Albus thought that the persistence of his heart would have diminished by now. A war-battered ship, acquiescent to drift along placid waters until it would inevitably be pulled under. But no, he’d underestimated how very brazen the thing could be, even now, despite how common sense implored anything else of it.
A shift had occurred. When exactly, he couldn’t quite say. Only knew that the answer simultaneously amounted to too soon and too late. Time was defiant; linear only when abstraction was most desired.
The universe likely fancied itself funny.
He conceded that purchasing the overpriced Omnioculars may have been an error when he replayed Harry’s beaming smile yet again. Never did Albus see him happier than when he was above ground, breeze rushing through the rebellious mess on his head and a broom between his legs. The sight of him like this was fresh spring air in his lungs, stark against the impending autumn.
Ronald was batting at Hermione’s arm as soon as their friend flew into the arena, most akin to an overly-enthused parent at their child's big game. Albus could only imagine he’d be miffed to notice Molly mirroring the action down the row; Arthur seemly well acquainted with the assault on his own arm.
Still, it warmed Albus, the nature of the trio’s friendship; forged in fire and as unyielding as steel. It was unlike anything he’d experienced first hand, his own friendships constructed by mere half measures, skin deep and more often than not, fictitious in nature. Elphias came closest, in youthful abundance when he felt as though he could share his most sacred thoughts and find easy rapport in turn.
He did, for a time, but those thoughts soon became too weighty to part with, like a pile of splintered bones racking up in the darkest recesses of his heart—bound to pierce both he and the receiver if dared to be vocalized.
And what a wretched turn his thoughts had taken as of late indeed.
Albus didn’t need the number on Harry’s robes to track the blur of him speeding through the arena. It was so clear by the angle of his rigid back, leaning forward just so as he picked up speed. The raven’s nest pinned back by wind and the clutch of lean muscle pressed around his broom. Oh, and the flushed slope of his exposed throat, bobbing ever so slightly after dodging a bludger.
He was beautiful in an inescapable sort of way. Like the sun peaking over the horizon or the sound of crickets at dawn. Something that one couldn’t help but stop and marvel at, evidenced by the roaring crowds chanting his name.
He had to wonder If Harry had yet gotten used to the sound, but then unbidden was the image of a shy, humble smile, and he thought not.
Albus had to grip his seat when Harry dipped low, broom close to vertical before careening upward at the last second in his vie for the snitch. He trusted in him without doubt, in his athletic prowess, his intelligence, his experience borne wisdom to make such abrupt maneuvers. Still, outside forces had a terrible habit of interfering with Harry at any given opportunity.
The sight of him, thirteen and limp, falling from the clouds like the life had already been taken out of his body would haunt Albus forever. He didn’t know when he’d last been so frightened—
—that wasn’t true. He knew precisely when it was that he last felt that heart-pausing, stomach churning sensation. Couldn’t bear think on it now, for he had dwelled enough for a lifetime.
Albus leaned back in his seat, accepted a licorice wand from Hermione's offering hand and proceeded to gnaw at the end, Omnioculars pressing bruising rings around his eyes.
Harry’s grip on his broom faltered at the shove of the Bulgarian seeker and gasps instantly rang out in unison like a clique of hissing snakes. Albus jolted forward, instantly submerged in a maelstrom of anxiety as Harry slipped, upended and narrowly catching himself by the back of his knees.
The commentator's voice was booming a notch too loud and the box’s occupants were frantically muttering but then, as suddenly as it had happened, Harry swung himself right-side up, adjusting his legs and firmly grasping his broom. He took off in an instant, but Albus knew he was surely lightheaded from the blood rush even if he did not show it.
Murmured relief resounded across the stadium and Albus himself sighed, easing back into his seat. He noticed many audience members turning the knob on their Omnioculars, replaying the gripping moment for a second viewing but Albus refrained, wary of the split-second of robes parting; bare skin above the waistband of trousers flashing before they were rectified.
Yes, it was best he put the device down after all.
The game went on until light became scarce, the score close enough for anticipation to rage tangibly in the humid evening air—electrifying it, like the hair raising buzz before lightning strikes. Festive lights seeped through rowed tents, colors reaching outward along with the roar of laughter and merry conversation.
Albus savored the night’s embrace, grass underfoot and air cool against his face, nearly akin to the damp kiss of ocean breeze. It called on his youth. On late summertime adventures, exploring what little he could while chained to obligation.
That youth was over though, he reminded himself. No matter how his mind so frequently liked to deceive him, inspiring a multitude of rude awakenings when he caught a glimpse of a mirror.
“Professor!”
Albus turned, his heart on a lead, jerked forward at the cadence of the word. A grin, involuntary, lifted his face.
“Hello Harry, fantastic broomwork today,” Albus immediately complimented, blood coaxed warm at the sight of Harry rushing toward him, Quidditch robes abandoned for muggle denims and a cotton tee.
Most in Harry’s position would have casted such apparel aside by now and fully adopted their fashions. But then, Harry was certainly not most.
Harry reached him, face flushed and hair wild. “Thank you! I—uh—I’m glad you came.” His eyes danced over Albus for a moment then to the empty space around him.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
That earned him a shy smile, so like those adorned when Harry was a young boy, wary of strangers but so helplessly receptive to kindness.
“Did you like your seat? I know the Weasleys are a bit enthusiastic, I hope they didn’t tire you out.”
Albus tilted his head at that. “I enjoyed their enthusiasm, you deserve such devoted cheerleaders.”
He wondered when he’d given the impression that he didn’t. Perhaps he was perceived to be so frail that a few hours of excitement was enough to have him keeling over.
“You won’t be joining for drinks? I’m told that George smuggled the contents of a pub into their tent,” Harry’s tone was amused but his eyes were too burdened to pass as such.
Albus could only wonder what ailed him, to have such a gaze on the evening of his big game; the cheering echo of his name still reverberating through the night.
“As exciting as that sounds, I do think I’d prefer a stroll through the grounds before heading off for bed.”
Harry wetted his lips and Albus didn’t allow his eyes to stray.
“Perhaps I could join you, sir? It’s been awhile since we caught up,” Harry said, a certain eagerness brimming in his tone.
If he were a stronger man, he would have denied him.
“I would love the company.”
They walked for some time, silent in all but their footsteps and the blaring volume of Harry’s glances his way. Albus didn’t look back, instead spent an unwarranted amount of concentration on the path ahead of them. Before long the campgrounds were behind them, festivities a mere buzz of sound in the distance.
Albus lifted a hand, forming a ball of pure light on his fingertips before flicking it ahead to guide their way. It floated beyond them, warm in tone like fire, bringing clarity to their moonlit surroundings.
“That’s impressive,” Harry noted at his side.
Pride was something he immediately snuffed out in the face of praise, flung so frequently in his direction that he scarcely ever gave it a second thought. With Harry though, predictably, it was a less simple matter.
“It’s only a lighting charm, slightly altered to suit our needs,” he replied, unable to stop himself from glancing to the side to see how the light reflected off of Harry’s profile.
It made him stark. Angular. Casted deep shadows over his eyelids, his cupids bow, beneath his lower lip. Then Harry looked over at him, tilting his chin up to meet his eyes and he was half shadowed and half illuminated like some baroque painting. A paradox of dark and light.
Albus evened his breath, rather faint at the head.
“Altered and cast wandlessly and wordlessly,” Harry corrected, amusement playing at his lips, “I can’t think of another person alive who could manage that so effortlessly.”
“You could,” he said matter-of-factly.
Harry looked at him oddly, humor oh so sweet in his eyes. “I barely manage simple wordless casting on a good day, you know that.”
He then came to realize that they had ceased walking and stood stationary, facing each other on their imaginary path. Albus wondered if the light played on his own face as it did Harry’s; if he too was fractured into light and dark down the middle.
