Accident Prone

Ginerva wondered just what it was about her that seemed to draw the attention of attractive, teenage Dark Lords. Time Travel. Oneshot. Gellert Grindelwald x Ginny Weasley

When she was younger, her brothers had often said she was accident prone. Not accident prone like normal people, no—she wasn't clumsy, didn't trip over her own feet, black cats and ladders didn't have a strange attraction to her—the accidents that happened were few and far-between, but they were severe enough to merit a tally and her own personal label on the family clock.

Ginny followed a hinkypunk into the marsh.

Ginny almost got run over by a car in Ottery St. Catchpole.

Ginny slipped and fell down four flights of stairs.

Ginny set her hair on fire at Ollivander's.

Ginny was possessed by Tom Riddle's diary and opened the Chamber of Secrets.

Ginny tried to steal the Sword of Griffindor from the Headmaster Death Eater's office.

Ginny jumped a hundred years back in time trying to Apparate and her tonsils stayed behind.

'Oh, Ginny, you are so bloody fucking screwed.'

There was no one for her to turn to, to confide in, save for, perhaps, her Great Aunt Muriel, but she wasn't entirely willing to admit to herself that she might—just might—be desperate enough to confide in a nine year-old. She hadn't known Headmaster Dumbledore well—not like Harry knew him, not like the other adults knew him—and at this point in the man's life, she couldn't turn to him, anyhow; he was a strapping youth of eighteen and nothing like the old man she grew up knowing. This Albus Dumbledore was proud and daring and fierce and selfish and rapidly sliding into the Dark Arts like a child down a muddied hill in the rain, led by the hand by a charming, intellectual equal.

Gellert Grindelwald. His hair was as yellow as the sun and the sky matched his eyes, his skin warm and well loved by summer; oh, he was everything Hitler would preach about decades from now. He looked nothing like Tom Marvolo Riddle—Tom was like a fine china doll, pale skinned and dark haired and dark eyed, exotic and foreign in his effortless charm, his insides belladonna instead of cotton—but she could see plainly the similarities in their behaviors, how alike they were. Gellert carried himself the same way as Tom did, spoke the same way, his mind worked the same way, his eyes sharpened and sparkled with that same, sickeningly dark gleam. Watching Gellert and Albus interact was like watching herself fawning over Tom back when she was eleven and in love.

And Albus was very much in love.

But Gellert was not in love, and as such was immune to the rose-tinted eyesight that accompanied affection. When Albus' back was turned, Gellert turned his eyes and attentions to Ginerva; Albus may have been dabbling in the Dark Arts, but Gellert was far darker and his suspicions toward her had not dimmed down even months after her unorthodox arrival. He talked to her in-between words, wrote to her in-between the lines, slowly, inconspicuously trying to reel her in, hook, line, and sinker. She'd escape by retreating to Aberforth or playing clapping games with Ariana, the two people in her new life that Gellert avoided like they were hot with plague.

But such blatant avoidance tactics could only work for so long. Aberforth was not always available to escort her home, Ariana was not always in the mood to play Patty-Cake or sing "Miss Lucy Had A Tugboat," and Albus was too smitten to pay attention to all the warning signs screaming "Danger!" in his right ear.

Ginevra wondered just what it was about her that drew the attention of attractive, teenage Dark Lords.

Again, she was reminded of just how alike Gellert Grindelwald and Tom Marvolo Riddle were. Gellert towered over her slight frame; spine arched—although for Gellert, it was catlike as opposed to Tom's serpentine coil—in order to view her nose-to-nose. His smile was perfectly symmetrical and boyishly mischievous, though his eyes shone with something acutely dangerous. She was trapped between his arms, back pressed so harshly into the peeling yellow wallpaper behind her that she felt she could melt into the wall and fall out the other side into the night. His breath was cool against her burning cheek and smelled of something rich and savory—one thing unlike Tom; Tom's breath was deceivingly sweet.

