Our Room on the Floor. HARRY POTTER.
So you had the best legs/In a business built for kicks - "The Sublimation Hour" Destroyer
Adult
“Our Room On the Floor”
So you had the best legs
In a business built for kicks
“The Sublimation Hour”, Destroyer
The weather was beautiful, but Albus thought that if his brother had had anything to say about it then the English weather would be even more stereotypically horrible. And would continue in such a way until - forever, doubtless. He looked at the bright sun and then at Aberforth and smiled weakly.
Aberforth, in moment of uncharacteristic observation, caught the smile and Albus watched fury light his eyes.
“Aberforth - ”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Aberforth hissed. “You’ll just go home and write letters to him, laughing about your new freedom.”
“No, I won’t,” Albus said. “You don’t understand. We don’t talk anymore.” (But he knows that Aberforth knows there’s a letter, opened in a moment of weakness, that tries to explain everything, and fails, and says I love you in…yes, in so many words. And in other words too. Albus should have burned it, but he didn’t.)
But it meant nothing. Aberforth sneered, heading determinedly for the train.
Albus reached out to grab his brother’s arm. “We don’t talk anymore,” he repeated.
“I’m staying at school for Christmas hols,” Aberforth said. He wrenched his arm free and disappeared into the crowd of students and parents.
Albus watches his brother’s angry figure hide in the crowd and feels very alone. “We don’t talk anymore,” he said for the third time.
*
They see Madame Bagshot in her garden, not working in it, obviously, but surveying the neatly ordered paths and ignoring the three house elves grooming it around her. She seems impossibly old to them, though Albus has only the vaguest notion of her actual age.
He misses school. Aberforth’s companionship is not nearly adequate.
Beside him, Aberforth is an angry, sulky presence. From the infinitely superior vantage point of three years, Albus wonders how he can be expected to eat with his fifteen-year-old brother. At least in three months, Aberforth will go to Hogwarts and then it will just be Ariana. She, happily, is quiet.
“Madame Bagshot wants to talk to us,” Aberforth says reluctantly.
“What?” Albus glances back at his neighbor. Aberforth is already shambling over. Almost unconsciously, Albus straightens his back. The two of them look too alike as it is. No need to bring poor posture into the comparison.
“My nephew is coming next week,” says their formidable neighbor. “From the Continent. I don’t want him disturbing my book, boys. Take him about, won’t you? He hasn’t done anything,” she adds dryly, “that would displease your mother’s memory.”
This, as they will find out later, is a lie.
*
Were he to be honest with himself, Albus’ expectations had run along the lines of a dour boy with thick brows and a thicker accent. Gellert Grindelwald is German, but there and only there does Albus see anything like what he expected. Everything else - his expectations, his prejudices, his ready-made opinions about this boy whom he is supposed to distract - everything else is thrown over, left lying topsy-turvy about his solid English feet. Gellert Grindelwald is beautiful.
“My nephew, Gellert,” Madame Bagshot introduces him. “A trouble-maker.” She says it as if captioning a photograph in The Daily Prophet, as a dry statement of fact. Beside his aunt, Gellert smiles.
“They have exaggerated my trouble-making,” he says in accent-less English. “Durmstrang is too strict.”
“Albus has finished Hogwarts,” says Bagshot. She is too well bred to place any stress on the syllables, but her meaning is plain. “With honors.”
“It’s really not the - ” Albus tries, but is cut off by his brother’s frankly uncharitable snort and Gellert’s own expression of interest.
“I am ignorant of England,” he says. His hands spread as if to suggest helplessness. That is one assumption Albus will never make.
“Fortunately,” Madame Bagshot tells him, “these boys have agreed to take you under their wing.”
“How kind,” says Gellert.
It is hard to imagine him indoors. Albus tries to picture this new boy in the absence of sunlight, surrounded by four walls and finds the image eludes him. The wildness emanates from Gellert and threatens to overwhelm the carefully cultivated English countryside. “It’s very much our pleasure,” he says awkwardly.
“Have him back for tea,” Madame Bagshot says, and slips into the house before any of the younger generation can say anything else.
Gellert looks amused. Aberforth looks annoyed. Albus can only guess as to his own expression. “My aunt has little patience for boys,” Gellert says.
“Then why did she agree to take you?” Aberforth asks. Albus winces to hear such blatant lack of tact in his brother’s voice.
But Gellert laughs. “My parents have knowledge she believes helpful in the writing of her book. But, you see, she had to take me off their hands.”
“You’re lucky, not to have to go to school,” Aberforth says. It’s his favorite topic these days, but it’s ridiculous and they both know it. Albus shoots his brother a quick, angry look to shut him up.
“Very lucky,” is all Gellert says.
*
The promise Aberforth originally found in their visitor fades as it becomes apparent to everyone that the real kinship lies not with two reluctant schoolboys but between two brilliant wizards. If Aberforth had originally intended to point at Gellert Grindelwald and say, “Look how well he does without school,” he gives it up by the second week of their acquaintance. Their situations are simply too different.
The second week is when Albus stops even pretending to look after Ariana. He spends his time outside, in the gardens talking with Gellert, or when forced inside by the uncompromising dusk, collecting ink stains and pacing anxiously as he waits for a reply to the urgently penned letters the two of them exchange. Aberforth hears the owls scratching at the window and grits his teeth, until eventually Albus just leaves it open.
Ariana is left to Aberforth, who broods unselfconsciously over his sister’s future well-being. It seems obvious that Albus will never be moved to care for her properly. They see each other only at meals, when even Aberforth’s sincere, dusty anger cannot dim the light brimming in his older brother.
“You don’t care about her,” he hisses one evening, when Ariana has been sent to bed after dinner.
Albus, already mentally composing his letter to Gellert, is caught by surprise. “Of course I care about Ariana.”
Aberforth leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed. “Not enough. Not - how long have you spent with her all summer? Not half as long as you’ve spent with him, and he’s been here a few weeks.”
Albus smiles at his brother, and immediately wishes he had done something else - anything else. He watches the smile lend further spark to Aberforth’s achingly sincere anger. “Ariana will be here longer than Gellert,” he says with some hesitation. It is strange to talk about Gellert with his brother. He wants the conversation to be over.
“How logical of you,” Aberforth snaps.
“I - ”
“No,” says Aberforth, deflating suddenly. “Good night.”
*
They lie under the trees, watching the clouds and the sun and the waving leaves. Aberforth has gone back inside, and the two of them are alone, feline silence stretching between their lazy bodies. Albus wonders if Gellert might not be about to fall asleep.
“Can I roll you a cigarette?” he asks, to test his hypothesis.
Beside him, Gellert makes a noise that might mean anything. Albus chuckles and sits up, fumbling in the grass beside him for the tobacco and papers.
“We have a responsibility,” Gellert says thoughtfully, the offer of a smoke having roused him.
“Yes,” Albus says. He arranges the tobacco delicately in a neat line in the paper, looking at it so he doesn’t have to look at his friend.
“That is all it comes down to. In the end, we have a responsibility to both worlds.” Gellert looks up at Albus through his eyelashes, a trick that works well, for all Albus is looking resolutely at the cigarette in his hands. “It is us, it is the extraordinary, who belong in power.”
“Of course,” Albus says. He unwisely shifts his gaze to meet a pair of wild blue eyes. They pull a smile out of him - but that is no great feat by now. Gellert looks very golden and bright, and Albus finds he is half entranced, there in the garden. A cloud passes over the sun and, embarrassed, he hands over the cigarette and begins rolling his own. “But not - not recklessly,” he manages eventually.
“No, no. To do anything reckless would undermine our position.” Gellert speaks smoothly, so smoothly that one might read almost any emotion into his words.
“When you speak that way, I can’t tell what you really mean.” He finishes his cigarette, and looks over again. “Where are the matches? Are you mocking me?”
Abruptly, a match flares in front of his face. “I am not mocking you,” says Gellert seriously before lighting his own cigarette.
