Gellert learned several vital pieces of information in the planning process for visiting his aunt in Britain. The first was that using magical beasts for transport was almost unheard of in Britain. The second was that wixen in Britain lived in such close proximity with muggles that he wouldn't have been able to borrow Katana for the flight anyway without being seen. Having resigned himself to travelling via portkey, Gellert then learned of border controls; a nuisance that only hindered those who couldn't simply drop an owl to a country's ruling coven and be granted permission to travel.

According to his aunt, it would be highly illegal to make a portkey that dropped him off nearby. She insisted that he use a pre-made international portkey, which departed from a department of the German Ministry of Magic in the Unterhalb at a pre-set time and arrived at an equivalent department in Britain.

That regulation allowed for border controls, which required a passport. A passport required one's birth to be registered with the magical government. Gellert's hadn't been – the entire country knew he'd been born, why would a Grindelwald bother to fill in paperwork to notify a specific department?

It was nearing the end of the holidays before the paperwork was finally in order for his visit and he'd found time in their busy schedule when he could afford to disappear for a couple of days. He made his way to the ministry in the early hours, before anything but the bakery had opened in the Unterhalb and the only people about were those delivering milk and fresh potions to doorsteps.

The ministry was even quieter – aurors guarded the doors, cleaners battled to gain headway in the endless war against grime. He followed the signs to the international portkey office, skirting the wings of the eagle statue and taking the third black archway. He'd used that doorway before once, in one of his first real fights. He remembered that raid fondly now, having taken part in grimmer and more costly combat.

The Department of Magical Transportation looked significantly tidier than when he'd last seen it. The desks were all intact and upright, paper filed and two friendly looking receptionists looked up to greet him with smiles instead of spells. One, clearly traditional, curtsied deeply and pointed him down a corridor to the right.

"Departures." Read a large sign over a door on the left in bold capitals. The opposite door said "Arrivals." Gellert turned into departures, passing through a shimmering ward.

The room beyond was very loud – mostly families, bidding goodbye to loved ones. Several irritable looking businessmen waited around the edges of the room, glowering at one bawling child who seemed to want to remain at home with Grandma. A family with a great number of much quieter children were crowded in front of the desk; they had a hungry, unlucky look about them and the head of the family was almost begging for a portkey to America. Gellert hovered behind them, assuming that there was some kind of queue and couldn't help but learn that the family had booked an opening on a portkey with an agent, only to discover that the portkey didn't exist and the agent had run off with their desperate life savings and the gold they'd earned from selling their home. There was a portkey with space for the family departing in three hours, but it would cost over a hundred galleons.

He glanced at his pocket watch, noting that his own portkey was due to leave in less than five minutes.

The wife of the wizard in front had begun to weep upon discovering that the cheapest real portkey to America would cost fifteen galleons and only be able to take one adult and two children. Her children had the kind of glum look that suggested misfortune was no longer a surprise. The eldest daughter had a sheath tucked into her belt; crudely crafted from poor quality, cracking wood but lovingly engraved with geometric celtic patterns. They were traditional.

Four minutes. Gellert cleared his throat, gaining the attention of the witch at the desk.

'Six tickets on the next portkey to New York, please?' He asked, scratching down his single digit trust vault number and pressing his seal into the wax offered by the witch. The wizard watched mournfully as Gellert was handed six crisp tickets, then his eyes widened as Gellert turned and offered them to him.

'Sir?' The wizard seemed unable to comprehend the sight.

'For you.' Gellert jostled the tickets until he took them. Shocked eyes came up to meet his.

'But… thank you! Thank you, Sir! How can we ever repay you?'

'Don't worry about it.' Gellert slid his own ticket across the counter, suddenly somewhat embarrassed. They'd drawn the attention of several of the surly businessmen.

'You've saved us… a hundred galleons… why?' The man still couldn't seem to believe it. Gellert shifted; his mother used to spend a hundred galleons on her ritual gowns. Hermione's taste was modest in comparison, but Gellert knew the ball dress she'd bought in France for her debut was easily double that.

'First door on the left, Heir Grindelwald.' The witch behind the counter slid his ticket and passport back to him. Gellert accepted them graciously and turned to find the family looking thunderstruck. He pushed past quickly, uncomfortable with the worshipful attention – Hermione was the deity given flesh, not him. He was just a powerful wizard with a family vault.

