MAY 1899

Ilya Yanovsky was an ugly, haughty, ignorant boy with a vastly over-inflated sense of his own ability and not an ounce of intelligence. Gellert politely informed him of these failings between jinxes and counter-jinxes, lunging and stabbing theatrically at the air with his wand, pursuing him further down the narrow corridor. Yanovsky's face was a violent pink and his already over-prominent eyes bulged even further from their sockets.

"Stupefy!" he cried; Gellert stepped aside and the bolt of red light hit a stone pillar behind him, blasting a good-sized chunk from it. Someone behind Gellert shrieked and then burst into a fit of nervous laughter. Yanovsky had told all of his friends and most of his acquaintances about the duel days beforehand, although Gellert was sure most of the people there had shown up just to watch the rat-faced Muscovite make a fool of himself.

"Weak, Yanovsky!" said Gellert, tucking an unruly blond curl behind his ear and silently casting a curse. He was grinning broadly. Yanovsky's hands flew up to cover his face with such speed that he nearly stabbed himself in the eye with his wand.

"My eyes – shit, Grindelwald, what did you do?" he shouted. He rubbed his eyes, which were red and watering profusely, with his sleeve.

"Conjunctivitis curse!" said Gellert. "We learned it last year; don't you remember?" He cast a stunning spell; this, like the last one, missed its intended target, but only by virtue of luck. Yanovsky had stumbled sideways into the wall at the last second.

"I think you've blinded me, you little shit!" he said. "Coward – bastard – mudblood –"

"What did you call me?" Gellert cried.

"You know very well what I called you! Everyone knows your mother's a goddamned Muggle!"

"Shut up!"

"I'm surprised you try and hide it – it's so obvious –"

"Crucio!"

Yanovsky crumpled, his face contorted with pain and deathly scarlet, clutching his head and wailing. It was a shrill, horrible sound. Gellert advanced on him, his wand aimed squarely at his opponent's head. Yanovsky, who had gone dead white, his shriek of pain now more of a hiccupping, shameless sobbing, curled into himself, as if that might give him some protection. Someone in the crowd cried out, but Gellert was only dimly aware of that; he was flushed, in love with the spectacle, and his grey eyes were bright. With a nearly invisible flick of his wand, he lifted Yanovsky up and flung him against the ceiling like a rag doll, pale, limp, still screaming –

"That's quite enough, Grindelwald!"

Gellert dropped his arm, breathing heavily, and Yanovsky dropped too, hitting the marble with a nauseating thud. His screams had given way to deep, wracking sobs, which Gellert thought sounded rather childish.

"Would someone run and fetch Professor Vrubel, please?" said the headmistress. Gellert realized that it was she who had ordered him to stop, and despite the fact that he knew there was probably some sort of dreadful punishment in store for him, he wasn't frightened; in fact, he felt rather curiously pleased that she had seen him perform a difficult curse. "Grindelwald, come with me," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder, turning him gently and steering him away from Yanovsky, who had stopped crying and looked dead.

–

When they had reached her office, Professor Dolohova ordered Gellert to sit in the same tone of voice one might use to scold a misbehaving dog. The headmistress was a very tall woman – Gellert, who was neither tall nor short, came up to her chin – and pale, with heavy brows and deep-set black eyes. Her expression was inscrutable. Gellert couldn't read her at all; however, he had the awful sense that she could read him, and was pulling his mind apart just by looking at him, prying into things nobody ought ever to have seen. Every inch of him was tense and feverish, and he could not properly catch his breath; the euphoria had subsided, and a caustic shame had crept in to fill its place.

He broke her gaze, and she said: "Oh, Gellert, Gellert, what am I to do with you?" There was a vague note of disappointment in her voice. "Do you realize what you have just done?"

"Of course. Though, in retrospect, I think it may have been just a bit harsh." He smiled faintly.

Dolohova took a seat at her desk and laced her fingers together. "I'm considering expulsion, Gellert."

"You wouldn't!" said Gellert, sounding younger and more frightened than he would have liked. In his lap, his hands twitched.

"Believe me when I say I don't want to let you go," said the headmistress. "You're a brilliant, brilliant boy - such a shame, though, that you used your tremendous intellect to torture a classmate . . . where did you learn to perform the Cruciatus curse, anyway?"

