#grindellore

As a historian, Bathilda Bagshot knew intimately well how important it was to keep contexts and motifs of historical events in mind. She also knew that neutral historical sources and infallible eyewitness accounts didn’t exist: Everybody’s memories were shaped by their own perceptions of reality, sometimes even by outright personal bias. There were occasions when a look at Pensieved memories could bring some clarity, but only if a person’s bias stemmed from a first-hand experience, which was rare.

Bathilda knew there were people who might suspect her own writing of being biased. After all, she was the great-aunt of one of the most dangerous Dark wizards of the twentieth century whom she had always loved, despite all he had done.

Bathilda herself would have argued that her affection for Gellert had never stopped her for seeing his crimes as any less horrid as they were. It just stopped her from condemning him because of them. Her research had shown her that it was fairly common for Dark wizards not to be evil throughout; to have two faces, so to say—one for the world, one for the people they loved. You-Know-Who actually was an exception. Then again, he was also far less human, far less emotional than Gellert had ever been.

As it was, hardly anybody had realised—or told other wizards and witches they had realised, at the least—that Gellert and her were related. Perhaps that was the real proof her writing wasn’t biased.

Then again, perhaps there actually was a bias but one that was evened out by her affection for Albus; poor Albus who had recently died under such dire circumstances. Still, even if she was biased, it had to be nothing in comparison to the bias she found every time she read the writings of the person who was in her sitting room now.

Rita Skeeter had tricked her way inside Bathilda’s cottage pretending to write a historical biography on Albus’s life. As always with shallow people, Bathilda had pretended to be a somewhat senile beldam, but she had let her in. She hadn’t been able to think of a reason not to other than the fact that Rita had always been more interested in telling juicy stories than in factual accuracy.

Bathilda had only realised Rita had dosed her tea with Veritaserum after she had taken her first sip. Perhaps she was actually becoming a senile beldam.

However that might be, there was only one way out now. It was a way that saddened her.

“If you may excuse me,” Bathilda had said. “I need to use the bathroom.”

She could say that. It was the truth. And if she didn’t need to use it for one of the obvious reasons, how was Rita to find out? She seemed to have bought Bathilda’s semblance of senility. The fact Bathilda had failed to notice the Veritaserum in time certainly came into play there.

Now Bathilda was standing in front of the mirror in her bathroom, wand raised but hesitating to go through with the spell she knew to be necessary. The problem was that she didn’t want to give up on these particular memories. They were her secret; a secret that had always made her feel protective of her great-nephew and her former neighbour alike.

She had never even told Albus she knew. It was only Gellert to whom she had confessed during one of her first visits to Nurmengard after Albus had taken him down.

But of course she had known. In a way, she had set them up—two bright minds that had never met another person their own age who was as brilliant as them. Of course they had taken to each other instantly, and of course she hadn’t missed how their glances were sometimes lingering on one another when they thought the other wasn’t looking.

Then she had spotted them kissing behind her cottage and her assumption had become a certainty. She hadn’t seen any reason to interrupt them. They were careful enough to know when to cast protective enchantments, and when she had told Gellert so that day, she had actually assumed she would need to spend the whole afternoon at the Ministry archives.

True, she had worried a little when she had heard the ivy crack on the wall one night. Her first thought had been Muggle burglars, but then she had spotted Gellert climb into the window of his own room, using magic only to open it from the outside. At first she had assumed the boys had simply huddled together over some books and lost the time. She had reassessed that assumption the following morning when she had found Gellert at the breakfast table, dreamy-eyed, not hungry at all and with a smile that wouldn’t leave his face.

After that, Gellert would sometimes spend the night at the Dumbledores’ and Albus would sometimes stay over at her cottage. She never heard or saw anything suspicious, but she didn’t exactly look for evidence either. The one time she almost walked in on Gellert in Albus’s lap as they were reading the same book in her sitting room was harmless enough.

Once she had found Albus asleep with his face next to one of their books while Gellert was brushing strands of hair out of his face with a tender expression. The scene had been more telling, but still so innocent it made her heart clench when she remembered it now. The course of time could be so cruel, making enemies of these two loving boys who were to to fight each other in the end!

Bathilda looked into her bathroom mirror. Her wrinkled face was saddened but resolute.

Of course she couldn’t part with all her memories. For once, she needed to remember her annual visit to Nurmengard. She also needed to remember some details because she was determined to try to console Gellert, if consolation was even possible for him after Albus’s death.

She raised her wand, almost touching it to her head.

“Obliviate,” she whispered.

Bathilda could only hope the memories she had selected were enough.

Note:

This is my headcanon why there doesn’t seem to be anything about Albus and Gellert’s romantic relationship in Rita Skeeter’s The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore even though I believe it’s unlikely Bathilda didn’t know they were lovers.

Oh, do you care I still feel for you So aware What should be lost is there —Nightwish: Beauty of the Beast: Long Lost Love

Albus Dumbledore kept ogling the letter that sat so innocently on his desk. At first he hadn’t paid it much attention, too preoccupied with his other mail: The invitation to the next Wizengamot meeting; three letters from parents who were worried about their children’s performances in his Transfiguration class; five letters from academic friends with whom he was writing articles for journals all over Europe. The final letter had seemed like a specimen copy of some journal for which he had written an article, so he had disregarded it until he had finished his other correspondence. The wax seal, however, couldn’t have been more ominous: Two Gs facing from each other, with an inscribed equilateral triangle surrounding an incircle and a stylised wand that separated both the Gs and the legs of the triangle.

For the Greater Good. He would have recognised that phrase everywhere. After all he was the one who had coined it. The Deathly Hallows symbol was equally familiar even though the way in which the wand was stylised was a new development.

Albus stood, pacing around in his study, debating with himself if he should open the letter. The last time he hadn’t, Gellert had sent him a Howler telling the whole school what a bloody coward Albus Dumbledore was for running away from—and that was where Albus had cut him off with a Silencing Charm.

All in all, Albus had reason to believe that there was some variation of the Tracking Spell on this letter, too. Perhaps Albus’s worries were unnecessary as well. The last time Gellert had simply sent him an article from a German Muggle newspaper. The only sentence in his own handwriting had been a scribbled “See why our mission is still necessary?” at the end of the article, but Albus had still felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

Our mission. He still thought of it as their mission. Albus had been torn between the bile that rose within him whenever he thought about Gellert’s ruthless methods and the traitorous flutter in his gut.

Reaching a decision, Albus returned to his desk and broke the seal. He was only embarrassing himself if he tried to run away from Gellert when Gellert knew he was running away from him.

It was exactly what Albus had initially thought: A journal. Just like the newspaper article, it was in German, but this time there were more annotations in Gellert’s handwriting. A longer passage was crossed out, with a comment next to it that said: “Only read if you are dying to learn more about the subtleties of German grammar. (Really, just skip over it. It’s boring.)”

Albus sat behind his desk, flipped to the first sentence Gellert had underlined and started to read: “But even if I were to judge a moralist, it wouldn’t cross my mind to use his private life in order to fabricate a dichotomy.” He realised that he wouldn’t understand the context if he didn’t skip back to the beginning ... and that it was still Gellert’s opinion that was more interesting to him than the writing itself.

The desire to discuss his reading with Gellert even after eight years made him feel strangely nostalgic. Gellert seemed to feel the same; why else would he continue to send him annotated articles?

Albus read the essay Gellert had marked from the beginning. He noted that it was about the same controversy as the article Gellert had last sent him: One Maximilian Harden, a journalist, had accused a circle of close friends of the German emperor of homosexual conduct. His prime targets were Prussian diplomat Philipp, Prince of Eulenburg, and General Kuno von Moltke. Moltke’s lawyer had let his client make the mistake to file civil libel against Harden—and a mistake it was; that much was clear to Albus after the trial of Oscar Wilde.

Albus had been thirteen when Wilde was tried. Perhaps it was a good thing he had been at Hogwarts at the time, surrounded by other third years who weren’t all that interested in Muggle affairs. Still, the trial was one of the few things that had made it into the wizarding press, even if it was filed as “something you should know in case a Muggle touches upon it in your presence”. It had filled Albus with a queasy feeling for weeks until he had been able to acknowledge to himself that he, too, might be inclined towards men.

He had picked up courage soon afterwards. In the end, he was still a Gryffindor. But he knew it had been harder for Gellert; Gellert, who had known earlier than him; who had had a hard time to pretend he fit into Durmstrang’s straitjacket of discipline when he really didn’t. It was, perhaps, why Gellert was so harsh and also why he was so vulnerable.

Albus knew he was the only person who had ever seen the full extent of Gellert’s vulnerability. In turn, Gellert was the only person who knew how vulnerable Albus really was. And that was why he could never come to hate Gellert; not truly. Albus had seen his weakness and he had started to love him for it; had started to feel oddly protective of the beautiful, uncompromising boy he had met when he was seventeen.

It was also why he was willing to put up with a lengthy essay in fairly difficult German without even trying to apply a Translation Charm. Gellert hat sent this to him in German, so Albus needed to read it in German.

He soon realised that Karl Kraus, the author of the essay he was reading, was, in fact, defending Kuno von Moltke regardless of whether it was true that he was homosexual: “I’m not a political writer and therefore I am not to investigate if men of politics have adjusted their sexual urge towards skirts or towards trousers. But even if I were to judge a moralist, it wouldn’t cross my mind to use his private life in order to fabricate a dichotomy.”

Albus’s heart skipped a beat. He had always wondered why Gellert had never tried to capitalise on their connection; why he had never pointed out that it was, in fact, Albus who had penned a larger part of his ideology.

Once they had believed their connection was a sacred thing; a bond between two souls that had recognised each other as equals in every way that mattered. Now Albus wondered if Gellert still thought the same; if he, perhaps, didn’t want to throw mud at the memory of what they had had. Then again, Albus might as well be a sentimental fool who needed to see Gellert as the ruthless, manipulative creature he had proven to be time and time again.