Albus finds he is embarrassed again. He turns away and they smoke in silence.
“Do you know the legend of the Deathly Hallows?” Gellert says eventually.
Albus frowns. “Yes, of course. They’re lost - if they ever existed at all.”
“They suggest a very interesting idea.”
“Do they?” Albus says lightly, turning the story over in his mind. “I suppose you know that the Peverells are said to be buried here.” Feeling very brave, he turns his head slightly to catch Gellert’s reaction.
His friend laughs quietly around clouds of white smoke. “I was aware of that, yes.”
There is, of course, the gravestone. Everyone knows what it says, but no one actually believes it. “No one…actually believes it,” Albus says.
“No one?”
Inside his own head, Albus says, I might be willing to be convinced, and lies down quickly so that the shadow of the beech trees will hide his flush.
I’m eighteen, he thinks. This is ridiculous.
*
“I think you overestimate the significance of the gravestone,” Albus says. He is trying to sound patient, educated, staid. Anything to remind him of the direction of the two year difference in their ages. Otherwise, he might do something embarrassing and then - well, he’s not quite sure just yet but he suspects somehow Aberforth would find out and become even angrier.
Gellert lounges indolently among the markers, looking half profane and half holy. “No doubt you will tell me that it is a common name. That I should leap to no conclusions.”
Albus sighs. “Something like that.”
“I think you are underestimating the possibilities of the legend,” Gellert tells him. “It is true; it is too persistent to be false. And we could find them, you know. We could.”
“It’s a fairy tale.” Albus picks at the grass and refuses to look over. “And persistent belief in a falsehood doesn’t make it true.”
“It is true. Think of it. Think of the power we would gain.”
Albus shuts his eyes. “I have thought of it.”
“Not really,” Gellert says, going cool suddenly, “or you would not flinch as you are now. Who else should have them, if not us?”
“Maybe no one should have them,” Albus says. He keeps his eyes shut. “Maybe they don’t exist.”
“You don’t believe either of those things.” Gellert’s voice sounds much closer than Albus remembers it.
If he concentrates, he’s almost certain he can feel the soft rush of Gellert’s breath. “I - ” he starts, and opens his eyes.
There is Gellert’s face - intent and close before his own. Having met his eyes, he finds it impossible to break the glance.
“Come to me, tonight,” Gellert says into the waiting summer air.
“All right. If you like.”
A frown mars the wild, ruthless face. “You don’t understand.”
“Don’t I?” Albus says steadily. He does understand; he’s well aware of what is being said. But he wants to see the heat burning in Gellert’s eyes spread over his cheeks. “I know that your aunt is away tonight and that my brother is weary of the sound of owls’ wings headed toward our house.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Gellert says, frustration turning his voice guttural and foreign. He has never had an accent before this moment.
“I know,” Albus says.
It doesn’t matter who kisses whom, only that their lips have met and joined, that their hands are tangling together and their eyelashes brush each others cheeks. Albus leans forward, bringing Gellert almost to the ground of the graveyard. When they draw back, it is still a concerted movement. They are both trembling as they sit up.
“I promised I’d be back for tea,” Albus says eventually. How remarkable, to think that he is sitting here in the graveyard, having just kissed his best friend, and is now talking of meaningless promises made to his brother.
“Have supper with me,” Gellert offers. There is an edge to the phrase, like his voice might crack from pressure.
“Yes,” says Albus. Aberforth will be angry. “If you like.” He stands up, brushing grass from his robes and neatening his hair. The incandescent pressure of Gellert’s gaze follows him all the way to his door.
Once inside, he shivers.
But he doesn’t change his mind.
*
Albus has never liked the Bagshot home. His standards with regards to architecture and interior décor had been fixed by rigid parents with an eye for grace, and the scholastically-minded clutter that filled Madame Bagshot’s house was at odds with his own aesthetics. But waiting for the door to open, he finds he has other things on his mind.
The door swings open, revealing Gellert. He looks blonde and flushed - anxious, almost. Albus remembers that Gellert is sixteen, a fact he has often attempted to recall and generally been unsuccessful at. Strange that it should surface now.
“I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“But I did,” Albus smiles.
“Yes!” Gellert laughs and pulls him inside. The closing door presses them together, looking foolishly at each other. It takes some minutes for the leaping, urgent wanting to settle into a pleasant buzz. They kiss until it mellows.
“I was promised a meal,” Albus says.
“You were, you were.” Gellert visibly orients himself again. “Are you really hungry?”
“Yes,” Albus says.
“So am I,” Gellert admits. “Come inside - it’s ready.”
It is - a full meal, well laid out in the dining room. There are no signs of house elves or servants, only of food and candles and an inviting room made ready for the two of them. It’s impressive.
“There are things I want to show you,” Gellert says when they have begun to eat. “About the Hallows.”
Albus raises an eyebrow. “Those again?”
“’Again’?” Gellert says, grinning crookedly. “Still, rather. I have gathered…proofs. Of a kind.”
“You’ll forgive my skepticism,” Albus says.
Gellert smiles at him, a lazy expression that reminds Albus of the first invitation he received this afternoon. “I think you will change your mind when you see them.”
“You may be right,” Albus concedes.
They eat quickly after that, and talk little. The meal is a preoccupied one, their interest piqued by other ideas. When they do speak, it is around mouthfuls of meat and bread, in half-formed sentences.
“The power of a myth - ”
“ - but the truth behind it is what interests…”
“If we wish to - for the greater - ”
“Of course for the greater good!”
Eventually, they stop talking. Albus can’t quite pin down the character of the silence, and he worries at it like a loose tooth until he looks up and meets two eyes as blue as his own. To say he relaxes would be an error, because the atmosphere now is anything but relaxing. What he feels, rather, is a shift in the world around him. It’s slight, but definite - like the world has changed just a little to be more like its Platonic ideals.
“Shall - shall- ” Gellert’s voice breaks. “Would you like to see my - “
“Etchings?” Albus asks, struck by a chord of hysteria.
Unexpectedly, Gellert laughs. It makes Albus feel better. “My evidence,” he says. Then, slyly from under his eyelashes, “Perhaps later on, I will show you my etchings.”
Albus resists the urge to say that nothing Gellert shows him now will make a lasting impression. Maps or testimonies will not change his opinions, not now. What he says, because he his polite, because Gellert is probably his best friend, is yes, he would love to see the evidence now. Gellert leads him upstairs, a faint and wild glow seeming to come from him. Albus would like to say that it was his presence having that effect, but he knows that when his has rare knowledge to share a similar expression appears on his own face and sex has nothing to do with it.
Or, almost nothing.
Madame Bagshot, in an uncharacteristic moment of generosity, gave Gellert his own study. Naturally, his is at the other end of the house from her own - although in many ways the entire residence is Bathilda Bagshot’s study. Gellert opens the door, revealing sheets of parchment spread over the floor and the table, books piled high, a small stack of letters that Albus recognizes. The clutter, Albus realizes abruptly, is oxymoronically well ordered. It takes minutes to recognize the order for what it is, but when he sees it the organization surprises Albus. He had thought that Gellert’s knowledge would be as wild and unpredictable as Gellert himself.
“Over here,” says Gellert urgently. He stands by the table, indicating a new-ish map and an immensely old letter. Albus half expects them both to fall apart if he looks too hard at them, but he leans forward to examine both items closely. Gellert keeps an interested, possessive hand on his shoulder.
The letter is legitimately interesting. Dated from the sixteenth century, with sixteenth century spelling and handwriting, it is an account of a duel between two wizards. Albus is skeptical about the writer’s claim that the victor’s wand was indeed the Peverell wand. “It’s compelling,” he says slowly, straightening to talk to Gellert.
