Author's note: This is my first attempt at a multi chaptered fic. Be nice, but also not too nice :) Some notes on the story: I'm trying to keep it as canon as possible so if you notice discrepancies please let me know in a review or PM. AS far as emulating the tone and ambience of original series, I'm not really aiming for that because I feel the setting for this story, being 100 years in the past, warrants a different sort of feel. :) That's all I got for now. Most importantly, enjoy.

Prologue

The Beginning.

Godric's Hollow was a town laid to waste by the frequent English chilly spells that froze the twisting grapevines crawling over crooked fences. Heavy rains melted the ice ponds, creating little puddles in the grooves and ridges of the dusty cobblestoned streets. It was a labyrinth of narrow, jutting roads, each with a stray cat that would chase rats across streets, dodging rattling carriages pulled along by sleek brown mares. Each wrought iron gate belonging to some handsome estate had its own personality. It was a town that had witnessed history depicted in the school children's little brown books- all the bloody sieges and mutilated bodies on English soil, the serfs toiling under the heavy hot sun and the interchanging smiles at the infant Queen and now- to this wet and rainy day in mid-June. It was a typical West County day of softly pattering raindrops on windows and babies suckling on their mothers' breasts, fathers reading the paper all in symphonic harmony to the backdrop of tinkling china and whistling kettles.

Do not be deceived, for this nondescript town could not be further from your ordinary small town in the West of England.

You see, at the turn of the 11th century, Godric's Hollow opened its doors to a young man carrying a secret. And ever since, the dust rising up at the sides of the road became thicker, and the air sometimes became colder, and there was an indescribable sense of strangeness. Words aren't sufficient- it was the ineffable feeling of something great and ancient which permeated the senses of all the folk who lived in the small town.

Gellert Grindelwald arrived to this inconsequential yet great town like the ravaging gusty winds that characterized the end of spring time. He came as an inconsequential boy of seventeen with ambitions of a great wizard.

One moment, the morning carriage had rattled round the corner of the street, leaving a cloud of dust behind it- the next, the dust had dissipated to reveal a dark silhouette, billowing cloak fluttering around rumpled ankles. A boy, teetering on the verge of manhood, with a well defined jaw and cheekbones but with the remnants of youthful roundness about his cheeks, emerged from the cloud. He had a shrewd look about him that suited his enigmatic entrance, and a certain mischievous glint to his eyes that spelled strife.

Behind the boy was a house, a low, stooped brown cottage that belonged to one old damsel named Bathilda Bagshot. Miss Bagshot, as the other folk in Godric's Hollow knew, was a spinster who had lived alone for twenty years, ever since the mysterious death of Mr. Bagshot when he'd left for a business trip to a country in Africa. It was whispered she had gone a bit batty ever since, although there wasn't much to be said for that; for Bathilda Bagshot had the same strange air surrounding her that had once surrounded a young man carrying a secret centuries ago.

As soon as Gellert appeared, the gate to the brown cottage swung open and it was Miss. Bagshot who came hobbling out in her customary black cloak.

"Gellert!" she said, her voice quavery and rather high pitched. It sounded as if she hadn't used it in a long time. One bony hand reached out and gripped the boy's arm in what seemed to be for him a trying display of affection.

"Hello, Aunt Bathilda," the boy, who was apparently called Gellert, replied politely.

"Your parents told me that you were expelled! What were you thinking, boy? Well never mind that, it's been a long journey-"

"Not particularly- I apparated-."

"-sure you must be starved, I'll have the casserole and pie out of the oven in no time, though your sheets haven't been warmed yet-"

Miss Bagshot continued to babble unendingly, maintaining her steely grip on Gellert's arm as she guided him through the front yard garden to the front door.

"-and I always did tell them Durmstrang was no good, but they wouldn't listen to me and see now I've been landed to teach you! Bother, I'm an old lady who deserves nice long days free of magic. I'm quite finished with my work here. Gellert, in due time when you've grown old and your bones are rotting like mine you'll understand. Now, if you go upstairs, turn right on the landing and you'll find your room the second on the left. I'm afraid, like I said before, the sheets aren't warm yet but I daresay you'll find it agreeable. And one last thing before I- I, Gellert, dear? Is something the matter?"

