Ownfic: "As Human as to Breathe" (1/2) for jtav
Title: As Human as to Breathe (1/2)
Author: kennahijja
Recipient: jtav
Characters/Pairings: Dumbledore/Grindelwald with more than a touch of gen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings (highlight to view): may look like AU, a bit of blood
Wordcount: ~ 14 800 words
Summary: Step into a world in which Ariana Dumbledore lived…
Author's Notes: jtav, thank you for picking this prompt. I hope you'll enjoy the result. Inspired in part by this awesome piece of art. Some dialogue has been borrowed directly from PS, the title from Beedle the Bard, and the chapter headings from Albus Dumbledore :).
i. 'Being rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger.'
"You… you bloody bastards!"
Aberforth's compact, somewhat burly figure had planted itself in front of them, fists still clenched as if for a second blow.
Albus's head was still ringing from the first. He pressed one hand under his bleeding nostrils, not quite daring to apply pressure to his nose. It hurt too badly, and blood was still welling between his fingers.
Behind Aberforth, Ariana was sobbing into the front of Professor Bagshot's robes. The witch cooed at her, trying to pull her away to examine the livid welts on her arms and chest. Ariana squirmed and curled up, still wracked by those horrible, dry sobs Albus felt echoing in his own chest.
Only now, in the aftermath, adrenaline left him trembling. Those welts - if he'd been a fraction slower, a little more angry or distracted, if the exploding spell had sliced into her instead of leaving surface cuts…
He took a feeble step towards her, and stumbled back when Aberforth swung at him.
"Get away from her!"
Madam Bagshot looked up sharply. "Aberforth!"
No muscle softened in Aberforth's belligerent face. "They almost killed her!"
Vertigo rolled inside Albus's stomach like a second round of curses. He felt blood trickling down the back of his throat and almost gagged at the vile taste of it. Beside him, Gellert moved, face bone-white under a shock of blond curls. His usually mobile features, dominated by an expressive, too-large mouth, were strangely still. He handed Albus a handkerchief, and without thinking Albus dabbed at the blood.
"We habe-" He swallowed, and tasted iron. "We have to take her to St Mungo's."
Gellert sucked in air as if to speak, then didn't.
"Yes." Madam Bagshot had finally prised Ariana off her robe and was kneeling in front of her. "Aberforth and I will go with her. We'll make sure she's safe."
She rose and ushered Ariana towards Aberforth, who hugged her against him, more mindful than he was wont to be about her cuts. Albus saw her relax as his brother petted her hair, more than she'd ever done with him.
Madam Bagshot's eyes landed on Gellert, who was clutching a second tissue to staunch a bleeding cut on his wrist.
"It's not as bad as it looks. I'll try to steer the Healers away from asking awkward questions about the status of her magic. But you should leave."
There was a cool glint in her eye as she regarded her nephew, and although he'd known it would be coming, even without this, Albus flinched. More so when the sharp eyes flicked to him.
"The same goes for you, Albus. This may not go to the Ministry, but I don't think it will show you best-placed to care for your sister - or your brother."
Aberforth's head snapped up, lifting from Ariana's brown curls. "He's got himself another brother - he's none of mine any more."
It was all Albus could do not to let his face crumble.
"That's enough, Aberforth!" Madam Bagshot snapped.
He gave her a sullen stare, but accepted the cloak she thrust at him and settled it around Ariana's thin shoulders, fumbling a little with the clasp.
Madam Bagshot paused to put a hand on Albus's arm.
"Think about it, Albus - I will take care of Ariana - I couldn't do less by Kendra - and I'll make sure Aberforth goes back to Hogwarts and completes his schooling. They'll both be fine."
It didn't require a seer to hear the unspoken 'and better off without you' behind it.
Saying nothing, Albus watched her take Ariana's hand. His sister stepped into the flames of the Floo network, head bowed and nearly vanishing inside the travelling cloak. She glowed green just before Madam Bagshot walked up behind her and hid her from view.
Aberforth paused before stepping into the hearth, and turned his head.
"If you're still here when I come back, I'll kill you."
Albus bit down on the side of his tongue. He felt his skin stretching tense over his cheekbones, eliminating every expression until Aberforth had vanished.
He passed the Floo powder bowl to Gellert, not looking up until the explosion of green flames had indicated his passing. Then he slid to the ground in front of the cold heart, hugging his knees and shaking.
ii. 'Humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them.'
He wasn't surprised to find Gellert in the open doorway to his room hours later. At last Albus suspected it had been hours. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in front of the fireplace before forcing himself to get up when the ache in his nose became noticeable even through the dull pain of his thoughts.
His face in the mirror, caked with blood, had looked like a celebrant's at a Deathday Party and he'd finally given up on water and washcloth and used a Scourgify on it. His nose, always too long, thin and prominent, was puffy and red with a noticeable bump in the middle. Never one especially gifted with healing charms, he'd put a bone-knitting spell on the cartilage that nearly had him pass out with pain, then slathered it with Essence of Murtlap which they always kept a lot of due to Ariana's tendencies to hurt herself, and Aberforth's eternal scrapes.
Gellert cut a dashing figure in a slate-grey, ankle-length travelling cloak and Italian boots with silver clasps. A shrunken trunk and a portmanteau dangled on a cord from his finger. A trace of strain still showed at the edges of his pale face, although his expression was perfectly blank.
"What have you done to yourself?" he asked mildly, and although a part of Albus wanted to yell in outrage at what they had done to Ariana, he allowed Gellert to lift his head. Gellert's fingers were warm and Albus didn't flinch although Gellert's wand was sparking in his hand, the now-calm face scrunched up in concentration.
Albus squeezed his eyes shut as a warm golden glow spilled over his face. A dry stab of pain caught his nose, until he could almost hear the bone creak; his eyes spilled over. Gellert's hold on his chin kept him immobile against the pain until it peaked and faded into a warm glow. His nose still felt twice its size and ached, but not with the biting, bone-deep throbbing he'd suffered before.
"Well," Gellert said, tucking his wand into its sheath at his robe belt, "I don't think there's anything to be done for the fracture - you left it too long." His fingers were warm, comforting against Albus's skin. "It gives you character."
He let go. "Aunt Tilda flooed me from St Mungo's. Ariana is doing well. The Healers think that the scars will most likely vanish altogether, given time. She said she's petitioned the Wizengamot for custody of her and Aberforth, and they're likely to grant it." He paused for a moment. "She told the healers it was a misfiring wand, but there's no telling whether there will be an investigation. Your brother might not keep quiet."
He threw a look around Albus's room, neat but for the cramped bookshelf, the tomes stacked up on the floor rising towards the ceiling, and a desk cluttered with parchments, quills and sweets.
"You should be packing."
Albus flinched, stung raw by Gellert's ability to go right back to the cause of the fight. The answer, however, was the same - now more than ever.
"I'm not leaving," he stated flatly.
A familiar note of anger flashed across Gellert's face before he reined himself in.
"Albus, don't be stupid. You heard Aunt Matilda - the Ministry may be asking questions. Do you want to go to Azkaban?"
There was a chance of that, Albus knew, if the Wizengamot's prejudices focused on him. The violent son of a violent father...
...
He'd walked into the Hearing at his father's hand, who had wanted his heir to witness, or rather, Albus realised much later, had wanted the Wizengamot to look into the face of, the victim's brother.
Among the sea of lined, wrinkled faces, only a handful of Wizengamot members stood out in Albus's memory. The Minister of Magic himself, well-fed and unhappy in his ornately carved centre chair; a striking, tall woman in a purple turban; a younger male with frost-coloured braid, fur-lined collar, and gloves.
His father spoke little; he was rarely addressed directly by the assembly, and only his hand tightening around Albus's small one betrayed his agitation.
"Well, we're agreed, then." The Minister spread his hands as if to appease an invisible host of spirits. "The child Ariana performed Accidental Underage Magic, and a team of Obliviators will be sent to modify the boys' memories. Thankfully, so far they don't seem to have spoken to anybody."
The turbaned woman let out a barking laugh. "Did you expect anything else? They're unlikely to confess that they attacked a neighbouring child for a reason older Muggles would be disinclined to believe."
"Yes, Susan, your insistence to hold an investigation before sending out Obliviators is noted," the Minister replied, somewhat peevishly. "Now, unless there are any final comments, I'd call this Hearing closed."
"What about my daughter."
His father had let go of Albus' hand before raising his voice, and Albus shivered quietly at the tone.
A frown pulled together the Minister's eyebrows. Before he could speak, another voice cut in, silky and low.
"Yes, what about the man's daughter?"
Albus looked up, standing on tiptoes to see better. It was the blond man in the fur collar, his hair as sleek as his voice.
"Here we have a little witch, playing with bluebell flames in her own garden, spied on and assaulted by Muggle boys who left her damaged for life. We talk of Memory Charms - what about punishment?"
In the front row a red-haired wizard with a very pointed hat sighed, as did the Minister.
“Really, Lysander, we discussed this before,” the Minister said. “The Muggle boys are children too, frightened out of their wits by seeing magic performed. Yes, what they did was wrong, but we have no authority to interfere.”
The blond wizard reclined in his chair. “Hardly 'children', Minister. Three years from coming of age. And they did a terrible thing, even by Muggle standards, or so those familiar with those creatures tell me.” He inclined his head to the red-haired wizard who'd sighed before, and whose cheeks now acquired a red tinge at being so singled out. “Are we truly going to tell the poor girl's father and brother that there is no redress for the harm done to her because Muggle perpetrators can strike with impunity at the heart of our families while the Wizengamot washes its hands off responsibility?”
His last words almost vanished in the ensuing commotion as witches and wizards yelled their objections and support from the benches.
“That's enough, Lysander!” the Minister roared, his face reddening like a slab of raw beef. “You are skirting sedition. I won't have anyone advocating the breaking of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy in my presence!" The ceremonial hammer in his hand banged on the lectern before him and sparked. "This hearing is closed!”
