Author's Note: We're in isolation, I really have no excuse for not writing. A tragic realization that maybe I'm the problem, and not my schedule? I refuse to work on my faults.
Every once in awhile, I get a review on my older stories that I have updated in awhile, and each time it overwhelms me to see how much people enjoy my nonsense. So a not-nearly-enough thank you to everyone who continues to support this and keep my inspired.
Chapter Thirty-Two: We Will Live Forever (Part Four)
The Sun begins to rise and wash away the sky
The turning of the tide, don't leave it all behind
And I will never say good-bye
-Breaking Benjamin, "Angels Fall"
Hunger.
That was the word that came to mind as Grindelwald leveled his bloodied glare to Dumbledore, one eye hanging limp from a rope of soft, pink tissue, the other narrowed. The pupil was unnaturally dilated, the adrenaline and magic that no doubt coursed through his veins like a heady narcotic, the blue of his iris mere slivers around the black hole.
His lips were twisted in a cruel, feral snarl, revealing teeth that were tinted red from blood, the viscous fluid smeared across his face and neck, staining his collar. Teeth that wanted nothing more than to sink into flesh, sharpened crowns tearing that flesh from bone and chewing it. Consuming it. Digesting it.
It was a startling sight, one that made something without a name clench painfully in Dumbledore's chest. The man before him looked crazed, an afterimage of the man he had known, once. His skin had a sallow pallor to it, making the deep crimson of blood even more startling against a canvas of white. There was a manic tilt to his voice, a desperation that curled in his words as he shouted between the small yet vital distance between the two wizards, "I suppose this was always how it was meant to be, wasn't it, Albus?"
He chuckled then, the sound blossoming, unfurling until it became a pitched, labored laugh punctuated with sharp inhalations.
It nearly blocked out the sound of snow crunching and cracking, harried shouts that came from somewhere behind Dumbledore. He did not look back, knowing as the sounds became fainter that Hermione and Dolohov were fleeing to the castle.
Grindelwald let his gaze falter for only a second as his laughter settled into an eerie silence, flicking his one eye to glance behind him. "He knows too, of course. The other boy." He said the words casually, as if he weren't standing in worn and disheveled cloaks that were blackened and soaked heavy with his own blood. Body parts torn and hanging like loose wires that pulsed with electricity that went nowhere.
"She'll handle it. She's extraordinary- you knew that already though, didn't you?" he answered, tilting his head as he raised his wand and tapped the tip against the rim of his glasses.
Grindelwald's lip twitched at the remark, teeth rolling across his bottom lip in thought. Anger. Betrayal. "How could you allow this? Have you seen what he does? How many people he kills- just because they get in his way? Innocents, children- Babies!" His voice rose in volume with each word, the desperation once more settling into the vowels, making them sharp and poised. Fingers curled around his wand- the Elder Wand, Dumbledore noted in muted appreciation, the unnamed feeling once more twinging from where he had shoved it away.
"You said you were better than this- that you were better than me! And now here you stand, protecting her as she helps him!" He was properly shouting now, spit and blood flinging from his lips as his anger rounded, reached its crux. "You called me a monster and yet you allow him to live knowing exactly what he does! All that blood- it's on your hands, Albus. You can't wash it clean this time!"
Dumbledore frowned at the accusation, his jaw clenching. There was nothing to say in his defense, was there? He was a hypocrite. He was allowing a war criminal to go unheeded. He was responsible for the list of deaths that would come in the future- near and distant. The deaths he deemed too essential to avoid.
He all but murdered them himself; dug the graves and carved the epitaph. His hands reeked of the pungent aroma of blood and graveyard dirt.
He nodded, grimly. "I know," was all he said.
Grindelwald roared, raising his wand in a fluid outward motion, like a conductor instructing the music to swell and boom. A riotous orchestra of sound that would shake the ground and swallow one whole.
A golden light illuminated the clearing, an orb of refracting panels that glinted as Dumbledore's gaze shifted to glance at them. It formed a dome and encased the two, shining brilliantly for one moment before trembling, blinking in and out of existence.
They shattered with a piercing cry, each panel splintering, the shards turning inward on their descent and aiming directly at Dumbledore.
He shouted as he rose his own wand in defense, throwing a quick shield above his head. It gleamed red and pulsed when the shards fell to it, evaporating the smaller, fist-sized pieces into a fine, golden mist. But the larger pieces were not so undeterred, and they sliced through the shield, sharpened edges dragging against frostbitten skin.