"A bit out of place, aren't we, Frauline?" he said, holding up a small, familiar, black book.

She paled, her freckles standing out stark against her cheeks like a smattering of stars. 'My diary…' Caught, just like a kipper. Over a diary she had never wanted to keep in the first place after her first year, but did on doctor's orders.

Ever defiant, she glared fiercely up at him. "Who's 'we'? A bit behind the times, are you, Grindelwald?"

"Gellert." He corrected her automatically, blue eyes flashing in the firelight. He'd been trying to get her to call him by his given name for weeks. "I've always thought of myself as ahead of the times, actually, but you…" His gaze roamed over her form, causing her to flush.

She was not dressed appropriately for 1899, she knew; in these times, skinny jeans and a tank top were nothing short of scandalous, if not downright whorish, even in the privacy of her own flat—not that Ginerva really cared what any of these people thought about that, she didn't plan on staying in this time long enough—and Gellert browsed over her curve-hugging attire with lazy, unrestrained desire.

"My eyes are up here!" She hissed.

He lifted his gaze, the smirk never fading from his mouth. "'Up here'? Oh, but Ginevra, that would imply that I would have to look up into your eyes, but you see, there's no helping it, our height difference is so great that I can't help but look down at you."

She snarled and lifted her arm, but his fingers—a conductor's fingers, oh, what symphonies did follow in the wake of such practiced grace—caught her wrist before her knuckles could meet his cheek. His smile only widened, eyes darkening dangerously.

"Tsk, tsk, Ginerva. Throwing fists like a barbarian? Most women slap. Things do change in a century's time. Although, admittedly," he added, letting his gaze slip away from her face to the soft cleavage of her shirt, "I'd be a liar if I said I didn't like some of the developments."

"You are a liar." She bit back, cheeks red.

His blue eyes clashed with her brown ones, deeper and stormier than ever. The Atlantic was surely pale and sunny in comparison. "I never say anything I don't mean, Ginerva." He said, his voice silken, long fingers skittering up her arm to dance over her exposed collarbone where her freckles thinned but continued on down to places hidden from his prying stare. He wanted to find them, she could tell.

She trembled at his touch, pinching her eyes shut. She didn't bother trying to call a bluff that didn't exist. It was yet another thing that separated him from Tom, who lied like it was his bread and butter.

'And yet…'

Merlin, he was beautiful. Tom had been beautiful too. Gellert's fingers burned where the rested against her flesh. What would Albus do if he found them like this? What would he say? He was jealous of Ginny already, little though it was, jealous that Gellert was so curious about her when he ought have been returning Albus' attentions.

Bloody Dark Lords. Why couldn't she have landed in the lap of Herpo the Foul? He surely wasn't a charming, manipulative, sexy, young specimen.

'How the bloody hell do I get into these situations?' And, ooh, it was an awful, terrible, selfish thing to think, but 'Isn't this kind of thing Harry's job!'

'No Boy Who Lived to save you now, sweetheart.' Tom's velvet voice murmured somewhere deep in her mind.

"What do you want from me?" She asked, thankful that her voice sounded strong and didn't quiver.

He leaned away from her, and she finally felt like she could breathe, but he kept his hands where they were. "Besides the obvious?"

She simply glared, silent.

He sighed dramatically, flicking his eyes heavenward. "Knowledge, of course." His expression grew hungry and the ferocity of it had her drawing in a sharp breath. "I want to know what happens in the next hundred years. What happens to me. Your journal is fascinating enough, but it's no history tome." He looked like a child on Christmas. "I want to know the leaps made in medicine, in potions—you mentioned a werewolf that keeps his mind through his transformations—and who is 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?' He sounds so intriguing! A madman, obviously, but nevertheless…"

It was almost a shame to ruin his eager, earnest excitement, his eyes glowing with anticipation. Almost. But Ginerva knew what he would grow up into; recalled the horrific pictures from World War Two's concentration camps.

