Chapter 63: Alastor Moody: The Last Achievement
The summer months passed favorably—Albus hardly troubled us. While it was possible he was on vacation, I held out hope that he was preoccupied with the Horcruxes instead. I anticipated that news of his premature demise would arrive soon, yet he remained alive, and my "masters of the Horcruxes" still sensed their anchors secure. I had faith in Albus; he was at least capable of destroying one Horcrux, although I was uncertain how he would achieve it. Tracking spells revealed an unsettling stillness in the locations of the Horcruxes, and I refrained from venturing out to investigate, not wanting to inadvertently cross paths with Dumbledore.
Seizing the opportunity afforded by this quiet period, I contemplated the potential of utilizing a soul in a sacrifice. The findings were disheartening—foreign souls were off-limits, and even fragments of them proved ineffective; explosive attempts did not yield results. However, it appeared that my own soul could be used. Naturally, I was dissatisfied with this conclusion and sought alternative methods. How do artifacts function? They require material, tools, and a laboratory. I confronted three significant challenges.
The first was the magical power and tools necessary for conducting a human soul sacrifice ritual. Any wand or tool I attempted to use quickly succumbed to destruction during the process. What was I to do? Work without tools? Inflict harm upon myself? The second problem involved external contamination. Any fine-tuning of the process necessitated a "clean room," and the cleaner the environment, the more intricate the task. While rudimentary spells could be conjured in haste, anything requiring durability or finesse could not be executed under subpar conditions. Although I could eliminate 99% of the "magical contamination," achieving absolute cleanliness was as implausible as filling an aquarium with nothing—no fish, no water, no air, no atoms, no gravitational waves, no neutrinos. Theoretically simple, yet utterly unachievable. I attempted to inspect the laboratories of Burke, Selvin, and Schultz, but they proved inadequate for my needs.
After the inevitable victory, would I need to expel all the inept and construct a magical bunker the size of England? Or perhaps I should consider off-world operations? These were thoughts I needed to explore. Amidst all of this, a third issue emerged—how to deceive magic into believing that someone else's soul was mine. Yet, a flicker of memory surfaced: the Resurrection Stone. The "souls" it summoned perplexed both Tom Riddle and me, and it now seemed to influence ghosts. Perhaps it held potential utility? Hypothetically, the issue of mass wand suicides could be resolved with a perfect wand. And where might I find such a wand? Albus's Elder Wand! This was a thought worth pursuing.
Two of the Deathly Hallows appeared to be components in the arsenal of a medieval "fanatical necromancer-artificer," enabling him to incorporate another's soul into his work. But what purpose did the Cloak serve? Merely invisibility? I doubted it. News arrived in September that Tlautlipuzli had outgrown London and was moving south, which elicited my sympathy; I anticipated a dramatic scene of Albus exterminating the last of the relic creatures, driven mad by hunger.
Instead, I received entirely different news—Tlautlipuzli had successfully breached the first line of defense and was advancing, while the Ministry was preoccupied battling a cadre of wizards. They were not engaged with Death Eaters, who were busy harassing Muggles without orders, nor was anyone eager to confront an unknown creature lurking beneath the Ministry's nose without explicit commands. Albus's absence did not surprise me; "Elena" was negotiating with the French, which could only be described as "politics and business in Death Eater fashion."
In a conventional trade, one party offers something of value, and the other compensates accordingly. Our agreement with the French, however, was markedly different—we would provide them with what was not ours, and they would remain oblivious to how we pilfered what did not belong to them. In simpler terms, we granted the French a chance to apprehend Tlautlipuzli while ensuring they turned a blind eye to our transgressions in magical England and beyond, provided their citizens remained unharmed. Naturally, in this scenario, magical England would suffer losses, but it wasn't yet my concern.