He hissed in pain, deep cuts appearing in red ribbons down his face, chest and back. The blood was hot against his flesh, his warming charm wavering under the duress. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain as he flourished his wand once more in retaliation. Light jettisoned forward, like a crack of lightning, static and charged with energy, unstable. It made a harsh noise as it crashed against Grindelwald's summoned shield, nails dragging down a chalkboard, metal scraping against metals. Sparks erupted as it continued the assault on the shield, unyielding.
With a grunt, Dumbledore broke the spell, swooping his wand forward. Another spell, another shield, the smell of singed and burning magic filling the air like a cloud of poison.
Grindelwald chuckled when the spell fizzled into nothing, shield unwavering, a smooth blur before him. "Impressive, isn't it? Everything we dreamt it was," he said, holding the Elder wand up to his one eye, admiration shining in it.
No, not admiration.
Obsession.
Manic and erratic.
Had it always been that way? Adoration and love twisting with possessiveness, turning something beautiful into something cold and cruel, a mockery of affection? Or had something turned within him, a cancer burrowing into the folds of his brain, poisoning him so that the wires became crossed? The man seemed unrecognizable from the boy he once knew- the boy he once loved.
But perhaps Dumbledore was the one who was different, his perception shifting with reality, moving further away from the fantasy of defeating death after having been so devastated by it. Responsible for it. Each memory seemed changed in that moment, memories that had been sweet if not sorrowful now misshapen and ugly; fond and furtive glances between lovers made awkward in youth became painful, etched not out of love but out of a desire to capture, to claim. To own.
Grindelwald lowered his gaze from his wand, letting it slide to Dumbledore, unchanging in the covetous need.
Once more, he thought of the word hunger.
"She knows what will happen. She has a tablet of how to do this, how to win, locked inside her brain. Everything we ever wanted, and she just doesn't appreciate it. This entire scope of knowledge she has cast aside- leaving it for us to snatch, the way we were meant to," he crooned, watching with muted interest as Dumbledore's throat clenched, swallowing words that he would not allow himself to speak.
Instead, he settled for the words he needed to say. "And that knowledge will stay with her." It was a promise, though to who he wasn't certain. He raised his wand before his thoughts could linger, cast doubt in his already blurred and fragmented mind.
Grindelwald mirrored the action, a lazy flick of his wrist, the Elder wand balanced almost carelessly in his grasp, as if he had become dulled by the novelty of it. Unappreciative of the power and the promise it held.
Separate streams of magic exploded into the clearing, clashing together in a crescendo of sparks, magenta and gold. Heat permeated the air, the suddenness of it jarring, painful. It centered on Dumbledore's hand, the handle of his wand trembling, warming in increments so that within seconds it was near unbearable to touch, palm aching and burning. He tried to maintain his spell, urged his magic forward in the hope that he might overtake Grindelwald's own curse.
But the skin of his palm bubbled, forming painful welts and tore with the tight grasp on his wand. With a grunt, he relented, breaking his spell and dropping to the ground. The golden stream of light whizzed above him, air singing as it struck a tree behind him. It crackled, the air acrid and pungent- the familiar smell of fire clouding around him, invading his senses. He pulled himself from the ground, shaking his arm out and wincing at the pain that still warmed his palm.
Grindelwald tutted, the sound soft, mocking, as the tip of his mouth curved into a crooked, wistful grin. "I'm afraid, Albus, that you're just not strong enough to contend with something so magnificent. Forgive me for not being more indulgent, but I'm getting rather tired of this game. Aren't you?" he said, words imploring, belying their intent. Their meaning turned hazy, and Dumbledore furrowed his brow, uncertain of which game he was tired of.
He ignored him, regardless, sending another spell in his direction. Grindelwald sighed, a drawn exasperation before countering the spell. Once more, the two bolts of brilliant, blinding light met, clashing in a chaotic and sparking knot that hung parallel to the ground. But this time, Grindelwald did not deign to taunt Dumbledore, no longer wishing to draw out the boy he once knew in a game that had not been realized. And he urged forward, leaning into the spell with the Elder wand so that the knot moved along the conjured rope of magic between them, traveling the divide and quickly overpowering Dumbledore.
