Work Text:
Forgive him when his tongue lies through his brain
Even after three times, he betrays me
Dying is a very busy affair. Despite seeing many people's lives come to a close, both early and abruptly as well as after much time and consideration, he is still rather surprised at the amount of work there is to be done if he wants to leave things in order. Writing his will had been a tricky affair; he had to get the language precisely right. He's sure the Ministry will intervene anyway, but at least the three of them would get the items they needed after a month's time, at the most. For some time, before realizing it would complicate things far too much, he considers leaving other personal items to specific people—Minerva, for one, certainly deserved to have that signed copy of Merlin's One Thousand and One Magickal Resipes for Cerimonies (Mareigs, Acoolyts and Beehedings, Et Cetera) that she's had her eye on for so many years (so few people knew that Merlin was an accomplished chef!), and Severus would surely like some of his diaries from his days of experimenting with Nicholas, not to mention a few flagons full of memories of Lily. But truthfully, he would probably just use the alchemy notes to torment his students further, and either way, Albus is forced to admit that Severus is unlike to outlive him by very long, the poor man. Hopefully he will make it long enough to deliver his last message to the boy, or to pass along those last vital memories, if need be.
Memories. Those are the real challenge. Some of them would prove quite useful to future students, if he does say so himself, and those stay on the glass shelves in the corner of his office to be donated to the school along with everything else. But some of them will have to go. They're too personal and of no use to anyone else—except perhaps Rita Skeeter, of course, who will surely find her way into his office and mine every inch of it for secrets and information faster than you can say "trespassing harpy." Colorful and didactically fascinating though his life has surely been, there are parts of it that deserve to die with him. There are things no one needs to know, things he really shouldn't have even saved for himself all these years.
He puts it off for some time, though. There is quite a lot else to be done, and for a while he manages to find other things to do to postpone it, even though it's such an important task. Perhaps there's a part of him that's playing for time, that still believes he might be able to delay the inevitable even further, or perhaps avoid it entirely. Which is a rather curious thing to realize about himself; he had considered his own death many times before—perhaps even hoped somewhat for its arrival, at times—but now that it was approaching with the swiftness and surety of an airborne Thestral, he was a bit more uncomfortable with the idea than he had been before. He's certainly tired, at least physically, and if everything goes as planned with his will and the Horcruxes, he will at least help to defeat Voldemort before (and after) his death, which is a comfort. And he is certainly curious about death; of all the many things he has studied and explored, that is an area that remains as mysterious to him as the further reaches of space, or the deepest depths of the sea. It's the finality of it all that strikes him; it is the one exploration from which no one ever returns.
But it is coming; there is no point in denying it. He has never believed in avoiding difficult truths, and now is not a time to start. He sits in his office on a sunny morning in late April, and something about the peaceful weather and the quiet of the grounds, as well as the beady look Fawkes is giving him from his perch, tells him that today is the today. Fawkes seems to be mere hours away from a Burning Day, and he cocks his wrinkled, featherless head as if to say I know when it's my time; you'd really better catch up. He chuckles, and rises from his desk, his lavender robes sweeping the floor, and moves over to the glass-fronted cabinet. The seven bottles are lined up at the back of the bottom shelf, covered with a generous layer of dust; he has not allowed himself to touch them for many years. He checks the labels automatically before waving his wand and sending them over to his desk, where they form a neat row, but he already knows precisely what is in each one without having to check.
"I say, Dumbledore," pipes up Phineas Nigellus from the wall as Albus resumes his seat at his desk. "What've you got there?"
"Just a bit of spring cleaning," Albus replies calmly. "I've let it go far too long." He hasn't told any of the other headmasters around his walls that he will soon be joining their ranks; he doesn't want to run the risk that one of them will let something slip, and he'd rather not deal with endless months of questioning—or hints. It already feels like cheating, in a way, to know ahead of time that his time is ending; to ask those who have already moved on for details feels somehow wrong. Sometimes he wonders if they can sense it anyway, though. Perhaps that is one of the perks. He will soon know. "It seems I've become a bit of a pack rat in my old age."
