Gellert knew even before the Headmaster's eyes met his across the crowded common room that bad news was to be broken to him. He was not alone; even the tragic and unexpected death of Lady Lotz two years ago had only warranted a visit from their Year-Master. The Grindelwald family, the rulers of the country, the heads of state, were the only ones that could warrant such a personal touch.

Dead silence fell as Gellert stood, pushing his feelings aside with more force than the measured dismissal of his followers. Hermione or his mother; Gellert had not forgotten his dreams of a funeral in winter. He was almost torn as to which witch he most feared losing, although he assured himself he only dreaded either piece of news because of the political ramifications. His movement was not yet ready to make the changes needed to ensure the survival of the old ways.

Of course, every soul in Germany now knew of his family's struggles. They all knew how precarious the system was, and the first rumours began to break the silence.

'Silence them.' Gellert instructed, barely a breath in the ear of the closest Mustonen brother. Jori's dark eyes gleamed as he nodded.

He trailed after the headmaster, across to the south side of the castle where the sun fought to combat the encroaching long nights of winter and traced fire across the crests of the distant hills, peeking through ice-washed windows and dimming the glow of the witchlights on the walls. The headmaster's office was warmer than the rest of the castle, with thick carpets and tapestries covering every stone surface and a fire roaring in the large grate. The wizard didn't sit but gestured for Gellert to take the seat on the near side of the desk.

Gellert remained standing.

The headmaster knotted his fingers nervously and swallowed, throat bobbing.

'Your sister sent word.' The headmaster informed him eventually, seeming to gather his nerve. Gellert pursed his lips – surely Hermione had not erred so much as to allow rumours of further ill fortune to spread in a misguided attempt to force communication? Something of his displeasure must have shown on his face because the headmaster quickly continued. 'Her owl informed me that your mother has taken a turn for the worse. Your sister… begs… you attend her in the Hallen der Heilung.'

'The Hallen der Heilung?' He confirmed sharply. Foolish the headmaster may have proven himself on many occasion, but even he was politically astute enough to understand the truly dire straights his family was in if they had resorted to the public Hallen der Heilung for medical aid.

'Floo power is over the mantle, Heir Grindelwald.' The headmaster backed away quickly with a small bow. Gellert barely acknowledged the motion, barely recognised that the man was deferring to a student that may be soon declared magical leader of Germany. He flung the floo powder into the flames with enough fury that it was almost a surprise that the flames did not burn red with rage.

He strode out into the reception room of the Hallen der Heilung, wand swiping ash from his crimson robes in blatant violation of the new restriction of underage sorcery. But his snarling anger and defiance remained unacknowledged in the crowded room. A witch, dressed in rags and heavily pregnant barged past him, face contorted in pain. A healer sidestepped around him with a tsk of annoyance, not even glancing up from the parchment in his hand. Then he was bundled roughly aside by a press of sweaty, ignoble people as two wizards rode past on Sleipnir, a grotesque blend of erumpent and wizard roped firmly between them. They cleared the way to a row of desk at the far end of the room and Gellert forced his way along behind them, then actually growled as his boot squelched in some unknown bodily fluid.

'You!' He snarled, losing patience and snatching at the sleeve of the closest healer. 'I'm here to see my mother.'

'Join the queue.' The healer responded waspishly, without an iota of respect.

'Do you know who I am?' Gellert threw back his shoulders and drew himself up to his full and not inconsiderable height.

'Gellert Grindelwald.' The healer sniffed, pulling her sleeve free. 'And if you're not here to return our funding, join the queue, like everyone else. Maybe then you'll appreciate the dire condition of the National Health Service.'

Before he could gather himself enough to express his outrage, the healer was gone, slipping between the crowds and heading towards a wailing child with the ears of an elephant. Gellert narrowed his eyes, then forced his way through the crowds. Several people protested, right up until they met his gaze and subsided rapidly – even those with revolutionary pins on their lapels didn't dare confront him now that he'd shed the veneer of patience and pandering.

'Gellert!' Hermione's clear voice cut through the crowd, ringing out over the deep humdrum of chaos. The room seemed to instantly still, as if in deference to her. Then, as if to defy him, the crowd parted like sheep before a shepherd.

She was an island of calm, cleanliness, a goddess among men. She was hardly dressed for public, wearing a casual dress beneath her cloak and with her hair carelessly knotted and held in place with a single pin. Yet the clear authority with which she carried herself demanded respect even from those who bore their allegiance against her on their chests. He hated that she was so small minded as to neglect the power she held to do good in the world.

