do I not bleed

[manwithstyle]

Albus Dumbledore was dead.

Not now, of course. No, right now he was very much alive, if rather out of sorts, and feeling a whole myriad of emotions that were not often associated with the greatest wizard of his generation.

However, in the not-so-distant future, he was dead. Not only was dead, though that was bad enough, he had failed so completely and entirely in all of his goals that he knew no longer why it was that he had remained so renowned. For The Greater Good had ripped at the seams, ending, as such things do, with a duel between himself and Gellert. Wizards were forced even deeper into hiding while the man fashioning himself as 'Lord Voldemort' marked his followers with the ink of gypsies and sailors and indoctrinated them into a foolish regime. The Deathly Hallows had remained elusive. Why, the only thing that had appeared to keep him in the public eye was the fact that he had been Headmaster. And while that was a fairly lucrative position, he could not help but feel disappointed. Angry, even. Could the future be so bleak?


Albus rapped sharply on the door of Bartemius' hut. He did not look at all put-together. His face was flushed; his eyes bright, and his hair cascaded over his shoulders in a torrent of messy curls. His white shirt was largely unbuttoned, not to mention untucked. His feet were bare. Indeed, he rather had the appearance of someone who had left somewhere very quickly.

It was all, he thought, very uncharacteristic but such developments had called for haste.

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[manwithstyle]

"You don't understand," said Albus, staring directly at Bartemius and trying desperately to keep his tone civilized. "If I've died, then nothing has worked.All of this potential, the greatest wizard in generations, and I amount to nothing more than failure."

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Barty looked back at him evenly for a long moment.

"I didn't know you were interested in immortality," he mused.

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He could feel the anger building up inside him like a bile and it took all of his faculties to not simply scream. Bartemius did not understand, could not understand. In fact the only person who would have the slightest idea what Albus was going through was at home. He was at home in possession of his magic and still whole. However, thinking of Gellert only served to anger him further and so he cleared all thought of him from his mind though his next words remained rather clipped.

"Immortality was merely the tip of the iceberg."

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"The tip of the ice berg," Barty repeated, eyebrows inching up, "an appropriate phrase, coming from you. Descriptive." He stepped fully outside the hut, squinting briefly at the light, then leaned back against the wall of it.

"What do you want me to say, Albus?"

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Albus' eyes narrowed then. What do you want me to say?

Well, that was the problem, now, was it not? They had been playing a game since they had first met; what information to reveal, what information to conceal, and Albus had been caught unawares. This was not, understandably, to his satisfaction. He was always aware, always astute. And to see Bartemius leaning so casually against the wall of his hut, asking indirectly what was the best way to lie, something inside Albus snapped much like the string of violin that had been tuned far too taut.

With magic unavailable, he resorted to the preferred methods of his brother and rushed at Bartemius, pinning him against his favoured wall.

"You've been pandering to my ego the moment since I arrived," he said, his words falling fast. "You've withheld information, admirably I admit, but now I want to know. If Wizards are in hiding, if Grindelwald lies defeated, if I die, then what is it that I am known for? For being an old eccentric?"

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

Barty blinked at him rapidly ,surprised, and the corners of his lips tugged upward at the corners. There was a mad little chuckle that wanted to bubble up out of his lungs and throat but he held t back, so his breath only hiccuped slightly.

He would have asked Do you really want to know? or something equally as redundant if it had been anyone else, just to rile them further. Not Albus Dumbledore.

"Why being the champion of muggles and mudbloods in the wizarding community, I'm afraid."

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His eyes went wide and blind rage took over; the second the words had left Bartemius' mouth, Albus struck him sharply in the face with the back of his right hand. His breathing was laboured, his face contorted, and as he leaned into Bartemius' ear he said, "Do. Not. Lie."

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Barty's head was snapped to the side, cheek grazing the rough edge of the hut's facing and he was blinking hard, feeling the sting in his cheek and jaw. Nothing compared to the cruciatus, of course, nothing compared to his marking or initiation but there was, he had to admit, something powerful in being physically struck by Albus Dumbledore. He gave a quiet, gasping sort of laugh, just briefly, and turned his head fractionally back toward Albus.

"Would that I were," he said hoarsley, "but then, you'd be able to tell." he absently licked his lip at the corner, and pressed his head back against the hut, harder, so he could turn his head enough to meet Albus's eye, the two men were so close.

"Wouldn't you."

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Never since his arrival had he wished so desperately for his magic. His world was falling around him, his beliefs shattered. For there was truth to Bartemius' words and he knew it. He knew it because he was right. He would be able to tell. And that made it all the more infuriating.

"Yes," he said, fitting more venom into that word than one might believe possible. His eyes never left those of Bartemius, challenging him. Daring him to say something more.

