Chapter Text
The prison camps were cold and overcrowded, there was not enough food to go around and not enough water to keep yourself clean.
His magic had been stifled like all other prisoners, his wrists locked in iron engraved with runes, cheap but effective. Even if someone could get them off, it wouldn’t matter—you’d need a wand to break out of here.
They were situated about ten miles outside of Lyon, southeast France, Albus was perhaps the only British prisoner in the camp, most of the English soldiers were situated further up north.
He shared a cell with twelve—rather burly—frenchmen. They had been fifteen at the start, but three had died, a result of the cruel living conditions and the untreated wounds of battle.
Albus had been lucky in the sense that he had been mostly unscathed after capture. He had been hit with a stray spell that knocked him unconscious. War was not like dueling, there was nothing fair about it, he had simply been unlucky, or lucky depending on how you looked at it.
He was not really a soldier, he hadn’t fought in the Great War, he had not been ready for the brutality of it, not really, it had shocked him. There was nothing heroic about it, just carnage.
The muggles had driven out the Nazis but they were unaware of the new threat now looming above them as the wizard war was raging behind the curtains. From what he had been able to snap up from the guards, Gellert was advancing—he would take France. The Americans would not risk a long war so far from home, they would choose to barricade the British shorelines, he knew that. France would not be liberated, it was over.
His own grief could not be compared to his cellmates. They were mourning their home, their way of life and tasting the bitterness of defeat
The youngest was only seventeen, a child really. He had lost his right arm to a curse, only a stump remained, but he had survived, perhaps purpley by stubbornness. The others called him Ane, Donkey in English.
They weren’t given enough food, and the boy had grown pale and sickly. They were all starving, but the child would not last through winter, not if they remained here.
Albus wasn’t sure what would happen to them now, if they would be executed, or perhaps sent to work until they collapsed. They tried to keep the morale high, he and the other soldiers kept an optimistic attitude, perhaps mostly for the boy. They told him they would be sent home soon and it seemed he believed them. Even if it was a lie it was kinder than the truth, that they were waiting for death.
---
Any British prisoners taken had been moved further east to another camp, they would perhaps be used for negotiation. He’d rather not be brought there, it was easier to hide here down in Lyon, they were four thousand prisoners in the camp, easy to disappear.
He had been at the camp for about three weeks when he got it confirmed that the guards were looking for him.
They combed through the camp looking for English prisoners. Overhearing a casual conversation told him everything he needed to know.
A professor. That is what they said that they were looking for.
He supposed he was on a list of dangerous individuals. If they found him he might be done for. It was bitter to think that Gellert might have ordered it personally, that he might have written the specific decree to have him killed.
There were other possibilities too of course. It could concern someone else, or perhaps he would be sent to some facility and forced to work for the regime. Although he would not prove cooperative in that case.
“English?” barked a German holding a list in his hand.
A sea of dirty and gaunt faces stared back at him, all filled with quiet resentment and steely resolve. None here would rat him out.
---
It took another three weeks until he was detected. He was stupid, he should have been more careful.
They had been moved from Lyon up north to do manual labor, they were working on the fields helping to provide the army with food.
Some of the soldiers had approached their group, they had kicked one of the men down, the reason given had been a bad look, they had kicked him down and beaten him.
Albus was carrying too much anger with him these days, perhaps starving was making him more aggressive too…
Albus had punched the guard, breaking his nose in a satisfying crack, at least they had left the other man alone after that. He didn’t get the chance to keep going though, as he was stunned with a spell.
He was brought in front of a crowd to be made an example of.
For how much they hated muggles they sure liked their more primitive methods for punishment.
He was whipped for his insubordinance, twenty times. His skin was slashed open and it was by far the worst pain he had ever been in.
But worse though was that he had been recognized during the ordeal, he didn’t know who, but regardless, once the affair was over with and he had been brought to isolation, one of the officers had approached him with a wide, cruel smile. Holding up a piece of paper next to his face.