***
Albus saw Lysander Malfoy again that night, hidden in the shadow of the pantry, when his father opened the front door to admit the wizard. Again, he was struck by the man's self-assured movements, the quality of his black-and-silver cloak and boots. As if an exotic magical creature had suddenly stepped into the Dumbledores' prosaic home.
"Percival." Mr Malfoy removed his gloves and inclined his head to Albus's father. "I've come to extend my sympathies for your daughter's suffering, and to express my disappointment with the decision taken by the Wizengamot today."
Albus expected his father to thank the other man for his support at the Hearing, but Percival Dumbledore only nodded.
Seemingly unperturbed, the blond wizard ploughed on. "However, I'd like to offer you something more than empty words. There are wizards for whom the protection of wizardkind does not mean permitting our children to suffer at the hands of Muggles." He paused, turning his gloves between long, elegant fingers. "The Knights of Walpurgis are willing to ride in your defence and punish those who violated your daughter."
Heart thumping with sudden hope, Albus watched his father's lips compress. His fingers clenched around the back of a chair.
"And what would the Knights have me do in exchange?" he asked bluntly.
"Nothing, Percival," the blond wizard soothed. "Though maybe, at some point in the future, some well-placed word or silence might be appreciated."
Raised to his full height in robes the colour of the night sky, Percival Dumbledore cut an imposing figure. "Yes, I believe it would." The other wizard seemed to think so too, because he took a step back. "I'd be grateful then, Malfoy, if you conveyed to the Knights my... gratitude for their offer, and told them in no uncertain terms that no Dumbledore will ever let himself be associated with their like."
A sneer appeared on Malfoy's lips that managed to erase his good looks in a heartbeat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Dumbledore - sorry that cowardice has infested even the oldest of wizarding bloodlines. Although it is perhaps inevitable, considering the blood status of the mate you've chosen."
"Leave!" Percival snapped and the other bowed, a slight, mocking gesture before gliding to and out of the door with a studied insolence that made Albus' chest cramp.
"But father - why?" he blurted out as soon as the door had shut on the softest of notes.
Percival looked up, not appearing to be surprised at finding his precocious eldest in the doorway. Just resigned. "He promised to avenge Adriana when the Ministry wouldn't!"
"And you'd have me indebted to a creature like Malfoy for life?"
Voice hitching with anger, Albus cried, "I'll do it myself, then! I know where they live!"
He would have been prepared for a slap, but reeled back when his father's wand snapped in his direction.
"You will go to your room and never speak of this again!"
Albus felt the force of the command propel him towards the door. His mouth moved but no sound came out. He grabbed the doorjamb, stoking the rage inside him he instinctively knew would help him throw off the compulsion. His father's expression wavered.
"Please, Albus - this once, don’t argue. Just go.'
Percival's face quietened Albus where his wand had not, and he allowed the spell to pull him out the door and up the stairs into the room he shared with Aberforth, who was already snoring.
It was the last time he saw his father in freedom. He woke up to the news of the arrested Muggle hater who would die in Azkaban, watched his mother clam up like a seashell and never open again, only to be, in the end, left alone as the only recourse of his young brother and sister.
...
"I will not leave my siblings at the mercy of a stranger," Albus insisted.
"Not even if they want you dead?" Gellert asked with all the pity of a poison-frosted sweet.
Albus felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. It had been a low blow, but then Gellert was using words like he and Albus had aspired to use magic - deft, sharp, exploring and exploiting any weakness that disclosed itself. It wasn't in Gellert's nature to show compassion.
"I've never run away from anything," Albus declared, aware how brittle his self-confidence sounded.
Gellert cocked his head. "Are you rejecting me because I hurt your sister? Or because you can't face up to the fact that you still don't hate me enough to tell me to go to hell?"
Albus's face went hot. "Not quite to hell," he mumbled. "The Continent would do as a start."
"If I thought you'd mean that, I might even leave you to it," Gellert said. "But you don't. You're not doing it for them. You're just doing it to punish yourself for fear that nobody else will."
Albus opened his mouth for an angry riposte, then took a nervous step back when Gellert put a finger over his lips, silencing him too tenderly to strike back.
"I won't let you do this to yourself, Albus." He raised his wand again and Albus vaguely considered ducking away, wild thoughts of Imperius whirring through his brain. Gellert waved the wand in a sweeping bow through the room. "Concorripe!"
The doors of Albus's wardrobe banged open; his portmanteau fell out, and his former school trunk hopped out from behind his desk. Another swipe, and Albus's clothes and books threw themselves inside, lemming-like, until the clasps clicked close and the luggage started to shrink into a hand-sized parcel that reminded Albus of the firewhisky-filled chocolate trunks that Enchanted Confectioneries sold in Diagon Alley at the beginning of winter season.
Reflexively, he grabbed hold of his cloak when Gellert thrust it at him.
"Give Aberforth a year or two to calm down and grow up," Gellert said in a voice that brooked no objection. "Give yourself a few years of study and you will come up with a better way of helping Ariana than burying yourself in this house and hating it."
Fists clenched in the rough-spun wool of his cloak, Albus listened as if the decision had been taken out of his hands, as if all he could do was move along the appointed path.
"Come." Gellert said. His leather-gloved hand sent a shower of Floo Powder into the ancient fireplace.
When the green light filled the room, Albus went.
iii. 'The glorious young leaders of the revolution.'
Albus fired another blast of energy into the sputtering fireplace that refused to provide warmth. The very walls, bricks and beams seemed to lure heat outside with a siren song. He slipped deeper underneath the three woollen blankets that covered his bed, and wriggled his toes in the faint hope of getting them warm. The chilly bed linen seemed to dissipate every warming charm placed on it.
He'd heard the story the day after they'd moved into the lodging house, gleefully narrated to him in the corner tavern where he'd gone for a drink and a meal and a test of his Translation Charms. How a travelling hag had died of dragon pox in the room they'd rented, how the proprietess had refused to call a Healer when she couldn't pay, and how the hag had cursed the room with eternal chill.
He exhaled on his fingers, white against his black fingerless gloves, and shifted the parchment he was reading to enjoy the fleeting warmth.
The foeglass on the table gave an unconcerned ping right before the ancient oak door banged open. As always, Gellert didn't bother with the handle, and just threw it open with magic. It was effective, if raising the ire of their landlady, as battered as the door, not to mention the entire house.
He was wrapped up tightly in his travelling cloak, liberally laced with warming charms, and again Albus admired the contrast between the ornate blue-green fabric and the soft gold of Gellert's hair. His face was glowing with the cold. Prague in winter agreed with him.
After banging the door shut, he pulled a sheaf of paper out of the breast pocket of his cloak.
Albus let one of his eyebrows travel up. "You got it?"
"A personal invitation to Gellert Aulus Grindelwald to study at the Maharal Archive as a free scholar, from Archivarius Isidor Bellum."
"Not bad," Albus observed airily. There was just the degree of smugness to Gellert's entrance to warrant the put-down he was about t deliver. He put down the parchments he'd been reading, spread out like a fan on the coverlet, and leaned back against the headboard with his arms folded behind his head.
Gellert's eyes narrowed. "You too?" When Albus just smirked at him and raised his thumb and index finger to indicate 'two', he shook his head. "But how? You barely got out of bed since we arrived here, apart from going to the pub and gawking at old Muggle stone heaps."
"British Youth Representative to the Wizengamot, remember?" Albus licked his lip, still smirking. "And don't pretend you didn't gawk like a Muggle tourist at the Castle as well - wasn't it after all where your hero Rudolph II made his last stand against the European Statute of Wizarding Secrecy?"
"You sneaky little bastard," Gellert said slowly, not reacting to the dig. "When did you send them?"
"I owled the letters after we'd portkeyed into Calais."
Albus had sent off a third letter as well, which had prompted a rather curt note of apology that Maître Rusballardiere was currently sponsoring a maximum number of research scholars and regretted to be unable to accommodate him. While Albus didn't doubt the rush of the wizarding best and brightest to study at the Maharal, he doubted that many had his qualifications. Maître Rusballardiere had been very encouraging towards him at the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo, and Albus wondered what research into his recent background the Maître had undertaken to provoke this impersonal refusal.
He did not mention that to Gellert, though. Astonishing enough that a man of his reputation, who hadn't even completed Durmstrang, had met with success so quickly. European wizards were more open-minded about a history in the Dark Arts.
"You'd do that, wouldn't you?" Gellert clicked his tongue.
For an instant, Albus' ears heated as if Gellert had hit him with Occlumency. Then he recalled that his partner in crime was really quite pants at mind-altering spells. He was fast, though.
The little parcel smacked Albus in the chest before he could fling himself aside, and impacted with a soft crackle. It was wrapped in gaudy purple paper with animated gold tinsel that tickled his fingers. Albus squeezed it gingerly. It was surprisingly soft.
"What is it?"
"Open it," was Gellert's predictable reply. "I didn't quite buy it for you upstaging me, but…"
Albus poked at the wrapping, causing tinsels to flit away under his fingers until the paper unrolled its contents.
He let out a rather unmanly giggle at the sight of a pair of large-sized, fluffy socks flopping onto his palm. They were a vibrant saffron yellow, decorated with tiny wands that sparked, brooms that zoomed, and cauldrons that emitted puffs of smoke. The wool was seductively soft and warm against his palm.
"They've got Veela hair and warming charms woven in," Gellert smirked. "I hope it'll put an end to your whining about being cold here."
"It's not my fault that you dragged me right into the coldest winter in Czech memory," Albus protested while pulling the socks over his feet. They were as warm and comfortable as they looked, and brightened the room up all on their own. "Thank you!"
Gellert tousled his hair. "You're welcome. And tomorrow, we start on our quest for power."
Albus rolled his eyes and wriggled his toes in the new socks. Shoving his precious parchments onto the nightstand, he closed his fingers around Gellert's wrist and pulled him close.
iv. 'It takes a great deal of courage to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.'
