Title: Prison Tower
Author: chiralove
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald
Rating: R
Warnings: DH compliance
Themes/kinks chosen: relics
Word Count: 1244
Summary: Power isn't power without love.
Author's notes: Thanks to the mods for the extra day and to mindabbles for the beta! *loves*



There's the broken man in the prison tower, but that's Grindelwald. He's not the Gellert that Albus loved. There's little left of Gellert himself. Albus has all that's left, and it's little enough that it all fits in his two hands – a few books with notes jotted in the margins, a teacup Gellert had used, and his wand.

Albus sets the rest aside and takes the wand, hefting its familiar weight in his hand. He oils it, smoothing out tiny imperfections in the wood and erasing the roughness that snags his skin. The Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick – Gellert had wanted this above all else. He'd left Albus because of it.

In the end, it wasn't enough. It had never been enough … power isn't power without love, real love. It never was.

Closing his eyes, Albus strokes the wand – the wood is smooth under his fingers, the satin-silk grain presses against his skin like an old friend.

Gellert had touched this, had hallowed it with his hands. Each spell, each touch, each stroke, everything that Gellert had done is remembered in this wood. With this wand, he had cast and he had killed – he had loved and he had left.

There is no reverence but this, the silent language of skin and body, the alchemy of life and breath. Gellert had touched this and had loved it. There's nothing greater than that, nothing greater than love.

Albus loves it not for the sake of the power it holds, but for the memories it made. Gellert loved this wand, touched it the way that Albus touches it now.

Albus polishes the wand until it is perfectly smooth, and then he rocks back in his chair, leaning backward and putting his feet up on his desk. He lets his robes fall open – his spine is stiff against the hard wood, his legs parted, his breath coming fast … the wood bites into the knobs of his spine, just as when Gellert had pressed him against the old apple tree in Godric's Hollow and stolen his kisses.

Albus touches the wand to his lips. The wood is warm from his hands, and he pretends that he's taken it from Gellert, that it's warm from the heat of Gellert's body and still echoes in time with his heart.

He hadn't marked each heartbeat when he had them, hadn't known to cherish them … but the Elder Wand is powerful enough to make up for Albus's lack. The wand conjures it all – forgotten memories, moments, heartbeats, hopes.

Albus presses the wand against his mouth, harder, there, rubbing it against his bottom lip, sliding it past his lips and sucking on it – yes, the wand remembers.

He'd kissed Gellert, who had touched his lips with fingers that trembled, just so.

Gellert's smell flooded his senses – hot summer sun, the lush smell of ripening apples, the rough bark against his back.

Gellert stroked Albus's shoulders, kneading them with sure strokes … kissed him hard, pressing him against the tree … pulled him down, rocking against him in the grass. Soft prickles against Albus's back, Gellert's hard length against him, the dappled sunlight moving over his skin…

He was beautiful, Gellert was. He moved down Albus's body, unfastened his trousers, touched his skin – he touched Albus for the first time, kissed Albus for the first time, and it was perfect.

It is perfect. Albus touches himself, fumbling through the cloth, and his hands follow the motions of Gellert's hands, his touch echoes Gellert's touch, and it's all that Albus ever wants.

The wand remembers the details, sharper than they ever were, and the magic brings them back. It's more than magic and more than memory. It's real, and Albus … Albus loves, and that's not just a memory. Gellert is his.

His skin is bare, and he doesn't care if the air is cold, if the portraits see him, if Gellert sees him for the first time like this. He strokes his cock, cupping his balls in his free hand – he slides the smooth, slick wood of the wand over his bare skin – he remembers kisses past and perfect. He remembers and tastes them again, just as sweet as they once were.

Gellert was his, and Gellert had touched him, ran a hand down his stomach and touched his stiffening flesh – had stroked it until he was hard, until he was begging. Albus had arched into his hand and thrust against him and kissed him, sloppy-wet kisses that landed on his neck and his jaw and his nose, everywhere where they did no good. They never made him stay.

Kisses do no good and touch is transitory, but Albus has this now. He has Gellert's prick pressed against his and Gellert's breath hot against his neck. He has Gellert in his arms. The two of them move together, legs twined together, thrusting together, hearts thudding together, coming together….

The memory is sharp as it splinters, as useless as a broken wand. It never happened.

Albus never touched Gellert like this. Gellert never kissed him, never touched him, never tasted him. He'd pressed him against the apple tree for a kiss and he'd fled, he'd left Albus aching and alone. He'd left, and Albus hadn't gone after him.

No wand can undo that, not even the Elder Wand.

Albus gasps, his breath rasping in his lungs. His skin is warm from phantom touches, Gellert's touches – it's slick with his sweat and the oil from the wand. There are drops of come on his belly. He can pretend that it is Gellert's, mingled with his own. He can pretend that his lips are bruised from Gellert's kisses.

He can pretend, and the wand makes it real – for a moment.

His heart hammers in his chest, thumping against the hollow beneath his ribs. His blood pounds through his veins, and it is too much to bear.

Albus lifts a hand to his mouth and tastes the bitterness of his come. He flicks his tongue over his fingers and takes taste after taste, his come and Gellert's mingled with the salt and oil on his skin. Dead skin, dead cells – dead, like a man locked in a prison tower, like a memory conjured from a wand – it all tastes the same.

It's all the same, in the end.

Gellert had lived for power and not for love, but he yielded. Whether it was love or power or weakness … in the end, he let Albus take the wand.

In the end, Albus was enough to defeat him, enough to love him … enough to come to him again. They'll have time to spare and kisses to burn. Albus will touch Gellert again. He'll soothe each hurt and share each secret caress, learning Gellert's body. With this wand, with this power, he will make it come true.

Fawkes bursts into flame, falling into ashes and casting shadows through the room. The air in the Headmaster's tower is heavy with soot and Albus coughs, clearing his lungs. His breath rattles in his chest. There's a meeting of the Order, there's a life that he has to live – a life he has to finish.

There's a man in a prison tower, a wand he won by force, a love he owes his lover. For all of the things that Albus owes and loves and needs – there's world enough and time. He will come to Gellert in the end.