Chapter Text
AD
I can't go home.
The thought stops me at the edge of the woods, one hand against a tree trunk, breathing too hard. Behind me, the clearing where it happened. Ahead, the village. Our house. Aberforth and Ariana sleeping, unaware.
I can't walk through that door. Can't face them with this still on me—the smell of magic and death, the green flash burned into my vision, the knowledge of what I watched and what I felt watching it.
Green.
That's what stays with me. Not the bird—though I see that too, the way its eye opened, aware and wrong. Not even Gellert's face, triumphant and terrible.
Just green.
The specific green of the Killing Curse, splitting the summer dark like a wound. The way it hung in the air for a heartbeat—sick and bright and absolute—before the bird went rigid.
I've read about the curse. Everyone has. Unforgivable. Irreversible. The color of malice made manifest.
But I'd never seen it cast.
Never seen how casually a human hand could make that gesture. How easily those syllables could leave a throat. How Gellert raised his wand with the same motion he might use to light a lamp or summon a book—practiced, efficient, unremarkable.
"Avada Kedavra."
Like it was nothing. Like ending a life required no more effort than breath.
And I stood there and watched. Stood there while that green light illuminated his face—excited, eager, already thinking three steps ahead to what he'd do next—and I didn't stop him. Didn't speak. Didn't even move.
What kind of person watches someone cast an Unforgivable Curse and stays silent?
What kind of person sees that green flash—that color that means death, that everyone is taught to fear and flee—and feels their pulse quicken not with horror but with something else entirely?
Because underneath the revulsion, underneath the shock, there was something worse.
I was aroused.
God help me, I was hard. Pupils blown. Pulse racing. Not from fear—or not just from fear. From the sheer audacity of it. From watching Gellert Grindelwald do the impossible with the casual competence of someone who'd done it before and would do it again without hesitation.
From wanting to see what he'd do next.
But worse than the arousal—worse than the physical response I'm used to managing, used to burying—was the intellectual capitulation.
His argument was sound.
Predation versus transition. The Veil as evidence. The window theory as testable hypothesis. The distinction between Dementor consumption and natural death.
I stood there in that clearing and couldn't refute him. Couldn't find the flaw in his reasoning. Couldn't counter his logic with anything more substantial than "that's wildly speculative"—which isn't a rebuttal, just an observation.
And that's more dangerous than the Killing Curse.
That I was convinced before I was seduced.
I lean against the tree, press my forehead to the rough bark. The night air is cool against my face. Summer dark, thick with the smell of earth and growing things. Peaceful. Normal.
Nothing like the moment I stood close enough to see the freckles on Gellert's face and listened to him dismantle every objection I had about the permeability of death.
I can't go home like this.
So I walk.
The graveyard finds me without conscious decision. My feet carry me there through empty streets, past shuttered shops and sleeping houses where normal people have normal dreams.
The Potter headstone is pale in the moonlight. White marble, pristine. This is where it started, three days ago—god, only three days?—when Gellert appeared behind me like a conjuration.
I sink down onto the grass beside it, pull my knees up, rest my forehead against them. The stone is cool at my back. Solid. Real.
Not like the impossible thing I just witnessed.
Every time I close my eyes, I see it. That flash of green. The way the bird's eye opened, tracking, aware. Ninety-three seconds of consciousness trapped in dead flesh.
And I watched. Watched and was fascinated. Watched and wanted to understand how he'd done it.
What does that make me?
The first birds start singing as the sky begins to grey. Dawn coming. I force myself to stand, legs numb and stiff.
I should be horrified. I am horrified. But underneath the revulsion is something worse: curiosity. What would it feel like? Not to witness but to cast? To feel that much power move through me with such perfect clarity?
I shove the thought away. But it circles back. Again. And again.
The walk back feels like walking toward judgment.
I'm still half a lane from home when I see her.
Ariana.
I stop dead.
She's in the Caldwell garden, visible through the gate. Mrs. Caldwell is there too, and a girl about Ariana's age—Emma. They're picking strawberries in the early morning light.
Ariana is laughing.
