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Half a year had passed since the duel of the century.
Dumbledore finally picked up the courage to face Grindelwald, bringing with him only a small ray of hope that he wouldn’t be met with overt anger.
He could still picture the spectacular yet heart-wrenching ending of the duel half a year ago – Grindelwald, half leaning on what was left of a wall, eyes glazed and unseeing, as if he had exhausted all his energy; the Elder Wand knocked aside, its once unyielding wrath gradually subsiding and turning into surrender to a new master.
"What are you waiting for?" Grindelwald had asked him, panting. "Do it, Dumbledore. You know how unforgivable the things I have done are. The world will thank you and sing your name – Albus Dumbledore, the greatest sorcerer of our time."
Dumbledore had pursed his lips and remained silent, not showing the slightest joy in his victory. Amid the cheers of the surrounding crowd, he had dragged himself forward and picked up the Elder Wand lying on the ground.
It was all over. Grindelwald had closed his eyes, readying himself for a final judgement long overdue.
He had been at the end of his strength. The fire that was once his life had turned to ashes, its dying flames shivering like candlelight in the wind.
There had been no need for mercy. Death for him would have been the sweetest homecoming.
"No, I won't do that," Dumbledore had breathed. He’d squatted down next to Grindelwald, who was by then extremely weak, and held his gaze, murmuring the name of his old friend softly and sadly.
"You need to rest, Gellert."
Now, Grindelwald’s followers had been rounded up over the past six months, so they could no longer cause any real trouble. As the loser of the duel, Grindelwald had been ordered to spend the rest of his life confined in Godric's Hollow.
When Dumbledore found him there, he was, honestly speaking, quite shocked.
Grindelwald stayed in a cottage on the edge of the Hollow, far away from any other soul. He was basking in the sun in the backyard, sitting in a dilapidated rocking chair like an old man. He had an open book lying on his lap. Dumbledore wondered who had given it to him.
He looked much older than he had half a year ago – a harbinger of death.
"Aren’t you going to come in?" he asked.
Dumbledore hesitated, before nodding.
Grindelwald got up, staggering slightly, perhaps due to sitting for too long. He walked slowly to the window and put the book on the sill before opening the door and welcoming Dumbledore in.
Dumbledore looked around as he entered. It was a house of an ordinary wooden structure, with a fairly spacious living room, but no decorations, only old furniture. Grindelwald had another rocking chair inside, of the same style as the one in the backyard.
He pulled out a dining chair for Dumbledore. It was covered in indigo upholstery with only the legs exposed, and Dumbledore noticed that half of them were of different colors. It was obviously a broken chair that had been repaired multiple times. Not knowing what to say, he sat down in silence and the chair creaked, overwhelmed by his weight.
"Coffee or tea?"
Slowly and deliberately, Grindelwald opened a largely empty cabinet and somehow managed to produce a can of instant coffee and a box of tea bags.
"Tea," Dumbledore said, nodding nervously. He felt that he must have sounded utterly stupid, so in an attempt to salvage the situation, he hastily added, "Thank you."
While Grindelwald was boiling the water, Dumbledore quietly continued to look around. Compared with Nurmengard, this room was much humbler and barer, with only a dining table, dining chairs, a rocking chair, and a bookcase in the living room. Still, Grindelwald had wiped them all clean.
The table in front of him was covered with a faded tablecloth, and in the middle of it was a crude clay vase containing a few small flowers with yellow stamens and purple petals. Dumbledore, wondering what kind of flowers they were, reached out to touch the petals. He thought they were fresh, but after touching them, he realized that they were dried flowers that looked no different from fresh ones. They still retained the beauty and vitality of life, plump and bright, holding a confident posture. Layers upon layers of tiny petals wrapped around the stamens, with a wax-like texture, delicate like a work of art.
The dried waxy petals, however, couldn't bear his curiosity. Some broke off, fallen pieces scattering on the table. He quickly whispered a spell to restore everything and sat upright, pretending nothing had happened.
It took Grindelwald quite a while to come out of the kitchen, holding a tray with two cups and a pot of hot water on it. He put them on the table. He didn't immediately make tea, but slowly picked up a sugar cube and put it into Dumbledore's cup – once, twice, three times, four times...
"No need!" Dumbledore didn't know why he blurted it out this way, but since he had said it, he had to try smoothing it over. "Just two will be fine. Thank you."
