He had been expecting a visit from Albus for months but he hadn't expected it to proceed like this. He was woken long before dawn by guards who blasted him with cold water and scrubbed him brutally until his skin was red with cold and abrasion. Then, they forced his shivering body into a set of black dress robes and clamped a set of heavy shackles over his wrists and ankles. His magic was cut off abruptly; the shackles were so powerful that he could barely even feel his bond with Hermione anymore.

He was taken down to meet with his old enemy in the same room where he'd met with Anneken mere months ago.

Albus hadn't aged as well as Anneken and his robes looked absolutely ridiculous. They were black with swirls of navy blue and little twinkling silver dots that were perhaps meant to represent stars. He wore a pointed hat, and his hair and beard were tucked into a wide cloth belt.

'Dumbledore.' Gellert observed coldly. He didn't have the patience for the power games that the headmaster was trying to play.

'Grindelwald. You're gaining influence again.'

'Me?' Gellert asked. 'Or my sister? She's remarkable, is she not?'

'She will not be the first of your ilk that I have defeated. She will warm a cell in Azkaban as soon as she slips up.' Dumbledore promised.

'My ilk? Slips up? I assure you, Hermione and I have very little in common.' Gellert assured truthfully. Hermione was everything good in magic; kind and loving, fiercely protective and forgiving. Gellert had long since acknowledged that he was her opposite in every way, he cared for few and held deep grudges and he had elves deeply into magic that Hermione would never touch.

'No? She uses animal sacrifices in her worship of the "old ways", she rarely uses her wand and is well studied in ancient dark magic. She has gathered around herself a posse of dark, powerful families and they seem to worship her.'

'You still label anything you don't understand as dark.' Gellert tutted. It sounded like this truly was the Hermione he remembered and he took great delight in how she was frustrating his old enemy. If his memory served him, she would hate him with a passion for many years yet.

'If she doesn't use dark magic, what manner of necromancy has brought her to my school?' Challenged the professor.

'I believe the correct question is what brought her to my home. Some kind of accidental magic, I assume. She is immensely powerful.' Gellert could have laughed at the frustration that etched onto Dumbledore's features. He had expected an answer.

'So you have had no contact with her since your arrest?' Dumbledore checked.

'No.' Gellert replied, puzzled. He had assumed that Anneken would have made contact with her by now, but he hadn't even attempted to speak with her directly.

'So her ability to disrupt my plans is a family trait, and nothing to do with you?'

'Hermione caused trouble long before I learned to.' Gellert laughed, remembering fights with food and snow, secret rituals and kidnappings. Dumbledore slammed a sheet of parchment onto the table between them and Gellert leaned forwards to peer at it. It was headed with the official stamp of the British Ministry of Magic, and just below that was an image of a portcullis that he vaguely remembered as representing the British wizarding prison and next to that a pair of crossed wands that he clearly remembered as the British law enforcement. Initially he thought that Dumbledore had somehow managed to get an arrest warrant for Hermione, then he read a little further and saw that it was a consent form - she apparently wanted to visit someone called Sirius Orion Black in the high security wing of Azkaban prison.

'I wouldn't dare stop her.' He said dryly, holding out his hand for a quill.

'Perhaps you should reconsider.' Dumbledore suggested delicately. 'Sirius Black is a madman who betrayed all of his friends to a dark wizard, then murdered thirteen muggles with a single curse.'

'How fascinating. As I said, I wouldn't dare stop her.' He said dryly.

'She is only twelve. As her magical guardian, it is your responsibility to look after her best interests. That includes not exposing her to the brutality of life before she is of a reasonable age.' Dumbledore chided. Perhaps he had grown used to dealing with fools who were easily manipulated because Gellert could easily see through him. For some reason he really didn't want Hermione to visit this prison and that was enough for him to want to give permission alone. He curled his fingers and Dumbledore reluctantly placed the quill in his hands.

He signed his name with a flourish in the way he once had as a child, before he'd started substituting it for the sign of the hallows. It was amazing that he hadn't forgotten how to in the many years since he'd last held a quill.

'Is that all?' He asked impatiently as Dumbledore packed away the parchment.

'No.' The headmaster replied cooly. 'Nicholas and Perenell Flamel have passed away and they were insistent, in their will, that you attend their funeral.'

