Albus hadn't expected to ever fall in love.
He wouldn't be the first studious, serious young man to fall for a younger colleague. Like a moth, he had been drawn to the brilliance of the ideas and the passion for knowledge. And then the closeness of the thoughts had led to another sort of closeness.
As their heads hovered over the old parchments, and their fingers traced the ancient writings, their scholarly hearts each gave an unaccustomed leap; they realized that their shared enjoyment was not in the study, but in each other's souls.
Those halcyon summer days seemed limned in gold, as through words and ideas and shared concepts and insights the young Albus and the Bosie-like Gellert found that there was a love that could be shared between two such scholars. And though they never openly talked of it, it lived between them like a golden thread that they thought would never be broken.
And like everyone else enjoying that summer of 1898, they ignored the clouds on the horizon, and dismissed the gathering heaviness in the air as just the product of their discussions.
Discussions which became more heated.
Discussions which became arguments.
And then one terrible day, the storm broke and the wands were drawn and there were flashes and unkind words and hurtful accusations and when the smoke cleared, there was death and despair and broken hearts and broken minds.
Albus looked at the face of the man who had captured his heart and his mind and who now was looking at him as if he was a total stranger. And Albus looked at his brother who was regarding him with such loathing. And then he looked at the body of his sister, and Albus knew he would never love that way again.