Grindelwald froze. His hand, holding the fifth sugar cube, stopped in mid-air, and it took a few seconds for him to lower it.
"Sorry," Dumbledore heard him say, "maybe I remembered it wrong."
He picked up the cup in front of Dumbledore with unsteady hands, as if he couldn’t decide whether to throw the unwanted cubes in the wastebasket or put them back into the sugar jar. Finally, he seemed to decide against wasting them and put the extra ones back into the jar.
For a moment, Dumbledore felt his heart aching. Perhaps those little sugar cubes were Grindelwald's way of expressing kindness, and he had just rejected it. The man in front of him who would clean the room and make coffee and tea with his own hands could no longer endanger the Muggle or the wizarding world. He had no need to worry that his dear Gellert would use Dark magic to make any more trouble.
After all, this man was dying.
Today, tomorrow, or the day after, his death would eventually come.
After confirming that there were only two cubes of sugar in the cup, Grindelwald made the tea and pushed the cup over to Dumbledore without making one for himself.
"How are… Are you doing alright here?" Dumbledore asked with a deliberately casual and indifferent tone. He didn't touch the steaming hot cup of tea. He was probing, trying to verify his conjectures.
Grindelwald glanced at him, but didn’t answer the question. "The Alliance has been broken apart, and they hold no sway anywhere any longer. There is only one among my followers, Vinda, to whom you may need to pay some special attention."
"It’s been your life's work after all. Don't you mourn your losses?"
"With the collapse of the Alliance, there will be no more hot-headed little witches or wizards who dream to overturn the Statute of Secrecy."
"This is what must be done, Gellert."
"Do you really care?" Grindelwald asked, frowning.
Dumbledore was puzzled. "Beg pardon, what did you say?"
"I asked," Grindelwald repeated, with every syllable drawn out, "do you really care?" For a split second after having asked it, he paused. Then he shook his head with a scoff before adding, "Forget it. There's nothing left to care about."
Dumbledore could only nod, pretending to agree. He picked up the hot tea and took a sip, letting the bitterness of the brew spread in his mouth. He put the teacup down in silence. Two cubes of sugar were really too few.
After awkwardly sitting around for a while, Dumbledore couldn't find any other new topics, and Grindelwald didn't seem to plan for him to stay. He just went on lying back in his rocking chair, looking more and more like an old man.
Not intending to further embarrass himself, Dumbledore got up and said goodbye. Before leaving, he announced, "I’ll still come to visit you."
Grindelwald also got up to watch him leave.
"I’m useless now," he said, watching trough the bars as Dumbledore put his hat on and the front door closed before his eyes.
"You don't need to watch me anymore," he added before Dumbledore Apparated.
*
After that, Dumbledore kept returning to Godric's Hollow once a week, but he was coldly driven away by Grindelwald every time. He never received the same treatment as the first time. Maybe he shouldn't have declined the cup of black tea that was probably as sweet as honey, or maybe it was because of Grindelwald's self-esteem. Either way, they never got to talk to each other again.
Each time Dumbledore arrived, Grindelwald was reading in his creaking rocking chair. The first few times he angrily put down the book, stood up and ordered Dumbledore to leave, mockingly saying that he should be busy saving the world instead of watching an old man who had lost everything. When Dumbledore kept coming back, Grindelwald stopped even bothering to get up; he just nestled in his rocking chair, waving his visitor away with a deep frown. After a while, he would just read his book in silence, without even gracing Dumbledore with a sideways look through the iron fence.
Every time, Dumbledore simply tramped away and came back at the same time the next weekend.
But this time, something was obviously off.
When Dumbledore showed up, the backyard was unusually quiet. There was no sound of a rocking chair complaining or pages fluttering.
Grindelwald was leaned sideways in the rocking chair with a book on his lap, held in place by one of his hands, its cover facing up. His head was tilted to the side. He looked as if he was asleep.
Trying to calm his suddenly thunderous, quickened heartbeat, Dumbledore opened the gate and walked into the small yard where he had been refused entry for so many months.
He first put his finger under Grindelwald's nose to test his breath. Only when he had confirmed that the old prisoner was really just asleep did Dumbledore notice that the book under his hand was a poetry collection by Rabindranath Tagore. He knew of this author, who was renowned throughout the Muggle world.
