Chapter Three: The Duel to End All Duels
The fight against Grindelwald was still going strong. Edmund hoped that he would be able to keep his promise to his wife. He hoped that he and his children would return safely and triumphantly. He hoped they would succeed. He hoped.
Fleamont Potter coughed dust out of his lungs and prayed.
The battlefield was a whirlwind of bodies. Spellfire lit the walls of the houses surrounding the little courtyard, a mishmash of yellow and red and blue and green and purple that would have delighted an abstract artist and appalled everyone else. Every spell cast seemed to find someone, regardless of who it had been intended for. Most of the incantations were drowned out by cries and wails, but some were still audible. Mostly, Euphemia thought, desperately ducking and weaving her way through the fray, the nasty ones. She could see Edmund weaving a ring of enchantment around a witch focussed on a group of younger Aurors. James Weasley was laughing, a wild, frantic laugh that didn't contain any happiness, as he danced around an older, more powerful wizard.
There was no sign of Fleamont.
His leg was broken. Shattered from a spell from a cloaked figure wielding their wand with deadly accuracy. He cast a simple healing spell and hoped it would be strong enough for long enough.
He couldn't see his son. Edmund, one eye on his target and one on his panicked daughter-in-law, felt his heart simultaneously fall into his stomach and jump into his throat. He couldn't see his son.
He scanned the courtyard desperately. Dust from spells that had gone awry and hit the surrounding buildings cloaked the scene, aided by the fog had been lingering for the past few days. The rapid movement of the combatants, too, made it harder to identify anyone.
Edmund could see clearly enough to know that Fleamont was not here.
The glass of the shop front shattered and a body skidded past Monty, leaving a smear of blood on the ground. The crumpled figure didn't move. Monty caught a glimpse of a face and a horse, strangled sob forced its way out of his throat. Celia was dead. Who else might be dead?
The press of bodies seemed to be seeking to impede her specifically as she fought her way through the battle. The entire world seemed against her. Tears started in her eyes and she fought them back. Now was not a good time to have an impaired vision.
"Edmund!" Mia called above the clamour. "Have you seen Monty?"
He turned to look at her. His eyes were wide and panicked. She couldn't hear his words — at that moment someone let out the bloodcurdling howl of a person who has just lost the most important person in their life — but she saw the shake of his head.
Despair rose within her, black and hopeless. Fleamont was gone. Even if he was still alive now, who knew how long that would last for? She would be a widow before she had even properly been a bride.
Someone screamed, a cry that carried above the other sounds into the little shop where Monty was sheltering. Fear rose in his heart. That might be Mia, crying for Edmund, or Edmund, calling for Mia. They might be dead while he hid in a building nursing his leg. What kind of a Gryffindor was he?
There was no hope. The fighters seemed to pressing on Edmund and Mia, desperate to encircle them, to trap them, to drown them in noise and confusion and heartbreak. Monty might be alive or dead, and yet it made no difference. There was nothing they could do either way.
"Mia! Mia, where are you? Dad?"
As one, the pair whipped round. Fleamont was white faced, sweat dripping down his features from the strain of standing on a clearly extremely damaged leg, but he was alive. He was alive and that was enough.
Mia threw herself at him, charging through the mêlée, heedless of the dangers around them. She threw her arms around her husband and allowed herself one sob before Edmund was calling them back to the battle, his broken voice the only sign of his relief.
Monty didn't leave Mia's side until they were forced to retreat. The couple Apparated back to base hand in hand and refused to part for even a minute for the entirety of the next day. Edmund didn't even pretend to try and stop them.
Gellert surveyed the tabletop, a scale model of Europe, with satisfaction. In a few days, all of this would be his.
Albus sat in the Hog's Head, nursing a pint of something sour and strong, and tried to steel himself for what he knew he needed to do.
"When will we see each other again?"
The hushed whisper sounded loud in the dark, quiet room. There was a pause.
"When we can. Not long now. A few months. Then it will be easier."
"Maybe. I hope so."
Tom felt the magic rising up around him and smiled, a thin, nasty smile that boded no good. The man before him whimpered and tried to crawl away.
Screams echoed out of the dingy alley.
Gertrude read Olive the letter she'd just received. The two of them sat side by side on Olive's new four poster bed. Olive listened quietly. Gertrude's voice faltered over the words. At last, she laid the letter down and turned to Olive.
"They're safe. They're all safe."
In the darkness beyond the world, something waits…
Tom looked down at the words written on the little scrap of paper that had been left on his pillow. His heart pounded. Blood felt like it was roaring in his ears.