His wand trembled, cracked and splintered in his hand as he fought against the power of Death itself, grimaced when tremors of electricity flared up and down his arm. His blood was ignited, his veins turning into live wires that provided the catalyst. He howled in pain, moments before he was thrown back by the propulsion of Grindelwald's counter curse.
He felt the shove in his chest, as if a large hand had punched him and knocked the breath from his lungs, ribs collapsing. He felt it all the way to his back, spine folding and shuddering from pain, only to fold once more as he knocked against the trunk of tree, head snapping backwards. His stomach jolted with the sudden motion, tossed around like he was weightless, a nothing compared to the behemoth that was Grindelwald's magic. His insides twisted, and something thick and acidic burned in his throat, only for him to swallow it back down with a disgusted grimace.
Dumbledore blinked, the branches overheard blurred and fragmented, as if he were looking through a kaleidoscope. His vision swam, color bleeding and seeping from him- one moment he was overwhelmed by red and golden lights only for them to disappear, his eyesight turning to a grim gray scale, the world bleak and unsaturated.
Snow crunched around him, echoing in a muffled sort of way- far in the distance yet all encompassing, pitched above the loud ringing that pervaded his senses.
"That was just an impediment jinx," came Grindelwald's disembodied voice, and Dumbledore let his head roll, trying to catch sight of the man. "A simple charm, taught to first years, becomes deadly with this wand. Imagine what it can do with real spells." It was a threat, a promise that made Dumbledore's bones tingle with the lingering ache.
He felt battered and broken from one spell- a basic, juvenile jinx!
"The past hour, that's just been a warm up, Albus. I've been toying with those children because it was fun." Something nudged against his chin, the tip of a wand settling at the base of his throat and tilting his chin upward, eyes finally settling on Grindelwald's face. "You've seen nothing of what I'm capable of, you've no idea what I can do. How I can make you hurt, the ways I can break you." He was leaning close to him, invading his space so that Dumbledore could smell nothing but the sharp metallic scent of the blood that coated his face, could feel the warmth of his breath as it punctuated each word. "I don't want to have to hurt you, Albus. I'm perfectly content with taking that girl-" he paused, angling his head as if to gesture towards where Hermione had last been, "and everything she has to offer, and leaving you to lick your wounds. You can return to your classroom, while I can return to everything you could have had but turned your back on. We can coexist in this manner, I think."
He reached out with his other hand, the one not holding the wand like a knife to his throat, and cupped Dumbledore's face. The action was jarring in it's tenderness, fingertips which brushed gently along the curve of his cheek, a thumb smoothing circles across his skin, dragged lower until he was tracing the lines of his mouth. Instinctively, Dumbledore leaned into the touch, chasing the warmth and the softness like it was a soothing balm to broken skin.
A chuckle broke the silence. "There we go now, Albus. Just rest."
Grindelwald pulled away, taking the warmth with him as robes brushed across the snow, ice crisping beneath his steps. They were moving further away, into the distance as Dumbledore coughed, the motion rattling his bruised ribs and sending a sharp ache radiating up and down his spine. It only made him cough more, deeper, something wet and hot and metallic pooling in his mouth.
He winced, spitting the blood from his lips as he looked to where Grindelwald was standing, moving down the path that Hermione had disappeared down. He was going to take her, disappear with her and everything she had to offer. All her secrets, all her knowledge of a world that did not yet exist. A world that he could influence, turn into his own after he trampled through her mind and took everything that existed within.
He couldn't let that happen- they couldn't lose, not to him. Not to Tom.
Biting his lip to hold back a groan that threatened to break free, he rose from his place at the base of a tree and held his wand forward.
"Expelliarmus!" he shouted, his voice strung out and worn, gargled from the blood that stained his teeth red. Red light exploded in the clearing, brilliant if only for the few seconds it pulsed before Grindelwald whipped around, countering the charm.
"You can't just lie back, can you? You can't just make this easy?"
Dumbledore shook his head, trying hard to not breathe so deeply as to disturb his broken ribs as he shouted back, "No, Gellert. We're going to finish this. Once and for all."
Grindelwald growled, a cruel, taunting grin carving into his face. "Very well." He rose his wand then, but no burst of light and magic came, no crackling spells and hissed enchantments.
