author's note: This story is set on Christmas Eve 1974.

Alastor's Story

by

The Geeky Quill

Chapter 1: It Begins

Alastor Moody made his way carefully around the perimeter of the house, trudging through the soft snow with his large black boots. A cold silence hung in the air that would not be held off by his long dark muggle coat. His great big blue magical eye visually pierced the walls with its gaze, searching the residence. He grew puzzled and then alarmed. "Damn!" he spat and stomped onto the porch. He pounded his fist on the door. "Mother!" he roared. He impatiently pounded again. He could see her inside, glowering at the door.

She finally rose from her chair and tossed down the book she was reading, Potions of Youth. Her fine burgundy and gold Chinese silk robes clung to her slim figure. Her hair remained jet black, despite her years, and was pinned up with several ornately carved ivory combs. Heavy makeup attempted to conceal her age. Of the seven deadly sins, vanity had always been her favorite. She flung a spell at the door and it sprang open.

"I suppose the prodigal son has returned," she cackled.

Alastor's glare was set like stone. "Where are they?" he growled.

"Come in and shut the door. I didn't raise you in a barn." She turned and strutted to the antique sideboard, glimpsed her reflection in the mirror, and turned to eye him with half-mast lids. "Your father is dead," she said bitterly. "And that little monster knew he wasn't taking his healing potion. I know she did, the filthy sneak."

He gasped. "What have you done with her?"

"The brat killed your father."

"She's four years old!"

"Well, she helped him." She pouted unconvincingly. "She helped him let himself die, leaving me all alone."

Alastor was about to verbally tear into her, but she collapsed artfully onto the royal blue velvet couch.

"What about me?" she moaned. "How can you come here and persecute your poor widowed mother?"

He had never felt like cursing someone as he did her. All of the Death Eaters in the world didn't stir his ire the way his own mother did. But he stayed his wand hand and surreptitiously watched the house elf quietly go about tidying the room. She'd been his mother's slave for as long as he could remember. Her name was Muk. She wore an old flour sack for a dress.

"Mother." His voice was tense. "Where is Madeline?"

"Don't speak that wretch's name in my house! Not anymore. She's dead." His mother tossed her head dramatically, freeing one comb from her hair. Not an ounce of motherly love did she have for the girl child she brought into the world.

"What did-" he began.

"Oh, shut it! I didn't kill her or anything." Muk handed her mistress the comb that had fallen to the floor. "The monster drank poison," she continued as she went to the mirror to fix her hair. "Maybe she was distraught about father's death, but I tend to think it was an accident. She always was an imbecile."

The only thing that kept him from using the killing curse on her (a spell he had never used before), was that Muk covertly left a scrap of parchment on the small writing table beside him as she passed by. He was surprised at the house elf who had always seemed utterly loyal to his mother. Without reading it, he slipped it into his pocket.

"You were her mother. You were meant to protect her," he growled low.

She made a face like she'd just been offered toad droppings for dessert, but she didn't even look at her son. She continued her preening.

"May God have mercy on your soul," he muttered. Alastor left, never to see his mother again.

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