In the darkness beyond the world, something waits…
Clearly it meant death. What else could it mean? 'Beyond the world' in 'darkness', there was nothing else it could reasonably mean.
Tom felt sick. There was something sour and unpleasant in his mouth. He looked down at the scrap of paper again. Someone had drawn a crude skull on it.
The note burst into flames. Tom felt a kind of vindictive glee as it shrivelled, scorching his sheets. I'm not going to die, he thought savagely. Your 'darkness beyond the world' doesn't affect me. I'm afraid of nothing.
I am afraid of everything.
There was a photograph lying on the table in front of him. Two boys, standing side by side. They were leaning into each other and laughing. Albus always thought it ironic that they always stayed together, no matter what happened in real life.
He rarely looked at the photo now. It was a relic of an ancient time, of painful memories that he hated to recall. Only when he was feeling particularly brave — or possible particularly weak — did he dare to bring the picture out and look at it.
Gellert looked as he always had done, blond curls falling slightly over one eye, head thrown back in a laugh. Even in the picture, he looked at ease, almost arrogant, an arm thrown around the younger Albus in a gesture that seemed to say, 'if I say it's right then it's right'.
"I am afraid of everything," Albus repeated, this time aloud. His words were still little more than a murmur.
It was true. He was afraid of facing Gellert, afraid of leaving him to rampage across Europe unchecked, afraid that if they fought Gellert would win, afraid that if they fought he would win, afraid of what Gellert might say, afraid of what he might learn.
Afraid of everything, unable to make a move, paralysed in the face of an inevitability.
Mia hid behind a temporary shelter of chairs and tables from a small outside cafe in Paris. She was bleeding copiously from a wound on her shoulder, as well as several smaller cuts and bruises scattered across her body. Her arm was held tightly against her stomach. She might have broken her wrist.
The courtyard was in shambles. The Muggles who had been eating at the cafe and wandering together across the open courtyard were all dead. The few witches and wizards who had been enjoying a break from the war were scattered across the ruined piles of stone and scattered plant pots and overturned tables, fighting for their lives.
Monty and Edmund were nowhere to be seen.
Mia swallowed a sob as a young girl, one of Mia's closest friends, fell to the ground in a shower of red blood.
This wasn't a random attack. This was targeted, planned.
It was a massacre.
Albus,
I don't think we can last much longer. Please.
Edmund
"Congratulations to our seventh-years, who will be graduating this year. I am sure you will all go on to do great things."
The students cheered. Tom, standing in the midst of his fellow Slytherin seventh-years, smiled. He felt a certain amount of reluctance to leave Hogwarts, but he could not deny that he was ready to become a full adult and to leave, in the course of time, the name of Tom Riddle entirely behind.
Marigolda stood beside him, her perfect smile plastered on. She was eager to become a leading society lady and powerhouse of the Lestrange family, Tom knew. Rabastan, on his other side, was practically vibrating.
Headmaster Dippet smiled on his pupils with a kind of short-sighted benevolence. He was old and would likely be retiring soon.
"Good luck."
"Good luck," Aberforth said. Sarcasm dripped off every word.
Albus wasn't sure why he'd decided to tell Aberforth that he was finally going to confront Gellert. He'd felt the need to— what? To show Aberforth that he wasn't entirely selfish? That he wanted to make right what could never be made right? Was that all this was? A desperate attempt to prove to his brother — to himself — that he wasn't as self-absorbed and arrogant and thoughtless as he had once been?
Wasn't that self-absorbed, arrogant, and thoughtless in itself?
Maybe he just wanted Aberforth to know, in case he didn't come back, that Albus had decided to face Gellert, that he had made the decision on his own, that it wasn't chance that would bring them together for a final duel.
And what had he been expecting? Praise? Understanding? Forgiveness? They both knew that all three were out of the question. Albus did not deserve any of them. Praise? He was just doing what was right, what he should have done long ago. Forgiveness? After everything that had happened, Albus did not think it would have been possibly for Aberforth to forgive him. He wasn't even sure he wanted it. He could never forgive himself. As for understanding… they both knew that it was too late for that. Maybe one day, long after Gellert or Albus was out of the picture, Aberforth might find it in himself to accept that Albus had never meant for any of it to happen. Maybe one day, when Albus was gone, Aberforth would find some small glimmer of understanding. Right now… how could he? He did not know what had drawn Albus to Gellert most of all, did not know why he had ignored the warning signs, why he had been so eager to believe. Aberforth believed it was simply Albus's own sense of self-importance that had drawn them together. Perhaps it was.