Albus decided not to read the whole of the essay. Instead he skipped to the next passage Gellert had marked. Gellert’s commentary read: “Kraus and Harden used to be friends until Kraus realised Harden would do anything to discredit the circle of courtiers surrounding the Emperor that he considers incompetent. Perhaps they are, but Kraus is a ‘the end doesn’t justify the means’ person.”

Interesting, Albus thought. It was particularly interesting because Gellert was the epitome of teleological ethics: To him, the end had always justified the means, and Albus had no reason to assume he had changed in any way. Then again, Albus wasn’t much different; only he had always been borne down by the burden of utilitarian ethics that one had to weigh one’s own good intentions against all possible consequences.

He sighed, returning his focus to the passage Gellert had underlined: “We never had any business with someone who used the existence of a homicidal paragraph of criminal justice for blackmail the political guise of which adds hypocrisy to sheer turpitude; who believes ‘to be allowed to stoop to anything in order to make such people impossible’ when it would at the most be allowed to stoop to anything in order to make such people possible.”

To make such people possible? Had he understood that correctly? Albus squinted. Did the author really mean what Albus thought he meant? He decided to read on.

“He charged interest from the truly tragic disgrace of a morality that permits to treat the spinal cord as a piece of incriminating evidence. He is the culprit of a contemporary inquisition that makes us shudder as we hear it declare its resolution ‘to allow the evidence that the private suitor was particularly averse to the female sex’. That fiendish justice that exorcises in bedchambers, that punishes deviations from the ‘norm’ and that condemns dear life to death by the spermatic cord. That ugly presumptive evidence that adheres to the code of criminal procedure of gossip, that provokes a verdict on behalf of His Majesty Cant and, in the sense of a base joke, only accepts the one as ‘normal’ who is seen with a woman Unter den Linden but takes the one who goes out with a man for a paederast and the one who walks alone for an onanist.”

“Feels good to read that, doesn’t it?”

Albus stared at Gellert’s note under the passage. Gellert was right, of course; it did feel good to read another person’s sardonic defence of loving outside “the norm”—and to see the inverted commas in which Kraus had put the latter phrase. He also understood the implications of that passage for Gellert: I don’t want to be judged based on whom I love rather than on what I do. There had been no need for him to write that anywhere; they had talked about this for long enough.

Don’t worry, Albus thought to himself, remembering all the atrocities he had heard about Gellert since their ways had parted. They are going to judge you based on what you did.

Still, there was a traitorous part of himself who wanted to hold Gellert just like he had held him then; who wanted to tell him that even the Muggles would look at the power of his magic rather than at anything else. It was foolish, of course; the impulse of a fool who really should know better by now. And he did. He knew exactly how relentless Gellert was in the pursuit of his ambitions to overthrow the Statute of Secrecy and to rule over Muggles in order to save them from their own self-destructiveness. It had been Gellert’s relentlessness, Gellert’s absolute willingness to sacrifice everything—even Ariana, even them—for his political objectives that had appalled Albus in the end.

But he still loved him. That was exactly what made every piece of news about Gellert’s deeds so painful for Albus. Despite everything, despite his better judgement, he couldn’t root out the love he felt for Gellert. Maybe he could turn it to hate and tell himself there was nothing else anymore, but he would only be lying to himself. Albus Dumbledore might be a fool, but even he wasn’t that foolish.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Albus focused on the underlined passages again: “Musical disposition is a suspicion, separate bedrooms are proof” ... That was all Gellert had underlined, adding the comment: “Ah, musical disposition. I suppose I should feel spoken to. How about you, dear Albus? Do you feel spoken to? I don’t think you should. You do like music, but your taste is horrible.”

The corners of Albus’s mouth twitched. Trust Gellert to distract you from your gloomy brooding with a joke. It was as if he had anticipated the line Albus’s thoughts would take... Then again, perhaps he had actually foreseen them. You never know with Seers, Albus thought with a fond smile and skipped to the next passage with a comment.

“And in this knavery the defendant makes a dart for the one whose effeminate nature is to be finally disclosed after battles, wounds and forty years as a soldier with the question if it isn’t true, demonstrably true that he enjoys eating sweets and takes chocolates with him to the theatre. And a justice that admits the inquest that the plaintiff used cosmetic products doesn’t apply the rouge of shame.”

On the one hand, it was horrible—the journalist accusing the long-serving soldier on the grounds of such trivial things as liking chocolates. On the other hand, there was Gellert’s comment: “Oh Albus, now you must feel spoken to. I never met a person quite as sweet-toothed as yourself. Then again, so should I. Never in my life have ever I felt the urge to apply rouge, but I do like black eyeshadow. We both stand convicted by these unshakable bits of evidence.” Albus snorted into his wispy beard. Expecting to find another witty comment, he skipped to the final passage Gellert had highlighted.

“But it isn’t true, it is a cruel lie devoid of all historical experience that ‘norm adversity’ disqualifies from the exercise of a public office.”

There was only the word “Exactly” in capital letters followed by three exclamation marks. Albus stared at it for a moment and was tempted to add a comment of his own, something like...

“Not just a lie but a rather careless miscalculation, especially in our cases.”

Albus whipped around in his chair. And there he was, perched on the window bench in his black travelling cloak, with messy golden locks and mesmerising blue eyes. Albus couldn’t look away.

“Wasn’t that what you were thinking?” Gellert’s soft mouth curled into an amused smile.

Albus glowered at him. He closed his agitated mind, shutting out his nosy ex-boyfriend with his complete lack of respect for another person’s privacy.

“Since when have you been listening in on my thoughts?” he asked.

“Oh ... Not for long.” Gellert regarded his fingernails with the disarming nonchalance of a person who had nothing to fear; who didn’t have a price on his head in several countries of Europe. “I Apparated to that strange forest as soon as I noticed you had broken the seal of my letter. Then I made myself invisible and walked right into the castle and to your study. You really should close the door if you want some privacy.”

“My door is always open to my students.” Albus gave him a piercing look. “It would never occur to either them or my colleagues to sneak into my study and use Legilimency on me.”

“I rather doubt they could do it without you noticing either.” Gellert grinned, full of the boyish pride of a young wizard who had managed a particularly complicated spell. Albus felt a pang of yearning flare through his body. Gellert was especially beautiful when he was like this; so proud of himself as if he had managed to pluck a forbidden fruit.

“What do you want?” Albus said as dismissively as possible. He couldn’t allow his feelings to win over his reason; not with all the disgusting things he had read about Gellert and his quest for more followers...

“Oh, I just want what I always want.” Gellert slid from the window bench and walked over to Albus’s desk. “There is only one thing in this whole castle that I want.” He sat on the desk angling his body towards Albus so one foot was still on the floor. Propping up his elbow on one knee, he glanced down at Albus under long, thick lashes. “You.”

Albus was sure Gellert had a specific set of postures and gazes committed to memory that made him look particularly appealing. This was definitely one of them. He had to fight down the urge to yank Gellert towards him by his travelling cloak...

Gellert smirked. Even with Albus’s mind closed so he couldn’t read it, he was still able to decipher Albus’s body language. Albus was sure his eyes had darkened for the fraction of a second and he was also sure his reaction hadn’t passed Gellert unnoticed.

“I think it’s time to close the door now,” Gellert said and pulled out a wand Albus hadn’t seen on him before. He knew what Gellert’s wand looked like, but this ... This looked like the wand on the seal of Gellert’s letter. His eyes widened.

“Is that...”

“Of course it is.” Gellert cast a series of rather exaggerated locking spells before he slid the wand back into the inner pocket of his cloak. Then he shrugged off the cloak, allowing it to pool behind him on the desk. He was wearing a blue shirt, black trousers and a black waistcoat with silver buttons.

“You don’t seem to value it as much as I thought you would if you put it away just like that,” Albus commented dryly.

“Ah, I think it’s safe here,” Gellert said nonchalantly. “You wouldn’t steal it from me. Besides, I didn’t lie when I said I would share it with you. You’d just need to come with me and…”

“That won’t happen,” Albus said gruffly.

“Your loss.” Gellert sighed. “Unfortunately it is also my loss.”

“Is that so?” Albus said. He managed to utter his words in a sardonic tone even though his heart was beating fast. “It was you who walked away.”

“It was you who didn’t come with me.” Gellert looked into his eyes.

“And you know exactly why.” Albus met Gellert’s gaze.

“Albus,” Gellert said softly. “It was an accident. I liked Ariana and I never meant for any more harm to come over your family.”

“You did mean to harm my brother.”

“He drew his wand on me, so I drew mine.”

“He was no match for you.”

“We were both hotheads and equally old.” Gellert frowned. “There was nothing unfair about duelling him.”

“You used an Unforgivable Curse on my own brother!” Albus stood in order to be on the same level as Gellert. He was getting angry.

“Yes, and I am sorry about that.”

Albus was taken off guard. Gellert wasn’t supposed to apologise.

“Like I said, we were both hotheads, and in my anger I went over the top.”

“You’re the most choleric person I have ever met.”

“Perhaps.” Gellert gave him a bittersweet smile.

“I only ever realised how imbalanced you really were when you attacked my brother with the Cruciatus Curse,” Albus pressed on.

“That was because you had been there to balance me before.”

Albus made a stifled noise in his throat. Gellert suddenly looked hopeful.

“You’re the person who grounds me, Albus. You’re the one who smooths out the raw edges of my self. That is one reason why I need you so much.”

“It’s too late, Gellert.” Albus felt tears welling up in his eyes. He tried to blink them away. “It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late.” Gellert held his gaze and continued: “The other reason is that I love you. It’s so hard to live without the man you love.”

“It really is.” Albus’s voice was shaky.