Instead, darkness erupted from his wand, enveloping them, consuming the light and spitting back shadows. The snow disappeared, taking the trees and daylight with it. Dumbledore could see nothing, not the hands that he shoved before him or the slope and angles of shadows that might help orient himself in the vast nothingness. There were none, and he stumbled, of kilter, snow that he could not see crunching beneath his feet. That was a comfort at least, knowing it was still there even if his vision was stripped from him. Grindelwald could take the light but not the world itself, it would still be there, solid and sturdy beneath his uncertain feet.
"Stop playing around, Gellert and face me like the man you pretend to be!" Dumbledore shouted, voice firmer and stronger than he felt, untethered and disjointed. For a moment, the world was silent, nothingness collapsing onto more nothingness, the only noise that came to answer him the sound of his own frozen breath. And then a weight knocked against him, tossing him to the black ground. He rolled to his back, pain shooting up and down his spine, vibrating and thrumming along his ribs. He blinked up at Grindelwald who now loomed over him, so close that he could see each individual hair of his mustache, the pinched pores creating constellations across his cheeks.
He was straddling him, thighs trapping his hips as a hand shoved against his neck, palm pushing down on his throat. Dumbledore gasped, the breath strangled, lungs burning.
"The man I pretend to be? You know an awful lot about that, don't you? Pretending has always been your greatest strength, hasn't it?" Grindelwald taunted, still pressing down on Dumbledore's throat as the other hand rose, fingers delicately twirling the elder wand in his grasp. He lowered it, tracing the outlines of Dumbledore's face with the tip. "You've worn so many masks- it's impossible to know which one is the real one. Do you know, Albus? Can you look in the mirror and recognize yourself? Or has your pretending buried into your brain? Infecting your reality?"
"Gell...ert," Dumbledore managed to say the words- fragmented and choking though they were. He reached a hand out, readying to shove Grindelwald off of him only for the man to disappear, turning into the blackness. The weight lifted from him, an impression that never was, nothing but the ghost of fingers lingered over the bruised skin of his neck.
He pushed himself from the ground, wand held outward as he twisted on his heel in the black void that had become his world. "Are you mad that I've changed? Or that you haven't? That you're still lost in some boyhood fantasy?" he hissed into the shadows, flicking his wand as he silently cast a lumos. Light, white and brilliant, blossomed before him, but fell on nothing. Like a flashlight shone into space, the spell offered nothing more than a flickering halo. He pursed his lips, eyes flitting around as if he might be able to find the seam tying the illusion together, a loose stitch he could pull until it fell apart.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Dumbledore said, his tone flat and sardonic. "You've always hidden behind your magic, why would that change now?"
The taunting was met with silence.
If this was how Grindelwald wanted it, than so be it.
With startling agility, Dumbledore twirled in his spot, masterfully flourishing his wand as he cast spell after spell, rapid fire into the blackness. They whirled around him, sparks of magenta and gold and navy shooting outwards, fizzing out or sizzling against the veiled trunk of a tree. He could not see what he struck- if anything- but he simply hoped one might land against Grindelwald, incapacitate him enough to end the illusion.
He came to a sudden halt, however, when something stood before him in the darkness. Or rather, someone.
A boy, young though hardened, dirt and blood marring his face, was suspended in the darkness, hair so dark it bled into the shadows. Wide, green eyes were hidden behind circular glasses, and after a moment, he recognized him. Like the recollection of a long forgotten dream, a memory from a time so long ago it strained to be summoned. Except this was a memory of something that did not happen yet, someone who had not been born.
It was Harry Potter, the boy he had seen in Hermione's memories. The very boy that would rise to dethrone Tom, should Hermione succeed. The one that was the catalyst for all of this, the entire reason for her existence in this world.
It was an illusion, but a very solid one, so defined and dimensional that Dumbledore was sure if he reached out to touch he could feel the soft give of his sweater.
"This is him, isn't it? The supposed savior of the Wizarding World," came Grindelwald's voice, distant yet consuming, like the reverberating echo of a radio, tinny and cut with an interrupting feed. "She showed me him, showed me that you couldn't save him either."
And then the boy fell to his knees, crumpling into a pile that was quickly becoming saturated with blood, long cuts digging into his skin. He was being drained of his blood, like a carcass at slaughter, skin turning pale and sunken.
"Run!" the boy called, his voice a low, disembodied thrum before he shattered, like a porcelain doll. Bits and fragments littered the still darkened ground before disappearing, melting into the darkness that persisted.
"You tried so hard to be a hero, but you were never meant to be one. Harry was only one of many children you failed, whose blood will be on your hands."
