Title: The Lion and the Beast
Author: BookyJuliet
Genre: Angst, Dark, Romance.
AU/CU: Alternate Universe.
Rating: M, For safety reasons.
Warnings: Mild bad language.
Word Count: 2,794 Words.
A/N: A little draggy, probably a little out of character, but it's an AU…sort of so what the hell. It's a first chapter, so it's not perfect, as I often find myself in a position of knowing where I would like to go, and without the faintest idea as to how I ought to get there. This chapter…Prologue? Is more of a place to start and less of an installment of any kind of story. Getting the gritty and unnecessary details out of the way while I can, and attempt to jump off from there; sadly, I have little (rather no) experience writing Mad-Eye Moody as a character. This should be apparent in the awkward way I go about it towards the end of things. I am creating a novel of an author's note, so without further ado, the first chapter…Prologue…thing.
Summary: As the two men sit, neither speaking, there is weight to the air, like the gravity of the situation is acknowledged by the universe as they continue to sit, neither breaking the silence. Consumed by their thoughts and own trepidations. Finally, "Do you think she can actually pull it off?" Silence is the answer for a long moment, then a pristine snort. "Of course she can't."

The Lion and the Beast

The air was stifling, the sun hanging heavy in the sky. The London summer was brutal, despite having just begun, and already the temperature was climbing to what she was positive could be counted as new highs, not that it mattered. The back lawn of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was still, despite the mass of bodies sprawled out along its expanse, the tree trunks having grown birth the form of flesh as people huddled in the shade, and their brooms forgotten as midday heat squashed any notion of playing Quidditch.

To her credit, she hadn't even tried to advise them against the game, and for the first hour or so, it seemed that the heat couldn't stop the rowdy, newly graduated Gryffindor's from zooming about the sky at speeds so quick it made her head spin. Instead, she stayed inside, the house was kept cool by magic, and the open window allowed the occasional stagnant breeze to caress her face, tease at her hair as brown eyes stayed trained upon the book in her hands. How many times? How many times had she ready Hogwarts: A History? How many times had she allowed her eyes to skim the dry pages, soaking in the knowledge until there seemed to be nothing more she could learn from its depths?

Too many, she supposed.

But it was the only way to keep her mind on something other than the growing unease in her stomach, the feeling that this was the calm before the storm. The last deep breath before the plunge, and whatever steps that were to come, those were unknown to her. She lost the right to plot her moves when she signed up for the Order. The ritual itself would be considered barbaric to the outside world. A contract signed in blood. Till death or fulfillment do you part.

Behind, the soft, padded footsteps of heavy boots hitting carpet caught her attention, and she turned, awkwardly looking over her shoulder as she gave the imposter in her study a once over. It wasn't hers, not really. But since summer had begun she had found a liking for curling up in one of its many black upholstered chairs in front of the window, drinking in the weather, while still keeping up on her reading.

"Professor?" She finally asked, her voice holding the questions she didn't speak. Since graduating, since the Order was becoming more and more busy these days standing on the edge of a war no one was really sure they could win, she had seen less and less of Remus Lupin, or any of the Order members, really. There had been just enough time to swear in new recruits before many of the members, Aurors, Ministry Officials, teachers, and previously graduated students had scattered, back to their missions and out posts, and who knows where else.

"Hermione, it's good to see you." Though he smiled, she couldn't help but to notice the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight that seemed to always rest upon his shoulders, burdening them to the point of physical change as he seemed to slump in on himself. This was not her Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher of her third year. Traces of him still existed. Only traces.

"You too," she smiled, feeling awkward for some reason; maybe it was the way he eyed like. Something in the depths that expressed deep regret, like whatever he'd sought her out for was going to deeply upset her. Regret, and compassion, and a plea for her to understand what it would all mean. Maybe she was just reading too much into it. Maybe she was just crazy.

"Moody would like a word, when you are free. But I would recommend sooner rather than later, he seems to be in quite a mood today." Hermione nodded, curls bouncing along as she slowly closed her book, setting upon the windowsill, she wouldn't be gone long.

With her luck, it was another 'mission'. Since she had been sworn in she'd done hundreds of them. She was running messages to Wizards and Witches in hiding in Muggle London, and who better to do it than her? The muggle-born, Hermione Granger. Brightest witch of her age, reduced to a courier service. She tried not to feel bitter. It was helping; at least she was doing something. But it was a far cry from waging war against Death Eaters, and protecting her family and friends. Harry and Ron were being taught battle tactics and strategy and what was she? A human bloody owl, that's what.