The French likely correlated Tlautlipuzli's incursion with Albus's absence and initiated their operation. Per our agreement, I was expected to either facilitate their capture of Tlautlipuzli in England or ensure its passage to France. Frankly, I was indifferent to the treaties; "Elena" would cover for everything, but if an opportunity arose to sow discord between the current Auror and their French counterparts, why not take it? Albus had never been known for his concern regarding civilian casualties, leading me to a logical conclusion—he was preoccupied with the Horcrux.
Should I be mistaken, London was vast, and Nagini had not forgotten how to vanish in a burst of flame. Certainly, I would refrain from involving the Death Eaters in this venture to avoid unnecessary losses during my sudden escape, but the "dummies" would serve as my assistance. I could not afford to sustain needless casualties among my ranks while adversaries loomed. Gathering a squad of golems, imperials, and the undead, I instructed Bellatrix to unleash Grim upon Albus, sacrificing Sirius Black in the process. I then activated the Time-Turner—one of me traveled to London, while the other observed as Bellatrix executed Sirius Black to summon Grim.
The narrative of Tlautlipuzli unfolded—its moment of reckoning had finally arrived, and it surged forth, swiftly dismantling guard units. Its adversaries rallied, organizing their defenses as reinforcements replaced the fallen. The battlefield transformed, brimming with renewed vigor. The Ministry's wizards positioned themselves to strike, methodically chipping away at Tlautlipuzli's form. Meanwhile, a few Unspeakables stood aside, not participating in the fight but preventing its escape and taking measurements. The French, who had initially introduced chaos into Tlautlipuzli's retreat, now found themselves sluggishly exchanging spells with the Aurors, realizing their involvement was more trouble than it was worth.
The entire scene was shrouded in domes, invisible to all but those with magical sight, erected by the Ministry of Magic to hinder Tlautlipuzli's escape. Although these domes were weaker than the original defenses, their sheer number—nine—left little chance for successful flight. Two or three could be breached through brute force, while a few others required deft manipulation of probabilities; however, by the time the seventh dome approached, Tlautlipuzli would be too depleted to continue.
While its opponents believed they were gaining the upper hand, Tlautlipuzli prepared for a singular, devastating assault. Its smoky form thickened in strategic areas, poised to break free at the opportune moment. Under normal circumstances, such tactics would fail—slaying a number of foes would not guarantee escape. Yet synchronizing its attack with Voldemort, who would need to breach five of the seven domes at the right juncture, became imperative. Even before that moment arrived, Tlautlipuzli observed the golems, imperials, and undead positioning themselves, executing its own attacks to maximize the enemy's vulnerability to Voldemort and his thralls.
As Voldemort initiated his offensive, dozens of his units surged forth, while he himself cast spells from a distance, employing two transfigured earth golems the size of tube trains to divert attention. The Aurors attempted to respond, yet they posed little real threat. In that pivotal moment, both Voldemort and Tlautlipuzli unleashed their forces. Dark energies struck their adversaries from both sides, differing in nature yet equally destructive in essence. Wizards fell, and a gap materialized in the defenses—a pathway to freedom.
Tlautlipuzli did not aim to eliminate every opponent; it had a different objective. It swiftly consumed part of its own body to temporarily enhance its strength and speed. An overwhelming mental shock reverberated through its foes as a multitude of corrosive tendrils of black smoke surged forth. The simultaneous assault with Voldemort dramatically shifted the battlefield dynamics; some enemies perished, while others were forced to redirect their focus to survival. The French, now liberated from the Aurors' grasp, broke the anti-Apparition spells and vacated the area en masse.
Voldemort's puppets exploited the openings in the enemy's defenses, managing to disrupt their communication systems for a few critical seconds. Tlautlipuzli understood that victory was not attainable given the current balance of power; that was not its aim. While part of its form was consumed for temporary enhancement and the remainder absorbed the blows dealt by its foes, one of its tentacles retreated into the earth, extending thinly and successfully escaping the battle zone. Subsequently, it commanded the rest of its body to self-destruct, releasing a surge of energy that consumed the London Underground.
