Home made | MacMoody
In an uncharacteristic moment of sensitivity, Moody squeezes the recruit’s shoulder. “A’ight, it’s nae going to make more sense if ya keep starin’ at it bleary eyed, Watslik. Get home.” It mostly gets him a confused stare, but also a quick thank-you, as Watslik makes himself scarce before he can change his mind. At leat his rep still speaks for itself. He smiles quietly to himself, as he surveys the empty office. A few years ago, he’d have gone down to the training grounds, but it’s different now.
A flick of his wand locks all the doors with particularly nasty hexes and then he’s off. He rarely uses the floo-network (buggered things, too much room for error) and so instead, he apparates to the park near his house. It’s a slight way off, but Moody likes it that way.
There’s a particular kind of joy to coming home to a house with lit windows and a smoking chimney. The triquetra pendant around his neck warms slightly as he passes through the wards.
“Darlin’?” he calls, as soon as he steps through the door and kicks off his boots. The familiar clacking of nails on a hardwood floor greets him, as the pups come rushing around the corner. “Alright, alright,” he says, trying to satisfy their dire need for pets as he makes his way through the kitchen and to the living room. “Mary, I’m home.”
@trish-thephoenixrp
