The Grey Kings
What is light with not the presence of dark?
And what is dark, but not the absence of light?
-Shane Devante
.o0o.
The two of them were young once, and he remembers it as if it were only yesterday.
Two bright youths sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, long-limbed and handsome, with bright eyes and minds like barely-tempered swords, they are the dreamers. More so, they are the knives in the dark, the quills which write the histories, the watchers of all things, be they trivial or earth-shattering.
They are more than mere historians and assassins, more than any mere warden of time. They are kings sitting side by side upon self-carved thrones, and their kingdom is whatever they wish it to be.
Where has it gone too? He wonders, as he sits quietly in his cell, the faint slither of the boy's robes upon the rough stone floors a sickening melody to his ears. The boy is a piece, like all the others they skilfully weave across the metaphorical chessboard that is their world, but the game is over.
The boy does not know it yet. No, he is but a fool, a puppet dancing on strings that none can perceive. He, the man, can already hear Albus' voice in his ear, the whisper like a blade through the heart, for he too knows that the final piece is in play.
"Check and mate," he murmurs, and then the doors to his cell are blasted off their rusted hinges. It's sad, really, that this boy who seeks to rule the world has no idea of the game he has uknowingly been apart off.
Still, Gellert turns to face him, a broken man who has already sacrificed too much to turn back now. No longer young and handsome, he extends a crooked hand and points at the serpentine boy standing in the doorway. The night is dark, but the boy's soul is darker, and Gellert rolls his eyes at the thought.
There is no power without balance, which is one thing this foolish boy has never understood on his quest for absolute control.
A brief conversation ensues in which Gellert laughs, long and hard, at the look upon the poor bastard boy's face. Red eyes glint at him and nostrils flare – absurd, given that the boy doesn't seem to have a nose – and then green light flares from the tip of the boy's wand.
This is where his chapter of the story ends though the book itself is not yet done. This is where it the beginning of the end takes root, and this is where the boy who styles himself a Dark Lord, has unknowingly sealed his own fate.
In Nurmengard, a forsaken tower where shadows and memories come to play.
-I open at the close,
Thus, I begin at the end.-
.o0o.
It is a game that he is born to play.
Pieces can be replaced, that is the first lesson he learns, but they are of small consequence to him or the world at large. Change, as a rule, can never be brought about by an all-out war . . . no, the people value their freedom and will fight for it at every turn. It's a shame, really, since so many are incapable of properly using their brains.
All those who aspire to power forget this, and perhaps he cannot blame them. It's the greatest allure of the dark side, to blast that which stands in your way aside and leave it whimpering and bloody on the sidelines. Morgana herself fell victim to the temptation . . . so who can blame those who came after her?
He will not be the same, though, for he has learned that within darkness there is light, and within light there is darkness.
Across the room, Albus paces. He always does when he's fretting, Gellert thinks with a light smirk. There's so little about each other that they don't know, it's almost negligible, but, of course, some secrets are best left buried.
He has spent years moulding Albus into a worthy foil to his own persona, but it's been worth it in the long run. The boy he met in Godric's Hollow was brilliant, truth be told, and ambitious, but he lacked the fundamental ability to truly sacrifice for his ideals.
The long months of planning to remove Arianna from play had been worth it, he reasons, for she, the first sacrifice, is the domino that begins the chain. The original sin, to be properly biblical, even though he hardly believes in such mortal constraints as sin and virtue, is the first death, the first droplet of blood to stain their palms.
Still, at long last, it is time for the two of them to draw the pieces into the right formation.
"So, you will go to him tomorrow?" he asks, leaning back against the comfortable headboard. His prison may seem hellish from the outside, but his personal cell is quite the lavish affair thanks to his lover's excellent grasp of Transfiguration.
"I will though I do hope he's pliant. After the lengths we went through simply to bring him into existence, it would be a shame if he's not the piece we strove for." Albus sounds clinical, as if almost devoid of any feelings on the subject. Gellert knows better, it's always been this way for the other man. It's the only way his lover can stifle the nagging voices in his mind that scream out for mercy and compassion to those born with lesser minds.