Dumbledore left Grindelwald alone and went indoor to make himself a cup of black tea, with six sugar cubes. He waited quietly, but his composure quickly turned to panic, as Grindelwald was still fast asleep at midnight.
This couldn’t be right.
He carried the comatose man up to the bedroom on the second floor. After casting a small warming spell, Dumbledore stroked his ice-cold fingers. He couldn’t stop blaming himself.
It must have been some time since the symptom of lethargy surfaced, but Grindelwald had hidden it very well every time Dumbledore saw him. Perhaps he had experienced long periods of sleep before today, but this time he had failed to wake up before Dumbledore’s planned arrival.
Scrambling for a solution, Dumbledore could think of no other way but to call Newt. After all, only a loyal friend like Newt would come to his rescue in such circumstances.
In the early hours of the next day, Dumbledore finally heard a light knock on the door. Having been waiting for a long time, he got up, opened the door, and welcomed the magizoologist in.
"Coffee or tea?" he asked.
"Uh, thanks, Albus." The shy scholar stood cautiously by the dining table and put down his suitcase. "Coffee, please. It's late at night after all..."
"Please sit down." Dumbledore took instant coffee out of the cupboard, motioning for Newt to be seated. "There’s only instant coffee here. Hope you don't mind?"
"I don't mind." Newt couldn’t decide between the dining chair and the rocking chair and ended up standing. "Albus, I brought the potion you asked for."
"Oh, thank you." Dumbledore came out of the kitchen with the coffee and seemed a little puzzled as to why Newt was still standing with his hands crossed over his chest. After briefly exchanging pleasantries, he went upstairs with the potion.
"I'll go check on Gellert first, Newt. Make yourself comfortable here," he said.
Unfortunately, after a long while, the potion still didn't seem to be working. Dumbledore went downstairs, looking extremely morose, just in time to see Newt adjusting Grindelwald’s book, which was lying upside down on the dining table. Dumbledore realized that he must have left it there when bringing Grindelwald upstairs earlier.
"That’s the book Gellert has been reading recently – a collection of works by the Muggle poet Rabindranath Tagore. I’m also surprised to find him interested in something like that," he said, seeing Newt's hand freeze in mid-air. The magizoologist seemed unsure whether to put the book back in its original position, or arrange it in his own way.
"Don't worry," Dumbledore comforted him. "Gellert won't do anything to you."
"You wouldn't think so if you read the contents of this book." Newt seemed a little desperate. "Mr. Grindelwald will definitely kill me, even if the only weapon he has access to now is the spoons in the kitchen. "
Dumbledore approached with slight amusement and glanced at the page:
Once we dream that we are strangers.
We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.
Dumbledore also fell silent. He could only pat Newt on the shoulder and say dryly, "I assure you that you are safe from him."
"Thank you for your reassurance," Newt said with downcast eyes. "I don't intend to meddle in anything between the two of you, but... I just want to ask, are you okay, Albus?"
"Thank you, Newt." Dumbledore stared down at the small vase of dried flowers on the table. "Gellert... he... seems to be stuck in a dream."
Newt turned his head. Seeing Dumbledore this distraught made him feel the impulse to offer some comfort, no matter whether it could help or not. "Maybe... he just didn't want to wake up because the dream was too wonderful."
"Anyway, thank you very much for everything you did today," Dumbledore said, rubbing his nose.
Newt knew that it was time to leave. He picked up his suitcase and opened and shut his mouth, unspeaking. But in the end, his concern for his friend trumped everything else, and he stopped at the door.
"Albus," he said softly, "I’m just worried about you. And because it’s you, I would like to offer one more suggestion."
Dumbledore didn’t respond.
"There is a magical creature called the Dream Eater. It lives by preying on people's dreams, and it can also take you into his dreams," Newt said, as he gently closed the door, "if you would like to try."
*
Five days later, Newt returned to Godric's Hollow with the Dream Eater.
This time Newt was carrying a great many things, from books to bedding, which made the way he was pulling them out of his handbags look a little comical.
He even pulled out several bags of Muggle candies.
"He doesn't eat those things," Dumbledore said slowly while he watched Newt. "I mean, Gellert... I haven't seen him being partial to sweets."
"This is for you." For a long time, Newt stared at Dumbledore with a strange look in his eyes. "You obviously love him very much."
"I don't know," replied Dumbledore. He walked up to the second floor, entered the bedroom, and stood next to Grindelwald's bed.