"And just what is it that you want stricken from the record?" Phineas presses, nosy as ever—he misses nothing; he has noticed that Albus has not brought the Pensieve to his desk. He has not brought out these memories to revisit them.
"Oh, this and that," he replies lightly, his eyes on the innocent-looking glass bottles before him. Strange that they can contain things of such vast power and weight. "I made some very unfortunate fashion choices in the early 1900s and I'd very much like to forget them. I'm afraid boaters just didn't suit me." Phineas gives a grunt of annoyance, clearly aware that he isn't getting the full truth, but decides to leave it. Albus picks up the first bottle on the left with his good hand, and somehow, just from holding it, it's as if he's plunged headfirst into the stone bowl, and he closes his eyes as the memory sweeps over him, sharp as reality.
(one.)
Albus is immersed in a book when a rapping comes at the door. He doesn't move, and after a moment there's another knock. "Ab, can you get that?"
"You get it, I'm not your bloody butler," Aberforth grunts, his eyes on the tower of Exploding Snap cards that he has been constructing for the last quarter of an hour. "You're closer."
"I'm in the middle of something."
"And I'm not?" he shoots back, glancing up to shoot him a nasty look. Albus rolls his eyes pointedly. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot that there's nothing worthwhile in life outside of your fucking books." Albus just sighs and gets to his feet. He'd been like this since—well, for as long as he can remember, honestly, but ever since Kendra's funeral, not a civil word has passed between them, it seems. As he passes by Aberforth, he covertly jabs his wand in the direction of the card tower, which collapses. Aberforth swears again, loudly, just as Albus opens the door to reveal Bathilda standing on the doorstep, her hand raised in midair, ready to knock again.
"Erm," she says. "Did I come at a bad time, boys?"
"Not at all," Albus says, hitching a gracious smile onto his face, just as Aberforth says "Yes, rather." Albus shoots him a warning look over his shoulder. "I was just going to make some tea, Ms. Bagshot, would you like to come in?"
"Oh, no, no need, dear," Bathilda says with a wave. "No, I just popped by to say hello and see how you were getting on. And I've someone for you to meet." She turns and looks along the side of the house, and Albus imitates her unconsciously. "Gellert! Gellert, stop poking about in the garden and come say hello."
There is no lightening bolt, no shocking blast of emotion or understanding when he steps into view, his blond hair framing his face, on which there rests a polite, vaguely interested smile. He is nearly as tall as Albus, which is saying something, and he wears blue waistcoat, despite the warmth of the day. Looking at him, all Albus thinks, oddly enough, is he looks just like I thought he would. Somehow, even though he knew nothing of his arrival, it is as though he has been waiting for him.
"Albus, dear, this is my nephew, Gellert," she says, looking between the two of them with something like pride in her face. "He's staying with me for the summer. I rather thought you two would have a lot to chat about, being the clever lads that you are and all." Gellert bows slightly and extends a hand, and Albus takes it.
"It is good to meet you," Gellert says courteously, his accent rounding out his vowels slightly. "My aunt tells me much about you and your many accomplishments."
"Thank you," he replies, but as he cannot honestly return the compliment, just adds "And welcome to Godric's Hollow, then."
Gellert shoots a quick look at his aunt, and then says, a bit hesitantly, "I was very sorry to hear about your mother. That is a terrible loss."
"Thank you," Albus repeats automatically. "Er, that's very kind." From behind him, he hears Ab, who hasn't moved, make a small noise of dissent; he never seems to like hearing platitudes of sympathy from anyone about Kendra, probably because so often they were really just fishing for the truth about what had happened to her. "This is my brother, Aberforth," he adds, stepping aside slightly to reveal him still kneeling on the floor, gathering up his cards. Gellert bows again and starts to extend a hand, but Ab doesn't get up. He merely gives Gellert a coldly appraising look and jerks his head in greeting without comment. Bathilda fidgets awkwardly as a silence falls awkwardly between the four of them. Then she says, too brightly, "Well, I suppose we'll be getting on, then! Don't hesitate to come by if you need anything, lads."
"I appreciate that, Ms. Bagshot," Albus says, and she smiles, waving aside his polite address. "And—Gellert, I hope we see each other again soon."
