Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/244416.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Crossover_-_Harry_Potter_/_RPS, Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling, Occultist
      RPF
  Relationship:
      Albus_Dumbledore_/_Aleister_Crowley
  Character:
      Gellert_Grindelwald
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-08-24 Words: 8249
****** The Sin Eater ******
by Fluffyllama_(Llama)
Summary
     Everybody knows that Albus Dumbledore is a good man.
Notes
     ‘Edward’ was Aleister Crowley’s real name, and I’ve used that almost
     throughout, for reasons that make perfect sense to me, if nobody else
     ;-). The Sorting Hat’s song extract was taken from ‘Hymn to Pan’ by
     Aleister Crowley, and info on the man himself can be found here for
     those not familiar with him.
     The inclusion of a non-con warning is to cover an invasive medical
     examination which is effectively non-con.
     This was written before the Harry Potter series was concluded, so my
     take on Grindelwald is slightly different - though not completely...
1st December, 1947
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Albus Dumbledore knew he was a good man. It had to be so; it was enshrined in
pages of elaborate copperplate writing in some of the books of this very
library. It was inscribed on plaques and statues, printed on thousands of
Chocolate Frog cards – he fidgeted with the card in his pocket from his supper-
time treat – and above all, was a plain and simple fact in the mind of
everybody in the wizarding world.
Everybody who wasn’t Albus Dumbledore himself, anyway.
He looked around at the towering shelves of the library. So much information,
and none of it much use to him at that moment to unravel the chaos that was his
mind. So many decisions, so many crossroads, so many memories spiralling back
into the past, that reaching for them was like hunting out the dustiest tomes
on the furthest forgotten shelf, the ones nobody visited any more. Right at the
back, locked in cabinets away from prying eyes were the books written in long-
dead languages, mysteries and secrets bound with layer upon layer of spells to
protect their fragile pages.
Some books it was best not to open too often.

“Good evening, Albus.”
Irma Pince hefted the armful of books she carried higher into the crook of her
arm, and he nodded a good evening in return. She had a habit of surprising him
at times such as this. Perhaps it was because he was always drawn to the
library; being among books in the dead of night had always felt like finding a
rare peace among the living. He’d felt it even in Muggle libraries, where the
books were unlikely to perform any of the functions that could be compared to
life, but here in Hogwarts it was like wandering among a reunion throng of old,
good friends - or at least it could be, if you were in the right parts of the
library, and watched your step after dark.
He had never been sure how Irma knew when he was there – maybe she simply
patrolled the library constantly and it was pure chance - but more than once he
had been grateful for her company at times such as this.
“You’re up late tonight.” She glanced up at the clock, where the hands were
edging slyly towards three o’clock. “Late even for you, I mean.”
“I don’t seem to need as much sleep these days.”
She set the books down on the table and sat, arranging her skirts comfortably
on the chair.
“I don’t tend to get more than four or five hours myself,” she admitted, “But
you seem to sleep even less than that? It’s not good for you, not for so long.”
“There have been things on my mind.” Albus felt old enough to be the
grandfather of this near-as-damnit contemporary of his tonight. Had done for
the past couple of years, if he was completely honest. Yes, that was when the
doubts and fears had crept up on him most strongly.
“How do we ever know if we have done the right thing, Irma?” He’d often
wondered how much she knew… but there was no sign of disapproval on her face.
In fact, she smiled.
“Hindsight,” she answered promptly. “Works every time.”
Albus laughed. “Yes, yes, you’re right of course.” Deep in his pockets, he
rubbed his thumb along the edge of the Chocolate Frog card.
“The Ministry have lost track of Tom Riddle, you know.”
She didn’t know, of course. Probably she didn’t even realise he had been under
surveillance, but she tutted all the same. Merlin bless the woman.
“We haven’t had a competent Minister for Magic since Podmore,” she said.
“I don’t think we can hold the Ministry entirely responsible this time.”
Dumbledore frowned. “Tom’s an exceptionally clever boy, always was.”
Irma sniffed a little at that. “Maybe. But he had little respect for books,
that young man.”
She may as well have been denouncing him as a traitor or murderer from her
tone.
“Neither did Edward, if I remember rightly? Yet you were always fond of the
boy.”
If Irma thought it odd to call a man who would now be over seventy a ‘boy’, she
didn’t mention it. She gave him a knowing look over the book-littered table.
“You can learn a lot about people by the books they read, Albus,” she said,
picking up the nearest and checking the spine. “And the company they keep.”
Books. Yes, so many books they had read together, Edward and he. It hadn’t just
been a sordid affair, even at the start, however wrong he had been to succumb
to temptation… he suddenly realised Irma was still speaking.
“I must apologise, Irma. I’m afraid I was miles away.”
“I just wondered how Edward was doing. Have you heard from him lately?”
Albus felt the Chocolate Frog card bend and crease under his fingers. He pulled
it out of his pocket and stared at the portrait.

                          The Dark Wizard Grindelwald
                                   ? - 1945
“As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, “I have.”