"Hermione…" his voice pulled her back from her distasteful thoughts, and she realized with a hint of embarrassment that she had been zoning out, staring out over her friends in the back yard, unmoving for Merlin only knows how long. "Sorry, Professor. I must have gotten lost in thought," she breathed as she turned to cross the room.

She thought she heard him sigh, say something. But she ignored it as she made her way through the quite, dark house to the kitchen, the unofficial center of operations during day light hours and late into the evenings. Mad-Eye Moody had an office, but rarely used it. And it was rare to find a time when Molly Weasley was not at headquarters when rolls of parchment, half written battle plans, orders and non-sensitive information didn't litter the table.

It was a shock then, when she was redirected up the stairs by an Auror she didn't know, despite the fact that he'd been camping out at Number Twelve for what seemed like an awfully long time with as frequently the other members of the Order were coming and going so quickly it was hard to keep up.

She climbed the stairs silently, and with no shortage of trepidation, her mind whirling. What kind of message had to be delivered that she was meeting the unofficial but popularly appointed leader of the Order of the Phoenix in his rarely used office in the middle of the day? Though she tried to ignore the heavy feeling in her gut; adding to the restlessness that had plagued her all day, keeping her on edge and nervous. Because it felt like something was coming. Something big and she was powerless to stop it. As powerless against this sudden unknown threat as she was against the whole of the second damn wizarding war.

She was breathing; she knew she was, as she stood outside Moody's office. Because of the spells and heavy enchantments that she could feel beating against her skin, she couldn't hear who, if anyone was inside. She her hand twitched, fighting between knocking and just standing there, taking slow, measured breaths. Once, twice, three times she tried, and failed to knock. And on the fourth try, the door whipped open anyway, the choice stolen from her as she stared into the wild eyes of the man himself.

He stares her down, eyes sharp analyzing every inch of her for a long moment before he seems to accept it is really her. "Are you gonna come in, Granger or do you plan on standing out there all bloody day?" He barks, and she can tell by his tone that he is aggravated. One might argue that Mad-Eye Moody was always aggravated to say the very least. But when he was really steamed, such as now, it was better to just keep a low profile and hope he didn't do permanent damage.

"Sorry," she mumbles, making her way into the office only after he stares her down a few seconds longer and then sees fit to side-step her, letting her enter the dimly office that was all his own. Shown, mostly, by the sneakscopes that lined the room, surrounded by other odd trinkets that seemed odd for him to have; but in their oddity fit right in. Some, she could recognize easily enough. Some completely foreign to her.

She is forced to sit, sensing, rather than seeing a figure in the corner, a flash of platinum. An unmistakable aura, but one that she can't for the life of her seem to place. And all the while she is feeling like maybe this isn't just another mission to deliver a package or envelopes. And maybe this is going to be the big step in her duties she has been waiting for. This scares her as much as it excites her. And Hermione feels her back straightening, her eyes leveling on her once upon a time, and almost, professor as he limps around his desk, remaining standing as he finally sits, pulling a file towards him.

"Granger, what type of sweets to you hate?" He barks, and she recognizes this as a safe question, to test her identity, it seems absurd. "Chocolate." She finally offers, hesitantly. And he seems to accept it. And she doesn't question it further, though she is dying to know.

"You joined the order with Potter and Weasley," he grunts, his good eye, or perhaps just the real one scanning the pages of her file, the many tests she took to asses her skills, and talents, and shortcomings becoming visible. She had never been told the results of those tests. It bothered her more than she was willing to admit. But all the while his magic eye was on her, bouncing about as it whirled between her, and the unknown behind her. Focusing and refocusing so quickly it made her dizzy.

"Excellent marks in spell work, history, potions, transfiguration, apparition and defense against the darks, as well as muggle studies, occlumency and ruins. Weak in divination. Shaky under pressure, but determined and quick on your feet." She bristled about his mention of divination, worthless subject she internally hissed. She could swear the person in the corner snickered, and she mentally cursed them as well. And though she wanted to argue, to defend her marks, instead she set her face, squaring her jaw, and clenching her teeth.

"According to this," Moody finally looked up at her. "You aren't suited to battle." He said it as casually as if he'd told her he wanted eggs for breakfast, cream in his coffee, or butter for his bread. Like he hadn't just wounded her pride, set off her temper, and caused her to panic. Suited for it or not, she was going to fight. Because that was the plan, because she was a member of the Golden Trio, and her place was wherever Harry and Ron where and not even Mad-Eye Moody was going to stop her, not ever.

