Chapter Text
The seats were too small, the passengers too loud, and the stale hunk of bread that passed for an in-flight snack crunched ominously under Gellert's teeth as he drummed his fingers on his phone, trying not to think about how he could have made this trip on his family's private jet. He stretched his legs experimentally and was rewarded with a dirty look from the person sitting in front of him. He considered glaring back, but what was the point of making enemies with someone who would drift off with the rest of the hoi polloi once this flight to the middle of nowhere landed?
Economy class sucked big-time.
Gellert thought he should consider himself lucky that he didn't have distant relatives living in Australia. The prospect of spending up to twenty-four hours on a plane like this—excluding transfers—made him want to force open the tiny, fishbowl-sized windows and let the atmospheric pressure turn his body inside out. Surely his family should have cracked the secret to teleportation by now? His father owned one of the world's leading research companies, after all. Then again, the man loved all the trappings of wealth too much to let them go. Private jets and yachts, mansions with entire wings dedicated to showing off his wine collection—he would never give up on these even if teleportation were possible. Anything to distinguish himself from people who hadn't "earned" their wealth through being born into the right family.
And now he had decided to banish Gellert to live in the middle of nowhere in Britain with a great-aunt he had never even met, in hopes that the rich people he rubbed shoulders with would eventually forget the trouble that his disappointment of a son had caused.
His phone screen lit up, and Gellert glowered at the blank connectivity bar at top corner. Naturally, economy class passengers weren't entitled to free Wi-Fi. The part of him that had been in constant rebellion against his upbringing, challenging everything from the frivolous shopping parties to the late-night street racing competitions, whispered that he was being a hypocrite. The bigger, more dominant emotion of anger told him it was stupid to care about hypocrisy when he was the only one who had to suffer actual consequences.
"Think of it as a chapter in your coming-of-age story," Vinda had tried to console him when he had complained to her. "Bildung ist für das Leben and all that."
"I don't need to go to Britain, of all places, for an education." Gellert scowled at her. "You know that."
"Of course I do." Vinda had shrugged carelessly, causing her elegant dark locks to fall over one shoulder, and continued to outline her lips with the bright red lipstick she favoured. "The French blood in me would never allow a word of praise for that accursed island to cross my lips. I can see why your father considers sending you there a punishment. Then again, I also have distant relatives living there, so I'm not exactly in a position to criticise."
"I suppose it's consolation enough knowing that it's only our distant relatives who are stuck there. The main branch of our family--the side with good taste—is still in mainland Europe."
"Says the person going to live with them," Vinda said, capping the tube of lipstick shut with a smirk as she watched Gellert's scowl deepen.
Thinking of Vinda made him wonder how she and Anton would do without him. The bullying at their school wasn't as bad as the sort portrayed in those gauche American films, but cliquish behaviour was the same worldwide, and wealthy people had their own methods of subtle exclusion. His father had always been upset that Gellert had never managed to score invitations to the most prestigious after-parties and events-within-events, preferring instead to spend time on the fringe with people like Vinda and Anton. Gellert's recent behaviour had most likely gotten his family blacklisted from these events for life, not that he cared.
The intercom crackled to life. "Ladies and gentlemen, we will be beginning our descent shortly. Please return your seats to an upright position and turn off your phones."
At least this would be over soon. Gellert looked at his phone and, with a surge of defiance, decided to leave it on. Small, ineffectual acts of rebellion would have to do to help him get through this period of exile.
The woman waiting for him at the arrival gate looked nothing like the formal, buttoned-up woman on the book jacket of that old history book Gellert had found in the family library. She was dressed in bright, eye-catching colours and beaming at him in a way that nobody in his family would ever be caught dead doing. Her smile caused the fine lines around her eyes to fan out like ripples, but she radiated an almost childlike exuberance that made her look younger. "You're here!"
"Guten Tag, Großtante Bathilda," he said formally.