                                     * * *
1st September, 1887
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Albus took his place at the staff table with a nod to his neighbours. They
seemed a friendly enough group so far, but he hadn’t sat down to a meal yet,
and the first staff meeting was not until later in the evening. Behind closed
doors, that was where you found out the true measure of a colleague. Usually
about three staff meetings in, when new arrivals became fair game.
“Gryffindor, were ye?” A loud voice came from the other neighbouring seat.
Professor Guffy, the Head of Slytherin house, was a hearty, bluff man notable
for his high colour and low humour. “I think that’s what the Headmaster said?”
“Yes, indeed I was… many years ago.”
“How many years?” The pinched face of Scratchett, the Muggle Studies teacher,
leaned forward eagerly. The poor man had a terrible twitch affecting his right
eye, and Albus was disconcerted for a moment, long enough to be distracted.
“Oh, stop bothering the poor soul with your questions, man!” Guffy’s voice was
too loud, and several heads turned as he bellowed down the table.
Albus resisted the temptation to wiggle his finger in his ear, which was still
tingling from the volume.
“Really, it’s perfectly all right—”
“Nosiest man in the country, that one,” his neighbour continued, apparently
oblivious of both the red spots forming on his colleague’s pasty cheeks at the
careless dismissal, and the fact that he had himself asked the first question.
“Ye should just ignore him, Merlin knows we all do! Eh? Don’t we?”
There was an embarrassed titter of laughter along the table, and Scratchett
leaned back with a glare at both Albus and Guffy. Fortunately Albus was spared
having to say anything by the creaking of the Great Hall’s enormous doors as
they opened once more.
“Ah, the first years have arrived.”
Unsurprisingly, this seemed to be met with universal approval.
“We’ve the Sorting to sit through yet, mind,” came the lilting, melancholy
voice of Professor Frobisher. A pale, wilting lily of a woman, she did look as
if she could use a good meal, and soon.
The room hushed for the Sorting Hat to start, and Albus surveyed the nervous
crowd of new boys and girls with only mild interest; until his gaze fell on a
tall boy with sharp eyes that seemed to be staring at him.
“…strong as a lion and sharp as an asp…”
He barely listened to the Sorting Hat’s song, and was only vaguely aware of the
continuing conversation at the table, because right now there was only himself
and this boy in the room, locked in a stare that could not be broken; not by
any means he had at his disposal.
“Edward Crowley!”
The boy broke off the connection and strolled up to the dais without a hint of
nerves. He pulled himself up onto the chair and Headmaster McCormack dropped
the wide brim of the hat over his eyes.
He seemed to be hidden underneath the hat for many long minutes before he
emerged with a victorious smile.
“Slytherin!”
                                     * * *
1st December, 1947
A London Residence
Edward had wholeheartedly embraced the serpents that symbolised his house from
the very start, and there were still snakes of many types and form on display
in the rooms Albus apparated to in the early hours of the morning. He ran his
hand appreciatively over a finely detailed gold statue. Yes, really it was a
very impressive work of art. The house may not have been as opulent as its
occupant was used to, but his serpents hadn’t deserted him yet.
The scent of incense permeated the sickly sweet atmosphere of the apartments.
Under the frankincense and copal was the recognisable stench of death, none the
more welcome for the long wait.
Behind the bed hangings, a bloated, distorted face attempted a smile.
“Albus.”
“Edward. Dear boy.” Albus sat on the chair next to the bed, folding his robes
out of the way.
“You received my message then.”
Albus laid the Chocolate Frog card down on the bumpy bedcovers. Grindelwald
scowled out at the recumbent figure, shaking his fist dramatically like a
pantomime villain.
“Ah yes. The demon king always comes through for us.”
“Will it be long?” Albus reached out to brush a sticky strand of hair aside.
“Not very.” Wasted muscles creaked and the bed curtains rattled on their hooks
as the bulky figure pulled himself up higher onto the pillows. “Fetch me that
bowl, would you?”
Albus wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t the ornately carved stone
basin he picked up from the dresser.
“Just a little something I picked up in Greece.” Edward doubled over in a fit
of coughing, gasping for breath. “One of a kind.”
“Most intriguing.” Albus ran his fingers over the runes and symbols around the
edges.
“And useful.” Edward withdrew a wand from under his pillow. “It can be used to
share memories, if you extract them carefully. Since mine are a little faulty…”
He hesitated, then chuckled to himself. “I’ll tell you this, because I know you
will find it amusing. I had a fanciful thought the other day, of Sin Eaters.
You know of those?”
“Oh, yes. My grandfather’s neighbour had one. The practice will never entirely
die out, I’m sure. I remember seeing the man go into the house, and my
grandfather took me to the window. I must have only been five or six.”
“The first time we see death often has a strong impact.”
“Indeed, my boy.”
Albus could still remember the sound of the branches in the wind high above,
the squish of damp grass between his bare toes, the smell of autumn in the
fires burning in the woods.
“I remember seeing this man sit down, and my grandmother hand him a tankard. He
drank it down – ale, I think it was – and ate a piece of bread. Then he stood
up and spoke a few words, and Grandpa said that meant he had taken on old
Everard’s sins.”
“Yes, a terrible heathen custom if you asked my father.” Edward ran his tongue
over dry lips and swallowed. “Not that I ever did.”
