A/N: My second entry for XxXRegretXxX 's 61 Themes Competition.
"The ethics of killing for duty"
Mad Eye.
Sacrifice, Haunted, Mistake, Honor, Storm.
Mad Eye swigged his hip flask 'round and 'round, taking it in but not noticing it there. Flecks of pulp floated in the whirlpool of liquid, drowning in the depths. Pumpkin juice never tasted the same when he pictured its contents as his victims. Each a rotting remnant of someone that'd once mattered.
His wand reeked of the stench only he could detect. His wand was the brandished sword of a hunter. It did his biding, was rewarded countless life after life. He sensed its toughness, its blood lust. He only cared for one.
Albus Dumbledore had been a mistake. Albus Dumbledore had been a useless sacrifice. Albus Dumbledore haunted Moody with his last breath. In a way. And Moody couldn't save him.
There was nothing. He felt nothing. He had not been strong enough. Albus had not been his kill, but he felt as if he could've Avada'd him hisself. And he could continue telling himself that Dumbledore ought not to have died in vain. But he did. And he had become a phantom. And he would become meaningless. And he would not be remembered by anyone. But Moody.
Snape had not known of what he stole. That he'd disposed of the one person who could ever make Alastor feel. That he was the one who stuck it through. Alastor felt sick.
A crumpled heap, was that all that remained, all that was left? Could he continue his quest with just that of the man? Lying at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower... hidden in a white tomb in purple cloaks. He was sleeping. Just a long nap, a good dream. And Moody could live better that way.
He had to continue on. With constant vigilance. More so than he'd ever possessed. And he could put on a strong face, could put up his guards like he never could before around Albus. Everyone expected that much of him. He could deliver. It was the honor he needed.
Knowing too much of Dumbledore. How could he forget the very most important rule? He swigged his juice again. His bones never settled right. Albus would come back.
And if he believed it himself, it wasn't that hard to bear. He hated all this musing. It was never what their relationship had been about. It had been about not talking, and not thinking, and not forming relations. He liked that.
They'd been fighting a raging storm. A losing battle. That was clear. Anyone with brains could see it. And so he'd gone about it that way. For everyone's sake; its what Albus would have wanted. He'd never understood the ethics of killing for duty. Outside the windowpanes rattled in their ominous. He wanted to stop thinking.
Killing. For duty and nothing more. That was how he'd gone. Well if Albus wouldn't come to him, he could go to Albus. And he would come out looking like a hero. And he would be meaningless. And not remembered. But they would be like that together.