Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Notes: Why is this pairing so much fun to write? :D
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You know idealism; it's what runs in his veins in place of blood. It's what he breathes instead of air, the song that seizes him up, makes him whisper things to you fervently until you burn with possibility.
look what we can do, albus, the two of us together. don't you know the two of us together can do anything?
You know practicality as well (or what they call practicality), familiar with it in the stubborn-eyed adults of your time, too firmly entrenched in their own misguided beliefs to see reason.
they will never see reason, never, look at how foolish they are. look at the way they ruin the world around us; the world needs us, albus. we are its saviours.
You know that he and you—the two of you together—are a perfect mix, a beautiful coupling of the idealism and the right kind of practicality that the future world will need. When his excitement gets the better of him, lighting his eyes with something strange (unsettling), you are the one who brings him down from it, tells him to see reason, until that look in his eyes is gone and he is smiling sweetly at you, someone you know once again. (If you were honest with yourself you would realize that you know him even when there is bloodlust and fever in his eyes. Maybe that is when you know him best.)
we will take the world by storm, with thunder and lightning and fury and blood. we will create a revolution like they have never seen, like they have never even imagined, because albus, don't you realize? we know what this world needs—it needs us. it needs us to grab it firm and make it something great.
You know other things, too. You know that you two are indeed smarter than anyone else around you; you know you have power unimaginable and intelligence inconceivable, and sometimes you stare at your two hands, calloused and ink-stained and boyish, normal, and you are frightened at the things you know you can do. You know that he is never frightened; he wraps himself in power like it is a better-fitting skin than the one he wears, draws his wand down your body with elegant hands and a wicked smile, and the hungry sting of his teeth is like dying, and the clenching of his thighs around you, strong as he presses you down to the ground, is a fiery, broken rebirth.
beautiful albus, my albus, can't you see it? can't you see the world we will create? can't you see it has only been waiting for someone like us to come forward?
You know there is madness in his eyes when he looks into your own, but you think there is the same madness in your heart. Why else would you remain here? Why else, when you know he is not yours as you are his, even as he professes it into the taut curve of your neck, even as he traces those promises with deft fingers over your trembling body, the slick bow of your mouth.
He tells you:
yours, always yours, only yours
and he tells you:
forever, forever, the two of us together forever
and he tells you this:
we are not like others. we are special. we will show them who we are from our rightful thrones, because albus, can you not see that they need us, they need us to rule?
And so, somehow, it seems a natural extension of the words dripping like honey from his sweet, clever tongue, it seems only right that you are the first to voice it. It is only right that it is your voice splintering the heat between your sweat-slick bodies, you who says brokenly:
for the greater good.
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