The Grindelwald Affair - Or How It All Began

by Ernstisatide

Ever wondered who Grindelwald was or whether the date of his defeat in 1945 was a mere coincidence? Here you will find out.

1. A meeting in a pub

The Grindelwald affair or how it all began

by Chris Ernst

In this story, you will find out many interesting facts about the wizarding world. Among other things you will learn for instance how the subject of "Muggle Studies" came to be  introduced into the Hogwarts curriculum, who Grindelwald was and why Voldemort, even at the height of his powers, was scared of taking on Dumbledore. There is also a lot of wizard history & adventure, but no romance whatsoever (with the possible exception of hints at the love life of Minerva McGonagall's father at Hogwarts)

Usual disclaimer: This story was written for the pure enjoyment of the reader to provide them with something until Book 5 is finally published. There is no financial interest involved. Most of the last names are the intellectual property of J. K. Rowling, the first names belong mostly to me (with the exception of Albus Dumbledore). However, this story is copy-right protected in the sense that I do not want people to take the whole or part of it and publish it on the WEB under their own names! (Sad to have to write something like that, but it has happened!)

Chapter 1: A meeting in a pub

In the early morning hours of January, 5th, 1945, all London had disappeared under a dense fog. After more than five years of war, the streets had a shabby and forlorn look and the gloomy atmosphere was not improved by an icy drizzle that chilled everyone in the streets to the bone. Few people, most of them in one kind of uniform or other, hurried past the door of an uninviting-looking pub – 'The Leaky Cauldron' - which none of them seemed to notice, however. Some time after the milkman on his horse-drawn cart had placed a single bottle of pale milk in front of the few undamaged houses, a small black Morris drove up the street and its driver inexpertly parked it opposite the pub. He leaned over, rolled down the window on the passenger seat and looked suspiciously up and down the street. The man behind the wheel wore a hat and had raised the collar of his coat, so that his face could not be recognized. Waiting anxiously for several minutes, probably until the coast was clear, he got out of his car, hurried across the street and disappeared into the pub.

The shabby common room was deserted at this time of day, save for a grumpy looking man behind the bar, obviously the landlord, and a large cat that slept close to a roaring fire in the chimney. The stranger lowered his collar and took off his hat. He was a young man in his mid twenties with blond hair, blue eyes and a lot of freckles. He walked to the fire and gratefully warmed his hands. 'You keep a healthy fire, considering the fact that we have had fuel rationing since 1939', he remarked to the landlord, who eyed him suspiciously. 'Well, I got to live, haven't I? So it must be possible for people to come to my pub, mustn't it?', was the curt reply. Ignoring the bewildered look on the other's face, he added as if in an afterthought 'Still, a muggle like you wouldn't know about that, would he now? How did you find my pub in the first place, I wonder?  Muggles isn't supposed to notice it from their side of London after all.'

Hearing this, the young man looked somewhat uncomfortable and a drop of sweat appeared just below his hairline. 'I am supposed to meet somebody here', he replied hesitantly, '...his name is Albus Dumbledore. My instructions here state to tell this to Tom, the landlord'. 'That's obviously you', he added with an effort at politeness. 'What instructions might that be and what's more important, who might you be?', growled the landlord in reply, looking even more suspicious than before. The stranger looked embarrassed but soon regained his courage. 'My name is Peter Parkinson and I am a first lieutenant in His Majesty's Secret Service', he said smugly. Obviously, this answer did not impress Tom in the least, so he went on quickly, 'I know, this sounds a bit crazy, old chap, but last night a huge eagle owl suddenly sat in front of my lodging's window in Putney and this was tied to her foot.' He produced a small roll of parchment from his pocket and reluctantly handed it to the landlord who studied it keenly. He had read it so often in the last 24 hours that he now knew it by heart. It read:

Lieutenant Peter Parkinson, Esq.                                     January, 3rd, 1945

The Aspidistra Boarding House

2nd floor, third window on the Right

Putney

Dear Sir,

I have to meet you immediately on a matter of the utmost urgency concerning recent events on the continent you are also aware of. Come to the Pub "Leaky Cauldron" on Oxford Street, January, 5th, no later than 7 a.m.. (I have modified the charm protecting the premises, so you will have no trouble finding it). Present this note to Tom, the landlord and expect me in his backroom. I must impress upon you to come alone and speak to no-one of this until we have met.

