Gellert didn't sleep easily. Almost daily, he took sleeping potion to sleep. Having three of the most important people in the Ministry in Germany after the recent death of his Department head there did not sit well with him. If he had his way, he'd be there himself, confronting the German Minister of Magic Hans himself. But he was here, in his lush home in London, supposedly sleeping peacefully of a man with no worries despite having more than one country under his control.
As he closed his eyes when the sleep potion too held, he didn't see the faces of his British dignitaries in Germany, he saw the pallor face of the man. He knew who he was. He had no idea how many hours or minutes had passed in his dreamless, strange sleep until he was awoke abruptly by a rap on the glass of the door to his balcony. It took him a few moments to realize that what he had heard. Sitting up in his bed, he slowly moved to grab a robe from the nearby hook, sliding it on. Then, slowly, cautious, he grabbed his hand and put it in his pocket, keeping his hand clutched around it as he walked toward the curtained door.
When he pulled back the door, the face that had been the last thing he saw behind his eyelids looked back at him, angry if he wasn't mistaken. "Vlad," he said in a smooth voice, "What do I owe this pleasure?"