"A book," said Gellert. "We learned about it in class, and my curiosity was piqued. Surely you must know, Professor, that it's legal in the Russian Empire? "

"I know. However, the use of it on another student is grounds for expulsion, and I'm afraid I can't bend the rules, even for Durmstrang's best and brightest. I really do wish I could give you a second chance."

"I thought Durmstrang was highly tolerant of the Dark Arts. And you can't possibly expel me for using a perfectly legal curse in a duel."

"The Dark Arts are tools, Gellert; you can't cast curses on whomever you please, whenever you please. It isn't civilized. There are situations in which the use of the Cruciatus curse would be justified, but a duel with a schoolmate is not such a situation."

"Yanovsky insulted me." Gellert realized how painfully silly the excuse sounded the moment it left his lips.

"Again, not a situation in which the Cruciatus curse would be justified. You tortured him because he insulted you? Was this a proper duel, or a schoolyard fight? As I said before, it's uncivilized. Muggles get in schoolyard fights. We don't. I would hope that you, of all people, would know how to control yourself."

"You would ruin me, Professor. How am I ever going to find a job if I haven't graduated? It'd be a terrible waste, surely you – " He was aware now that he was pleading, but this was his education, his entire life – this was something worth prostrating himself at the headmistress' feet for, and he clutched wildly at it, though he could feel it slip through his fingers –

"Gellert," she said softly, silencing him mid-sentence. "You do not need to worry about not finishing your education; you probably know more than any seventh-year here. And you won't be wasted. There are other places for you, and other people who would be thrilled to have you as an ally." She paused, and Gellert waited for her to offer some sort of explanation as to where those places and to whom those people were. However, she did not elaborate further and instead waved him off. "Go and pack your things and return here when you've finished; I'll arrange a portkey for you in the meantime. You are from Prague, yes? I know I have your address on file, somewhere."

He nodded and stood. "Professor, what do you mean, other places? Other people?"

She waved dismissively again. "You're a clever boy; you'll find them."

He turned, fuming but unable to protest, and was about to leave when the headmistress spoke again, this time with a smallish, crooked smile. "And Gellert? I would advise you not to use the Cruciatus curse when you get home. It is illegal in Austria-Hungary, and expulsion is a mere slap on the wrist compared to the punishment the authorities there will bestow upon you should you lose your temper again . . ."

Gellert returned her smile. "Well then, I shan't lose it, shall I?"

Outside the headmistress' office, in a fit of irritation, Gellert drew his wand. Upon the smooth, unblemished stone of the wall near her door, he etched a strange little insignia, rather like a misshapen A. No one would recognize this symbol now, but he was positive that in a few years' time, every Durmstrang boy who passed through here would see it and think of his name. He brushed the grit from it and left to collect his things.

–

Professor Dolohova was reading when Gellert returned to her office with his trunk. She did not say a word or even look up from her book; she only gestured to a blank sheet of parchment on her desk. Gellert shut his eyes and touched it gingerly, steeling himself against the sensation of being rudely pulled elsewhere, which always made him feel a bit nauseated. When he opened his eyes again, he was standing outside his father's shop in Prague, the greyish runt of the street, shoved unceremoniously between two much taller, much whiter buildings. It was a smallish, cramped, dreary little place with a dark red tile roof and windows badly in need of a washing. The shop itself was closed and dark, but the lights were on in the apartment above it. Gellert hadn't realized how late it was – if the shop was closed, it had to be past six in the evening. His father was probably smoking his pipe and reading the Muggle paper, content and lazy. Gellert tried to peer inside, but from his position, he could only see a little of the ceiling and the tops of the walls.

But it was of no matter: he wasn't going to stay here. The senior Grindelwald would never know he had returned to Prague, and the headmistress would never know he had left it. Gellert closed his eyes again and turned on his heel, his trunk knocking painfully against his shin. He had never Apparated to somewhere he had never been before, and he hoped that repeating the name of the town inside his mind like a prayer would take him there and not leave half of his body in street in Austria-Hungary.

Gellert found himself standing in the middle of a narrow road, in the shadows cast by a row of narrow-trunked trees. The light was the warm, buttery-yellow colour of late afternoon. Nothing hurt and he didn't think he was bleeding, which was probably a good sign. He touched his face to make sure all of it had arrived with him, and checked his pocket for his wand. His trunk lay in the dirt beside him. As far as he could tell, everything was in order, and he had not left so much as a fingernail behind. If he had Apparated to the right place, he would be very pleased with himself.