Sometimes, late at night, when he has nought but the stars for company, he lets himself worry that Albus has ignored his own conscience for far too long, and has lost his moral compass.
"I still think we could have used his uncle or grandfather. This could all have been accomplished a decade ago," he snaps, because to be perfectly frank, he feels like he's been shut up in his own prison for fifteen years too long.
"Marvolo was not malleable, Morfin was mad, and even Merope, talented witch that she was, didn't have the constitution for what we wished to achieve. No, Gellert, we needed an infant . . . I still wish you'd have let me brew the love potion, though. You always get to have all the fun."
"I spend most of my time with my toenails for company," he retorts, though he can't miss the twinkle in Albus' eyes, or the flutter in his heart as he sees warmth seep back into his lover's mind. "If not for those little projects I do to keep me busy, I'm as much use to the cause as a Hippogriff in pyjamas."
"I'll have to keep that idea in mind. I have a feeling the students will be quite tickled to have Hippogriffs in footie-pyjamas flying around the school."
.
He walks down the Muggle street, dressed in an immaculately, if rather eccentric, suit. Gellert would no doubt scoff at his appearance, but he has always revelled in his ability to infuriate his lover whilst still bringing a faint smile to those stern lips.
Lover . . . comrade . . . co-conspirator, the roles they occupy have melded together through the years, and now they are but one and the same. Two kings sitting on either side of a board, making subtle movements to gain not just a victory, but the correct aftermath as well.
It brings a smile to his face to think about it – Gellert always assumes that he's the one in charge, but that can't be further from the truth. He's known, all along, whose curse it was, and to be honest, he understands.
The end justifies the means, and sometimes, the sacrifice must justify the reward. His sister for the Greater Good . . . it broke his heart to make the choice, to play along with Gellert's wicked game, but it is one he knows needed to be made.
The orphanage is a rather dreary place, but he never expected the boy to grow up in luxury. No, the planning had been careful, each step carried through with the utmost accuracy to avoid setbacks or deviations of the fate they choose.
Poor Merope, as a witch she left much to be desired. It hadn't been hard to sell her the love potion in exchange for a lock of her hair, and of course, the hair's been put to good use. A bit of Polyjuice, and the Locket of Salazar Slytherin, complete with a newly cast tracking spell, has found its way onto the shelves of Borgin and Burkes.
He sighs, internally of course, as he deals with the head of the orphanage. She's not the brightest star in the sky, that much is clear after just a few minutes of meaningless conversation, but she does let slip a few interesting facts.
It would seem that the boy is exactly what they hope for. An enemy that will force the warring factions of their world to unite, either on one side or the other.
After all, the best monsters are the ones that are created and not the few that are born.
.o0o.
"The boy is behaving exactly as expected," he murmurs, running slender fingers across Gellert's bare chest. In response, the blond sighs, a wistful sound, and pulls the blankets higher to ward off the chill.
It's been too long since he's last held Albus in his arms, so it's no surprise to him that the first item of business for their meeting is to tumble into bed together. Still, the wanton moans and writhing limbs could not last forever, and now it is time to plan their next move.
He doesn't mind, not really since there are far worse ways to discuss their plans than naked in each other's arms. They may not be as young as they once were, but their experience has more than made up for adolescent stamina.
"Excellent . . . are you ready to put the first hint in his path? Slip in the first few nuggets of information about Horcruxes?"
"Oh, I've already done that," Albus replies with a laugh, sending lilting vibrations across his cheek. "Now, I just need to slip to add the bait."
He rolls his eyes at his lover's light-hearted mannerisms – there's precious little to joke about now that the stakes are so high. They know, the both of them, that this is their last great endeavour, a game that will end in death no matter how the cards fall. The only thing that drives them now is the desire to bring about the change they never could in life.
Even so, he doesn't really contemplate his death as one might. It's still abstract and in the distance, and like all master strategists, he still has a card up his sleeve. The hallows can still be united as a means to save themselves from their own inevitable ends.
