for poke - since you'll be confused, this is in reverse chronological order, which is probably not a thing but is now because i say so
And who do you think you are?
Running around leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" are Gellert's words as soon as he picks up the telephone.
I can only stare at him through the glass, at his scruffy, clean-shaven face, his lion's mane of golden hair, his canines gleaming too sharply in the offending light. There is nothing in his eyes that I recognize as Gellert, but my heart still thumps madly at the sight of this stranger.
"What makes you think you can come, now?" he bellows, and I wince and pull the phone away from my ear. Even then, I can still hear him. "Why are you even here—no, perhaps I should be asking—are you here as my friend or my fucking lawyer?"
"I'm your friend, Gellert," I say, attempting to sound calm. "I've always been your friend."
"That doesn't answer my question," Gellert growls.
I take a shallow breath. "I'm here as your lawyer," I tell him.
The muscles in his jaw bulge. "Leave."
I speak over him, a skill I've perfected since his conviction. "I'm here because Nicholas has evidence that you're innocent. The police have found a new suspect—the right one, this time."
He looks at me wide-eyed, his nostrils flaring. "What," he says flatly. "He knows I'm not. You know I'm not."
"You're innocent of the crime you were put into prison for, not all the other ones you should have gone to prison for," I clarify.
"And what was that, again?" Gellert asks.
"The murder of Bathilda Bagshot."
"Of course." He rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't have ever killed my aunt."
"I can't tell if that is sarcasm—"
"It doesn't matter. I understand what you're saying, Albus."
"Then tell me what that is, Gellert."
"They're going to find out who I am. I've been thinking about that, Albus, and I know it will happen sooner or later. If Flamel is looking into me again, he'll find what he missed last time. And things will get messy."
"I'll talk to him," I say in a rush. "I can convince him. With the right connections, you'll be free for the rest of your life—"
"I've already worked it out," he interrupts. "I'm going to plead insanity."
We sit for a moment in silence. Gellert's knuckles are white around his phone. He's breathing hard into the mouthpiece, and I close my eyes for a moment and imagine—but I can't imagine anything. Gellert Grindelwald is gone. The boy made of molten gold I met in the heady height of summer is no more. A bronze shell of a man sits before me.
"I miss you," I whisper, looking at our reflections in the glass.
"Of course you do, Albus," he says. "That is why you're here."
But you are not, I don't say. I came to see Gellert Grindelwald, but he's not here. I just missed him, I suppose.
"How long do you have to work as an associate for Nicholas Flamel?" Gellert asks, assuming an air of curiosity.
"A long time," I say, barely whispering. I'm focusing on his face, trying to etch every line into my mind before it's too late to remember.
"Until this case is over?"
"Far after that."
He takes a deep breath. His hands tremble, but he curls them into fists. "I didn't kill her, Albus. I've shown you all the people I've killed, and Bathilda is not one of them. I have no reason to remember her."
"No, I suppose you don't." I try to tell him that I believe him entirely through the tone of my voice, without throwing myself over the table and closing my mouth around his teeth-marked lips.
"I promise I am not lying to you," Gellert says.
"And I trust that you are not."
He lets out half of his breath. "I just thought I should make it clear, since the people you have to defend lie all too often."
I allow myself to laugh a little. "That's not the problem, Gellert. Lying and practicing law go hand in hand."
He shows his teeth in a forced smile. His unnaturally sharp canines give him a hungry appearance. "Then you must be a spectacular lawyer, Albus."
I smile back at him. "And so would you, Gellert, if you ever stopped killing people."
"But we both know I won't."
"No, you won't." You're just too damn good at it.
"Shit. Albus, I didn't know who else to call."
Bathilda Bagshot's body is lying stiffly on the floor of the living room. Gellert won't step over the threshold. His eyes are wild, his hands knotted in his hair, his teeth chattering. He's a blur of sound and frenzied anxiety.
"Did you do it?" I demand.
