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Chapter Text

                                                               "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."

The sky is pitch black, unnaturally so. Only a blood-red moon hangs above him, the only source of light, dim as it is.

He noticed it never moves.

Daylight never comes in death.

The shadows wouldn’t survive in it, Voldemort assumes.

You need to move. They’ll find you again.

Voldemort cannot linger in one place; twice he found shelter in abandoned, run-down buildings, but they spotted him there, too. They seem to not be able to enter, but they try. And the longer he stays hidden inside, the walls close around him, getting closer and closer, forcing him out. Where the shadows await.

He hadn’t been dead very long; or at least he doesn’t think so. 

There’s no way to tell the time.

(-)

He’s running, the shadows close at his back. They wail, awful noises that reach inside him, that try to claim his mind. 

Whispers, malicious and raw, designed to make him stumble, to slow him down.

Voldemort refuses, stubborn as always.

He finds another building; it looks medieval, grand, with imposing towers.

A lick of coldness creeps down his back just as he dashes in.

The cold is devastating, sharp- he yells in agony and falls on the hard cold stone, writhing in pain.

It touched him.

When the agony dies down, Voldemort opens his eyes to see the beasts waiting at the door, screaming, raging, limbs of smoke extending for him.

He stands on shaky legs and closes the door in their -well, not faces, but whatever.

He leans on the door, slides down into a sitting position.

He’s cold; it’s always freezing in this world, but the place where he’d been touched is beyond that. So cold it burns.

He needs to search around; he needs to find a candle or a blanket; he needs to rest his eyes for a bit and then he needs to get out again, when the shadows have left, before the building starts shrinking around him.

He needs to do it.

Instead, he draws his knees to his chest, rests his head on them, and trembles.

(-)

He runs from one abandoned building to another, constantly hunted by those things. Eventually, he reminds himself that he is Lord Voldemort and he draws the courage to look at them from a window, when he’s locked in what seemed to have been a police station. 

They rush to the window, black wraiths of agony that they are. Faceless, Voldemort observes, as he’s forcing himself to stay put, reminds himself they cannot enter any building. 

But when too many of them come into view, they cover the moon light, submerging the police station in darkness. 

Lord Voldemort is not afraid of the dark. 

Tom Riddle is, though. 

Good thing Tom Riddle is dead, Voldemort thinks, stumbling around, feeling the walls with his hands, trying to find something, anything. 

But so are you, a voice whispers. He hates that he can’t tell if he comes from within him. 

Maybe it came from the shadows. 

He walks into what he assumes might be a desk, the sharp edge of it surely leaving a bruise in his hipbone. He feels around for drawers and he opens them, touching their content carefully. 

He finds nothing of use. 

Sometimes he finds candles and rarely, he can use his magic to light them. Only rarely. Magic doesn’t work too well in this place. 

There’s nothing to eat. Not that he can die of starvation, but he’s terribly hungry. He’s thirsty, too, but so far he didn’t find water. 

And yet his clothes are always damp; the earth is muddy, wet and slippery, even if it never rains. 

Once, when he was young, he asked Slughorn about ways to become immortal. 

“Wizards have no need for immortality, Tom. For us, death is just a door to another place.” 

Tom Riddle knew his teacher was truthful. He’d seen the ghosts at Hogwarts. There is an after for wizards. Uncontested. 

Wizards never speak of Hell. The muggles do, however, and Tom Riddle was always certain he’ll end up there, if he dies. Mrs Cole always told him so. 

And he did not want to go to Hell. 

Voldemort laughs in the police station. Quietly, of course. Noise only makes the shadows linger longer. 

Eventually, they forget about him, and they leave. 

Moonlight casts dim red light over his surroundings. 

(-)

When he sleeps, he constantly dreams of his victims. All of them. He’d forgotten he’d killed so many people. Some he doesn’t even recognise.

“I didn’t kill you,” he says, confused, when an angry young man scowls at him. 

“Yes, you did. You found me on the street and killed me and then I woke up in water, drowning. Forever drowning.”

Ah, one of the muggles he turned into Inferi.

Sometimes he tries to talk with the murdered ones; after a while, he needs to talk to someone, and even his nightmares are preferable to the reality and the shadows.

He fights with Lily Potter, in her son’s room, surrounded by toys; she yells curses at him, laughs in glee at his fate, but he treasures her voice, treasures the colours on her- the bright hair, the green eyes.

Everything is grey and black in his new world.

Moody is by far Voldemort’s favourite. “Constant Vigilance,” he keeps yelling at Voldemort as he falls off his broom. “Been chased by shadows all my life, laddie! You just need to be vigilant. If they grab your leg, just cut it off; chop-chop and they’ll let you go!”

His father refuses to talk to him; he sits regally at his office in Riddle Manor, the corpses of his parents at his feet, and he resolutely ignores Voldemort. 

It’s fine. Voldemort appreciates the silence, too.

In the new world, there is never silence. Whispers or screams or a rustling, unnatural wind.

(-)

He runs through dead trees, feet light and fast on the withered grass.

The shadows are in pursuit, but he has the lead; he timed it perfectly, from behind the bushes he was hidden, eyeing the house in the distance.

A barn, but it will do. Maybe he’ll find some clothes. Something thick, preferably.

The last jumper he found is getting warn.

He dashes through the door. He stands in the doorway, watching the shadows glide towards him.

“Piss off!” he yells out at them, before slamming the door shut.

Someone laughs.

He turns, shocked-

A young man is standing, clearly just having risen from between stacks of hay.

Voldemort blinks. Rubs his eyes. Is he hallucinating?

He’s tall, though not as tall as Voldemort. Blond, with a narrow face and straight nose. Blue eyes, tired, look at him with astonishment.

Voldemort thinks he’d glimpsed him, before, but he can’t be sure where.

“Did you just tell them to piss off?” His voice is thick with surprise; it holds a slight accent.

Voldemort just stares at him.

The shadows slam themselves into the wooden walls, screeching, bringing even more cold with them.

“And I just got warm,” the man complains, but he doesn’t seem too upset about it. “Are you real? Are you here?”

Voldemort nods. “Who are you?” His voice is rough, because he hadn’t spoken with anyone in what must be a long time, just yelled obscenities at the shadows, here and there.

The man approaches. He looks to be about twenty five- thirty years old.

“Gellert,” he says.

“Grindelwald?” Voldemort asks, and yes, he saw this man in a picture, inside a book.

Rita Skeeter’s book.

Grindelwald cringes. “I really hope I didn’t kill your parents or something similar.”

Voldemort also saw this man in a cell, though he looked nothing like this by then. Old and frail, weak bones and spotted skin.

Voldemort killed this man.

“You didn’t,” he says.

How doesn’t he recognise me?

But then, Voldemort must look like he used to, before his transformation. Before Albania.

There are no mirrors anywhere, but he feels the hair on his head. He can see his very normal human hands and body.

Grindelwald smiles, relieved to hear he didn’t murder anyone related to Voldemort.

“And you are?”

Voldemort doesn’t answer.

Grindelwald doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Come, I’ll give you one of my blankets.” He invites Voldemort to the haystack. “Merlin, it’s so good to see someone. I thought I was alone.”

Voldemort thought the same.

He takes the blanket and pulls it over his shoulders, staring at Grindelwald, fascinated to have found someone.

(-)

“So what did you do?” Grindelwald asks, when they find shelter in what looks to be a prison.

“Killed people,” Voldemort answers, checking under a bunk bed.

Only dust and slime.

“It has to be more than that. Loads of killers in the world and yet I found no one else around.” Grindelwald is searching through a cabinet in the same cell. “When I was twenty-seven, I bound human souls to earth, in rituals, to turn them into ghouls to serve me. That must be it. Oh, here! A candle!”

Voldemort moves toward him. It’s a small thing. At best, it would offer them an hour of light.

They hadn’t talked about leaving together. It just happened. The barn shrunk, and they both left... they just went on the same path.

Voldemort is glad for the company.

Grindelwald sits on a bed, pulling the blankets out of a leather contraption he’d fashioned. He hands one to Voldemort, who takes it and sits on the opposite bed.

Grindelwald waves his hand over the candle. Once, twice- on the third try a small spark appears, but it doesn’t catch.

“Blast it all to-”

“Give it here,” Voldemort orders, because he’s used to ordering people around, even if he didn’t mean to sound so harsh.

Grindelwald throws it at him.

He catches it mid air.

Voldemort glares at the candle.

Sometimes it takes him a few waves of his hand to light one, if he manages at all.

But this time he wants to show off.

Come on, come on!

He just glares at it until a tiny flame throws light on the walls.

Shadows, too, and both he and Grindelwald flinch for a second before dismissing them.

Just normal, regular shadows.

“Impressive,” Grindelwald says, searching Voldemort’s face. “You must have been a particularly powerful wizard.”

“I am a powerful wizard,” Voldemort snarls.

No past tense for him. He refuses.

Silence.

“Horcrux,” he speaks into it, some minutes later. “That’s why I’m here. At least I assume so.”

Grindelwald’s eyebrow quirks in interest, but he nods. “Seems someone doesn’t like people messing around with soul magic, huh?”

“Seems not.”

He pulls the blanket around his shoulder and rests his back on the wall, pulling his legs to his chest on the soiled, uncomfortable mattress.

“So how did you die, then? If you had a Horcrux?”

Voldemort sighs, rubs his face. He’s filthy. Something black comes off his face, transfers to his palms.

Disgusting.

“I had several,” he boasts, because what is there to lose by saying it?

“Several?” Grindelwald shifts on his bed, leans closer to stare at Voldemort. His grey eyes sparkle in the candle’s light.

“Seven,” Voldemort says, and he relishes in Grindelwald’s expression.

“I considered it, you know? But most wizard that attempt it, die. They do not survive the ritual. Seven?”

“One was an accident,” Voldemort says and Grindelwald laughs, bends even further, blanket forgotten, falling off his shoulder.

“A truly powerful wizard, then.”

“I am,” Voldemort says and Grindelwald laughs again.

Voldemort notices that when Grindelwald laughs, the whispers around the house quiet down.

(-)

“How old do I look?” he asks Grindelwald, in a suburban house, huddled in a bathroom, away from windows and doors. 

The shadows had gotten very close to them. They hate it when they miss prey. 

So they make themselves unseen in the windowless bathroom. 

A candle they found in the supermarket they’ve been in previously burns low between them. 

“Young. Very young. Eighteen?” Grindelwald shrugs. “Just about.” 

Voldemort nods. “Made my first Horcrux when I was sixteen.” 

Grindelwald seems to have kept the age he had when he’d performed his soul binding rituals. 

“Well, you were a beautiful child.” Grindelwald smirks. 

Voldemort rolls his eyes. 

He hates that phase in his life. That pretty face. 

“What possessed you to make a Horcrux at that age? Most adolescents aren’t concerned with their eventual demise.” 

Voldemort doesn’t answer. 

I was always afraid of death? I was afraid I’d go to Hell? Sounds very… cowardly. 

“Who did you kill? And where? Weren’t you supposed to be at Hogwarts?” 

He talks about the Basilisk and the Chamber of Secrets. 

(-)

“No, not there,” Grindelwald shakes his head, stopping when they see a building once they get out of a forest.

“What? Why?” Voldemort is forced to stop as well, though he moves his head around, wildly. They’re out in the open. The shadows could descend on them at any second.

“I’ll-I’ll explain later. Not there! There’s a stable not far from here, though.”

“We might not make it,” Voldemort shoots it down, heads for the building.

“I’m not coming,” Grindelwald insists, afraid. “I- if you want, we can try to meet up later, at the factory back in that are that looks like Berlin.”

Voldemort doesn’t want them to part. What if they can’t find each other again? It seems to be a vast world.

It looks like the one they left behind on earth only… jumbled together. 

Voldemort is certain they just went through parts of Berlin, but just a little before that, they hid in a famous Scottish castle.

“Fine,” he sneers. “The stable better be close.”

He follows Grindelwald for what seems like a long time. It is an exercise in paranoia, waiting to be spotted and hunted at any second.

But they reach it, unbothered.

“Grindelwald,” Voldemort growls when the other man starts chatting about how he’d been there before and he stashed some boots around.

“Gellert, call me Gellert.” 

“Tell me about-” 

“It was Nurmengard.” 

Ah. Voldemort supposes it might have been. Hard to tell, in the dark, with every building grey and run down.

“It was shelter,” he sneers. “We could have- whatever would happen to us if they catch us! Just because you couldn’t stand to-”

“It’s not that,” Grindelwald hisses, and it is the first Voldemort can see the dark lord.

He’s usually all smiles and light voice, even when he’s silent, there’s nothing menacing about him.

But now his tone is low, his eyes still, his face sets in a certain way.

“It is worse in that place. Something else is there,” he whispers.

“What?” Voldemort whispers too, though he’s not sure why.

“I don’t know. It makes me want to get out, to open the doors. It speaks in my head,” he rubs at his temple. “I’m not crazy and I am not emotional. It is real, and it is terrible.”

Voldemort shuts up, satisfied with the answer. He doesn’t think the other crazy. If he says it, then it must be true.

They settle themselves in a stall. Grindelwald’s bag is bigger than it was days- or whatever- before. Voldemort helped him expand it, but neither of them could make it weightless.

Voldemort refuses to carry a bag. He wants to travel light, fast. Unburdened. Sometimes all he has is half a candle, if he finds one, or an extra coat on his shoulders. It is not like he’ll ever risk getting hot.

But now Grindelwald carries more. More clothes, more blankets. Double the amount he used to have when Voldemort found him.

He gets one blanket out and hands it over. 

My blanket, he thinks. 

“Is there water around here?” Voldemort asks, taking off his boots.

They both must stink, but by then they have gotten so used to it, they can’t smell it anymore.

Small mercies.

“I found some rivers, yes. But it’s dangerous to bathe.”

Voldemort can imagine.

“When did you die?” Grindelwald asks, when he lights the candle.

He did it on his first try this time. Triumph shines in his grey, unlined eyes. 

“In ‘98.”

He’s surprised. “Really? So did I.”

Oh, Voldemort knows. “In May.” 

Grindelwald frowns. “I think it was early spring for me, but I can’t be sure.”

“You died in March,” Voldemort says. “It was in the papers,” he adds, when Grindelwald gives him a questioning look.

“Feels like I have been here for far longer than a couple of months, before you came.”

“I spent a while on my own.” Voldemort shrugs. “Impossible to tell how long.”

“Do you think there is a way out?”

“Yes,” Voldemort says, because he refuses to believe he’s stuck there forever. “Yes, there must be.”

Grindelwald says nothing to that.

It was hard to sleep, at first, with the other man around. Voldemort had never slept in anyone’s presence. Too much vulnerability.

But he needs sleep, and it’s not like Grindelwald can kill him. Or want to. He’ll be alone if something happens to Voldemort.

He might prefer that, if he learns it is you that sent him to this place.

(-)

Grindelwald talks about his life and his adventures as a dark lord. Voldemort likes to listen; he is an intelligent man, has a deep knowledge of the dark arts and they discuss it at length.

Voldemort talks more and more, as time goes on. Or as time stays still, but they go on.

He’d been reserved in the beginning. He’d forgotten how to talk to people. Slowly, he remembers. And when they talk, the whispers and screams cannot be heard.

Grindelwald does the bulk of it, and Voldemort intervenes from time to time.

“How was it that Dumbledore defeated you?”

Tom Riddle had been a child when that famous duel took place. 

Tom Riddle grew up in Grindelwald’s shadow, up until Dumbledore put an end to it. 

“I read a book that said you used to be... involved.”

Grindelwald’s face darkens. He looks harsh, like he sometimes does.

“I know about that book; the guards at Nurmengard liked to throw it in my face, those last few months.”

“Was it true?”

“Yes.”

Voldemort simply can’t imagine it. Dumbledore and a dark lord. Unfathomable 

The shadows move outside the small, two-bedroom house they’re in. They’re whispering.

“He beat me because he was better,” Grindelwald speaks, eventually. “He was a man of remarkable power.”

“I am better,” Voldemort says.

Grindelwald smiles at him, a blinding thing. How can he smile so easily? Why?

Even discarding where they are, dark lords shouldn’t smile.

“You are insanely arrogant, that’s what you are.” 

Voldemort sees no reason to dispute it. “Where do you think that bastard is?”

The smile wilts away. “Probably with the nice people, in some heavenly world.”

(-)

They are running. Grindelwald even threw away his bag. The shadows are coming from all sides. Voldemort barely has the time to sneak through a small gap. He’s touched again, and he screams. His vision goes black, but he refuses to fall, just keeps running.

He doesn’t even know if Grindelwald is still with him.

A building is in the distance and he’s so thankful, so desperate to reach it. 

He rushes inside, and there comes Grindelwald, close behind him.

Voldemort falls, clutching his shoulder, where the burning cold consumes him. 

“I thought they got you, I was sure they did.” Grindelwald says something else in Hungarian and he pulls at Voldemort’s many layers.

Voldemort looks down when his arm is bared and sees the long black stripe, skin dead already in its wake.

“Chop-Chop” Moody says.

Grindelwald breathes harshly. “I would ask if it hurts, but that would be stupid.”

Voldemort stands, shivering with cold. “Is there one on the back?” He turns, remembering that incident when he was new to this hell. Grindelwald’s swears are answer enough.

Voldemort pulls his shirt and jumper back on, but he’s still so cold.

And the bag is lost. No blankets, no candle.

He just sits back down, the shadows outside screeching loudly.

“Come on, maybe there’s a bed and a blanket around,” Grindelwald says, and he reaches over to pull him up.

Voldemort flinches away, huddles around himself, teeth chattering.

“Alright, I’ll go looking.”

His footsteps are getting further and further away.

But then they’re getting closer- only there’s something off about them. Something different. Something familiar.

Voldemort opens his eyes, staring at a wall, through almost complete darkness.

“Tom.” 

He jumps to his feet. He looks around madly. He can’t see anyone. “Tom,” the voice comes again. 

“Tom,” another joins it.

Voldemort runs, blindly, deeper inside the building. He reaches a set of stairs and he climbs it fast, instinctively going down the hallway, to the last room, the knob so familiar between his fingers-

He’s at Wool’s.

There’s his old bed, his Bible on the nightstand. 

“Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom!”  

“SHUT UP!” 

“Tommy, welcome home.”

“No!”

Light from the moon comes through the windows, between the gaps the shadows make. They gather around, waiting for him. 

And then a red line appears on the wall.

Voldemort watches in horror how it spells TOM.

“You never left, you never will. You belong here. You can’t leave.”

Tom can leave. He can. He can just go out; he can open the windows and jump-

Your name is Voldemort, he tells himself, shaking his head.

“It’s not, it’s not, it’s’ not. Tom, Tom, Tom.”

Voldemort!

“You can’t leave, never leave, trapped here-”

It’s trying to make Voldemort leave, wants to make him walk outside in the waiting hands of the shadows.

“Shut up, shut up!” he yells, loudly, to cover the voice in his head.

“Oh, fuck!” Another voice and there is Grindelwald, coming inside the room. “This building means something to you, doesn’t it?”

“NO!”

“Tom, why are you lying? It is your home.”

“It means nothing!”

“Don’t listen to whatever it is saying.” Grindelwald locks the door, places himself in front of it. “We’ll leave as soon as we can, alright? You just have to hold on for a while-” 

“I’m not a fucking child,” Voldemort snarls, hating the pitying tone-

“You are, you are an unwanted orphan. No one is coming for you, no one is taking you away. Stuck here forever, Tom. Forever.”

He’s so cold.

The shadows bang on the windows, screeching loudly, louder than ever before.

TOM! They’re saying it, too.

His head hurts, a blinding, debilitating pain; he can’t see anything, and either he’s blind, or the shadows must have covered the windows altogether. He can’t think.

“Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom.”

Someone’s touching him.

He struggles, tries to push them away, but everything hurts. He doesn’t have air; he can’t breathe. 

I need to get out. If he gets out of the orphanage, he can breathe again, he’s sure.

“Get out. While you still can. Get out or be stuck here, forever.” 

“It’s alright, we’ll move soon, I promise. Just hold on until the shadows leave.”

Through the pain, through the cold and the blindness, Voldemort somehow still sees Mrs Cole. 

She’s a shadow now, but a white one, with big glistening fangs-

Billy’s a shadow too, a rabbit with red eyes on his shoulder. 

“Tom, Tom, Tom.”

“Let me go,” he says, struggling like a wild animal. 

“I can’t,” Grindelwald says.

“I won’t leave,” Voldemort promises. 

I’m not Tom, this isn’t real. It’s not happening. No one is here. Just me and Grindelwald. They cannot trick me.

“I can’t risk it.” 

“Let me go!” 

“No.” 

Voldemort doesn’t have the strength to fight him, not when he can’t even see anything- well he can see Amy trying to eat him, he can feel her gnawing at his leg, but he tells himself it is not real.

“Can you see anything?” he asks, and he is speaking very loud, to ignore the litany of Tom’s.

“No, the shadows are covering the windows. It would be better if we go down the hallway. If they can’t see us, you know they’ll leave faster.”

“Yes.” 

“But if we go in the hallway, you have to swear not to-” 

“I’m not leaving this house,” Voldemort says as he tries to shove Amy off his leg.

He can’t tell if he just imagines his body being dragged on the floor; he can’t tell anything anymore. 

He’s so cold, and she’s eating him. Billy is eating him, too.

I am Lord Voldemort, he keeps thinking.

“No, you’re just Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom.”

Amy retreats. So does Billy.

Voldemort blinks.

He sees the candle.

“Good thing you always keep one in your pants,” Grindelwald’s voice comes from behind.

They’re sat on the hallway.  

Voldemort’s back rests on Grindelwald’s chest; muscular arms are around his torso, keeping him close.

“Trousers,” he says, voice rough. “Pants means underpants.”

Grindelwald laughs and Mrs Cole and the children go even further back. Though they linger in the distance. 

“You Brits and your snobbery.”

“You can’t see a woman and two children?” he asks, just to check, pointing in their direction.

He feels Grindelwald’s head turning.

“No, I can’t. It’s probably the same thing that happened to me at Nurmengard. I must say, you’re handling rather well.”

“Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom.”

“No one plays tricks on me,” he says. I am Lord Voldemort.

“I ran straight out,” Grindelwald admits at his back. “They touched me too, when I did. But by some miracle, I escaped, and the stable was close by.”

“You’re not as strong as I. No one is.” 

Grindelwald laughs again. Voldemort can feel the vibrations in his chest.

“You can let me go. I’m not running.” Though he makes no move to try to move away from Grindelwald. 

“You’re freezing cold. You need some heat. I need it, too.”

Hard to argue with that.

“Tom, Tom, Tom.”

“Your name is Tom?”

Voldemort jerks.

“You can hear them?”

“No,” Grindelwald’s voice is exceedingly close to his ear. “But it’s written on all the walls. They wrote my name in Nurmengard.”

“Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom.”

He’ll hate himself for it later, but Voldemort huddles deeper inside Grindelwald’s arms, closer to his chest. 

“And here I was, convinced you are Voldemort.”

“I am Lord Voldemort,” he says, because he is.

I am not Tom, piss off.

“I would have been severely confused if you weren’t.” Another laugh. “All your bragging, the Horcruxes, the way you carry yourself as if you once commanded an army. And you are my contemporary. The only man as powerful as you claim to be that I heard of is Voldemort.” 

“I killed you,” Voldemort whispers.

“Yes, I am aware. I was there.”

“I sent you here,” Voldemort says. “You must be upset.”

“You set me free.” Grindelwald rests his head on Voldemort’s shoulder. “I’ll take this over that cell, anytime.”

“You can’t mean that.” Voldemort’s head is throbbing like it’s going to explode.

“Don’t I?”

“Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom.”

Maybe Grindelwald does mean it.

Voldemort prefers this world to the orphanage, too.

(-)

“Imagine if we had some whiskey,” Grindelwald says, as soon as they escape from the orphanage and reach what seems to have been a slaughterhouse.

“I never appreciated alcohol,” Voldemort answers.

He lays down on a rusty table, still exhausted. 

He can’t explain what went on at the fake Wool’s, but it had been extremely painful, confusing and terrifying.

“Are all British wizards so uptight, or am I just unlucky?”

Voldemort doesn’t deign that with an answer.

He hears Grindelwald rummaging around the place, lamenting quietly about the loss of their blankets and clothes. 

He must find something, because Voldemort feels a layer of material covering him, after some time. 

He can’t be bothered to look down and identify it. He can’t be bothered to be insulted that Grindelwald seems to believe Voldemort needs taking care of. 

“So you made a thousand horcruxes, got the elder wand, but you didn’t manage to get the other hallows?”

“The what?” Voldemort snaps.

That youthful face comes in his field of vision, bending over him. “Tell me you know about the Deathly Hallows! There is no conceivable way for you to know about the wand, but not the rest.”

Voldemort shrugs.

Grindelwald tells him all about it.

He listens, and he’s actually grateful he’s in such an overwrought state, otherwise he would get awfully angry.

“I thought it was a fairytale.” 

“You thought I used the Deathly Hallows as a symbol because I liked fairytales?” Grindelwald demands. 

“I took a skull and a snake as my symbol-” 

“That’s because you have no taste-” 

“So you can see why I don’t give such matters much importance,” Voldemort finishes his sentence, speaking over Grindelwald. “You took Dumbledore to bed; if I were you, I wouldn’t talk about taste.” 

“You gained a following with this attitude?” 

Voldemort turns his head, locates Grindelwald sitting on a dingy chair a little away from the table. 

He narrows his eyes at him. “They followed me for my power, not my manners.” 

“You have no power here, so better work on your people skills.” 

“Why bother? You already follow me around.” 

“Gods, but you’re so…” 

He doesn’t seem to find a word for what Voldemort is. 

They stay in silence for a while, listening to the various unpleasant noises coming from outside. 

