#so instead: a tag essay! so it goes! I exorcise these thoughts so that I may sleep. in the safest yet public method possible.

[grindellore]

fanfiction: scandalous

Fandom: Harry Potter | Fantastic Beasts Pairing: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald Rating: M Warning: Period-typical homophobia (and how to deal with it); suggestiveness

Summary: Late October 1907 at Hogwarts. An unexpected letter and a surprise visit.

Written for @ginagemeni on twitter and tumblr (who I don’t seem to be able to tag...) as part of the Grindeldore Valentine Exchange. I hope you’ll like this!

Proofread by @scamanderthehufflepuff on tumblr for intelligibility of the translations to English that are part of this fic—thank you so much! Of course all mistakes remain mine.

Also available on my AO3 (see the link in my profile).

Oh, do you care I still feel for you So aware What should be lost is there —Nightwish: Beauty of the Beast: Long Lost Love

Albus Dumbledore kept ogling the letter that sat so innocently on his desk. At first he hadn’t paid it much attention, too preoccupied with his other mail: The invitation to the next Wizengamot meeting; three letters from parents who were worried about their children’s performances in his Transfiguration class; five letters from academic friends with whom he was writing articles for journals all over Europe. The final letter had seemed like a specimen copy of some journal for which he had written an article, so he had disregarded it until he had finished his other correspondence. The wax seal, however, couldn’t have been more ominous: Two Gs facing from each other, with an inscribed equilateral triangle surrounding an incircle and a stylised wand that separated both the Gs and the legs of the triangle.

For the Greater Good. He would have recognised that phrase everywhere. After all he was the one who had coined it. The Deathly Hallows symbol was equally familiar even though the way in which the wand was stylised was a new development.

Albus stood, pacing around in his study, debating with himself if he should open the letter. The last time he hadn’t, Gellert had sent him a Howler telling the whole school what a bloody coward Albus Dumbledore was for running away from—and that was where Albus had cut him off with a Silencing Charm.

All in all, Albus had reason to believe that there was some variation of the Tracking Spell on this letter, too. Perhaps Albus’s worries were unnecessary as well. The last time Gellert had simply sent him an article from a German Muggle newspaper. The only sentence in his own handwriting had been a scribbled “See why our mission is still necessary?” at the end of the article, but Albus had still felt as if someone had punched him in the gut.

Our mission. He still thought of it as their mission. Albus had been torn between the bile that rose within him whenever he thought about Gellert’s ruthless methods and the traitorous flutter in his gut.

Reaching a decision, Albus returned to his desk and broke the seal. He was only embarrassing himself if he tried to run away from Gellert when Gellert knew he was running away from him.

It was exactly what Albus had initially thought: A journal. Just like the newspaper article, it was in German, but this time there were more annotations in Gellert’s handwriting. A longer passage was crossed out, with a comment next to it that said: “Only read if you are dying to learn more about the subtleties of German grammar. (Really, just skip over it. It’s boring.)”

Albus sat behind his desk, flipped to the first sentence Gellert had underlined and started to read: “But even if I were to judge a moralist, it wouldn’t cross my mind to use his private life in order to fabricate a dichotomy.” He realised that he wouldn’t understand the context if he didn’t skip back to the beginning ... and that it was still Gellert’s opinion that was more interesting to him than the writing itself.

The desire to discuss his reading with Gellert even after eight years made him feel strangely nostalgic. Gellert seemed to feel the same; why else would he continue to send him annotated articles?

Albus read the essay Gellert had marked from the beginning. He noted that it was about the same controversy as the article Gellert had last sent him: One Maximilian Harden, a journalist, had accused a circle of close friends of the German emperor of homosexual conduct. His prime targets were Prussian diplomat Philipp, Prince of Eulenburg, and General Kuno von Moltke. Moltke’s lawyer had let his client make the mistake to file civil libel against Harden—and a mistake it was; that much was clear to Albus after the trial of Oscar Wilde.

