The Defeat of Grindelwald: Part Two
N.B: The village of Chiddingstone is real, as are all of its environs, buildings and landmarks as described in this fic; I have taken some small liberties in moving them around, however. 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
Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of his dreams, Alastor Moody could smell bacon and eggs. It surprised him a little, as prior to this rather tempting intrusion he'd been having a nightmare. As usual though, the memory of the nightmare faded as soon as he woke, like water running through cupped hands. The impression that was left on him, that of a dark, nameless shadow on the edge of his mind, was the same as every time. With a grunt, his eyes flickered open, and he remembered where he was: the Church Inn on the high street of the tiny village of Chiddingstone, Kent.
The bed underneath him felt soft and luxurious, and Moody wondered if he'd slept in. That thought was enough to jolt him, and he sat upright, reaching out for his watch. As he did so, the memories of the previous day came flooding back. Stefan Ankarsvärd had been Grindelwald's Secret-Keeper, he remembered, and Dumbledore asked me to come with him to… to… For a few moments, he couldn't quite remember what it was that Dumbledore had asked of him. Then, with a much harder and nastier jolt than the previous one, he remembered: Dumbledore asked me to come with him and be his second when he went for Grindelwald.
Of course, the nasty jolt was not because Moody did not want to go: he had meant what he'd said last night; if Dumbledore had not allowed him to come he would have done so anyway. The nasty jolt was because he was afraid. He did not mind admitting that to himself, though he would never tell anyone else. He was not ashamed of his fear either, because he knew better by now: fear kept you alive, for one, and besides, courage wasn't being fearless (which is just foolhardiness under another guise, Dumbledore had once told him), but accepting the fear and doing what must be done regardless.
Moody looked at his watch, and let out a sigh of relief. It was a quarter to eight; Dumbledore had said to be downstairs by eight. Judging by the smell of eggs and bacon that had woken him, the Professor was already downstairs tucking into his meal. He dragged himself to his feet, and had a quick look around the room. It was a small, rather sparsely decorated but homely affair that could have belonged to a quiet countryside Bread 'n' Breakfast anywhere in England. It was muggle-owned, of course, but Moody already had enough experience at barely twenty working amongst muggles for the strangeness of some things not to bother him. He walked over to the wardrobe and began to dress.
Looking at himself in the mirror (which, very unhelpfully he thought, refused to offer its advice on his choice of clothing like magical mirrors are wont to do), Moody considered his fear again. It was not without reason. Though their exact relationship hadn't been made clear until more recently, the Ministries of Magic throughout Europe had known since early 1937 of Grindelwald's relationship with the muggle Hitler. At first they had thought he'd been offering the dictator magical solutions to the problem of getting the German people onside, but Moody had known better: it doesn't take magic to convince an entire population to be accomplices to evil, just the ability to make them believe they're under attack and that you are their only hope for safety and honour.
The real relationship between the two had become clearer in February 1941, when a muggle, half-dead with fear and starvation, had escaped from a German base just outside the city of Stavanger, in Norway. He'd been witness to a secret meeting between Hitler's personal assistant, Rudolf Hess, and a man he'd claimed to have 'special powers' - such as the ability to disappear from one place and reappear at another instantly, and kill men with nothing more than a few odd words, the wave of a small stick and a flash of green light. The Ministry of Magic had swooped down on him, dozens of trained Hit Wizards in tow, within hours of the news reaching England.
Then they'd found out the truth: Grindelwald wasn't working for Hitler - quite the opposite, Hitler had in fact been working for Grindelwald, after a fashion. The escaped muggle, before they altered his memory, swore that Hess had been promising the strange man complete control over all European wizardry once the Nazi's had forced Britain into submission and Europe became theirs. After all, wizards are few in number, and no amount of magic can stand up to the might of division after division of tanks, infantry and fighter planes. In return, Grindelwald and his supporters would do all they could do facilitate the Nazi's supremacy.
Moody finished changing and considered for a moment what it would be like for the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy to be torn to pieces; for the barrier between the muggle and magical worlds to once again be opened, with the Nazi's dominating all of Europe and lending authority to Grindelwald. He knew then that he had good reason to be afraid. Who knew what muggle contraptions of death were awaiting Dumbledore and himself at Chiddingstone Castle? With a growl of anger meant more to reassure himself than display any kind of real bravado, Moody opened the door and headed downstairs to join Dumbledore for breakfast.