“Then come with me, Albus!” Gellert extended his hand for him to take. “You read the essay. Don’t you see how indispensable it still is to break the Statute of Secrecy? Both the judicial systems of the Muggles and our own are utterly misguided and must be replaced.”

“They must be reformed,” Albus said quietly. “I see that and I’m working towards it. But what you want is violence.”

“I want a revolution,” Gellert retorted. “Revolutionaries mustn’t shy away from violence if they want success. But I listened to you. I will only use the force I must to overcome my adversaries. Never more.” His voice was urgent. “Come, Albus! Take my hand.”

“I’m sorry, Gellert,” Albus said. There was regret in his voice. “I have chosen my path and it leads me away from you.”

“Yes, I know,” Gellert said mockingly. “The path of politics—of boring Wizengamot meetings and of having a lot of staying power.” He sneered. The handsome fullness of his lips twisted into a thin line. “With me you could have everything. Now. Together we would be unstoppable.”

“Gellert, I still love you but I don’t have any sympathies for your methods left.” Albus sighed. “You should know that by now.”

“I do,” Gellert whispered. He stepped closer. “I do, but that doesn’t mean I understand. Your brilliant thoughts—our wonderful discussions—our mutual desire to join our bodies just as we joined our minds ... To me that has always been the same. I don’t understand why you want to separate one from the other now.” Gellert’s outstretched hand cupped Albus’s cheeks. There was a raw vulnerability in his gaze. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too!” Albus choked out. He wrapped Gellert in his arms—despite himself; despite the nagging voice in his mind that told him he was making a mistake. Gellert responded immediately, cradling Albus’s head in his hands and pulling him down for a kiss. Albus tilted his head, kissing Gellert with abandon until he felt him melt against him, just like he was melting against Gellert’s mouth.

When Gellert came up for air, there was a dazed look on his face. His fingers started to stroke Albus’s cheek, then traced the shape of his lips.

“Your mouth is so soft under that beard.” He smiled. “I always liked your hair. It feels so nice and silky.”

The adoration on Gellert’s face had always confused Albus more than anything. He had always wondered what this unearthly handsome creature saw in him: Long face, lanky limbs, freckles all over his body and now a broken nose as well. But then Gellert looked at him like this, pointing out details he found beautiful and trains of thought he found particularly noteworthy. Gellert was good at giving compliments. Albus wasn’t.

“Kiss me again.” It was a raw whisper.

And Gellert did, hands roaming over his shoulders and back, working their way under the cream-coloured silk cloth Albus had tied around his throat in lieu of a cravat. As soon as Gellert had freed his throat, he kissed there too, sucking a lovebite on the soft flesh above Albus’s collarbone. Albus backed him against his desk, pulling their bodies as close as he could.

“I want you,” Gellert said in the same urgent tone in which he had asked Albus to come with him. “I want to sleep with you.” And this time Albus complied.

Notes:

The essay Gellert sends to Albus is “Maximilian Harden: Eine Erledigung” (“Maximilian Harden: A Dispatch”) by Austrian writer Karl Kraus (1874-1936) in the October 1907 issue of his satirical journal Die Fackel (The Torch). The text is in the public domain and the English translations are all mine.

Famously, Oscar Wilde’s downfall also started with him prosecuting the Marquess of Queensberry for criminal libel in 1895. In Wilde v Queensberry evidence was collected that eventually led to Wilde’s own persecution, trial for “gross indecency with men” and eventual two-year prison sentence in Reading Gaol (1895-1897). Kuno von Moltke also tried to file criminal libel against Maximilian Harden but the court dismissed his lawyer’s attempt, making him resort to filing civil libel.

“So ... what is this mysterious project for which you need to conduct so much historical research?” Albus asked as he entered the second room to the right that had temporarily been transformed into Gellert’s chamber. Its ceiling was so low that Albus needed to duck his head while Gellert was just barely able to stand upright.

The room had always been intended for guests, as it seemed, with a comfortable bed to the right and a dressing table underneath a window diagonally opposite to the chamber door. Directly opposite, there was a beautifully carved wooden desk with two boards above it that Gellert used as bookshelves.

“I think it’s best if you see for yourself.” Gellert went to the desk, took some neatly stacked sheets of parchment from it and two books from the shelves, and handed them all to Albus. The other boy took them wordlessly and kneeled to the floor, spreading the parchment all around him so he could better examine it. Gellert took a book he hadn’t perused yet and flopped down on his bed, but he couldn’t focus on reading. Instead, he watched Albus who seemed to have forgotten all around himself, completely absorbed in the texts he was reading. His long, straight auburn hair was shimmering in the afternoon air, hiding half of his face.

Strange, Gellert thought. He had half assumed Albus would broach Gellert’s reaction to the green carnation again, but he seemed to have dropped the matter completely. Written words were apparently much more interesting to him than witty banter—if it was indeed witty banter Albus had aimed for.

Gellert suddenly realised that what he felt was disappointment. He wanted Albus’s attention; craved for Albus to make him the target of his wry humour again.

“I don’t think your book will read itself to you while you keep staring at me.” Albus hadn’t even so much as looked up, but he had apparently sensed Gellert’s eyes on him.

Gellert winced and opened his book, but he still found it difficult to focus on reading. As he bowed above the pages and tried to make sense of the words in front of him, fatigue from his travels by Portkey settled in. He caught himself reading the same sentence over and over again, struggling with sleepiness. His position on the bed didn’t help to keep his eyes open either.

He woke up from the scent of old paper and an uncomfortable pressure on his nose. Blinking, he registered that he had fallen asleep with his head on top of the book and his nose literally poking into the pages.

Gellert rolled to the side, wincing and rubbing over the back of his nose. Then he realised that the sunlight had turned golden. It was evening.

He looked around in his room. Albus was gone. The parchment sheets had been shoved into an untidy heap. The two books Gellert had given him were closed, but there were now several small parchment strips in between the pages.

There was also a third, much smaller book now, positioned right on top of the other two. Gellert picked it up. A single piece of parchment was slipped between two pages. Gellert opened it at the marker.

The book was written in runes, but Gellert had learnt how to read them in Durmstrang. He recognised the title of the story Albus’s marker showed to him immediately: The Tale of the Three Brothers. And someone—no, not someone; Albus—had drawn the triangular symbol from the Peverell grave at the top of the page: The sign of the Deathly Hallows.

Gellert seized the piece of parchment, certain there would be some explanation; some clue that would tell him if Albus thought he was just a dreamer...

Gellert—

This book belongs to my sister. It is a first edition, so please treat it with care.

Albus

Gellert stared at Albus’s words. That was not the kind of information he was interested in. But what if... Acting purely on intuition, Gellert pointed his wand at the piece of parchment and muttered: “Aparecium!”

Sure enough, more words appeared on the parchment slip:

PS: Let’s talk about the Hallows tomorrow. You clearly need some rest, but I do hope you will find a better position. Sleeping with your head on a book doesn’t look very comfortable.

Gellert’s gaze fixated on the first words of Albus’s postscript: Let’s talk about the Hallows tomorrow.

Let’s talk. So Albus was still willing to put up with him. Regardless of whether Albus thought the existence of the Hallows was humbug or if—Gellert could dream, couldn’t he?—Albus was a believer himself, Gellert would be given the chance to explain himself further. He would also get to see Albus again, and very soon: Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Gellert chanted inwardly as he picked up the heap of parchments from the floor and carried it back to his desk. Tomorrow he would show Albus—infinitely fascinating, spirited, bookish Albus—that he was worthy of his attention; that Gellert could keep up with him, Durmstrang expellee or not.

When Gellert woke next, it was pitch black outside. All excitement of the evening before had left his mind. He was struggling to free himself of the blanket that had twisted around his body, trying to push the images out of his mind.

It was no use. They kept coming back: Images of men with insect-like masks on their faces and guns around their shoulders, running in muddy trenches or seeking shelter in mountainous caves; men without masks lying in the dirt or on rocky surface, surrounded by some sort of vapour, staring upwards into an obscured sky with unseeing eyes; more bodies, but those were shredded to pieces, barely recognisable as human anymore; sirens, hissing sounds and detonations...

Gellert focused on closing his mind; on detaching himself from the horror he felt at the sight of those images and the vague fear the effects of that vapour instilled in him... It took an effort; it always was an effort, but eventually he only saw velvet darkness when he closed his eyes. His racing pulse slowed down and he was finally able to breathe more freely.

A long time passed until he was able to sleep again. When he woke for the third time, it was from the scent of Aunt Batty’s freshly made sandwiches, just like it was meant to be.

Gellert was shifting around on his seat while he ate breakfast, earning himself a raised eyebrow from his great aunt until he mentioned that Albus had suggested to continue Gellert’s research with him today. That was when a benign smile appeared on Bathilda’s face.

“Lovely!” she exclaimed. “I’m glad you and Albus seem to be getting along! You see, I’ve been so worried for the poor boy when his mother died. He had been so looking forward to this journey for the Continent with little Doge... You know, his schoolmate; the one who had had dragon pox.”

“Yes, I remember.” Gellert had already heard the extended version of the same story the day before. He wondered fleetingly how tall “little Doge” actually was. Probably smaller than Albus, but certainly not meriting the epithet “little”... Then again, his great aunt would probably continue to address him as “darling” for as long as they both lived.

“If you go over to the Dumbledores’ now,” Bathilda said into his thoughts, “perhaps you’d like to take some of yesterday’s cake with you? I know it’s not afternoon yet, but the boy is so thin anyway and Ariana also seemed to enjoy it a lot.” Gellert grinned. That was the good thing about Aunt Batty: She was always willing to feed you.

“Thank you, Auntie, that’s a wonderful idea!” he replied enthusiastically. “I’ll just take it from the kitchen then!” With these words, he was out of the door. The chocolate cake was floating behind him as he walked to the neighbouring house, dutifully hidden from stray Muggle eyes behind a glamour.