He arrived with seconds to spare, joining a revolutionary family in modern funeral black and two businessmen clutching cases. They all held on to the large wooden hoop when instructed to by a bored sounding attendant and he counted down without bothering to check that everyone was doing as told.

International portkeys were better than apparition for one's magic but they were still uncomfortable and the landing was far from graceful. Even the businessmen who were clearly seasoned travellers ended up on their hands and knees after a hard landing. Gellert was the first back to his feet, being young, agile and dressed in unrestrictive clothing.

The room they'd arrived in was lighter than the one they'd left. The walls were covered in black glossy tiles which reflected the light of several lamps cheerfully. A balding wizard greeted them in English, helping those who had been slow to stand to their feet and helping the mourning family pick up their bags. The two businessmen disappeared out of the room quickly and Gellert hurried after them, unwilling to risk getting lost in a country he didn't know and had no influence in.

The British ministry was even quieter than the German one had been – it was an hour earlier, so even the most dedicated workers were still in bed. He passed through customs and border control with only minimal suspicion; surprising, considering how difficult it had been to get permission to visit. They had been incredibly reluctant to allow anyone associated with the coven into the country. Apparently they were oblivious to one of their own being the future leader of the coven, apparating past their borders every night… assuming that actually was where she was going.

His aunt was waiting for him past the barrier, holding a piece of parchment with his name scrawled across. Gellert only briefly hesitated when he took in her appearance, then forced himself to continue on as if he'd simply taken a moment to read his name on the parchment.

He'd seen a painting of his father from when he married his mother, and he'd imagine Bathilda to be of similar appearance – tall, with dark hair and pointed features. He'd expected someone similar to his mother. But Bathilda was even shorter than Hermione and soft in a way he'd never seen before. Her severe black dress looked incredibly stiff and heavy, pinching up underneath a squarish chin. Silver gossamer hair was swept into a casual but smart knot beneath a drooping pointed hat with a wide, floppy brim. She was older too, looking more like a great-aunt than an aunt.

She'd brought someone else too; a boy of roughly Gellert's age, bright and fresh faced as a boy barely into his teens. The look wasn't helped by his clothing; a billowing white shirt and an old green velvet waistcoat. He wore no cloak and his collar was loose and casual. It looked like he'd barely bothered to brush his hair before leaving the house.

'Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Madam Bagshot.' Gellert rehearsed the greeting on his way over, bowing to his aunt as soon as he was close enough. Technically, Gellert was above her in station but elder family members were always due respect.

'Gellert!' Bathilda greeted with surprising warmth, before he could get out a word. 'It's good to meet you in person…'

Bathilda spoke several sentences very fast. Her accent was very different to Hermione's and Gellert only managed to pick up that the boy was called Albus before she turned and headed off down the corridor, leaving him blinking and trying to decipher anything he could from what she'd said.

'It's nice to meet you.' The boy, Albus, stuck out his hand like a muggle and Gellert took it cautiously.

'Gellert Grindelwald.' Gellert returned.

'Do you, er… speak English.' He spoke at a measured pace, which was a relief after Bathilda's rapid talking.

'I am okay.' Gellert's tongue seemed to have grown thicker in his mouth, the sounds coming out in a way he knew wasn't quite right but couldn't seem to correct. 'Like this is okay.'

The boy fell in beside him, following his aunt down the corridor to where she was waiting at the top of a large flight of stairs. Once she saw them following she started rushing away again, taking the stairs faster than anyone who appeared her age had any right to.

'Would you repeat what she said?' Gellert eventually asked, admitting that he had no chance of deciphering it when the foreign syllables were already slipping his mind. He wondered if Hermione had been so lost during her first year in his home.

'Oh, um… she's got to meet with her publisher. Apparently you talked about that in your letters, and she brought me to keep you company. She said you were good at transfiguration too?'

'I am okay. I am learning…' He paused, trying to remember whether he'd ever learned the word, 'to undo spells.'

'Curse breaking?' Albus asked, sounding interested. Gellert shrugged, jogging up the stairs after his aunt. Albus, Gellert noted, was very unfit. He was wheezing and puffing by the time they reached the end and he had to take several moments to recover. 'I wish she would take the lifts.'