“I find it a fascinating idea,” Albus was surprised how much he remembered of
that incident even now. “Although I remember wondering for years just how many
sins the man must have on his soul, and what that would do to him.”
“If a man believes himself to be wicked, he will be wicked?”
Albus nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, something along those lines.”
“You’re probably right.” Edward shrugged his shoulders. “Still, with that in
mind, I have a request to make of you, old man. I decided that to make the most
of the unique occasion of my death, I would like to revel in my sins rather
than have them taken from me.” He coughed yet again as he spoke, breath
wheezing heavily.
“I’m not in the least surprised to hear that.” Albus smiled.
“Didn’t think you would be. And you have some of my finest memories stored away
in that library of yours.” He reached up a frail hand and tapped at Albus’
head. “My own brain is a little faulty these days, I’m afraid, and yours will
be far more reliable. Would you care to share those memories with me once more,
my old friend?”
Albus drew his wand. “Of course.”
“Just try to remember everything you can, then put them in the pensieve so I
can visit them. You’ll be able to retrieve them… later.”
He paused to cough into his handkerchief.
“Just the memories of us… and Grindelwald, too.” Even rheumy and lost in folds
of flesh, those eyes were still sharp. “Not the end though. I remember that
well enough.”
As he would, Albus thought, with a pang of guilt. After all, he had been dying
of it for the last two years.
                                     * * *
October, 1887
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
“That’s a phoenix.”
Albus looked up from tidying his desk. He hadn’t noticed Edward stay behind
when the rest of the class left, or heard him approach.
“Hmm. And what makes you think that, Mr. Crowley?” Albus lifted the perch down
from the top of the cupboard and Fawkes clicked his beak at him.
“Last week he was bigger.” The boy stretched out a hand, and Fawkes graciously
let him stroke his head, extending his neck with a slight flap of his stubby
little wings. “And the phoenix is a bird that ages and dies, then is reborn.”
His hand stroked the bird’s neck gently, over and over.
“Perhaps it is just a different bird.”
“No, I don’t think so. I was in here before the class started, and when I
called him ‘Fawkes’, he looked up at me.”
“Very well deduced, and well tested.” Albus smiled down at the serious face,
but the boy just frowned.
“My father died.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Albus sat down at the desk once more. No wonder the
child was interested in the phoenix.
The boy waved off his sympathy. “You shouldn’t be. I disliked him. And it meant
I could come here – my mother would have signed anything to be rid of me. She
thinks I am wicked, you see.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” The boy looked him straight in the eye. At such close quarters the steady
gaze was disconcerting. “I want you to tell me he won’t come back. I want you
to tell me he will rot and decay and fill with maggots in the ground, and that
his soul will do the same in some filthy hell.”
“Ah.” Albus wondered what he could say to that. The boy wasn’t hysterical,
though he was possibly too calm to be believed. “Do you think he might return,
somehow?”
“If a phoenix can do it, so can a wizard. And then maybe a man like him. A god-
fearing good man who caused misery wherever he went.” He leaned closer to
Fawkes, who apparently took no offence, and simply rubbed his beak against the
boy’s cheek.
Albus just nodded for a long moment. “I can’t tell you what you want to hear,
Mr. Crowley.”
The boy dropped his hand and stepped back from the perch. “No, I didn’t think
you could.”
Albus was still staring at the door long after it had swung shut behind the
small figure.
                                       *
As the term went on, short chats after Transfiguration class became something
of a habit. Not every lesson, but usually once or twice a week, Albus would
look up from his desk after class and find that curiously penetrating gaze on
him once more. The child would ask one or two remarkably intelligent questions,
and stay until he had received either satisfactory answers or the ones he was
expecting to hear – Albus could never decide which it was.
On occasion they would have tea in Albus’ study, first when the boy announced
it was his birthday and later when the boy’s increasingly demanding questions
required books to be perused in more comfortable circumstances than a classroom
could afford. Although Albus insisted on calling the boy ‘Mr. Crowley’ to be
fair to his other students, Edward resisted all attempts to retain a
professional distance in private, and soon Albus forgot to be uncomfortable
about being addressed as an equal by a twelve year old boy.
On a practical front, Edward’s abilities were nothing special. Not yet, anyway
- his body would have to grow used to his wand and the power it would
eventually allow him to wield. Yet with his voracious appetite for knowledge
and his ability to pick up on the important points of the most arcane texts, he
would be a formidable wizard in time, of that Albus had no doubt. His reading
tastes were far beyond his age, but Albus had to keep reminding himself he was
still a precocious child, not a grown man.
Because sometimes, when they were in the middle of a heated argument about
fourteenth century wizarding law and the boy had him running for reference
books to defend his position, it was hard to remember just how young he really
was.
                                       *
Albus was careful to keep the Headmaster informed of the study sessions,
particularly when Edward told him what all the students apparently knew about
Professor Guffy, his Head of House. Most evenings he could be found in
Hogsmeade until staggering back to the Castle at closing time, when he wasn’t
down in the dungeons at the secret card school Albus had curiously not been
invited to join.