Grindelwald is almost asleep when Voldemort speaks again. 

“I think I had the Resurrection Stone. It was set in my grandfather’s ring. It had the Deathly Hallows on it. Now that I think of it, Dumbledore always used to stare at it, when I wore it to school in my last year at Hogwarts.”

Grindelwald pulls his chair closer to the table. “So, not only did you make an accidental Horcrux, but you owned a hallow without knowing?” He sounds incredulous. “I chased those cursed things my entire life!” 

Voldemort smirks, turning his head again to take him in. 

“What did you do with it?” 

“I turned it into a Horcrux,” Voldemort answers, savouring the expression on Grindelwald’s face. 

His Hungarian is not good at all, so he doesn’t understand the onslaught of words that come out of Grindelwald’s mouth. 

(-)

They talk about their travels, about their reigns. Gellert always laughs at him when Voldemort makes the mistake of confessing to some of his… questionable plans, but Gellert always laughs at himself as well, when he mentions his own. 

Here and there, he grows angry and Voldemort can see traces of whom’s he’d been, of why he used to be feared by an entire continent. 

But mostly it’s just Voldemort that is angry and snappy and itching for a fight.

Gellert is a remarkably patient man, putting up with Voldemort’s many outbursts. 

They flirt with the shadows often, sometimes one of them or both of them gets touched, and it hurts, it’s terrible, but there’s always the other around to hold them close, chase away the cold and talk to cover the noises.

Voldemort isn’t quite sure how it happened- an only bed, in a decrepit barrack, Gellert suggesting they both take it, how their newly scavenged blankets provide better warmth if used simultaneously. 

They sleep together for the time they spend in that place.

At the next, there are about fifteen beds- another orphanage, though thankfully not Wool’s- but Gellert still climbs in with Voldemort and covers them both with their blankets.

Fairly soon after that, Voldemort wakes up with a body pressed against his back, arms around his waist.

He talks about propriety, but Gellert just laughs, looking around at the empty, dead world.

(-)

They find a river; they don’t dare to liger, but they wet some clothes and run back to a close by building.

So much filth comes off them, it’s absolutely absurd.

Grindelwald seems satisfied with three trips to the river.

Voldemort isn’t. He makes about ten, uses four rags and even wets some of his spare clothes that Grindelwald is carrying, lets them dry inside the home.

It makes him feel just a smidgeon better. Like he has control over something.

(-)

“I wish I would have met you when we were alive,” Gellert whispers in his ear.

“You did,” Voldemort says, frowning. “I killed-”

“That wasn’t really me; just a shell. I wish I’d known you sooner; I bet you were magnificent. You held off Albus while he sill had the Elder Wand. That is-”

“There’s no point in wishing for anything,” Voldemort snaps. “I am magnificent. I will get out of here.”

Silence. Well, as silent as that world can get.

He has the feeling he maybe was too short with Gellert. 

So what? What’s he going to do? Leave?

Still, Voldemort did kill the man. He thinks about that from time to time. Just pops into his head, out of nowhere, as he watches Gellert rummaging for supplies, lighting candles, carrying Voldemort’s clothes and blankets.

He thinks he’s feeling guilty. Just a little. So he attempts to be nice when he’s not too exhausted. 

As nice as he can be. 

“You wouldn’t have appreciated me back there,” he says, tone gentler. “I certainly wouldn’t have allowed you in my bed.” 

Gellert laughs, plastering his chest even more into Voldemort’s back.

“Who did you allow in your bed?” Gellert asks. “Women? Men?”

“Are you making a pass at me?” Voldemort tries but fails to stop a smile. He lets it blossom on his face. No one can see it, either way.

“I thought you were intelligent. Why do you think I’m hugging you every time we lie down?”

“Go to sleep, Gellert.”

(-)

They find Herpo the Foul. 

His eyes are opened, staring into nothing. He’s screaming, just screaming, arms and feet nailed to a tree. 

His skin is all burnt, the way it turns when the shadows touch them. Only on Herpo it’s his entire body, every piece of it. 

“So this is what happens if they catch us,” Gellert says and Voldemort shivers.

“What are you doing?” he asks, when Gellert pulls out a rusty knife from his bag and stabs Herpo in the heart. 

“I don’t like leaving him like this-” 

Voldemort pulls Gellert after him. 

Herpo keeps screaming. 

“Trying to kill the dead… aren’t you a genius?” 

Gellert keeps looking over his shoulder as Voldemort drags him far away from Herpo as fast as he can. 

(-)

“I was a very angry boy,” Gellert says, hanging their newly washed clothes around the room. “I liked to torment all the others with dark magic. Got so bad they expelled me. From Durmstrang.” 

“I played nice at school. For the most part.” 

Gellert snorts. “Except the murder.” 

“I did say for the most part, did I not?” Voldemort snaps, but with no venom. 

“I don’t know why I was so angry. My parents were good people, as they liked to remind me often. ‘Gellert, where did you learn to act like that.’ I think it was the dark magic. I was curious and went deeper into it than it was prudent. Eventually, they shipped me off to England to stay with my great aunt, Bathilda Bagshot. She’s a historian. You must have heard of her.” 

“I killed her,” Voldemort says, practicing his magic. 

Or whatever passes for magic. A warming charm that sometimes takes hold but lasts only a second. 

Gellert turns to look at him. “Why?” 

“Long story.” He hesitates. “My condolences, if you were close.” 

“She was a thousand years old! A little old lady- why would- you know what, never mind.” Gellert shakes his head. “We weren’t particularly close.” A brief silence. “That’s how I met Albus. They were neighbours.” 

Voldemort perks up, but, of course, that’s when Gellert decides to shut up. 

“I didn’t have the luxury to not worry about getting expelled,” he says, because he’s learning that’s how conversation goes. It’s his turn to share. 

“I figured. What with the orphanage and all.” Gellert stops from what he is doing to look at Voldemort. “How did you end up there?” 

“I am not fully sure.” He never was. He has his theories, but there’s no way to prove them. “My mother died in the birthing bed. My father wasn’t there by the time that happened.” 

The warming charm works when he tries it, as he thinks about the Muggle. 

“I killed him, when I found him.” 

Gellert sighs. “Quite the murderous fellow, you are.” 

When another dark lord with a high kill count himself says that, it puts things into perspective. 

Later, when they are in bed, Voldemort can’t stop his curiosity any longer. 

“How was he? Dumbledore? How did that happen?” 

Gellert takes so long to answer that by the time he does, Voldemort almost fell asleep. 

“He was brilliant. I was used to being the smartest; at school, no one could keep up with me. But Albus… I struggled to keep up with him.” 

The warm, nostalgic tone bothers Voldemort. 

“We were bored. Two young men trapped in a tiny village where nothing ever happened. He was so shy-"

Voldemort can’t quite picture that. Dumbledore, shy!

“I never had issues talking to people. I was always popular, always made friends easily, when I wanted to. But he was very lonely. His genius, his lanky, skinny ridiculously tall body, his blood status, his father’s reputation- it didn’t endear him to anyone at that Hogwarts of yours. He only had one friend, someone named Elphias, another outcast. He had a trip planned that summer. He dreamed of escaping England and his family’s reputation, the burden of his little sister. Alas, his mother died, and he was stuck at home.” A soft laugh. “I think he was in love with me after the first day we spent together. He was so grateful that someone like me would pay attention to him. Even when I started talking about dark magic, he just… went along with it, to impress me. I’d push him, and he’d just cave on it. It was a bit of a joke in the beginning. I was seventeen. I didn’t plan on world domination. Just talk, what ifs, what we’d do better if we were in charge of the Ministry. Youthful fantasies. But he…” Another silence. “He had such good ideas, you know? Give any hypothetical scenario to Albus, no matter how outlandish, and he’d just find a solution. That mind of his- incredible. So we talked more and more about it. He had it all figured it out. How we’d gain followers, how we’ll hunt and find the Hallows, how we’ll conquer the muggles. For their own good, of course.” Another laugh. “He lied to himself so much. ‘We would have a responsibility to those less fortunate than us. We have to take care of everyone’s needs’, he’d say. I still wonder if he really made himself believe it; if he’d look at me and actually consider that I’d care about muggles.” 

“He was always preachy,” Voldemort says. 

“Not back then, he wasn’t. Even as he planned on how we’d take control of the world, he was so innocent. Such a sheltered boy-”

“Stop. You’re making me sick.” 

Dumbledore, an innocent, naive boy. No, he just can’t see it. 

“You asked,” comes the amused reply. 

“I regret it.” 

“That’s what it was, in any case. He just refused to see the worst in me. Even when his brother warned him, even when my own aunt warned him, Albus was loyal. He refused to listen and chose to believe me, instead.” 

Voldemort snorts. A mistake. He inhales a mouthful of dust, even if he did his best to clean the old, lumpy pillow. 

“He only ever saw the worst in me.” 

Gellert’s arm comes around his waist. Voldemort just gave up on trying to maintain distance between them when they sleep. Gellert is a persistent man, utterly unbothered by rejection. 

“I suppose that’s my fault. Must have impacted him greatly when I proved everyone correct. When I used his plans to terrorise the continent. I understand why he’d be… cautious, after that.” 

“Paranoid, you mean.” Cautious. It was not caution when Dumbledore decided eleven-year-old Tom Riddle was evil. 

“What happened with that squib sister of his? Skeeter mentioned she died in mysterious-” 

“She wasn’t a squib. She was an Obscurial.” 

Voldemort turns to stare at Gellert. “Really?” 

“Albus’ brother was losing his mind. He never liked me, but he just snapped one day. Came in yelling at us, wailing at Albus that he was ignoring their sister while he was busy plotting his greatness. I snapped, too. I’ve had just about enough of that little shit. I cursed him.” 

Gellert’s eyes glint. 

“That’s the moment when it dawned on Albus that I’m not at all what he wanted me to be. I saw it in his face, as his brother was howling in agony. He would have put an end to us, I do not doubt it. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore after that. He tried to stop me, defend Aberforth. We got into a duel. And then the girl came in.” 

Voldemort listens, holding his breath in anticipation. 

“You know how volatile Obscurials are. She was out of control. She screamed and she just- her magic came rushing out, knocking all of us on our asses. Chaos followed as her magic just gathered and gathered and- I had to kill her. Or she’d have taken down the entire village in her distress. She was my first kill.” 

A tired sigh. 

“Albus was casting several dark spells, trying so hard to control her, to just push all that magic back and put her to sleep. He never knew if it was his spell or mine that killed her. Or a combination. He lived with that guilt.” 

“Good. He deserved it.” 

Gellert doesn’t seem to share this opinion, but he doesn’t argue it. 

Voldemort turns back on his side, and that heavy arm drapes over him again. 

“Did you care for him?” 

“Not back then, I don’t think. He was just so entertaining to mess with. To corrupt. But, as decades passed… I traveled so far, met so many people but none… engaged me, as he did. Everyone was boring and stupid. Made me miss him. I found myself doing something great and my first thought would be giddiness at how Albus would react when hearing about it.” 

That makes Voldemort uncomfortable, when he realises he, too, often thought of what Dumbledore would think when he heard about Lord Voldemort’s accomplishments. 

“I hate him. I never hated anyone as much.” 

“Not even that boy-wonder of yours? That Potter you mutter about?” 

“No. Not even close. Potter was an obstacle, a thing to get rid of. Dumbledore was my only enemy.” 

“Tell me about it. About all of it.” 

Voldemort does. 

(-)

In a last, desperate attempt, as he’s on his back and the shadows are over him, Voldemort holds out his hands and fire starts everywhere.

The shadows shriek back, agitated as the flames extend rapidly through dead, dry trees.

Gellert pulls him up from where he had fallen.

There’s so much fire, it’s almost as if there is sun-light. Voldemort’s eyes hurt, unaccustomed.

He’s warm.

“Come on,” Gellert says, and he tries to run.

“I’m walking,” Voldemort says, determined. 

He feels powerful. He feels mighty.

Voldemort feels alive as he walks surrounded by walls of fire, stares at the shadows that are retreating, scared.

“You are magnificent,” Gellert says, once they are in a house. “Truly impressive.”

He looks young, but Voldemort can see the age in his grey eyes. 

The fire rages outside, casting light through the windows; making flames dance in Gellert’s eyes.

Gellert grabs him by the shoulder with one arm, the other hand claps at the back of Voldemort’s neck, bends it just so.

They’re kissing.

Furiously.

Voldemort grabs him back, pulling him closer. 

Bites and blood and frenzy- until it dies out, until it becomes slow and gentle and Voldemort retreats.

He goes by the window.

“I’ll burn this world down,” he says.

“And we can be kings of the ashes,” Gellert is at his back, voice rough.

“No, I am the king.”

“Does that make me your prince, then?” Gellert asks, and he’s amused again, tone light. 

“It makes you the court’s jester,” Voldemort says, and he had really grown to like that laughter.

(-)

It doesn’t always work, of course it doesn’t. Like all magic in that place.

Sometimes Gellert casts a cleaning charm on both of them, when Voldemort can’t even float a feather.

Other times Voldemort can hardly light a candle, yet can set a shadow on fire in the next minute.

Gellert froze one once, in an unexpected turn.

Otherwise, there is nothing to do but run.

(-)

“Do you dream of your victims?” Voldemort asks when he wakes up, after having had an ambiguous conversation with Amelia bones, about the regulation of magical creatures. 

“Always,” Gellert answers, stretching. 

“Does it bother you?” 

He glues himself to Voldemort. Now he has to suffer a leg slung over him, on top of the ever present arm. 

“Sometimes,” Gellert whispers in his ear. 

Voldemort knows. He’d heard the other struggling in his sleep occasionally. 

Voldemort is not bothered by his own victims. He still has yelling matches with Lily Potter. 

“I told you to step back, didn’t I, you silly little girl?” 

Moody still advises him on the best ways to amputate a limb. 

His father still refuses to acknowledge him. Since meeting Gellert, Voldemort stopped trying to talk to him. 

But he doesn’t mind the dreams. He feels no guilt. 

(-)

Fiendfyre surrounds them, going even inside the water, great fiery snakes telling Voldemort there is no shadow in the river.

The water is icy cold, but with the fire so close, it is a perfect mix.

Gellert's hair hadn’t grown, and neither had his. It’s the same as when they wake up there.

Well, it’s wet now, and clean, which is rare.

Gellert kisses him again, water lapping at their chests, and even when Voldemort draws his head back, Gellert just rests his own on Voldemort’s shoulder.

“We lingered enough. You know my magic can fail at any moment.”

Gellert nods and they get out, but Voldemort trusts enough the fiery beats around them until they reach a castle.

They walk naked, all their clothes washed and wet.

Gellert is hard.

So is Voldemort. 

I might as well have whatever pleasure there can be had in this place, he thinks, when Gellert attacks him as soon as they are inside the safe walls. 

They stumble on a bed, in a a fury of bites and kisses. 

Voldemort is on top, but only for a second, before Gellert turns them around. 

“In your dreams,” Voldemort whispers, flopping them over again. 

Gellert laughs, renewing his efforts to get back on top. 

A short struggle ensues until he gives up. 

“Fine,” Gellert whispers. “I’ll let you win, this time.” 

“Did you let Dumbledore fuck you? Or did you fuck him?” Voldemort asks, shoving two of his fingers in Gellert’s mouth. 

Nothing else to use as lubricant. 

He rubs them on his tongue, hard. Gellert sucks them loudly. 

“We took turns, like gentlemen would,” he croaks, when Voldemort takes his fingers out, moving them between Gellert’s legs. 

“You will find I am no gentleman,” Voldemort threatens. 

He pushes one finger inside Gellert. 

A loud, throaty moan. “I already know that,” he says, shamelessly bearing down on Voldemort’s finger. “You uncivilised hooligan.” 

Voldemort adds another finger, roughly. 

Gellert swears; in German this time. He closes his eyes briefly, an ecstatic expression etched on his handsome face. 

Voldemort finds his prostrate and delights in the noises coming from that smart mouth, until he can’t take it anymore, overcome with need. 

He takes his fingers out and settles himself better between the legs spread wide for him. 

He pushes inside that tight, hot hole and for the first time since arriving in this hell, Voldemort feels satisfied. 

Geller moans into his mouth, as Voldemort kisses him, fingers digging hard in his shoulders. 

“Was his cock as big as mine?” he asks, when he’s all the way inside Gellert and he pauses for a second. 

A breathless laugh. 

Voldemort withdraws, just a little, and thrusts back in, hard. 

“Was he?”

“No,” Gellert answers, sounding a bit strangled. “But he was so eager to please. So good for me.” 

“I’ll fuck you better,” Voldemort promises him.

“We’ll see about tha-fuck!” Gellert grunts when Voldemort starts moving. 

(-)

“It’s my turn,” Gellert insists, petulant, when they are in another bed, inside a windy little mountain cabin. 

“I’m the most powerful dark lord that ever existed,” Voldemort reminds him, smirking. “I don’t take turns. I take what I want.” 

Gellert refuses to let Voldemort fuck him, however. 

“We’re playing fair, here.” 

Voldemort rolls his eyes, pulling Gellert closer. “Shut up.” 

In the end, they settle on a compromise. They lie on their sides, facing each other, erections pressed together, Gellert’s calloused fingers wrapped around them. 

(-)

“Whoever wins, wins.” Gellert grins at him, clearing a space in the cathedral, pushing pews around. 

“You want me to beat you?” Voldemort inquires, an eyebrow quirked up. 

“Why are you so sure you will win?” 

“I always do.” 

Gellert’s grin turns vicious. “I don’t know about that; a child killed you-” 

Voldemort is on him in a second. 

Gellert is more muscular than he is; but Tom Riddle at sixteen had been athletic enough. 

He’s taller, so he has that advantage. Longer limbs, longer reach. 

The biggest advantage, Tom Riddle lived as a muggle for the first eleven years of his life, and for every summer until he turned seventeen. 

A muggle in a hostile, impoverished London, at wartime. 

“If you lose, you have to let me fuck you. Those are the rules,” Gellert says, with laboured breath, narrowly ducking a well-aimed punch. 

“I won’t lose.”

He doesn’t. 

Gellert taps out a while later, Voldemort straddling him from the back, keeping him in a neck hold an old policeman once showed him. 

Showed him is an exaggeration. 

He was restraining Tom, after catching him stealing the purse of a rich woman. 

Voldemort turns Gellert around, victorious. 

He’s tired. They both are, after such physical exertion, but nothing gets him going more than winning. 

For all his protests, Gellert doesn’t seem too upset about the situation, moaning like a wanton whore, whispering all sorts of filthy things in Voldemort’s ear, wrapping his strong legs around Voldemort’s hips. 

(-)

“I think you killed it,” Voldemort says, glued to the window, watching the shadows that just chased them all the way to a prison they’ve been in before. 

They took to making maps of the vast place. They draw on sheets with mud, and they use magic to make it stick. 

“It just disintegrated,” Gellert answers, at his side. 

“How did you do it? Was it a certain spell or-” 

“No, only you can do that.” Not even a tinge of bitterness. 

Voldemort can, sometimes, cast specific spells. He can summon fiendfyre, if he’s angry enough, scared enough. 

Aroused enough. 

He can cast warming charms. 

Gellert just does magic, he says. 

Voldemort also does that- many times there is no spell in mind, just a will for something to happen. 

Desperation seems to be the biggest factor when magic is concerned. 

Voldemort turns to Gellert, gently takes off his coat, to look at the black stripe of dead skin, where the shadow had grabbed his arm. 

“I hope you aren’t disappointed that I left you there. I am sure you understand.” 

Voldemort just fled when the things descended on Gellert. 

“I understand,” Gellert assures him. 

Somehow, this acceptance troubles Voldemort. He’d rather Gellert make a fuss about it. 

He doesn’t know why there is no judging. Not for abandoning him to the shadows, not for killing him, in the first place. 

And it’s just made worse by the fact that when it’s Voldemort overwhelmed by the shadows, Gellert never runs away, sticking by his side, helping, risking a fate worse than death. For Voldemort. 

“It’s not in my nature,” Voldemort goes on, excusing himself, though Gellert doesn’t ask for an explanation. 

“I hate this cold,” Gellert says, cradling his arm. 

The least Voldemort can do is take him to a moth-eaten couch, cover Gellert in all their blankets. He lies at his back, for once hugging Gellert, and not the other way around. 

“You know it will pass,” he says. 

Gellert turns, disturbing the blankets, buries his head in Voldemort’s neck. 

(-)

“Make him shut up,” Voldemort snaps over the baby’s incessant crying. 

“I’m trying,” Lily says, rocking her son. “He is teething, the poor thing.” 

“Rub some whiskey on his gums,” Voldemort suggests, massaging his temples in an attempt to stave off the headache. 

“Whiskey? Are you insane?” 

“That’s what Mrs Cole did at Wool’s. It worked. Sent the little animals right to sleep.” 

Lily looks unconvinced, but the baby lets out another eardrum shattering wail. 

“Fine,” she says. “Alright, we’ll try it. I’m so young, you know?” She complains, looking exhausted. “I don’t know how to be a mother.” 

She walks through the rubble of the room, kicking bits of furniture out of the way. 

“James,” she calls through the hole in the wall that used to have a door. “James, bring me some whiskey.” 

No answer. 

Voldemort groans. 

“He’s dead,” Lily says, angry, suddenly in Voldemort’s space. “Look what you did! Who will help me with the baby now? You killed me, too! That’s why I can’t calm my son.” 

She looks devastated. So, so tired. 

Voldemort’s tired, too. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, for the first time. 

She huffs. “You hold him.”

He steps back. “No, no, I can’t-” 

“You’re the only one left! I’m dead, don’t you understand? I can’t take care of him!” 

“No, I-no.” 

“Come on, try it. You have to help me. You owe me!” 

“I don’t owe you anything, you silly girl! I told you to step away. It’s your fault you’re dead!” 

But somehow he’s holding the baby. There’s a scar on his forehead, angry looking. 

Voldemort places a finger on it, gently. 

Brilliant green eyes clear of tears and Harry stops crying. 

He wakes up with Gellert half on top of him, holding him tightly. 

“I had the most bizarre dream yet,” Voldemort says, caught between a desire to laugh and one to shudder. 

For the first time, there’s an unsettling feeling in his chest brought about by a dream. 

(-)

“Well, well. Would you look at that?” Gellert’s voice is full of desire. 

Voldemort groans, annoyed, picking himself off the floor, holding his side where Gellert delivered his final blow. 

“I won,” Gellert points out the obvious. 

“I know,” Voldemort hisses at him. “Get on with it, then. Enjoy your spoils.” 

Though he makes sure to keep his tone bored, anticipation is building at the base of his spine. 

“As my lord commands,” Gellert drawls, too excited to sound fully sarcastic. 

He stalks toward Voldemort, eyes growing darker, pupils blown wide. 

There was a time, long before, when Tom Riddle could let himself enjoy the sensation of being opened by long, deft fingers. 

He was a no one, a mudblood or a half-blood, depending on circumstances. He was the Head Boy, but that meant little to a filthy rich pureblood, waiting to inherit a family estate. 

Tom Riddle was already under him, in the social sense, so there was no harm done to his image by being the passive partner. 

That quickly changed, when he became Voldemort, and he was above all others, in all matters, at all times. 

He allowed no one on top of him, even if he sometimes wanted it. 

But he’s dead now. There’s just him and Gellert in an empty world. 

There is no image left, no need for hierarchy and all the benefits or drawbacks that come with it. 

Voldemort can enjoy anything he wants. The little he has left at his disposal. 

He does, propped on his elbows, watching Gelert’s fingers disappear slowly inside him. 

“So tight,” Gellert says, smiling widely. “Are you a virgin, by any chance? Am I going to be the first to fuck Lord Voldemort into the mattress?” 

“There’s no mattress,” Voldemort answers, swallowing back a moan that threatens to leave his mouth, when Gellert’s fingers rub against his prostate, in just the right way. “You’re far from the first. Very far. I lost count.” 

Gellert narrows his eyes; Voldemort can’t be sure if he believes the lie or not. 

“Is that so? Is that how you gained a following? Offered your tight ass to haughty purebloods in exchange for eternal service?” 

“My arse is worth eternal service.” 

Gellert draws his fingers out, pushes Voldemort lightly in the chest until he lies back completely on the unforgiving stone floor. 

“Fuck, you might be right for once,” Gellert says, pushing inside Voldemort, slowly. 

The burning stretch is so delicious Voldemort forgets his witty remark, focusing instead on relaxing his muscles. 

“Look at you,” Gellert breathes out, arms trembling on either side of Voldemort’s head. “Taking me so beautifully.” 

“Do you ever shut up?” 

“No.” 

They both take a moment to breathe when Gellert’s cock is fully seated inside him. 

“Call me ‘my lord’ again,” Voldemort says, when Gellert leans in for a kiss. 

(-)

As they work to fill in their sheet size map, they stumble upon something odd. 

In what looks to be Copenhagen’s city centre, there are more shadows than Voldemort had ever seen, huddled together around what he assumes is a building, but cannot see, because of the sheer amount of the things nearby. 

They don’t even disperse to chase after Gellert and him. 

“I’ve seen something like this before,” Gellert says. “When I was on my own. Looks like a nest.” 

Voldemort refuses to leave, picking houses or restaurants nearby to hide. 

“They’re guarding something.” He’s convinced. 

And if they are guarding something, it means they have a weakness. 

“I’m positive I’ve been through this area before.” Grindelwald looks over the map, a frown on his face. “And they weren’t here.” 

“Maybe you’re misremembering it. Whatever the case, they are here now.” 

“How long will you insist we stay put?” 

“I want to know what they’re doing.” 

So they stay. For a long time. No way to count days- there are no days- but they go to sleep many, many times. 

They keep up with their little game. They fight, and whoever wins gets to fuck the other. It’s a simple, satisfying distraction. The only one they have. 

