Gellert couldn't remember the last time he'd ridden in the carriage; there were very few places that his family frequented that couldn't be accessed by the portal network or floo. The wizarding district of Paris was not accessible by either, which meant Anneken had procured her family carriage for the weekend and in the spirit of festivity, the men had been dragged along with the women.
It was fortunate that the Lintzen carriage was so large, Gellert thought as he piled into a room with Berg. Hermione and his mother were sharing another, Anneken and her betrothed took the third whilst there was an entire suite of rooms for Herr and Frau Lintzen. Gellert and Berg's room had a forward facing window which allowed a view of the ten mighty sleipnir it would take to pull the massive carriage. The beasts huffed and puffed, their breath steaming in the cold winter morning. Liveried blankets covered each beast, keeping them warm whilst the passengers settled themselves and elves loaded food and luggage.
The two boys stripped off their fur hats and gloves and shoved them onto their beds before hurrying back into the main living areas; such a journey was far too exciting to remain cooped up in their bedroom.
Anneken looked like she was wearing a skirt of house elves as she strode out between the main doors. Four elves scurried around her, taking instructions and delegating orders to a constantly shifting stream of younger elves. Meanwhile a long train of elves trailed at her heels, burdened by crates and barrels, towering piles of boxes and baskets of cloth. She barely even acknowledged them, except to take Gellert's hand for assistance up the steep steps. Krum, her fiancé, arrived a moment later with a very stressed expression and a pile of thick books that looked to relate to his potions study, and Gellert couldn't help but wonder if he'd really realised how much of a whirlwind Anneken could be when it came to organising and social events. Never-the-less, Krum hurried into the carriage and into his room with his books and one of Anneken's elves was swiftly dispatched to fetch him ink and parchment.
Finally came the moment he'd been waiting month for; his mother emerged from the left wing. She leant heavily on an ornately inscribed staff, gifted to her by Hermione's family and virtually glowing with powerful healing magic. Hermione supported her other hand, helping the older witch across the slippery cobblestones in a slow and cautious shuffle. Despite the obvious frailty in her movement, his mother was still a witch to be reckoned with, and she presented herself as such. Her entire frame was swathed in a luxurious grey cloak, trimmed with thick fur that fell in swathes to the floor and trailed behind her. Gellert hurried forwards to take Hermione's place at his mother's arm and was surprised to realise how little the matriarch had been relying on her. His mother's fingers barely ghosted along his forearm.
'Your hair is a mess, make sure you tie it back.' His mother informed him tartly as they reached the carriage and he helped her up the stairs.
'I rather like it like that.' Hermione contradicted from behind her, bouncing slightly. Lady Grindelwald levelled a scowl at her which Hermione shrugged off easily.
'I we let you choose your own clothing and hair, you'd look like an urchin off the street.' His mother replied disparaging and Hermione grinned.
'Oh, you know I wouldn't. Some of what you've all been saying has stuck.'
Gellert rolled his eyes, interrupting yet another of the brewing debates over the dress Hermione was to be wearing for the Winter Ball she'd been invited to in England.
'I think I'll get it cut.'
Both women looked at him like he'd grown a second head.
'Look, like this.' He fluffed up his hair until it barely grazed his collar, grinning. He fully expected his mother to react with outrage at the suggestion and he was surprised when she hummed in consideration.
'I think you'd look rather dashing with it like that.' Anneken informed him breezily from the doorway to what was presumably the elves' kitchens and storage rooms. Gellert gaped at the witches, then shook his head and took the cloak from his mother, hanging it on a hook near the door. He just didn't understand them in the slightest.
He led his mother to the chair closest to the fire and lit it with a jab of his finger, sending smoke puffing up the chimney. There were blankets over the arm of one of the chairs, and he fetched on for her, allowing his mother to spread it over her legs as a shield against the heat she was still sensitive to. Hermione returned a moment later from the large, built in bookshelf behind the dining table with three large books beneath her arms.
She dropped them onto the coffee table with a heavy thunk that earned her an absent minded scolding that suggested his mother was more than used to her doing that. Then, as Hermione read out the titles of each book, Gellert settled himself into a chair with a good view of the doorway.
Herr Lintzen, dressed in a crimson cloak that could have come straight from Durmstrang was bustled in by his wife who was spelling creases out of his trousers. He was gruffly arguing that he wasn't late, even as they moved off with a jerk which sent the lamps swaying and sent the gilded lions of the many crests around the room glittering.
