Alastor Moody

Archived Acount for Post War Moody

[shiftingsandcastles]

Amelia frowned deeply as he claimed he’d be no help, a sense of foreboding settling in the pit of her stomach. She followed him without question as he led her to the opposite end of the atrium but quickly blocked his path as he explained the process to her, holding up one hand to keep him from walking any further. 

"And how would you know that, Alastor? How would you know that and not know what happened the last several years. What…” Amelia swallowed hard and shook her head, refusing to believe it despite the truth staring her in the face. It couldn’t be true… not him too. Who the hell had survived the gods be damned war? Anyone? He was here, standing in front of her and yet there was a sort of gnawing panic clawing at her insides while she waited for him to confirm what she already knew. Alastor Moody had died. 

They always die. Everyone I’ve ever loved…All murdered. 

"What aren’t you telling me? What the fuck happened after I died?" she demanded. 

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She pulled him up on that. She always had. Must be a bloody Bones trait, he thought to himself. His Grandmother had always been quick to pull him up on things when he tried to brush over them. He grimaced and grumbled, looking away from her and thumping his staff on the floor.

"The followin' year," he told her. "Ruddy Dung was supposed to be behind me. Took 'im with me ta keep the others safe protectin' Potter. We were ambushed... I heard Dung disapparate an' that was that." He held his tongue on the fact that they had both been killed by Voldemort. It wouldn't be an amusing little fact for her. Given her whole family, including him, had been killed by one man.

"War ended the followin' year, from what I've been told. Big Battle at Hogwarts an' all."

[shiftingsandcastles]

Amelia smiled fondly as he recounted his advice. She’d followed it to the letter, reminding herself often under her breath not to fuck things up. There were a million or so different ways to do just that if you weren’t careful and Moody was the type of man to call a person on it each and every time it happened. She’d never wanted to disappoint him. 

"I’ve missed you, old friend," she said with a small smile, "Now, are we done playing twenty questions because I’ve missed a lot in the last seven years and I’m tired of being out of the loop." One eyebrow rose on her forehead as she stared up at him, waiting for him to start explaining. He’d been retired for years, what the hell was he doing at the Ministry? Was he working again? "Are you going to fill me in or not?"

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He clapped a hand on her shoulder. Little Amelia Bones. The often accident prone ginger that had run about like a wild thing at family gatherings. How that child had grown into the level-headed young woman who took the Ministry by storm, he couldn't say. "It's good ta see ye again, lass," he said giving her shoulder a small squeeze. Somehow even with her standing, living and breathing, before him her death still weighed him down.

"As fer the questions, 'fraid I'm no help," he motioned for her to walk with him. Towards the end of an atrium a new area had been erected. Or, from what he'd heard, a muggleborn screening area had been closed and now reappropriated for a better use. "Know 'bout as much as ye, I'd wager. They set up a common area fer us ta be registered. Yer need ta register an' they'll cart yer off to ruddy St Mungo's fer the night."

He added as an afterthought, "Two nights if yer fight 'em."

[littlemarymacdonald-blog]

May 22, 2003

[littlemarymacdonald-blog]

"I’ve seen a few people since coming back—it’s all very disconcerting because quite a few of my friends were dead after I died and so coming back there aren’t that many who are older than I am." Mary still couldn’t believe that some of her friends were in their late forties, with several children of her own. While her other friends were still the same age as her because they’d met their own brutal end before they even lived. 

"Needless to say it’s been very confusing. But even then it’s been nice to be alive again." Mary folded her hands a top the counter "What about yourself? Have you found anyone else who’s been gone?" 

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

It made him wonder who else he would find as the days progressed. As words got out about his reappearance. He wondered who would come to him and who he would end up seeking out. It must be strange, he thought, to be gone so long. Not much had changed from him. Aside from the obvious changes to the Ministry. But he couldn't imagine what it would be like for her.

"A young lass who died after me," he said. "An' Amelia Bones. Shock ta the system that."

[shiftingsandcastles]

Amelia leveled him with a long look; of course she knew what it was like to carry the weight of memories. She may not have seen it with the Order, but in her line of work it was unavoidable, not to mention many Order members were affiliated with her department in some form or fashion. She found that not even death and resurrection could free her from the ghosts of her past, Amelia still had nightmares about finding Edgar and his family. 

A deep sigh escaped as Moody demanded she question him as well, but she complied. “My first day at the ministry, you gave me a piece of advice. What was it?”

