Since his return to the island, Gellert's dreams had changed in a mortifying manner. Hermione took a prominent role, performing acts he'd only heard the lower born boys snickering about in the dormitory after lights out. It made speaking to her sensibly almost impossible, either because his mind wandered back to the dreams or because he was too embarrassed by his depraved subconscious to look her in the eyes.
He'd tried everything - occlumency, meditation, reading a boring book, working on family finances before bed and thinking of foul beasts and even once, in an entirely fumbling attempt at what he'd also heard the lower bred boys discussing, sating himself before bed.
All his attempts had been futile. The dreams persisted. Perhaps, if his father had been alive, he might have worked up the courage to ask for advice. As it was, he scoured every grimmoire he could get his hands on, finding a number of very dark rituals to be performed with the dirty sheets and a couple of cleaning charms, but no cure.
So it was a relief when he found himself in a crowd packed so tightly that he was warm, despite the winter chill in the air and the snow that was rapidly turning to slush between his feet.
He immediately began working his way forwards through the crowd, keen to see what had drawn so many people. It was a hard battle; nobody wanted to give up their position at the edge of the crowd but he made it eventually, finding himself pressed up against a thin blue ribbon held suspended at waist height by stakes driven into the ground. Opposite him, pressing up against an identical barrier, another crowd craned their necks to Gellert's right, awaiting someone along the marked path.
It was only then that Gellert noticed that they were gathered among the ruins of Blau Berg. The pathway passed through where the massive front gates had once stood, the crowd perched on the crumbled walls like a living blanket, using the additional height to see… whatever they were gathered to see.
Then, as he peered at the people around him, he noticed the colours they wore. Most seemed to be wearing some shade of blue, varying between a bright blue and a bold navy. Generally plain but often trimmed in silver or white. He would have thought it a family funeral, except for the number of people in black and pure white. Neither were the colours of his family, and nobody else would have a funeral procession through his family estate.
Puzzled, but intrigued, Gellert ducked beneath the barrier, ignoring the shouts of those in the crowd. He wanted to see where the path led to.
He followed the path down the track, instinctively glancing up at the shape of Nurmengard on the far slope in an effort to discern how building had progressed by the time of this vision. The tower was nothing more than an indistinct shape in the distance, obscured by the snow that sharpened the contrasts of the steep hillside and disguised the crests against the white sky.
At the crossroads, the ribbons and crowd guided him to the right, up and along the ridge towards where the portal had once stood. But he did not have to travel quite that far. A clearing opened up only a short distance from the crossroads.
Gellert froze. His heart seemed to stop beating. A steel band appeared around his chest, forcing all the air from his lungs and a dull ringing took up in his ears.
A funeral pyre had been built.
He looked at the crowd, reassessing them.
A Grindelwald funeral was not a family funeral. It was a state occasion with dignitaries and influential wixen travelling across the world to pay their respects to both the recently deceased and the new leader of Northern Europe. Which explained why so many were not wearing Grindelwald blue… or perhaps Gorlois blue. The difference was too subtle to be replicated by the many guests. Those in other colours; visitors from other countries with different traditions, like Britain, where they wore black like muggles.
He managed to gasp in a breath, spinning on the spot and tearing back the way he'd come. He'd wasted too much time already; he needed to find the procession. He needed to know who he was going to lose.
His feet slipped and slid on the melting snow but he refused to slow to a safe speed. He reached the crossroads, the mourning song cutting through the ringing in his ears. He spotted the procession; a witch led, bearing the flaming torch. Her hair was covered by a veil. Her dress could have belonged to Hermione or Anneken.
The body atop the shields was obscured by flowers.
He dashed forwards again, determined to tear the veils from every witch if he had to.
He was awoken before he could reach the crumbled walls.
He found himself gasping, bolt upright in bed, sheets crumpled around his waist and tangled between his legs.
'Where's Hermione?' He demanded between wheezing breaths.
'Outside.' Berg answered immediately, looking shocked. 'Are you okay?'
'Is she safe?'
'Yes?' Berg's voice rose at the end, turning the statement into a question. Gellert threw back the covers, stumbling as his sheets tangled around his feet and dragging them half way across the room before he managed to free himself.
He threw open the door and darted out, almost colliding with Hermione.
She was already dressed in her formal day dress, ready to… to meet with a potential entrepreneur that they were considering sponsoring.
'You're alive.' He breathed in relief, throwing his arms around her. She stood, stiff with surprise, until he released her. Then, he jumped off the porch and sprinted up the hill, still in his pyjamas to check on his mother.
She too was well, propped up in bed with breakfast on a tray and a book on muggles open in her lap. She looked up, initially surprised and then disapproving when she took in his attire and in groomed appearance.
'What is the hassle?' She asked, injecting her question with enough aristocratic disdain that Gellert felt like a child again.
'I saw…' He trailed off, horror clenching at his chest again, then he breathed out harshly and continued, 'I saw a Grindelwald funeral.'
'I see. Was this funeral imminent?' His mother raised an eyebrow, somehow managing to look down on him even from her reclined position.
Gellert's fear faltered and logic began to return.
'I don't know.' He realised, then, 'No. It was winter. There was snow.'
Tension seeped out of his shoulders. He had until Samhain at least before frost would even brush the grounds of Blau Berg in the mornings, let alone the thick blanket of snow he'd seen in the vision.
'So why, pray tell, are you running about like a headless hippogriff in your nightclothes?'
Gellert refused to be embarrassed. The safety of his witches came long before propriety and public decorum. Besides, the island was private. It wasn't as if anyone would be there so early as to see him.
He left his mother's rooms, ignoring the concerned questions from both Hermione and Berg as he considered how he could possibly alter his vision. His family could not die.