Early July 1899-

Two weeks, that was all it had taken for everything to change. Two wretched weeks. Sitting at his desk, in the room that had been his since he was ten, in the little cottage he had fought so hard to escape, Albus was questioning how it had all come to this. Everything had been going so well…

A fortnight before Albus had been sitting in the common room of the Leaky Cauldron with Elphias, relishing the prospect of their imminent departure. With that in mind he had been able to ignore the fact that the pub was not one of his favourite places with its crush of people, including an unfortunate number of people from his own year, out to celebrate freedom, whom he was not particularly keen on running into, even if one ignored the smoke and the noise, 'If I have to hear Odo the Hero one more time, I may go mad'. They, however, had managed to secure a small oasis of calm in the form of a little wooden table in an alcove facing onto a muggle street, watching the world go by, marvelling at the new inventions the muggles had come up with- 'They are called automobiles, apparently,' and discussing the prospective wonders of Egypt, their first destination, 'I bet we'll see a Sphinx', and Greece, their second, 'Apparently they don't even have a ban on the breeding of chimeras, and as for the alchemists, well-' Admittedly, the chat was very much in the abstract as neither of them had actually travelled out of Great Britain before, nor was particularly close to anyone who had, but nonetheless it had still been immensely enjoyable. Two butter beers and a firewhiskey in and the talk had turned to dragons, another drink, and then to the future.

'You haven't got anything to worry about. You could do anything, and people would be falling over each other to employ you.' Elphias had said, rather sadly, his eyes lowered as he called for yet another drink. 'It's the rest of us.' Albus had just been about to say something to comfort his friend, and then had planned to distract him with dinner, which consisted of a slightly dubious looking soup, when it had happened. An all-too-familiar tawny owl had landed between them, narrowly avoiding upending Elphas' next drink, and had promptly held out its leg to present Albus with the letter.

He had known it was from Miss Bagshot even before he had opened it, with a feeling of foreboding he could not quite shake. Optimistically, he had hoped that she was wishing him luck for his trip, realistically, he was almost certain he had not told her about it. 'An accident,' it had said, 'tragic. Quick. Your mother. Dead.' Ariana. The unthinkable had happened. Although the whole family had been aware of the fact that one day his sister's magic would explode out, and hurt someone, the only thought in his head had been- 'Why now?' For that Albus knew that, if he was a muggle and believed in such things, he was going to hell.

Elphias was staring at him, confused and flushed with alcohol. And Albus had known what he had to say next, he had known, Miss Bagshot had attempted to soften the blow but still he knew, this was the end. There was no money, and no one to take care of Aberforth and Ariana but him. He had to go home. When the words finally came, Elphias had just gazed at him with a sort of detached horror, and worst of all, pity, before asking if this meant that they would no longer be travelling together. It had taken all of Albus' finely honed self-control not to scream. For Merlin's sake, think! Of course not! But it was not Elphias' fault, he came from a perfect, picture book home, and was tired, and drunk.

'No,' he'd managed to say, his voice sounding odd, detached, and far too calm, given the circumstances. 'I've got to organise the funeral, and Aberforth is too young and my sister too delicate for someone not to be at home taking care of them … someone they know.' Albus had not mentioned the money, as Elphias would be able to work that out for himself, or what had actually happened to his mother. That, Elphias did not need to know. Or they would take her, and his mother's sacrifice would be for nothing. Maybe it would be better though? But he could not do it. This marked the end of all the dreaming. A reality check of the cruellest thought. I'm the man of the house now, I'm not like you anymore. … I'm not a child. He had not cried, not then. Again, he supposed that that made him a terrible person, but instead of grief there had merely been emptiness, and then anger. Anger at the unfairness of it all, at the world, at Aberforth, for being too young, at Ariana, for being the agent of their mother's death, at Father, for attacking the muggles, at Mother, for dying and, at that moment, anger at Elphias, for having everything he wanted. People had begun to stare across the hazy bar then, as Elphias had shook him, fear in his eyes when his friend did not respond for a while.

