A/N - I tend to write to soundtracks (I mean literally, I listen to movie soundtracks while I write), and since there's one particular song that really ended up on a pretty constant loop for this chapter I thought I might share it with you guys. So if you'd like to add a little extra something to your reading experience, might I recommend opening a new tab and taking a jaunt over to Youtube. In that search box, you'll of course want to enter "Song for Athene" (and I'd also recommend choosing the version that's by the Westminster Abbey Choir). Once that's done, switch back over to the story tab, let the music pick up, and start reading....
"He's...he's coming home. For Christmas," Albert said, frowning as he looked from Dumbledore to Alastor confusedly. When no one spoke, desperation began to creep into his voice. "Tell them, Alastor."
But Alastor could not speak, could barely breath. A sick, cold feeling crept over him, and he knew, in a moment of awful, wrenching clarity, he knew what words would come next. Alastor had never so desperately wished to be wrong in all his life. Dumbledore's sad eyes and Dippet's fumbling words suddenly made infinitely more sense, and Albert stopped swinging his legs as even he realized the seriousness of the conversation.
"Albert, I'm very sorry...he won't be coming home," Dumbledore spoke at last, words heavy in the stillness, and the sympathy in his eyes, his tone, did nothing to soften the blow.
Alastor felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach, all the air knocked out of him in one swift strike. If cold had been spreading over him before, fire and heat engulfed him now, his chest aching as though something deep and heavy had settled there and refused to move. He still could not seem breath properly, and his head fell into his hands, eyes squeezed shut. The world descended into fog and haze, the only sound his own ragged breathing. Somewhere far away Albert began to speak again, his voice high and frantic, the words muffled beyond recognition. Dumbledore might have been speaking as well, might have been trying to calm Albert down or perhaps draw Alastor's attention. But Alastor could not bring himself to even try to listen, far more concerned with the sting of tears behind his eyes and the horrible, wrenching plummet his stomach seemed to have taken. He cannot cry. He will not cry. Not here, not now.
Finally Alastor managed a harsh, shaky breath, vision slipping sideways as he glanced up, elbows balanced on his knees. Albert watched him silently from his seat, biting his lip and doing his best to act grown up, even as tears begin to stream down his face.
"Alastor..."
Dumbledore reached out, pity written all over his face, and even Dippet looked sympathetic from his seat behind the desk. And suddenly a blaze of furious, terrible anger roared past the sorrow, because this was not fair. None of this was fair. Alastor could feel his temper rising dangerously, face heating and fists clenched as his skin began to prickle. He shoved himself upright, chair grating on the floor behind him, dancing out of Dumbledore's reach in his desperation to escape. The room had grown too tight, the very air weighed down and harsh to breath, and Alastor feared that if he did not leave the place would smother him. Before anyone could stop him Alastor threw open the door and sprinted into the hall, doing his best to keep moving, keep breathing. Surely there had been some sort of mistake. This was all a horrible mistake.
Someone would come looking for him, probably sooner rather than later, based on his exit from the office, and Alastor determined that he would not allow himself to be found. Not yet. He charged up several flights of stairs, exceedingly thankful for the emptiness of the halls and paying little to no attention to where exactly he happened to be going. Taking corridors at random Alastor kept moving until he deemed himself safely lost. A bathroom happened to occupy the room to his left, and Alastor threw the door open and tumbled inside, tripping over his own feet and landing in a heap on the floor.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, choking back a sob and pounding his fist against the floor once, twice. The prickling against his skin grew worse, spreading rapidly until the pent-up magic finally released, the pipes beneath the sink bursting one after another. Freezing water sprayed across his face, and Alastor gasped at the sudden, shocking coldness. He stayed sprawled on the tiles, soaked within seconds, though Alastor could not bring himself to care. After an unpleasant mouthful of icy water that left him coughing and spluttering, Alastor finally began to push himself upright. Moving slowly, dizzy and sick-feeling, he staggered through the puddles, catching himself on the sink as he slipped once again. Alastor gripped the porcelain rim as tightly as he could, long, ragged breaths burning in his throat.
Desperately Alastor clung to the idea, the mad, hopeless idea that surely there had been some mistake. His father cannot be dead. Death was something that happened to nameless soldiers, or to those who had already lived long, happy lives and could pass on surrounded by generations of family. Death did not come stealing away fathers who had promised – promised – to be home for Christmas.
