'Lovely as always, Hermione.' Berg commented suavely as Hermione finally emerged from her room. Gellert elbowed him in the side and they jostled one another in a brief competition over who would get to escort her. Gellert won. Hermione laughed and took his offered arm, allowing him to lead her to the fire pit.
There were already several people there - all the Lintzens were present, including Krum as well as Frau Hassel and her husband. They greeted one another as the three Grindelwald children took seats on the grass. It was strange, seeing everyone looking so plain. None of the witches wore jewellery or makeup and they all wore similar white cotton robes. The men were bare chested whilst the witches had bindings over their breasts and short skirts, almost like the one Hermione had first arrived in.
His mother was the last to arrived and Gellert jumped up to help her sit. She had to leave the staff behind, and without it's healing powers to support her she was clearly struggling to walk.
'I'm glad you all accepted my invitation.' Lady Grindelwald sighed once she was situated. 'I know that we are not a traditional family, but we are bound by ties as strong as any blood bond - ties of friendship, ties of hardship.'
There was a murmur of agreement around the circle.
'Hermione, will Mordred be joining us?'
'No. He did not want to risk the enchantment on his sword interfering with the ritual.'
'Very well.'
'Rose, I believe you're the best singer.'
Rose Hassel smiled and forced her hand through her chaotic, bouncy curls. She hummed a single note to herself, testing out a couple of chords before taking a final deep breath.
'Oh tell me why, oh tell me why. Tell me why must the clouds come, to darken the sky.' Frau Hassel did have a spectacular voice; pure and clear and powerful. 'This is the wake of Lugh the Sun King; he lost his life on the solstice day.'
'Oh, good choice.' Anneken murmured, then she joined in for the next verse. Anneken's voice was higher than Frau Hassel's; less refined and with a slight coarseness that made it warmer and more homely. Krum joined in too, his deeper masculine tones creating a wonderful symphony.
Berg joined next, his tenor tones matching the women even as Herr Lintzen's deep, thundering baritone rumbled into life. Hermione didn't know the words, so Gellert clapped along with her to the tune.
The song built to a powerful crescendo and was just finishing on a single long, mournful note when Herr Lintzen rolled straight into a jaunty tune about hawthorn trees in flower. Gellert knew this one and he and his mother sung along, then his mother managed almost the entire Ballad of Babur the Bold. Hermione was invited to sing next, so she provided a solo rendition of a Scottish song about some muggle called Prince Charlie fleeing to Skye. Then they all sung a children's tune about a witch that lost her wand.
They sang for hours; jaunty dancing tunes, pub songs, children's tunes and powerful ballads. The sun rose higher and higher in the sky and Gellert could feel the magic shifting around them. Hermione's family magic, attuned to the natural magic of the world, stirred and built until finally, his mother called a stop to the singing. It was noon; the magic of the solstice was at it's strongest and they were ready to perform the ritual.
Hermione lit the fire with a snap of magic and the wixen all shuffled closer in anticipation.
Gellert's mother pulled out a bundle of herbs, a golden chalice and parchment and quills. She passed the parchment out and everyone took one, balancing it awkwardly on their legs as they tried to write. Hermione offered up her back to him as a writing desk, and he let her go first. The pressure of the quill through his thin robes was ticklish, and she spent a long time writing. He couldn't imagine why; Hermione was the epitome of light and goodness, the couldn't be much for her to confess.
Then it was his turn, and before he knew it the clean parchment was marred by bold black letters; I killed Livius Lucan.
He dipped the quill into the ink again and brought it to the parchment; I can perform an unforgivable curse.
And everything else felt a little frivolous after that. When he'd last performed this ritual, he'd confessed to cheating on his transfiguration assignment... he felt like he'd lived a lifetime since then. The young wizard folded up his parchment quickly and passed the quill back to his mother but not before catching a glimpse of a veritable essay she was writing on her knee. He wondered what on earth she had done in the past two three years that merited so much writing.
'Gellert?' Hermione asked from beside him, already holding out the wide belt from her robe. He felt his cheeks going pink as he accidentally caught sight of her long legs and bare stomach and he quickly shuffled behind her to tie the blindfold around her eyes.
'All done.' He informed her when he was finished and then he tugged off his own belt and guided her hands to the tail ends, holding the cloth over his eyes. She tied it up, snug enough that he couldn't see anything except for the little triangle of light either side of his nose. With his sight taken, his other senses became particularly loud. The sun was warm on his back, and the fire was almost uncomfortably warm against his shins. The wind was cool and light, brushing his unfastened robe around his sides. Hermione was still sitting very close to him, so he felt the breeze of her movement when she pulled off her robe.
He did the same, carefully dropping it behind him so that he wouldn't trip over it, then he carefully tucked his folded parchment into his waistband so that he wouldn't lose it.
'Is your hand out yet?' Berg demanded from his left and Gellert waved his hand around until his forearm hit Berg's fingers.