Surprise fills him as he realises, perhaps for the first time, that it is not dying that he fears, but rather it is living without Albus in his life that fills him with dread. He hopes that when the time eventually does not if the hallows are not united, that it is he who goes first.
It may be selfish, but he has endured too much to have to lose something so important to him, something so crucial that he dare not let the words escape his lips lest they jinx the both of them.
"I believe that with the right prodding, I can convince one of my old friends to smuggle some dangerous creature into the hands of your half-giant pet," he muses, even as he feels soft lips press into his shoulder. He shivers, biting his lip as he realises that Albus' hands are similarly occupied.
"You do that, in fact, try and see if he can get an Acromantula. We need something so dangerous that the Ministry won't bother asking questions as to how a student wound up dead when presented with the evidence."
.
He sits alone in his office, gaze focused on the delicate silver instrument before him. Like all his creations, this one has uses known only to him, and it's his dearest wish that these secrets die with him.
When he is gone, the earth will have no use for his devices, not when the world is finally on its healing course.
Dribbling a droplet of blood into the funnel, he watches as the disc begins to spin, and two puffs of smoke escape a spiral-like pipe. He prods at them with a wand, and within seconds, they form two beasts, one a lion and the other a serpent, both battling their utmost in a hall littered with bodies.
"But," he says, twirling his wand, "What if the pawn rises to be a queen?"
The smoke image stills, then shifts, and he smiles as he contemplates the result. Neither can live if the other survives and now he is sure that the meaning will be to his benefit.
Taking a deep breath as he catches sight of the clock, he clears his desk with a flick of his wand and summons to his table a bottle of the finest oak-matured mead. It's an expensive vintage, but he sees no alternative to the situation. After all, Horace can always be counted on to let things slide when appropriately buttered up.
He wonders if the crystalized pineapple would have been overkill in this situation.
There's a knock on the door and he invites the man in. Pot-belly preceding his entrance, Horace walks with a clumsy gait and nearly bowls himself over at the sight of the mead already being poured into twin glasses. Albus fights the urge to chuckle at this – sometimes, the pieces make it all too easy to manipulate them into acting against the own self-interest.
"You requested a meeting, Headmaster?"
"Ah, yes, Horace." He beams, offering the man a glass, and then bends over to pick up a small pile of books. "I came across these books on potions whilst going through some of the old archives, and I think you'll appreciate them more that I."
And sure enough, Horace doesn't notice that a single book on Horcruxes has been included, as if by accident, in the pile.
.o0o.
"The Knights of Walpurgis? What sort of name is that?" he chuckles, staring at the heap of parchment set upon the table by Albus. It must be a joke, surely the boy isn't moving ahead with what he thinks is his own plans in such a blatant manner.
"I was mistaken, it seems," replies Albus. "The boy has all the subtlety of a dragon in heat."
"Then how exactly do you plan to remedy this situation?"
"With love, of course . . . even the darkest of hearts can grow to love, or at the very least, believe that they are in love. As in turns out, I have the perfect woman in mind for the job."
"But will she be able to see him for what he is?"
"Aah, Gellert, even after all these years, you underestimate the power that love holds. He will break her in body and soul, but in the end, she will rise from the ashes stronger than ever, and her love will be what drives her to be one of his greatest enemies."
He looks at his lover, amazement and awe both playing across his mind, and he realises how twisted they both have become. In their quest for a brighter future, he has ventured into places where demons dare not go, and in turn, Albus has gone where angels fear to tread.
When will the day come that the two of them will look at the sacrifice and whisper that it's not one they're willing to make? How far have they fallen that even the most sacred of powers, love, is to be their weapon?
"You are wrong, Albus. The only thing I have ever underestimated is your ability to twist even the human heart to your own purposes."
.
The girl is seventeen, but he can already see in her that she is the perfect match for the aspiring Dark Lord. She is wise beyond her years, brave, and of course, she knows first-hand the depths of her new suitors depravity.