Sincerely

Albus Dumbledore.

Taken aback by the sudden silence, Peter made an attempt at conversation. 'Now that you mention it, I do indeed often come to this part of the city, but I have never before noticed your pub on this street. Have you been in business long?' 'Family's bought the place from a distant relative of Morgan le Fay right after the last Romans left, must have been about 1.500 years ago', grunted Tom absent-mindedly, still concentrating on the paper. Looking up, he continued 'Legend has it though that an inn has stood on this very spot since the Druids' time. Boudicca herself supposedly stayed there on several occasions. My grandmother used to tell me when I was little that she was so pleased with the mulled mead that she left her signed portrait yonder in thanks. Quite a family treasure, this is, one of the earliest known examples of wizard painting', he added proudly and pointed to a large framed picture in a dark corner....

All his public school and Cambridge education in history had not prepared Parkinson for this sight! His jaw dropped open as he looked dumbstruck at the painting. He could see a tall and very beautiful woman with red hair and piercing green eyes on a Celtic war chariot surrounded by what were obviously fierce-looking warriors. But this was not what caused him to doubt his sanity! Rather, it was the fact that the chariot definitely moved and the woman appeared to urge the men forward in a strange language towards a group of Roman legionaries in the left upper corner of the painting. He closed his eyes, slowly counted to ten, and reopened them, but this did not improve matters at all because meanwhile the woman in the picture had pointed a wand at the Roman Centurion - a flash of green light issued from its tip and the officer in his impressive armour collapsed immediately - apparently quite dead. His men dropped their SPQR standard, shields, javelins and swords and ran for it, closely pursued off the picture by the Celts.

Parkinson was still staring stupidly at the now empty frame, when the landlord walked up to him. 'Yeah, she was quite a lady, old Boudicca was! If the Romans hadn't brought in African, Greek and Egyptian wizards of their own, they wouldn't have stood a chance against her! But what could one woman and a few Druids accomplish against hundreds of wizards and thousands of armed muggles like you?', he added sympathetically, pointing at the bulge below Parkinson's left shoulder where he kept his trusted service revolver. 'But let's get back to business! Your credentials seem in order and Dumbledore is a good friend of mine, so I will lead you to my secret backroom where you are to wait for him, just as the note says!'

Having read the message, the landlord became quite friendly and very talkative. 'Soon, the first customers will starting to show up and I'm telling you they won't like it, if they find a muggle here. Would be outright bad for my pub's reputation, especially since you muggles started this funny business of killing yourselves by the millions. It's bad enough as it is with bombs falling, all these aeorothings preventing decent folk from travelling by broomstick or carpet and what not. Want to know how many protection charms I had to put on this house since '39? I'll tell you, mister, no less than 348, and in the middle of the night these spells drain a man's energy, especially if he has to put in a hard day's worth of work afterwards', he grumbled. 'And since the Germans started lobbing these racket things over last summer, I expect to do some more of them before this business is finished. Don't envy the poor chaps of the Ministry's Emergency Building Protection Squad. Out on duty every night nowadays and still can't seem to cope. Only last night, for instance, a whole wing of Gringott's Bank in Diagon Alley was blasted all to smithereens by one of them rackets and not a thing they could do about it. I hear, the goblins are very upset and will file a formal complaint with the Ministry today to end this madness, can't wait until the Prophet arrives. I think it's high time you muggles came to your senses and stopped this!'

Suddenly he became very thoughtful, however. 'Still, there is some of us who delight in this mass killing of muggles, say it's the best thing happening to us since the invention of broomsticks. I overheard a conversation between two distinguished-looking customers the other night, who actually said something about "ridding the island of all surviving muggles, once their war is over and take over Britain as an abode for the 'superior wizard race'". He sneered derisively. 'If you ask me, we have been getting along with the muggles here for two thousand years and in my opinion, we should help them, because what those Germans do is outright evil, and I wouldn't be surprised one bit, if scores of dark wizards were actually helping them. Think about it, man, one tiny country, defeated in the last war and now fighting the whole world and here they are, still hanging on. How can they do it without powerful magical help, that's what I'm wondering?