Grindelwald was still lying in the same position as before. Dumbledore flicked his wand to levitate him, moved him to the rocking chair in the living room, and then covered him with a blanket.
Newt’s suitcase was now left open on the ground. After a while, he came out holding a creature the length of an adult’s arm that looked like a pig with an elephant’s trunk.
"So this is our protagonist today?" Under the dim light, Dumbledore reached out and touched the little beast's nose, watching him sneeze and shake his head. "It's really amazing to consume a dream, or enter a dream..."
"Uh...yes." Newt coaxed the Dream Eater, who started crawling on him after sneezing. "Are you ready, Albus?"
Looking at Grindelwald sleeping in the rocking chair, Dumbledore couldn't help guessing what would be in his dreams. Could it be a winning battle or a rousing speech? Gellert had never been modest about his desire for the greater good, but in reality, he had long been defeated, his Alliance falling apart and his followers nowhere to be found. Their ideal of the greater good could only be realized in a dream. If so, it wouldn’t be an easy task to wake him up from the center of that vortex of power.
Of course, if there was a healthy Ariana and a sixteen-year-old Gellert in a dream, he would also probably rather die in the dream than wake up, thought Dumbledore.
"Albus, are you ready?" Newt asked again. "I think you should find a place to sit down. Although the Dream Eater can help you enter the dream, I’m not certain if it's just the consciousness or the body altogether..."
"You're right." Dumbledore walked to the table and sat down. His eyes couldn't help but glance at the little flowers in the vase. "I'm ready, let's start."
He watched Newt put the magical creature on Grindelwald. The Dream Eater stretched out his trunk, sniffing, or perhaps scouring dreams. The rocking chair started to wobble with the creature’s movement, squeaking loudly. Newt said something, but Dumbledore didn't hear. There was only the sound of the creaking chair resonating in his ears.
Then came a fog.
Dumbledore closed his eyes.
*
When he opened his eyes again, all he could see was a hollow stretch of whitish cloud. Here might be the limbo of subconsciousness.
It didn't take long for him to reorient himself through this silent, foggy space and set foot on a snow-covered path.
This was still Godric's Hollow, and the path led to the same cottage on the edge of it. There were no fanatics, no blood or war, nothing but the fine snowflakes quietly falling from the night sky.
The cottage was dimly lit, glowing with a pale yellow halo, and a thick blanket of snow covered the roofs and the earth. Everything looked like a stage encased in a crystal ball, with clear water mixed with sparkling glitter, quiet and dreamy.
The only anomaly was an uninvited guest standing in front of the door of the cottage, soaked through and looking extremely embarrassed.
It was Newt, still holding the Dream Eater.
Seeing a clean and tidy Dumbledore approaching him, Newt explained awkwardly, "Sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. It's just... the correct way to use the Dream Eater is for you to hold him...
"It seems that you didn't encounter any accidents on your way here... That may reflect the intention and the attitude of the dreamer..." Handing the Dream Eater to Dumbledore, Newt took off his coat and tried to wring it dry. "Also, I have tried, but you can't use magic here."
"That could mean that we may only be a reflection of our consciousness," Dumbledore answered, "or that the dreamer has absolute dominance over this dream."
"Ah, that's right." Newt put on his wrung-out coat again, feeling a little better. "You take this little guy here. Go in quickly, Al...” He coughed. “…Professor Dumbledore."
Dumbledore looked up at the cottage ahead, which was not as dilapidated as it was in reality. The exterior walls were painted with new paint, with a walnut-colored door and a yard full of shrubs tall and short. Everything seemed vibrant.
There was a bronze lock hanging on the door, which gave Dumbledore pause. It would be difficult to open the lock without magic...
"Newt, can you pick a lock?"
"No..." Newt leaned forward to take a look. "Maybe... I mean maybe, the key is in your pocket. If Grindelwald is willing to give it to you..."
Sure enough, Dumbledore took out a small golden key from his coat pocket. Seeing this, Newt shrugged, thinking it would be better for him not to get involved. "Obviously, this lock is only for me."
Dumbledore opened the lock. "That's way gentler," he heard Newt murmur as the key turned.
He entered the cottage alone. The living room was filled with well-arranged decorations – soft Persian carpets, a crackling fireplace filled with firewood, two exquisite rocking chairs... It could even be said to be homey.