Anger blazed up again, fierce and so fiery hot that even Alastor himself feared the intensity. The phrase "Not fair" repeated itself again and again in his mind along with images, faded sepia photos of his father. The man who chased away Boggarts and told bedtime stories, who had taught him how to ride a broom and who had been so incredibly proud the when he took Alastor to buy a wand. Another sharp, searing pain in his chest, and this time with no one around to hear him Alastor sobbed out loud. Something, anything, had to make the horrible ache stop. Now would have been the perfect time for his father, his da, to walk in the door and fix everything, but Alastor knew, knew with a deep, chilling certainty that this would never happen. He would never see his da again, not the living, smiling, breathing man he remembered, and this utter helplessness served only to infuriate him further.
Striking out, determined to do something, anything, Alastor tried for hitting the mirror with one clenched fist. The impact sent a jolt of pain arching up his arm, but the mirror refused to break, and this simply would not do. He needed to break something, hit something, release some of the fury bottled up inside him. The second blow struck at the wall itself, and whether from pure force or perhaps a bit of magic kicking in, the tiles cracked. Again and again, pounding first on the wall, then on the sink, until his knuckles bled and some part of his mind registered that his hand might be broken. The pain did nothing to stop the dull throb in his chest though, and Alastor ended his assault on the sink and managed a few steps backward, sinking to a seat against the opposite wall. His breathing went ragged again, tears burning in his eyes, and Alastor scrubbed at his face, determined not to cry, no matter how horrible the ache in his chest or choking tightness in his throat.
The water had risen alarmingly, icy against his skin. His clothes clung to him, heavy and tight and weighing him down, and Alastor pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face once again as furious, hot tears finally escape him. Another horrible, wrenching jolt struck with the realization that he had left Albert alone in the office. Swearing and miserable, a chill beginning to settle over him, Alastor swore and drove his broken hand into the floor once more. Water splashed upward in high, sparkling arches, and the bones in his hand shifted and grated enough that Alastor cried out from the pain.
He concluded, holding his hand to his chest, that he was clearly the worst brother in the world for leaving Albert behind. Alastor considered going back, considered forcing himself to his feet and venturing back out into the world. But going going back would mean returning to Dumbledore's sympathy and Dippet's pity, and Alastor knew he would not be able to stand sympathy or pity, no matter how well-meaning. Honestly, part of him still feared that he might explode, that the magic and power and fire that boiled just below the surface would be beyond his control.
Alastor lost track of how long he sat on the bathroom floor, fighting to keep breathing, to keep the horrible sorrow at bay. The waters might have been rising around him, cold and swirling and tugging at his skin, but the sorrow was what threatened to drown him. Voices echoed outside the door, and Alastor knew he ought to recognize them, but again the words were odd and muffled, as though someone was speaking with their face pressed against a wool jumper. The door swung open, heralded by a sudden rush of water toward the corridor. Lights stretched across the bathroom as splashes echoed across the floor, the sound of footsteps moving closer. A hand seized him under one arm and attempted to pull him off the ground, but Alastor resisted the pull, swinging blindly.
The strike missed, or at least Alastor thought he had missed, but something sent the owner of the hand staggering backward, swearing in a heavy Scottish accent as a tremendous splash echoed. Tiberius. Other pairs of feet moved in and Alastor shut his eyes again, wanting nothing more than to be left alone.
Gentle hands took hold of his face, infinitely warmer than the chill waters, coaxing him to look up. Grudgingly Alastor opened one eye, almost immediately regretting the decision. Minerva had kneeled down beside him, frowning, looking as though she was trying very hard not to cry, and Alastor could not help but be horrified and embarrassed, his face reddening rapidly. He never wanted her, of all people, to see him like this. He tried to speak, but at the very idea of words his throat tightened beyond use once again. Silence became the better option then, because Alastor would not risk tears, not at this moment. Minerva had already found him hiding in a flooded bathroom, probably looking as miserable as he felt, and he ought to preserve some shred of dignity at least.
The waters began to slowly recede, leaving him soaked to the skin and shivering in the chill air. Alastor did not dare touch Minerva, not while the fury and sorrow still mixed and burned like acid inside him. The temptation remained strong though, the temptation to cling to her and let the rest of the world slip away with the retreating waters. Instead he closed his eyes again, doing his best to pretend she was not there. For that matter, he decided to try and pretend that none of them were there, that this was all some horrible dream. In doing so, Alastor failed to realize someone had pressed a wand against his head until too late. Based on the shocked expression on Minerva's face, she was just as surprised, and for that matter shouting at the wand's owner. Alastor's eyes widened for a fleeting instant as the spell closed over him. Then he was suddenly, deeply tired, hands falling limp at his sides as dark, blessed sleep swarmed up and claimed him.
Saturday, Hogsmeade found itself teeming with chattering, cheerful and rosy-cheeked Hogwarts students, most of them bundled in hats and scarves and heavy jackets. A thick layer of snow had blanketed both the castle and the village overnight, transforming the world into a crisp, clean wonderland. A snowball fight had broken out on High Street, and Honeydukes' Sweet Shop looked to be near the point of overflowing. Though a week delayed, or perhaps because of that particular reason, the students seemed determined to enjoy their escape from classes.