“Only because you don’t venture to advance your abilities. With a little time and effort you could conjure a thousand of these by the mere will of your mind.”
There it was again, that shy smile toying at his lips, so small and so very precious. A desire struck him: to ply him with enough compliments to keep that expression on his face at all hours.
“Maybe if I had you to instruct me,” Harry said, less conceding and more placating, like he still didn’t believe it true.
“I could,” he offered, although he shouldn’t, “if you so wished.”
Harry’s eyes danced over his, mouth slightly parted and it took every fiber of his being to resist looking inward. To sate his curiosity as he had time and time again. Harry’s mind was a thing of wonder, dappled in all shades of innocence and frustration, all haphazardly encased in that goodness that was uniquely Harry.
Albus refrained from doing so since the dawn after Tom’s final death, excusing that final peek with necessity to assure that malignant fissure was truly gone. He didn’t intend to see his discontent. His listlessness, like a ship unmoored.
He could only wonder, restlessly, if they still plagued him.
“I’d think the last thing you’d want to do is teach,” Harry said, prompting elaboration—just as he always had.
So reticent, Albus had been with him. It frustrated Harry, he knew, and he so loathed to upset him. Selfishly though, he’d rather these small upsets than risk Harry seeing too much. It would wound him irrevocably to see anything but that fond look in Harry’s eyes peering back at him.
“You’ve always been the exception to any rule, Harry.”
A simple truth to make up for his cowardice. Only, it was unsatisfactory, apparent by the falter of Harry’s lips and the drifting of his gaze. Harry audibly exhaled and nodded to the imaginary path ahead of them.
“Shall we continue on?”
Continue they did, wandering through the grassy moors with nothing but instinct as their compass. That, and the north star, glittering above their heads with a brightness that rivaled the colored lights at camp.
It was all very reminiscent of their time together collecting horcruxes. The single minded focus that charged them. The ease at which they traveled together, like they’d done it a million times over.
Only, Harry’s footsteps were heavier than typical, and he very pointedly did not look Albus’ way for what seemed like miles.
Of course it was then that Albus was stopped in his tracks. It was enough for Harry to peer back at him when he failed to take another step forward.
Embarrassment wasn’t an emotion he frequented, but it simmered now despite his efforts to smother it.
“Sir?”
Futilely, Albus tugged at his leg, lips pursing at the resistance.
“It appears that my shoes are no match for Mother Earth,” Albus lightly noted, peering down at where the heel of his boot disappeared into wet mud.
Harry’s eyes followed to where overgrowth nearly masked the wetland at Albus’ side.
Not a moment passed before he was stalking towards him, quidditch boots far more equipped for the sticky ground than Albus’ own fashionable choice. Albus was intending to grab his wand and free himself with a quick wave, but Harry’s approach had him too curious to move a muscle.
Harry was crouched before him in a blink, fingers sinking into mud and peat until they had a firm hold around the bottom of Albus’ shoe. Albus could do nothing but stare down aimlessly at a nest of raven locks as Harry carefully jerked it up, revealing violet dyed leather mottled with filth.
Albus’ hand came down on Harry’s shoulder for balance when he propped his dirty boot on his knee and began wiping away mud and specks of moss—with his bare hands.
Breathlessness snuck upon him.
“Oh, Harry, you needn’t—”
It was when Harry began wiping the pointed tip with the inside of his wrist that Albus caught him by the upper arm, halting his movements.
Harry glanced up at him curiously.
“Harry, that is hardly necessary,” Albus managed to say, delicately removing his boot from his knee and stepping aside the mud that trapped him.
His hand slid down to Harry’s elbow, coaxing him up and fetching his wand from his sleeve.
“They’re your favorite,” Harry said, eyes dancing between his.
Albus was momentarily stumped. “Yes they are. How did you know?”
Harry was standing tall, steady on his feet and entirely unneeding of Albus’ steadying hand on his arm. Logic couldn’t reason it, so his fingers slipped away, closing instead around the skirt of his robes, lightly tugging upward to assure the hem wasn’t becoming caked with mud.
Harry hesitated. “You wear them most often, don’t you?”
Albus could only stare at him for a moment, mind whirling before he managed to set it back on track. He nodded slowly. “You’re very observant, Harry.”
Albus proceeded to swish his wand, ridding Harry’s trousers and hands of mud, narrowly resisting the urge to take them in hand and assure nothing remained. He did the same to his favorite boots, restoring them to their perfect violet before stepping carefully away from the mud.
He stared at the edge of Harry’s wild curls for a moment, wetting his dry lips and grasping for composure. Briefly, he glanced up at the north star, then to the ball of conjured light that mimicked it. Their camp was merely a blip of dim light in the distance.
“I do believe that was enough frolicking into bogs for the evening, perhaps we should head back?” Albus neatly suggested, tucking his wand away into his sleeve.
Harry took a long moment to respond. “I think that would be best.”
Albus stood there as Harry trekked ahead, his conjured light hurrying after him, all but beckoning him forward. He briefly tightened his fingers around the skirt of his robes, peering on for just a moment longer.
Harry glanced back, silently questioning, but Albus merely smiled, promptly following his lead.
The snitch was swiftly caught by Harry in a handful of minutes the next morning. His demeanor was wild and free and the instantaneous celebrations mimicked those of a dark lord’s defeat.
Albus slipped away as Harry dismounted his broom into a crowd of cheering fans and sent his congratulations via post when he arrived home.
He did not receive a reply.
The clock mocked him. The mirror—charmed with a mimicry of sentience—dished out compliments in sight of his sagging features. Time’s servants seemed to be waiting in every nook and cranny of Albus’ existence.
Harry hadn’t contacted him in a fortnight and a day, his calendar was so helpful to remind him.
He was tasked with reminding himself that this was a good thing. A reminder which fell flat when he received a letter from an owl with wings blacker than night. He was momentarily curious until he read his own name haphazardly scrawled across the envelope. Curiosity turned to ash and he traced cramped letters and bled ink.
From that ash was something born anew.
He treated the owl to sausage and eggs and the rising sun painted its plumage electric blue. Albus wondered if they were Harry’s. If he’d purposefully selected a bird so different from his fallen friend that innocence and purity had inadvertently been traded for death and power.
Harry’s enclosed letter was brief and concluded with a simple request.
Albus had trouble denying him anything.
Harry stood on his doorstep, hair slicked to his head and clothing clinging to him like glue. He stared at Albus with a bit of a startle when he opened the door, wet trails marking his glasses. Albus could only imagine it distorted his vision.
“Oh, Harry,” Albus uttered before stepping aside and ushering him in.
Harry was compliant as Albus led him to the fireplace, sparing only a brief glance at the trail of wet he made behind him. He was quiet, perhaps oddly so as Albus performed a drying and warming charm on him, returning his hair to its perfectly untidy state.
“Storm took you by surprise, I presume?” Albus said, if only to break the silence, just managing to keep his hands to himself instead of fluffing them through the freshly dried locks. “I apologize, we could have avoided this ordeal if I hadn’t neglected to get my fireplace connected to the floo network.”
Harry blinked and looked at his shoes, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I should have carried an umbrella.”
“There’s a spell for that, you know.”
Harry huffed quietly and shook his head again, eyes skirting over Albus’, brimming with something soft.
“No, I didn’t know.”
Harry glanced around then, eying the cluttered shelves and worn armchairs. “It’s a nice place, very cozy,” he said, and Albus followed his gaze to the bowl of sweets on the side table, “very you.”
Albus smiled. “Would you care for some tea?”
He did care for tea. It wasn’t long before they were seated in adjacent armchairs with cups in hand. The drone of rain on the roof was loud In the silence, but louder still was the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional groan of thunder that rattled the crowded shelves.