Voldemort doubts he’d ever slept with someone for such extended periods. He learns Gellert’s body inside and out. Every ridge, every mole, every strand of hair. 

(-)

“How would you like to play bait?” 

Gellert quirks an eyebrow. “But you are so much prettier, liebling. More suitable bait material.” 

The shadows will not separate. Even when they must see them walking around, they do not move from the house. 

“I’m not your darling,” Voldemort says, out of habit. “Desist with the pet names.” 

“You’re asking me for a favour, liebling. Be nice.” 

Voldemort doesn’t know what posses Gellert to accept, to trust that Voldemort won’t just abandon him to his fate, as he showed numerous times he’s apt to do. 

Especially since they relay on luck. On whether magic will work when called upon. 

Yet lately it obeys Voldemort much more freely. 

He watches as Gellert gets closer and closer to the shadows. 

They start screaming, that awful, terrifying sound. 

Gellert keeps going, advancing towards them, whistling a tune he’s fond of. 

When he gets close enough, they finally hurl themselves at him. 

Not all, but plenty. 

Gellert runs. 

As they fly after him, Voldemort gets a glimpse of the building they were guarding, before the remaining shadows close ranks around it. 

A two-story house. The top floor is destroyed, parts of the roof blasted away. 

Shock travels through him, as cold as the shadow’s touch.

He remembers Gellert just in time, lifting his hands and summoning fire, getting them off the blond’s back. 

(-)

“And you are sure-” 

“I know that house, Gellert! I dreamed of it a million times. It’s Potter’s house.” 

“But we’re in Copenhagen. Wasn’t it supposed to be close to Albus’ home, in Godric’s-” 

“We found Nurmengard in Berlin, and Wool’s in the countryside. You know this world makes no sense.” 

They look at the map, spread between them. 

“You said you saw something like this before. Where?” 

Gellert focuses, a frown marring his features. 

Voldemort likes focused Gellert. 

Well, he likes the amused one, as well. The easy going dark lord. But he has that version all the time. 

The serious one rarely makes an appearance. 

“Here.” He points to a region on the map. Far away from them. They’ll have to pass through that monstrous forest again. The one that has no buildings around to hide in. 

“We’re going,” Voldemort decides. 

Gellert nods. “We are.” 

(-)

They travel backwards, with slightly more confidence than before. They know the area, the hiding spots. Voldemort’s magic is more reliable than ever. 

Gellert is making progress, too. 

Now their fights are more magical, less physical. Voldemort sometimes loses on purpose, because otherwise he’d trounce Gellert every time. 

“I find it odd,” Gellert says, watching Voldemort easily clean a cabin, with just a wave of his hand. “That you can do so much more than I can.” 

“I am more powerful.” 

Voldemort is somewhat apprehensive. It’s their last stop before entering the forest. 

“I have no doubt you were more powerful than I was, back on earth. But this discrepancy is too much.”

They don’t even fight before bed. 

That happened before, occasionally. Where they’d just fall into bed without a victor. 

And those encounters are always calmer than the rest. 

Less teasing, less talking. Much less depravity, as Gellert calls Voldemort’s sexual preferences.  

Voldemort fucks him slowly in the cabin; Gellert stays mostly quiet, clinging to him, pressing hard kisses on the column of his neck. 

Voldemort comes first. Because Gellert doesn’t tease him about it, like he’s prone to do, Voldemort rewards him.

He slides between his legs and takes Gellert in his mouth. 

“Liebling,” he says, breathless, his fingers in Voldemort’s hair. 

Voldemort sucks him just the way he knows the other likes it. When Gellert comes, back arched, Voldemort swallows every drop, keeps him in his mouth, until he’s completely soft and oversensitive. 

“How many times do I have to tell you to drop the pet names?” he asks, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, lying down beside Gellert. 

“It doesn’t just mean ‘darling’,” Gellert whispers in his ear, taking Voldemort in his arms, drawing him close. “It can mean ‘my favourite’. It can mean ‘my love’. 

Voldemort makes a pained sound. “Why are you so sappy? You’re a dark lord, have some self respect.”

Soft laughter is all the answer he gets. 

“Were you thinking about me when you were in school? Did you fantasise about the dark lord conquering his way around Europe? Did you wish that one day you will grow as powerful?” 

“I thought about you,” Voldemort admits. 

It was hard not to; in his last years at Hogwarts the newspapers talked of little else. 

“I questioned what would happen to a half-blood orphan if you won.” 

Another bout of laughter. “I would have seen your worth, unlike Albus. You would have climbed high in a world fashioned after my taste.” 

“I grew more powerful than you ever were,” Voldemort reminds him. 

“I waged war over a continent. By the time I was fifty years old, many countries fell to me. You couldn’t even take one island.” 

“And yet I was named the most feared dark lord in history.” 

“Because you were crueler, not because you were better.” 

Voldemort rolls his eyes. “Let me sleep.” He needs to be well rested to cross the forest. “But do repeat this nonsense when we wake up. You know anger makes my magic more potent. And we will need my magic, since you are useless.”

Gellert kisses the back of his head. “You were more powerful, liebling. You were better. If only you’d been saner, nothing would have ever stopped you.” 

(-)

They make it through the forest. Just barely. Voldemort has two more black stripes to show for it. 

His back must be covered in them. 

“Not fair,” he complains, examining Gellert’s new stripe, starting at the base of his neck and climbing to cover half of his jaw. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. You wanted to be disfigured instead?” Gellert glares at him. 

“Disfigured. It just slightly touches your face.” Voldemort traces his fingers on the marred jawline. It’s cold to the touch, and he knows from experience it will always remain cold. “You look like a grown man now.” 

Gellert laughs, shivering, huddled into Voldemort, all their blankets draped on them. 

“I’ve met your version of grown man,” he says. “It had no nose. I much prefer this one.” 

“It worries me that you are so taken with a sixteen-year-old looking face. And you called me depraved.” 

“You are a depraved, perverted…. pervert!” Gellert glares at him again. “And you look at least eighteen.”

“Aren’t you one hundred and twenty years old?” Voldemort asks, trying not to smile. “I am still far too young for you, even if I’d look like my seventy-year-old self.” 

“You are insufferable,” Gellert spits out, but he doesn’t shiver anymore.

“Thank you.” 

Gellert tenses. In the same second, Voldemort hears a noise. 

“Did you hear that?” Gellert whispers.

Voldemort nods. It sounded close. 

It sounds like footsteps. 

They stand, blankets falling off. 

Something is turning the knob, and Gellert places himself in front of Voldemort, as if to shield him. 

The door opens. 

Albus Dumbledore steps in. 

Chapter Text

It’s the man Voldemort remembers from his last year at Hogwarts.

Hair and beard still red, only a few traces of silver through it. He’s wearing a robe, a colourful one, though it’s been stained and teared in many places.

He even has his glasses.

“No,” Voldemort says. He blinks several times.

He’d thought this world was terrible enough, but it can’t be this bad. Dumbledore can’t be there.

“Hello,” he says and yes, yes, he’s there. Those annoying blue eyes are focused on Gellert. 

Gellert returns the favour, just as shocked as Voldemort. “Albus?”

Albus.

They had a thing. They have a connection and Voldemort suddenly feels left out, uncertain.

“Get out,” he hisses.

Finally Dumbledore rips his eyes off Gellert and turns them to him.

“We’re all dead,” he says, calmly. “Don’t you think we might try to get past our differences?”

“Differences?” Voldemort is outraged. “No. No, we won’t. I won’t.”

Gellert looks between them.

“It is your fault I am here,” Voldemort spits, though he’s painfully aware Dumbledore and Gellert are there because of him.

“No,” Dumbledore says. “Your choices brought you here, Tom.”

“Don’t,” Gellert says. “Don’t use that name.”

He’s far more serious than his usual self, voice stern. 

Silence greets his words. 

In it, Voldemort calms, if only a little. He feels like Gellert took a side and it’s his side. He even came closer to Voldemort.

It feels good.

‘It is his name’. ‘Old habits’. ‘I won’t speak his ridiculous moniker’. All things he expects Dumbledore to say. By some miracle, he doesn’t.

“What are you doing here?” Gellert asks. “What could you have possibly done to end up in this place?”

Right. An excellent question. Voldemort should have asked it sooner.

“The same thing you did.”

“Horcrux?” Voldemort asks, so shocked he forgets to be furious.

“You bound souls to earth?” Gellert’s eyes widen. 

Dumbledore looks at them like they are stupid. 

He’s the only man to have ever looked at Voldemort that way. Like a teacher that knows better. 

“I owned a Hallow.”

It finally makes sense- why Voldemort looks young, but not as young as sixteen. 

Why Dumbledore looks the same he did when he defeated Gellert and took ownership of the wand. 

It’s unfair. It was one thing to be condemned to this wretched place because of his own sins, the Horcruxes, but to be there because he had something he didn’t even know-

“Wait,” he says. “Is Potter going to show up when he dies-”

“No.”

“He had them all!”

He figured that out, with Gellert’s help. That the boy must have had them all. 

“Exactly.” Dumbledore advances into the room. “He united them, became the Master of Death. None of us did. Besides, Harry never wanted them.”

“I never wanted them, either!” Voldemort intervenes.

“You killed for the wand,” Gellert reminds him.

“You stole the ring and turned it into a Horcrux,” Dumbledore pipes in. 

“We saw Herpo around. Does that mean he owned a Hallow at some point in time? 

Voldemort hates that he’s asking things of Dumbledore, like he’s the authority. 

He hates that he’s been stuck in this hell for so, so long and he didn’t figure it out. Gellert didn’t. They had to have Dumbledore spell it out for them. 

Dumbledore is here, his mind protests, starting to panic.  

“He must have. I, too, stumbled on some… unfortunate souls that met the same fate as Herpo. The elder wand passed through many hands.”

Another prolonged silence. Dumbledore is back to staring at Gellert. 

Voldemort hates it. 

“I don’t want you here,” he snarls. “Get out!” 

Dumbledore doesn’t. He doesn’t even look at Voldemort. 

It’s he that storms out of the room, walks aimlessly around the farmhouse. 

(-)

“He doesn’t want to leave.” Gellert finds him eventually. He doesn’t smile. 

“I don’t care!”

Gellert sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. 

Leave it to Dumbledore. This cursed place rarely upsets Gellert, and the old goat managed it in the blink of an eye. 

“What will you do, kill him? I’m afraid that won’t work here.” 

Voldemort bites his tongue, frustrated.

“Run away from him? Don’t we have enough troubles? Do we need to play hide and seek with Albus?”

“You can’t understand how much I hate him-”

“He imprisoned me in Nurmengard! I assure you, I hate him, too.”

“You protected him!” Voldemort accuses, walking closer, looming over Gellert. “When I came to ask about the wand, you didn’t tell me he had it!” 

“Why should I have given a damn about you? I wanted you to kill me and you had a lovely reputation that you snap at any little provocation!”

“I don’t want him around. You can’t possibly-” 

“So we’ll run from him? You know him. He’ll just follow us.” 

I can kill him, Voldemort thinks. Not in a traditional sense, but he can get rid of Dumbledore, permanently. He needs the man close for that to happen, however. 

“Alright, then. He stays.” 

(-)

Gellert lied. He doesn’t hate Dumbledore. 

Oh, he’s colder, stiffer, since the arrival. Few smiles grace his face. But he talks to Dumbledore. 

If there was hate, they wouldn’t be talking. 

Voldemort doesn’t address a single word to Dumbledore, after the initial shock wears off. 

Voldemort doesn’t sleep. Neither does Dumbledore. 

How could they? 

“You are both a little silly,” Gellert comments, yawning, after waking up. 

(-)

To his delight, Dumbledore can’t do anything. Not even what Gellert can do. 

This should be easy, Voldemort thinks. 

“Why?” Gellert asks, when Dumbledore says he can’t do any magic at all. “And why do you think Voldemort is so successful with it?” 

Of course, Dumbledore has all the answers. 

“He only had the Elder Wand for a couple of weeks. You had it for two decades. I had it for four decades. The more you used it in life, the less magic you can do here.” 

“Where do you come up with this nonsense? Did someone give you a book of instructions when you died, or what?” Voldemort snarls, the first words he speaks to Dumbledore since he showed up. 

It makes Gellert laugh. 

Voldemort hates him a little, too. He can’t help but notice there are no kisses exchanged between them anymore. No sexual banter. 

No sex. 

“I studied the Hallows and the consequences for a long time,” Dumbledore answers, in that calm way of his. 

At least his eyes don’t have that annoying twinkle anymore. He looks terrible. 

“You never knew they existed. And Gellert only likes to scratch the surface when he’s seeking information.” 

Voldemort would rather stick with his own explanation. That he’s simply more powerful than the other two. 

(-)

“You are aware that every time you call him an old goat, you’re calling me an old goat?” Gellert asks him down at the river, where they wash their clothes. 

Just the two of them. Voldemort refused to use Fiendfyre if Dumbledore came along. 

“You are an old arse.” 

Gellert laughs. “As in the donkey?” 

“No, as in the body part.” 

Fire rages around them, more potent than ever, what with Voldemort’s anger simmering underneath his skin.  

Gellert comes closer. He touches Voldemort’s side, leans in- 

Voldemort draws back, turning his attention to his clothes. 

He won’t be a secret. If Gellert wants to kiss him, he can do it in front of Dumbledore. 

If Gellert wants sex, he can take his clothes off and beg Voldemort to fuck him. In front of Dumbledore.

(-)

His first murder attempt comes soon. 

They’re running from the shadows. Voldemort can outrun Dumbledore, what with the age difference in their bodies. 

He doesn’t. He runs at his side and trips him at an opportune moment. 

Somehow, Dumbledore recovers and gets away from the shadows with only a few black marks left on his back. 

When they reach the police station, no one brings it up. 

Dumbledore shivers with cold, but doesn’t look at Voldemort. 

Gellert hands him a blanket. 

Voldemort seethes in rage. 

(-)

He sleeps, eventually. Just no way around it. Dumbledore is quite unlikely to try to hurt him while he sleeps. Even if he’d want to, how would he do it? 

Lack of sleep, however, can delay his reactions, slow down his magic. That can kill Voldemort fast, out in the open. 

“Dumbledore’s here,” Voldemort says, more upset than he allows himself to be when he’s awake. 

“Oh, you’re in trouble, laddie. Big, big trouble.” Moody laughs, circling Voldemort with his broom. 

“I tried to feed him to the shadows. I will try again.” 

“Big trouble. I wouldn’t want to trade places.” Moody keeps flying, laughing manically. 

He wakes to low voices, further away. 

“You were on your own for all this time?” Gellert sounds so… raw.

“I was looking for you,” Dumbledore whispers back. 

The table they are sitting at catches fire. 

Voldemort sits up from the couch, just in time to see both men stumbling away from the table. 

“Oh, no,” he deadpans. “Sorry. I must have had a bad dream.” 

Gellert rolls his eyes. “Well, stop it before it burns down the house.” 

Voldemort pretends to try, as fiery serpents quickly burn through everything. 

“One of those days, I’m afraid. Magic just won’t obey me.” 

They are forced to run out of the house. The shadows, drawn by the ruckus, spot them fast. 

Voldemort elbows Dumbledore in the chest as he runs past. 

Gellert saves him from the shadows. 

(-)

On his fifth murder attempt, Gellert stops him, placing himself between them. 

The shadows almost get them all in the altercation. 

“Enough,” Gellert says, face blank, eyes cold, when they find shelter. “That’s quite enough.” 

(-)

No one tells him ‘enough’.

No one tells him what to do.

Voldemort leaves when the other two are sleeping.

If Gellert wants Dumbledore, he can have him.

I never needed anyone.

(-)

It figures that Voldemort finally found some shred of good in his life, and Dumbledore manifested to take it from him.

He’s so furious, so hurt, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Fiendfyre surrounds him with ease, every time he needs to change shelters. 

“You. Do. Not. Scare. Me.” Voldemort stops to tell some shadows, kept away from him by a wall of fire. He sits on the ground, out in the open, and just looks at the wraiths. 

They’re furious, too. Frustrated. They can see him, he’s right there, but they can’t touch him. 

Voldemort understands how they feel. 

That’s how he felt, watching Gellert for the past however long it’s been, but unable to touch him, because Dumbledore- 

Don’t think of them. It doesn’t matter anymore.

He never suffered rejection well, and it carved a void inside him as a child, watching people shy away from him, afraid and distrustful of his abilities. 

He has no intention of giving Gellert that kind of power, to simply cast Voldemort aside. 

 “Grindelwald was just a frivolous distraction,” Voldemort tells Lily, when he falls asleep in an enormous castle. He’s glad to find her, instead of Moody or Amelia Bones, or his damned father. “It was pleasant while it lasted, but I have no issues letting go.” 

Lily sighs, as Harry picks some debris from her hair. It’s snowing, big snowflakes coming through the collapsed roof. 

“Here, have Harry. You won’t feel so lonely if you hold him.” 

The weight of the baby is familiar in his arms. 

“I don’t feel lonely,” Voldemort splutters, indignant. 

Lily tries to clean up around the room, though it’s a hopeless task. 

“They’ll reconnect now that you’re not there with them,” she says, picking up a piece of lamp. 

“They’re welcome to it. They deserve each other, old goats that they are.” 

“This place is a mess! Are you satisfied with yourself? What if Harry hurts himself stepping on this glass, huh?” 

“I told you I’m sorry, already! What more do you want from me?” 

She puts a hand on her hip, scowling at him. She points at Harry. “You didn’t tell him you’re sorry! Look what you did to his forehead! You spliced it in half.” 

Voldemort doesn’t want to look, keeping Harry’s face hidden in his neck. 

“Don’t exaggerate, it’s just a minor cut.” 

(-)

He stole the map when he left, and he slowly makes his way to the place Geller- Grindelwald said the other nest was. 

It’s not as terrible as it was in the beginning. Voldemort can admit he was a tad frightened back then, but he’s not, now. 

He has his magic, that works better and better. It gives him light and keeps him somewhat warm. 

It’s not as terrible. 

It isn’t, he insists, when he keeps hearing the shadows whispering outside, no laughter to keep them at bay. 

(-)

“I’ve never in my life met someone so dramatic, and I had to share a castle with Trelawney for over a decade,” Dumbledore says, leaning on the entrance to the cell. 

Voldemort ignores him, folding back the map. 

“I don’t like this place,” Dumbledore comes inside the cell, looking around the crammed walls. 

Gellert is written on them, in red. Possibly blood. 

“He didn’t like it either,” Voldemort snarls, standing. “Didn’t keep you from locking him inside it for a few decades.”

Nurmengard is an imposing building. Oppressive, too. 

Gellert’s cell has only a cot and a chair in it. 

“You’re a seventy-year-old man,” Dumbledore says, sternly. “You should stop behaving like a child. I knew you as a child and you weren’t as childish back then.”

Voldemort wonders what would happen if he’d set Dumbledore on fire. He can’t die, that’s for sure, but something must happen. It must, at the very least, hurt. 

“We’re dead, Tom! We’re trapped here.” Dumbledore comes closer. “We are three intelligent men. If we work together-”

“I can make it out on my own. I’ll find a way. I don’t need you. I never did.”

Dumbledore sits on the chair, by the heavily barred window.

“You did,” Dumbledore says, and he looks guilty. “You needed someone when you were young. I failed you terribly.”

Voldemort shuts up. He stares at Dumbledore, a hard feeling in his chest.

“I made many mistakes in my life. Far too many. But treating you the way I did-” He looks up. “I’m sorry. I should have tried harder.”

Voldemort opens his mouth, but he closes it. He can’t quite believe he’s hearing that.

“I shouldn’t have set your things on fire, even if they were stolen.” Dumbledore had to sneak the stolen part in, lest Voldemort forgot he was a no good orphan. “I shouldn’t have allowed you to go on your own to Diagon, even if you claimed you wanted it.” 

An awkward silence follows. Dumbledore clearly doesn’t like being in Gellert’s old cell, apologising to Voldemort. 

“Many people suffered because I didn’t try harder with you. Too many. I don’t think you realise, even now, the extent of the damage you’ve done.” 

The only damage Voldemort acknowledges is little Harry’s room, all blown to pieces. 

“But I am sure you don’t realise that the first to fall victim to your anger was yourself.” 

“Oh, my God,” Voldemort hisses, like the good little Christian the Muggles forced him to pretend to be for the first years of his life. “Spare me. Go back to apologising. How it was your fault. I like that part better.” 

“It wasn’t my fault. Stop blaming everyone for what you did. But-” he adds, when Voldemort makes a threatening noise. “I am sorry for not seeing you. I saw him, instead. And I acted accordingly, even if you were still so young, and there was still hope.” 

Finally Voldemort found something Dumbledore is terrible at. Apologising. 

“And yes, you’re right.” Dumbledore smiles, a sad little thing. “If anyone would find a way out, it’s you. We’re all capable and bright but you-” He stands, keeping his eyes on Voldemort. “You’re more than Gellert and I put together.”

It’s the strangest of things. He had unbelievable accomplishments in his life and yet, hearing Dumbledore finally admit that he’s better- 

“Say my name,” he orders.

Their eyes meet.

“Lord Voldemort.” Dumbledore only cringes a little. Voldemort pretends he didn’t see it. 

He breathes in, deeply.

“Come back. We need you. You might not need us, but we need you.”

“You need the map,” Voldemort accuses him. 

“That, too,” Dumbledore admits. “But Gellert has an incredible eidetic memory. The map can be replaced. Apparently, you can’t.” 

(-)

“I expected him to come after me,” Voldemort reveals, as they walk through the everlasting night. 

“Gellert is searching for you. He never stopped since you left. He just doesn’t know you as well as I do.”

“We’re fucking,” Voldemort says, gleeful. “Are you jealous?”

“Yes.” Dumbledore doesn’t hesitate. Voldemort respects that he’s man enough to admit it. 

He, on the other hand, could never admit he is jealous, too. Dumbledore and Gellert have over a hundred years of shared history. 

“Good. And get rid of this awful robe. That pink is like a beacon for all the shadows in the world.” 

(-)

“I told you he’s out there looking for you,” Dumbledore says when they reach the stable and no one is waiting for them.

“What if it shrinks before he comes back?”

“We agreed we’ll meet at the slaughterhouse, if that happens.”

“That’s at least fifty miles away!”

Voldemort paces around for a long time.

Dumbledore sits by a window, staring into the night.

They don’t talk. 

Voldemort struggles to stay awake, and so does Dumbledore. Time doesn’t exist and yet, somehow, they wait for a very long while. If there was time, he’d say days come and go with no sign of Gellert. 

And when the stable gets smaller and smaller, they are forced out.

Unable to stop himself, as they run for the slaughterhouse, Voldemort once more tries to give Dumbledore to the shadows, but the old man just refuses to go away.

The insufferable bastard.

“I had to try,” Voldemort says, when they reach the slaughterhouse. It was his last chance, before Gellert returns. 

Voldemort would have lied to him, claimed he had nothing to do with it.

Dumbledore sighs, taking off his glass and cleaning mud off them; he’d taken quite the fall. At least Voldemort has that memory to revisit anytime he wishes it. 

They both fight sleep, and they both lose. Voldemort dozes off several times, but he forces himself to wake up almost immediately every time it happens. 

Dumbledore eventually goes off like a light. He struggles in his sleep, moaning pathetically. 

What sins do you have, old man? What nightmares does this hell conjure for him? 

For Voldemort and Grindelwald, it is always people they have killed. 

Who did Dumbledore kill? 

When he wakes up, he looks around, alarmed. Seeing Voldemort standing by doesn’t seem to reassure him any. 

(-)

“You’re lying,” Voldemort says, softly. He’s perched on one of the long, blood stained tables. 

Dumbledore, from his chair, raises his head. “About?”

Voldemort looks closely into his eyes, searching them. “I’m not sure, yet. But I will find out. No one lies to me.”

He is hiding something. Dumbledore died a year before Gellert and Voldemort. And yet, somehow, he still has his robe. 

Voldemort had to get rid of his robe soon after he woke up in this hell. They change clothes as often as possible, since they all seem to rot, always damp, as soon as they put them on. 

Dumbledore doesn’t look concerned. “Do you retain your Legilimency?” 

Voldemort shrugs. “No way to know. If I did, both you and Gellert are impossible to read.” He tilts his head, scrutinising Dumbledore. “But I retain my intuition. And you are lying.” 

“Your instincts led you astray. You were always paranoid. Remember when we first met? I told you I was a Professor, and you accused me of lying.” 

Voldemort smiles. “And you were. You were hiding pivotal information. You weren’t simply a Professor at a school for gifted children, were you? You were magic. Once you said that, I didn’t accuse you of speaking lies again, did I?”

Dumbledore sighs, looks out the window once more. 

“What did Cole tell you about me? By the time we met, you were already distrustful. You judged me before entering my room.” 

Dumbledore speaks about it, distracted, eyes searching for any sign of Gellert in the distance. 

Voldemort laughs at him when he’s done. “So you figured out she was a drunk, having no issues slamming down a bottle of gin in the middle of the day when she was supposed to care for dozens of children, and yet you put worth into her words.” 

Dumbledore gives him a sharp look. “I, too, know when I am being lied to. She wasn’t lying.” 

“She wasn’t,” Voldemort admits. “I was a right terror. But so was she. So were the others.”

(-)

What if the shadows got Gellert?

They’ve been at the slaughterhouse for a while. It will start shrinking soon, and Gellert isn’t there.

They didn’t get him; he knows to avoid them.

But what if?

“What does this discomfort in my chest mean?” he asks Lily, pointing at his heart. “Moody says it must be a dark curse and advises me to rip my heart out, but Moody is crazy.”

Lily frowns, rocking Harry on her hip. She comes closer. Sniffs him. “Smells like fear to me.”

“No, it’s not that.” Voldemort knows fear. He’d been afraid when he woke up in Hell.

