Chapter Text
After an uneventful rest of the day – spent feeling not as cold as before, although when inevitably he does need to relieve himself, he can almost physically feel the dent that makes in his pride – that evening, he finds himself cuddled up between his coat and his blanket again.
If it all weren’t so bloody uncomfortable, he thinks, he might almost enjoy that he gets to catch up on decades of sleep debt at last.
He had never been partial to exaggerated luxury, his tastes remaining relatively humble even as he became required to fit into a world of aristocracy and politics, which saw him buying suits so sinfully expensive, he felt almost disgusting wearing them.
It wasn’t about fame or money or even power – well, that last one might be a lie, he did like feeling powerful.
But at the heart of it had always been a genuine desire to show the wizarding community how much more they could be, if only they were willing to dirty their hands for the… “…the greater good…” he mutters as he quietly falls asleep that evening.
When he wakes that night, judging by the absence of moonlight probably barely past midnight, the cardboard muzzle is worse than before. His headache is back with a vengeance and mere minutes after he downs a whole mug of water (he had kept it from when they’d given him tea), he is overwhelmed with debilitating nausea, throwing the water right back up violently.
“Fuck…” he groans, still catching his breath, fighting the urge to retch over and over again.
He feels jittery. Disquiet. Anxious.
Looking down at his hands, he now sees them trembling, marking the beginning of what he had been dreading, yet also expecting.
His penance for hurting Albus.
For not listening to him when he should have.
For abandoning him after Ariana’s death.
For being the worst spouse Albus could’ve had.
It’s everything he had decided he deserved.
Only now that he’s facing it, he’s terrified.
Worst of all - what he actually wants, right in this second, possibly more than he wants for Dumbledore to come and get him… is a dose of heroin.
An overpowering, dominating craving for that high.
For relief and euphoria and that sensation of weightlessness.
For the pain and the cold to go away.
To forget how his heart aches for Albus.
Through the next forty-eight hours, he doesn’t sleep.
He doesn’t eat and barely drinks.
He needs to throw up a few more times, producing little more than bile, although that seems preferable compared to what his bowels do.
It is humiliating.
Unbearably humiliating to have to endure what easily outshines the worst stomach flu he’s ever had with only a bucket – even if it is an enchanted one that empties and cleans itself, and between the tremors, the agony, the feeling of his teeth vibrating and itching under his gums, he spends hours just quietly sobbing, cold and miserable and feeling broken beyond repair.
And through all of it… the only thing he can think about is getting a fix, no matter the cost.
The morning of the third day, when his warden carefully opens the cell door, he finds Grindelwald still cowering in his corner, pale face, unkempt hair sticking to his sweat-drenched forehead, looking delirious. He barely even reacts when the light from the hallway hits his face.
Trays of cold, untouched food and drink sit by the door.
“Grindelwald…?” he slowly approaches him.
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even seem to take notice of the other wizard as he stares unblinking, absentminded at nothing.
“Hey, come on… don’t be like this.”
No response.
He squats down and extends a hand, trying to at least feel for the fever he’s quite certain Grindelwald is running. He is burning up, severely so.
“Don’t touch me… please…” Gellert whispers, his eyes now focusing on his warden, who regards him with concern.
“You’re unwell.”
“I don’t want your pity.”
“And I don’t care what you want, Grindelwald. You’ve not eaten or drank in three days. Is this your attempt at getting out of your punishment?”
Sleep deprivation, dehydration, hunger, and most of all the relentless craving for his poison of choice have worn down his patience. Gellert feels rage boil up in his aching stomach, and before he can even consider what he’s about to say, his tongue betrays him yet another time.
“I’ve been shitting my fucking guts out, do you think I enjoy this?! I can’t fucking sleep because it feels like there are bugs in my eyes and under my skin, and my fucking teeth feel like they’re humming. Whenever I drink a sip of water I throw up until all that’s left is bile – do I seem like I’m enjoying myself?!”
His warden stands up again, visibly concerned, and Gellert follows suit, standing on wobbly legs.
The door is still open.
If he’s quick enough, he could knock him out and take a chance at running. Find someone to break the suppression cuff they’ve fitted around his neck and be free again.
Get a fix. I can get a fix.
