Archive of Our Own ^beta

i. 'Being rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger.'

"You... you bloody bastards!"

Aberforth's compact, somewhat burly figure had planted itself in front of them, fists clenched as if for a second blow.

Albus's head was still ringing from the first. He pressed one hand under his bleeding nostrils, not quite daring to apply pressure to his nose. It hurt too badly, and blood was still welling between his fingers.

Behind Aberforth, Ariana was sobbing into the front of Madam Bagshot's robes. The witch cooed at her, trying to pull her away to examine the livid welts on her arms and chest. Ariana squirmed and curled up, still wracked by those horrible, dry sobs that were echoing in Albus's own chest.

Only now, in the aftermath, did he start to tremble with shock. Those welts – if he'd been a fraction slower, a little more angry or distracted, if the exploding spell had sliced into her instead of leaving surface cuts...

He took a feeble step towards his sister, and stumbled back when Aberforth swung at him again.

"Get away from her!"

Madam Bagshot looked up sharply. "Aberforth!"

No muscle softened in Aberforth's belligerent face. "They almost killed her!"

Vertigo rolled inside Albus's stomach. He felt blood trickling down the back of his throat and almost gagged at the vile taste of it. Beside him, Gellert moved, his face bone-white under a shock of blond curls. His usually mobile features, dominated by an expressive, too-large mouth, seemed frozen. He handed Albus a handkerchief, and without thinking Albus dabbed at the blood.

"We habe-" He swallowed, and tasted iron. "We have to take her to St Mungo's."

Gellert sucked in air as if to speak, then didn't.

"Yes." Madam Bagshot had finally prised Ariana off her robe and was kneeling in front of her. "Aberforth and I will go with her. We'll make sure she's safe."

She rose and ushered Ariana towards Aberforth, who hugged her against him, more mindful than usual. Albus saw her relax as his brother petted her hair. It was more than she'd ever done with him.

Madam Bagshot's eyes landed on Gellert, who was using a second tissue to staunch a bleeding cut on his wrist.

"It's not as bad as it looks. I'll try to steer the Healers away from asking awkward questions about the nature of her magic. But you should leave."

There was a cool glint in her eye as she regarded her nephew, and although he'd known it would be happening, even without this, Albus flinched. More so when the sharp eyes flicked to him.

"The same goes for you, Albus. This may not go to the Ministry, but I don't think it will show you best-placed to care for your sister - or your brother."

Aberforth's head snapped up, lifting from Ariana's brown curls. "He's got himself another brother – he's none of mine any more."

It was all Albus could do not to let his face crumble.

"That's enough, Aberforth!" Madam Bagshot snapped.

Aberforth gave her a sullen stare, but accepted the cloak she thrust at him and settled it around Ariana's thin shoulders, fumbling a little with the clasp.

Madam Bagshot paused to put a hand on Albus's arm.

"Think about it, Albus. I will take care of Ariana – I couldn't do less by Kendra - and I'll make sure Aberforth goes back to Hogwarts and completes his schooling. They'll both be fine."

It didn't require a seer to hear the unspoken 'and better off without you' behind it.

Saying nothing, Albus watched her take Ariana's hand. His sister stepped into the flames of the Floo network, head bowed and nearly vanishing inside the cloak. She glowed green just before Madam Bagshot walked up behind her and hid her from view.

Aberforth paused before stepping into the hearth, and turned his head.

"If you're still here when I come back, I'll kill you."

Albus bit down on the side of his tongue. He felt his skin stretching tense over his cheekbones, eliminating every expression until Aberforth had vanished.

He passed the bowl of Floo powder to Gellert, not looking up until the explosion of green flames had indicated his passing. Then he slid to the ground in front of the cold heart, hugging his knees and shaking.

 

ii. 'Humans do have a knack of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them.'

He wasn't surprised to find Gellert in the open doorway to his room hours later. At least Albus suspected it had been hours. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting in front of the fireplace before forcing himself to get up when the ache in his nose became noticeable even through the dull pain of his thoughts.

His face in the mirror, caked with blood, had looked like a celebrant's at a Deathday Party and he'd finally given up on water and washcloth and used a Scourgify on it. His nose, always too long, thin and prominent, was puffy and red with a noticeable bump in the middle. Never one especially gifted with healing charms, he'd put a bone-knitting spell on the cartilage that nearly had him passing out with pain, then slathered it with Essence of Murtlap. They always kept a large bowl of it in the bathroom cabinet. Ariana tended to hurt herself, and Aberforth kept getting into endless scrapes with anyone who'd look at him sideways.

Gellert cut a dashing figure in a slate-grey, ankle-length travelling cloak and Italian boots with silver clasps. A shrunken trunk and a portmanteau dangled on a cord from his finger. A trace of strain still showed at the edges of his pale face, although his expression was perfectly blank.

"What have you done to yourself?" he asked mildly, and although a part of Albus wanted to yell in outrage at what they had done to Ariana, he allowed Gellert to lift his head. Gellert's fingers were warm and Albus didn't flinch although Gellert's wand was sparking in his hand, face scrunched up in concentration.

Albus squeezed his eyes shut as a warm golden glow spilled over him. A dry stab of pain caught his nose, until he could almost hear the bone creak; his eyes spilled over. Gellert's hold on his chin kept him immobile against the pain until it peaked and faded into a warm glow. His nose still felt twice its size and ached, but not with the biting, bone-deep throbbing he'd suffered before.

"Well," Gellert said, tucking his wand into its sheath at his robe belt, "I don't think there's anything to be done for the fracture – you left it too long." His fingers were warm, comforting against Albus's skin. "It gives you character."

He let go. "Aunt Tilda flooed me from St Mungo's. Ariana is doing well. The Healers think that the scars will most likely vanish altogether, given time. She said she's petitioned the Wizengamot for custody of her and Aberforth, and they're likely to grant it." He paused for a moment. "She told the healers it was a misfiring wand, but there's no telling whether there will be an investigation. Your brother might not keep quiet."

He threw a look around Albus's room, neat but for the cramped bookshelf, the tomes stacked up on the floor rising towards the ceiling, and a desk cluttered with parchments, quills and sweets.

"You should be packing."

Albus flinched, stung raw by Gellert's ability to go right back to the cause of the fight. The answer, however, was the same – now more than ever.

"I'm not leaving," he stated flatly.

A familiar note of anger flashed across Gellert's face before he reined himself in.

"Albus, don't be stupid. You heard Aunt Matilda – do you want to go to Azkaban?"

There was a chance of that, Albus knew, if the Wizengamot's prejudices focused on him. The violent son of a violent father...

...

He'd walked into the Hearing at his father's hand, who had wanted his heir as a witness. Or rather, Albus realised much later, had wanted the Wizengamot to look into the face of the victim's brother.

Among the sea of lined, wrinkled faces, only a handful of Wizengamot members stood out in Albus's memory. The Minister of Magic himself, well-fed and unhappy in his ornately carved chair at the centre; a striking, tall woman in a purple turban; a younger wizard with a frost-coloured braid, fur-lined collar, and gloves.

His father spoke little; he was rarely addressed directly by the assembly and only his hand tightening around Albus's smaller one betrayed his agitation.

"Well, we're agreed, then." The Minister spread his hands as if to appease an invisible host of spirits. "The child Ariana performed Accidental Underage Magic, and a team of Obliviators will be sent to modify the boys' memories. Thankfully, so far they don't seem to have spoken to anybody."

The turbaned woman let out a barking laugh. "Did you expect anything else? They're unlikely to confess attacking a neighbouring child for doing magic. Even grown-up Muggles would not believe them."

"Yes, Susan, your insistence on holding an investigation before sending out Obliviators is noted," the Minister replied, somewhat peevishly. "Now, unless there are any final comments, I'll call this Hearing closed."

"What about my daughter?"

His father had let go of Albus's hand before raising his voice, and Albus shivered at his tone.

A frown pulled together the Minister's eyebrows. Before he could speak, another voice cut in, silky and low.

"Yes, what about the man's daughter?"

Albus looked up, standing on tiptoes to see better. It was the blond man in the fur collar, his voice as sleek as his hair.

"Here we have a little witch, playing with bluebell flames in her own garden, spied on and assaulted by Muggle boys who left her damaged for life. We talk of Memory Charms – what about punishment?"

In the front row a red-haired wizard with a very pointed hat sighed, as did the Minister.

"Really, Lysander, we discussed this before," the Minister said. "The Muggle boys are children too, frightened out of their wits by seeing magic performed. Yes, what they did was wrong, but we have no authority to interfere."

The blond wizard reclined in his chair. "Hardly 'children', Minister. Three years from coming of age. And they did a terrible thing, even by Muggle standards, or so those familiar with the creatures tell me." He inclined his head to the red-haired wizard who'd sighed before, and whose cheeks now acquired a red tinge at being so singled out. "Are we truly going to tell the poor girl's father and brother that there is no redress for the harm done to her because Muggle perpetrators can strike with impunity at the heart of our families while the Wizengamot washes its hands of responsibility?"

His last words almost vanished in the ensuing commotion as witches and wizards yelled their objections and support from the benches.