"Most certainly," he replies, and they shake hands again. And in a moment, he and Bathilda are gone, heading back into the sunshine across the garden path. Albus watches them go for a moment, unsure of what he is feeling. There was nothing remarkable about the encounter, and yet...and yet something that seems to have been weighing on his chest since his mother's death feels ever-so-slightly lighter all of a sudden.
"Great," Ab mutters from his spot on the floor. "Another jumped-up tosser in the neighborhood. This is going to be a lovely summer."
***
Albus uncorks the bottle with a flick of his wand and regards the swirling vapor within it for a moment. Then he points his wand inside. "Evanesco."
He picks up the second bottle.
(two.)
Albus lies in bed, looking out the window, watching the stars coming to life and pretending he doesn't hear what's going on downstairs. "Come on, now, Ana, don't be like that, just try a bit."
"I don't like it."
"But it's good for you. Go on, just a few bites."
"How many?"
"Three and three-quarters."
"That doesn't make sense!"
"Well, that's the rules. I can't help it, it's been down in the book for thousands of years."
"What'll you give me if I eat it?"
"What'll I give you?" A burst of laugher, a sound he never hears when Ab's with anyone else. "How about this: if I can't make you laugh in the next minute, you don't have to eat it."
"That's not hard, you're not funny at all."
"Oh, that's how it is, is it? Rictusem—"
"That's cheating!" Wild laughter. "You can't use charms!"
"Ah, but you're laughing anyway, I've won!"
A soft sound of wings make Albus look around. An owl lands on the sill of his open window, a letter in its beak. It says only "Albus," with no address. Frowning slightly, Albus reaches out and takes it. Who would be writing to him at this hour?
He sits up and slits the envelope open with a finger as the owl takes off again. Inside is a badly-folded piece of parchment in a hand he doesn't recognize. Albus, it says. I have thought about it all night and I think I have a solution, and I couldn't wait until morning to tell you: essence of Murtlap. They are not very easy to catch, but if the Murtlap is of proper age and the tentacles are strained properly, I am quite sure it would be effective in...
A grin begins to curve Albus' mouth. Despite the trivial nature of the note, there is something about it that just makes his stomach flutter with contentment. He couldn't even wait until morning to talk to him; they had spent the whole day together talking and he still couldn't resist writing him a letter...he had spent the entire evening thinking about him too. It was like their minds were connected, as though by a long string trailing across the dark hollow, channeling their thoughts and whatever else...
He flops onto his back, hugging the letter to his chest and grinning like a schoolboy. Albus. Just seeing his name in his hand like that is a thrill.
***
"Evanesco."
He picks up the next bottle.
(three.)
"You Britons have a very strange idea of summer," Gellert grouses, shaking out his wet curls. "I thought this was suppose to be a sunny time of year."
"It's all relative, I'm afraid," Albus chuckles. They are seated on a bench on the edge of the churchyard, the sky the same color as the tombstones and the rain splattering dismally around them, although they have cast an Impervius Charm over themselves, like an invisible bubble shielding them from the downpour. They had been strolling across the square when the clouds suddenly burst open and began soaking them, and though it might have made more sense to seek refuge in one of their homes, neither of them suggest it out loud. There seems to be an unspoken agreement between them to remain alone wherever they could, away from Bathilda's eager questions and Aberforth's glares. "We consider four sunny days within a week to be a great victory in all twelve months."
"I don't know how you can bear it," he says grumpily, and then catches himself. "Not that there is not much to love about England, of course, but I am afraid I am not suited to staying in any one place for very long. There is much to see out in the world."
"That's true," Albus agrees, although his heart seems to stutter a bit at the thought of his eventual departure from Godric's Hollow. "Now that I'm done school, I plan to travel quite a bit, actually. I—I put it off a bit when my mother died, but I think soon I shall manage to..." He trails off.
"Ah, yes, that is the tradition, is it not?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in interest."The grand voyage after graduation?" He frowns slightly and shifts to face him on the bench. "And your brother and sister will remain at home?"