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"Yes," Barty hissed softly back, not looking away, not so much as blinking, gaze never shifting, "you would. And I wouldn't- lie, outright, not if I knew I'd be caught in it. I'm brilliant in my own ways. As was Grindelwald, though he couldn't match you. And that's what you really became legendary for- winning that duel. Albus Dumbledore, champion of equality, patron wizard of muggleborns and half bloods. Yes. What a waste," he said bluntly, words adopting a sudden bite.

"Which I couldn't have said if I hadn't known you here, as you are now. But what a waste. Not that it's uncommon. I myself get kissed by a dementor at the ripe old age of thirty four after a decade being imprisoned in my home. History is full of wastes. Shames. Doesn't feel nice, being one of them, does it?" He bit something very dark and very deep back, and said, more calmly, more silkily, "though perhaps perspective changes with age."

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His mind was reeling, his thoughts rushing by so fast that he could scarcely hold onto one. He found himself unable to focus, unable to contain, unable to process the details of what Bartemius was telling him.

"I am not common," Albus insisted heatedly, pushing Bartemius even harder into the wall, feeling the sick rush of thrill at having even the slightest control in this interaction.

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"No," Barty said fiercely, "we're not. Unfortunately that does not make us infallible. Not even you, the least common, most extraordinary wizard of the age."

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"I do seem to recall advising you against attempting to play me like a violin," he countered testily, his grip on Bartemius' shirt tightening, his knuckles turning white, as he pulled him closer still. He raised his chin defiantly and now looked at Bartemius down the length of his nose. "And yet you continue to do so, you continue to force flattery into truth. I do not want to hear your pretty words, I do not want your sycophantic tendencies and the matter at hand is hardly infallibility. No, it is much more than that. This truth, this future is a betrayal upon all of my beliefs."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"And what makes you think it's complimentary?" Barty shot back, not bothered by the closeness at all, lifting his chin up just slightly. "It's what the whole bloody world's been indoctrinated with for a century. Knowing what you do now, is that a good thing?" He leaned closer, just his face, gaze sharp.

"If I were playing you," he murmured, "really, playing you? Well," he said, more softly still, "you couldn't tell the last time. Is that the appropriate tense for something that happens in the future? Probably not. You can't tell, the next time, then," he corrected, gaze flicking up to meet Albus's frankly and with something like amusement.

"But then that's all years ahead of us."

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He gasped most involuntarily and his grip loosened just a fraction at his words.

He does this again, thought Albus, and so the cycle continues. But the frankness, the amusement, it was almost as if Bartemius derived pleasure from his little game, as if it were all great fun, and the idea that he, that Albus Dumbledore could relate to that feeling, the rush of successfully manipulating someone so completely, well, the idea alone was rather unpleasant.

He licked his lips, then, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

"Do I send you to the Dementors?" he said."But no, that would be too much, too dreadful. The man I was to become, he would not have done such a thing."

The man I was to become.

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"No," Barty said, casually, voice low and smooth, "I slipped through the cracks of a complicated event, in the end. You did not send me to lose my soul. At least, not that anyone knew. But then, who knows you," he added, glancing Albus over once, lashes flickering fast enough to hide his gaze for only the briefest of moments before he was meeting Albus's eyes again, "really."

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"No one," he stated simply, eyes boring into Bartemius'. They were close enough now that, had he had the inclination, he could have counted each individual eyelash."I've no peer, no equal. I thought, perhaps, that I had found one in Gellert, however it appears now that I was wrong." His breathing had calmed, his anger was manageable, his voice was returning to it's usual tone.

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

And Barty smiled.

"Lonely. Isn't it."

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"You've no idea," he replied archly.

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"Yes I do," Barty countered softly, eyebrows lifting a little, "it's what sets me apart. Above. I may not go around revolutionizing magic theory," he added dryly, absently reaching up and rubbing the back of his hand against the cheek that had taken the blow, earlier, "but one doesn't need to be a genius to be set apart." He looked over Albus's expression, down to where the other man's hands were against his chest, and slowly up again, utterly unhurried.

[manwithstyle]

"No," Albus agreed, sensing the truth in his words. "One does not." His expression flickered, feeling Bartemius's eyes upon him, to one that was most unreadable. And so he swallowed surreptitiously before he said, "I should not have struck you."

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"Why not?" Barty challenged, still quiet, seeming perfectly at ease.

[manwithstyle]

"It was beneath me," he replied, eyes narrowing even though he found himself unable to let go. If he took himself out of this moment, he would have to come to realizations, to think, to process, and for once in his life, he wanted to avoid that for as long as it was humanly possible.

[selfmade-crouch.livejournal.com]

"Because lashing out implies and undermining of your self control?" Barty murmured. "Or merely doing so without magic?"

"I think everyone... slips, Albus. That shouldn't bother you. The consequences are what keep me occupied."

[manwithstyle]

It was, in truth, a combination of both. However he was not about to say as such as there were more interesting things to discuss at that moment.

"And where do we go from here?" asked Albus honestly. He had no plan, he had no game, he had nothing but a shattered reality and the shirt of another man clutched in his hands.