He’d been afraid when he was ripped out of his body, in the very house he stands.

This is different. It’s cold, instead of the usually fiery grip of fear.

It’s spreading slowly, subdued, instead of the galloping, sharp pain that fear induces in him.

“Ah,” Lily nods, wisely, like she figured it out, even if he didn’t speak out loud. “It is fear. But not fear for yourself. You’re afraid for Gellert.”

“I don’t like it.”

She shrugs. “Tough luck. That’s how I felt when I ran and left James behind to delay you. I felt even worse knowing you’ll attack Harry after I’m dead. Serves you right, really.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “I don’t like it when you’re vengeful.“

She laughs. “You better pray he isn’t vengeful.” Lily kisses Harry’s forehead. “Because if he is…. when he grows up, he’ll make you pay for-”

“Wake up. I think that’s him. “

Voldemort jolts awake, standing before he even properly opened his eyes.

Dumbledore is at the window, where he’s stayed for however long it’s been.

“Who else would it be, you senile old bat?” Voldemort asks, relieved.

He joins Dumbledore and sees a man running toward the slaughterhouse. He understands why the other wasn’t sure. In the dankness, it almost looks like a shadow. But shadows are never alone. 

It is Gellert; the closer he comes, the easier it is to recognise him. 

Voldemort has a physical reaction upon seeing him. It’s annoying and unfamiliar, the way his chest constricts, the way his pulse travels to his ears, a rapid thud-thud-thud trapped against his temple. 

Isn’t relief supposed to be….well, relief? Instead of painful?

Gellert comes through the door. For a second he’s only looking at Dumbledore, but then his gaze settles on Voldemort. One of his eyes twitches. 

Voldemort missed that face. He savours the expression on it, a mix between annoyance and happiness.

He stares, and once more Voldemort is reminded that this man used to be a dark lord. His eyes are very intense, hard, and if Voldemort was a lesser being, he’d have flinched. 

He looks…awful. Gellert started looking a little run down, for a while, even before Dumbledore made his grand entrance. But now exhaustion clings to his features. There’s a new stripe of black on his throat, very close to the one he already had on the jaw. Gellert says something in Hungarian, knowing that’s one language he speaks that Voldemort doesn’t.

Dumbledore must understand it, because he snorts.

(-)

Gellert is cold; he puts two blankets around his shoulders and warms his hands above a candle. 

Voldemort would like to cast a warming charm at him- they take hold much easier lately- but he isn’t sure it would be something Gellert appreciates. 

He says nothing, just glares at Voldemort. 

Voldemort glares back. 

Dumbledore attempts to make conversation, but he’s met with a wall of silence. 

I hope they hadn’t talked at all while I was away. Voldemort gets much satisfaction imagining this silence settling between the others in his absence. Maybe they didn’t spend any time together, each searching for Voldemort on their own.

Eventually, Gellert produces a pillow from his bag, puts it under his head and falls asleep. 

Voldemort would like to keep looking at him, but that would make him weak, and Dumbledore mustn’t see him like that. 

So he pulls out the map and studies it, though he can’t really focus on it. He doesn’t need to, anyway. 

He has it all memorised. 

(-)

When Gellert wakes up, he silently collects his meagre belongings in the bag and they start their journey to the marked space on the map. 

They pass by two possible shelters, but they’re getting more and more daring, so they don’t stop. 

It’s not as terrifying to be out in the open. Not when Voldemort plays with a small ball of Fiendfyre between his palms. 

“You shouldn’t waste your energy when we don’t need protection.” Dumbledore just can’t help himself, walking close to Voldemort. “Keep it for when there is a need-” 

“I had to suffer your lessons and opinions on magic for seven years,” Voldemort whispers back. They’re not as daring as to make much noise. It’s one thing to know he has a way of defending himself if the need arises, but he doesn’t want to have the shadows descend on them just because Dumbledore made him yell. “I won’t, anymore. Not when I proved you wrong time and time again.” 

Dumbledore opens his mouth, but Gellert shoulders his way between them. “Stop talking.” 

Voldemort chooses to believe the order was only aimed at Dumbledore. Otherwise he’d feel the need to remind Gellert that no one orders Voldemort around.

(-)

The small coffee-shop thankfully has two rooms. As soon as they enter it, Voldemort leaves the others in the main serving area, filled with dirty, dusty tables and chairs, and retreats to the kitchen.

There’s nothing there to serve as a bed, but the floor will do just fine. He’d slept in much worse places during his life. 

And his death. 

He pulls out a blanket from the bag he took with him when he left on his own. That’s all he took; a blanket. Well, and the map. 

He arranges it around himself and tries to find a somehow comfortable position. He gives up after a while, just lies on his side, staring at a broken cabinet that contains a big pot with several scorch marks. 

He’s in Riddle Manor and he sighs, disappointed. His father is such a bore. He steps around the corpse of his grandmother on his way to his favourite armchair- 

He blinks. Something lumpy and slightly damp is shoved under his head. 

One of Gellert’s pillows. 

And then Gellert’s body is pressed against his back, a second blanket around them. 

Voldemort smirks into the pillow. 

“Better?” Gellert whispers his first word to Voldemort.

They hadn’t slept so close to each other since Dumbledore showed up.

His fingers squeeze Voldemort’s hip a little too tightly.

“Is this what you wanted? Why you left?”

Voldemort doesn’t answer.

A long-suffering sigh.

“My jealous liebling.”

If Gellert leaves it at that, it would be perfect. Not really perfect, Voldemort resents being called jealous, but it would be a satisfactory way to put the matter at rest. But Gellert shifts closer until his lips are pressed to Voldemort’ ear. 

“If you try to leave me again, I’ll break your legs.” 

He means it. Voldemort heard enough threats in his life, and this is not an empty one. It’s one of those rare moments when Gellert sounds dangerous. 

Voldemort’ cock stirs in his trousers. 

“And you know wounds don’t heal in this place.” 

Voldemort turns to face him. He wishes there was enough light to see his face, but almost none reaches them on the floor, just enough that Voldemort can make out Gellert’s outline. 

He guesses where his lips are, and kisses him roughly. 

“I cherish you because of you, not because you were the only other human around here,” Gellert says against his lips. “A million men could show up tomorrow and I would only want you.”

No one wanted me before. They wanted his lies, his power, or he was simply the only choice left to them. 

Voldemort is someone to fear, someone to be in awe with or despise. He isn’t one to cherish. 

He doesn’t say any of it; he’s acted pathetic enough as it is. 

Gellert is atypically silent when Voldemort shoves his hand between them, and into his trousers. He squeezes Voldemort’s waist tightly, but he makes no noise as Voldemort’s fingers stroke him to hardness. 

“He knows I’m fucking you,” he says, before licking Gellert’s jaw, tongue going over the cold patch the shadows left behind. “I told him. There is no need to hide it anymore.” 

“I wasn’t hiding,” Gellert hisses, thrusting inside Voldemort’s hand.

“You are,” Voldemort points out. “You used to moan louder than the prostitutes in London.”

“Well acquainted with those, are you?” Gellert asks, manoeuvring his limbs until his fingers find Voldemort’s cock, wrapping around it. 

It’s dry and a little painful, but very satisfying, none the less. 

“They were ashamed too, fucking in dark rooms, so no one would see them.” Voldemort bites a piece of flesh, the closest to his teeth. 

“You want him to see us?” Gellert moans, all so quietly. Underneath his arousal, Voldemort can hear his amusement. How could I have missed his mocking words? But miss them, he did. “I know you are a depraved creature, yet that is a bit much-” 

Voldemort sinks his teeth into his skin harder, works his cock faster. 

All in silence. 

Gellert’s seed is the only warm thing Voldemort can feel in this dark, cold world. 

He wipes his hand over Gellert’s clothes, ostentatiously. If he doesn’t want Dumbledore to see the stains, then Gellert will have to go without that layer when they leave the room. He’ll have to brave the freezing temperatures in only a shirt. 

“Suck me,” he demands. If Gellert is determined to make no noise, Voldemort will fill his mouth, put it to good use. 

Gellert crawls down under the blankets and gets to it, without protest. 

(-)

“I’m not ashamed,” Gellert says, when Voldemort is sated, curled against him, under one of his warming charms. “It’s you that closed off as soon as he stepped into that house. All the smiles I fought so hard to bring to your face, the simple touches I had to train you to accept- all wiped out, gone when you saw him. You turned into a statue. It’s you that’s hiding; you don’t want him to see any trace of humanity inside you.” 

“Enough,” Voldemort orders. 

Gellert ignores him. “You think that if I tried to touch you, to be gentle with you in front of him, you’d have accepted?” 

Voldemort straddles him, swiftly. His fingers find Gellert’s neck without a problem in the darkness, curl around it tightly. 

He bends closer, pinning Gellert down. “I said, enough!” 

Gellert’s hand covers his own. He doesn’t try to pull it away, just caresses it. 

“You’ve become even more despotic since his arrival,” Gellert says, calmly, even if his voice comes out breathless. 

“Threatening to break my legs if I leave is despotic,” Voldemort spits back at him. 

“And I will. I won’t let go of you.” 

“I don’t care for threats,” Voldemort warns him, even as he lets go of his neck. 

He can hear the smile in Gellert’s voice. “You seemed to enjoy it. It pleased you to see me desperate, didn’t it? To know I haven’t slept, looking for you-” 

Voldemort covers his mouth. 

“When I take it off, I want you to shut up. Not another word. I’m going to sleep. Understood?” 

Gellert nods. 

Voldemort gets off him, lies back on his side, heart thudding too wildly for him to sleep any time soon. 

And, of course, Gellert disobeys instantly, speaking. 

“Anything you want, liebling.” 

(-)

Dumbledore finds a knitted jumper that must have been yellow once upon a time, and a pair of hideous blue trousers that are a size too small, leaving his skinny ankles exposed. 

It’s better than the robe, makes him a tad easier to stomach, but Voldemort can’t get used to his presence. 

He’s always there, underfoot, and he might have changed clothes, he might look frail and tired, but his eyes are the same Voldemort remembers, the one thing he always hated the most in his life. 

He finds some rusty needles and a ball of damp yarn and he spends the time knitting. 

Gellert is amused by it. He is curious when Dumbledore finds a toy car and starts explaining how engines work. 

“You always disregarded muggles, but they have some wonderful inventions,” he tells Gellert. 

“You’re wrong,” Voldemort intervenes, though he usually avoids directly addressing Dumbledore. 

He doesn’t speak much in general, not even to Gellert, Dumbledore’s presence hanging around them like a spectre. 

But Gellert seems fascinated about engines, and Dumbledore is doing a terrible job at explaining them. 

“You know nothing about muggles and their ways. You preach we should accept them, but you never bothered to really understand them.” Just that half arsed effort some wizards make that leads to muggles looking like eccentric, adorable creatures. 

Gellert is a typical pureblood, having spent his entire life completely apart from muggles. He hated what he knew of them, understood the danger they posed, but now he’s awfully bored in death; he doesn’t seem to have the energy to hate anything, so he picks up random muggle oddities they stumble upon and wants to know what they mean or how they work. 

And Voldemort gets annoyed when Dumbledore is all too eager to explain, and does it poorly, anyhow. 

Gellert should be asking him. It was Voldemort that grew up with muggles, that excelled in their school, before Hogwarts, spent the long summers of his teenaged years researching military vehicles and bombs to learn about the enemies that were attacking London and how to save his life, in case the need came. 

(-)

“What could he have possibly done?” Voldemort asks, quietly, as Dumbledore cries in his sleep. “Who did he kill that torments him so?”

“I doubt he ever killed anyone.” Gellert organises their bags. Dumbledore has his own, and now Gellert is back to carrying around his and Voldemort’s things.

Voldemort smiles, gleeful. It’s just beautiful that Dumbledore ended up in hell or wherever they are, without killing anyone. It’s wonderful that he suffers so much.

It is justice.

Gellert looks up from the bags, takes in Voldemort’s smile. “You’re terrible,” he says, but he sounds fond.

The bruises on his neck are still there, in the shape of Voldemort’s fingers, even if it happened quite a while back. Any injury takes forever to heal- Voldemort has a cut on his hand, that bleeds occasionally, even if he got it before Dumbledore came to make his death miserable. 

He smiles, pleased with the purple-blue imprints. 

(-)

The fog is different from anything he’d seen so far in the new world. 

Voldemort stops abruptly, turning toward it. 

“What?” Gellert whispers at his side. “Oh,” he breathes when he sees it, too. 

“It doesn’t look safe,” Dumbledore says. 

“Does anything look safe around here, Albus?” 

Voldemort walks towards it, cautiously. It’s far away, but it seems dense. The others follow, because what other options do they have? 

“We should rest here,” Dumbledore points to what appears to be a flower shop in their path. “And think about what it could mean.” 

“Rest, then. No one stops you,” Voldemort assures him. 

It isn’t natural fog, he concludes, when they finally reach it. Too contained and opaque for it to be natural. 

Dumbledore protests when Voldemort lifts his arm, summoning fire. 

Fire doesn’t bother it. A cutting charm doesn’t go though it either. 

Gellert grows frustrated and he, too, tries whatever magic he can come up with, throws it against the fog. 

There is no noise. No disruption. It’s like it swallows their spells. 

“The wraiths could come at any moment,” Dumbledore reminds them. “We lingered enough.” 

Dumbledore’s determination to leave the fog alone only hardens Voldemort’s resolve to enter it. 

He doesn’t fancy the thought of simply stepping into it, but nothing else seems to work. 

It won’t kill me, he thinks, sarcastic. He reaches a hand toward it, just a finger, to test- 

Gellert grabs his wrist. Before Voldemort has a chance to express his displeasure, Gellert shoves his own hand inside it. 

And then pulls it out. Whole. 

Gellert rolls his sleeve to check for injuries, but finds none. “It didn’t hurt,” he tells Voldemort and sticks it inside the fog again. “It’s like… nothing. Like air.” 

Voldemort carefully touches it, too, and for all that magic didn’t penetrate it, indeed his hand goes through like it is simply air. 

“Should I infer you are eager to go first?” Voldemort asks. 

Gellert smiles at him, that playful, soft thing that annoys and confuses Voldemort greatly. 

“I wouldn’t say eager, no. But I will go first.” 

Dumbledore only looks resigned. Voldemort files it away for later, holds Gellert’s hand, to pull him out, if it proves Gellert won’t be able to do so on his own.

And then Gellert steps through. Only the wrist Voldemort is holding remains visible. 

Dumbledore walks in alone, a little to the side. 

“Alright?” Voldemort asks. 

“Come.” Gellert’s voice is clear. 

(-)

King’s Cross. 

Abandoned, dirty, decayed, but it is not a sight Voldemort could ever mistake. 

He remembers every platform, every train track, and it is all there. 

And he’s on the right platform. Dumbledore is already at the barrier that once separated the muggle world from the magical world. 

Voldemort hurries to it, something like hope blossoming inside his chest. It is quickly dashed when he touches the pillar and nothing happens. He pushes harder, but it’s just a lifeless wall. 

“Incredible,” Gellert says, in German, from afar. 

Voldemort turns to snap at him, but his words die on his tongue when he sees Gellert walking above the tracks. Like he’s floating.

“What the-are you seeing that?” he asks out loud, of no one in particular, but since Dumbledore just happens to be beside him, he answers with a frown between his blue eyes. 

“Yes.”

Gellert keeps walking, right through another platform, as if it weren’t there. 

Dumbledore calls after him, but now Gellert is busy touching something that isn’t there, with a nostalgic look on his face. 

Voldemort goes to him. He can’t walk over the space above the tracks, so he’s forced to get down on them and then up again. He can’t walk through walls, either. 

“What are you holding?” Voldemort asks, and he tries to touch whatever Gellert thinks he’s holding, but there’s nothing there. 

Gellert makes a surprised sound. “Your hand just went through it.” 

“Through what?” 

Gellert looks at him. “You can’t see the helm?” 

“No,” Dumbledore answers, catching up with them. “Where do you think you are?” 

“I’m on the Durmstrang ship.” Gellert looks between them. He gestures around him. “You at least see the ship, surely.” 

“We’re in King’s Cross,” Voldemort says. 

“What is that?” 

They explain it to him. Gellert swears they are all standing inside his boat. “You’re right beside the mast!” he insists, and he groans when Voldemort apparently walks through it. 

(-)

Gellert is all he has, simple as that. 

“I can no longer deny it,” he confides in Lily. 

Harry is miraculously quiet, for once, content in his mother’s arms. 

“What will you do?” she inquires. 

“I don’t know,” he answers, anguished. “What do I do? You should know more about…” he gestures around, without purpose. “This.” 

She shakes her head. “I only know as much as you know.” She looks at him with pity. “I’m what you make me. I’m not real.” 

Voldemort awakens in Gellert’s arms. Lily isn’t real; his dreams aren’t real. But Gellert is. 

Voldemort had always been desperately possessive about the little he had in his life. 

Nothing was given to him, but he stole. He watched others and took what they had, from mouth organs, used toys to ancient magical artefacts, and he guarded them fiercely, held on to them. 

He didn’t steal Gellert, but he has him, and Voldemort suddenly can’t imagine not having him anymore. 

But Gellert is not an object, he has a body and a mind of his own, a stubborn will and how can Voldemort keep him? 

He could, when it was just them. It was easy. But now Dumbledore is there and- Dumbledore is warm, understanding, kind and pitiful in ways that stir Gellert’s mercy and attention. 

Why are you merciful? Voldemort thinks, turning and watching the deep frown between Gellert’s brows, the tortured twist of his lip, the way he clings to Voldemort with unrelenting fingers. 

Voldemort should wake him, reassure him, banish the nightmares and the guilt this place and Gellert himself conjures in his mind. 

Yet Voldemort doesn’t know how to do such things. He knows how to torture, but he doesn’t know how to soothe pain. 

He’s relatively embarrassed to even envision what he’d say to Gellert when trying to comfort him. How pathetic and awkward he’s sound if he tried to be kind. 

So he turns on his side, watching the dim moonlight fall upon a broken vase. 

He listens to Dumbledore’s whimpers and to Gellert’s laboured breath, and almost envies them this torture they share, something that makes them human, when Voldemort is not. 

Gellert jerks eventually, his arms tighten more around Voldemort, his head comes to rest on his shoulder. 

“I don’t like you in pain,” he could say, but why? What would it solve? 

“Stop feeling guilty for your so-called crimes.” 

“It scares me to see you wilt away, hurt and exhausted, haunted by your memories, by something I can’t fight against.”

He says nothing, and eventually Dumbledore bolts awake, meters away, Gellert’s hands stop gripping him so tightly and Voldemort stands, searching for a candle, looking out the windows for shadows, as the other two start packing their necessities. 

“Good morning,” Dumbledore says, softly, like the idiot he is. 

There is no morning, Voldemort wants to scream at him. There’s nothing good here.

“Good morning,” Gellert answers. 

Does it help them to play at normalcy? Is this a way to cope, to ease their reality? 

Voldemort doesn’t know. He’s never been normal. He never had comforting routines or coping mechanism to fall back onto when things were hard. 

He adapts, and he goes on, no comfort needed. 

(-)

“He’s lying,” Voldemort whispers in Gellert’s hair, when he’s sure Dumbledore is fast asleep, struggling with his inner demons.

Voldemort knows what to say to persuade Gellert. He has all the arguments ready. The robe in the beginning, the knowledge he seems to hold about the hell they are in, the way he did not want them to go in that fog. He opens his mouth-

“I know,” Gellert whispers back.

Something in Voldemort relaxes.

(-)

One wouldn’t suspect it, watching Gellert interact with Dumbledore.

He’s good, he’s very good. Even better than Voldemort used to be, when he was still young enough to have the patience to pretend.

If he’s so good, if there’s no distrust at all in his eyes or gestures when he looks at Dumbledore- if he’s fooling Dumbledore- what if he is fooling me?

“Silver tongue,” the newspapers nicknamed Gellert, when he was rising to power. His gift for persuasion was so well known and so feared that M.A.C.U.S.A had his tongue cut out when they imprisoned him, afraid he’ll sweet talk his guards.

He always seemed very direct to Voldemort, though.

It is slightly concerning, thinking about it.

No one fools me, Voldemort tells himself, casting the worries aside.

(-)

Gellert is getting weaker. He rests so little lately, sleeps in brief bouts and wakes up more exhausted. 

“You control your dreams,” Voldemort snaps at him. He’s scared to see Gellert like this. He hates Gellert for awaking fear inside him. So he chooses anger. “You can’t be pathetic like Dumbledore, to let them bother you.” 

“It’s just getting worse, the more we’re here,” Gellert mumbles, his head in Voldemort’s chest. He refuses to dislodge it, even when Voldemort tries to push him away. 

“I despise weakness,” Voldemort informs him. 

And he does, generally. But Gellert’s weakness only terrifies him. Because Gellert isn’t weak. 

Dumbledore, for all his faults, wasn’t weak. 

And yet they’re both spiralling into an abyss made by their own minds.  

“Whatever it is,” Voldemort says, “It’s done with. They had it coming. You control what they say to you.” 

“They didn’t. Not all.” Gellert’s voice is muffled, rough. “There was this young girl, in France- so young- and-” 

“Stop,” Voldemort hisses. “She was insignificant.”

Gellert finally unglues himself from Voldemort, enough to look into his eyes. 

A small smile plays at his lips, the ghost of his more brilliant ones. 

“Your lack of empathy hindered you in life,” Gellert says. “But it helps you here.” He touches Voldemort’s cheek, fingers trailing along his jaw. “Whatever it is that has you so unbothered about the people you’ve ruined, I hope it will continue working. I like to watch you sleep so peacefully, liebling.” He leans in and presses his lips to Voldemort’s. “You are unshakable.” 

(-)

“When I was young, about five or six, I used to sneak onto the roof of my house and stand on the edge. I firmly believed I could fly, if only I would let myself fall, first.”

“I can fly,” Voldemort boasts, though he can’t anymore. Not in that place.

Dumbledore is irritated at the interruption. He’d been beaming at Gellert, seemingly interested in the asinine story.

“I know,” Gellert reminds him. “You flew into my cell. You know, the night you killed me? There I was, minding my own business and then the most hideous face I had ever had the misfortune to behold floats at my window-”

Voldemort hates that he feels a trickle of unease when he remembers it.

He doesn’t mind that I kill him. He said so.

Gellert really doesn’t mind; he has that amused expression on his face.

“I looked terrifying, it’s true.” Voldemort says, with as much dignity as he can. 

Gellert laughs at him. “Stop pretending you wanted to look like that. Admit it! You fucked up the ritual for your resurrection!” 

Dumbledore looks between them like he’s watching a tennis match, a deep frown between his reddish eyebrows. 

“At least I looked like a…” Voldemort struggles a little to find an appropriate word. “Mythical creature,” he settles on, victorious. “You looked like a frail ancient muggle.” 

“Fine. You win.” Gellert winks at him and Voldemort gets that silly, comforting warmth inside his chest. “In any case, I always wanted to fly, since I was a little boy.” 

“How was the world back then?” Voldemort asks. “When you were a child. Where the dinosaurs as impressive as I’ve read?”

Gellert’s smile only widens.

“When were you born, exactly? The early 1500s?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. I’m sure you read all you could about me,” Gellert says. “I can see you, bright eyed and innocent, reverently researching anything about me like the bookworm you are.”

“He was never bright eyed,” Dumbledore is quick to say.

“I, however, knew little about you. Wasn’t very interested,” Gellert goes on, teasing.

“Please, you must have memorised every newspaper article you got your hands on.” Voldemort huffs. “Useless, in any case. No one knew anything about me, just speculations-”

Dumbledore coughs.

Fine, he knew who Lord Voldemort used to be.

“I was born on thirty-first of December, 1926,” Voldemort tells Gellert, ignoring Dumbledore as best as he is able. 

Gellert laughs. “I was detained on that very same day. In New York.”

Voldemort knows. He did research everything he could find on Grindelwald, as the war was reaching a peak, back when he was a student at Hogwarts.

“Shameful,” Voldemort scoffs. “For a dark lord, you got arrested quite often. No prison could ever hold me. I never lost a duel.”

Dumbledore mumbles something about extreme arrogance, but Gellert's smile turns softer. It’s almost proud.

If they’ve been alone, Gellert would say something like ‘I know, liebling. You are the most powerful wizard.’ And Voldemort would get hard and bend him over the nearest furniture-

Alas, they’re not alone.

So Gellert’s smile shifts. “Perhaps. But at least I wasn’t killed by a child. Twice.”

(-)

Lily doesn’t come anymore. Whenever Voldemort finds himself in that destroyed room, it’s only Harry in his crib, fat tears clinging to his face, blending with the blood dropping down his forehead.

“Stop crying.” Voldemort goes to him, hands him a broken toy from the floor. “You’ll be fine. Snape told me you will be raised by your relatives. He said you will arrive at Hogwarts as arrogant and spoiled as your father. You’ll have people fawning over you wherever you go. You’ll be famous. Dumbledore will be your mentor.”

Harry hiccups, throwing the toy away.

“Mama!”

“Dumbledore is an atrocious piece of shit, but only when he doesn’t like someone. He’ll like you. You’ll have friends. And Quidditch. I forget what position you’ll play, but Snape said you’ll be just as insufferable about your talents as your father used to be.”

“Mama!” Harry reaches for him. “MAMA!”

“I don’t know where she went.” He gives the boy another toy. A plush dog. “Here, hold this. Someone- probably Dumbledore- will come soon and he’ll take you to your aunt. To a nice house in the suburbs. I’ve seen it when I tried to get you. It’s a nice, middle class neighbourhood. There really isn’t anything to cry about, Harry. I’d have killed to have that growing up.”

Harry sniffs. “Owie!” He puts a hand to his forehead.

It really looks quite dreadful. Voldemort searches around for a rag. He takes it and bends over the crib, wiping the blood off Harry’s face.