Albus looks at him quickly. He had decided to tell Gellert the truth about Ariana a few days previously, although he had asked him not to tell Bathilda. He had accepted the information calmly and had not asked why he had not told him before, or why he was telling him now, instead only saying "They would have us all hide if they could, would they not?" more to himself than to Albus. "Well, I—I don't think I ought to bring them along, do you?" Albus asks now, fear tightening in his chest—does he think him selfish? Is Ab right after all?
"No, of course not. You misunderstand me," Gellert said, his voice earnest. "I think it is good that you should go. I think..." He pauses, and sighs, apparently choosing his words carefully. "I think it is all very good, what you do now, looking after them because your parents are not here. It is good to care. But I think you must remember what else it is that you have."
"What I have?" Thunder rumbles in the distance.
"You have much to give the world, Albus," Gellert says seriously. "Your mind, and your ideas, and your magical gifts—it is not right that they should stay locked up here. I think you must do much with them. And...and I would like to be a part of it." He reaches out and puts a hand on Albus' wrist, giving it a little shake. "This voyage you take after school. Is it to be solitary? Or may others come along?"
Albus can't speak. For a moment, his mouth is too dry to form words. Then he swallows and says "No. I mean, yes. Others—others may come. Of course, others. That's quite common, actually."
"Then I would like to come with you, if I may," Gellert says boldly, and Albus realizes that he has been building up to this moment for days. "I know I have not finished school like you, but I think there is much we can do together. There is much we can accomplish out in the world." He looks straight into Albus' eyes, and in the flat grayness of the day around them his eyes are so blue that it almost hurts. "Do you want this too?"
"Yes," Albus whispers. "Yes, yes, more than anything."
Gellert smiles. His entire face lights up with satisfaction, and without another word he leans forward, still gripping Albus' wrist, and kisses him on the lips. He tastes like rainwater, and Albus' free hand drifts up to caress the still-wet curls tumbling down his neck.
When they break apart, Albus realizes he has been holding his breath, and exhales, his shoulders sinking. Gellert chuckles and says "Good. I am glad. Now perhaps we should go and have some of that tea you love so much here?"
***
"Evanesco."
He picks up the fourth bottle.
(four.)
Albus shifts over slightly so that he is lying right in the crook of of Gellert's shoulder, his hair lightly tickling his forehead. Moonlight shines as bright as a lamp through his bedroom window; Bathilda has gone off to Egypt to do some research for her latest book, and they have the place to themselves for the entire weekend. Albus had waited anxiously at the window for an hour on Friday afternoon, waiting for Gellert's signal that she'd left, and when he saw the blue wand sparks in the air he'd left immediately, with Aberforth simply watching him from a chair in the living room, not saying a word. He never mentions Gellert anymore, not after the first week. Sometimes Albus wonders if he knows.
After a long moment in which Albus' head rises and falls slightly along with Gellert's breathing, he angles his face upward and kisses Gellert's jaw. "You're quiet this evening."
"Hmm?" Gellert glances down at him in that way he has, as if mildly surprised to see him there. "Oh, well, yes—I am thinking how I shall tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"I have news." Gellert moves, and Albus sits up to see his eyes shining, dancing with excitement and—something else. Something like the same look Albus imagines he himself must have worn about thirty minutes ago, when Gellert had begun unbuttoning his shirt. "I have found some new information."
"Informa—" For a half-second Albus can't think what he means. When he's with Gellert, for once he's not thinking about information, nor about books nor fact nor experiments. He can't seem to think straight at all, and to his surprise, he rather likes it. "About the Hallows, you mean?"
"What else?" Gellert grins, and reaches for his wand on the bedside table. He flicks it in the direction of his desk, which is a scattered mess of books and papers, and a page torn from a newspaper zooms towards him. "Look at this," he says, and shows him. It is from today's Daily Prophet, and it features a large moving photograph of what seems to be a wedding party. Faxon Peverell Weds Meliora Somerset in Grand Ceremony.
"Peverell," Albus says, looking from the paper into Gellert's eyes. "So do you think they have—?"