Albus watched Harry’s profile, the straight line of his jaw and the splay of his lashes as he peered down at the Persian rug.
“What am I to you, Professor?” Harry asked, swiftly melodic and as abrupt as the crack of lightning outside.
Albus could only stare at him for a moment, at his static position, his unwavering attention to the floor. He hesitated.
“I must admit myself a tad confused by your question, Harry,” he replied, setting aside his teacup.
Harry’s head tipped to the side, eyes meeting in an instant and the onslaught nearly had Albus rearing back. It was gunfire to his heart, signaling a race that he felt entirely unequipped for.
“Am I the boy who lived?” Harry blurted, oddly breathless, “am I a simple means to an end? A tool that has outlived its purpose?”
Albus flinched at that, leaning back in his seat and grappling at the armrest. “Harry… don’t tell me you truly think that?”
Harry was on his feet then, the shift of air—cloaked in his scent—hitting Albus like the wind that raged outside; all spun sugar and beaded salt.
“What else am I to think?” Harry questioned, some odd, dark humor playing on his features, “you retire; get some house in the countryside and all but cut yourself off from anyone but your bird. I write to you and if I’m lucky enough to receive a reply it’s so short and cold that I can scarcely even recognize that it’s you who wrote it!”
The rise and fall of Harry's chest was so palpable that it seemed to shift the room with it like a ship on turbulent waters. Albus rose from his seat, ears buzzing with blood and face unfeeling. He held out a hand to placate.
The heat from the fire now seemed to burn where it used to comfort, evidenced by the flushed shade of Harry’s face, creeping all the way down into the neckline of his shirt. Albus meant to speak but Harry was quick to continue.
“Not to mention the game!” Harry threw up a hand, hurtling the reminder right Albus’ way. “Even winning the World Cup isn’t enough to grace me with more than a moment of your time—you were out of there before my feet even touched the ground!”
“Harry, I—”
Harry turned his back to him, hands briefly resting on his hips before one came up and swiped over his head; fingers getting tangled in his curls. Abruptly he pulled it away, taking a few unlucky strands with it. Harry spun to face him again, eyes gleaming with moisture.
“What am I to think, professor?” Harry’s voice was delicate. Reedy. “What am I to think when I’m left with nothing but this… knowledge?”
Albus stilled.
“All I can do is wonder: every word you’ve said to me, every smile—was it all just for the greater good? Did you ever even see—” Harry’s voiced cut off, throat bobbing and jaw flexing.
The swift, steady rise and fall of his chest stuttered. Fell concave then jerked out. Harry’s lower lip disappeared between his teeth before being released, wet and shiny like his eyes.
Albus stepped forward and took him into his arms.
He was too rough, perhaps, too abrupt as Harry’s breath fled out of him when their chests met. There wasn’t a thing he could do though. Nothing but satisfy this all encompassing need to wrap his arms around trembling shoulders, to bury his face and fingers in wild, abused curls and…
“Harry, I’m so very sorry,” Albus uttered, squeezing tightly before pulling back slightly and angling Harry’s face upward to meet his eyes.
The sight of wet eyelashes had his heart lurching and he was helpless but to cup Harry’s cheek; stroke his thumb over a cheekbone to collect fallen moisture. Harry’s eyes fell shut and Albus lightly knocked their foreheads together, feeling Harry’s breath fan over his neck as he pressed his lips to a dark eyebrow.
Albus pulled back to peer at him, his closed eyes, features that could so easily be mistaken for peaceful if it weren’t for bitten lips and furrowed brows. Albus could only think of the very same expression on his face in infancy, the sleeping babe that Hagrid deposited into his arms that autumn night. Exhausted from grief and lacking in tranquility even in sleep. The physical portent of an inflamed scar marking his forehead, assuring that peace would not be easily found.
It was the first of many injustices Albus had inflicted upon him—leaving him there on that doorstep.
“You’ve never been a tool Harry,” Albus murmured and Harry’s eyes opened, all pinks and greens. “You are very dear to me, even if I have failed to treat you as such.”
Harry's tension strung frown wavered and the furrow of his eyebrows bordered on a glare.
“Why…” Harry swallowed, licking his lips, “It feels like fifth year all over again, why—”
“Because I am a fool Harry,” Albus said, a terrible weight turning over in his belly, “Because I thought it was best to give you some distance… after everything you went through. Everything that I put you through.”
Eyebrows furrowed, casting a shadow over eyes that seemed much too sharp. They casted a blade into Albus’ heart, twisted it with unvoiced accusation.
“I never wanted that.”
Limp arms raised up, fingers grasping at the wings of Albus’ robes and tugging with unconcealed restraint. The fabric pulled taut over Albus’ shoulders, the muscles of Harry’s jaw flexed and minutely trembling. Albus had the vague thought that he wanted to tear holes into the intricate embroidery—that he wanted to tear holes intohim.
Oh, how helpless Albus would be to stop him.
“I understand why you did what you did, Professor. You know that I understand even if it…” Harry’s words were bitten off and it was all Albus could do to keep his face from crumbling.
His hands slipped down from raven curls and porcelain skin to smooth at the unwrinkled fabric over Harry’s shoulders, gaze accidentally catching on the shape of his collarbone. He swallowed. His hands burned.
“I know, Harry, you’ve been so very good to me, so very kind even if it’s the last thing—”
“Don’t,” Harry interrupted, mouth pinching, “Just… don’t think like that. Please.”
Albus’ hands fell away entirely, fingers tingling, heart drumming. Shame tightened its knots over his being, as familiar as the backs of his wrinkled hands.
He merely nodded, acknowledgment more than obedience because his thoughts raged a separate storm within the confines of his mind; lightning strikes of self-loathing fizzling against fleshy membrane, desperately seeking to pierce through.
Harry sought his eyes, knuckles pressing into his ribs, grip unrelenting. “Is it so impossible then? For us to be friends?”
The weight of the room bore down on him, on his weathered heart, the inside of his head which now seemed stippled with scorch marks refusing to scar over. Unable to stop himself, Albus reached up and brushed the backs of his knuckles over Harry’s cheek, impossibly fond, entirely tortured—because while Harry may be unaware, his question was not a question at all.
Albus couldn’t deny him, not now.
“No Harry, it’s not impossible.”
Being a friend to Harry was as easy as breathing spring air.
An incomplete statement maybe, but no less true for it. Boundaries fell as others searched for ground. No longer was Albus at risk of showing favoritism. He could inquire as he pleased, banter and praise in turn without the weight of circumstances on his head. Harry was so very receptive. So warm. At times Albus could nearly forget grotesque history in the light of his sweet smile.
Harry was too receptive.
Not to any fault of his own, no, that lay with Albus. Because familiarity blossomed, outgrowing precarious kinship formed in wartime. Yet Albus found himself in another battle altogether, searching for the lost space between them.
Their stations as headmaster and student were dashed, but still they were respectively old and young. Mentor and protégé, no matter how the persistence of the titles had subsided in the dawn of peace.
Manipulator and manipulated.
Boundaries were due. If only he could find them.
“Albus!”
Oh, there was that tug again. A leash fashioned with silk and barbed wire, knotted tight around his heart and pulled vehemently by way of utterance. Albus was his own undoing yet again, insisting upon the use of his name. Yet the reward was as profound as the reprimand as his gaze found Harry’s bright face beyond a throng of cheery red-heads.
Emotion welled too large for himself and seeped to the surface, manifesting on his lips, his eyes. Albus didn’t think he could contain it if he tried. Didn't think he could do a thing but slip past the threshold and join that radiating boy beneath the rafters of a promising evening.