Minerva frowns at him as he steps out of her fireplace but otherwise makes no comment as she continues with her reading. The night is dark, and growing darker still if he is to have his way, but she still lives in the bliss of wilful ignorance.
After all, how could she see how far her former love has fallen without first seeing how far she herself is willing to go to save him?
"You should have owled, Professor," she says, still not looking up from her book. For a brief second, he wonders if she is the wrong choice, but then he spies the steely glint in her eyes, and concealed behind it, the layers of hurt and confusion.
Love, and the things it can do to the soul . . .
"I fear that no owl could safely carry my message. Letters can be intercepted, and this is a matter of grave importance."
Now he has her attention, he notes with a wry hint of appreciation. She always does like to prove herself whenever the challenge looms. It's made it easy to twist her, edging her into the right corners at the right moments so she slips into his games without realising it. Quick-witted though she is, she cannot see the spider-web he's woven around her, she can't look back and see how far she's strayed from the path she's meant to walk.
But she will, oh, she will, but only when it's right for her to do so.
"Has something happened, Professor? Is . . . is it Riddle?" Her voice breaks, ever so slightly, but he latches onto it like a leech growing swollen on blood. After all, she has just revealed her hand, and with it, the chink in her armour.
"Indeed, it is, Minerva, indeed it is."
.o0o.
"Well, that turned out better than I expected," he notes, eyebrows disappearing into his brow as the news sinks into his mind.
"I told you, Gellert, a broken heart will drive a man to extinguish the sun if it is within his power. Minerva turning from him is the perfect final straw. Already, he's created another one of his little-broken souls."
"And she will remain blindly loyal to you until her death," concludes Gellert, shaking his head in mock exasperation. It amuses him how often Albus goes about trying to justify himself to him – why should he, Gellert muses, considering his own machinations have been far, far more macabre.
"That was my punch-line," complains Albus, his eyes twinkling. He's not wearing robes, for once, and looks rather comfortable in his jumper and slacks. It looks odd on the other man, but he has to conclude that it's a much better sight than the usual vibrant purple or garish maroon.
"I'll let you have the next one," he replies, grinning.
"You had better, or I shall stop supplying you with Sherbet Lemons and transfigure your bed into an iron-maiden."
He rolls his eyes at his lover's matter of fact response, before eagerly claiming his soft lips with his own. Tonight, their planning can wait. . . Now it is time to celebrate the coming together of a plan decades in the making.
Hours later, they both lie spend upon the bed, tangled in the sheets and each other's legs – he's still quite flexible, thank you very much – and he contents himself to the feeling of Albus' breath upon his chest.
It tickles, but he'll put up with it if he has too.
.
The next move is one of Gellert's choosing.
Albus feels a smile curving his lips at the thought of his soul-mate. After all these years, the two of them are no longer the young boys they once were, and yet, the fascination he has with the other man has not diminished in the slightest. They are two sides of the same coin, and when one looks into a mirror, the reflection is obscured by the shadow of the other.
Fingers curl across his wand, and he whispers the words to a spell. It's not one that's heard often, in fact, he surprises himself by having to case it – there are so much more subtle ways to do things than with force.
Often, though, his Gryffindor brashness overwhelms him, and he simply wants to let loose and go at something directly rather than weaving the web.
So, with a sigh, he turns away as the front of the Muggle street explodes, as if a bomb has gone off. Concrete flies in all directions and the entire street reverberates with the force of the spell. Looking over his shoulder, he can just make out Walburga Black, dumbstruck and staring out her window, as she takes in the street.
Of course, she sees a man walking away . . . but his glamours are strong, and all she can make out is the face of one who would do her family harm.
Later that week, Albus allows himself to gloat as Cornelius comes to him, seeking advice as to whether Orion and Walburga should be given allowance to put up more powerful protective enchantments around their home.
Masking a smirk, he informs Cornelius that yes, the Blacks should be allowed to protect themselves and their future children as they see fit. What Cornelius doesn't ask – and this is just why Albus continues to throw his support behind such a dim man – is wouldn't this isolation drive the already unhinged family into true madness? Or, would not the bending of the rules give them a sense of entitlement that would drive them straight into the Dark Lord's arms if just one of their future demands are not met?