He seemed like he sensed the war in her thoughts, but he pressed on saying the words she hadn't been expecting to hear. "You've got orders, top secret. I personally don't think you've got the guts, or the skills to pull this off. Nothing against you, Granger. But if I had my way and experienced witch would be taking point on this one."

"I've got experience," she countered and his eyes snapped at her.

"This isn't about-"

"But I have got experience." She countered again, cutting him off, her eyes seeming to be demanding an apology. All she got was an annoyed grunt in response.

"This isn't a battle mission," he snapped, and it seemed effective in getting her to fall silent as her eyes dropped to her hands, her fingers nervously dancing against each other. "I'm sorry, Sir." She finally breathed, and he pressed on, his tone warrant no more outbursts.

"Regardless of your lack of experience, Remus seems to think you can handle it. Minerva assures me you are crafty enough. And Arthur seemed down right offended that I doubted ya at all." He paused only momentarily before he continued. "In the last few months, Voldemort and his inner circle have taken up residence at Malfoy Manor. Intel tells us he's grown quite comfortable there, and feels as safe as he can from any outside attack. We've only got one chance at this," his eyes seemed to stress the point, like she didn't understand, and she didn't. Because what did Malfoy Manor and Voldemort have to do with her?

"It's dangerous, this mission. And critical, and one mistake means torture and death, Granger. And not all of the members of the Order, or Harry Potter can save you if you get caught." His fake eye whirled again. "Our informant on the other side will work closely with you. You will be using charms to change your appearance, and you will adapt an alias, you will be given all of the information you need about this new character, name, age, blood status, family back ground. Once you go in, you are there for the duration. Once you go in, there will be no contact with the outside."

Maybe she looked like she was getting ready to bolt, because he stopped, counting heavy, poignant seconds before he trudged onwards. "Every breath you take, every time you close your eyes, take a step you will be scrutinized. You will be doubted. Tested. Your mind will be violated, and your life in constant danger. You will help our informant gather information, which he will report to us. If you take on this mission, you're on your own."

He said it again, maybe to stress the point. To drive it home in her skull. "H-how long? Until…until I would be leaving?" she finally manages to get out. Her mouth is suddenly too dry, her mind thinking too fast, but already it seems to have reached its decision, with or without her consent. Because he talking about the end of her life, but she is thinking about the possibilities.

How many lives could she save with that kind of information? Information from not just Death Eaters, but high ranking Death Eaters, the ones who matter the ones Voldemort trusts, or trusts as much as he does anyone. It's priceless. And people won't have to die, not as many at least. Even a handful of people who survive because was brave enough to at least try would make the end of her life worth it. Because those lives might be Ron Weasley, or Ginny Weasley or maybe even Harry Potter it's a chance too big to pass up to save those she loves.

"You leave tonight," he breathes, with an air of finality, passing her the breafing folder over the desk.

Her fingers shake as she accepts it, nodding at his orders to return when she is ready, and to memorize the file. And then she is ducking out the door.

As the two men sit, neither speaking, there is weight to the air, like the gravity of the situation is acknowledged by the universe as they continue to sit, neither breaking the silence. Consumed by their thoughts and own trepidations. Finally, "Do you think she can actually pull it off?" Silence is the answer for a long moment, then a pristine snort. "Of course she can't."

The only answer is a disheveled grunt.

It would surprise most everyone to learn that Mad-Eye Moody does not actually care for sending people to die. Even for the greater good. And it is something he does not because he wants to do it, but because he has little choice. It is what he has to do. And if he doesn't, than he imagines no one will. It is an incredible burden that he holds on unfaltering shoulders. Still. Sending the Granger girl on a suicide mission was enough to fill him with a touch of remorse. Just a cold finger, that trapped itself in the door, that he knows will one day cave to the pressure of the other such cracks in his defenses. But there will be time for that later.

"For your sake, you might want to find some optimism. " It is unsure who is more surprised when the burly man speaks, his magical eye going crazy, seeing everything and nothing at once as he fixes the human one on the blonde, who's sneer has become apparent. "Any chance you have at freedom dies if she does."

The sneer faulted. "You should probably get prepared, Ferret. She already agreed to the mission, she can't back out now. But when she realized the nature of the relationship she has to play out, and who you are, I'll wager you get hit but a few nasty curses before any of us remember you are on our side these days."

As the blonde plutocrat excited his office in a silent seething rage, Mad-Eye smirked to himself; the sight would have been frightening had anyone been around to witness it. He did not enjoy sending them to their deaths. But he did take pride in the little things…