Grindelwald sat in one of the rocking chairs facing the window, a thin blanket lying on his lap and a book spread out on it – the same collection of poems by Tagore. He was being gently embraced by the rocking chair, as if sinking into it, dozing off with his head tilted to the side.
It turned out that he had chosen a laid back and comfortable life over his former one as a leader and a revolutionary. There were no dangerous enemies, no subordinates with ulterior motives, no webs of rivalry or deceit, no greater good, nothing… and even the flow of time seemed to have halted.
Sleeping in a dream – Dumbledore wondered what that would feel like.
‘I’m back.’
That was his own voice that Dumbledore had heard, and he looked in its direction. It was his younger self, walking in wearing the same clothes as he had decades ago. Seeing that Grindelwald didn't respond, the boy stepped forward, pushing at the back of the rocking chair before bending down.
Blocked by the auburn hair of his younger self, Dumbledore couldn’t see clearly, but knew that he went to kiss the sleeping Gellert.
Dumbledore couldn’t observe Gellert's reaction either, but he guessed he was angry since he looked away.
‘Are you still mad at me?’
‘Hmm…’ The young Gellert seemed very dissatisfied. ‘Do you really care?’
‘Uh? What’s wrong?’
This dialogue sounded very familiar, and Dumbledore recalled that Grindelwald had asked him the exact same question when he visited here for the first time.
‘I said, do you really care?’
Seeing that a sullen look was about to shade his lover’s face again, the young Dumbledore immediately put up a silly smile and answered with a chuckle, ‘Don't be angry at me, my dear. I didn't mean it.’
‘Forget it. There's nothing left to care about.’ Although Grindelwald said so, and his tone was still indignant, a smile flashed on his face.
This made Dumbledore a little dazed, and he remembered that this had indeed happened in the past. That day, he’d left Gellert to help Aberforth take care of Ariana after an episode, and when the matter was finally resolved, Gellert had asked him this question – the same as their first exchange at this cottage.
A clever pun. He had never dared to ask who the subject in question was, now or then, and had left it stagnating for half a century.
The same went for this dilapidated cottage on the edge of the Hollow. That summer, they had also imagined the days when they would live together. Their place could be in Godric's Hollow, but it must be far away from the village, so as to avoid being disturbed as much as possible; the floor should be covered with extra soft Persian carpets, so that they could walk around with bare feet; on the second floor, in addition to the bedroom, there must be a large study and a desk, the kind that could accommodate two people at the same time...
Dumbledore was sure that there must be a perfect study on the second floor that suited all his preferences.
He was finally willing to remember.
He never forgot.
When they were sixteen, they’d had a brief, happy time of staying – almost living – together. They had hit it off immediately and soon became confidants, spending time with one another every day. They had crossed valleys and trod through streams, always together, in meadows or in barns, and their youthful wishes had driven them to betroth themselves to each other prematurely.
But covered by the sweetest passion was a bleak truth. Aberforth's poignant words had been like a sharp knife, stabbing fiercely at the few gaps between the two.
‘Don't you want to protect yourself and the people important to you?’ Grindelwald had asked Dumbledore back then.
He hadn’t been able to answer.
Their subsequent conflicts were not limited to quarrels. They fought impulsively. Spells flew, and no one won. But the price was the most painful – a small tombstone was erected next to Mother's grave.
Grindelwald left immediately following the incident, and when they met again, the ex-lovers became enemies, with one choosing death, and the other choosing to forget.
Dumbledore didn't know what Grindelwald's reminiscence of these days was for. After all, he was the one who had left without looking back, but now he’d become the one who dwelled on dreams of the past and refused to wake up.
Perhaps people were indeed complicated creatures, not knowing what they wanted, let alone what others did.
The young Dumbledore and Grindelwald were still chatting and laughing. They walked into the kitchen together, and crisp sounds of clinking teacups and saucers came from the kitchen.
‘Coffee or tea?’
‘Tea!’
While boiling the water, Grindelwald opened the diligently cleaned sugar jar – one, two, three, four cubes... But he didn’t stop. He put in two more cubes before putting the lid back on, and then poured in the freshly brewed black tea.
‘I like the tea you make.’
The young Dumbledore picked up the teacup, stirred it casually with a small spoon, and blew briefly onto it before downing the overly sweet tea in one gulp.