Gellert refrained from commenting on how he thought the British boy could probably do with the exercise, and said instead; 'Our duelling teacher makes us run down to the fjord to swim before class in the morning. There are five hundred steps.'

'Wow.' Albus glanced over Gellert from head to toe.

'Boys?' Bathilda called for them to catch up from further down the hallway. They caught up hastily, emerging into an atrium far smaller than the one at home. The focal point seemed to be the colossal golden statue in the middle of the room; a witch, a centaur, a house elf and a goblin all looking up adoringly at a wizard. Gellert's only thought was that Hermione would hate it. Bathilda passed a small photograph to Gellert, which showed a grubby alleyway with three overflowing bins and weeds sprouting from the walls.

'You can apparate Albus here.' Bathilda informed him, 'I'll be home for lunch.'

'Apparate?' Albus asked, sounding shocked. Gellert sneered; he really shouldn't have been surprised that wand-bound, ritual and portal-less Britain considered apparition a casual form of transport. It was irritating none-the-less. 'I thought you were my age?'

'Sixteen.' Gellert agreed, inspecting the picture more closely. There was a street sign, declaring that the little alleyway was "Wite Street".

'But we can't do magic outside of school?'

'You can not.' Gellert corrected, glancing over Albus' casual attire. He was very clearly not from a powerful family. The Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery that had finally passed just before Yule had been copied from the English law, but it was so recent that enforcement measures had yet to be implemented, particularly on those who had power. He offered his arm to the British boy, pushing his magic into them both with far less care than he did when Hermione was his passenger, and disapparated.

Albus swore – words that Gellert recognised from when Hermione was upset or angry, but didn't quite understand the meaning of. It was fascinating to see the effect of apparition on one with absolutely no traditional training; his magic was flexible but felt somewhat bristly against his own, reminding Gellert almost of a large rug. He was bonded tightly to his wand, which was like the woven hessian that formed the structure of the carpet. Apparition was like someone had taken the corner of the rug and given it a firm shake. His magic was bound so tightly in place that it settled only moments later looking exactly the same, where Gellert's pool was still full of ripples. Hermione's would have been a swirling tornado of fire and fury.

Whilst Albus was recovering, Gellert strolled out to the end of the alleyway. It was not as urban as he had presumed; it opened onto a wide dirt road which ran between two rows of houses. Gellert was no expert, but he thought the homes looked reasonably well sized with gardens out the front and low stone walls separating them from the road. There was a church at a crossroads, a blacksmith opposite it and a shop on the corner which looked to sell general goods. That perpendicular road looked more busy, like a high street. It was decidedly muggle; muggle children played a game with wooden hoops in the middle of the road, but there were several magical houses with light wards.

'This is Godric's Hollow.' Albus informed him, coming up behind. He pointed out his own house, a couple of buildings down and Bathilda's home next door. There was a larger home at the end of the street that belonged to a magical family called the Potters and one with a shabby front lawn that belonged to the Pettigrews. The British boy then decided that the best use of their time until Gellert's aunt returned would be to visit the village pond, pointing out all the quaint little muggle features.

'So Bathilda said you've been really involved in all the stuff happening in Russia and Europe?' Albus eventually began. Gellert reassessed his initial estimation of the boy from disorganised to plain stupid.

'My mother is High Witch.' Gellert informed him slowly.

'Right.' Gellert wasn't quite sure why Albus felt the need to tell him that he'd correctly identified his mother's rank. The attempt at conversation petered out. The boy looked so glum that Gellert felt obliged to put some effort in.

'You go to Hogwarts?' He asked. Albus brightened, nodding.

'Yes. I'm in Gryffindor – that's one of the four houses. There's Gryffindor, for the brave, Hufflepuff for the loyal, Ravenclaw for the curious and-'

'Slytherin. My younger sister was in that one.' Gellert finished for him.

'Your sister?' Albus seemed surprised. 'I didn't realise you had a sister. When did she graduate?'

'She did not.' Gellert shrugged. 'I think she left Hogwarts in year two, she was at Durmstrang for a year, but I do not think she has been to school since Russia.'

'Wow. I bet you can teach her loads of magic.'

'No.' Gellert let the corner of his lip quirk. 'Hermione is very good. I am not better.'

'But you're brilliant too, right? You must be, if you can side-along apparate at sixteen.'

