The Shadow of a Dream

Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever

Albus was staring at Harry's alluring silhouette. He wished him well, Merlin knows, he did. The heroic sacrifice was a clear sign that the Chosen One had already won the war. The rest was just a formality, and let it be known that a tired and aching soul (like that of Albus) had no will to take any part in the inevitable turmoil. The beauty of Afterlife is that you are not bound by mortal obligations, ambitious goals and tedious chores. In his hearts of heart Albus hoped that such a simple truth had already settled in the mind and soul of Gellert, who had spent all his life gathering any sophisticated knowledge he could obtain.

Alas! His train of thoughts was hit by another one - the train from King's Cross. If you haven't abandon your friend after their inevitable death, as many people do these days, then surely you've been informed about The Intuition, or The Inner Voice, or The Inner Compass. There is no clear terminology, but every dead human being knows this feeling of certainty. It's when you know - You Are Needed. Afterlife has no time or place. Addresses and clocks do not belong in the dimension of the absolute Chaos. The only thing that's left is to follow your hunches if, of course, standing still is not a desirable option for you.

The ride was short and quite pleasant. Were Albus alive at this very moment, he would have to witness burning grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the only place he truly called home. The old Headmaster was given another vision, much more suitable for his refined taste: a myriad of quaint trees with leaves touched by setting sun, as if crowned by Helius himself. Knotting paths of yellow, almost bright grass, narrowing into the shades of the evening forest. Flicks of warm autumn light were leaving small and blinking touches on Albus's window, reminding him of a small little sparkle that was born in Godric's Hollow in the summer of 1899. After all, buildings, though susceptible to combustion, are easy to put out. Real love, on the other hand, always engraves an everlasting mark on both hearts.

The train stopped before what looked like a muggle diner. Why had Gellert, that magical purity apologist, (Albus had no doubt it was him) called his love here? Aberforth would have probably called it "quite a shack": in the middle of literally nowhere stood a one-storey architectural piece, decorated with rustic elements: a composition of stones at the entrance, small paned windows and battered walls. That country harmony, or rather, disharmony, of country style was interrupted by one peculiar detail - a small black raven crowned the low-hanging roof of the diner. The black dummy, which existence could only be justified by the name ("Nevermore" - Albus almost chuckled at the overload of pathos) seemed tragically out of place.

The diner was...hardly a diner. The table in the middle was the only thing that gave the place any resemblance to one. Gelert could make up some waiters or fancy trays with napkins. But it would certainly be an overkill in their situation. Those life-like illusions usually come from the young and scared ones. Such sybarites as our couple had given up on playing pretend long ago.

"Gellert," Albus called him calmly, with no hint of surprise or amusement.

"Albus, my love!" the same old ironic smirk appeard on his face. Albus had always been considering Gellert's love for exaggerated expressions tedious, but at that moment he let it slide. For the sake of Merlin, he missed that man. "You're new here, I suppose I must get you up to speed. You know how bad of a teacher I am, so long story short, I've called you and you're here."

"I've managed to guess, or rather feel that. As I understand, this place doesn't run on the common rules of our universe. Edgar Allan Poe, ha?" Albus examined Gellert's face waiting for his reaction.

"I just asked for a private place. The Great Entity or whatever it is did the rest. I do not enjoy reading those poor attempts at rhyming also known as muggle poetry." Gellert coldly replied.