Something ominous was coming.
A statement that made him feel like the kind of fraudulent seer that most people imagined. But Gellert wasn't predicting that based on something he'd seen, he could tell because his visions had been hitting fast and hard over the past week. The future hadn't heaved so tumultuously in a decade.
When the monthly owl winged it's way to the guard house in the valley a week early, it only confirmed his suspicions.
He was waiting anxiously by the time the warden made his way up to the cell, his eyes darting immediately to the multiple copies of the paper in the wizard's hand and the two letters that rested on top of them. One bore Hermione's distinctive calligraphy, which was a relief. The other was unfamiliar and consequently concerning.
'What's happened?' He demanded.
'She's safe.' The warden informed him hastily. Gellert didn't find that reassuring in the slightest and he snatched the letters when they were handed to him, breaking the seal on the one from Hermione first.
Dear Gellert,
I am obliged to begin my saying that I am safe and unharmed. I have been reliably informed that the attack on the Quidditch World Cup was little more than the drunken carousing of fools reminiscing about their glory days. I do not yet know if the sign was conjured by a foe wishing to instil fear or a friend wishing to hasten the retreat of those causing chaos. Either way, nobody was truly hurt.
However, these events were the latest in a series that suggest that the Azkaban escapee and servant of Voldemort, Quirrel, has reunited with his master and is working to return him to power. I must ask if you have been privy to any prophecies recently, and if you might be able to offer insight on this one?
"It has happened at last, the servant and master reunited.
The champion of most ancient blood shall face him and by flesh and bone he shall rise, greater and more powerful than ever before.
Death shall be mastered, the blood of the immortal shall rise and the Sidhe will walk the earth once more."
In other news, the events at Avalon went off without a hitch and the foreign dignitaries were all suitably impressed. They will all be departing over the next two weeks, but I will have returned to Hogwarts by then.
I look forwards to receiving your reply.
Love,
Hermione.
Gellert let the silence stretch on after he'd finished reading, fully aware that the warden was sweating uncomfortably. Without saying a word, he reached for the other letter.
This one was more formal, bearing the official seal of the British Minister of Magic. He barked a laugh as he read the first line, unable to help himself. It was an account of the attack, written in flowery political language that downplayed everything and somehow made it sound like the ministry was in control at all times, yet grateful for Hermione's intervention without actually saying anything at all. Despite reading all seven lengthy paragraphs of the letter, Gellert still didn't actually know more than the bare facts that there had been an attack and Hermione was somehow involved enough for everyone to believe he was going to break out of prison to go on some revenge spree.
Ironically, whilst Gellert was glad that she was safe, he was more than accustomed to her haring off into danger. If she'd managed to write a letter within a day of events, it was actually a rather tame adventure by her standards.
But he couldn't resist seeing if he could poke some fun at the clearly terrified officials. He drew his eyebrows together and tightened his fingers around the page until the thick parchment creased and his skin paled even further. He drew his magic up around him; most wixen couldn't see it, but their magic would subconsciously recognise it and register the threat of a powerful wixen. It was a trick he'd learned to make use of in the 20's, among others.
The warden, with whom he'd been getting along with rather well recently, suddenly seemed to remember that he was currently in a cell with the greatest dark wizard in history. He fumbled the papers that he'd been carrying and dropped it as he drew his wand...
'Are the aurors incapable?' Gellert growled. 'Why were terrorists allowed at an event of this size?'
He waved the parchment at the warden, forcing his creaky joints to straighten up to his full height. Clearly, the warden knew very little about what had actually happened; perhaps he'd only read whatever was written in the paper.
'Nobody was harmed in the attack.' The warden made an honest attempt at reassuring him, despite his obvious fear and Gellert found any fun sucked out of making him sweat. The man was being too reasonable.
He relaxed, letting his lips curl up into a smile and leaning back against the stone wall of his cell.
'If this is the most danger that Hermione finds herself in this year, I will be quite relieved.' He admitted. 'She managed to escape from the hanging of the Baba Yaga with no wand in front of a crowd baying for her blood. She can handle a couple of drunken bigots.'
The warden just gaped at him, his jaw flagging as he tried to decide what to say. Gellert quickly decided that was far more entertaining than terrifying the man.
'You were winding me up?' Finch asked disbelievingly.
'I was.' Gellert spread his hands in a gesture of innocence that he knew didn't match the wicked grin on his face.
'Merlin... they said this was the easiest job in the ICW when I signed up for it.'
'It was, once.' Gellert shrugged. 'You could resign.'
'And subject the next poor recruit to your cruel humour. I think not.'
'All things considered, I would say that my humour is rather benign.'