'Come, Gellert.' Hermione bid. Her face was a mask of public politeness and Gellert felt his own lips twist briefly before he too schooled his expression to friendliness. Germany was held together by the promise of their future coven, and he could not afford to rock the boat yet.

She took his arm when it was mechanically offered, guiding him easily through the crowd and through the archway behind the desks. A deep, circular chasm opened up before them, hundreds of alcoves carved into the walls like the chambers of a honeycomb. Patients on beds lay beneath golden lamps, open to the natural light that glittered across the array of mirrors distantly above and reflected like sunlight into the depths.

Hermione turned left with barely a glance, leading him past the pit and through a short, dark corridor. A white enamel plaque on the wall informed him that they were heading towards "Mundane Injuries" and "Magical Maladies", whilst they had just come from "Potions and Poisons" and "Artifact Accidents".

'She's just down here.' Hermione assured, as they emerged into another great honeycomb. A tatty magic carpet wobbled and dipped alarmingly as she stepped out onto it and Gellert would have been hesitant to follow if he weren't determined not to let Hermione be braver than he was. He was still furious with her, and he would be sure to let her know it as soon as they were in private… or what might count for private in the public wards.

The carpet dipped alarmingly at one corner as it slipped away from the window they'd used to climb aboard, then juddered in a way that suggested a whole raft of temporary stop-gap spells held the flight charms together as it flew them to an alcove five floors down and nearly straight across the pit.

Berg was already there, dressed in the increasingly drab scholarly robes he'd begun to favour as the family retreated behind closed doors and he retreated to his books. He was in deep discussion with a pair of healers, and none of the trio's expressions boded well.

His mother was in the bed behind them, and all anger fled at the sight of her.

She looked tiny against the white sheets, almost concealed by the diagnostic charms which drifted in colourless wisps in the air above her. She was flushed, her silvery hair twisted into damp knots across her pillow. Sweat glistened across trembling eyelids and highlighted the planes of her face. His mother had always had powerful, aristocratic features but now her skin was pulled so taught over protruding bone that she looked as though she were already a skeleton. Any spare weight that had softened her had been stripped away by fever.

'Lady Grindelwald.' The healers deferred to Hermione immediately, which would have made him angry if he had the attention to spare. His mother had looked unwell when he'd left, but surely she could not have degenerated so far in only a month?

'What are you doing for her?' He tried to demand, but his voice came out as more of a broken croak. His stomach, which he hadn't even noticed clenching up with cold fear, sank, as the healers shared a solemn look.

'Nothing.' The man on the left admitted. He ducked his head and folded his hands in front of him, as if breaking the news that his mother was already dead.

'Nothing?' Hermione echoed coldly, archly.

'Nothing.' Berg sounded exhausted and resigned. 'They can't treat her, because she's not a witch.'

'Can't, or wont?' Gellert demanded, his anger returning with every ounce of righteous fury. He started towards them, perhaps to grab the witch by her revolutionary pin and shake her over the chasm until she agreed to treat his mother. Hermione had committed the sin of admitting Grindelwald weakness by bringing his mother to the public Hallen der Heilung, he would be damned if it were for nothing. Hermione stopped him with a hand across his chest, the strength of a trained swordswoman behind the motion, her magic coiling to enforce her movement in a way that he had once found admirably instinctual and now found irritating and intrusive.

'I assure you our political affiliations have no bearing on our oaths, Heir Grindelwald. We are, simply put, unable to assist a muggle. We are not trained to accommodate their physiology, and this is not a magical injury.' The healer confirmed, glancing at his revolutionary companion. 'My suggestion is that you seek muggle aid. We can recommend several muggle halls of healing…'

'Thank you.' Hermione interrupted tightly. Her expression was closed, but her hand trembled ever so slightly against his chest, where she continued to restrain him unnecessarily. 'Please bring those recommendations to us.'

The healers both bowed, then retreated quickly via the same magic carpet they'd arrived on moments ago. A tense silence fell as Gellert was left alone with his unconscious mother and her wards. Hermione dropped her hand and stepped in close, sweeping aside a tendril of hair from his mother's clammy face.

'Why did you come here?' Gellert demanded, quietly enough that they couldn't be overheard by anyone in the rooms to either side.