Albus watched the flames change colours in the brazier as he carefully measured out seven drops of dragon's blood over the hissing coals. Anger drew the incantation into a taut string of syllables. His skin crawled as a rage-filled, ghostly hiss rose around him before fizzling away in magic and heat.
The next moment, the fireplace emitted a burst of warmth that Albus hadn't experienced in two years, no matter how much they'd stoked the fire. He gave an apologetic bow to the ghost of the hag who hadn't cursed the place without reason, and settled down in a chair to wait.
His fingers slid restlessly over the last letter he'd received from Madam Bagshot, whose penmanship was concise in a way her books were not. Ariana had settled in well at her home; Aberforth had finished his 7th year at Hogwarts with 3 OWLs (Albus had winced at that), and had taken a job at the Roaring Lion in Godric's Hollow. Ariana's scrawl of a signature, sometimes with a word of greeting, never failed to follow Madam Bagshot's. Aberforth never wrote.
While at times missing Britain felt like an Erlking gnawing on his intestines, Albus had, alone and with Gellert, made Prague his own over the years. They'd attended the premiere of Malecrit's controversial Merlot, Justine, Jeanne, Emeraude, Etienne et un Centaure at the National Magical Theatre, went to Muggle workingmen's meetings and public lectures at Charles University, and saw traditional performances of Statumantic Art in memory of the Maharal Judah Loew, Chief of the Prague Wizard Council and founder of the Archive that would later bear his name.
When spring was too insistently beautiful for research, they watched the Prague Predators trash their opponents in the Hapsburg League at Quidditch with feral determination.
Only once, Albus had accompanied Gellert to a meeting of the Friends of the Schattenjäger, supporters of the militant pureblood Schattenjägerbund, and spent the question section lovingly tearing apart the speaker's argument until the man's tongue had knotted with rage. They'd agreed, after, not to repeat that experience. Albus had grown skilled at ignoring Gellert's more unsavoury associations.
After this morning's surprise visit, however, he knew that avoiding the issue was no longer possible.
His anger had not abated when Gellert returned, for once without his customary dramatic entrance, and raised an eyebrow when he found Albus at home. Then the heat registered, and his eyebrow travelled up further.
"I see congratulations are in order again." He divested himself of his winter cloak and quipped, "Looks like you won't be needing my socks, then?"
His expression shifted when Albus just stared at him coldly. Dismissively between index and middle finger, he handed over the parchment note he'd received earlier.
Gellert took it, and flipped it open. His mouth tightened as he read.
"It came hand delivered," Albus commented idly, "by the Muggle Rector of Charles University himself, from young Master Danilo Carodej..." The Carodejs were among the most formidable Czech pureblood families, their youngest scion only just out of Durmstrang and made heir by his father meeting the wrong end of a Swedish Short Snout near Arjeplog during last year's race. "I wasn't aware you had such devoted followers among Prague's wizarding elite," he added. "Practically screaming 'Look, Master, Imperius!"
"He's very young yet," Gellert said. "I'm sorry - I didn't expect you to be home this morning."
Albus scoffed and threw him the sealed black envelope that had come with the note.
"I obliviated the poor man and sent him home, suggesting he'd been seduced into the seedier quarters of town by a glossy-haired beauty."
The corner of Gellert's mouth turned up. "Perhaps he has?"
Not the least in the mood for innuendo, Albus stood.
"You think I'll overlook a bit of Muggle-baiting if I'm not here to witness it?" he snapped. "I really don't know you any more!" He threw up his hands. "I saw you hex those goons who harassed that elderly Jewish couple in the street last week. They were all Muggles, and yet you intervened - how does that square with you knowing every Muggle-hater in the bloody city?"
"I don't hate Muggles, Albus." Gellert leaned forward and placed his hand on Albus' wrist. "Yes, I thought I did once, before you dragged me along into all those Muggle pubs and meetings. They aren't so bad, on their own." His grip tightened, until Albus thought he could feel Gellert's pulse radiating from his fingertips. "But as a species, they are lethal."
"No more than wizards," Albus retorted.
"And that," Gellert said, strangely gently and loosening his grip, "is where, for all your brilliance, you're a fool."
Albus' jaw clenched. "Not sharing your prejudices doesn't make me a fool."
"Maybe not a fool, then," Gellert conceded. "Just a dreamer."
Albus grimaced and pulled away. There were better ways of spending an afternoon than listening to Gellert in one of his moods.
"No!" Gellert rose as if to bodily block the door. "We should have had this talk months ago."
"I'm not so sure," Albus said. "Considering how hearing you on the topic makes me appreciate you far less than I normally would. I don't ask questions about the people you spend time with. I think it's better for both of us if we keep it this way."
Gellert's expression hardened. "I'm not trying to hide my connections, or my plans - there were times when we could speak about these things. For their own good, remember?"
Albus forced himself not to flinch at the low blow. "I was a child, then," he said. "I knew nothing of the world except for Hogwarts, and even in Godric's Hollow we mingled with no one, least of all Muggles. I was wrong about the absolutism of power then, Gellert. What we almost did to Ariana showed me just how much. I was wrong - and so are you."
"I don't hate Muggles, Albus - I fear them." At Albus's snort of disbelief, Gellert shook his head. "Yes, I know what you're going to say. We are so very superior to them, with a wand and magic. But there's so many of them, and they're violently aggressive against everyone they fear and hate-"
"Like the Schattenjägerbund or the Knights of Walpurgis?" Albus asked.
"They're misguided and blinded by their own sense of superiority," Gellert admitted. "But if they're controlled, they can be useful."
"Controlled by you?"
Gellert shrugged. "They are willing to be. And I'm sure you'll agree that that's preferable to them indiscriminately harassing and murdering 'blood traitors' and Muggles."
"Maybe." Albus nodded. "But I'd prefer ridding us of them and their disgusting ideas altogether."
"Just look at this country," Gellert insisted. "The Czechs hate the Austrians, the Austrians look down on the Czechs, and all of them want to stick it to the Jews. How long until the whole mess will erupt in war all over the bloody continent? A blind man can see it coming!"
"Yes," Albus nodded. "That's why we don't need the likes of the Schattenjäger to stir tensions up even further."
"But deep down in their scared little hearts they know wizards exist," Gellert ploughed on without considering Albus's protest. "They know that another species shares their world, one that's infinitely more powerful and that holds the leash to all the monsters their collective mind half remembers. And despite all the differences they invent to set themselves apart from each other, at the very core it's not each other they want to destroy, no matter what a good job they do. It's us."
If Albus admired the flush of agitation on Gellert's cheeks, he didn't show it. "So what's your solution? Preventive genocide?"
"Of course not," Gellert scoffed. "But perhaps after the war they're moving towards, perhaps after the next, they'll be disillusioned enough - weakened enough - to embrace another rule, to look to magic as the redeemer rather than the enemy. Maybe then we'll be ready to reconsider the International Statue of Secrecy - help them heal while ensuring they won't turn on us again."
"And where do I fit into this brave new world of yours?" Albus asked. He'd heard Gellert speechify before, and while acknowledging his insight, he wasn't particularly susceptible to rhetoric, being rather too good at it himself. He could imagine it having a devastating effect on others, though.
Gellert took a step towards him. "You know I hate the thought of losing you, even for a while, Albus. But sooner or later, I hope you'll agree to return to England and prepare for the time when we can renegotiate wizarding secrecy. You're one of our most brilliant minds. You can charm and convince wizards without effort. And if you'd set your mind to it - in the Ministry of Magic, or at Hogwarts - you could bring together like-minded wizards and witches and spread our ideas." He shrugged, smiled. "That's the hope I have for us - fighting together for a worthy goal."
Albus felt his teeth clench. There was a tempting, seductive shiver running down his spine at the vision of a future that would see wizards and Muggles openly share the world, like a hot flash of memory from a more innocent - more naive - past. But he heard, as clearly as Gellert's impassionate words, the things he hadn't said.
"Since when have you been researching the Deathstick?"
He nodded at the parchment, which announced, in bold letters for all to see, that young Master Carodej had discovered the whereabouts of the 'Wand of Destiny'.
"Deathstick?" Gellert snorted. "Who came up with that? The sort of Dark Wizard who thinks that sticking 'death' in front of everything will make them scary?"
"That's not the point, Gellert!" Albus snapped.
"What is the point, then, Albus? That I came to Godric's Hollow to research the Peverell connection with the Deathly Hallows? That all I found were tales about the Cloak, which is all but useless? That I found something far more interesting there, and dragged it away with me?"
Albus bit his lip, unwilling to let himself be pacified. "You found out about the wand now. I want to know what you're planning to do about it."
Gellert's mouth twisted into a smile, but this time no humour lighted up his dark eyes. "I plan to take it, Albus." He cocked his head. "Surely you can't be surprised - or do you have an interest in owning it yourself?" He raised the envelope, its silver seal still glittering unbroken in the watery sunlight filtering in through the window. "I'm surprised you haven't opened it to find out, then?"
Albus allowed the rage to build in his stomach, melting the ice that had congealed in his chest.
"I will not become your minion," he said, his voice rough. "And I won't let the Elder Wand fall into your hands either."
Gellert gave a harsh laugh. "I wish you luck in the attempt, then."
Lips clenched and face unreadable, Albus watched him leave after tucking the envelope into the inside pocket of his robe.
When his footfalls had died away at the bottom of the creaking wooden stairs, Albus pulled out of his copy of Advanced Transfigurative Theory of Hemomagical Substances an identical black envelope.
"Very well, my dear Gellert… who needs to break postal privacy if they can cast a perfect Duplication Charm?" He slid his nail under the seal and listened to the dry crack of it breaking. "If you want war, Gellert - you can have it."
v. 'Real, and dangerous, and a lure for fools.'
Taras Ilarion Gregorovitch lived at the outskirts of a Muggle village bordering on the wilds of Boubin Forest, about 50 miles south of Prague. Albus Apparated behind a barn at the outmost farm of the village, and took the path into the woods outlined on his parchment invitation.