“It can’t hurt that greatly. Your brain is too undeveloped to perceive pain. And it’s very valuable. I gave you an impressive weapon. I made you the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“OWIE!”

“You won’t make me feel sorry for you. You’ll be fine,” Voldemort hisses at him. “You’ll grow up with everything you need and you’ll be the one to kill me. So really, Harry, stop trying to guilt me. I didn’t do anything unforgivable. I made you strong. I made you someone.”

“MAMA!”

“No, that won’t work, either. She and I, we settled our score. Lily saw sense in the end. She realised it wasn’t my fault. She chose to die. It was her choice, not mine. Your mother is the one that left you with me, after all. Now and back then.”

“PAPA!” 

Voldemort huffs, indignant. “Nice try. He was a soldier in a war. Soldiers die. He and your mother are probably together now in some heaven for kind hearted idiots. Everything is fine. I’ve seen worse tragedies in my life. Nothing to be sorry for, Harry.” 

Voldemort pushes him, as gently as he’s able, insists until the boy lies down. He covers him with a bloodstained blanket and puts the plush dog beside him.

“There. Now go to sleep. And don’t come back, or I will kill you. For good, this time. Lily isn’t here to protect you anymore.”

(-)

“-how easy he sleeps! There’s nothing human in him anymore. If he’d have an ounce of compassion, he wouldn’t be sleeping so unbothered. I don’t know what you hope for, Gellert, but he will stab us in the back. He will leave you behind with no regret.”

Voldemort keeps his breathing under control, pretends he’s still sleeping.

“You must see it, too. I know you do!” Dumbledore insists when Gellert says nothing.

I would regret it, he thinks. Dumbledore is wrong about that. Voldemort will do what he must to get out of that place. He will leave Gellert behind if that is what it takes, but he would regret it. 

“My friend.” Gellert’s voice is amused. “I think you spent too long teaching children. Did you hope to see awe on my face at such revelations, like an eleven-year-old who observes you turn a mouse into a teacup?”

“Gellert- “

“You are just as ignorant of love as he is, Albus. You think it means suffering and sacrifice. You think it means change, that everyone should transform when they love. You wanted me to change so I could be worthy of your pure, good love.” A laugh. “Love, Albus, means acceptance. I know who he is.”

“He has no remorse for the terrible pain he inflected; he is a monster.”

Another laugh. “You and I have a very different definition of monsters, Albus. He is simply unapologetically himself. And I find that refreshing.”

Voldemort opens his eyes and sits up, to put an end to the conversation. It makes him uneasy.

(-)

“Why won’t you let me get rid of him?” Voldemort asks, on the river bank. “He’s plotting - “

“Liebling.” Gellert smiles, that charming, blinding smile of his. “He knows something. We should find out what.”

“He’s too dangerous,” Voldemort snarls at him. “He is the only man to have brought both of us down. He managed to have me killed from the grave, for Merlin’s sake. Whatever he knows, it’s not worth the risk.”

Gellert shakes his head, turning his attention on a pair of trousers. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but it was easy for him to deceive you. You’re intelligent, liebling, more intelligent that he is- “he adds, appeasing, when Voldemort makes an indignant noise. “You were better at magic than he was. But I keep telling you, you’re not very sane. You are so easy to rile up, you become predictable.”

A muscle jumps in Voldemort’s jaw. “I am not insane,” he hisses.

“Perhaps not insane. But you’re not exactly sane, either. Look back on your choices, especially after your resurrection- darling, that was a disaster. Albus didn’t defeat you from the grave. You defeated yourself. Your own worse enemy.”

Voldemort has the powerful impulse to push him in the river. He has to grip and twist on a wet jumper to make sure his hands won’t move on their own.

Gellert keeps speaking. “He overwhelmed me because he was more accomplished in magic. He was stronger. But he’s not, now. As for manipulative- I taught him all about that. His magic is gone, but I have my mind, liebling. Let me deal with him.”

Voldemort does push him in the water. It’s shallow at the bank, and Voldemort straddles him, pins him into the mud, his blonde hair submerged under water.

“I have magic. I can torture him until he tells us what he knows, if that is why you claim you keep him around.”

Gellert doesn’t fight, relaxes his body.

“You could,” Gellert says. “But I’m asking you not to.”

“Why don’t you let me get rid of him?” Voldemort hisses. “The real reason, Grindelwald! I might have made questionable choices after my resurrection- “

“-and before- “Gellert quips, untroubled.

“But I know truth from lies. Tell me why!”

“I told you why. I want to learn what he is hiding.”

“I will drown you!” Voldemort threatens.

“I don’t think you’ll accomplish much with that, really. Perhaps you’ll only succeed in giving me a permanent cough and an unflattering blue tinge to my skin-” 

Voldemort growls, and he pushes Gellert deeper under the water-

“I don’t want to kill anymore,” the answer comes, gargled, as water goes down Gellert’s mouth. “The dreams- “

Gellert looks tormented and Voldemort lets him go.

“I can’t. Not if I don’t absolutely have to.” Gellert doesn’t look at him, sitting up, head bowed. He has an air of defeat around him that Voldemort never witnessed before. “That’s the real reason, even if the other still stands.”

Voldemort turns his back to him, grabs the clothes, furiously dunking them in the water.

They finish the rest of their laundry in a tense silence.

It’s only when they prepare to leave that Gellert speaks again, voice low. Vulnerable like he’s never been since Voldemort got to know him.

“I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to think me weak. You only respect power.”

Voldemort finally looks at him, sends him a glare that used to make an entire nation flinch. “You are weak,” he spits.

Being plagued by nightmares- not willing to kill and torture- is a weakness. Especially in a dark lord.

And yet, somewhere deep inside him, Voldemort thinks Gellert is the strongest man he’d ever met.

(-)

“I miss being inside you,” Gellert tells him, hugging him tightly. 

They’re in a castle, finally a shelter big enough to put a considerable distance between them and Dumbledore when it’s time for sleep. 

Voldemort missed seeing Gellert naked. He is quite handsome. Even as their faces get gaunter, their bodies never change. Except the marks the shadows leave on them, or injuries that won’t heal. 

But they don’t lose any weight, even if they haven’t eaten a single thing. They stopped trying to drink water from the river. It never quenches the eternal thirst, no matter how much they gulp down. 

“I bet you do,” Voldemort drawls, naked himself, getting his breathing back under control. 

Fucking Gellert can be exhausting, in the most delicious kind of way. 

He won’t allow Gellert to fuck him. Not with Dumbledore around, no matter how far at the moment. 

“Yes. You’re so bossy when my cock is up your ass. Barking orders at me-” 

Voldemort smiles. “You do need directions. Without them you’d never satisfy me.” 

“You try to use your lord voice, but it just comes out adorable. Strangled and winded. You beg so prettily, even if you try to pass it off as commands.” 

“With every word that comes out of your mouth, you are only ensuring you’ll never be allowed to fuck me again,” Voldemort warns him. 

Gellert sighs, kissing Voldemort’s shoulder. “I already resigned myself to that outcome.” 

“We can give Dumbledore to the shadows and then you can have me again.” 

Gellert doesn’t comment on it. Instead-

“When we slept in that tiny cabin, a few shelters ago-” 

Voldemort remembers it. It was downright claustrophobic. It would have been fine if Dumbledore wasn’t there, of course, but as it was, the man was too close for comfort.

“You were both sleeping. I couldn’t. But your ass was positioned perfectly- like so.” Gellert demonstrates it, shifting a little behind Voldemort. “I was so hard, liebling. I kept thinking of that first time I took you. How tight and flushed you were.” 

Voldemort groans, annoyed. 

“I touched myself. I couldn’t help it.” 

The annoyance goes away, makes room for surprise. He turns to stare at Gellert. 

“You had a wank with Dumbledore’s cries serving as background noise?” 

Geller looks both mischievous and contrite, somehow. 

“I couldn’t even hear him. My mind was filled with the memories of the noise you made when-” 

Voldemort covers his mouth. “Don’t ruin it. Leave it like that. You came while Dumbledore was suffering like a sick old dog. That’s all I need to know.” 

Gellert bites his fingers playfully. “You are truly awful,” he says when Voldemort takes the hand off.  

“I’m awful?” Voldemort inquires, incredulous. “I wasn’t the one touching myself with two unconscious men in the room!”

Gellert smiles, and in the light of the many candles they are wasting, just to see each other better, he looks better than he had in a while. He looks boyish and happy. 

“Tell me of your most inappropriate wank,” he asks Voldemort, all excited. 

He doesn’t relent until Voldemort indulges him. 

(-)

The nest is close to where Gellert said it would be. 

Close, but not where it should be.

Gellert is not one to misremember or confuse things. 

It took them what felt like forever to reach it. If someone would have told Voldemort a couple of years had passed, he would have no problem believing it.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Dumbledore asks. 

They have been together through many shelters, many fights, countless encounters with the shadows. Gellert says he’s proud that Voldemort only tried to kill Dumbledore a couple of times in a good while. 

It was more than a couple of times, but Gellert didn’t notice some of them, busy trying not to get caught by the wraiths, and for all of Dumbledore’s sins, he’s not a telltale, so he kept his mouth shut.

Voldemort ignores his question. He does his best to ignore him at all times.

“It’s not where it should be,” Voldemort points out what they all must have noticed. 

“We still found it. What does it matter? Ready?” 

“Gellert, are you absolutely sure this is a good idea?” 

“When you are.” Voldemort cuts over Dumbledore.

Gellert gives the bag to Voldemort, rolling his shoulders back and forth. He offers them a smile before he turns, walking towards the nest.

It is like the last one. Hundreds, maybe thousands of shadows forming an impenetrable shield around something. They are unmoving, a cupola of black.

Voldemort tries to think of them as Dementors. They are far less frightening if he thinks of them that way.

Dumbledore paces back and forth, more and more nervous as Gellert gets closer to the nest.

It’s between the Colosseum, and what Voldemort is almost certain it’s the Louvre.

Like before, the things start shrieking when Gellert gets close enough, that awful, soul shattering noise from which there is no reprieve. 

Long before, in the beginning, Voldemort tried to cover his ears, but it didn’t help matters. After all, it’s not with his ears he can hear them, but with his entire being.

Dumbledore stops pacing, eyes on Gellert.

Closer and closer. 

The screams intensify. And then they finally break apart to rush toward Gellert, drawing away from the nest-

“Do it!” Dumbledore urges him to use Fiendfyre, presumably worried about Gellert.

But Voldemort freezes.

The Gaunt shack is visible for only a second before the rest of the shadows surround it.

(-)

“It was the Gaunt shack,” Dumbledore confirms, once they are safely away, in a two-story house. 

Gellert suggested that it’s impossible both nests are connected to Voldemort, that surely the universe doesn’t hate him this much, and that maybe they would all see different things, like the King’s Cross/ship phenomena. 

Voldemort is trying not to panic. He tries to think of it as a good thing. Maybe the universe doesn’t hate me, but favours me. 

Only he’s never been an optimist, so it’s hard. 

He stands still, staring at a wall. Dumbledore is equally motionless. 

Gellert paces up and down the room, muttering in several languages. 

And then he stops, so suddenly that Voldemort takes notice. 

His light eyes glint, and they are fixed on Dumbledore. 

“What?” Voldemort asks, when Dumbledore won’t meet Gellert’s eyes. 

“The Resurrection Stone,” Gellert says, softly. “You said it was in your family for generations. Your family, that lived in the Gaunt shack.” 

A shiver goes down his back. “Yes.” Voldemort confirms. 

“Albus,” Gellert hisses, tone low and positively deadly. “Was the Potter boy related to the Peverells, by any chance? Was the Cloak in his family for generations? Maybe in Godric’s Hollow? In a house that Voldemort blew up? That just happens to be surrounded by another nest?” 

Fuck. Voldemort moves towards Dumbledore. “Well?” he spits. 

The insufferable bastards finally looks up, but apparently he can’t meet Gellert’s eyes. He holds Voldemort’s gaze. 

“Yes.” 

Oh. 

“You think the Hallows are inside.” Gellert states at Dumbledore, for it is not a question. 

“Maybe.” 

Of course the Hallows are inside. What else would the shadows guard so desperately?

And there it is; just like that, tension falls between them.

It was never there between Gellert and Voldemort.

He’d even gotten somewhat used to Dumbledore’s presence.

But now- now that the Hallows are around- there is hostility.

Heavy, paranoid, adrenaline inducing tension. Between him and Gellert. They look at each other, backs straighter, eyes harder-

“Don’t,” Dumbledore’s voice pierces through it. “Don’t do this.”

Neither answer him.

I am far more powerful, Voldemort thinks, reassuring himself.

“We can’t fall apart now. Both of you have to understand that we are in this together-”

Voldemort laughs. He cuts over Dumbledore, but he doesn’t look away from Gellert.

Gellert is the bigger threat.

“Together?” he says, quietly. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Uniting the Hallows must be the way out. That means only one of us can escape.”

Gellert’s eyes blaze, dangerously-

Dumbledore is suddenly between them.

“We can all escape. If we trust, if we share- if we unite them together, then we can all get out,” Dumbledore begs Voldemort.

Lies.

“Trust? You’ve been trying to get between Gellert and I since you came here. Telling him I’ll stab you in the back when you’re the one doing the stabbing. You knew! You knew all along!” 

But Dumbledore doesn’t have magic. He can’t possibly get through all the shadows guarding the nests on his own. He wanted to use Voldemort’s magic, so he can get his old, greedy hands on the Hallows. 

“I knew.” Dumbledore looks between them imploringly. 

Nice acting. 

“I didn’t tell you so you won’t get like-” He gestures between Gellert and Voldemort, the tension so sharp it’s almost palpable. “Like this.” 

The aggression in the room makes the air unbreathable. Voldemort moves his hand, ready. Flames flicker above his palm-

And then Gellert walks away. Voldemort moves to block him. He won’t allow him to leave the house and go to the shack.

But Gellert simply heads to another room, back turned to Voldemort, without even glancing at the main door. 

Chapter Text

Dumbledore stands between Voldemort and the main door. 

“Don’t act impulsively,” he begs. 

I have magic, Voldemort thinks. It’s not what it used to be on earth, not even close, but he has it. More than Gellert. Far more than Dumbledore. 

Will it be enough for so many shadows? How is he supposed to get past the nests and into the shack or the Potter house?

He needed Gellert to distract them before, and even so, it was only for a couple of seconds. How would he manage on his own?

Is it wise to leave the others to their own devices? There’s two of them, after all. 

He decides to stay. For a while. To think it through. With great difficulty, he controls his impulse to leave. 

Dumbledore looks like he wants to say more, but wisely decides this is not the moment to anger Voldemort.

They can hear Gellert pacing in the other room. 

(-)

The mere idea of sleep goes out the window. There will be no more sleeping.

Gellert, his only comfort, is now a rival. 

An enemy, his mind supplies, only something inside him does not agree to the term. 

You can’t get sentimental. Not now. Your freedom is at stake; another chance at life. Gellert is an enemy. Voldemort must think of him as such. He’s more dangerous than Dumbledore. He has magic, and he somehow made Voldemort feel things, second guess himself- Gellert is more of a threat, clearly. 

Only it was Dumbledore who knew about the Hallows all along. 

He stays alert, mind whirling, plans forming and unravelling, but when the adrenaline eventually goes away, Voldemort is left exhausted.

Dumbledore, frail as he is already, is in an even worse state.

They stand on opposite ends of the room, barely seeing each other through the darkness.

Voldemort refuses to light a candle, and Dumbledore has no hope of doing it on his own.

An eternity seems to pass before Dumbledore’s by now familiar tortured whimpers fill the room. 

Gellert clearly is the biggest threat; Voldemort is certain he didn’t fall asleep, like Dumbledore did. What is he planning? He must see Voldemort as an enemy, too. He simply must. 

An odd ache in his chest distracts him. The thought of Gellert’s eyes turning suspicious does not sit well with him. 

“No,” Dumbledore mumbles. “Please, don’t!”

Must be his sister, Voldemort thinks. When Dumbledore is begging so soon into his dreams, it’s usually his sister. Voldemort waits for her name to be cried out.

(-)

He hears footsteps. 

His body stiffens, fingers twitching at his side, magic sluggishly making its way to them.

Gellert emerges from the other room, and Voldemort prepares to stand; it wouldn’t do to be at a disadvantage. 

Gellert sits beside him before Voldemort has the chance to get up. 

Close. Too close. They’re almost touching. 

Voldemort places a hand between them, to push him away-

“We can try,” Gellert says. “There are three of us, and three hallows. It could work. Albus might be right.”

Voldemort scoffs at the notion. 

“If it doesn’t work…” Gellert whispers. “Then you can have them.” 

The red moon casts dim light into the room; enough that he can see Gellert's eyes. He looks so honest-

Voldemort’s paranoia wars with his desire to trust. But that’s irrational. How could he trust? Who would give up a chance to escape this hell?

Gellert wouldn’t just hand that over. 

He would, something in his head whispers. He would give it up for you.

All those times Gellert stayed behind, even in the most hopeless of situations, when they were overrun by the shadows; all the times he risked himself to save Voldemort; that time when he entered the fogs first, so Voldemort won’t have to.

Careful. He’s a dark lord. Gellert might wake up from his nightmares with an increasingly guilty expression, he might claim that he doesn’t want to cause any more harm, but he’s still a dark lord.

Lies and manipulation come easy to Gellert; Voldemort shouldn’t lose sight of that. 

“Why?” he hisses. “Why would you give the Hallows up? And if you mention love, I’m going to curse you through the window.”

Gellert smiles. “Than I won’t mention it,” he teases and Voldemort wants to strangle him.

Gellert’s fingers curl around Voldemort’s. Don’t let him. Don’t- 

He tries to push him away, but he mustn’t try too hard, because Gellert doesn’t move an inch. 

“You never gave up” Gellert says, softly. “I did, long ago. I resigned myself to this world since I woke up in it.” His fingers tighten around Voldemort. “You never stopped fighting. You deserve to get out.”

Voldemort can’t believe him, though he wants to.

“I had fifty good years back on Earth. I grew up with loving, attentive parents. I was raised with magic since I was born. I was rich, pureblooded, I conquered half a continent. I had many lovers; I knew love and happiness. You…” his other hand moves to cup Voldemort’s face. “Liebling, you had nothing. Whatever comes after this, I want you to have it.”

“Gellert.” Voldemort is surprised to hear himself speaking so softly. 

“If I get out…” Gellert shrugs. “ I don’t want anything anymore. I have no ambition left. I’d just find myself a simple house in the countryside and settle in it like the old man I am. You… you aren’t done. You’d do something great, I know it. You deserve to get out, and I will make sure you do.”

As Gellert speaks, for an absurd second, Voldemort can see that house, surrounded by tall, green trees, the sun shining brightly above them. He can see himself living in it. With Gellert. 

“And him?” Voldemort nods in Dumbledore’s direction. “Do you think he’ll agree with your plan? That he’d just roll over and let me have the hallows?” 

Gellert shrugs again, a dismissive gesture. 

It strikes Voldemort that if he alone escapes, Gellert will stay behind with Dumbledore. 

It’s ridiculous that he feels jealous about them together in this place, when he could theoretically be free. 

Gellert spares Dumbledore a glance. “If he stands in your way, I’ll destroy him.”

(-)

“I will be the first to get a Hallow,” Voldemort tells them.

He’d woken Dumbledore up. A candle is burning on a dingy, half rotten table. 

He’s looming over both of them, after having ordered them to sit on the small couch.

Gellert smiles up at him. Dumbledore looks stoic.

Voldemort decided he’ll try. He’ll give this ‘we can all get out’ plan a chance. Besides, he needs them to get through the nests. 

“I want the wand,” he continues. 

Dumbledore sighs. “We would need to find it, first.” 

“Where is it? Tell me!”Voldemort orders.

Dumbledore holds his gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?” Voldemort demands. Dumbledore knows everything, as usual. 

“You don’t know where the nest is or you don’t know what building specifically it would be in?” Gellert intervenes. 

“I don’t know where the nest is,” Dumbledore answers. “I suspect the wand must be at Hogwarts, though, wherever the castles is in this world.”

All the Hallows are supposed to be Voldemort’s.

One in the Gaunt shack, where his family lived. One in Hogwarts, his home. And one in the Potter house, where he first died. Clearly, they all belong to me.

“Why Hogwarts?” Gellert looks suspicious.

“I am not sure it would be there, but I had the wand for the longest time out of anyone in history. And I lived in the castle.”

“Gregorovitch had it for a good while,” Gellert says.

“You had it five more years than he did,” Dumbledore cuts over him. “Not only did I own it for far longer than that, but you moved around. You weren’t attached to one place, like I was to Hogwarts.”

“We find Hogwarts, and I get the wand.” Voldemort shuts them both up.

Dumbledore isn’t happy with this decision.

“We already know where the other two nests are. One is so close; we could get it now.”

The Gaunt shack is close. The ring must be there. 

“What am I supposed to do with the stone? It’s useless!” Voldemort says. “I want to be the first to get a Hallow, and I want the wand. If you don’t like it, then we don’t have a deal.”

“It’s a waste to-”

“Albus,” Gellert warns, with that serious, dangerous expression he so rarely wears. “Voldemort gets the wand first, and then we can return for the others.”

“It makes no sense-”

“Or you can go out on your own and do whatever your heart desires.” Gellert stares at Dumbledore, unflinching.

(-)

They’ve been there before; a soldier barrack. One room, four small beds-

Gellert climbs into one, beside Voldemort. 

He was right, Voldemort thinks, going stiff. It was Voldemort that didn’t allow any closeness between them when Dumbledore first arrived. 

He still has the instinct to push Gellert away, because he doesn’t want Dumbledore to witness this. 

The old goat always tried to take away everything Voldemort owned or tried to own. Starting with their first meeting, when he made Voldemort give back the toys in the dresser, and all the way to their deaths, Dumbledore always took things from him. 

He’s weak, Voldemort reassures himself, when his nemesis lies down in a different bed, the furthest from them, and instantly closes his eyes, too exhausted to spy.

Voldemort relaxes, only slightly. Gellert snuggles closer to him.

(-)

He bends over the majestic desk in his father’s office, staring into eyes that he used to see in the mirror everyday, back when he was a child. 

His father stares back. It’s all Voldemort knows about him. The man in front of him hadn’t screamed in fear when his parents were killed in front of him; he hadn’t begged. He simply looked at Voldemort with those empty, cold eyes. 

It’s why he never speaks in these dreams. Voldemort doesn’t know him; he doesn’t know what his father would have to say. He can’t even imagine it. 

(-)

“And if it works?” Voldemort whispers. 

They are in a big, dirty old Manor. They share an enormous bed, far away from Dumbledore. 

Voldemort cleaned it, his magic obeying him faster than ever. The candles roared to life without him having to move a finger. It won’t last long, magic never does, but at least for a while, they have this small comfort.

“If we can all go out? What then?” 

It feels like the most shameful thing he’s done with Gellert so far. The most dangerous.

Hope.

It’s infuriating and a weakness, but it is the only reason he doesn’t just leave and hunt the hallows on his own.

The minuscule chance that they can get out together.

“I’d still want that simple house in the country side,” Gellert whispers back. 

They’re naked, huddled close together, bodies intertwined. Voldemort’s leg is slotted between Gellert’s tights. 

“I’d beg you to stay with me. And you would, for a while. I’d get to see you enjoy the sun. I’d see you enjoy ripe, sweet fruits-“

“I don’t like sweetness,” Voldemort says, a knee jerk reaction to deny enjoying anything a mortal would.

Gellert laughs, and Voldemort can’t deny enjoying that.

“But then you’ll want to leave. You’ll want to kill those that wronged you. You’ll want to conquer the world. And I’ll follow you wherever you go. I will have your back. I will be there to stop you when you come up with ridiculous plans; I’d point out any flaw in them that you might overlook.”

“And Dumbledore?” Voldemort asks, when the vision of him and Gellert alive and fighting side by side gets too painful to hold on to, too good to be true.

Thinking of Dumbledore makes it more real. A thorn in his side, something bad. 

Gellert snuggles closer, even if Voldemort would have thought that would be impossible, just moments before. But Gellert finds a way, envelops Voldemort completely. 

Gellert found a way inside Voldemort, too; under his breastbone, beneath his ribs, he lodged himself firmly and irrevocably in what remains of Voldemort’s soul. 

“We’ll make Albus a nice, sturdy jail. I’ll visit him from time to time, which is more than he ever did for me. You won’t like it and I’ll have to placate your jealousy, suffer your rants and irrational behaviour until you calm down. We can put him in Nurmengard. No one can escape it; I should know.”

“It could never hold me,” Voldemort boasts.

Geller smiles, softly, so softly it makes something inside Voldemort ache.

“Nothing can,” Gellert agrees. “You were right all along, liebling. You’ll escape this hell, too.”

We, Voldemort wants to correct him. We will escape.

(-)

They don’t find Hogwarts. They wander from place to place, venture further than they ever did, draw new maps, but there is no trace of Hogwarts or a third nest. 

Dumbledore gets worse and worse; he’s slower than ever, goes to sleep as soon as they enter a shelter. 

Gellert is deteriorating, too, though at a much slower pace. He has nightmares more often, and he clings to Voldemort fiercely through them. 

Voldemort wants to get inside his head, wants to kill Gellert’s old victims that dare make him feel such guilt.

(-)

Voldemort saves Dumbledore from a shadow in a memorable occasion. Three hallows, three men, he reminds himself. If he’s to trust this asinine plan, then they all need a hallow. 

Dumbledore says it will open the wall at the platform in King’s Cross, in that deep fog. 

So Voldemort saves Dumbledore, and he promises himself that as soon as they are out of this nightmare, he’ll torture the old man for it. 

