Expelled
“Expelled! After everything we've done! All we've covered up for you! The whole school has had enough and expelled you! Fucking disgrace!”
A man's angry German shouts brought Gellert back to his senses. He was…home? His childhood home. He could recognize the living room anywhere- with the giant stone fireplace, the animal pelts hanging on the wall, the lavish couches and sofas, the woolen carpet- it was just as he remembered it. But that begged the question, how was he here? Is this that ‘life flashing before your eyes’ moment?But why am I seeing it straight from this point? Why not earlier, or later? He took in the sweet scent of aromatic herbs and candle wax, even the faint smell of smoke felt like a luxury after all those years locked up in that empty cell.
He barely even felt the slap, his father's heavy hand colliding with the side of his face.
“Are you listening to me, boy?! Answer me, verdammt!”
He brought his eyes to meet the man's eyes and for a second looked confused. This is not how it happened…. He's had this scene play out before his eyes time and time again- that's all he did in that cell, remember. And he knew that that day he didn't get slapped. The man was furiously awaiting an answer.
“Yes, Father. I am sorry, Father.”
“Sorry?! Sorry?! That is all you have to say for yourself?! I've covered up your little ‘experiments’ at the cost of my own bloody reputation! I waited- your mother said you'll grow out of it- for you to stop your nonsense.” He stopped to take a breath. His face was red and his veins were threatening to pop from the pressure of his anger.
“And yet no amount of gold could’ve saved you now- killed the headmaster’s fucking child…” Pure disbelief resonated with those words.
“Where the fuck have we gone wrong in raising you?! Despicable. Demon spawn- that's what you are! And all you can say is ‘sorry’! So you're pathetic as well!”
Gellert could only watch in silence as his father raged on. He’d known already for a long time that his parents hated the path he was walking on, but he could never stop himself. The Dark Magic sang to him, lulled him in, promised to give him the future he had foreseen for himself. And knowledge- knowledge called out his name, asked him to discover, to become grand. A horrible mix, really, for a young, prideful and ambitious mind. After each mishap, his parents bribed the headmaster and teachers into silence- even when his experiments hurt others. They always made their displeasure clear but he thought he could read pride in between the lines, for he was truly great. Or so he had thought of himself at that age.
“Me and your mother have turned a blind eye for too long. We are giving you one last chance at redemption. I'm sending you off to your aunt for the summer. Hopefully, she can bring some sense into your thick head.” The man had yelled himself hoarse, so now his voice quietened into an almost civil tone.
“Aunt Bathilda? In England?” Gellert asked, masterfully suppressing his glee. Bathilda Bagshot, the only person in his life who had accepted him exactly as he was, no matter what he did. She had been the only one who wrote him letters back in Nurmengard….
“Yes. No magic, no fancy books. Just good hard work. If you still have some semblance of a conscience you'll do as you're asked and maybe you won't be disowned. Step even once out of line, Junge, and you kiss this place goodbye!” The old man scowled at him, icy blue eyes almost burning holes into his skull.
If young Gellert had loved something, then that had been a lavish life. He had loved the attention, the gold, the fine cuisine, and rare furs- everything his aunt had thrown away when moving to that little island. His father always spoke ill of her, so naturally, he had grown to hate her too and view her as less. He still couldn't wrap his mind around how she could love him so much.
“When am I leaving?” I put up a big fight the first time…. But better there, than here.
“Tomorrow. Go pack. Raus mit dir!” His father swatted his hand, ready for another hit, but he was faster at ducking and ran straight for his room.
The door closed behind him with a loud bang. His childhood bedroom- he hadn't visited it even once during his time of glory. Often he wondered what his parents had thought of him, of what he had become. Had they been ashamed? Proud? Disgusted? Probably not disgusted- they did instill in him a hatred for muggles ever since he was a child; stupid pureblood ideals. The room was big and spacious, with walls painted a dark wine, and dark oak were the floorboards. A giant white wool rug sat in the middle, and opposite to the door was the bed- red bedding trimmed with golden constellations, to the left was his heavy oak desk with equally bedazzled stationary; it all stood in contrast to the old, no ancient, bookshelf that occupied the whole right wall, it was filled to the brim with books of all types- silent ones, wailing ones, ones that snapped at you, others that appeared and disappeared; books on potions, transfigurations, dark magic and rituals; and one row, the lowest, with children's books, the books every pureblood child had been read to, that never missed from any household.
He turned to the side and was greeted by the tall mirror he used to spend hours looking at. He stepped closer. His hands were shaking as he touched the cold surface. Gellert was no longer a skeletal old man, withering away in a lonely tower. No, what greeted him from the other side of the mirror was a young man, a teenager really, with soft golden hair that curled at the tips, pale skin free of wrinkles and any indication of the passage of time- he didn't even have pimples! bright, lively eyes of different colors- icy blue and earth brown; he was lean and fairly tall, features almost femininely delicate. A doll that had never needed to lift a finger in his life.
He took a seat on the tiny chair next to the mirror (he used it when putting his shoes on) and just stood there quietly, deep in thought. Nothing had gone according to his memory, sure the conversation, he could say, went as close to the script as it could- but it wasn't the same. Neither had his reactions been. And there was also the fact that he was actively thinking about all this. Something wasn't adding up. These can't be my memories, because you can't just change them like this- unknowingly. There has to be another explanation. Am I truly dead? Is this my hell? I don't feel punished. This isn't right. Could it be-.... no way. But what if? Then the question would be ‘why?’. Why am I here? Why am I reliving this day?
He just sat there, pondering. He touched his face, his hair, pinched himself- it was all real. He was real. Could he have truly been sent to the past? But who and why and how would do this? Could he really be gifted a second chance?
“Gellert, Abendessen ist fertig!” His mother's voice rang out in the silence, so loud he almost cried out in pain- he had forgotten that living with others was so noisy. Dinner, did she say? So long had it been since he'd eaten actual food…. The dilemma of this supposed new chance, that's what he wanted to believe it was, could wait until later.
“Ich komme!”