Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry: Challenges & Assignments
Task 7: Teansfiguration: Write about someone from the POV of captivity.
Extra Credit: "She's gone, but she's everywhere."
Night
If you love me, John, send this bastard straight to hell!
John Moody killed his first man the day his son came into the world. Alastor considered this as he stared up at the ceiling of his own trunk. Was he in the sixth or the seventh one? Judging by the size, and he paced this place enough times to put in an educated guess, Alastor went with the latter: He used his feet as feet, a unit of measurement. His mother had been held captive for a handsome ransom back in September 1940, during the air raids in the Second World War, and as Alastor stayed here analyzing the attack, he saw it as a near perfect disappearance.
Alastor had been there, yet he'd been too young to remember it, of course. He was just a bairn, as John said, yet he'd heard the story so often the story felt like a memory. Alastor was born in a stranger's bed, delivered by his drunken kidnapper, and his mother got out of it because Diana always brushed herself off like nothing happened. They were in the abandoned house for two days.
Alastor never considered this more than a story. Diana had labored for days. When John finally found her, Alastor's mother was half-starved and weak with pneumonia. Alastor contracted it, too, from his mother, and John had stopped dead when he found the captor holding a knife to his wife's throat, but this didn't stop him from performing a non-verbal Killing Curse.
"Why are you telling me this?" Barty Crouch, no doubt bored out of his mind, furrowed his brow in concentration.
Even when he wasn't among other people, Mr. Crouch needed to take doses of Polyjuice Potion to keep up his guise. He ate in front of Alastor, careful to remind him who had the power. Barty underestimated his task. He helped Alastor out of the trunk, allowed him time to shower and freshen up, and placed a chair by the fire. Alastor, cold, decide to stand and rubbed his hands over the flames. It was a strange thing, staring back at yourself, and having a skewed view didn't help matters. As Barty needed him alive, Alastor got bathroom privileges, but he hadn't been outside since he couldn't remember when.
"If you're going to kidnap someone, you need to be that other person," said Alastor. explaining this as he would to a child. He wanted to throw in an insult, but there was really no point. Crouch smiled, his mouth lopsided, placing food on a laden tray and holding it out of his reach. Forget niceties. "You're a cunt."
Crouch tossed a dinner roll into the flames. Alastor sat down and put his hands together as he bowed his head. He didn't always converse with God. But he had a lot of time on his hands.
"You're Catholic," said Crouch interestedly, smirking as Alastor made the sign of the cross. Crouch slipped off the leg with a groan and set it aside; he gave Alastor reprieves from the Imperius Curse to delve into his character. Alastor ate for survival, especially now, so it didn't really matter what he ate. Crouch's mood swung back and forth like a pendulum, which Alastor found interesting, for, he, Alastor, always kept a level head. "I've met your mother."
Alastor grunted, slicing up his Salisbury steak and imagined harming Crouch with the bluntest butter knife. Many people had crossed paths with Diana Fellowes-Moody. She was retired now, living a quiet life with John in Reading. Back in the day, she had truly been something and shown she could be a wife, a mother, and an Auror. She read Alastor to bed every night, even when she got home late. Alastor shared this, too.
Crouch drummed his fingers on the armchair. "You love your mother? Does she love you?"
"Did your mother love you?" Alastor groaned when Crouch struck him. Shrugging it off, thinking he deserved it, Alastor actually laughed. He sat back, sipping his goblet. Usually he would worry about a Death Eater poisoning his cup, but if he stayed his hand, Crouch would force feed him.
"Tell me of your wife." Crouch took a swig from the hip flask and shook his head, his features shifting for half a second. Alastor kept the intimate details out of the public record because he preferred people simply knew nothing about him.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to."
"What's her name?" Crouch wanted an answer.
It pained Alastor to say this. "Lenore."
Both of them sat in silence for some time.
"Lenore. Lenore. You're bothered by me saying her name." Crouch snorted, enjoying this game because he made all the rules. Alastor wasn't married, but he had been for five years. The marriage ended badly. Alastor knew it was his fault; he took responsibility. "How could anyone love you?"
