Fic: Old Adventurers
Title: Old Adventurers
Author/Artist: rosemaryandrue
Rating: PG
Pairing or Character(s): Grindelwald
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Warnings: None at all. :)
Author's Note: An old prisoner remembers. June 1997.
June, 1997
When he had built Nurmengard, Gellert had intended the constant sigh of the trees to drive his captive enemies to slow insanity. The constant whisper of the wind over the forest had been inspired by the waves that brushed the walls of Azkaban, but where those seas signified the tomb of every hope, the trees had been designed as a taunt. Listen, the sound should have said, the world goes on without you. There is life and hope and magic in the world, and you will never touch it again.
Either his plans had been flawed or the awareness of its original purpose had made him immune, for Gellert found the sound rather comforting.
Sometimes it lulled him to sleep. It made him think of distant, half-forgotten days, before Durmstrang, before Godric's Hollow, before Nurmengard, days of sugar quills and little girls in stiff net petticoats and stable hands breeding cockatrices for the fighting pit.
More often these days, he stayed awake through the nights, listening and knowing that the Muggles, land-hungry, technology-loving, magic-hating tyrants, had not yet touched his forest. They were still limits to their destruction, after all. He was not their conqueror, despite every careful plan he had enacted, but until their machines stood below his prison walls, he had merely failed to win his war.
It was hard to sleep on these summer nights. This close to midsummer the sky barely dimmed.
Easing his tired bones out of the bed, Gellert walked slowly to the window. Once upon a time, he had run every step he took, always striving to be first in every race, fastest, brightest, wildest. Charm, he had discovered early, was as rewarding as talent, and both combined could grant his every wish.
Of course, it had taken him longer to realise the value of perseverance.
Watching the green sway of the forest below reminded him of those heady days, when every scheme he hatched ended at the same point, with the same smiling, implacable figure.
He had never been sure whether it had been a war or a flirtation. Even after Albus had closed the door on this cell and chosen to remain outside, the thrill had not quite faded.
It had been a long ago summer day, as warm and restless as this one, when he had finally lost patience with his aunt's fussing. He had still been of an age to deeply resent the punishment they had devised for him. He would have preferred to be paraded through the streets, subjected to the fury and adulation of the crowds. Anything but the dreariness of this village, full of dull, respectable English wizards with dull, respectable lives.
He had contemplated making a run for London, which would have offered far more cosmopolitan entertainments than Godric's Hollow. A badly planned escapade, however, would have been in poor taste, so he had decided to give his aunt a mild fright and scrambled into the heights of the tallest oak tree in her garden. It would take her a while to find him, and he could only imagine what horrors she would assume he was perpetrating.
Satisfied, he had climbed around to the far side of the tree, looking for a comfortable perch. He had brought a book with him, part of the stash he had liberated from the Restricted Section of the Durmstrang Library before his unfortunate departure.
He had just opened it when he was interrupted by a polite cough. Looking up, he had realised that he was right beside an open window in the neighbouring house. Inside the room, a wizard his own age had been staring out at him with a faintly surprised expression.
“Do you mind?” Gellert had said, with mock offence. “I was trying to read.”
The wizard had given him a serious look and then said, “Do go ahead. Of course, when you finish the book, I would be interested in your conclusions. I thought it compared poorly to Klimple's Reflections.”
“Klimple's an idiot,” Gellert had said, hesitating over his book.
“Agreed,” the wizard had said mildly, “but he is at least an honest idiot. I believe you'll find Vorslick sadly unreliable.” Then he had turned back to the pile of papers on his desk as if he was not taking place in a conversation at all.
Gellert found himself smiling. Albus had been such a serious boy, fatherless too early and brilliant too young. Teaching him mischief had been almost as much fun as seducing him.
Almost.
He had to admit to a little surge of pride every time he heard someone call Albus mad. Bonkers, that was the word. He'd made Albus bonkers, and, although it hadn't been how he'd intended to make his mark on history, it was still a matter of pride.