He picked up his trunk – normally he would have levitated it, but he knew this town was ridden with Muggles and he wasn't sure whom he would meet on this little stretch of road – and headed off in the direction he was pointed. After a while, his arm started to ache from the strain of hauling all of his clothes and schoolbooks, but in a matter of minutes the dirt beneath his feet became cobblestones, and he came upon a cluster of shops and small houses that could generously be called a town. Gellert had no idea where the person he intended to meet with was, or where anyone was, for that matter; the streets were deserted. He wandered around a little and came upon the town square, which was mostly deserted, save a couple of somewhat grubby-looking boys in caps and trousers were chasing an equally grubby-looking dog, trying to grab the poor thing by the tail, by the looks of it, and a woman who was as tall and black-haired as Professor Dolohova, finely dressed, but with a stooped, defeated air about her. She didn't appear to be related to either one of the boys.

One of the boys was eying Gellert suspiciously, and he realized rather belatedly that he was still wearing his crimson-coloured Durmstrang robes and must have looked terribly out-of-place. Gellert approached the woman instead and doffed his hat to her.

"Pardon," said Gellert, conscious of the fact that he still couldn't quite manage a proper accent. It was good, but not perfect; his vowels still sounded a little odd.

The woman looked around the square and asked, "Yes?" rather cautiously, drawing the one syllable out into two. She was quite lovely, and had the same finely crafted features and pale, sad eyes as a Russian Orthodox icon. Up close, the poor woman looked absolutely exhausted, and could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five years old.

"This is Godric's Hollow, yes?" Gellert asked.

She nodded.

"I'm looking for a woman named Bathilda Bagshot; do you know where she lives?"

"Yes, she lives in the last house on Bishop Lane," she said, pointing down a street to Gellert's left. One of the boys had managed to get ahold of the dog, which was now yelping and trying to wriggle free from the boy's skinny arms.

"Thank you," said Gellert, smiling a little, and the woman set off in the opposite direction at a brisk trot, her dark skirts swishing around her ankles. He switched his trunk to his other hand and was about to leave himself when the boy who hadn't caught the dog sidled up to him.

"You looking for Batty Bagshot?" he asked.

"Bathilda Bagshot," said Gellert.

The boy chewed his lip; Gellert looked at him expectantly. After a moment the boy leaned closer to him and said, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, "Careful, she's a bit of a nutter. I mean, if you couldn't tell by the name."

"It's not polite to call people that, nor is it to eavesdrop. Run along, now," Gellert said, straightening himself. Almost certainly Muggles, those children. The boy glowered at him, but Gellert left before he had a chance to offer another rude comment.

–

The little cottage at the end of Bishop Lane didn't look like the sort of house a "nutter" would live in. One of the front windows was open, and through it Gellert could see the edge of a lace curtain that shivered slightly in the wind. The steep roof was mossy, and the garden in front and well-tended and a lively green, surrounded by a squat stone wall with a wooden gate in the middle. The gate was unlocked, so Gellert let himself in the garden and knocked on the front door. He set his trunk down, glad to be rid of it for the time being and give his arms a rest.

"Just a minute!" a woman called from inside and Gellert heard a chair scrape against the floor and the patter of footsteps. A moment later, the door opened, and Gellert found himself face-to-face with a woman who looked absolutely nothing like him. She was quite short, as slim and shapeless as a little girl beneath her robes, which were an indefinable muddy greyish-blue colour. Her hair, which was as dark as Gellert's was fair, was liberally streaked with grey and piled atop her head. Despite her thinness, her face was round, and all of her features seemed slightly too small for it.

"Bathilda Bagshot?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "And you are . . . ?"

"Gellert Grindelwald," he said, smiling. She looked confused, so he added, "Your great-nephew," hoping that she knew that she even had a great-nephew. He didn't remember ever have seen her in his life.