Who, suddenly, is kissing him. His mouth is hot, investigative. There is a purpose behind his kiss, as there is a purpose behind the way Albus returns it. It is different from their other kisses, what few there have been. They grip each other tightly - there will be bruises tomorrow - and even when they stop to breathe they don’t quite break apart. Albus hears Gellert’s breath shuddering out as he moves his mouth along to kiss the spot where Albus’ jaw turns into his neck, and then to his pulse. Albus’ own reactions are not within his control, but then why try to control this? Acting on a hunch, he bends his own head down to capture his friend, his lover’s mouth in a kiss full of teeth. Against his thigh, he feels Gellert’s sudden, hard arousal and guesses that now there is no going back. Good. He doesn’t want to.
“I’ll look at these tomorrow,” he murmurs.
“Tomorrow,” Gellert agrees with a feral smile. He has one hand buried in Albus’ hair, and takes half a step back to see, Albus supposes, if there are any visible marks beyond swollen lips and dilated pupils. “You look like a belladonna addict,” Gellert says, half in wonder. He doesn’t give Albus a chance to respond, but pushes him back against the table so they can kiss and rub against each other again. Albus gasps, wanting badly to be free of his robes and pressed skin to skin against Gellert’s body. His patience begins to fail even as his feeling rises, but he lets Gellert press him against the table and clasp his hair and kiss the patch of skin that his robe reveals.
He unfastens the top of Gellert’s robe awkwardly, ducking his head to kiss, nibble, lick the newly exposed skin. His hands grab and caress at once, until Gellert’s clothes are half undone, his shirt is untucked and unbuttoned at odd intervals. It seems that every move they make turns him more painfully hard. “I want to look at you,” Albus murmurs against the jumping blood in Gellert’s neck, running his nails along the half-done buttons. Gellert holds still, his breath coming hard and fast. He throws his head back to watch Albus, who holds him close with one arm. Albus smiles and does the rest of the buttons with light fingers - the shirt falls away to show fair, perfect skin. Albus runs his hand up Gellert’s abdomen, pausing a moment to thumb his nipple, and then up to his shoulder to push the shirt and robe back. Gellert shrugs out of the rest of it without help, his robe and shirt falling around their feet.
They stay still, momentarily suspended from motion. Abruptly, Albus realizes that he is still mostly clothed, and reaches up to undo the fastenings of his own robe. He lets it fall and finds Gellert’s fingers are already on the buttons of his shirt. They stand in an odd cocoon of discarded clothing, staring at each other and breathing hard. But Gellert moves quickly again, leaning against Albus so that they are both braced against the table, hands roving over each other’s bodies like hunting animals. Something Gellert does - Albus isn’t quite sure what, maybe a hand against his spine or hot breath on his collarbone - makes Albus thrust suddenly against him, and their intimate contact becomes suddenly necessary to existence. They move against each other, stroking, pushing, pulling. Their hands work on each other’s bodies, keeping them connected despite the quickening motion of their hips. What their hands don’t cover, they reach with their lips and tongues and simple skin.
One of Gellert’s hands slips down suddenly, between their rubbing cocks. Albus gasps - he can’t help it - and then gasps again as Gellert’s hand moves under his waistband, pulls it down and releases his cock, slick now with wanting. For a moment, Albus is entirely convinced that this is a dream, but then Gellert begins to move his hand and lunges forward, his mouth fastening on Albus’ neck. There is no choice in Albus’ reaction - he shudders, moaning, and knows that he begs without words from the clever movements of Gellert’s hand. Up and down, and up and down, his hand on Albus’ cock and his equally clever mouth whispering encouragement just below Albus’ ear.
“Now,” he says, low and certain and Albus comes there, against the table with the evidence of the existence of the Hallows. His legs are not quite steady, but he brings Gellert’s face up to his own and kisses him hungrily.
“We should move,” he suggests. He wants to bring about Gellert’s own climax, but he doubts his legs have much power left in them.
“The books have seen worse,” Gellert says. But he smiles, kisses Albus again, and disentangles himself enough to lead the way to his bedroom. He locks their hands together, though, which comes as a relief to Albus. They cannot break contact now, it is simply not possible.
At the door to his room, Gellert turns slightly and looks back. He smiles again - or maybe he never stopped - and Albus feels his breath hitch.
It seems incredible that’s he’s never stepped inside this room before. But he only thinks about that for half a second, before they are moved by a mutual desire for more proximity and embrace, their fingers disengaging to explore other countries.
Slowly, now, they move toward the bed. Their labored breaths come in sync with each other; their eyes have locked. Albus reaches up to tuck one of Gellert’s curls away from his face and they hit the edge of the bed. There is something like a sigh as they both fall into it. Albus shifts to a crouch as he runs his fingers across Gellert’s chest and abdomen. He pauses to fumble with the buttons (Buttons! Whose idea were they?) on Gellert’s trousers and feels Gellert’s fingers bury themselves in his hair.
“I love you,” Gellert whispers.
*
The morning sunshine shines mercilessly in Albus’ eyes. He is nowhere near ready to be awake yet, but the sunlight doesn’t seem to care. He thinks of turning his eyes to the pillow and falling back asleep, but it’s already too late for that. His mind has woken up. Instead, Albus looks at Gellert, whose eyes the sunlight has not yet touched. Endymion, he thinks, and though that is much too mild a legend for his friend it makes him smile.
He stays still and watches the sun work its way up Gellert’s body, until it finds his eyes and makes his face glow. Gellert stirs and Albus hasn’t the presence of mind - nor, he supposes, the inclination - to pretend to be asleep. Gellert blinks sleepily at the ceiling.
“I’m starving,” he says, and Albus begins to laugh.
*
Gellert’s finger traces a route along the map. There are pins stuck in it; the flags attached to them have dates written in Gellert’s clear, impatient handwriting. As his finger touches each pin, blocks of text in the same writing hover above the map. “Clever spell,” says Albus blandly.
“Now you are being deliberately obtuse,” mutters Gellert. “I know it’s a clever spell, but that is not what we are here to talk about.”
“Did you enchant the map?” asks Albus. He is being fairly deliberate, and he peers at the parchment. “Or did you enchant the pin? Or - ”
“Or I could go back to Germany,” says Gellert loudly. “And find the Elder Wand for myself and write faithfully to you about the entire experience.”
Albus shifts his focus from the map to Gellert, smiling slightly. “So the last rumors of the wand were in Austria.” He indicates the pin marked 1797.
“There are letters from a few months after the - fact,” Gellert dodges the details, not feeling particularly inclined to live the event over again. It is in the nature of weapons to accumulate violence, and that is why the right people should have them. “Letters from wizards who brought Kiesler in - they confiscated his wand of course.”
“Of course,” Albus says. “And of course it was lost.”
Gellert shrugs. “I think it was sold, not lost.”
“Sold.”
“By someone incredibly stupid,” Gellert says, “or by someone incredibly intelligent.”
“And who bought it?”
Gellert points to a black pin, the only black pin on the map. The handwriting that hovers up says: Gregorovitch?
“Ollivander won’t be pleased,” Albus says.
Gellert laughs and his delight fills the room. “We won’t tell him, then,” he says.
Albus hesitates. “I can’t leave England,” he says. “I can’t even really leave Godric’s Hollow.”
“What?” Gellert’s face is a frowning, golden mask. “But you must come with me!”
“Next summer, maybe,” Albus says gently, “when Aberforth is back from school. But I can’t leave the - the house alone. I’ll research the other Hallows.”
But the delight that filled the room so quickly has already left it.
*
Some people, wizards even, believe that saying something three times makes it true forever. Albus is not one to disparage the power of words; he is too well acquainted with it. But he has more faith in time’s ability to change nature than he has in the heat of a moment, or three moments. Aberforth, he suspects, subscribes to the rule of three. That may be why he is so angry; that he does not realize eternity is only a theoretical concept. Not even wizards are infinite.
“Do you know Nietzsche?” Gellert asks.
Of course Albus knows Nietzsche. “Not personally,” he says dryly. And then, with more compassion, “he’s mad.”
“Well, yes,” Gellert says. “For a Muggle he is very insightful.”