My friend Dumbledore thinks the same and he and I have had many a quiet chat together on the issue. And there is many others like us, mind you, take Robert McGonagall or Herbert Weasley for once. Both have argued since '35 to anyone who would listen that wizards should take a more active stand against what's going on in Germany. I guess that they and Dumbledore always suspected that some dark wizards was helping those Nazi types. But Bob and Bert don't show up here much anymore these days - with the war and all', he said, a note of regret in his voice, 'especially since little Minerva and little Arthur were born - must have been in 40 and 43, or was it 39 and 44? Anyway, with the children and all, both have decided to take the whole family back to the country and I can't blame them - safest thing to do right now, if you ask me. From what I know, Herbert went back to where his folks have been living for the last 800 years, place called Ottery St. Catchpole somewhere in Kent, and Bob now, I can't even remember where Robert went..... And there is Harold Potter, of course, don't know what Dumbledore would do without him...., but where was I? Yes, helping the muggles against the Germans. As I was telling you, I and some others are all for it, but if you want my guess, there is no hope of that happening soon with old Lucifer Malfoy in charge at the Ministry and Octavian Snape as head of the Aurors, not to mention all the scum, those two have been appointing to jobs at the Ministry. Would you believe, they have made Vincent Goyle and Herman Crabbe judges on the wizard court? Those two are so slow, they have trouble figuring out the headlines of the Daily Prophet and neither of them can work even the simplest of spells properly - for lack of brains!', he growled.

Opening and clothing his mouth like a freshly-caught carp on the cook's table, Parkinson, kept furiously pinching his upper leg, hoping to wake up from this. Not too gently, Tom took him by the arm and steered him into a much smaller room at the back of the main one. Once there, Parkinson collapsed into a chair and struggled for breath. 'But here I am, forgetting all my manners', said Tom cheerfully, 'I do run a pub after all! What would you like to wet your throat with? It's on the house!' Parkinson was in no condition to answer and kept staring at Tom, muttering something like 'So, it's true, so it's all true, wizards and witches and.......' 'Tell, you what, secret muggle, with that weather outside, I'd best get you a nice pint of butterbeer. Will warm your insides a bit and you look like you need it. We consider it a children's drink, begging your pardon sir, but I'm afraid a pint of mulled ale might knock you right off your feet this early in the day and considering the state you're in. But first, I'll get you a little fire to warm yourself and make things a little easier for Dumbledore - no use for him being spotted in the main room with a muggle by some Ministry git.'

He produced what was unmistakably a wizard's wand from somewhere and pointed it at the much smaller fireplace in this room. 'Incendio', he shouted and suddenly there roared a large fire where only moments before had been nothing but old ashes. 'Accio butterbeer', came the second shout and Parkinson could have sworn he saw a pint glass fly in through the door and place itself at the table in front of him. 'I hear someone entering the common room', said Tom, 'so I'll leave you here to wait for Dumbledore', he added and turned to go.

'Oh, I almost forgot, you won't be needing your muggle wand in here. Not that a muggle could hurt Dumbledore, but you might try something foolish and cause a row and my customers won't like that at all, so I can't have it.' He pointed his wand at a now panic-stricken Parkinson. 'Accio', he shouted once more. Parkinson felt the seams on his treasured pre-war tweed jacket burst open and watched incredulously as his revolver seemed to worm its way out of a large hole below his left armpit and sail right into Tom's outstretched hand. 'You can pick it up, once you leave, I'll take good care of it, don't worry', Tom grumbled reassuringly and disappeared.

In later years, Parkinson never remembered how he had spent the next half hour or so, except for the uncontrollable shakes that seemed to seize his body every other minute. Finally, he pulled himself together and nipped suspiciously at the frothing drink in front of him, half expecting to be turned into a toad or some other dreadful thing in the next moment. At once, a soothing warmth spread through his whole body and he felt much calmer and reassured, ... but not for long!