"I'll tell you nothing."

She hadn't seen someone change expressions that quickly in years. Suddenly they were nose-to-nose again and she was drowning under the pressure of his furious aura. She felt like she was caught in a tide, being pulled out to sea, and Gellert was the salty, wrathful ocean dragging her under.

"Why not?" He demanded. Like a toddler denied his sweetie.

She didn't allow herself to cower or flinch. She was a lioness; she would not be tamed. Grindelwald would grow up into a terrible man, but Tom was worse. And she had survived Tom, hadn't she?

She scoffed at him. "You can't be so naïve that you think that I'll risk messing up the timeline! History could be turned on its head!"

"Isn't that the idea?" He drawled.

Oh, she hoped he boarded the Titanic. Scowling, blushing, she lifted her arms and shoved him away from her. Gellert stumbled back, his features drenched in open shock at her strength; girls of this day and age were delicate little brats, lacking the rights to so much as cast a vote for office. Ginny resisted the desire to laugh; she'd grown up with six older brothers, raised in a time where women stood on equal ground with men; she was not fragile in any sense of the word.

Not willing to give him back a centimeter, she took a kilometer, pushing him back until he fell into her armchair. Her brown eyes gleamed ferociously in the light of the fireplace, and she curled her fingers around his neck, straddling his knees so that now she was the one looking down on him.

What a glorious position.

"Listen up, Grindelwald—"

"Gellert," he corrected, eyes darting from her drawn wand to her face and back again.

"Grindelwald." She pressed, curling her fingers just a bit tighter, aiming her wand at the space above his heart. "I am not going to tell you anything about the future. Not about your own future or Albus' future nor anyone else's. Nothing you do will make me talk. You could Crucio me all the way back to my era and I still wouldn't breathe a bloody sodding word! You have no idea what kind of consequences could happen, you medieval-minded prick." Her temper flared higher with every spoken word until she was nearly shouting. "And my diary! My bloody diary! Didn't anyone ever teach you to keep your nose out of a woman's things? Have you no decency? Have you no honor? Is there a single bloody moral in your swelled-up bloody head, you son of a bitch? Anything else I should know about, huh? Steal my lingerie, maybe? Arsehole!"

For a moment he just stared at her, his hair shimmering like spun gold. He licked his lips and her eyes were inevitably drawn to that quick glimpse of pink. He smirked slightly, somehow amused and somehow serious.

"Are all women in the 20th century like you?"

She spluttered. "Did you even listen to a single bloody word I—"

Suddenly his hands were cupping her face and he was much too close. She pressed her wand more firmly against his chest warningly. Her grip on his neck tightened, he pulled her face closer to his.

"I've never met a woman like you before," he breathed, "You're like fire; your hair, your temper."

And then he was kissing her. Like it was the end of the world.

Defiance and passion and hunger welled up inside her, filling her up to the brim until it was spilling out of every pore and she kissed him back with a ferocity she had never before realized she possessed. His mouth was hot and moist and he seemed dead-set on nothing short of devouring her, his lips and tongue forceful and greedy and she met him with equal fervor.

Through the haze, deep in the back of her consciousness, Tom's voice whispered, tauntingly, mockingly, 'Surely you're not this gullible, Ginerva? Haven't you learned from your time with me?'

It was like Fred and George had dumped a bucket of ice water on her, a cold, arctic shiver sprouting from the crown of her head and dying at the tips of her bare toes. Growling, she tore her mouth from his and shot him through with a Static Hex. He flinched in the chair, muscles going rigid, and she felt the pulse at his neck stutter. He panted heavily, though if it was from the kiss or the electric shock, she couldn't tell.

She snarled softly. "Little boys who play with fire get burned, Grindelwald."

"Gellert."

"Seducing me will not convince me to tell you anything!"