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He thought back to that day, seemingly a lifetime ago. He remembered how excited she had been. Fresh meat for the monsters she was heading off to join. There'd been so much corruption, anyone within the Ministry knew it and most outside speculated. But Amelia had always been a good girl with a good head about her. Everyone had expected greatness from her and even with her untimely death she had delivered.

"Dinnae listen ta none but yer own head. If it dinnae feel right, dinnae do it. Find two people yer trust an' keep 'em close," he repeated. It was the same little speech he had given Nymphadora when she'd finally qualified to be an Auror. "Above all, Melia, dinnae fuck it up."

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Stray Dogs that Follow You Home {Nympadora & Alastor}

[dxntcallmenymphadora-blog]

The room was still- so still that she could hear his breath, and hers, and had she not been dead for the last five years she might’ve found the sound discomforting. Now, though, the affirmation that someone was alive, that they could simply be, was a wonderful thing. She looked at him hard, not at all put off by his grizzled features and that missing eye- he’d never scared her like he had the rest of her incoming class of cadets. He was a person too, she’d reminded them. “You know what I mean, Moody,” Nymphadora replied flatly. She didn’t like to talk about it- death and dyin’, or the coming back part. All were equally horrifying, though dying might’ve been the easiest thing she’d ever done. “I was dead. It was Bellat- an’ Remus, too, he’s-” A hand darted out suddenly and latched onto the lapels of his shirt, knuckles white when her grip tightened.

There was a fervor, now, in her voice that mirrored in her eyes. Desperation because surely, surely, Alastor Moody would know what to do. Or what was going on. “What’s happened? I’m here, but Remus isn’t. I- I don’t understand at all, Alastor,” she sputtered, her words halting and grating against her throat while she fought back a sob. The metamorphmagus had always been able to encompass the extremes of her emotions without problem, but since the resurrection she felt like a keeling boat in a storm-roughened sea, bouncing first to one side and then the other. She so trusted in her mentor, so idolized him, that it hadn’t yet occurred to her that he might be just as clueless as she. “I thought you might know something.”

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

She had died too. He'd had such hopes for her. The mention that could only have formed the name 'Bellatrix' at least helped him to understand how it could happen. His girl was still young and not entirely experienced in war, not like he had been. She had still bounded around seeing the good in people and expecting everything would turn out all right. Unless something had changed drastically after his death, she wouldn't have been a match for her Aunt. Very few people were. He should have trained her better, should have pushed her harder.

He did something then that he'd never done before. His hand raised to hers which remained tightly clinging to his lapel. The other arm caught her shoulder and brought her to him with ease. At which point, he tightened his arm around her firmly in an act that most people would term a hug. He didn't have answers for her, but he would get them. He needed them just as much as she did. "Tonks," his voice was strangely softer than it had ever been where she was concerned. "I cannae tell ye what ye need ta hear. Dinnae know much meself." He pulled back enough to tip her chin up. "We will get answers."

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Stray Dogs that Follow You Home {Nympadora & Alastor}

[dxntcallmenymphadora-blog]

She recognized that disdain- the concealing sort that the Auror liked to steep all of his words in, designed to hide the favor that he showed some (not all- a fair few, in fact) folk. It was him, she’d known it to be true even without the secret-password-style confirmation that he so favored. It was a tiring and tedious thing and for a sprite of a girl who had trouble grasping the inherent evil in the world she’d left behind, Nymphadora had never failed to sigh and roll her eyes each time he asked her to confirm her identity. She often thought that he liked to make each question more and more difficult just to piss her off, and more often than not she was pleased to return the favor. 

"Rock cakes, but I’m pretty sure it was jus’ a damned rock, y’old man,” she replied succinctly, lowering the wand a bit because in the end she hadn’t really meant raising it at her mentor in the first place, and she wasn’t sure if she ever truly could. 

In truth, Tonks hadn’t been sure why he’d offered her anything- especially it bein’ the first day of training an’ all. She’d seen the way he treated the rest, even her, despite all her falling over herself to make him like her. It’d started out as a joke between the other cadets and herself, but after his blatant and brusque rebuttals, Nymphadora found that she not only wanted to be the star pupil, the favorite- she required it. Gods, after that first day she’d have settled for the part of class clown. And then Moody’d offered her that rock cake and she thought at last- at LAST! He was warming up to her, and it’d only taken twelve hours! She accepted the sweet with as much a grin as she could muster, the expression quickly turning to a scowl when the man used it as a segue into telling her to "harden the fuck up.”

"I knew it was true-" she felt the need to explain, lowering her wand completely now. "-because I came back too."

