Long since finished, finally posted

[oudeteron]

I wrote this ficlet months ago, but circumstances intervened. I wouldn't like to look like I'm planning to stop writing, though, so here you go. Because it asks for this line of thought at the moment, I don't think this fic compares in any way to the epic story I posted a year ago almost to the day. But, it's a tiny little something. Feedback appreciated; I may be out of shape.

Title: Inaction
Pairing: Past Albus/Gellert
Rating: SFW
Word Count: ~500
Summary: Albus enjoys no calm on quiet days.
Disclaimer: The HP universe is JKR's. I make no profit and intend no copyright infringement.

Inaction

One would think, given all the tasks Albus Dumbledore needs to accomplish every day, that his life would be a flurry of motion with barely any time for rest. And it is. Outside, everything is stark and fast and frenziedly logical.

It would also seem that his famed mind’s capacity would be too great to allow for detaching itself from all reflection if sufficiently distracted by these daily goals—and it is. Albus thinks no matter what he does, usually preoccupied with one thing and contemplating another. He struggles against this habit at times when he wishes nothing more than to simply be, but even then he knows it’s as impossible to abandon his ways as it would be to suppress his fondness for sweets of all sorts. His mind has led him all his life—for better or for worse—and will continue to be his trusty guide, right up the steep slope to the inevitable end.

Days, nights sometimes blur into one indefinable in-between, and always Albus thinks restlessly. His friends assume that inaction would be too painful for a man such as him to bear—and it is. Sometimes, it seems that the necessity of his pursuit of what needs to be done is double: for the wizarding world at large as well as for Albus himself. The more exhausting a task, the more welcome its effect of filling his time with everything but recollections.

When, occasionally, Albus does find himself alone with nothing to do, he tries to maintain his composure. There is, after all, no one to witness the fight. He reads, he outlines his new article for one high-profile periodical or another, he converses with the portraits in his office, he paces. But sometimes his path strays towards the Pensieve or his mind starts to wander, and the room is filled with the scent of summer or with the deadly rustle of spells. Faded snippets of action, movement, sense. Albus’s eyes fall closed, and he can no more resist the pull of all these things than he can forget their distant origins.

He goes through everything in his waking dreams until he goes to bed, and then he makes his peace with the shadow. Most would find the fact that Albus Dumbledore, of all people, still thinks of a former terror of Europe with feelings other than righteousness and loathing a disgraceful revelation. Some would not, perhaps, but they would never quite grasp his reluctance to stop dwelling on the past. A few would observe that it is not so surprising for Albus Dumbledore to be at the mercy of his own feelings, considering how often he had plucked the reason for the behaviour of others from their emotional state, and considering that he always has placed a great deal of importance on love. This is what makes him Albus Dumbledore. He might, after all, be only behaving in the manner most natural to him when it puts no others in any danger.

And he is.