Anneken reappeared a moment later, heaving a sigh as she sat down in the remaining armchair and propped her feet up on a carved wooden footstool.
'How is Krum's studying going?' Berg asked her.
'I'd probably know if Hermione didn't keep piling events on me.' Anneken glanced over at Hermione who looked up from the runic copy of Beedle the Bard that had been Gellert's first gift to her.
'You love it.' Hermione replied blandly.
'Only because I know you'll need a dress for it.' Anneken winked at her and Hermione rolled her eyes.
'I know you're just using me to get to Atalanta.' Hermione jabbed back. Gellert knew there was no way that was Anneken's only reasoning for wanting to be close to Hermione, but he was willing to bet access to the young and talented seamstress' apprentice was no small bonus. Atalanta, his mother and Anneken had been secreted away for half the holidays so far designing the dress that Hermione would be wearing to her debut in British magical society.
'Talking of which, I haven't seen you practicing yet this morning.' His mother interrupted and Gellert stifled a groan. Whilst he enjoyed dancing with Hermione when he knew the dances, the stuffy and overly complex dances that he was having to learn just to be her partner were unbearable. Hermione on the other hand jumped up with eagerness that he was certain was born from watching his struggling to remember dances he'd learned when he was seven and hadn't taken part in since.
'Ah, Entertainment.' Herr Lintzen huffed, waving his hand and sending all the furniture skidding to the edges of the room, creating a small floor in the middle that could be used for dancing.
'Don't be too smug, Berg.' Anneken warned. 'You'll be her partner next, and I'll be expecting a a Volta from you.'
Berg groaned and buried his face into his lap, his ears flaming red. Hermione, who now stood next to Gellert in the middle of the floor rose up onto her tiptoes to whisper into his ear.
'Let's do a waltz.' She suggested and he barely kept his jaw from dropping open.
'No!' He hissed. Hermione grinned impishly, spinning around so that she faced him.
'Ah, ah, proper clothing young Lady!' Anneken scolded, waving her wand. Hermione's dress flowed down until it brushed the floor and the heels on her shoes grew from the width of a finger until her head was almost level with his nose.
'Oh come on!' Hermione hissed, seemingly unconcerned with her changed attire. 'Herr Lintzen will love it.'
'You're mental.' He told her, but Hermione had already waved her hand and a little violin in the corner of the room jumped to life. With no other choice, Gellert lifted his arms and Hermione wrapped her own around him, pressing herself up against him with a wicked grin.
Herr Lintzen started chortling as soon as the opening had played, whilst his wife her a hand pressed to her chest. Leaning back against his arms, Hermione hung backwards, her hair flowing down as he led her backwards in three quick steps, sweeping her into several quick, spinning turns. She really was very good at this dance, which she had absolutely no right to be because he'd only practiced it with her once before and they spun smoothly, his legs brushing hers but never tangling as he barely managed to keep ahead.
'Mental, Mental, Mental.' He repeated as Hermione took an arm off his and beckoned to Herr Lintzen through a haze of hair. The Patriarch joined them a moment later, then Anneken swept up Berg to join them on the floor, which was really much too small to have three couples dancing, especially because despite Anneken's prodigious skill, Berg was truly terrible and kept bumping into everyone.
Even so, there was an incredibly daring fun in performing such a dance right in front of his mother. With the other two couples on the dance floor, he felt rather more confident and he began to take emboldened steps, dipping Hermione deeply pulling her upright into his chest before snapping her into a twirling loop of the dance floor, brushing up against the swirling skirt of the two other women. He was pretty certain that their steps were not accurate or precise, but that hardly felt like the purpose of the dance - it was bold and daring and unapologetic and he rather enjoyed himself. It was a shame when a very apologetic elf finally knocked on the door to beg them to stop as they were destabilising the sleipnir.
Laughing, the men all led their witches to a seat around the edge so that they could catch their breath. Frau Lintzen still held a hand over her heart but she was flushed pink and her eyes twinkled gaily. His mother was smiling too, not quite as mortified as Gellert had imagined she'd be, with the high necked gowns she usually wore.
'Now.' His mother began wickedly, 'Let's have that Volta from you, Berg.'
Still glowing bright red, Berg shuffled over and bowed to Hermione, not meeting either of their eyes.