'I am a Grindelwald.' Gellert dismissed with a shrug. They'd reached the intersection and Gellert's suspicion was proven correct. It was a high street with a general goods shop, a seamstress, a blacksmith and an inn with stables. Several buggies pulled by muggle horses, waited outside various buildings and a large farm cart with a draft horse was tethered outside the blacksmith, partially dismantled. It was moderately busy, mostly with muggle women dressed in similarly severe and dumpy clothing to Bathilda and children in the same casual shirts and trousers as Albus. The village didn't continue far to the left, the dirt track spilling out into a road between two dry stone walls. Albus took him through a rustic stile and up the hill to the right, towards a large oak at the crown.

'I've got a brother and sister as well.' Albus shared between pants as they climbed. 'Both younger. My sister's very sick; has been since we were children.'

Gellert made a vague sound of sympathy. He wasn't particularly good at this familiar kind of small talk; people in his social circle either already knew about each other's family status, or knew nothing and would never know.

'I can't wait to get out of here, of course.' Albus continued. 'I finished a transfiguration paper at the end of last year and it was published in Transfiguration Today, so hopefully I'll be selected for a mastery.'

That was bordering on the limit of Gellert's English. It wasn't proving to be as good as he'd assumed; it seemed Hermione's habit of slipping into German whenever the discussed complex topics on English days was hurting his comprehension. She didn't have the patience for misunderstandings.

'What did you write about?' Gellert was interested despite knowing the conversation was likely to delve into advanced language. His family sponsored a handful of masteries each year and Gellert had been helping Hermione review the applicants only a couple of weeks ago.

'Trans-species transfiguration. I was looking at the influences of character on sub-species… uh, how the person casting the spell affects the specific details of the animal you transfigure.' Dumbledore clarified. Gellert would never have mentioned that he was struggling, but the intuition was appreciated. The boy worked his way up slightly in Gellert's esteem.

'It is not the wizard that makes a difference.' Gellert informed him, 'it is the magic and the intent.'

'What?' Albus paused at the crest of the hill, looking baffled. Gellert rolled his eyes.

'When I conjure a chair, I think about the chair. My magic understands 'chair' and creates the chair.' Gellert waved his wand and a chair appeared beneath the tree. It was a solid affair, like one would expect to find at a dining table, with deep blue upholstery. Albus gawped.

'I can intend things about the chair. They will happen. Anything I do not intend, my magic will create. Different magic can do different things with no intent.' Gellert waved his wand again, conjuring a stool instead of the chair. It was almost identical in appearance, with the same coloured wood and upholstery, but lacking the back. 'My magic is not… it does not do much without intent. My sister has difficult magic, it does lots without intent. Her chair is…' Gellert concentrated for a moment, then waved his wand to form a third chair. It was not quite perfect; the grims carved into the back and arms looked more like wolves and the upholstery was slightly off in colour but it was close to the conjurations Hermione usually made.

'You… you just…' Albus poked the closest chair as if expecting it to dissolve. 'Wordless?'

Gellert wrinkled his nose. He would have done it wandlessly if he hadn't just apparated. He banished the three chairs with a flick. Albus looked back to him.

'So you think our magic has enough independence to influence decisions?'

'Yes.' Gellert knew it did. He'd had to rein Hermione's magic in enough during the casting of Nurmengard's wards whenever it wandered off to make its own changes. Independently capable of making changes it might be, but it was not necessarily making good changes.

'Wow… are you really only my age? Going into sixth year?'

'Yes. But I am a Grindelwald.'

'Yes, yes, I got that… look, can I send you my paper to look over? You don't have to, of course; it's in English, but it would be really great if you could?'

Gellert considered briefly, then shrugged and nodded. It was hardly like the paper could be long if it had been published in a magazine.

'I've been looking into alchemy as well. It's an advanced subject at school, so only three of us are taking it. Do you know anything about that?' Albus seemed to grow more excited as he delved into academics.

'I do not. My sister studies with Nicholas Flamel. She went with him to Egypt to look at the tombs.'

'Wow!' Albus was as easily impressed as his followers at school. 'Look, there's a spot down here. It's brilliant in the sun – I bet you want to take that coat off.'

