29 Chapter 29

AN: Half of the chapter was Beta'd by Sedition, who has my highest thanks. But the other half is just me; hopefully you don't see too much of discrepancy in quality between povs.

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"Sir, reporting for duty, sir!" Came the overly enthusiastic yell of a ratty looking boy.

Despite a scarlet Auror robe draped over his shoulders and two badges neatly stuck on his chest, the boy barely managed to look like someone of authority, let alone an Auror.

Even then, no one would ever mistake him to be more than what he was; an unconfirmed initiate with little to no chance of seeing field-work in his career.

Though none but his peers and superiors would dare say so to his face. Everyone else in the general populace would hesitate when faced with the badge declaring him a Level 4 Dueler, only having the guts to whisper behind his back. The second badge, professing him to be an initiate of Auror corps, would simply gain him further respect, even more than his Dueling level. Of course, no one would pay attention to the three white lines diagonally slashed across the badge that simply signalled 'Awaiting confirmation'.

Preet Pigwetter was his name, or so he claimed—born to an Indian mother and a British father.

Weird name for a lad to wear with such pride, was the thought of one, Gawain Robards. Though no stranger than Longbottom, I suppose.

The other initiates liked to call him 'Pigwetting Whiskers' or simply 'Whiskers' for his wildly ratty face.

In normal times, an unconfirmed initiate like Mr. Pigwetter here, would indeed never be seen in a red zone, and Gawain Robards had trouble remembering why the boy was there in the first place.

Whatever the case, Robards knew he couldn't waste time upon useless digression and let go of the matter with a last suspicious glance.

'Every hand would be needed for the coming tide anyway.'

Gawain Robards still remembered his recent conversation with the head of DMLE afterall, confirming his—and likely many people's—worst nightmare to be true.

Their talks had taken place through his telecard. At first, it had come as a welcome surprise to see his card hailed, impatient and eager that he was for even a drop of news.

"Sir, this is Robards, what is the news!?" He had asked as soon as the card started blinking.

But the voice that answered belonged not to Scrimgeour, but to someone who inspired desire, admiration, respect, and fear in equal amounts amongst all men. Well…maybe an argument can be made for the desire to be a little stronger, but you wouldn't find anyone actually daring to say it.

"Robards, stop screaming down our throats and get ready for a wave of chaos!" The head of DMLE bellowed, making Gawain flinch back from the card. "People are coming towards you right this moment, control the crowd till we deal with it here."

"C-control how, Ma'am?" He dared to get out. "Should I keep them here an—"

"Use you bloody brain, man!" More flinching. "Can you ever hope to hold back a crowd like this!? Let them go, just prevent any panic from rising."

Now usually this would be when Gawain Robards gives a quick 'Yes, Ma'am!' and scrambles to follow orders. However, the ever-present dark thought that this day might be his last gave him a little more courage today.

"Ma'am, is it true?" The man hesitantly asked before the call could drop. "Is he actually here?"

Thankfully his somber mood was shared by his superior and he received no further chewing.

"...We're dealing with Grindelwald, Robards." The voice answered only after a few moments of letting Robards suffer. "You do your bloody job."

Now came the "Yes, Ma'am!" and scrambling to follow orders.

But the nightmare was now confirmed to be reality and Gawain knew it was a matter of time before he fucked up.

He was quite aware that his people did not hold him in as high a regard as Kingsley Shacklebolt or Frank Longbottom, and for good reason. Watching Robards give commands was far from an inspiring sight. He screamed, he hollered, and while people did listen to him, it was more due to the authority of his position and respect for his power, rather than trust or natural obedience, and most certainly not for his charisma.

The fact that he was constantly compared to wizards like Shacklebolt and Longbottom—that were placed directly under him—only managed to raise the responsibilities and expectations on his shoulders. And whenever he failed to meet them? He lost their respect, piece by piece.

Respect that even his hard earned Lvl 5 dueling status couldn't recover.

If he were to be honest with himself, he knew Shacklebolt or Longbottom certainly deserved his position more than him. That it was only his loyalty to Scrimgeour which truly landed him the position as Second-in-command of Auror corps.

But he wasn't honest with himself. He didn't want to be. He wanted to prove that insecure whispering voice wrong and show that he too could lead.

So he started giving orders. And if he placed the two men in lower positions, he couldn't be blamed. He was, afterall, doing his best in a stressful situations.

There were three entrances into the stadium, all built on one face of the structure. The central one was where Robards decided to hold his position. The left and right positions, on the other hand…

"Dawlish! Hold the right entrance!" He bellowed, making a snap decision. "Take Shacklebolt and three other teams with you!"

Then, pointedly glancing past Longbottom, he gave further command. "Savage! Take Longbottom, and another three teams to hold the left one!"