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Probably had been a rock, or close enough to it. The Elves tended to use his mother's recipe and hers had always been as hard as stone. It was reassuring to hear her response. She hadn't lost the fight in her and that was good to see. Even if he did only have one good eye. The sooner he got another one designed the better.

Her next words stunned him as he pocketed his wand. He moved forward, closing the distance between them. "Whaddye mean ye came back?" he said, his tone almost completely missing his usual anger. She had died. That's what she meant, his over analytical brain insisted. But he had to hear it from her. Never assume, his Grandfather had taught him.

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Death Could Not Hold Him | Moody&Harry

[scarheadx]

Moody spoke so confidently about an attack and it worried Harry. What if this were what Dumbledore had been trying to tell him all along in the message? Should Harry be assembling the Order already – and what was he supposed to tell them? Everyone talked about how great an Auror and wizard Moody had been and Harry himself had seen it in action on multiple occasions. If Moody was sure about an attack, then Harry would have to do something. He wouldn’t let this be another Triwizard Cup where he was caught off guard and had gotten someone killed because of it.

The next question had done just that, however, and Harry found himself at a loss for what to say. Never one with words, he felt a lump rise in his throat as he thought about all the people he could write on his list as having died because of him. Sirius. Remus. Fred. There were few of those he cared about deeply to have come back, but that didn’t mean they would stay dead forever. Not with all of them rising up, as if nothing had happened. Though that still didn’t erase the guilt in Harry’s heart. “Enough,” he finally croaked out, though it wouldn’t suffice for someone like Moody. “Fifty in the final battle. It was at Hogwarts – fitting, huh?”

The inquiry about Dumbledore reminded Harry that he was supposed to be a trained Auror and probably shouldn’t have brought Moody into his office without knowing for sure it was him. After all, Harry had been tricked by a Mad-Eye imposter before and it wouldn’t necessarily be the hardest thing to do – Harry didn’t know the real Moody all that way. “Dunno,” he said simply before moving on to a question he should’ve asked long ago. “Where were you being held during my fourth year?”

It was an awkward thing to ask, but surely Barty Crouch, Jr. hadn’t mentioned the location of the room he’d put Moody in to enough people to fool Harry. And it was one thing that maybe only and Moody (and Crouch, wherever he was) would know. “And,” he continued. “Did you ever meet my aunt and uncle that night you came to pick me up.” The night he died.

Harry shrugged. “Have to be sure you aren’t Crouch again.” 

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

The Final Battle had been held at Hogwarts. Fitting, indeed. Exactly what Dumbledore had set them all up for. What else was going to happen when the old geezer insisted on involving children? He hated think what had become of the school. A safe zone for so many. "Fifty in one," he grumbled. They had lost so many in the first war. But they had been over a period of time. It didn't make either cases any better than the other.

His hands tightened over the top of his staff. Took the boy time enough to start asking questions. Memory of the bastard box did not sit well with him even after death. It wasn't something easily forgotten. "In me own ruddy trunk!" he growled angrily. "The final compartment, if ye be wantin' specifics."

The second question had him withdrawing his own wand. In the confusion of coming back he had been too trusting of a familiar face. A bad move on his part. "An' which time would that be, boy?" Granted, he'd luckily never met the blasted Muggles on either occasion. He'd heard plenty about the couple from various sources. Watched them himself in his final years. Still whether or not he liked them was hardly the point.

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Stray Dogs that Follow You Home {Nympadora & Alastor}

[dxntcallmenymphadora-blog]

Shite.

“I- shite- I forgot!” she stammered, scrambling backward as though physically repelled by his disappointment. Eyes were wide and she very nearly tripped over her feet, still holding the glass of alcohol, not minding that it’d sloshed all down her fingers. She pulled her wand from her pants pocket to make herself seem a bit more intimidating- because if this was a faux-Moody she’d have to call upon what little magical skill she still seemed to possess to hex this lowlife into the next century. 

She held the instrument loosely in her hand; the other occupied with the drink that she no longer wanted, but felt it might be rude to simply drop it on the floor (more rude, she supposed, than accidentally breaking it, which was just as likely to happen). Eyebrows and then her nose were twisted into a frown, or a mixture of a scowl and actual perplexity, with the lips following, pursing just like her mother used to do when they’d get their marks by post after school let out for the summer. “Fine,” she snapped, raising her chin and looking out at the man indignantly. They hadn’t got this way by treating each other politely, of course. She’d been sharpened into a fine point in the same way she’d heard about Muggle blacksmiths forging swords- heat and sheer brutality got the sharpest points, and Moody seemed to employ the same philosophy. Nymphadora had never been privy to her apparent favor with her mentor, aside from that fateful time he’d seen her at her worst, after which he warmed up to her immensely (and the metamorphmagus was keen to push that memory into the furthest dusty corners of her brain).