"I would ask you the same thing," said Alastor, finished with his meal and tired of this game. He wiped his hands on a napkin.
Albus Dumbledore knew all about Alastor. He even said once throwing away Lenore James was the stupidest thing Alastor ever did. The Professor didn't phrase it this way, of course, because Dumbledore spoke with a certain eloquence, but Alastor got the point. Lenore's warm smile drifted into his mind. He imagined her round face and sultry voice, and he closed his eyes, picturing holding her in his arms and whispering empty promises in her ear. He wanted her.
"You've never even had a woman." Alastor looked down and saw Crouch had placed a slice of tarte au chocolat in front of him. Suspicious, he frowned at Crouch. "What is this?"
"Tarte au chocolat," said Crouch, handing him another fork. Alastor didn't move. "The delegations from Beauxbatons and Drumstrang arrived this evening. The house-elf brought it by."
"I know what it is," said Alastor crossly, cutting into it with his fork and bringing it to his nose. He tasted its silky texture on his tongue and remembered a holiday with Lenore in Lille. Alastor smiled. "You would never fool her."
"She still shares your bed." Crouch raised his eyebrows, clearly seeing a flicker pass over Alastor's face. He licked his lips. He got up, hobbling like Alastor. He opened a book, a journal Alastor wrote in, and flipped through its pages. Alastor, his blood boiling under the surface, sat there expressionless as Crouch opened a letter tucked inside the journal. "Yesterday was your anniversary. She wants to see you. How does she like it?"
Alastor got lost thinking about her. She used to love that. He saw it in his mind's eye, and he wanted to make love to her. They still celebrated the anniversary, which Alastor always read as a curious thing, but what man passed up an opportunity to be with the lovely Lenore James?
"'The black roses were a nice touch, especially when they turned red. Thank you, Alastor, but fifty is still fifty,'" said Crouch, folding the letter along the creases and kissing it. Alastor wished this bastard nothing but ill. "When was her birthday?"
Alastor recited this as a mere fact. He couldn't show up in Hogsmeade or somewhere and pretend he didn't care about her birthday if she happened to mention it. "Lenore James, October twenty-second, 1944."
"You're thinking about her."
"Yes." What was the point of lying to this sick individual? Alastor didn't know how long he'd be trapped here. Crouch, paranoid as Alastor was, jumped to his feet and grabbed his wand when he heard a noise. The idiot attached the the prosthetic wrong and locked the door when he left. Alastor imagined Lenore on her knees, playing one of their favorite games. He let her get comfortable. "I miss you."
Lenore looked up at him, her hands on his hips. She slid him inside with the hand, and Alastor fell for the mirage, the figment in his imagination. He nodded. Her lips moved and no sound came out. But this hardly mattered. Alastor concentrated on the Foe-Glass; Lenore did not reflect there . He wasn't mad, no matter what they said. When Lenore had asked him to marry her, Alastor had laughed at her and gestured at his scarred face, but she kissed him. She saw no haunted face. When he learned to walk again during the war, she was there every step of the way, and she'd jokingly called him "Mad-Eye" during a press conference.
The nickname caught like wildfire, so Alastor took it in his strange stride.
"Why can't you be real? I want you." Alastor fell into the rhythm. "If you're this good in my head, Lenore, think of when I get you in bed. My God."
Lenore merely smiled, yet she still said nothing and distracted him with deep, passionate kisses.
"Lenore, help me." Alastor placed a hand under her chin and traced her full lips with a gnarled finger. This was a younger version of Lenore, maybe in her late twenties or early thirties, and he wondered why she occurred to him. As time passed, with Halloween approaching, it dawned on him he'd been in his trunk for two months. How long would he last? "I am going to die, and nobody's going to know. Lenore."
Crouch returned and Lenore vanished. The fool smiled. Alastor looked at his outstretched hand and understood how odd this must look. He dropped his arm to his side. He cried out for help, although part of him knew it would do no good, and Crouch struck him hard. The plate with the dessert crashed to the floor and shattered. Alastor, desperate, grabbed for a shard. Anything, absolutely anything, served as a weapon if given the chance. John taught him that.