The ground thundered, and Dumbledore jumped back with a shout as a dragon surfaced through the ground, so close he could see the scales laid upon its massive body, shimmering in a light that did not exist. He fell back, palms stretching to catch him before he tumbled to his back, cold and damp and unforgiving. He ignored it, however, head craning back to watch as the creature flew above him, talons the size of his leg curling threateningly in the air. Its tail whipped, propelling its flight as massive wings flapped and pulled it upward, carrying with it three figures astride its back.
"You turned children into soldiers! Sent them into certain death!"
The dragon pushed through a ceiling, raining down shards of glass that fell like rain, the only remembrance of the dragon and its riders that had now disappeared, swallowed whole.
"Some hero, some leader. Did you think you could truly change? Truly be better?"
The ground shook, grumbling with an unseen force. And Dumbledore braced himself, preparing for another illusion, knowing exactly the sort of horrors that existed in Hermione's mind. The sort of things Grindelwald could pull forward, make real before him like a cruel joke.
But it wasn't another illusion, it was an explosion, and he screamed loudly as pain ripped through him, tossed his body several meters in the air as though he were weightless. A nothingness within the nothingness. Light bloomed and blossomed and erupted before his lids, skewed tight in agony. Heat flared on his skin, flesh ripping and pulling. And his head throbbed, an uneven, unsteady staccato. His skull felt ready to burst, leak blood and brain matter from the cracks of the bone. Something rang, loud and overwhelmingly, like a bell. A siren, cutting through his thoughts, calling for help that would not come.
He gasped, sputtered blood and spit as he scrunched his eyes tighter, as though doing so would settle the ache. Fireworks played against the canvas of his eyelids, bright and blinding.
He settled a hand on the ground only to pull it away, skin raw and red and aching with burns, a deep gash running from his index finger to to the opposite side of his wrist. Muscle and bone exposed.
He opened his eyes, wincing as the sun glared off the snow. But the darkness was gone, the shadows vanquished by the light and he said a silent prayer. He could see now, the shadows chased away. It was a small triumph.
Snow crunched around him, a symphony to Grindelwald's approach. It came to a stop to Dumbledore's left, and he coughed, twisting his head to follow the sound, looking up at Grindelwald as he once more stood over him.
The man was frowning, a look of sorrow painted over his grotesque and bloodied face. "You should have known you can't pretend to be something you're not. And you're not a hero. You're a killer," he said the words, solemn and sober. Pitying almost, as though he were truly pained to say such things.
And then Grindelwald stepped over him, holding his wand before him as he shouted out a charm. "Vocat corpus!" A golden rope stretched from the tip of his wand, pulling taut in the direction Hermione had left, only to pull back seconds later, dragging the girl with it.
"Hermione," Dumbledore choked, feebly pulling himself up, ignoring the flares of pain.
She didn't respond, her body limp and unresponsive as she came to a stop at Grindelwald's feet. She was covered in blood, her cloak and hair damp and darkened by it, skin pale and lips the color of wine. His chest clenched, though not from the pain of broken ribs or punctured lungs. Something lodged in his throat, and he tried to swallow around it, finding his breaths suddenly too shallow, too unfulfilling. "Hermione," he called again, weaker this time. A whimper.
"Don't worry," Grindelwald said, reaching down with one hand to pull Hermione up to a sitting position as he knelt behind her, glancing at Dumbledore. "You're not responsible for her death. Yet." He wound an arm around her throat as he snaked the other across her shoulder, resting the tip of his wand to the underside of her chin as though it were a knife. "Ennervate."
She awakened, all at once, color returning to her cheeks and eyes snapping opened as she inhaled sharply, a fish gasping for air. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession, panic overcoming her as she tried to pull away from Grindelwald's grasp, only to find herself trapped, held down by her battered body and the arm held tightly over her throat.
She reached a hand out, fingers curling uselessly over Grindelwald's arm as she tried to pull him off, eyes meeting Dumbledore's in a silent plea.
"Let her go," Dumbledore rasped out, coming to a slow, unsteady rise to his feet. He stumbled forward, the weight too much for his legs. He didn't need to glance down to know they were broken, mangled from the explosion.
"How frightening," Grindelwald cooed, letting his head rest against the side of Hermione's. "You could join me, you know. There's still a chance. I can forgive and forget this, and you can come with me. We could have everything we ever wanted, everything we dreamed of. She could lead us to it all."