"That's enough, Lysander!" the Minister roared, his face reddening like a slab of raw beef. "You are skirting sedition. I won't have anyone advocating the breaking of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy in my presence!" The ceremonial hammer in his hand banged on the lectern before him and sparked. "This hearing is closed!"

...

It was late that same evening when a knock came at the door. Kendra was already abed with Ariana, and only Albus was still downstairs, hiding in the shadow of the pantry when his father rose to admit the visitor. It was the long-haired man in the fur collar – Lysander. Now, he wore plain black robes, albeit with the satin shine that defined excellent quality – quality that Mother admired in Diagon Alley, but couldn't quite afford.

Again, Albus was struck by his self-assured movements. As if an exotic magical creature had suddenly stepped into the Dumbledores' prosaic home.

"Percival." The wizard removed his gloves and inclined his head to Albus's father.

"Malfoy."

Father didn't offer a chair, and the visitor stood as self-confidently as if he'd never expected it.

"I've come to extend my sympathies for your family's suffering, and to express my disappointment with the decision taken by the Wizengamot today."

Albus expected his father to thank the other man for his support at the Hearing, but Percival Dumbledore only nodded.

Seemingly unperturbed, the blond wizard continued. "However, I'd like to offer you something more than empty words. There are wizards for whom the protection of wizardkind does not mean permitting our children to suffer at the hands of Muggles." He paused, turning his gloves between long, elegant fingers. "The Knights of Walpurgis are willing to ride in your defence and punish those who violated your daughter."

Heart thumping with sudden hope, Albus watched his father's lips compress. Percival's fingers clenched around the back of a chair.

"And what would the Knights have me do in exchange?" he asked bluntly.

"Nothing, Percival," the blond wizard soothed. "Though maybe, at some point in the future, some well-placed word or silence might be appreciated."

"Yes, I believe it would."

Rising to his full height in robes the colour of the night sky, Percival Dumbledore cut an imposing figure. The other wizard seemed to think so too, because he took a step back.

"I'd be grateful then, Malfoy, if you conveyed to the Knights my... gratitude for their offer, and told them in no uncertain terms that no Dumbledore will ever let himself be associated with their like."

A sneer appeared on Malfoy's lips that managed to erase his good looks in a heartbeat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Dumbledore – sorry that cowardice has infested even the oldest of wizarding bloodlines. Although it is perhaps inevitable, considering the blood status of the mate you've chosen."

"Leave!" Percival snapped and the other bowed, a slight, mocking gesture before gliding to and out of the door with a studied insolence that made Albus's chest cramp.

"But father – why?" he blurted out as soon as the door had shut on the softest of notes.

Percival looked up, not appearing to be surprised at finding his precocious eldest in the doorway. Just resigned. "He promised to avenge Ariana when the Ministry wouldn't!"

"And you'd have me indebted to a creature like Malfoy for life?"

Voice hitching with anger, Albus cried, "I'll do it myself, then! I know where they live!"

He would have been prepared for a slap, but reeled back when his father's wand snapped in his direction.

"You will go to your room and never speak of this again!"

Albus felt the force of the command propel him towards the door. His mouth moved but no sound came out. He grabbed the doorjamb, stoking the rage inside him that he instinctively knew would help him throw off the compulsion. His father's expression wavered.

"Please, Albus – this once, don't argue. Just go.'

Percival's expression quietened Albus where his wand had not, and he allowed the spell to pull him out the door and up the stairs into the room he shared with Aberforth, who was already snoring.

It was the last time he saw his father in freedom. He woke to the news of the arrest of Percival Dumbledore, the Muggle hater who would die in Azkaban. He watched his mother clam up like a seashell and never open again. And, in the end, he was left alone, the only recourse of his young brother and sister.

...

"I will not leave my siblings at the mercy of a stranger," Albus insisted.

"Not even if they want you dead?" Gellert asked with all the pity of a poison-frosted sweet.

Albus felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. It had been a low blow, but then Gellert was using words like he and Albus had aspired to use magic – deft, sharp, exploring and exploiting any weakness that disclosed itself. It wasn't in Gellert's nature to show compassion.

"I've never run away from anything," Albus declared, aware how brittle his self-confidence sounded.

Gellert cocked his head. "Are you rejecting me because I hurt your sister? Or because you can't face up to the fact that you still don't hate me enough to tell me to go to hell?"

Albus's face went hot. "Not quite to hell," he mumbled. "The Continent would do as a start."

"If I thought you'd mean that, I might even leave you to it," Gellert said. "But you don't. You're not doing it for them. You're just doing it to punish yourself for fear that no one else will."

Albus opened his mouth for an angry riposte, then took a nervous step back when Gellert put a finger over his lips, silencing him too tenderly to strike out.

"I won't let you do this to yourself, Albus." Gellert raised his wand again and Albus vaguely considered ducking away, wild thoughts of Imperius whirring through his brain. Gellert waved the wand in a sweeping bow through the room. "Concorripe!"

The doors of Albus's wardrobe banged open; his portmanteau fell out, and his former school trunk hopped out from behind his desk. Another swipe, and Albus's clothes and books threw themselves inside, lemming-like, until the clasps clicked shut and the luggage started to shrink into a hand-sized parcel that reminded Albus of the firewhisky-filled chocolate trunks that Enchanted Confectioneries sold in Diagon Alley at the beginning of winter season.

Reflexively, he grabbed hold of his cloak when Gellert thrust it at him.

"Give Aberforth a year or two to calm down and grow up," Gellert said in a voice that brooked no objection. "Give yourself a few years of study and you will come up with a better way of helping Ariana than burying yourself in this house and hating it."

Fists clenched in the rough-spun wool of his cloak, Albus listened as if the decision had been taken out of his hands, as if all he could do was move along the appointed path.

"Come." Gellert said. His leather-gloved hand sent a shower of Floo Powder into the ancient fireplace.

When the green light filled the room, Albus went.

 

iii. 'The glorious young leaders of the revolution. '

Albus fired another blast of energy into the sputtering fireplace that refused to provide warmth. The very walls, bricks and beams seemed to lure heat outside with a siren song. He slipped deeper underneath the three woollen blankets that covered his bed, and wriggled his toes in the faint hope of getting them warm. The chilly bed linen seemed to dissipate every warming charm placed on it.

He'd heard the story the day after they'd moved into the lodging house, gleefully narrated to him in the corner tavern where he'd gone for a drink and a meal and a test of his translation charms. How a travelling hag had died of dragon pox in the room they'd rented, how the proprietress had refused to call a Healer when she couldn't pay, and how the hag had cursed the room with eternal chill.

He exhaled on his fingers, white against his black fingerless gloves, and shifted the parchment he was reading to enjoy the fleeting warmth.

The foeglass on the table gave an unconcerned ping right before the ancient oak door banged open. As always, Gellert didn't bother with the handle, and just threw it open with magic. It was effective, if raising the ire of their landlady, as battered as the door, not to mention the entire house.

Gellert was wrapped up tightly in his travelling cloak, liberally laced with warming charms, and again Albus admired the contrast between the ornate blue-green fabric and the soft gold of Gellert's hair. His face was glowing with the cold. Prague in winter agreed with him.

After banging the door shut, he pulled a sheaf of paper out of the breast pocket of his cloak.

Albus let one of his eyebrows travel up. "You got it?"

"A personal invitation to Gellert Aulus Grindelwald to study at the Maharal Archive as a free scholar, from Archivarius Isidor Bellum."

"Not bad," Albus observed airily. There was just the degree of smugness to Gellert's entrance to warrant the put-down he was about to deliver. He put down the parchments he'd been reading, spread them out like a fan on the coverlet, and leaned back against the headboard with his arms folded behind his head.

Gellert's eyes narrowed. "You too?" When Albus just smirked at him and raised his thumb and index finger to indicate 'two', he shook his head. "But how? You barely got out of bed since we arrived here, apart from going to the pub and gawking at old Muggle stone heaps."

"British Youth Representative to the Wizengamot, remember?" Albus licked his lip, still smirking. "And don't pretend you didn't gawk like a Muggle tourist at the Castle as well – wasn't it after all where your hero Rudolph II made his last stand against the European Statute of Wizarding Secrecy?"

"You sneaky little bastard," Gellert said slowly, not reacting to the dig. "When did you send them?"

"I owled the letters after we'd portkeyed into Calais."

Albus had sent off a third letter as well, which had prompted a rather curt note of apology that Maître Rusballardiere was currently sponsoring a maximum number of research scholars and regretted he was unable to accommodate him. While Albus didn't doubt the rush of the wizarding best and brightest to study at the Maharal, he doubted that many had his qualifications. Maître Rusballardiere had been very encouraging towards him at the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo, and Albus wondered what rumours the Maître had heard about him to provoke this impersonal rejection.

He did not mention that to Gellert, though. Astonishing enough that a man of his reputation, who hadn't even completed Durmstrang, had met with success so quickly. European wizards were more open-minded about a history in the Dark Arts.

"You'd do that, wouldn't you?" Gellert clicked his tongue.

For an instant, Albus's ears heated as if Gellert had hit him with Occlumency. Then he recalled that his partner in crime was really quite pants at mind-altering spells. He was fast, though.

