The Defeat of Grindelwald: Part One
N.B: The village of Chiddingstone is real, as are all of its environs, buildings and landmarks as described in this fic. The only original character in this first part is Stefan Ankarsvärd. I don't believe in disclaimers; feel free to sue me if you think you're going to win copyright infringement for fanfiction.
The village of Chiddingstone, Kent County, England, May 1945
The village of Chiddingstone was typically Kentish: small, surrounded by rolling fields of the most luscious green, and blessed (or perhaps cursed, depending on the opinion of the particular resident) with the kind of quiet, agrarian lifestyle that defined existence in the English countryside in the nineteen-forties and fifties. The high street was small, cobbled and ran past rows of terraced 16th and 17th century houses. Most were of Tudor period, with their flattened arches, ornately decorated doors and windows and a less ecclesiastical feel than their Gothic predecessors.
It was a hot summer day, and Chiddingstone seemed covered in a blanket of quiet, relaxed ruralism. The same air of blissful laziness covered much of England at that time, almost a month after the German surrender and two months after the death of Adolf Hitler in a war-ravaged Berlin bunker. The victory bunting still hung in the streets. The world seemed a different place back then, it has been said. Life was more quiet and localised - England was a country of villages, in which everyone seemed to know each other, and very rarely considered what went on beyond the fields on the horizon. Of course, the Second World War had taken some of that innocence away, and it would only last another decade or so before melting into the fierce modernism of the sixties.
In the Church Inn, on Chiddingstone's High Street, Albus Dumbledore held up his half-pint glass of beer to the light streaming through the window. He twirled it absently in his fingers, watching the light refract in new and colourful ways. At this time of day, two o'clock in the afternoon, it seemed to him a little early to be drinking, and the orangey-brown liquid tasted strange in his mouth, though he had always been a fan of muggle beer. It had not been entirely his choice, though. He had come here to meet someone, someone very important, and he doubted that such a rustic country pub as this served Coca-Cola or lemonade.
The inside of the Inn was small, with an uneven, bumpy white roof supported by thick, dark beams of wood. The walls around the massive brick fireplace were blackened with soot, and the beer taps on the counter gleamed in the poor, musty light. Pictures, paintings and various pieces of bric-a-brac hung along the walls, a testament to the five hundred or so years that this Inn had stood here. The oldest object was a seventeenth century Hussars sword, in a case above the fireplace. Apart from Dumbledore and one other elderly patron who seemed half-asleep in one corner, the Inn was empty.
Draining his glass, Albus turned sideways in his seat so he could face the door, and began to run his hand down his beard. It was still quite small at this point, perhaps just down to his chest, but had already turned almost completely white, like his hair; only a few tawny speckles remained around his cheeks and under his chin. He wore muggle clothing, of course, but it was with the same kind of eccentricity that Dumbledore applied to everything - all pinstripes, velvet and loud colours. It was as he placed his glass back on the table that the door to the pub opened, and the man he had been waiting for entered.
The man was tall, thin and had a look of well-concealed nervousness about him. His dark golden hair hung loosely around his gaunt face, and Dumbledore could see at once that he hadn't bathed in quite some time – the hair was darker than he had remembered, glinting with oil; and his face was covered in uneven stubble and smudges of dirt. He had the sort of frame that spoke of a once-powerful man gone to rot through worry and malnutrition. Casting his eyes warily around the room, he made his way over to Dumbledore.
"Albus," the man said simply in his thick Swedish accent, as he slid out a chair and sat down. One of his long, heavily ringed fingers picked absently at the other sleeve of his robe. He did not meet Dumbledore's eye.
"Stefan," Dumbledore replied. He gazed at the other man over his half-moon spectacles, considering him. "Did you see the bunting in the street? The war is over."
Stefan did not reply, instead picking a little harder at the loose material on the sleeve of his robe, his white-knuckled hands trembling almost imperceptibly.
"The man the muggles called Hitler is dead, he killed himself in April," Dumbledore went on, "You know that, of course. All Europe is awash with blood... but the war is over. Your master's plans have failed, Stefan."
Again, Stefan did not reply immediately. He stopped picking at his sleeve for a moment and glanced up, looking directly at Dumbledore's face for the first time. "You promised me a deal and I am here to make it, Albus," he said with more bravado than the timbre of his voice warranted, "I am not interested in your gloating. Now... deal." He wasn't able to hold his gaze long, though, and soon returned it to his sleeve. Dumbledore continued to watch him over the top of his glasses, expression not changing.
