and loved the requester more dearly for asking.
But time passed, and a heart could harden when that was the only way for it to survive. Perhaps his outfits seemed as wildly eccentric still to his pupils, perhaps they still laughed politely at his jokes, but Albus could not afford for the bright colours and laughter to hide anything less than a sharp and wary mind. The first young man he had trusted to find a right way had raised an army and killed many, now another boy he had given a second chance was doing the same thing. Could he do it a third time, for Severus now, and perhaps see it come to pass a third time?
Everybody could change. Everybody could work through, and see mistakes they had made, and choose another direction. But so many did not, and the world suffered for it. Could he give Severus that second chance? Could he afford to do trust and lose again? Did he even have the right to?
But Severus looked at him, something helpless and desperate in his eyes, and swore to do anything if Albus kept Lily and her family safe, and how could anything like that spring from evil? Surely anyone who still held the capacity to love another so much that they would do whatever it took to protect them could not be truly bad deep down?
Albus would have protected them anyway of course, no matter what he told Severus, for their own sakes. He could no more have turned his back on the sweet young couple and their baby son than he could have scorched them himself. There had been too many lost over the years as a result of what he had failed to do, and he could not stand three more on his conscience. Especially not these three, the bright young pair he had watched mature and make a family.
But he did not tell Severus that. Severus he challenged, and watched, to see whether fear of what his Dark Lord would do would prove greater than his love for young Lily. And when that young man hesitated, and agreed to do anything, Albus felt hope prickle at his heart once more.
Of course, he could be wrong, but surely in that choice there was a chance for redemption?
Later that evening, when Severus had left, there was yet another letter from Gellert, the owl battered and exhausted from its journey from Nurmengard. His jailers seemed to see no harm in allowing the beaten wizard to send his letters, and so Gellert had kept writing over the years, his letters showing the same hurt bewilderment about Albus' choices as Albus felt about his. Perhaps he needed answers -- answers Albus could never seem to provide. Perhaps it was only that he had no-one else left to write to.
Sometimes Albus answered his letters, feeling a guilty sense of duty to provide company to the man he had ensured would live his life out alone. Sometimes he ignored them, and tried to pretend that Gellert had never existed.
Today he put the letter away. It seemed wrong on the day of meeting a man he still hoped to save to think of the man he had failed.
***
The war was over. All of the papers had announced it. Things would be better now, it seemed. People were meant to celebrate.
But there were so many lost, and Albus was left with a nagging sense of dissatisfaction -- a sense that, perhaps, would only be shared by those also old enough to remember the last war. It was over for now, certainly. But all things would come again in time and, even with Voldemort dead, this felt uncompleted still.
But people needed him to smile, people needed him to be jolly, to reassure them that the world was set back on the right axis again and that there would still be a tomorrow. There were too many who needed the face of the jolly old headmaster for Albus to let them down, so he put a smile on his face and laughed and joked and loved for those still left alive. It was something you grew used to when you spent enough time with children -- young people could react so quickly to a smile, a frown, a tone of voice.
There was a letter waiting on his desk when he got back. Albus stared at it for a long moment before sitting down, and picking up a quill. Perhaps it was time to reply.
It started as the normal stilted thing, a forced polite letter with vague updates on his life and hopes that Gellert wasn't too uncomfortable where he was at present, and yet somewhere along the way honesty, perhaps unleashed by a battle too like the one that had occured several decades before, crept in.
He wrote about the battle, about how men and women who were still barely more than children themselves had banded together and shown amazing bravery to defend those who were helpless and vulnerable. 'You would have been proud of them, Gellert. I know how we used to be angry for Ariana -- how we would have fought against those without magic to protect children like her. But it is not only children like her who need help. We tried to protect all of the children.'