The occasion was Hermione’s birthday, and as simple as tea, finger foods, and conversation was, it could not be mistaken for a modest celebration. The affection was too vast, the laughter too boisterous, the cake too lovingly frosted to pass for anything but grand.
Little room was left for one to fit a word in but Albus was happy to sit in silence, observing the room gorging themselves on port and reminiscence.
Candles were blown out and the party dissipated, taking their cake to the table and partaking in an ill advised duel outside, much to Molly’s discontent. Albus remained in the sitting room, basking in the poorly muffled chaos that raged beyond thin walls. He’d always found an odd peace in this, remaining just beyond the mayhem.
He almost didn't notice the figure covertly slipping in at his back, the shift of air giving them away.
“Mrs Weasley snuck me seconds,” was the whisper behind his ear moments before Harry reached his side and took a seat on his armrest.
Albus attempted to purse his lips but felt only a smile upon them instead. “She spoils you,” he pointed out.
“Rotten,” Harry added, peering down at him with glittering eyes.
“Mm, I don’t quite think that’s possible.”
Harry only seemed to bloom further under excess kindness. Albus knew the reason for that; couldn’t bear to think on it for too long, not when Harry lowered his eyelashes, if only to further prove his point.
Harry dipped into the extra slice, neatly collecting buttercream and strawberries onto his spoon. It was excess, all of the sweetest, savored bits monopolized onto one bite and Albus couldn’t avoid the fondness that it roused in him. The wish to scrape every bit of frosting and sticky berries from the kitchen and deliver it onto Harry’s plate. To stuff him with goodness in every way conceivable.
Yet Harry lifted the spoonful away from his plate and held it not to his own mouth, but out to Albus, a prompting lift to his eyebrows.
“Sharing is caring,” Harry said, entirely unassuming and Albus was instantly befuddled. Flabbergasted.
Enchanted.
Albus swallowed and leaned forward, peering at Harry with an expression he dearly hoped was wry before parting his lips for the awaiting spoon. He had to look away when it slipped into his mouth, cradled on his tongue. Scarcely he remembered to close his lips around it, unwillingly wondering if Harry had used this very same spoon before it slid free, smoothly departing and leaving utter sweetness behind.
It was almost disgusting, the overabundance of sugar, conquering his taste buds instantly. Gooey sweet were the berries, fluffy and dissipating was the frosting, and Harry’s face, awaiting with attentive eyes—
—it was that which truly conquered him. Albus chewed briefly, savoring the burst of fruit between his teeth before he swallowed it all down. Still the flavor clung. Lingered. His heart pumped with a violence in his chest.
“Entirely divine,” Albus said much too honestly, watching an odd smile climb Harry’s features before he huffed and ate a much sloppier bite of his own.
With the very same spoon.
“What’s this I hear about you resigning from your position?” Albus swiftly asked, adjusting his robes as he folded his legs.
Harry swallowed and stared down at his cake. “Practice was due to start again and I just…”
Silence stretched and Harry lifted a shoulder.
“Perhaps you feel as though you accomplished what you wished to at the World Cup?” Albus lended, folding his hands over his stomach.
Harry peered down at him, head tilted and slowly he nodded. “Yeah. I think so. It was exciting and I love Quidditch, I love flying, but I couldn’t see myself doing it all over again.”
“And what do you see yourself doing now?”
Harry fiddled with his spoon, collecting a bite of cake, all spongy and bare of frosting. He held it out to Albus’ lips and again Albus parted them to accept, teeth clicking against the silver as it left his mouth. His face felt oddly hot.
Harry shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not sure, I thought it may be nice to travel—Ron still raves about his trip to Egypt.”
“There used to be a popular tradition called the Grand Tour. After completing their schooling students would take a year to travel the world; learn new magics and engage with foreign cultures,” Albus suggested after a moment.
“Did you take the Grand Tour?”
Albus smiled, but it felt much too precarious. “No, I had plans to go with my old friend Elphias but it coincided with my mother’s untimely death. Family duties befell me in her place and I was unable to travel.”
A look of understanding took over Harry’s features then, lips pulling into frown. “Your sister…”
“Yes, my sister,” he said, pointedly ignoring the clench of his chest.
Harry looked back down at his plate, dividing the small remainder into two before shoveling one into his mouth. He chewed silently for a moment and Albus’ eyes caught on his bobbing throat when he swallowed.
“Perhaps we could take our own grand tour—together.”
Albus froze and it was a fortunate thing that Harry’s eyes remained stubbornly pinned to the plate because he wasn’t quite sure what was visible on his features.
Wonder, most likely.
“That sounds absolutely marvelous, Harry.”
The last bite of cake was then spooned into his mouth.
It was thrillingly impulsive. Half-heartedly packing bags and slipping out the door like youths with no mind for tomorrows. An expedited port key later and they touched unfamiliar ground. Albus lent Harry a hand when he landed in a heap on the dirt; thought maybe he’d let him keep it if he so desired.
Albus had to wonder as they paved a path from Indonesia to Brazil and Thailand then Greece, if time could truly be as arbitrary as their route.
It certainly seemed that way. He’d been certain that the era of adventure had passed for him; that his place was to observe the frivolity of youth with no more than nostalgia. Yet there he was, over a century in age and but a boy within, entirely inflamed by new sights and smells—by the other boy by his side.
The spectacles, the elusive magic of the wandering sorcerers were all terribly exciting, but beyond the novelty of new were the evenings spent in whatever abode they managed to house themselves in for the night. More often than not they were small and wanting, a bed or two short and dingy in a way that may have been lavish many years prior; the very price of their spontaneity.
Albus didn’t mind the drab lodgings, though. He enjoyed his comforts as much as the next, but there was a particular charm in the lack of them. A wayward thrill.
Harry didn’t blink twice at it.
“Today was brilliant—do you think that bloke was telling the truth?”
Albus fluffed his pillow and placed a cushioning charm on their paper thin mattress. He peered at Harry as he summoned a hairbrush from his bag.
“About Mount Olympus previously being a magical city? I don’t find it particularly hard to believe. Muggles have often mythologized our kind throughout history.”
Harry fell onto his side of the bed and peered up at Albus over his pillow. “Do you think that the Greek gods were witches and wizards?”
Albus hummed. “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” he replied noncommittally, running the brush through his hair only to stop at a stubborn knot.
Harry huffed at his lack of engagement, sitting up only to steal the brush from his fingers. Albus inhaled deeply as bristles dragged down the crown of his head to the arch of his back.
“You’re like a cat, you only indulge me when it suits you,” Harry lightly chided, closing his fingers around a handful to gently untangle a knotted patch.
Albus tried to hold back a smile even though Harry could not see his face. “I indulge you plenty,” he argued without heat.
Harry might have shook his head or mouthed something at his back for all he knew, but the next few moments continued with just the noise of bristles gliding through his hair and the creak of the bed when Harry shifted closer; the inside of his thigh touching his hip.
Albus felt terribly warm.
“If I am a cat then what are you? A puppy?” He prompted, if only to break the silence.
A rather strangled noise sounded behind him. “A puppy?” Harry exclaimed, “that’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me!”
A laugh tumbled free from Albus’ lips, belly tightening with untamed amusement. “Is it truly?”
A purposeful tug on a lock and a displeased huff of breath over his head were his response. Goosebumps crawled up Albus’ skin.
“If anything I’m a lion—or a dragon,” Harry corrected, running his fingers across his scalp to collect more hair as he dragged the brush down.
Albus hummed, smoothing a hand over the hem of his nightshirt and silently mending a moth hole upon notice. “If you say so, dear.”
That earned him another tug.
His hair was soon free of tangles and as smooth as fine silk thanks to Harry’s efforts. Albus shifted to put the brush away but Harry leaned against his back and hooked his chin over his shoulder. The very action was electricity to his bloodstream, striking him still.