‘Slow down lest you burn yourself,’ Grindelwald said with a slightly reproachful tone, but he just poured him another cup of tea with the same outrageous level of sweetness.
Dumbledore could no longer bear to look. His eighteen-year-old self looked so innocent and trusting, without the slightest trace of scheming or secrecy. He was willing to share his love with Grindelwald without reservation or hesitation – no worries, no fetters, no regard for what others would think or how the world would judge them, regardless of consequences or costs.
But now, he could no longer do so.
Because of Ariana; because of Aberforth; because of his own mistakes, other people's pleas, the concern over greater troubles, the fear of a disaster that would befall the Muggle world...
He couldn’t ascertain if Gellert was confused or sober, but this man still remembered his preferences, his love and his hate; what he forgot, however, was that they had forever forfeited the rights to care for or even trust each other. The same was true for himself. He had forgotten all the important things, including Grindelwald, having buried all his memories in the depths of his mind.
"Wake up, Gellert," Dumbledore called him softly. "You can tell me..."
As soon as his voice fell, the room disappeared, together with the young Dumbledore and Grindelwald. There was only a book floating in front of him, which read, "Are you able to give me what I want?"
He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, still unable to answer. He just nodded silently.
Grindelwald obviously didn't expect him to say anything of value, so darkness came over him. Dumbledore understood that this betokened dismissal, so he let himself be embraced by it. In the blackness, he heard someone whispering a verse:
Set the bird's wings with gold and it will never again soar in the sky.
*
Perhaps it was this dream that made Dumbledore decide to stay. Regardless, he stayed in Grindelwald’s cottage despite the opposition and bewilderment of everyone except Newt. Under his care, the shrubs in the yard grew out; the mottled walls were painted anew; the old door was replaced with a new one; the living room floor was covered with a soft carpet; and the worn rocking chairs were repaired so that they no longer creaked.
Grindelwald woke up three days later.
He didn't seem surprised by Dumbledore’s presence or his sudden decision to stay. He only rubbed his eyes and asked what they would have for dinner, before falling asleep again.
Then he woke up the next morning and made two servings of dinner.
At this time, Dumbledore realized the true meaning of what Grindelwald had said to him at his first visit: that he was useless now. He knew that his power had been depleted, and that he had entered the very final stage of his life.
At the beginning, Newt maintained a routine visit to the cottage every two or three days. In order to avoid trouble, he always came when Grindelwald was asleep. Dumbledore seemed like a different person. At least, Newt had never seen him like this.
He once caught him kneeling on the floor with his head resting on Grindelwald's lap. The scene seemed out of place, yet somewhat sacred at the same time.
"You should go," Dumbledore said finally. "Tina and Theseus, they are waiting for you to go home, and the matter here has been settled."
"Uh, okay." Newt glanced at Grindelwald, who was sleeping in the well-padded rocking chair, and asked one last time, "You really don't want to do another check-up?"
Dumbledore patted him on the shoulder. "No, we all know that he's leaving soon."
"Don't talk nonsense."
"It's not a big fuss. I've been alone for almost half a century."
"Stop saying that, Albus. You have a lover, and he's lying there."
"It's... it's different."
"Is it?"
Dumbledore pulled Newt away, looked back at Grindelwald to make sure he was still asleep, and dragged Newt out the door altogether.
"Perhaps you should stay by his side this time," Newt whispered when the door closed. "I don't know what you're thinking, Albus, but you clearly care about him."
"Do you really think so?" Dumbledore stared closely at the magizoologist. "Don't let me down, Newt."
"But he is in so much pain now, and his waking hours are getting shorter and shorter day by day..." Newt said insistently, staying at the door. "It’s true that he has made many unforgivable mistakes. I wouldn’t forgive him if I were you, but…
"But in the matter of wanting to be with one’s lover, there's nothing to blame for that."
"You have a good heart," Dumbledore answered with his piercing gaze. He obviously didn't want to discuss this anymore. "But what if the cost of being together forever is the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives?"
"I don't know," Newt answered after a long and pregnant pause. "But that scenario didn't come true, and it was you who stopped it. So, what I’m talking about is now."
Dumbledore retorted relentlessly, "Even in the past, there have been sacrifices."
"Okay, okay." Newt raised his hands, resigned. "I'm not you, and I don't know what's going on with the relationship between you two... But at least, when the whole world wanted him to die, you didn’t."
