Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Notes: I haven't read DH since it came out, so if I screwed something up (like Dumbledore and Grindelwald weren't seventeen at the time), then, uh, let me know so I can go cry.
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it is a heady age, seventeen. seventeen, teetering on the edge between childhood and adulthood. the two of you have the casual arrogance of children, seeing no consequences beyond the ends of your quills, but you feel the power surging through your blood, your body, the power of men (of gods, he whispers, teeth flashing in his quick grin. we could be gods).
you make your plans, you child-men-gods, you plot and you plan. for you, the world is a thing to be changed, to be bettered (conquered, he traces into your skin. i am conquered).
one day bleeds into the next, by the skritching of your quills, through the high sound of his golden laughter. your very days are tainted gold, golden sunlight, his gold hair spilling across your thighs as he grins his gold gold grin, oh, golden skin stretched out for you to explore (conquer, conquer, it is you who are conquered).
he smiles his smile of innocence, but you know he is no innocent, and for a moment you are disquieted. for a moment, you doubt, you hesitate, you wonder if, truly, you know what you are doing.
for a moment you think you could pull away, but it is no use—
(it's no use, he croons, i have you, i have you, albus)
—you fall, and it is glorious.
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