“Well well…” the man had said, looking between his face and the paper, a photograph he realized. “Professor Dumbledore no?” the man said, his beady eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He supposed the man would be rewarded for finding him. Perhaps even promoted.
---
They didn’t seem to be in a great hurry to move him—he was held in isolation for another two days before he was shoved into a carriage. The man who had identified him at first seemed to have squandered this accomplishment, the commander of the region had taken over and would no doubt take full credit for finding him.
He was still in terrible pain from the whipping and could not bring himself to care much where they were bringing him. He was tired.
His clothes were dirty, his back covered in dried blood and his wrists were chafing from the cuffs and he was very hungry. But perhaps worse of all—was the cold.
In the camp they had huddled up together for warmth and the company of other people could make almost anything bearable. Here he was alone.
He had fallen asleep during the move and had no idea how long they had flown, no idea where he was.
He was rattled awake and pulled out of the carriage by two guards and put face to face with a short, prim-looking commander who was looking at him with a wrinkled nose, probably disgusted by his ragged appearance.
Albus, despite being starved and borderline emaciated, towered over the man. He got the image of being a chained up abused circus animal standing face to face with a nervous conductor. The man even took a step back as if slightly intimidated by his appearance, which was amusing.
Albus looked over his shoulder. They were in a city, the sky was grey and promising rainfall.
He looked up at a large building before him, at least ten stories high. And he recognized it, Schwanenhals, the swan neck. The usual seat of the German minister for magic; before he was ousted by Gellert.
He was in Berlin.
It sent a trickle of dread through him. Why would they bring him here?
He was pushed towards the grand entrance of the building almost tripping over his own legs as he was pushed up the stairs towards the doors. Why would they bring him here?
They entered into a large foyer. The short commander had to exchange a few words with the security before they were allowed to proceed. The grim-looking men eyed them with suspicion as they walked over the marble stone floor.
They were stopped again further in, security details surely slowing them down. The commander argued with someone for a full five minutes, but Albus was too far away to hear what it was about.
Finally he was brought to an Elevator, a guard at either side. The commander wouldn’t stop fiddling with his hands, he was nervous.
When the elevator stopped and they walked out into a grand corridor, he knew exactly who they were walking towards.
He sensed it. Like sensing a change of temperature when diving down into a lake. It was barely there at first, just the slightest ripple, the familiar magic seemed to pause, as if sensing him too.
His own magic reacted by waking up from its forced slumber. He halted slightly which earned him a harsh shove from one of the guards to keep moving.
He was not ready to meet him.
As they walked closer to the end of the corridor, towards a pair of large doors, the familiar presence grew stronger.
It was an unusual feeling, normally he could sense magic around him, but not like this, nothing like this, this was different. The blood magic that connected them, made him sense Gellert in a way that was almost physical. He had forgotten quite how strong their connection had been.
They stopped in front of the doors, the short commander turning around and ordering the guards to wait outside, straightening his cravat and smoothing down his hair.
Albus stared at the doors. It was funny, Gellert’s presence seemed to comfort him. As if his stunted magic believed they were among friends. It seemed to churr and purr in satisfaction upon the presence, as if he had been offered a steady hand to hold onto.
He swallowed and looked at the nervous commander standing in front of him, he was seemingly collecting courage to knock.
There were voices coming from inside and he wished the man would just get the knocking over with, instead of having them stand there like idiots.
The familiar magic was brushing up against his own in a slightly curious but indifferent way—as if sensing something odd but not knowing what it was, and then it prodded at him in a curious greeting, inquisitive, like a cat might inspect a new piece of furniture.
He clenched his bound fists in anticipation for what he knew would come—recognition. Just as the commander lifted his hand to knock he felt it—the magic suddenly bit down, like a snake striking into the neck of a goat. It curled around him, suffocatingly tight and strange.