Sitting at a table in the dining area of the Castle Inn, Albus Dumbledore drank his cup of tea slowly as he read the muggle newspaper in front of him over the tops of his half-moon spectacles. The remains of a Full English lay in front of him: bacon rinds, the white of an egg (he only liked the yoke), the crust of a piece of fried bread, and assorted smatterings of beans and bits of black pudding. He was just perusing an article about the intended trials of the captured Nazi high command when Alastor Moody walked in. The Professor placed his paper down and looked up at him with a smile. The boy – no, man now, Dumbledore reminded himself – gave one of his usual grunts of greeting and went to sit down opposite him.
"Here you are my dear!" someone immediately bellowed from the kitchen, and Dumbledore watched as Moody startled and fought the urge to stand up and start blasting his wand in the direction of the noise. A massive woman walked into the room with another plate of Full English in her hand. She wore a large apron (almost a curtain, Dumbledore had thought at first) and an expression of boundless energy and enthusiasm.
"There you are my love," she said as she placed the plate down in front of Moody, smiling broadly, "Albert here was telling me that you two are off for a walk in the countryside today, is that right? It's Alastor, isn't it?"
Moody shot a quick glance towards 'Albert,' then offered the smallest of smiles to the lady. "Yes, that's right," he grunted, "Just thought we'd take a stroll and see the Chiding Stone, have a bit of a look around, maybe head up to the moors."
The Chiding Stone was a large rock a mile or so outside the village. At various times thought to be a druidical altar and a Saxon land boundary, it had definitely been used in the Middle Ages as a place where the villagers would assemble to 'chide' wrongdoers. The village had taken its name from the stone, and it was the primary reason why the National Trust had decided in 1939 to take ownership of the entire place, making it a site of English heritage.
"Oh wonderful," the woman said as she bustled around the table, clearing up Dumbledore's breakfast and setting the cloth straight. She didn't sound like she'd actually heard Moody's reply. "You have a lovely time then, my dears." With that, she hurried back off to the kitchen, happily humming something under her breath.
Dumbledore looked at Moody, fixing him with one of his benevolent grins, "Well Alastor, how are you feeling this morning? We have a big day ahead of us! If what Mr Ankarsvärd said is true, then our man is hiding away in Chiddingstone Castle, about a mile and a half over that way, past the Chiding Stone." Dumbledore waved his teacup at the wall in a direction that may have been, but probably wasn't, that of the Stone.
Moody, who had been about to place a piece of bacon into his mouth, paused, with the fork in mid-air, "Well Professor, that's what I want to know: how, exactly, can you tell that Stefan wasn't lying? He's been running the show for Grindelwald over in the Scandinavian countries these past couple of years… Galloping gargoyles, he was the one who met Hess in Norway back in '41. He knows he won't get off lightly. And it's all a bit fishy if you ask me, him choosing to reveal Grindelwald's hiding place right next door to it."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, as though considering Moody's words. "That part puzzled me, too. It seemed an inordinate risk for him. Perhaps he thought that if he could not make a deal with me for his own safety, he could at least try and lure me to his master? Hedging his bets, perhaps?"
Moody growled, chewing some sausage fiercely "Wouldn't be surprised, spineless little weasel. What if he's not there at all, though? What if there are muggles up there, with them bloody steel wands?"
"The way the Fidelius Charm works, Alastor, is very specific – you must say the person's name and where it is they are hiding for the secret to be revealed. Stefan did both, and Chiddingstone Castle became visible again. Grindelwald is definitely there, that is beyond question. What else might be there… well, we shall have to see when we arrive. Come now, eat up, we shall leave shortly."
Moody gave the Professor a nod of sullen agreement, and imagining his fried tomato to be the head of Stefan Ankarsvärd, stabbed his fork into it fiercely.
A couple of hours later, Moody found himself walking down the long, empty road towards the Chiding Stone alongside Albus Dumbledore. He'd always enjoyed the peace and quiet of the countryside, but his reasonably new job as an Auror had meant a lot of time in London, especially considering the danger of the times. Now, as he walked down this road beside the Professor, he decided he hated it. The hot and sticky mid-morning summer air seemed to smother him; the smell of cut grass and slurry suffocated him; the massive, expansive clear blue sky above seemed to reinforce his feelings of absolute isolation and loneliness. He realised that on any other morning, all these things might have even put him in a good mood (if Alastor Moody could ever be said to be in a good mood), but now their worst characteristics seemed to be brought to the fore, and he began to feel a little sick.
