Author's Note: Timeline Shift. I thought I should make this clear. Because this is Muggle!AU, the timeline's a bit skewed. Since Grindelwald and Dumbledore died when they were 115, I've pushed their births up 30 years, so they would be born around 1911. Riddle and McGonagall were born around 1925. Sirius, James, and Lily were born around 1939 - 1940, so Harry was born in 1960. It's a bit wonky. I blame the Muggles.
1921
"Let's go." The old man held out a grimy hand, deep lines etched into the palm, puckered skin and dirt-caked nails facing the ground.
Gellert paused, turning back to the flames. His eyes lingered on the red-and-yellow tongues that lapped eagerly at the wooden frame. The screaming had finally stopped. He had imagined his parents would just sort of slip off in their sleep, succumbing to the smoke, but at some point his mother had woken up. Her shrieks, almost unworldly with the way death contorted them, drowned out the roaring of the fire, despite the distance.
"This is what you wanted, remember?" The voice was soft, like the whisper the flames had made when they got their first taste of wood. "I've set you free."
~(X)~
Gellert couldn't remember when exactly the man first showed up at the park. Yet, his presence was a given. Every day, on his way home, the old man bowed his head in greeting, but like everyone else, Gellert ignored him—at first, anyway.
Maybe he'd always been there and everybody had just failed to notice. Like the fear that lurked deep in Gellert's gut like a demon, twisting his insides. Like the blue and purple splotches that marred his skin. Like the creeping dread that told him he would die, sooner rather than later, and that it would mean nothing to the world. Less, even, than a quiet old man on a park bench feeding the birds.
~(X)~
The house rattled angrily, front door calling out a warning like a siren going off in the night. Before he was even fully awake, Gellert was out of bed and on his feet, scurrying over to the closet. Noiselessly, with slow, deliberate movements, he hoisted himself onto the top shelf, pulling as much junk in front of him as he could so he wouldn't be seen.
The shouting had already begun downstairs, but it was muffled just enough so he couldn't discern any words. It was little more than animated gibberish. He pressed his palms hard against his ears, but the noise still filtered through.
The stairs creaked and groaned as large, incensed feet thundered up them. An instant later, his door was nearly thrown off its hinges, and Gellert held his breath. Time to pretend he didn't exist. He'd had enough practice that he should already be a veritable expert on that subject. Though, some nights it worked better than others.
"Where the hell is your son?" His father's words were slurred and barely intelligible, but it wasn't the words Gellert feared. Even at their meanest, they were nice enough compared to what would happen if he was found.
"I-I d-don't know." His mother's voice was so frail, like a piece of glass on the verge of shattering into a million pieces.
"What the hell do ya mean ya don't know? Ain't it your job to know what your son's up to? Goddamnit, I go out and bust my back all day so ya can sit on your fat ass and do what exactly? The house looks like shit, dinner was disgusting, and ya don't even know where your fucking son is."
"I'm sorry. I—"
There was the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh, and his mother's voice dissolved into a soft, pitiful sob. Gellert inhaled sharply and bit his tongue. He remained true to his goal: he did not exist.
After an agonizing silence, his father said, "What the fuck do I care what he does? If we're lucky, he won't turn back up. One less mouth to feed."
The angry slurs and thumping receded back down the stairs, but Gellert remained where he was, immobile, melting into the darkness. How much time passed? Minutes? Hours? Gellert didn't dare move until a stillness settled over the house like a mother hen coming to nest. His father must have passed out.
With a bit of effort, Gellert climbed down from his hiding spot, working the ache out of his muscles as they protested the prolonged inactivity. Being cramped in a tight spot didn't help the situation any, either. Pretty soon, he would outgrow that hiding place, but Gellert was afraid to imagine what would happen then.
~(X)~
There was no telling exactly what possessed him to do it, but somehow, Gellert found himself in front of the park bench, staring into eyes as clear and bright as the sky that day.
"Why are you here?" It wasn't what Gellert had planned to say, but then again, he hadn't thought through the encounter at all. His feet had simply moved, and the rest of him followed.
"Because I rather like this park and this bench." The answer was simple and not unkind, accompanied by a mirthful twinkle in his eye.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?"
"I have other places I should be, sure." The old man tore several chunks of bread off what was left of his loaf and tossed them to the birds. "But nowhere else I want to be. And since my will is my own, I sit here, as I wish. I'm afforded at least that much freedom."
In all his life, Gellert had never been afforded a wish, let alone freedom. He wondered what it felt like. Like the wind through your hair on the banks of a whispering river? Like the warm breeze kissing your skin as you stretched out on the cool grass? Was it sweet like chocolate, with a taste that lingered on your tongue, tempting you to want more and more?