Gellert didn't particularly care but he trailed after the boy to the place he'd pointed out. It was on a raised bank above the promised pond, shielded from attention by tall bullrushes and the crown of the hill behind them. In an area so full of muggles, it was probably the only place Albus could practice magic… except he couldn't, because if the restrictive laws of Britain. It was really no wonder that he was easily impressed if he spent three months of the year living like a muggle.

He did eventually end up taking off his coat, spreading it out on the grass and lounging in just his shirt. It was nice to be away from the stresses of home for a short while; Gellert didn't think he'd had a chance to relax in such a way for months, perhaps years. Hermione would have been pestering him to come riding within minutes.

They moved on to their homes; Albus wanted to know more about Durmstrang. Gellert wanted to know more about Godric's Hollow and the Peverells who had once lived there. Albus had laughed at first but grew quickly more serious when Gellert eventually shared that he'd traced the wand right up until the dark wizard the had captured him as a child. At that point Albus suddenly went very quiet.

'What is wrong?' Gellert asked, after several seconds of uncharacteristic silence.

'They say my father was a dark wizard.' Albus eventually shared. 'Because he attacked a group of muggles. He's in Azkaban now – our prison. Is it true that the coven in Germany can give the death penalty to dark wizards without having to go through a court first?'

'Sometimes. If a dark wizard is dangerous. My father was a dangerous dark wizard and my mother had to kill him.'

'What?' Albus sat up, looking startled.

'It is why we do not come to Britain. My mother does not like this side of the family, because they did not teach him to use the dark arts safely.'

'You mean your mother actually killed your father for being a dark wizard?'

'It was her duty.' Gellert didn't understand.

'But doesn't that make her a dark witch too? If she's killed someone?'

'No, because it was her duty. She did not want to kill him. I am not a dark wizard, because I had to kill Lucan. Hermione is not a dark witch because she had to escape the Russian Revolution.'

'Merlin.' Albus seemed more horrified than awestruck now. 'Germany sounds like… well, medieval.'

Gellert did not know what medieval was, so he couldn't confirm that statement. They lapsed into silence again, broken only by the sounds of the birds. There were only seagulls at Hexemeer and there were very few birds at Durmstrang for most of the year, when it was shrouded in constant darkness and buried beneath snow. He was almost bored, unaccustomed to stillness after so long. He said as much and the British boy suggested seeing if they could borrow horses from a nearby farmer to see the area. Gellert was unenthusiastic – he had a far superior beast at home, but Albus mentioned in passing that they could go via the site of the old Peverell home and he was convinced.

It ended up being anticlimactic. The horse was as unimpressive as Gellert had imagined it to be, although the scenery that they rode through was stunning; gentle woodland with vibrant green leaves and a luscious carpet of fragranced wild garlic, peppered with little white starbursts of flowers. Hermione, who was limited to the open coastline of Hexemeer, the overgrown tangle of Avalon and the windswept wilderness of Orkney would have loved it. The ruin of the Peverell house was little more than a tottering gable and an overgrown footprint of foundations with only the barest trace of magic lingering around one spot. Perhaps, without Albus there, Gellert could return and spend more time investigating that particular corner.

They rode back along a different route, this one crossing a large bridge over a river – perhaps the inspiration for the tale of the three brothers. Once more, the ride was uneventful but pleasant enough as they passed beneath drooping willows and splashed through the shallows. Gellert demonstrated his wandless magic, sending water soaring through the air to soak Albus' breeches and shoes. Bound by his country's absurd laws, Albus was unable to retaliate.

They discussed magical theory in more depth as well, as they rode side by side down a wide track between large fields. Albus was significantly more intelligent than Gellert had first assumed; his ideas were brilliant and well considered, although limited by the restrictive doctrine of his school and the lack of access to old magic. He insisted on classifying magic; light, dark, charms, transfiguration… but Gellert was certain that could be shaken given enough time. The boy was worth investing some time in, perhaps to become one of the remaining members of Hermione's coven. He was certainly powerful enough.

Then Gellert finally learned the boy's last name; Dumbledore.

As if Gellert could ever forget his sister's utter disdain for Albus Dumbledore. He sometimes thought she must have specifically studied derogatory terms for the wizard because she had found insults that even Gellert didn't know. The boy opposite him did not match the description Hermione had given in the slightest; he had shown no obvious signs of being a prejudiced, egotistical, self-serving crook… Nor did Hermione's various appellations against his age and mental integrity seem to fit.