'I'll come.' Elphias had later volunteered, as expected, as Albus stared at him, viewing the new void between them. 'Any assistance you need that I can offer, you have.' The only way you could help would be to conjure someone to take my place, or age Aberforth, or reverse time. But you're trying, at least, I guess. Part of him had been thankful, another part had just wanted Elphias to go away.

Later on, he supposed that he must have thanked his friend, and said other suitable nothings, or perhaps asked him to do something, maybe get his trunk, as the other young man had wandered off, only to return an hour later with their things for the journey to Godric's Hollow, the most boring place on Earth. After that everything had become a little blurred, due to grief, if he was kind, or business, if he was more realistic, until after the funeral with only moments of exquisite, absolute clarity which he would later be able to recall.

There had been Aberforth, home early from school, and as surly as ever, begrudging and judging poorly everything his brother did…. The house, with half of the inside walls blasted away, which had to be repaired … His mother, with those awful marks, a closed casket then, or everyone will know… The frantic scramble for money for new mourning clothes … the old ones did not fit … The neighbours with their endless stews and sympathies, who always tried, not particularly discreetly, to get a peak into the reclusive Dumbledores' house before they were successfully shooed away with a polite 'thank you' or 'We appreciate your kindness at this time' or 'I would invite you in but-' paired with some ready-made, or quickly improvised, excuse, and a firm handshake and a tight-lipped smile, which always worked … Bathilda Bagshot, who had been irreplaceable with her usual odd combination of nosiness, irrepressibility and efficiency in addition to her usual rather vague manner. She had definitely been, as ever, helpful and supportive, but recently he had been avoiding her, as she kept on insisting on asking him what he intended to do, thereby reminding him of what he had lost, couldn't now have. And he had no idea how to answer, what he was going to do, causing her visits always leading to feelings of vague panic.

And there had been her, of course. Upon arriving home she had just been sitting there, in the rubble, humming quietly to herself. It was not her fault, rationally Albus knew that. He liked her, loved her, she was his little sister after all, and really be quite sweet … sometimes … but, nonetheless, she was still the root cause of all of this. He did love her, he really did … he tried… but sometimes it was hard, especially when she sat there, blank and docile, her formerly sparkly blue eyes, the former liveliness of which were now a distant memory, expressionless and dead … the emptiness only marred by the occasional placid smile. It was agonising. And now she was entirely his responsibility … his problem.

It had been dusky … he later recalled … the roses that his mother had so carefully tended had been beautiful that evening. The cool flint path and the porch welcome oases from the heat. Then, something had happened, and Ariana had begun to cry as she sat there on the floor. The tears had run gently down her face, and her blonde hair had been covered in dust and mussed around her shoulders. She knew what had happened, what she had done, and for once it had actually looked as if she had understood …

The funeral was what he remembered the most distinctly; it had been one of those rare, beautiful, hazy English summer days, a week after Mother's death. The perfect weather had, in his memory, jarred painfully with the sombre occasion. Not many people had been in attendance; it was better that way, fewer questions, but somehow made everything a hundred times worse. There had been himself and Aberforth, decked out reluctantly in mourning colours despite the suffocating heat, and trying not to look as though he was squirming, and who had left early to check on Ariana. Albus had given her a sleeping draught- it was kinder, he had thought, it was not as if she could attend anyway. Albus himself had stood completely and utterly still in silent dignity, trying to look like the eldest, like the one in charge. Then there had been Miss Bagshot, with pity in his eyes, an expression he had found that he could not bear, he felt desolate enough himself, without others adding to it. There had been the officiator; Elphias, packed and ready for his (their) trip, and those few of the village people whom Mother had not offended in some way. That had been the hardest, most awful, bit, all of her life lived, and only those few remembered her with any form of affection, and most knew nothing of what she had dedicated her life to.

