His Prison
Ariana must be fed, Ariana must be put to bed, Ariana must be looked after and shut up and Aberforth must be sent back to school.
Aberforth, Albus knew, did not want to go back to school. He mistrusted his older brother – not without reason. The curse which had blown a hole through the staircase had almost hit Ariana, who had, frightened, came to stop the fighting which had interrupted her nap. It had been her shrieking which had interrupted the fight. Aberforth had run to comfort her, and Albus had ordered him out of the house. He had had to, had to – there was no denying Aberforth's accusations now: Gellert was dangerous, and Aberforth had had to paid the price of his besotted brother's folly.
Grindelwald had looked confused, but had left quietly enough after one or two – token, they were only token Albus thinks, almost angrier about this than anything else – protests.
After all, after all that he had planned, this was to be his life. Wasted. Caught in a trap –
But this time, he walked into the trap willingly. Knowing he was not to be trusted with the power he sought, he knew the prison that was the Dumbledores' home would keep the world safe from him just as it kept Ariana safe from the world.
Last night, he had burned their notes, all those that were still in his possession. He had placed them into the woodstove lovingly, caressing them as though they were him instead of merely being his handwriting. He had forced himself to watch as they caught, as holes, black around the edges, opened in the paper, slowing eating ideas and hopes and dreams. He almost cried out when a doodle Gellert had drawn on one treatise was peeled away into nothingness.
The symbol of the deathly hallows.
It was only a dream. He should remember that it does not do to get carried away with dreams –
It was past time to wake up.