'Oh?' Gellert asked in surprise. He had never been particularly close to either Flamel, unlike both Hermione and Berg who had the patience for the theory heavy subject of alchemy. Of course, when Flamel had then placed himself firmly against him in the war, he had assumed that any friendship there was gone. It seemed not.

'Oh yes. It seems that both were much fonder of your family than I believed. Hermione has inherited all of Nicholas' work and you have both received invitations to the funeral.' Gellert took delight in how grumpy Dumbledore sounded at that. He was willing to bet that the light wizard had been desperate to get his hands on the secret to eternal life - however much he might pretend, Albus was just as obsessed with it as Gellert had been.

'The carriage is ready, Professor.' A guard poked his head into the room and Albus sighed with all the weight of their years. Gellert, to the contrary, felt about half a century younger. He bounced up and happily allowed two guards to fasten more chains to his shackles which would bind him to them.

As he was shuffled down the many, many flights of stairs he was briefed on the rules he would have to follow - he wouldn't be allowed to talk, he wouldn't be unbound, he wouldn't b staying after the ceremony and, Albus added gravely at the last moment, he was not allowed to talk with Hermione.

That hurt, more than anything else and he was pretty sure it wasn't legally enforceable to separate a patriarch from his wards but he didn't want to push his luck. He would be glad just to see her.

He was pushed into the carriage and pinned between his two guards. Dumbledore took the seat opposite him and Gellert wondered if anyone else found this position as familiar as he did. This time though, he had no intention of trying to escape. He was about to see Hermione.

The thestrals that drew the carriage must have flown fast, or the funeral was very close because they had been sitting for less than an hour by the time they arrived. Albus stepped out first and he drew the elder wand, flicking the tip a couple of times, presumably to check the wards. Then Gellert was shoved out of the carriage at wand point and marched, manacles clanking, to the back row of pretty black chairs chairs beneath a black, lacy marquee.

There were only a couple of people already there and the mournful violin music must have been enough to cover the noise that his bindings made, because nobody looked around at their arrival.

Gellert couldn't care less about the guests or the scenery, he didn't even care that the guards kept jabbing him with their wands as if expecting him to try and escape.

She stood at the front, next to an elderly man with a beard as long as Albus'. She looked exactly as he remembered; her chestnut hair cascaded over the shoulders of her black velvet dress, pinned back at the top by a lace mourning veil to reveal a sliver of her tanned face. She was still small and slight, barely reaching the shoulder of the man beside her but with a wiry strength in her arms that warned of her prowess with a sword.

She was talking to a small huddle of people in funeral attire, and one of them was waving a piece of official looking parchment. He couldn't hear them over the violin, but he suspected it was an argument of some sort.

After a moment she seemed to give in, and the official men thanked her. The elderly one offered her his arm and guided her to one of the seats at the front of the room.

Gellert burned with jealousy.

Then he reminded himself that it was his own fault that he couldn't be there with her.

He desperately hoped that she would turn and see him.

She didn't, but someone else did,

At first, he didn't recognise him. The years had been even less kind to Berg than they had been to him; decades of sun and labour had carved deep lines and dark spots across his face and his hair had receded to a wisp of hair around his ears. Perhaps in an attempt to hide the thinning hair, he wore a crumpled pointed hat.

'Professor Dumbledore.' Berg shook the headmaster's hand and Gellert was pleased to note that although he might look worn, his grip still looked strong and his voice was rich and healthy. 'I hear you've gone through another defence professor?'

'Fortunately, I only need a temporary staff member. He released some pixies and they dropped a chandelier on him. Madam Pomfrey expects him to heal in time for Christmas. I don't suppose I could tempt you?'

'No no, healing is my speciality, not defence against the dark arts.' Berg chortled. If his eyes hadn't flicked to Gellert three times already he would have thought his old brother hadn't noticed him.

'The Masters you have in the subject would say otherwise, as would your practical experience in the Middle East.'

'Albus, Albus, I have many masteries, none of which are subjects I intend to teach.'

'Hermione is at Hogwarts.' Gellert interrupted, loudly enough that Berg couldn't ignore him.

Berg's eyes snapped to him and he met the cold stare. His brother had learned it from his mother, and looking into it felt like stepping back into the 1800s. For a moment Gellert thought that Berg would acknowledge him, then his brother spun and strode away to what must have been his seat. He forced himself to not be offended. He had been the one to shatter their close friendship, and he would have to work hard to repair it.