Actually laughing—bright and unguarded—at something Mrs. Caldwell just said. Her hands are stained red with berry juice, her hair loose around her face. She looks normal. Happy. Like any fourteen-year-old girl spending a summer morning with friends.
When's the last time I saw her laugh like that?
Mrs. Caldwell says something about jam-making, and Ariana nods eagerly. They're talking like equals, like friends, like Ariana is just another village girl and not someone who has to be hidden away.
And I'd said no to this.
Had stood in our kitchen and told her she couldn't come here because what if something happened, what if her magic got away from her, what if someone found out—
All my careful reasons. All my protective instincts.
All my fear dressed up as duty.
I watch her wipe berry juice on her apron, watch her be normal for just a few moments.
And I'm standing here covered in dirt and leaves, still seeing green flashes when I blink, coming from a clearing where I watched someone cast an Unforgivable Curse and couldn't counter his argument.
What right do I have to keep her locked away when I'm the one consorting with expelled wizards and forbidden knowledge?
When I'm the one who stood in a moonlit clearing and thought: yes, the theory is sound, we could bring them back?
"Albus."
I spin around. Aberforth stands at the end of the lane, still in his nightshirt and boots, hair uncombed. He must have woken up, found me gone, searched.
Found Ariana gone.
His face is carefully neutral, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands are clenched at his sides.
"How long have you been out here?" His voice is flat.
"I went for a walk. Lost track of time."
He looks at me properly: the dirt on my clothes, the leaves in my hair, the hollow eyes. Then he looks past me toward the Caldwell garden where Ariana's laugh carries on the morning air.
"She snuck out," he says. "Before dawn. Left a note saying she'd be back for breakfast. I let her go. Watched from the window to make sure she got there safe, but I let her go."
Something in his voice—not quite accusation, but close.
"She wanted to make jam. You said no. So she snuck out like a prisoner escaping." His voice drops. "Where were you? All night. Where?"
I can't answer. Can't tell him the truth.
His eyes narrow. "With Bathilda's boy. The one from Durmstrang." Not a question. His jaw tightens. "The one she says was expelled for experiments with—" He stops, and something crosses his face. Recognition. Horror. "Christ, Albus. What are you doing?"
"Nothing. We're just—it's academic research—"
"Don't." The word cuts like a blade. "Don't lie to me. I've been watching you for days. You're coming apart, and it's because of him."
"That's not—"
"You think I don't see it?" Aberforth's voice drops lower, more dangerous. "You think I don't notice when my brother starts acting like Father did before they took him away? That same look in your eyes—like you're somewhere else, thinking about things you shouldn't be thinking about."
The comparison hits like a physical blow. "I'm nothing like—"
"You're exactly like him." Aberforth takes another step forward. "He got obsessed too. With protecting magical children, with getting revenge, with making things right through magic and violence. And look where it got him. Look where it got all of us."
And the terrible thing is—he's right.
"You're sneaking around with some boy who was expelled for dark magic. Staying out all night. Coming back looking like you've seen a ghost. And meanwhile, Ariana is so desperate to escape the prison you've made that she's sneaking out before dawn."
"I'm trying to protect her," I say, but it sounds weak.
"You're trying to hide her." Aberforth's hands are shaking now. "And you know what the worst part is? You want out. You want out of this house, out of this responsibility, out of this life. And that boy—he's your excuse."
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't form a denial because it might be true.
"I see you looking at the door like it's a cage," Aberforth says quietly. "I see you watching me take care of Ariana like you resent it. And I don't blame you for feeling it. Mother's been dead six months, Father's been gone for years, and you gave up everything to stay here with us."
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is harder.
"But Ariana didn't ask for any of this. She didn't ask to be broken. She didn't ask for you to look at her like she's the reason your life is ruined."
The words are so accurate, so precisely aimed at the dark thoughts I barely let myself acknowledge, that I feel sick.
"So here's what's going to happen." His voice has gone flat. Decided. "You're going to go home. You're going to tell Ariana she can go to the Caldwells anytime she wants. That she doesn't have to sneak out like a criminal."
He pauses.