Birdsong and the last rays of the evening sun made it a pleasant stroll, different from the stone-and-brick bustle of the city. The air had the tartness of December, and hoarfrost crackled under the soles of his boots as he walked. The house, when he turned around the final corner, was large but unpretentious, with solid white walls and red-brick roof - resembling a farmhouse, but without the outlying buildings.
Albus felt the hot breath of wards flow over him twice before reaching the front step, but was allowed to pass. Either the wandmaker had imbued the invitation parchment with a charm to admit him, or he was supervising the wards in person.
A Muggle servant opened the door when Albus rang, and gave him a respectful bow. "The Master is waiting for you."
He escorted Albus to the dining room, full of sturdy darkwood furniture brightened up by white lace tablecloth and doilies.
Only moments later, Master Gregorovitch entered. Albus had heard of him, of course. The most famous duellist in the Austrian Empire for a decade, recently retired - rare enough for a breed that tended to die young - to open a wandmaking shop that was gaining a reputation. He was younger than Albus had imagined, not much over 30, and looked the part of a warlock - a strong build, the traditional sorcerer's braid, knee-high boots and plain brown robes.
"Albus Dumbledore?" Albus shook a calloused hand, and took the seat Gregorovitch pointed to. "I admit I was intrigued by your letter. I'm not often receiving correspondence from one of the most reputable young researchers at the Maharal. Unless, of course, they are looking to buy a spare wand."
Albus shook his head. "Being a poor scholar, I'm afraid that would be somewhat beyond my means," he admitted.
"However, you did imply that you had some information that I would find of interest?"
"I apologise for intruding on your solitude with a warning," Albus said.
"A serious affair, then." The wandmaker's eyes twinkled in a way that made Albus's ears warm under his long hair. "May I offer you a drink first?"
Mouth suddenly dry, Albus nodded.
Gregorovitch rang the bell on the mantelpiece with a wand flick, and a moment later a young female servant in white blouse and black embroidered bodice and long skirt came in. On her wrists, heavy silver bracelets glittered with runes. She curtsied, and at Gregorovitch's order produced a bottle of Hexenschuss with its characteristic hole in the middle from the drinks cabinet.
She poured two glasses, set them down on matching doilies, and left.
Albus looked up at Gregorovitch. "You have very loyal servants," he remarked.
The wandmaker met his eyes without flinching. "I prefer to surround myself with Muggles, Master Dumbledore. They may not lust after others' possessions any less than wizards do, but they don't covet what they don't know." He took a sip from his liquor. "And before you accuse me of using illegal charms - I tell every Muggle who comes to me for work exactly who it is they'll be working for. Those who show horror, or reluctance, I Obliviate and send on their way. Those who accept service to a wizard? Well, my magic will make it impossible for them to betray me to my enemies, and impossible for my enemies to influence their minds. But they know, and accept it." Pale blue eyes stared into Albus's. "Does that satisfy you, Mr Dumbledore, or would you prefer to take your warning elsewhere?"
"No," Albus answered. "I apologise for jumping to conclusions. I am somewhat… sensitive about this topic at the moment."
Gregorovitch's face lost some of its hardness, but not all. Albus lifted his glass and the sweet aroma of pear filled his nose. The schnapps was distilled from the Zaubirne pear, infused with Aconite steam that gave it its bite. Gellert loved it. Realising that he was stalling, he put the glass down firmly without tasting it.
"I have been informed, from rather reliable sources, that you are currently in possession of the wand known as the 'Elder Wand'," he said.
Gregorovitch's eyebrows lifted. "That is quite curious. I'd be interested in the source of your 'information'."
Albus took a deep breath. "I believe it originates somewhere in the periphery of House Carodej."
"I see." Gregorovitch leaned back in his chair and toyed with his glass. Albus noted that he hadn't touched it so far. "And why would you be interested in this… rumour, Mr Dumbledore?"
Albus's eyes widened when he understood the implications. "No, it's not me," he blurted out. "I'm not after the Deathstick!"
"No?" Gregorovitch inquired, one eyebrow curled up in polite disbelief.
Albus paused, and sucked in a breath. The Deathstick was a warrior's wand, running counter to everything he hoped to become, but for a moment, the sheer thought of all those centuries of power concentrated in his hands made his fingers tremble.
He gave a hollow laugh. "I don't think there is any wizard who wouldn't covet the Elder Wand," he admitted. "I'm no exception. But I think I'd be able to resist the temptation." He gave the wandmaker a faint smile. "There is a wizard in Prague who is looking for the wand. He has forged connections with several anti-Muggle groups, and I fear that he wants to use the 'Wand of Destiny' to impress them into following him into yet another crusade against Muggles."
Gregorovitch stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I have heard of such a man coming into power over the past years," he said. "Some few years back, Jan Carodej served as my second when I duelled a sorcerer who styled himself the Master of Elder Wand. We fought. I won. Carodej swore silence, but yes - he might have told his young son before he died. And the younger Carodej is well-known for his pureblood views."
"That wizard will come for you soon, I think," Albus said.
"I have retired from duelling," Gregorovitch pointed out.
"I don't think that will quite stop him," sighed Albus.
"What will?"
Albus took a sip from his Hexenschuss. He wasn't likely to convince the wandmaker to part with the Deathstick. In the several centuries of wizarding history over which it could be traced, no one had ever given it up freely. And Gregorovitch didn't strike him as the type to leave his home and blossoming career and go into hiding. He swallowed.
"There may be-"
A crash followed by the tinkling of broken glass made Albus jump and drop his drink. Before he had shaken off his surprise, Gregorovitch was on his feet and raced for the door. A female voice screamed, high and terrified.
Albus raced after the wandmaker, up the stairs and down a corridor until Gregorovitch stopped abruptly at a door that had not only been ripped off one hinge, but broken in two with splinters sticking out in every direction.
Outside, back pressed against the corridor wall with both hands pressed to her mouth, stood the girl who'd served them earlier. She was trembling, and staring into the room in horror.
Catching up and peering over Gregorovitch's shoulder, Albus saw that the window to what looked like the wandmaker's personal study had been shattered too, with shards littering the entire floor. Gregorovitch's male employee who had admitted Albus was lying on the ground, wedged against a wall, with large, blood-filled boils over his entire left side. Apart from him, the study seemed empty.
Gregorovitch inched inside, wand raised, and Albus was taking a step forward to follow when suddenly the wall seemed to ripple. A shadow emerged, wand thrust forward. And sidestepped when a ray of red light from Gregorovitch's wand slammed into the wall where its head had been just a split second ago.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell hit Gregorovitch with so much force that it broke his fingers. He screamed as he was thrown backwards and let go of the wand, which whooshed towards the shadowy attacker. Albus sent an "Accio!" after it, but the intruder's fingers had already closed around the wood. He drew it close to his chest while he made for the window in one fluid move. Albus aimed a shaky stunning spell at the figure that now crouched on the window sill, but the attacker ducked to the side and all the spell achieved was to knock back his hood.
Albus didn't need to see the glint of golden hair, the glittering eyes or flushed cheeks to know who they were dealing with. Behind him, Gregorovitch let out a growl of rage. Face hardening, Albus sprang forward, only to veer to the side when a Stunning Spell raced at him. A wild smile that Albus knew was all for him appeared on Gellert's face just before he spread his arms and let himself fall backwards out of the window.
A shocked cry escaped Albus's lips. He regained his balance and raced to the window. There was no cloaked figure lying broken on the cobblestones. A Hover Charm set Gellert down on his feet with the gentleness of a feather. For an instant he stood there immobile, stolen wand in one hand, the other stretched out, head thrown back and staring up at Albus with snow crystals glinting in his hair. Then a broom shot towards him out of the woods, and slammed into his free hand.
Just then Albus felt himself pushed aside. He caught himself against the window frame just in time to see Gregorovitch taking aim into the courtyard, a short, dark wand clutched in his left fist while the right still hung down like a broken claw. Of course a duellist and wandmaker would have a backup wand on their person!
Green light started to build at the tip of Gregorovitch's wand, turning his face into a grim mask.
"Avada Ked-"
Without a moment's thought, Albus grabbed Gregorovitch's wand arm and pushed it away, breaking spell and aim at the same time. Outside, the broom streaked away into the night, leaving only the echo of Gellert's laughter. The wandmaker stumbled, then caught himself and backhanded Albus across the face with enough force to send him to the floor. His cheekbone felt as if it had been shattered.
"Your accomplice escaped!" Gregorovitch hissed, spare wand pointing at Albus's face. "Give me one good reason why I should not kill you on the spot."
"He wasn't my accomplice," Albus ground out. He could feel his cheek swelling, and moving his mouth hurt. "He's the one I came to warn you about."
"You claimed to be afraid of what he'd do with the Elder Wand? And then helped him flee with it?"
Albus swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "It was the Elder Wand, then?"
"Of course it was!" the wandmaker snarled. "Where do you think I'd keep it? In my workshop?"
No, Albus thought. A wizard who'd gained possession of the Deathstick would keep it on his person.
Gregorovitch kicked the side of his leg. "Why?"
Eyes still shut, Albus whispered, "He was my friend."
"In that case, you better hope he was worth saving." Gregorovitch's voice was low with rage, and unforgiving. "Because from this day on, whatever evil he commits with the Elder Wand will be on your conscience." He stepped back and lowered his wand.
"Get up and get out of my house," he ordered. "And if I ever lay eyes on you, Albus Dumbledore, I will kill you."
With effort and thin-lipped Albus got to his feet and Summoned his wand while Gregorovitch turned away to tend to his fallen servant. He didn't look back, and didn't even try to pretend that the heat pricking his eyes had anything to do with his aching face.
But Gregorovitch was right. Gellert was his responsibility now. Very slowly, a spark of anger began to burn in Albus's stomach, easing the burning in his eyes.
A responsibility he was going to take very seriously indeed.
