For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Nine: The Sight

1950 - THE AUSTRIAN ALPS

The auburn-haired man moved into the room with trepidation. The cell had a small window, too narrow for a man to leave or enter, a hard bed, and a thin blanket. A lone candle cast ghostly shadows upon the stone wall, and if asked, it appeared as though the castle would spill dark secrets to a curious ear.

The sight made his heart skip a beat, although he did not show it.

Albus Dumbledore spoke quietly.

"How are you feeling?"

The emaciated form moved slightly, mismatched eyes blinking open. At the sight of the visitor, he scoffed, deep and throaty.

"What do you want?"

Albus stepped forward, shrinking away from the intimidatingly large guard that manned the cell door. His eyes only briefly surveyed the armed watchman before they flitted back to the prisoner. He had come wandless, and the only thing that occupied his coat pockets was a decongestant potion that had been magically tested in the entrance of the castle.

They were distrusting of him.

Rightfully so.

Even though he had specific Ministry permission, they feared what this meeting could reignite. Little did they know sparks died out long ago, and it weighed heavy on him now.

This meeting was supposed to be his war prize. It was much more a form of torment.

A reminder of things he couldn't have and everything he had thrown away.

He had little left to offer now.

"I've brought you this," he breathed, extending the glass vial through the bars.

Gellert slowly peeled his gaze away from the wall and sneered at the gleaming potion. "I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity."

"I want nothing associated with your hand. I'm sure they would allow you to bring me poison for the right price."

Albus stood silently, analyzing. The absence of love was not hate, but rather, indifference. The lack of care was so evident that it was palpable and threatened to gag him, gouge out his eyes, and freeze his heart.

That had always been his curse.

He could never walk the line between love and hatred. Such mastery of emotion required more personal introspection than he had energy for—he would have to tear down years of walls and shields, exposing all the darkness within. Such a cleansing would require the bleaching of his very essence, so it was easier to burn and burn and burn, only to be reborn from ashes.

Gellert would always choose the novelty of a new shape, while he preferred to build himself out of the bones of his past.

Time had flown away from them and now they stood, two middle-aged men, in a prison designed to be a castle, enemies once lovers, both born with magic but now only one kernel remained.

How had it come to this?

"There was word you've been ill," he swallowed thickly. It was all he could manage.

Grindelwald coughed violently; small blood flecks staining his sleeve. A rakish smile danced across his chapped lips and darkness floated in those mysterious irises.

"This isn't dragonpox, you fool. Diseases of the Muggle filth can infiltrate my body now that magic has abandoned it. The physician explained that the microbe would have been smothered before, but it now festers, growing and finding home in my lungs, my spine, my brain. So," he snarled lowly, "leave and take your pointless gift with you. I have no desire for your company."