His mother led him away from the other students as soon as he emerged from the portal. His heart pounded nervously, wondering what was so urgent that she had made time to talk to him on the eve of such an important ritual.
Sh didn't take him far; just into the woods deep enough to ensure that they wouldn't be overheard.
'Do you remember your lessons?' She demanded. Gellert nodded nervously, wondering which of his lessons applied here in the woods behind the Hawdon home.
'Yes, mother.' Gellert added after a beat, remembering that she wouldn't be able to see him in the darkness.
'Good...' His mother paused and Gellert squinted, trying to get a read on her body language in the dark. She didn't sound angry, afraid... in fact, she sounded almost excited. 'Your sister has reached her eligibility.'
'Her what?' Gellert choked.
'Hermione has become eligible, as of two weeks ago.' His mother repeated. There was a moment of silence as Gellert tried to wrap his head around what his mother had just said. Of course, he knew that Hermione was a witch and so he knew that she must at some point reach her eligibility. He just hadn't expected it to be so soon... or ever... he'd never really thought about it.
'Right.' He said bracingly. Desperately trying to remember what his lessons had told him about eligible witches. All he could think of was that she would look spectacular in red.
'So, as her eldest living male relative, you must gift her a sheath...' His mother reminded him, voice patronising.
'Oh.' Gellert said, feeling stupid. He'd known that of course, but now that was the only thing he could think about. He had no idea what she would want her sheath to look like - plain, decorative, large, small enough to conceal, in family colours or simple black?
'I have had one made already.' His mother sighed, sounding exasperated. She handed him a dark bundle of cloth and he resisted the urge to peek, knowing that he wouldn't be able to see anything in the dark anyway.
'Now, you are to turn down any contracts for her, understand?' His mother demanded and he nodded along as she listed off his responsibilities as Hermione's brother. The reminder was good because he felt an awful lot like his brain was bouncing around in his skull and he hoped his mother didn't notice as he leant back against the tree trunk behind him for support. He clutched onto the wrapped sheath like a lifeline. His sister... his Hermione... was eligible.
He'd be fending them off with a beater's bat.
Did Mordred know? He was dead, but he was still Hermione's relative. He probably did, and Gellert thought it should be him who was gifting her the sheath. Mordred was a dark wizard, nobody would dare cross her with him standing for her honour.
His mother had finished talking and without pause for acknowledgment, she had started striding back off to the torchlit path. Gellert hastily fixed his iron mask and hurried after her, tripping several times over fallen branches.
He found Berg in the clearing, clutching his broom in a white knuckled hand. His brother hated flying on an inanimate object, but it was an important part of the ritual so they had little choice. Berg turned to give Gellert's broom back, then paused when he saw his clammy skin.
'What is it?' Berg murmured, low enough that nobody could hear him over the babble of conversation.
'A sheath, for Hermione.' He muttered, clutching it tighter against his chest.
'Oh...' Berg echoed Gellert's reaction in the woods. 'Oh...'
'Mother told me what to do, but I've forgotten everything already. I didn't expect to have a sister when I was seven.' Gellert hissed despairingly.
'Just say no to everyone for now.' Berg replied quickly. 'I'll find you a book later.'
'Thanks.' Gellert breathed.
And then they were being let into the clearing.
Hermione was a vision in her pitch black dress, the dark protective runes contrasting spookily with her pale skin beneath the moonlight and flickering torches and her iron skull mask glittering cruelly. Her hair was loose and flew in wild curls around her shoulders.
She wouldn't be able to see his face but they would have to touch hands, so he hastily wiped them dry on his robes before drawing his own athame to cut his hand open.
'For the dead.' He said, allowing a couple of drops to fall into the pool in the first silver bowl.
'For the living.' Hermione replied. He held out his hand and allowed her to heal the cut with a smear of crimson animal blood. Then she had moved on to the next person and Gellert had to remind himself that she had over a hundred wixen to get through the gate. He climbed onto his broomstick and kicked off, relishing in the air rushing past his ears as he soared up.
His broomstick was one of the better ones but he rarely got to fly it. His siblings both hated being aloft without their beasts and he wasn't stupid enough to go anywhere near Katana's wing span on a broom; he would be buffeted out of the sky.