"I don't know." Dumbledore leaned against the door frame, threw up his hands and shrugged. "Maybe I would rather die with him.
"Newt, you have to know that no matter how hard you pray, many things that are not meant to be will never achieve a happy ending."
"But you and Grindelwald were the two most powerful wizards in the world, weren’t you?" Newt finally asked the question that had long puzzled him. "I mean, there was nothing in this world that could have possibly stopped you. So, what stood between you two?"
"Yes..." Dumbledore sighed. "I still don't know... maybe... it's just that I don’t love him enough?"
"Don’t love him enough?"
"It's just... there were so many things that had higher priority than him." Dumbledore lowered his head. "That's all."
"Besides, there has been a huge gap between us that is difficult to ignore. It is a gap that can never be filled, a mistake that can’t be corrected, and a harm that can’t be undone. None of us can leave her behind. How can we pretend to be innocent and live together as if nothing had happened?" Dumbledore shook his head. "Neither of us can."
"The both of you are really strange, you know," Newt concluded. "For half a century, you have fought; you have killed; you have been lovers and you’ve been nemeses. You have dared to do anything and have done everything.
"But the only thing you won’t dare admit is love. Neither of you dare to love."
Dumbledore smiled bitterly. "You are probably right."
*
They lived together in the cottage for another three months.
Every morning, Dumbledore went to Hogwarts to teach and returned to Godric's Hollow at nightfall.
McGonagall was very worried that he would burn himself out and asked to take his classes for him, to share some of his burdens. But Dumbledore declined all her offers. He needed work to numb himself.
Sometimes when he returned home, Grindelwald was awake, but most of the time he was asleep. When he was awake, he would always struggle to boil a pot of water and make tea for Dumbledore.
Dumbledore would watch him in silence, occasionally helping to hold the tray. He would watch him pick up the sugar jar and take the lid off with difficulty, his hands trembling uncontrollably. One, two, three, four... Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he’d stop convulsively, looking up at Dumbledore in a daze, and hurriedly carry the cup to the wastebasket before hesitating, seemingly considering what to do next.
Perhaps it was too tiring to hold the cup, so eventually the cup would be returned to the table and Grindelwald would collapse into the chair and fall asleep, head drooping in exhaustion.
Dumbledore closed his eyes, regretting that he had left his old friend alone in this debilitating despair – that this was to be their ending.
To him, Gellert was an enigma. Once he chose a wrong turn, he would never be able to reach the correct ending. Dumbledore knew that he must have made a wrong choice somewhere along the way, but he didn't know exactly where. Maybe from beginning to end, he had never gotten it right even once… including this very moment.
Was this one of Gellert's usual schemes to mislead people, or was he doing it deliberately to achieve his own goals? Dumbledore never seemed to be able to see through him; or rather, after those two months half a century ago, the two of them could never truly understand each other.
But it wouldn’t matter now. It was no longer mutual understanding that Dumbledore wished for. More than anything else, he only hoped that Gellert would get better and that he could survive.
But this simple wish might never be answered.
Gellert might never get better.
Grindelwald woke up. Once again, he struggled to rise, poured the cold tea into the cup, and pushed it to Dumbledore.
"Drink slowly lest you burn yourself," he said with a smile.
Dumbledore took the cup of cold tea, picked up the spoon and stirred it casually. The undissolved sugar whirled in the cold black tea. They would never be able to melt into one.
"I like the tea you make," Dumbledore said and downed it in one gulp, despite the undissolved dregs of sugar that were too sweet to swallow. Then he got up, bent down, and kissed Gellert on the forehead.
*
Grindelwald seemed to be dreaming all the time.
But that could be a good thing.
They were sitting side by side on the front porch steps now, warm in the early morning sunlight. Gellert was wrapped in a blanket, sleeping soundly with his head lolled on Dumbledore's shoulder.
The previous night, Gellert had abruptly suggested that he would like to watch shooting stars. So Dumbledore, who couldn't refuse him anything, had sat with him on the front porch all night. However, the sleepyhead had dozed off leaning against him before the meteor shower even started. As a result, Dumbledore had enjoyed the long trails of meteors streaking the night sky all by himself, and then sat there until dawn, not wanting to disturb the other man’s dream.
"I seem to be dreaming," said Grindelwald when he woke up.