In a valiant effort, Grindelwald lunges forward and uses whatever strength is left in him to push his warden against the wall, cold, trembling hands locking firmly in place around the younger man’s neck, squeezing as hard as he can.
“I’m sorry, kid… it isn’t personal, I just really need a-“
There’s a surge in the air and Gellert finds himself flung backwards, hitting his head hard on the stone wall, defenceless to the other’s magic while his own remains shackled.
Moments later, he finds himself pulled up by his lapels, the other wizard menacingly looming over him as he holds him up.
He feels… strange; dizzy from being thrown back and making hard contact with the wall, yes, but further than that… he’s afraid for the first time is a long while.
“Listen, I’ll forgive this once and chalk it up to that massive fever you’re running, but you will now listen and pay close attention to how this is going to go. I don’t know what your problem is, and I don’t care, but if something happens to you, it’s my ass on the line. You will sit your ass down now, I will go get you fresh clothes and you will wash up, then we’re trying to do something against the fever. Am I understood?”
He nods, then quickly follows it with a shaky “Yes”.
He sits back down and watches his warden leave and lock the door.
Fuck…
It was a stupid idea, thinking he could run when the person guarding him was probably chosen by Albus on purpose.
Yet… if only he could stop thinking about getting high. Or actually get high and forget that he’s trapped and locked up forever.
A mere few minutes later, the younger wizard returns with towels, a bowl of water, and thankfully, a fresh set of clothes. He sets everything down in front of Gellert, then sits down across from him, looking up at his charge with apprehension, but also sympathy.
“I had hoped for a bit of privacy…”
“No can do, sorry, I don’t trust you not to do anything stupid.”
“Mh…”
Reluctantly, Gellert undresses, feeling the heat of embarrassment rising to his cheeks as he vehemently keeps his eyes from meeting those of the other.
“I’m Sylvan, by the way,” he says, the older man briefly looks up and nods.
The air in the cell is icy, the winter chill blowing in hard through the little slits in the wall, and Grindelwald begins shivering on top of the tremors he’s already showing. He tucks his knees closer to his chest, then reaches out for the washcloth.
It’s difficult to focus.
Through the cold, the headache, the lingering nausea and the unrelenting craving to feed his habit, he can barely think from his nose to his fingertips, his thoughts drifting off into nothing constantly.
“At this pace, we’ll still be here tomorrow,” Sylvan say exasperatedly and quickly takes the cloth out of Gellert’s trembling hand.
He dunks the fabric into the steaming bowl of water he brought with him, his magic quickly lathering it up with soap before he rather roughly takes it to his prisoner’s back.
Gellert just stares, his mouth half-open, incapable of even reacting to what’s happening right now.
“I’m not senile,” he says, sounding mortified, trying to resist when the other tugs on his arm to make him stretch it.
“The more you fight me, the more it’ll hurt.”
It takes a few moments longer before he finally accepts defeat and leans back a little, reaching out and dipping his hand into the warm water.
This feels nice almost. It’s still freezing in the room, but there is a degree of comfort in how nice it smells and in how being clean makes him feel… human again.
“Did Albus not say anything?”
“About?”
A quiet sigh escapes the Austrian’s dry lips.
He hesitates. No one but Albus knows. He’s always kept it a secret, hidden it from everyone, his inner circle included.
“Nothing.” He finally says, drying off and dressing into the plain slacks and heavy linen shirt he’s been brought. “Could I maybe have a pillow? I had such nice pillows in my bed.”
Sylvan sits down across from him again, looking intently at Europe’s former most wanted.
He looks miserable.
Thin, grey and sick, struggling to even focus on a conversation. His eyes keep falling shut, he’s clearly not slept in days.
The warden reaches for the tea mug Grindelwald had kept from, fills it with water from one of the jugs and sets it to the older wizard’s lips.
“Drink. Carefully.”
Gellert obeys, too exhausted at this point to resist any longer, then watches Sylvan get up.
“I’ll get you something for your fever and your stomach.”
He tries to stay awake, he really does, but he’s warm right now and once his eyes fall shut, he can’t find the strength to open them anymore, and for now, his thoughts finally let go of his cravings and allow him to think of Albus.
Of embracing him and kissing him, of his promise to return.
Of the nice moments they’ve shared.