When he knocked at the front door of the neighbouring cottage, nothing happened for a while. Then the curtain of a window close to the door moved slightly, and only after that, it opened. Albus peeked out, the front of his purple robes blotted with something that looked suspiciously like apricot jam.

“Oh, Gellert, hello!” he said in an exhausted voice. “I’m afraid I have to see to it that Ariana eats her breakfast before we can talk about anything else...”

“It’s alright,” Gellert assured him, pushing past Albus with the cake trailing faithfully behind him.

“Is that yesterday’s cake?” a young, female voice said from the kitchen. Gellert barely recognised it as Ariana’s because it was lacking the shyness he had heard in his great aunt’s house.

“It is,” he said with a smile, beckoning the cake into the kitchen. He noticed Ariana tense for a second, but she relaxed as she realised who he was.

The cake settled softly in the middle of the kitchen table that was half splattered with jam. Gellert settled down on the chair next to Ariana where Albus had been sitting.

“If I give you a piece of cake instead of that sandwich”—he gestured to the two torn slices of white bread on her plate—“will you eat it?” She nodded. He cleaned her plate and the surface of the table with a flick of his wand.

“Do you have a dessert fork and a cake knife, Albus?” He didn’t need to turn around to know Albus was watching them from the door; he was able to sense his presence.

The cutlery he had requested appeared with such abruptness in front of him that he almost flinched. He shot Albus a confused glance, but he couldn’t make sense of the look the other boy was giving him. It was ... troubled, almost hurt? Gellert blinked.

Then he refocused on the task at hand, cutting a piece of cake for Ariana without magic, but allowing it to hover to her plate so he couldn’t accidentally overturn it.

“Thank you!” Ariana smiled at him and started to eat. Gellert smiled back, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was worried about Albus’s reaction.

“Would it be alright if we left you alone for a little while?” Gellert asked her gently. “We won’t be leaving the house, so you’d just need to call for us and we’d be with you at once.” Ariana nodded and started to eat her slice of cake. Gellert gave her another reassuring smile before he left the table and went to Albus.

“Can we go to your room ... or some sort of living room perhaps?” he asked.

“My room is best,” Albus replied, sounding distant. He turned on his heel and strode to a wooden flight of stairs that was a bit wider than the one in Bathilda’s house. Gellert had difficulty to keep up with his pace.

The interior of Albus’s room was similar to Gellert’s; only the arrangement of the furniture was a little different and there were more bookshelves. Albus’s desk, however, was littered with papers and overlapping open books. Sweet wrappings and quills were strewn across the desk, and there was a large bowl of sweets to the left of the desk. The shelf on top of the desk didn’t hold any books but several strange instruments: One of them looked like two silver globes connected by a number of cog wheels; the next one was a bronze disk with several flat plates on it and what looked like watch hands in the shape of flowers; a third one was a silver orb that seemed to be a globe but what it showed resembled no landmass Gellert recognised. He knew it couldn’t show the moon either since he would have recognised the shapes of the lunar craters.

Gellert didn’t allow himself to take the time to admire Albus’s strange objects and dwell on their potential use. Instead, he focused on the disapproval he had sensed from Albus as he had given Ariana the piece of cake.

“I’m sorry, Albus,” he said before the other could say anything. “I should have asked you if it was alright to give Ariana a piece of cake for breakfast. It’s probably not good for her health...”

“No,” Albus said, stopping Gellert with a wave of his hand. “No, that’s not it. It’s fine by me if she eats cake for breakfast...” He paused, looking down as he worried his lower lip with his teeth. Gellert sensed that he was fighting yet another fight with himself. At last, Albus decided to speak.

“You see ... sometimes she eats just fine, and other days ... other days, you hardly get her to nibble on anything. My brother is really good at persuading her to eat, but ... when I’m alone with her, I—I...” He broke off, frowning.

Gellert acted on impulse. He crossed the distance between them, putting his arms around Albus. The other boy tensed. His first impulse was to raise his arms between their chests in order to keep Gellert at distance. Then Albus’s arms fell down, not exactly endorsing the embrace but allowing it to happen. Gellert drew back before Albus could decide to change his mind for another time.

“Thank you,” Albus said to Gellert’s surprise. “I suppose I needed a hug.”

“I suppose we all do sometimes.” Gellert scratched his head, feeling awkward.

“And I suppose you haven’t come here to hear me complain about Ariana’s eating habits,” Albus said lightly, but the small, self-deprecating smile on his lips gave him away: His difficulty to interact with his sister clearly troubled him. In spite of that, Gellert decided not to press the matter. He knew the other boy not nearly long enough to intrude himself into Albus’s sibling relationships.

“You’re right,” Gellert therefore said, taking Ariana’s copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard from a small pouch at his belt on which he had placed an Undetectable Extension Charm. “I came to hand this back to you.” He took the piece of parchment with Albus’s letter out of the book. “And because of this.”

Now Albus’s smile was genuinely amused. It reached his eyes and made them sparkle in the way Gellert felt so drawn to since the first time he had seen it.

“I take it you found the postscript, then?” Albus said with a smug grin. In that moment, Gellert decided to play his game.

“Well, you didn’t exactly make an effort to hide it,” he replied. “A simple Revealing charm was all it took me to make your message appear. I didn’t even need to use Revelio, let alone come up with a more challenging technique to uncover your message.” His own grin mirrored Albus’s smugness.

“Oh, you want a challenge?” Albus’s gaze held his. Gellert felt a strange flutter in his stomach. “How about a duel? Purely playful, of course; just to try each other’s hexing abilities.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” Gellert replied, leaning back against the low chest of drawers next to Albus’s door in what he hoped was a duly confident posture.

“Back on our high horse, are we?” Albus raised an eyebrow. “Interesting that the prospect of a duel makes you calm whereas a little flower suffices to make you nervous.”

“It doesn’t make me nervous.” Gellert shrugged as if he could brush off the lie he had just uttered. “I was merely surprised that any man in England would still have the chutzpah to put a green carnation on his clothing. Then again, you didn’t exactly wear it on a high street where Muggles could see ... your wardrobe...” He trailed off. It was only now that he realised Albus still hadn’t cleaned the apricot jam off his robes. A look at his own chest confirmed his suspicion that there was now jam on his waistcoat as well. Sighing, he flicked his wand, cleaning the jam from both their clothes. Albus actually laughed at that; a warm, bubbling sound that seemed to reverberate deep within his body. Gellert shot him a sullen look.

“You’re right,” Albus said with sudden seriousness. “It wouldn’t be advisable at all to wear either the carnation or my long robes in plain sight of Muggles. While nobody in Diagon Alley would subject another wizard to the Muggle jurisdiction for a stray flower on his clothes, it would certainly draw looks from everyone who takes even the slightest interest in Muggle affairs.”

“You don’t seem to me a person who would care about drawing looks,” Gellert pointed out. Albus inclined his head to a half-nod.

“Your observation is quite correct,” he admitted. “Yet I would prefer to reduce the amount of looks I draw to a necessary minimum. It is one thing to draw them because I prefer traditional, colourful wizard’s robes. It is an entirely different thing to give people unnecessary occasion to invade my privacy and start discussing about things that are none of their business.” He threw Gellert a calculating glance. “But I will answer truthfully if asked directly.”

Again, Gellert could feel his blood pulse at his throat. If asked directly. That meant he only needed to muster the courage...

“Then are you?” Gellert brought himself to ask. He felt his heart pound in his chest.

“Am I what, Gellert?” There was an amused smile on Albus’s lips. Gellert suddenly felt annoyed.

“Are you a...” The words the Marquess of Queensberry had used in his accusatory note to Oscar Wilde sprang to his mind. “Somdomite,” he said with an almost predatory smile. Albus laughed.

“If you define the term ‘sodomy’ from the legal perspective of Muggle jurisdiction in this country, the answer is actually ‘no,’” he chuckled. “But if you take it in a broader sense to imply that you think I’m romantically and sexually interested in men, you are quite right.” Something within Gellert dislodged at these words; it felt like falling from a great height. Albus glanced at him curiously. “And unless I’m much mistaken, so are you.”

“How did you know?” Gellert was aware that his words were effectively a confession, but he had decided the time for hiding from Albus was up.

“Oh, I only know now that you admitted to it,” Albus said, smiling indulgently. Gellert rolled his eyes; this was exactly what he had expected.

“But I had made an intelligent guess. My intuition is quite good.” Albus shot him another curious glance. “It was the way you looked at me when I smiled. Your gaze lingered—as if I was beautiful. People don’t look at me like that.”

“They should,” Gellert heard himself say. “Because you are beautiful.”

“That’s very kind of you, Gellert, but I know exactly what I look like,” Albus brushed off his compliment.

Gellert wanted to reply with how shiny Albus’s hair was; how a genuine smile transformed his whole face; how his eyes seemed to sparkle when he smiled. But then there was a crashing sound from downstairs, and Albus rushed to the door.

“Stay here,” he said firmly. “Don’t come down. Please.” Then he was gone.

Gellert wouldn’t have obeyed if it hadn’t been for the “please.” He started to pace in Albus’s room. A part of him—perhaps the same that had reacted so violently at the sight of the carnation—was almost glad the moment had been over before he had been able to disclose too many of his thoughts on Albus. Another wished with vehemence that Albus would come backright away just so he could continue to talk to him, no matter the subject.

Notes:

Did you notice that Gellert practices Occlumency to contain his visions of the Western and Alpine fronts of WWI?

The three astronomical instruments Gellert describes but doesn’t name are an orrery, an astrolabe and a celestial globe.