The little parcel smacked Albus in the chest before he could fling himself aside, and impacted with a soft crackle. It was wrapped in gaudy purple paper with animated gold tinsel that tickled his fingers. Albus squeezed it gingerly. It was surprisingly soft.

"What is it?"

"Open it," was Gellert's predictable reply. "I'm not sure whether you deserve it for upstaging me, but..."

Albus poked at the wrapping, causing tinsels to flit away under his fingers until the paper unrolled its contents.

He let out a rather unmanly giggle when a pair of large-sized, fluffy socks flopped into his palm. They were a vibrant, saffron yellow, decorated with tiny wands that sparked, brooms that zoomed, and cauldrons that emitted puffs of smoke. The wool was seductively soft and warm against his palm.

"They've got Veela hair and warming charms woven in," Gellert smirked. "I hope it'll put an end to your whining about being cold here."

"It's not my fault that you dragged me right into the coldest winter in Czech memory," Albus protested while pulling the socks over his feet. They were as warm and comfortable as they looked, and brightened the room all on their own. "Thank you!"

Gellert tousled his hair. "You're welcome. And tomorrow, we start on our quest for power."

Albus rolled his eyes and wriggled his toes in the new socks. Shoving his precious parchments onto the nightstand, he closed his fingers around Gellert's wrist and pulled him close.

 

iv. 'It takes a great deal of courage to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends.'

Albus watched the flames change colour in the brazier as he carefully measured out seven drops of dragon's blood over the hissing coals. Anger drew the incantation into a taut string of syllables. His skin crawled as a rage-filled, ghostly hiss rose around him before fizzling away in magic and heat.

The next moment, the fireplace emitted a burst of warmth that Albus hadn't experienced in two years, no matter how much they'd stoked the fire. He gave an apologetic bow to the ghost of the hag who hadn't cursed the place without reason, and settled down in a chair to wait.

His fingers slid restlessly over the last letter he'd received from Madam Bagshot, whose penmanship was concise in a way her books were not. Ariana had settled in well at her home; Aberforth had finished his 7th year at Hogwarts with 3 NEWTS (Albus had winced at that), and had taken a job at the Roaring Lion in Godric's Hollow. Ariana's scrawl of a signature, sometimes with a word of greeting, never failed to follow Madam Bagshot's. Aberforth never wrote.

Although at times missing Britain felt like an Erlking gnawing on his intestines, Albus had, alone and with Gellert, made Prague his own over the years. They'd attended the premiere of Malecrit's controversial Merlot, Justine, Jeanne, Emeraude, Etienne et un Centaure at the National Magical Theatre, went to Muggle workingmen's meetings and public lectures at Charles University, and saw traditional performances of Statumancy in memory of the Maharal Loew, Chief of the Prague Wizard Council and founder of the Archive that would later bear his name.

When spring was too insistently beautiful for research, they watched the Prague Predators trash their opponents in the Hapsburg League at Quidditch with feral determination.

Only once, Albus had accompanied Gellert to a meeting of the Friends of the Schattenjäger, supporters of the militant pureblood Schattenjägerbund, and spent the question section lovingly tearing apart the speaker's argument until the man's tongue had knotted with rage. They'd agreed, afterwards, not to repeat that experience. Albus had grown skilled at ignoring Gellert's more unsavoury associations.

After this morning's surprise visit, however, he knew that avoiding the issue was no longer possible.

His anger had not abated when Gellert returned, for once without his customary dramatic entrance, and raised an eyebrow when he found Albus at home. Then the heat registered, and his eyebrow travelled up further.

"I see congratulations are in order again." He divested himself of his winter cloak and quipped, "Looks like you won't be needing my socks any longer?"

His expression shifted when Albus just stared at him coldly. Dismissively between index and middle finger, he handed over the parchment note he'd received earlier.

Gellert took it, and flipped it open. His mouth tightened as he read.

"It came hand delivered," Albus commented idly, "by the Muggle Rector of Charles University himself, from young Master Danilo Carodej..." The Carodejs were among the most formidable Czech pureblood families, their youngest scion only just out of Durmstrang and made heir by his father meeting the wrong end of a Swedish Short Snout near Arjeplog during last year's race. "I wasn't aware you had such devoted followers among Prague's wizarding elite," he added. "Practically screaming 'Look, Master, Imperius!"

"He's very young yet," Gellert said. "I'm sorry – I didn't expect you to be home this morning."

Albus scoffed and threw him the sealed black envelope that had come with the note.

"I obliviated the poor man and sent him home, suggesting he'd been seduced into the seedier quarters of town by a glossy-haired beauty."

The corner of Gellert's mouth turned up. "Perhaps he was?"

Not the least in the mood for innuendo, Albus stood.

"Do you think I'll overlook a bit of Muggle-baiting if I'm not here to witness it?" he snapped. "I really don't know you any more!" He threw up his hands. "I saw you hex those goons who harassed that elderly Jewish couple in the street last week. They were all Muggles, and yet you intervened – how does that square with you knowing every Muggle-hater in the bloody city?"

"I don't hate Muggles, Albus." Gellert leaned forward and placed his hand on Albus's wrist. "Yes, I thought I did once, before you dragged me along into all those Muggle pubs and meetings. They aren't so bad, on their own." His grip tightened, until Albus thought he could feel Gellert's pulse radiating from his fingertips. "But as a species, they are lethal."

"No more than wizards," Albus retorted.

"And that," Gellert said, strangely gently and loosening his grip, "is where, for all your brilliance, you're a fool."

Albus's jaw clenched. "Not sharing your prejudices doesn't make me a fool."

"Maybe not a fool, then," Gellert conceded. "Just a dreamer."

Albus grimaced and pulled away. There were better ways of spending an afternoon than listening to Gellert in one of his moods.

"No!" Gellert rose as if to bodily block the door. "We should have had this talk months ago."

"I'm not so sure," Albus said. "Considering how hearing you on the topic makes me appreciate you far less than I normally would. I don't ask questions about the people you spend time with. I think it's better for both of us if we keep it that way."

Gellert's expression hardened. "I'm not trying to hide my connections, or my plans - there were times when we could speak about these things. 'For their own good', remember?"

Albus forced himself not to flinch at the low blow. "I was a child, then," he said. "I knew nothing of the world except for Hogwarts, and even in Godric's Hollow we mingled with no one, least of all Muggles. I was wrong about the absolutism of power then, Gellert. What we almost did to Ariana showed me just how much. I was wrong - and so are you."

"I don't hate Muggles, Albus - I fear them." At Albus's snort of disbelief, Gellert shook his head. "Yes, I know what you're going to say. We are so very superior to them, with a wand and magic. But there's so many of them, and they're violently aggressive against everyone they fear and hate-"

"Like the Schattenjägerbund or the Knights of Walpurgis?" Albus asked.

"They're misguided and blinded by their own sense of superiority," Gellert admitted. "But if they're controlled, they can be useful."

"Controlled by you?"

Gellert shrugged. "They are willing to be. And I'm sure you'll agree that that's preferable to them indiscriminately harassing and murdering 'blood traitors' and Muggles."

"Maybe." Albus nodded. "But I'd prefer ridding us of them and their disgusting ideas altogether."

"Just look at this country," Gellert insisted. "The Czechs hate the Austrians, the Austrians look down on the Czechs, and all of them want to stick it to the Jews. How long until the whole mess will erupt in war all over the bloody continent? A blind man can see it coming!"

"Yes," Albus nodded. "That's why we don't need the likes of the Schattenjäger to stir tensions up even further."

"But deep down in their scared little hearts they know wizards exist," Gellert ploughed on without considering Albus's protest. "They know that another species shares their world, one that's infinitely more powerful and that holds the leash to all the monsters their collective mind half remembers. And despite all the differences they invent to set themselves apart from each other, at the very core it's not each other they want to destroy, no matter what a good job they do. It's us."

If Albus admired the flush of agitation on Gellert's cheeks, he didn't show it. "So what's your solution? Preventive genocide?"

"Of course not," Gellert scoffed. "But perhaps after the war they're moving towards, perhaps after the next, they'll be disillusioned enough – weakened enough – to embrace another rule, to look to magic as the redeemer rather than the enemy. Maybe then we'll be ready to reconsider the International Statue of Secrecy – help them heal while ensuring they won't turn on us again."

"And where do I fit into this brave new world of yours?" Albus asked. He'd heard Gellert speechify before, and while acknowledging his insight, he wasn't particularly susceptible to rhetoric, being rather too good at it himself. He could imagine it having a devastating effect on others, though.

Gellert took a step towards him. "You know I hate the thought of losing you, even for a while, Albus. But sooner or later, I hope you'll agree to return to England and prepare for the time when we can renegotiate wizarding secrecy. You're one of our most brilliant minds. You can charm and convince without effort. And if you'd set your mind to it - in the Ministry of Magic, or at Hogwarts - you could bring together like-minded wizards and witches and spread our ideas." He shrugged, smiled. "That's the hope I have for us - fighting together for a worthy goal."

Albus felt his teeth clench. There was a tempting, seductive shiver running down his spine at the vision of a future that would see wizards and Muggles openly share the world, like a hot flash of memory from a more innocent - more naive - past. But he heard, as clearly as Gellert's impassionate words, the things he hadn't said.