Gellert said nothing, and it spoke volumes.
"Would you care to sit?" the old man asked, scooting to the edge of the bench to make room.
Nobody had ever asked what he cared for, nor cared to do, so Gellert didn't know what the right answer was. Instead, he took it as an order, and sat. The bench was rough, weathered from use and time, but the splintered wood felt more a throne than anything. In that moment, he had chosen it, and that, he figured, must be the first step to freedom.
"I'm Gellert," he said, though the old man hadn't asked.
"I'm Percival." The man leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. "And also happy to share my bench, whenever you want."
There was that word again. Want. Something Gellert had never been permitted to do. But the more he thought about it, the more he enjoyed the way it felt.
~(X)~
Gellert raced through the monochrome fields, trying to outrun the rain. If he got soaked on his way home, he'd stay soggy for hours, and that wasn't an option. The last time that had happened, the water had leached into his bones, sapping his strength and leaving him weak, pale, and with pneumonia. It wasn't an experience he wanted to relive.
He pressed his treasure firmly against his chest, shielding it with his body. In the event that it did rain, he would have to slip it under his shirt and hope that afforded some amount of protection. It was far too valuable to risk getting wet.
Before long, the house loomed in the distance. He was going to make it! Gellert threw the front door open and slipped inside just as the sky began to shed fat raindrops over the countryside.
"Oh, you've made it before the rain." His mother was already cooking dinner, wearing her hair over her face to cover the angry, red mark on her cheek. "What have you got there?"
"It's a book, Mother! Look, an honest-to-goodness, real book!"
Gellert held it out for her to see. The binding was coming unraveled, and the pages were dog-eared and torn in places. But it was his, and he was proud of every old, dirty page of it.
"Where did you get a book from?" She held a trembling hand out, stopping with her fingertips just shy of the cover as if it would crumble to dust should she dare to touch it. He knew his mother had loved to read, before her marriage. Before her husband had decreed that women had no use for such things.
"A man at the park gave it to me. He's always there, sitting on a bench. Said it was so old and he'd read it so many times, he didn't want it no more."
"How many times do I have to tell you not to take things from strangers?"
"Yes, but, Mother, it's a book."
A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, and her stern facade cracked just a little.
"What the hell do you need a book for?" His father swaggered in, and even from across the room the stench of alcohol bowled over Gellert.
Whatever flicker of light had danced in his mother's eyes was extinguished. Gellert had been so preoccupied that he hadn't realized his father was already home. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
"You're almost old enough to get a job now, an' ya can leave all that learnin' an' nonsense behind you."
Gellert remained silent. He glanced at his mother, but she just looked away.
"Answer when I talk to ya, boy. What are ya gonna do with a book?"
"I-I thought I'd r-read it, s-sir." It was pathetic, the way his voice quivered, but he couldn't seem to steady it, regardless of how hard he tried.
"Read? You're so damn stupid, I doubt ya even know how. Give it here."
Before Gellert could react, the book was yanked from his grasp. He scrambled to reclaim it, but all he received for his efforts was a jolt of pain as he was knocked backwards. Tentatively, he raised his fingers to his cheek. The skin tingled, and it was already hot to the touch. He knew what his father was planning, and he couldn't let it happen. He steadied himself in preparation for a second attempt.
"No! That's mine!" He lurched for the book again and was sent sprawling this time. The brunt of the fall was absorbed by his spine, sending waves of pain tearing through his body.
"Look what it's done already. Made ya forget who's in charge. I'm putting an end to it."
By the time Gellert managed to push himself into a seated position, his father had already pitched the book—his book—into the fireplace. The tongues gobbled it up greedily, roaring as if they were laughing at him.
Something sparked inside his gut, scorching, burning: hatred. It flooded him with a warmth that boiled his blood and singed his soul.
In a flash, he was out the door and back out in the downpour. No one tried to stop him. Gellert was numb to the biting rain and the insidious cold. If he was lucky, this time pneumonia would take him and be done with it.
He wasn't sure where he would go, but after a while, he stumbled into the park. It was deserted; most people were probably home eating dinner with their families by now—if they had one, anyway. He found an abandoned bench and collapsed on it, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Time passed—minutes, hours, days, who knew how long—but the rain never stopped and he never moved. Eventually, the old man showed up, like always, groaning as he coaxed his body to sit.
"Your book—I'm sorry," Gellert whispered.