'Because we had no choice.' Berg sounded earnest, regretful. 'The hexemeer wards are stuck closed and she was too sick to risk the portal.'

'And the carriage?' He hissed. Berg glanced nervously at Hermione.

'Neither of us knew how to harness the Sleipnir, or drive it.'

'The elves do that.' Really, it was the most pathetic excuse they could have chosen.

'Exactly!' Hermione interrupted, with a hiss and a gesture. 'The elves are gone, Gellert.'

That stopped him cold.

'What?'

'We had to release the elves.'

'Why?'

'Because I've been supporting them for months, but I've been indisposed.'

'Indisposed?' Gellert confirmed incredulously, looking her over anew. He meant to disbelieve her, but he could suddenly see the signs that should have been glaringly obvious. Her usually tanned skin was several shades paler, as if she hadn't been outside at all since he'd last seen her. She'd lost weight too, although it was concealed by the clever cut of her robes and the style of her hair.

'Missing.' Berg corrected sharply. 'She's been missing.'

'Kidnapped?' asked Gellert, inspecting for any other signs he may have missed.

'Misplaced is perhaps more accurate. I believe I spent a month in the fey plane.' His sister sounded tired, as though the admission had drained all of her usual fire. 'A month wandering through trees and listening to music whilst the real world burned around me, of course.'

'The fey plane?' Gellert couldn't help his sudden spark of interest. He'd been researching the fey for months; ever since the Mustonens had asked him to help with their father's book. To have Hermione encounter the same concepts from the opposite angle and at such suspicious timing… just as they were approaching a solution to their research, was highly suspicious.

His witch's eyes narrowed assessingly, as though she suspected the reason for his interest. She couldn't; he'd kept his research away from Hexemeer, at Nurmengard and Durmstrang. She couldn't have seen it.

'Correct.' Hermione's tone made it clear she intended to talk no more on the subject. Gellert would have pushed, were it not for the return of the healer with his recommendations for muggle healers. The revolutionary witch had wisely been left behind.

'What's wrong with her?' Gellert demanded of the healer. He still had not been informed, as though the true flesh-and-blood son of the patient was not entitled to be the first to know. He should not have had to ask.

'A poisoning of the flesh – an infection.'

'Infection.' Gellert remembered the infection of his own stomach wound as a child. The stink of his own putrid flesh, the pain, and then the numbness. He only half remembered the delirium, drifting in and out of consciousness as Berg and Star flew. He had been healed by muggles with leeches and herbs… why had such a minor ailment brought his mother low?

He rounded on Berg. 'How did you let this happen?'

Hermione stepped between them, using her body to force Gellert back away from his ward-brother. Her lips had contorted with aggression to match his own.

'He did not "allow" this to happen.' She spat. 'And how dare you imply otherwise?'

'My mother is dying from an infection.' Gellert growled, meeting her gaze. 'I was healed from an infection my muggles… Berg could have done more.'

'You were otherwise healthy, young, with magic to help you. Your mother is not. He has done everything in his power to help her and when it became clear that he could not, we came here.'

'And you risked everything by doing so.'

'Yes.' Hermione acknowledged angrily. 'Because our only choice was to let her die. Would that have pleased you, Gellert?'

She had never spoken his name with such derision before – hatred, perhaps, might have hurt less. He buried the feeling, smothering it with his own anger.

'You should have consulted me…' Gellert was cut off by an awkward cough from the healer. He paused, remembering suddenly that they were in public. Bitter dread weighed heavily in his chest as he took a deep, calming breath. How had they been so foolish as to argue in public?

'Is she ready to transport.' He asked coldly, occluding his fear behind heavy shields. He felt Hermione step up beside him, just as icy in demeanour.

'Yes, Heir Grindelwald.' The healer wouldn't meet his eyes, perhaps aware that he had witnessed something he most certainly shouldn't. The great houses were dangerous, family secrets were dangerous, particularly to those without their own family to protect them. It was well known, although the Grindelwalds had never had cause for concern before… Gellert drew in a long, deep breath.

His movement was quick. Even Hermione barely managed an exclamation of surprise and her instinct was to shield herself first. Gellert's curse hit the healer solidly, knocking him backwards into the wall at the back of the cave.

'What did you do?' Hermione screeched, a moment later. She flew to the unconscious man's side so fast that her skirts appeared to become wings.

'Wiped his memory.' Gellert responded coldly. He turned to his mother – prepared and already waiting on the magic carpet. A sharp gesture of his wand had Berg hurrying onto the carpet as well.

