There was always that brief moment of hesitation -- that second in which Gellert wondered if it would be wise to share the premise of his work with another. Almost as if he feared that person might snatch it away from under his nose. But of course, he reassured himself a split second later, it was hardly as though anyone would understand what it was that he was doing. To explain his goal held no danger when the only other person he had yet met who could have understood the equations on his page was Albus Dumbledore. (And even then, even with Dumbledore, Gellert was certain that as far as mathematics went his skill was superior still.)
"I am attempting to understand the theory behind a spell that could function such as the one that has stolen our magic from us," Gellert said, scarcely even glancing up at the man who had spoken. He had little interest in casual conversation with some idiot barman whose extent of Arithmantic knowledge was numerology. Gellert lowered his quill to the page again, added another line to his notation.
His fingers blindly crept out to latch onto the handle of his teacup and draw it toward himself, taking a small sip.