Chapter Text
Albus stared at the necklace resting almost innocently inside its velvet box.
Gold and ruby woven into an intricate pattern, delicate yet opulent, discreet and yet telling a story he wished he could ignore.
It had been a week since his ill-advised tryst with the German Minister.
A week of daily, utterly unprofessional letters, sealed and slipped onto his desk with alarming regularity.
A week of gifts, shamefully extravagant, officially presented as diplomatic offerings, when everyone, even the most naïve Muggle-born wizard, knew exactly what Gellert Grindelwald thought of Britain and everything that came from it.
Everything except Albus.
Heat rushed to his cheeks, colour blooming fast and traitorous as memories surfaced unbidden.
Gellert’s lips on his body.
Large, strong hands, easily enclosing his wrists in a single grip.
The wild, warm sound of his laughter when Albus had bitten his ear, not gently.
The weight of him, solid and unyielding, his cock sliding into Albus, slick and burning hot, both a command and a plea.
Albus squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, as though force alone might dislodge the thoughts.
He paced the length of his office, once spartan and orderly, now drowning in luxury that felt absurd in such a confined space. Gilded frames. Silken cushions. Polished surfaces catching the light. The small adjoining bathroom overflowed with bouquets, flowers piled high enough to feel invasive.
He pressed a hand to his forehead and let out a slow, unsteady breath.
This was going far too fast.
How had he allowed himself to be swept into this, pining after Gellert like an untouched schoolboy?
After what had led to his exile here as a “diplomat”, a pleasant, hollow title given the state of affairs between Britain and Germany, Albus had sworn to begin anew. To rein in his arrogance. To never underestimate anyone again.
After three years under Nicolas Flamel’s tutelage, and despite his father’s crimes and his half-blood status, he had climbed the Ministry’s ladder through merit alone, becoming the youngest Head of the Department of Mysteries in history.
And yet one mistake had been enough to shatter five years of careful work. Enough to expose the rot of corruption threading through the British Ministry of Magic.
Albus nearly bit his lip bloody as he recalled the shame and the injustice of it, still burning hot even after five months.
He had been reckless. Arrogant. Certain his intelligence and power would shield him forever. How brutally he had been humbled, cast to the wolves as Britain’s representative on German soil, a country that had not forgotten the Great War, nor the price wizarding Germany had paid for it.
And yet, against all expectations, Albus had carved a place for himself there.
His intelligence and skill had found fertile ground in Gellert Grindelwald. The youngest Minister the magical world had ever known, severe and bordering on tyrannical, yet utterly devoid of blood prejudice. Muggle-born, pureblood, half-blood, Gellert cared only for loyalty and talent.
In the space of three months, they had grown close, bound by a shared vision of a united magical world, free from corruption and Muggle interference, a dream strong enough to rival blood itself.
And then the night had happened.
They had both been tipsy, alone in Gellert’s office.
Albus could have cried from shame and frustration at his own childishness.
He could not be the lover of the German Prime Minister. Not when half of his circles already whispered that he was a British spy, a whore, or both.
Not only would his reputation be irrevocably stained, every political action he took thereafter rendered suspect, but it would reflect upon Gellert as well. He was meant to marry a Russian princess, to consolidate alliances, to shape the future of their shared dream of a united magical world.
Albus could endure insults directed at himself. He had done so all his life. It would wound him deeply, but he could bear it.
But to see Gellert dragged through the mud in his wake?
That would break him entirely.
How could Gellert be so careless with such a gift? With those letters?
Albus returned to his desk and stared once more at the necklace.
He brushed the cold stone with his fingertips. It was beautiful. Grand. Everything Albus had been denied all his life, everything he had earned and never been allowed to claim. And just like Gellert, it was something he would have to renounce.
He bit his lip hard and closed the box with resolute hands.
He would make Gellert understand.
Albus would be his right hand, his shadow, his most trusted counsellor and friend.
But nothing more.
It had to be so.
For the greater good.
*
Of course it could not be that easy. When had anything ever been easy for Albus?
Barely two days after the necklace affair, a cold and impeccably formal summons arrived. A dinner with several of the most influential members of Grindelwald’s inner circle. An invitation Albus could neither ignore nor refuse.
He dressed with care. For once, he was grateful for Gellert’s extravagant gifts. The clothes were not to his taste, far too official for his liking, but they were the only garments he owned that would not appear painfully modest among that crowd. His diplomatic salary was, by comparison, a quiet joke.
He arrived on time at the Minister’s Berlin residence, his stomach tight with restrained anticipation. He had neither seen nor spoken to Gellert since that night.
A sense of unease settled in as Albus followed the servant down a corridor he did not recognise.