Cornelius doesn't ask these questions, but, then again, that is exactly why he's still the Minister.
.o0o.
"It seems that the pieces are not yet in place for this generation," he mutters to himself, absentmindedly wringing his hands together beneath the table. Time is of small consequence to the both of them, to be perfectly honest, but that does not mean he cannot hear the ticking of the clock. Long-lived though he may be, he knows that neither of them will live forever.
The quest for immortality is a fool's errand, and he has spent too many years seeking knowledge to fall victim to its allure.
It makes him wonder, though, how many more sacrifices will they have to make so as to arrange the board into the perfect scenario that will ensure their desired outcome. In the end, he wants the pieces coloured white to win, but not before they taste the dark and absorb a facet of its inebriating traits.
After all, his lover and he are neither dark nor light but dedicated to the balance that lasts between. Though, at one stage, they both occupied spaces upon the board, only Albus remains as a king, whilst he himself has given himself as a sacrifice for their cause. Be that as it may, he is still a player, and he thinks to himself, when will it end?
Three generations now, and the inevitable checkmate is still nowhere in sight.
.
He fingers the diary, noting with a wry sense of scorn that it's been far too simple to deduce the first of the boy's treasures. As a Dark Lord, Tom has many things to learn . . . but that simply makes him all the easier to control.
It's made it all the easier to nudge the appropriate objects into his path, and to ensure that there is just enough of a challenge in acquiring them for Tom not to suspect anything is awry. Now, it is time to slip this artefact into the hands of another, and once more alter the hands of fate.
There is a knock on his office door. He straightens, expectant, and sets the diary upon the table, his face moulding itself into the most genial of expressions.
"Enter," he says. The door glides open and a teenager walks out, sixteen years old, and walking with the snooty air of nobility that is far from uncommon in his kind. Platinum-blond hair falls like a curtain down to his shoulders, and despite having just concluded an entire day of classes, his clothes look immaculate and freshly pressed.
"Professor Slughorn says that you wanted to see me, Professor?" Lucius says, calmly taking a seat. Albus stifles the urge to roll his eyes – like so many of the other Purebloods before him, it is his arrogance that will lead him to fall victim to the webs. It's getting rather boring, he has to admit, that none of these pieces will think of new, more interesting flaws for him to prey on.
Malfoy is a shrewd, young man, and he is proud, vain, and self-serving in equal measure. There is little risk of him handing the diary back to his master, and if a scant droplet of knowledge falls into his ears as to what the diary truly is . . . why would he not keep it for himself? Insurance, for one, given that he is a man who values his own skin above all others, and with the diary in his possession, he will literally hold a piece of his master's life in his hands.
By the time the meeting is over, Lucius has a smug expression on his face, and a new diary in his hands. He will not read it, no, he is far too vapid to allow himself to fall victim to it – but one day, Albus will trigger this particular play, and then it will all begin to come together.
Still, he can't help the feeling that overwhelms him as the door slips shut.
For how much longer will this game go on?
.o0o.
Of the laws of magic, those subtle nuances and concealed secrets, he has forgotten more than most experts will ever know. It is not his vanity which leads him to believe this . . . it is a simple truth of why, with a flick of his wand, he can manipulate events that take place oceans away.
He shivers, feeling Albus' thin fingers drawing elegant circles down his back as he works, slowly swirling his wand. His target, a plump boy asleep in the Gryffindor Common Room with crumbs on his face, stirs lightly in his sleep as the spell begins to take effect.
Steadily, even as Albus lets his nimble fingers dance across his waist, he sows the seeds of resentment, preying on the feelings of inadequacy to fill the target with animosity. It's simply part one of this particular operation, but the spell is an ancient one, and over the decades it's been made clear that he is the true master of emotions.
