The shuddering reverberations were so strong that they tore him awake in the middle of the night.
He was up and reaching along the bond between them in seconds, aged knees smarting against the stone floor and his knuckles white as he clutched at the stone sill.
He was shocked to discover that she was just as distant as always.
It wasn't her. Or, the feeling was caused by her, but it wasn't their bond that had suddenly come alive like a body shocked by lightning.
It was the magic of the earth, heaving and swirling as it was called upon, awoken, channelled by a group of wixen worthy of it's attention. It had been called upon recently; mites, minor disturbances, a flick of a horse's tail, the blink of an eye.
But this was different. This was a true calling; the High Priestess had gathered a seasonal coven and called upon the ambient magic of the earth, and the earth eagerly answered the call after decades dormant.
It was like he'd been standing and looking at a hillside, only for the entire hillside to suddenly open a great, cavernous eye, shake off a blanket of snow and reveal itself to be a dragon. A dragon which had then proceeded to bellow it's awareness in reply to the distant call of it's unforgotten mistress.
And Gellert was the keeper of a lighthouse in a storm tossed sea, desperately clinging to his stone sill as the very foundations of his tower, preserved by Hermione's wards, shuddered and flexed beneath the power of the metaphysical typhoon.
When had magic died? How had he not noticed? Had it been when Hermione disappeared, and Gellert was too caught up in his own grief and anger to feel anything but the fire in her heart and mind? Or had it been later, as he languished in the tower? Or, had it been at some point in between, when he'd been so busy fertilising the fields with magical blood that he'd forgotten to sew them with the seeds that gave root to the magic he claimed to protect?
He laughed; a mad, joyous sound. His own magic responded to the surging power around him and he couldn't help but want to join in. His very being sang for his witch, his betrothed.
'In darkness and in light, my witch, my life, my might.' He breathed, opening himself to the flow of the ambient magic, feeling like his magic was as haggard and aged as his body as he reached for the unfamiliar feeling.
It responded immediately, dancing up and through him, pausing briefly to swirl in delighted eddies before racing on it's way to the call of a coven. He breathed in, pure, untainted magic scouring at his soiled body, burning lines of clean fire along the scars carved by the dark magic he'd indulged in. He held his breath, held the magic, let it burst like fireworks along every nerve, and then when it became to much and he thought that it would burn his very soul away in it's efforts to bring cleansing, healing balance, he breathed out.
He did it again, breathing in and out, allowing the healing magic of the lunar equinox to work on his body and soul, basking in the simple give and take, the natural exchange. It hurt, but the pain was good because it made him clean, like draining the pus from an infected wound.
The rush of magic eddied and softened eventually, the ritual concluded, but it did not return to slumber immediately. Instead, it rippled and swirled, like the surface of a lake disturbed by a stone, the crashing waves subsided into a gentle, rolling swell and then into smooth ripples.
The sudden burst of the rising sun over the horizon was dazzlingly bright, and it somehow felt like not just the beginning of a new day, but also a new era. Without opening his eyes, Gellert reached for the sun, forcing frozen joints to uncurl so that his palms faced the sun, awash in the gentle heat.
The light hit his face next, and it felt like he'd been stealing a forbidden fruit by daring to partake of the glorious magic of the night before. Now, he'd been recognised and the world responded by driving spears of the pure brightness into his eyes with a vengeance that reminded him he'd never belong in the sun-washed world of his witch again. He was forced to retreat back into his dark prison, blinking tears from pained eyes, like some foul creature of the night.
He hissed in anger and dismay as he returned to his threadbare blanket, clawed hands snagging one of Hermione's letters and clutching it to his chest.
He caught sight of his hands as he did so - a corrupted knot of scars, barely healed by the night of pain and cleansing. He'd never be pure again, he knew. The magic of the equinox had been painfully bright, and he'd never survive a summer solstice ritual. He knew it, and he hated himself for it.
But self recrimination was put on hold as his cell was violently thrown open. Gellert shoved himself up, as fast as he could manage after a night knelt on the cold stone.
'Alice.' He greeted coldly.
Alice had been pointedly well put together for their last meeting and he delighted in how the night's events must have rattled her, for her to have lost her composure so badly. Her silver bob was unbrushed, or windswept from a rushed flight to Nurmengard, her shirt and skirt were both rumpled, and the underskirt was a fractionally different shade of burgundy to the undershirt that puffed up a little too far above her corset.
'What did you do?' Alice spat, rather than returning Gellert's greeting. Her withered lips were bloodless and pinched, her eyes wide and ablaze with fear beneath eyebrows lowered to fake fury.
'I watched.' Gellert replied, viciously. 'I watched the magic of the world awaken, and run to the call of a coven like a hound returning to an old master. I breathed the magic of the equinox as it surged and sang with the return of the old ways. I sat in my cell and listened to a song; a song which told of your fall, which sang that justice was coming, and that you have everything to fear.'
'Liar!' Alice screeched, her clawed, useless hand lashing out at Gellert's face. The strike caught him across the cheek, his own paper thin skin splitting as her ill fitting family ring struck his bone. Gellert sucked blood from his mouth and spat it at her feet, baring bloodied teeth at her.