"You did sleep all night." Dumbledore couldn't help laughing. "But did you take reality as a dream, or did I take the dream as reality?"
Grindelwald didn't respond. He took Dumbledore's hand in his lap.
"Were the shooting stars nice, Albus?" Grindelwald asked softly. "It's a pity I didn't see them."
"It was beautiful." Dumbledore was somewhat absent-minded because it was almost time for his class. "It was just a little boring."
"I’m sorry." Grindelwald got up with some difficulty and went back inside. "It seems that it will snow today. Remember to dress up warm when you go to school."
Dumbledore returned to the living room, with the fire cracking in the fireplace. Grindelwald had already lain back in his beloved rocking chair, with the vase in his hands, fiddling with the few little flowers.
"What kind of flower is that?" Dumbledore asked while putting on his coat. "You seem to like it very much."
"You want to know?" Grindelwald seemed to be in good spirits, even a bit mischievous, which was quite rare. "You must find the answer to that question by yourself, Professor Dumbledore."
"I want to know now." Dumbledore came over and pushed at the rocking chair. "Or you could tell me which poem is your favorite in your Muggle book?"
"Well... I'll tell you tomorrow. If I'm in a good mood, you can find out tonight," Grindelwald said with a wink, picking up the book of poems, which only had a few dozen pages left for him to read. "The same goes for the poems. You have to wait until I finish reading."
Dumbledore shook his head. "I want to know now."
"No... I meant what I said. Not now," Grindelwald retorted, nestling languidly into the rocking chair and rocking gently. "But I can tell you something else now."
"Which is?"
"For example... I can tell you that I am perfectly sober right now," he said with a laugh, putting the book upside down on his lap. Squinting his eyes, he continued, "I can also tell you that I love you very much, then as well as now.”
Dumbledore froze. His mouth was dry, and he didn’t know what to say. Thankfully Grindelwald didn't seem to mind. He just patted Dumbledore's hand. His hands were cold and sweaty, perhaps because he had slept outside all night.
"Go to your class, Albus. There’s really nothing here for you to care about."
Dumbledore walked out in silence, and Grindelwald smiled slyly, as if he had gotten his way, but he looked no less attractive.
Grindelwald must have known, Dumbledore thought, he must have known what I wanted to say.
So, he left. "See you tonight, Gellert."
*
Dumbledore never got to see Grindelwald again.
He was still in class when Newt hurried in.
"That’s not possible..." He heard his own voice.
Newt just nodded.
The cottage on the edge of the Hollow still looked the same – new paint on the walls, a walnut-colored door, and a yard full of shrubs tall and short; everything looked vibrant. The lights were on, and it was hazy like a dream, glowing with a pale yellow halo. A thick blanket of snow covered the roofs and the earth.
Dumbledore pushed the door open. "I'm back," he announced.
He stared blankly at the empty rocking chair that once belonged to Grindelwald. After a while, he whispered, "I love you too, Gellert.
"I did. I do. And I always will."
At the words, he felt an emptiness in his heart. He walked to the rocking chair and sat, lying down in Grindelwald's usual posture, and let himself sink into it. Sitting here, Dumbledore found that he could hear the fine snow hitting the glass of the windows; that the temperature of the fireplace was just right; and that when he looked up, he could see the door of the cottage and the wind chime hanging above.
He felt even worse. Grindelwald seemed to have arranged everything: he had cleaned up the mess he’d made; he had dreamed his dreams, lived the life he wanted, confessed his love, and just finished reading his book. But he had left no time for Dumbledore – no time for him to say what he should, and no time to mentally prepare for what was to come.
I, a coward, finally took the first step, while you turned around and quit.
The petals were scattered on the windowsill. Dumbledore took Tagore's collection of poems in his hands and noticed a tiny purple-and-yellow flower folded between the last page and the back cover, along with a scribbled note:
Strawflower it is. And as for why I liked it, Professor Dumbledore should be more curious.
Then he turned to the page bookmarked with a ribbon, and it read:
Let only that little be left of me
whereby I may name thee my all.
Let only that little be left of my will
whereby I may feel thee on every side,
and come to thee in everything,
and offer to thee my love every moment.
Let only that little be left of me
whereby I may never hide thee.
Let only that little of my fetters be left
whereby I am bound with thy will,
and thy purpose is carried out in my life – and that is the fetter of thy love.