"Nor am I here to gloat, Stefan," he said calmly, "I just wish to impress upon you the enormity of what you have colluded in. Never have so many innocent lives been lost in such a short period of time, and for so very little." Dumbledore sighed, and took off his spectacles, polishing them with a purple handkerchief he produced from his pocket, "I have recently been made Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. I can promise you that you will receive a fair trial, as I shall preside over it myself."
Stefan scoffed, and stood up, as though to walk away in disgust. Dumbledore simply went on polishing his spectacles, following the other man with his eyes. In the corner of the pub, the old man let out a little snore, now clearly asleep.
"Your colleagues will be apprehended also, of course - or perhaps worse. The Ministry has already authorised the Dementors to perform the Kiss on them - without trial. I doubt the rest shall receive a fair hearing, as most will be tried in France. The newly reconstituted French Ministry of Magic is very ill-disposed towards Grindelwald and his co-conspirators at the moment, as you can no doubt imagine."
Stefan fixed Dumbledore with a look of pure loathing, his scraggly-bearded chin jutting out in a kind of angry defiance. It worked from side to side though as he ground his teeth - he was obviously considering Dumbledore's words. With an almost inaudible growl of defeat, he rested one hand on the table, and leaned forward towards the old man. At this distance, Dumbledore could smell his breath, and it wasn't pleasant.
"And you actually think you're going to be alive to try me?" he whispered mockingly.
Dumbledore just gave a minute shrug, "We shall see about that, Stefan."
"I'll be taken unmolested from here into custody?" the oily-haired wizard spat out, "No Dementors? And the trial shall be prompt?"
Dumbledore nodded firmly, unreservedly. "Yes, on all counts. You know my position on those creatures - it is the same as it has always been. I have arranged for your unhindered, safe passage to the Ministry. You will wait there while I verify your information and do what has to be done - I will convene your trial on my return. Now... do you have a name for me?"
Stefan paused for just a few moments more. This was his moment of decision, and it showed on his face, which was taut and pale, jaw still working furiously. Then his lips curled back in a snarl, and he spat at Dumbledore. It landed on his cheek.
"You disgust me, you muggle-loving, egotistical piece of filth," his accent grew even thicker with anger, making it hard for Dumbledore to understand. His next words were crystal clear, though. "The place is ... Chiddingstone Castle."
Placing his glasses on the table, Dumbledore used the purple handkerchief instead to calmly clean the mess from his face. He seemed unperturbed. Eventually, however, he raised his eyebrows at Stefan, "Here, in this very village? Surprising, surprising...Very well. Thank you." He seemed to accept the words though, after a quick, nearly invisible glance towards the window.
He slid his spectacles back on his face, reached into one of his waistcoat pockets, and withdrew a small object in the shape of a pyramid, as Stefan looked on apprehensively, still leaning over the table. Dumbledore pressed the tip of the pyramid in, and it began to glow and hum, spinning slowly on its base in the palm of his hand. As the pyramid picked up speed, he tossed it into the air in the middle of the room, where it began to fall to the floor. Half a second before it hit the ground, however, it slowed and stopped in mid-air, spinning fast enough now to be a blur. All the time, Dark Wizard looked on, his talon-like nails digging into the hard oak of the table.
"Justus Pilliwickle, Alastor Moody," Dumbledore said sharply to the spinning blur of a pyramid. Immediately, it dropped to the ground, no longer spinning. The humming increased however to a steady droning that made Dumbledore's empty half-pint glass tremble on the heavy oak table. The glowing also intensified, and soon began to fill the room and bathe it in a dazzling light. It flickered for a few moments and suddenly there were two sharp cracks, one after another, from the midst of the glow. Within a few moments the light faded, and two men were stood in its place.
One was quite old, with tufts of white hair around a balding pate, and a lined and weather-worn face. He wore a monocle, and was bent in the back. He was dressed in turquoise wizarding robes, and held a wand in his hand. The other was younger, barely out of his teens, but looked intimidating. He had long, black hair to his shoulders and piercing dark eyes. His face had a long, disfiguring scar down one side of it, and his nose looked bumped, swollen and recently broken. His wand was also in his hand, already raised and pointed directly at Stefan. His expression was one of patient, predatory glee.
"Alastor, Justus, thank you for coming. Stefan, this is Justus Pilliwickle, he is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Dumbledore said, gesturing towards the older wizard, "And this is one of his brightest young Aurors, Alastor Moody. They will escort you to the Ministry."
"Albus," the older wizard said, bowing.
"Professor," Moody added, with his own bow.