He froze, briefly, as if struck, before forcefully rising, sending her tumbling off his lap. He caught her by the biceps before she could sprawl across the floor, pulling her lithe form against his solid, wide-shouldered stature. She raised her wand, but he flung it away and it rolled across the floor and under her bed, out of her reach. He had one arm positioned tightly around her waist, while his other hand cradled the back of her head, long fingers twining in her long hair, forcing her head to tilt up toward him.

"I told you before, Ginerva, I don't do anything I don't mean. If I kiss you, it's because I want to bloody kiss you!"

His mouth crashed down on hers again, relentless and consuming. He was like a force of nature, wild and powerful and ever changing underneath his sunshine locks. She had the sudden thought that this man could quell hurricanes if he so wished. Her feet no longer touched the floor—she was a Weasley, she was tall, but he was taller—and she stood on tiptoe on the top of his own feet. It was by far the best kiss she had ever had in her life thus far.

She hoped that didn't make her a bad person.

"You're so strange," his voice was a whisper. He spoke as if all the wind had fled from him, leaving him gasping like a grounded fish. "So interesting."

Why did the things that were supposed to be bad for you—junk food, romance novels, young Dark Lords—always make a person feel so good? This was wrong in more ways than she cared to count. She untangled her fingers from where they rested at the nape of his neck—when did they get there?—and fisted her hands in the front of his robe, unsure whether she wanted to push him away or pull him back to her.

"I shouldn't be doing this," she said, staring at his robes, avoiding his eyes and mouth, "It's not right. I… and Albus! Albus loves you, Grindelwald—"

"Gellert. And I have never encouraged Albus' silly infatuation. He is my friend, not my lover."

Her expression soured. "Don't say that like you've never used his feelings to get what you want."

"It's not like he couldn't deny me if he really wanted to. He could if he tried, but you see," his smirk was hideous and the light distorted it, making his features look malformed, "Albus likes taking orders from me."

"You're sick."

He paused and cocked his head, birdlike, staring down at her as if seeing her for the first time all over again. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, the back of her neck tingling; his lips silently formed a word she couldn't quite decipher.

'Olive sick? What is—?'

"That," he began, "Just might be a possibility."

His grip on her slackened and her feet flattened against the carpet again, but the swirling, unidentifiable emotions in his eyes left her weak at the knees and she fell, ungracefully, onto her bottom. She hissed, one eye wincing shut at the pain hotly blossoming on her tailbone.

She peered up at him—Merlin, he was so tall—and he looked down at her, unreadable, but she had the bone-deep, instinctual feeling that lightning was about to burst from the heart of the storm. And she was the only tree around for kilometers.

She held her breath, watching with wide eyes as he knelt to her level, once against invading her personal space like he owned it. Suddenly, he actually looked his age. Like a boy. And she thought that they were going to kiss again, but instead his fingers caressed her cheek—what was it her mother once said about men with large hands? Big hands, big—and followed the peppery trail of freckles down her neck and over her shoulders and down her arms and the odd gentleness of it took her breath away and she was only reminded that her heart was beating at all when his mouth pressed against her neck.

Her shiver was almost violent and a soft, strangled cry escaped her mouth, forcibly cut off the moment after it was freed.

"You even smell like fire." Gellert said, his lips following the same trail his fingers had gone down.

Was he completely mental? Or was she the one going mad?

Olive sick. What was that? Hadn't Luna once talked about something similar?

'Olive juice.

'Olive sick?

'Olive juice.

'Oh.

'Oh.'

"Not fucking possible." She muttered.

She couldn't see the frown form on his aristocrat features, but she could sense the change at once. "But you do. It's like candles and wood smoke and pepper and…"

"Lovesick? Seriously?"

He flinched away from her as if burned, hands and mouth suddenly kept to himself, his face leaning far enough away from her to allow her to see him clearly, alarmed and unsure, boyish and longing. His fingers twitched.

"So?"