Dumbledore's eyes met Hermione's, opened wide now. She glanced to where Grindelwald's face loomed beside her before looking back to Dumbledore, eyes narrowed. Distrusting. Uncertain.
"What...what does he mean?" Hermione asked, voice trembling over the words. There was a slant to them, a plea for understanding. For Dumbledore to say that Grindelwald was mad, that his claims were nonsense.
He said nothing, swallowing hard over all the things he could not say.
"Of course he didn't tell you," Grindelwald continued, not looking away from Dumbledore. "Never told you the man he was before he tried to be the good guy. The man he was sending you to, expecting to protect you. Probably too embarrassed that I did what he never could. I did what we dreamed of when we were children, while he became a school teacher," he spat the words with venom, a malice to them that made Dumbledore recoil. Bitterness to have been abandoned, bitterness to have been made the monster.
Uncertainty was turning to fear now, panic warming Hermione's eyes. "That's not true, you're lying. He...he would never be like you," she said, once more turning to Dumbledore for confirmation.
His eyes stung, the high-pitched ring still bouncing around his skull, making his thoughts incoherent, dizzying. "I'm sorry, Hermione."
There was a moment between the words and her reaction, several seconds before her mouth wretched open in horror, her breaths becoming ragged, pitched hiccups. Realization striking her like a physical attack, the realization that she had no idea who he was, truly. Realization that she had trusted him implicitly, thrown away her entire life on his word, his suggestion.
"No, no, no, stop," she half begged, half whimpered, twisting around in Grindelwald's hold. Tears fell down the curve of her cheek, streaks cutting through the blood and the grime.
Grindelwald was nonplussed by her desperate and weak attempts to free herself, holding her firmly as he added, "Think of how easy it was. How happy we were. We could have that, all while making the world a better place- a place where witches and wizards are free to exist as we please, instead of hiding in the underground for fear of prosecution! Where our children can grow and live without hiding who they are, without shame for being different. And even muggles will benefit- remember how we planned to help them? We could heal them in ways they could never imagine, they would live better, healthier lives too!" His words were impassioned, emphasized by the spit that flung from his lips, his conviction punctuating it. "Tell me you didn't forget?"
Dumbledore blinked, considered his words. Considered Hermione as she flailed about now, wretched sobs making her convulse. She had made a mistake coming here, she realized. She had made a mistake in trusting him.
"Of course I remember," he said, softly. How could he not? How could he forget Grindelwald and the moment his life caved around him? It had been easier than, because he was a child. An angry child, filled with rage and a desire to blame the world for all his misgivings. A child who hated all the wrong people and paid for that hate, dearly. He had been happy because Grindelwald had mirrored that hatred, commiserated in it, stoked the flames of the fire that burned within him.
But the fire grew out of control, burned him. Scorched his lungs and nose until the smell of smoke was all that remained. All that would ever remain.
There were days he missed the easiness. The lack of guilt, the hatred and blamed that he turned outward instead of inward. A part of him yearned to return to it, return to the childhood that had been ripped from him.
But how could he? How could he when it had all soured?
As if reading his mind- and perhaps he was, Dumbledore was always helpless to keep the other boy out- Grindelwald added, "She knows where it is. The resurrection stone."
"What?" Dumbledore hissed, stepping forward even as his body groaned in protest against it. "Why didn't you tell me?" The words, twisted and sharp and so unfamiliar, were directed at Hermione, and she jumped, pressed her back against Grindelwald as though she could pull away from Dumbledore.
"I-I didn't...I didn't...know...please, don't do this," she said, her one leg shoving against the ground, trying to find purchase. An escape she could not manage, not when she was held hostage by two of the most powerful wizards to live. A sob bubbled out of her lips.
"She could lead us to it! And then it would be like nothing ever happened, like nothing ever changed between us. Imagine it, Albus," Grindelwald said, his words barely above a whisper. Pulling his wand out from under her chin, he flicked it through the air.
The snow was swept up before him, snowflakes shining as they twirled upward, linking themselves together as they settled into an undefined shape. Building upon each other, a small whirlwind that rose and fell to reveal another illusion. A kinder illusion.
It was Ariana, looking smaller than he remembered. Not that he had grown any since her death, but that she had shrunk in his mind- the memory and thought of her collapsing into itself and becoming more diminutive. The smaller she became, the easier it was to set her aside- the pain and the grief and the guilt that burned like a gin that would not settle or ease.