I suppose the Marquess of Queensberry’s misspelling of the word “sodomy” is a thing no Oscar Wilde biography ever skips over. From the legal perspective of Muggle jurisdiction in the United Kingdom, to take up the words I put in Albus’s mouth, the charge of “actual sodomy” was restricted to anal sex at the time.

When Albus came back up the stairs, it was with a look of tired relief on his face. Ariana was trailing behind him, idly playing with what looked like a game of skill. She glanced at Gellert as she passed him on the way to her room, giving him a shy smile. Albus was beaming at him.

“Everything is alright,” he said as he closed the door behind Gellert and himself. “She just overturned her chair by accident when she got up from the table.”

“I’m glad,” Gellert replied. “It must be hard to be constantly on the lookout for your little sister ... I suppose we all remember how it was when we couldn’t control our own magic yet.”

At that, Albus gave him a very peculiar glance that made Gellert wonder if he, perhaps, couldn’t recall such a thing. Of course Mr Model Pupil would have been able to control his magic at a very early age... But when Albus spoke, it was still of his sister.

“I’m just worried Ariana might actually breach the Statute of Secrecy someday,” he confessed. “If she does, it will be my liability alone because I am the only adult in this house.” He sighed.

“But that wouldn’t be fair!” Gellert exclaimed. “It’s neither her fault nor yours she can’t control her abilities yet! You can’t always watch over her...”

“No, perhaps not,” Albus interrupted him firmly. “But I’m still the closest person to a parental figure left to her, and therefore both her well-being and her conduct are my responsibility.”

“I see your point,” Gellert admitted. “What I still don’t see is why the burden of secrecy needs to be thrust upon the parents and guardians of our kind in the first place.”

“You question the Statute of Secrecy?” Albus blinked.

“I do indeed question the Statute of Secrecy.” Gellert gazed at him levelly. Now, he thought. How Albus reacted now would decide if he could confide in him.

“But it is an ancient law of the wizarding society that was introduced for good reason!”

“For good reason at the time,”Gellert countered. “Witch-hunting is over, so the major reason why it was introduced has become void. Laws can be changed.”

“And you think you can change the Statue of Secrecy?” Albus gave him a calculating glance.

“I will abolish it,” Gellert said firmly. Albus raised both eyebrows.

“Oh, a revolutionary, are we?” he said completely unimpressed. “But how would you muster the courage to stand up against the law if you’re already afraid of a little flower?”

“I’m not afraid of a flower!” Gellert said passionately. “But I’m sick and tired of the name-calling and the derisive laughter whenever a man is thought to be in a relationship with another man. I’m sick and tired of hiding every single part of who I am in front of Muggles, whether it is this or the fact that I’m a wizard.” He lowered his voice for effect. “I want a world in which everyone is allowed to be who they are without fear of being humiliated or persecuted. A world where it is not an offence to live freely and without fear, but where it is an offence to restrain people from doing so.”

Albus didn’t respond to Gellert’s short speech at once. He only looked at him, expression unreadable. But Gellert had the impression that something in his gaze had shifted.

“That ... is quite an ambitious goal you’ve set for yourself,” Albus said at last. “I’m sure Bathilda told you that I was British Youth Representative to the Wizengamot. It’s a very ... traditional institution, I must say. The majority position there seems to be to stay out of Muggle affairs whenever possible, and of course all members are required to abide by all national and international laws of the wizarding society. I don’t see how it would be possible to convince them of your opinion, and those are only the witches and wizards of the British Isles.” He started to pace up and down in his room, lost in thought. “In fact, I’m fairly certain the Statute of Secrecy cannot be recalled unilaterally by only one party who signed it. However, I’d need to read up on that again since I never researched this specific question.”

“Oh, Albus, you’re so young and yet you already think like a politician.” Gellert smiled indulgently. “But didn’t you realise it already? I don’t want to wait and see if I can convince some old farts of something that will never have their support anyway because it’s too far out of their comfort zone.” He paused for effect, seeking Albus’s eyes. “What I want is a revolution.”

There seemed to be something about the things he said or about the way he said them that made Albus pause. Then Albus looked directly at him. There was something unsettling about Albus’s eyes; something that made Gellert’s heart skip a beat and then speed up. These bright blue eyes seemed to pierce into his very soul.

“How?”

“Beg your pardon?” Somehow Gellert’s brain seemed unable to catch up with the information from his ears.

“How?” repeated Albus. “How do you want to achieve this goal?” Almost as an afterthought, he added: “And how do you think the Hallows will help you achieve it?”

Gellert stared. Albus Dumbledore was amazing. He had realised at once that his quest for the Hallows and his aim to overthrow the Statute of Secrecy were interconnected.

Then again, he shouldn’t have expected anything less.

“Maybe it would help if you closed your mouth and then used it to utter some words,” Albus suggested dryly. “Unless, of course, this is a test whether I’m able to retrieve the answers to my questions from you via Legilimency.”

And he is a Legilimens too? Gellert felt a strange urge to get on his knees in front of Albus or do something similarly old-fashioned and ridiculous.

Finally, he thought. Finally I’ve found someone with whom I can talk, actually talk about my ideas.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just ... fascinated you made the connection so fast.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Albus raised his eyebrows. “What I know about you is that you’re dedicated to find out as much about the Deathly Hallows as you can, and I also know you want to abolish the Statute of Secrecy though a revolutionary process. Assuming a link between the two seemed only logical.”

“If you put it that way...” Suddenly Gellert felt dumb in comparison to Albus’s quick wit, and he hated that feeling. He tried to make it up with an eventual reply to Albus’s questions.

“I will travel to all the countries that signed the Statute of Secrecy where I will convince as many witches and wizards of its negative effects as I can,” Gellert said in the same confident tone in which he had explained his reasons to repeal the statute. “I will show them all the evil Muggles will not only do to us but to each other if we fail to contain them.” Again, he made a short pause, lowering his tone. “It is only us who are able to ensure human co-existence without war. We are much more willing to see beyond the conflicts, territorial and otherwise, that modern Muggle states have with each other. Ultimately, the ability to do magic unites us well beyond the nationalist quarrels of Muggles.”

Albus acknowledged Gellert’s words with a curt nod, closing his eyes for a moment while he raised his eyebrows. Gellert waited for him to pass his judgment, heart pounding.

“Alright,” Albus said. “You still didn’t answer my question about the Hallows, but I’ve got another one: Showing them the evil Muggles will do?” He gave Gellert another piercing look out of bright blue eyes.

Gellert’s first impulse was to deflect that question; to talk about how anyone who had all but a cursory glance at Muggle newspapers on the Continent once in a while would know how eager they all were—the Germans, the French, the Austrians, the Russians—all so eager to measure their strength with each other. How it was only a question of time that they would finally clash; that there would certainly be a war nobody had seen before...

He realised it would not do. He wouldn’t be able to fool him. Not Albus.

“I Saw it,” he said simply. “I’ve been Seeing ... a war like none there has ever been before ... terrible things people do to each other ... ever since I was a kid.” His first impulse was to look away from Albus; to avoid the look of doubt that had always been a given after confessions like this; the calming tone: Surely you’ve just been dreaming. Horrible nightmares. Perhaps you shouldn’t read so much if it’s giving you bad dreams...

“That must have been terrible.”

Gellert stared at Albus wide-eyed. He only saw compassion in the way Albus gazed at him; no doubt, no incredulity. I bared my soul to you and you did not tear it apart, he thought. This was a first.

“I learned to deal with it,” Gellert said. “How to control the visions so they can’t overwhelm me at any minute. Just sometimes, when I’m agitated or asleep...” He broke off, giving Albus a small, bitter smile. “But yes, I had ... quite an interesting childhood before I learned how to control my magic.”

At that, Albus raised his arm as if to touch him; to return, perhaps, the hug Gellert had given him earlier. But he seemed to think better of it, focusing, instead, on a spot somewhere above Gellert’s head.

“Do you have a means to show your visions to other people?” Albus said eventually. “To the wider audience you want to reach?”

“I’m ... experimenting with something, though it’s not quite ready yet,” Gellert admitted. He wasn’t prepared to lay all his cards on the table all at once. “But you said you were a Legilimens?” He gave Albus an inquiring look.

“Some people say I’m quite good at Legilimency,” Albus admitted with a smile.

Gellert grinned. That, he supposed, translated to Not to boast, but I’m actually brilliant at it in Albus speech. He made an inviting gesture.

“Go ahead.”

“Right now?” Albus laughed incredulously. “Better sit ... I don’t know, on my bed? Having someone look at memories ... visions ... like these can get quite intense, I imagine.”

“That’s really not necessary.” Gellert tried to brush Albus’s concerns off. “But thank you nonetheless. I appreciate the opportunity to sit for a bit.” He flopped unceremoniously on Albus’s bed. “I just need a moment to sort my visions...” And lock my other thoughts, he thought to himself. There were many things on his mind that he didn’t want Albus to find out right now, from his expulsion and the reasons for it to his fascination with and admiration of Albus himself. He did plan to tell Albus eventually, but all in due time and certainly not by accident because he wasn’t good enough at Occlumency.

“Now,” he said, consciously thinking about the men in dirty trenches; the machines, cannonballs, explosions and, of course, that dreadful vapour.

“Legilimens,” he heard Albus whisper, and then the images became as clear as in his visions again; as if he was standing right beside those men who were wiped out in this cruel, faceless machinery of war where you rarely even saw the enemy that killed you.

“Gellert,” a deep voice said softly. “Gellert, it’s alright. You’re here, in my room. Open your eyes.”

Albus’s auburn hair was the first thing that swam into focus. His bright blue eyes followed, and then Gellert was seeing him clearly. It was only now that he realised he was shivering. Albus was holding him by the shoulders, steadying him.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “It ... I should have become used to it by now, but somehow...”

