Chapter Text
i’m a crumpled up piece of paper lying here, ‘cause i remember it all, all, all too well…
He was the hero of the wizarding world. History books would dedicate chapters to him, honors would be awarded to him. He had never felt so defeated in his whole life.
It was May and he wasn’t sure he would be able to complete the school year. It was only the cheers and big, curious eyes of his students when he returned to Hogwarts that made him stay, even though Armando had offered him to take the rest of the term off. He loved Hogwarts, he really did. It was home to him. But he couldn’t deal with people very well at the moment and each day there were reporters showing up in Hogsmeade and a whole group of owls bringing him letter from all kinds of people, most of them thanking or praising him.
It was too much for him, who constantly felt like his nerves were stretched so thin they dared to snap at the slightest disturbance. He felt like he was eighteen again and standing in the middle of the frozen lake next to Flamel’s residence and the ice under his feet was so frail that he could see cracks in it already and the freezing water underneath.
But his students needed him. They deserved to finish their school year without any more disturbance, without a substitute teacher to mark them. And when he was in his classroom, in front of his students, that was the only time he didn’t feel the ice under his feet and his fragile nerves so prominently. In his classroom he was merely their teacher, nothing more and nothing less.
Anything outside of his classroom was almost unbearable. He tried to skip meals – not hungry at all and he wasn’t sure if he would ever be again – but somehow there was always someone dragging him to the Great Hall (most often: Horace Slughorn). He considered it torture to be sitting, smiling, chit-chatting when his insides were hollow and burning at the same time.
He spent the nights in front of the Mirror of Erised – his more personal kind of torture. Each night he saw his parents, alive and happy; Ariana, healthy and smiling; Aberforth, laughing and reconciled to him; and, to his great shame, he saw Gellert lacing their fingers together. It was a dangerous spiral of longing and grief and shame and anger and he knew it. He only managed to tear himself away from it, when the sun was slowly rising above the castle and he reminded himself that there were children to teach. Sometimes he fell asleep in front it, exhausted from crying, or he got so lost in the mirror that he didn’t notice anything else – then it was Minerva McGonagall, who gently tapped his shoulder, brought him coffee and pulled him up and back into reality. He couldn’t express how grateful he was that she never mentioned it again, neither to him nor to anyone else.
By the end of the term he was so tired of keeping it together at all times, even appearing cheerful and proud, that he was sure he wouldn’t be able to take it one more day. He left the castle before the students and before any of the teachers. He told nobody where he was going, mostly because he didn’t know himself and even if he did, he hadn’t found the energy to respond to any of his friends’ letters. They had been very kind. Nicolas was offering words of comfort and wisdom, but Albus could read worry between the lines. Newt invited him to his little farm in Dorset to meet the mooncalves and his youngest daughter. Bathilda and Honoria were reminding him to eat and sleep and take a walk in the sun. Elphias was asking if he needed anything and how he was feeling. Cassandra and Eulalie merely wrote he knew where to find them if he ever wanted to talk. Even Alastor Moody had written to him, saying he was putting up a delegation – lead by Theseus Scamander - to keep the reporters away from him.
He’d first thought about visiting Godric’s Hollow but Bathilda still lived there and the thought of returning to all the places that were so intrinsically woven with Gellert was as appealing as it was terrifying.
He ended up in Mould-on-the-Wold. He hadn’t been there since they had moved to Godric’s Hollow even though Mother had never sold their old house. (He’d always suspected that she’d hoped to return to it one day - perhaps the only dream his mother had ever granted herself to dream.)
It was bleak and dusty when he arrived. The facade had been overgrown with ivy and the grass in the backyard had grown up to his hips. Inside, a lot of the furniture was still as he remembered it – everything they hadn’t taken to Godric’s Hollow. Dust had settled on every surface and the house had the unmistakable feel of something long departed. There was an eerie silence about it that seemed to resonate in the hollowness inside him.