His breathing quickens as his lover's hands find a new, more risqué way to occupy their time, and he curses lightly as he's forced to concentrate harder on the spell. It's just like Albus to tease him at such crucial moments, knowing he will succeed but wanting to make the challenge as difficult as humanly possible.
Then, finally, he is done, and he leans back into his lover, ready to fully enjoy the carnal pleasures that are so readily being offered.
Elsewhere, the first seeds of treachery begin to take root in the mind of a boy named Peter Pettigrew.
.
It is now his turn.
The power of Gellert's compulsion can only do so much, and for their gambit to work, he needs to ensure that young Peter's loyalty be utterly eradicated. So, he begins, carefully eroding at the boy's confidence and integrity with genial words and tasks.
Of course, how often will the boy be content to act as his errand boy to fetch his far more talented friends? How many times will he offer his own services, only to be snubbed and sent off to retrieve his betters? How often will he stand upon the side-lines whilst his friends have everything they desire fall into their laps without a spare thought for him?
In the end, it doesn't take half as long as he assumes.
.o0o.
Once, long ago, they're just two boys with dreams of mastering Death, and it feels like a lifetime ago since those youthful days spent huddled together in a graveyard, plotting their respective rises to power. It's not as complicated as it is now, that much is true, and a new sensation is beginning to well up within him.
Gellert cannot quite put a finger on it for a long time, but today, for some reason, he can. He fears to lose that which he has gained, something that's never been part of their plans and yet is precious all the same. The love between Albus and him, that powerful, binding emotion, is the one thing he can't lose.
It's with a heavy heart he realises this, though, because, at the same time, he's played this game for far too long to quit now. They pull the strings of entire armies, two sides circling each other as they all prepare for the coming war.
He asks himself how far they are willing to go to achieve their utopia, how much they are willing to sacrifice for the Greater Good.
The answer is simple, but it is not one he thinks he can stomach much longer, especially now that the sacrifices are growing in both frequency and worth. It is no longer the abstract death of an unknown, or even forcing a child into years of abuse by Confounding the Sorting Hat into making him a Gryffindor rather than a Slytherin.
Now, they play with their own lives, and yet the answer remains the same as it has all those years ago.
As far, and as much, as it takes. . .
.
He schools his features into a mask of compassion and notes how easy it has become to sign the death warrants of those who depend on him. It isn't the same with these pieces as with those who came before, and he hardly feels the pang of their loss anymore. He's cut the strings so often to still the puppets once their part played, that it hardly resonates within him any longer.
It is all, after all, for the greater good. Perhaps, in another life, he can feel the burden, but in this one, he simply calculates what their lives will buy. Long ago, in the very beginning, he remembers feeling great anguish over a sacrifice, but he is no longer the young man in Godric's Hollow seeking glory and power.
Now, he is a Grey King, coaxing and nudging the pieces into their required positions by whatever means he chooses.
This time, Gellert has chosen wisely. A prophecy – few question them, and even fewer are able to fulfil them. But, with the right tools and motivation, it can be done. But for the prophecy to be believed in, the things within it must come to pass.
So, he up at young James and Lily, and with a look of regret, informs them of how obvious it is that Sirius is their Secret Keeper. He is cautious, of course, so that blame does not fall on him when the matter is settled, and subtly, he coaxes them towards the notion that Peter Pettigrew will be the most unlikely of choices. In fact, choosing him will be perfect for the Potters – why will their friend be targeted when compared to the likes of Remus Lupin and Sirius Black?
Perhaps, truth be told, it should have been arranged for Peter to hear the entire exchange . . . it would have been the straw that breaks the camel's back, and this entire ordeal may be over before too long.
Two months later, he hears the news, and he allows himself a minute to mourn the Potter's deaths before heading out to retrieve the child. Even now, he feels a shiver run down his spine, as somebody is walking across his grave.
Maybe he is simply being foolish, yet he begins to think that it is time he chooses a successor.
.o0o.
Pawns, knights, bishops, rooks, and even queens . . . no piece is too valuable to be sacrificed in service to the greater good. He has seen the rise and fall of countless kings, and yet now, he knows there will be no replacements. It is Albus and Tom, and there is a reason he cannot see past this impasse.
