Title: What They Don't Know.
Author: FallenShateiel
Rating: PG
Pairing: Kingsley Shacklebolt/ Alastor Moody
Summary: Don't forget to take the notes.
A/N: This is my first fic about Moody and so I used it mainly to try and get the feel of his character.
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He remembers the nights that weren't so dark.
When the simple rainfall outside the window didn't cause heaviness to fall on his chest. Hammering away until he gets up from his bed to see if it really is just rainfall.
He feels old.
Especially at times like these.
When there are no 'pretend monsters underneath the bed'… Because there are monsters under the bed. Sitting on the other side of the table.
There are monsters that don't bare their teeth because there are no teeth to bare.
His foot stomps on the floor as he moves around. His wooden leg 'thumps'… There are days when he thinks that there's no way that he could be this old. This old and this pathetic… He remembers days when he wasn't.
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"Alastor. C'mon man you know you are the best in field." The smile is as big, widening the cheeks across that chubby face.
The man across him with the scarred face laughs.
"Damn right I am." He lifts his lager and they smash them together in a feeling of good toast.
The laughter of all those around them is great.
The year is great.
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When he looks in the in mirror he sees the marks of a thousand different hexes, jinxes and curses. The marks are deep and beyond anything that he would have ever thought a single man could carry without having the face cave in.
Instead he takes a glass and inspects it. A 'squelch' noise is heard before he plops a blue electric bulb in it. The likes of which bob up, and down erratically for a few moments.
The sounds of hail on the windowpane make him tense for a few moments before he sighs, shaking his salt and pepper head.
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There were things people said about the man whose reputation was great.
The respect of which commanded the attentions of perhaps the most brilliant and powerful wizard of the age. Albus Dumbledore.
His pure white beard swaying side to side as he walks up to the Auror.
"Hello, Alastor." The slight bow of the aged wizard, who seemed to be forever old, forever young.
The man grunts gruffly. "'parently there's some ruckus with some clowns callin' themselves 'Death Eater's'." The snort is mocking. "The only thing they'll be eatin' is my foot when I get a hold of them."
Albus Dumbledore and his infamous twinkle eyes smiles,
"You're too soft to be doing that, Alastor."
The man with hard rugged features gives Albus Dumbledore a sharp look.
"If these 'Death Eater's' create anymore trouble there won't be anyway for my 'softness' to take affect."
Albus Dumbledore smiles solemnly,
"Come, let's have some tea. I have some information you might find useful about these 'clowns'.
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"Alastor. Be reasonable. We can't afford to take these measures. We have to--"
"Be murderers."
"Alastor--"
He bangs his cane on the floor with a deep thump that resounds through the room.
"Listen here, Shacklebolt. Did I ever train you to kill? No. You kill if you have to. Otherwise, do what you're paid for and bring justice before the court of law."
The table full of people around him look down at the table.
But Alastor 'Mad Eye' Moody is staring at a boy no older than he was when he found his reason to become an Auror. As he stares at this boy with the green eyes that bind, he thinks silently to himself that one day he might tell that boy the story behind it all.
Until then,
"Bring them back alive. Only a monster can kill another monster and think it's alright."
He thinks of a dozen men… their faces memorized and their names on a sheet of paper he keeps locked in a drawer.
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When Auror Moody walks into the door of the Lecture Hall instant attention is focussed on him. The eyes of every student is seeking his attention…
He stands up on the podium and says in a loud gruff voice the opening lines that he'll remember all his life,
"If you're hear to take notes on how to kill a man, get out. There is no room for people who think that they can justify homicidal tendencies by saying that they had permission… if you kill a man, you should suffer the consequences. Just like everyone else would. Be it in self-defence, or whatever.
Kill only when there is absolutely no choice." He takes a deep breath. His powerful presence concentrated on this line.
"Kill them, and they will get off, without a thought to whatever it is that they did. Punish them, and just perhaps they will get what they just deserve."
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A hand is on his shoulder as he tries to ease himself out of the bathtub.
"Ease off, Shacklebolt. I'm not an invalid." His voice is gravely and little more than a growl.
The big dark hand moves in a soothingly motion over the badly scarred shoulder and the chest.
"I'm off duty for now."
He would yell at this idiot for bothering him… however he sighs and leans back. Watching as the rather big Auror takes a cloth and smoothes it over his relatively unscarred chest.
The most prominent scar being just underneath his ribs. Faded and old.
He leans into the back of the bathtub. Accepting without much of a grumble to soft kiss placed upon his jagged collarbone.
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They sat in relative peace before the storm. Both of the men sipping they're tea. One of the men has it bitter whilst the other has a slight lemon taste to his.
"May I ask you a question, Alastor?" The peace has broken by the soft voice.
"What."
"Why don't you ever just 'finish the job' so to speak?"
The man with his freshly scarred face… a chunk of his nose is now missing, says nothing.
"Alastor?"
"I've always been one of those people who can't look at a man and wonder what the hell he did to end up like that. When I was a lad I thought of the drunks on the street, the bag ladies that had nowhere to go…
Now I wonder that of the men who think they can achieve anything with this so-called War of theirs."
He looks at the blue eyes across from his. Trying to see if he understands.
"It's one thing to kill a man, Albus. It's another to have to kill them and remember their face, name and everything in between."
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When he lies in bed and has his body covered by the big body of Kingsley Shacklebolt. The way that the mattress moves underneath during the duration of their activities… he feels the hands on his thighs caressing where the deep inhumane smooth cuts into his left leg and end abruptly into thin air…
He reaches up and runs his hands down the back of the finely chiselled body before he flips them over and takes over the control that is so rightfully his.
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Alastor Moody is perhaps known for his compassion on 'bringing them in alive'. But what they don't know, is that he keeps them more than alive…
He keeps their names on a parchment in drawer along with the newspaper articles that show their names and he remembers whether or not they had kids. What their names are what they want to be.
What they don't know is that he still thinks about them.
Long after they've gone.
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