He didn’t even hear the knock before the doors swung open for them.
It was too bright for his eyes and it made him wince slightly as he was ushered into the room.
The pressure of the overwhelming magic was harsh, it was difficult to breathe, yet… It was distinctly pleasant.
He blinked a couple of times, trying to manage the shock of the light and slowly the room became clear for him.
A dozen or so men sat around a table, with a map laid down on it, discussing heatedly amongst themselves.
They had walked right into—what Albus could only assume—was a war-meeting.
His eyes flickered over the men, all middle aged and wearing expensive robes, arrogance written all over them. Some had turned to look at them as they entered, but most had not let their arrival interrupt their speech.
Despite his exhaustion he made an effort to stand straight, he would attempt to face them with as much dignity as he was able.
At the very least he seemed less nervous than the commander who had bowed his head and was fighting a stutter as he spoke.
Albus didn’t hear what he was saying though—all of his attention was held by the man sitting at the table’s center.
Gellert’s gaze was already locked on him with an intensity that made him feel uneasy.
Once the commander had cleared his voice everyone had turned to look at them, observing them with mild curiosity and some even with disgust.
”My lord,” the short man continued speaking in German. He said something in the lines of having located the professor. Albus still struggled to keep up with what exactly he was saying.
There was a loud silence as all of the men just sat and stared at them, before Gellert’s smooth and pleasant voice broke through it.
"I can see that Redner,” he said, with a dash of sarcasm. Bringing out a jeer of chuckles from the men surrounding the table. But there was no amusement to be seen on Gellert’s face.
Albus glanced down at the commander who seemed to shrink into himself. He looked nervous enough to piss himself. Poor man.
Albus wrinkled his nose at the painful show of nerves. This man must not be very bright, considering he had barged in on an important meeting.
“W-would you like me to take him downstairs?" the man, Redner stammered. It annoyed Albus, purely for the fact that it would have been smarter to stay silent.
“No…” Gellert shut him down and Albus’ eyes were drawn back to him. Sitting like a king on his throne.“That won’t be necessary,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair, observing them languidly.
Gellert’s magic was curling around him in an unhurried way, prodding at his bonds. The magic runes keeping Albus magic stunted felt more noticeable than ever as his magic reacted to Gellert.
Redner was practically shaking next to him. It was funny. How Albus was the prisoner in rags—starved and beaten, yet still faced Gellert with considerably more ease.
The seconds ticked by and the people around the table began to turn in their chairs, looking to Gellert for instructions. Their movement drew Albus' attention away from Gellert.
They seemed to be either annoyed or indifferent to the interruption, he supposed they were eager to get back to business. It seemed they wouldn’t though, as Gellert’s clear voice cut through the silence.
“This meeting is adjourned," he said. Soft, quiet even, yet everyone heard it, and there was no hesitation to obey. The room got momentarily loud and burly as the dozen or so men rose from their chairs, the noise made Albus wince slightly.
The men around the table collected their belongings, maps and papers—war plans. A few murmured something to Gellert before making their way out. Redner was still trembling next to him and Albus felt a flash of annoyance at his fear. Cowardice could be excused in the kind-hearted, but it was something he generally disliked.
Gellert stood up with everyone else, adjusting his sleeves and calmly walked towards them as people ushered out of the room. Albus could feel his heartbeat in his chest as he approached, and then he finally stopped in front of them, releasing him from his piercing gaze, instead turning to look down on the commander, with a cool, almost bored look.
“Redner, you are excused,” he said smoothly.
The commander practically folded in half as he bowed. “M-my lord,” he croaked, scarcely above a whisper. Albus wondered if it was fear or awe that made him cower so. Regardless it was a pitiful sight as he backed away and fled out of the room with the rest of the men.
Without Redner there, there was suddenly nothing shielding him from Gellert who was looking at him in an evaluating manner. Being physically closer to him was noticeable in the way the iron runes burned against his restless magic, which seemed excited about Gellert’s powerful presence.
