Round 4, HoH Ravenclaw, Standard, Prompt: [Time Period] Dumbledore's school Era, WC: 1010 (as of Google Docs)
Where Grindelwald meets Dumbledore just before his seventh year. And Grindelwald is slightly bonkers. Thus, slightly AU.
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Like drums in my head. The pounding of my heart. Blood churning in my veins. It is incessant and unquenchable. It does not stop. It is a constant in this dark and fiery world. I know this refrain so well. I would not change this.
The greater good. The greater good. The greater good.
There is no other suitable cause, and no other course for my life. It's only a shame that Durmstrang did not see such potential as I see before me - this glorious, expansive future, where muggles kneel and magic rules every domain. Alas, with the door closed on my Alpine home, I am only more open to new opportunities. As such, yesterday I received a letter from my aunt Bathilda that she would welcome me into her home over the summer. Of course, she detailed that I should be on best behaviour and not endanger the lives of others.
I think we disagree on a fundamental level. The inferior cannot be endangered more than they endanger themselves. They need to be liberated beyond mortal constraints. I would only be helping them by eradicating their existence - as I had been doing in Durmstrang.
The greater good. The greater good. The greater good.
Durmstrang only held me back. They were blind to the cause and blind to the greatness that was embedded in my ideas. When I changed the form of that girl - Amelia, I think - and unleashed the evil from within her, I killed it. Her blood was spilled out onto the cragstone flooring, dark and thick. And then she was free of her mortal self; her spirit was gone from her cold meat. Her corpse wandered off into the night, a slave to the shadows.
It's not that I believe them scum. It is the unfortunate status of her blood. When mingled with magic, muggle blood is toxic. Quite literally the blood boils. She was a ticking time bomb. She was a curse upon every single one of us - all of them are. Her death was a part of the cause and it was only the beginning.
My aunt greets me at her door in Godric's Hollow. I don't know that she is glad to see me, but I am happy (somewhat) that she has the familial pleasantness to invite me in. Her mistake, not mine. She's wearing a thick overcoat, even inside the hovel, and her hair draws back her face. I knew that she was old, but now she looks ancient. Papery skin, sunken eyes, and a sigh in each exhausted breath. She is almost corpse-like. I could easily overpower her if needed, even if she possesses some miraculous magic within her. She is weak and I am very strong.
I hope she senses this.
The greater good. The greater good. The greater good.
"Gellert," she says. "Come, come. Your room is this way."
Dank. Dark. Dreary. Three d-words to describe my new abode. One might have expected home to feel more alive. The mould-lined walls and damp-stained ceiling are both enough to convince me of the opposite. She clearly does not have a House Elf - or, if she does, it is slack and useless. This is what happens to those who sympathise with lesser beings. The lesser beings get lazy and stop playing their part in this world of supreme hierarchy. Their disobedience and your kindness mixes and forms a bond of disrespect; it reduces the power you have over those who should be weaker. Kindness makes you weak.
It lets them grow stronger. Strength that must be quashed.
The greater good. The greater good. The greater good.
Suffice to say I sleep poorly. Dust enters my lungs and I am certain that bugs creep between the cotton strands of my worn sheets. The only time I do sleep is filled with purple dreams of dark red corridors and the triangular shape of the Hallows. They haunt me like any desire haunts an ambitious man: in every moment of my life
The Hallows will help me gain the power I deserve.
Dawn breaks over the graveyard early in the day. I see it from my cracked window. It lights up dew-dropped stones and the sad remains of flowers that have been left there. Seems odd to me to mourn the dead. Mourning is so trivial and performative. It is selfish. The dead cannot reciprocate the love expelled by families. They cannot even accept it.
Next to the graveyard is a young man, perhaps nearing the same age as me. His lips are moving quickly, and his eyes are focused on a point ahead of him. Wandless magic. I can feel it, like a buzzing vibration on the tip of my tongue. He's a wizard. Well-dressed, tall, mid-brown hair. Could be considered attractive.
The greater good. The greater good. The greater good.
"There's a wizard who lives near here. Who is he?" I ask Bathilda at breakfast. She passes me a plate of eggs as I continue. "He was doing magic just outside the graveyard gate this morning."
"Albus, I think," she replies. "He takes a morning stroll - from his house to the graves - every day. I'm not sure why." Bathilda pauses. "He's also very intelligent. You might want to meet him. I'm sure you'd get along well. He's going into his final year at Hogwarts."
Perhaps she thinks that his good nature will bring me around to the other side of things and her more delicate point of view. If I was willing to share my plans, I might explain that the opposite will certainly happen. If he is indeed intelligent, he will see my side of things and realise the true beauty of power. Two heads is better than one. He can help me find the Hallows. Together, we will master death and bring the muggles to their knees.
The greater good. The greater good. The greater good.
Three sharp raps on the front door break up our breakfast repartee.
Whoever this Albus is, I will convince him. He will love me, respect me, and follow me in ruling them all.
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Thanks for reading!