There was a brief moment of sobriety as the truth of Gellert's statement sunk in. Five years ago, Gellert would have killed anyone who dared to mention Hermione's name and his rage would have been deadly serious. The return of his witch had recalibrated him, and suddenly he found that he could laugh at things that would have made him livid before.
'I would be furious, if I were you.' The warden finally admitted. 'If one of my nieces had to stand up to a violent mob because the aurors couldn't contain it.'
Gellert shrugged. He wasn't surprised that the aurors were hopeless; they always had been, and that was why the covens had been so important. It was always a powerful individual that stopped another powerful individual. Gellert had been bought down by Dumbledore, not the aurors. Voldemort had been stopped by Lily Potter's sacrifice, not aurors. It was a running theme.
'In 1890, the duty of the Grindelwald family was to protect the people, to defend them whilst the ministry was too tied up in red tape and procedure to do what needed to be done. I was the one to betray that precept, but Hermione embodies it. I would expect nothing less than this.'
'Duty...' The warden sighed heavily, leaning back against the wall opposite Gellert. 'It's a concept that had gone out of fashion, these days.'
'I assumed so.' The dark wizard replied dryly. 'Duty is a traditional value. The progressionists were always all about the individual.'
'You don't believe that forcing a dangerous duty upon an unwilling child fosters resentment? That an adult who volunteers to take on a role is more likely to perform it well?'
'Perhaps.' Gellert conceded. 'But an adult who volunteers has not had half the training of a child raised for it. Hermione has been learning to duel since she was nine, and is perhaps more skilled than anyone else alive. There is no one more suited to confronting a dark wizard than her.'
'Weren't you trained the same way? Yet you were defeated by Dumbledore, who had no training.'
Gellert barked a laugh again, shaking his head.
'I was never as skilled as Hermione; I relied on brute force and a powerful, efficient wand. She'll dance around like a breeze, then slip something nasty around your shield whilst you're distracted trying to figure out how you ended up with your shoelaces in knots and sporting horns.' He gestured with his hands, splaying his fingers like a set of antlers and grinning at the memory. His superiority in their duelling matches had been fiercely contested, and although he usually won through the elder wand's sheer power, Hermione often managed a number of not insubstantial hits of her own. The antler incident had been one of many, after his mother had made her start learning actual spells. He'd retaliated with a wardbreaker so strong that she'd claimed a numb hand for the rest of the day.
Flinch sighed into the ensuing silence and passed over the papers that he'd been holding.
The first described the events of the World Cup attack. The front page image was uninteresting - mostly taken up by a large figure of a snake and skull and a headline. The second page was a jackpot though; Hermione stood in the stirrups of an unfamiliar but unmistakably Gorlois bred horse, wand raised aloft and face cast into deep shadows by the electricity that sparked at the tip. She slashed her arm down, the massive cloak she wore billowing around the ornate, medieval harness of the beast. It was soundless, but he could almost hear the crash of lightning as the entire image blanked white in the sudden brightness, before cutting back to the start of the loop again.
Gellert watched it in silence for five whole repetitions, then ran his finger over her printed face as if he might be able to push aside the wild tangle fo curls and see her expression.
'Could you save this for me?' He asked, holding out the paper to the warden. The man obliged, using his wand to neatly cut out the image and sticking it to the rapidly growing patchwork of news articles on the wall.
The second paper was that morning's and at first, Gellert didn't understand why it had been given to him. He didn't care for the headline, which was announcing the return of some duelling championship or the list of new students and their houses that he'd apparently find if he turned to page 3. The Umbridge woman that had created the law which led to the employment of the werewolves at Hermione's castle had become a teacher and another new law had been introduced to grade cauldron thickness, which they were hoping would be standardised across the world.
Confused, he flicked back to the front page. It was only after several seconds of staring at the headline that he realised he recognised the name of the duelling tournament. Still uncertain, he read the article, clarity dawning as he reached the end of the announcement.
'The ministry have been busy.' He remarked disinterestedly. He was confident that Hermione wouldn't try to enter, and that even if she did, she would be able to handle anything that was thrown at her. He tossed that paper aside, disinterested, and returned to Hermione's letter. Perhaps assuming that any interesting reactions were over, the warden left.
In the silence of his returned solitude, Gellert pressed the parchment letter against his face. It smelled like her despite the lengthy journey- the peaty moors, horse sweat and parchment. It wasn't a feminine, beautiful scent, but it was comfortable, practical and infinitely Hermione.
He could almost feel her magic in the ink too; she must have written it with a home made self inking quill. It was like a gentle warmth radiating from the parchment, a faint brush of wind. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was young again and sequestered in some high tower of Blau Berg, pouring over obscure texts with Hermione.
With a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes and slipped the letter beneath his pillow, on top of the pile of fading letters already there.