Peripheral characters were created by me, but all recognizable names and ideas belong to J.K. Rowling. A few historical figures also appear; they obviously belong to themselves.
Chapter Two: A Servant of the Crown
The blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore met those of Fitzherbert in a calm and even gaze. At this moment they were serious, without a trace of the lighthearted twinkle that normally kept the edges in a permanent good-humored crinkle.
"I'm flattered by your confidence, gentlemen," he said. "But I'm also curious as to why you think that I am the one to take on a wizard such as Grindelwald."
Fitzherbert made an impatient movement with his wand, sending out a small shower of sparks and causing the tiny figures moving about on the map to look up in surprise and confusion. "Oh come on, Albus," he snorted. "This is not the time for false modesty. Everyone in the wizarding world knows how gifted you are. You displayed it from your first day at Hogwarts."
"That's right," agreed Pickett, a rare grin lighting up his lined face. "Remember your first day in my Transfiguration class, when you were supposed to turn a splinter of wood into a needle? You produced a curved tapestry needle, conjured up canvas and wool and had your needle magically stitching up a crest of Gryffindor while the other students were still prodding their splinters with their wands."
Albus laughed. "And as I recall, you gave me detention for showing off and made me stitch new banners for the Great Hall by hand."
"Taught you not to display so much power unnecessarily, didn't it?" smiled Pickett. Then his smile faded and his face turned grave. "But if ever we needed power like yours, it's now, Albus. Your talent outstrips that of every other wizard of our time, and you know it. Everyone thought my son Philip--" his voice broke for a moment, and Fitzherbert reached out and placed a hand on Pickett's shoulder--"everyone thought he was crazy for joining the Muggle army! Laughed at him! Mocked him!" He shrugged off Fitzherbert's hand angrily. "I appreciate your kind words about him, Godfrey, but you know it's true. He went to his death so hurt that no one in our world understood the importance of what he was doing. He believed the whole world--not just the wizarding world, but all of us--were in such danger that it was worth any sacrifice to stop it. And he was right. He was right!"
Albus leaned forward. "Rodney, I too think Philip was right. We all know now how right he was." He reached out, took Pickett's hand in his own and gave it a brief squeeze before continuing. "But Grindelwald is an immensely powerful wizard. And he is not only powerful, he possesses a ruthlessness which I do not." He hesitated. "But it's not the prospect of taking him on that frightens me. It's the chance that I may lose and disappoint you all."
Fitzherbert spoke softly into the silence. "Albus, you've seen how it stands. If you can't defeat him, then we are lost anyway." His fists clenched at his sides. "You know what he is. He's criminally insane...murders for the sheer pleasure of killing. Every time we've attempted to capture him and put him in Azkaban, he's overpowered our best Aurors and murdered them. And now..." His fists unclenched, and he brought his hands up in a gesture of supplication. "Please try, Albus--I beg of you."
Albus stood up and paced back and forth before the fire for a few minutes. In his mind's eye, he was envisioning the destruction Grindelwald had wrought on the continent, and would wreak here given the opportunity. He thought of all the fine wizards and witches he knew who were Muggle-born or half-blood. He thought of one very lovely Muggle-born witch in particular, who had kissed him goodbye and smiled up into his eyes before he came to this meeting. Albus had put his hand on the small swell of her belly and told her to not to worry, that he would be back for breakfast. He heard the laughter of all the Muggle-born children who were discovering for the first time the joy of soaring on a broomstick or performing a simple spell. The thought of what would happen to those children--including his own unborn baby--if Grindelwald got here with his army, made the bright blue eyes harden with resolve. He turned and faced the other men.
"Yes," he said simply.
The room exploded with cheers from the other wizards, and bright red sparks flew from their wands as they waved them about in joy. "What's the next step, Albus?" asked Edward Bragg eagerly, his round face pink with excitement. "What can we do to help you?"
Albus exhaled slowly. "I will have to find him on the continent, I suppose."
"There is a resistance based at Beauxbatons," offered Aquitaine. "They will do whatever it takes to help you find him. After what he has done in France--" he swallowed hard and his eyes looked murderous. "They will do whatever it takes," he repeated.
"Do you have any ideas, Albus?" asked Rodney Pickett. "About how will you defeat him?"
Albus said slowly, shaking his head, "I have no idea."
There was more discussion, with the aid of the magical map, of where Grindelwald might be, and a brainstorming session of strategies for duelling. Fitzherbert promised to send an owl to Dippet, the headmaster at Hogwarts, arranging a leave of absence for Dumbledore. When he finally tapped the map again, returning it to its camouflage as a medieval relic, the council members stood and stretched before putting their cloaks back on against the chill of the February night.
"Are you going back home, Albus?" inquired Aquitaine. "I need to give you instructions on how to reach Beauxbatons."