She stared at him incredulously. "You must be kidding me. You can't—you can't—"

"Why not?" He exclaimed, an angry—or was it embarrassed?—flush settling on his high cheeks. "Why not?" His jaw set, his shoulders stiffened, hands curling into fists; he was on the defensive now, struggling to hide his exposed Achilles heel from one that would wound it.

Words fled her, slipping through her fingers, leaving behind silver flashes that she had no name for. "I… you can't—I can't… it's…" she swallowed, a tight knot stuck firmly in her throat, "The timeline. My timeline. Things have surely changed already. I can't—I can't risk changing anymore—"

"Never pinned you as the type to quit while you were ahead, Ginerva." He said bitterly. She continued as if she hadn't heard him.

"I might never be born."

He froze up completely, looking entirely as if someone had switched him out for a flawless wax copy, a mocking illusion of liveliness given only by the flickering, dying fire in the hearth. Then, quietly:

"You don't know that."

"I—"

"You don't know that!" He snarled, abruptly as fierce-looking as a wild beast. Terror flooded her and she propelled herself backwards until her shoulders slammed against the iron bedframe, though he followed every centimeter, German accent loosed along with his temper. "Nothing, no incident like yourz haz evur been recorded bevore! Nein! So how could you prezume to know vhat could happen iv you stay! Iv you change tingz? Hah?"

Hermione's face floated across her mind; Harry's wide-armed gestures as he recalled what had happened the year Sirius Black escaped from Azkaban.

"Terrible things have happened to wizards who meddle with time…"

"I doubt any ov zoze vizards vent back az var az you!"

"Grindelwald…"

"Gellert," he said, and his voice actually cracked. He cupped her cheeks in his palms and she was alarmed to realize that his hands shook ever so slightly. "My name iz Gellert. Vhy von't you say it?"

"I—"

"Say it!"

"Gellert." She whispered. It rolled off her tongue like a taboo, as if speaking his name would summon down chaos and destruction, as Voldemort's name would do at the end of the next century, a century that was behind her and before her all at once.

He calmed—marginally—immediately, and silence reigned supreme between them for several moments that seemed as long as lifetimes.

"Did it," his voice rasped, sounding dry, "Did it ever occur to you, perchance, that mayhap, mayhap, you're supposed to be here?"

No. It hadn't. Not once. Because that was only wishful thinking. Her being here was an accident, and accidents were meant to be fixed; the longer she stayed the greater the impending disaster grew. Time could knot around itself, creating an endless loop, erasing her and rebirthing her and erasing her again.

"I can't." She said. "This thing… between us, it… whatever it is, it can't happen, Gri-Gellert. It can't. I have to go back. It's where I belong. I want to go back."

He was silent, eerily so, and with the fireplace at his back his face was cast in shadows. The quiet before the storm.

"Nien." His voice was dark and deep, like distant thunder. "Nein!" He rose abruptly, fisting his hands in the front of her shirt to haul her up after him. She shrieked and he deposited her on the bed, the sweet smell of yarrow rising from the mattress. He loomed over her, boxing her beneath him with his limbs, his blue eyes chilling. "You are not allowed to go! I vill not let you!"

"You're not the boss of me! If I want to go home then I'll bloody well go home!"

"You vill stay or I vill make you!"

"You can't make me do anything! Bloody bastard!" She screamed in protest, thrashing under him, hips bucking as she tried—and failed—to knee him somewhere sensitive.

His responding growl was animalistic and, as if she was any other woman of the 19th century, he lifted his hand and slapped her. Like he thought it would remind her of "her place" or some other ridiculously sexist notion.

'Oh, hell no.'

She snarled, cocked her fist back, and punched him. He fell away with a cry, hands flying to the bloody fount gushing from his nose. She sat up, glaring, fiery hair wild.

"Son of a bitch! Hit me, will you? How would that make me want to stay? I know well enough about you, Grindel—"

"Gerrert!" He slurred angrily.