Voldemort hasn’t dreamt of Harry in a very long time; he’s even starting to forget the boy’s face. 

Dumbledore dreams of Harry often, however, begging for forgiveness in his sleep. 

(-)

“He would never agree to let me out into the world again,” Voldemort tells Gellert. “He’d rather rot here with us than set me free. Something’s not right.”

Dumbledore is Dumbledore. Pretentious, sanctimonious, self-righteous; yes. But he’s not selfish. He doesn’t put himself first. That is why he is not a dark lord.

It is easy to see how much Dumbledore cares for Gellert, even after half of century of separation. He could have had Gellert any time he wanted, back on Earth. If Voldemort broke into Nurmnegard, it would have been just as easy for Dumbledore to retrieve his lover, if he so wanted. They could have ruled the world together. 

Instead, Dumbledore remained at Hogwarts, because he believed it was the right thing to do. Because he didn’t want to endanger the world. 

There is no chance he’ll set Gellert and Voldemort free. 

If he does, he must be aware there would be no stopping us. 

Gellert might regret some of the things he did, he might be softer, but he’d follow Voldemort. He’d be at my side. He’d reach for power again, just to give it to me. 

Gellert frowns, a deep line between his brows. He is exhausted, bone deep tired, but his eyes remain alert as he stares at Dumbledore’s sleeping form. 

“He can’t trick me,” Gellert says.

Voldemort opens his mouth, but Gellert keeps talking. 

“But you have a point. He means for us to get out, I am certain- or he meant for he and I to get out, and now he has no choice but to take you along. But there must be something, a plan to contain you as soon as we cross that barrier. He will try his best to stop you from hurting others.” 

Long before, Voldemort would say he cannot be contained. He cannot be stopped. 

Only Dumbledore already stopped him; he already outsmarted Voldemort. After all, that is the reason they are all dead. Potter was just the pawn, the means to an end, but it was Dumbledore that planned Voldemort’s demise. 

“I won’t let him,” Gellert says, taking his eyes off Dumbledore to look at Voldemort. “Whatever he has in mind, it won’t work.” 

“You’re right,” Voldemort agrees, with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “What matters is to get out. We’ll deal with Dumbledore, after.” 

(-)

“Liebling,” the old man on the floor says. “It’s alright. Do it.”

Voldemort steps back, shaking his head. He lowers his wand. “No. No, I won’t.”

“You already did,” Gellert says, understanding. “You can’t take it back.”

He’s so old. Hunched over, malnourished, white hair hanging around a skeletal face. His cell is cold and empty. 

He’s in pain and Voldemort will just send him to more pain.

“I won’t,” he insists, but his hand raises without his control, wand pointing. “No! Stop!”

But his wand doesn’t listen. The Killing Curse rushes out of it-

Voldemort jerks awake, heart slamming in his chest.

“Fuck!” Gellert is right there, hands on Voldemort’s chest, a worried look on his exhausted face.

He looks much younger than when he was killed, but he’s in just as much pain.

“Don’t you crack now, not when we’re so close,” Gellert whispers.

Voldemort says nothing. It does hurt. Deep inside his chest, in the same place making a Horcrux hurt. A searing, cutting pain.

“Who was it? Baby Potter?” Gellert whispers. “Or is your father finally bothering you?” 

Voldemort pushes him away, because it just hurts more to be comforted by a man he killed.

A man he thinks he loves. 

(-)

Love is a weakness, he always knew, and now he has proof.

Voldemort can’t rest anymore.

There is no more Moody, no more Lily, his father hadn’t made an appearance in what feels like ages. 

No other victim. 

Just Gellert, in Nurmengard. 

How easily, how thoughtlessly Voldemort killed him. 

If I only stopped to think, to talk to him. But no, he killed him, without a second thought, without ever finding out what brightness hid behind that wasted face. What intelligence and endurance and- 

It won’t give him peace. This Hell latches on to something Voldemort finally regrets and it just sends it on a loop on his head, every time he tries to sleep. 

Gellert is stumped; he’s upset Voldemort refuses to tell him what it is that has him so bothered. 

“I don’t understand why you won’t tell me!” he raises his voice, a rare occurrence. 

Voldemort doesn’t look at him, pretending to gather their things so they can venture out again; but his eyes meet Dumbledore’s tired ones and- 

There’s a spark in those blue eyes, something that looks awfully like understanding. 

Voldemort doesn’t even care anymore, what weakness Dumbledore sees in him. 

It’s been so long, they’re constantly together in this miserable place, with the same goal- Voldemort is so exhausted, he can’t even summon enough energy to properly hate Dumbledore. 

(-)

Lack of sleep is terrible. He hates it. The way he can feel his own veins collapsing, his own cells dying, neurons firing weakly in an attempt to keep him on his feet; he hates the dark spots crowding his vision, the thick pressure of pain gripping his temples, the apathy in his muscles. He wants to pace, wants to grind his teeth, wants to scream, just to feel some sort of heightened agency, some sort of power.

(-)

They go by the cross, where they last saw Herpo the Foul.

He is still pinned to it, but only by one human hand, connected to one human shoulder and half a human face. The rest of him is turned to Shadow; smokey, black and almost immaterial. 

Gellert breathes in, sharply. 

Herpo will become a Shadow, has almost turned into one completely. He’s still screaming, like he was when they first found him, only now he has no mouth, and his screams sound like the wails of the wraiths. 

Voldemort accepts this. “It makes sense they were once human,” he says. 

Dumbledore nods. “And they’ll aways have something human in them. Even the dead want company; even when they become this.”

What an old sap. 

When they find refuge, Voldemort carefully searches Gellert’s body for the black stripes that were left on it by shadows. 

He has eleven- four on his back, five on his shoulder, one on his left tight, and one on his jaw. 

Six of those he acquired while interfering with the Shadows trying to hunt Voldemort. 

No more. He can’t let the Shadows touch Gellert again, not when he knows what would happen if every piece of his body will be touched, turned cold and black. 

He doesn’t say a word, but Gellert smiles at him. “I’d reign over them all, if they turn me. They’ll do what I tell them.” 

“Shut up,” Voldemort snarls at him, in no mood for jokes. 

(-)

“We’re going for the Cloak,” Voldemort says, studying the maps. They aren’t so far from the Potter house. 

It seems so long ago that he and Gellert stumbled on it. They have so many more maps now, but no trace of a third nest. 

And Gellert is diminishing, getting frailer and frailer, all under Voldemort’s impotent gaze; Dumbledore hasn’t spoken in a long while; once he even fell asleep while they were walking out in the open. 

Voldemort wanted the wand, he wanted it dearly. Power.  

But he has to compromise. It makes no sense to ignore the Potter house, especially since they’re relatively close. 

“Are you sure, liebling?” Gellert asks, searching Voldemort’s face. 

No. He isn’t. He still doesn’t trust. He has to have a Hallow in his hand before the others. 

Yet he doesn’t know how much longer Gellert can endure this place. How long before he fades away or gets turned into a-

But if I take the Cloak, who will get the wand? Voldemort suspects the Elder Wand will work just as it did on Earth. And to hand that kind of power to either Albus or Gellert….

Terrifying. 

But Gellert looks ill, frail- Voldemort can’t delay anymore. 

(-)

“How do we ensure he gets out?” Dumbledore asks Gellert, as they plan the break in.

They’re both invigorated now that Voldemort finally decided to stop looking for Hogwarts. 

Dumbledore even offered to play bait this time, and Gellert will be the one protecting him. He’ll scare the wraiths away with fire- if he can conjure fire- giving Voldemort a very small window of opportunity to get inside the house, while the Shadows go for Dumbledore. But they’ll return, and they’ll trap Voldemort inside. 

“I have a theory. I don’t think I will have any issues getting out,” Voldemort says.

Dumbledore and Gellert say nothing, so he knows they have the same theory.

(-)

It’s eerie. Stepping inside that house- 

Voldemort forgot many things from his life, forgets more and more the longer he spends in Hell, but this he remembers quite clearly. 

When he heads for the stairs, he half expects to see James Potter’s body protecting them- 

There’s nothing there, just rotting wood that threatens to collapse under Voldemort’s weight. 

The Shadows shriek outside, desperate. Voldemort never heard them make those noises before. 

They are afraid; they know he’s about to get a Hallow. 

And there it is. In Harry’s nursery.

In his crib, beside a bloodstain blanket. 

It shimmers. 

Voldemort takes the Cloak. It’s not damp. It’s not cold. Not like any clothes in that world.

It feels normal. It feels like something from Earth. It feels alive. 

Voldemort puts it on, and he disappears from view. He feels lighter, like a burden lifts from him. Voldemort breathes and it’s as if this is the first time he’s breathing since he woke up in this place. His chest expands with relief. 

Heart beating wildly, he heads down the stairs to the front door, and he opens it.

It will work.

He steps out. He sees the shadows all around him, pressing against him, but it is not cold. They are in direct contact, but just with the Cloak, not with Voldemort’s body. He feels them through it, but they don’t feel him.

He is truly invisible from Death.

(-)

“I’m going in,” Gellert says, voice almost a growl. 

“How?” Dumbledore has an arm outstretched, presumably to stop Gellert from moving. 

They are at a safe distance from the Potter house, huddled behind the ruins of a restaurant. 

“He’s been there too long. I have to-“

“I’m here,” Voldemort says. 

No one yells. No one makes a noise, but Voldemort can feel their excitement.

“They didn’t see you?”

Voldemort takes the hood off, and his head becomes visible. “No. I had to shoulder my way through them. I touched them, but it’s like a barrier. Nothing penetrates it.”

(-)

Under the Cloak, there are no nightmares. There are no whispers in his ear. Just silence, blessed, precious silence. There is no cold, no vicious wind- 

With the Cloak on, when Voldemort sleeps, there is only rest to be had, hidden from Death and its wraiths and guilt.

(-)

“We can make our way back to the Gaunt shack,” Voldemort traces his fingers over the map, focused. The chair he is sat in is cold and rotting, but he’s used by now to such discomfort. 

They can go back the same way they came or they can try to venture through uncharted land, maybe stumble upon Hogwarts-

Gellert puts his head on Voldemort’s shoulder, from behind. 

They’re in what must have been a nice suburban house, in the master bedroom. 

Dumbledore is downstairs on the couch. 

It would be easy for Voldemort to enter the shack with the Cloak. He could just take the ring. And then when he finds Hogwarts- 

No. He resists temptation. Three hallows, three men. They’ll each take one and unite them together. So they can all escape. 

He doesn’t want Dumbledore to get the wand, that is the worst nightmare. The old goat should get the ring. 

But that means Gellert will have the wand….Voldemort’s heart lurches. 

“Liebling, I’m naked. Forget about those cursed maps.” 

Voldemort sighs. “How is it possible you’re more interested in getting fucked than planning to-” 

Gellert comes around and straddles him before he can finish his sentence. 

“Well, because you fuck me very well. Truly, you are gifted.” 

It’s hard to refuse him; Voldemort’s mind is racing, busy with plans, with worries, but Gellert only seems to smile these days when they’re alone and naked. And Voldemort wants Gellert to smile, to look alive. 

He’d think that the worse one feels, the less sex one should want, but Gellert is not that way. He’s more desperate for intimacy than he’s ever been. 

In a distant part of his mind, Voldemort suspects Gellert thinks they’ll be separated soon, and he simply wants to take advantage of the time they have left. 

“I need you to focus,” Voldemort tells him, trapping Gellert hands between them, to stop him from reaching for Voldemort’s trousers. “You insisted we should give this plan a chance. You convinced me to stay and unite the Hallows together, so I expect you to put some thought into this!” 

“I am focused,” Gellert insists, but he’s only focused on bending his head and licking at Voldemort’s neck. 

(-)

“What do you think?” Voldemort wakes Dumbledore up, shoving the maps in his face. 

Gellert is sleeping fitfully in the bedroom. 

Dumbledore takes long to rise these days and Voldemort is getting incredibly frustrated with them both. 

But at least Dumbledore tries; he’s dead on his feet, in a far worse condition than Gellert, but he still makes an effort to listen to Voldemort’s plans. 

“The shack is very far,” he says and even half dead as he is, he still manages some reproach in his voice. 

Voldemort can hear what he’s not saying. ‘We could have gotten the ring first, if you haven’t been stubborn and dragged us all uselessly around searching for the wand.’

Or maybe it’s all just in Voldemort’s head, after all. 

Impossible to tell. 

“But at least we know where it is,” Dumbledore continues. “I think we should go for it.” 

Voldemort paces around. “Should we turn back on the shortest path?” Even the shortest route would take ages, however. Voldemort gets tired just thinking about it. “Or risk it and go the other way, maybe find Hogwarts?”

Dumbledore rubs his long nose. “What does Gellert say?” 

Voldemort makes an irritated sound. “He doesn’t seem very interested. It’s like he doesn’t care. And he’s the one that insisted I stay with you-” 

Dumbledore gives him a look; that annoying look that says ‘I know more than you do’. 

“What?” Voldemort barks. 

“He doesn’t trust that we can unite them together,” Dumbledore says. “He only wanted you to stay with us because he knew it would be close to impossible for you to get the first Hallow on your own, without one of us distracting the wraiths.” 

Voldemort doesn’t want to hear it. It’s too….complicated, the way it makes him feel, when he thinks about it. 

“It can work. You said it can work.” He sounds desperate, and Voldemort never sounds desperate. 

“I hope it can. It should work. I don’t want you to be the only one to escape, you can imagine.” 

Yes. Dumbledore wouldn’t want that. He’d want to get out himself, and he’d want to take Gellert out. 

Dumbledore’s hate for Voldemort is the only thing that reassures Voldemort the old man has a plan to get them all out.

“It will be easy for you to enter the shack. Or Hogwarts, when we find it,” Dumbledore points out. “With the Cloak, the Shadows don’t see you.” 

Voldemort takes the maps back, folds them carefully. 

“Will you truly be able to let one of us take the wand?” 

“You’re not getting it,” Voldemort snaps, avoiding to think about the other scenario. Gellert with the wand. 

“I know what you think; you don’t trust me. You believe I would only want Gellert out of here. But i wouldn’t leave you behind, either. I would never do that.” 

Voldemort gets in his face. “I was once at your mercy. Long ago.” When he was a boy and he needed help, he needed someone to give him a chance and he’d looked up to his teacher. “Never again. You won’t get the wand.” 

(-)

Using the Cloak out in the open would keep him safe, yes. But it also seems to attract all the Shadows to them. The wraiths are desperately searching for it, and if Voldemort uses it outside, it’s like they can sense it; they don’t see Voldemort, but they can see Gellert and Dumbledore. 

So Voldemort doesn’t use the Cloak when he’s not in a shelter, keeps it safely in a bag strapped to his body. 

They advance slowly, adding new locations to the map. 

“Albus is slowing us down,” Gellert whispers in Voldemort’s neck, in a two-bedroom house. “We could leave him here. There are so many shelters around, he can go from one to another when the houses shrink. He could manage.” 

It’s getting difficult navigating the terrain with Dumbledore barely able to walk. 

“We decided we’ll each get a Hallow. We’re not leaving him.”

Gellert makes a derisive noise. “Remember when you were trying to get rid of him every time we stepped foot outside? What happened to that sentiment?”

The house in the countryside happened. When he goes to sleep, under the safety of the Cloak, Voldemort only dreams about that, now. A nice, safe house. A bright sun. Gellert, looking healthy and cheery.

A new war, with both of them at the head of a glorious army. Nothing would stand in their way.

And to get that, to get Gellert out of hell, Voldemort needs Dumbledore to come along. 

(-)

They find Hogwarts- the castle can’t be seen, not with so many Shadows around it, but the grounds are painfully familiar, even with the withered, brown grass, the naked, bowed down trees, the unnaturally still Black Lake. 

Home, he thinks. 

He steps forward, mesmerised. It’s dead, a mockery of it’s former self, but it’s Hogwarts. 

It looks better than what you left behind, something whispers inside him. It hurts to remember it. 

It hurt, even when he was alive, and he was watching the siege on the school. Every stone that fell of its proud walls felt like a personal loss. And yet he kept at it, did not give the order to stop-

It’s done with, he tells himself. He’ll escape this hell and he’ll personally restore Hogwarts to its former glory. 

“Liebling,” Gellert’s voice pulls him out of his memories. 

“What?”

“Albus is gone.” 

Voldemort turns and- yes. No trace of Dumbledore. 

“That sneaky bastard!” Voldemort snarls. 

He puts on the Cloak and runs toward the castle. 

(-)

He goes past the wraiths with ease. They are more agitated than ever, clinging to the windows, shrieking in despair. Which means Dumbledore is already inside the castle. 

Fucking Dumbledore. 

Once inside, he takes off the Cloak and runs up the stairs, instinctively jumping over steps that he knows have a tendency to be mischievous. It’s pitch black, he can’t even see where he’s going, but this is Hogwarts. He can navigate it with his eyes closed. 

He knocks into Dumbledore on the seventh floor. He hears him before the collision happens- Dumbledore is out of breath, coughing his lungs out- but Voldemort has so much momentum he doesn’t stop in time. 

They both end op on the cold, unforgiving stone. Voldemort quickly pins Dumbledore to the floor, blindly. 

“How did you get in?” he demands. He thinks his knee is on Dumbledore’s chest, but he can’t be sure. 

“I lived in this school for almost a century,” Dumbledore wheezes. “There are many ways inside, only privy to the Headmaster.” 

Voldemort lets out a howl of rage. He can’t believe he forgot how much he hates this meddling old fool- 

Insufferable bastard.

“I know you’d never allow Gellert or myself access to the wand,” Dumbledore says. “I know it! I had to act.” 

You didn’t even give me a chance to let Gellert get it, Voldemort thinks, but doesn’t say it. Dumbledore never gave him a chance to do the right thing, had always operated under the assumption Voldemort will do the worst he can. 

“It’s just us, Tom,” Dumbledore goes on. It makes Voldemort flinch. It’s been so long since Dumbledore said that name. “There is no need to pretend; I know you. You wouldn’t let anyone else get that wand.” 

“Well, now I won’t,” Voldemort hisses, getting up. He waves his hand and a ball of light forms in the air. 

He turns to the gargoyle. “Open,” he demands, and the gargoyle reveals the stairs leading to the Headmaster chambers and office. 

Dumbledore stands, holding his ribs, and limps after him. 

Voldemort goes for the desk, as soon as he enters the room, Dumbledore at his side. All his tiredness from before had faded, filling Dumbledore with energy. 

“Why do you keep all this clutter?” Voldemort snarls, throwing aside several faded looking artefacts. 

The wand is not on the desk. 

It’s not on the shelves. 

Not in the armoire, filled with robes that were once colourful but are now worn down and grey looking. Not on the bed; not under the bed. 

They each search frantically, shoving furniture aside, leaving no corner unchecked. 

It’s not there. 

Their eyes meet- 

Voldemort sprints for the door. 

He’s faster than Dumbledore, and he has the conjured light to aid him, so he arrives first in the library. It must be the place where Dumbledore spent most of his time, beside his office. 

Dumbledore seems to think the same, because eventually he shows up, gasping for breath, and joins in the effort to throw all the books aside, search every nook and cranny. 

It’s not there, either. 

“The Astronomy tower?” Voldemort asks, after what seems like a very long time. He’d never appreciated before how big the library was.

“Maybe?” Dumbledore leans on empty shelves, hands on his knees. 

The tower is where the old man died, after all. Where he lost ownership of the wand. 

Dumbledore trails after him. 

But they’re not in luck. 

After searching around the tower, he gets the potent urge to open one of the windows, where the wraiths are pressed against the glass, and throw Dumbledore to his death, again. 

“Perhaps in the Gryffindor dorms?” 

“You spent much time in the rooms where teenagers slept, Dumbledore?” Voldemort sneers. 

“Do you have better ideas?” Dumbledore snaps back.

(-)

It’s nowhere on the seventh floor. The Room of Requirement doesn’t show up for either of them. 

They move on to the sixth floor, but it’s not there, either.

They take a break after the fifth floor is turned upside down, every classroom carefully looked over. They’re both out of breath. Voldemort feels dizzy, and Dumbledore needs to support himself on walls. 

The wand is in the castle, that is certain, but where? 

Dumbledore seems as bewildered as Voldemort is; but it could be an act. He might very well know where it is but is unwilling to even hint at it with a careless gestures, lest Voldemort gets there faster. 

Because he is faster. Yet Dumbledore trails after him, he never tries to ditch Voldemort. 

Maybe it’s in Dumbledore’s tomb; it’s where Voldemort last took it from, after all. 

But the tomb is outside the nest, so it is unlikely. 

No matter, he’ll check there, too, after they finish with the school. 

They’re on the ground level, and there’s little to check there, just the Great Hall. 

Voldemort plans to head to the kitchens. Maybe it was one of Dumbledore’s favourite places. Maybe he spent many nights there stuffing his face with lemon cakes or lemon drops or whatever sweets he enjoyed. 

“I’m getting the maps. They’re in my office. But I have to sit down for a while,” Dumbledore mutters.

“I don’t need maps! I know this school.”

When they enter the Great Hall, they see Gellert there.

He’s sat on the Headmaster’s imposing chair, his feet propped on the table.

He looks well rested, the idiot, unlike Voldemort and Dumbledore.

A huge grin splits that handsome, if gaunt, face. 

“When did you get in?” Dumbledore asks, frowning.“And how?”

“I am resourceful.” Gellert’s voice is dripping with pleasure. His hand moves to his coat and when it comes out-

“Are you looking for this old thing?” he asks, twirling the Elder Wand between his fingers. “It was right here. On this chair,” Gellert says. “In this… how do you call it? Dining Hall?”

“Great Hall,” Dumbledore corrects. 

“It’s not that great,” Gellert says, looking around. “Maybe I can fix it.” He flicks the wand, the smallest of gestures, and the room comes to life. Every stone shines, clean of dust and grime; the wooden tables and benches are polished, without a scratch. Fire roars to life in every fireplace. The house banners are filled with colour, real colour. It’s been so long since Voldemort saw anything so vibrant. Just like colours used to be, on Earth. 

Voldemort turns around and leaves. 

(-)

He hides, because Gellert has access to his full powers with the Elder Wand. He can easily take the Cloak from Voldemort. He can easily go to the Gaunt shack and take the ring.

Voldemort can’t seek shelter in the Slytherin Common room, which would give him some much needed comfort, because Dumbledore would surely tell Gellert where to find it.

He goes to the Chamber, the place only he can access. It’s dreadful. Flooded, water everywhere. Impossible to stay inside. So he sneaks all the way back to the seventh floor, paranoid that he’ll be attacked, and stops to rest in a Ravenclaw first year dormitory. 

He doesn’t take the Cloak off.

The Clock should hide him, even from the influence of the Elder Wand.

(-)

He was always the most powerful out of everyone around him. It’s jarring not to be so anymore.

Frightening.

Gellert didn’t mind you were more powerful. He didn’t hide from you.

And if Gellert did not fear Lord Voldemort, if he trusted-

No, I can’t. I can’t trust. It’s too dangerous.  

If the first time Voldemort left Gellert, back when Dumbledore joined them, was terrible, it’s twice as bad now. He’s home, or in the corrupted version of his home, but he’s so alone. Cold, even under the Cloak that protects him from coldness and whispers and shadows. 

But it doesn’t protect him from the ache in his chest. He wishes he’d feel safe enough to take the Cloak off. Maybe he’d dream of Lily again, and she’d have an advice for him. 

But no; Lily has long left him alone; he can’t even remember her face. Voldemort resisted any attempt on hell’s behalf to make him feel guilt. Moody is long gone, too. All those dead children. Even his silent, judging father, the last to leave out of all his victims, had eventually disappeared. 

If he takes it off, he’ll only dream of Gellert. Old and defeated, huddled in a corner of his cell; Voldemort will remember the way his body collapsed when the green curse hit him in the chest. 

The only crime he’s committed that brought guilt, sorrow and pain to Voldemort, that made him lose sleep. 

I killed him. I killed him because he wouldn’t tell me where the wand was. I condemned him to this life. 

And now Gellert has the wand. 

Voldemort’s instincts tell him that Gellert would want revenge, and now he’s fully capable of getting it. 

“Your instincts led you astray,” Dumbledore once told him.

In the end, the ache in his chest gets too much to ignore. Voldemort is afraid, because he’s vulnerable and Gellert is powerful again, but he is even more afraid of losing Gellert forever. 

So he goes to look for him, despite his brain doing its best to warn him not to. 

(-)

“Albus, I will hurt you.”

Gellert's voice comes from behind the Great Hall’s double doors. Voldemort stalks closer, hidden by his Cloak. 

“I won’t tell you.” Dumbledore does not sound scared.

What is Gellert plotting? The bastard insisted Voldemort doesn’t hurt Dumbledore, but now he’s ready to do it? For what information?

The wand changed him. Power changed him.

I can’t trust him. He prepares to head back, to find another place to hide-

“Don’t give me that look,” Dumbledore continues. “Just let him lick his wounds in peace, and he’ll come back when he’s ready. If I tell you where the Slytherin Common Room is and you barge in, it won’t make him feel less paranoid. Quite the opposite.”

“No,” Gellert barks. “If he is on his own for too long, he’ll get more paranoid. He’ll stew in his fractured ego and convince himself I’ll trick him or steal his cloak. Just tell me where the snake room is.”

“Slytherin-“

“What a stupid word. Hard to pronounce.” Pacing noises. “What if he left already? He could be halfway to the Gaunt shack.”

Dumbledore sighs. “He won’t leave.”

“If he thinks I want to take his Hallow-“

“This is his home, Gellert. He feels safe here. I bet he needs to feel safe now more than ever. He didn’t leave. If you give me your word you won’t follow me, I will find him and talk some sense into him-“

“Oh, yes. He’ll be much more receptive to you, I’m sure.” Gellert’s voice drips with sarcasm. 

