Gellert's dinner tasted worse than usual - peas and sliced pork swimming in a sea of stewed red cabbage. He picked at it half-heartedly, debating tossing the bitter concoction at whichever guard came to collect his bowl before deciding that he was, in fact, an adult. He could eat something he didn't like to keep his body strong; Hermione would need him soon, he knew it.
Not five minutes later, he regretted his decision. At first, he thought it was simply a stomach upset. Perhaps the pork had been poorly cooked, or left for too long before serving. Five minutes later, as he curled into an agonised ball on his pallet, he knew it was worse.
Poison. It was the only thing that could explain it.
Alice had poisoned him. It was slower working than the poison that had once killed Frau Hassel, but it burned as though he'd swallowed a bucket of boiling pitch. If she'd wanted him to die in pain, she had certainly achieved her aims.
He moaned in pain as the burning spread from his stomach, charring his chest and abdomen. A guard banged on the door, shouting at him to be quiet. Another moan escaped him, before he bit hard on his own tongue, enough to draw blood, but also enough to ensure they heard not another sound of his pain. He would not give Alice the satisfaction.
His breath wheezed, his heart pounded. The poison burned his shoulders, his spine, his knees. Interminable, eternal. Spots dancing behind his eyes, blood splat splatting against the filthy pillow from his tongue, filling his mouth with it's bitter tang. The air was refreshing, icy blasts a balm for his burning skin, for the pulsating headache. The numbness of his fingers and toes did nothing to dull the pain when they too caught alight. His fists were clenched in front of his face, and he half expected them to dissolve into ash.
But they did not.
And hours later, the guard came to collect his bowl. He was still alive.
Exhausted, stiff, freezing, but alive.
The guard banged on the door, shouting for him to push the empty bowl through the flap. Gellert could barely move to obey - the pain, then the winter cold had immobilised him as effectively as a spell. He heard them complaining outside, then one seemed to decide to collect the bowl himself. The door swung open, heavy boots thudding against stone as a guard marched in and grabbed the bowl.
'Bloody cold. Bet the old goat's popped it.' The man grumbled, aiming a lazy kick at Gellert's stomach.
Gellert's hand snapped out, catching the boot. He blinked in shock, surprised by the speed of his own movement. He hadn't moved that fast in… since he was forty, at least. But the hand that had moved was not the hand of a fifty year old wizard. Nor was it his own withered appendage. It was young and strong, entirely unlined, yet it obeyed his command to release the captured limb.
'Holy Morgana's Tit.' The guard swore. Gellert's eyes dragged up, away from the miraculous hand. He could see the guard's eyes - green, and the little British flag on his robes that meant he was on loan from the British Ministry of Magic. He looked horrified, terrified.
Gellert sat up smoothly, catching sight of a second beautiful limb. His legs coiled beneath him, powerful and ready to rise to a towering height. His lips curled up into a smile as he flexed his hands, curled his toes, rolled his neck and blinked deliberately.
'Oh, what have you done, my marvellous witch?' He purred. He sent a pulse of power down their bond - it was brighter and sharper than he could ever remember it being, seeming to vibrate with its newfound intensity. He wondered if his bonds had all been so strong when he was younger.
'Get… get back… you!' The auror had no wand, as was their policy when near his cell, but he waved a baton threateningly in Gellert's direction.
A pulse of answering power whispered back down the bond from Hermione. Something tugged at his awareness of magic - a familiar shiver, one that he hadn't felt in decades. A sharp tug, then a snap. The face of the cell door seemed to shimmer slightly, before going back to normal. He observed it, feeling for the magic that layered the timber and prevented his escape… but it was gone. Preserving charms, weatherproofing…
The guard might be armed with a baton, but he had never trained against Hermione in swordplay. Gellert was clumsy in his powerful, new body, but it was easy to step in, bend back beneath the wild swipe at his head, grab the hand and use it's momentum to smash the knuckles into the wall. The guard let out a grunt of surprised pain, then cried out as Gellert tore the weapon from his bloodied fingers. The guard was unable to evade the solid smash to his head that the Dark Wizard dealt. He crumpled at Gellert's newly straightened feet.
He took a moment to admire his new body; it was almost exactly as he remembered from when he was in his early twenties, or perhaps late teens. Certain scars still marred it, where there had not been scars before. Those where dark magic had tainted the wounds, or where the wound had served a dark purpose remained, but the twisted skin around his wrists from years of imprisonment was gone. The scar on his shin from when Kelpie had kicked him as a child was gone, the burn on his thumb from when he'd knocked over a cauldron, gone. His skin was as terrifyingly pale as it had grown in his imprisonment and his hair was just as lank, although thicker but still as pale as ash.
Hermione sent another pulse of power down their bond, jolting him back into action. He had to concentrate to draw upon the wandless magic needed to blast the door off it's hinges; that skill had not been returned to him.
The guard outside cried out in shock and pain as splinters of both door and stone surrounds exploded outwards, peppering his skin and sending him stumbling perilously close to the stairs. Gellert completed the stumble with a rough push. The explosion had negated any potential secrecy, but the guard's tumbling body proved an effective shield and barrier, clearing the way all the way down to the hall.