"Good luck," Aberforth said again, after Albus had paid and was rising to leave the pub. There was less sarcasm now, more a sense of half-amused irony. We both know that luck is a sham, he seemed to say.
Albus nodded and thanked him and left.
Aberforth wanted Grindelwald dead, more than many a Witch or Wizard. Still, the 'good luck' he had addressed to his brother had not quite been genuine in the usual sense of the word. There had been no sincerity behind it. He did not believe in luck.
The door swung closed behind Albus. The thought flitted across his mind that this might be the last time he saw his older brother. An amused smile slid across his face.
He did not wish Albus dead. Whatever the differences between the two Dumbledores, neither wished the other dead. Had it been a choice between Albus or Ariana, of course, the answer would have been different. As it was… Aberforth had no desire to be the last Dumbledore. He and Albus were undoubtedly the last Dumbledores in any case. They might live for years, they might go on and on throughout the ages, but they would never marry, and they would have no children. It was just not something that would happen.
No, Aberforth did not wish Albus dead. However, he knew that Albus would not die. He knew that, if it came down to it, Albus could win any duel, even one against Gellert Grindelwald. The only danger was if he could not bring himself to defeat, even to kill, his old best friend. If Albus faltered, if he could not bring himself to strike down someone he'd cared for even after everything…
Aberforth's smile turned contemptuous.
Albus Apparated to Germany. It felt fitting, that the final duel should be fought in Gellert's home, just as the first had been in Albus's. He had issued a formal challenge right before he left.
It did not occur to the Transfiguration Professor that Gellert might refuse to meet him. Just as he knew that their meeting was inevitable, he knew that Gellert would know it too. Gellert would not see the point in putting off their meeting. He was proud, also, as arrogant as Albus had been in the days when they first met. He would not be seen to run from a schoolteacher.
One of them was going to fall. Albus wasn't sure which of them it would be.
He wasn't sure which one of them he wanted it to be.
Gellert fingered the newspaper article in his hand and smiled. It had come at last. Albus had decided to face the truth, to face what he must have known would be the end of all.
"Gellert?"
"Readjust the schedule, Iskalas," Gellert drawled. "I have an old friend to kill."
They met in an abandoned Quidditch Stadium. The seats were half destroyed and the ground was uneven and uncared for. The stands were full of spectators — Gellert's followers, Aurors, Freedom Fighters, journalists, anyone who took even the slightest interest in the event had filled the abandoned Quidditch pitch. If it went wrong, Albus reflected, and Gellert won, it could very easily prove to be a massacre.
Seeing Gellert was a shock. He looked almost unchanged — a little older, a little lined about the eyes, but still unmistakably the same Gellert that Albus had fallen in love with all those years ago.
He was tall, his golden curls falling into his face, giving an air of boyish charm. His blue eyes sparkled with the remnants of an old joke, the discomforts of which Albus had ignored. He was smiling, an arrogant, charming smile that filled Albus at once with attraction and loathing.
"Hello, Albus," Gellert greeted, as though he had simply run into an old acquaintance. "It's been a while since we last met."
"A lot has changed since then," Albus said.
Gellert inclined his head. "Indeed it has." His wand slid into his hand and Albus had to hold in a gasp. The Elder Wand.
They stood facing each other in silence for a long moment. The murmuring of the crowd seemed to have faded, vanished into a different world. In the one Albus stood in now it was just him and Gellert and an inevitable fight that neither wanted to start.
Gellert lunged.
The two wizards clashed in a blaze of raw magic. Red fire rose around them. For the audience, sheltering under hundreds of hastily erected Shield Charms, not much of the fight was visible. It was a whirl of bright spells and bursts of sparks and fire and gushes of water and strange shapes and rising rocks and falling monuments. It was impossible to tell who was winning or what was happening.
Albus darted between spikes rising out of the ground, trying desperately to unravel the ward. He could hear Gellert laughing the background, that pleasant, carefree laugh that had once been a sign that Albus had told a good joke or Gellert had found something amusing in whatever he was doing.
Albus gritted his teeth. The ward crumbled around him and at the same time he was casting again, Transfiguring and animating the chunks of destroyed seating into huge rock golems. The laughing stopped abruptly. Albus heard cursing.
Gellert grinned wildly to himself as he wove another ward, dodging and ducking around the spells Albus sent flying over his head and reeling around him. He'd forgotten how exhilarating it was to fight with Albus. The other man was as quick and clever as Gellert, as fast and as powerful. They were perfectly matched.