He had chosen a marble gravestone, despite the expense, which gleamed in the sunshine. The ceremony must have lasted for at least half an hour, but it seemed to be over in mere seconds. Tea had been organised by Miss Bagshot, at her house, where there had been cakes and yet more sympathies. He still wanted to scream. Then the lady of the house herself had asked him the one question he still had no answer for: what now? He knew he had to think ahead and plan. But it is hard to disregard certainties, such as the one he had had before, that he would go on the world tour, then get a ministry job. Now? What was there now? Ariana. That was the only answer to that now.

So here he was, stuck in the tiny cottage. Wasted and trapped whilst Elphias travelled in Greece, or was it Egypt, or perhaps the Ottoman Empire, as a week had now passed. Addie would be off dancing or having tea somewhere respectable with her mother and cousins. Henry and the others would have jobs, engagements, interviews, dinners … anything and everything he didn't. His friends had written, on and off, and he had, so far at any rate, though he was unsure as to how long he would be able to cope with continuing to do so, diligently, but increasingly unenthusiastically, replied. Their lives were interesting and in motion. He just was not cut out for this, he wished he was, but was becoming increasingly aware that the opposite was the case. He could not be the perfect parent and older brother his siblings needed, no matter how much he tried. And they said I was good at everything I tried, he was not sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, or both. Each day was the same- arguments with Aberforth, calming Ariana, writing to get money, reading, and boredom. They never really spoke. His siblings did not understand, or think, not really. Every day was more and more frustrating, he was idle and did not cope well with that, before he had always had things to do and places to be. He could not even attend conferences. And everything would continue to be the same into the indefinite future. Something must happen. Anything. But it won't. Sighing, he got back to work.

15th July 1899-

Ralph Waldo Emerson, a muggle transcendentalist around the middle of the century, had written that 'the only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be,' a quote which, considering that a muggle had written it, Gellert had become quite attached to. Someone had mentioned it once in a passing conversation at Durmstrang, someone who had not really, in Gellert's view, understood what it actually meant. Still, he was grateful to the unnamed person who had introduced it to him as it was always a comforting thought.

The jolting motion of the portkey invariably made him feel sick. Still, he supposed at least it signalled his final escape from the tediousness of Inke. They'd waved him off, her and her husband, barely able to hide their glee. Admittedly, he had perhaps not been the easiest with them, and had been in the same boat when it came to feelings at the time of their departure, but it had still been a little hurtful. Which was why he remembered Emerson, and had reminded himself that what they thought really did not matter in the slightest. They are small, and I am not.

When the spinning and jolting finally stopped, and the nausea abated causing him to finally be able to open his eyes, he was in a small, cottage garden. The light was first, causing his eyes to smart as they tried to adjust, then the wall of heat, boiling him in his dark, woollen clothes; it had been cool in Prussia, overcast, and in his opinion much more reasonable and civilised. But I must remember, Prussia contained Inke, and England does not, and therefore all is good. Here there was the opportunity for a fresh start. The first step on his next journey. It was not a particularly impressive step but it was a start, and he was going to take it.

He looked around again, and his heart dropped. This is shit. The garden was small, homely, and neatly kept, but in a slightly, oddly, uncontrolled sort of way with a myriad of insects swooping lazily over beds of multicoloured roses, and arbours. There were those plants that older people used in medicines all set out in neat little rectangular beds, gently trimmed, juxtaposed with beds of wildflowers and slightly yellowing grass, all wilting in the midday heat. The paths, where there were any, consisted of roughly hewn slate slabs, one of which was slightly raised to reveal an old well, which he was going to have to remember existed, if he was to be protected from serious injury.

As per usual, no one was waiting for him, and he did not really feel like heading towards to cottage he could see through the gap between a couple of fruit trees- apples, perhaps. He would most likely be intruding anyway; so instead he settled himself down on one of the benches to wait. His luggage he left where it had landed, right in the middle of a bed of something that smelt like lavender, but had thorns, and which he'd had to spend a good few minutes painfully extracting himself from. The portkey, an old jar, lay still beside his trunk, the mystic, reassuring blue glow now completely gone. His surroundings definitely did not look promising. Shit.