The Headmaster might have had something to say about the sessions if he’d known
just how late some of them were running, however. Albus all too often found
that however conscientious he tried to be, a carefully placed question or
preposterous supposition from the boy would delay the child’s return to his
dormitory until the early hours. Or sometimes, just the pleasure of sharing his
books with a keen and enquiring mind would make the hours slip past more
quickly than he would have believed possible.
“Mr. Crowley.”
Edward’s arm slipped from under his chin and thudded on the desktop. He blinked
up from the desk where he had dropped off, not for the first time in their
study sessions.
“You need to go back to your House now, Mr. Crowley.”
Albus pulled his hand back as Edward moved and stretched.
“I’ll just sleep here.”
“You certainly will not.” Albus began to move the books which had piled up on
the desk during the evening. “Professor Guffy will have my hide if you’re not
safe and sound in your dormitory by the time he makes his rounds.”
“He doesn’t bother most nights.” Edward rubbed his eyes and tried very hard not
to yawn, but Albus could see the tell-tale hand covering his mouth when he
turned away.
“And the very night you’re not there is the one time he will check.” Albus was
determined to be firm with the boy, even though the rooms always seemed too
empty once the child had left for the night.
“Shouldn’t think so. There’s a party at the Three Broomsticks, according to
Smethwyck.”
“Ah.” Albus hesitated. That would probably be safe enough, then. And it was
very late for the boy to wander back down to the dungeons alone…
Instead of insisting further, Albus transfigured his armchair into a
comfortable enough bed for the boy, but somehow he wasn’t entirely surprised
when he awoke to find an extra pair of cold feet tangled in his sheets, a hip
pushing hard against his early morning erection and a head resting gently on
his chest.
When the boy was washed and sent off to breakfast at last, Albus sat at his
desk and stared at the untidy pile of books he had left behind, wondering when
he had become the type of man who spent all his time with a young, affection-
starved boy.
And exactly how he was going to stop this – whatever this was – before he
crossed the line and did something he would regret.
                                       *
Guffy was in full voice when Albus arrived at the staff meeting that week.
“The boy’s impossible to control, and never where he’s supposed to be, ye know
that. What am I supposed to do about it, eh? What?”
“So it would seem. You need to keep your House under better control, Guffy.
There have been three complaints this week from Madam Pince about damage to
library books. The boy has no respect whatsoever.” Scratchett was obviously
delighted at this opportunity to snipe at Guffy.
Albus folded his hands to keep from punching the man. He had no doubt as to
which student was under discussion.
“Have you asked Edward why he defaced those books?” He kept his voice neutral,
merely a polite enquiry.
“Oh yes.” Scratchett’s eyes glittered, and Albus was very much afraid he had
just walked into a carefully baited trap. “He tells me the books are – and I
assure you I’m not joking – he tells me they are wrong.”
Albus looked around at the rest of the room, most of whom were shaking their
heads or smiling indulgently. Had they ever truly spoken to the boy?
“So, according to the boy, he took it upon himself to amend theories by some of
the greatest minds of all time by correcting the text with his own handwritten
notes, and by actually tearing out some pages containing ideas which he
believes would hold back the wizarding world if allowed to continue unchecked.”
“Well then,” said Albus pleasantly. “That would seem to explain it, would it
not?”
He was going to have a few choice words with young Mr. Crowley if he could pull
him out of this mess.
Scratchett folded his arms, an oddly smug smile on his lips. “I might have
known you would take his side. It’s probably your influence on the child that’s
responsible for his peculiarities – I know your type, filled with crank
notions.”
“The boy comes to me to do his homework, and we discuss what he has learned.
Sometimes we move on to broader topics, and the boy has a quick, enquiring mind
which is a pleasure to instruct. Would you prefer him to grow bored and
frustrated?”
“I’d prefer him to behave like a schoolboy, instead of spending all his time
with a blasted professor!” Professor Guffy exploded, growing quite red in the
face.
“You see, Dumbledore,” Scratchett added, his facial twitch more prominent than
ever, “Some of us don’t think it’s healthy for him. For either of you.” He
shifted in his seat, and Albus could hear his bony knees clicking.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Professor Puddle, the Herbology professor, turned to
him. “Some of the children have started rumours. The boy seems knowledgeable
on… quite a range of subjects, shall we say. The children have picked up a few
new words from him lately.” She blushed quite pink.
“I see,” said Albus. And he did, all too well. “I can assure you there is
nothing inappropriate in the answers I have given the boy to his questions – on
any subject.”
He wasn’t sure it was strictly true, considering some of the books they had
perused together, but in their areas of concern it was true enough.
“Well, your assurance isn’t enough, I’m afraid.” Scratchett’s voice was cool
and collected, though his face was flushed with some high emotion, his eyes
bright.
Albus looked at the Headmaster, whose face was unusually stern.
“I’m sorry, Albus. We had a scandal just a couple of years ago… we can’t risk
it happening again. The Ministry want you and the boy to be questioned.”
There was more to come, and Albus hoped he was wrong.
He wasn’t.
“And they want you to submit to an examination.”
                                       *
“There’s no need to subject the boy to this.” Albus’ voice trembled a little as
he unfastened his robes. “Surely your examination of me will tell you all you
need to know?”
“The Ministry has procedures,” said the pompous little man who had accompanied
the Healer. “Those procedures must be followed.”