Inside The Three Broomsticks, tables were packed with those who had finished braving the cold for one day. Laughter rippled out over the crowd almost constantly, the pub lively and vibrant. Near the back of the room, however, at a table planted in a corner beneath the stairs, four students did not look to be having an especially good time at all. Not one of them had spoken in quite some time, and the air in the corner likened more to mourners rather than schoolchildren.
Toying with the hem of her tartan skirt, Minerva avoided making eye contact with the boys as much as possible. Not this was especially difficult, given that none of her companions seemed keen to make eye contact anyway. Geoffery watched the snowball fight taking place outside, arms crossed on the table and expression unreadable. Beside him, Donald glumly stared down at his untouched drink, head in his hands. Tiberius had maneuvered himself into the corner seat opposite Geoffery, where every few seconds he would sigh and shake his head.
Minerva knew perfectly well that all three of them were thinking of exactly the same thing she was, but neither she nor anyone else dared bring up the subject. The theory seemed to be that if no one spoke of what had happened last night, then they could successfully pretend nothing had happened at all. Gryffindor's Quidditch victory could be declared the sole event of the day, and other, darker business could be pushed into a corner. Much as she might have liked the thought, Minerva knew that this method simply would not work. Darkness had touched all of them, the shade of horrible events, and for the first time Minerva and the boys had seen the nature of the world, the grim and terrible injustice that existed outside the safe walls of Hogwarts and childhood. Suddenly growing up no longer meant freedom and adventure. Growing up meant facing one's own mortality.
Tiberius sighed again and shook his head, this time rubbing at his face with one hand. Pale purple smudges hung beneath his eyes, and Tiberius himself admitted that he had not slept much last night. He had said no more on the matter though, falling stiffly silent, and Minerva had been forced to bully an explanation out of Charlus Potter on the way to Hogsmeade.
Charlus had not exactly been forthcoming, hesitant to reveal any goings on in the sixth-year boys' dormitory. When Minerva had threatened to interrupt his meeting with a certain Dorea Black, however, Charlus suddenly became instantly more talkative. Apparently, depositing his unconscious friend in bed, Tiberius had spent the entire night seated on the floor beside Alastor's four-poster. Charlus could not recall if Alastor had ever actually woken up, or if Tiberius had been merely sitting guard just in case. Of course, at that point Charlus' face had fallen, and he had squeezed Minerva's hand and told her how truly sorry he was about all this. The words had been sincere enough, but Minerva had only nodded and watched as Charlus jogged away, snow swirling all around him.
"W-when..." Geoffery paused and cleared his throat, finally turning his attention away from the window. "When did h-he leave?"
"Early this morning," Tiberius said, "His grandfather came fer him and Albert."
Minerva shut her eyes, doubting she would ever forget a distraught Albert stumbling into the Gryffindor common room. The victory party had halted with jolting suddenness as students all but surrounded the poor boy. Albert had handled the scene admirably, struggling not to cry as he asked if anyone had seen his brother. No one had of course, and Minerva fought back a cold, frightening flare of panic as she pulled Albert out of the crowd and asked, as gently as she could manage, what had happened.
Tearfully Albert had relayed bits and pieces of the conversation in Dumbledore's office, enough for Minerva to understand the horrible, horrible news that the Moody boys had received. She had been too stunned to do much of anything at first, but Tiberius, who she had not even realized was listening, had taken off at a sprint for the portrait hole. She caught up soon enough, and both of them took to searching the corridors, hoping desperately that Alastor was alright, or at least as alright as humanly possible. Geoffery and Donald had been on their way to pay a visit to the victorious Gryffindors, and Tiberius had quite literally run into both of them on the stairs. There had been a hurried explanation, and Geoffery's face had scrunched up like someone had hit him while Donald's went deathly pale.
Back in the present, Donald's face was still pale, and Geoffery had a drawn, tight look about him. Last night had left it's mark on all of them, clear and readable in each and every face.
"How was h-he?" Geoffery asked. Tiberius shrugged, gaze shifting toward the frost-covered window.
"Calmer, I suppose. Not that that's saying much."
Anything compared to the state they had found him in would be considered calmer. Minerva had not exactly expected Alastor to be quite so worked up as his younger brother had been, but neither had she expected him to be so...furious was perhaps the best word, and still did not quite achieve the proper meaning. The Alastor they had found in the bathroom last night had been one who had at last lost the tight control he usually kept over his temper.
"Could've b-been worse," Geoffery said. Donald snorted, the first sound he had made all day apart from breathing.