“Of course he is,” says Albus. “The mad are always the most insightful. And anyway, he’s a Squib. His übermensch is wizarding kind, though I don’t think he could possibly realize it. It’s only ignorance,” he adds, “that puts Muggles and wizards at odds with each other.”
“Most of them don’t realize it,” Gellert says. Albus thinks, Aberforth would have thrown something at me already. “How much easier a task we would have with this ignorance blinding everyone else.” He has a restless, dissatisfied expression on his face. Albus glances around quickly to make certain they are unobserved and leans over to kiss him.
Gellert’s breath comes in gasps when Albus releases him. His face is clear again, reckless and bright. “You’re very dangerous,” he murmurs.
“You’d know,” Albus says, relaxing again below the trees.
“Can they see us from the houses?” asks Gellert.
“No,” Albus says. “Only people at the edge of the garden can see us. The hedge is in the way.”
“Good,” Gellert says. His hands are already undoing Albus’ trousers, and in the half-shadow beneath the trees he looks more a wild, pagan god bent on mischief and pleasure than a wizard.
“That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” Albus says, but he hears that his own voice has thickened, and almost of their own volition his hands pull Gellert to him. He wants to feel the length of their bodies touching, despite the clothing. Everything important can be felt through clothing anyway. They kiss, moving slowly and subtly against each other.
Gellert pauses the litany of kisses, his lashes dipping to shield his eyes. They look darker. “I think about you all the time,” he whispers hotly in Albus’ ear. It makes him gasp and shiver in the summer heat. “All the time. And when I read your letters, I think about doing this to you, here where anyone might see.” He renews the kiss, robbing Albus of breath and of the chance to respond, leaving him near desperation. But he can no more bear the absence of Gellert’s lips than he can bear the lack of air, and almost as soon as Gellert pulls away Albus rears his head up so that their lips join again. The kiss lasts, it seems, for hours, for days. They pant in each other’s mouths, tongues venturing out to taste, checking the air, like lizards, for treachery, for power, for ecstasy. Gellert drops his head, his breath hot against Albus’ throat.
“I love you,” he says against pounding blood and striving flesh.
That’s two, Albus thinks, and then it is impossible for him to think at all.
*
“Gellert is coming over this afternoon,” Albus says. He speaks politely, neutrally, because now it is impossible to know what will set off Aberforth.
His brother just shrugs. “You’ll be outside - won’t you?”
“It depends on the weather,” Albus says. The sky did not look particularly promising for talking outdoors.”
Aberforth frowns, but keeps quiet and eats his breakfast. As if he could procure good weather with his silence. Albus feels sorrow wash over him abruptly. He is certain, though, that Aberforth will see their point very soon. He is certain that everyone will. They are working for the greater good, after all. But he wonders how much Aberforth knows, or guesses. Simple facts can be very dangerous things.
“I have to go over the accounts,” he says as they finish breakfast. “Will you be with Ariana today, or shall I take her in with me?”
“No,” Aberforth says fiercely. “I’ll be with her.”
It hardly seems fair that they are sacrificing so much for a girl who will never understand what it means. When, Albus thinks wryly, has life ever been fair?
The accounts are predictably dull. Albus finds his mind wandering from the numbers to Marx and Mill - Muggles both, and therefore imperfect, but fascinating and insightful nonetheless. He scratches notes to himself for when Gellert comes and manages to finish the accounts well after lunch. The rain, he supposes, had begun around 1:30. Not dramatic, but steady and sincere. Enough to keep them indoors if Albus doesn’t remember the right shield charms in time. Even then, sitting outdoors will be distinctly unpleasant.
Albus frowns, pushing his glasses up his nose. He gets up, half-thinking that the sight of the rain will jog his memory. Instead, he sees Gellert moving across the lawn. Despite the umbrella he is clearly sodden - he doesn’t remember the right shield charms either. Briefly, Albus contemplates bringing down the notes, but the picture he would make strikes him quickly as embarrassing, making him flush, and he leaves them.
Aberforth and Ariana have left the door to her room open, but Albus doesn’t bother to see what they are doing. He wants to talk about utilitarianism and the oblique hints to the whereabouts of the other Hallows. Free of accounts, he descends the stairs quickly and inelegantly.
Gellert stands, dripping, in their hallway. The water makes him look polished, like a marble statue, though his faintly dissatisfied expression as he squeezes the water from his hair is anything but statuesque. They have begun to dry already, Albus sees, and are curling even more fiercely in the humidity. For a moment, Albus feels very young and very happy.
“I was only outside for a few minutes,” Gellert says, laughing. “And already… Do you have the story of the Wild Hunt here?”
“Yes,” Albus says. “But that,” he inclines his head toward the door, “is just a rainy day. Not vengeance.”
“No,” Gellert smiles. He hangs his robe and umbrella on the stand by the door, wearing only boots, light trousers and a damp white shirt. Even without the robe, he would never pass for anything but a wizard.
Albus hears water drip from Gellert’s robe onto their floor and smiles back. “Come in, then,” he says and turns, opening the parlor door. It is ever so slightly dusty; he will have to speak to the house elf about that. “This is miserable,” he says, “come upstairs to the study.”
Gellert shrugs, but follows him up the stairs. “I read the Mill that you leant me,” he says.
“I think there is a great deal of value in what Mill says.” Albus tries to remember if his study is presentable - he just left it, but all he remembers is that it looks like a human being has set foot in it sometime in the last three years.
“And I’ve thought of a way for you to come with me,” says Gellert. “To find Gregorovitch and see if he…has it.”
Albus turns his head quickly, frowning. “It’s tempting,” he says as he opens the study door, “but it’s impossible.”
“No,” says Gellert. “I know why you can’t come, and I’ve researched the matter. It’s simple, really, if you just but your sister in the care of - ”
“What are you talking about?” Aberforth interrupts. He is angry, but he had the presence of mind to shut Ariana’s door behind him.
“It’s not important,” Albus says. “Really it isn’t. It’s just a theory.”
“Of course it’s important,” Gellert says.
Aberforth, who had looked like he was considering subsiding, flushes angrily. “You shouldn’t even know about Ariana,” he says thickly. One of his hands twitches, as if preparing for something.
“It’s not hard to figure out,” Gellert says with contempt. “And you’re too stupid to realize what clinging onto her presence here means - ”
Aberforth is incoherent with rage, and rushes at Gellert. Gellert’s presence changes everything, Albus thinks as he steps in front to block his brother. If it were just the two of them, well - they’re brothers, after all. They can make their points with shouting and violence but neither of them is likely to take out their wands and do any lasting damage.
He tries to meet his brother’s eyes, but Aberforth struggles out of his grip easily and seems intent on Gellert. Albus can’t really hear anything they’re screaming at each other; he feels underwater and their words wash over his ears like waves. But he knows neither of them are doing anything but shouting yet - their wands spark with anger, but no spells have been cast. Which is good, because Aberforth is absolutely no match for Gellert if it comes to magic.
And, of course it is in that moment, as he thinks with relief that it hasn’t come to magic yet, Aberforth casts a stupid, small, petty Dueling Club spell that Gellert deflects easily. His brother recovers with surprising speed - throwing curses, charms, spells at Gellert. Who is, now, very angry, and still yelling - Albus can see, if he can’t hear.
It takes him a moment to understand that the reason Aberforth has stopped casting spells, the reason he writhes on the floor is that Gellert’s magnificent mind has completely abandoned him. That his best friend has just placed his brother under the Cruciatus Curse.
“Take it off him!” he hears himself yell as the sea drains from his ears and his own wand finds its way into his hands. “Gellert! Please!” But Gellert’s face is responsive as marble, he keeps his wand trained on Aberforth’s thrashing, shrieking body.
Albus’ gaze shifts up, only slightly and he sees Ariana stepping out of her room. She looks, he thinks, faintly puzzled and very worried.