Concluded in Part 2
Author: kennahijja
Recipient: jtav
Characters/Pairings: Dumbledore/Grindelwald with more than a touch of gen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings (highlight to view): may look like AU, a bit of blood
Wordcount: ~ 14 800 words
Summary: Step into a world in which Ariana Dumbledore lived…
Author's Notes: jtav, thank you for picking this prompt. I hope you'll enjoy the result. Inspired in part by this awesome piece of art. Some dialogue has been borrowed directly from PS, the title from Beedle the Bard, and the chapter headings from Albus Dumbledore :).
i. 'Being rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger.'
"You… you bloody bastards!"
Aberforth's compact, somewhat burly figure had planted itself in front of them, fists still clenched as if for a second blow.
Albus's head was still ringing from the first. He pressed one hand under his bleeding nostrils, not quite daring to apply pressure to his nose. It hurt too badly, and blood was still welling between his fingers.
Behind Aberforth, Ariana was sobbing into the front of Professor Bagshot's robes. The witch cooed at her, trying to pull her away to examine the livid welts on her arms and chest. Ariana squirmed and curled up, still wracked by those horrible, dry sobs Albus felt echoing in his own chest.
Only now, in the aftermath, adrenaline left him trembling. Those welts - if he'd been a fraction slower, a little more angry or distracted, if the exploding spell had sliced into her instead of leaving surface cuts…
He took a feeble step towards her, and stumbled back when Aberforth swung at him.
"Get away from her!"
Madam Bagshot looked up sharply. "Aberforth!"
No muscle softened in Aberforth's belligerent face. "They almost killed her!"
Vertigo rolled inside Albus's stomach like a second round of curses. He felt blood trickling down the back of his throat and almost gagged at the vile taste of it. Beside him, Gellert moved, face bone-white under a shock of blond curls. His usually mobile features, dominated by an expressive, too-large mouth, were strangely still. He handed Albus a handkerchief, and without thinking Albus dabbed at the blood.
"We habe-" He swallowed, and tasted iron. "We have to take her to St Mungo's."
Gellert sucked in air as if to speak, then didn't.
"Yes." Madam Bagshot had finally prised Ariana off her robe and was kneeling in front of her. "Aberforth and I will go with her. We'll make sure she's safe."
She rose and ushered Ariana towards Aberforth, who hugged her against him, more mindful than he was wont to be about her cuts. Albus saw her relax as his brother petted her hair, more than she'd ever done with him.
Madam Bagshot's eyes landed on Gellert, who was clutching a second tissue to staunch a bleeding cut on his wrist.
"It's not as bad as it looks. I'll try to steer the Healers away from asking awkward questions about the status of her magic. But you should leave."
There was a cool glint in her eye as she regarded her nephew, and although he'd known it would be coming, even without this, Albus flinched. More so when the sharp eyes flicked to him.
"The same goes for you, Albus. This may not go to the Ministry, but I don't think it will show you best-placed to care for your sister - or your brother."
Aberforth's head snapped up, lifting from Ariana's brown curls. "He's got himself another brother - he's none of mine any more."
It was all Albus could do not to let his face crumble.
"That's enough, Aberforth!" Madam Bagshot snapped.
He gave her a sullen stare, but accepted the cloak she thrust at him and settled it around Ariana's thin shoulders, fumbling a little with the clasp.
Madam Bagshot paused to put a hand on Albus's arm.
"Think about it, Albus - I will take care of Ariana - I couldn't do less by Kendra - and I'll make sure Aberforth goes back to Hogwarts and completes his schooling. They'll both be fine."
It didn't require a seer to hear the unspoken 'and better off without you' behind it.
Saying nothing, Albus watched her take Ariana's hand. His sister stepped into the flames of the Floo network, head bowed and nearly vanishing inside the travelling cloak. She glowed green just before Madam Bagshot walked up behind her and hid her from view.
Aberforth paused before stepping into the hearth, and turned his head.
"If you're still here when I come back, I'll kill you."
Albus bit down on the side of his tongue. He felt his skin stretching tense over his cheekbones, eliminating every expression until Aberforth had vanished.
He passed the Floo powder bowl to Gellert, not looking up until the explosion of green flames had indicated his passing. Then he slid to the ground in front of the cold heart, hugging his knees and shaking.
ii. 'Humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them.'
He wasn't surprised to find Gellert in the open doorway to his room hours later. At last Albus suspected it had been hours. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in front of the fireplace before forcing himself to get up when the ache in his nose became noticeable even through the dull pain of his thoughts.
His face in the mirror, caked with blood, had looked like a celebrant's at a Deathday Party and he'd finally given up on water and washcloth and used a Scourgify on it. His nose, always too long, thin and prominent, was puffy and red with a noticeable bump in the middle. Never one especially gifted with healing charms, he'd put a bone-knitting spell on the cartilage that nearly had him pass out with pain, then slathered it with Essence of Murtlap which they always kept a lot of due to Ariana's tendencies to hurt herself, and Aberforth's eternal scrapes.
Gellert cut a dashing figure in a slate-grey, ankle-length travelling cloak and Italian boots with silver clasps. A shrunken trunk and a portmanteau dangled on a cord from his finger. A trace of strain still showed at the edges of his pale face, although his expression was perfectly blank.
"What have you done to yourself?" he asked mildly, and although a part of Albus wanted to yell in outrage at what they had done to Ariana, he allowed Gellert to lift his head. Gellert's fingers were warm and Albus didn't flinch although Gellert's wand was sparking in his hand, the now-calm face scrunched up in concentration.
Albus squeezed his eyes shut as a warm golden glow spilled over his face. A dry stab of pain caught his nose, until he could almost hear the bone creak; his eyes spilled over. Gellert's hold on his chin kept him immobile against the pain until it peaked and faded into a warm glow. His nose still felt twice its size and ached, but not with the biting, bone-deep throbbing he'd suffered before.
"Well," Gellert said, tucking his wand into its sheath at his robe belt, "I don't think there's anything to be done for the fracture - you left it too long." His fingers were warm, comforting against Albus's skin. "It gives you character."
He let go. "Aunt Tilda flooed me from St Mungo's. Ariana is doing well. The Healers think that the scars will most likely vanish altogether, given time. She said she's petitioned the Wizengamot for custody of her and Aberforth, and they're likely to grant it." He paused for a moment. "She told the healers it was a misfiring wand, but there's no telling whether there will be an investigation. Your brother might not keep quiet."
He threw a look around Albus's room, neat but for the cramped bookshelf, the tomes stacked up on the floor rising towards the ceiling, and a desk cluttered with parchments, quills and sweets.
"You should be packing."
Albus flinched, stung raw by Gellert's ability to go right back to the cause of the fight. The answer, however, was the same - now more than ever.
"I'm not leaving," he stated flatly.
A familiar note of anger flashed across Gellert's face before he reined himself in.
"Albus, don't be stupid. You heard Aunt Matilda - the Ministry may be asking questions. Do you want to go to Azkaban?"
There was a chance of that, Albus knew, if the Wizengamot's prejudices focused on him. The violent son of a violent father...
...
He'd walked into the Hearing at his father's hand, who had wanted his heir to witness, or rather, Albus realised much later, had wanted the Wizengamot to look into the face of, the victim's brother.
Among the sea of lined, wrinkled faces, only a handful of Wizengamot members stood out in Albus's memory. The Minister of Magic himself, well-fed and unhappy in his ornately carved centre chair; a striking, tall woman in a purple turban; a younger male with frost-coloured braid, fur-lined collar, and gloves.
His father spoke little; he was rarely addressed directly by the assembly, and only his hand tightening around Albus's small one betrayed his agitation.
"Well, we're agreed, then." The Minister spread his hands as if to appease an invisible host of spirits. "The child Ariana performed Accidental Underage Magic, and a team of Obliviators will be sent to modify the boys' memories. Thankfully, so far they don't seem to have spoken to anybody."
The turbaned woman let out a barking laugh. "Did you expect anything else? They're unlikely to confess that they attacked a neighbouring child for a reason older Muggles would be disinclined to believe."
"Yes, Susan, your insistence to hold an investigation before sending out Obliviators is noted," the Minister replied, somewhat peevishly. "Now, unless there are any final comments, I'd call this Hearing closed."
"What about my daughter."
His father had let go of Albus' hand before raising his voice, and Albus shivered quietly at the tone.
A frown pulled together the Minister's eyebrows. Before he could speak, another voice cut in, silky and low.
"Yes, what about the man's daughter?"
Albus looked up, standing on tiptoes to see better. It was the blond man in the fur collar, his hair as sleek as his voice.
"Here we have a little witch, playing with bluebell flames in her own garden, spied on and assaulted by Muggle boys who left her damaged for life. We talk of Memory Charms - what about punishment?"
In the front row a red-haired wizard with a very pointed hat sighed, as did the Minister.
“Really, Lysander, we discussed this before,” the Minister said. “The Muggle boys are children too, frightened out of their wits by seeing magic performed. Yes, what they did was wrong, but we have no authority to interfere.”
The blond wizard reclined in his chair. “Hardly 'children', Minister. Three years from coming of age. And they did a terrible thing, even by Muggle standards, or so those familiar with those creatures tell me.” He inclined his head to the red-haired wizard who'd sighed before, and whose cheeks now acquired a red tinge at being so singled out. “Are we truly going to tell the poor girl's father and brother that there is no redress for the harm done to her because Muggle perpetrators can strike with impunity at the heart of our families while the Wizengamot washes its hands off responsibility?”
His last words almost vanished in the ensuing commotion as witches and wizards yelled their objections and support from the benches.
“That's enough, Lysander!” the Minister roared, his face reddening like a slab of raw beef. “You are skirting sedition. I won't have anyone advocating the breaking of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy in my presence!" The ceremonial hammer in his hand banged on the lectern before him and sparked. "This hearing is closed!”