“I’m not a threat to him.”

“Neither am I!”

Gellert sounds so honest, desperate almost, something in Voldemort relaxes entirely. 

“We know that, but he doesn’t. Can’t you stop playing with the wand? Do you have to rub it in my face?”

“Yes, I do.” Gellert snarls. “You took it from me. So I am sure you can suffer me having it again.”

“I don’t appreciate you changing the House banners into Drumstrang ones. If Tom sees it, he’ll throw a fit.”

“His name is Voldemort.”

Voldemort smiles; his heart beats faster.

A deep sigh. “I make an effort to call him that to his face, but I won’t play his stupid game when he’s not around. Voldemort,” he snorts, derisive.

“It is his name. He went by it for decades. The other just for the seven short years he’d been in this school. Stop being petty.”

“It is not pettiness,” Dumbledore argues. 

“Maybe it’s that muggle disease. Alcatraz,” Gellert suggests, full of contempt. “You are part muggle, after all. Maybe you inherited from your mother.”

“I don’t think it’s called Alcatraz,” Dumbledore says, serenely. “Azminer?”

“No. It’s Alcatraz. It means you go all senile and forget recent events.”

“Isn’t that just plain dementia?”

“No. It’s Alcatraz.”

“It’s Azminer, I’m quite sure-“

“Alzheimer,” Voldemort shouts, unable to stand it anymore.

Silence.

“Liebling, come here.” Gellert’s voice sounds warm. Inviting. It finds Voldemort even under the Cloak, makes his blood flow easier in his veins. 

He bites his lip and takes off the Cloak. “It will take me three seconds to reach the Hall. If I find Drumstrang decorations, I shall be terribly displeased.”

“I’m turning them back,” Gellert promises. 

(-)

“This is wrong,” he says, staring at the banners. They only look like the Hogwarts banners if one would be half blind and only saw them once, in passing. “Deeply wrong.”

“I apologise. I forgot how they’re supposed to go.” Gellert smiles wildly from the head table. 

He looks so much better; Voldemort has never seen him so lively, especially not recently. 

Dumbledore is outraged, sat at the Gryffindor table, now under a red and silver banner, with a lioness tearing into a deer.

The Hufflepuff one is gold and bronze, with an otter playfully rolling on its belly.

The Ravenclaw is purple with grey, a hawk ripping into a carcass.

Worst of all, Slytherin is green and gold, with a python squeezing a faceless human.

“What is that?” Voldemort nods to it. 

“It’s a mudblood,” Gellert answers. “Didn’t that Salazar fellow hate mudbloods?”

Voldemort meets Dumbledore equally horrified eyes.

(-)

“You can have it,” Gellert says, holding out the wand. “We’ll trade.” 

It is tempting; the first instinct is to take it- just imagining having that power again- a stick of wood that is all Voldemort ever needed to make everything better, to keep himself safe.

“Your instincts led you astray”, Dumbledore said. 

Voldemort had the Elder Wand- he had his own yew wand- and he is still dead. The power they gave him was an illusion. 

It could be taken away- it can be taken away. 

They are in the Slytherin Common Room. Gellert cleaned it, even charmed the windows to have that greenish light the Great Lake would give in warm spring days. The one Voldemort often spoke about, when they’d each tell stories from their lives, huddled together in one shelter or another. 

The couches and armchairs look just right, look comfortable- Voldemort could pretend he’s in the real Hogwarts. 

Maybe the person that took the hallow is supposed to have it; he doesn’t know the rules. He can’t be sure that trading hallows with Gellert might mean he screws their chance of getting out of there. The small, tiny chance. But it is a chance. 

Trust does not come easy to him; it does not come at all. 

It’s hard to allow Gellert to be more powerful- 

He is, though. Even if Voldemort takes the wand, Gellert will still be stronger. Because he willingly parted with it; because he feels safe, even without it. 

He’s the better man. Not better in that nonsensical way Dumbledore perceives as better. 

Simply...stronger. Less paranoid. Rational. 

“No,” Voldemort says, and it’s terrible, it’s frightening, but it’s also exhilarating. The thrill, the danger, of trusting he made the right choice, far surpasses whatever this Hell had thrown at him so far. 

Gellert searches his face, intently. He waits, just a little, before he puts the wand in his trousers. 

“It’s here, if you ever want it,” he says, simply. He comes closer, takes hold of Voldemort’s jumper. “Have you ever fucked someone in the Common Room?” 

“No. I’m not an exhibitionist.” 

“A crime,” Gellert grins. “A crime to hide that arse of yours underneath robes.” He puts his head on Voldemort’s shoulder. “Gods, if only I’d have known you were here. I avoided Britain, Hogwarts, because I knew Albus could take me in a duel, but if I’d have known Hogwarts held you, liebling...a pup dark wizard; smart, arrogant and full of spikes. Adorable. If I’d have known, I’d have stormed Hogwarts, I’d have taken you; I would have given you all the treasures in the world, all the books you’d have wanted. I’d have found your locket and hung it around your beautiful neck, placed that tiara of yours on your dark, pretty hair. I would have found that stupid sword you go on about, and I’d bring you enemies so you can behead them with it. I’d have served you the finest whiskey from that golden cup. I would have kept you in the finest, most luxurious chambers. Naked, on silk sheets, in castles all over Europe-” 

“I’d have made the worst captive you can imagine,” Voldemort says, trying not to smile. 

“You’d have been willing.” Gellert’s hands work on the buttons on Voldemort’s trousers. 

“Unlikely,” he answers, just as a hand wraps around his half hard cock. “I was a boy, and you were an old man. A relic.” 

Gellert kneels, rubs his face on Voldemort’s cock. “Nonsense. You’d have been smitten with me, with all I could have offered you. I’d have spoiled you rotten.” 

He takes Voldemort into his mouth, sucks and licks, and teases- 

“I was fucking someone, back then. One of my classmates,” Voldemort says. “He was blond, with long, perfect hair.” He wraps his fingers in Gellert’s hair. “He, too, was always trying to give me gold and treasures. He was handsome, rich, with an ancient, powerful name.”

Gellert pulls back, looks up at Voldemort. “See, I was your type. Blond and rich and pure-blooded. How cute, you and that boy of yours; virgins stumbling around broom closets, hiding from Albus and your other teachers, not knowing what to do to each other. I’d have taught you how to take a cock, properly. I’d have had you trembling and coming apart in minutes, liebling. You’d have forgotten all about that boy by the time I made you come for the first time.”

“As you can see, I still remember him, so better make an effort, Gellert.” 

He grabs Gellert’s hair tighter, puts his other hand on his face, thumb prying apart Gellert’s lips. 

He thrusts inside that smart mouth, deep, all the way down Gellert’s throat.

“You would have given me everything I wanted,” he whispers. “And while you would have been busy lusting after me, finding ways to please me, I’d have stolen your entire army from under your nose. And then you’d be the one waiting for me on silk sheets, you’d be the one taking my cock. I might have been a pup,” he spits, only he doesn’t sound insulted, how could he, when his blood is boiling with pleasure? “But I was a dangerous pup. You’d have martyred yourself on my spikes.” 

Gellert moans, sending vibrations all over Voldemort’s cock. 

(-)

“Liebling, nothing can touch me now,” Gellert says, with a cocky smile. Once he’d accused Voldemort of arrogance, but it’s clear he used to be just as arrogant, back when he was young and at his full power. 

“I just want to witness it. Academic interest,” Voldemort lies, staying very close to him. 

The Hogwarts doors unlock, latch after latch springing free. They open with a creak-

Hundreds of shadows wait for them, flailing in the air. 

Gellert steps forward, smiling from ear to ear. He waves the wand in a wide circle, and brings it down, sharply. A bang resonates all around, and a flash of white blinds Voldemort. 

When he can see again, there are no more shadows, black, smoky particles floating in the air, falling to the ground. 

Another wave of shadows rushes forward, and Gellert waves the wand again. 

Again, and again, until no more shadows appear.  

“That was easy,” Gellert says, and he leans into Voldemort, resting his head on his shoulder. 

They know there are more shadows out there, but just seeing how simple it is to destroy them with the wand allows them to breathe easily.

(-)

“No, you said we should only use the Hallows we took-” Gellert protests, when Voldemort tries to cover him with the Cloak, to give him one night of good rest. “That’s why you refused the wand-”

“I am using the Cloak,” Voldemort insists, and it is not easy, but he manages to drape it over both of them. “What does it matter if you’re here, too?” 

Gellert smiles- or at least Voldemort thinks he does, thinks he can feel Gellert’s lips stretching on his neck. They had to really curl around each other to get under the cloak.

“You’re going soft on me, my lord,” he says. 

“I am actually incredibly hard,” Voldemort offers, thrusting his hips into Gellert’s leg.

“Is it the ‘my lord’ that did it?” Gellert asks. He sounds amused, but tired. 

No, it’s just you. 

He doesn’t say it, and he does nothing about his hard cock, lets Gellert drift off to sleep under the protection of the Cloak. 

If Voldemort would have known that protecting someone he cares for would give him the same sense of power he got when he killed someone, perhaps he’d have done it sooner. 

There’s nothing soft about wanting Gellert safe. It’s the opposite. It’s a fierce, overwhelming, primal thing- perhaps the strongest emotion he ever felt. 

And the satisfaction he gets when Gellert sleeps without struggling, when he wakes up looking rested- there is nothing soft about that, either. 

(-)

“No, you’re doing it wrong,” Dumbledore says. “You’re supposed to first transfigure prime matter into-” 

Gellert rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” He waves the wand again, in a complicated pattern, and a sturdy mast forms, silver particles knitting together seamlessly.

“I am a transfiguration master-”

“And I’m a dark lord,” Gellert answers, flicking the wand again. 

“That’s not a qualification,” Dumbledore argues. “It’s an empty title that shows you’re unhinged and prone to slaughter-” 

“One more word and I’ll show you what a dark lord is,” Gellert threatens. 

Dumbledore’s jaw ticks. He comes to sit by Voldemort at the head table. 

“He’s doing it wrong,” he whispers, as they watch Gellert work. “He’s not following Gamp’s law.”

“Let it go,” Voldemort says, between gritted teeth. He’s making an effort not to open his mouth, because Dumbledore is right. Gellert has an….unique technique. 

But it’s a matter of principle. He’d rather get turned into a shadow than side with Dumbledore against Gellert. 

(-)

They could have picked any room; the Hogwarts faculty always had nice, spacious ones, with enormous beds. 

Dumbledore sleeps in his old one, up on the seventh floor. 

But Voldemort likes his old dormitory, so for however long they stayed in Hogwarts, that’s where he and Gellert slept, between vivid green curtains. 

And this will be the last time. As soon as they wake up, they’ll head for the Gaunt shack. 

Time shared under the Cloak, good rest and the ownership of the wand had restored Gellert to an alive looking man. 

They don’t need to worry about wasting candles anymore, not when Gellert can summon them at his will. 

He’s sprawled on the bed, his skin glowing in the golden light. 

Voldemort sits between those long, spread legs. He kisses Gellert’s knee, licks the tendon under it. 

He’s gripping Gellert too tightly, he’s aware, but Voldemort can’t ignore the fact that this might be their last time together. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asks, kissing down the white skin. There are soft, golden hairs all over it. And a black, cold stripe, from where a shadow once grabbed him. 

“Then you will get the Hallows, as we already decided. They are yours, by birthright. Your ancestors created them. Not mine, not Albus’. It’s your bloodline that is worthy.” 

“My father was a muggle,” Voldemort whispers against that black, cold patch of skin. No matter how much he kisses it, it won’t warm up. 

The Elder Wand couldn’t heal them or make them go away.

“I know. And you know I was talking about the Gaunts and the Peverells.” 

Gellert’s cock is hard, straining upwards, dripping with pre-come. A proud, large vein bulges on one side.  

“I don’t want to leave you behind,” Voldemort says, settling better between Gellert’s legs, staring at his cock, because it’s safer to look at than those light eyes. 

“I want our house, in the countryside,” he confesses out loud, for the first time. His chest feels tight, his eyes sting. “I don’t even-” he swallows, past the knot that formed in his throat. “I wouldn’t go to war again, if we can have our house.” 

He thinks of it like a prayer, like maybe someone is listening. Voldemort knows he’s a no-good killer, he won’t deny how greedy and power hungry he is. He doesn’t regret anything he did back on earth; on the contrary, he’s thrilled he made all those choices, because they led him here. Between Gellert’s legs. 

He is aware he’s a terrible man, but he’s willing to sacrifice. He’s ready for it. If he can have Gellert and the sun at the same time, he’ll set anything else aside, even war and power. He’ll try, at least. 

“Liebling,” Gellert whispers and he tries to sit, his hand tries to cup Voldemort’s face-

Voldemort pushes him back down, lowers his head and closes his lips over that gorgeous cock. 

The salty flavour is the only taste Voldemort has known for such a long time. It’s a comfort, a treat, and he thinks it would be so even back on Earth, where other delights would be available. He thinks he’d rather have Gellert in his mouth, the taste of his skin, more than anything else. 

“Gods, but you suck cock so beautifully.” 

I can live with this, Voldemort thinks. He always liked to hear awe in the voice of people witnessing his abilities. They bowed down to him, eyes wide with disbelief, and they said they had never seen such power before, such mastery over magic. 

But if all Voldemort hears again is praise over his cock sucking skills, he will take it. If it means Gellert will come with him, Voldemort can be satisfied with it. 

Stop thinking about it. Stay in the moment. If you end up leaving alone, you’ll regret wasting this because you worried uselessly.  

But just the thought that he might leave alone, that he’ll have only this to think back to and regret- 

It stops him from getting hard. No matter how much he enjoys sucking Gellert, no matter how long he does it, his own cock won’t cooperate. 

He stops when Gellert is close to orgasm. 

A high noise of protest spills from Gellert’s lips when Voldemort draws back, abruptly. 

“Don’t be a tease,” Gellert orders. “Go back to it.” 

Voldemort lies on top of him, supporting his weight on his forearms, on each side of Gellert’s head. 

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, voice rough. 

Gellert is only confused for a second, before his face explodes into delighted surprise. 

He turns them around with ease. Voldemort enjoys to feel his weight above him, the warmth coming from Gellert’s body. 

He even likes the coldness from where the black stripes touch Voldemort’s skin, cooling it. 

Voldemort has black marks, too, but far less of them. Because Gellert was always there, placing himself between Voldemort and the shadows. 

His chest gets even tighter, an immense pressure against his ribs; he closes his eyes to make sure no tear escapes. 

Love is not for the weak. Not at all. Voldemort is the most powerful dark lord in a millennium, and even he can barely bear it. 

If I love him, shouldn’t I be willing to give him the hallows, in case we can’t all get out? 

He tries to imagine it; giving up his Cloak, his only defence in this hell; giving Gellert up, his only comfort.

Facing this world alone- or worse, with Dumbledore- forever. 

No. He can’t imagine it. And yet he knows he loves Gellert. Maybe not enough. 

Clearly not like Gellert loves him. 

“Is it love, if I am selfish?” he asks, as Gellert swirls his tongue over one of Voldemort’s nipples. 

“Love can only be selfish,” comes the answers, whispered against his skin. 

“You’re willing to stay behind, to -” 

“It would make me happy to know you escaped. It would make me happier than if I were the one free, knowing you were trapped here. This is not a selfless gesture, liebling. It’s what I desire.” He kisses lower and lower, going down Voldemort’s chest. “I want you happy. I want you satisfied.” 

He takes Voldemort’s cock in his mouth, and even troubled as Voldemort is, even as concerned, his body still reacts faced with that heat, with that wet tongue.

“I want you to come,” Gellert whispers, a while later, letting go of his cock with an obscene pop. “With me inside you.” 

The elder wand flies to his hand, and Gellert summons lubricant, which is a luxury they never had before. 

It’s far more efficient than spit. Gellert’s finger slides inside Voldemort much easier this way. 

I should have let him have me more often. Voldemort can’t remember why he hadn’t, can’t quite believe it mattered to his pride, such a childish thing, such a stupid thing, to deprive himself of a part of Gellert just so he can…what? 

“I’ve conquered nations,” Gellert whispers, when he pushes into Voldemort, a slow, torturous move. His grey-blue eyes stay glued to where their bodies connect, to where Voldemort’s flesh parts to make way for another person inside him. “I’ve brought down governments, kings and queens. I carved a bloody path through Europe.” His eyes travel up until he meets Voldemort’s own. “But none of it felt as glorious, as earned, as gaining your heart.” 

They are fully joined now, Gellert’s hips snug against Voldemort’s arse. They fit together, a union so holy, so right, that Heaven should open its gates to let them in. It’s beautiful. Voldemort lacks pieces of his soul, essential parts of him he’d discarded with no consideration. But he feels whole, because now he has Gellert’s soul. And Gellert’s soul is far more precious than his own has ever been, even when it’s been complete. 

“I am hopelessly jealous of all your followers that got to pledge their lives to you; that got to wear your mark, to serve you, die for you. I am a proud man, I never kneeled, I never compromised. I never followed, but I would have followed you. I would have made you my just cause. I would have destroyed the world in your name.” 

“I don’t want you to die for me,” Voldemort says, winding his fingers in Gellert’s hair. “I want you to live for me.” 

“I will do that, liebling. If it is in my power, I will do anything you ask of me. But if it is not to be, allow me to give you what I have. My love and my wand.” 

Gellert draws back until he’s almost out of Voldemort, before he thrust back in. 

“If I have to leave alone,” Voldemort says, after a moan is ripped out of him. “Then you must endure here. Until I find a way to get you out. I will find a way.” 

Gellert smiles. His hand cups Voldemort’s face, his thumb presses on Voldemort’s lower lip. 

“How do you want me to fuck you, liebling? Do you want it slow? Rough?” 

Voldemort sucks Gellert’s thumb, licks around it before biting it lightly. 

“I want you to fuck me like you own me,” he answers. 

(-)

“See, it worked, even if I didn’t follow your stupid laws, Albus,” Gellert says, when they sail out of Hogwarts on the transfigured boat, that needs no sea, no wind to carry them through the air. “You don’t need to play by the books to get what you want.”

“That’s how I defeated you in ‘45,” Dumbledore says. “I played by the books and you didn’t.” 

“I’m starting to understand why you always crave to hurt him,” Gellert tells Voldemort, commanding the boat. 

“Only took you five thousand years. Or however old you are.” Voldemort keeps close to the mast, holding on to it. He never liked boats. 

But he’ll learn to suffer them, if they get out. Gellert loves the sea, had told Voldemort of many happy memories he has of sailing with his family, when he was a boy. 

(-)

It’s easy for Gellert to destroy the nest surrounding the Gaunt shack. 

Voldemort goes inside, with Dumbledore, who eyes him warily. 

He hates that house, a reminder of what he came from. Poverty, incest and madness. He can almost see Morfin siting in his armchair. 

The anger, the panic he felt that night; the murders, after he stunned Morfin. 

He shakes his head, to dispel the hazy memories. He can recall the idea of Morfin, the betrayal he felt when he saw his father alive and rich, but he can’t remember his father’s face anymore. 

He knows where the ring is, before Dumbledore can guess it. 

He knows it will be on Morfin’s armchair. 

He walks close to it, and yes- there it is. Ugly, but mine.

“Dumbledore,” he says, fighting with all his instincts to just take it. 

Dumbledore comes over. 

Their eyes meet. 

Dumbledore doesn’t look like the fierce, hateful teacher of the past. He doesn’t look like the indomitable enemy from the wars. 

He is just a man at the end of the rope. 

“Take it,” Voldemort orders.

A watery, obnoxious, proud sort of smile tries to pull at Dumbledore’s lips. But he’s too tired for it. He bends and takes the damn ring. 

(-)

It doesn’t work. 

A part of Voldemort knew it already. It’s not a surprise. There’s no such thing as uniting the Hallows together. 

Gellert isn’t surprised either. 

Dumbledore is, but Voldemort spares him no thought. A weight settles in his stomach, turning it to lead. 

“Give him the ring,” Gellert says, pointing his wand at Dumbledore. It’s fascinating how utterly calm he sounds, how he turns his wand on Dumbledore without any hesitation. 

Voldemort knows that somewhere inside Gellert there is a piece of him that cares for Dumbledore; that missed Dumbledore, in their many years on separation on earth. The same part that even forgave Dumbledore for the Nurmengard imprisonment, that tried to keep him safe from Voldemort in hell. 

But Voldemort has no doubt that if Dumbledore refuses to hand over the ring, Gellert will do unspeakable things to him, things that might defy even Voldemort’s rich imagination. 

Dumbledore must know it, too, because he takes off the ring and holds it out. 

Voldemort breathes in, even if no air reaches his lungs. He feels like he’s suffocating. He takes the ring. 

And then Gellert simply flips the wand in the air, catches it by the pointy end and offers the handle to Voldemort. 

“Leave us,” Voldemort says. His voice sounds distorted to his own ears. His eyes are zoomed in on Gellert’s face, but he thinks Dumbledore obeys him, because he hears footsteps. 

“Don’t cause a scene,” Gellert says, eyes hard, no trace of affection, no trace of smile. Nothing. Voldemort never saw him look so blank. “Take the wand.” 

“Gellert.” But Voldemort doesn’t know what to say after that. 

Gellert steps closer. The wand handle presses into Voldemort’s chest, painfully. 

“I don’t think I can,” Voldemort says, because it’s true. He wants to get out, he craves to be free, but he can’t envision himself turning his back to Gellert and just leaving. 

It’s impossible. 

“You have to,” Gellert says. “You simply have to. You always said you are the strongest; you were right. I don’t have the strength to leave you here. Albus doesn’t have the strength to leave us behind. You do. Don’t disappoint me now.” 

“Gellert.” 

“No. You have to go. I know you, you won’t rest until you find a way to get me out, too. If you don’t go, you are practically condemning me to this hell for eternity.” 

“Really?” Voldemort is incredulous, somewhere behind the pain. “Emotional manipulation?” 

“I’ll push you through this wall, if I have to,” Gellert says. And he can see the wall now, too. He can see the Platform, instead of the Durmstrang boat, after a charm he’d performed. “I’ll shove the wand up your ass, first, though. Just take it.” 

Voldemort moves a hand between them and his fingers close around the wood-

Power surges up his arm. Magic. Pure and strong and real. 

It makes him feel more like himself. 

No. Like your old self. 

Voldemort isn’t the same man anymore. If he were, he’d already be through the wall. As it is, he stands there, looking down at Gellert. 

“Get yourself a tiny apartment, in the most dreary part of London,” Gellert says, and he’s smiling. Somehow he’s smiling, even if it looks nothing like his real smile. “Of course, all London is dreary, so it doesn’t matter which part. Start your research like the bookworm that you are, and eventually you’ll find a solution to our predicament. And when I am out, we can get that nice house in the countryside. Switzerland. Nothing beats Switzerland.” 

How easily Gellert sells his lies, Voldemort thinks. 

Well, I could always lie, too. He deceives people with ease, but Voldemort lied to himself, plenty of times. He lied to himself all throughout the hunt for the Hallows. He knew only one could get out, he knew it would be him, but he allowed himself to cling to the lie that Gellert could come along. It was what was needed to keep him motivated. 

“Alright,” he agrees, and he already feels his heart hardening. He’s losing something, something vital, something that is, perhaps, more valuable than life. 

Gellert smiles again. Voldemort commits his face to memory. Like this, smiling. It’s how he wants to remember him. 

“Good luck, Lord Voldemort.” 

Gellert must know that if he’d called him ‘liebling’, Voldemort wouldn’t have been able to turn his back to him. 

Gellert’s liebling wouldn’t leave him. 

But Lord Voldemort has his priorities straight. Lord Voldemort is the only one that matters. 

Is it worth it, a voice in his head asks. Is it, really? What are you going back to? What was it that you valued about that empty existence? 

He ignores it. 

“Don’t fuck Dumbledore,” he says, because he’s a selfish, jealous, terrible creature and he doesn’t want Gellert to touch and smile at anyone that isn’t him. Even if he’s the one leaving.

Gellert laughs, the most beautiful sound Voldemort has ever heard, in life and in death. 

He turns, walks the few steps that separate him from the platform. 

I can bend magic to my will; I always pushed its limits. I can find a way to get Gellert out, he lies to himself. 

His chest hurts. His cheeks are wet with tears. He’s not even ashamed that he’s crying, something he hadn’t done since he was a toddler. 

The ring is on his finger, and he holds the wand and the cloak with the same hand. 

His vision is blurry, pain wrecks his body, something is yelling in protest in his head, but Voldemort presses the hand with the Hallows against the wall. 

Let me out, he thinks and he pushes, hard. 

Nothing happens. The wall remains just as solid. 

Thank God, he thinks, and collapses to the ground. 

(-)

Gellert is terribly upset. Voldemort never saw him lose his temper in this manner. He swears in multiple languages, his face is twisted with rage. He’s resorted to muggle violence, kicking the wall. 

Voldemort isn’t exactly happy, but he’s relieved. He did all he could to get free, he gave it his best shot, there’s nothing to look back on and regret. He did everything right, but it was simply not to be. 

Dumbledore appears, probably to see what the ruckus is about. 

He looks shocked when his eyes land on Voldemort. 

“Didn’t work,” Voldemort says. “You were wrong.” And at least there is that, proving the old fool wrong. 

“Give me the wand,” Gellert demands, suddenly in Voldemort’s face. He looks quite deranged. “I’m going to destroy everything-” 

“No,” Voldemort says, simply. “I’m not parting with the wand.” 

How could he? The power it holds is undeniable. It’s so sweet. Voldemort was able to resist it when Gellert offered it, but that was only because he’d forgotten how good it felt to have a wand. He’s never going to let it go. It means safety in this dark place. In their forever home. 

Voldemort is the most powerful of the three; he’s the most accomplished. The wand should stay with him. 

