Adolf Hitler Platz was a spacious, airy town square, spaced with trees and benches and bordered by busy shops. At one corner was a house that looked no different from the adjacent homes and businesses: it was of the same, typically German medieval half-timber construction, and the national flag hung from a small horizontal pole near the door just like every other building in the town.
The inhabitants of that ordinary house were the Schwalbe family, and that was where the illusion of conformity ended. Herr Schwalbe was a very peculiar man “ he dressed unusually, acted unusually, and was… well, unusual. When he rarely ventured out of his house, he was sometimes seen wearing odd, colourful robes, no matter what the weather was like. On other strange occasions, he sported the bizarre combination of sandals, lederhosen, and a trench coat.
Then there was his behaviour, which was not only strange, but bordered on the suspicious. He avoided people when he went about his business, and he was distinctly awkward when confronted with normal human contact. One morning while walking down the street, a passing woman had innocently greeted him with a salute and a friendly, “Heil Hitler.”
But Schwalbe had stopped, confused “ the woman recalled that it seemed like the man hadn’t even heard of the Führer until that moment. Herr Schwalbe hastily stammered, “Guten Morgen,” and flopped the wrong arm in front of him in a feeble imitation of the woman’s salute. He then furtively hustled away and quickly disappeared before anyone could see where he went.
The man was undoubtedly strange. People saw his eccentric, outlandish clothes and reported him as a lunatic or a homosexual to the Gestapo. Others thought that his sneaky, secretive nature was glaring proof that he was an underground communist, and so they called the Gestapo. Most noticeably of all, his house never flew the flag of the Reich until recently “ another reason to send the Gestapo.
But every time the Geheime Staatspolizei paid a visit to the Schwalbe house, the agents resolutely confirmed (in odd, monotonous tones of voice) that there was nothing to worry about. Herr Schwalbe was sane, perfectly heterosexual (he had a wife and children, after all), and was a good National Socialist.
Yet, despite the Gestapo’s assurances that the Schwalbe family was perfectly normal and patriotically Teutonic, everyone in the town still had their doubts. But what the government said was official, so the townspeople just went about their business and did their best to ignore the mysterious family living in the house at the corner of Adolf Hitler Platz.
That is, until their house caught on fire on a dark November night of 1938.
Two men walked down a deserted street in the dead of night. One of the men was tall, thick, and muscular, and looked stereotypically Aryan. His companion was a few heads shorter and much thinner, and his pointed face and shoulder-length black hair gave him the suspicious appearance of some Tatar from the east across the steppes.
Despite their vastly different physical appearances, they wore identical outfits that consisted of large, jet-black robes, making them almost invisible in the darkness, though the tall man’s shiny blond hair was an exception. Where the right breast pocket would have been on normal clothes, there was instead a triangular badge on the robes of both men. The emblems sported the mysterious acronym ZVK on the bottom, and were emblazoned with the gold image of a smooth wooden stick with eagle’s wings, and menacing lightening bolts emanating from the centre.
The two ZVK agents walked in silence through a small town square and stopped at house in a corner. The half-timber dwelling suddenly emerged out of the darkness, illuminated by the light of two wands.
The short man studied the red flag hanging from the short flagpole, and noticed that every neighbouring building displayed identical banners. The Muggle standard bore an uncanny resemblance to Grindelwald’s, but instead of a vertically bisected triangle with an inscribed circle, there was a sort of four-armed hooked cross in the middle of the white disk. The short man said disdainfully, “Those Muggles, they have no imagination at all...”
After casting an anti-Disapparation jinx around the area, his taller companion peered at the door. “Should we knock?” he asked half-jokingly “ the other man shook his head. He gestured to the entrance with his wand, and with his free hand, he put up three fingers.
One went down. Then a second. Then the third…
“CONFRINGO!” both agents chorused together. The spells slammed into the front door and exploded, blasting apart the entryway and setting the damaged timbers and wallpaper alight. Without bothering for the smoke to clear, the two men charged into the house.
“Confundo!”
Herr Schwalbe’s spell hit the tall, blond ZVK agent “ he tried cursing Schwalbe, but his arm flew wildly and his wand was thrown out of his hand. He reached to grab it, but his body went in the opposite direction and he crumpled to the ground. With all of his muscles functions reversed, the tall man wasn’t going anywhere.
“Gerda! It’s the Mitternachtsmannschaft! Get the childr“”
“CRUCIO!” the shorter man with the pointed face roared. His crimson curse cut Schwalbe’s panicked warning short, for he was subjected to the phantom agony of hundreds of hot knives piercing his body. He collapsed, screaming, and the shorter agent took the opportunity to undo the Confundus charm on his stricken comrade.
“Hold him here! I’ll get the rest of them!” he ordered to the blond man (“Jawohl, Sturmgruppenführer!” the subordinate affirmed) as he charged up a narrow staircase. The landing was filled with smoke rising from the ground floor, but there was one door that magically repelled the fumes.
Two blasting curses were sufficient to break down that reinforced door, and the storm group leader threw some stunners into the room before crashing in.
There was a woman who had her arm around a boy and a freshly unconscious little girl. Her free hand darted to glowing blue lamp“
“Stupefy!” the agent yelled, and the red stunner pelted straight for the woman’s face. There was a muffled thud as the three people were irresistibly pulled into nothingness by the Portkey.
“SCHEIßE!” he swore, incensed that his prey had just eluded him by a hair. No matter how angry he was, there was nothing he could do to reverse what had happened, so he turned and thundered back down the stairs.
“Let’s get the hell out!” the blond agent hollered to his superior as he reached the bottom of the steps. “The whole house is going to burn down!”
So it was. What had started out as a small fire in the entryway had spread across the walls, into the sitting room, and was creeping up the stairs.
The short, black haired man simply nodded in confirmation and hastened out of the house through the wrecked entrance. His larger companion followed, carrying a bound and gagged Herr Schwalbe.
They ran out into the middle of the Muggle town square, out of the range of the anti-Disapparation ward they had erected. The captive gazed in the direction of his burning home, eyes wide open in terror.
“Come on, you!” the short, pointed faced Zauberische Verteidigungsmannschaft des Kanzlers agent said to the heavy, balding Herr Schwalbe. “One more traitorous scum for the black fortress tonight “ don’t you worry. We’ll catch the rest of your family soon enough!”
Impossibly, the captive’s eyes just got wider. The two agents spun on the spot and disappeared into thin air, taking Herr Schwalbe away to the prison of Nurmengard.
The corner house of Adolf Hitler Platz they left behind burned, and the Muggles of the town were all rudely awakened by the roar of flames, the wail of sirens, and screams.