Gellert Grindelwald

schafchenwolken:

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likeastairmaster:

for the greater good

walburga:

slow burn
• harry potter: gellert grindelwald & albus dumbledore.

Everything was frozen, frighteningly still and then a light blooms across the starry mid-October sky, with the most horrid, gut-wrenching of sounds. The earth itself cleaves beneath his feet, and a gust of magic, so potent as to rip a lesser men to shreds, brushes his skin, soft as a lover’s touch. He is blind as it bursts inside him, and casts him to the ground. He lands wrong: on sharpened stones and hardened soil, wand-arm mangling beneath it all. His breath is ragged and air pains his lungs, but he is breathing yet and that is what matters. Sweat and blood run into his eyes, make his fingers slick, and ash dries in his golden hair. Staggering, he rises.

Gellert Grindelwald has been in explosions. He has been the cause of them, stood in the middle as the world crumbled, sparked and burnt. He has watched as reality itself seemed to bend, just to twist into whatever he wanted it to be.

None of them have been like this.

Albus Dumbledore, he calls into the night, and it replies with a hail of fire. (So much for infallible English manners, he thinks and laughs as he ducks out of their way.)

Power may be the sole domain of the wicked, and it is there Gellert (man and boy) has found a home.





Albus Dumbledore is the greatest wizard that ever lived, the only to ever outmatch him, and now he has come. Drawn out of his coward’s hiding place, bidden by pleas and the stench of blood, of unjust war. No matter what might’ve once been, Gellert revels in it.

Theirs is a dance of giants: the one he cannot lose.

His is the crueler hand. Bloodied or not, Gellert has trapped the love of his enemy in a little box, and he has the wand.





The walls are weeping at Nurmengard. Icy droplets keep him awake at night, and the wind howls at the sea outside. It’s a fortress built on nightmares and bright torment, curses woven by his own hand into the very stone.

His prison, his tomb, is a room in which no man can die and once his great pride. As he transcends into madness and memories within its iron grip, even one’s own ingenuity turns sour.





A hundred years ago, Gellert stole into his friend’s room in the middle of the night, feverish and bright with new discovery; Albus Dumbledore (the mind of a century) sleeps like the dead and did not rise to greet him.

Later, when the walls were stained in mid-morning hues and Albus had awoken to a cruel-crooked smile, Gellert (perilously quiet and almost severe) kissed the shadow in the corner of Albus’ mouth, and Albus did not resist.

Checkmate, he whispered in his mind as he stole Albus’ heart, and thought himself the consummate victor. Now you are mine.

Jamie Campbell Bower & Mr. Finger Appreciation Post

walburga:

slow burn
• harry potter: gellert grindelwald & albus dumbledore.

Everything was frozen, frighteningly still and then a light blooms across the starry mid-October sky, with the most horrid, gut-wrenching of sounds. The earth itself cleaves beneath his feet, and a gust of magic, so potent as to rip a lesser men to shreds, brushes his skin, soft as a lover’s touch. He is blind as it bursts inside him, and casts him to the ground. He lands wrong: on sharpened stones and hardened soil, wand-arm mangling beneath it all. His breath is ragged and air pains his lungs, but he is breathing yet and that is what matters. Sweat and blood run into his eyes, make his fingers slick, and ash dries in his golden hair. Staggering, he rises.

Gellert Grindelwald has been in explosions. He has been the cause of them, stood in the middle as the world crumbled, sparked and burnt. He has watched as reality itself seemed to bend, just to twist into whatever he wanted it to be.

None of them have been like this.

Albus Dumbledore, he calls into the night, and it replies with a hail of fire. (So much for infallible English manners, he thinks and laughs as he ducks out of their way.)

Power may be the sole domain of the wicked, and it is there Gellert (man and boy) has found a home.





Albus Dumbledore is the greatest wizard that ever lived, the only to ever outmatch him, and now he has come. Drawn out of his coward’s hiding place, bidden by pleas and the stench of blood, of unjust war. No matter what might’ve once been, Gellert revels in it.

Theirs is a dance of giants: the one he cannot lose.

His is the crueler hand. Bloodied or not, Gellert has trapped the love of his enemy in a little box, and he has the wand.





The walls are weeping at Nurmengard. Icy droplets keep him awake at night, and the wind howls at the sea outside. It’s a fortress built on nightmares and bright torment, curses woven by his own hand into the very stone.

His prison, his tomb, is a room in which no man can die and once his great pride. As he transcends into madness and memories within its iron grip, even one’s own ingenuity turns sour.





A hundred years ago, Gellert stole into his friend’s room in the middle of the night, feverish and bright with new discovery; Albus Dumbledore (the mind of a century) sleeps like the dead and did not rise to greet him.

Later, when the walls were stained in mid-morning hues and Albus had awoken to a cruel-crooked smile, Gellert (perilously quiet and almost severe) kissed the shadow in the corner of Albus’ mouth, and Albus did not resist.

Checkmate, he whispered in his mind as he stole Albus’ heart, and thought himself the consummate victor. Now you are mine.

quantumspork:

what, i’m not addicted to drawing my otps dancing or anything

plasticine-monkey:

Albus Dumbledore & Gellert Grindelwald