Gellert had escaped quietly, like a wraith slipping through crumbling bars and faded enchantments. No fireworks, no declaration of power—just silence, and absence, and the ripple of dread that followed. Albus had known before anyone else. He had felt it in the shift of the air, in the sudden silence of his wards, in the aching tug behind his ribs. And then, hours later, Gellert arrived—not as a fugitive, but as if stepping in from a walk, the corners of his mouth curved in that same serpent-smooth smile, as if nothing at all had changed.

Now, Gellert had found a new game. One with no armies, no ideology, no followers. Just performance. A private theatre of two. He moved through the house like it was his, brushing past Albus with careless grace, trailing fingers along bookshelves, armrests, skin. He touched Albus the way one touches something familiar, something owned—hands slipping over his arms, ghosting down his sides, resting at the curve of his waist. He leaned close and let his breath linger against Albus’s neck, let his laughter fill the rooms like perfume. Everything he did was soft, casual, unbearable.

And Albus did not react. He stood still beneath the weight of it, unmoving. He did not pull away. He did not stiffen. He simply was—blank, composed, unreachable. As though Gellert’s touch passed through a statue, not a man. As though his body no longer belonged to sensation, no longer bent beneath memory or pain. He let it all wash over him—pretending he was blind, deaf, dead. He had perfected this stillness, this imitation of apathy. It was the only armor he had left.

There were moments—quiet, slipping moments—when he wondered if Gellert was doing it again. Not the touching, not the smiling, not the whispering. The steering. The subtle push and pull that once dragged him into dreams of conquest and righteousness. Back then, Albus had been young, starved for brilliance, hungry to matter—and Gellert had fed him poison disguised as hope. He had turned Albus’s love into a leash and led him to ruin. That much was history. But now—now Gellert was older, weathered, stripped of his crown. What did he want? Was he still playing?

Albus asked himself this while adjusting his robes before the tall mirror in his study. The room was silent, lit by thin morning light and the soft shuffle of distant pages turning. He stood before the glass with delicate precision, sliding the cuffs into place, the way he always did when his thoughts were too heavy to carry directly. Behind him, footsteps approached, slow and deliberate. A presence gathered just outside reflection. Albus didn’t tense. Didn’t blink. Didn’t so much as shift his weight. He continued fixing his collar as Gellert came up behind him, as familiar fingers hovered just out of sight. The mirror showed nothing but the straight line of Albus’s back and the flicker of shadow behind him.

He would not give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Not now. Not ever.