Albus had been thirteen when Wilde was tried. Perhaps it was a good thing he had been at Hogwarts at the time, surrounded by other third years who weren’t all that interested in Muggle affairs. Still, the trial was one of the few things that had made it into the wizarding press, even if it was filed as “something you should know in case a Muggle touches upon it in your presence”. It had filled Albus with a queasy feeling for weeks until he had been able to acknowledge to himself that he, too, might be inclined towards men.

He had picked up courage soon afterwards. In the end, he was still a Gryffindor. But he knew it had been harder for Gellert; Gellert, who had known earlier than him; who had had a hard time to pretend he fit into Durmstrang’s straitjacket of discipline when he really didn’t. It was, perhaps, why Gellert was so harsh and also why he was so vulnerable.

Albus knew he was the only person who had ever seen the full extent of Gellert’s vulnerability. In turn, Gellert was the only person who knew how vulnerable Albus really was. And that was why he could never come to hate Gellert; not truly. Albus had seen his weakness and he had started to love him for it; had started to feel oddly protective of the beautiful, uncompromising boy he had met when he was seventeen.

It was also why he was willing to put up with a lengthy essay in fairly difficult German without even trying to apply a Translation Charm. Gellert hat sent this to him in German, so Albus needed to read it in German.

He soon realised that Karl Kraus, the author of the essay he was reading, was, in fact, defending Kuno von Moltke regardless of whether it was true that he was homosexual: “I’m not a political writer and therefore I am not to investigate if men of politics have adjusted their sexual urge towards skirts or towards trousers. But even if I were to judge a moralist, it wouldn’t cross my mind to use his private life in order to fabricate a dichotomy.”

Albus’s heart skipped a beat. He had always wondered why Gellert had never tried to capitalise on their connection; why he had never pointed out that it was, in fact, Albus who had penned a larger part of his ideology.

Once they had believed their connection was a sacred thing; a bond between two souls that had recognised each other as equals in every way that mattered. Now Albus wondered if Gellert still thought the same; if he, perhaps, didn’t want to throw mud at the memory of what they had had. Then again, Albus might as well be a sentimental fool who needed to see Gellert as the ruthless, manipulative creature he had proven to be time and time again.

Albus decided not to read the whole of the essay. Instead he skipped to the next passage Gellert had marked. Gellert’s commentary read: “Kraus and Harden used to be friends until Kraus realised Harden would do anything to discredit the circle of courtiers surrounding the Emperor that he considers incompetent. Perhaps they are, but Kraus is a ‘the end doesn’t justify the means’ person.”

Interesting, Albus thought. It was particularly interesting because Gellert was the epitome of teleological ethics: To him, the end had always justified the means, and Albus had no reason to assume he had changed in any way. Then again, Albus wasn’t much different; only he had always been borne down by the burden of utilitarian ethics that one had to weigh one’s own good intentions against all possible consequences.

He sighed, returning his focus to the passage Gellert had underlined: “We never had any business with someone who used the existence of a homicidal paragraph of criminal justice for blackmail the political guise of which adds hypocrisy to sheer turpitude; who believes ‘to be allowed to stoop to anything in order to make such people impossible’ when it would at the most be allowed to stoop to anything in order to make such people possible.”

To make such people possible? Had he understood that correctly? Albus squinted. Did the author really mean what Albus thought he meant? He decided to read on.

“He charged interest from the truly tragic disgrace of a morality that permits to treat the spinal cord as a piece of incriminating evidence. He is the culprit of a contemporary inquisition that makes us shudder as we hear it declare its resolution ‘to allow the evidence that the private suitor was particularly averse to the female sex’. That fiendish justice that exorcises in bedchambers, that punishes deviations from the ��norm’ and that condemns dear life to death by the spermatic cord. That ugly presumptive evidence that adheres to the code of criminal procedure of gossip, that provokes a verdict on behalf of His Majesty Cant and, in the sense of a base joke, only accepts the one as ‘normal’ who is seen with a woman Unter den Linden but takes the one who goes out with a man for a paederast and the one who walks alone for an onanist.”