'That's not my hand.' Krum grumbled and Anneken snickered.
'Be appropriate, Anneken.' Sighed Anneken's mother in resignation.
'I'm never inappropriate.'
Lady Grindelwald huffed. Hermione's hand closed around his wrist, and Gellert twisted his hand until he could hold hers as well.
'Everyone linked? Wonderful.' Hermione's magic sparked to life against his and flowed up his arm, hastened by their familiarity with one another. His own rushed out of his fingers and merged into her core until he couldn't tell whose magic belonged to whom. At the same time, trickles of his mother's magic began to wind through to him from the other side of Hermione and Gellert poked Berg's magic into forming a link.
It took a while - his mother may have claimed that they were all as close as family but it was unescapable that mixing magics like this was hard when there were so many vastly different signatures to work with.
In silence, his mother reached out with their magic and lifted the bundle of sage - like many powerful magical ingredients, the sage had a vague magical presence of it's own and it soaked up the combined magic of their circle, intensifying its properties until the musty herb's smell became even more powerful than the sweet applewood in the fire pit.
A magical presence cut through the thick enchantments - ancient and so different from the musty power of the sage. The family magic of Gorlois had awoken and it sung through Hermione's mouth - haunting, multi-toned and in some forgotten language that soaked deeper into his magic than he'd ever delved himself. It stripped away protections and defences he'd never been aware that he had and bared his soul to the ritual.
As she sang, he became aware of a second magic - bright, agonisingly bright and so vast and powerful that he hadn't even realised that it was an entity. It was the magic of the solstice, it was the only thing it could be - nothing else could be so all encompassing.
His mother was still casting, somehow not distracted by the incredible magic that now swirled around them. The Gorlois magic was weaving a second enchantment over the top of the one his mother worked on - taking that glowing, pure power and focusing it with blinding intensity. It gathered around them, hot against his magic even as the wind cooled his mortal skin.
His mother cast the sage into the fire and the smoke became sweet and musty, but Gellert was beginning to feel dazed and disassociated. The smoke was thick and heavy, the sun was warm, a multitude of different magics mingled in his body like twenty people were trying to talk to him at once. He felt the first slip of parchment as it was thrown into the fire - a sharp lance of shared magical shock and the indescribable feeling that things had suddenly become lighter and easier.
The second piece was thrown in, then the third and on around the circle until Berg was releasing his hand and tossing in his own piece of parchment. Gellert pulled his own from his waistband and released Hermione's hand. He half expected the loss of contact to break him from the magic, but he was bound solidly by the magic of the ritual and he found he knew exactly where the fire was and where he could put the parchment without burning himself.
'I am blind, I am misguided. I have failed and performed actions which have sullied my soul.' He pulled his blindfold from his eyes, blinking in the sudden bright light of noon. The mundane appearance of the fire was jarring against the colourful mysticism of the ritual. The sage was a mess of curled stems and leaves on top of small blackened branches. He dropped his parchment and blindfold into the fire and they burned in an unnaturally large puff of flame. The flow of the magic suddenly became smoother, the heat of the solstice magic less unbearable. He retook his place as Hermione dropped in her own parchment and blindfold with fluid ease, then his mother did hers and they all rejoined hands.
'Judge us.' His mother commanded, and she threw their combined magic into the fire. But it was drowned out by the cataclysmic unleashing of the sun magic that had been gathered by the magic of Gorlois. The fire roared in response, golden flames leaping up above their heads. Hermione alone stood firm, flames licking at her skin and caressing her hair as everyone else skittered back as far as their joined hands would allow.
But the flames dimmed quickly, condensing into a ball of fire at head height. His mother held up the golden chalice as she brought it near the flames, smoke began to pour into it. As the goblet was filled, the flames grew dimmer until with one last, bright flash they extinguished, taking every ounce of ritual magic with them. They were left with a pile of coals in the hearth and a goblet brimming with swirling white smoke.
In the absence of the magic and the fire, the world felt strangely bare. The rustle of the wind was loud, the brightness of the sun was blinding against the paleness of skin that was never exposed in decent society - he dearly hoped that he was the only one that noticed that Hermione's tan extended across her stomach and all the way up her legs beyond the hem of the short white skirt she wore for the ritual.
His mother passed the chalice to Hermione and the young witch grasped it with both hands, taking a small sip of the contents before passing it to him. For a moment, she seemed unaffected then suddenly she doubled over with a cry, clutching at her chest.
Gellert swallowed nervously, wet his lips and took a sip. He passed the goblet quickly to Berg, resisting the urge to cough up the smoky potion as it filled his mouth with an earthy, cloying taste.
The pain was sudden and agonising, like the fire had reignited inside him. He was distantly aware that he'd screamed, or perhaps he was still screaming. It felt like he had been split in half, like he had drunk poison. Spots danced across his clenched eyes and the cool earth was suddenly against his searing cheek. The air was full of icy knives, his skin was peeling off... darkness was a relief.