'Tom added a little soothing potion to the butterbeer, I thought he would....', said a cheery voice from the direction of the chimney. Young Parkinson turned around and dropped his glass on the stone floor where it broke of course, spilling its contents all over his new trousers (that he had only yesterday picked up from the cleaners). He felt his knees giving way and had to hold on to the table. In the middle of the fire sat what was undoubtedly the human head of a friendly young man about his age with long auburn hair and a matching auburn beard. 'One moment', the head continued, smiling, 'I'd better get out and talk to you face to face, since you appear uncomfortable with this way of conversation'. "Uncomfortable" was however a gross understatement for the feelings haunting poor Parkinson at this moment. Dumbfounded, he watched as the young man seemed to appear piecemeal from the ashes - first the shoulders, then arms and torso, and finally his legs became visible. After he had climbed out of the fireplace, Parkinson saw that he was wearing a pointed black hat, midnight blue robes and high boots made of some tough leather. The stranger first dusted some soot off his clothes rather carelessly and then pulled large bag of toffees out of a pocket. 'Pre-war stuff', he remarked proudly, 'impossible to get these days'. After serving himself generously, he offered them to Parkinson who weakly shook his head. 'What...., how....., who....?', he stammered, but the man ignored him. 'I suggest, we sit down and get you a new drink first', he said pleasantly, 'much more comfy that way, don't you agree?' Parkinson managed a weak nod.

The door opened and Tom reappeared, carrying a tray with two large steaming mugs and two tumblers like any ordinary landlord in Britain would. 'Hello, Albus, good to see you again, I see you already found your muggle friend', he said with a mischievous grin, showing several missing teeth. 'Here is two mugs of mulled ale and I thought you could both do with a shot of Ogden's Old Fire Whisky , especially young Parkinson here', he added. 'Special treat by the way - stuff is harder and harder to come by in times like this.'

Dumbledore thanked him and waited until he had left. Then he pulled out a wand, pointed it at the door and shouted 'Secretio!'. 'Just a little precaution', he explained to a bewildered Parkinson, 'as long as we are in here, no-one will be able to eavesdrop without my knowing it, and now Cheers!' He raised his mug and took a deep draught. 'Ah, that's better!', he sighed. 'So you have decided to come after my first owl ?- 'Surprising quite surprising', he chuckled, 'I had thought a little more – say persuasion- would be necessary. In fact, I have already made reservations at the Hogsmeade post office for two barn owls tonight. If you still had not come, it would have been four the next day and so on.....quite proven tactics, actually', he added, grinning mischievously.

'Erh, I am not exactly here in my official capacity', replied Parkinson uncomfortably. 'Matter of fact, if my immediate boss Colonel Saunders-Blankinson and the others ever find out what I am up to right now, I'll be spending the rest of my war locked away in a lunatics' asylum.', he added miserably. But as if all of a sudden reminded of the urgency of the matter at hand, Parkinson regained some of his courage.

Pointing an accusing finger at Dumbledore, he continued harshly 'I hope, you are aware of the fact, sir, that more than forty agents of his majesty's Secret Service, not to mention every policeman in the country, are at this very hour looking for the lunatic who keeps sending owls with letters attached to the War Office. What's more, these 'letters' or had I better say 'parchments' appear to contain information that is now classified "Top Secret – War Cabinet Eyes Only", he added sarcastically! Current theory in the Service is that it's a cunning plot by the Germans to cause a panic in the population, once the first civilian or enlisted man gets a hold of this piece of information. Can you even imagine what havoc it would wreak if we had to tell a war-weary population out there, not to mention our brave allied soldiers fighting their way into Germany against mounting resistance at this very moment, that we are not only up against the most evil and determined enemy we have ever faced, but that dark magic has now been added to the list of our troubles!

What do you suppose would soldiers feel like if they knew that the Germans now have men who can set a tank ablaze, knock down a plane or even kill soldiers over a considerable distance by simply pointing a wand at them? Oh yes, and I almost forgot the most disquieting aspect of all, ... some of them seem to be able to change shapes and 'turn' themselves at will into any men on our side by some devilry. In the recent battle of the Bulge, there were supposedly Germans disguised as American soldiers. What is not commonly known, however, is the puzzling fact that every one of them was the identical twin of a real American soldier killed several days before in the initial attack. That's quite a scary prospect, you know, if men start mistrusting their senior officers because they do not know who they really are any more.