The ceremony started when the pavilion was almost completely full. The Flamels had lived a very long time and met a great many people in that time. There were a lot of academics and many stopped to speak to the headmaster next to him. Three times the professor tried to talk someone into filling in the teaching post but he was never once successful and Gellert felt no need to interrupt again.

It was nothing like any funeral he had ever been to.

He could only assume this was how muggles did it. There were two coffins at the head of the marquee on a raised dais, and a whole string of people came up to reminisce about their lives. There was no magic, not binding or cleansing of souls and worst of all, he was fairly certain that they were going to bury the bodies instead of burning them.

Was this what the wixen had come to? So far removed from the old ways that they couldn't even perform a death ritual.

Then suddenly Hermione was up on the stage, stood between the two coffins and facing out across the audience.

'Nicholas was a brilliant wizard whose work was centuries ahead of his time. I only hope that I can live up to the academic legacy that he has left me.'

There was a murmur among the guests. Clearly, none of them had seen Hermione before but most seemed to be aware that she had been the one to inherit Flamel's notes.

'I come from an old family with long memories, and Nicholas and Perenell's last request was that they be given a funeral song. It has been a long time since one has been sung, but I hope to do them justice.'

Oh, Gellert thought that this was delicious. Dumbledore had gone white and his fingers clenched with rage, but he couldn't do anything because across the pavilion people were muttering about how lovely that was and how right it sounded that such an ancient tradition be respected for the two ancient wixen.

Hermione's clear voice filled the room, crystalline and ethereal, imbued heavily with the ancient magic of her family. It wound around them and he could almost see the spirits of the Flamels, young and energetic in death as Hermione's magic called to them. He wished the cuffs weren't quite so powerful, so that he could feel the spell she wove. He wouldn't try anything - of course he wouldn't. If he'd learned anything in prison, it was that he had averting he needed right in this pavilion.

Of course, the guards would never believe that.

So he listened to her as she called the spirits forth from their rotting fleshy prisons, and called on the gateway between the planes to thin and permit them passage. It was a rite of release, rather than the binding that most old families favoured but it was a good choice; the Flamels had no family left to need their family magic and considering the audience were all progressionists, it was less offensive than a binding.

She brought the small ritual to a close, spreading her hands over the heads of both coffins as a powerful wind roared through the room. Gellert bathed in it, closing his eyes and letting it bluster through his hair as people shouted and jumped to their feet around him.

'From air to air, earth to earth, I return your body to whence you came. In fire and smoke; your second coming, your spirits roam free!'

He could jut hear the roar of flames over the cacophony, and he smiled to himself. Hermione must have burned the bodies, as was proper and the Flamels would be able to move on immediately to the next adventure.

He was dragged to his feet by the guards and hauled from the room, disguised by the many people already on their feet. He couldn't see Hermione, but he could see the flames glowing an unnatural shade of gold as they leaped for the freedom of the sky.

They shoved him outside and he tripped over the manacles on his feet, stumbling into the side of the waiting carriage. He snarled malevolently at the guard who'd pushed him, then a voice called for them to stop. He composed himself quickly, turning to face Berg.

'Is that your doing?' His brother demanded, voice low and accusing. He hesitated for a moment, but the guards didn't make any move to stop him talking.

'No. I take it you didn't know either?'

'Didn't know? Who is she? What is she?' Berg demanded furiously.

'Anneken and my mother knew. Hermione was born just over a decade ago - somehow she jumps back in time every night. I found out last year, when Dumbledore wrote to ask about her.'

'Circe... so she's what? Twelve?'

'Yes, just. I think as far as she knows, we've just finished that summer at Hexemeer.'

'With the ship?'

'With the ship.' Gellert confirmed.

'And she didn't tell us. She could have stopped this, stopped you!' Berg spat, his hands clenching in the sleeves of his long robes.

'No. Think. For all she knew, telling us could be what caused it, or perhaps she could make it worse. I was angry, perhaps if I knew my movement would fail, I would have set the world alight and let it burn. Mother used to say "what will happen, has happened and therefore must happen."'

Berg nodded, his brows drawn together as he considered.

'Anneken is in contact with her.' He added, then he climbed into the carriage before he could give away just how much he wished to talk with her. He was Gellert Grindelwald, the greatest dark wizard in history and he would not cry.