The Aurors attempted to counter, but it was too late—their positioning was compromised, and too much power was tied up in subduing Voldemort and his thralls. As it slipped out of range of the binding and tracking spells, Tlautlipuzli sensed Voldemort's impending clash. The Dark Lord had undergone a transformation: previously, Tlautlipuzli could glean glimpses of his thoughts, but now there was nothing. With a ferocity rare among humans, he disregarded any notion of retreat and continued his assault. Voldemort was all too aware of the inevitable defeat faced by his thralls, yet he played his part, striving to inflict maximum damage upon the enemy.
Golems and the undead fell, even as they perished attempting to strike back. Tlautlipuzli recognized a shared tactic in Voldemort's approach, akin to "fire ships" from the damaged elements of a cohesive whole. It observed the battle from an external perspective, noting the repeated strikes against a singular target and assessing the damage before refining its strategies once more. However, Voldemort's methods employed brute force in the tangible world rather than through foresight. In his strategy, Tlautlipuzli discerned no pathway to victory, a fact underscored by Voldemort's abrupt departure, vanishing thirty-six seconds into the future.
Yet Tlautlipuzli held no interest in human conflicts or fleeting alliances with Voldemort. It was already en route to France, a continent even larger than America! The allure was irresistible—more people and more magic, yet with less water.
Alastor Moody found himself exhausted in his office. Today had been a complete failure. Tlautlipuzli had escaped! They had either killed or captured several "unidentified individuals," marked by the telltale signs of "France. Internal Security. Dismissed since yesterday. Voluntarily went to catch Tlautlipuzli with a net." Meanwhile, they had missed Voldemort and suffered significant losses. He had no idea how the Ministry would manage to conceal the truth from the Muggles; the casualty count was already in the triple digits, and if the battle had occurred above ground, the Statute would have collapsed.
Yet all was not lost; it was just unfortunate that the Minister of Magic was summoning him for a report. He gathered six individuals into his office, plucking a clump of hair from his head and tossing it into a Polyjuice Potion. "Smith," he instructed the largely ineffective Order of the Phoenix secretary assigned to him by Albus, "drink this Polyjuice Potion and go to the Minister. Pretend to be me and distract him. Talk about constant vigilance and some nonsense, and that should buy us an hour. If not, ask how many house-elves it would take to deliver the Orb of Tibelum to the French Ministry of Magic."
Smith nodded silently, consumed the potion, donned the necessary disguises, and, after Moody cast protective spells on him, departed to meet Rufus Scrimgeour. "I'll be honest," he addressed the five Aurors present, with only Kingsley remaining from the original team. "We weren't vigilant enough. We failed to foresee that Tlautlipuzli's breakout attempt would coincide with an assault by the French and Voldemort, and that the Death Eaters would sabotage the Ministry's Department of Magical Transport. Now we're in a dire situation. We must eliminate Tlautlipuzli before it's too late."
"And where should we search for it?" they inquired. "Most likely, Tlautlipuzli has become restless here. It will seek refuge where conditions are calmer and food is plentiful—that is, it will head for the mainland. The nearest country is France. That's where we'll look."
"That's unacceptable! France is a sovereign nation…" Venson interjected.
"Shut up. In my youth, I witnessed a patrol find a misparked flying carpet and simply pushed it out of their jurisdiction into the next. What's even more amusing is that when the patrols from that area arrived, they did the same."
"We can't operate like that. Tlautlipuzli poses a threat to everyone. It must be eliminated; borders won't protect it," Moody asserted.
"But we don't know where to search!" Venson stated the obvious.
"And how will it reach France if it can't cross large bodies of water? As far as I understood from the briefing, the Thames is trivial for it, but the English Channel is an insurmountable barrier. We'll notice if wizards attempt to transport it."
"Use your brain. It's intelligent and has consumed enough Muggles. It will travel to France the Muggle way," Moody replied, pulling out what resembled a Muggle road atlas or a map of underground transit. "Once it crosses the English Channel, the most logical location for it to rest would be here," he said, indicating an inconspicuous point on the map. "There are remnants of Muggle fortifications from World War II near the shore. They were intended to prevent troop landings in 1944 but now serve as grain storage. It will linger there, recuperate, and then continue its journey."