"Think? I do not need to think, Albus, look," he says impatiently. He points to the image again, and Albus squints at it as well. When he doesn't react, Gellert jabs his wand at the page again. "Engorgio." The paper widens under their hands, and the people in the photograph look around in alarm as they swell in size. "Look," he repeats, and points to a man standing near the bridal couple, looking as though he could be a father or an uncle. "His hand."
Albus looks, and then he sees: on the man's right hand, barely two centimeters wide in the photo, is a ring with a distinctive black stone. Albus' heart leaps; he recognizes it at once, for they have been studying drawings and books for weeks. "Genius," he breathes. "To have it made into a ring—no one would ever suspect—"
"Exactly," says Gellert, with that wild happiness growing in his eyes again. "A family such as this, no one would ever think to look twice at a bauble of this nature. But it is the Stone, I know it." Albus just shakes his head, marveling at Gellert's brilliance; even if he had seen the headline, he would never have thought to look right in plain sight. He reaches over with the hand not gripping the paper and touches Gellert's face, giving him a hard kiss. After the same surprised hesitation that he always gives, he returns it.
"You're amazing. I don't know how you do it."
Gellert flashes him a quick smile, then turns his gaze back to the paper. "But how are we to acquire it?" he asks, as though there had been no interruption. "If they are keeping it so close, they must know of its true properties...but perhaps they do not, as they are flaunting it in public. Perhaps they would not notice if it was swapped with a similar stone..." He fingers his wand thoughtfully. "A simple Geminio spell...perhaps they would not notice for some time..."
Albus laughs. "Oh, so we are to steal it right from under their noses? Shall we head off now, or shall we wait until morning? Possibly they are still fatigued from the party," he teases, indicating the wedding story. He reclines back on the bed and interlocks his fingers behind his head, although Gellert stays upright. "Firewhiskey is a great help to thieves and brigands, or so I've heard."
"I do not make jokes, Albus," Gellert says, turning to look at him, and now there is a serious intensity in his gaze. "We must acquire this, and we must not waste time. What if these people know of the power of the Hallows? What if they already possess the cloak? What if they know of Gregorovitch?"
Albus frowns. "Gregorovitch? The wandmaker? What of him?"
Gellert's eyes dart away from Albus' face. "Nothing of him. I merely thought—because he makes wands—"
"That he might have the Elder Wand?" Albus sits up again, the bed creaking.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps he knows..."
There is some hesitation in his voice that Albus hasn't heard there before. "Do you—does he have the wand?" he asks. "You know this? You have found out on...on your own?" The light, airy happiness he has been feeling since this afternoon seems to be fading somewhat, like stars disappearing with the first morning light, although he doesn't know why. "Are you sure?"
"No," Gellert says quickly. "I am sure of nothing. But I have...I have heard things. I wanted to know for certain before I told you. And I know for certain that this is the Resurrection Stone." He shakes the paper still in his hand. "And I know we must acquire it. We must possess it, and no one else. Just think what we can do with it. Only we have the courage, do you see?"
The breeze floating in through the open window seems chillier all of a sudden. "The courage?" Albus repeats, very carefully. "You mean...to pursue the Hallows? To gather them and...and use..." His voice trails away because he doesn't know how to finish it; they've never really talked about what they'd use the Stone for. He'd told Gellert about Kendra's death that night when they'd first lain in bed together, their voices soft against the sound of crickets outside. "You shall see her again," Gellert had told him, with a gentle confidence that had made his heart ache, his arms around him. "I know you shall have her back." He hadn't thought...he hadn't allowed himself to truly think about what he meant, and beyond. But it was all for the best, wasn't it? For the greater good? He couldn't mean anything else.
"Many have tried," Gellert says now, almost in a whisper. The clipping flutters to the floor as he moves closer to Albus, sliding a leg around his waist. "And many have failed. But they were not like us. They had not our minds, and our hearts, and our wands." He drew the tips of his wand across his mouth, his eyes locked on Albus', and Albus bites down on his own bottom lip, the desire almost unbearable within him. Gellert places both hands on his face. "We will not fail, Albus. The Hallows shall be ours."
"Yes," Albus whispers, barely knowing what he's saying. "Yes, you're right." When he surges forward to kiss him, green sparks shoot over their heads from the wand still clutched in Gellert's fingers.