The men scrambled to their positions quickly. While there were surely some (many) doubtful gazes in the squads, they wouldn't question his decision in times like this.

Dawlish and Savage were…not the best of leaders, to say the least. One must realize however, that leaders were few and scant in the wizarding world. Good leaders even fewer still. And those unique few that could pass that filter were usually picked off by old carrions like Rufus Scrimgeour, who were wont to give away their share of power to anyone.

And that's where men like Robards came in: loyal, powerful, and utterly unambitious. Perfect pawns in the game of politics.

But that wasn't Robards business to know. His business was to earn good PR for Scrimgeour and maintain a picture of supreme power.

Thus he obeyed his own commands.

Taking the remaining squads, he moved to cover the central entrance, first forming a barricade—quite similar to the type that divided different levels of lands in this place.

They were thick slabs of wood, a foot in girth and even wider at base. Gawain ordered his squad to place them around the entrance, hoping to give the crowd a pause so he may guide them more civilly.

When the time of reckoning arrived, Gawain convinced himself that he was ready. That he'd done all he could to prepare in such a low time.

But one could never be ready for the sight that greeted their eyes. Now, you may wonder, how does a panicking crowd of a hundred thousand wizards and witches look like? Well, to Gawain, they looked like an army of locusts here to reap through a farm.

It was a surreal scene, stretching the boundaries of disbelief, his mind simply unable to comprehend what exactly his eyes were witnessing. Like an army of inferi, thousands upon thousands of wizards burst out of the central entrance—and the other two as well, but Gawain couldn't have cared less about them right now—crushing through the barricades like they were made of paper.

Screaming, hollering, scrambling, jumping, the crowd tore out through the gates like vengeful hornets.

"Hold them back!" Robard's scream was drowned out in the crowd. He shot a bright flash of Lumos in the sky, brightening the world from darkness and calming the crowd just a little. "Hold, all of you! All of you, hold! We're Aurors! Here to help you!"

While the central entrance managed not to stampede over the Aurors, the right side was looking fragile—a push away from complete panic. People were nary to listen to Dawlish afterall, and his group was looking up to him for command.

Dawlish panicked. "Stun anyone who doesn't stop!"

The Aurors didn't agree of course, some of them audibly groaning. They knew exactly how disastrous that could be, especially considering everyone in the crowd was carrying a wand.

Thankfully, and unexpectedly, the threats managed to hold back the crowd for a little while. Those that heard him drew back a little, hesitant and uncertain. Now would've been the chance to comfort the crowd and earn their trust.

That all came withering down to the ground however when a ratty-faced Auror initiate, carrying the name Preet Pigwetter, suddenly surged forward—his wand pointing at the crowd. "Avada Kedavra!"

The spell hit an elder woman, and she fell to the ground dead. Stunned silence lay within the crowd for a few precious seconds, enough time for Preet to let loose another killing curse; and down went a young girl of 12.

"Preet!" Robards bellowed, his wand turning to the boy. "What are you doing!?"

Then the shock was washed away in panic and fear, and all hell broke loose. And in no time, Robards was buried under an avalanche of legs and shoes. The last thing he saw before his unfortunate death was the grinning face of 'Preet Pigwetter' bubbling and reducing into a rodent's.

When the dark-robed figures came riding on the brooms, launching the vilest and darkest of curses, the crowd saw no difference between them and the Aurors.

The battle of Dartmoor has started, and while no one knew it yet, it was about to go down in history as the day it all went wrong with the wizarding world.

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While the Auror corps were busy outside the stadium, there was a different type of chaos brewing in the inside.

Minister Bones had been quick to respond to the monumental threat, gathering the best duelers of her country to try and take down the most infamous Dark Lord of all time.

Or well…she was trying to, atleast.

"Rufus!" Her bellow made her entire group wince. "I want Shacklebolt and Longbottom now. They should've been here already, what are they doing!?"

There were only 5 present in their group as they made their way to the stadium. Out of these 5, four were level 6 Duelers, some of the very best in the whole world. Scrimgeour, James, and Bones were known to be veterans of war, having earned their titles throughout the years. And while Moody may not be in his prime, he was once hailed as one of the greatest duelist to ever exist, second only to Bellatrix Black.

But even now, a leg down, he could contend with the likes of Shacklebolt and Longbottom, both certified level 6 duelers.

The only one uncertain about her position in the group was Nymphadora Tonks. She'd only just achieved her level 5 status afterall, and her help against Grindelwald may prove to be more hindrance than anything.

Still, she refused to leave. Not just due to her bravery and courage—like the others thought—but also cause…well, it would be really bloody embarrassing to be sent away like a child from an adults fight.

