Grindeldore

Hi, this is Emeraldtree, also known as Emeraldoodles. This is my blog of all the Grindeldore and Harry Potter fanart I love!

[upthehillart]

microsoft paint + mouse effort for the draw drarry badly challenge by @julcheninred✨

[espikola]

[brighttt]

this song pretty much sums up the summer of 1899 and I thought it would match this scene perfectly! ❤️‍🩹 made by me;,)

[albusgellertalways]

My final Grindeldore fic finished

Somewhere In Time

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56189968/chapters/194633556#main

Summary:

Elphias helps Gellert escape from captivity and find Albus as the Time Turner prepares to return Gellert to the future. Complications arise.

A/N: I can’t believe it’s over!  The end of this fic is bittersweet for me, since this is my swan song in the Grindeldore fandom.  I loved exploring the idea of time travel for the boys, that their love can span centuries.  I’ve met so many amazing people in this fandom, especially my beta Litsetaure, who has stuck with me through a LOT of personal shit that went down in my life over the past two years.  I’m so heartbroken that we’ll never get to see that 1945 duel, that we won’t get the 5 Fantastic Beasts movies we were promised.  Perhaps Grindeldore will feature on the new HP show (if it’s even good) but it wouldn’t be the same IMO.   I’ve delayed finishing this fic because I don’t want it to be over, but it’s time for me to return to my original sci-fi writing.  Thanks to anyone who ever read, commented or left me kudos on my many Grindeldore fics.  I’m so honored to have touched so many lives.  This is AGA, signing off.  <3

[litsetaure]

Strictly Speaking - Chapter 37

As the semi-finals loom large, a fun gathering comes with poignant memories as Bathilda opens up about her experience of the AIDs crisis. The bond between Queenie and Vinda has also grown stronger, though both are worried about hurting kind-hearted Jacob. As they seek advice from Bathilda and Lucy, the others pay a visit to the Dumbledore residence, though the mood quickly sours as Aberforth's true colours are revealed, leaving anger and hurt in his wake.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: discussion of the AIDs crisis, blatant homophobia.

[hallowsnothorcruxes]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

So, I created a Grindeldore Gift exchange, if anyone would like to join!

Sign Ups close November 26.

[ourgreatergood]

One more week to sign up! <3

[kitgeometri]

🐝〜♪♪

[regretismyconstantcompanion]

Title: Where the Air is Sweet In a magically veiled corner of Paris, Albus and Gellert reunite for a summer steeped in warmth, wonder, and old affection. But as laughter and magic flow freely, quiet questions linger—can something once broken ever truly be whole again?

++++++++++++ Paris, 1901

The cafe on Rue de l’Abreuvoir seemed to breathe with its own rhythm—slow and languid, like magic left to simmer. Pale sunlight streamed through windows charmed to reflect the golden hour at all times, regardless of the true hour. A violin floated lazily overhead, bowing itself in the corner near the ceiling, playing a quiet waltz no one seemed to have requested. Quills scribbled on floating napkins, taking down orders in elegant copperplate. Some of them wrote poetry when idle.

Albus was seated near the back, beneath a twisting vine of enchanted lavender that bloomed and shimmered faintly overhead. He had left Fawkes behind at Flamels townhouse, perched in the sunroom among alchemical glass and gentle, ancient wards. But one of the phoenixes tail feathers—satin-bright and stubbornly fire-warmed—was tucked into the band of Albus’ wide-brimmed hat, resting on the seat beside him like a quiet ember of loyalty.

He was halfway through a delicate pastry—layers of pear compote, almond cream, and lemon glaze—when Gellert arrived, his robes slightly windblown, eyes sharp with heat and amusement.

He took the seat across from Albus. “Paris suits you. There’s a touch of arrogance in the air—like you.”

“And you,” Albus said coolly, though his voice softened at the end.

Gellert smiled. “You really came here.” “To the cafe? You invited me.” “No, I mean here. To Paris.”