Several days before the battle, a man was arrested by our MP who had tried to sneak into a tent where Field Marshal Montgomery had had a haircut a while before of all things. He aroused suspicion because he was wearing a woman's dress and said he was an ardent fan of the marshal. Mentioned that all he wanted was a lock of his hair! They locked him up and had him checked by a shrink to determine, whether he was fit enough to be court-martialled and shot, but the next day the fellow had somehow managed to disappear from an underground concrete cell, though the guards swore holy oaths that they had not left their posts all night. I'm telling you here and now, if these things leak out to the troops or the civilian population, we have had it, old chap, despite five years of suffering and sacrifice and victory finally in the cards! We might as well surrender tomorrow to prevent further unnecessary deaths!'

Dumbledore had listened patiently without once interrupting, but occasionally muttering things to himself Parkinson could not make any sense of like 'Polyjuice Potion..., should have known it, a German invention after all..' or 'Disapparated, of course...'

After Peter had finished, Dumbledore sighed: 'You find yourself in good company, Peter,... and by all means, do call me Albus. By sending these owls to the muggle War Office, I have broken every single paragraph of the 1940 British Wizards' Non-Interference and Neutrality Act and if they catch me, I will be spending my days in a place much, much more uncomfortable than a muggle loony bin, if not worse!' He shuddered at the thought of something very unpleasant and went on. 'Before I will tell you more, I need to know one thing, however. What made you, a bright young man with a Harrow and King's College background, get up in last Tuesday's War Cabinet meeting and suggest that all these alarming things you just mentioned might in fact be what they appear, namely the result of true magic? Very courageous of you, I must admit, but after all you were not there to voice your opinion but to take notes for Saunders-Blankinson in his function as one of the senior heads of the Secret Service! You were thrown out of the meeting before you could blink an eye of course, what else could they have done? Chaps were very decent, though. After you had gone, Churchill himself said you had probably been through too much, considering your record in the SAS and what not. In fact, he ordered Saunders-Blankinson in so many words not to punish you but sent you out to a nice quiet pasture for the rest of the war where you could not do any damage. I'm sorry to say so, Peter, but you have put your foot in and your career in his majesty's Secret Service is as good as over. As a matter of fact, I have seen the orders you will receive tomorrow. Starting next Monday, you will be giving pep talks on the war to Scottish schoolchildren in Aberdeen and the whole thing is headed 'Permanent Assignment' and yes, your security clearance has already been revoked, of course!'

Hearing this, Parkinson again lost his composure as he was seized anew with an uncontrollable spell of the shakes, which were clearly not the result of the information related to his future career. 'How... do... you...know.... of...that....top... secret....meeting?', was all he could manage to say between clenched teeth. 'Is nothing safe any more, for god's sake?'

Dumbledore grinned maliciously: 'Remember that Anthony Eden did not say a word in that meeting, but just listened attentively, Parkinson? Well, that was me! I thought it important to be...-how shall I put it? – where the action was to determine my further steps. Piece of cake, really, any sixth year student could have done it. Got hold of some of Eden's hair from his barber, brewed a generous helping of Polyjuice potion and sat in on the meeting, while the real Anthony Eden was soundly asleep in his forgetfulness-charm protected office. The tricky part was to put my memories of the meeting back into his mind and combine it with a powerful memory charm..., had to use a pensieve for that. But alas, the meeting was quite a disappointment! All of them, except for you of course, refused point-blank to believe the obvious, even as the truth was grinning in their faces. After hours of discussion, they now agree that the knocked-down planes and destroyed tanks are a new German secret weapon, the dead soldiers without any injury were due to combat fatigue and that the disguised Americans of the Bulge are an elaborate scheme by the Germans involving separated identical twins, using some scientific records, they must somehow have gotten a hold of.... Quite hopeless to bet money on that horse, Peter! They will only believe, if some dark wizard is pointing his wand at them and by then it will be much too late, I'm afraid. But back to my question, what made you do it? I heard your voice in there, a bit timid, yes, but you sounded as if you sincerely believed what you suggested! It was almost as if you had fact backing you if that were at all possible.'

Parkinson had blushed and began to draw little figures on the floor with the tip of his left calfskin shoe. 'I never breathed as much as a word of this to anyone before', he said in a rather uncertain voice. 'Fact of the matter is, I knew, there was magic and witches or at least one witch left in Britain! That is, I knew before I met you and heard of the things happening on the continent, for I suppose you are a wizard?'

'You are quite right, Peter. I am a wizard and what is more, in my normal life I teach young wizards at a school of witchcraft and wizardry, so there are many more of us besides me and Tom in case you wondered.'