GRETA WAKES UP WITH A SORE BACK FROM A RATHER UNCOMFORTABLE BED AND A CHILL THAT HAD LONG SINCE REACHED HER BONES. She is pleased that Aunt Bathilda gave her a room of her own, but did it truly have to be the cold, cold attic? Durmstrang be damned, Greta has a funny feeling that she'll lose a finger here instead.

Breakfast is rather awkward, Aunt Bathilda trying to strike up useless conversation, Gellert neglecting his food for sake of his notebook, which he keeps hidden with a concealment spell, and Greta trying very hard to enjoy a typical English meal. The kippers, oily and salt stuffed, swim circles in her stomach, sending waves of nausea through her body.

Greta craves a good family breakfast. What she would give for a bowl of Túró and a Rollmop. At least the bread Aunt Bathilda had set out was hearty, filling her up instantly. She thanks the woman for the meal—though the compliments are mostly lies—and makes her way out of the house.

Greta is off on an adventure of sorts. This library that was spoken of the day before is her destination. She doesn't quite care what lays in its walls. As long as it allows her meager escape, it would have done its job.

Greta has only lived in three places, ignoring this previously unforeseen banishment to England. Her family home in Hungary has one tucked in a tower, the books spiraling up, up, up into the clouds. The Bárány family is well-known for this collection—along with other, lesser known storings. It's partially why the Grindelwalds stay there more often than in Germany with her father's family. Their library is situated in the town far, far away from their farm. The variety is quaint, but Greta could always find a good book. Durmstrang has the largest compilation of books that she has ever seen. She's certain she'll never see the lot of them, though she so wishes to. Perhaps next year, then.

The Gryffindor Library is relatively well lit, candles floating about with no obvious direction, revealing the gilded titles of the books they pass. Greta breathes deeply, the smell of old fabric covers and aged paper tingling her nose. She smiles, content. This will do.

Greta's fingers graze the books' spines, the ancient silk gauze scratching her skin in a calming manner. She gnaws at her lip absentmindedly, eyes flicking from cover to cover. The sound of her footsteps, soft and clicking, echoes against the wood and paper. She picks up a random book, the gold embossing sparkling in the candlelight. The Life and Times of Merlin. She sighs. She had already read this one, though perhaps not this edition. She doesn't expect much of a difference, so she puts it back in its original place. That's the tricky thing about reading to keep one's mind off things; there's a slight chance that all the books will run out.

Greta pulls another book from the case. From the hollow left from the volume stares a pair of blue eyes. She jumps in tandem with the boy, both flinching away from the shelves.

"Sorry," Greta and the mystery boy say in unison.

A startled laugh bubbles up her throat. She presses her hand against her mouth to muffle the sound. The boy seems to smile, eyes crinkling slightly. They stand there for a moment, the silence oddly comfortable. A blush rises up onto Greta's cheeks and she glances down at her shoes, breaking their shared gaze. Greta looks at the book in her hands, turning it about absentmindedly. When she looks up, the mystery boy is still staring at her. He ducks, red blotching the area below his blue eyes.

"Is this book worthwhile?" Greta whispers after a moment, showing the cover to the boy. Her accent is thick and obvious, almost embarrassing.

"That one?" he asks, pointing—as if there are others in the vicinity. She nods in confirmation. He seems to shrug. "It's alright. It relies upon the prestige of the author rather than actual intriguing characters."

"Ah, I see." Greta leans closer to the gap. "Thank you."

Greta does not know fully why she waits to move—maybe she wanted him to recommend a book, maybe she just wanted company in any way she could get it. Either way, it's no use. The boy still looks at her, but does not make any move to actually speak. She's rather disappointed, really. She really could have done with a friend.

Greta, in the end, finds a book; second edition, intriguing first chapter. She holds it in her arms as she leaves the library. She does, on occasion, search for those eyes, but comes up with nothing. The fact that she had tried in the first place was rather shameful.