Hey, love, we'll get away with it
We'll run like we're awesome
We're the heirs to the glimmering world
“The Geese of Beverley Road”, The National
Adult
“Our Room On the Floor”
So you had the best legs
In a business built for kicks
“The Sublimation Hour”, Destroyer
The weather was beautiful, but Albus thought that if his brother had had anything to say about it then the English weather would be even more stereotypically horrible. And would continue in such a way until - forever, doubtless. He looked at the bright sun and then at Aberforth and smiled weakly.
Aberforth, in moment of uncharacteristic observation, caught the smile and Albus watched fury light his eyes.
“Aberforth - ”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Aberforth hissed. “You’ll just go home and write letters to him, laughing about your new freedom.”
“No, I won’t,” Albus said. “You don’t understand. We don’t talk anymore.” (But he knows that Aberforth knows there’s a letter, opened in a moment of weakness, that tries to explain everything, and fails, and says I love you in…yes, in so many words. And in other words too. Albus should have burned it, but he didn’t.)
But it meant nothing. Aberforth sneered, heading determinedly for the train.
Albus reached out to grab his brother’s arm. “We don’t talk anymore,” he repeated.
“I’m staying at school for Christmas hols,” Aberforth said. He wrenched his arm free and disappeared into the crowd of students and parents.
Albus watches his brother’s angry figure hide in the crowd and feels very alone. “We don’t talk anymore,” he said for the third time.
*
They see Madame Bagshot in her garden, not working in it, obviously, but surveying the neatly ordered paths and ignoring the three house elves grooming it around her. She seems impossibly old to them, though Albus has only the vaguest notion of her actual age.
He misses school. Aberforth’s companionship is not nearly adequate.
Beside him, Aberforth is an angry, sulky presence. From the infinitely superior vantage point of three years, Albus wonders how he can be expected to eat with his fifteen-year-old brother. At least in three months, Aberforth will go to Hogwarts and then it will just be Ariana. She, happily, is quiet.
“Madame Bagshot wants to talk to us,” Aberforth says reluctantly.
“What?” Albus glances back at his neighbor. Aberforth is already shambling over. Almost unconsciously, Albus straightens his back. The two of them look too alike as it is. No need to bring poor posture into the comparison.
“My nephew is coming next week,” says their formidable neighbor. “From the Continent. I don’t want him disturbing my book, boys. Take him about, won’t you? He hasn’t done anything,” she adds dryly, “that would displease your mother’s memory.”
This, as they will find out later, is a lie.
*
Were he to be honest with himself, Albus’ expectations had run along the lines of a dour boy with thick brows and a thicker accent. Gellert Grindelwald is German, but there and only there does Albus see anything like what he expected. Everything else - his expectations, his prejudices, his ready-made opinions about this boy whom he is supposed to distract - everything else is thrown over, left lying topsy-turvy about his solid English feet. Gellert Grindelwald is beautiful.
“My nephew, Gellert,” Madame Bagshot introduces him. “A trouble-maker.” She says it as if captioning a photograph in The Daily Prophet, as a dry statement of fact. Beside his aunt, Gellert smiles.
“They have exaggerated my trouble-making,” he says in accent-less English. “Durmstrang is too strict.”
“Albus has finished Hogwarts,” says Bagshot. She is too well bred to place any stress on the syllables, but her meaning is plain. “With honors.”
“It’s really not the - ” Albus tries, but is cut off by his brother’s frankly uncharitable snort and Gellert’s own expression of interest.
“I am ignorant of England,” he says. His hands spread as if to suggest helplessness. That is one assumption Albus will never make.
“Fortunately,” Madame Bagshot tells him, “these boys have agreed to take you under their wing.”
“How kind,” says Gellert.
It is hard to imagine him indoors. Albus tries to picture this new boy in the absence of sunlight, surrounded by four walls and finds the image eludes him. The wildness emanates from Gellert and threatens to overwhelm the carefully cultivated English countryside. “It’s very much our pleasure,” he says awkwardly.
“Have him back for tea,” Madame Bagshot says, and slips into the house before any of the younger generation can say anything else.
Gellert looks amused. Aberforth looks annoyed. Albus can only guess as to his own expression. “My aunt has little patience for boys,” Gellert says.
“Then why did she agree to take you?” Aberforth asks. Albus winces to hear such blatant lack of tact in his brother’s voice.
But Gellert laughs. “My parents have knowledge she believes helpful in the writing of her book. But, you see, she had to take me off their hands.”
“You’re lucky, not to have to go to school,” Aberforth says. It’s his favorite topic these days, but it’s ridiculous and they both know it. Albus shoots his brother a quick, angry look to shut him up.
“Very lucky,” is all Gellert says.
*
The promise Aberforth originally found in their visitor fades as it becomes apparent to everyone that the real kinship lies not with two reluctant schoolboys but between two brilliant wizards. If Aberforth had originally intended to point at Gellert Grindelwald and say, “Look how well he does without school,” he gives it up by the second week of their acquaintance. Their situations are simply too different.
The second week is when Albus stops even pretending to look after Ariana. He spends his time outside, in the gardens talking with Gellert, or when forced inside by the uncompromising dusk, collecting ink stains and pacing anxiously as he waits for a reply to the urgently penned letters the two of them exchange. Aberforth hears the owls scratching at the window and grits his teeth, until eventually Albus just leaves it open.
Ariana is left to Aberforth, who broods unselfconsciously over his sister’s future well-being. It seems obvious that Albus will never be moved to care for her properly. They see each other only at meals, when even Aberforth’s sincere, dusty anger cannot dim the light brimming in his older brother.
“You don’t care about her,” he hisses one evening, when Ariana has been sent to bed after dinner.
Albus, already mentally composing his letter to Gellert, is caught by surprise. “Of course I care about Ariana.”
Aberforth leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed. “Not enough. Not - how long have you spent with her all summer? Not half as long as you’ve spent with him, and he’s been here a few weeks.”
Albus smiles at his brother, and immediately wishes he had done something else - anything else. He watches the smile lend further spark to Aberforth’s achingly sincere anger. “Ariana will be here longer than Gellert,” he says with some hesitation. It is strange to talk about Gellert with his brother. He wants the conversation to be over.
“How logical of you,” Aberforth snaps.
“I - ”
“No,” says Aberforth, deflating suddenly. “Good night.”
*
They lie under the trees, watching the clouds and the sun and the waving leaves. Aberforth has gone back inside, and the two of them are alone, feline silence stretching between their lazy bodies. Albus wonders if Gellert might not be about to fall asleep.
“Can I roll you a cigarette?” he asks, to test his hypothesis.
Beside him, Gellert makes a noise that might mean anything. Albus chuckles and sits up, fumbling in the grass beside him for the tobacco and papers.
“We have a responsibility,” Gellert says thoughtfully, the offer of a smoke having roused him.
“Yes,” Albus says. He arranges the tobacco delicately in a neat line in the paper, looking at it so he doesn’t have to look at his friend.
“That is all it comes down to. In the end, we have a responsibility to both worlds.” Gellert looks up at Albus through his eyelashes, a trick that works well, for all Albus is looking resolutely at the cigarette in his hands. “It is us, it is the extraordinary, who belong in power.”
“Of course,” Albus says. He unwisely shifts his gaze to meet a pair of wild blue eyes. They pull a smile out of him - but that is no great feat by now. Gellert looks very golden and bright, and Albus finds he is half entranced, there in the garden. A cloud passes over the sun and, embarrassed, he hands over the cigarette and begins rolling his own. “But not - not recklessly,” he manages eventually.
“No, no. To do anything reckless would undermine our position.” Gellert speaks smoothly, so smoothly that one might read almost any emotion into his words.
“When you speak that way, I can’t tell what you really mean.” He finishes his cigarette, and looks over again. “Where are the matches? Are you mocking me?”
Abruptly, a match flares in front of his face. “I am not mocking you,” says Gellert seriously before lighting his own cigarette.
Albus finds he is embarrassed again. He turns away and they smoke in silence.