He cannot imagine, not for a second, a world without his lover. Sacrifices must be made . . . but this time, it may be too much. He will do all in his power, even going so far as to upending the entire board, to protect the man he loves. No endgame will be worth losing Albus – and it is this that puts their entire plan at risk.
For all their wisdom, they, the Grey Kings, have not taken into account the most powerful of emotions – love, and more importantly, the love they bear for each other. He should have fought harder, more valiantly, from the very beginning, to ensure that Albus never entered the game they played.
"Albus," he calls out into the still, dark night. "Who have we become beneath the growing stains of time?" The gambits and fallacies are all that remain to them, along with their love, but it's becoming all the more evident that they cannot have one without the other.
In the very end, they will lose each other, or they will lose the game.
He just isn't sure, in his heart of hearts, which matters more now that they've come so far.
.
"You said . . . you promised . . . you said that you would keep her – them – safe," Severus bellows, his voice anguished and breaking with every word. Albus looks away, somewhat moved by the infatuation this young man possesses, and once more masks his true feelings on the subject.
"Lily and James put their faith in the wrong person, Severus, much in the same way that you did. There is nothing I could have done to save them. Who could have thought that Sirius Black would betray his best friends?" He spreads out his arms, grasping at the pillars on either side of him, feigning weariness and sorrow, and fixes his gaze out the window.
"The boy survived," he adds, almost as an afterthought.
"He doesn't need protection. The Dark Lord is gone!" snaps Severus, wringing his hands together, looking as though life itself has lost its meaning and that he has lost his purpose. It is what makes him so malleable – his devotion to a dead woman is what will make him the perfect piece to facilitate the end.
"The Dark Lord will return, Severus, and when he does the boy will be in terrible danger . . . He has his mother's eyes, you know."
Severus, for a moment, looks as though he's been stabbed, and Albus gives him a few moments to let the truth sink in. Then, he turns to face the broken man, and says, "If you truly loved her, Severus, you will do this for her son."
"Nobody must ever know. . ."
.o0o.
"You always knit when you're pensive," he says, frowning at the mess of wool and needles in his lover's hands. He isn't sure what exactly it is, but it loosely resembles a lopsided hat. He wonders what's troubling his lover – it's probably the fact that the pieces seem to be acting more and more rebellious and time passes.
The instigator is that girl, he's sure of it, and a part of him cannot contain the delight of finding another kindred spirit. Another player – though for now, she is still too young and inexperienced to be much more than a pawn.
"For the first time in many years, I find myself unable to broach a subject," points out Albus, and his voice is so cool and clinical that Gellert feels himself freeze. This is his lover's strategic voice, the tone he uses to convey just another part of their game, but never has it been directed at him in this manner.
Already, he feels the nails begin to slam into his coffin.
"The pieces are in position, are they not?" he asks, trying and failing to keep his voice level, to try and mask his anxiety.
"Yes, they are. Now, we must simply wait for the right moment," answers Albus. "But, of course, I must first make a sacrifice."
"No mere pawn will be able to begin the final battle," counters Gellert. He knows dammit, he knows what Albus is getting at, but he can't simply let this move be made.
Somethings come at prices that even he is afraid to pay.
"That is why the King must be sacrificed, so a pawn rise up to take the crown."
The night that follows is passionate and wanton, but when the cold grey light of dawn filters in through the windows, he throws out an arm and realises that the other half of the bed is cold . . . as it will be forever more.
(He knows that this is the last time they will see each other now that the hourglass has begun to weep its little grains of sand)
.
All eyes are on him as he begins to activate the final gambits, effortlessly moving the pieces into play after having spent decades setting them into place. With the Dark Lord drawn back into the fold and no longer a threat in the shadows, with the pieces all around him watching, it is far too risky to return to Nurmengard.