After just enough time had passed for him to consider getting a book out of his trunk (and to think that he really needed to persuade someone to get him a watch for his seventeenth), weighing his boredom against his unwillingness to re-enter what he now called the devil-bush, a woman came bustling down the path. She most definitely was not what he had been expecting. Bathilda Bagshot was an incredibly small, stout, middle-aged woman, with mousey, fly-away hair with a seemingly energetic disposition, by the way she was bustling. She had clearly never been conventionally pretty but had something about her, an intelligence, or just an air, he supposed, and it was that, and only that, which caused him to actually believe that she was the author of 'A History of Magic.' The only thing they seemed to share was their eye colour, an odd grey. Her dress was old-fashioned and purple … mourning? But for whom? If it had been one of the family, Inke would have informed him … unless it was Inke? Please?

'Dear,' she beamed when she reached him. Not Inke then. The expression in itself was surprising, as he had expected her to be more wary, after reading Inke's letter which he had supposed to be a punishing indictment of all his flaws. Then again, Inke's did want to get rid of me, and Tante Bagshot probably wants company, from what Inke said. 'Welcome! I did not realise you had arrived, or I should have been out here to greet you far sooner.' She was going to offer him biscuits, he knew it. Though if tea is on the cards, perhaps the conversation will move to history … and most people like young people to show an interest in their work. 'Why did you not come in and say something?' she continued to exclaim, with increasing enthusiasm, as shown by her use of gestures. Did she say something in between? It was, he decided, actually quite disconcerting. No one was usually this enthused on seeing him.

'Guten Tag, Groβ-Tante Bagshot.' It always helped to be polite, at least at first, until one knew where one stood, or so he had been told; though he did manage to deftly avoid her attempts to kiss his cheek- that was one step too far, and avoid speaking English, which he saw as another success.

'Yes- no, ja. You do speak English? Your aunt wrote? If not things may be a little difficult. Not impossible, no, but difficult.' Frown-lines creased her brow as she continued her internal monologue, out loud. She sighed, as if speaking English was, in her mind, an essential part of one's education, without which one could not hope to live. Without giving him a moment to respond, and plastering a smile back on her face, she launched back in. 'My German is passable, you know, for the niceties at any rate, but not for everyday life.' Gellert was becoming distracted trying to work out when she actually breathed. 'But your aunt told me you are quite intelligent,' Quite? 'So I am sure that we'll find some way to manage,' Breath 'and that you will pick up English pretty fast. Now what is the phrase- yes- verstehen Sie mich?' If my English was terrible, right now I would be very confused, he thought. But at least she was being polite, and he was surprised she spoke any German at all, as according to what he had heard most English people only bothered with their native tongue. I shall have to be careful with what I write.

'Ein bisschen.' He tried, ideally attempting to avoid actually having to speak English just yet. If he was willing to admit it to himself, German was comforting, and he was not yet ready to give that up. Miss Bagshot, however, looked confused.

'Sorry, dear, but English, please?'

'A little?' He hated the way he somehow made it a question, and had to resort to a gesture when she still gazed at him blankly. You don't need to know how much I understand, well, can read at any rate. Even so, his accent was painfully noticeable, even for him, something he would have to look at.

'Good, good. Well, you will most certainly improve your grasp of the language, at least, whilst you are here.' She smiled, looking him over with something that was dangerously close to affection. 'You are a little skinny, need feeding more. As for the English, no one here, in Godric's Hollow, that is, speaks German, so you will have to learn English.' Her smile had moved from affection to sympathy, which was good, that could be used, and she seemed to presume he would integrate, that he wanted to, which he supposed he did, at least temporarily. Things were on the up, better than he had initially expected at any rate, especially since she did not seem like any form of disciplinarian.