'It did not need to be done so violently.' Hermione did not move, checking the healer's head for injury. At least she did not argue the necessity.

'It was done quickly. We do not need to waste any more time over this. Move.'

'Before they find what you have done?' Hermione snarled, although she did leave the healer and join Berg on the carpet. Gellert stepped on behind her and the carpet detached from the alcove, leaving the healer behind.

'I suppose you have some secretive and all powerful method of modifying the mind from your family?' He sneered. Perhaps she did – it would explain how she so easily gained the devotion of all who met her.

'No. Not from my family. But it still could have been done more subtly.' Gellert snarled at the response, but had no reply. She was, perhaps, correct, but he did not have the time or patience to deal with the healer. The wizard would hardly be the first casualty of politics; such were that hazards of the lower class.

He remembered suddenly their previous conversation.

'We have no elves now?'

'None, except Flighty, Doughy and Beastie.' Hermione confirmed shortly, without looking at him. The carpet bore them up and up, past fragrant brewing rooms and more patient care rooms. So their personal elves were all that remained; Flighty had belonged to a small household before being hired as Hermione's elf, so presumably knew a little about every aspect of the household. Berg's Doughy had hopefully absorbed some knowledge of husbandry and beast care from the other Tunninger elves. Beastie had been hired to eventually become the head of Gellert's household, so he could manage the numbers and administration but was deeply lacking when it came to practical matters.

His family continued to sink to astonishingly new lows each day; first his mother became helpless, then they were budgeting, then being admitted to public hospitals and being served by only three elves. How much further could they sink?

He chided himself immediately for tempting fate, shaking his head and blinking as much to clear the thoughts as remove the greenish flare that a dancing reflection of the sun against the mirrors had burned across his sight.

The light grew brighter and brighter as they approached the roof, forcing Gellert to close his eyes completely until the carpet bore them out of the mirrored tunnel and into what appeared to be some kind of abandoned muggle factory. Rusted machinery hunched beneath grimy, cracked windows high up in red brick walls, sickeningly reminiscent of the abandoned machinery in the mining encampment where Livius Lucan had once hidden.

'Help! Help!' Hermione called out of the doorway. Gellert scowled at her display, then blinked – at some point she'd transfigured her dress into a lacy, layered affair and affixed a presumably conjured hat to her hair. A hasty wave of her hand had his mother dressed in something similar.

'You don't seriously think that's going to…' Gellert's words were cut off abruptly as five muggle men, grubby and worn from labour but never-the-less honest and earnest in expression, rushed into the abandoned building, ready to aid a damsel in distress.

'Please, it's my mother-in-law. She took ill all of a sudden.' Hermione pointed tremulously towards Gellert and Berg, who were still crouched around his mother's unconscious form.

'Fetch a cart, quickly, Oskar.' The eldest muggle ordered gruffly. 'The ironworks should have one spare.'

'Oh please!' Hermione grasped young Oskar's grubby hands with her own, soiling her transfigured dress. 'Berg, go with him, make sure the good masters at the ironworks know they'll be compensated for the time of their cart.'

Berg scowled at her but could hardly argue, jogging after Oskar into the loud muggle world beyond. The remaining four muggle men quickly crowded around Gellert's mother, pushing him away by sheer mass. Hermione hovered around them, fretting far more than she would if she weren't playing a part.

'She was injured in a terrible fall not long ago.' Hermione explained. 'But she seemed to be recovering well. Oh, I do hope it's nothing serious – we're a long way from home, you see? My betrothed was looking into purchasing this old barn.'

Two muggles set to heaving the lopsided doors fully open on protesting hinges whilst the remaining two began clearing a path between the abandoned machines and scattered crates to where the unconscious Lady lay at the base of a towering chimney – a chimney that held no hint of the magical hospital below.

Oskar returned with the cart quickly; a large, filthy thing pulled by two muscular horses with a sixth muggle in the driver's seat. It seemed sturdy enough at least, and the muggles made quick work of lifting Gellert's mother into the flat bed with great ease and surprising care. One wadded his coat up for her to use as a pillow and another spread out his jacket to protect Hermione's dress as she sat, as though it weren't going to be just as spoiled by the filthy fabric. Of course, it shouldn't surprise him that Hermione received such treatment. She had always been adept at winding adults of every station around her fingers.