Albus shook his head. "I'm going to spend the night here. I need to be alone to think about this and devise some sort of plan. You can send me an owl here tomorrow, Rafael."
"Here?" asked Bragg, puzzled. "But where will you sleep?"
Albus smiled. "There is a room here in the Tower, in the Queen's House, which is always available to wizards serving the Crown...which technically I am, since His Majesty has a great interest in our Council. I'll be quite safe there. And I'll have the peace and quiet I need to make a plan."
While the others council members bade each other farewell, Aquitaine stepped in close to Albus and took his arm. "Albus," he said urgently, "you will need a second. If you wish, I should be glad to oblige--"
"Thank you, Rafael," replied Albus, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "But I already have someone in mind." He added, as Aquitaine began to protest, "Someone who does not have a family to worry about leaving behind." The other man was silent.
One by one, the other wizards said goodbye to Albus and wished him luck, then disapparated back to their homes. Albus stood before the violet fire a moment longer, then extinguished it with a wave of his wand. He put on his cloak, then reached into one of its voluminous pockets and withdrew an Invisibility Cloak. He donned it before stepping into the corridor. He made his way down the steps and out onto the lawn of the Tower grounds. Walking across the stretch that led to the Queen's House, he looked up at the sky, still clouded over and moonless. A sharp peck on his toe made him wince and he looked down.
"Hello there, Cholmondeley," he whispered to the black raven at his feet. The Tower raven pecked him on the ankle in reply.
"Ouch!" exclaimed Albus as quietly as he could. "That was a bit rough, old boy!" He shook his finger reprovingly at the bird. "Listen, no more of that--I'm incognito." He nodded at the sentry patrolling the grounds a few hundred yards away. The raven ignored him, flapped his wings and attempted to land on Albus's outstretched finger. "Hey, no! Get off! That sentry's going to wonder how you're managing to perch in mid-air!" he laughed. "Now, pay attention: I've got a job for you. I need an owl to send a message. Can you summon one and send it to the Queen's House?"
The raven looked offended. Albus whispered, "Look, I'd send you with the message if I could. But your wings are clipped, remember?" The raven cawed indignantly and then stalked off. Albus sighed. The Tower ravens were a temperamental bunch. He hoped Cholmondeley would cooperate and call an owl for him. He needed to send a message to his wife, telling her he'd be away a bit longer than he'd planned.
The Queen's House half-timber facade made it instantly recognizable as Tudor-period construction. "Queen's House" was somewhat a misnomer; it was a handsome collection of buildings that looked more residential than administrative. It sat opposite the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, separated from it by the width of Tower Green--a pleasant expanse of lawn made less so by the private execution scaffold left over from Henry's days. The Queen's House itself had become the official residence of the Head of the Yeoman Guard many years since.
Albus quietly approached the corner building and glanced about to make sure no sentries were looking in his direction. He tapped on the lock with his wand, whispered "Alohomora," then closed the door silently behind him after entering. He slipped silently up the stairs and down the hall until he came to a painting of a young girl in a blue velvet dress standing in a room with large windows, out of which the viewer could see the Tower in the distance. "Sanctum admagus," he whispered. The wall on which the painting hung began to waver, then a small oak door appeared underneath the frame of the picture. He turned the knob, bent low and entered a room which the occupants of the house believed to be a small plumbing space. As soon as he closed it, the door disappeared, and Albus straightened up.
He was in a bedroom which might have been decorated for Queen Elizabeth herself. Tapestries depicting hunt scenes covered the walls, the rich colors still vivid despite their age. A large fireplace, in which a small, cheerful blaze had sprung up as soon as he closed the door, stood at the center of the room; objets d'art which would make a museum curator's eyes pop were strewn casually on the mantel. The gray slate floor was warmed by the soft thick Persian rugs which lay underfoot, adding to the glowing colors in the room. On the wall directly behind him was a large gold-framed portrait. It was the same as the one in the hall outside, except that it was about five times as large. The girl in the blue dress smiled at him and said, "Welcome, magus! I hope you will find everything here to your satisfaction." Albus assured her that he did.
He returned the Invisibility Cloak to the pocket of his outer cloak, then removed that and hung it on a carved pegboard attached to the wall. He crossed to the fire and sank wearily into the armchair which stood before, too tired and distracted to appreciate its cloth-of-gold upholstery, hand-embroidered with runes and astrological symbols. "Ye gods," he said aloud, "what have I gotten myself into?"
He leaned back, closed his eyes and began to think. The last time he had seen Grindelwald was at the Triwizard Tournament of 1932. Grindelwald had been the Durmstrang champion and Albus the champion for Hogwarts. The tournament was never completed; the Beauxbatons champion, Des Oliviers, had died in the second task, while the three of them were in the Forbidden Forest attempting to catch a unicorn. The French student's death had never been explained to anyone's satisfaction; some people--Albus among them--suspected Grindelwald of murder, but nothing could be proven. Even a dose of Veritaserum had proven useless; either Grindelwald really was innocent, or had used some obscure Dark Art charm to overcome the effects of the potion. Albus thought the latter more likely, particularly since Grindelwald had been throwing out boastful hints about his mastery of the Dark Arts ever since his arrival at Hogwarts that fall.