"—I know what kind of man you grow up into, what you're shaping up to be even now, and it's disgusting! You're monstrous! Who in their right mind would want to be with something like you?"

She watched her words cut deep, and had she not already struck a physical blow, she knew he would have flinched as if her words were tangible in and of themselves.

But he did not cow at her scathing comments, instead yanking at her shirt again to drag her down into a battle of mouths, and it was indeed a battle; no erupting passions burst nor shy explorations. He fought to make her will dissolve and she fought to keep her will burning and ardent. Teeth clashed and the metallic tang of blood filled her mouth, the suddenness of it making her back arch. Her shirt, unable to stand against the abuse any longer, abruptly tore in his hands.

For a split second they were still, as if their minds were unable to process the feeling of flesh on tender flesh, then Ginerva's back hit the bed again and Gellert knelt over her. A wordless spell cleaned away the blood and snapped his nose back into its rightful place and then he was everywhere at once, lips and teeth and hands. Her back arched as he trailed his mouth over her freckled sternum to her freckled belly, his hands pinning her freckled shoulders. A sharp cry jumped free from her throat and her nails scrabbled at the cloth covering his arms. The fire in the grate flared in response to their rampant magic crackling in the air.

His motions were not gentle, though she knew he could have been. No, her opportunity for softness had come and gone, and left behind a battle of wills between two dominant personalities refusing to submit. He rose to claim her mouth again and his long fingers fumbled and tugged at the waistline of her skinny jeans. Her fingernails tore a stitch in his knit jumper loose and it unraveled from neck to navel; she wrenched her mouth free to bombard his now-bared chest and neck. Her jeans finally popped loose and he slid the material off her legs, caressing and squeezing her thighs greedily. She bit at his pulse as he attempted to figure out how to undo her bra. Impatience won out, however, and he simply cast a spell to banish the article of clothing whist shedding his own.

'Cheater!' Her mind howled and as he dove to press his mouth to her bosom she stole his wand from his grip and tossed it into the shadows. He glared at her with icy eyes and she stared back with the fire reflecting off her irises.

His intrusion, accompanied by a hoarse moan, was sudden and demanding and when she threw her head back with a cry, unused to the sensation, a gleeful expression overtook his features. In what seemed to be no time at all their skin was slick with perspiration, pleasure rising steadily and fast. Gellert's expression was wild and domineering.

Unwilling to let him get the upper hand, even though pleasure threatened to engulf her, Ginerva swallowed a breath and clenched her abdominal muscles. Hard.

He yelled, movements going spastic as the sudden pressure forced a premature orgasm from him. He said something that might have been her name and rested his forehead on her shoulder as he reached and slowly floated down from his high, his breath shallow and tremulous and warm. She allowed a moment of patience, waiting for him to gather his wits about him, but the moment passed and still he had not moved.

"Well?"

"Vhat?" He lifted his head to look at her, strands of molten gold clinging wetly to his face.

Her temper flared and she sneered at him, crossing her arms over her bare breasts. "How like a man to care only for his own pleasure with no regards to that of his bedmate. Hmph!"

His mouth dropped open, eyes widening with amazement. "Y-you mean you didn't… just now, you didn't… didn't…"

"Orgasm? No, I didn't."

Tom snickered in the back of her head 'Even I managed that. As a book, no less. Not that it was—'

'Shut it, you.'

The red on Gellert's cheeks mottled, offended and embarrassed that she found his performance incompetent. She flipped him on his back and topped him and when he growled threateningly she flexed around his organ. His eyes rolled back in his head and he shuddered.

"Have you ever even been with a girl before, Gellert?" She jeered. "I hadn't really pinned you as a premature ejaculator, what with the way you strut around." His silence and darkening blush told her all that she needed to know and she bit back a snicker. He was vulnerable to her jibes now, but she had the feeling that laughing at him outright would go over badly. She settled for a wicked smirk, leaning into his personal space—not that there was much of it now, but she could tell from the way he avoided her eyes that he was trying to put up walls now and she would be damned if she let them stay up for long.