"Shouldn't we inform the French…?" Venson suggested.
"I would have certainly informed them. Yesterday. I sincerely hope the French launched a preemptive strike against the creature making its way towards them today. But they were evidently attempting to capture it alive," he began. "Not to mention a potential conspiracy with the Death Eaters. They won't get it alive. No one will. Therefore, we will go there and eliminate Tlautlipuzli."
"How do we kill it if it can foresee the future?" Venson questioned.
"Thanks to Apparation, we will arrive before it does. We'll wait. It will need to absorb magic to heal itself—there's no time for precision now; if it acts with caution, it might die from its wounds. Let's wait fifteen minutes to move outside of its predictive range, erect a barrier, and eliminate it. This isn't London; it has nowhere to hide. We aren't constrained by the Statute."
"It escaped right from under our noses…" Venson lamented.
"Then we'll be smarter next time. Besides, it's heavily injured—the Unspeakables reported that it has lost nearly all its volume. This time, neither the French nor You-Know-Who will lend assistance."
Venson opened his mouth to speak again, but Moody interrupted him. "I know very well that Rufus Scrimgeour placed you here to spy on me. You can relay everything you've heard after we return." Venson's expression shifted, and he attempted to protest, but Moody felt the office's protective spells severing the signal from Venson. He gestured with his hand, and Venson fell victim to four spells from his comrades that could not be countered with a single shield. Venson crumpled under the onslaught.
"Overtired—it happens to everyone," Moody remarked, grinning at the sight of the stunned figure slumped in defeat. "Now let's get serious. What we're doing is necessary, but no one will be rewarded for it. If you don't wish to accompany me, stun yourselves and remain here. Let me remind those who have doubts: all my previous partners perished on the job."
No one volunteered. "Alastor, as I learned in our last confrontation with You-Know-Who, white people lack combat skills," Kingsley remarked. "Give me two minutes, and I'll gather all the Black wizards."
His colleagues responded with puzzled looks. Kingsley was the sole representative from the Order of the Phoenix present. As Moody grasped his hint, Kingsley suggested they refrain from interfering themselves and instead assemble the Order of the Phoenix. The idea was tempting, but still, no. They were about to invade another country uninvited. Five individuals—driven by an enraged Mad-Eye—were one thing; fifty would mean war. Moreover, it was challenging to transport a large contingent, especially since Alastor was uncertain how badly Tlautlipuzli had been injured. It could be severely wounded, allowing them to handle it, or not, in which case they would all be consumed, regardless of their numbers.
But he had a surprise in store for "Smoky." He borrowed a few items from the Department of Mysteries, regretting that it wasn't the Tibelum sphere. He had refrained from detonating it in London, but perhaps it could be useful in the wilderness if everyone else perished in the meantime.
"No. No need for extras. And we're not bringing golems—they're difficult to smuggle in and won't be effective against 'Smoke.' We leave immediately. If the French apprehend us, we'll surrender without hesitation. Remember—you're all under Imperius. Just take a sip of Felix Felicis for good luck. We won't intercept it on English soil—if it hasn't slowed down, it's already in France."
After receiving his final directives, they promptly set off for France. Once there, they focused on disguising themselves and maintaining silence. No reaction, not even in thought—just waiting.
Thirty-seven minutes later, employing a special artifact from Dumbledore (did he manufacture these, or was he akin to Santa Claus dispensing gifts to himself? The deluge of artifacts began last December), he detected something unusual. Instantly, "Smoke" attempted to flee, but they swiftly erected two domes—one to prevent "Smoke" from escaping, the other to sever it from the French tracking systems. The synchronized strike by the wizards above created a spectacle akin to a royal coronation.
Yet, Tlautlipuzli, sensing discomfort underground, emerged. Once formidable, it had diminished, now resembling a shadow of its former self, its size reduced to that of an elephant, with its smoky form marred by gray ash-like hues. It appeared fragile, as though a gentle breeze could disperse it.