"Since when have you been researching the Deathstick?"

He nodded at the parchment, which announced, in bold letters, that young Master Carodej had discovered the whereabouts of the 'Wand of Destiny'.

"Deathstick?" Gellert snorted. "Who came up with that? The sort of Dark Wizard who thinks that sticking 'death' in front of everything will make him scary?"

"That's not the point, Gellert!"

"What is the point, then, Albus? That I came to Godric's Hollow to research the Peverell connection with the Deathly Hallows? That all I found were tales about the Cloak, which is practically useless? That I found something far more interesting there, and dragged it away with me?"

Albus bit his lip, unwilling to let himself be pacified. "You found out about the wand. Now, I want to know what you're planning to do about it."

Gellert's mouth twisted into a smile, but this time no humour lit his dark eyes. "I plan to take it, Albus." He cocked his head. "Surely you can't be surprised - or do you have an interest in owning it yourself?" He raised the envelope, its silver seal still glittering unbroken in the watery sunlight that filtered in through the window. "I'm surprised you haven't opened it to find out, then?"

Albus allowed the rage to build in his stomach, melting the ice that had congealed in his chest.

"I will not become your minion," he said, his voice rough. "And I won't let the Elder Wand fall into your hands either."

Gellert let out a harsh laugh. "I wish you luck in the attempt, then."

Lips clenched and face unreadable, Albus watched him leave after tucking the envelope into the inside pocket of his robe.

When his footfalls had died away at the bottom of the creaking wooden stairs, Albus pulled out of his copy of Advanced Transfigurative Theory of Hemomagical Substances an identical black envelope.

"Very well, my dear Gellert... who needs to break postal privacy if they can cast a perfect Duplication Charm?" He slid his nail under the seal and listened to the dry crack of it breaking. "If you want war, Gellert – you can have it."

 

v. 'Real, and dangerous, and a lure for fools.'

Taras Yevheniy Gregorovitch lived on the outskirts of a Muggle village bordering on the wilds of Boubin Forest, about 50 miles south of Prague. Albus Apparated behind a barn at the outmost farm of the village, and took the path into the woods outlined on his parchment invitation.

Birdsong and the last rays of the evening sun made it a pleasant stroll, different from the stone-and-brick bustle of the city. The air had the tartness of December, and hoarfrost crackled under the soles of his boots as he walked. The house, when he turned around the final corner, was large but unpretentious, with solid white walls and a red-brick roof – resembling a farmhouse, but without the outlying buildings.

Albus felt the hot breath of wards flow over him twice before reaching the front steps, but was allowed to pass. Either the wandmaker had imbued the parchment with a charm to admit him, or he was supervising the wards in person.

A Muggle servant opened the door when Albus rang, and gave him a respectful bow. "The Master is waiting for you."

He escorted Albus to the dining room, full of sturdy darkwood furniture brightened up by white lace tablecloth and doilies.

Only moments later, Master Gregorovitch entered. Albus had heard of him, of course. The most famous duellist in the Austrian Empire for a decade, recently retired – rare enough for a breed that tended to die young – to open a wandmaking shop that was rapidly gaining a reputation. He was younger than Albus had imagined, not much over 30, and looked the part of a warlock - a strong build, the traditional sorcerer's braid, knee-high boots and plain brown robes.

"Albus Dumbledore?" Albus shook a calloused hand, and took the seat Gregorovitch pointed to. "I admit I was intrigued by your letter. I don't often receive correspondence from reputable young researchers at the Maharal. Unless, of course, they are looking to buy a spare wand."

Albus shook his head. "Being a poor scholar, I'm afraid that would be somewhat beyond my means," he admitted.

"However," Gregorovitch said, "you did mention that you had some information that I would find of interest?"

"I apologise for intruding on your solitude with a warning," Albus replied.

"A serious affair, then." The wandmaker's eyes twinkled in a way that made Albus's ears warm under his long hair. "May I offer you a drink first?"

Mouth suddenly dry, Albus nodded.

Gregorovitch rang the bell on the mantelpiece with a wand flick, and a moment later a young female servant in white blouse, black embroidered bodice and long skirt came in. She, too, was Muggle. On her wrists, heavy silver bracelets glittered with runes. She curtsied, and at Gregorovitch's order produced a bottle of Hexenschuss with its characteristic hole in the middle from the drinks cabinet.

She poured two glasses, set them down on matching doilies, and left.

Albus looked up at Gregorovitch. "You have very loyal servants," he remarked.

The wandmaker met his eyes without flinching. "I prefer to surround myself with Muggles, Master Dumbledore. They may not lust after others' possessions any less than wizards do, but they don't covet what they don't know." He took a sip from his liquor. "And before you accuse me of using illegal charms – I tell every Muggle who comes to me for work exactly who it is they'll be working for. Those who show horror, or reluctance, I obliviate and send on their way. Those who accept service to a wizard? Well, my magic will make it impossible for them to betray me to my enemies, and impossible for my enemies to influence their minds. But they know and accept it." Pale blue eyes stared into Albus's. "Does that satisfy you, Master Dumbledore, or would you prefer to take your warning elsewhere?"

"No," Albus answered. "I apologise for jumping to conclusions. I am somewhat... sensitive about this topic at the moment."

Gregorovitch's face lost some of its hardness, but not all. Albus lifted his glass and the sweet aroma of pear filled his nose. The schnapps was distilled from the Zaubirne, infused with Aconite steam that gave it its bite. Gellert loved it. Realising that he was stalling, he put the glass down firmly without tasting it.

"I have been informed that you are currently in possession of an artefact known as the 'Elder Wand'," he said.

Gregorovitch's eyebrows lifted. "That is quite curious. I'd be interested in the source of that information."

Albus took a deep breath. "I believe it originates somewhere in the periphery of House Carodej."

"I see." Gregorovitch leaned back in his chair and toyed with his glass. Albus noted that he hadn't touched it so far either. "And why would you be interested in this... rumour, Mr Dumbledore?"

Albus's eyes widened when he understood the implications. "No, it's not me," he blurted out. "I'm not after the Deathstick!"

"No?" Gregorovitch inquired, one eyebrow curled up in polite disbelief.

Albus paused, and sucked in a breath. The Deathstick was a warrior's wand, running counter to everything he hoped to become, but for a moment, the sheer thought of all those centuries of power concentrated in his hands made his fingers tremble.

He gave a hollow laugh. "I don't think there is any wizard who wouldn't covet the Elder Wand," he admitted. "I'm no exception. But I think I'm able to resist the temptation." He gave the wandmaker a faint smile. "There is a wizard in Prague who is looking for the wand. He has forged connections with several anti-Muggle groups, and I fear that he wants to use the 'Wand of Destiny' to impress them into following him into yet another crusade against Muggles."

Gregorovitch stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I have heard of such a man coming into power over the past years," he said. "Some few years back, Jan Carodej served as my second when I duelled a sorcerer who styled himself the Master of the Elder Wand. We fought. I won. Carodej swore silence, but yes - he might have told his young son before he died. And the younger Carodej is well-known for his pureblood views."

"That wizard will come for you soon, I think," Albus said.

"I have retired from duelling," Gregorovitch pointed out.

"I don't think that will quite stop him," sighed Albus.

"What will?"

Albus took a sip from his Hexenschuss. He wasn't likely to convince the wandmaker to part with the Deathstick. In the several centuries of wizarding history over which it could be traced, no one had ever given it up freely. And Gregorovitch didn't strike him as the type to leave his home and blossoming career and go into hiding. He swallowed.

"There may be-"

A crash followed by the tinkling of broken glass made Albus jump and drop his drink. Before he had shaken off his surprise, Gregorovitch was on his feet, racing for the door. A female voice screamed, high and terrified.

Albus raced after the wandmaker, up the stairs and down a corridor until Gregorovitch stopped abruptly at a door that had not only been ripped off one hinge, but broken in two with splinters sticking out in every direction.

Next to it in the corridor, with her back against the wall and both hands pressed to her mouth, stood the girl who'd served them earlier. She was trembling and staring into the room in horror.

Catching up and peering over Gregorovitch's shoulder, Albus saw that the window to what looked like the wandmaker's personal study had been shattered, with shards littering the entire floor. The servant who had admitted Albus was lying on the ground. Large, blood-filled boils covered his entire left side. Apart from him, the study seemed empty.

Gregorovitch inched inside, wand raised. Albus was taking a step forward to follow when suddenly the wall seemed to ripple. A shadow emerged, wand thrust forward. And sidestepped when a ray of red light from Gregorovitch's wand slammed into the wall where its head had been just a split second ago.

"Expelliarmus!"

The spell hit Gregorovitch with so much force that it broke his fingers. He screamed as he was thrown backwards and let go of the wand, which whooshed towards the shadowy attacker. Albus sent an "Accio!" after it, but the intruder's fingers had already closed around the wood. He drew it close to his chest as he made for the window in one fluid move. Albus aimed a shaky stunning spell at the figure that now crouched on the window sill, but the attacker ducked to the side and all the spell achieved was to knock back his hood.