“What was my Patronus before I met Remus?” she asked, the words tumbling from her mouth and for a brief heartbeat she was worried that the question might not be specific enough- this, here, was the bane of their relationship; she may act as though she were not affected by the man’s gruffness, but inwardly she ached for his approval, his admiration. He’d taken her as a protégé! She couldn’t fuck that up. Not ever.

The dull-blonde lifted the glass in her hand to her lips, her eyes (still dark, like her mother’s) never leaving the Scot and she sniffed at the liquor as though it might be identified purely by scent. Even the dullest of wizards could conceal a poison in a liquid with a simple charm, and besides, that was the coward’s way of killing. Anyone who’d impersonated Moody to lure her here would’ve offed her right away, right? Unless they were playing a longer game.. Dora squinted at him, and then quirked a questioning brow. 

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He withdrew his own wand, setting his drink aside. The girl was blatantly Tonks. No wizard or witch with an ounce of value for their livelihood would have hugged him, even if they were trying to take her place. But he couldn't very well force her to follow her lessons without doing the same. There was no mistaking the pain in her expression, however, moments before she focused. He was her mentor and he'd gone and died on her. Surely he could allow her this one moment.

"A ruddy Jack Rabbit when ye could focus long enough ta get the task done," he growled out. "Nothin' but wisps o' cloud otherwise."

He raised his wand a little higher. He could only be fair and ask her to prove herself. "What did I offer ye on yer first day o' trainin' when ye'd had enough?" A question that could obviously be answered by an imposter with something simple like Moody's favourite whisky or a cup of tea. Nymphadora would know better.

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Stray Dogs that Follow You Home {Nympadora & Alastor}

[dxntcallmenymphadora-blog]

She almost felt bad.

Almost.

The late edition post had come after twilight, and Nymphadora was accustomed, now, to waiting near the window for the owl to arrive. She’d pick up a knuts from the spare jar on the sill and place them gently into the bird’s leather pocket and send him (or her) on its way. Dark eyes were already tracing the page and they lit upon the headline- that Alastor Moody was, in fact, back from the dead.

The window wasn’t even properly shut before she slunk back upstairs to retrieve her wand. She didn’t have time to change, and it’s not like it’d matter. Moody wasn’t the type to comment on clothing even if he did notice what she was wearing, so she was sure that a rumpled Weird Sisters shirt and pair of torn tights beneath high-waisted shorts would not offend him. The boots were a given, and would be expected. She stood in her room- well, not hers (it was the guest bedroom, really)- and thought briefly of her little boy, sound asleep in the next room. She’d seen him just a few moments prior, before the post came, and she’d watched the way his little breaths moved a longer tuft of cyan hair that fell over his matching brows. Those were always the hardest, the eyebrows. Getting them to match just so was difficult, and for such a young boy she could only swell with pride when she saw that he’d paid such close attention to his transformations already. It was this parting thought that she took with her as she apparated away from the room with a soft pop. 

She should feel bad. But she didn’t. Her mother would be sick with worry at her sudden disappearance, and perhaps she should’ve left a note… Andromeda wouldn’t expect that either, though. The thought was so fleeting that in the short amount of time it took to travel the distance to the old Auror’s home, she’d already forgotten it. She could feel bad later.

Something had been rearranged since the last time she’d been here (once, a long time ago, and only very briefly), which was why she’d apparated directly on top of a side table, sending it and its contents flying while she hit the ground hard with her shoulder. A muffled curse fell from her lips as she scrambled for her wand, terrified that maybe by now the house had been sold and that this wasn’t actually a good idea and that Moody had turned up somewhere else entirely and oh, Merlin, she’d have to send her mum a message from jail and then she’d never get to leave the house again and-

-and she may as well check it all out just to make sure, before completely dissolving into a fit of panic. Panicking never did her any good, it only made her clumsier. Alastor had pointed that out after she very nearly failed a surprise re-examination specifically covering Stealth and Tracking. The Ministry liked to keep them on their toes, it seemed. She hadn’t been pleased.