He wrote about Aberforth, a wound left open for long years which now no longer gaped so painfully wide. It was not healed, no, the brothers were not, could not, be the same as they were as children. But when it had mattered, when it had been important, Aberforth had fought by his side and risked as much as any of them. 'It is not that I think he has forgiven us -- forgiven me -- for what happened. I don't expect him to ever do that. But things have changed, time has moved on. I do not believe we can return to being the people we were, but perhaps we may reach a new understanding as the people we are.'
It brought him onto Ariana, a subject avoided for too many years, and he wrote about that slowly, hesitatingly, the words coming only with difficulty. Even after so long, it was difficult not to shrink from the memory, and yet some things must be faced. The death, the loss, the responsibility, the arguing, the leaving.. 'Even now, sometimes I wonder, did you leave because Aberforth was angry or because you thought I was angry? It is true, I was, though more with myself than with anyone else. There are times when I wonder if the three of us did the right thing, in splitting then as we did. It enabled us to put Ariana away individually, to move on by pretending it never happened -- or perhaps you never did that. Perhaps to exorcise the demons they must be spoken aloud and acknowledged, but teenagers know so little of that.'
He told him then about Voldemort, and of Snape too, of the boy he had hoped to redeem and failed, and of the one he had counted lost who had proved him wrong. 'I saw us in both of them at times -- the pride, the certainty that the world was wrong and we could correct it to the shape that it needed to be. You get hurt, you see the people who caused the hurt, and you fancy that if you defeat them then everything will be fine. Voldemort -- I liked Tom so much better as a name -- was ready to fight the world from the time I first met him at eleven, and I still regret that I could not stop that. Severus though, he found love stronger than fighting or fear at the end.
They say now that you did not come to England because you were afraid to fight me. I have never been certain -- was it that, or that you did not wish to fight me?'
He wrote of those who lived and those who were gone forever -- the bodies that seemed too young for it to be true, the minds that were broken so far that they might never realise the war had ended. He had never introduced Gellert to these children in his letters, had shielded them from his mind as though by doing so he could protect them. Now, when it was too late for the knowledge to make a difference, he described them. 'They called it Dumbledore's Army, and I was never sure I liked that; the ownership, the responsibility. Did you weep for your armies, Gellert? They called you evil and I think, by doing so, we tried to make it so that the loss of those in your side hurt you only as the defeat did. But I remember you, and how gentle you could be to those you felt needed your protection, and I cannot imagine you not being hurt by those losses. When they fell, did you feel it, as I did? Did you imagine the loss to their families, and regret?'
For the first time, he wrote of his life now in a way that was not tinged with regret. Always, before, there had been some slight guilt in doing so, as though by taking his place in a school, of all places, he had been doing less than he should be. As though he had settled for second-best, somehow, and Gellert should see that and think less of him. Now, it was different. 'I have never been able to explain, before, why it was young people that drew me, but now I believe I can. They stand at a precipice, these children, with so much of life before them, and so many choices left to make. They may make mistakes, as we made mistakes, but they still have the time to right them again. What happens here matters, perhaps more than anything that follows in their lives.'
Finally, he wrote his goodbye, knowing that it was a goodbye, for that would be how Gellert would read this. 'I am sorry, still, that things could not have been different. I see you still, your face, your mannerisms, in children that come through and that is not always a bad thing. It is those children who will fight for change -- and sometimes there must be change, though the difference is made in the way they choose to create it. I miss you still -- even now, when there are times I wish to tell you things, when I would turn to you as a friend or confidante but you are there no longer. I regret the ending, for it came in a way that I don't believe either of us intended. I regret that things could not have happened differently.
But I do not regret who I am now, for this is who I needed to be. Sometimes there is no other way. I am sorry.'
The letter was heavy, as a letter that came several decades late should be, and he had to spell it to make it light enough for the owl to carry. The bird flew from the room on silent wings, and Albus leaned back in his chair, feeling the eyes of a dozen headmasters upon him. He closed his eyes, feeling the peace in the room, the relief of an ending, the pain of a loss.
And he knew, with an inescapable certainty, that Gellert would not write again.