Albus didn't need to see the glint of golden hair, the glittering eyes or flushed cheeks to know who they were dealing with. Behind him, Gregorovitch let out a growl of rage. Face hardening, Albus sprang forward, only to veer to the side when a stunning spell raced at him. A wild smile that Albus knew was all for him appeared on Gellert's face just before he spread his arms and let himself fall backwards out of the window.

A shocked cry escaped Albus's lips. He regained his balance and ran to the window. There was no cloaked figure lying broken on the cobblestones. A hover charm set Gellert down on his feet with the gentleness of a feather. For an instant he stood immobile, stolen wand in one hand, the other stretched out. His head was thrown back and he stared up at Albus with snow crystals glittering in his hair. Then a broom shot towards him out of the woods, and slammed into his free hand.

Just then Albus felt himself pushed aside. He caught himself against the window frame just in time to see Gregorovitch taking aim into the courtyard, a short, dark wand clutched in his left fist while the right still hung down like a broken claw. Of course a duellist and wandmaker would have a backup wand on their person!

Green light started to build at the tip of Gregorovitch's wand, turning his face into a grim mask.

"Avada Ke-"

Without a moment's thought, Albus grabbed Gregorovitch's wand arm and pushed it away, breaking spell and aim at the same time. Outside, the broom streaked away into the night, leaving only the echo of Gellert's laughter. The wandmaker stumbled, then caught himself and backhanded Albus across the face with enough force to send him to the floor. His cheekbone felt as if it had been shattered.

"Your accomplice escaped!" Gregorovitch hissed, spare wand pointing at Albus's face. "Give me one good reason why I should not kill you on the spot!"

"He wasn't my accomplice," Albus ground out. He could feel his cheek swelling, and moving his mouth hurt. "He's the one I came to warn you about."

"You claimed to be afraid of what he'd do with the Elder Wand? And then helped him flee with it?"

Albus swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "It was the Elder Wand, then?"

"Of course it was!" the wandmaker snarled. "Where do you think I'd keep it? In my workshop?"

No, Albus thought. A wizard who'd gained possession of the Deathstick would keep it on his person.

Gregorovitch kicked the side of his leg. "Why?"

Eyes still shut, Albus whispered, "He was my friend."

"In that case, you had better hope he was worth saving." Gregorovitch's voice was low with rage, and unforgiving. "Because from this day on, whatever evil he commits with the Elder Wand will be on your conscience." He stepped back and lowered his wand.

"Get up and get out of my house," he ordered. "And if I ever lay eyes on you again, Albus Dumbledore, I will kill you."

With effort and thin-lipped, Albus got to his feet and Summoned his wand while Gregorovitch turned away to tend to his fallen servant.

Albus didn't look back, and didn't even try to pretend that the heat pricking his eyes had anything to do with his aching face. Gregorovitch was right. Gellert was his responsibility now. Very slowly, a spark of anger began to burn in Albus's stomach, easing the burning in his eyes.

A responsibility he was going to take very seriously indeed.

 

vi. 'It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.'

Gellert did not return to their shared quarters after the theft of the Deathstick. Albus came home to find his possessions gone. It didn't take him long to find out where he had moved to – the town house of Danilo Carodej, whose grandson had provided Gellert with Gregorovitch's address in the first place.

As always, the quaint little houses of the Golden Lane left Albus homesick for Diagon Alley. The look was different, the atmosphere the same. He shut his eyes for an instant, trying to look inconspicuous on the pavement until he could feel the protective veil drawing away. When he opened them again, the spires and townhouses of Magical Prague rose behind and between the rows of small houses, revealing the splendour of the Golden Quarter, the most upmarket area of Prague's wizarding community, to the wizarding gaze.

The front of Carodej Palace was held up by pink marble pillars carved in the shape of Veela. In the city of golems and gargoyles, Albus was too familiar with the various ways statues could be used for defence to even consider taking the front entrance.

Instead, he slunk through the evening crowds into the narrow closes at the back of the Carodej residence, wishing for the third Hallow around his shoulders rather than a handful of invisibility spells which seemed to constrict both his vision and his ability to breathe.

The backyard of the house was considerably less representative than the front, a cobblestoned home to rubbish bins, chopped wood, and an assortment of alley cats resting among the weeds. Just as Albus contemplated access, the back door banged open and a series of paper-wrapped bundles, smelling strongly of fish and food waste, floated out. A rotund witch in a huge white apron followed. Directing the rubbish over to the bins, she left barely enough space for Albus to slip past. As the bin lids floated aside, inspiration struck. He lifted his wand a little, delivering a gentle zap to the tail of one of the cats, who eyed the rubbish as mesmerised as its comrades. It yelped, bristled and delivered a slap to a confused triangular face beside it. Hissing with rage, the victim struck back, and seconds later a multicoloured ball of fur was rolling on the dirty cobbles, growling in duet.

"What the hell..." Despite the broad kitchen Czech that almost defied Albus's translation charm, the meaning of the cook's words was easy to guess as she took a few steps towards the brawling cats. A smile tugged at Albus's lips as he slid past her into the house.

The family's wealth became evident once he'd cleared the area below stairs: a grand ballroom, picture gallery and potions laboratory with adjacent library on the ground floor alone. The flight of stairs up to the first floor sported ornate marble banisters, and was guarded by two stone Gargoyles that Albus coveted irrationally. Lucky for him, gargoyles went by sight and hearing, so he had no trouble tiptoeing up the staircase wrapped in his Invisibility Charms and with a Muffliato on his boots.

Quiet as a ghost, he slid through the near-empty corridors of the family quarters. He found the Carodejs' ancient patriarch asleep in the Master bedroom, attended by a Healer and obviously not long for this world; passed the gold-framed portrait of his late son, Gregorovitch's confidant, posing in warlock's leathers and ermine cloak, wand in one hand, broom in the other. The portrait sniffed suspiciously when Albus passed, but raised no outcry.

Albus heard the voices, a murmur softened by leather-padded wood, before he reached the door to the south wing drawing room. Too soft to eavesdrop on, unless one was a wizard. Albus cast a gentle Sonorus, just enough to allow the voices to drift through to him, and listened.

"...our combined forces will give us a power base to operate throughout Europe."

"A handful of concerted attacks, that's all it will take." That was Gellert's voice, authoritative, merry almost. "Two or three well-aimed assassinations, and the powder keg that is Europe will blow up like a barrelful of Exploding Fluid."

"And it will fall to us after they have finished destroying each other." A female voice, clear as a bell. "And yours to rule, my lord."

Albus's stomach heaved. Anger gave him the boost he needed to pull out his wand and blast open the door without a shred of finesse.

Five heads and wands whipped around to face him. Gellert was standing in front of the others, in a floor-length sea-coloured robe.

Refusing to acknowledge him immediately, Albus scanned the group. His eye was drawn to the sole woman on the chaise longue: tall, statuesque, with a mass of black hair piled up on top of her head and wide skirts spreading out elegantly around her feet. Closest to Gellert, on the armrest of a plush chair, sat a young man in fancy embroidered grey, with soft brown hair and a beautifully sculpted mouth. He looked like a softer version of the portrait warlock Albus had just passed. A tall, burly wizard in pure black with a wolf head pendant, who had jumped up at Albus's entrance. And, on the other side of the room, a face that hit Albus like a blow. Older, edgier, but unmistakably Lysander Malfoy in black and silver.

They certainly bred for beauty in the old pureblood families, Albus thought. Just not for honour.

Gellert's eyes found his at last, a little wide with surprise. Then he smiled. "Hold your curses," he told his associates. And then, to Albus, "So you made it back alive?"

"No thanks to you," Albus commented.

"Ah, I had full confidence in your ingenuity, Albus. But I don't think you've been formally introduced." He nodded at the witch. "Medea Le Strange, Doyenne of the Chevaliers de Walburge at Toulouse." Le Strange inclined her head, provocatively low, and licked her bottom lip. "Ernst Höllhammer, deputy leader of the Schattenjägerbund. Lysander Malfoy, representative of the English Chapter of the Knights of Walpurgis-"

"We've met," Albus said curtly.

Malfoy cocked his head, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, of course. The young Dumbledore – I spoke to your father the night before he was taken away to Azkaban." A cruel smile touched his thin lips.

"I know," Albus said coldly. "I was there."

"How delightful," Malfoy murmured. Albus wondered how he could have overlooked the feral nature seething underneath the polished façade as a boy.

"And finally," Gellert cut in, placing a hand on the arm of the boy next to him, "our gracious host, Master Danilo Carodej the Younger."

The boy stared at Albus as if he was looking at a poisonous spider, his pretty mouth pulled down into an expression of disgust.

At last, Gellert waved his arm at Albus with a flourish. "Well... meet my stormy friend, Albus Dumbledore."

"Friend might be a tad optimistic," Albus said. "Friends don't use friends as bait and distraction and leave them to face the consequences."

Gellert's lip quirked. "You forgot backup and..." He took a step towards Albus and touched the top button of his cloak. It glowed golden for an instant, then crumbled into dust. "... decoy."

So Albus and his damnable invitation had guided Gellert right through Gregorovitch's wards. And he'd relied on Albus backing him up if worst came to worst.

"Yes, that," Albus said bitterly.

"I offered you England, Albus," Gellert pointed out. "It was you who refused. You who betrayed me first."