A hand reached around him and threaded through the base of his beard.
“Do you brush this?” Harry wondered, pressing his cheek into the curve of shoulder and neck.
Albus carefully exhaled. “When necessary,” he said.
Necessary it was deemed by Harry when he crawled around Albus to face him, bringing the brush to the cloaked line of his jaw. The downward stroke of bristles was static-like in sound, the wiry hair more stubborn than that on his head. Harry tilted his head, gaze tracking the motions of the brush.
“I wish I could grow one like this,” he admitted after a moment, eyes as elusive as they were focused.
“There are potions to aid in hair growth,” Albus informed, muscles tensing when the bristles came in contact with his ribs.
Something hesitant played on Harry’s lips. “It would probably be as big of a wreck as the mess on my head.”
Albus tried to imagine it: a bird’s nest to match on his face, secreting away his sharp jaw, his single dimple. He reached out and lightly cuffed Harry on the chin with the edge of his finger. It would clash maybe, with the boyish youth of his features.
It would make him look older.
“And I would adore it just as much as I do that hair,” he voiced with a small smile.
Harry’s eyes met his for a moment, as if to suss out any falsity, before flitting away back to his beard.
“You’ve been growing this out, haven’t you?” Albus asked and reached out to brush away a stray lock of hair—now reaching past the bridge of Harry’s nose.
“Maybe.”
“It suits you well,” Albus complimented at the hesitance.
Harry shifted in place, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks and skin flushed. Always so painfully beautiful in the face of praise; painful because of what drove this reaction. His unfamiliarity with it when the giver was without ulterior motive.
“Thanks,” Harry muttered under his breath, running his fingers through Albus’ beard once more before pulling back and handing him the brush.
Albus put away his things as Harry got under the covers, only the soft hiss of the bedsheets sounding in the small room. He turned out the lights and joined him, keeping to his own portion of the mattress.
A heavy gaze burned into the side of his face as he pulled his hair out from under himself and settled on his back. He did not meet it, no, he was always very careful to avoid looking Harry’s way after the lights went out. Was filled only with unwanted imaginings instead, of skin pale from moonlight and inky hair making wild shapes against the pillowcase.
Yes, it was best not to look his way at all.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” Harry wondered, his voice naught but a whisper.
The sound of him was like a scattering of electricity on his skin. Tangibly charged. Shocking. He peered at the ceiling.
“Perhaps we ought to explore Mount Olympus ourselves to sate your curiosity.”
The burning of Harry’s gaze increased tenfold and Albus could only imagine it was the fiery warmth of his smile.
Too happy he was to be scalded.
Fawkes visited them at dawn on one of their many days spent in Giza, plumage candy bright and talons closed around a hefty stack of mail. Albus greeted him with a fond muttering of his name, letting him in through the window along with the cool morning breeze.
In he glided, depositing the post on the kitchen counter before perching on the back of a chair, wings narrowly tucking in before they knocked over breakfast.
“As graceful as ever, my friend,” Albus noted and reached out to caress the top of his head.
Out came a bowl from the cabinet to land softly on the table, berries from their meal rising up only to subsequently pile into the small dish. A bit much, no doubt, but Albus believed he deserved the treat after the long travel. Fawkes seemed pleased, no matter, quickly leaning down to close a blueberry in his beak.
A soft chuckle escaped him and Harry stirred from his bed, a sleepy hum sounding across the room.
“Harry, darling, we have a visitor,” Albus softly called to him, glancing back only to avert his eyes at the flash of stretching flesh, unveiled by slipping covers.
Albus pinned his gaze forward, swallowing and pointedly ignoring the warmth that coiled in the pit of his stomach. By accident he met one of Fawkes' yellow eyes and found himself rather chided by his knowing stare.
“Oh is that Fawkes?” Harry’s sleepy voice queried behind him paired with the shift of fabric and padding footsteps.
“Indeed it is, doesn’t he look just lively today?” Albus managed as Harry slipped around him.
“Yes he does!” Harry agreed, reaching a questioning hand out to the bird before he was met with an approving bump from his head.
Harry scratched at Fawkes’ chin and down the thick plumage of his neck. Fawkes leaned into the pets before nosing into his bowl for another berry.
“He’s always so warm,” Harry said, glancing over at Albus.
A great many thoughts sprouted in Albus’ mind at that statement, but he settled on a safe one to voice aloud.
“It is said that their feathers can burn to the touch—luckily for us Fawkes welcomes our affections enough to restrain himself.”
Harry looked rather shocked at this, peering back at Fawkes with a considering glance. At his interest Albus continued on.
“He does seem particularly warm today. I can only wonder if it’s due to our location. Phoenixes are native to these parts, he could have hatched near here for all I know."
Harry left Fawkes to his meal undisturbed, peering at Albus with a tilt to his head.
“I always imagined that you hatched him yourself,” he admitted, curiosity glimmering in his eyes.
Albus smiled. “It may be fairer to say that it was he who hatched me. Fawkes was entirely grown when I met him.”
That curiosity was only inflamed at his words, and as Harry’s mouth parted Albus gestured to the table. “Please, sit and have your fill before breakfast goes cold.”
The press of Harry's lips told him that any ruse had been entirely seen through, yet Harry acquiesced anyway. Taking a seat, Harry filled his plate with a soft ‘thank you’ and Albus moved to do the same.
He didn’t quite know if he was capable of explaining to him that Fawkes came to him like a comet in a starless night. That he’d been broken and cowardly, as useful as rubbish discarded on the street. In the dusk of one tragedy and in the dawn of a new one when his most needed friend reached out to him.
No, that wasn't true. No doubt he could explain, but whether he could manage the repercussions was another matter altogether.
Already he had edged too close to being in the grips of Harry’s disdain by the fault of his own actions. That feeling, that sensation of failure was one that he couldn’t bear repeating.
They ate in general silence and guilt gnawed at Albus for his lack of candor and that reserved expression on Harry’s face. He reached for his mail to distract himself and divided it in two, handing half to Harry.
“Fawkes has met your owl, it seems,” Albus lightly noted as Harry hesitantly accepted the letters.
They spent the next few minutes silently reading to themselves and Albus pretended he didn’t notice Harry sneaking Fawkes his diced melon.
“Mrs Weasley wants to know if we’ll be home for Christmas,” Harry mumbled, folding up one letter to open the next.
Albus’ eyes paused their motions and he hesitated for a moment too long.
“I suppose it would be wise to return before the year is up.”
Wise on the basis of what, he asked himself. Wise for whom?
Albus met Harry’s gaze across the table, found them reflective from the rising sun, and so desperately he shouldered the urge to peek within. Fawkes ruffled his feathers in his peripheral and began to groom himself.
Harry wetted his lips. “Yes, I guess it would be wise,” he replied, voice too neutral to be anything such and looked back down at his letter.
“Or we could travel longer—there’s nothing to say our adventure must end there,” Albus added, his tone barely matching Harry’s faux neutrality.
Harry’s eyes reached the top edge of his parchment, and Albus waited, anticipation in his belly, but they did not venture further.
“No, you’re right. Everyone will wonder if we’ve lost our minds if we stay gone any longer.”
Albus swallowed down his disappointment and nodded softly. “Indeed,” he assented.
Time appeared so very linear then, at that moment.
Fawkes stayed until noon at which he departed with a chirp and a burst of flame, leaving behind nothing but opened letters and a single red feather, fluttering down like ash.
Albus delicately plucked it from the air and felt it imbue warmth into his fingers as he placed it in Harry’s untamed curls, just behind his ear. It earned him a soft, flustered look and he drank in the sight like a glass of water after trekking through the desert outside.
Oh and the color paired so lovely with those kind, green eyes.
“It’s odd isn’t it?”