'May I have this dance?' He mumbled and Hermione nodded, less confident with this dance than she had been with the waltz, which perhaps said something about her will to scandalise his mother.
It was incredibly complex, requiring the two participants to stick to a number of steps apart from one another, then perform a section right up close that virtually guaranteed that if either of them messed it up, Hermione's rather lethal heels would dig painfully into Berg's toes.
After the fun of dancing the Waltz, Hermione and Berg's rendition of the Volta was painful to watch which was rather unfortunate because it was one of his mother's favourites. The High Witch had her two unfortunate wards skipping and clapping until the elves served lunch, at which point Frau Lintzen sent them both away to clean up.
There was very little time after a light lunch to do anything substantial - Hermione practiced her Gobbledegook, much to the awe of both boys who barely knew more than the basic greetings. She was turning into quite the linguist; speaking English and German fluently and knowing more than a little Russian, French and Gobbledegook - not to mention she kept her notes in a combination of Pictish and Nordic, so he was willing to bet she was nearly fluent in those as well. Anneken sorted through a pile of parchments which contained plans for the Yule celebration and the associated safety precautions. Nobody wanted to take the chance that another ritual would fail this year, particularly when they were still suffering the consequences of the last.
Food was tight, a string of unprecedented bad luck meaning barns had caught fire, plagues of rats and sickness had run rampant through everyone's winter supplies and it wasn't just limited to the wizarding world. Many of the Russian students had been instructed to stay at school over Yule as unrest at the famine stirred muggles to violence. Nobody wanted the Yule ritual to fail and cause the winter to drag out any longer than necessary.
Gellert retreated to his room to make a start on his Yule homework; two rolls of parchment on the ethical considerations of trans-species transfiguration. While he was by no means reluctant to study, he found this whole exercise to be rather pointless - he had never seen any adult witch or wizard perform any form of transfiguration which involved an animal and very much doubted he ever would.
Hermione would find the debate interesting though, so he resolved to discuss it with her and Mordred always had interesting insight on his ethics essays. He would definitely receive top marks, but he would probably end up re-writing it several times as each of his friends... or perhaps he should call them Hermione's court reviewed them.
The carriage drew to a halt just in time to go out for a sumptuous tea. Gellert had only vague memories of Paris; he'd made a visit once when he was very young in the short period after Dumortier's attempted revolution in France and before his father's betrayal had cast his mother into their segregation in Blau Berg. He remembered it as a boisterous place; full of witches in massive muggle-style skirts and cramped little eateries that spilled out onto the street, thickening the air with the heady scent of wine and herbs.
He was taller now, so he could see the bowls of thick, creamy soup and the glistening cuts of roast meat that was being served to the patrons. However he was also old enough to feel the hostility that proved exactly why Dumortier had almost succeeded in his takeover of the French governmental system.
Their party stuck out painfully in their German clothing - the dark, rich colours of their cloaks were a sharp contrast to the pastels that the French witches wore and the embroidery was far less extensive, limited to trimmings on their cuffs and hems rather than the ornate patterns on the men's jackets. Their witches carried themselves differently, unhindered by massive skirts and painfully tight corsets or ostentatious lacy hats and he found himself wondering how on earth they could cast effectively in that getup?
Hermione looked spectacular next to him, the runes on her crown glittering on her brow and her crisp white underskirt flashing between the heavy velvet overdress. Her hair was pulled up by matching white and deep plum ribbons which allowed her hair to cascade in tight ringlets over one shoulder. His mother was in an even darker shade of the same colour, almost black unless the light hit the fabric just right, sending a shimmer of deep wine up the rich silk skirt. She wore a pointed hat and the Gorlois staff she leaned on thrummed with power, holding her legs straight and strong as she strode down the street, staff clacking against the flag stones. Anneken was as scandalous as always, her neckline plunging to reveal inappropriate amounts of pale golden blouse, even if the blood-red hood somewhat shadowed it. Krum didn't seem bothered, he seemed happy to show off what was his, bedecked in matching blood red robes.
Gellert felt rather inferior next to them, his robes somewhat dull and plain. He wore a business-like slate grey half cloak with a thick black fur lining, the only interesting thing was the silver cloak fasteners which coiled like serpents across his chest. He was, he supposed, better than the french with their ridiculously tight calf length robes, skintight stockings and ruffled neckties that puffed from their jackets like a rooster's wattles.