He set the ward to start and watched as Albus tore it down immediately — but Gellert's next ward was up, and then his next, and his next, Albus tearing them down as quickly as Gellert could form them.
A golden explosion that seemed to have no cause billowed over the stadium. When the blinding light faded and the startled crowds picked themselves up off the floor, the two duellers had vanished in a mist of shimmering fog. The only sign that they were still there were the occasional flashes of coloured light and the unmistakeable prickle of vast amounts of magic.
Albus was flagging. He hadn't fought against anyone, let alone someone of Gellert's prowess, for too long. He was out of practise and Gellert was at his prime, wielding the Deathstick with deadly precision. This was not going to end well.
Albus was slowing down, Gellert noticed with something like regret. In the end, he had faded and Gellert had grown stronger. It was a pity, but it could not be helped.
Albus appeared out of the fog in front of him, gasping for breath. He had not noticed Gellert and would not be able to defend himself. Gellert drew in his breath, stepped forward, raised the wand, and—
"I'm sure you'll get along great," Bathilda said, smiling her bright, innocent, stupid smile. She kept talking, all about how amazing both boys were and how they were sure to have lots in common, but Gellert had stopped listening. He was looking at the man — little more than a boy, Gellert's age — his great aunt had just introduced him to.
Albus Dumbledore was tall and lean, with glasses, ginger hair that reached his shoulders, and the beginnings of a beard. He was not what many would consider as classically handsome, but it was his eyes that drew Gellert in. Albus's eyes were blue, clear and sharp as a frosty winter's day, and they seemed to stare right into Gellert's soul. His smile was polite, almost silly, visibly fake to anyone with Gellert's level of observational skills, but his eyes were… fascinating.
"Delighted to meet you," Gellert said, reaching out a hand. "I'm sure we'll be wonderful friends."
Albus's smile stretched just a little wider and his eyes twinkled as he took Gellert's hand.
"It's too hot for research," Gellert declared, stretching out on his bed. To the outside eye it was the same plain, small, hard affair that it had been on his arrival. With Albus's Transfiguration skill and Gellert's own prowess in wards and runes, however, it felt as soft and luxurious as any king size bed in the poshest pure-blood home.
Albus was sitting at the foot of the bed, head buried in a large tome of ancient history. His hair was tied back in a loose ponytail and strands of ginger hair were escaping.
"What would you like to do instead?"
Gellert looked out of the window. It was one of those beautifully sunny days that everyone professes to love and secretly hates because they are unusually, and therefore unpleasantly, hot.
"I've never seen your house. We always stay here, at Auntie's."
"I'm… not sure that's a good idea," Albus said hesitantly. He pushed his spectacles up his nose. "Ab's always doing something or other and he keeps goats in the house, so it's not great. And…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Gellert sat up and smiled at Albus, his charming 'I want you to do something and you're going to do it' smile. "Why don't we go sight-seeing? You can show me around."
"There's not much to see in Godric's Hollow," Albus warned.
"We don't have to stay in Godric's Hollow," Gellert said. "There's the whole world waiting for us. Our plans can wait for another day."
Albus looked doubtful. "My siblings…"
"Will survive without you," Gellert said impatiently. "Come on, Albus, do something fun for once! You deserve more than being stuck here in this stupid village all the time!"
He had hit on just the right point. Albus's face became firm.
"Alright. You always know how to get what you want, Gellert." There was grudging admiration and something like fondness in the words. Gellert smiled. He stood up and spun round, arms outstretched, as though he was welcoming all of the things they were about to do. Albus laughed.
"We won't hurt them if we don't have to," Gellert said cajolingly. "It'll be for their own good, you know. For the good of everyone."
Albus didn't look convinced.
"You see the way they're going now," Gellert continued. "They'll wipe themselves out in a few decades, and us along with them. If we stop them from doing that, then really we're helping them. Don't you see that?"
He watched Albus's face carefully for signs of relenting.
"Do you want them to keep hurting innocent children?" he asked.
Albus's expression hardened at once. "You're right, Gellert. We shouldn't hurt them if we can help it, but… if we need to do it for the greater good, we must."
Gellert smiled triumphantly. Albus's words rang in his ears. For the greater good.
Gellert wondered what it would be like to kiss Albus. He wondered if Albus would object.
Albus huffed out a laugh. "You know, I've never really gotten along with girls. Was always considered a bit studious. Never really felt any inclination, either, to, you know."
Gellert his smile. "I never really did girls either," he said nonchalantly. "Seemed like a waste of time."