Edward watched from his corner seat with round eyes as Albus removed his robes
and trousers. Since the Ministry fool and the Healer showed no sign of asking
the boy to leave, Albus turned his back to the boy when he was instructed to
remove his undergarments.
He stared into the distance, trying to ignore the strange feeling of another
wizard’s wand lifting up his penis, and the murmurings as he made copious
notes. It seemed to take an inordinately long time for them to find nothing,
but that was only as he had expected.
“Can you repeat that for my records please?”
“Certainly.” The Healer leaned forward to speak into the little box the
Ministry man held. “There is no evidence that this man has engaged in sodomy
recently.”
“What about…” The Ministry man waved a hand around behind his back.
“I’m only required to examine the boy for signs of penetration,” said the
Healer, “You’d need to resubmit the paperwork for further examination of
Professor Dumbledore.” He put his wand away and closed his notes. “You can get
dressed again now, sir.”
At least he had gone first, even if it hadn’t spared the boy.
Dear Merlin, they even had to stand him on a box so he was high enough to bend
over the table.
He wanted to look away, but the boy’s eyes were fixed on his, no doubt for
support. He kept eye contact throughout, even when the boy winced at the
entrance of the wand, his thin chest held down firmly on the impromptu
examination table.
“I just need to make one more check.” The Healer let the wand fall to the
table, and dipped his fingers in a slimy green potion, carefully sealing the
lid again. “And then we’re all done.”
The Healer bent down again and Edward’s face set into a determined blank mask.
Only the movements of his body gave away what was taking place, and Albus
couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable it might be for even an exceptionally mature
boy to be naked in front of three grown men, one of whom watched with far too
prurient interest while another forced his fingers into his arse – all in order
to prove that some pervert teacher hadn’t looked at him naked and shoved his
fingers up that same, no longer untouched, arse.
Albus had never been so angry.
He took Edward straight back to his rooms afterwards, ignoring the looks from
the Ministry men. They could think what they liked now; he had nothing more to
prove.
Edward threw off his robes the moment the door shut. His trousers weren’t fully
buttoned up, his shirt uncharacteristically hanging loose and half untucked.
Buttons flew across the room as he pulled the trousers open roughly and stalked
into the bedroom.
Albus followed a few moments later to find the boy naked, perched on the edge
of the bed.
“Do it now,” he said. His face was flushed red, but from anger, not shame, and
Albus had no doubt what he meant.
Albus knew he could say no, should say no. He should remind himself that the
boy wasn’t old enough to truly know what he wanted, insist he dressed and
returned to his dungeon dormitory to do his homework… but he couldn’t deny that
he yearned to wipe away the touch of those slimy bureaucrats and their petty
display of power, and show the boy just how good it could feel if he would
allow him.
“If they can touch me, so can you.” Edward’s jaw was set, but it shook as Albus
ran his hands over his hair, soothing some of the tension away.
“You know it’s not the same,” whispered Albus, but his hands stroked over the
smooth shoulders and he felt them shiver under his touch. So responsive…
“I was hard under the table when they touched me.”
Albus’ hands pressed down more firmly on the shoulders, his fingers tightening
against the urge to move lower, to stroke down the boy’s spine and open him up,
make him gasp with pleasure.
“The wand they used was thicker than mine. I could feel it pushing against me,
but it wouldn’t go in. The Healer had to use his fingers to find the hole,
could you see that?”
Albus shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.
“His fingers were warm, and didn’t feel as bad as the wand when they touched
it. He just put the tip of his finger in and used that to help slide the wand
in, I could feel it.”
Albus’ hands shook at the vision in his head. The boy’s cheek was pressed
tightly against his robes, nuzzling lightly against Albus’ groin as he spoke.
The boy couldn’t fail to notice the effect he was having on him.
“The wand hurt a little, but I liked the fingers. I even liked it when he used
two of them, that’s when I was hard.”
The boy looked up at him with those knowing eyes, too old for his years by far.
“Because I was imagining your fingers, not his.”
And Albus fell.
It was funny how easy it was to damn oneself. A moment ago he had been a
respectable, if poorly paid, professor. Now he was racking up a list of
criminal offences that would do Aberforth proud – except that Aberforth had
never to the best of his knowledge done anything that would guarantee him time
in Azkaban.
Two years, his mind whispered to him while his hands pushed the naked boy back
on the bed and his mouth descended to inhale the sweet breath of those lips.
Five years, at least, it promised, for caressing the boy into a puddle of want
and need; for pushing that skinny boyish knee up and sliding slick crooked
fingers inside the tight channel that clenched around his finger; for twisting
them until the boy sweated and rocked and begged for a hand, a mouth, anything
at all, on his cock.
Ten years, each time the clock had ticked enough hours of study past and they
left the books behind to sink into the large soft bed, each time they rolled
and kissed and groaned until the sun chased the night away, each time he pushed
his way inside that little piece of heaven, taking what he shouldn’t have, the
boy gasping at the hand stroking him to completion.