He started cleaning the house. His wand safely tucked away in his pocket. There was something cathartic in doing it the Muggle way. It was oddly reassuring that he had no idea what he was doing. It would’ve taken him an hour with his wand, he’d mastered all kinds of household charms in his first school year, simply because he had mastered all the regular first year charms already and wanted to learn more, so he’d opened any charms book in the library and gotten to work. (He’d also hoped Mother would be proud, if he could help with the household during summer holidays. Mother was proud and happy, indeed, but Albus was disappointed nonetheless since Ariana wasn’t taking well to spell casting around her, so that Mother told him not to do it anymore.)
He remembered the feeling that magic was simply made for him very well. Every single charm, every spell, every curse they were told to practice had just come to him naturally. He instinctually knew how to move his wand, how to speak the words; he could feel the magic he’d felt brimming in his body since he’d been a small boy flow freely through his wand and take the most beautiful shapes. From the moment his wand had chosen him it had been as if flood gates had opened inside him. It was what he was born to do – magic. And his teachers and fellow students had been in awe of it. He had been in awe of it. It was the most thrilling feeling he’d ever known. He’d felt right for the very first time in his life.
He had felt that way only once again afterwards and that was when he met Gellert Grindelwald.
Trying to figure out how he was supposed to reach the farthest corners of the ceiling to remove the cobwebs that had gathered there without using his wand; trying to get a hold of the mice that had inhabited Ariana’s old room, kneeling on the ground, scrubbing the floor with his hands, he felt, was a comforting reminder that he was still human and not just magic.
The house kept him occupied for two days, the backyard for three. He’d only cast two spells in that first week in Mould-on-the-Wold. One was to confuse the owls that had found him and insistently tried to get rid of the letters they carried for him and another one to keep the inhabitants of the village from noticing the changes in the old house for fear that it would attract attention and anybody could recognize him.
The second week he spent longing for the Mirror of Erised. Sleep was still elusive, but every time he closed his eyes he saw Aberforth howling with the impact of the Cruciatus Curse, he saw Ariana lying dead on the floor, he saw Gellert crouching before him in the ruins of his empire. He sometimes felt like the images were suffocating him, like they could just kill him. He remembered feeling like this at eighteen but more intense. He remembered that there had been a time he hadn’t been able to leave the bed, he remembered he’d wished to die then. Perhaps he would’ve done it, too, if Bathilda Bagshot and Nicolas Flamel hadn’t worked so hard to keep him alive.
It wasn’t like that, now. He’d had enough time to make his choices and he knew there would be children waiting to learn from him at the end of the summer. He would not let them down. He simply needed to get his traitorous heart under control – guilt and remorse he was used to living with, anyway.
The third week was the worst. Sleep had come back to him, probably due to exhaustion, but each night he dreamed of a colorful meadow and a big willow tree, of old familiar houses, of a tombstone, of the wand, the stone and the cloak; he dreamed of soft green grass and the golden reflection of the sun on a lake; and he dreamed of a boy with golden hair and the most intriguing eyes and a mischievous smile. He woke up either crushed or angry, then. One day he found himself yelling and throwing books around in Father’s old study (something that distinctly reminded him of Aberforth) and the other he was laying in the backyard staring up at the blue sky and willing his body to remember the touch of fingers and lips on his skin and the feeling of being completely and utterly understood. The feeling of being whole, of having met his twin soul, the exhilarating feeling of his magic roaring and purring each time it grazed Gellert’s. Each night he fell asleep disgusted with himself.
It seemed of all the many, many things he knew, he had no idea how to untangle his own heart.
It was pathetic, really. It should not have been this difficult to begin with. What Gellert was, what he had done, it should’ve been more than enough. It wasn’t and Albus had to inevitable question what was so inherently wrong with him that he was here, in the village he grew up in, trying to get a hold of his own emotions, when heshould have been beaming with joy and relief and pride.