Mrs. Bagshot realized that the arm she had been gripping had vanished. Gellert stood some feet away from her standing apparently transfixed by the sight of a solitary book on the window sill.

"Who would've thought…" he murmured, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Hmm?"

"Aunt Bathilda, you have a lovely mimbulus mimbletonia, though it could probably use a bite of frog spawn."

Miss. Bagshot chuckled. "Now, Gellert. I think I know what this is about. But let me tell you this, flattery won't work! So no, you may not use the floo power at your leisure. I'm under strict orders from your father to keep you in this sad old village. Now run along."

But Miss. Bagshot had miscalculated. It wasn't the pot of shimmery green power that Gellert had had his eyes on. It was the book beside it, the faded brown cover decorated with a most peculiar symbol; that of a triangular eye-like shape, encompassing a crudely drawn stick.

When Miss Bagshot had left the room, Gellert strode across the room and picked up the book.

Thumbing through the book, he rifled through the pages rapidly until his eyes fell upon a paragraph that caught his eye.

"...First recounted in the ever popular The Tales of Beedle and Bard, the legend of the Deathly Hallows has fascinated wizards and witches all around Europe since the book's first publication in the 15th century. With no shortage of ambition, many of these wizards have attempted to find the trio of immortality, power, and secrecy- ignoring, to the chagrin of others, cautions on the futility of the task. Indeed, the very existence of the Deathly Hallows has been doubted- after all, its tale was publicised in a children's story book. Still, Hallows enthusiasts remain firm in their conviction that not only do the Hallows exist, but the destroying of their transparency must transgress. Possession of the objects woven by Death himself is a worthwhile pursuit… but how are we to begin to find these evasive and enigmatic objects of power?"

"Yes, worthwhile…. yes…" Gellert murmured to himself as he snapped shut the book. The dust had fallen away during his perusal, leaving only a dog-eared and worn out book with peeling leather and bent pages- a book that looked ready to be perused and read time and time again by its owner.

He pointed his wand at the book and tapped it twice.

"Geminio".

An exact replica shimmered into existence. Grinning, Gellert carefully placed the clone next to the woefully neglected mimbulus mimbletonia on the window sill and stowed the original copy into his robes.

Behind the windswept locks of golden hair were eyes alive with hungry excitement.

"Gellert! Where are you? Come down the hall and put your trunk down in your room." Miss Bagshot's thin voice could be heard echoing and bouncing about the thin drafty walls, creating the impression that three Miss Bagshots were speaking all at once.

"I want to call on some of the neighbouring wizarding families this afternoon," she said, hobbling back into the kitchen, her voice returning back to normal. "Many lovely people who I daresay you'll find quite interesting… if I'm not mistaken there should be a few boys around your age as well… "

After Gellert had levitated his trunk to his room and performed a nifty charm on the casserole and pie that had, quite forgotten by Miss Bagshot, burnt around the edges in the oven, Miss Bagshot steered Gellert out the brown house, out of the wrought iron gate, letting the gates close behind them with a definite click.

Like how other children fell asleep with sweet dreams of love potions and Honeydukes sweets, Gellert Grindelwald went to sleep with thoughts of indomitable, ever conquering power. He yearned for it during his infancy, his childhood, and his days as a student at Durmstrang.

And now, as an adult, he thought of it incessantly, obsessively- every thought invariably laced with images of himself holding the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak.

Gellert Grindelwald, the Master of Death, the most powerful wizard to ever walk the earth, he thought in his head with relish.

He who now walked down an innocuous road, in an unsuspecting English villiage looking the very picture of innocence, accompanied by an oblivious old witch. But beneath the handsome face and charming demeanour was a thirst for power- the bottle had been broken, the ambition pouring forth uncontrollably, the magical blood coursing through his veins warm with anticipation.

And so our story begins.