Albus raised an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not. Not really. I always said you belonged here.” He gestured to the cafe with a sweep of his hand. “Books that whisper, tea that brews itself, desserts that defy physics. You were always a romantic beneath all that brilliance.”

“Flamel does have a talent for locating the rare and the charming,” Albus said. “And for assigning endlessly complex metallurgy.”

“I’m certain you complain only when he’s out of earshot.”

Albus didn’t answer, but his smile was enough.

A flutter of heat at Gellerts collar drew his attention downward. From the inner pocket of his cloak, a flickering snout appeared, glowing faintly gold-red in the shadows. Apollo, Gellerts fire salamander familiar, blinked at the cafe lights with bright wide eyes.

“Curious little thing,” Albus murmured, reaching a hand forward.

Apollos shimmering scales flickered with hues of amber and copper. He gave Albus’ extended finger a familiar, dignified sniff, then nuzzled against it with the slow, deliberate fondness of something that remembered warmth.

Albus smiled and ran a gentle stroke along the salamanders narrow spine. Apollo made a pleased sound—something between a crackle and a purr—then nestled further into the curve of Albus’ hand, heat radiating pleasantly through his skin.

“He’s missed you,” Gellert said quietly, drawing a thin biscuit from his pocket. Apollo took it with a practised snap of his teeth and, treat secured, blinked up once more before disappearing with a ripple of flame into the lined warmth of Gellerts coat.

Albus’ hand lingered for a moment where Apollo had been.

“I suspect that’s not just Apollo speaking,” he said, still not looking at him.

Gellert didn’t deny it. His smile was lopsided, unreadable. “He’s always had good taste.”

Albus shook his head, sipping his tea to hide the way his mouth wanted to curve.

“Some things never change,” he murmured.

“You can’t fault me for consistency,” Gellert replied, the glint in his eye unmistakable. “Besides, you’re one to talk. I’d wager you’ve eaten at least four of those glazed pastries this week alone. Still nursing that sweet tooth?”

“Only three,” Albus replied.

Gellert arched a brow.

Albus relented. “Four and a half. Are you quite pleased with yourself?”

“Deeply.”

They sat in companionable quiet, the sounds of the cafe like a lullaby around them: enchanted teaspoons clinking gently in floating cups, a cat-shaped puff of smoke curling from one patron’s pipe and spelling out verses from Les Chants de Maldoror. The lavender above Albus’ head released a soft glow, triggered by proximity or fondness or both. “I thought something would feel different by now,” Albus said softly, watching the last of the tea swirl in his cup. “After a month.”

Gellert tilted his head. “Different how?”

“I don’t know.” Albus smiled faintly. “We haven’t stopped talking. Writing. Seeing each other nearly every day. And yet—”

“And yet,” Gellert finished gently, “it still feels like another beginning.”

Albus met his eyes across the table. “Yes.”

There was a stillness between them then—not silence, but something warmer. A kind of settled understanding that didn’t need filling. The type that only came when time had been well spent, and nothing had been left unsaid. It wasn’t the reckless intoxication of their first summer, the kind that burned too fast. It was something quieter. A different kind of magic now.

“Come,” Gellert said, pushing to his feet. “We’ll walk the Seine. You’ll pretend you don’t enjoy it, and I’ll pretend I’m not proud and pleased that you’re here.”

“I’ve never pretended not to enjoy anything,” Albus replied as he reached for his hat, his fingers brushing the phoenix feather.

Gellert leaned in, close enough to whisper, “You pretend more than you know.”

Outside, the early evening light gilded the narrow alleys of wizarding Paris. Albus stood, tucking the feather in his hat more securely, and followed Gellert into the warmth of the street, where even the stones hummed with magic and memory.

And behind them, the cafe gently exhaled, as if it too knew this kind of peace was rare—and worth holding onto, for as long as it could last.