They unleashed a volley of spells tailored for creatures like Tlautlipuzli. If the creature failed to react in time, it would sustain injuries; if it allowed its form to part and let the spells through, it would be wounded by the resulting explosions. Instead, Tlautlipuzli twisted like a corkscrew, evading all attacks, eluding the potential blast zone. The spells altered their trajectories, but from the creature, five tiny particles detached, colliding with the spells and obliterating themselves in the process.
At that moment, a voice echoed within their minds, neither distinctly male nor female, but faint, akin to a fragile radio signal on the verge of breaking. "I foresee the future. You will all perish here. Release me, and I will simply depart, never to return to England." Following this, envisioned scenarios of their deaths flooded their minds—probable outcomes. The creature's willingness to engage in conversation with its potential meal indicated a pressing urgency. Alongside its mental assaults, it manifested whips from its form and lashed out, though the blows were parried.
Victory seemed a matter of time. Yet suddenly, Alison collapsed to his knees, despite suffering no injuries. "I have a wife and children," he murmured. Foolishness! Teamwork dictated that one attacks while another supports defense. What occurs when a member of a Roman Legion kneels and weeps at the sight of an oncoming chariot? The gap in their defenses becomes vulnerable.
Moody attempted to block the impending strike, but it proved futile. Tlautlipuzli absorbed two direct hits—from him and Kingsley—inflicting considerable damage upon its form, yet it retaliated by extending its makeshift roots beneath their protection. First, Brandon fell, then Alison. Perhaps it would have claimed another, but Moody, sacrificing a liter of his blood and feeling the dizziness that accompanied blood loss, unleashed a Blood Whirlwind. Yet, the creature retreated, suffering no harm.
The situation was dire; they were outnumbered, and their efforts had yielded minimal results. Shifting tactics, Moody signaled for the use of specialized spells against Tlautlipuzli. He held reservations about these spells—they traveled unpredictable paths even for their creator, and their effects were delayed, allowing Tlautlipuzli to evade detection with its foresight. They could yield random results—either nothing or perhaps a fragment of Tlautlipuzli might be severed or slowed. Alas, attacking in such a manner left them exposed.
As the spells connected with the creature, Tlautlipuzli exhibited no immediate signs of injury. More accurately, it would sustain damage in approximately three minutes—but would they survive that long? Two minutes remained. Goodbye, Shacklebolt. It was regrettable that he perished before me; I had hoped to leave this chaotic Auror Office to him.
During their initial meeting, he had spoken of a method to confuse predictions without using magical sight, involving a white smoke-filled object. "People inhabit volcanoes and areas prone to seismic activity, don't they? I am no more dangerous," the barely audible whisper echoed in their minds.
Moody contemplated. Why was "Smoke" posing such inquiries? It was regrettable that Dumbledore had not come; circumstances would have unfolded differently. Albus... I hope you are savoring fine wine, enjoying the company of exquisite companions—much better than the head of the Auror office and his associates.
Alastor tightened his grip on the seemingly innocuous object in his hand. Regrettably, this artifact couldn't be activated by a house-elf or a golem. Alastor relinquished the ball, watching as it plummeted, rapidly changing color. As soon as he released it, the object perished. The smoke within it turned black. Moody no longer perceived Tlautlipuzli desperately battering against the barrier, nor did he witness the blackness escaping from the glass ball before it could travel even an inch. Pain was absent. In an instant, nothing remained beneath the dome—no Moody, no Tlautlipuzli, no air, no earth, as if a portion of reality had been consumed, creating a crater more than a mile in diameter.
From a distance, it resembled a meteorite impact site. Some Muggles noticed the abrupt disappearance of a section of land. However, wizards swiftly restored everything to its original state, erasing Muggles' memories. Maintaining secrecy proved challenging. France protested against the utilization of Dark Magic on its soil and condemned England's military operations. Conversely, England protested against France's use of Dark Magic and its military actions on its territory. Ultimately, a few days later, this chaos culminated in an international operation to eliminate the "spawn of You-Know-Who," with casualties attributed to the "Death Eaters." Wenson received a promotion for adhering to orders.