Their first stop after eating was the clothing shop, which he believed to be the main purpose of their visit to the area. Hermione's ball dress had been a subject of conflict between Anneken and his mother since the young witch had announced the upcoming even several days ago. As seemed to be the normal way, Anneken had wanted something daring and his mother had fought fiercely against every inch of exposed skin.
The men were relegated to a huddle of spindly stools which groaned under the weight of the adults. There was a chess board packed away beneath a little table and a generous pile of newspapers. There was also, he noticed with some amusement, a very worn looking copy of "which broomstick?". Krum pulled out the chess set, challenging Herr Lintzen to a game whilst Berg picked up the broomstick guide. Neither of them were particularly fond of brooms; Berg had his hippogriff and Gellert, whilst not afraid of heights had always found he preferred being on the ground. He felt no inclination to whizz around on an enchanted stick.
With nothing better to do, Gellert abandoned his chair and started flipping through the racks of clothing. Maison Capenoir certainly did not cater to everyone; for a start there was nothing plain - not that the French seemed overly fond of plain in general. The embroidery was all exquisite, scrolling flowers and leaves and thick knots of glittering gold rope that made it all look rather feminine. In fact, he only realised he was indeed holding men's robes when he remembered that French witches all wore muggle style hoops and bustles.
He snorted and shoved the offending garment back onto the railing, crossing the polished marble floor to the display of cloaks. These, he was fairly certain were for witches; or, he hoped they were, he shuddered at the thought of any wizard trying to wear such floral tones.
He could hear voices from the back and suddenly a door was flung open, the voices growing louder. Then Hermione stepped through the door in a click of heels and his jaw fell open.
Anneken had won the dress design debate; the glittering blue bodice of the dress was shaped like the top of a heart, leaving her shoulders covered by an almost veil-like fabric that left her skin clearly visible, right down to the plunging neckline which was embroidered . The sleeves were the same, long and flowing right down to the floor in misty trails and the skirt was a strange blend of two colours, starting at blue and ending in a misty grey. Whilst Hermione's dress looked ethereal and stunning enough for a Veela, Hermione's expression seemed to more closely resemble that of an enraged Veela.
'What's wrong?' He asked cautiously. As far as he could tell the dress fitted well and he thought it looked very nice, even if it was very different to anything he'd seen before.
'They're arguing again!' She hissed. It did seem that her abrupt departure from the fitting room had at least temporarily halted the voices, but he didn't doubt it would start up again in a moment.
'What do you think? It sounds like they haven't let you get a word in about it.' He said sympathetically, offering her his arm to lead her towards one of the tall mirrors that nestled between clothing racks.
'It's okay.' She said after a moment of looking herself up and down.
"But?' He prompted, trying desperately to look only at the reflection of her eyes in the mirror and not the way the back of the bodice left her shoulder blades sharply visible through the see through fabric.
'It doesn't say anything.' She finally said, crossing her arms over her chest. Gellert looked at her quizzically, unsure what she wanted to say with her dress. Perhaps in British culture, what one wore could be used to say things in the same manner as the language of flowers?
'I need it to make a statement.' Hermione expanded after a brief pause. 'This is my first chance to really make an impression, but I don't even know what kind of impression I want to make.'
Whilst Hermione had certainly made an impression on German society, it was one won over time. Fräulein Grindelwald, the vivacious sister of Gellert Grindelwald, lighting quick with wand and wit, the perfect embodiment of ancient magic. Wild, powerful, generous and devoted yet lethal to those whom earned her ire. She was a born leader, fearsome duellist and every inch a member of an ancient family.
The stuffy British wouldn't know what to make of her.
'Well, its certainly daring.' He said, forcing his eyes back up to hers again. They'd drifted back to the bodice again where it flared into the ghostly grey layers of skirt. It looked very grown up, like she was a woman rather than a witchling.
'I guess...' Hermione trailed off.
'I think you should put this on it.' He decided, taking her hand and holding it up to the light so that her family ring glittered in the lamp-light. 'That's a statement. You won't just be debuting yourself, you'll be debuting your family as well. It would be a pretty loud declaration of your family and your loyalty to their values. Not to mention that a wold is a pretty good representation of you too - wild, fierce, strong and proud.'
'It's meant to be a white Grim.' Hermione informed him but she was smiling down at the ring on her finger. 'But I like the idea.'