But now she stood before him, whole and corporeal and more solid than he felt in that moment. Her hair- the color of wheat- hung in loose curls, swaying in time with the hem of her skirt. Her lips- hesitant and pink- twitched several times before pulling into a wide grin, carving out two dimples on either side of her cheeks.
But most startling were her eyes, wide and blue and staring at him with such adoration. Such reverence that he felt as if the earth had crumpled beneath him and nothing existed except him and this young, precious girl. And it wouldn't matter if it did crumple, if the plates thousands of miles below him suddenly shifted and the world eroded right beneath him because she was here.
She was here and her gaze was soft and loving and it made his heart clench and spasm.
She seemed so real that his breath caught in his throat and even as his chest burned with agony and the need for oxygen he did not release it. He could see each individual strand of hair- some were more golden, captured rays of sunlight twisted in her locks. He could see the fan of her eyelashes as she blinked slowly and they fluttered over pink-pinched cheeks, rounded just below her eyes. He could see each pore, puckered in the frigid cold and the chapped, dead skin that settled on her lips.
A thread was loose on the seam of her collar, the tea-colored laced worn until it was soft, and lay limp across her chest. There was a wrinkle on the side of her skirt as if she had been sitting down for too long with the fabric rumpled around her. It was stained too, mottled with dirt and grass marks and for a moment he could imagine that he was decades younger, that she had just entered the kitchen after feeding the goats and sitting before them, her skinny, pale arm extended to rub at their snouts.
He finally released his breath, his chest sagging dramatically with the motion, and he whimpered in relief.
He breathed- he moved- and she did not shatter. She remained, steadfast and solid and beaming even though time moved forward. A part of him, an irrational, foolish part, thought that so long as he did not move than she would continue to exist- frozen in time, in existence.
That by not moving he could undo everything, bring her back.
And he could bring her back. He could use the resurrection stone, undo it all.
"Ariana," he spoke the name softly, like the utterance of a prayer. He outstretched his hand, palm splayed upward and fingers spread in a welcome, beckoning gesture. He wanted to touch her, to feel her skin- warm with life, the soft pulse of her heartbeat in the small of her wrist.
But instead of reaching back to him, her smile slipped and she spoke, broken words tumbling from her lips.
"Please..." she said, her voice hoarse and ragged with pain. "Don't do this."
He winced. It had been so long since he last heard her spoke. Had her voice always been so weak, so hoarse? "Ariana," he said again, shuffling forward.
"Don't let him kill me," she said.
Dumbledore shook his head, extending a hand outwards. "No, no I won't...I would never let anyone..." the words trailed off, forgotten as he stepped forward, curling his hand out to cup her cheek. He was met only with air, his hand disappearing into her cheek which turned white, tumbled to the ground like crystals of snow.
His breath hitched, and he fell to his knees, reaching out with both hands now as he tried to grasp her, tried to hold her together. But it was useless; she shimmered in the light before crumpling, turning into snow once more. He slumped forward, digging his hands through the snow, as if he might uncover her, free her from a grave of snow and ice and the blood that fell from his hand and tainted the earth. Someone was muttering, desperate cries of the word no over and over again, and it wasn't until he gasped, let out a cry that it stopped and he realized he had been the one uttering it. Shoulders pulled in, sagging in defeat as his hands trembled but otherwise fell still.
Tears slipped down his cheeks, warming in a way that did not matter. That did not warm him enough.
"She's dead, Albus."
The words startled him, and he looked up at Grindelwald, the moment coming back to him.
He was supposed to be in battle, stopping Grindelwald, protecting Hermione and all the secrets she possessed. Not crawling around on his hands and knees, grieving someone long dead.
"She's dead, Albus," Grindelwald said again, softly. The sort of tone one uses to address the mourning. Because that's what he was doing. Bent over and mourning. "But we can change that. We can bring her back."
Dumbledore was nodding, shaking the tears from his eyes. "We could."
Grindelwald exhaled a breath, smiled. "Yes. And we will. Won't we? Just you, me and Ariana. That's all we need, isn't it?"
It sounded...pleasant. And Dumbledore closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to consider it. To be a hero he should have been when counted, to save Ariana. His chest was tight at the thought, and he recalled the sorrowful words, the fear she spoke with. 'Don't let him kill me.' He had let her be killed, but he could undo it. He could undo it all.