"Perhaps your gift-giving skills have deserted you," Albus shot back, and saw a shadow ghost over Gellert's face.

"However," he added with a contemptuous glance at the group, "I don't want to keep you from your cronies for too long, and certainly have no desire to spend more time in their company than necessary." He gave his former 'friend' a hard look. "I've come to challenge you to a wizard's duel, Gellert." Gellert's forehead crinkled, ever so slightly. Whatever he had expected, this hadn't been it. "Your time and place," Albus added dismissively. "Just make it soon."

Gellert laughed. "Dear Albus, if you wanted to find out which one of us is the better wizard, you should have called me out before I obtained the Elder Wand." His fingers slid lovingly to the sheath at his belt.

"It doesn't make you invincible, Gellert," said Albus bluntly. "The wizard Gregorovitch took it from could tell you that."

Gellert's eyes narrowed. "Very well, then. At dawn on the day after tomorrow? Dévin Hall?" Dévin Hall, the ancient assembly of Prague's pureblood families, Albus thought, would be the place where Taras Gregorovitch had fought as a duellist.

"Agreed," he replied.

The same mad glint Albus had seen in Gellert's eyes when he'd made his escape from Gregorovitch's study was back. Merlin, he's enjoying this! Albus thought.

Gellert reached out and laid a finger on Albus's cheek as if they were utterly alone. "I am looking forward to seeing you there."

Albus shook off his hand with a brusque gesture, and turned to the door.

"I'm not."

***
Albus left the lodging house well before dawn, with over two hours before his appointment. Gellert would be early. He would be earlier.

It gave him time to walk instead of taking the Floo Network shortcuts that connected the quarters of wizarding Prague on either side of the Vltava. Cool air, silence and darkness enveloped him, with only a few lamp-lit windows of early-rising Muggles twinkling at him along the way.

On his way across Charles Bridge he stopped once to wait for a Muggle coach to pass. Walking eased the nervous knot in his stomach, and he pointedly forced himself not to think of Gellert and the upcoming battle. Of Gellert and the Elder Wand. He might not get another chance for a stroll through a sleeping city, so he'd enjoy this one.

He reached the Golden Lane, its toy-like houses drab in the dark, and ducked through the wall into the wizarding quarter. The cobblestone street on the other side didn't look much different from the one he'd left, although the houses were taller. The main difference was that here, the streetlamps snored softly and occasionally swayed a little.

And then they went out all at once, submerging the road in near total darkness.

Albus took a step backwards. He put a hand against the wall he'd passed through, and felt it melt into a solid whole under his palm.

He drew his wand, not quite surprised to see a ring of figures emerge from the darkness before him. Three, four, six...

Clutching his wand handle, Albus cursed himself. Why hadn't he even considered that Gellert might play foul?

Soundless in the gloom, they formed a half-circle around him. Albus's eyes flicked from black cloak to black cloak, looking in vain for a familiar body language. The tallest of the group wore a snarling wolf mask, and it didn't take a genius to recognise Höllhammer, the Schattenjäger.

The smaller figure next to him suddenly threw back its hood to expose a familiar, too-pretty face.

"Why, Master Carodej?" Albus greeted him lazily. "An escort? I'm flattered."

An ugly sneer twisted the pouty lips. "Did you truly believe our Lord thought you important enough to do battle with? He sent us to dispose of you." He raised his wand. "For betraying him. And for infecting him with your perversion."

"Oh?" Albus cocked an eyebrow. "Which one? My tolerance for Muggles? My preference for male affections? My passion for sherbet lemons?"

"You are vile!" the boy snarled, and Albus laughed.

"He told me that you were very young. He forgot to mention that you were a fool."

The boy screamed with anger and snapped his wand in Albus's direction. "Serpensortia!"

A black-and-red-patterned snake flew towards Albus, fangs bared in an enraged hiss. He raised his wand, spread out the fingers of his left hand, and exhaled a transfigurative incantation.

The snake reared up and twisted, wrapping its sinuous body into coils until its skin rippled, coarsened and pulled even tighter. A knotted piece of rope landed at Carodej's feet.

"Add impulsive and predictable on top of foolish," Albus added coolly.

Then, still speaking, he whirled around and shot a stunning spell at the wizard on the far left. The man gave a huff of surprise and collapsed on the cobblestones, stiff as a board. Adrenaline pounded through Albus's blood. One down, five to go.

"Jealousy is such a regrettable trait in an attractive young man..." Albus sighed in the same indolent manner that Gellert used to inflict spitting rage on a victim. "But then 'Lord Grindelwald' is quite easy to fall in love with, isn't he, Master Carodej?" There were moments when cruelty could be enjoyable.

A tinkle of laughter came from the figure to the right of Carodej. The boy's face went an interesting shade of purple while his mouth moved with soundless rage. Then the tip of his wand turned green.

He'd gotten to "Ava-" when Albus's "Stupefy!" hit him square in the chest.

The boy toppled backwards with a shriek that gave Albus far more satisfaction than it should have, and collapsed in a heap of black cloth.

"Ah, well done, Mr Dumbledore," said a familiar voice. Medea Le Strange brushed back the hood of her cloak, and after a moment, Lysander Malfoy followed suit beside her. Albus swallowed. Carodej was too impulsive to consider that showing his face would make him identifiable later through Pensieve memories or Veritaserum. These two... if they revealed themselves, they had come to kill.

"I do not share young Danilo's prejudices about bedding one's own sex," Le Strange murmured. "It is a pity you'll have do die. You're a gifted wizard – we could have used you."

Albus shook his head and raised his wand in invitation.

Le Strange's wand hissed, and then a griffin with a body of white flames and smoke for feathers flew at him, roaring like wildfire.

"Protego!" Albus felt the tips of his hair singe as the creature burst through his shield. "Expulso!" he cried and it shattered into an inferno of molten shards right in front of him.

He threw up his arm to protect his face, his "Reprotego!" an unheard whisper in the roar even as it deflected the shards away from him.

Blinking rapidly, he saw Le Strange safe behind a magical shield in whose middle gleamed a stylised 'W'. The Schattenjäger had hidden inside his ankle-length black cloak with his back turned and not a mark him, while Malfoy had been thrown back several feet by the impact on his shielding charm.

The fourth wizard, however, was on the ground with burn holes scattered all over the front of his robes. Albus watched in horror as his legs twitched once, twice, then stilled.

Bile rose in his stomach. While he was aware of the dangers of duelling in theory, he'd never faced up to the fact that he might kill. First Ariana, barely escaping, then this...

He had no time to mourn, however. Face flushed with rage, Malfoy's wand swished towards him. "Flagello!"

In three poison-green strands, the spell-whip came at Albus. He flung himself aside, rolling away while the force of the lash cut off half his trailing hood.

"Crucio!"

Albus had the presence of mind to keep rolling. If this caught him, the battle would be over. Even his considerable willpower might not withstand an Unforgivable.

He came to his feet a bit dizzy, just to see Le Strange's lips move in yet another curse. Too slow to entirely evade it, he felt something invisible brush his left shoulder, soft and painless and disgusting like a cold, wet sponge. Albus braced himself for pain which didn't come.

Then his heart stopped.

It was as if a bell that had always been ringing, too familiar to notice, had just fallen silent. A melody, dancing on towards the next tune, then nothing. A gurgle escaped Albus as he clutched his chest. The edges of his vision were suddenly tinged with red. Reflexively, he hit his chest with his wandless fist, and the heartbeat it forced cut through him like a red-hot spear.

"Sano!" he croaked, hanging on to his wand as if to break it. He doubled over and crashed to his knees when his heart stumbled into a few more irregular beats. It slowly normalised even though the new heartbeats still felt like some drummer playing staccato on his breastbone, rushing on as if to catch up with the beats it had lost. Then the unmistakable feeling of a wand tip touching the back of his neck froze him utterly.

"Imperio!"

Malfoy's voice was low, almost loving, and Albus felt the wizard's breath on his neck. How had he managed to get so close? The spell meandered through his brain, trailing smears of complacency like honey.

"Stop breathing," Malfoy whispered, and of course Albus did.

Trembling with weakness, Albus knew there was something he should do to fight back, but then Malfoy's fingers wrapped in his hair as the pressure closed around his aching chest. The need for air tightened his entire body; his spine bowed as he reared up against the lack of breath and the grip that held him. He felt Malfoy's fist tighten. The magic flowing from the wizard into him was spreading, infesting his brain.

With a burst of rage that burned away the spiderweb of Imperius, Albus grabbed on to that poisonous presence and pushed back.

Malfoy took his hand off him and stumbled. With burning eyes, Albus watched him sway and fall, both hands pressed against his throat. His face went purple, mouth opening in vain as his brain obeyed the order he himself had given, and now found reflected back at him.

Albus trembled as the man who had seduced his father into his final, foolhardy revenge clawed the sides of his neck in agony. But then, despicable creature as he was, he had done no more harm to Percival Dumbledore than Albus himself that night, hadn't he?

Albus raised his wand, acknowledging the panic that flared in Malfoy's eyes. "Finite!" he cast, and then, with deliberation, "Dorma!" Asleep, the wizard would breathe normally whereas a stunning spell might shock his struggling lungs into collapse.

He rose to face his last two opponents.