A lifetime, for every time they threw caution aside and ran naked in the woods,
the boy a young Pan in the moonlight, all high spirits and animal energy; for
how the game always ended the same way, one of them caught and pressed up
against a tree, night breeze caressing their skin and their laughter on the
wind; for how they rutted like animals, made love like soulmates, fucked like
demons.
For six whole years.
                                     * * *
1st December, 1947
A London Residence
“You still think it was wrong.”
Albus sighed. “Edward, it was wrong.”
“Sometimes it is conventional morality that is wrong, or at least unsuited to
individual circumstances. It was what needed to happen; there should be no
shame or regret in it.”
Albus squeezed Edward’s hand. “I think what I am most ashamed of is that I feel
so little regret. For that, at least. The other…”
Edward just nodded. “I know, Albus. Oh, I know.”
                                     * * *
June 1894
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Albus had always known it would be different when Edward left school. He was
still unprepared for the lump in his throat when the day finally arrived.
“I’m all packed.”
Edward threw himself into Albus’ favourite chair and inspected the breakfast
teapot on the cluttered desk. Full, as always. Pouring himself a strong cup, he
lounged comfortably and watched Albus complete his own packing.
“You could help, you know.” Albus straightened up from a box of books and
sealed it shut with a flick of his wand.
“I could, true.” Edward gestured to his plate with an airy wave. “But then I
wouldn’t be able to eat half as many crumpets, you see. Do you really begrudge
me this last taste of Hogwarts cooking?”
Albus didn’t answer, just sighed over the impossibility of understanding
Edward’s reorganisation of the books that piled ever higher in his room. It
would have been easier if he was taking all his books away with him for the
summer, but that had become an impossibility over the last couple of years.
Instead he had to search through irregular piles and jumbles of texts in no
apparent logical order – he couldn’t even use a summoning charm in case of
danger to life and limb from a toppling tower of books.
“Just tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll tell you where it is,” Edward
mumbled from around a mouthful of crumpet. Butter dribbled down his chin, and
he poked out a long tongue to mop it up. “Mmm, I’m going to miss these.”
“A Guide to Medieval Sorcery.”
“Over by the window, third bookshelf, behind that stack of alchemy texts.”
“And that means…?”
“Ummm, only worth reading if you can turn this shit to gold.”
Fine.
“Dreadful Denizens of the Deep?”
“Oh, too easy. That one’s on the pile by the fire. Under Olde and Forgotten
Bewitchments and Charmes, I think.”
“Hmm. Let me guess – with books like these you’ll never be short of
firelighters?”
“Very good. You’re really getting the hang of my system. I must say, it’s about
time.”
Albus sat down at the desk and refilled his own teacup.
“I’m going to miss you,” he confessed, and sipped at his tea. “Though not the
liberties you take with my property, perhaps.”
“I’ll be back from my trip in three months.” Edward shrugged. “And I’ve no
intention of becoming a stranger.”
At least Albus wouldn’t have to force him to go his own way – Edward had always
been a Slytherin through to the core. There was as much chance of him not
exploring the world as fully as he could as there was of him joining the very
pin-striped morons he so vehemently despised.
“You should leave here yourself.” Edward cast a glance around the room. “You
could do much better for yourself – politics now, that would be the thing. Turn
the Ministry on its head and kick out all the useless pea-brained idiots who
push paper from one place to another all day. Minister Dumbledore – yes, I like
the sound of that.”
“I’m afraid I should hate it,” said Albus lightly. “Though turning the place on
its head is a tempting thought. Unfortunately nobody takes the word of an
insignificant professor terribly seriously, however much you think they ought
to.”
He patted Edward’s arm absently, and rose to continue his packing.
“Then you have to be more than an insignificant professor. A famous professor,
perhaps – I’ve told you for years you should write books, Albus.”
“You tell me a lot of things, dear boy. When you were… thirteen? Yes, I think
that’s right. Anyway, when you were thirteen I remember you telling me I should
find a Dark wizard and defeat him so they would make me Minister for Magic.”
Edward smiled lazily from his chair. “I still think that was a good plan.
That’s the sort of person who would have support against those pin-striped
arseholes.”
He was right about that at least, Albus supposed.
“And…” Edward paused uncertainly for once, as if reluctant to speak. “I have
this feeling it will be important one day. To have a hero, I mean. Someone who
can get things done.”
He sipped at his tea, and Albus sat on the arm of his chair.
“Find me a Dark wizard and maybe we’ll give it a try,” he said, and bent to
kiss him into silence, knowing it was for the last time that year.
                                       *
As it turned out, it was the last time for almost ten years.
They were hardly strangers, though. From the moment Edward landed in France for
the start of his travels he owled letters weekly, sometimes daily if he was
somewhere of interest, and Albus enjoyed nothing more than sitting down for a
long read of his adventures before composing a reply.
On his return from abroad, the life of a Cambridge student, and later a London
gentleman about town was so far removed from that of a professor in a far
distant Scottish castle that the letters gradually dwindled to a monthly or
twice-yearly occurrence. Each one he received, however, was detailed, vastly
amusing, and full of the Edward he remembered, and not the ‘Aleister’ that he
occasionally read about in the Society pages, or more frequently as part of
some scandal or other in the less respectable Muggle newspapers he was careful
not to be seen reading.
