This was written for the In Tribute To The Fallen competition on Diagon Alley II. I wrote for Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody.
There is a slight Agents of SHIELD reference in here. See if you can spot it ;)
Word count: 527 (before Author's Note)
Never Trust A Rumour
He took a swig from his hip-flask, watching the mess and vibrant colour of the halls from his seat. His fingers drummed on his desk, his magical eye coming to rest on the new recruits for the Auror Office.
The decency of the youths of today has gone down from when he was a new intake.
At least he could count on Kingsley Shacklebolt to keep the new 'uns in line. Shacklebolt could be intimidating when he needed to be, which was just what Alastor needed.
He checked his old, battered gold watch. It was only quarter past three in the afternoon, which meant he would have to stay here for a long while yet.
"Alastor?"
"What is it?" Alastor barked in response, replacing his hip flask into his inside coat pocket and turning his head to see the newcomer, his magical eye still fixed on the new recruits.
He relaxed when he didn't see a dirty Death Eater like he had been worrying about, and waved Arthur Weasley into his office. "Scrimgeour was outside," the man explained, running a hand through his sparse red hair. "He wanted me to ask you a favour-"
"He can ask me himself," a smile twitched at the corner of Alastor's mouth. "SCRIMGEOUR!"
The arrival of the tawny-haired subordinate was almost frightening. Scrimgeour skidded around the corridor corner, before slowing and walking stately into Alastor's office. "Yes?" he asked nonchalantly, with his trademark coolness.
"Arthur here," Alastor nodded at Arthur, who returned the gesture before scuttling away. "Told me that you wanted to ask me something."
"Is that so?" Scrimgeour nodded, and Alastor's magical eyes swivelled to the front once more, until it was trained on the man in the office doorway. "I heard somewhere that you were retiring and I just wondered-"
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Alastor yelled, slamming his fist into his desk. To his credit, Scrimgeour barely flinched. "You should know better than anyone that all rumours are complete poppycock," he continued. "You either get it from the source, or not at all."
Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow. Alastor tugged his hip flask out again, unclipping the top and taking a deep swig.
"There's a lot of life left in this old dog yet," Alastor barked. "I'm not retiring anytime soon Scrimgeour. You might want to work on your subtlety."
"I will go and inform Cresswell of this," Scrimgeour answered, in a measured tone that kept the disappointment out of his voice. "And warn him of the dangers of spreading false rumours."
Scrimgeour left, and Alastor chuckled, placing his flask down onto the desktop and turning back towards the rows of new recruits.
Maybe Rufus Scrimgeour was onto something. Alastor had already paid an eye, a leg and several pounds of flesh to the cause, the next thing to go would probably be his sanity.
"Constant vigilance," Alastor repeated to himself, nodding thoughtfully. Even if he didn't retire yet, a holiday might be in order. Maybe he could stop off at that travel company in Diagon Alley on his way home?
Mexico was looking awfully nice this summer.