'Well come on then,' she said, seeming to finally notice that they were still standing under the midday sun in the garden, and that Gellert felt close to heatstroke. 'Let's not stand around here all day watching the flowers bloom, as lovely as they are. Do you garden, dear? I suppose not, most young people do not, I find,' breath. She continued happily with her monologue, still apparently requiring no input from him other than the occasional not, which was even better than expected, as it meant she would be unlikely to disturb him. '-still, if it is not too much of an inconvenience I will require you to do some lifting and occasional spell work, when I am otherwise engaged or unable to. You are of age in Germany?' Breath, avoid the well. 'Yes, yes, you would be, at sixteen. A little young, in my opinion, but I'm sure the government knows what they are doing. Got your want? Good, unusual design isn't it? I'll show you to your room, you must be exhausted, still, perhaps not, you are young. No, honey, don't worry, I'll get that.' With surprising speed and ease she levitated his luggage, and propelled both it and him to down the path she had come from to the back door of the house.

It was a strange, hotchpotch of a house, built originally perhaps a couple of centuries or more ago by a family of reasonably well-off farm labourers. Gellert supposed it must have been added to in the intervening years, as, although it seemed to have retained its basic, structural integrity, thereby making it completely different from the houses he was used to at home, with tis gently peaking thatched roof and second floor which jutted scarily over the ground floor by at least a yard. The walls may once have been wattle and daub but the black and white seemed to have been repaired with bricks in places, and all of it needed refreshing. The whole house also seemed to slump rather alarmingly to the left, in the way old houses sometimes do. Due to its age, appearance, and the general demeanour and apparent habits of Frauline 'call me Aunt, or Tante, please dear,' Bathilda, Gellert had grave concerns about whether there would be running water, one of the muggles' better inventions, and one which, miraculously, Durmstrang had actually adopted. There was one positive, however, as the house seemed to be under attack by a queer mixture of ivy, roses, honeysuckle and dirigible plums, which showed some promise for climbing, depending on where his bedroom was, and how wide the window actually opened.

The garden was surprisingly long, meaning that by the time they arrived at the wooden backdoor, Gellert was seriously considering just lying down in the shade of the second floor overhand and dying. A feeling which was added to by the fact that Miss-Tante Bathilda seemed to have misplaced the key, if the way in which she was patting her pockets and muttering to herself was any clue. 'I knew I had it somewhere- you do look a little flushed. Ah-ha!'

Once they finally, finally, got in, everything was pitch black, due to the light outside. The kitchen, for that was what Gellert presumed this room was, was blissfully cool, but when his eyes adapted Gellert was not particularly reassured, or impressed. It was small, haphazardly strewn with ingredients, creations, which seemed to range from edible to, well- building materials (no elf then), pans and roughly hewn wooden furniture. The walls were covered in an eclectic variety of wallpapers and cut-outs from magazines, which also covered the available surfaces along with books and papers of all kinds, although, in this room, mostly related to running a household. He was pretty sure he could even see some muggle ones in there. And sadly, as he had suspected, there was a hand water pump attached to the porcelain bowl. The only attempt actually made at any form of modernity was a china filled dresser in one corner and something which may potentially have been a gaslight on one wall.

'Your room is through that door, up the stairs, second on the left. We can have some tea and a chat once you are settled in, and then perhaps you can have a little look round. Though perhaps a walk through the village should wait until tomorrow, you do still look awfully flushed- there's some water upstairs on your dresser. Of course- it will probably be frightfully boring for someone your age but-'

'I am sure it will be … herrlich? … lovely?' He interrupted, unable to take much more. First thing that needs work- English. Why did I not focus on this more before? He knew why, because he had not intended for this to happen, but it was still a little depressing, as usually he was good, and better than everyone else, at whatever he tried. Still, it's an inspiration to work.

'-Bathroom is next to your room. There is running water up there-' Thank Merlin for small mercies, and indoor bathrooms. 'I just have not yet got around to having someone install it in here.' She looked around, as if expecting a plumber to magically appear, one didn't. 'Oh! I have just remembered! Dear me- perhaps I should cancel, but it is a little late and I want to give him a break, poor dear-' What? Who? 'Don't tarry too long up there, please honey, we have got a guest coming over. All clear and understood?' He nodded, now slightly in shock; the last thing he needed was a visitor. What he really wanted was to speak to Bathilda about history, not entertain some probably sad, useless and boring villager. 'Lovely.'