Nymphadora picked herself up and brushed at her clothes as though that might make them appear less shabby. Once satisfied, she moved forward with her wand clenched in her fist, not bothering to tidy up the mess she’d strewn about the main living area. If Moody no longer lived here, they’d think it was a cat burglar, and if he still did… well, he’d understand. The ex-Auror moved slowly, creeping along the long shadows cast by the window panes. The stairs creaked, as she thought they might, but she went on anyway toward the dim light that flickered through the open doorway down the hall. She inhaled, once and then twice before stepping into the frame, staring at her old mentor. He looked just as gruff and grizzly as the day she’d seen him off- the Battle of the Seven Potters- and her heart swelled with joy. The metamorphmagus didn’t even care that he’d called her by her accursed first name because she was already crossing the room to meet him and slinging her arms around his neck, locking him into a too-tight hug, probably sloshing whatever was in the glass in her hand all over the place. 

“Alastor! I- you’re alive!” she said, her words rushing out with a breath of relief as soon as she’d released him, her eyes alight and lips stretched into a broad grin (maybe even her first true one since being back).

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

It came as he knew it would. Her arms were around him before he could even protest. Though given the circumstances, he couldn't very well fault the girl for needing a degree of comfort. Still he grumbled. It was his nature. She would not expect any less from him.

"Find someone ye know is dead an' ye just throw yerself at them," he growled out, brushing off her show of emotion. "Should think I taugh' ye better than tha', Nymphadora Tonks."

He knew his return had been publicised but that hardly gave her leave to throw aside her training. It would have been easy for anyone to assume the identity of a deceased person. Particularly now when they were actually returning from the dead. They could get away with anything in a well known guise.

"Get on with it then, lass," he directed her sternly. "Best be sure o' who yer jumpin' on."

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Death Could Not Hold Him | Moody&Harry

[scarheadx]

Harry instinctively took a step back - as it turned out, Moody still scared him now just has much as he had before. In fact, Harry didn’t know the man in front of him all that well and certainly not outside the war. He’d gotten closest to him during his fourth year at Hogwarts, or so he’d thought, but it had turned out to be Barty Crouch Jr. And, while Harry wasn’t exactly afraid of the man, there was someone unsettling about the old Auror.

"No one’s heard from Dung in a long time," was all Harry said in response. There hadn’t been much reason to go looking for the fellow anyway - not with all the potentially deadly Death Eaters still on the loose. As much as Harry hated Dung, he doubted the cowardly man was causing much trouble. If he were even still alive.

"We have no way of knowing, really. People are supposed to be reporting them, but I doubt most of them have. We’ve got about twenty on record, though."

Harry leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. It was getting much easier to be not be shocked when one of the dead returned - it had gone from surprising to normal in the last few weeks, though Harry couldn’t help but wait for his mum or dad to show up. “We won the war,” he said, figuring it would be something Moody would want to know. “Though - er - you can probably tell that from the fact that I’m here.”

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Twenty on record was enough to cause concern when one considered who wouldn't be recorded. The darker members of their society would, no doubt, have the upper hand should they return and not let others know. It would be in their favour. Notifying the Ministry would only get them carted off to Azkaban.

"Whoever's in charge needs ta up their security measures," he began roughly. Thinking it through even as he spoke. "An attack will come. May not be today, may not be tomorrow... Winners or not, the fight didn't end for the dead."

He sucked at his teeth, considering the many questions in his mind. What was the boy doing in an Auror's office? Acting as though he ran the place. Surely he wasn't old enough to be a bloody Auror. It took training. Years of hard work. Alastor himself had been the last one to be fast tracked through the program.

"How many did we lose?" he decided on. that was the way of war. In the end, everybody lost. He'd never been one to celebrate the end of a battle. It was a disservice to those who had fallen in the name of it. He thought about those who had survived him, to his knowledge. Shacklebolt would have taken command of the Order from a Ministry angle. He recalled Minerva had refused to focus on anything other than the damned school and her students. She would have survived, he thought to himself, if only to spite him. "Dumbledore returned?"

[now-at-punkwarren-deactivated20]

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

PATRONUS ANALYSIS: 019. THE HAWK

Those with the hawk patronus are dangerously intelligent, noting every detail of what is around them. They are great observers as well as being magnificent hunters, this meaning they have both sides of the coin covered. They can come up with an idea, plan it out, and execute it perfectly. They are extreme perfectionists, wanting everything to be just as they see it. If it isn’t, they feel trapped, which can cause them to become incredibly emotional.

The most common house for a hawk patronus is Ravenclaw. The most common signs are Aries and Virgo.