***
Albus saw Lysander Malfoy again that night, hidden in the shadow of the pantry, when his father opened the front door to admit the wizard. Again, he was struck by the man's self-assured movements, the quality of his black-and-silver cloak and boots. As if an exotic magical creature had suddenly stepped into the Dumbledores' prosaic home.
"Percival." Mr Malfoy removed his gloves and inclined his head to Albus's father. "I've come to extend my sympathies for your daughter's suffering, and to express my disappointment with the decision taken by the Wizengamot today."
Albus expected his father to thank the other man for his support at the Hearing, but Percival Dumbledore only nodded.
Seemingly unperturbed, the blond wizard ploughed on. "However, I'd like to offer you something more than empty words. There are wizards for whom the protection of wizardkind does not mean permitting our children to suffer at the hands of Muggles." He paused, turning his gloves between long, elegant fingers. "The Knights of Walpurgis are willing to ride in your defence and punish those who violated your daughter."
Heart thumping with sudden hope, Albus watched his father's lips compress. His fingers clenched around the back of a chair.
"And what would the Knights have me do in exchange?" he asked bluntly.
"Nothing, Percival," the blond wizard soothed. "Though maybe, at some point in the future, some well-placed word or silence might be appreciated."
Raised to his full height in robes the colour of the night sky, Percival Dumbledore cut an imposing figure. "Yes, I believe it would." The other wizard seemed to think so too, because he took a step back. "I'd be grateful then, Malfoy, if you conveyed to the Knights my... gratitude for their offer, and told them in no uncertain terms that no Dumbledore will ever let himself be associated with their like."
A sneer appeared on Malfoy's lips that managed to erase his good looks in a heartbeat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Dumbledore - sorry that cowardice has infested even the oldest of wizarding bloodlines. Although it is perhaps inevitable, considering the blood status of the mate you've chosen."
"Leave!" Percival snapped and the other bowed, a slight, mocking gesture before gliding to and out of the door with a studied insolence that made Albus' chest cramp.
"But father - why?" he blurted out as soon as the door had shut on the softest of notes.
Percival looked up, not appearing to be surprised at finding his precocious eldest in the doorway. Just resigned. "He promised to avenge Adriana when the Ministry wouldn't!"
"And you'd have me indebted to a creature like Malfoy for life?"
Voice hitching with anger, Albus cried, "I'll do it myself, then! I know where they live!"
He would have been prepared for a slap, but reeled back when his father's wand snapped in his direction.
"You will go to your room and never speak of this again!"
Albus felt the force of the command propel him towards the door. His mouth moved but no sound came out. He grabbed the doorjamb, stoking the rage inside him he instinctively knew would help him throw off the compulsion. His father's expression wavered.
"Please, Albus - this once, don’t argue. Just go.'
Percival's face quietened Albus where his wand had not, and he allowed the spell to pull him out the door and up the stairs into the room he shared with Aberforth, who was already snoring.
It was the last time he saw his father in freedom. He woke up to the news of the arrested Muggle hater who would die in Azkaban, watched his mother clam up like a seashell and never open again, only to be, in the end, left alone as the only recourse of his young brother and sister.
...
"I will not leave my siblings at the mercy of a stranger," Albus insisted.
"Not even if they want you dead?" Gellert asked with all the pity of a poison-frosted sweet.
Albus felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. It had been a low blow, but then Gellert was using words like he and Albus had aspired to use magic - deft, sharp, exploring and exploiting any weakness that disclosed itself. It wasn't in Gellert's nature to show compassion.
"I've never run away from anything," Albus declared, aware how brittle his self-confidence sounded.
Gellert cocked his head. "Are you rejecting me because I hurt your sister? Or because you can't face up to the fact that you still don't hate me enough to tell me to go to hell?"
Albus's face went hot. "Not quite to hell," he mumbled. "The Continent would do as a start."
"If I thought you'd mean that, I might even leave you to it," Gellert said. "But you don't. You're not doing it for them. You're just doing it to punish yourself for fear that nobody else will."
Albus opened his mouth for an angry riposte, then took a nervous step back when Gellert put a finger over his lips, silencing him too tenderly to strike back.
"I won't let you do this to yourself, Albus." He raised his wand again and Albus vaguely considered ducking away, wild thoughts of Imperius whirring through his brain. Gellert waved the wand in a sweeping bow through the room. "Concorripe!"
The doors of Albus's wardrobe banged open; his portmanteau fell out, and his former school trunk hopped out from behind his desk. Another swipe, and Albus's clothes and books threw themselves inside, lemming-like, until the clasps clicked close and the luggage started to shrink into a hand-sized parcel that reminded Albus of the firewhisky-filled chocolate trunks that Enchanted Confectioneries sold in Diagon Alley at the beginning of winter season.
Reflexively, he grabbed hold of his cloak when Gellert thrust it at him.
"Give Aberforth a year or two to calm down and grow up," Gellert said in a voice that brooked no objection. "Give yourself a few years of study and you will come up with a better way of helping Ariana than burying yourself in this house and hating it."
Fists clenched in the rough-spun wool of his cloak, Albus listened as if the decision had been taken out of his hands, as if all he could do was move along the appointed path.
"Come." Gellert said. His leather-gloved hand sent a shower of Floo Powder into the ancient fireplace.
When the green light filled the room, Albus went.
iii. 'The glorious young leaders of the revolution.'
Albus fired another blast of energy into the sputtering fireplace that refused to provide warmth. The very walls, bricks and beams seemed to lure heat outside with a siren song. He slipped deeper underneath the three woollen blankets that covered his bed, and wriggled his toes in the faint hope of getting them warm. The chilly bed linen seemed to dissipate every warming charm placed on it.
He'd heard the story the day after they'd moved into the lodging house, gleefully narrated to him in the corner tavern where he'd gone for a drink and a meal and a test of his Translation Charms. How a travelling hag had died of dragon pox in the room they'd rented, how the proprietess had refused to call a Healer when she couldn't pay, and how the hag had cursed the room with eternal chill.
He exhaled on his fingers, white against his black fingerless gloves, and shifted the parchment he was reading to enjoy the fleeting warmth.
The foeglass on the table gave an unconcerned ping right before the ancient oak door banged open. As always, Gellert didn't bother with the handle, and just threw it open with magic. It was effective, if raising the ire of their landlady, as battered as the door, not to mention the entire house.
He was wrapped up tightly in his travelling cloak, liberally laced with warming charms, and again Albus admired the contrast between the ornate blue-green fabric and the soft gold of Gellert's hair. His face was glowing with the cold. Prague in winter agreed with him.
After banging the door shut, he pulled a sheaf of paper out of the breast pocket of his cloak.
Albus let one of his eyebrows travel up. "You got it?"
"A personal invitation to Gellert Aulus Grindelwald to study at the Maharal Archive as a free scholar, from Archivarius Isidor Bellum."
"Not bad," Albus observed airily. There was just the degree of smugness to Gellert's entrance to warrant the put-down he was about t deliver. He put down the parchments he'd been reading, spread out like a fan on the coverlet, and leaned back against the headboard with his arms folded behind his head.
Gellert's eyes narrowed. "You too?" When Albus just smirked at him and raised his thumb and index finger to indicate 'two', he shook his head. "But how? You barely got out of bed since we arrived here, apart from going to the pub and gawking at old Muggle stone heaps."
"British Youth Representative to the Wizengamot, remember?" Albus licked his lip, still smirking. "And don't pretend you didn't gawk like a Muggle tourist at the Castle as well - wasn't it after all where your hero Rudolph II made his last stand against the European Statute of Wizarding Secrecy?"
"You sneaky little bastard," Gellert said slowly, not reacting to the dig. "When did you send them?"
"I owled the letters after we'd portkeyed into Calais."
Albus had sent off a third letter as well, which had prompted a rather curt note of apology that Maître Rusballardiere was currently sponsoring a maximum number of research scholars and regretted to be unable to accommodate him. While Albus didn't doubt the rush of the wizarding best and brightest to study at the Maharal, he doubted that many had his qualifications. Maître Rusballardiere had been very encouraging towards him at the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo, and Albus wondered what research into his recent background the Maître had undertaken to provoke this impersonal refusal.
He did not mention that to Gellert, though. Astonishing enough that a man of his reputation, who hadn't even completed Durmstrang, had met with success so quickly. European wizards were more open-minded about a history in the Dark Arts.
"You'd do that, wouldn't you?" Gellert clicked his tongue.
For an instant, Albus' ears heated as if Gellert had hit him with Occlumency. Then he recalled that his partner in crime was really quite pants at mind-altering spells. He was fast, though.
The little parcel smacked Albus in the chest before he could fling himself aside, and impacted with a soft crackle. It was wrapped in gaudy purple paper with animated gold tinsel that tickled his fingers. Albus squeezed it gingerly. It was surprisingly soft.
"What is it?"
"Open it," was Gellert's predictable reply. "I didn't quite buy it for you upstaging me, but…"
Albus poked at the wrapping, causing tinsels to flit away under his fingers until the paper unrolled its contents.
He let out a rather unmanly giggle at the sight of a pair of large-sized, fluffy socks flopping onto his palm. They were a vibrant saffron yellow, decorated with tiny wands that sparked, brooms that zoomed, and cauldrons that emitted puffs of smoke. The wool was seductively soft and warm against his palm.
"They've got Veela hair and warming charms woven in," Gellert smirked. "I hope it'll put an end to your whining about being cold here."
"It's not my fault that you dragged me right into the coldest winter in Czech memory," Albus protested while pulling the socks over his feet. They were as warm and comfortable as they looked, and brightened the room up all on their own. "Thank you!"
Gellert tousled his hair. "You're welcome. And tomorrow, we start on our quest for power."
Albus rolled his eyes and wriggled his toes in the new socks. Shoving his precious parchments onto the nightstand, he closed his fingers around Gellert's wrist and pulled him close.
iv. 'It takes a great deal of courage to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.'