There was a faint thump behind him. He didn't turn. It was too routine.
Every dawn they sent him breakfast, a pitcher of water, a clean chamberpot and the major Wizarding papers. He could, if he so desired, leave a note on the table requesting any supplies he fancied. If his distant jailers considered it safe, his requests were frequently fulfilled. It was a satisfying, if bloodless, arrangement.
He spent a lot of time writing letters. He wondered sometimes if they were ever sent on.
With a sigh, he turned round. His breakfast was getting cold, and he was rather curious about what today's papers would hold. They had been getting interesting again over the last few years. Albus was playing a long game, that much was obvious, but he seemed to have made some significant errors of judgement.
Of course, with Albus, any apparent errors could prove to be his greatest strengths.
It was a pleasure to watch that delightful, complex mind at work again. Gellert had contemplated some involvement (it had, after all, been three decades since his last escape attempt and he was sure he could get out past the Anti-Apparition wards if his jailers weren't paying proper attention) but the situation seemed a little too delicate. Admittedly, this upstart Voldemort was uninteresting, as megalomaniacs went, and he lacked class. Defeating him was surely possible, if Albus was willing to accept a little help from his less scrupulous friends, but the political situation seemed fragile. Too much right now turned on reputation, and it would probably upset Albus' fragile hold on the public imagination if he suddenly recruited a somewhat infamous Dark Wizard, even if decades of boredom had mellowed said Dark Wizard to a significant degree.
Perhaps he could start a third movement. If he was to gain control of the British Ministry, it would draw some fire from Albus and confound that ghastly little snake. Then he could take over the rest of Europe from there.
That might be fun. He did like a challenge.
I don't believe you're serious, Albus had said to him once, sprawled beneath the shade of a spreading elm, breathless and half-naked. What would you do in a world with no more challenges?
Smiling faintly, Gellert unfolded the newspaper.
After a while, he set it down again, very gently.
“Never fear, Albus,” he whispered, as he had whispered then. “The next great adventure will be better still.”
Author/Artist: rosemaryandrue
Rating: PG
Pairing or Character(s): Grindelwald
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Warnings: None at all. :)
Author's Note: An old prisoner remembers. June 1997.
June, 1997
When he had built Nurmengard, Gellert had intended the constant sigh of the trees to drive his captive enemies to slow insanity. The constant whisper of the wind over the forest had been inspired by the waves that brushed the walls of Azkaban, but where those seas signified the tomb of every hope, the trees had been designed as a taunt. Listen, the sound should have said, the world goes on without you. There is life and hope and magic in the world, and you will never touch it again.
Either his plans had been flawed or the awareness of its original purpose had made him immune, for Gellert found the sound rather comforting.
Sometimes it lulled him to sleep. It made him think of distant, half-forgotten days, before Durmstrang, before Godric's Hollow, before Nurmengard, days of sugar quills and little girls in stiff net petticoats and stable hands breeding cockatrices for the fighting pit.
More often these days, he stayed awake through the nights, listening and knowing that the Muggles, land-hungry, technology-loving, magic-hating tyrants, had not yet touched his forest. They were still limits to their destruction, after all. He was not their conqueror, despite every careful plan he had enacted, but until their machines stood below his prison walls, he had merely failed to win his war.
It was hard to sleep on these summer nights. This close to midsummer the sky barely dimmed.
Easing his tired bones out of the bed, Gellert walked slowly to the window. Once upon a time, he had run every step he took, always striving to be first in every race, fastest, brightest, wildest. Charm, he had discovered early, was as rewarding as talent, and both combined could grant his every wish.
Of course, it had taken him longer to realise the value of perseverance.
Watching the green sway of the forest below reminded him of those heady days, when every scheme he hatched ended at the same point, with the same smiling, implacable figure.
He had never been sure whether it had been a war or a flirtation. Even after Albus had closed the door on this cell and chosen to remain outside, the thrill had not quite faded.