As Voldemort sat in the hall during the Death Eaters' meeting, he absorbed the news. The Aurors had suffered considerable setbacks, reaffirming his reputation as a formidable Dark Wizard. Albus had not made an appearance. Perhaps it was time to spread rumors about Albus's fear of him... No, he was not vain; it merely served to bolster his image.
Additionally, two more pieces of good news emerged: Moody had traversed to France, employing Dark Magic of mass destruction, while the English had claimed that "all samples of this weapon were destroyed" long ago. Moreover, he had not eliminated Moody—the less necroenergy involved, the better. Voldemort wished that Albus had taken his own life; he would have welcomed his opponents to adopt Gandhi's approach—mass suicides in protest.
An international scandal was brewing within the political sphere—Moody could have committed any number of unspeakable acts, and it would have drawn less scrutiny than this incident. The second favorable update was that the Belgians had begun cautious negotiations regarding mutual neutrality. At that moment, Voldemort 2, who was monitoring the aftermath of the ritual to summon Grim alongside Bellatrix, felt a chill run down his spine. Previously, he had planned to subject Sirius to the Dementor's Kiss before his demise—few wizards return as ghosts, but what if? With a means to control ghosts now at his disposal, that contingency became unnecessary. Should Sirius return, he would be bound to serve eternally. Voldemort had already recruited several Hogwarts ghosts.
Bellatrix stood in the center of the room, visibly disheveled yet safe, despite her agitation. It remained unmentioned in the texts, but what if the Ritual for summoning Grim required a Black-by-blood? Consequently, after preparing an escape route for her, he instructed her to summon Grim. Over the summer, he had more or less deciphered the ritual for summoning Grim. Today, he had told Bellatrix to utilize Sirius Black to send Grim after Albus. Utilizing the Time-Turner, he covered her actions, attempting to retain everything that transpired. Initially, everything seemed to proceed smoothly, but now...
The ritual chamber mirrored its prior state: Sirius Black lay lifeless, candles flickering, runes inscribed upon the floor. "Master, I followed the instructions precisely, but… but…" Bellatrix stammered. "What is it, Bellatrix?" Voldemort inquired. She pointed at the rune figure. Everything appeared in order, yet something was amiss. "Bella, there should be a candle here, correct?" I clarified. "Why did you remove it? According to the ritual, upon a successful summoning of Grim, the candle ignites and persists without consuming itself. It merely serves as a situational indicator. If Grim achieves its goal—eliminating the designated magician—the candle extinguishes instantly. If Grim is vanquished (dead or banished?), the flame goes out. There are no alternatives."
"I didn't remove it, master; it vanished," she replied. But that was impossible! Either Grim had failed in its mission, or the target had been defeated—there were no other possibilities. I had assumed that Albus could overpower Grim, but what transpired now? Did Albus persuade him with the power of love? "Calm down; this is not your fault," I reassured her. I had been engaged in battle against Albus! It had felt as if victory was just within reach. No, during the confrontation at the Crouch house, Albus had fought valiantly, managing to protect his own. Surely, he couldn't be so powerful that, while ensnared in my trap, he could influence Grim in ways unforeseen by the ritual? Or perhaps the material was to blame? Sirius? Was he inherently flawed?
I had previously entertained the notion of observing which of the hiding places Albus would destroy and meeting him at the exit. But now, such thoughts had vanished. Grim couldn't have fulfilled its mission. However, while Albus remained preoccupied, I would head to Hogwarts—I would simply take the necessary material with me. I had devised a solid plan to utilize Salazar's Basilisk... I was confident that Albus would overcome the basilisk, even if it struck at precisely the right moment. The "volunteers" would aid me. Would the old man prevail against the basilisk-horcrux?