Chapter Text
Professor Albus Dumbledore has been going out more than he usually does. Or so he tells himself. In truth, ‘going out’ involves men he would share drinks, chat, and might even—very rarely—kisses with. He never calls them ‘dates’. He justifies: this is what normal witches and wizards dub ‘hanging out’, and there is nothing wrong with a tired professor seeking a drinking companion. Yet when his company’s lips wander to his skin, any protest or rational thought dies on Albus’ tongue.
Then there is also the problem that he simply finds himself exceedingly... bored of the company he’s starting to surround himself with.
He is always courteous and polite, of course. But he always seems to excuse himself before the night has truly begun, then going back to his room and wonder what in Merlin he was doing.
So now, nursing his fifth drink, barely listening to a man called Carl, he feels the destructive ritual is about to start again. The firewhisky has already numbed his throat. It runs through his veins and blurs his thoughts, tuning out the other man's chatter and making him feel a little bit delirious. How long has he been here? Actually, he doesn't even remember how long it's been since he started this troublesome habit of coming to the Leaky Cauldron for nameless companionship. At the start, it had felt quite satisfying. He would share a drink, find a random company to chat the night away, then the wizard (or muggle) would leave and be on their merry way (maybe after a kiss or two). It was nice to relieve his pressure after a long day of teaching, and there was the fact that Albus would bear no consequences, as neither he nor the men would ever come in contact again.
But then it started to slow: the nights that used to go by in a flash are now dragging its pace. The drinks that seemed rich and flavourful are now bland and tasteless. It was then that Albus noticed how dull his company really is. When he liked to chat about the stars and their meaning, they never appeared to understand, or even slightly intrigued. He would engage one after the other, trying to talk about a topic that would interest both of them, but he can never seem to find it, not anymore. He had enjoyed the rush at first, but as with all things, you get used to it.
At least there was still one part that was constant: when Albus truly had a good time, he gave them kisses. Sometimes he would initiate, though more often than not, it was the men. But of course, that changed as well. As his mind started to fill with images of Gellert Grindelwald on newspapers and his name in elegant script on Ministry reports, he found himself consumed once again by the man he has been trying so hard to forget. When he kissed the nameless men, he could feel Gellert's lips on him. When the men touched his skin, he was familiar with the patterns of their palms. When he stared into their eyes, he saw the clashing colours of grey and brown.
The noise around Albus is starting to give him a headache. He vaguely registers that Carl is looking at him, expecting an answer to his unheard question. Albus blinks twice, then says blankly, “I’m very sorry, but I think I will retire for the night.” He manages some semblance of a grateful smile and adds, “Thank you for your company.”
As he turns to leave and escape this growing migraine, he feels Carl’s hand tighten on his wrist. The man slurs a bit, but there is a determined gleam in his eyes as he speaks, “C’mon, don’t leave just yet. We could spend just a bit more time together...” He leans forward, a smirk playing on his lips.
Albus’ throat tightens. He knows that they’re both being swayed by the power of alcohol, but Carl’s brown locks are morphing into blonde curls once more, and Albus knows that he’s done for.
He nods gingerly, heart beating in anticipation. He can feel Carl’s breath fan across his face as his eyes flutter shut. Then the warmth of the kiss seeps into him, chasing away the cold night. At that moment, he recognises these lips. Once upon a summer dream, he had traced its outline with his tongue and memorised the softness of its touch. In the back of his mind, Albus knows whatever he’s feeling right now is not real; it is a remnant of the man he once loved. But as Carl pulls him closer, he believes he can allow himself this one more time—one more night—to feel for the wizard that is Gellert Grindelwald. Then it is time to stop.
Abruptly, Albus pushes Carl back. They are both heaving heavily, with pupils blown wide. He forces himself to speak, not looking at the other man, "I apologise again, but I really must go. Thank you for your time, Carl." He leaves a lingering hand on his arm to further express his apologies, then turns and leave without another word.
Carl blinks disconcertedly at his retreating figure, still dazed. After a moment, he regains his voice and blurts out, "My name is Kurt."
But Albus does not hear him; he is too busy pondering his thoughts, his mind too caught up in a certain wizard.
His footsteps tread on the pathway to Hogwarts; they are clipped but unsteady, echoing emptily around the abandoned street. With his mind still reeling from the heated kiss and hazy flashes of Gellert, Albus breathes out a deep sigh. He thinks of two days ago when he'd asked Newt to search for Credence. While not fully aware of the situation in Paris, he knows there are people risking their lives, right at this moment, for the ultimate defeat of Grindelwald—for his inevitable duel. Millions of lives are at the mercy of the darkest wizard ever known, and here he was, the only equal to Grindelwald, yet too cowardly to fight. Albus knows all of this stems from his own emotions, but the war inside him rages wilder and stronger every day. Eventually, he would have to come to a resolution: either fight the man he (still) loves, or hide and let the world suffer the consequences.
And he knows he must not let that happen.
Still, there's no pretending that he has no love for Gellert. Even to the people around him, that much is obvious. There is also the matter of Ariana. Under the dim moonlight, Albus' face twists into a grimace at the thought of her. He is still so, so terrified of knowing who killed his little sister. Or worse—finding out that he is the one who did it, and he doubts that he'll ever have the courage to live with that knowledge.
Albus' frown deepens as he realises that they're all selfish inhibitions. It is his fear, his love, his pitiful excuses that are stopping him from scouring the earth for Grindelwald. He's aware that he shouldn't be hindered by these reasons when innocents are in danger. But Albus Dumbledore is not a wise, old, benevolent wizard—not yet, and he does not know if he could pick world over himself.
Besides, when it comes to matters of the heart, who can be certain of anything?
He sighs again, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. He gazes up at the lonesome moon and the glittering stars for answers as he slowly, wearily trudge back to the Hogwarts castle. It is time for a trip down memory lane.