| ||Rating: Mature||Story Reviews: 148|
Characters: Dumbledore, McGonagall, Grindelwald , Aberforth, Ariana, Bathilda, Doge, OtherCanon
Genre(s): Romance, Angst, LGBTQA
Pairings: Albus/Gellert, Other Pairing
Status: Work In Progress|
First Published: 2012.09.25
Last Published Chapter: 2017.06.20
Last Updated: 2017.06.20
Favorite Story Of: 21 users
| ||Advisory: Mild violence, Scenes of a sexual nature, Substance abuse, Sensitive topic/issue/theme|
|The HPFF Dobby Awards: Winner - Best Quote (2014)|
Language shapes the world, for good or for evil. In silence, wounds fester and arguments begin. And what are wars but arguments out of control?
||2014 Dobby Winner: Best Quote; 2014 Golden Snitches Runner-Up: Best Romance||
Breath-taking banner by lonely star xo @TDA
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Was there only silence because neither of us knew what to say, or was it because we knew everything there was to be said?
I had expected confinement. What I had found was freedom.
It was not peace that I felt then, nothing like it, but it was comfort on some minor level.
The Elder Wand was inside, I was outside, and my blood ran hot in my veins.
Arrogance is always such a costly trait.
Loneliness, the painful separation of man from the pack, may be what kills me in the end, I think.
Once is forgivable; twice is not.
I was only interested in trying to work out how long it would take her to die.
I had to succeed; there was no question about that. It was imperative.
Ruthless and cruel of me, yes, but I do so hate to be denied.
Ah, but sense and love never did go hand-in-hand, and logic is all too easy to push aside.
Tricks, all tricks, nothing more than that, but oh, the results they can have!
Vibrant words, powerful words, set with a rhythm in my head something akin to a military march.
Hubris, in a sense, though not dangerous in execution – and never dangerous for me, in truth.
So you see, my darling, at the end of it all, wretched Gryffindor that I am, I am a coward.
Then, ah, then he would soar, a blaze of red and gold above, the sun would shine, and the world would be reborn.
Yet another lie for protection, but I suspect I have long forgotten whose.
You did not win that day, but I lost, and that is the heart of the matter; the loadstone of the wall built between us.
I wanted you to be happy; I still want you to be happy, only now I know it is impossible.
Secrets, Albus; how frustrating they are, how heavy they become when carried so long.
For so long I had existed in a state of limbo, between one thing and the next and not really either, without realising that was where I was.
You should have come, Albus, you would have adored it.
It is the way of love, though, to reduce us to our simplest and yet most complicated selves.
A stroke of luck, oder ein Putsch?
Which one, my darling, would give the greater good?
We are matches, floating on a sea of oil, and waiting, always waiting, for a single, flickering spark.
It is such a well-known myth of love: that it is always good.
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