***
"Evanesco."
He picks up the fifth bottle. This one feels heavier.
(five.)
Aberforth's fists are clenched by his sides. "I've kept my mouth shut all these months, but I've had it," he spits at Albus, who stands there, his face a mask of shock. "I don't know what you two are up to, but I don't care. It's time you gave someone other than yourselves a bloody thought."
"Ab, you don't understand," Albus pleads, taking a step towards his brother. The sun has almost entirely set, and the walls of the living room are tinged in dark gold and red as the three of them stand in a triangle, heads snapping from side to side as though following a Quaffle changing hands. "I am thinking of her. I'm thinking of her whole life, not just right now. What's the point in staying here with her and hiding her? It's not right; I know you've never thought it was. Can't you see—once our work moves forward, she won't have to hide. She won't be shunned anymore. We'll get help for her. I won't stop ‘til I've found—"
"Oh, just stop," Aberforth sneers, cutting across him. "You're full of shit, Al, and you know it. Yes, you'll think of her, and of me, God forbid, every once in a while when you're off traipsing around the world doing great things, and you'll send a letter every so often about your progress, maybe, but you won't do anything for her. You're all talk, that's all you've ever been—"
"It won't be like that. These things take time; we're trying to make great changes in the world and—"
"I don't know why you're bothering, Albus," Gellert says abruptly, his voice cold. "He will never understand. He cannot. He wants you to fix everything for him, and for your sister; he cares nothing for the rest of the world. There could be a hundred girls like Ariana out there, but he cares only for what is right here. He does not have our vision. He does not see how much better things will be once the Muggles know their place and wizards are in control as we deserve to be. He's no better than one of them, trying to keep us hidden and ashamed."
"Mate, you don't know a fucking thing about me," Aberforth snarls, giving Gellert a look of pure loathing. "And I'll thank you not to say a word about my family."
"It is not just about your family, you stupid little boy," Gellert hisses back. "You are trying to hold us back because you think you and your sister are more important than the rest of the world. His responsibility—" he jabs a finger at Albus "—is not just to you. You are standing in the way of brilliant wizards trying to enact great change simply because you cannot comprehend it."
"Gellert, please, he's not—" Albus tries to cut in, but Aberforth talks over him
"What I comprehend is that my brilliant brother has been trying to escape us since the day he could walk, and certainly since way before you turned up," he snaps. He looks at Albus and shakes his head in disgust, his lip curling. "You must be thrilled—Mum and Dad are gone, and now you've found someone to listen to all your nonsense and fawn over how fantastic you are all the time. Fucking dream come true, innit? I doubt you'll have time for any world-changing while you're spending all your time sucking each other off."
"You shut your mouth!" Gellert bellows, and he draws his wand faster than blinking. "How dare you speak to him that way—Feigling, Sie verstehen nichts—"
"No!" Albus lunges forward, pushing himself between them and grabbing the front of both of their robes, but Aberforth pushes him roughly away, drawing his own wand.
"Don't bother pretending you care now," he says with a cold laugh. He looks Gellert straight in the eyes. "I'm not impressed by you, and I'm not afraid of you. I don't care what you do, but you're not taking my brother with you. He's staying where he belongs."
"He will never belong with you," Gellert pants, struggling against Albus' grip. "You weak, selfish little boy. He deserves better than you—and her." He jerks his head in the direction of Ariana's bedroom. "We will change things. And you will do nothing. You will mean nothing."
"Please," Albus whispers, looking between them both. "Please stop. Don't..." Aberforth spares him one contemptuous look before spitting in Gellert's face.
"Well, I've done that," he smirks. "What're you going to do now?"