"Oh, come on, Tante is enough. I don't like being reminded of how old I am. When I look into a mirror, I still find myself surprised by the person staring back at me, but when you reach my age, you'll see that the outside is just a container for the youthful soul on the inside."
Gellert smiled politely, wondering if old British ladies all had the same tendency to blather on, or if it was just his family that was too impersonal and cold. At least she seemed nice.
"Now, I'm afraid we have a long drive ahead of us because the village is a long way off—I like a quiet life—but that gives us plenty of time to chat. Put your phone away, please. I don't see the appeal of those things myself, but Albus helps me with my emails sometimes and I have to admit that the classification system is pretty nifty. At least I won't miss any more important deadlines."
They had reached her car by then. It was a vivid, garish shade of yellow, and the trunk hung open slightly. Gellert didn't have time to protest before she was manhandling his luggage inside. He tried to close it, but it just popped open again. Great, now he would have to spend the entire journey worrying about his things scattered to the winds.
"Don't worry about that," Bathilda said dismissively. "I'll get Aberforth to help me take a look at it. There's nothing that boy can't fix."
He won't be able to fix it if my luggage ends up flying out onto the freeway, Gellert thought, but decided it wasn't worth belabouring the point. It wasn't like he had brought anything particularly important with him.
Gellert spent the rest of the journey covertly typing away on his phone and occasionally chiming in as Bathilda valiantly sustained the conversation over the two-hour drive. In between Vinda's string of laughing emojis in response to his complaints about his extremely verbose great-aunt, he learned about his life in exile and even his neighbours, whom Bathilda seemed to be extremely close to. Apparently he and Albus were enrolled in the same public school, St Godric's, although Albus was a year older and attending on a scholarship. The other brother, Aberforth, attended a school in the village and was constantly picking fights with the other kids and Albus— "he's a good boy at heart, he just has a hot temper. It's not easy always coming in second place. Their parents, bless their souls, were always so supportive of Albus, moving heaven and earth to get him into good schools to give him better opportunities, but Aberforth was never good at school, and then poor Ariana fell ill—"
God, was he really living next door to an entire brood of teenagers with parental issues? Gellert knew better than anyone that rich families had plenty of skeletons in their closet, but why was Bathilda so willing to take care of a bunch of children that weren't even related to her? From the sound of it, Albus was almost eighteen, so he should be able to do it himself.
It's because she's a good human being, the voice in his head said dryly. She didn't have to take you in either, remember?
Whatever, he thought, hunching lower in his seat. If she had just pretended she hadn’t received Father's email, at least I wouldn't be here now. There's no point in being a good human being.
"—So I tutor Ariana in between working on my manuscripts and take the opportunity to check in on the boys while I'm there," Bathilda finished.
"That's nice of you," Gellert said absently, scanning Anton's latest message. I thought British people were cold and standoffish. His fingers danced over the screen as he hammered out a reply. Ha, I wish. She talked my ear off about our neighbours and they sound like a recipe for disaster. Bunch of kids living alone. Why do poor people insist on having so many children when they can't afford to raise them?
"You should come over and say hi!"
"I really shouldn't impose on them," Gellert said hastily, one eye on the screen. It appeared that both Vinda and Anton were typing something.
"Oh, but you should. You and Albus are going to be spending a lot of time together even if you're in different grades. The commute to St Godric's is more than an hour by bus, and Albus likes to take the earliest bus out of the village—"
"Bus?" Gellert looked up from his phone in horror. "Doesn't he drive?"
"The Dumbledores don't own a car, darling," Bathilda said, taking her eyes off the road long enough to raise her eyebrows at him. "I told you Albus goes to school on a scholarship. Their parents had some savings, and they own the house so at least they don't have to worry about rent, thank goodness, but most of the money goes towards paying for Ariana's medicine and keeping three growing children fed. That's why I think you should get to know Albus. He'll show you how to get to school, at least for the first week or so."
"Fuck," Gellert muttered under his breath.
"Don't make me wash out your mouth with soap," Bathilda warned, grinning in a way that suggested she might enjoy making good on the threat.