Disclaimer: I own nothing of familiarity. J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, not me.
Warning(s):Brief mentions of violence. Alcohol references. Implied James/Fem!Voldemort. Possible OOCness. Genderbent Harry. AU.
Italics-Thoughts
(Flashback)
I.
Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody wasn't having a good day. Not at all. Clenched tightly in his hand was a letter from his boss: a letter indicating his forceful retirement. For crying out loud, he was thirty-nine! He could still fight, regardless of his missing eye (that had already been replaced, as he'd vehemently argued) and his amputated leg (which had also been replaced by a wooden prosthetic).
An ordinary man who had been told he'd been laid off would've drowned themselves in Ogden's finest. But Moody did not indulge himself so.
In the years he'd spent as an Auror, he'd made many enemies and one second of carelessness could cost him his life.
Of course, occasionally, he would wonder why he cared so much about his life. The threat of Voldemort was over (for the time being; Moody would sooner be a monkey's uncle if Voldemort was really dead) but his Death Eaters were still running free.
Moody grunted as he nearly tripped over a bump in his path. His newly acquired magical eye was working its magic; he saw everything, back and front, left and right, up and down but the swiveling was still something he was getting used to. He hated relying on a walking stick to walk properly.
Blast that Evan Rosier!
Even though he had lost his leg in the fierce duel against Rosier, Moody felt no satisfaction when Rosier died. It weighed heavily on Moody that he had used the Killing Curse; Rosier's son and wife must be in their grieving stages. But he had no choice. Fight evil with evil— he tensed.
Above him, lightning flashed and rain poured. His sight was unhindered due to the magical eye. He squinted into the distance, stepping over the bumpy road and hurrying towards his house.
It was a dingy little cottage away from civilization; nevertheless, the village he settled in was close to Muggle settlement. If any Death Eaters came, it would be easier for him to protect them. But of course, by staying close to that settlement, he ran the risk of endangering them if any would-be avengers came knocking on his door.
Small steps lead up to his cottage and outside the fence, his gate that had a magical barrier cast around it, was a garbage dump where there were the dustbins. Usually, trash bags littered that area.
Tonight, however, there was something other than trash—something that was noticeably not trash.
"Good day, Alastor, it's always wonderful to see you but..." Albus Dumbledore glanced bemusedly around, as if expecting trouble, but smiled nevertheless. "I was hoping to ask a favor?"
Moody didn't miss the small pink bundle that was in Albus' arms.
xxXXxx
Moody's face turned grim when he looked at his friend. "I see, so Potter is dead then... but that does not mean-"
"I'm uncertain if leaving her with muggles would be for the best especially with no known blood relatives. She will need protection," said Albus slowly, finally giving into his age as he looked down at the bundle in his arms. "She will be hunted. When the time comes she must fight, but until then she will grow up safe and well cared for."
"I'm no parent." Said Moody flatly, scowling at the mere thought.
"You are the only one who can. Her only hope. For the time being, will you please take care of her?"
Moody sighed. "All right, Albus."
Albus clapped Moody's shoulder, smiling. "She would do you good. I heard about your retirement—"
"No, I'm not about to retire," retorted Moody gruffly. "I'd fight for my right to continue battling the Dark Forces."
"—and raising her could be a way to pass time."
Moody scrutinized Albus carefully. "You're talking as if she'd be stuck with me permanently."
Albus was still smiling, his eyes getting that mysterious twinkle in them-the kind that made Moody wonder if his old friend knew something he didn't. Before he knew it, Moody was handed the small pink bundle; ebony colored hair was peeking out, covering just a tiny bit of a very noticeable jagged running scar.
"Take good care of her, Alastor, as I'm sure you will."
The child slept on, not knowing that at that very moment, people meeting in secret all over the world were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices:
"To Adora Potter. To The-Girl-Who-Lived."
xxXXxx
"Adora-her name will be Adora Potter."Said a male voice. It sounded tired-worn by a long days' worth of battles and repetitive arguments. Still, there was a gentleness to it.
Moody felt a pang of pity, truly he did.
'Adored, eh? Bah!' Scoffed Moody, ever the watchful ol' git that he was. Now he was feeling a tad more regret at those last words: "I told you it was a mistake. Once a dark one, always a dark one."
Potter may have been brave as a whole, but his bravery was too often outclassed by stupidity as Moody always said. Not everyone was good. He tried and tried to get the message through to the younger wizard before it was too late. Gryffindors were just too damn trusting!-always one to see the best in others, eh Potter?-well look at where it had gotten him.
The baby cooed-Potters little girl-he would never see her grow old now. Never see her first day at Hogwarts when-if-the time ever came.
Ametrine eyes stared back at him-a mix of deep greyish-blue and god awful red-they reminded him of her human do-gooder father and her no-good snake of a mother.
(" Adora 'Ametrine' Potter. A fine name-unique.")
Who named their child something as uncommon as Ametrine?
("A unique shade of purple associated between lilac and violet. Rumored to possess healing qualities as well as a calming presence. Good leadership qualities, no?")
The statement itself should have sent off warning signs to everyone in the room-only Moody recalled tensing-made even stronger by the way her eyes slid back to James. He didn't even realize how estranged the woman he loved had become.
It was too late-
"Purple? Aren't Slytherins more into green?"
Such a pointless thing to say.
Hobbling over to the makeshift cradle he conjured up, Moody lay the small little infant in it. He took the time to carefully observe the small little girl that was now left in his care: The ebony black hair was a trait she now doubt got from her mother-Moody dare not speak her name-her skin tone, however, looked to be more of the fathers, a light tan to it. Her eyes, with their odd mix of colors, were the most distinguishing feature on her though, almost as if split right down the middle of looking menacing or just hypnotically beautiful.
The letter Dumbledore gave him sat on the nightstand near the newly lit fire.
Even now after things had already played out this way, Moody wondered what happened-what went wrong?-contemplating his next move. It was best not to underestimate the girl, baby or not; she was her parents' child.
Moody's magical eye swirled in its socket; his remaining eye closed.
He could always sleep with one eye open: he kept vigilant for the rest of the night.
This will be my first attempt at a HP story. That being said, reviews are greatly appreciated!