He turned, shifting his weight as the braking charms engaged and the back of the broom kicked upwards in response. Hovering, he took in the three groups of wizards that were forming. More wizards were flying up, black specks like backwards rain as they joined the groups. He picked the smallest group, winding he way beneath a twisting mass before merging with the group he'd chosen.
Flying in such close quarters could be dangerous, particularly when many of the brooms in use were long past their prime. Many juddered or made unnerving noises and one, whom Gellert gave a wide berth, kept losing its enchantment and dropping a couple of meters before jolting back into action and soaring back upwards again.
They flew slowly, orbiting the slowly forming rings of witches in the clearing below. The altar was a dark square in the middle but from this height he couldn't make out the details. He could, however, see that everyone had now entered the clearing and Hermione was picking her way across the grass, sliding between the rings to reach the altar. The twins followed her, still carrying one of the massive silver bowls of blood.
'Grindelwald!' A loud voice called beside him. He glanced over to see Herr Lintzen, discernible because his bright crimson hair and beard poked out from around his mask like a real lion's mane.
He called back a greeting and Herr Lintzen drifted closer so that he could be more easily understood.
'Be wary! Hermione's rituals are windy!' He called, opting to keep words to the minimum to avoid confusion. For a moment, he didn't understand, then he remembered that he hadn't actually done a Samhain ritual with Hermione. They hadn't done one at all last year, and the year before he'd been stuck in the desert.
If her Harvest ritual was anything to go by, then he could imagine just how windy this much more powerful ritual would be.
He took his free hand off his broomsticks that he hung on with just his legs to give Herr Lintzen a thumbs up, then he carefully tucked the bundle with Hermione's sheath into his robes. It looked odd and lumpy beneath the flowing fabric, but it would be safe there. If he lost it over these trees, he'd never find it again.
Beneath them, the ritual had started. Hermione stood, a dark form on the altar as the candles flared high around her. He couldn't hear the words, but he could feel the wind starting to stir as her family magic picked up. There was a hastily muffled curse as the unfortunate wizard's fault broomstick gave out completely behind him, and a stir of motion as someone swept down to grab him and seat him on the back of their own broomstick.
The wind continued to pick up, trees rattling and autumn leaves whipping into a flurry that made seeing anything incredibly difficult. Among it, Hermione glowed like a star. The protective runes on her skin lit her skull mask and in front of her the massive pentacle glowed with equal brightness.
Gellert's grip tightened on his broomstick and he pulled his wand from his sleeve.
They drew back slightly to allow the ritual space as the witches raised their right hands and they sparked to life in spirals until two massive glowing rings encompassed the altar with it's bright star.
The wind picked up, roaring and trying to force his broomstick sideways. He held on with gritted teeth, forcing it back towards the ritual. Around him, other wizards were equally straining. Those with solid, good brooms helped those with weaker ones, the whine of overworked enchantments built with the rushing of leaved and groaning of trees. The light below glowed brighter and brighter.
Then the wind condensed, whipping light from the hands of the witches and spiralling into a tornado of magical power in the centre of the clearing. Now with control of their brooms, the wizards scattered to escape the next, cataclysmic stage as the veil tore with an audible wail that made his hair stand on end.
Silver ghosts streamed out, obscuring his view of Hermione almost entirely. He darted forwards, wand at the ready in case any malevolent creatures waited beyond.
For a moment, it seemed that they had been lucky. Then he saw that there were dark shapes among the ghosts.
'Fouls!' He called, warningly. Across the sky, similar calls were being made and dark shapes began to dive bomb the host. Flashes of purple light wrapped around the dark shapes, and the pearly ghosts near them scattered. Gellert swooped towards the nearest Foul, flanked by three other wizards whom he didn't recognise. The Foul would have been humanoid once but it's form had been distorted by the twisting malevolent magic that it harboured.
'Protero!' He cried, brandishing his wand. His cry was echoed by the three wizards near him. Purple light shot from their wands and wrapped around the Foul, binding it's reaching, insidious tentacles against it's dark form.
Already, a second flight of wizards was soaring in behind them with wands bright; purple jets slammed into the Foul and immobilised it. The being was sucked back through the portal in a rocket of purple light as the third volley hit it.
