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One week into it, Bathilda must admit that she’s grown tired of hearing about Albus.
It was not that she didn’t like the boy, on the contrary, she was always so delighted to see him, it was rare to meet someone so bright and ever rarer to see it in such a young man.
She could admit to herself that she perhaps liked him more than she felt she was entitled to. Without children herself, half by choice, half by circumstance, it was hard not to sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have a child on her own, and in those rare moments when she felt just a small twinge of regret, she wondered if a son or a grandson of hers would have been like Albus, vanishing those thoughts with that he didn’t have to be hers by blood for her to care for him like she does.
No, the problem was not with Albus.
The problem was with her great-nephew.
Sitting at the dinner table with Gellert had quickly become a chore, because no matter what she asked, no matter what subject she brought up, Gellert just couldn’t stop talking about the other boy.
And to think that they, the first day, were able to have such nice talks! She had been so very happy to see that he, just like her, had a great interest in history. Naturally, she had introduced him to Albus, knowing they would be such great fits for each other.
Perhaps too great.
She wouldn’t say that she regretted it, per say, it would be terribly cruel of her, now knowing how good friends they were. But a part of her really longed for the short time she could have a proper conversation with Gellert, and she didn’t know how long her head would be able to stand all this chatter.
“-and then,” Gellert says, laughing, telling her a story she’s been told before. “-he said that ‘Of course I gave it firewhiskey! It breathes fire, doesn’t it?’ He’s mad, I tell you, mad!”
Bathilda lets out a small chuckle out of politeness, crossing out ‘dragons’ and ‘alcohol’ in the list of subjects she could discuss now. No matter what she said, Gellert managed to bring up Albus. Not even the colour red could she mention, because Albus’ hair was red, and so were his school robes, and Gellert had told her excitedly about the red formal clothes Durmstrang had, the exact shade of Albus’ hair, and ‘wouldn’t it have been grand if Albus had gone to his school instead?’
“-and Flamel keeps asking how he got the dragon so docile-”
“Gellert,” she says without thinking, not knowing where the words come from in her. “Are you in love with that boy?”
Gellert shuts up instantly, eyes wide and gaping at her, seemingly having lost all capacity for speech. He doesn’t utter a single other word as he gets up and leaves the room.
Finally, some rest for her ears.