Albus peered down, adjusting his grip on the parasol when he noticed the sun beaming down on Harry’s sweat slicked forehead.
“The artwork?” Albus wondered, following Harry’s stare to the booth selling stained glass pieces depicting all sorts of suggestive scenes.
Harry blinked and shook his head, a wry smile on his lips as he glanced up at Albus. “No—well, yes, but I meant the tour. It just seemed a bit… invasive didn’t it? Gawking at the tomb like that?”
“A bit like snooping through someone’s home while they’re away, isn’t it?”
A vendor selling souvenirs was incessantly calling out to them on their right, but Albus merely placed a hand over Harry’s back, gently urging him on.
“Exactly! They held death so sacred, didn’t they? I don’t imagine they’d approve,” Harry added, stepping closer to Albus when a chattering crowd came passing.
Albus leaned down so that his words wouldn’t be lost to the noise. “I suppose that brings us to the old question of whether they have the mind to approve or disapprove wherever they are now." After a moment he added, “I do hope I’m not concerning myself with my corporeal remains when I move on.”
Harry peered at him with a quiet intensity that was a tad out of place on the sunny, lively afternoon, and before Albus could dwell on whether he’d upset him, Harry looked away, abruptly pointing at a stand ahead.
“What do you think?” Harry asked and Albus was left with no option but to follow his direction to a small food truck where tourists lined up for icy treats.
“I think it sounds absolutely sublime.”
They stood in line for an inordinate amount of time but that was neither here nor there when Albus quite productively spent the wait sending sneaky tickling hexes Harry’s way. Harry’s glares were entirely unconvincing between spouts of poorly muffled laughter and Albus was happy to play the ignorant fool when curious strangers glanced their way.
“You’re relentless,” Harry hissed under his breath when a young woman gave him a strange look and left the line.
Albus blinked innocently.
Finally they were up. Albus requested a single scoop of pistachio and when Harry asked for the same in cherry, he was quick to butt in.
“Two large scoops of cherry, he means—with sprinkles,” Albus smoothly corrected, pointedly not looking Harry’s way.
Albus quickly paid and again did not look Harry’s way when he was handed his cherry cone with a playfully stern order to “Thank your grandfather for his generosity”.
Albus strolled on, twirling the parasol in one hand and bringing his cone to his mouth with the other, deeply aware of the burning of his ears.
They ate their ice cream in companionable silence, occasionally pointing out one thing or another, the awkward moment seemingly forgotten. He should have known better though when he absently met Harry’s eyes and found them glittering with mischief.
Before he could voice his question, Harry stepped close and pressed his sticky lips to the corner of his mouth. It lasted a mere breath of a moment, and as he pulled back he fixed Albus with a coy grin.
“Thank you for the generosity, grandpa,” Harry uttered as sugary sweet as his kiss before stepping back and carrying on their stroll as if nothing had occurred at all.
Heart battering away at his ribs, Albus had the vague thought that the desert heat must be getting to him as he belatedly followed; ice cream melting down his fingers.
They arrived home on the twenty-fourth of December, trunks near bursting with souvenirs where they lay shrunken in pockets. A peculiar silence had clung to them since the previous evening, a sort of mourning that neither put voice to.
It was heaviest then, after Albus lent Harry a hand following his stumbled landing and they were left standing adjacent to each other. Just staring.
Albus offered a smile.
Harry’s gaze dropped to it with an unwarranted amount of concentration before his chest fell and he nodded, ever so slightly. He offered a smile of his own, yet it didn’t reach his eyes.
“See you soon?” Albus queried; a reassurance, for whom he wasn’t sure.
Harry blinked. Nodded again, firmly this time. “Soon,” he said.
There was snow on the ground outside the Burrow. Thick blankets of white, ankle-deep and leeching the warmth from his toes the instant he arrived. Albus stared up at the home; the light that glowed from windows and the flash of merry inhabitants within.
Briefly, he pondered the repercussions of returning home before his presence was noticed.
Too great, undoubtedly.
Albus crouched down with worn knees and sunk his hand into the snow, fingers closing, condensing, stinging at the burn of ice on bare skin.
A flash of smaller hands—grabbing handfuls before allowing it to slip through their fingers like sand—emerged from the dark recesses of his mind. The muddied hem of a dress and a giggle like chimes, shockingly free of burden, was its backdrop.
To this day, he could feel the abrupt chill of a snowball hitting the back of his head; the betrayed glee that engulfed him like light.
Albus raised his hand, snow clumping into pieces and falling free from his grasp as he hesitantly touched the back of his head. His fingers crept through the curtain of his hair and he shut his eyes, exhaling at the damp chill against his scalp.
Hinges creaked like a jagged scream, and Albus’ eyes opened, finding a flood of light reaching out the walkway. Molly’s silhouette marked the doorway, hands on hips before one raised to welcome him inside.
“Come in, Professor, before you freeze!”
Albus’ fingers slipped from his hair as he stood, knees creaking as he reached full height. He approached the home, feet numb below him and a measured smile on his lips.
“I’m afraid that I haven’t been a professor for quite some time,” Albus said when he reached the door, adjusting the shrunken bag tucked under his arm.
Molly rolled her eyes and huffed, moving aside as she nudged him in by the shoulder. “Oh hush and get inside, Albus,” she chided, closing the door behind him. “And Happy Christmas for goodness sake!”
Albus fetched his wand from his sleeve and dried his shoes and the wet tracks they left on the floor.
“Happy Christmas, Molly.”
An abrupt shout sounded from the other room, followed by shrieking laughter but neither he nor Molly flinched. Her gaze was pinned on him, so he merely peered back in wait.
“Harry arrived a few hours ago,” she said, tilting her head toward the living room, “he’s been full of tales from your trip.”
Warmth across the sheets; fingers brushing through his hair. Eyes sparkling with excitement and a cherry-sweet mouth pressed to the corner of his lips.
“Has he?”
“I was dubious at first, I must admit. The two of you taking off like that out of nowhere.” Molly smiled begrudgingly and shook her head, reaching forward to pat his arm. “It’s good what you’re doing for him, Albus.”
Albus tilted his head, pausing momentarily. “And… what is it that I’m doing for him?” he wondered.
Molly’s lips pursed a bit at that, eyes flicking briefly to the doorway of the living room.
“Those muggle relatives of his were rubbish. Arthur tries and, well, Black certainly tried too.” Molly paused, exhaling heavily. “He’s grown now, I know, but a boy is never too old for a father-figure, is he?”
It was quite the feat, to scoop him hollow and fill him with devastation in the matter of a few sentences. Albus’ smile felt lacking as he lightly touched Molly's elbow.
“I am many things, but a father figure I am not.”
Albus proceeded to step toward the living room, glancing back, he pointedly ignored the befuddled expression on her face. “Shall we see what the commotion is all about?”
Time was thin again.
Fairy lights were strung haphazardly about the room and happy chatter surrounded him. Gift paper was torn and strewn across the floor like bright autumn leaves.
Harry was perched on his armrest.
Albus could only peer down at his gift, the breath stolen right out of his lungs.
“Do you like them?” Harry quickly asked, bracing a hand on the back of the chair, “They’re far from perfect, Mrs. Weasley taught me—she could do a far better job, obviously—”
Albus shushed him by reaching back and touching a hand to his forearm, fondness a stretched balloon in danger of bursting.
“I adore them.”
Harry silenced at that and Albus traced a finger down a knitted sock. Bright violet and as soft as cashmere was the yarn, configured into a pair of socks, mittens, and slightly misshapen scarf. The knitting was oddly pulled and knotted in some areas. One sock was quite larger than the other.
Embarrassingly, Albus felt his eyes water.
“They’re beautiful, Harry, thank you,” he said in a carefully measured voice, blinking before peering up at him.