“Do you know the legend of the Deathly Hallows?” Gellert says eventually.
Albus frowns. “Yes, of course. They’re lost - if they ever existed at all.”
“They suggest a very interesting idea.”
“Do they?” Albus says lightly, turning the story over in his mind. “I suppose you know that the Peverells are said to be buried here.” Feeling very brave, he turns his head slightly to catch Gellert’s reaction.
His friend laughs quietly around clouds of white smoke. “I was aware of that, yes.”
There is, of course, the gravestone. Everyone knows what it says, but no one actually believes it. “No one…actually believes it,” Albus says.
“No one?”
Inside his own head, Albus says, I might be willing to be convinced, and lies down quickly so that the shadow of the beech trees will hide his flush.
I’m eighteen, he thinks. This is ridiculous.
*
“I think you overestimate the significance of the gravestone,” Albus says. He is trying to sound patient, educated, staid. Anything to remind him of the direction of the two year difference in their ages. Otherwise, he might do something embarrassing and then - well, he’s not quite sure just yet but he suspects somehow Aberforth would find out and become even angrier.
Gellert lounges indolently among the markers, looking half profane and half holy. “No doubt you will tell me that it is a common name. That I should leap to no conclusions.”
Albus sighs. “Something like that.”
“I think you are underestimating the possibilities of the legend,” Gellert tells him. “It is true; it is too persistent to be false. And we could find them, you know. We could.”
“It’s a fairy tale.” Albus picks at the grass and refuses to look over. “And persistent belief in a falsehood doesn’t make it true.”
“It is true. Think of it. Think of the power we would gain.”
Albus shuts his eyes. “I have thought of it.”
“Not really,” Gellert says, going cool suddenly, “or you would not flinch as you are now. Who else should have them, if not us?”
“Maybe no one should have them,” Albus says. He keeps his eyes shut. “Maybe they don’t exist.”
“You don’t believe either of those things.” Gellert’s voice sounds much closer than Albus remembers it.
If he concentrates, he’s almost certain he can feel the soft rush of Gellert’s breath. “I - ” he starts, and opens his eyes.
There is Gellert’s face - intent and close before his own. Having met his eyes, he finds it impossible to break the glance.
“Come to me, tonight,” Gellert says into the waiting summer air.
“All right. If you like.”
A frown mars the wild, ruthless face. “You don’t understand.”
“Don’t I?” Albus says steadily. He does understand; he’s well aware of what is being said. But he wants to see the heat burning in Gellert’s eyes spread over his cheeks. “I know that your aunt is away tonight and that my brother is weary of the sound of owls’ wings headed toward our house.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Gellert says, frustration turning his voice guttural and foreign. He has never had an accent before this moment.
“I know,” Albus says.
It doesn’t matter who kisses whom, only that their lips have met and joined, that their hands are tangling together and their eyelashes brush each others cheeks. Albus leans forward, bringing Gellert almost to the ground of the graveyard. When they draw back, it is still a concerted movement. They are both trembling as they sit up.
“I promised I’d be back for tea,” Albus says eventually. How remarkable, to think that he is sitting here in the graveyard, having just kissed his best friend, and is now talking of meaningless promises made to his brother.
“Have supper with me,” Gellert offers. There is an edge to the phrase, like his voice might crack from pressure.
“Yes,” says Albus. Aberforth will be angry. “If you like.” He stands up, brushing grass from his robes and neatening his hair. The incandescent pressure of Gellert’s gaze follows him all the way to his door.
Once inside, he shivers.
But he doesn’t change his mind.
*
Albus has never liked the Bagshot home. His standards with regards to architecture and interior décor had been fixed by rigid parents with an eye for grace, and the scholastically-minded clutter that filled Madame Bagshot’s house was at odds with his own aesthetics. But waiting for the door to open, he finds he has other things on his mind.
The door swings open, revealing Gellert. He looks blonde and flushed - anxious, almost. Albus remembers that Gellert is sixteen, a fact he has often attempted to recall and generally been unsuccessful at. Strange that it should surface now.
“I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“But I did,” Albus smiles.
“Yes!” Gellert laughs and pulls him inside. The closing door presses them together, looking foolishly at each other. It takes some minutes for the leaping, urgent wanting to settle into a pleasant buzz. They kiss until it mellows.
“I was promised a meal,” Albus says.
“You were, you were.” Gellert visibly orients himself again. “Are you really hungry?”
“Yes,” Albus says.
“So am I,” Gellert admits. “Come inside - it’s ready.”
It is - a full meal, well laid out in the dining room. There are no signs of house elves or servants, only of food and candles and an inviting room made ready for the two of them. It’s impressive.
“There are things I want to show you,” Gellert says when they have begun to eat. “About the Hallows.”
Albus raises an eyebrow. “Those again?”
“’Again’?” Gellert says, grinning crookedly. “Still, rather. I have gathered…proofs. Of a kind.”
“You’ll forgive my skepticism,” Albus says.
Gellert smiles at him, a lazy expression that reminds Albus of the first invitation he received this afternoon. “I think you will change your mind when you see them.”
“You may be right,” Albus concedes.
They eat quickly after that, and talk little. The meal is a preoccupied one, their interest piqued by other ideas. When they do speak, it is around mouthfuls of meat and bread, in half-formed sentences.
“The power of a myth - ”
“ - but the truth behind it is what interests…”
“If we wish to - for the greater - ”
“Of course for the greater good!”
Eventually, they stop talking. Albus can’t quite pin down the character of the silence, and he worries at it like a loose tooth until he looks up and meets two eyes as blue as his own. To say he relaxes would be an error, because the atmosphere now is anything but relaxing. What he feels, rather, is a shift in the world around him. It’s slight, but definite - like the world has changed just a little to be more like its Platonic ideals.
“Shall - shall- ” Gellert’s voice breaks. “Would you like to see my - “
“Etchings?” Albus asks, struck by a chord of hysteria.
Unexpectedly, Gellert laughs. It makes Albus feel better. “My evidence,” he says. Then, slyly from under his eyelashes, “Perhaps later on, I will show you my etchings.”
Albus resists the urge to say that nothing Gellert shows him now will make a lasting impression. Maps or testimonies will not change his opinions, not now. What he says, because he his polite, because Gellert is probably his best friend, is yes, he would love to see the evidence now. Gellert leads him upstairs, a faint and wild glow seeming to come from him. Albus would like to say that it was his presence having that effect, but he knows that when his has rare knowledge to share a similar expression appears on his own face and sex has nothing to do with it.
Or, almost nothing.
Madame Bagshot, in an uncharacteristic moment of generosity, gave Gellert his own study. Naturally, his is at the other end of the house from her own - although in many ways the entire residence is Bathilda Bagshot’s study. Gellert opens the door, revealing sheets of parchment spread over the floor and the table, books piled high, a small stack of letters that Albus recognizes. The clutter, Albus realizes abruptly, is oxymoronically well ordered. It takes minutes to recognize the order for what it is, but when he sees it the organization surprises Albus. He had thought that Gellert’s knowledge would be as wild and unpredictable as Gellert himself.
“Over here,” says Gellert urgently. He stands by the table, indicating a new-ish map and an immensely old letter. Albus half expects them both to fall apart if he looks too hard at them, but he leans forward to examine both items closely. Gellert keeps an interested, possessive hand on his shoulder.
The letter is legitimately interesting. Dated from the sixteenth century, with sixteenth century spelling and handwriting, it is an account of a duel between two wizards. Albus is skeptical about the writer’s claim that the victor’s wand was indeed the Peverell wand. “It’s compelling,” he says slowly, straightening to talk to Gellert.