The house was surprisingly large on the inside, with at least two parlours and a dining room as well as the kitchen on the ground floor, which Gellert peaked into as he passed. The stairs were narrow, and it was a challenge getting the trunk up, whilst avoiding the paintings (landscapes) and gaslights (one of which may have gotten slightly chipped). Everything was decorated in floral patterns, from the walls to the carpets over the wooden floor. As for his room, well it was opposite the library, which was a definite bonus, but other than that it was almost identical to every other room he had had. The only different was that there was a large amount of space for books, and a view out of the front of the cottage. That in itself was not particularly interesting, as opposite there was only another, very similar, house and a little dust road heading off to what he presumed was the centre of the village, but there was a lot of ivy around the window, which opened wide enough for a young man to climb through, meaning that he could, at least, get out whenever he wanted.

After changing, freshening up, and drinking more water than he had previously believed possible, in an attempt to ward off heat stroke, though he feared it was already too little too late in relation to sunburn, Gellert snuck across the hall to his great-aunt's library, the only part of the house he was genuinely interested in. She had not forbidden him access, and he had no intention of going down for tea with a side dish of stranger, so he did not feel any guilt whatsoever in entering. It was spectacular- the room was one of the largest in the house, and had probably in the original design of the house been two bedrooms, but it was not so full of books, shelves, parchments and papers that the floor and walls were barely visible. There was even a ladder. In the centre of the room there was a matched set of leather arm chairs, one of which Gellert settled in to, once he had had a little look around the room and found a promising looking volume on medieval wizardry in the local area.

Half an hour later, and Gellert was well and truly ensconced in his great-aunt's library. This had made everything else worthwhile. Although he had been unable, so far, to find any reference to the Hallows in his book, he was not in the least disheartened; the book was fascinating, and, he suspected, unique, and there were hundreds, if not thousands, more in here yet to read, and he had the whole summer, if not longer if his great-aunt decided not to send him back to school, to research. Absolutely perfect. Admittedly, he had been slowed slightly by the language barrier, but was learning a lot, and fast, his mind actually challenged for the first time since, according to his estimation, his third year at school.

'Gellert!' Perhaps if I ignore her, she will go away. That strategy had always worked with Inke and the others. He went back to his book, slightly irritated at having been disturbed, curling himself further into the armchair, and stroking one of the large ginger cats which his aunt apparently owned and which seemed to have become quire attached to him.

'Gellert! Where are you?' A minute or so later the call came again, but this time she sounded mildly irritated. He, however, had no intention of spending an unprofitable, boring afternoon with her pasty, undoubtedly elderly friends, who would likely spend quality time telling him how he needed to eat more. And, although he was not yet ready to fully admit this to himself, he was a little tired. Then a truly horrifying thought struck him, his great-aunt may have invited some young woman over who she was going to try to marry him off to, or the such like. Shuddering as he banished that unpleasant revelation, he continued to read and had just turned the page when-

'Gellert! Dear! It is time for tea! You need to eat!'

'Thank you, Tante,' he yelled back, she sounded as though she was at the bottom of the stairs. 'but I am not particularly hungry. The journey wore me out.' Not a true lie. 'Can I not just-'

'Nonsense, you are a young man, of course you are hungry- sorry, dear, I think I may have to go and get him- stop being silly, Gellert.' She exclaimed as he heard the tell-tale steps on the stairs, followed by the slam of the door as she marched in. 'Come on down now,' she said, slightly more quietly and gently, more persuasively (as if that will work on me), 'there is someone I want you to meet.' Oh no, a prospective fiancée for sure. 'Come on.' When he showed no signs of movement, she grabbed one of the tomes off a nearby shelf and swatted at him until he finally, grumbling, followed her downstairs, too tired to argue, and wanting to keep her onside, for the first day at least.

The parlour was unlike any other room in the house. It had working gas lighting and was elegantly cluttered with the latest fashion in arts and crafts pieces, and even had a couple of moving photographs depicting various family members, as well as the seemingly essential landscapes. The window was large and open, seemingly attempting to tempt in some non-existent breeze and there was a pleasant view over the front garden.