'You might think you have won, but you can not deny magic herself.'
'Hermione.' Alice realised suddenly. 'Of course, she was a meddling little bitch even at fourteen.'
'Fifteen.' Gellert couldn't help but correct. 'What are you going to do? Storm Britain, the ancient lands of her ancestors, where her magic is strongest, her allies surround her and the very dead rise in her defence? I think not.'
Alice paled even further and Gellert felt a dark pleasure burn in his chest. He might not be able to threaten the head of MISC, but she'd clearly heard of Mordred; the dark knight who had decimated Hermione's enemies in a duel. And if Hermione had somehow raised the Witch King to fight for her, how many other dark figures of legend would answer her call?
Something tugged in the back of Gellert's mind at that thought; there was another, one who made even Mordred pale in comparison, whose very name should strike fear into any mortal. But he couldn't remember where he'd received such an impression. He shook the uncertainty away, drawing dark pleasure around him like a protective cloak.
'I don't fear Hermione's little family. They were defeated before, and they will be again, by their own arrogance and their belief in the past, just as you were.' Alice tried to draw herself up, to look down her nose at him, but she was nervous, Gellert could see it. Gellert had fallen to his own pride, it was true, and the line of Gorlois had been torn down by their own ruthless rule, but Hermione was neither him nor Mordred.
'You've failed, Alice.' Gellert repeated, 'Britain, devoid of the old ways for centuries, gathered a ritual coven last night. Do you really think that went unnoticed? That traditional wixen won't have felt the call and emerge from the woodwork, dusting off athames and iron Samhain masks. Do you believe that just because I was defeated and the coven killed, that the belief died?'
'Impossible.' Alice scoffed, looking shaken. 'I have destroyed every Beltane ritual circle, I have broken every portal. The old ways are dead, even if your little sister wants to play pretend that she's your mother.'
'Are they?' Gellert asked, raising a single eyebrow and tilting his head challengingly. Alice faltered, looking up at an image stuck above Gellert's bed. An artistic shot from the wizard weekly; the courtyard of Avalon castle, Hermione dressed like a queen and her ward swathed in a crested Gorlois cloak, like a knight. In the foreground, framing the duo, was the distinctive archway of a portal.
'That little bitch.' Alice spat again. Gellert sneered, confident that Alice would never be able to touch Avalon. It was a fey city, with wards powerful enough to stand unattended for centuries and guarded by a pack of devoted werewolves, an army of the undead, a basilisk and the goblin hoarde.
Then suddenly Alice's expression changed, becoming gloating. She pulled herself up.
'That might be true, but what does it matter?' She hissed, 'Because Hermione might be powerful there, but you are here and here, I am strong. You will never escape this tower; you will continue withering, watching as she fights to rebuild what you destroyed, you will watch as the weight of your name drags her down and you will watch as the last dregs of the old ways are quashed.'
Gellert's mind flickered to the wardstone, several floors below, with it's hidden slave link. He carefully disguised his smug satisfaction, letting a brief flicker of dismay slide across his face before pretending to hastily cover it up again.
'Did you know we summoned their spirits?' Gellert asked conversationally, eyes narrowed slightly. He might be useless to Hermione now, but he could certainly see if he could distract Alice.
'What?' Alice demanded predictably.
'We performed a soul ritual at Fort Stark, as children, interring the spiritual remains of your parents in two tokens.' Gellert's lips twisted gleefully as Alice went as white as her hair. 'I imagine they're still in Hexemeer, just waiting for Hermione to pick them up and take them to a wizengamot.'
'Hexemeer.' Alice whispered. Gellert smirked; the tokens had remained among Berg's closest possessions for a reason. Gellert was willing to bet they were actually hidden somewhere in his little Middle Eastern property; but for all Alice's claim to oppose him, she thought as much of muggles as he had. Alice would never think to check a muggle home.
'So really, you're just living on borrowed time. As soon as you prove yourself to be more than a minor irritant, Hermione has everything she needs to have you thrown out in disgrace. And really, if they find you've been lying about that, it's not a great leap of logic to think you were lying about everything… Russia, rituals, the war…'
'If I am naught but a minor nuisance, then she must truly not care for you at all.' Alice snapped back quickly. Gellert hid a grin; his attack had solidly hit home and Alice was worried. Her reply had been an emotional attack, and one that was deflected by the knowledge that Hermione had already worked a way to free him into the wards. She did care, and she would come for him.
Gellert leaned back against the wall, forcing his expression into a blank mask that could be used to hide hurt just as well as it hid his satisfaction. Alice tossed her head, short hair flying around her ears, then turned and marched out of the room. The door slammed behind her and Gellert waited for a moment, then headed over to the window.
Far below, at the base of the cliff, a white clothed figure took off on a broomstick. Gellert was willing to bet that she'd spend the next month at least throwing herself and her MISC aurors against the wards of Hexemeer, and then perhaps another month after that tearing the island apart in search of the tokens containing the souls of her parents.
And when she was done and came storming back to Nurmengard, he'd suddenly remember that he'd taken them to Durmstrang. A warm glow settled in his chest at the thought that he had managed to help Hermione, despite the world's best efforts.