He slashed at Crouch's neck. Blood flowed. Crouch, furious and strong, threw Alastor into the trunk. Alastor fell, screaming, and landed on his back. Bone cracked. Crouch opened his mouth to say something, but someone knocked on the door, and he worked quickly to lock the trunks. Alastor slammed himself against the wall of the trunk, desperate for someone, anyone, to hear him, but his cries fell to deaf ears. The trunk rattled.
"Lenore wants to have dinner, but with the feast …" Crouch picked up right where he'd left off.
"She's a lovely woman." This was Dumbledore.
"She's gone, but she's everywhere, Albus, figure it out!" Pounding his fists on the wall until he broke skin, Alastor hated himself for handing his double a weapon, and he realized he lowered his guard, hoping someone would hear him. He didn't call her Lenore in company. No, even when they were married, they never shared a name, and he always addressed his Lenore the same way as the day they met at headquarters.
"Miss James." Dumbledore pointed out the flaw. Alastor caught his breath, his heart skipping a beat, and he skid down the wall, hearing the smile in Albus's tone.
Crouch caught nothing. "Yeah, well, Halloween is on Monday* and she's free that afternoon for a pint or a tankard at the Three Broomsticks."
Alastor waited. Dumbledore wasn't a stupid man and could put two and two together. Mr. Crouch unknowing stepped right in it and made his second mistake. When had Lenore James ever drank beer or stout? Dumbledore wasn't close friends with Lenore, it was true, but the old man had purchased an expensive red wine to celebrate their wedding day back in the day. There were footsteps and the door closed after they said good night.
Alastor hobbled on his foot. It hurt, which probably meant a sprain. He hadn't noticed it before, furious as he was with Crouch, but it hurt like hell. Alastor had no wand because Crouch had it; Alastor had fought with him back at the house. Crouch jumped lightly into the trunk and laughed as Alastor tried to mend his injury on his makeshift bed.
"Let me fix that," said Crouch.
"Don't touch me." Maybe if someone saw old Mad-Eye with two crippled feet someone would pick up on the fact something wasn't quite right. "You're an idiot, and you'll die for this. Kidnapping an Auror is a capital offense, as I've told you."
"The Dark Lord will protect me."
"Your so-called lord is nothing. Your father was a good for nothing fool, boy, and Catherine Crouch loved you for some reason I still don't understand. You're a piece of shit." Alastor didn't finch when Crouch punched him in the jaw. Alastor stared him down. "You're a boy."
"I can't wait to kill you," said Crouch, grabbing him by the throat.
Putting all the pain and exhaustion aside, Alastor laughed, his voice constrained. "You can't… you can't kill me, Barty. You … you need me."
"When He returns, you'll be dead by the start of summer, and I'll send your bones and your eye to your widow in a box with roses. Black and red." Crouch tightened his hold. "And then I'll find Diana and John, and I will kill your mother and make your father watch. And John will die."
Alastor, spent, threw Crouch's body from him and broke his nose. It took work, and it certainly wasn't pretty, but Alastor managed to snatch his wand from his imposter's fingers. He pointed his wand at Crouch's shaking body. What would happen if he just did it?
Crouch spat out blood and overpowered him easily. "Not a murderer, are you, Mad-Eye?"
"Self defense is not murder," said Alastor. He was definitely coming down with something. As Barty Crouch was his only shot as a healer, Alastor didn't like his prospects. He laid down on the bed. Crouch had two wands because his own wand was here somewhere. Barty Crouch wasn't that stupid. Crouch put him back together with shoddy spells.
Crouch hated the law because he associated it with his father. The more Alastor thought about it, they were very similar as far as upbringings went. Diana and John expected their boy to be an Auror; there had been no other option. Alastor Moody would've made one hell of a Death Eater, had he been so inclined, given he thought just like them, but he'd chosen the other path.