The official dining hall lay in the opposite wing, vast and ceremonial, designed for delegations and carefully staged hostility. Albus had attended enough receptions there to know its route by heart. This passage was narrower, warmer, lined with old tapestries and low-burning lamps that softened the stone rather than magnifying it.
His steps slowed.
He told himself it meant nothing. Gellert owned several residences in Berlin, some older than the Ministry itself. Meetings held in private quarters were not unusual, especially with members of his close circle.
And yet.
The door opened.
Albus stopped short.
The room beyond was not Gellert’s study.
It was intimate. Intentionally so.
Low ceiling. Dark wood. A single long window veiled in heavy curtains. Ancient artefacts crowded the walls alongside shelves of old books on dark magic and Quidditch memorabilia. Gellert’s presence, unmistakable, condensed into one space.
A fire crackled softly in the hearth.
At the centre stood a small, round table, laid with exquisite care. Too small to accommodate more than two people.
Candles burned low, their light warm and deliberate. No banners. No place for aides or observers. No room for formality to hide.
Red roses everywhere. Their heavy perfume mingled with the scent of burning wood, making Albus’s head swim for a brief, traitorous moment.
Surely Gellert would not dare.
“Ah,” Gellert laughed, entering the room alone, to Albus’s open bewilderment. “Punctual as always. How British of you, Liebling.”
He stood near the table, sleeves rolled just enough to be improper, no jacket, no insignia. Not the Minister.
Just the man.
Albus forced himself to step forward, schooling his expression into neutrality as his pulse quickened. It took effort not to stare at Gellert’s muscular forearms, pale skin gleaming in the firelight, fine blond hairs catching like threads of silver.
Only indignation anchored his body, kept it from betraying him outright.
“I was under the impression this was a working dinner,” Albus said coolly, folding his arms across his chest.
“Oh, but it is,” Gellert replied with a smile sharp enough to draw blood. “Just not a crowded one.”
Albus’s gaze flicked, once, to the table.
Two glasses. Already filled.
Apricot and honey liqueur.
His favourite.
“I see,” he said.
Gellert followed his glance and smiled, openly amused.
“Yes, well. The others sent their regrets. Vinda is terribly ill, you know how women are. And the rest, honestly, who cares. Let’s drink.”
Albus very deliberately did not roll his eyes.
“I thought it would be wasteful to use the grand dining hall for only two people,” Gellert added, pulling out a chair with infuriating slowness. “Don’t you agree?”
Wasteful.
Of course.
Albus did not know whether he wanted to throttle the man or drag him onto the nearby couch and ruin him.
“I might have appreciated some warning,” he said, keeping his tone even by sheer discipline.
Gellert tilted his head, studying him with that familiar, unsettling intensity.
“Would you have come, had I warned you?”
The question was soft. Too soft.
Then, quieter still, “You do not wear my gift.”
Albus met his gaze, summoning every scrap of resolve he possessed to remain still under that look, vulnerable and possessive all at once.
“My Lord,” he said at last. “I will always come when you summon me.”
“My Lord,” Gellert echoed, something wounded creeping into his voice. “You will come, but you will not wear my gift. You will not call me by my name.”
The hurt sharpened into anger, and it struck Albus harder than any curse ever could.
“You know I cannot,” Albus said.
“I know only what you choose to tell me,” Gellert snapped. “And I assume what comes next is how this was a mistake, how you regret it, how—”
Albus crossed the room before he could stop himself and pressed his fingers to Gellert’s lips.
Silence fell at once.
The sheer power of it, how easily he could fracture Gellert’s composure, terrified and exhilarated him in equal measure.
Gellert caught his hand and kissed Albus’s fingers with fervour, heat flaring so sharply it nearly drew a sound from Albus’s throat.
When Gellert leaned in for a kiss, Albus turned his head away, cheeks burning, desire already coiling low and insistent, humiliatingly vivid.
It took everything he had to step back.
Gellert let him go, but his fingers remained wrapped around Albus’s wrist, his eyes searching, intense and unguarded.
“Please understand, Gellert,” Albus said quietly. “This cannot happen.”
“But it already has, Liebling,” Gellert replied, voice low and fierce. “It began long before I took you over my desk. Do not insult us both by denying it. We have been circling each other for months.”
He tightened his grip, just slightly.
“And now,” he added, “it is time to commit.”
Gellert’s words settled between them like a blade laid flat against skin.
Commit.
Albus drew a slow breath through his nose, steadying himself. He could feel it, the pull, visceral and humiliating, his body reacting despite every rational warning screaming in his mind. Gellert’s grip on his wrist was warm, possessive and unyielding.
I love you, Albus thought wildly. I want you. Why can’t you understand?
“This is not a game,” Albus said once he had gathered himself enough for his voice to remain steady. “If you believe I am teasing you, or testing you, then you have misunderstood me entirely.”