Harry stared back for a moment before he nodded, face and throat flushed as he scratched the back of his neck. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled under his breath.
Albus couldn’t pin what precisely was swirling within him at that moment, only knew that it was anything but fatherly.
“Whenever did you find the time?” He asked as they hadn’t spent a significant moment apart in the last several weeks.
Harry looked to the floor. “At night, once you’d fall asleep,” he mumbled again.
Albus, momentarily distracted by the red hue of Harry’s ear, recalled late mornings and dark circles. How he’d tease him for needing his beauty sleep.
Immense self control was exuded to not drag Harry onto his lap and squeeze him tight.
“Oh, how lovely—I didn’t know you could knit, Harry!” Hermione’s voice rang out as she caught sight of what lay on Albus’ lap.
“Bloody hell, he’ll be sprouting red hair and scolding us before we know it!” Ronald added, grin unflinching when Molly cuffed him on the back of the head.
Albus promptly wrapped the scarf around his neck and dragged his gaze away from Harry’s ducked neck, holding out a mitten for Hermione to examine.
Later, in order to test the efficiency of his new garments, he stepped outside with Harry in tow.
Curling his toes in his boots, Albus sighed, tossing him a pleased smile.
“Perfectly toasty,” he said.
Harry shifted in place, face still quite red. “I’m glad.”
It was quiet save for the conversation indoors and the breeze disturbing the festive chimes hanging from the patio rafters. A discomfort tinged the silence, one unseen between them since the heated conversation on that distant rainy day.
Albus’ eyes caught on the bare skin of Harry’s hand as his fingers began picking at the hem of his coat. He reached for it, hesitating when Harry jumped at the contact and swiftly peered up at him.
He couldn't quite deduce what that searching look was for nor why it bordered on accusatory as if Albus had pinched him rather than graze the back of his hand. Waters rocky, ship unmoored, Albus gave him a reassuring look and reached for it again.
Harry didn’t pull away this time, and Albus managed to do as he intended—clothing his bare, chill-reddened skin with a mitten. It fit slightly loose at the wrist, and Harry peered down at it with unwarranted confusion.
“Warm, isn’t it?” Albus prompted, vaguely amused.
Harry blinked at it, then up at him. Albus tucked his own bare hand into the pocket of his overcoat.
Violet paired dreadfully well with his eyes.
“They’re yours,” was all Harry said in response.
Albus couldn’t stop his amusement from becoming external.
“Sharing is caring,” he mimicked, feeling all too clever.
Harry’s mouth parted and he stared back down at the mitten for a moment before an abrupt laugh sounded from his lips. It was music superseding the ringing chimes above—a phantom of years past—and Albus could feel something flutter within him at the sound of it. Butterflies maybe. His heart, more likely.
The look pinned his way then was most certainly accusatory, marked with a fondness that had Albus feeling silly in the best possible way.
He couldn’t help but reach out again with his mitten-less hand and tuck a stray lock away from Harry’s face, noting with pleasure, “It’s grown even longer.”
Harry’s eyelashes brushed his cheeks as he looked to his feet. “Mrs Weasley worries I’ll get an earring next—she thinks I want to look like Bill.”
“Do you?”
Harry glanced up, appearing oddly startled. “No, definitely not,” he said, before seeming to think better on it, “Not that he’s not a cool-looking bloke.”
Albus silently considered the phrasing with a small smile. “No earring for you then?”
Harry stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. “No, no earring for me.”
Albus leaned in conspiratorially. “I secretly fancied the idea of getting my ears pierced in my youth.”
“Really?” Harry asked, budding with curiosity.
“Really. I’d seen a foreign wizard pass through town once with a great long hoop through his earlobe. I was quite charmed by the idea.”
“Why didn’t you then?”
Albus leaned back and lifted a shoulder. “It was a bit frowned upon at the time. I was already very strange to my peers and thought it best not to feed their disdain. Eventually the idea lost its appeal and I’d nearly forgotten about it entirely.”
Harry stared at him for a moment.
“Nearly?”
Albus merely smiled.
A snowflake landed on his cheek then, icy and wet, brought under the rafters by the breeze.
“I’m afraid that I don’t have a present for you to open,” he admitted after a moment.
Albus watched Harry’s face for disappointment, but none appeared.
“That’s okay,” Harry said, as earnest as ever.
“My gift for you is more unconventional,” he added.
A grin toyed at Harry’s lips and Albus suspected he’d roll his eyes if he were any less polite.
“Do you plan to keep me waiting in suspense or is this another riddle of yours?” Harry wondered, pulling up the mitten where it was sagging down his wrist.
Albus tilted his head. “It could be, if you’d like.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Futilely holding back his smile, Albus lifted his bare hand and seemingly from nowhere, a sphere of light came into existence. Bright and gently swaying like it had lungs of its own, he nudged it forward, found himself enraptured when it hovered before Harry’s face and reflected off of his eyes like something celestial. Suns or comets. Ever so fleeting.
Harry was all dimples as he peered up, meeting Albus’ gaze. “You’re giving me light?” he wondered, voice tinged with something airy.
Oh, but Harry was light.
“I thought to begin our lessons as we discussed on the evening of the World Cup, that is, if you’d like.”
Harry reached up, fingertips disappearing into it and emerging whole. His eyelashes shadowed his cheeks as he peered down at the ground.
“That sounds lovely, Albus. Thank you.”
It was a close thing, but Albus managed to restrain himself from reaching out to touch.
There was something sacred about the subsequent days spent in Albus’ home. Hazy sunlight filtered through the windows and snow trickled down like feathers. Light turned to dark as hours passed and soon it was only the gleam produced from Harry’s wand that lit them.
Splotches of light, each stronger than the last danced off of Harry’s eyes, golden bright and gently swaying. Albus praised him at any hint of progress, in wonder at every stilted thanks and shift in brightness that occurred in turn.
Harry chalked his quick progress up to Albus’ teachings, modest to no end, but Albus knew that it could be amounted to nothing short of his sheer brilliance.
If these days never ended, if these slippery hours stuck around just a while longer, well, it was much more than Albus deserved, wasn’t it?
“I spent the afternoon in Diagon Alley—Ginny asked me to lunch.” Was Harry’s comment one evening between bites of treacle tart.
The recipe was old, boxed away at the turn of the century along with a few other keepsakes of his mother’s. Keepsakes which Albus had finally began rifling through upon his move out of the castle. Her handwriting guided him, nearly enough to evoke the ghost of her voice at the back of his head as if he were once again a child standing upon an old stool, assisting her with flour dusted hands.
Perhaps it was a recipe better suited for a holiday, a birthday, but every smile dappled evening with Harry seemed to be a special occasion. Oh and how that first bite only inspired another, bright-eyed and sweet.
Albus paused, the edge of his spoon clinking against his plate, dividing the amber dessert. It clung to his teeth, the back of his throat, and he swallowed heavily.
“Oh?” He dragged his tongue across his teeth, hesitant, “How was that?”
Harry simply shrugged as the spoon slid out from his mouth. “A bit awkward, but fine. She was worried about me.”
“And the source of her worry?”
Harry lowered his plate to his knees and his eyes flitted away, huffing softly.
“She thinks I’m losing grip—leaving the team, no prospects for the future,” Harry muttered, worrying his thumb over the edge of the dish.
Albus exhaled, gaze dancing from the hunched line of Harry’s shoulders to the purse of his sugar speckled lips.
“Are you losing grip, Harry?” he asked, tone as impartial as he could manage.
Harry’s eyes flew up to meet his, his silent accusation a lance between the ribs.
“No!” Harry bit out. “Ginny’s whole world has been absorbed by the Harpies. Just because I have interests in things outside of a career doesn't mean that I’ve lost it!”