“I hope you’ll never become used to that,” Albus said. There was a raw sincerity to his tone that made Gellert want to lean in and have his hair petted, just like his mother did when he was little: Semmi baj, Gellért, minden rendben van... He straightened himself instead, gazing directly into Albus’s eyes.

“There will be men who won’t get that choice,” he said. “Not to become used to that, I mean. Unless we act.”

“I see that now,” Albus said, staring into the void as if it was him who was able to look into the future, not Gellert. “And this is coming from someone who always thought Divination was humbug.” He gave Gellert a lopsided smile and took his hands from his shoulders. The moment when Gellert could have leaned in was gone.

“Divination is a tricky subject if you don’t have any natural talent for it,” Gellert admitted. “In that case, the best you can do is foretell events with a certain plausibility.” He returned Albus’s crooked smile. “Your intuition is probably more accurate than the predictions of untalented people who try their hands at Divination.”

“I should hope so.” There it was, that tiny, confident smile, only noticeable for the twitching corners of Albus’s mouth. Gellert felt himself fall into those sparkling blue eyes, acutely aware of how physically close Albus was to him. This time, his racing heart had nothing to do with his visions.

Then Albus rose from the bed. Gellert already thought another precious moment lost, but Albus returned soon enough with the bowl of sweets from his desk. Sitting down next to Gellert, he pulled a wrapped chocolate frog from the bowl and offered it to Gellert.

“Do you like sweets?” Albus asked. “I’ve always found a little bit of chocolate quite comforting after emotionally troubling experiences.”

Gellert nodded gratefully and took the enchanted piece of chocolate. He was a little picky when it came to sweets, but he did like chocolate in any way, shape or form. Even if that form was moving and threatened to hop away if you didn’t catch it fast enough.

Gellert took no chances. He grabbed one of the frog’s legs as he was unwrapping it, putting it in his mouth as soon as he had freed it from the paper.

“Ah, a connoisseur!” Albus smirked, unwrapping his own chocolate frog in a similar way. “So which card did you get?” he asked, mouth full. Gellert chuckled. Normally, he didn’t like when people spoke with their mouth full, but if Albus did it, it was somehow endearing.

“Faris Spavin,” he said, holding the card up. It showed the very old, very wrinkled face of a wizard with thick reading glasses.

“Oh, the Minister of Magic himself,” Albus said. He had swallowed his frog in the meantime. “The longest-ever serving Minister and also the one with the most long-winding speeches. They call him Spout-Hole behind his back.” Albus chuckled. “Though I must admit it’s less funny if you sit in the Wizengamot and can’t leave because he won’t stop talking.” He pulled a face. “I started bringing books with me to have at least something to do while he kept babbling. Sometimes I wonder if I should thank him for acing all my N.E.W.T.s.” Gellert couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing.

“See?” Albus said with a satisfied smirk. “A bit of chocolate always cheers you up. Especially if it’s a chocolate frog.”

“Oh no,” Gellert replied, still grinning. “It’s you who cheered me up. And I appreciate it.” Toning down his obvious flirtation, he added: “But now I want to know which card you got!”

Albus gave him a melancholy smile. He held up his card so Gellert could see it as well. It showed another old man, much frailer than Faris Spavin. The wrinkled face was devoid of Faris Spavin’s impressive beard and moustache.

“Ah!” Gellert’s eyes widened in recognition. “That’s Nicholas Flamel, isn’t it? The famous alchemist?”

“None other.” Albus’s smile faded and he stared pensively at his card. “Do you want it? I’ve got several already.” Gellert ignored his question.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look so sad.”

“Oh, it’s just...” Albus sighed. “Mr Flamel and me corresponded. He invited me to visit him in Paris during my tour on the Continent...”

“But since you couldn’t go, you can’t meet him now,” Gellert completed the sentence for him. “I’m sorry, Albus, but I’m sure you’re going to meet him eventually.”

“I hope so.” Albus tried another, more confident smile.

“You will.” Gellert took Albus’s free hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Thank you, Gellert.” Albus looked into his eyes. Gellert felt a sudden urge to lean forward and try to kiss him; try to kiss away the melancholy and the sadness in Albus’s life. But it would have been too early—they knew too little about one another—and there were several things Gellert wanted to tell Albus before he burdened him with his feelings.

The moment passed. Gellert withdrew his hand, passing his chocolate frog card from one hand into the other.

“Do you have that one already?” he said, holding Faris Spavin’s card up again. “If not, we could exchange our cards.”

“I do, actually.” Albus chuckled as if nothing had happened. Gellert suddenly realised that this was Albus’s way to deal with negative emotions: Laughing past the sadness. And perhaps, Gellert thought, he wasn’t all that different; filling his life at Durmstrang with pranks and capers that sometimes got out of hand.

“In that case...” Gellert held out his hand, smirking. “I’ll gladly accept your offer to gift me the Nicholas Flamel card. Let it be a token of our beginning friendship.” Now Albus actually laughed, handing him the card. Gellert took the pouch from his belt and put both cards inside, wiggling his eyebrows at Albus.

“Don’t think you can chicken out of my question about the Hallows just because you’ve declared the card a friendship token!” Albus said as soon as he had stopped laughing.

“Chicken out?” Gellert said, pretending to be affronted. “You wound me. I don’t chicken out of anything!”

“Well then.” Albus grinned at Gellert’s mock annoyance, but his posture had become more serious. “How will the Hallows help you achieve your goal?”

“Not all of the Hallows,” Gellert replied. “Wait.” He retrieved an old book from his pouch, realising belatedly that it still had a Durmstrang Library: Restricted stamp on its spine. Well. Albus didn’t know yet that he had been expelled. He also had no means of knowing that while Durmstrang pupils were allowed to read books from the Restricted Section of their library, they weren’t allowed to borrow them.

Placing the book between Albus and himself so both of them could read in it, he tipped on it with his wand, casting a wordless spell. Then he flicked to the page where it all started; the page he knew by heart at this point.

“Here.” He used the tip of his wand to point Albus to the relevant passage, knowing better by now than to use his finger. Albus’s eyes flicked over the passage with remarkable speed.

“Ah!” he said at last. “Godelot, the author of Magick Moste Evile, explains in his notebook that he wrote his famous reference book on Dark Arts with the help of his ‘moste wicked and subtle friend, with bodie of Ellhorn’!” Before Gellert could say anything, Albus placed his finger over the word “Ellhorn,” only to pull it back with a pained yelp.

“Ouch!” Albus frowned at the little drop of blood that came out of his index finger. “That stung!”

“Sorry,” Gellert said with a contrite smile. “I should have warned you.”

“You should.” Albus glowered at him, licking the drop of blood off his hand. Gellert suddenly found it uncomfortably warm in the room. He hurriedly looked away, staring at the open page.

“And you should wash your finger rather than lick it after touching an old book,” Gellert scolded, trying to divert Albus’s attention from the blush that had surely formed on his cheeks by now. “You never know which forms of mould and magical contamination the parchment could contain.”

“I doubt there is any real danger,” Albus said with a shrug. “You got stung, too, didn’t you? And you’re still alive as well.”

“But I didn’t lick my darn index finger!” Gellert glowered at him. By contrast, Albus’s gaze softened and he gave an amused chuckle.

“Your concern for my health is quite endearing, but I assure you it’s entirely uncalled-for,” he said with a smile. Then he bowed over the book again, and Gellert decided that maybe it wasn’t so bad that their heads were almost touching as they read in it.

“Well,” Albus said after his eyes had darted over the passage. “I’m afraid that’s not as helpful as it could be. Yes, it may serve as evidence that a particularly powerful wand made of elder actually exists, but all we know is that the early medieval wizard Godelot had a powerful wand made of elder that he used to help him write his collection of dangerous spells. We also know he was starved by his own son Hereward so he could gain ownership of that wand. What we don’t learn, sadly, is the exact amount of power Godelot’s wand had and what happened to the wand after Hereward gained possession of it.”

“That’s true,” Gellert admitted. “I—we?” He gave Albus a hopeful glance, but the other boy’s expression remained unreadable. “We,” he continued nonetheless, “need to find later evidence for the Elder Wand’s existence, and we need to learn if it is really as powerful as legend has it. But if it is...” He looked up, staring directly at Albus. “If it really is that powerful, and if you can really learn ancient spells from it that its former owners performed, it will be of great help to us because it cannot be easily overcome.”

“Very well.” Albus slid away from the book, resting his back against the wall. “Assuming that I decide to help you, and assuming that we actually manage to find the Elder Wand ... which one of us should have it?” His tone was not suspicious, not accusatory; merely curious. “You—or me?”

“I thought we could ... maybe ... share it?” Gellert glanced nervously at Albus.

“Share it?” Albus raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you want it just for yourself?”

“I...” Gellert blushed. “I think that’s exactly the problem all the former owners of the Elder Wand had. They boasted with it, like the eldest of the three brothers in the tale, or they wanted it so much they killed their own family for it, like Hereward did with his father.” He thrummed his fingers nervously, stilling them as he realised that he was quite close to putting them on the stinging pages of the old book. “I admit the story of the Hallows fascinated me ever since I first heard of them, but I don’t want the Elder Wand just to possess it. I want it because I want to use it for my—our cause.” He paused, only to add in a low tone and in a very rushed manner: “I so want this to be our cause, not just mine.”

“Why?” Again, something in Albus’s gaze had shifted; something Gellert couldn’t quite read.

“Because you’re brilliant!” Gellert exclaimed. “And I don’t say that because Aunt Batty told me so; I say that because I’ve never been able to talk about any of my ideas the way I did today. I believe I’ve only got a glimpse into your magic so far, but what I saw—what you made me See ... That was amazing.” He looked at Albus, half expectant and half nervous of his reaction.

“Gellert,” Albus said. Gellert was still unable to read his tone and it was almost driving him up the pole. “What you said about the freedom to be who you are ... that we need to prevent the dreadful scenario you Saw ... your idea to use the Elder Wand to make sure you can overcome the forces opposed to the idea of change ... All of that sounds quite appealing to me.”