"Not far now," Dumbledore said as he hummed to himself and meandered along. It seemed to Moody that the Professor didn't appear to be in the least anxious. He wasn't sure whether that should console him or worry him. It was true that Dumbledore was a great wizard: his work on the 12 uses of Dragon's Blood and on the Philosopher's Stone with Nicholas Flamel had brought him his great fame, but he'd shown many times since that he deserved it – because of him, more Dark Wizards had been brought to justice in the last few years than many skilled Aurors managed in a life time. He was also in line to become Headmaster of Hogwarts when old Armando Dippet passed on, which seemed to be any day now. That wasn't even to mention all the things Moody didn't know about, and he suspected that there was a lot: Dumbledore was at least a hundred years old already, and had the reputation of a man who did his best acts in modest privacy. All the same, however, Moody worried.
He worried mostly because he knew that Grindelwald was himself a very powerful wizard, and that he would likely have other powerful wizards with him. He also worried because of what the Dark Wizard might have at Chiddingstone Castle in the way of muggle weapons of death: he'd seen pictures and heard stories of massive explosions and flying airplanes with those steel wands the muggles called 'guns.' Magic was very helpful in all sorts of situations, but it couldn't do much for you if someone decided to create a massive crater where you happened to be standing. Lastly though, he worried because he didn't want to let Dumbledore down. He'd never let on how much it had meant to him that Dumbledore had asked him to be his second; that he would consider him, so young, worthy of being alongside him when he went for Grindelwald. So the last thing he wanted was to fail him. If Dumbledore was to fall, God forbid, Moody would be accused forever of not being good enough to prevent it, of not doing his job. He let out a long, uncomfortable sigh.
"Here we are, Alastor," Dumbledore said, interrupting his thoughts. The long, uneven track, surrounded on either side by dry stone walls, tapered off in two directions. The main track continued on further to another village in the distance, while another track branched off into a small forest of trees covering one side of the hill leading up to the moors. On the very brow of the hill, surrounded by trees, was Chiddingstone Castle. Moody was distinctly unimpressed: it struck him as being an arrogant thing to call something which was little more than a very large mansion. "Wands out, careful now," Dumbledore said in a hushed voice.
"Right you are, Professor," Moody replied, taking his own wand out. He glanced up at the 'castle' apprehensively, half expecting to hear the sound of 'guns' exploding, or whatever it was they did to inflict damage. Instead, its ornate windows just winked back at him in the sunlight, and a single crow flew over head, its call renting through the still silence. "Let's go," he said, sounding more assertive than he felt, and led the way along the little track through the trees, heading in the general direction of the Castle.
After a while, they came to a clearing, and Moody saw in its centre what must be the Chiding Stone. It was actually more impressive than he'd expected: it was a good ten or eleven feet high, split through the middle, and almost completely flat on top. He could see why it might have been used for an altar a thousand years ago. The clearing itself was completely empty apart from a small wooden sign in front of the Chiding Stone, giving a little history for the tourists. Moody felt a hand on his shoulder and before he could stop himself he gave a little jump, even though he knew instinctively it would be Dumbledore.
"Sorry Professor," he whispered, turning around. "This place just seems too quiet. I could be imagining it, but I get the feeling we're being watched."
"We most likely are," Dumbledore said, and Moody noticed he had stopped humming. The only sound now was that of the crow, still circling up above. "Now, Alastor, has come the time when I must ask you to fulfil your part. I ask that you stay here, hidden in the trees, and—"
He didn't get a chance to finish, as Moody cut him off.
"No way, Professor, no way," he hissed, "You asked me to be your second and that's what I am. You aren't going up there by yourself. I don't care how strong you think you are, or how weak you think I am, you don't know what's up there. I'm coming with you."
"Alastor," Dumbledore said firmly, his piercing eyes staring into Moody's, "It has nothing to do with strength or weakness, though you know full well that I don't consider you weak: that is why you are here. What I said yesterday about believing that you will become one of the finest Aurors the Ministry has ever produced – I meant it."
Moody felt pride swelling inside him once again, but didn't allow it to distract him from what he still saw as Dumbledore's foolish bravery. The Professor went on:
"You are many, many years younger than I, yet you have the courage to stand with me against Grindelwald. You might be afraid, but there are many wizards, much older and more accomplished than yourself, who would allow that fear to consume them. You haven't, Alastor, and that is why I have faith in you. But you must do as I say. You must stay here. It will become clear soon enough why I ask this. For now, I just ask that you trust me. Stay in the woods and await my signal."
Moody considered for a moment, grinding his teeth as he thought. "But Professor, what signal am I--"
This time, it was Dumbledore's turn to cut him off. "Just await my signal. You'll know when you see it. You'll know," he repeated, then, before Moody could raise any further objections, he turned on his heel and made his way across the clearing. As he disappeared into the woods on the other side, he had started humming again. Moody moved out of the clearing a little and slumped down against a tree, glaring murderously up at the crow which continued to pierce the silence up above.
To be continued…