Work Text:
1899
Ariana’s fourteenth birthday was that summer, and Aberforth and Albus had somehow managed to put aside their usual quarrels to arrange a truce. Bathilda Bagshot from next door baked biscuits, and Ariana had only one short fit that morning, talked down with promises of her birthday celebration. Gellert had come over, too--despite Aberforth’s scornful glances--and he cut a dashing figure in dark blue dress robes that were of a German style.
And then, Ariana asked to dance.
“Put on some music, Albus,” she said.
For a moment, Albus could not respond, thinking of when they were children and their father had taught them all to dance. He had wanted them to learn proper manners and etiquette for wizarding society, and he made Aberforth and Albus take turns twirling little Ariana as she giggled.
Their mother watched them with a smile.
(She taught them how to dance, too, but it was when their father was at work. I don’t think he would be angry, she said. But there are some things that I want to keep between me and my children. This is a secret. But this is another story, and Albus always felt a sense of discomfort when she told them of her roots with wistful eyes, even as Aberforth and Ariana listened, enraptured. He found excuses to wander off, and there were some things he would never remember and could never make up properly for missing by reading books. He would regret this, later.)
Now--now--Albus took out his wand and called on a lively tune from the phonograph in the corner. A mazurka, a song in triple meter, and Aberforth got up and took Ariana’s hand. Aberforth wasn’t a graceful or skilled dancer, but he was able to improvise, half-remembered steps of clicking heels and stamping feet, and it was enough for Ariana to follow, both of them stumbling and grinning at each other.
Soon, their dance devolved into disorganized twirling, and Albus waved his wand and changed the music to a more indulgent, less formal song, a song he had heard played by his yearmates in Hogwarts. It was a music hall sort of song, the lyrics something playful about snitches and dragons.
Albus was content to watch them, the song loud and bright in the air, and Gellert watched by his side, his head half-resting on Albus’ shoulder.
“Sometimes it seems so strange, seeing your brother and sister,” Gellert said. “Because I have none myself.”
“Ah,” Albus says, his voice light, “you know the occasional--burden--that it presents to me and my studies. I am very fond of them, but I envy you.”
Gellert made a thoughtful noise, his breath a huff of warm air against Albus’ neck. “There wasn’t any opportunity for me to have brothers and sisters at all. My mother died when I was young.”
It was his usual frankness, without any undercurrent of bitterness. Of course, Albus knew that Gellert’s mother wasn’t in his life since Gellert only mentioned his father, but he had never said anything about the circumstances of her absence.
“But you are right,” Gellert continued, “I can understand how being the caretaker of one’s younger siblings can be a burden. You’re not a parent, Albus. You have-- we have--many plans.”
“We do,” Albus said in affirmation, and he gently nudged against Gellert’s soft gold curls with a twitch of his shoulders. Then Gellert murmured something too quiet into the side of Albus’ collarbone, and Albus laughed and said, “What?”
“Teach me how to dance,” Gellert said, lifting his head a centimetre. “I don’t know how.”
“Gellert Grindelwald, talented practitioner of many types of magic, future co-Master of Death, and Seer,” Albus said, “doesn’t know how to dance.”
“My mother is gone, my father is distant and boring, my grandmother was obsessed with her usual Seer business, and I never cared much for the social functions at Durmstrang.” Gellert reeled the list off. “I can read tea leaves and give the worst possible prediction to scare someone to death, but no, Albus, I cannot dance.”
It was almost funny, Gellert outright admitting to something that he didn’t know. Gellert was always stubborn--whenever Albus brought up a gap in his knowledge, usually the consequence of having been expelled before finishing school, Gellert immediately insisted on reading more up on the subject on the spot. That was a rare occurrence, however, since they were very much intellectual equals, able to keep pace with each other, and they made up for each other’s deficiencies. Albus was a better hand at Transfiguration; Gellert had his own well to draw on when it came to Divination; and so forth.