The last men left the room and as the door closed they were left in silence.
Bound, cold and in significant pain, Albus struggled to imagine a worse way to meet Gellert. He had not even considered that being brought to him was a possibility. He had been prepared for an execution, or to be locked in some high security prison, even tortured, but he somehow had not considered ending up in front of Gellert himself.
Words failed him. He was exhausted and he felt unnerved by the intimate feeling of Gellert’s presence, the harshness of it strangely comforting. His magic did not recognize the threat in front of them.
Albus swallowed, feeling quite out of sorts.
“Mr Redner must make quite the commander," he said then, just to say something, a small attempt to break the tension.
Gellert didn’t answer him though, the only sign that he heard him was a tiny tug at the corner of his lips, his eyes traveling over Albus’ ragged appearance, taking in his torn clothes and unkempt hair, he supposed he must look like a wild animal.
Gellert’s gaze stopped at his bound hands.
The rune-bracelets chained together in front of him. It was quite uncomfortable, he had been chained like this for days now.
As if reading his mind Gellert made a small motion with his hand, snapping the chain in two.
Albus’ arms fell to his sides and he felt immediate relief in his shoulders. He rolled his left wrist once before looking back up at Gellert, not knowing if he should thank him or not.
Gellert had tilted his head slightly to the side and was studying him as if he was a mildly interesting cipher before he finally deemed it time to break the silence.
“I had hoped we could meet under better circumstances” he said, his tone polite, warm even.
Albus huffed slightly and managed a tired smile.
“All things considered,” he said, “it could have been worse.”
Gellert’s eyes gleamed as his face lit up from a perfect smile, just as handsome as ever. The years had been kind to him.
His heart ached to see that smile again after all these years. It was as if he had gone back in time, to stand next to Gellert, not the monster he had grown to be, just the boy who had taken his heart with him when he left.
He had not been prepared for a personal audience with Gellert, not at all.
He looked down to the table where a large map was placed—depicting central Europe. There were black and blue flags placed upon the French cities and small models representing armies and their sizes.
Gellert noticed him looking and took a step to the side as if to let him see it better. Albus threw him a glance before taking a step closer, stretching out a hand to pick up one of the flags. The black ones must represent Gellert’s victories; they were advancing from the east. There were fewer blue ones, pushed further to the west, the most noticeable one stood proud on top of Paris.
He turned the small flag over in his hand. “You must excuse the interruption,” he said and studied the small wooden mark that represented so much suffering. “I would have told them to wait downstairs, but I doubt they’d listen,” he said with a dry huff.
He placed the flag back down and let his eyes travel to where his own capture had taken place. A black flag now placed on top of Toulouse.
He could feel Gellert’s gaze on the side of his face and stubbornly kept his eyes on the map.
If this model was correct, the war looked grimmer than he’d thought, but the French would not give up easily, even without the Americans, they would fight.
Gellert stood straight backed and proud looking out over the map, hands behind his back. Albus wondered if he felt no shame for the suffering all of this caused their people.
“How long will it last?” he asked.
Gellert stretched out a hand to stroke the map, gentle and slow.
“I don’t know,” he said softly, “Hopefully it will be done by summer. But it could take years.”
Albus turned towards him then, he was already looking at Albus and not the map, they stood in silence, a heavy thing that made him want to squirm.
Slowly Gellert’s eyes traveled over him until they landed back on his wrists, locked in cursed iron. He gave a slight nod towards them.
“Is it uncomfortable?” he asked. “To have your magic bound?” his eyes seemed to gleam as he looked at him.
Albus wet his lower lip feeling compelled to answer. “It feels… odd,” he said. It was difficult to describe.
“In what way?”
He looked away for a moment to collect his thoughts, he was tired, he was not prepared for… whatever this was. Gellert talking to him, just talking.