"And then you're going to stay away from that Grindelwald boy. Completely. Permanently. Whatever you think you're doing—it ends now."
"You can't—"
"I can and I am." His jaw sets. "Because I'm not watching you destroy yourself. I'm not watching you turn into Father, chasing after dark magic until it ruins all of us."
The silence stretches between us. From the Caldwell garden, I hear Ariana laugh again.
"Come on," Aberforth says finally. "Let's go home."
Maybe Father wasn't wrong to act. Maybe he was only wrong to act alone. To strike from rage rather than principle. To destroy rather than protect.
What if the answer isn't 'never intervene' but 'intervene wisely'? Systematically. With others who can think clearly, who aren't blinded by personal vengeance.
But who decides when intervention is justified? Who determines what constitutes 'thinking clearly'?
The questions circle. I have no answers.
Except—I know Gellert would have answers. Would have thought through these exact questions with the rigorous logic he applies to everything.
Maybe that's why I'm going back to him. Not despite the dangerous thinking, but because of it.
We don't speak on the walk back. The house looks the same as always. Small. Ordinary. Home. Prison. Both.
"Get cleaned up," Aberforth says at the door. "I'll make breakfast."
I climb the stairs. Strip off my clothes. Wash my face in the basin, scrubbing hard like I can wash away the memory of that green flash.
Clean clothes. Combed hair. My reflection in the mirror looks almost normal.
Not like someone who spent the night watching Unforgivable Curses in a moonlit clearing.
Downstairs, Aberforth is making breakfast. Eggs. Toast. Tea. We don't speak.
I sit at the table, hands wrapped around a teacup, watching him work. His shoulders are rigid with tension.
Ariana returns twenty minutes later, humming, carrying a basket of strawberries and wearing a smile I haven't seen in months.
She stops when she sees both of us. The smile falters.
"Oh. You're both up early."
"Morning walk," I say.
Her eyes move between us, reading the tension. Her smile fades further.
"I left a note," she says quietly. "About the Caldwells. I just wanted to help with the jam—"
"It's fine," Aberforth cuts in, voice gentler with her. "You can go back anytime you want. No more sneaking out. Just tell me when you're going."
She blinks, surprised. "Really?"
"Really." He glances at me. "Your brother agrees. Don't you, Albus?"
I force myself to nod. "Of course. I was wrong to say no before. I'm sorry."
Ariana studies my face, and I see the moment she understands something is wrong.
"What happened?" she asks softly.
"Nothing happened," Aberforth says quickly. "Your brother just realized he was being overprotective. That's all."
But Ariana keeps looking at me, reading the signs: the exhaustion, the haunted look I can't hide.
"Someone showed you something," she says quietly. "Something that made you feel big and small at the same time."
My throat closes.
"Did it work?" she asks. "The thing you saw?"
I can't lie to her. "Yes. It worked."
She nods slowly. "And now you don't know if you're more amazed or more frightened."
"Both."
She reaches across the table, squeezes my hand briefly. "Then be careful, Albus. Because the things that amaze us are usually the things that destroy us."
She picks up her basket and heads upstairs, leaving Aberforth and me alone.
The afternoon finds me unable to focus. I try to read. Can't. Try to organize books. Give up. The house feels too small, the air too thick.
I find myself standing outside my parents' bedroom without deciding to go there. Hand on the doorknob.
Mother's door has been shut since the funeral. The thought of opening it feels like trespass—as if she's still inside, tidying, humming.
The evening light touches the brass handle—gold, warm, nothing like the green that still flashes behind my eyelids. I think of her hands—steady, capable, unyielding.
Then I imagine what I'd find: not comfort, but the exact shape of my own confinement. Her life compressed into one room. Her brilliance reduced to maintaining appearances.
Her death the only escape she got.
I step back from the door.
I won't be her.
I turn and head downstairs, reaching for my coat—
The knock comes.
Three measured raps on the front door.
My hand freezes.
No.
But I know it is. Know with absolute certainty who's standing on the other side.
"I'll get it!" Ariana's voice from upstairs. Her footsteps on the stairs.