"You had a thousand times to speak up. Daddy didn't love you, son? Catherine was right there." Alastor waved his arm, indicating Crouch's dead mother. She'd been a secretary for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement before her boy come. Everyone loved her because Catherine had worked as a cheery in-between among the lawyers and other branches within the department. "You think You-Know-Who loves you?"
"Not your son." Crouch got heavily to his mismatched feet.
Alastor, marveling this was all that registered, punched his pillow. "You're no one. You're a blind fool."
Crouch climbed out of the trunk after hacking off Alastor's hair. Alastor's leg was Alastor's leg, an extension of him, but for Crouch, it was a mystery. And he revealed this without saying a word as he popped out Alastor's magical eye. Alastor suggested he place the magical eye in a saline solution, or at least water, yet Crouch heeded no advice because he knew everything. Alastor decided he was done helping him.
"Go to hell," growled Alastor, feeling the effects of the Imperius Curse wash over him.
"I'm already there," said Crouch, hesitant before he closed the lid. He smiled a sickly, serene smile, savoring the moment before he took another swig from the hip flask. "I'll tell Lenore you said hello."
He slammed the lid. Alastor heard the clanging of keys within locks and drifted off to sleep as darkness enveloped him.
XxXx
He got out of the trunk. And he burned it. Or he tried to until he changed his mind. Alastor second-guessed this move last minute, and he burned his hands as a price for his hesitation. Why hadn't he simply used magic and cast the thing from the fire? Long ago, he accepted he was no John Moody, no matter how much they favored each other. Underneath all the grime, and shit, and memories, he resembled his attractive Scottish father and inherited none of his mother's warmth at the hearth. Diana was his loving mother at the end of the day, and he always returned home to show her he was still alive and kicking. She was a good woman; she reminded Alastor of an elder superstitious Alice Longbottom.
Lenore stood nearby. She accepted his craziness, all of it, yet she put her foot down whenever he threatened to drag her into his hell. This evening, Lenore, a stately witch, stood in black dress robes and paced back and forth. She'd returned from a funeral, her father's; he'd passed away in his sleep. It was the twenty-seventh of July 1997, and they prepared to escort Harry Potter.
"I don't get it," said Nymphadora, watching Lenore.
"When your father dies, I give you permission to lose your shit, too," said Alastor. Alastor allowed Remus to tend to his hands with some paste purchased off the Weasley twins. Or maybe he got it from Molly. He couldn't remember. A small smile touched Remus's lips, yet he kept his mouth shut. Alastor cleared his throat, hoping to pull Lenore from this reverie. Her father, a professor of literature at some Muggle university, hadn't even bothered to tell his only daughter he suffered from cancer. "Miss James."
"It doesn't make sense." Lenore took out a cigarette and lit it with a match, tossing it away carelessly. She stood away from the fire, but as she started smoking like a chimney again, this hardly mattered. "I walked away from a lofty education at Cambridge, and I didn't give him grandchildren … and I divorced you …. So, well done, Lenore."
"Why did we do that again?" Alastor cupped his hand over his eye and popped the swiveling thing out. Lenore conjured a glass of water and walked over to him, smiling for the first time since finding her father in his study. Alastor, ignoring Tonks's comments about a disgusting habit, prodded his electric blue eye in the glass.
"I haven't the slightest idea. I threw a razor at you." Lenore did this the night she threw Alastor out of his house. It had been their house once upon a time, and he always told her to come home whenever she needed to run away. She approached him, the smoldering trunk in the distance, and touched three scars behind his ear. "I did this."
"What's it matter? I called you names. The Professor loved you." Alastor put whatever wounds he caused her to rest. Tonks smiled. Alastor saw this out of the side of his head. and he demanded an answer. "Well, say it."
"You're cute." Tonks hugged herself, rolling her eyes when Alastor mouthed "cute" like it was a vile swear word. When he left the Ministry, Nymphadora Tonks played a good hand and sidestepped into Lenore James's office. "Miss James."
"It was the sex," said Alastor, giving Lenore an honest answer as he strode back into the house to fetch two rucksacks. Remus and Lenore, both sometimes Catholics, did a double take. Tonks buried her face in her hands, stifling laughter as she tripped over the steps. "Oh, come on, James, you remember. The night we signed the divorce papers? We ignored the counselor. We fired the lawyer."