When he did see him again it came completely out of the blue. Albus had only
received a letter the day before, although it had been a little delayed as the
owl had to follow his removal to his summer residence, which for that year was
a delightful cottage on the south coast of England.
There was no warning, other than a loud pop outside the cottage door. Seconds
later, the door swung open with a cursory knock, and Edward was strolling
around the tiny kitchen, drinking tea, and searching out cakes and sweets
before he could blink, as if they had never been apart.
The flow of tea and anecdotes didn’t stop until the cottage was dark enough to
need the lamps lit.
“This the bedroom?” Edward indulged his curiosity while Albus put away the tea
things, opening a low door off the living room. “Ah, yes.”
Albus could hear the thump of his shoes hitting the floor as he followed him.
“Presumptuous young hooligan.” He leaned against the doorway and watched Edward
begin to undress.
Edward just shook his head in mock dismay, fingers working at his buttons. “Do
you want to waste time talking, or do you want to fuck?”
There was only really one answer to that.
Ten years had changed the body of the boy he remembered, and Albus could feel
scars under his fingertips as he ran his hands from the man’s shoulders and
down his back. Just touching him made him too impatient to ask any more
questions though, and Edward laughed when Albus pushed his shirt down his arms
and tugged hard, frustrated with the sleeves that seemed reluctant to
cooperate.
“Cufflinks,” he said, and unfastened them. “The bane of a gentleman’s life.”
As soon as the shirt was off, Albus dropped his robe to the floor. His hands
couldn’t stay away from the shoulders in front of him, so much broader and
grown-up but still familiar, still his boy. Always his boy. He groaned and
pulled the still-youthful body closer to him.
“I can see you missed me.” Edward quirked an eyebrow up past Albus’ erection,
and flicked his tongue at the tip, widening his eyes. “Oh, what a big prick you
have there, Professor, is that all for me?”
“Enough teasing, Mr. Crowley.” Albus watched the dark pupils dilate at his
stern tone, and pushed his hips forward, enjoying the sensation of pressing his
cock against a stubbled cheek for the first time in far too long. He rubbed a
trail of slick pre-come along the man’s jaw, searching for the soft, wet warmth
of that familiar mouth.
It was like dipping into the past, letting the reddened, swollen tip slide
between those lips. Albus let him take no more until he was certain of control,
holding his head still and pushing slowly, so carefully inside, relishing every
moment all the more because he knew he wouldn’t last long. Edward’s face was so
eager, so desperate; he was always that way when he sucked on Albus’ prick, as
if he could swallow down age and experience with Albus’ seed, be more than a
child, more than a boy, more than he appeared to be.
Yes, the look on his face when he licked his lips clean of Albus’ come had just
that same remarkable relish and delight, even now. And when Albus lay across
the pillows, a still almost hairless chest tantalising his back as the boy slid
into place, the murmurs in his ear still spoke of consuming, becoming; all of
them insane and grotesque poetry that dropped between obscenities into Albus’
ear, and all of them uniquely arousing.
Albus gasped at the first touch to his arse, a rough plundering with spit-slick
fingers that excited him beyond belief. He marvelled at the strength of the man
now he was grown, the boy who was never hesitant and shy now capable of taking
what he demanded.
“Edward!” He groaned, and spilt his seed once more, this time across the
pristine sheets, as the man’s barely lubricated cock forced its way inside him,
opening him up and taking its ultimate pleasure. He lay breathless, allowing
the stream of Edward’s imaginings to flow into his mind, gaining speed and
strength with every thrust that rocked to the very core of him, until the
stream erupted into a wild shriek, and a burning liquid heat filled his
insides.
                                     * * *
“By the way, I might have some news for you, old boy.”
Edward pulled his arm free of their embrace, and sat up, reaching for his
cigarette case. He pulled out a cigarette and held it between elegant fingers
until Albus summoned the matches for him.
“Might have found your Dark wizard,” he said, watching a perfect smoke ring
rise to the ceiling.
“My—?” Albus settled himself comfortably again, pulling the sheet up over his
stomach. He laughed as he recalled the conversation. “You don’t give up, do
you?”
“Never, old man.” The dark eyes were surprisingly serious, and it was so like
old times that Albus couldn’t help but smile.
“I know you always laugh, but you know I’m right, don’t you? Albus, the
wizarding world might be run by imbeciles and half-wits, but I’d hate to see
the end of it. If we aren’t ready for it, that just might happen.”
Albus watched another smoke ring rise, scratching absently at the drying, flaky
stains on his leg, but remained silent.
“Oh, you know all right. And if I have to turn you into a hero to do it, you’re
going to be as ready as you can for whatever is coming.”
He stilled Albus’ hand and squeezed it tightly. Albus, as always, gave in.
“Very well, very well. Tell me all about him.”
“Name of Grindelwald.” Edward tapped his cigarette on the ashtray. “Nobody
knows where he came from, who he is, or what he is capable of, but he’s been
causing a bit of a ruckus. Rumours are he’s looking for trouble, but he’s just
rabble-rousing for now.”
“Surely not a serious threat?”
“Maybe, maybe not… but it’s worth keeping an eye on him.” Edward stubbed out
the cigarette and reached over the body next to him to put the ashtray on the
bedside table. “Want me to pass on anything else I find out?”