He steadied himself against the table and cleared his voice. “It’s like being tied up I suppose,” he said, his eyes flickered over the map “Or like being blinded, stumbling around in the dark.”
“But you can still feel your magic.” It was not really a question.
“Yes.”
“And you can feel me?”
As he asked this, Gellert’s magic moved, it stirred Albus’ own. His magic, which had settled after the strong reaction to their reunion, seemed to wake up as it was disturbed. The sensation was perhaps a bit like breathing in water, just not unpleasant. It sent shivers through him, as Gellert’s overwhelming power clawed at him, trying to consume him.
“Yes,” he said, closing his eyes. It was overwhelming; he suddenly felt light headed.
Gellert hummed and he could hear his heels click against the stone floor.
He opened his eyes. Gellert had walked further west to the map, stroking the thick paper as he went.
He felt a tug in him, impossible to ignore that called to him, to follow. He walked, closing the distance between them one step at a time. He stopped when there was still a respectable amount of space between them. Gellert looked back at him, amusement on his face, as if they were playing a game.
It made him clenge his jaw and look down at the map simply to avoid looking at him. He studied the models that represented soldiers, lined up and prepared for a battle.
”This is a swamp,” he said, gracing the painted trees on the paper, falsely showing a field of grass, where he knew there was mud.
Gellert’s soldiers were lined up to attack—they outnumbered the French by a great deal. It would be a decisive victory. But it was not supposed to be a battlefield, it was a trap, a trap using four thousand wizards as bait and sacrifice.
Anyone stunned in the mud would sink and suffocate, but worse, they could curse the mud, they could drag Gellert’s army down with them. There were no bloodier fights than the ones made where you plan to lose.
”You’ll win, but the death toll will be steep,” he said, plucking one of the blue soldiers from the map, destined to die.
Gellert stood silent beside him, too close really, Albus could feel the weight of his attention.
They said nothing. Gellert’s gaze followed Albus’s hand as it moved to put the miniature soldier back in its place.
Then, quietly:
“Where were you stationed?”
The question was casual, as though he were asking about the weather.
Funny, how such a monumental part of his life could be summed up to ‘where were you stationed?’
He lifted his eyes to Gellert’s face, searching for something—but whatever it was he was looking for wasn’t there. Just a composed, attentive interest. He looked back down again.
His fingers hovered over the painted trees, uncertain, before tracking a path to a black flag planted near the southern edge of France. He tapped it once.
“Here,” he said, after a moment. His voice sounded distant to his own ears.
“The general was killed early on,” he continued. “First day.”
He stared at the flag.
“The man who replaced him was not… suitable.”
It was a terribly minimizing word. He could still remember the shouting, the confusion, the contradicting orders, no one knew who was in charge. He swallowed and gave a small, humorless huff.
“I dropped my wand.”
It was easier to speak of it than he had expected.
He glanced at Gellert then, just briefly, before looking back at the map. “Clumsy, really,” he said, with a faint, chuckle. “Knocked right out of my hand by one of our own.”
He pressed his fingers against the paper, as though it might anchor him.
“Such a simple mistake,” he murmured.
“War is unkind to those who do not belong to it.” Gellert said with a steady voice.
“No one belongs to war,” Albus said quietly.
Gellert’s expression was smooth, indifferent. It seemed he did not agree.
“You have always been sentimental,” Gellert replied. “Your kind is best kept away from the fighting.” A pause. “You don’t have it in you”
Anger flared sharp and sudden—anger for the men he had watched bleed out in the mud, for Ane who had lost his arm and who would not see spring, for the thousands Gellert dismissed as collateral damage, made for war. As if their deaths were justified simply because they lacked an intellect Gellert could respect.
“I can assure you,” Albus said, his voice tightening despite his effort to steady it, “that I do have it in me.”
His magic thrashed against its restraints, reacting violently to the surge of emotion. The connection between them sharpened, painful and pointy.