'My sister spoke of you often.' Gellert interrupted Albus' explanation of how he hoped to learn how to ward his own family home, instead of bringing in an expert. If Gellert had been paying attention, he would have recommended that Albus ask Hermione for advice.

'Really?' Albus looked surprised.

'She does not like you. She says you are… making choices about people before you understand them.'

'Prejudiced?' Albus supplied, sounding baffled. 'I don't remember ever meeting her… are you sure it was me?'

'Prejudiced.' Gellert rolled the word around in his mouth. 'Yes. Albus Dumbledore.'

'Oh.' Albus looked relieved. 'I'm named after my father. A lot of people say he'd prejudiced – she wouldn't be the first.'

'Ah.' That explained a lot. Gellert would have to tell her that he'd met the son of the Albus she hated so much and he seemed reasonably open minded. Hermione would delight in the irony of having the son of the wizard she so disliked coming around to their side. He wondered if she knew the wizard was in Azkaban now.

Bathilda was already home when they knocked on the door before lunch. Gellert hadn't been inside a home so small since his brief stay with the muggle family in the desert and it was something of a novelty to smell the frying mushrooms and bacon as soon as they walked through the door. There was a pile of boots and shoes, accumulated in the vicinity of a shelf near the door and Gellert copied Albus in taking off his outer layers and putting them among the pile.

He had to squeeze past the bulging rack of coats and cloaks to get through the corridor and into the kitchen. Again, even being inside a kitchen was a novelty; there was a large fireplace with a hook ready for a cauldron and an earthenware pot of floo powder – apparently Bathilda used the same room for cooking, brewing and travel. A large brass and steel contraption was the source of the wonderful smell and a well sized dining table took up the middle of the room, already set with three plates. It looked like Bathilda used the kitchen for work as well; there was a messy desk tucked into a corner with no less than three lamps above it, which would provide plenty of light to read by at night. There was a drawing room off to one side, through a door that was ajar, although it was piled so high with ancient scrolls and books that Gellert doubted it had been used for its intended purpose for a very long time.

Albus had immediately begun regaling Bathilda of Gellert's conjuration and banishment ability and his theories on magical sentience. His aunt looked reluctantly impressed.

'It seems you inherited my brother's brain, Gellert.'

Gellert shrugged, watching Albus pick up a knife and start shaving a large block of something yellow – cheese or butter, Gellert didn't know.

'Although you've clearly been spoilt in that fancy castle of yours. There's a knife here – you can chop the apples.' Bathilda passed him a knife and a couple of slightly bruised apples.

'You live in a castle?' Albus asked, back to his earlier awe.

'Blau Berg. It is broken now. We live in…' Gellert trailed off as something massive and smoky grey surged through the wall, wheeling about in the tiny space between the fireplace and dining table. Hermione's nightmarish patronus seemed to take in the room, then spotted Gellert and brandished it's head in his direction.

'The Lady Gorlois bids you make haste back to Hexemeer. Great ill has befallen your matriarch.'

'What?' Gellert demanded, taken aback. He'd never heard of a patronus messenger with its own voice before. 'There's been another attack?'

'The island remains secure. Lady Gorlois calls for you with great urgency, she bids you make use of your amulet.'

The ghostly figure dissolved, leaving Gellert with two shocked Brits. He allowed himself a minute to digest the message, then turned to Bathilda quickly.

'I do not want to leave, but I have been asked home.' Gellert gestured to the place the patronus had occupied a moment before. His aunt nodded grimly and hurried out of the kitchen, hopefully to retrieve his cloak and shoes.

'Was that a patronus charm?' Albus demanded. Gellert nodded distractedly; he was too busy unfastening his collar to retrieve his emergency portkey – a flaw he'd never noticed before. He would have to ensure the new one was a bangle or ring that he'd be able to reach with his hands bound.

'I'm not sure I want to meet the witch who has a headless horseman for a patronus.' Albus continued, offering him an apple and a chunk of the yellow cheese. Gellert looked at it blankly and the boy informed him that it was meant to be his lunch. Gellert took both items, somewhat mystified; he'd never attended an emergency with lunch before.