There is a brief moment of stillness as Albus tightens his grip on Gellert, one hand still stretched out towards his brother as Aberforth stares at them both in turn, his expression defiant, challenging. Then Gellert shouts "Crucio!" Aberforth hits the ground with roar of pain as Albus shouts "No!" again. He's not even aware of letting Gellert go or of pulling out his own wand, but in a moment it is in his hand. "Finite—"
"Don't, Albus! Leave him. He needs to know—"
"Expulso!" Aberforth bellows from the floor, and Albus and Gellert move just in time. A window behind their heads shatters. And Gellert is drawing his arm back for another spell, and Aberforth is spitting and swearing, and Albus is pleading, his own wand shaking in his hand as tears run down his face, and there are explosions and lights shooting around the room and somewhere another voice is crying out "Stop! STOP, I don't like it! Please—"
***
Albus drops the bottle onto the desk, his good hand shaking just as it had done that day. It hits the wood with a thud, but it doesn't break. It takes three tries before he can uncork it, and his voice is hoarse and splintered when he manages to say "Evanesco."
Gone, finally. Except it will never be gone; it will always be true. And it can never be undone.
He reaches for the sixth bottle.
(six.)
The bright sunlight and blue sky seems like a mockery; surely the sky should be raging with clouds and torn with rain on a day like this. There's something perverse about the birds twittering merrily in the trees beside the cemetery, in the shadow of which lies the freshly-dug grave.
Aberforth had picked the quote. Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. Albus hadn't asked where he'd gotten it from, although he doubted he would have gotten an answer if he'd tried. Ab had been acting like Albus didn't exist ever since that night. Once they had realized what happened, once they knew that she was gone beyond where any of them could reach and Gellert had fled, Ab had gathered her up in his arms and carried her upstairs. He hadn't used magic. He'd simply lain her gently on her bed and sat down beside her. Albus could hear his low, wrenching sobs all night as he sat in the next room, unmoving, staring at the floor. And Ab hadn't looked at him or spoken a word to him since then, unless you counted what he'd snarled at him at the funeral. "Now you care," he'd roared, as he'd looked down at Albus sprawled on the ground beside the coffin, knocked down by one swift punch. Albus had laid his hand on the casket as he stood beside it, and somehow that one gesture had been too much for Aberforth, and he'd come swinging out of nowhere. "Now she matters to you, you cunt, you fucking—" Bathilda and a few of the other townsfolk had leapt forward and tried to restrain him, but Albus hadn't gotten up right away. He wasn't even really aware of the pain in his face. Nothing mattered. Ariana was dead, and Gellert was gone, and it was all his fault. There was nothing else.
Everyone has left by now, with Bathilda promising, in a hollow, faint sort of voice, to come by later that night with a pheasant pie for the boys. Albus sits alone in the graveyard on the bench, the same bench where he had sat with Gellert just a few months ago, not moving. If he doesn't move, perhaps the world will stop for him and none of it will be real. Or perhaps he'll simply waste away, or become a stone, like Niobe, unfeeling and silent.
"Albus?"
He doesn't turn. He doesn't have to look. He knows who it is, and he can't even muster the energy to feel shocked that he would return and come to this place of all places. After a moment, Gellert sits tentatively on the bench beside him, far enough away so that they do not touch. Out of the corner of his eyes, Albus can tell that he has put a Dillusionment Charm on himself; his vague outline shimmers like a heat haze. It wouldn't do for anyone else to spot him, of course. "My God, Albus, what's happened to you?"
He gives the tiniest of shrugs. He hadn't cleaned himself off after Aberforth's attack, and he hadn't let anyone siphon the blood off his face or mend his nose. He deserves it. Let everyone see. "Albus, please," Gellert says, very quietly. "You know I never wanted this. I would never hurt you. You know that I—"
"It was too small," Albus says abruptly, speaking for this first time in hours, still not turning his head. "The frock we buried her in. It didn't fit properly anymore. I didn't even realize she'd grown out of it. She hadn't had any new things in years, and I never noticed. I..."
Gellert places a hand very lightly on his arm. "You cannot blame yourself," he says. "This was not because of you. This was because of those boys who hurt her, and because of every person who says that people like her should hide. This is bigger than her, than all of us. Don't you see? Now everyone will know. Now they will know we are right, and we—we must..." Albus can see, somehow, without really seeing, the desperate, pleading look that Gellert is giving him. Then he moves. "I know you did not do this," he says. "Give me your wand, Albus. I will show you." He gives his wrist a little shake. "We will know once and for all. We can check with Priori Incan—"
"No!" His voice is a guttural roar, a sound such as he has never made before. He doesn't care if anyone hears. He turns and grabs Gellert, nearly invisible, with both hands. "I never want to know. Do you hear me?" He shakes him, hard. He can't tell if he can make out his face, or if he just knows the expression that is surely there. He knows every line and freckle. "Never. Never tell me."