[shiftingsandcastles]

Amelia’s eyebrows rose at the correction and she shuddered slightly. She’d been shocked enough at the state of her home and she’d done some of the damage, walking in and finding her…she did not envy him that. Nor had he realized he’d been there and seen it. “It could have been worse and you know it,” she replied quietly, “Remember Benjy Fenwick?” 

His question made her smile, remembering a time when her family was intact and things were simple. Gavin had just finished his first year at Hogwarts and thought he knew everything there was to know about magic. She couldn’t have been older than five or six that summer, which made Edgar around eight years old. Why Moody had agreed to let them stay, family or no, was beyond her but all three children had followed him around like extra shadows. 

"They decided they wanted to be highlanders, too. Broke into your attic and tried to find kilts, but instead found some old trunk filled with potions and dragonglass. Gavin nearly cut his finger off digging through it and Edgar, was about to drink ‘highlander juice’ to become as tall as you when you found them. Of course, what he was actually about to drink was a draught of living death,” she answered, shaking her head at the memory. “Oh, and then you let them make kilts out of my mum’s skirts. I’ve still got the pictures somewhere.” 

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"There comes a time, Amelia, where rememberin' is all you do," he grumbled. Of course he remembered Fenwick. Just as well as he remembered McKinnon, the Prewetts... Dorcas Meadowes. He saw their faces or what remained of them. He remembered every detail of each crime scene, the Dark Mark more a warning or what lay beneath than a claim to glory.

The smile earned a stern glower when she was finished. "Well?" he growled out, leaning heavily on his staff. "Ye gonna question me, lass, or take me at face value?"

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Death Could Not Hold Him | Moody&Harry

[scarheadx]

The dead have been returning for several weeks now and Harry was exhausted. Given that and the fact that he was no longer with Ginny, sharing his house with Sirius’ old brother, and have yet to see anyone he loved come back and it was shaping up to be some of the hardest weeks since after the war. Working at the Auror department didn’t help. It was expected that they knew what they were doing to help – but they were just as confused as the rest and, for the most part, their time had been devoted to finding out what the returned knew and helping reunite families. There hadn’t been much time for research – though hopefully the Department of Mysteries was making leeway on that – and they’d barely been able to go over reports from St. Mungo’s. Which is why Harry’s desk was even more cluttered than normal (and that was saying something for a guy like him) and he’d barely made a dent during the couple of hours he’d actually had time to sit. It was only a matter of time before they needed him again and he wasn’t at all surprised when there was a knock on the door and the receptionist asked to see him straight away.

She looked haggard, her hair falling from its plait and into her face, and deathly white. Harry knew it must’ve been urgent, if she’d chosen to come get him herself instead of sending a magical memo in her place. He got up at once, nearly grateful for the lapse in his paperwork for he really did hate the stuff, to follow her towards the front of the office.

The man standing there was unmistakably recognizable and Harry stopped in his tracks to stare blankly at the man. He shouldn’t have been surprised – people were popping up left and right – but this was the first person who Harry had known to have such a major impact on the war (besides Tonks, though Harry had thought of her more as a friend than he had to Moody).

“Mad-Eye?” He asked without thinking, calling Moody by the cruel nickname of children. If he’d been in a clearer mindset, Harry might’ve corrected his mistake quickly, but he was too stunned to really think it all through.

Alastor Moody looked nearly the same as Harry had seen him last, though a bandage was place over his right eye where the magical eyeball should’ve been, and it was astounding. Even Tonks had looked a bit different - Harry hadn’t seen her when she first arrived in the clothing she’d been wearing the night of the battle and her hair still that color of mousy brown – and he hadn’t witnessed Tonks’ death the way Moody’s had felt so fresh after they’d arrived at the Burrow. He could still remembering them all aligning to realize they were missing one and the distinct sinking feeling of guilt and Harry checked another person whose death had been his fault.

It took several moments for Harry to realize he’d been staring before he shook himself out of his reverie where he could actually be of some use. “Follow me,” he said, turning back to walk Moody towards his office. He locked the door behind them, ignoring the mound of paperwork and not having the energy to be embarrassed about its state of disarray, and turned back to look at the man who knew more about his job than Harry could even imagine.

“You died – and now you’re back.” It was the simplest of explanations and it would indeed arise a million other questions, but it was the only place Harry could start. “It was the night that you brought me to the Burrow. Just before my seventeen birthday.”

And a couple of weeks ago, something happened and people… they started returning from the dead. Just popping up in places near where they died. You’re one of them.”