[acerbaa]

My love, I was so wrong. Dying is the opposite of leaving. When I left my body, I did not go away. That portal of light was not a portal to elsewhere, but a portal to here. I am more here than I ever was before. I am more with you than I ever could have imagined. So close you look past me when wondering where I am. It’s Ok. I know that to be human is to be farsighted. But feel me now, walking the chambers of your heart, pressing my palms to the soft walls of your living. Why did no one tell us that to die is to be reincarnated in those we love while they are still alive? Ask me the altitude of heaven, and I will answer, “How tall are you?” In my back pocket is a love note with every word you wish you’d said. At night I sit ecstatic at the loom weaving forgiveness into our worldly regrets. All day I listen to the radio of your memories. Yes, I know every secret you thought too dark to tell me, and love you more for everything you feared might make me love you less. When you cry I guide your tears toward the garden of kisses I once planted on your cheek, so you know they are all perennials. Forgive me, for not being able to weep with you. One day you will understand. One day you will know why I read the poetry of your grief to those waiting to be born, and they are all the more excited. There is nothing I want for now that we are so close I open the curtain of your eyelids with my own smile every morning. I wish you could see the beauty your spirit is right now making of your pain, your deep seated fears playing musical chairs, laughing about how real they are not. My love, I want to sing it through the rafters of your bones, Dying is the opposite of leaving. I want to echo it through the corridor of your temples, I am more with you than I ever was before.  Do you understand? It was me who beckoned the stranger who caught you in her arms when you forgot not to order for two at the coffee shop. It was me who was up all night gathering sunflowers into your chest the last day you feared you would never again wake up feeling lighthearted. I know it’s hard to believe, but I promise it’s the truth. I promise one day you will say it too– I can’t believe I ever thought I could lose you.

love letter from the afterlife, andrea gibson

[mikkeneko]

Andrea Faye Gibson (August 13, 1975 – July 14, 2025)

[whimsifae]

the five homoerotic love languages:

- intimate stabbing

- outright obsession

- confused pining

- "no one knows me like you do"

- lifelong promises that always sound suspiciously like wedding vows

[emeraldgrindeldore]

Grindeldore Playlist

Years ago, I created a Grindeldore Playlist, forgot about it, and now I'm sharing it.

Please read below if interested in the whole story behind the playlist.

The playlist tells the story of Albus and Gellert's relationship, spanning from their meeting in 1899 to their final battle in 1945. I created the playlist without FBAWTFT in mind.

It was kinda like writing a fanfic with music.

[stuckinapril]

Has anyone figured out what’s so viscerally wrong with this woman yet

[stuckinapril]

She’s so one dimensionally evil you guys 😭😭 how is she real

[mintedwitcher]

read this and remember it. read this and remember that she is going to use the profits of her fucking ego-stroking reboot to decimate trans rights. read this and remember that every time you pay into her IP, you are emboldening her to hurt us more.

our lives matter more than your fucking nostalgia.

trans lives matter more than your fucking nostalgia.

[emeraldgrindeldore]

And this is why I had to leave this fandom. I love the people in it, you are all amazing, but every art piece or fic I created made me too close to this horrible person.

I wish I could have the death of the author mindset, but it's really hard when the author is screaming hatred at the top of their lungs from the "grave".

[apicelladonna]

Albus: This is the most complex escape room we have ever been in. Gellert: Gellert: This is Honeydukes, Albus.

[trappezoider]

Dumbo's and Grindo's first kiss? :D

[amberpriceenthusiast]

They’re soulmates but one of them is infact trying to choke the other to death with the red string of fate tying them together

[teamhangaround]

Having fun with your psycho boyfriend

[lisaveeee]

Sketch trade from yesterday at #metrocon, I got a wee little Howl in exchange and my heart broke. I love Howl so much! 😍 She asked for wee little year 1 Harry . #harrypotter #mirroroferised #dumbledore