He hung, searching for the next target. In front of him, a pair of wizards had immobilised another Foul, larger and darker than the one he had just helped with. He shot in that direction, joined by another four wizards and fired three purple bolts. The Foul gave way with a reluctant scream.
A louder, more human scream reached his ears form below and he dove without hesitation, blasting through the frigid mist of the spirits.
A Foul had reached the ground and solidified into a rotting, humanoid form with jagged teeth where it's mouth had once been and rotting trails of flesh which peeled from twisted limbs. Several of the welcomed spirits had solidified around it and they brandished a variety of weapons; from swords to staffs to pitchforks, standing like a shield between the Foul and the witches who were focusing on the ritual.
'Protero!' He cried, swooping overhead. He wasn't alone; ten other wizards had answered the cry and the purple binding flashed with painful brightness, reducing the Foul to splatters of dark spirit again which were whipped back into the portal with a whizz like a firecracker.
He spiralled upwards, blasting another Foul as he passed and spiralling around the rapidly closing veil. There were no more dark forms among the pearly ghosts.
'Go Hermione!' He called encouragingly. Her felt the roar of her white fire responding and the glowing edges of the tear sealed with a snap.
He cheered with everyone else, clapping his hand against wizards he didn't even recognise as they drifted towards the ground. Several times he was congratulated, and twice he was embraced by people he didn't even know.
Then he was on the ground and a figure stood before him. He dressed in black, wearing a heavy cloak over his head and twisting with enough darkness that he might have been a Foul if he hadn't been invited.
'Father.' Gellert greeted.
Pale lips curved into a smile.
'You've grown.' His father purred, drawing closer with smooth predatory steps.
'I have. I apologise for missing so many years; I'm sure you've been keeping abreast with events.'
'I have. Perhaps you should introduce me to this sister of yours.' His father demanded. Gellert was not fool enough to believe that it was a suggestion but he was tempted to deny it anyway. His father was even less forgiving than his mother and Hermione was unrepentantly impertinent.
'Gellert!' Hermione called from behind him. He stiffened turning on the spot as the cool form of his father's spirit stepped up beside him, cloak whispering over the leaves like a wraith.
But then he caught sight of the figures beside her and remembered that his father might be terrible, but Hermione had her own guardians tonight. At her left was a woman with Hermione's wild hair, but darker than a raven's wings and with cheekbones that could cut glass. To her right was a woman that could have been an older Hermione; they were eerily similar from the colour of their hair to the shape of their faces. All three carried themselves with the kind of grace and confidence that came with knowing that you were at the top of the food chain; an authority that bordered on arrogance and commanded respect.
Gellert did not resist the urge to bow.
'Gellert, meet the Lady Morgana Le Fey of Avalon, High Priestess of Gorlois and her mother, Queen Igraine Pendragon of Breton and Lady of Gorlois. Morgana, Igrane meet Heir Gellert Grindelwald.' Hermione introduced the two witches behind her smoothly and they inclined their heads. Gellert bowed again to each of them, deeply.
'Lady Morgana, Queen Igraine, it is a pleasure. May I introduce, my father, Lord Frederich Grindelwald. Father, may I introduce the Lady Hermione, High Priestess of Gorlois and Ward of our House.'
He'd been told before that his father was arrogant - one of those knew bloods who never understood the old ways and the complexities of magic, but was of the belief that he had mastered it. He was horrified when his father merely inclined his head towards the witches. He saw the brief flash of irritation on both elder women's faces and hoped that his own expression conveyed enough apology.
Then he remembered that he had something important to do, and he quickly pulled the sheath from his robes.
'Mother says you've reached your eligibility and it is my duty to defend your honour.' He held the bundle in her direction and Hermione accepted it with grace whilst the witches behind her smiles proudly.
She unwrapped it quickly, velvet covering spilling around her hands like the night given form.
'It's perfect, thank you.' She told him sincerely, untying the sash from her dress and threading the sheath back onto it. It was black leather, decorated with mother of pearl and pale horn. The blade it would some day carry was long, enough to be used for almost anything, yet short enough that it could be hidden up sleeves or beneath skirts
'Mother organised it.' He admitted sheepishly, 'I only learned today. Congratulations.'
'Thank you.'
They made their way into the shadow of the trees where a banquet had been laid out beneath flaming torches. He took a seat opposite Hermione and spent the entire meal trying to mitigate the insults his father paid her family. Finally it became too much and he made his excuses and left the table to go to the 'bathroom.'
