It was much later that day when Albus returned to his room, knocking lightly on the door before entering. It was approaching dinner time and he intended to ask if Grindelwald was feeling up to eating with them. When he received no answer, he pushed the door open slowly, expecting to find his guest still asleep.
What he found was an empty room. Everything was as he had left it, save for the absence of the newcomer and, Albus realized, the illegal portkey. Even the blankets on his bed had been tucked neatly back into place. The only sign that anyone aside from Albus had ever occupied the room was a red piece of paper folded on his pillow. He picked it up, unfolded it, and read the following:
Thank you kindly for your hospitality. I have nothing with which compensate you, only my gratitude.
-G. G.
Even as he read it, the paper diminished, curling in on itself until it was reduced to a tiny drop of blood in his hand. He stared at it, brow furrowed. Blood magic. And an illicit portkey. That Grindelwald was shaping up to be an interesting character, all right. Albus wondered just where he'd gotten to.
Perhaps, he reflected, it was better that he didn't know.
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Gellert had rested for an hour or so, dozing in and out of wakefulness and various dark dreams. He felt like shit, to say the least, but he could also tell the potion was working. He thought he could guess what had been given to him, a cure-all of sorts, something that allowed the body to regain equilibrium when there were a great number of problems to deal with.
Such a potion was simple enough in its effect, but quite complicated in its creation: one of those delicate concoctions that required both the correct ingredients and preparation, and a good deal of spell-work to boot.
And it was working so fast. That young man – Gellert had already forgotten his name – must be a quite talented wizard, to whip up something like this on such short notice.
Shame he couldn't stick around to chat.
With an effort, he pushed himself up out of the softness of the bed, wobbling slightly as he stood but managing to remain on his feet this time. He felt nauseous and his head was pounding with a vengeance, but he would simply have to live with it. He could spare no more time languishing here.
First things first: dispose of the evidence. He pulled his wand from his pocket and, with a word, set the illicit portkey to incinerating in a fire that would burn nothing but what it was assigned to. It left trace but the faint smell of smoke in the air, and that would dissipate soon enough. Now he needn't worry about getting arrested by the British wizard government.
He glanced once more around the room, making sure he had forgotten nothing. Then he walked over to the window and slid it open as quietly as he could. He could have gone out the normal way, and yet…as kind as his host had been, once his parents entered the equation he might be facing some awkward questions. Plus, Gellert just plain didn't like the idea of facing someone who had seen in him in such a vulnerable state. Better to just get where he was going, and try and forget the blunder with the portkey had ever happened.
He had just flung one leg over the side of it when something made him pause…
…that guy had been awfully nice to him.
Silently cursing his sentimentality, he walked quickly back over to the bed and once again brought his wand to bear, pointing it at his own index finger.
"Cis." He whispered, creating a small laceration from which a drop of blood emerged. Blood-magic had always been a favorite of his. While the squeamish might call it immoral, he merely thought of it as efficient, not requiring the elaborate ceremony and equipment that other methods of spellcasting often called for.
With a few choice phrases, the drop of red liquid on his finger expanded and thinned, becoming a piece of parchment the color of blood. He told it what he wanted it to say, and how long he wanted it to remain in its current form (just long enough for the intended person to read it). It was easily enough done, because the blood was his, and under his control just as much as any other part of him.
With that done, he turned once again to the window, stepping over the sill and shutting it behind him. He crept down along the roof as quietly as he could, until he reached the lowest point.
Gellert was a robust youth, and was generally up to such physical feats as jumping from high distances and landing on his feet. However, his less-than-optimal reflexes at that moment left him in an undignified heap on the ground.
"This is a bad day." He lamented into the grass before getting to his feet, dusting himself off, and continuing on his way once more. Godrick's Hollow wasn't a large town; his great-aunt's house couldn't be very far from here…
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(A/N "Use Shift + Enter for Single Line Breaks". Wish I'd noticed that sooner . Anyway, I believe 'Cis' is Latin for 'cut'. Haha, Grindelwald is emo! Also, Bathilda Bagshot makes her appearance next. Her character gave me some trouble at first because I didn't have a clear vision in mind of what she would be like. You can decide next chapter if I portrayed her well. Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!)