After almost four weeks he was none the wiser when he returned from the marketplace, a grocery bag in each hand and found his little brother standing in the kitchen of their old home. He paused. He had gone pale and maybe he’d also held his breath for a few seconds before he proceeded to put the bags down on the table. He could count the occasions that him and Aberforth had spoken since Ariana’s death on the fingers of his hands, so he could positively say that his brother had been the last person he’d expected to see.
His little brother took the burden of speaking first from him by saying: “Your cleaning charms are seriously lacking, Albus.”
Albus had to swallow and the laugh that escaped him was shaky and he could feel tears rising in the back of his throat. “I wasn’t expecting any visitors,” he replied. “Would you like some tea or coffee or…” He looked around. “Frankly I am not quite sure what else can be found in the cabinets of this kitchen.”
Aberforth shook his head. Albus knew that his brother had never mastered Legilimency but when he looked him in the eyes, he felt like Aberforth was looking right into his heart and soul. “What are you doing here?”
Albus shrugged, busying his hands by putting away the groceries. “I haven’t been here in a while.”
“In more than fifty years, I know. Nobody’s heard from you in a month. I heard that Dippet and Spencer-Moon even got into a fight over it.” He paused for a moment. “Your friends are worried about you.”
“They needn’t be.” He glanced at his brother. “And I didn’t know you were talking to them.”
“I’m not,” Aberforth grumbled, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Bathilda Bagshot pestered me about it… Scamander, too.”
Albus blinked. “Theseus Scamander?” It wasn’t uncommon that shady people frequented the Hog’s Head but he hadn’t ever expected Theseus to ask about him, when he was on a mission.
“No, Newton.”
Ah, that made sense. He was becoming slow with the pain of it all. Aberforth was avoiding his eyes, but he didn’t need a look into his brother’s head to know that he had been corresponding with Newt concerning Obscurials.
“How did you know I was here?” He asked, granting his brother an escape out of a path down the conversation he was clearly trying to avoid.
Aberforth shrugged. “I’m your brother.”
Yes, he thought, Aberforth had always been good at that – being a brother. So much better than Albus. When they’d been young, Aberforth had been the one to punch the children that made fun of Albus for the eccentric way he talked and behaved; when Ariana had fallen ill, Aberforth had been the one to feed her and sing her lullabies. Even during the summer of 1899 his admirable little brother had wanted nothing more than to care for their sister, while Albus had been the most horrible brother anyone could imagine – and yet, he had been a lot more gracious with Albus than he deserved.
Albus didn’t know what to respond – his throat felt unpleasantly blocked again – so, instead, he said: “I am fine. I appreciate your concern, but I merely needed a little time off after… after that duel. I will be back at Hogwarts in September, and I promise I’ll respond to all their letters then.”
Aberforth looked at him for a long while and Albus held his gaze, trying to look as optimistic as he would’ve wanted to feel. Finally, his brother rolled his eyes and sighed. “I always hated that, you know?”
Albus swallowed and his heart felt heavy. “What do you mean exactly?”
“I’m fine, Mother’s fine, Ariana’s fine, thank you for asking – how are you?” Aberforth mimicked. “I know Mother taught us; everything was always supposed to be fine when nothing ever was! Everything was always a secret! You were such a natural, you didn’t even notice how it became part of you.”
Albus didn’t know what to say and even if he did, he didn’t dare to speak. He feared his voice would break and with it his carefully crafted composure.
“I know you wouldn’t be hiding here if you were fine, Albus.”
“And how are you?” It was the only thing he managed to say.
Aberforth glared at him. “Stop deflecting! Sit down.” He took a bottle of Firewhiskey out of his cloak and slammed it down on the table. With a wave of his wand two glasses came flying from the cabinet and settled beside it. Albus sat down as his brother had commanded. He heard Aberforth grumbling “Frankly, I don’t even know why I care… can’t take the whining of your precious friends anymore… idiotic people…”, while he filled both glasses and sat down at the kitchen table as well.