Gellert does not want to leave the Platform. He wants Voldemort to try leaving through other walls, even suggests the rusty, abandoned railways.

He’s not thinking straight. Voldemort tries to talk some sense into him, to no use. 

“I had to,” he says, defensive, when Dumbledore gives him a nasty look, after Voldemort uses the wand to bewitch Gellert into a deep, if rather sudden, sleep. “He wouldn’t calm down.” 

“I don’t understand,” Dumbledore keeps saying. “It should have worked. At least for you. The Master of Death should open that passage.” 

“You aren’t as omniscient as you pretend, Dumbledore,” Voldemort says, though it’s a bit hard to talk, since he’s carrying Gellert in his arms. 

He could just levitate him, but he’s feeling generous. Like a gentlemen in one of those trashy novels Cole liked to read. 

“You don’t look angry,” Dumbledore observes, when they’re back on their small boat. 

“What’s the point in anger? What would that solve?” 

Dumbledore looks even more confused. “There would be no point, but you were always prone to fall prey to senseless rage.” 

“Dumbledore, I don’t need you anymore,” Voldemort tells him, and that, too, brings relief. There is nothing Dumbledore brings to the table now. 

Voldemort can torture him, he can tie him to a tree, he can simply leave him behind. He can do whatever he wants to. 

“You are at my mercy,” he says, gleeful. “So I’d pick my words carefully, if I were you.” 

Dumbledore doesn’t look much frightened. He merely looks resigned. “I’m surprised I’m in this boat, actually,” he comments. 

“Be surprised in silence, will you?” Voldemort places Gellert gently on the wooden floor. 

He stirs the boat into the air. 

(-)

Every other magic he performed without the wand had eventually faded away. 

He’d cast a cleaning spell, and it will only hold for a while. He’d cast a warming charm, but he’d need to recast it often. 

That is not the case for the wand. Everything he does, is permanent, if he so wishes. 

Merry flames dance in every single fireplace they encounter. Every shelter they find, Voldemort turns it spotless. He can conjure bathtubs and fill them with warm water. 

The only thing not to last- the shelters. They still shrink, forcing them out, no matter what charms and curses Voldemort places on them. 

But their adventures from one shelter to another aren’t dangerous anymore. Not as dangerous, at least.  

They have warmth, they have fire, and they are clean. 

Voldemort adapts fast to the idea this is forever. It’s a better life than he had at the Orphanage; a better existence than he led in Albania as a disembodied spirit. 

He realises Gellert was telling the truth, all the way in the beginning when he assured Voldemort this hell is better than the half a century he spent in a cell. 

It’s harder for Dumbledore, who never knew hardship in his long life. 

The constant hunger and thirst don’t bother Gellert and Voldemort as much, but it takes a toll on Dumbledore.

If there’s something Voldemort craves from Earth, the only comforts he still thinks of- the sun and the smell of fresh grass.  

But he has Gellert, and he’s worth more than anything. 

They share the cloak between them. Voldemort even allows Dumbledore to use it, now and then, when the old man seems ready to walk headfirst into a shadow, after so many nights spent screaming in agony. 

Even Voldemort can’t go long sleeping without it. He always covers himself and Gellert with it, when they sleep. When they are awake, he allows Dumbledore to use it, to get a break from his guilt and rest a little. 

(-)

Voldemort wants to test what the stone does. 

It’s what he expected. It can control the shadows. They are dead things, all of them, and the stone controls the dead, makes them obedient. Voldemort suspects that if used long enough, it can even turn the shadows back into humans. 

But he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t care. Not when he has the wand to obliterate any shadow they come across. 

(-)

Voldemort is no longer gleeful at Dumbledore’s fate, but he feels no pity, either. 

When Dumbledore feels well enough to join them in a living room, or a kitchen, or any other comfortable place they find in their shelters, it’s even interesting to talk to him, if the mood strikes Voldemort. 

With time, Dumbledore loses that preachy tone of his. There is no mention of morality. They speak of magical theories, of ancient tomes they all read and they discuss their merits, academically, without getting a sermon on ‘right and wrong’ from Dumbledore.

They even discuss tactics from the war, go over what Dumbledore did right and what Voldemort and Gellert did wrong.

It doesn’t infuriate him; not anymore. It doesn’t matter.

All that matters is Gellert; this hell is punishment, but it also brought Voldemort the most satisfaction in his entire existence.

There is nothing better than having Gellert beside him.

It’s worth more than the power and armies he had on Earth; it’s worth more than any war, tastes better than any food.

It is the knowledge he is not alone.

He owns Gellert’s body, his soul; Gellert belongs to Voldemort, the most precious thing he ever had, but there is something so fulfilling in knowing Gellert owns him, too.

There is no reticency to kiss or hold Gellert, even when Dumbledore is present.

He doesn’t fear Dumbledore will take Gellert from him anymore.

(-)

“What would you have done with me, if we’d have all escaped?” Voldemort asks, a year or seven or maybe a hundred later, when Dumbledore has become Albus, just another man to share hell with, another distraction from the dead and cold world outside. “What was your plan to keep me from going on a killing spree?”

Albus sighs, not taking his eyes off his knitting project.

Voldemort often conjures yarn from him, and sharp needles.

Voldemort wears the jumpers, because Albus always makes them beautiful for him. Black and dark green, nothing like the silly patterns and colours he uses for Gellert and himself.

“You wouldn’t have been able to hurt anyone. Not you, and not Gellert. I would have never allowed either of you out into the world. One more dangerous than the other.” 

Voldemort smiles. Honest Albus is such a relief. “So, what was the plan?”

Albus makes another complicated loop- Voldemort thinks he’s designing a dragon pattern- before he looks up to meet his gaze.

“We’d have still been dead, Tom.” Albus calls him 'Tom' when Gellert isn’t around.  “We’d be out of this, but dead. Only yours and Gellert’s arrogance would make you think you can escape death. You can’t. We are all dead and we’d have stayed this way, only in a kinder place.”

“You should have said something long ago. It would have felt like less of a failure if we’d have known we couldn’t have gotten what we wanted, anyway.”

Albus shrugs. “I figured if you keep hope alive, maybe you’ll still try to find an option to get us out of here.” He looks back to his needles. “But you haven’t.”

“No,” Voldemort agrees, looking at where he knows Gellert is sleeping, on the couch, under the Invisibility Cloak. “I have all I need.” 

Right after the Hallows failed, Voldemort did want to think or try to find other ways for them to get out. It was so long ago, but he thinks he remembers thinking about other options back then. Yet why risk Gellert, why expose him to the world outside, when he could have him safe and warm inside?

(-)

“What the- Liebling, come here!” Gellert exclaims, looking out the window. 

Voldemort strolls to Gellert. Albus goes to another window. He gasps, loudly, and that noise prompts Voldemort to move faster. 

He reaches Gellert and looks out-

A boy comes through the trees.

Head held high. Brave. Selfless.

He’s holding a wand.

A holy wand, Voldemort can recognise it even from that distance. 

The shadows that have gathered around the woods shrink back, unsure, even if the boy makes no move to use the wand. 

“Oh, no,” Albus says, filled with anguish. 

“Oh, no,” Voldemort says, annoyed. 

They both race down the stairs, Gellert after them, asking what’s the matter. 

They open the door just as the boy climbs the stone steps.

“Finally,” Harry Potter says. He’s looking at Albus. “I’ve been looking for you all over.”

(-)

“Harry,” Albus sounds so soft. “Oh, Harry! You shouldn’t- my dear boy, you shouldn’t-”

Potter shrugs. “You didn’t think I’d leave you here, did you? You don’t deserve this place.”

“Potter?” Gellert asks Voldemort, looking at the boy with an unimpressed expression. 

“Of course it’s Potter.” Voldemort sneers. “I’m just lucky that way.”

He didn’t exactly forget about Potter- it isn’t quite so. He just hadn’t thought of him in such a long time. But seeing him walking through those dead trees, brave and young and stupid, reminded Voldemort of things he’d rather leave in the past. 

Those green eyes turn on him, hateful. Defiant, as they’ve always been. 

“Do you know what Dumbledore did for you?” Potter demands, jaw twitching.

“Harry,” Albus interrupts him, going closer, placing a hand on one of the boy’s bony shoulders. 

“We should take this inside,“ Gellert suggests. “Unless you enjoy the background music.” 

The wails shriek in the distance, more agitated than they’ve been in a while. 

How did Potter get past them, exactly? And why does he have his wand?

“And you!” Potter spits at Gellert, moving his gaze to him.

“What did I do?” Gellert is amused.

“Harry, don’t- it doesn’t matter anymore,” Albus says. 

“He wasn’t supposed to be here,” Potter says, nodding at Albus. “When he died, he went to Heaven.”

“What?”

“Oh yes,” Potter continues. “He went to Heaven, but he found out what happened to you two undeserving bastards, so he crossed the worlds, even if it’s not allowed. He left Heaven to come to this. Just because you couldn’t bear to know they’re here, no?” Potter asks Albus. 

That would explain why Albus knew so much more about this place then Voldemort and Gellert did. 

Why even if he died before Voldemort, they found him in hell much later than they should have, with his bright, shiny robe. 

“Why are you here, Harry?” Albus points out that Potter just did the very same thing, crossing worlds.

“Because he, too, is a self-sacrificial idiot,” Voldemort answers.

“Very funny-“

“I mean- why are you dead?”

Potter runs a hand through his unruly hair. “Well, we all must die eventually.”

“But so young?” Gellert inquires.

Indeed, Potter looks exactly like Voldemort last saw him.

“Oh.” Those green eyes widen in surprise, checking his body out. “Oh, I just look like I did when I united the Hallows. But I was ninety-eight when I passed peacefully, in my sleep.”

“We’ve been here eighty years?”

“Time doesn’t exist in death,” Potter answers. “Obviously,” he adds, glancing at Voldemort’s face.

“And when I came through, when I reached the other side and everyone was there- I asked for you.” He tells Dumbledore. “And they told me what you did. That you gave up your eternal rest to come here for these two pieces of shit.”

“You lost to this?” Gellert asks Voldemort, nose scrunched up in distaste as he looks at Potter. 

“Of course not,” Voldemort is quick to say, embarrassed when he looks at Potter. “I lost to Albus.” It sounds better that way. 

Potter’s jaw twitches. “I am so sorry, Professor. I can’t imagine being stuck with-” 

“You shouldn’t be here, Harry. You really shouldn’t be here,” Albus cuts over him. 

“Nor should you.” Potter smiles, and he might claim he’s lived a full life back on Earth, but he looks like an obnoxious child, with red cheeks and bright eyes. He’s bursting with health, the pest. All clean and seemingly well rested, a very sharp contrast to Albus standing right beside him.

“In any case, it’s cute you brought those together-” he nods at Voldemort’s wand and the ring on his finger, “but I am the Master of Death. The Hallows chose me. Only I can command this place. So-” He waves his wand and a door appears out of thin air, right there beside Potter. He opens it. 

Voldemort can only see fog.

“Come, Professor,” Potter says. “I don’t like this place, I’d rather not linger.”

Albus doesn’t move. “I’m not leaving without-”

Potter rolls his eyes. “I know. Grindelwald can come, too-” 

“And Tom,” Albus adds. “I’m sorry Harry, I won’t come without him.” 

“Voldemort,” Gellert hisses. “For the thousandth time, his name is Voldemort, you senile -”

“I think we can forgive it, just this time,” Voldemort says, placing a hand on Gellert’s shoulder. 

He’s not shocked Albus won’t leave him behind; it’s Albus. Voldemort looks at that door, with trepidation. 

He’s gotten used to this world. He learned how to control it and he has power here. He grips the Elder Wand tighter. 

Wherever you are going will be better. He looks at Gellert. It will be better for him, too. 

It’s just that Voldemort is too old for new adventures. And he knows there must be a great deal of people on the other side. Hordes of them. Voldemort hates people; and most likely he’d killed a significant number of them. He can’t remember it anymore, not names or specific events, but he knows he’s killed a lot. He can vaguely recall a young woman with red hair- Potter’s mother, but he forgot her name. 

And then there will be the people Gellert killed. 

We will not be popular. 

Potter sighs. “Well, come on, then.” 

No one moves. Albus is looking at Gellert. Voldemort is looking at him, too. 

Gellert meets his eyes. 

“What do you want, liebling?” He touches Voldemort’s hand, the one without the wand. 

“Oh, God, you can’t be serious,” Potter mutters, voice filled with disgust. “Are they ….a thing?” 

Voldemort hesitates; maybe it would be better if they stay put. Here no one can come between them. Who knows what adversities wait on the other side? 

“It is so much better there,” Albus says. “It’s-” he looks desperate. “You can’t even imagine-”

“I can’t believe you have to convince him to leave this place!” Potter says, outraged. 

Gellert wants it; Voldemort can see it in his eyes; there is hope that hasn’t been there in… he can’t remember. 

Voldemort nods. “Alright.” 

Gellert smiles up at him, his face slack with relief. 

“Lead the way, boy,” Gellert says, turning to smirk at Potter. 

“I’m almost one hundred years old-” 

“That makes me at least two hundred,” Gellert retorts. 

“More like seven hundred,” Voldemort says, and Gellert’s laugh will never fail to relax something inside his chest. 

“An inside joke,” Albus explains to Potter, who just shakes his head. 

“Whatever. Come on.” He turns and goes through the open door. 

Voldemort looks around. Darkness. The red moon; the cold, and the whispers that never stop when he’s not under the Cloak. The Shadows in the distance. They’re coming closer now that Potter left. 

A world Voldemort conquered. 

I can conquer another. He takes Gellert’s hand and they go through the door, Albus at their side. 

(-)

They’re in a misty, large….space. As soon as he steps inside it, Voldemort can’t believe he hesitated, just moments before. 

The door shuts and disappears behind them and- Voldemort swallows. He’s out. 

He can’t process it, not yet. He thinks his hands are shaking. 

We escaped. He forgot they needed to get out of that terrible place; he only remembers it now. 

Albus sags in relief and he laughs. Laughs. Voldemort has never truly heard him laugh up to that point. 

Through the fog, at his right, he sees another hell. A more traditional version of it; a place for regular sinners and no-good doers that didn’t chase the Hallows.

It looks….industrial. 

Grey and dusty. Factories, office buildings, thick smog hanging in the air. It looks busy, overcrowded. 

It looks a bit like London or any other major muggle city Voldemort had seen. 

I can work with that, he thinks. Anything looks better than what he left behind. Of course, there are people there, so many of them, but he’d take people over shadows. Voldemort can deal with them, he can establish dominance in no time.

He feels like himself; he feels like Lord Voldemort. He can remember, think clearly. 

Most likely all his Death Eaters are already there. His army. 

I had an army. Gellert had one, too. 

Excitement creeps in. 

“Liebling,“ Gellert whispers, and Voldemort looks away, head turned to whatever Gellert is staring at. 

Ah.

Must be Heaven. 

Green. From their bird eye view, Voldemort can see mountains, hills, great rivers and lakes. Colourful trees, ripe with fruit. Houses scattered all throughout. 

He can hear children laughing. 

Voldemort shudders. Children. 

But he’d put up with children, because what is most fascinating, what captures his attention-

It’s sunny in Heaven. The sky is blue, with fluffy, white clouds. 

Albus left that, to come to the Hallows Hell. And he thought Albus was smart, he had even grown to appreciate conversation with him.

What an idiot. 

“You can’t come in,” Potter says, staring at Voldemort. “No one in Heaven wants you around. You don’t deserve it.” 

Of course. “I don’t want them, either,” he says, defiant. 

Potter snorts. “Haven’t changed, I see.” 

Voldemort doesn’t look at him. He feasts his eyes on sunshine. It almost blinds him, his eyes hurt, but he persists. He knows he won’t see it for long. He just wants to remember it, wherever he is sent. 

“You can’t go to Hell, either. The people there are bad, but not as bad as to deserve you. You’d make chaos. You’d disrupt the way of things.” 

Voldemort can’t argue with that. He most definitely would. He’d find whoever is in charge and dethrone them. 

“You can’t even go to the In-Between. There are people there that are working to better themselves and maybe ascend to Heaven. You’d ruin it for them, I’m sure. You’d tempt them to evil.” 

“Harry,” Albus speaks. “Maybe, if he’s given time-” 

“No. He had time. You spent a long time in the Hallows land, and he did not repent. He did not change.”

“So, where am I to go?” Voldemort demands. 

Potter sighs again. He looks put upon. 

“Where you can’t hurt anyone. A place made just for you.” 

I always knew I was special, Voldemort thinks. Potter waves his hand and another portal appears. 

It’s- Voldemort expected something gruesome. Not as terrible as what they just escaped from, but grim, indeed. 

Maybe it is, who knows what waits for him, but there’s light there, too. 

It is a far smaller place than the other vast, immense worlds. 

But there’s light. It’s not sunny, more like clouded, but there is still light. There are trees. He thinks he can see a river. 

He looks back to Potter, surprised. It seems too good to be true. 

But Potter is done with him, and he looks happy for it. 

“You,” he says, addressing Gellert. “You repented for your crimes. Even before your death, but especially after. You improved. You were willing to sacrifice everything to get others-” a glare at Voldemort “-to safety. There are still many not happy with you, but you are allowed in.” Potter stands a little away, better exposing the entrance to Heaven. 

Heaven must be pleasant. But it can’t bring anything to Voldemort. He is already in his own heaven, because he doesn’t fear. 

He knows that Gellert will chose him. Voldemort knows that he is loved, and it is something that cannot be taken from him. 

Indeed, Gellert shakes his head, comes closer to Voldemort. 

“I’ll go with him.” He levels Potter with quite an evil look. “And I’d like to see who’d try to stop me.” 

“Have at it,” Potter says, disgusted. “Let’s go, Professor. Everyone is waiting to see you. You were deeply missed. And I want you to meet my eldest son. He heard so much about you.” 

Albus opens his mouth, but Voldemort doesn’t want to hear it. 

I put up with him for far too long. 

He nods at Albus, a short incline of his head, and he turns his back to the two soft, preachy morons. 

Potter is, somehow, even worse than Dumbledore. 

“Thank you, Albus,” Gellert says. “I…thank you. If you see my mother, tell her -tell her something nice.”

Gellert often talked about his mother, about the goulash she made for him, the best in the world, apparently; he often expressed how terrible he felt that he just abandoned his parents, broke their hearts in his quest for power. 

Voldemort cannot relate. But he’d listened to Gellert, enraptured, and it feels like he knows the woman, too, after so many stories. 

Especially as Voldemort forgot more and more people from his own life. He replaced them with Gellert’s people. 

But he’s starting to remember now. Lily. Lily was her name, the girl with the fiery hair. 

Say hello to your mother from me, Potter. But his conversations with Lily, the peace they reached, had only happened in Voldemort’s head. Potter wouldn’t understand it. He’d take it as an insult and possibly throw him back to Hallows Hells. 

Gellert takes his hand. “Shall we?” 

(-)

It’s bright. The sun is covered by grey clouds, but some rays still reach Gellert’s golden hair. Voldemort never realised how blond he was, what a beautiful colour. 

He breathes and the air is clean. 

The grass is green, and alive. It smells like...well, like grass. 

Another jail. You are still dead. 

Gellert laughs, a boyish, joyful, beautiful sound. 

It might be a cage, but Voldemort has never felt freer. 

The hell flashes behind his eyelids. He closes his eyes and he sees it- the darkness, the cold, the shadows. The constant wind and whispers. 

Gellert looking frailer and frailer. 

The vast, unending world filled with nothing but terror. 

Voldemort opens his eyes, in the bright day, feels the clean air and only then he realises how terrible hell was. 

He’s gotten so used to it, he survived it, but it was horrifying. 

He falls to his knees, overwhelmed and an anguished sound rips from his throat as he touches the grass that feels real and fresh, sinks his fingers into earth.

He screams, letting all the fear and terror he tried to deny feeling come out of him. 

“Liebling,” Gellert whispers, kneeling at his side, holding him. 

There’s time in this place, as the sun moves above the clouds, lowers into the horizon, and Voldemort is still on the ground, shaking with relief in Gellert’s arms. 

When he calms, when the sun is down, but a silver moon rises, bright and full, surrounded by thousand of stars, he realises he’d never in his life or death felt as happy. 

(-)

They don’t sleep; they’re tired, and Voldemort can feel how exhausted he is only now that he can afford to be exhausted- but they are both worried they’ll wake up in hell. They worry the sun won’t come up again. 

They don’t speak, just hold onto each other, learning how to exist without whispers and winds. 

It does get chilly, but it’s nothing compared to what they left behind. It’s nothing they can’t keep at bay, when curled into each other. 

And then the sun rises, slowly, without any clouds this time, casting the most beautiful orange light over the sky.

Voldemort falls asleep. He doesn’t dream, even if he has no cloak. 

The wand is gone, too, and so is the ring.

(-)

Gellert looks so much better when he wakes. Voldemort woke before him, listened to his soft breathing, looked at his face, features lax, no torment in sight. 

They smile at each other. 

“And now?” Voldemort asks, standing. 

Gellert laughs, looking up at him. “I am content to simply lie here forever. But that’s not you, liebling, is it?” 

“No. I want shelter.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, an axe appears out of thin air, falls with a thump at his feet. A box filled with nails and rope falls beside it.

They both blink at it. 

“I want to know what deity, in their right mind, would give you a weapon,” Gellert says, after some seconds. 

Voldemort picks the axe; it’s heavy. 

“What, I’m supposed to build a shelter?”

“We’re not the good people, to get everything easily,” Gellert says, still on the ground. “We’ll have to work for it.” 

“I am a hard worker,” Voldemort says. 

There is no magic there, they discover. None at all. 

Voldemort doesn’t even care. 

He doesn’t need it. There are no threats around.

He has more than he ever hoped he will get.

Gellert and the sun.

(-)

They can drink. The water from the river is clean and cold and it quenches their thirst. 

Gellert finds berries, exploring the area as Voldemort struggles to cut trees. 

And that first berry, that explosion of sweetness in his mouth-

“I thought you don’t like sweet things,” Gellert says, smirking. 

(-)

He hadn’t realised how bored he was, not until he’s busy all the time. 

Building a house takes time. Especially when one has no idea how to go about it. 

“You lived with muggles,” Gellert says, frustrated when their first shelter collapses. “They build houses without magic.”

“Not all muggles build their houses,” Voldemort explains. 

There is rain in this place sometimes, and it does get uncomfortable when they have nothing to shelter them from it, but they both enjoy rain.

It’s not something they thought they’d experience again. 

There seem to be seasons, and Voldemort thinks they arrived in summer, when the leaves start to change colour after a while. 

“Beautiful,” Gellert declares, and Voldemort agrees. They spend the entire day taking in the nature around them. 

(-)

When the first snow falls, their cabin almost looks like it was built by someone that knew what they were doing. 

It’s not much, but it’s theirs, and it keeps them dry and warm. 

The nightmares return. But they’re not quite like the ones in the Hallow Hell. They’re not induced, there’s no involvement from a deity. 

Just regular ones, he supposes, though he can’t be sure. He’s never had nightmares before he died; or if he had them, he can no longer remember them. 

Voldemort’s nightmares are about Hell. He dreams that they’re back there, he dreams the Shadows got him, or worse, they got Gellert. 

He dreams that he’s alone. 

It’s far worse than dreaming about his victims. He never cared about those.

In one of those nightmares he even gets upset when the shadows drag Albus away. 

But nightmares dissipate quickly when he wakes up safe, in his house, with Gellert beside him, with fresh air when he gets out, and a peaceful sky above him. 

Gellert says he still has nightmares of the people he killed, but much less frequently. 

And when he does, he can simply stay in bed and nap, to catch up on sleep. 

It’s no problem if he feels badly and tired during the day. It’s not like they need to be quick and sharp and run from one shelter to another. 

They have nowhere to go. 

And once, long before, that thought would have filled Voldemort with dread. But after hell, after running and running and running- staying in one place is …well, heaven. 

It’s his home. 

He’s never had a true home, before. 

(-)

Gellert’s magic returns to him, in what seems to be a beautiful spring day, while they are gardening. 

“I’m sure yours will come back, soon,” Gellert says, sympathetic. 

Voldemort knows it never will. That’s his punishment. He knows he got off much easier than he was originally supposed to. He forced his way into this wonderful place, aided by Potter, at Albus’ instances, but he was not supposed to be there.

He does not regret a single thing he did, he feels no pity for whatever lives he destroyed. Even his nightmares are all about himself, what he almost lost. 

If he’d be given a chance to go back to Earth, he’d be Lord Voldemort again. If they’d send people over in this new world, he’d rule over them. He’d do it all again, in a heartbeat. He’d be thrice as vicious as he was. The only difference is that he’d have Gellert with him. He fantasies aloud of what he’d do, if he would have the chance. 

So he will never get his magic back. But the joke is on whoever decided on this punishment. 

“I have magic,” he says, taking a strawberry and biting into it, the sweet flavour still novel and exquisite even if it’s been a while since he’s had fruit at his disposal. “I have you.” 

Gellert is his, and whatever Gellert has, belongs to Voldemort. 

Everything is easier with magic- the maintenance of the house, the fires, the food. Gellert can transfigure a simple leaf into anything they might want, any luxury imaginable. What difference does it make if it comes from Gellert instead of himself? 

He has no need of his own magic. Even if a threat were to appear in that place, Voldemort is protected. He has Gellert, who might be a changed man, but if he felt Voldemort was in danger, he’d resort to slaughter in a heartbeat. 

It’s even sweeter, being without magic, without what he thought was the worthiest thing about him, the only thing that people could possibly want him for, and yet Gellert still adores him, even when Voldemort is basically a muggle. 

Voldemort won; he feels victorious. He has what he never achieved back on Earth, or in the Hallows Hell. 

He has a home, made in his taste. He feels safe. He is loved. 

And he has strawberries.