Stefan looked from one of the newcomers to the other. His eyes soon rested on Moody, though, and the two considered each other, a look of the deepest hatred on both of their faces. Dumbledore knew they had never met. The young Auror took a few steps forward, completely unafraid even in the presence of Albus Dumbledore, the head of his own department, and one of the most wanted Dark Wizards in Europe.
"Ah, Stefan Ankarsvärd..." he whispered in a low, menacing, voice, "Oh yes, oh yes... You murdered those Australian nurses near Monte Cassino on the Gustav Line in January, didn't you? I remember now... quite brutal it was..." his eyes glinted threateningly, "Tell me, did you rape them as well? Only we couldn't tell from the bodies afterwards. In fact, we couldn't even tell who was who ..."
"Alastor, that will be quite enough," Dumbledore cut in sharply, glaring at the young man. Many wizards, much older, would have quailed under the look, but not Moody. He kept his wand pointed directly at Stefan, his face still a picture of hatred and loathing. He did, however, at least stop talking.
"I see thuggery still has a place in your department, Mr Pilliwickle," Stefan muttered, still returning Moody's gaze but seeming somewhat cowed, "You should learn to keep your attack dogs on a leash."
The elderly wizard snorted something under his breath, and raised his wand to point at Stefan.
"Stefan Ankarsvärd, you are under arrest on the prerogative of the Minister of Magic," Pilliwickle croaked in his unhealthy voice, "Your charges will be read to you upon arrival in custody. Will you surrender your wand peacefully, or will Alastor be forced to take it from you?"
At this, Moody edged a few paces forward, his face saying that he would like nothing better than to have to take the wand from Stefan. The Scandinavian returned his look once again, with a contemptuous curl of his upper lip.
"Take it. I shan't waste my time resisting the illegitimate arrest of a pair of blood traitors." Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a long, thick wand and threw it in Moody's direction. The young Auror caught it easily, still grinning sadistically at the Dark Wizard.
Dumbledore was looking carefully at Moody, who was continuing his staring contest with Stefan. Outside, the summer sun still burned high and bright, and children ran squealing and shouting up and down the street. Inside the musty pub, the there was a momentary lull of silence, in which the snores of the still-sleeping old man in the corner could be heard.
"Albus, if I may ask, was this man the Secret Keeper, then? Did you get the name?" Pilliwickle asked, gesturing towards Stefan. "Is it the right one? Do we have him?"
Dumbledore nodded at Pilliwickle, "I have and it is. I must ask you though, Justus, if you would return him to the Ministry as soon as possible. I have guaranteed his safety, and I believe the Minister would be pleased to inform our continental allies of the arrest."
The old man nodded with a grim smile, and straightened the wand arm pointed at Ankarsvärd. With a swift incantation, ropes flew out of the end of his wand, wrapping themselves around the prisoner. In another instant, both he and Stefan disappeared, a single loud crack echoing through the room. The image of Stefan's defiant, angry look stayed imprinted on his mind's eye for a few more moments.
Albus Dumbledore let out a long sigh, and rested back into his chair. The pyramid which had acted as an Apparating point for the Aurors ceased completely its gentle humming, and began to float back towards Dumbledore; the tip had now raised itself again. The Professor reached forward and took it out of the air, returning it to his pocket, while Moody stuck his wand in his belt and sat down where Stefan had been.
The two men, one very old and one still quite young, yet still close friends, looked silently at each other. Dumbledore knew that Alastor Moody was one of the most gifted students Hogwarts had ever had when it came to Defence Against the Dark Arts, as well as one of the most courageous and deeply moral. It didn't make what he had to ask any easier, though...
"Alastor, I think you know what I am going to ask of you. I can see you becoming one of the greatest Aurors the Ministry has ever produced, and I would know of no greater honour than to have you by my side when I face Grindelwald. There must be someone there to let the Ministry know, should I fall. Will you be my second?"
Dumbledore looked at the Auror, wondering if he had done the right thing by asking one so young to risk his life alongside him. But the answer to that was perfectly clear: Moody was no initiate and had already risked his life countless times - besides, Dumbledore could trust him completely, and there were few people he could say that about; he had, after all, schooled the man. Besides, Dumbledore needed him on this particular occasion. It seemed that Moody needed very little time to consider. He let out a grunt of assent.
"You're joking, Professor. I thought I'd have to follow you there myself, if you don't mind me saying," his voice, though young, was already a growl, made even more so by gruff pride, "I'd like nothing more than a shot at that murdering bloody bastard."
Dumbledore nodded at Moody, and reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. "Very well, Alastor. Tomorrow. For now, we should prepare and sleep. I have two rooms booked upstairs."
To be continued...