“I shall teach you, then,” Albus said. He left the phonograph playing, and they both slipped out of the room, leaving Ariana and Aberforth to their dance.
Albus led Gellert to his bedroom, and he found that his heart was beating a little too quickly. For not the first time, he willed for it to slow; he willed for this thing that he knew he felt to fade--because it would get in the way of their future plans, wouldn’t it? It was insignificant, bothersome, in the long run. Gellert would laugh at him, if he knew.
Albus conjured a song for a waltz.
He led the dance, one hand clasped against Gellert’s back, another hand folded around Gellert’s hand. He was slightly taller than Gellert--he could see Gellert’s eyes looking up at him, blue and determined--and they danced.
One two three, one two three.
Albus carefully told Gellert how to shift his feet, and then how to turn. It took awhile for him to get it right, Gellert’s mouth twisted in consternation whenever he made a mistake, but eventually, they waltzed, they pivoted, a semblance of a passable waltz.
“Have you foreseen my next step?” Albus teased, gently leading Gellert into a partial turn.
Gellert shook his head, the corners of his mouth upturned. “No.”
“Have you foreseen the next song?”
“No.”
And suddenly bold, suddenly brave, suddenly forgetting all his doubts, Albus said, “Have you foreseen this?” and he kissed him.
It was a brief, soft press of his mouth against Gellert’s before he pulled back, and Albus could feel the heat on his face, the longing and fear and excitement warming his cheeks and making his heart beat damnably fast again.
“Yes,” Gellert said, with a smile. “I have Seen this.”
Albus’ heart stuttered. They had both stopped dancing now, with the song still playing in the background, and Gellert still in his arms.
“Since when?” he asked, his mouth dry. “Why didn’t you--?”
“I was waiting until you were ready,” Gellert said, squeezing Albus’ hand. He brought Albus’ hand against his lips, and he kissed his knuckles. “And I did not know if we would live in a future where this would come true. Where my vision would be more than a possibility. But I think it was always supposed to be you, Albus.”
Gellert brought Albus’ hand up against his cheek. Albus was cradling Gellert’s face with his palm, now, and he could feel the answering warmth of Gellert’s skin.
“You, always, you,” Gellert whispered.
You, me, the Deathly Hallows, and the world.
1926
There had been representatives from Ilvermorny attending throughout the Triwizard Tournament, studying the possibility of creating an American counterpart. Albus wondered how the Americans would go about it--more flashier and with more explosions, he expected.
Because of the war, the visitors from Ilvermorny were always flanked by aurors, even though Hogwarts had already tightened its security measures. But today--the Yule Ball of all days--there was a new American auror who Albus had never seen before.
A dark haired gentleman who had an important air about him. He wore a black coat, a scarf hung loosely around his neck, scorpion pins at his tie. He wasn't dressed for the Yule Ball at all, but then, he was security instead of an actual participant.
Albus watched him, a sensation prickling in the back of his mind. He felt unusually unsettled tonight, not up to the normal chatter with the rest of the staff, and found himself waving distractedly at the polite hullo, Professor greetings by passing students. He tried to push the unease away, sampling several of the sweets on the tables, the royal blue dress robes he was wearing sweeping behind him as he walked.
“Are you doing all right, Albus?” Horace asked him as he reached for the crystallized pineapple. “You seem rather glum.”
“It's nothing, Horace,” Albus said, shaking his head. “I was merely mulling over the upcoming task and young Gordon’s chances.”
The Hogwarts champion this year was a Gryffindor. Albus often found himself making excuses based on Gordon Corey’s participation when he wanted to escape conversations, especially conversations that touched on the war. He would have to find other excuses when the tournament was over, of course.
“Oh, you needn't worry,” Horace said, chuckling. “Mr. Corey is an enterprising lad. We've all seen him. He makes use of his Muggle upbringing very well.”