"And here I thought you were a seasoned cock." She clicked the "k" noisily, making him wince. The people of this era were such prudes. "You certainly preen like one, you know."

"I am not—!"

"Inexperienced?" She supplied. "No, of course not; just with women. No broomstick to grab onto and you find yourself a total loss, don't you?"

He shifted uncomfortably and seemed to sink into himself.

She continued. "It's not surprising to me that you're not typically attracted to women. You're not the type to restrict yourself, but girls now are such weak, homemaking little idiots. I doubt any of them are capable of defending themselves with anything more than a basic stunner, am I right?" She snorted. "I know you don't like muggles, but wizards could certainly stand to take a few examples from them. They're obviously doing something right to progress as far as they have without magic, and they're only to go further. Their women certainly have the right ideas."

"Muggles are—!"

"Brilliant and not handicapped and certainly not in need of wizards to guide them. They're more capable than you know. Just wait until forty-five; the world will quiver for decades afterward. And they'll walk on the moon while you and your ideals rot behind bars."

She had just given him what he originally came for—information on the future, his future—handing him the winning cards on a silver platter, but the realization brought him no pleasure, no feelings of triumph. Though it was vague, the newfound knowledge wasn't what he had thought it would be, and it was given freely, mockingly, not won. She had held true to her earlier words; he could do nothing to make her talk; she spoke on her own terms.

"You are rather ahead of the times in some ways, though, I'll hand you that much. This sort of position isn't so scandalous a hundred years from now. And the educational standards here are simply sad. You really would have been better suited to the late 20th century."

It wasn't a complement. Not really.

She sighed, not wanting to talk about muggles or women's rights any longer, and it was clear he wasn't in the mood to debate the subject either if his ornery glare at her clothes drawer was any indication. It would take more than a lousy shag and a bit of philosophy to convince him that muggles were actually worth something, and Ginerva wasn't interested in convincing him.

She frowned at his abdomen and got off of him, her insides twinging a bit as she removed his organ from her person. "Geez, the moment's long gone now. So much for that." She muttered, feeling just a bit bitter. The fire in the hearth had dimmed down to popping embers.

Gellert sat up and glowered at her bed quilt. He was obviously biting his tongue, lips pinched, wounded pride overcoming the desire to lash out at her again. She knelt on the carpet and got her wand out from under the bed, performing several spells to mend her ruined clothes and tugging her jeans back over her hips. She summoned his wand and clothing and dumped them unceremoniously in his arms, and, caught somewhat off-guard, he fumbled for a moment, looking at her with large pupils.

"Get dressed and go home, Gellert," she told him brusquely, "And by the way: I win."

'Accident prone indeed, Ginerva,' Tom's disembodied voice laughed, pleased, 'Sometimes I think you like chasing after trouble.'

End

Talk about your crazy crack pairing, huh? This is a little something that planted itself in my head when I read that Jaime Campbell Bower (the actor that plays Gellert Grindelwald) and Bonnie Wright (the actress that plays Ginny Weasley) are dating. Of course, I checked the archives first, and imagine my surprise at the severe lack of Time-Travel fics that put a character all the way back to Albus' youth. I could probably count them all on one hand. What the heck, people? There's fics from A to Z and back again that go back to the Marauders or to Voldemort's eras! Come on, people, try to be a bit more creative! We've read HermionexDraco several thousand times already, okay; expand your horizons!

Concerning Gellert's sexuality: I can't help but think that he is more attracted to individuals of exceptional intelligence, instead of just plain gay (I kind of picture Tom as much similar, in that aspect). Given the time period, that means he'd be more attracted to males.

I hope I did well portraying the characters (especially as we have so little to run on when it comes to Gellert) and their thoughts and feelings. Feedback is always loved.

Read, review, and all that jazz,

Megii