Albus's eyebrows furrowed. "Never did girls? Why not? You're incredibly handsome, I'm sure any girl would have been delighted to have your attention."
Gellert shrugged. "I've never really felt any attraction to them."
He watched Albus's face, saw the realisation dawn. His friend's face flushed, turning nearly the same colour as his hair.
When their lips met, Gellert felt no hesitation. He pulled Albus closer, felt the British boy's uncertainty melt away in Gellert's embrace. It was as wonderful as he had thought it would be. This was the thrill that Gellert thought would come only with wielding with Deathly Hallows, of being Master of Death.
As it turns out, the rush of power is very much the same as the rush of requited love.
Gellert lay on his bed, feeling sleepy. He was still only partially dressed in trousers and an open shirt, his hair and the sheets under him mussed and untidy. Albus was had both shirt and trousers and had even put his waistcoat back on, the scarlet fabric a splash of colour on par with Albus's hair. He was writing something out, ink scattering on his sleeves, frowning slightly in concentration.
He was gorgeous.
Gellert felt like he should be doing something, either helping Albus or pulling him away from whatever it was he was doing to kiss him thoroughly. But the day was warm, a soft breeze from the open window lifting his sweaty curls and dropping them again playfully, the soft buzz of the small village lulling him to sleep. He felt peaceful and happy.
Albus muttered something, scribbling over a line. Gellert smiled lazily. Power was all very well, but right now, he didn't want anything to change.
They were running, the roots of the trees and low-hanging branches doing their best to slow them down. Gellert was laughing so hard Albus was having to pull him along, despite his own laughter. Albus stretched out and pushed a branch out of their way, turning back to smile at Gellert as he staggered past. His blues eyes were bright. Gellert struggled to breathe for a moment.
They were planning, something about the joint future they were going to wait where they didn't have to hide. Gellert wasn't sure what they meant anymore. Magic, Albus's sister, their relationship… most of the time it didn't seem to matter. It could have been all of them or none of them, something else entirely. The point was the plan.
Gellert had happened to look up from the base they were designing, something large and impressive with training rooms and arenas and a beautifully huge master bedroom, to see Albus watching him. He was smiling softly, radiating warmth and an emotion that Gellert didn't want to put a name to just then. He ducked his head, pretending he hadn't seen. In a minute Albus was joining him, suggesting a magic dampened room for his sister, and the look passed.
But Gellert felt warm and tingly for the rest of the day.
"I think I love you," Albus whispered in the darkness of Gellert's room.
For a moment there was silence. Gellert stroked his lover's hair and admired the way the faint, silvery moonlight played across it.
"I love you too."
Albus was laughing, wild and free and unreserved. Gellert was grinning madly, unable to stop. This was what it was all about.
Gellert watched from behind his curtain as Albus argued with Aberforth. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he suspected. Albus was frowning, clearly upset. He kept having to dodge his brother's hands as Aberforth gesticulated wildly. Gellert felt a rush of hatred towards the boy who was causing Albus pain.
"We'll stay together, right?" Albus asked, sitting up on Gellert's bed. They still never stayed in the Dumbledore house.
"Of course," Gellert said immediately, propping himself up on his pillow. His torso was bare and Albus was only wearing a thin nightshirt, mostly to protect against the cold night air that flowed through the open window.
"No matter what?" Albus asked. He looked vulnerable there, a sliver of moonlight lighting up his hair and shadowing his face.
"Of course," Gellert repeated. "Of course we will."
Albus smiled, but there was something like doubt still lingering in the lines of his face. Gellert tried to push away a sinking feeling that this was one thing they couldn't predict.
Aberforth was insulting Albus, was saying cruel things, was hurting him badly and deeply. Drawing his wand was instinct for Gellert; the curse that tripped off his tongue felt natural. He couldn't understand why Albus was fighting against him. Couldn't he see that Gellert was only trying to protect him?
He left the country in a daze. He knew he couldn't stay, not now. Knew he couldn't see Albus again. Maybe one day, when he'd calmed down and realised that Gellert was only trying to help him, maybe… but not now. For now it was best to put Albus out of his mind.
And if he dreamed about Albus every night, it only affected him at night. It did not matter. It had no effect on his daytime activities.
Albus turned. His wand flashed. Gellert fell, bound and helpless, at his feet. The Elder Wand rolled to the feet of its new master.
In the end, Gellert Grindelwald wasn't defeated by Albus Dumbledore's superior skill, or greater power, or better wand. In the end, Gellert was defeated by his love for the wizard who defeated him.