He can hear Gellert's shallow, fast breathing and feel him shaking under his hands. "All right, Albus. I hear you. I understand."
Albus releases him. "You have to leave now," he says, turning away, back to the sun, which burns his eyes nearly past endurance. "You have to leave and never come back."
Gellert swallows. "Please," he says. "Please, can't we—?"
"Go now." He can taste the vomit in his throat and his eyes are burning, but he doesn't move. "Just go."
There is another silence, filled only by faint birdsong and a light breeze moving through the trees. Then Gellert says "I never wanted this" again, almost inaudibly, and then there is a faint pop, and he is gone. Forty-six years pass before they meet again.
***
He has never thought of it before, but looking down at the memory in the bottle, he realizes that he never once said I'm sorry. Maybe because he wasn't.
The bottle with the memory of that final meeting, forty-six years later, is not there. It doesn't need to be. That is public record, everyone knows what happened that day. They do not, of course, know why, or what it really meant, but they don't need to. They can make it up for themselves. That one they can have. They deserve it.
"Evanesco."
He picks up the last bottle.
(seven.)
Dumbledore closes his office door and walks slowly to his desk, feeling no better than he had before the feast. He had thought telling the students, warning them of Voldemort's return and speaking about Cedric would've helped. He knew he was in for a long, hard road—the owls from the furious parents would surely begin to arrive within the next few hours, joining the many letters already flooding in from the Ministry—and he had thought that getting past the first step would be a small relief, but he feels no better. He feels as though he hasn't slept a wink in the last week, not since the night of the third task. Every time he closes his eyes he is assaulted by images—Harry, bleeding and insensible, stretched over Cedric's body on the ground. Young Barty Crouch grinning with satisfaction as Winky sobbed by his feet. The Diggorys, wracked with sobs, clutching at each other in the dark courtyard. Somehow, a part of him had really believed these days were behind him, these days of mourning and betrayal. But there had never been any real hope that he would not return.
An owl flutters through the window and perches beside him on the desk. "Already?" he asks the bird. "My, I thought puddings were still being served." The owl, rather than replying, merely ruffles its wings and sticks out a leg, and he is mildly relieved to see a roll of grubby parchment, rather than a bright red envelope, at least. He takes the letter and unrolls it as the owl departs. When he takes it, he realizes it is not parchment, but what seems to be fabric, like a corner torn from a ratty bedsheet. The message is very brief, laboriously scratched out in what looks like charcoal or some other crude stone. And somehow, after nearly a century, he recognizes the handwriting. A coldness spreads through him, starting from his chest and moving out, but not like he felt when a dementor was near. This is more terrible sadness than fear.
A—
I know he's back. When he comes for me, I won't tell him that you have it. It is the least I can do for you.Be safe. Destroy this.
G.
For the first time since Voldemort's return, tears gather in Albus' eyes and slide silently down his crooked nose. He clutches the small cloth in his hand and leans forward, resting his mouth and nose against his fingers. He knows it cannot be, but part of him can still smell his scent on it, as if it is Gellert's hand he is holding instead. "Thank you," he says, very quietly, and he ignites his wandtip and touches it to the cloth. He lets it fall to his desk and watches it burn.
***
"Evanesco."
It is done. Now their story will die with him. He wonders if Gellert is still alive—surely Voldemort will not let him live once he reaches that point, but he is likely not there yet. He does tend to be a bit behind. Regardless of what Gellert says or doesn't say, he will surely figure it out eventually, but at least it will buy him time. Time...the one thing they didn't have. It is still hard for him to believe it was only one summer.
Perhaps Gellert will feel it when he goes. Maybe that long string still connects them across the many miles, from tower office to lonely cell. Or perhaps it broke many years ago; he can't tell. Or perhaps it was never really there. Maybe he can ask him, if he sees him again, after.