Something was off.
Something was grotesquely off, and it was driving him mad.
Gellert paced the floor of the tower room, his steps echoing off the vaulted ceiling, an arrhythmic echo to his quickening pulse. He wondered if he was wasting his time on this spell. It was a very delicate piece of magic, the theory behind it complex, and it would be utterly ineffective if wielded by untalented hands.
But it was ineffective now, and Gellert's hands were anything but untalented.
So it had to be the theory that was wrong. Gellert had gone over it a thousand times, though, redoing the calculations. It seemed to make little difference.
Gellert's gaze slid to the still, sightless body that lay broken on the floor. He could not afford to keep wasting resources. If he was to continue his experiments, he had to be certain that the spell would work.
He grabbed his quill, perching himself on the chair at the desk and scratching out the latest adjustment he had made to the incantation. Emphasis not on the second syllable—at least, not when using this particular wand gesture. (Perhaps the gesture was the problem? But no—no, it had to be circular. Otherwise, the polarity of the particles would be reversed and—) Gellert scribbled out another note to himself, accidentally splattering a little ink on his fingers. He wiped his hand on his trousers, careless of the stain.
The screaming was starting to get to him, as well.
Gellert paused, setting down the quill to twist around and look over his shoulder at the first year boy trapped within the Circe's Sigil.
"I would appreciate it if you would try to keep it down," he said. "The Impeturbable Charms on this room are a metre thick. No one can hear you but me."
The boy scarcely seemed to notice him. He was blibbering something unintelligable through his tears and Gellert rolled his eyes, pushing the chair back and standing.
"Really. You are getting on my nerves."
But the boy was just staring at his roommate's lifeless corpse and screeching and the noise seemed interminable!
Gellert's hands found their way to his wand. He was sick of this nonsense. Emphasis on the third syllable, then.
He hissed the incantation and—suddenly—the room went silent. Gellert could feel the raw power, throbbing beneath his fingertips—he could feel electricity sparking through his core—he could feel time itself, stretching, bending to his will--! He could hardly breathe for the sheer, light-headed beauty of it.
His heart stuttered against his sternum as he watched time contort the eleven-year-old boy's frame, eating away at his musculature, searing wrinkles into that fresh young skin. He watched flesh rot, eyes go glossy with cataracts, cheeks speckle with liver spots. Gellert drew it out at the end, wanting to make this moment last a lifetime. The boy—well, hardly a boy anymore, was he?—choked on his own saliva, each breath a rasping wheeze, a thin dribble of blood slicing its way down his chin.
Enough. Gellert could show mercy, despite what they said. And the spell worked.
"At least," he told the boy, "you have died for a cause far greater than you could hope to imagine. Your sacrifice will shape the wizarding world." He smiled. "Avada Kedavra."