Who, suddenly, is kissing him. His mouth is hot, investigative. There is a purpose behind his kiss, as there is a purpose behind the way Albus returns it. It is different from their other kisses, what few there have been. They grip each other tightly - there will be bruises tomorrow - and even when they stop to breathe they don’t quite break apart. Albus hears Gellert’s breath shuddering out as he moves his mouth along to kiss the spot where Albus’ jaw turns into his neck, and then to his pulse. Albus’ own reactions are not within his control, but then why try to control this? Acting on a hunch, he bends his own head down to capture his friend, his lover’s mouth in a kiss full of teeth. Against his thigh, he feels Gellert’s sudden, hard arousal and guesses that now there is no going back. Good. He doesn’t want to.
“I’ll look at these tomorrow,” he murmurs.
“Tomorrow,” Gellert agrees with a feral smile. He has one hand buried in Albus’ hair, and takes half a step back to see, Albus supposes, if there are any visible marks beyond swollen lips and dilated pupils. “You look like a belladonna addict,” Gellert says, half in wonder. He doesn’t give Albus a chance to respond, but pushes him back against the table so they can kiss and rub against each other again. Albus gasps, wanting badly to be free of his robes and pressed skin to skin against Gellert’s body. His patience begins to fail even as his feeling rises, but he lets Gellert press him against the table and clasp his hair and kiss the patch of skin that his robe reveals.
He unfastens the top of Gellert’s robe awkwardly, ducking his head to kiss, nibble, lick the newly exposed skin. His hands grab and caress at once, until Gellert’s clothes are half undone, his shirt is untucked and unbuttoned at odd intervals. It seems that every move they make turns him more painfully hard. “I want to look at you,” Albus murmurs against the jumping blood in Gellert’s neck, running his nails along the half-done buttons. Gellert holds still, his breath coming hard and fast. He throws his head back to watch Albus, who holds him close with one arm. Albus smiles and does the rest of the buttons with light fingers - the shirt falls away to show fair, perfect skin. Albus runs his hand up Gellert’s abdomen, pausing a moment to thumb his nipple, and then up to his shoulder to push the shirt and robe back. Gellert shrugs out of the rest of it without help, his robe and shirt falling around their feet.
They stay still, momentarily suspended from motion. Abruptly, Albus realizes that he is still mostly clothed, and reaches up to undo the fastenings of his own robe. He lets it fall and finds Gellert’s fingers are already on the buttons of his shirt. They stand in an odd cocoon of discarded clothing, staring at each other and breathing hard. But Gellert moves quickly again, leaning against Albus so that they are both braced against the table, hands roving over each other’s bodies like hunting animals. Something Gellert does - Albus isn’t quite sure what, maybe a hand against his spine or hot breath on his collarbone - makes Albus thrust suddenly against him, and their intimate contact becomes suddenly necessary to existence. They move against each other, stroking, pushing, pulling. Their hands work on each other’s bodies, keeping them connected despite the quickening motion of their hips. What their hands don’t cover, they reach with their lips and tongues and simple skin.
One of Gellert’s hands slips down suddenly, between their rubbing cocks. Albus gasps - he can’t help it - and then gasps again as Gellert’s hand moves under his waistband, pulls it down and releases his cock, slick now with wanting. For a moment, Albus is entirely convinced that this is a dream, but then Gellert begins to move his hand and lunges forward, his mouth fastening on Albus’ neck. There is no choice in Albus’ reaction - he shudders, moaning, and knows that he begs without words from the clever movements of Gellert’s hand. Up and down, and up and down, his hand on Albus’ cock and his equally clever mouth whispering encouragement just below Albus’ ear.
“Now,” he says, low and certain and Albus comes there, against the table with the evidence of the existence of the Hallows. His legs are not quite steady, but he brings Gellert’s face up to his own and kisses him hungrily.
“We should move,” he suggests. He wants to bring about Gellert’s own climax, but he doubts his legs have much power left in them.
“The books have seen worse,” Gellert says. But he smiles, kisses Albus again, and disentangles himself enough to lead the way to his bedroom. He locks their hands together, though, which comes as a relief to Albus. They cannot break contact now, it is simply not possible.
At the door to his room, Gellert turns slightly and looks back. He smiles again - or maybe he never stopped - and Albus feels his breath hitch.
It seems incredible that’s he’s never stepped inside this room before. But he only thinks about that for half a second, before they are moved by a mutual desire for more proximity and embrace, their fingers disengaging to explore other countries.
Slowly, now, they move toward the bed. Their labored breaths come in sync with each other; their eyes have locked. Albus reaches up to tuck one of Gellert’s curls away from his face and they hit the edge of the bed. There is something like a sigh as they both fall into it. Albus shifts to a crouch as he runs his fingers across Gellert’s chest and abdomen. He pauses to fumble with the buttons (Buttons! Whose idea were they?) on Gellert’s trousers and feels Gellert’s fingers bury themselves in his hair.
“I love you,” Gellert whispers.
*
The morning sunshine shines mercilessly in Albus’ eyes. He is nowhere near ready to be awake yet, but the sunlight doesn’t seem to care. He thinks of turning his eyes to the pillow and falling back asleep, but it’s already too late for that. His mind has woken up. Instead, Albus looks at Gellert, whose eyes the sunlight has not yet touched. Endymion, he thinks, and though that is much too mild a legend for his friend it makes him smile.
He stays still and watches the sun work its way up Gellert’s body, until it finds his eyes and makes his face glow. Gellert stirs and Albus hasn’t the presence of mind - nor, he supposes, the inclination - to pretend to be asleep. Gellert blinks sleepily at the ceiling.
“I’m starving,” he says, and Albus begins to laugh.
*
Gellert’s finger traces a route along the map. There are pins stuck in it; the flags attached to them have dates written in Gellert’s clear, impatient handwriting. As his finger touches each pin, blocks of text in the same writing hover above the map. “Clever spell,” says Albus blandly.
“Now you are being deliberately obtuse,” mutters Gellert. “I know it’s a clever spell, but that is not what we are here to talk about.”
“Did you enchant the map?” asks Albus. He is being fairly deliberate, and he peers at the parchment. “Or did you enchant the pin? Or - ”
“Or I could go back to Germany,” says Gellert loudly. “And find the Elder Wand for myself and write faithfully to you about the entire experience.”
Albus shifts his focus from the map to Gellert, smiling slightly. “So the last rumors of the wand were in Austria.” He indicates the pin marked 1797.
“There are letters from a few months after the - fact,” Gellert dodges the details, not feeling particularly inclined to live the event over again. It is in the nature of weapons to accumulate violence, and that is why the right people should have them. “Letters from wizards who brought Kiesler in - they confiscated his wand of course.”
“Of course,” Albus says. “And of course it was lost.”
Gellert shrugs. “I think it was sold, not lost.”
“Sold.”
“By someone incredibly stupid,” Gellert says, “or by someone incredibly intelligent.”
“And who bought it?”
Gellert points to a black pin, the only black pin on the map. The handwriting that hovers up says: Gregorovitch?
“Ollivander won’t be pleased,” Albus says.
Gellert laughs and his delight fills the room. “We won’t tell him, then,” he says.
Albus hesitates. “I can’t leave England,” he says. “I can’t even really leave Godric’s Hollow.”
“What?” Gellert’s face is a frowning, golden mask. “But you must come with me!”
“Next summer, maybe,” Albus says gently, “when Aberforth is back from school. But I can’t leave the - the house alone. I’ll research the other Hallows.”
But the delight that filled the room so quickly has already left it.
*
Some people, wizards even, believe that saying something three times makes it true forever. Albus is not one to disparage the power of words; he is too well acquainted with it. But he has more faith in time’s ability to change nature than he has in the heat of a moment, or three moments. Aberforth, he suspects, subscribes to the rule of three. That may be why he is so angry; that he does not realize eternity is only a theoretical concept. Not even wizards are infinite.
“Do you know Nietzsche?” Gellert asks.
Of course Albus knows Nietzsche. “Not personally,” he says dryly. And then, with more compassion, “he’s mad.”
“Well, yes,” Gellert says. “For a Muggle he is very insightful.”