'He's escaping!'A witch cried. 'Quick.'
Gellert ducked back behind a stone archway as bright spells cracked into the wall behind where he'd stood only a moment ago. He grinned, relishing in the rush as he planned his next move - before, he would have simply unleashed conjured fire, roasting any who failed to erect a shield and obscuring himself from any who could. But Hermione would have disapproved, when there were other options that would result in less death.
He spun out, throwing out his arm with a wordless cry. Nurmengard was his castle, and he knew it's weaknesses. The windows exploded back into the sand that they had been made from, centuries old charms breaking at his command. The room was enveloped in a cloud of dust, and Gellert used the cover to tackled the closest guard.
This one was armed, but the wand was unicorn hair, or something equally as useless. He snapped it, using the baton he still carried to knock her out as well.
The next opponent engaged him with a bolt of crimson light which Gellert narrowly evaded. He rolled sideways, landed on a book, threw that at his opponent, then grabbed a handful of sand and threw that as well whilst the guard was distracted. The man shouted, hand flying up to his eyes and Gellert lunged for his wand, tearing it from his hand.
Magic came easier with it. A stunning spell; simple. Effective. Four more.
The wards were down. He disapparated.
He reappeared a mile away, thigh deep in snow and facing the castle across the barren valley. He could see the auror reinforcements flooding into the village, tearing towards the prison on brooms. They were too late. Clearly, they could not feel that the wards were gone. Or perhaps they simply could not fathom it.
He did not plan to wait for them to discover that he had already left the castle by magical means.
He sent out a pulse of his magic along a dusty, almost forgotten bond and felt the answering stir of interest on the other end. He made another apparition jump in that direction, landing in the far shallower snow between leafless trees.
For a moment he was frozen, simply awestruck by a tree. He'd never believed he would see a real tree again, outside his visions. The bark was cold, but not as cold as stone, nor as hard. It was soft beneath his fingers, coloured a streaky shade of tan and speckled with little knotted eyes. A little further along was a green tree; a pine, thick with luscious needles that smelled decadently sweet and fresh when he crushed them.
A dead bramble caught at his foot beneath the snow and he cursed, lifting the sole of his foot to inspect the damage. They were numb, going slightly blue at the tips. A warming charm was easy. Transfiguring a set of shoes was much, much harder.
A heavy thud shook the ground, sending snow tumbling from the trees. An unknown creature fled, shaking the undergrowth violently. Gellert only had eyes for the mighty beast that had just landed. Time had treated Star poorly - Rocs needed to live in places rich in magic to thrive, and Nurmengard was not the magical sanctuary that Blau Berg had once been. Most of the magical creatures had either fled or been killed during Gellert's war and where there had once been groves of wand and stave wood trees, there was now only barren hillside.
The great head bent painfully, rheumy eyes coming level with Gellert's face whilst great nostrils flared and puffed, scenting the air. Gellert reached a hand for the dry, scaly surface of Star's beak, running across the smooth curve and skating over patchy, brittle feathers.
'Ah, Star.' He murmured regretfully. Yet another one of his closest and truest friends, devastated by his ambitions. 'Do you remember Hermione? Yes, of course you do. She has a home for us; a place better for you than here. Will you carry me there? One last time?'
Heartbreakingly, Star seemed to hesitate. It hurt, more than any other rejection yet. Humans were fickle, with opinions on politics and leadership, philosophical principals. It was easy to offend a human, but the bonds of animals were not so easily broken - nor as easily restored. Then, the great beast shifted, providing a clear route to it's back. Gellert climbed up, relishing in the smooth movement of his knees, in his restored balance and agility.
He did not fly to England. Every auror in the world would be waiting for him, expecting him to join his witch. Instead, he flew North, towards Durmstrang and the cover of constant darkness. They rested overnight on a small and insignificant rocky outcrop in the archipelago of Sweden. Gellert killed several fish, roasting one on a magically heated rock and feeding the rest to Star. He didn't manage to sleep; the bond with Hermione throbbed and buzzed, as though whatever magic she'd worked to give him his new body had electrified it. She checked on him frequently, sending vibrations towards him that he always returned. He wondered when she slept.
They departed again before the crimson sun broke the horizon, turning left across Norway, then out over the North Sea. They were not spotted or intercepted, even when the smudge of Scottish coast appeared on the horizon. Gellert turned right then, remaining almost out of sight of land as they headed north, following the coastline up and up until it began to curve away. He guided Star back out to sea, reaching out to feel the flow of ambient magic, searching for the swirls and eddies that would guide him to the lay line, and from there to the powerful Gorlois circle.
It took several loops of the Orkney islands before he felt confident enough in his navigation to land; Hermione had always been the one who flew, and therefore knew how to recognize places from the air.
He was confronted almost instantly by a squadron of guardians, shields interlocking into a wall and spears levelled. Star squawked in alarm, making as if to take off. Gellert hastily calmed him, sliding down the feathered flank and landing with a soft thud in the deep snow. It soaked through his transfigured shoes instantly but he didn't dare cast a fresh warming charm until Gorlois appeared, snapping out a sharp command which had the guardians relaxing and drawing apart, forming a guard rather than a line of attack.