Gordon Corey was a Muggleborn, his father a scientist. Corey was a natural talent at potions and herbology. It seemed a strange stroke of chance that he ended up Sorted in Gryffindor, but Albus very well knew that academics didn't determine one’s personality or morals.
“Cheer up, Albus! Enjoy yourself!” Horace said encouragingly. ”Perhaps you could ask Frau Schwarz to a dance.” He nodded toward the headmistress of Durmstrang.
“Perhaps he could dance with me,” a low voice said suddenly, and turning, Albus was face to face with the new American Auror.
“I don't believe we’ve met,” Albus said mildly.
“Oh, Percival!” Horace exclaimed. “Albus, this is Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security at MACUSA. Very important man, you see, he's got the ear of the president herself. I met him at a potions convention once in Paris; MACUSA was planning on adopting some of the new potions into its arsenal.”
There was a hint of a surprised grimace on Graves’ face. “Er, yes, nice to see you again after--Paris.”
Well, that was the customary reaction to Horace in many circles, even if it did seem strangely off.
“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Graves,” Albus said. He decided to be merciful and free Graves from Horace’s clutches. “You mentioned a dance?”
“I did,” Graves said. He gave Horace another nod, and then reached for Albus’ arm. There was something almost natural about the movement, both of them easing to find a spot where the other students and staff were dancing…
“Are you permitted to do this?” Albus asked, before Graves could tuck his hand and arms into the right places against him. “I assumed you were here to guard instead of socialize.”
Graves smirked. “I'm the head of the aurors, Professor, there's no one in authority to stop me. And I hardly think that Grindelwald would storm Hogwarts during the Yule Ball to terrify dozens of dressed up teenagers and topple the punch bowls.”
“He would find it very amusing, actually,” Albus said, with an attempt at airy dismissiveness, and something glinted in Graves’ eyes.
“Maybe he would.”
Graves led the dance. Albus let him take the reins, both of them slowly swaying, simple dance steps between them.
“Are your observations on the Triwizard Tournament going smoothly?” Albus asked. “I assume America shall--”
“Make it flashier and with more explosions, yes,” Graves said. “I've heard it all day, and the other Ilvermorny reps said the same. You Brits.”
“You Americans,” Albus returned. “Quodpot is a very obvious piece of evidence to point to.”
Graves chuckled. It was a warm, deep chuckle, and Albus realised that they were, perhaps, flirting.
...he had never approached another man before with romantic intentions, not after Gellert. Percival Graves was an attractive man, to be sure, but Albus had sworn to never put himself in a situation like that again.
But it was only one night. It was only one dance.
“Why did you ask me to dance?” Albus asked.
“Maybe I was curious about the man whose articles I've seen in Transfiguration Today,” Graves said, with a shrug. “Maybe I was curious about the handsome redhead I saw at a ball and wondered if he wanted to take a spin.”
Albus was forty-five years old and he was absolutely incapable of blushing, but he thought he could feel warmth on his cheeks and his eyes widening. Merlin, he felt like he was eighteen again, ridiculously charmed by something cheeky and teasing that Gellert had said.
“I am flattered,” Albus said, finally. “But do not expect much from this endeavour, Mr. Graves. I don't wish for--romantic entanglements, at the moment.”
“You think I've been rather romantic, Albus?” Graves said, soft, his face angled downward, too close. “No, just this dance, for now. If this is the one thing you can give me.”
The orchestra’s music shifted to a waltz.
One two three, one two three.
They danced, and when Albus closed his eyes, he thought he could see two young boys taking hesitant steps together, hands clasped, their breaths almost mingling. On the bedroom wall were their plans, parchment strewn on the wall with sticking charms, the symbol of the Deathly Hallows scribbled over and over again in the margins.
I think it was always supposed to be you, Albus.
--
(The music ends. Percival Graves lets go of Albus’ hands. And for some reason it feels like Albus has lost something greater than himself. They will meet again, a flash of curses and hexes in a frenetic duel, and it will look nothing like dancing.)