The walk back to the Bagshot house—which she shall not call home, for home was far, far away—is quiet and dull. Her companion is the sound of the summer wind hitting little cottages, her friend the echoing footsteps on cobblestone.

As she nears the house, she spots Gellert, leaning against the archway, arms folded. His eyes with their different irises yet same assured look, stare intently at the boy opposite him—that Dumbledore boy, Albus. They're speaking, her brother nodding slightly at every word. Greta's brow furrows slightly. She knows the face that Gellert is making, he made it often when they were in their youth. He is pulling apart the strings of truth, isn't he? Weaving however he pleases. He's manipulating him, in some way or another.

"—the meadow?" Albus asks her brother, the girl only catching the last of what he's said.

"So terribly sorry to interrupt," Greta says, jolting the Dumbledore boy from his stupor. Gellert grins, toothy and wide.

"Hello, sister."

"Hello, brother," she responds, tucking the book into the crook of her elbow. "Might I come past?"

"Of course," Gelllert says, before turning to the other boy. "Have you met Albus?"

"Yesterday, the same as you," Greta responds tiredly. "Might I come past?"

"Are you already worn out?" Gellert asks, faux worry lacing his words. He's trying to seem kind, in front of this boy.

"Yes, in fact, I am. I would do for another day in that cold, dark attic," Greta snaps. "Perhaps you could step aside?"

Gellert and Greta stare at each other for a terse moment. Over the years, living with her brother has become increasingly rage inducing. After a while, one has to wonder: can Gellert truly love, or is it all just for show? In his eyes, is Greta his sister or is she just a pawn? For all the times she has cared for him in their childhood, taken the blame so her father wouldn't hit him for the fifth time that day, how many instances can she point to where he did the same for her?

Gellert moves to stand next to Albus, motioning for Greta to pass. She does not thank him for the trouble. He should apologise. He should apologise for a lot of things.

"Greta dearest!" Aunt Bathilda exclaims the moment the door opens, revealing the girl. Greta wants to groan, but instead gives the woman a tight smile.

"Hello there."

"Come from the library so soon?"

"Indeed. I got a book, so there was no reason to dilly dally, was there?"

"I suppose not. I had hoped you would stumble upon Aberforth Dumbledore. Gellert seems to have found his Dumbledore counterpart, it seems."

Greta pauses, turning to face her aunt, who sits at the table, papers strewn across its face. Her brow furrows. "Does Aberforth come to the library often?"

Aunt Bathilda laughs. "The only time that Aberforth isn't in the library is when he is taking care of his little sister, Addy, but you've already seen her, haven't you?"

Greta stares at the front of her book, before asking, "Aunt Bathilda, does he happen to have blue eyes?"

The woman falters, face contorting in thought. "Yes, yes, I suppose he does. They all have blue eyes, aside from little Addy. But she's a Dumbledore by name alone, her mother had her with some man.There's no way Kendra could have had her with her husband, anyway, due to the fact that Percival is in Azkaban."

"Azkaban?" Greta asks, the name familiar. "Is that—?"

"Our most secure prison, yes." Aunt Bathilda smiles. "The Dumbledore children are the kindest, most pure in this world, but they shall carry their father's misdoings and their mother's faults with them for the rest of their lives."

Unease washes over Greta. She doesn't deserve this information. Yes, she might have met the Dumbledores, but what gives her the right to know such things? What gives Aunt Bathilda the right to tell her such things?

"If you have any questions, feel free to ask," the woman says, looking down at her work.

"No, thank you. I'll head upstairs."

How much has she told Gellert, Greta wonders as she finds her way up into her little attic. How shall he use it for his own good?

author's note!

I FINALLY UPDATED!

i've got all the chapters laid out now, so all i have to do is actually write. best believe you lot are in for an extreme amount of pain!

i just finished a fantastic beasts binge, and secrets of dumbledore hurt me specifically now that i'm writing greta's story. 

votes and comments are ALWAYS appreciated. don't be a ghost reader <33