Sitting in one of the arm chairs, and looking comfortable, like a regular visitor, but still a little out of place, as they were not whom Gellert had been expecting, was the guest. He, for it was a he, was another teenage boy. Well, this is unexpected. The boy was very tall and pale, with a hint of freckles spread across his nose and cheekbones. He clearly did not go outdoors much, rather like Gellert himself, who only really went outside to read, unless forced. Then another, rather disconcerting thought hit him, as he realised with a sinking feeling that perhaps Tante Bathilda meant for him to befriend this youth, who probably shared none of his interests and was some form of country bumpkin. The boy's hair was long and shockingly red, a rarity in Germany, and which clashed rather horribly with his aunt's rose-themed room. His eyes were an equally startling blue, and looked intelligent at any rate, and for a moment, alarmingly, seemed to see right through him with a fearful power of perception. The expression in them was completely, and unusually for Gellert, unreadable and yet, and yet, strangely familiar.

Alarmed, Gellert looked away first, focusing instead on the fact that, like him, the boy also wore a rather shabby shirt and trousers with light robes, in an attempt to defend against the heat. His features, when Gellert finally decided to look back up at his face, were pleasant, in a slender way, but he was not by any stretch of the imagination particularly handsome, but, like Bathilda, had a strange quality which Gellert could not name but which draw one to him nonetheless. He appeared to be a year or so older than Gellert himself, according to his estimation. His companion also seemed to be rather unimpressed by Gellert, which was unusual, and slightly offensive, in itself.

When the other young man stood for introductions, he towered rather depressingly over Gellert, as he had suspected the boy would. He surveyed Gellert again from behind glasses, his eyes still as alarming as ever. 'Well, well, boys.' Bathilda began. 'Gellert, this is Albus Dumbledore.' Even the name is oddly familiar. 'A neighbour. He finished Hogwarts this year.' And no tour? 'And has written some rather interesting articles …' That Albus Dumbledore. Gellert had read a few of the articles earlier that year, but had not realised that the author was still in school. Perhaps you are interesting then. 'Well, I suppose he will tell you all about them later as he has very kindly agreed to show you around a bit.' By the looks of it, he thinks he is doing you a favour. Gellert was determined to change that. 'Albus, this is my grand-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald. As I told you, he is living with me at the moment. He attended Durmstrang … for a time …' Ah. So you didn't tell him? Worried he would say no? 'There are not many other young men in the area.' Bathilda continued, slightly nervously. 'So it will be good for the two of you to get to know one another, though I am sure you will get along splendidly- you have a lot in common after all.'

Albus held out a hand politely, in the English way, and Gellert took it.

'Pleased to meet you, I am sure, Mr Grindelwald.' He smiled slightly, almost mockingly, and had a soft, gentle voice.

'Likewise.' The boy's eyes flicked to the book Gellert was still holding.

'Is that-' Bathida had settled down in a rocking chair in the corner and begun to knit, apparently satisfied that her charge was entertained for the time being. It was then that Gellert remembered the vision he had had on the day when he had missed the portkey.

'Yes.' He smiled as he and Albus settled themselves chairs opposite one another and both helped themselves to tea and biscuits. Things were a lot better. This may even be an interesting and profitable summer.

Ralph Waldo Emerson had also said that 'the only way to have a friend is to be one' and Gellert, for the first time in his life, intended to have one, or at least a companion as, also for the first time, Gellert had a suspicious feeling that he might have someone approaching an equal. Albus Dumbledore was going to be important, Gellert just knew it.

This chapter turned into a bit of a monster and was not published for a while due to a laptop-tea incident which somehow the laptop survived. The German is- good day, do you understand me? and lovely/delightful depending on your translation. I hope you are enjoying this- though rathe disturbingly I am finding it easier to write Gellert than Albus. Please review etc and I'll post again soon- though I probably need to update one of my other fics first- as I've been procrastinating through this fic. :)