“Feels good to read that, doesn’t it?”

Albus stared at Gellert’s note under the passage. Gellert was right, of course; it did feel good to read another person’s sardonic defence of loving outside “the norm”—and to see the inverted commas in which Kraus had put the latter phrase. He also understood the implications of that passage for Gellert: I don’t want to be judged based on whom I love rather than on what I do. There had been no need for him to write that anywhere; they had talked about this for long enough.

Don’t worry, Albus thought to himself, remembering all the atrocities he had heard about Gellert since their ways had parted. They are going to judge you based on what you did.

Still, there was a traitorous part of himself who wanted to hold Gellert just like he had held him then; who wanted to tell him that even the Muggles would look at the power of his magic rather than at anything else. It was foolish, of course; the impulse of a fool who really should know better by now. And he did. He knew exactly how relentless Gellert was in the pursuit of his ambitions to overthrow the Statute of Secrecy and to rule over Muggles in order to save them from their own self-destructiveness. It had been Gellert’s relentlessness, Gellert’s absolute willingness to sacrifice everything—even Ariana, even them—for his political objectives that had appalled Albus in the end.

But he still loved him. That was exactly what made every piece of news about Gellert’s deeds so painful for Albus. Despite everything, despite his better judgement, he couldn’t root out the love he felt for Gellert. Maybe he could turn it to hate and tell himself there was nothing else anymore, but he would only be lying to himself. Albus Dumbledore might be a fool, but even he wasn’t that foolish.

Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind, Albus focused on the underlined passages again: “Musical disposition is a suspicion, separate bedrooms are proof” ... That was all Gellert had underlined, adding the comment: “Ah, musical disposition. I suppose I should feel spoken to. How about you, dear Albus? Do you feel spoken to? I don’t think you should. You do like music, but your taste is horrible.”

The corners of Albus’s mouth twitched. Trust Gellert to distract you from your gloomy brooding with a joke. It was as if he had anticipated the line Albus’s thoughts would take... Then again, perhaps he had actually foreseen them. You never know with Seers, Albus thought with a fond smile and skipped to the next passage with a comment.

“And in this knavery the defendant makes a dart for the one whose effeminate nature is to be finally disclosed after battles, wounds and forty years as a soldier with the question if it isn’t true, demonstrably true that he enjoys eating sweets and takes chocolates with him to the theatre. And a justice that admits the inquest that the plaintiff used cosmetic products doesn’t apply the rouge of shame.”

On the one hand, it was horrible—the journalist accusing the long-serving soldier on the grounds of such trivial things as liking chocolates. On the other hand, there was Gellert’s comment: “Oh Albus, now you must feel spoken to. I never met a person quite as sweet-toothed as yourself. Then again, so should I. Never in my life have ever I felt the urge to apply rouge, but I do like black eyeshadow. We both stand convicted by these unshakable bits of evidence.” Albus snorted into his wispy beard. Expecting to find another witty comment, he skipped to the final passage Gellert had highlighted.

“But it isn’t true, it is a cruel lie devoid of all historical experience that ‘norm adversity’ disqualifies from the exercise of a public office.”

There was only the word “Exactly” in capital letters followed by three exclamation marks. Albus stared at it for a moment and was tempted to add a comment of his own, something like...

“Not just a lie but a rather careless miscalculation, especially in our cases.”

Albus whipped around in his chair. And there he was, perched on the window bench in his black travelling cloak, with messy golden locks and mesmerising blue eyes. Albus couldn’t look away.

“Wasn’t that what you were thinking?” Gellert’s soft mouth curled into an amused smile.

Albus glowered at him. He closed his agitated mind, shutting out his nosy ex-boyfriend with his complete lack of respect for another person’s privacy.

“Since when have you been listening in on my thoughts?” he asked.