Gellert’s brows knit, irritation flaring sharp. Frustration was clearly foreign to him, and he seemed ill-equipped to deal with it.
“Do not insult me,” he said. “I know my feelings are returned. If you are pretending otherwise—”
“That is precisely the problem,” Albus interrupted, his voice hard despite the hammering in his chest. “You are accustomed to wanting, and to being answered in kind.”
Something dark flickered in Gellert’s eyes.
“You wanted me,” he said. Not a question. A statement. “You came to me. You wanted me to see you. The real you. Not that proper, well-mannered British persona. And I did. I do. Do not pretend for one second that you did not ask for this.”
Albus swallowed. He could not lie to Gellert. The man had an uncanny ability to see straight through people. Even Albus. Especially Albus.
“I did,” he confessed quietly. “And that is why this frightens me. Why this cannot be.”
That gave Gellert pause.
For a brief moment, his grip loosened, his expression shifting into something raw and unfamiliar. Hurt, naked and unfiltered, flashed across his face before being swallowed by anger.
“You speak as though I trapped you,” Gellert snapped. “As though I coerced you.”
“No,” Albus said at once. “Gellert, it would be easy to blame you for my own weakness, but I cannot. The way I feel about you…Gellert, I do love you.”
The admission landed heavily.
“And that is why I am choosing restraint now,” Albus continued, softer, eyes burning with feeling no tears could quite contain. “Because I know the cost of arrogance and carelessness. Because I have already lost everything once. And I will not make the same mistake twice.”
Gellert scoffed, turning away abruptly, pacing a short, restless arc before the fire.
“Csaba’s stars,” he muttered bitterly. “This is your British prudishness speaking. Fear dressed as virtue. Caution masquerading as morality.”
Albus followed him with his gaze, every instinct screaming to close the distance again, to soothe, to surrender. But anger stirred as well.
“Do not take me for a fool or a coward,” Albus replied sharply. “This is experience speaking, nothing else. I have seen what powerful men do when desire curdles into resentment. I have watched power turn affection into a weapon.”
Gellert froze.
Slowly, he turned back.
“Travers,” he said, the name heavy with contempt.
Albus stiffened. Heat rushed to his face.
“Do not look so surprised,” Gellert continued. “Old European pureblood families all know each other. If we confined marriage within our borders alone, the bloodlines would collapse within a generation.”
He rolled his eyes.
“That maggot used one of our shared relatives to write to me shortly before your arrival. He was generous with his insinuations. How charming you are. How dangerous. How easily you ensnare those above you.”
Albus’s jaw tightened.
“You believed him.”
Gellert laughed, sharp and cruel.
“He is petty and shortsighted, but not entirely stupid when revenge is involved.”
“Gellert—”
“I was intrigued,” Gellert continued. “For a man who despises half-bloods, he devoted an impressive amount of ink to you. I grew curious. I had your past thoroughly examined.”
He stepped closer again, his voice lowering, eyes intense, almost hypnotic.
“And then I met you. I watched. I saw how you spoke. How you carried yourself. How you refused to bend. You are not a serpent, Liebling. You are a threat.”
Albus exhaled shakily.
“That is exactly why this cannot happen.”
Gellert laughed, sharp and joyless.
“You think I would abandon you to the wolves,” he said. “That I would become another Travers.”
“No,” Albus replied. “I think you would burn the world, and yourself with it, all because of me.”
Silence.
That struck deeper than anything else.
“I have already lost too much to arrogance,” Albus continued, stepping back deliberately, reclaiming space, forcing his desire into submission with sheer will. “I will not be your weakness. I will not be the reason others question your legitimacy. You are building something monumental, Gellert. And I believe in it. In you.”
Gellert’s expression twisted, something close to desperation breaking through.
“This is not me abandoning you,” Albus said softly. “This is me loving you properly.”
Gellert turned his head sharply, frustration vibrating through him.
“Stars above, Albus. And what am I to do,” he demanded, “pretend I do not want you? Have you at my side every day and never touch you?”
“Do not be childish, my darling,” Albus replied gently. “Your work is too important for desire to cloud your judgment. If you cannot agree with me, then at least respect me enough to accept my refusal and stop forcing my hand.”
The words cut deep.
Gellert took a single stride forward and cupped Albus’s face, their foreheads touching, tender and electric. They were both trembling.
“You ask too much.”
“I ask what love demands,” Albus replied before he could stop himself.
They stared at one another, breathless, suspended.
Finally, Gellert let him go and turned away.
“Leave,” he said, voice tight. “Before I forget myself.”
Albus hesitated only a heartbeat. He was at the edge of his own restraint.
He inclined his head once, respectful, and turned toward the door.
As he reached it, Gellert spoke again.
“This is not over.”
Albus paused, his hand resting on the handle.
“No,” he agreed quietly. “It is not.”
And then he was gone.