Gorlois was shorter than Gellert remembered him being, but no less intimidating with his stocky build and the scowl that seemed etched behind his great beard. Gellert bowed.
'The High Priestess will see you.' Gorlois informed him bluntly, turning back around and retracing his steps back up towards The Barrow. Gellert paused for long enough to assure Star that he would be back, then trudged through the snow after the ancient warrior construct.
Gellert didn't know why he had expected The Barrows to have changed; it had stood untouched for more than a millennium before his first visit and it would likely remain long after he died. Yet it was still strange to pass the same epic and weather-worn stone circle and climb the same long track over the windswept moor. The sea still hissed and crashed against the stone shore, made darker by the clean snow that trimmed it. The crawl-hole entrance was no wider, the outer chamber still guarded by the same pair of skeletons.
The only change was that the vaults below were already open and lit. Braziers of flame provided both light and heat, burning with a sweet smelling smoke that was whisked away by spells before it could become more than homely. Domestic sounds drifted from the chambers at the end of the hall; the clang of a pot and the light murmur of feminine voices, a rustle of parchment, the steady thunk of a knife through vegetables.
'High Priestess.' Gorlois stepped through the archway ahead of Gellert, announcing his presence and silencing the voices within.
'He's here?' Hermione sounded relieved, although she must have been able to feel his proximity through their bond. Then Gellert was able to round the doorway, and he could see her.
She looked incredible. She wore a silver silk dress which gleamed ethereally in the dim light, hugging the curve of her hips and extending her legs. Her dark hair provided a deep contrast, making the angular bones of her cheeks and chin look like they'd been sculpted from marble. She was paler than he could remember seeing her, which made her lips appear almost purple and… he'd forgotten what it felt like to look at her in the body of a young man.
He hastily diverted his attention, hoping that he wasn't as flushed as he felt. The red-head, Ginevra Weasley, was still holding a knife over a board of pale roots – some uncultivated Gorlois special. Her knowing smirk dashed and hopes that his admiration had gone unnoticed. At her shoulder and looking far less benevolent was the ghost of a woman in a crown.
Gellert did a double-take, looking between the ghost and Hermione. Every member of the family he's seen bore the same distinctive hair – not uncommon in wixen families, but the ghost could have been Hermione's older sister, or mother. They had the same angular cheekbones, the same slender eyebrows and slightly pointed chin.
'You're here.' Hermione bounded across the room and slammed him into a tight embrace. Gellert's hands came up automatically, returning the gesture as he buried his face into her hair. She smelled exactly the same as he remembered, of peat and horses, parchment and woodsmoke. He breathed it in deeply as Hermione leaned her weight into him.
'How did you do it?' He asked, awed.
'Magic that I should never have dabbled in… that no wixen fully understands. Fey magic.' Hermione sounded far more bitter than he'd expected.
'No!' Gellert hissed, drawing back sharply and inspecting her more closely. He remembered only too well the heavy price he'd paid for his own misguided foray into sidhe magic, and he feared the price that Hermione must have paid for her miracle. She didn't look ill, beyond the strange pallor to her skin.
'Morgana was the original owner of the Philosopher's Stone.' She confessed, 'but it wasn't a stone when it was given to her…'
'The Unseelie king's blood?' Gellert guessed. He remembered all too well the Mustonen's stories of how Morgana had trapped the Unseelie King and demanded gifts for his freedom, all of which had backfired.
'Yes.' Hermione confirmed. 'My family were blessed by the fey, and my arithmancy results showed that there would still be a strong enough trace of their magic to return the stone to its original form. I was right, but Fey blood… it's poisonous, Gellert.'
'What happened?' He pressed. Hermione pursed her lips and glanced at Ginevra.
'I was going to make a potion, and have the Order of the Triskelion deliver it to you… I remember The Dullahan came to me, and made me drink it instead, then I don't remember anything else.'
'It was weird.' Ginevra took up the story intently, 'Hermione didn't tell us where she was going. I just woke up in the middle of the night and found the headless horseman standing over me. I could feel something was wrong too – Hermione's bond was wrong… it felt like someone had ripped her out and put something else there. He pulled me up onto his horse, then galloped all the way here.'
'You got onto a horse with an unseelie creature?' Gellert confirmed in disbelief.
'It wasn't like I had a choice.' The witch scowled. 'Anyway, when I got here, there was this… thing… kneeling over her. I thought it was a dementor at first, so I pulled out my wand and cast a patronus, but it just waved it away. Then it said something, but I couldn't understand, and then the next thing I knew I was waking up here with these.' She lifted her arms, revealing thick bandages.
'I believe it was Finvarra that both saved Hermione and completed the ritual.' The ghostly witch informed them, sounding far more serene than anyone discussing the unseelie king had any right to be.
'Why?' Gellert asked – demanded. 'Why would he save her? Why would he help?'
The undead witch simply smiled mysteriously. He realised suddenly that he recognised her – he'd met her before, for only an hour, almost a century ago.
'Because Finvarra has always held a great interest in our family.' Morgana Le Fey winked, then faded from view.