“Oh ... Not for long.” Gellert regarded his fingernails with the disarming nonchalance of a person who had nothing to fear; who didn’t have a price on his head in several countries of Europe. “I Apparated to that strange forest as soon as I noticed you had broken the seal of my letter. Then I made myself invisible and walked right into the castle and to your study. You really should close the door if you want some privacy.”

“My door is always open to my students.” Albus gave him a piercing look. “It would never occur to either them or my colleagues to sneak into my study and use Legilimency on me.”

“I rather doubt they could do it without you noticing either.” Gellert grinned, full of the boyish pride of a young wizard who had managed a particularly complicated spell. Albus felt a pang of yearning flare through his body. Gellert was especially beautiful when he was like this; so proud of himself as if he had managed to pluck a forbidden fruit.

“What do you want?” Albus said as dismissively as possible. He couldn’t allow his feelings to win over his reason; not with all the disgusting things he had read about Gellert and his quest for more followers...

“Oh, I just want what I always want.” Gellert slid from the window bench and walked over to Albus’s desk. “There is only one thing in this whole castle that I want.” He sat on the desk angling his body towards Albus so one foot was still on the floor. Propping up his elbow on one knee, he glanced down at Albus under long, thick lashes. “You.”

Albus was sure Gellert had a specific set of postures and gazes committed to memory that made him look particularly appealing. This was definitely one of them. He had to fight down the urge to yank Gellert towards him by his travelling cloak...

Gellert smirked. Even with Albus’s mind closed so he couldn’t read it, he was still able to decipher Albus’s body language. Albus was sure his eyes had darkened for the fraction of a second and he was also sure his reaction hadn’t passed Gellert unnoticed.

“I think it’s time to close the door now,” Gellert said and pulled out a wand Albus hadn’t seen on him before. He knew what Gellert’s wand looked like, but this ... This looked like the wand on the seal of Gellert’s letter. His eyes widened.

“Is that...”

“Of course it is.” Gellert cast a series of rather exaggerated locking spells before he slid the wand back into the inner pocket of his cloak. Then he shrugged off the cloak, allowing it to pool behind him on the desk. He was wearing a blue shirt, black trousers and a black waistcoat with silver buttons.

“You don’t seem to value it as much as I thought you would if you put it away just like that,” Albus commented dryly.

“Ah, I think it’s safe here,” Gellert said nonchalantly. “You wouldn’t steal it from me. Besides, I didn’t lie when I said I would share it with you. You’d just need to come with me and…”

“That won’t happen,” Albus said gruffly.

“Your loss.” Gellert sighed. “Unfortunately it is also my loss.”

“Is that so?” Albus said. He managed to utter his words in a sardonic tone even though his heart was beating fast. “It was you who walked away.”

“It was you who didn’t come with me.” Gellert looked into his eyes.

“And you know exactly why.” Albus met Gellert’s gaze.

“Albus,” Gellert said softly. “It was an accident. I liked Ariana and I never meant for any more harm to come over your family.”

“You did mean to harm my brother.”

“He drew his wand on me, so I drew mine.”

“He was no match for you.”

“We were both hotheads and equally old.” Gellert frowned. “There was nothing unfair about duelling him.”

“You used an Unforgivable Curse on my own brother!” Albus stood in order to be on the same level as Gellert. He was getting angry.

“Yes, and I am sorry about that.”

Albus was taken off guard. Gellert wasn’t supposed to apologise.

“Like I said, we were both hotheads, and in my anger I went over the top.”

“You’re the most choleric person I have ever met.”

“Perhaps.” Gellert gave him a bittersweet smile.

“I only ever realised how imbalanced you really were when you attacked my brother with the Cruciatus Curse,” Albus pressed on.

“That was because you had been there to balance me before.”

Albus made a stifled noise in his throat. Gellert suddenly looked hopeful.

“You’re the person who grounds me, Albus. You’re the one who smooths out the raw edges of my self. That is one reason why I need you so much.”