It had been a long ago summer day, as warm and restless as this one, when he had finally lost patience with his aunt's fussing. He had still been of an age to deeply resent the punishment they had devised for him. He would have preferred to be paraded through the streets, subjected to the fury and adulation of the crowds. Anything but the dreariness of this village, full of dull, respectable English wizards with dull, respectable lives.
He had contemplated making a run for London, which would have offered far more cosmopolitan entertainments than Godric's Hollow. A badly planned escapade, however, would have been in poor taste, so he had decided to give his aunt a mild fright and scrambled into the heights of the tallest oak tree in her garden. It would take her a while to find him, and he could only imagine what horrors she would assume he was perpetrating.
Satisfied, he had climbed around to the far side of the tree, looking for a comfortable perch. He had brought a book with him, part of the stash he had liberated from the Restricted Section of the Durmstrang Library before his unfortunate departure.
He had just opened it when he was interrupted by a polite cough. Looking up, he had realised that he was right beside an open window in the neighbouring house. Inside the room, a wizard his own age had been staring out at him with a faintly surprised expression.
“Do you mind?” Gellert had said, with mock offence. “I was trying to read.”
The wizard had given him a serious look and then said, “Do go ahead. Of course, when you finish the book, I would be interested in your conclusions. I thought it compared poorly to Klimple's Reflections.”
“Klimple's an idiot,” Gellert had said, hesitating over his book.
“Agreed,” the wizard had said mildly, “but he is at least an honest idiot. I believe you'll find Vorslick sadly unreliable.” Then he had turned back to the pile of papers on his desk as if he was not taking place in a conversation at all.
Gellert found himself smiling. Albus had been such a serious boy, fatherless too early and brilliant too young. Teaching him mischief had been almost as much fun as seducing him.
Almost.
He had to admit to a little surge of pride every time he heard someone call Albus mad. Bonkers, that was the word. He'd made Albus bonkers, and, although it hadn't been how he'd intended to make his mark on history, it was still a matter of pride.
There was a faint thump behind him. He didn't turn. It was too routine.
Every dawn they sent him breakfast, a pitcher of water, a clean chamberpot and the major Wizarding papers. He could, if he so desired, leave a note on the table requesting any supplies he fancied. If his distant jailers considered it safe, his requests were frequently fulfilled. It was a satisfying, if bloodless, arrangement.
He spent a lot of time writing letters. He wondered sometimes if they were ever sent on.
With a sigh, he turned round. His breakfast was getting cold, and he was rather curious about what today's papers would hold. They had been getting interesting again over the last few years. Albus was playing a long game, that much was obvious, but he seemed to have made some significant errors of judgement.
Of course, with Albus, any apparent errors could prove to be his greatest strengths.
It was a pleasure to watch that delightful, complex mind at work again. Gellert had contemplated some involvement (it had, after all, been three decades since his last escape attempt and he was sure he could get out past the Anti-Apparition wards if his jailers weren't paying proper attention) but the situation seemed a little too delicate. Admittedly, this upstart Voldemort was uninteresting, as megalomaniacs went, and he lacked class. Defeating him was surely possible, if Albus was willing to accept a little help from his less scrupulous friends, but the political situation seemed fragile. Too much right now turned on reputation, and it would probably upset Albus' fragile hold on the public imagination if he suddenly recruited a somewhat infamous Dark Wizard, even if decades of boredom had mellowed said Dark Wizard to a significant degree.
Perhaps he could start a third movement. If he was to gain control of the British Ministry, it would draw some fire from Albus and confound that ghastly little snake. Then he could take over the rest of Europe from there.
That might be fun. He did like a challenge.
I don't believe you're serious, Albus had said to him once, sprawled beneath the shade of a spreading elm, breathless and half-naked. What would you do in a world with no more challenges?
Smiling faintly, Gellert unfolded the newspaper.
After a while, he set it down again, very gently.
“Never fear, Albus,” he whispered, as he had whispered then. “The next great adventure will be better still.”