Gellert closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he spoke again.
“I did not mean it as an insult,” he said calmly. “I know it wounds you more than most.”
He did not look at Albus when he said it, he turned instead towards the windows revealing a grand view of Berlin.
“You mourn for them,” he continued, quieter now. “All of them,”
The words did little to alleviate his anger.
Albus felt his throat tighten. He did not trust himself to answer. His magic stirred uneasily, pressing against its restraints, drawn toward Gellert’s presence even as it recoiled from it.
Gellert turned back to face him. His eyes tracing his ripped clothes and the bruises that riddled his skin. Something unreadable passed over his face, a slight wrinkle between his brows.
He took a step closer and then another.
Albus refused to back up, but he would have wanted to. He was acutely aware of the narrowing space between them, of the pull of the blood magic, dark and boiling.
Once Gellert stood just a foot from him he seemed to hesitate .
It was brief, almost unnoticible, then he reached down for Albus’ hand, his fingers closing around his arm before sliding down towards his palm.
Albus flinched as skin touched skin, the contact ignited the bond between them—searing, hot. Magic flared powerful and wild. It burned where Gellert touched him, so intense he could not tell whether it was pain or something else. He gasped.
His knees nearly buckled. He caught himself by gripping the front of Gellert’s robes with his free hand, fingers digging into the fabric at his chest as he struggled to stay upright.
Fear bloomed sudden and sharp.
His magic writhing helplessly within the confines of the runes.
Gellert was completely still, holding his left hand in an iron grip.
As Albus met his eyes he was simply looking down on him, his head slightly tilted, not withdrawing. He had a fascinated look in his eyes, as if he was curious about the reaction. His eyes traced Albus’s face with attentive focus.
“It is a curious thing,” Gellert said evenly, as though nothing had happened. “Blood vows.”
“Most of what was known about them was lost,” he continued, “burned away with a considerable portion of our ancestors.”
”I know,” he bit out, angry and unable to let go of Geller, lest he fall down.
”Of course,” Gellert said with a small smile lighting up his eyes. ”It is impressive though, how strong the magic is. We were terribly hasty when making it.”
”Youth makes you reckless," Albus said bitterly.
“It does,” he said, with a small wrinkle in between his brows.
He could feel his anger boiling in his blood and Gellert must feel it too, he must see it carved into Albus’ face, and the bastard met it with pity. Nothing could have been more humiliating than to see him stand there, looking at him with pity.
“I hope in time, you will see that all of this is worth it.” he said softly,
“Do not preach to me” he hissed, “I have no wish to hear it,”
He felt the grip on his wrist tighten slightly.
“You mustn't think that this war pleases me,” Gellert spoke with a clear steady voice. But there was something more there, a plea, for him to understand.
He did not want to hear it, he did not want to hear Gellert’s regrets, nor be reminded that he was just a man. He wanted to see him only as a monster, to remove any warm feelings that lingered for him. He had tried to iron them out.
“Why am I here?” he asked with a hoarse voice. He felt exhausted.
Gellert’s other hand shifted and felt heavy as it was placed on his shoulder, traveling up until his fingers brushed Albus’ neck. It sent shivers down his spine, more pleasant this time.
He stared into Gellert’s eyes while his thumb slowly stoked over Albus’ pulse. The softness of it was horrible, the delicate way he held him. It left his blood singing. He should push him away, but he couldn’t.
It felt like a life line, as vital as the air in his lungs, he needed more, he needed to be closer.
Gellert’s hand pressed warm against his skin and his curious eyes observed him with pupils blown wide.
“We are connected,” he said, letting his thumb stroke Albus’ cheek in a delicate manner “I hope you understand why I would prefer to keep you close.”
Albus closed his eyes and gave out a defeated sigh, letting himself lean against him, he was tired.
“Welcome to Berlin, Albus,” Gellert whispered, his hand never leaving his neck.