As if he'd been waiting to see what his associates could do, Höllhammer stepped forward, monopolising Albus's attention. The Schattenjäger drew his wand in a straight line in front of his chest. Three snarling wolf heads appeared before him, all teeth and matted, coarse fur. A wave of his hand, and they raced towards Albus, growling and slavering. Albus gently brushed the core of power inside him and threw up his wand. The wolf heads shivered in mid-flight, blurred, and fell down around Albus transfigured into fragrant, healthy Gladiator Allium bulbs that showered him in petals.

Höllhammer let out a sound of distress and swayed, as if the loss of his spell-creatures had hurt him physically. Schattenjäger were not known for uttering a sound during their raids, as if the masks they wore infused them with the animal's spirit and robbed them of human speech. They just tortured and maimed and killed.

At the same time, Albus felt exhaustion like lead in his blood. His first instinct was going for transfiguration, but it took a lot of energy, even more so seeing that the Schattenjäger seemed to have an intrinsic connection to his wolf heads. Rumour associated them with werewolves and other Dark creatures, and if there was a blood link, this might encroach on the Fifth Principal Exception to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration...

Albus shook off the fruitless thought and watched another trio of wolf heads materialize and shoot towards him. "Incendio!"

They were caught in the roaring flame that emerged from Albus's wand, and burned in a burst of sparks and a cloud of singed fur.

His posture radiating rage, the Schattenjäger sent out another trio almost faster than Albus could look.

"Expelliarmus!" Albus cried, and, while Höllhammer's wand was torn from him and clattered away on the cobblestones, "Incendio!"

He caught two of the spell-creatures in the flames. The third wolf head swerved down, the tips of its ears singed, and clamped its jaws around Albus's thigh. Albus heard it tear through skin and flesh. He screamed. The wolf head – oh god, the thing was all teeth! – snarled and bit deeper until it crunched on bone. A panicked wand flick shattered it into a cloud of dust before Albus was aware of what he was doing.

He pressed his hand against the wound on his thigh, but blood kept welling up between his fingers, and the pain almost left him senseless. Gripping his wand between slippery fingers, he prepared to cast a healing charm when Medea Le Strange's Expelliarmus pulled it from his hand. He lunged after it, barely grabbing the handle, when another hex struck the wand and snapped it in two.

Albus had never heard a wand break before. It sounded almost as if the phoenix who'd given the feather for its core was crying out. He felt the power drain away and knew that without a wand, the next curse was bound to finish him off.

Channelling all his pain, anger and power, he struck at Le Strange with the remaining energy of his broken wand – whatever it would take to make that final curse impossible. The woman's arms undulated in a way human bone did not permit, and her fingers around her pale wand... melted together. Her wand slipped from her grip as gaping jaws opened where her hands had been. She screamed, throwing back the long sleeves of her robe to reveal two large white snakes coiling from her shoulders where her arms had been. She screamed again in horror and stumbled backwards, causing the snakes to whip around her.

The sound of footsteps made Albus turn his head. The Schattenjäger had retrieved his wand, and was coming towards him with heavy steps that betrayed exhaustion. Both hands clenched around his blood-soaked thigh, Albus stared up at him in resignation. He was injured, wandless, with every bit of magic burned out of him from the battle. He'd given his best, but now it was over.

He wanted to close his eyes when another trio of wolf heads emerged from the Schattenjäger's wand, but a sharp hiss made him look up.

In the middle of the street stood Gellert Grindelwald. He'd exchanged robes for brown leathers, boots and a black cloak, and his hair was pulled back into a short gold braid. Looking too perfect as always, and utterly out of place in a dismal street littered with bodies.

Albus felt laughter bubbling up in his chest. Gellert's killers had almost finished the job. It wasn't necessary for him to deliver the coup de grace, but Albus was glad he'd be there. He made a damned better final sight than the Schattenjäger!

The wolf heads were straining forward, slavering for Albus's flesh, when a flash from Gellert's wand threw them back towards their master. One of them made for the Schattenjäger's throat. A hoarse cry was stifled when the teeth closed around Höllhammer's neck, and man and creature collapsed together. The metallic stench of blood rose from the ground.

Without giving the Schattenjäger a second glance, Gellert rounded on Le Strange.

"You disobeyed me!"

"My lord, he wasn't worthy of your attention!" Le Strange cried, her transfigured arms coiling in front of her robes.

"That would be for me to decide."

Gellert raised his wand. The magic hit Le Strange just below the belt line. She fell to the ground and shrieked when her legs crumbled and twitched and then tried to crawl away from her body. One, then two more large white serpents emerged from under the hem of her robe as the woman crammed her fist into her mouth to stifle any sound of terror.

"More Cleopatra than Medea, I think," Gellert observed cruelly.

Albus shuddered as Le Strange crawled backwards as if to escape her own slithering limbs. At least he hadn't done it on purpose.

Turning his back on his fallen minions, Gellert knelt beside Albus.

"I'm glad I decided to show up early," he said and pulled Albus's hands away from the wound. Albus hissed, and Gellert put a hand on his cheek. "Shush."

Albus's teeth clicked together audibly when the wand tip touched his torn thigh. He clung to consciousness by clutching at Gellert's shoulders like a drowning sailor hanging on to his barnacle-encrusted plank.

"I'm sorry," he ground out.

There was a moment's pause and no way of judging Gellert's expression because his face faded in and out of Albus's vision, a white oval crowned by gold.

Something that felt like a blunt needle stabbed deep into Albus's injured leg just above the bite. He jerked as heat started to build in the torn muscle, still unpleasant, but dulling the rending pain. Part of him was glad he couldn't see the damage the teeth had done.

"You thought I'd ordered them to attack you?" Gellert's voice was cool and smooth like liquid, scented soap.

"For a while," Albus admitted. He squeezed his eyes shut, surprised to find his cheeks wet with tears. "Should've remembered the size of your... ego would've ruled that out."

He felt dull heat pounding in his leg and fingertips, and cold encroaching everywhere else. Shock, he realised numbly.

Something warm that could be Gellert's mouth or his fingertip touched his icy lips.

"Yes, you should have."

Aching, blindly, Albus squeezed Gellert's shoulder. "I want to go home."

Another shiver of sparks hissed over him, and breathing became a little easier. It also stopped him, if barely, from collapsing when Gellert pulled him upright.

"England?" Gellert's voice sounded very calm. And then, "I understand."

"No, I don't think you do," Albus slurred. He leaned heavily on the body on offer to avoid putting pressure on his shattered leg. "I don't want to go alone," he whispered through clenched teeth and bouts of the shivers.

Gellert's grip on him softened, just a little, before Albus was Apparated away.

 

vii. 'I am not worried. I am with you.'

"How did it go?" Albus put down his quill when Gellert barged into the Headmaster's study, as always without knocking. The other staff members had been heard to complain loudly about his lack of respect. Privately, Albus knew it could be far worse.

"Not too bad." Gellert shrugged off his cloak and banished it onto a hook to dry in a flurry of raindrops. The humidity made his hair curl even more than usual. "He's an interesting boy, young Riddle. Secretive. Very precocious. Very damaged too - not that I'm surprised, considering that he's been growing up as an orphan among Muggles and all." He poured himself a goblet of Albus's hot pumpkin juice. "And very powerful, for a Muggleborn."

"You've been teaching at Hogwarts for over a decade," Albus remarked. "And it still surprises you to find power in Muggleborns?"

Gellert took a sip and winced, then shook his head. "Oh, I know they can be gifted. They're just not usually this confident, this prepared to show their powers to strangers."

He put down the goblet and waved his wand over the contents. A strong tang of orange and cinnamon replaced pumpkin, and after an approving sip, Gellert cradled the cup that now held mulled wine. "I have shown you the way forward to change that forever, you remember?"

Deciding to change the topic, Albus asked. "Will you be taking him to Diagon Alley?"

"He took the money and said he won't be needing anyone to escort him," Gellert replied with a bemused twitch of his lip.

"I see," said Albus.

"I'm not saying I'll comply with his wishes." Gellert grinned. "He needs watching, this one, or he'll end up touring right through Knockturn Alley."

"Keep your eyes out for Daily Prophet reporters, though," Albus advised, "or we'll have innuendo plastered across the front page about us taking an 'unusual interest in young male students'."

Instead of just snorting as Gellert was wont to do, he leaned back in the armchair and crossed long legs in front of him.

"I was considering calling out Murdo Bagman for a duel after his latest 'Threat to Wizarding Morals at our Foremost Educational Institution' dig. But it might no longer be necessary." He steepled his fingers. "You see, I went to lunch with Avrilla and Ebenezer Smith after seeing young Master Riddle, and they strongly implied that congratulations might be in order."

Albus kept his face expressionless, although his fingers closed around the armrests of his chair and his heartbeat stepped up. The two worst gossips of the Wizengamot, but not usually wrong. He'd been prepared for it, of course, but hearing his hopes almost confirmed was still stealing away his breath.

"There has been no official decision yet," he said. "And there are other candidates."