"They're pinned by the crowd, Minister." Scrimgeour replied with a grimace. "It's complete chaos out there, and while both managed to get away safely, Robards was crushed under the stampeding crowd. They are trying to run damage control and rescue their teams."

"Merlin take them all." Minister Bones muttered. "Useless, good-for-nothing fools."

The head of Aurors scowled. "My Aurors are doing their best, I assu—"

"The crowd, stupid." Bones cut him off. "I'm talking about the crowd. James, are Lily and Bella here yet?"

They passed through the lines of ministry tents, laying empty and abandoned. Most of the officials vacated the premises as soon as they heard about Grindelwald's presence, despite the Minister's orders to stay and help however they can.

"I'm afraid not, Minister." James Potter replied. "I've sent a patronus though."

"Don't you two have some private cards?" The Minister scowled. "Surely Lily made one for you?"

"She did." The man gave an awkward chuckle, rubbing his head in consternation. "I forgot to carry it with me today."

"For god's sake, James." The Minister shook her head, though her eyes snapped to the front as they were stopped by a group of armed personnel.

An African man—dark skinned, dark-eyed—walked towards them with 7 other wizards, all dressed in Battle robes and looking ready for a fight.

"Mr. Akingbade?" Minister Bones squinted.

"Minister Bones." The man nodded. "Me and my team...and a few stragglers...offer our help against the monster. His crimes shall not go unpunished. We must carve out his bones and suckle upon his marrow!"

The Minister looked wary, her eyes flickering around. "I'm thankful. We all are. But I must ask, are you aware of Brazil's betrayal?"

The wizard nodded grimly. "We were suspicious of them from the start. Though they chose a most unfortunate time to attack. We only just found the dead bodies of our scouts. I understand your suspicions however, and I bid you welcome to test me and mine."

After a round of legilimence, none of which ended up like Tonks's, they started their journey to the stadium—now as a group of 12. And there they found him, standing under the moonless night with only a bright lumos overhead.

Gellert Grindelwald.

"Hold." The Minister commanded, and they obeyed. "Something's not right."

Indeed, while the man wasn't standing alone—with 6 Alliance members crouched around him—but it was clear to all that he was, in fact, standing.

Simply standing. No terrorizing the crowd, no passionate speeches…while there were a few wizards and witches—remnants of the audience who'd stayed behind, swayed by the Dark Lord's half-assed words—it was also clear to all that the wizard was…waiting.

"What is he waiting for?" Tonks wondered.

It was soon answered however, so there was no point in wondering.

He threw a small green ball down in front of him; and a bright flash mingled with the crack of air, presenting them with the arrival of new figures. There were 5 of them, and they stood against Grindelwald almost defensively.

But the Dark Lord seemed not to mind, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome, my dear partners in crime! I hope you'll find my arrangements…fascinating."

The Dark Lord chuckled, making the 5 even more defensive.

"Mussst you, Gellert?" The man in the middle hissed out.

Only after further scrutiny were the group of Aurors able to make out the truth.

'Not the man…but the bundle in his arms.'

"…He's like a child." James whispered, understanding more than others. "Weakened and powerless, but very much alive. Merlin damn you, Dumbledore. You're right again."

For reasons unknown, a chill spread through the group as they stood still a mere dozen meters or so away from the Darklord and the creepy child. Their dark wizards were too busy facing off against each other—sizing the ones opposite them up and down—to pay any attention to the Aurors.

"I thought you were busy conquering the Americas?" There was a mocking bite to the hisses this time, though they only proved to amuse the Dark Lord.

"Come now, Tom." Grindelwald laughed. "You didn't think I'll miss the rebirth of Lord Voldemort did you? I took a one-day leave from world domination today, all just for you."

Now, the understanding flashed in others as well. And the British Minister verbalized all of their thought process on her lonesome.

"Fuck." She whispered furiously. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…"

"Well…while I wouldn't want to see an old Dark Lord copulating with the childish form of Voldemort…" Mr. Akinbade voiced musingly. "I can see why you may say that. It would indeed be better for the world if they both killed each other in the midst of mating. Though I am quite against pedophilia, mind you."

That disturbing image broke everyone from the unnatural stillness that had seemingly grasped upon their souls.

"We must stop this, Minister." James Potter announced. "If Voldemort truly recovers from whatever ordeal he is in…"

"I know!" Minister Bones snapped, before sighing stressfully. "I know."

And so did the others. It need not be stated out. Should Voldemort truly recover his might, the entire wizarding world shall come under fire.

The combined might of two Dark Lords was well known to the people of Britain.

So they were ready to do anything in their power to keep that from happening again.

Their chances of success? Less than desirable.