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

The old nickname caught his attention. His grouchy expression turning to an even angrier sneer as he turned. The last thing he cared about was names people called him, but that didn't mean he wouldn't make them think twice before saying it again. "Does this eye look mad to ye, sonny -" he growled out. The sentence fell apart as his one good eye fell on the one approaching him. The boy had aged, whether by war or by design it was hard to say, but the scar identified him as it always would.

"Potter," he acknowledged, though with no less aggression in his tone. It was at least promising that the boy had obviously seen it through the damned war.

When the boy told him to follow he did so. Though not without grouching and grumbling along the way. The office looked like any other Auror office. Filled to the brim with paperwork that was going to be overlooked as long as it possibly could be. He stopped amid it all, his hands resting against the top of his staff as his one good eye surveyed his surroundings. "It was in the back -" he recalled roughly. "- which it shouldn't have been. Dung should have been there. Rat bastard better be dead or I'm away to kill him."

He looked to Harry, his eye dark. "Though sounds like the dead aren't stayin' that way," he frowned. "How many are back?"

[shiftingsandcastles]

"Bones!"

Her name echoed across the atrium in a voice that could not be mistaken. She turned over her shoulder and walked a few steps toward him, her heels clicking loudly on the marble floor in the sudden silence that followed. 

"There is no need to bellow at me, Alastor Moody, I was dead, not deaf,” she replied in a cool tone, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Seeing him was like having a weight lifted off her shoulders. Here was someone she could trust without having to think about whether or not it was a good idea. A true ally. He was family, literally and figuratively. A distant relation of his had married a distant relation of hers a long time ago and while they weren’t closely related, they were related — as nearly all purebloods, even the ones not considered sacred, were. 

She crossed the room until they were toe to toe, and tilted her head back to look him in the eye, the top of her head not even clearing his chin. In a much softer tone she added, “I’m so glad to see you.” 

Though Amelia wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around the crotchety old Scotsman, she knew him well enough to know that was not an option just yet. “Go on then, ask your questions, though I’m told the war is over. Still, since I’m a bit too solid to be a ghost I understand why you’re looking at me as though I’ve got three heads. So ask - whatever it is you’ve got concocted in that head of yours for me to prove that I’m me, just ask it and lets get on with it, there’s an audience waiting.” 

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

"Ye were a damn sight more than dead when I last saw ye," he corrected her. He could remember the crime scene in vivid detail. The way she had looked had disturbed him more than anything. Seemingly peaceful despite the evidence of unfathomable violence. Yet now as he lived and breathed so did she. She looked as she always had. Something he could only successfully describe as 'anal retentive'.

However, as relieved he was to see her - family, as distant as she may be - he had to be cautious. This would be the perfect situation. How simple it would be to polyjuice themselves and claim to be an influential figure back from the dead. They could explain away odd or missing traits simply by a change that death brings.

If she was indeed Amelia he was glad to find her ready to be questioned. Knowing what was due of her and what to expect of him. He narrowed his eyes, looking down on the rather short woman. Clearly height didn't come from the Bones-born Grandmother. "When ye were a wee lass, ye spent the summer with yer family at my home. What did yer brothers do on the second day tha' almost got them packed up an' sent home?"

[littlemarymacdonald-blog]

May 22, 2003

[littlemarymacdonald-blog]

Mary shifted uncomfortably on her feet, she didn’t like thinking about her death. Many of those coming back got away with a killing curse, that was quick. Not many were tortured for information. Sometimes when she closed her eyes she could see the old wood floor of her home as her blood spread out from underneath her in a glimmering red pool. She could almost make out the reflection of the death eater who she feared most of all in it… 

With a little shake of her head she snapped herself out of her dreadful thoughts and turned her attention back to the conversation “It’s funny,” she said trying to regain confidence in her voice “My father says the same thing. Every time that we insist we are British he’ll launch into the ancestry speech and how we should respect it.” she gave a faint laugh to herself even though she was still a little shaken up. 

She almost didn’t notice the look that crossed his face, it was almost like a spasm of a frown. “Is something the matter?” she asked with concern. 

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Ancestry was what he had been brought up on. The one thing he could never escape. It was strange to think of the families with names like hers becoming common English families. He gave a small nod. "I trust ye listen to you Da, he sounds like he knows the way o' it," he advised, a smile threatening to break free.

"Memories. That's all," he told her. "Ha' ye met many since ye came back? Some time ye've been gone. Imagine a number o' people'd be glad ta see ye."