Gellert stared at him, full of hope and yet reluctant. Quite? What did Albus mean by quite?

“But I think you’ve focused too much on your ideas so far,” Albus continued. “What you need is a strategy. A method to convince people in a way that goes beyond showing them your visions.” Albus locked eyes with him. Gellert’s heart was beating faster. He had realised by now Albus tended to avoid looking directly into someone’s eyes unless he thought it necessary to get a point across.

“I can help you come up with a strategy,” Albus said. “Let’s make this our cause.”

Notes:

Semmi baj, Gellért, minden rendben van... is Hungarian for Nothing’s wrong, Gellert, everything is alright... Thank you to the lovely Ivett (isabellaofparma on tumblr) for helping me with the Hungarian! ❤️

Neither Faris Spavin nor Nicholas Flamel are mentioned as characters on chocolate frog cards by JKR, but I figured there would likely be cards at the end of the 19th century that aren’t printed at the end of the 20th century anymore. They’ve probably become expensive collectors’ items by now. (I do think it would be reasonable to assume Nicholas Flamel has his own chocolate frog card, though.)

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. —Cardinal Wolsey on the “state of man” in William Shakespeare’s All Is True (Henry VIII), 3.2.371-372

The umpteenth version of “those two months of insanity”, but I hope my take on them will still be an interesting read. Canon compliant up until Crimes of Grindelwald with two reservations: First, both of Grindelwald’s eyes are blue (as stated in the Harry Potter books and the first Fantastic Beasts script), just as my physical descriptions in general attempt to comply with the books (Dumbledore has elbow-length auburn hair and a wispy beard; Grindelwald shoulder-length, curly golden hair and—I quote from Deathly Hallows—“a Fred and George-ish air of triumphant trickery about him.”) Second, I hc Dumbledore lied when he said the next time they met (after that fateful duel in 1899) was their duel in 1945.

Chapter 1

Gellert Grindelwald was crouching in the grass in front of the mossy tombstone; positioned, perhaps, directly above the remains of the person interred under it. If there were still remains, that was. The stone was crumbling; all raw, weathered coarseness and sharp, jagged edges. Gellert saw it but he also needed to feel it under the tips of his fingers; needed to follow the traces of the nigh illegible name and, most importantly, the triangular mark underneath. He closed his eyes to eliminate one of his senses, focusing on the sensation of the engraved dents in the stone.

Yes, there was a circle inscribed in the triangle; a line, too, bisecting the angle directly under Ignotus Peverell’s name. They were faint, but they were definitely there.

Gellert drew a shaky breath. This, he thought. This was it. He had been right to visit his aunt in Godric’s Hollow; not just to draw upon her vast library and equally vast historical knowledge, but also for this. This grave, seemingly unremarkable save for its age.

“Are you a distant relative of the Peverell family?”

Gellert all but started at the sound of the deep voice. When he had entered the graveyard, he had been aware of the black cloaked boy, kneeling in front of another grave with a bouquet of white lilies in his hands and shielded from the world by the thick curtain of his flowing auburn hair, so long it was almost touching the ground. Gellert had decided not to greet him, reluctant to intrude on the silent conversation he might be holding with the person he was mourning or, perhaps, with God.

Now the auburn-haired boy was standing right next to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a worn but elegant pair of high-heeled, buckled boots.

Gellert, who had always had a sense for first impressions, allowed his own golden curls to flow out of his face, looking up at the boy before he rose in a smooth motion. The other was half a head taller than Gellert, even subtracting the heels. His form was as thin and slender as his face, with a wispy beard, a long, even nose and faint freckles under the rims of bright, light blue eyes.

Right now, these eyes were staring at him, thunderstruck. Gellert knew that reaction. He had seen his own face in the mirror; all even features and angles and long, black lashes over eyes that were a slightly darker shade of blue than the other boy’s. His golden, shoulder-length locks gave him an unearthly, almost angelic appeal that made most people hold their breath for a second when they first saw him.

“Not to my knowledge,” Gellert said smoothly and added a dazzling smile to the rest of his striking outward appearance. He straightened, making himself as tall as possible as he extended a hand towards the boy. “Nice to meet you. I’m Gellert Grindelwald, Bathilda Bagshot’s great-nephew.” The other took his hand, but before he could say anything, Gellert added: “And you must be Albus Dumbledore. I saw photos of you on Aunt Batty’s chest of drawers. She told me a lot about you; said you’re brilliant: Head Boy, Prefect, Winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize…”

“Stop it; stop it!” Albus chuckled, holding his palms away from his chest. “You’ll make my face turn as red as my hair if you continue like that!” This wasn’t the kind of reaction Gellert had expected. It made Albus’s eyes sparkle and softened his features; made them pleasant and appealing.

Now it was Gellert who was staring, if only for a split second. He had assumed Albus would be rather sullen; depressed maybe because he had just come from a grave—and not any grave but his mother’s, if he recalled correctly from the abundance of information his aunt had fed him at his arrival in Godric’s Hollow.

“My great aunt does have a tendency to talk quite a lot about other people, and it’s often things that are a bit embarrassing,” Gellert conceded with a smile. “Usually good things, though.”

“Bathilda is a charming lady,” Albus said with a genuine smile of his own. “A brilliant historian, too! I wish I had an aunt like her.”

“She’s wonderful even though she’s a bit nosy.” Gellert cracked a grin, registering with satisfaction that Albus held his breath again even though he managed not to stare this time. “Asked me if you wanted to come over for coffee and cake, too.—Well, more like tea and cake,” he corrected himself. “For teatime, anyway.”

Gellert silently cursed himself. He knew his English didn’t betray much of his accent even though it was a bit lilting, but now he had given himself away as a non-native speaker for good. Sure enough, Albus Dumbledore, the wizarding wunderkind, would catch on to it.

“Bathilda may be as English as one can get, but you’re not from here, aren’t you?” Albus asked, sure enough, furrowing his brow in curiosity.

“No, I’m from Sopron, actually,” Gellert admitted. “Or Ödenburg, if that rings more of a bell. It’s in Austria-Hungary. Part of the Kingdom of Hungary, to be precise. My mother’s Hungarian; the father’s Austrian.”

“Interesting,” Albus said, eyes sparkling. “I’m sorry I must decline Bathilda’s invitation, though,” he added, and the light was suddenly gone from his eyes, as if someone had extinguished a candle. Gellert felt a strange and uncalled-for desire to do or say something to see it again. “Please tell Bathilda I’d gladly have accepted her invitation, but I’m afraid I must take care of my younger sister. I left her alone for far too long already, whiling away time at the cemetery.”

Gellert was fairly sure spending time at a deceased family member’s grave couldn’t exactly be called whiling away said time, but he decided not to comment on it. There was something peculiar about this boy; he was young, but there was an air resembling that of an absent-minded professor about him. Gellert felt drawn to him without being able to explain what exactly it was that made Albus so fascinating; what made him think desperately of ways to convince him to accept Bathilda’s invitation after all.

“Why don’t you just bring your sister along to Aunt Batty?” was the most natural thing that came to his mind.

“I’m afraid my sister is very frail … shy and easily distressed when she meets new people…” Albus’s voice trailed off, seemingly unconvinced by his own line of reasoning. He looked to the ground rather than into Gellert’s eyes.

“Why don’t you just ask her if she feels ready to meet me?” Gellert suggested, hope rising in his chest, fluttering up just like, as he hoped, the sparkle in Albus’s eyes. “I’m assuming she already knows Aunt Batty?”

“She does,” Albus admitted, “but she has never been to her house … Besides, my brother will kill me if I take Ariana to Bathilda’s.” He sighed.

“Then make sure he won’t find out about it.” Gellert smirked mischievously. Albus gave him a surprised look. Then the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.

“Fine,” he said, already turning on his heels. “I’m going to ask her.”

Interesting, Gellert thought. Albus had to be fairly desperate to escape his household charges, judging from how fast he had changed his mind. Either that, or… But Gellert quickly pushed that train of thought out of his mind.

“…so lovely if he could finally bring little Ariana over!” Gellert heard his great aunt say from the kitchen. He was in her sitting room, leaning against the bow-fronted chest of drawers on which she kept photographs of people close to her in silver frames. There was a particularly English note to the room, with embroidered doilies and colourfully painted flowerpots and saucers everywhere, but also a note that was purely Bathilda: There were stacks of books all across the room, some of them with an opened book on top and at least one scribble in the margins of the opened pages.

Aunt Batty’s sitting room was a little chaotic, but Gellert supposed it was practical if you were a famous historian and needed to draw on written texts all the time for your own books and articles. Nonetheless, he was feeling a little out of place in his spotless black trousers and black-grey striped waistcoat; too monochrome for the vivid colours of the room.

“Gellert, did you hear me?” his great aunt interrupted his musings about the room. “Should I set the table for two or four; what do you think?”

“Better set it for four,” he called back. “I think it’s better to have too many rather than too less place settings on the table, even if they don’t come in the end.”

He watched as four flowery saucers materialised on the wooden table in the middle of the room, followed by matching teacups and plates. Then there was a knock at Aunt Batty’s front door, and his attention strayed from the self-setting table.

“I’m going to let them in!” he informed his great aunt, already on his way to answer the door.

“Thanks, darling!” he heard her call from the kitchen.

Remembering what Albus had told him about Ariana’s shyness around unknown people, he opened the door slowly and with gentleness. Albus, now wearing purple robes, stood in front of him. His sister was half hidden behind his back, ogling Gellert from under Albus’s arm.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he greeted them both, beaming at Albus in particular. Then he turned to Ariana, bowing down a little to be on eye level with her. She had to be about a head smaller than him, though it was difficult to tell because she wasn’t standing upright.