'There you go... full of symbolism. Who else would be so bold as to wear a Grim on their dress?' Berg drawled from the front of the shop. Hermione only hesitated a moment longer before making up her mind.
'I love you.' She told him, flinging her arms around his neck. Surprised, Gellert stabilised himself against the nearest rack of clothing - she was heavy with such a big dress on.
'I love you too... sister.' He replied uncertainly, resting his arms around her terrifyingly bare shoulders. Berg coughed meaningfully from the front of the shop.
'And you, brother Berg.' Hermione added with a laugh, drawing away from Gellert and heading back into the fitting room where the adult witches were still arguing fiercely. He heard her sudden announcement, the declaration silencing the debate. There was a moment of pause, then he heard his mother's resigned sigh followed by her crisp instructions to the seamstress. He retreated to the other men, hoping his mother never realised he had played a part in her defeat.
With the ordeal of clothes shopping finally over, he thought they would be able to do something more to his liking for the evening - the circus was in Paris and there was apparently a shop that sold all manner of sweet treats down at the end of the street. Unfortunately it seemed he wouldn't be that lucky - his mother had organised a formal dinner to introduce Hermione to a manufacturer of enchanted items who would hopefully turn her self-inking quill from a handful of home-enchanted items into a commercial product which could be sold across the international wizarding community.
Paris was a lively place in the evening, couples drifted between warmly lit food venues in the pools of light cast from gas lanterns above, flitting through silver moonlight. They spoke passionately, waving their free hands and speaking in their flowing language. A quartet of teenage witches in periwinkle blue cloaks sang to the bold notes of a grand piano near a huge pine tree at the head of the street. The smells of food were stronger in the still night air; heady, heavy wine and rich, roasting meat. The restaurant they went to was decorated for Yule with glittering baubles and strings of twinkling witchlights tastefully draped around the panelled walls.
There was an incredibly elderly couple already in the doorway and he was surprised when his mother nodded respectfully to them. He didn't recognise either face and they wore no obvious family jewellery, but surely if his mother was nodding to them they must be of an ancient family?
'Katerina, I am gladdened to see you well. We heard terrible tales of events in Germany over the last year.' The elderly lady greeted his mother warmly.
'Yes, a trying year. Dumortier's ideas will not die out without a fight.' His mother replied, her eyes flickering to the man. His creased eyes were fixed on Hermione, dark and beady beneath heavy white brows. He looked half mad, a drab brown cloak thrown over a creased garment that could have passed as a nightgown. His hair flew about his face in wild white wisps that looked like they were in need to a good comb. 'May I present Hermione, my ward.' His mother pulled the young witch forwards, not missing where the man's interest lay.
'A High Priestess - I never thought I'd see that kind of magic surface again.' The old man said, shaking his head. It was terribly rude, Gellert thought, for the old man to not introduce himself in return.
'My line has always had a Sect.' Hermione informed him cooly, as aware as Gellert of the man's rudeness.
'Very interesting.' He practically purred, his eyes alight with academic curiosity.
'Nick, for Merlin's sake.' The woman huffed. 'Pardon his manners dearest; Nick spends a lot of time in his workshop. I have a real battle of it trying to pull him out even for dinner. What is the good of immortality I say, if one doesn't plan to live it. I am Perenell and this is my husband, Nicolas Flamel.'
'Nicolas Flamel!' Hermione breathed and Gellert exchanged a glance with Berg, wondering what the woman meant by "immortality". Were they some kind of half breed?
'You've heard of me?' The man chucked, sounding surprised.
'Of course, my friend Harry is a great fan of your work. Perhaps you could come to the Yule celebration we are planning and we could talk more. He would be ever so jealous.' Hermione suggested with a winning smile. Gellert shook his head, knowing that she was up to something but almost afraid to ask.
With a little more talk the Flamels departed and their party was led into a large private dining room. Like everything in France, it was decorated in pastel colours; eggshell blue wall panels were decorated with gilt candelabras and fractionally darker blue drapes which had been drawn shut across the tall windows. The chairs were upholstered in cream brocade and the floor was covered with a massive floral carpet which ran right up to the hearth of the dark, engraved wooden fireplace. The small fire crackled merrily, filling the room with the faint scent of burning applewood and the massive crystal chandelier caught it's light as though every gem was lit by its own inner fire. He adjusted the awful bow tie around his neck and took a deep breath, fortifying himself for what he knew would be a dull evening. He hated Paris.