“Of course he is,” says Albus. “The mad are always the most insightful. And anyway, he’s a Squib. His übermensch is wizarding kind, though I don’t think he could possibly realize it. It’s only ignorance,” he adds, “that puts Muggles and wizards at odds with each other.”
“Most of them don’t realize it,” Gellert says. Albus thinks, Aberforth would have thrown something at me already. “How much easier a task we would have with this ignorance blinding everyone else.” He has a restless, dissatisfied expression on his face. Albus glances around quickly to make certain they are unobserved and leans over to kiss him.
Gellert’s breath comes in gasps when Albus releases him. His face is clear again, reckless and bright. “You’re very dangerous,” he murmurs.
“You’d know,” Albus says, relaxing again below the trees.
“Can they see us from the houses?” asks Gellert.
“No,” Albus says. “Only people at the edge of the garden can see us. The hedge is in the way.”
“Good,” Gellert says. His hands are already undoing Albus’ trousers, and in the half-shadow beneath the trees he looks more a wild, pagan god bent on mischief and pleasure than a wizard.
“That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea,” Albus says, but he hears that his own voice has thickened, and almost of their own volition his hands pull Gellert to him. He wants to feel the length of their bodies touching, despite the clothing. Everything important can be felt through clothing anyway. They kiss, moving slowly and subtly against each other.
Gellert pauses the litany of kisses, his lashes dipping to shield his eyes. They look darker. “I think about you all the time,” he whispers hotly in Albus’ ear. It makes him gasp and shiver in the summer heat. “All the time. And when I read your letters, I think about doing this to you, here where anyone might see.” He renews the kiss, robbing Albus of breath and of the chance to respond, leaving him near desperation. But he can no more bear the absence of Gellert’s lips than he can bear the lack of air, and almost as soon as Gellert pulls away Albus rears his head up so that their lips join again. The kiss lasts, it seems, for hours, for days. They pant in each other’s mouths, tongues venturing out to taste, checking the air, like lizards, for treachery, for power, for ecstasy. Gellert drops his head, his breath hot against Albus’ throat.
“I love you,” he says against pounding blood and striving flesh.
That’s two, Albus thinks, and then it is impossible for him to think at all.
*
“Gellert is coming over this afternoon,” Albus says. He speaks politely, neutrally, because now it is impossible to know what will set off Aberforth.
His brother just shrugs. “You’ll be outside - won’t you?”
“It depends on the weather,” Albus says. The sky did not look particularly promising for talking outdoors.”
Aberforth frowns, but keeps quiet and eats his breakfast. As if he could procure good weather with his silence. Albus feels sorrow wash over him abruptly. He is certain, though, that Aberforth will see their point very soon. He is certain that everyone will. They are working for the greater good, after all. But he wonders how much Aberforth knows, or guesses. Simple facts can be very dangerous things.
“I have to go over the accounts,” he says as they finish breakfast. “Will you be with Ariana today, or shall I take her in with me?”
“No,” Aberforth says fiercely. “I’ll be with her.”
It hardly seems fair that they are sacrificing so much for a girl who will never understand what it means. When, Albus thinks wryly, has life ever been fair?
The accounts are predictably dull. Albus finds his mind wandering from the numbers to Marx and Mill - Muggles both, and therefore imperfect, but fascinating and insightful nonetheless. He scratches notes to himself for when Gellert comes and manages to finish the accounts well after lunch. The rain, he supposes, had begun around 1:30. Not dramatic, but steady and sincere. Enough to keep them indoors if Albus doesn’t remember the right shield charms in time. Even then, sitting outdoors will be distinctly unpleasant.
Albus frowns, pushing his glasses up his nose. He gets up, half-thinking that the sight of the rain will jog his memory. Instead, he sees Gellert moving across the lawn. Despite the umbrella he is clearly sodden - he doesn’t remember the right shield charms either. Briefly, Albus contemplates bringing down the notes, but the picture he would make strikes him quickly as embarrassing, making him flush, and he leaves them.
Aberforth and Ariana have left the door to her room open, but Albus doesn’t bother to see what they are doing. He wants to talk about utilitarianism and the oblique hints to the whereabouts of the other Hallows. Free of accounts, he descends the stairs quickly and inelegantly.
Gellert stands, dripping, in their hallway. The water makes him look polished, like a marble statue, though his faintly dissatisfied expression as he squeezes the water from his hair is anything but statuesque. They have begun to dry already, Albus sees, and are curling even more fiercely in the humidity. For a moment, Albus feels very young and very happy.
“I was only outside for a few minutes,” Gellert says, laughing. “And already… Do you have the story of the Wild Hunt here?”
“Yes,” Albus says. “But that,” he inclines his head toward the door, “is just a rainy day. Not vengeance.”
“No,” Gellert smiles. He hangs his robe and umbrella on the stand by the door, wearing only boots, light trousers and a damp white shirt. Even without the robe, he would never pass for anything but a wizard.
Albus hears water drip from Gellert’s robe onto their floor and smiles back. “Come in, then,” he says and turns, opening the parlor door. It is ever so slightly dusty; he will have to speak to the house elf about that. “This is miserable,” he says, “come upstairs to the study.”
Gellert shrugs, but follows him up the stairs. “I read the Mill that you leant me,” he says.
“I think there is a great deal of value in what Mill says.” Albus tries to remember if his study is presentable - he just left it, but all he remembers is that it looks like a human being has set foot in it sometime in the last three years.
“And I’ve thought of a way for you to come with me,” says Gellert. “To find Gregorovitch and see if he…has it.”
Albus turns his head quickly, frowning. “It’s tempting,” he says as he opens the study door, “but it’s impossible.”
“No,” says Gellert. “I know why you can’t come, and I’ve researched the matter. It’s simple, really, if you just but your sister in the care of - ”
“What are you talking about?” Aberforth interrupts. He is angry, but he had the presence of mind to shut Ariana’s door behind him.
“It’s not important,” Albus says. “Really it isn’t. It’s just a theory.”
“Of course it’s important,” Gellert says.
Aberforth, who had looked like he was considering subsiding, flushes angrily. “You shouldn’t even know about Ariana,” he says thickly. One of his hands twitches, as if preparing for something.
“It’s not hard to figure out,” Gellert says with contempt. “And you’re too stupid to realize what clinging onto her presence here means - ”
Aberforth is incoherent with rage, and rushes at Gellert. Gellert’s presence changes everything, Albus thinks as he steps in front to block his brother. If it were just the two of them, well - they’re brothers, after all. They can make their points with shouting and violence but neither of them is likely to take out their wands and do any lasting damage.
He tries to meet his brother’s eyes, but Aberforth struggles out of his grip easily and seems intent on Gellert. Albus can’t really hear anything they’re screaming at each other; he feels underwater and their words wash over his ears like waves. But he knows neither of them are doing anything but shouting yet - their wands spark with anger, but no spells have been cast. Which is good, because Aberforth is absolutely no match for Gellert if it comes to magic.
And, of course it is in that moment, as he thinks with relief that it hasn’t come to magic yet, Aberforth casts a stupid, small, petty Dueling Club spell that Gellert deflects easily. His brother recovers with surprising speed - throwing curses, charms, spells at Gellert. Who is, now, very angry, and still yelling - Albus can see, if he can’t hear.
It takes him a moment to understand that the reason Aberforth has stopped casting spells, the reason he writhes on the floor is that Gellert’s magnificent mind has completely abandoned him. That his best friend has just placed his brother under the Cruciatus Curse.
“Take it off him!” he hears himself yell as the sea drains from his ears and his own wand finds its way into his hands. “Gellert! Please!” But Gellert’s face is responsive as marble, he keeps his wand trained on Aberforth’s thrashing, shrieking body.
Albus’ gaze shifts up, only slightly and he sees Ariana stepping out of her room. She looks, he thinks, faintly puzzled and very worried.
Hey, love, we'll get away with it
We'll run like we're awesome
We're the heirs to the glimmering world
“The Geese of Beverley Road”, The National