Bagshot pursed her lips and peered out at him. Gellert was halfway to apologizing and saying that he had made a mistake, but a flash of recognition crossed her face and she exclaimed, "Ah! Gerulf's son! Goodness, forgive me for not recognizing you, I haven't seen you since you were the size of a breadbox – do come in, I was just about to make tea –" She opened the door more fully for him to let him in, pulled a rickety little chair out for him, and bustled about her kitchen, lighting a fire beneath the teakettle and sending teacups and saucers soaring through the air from the cabinet. They hit the table with such a clatter Gellert thought they might break, but they were fine. Bathilda's house was dark, a bit shabby, and smelled distinctly of boiled cabbage and something burnt, but it was surprisingly well-organized and devoid of clutter. The only things on the counter were a row of labeled jars organized from largest to smallest, like a family of matryoshki.

Bathilda took the only other chair and folded her hands on the table before her. "So, Gellert," she said. "May I ask what brings you here?"

"I'm spending the summer here," said Gellert.

"You are?" She looked confused again.

"Didn't my father send you an owl?" Gerulf didn't even own an owl and had, of course, never said anything about Gellert spending the summer with Bathilda, but she didn't have to know that. It would be fine as long as she had a spare bedroom.

"I never received anything," she said. "But it's a quite long way from Prague to here, and it's quite possible the poor owl got lost. You're welcome to stay here as long as you'd like; it's always nice to see a relative, even an unexpected one. I've been using the spare bedroom as an office – I'm in the middle of updating A History of Magic for the turn of the century, you see – so it's a bit of a mess right now, but you're welcome to it."

"Thank you," said Gellert. The teakettle shrieked, and Bathilda summoned it to the table and poured tea for the both of them. Gellert was surprised to see Bathilda use magic for nearly everything; his father preferred to do household tasks and little domestic things like pouring tea without magic. He was strange that way.

"You're – sixteen now, yes?" asked Bathilda.

He nodded and drank his tea. "Seventeen in November," he added.

"Remind me to introduce you to the Dumbledore brothers, dear; they won't be home from school for another fortnight or so, but I'm sure you'll get along wonderfully, and I'm sure their conversation is far more interesting than mine. They'll be thrilled to have you here – there aren't a lot of witches and wizards your age in this town. Most of us are getting a bit on in years. How are your studies? Your father was as a clever one, if I remember correctly – my sister was always writing to me how he was doing this and that, though it's perfectly all right if that's not your particular area of expertise." She spoke very quickly, and Gellert was having a bit of trouble following her sentences. He had learnt English at Durmstrang and had read it and spoken it regularly, but the sort of English Bathilda spoke seemed to be of a somewhat different breed than what he had learned.

"Oh, I, er - I'm at the top of my class." He didn't see any reason to tell her that he had been expelled hours earlier, though he had actually been at the top of his class when he was enrolled, so it was only a partial lie. Had it really been hours? It seemed like it had been ages ago. He realized he couldn't remember when he had last eaten, but he wasn't hungry at all, only tired. He wanted to find a quiet place and sleep for days.

"Wonderful! Then I think you shall get along very well with Albus – he's the older of the brothers I mentioned earlier, a bit shy, but brilliant. Are you hungry, dear? I'm afraid I'm not the best cook, but I can work something out, I think."

"Oh, no thank you, I'm fine." Gellert was only half-listening, and it took him a moment to realize what she had asked and another moment to find the words to answer. "Actually, I've had a very busy day, and I'd really just like to sleep."

"Of course, of course," said Bathilda, standing. "No need to worry about your trunk, dear; I'll get it and you can follow me upstairs." She lifted the trunk into the air with a flourish of her wand and led its owner up the narrow stairs to a bedroom that was as small and neat as the rest of the house, despite what she had said about the mess. Beneath the slanted ceiling was a smallish wardrobe, an iron-framed bed, and a desk piled to the point of strain with books, ink bottles, quills, rolls of parchment, and a small empty birdcage that Gellert guessed housed an absent owl. Bathilda set his trunk beside the wardrobe and said something to the effect that there was a bathroom down the hall and on the right, bid him an early goodnight and left him alone in the welcome silence.

When she was gone, Gellert changed and buried himself beneath the sheets that also spelled, inexplicably, of boiled cabbage. The expulsion, all of the fury and despair seemed far away now; the exhaustion had overcome that, too, and he felt pleased with himself for having landed on his feet. How lucky he was, he thought as he fell asleep, that everything, for the most part, had worked out. Things always worked out in the end. Dolohova was right: there was a world for him – not in this town, perhaps, but this would be his stepping stone to it. For now, he was safe, but more importantly: he was free.