The muggles climbed up beside them, packing in tightly against Gellert and Berg so that an island of space was left around the two women in the cart. Then they set off, bumping and clattering over rough ground. It was nothing like the carriage drawn by the Sleipnir, where their passage was softened by lists of enchantments as long as his arm. Instead, Gellert's introduction to muggle cities was as jarring physically as visually.

The Unterhalb was a bustling metropolis of wixen business and habitation, so it stood to reason that the muggle equivalent would be proportionally larger. It was the dirt that caught his attention first; the muggle village near Nurmengard had an agricultural grubbiness, of earth and animals. The putrid streets of the city were another level of filth entirely; horse dung, dried, powdered and then returned to a thick slurry by a recent rain, thrown up by the wheels of carts to paint every wall and window. Factories belched thick smoke which hung like the fumes of a potion brewery, noxious yellow-black. Huddled among the filth were mounds of rubbish, some of which would move piteously and stare up at them with glassy eyes as they passed. Twice, they passed another cart, squeezing past one another on the narrow streets. Both were piled high with coal, horses straining against their immense loads.

Hermione had gone suddenly silent, staring around with wide and horrified eyes. Perhaps her muggles were more like the rural ones near Nurmengard?

The hospital was a breath of relief after the filth of the city. The hooves and wheels of the cart were hosed down by four children as they trotted into the courtyard, the slurry of the street washing away. Another cart was already there, the occupants splattered in vivid red blood and helping to unload an unconscious fellow who appeared to be missing his entire left arm. Neither Gellert nor Berg could tear their eyes away from that man, whom the muggles clearly intended to save. He wouldn't have thought it possible, when even wizards usually died from such an injury.

His mother was unloaded by the muggles Hermione had called to assist and passed into the care of three healers in starched white aprons and two men with strange instruments hanging around their necks. His sister was preoccupied, thanking the muggles profusely and gifting her earrings to them in thanks. Gellert, however, followed closely behind his mother as she was carried on a stretcher into the muggle hospital.

It was surprisingly clean. Gellert remembered Hermione's obsession with cleanliness during their attempts to repair her damaged bones and wondered whether she had perhaps not been quite so abstract in her orders as he had assumed. There was a strange smell to the air; bitter, unpleasant, but not in the same way that the streets had been. It almost combatted the encompassing smell of smog that hung over the city and swirled in through the many, airy windows and arched doorways. Gellert imagined the entire building would be frigid in winter.

Berg hurried beside the healers, discussing his mother's health history in urgent undertones whilst the muggles nodded and tutted. It was incomplete, Gellert knew, but for the first time since his mother's injury he began to feel some hope. They passed many muggles who were missing limbs – surely no complication experienced by his mother could be worse than a missing leg, and if it were, surely they could rectify it by removing the crippled limb entirely? They had known from the moment of the injury that she wouldn't walk again anyway, and even another two years of her survival would place the German magical dynasty in a significantly stronger position, once Gellert had graduated.

They arrived, finally, the muggle healers offloading his mother from the stretcher into an uncomfortable, firm bed. With quick and practiced movements, the three women lifted his mother's skirts and began unwrapping the bandages on her leg.

The cut was fouler than Gellert ever remembered his own being. The skin of her leg was stretched and ballooned, stinking pus and blood dribbling across blackening skin. He had only seen worse on the pestilences in Russia, who were sustained on magic alone. Certainly never on a living being, and he had lived through enough wars and battles to see foul curse wounds fester.

'The setting is remarkably straight.' One of the male healers observed, leaning over. 'The scarring is minimal, as well, for such a large incision. Was the surgery aseptic?'

'As best as could be managed.' Hermione stepped in quickly, then seemed to remember that she was a tittering muggle heiress and receded into the background again, fanning herself and making a poor attempt at looking like she had never seen such a wound before. One of the female nurses narrowed her eyes briefly in Hermione's direction, and Gellert would have been gratified that at least someone wasn't falling for her usual performance were he not so distracted by the musings of the muggle healers.

They were planning to amputate. He'd considered the thought briefly on the way in, but somehow knowing that it was actually being considered was worse. It was a major operation. It could go so wrong. He tried not to wonder how many muggles had died for every amputee he saw recovering on their way through the hospital.

He mollified himself with the thought that atleast muggle healers would understand how to deal with muggle complications. His mother was in better hands than his and Berg's inexperience.

In reality, he had no choice but to agree. His mother would die, otherwise. At least there was a chance she might survive this way.