Gellert let out a whoop of derision. "Yes – as if they'll name Ragnelle Nott, who's as anti-Muggle as they come. Or old Marvell Thicknesse, who will never offend anyone because he's got all the personal drive of a phial of the Draught of the Living Death. No, Albus – in wartime, they want someone who's young and brilliant and has proven his leadership qualities at Hogwarts." He lifted his cup in a toast. "This one's yours, Albus."

He took a sip, eyes sharp and intent on Albus's face.

"Which leaves, of course, Hogwarts."

"It does, rather, doesn't it?" Albus agreed.

What a paradox that he had worried, for years after coming to Hogwarts to teach Transfiguration, that Gellert would get bored with students, books and rules and take off to parts unknown to do whatever Dark Wizards did with the Elder Wand. Instead, he'd cheerfully taught Charms, Defence against the Dark Arts, and finally settled on History of Magic and Deputy Headmastership after Cuthbert Binns died and his ghost had to be banished for being the most dreadful bore. And now, it was Albus who would be leaving.

"The question is, of course," Gellert mused, "do you trust me enough to name me your successor?"

"A former Dark Wizard, Durmstrang-trained, of 'unsound wizarding morals', who just happens to be one of the most brilliant scholars of the century?" Albus chuckled into his pumpkin juice. "Of course I do. Seeing Murdo Bagman and the Prophet explode in a ball of condensed moral outrage alone would make it worthwhile."

"Even though you know what I will do?"

Albus sighed, hilarity bleeding away. "So you're absolutely certain you've found a way of recasting the charms on the Book of Hogwarts?"

Gellert nodded, a familiar gleam in his eye. "Absolutely. I will be able to detect children with inherent wizarding powers not as they enter their 11th year, but at their first sign of magic as toddlers. That's when they become vulnerable among Muggles – rejected by their families, beaten, exorcised, locked up as lunatics."

"If we know about these children, we can send someone along to make sure they're treated well enough. We can influence their families' attitudes. Take them away if necessary." Gellert clenched his fists. "I want to make sure that young Tom Riddle is among the last who'll be thrown at the mercy of people who hate and fear him."

Albus rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I've never claimed it's without merit. Just that, in the wrong hands, it could deal a devastating blow to an entire generation of Muggleborns and their families."

"Quite like the Elder Wand, don't you think?" Gellert said.

Albus sighed. "I trust you, Gellert. I don't trust everyone who'll come after us."

Impatiently, Gellert shook his head. "You and I, Albus, are the most powerful wizards in Britain. We are young enough to reshape the wizarding world to make sure we leave a safe legacy." His lip quirked into a mischievous smile.

"It's not just that we can tweak the Book of Hogwarts to detect magic early. Given a bit more time, I am sure that I can get around the magic shielding Knockturn Alley and the quite medieval interpretation of 'wizardry' that excludes everyone not of wizarding or Muggle heritage. So you wouldn't have to cook up, say, conspiracies behind closed doors with the likes of Myrmidon Hagrid to get his son into Hogwarts."

Albus's cheeks turned warm. "You knew?"

"I took him down to the Three Broomsticks for a drink or six after his interview with you." Gellert clicked his tongue. "A giantess... that's one brave wizard indeed!"

Albus took a deep breath. "Very well, then. I will exercise my right to name my successor, even though I think the Board of Governors would rather I'd drop dead so they can appoint anyone but you." He smiled inwardly at the thought of the outrage his decision would cause on the pro-Muggle and pro-pureblood side alike. He could already hear the shrieks that he was choosing a friend and lover against the objection of the Governors. Well, they'd just have to get over it if they wanted him as Minister of Magic.

"Just remember that the Minister has the authority to supervise magical education," he emphasised. "I will keep an eye on you."

Gellert threw him a low-lidded look. "I rather hope that won't be the only thing you'll want to keep on me."

Pleasant warmth spreading in his stomach, Albus assured him. "Definitely not."

"Well..." Gellert stood and spread his arms, "at least the Headmaster's quarters are comfortable."

"... as you would know, seeing that you spend nearly every evening in them as it is." Albus grinned. "You might want to start moving in your things. I want a few days away to visit Ariana and Miles in Upper Windrush before all hell breaks lose."

Albus still wasn't sure how he felt about his sister settling down with Kneazle-breeding recluse Miles Scamander, but she seemed happy. The Kneazles probably had a lot to do with it.

"I'll leave you Fawkes," he added as an afterthought. "The school will have greater need of him than the Ministry. And you know how he'd pine without you."

Humming his approval, Gellert wandered over to Fawkes's perch and dipped one of the phoenix's hand-cooked insect rounds into Albus's pumpkin juice in passing. Running a finger over Fawkes's red-golden plumage – the bird was never more magnificent than at his young adolescent stage – he offered it the treat. Fawkes nipped his finger affectionately, then dug in with far less restraint.

Albus watched them, the two creatures who had saved his life that nightmarish Christmas week many years ago. Gellert, bringing home the tiny hatchling, nurturing and coaxing it into shedding its first healing tears while keeping Albus from the brink of death although he was anything but a healer. Albus still carried the scars on his thigh, but he knew that without the phoenix tears, injury and infection would have carried him off. And years later, Fawkes's tears had provided the core ingredient for the Draught of the Gentle Power, which had given Ariana the stability to lead her own life.

He reached for his goblet, reconsidered, and conjured two fresh glasses filled with two thumbs' breadths of Hexenschuss. Walking over to Gellert, he handed him one and raised his own for a toast.

"To our future, my friend."

 

o. 'Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.'

"So... you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

Albus looks down at the face of the little boy next to him, who stares back with eyes wide and nervous behind sellotaped wire-framed glasses. There is a part of him that doesn't want to like the child, because doing so will cause him pain – no, not just him, both of them. He knows what the future holds for this boy.

"I didn't know it was called that, sir," Harry Potter whispers in a wobbly voice.

Albus inclines his head. "But I expect you've realised by now what it does?"

"It... well..."

Half lost in thought, Albus helps the boy to work out what the artefact that has been holding him spellbound is able to do. He is bright, is young Harry Potter when his panic at having been caught out of bed in the middle of the night by the Headmaster has abated a little. Realisation dawns, unguarded, in the wary green eyes.

"It shows us what we want... whatever we want..."

"Yes and no," says Albus. He clings to a lifetime of teaching and experience to prevent the pain from strangling his voice. "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts."

And to those gifted with a knack for enhancing magic, the ancient artefact can do so much more than showing an image. It can offer an entire alternative world of adventure and affection in place of death, sacrifice and a lifetime of loneliness.

"However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth." Especially not truth, Albus thinks, the word dry as ash on his tongue. "Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible."

He sees the boy's eyes widen with fear and remembers all too well the night when Professor Marchbanks had surprised him in his rooms, where he'd crouched too mesmerised by the mirror's visions to even notice her entrance.

Even now, he can feel the hot blast of shame and horror burning through his body, paralysed by the pity with which she looked on the British Wizarding World's celebrated war hero, fleeing into wishful dreams like a hurt child.

Thankfully, she hadn't alerted Headmaster Dippet back then, or even insisted on having the mirror removed. The shock alone had torn Albus out of the morass of despair he'd sunk into after coming back from Nurmengard. He'd returned the mirror to its original location and never looked upon it again. Not until he was coming across this child, as mesmerised before the seductive glass as he himself had been a lifetime ago.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry," he says. "And I ask you not to go looking for it again."

The boy nods nervously, and Albus finds he believes him. There is a steel core in this child, however battered, that he recognises. He will have the strength to resist the lure of illusions.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that," he admonishes gently, wondering whether he is indeed speaking to young Harry, or rather to himself. "Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

The boy nods and his hands disappear as he wads the cloak between them. His eyes flick to the mirror in a last, involuntary gaze, then slide away. He turns his back with a stiff-necked determination that tugs at Albus's heartstrings. He takes a step, two, then hesitates.

"Sir... Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?"

When Albus assents, the boy looks at him and bites his lip for an instant before blurting out, "What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

Albus stumbles, steadies himself against the door frame and hopes the boy is too young to see his shock for what it is. Cut to the quick in one innocent sentence. Not even Tom has ever managed that. Only Gellert has had that particular gift.

He closes his eyes for a second longer than it would take to blink. His thoughts fly back to a long-past memory that was never a memory.

"I?" he croaks. "I see myself holding a pair of thick, woollen socks."

The boy stares at him, mouth opening in a doubtful 'o'.

"One can never have enough socks," Albus adds, smiling to force back the tears. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books."

Potter's mouth snaps shut, carp-like. At worst, he probably thinks Albus is more than a little bit mad. At best, pulling his leg. He nods, slowly, then ducks out of the door. Death's Cloak falls around his shoulders, hiding his presence from the world apart from where the footfalls of his trainers leave half-moon imprints in the dust.

Behind him, Albus sinks onto one of the ancient chairs and buries his head in his hands, his face determinedly averted from the Mirror. He will not look into it again for as long as he lives. It is pointless.

Pointless most of all because whatever the boy may think, he hasn't lied to Harry Potter. He knows that, if he looked, he would still see socks in the Mirror of Erised – the socks, Gellert's gift, that has never been real.

~ finis ~
~ ~ ~

 

Endnote: This fic very badly wanted to be titled "Erised, or Seven Things That Never Happened to Albus Dumbledore (and One That Did)", but that would've sort of given away things :(.