“It’s too late, Gellert.” Albus felt tears welling up in his eyes. He tried to blink them away. “It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late.” Gellert held his gaze and continued: “The other reason is that I love you. It’s so hard to live without the man you love.”

“It really is.” Albus’s voice was shaky.

“Then come with me, Albus!” Gellert extended his hand for him to take. “You read the essay. Don’t you see how indispensable it still is to break the Statute of Secrecy? Both the judicial systems of the Muggles and our own are utterly misguided and must be replaced.”

“They must be reformed,” Albus said quietly. “I see that and I’m working towards it. But what you want is violence.”

“I want a revolution,” Gellert retorted. “Revolutionaries mustn’t shy away from violence if they want success. But I listened to you. I will only use the force I must to overcome my adversaries. Never more.” His voice was urgent. “Come, Albus! Take my hand.”

“I’m sorry, Gellert,” Albus said. There was regret in his voice. “I have chosen my path and it leads me away from you.”

“Yes, I know,” Gellert said mockingly. “The path of politics—of boring Wizengamot meetings and of having a lot of staying power.” He sneered. The handsome fullness of his lips twisted into a thin line. “With me you could have everything. Now. Together we would be unstoppable.”

“Gellert, I still love you but I don’t have any sympathies for your methods left.” Albus sighed. “You should know that by now.”

“I do,” Gellert whispered. He stepped closer. “I do, but that doesn’t mean I understand. Your brilliant thoughts—our wonderful discussions—our mutual desire to join our bodies just as we joined our minds ... To me that has always been the same. I don’t understand why you want to separate one from the other now.” Gellert’s outstretched hand cupped Albus’s cheeks. There was a raw vulnerability in his gaze. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too!” Albus choked out. He wrapped Gellert in his arms—despite himself; despite the nagging voice in his mind that told him he was making a mistake. Gellert responded immediately, cradling Albus’s head in his hands and pulling him down for a kiss. Albus tilted his head, kissing Gellert with abandon until he felt him melt against him, just like he was melting against Gellert’s mouth.

When Gellert came up for air, there was a dazed look on his face. His fingers started to stroke Albus’s cheek, then traced the shape of his lips.

“Your mouth is so soft under that beard.” He smiled. “I always liked your hair. It feels so nice and silky.”

The adoration on Gellert’s face had always confused Albus more than anything. He had always wondered what this unearthly handsome creature saw in him: Long face, lanky limbs, freckles all over his body and now a broken nose as well. But then Gellert looked at him like this, pointing out details he found beautiful and trains of thought he found particularly noteworthy. Gellert was good at giving compliments. Albus wasn’t.

“Kiss me again.” It was a raw whisper.

And Gellert did, hands roaming over his shoulders and back, working their way under the cream-coloured silk cloth Albus had tied around his throat in lieu of a cravat. As soon as Gellert had freed his throat, he kissed there too, sucking a lovebite on the soft flesh above Albus’s collarbone. Albus backed him against his desk, pulling their bodies as close as he could.

“I want you,” Gellert said in the same urgent tone in which he had asked Albus to come with him. “I want to sleep with you.” And this time Albus complied.

Notes:

The essay Gellert sends to Albus is “Maximilian Harden: Eine Erledigung” (“Maximilian Harden: A Dispatch”) by Austrian writer Karl Kraus (1874-1936) in the October 1907 issue of his satirical journal Die Fackel (The Torch). The text is in the public domain and the English translations are all mine.

Famously, Oscar Wilde’s downfall also started with him prosecuting the Marquess of Queensberry for criminal libel in 1895. In Wilde v Queensberry evidence was collected that eventually led to Wilde’s own persecution, trial for “gross indecency with men” and eventual two-year prison sentence in Reading Gaol (1895-1897). Kuno von Moltke also tried to file criminal libel against Maximilian Harden but the court dismissed his lawyer’s attempt, making him resort to filing civil libel.

Unter den Linden (“Under the lime trees”) is the name of a famous boulevard in the centre of Berlin.