After Durmstrang, Grindelwald had trained as an Auror in Germany. Given the suspicion surrounding the events of the Triwizard Tournament, the International Magical Council had strongly recommended his acceptance into the program, but had no local power to enforce their recommendation. He was a formidable student, mastering every technique with incredible ease and speed. Some who had doubted his intentions were reassured; the rest waited for the other shoe to drop.
They had not had long to wait. Grindelwald had gone Dark almost immediately, using the Aurors' techniques against them on the rare occasions that they found and tried to capture him. Most of them were found tortured to death; the ones who survived were no longer fit to work as Aurors. Albus knew that he himself was a good wizard--but how was he to defeat someone who was not only cunning and powerful, but who would stop at absolutely nothing? Madmen were difficult to outthink.
A whooshing sound broke into Albus's thoughts; he opened his eyes and found a large, tawny owl sitting on the footstool. Cholmondeley had come through after all.
"Ah--came down the chimney, I see. Very smart, since there are no windows," he chuckled to the owl. He reached into his pocket and extracted a dried sausage. "Here; have a bite to eat while I'm composing my letter," he told it. The owl hopped down to the hearth, placed a clawed foot atop the sausage, and began to tear chunks out of it with obvious relish.
Albus crossed to the massive oak desk across the room, illuminated the candles hovering above it with a word, and took a piece of parchment from the ample stack stowed in a cubbyhole. Dipping a quill into the inkpot, he wondered what--and how much--to tell his wife.
Dear Mireille, he began. He put down the quill, staring at the tapestry on the wall before him, but not seeing it.
Would it be better to tell her the truth or not? He hated to worry her, especially since she was pregnant. On the other hand, if he lost the upcoming duel, she and the child would be in danger. What he wanted to do was to tell her to go and hide at her parents' house. He frowned. Knowing Mireille, if she thought Albus was in trouble, she would insist on coming with him, pregnant or not. And right now, the last thing he needed was to waste his energy trying to convince his adored and headstrong wife that she would only make his task harder if she were with him.
She was really better off at her parents', he thought, and unaware of what was going on. Before the duel, he would instruct his second that if Grindelwald won, he was to find her there, and hide her as best he could, to keep her and their child safe. He knew the man he was asking this of would give his life before he would let Mireille or the baby come to harm. He picked up the quill.
I hope this letter finds you feeling well. It seems, my love, that I will not be home for breakfast after all. The Minister has asked me to take care of a small task. It shouldn't take more than a few days--a week at the most. It's nothing dangerous, just the retrieval of some hidden documents that might be useful in helping the Muggles win the war. Although the end seems to be in sight, he would like to hasten it if possible. You should go and visit your parents while I'm away so you don't get lonely. I'm sure your mother has by now created another trunkful of baby things for you to take home. I really should pick up some MagiKnit needles for her in Diagon Alley while I'm here. Then again, as she's already knitted over a hundred baby outfits with ordinary Muggle needles--perhaps not!
All my love,
Albus
He put down the quill and sighed. He had never lied to Mireille before, and it gave him an uncomfortable feeling to do so now. Well, when he was back safely--from now on, he must not think any other outcome possible--he would tell her the truth. She'd tell him off heatedly, then burst into tears, throw her arms around him and eventually they'd laugh about it. He folded the parchment and whistled at the owl, who flew over and dropped the half-eaten sausage on the desk.
"Quite all right, my friend," Albus told him, eyeing the savaged meat. "You keep it." He attached the message to the owl's leg and gave him a pat. The bird picked the sausage up in his claws and swooped through the flames and back up the chimney.
Albus put out the candles and made his way over to the draped and canopied four-poster bed in the corner. He hung his wand on the top of an intricately carved bedpost, slid in between the linen sheets and soft featherbed, and closed his eyes, wishing Mireille were there so he could hold her close, stroke her dark hair, and laugh with her at jokes told in the private language of lovers. He turned over, pulled the quilt up to his chin and had almost drifted off to sleep when a loud thumping noise made him sit straight up, wide awake. He yanked back the drape, its rings clattering noisily along the rod.
A small figure stood next to the bed, silhouetted by the firelight. Albus reached for his wand, illuminated it, and peered in surprise at a diminutive house-elf. "What on earth--who are you?" he murmured. "Do you have a message for me?"
"Oh yes, I does, sir," squeaked the frightened elf. "I is come to tell you that you isn't to leave England to fight Lord Grindelwald."
"Oh?" said Albus. "And why is that?"
"Because, sir--" gulped the elf, "--he is here. In London."