In real time Albus watched the flush stain Harry’s cheeks, the muscle of his jaw twitching, and the fluctuation of his throat. Sometimes Harry’s emotions were enough to give him whiplash. Toasty warm to fire hot. Abrupt enough to burn if one weren’t as accustomed to it as he. As partial to it.
“I’m inclined to agree with you.”
Harry hesitated at his words, and Albus watched with rapt attention as the flame was redirected, retreating before its full force would leave Albus charred in its wake.
It was so very fortunate that benevolence was ingrained in Harry’s nature. That the fire in him was not often utilized as Fiendfyre but instead a beaming sun; Albus would be amiss if he couldn’t bask under its warmth.
“It’s not as though I’m hurting for money, between my inheritance and my Quidditch earnings, I could never work a day in my life if I wanted.” Still Harry’s tone was defensive. Withholding.
Albus could only coax it all away.
“You could. You’re entitled to do whatever you like with your time, Harry.”
Sweet cut with something sour was that look he was given right then. Eyes half mast and lips stubbornly pouted—still dusted with caramelized sugar if only to taunt.
“What if I just want to stay here with you, eating as many sweets as I like and making light,” Were Harry’s next words, an admittance that failed to be a question.
Was it electricity or mere heat that rang Albus’ nerves from head to toe in response? He couldn’t tell. Couldn’t think. Could only hear the cadence of Harry’s voice in his head as it said again and again, “Making light”.
He choked out, too gravelly to be decent and too desperate to be normal, “You’re entitled to do whatever you like with your time, Harry.”
Harry stared at him, a touch too observant to be comfortable for a length of time that must have been seconds though it seemed to be hours. It was agony, and yet, contradictorily, it was bliss, his attention, his sight.
Finally Harry looked down, sinking his spoon into his sticky dessert and bringing it to his lips.
“I think this is the best I’ve ever had, thank you Albus,” Harry said before licking the spoon clean.
Albus could do more than nod, stare pinned to his own plate and heartbeat bullying away at his eardrums.
A starling was loitering near the window. It’s iridescent neck craning one direction to another and its white speckled feathers gleaming.
Albus couldn’t hear its call, instead his ears were filled with the grumbled conversation on the walls. Old voices that struck him with a fresh sort of nostalgia, bittersweet that was just too serrated.
Another chapter, closed by his own will and yet…
“They’re a tad cross with you still, don’t mind them,” Minerva noted at his back, tone as dry as ever.
Albus folded his hands behind his back and peered over his shoulder, a wry smile pulling at his lips. “Oh I don’t mind—it’s nice to know they care. As much as a few hunks of old paint and varnish can care, anyway.”
A series of gasps and sounds of outrage emerged from the frames, nearly as scandalized as when Severus once threatened to throw them in a bonfire after Phineas Black made a comment on his visage.
Minerva merely rolled her eyes. “Don’t antagonize them, I’ll be hearing about this for days. They hold a terrible grudge.”
“Do they?” Albus wondered as innocently as he could manage.
Eventually he could loiter with the starling no longer and Minerva herded him into an armchair with promises of a steaming cuppa. She peered at him in their amiable silence, as sharp as ever, the wrinkle between her eyebrows only boasting the many years of inflicting this same look upon many others.
“How is the new batch? Not too many troublemakers this year, I hope?” Albus queried in hope to dissuade her efforts.
Minerva tilted her head, lips pursing. “You could always come back and see for yourself.”
“I could, but I’m far too invested in a new adventure to change my mind now.” He blew a cloud of steam away and sipped his tea, smacking his lips at the taste. “Chamomile? Are we in need of soothing?” he wondered aloud before having another sip.
“Are we?” she repeated the question back to him, raising a thin eyebrow.
“Do you have something you’d like to say, Minerva?”
Minerva paused for only a moment. “Does this new adventure of yours have anything to do with your escapade around the world with Harry Potter?”
Delicately, Albus set aside his cup with a soft clink. He met Minerva’s eyes as he settled into the cushions. His fingers worried into the wooden armrest as he considered his words.
“Would that be so terrible?” he settled on the question and watched as a frown was formed.
Silence stretched its weary arms, encompassing them whether Albus liked it or not.
He didn’t.
Her eyes darted between his, knuckles pale over her robed knee and twitching slightly after a moment. Never could he have known that he would be frozen still at the verdict of the shrewd young girl who had sat on the sorting stool so many years prior. Her back had been tall, her demeanor powerful. Unflinching. Now, she sat before him, face lined and decorated in wisdom.
It was always a difficult thing, to be faced with the judgment of those one respected. Albus was far from immune.
Finally she spoke, voice measured and soft, “Haven’t you put him through enough, Albus?”
His gaze flicked away, landing on the bird perched on the sill and watching feathers shift from deep magenta to blue with its every movement. Slowly he inhaled adhesive from aged books and the flowery scent of tea. A pleasant smell. Familiar.
A silver object twisted and turned in the corner of his eye; one left behind, a parting gift for Minerva. It held no practical use other than visual interest. One of many others that he’d transfigured in his teaching days out of a fit of boredom.
Yet, he’d found that often the most useful things were not practical at all.
“Yes, I suppose I have,” Albus eventually said, as neutrally as he could manage.
Sometimes he didn’t manage much at all.
“He deserves to live a life of his own, without your—” Minerva broke off, voice strained, before amending—”He deserves a life of his own.”
His throat was parched, yet he didn’t reach for his tea. Didn’t quite want to be soothed.
“He does. And it is not my place to tell him what to do with it,” he replied, forcibly easing his grip on the armrest.
Minerva only stared with an intensity he could not meet.
“Nor who to spend it with,” he added before clearing his throat and straightening in his seat.
His goodbye was stilted, tainted with discomfort and unease—bolstered by a comment to his back.
“I wonder if the change of heart is genuine or merely because it is to your benefit this time.”
Albus paused at the floo, dust trickling from his fingers onto a growing pile on the wood floor.
He remembered a long series of misdeeds. Injustices. Cruelties. Often inadvertent, but dealt by his hand nonetheless.
He remembered lounging on the carpet and making light.
He tried to keep his distance. He tried to pull the plug.
“I only wish for his happiness,” he quietly replied before stepping into the floo.
The snow was melting. Conjured light danced around Albus’ home like living stars.
Albus was a ship on the deepest of waters.
“They’re magnificent, Harry.”
A flower in the peak of spring was Harry’s smile, bloomed and beckoning one to marvel; and so Albus did. Couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t stop himself.
He reached out to tuck a thick lock behind Harry’s ear—to caress the shell of it as if it too was made to admire. Harry flushed, all warmth, all lovely pleasure, eyelashes lowering as he leaned into the touch.
The lights flickered.
“No beard?” Albus teased as his fingers slipped down the length of that lock.
“I’ll grow a beard as soon as you finally pierce your ears,” Harry retorted, wit sharp enough to make amusement to bubble from Albus’ lips.
“Only if you join me.”
Harry scrunched his nose but his gaze was alight. “Mrs. Weasley would faint.”
Of all the ways Harry and he could cause Molly to faint, this was not at the top of the proverbial list.
“Perhaps she would,” Albus assented, smile turned coy.
Harry narrowed his eyes, but his own grin refused to falter. That is, until that gaze shifted and it did.
“But I suppose it’s like you said,” Harry carefully uttered, wetting his lips and capturing Albus’ traitorous eyes, “I’m entitled to do whatever I like, aren’t I?”
Albus swallowed, stomach in knots and face buzzing. He blamed his subconscious for mimicking the action; blamed it for drifting closer.
For making his heart race so.
“Yes,” Albus softly replied, “yes, you are.”
Another shift occurred then—
—one that was not too soon nor too late.