His father prowled after him.
'You dishonour me, grovelling to those women.' His father growled as they left the warm glow of the torches.
'No.' Gellert gritted, 'you bring dishonour to me, Mother and the family by not affording them respect that they are due.'
'Are you not a Grindelwald?' His father loomed over him and Gellert braced himself for the pain that was sure to follow but it was his duty to ensure that his family paid proper respects.
'I am, but they are the Priestesses of the Sect of Gorlois. Legends given flesh, blessed by the Fey, the blood of kings flows through their veins. As the masses bow to us, we must in turn bow to them.'
His father's hand cracked across his iron mask, stinging against his face even through the protective metal and sending his neck snapping sideways.
'Foolish boy. You have no ambition.'
'And look where your ambition got you.' A cool voice interrupted from behind. 'Dead; forgotten except by the pitiful number of wixen whose lives you've spoiled.'
He glanced over at his mother. She stood, tall and terrible in her black robes. Her mask was draconic this year, and he felt it couldn't have suited her more in that moment.
'Katerina. You have as little ambition as your son.'
'I have different ambitions. That does not mean no ambition.' She corrected firmly. 'And Gellert has different ambitions again.'
'Poor ambitions. I did not raise my son to play servant to some jumped up witchling.'
'No... you didn't raise him.' His mother agreed, her hand coming to rest on Gellert's shoulder. 'You were too busy pursuing your ambitions. Come, Gellert, you won't get a chance to see Hermione again until Yule.' His mother steered him away from the livid spirit of his father. Her nails dug into his shoulder through the dark robes that he wore and her shoulders were stiff with some unidentifiable emotion.
'I don't mean for him to come.' He informed his mother, his gut laden with guilt.
'You don't need to apologise - he is your father and it is only natural that you would miss him. Besides, he was an accomplished wizard; you would be well served learning from him.'
'Learning from him?' Gellert echoed, surprised.
'Certainly. You'll share his talent for weaving spells. Your magic is obedient and concentrated; Hermione is an excellent duellist and excellent at witchcraft, but she needs her sect to perform true sorcery because her magic is difficult to control and keep on track. You, if you learned how, could perform much more alone than she could dream of. Your father is the only sorcerer of your calibre in decades, and so he is the only one who can teach you.
'Oh.' He said stupidly. 'Now, this year is a wasted opportunity but next year you will get him to teach you. Am I understood?'
'Yes mother.' He agreed quickly. He did not want to argue with both parents tonight.
By the time he got back to Hermione, the feast was ending and they were all mounting their brooms for the witching. He grabbed onto his own and mounted, taking off behind the trio in a single smooth motion and soaring up into the surprisingly warm autumn air.
Around him, the excitement was already taking hold. Wixen were drawing their wands and chanting the Latin words. Magic brimmed, people whooped and ghosts performed acrobatic tricks, trailing green mist like bridal veils.
He just couldn't get into the mood. He drew his wand, joining in with the chant for a bit to try and awaken the part of him that really enjoyed this, but his heart rate remained slow, his fingers were actually quite cold and he was still hungry. He just wanted his father. No, he wanted a different father; one that respected his friends and his choices.
'Gellert?' He whipped his broomstick around so hard that the charms shuddered. His father hovered behind him. His hood was still drawn to hide him from the general public and like every other spirit he was now silvery and ethereal again - his cloak trailed into mist and only his pale hands were visible. 'Perhaps I was overly hasty. You're still young, Merlin knows, my greatest desire at your age was probably to have a witch accept my invitation to the Yule Ball.'
'I dare say I am doing you proud so far then.' Gellert tried his absolute best to not let any scorn creep into his tone. His father was apologising; not for what Gellert wanted him to, but he was apologising all the same.
'I dare say you are. Perhaps we might fly together?'
Gellert nodded and peeled sideways. Already, wixen were soaring over the fields and leaving trails of magic behind them. He leaned forwards, his broom rocketing to catch up. Beside him, his father soared like a meteorite. They dipped down over a missed patch and Gellert drew his wand.
'Piger Messem Perdidit' He called. Emerald glittered from the tip, and the fierce joy of a witching finally sparked.