"And we made love by the fireside until you fell asleep." Lenore woke him up and asked for more. Smiling, she raised her eyebrows at a shocked Remus and Tonks. "Want a secret, newlyweds? You don't truly love each other till you love and hate each in equal measure."
"I really hate you," said Alastor, letting her pass him into the pristine kitchen.
Lenore found the wine opener and an expensive bottle of Chaval Blanc Albus Dumbledore purchased on their wedding day. She cast a Chilling Charm on it. "Mundungus Fletcher is better than me, which I don't understand, but go fetch your boy, Mr. Moody,"
"Miss James." Alastor told her hundreds of times she didn't belong in the Order of Phoenix.
"Miss James? Oh, Miss James! What is it with you that makes me act like this? Damn it, Alastor." Lenore pointed at Nymphadora Tonks. "I handpicked her for you, sir. The way she fights? You're welcome. She can't walk with two left feet …"
"The truth hurts," growled Alastor, turning to Tonks as she accidentally knocked over his mug tree. He replaced and repaired this with a lazy flick of his wand. He shrugged, pointing from Tonks to Remus. "You set yourself up for this, Nymphadora. I want a refund, Miss James."
"Really? Mad-Eye." Tonks walked past him and perched herself on the countertop. She high-fived Lenore when her colleague muttered about an expired limited hardware warranty. Lenore swilled wine in a goblet and answered Alastor with an all too familiar hand gesture; she still wore her wedding band. "He likes me."
"I hate both of you on principle," grumbled Alastor, counting the Potter spectacles and cursing when he noticed he'd miscounted. He cast a Germinio Charm and stowed these away. He checked his watch. "We're leaving in five minutes. Do not screw this up."
"Dung or James? What's the smart decision, Mad-Eye?" Tonks held her arms out like a set of brass scales.
"Nymphadora," he growled, impatient.
"Don't tell me that. She trained Kingsley single-handedly. What the hell do I know?" Nymphadora jumped off the counter clumsily and Remus steadied her. She saluted Lenore and slipped into a mock identical gesture for Alastor. "Miss James."
"Nice meeting you," said Remus, shaking Lenore's hand.
Lenore congratulated him on the marriage. She winked at Nymphadora. "If you happen to run into a certain woman, tell her Miss James doesn't say hello. Give her my regards nonetheless. You hear me? What do we say to Death?"
Tonks punched the air triumphantly. "NO!"
"Hey, Death waits no for man. Or woman. Come back after this assignment and we'll give you free food and have a cozy chat." Alastor shooed the Lupins towards his front door and grabbed his rucksacks. Lenore checked the roast in the oven. "I'll be back. Wait up if you want to. There's no point in telling you otherwise, eh?"
"I want to," said Lenore, crafting a chocolate tart in midair with a simple spell. Alastor shrugged this off, popping his eye back in. He left and stood in the garden for a minute before he marched back, leaving Remus and Tonks by their broomsticks. Lenore tasted her filling in the mixing bowl. "You forgot something, Mad-Eye?"
"Yeah." Alastor dropped the rucksacks and took her into his arms before he kissed her passionately. Lenore, forgetting her dessert, wrapped her arms around his neck. "I want to tell you something, Miss James."
"Who's taking shelter here? The Portkey's in the bedroom? Your old shoe?"
"Kingsley. And yes. And please don't chat with him because he's too respectful to tell up to shut up." Alastor glared at her, his magical eye dancing in its socket."And, yes, that's the Portkey Do shut up. And Miss James?"
Lenore stared at him, silent as the grave.
Alastor rolled both his eyes and kissed her goodbye.
Lenore smirked, kissing him back like a French girl. "I love you, too, sir. Come home. I might forgive you."
"See you in a bit, James." Alastor licked the chocolate filling off her finger. She laughed when he said he enjoyed this entrapment with her. He ran out to follow the others into the night.
* JKR says Halloween was on Friday. The calendar says October 31, 1994 was on a Monday.