Bathilda returned with his coat and shoes, eying the polished black runestone that was his emergency portkey, dangling on a long goblin forged silver chain as though it might suddenly come to life and strangle him.

'You be careful.' His aunt instructed, pursing her lips as Gellert finished dressing and straightened, drawing his wand. 'It's frightening, what happened in Russia. I'm not foolish enough to believe you could be talked into giving up your fight; it's uncanny, how that coven magic sucks you in, but remember you can't win if you're dead. You've got family here too, if it gets too dangerous in Germany.'

Gellert nodded, appreciating the offer but dismissing it almost immediately. The invitation had not been extended to Hermione, and he would never leave his witch.

He gripped his emergency portkey and spoke the password, tearing away from the English home in a rush of colour and dizzying spinning. His landing in Avalon was unbelievably painful; crashing into unforgiving stone on elbows and knees and narrowly missing breaking his nose on a protruding paving stone. Adrenaline quickly washed away the pain, letting him climb to his feet and hurry to the portal. It was the first time he'd ever opened one before and it took several tries before he could force his way through to Hexemeer.

'Master Grindelwald must hurry!' An elf was waiting for him, hand outstretched. Gellert took the long, bony fingers without hesitation, drawing his wand in preparation.

The elf apparated him to the far side of the island, where the beach gave way to large slabs of rock and became the cliffs of the north end. Katana was a little way off; unsaddled and ungroomed. Hermione must have flown down in a hurry. He was picking up on his mistress' agitation, lashing his draconic tail from side to side and sawing his head up and down. A granian grazed a little further away, harnessed in his mother's racing saddle and he could see the brown shape of Berg's hippogriff growing ever larger from the direction of the village.

Hermione was a pool of vermillion, like a drop of blood against the grass. The description seemed all too apt when Gellert saw the real blood soaking her skirts, which she was using to apply pressure to his mother's leg.

His mother was breathing carefully controlled, wheezing breaths. Her fists were clenched and her face whiter than the sand around them.

'Gellert.' Hermione greeted shortly, barely looking up.

'What happened?' He demanded, falling to his knees opposite her.

'Riding accident.' Hermione nodded towards the granian.

'It's Electra's yearling.' His mother moaned. 'Make sure he hasn't damaged his wing, would you?'

'Yes, mother.' Gellert agreed, without moving.

'I was watching from the office – he spooked and clipped a wing on that boulder.' Hermione jerked her chin in the direction of a large boulder. The hard ground around it was pitted and scraped, all the way to where they currently sat. 'I think he landed on top of her. There's an open fracture to her thigh, cracked ribs at least, probably a head injury; Berg's on his way, but without potions…' Hermione trailed off grimly. Gellert understood.

'Make sure you look after that yearling. He's the first time we've had a chance at beating Thor since I left school.'

'The yearling's fine, mother.' Gellert assured, taking over the application of pressure from Hermione so that she could start undoing his mother's hair to check for swelling in her skull. It was sickening, the feeling of the bone through the layers of blood soaked silk.

Berg's Hippogriff landed with a dull thud after what felt like hours, but was probably only seconds. The medical kit jangled and clinked as he heaved it off the beast's back and dropped it to the dirt beside them. He dug out three calming drafts before he'd even begun, handing one to each of them. Hermione put hers aside without touching it. Gellert considered the way his arms trembled and downed his.

It was less than reassuring that the next thing Berg pulled out was a medical textbook. Gellert took a deep breath to keep from shouting at his brother; they were lucky Berg had taken an interest in healing before.

'Are you comfortable doing this?' Hermione asked seriously, fixing Berg with a steady stare. 'If you're not, we can always call for a healer.'

'I'll do my best.' Berg responded, visibly steeling himself. He glanced at his textbook. 'The first step is to stabilise the injury and transfer her to a bed where I can see what we're dealing with without increasing the risk of infection.'

Hermione nodded. Berg waved his wand over his mother's prone form, conjuring a glowing image of the bones as if one of Hermione's guardians was hovering above his mother. Gellert winced and Hermione drew in a sharp breath. The left leg, that Gellert was applying pressure to, was snapped and twisted. Four ribs were fractured but thankfully not fully broken and it looked like her other ankle was dislocated, hidden beneath both witches' pooled skirts and cloaks.

Berg took a deep breath, then began issuing instructions.