"I… I don't know who would have wanted her dead," he stammers. "She—she—she—"
I step closer to the body. Her normally waxy complexion is stark white, and her fingertips are marred with blackish bruises.
"Did you kill her?" I raise my voice, whirling around to face him.
"Albus…"
"Did you kill her?" I shout. "There are marks on her neck. She looks like she was bitten by a snake."
"I don't know, I don't know who—"
"Answer me!"
Gellert's hands drop to his sides. "They're going to get me, Albus. I'm the only suspect. I don't know who…" He crumples against the doorframe, his shoulders shaking and his face buried against his knees. "They'll find me. They will find out everything about me. You have to help me, Albus."
I subsist for a minute—I count the seconds silently—before I relent and go over to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. "I'll do whatever I can."
He looks up slowly, his cheeks glistening with tears. "Thank you, Albus."
He's so close I could kiss him, but that is one temptation I will never give in to. I can love Gellert Grindelwald; I can squander my entire life falling for him, over and over, each time he smiles or touches me or says my name—but I will never allow myself to show it.
"Take your shirt off," he commands. We are standing in his shed, where he hides himself and displays his trophies. He's opening cupboards and bringing out jars of paint, in colors of blood and flesh and skin, and arranging them in a row along the edge of a long wooden table, lightest to reddest.
I do as he says, unbuttoning my shirt and laying it down beside the paint jars—it's only when I see it next to the colors that I realize how white it is—and dreading and wishing that the next words out of his mouth will be and now your pants, please, Albus.
But instead he says, "Lie down."
And so I oblige, and with my bare back pressed against the splintering wood and him leaning over my chest with a paintbrush, I feel as if I were naked.
"This is a very precarious operation, Albus," Gellert murmurs as he makes the first stroke. "One twitch of the hand could cause the result to go completely awry. I don't believe in erasing, you see. And besides, it's hard to remove paint from skin. You just end up smearing it all over the place."
"What are you drawing?" I ask softly.
He frowns. "I wish you wouldn't speak. It makes your chest vibrate."
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The paintbrush prods me in the ribs.
"You'll see what it is when I'm done."
He continues, stroke after stroke, layer upon layer. The feeling of the brush on my skin and the thought of his fingers inches away from my bare chest is soothing. I almost fall asleep, but Gellert wakes me from my half-slumber in time with a cold hand on my cheek. I sit up with a start, my fingers going to my sticky chest.
Gellert grabs my wrists before I can touch the wet paint, his touch sending another jolt through me. "No, it's not dry yet."
"Are you finished?" I start to look down. He stops me again.
"Don't look down. I'll get you a mirror." He vanishes around behind me and reappears holding a piece of broken glass the size of his head. "Be careful," he says. "It's sharp."
I take the mirror with an uncertain look.
"Mirrors are the most imperfect objects in the world," Gellert explains. "What one sees inside is never the viewer's true form. All my mirrors are smashed to remind me of that consequence."
"It's not very safe, is it?" I say, balancing it lightly in the center of my palm and examining its jagged edges.
"Just think about it," he replies.
"The mirror has been reduced to a state that is as imperfect as the images it portrays."
"Precisely." He hovers closer impatiently. "Now look."
I tilt the mirror so it reflects the painting on my chest and gasp through my teeth. It's a heart, suspended in the cavern of its rib cage, seeming so real it might as well have been beating. Then, I realize I've gripped the edges of the glass too tight, and blood is leaking from my palms.
"Oh, shit."
I drop the mirror; Gellert artfully catches it, places it on the table beside me, and wraps my hands in bandages.
"Thank you," I say, my hands tingling from pain and his touch. The two feelings balance each other out quite efficiently.
He doesn't reply, just looks up at me with half a smile. "So can I have it now?"
My mind flounders for a moment to understand what he's asking, but to my dismay, I realize the meaning of his question.
"You've already taken it," I tell him. And I don't need to look in his eyes to see their smile.