“You must be Albus’s sister Ariana,” he greeted her, extending a hand. “I’m Gellert, Bathilda’s great nephew.”

She only stared at him suspiciously, making no move to take his hand. He reacted by extending only his bent index finger to her. She tipped at it with her own index finger, making a sound that was almost like a chuckle. His smile broadened.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked her. “Aunt Batty has made her famous chocolate cake.” She nodded. Albus exchanged a relieved look with Gellert as he went inside with his sister.

“Albus!” Bathilda exclaimed, storming out of the kitchen with open arms. She was smaller than Ariana, but that didn’t stop her from hugging Albus with the protective fierceness of a mother hen; it hadn’t stopped her from hugging Gellert with equal fierceness at his arrival either. Albus stooped down and hugged her back, smiling quietly into the tight bun of her brown hair.

“And Ariana!” Bathilda took Ariana’s hands with gentleness, smiling fondly at her. “Would you like to help me a little in the kitchen? Tea is almost ready.” Ariana nodded, and Bathilda tugged her along.

Albus clearly wasn’t at Bathilda’s for the first time. He walked alongside Gellert to the sitting room, taking a seat in a chair next to the empty fireplace. Gellert sat down across the table, scrutinizing Albus’s outward appearance.

“Honestly,” he said, “you’re fitting into this room way better than I do. Though I must admit the colour of your robes jars a little with your hair colour…”

“Interesting,” Albus said completely unimpressed. “A male individual who understands the idea of matching colours. What rarity.” He paused for effect. “Which colour would suit my hair better, Gellert; what do you think?”

“Green,” Gellert said without thinking. He realised he had been led up the garden path the moment the words left his mouth.

“Well … green.” Sure enough, Albus conjured a green carnation out of thin air and attached it on his purple robes. He raised both eyebrows. “Better?”

Gellert stared at him, utterly lost for words—and he was never lost for words. His heart was thumping in his chest. Albus had to know what he was alluding to, but what was he implying? That he was…? That he thought Gellert was…?

The truly unsettling thing was that he would have been right. Gellert’s head was hurting. He hadn’t known he was so easy to see through.

Then again, maybe Albus hadn’t seen through him after all. Maybe he had been making a statement about himself, or maybe it just amused him to scandalise other people. But that was something he, Gellert, thought funny! Would a model pupil like Albus even do such a thing?

Suddenly a large chocolate cake appeared on the table and their cups were full of tea—herbal tea by the scent of it. Gellert was immediately distracted. He found even black tea just barely tolerable, but herbal tea… Gellert sighed inwardly. As Aunt Batty’s guest, he needed to drink what was served to him, grin and bear it.

“Ah, wonderful!”  Albus exclaimed, apparently delighted by the sight of the chocolate cake. “May we help ourselves to a piece, Bathilda?”

“Of course!” Bathilda said, walking back into the sitting room with Ariana. She smiled at Albus. “After all, I know how much you enjoy my cakes.”

“Well, but first of all, we need to serve the ladies,” Albus said as he pulled his wand out of his robes and gave it a flick. Two impeccably cut pieces of cake separated from the whole of it and settled on the plates in front of Bathilda and Ariana. “Then the well-travelled guest.” Another piece went to Gellert’s plate. “And, finally, myself.” The piece of cake that made its way to Albus’s plate was of the exact shape and form as the other three. Gellert raised his eyebrows.

“Are you a believer in the distributive norm of equity?” he asked curiously. “Donum suum aequale sibi?”

“Much as I’d love to distribute sweets proportional to body height,” Albus said, corners of his mouth twitching, “I believe that would be rather impolite toward your aunt and my sister.” Gellert laughed.

“Well then, Gellert,” Bathilda said. “How do you like my cake?”

“Wait a minute, Aunt Batty!” Gellert replied, still giggling. “I need to take a bite first!”

“And you, dearie?” Bathilda turned to Albus. “What do you think?”

“It tastes delicious as always,” Albus said and took his first bite. Gellert blinked incredulously. Bathilda didn’t seem to have noticed; she left her chair and headed for the kitchen again, muttering something about forgotten cream.

“Did you just…” Gellert asked as soon as his great aunt was out of earshot, staring at Albus.

“So what if I did?” Albus put down his dessert fork. “Any other answer wouldn’t have been socially acceptable anyway, would it?” There was an amused twinkle in his eyes. “Besides, I know from experience that your great aunt makes the best pastries and cakes in the whole West Country of England!”

“Oh, thank you, dearie!” Bathilda, who reappeared with a full bowl of cream floating beside her in mid-air, had apparently only heard the last part of Albus’s declaration. Gellert hastened to take a bite of his piece of cake as well so he could make a statement about it based on evidence.

“Delicious!” he exclaimed after a pause. “There’s a lot of cocoa in this cake, isn’t it? It tastes luscious, almost like melted chocolate!”

“The recipe is a family secret.” Bathilda smiled at herself. “Then again, you are family, so perhaps I’ll hand it to you if you behave nicely during your stay here.” Gellert wanted to tell her how she was probably much better at baking than him anyway, but he didn’t even get to say a word.

“I wish I was part of your family too if that’s the only way to get this recipe!” Albus declared in such a heartfelt way that Ariana started to giggle again. Bathilda made eye contact with her.

“Sweetie, I think your brother is a bit silly today,” she declared. Ariana nodded eagerly, and soon all four of them were grinning. Then Bathilda seemed to remember something.

“Oh dear, I completely forgot to properly introduce you three!”

“It’s no problem, Auntie,” Gellert tried to calm her. “We already introduced ourselves to each other, and you told me so much about Albus...”

“But Albus hardly knows anything about you, darling!” Gellert winced.

“Please, Aunt Batty, let me tell him myself!” he asked, hating how desperate he sounded. He saw the scene right before his mind’s eye: Gellert, this is Albus, the star alumnus of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Albus, this is my good-for-nothing great nephew Gellert who was expelled from Durmstrang Institute. Would Albus still want to talk to him if he learnt right now that he...

“But I think your research project would benefit enormously if a bright boy like Albus could look into it!” Bathilda objected gently. Gellert felt dizzy with relief as he realised she wasn’t going to tell Albus about the disgraceful end of his schooling.

“A research project?” Albus piped up.

“Um, yes, it’s ... a bit difficult to explain.” Gellert blushed. Again, he saw the scene right before his eyes: Hello, I’m trying to find three magical artefacts from a children’s tale. Who was going to take him seriously? If only he could get enough time to explain ... preferably without Ariana and his great aunt present...

“It involves an enormous amount of historical research, which is why Gellert came to me in the first place,” Bathilda explained. “Unfortunately I’m pressed for time to finish a revised edition of my book on witchcraft trials at the moment; the publisher needs the final draft by the end of August. But you know your fair share of magical history as well, don’t you, dearie?”

“Oh, it would be an honour for me if I could help you!” Albus said eagerly, turning to Gellert.

“Perhaps we could go to my room and have a look at Aunt Batty’s books together?” Gellert suggested. “I’m sure she would love to stay with your sister in the meantime; wouldn’t you, Aunt Batty?”

“Of course, darling!” Bathilda beamed. “I need to work on my book this afternoon, but you enjoy knitting, don’t you, Ariana?” The girl nodded and smiled at her. “So we could sit together while I’m writing and you’re knitting,” Bathilda suggested. “How does that sound?”

“Lovely,” Ariana said quietly. It was the first word Gellert had heard her utter during the whole afternoon. She had a bright and pretty voice.

Then Gellert turned to Albus, watching his inward struggle with his promise to take care of his sister himself and the temptation to leave her in Bathilda’s care instead. Just like in the cemetery, Temptation won with ease.

“Thank you, Bathilda,” Albus said. “That’s very kind of you.” Then he gave Ariana a tentative smile. She smiled back, but neither of them said anything.

“Come with me?” Gellert asked before Albus might change his mind. Albus nodded and followed him to the stairs. They were steep and narrow, so Albus was quite close to him when he stopped right behind him. He took the green carnation from his purple robes, twirling it between his long fingers.

“Your reaction was quite satisfying,” he commented offhandedly.

“What?”  Gellert’s hand clutched around the landing. His knuckles turned white.

“There, again,” Albus said. “You seem so confident and sure of your own beauty. I wanted to see if I could do or say something that would unsettle you.”

Gellert stared at Albus in bewilderment.

“As it turned out, I could.” Albus smiled. His eyes sparkled. Then he flicked his wand, and the green carnation vanished. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. That was not my intention.”

He knows. Gellert felt the pulse of his own heartbeat in his throat.

“Oh, you didn’t disturb me at all,” he said as smoothly as he could and resumed walking. But he was sure he hadn’t fooled Albus.

Notes:

Oscar Wilde popularised green carnations as a symbol for homosexual men in Victorian England. He was tried for “gross indecency with men” in 1895 and jailed in Reading Gaol from then until 1897. Putting a green carnation on one’s lapel would have been considered risqué, to say the least, in 1899.

My headcanon that Gellert is from Sopron is very, very similar to that of Kierkegarden. I developed it independently but we were apparently thinking along very similar lines of reasoning: Nurmengard, the prison Gellert Grindelwald built, is located in Austria; Szent Gellért is a patron saint of Hungary; and Grindelwald is a village in Switzerland, which could be a Habsburg reference since Habsburg Castle, the originating seat of Austria’s long-time ruling family, is also located in Switzerland. (If you want to read this headcanon in a little more detail, follow the #grindellore tag on my blog 😉) Choosing Sopron as the place Gellert was born seems pretty natural, too, considering it’s an old city that used to be part of the Kingdom of Hungary; its status as Hungarian, not Austrian, remained controversial right after WWI; it was bombed several times during WWII; and it was the site of the “Pan-European Picnic”, a peace demonstration in 1989.