I'm moving, but Aberforth is faster. His heavy tread from the kitchen.
"Ariana, step back."
I reach the entrance hall just in time to see Aberforth move in front of our sister, physically blocking her. His whole body becomes a wall.
Gellert stands on the doorstep, hand still raised. His eyes are on Ariana—or where Ariana was before Aberforth blocked her.
"Who are you?" Aberforth's voice is flat, dangerous.
"I'm Gellert Grindelwald. I'm staying with Bathilda Bagshot—"
"I know who you are." Aberforth hasn't moved, hasn't relaxed an inch. "What are you doing here?"
I'm frozen. Watching this happen. Unable to move. Unable to speak.
Gellert's eyes find me over Aberforth's shoulder. Something flickers in his face—relief? Hope?
"I was hoping to speak with Albus," he says carefully. "About some historical research—"
"Abe?" Ariana's voice from behind him, confused. "Who is it?"
"No one." Aberforth's voice is steel. "Go inside, Ariana."
"But—"
"Now."
I hear Ariana's footsteps retreat reluctantly.
Aberforth turns his head just slightly—not enough to take his eyes off Gellert, but enough to see me.
And the look he gives me—
It's worse than anger. It's recognition. Understanding. The sudden, terrible comprehension of exactly what's been happening.
And beneath that—contempt so pure it feels like a physical blow.
My brother—my younger brother—looking at me like I'm something pathetic and shameful and weak.
Like I'm Father all over again.
"Albus." Not a question. A condemnation.
I can't speak.
Aberforth turns back to Gellert. "My brother isn't seeing visitors."
"I understand, but if I could just—"
"Five minutes." Aberforth steps aside just enough to let Gellert enter, but his body language screams threat. "Then you're gone. And you don't come back."
He looks at me again. That same look—disappointment and disgust and something that might be fear.
"Your friend is here," he says, and the words drip with scorn.
Then he turns and follows Ariana deeper into the house, leaving us alone.
The silence is suffocating.
Gellert steps inside slowly. His eyes are on me, reading my face, seeing everything.
"I didn't know you had a sister," he says quietly.
"You weren't supposed to see her." The words come out harsh. "No one is supposed to see her."
"Why not?"
"It doesn't matter." I press my palms against my eyes. "You need to leave. You shouldn't have come here. Aberforth—you saw what he's like."
"He's protective."
"He's furious. With me. Because of you." I lower my hands, meet Gellert's eyes. "Because I stayed out all night. Because I came home covered in dirt looking like I'd seen a ghost. Because he knows I've been lying about where I've been and what I've been doing. Because he thinks you're going to destroy me."
"And what do you think?"
The question hangs between us. The clock in the hall ticks loudly.
"I think I should tell you to leave and never come back," I say. My voice sounds strange. Distant. "I think I should burn your letters and forget I ever—"
"What if I don't want to leave?" He's close enough now that I can see the faint shadows under his eyes. He didn't sleep either. "What if I came here because I couldn't stay away?"
The words land like stones in still water.
"My brother suspects. He knows."
"One conversation," Gellert says. "That's all. One hour away from this house. Let me show you what I've found. About the Peverells. About possibility."
I should say no.
But Aberforth's look is still burning in my mind. That contempt. That disappointment.
He already thinks the worst of me.
And part of me wants to go. Wants to hear more. Wants to understand how the theory works, whether the suffering could be eliminated.
Whether death really is just transition.
Whether Mother—
No.
"One hour," I hear myself say. "Then this ends."
"One hour," Gellert agrees. But there's something in his eyes that says he doesn't believe me any more than I believe myself.
From deeper in the house, I hear Aberforth's voice, low and angry.
"There's a meadow," I say quickly. "Past the church. Twenty minutes."
"Why not just—"
"Because I need to talk to my brother first." I stop. "I owe him that much."
Gellert nods slowly. Studies my face one more time, like he's memorizing it.
Then he turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.
I stand in the entrance hall, breathing hard, knowing what's coming.
Sure enough, footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.
Aberforth appears from the parlor.
"Kitchen," he says. "Now."