"Come with me. There is something I want to show you," he says as he leads me into the backyard of his aunt's house and to a small shed that looks like one breath from him could push it over.
I follow him warily through the whining door. Inside is a creaky, dusty room. The air is thick and musty, and the only light comes from the cracks in the walls and the bare lightbulb in the ceiling that Gellert flicks on. The floorboards are torn; a long table wobbles in the center of the room; the walls are lined with cupboards and shelves with empty glass jars.
Gellert gives me a wavering glance. His fingers are drumming against his thigh. His lips are twitching as if he's about to say something but can't find the right words.
"What is it you wanted me to see?" I prompt him.
"This," he murmurs. He turns with a jerk and opens the door of a cupboard and pulls out a jar filled with a sloshing substance. "This is my mother." He sets it on the edge of the table and reaches into the cupboard again. "This is my father," he says, cradling another jar, and then picks out another one. "My brother. My sister."
The jars line up on the tabletop, and Gellert draws back to let me examine them. My mind pulls back, but my legs inch forward. My hand touches one of the jars.
They are filled with an embalming fluid. Strange specimens float in the liquid, shriveled, pink and gray. They are each the size of a peach. But they aren't peaches, I realize with a stifled gasp. They are—
"Hearts," I say more calmly than I feel.
"My family," Gellert corrects, laying a hand on my arm. I'm too numb to pull away. "We were never really happy together. My brother was growing up, preparing to leave for college. My parents always fought. My sister was always scared.
"But suddenly, one night at dinner everything was different. Maybe we were all tired of clashing. Maybe we were tired of trying to understand each other. Whatever caused it, that night was perfect. My parents seemed like they loved each other again. My brother told jokes. My sister laughed. We all laughed. And then I decided I didn't want to remember them any other way than this way—perfect."
"What did you do?" I whisper.
"I started a fire that night, after everyone had gone to sleep. They were all smiling as they died. There's no better way to go." He turns his gaze to the jars of hearts. "This is how I remember them. After the fire had been put out and their bodies taken to the morgue, it was easy to sneak in and take them with me. Everyone thought I had perished in the fire, you see. I am legally dead, Albus."
It is a long time before I find my voice again. "Why… are you telling me all this?"
His eyes are wide and sincere as he replies, "Because you're my friend, Albus. And I want to be able to remember you when you're gone."
"You—you're asking my permission?" I choke.
"For your heart, yes."
His hand moves up my arm, and my thoughts turn to mire. "I… I'll think about it," I manage to stammer.
This was what Bathilda warned you about.
All I want to do is take his hand and feel right holding it.
You've come too far to go back.
We meet on a cloudy, overcast day on the grey-green of his front lawn. Bathilda grips our wrists and forces us into a handshake, and my head starts spinning as soon as I look into his eyes. It's like staring at the sun—only you never want to look away.
"My name's Gellert," he says and grins. I notice his abnormally sharp canines.
"Albus," I say flatly, still stunned by the sheer pulchritude of him.
"I'll get your luggage, Albus."
I snap back to reality at those words, and as Gellert walks away, I turn to Bathilda. "My mother sends her warmest greetings and her most sincere apologies for not being able to visit herself."
She smiles kindly. "You know I don't mind that in the least, dearest. Any one of the Dumbledore family is enough." She pauses to take my arm. "Come, let's go inside."
"I am actually glad that you were the only one able to come," she whispers in my ear. "I was going to ask for your help with Gellert."
"Gellert?" I repeat, surprised. "Is there a problem? He seems…"
"Quite normal, I know," she says calmly. "But you'll find something strange about him in short time, I believe. I am unable to make him trust me, but you'll be able to, no doubt. You two are about the same age, I think. Young people have a sort of immediate connection."
"I'll try," I say.
She stops and turns me toward her, suddenly serious. "Albus…"
"What?" A chill runs down my spine.
"Be careful."
nif