"Don't! Please!"
He snapped his head forward, opening his eyes to meet Hermione's own. They were wide, shiny with tears, dragged down by purple bruises. Her teeth were bared, her cries turning into pants.
Ariana was dead.
But Hermione wasn't. She was very much alive.
Dumbledore frowned, reaching his hand out to grab the wand he dropped when he tried feebly to hold Ariana together. It was a comforting weight in his hand, and he let that comfort wash over him, soothe the erratic beat of his heart.
He did not break eye contact with her as he raised the wand. Hermione pinched her face, closed her eyes as he steadied his wand and aimed it at her chest. She did not want to see his betrayal.
"There, Albus. Just knock her out and I'll take you home," Grindelwald said, baring his teeth in a wide, victorious grin.
Dumbledore nodded, let out a breath. "I'm sorry," he said, the words heavy with affection, with genuine sorrow.
He flicked his wrist at the last second, the curse coming from his lips before he could think better of it. "Avada Kedavra!"
They were too close, and there was no counter, no shield that could possibly defend against it. Grindelwald was slow to respond, eyes widening, smile slipping. And he made a motion, a half motion as if to pull Hermione in front of him, but he couldn't react in time, and the bolt of green, like a sharpened bolt of lightning, collided with his brow.
There was a rattle, as though the lungs expelled whatever air remained within them, and then Grindelwald slumped backwards, body limp and heavy with death.
Nothing happened, the moment stretching for an eternity. It seemed less like the passage of time, and more like the total stoppage of it, the world pausing in that moment, a collective holding of breath. The air singed, burned with the smell of magic, the smell of death.
Silent, aside from the quiet cries and whimpers as Hermione slowly opened her eyes, used trembling hands to shove the now dead arm off of her. She glanced at Grindelwald, at his eyes which stared, unseeing and glassy, at the sky above them. The gray sky of winter, turning darker with evening's entrance.
"Are you okay?" Dumbledore asked, taking a painful, awkward gait towards her. He came to an abrupt stop when she yelled, shuffled back.
She looked panicked, like a cornered animal. "Stay back!" she said, voice shaking. Frightened.
"I didn't...I was never going to..." he tried to comfort her, tried to conjure up a lie that it was a plan, that he was never going to forfeit Hermione over in exchange for some rock. But he could not summon them, the half-truths that she would see through, that she would never believe again.
She knew.
Not the entirety of the truth, but she knew enough of it. Enough to know that Dumbledore was nothing like the man she believed him to be. Enough to want him as far away as possible, even if she was so close to death, teetering over the precipice of her injuries. Ready to fall into the unconsciousness she had been in only moments earlier. Moments that seemed like an entire lifetime ago.
She trusted him, then. Trusted him to help her.
How quickly the trust was destroyed. Such a fragile, fickle thing.
He skewed his lips, mouth trembling. He had failed her. He had saved her and vanquished the threat and even still, it wasn't enough. He had failed her all the same.
He nodded, trying to reign in the emotions, tossing his wand up in the air and setting off a cacophony of flares, fireworks to summon the aurors. We're here. We're alive but broken. We're here.
Satisfied that the aurors would find them, he let his hand drop, the drain of adrenaline bearing down on him. Hitting him with waves of exhaustion, agony. His vision was blurry and he fell into a coughing fit, each shake sending shocks of pain throughout him. Blood fell into his open palm, filling his throat. He was drowning in it, suffocating on his own blood and lies and crimes and sins.
It felt appropriate.
Branches cracked, voices echoed in the distance. "A little further! This way!"
"I need..." he grimaced around his swelling throat, let out a wheeze. "The Elder wand."
It was part of the plan. An integral, immovable point. He would defeat Grindelwald and take proper ownership of the wand. The very one Tom would drive himself mad in his endeavor to win.
Hermione hesitated, clutched it up from where it fell. "I think I'll hold onto it," she said. Cold. Distant. She didn't trust him with it, didn't trust him to not hurt her or the others.
She didn't trust him.
The thought ached more than any broken bones, punctured organs. It hurt more than each breath that rattled and stayed caught in his throat. He nodded, falling to his backside, the veil between consciousness and unconsciousness. He would welcome the darkness this time, welcome the fall into the nothingness.
Grindelwald was dead.
Ariana was rotted and bones.
And Hermione saw through him, saw the monster that always lurked within.
Nothingness was preferable.