“Please.” Albus settled down to sleep against the warm body, wondering why he
felt Edward’s instincts were probably right on this one. Perhaps the importance
Edward obviously attached to it was simply beginning to affect him as well.
The cottage and Edward’s visits each summer became a constant if unscheduled
habit over the next few years, so much so that any missed visit caused concern.
Edward had an extraordinary ability to attract trouble, like nobody he had ever
known before, but somehow he managed to collect information on this Grindelwald
without getting himself killed, not that it stopped Albus from worrying about
him.
It was decades before Grindelwald became a serious threat to the wizarding
world, but when he did, Albus was more than ready for him.
                                     * * *
“Not the battle, Albus.”
“Don’t worry, my boy. Are you sure you want the rest, though? It can’t be the
easiest thing to think about—”
“I need to see it, old man. You’ll understand why. Later.”
                                     * * *
August 3, 1945
Grindelwald Castle, Austria
It had been a difficult fight. The majority of even the Aurors that were left
had abandoned the field or were lying injured in gore-streaked piles. Not many
deaths, though, despite the vicious and bloodthirsty reputation Grindelwald had
built up over his rise to power.
Something just didn’t add up about the whole situation, and if it was the last
thing he did, Albus was going to get to the bottom of it today.
Albus picked his way across the minefield of traps and jinxes towards the ditch
where Grindelwald’s body lay. He held his wand at the ready; there was no
guarantee the Dark wizard was dead, after all, although Albus would have been
surprised to find him less than fatally injured.
It was difficult to keep walking through the stench of blood and death towards
the soot-blackened hole in the ground, not least when Edward could be lying
dead or injured on the field. He might even have walked right past him, but
there was nothing he could do about that right now.
Please let him be alive, Albus prayed, dear Merlin, please let Edward be alive.
Mouldy earth crumbled into the blood-stained blast pit as Albus edged around
the rim. The body was face down, not moving, twisted and mangled it was true,
but…
A flick of his wand and the body turned over gently. The features were
distorted on the bloodied face, somehow wrong… a charm, he realised, just as
the eyes opened.
“Albus.”
And the charm crumbled before his eyes, leaving him holding Edward in his arms,
triumphant and crowing even as his life-blood seeped into the earth.
“A fine battle, old man.” He coughed, blood bubbling from the corner of his
mouth. “You’ll be the biggest hero the wizarding world has ever seen. Just
think what you will be able to achieve.”
Albus just hoped it would be worth the price. Lying there, helpless to do
anything about the man dying slowly in his arms, it seemed unlikely.
                                     * * *
1st December, 1947
A London Residence
“Ha. Didn’t die though, did I?”
“You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good. Perhaps it would have been
best if you had died cleanly instead of rotting away here for two years. Or
better still, not at all.”
“It had to be this way. You know that, Albus.”
“I know, I know.” Albus sighed heavily. “But it’s been hard keeping away until
you sent for me.”
“Just necessary precautions, old man.”
Albus began to speak, but Edward suddenly wheezed, clutching at his chest.
“If you could–” He began to cough, and pointed to the dresser on the other side
of the room, where Albus could see a bottle and glass.
Albus hurried to pour a generous measure of whisky, and returned to the bed,
where Edward was levitating the pensieve onto a nearby table. He held the glass
to the sick man’s lips, and Edward choked the burning liquid down.
“Thank you.” His voice was hoarse, tired.
“You should rest.” Albus leaned back in the upright chair.
“No.” The voice was growing fainter now. “Not long to go.” He drew a long,
withered breath into his lungs. “Want you to know… the pensieve is yours. It’s
all yours.”
“Never mind that now.” Albus leaned over, but the last spark of light was dying
fast now.
And then it blinked out.
It was many hours before Albus stirred, and found the leathery hand cold in his
grasp. When he finally rose, he picked up the Chocolate Frog card that lay on
the bedcovers above the still chest, frowning slightly. Grindelwald scowled
back, as always, and something tickled at the corners of Albus’ memory. Why had
he brought this with him? He was obviously losing his mind. Or… yes, the
pensieve.
He drew his wand and walked round to the other side of the bed to retrieve his
memories from the shallow, silver-filled bowl.
Except where there should have been long silver strands of memories there was
only faint, faded rune marks and smooth, cold stone.
It was empty.
                                     * * *
Albus had his concerns sometimes, especially knowing that some of his memories
had been stolen, though for what reason he could not begin to imagine. They
popped into his mind now and again, little sparks of self-doubt that threatened
to flare up and blind him, vague intimations of inappropriate thoughts that
blinked with the distracting fascination of a hinkypunk’s lure.
But when the feelings started to overwhelm him, he would sit in the dark of the
library and listen to the clock tick the quiet moments of his life away. Here,
surrounded by almost as many books as there were souls in the wizarding world,
he could reflect on what he knew of himself, of his long years and the deeds
his name was known for.
Gradually the spark would fade, flashing and shrinking until it blinked out
into nothing.
And Albus Dumbledore could safely continue to guard the wizarding world, secure
in the knowledge that he was, after all, a good man.
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