He has to be careful – now that the end is in sight, he has to leave nothing to chance. He has to intervene directly . . . he has to step out of the shadows and ingrain himself into the role of the fearless, stalwart leader, even as he knows he will not live to see the checkmate.
It begins with simple measures. He tests the boy, bringing to the school the perfect bait and waiting, every so patiently, for the Dark Lord to come claim it. The Philosopher's Stone is a worthy prize, but of course, the odds are never in young Tom's favour.
The boy, Harry, thwarts him, or so he thinks . . . after all, what better way to give the boy the confidence and resolve needed than to hand him a victory on a silver platter.
.
He begins to write a manual to pass onto his successor, in the hopes that he or she will not make the same mistakes that they did. It's a laborious process, but one he feels is not in vain, for even once the plan has reached fruition, there must be someone ready to take up their reins.
In runes he writes this mission, concealing his secrets within a copy of a children's story book, and readies it for the day when it will pass into his successor's hands. She will ensure his legacy – he is certain of it.
They cannot leave the world to govern itself so soon after it finally attains a semblance of their utopian dream.
As he works, he is aware that the diary is in play once more, and he watches with a feeling of satisfaction as the boy destroys it, proving himself worthy once more. These little challenges are not such great obstacles that he himself cannot overcome with but the flick of a wand, but it is so much more important to him that he ensure Harry Potter is worth the sacrifice that will be made in the end.
For how often must a Grey King give his own life in exchange for a single, heroic white pawn?
.
The years pass and he remains upon his throne, watching, waiting for the right moment. The pieces move and slaughter one another, both sides battering the other, never noticing that his fingerprints cover their every movement. They do not hear his voice whispering in their ears.
Then, one morning, he travels to a tiny cottage. It's more a hovel than a house, and it's been abandoned for nearly half a century, but he walks in as if no time has passed at all. After all, it is for him that all doors will open.
He walks with a stoic grace, knowing exactly where to tread, till at last he slips his hand into the concealed crevice behind the crumbling walls. His fingers close upon a box, and as he slips it out, he can feel a chill voice whisper into his ear.
"And so you seek my treasures once more, my old friend."
"After all these years, Death, it is time for me to return to the very beginning of the end."
Death chuckles, a rattling, soul-searing sound, and Albus closes his eyes before letting his fingers caress the ring within the box. The curse is as ruthless and efficient as he remembers from the days spent devising it in the graveyard.
There is no going back now, and he can hear Death's chuckling grow louder as he flicks his wand, holding the contamination at bay. Now, all he has to do is wait . . . the hour will come soon.
.
He stands upon the lightning-struck tower, the entire world slowing around him. His entire body quakes – the potion is something he hasn't prepared for – and it's driven him to his most vulnerable state. Gone are the facades and lies . . . all he can think off now is her, the first sacrifice, and him, the last. Of course, it's a perfect balance in that way.
Just as Arianna's death is what began this entire sordid game, so too will his be the one that sees it done.
"I leave the rest to you, Gellert," he thinks, for he dares not speak the words aloud, and then, the green light fills his vision.
(In a distant tower, a man howls as if stabbed, and it is just another shard of proof that the killing curse can take more than one life at a time. Clutching at his aching heart, Gellert screams, even as the best part of him plummets like a broken ragdoll over the edge of a tower)
.o0o.
"I confess," says Death, stroking a skeletal finger across his jaw. "I did not think the two of you worthy of my time when first we began, insignificant little creatures that you were. But, I am not displeased to say that you have proved me wrong."
"We didn't do it to prove anything to you, old friend," replies Gellert, stretching as he accustoms himself to feeling young once more. His body and its aches and pains are long gone, and in his ghostly form, he finds that he is as spry and lithe as his teenage self.
"We simply did what needed to be done," adds Albus, not bothering to look back at the world they're set to leave behind.
"I must ask," confesses Death, holding out an arm to keep the portal closed. "Why?"
"For the Greater Good." They speak in unison, and Death nods, before inclining his head and holding open the doorway.
As one, two spirits link their spectral fingers and, meeting each other's eyes, cross the threshold.