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

Lunatics Are Taking Over the Asylum {Lavender & Alastor}

[lavenderxblue]

Presently, while Lavender hugged her her waist with absently-encircling arms, the former Auror calmed down. He didn’t seem to do it willingly, but rather out of necessity, realizing that nobody besides her was coming to claim him. Lavender wasn’t entirely certain that he knew she was there, but his calming coincided with her entrance, so she could reasonably assume it. Perhaps he wanted someone to talk to; everyone came to the hospital looking for people who might understand them or tell them what they needed to know.

He spoke to her, though, and erased all doubt that Lavender had about being noticed. She kept her chin up—people trusted her more when she didn’t look scared, herself—and approached, moving in halting steps as she tested his reach. If he wanted her closer so he could curse her or hit her or steal her wand, he was going to be disappointed. He wasn’t the first person to try it.

"Yes," she told him bluntly, pausing just out of arm’s reach. Lavender looked him over with a creased brow, looking for signs of death, feeling as if she knew this man because he looked familiar but knowing she knew nothing about him. A Death Eater in disguise had taught her Defense Against the Dark Arts, not Alastor Moody. Had he been standing before her, Lavender would have been more afraid, but strapped as he was, she felt confident enough to speak.

Her hands clasped loosely behind her back, she added, “You’re the worst of anyone I’ve seen. How long have you been alive? Most of us couldn’t use our wands properly for the first week.” Businesslike, but gentle and curious, treating him immediately like he’s part of a group he didn’t know he had been assigned to. That’s what they were, really; a club of unwilling participants given a second chance at life they’d never actually wanted in the first place. When he didn’t answer immediately, she asked another question: “Do you know how you died?”

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

He liked this one. She was blunt. You always did have a type. He glanced to the ceiling again, scowling. Of all the people why did his inner mind have to be voiced by McGonagall? She probably hexed him while he was sleeping on some rare occasion he didn't wake to someone being in the room with him.

"Ye donnae bide the life I've led an' forget how ta use yer wand," he growled out. The words rough and bitter. Magic sparked between his fingers. The only chair in the room slid across the floor to stop at her feet. "May as well sit if yer aff ta gawk."

The question regarding his death had been asked a number of times already. He remembered Voldemort appearing. Though he had thought they had managed to out fly him. Then bastard Dung had disapparated and something had hit him in the back. He grimaced. Dung. It was all bloody Dung's fault. He was going to kill the rat bastard when he got out.

"Alive, a day. Death? Buggered if I ken," he muttered as he thought it over. His attention turned back to the girl. "Ye look like ye had a run in with a rabid dog."

[littlemarymacdonald-blog]

May 22, 2003

[littlemarymacdonald-blog]

"Oh um thats not necessary…" Mary began but the man shuffled past her and after a moments thought she quietly placed her own documents next to his and watched as the goblin scurried off. She secretly wished that she had that much pull but at the same time she didn’t think she could be demanding. "Thank you." she finally said with a small smile. 

"Ah. No sorry." Mary apologized, she’d gotten a bit ahead of herself "I only know you through a friend, Lily Potter?" she hoped the name would ring a bell or she’d be very embarrassed. 

She remembered one of the few times she was able to visit Lily at their home in Godric’s hollow. They’d spent the day chattering to one another while Harry crawled about on the floor. Lily told her a few funny stories involving the gruff auror so Mary almost felt like she knew him. “I’m Mary MacDonald a friend of Lily and James’.” she introduced herself and very nearly held out her hand for a handshake but smartly kept it rested on the gilt counter. 

[vigilantconstantly-archive]

The mention of Lily connected dots in his mind. Tightly wound pieces of information unravelled quickly. Her name filtered through the rabble just as it fell from her lips. A Death Eater case, he recalled. She had been tortured viciously. Death had likely been a relief in the end. And now she had been brought back. From the people he was learning were resurrected, it seemed both a silver lining and a cruel trick for many.

"I remember ye," he said slowly. He remembered having to take control of the case to ensure nobody discovered the location of the Potters. Speaking to a distraught Lily as he tried to asertain the girls' common comings and goings. It gave them no new leads. There was no explanation to how the Death Eaters chose or found their targets beyond the obvious.

He cleared his throat, unable to look away from her. Marvelling at how she stood before him perfectly healthy, as far as he could see. "Worked on yer case, when ye -" he bowed his head slightly. "MacDonald is a good strong Highlander name. A very old, very resilient clan. From what I saw back then... you lived up to it, lass. Yer ancestors woulda been proud." An odd look passed his face. As though the inherent anger was trying to put an end to the sincerity that was taking precedence

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