Albus watched the flames change colours in the brazier as he carefully measured out seven drops of dragon's blood over the hissing coals. Anger drew the incantation into a taut string of syllables. His skin crawled as a rage-filled, ghostly hiss rose around him before fizzling away in magic and heat.
The next moment, the fireplace emitted a burst of warmth that Albus hadn't experienced in two years, no matter how much they'd stoked the fire. He gave an apologetic bow to the ghost of the hag who hadn't cursed the place without reason, and settled down in a chair to wait.
His fingers slid restlessly over the last letter he'd received from Madam Bagshot, whose penmanship was concise in a way her books were not. Ariana had settled in well at her home; Aberforth had finished his 7th year at Hogwarts with 3 OWLs (Albus had winced at that), and had taken a job at the Roaring Lion in Godric's Hollow. Ariana's scrawl of a signature, sometimes with a word of greeting, never failed to follow Madam Bagshot's. Aberforth never wrote.
While at times missing Britain felt like an Erlking gnawing on his intestines, Albus had, alone and with Gellert, made Prague his own over the years. They'd attended the premiere of Malecrit's controversial Merlot, Justine, Jeanne, Emeraude, Etienne et un Centaure at the National Magical Theatre, went to Muggle workingmen's meetings and public lectures at Charles University, and saw traditional performances of Statumantic Art in memory of the Maharal Judah Loew, Chief of the Prague Wizard Council and founder of the Archive that would later bear his name.
When spring was too insistently beautiful for research, they watched the Prague Predators trash their opponents in the Hapsburg League at Quidditch with feral determination.
Only once, Albus had accompanied Gellert to a meeting of the Friends of the Schattenjäger, supporters of the militant pureblood Schattenjägerbund, and spent the question section lovingly tearing apart the speaker's argument until the man's tongue had knotted with rage. They'd agreed, after, not to repeat that experience. Albus had grown skilled at ignoring Gellert's more unsavoury associations.
After this morning's surprise visit, however, he knew that avoiding the issue was no longer possible.
His anger had not abated when Gellert returned, for once without his customary dramatic entrance, and raised an eyebrow when he found Albus at home. Then the heat registered, and his eyebrow travelled up further.
"I see congratulations are in order again." He divested himself of his winter cloak and quipped, "Looks like you won't be needing my socks, then?"
His expression shifted when Albus just stared at him coldly. Dismissively between index and middle finger, he handed over the parchment note he'd received earlier.
Gellert took it, and flipped it open. His mouth tightened as he read.
"It came hand delivered," Albus commented idly, "by the Muggle Rector of Charles University himself, from young Master Danilo Carodej..." The Carodejs were among the most formidable Czech pureblood families, their youngest scion only just out of Durmstrang and made heir by his father meeting the wrong end of a Swedish Short Snout near Arjeplog during last year's race. "I wasn't aware you had such devoted followers among Prague's wizarding elite," he added. "Practically screaming 'Look, Master, Imperius!"
"He's very young yet," Gellert said. "I'm sorry - I didn't expect you to be home this morning."
Albus scoffed and threw him the sealed black envelope that had come with the note.
"I obliviated the poor man and sent him home, suggesting he'd been seduced into the seedier quarters of town by a glossy-haired beauty."
The corner of Gellert's mouth turned up. "Perhaps he has?"
Not the least in the mood for innuendo, Albus stood.
"You think I'll overlook a bit of Muggle-baiting if I'm not here to witness it?" he snapped. "I really don't know you any more!" He threw up his hands. "I saw you hex those goons who harassed that elderly Jewish couple in the street last week. They were all Muggles, and yet you intervened - how does that square with you knowing every Muggle-hater in the bloody city?"
"I don't hate Muggles, Albus." Gellert leaned forward and placed his hand on Albus' wrist. "Yes, I thought I did once, before you dragged me along into all those Muggle pubs and meetings. They aren't so bad, on their own." His grip tightened, until Albus thought he could feel Gellert's pulse radiating from his fingertips. "But as a species, they are lethal."
"No more than wizards," Albus retorted.
"And that," Gellert said, strangely gently and loosening his grip, "is where, for all your brilliance, you're a fool."
Albus' jaw clenched. "Not sharing your prejudices doesn't make me a fool."
"Maybe not a fool, then," Gellert conceded. "Just a dreamer."
Albus grimaced and pulled away. There were better ways of spending an afternoon than listening to Gellert in one of his moods.
"No!" Gellert rose as if to bodily block the door. "We should have had this talk months ago."
"I'm not so sure," Albus said. "Considering how hearing you on the topic makes me appreciate you far less than I normally would. I don't ask questions about the people you spend time with. I think it's better for both of us if we keep it this way."
Gellert's expression hardened. "I'm not trying to hide my connections, or my plans - there were times when we could speak about these things. For their own good, remember?"
Albus forced himself not to flinch at the low blow. "I was a child, then," he said. "I knew nothing of the world except for Hogwarts, and even in Godric's Hollow we mingled with no one, least of all Muggles. I was wrong about the absolutism of power then, Gellert. What we almost did to Ariana showed me just how much. I was wrong - and so are you."
"I don't hate Muggles, Albus - I fear them." At Albus's snort of disbelief, Gellert shook his head. "Yes, I know what you're going to say. We are so very superior to them, with a wand and magic. But there's so many of them, and they're violently aggressive against everyone they fear and hate-"
"Like the Schattenjägerbund or the Knights of Walpurgis?" Albus asked.
"They're misguided and blinded by their own sense of superiority," Gellert admitted. "But if they're controlled, they can be useful."
"Controlled by you?"
Gellert shrugged. "They are willing to be. And I'm sure you'll agree that that's preferable to them indiscriminately harassing and murdering 'blood traitors' and Muggles."
"Maybe." Albus nodded. "But I'd prefer ridding us of them and their disgusting ideas altogether."
"Just look at this country," Gellert insisted. "The Czechs hate the Austrians, the Austrians look down on the Czechs, and all of them want to stick it to the Jews. How long until the whole mess will erupt in war all over the bloody continent? A blind man can see it coming!"
"Yes," Albus nodded. "That's why we don't need the likes of the Schattenjäger to stir tensions up even further."
"But deep down in their scared little hearts they know wizards exist," Gellert ploughed on without considering Albus's protest. "They know that another species shares their world, one that's infinitely more powerful and that holds the leash to all the monsters their collective mind half remembers. And despite all the differences they invent to set themselves apart from each other, at the very core it's not each other they want to destroy, no matter what a good job they do. It's us."
If Albus admired the flush of agitation on Gellert's cheeks, he didn't show it. "So what's your solution? Preventive genocide?"
"Of course not," Gellert scoffed. "But perhaps after the war they're moving towards, perhaps after the next, they'll be disillusioned enough - weakened enough - to embrace another rule, to look to magic as the redeemer rather than the enemy. Maybe then we'll be ready to reconsider the International Statue of Secrecy - help them heal while ensuring they won't turn on us again."
"And where do I fit into this brave new world of yours?" Albus asked. He'd heard Gellert speechify before, and while acknowledging his insight, he wasn't particularly susceptible to rhetoric, being rather too good at it himself. He could imagine it having a devastating effect on others, though.
Gellert took a step towards him. "You know I hate the thought of losing you, even for a while, Albus. But sooner or later, I hope you'll agree to return to England and prepare for the time when we can renegotiate wizarding secrecy. You're one of our most brilliant minds. You can charm and convince wizards without effort. And if you'd set your mind to it - in the Ministry of Magic, or at Hogwarts - you could bring together like-minded wizards and witches and spread our ideas." He shrugged, smiled. "That's the hope I have for us - fighting together for a worthy goal."
Albus felt his teeth clench. There was a tempting, seductive shiver running down his spine at the vision of a future that would see wizards and Muggles openly share the world, like a hot flash of memory from a more innocent - more naive - past. But he heard, as clearly as Gellert's impassionate words, the things he hadn't said.
"Since when have you been researching the Deathstick?"
He nodded at the parchment, which announced, in bold letters for all to see, that young Master Carodej had discovered the whereabouts of the 'Wand of Destiny'.
"Deathstick?" Gellert snorted. "Who came up with that? The sort of Dark Wizard who thinks that sticking 'death' in front of everything will make them scary?"
"That's not the point, Gellert!" Albus snapped.
"What is the point, then, Albus? That I came to Godric's Hollow to research the Peverell connection with the Deathly Hallows? That all I found were tales about the Cloak, which is all but useless? That I found something far more interesting there, and dragged it away with me?"
Albus bit his lip, unwilling to let himself be pacified. "You found out about the wand now. I want to know what you're planning to do about it."
Gellert's mouth twisted into a smile, but this time no humour lighted up his dark eyes. "I plan to take it, Albus." He cocked his head. "Surely you can't be surprised - or do you have an interest in owning it yourself?" He raised the envelope, its silver seal still glittering unbroken in the watery sunlight filtering in through the window. "I'm surprised you haven't opened it to find out, then?"
Albus allowed the rage to build in his stomach, melting the ice that had congealed in his chest.
"I will not become your minion," he said, his voice rough. "And I won't let the Elder Wand fall into your hands either."
Gellert gave a harsh laugh. "I wish you luck in the attempt, then."
Lips clenched and face unreadable, Albus watched him leave after tucking the envelope into the inside pocket of his robe.
When his footfalls had died away at the bottom of the creaking wooden stairs, Albus pulled out of his copy of Advanced Transfigurative Theory of Hemomagical Substances an identical black envelope.
"Very well, my dear Gellert… who needs to break postal privacy if they can cast a perfect Duplication Charm?" He slid his nail under the seal and listened to the dry crack of it breaking. "If you want war, Gellert - you can have it."
v. 'Real, and dangerous, and a lure for fools.'
Taras Ilarion Gregorovitch lived at the outskirts of a Muggle village bordering on the wilds of Boubin Forest, about 50 miles south of Prague. Albus Apparated behind a barn at the outmost farm of the village, and took the path into the woods outlined on his parchment invitation.