"Oh? Did it get wet?" His tone was unaffected; he seemed unconcerned by the tragic fate of the book he had gifted to the boy.
"No." A whirlwind of emotions surged inside him, and the more Gellert tried to capture the words, the more the fire burned in his gut. He clenched his hands, fighting against the anger and the cold that involuntarily made his body shiver. All he could manage to squeeze out was, "I hate him."
"Hate is an awfully strong word, son. You shouldn't use it lightly."
"I'm not. I hate him! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" His voice broke, and he clenched his jaw to bite off the rest, forcing the ache in his face upward, where it blossomed into a full-fledged headache. "I wish—I wish he were dead."
Percival looked sideways at him, as though he was summing him up in one glance. Gellert could see him out of the corner of his eye, but he kept his gaze trained at the ground.
"You really want that, don't you, son?"
"Yes." And he did. With every fiber of his being, he did. But he had to go back there—to that house, to those people. He had nowhere else to go. There was no way for him to ever truly be free.
~(X)~
Gellert realized, as soon as his back touched the wall, that he had made a grave mistake in letting himself be cornered. Such a foolish blunder, one he would pay for dearly. His father was close now, too close, and the fetor of alcohol on his breath made Gellert gag.
"I heard ya been dodging work, ya lousy, good-for-nothing son of a bitch!"
The first blow came, and, even though he was expecting it, his knees quivered and his eyes watered. The belt snapped a second time, laying open the skin on his leg in a long, angry line that immediately began to ooze blood.
Of course Gellert had shirked work; he had practically said as much when his father insisted on pulling him out of school to take a place in the factory. Not in so many words, of course—he wasn't stupid enough to egg his father on—but it had been implied. He had no intention of wasting his life slaving away for nothing like his father. He wanted to be somebody.
The sharp crack of the belt sounded again, but Gellert could barely hear it over the whoosh of his pulse in his ears as he clenched his jaw. I will not cry. I will not scream. The effort of bottling everything in made his whole body shake as the belt snapped again and again. A small sound slipped out, and he cursed himself for being so weak and giving his father the satisfaction.
Every inch of his body ached, but he couldn't tell if it was from the beating or from the effort it took to not give in to the mind-numbing pain or the blackness that threatened to pull him under.
Gellert looked over to his mother, whose face was blanched white, hand shaking as she held it over her mouth to stifle whatever words nipped at her lips. When she caught him looking, she averted her gaze, but he knew that they were thinking the same thing.
Why won't anyone save me?
~(X)~
"I could run away, y'know." Gellert kicked his legs off the park bench, one at a time, back and forth, left then right. He leaned forward in his seat to give them more momentum. It hurt, but he found comfort in that. At least he could still feel something at all.
"Wouldn't your parents be upset?" Percival's voice was soft, as always, and barren like the desert. It neither jumped nor plummeted but constantly walked the same, narrow line.
"No." Gellert scoffed, kicking harder. "My father wouldn't even care. He's too drunk and stupid to notice."
"And your mother?"
"Who knows?" There was a trace of guilt that knitted its way through his chest, but he quickly suppressed it. Whatever choices she had made were hers to live with. It wasn't his fault that her decisions led her down a long, destructive road.
"Tell me, is that really what you want, son? You truly want your parents out of the picture?"
Gellert hesitated, just for a moment, because his parents were all he had known, in all of his ten years. But what had they ever done for him except tear him down? If he stayed, he would live forever in the same festering hellhole that bred hatred and stupidity. Each day that passed would chisel away any and all hopes of a future he ever harbored. In order to survive, he would have to let them go.
"I'm sure."
"Where will you go?"
"Somewhere. Anywhere. It doesn't matter."
"I understand. You just want to be free, right?"
"Yes."
The man carefully pulled something out of his pocket, plastic crinkling with the effort. He extricated a single candy and held it out.
"Sherbet lemon?"
"Thank you." Gellert took it gingerly, like it was worth all the gold in the world. He could count on one hand the number of times he had been offered candy, and several had taken place in that very park with that same man. The treat was truly something to be savored, and he afforded it all the reverence it deserved, rolling it slowly around his tongue.
"Not everyone wants what they say. Freedom isn't always what it's made out to be. I freed a girl once from the boys that tormented her—three of them—but I could not free her from the demons that plagued her. Not everyone can handle freedom."
"I can handle it. I want—No, I need to be free."
~(X)~
Gellert slipped his hand into the older man's, an eerie sense of tranquility overtaking him as strong fingers gripped it tight. He walked away from the smoldering ashes that remained of his life, vowing to never look back. He had become a phoenix.