Aberforth clinked his glass to his before he downed it. Albus felt his own hands shaking, so he was quick to close them around his own glass. Aberforth looked at him expectantly. He took a sip of the Firewhiskey and felt the familiar burning in the back of his throat and then the warmth spreading in his body. He downed the rest of it and Aberforth refilled both glasses.
“Do you remember the last Christmas we spent here? Last Christmas with Grandfather and Grandmother. Grandfather said: women go to hairdressers and afternoon teas and to their mothers and girl friends to complain all day, but men go to bars to tell the bartenders of their problems and then drink so much, they forget it ever happened.”
Albus shook his head but couldn’t help a grimace that was almost a smile. “He did have a very crooked view on the world. Father wasn’t happy. He told us to forget everything he said, before we went to bed.”
“That is true. But people tell me about their problems all the time. Not that I would care, but I suppose that is why they tell me in the first place. Not only men though.”
They sipped the Firewhiskey in silence until both of their glasses were empty again and Aberforth refilled them.
“That was also the Christmas they almost got into a fight over that book you loved. What was it called again, Mr. Gray or something?” Aberforth made a noncommittal gesture with his hand, but Albus suspected his brother remembered the title very well, indeed.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray,” Albus said quietly.
“Ah, right. Mother didn’t want you to read it in the first place, but Dad said there was nothing wrong with it. Grandmother couldn’t even look at it.” Aberforth chuckled at the memory. “Because it was written by that Muggle, Wilde was it, right? Grandfather called him a -“
“I remember,” Albus interrupted sharply and Aberforht’s eyes found his again.
A bloody sodomite, their grandfather had said. Albus still remembered the clear cutting, vicious disgust in Grandfather’s voice when he’d spat it out.
They looked at each other for a long time. Two sets of bright blue eyes.
“You know that was never why I hated him, right?” Aberforth said quietly.
Albus had to take a few deep breaths and his vision was blurring. “I know,” he breathed.
Aberforth clenched his jaw and studied his brother for a long while. “Every time I hear his name, I want to punch a wall and imagine his face. I never understood how you could like him. But I know…” He sighed as if he had to force the words out. “I know he meant a lot to you. Maybe we should’ve talked about this back then but…” He shook his head.
The shock must have been written on his face when he looked up. Aberforth, usually harsh and gloomy, wasn’t the most forthcoming of people. Albus was sure that he was one of the very few people that knew the extent of his brother’s kindness, if he ever decided to grant it. He knew that this didn’t mean forgiveness. Aberforth would never forgive him, for as long as they lived, as was his right. But he was kind to him… so much more than Albus deserved.
“I was under the impression,” Albus said slowly. “That was never something you wanted to hear about.”
“It isn’t. But it’s something you need to talk about, so you can stop hiding here. And we both know you will never tell anybody else for fear that they could think any less of the great Albus Dumbledore. But I know the worst you, nothing you tell me could change what I think of you. That’s what brothers are for, isn’t it?”
Albus swallowed. Aberforth was probably right, but his insides clenched and burned with pain and shame at the thought of talking about Gellert. “I… don’t know where to start.” He downed his glass in hopes that the alcohol would calm him.
Aberforth did the same as if to wash a bad taste from his mouth. He refilled their glasses and they downed them again in silence. Slowly, Albus was starting to feel his cheeks warming.
When their glasses were filled again, Aberforth took off his cloak and rolled up the sleeves of his worn shirt. “You were in love with him?” He said, although it didn’t sound very much like a question.
Albus could do nothing but nod.
Aberforth eyed him closely. “You’re still in love with him.”
Albus felt a tear run down his cheek of its own volition and he brushed it away with the back of his hand. “Yes,” he choked.
“What is it about him that you - ?” Aberforth waved his hand impatiently.