Birdsong and the last rays of the evening sun made it a pleasant stroll, different from the stone-and-brick bustle of the city. The air had the tartness of December, and hoarfrost crackled under the soles of his boots as he walked. The house, when he turned around the final corner, was large but unpretentious, with solid white walls and red-brick roof - resembling a farmhouse, but without the outlying buildings.
Albus felt the hot breath of wards flow over him twice before reaching the front step, but was allowed to pass. Either the wandmaker had imbued the invitation parchment with a charm to admit him, or he was supervising the wards in person.
A Muggle servant opened the door when Albus rang, and gave him a respectful bow. "The Master is waiting for you."
He escorted Albus to the dining room, full of sturdy darkwood furniture brightened up by white lace tablecloth and doilies.
Only moments later, Master Gregorovitch entered. Albus had heard of him, of course. The most famous duellist in the Austrian Empire for a decade, recently retired - rare enough for a breed that tended to die young - to open a wandmaking shop that was gaining a reputation. He was younger than Albus had imagined, not much over 30, and looked the part of a warlock - a strong build, the traditional sorcerer's braid, knee-high boots and plain brown robes.
"Albus Dumbledore?" Albus shook a calloused hand, and took the seat Gregorovitch pointed to. "I admit I was intrigued by your letter. I'm not often receiving correspondence from one of the most reputable young researchers at the Maharal. Unless, of course, they are looking to buy a spare wand."
Albus shook his head. "Being a poor scholar, I'm afraid that would be somewhat beyond my means," he admitted.
"However, you did imply that you had some information that I would find of interest?"
"I apologise for intruding on your solitude with a warning," Albus said.
"A serious affair, then." The wandmaker's eyes twinkled in a way that made Albus's ears warm under his long hair. "May I offer you a drink first?"
Mouth suddenly dry, Albus nodded.
Gregorovitch rang the bell on the mantelpiece with a wand flick, and a moment later a young female servant in white blouse and black embroidered bodice and long skirt came in. On her wrists, heavy silver bracelets glittered with runes. She curtsied, and at Gregorovitch's order produced a bottle of Hexenschuss with its characteristic hole in the middle from the drinks cabinet.
She poured two glasses, set them down on matching doilies, and left.
Albus looked up at Gregorovitch. "You have very loyal servants," he remarked.
The wandmaker met his eyes without flinching. "I prefer to surround myself with Muggles, Master Dumbledore. They may not lust after others' possessions any less than wizards do, but they don't covet what they don't know." He took a sip from his liquor. "And before you accuse me of using illegal charms - I tell every Muggle who comes to me for work exactly who it is they'll be working for. Those who show horror, or reluctance, I Obliviate and send on their way. Those who accept service to a wizard? Well, my magic will make it impossible for them to betray me to my enemies, and impossible for my enemies to influence their minds. But they know, and accept it." Pale blue eyes stared into Albus's. "Does that satisfy you, Mr Dumbledore, or would you prefer to take your warning elsewhere?"
"No," Albus answered. "I apologise for jumping to conclusions. I am somewhat… sensitive about this topic at the moment."
Gregorovitch's face lost some of its hardness, but not all. Albus lifted his glass and the sweet aroma of pear filled his nose. The schnapps was distilled from the Zaubirne pear, infused with Aconite steam that gave it its bite. Gellert loved it. Realising that he was stalling, he put the glass down firmly without tasting it.
"I have been informed, from rather reliable sources, that you are currently in possession of the wand known as the 'Elder Wand'," he said.
Gregorovitch's eyebrows lifted. "That is quite curious. I'd be interested in the source of your 'information'."
Albus took a deep breath. "I believe it originates somewhere in the periphery of House Carodej."
"I see." Gregorovitch leaned back in his chair and toyed with his glass. Albus noted that he hadn't touched it so far. "And why would you be interested in this… rumour, Mr Dumbledore?"
Albus's eyes widened when he understood the implications. "No, it's not me," he blurted out. "I'm not after the Deathstick!"
"No?" Gregorovitch inquired, one eyebrow curled up in polite disbelief.
Albus paused, and sucked in a breath. The Deathstick was a warrior's wand, running counter to everything he hoped to become, but for a moment, the sheer thought of all those centuries of power concentrated in his hands made his fingers tremble.
He gave a hollow laugh. "I don't think there is any wizard who wouldn't covet the Elder Wand," he admitted. "I'm no exception. But I think I'd be able to resist the temptation." He gave the wandmaker a faint smile. "There is a wizard in Prague who is looking for the wand. He has forged connections with several anti-Muggle groups, and I fear that he wants to use the 'Wand of Destiny' to impress them into following him into yet another crusade against Muggles."
Gregorovitch stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I have heard of such a man coming into power over the past years," he said. "Some few years back, Jan Carodej served as my second when I duelled a sorcerer who styled himself the Master of Elder Wand. We fought. I won. Carodej swore silence, but yes - he might have told his young son before he died. And the younger Carodej is well-known for his pureblood views."
"That wizard will come for you soon, I think," Albus said.
"I have retired from duelling," Gregorovitch pointed out.
"I don't think that will quite stop him," sighed Albus.
"What will?"
Albus took a sip from his Hexenschuss. He wasn't likely to convince the wandmaker to part with the Deathstick. In the several centuries of wizarding history over which it could be traced, no one had ever given it up freely. And Gregorovitch didn't strike him as the type to leave his home and blossoming career and go into hiding. He swallowed.
"There may be-"
A crash followed by the tinkling of broken glass made Albus jump and drop his drink. Before he had shaken off his surprise, Gregorovitch was on his feet and raced for the door. A female voice screamed, high and terrified.
Albus raced after the wandmaker, up the stairs and down a corridor until Gregorovitch stopped abruptly at a door that had not only been ripped off one hinge, but broken in two with splinters sticking out in every direction.
Outside, back pressed against the corridor wall with both hands pressed to her mouth, stood the girl who'd served them earlier. She was trembling, and staring into the room in horror.
Catching up and peering over Gregorovitch's shoulder, Albus saw that the window to what looked like the wandmaker's personal study had been shattered too, with shards littering the entire floor. Gregorovitch's male employee who had admitted Albus was lying on the ground, wedged against a wall, with large, blood-filled boils over his entire left side. Apart from him, the study seemed empty.
Gregorovitch inched inside, wand raised, and Albus was taking a step forward to follow when suddenly the wall seemed to ripple. A shadow emerged, wand thrust forward. And sidestepped when a ray of red light from Gregorovitch's wand slammed into the wall where its head had been just a split second ago.
"Expelliarmus!"
The spell hit Gregorovitch with so much force that it broke his fingers. He screamed as he was thrown backwards and let go of the wand, which whooshed towards the shadowy attacker. Albus sent an "Accio!" after it, but the intruder's fingers had already closed around the wood. He drew it close to his chest while he made for the window in one fluid move. Albus aimed a shaky stunning spell at the figure that now crouched on the window sill, but the attacker ducked to the side and all the spell achieved was to knock back his hood.
Albus didn't need to see the glint of golden hair, the glittering eyes or flushed cheeks to know who they were dealing with. Behind him, Gregorovitch let out a growl of rage. Face hardening, Albus sprang forward, only to veer to the side when a Stunning Spell raced at him. A wild smile that Albus knew was all for him appeared on Gellert's face just before he spread his arms and let himself fall backwards out of the window.
A shocked cry escaped Albus's lips. He regained his balance and raced to the window. There was no cloaked figure lying broken on the cobblestones. A Hover Charm set Gellert down on his feet with the gentleness of a feather. For an instant he stood there immobile, stolen wand in one hand, the other stretched out, head thrown back and staring up at Albus with snow crystals glinting in his hair. Then a broom shot towards him out of the woods, and slammed into his free hand.
Just then Albus felt himself pushed aside. He caught himself against the window frame just in time to see Gregorovitch taking aim into the courtyard, a short, dark wand clutched in his left fist while the right still hung down like a broken claw. Of course a duellist and wandmaker would have a backup wand on their person!
Green light started to build at the tip of Gregorovitch's wand, turning his face into a grim mask.
"Avada Ked-"
Without a moment's thought, Albus grabbed Gregorovitch's wand arm and pushed it away, breaking spell and aim at the same time. Outside, the broom streaked away into the night, leaving only the echo of Gellert's laughter. The wandmaker stumbled, then caught himself and backhanded Albus across the face with enough force to send him to the floor. His cheekbone felt as if it had been shattered.
"Your accomplice escaped!" Gregorovitch hissed, spare wand pointing at Albus's face. "Give me one good reason why I should not kill you on the spot."
"He wasn't my accomplice," Albus ground out. He could feel his cheek swelling, and moving his mouth hurt. "He's the one I came to warn you about."
"You claimed to be afraid of what he'd do with the Elder Wand? And then helped him flee with it?"
Albus swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "It was the Elder Wand, then?"
"Of course it was!" the wandmaker snarled. "Where do you think I'd keep it? In my workshop?"
No, Albus thought. A wizard who'd gained possession of the Deathstick would keep it on his person.
Gregorovitch kicked the side of his leg. "Why?"
Eyes still shut, Albus whispered, "He was my friend."
"In that case, you better hope he was worth saving." Gregorovitch's voice was low with rage, and unforgiving. "Because from this day on, whatever evil he commits with the Elder Wand will be on your conscience." He stepped back and lowered his wand.
"Get up and get out of my house," he ordered. "And if I ever lay eyes on you, Albus Dumbledore, I will kill you."
With effort and thin-lipped Albus got to his feet and Summoned his wand while Gregorovitch turned away to tend to his fallen servant. He didn't look back, and didn't even try to pretend that the heat pricking his eyes had anything to do with his aching face.
But Gregorovitch was right. Gellert was his responsibility now. Very slowly, a spark of anger began to burn in Albus's stomach, easing the burning in his eyes.
A responsibility he was going to take very seriously indeed.
Concluded in Part 2