"Geoffery. He flooded a bathroom. He broke his hand."
"I-impressive bit of w-wandless magic, though," Geoffery's tone suggested he was trying to lighten the mood. He was failing miserably though, and Donald looked to be considering strangling the Hufflepuff boy.
"He was upset," Minerva said. "That sort of thing can happen."
"Dunno, I've been u-upset loads of t-times, and I've n-never managed anything l-like that," Geoffery murmured, idly tracing circles on the table with two fingers.
"'S different," Tiberius shook his head, "Completely different."
"W-what's that supposed to mean?" Geoffery demanded, more offended than angry. "You s-saying I'm not as g-good a wizard as Alastor?"
Donald took off his glasses now, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose.
"What he's saying is that both your parents are still alive, so you can't really begin to relate, can you? Has nothing to do with who's more powerful than who."
Geoffery blushed now, stammering out an apology. Donald's words had stung them all though, in one way or another, because he was the first to actually acknowledge what had happened. If Donald realized this he did not show it, placing his glasses back on the end of his nose and glaring at his drink as though it had offended him. But Geoffery had, in a way, been sort of right. Alastor had managed to burst all the pipes in the bathroom, and according to Donald two of the high windows had been shattered as well, all seemingly without the use of a wand.
The flooding had actually been the only reason they found him. Minerva had just ventured down the corridor, heart pounding, when she stepped directly into a large puddle. The frigid water had drawn her attention to the door that seemed to be the source of the leak, a door which was in fact locked. She might have started shouting at that point, or she might have just kept casting spells at the door, but either way Tiberius and the other boys arrived soon enough. When no one managed to open the lock themselves, Geoffery suggested they all four hit the door together. Four spells at once broke the charms, water pouring out into the hall at a much faster rate as Donald pushed the door open. And then...and then Tiberius had entered first, only to be thrown across the room with a loud bang, landing with a splash near the opposite wall, swearing spectacularly. Geoffery had rushed to help, and Minerva had slipped past Donald, who was trying to banish the water.
Minerva desperately wished she could forget what had happened next, or else that it had been some awful dream. Alastor had been seated in the freezing water, soaked to the skin and head pressed against his knees, and Minerva had gone to him without any hesitation. She kneeled down beside him, drawing a sharp breath at the sudden chill and reaching out slowly, gently, to turn his face toward her. Determined and worried though she was, Minerva did not forget that Tiberius had just been thrown across the room moments before. Alastor did not resist though, his skin clammy and cold to the touch. For a moment his face flashed with anger, hurt in his eyes. The moment he recognized her though, Alastor had been horrified, his expression betraying his humiliation as his face went crimson. Minerva could have wept then and there, the sight of him heartbreaking. But she knew that the last thing Alastor needed to see just then were more tears. Besides, she had a strict rule against crying in public, this occasion included.
"Still cannae believe you knocked him out," Tiberius' words brought Minerva jolting back to the conversation. She pretended to clean her glasses, just to be sure she had not actually started crying again. Nobody paid too much attention to her though, largely thanks to Tiberius' bitter statement.
"I had to," Donald mumbled, "He hexed you across the room."
"I'd like to point out that I wasn't hexed at all," Minerva replied. She had been utterly furious that Donald had used her as a distraction so he could put a Sleeping Charm on Alastor. Come to think of it, she was still actually a bit furious.
"He needed to sleep," Donald insisted, "Best possible thing for him."
No, Minerva thought, the best possible thing would be to see his father again. Alive. That option, unfortunately, would not be possible, and Minerva had no idea what in Merlin's name to suggest instead. The only relatives of hers who she could recall passing away had all been elderly, distant relatives who she had barely known to begin with. She had no knowledge of how to relate to someone whose father had just been killed in battle. Tiberius, meanwhile, seemed to have worked himself into a rare temper, and was not quite finished having a go at poor Donald yet.
"Suppose you're pleased that your prediction finally came true."
Donald paled again, gaping across the table at Tiberius. Tense silence fell across the table as the two boys locked eyes, the noise from the rest of the pub falling away for a moment as well. A snowball struck the window with a resounding thud that startled all four of them, Geoffery nearly falling out of his seat in surprise.
"I didn't want this to happen," Donald managed at last.
"Of course you didn't," Minerva said, stomping on Tiberius' foot under the table. "Nobody could have known."
"I should have known," Donald seemed to be oblivious to any other conversation going on around him, guilt evident in his features. "I knew something was coming. I should have been able to see it."
"D-do we even k-know where he was f-fighting?" Geoffery asked. Minerva shook her head, and Geoffery waved his hands between Tiberius and Donald as though this resolved the entire issue. "There. W-what could you h-have done then?"
Donald stayed silent, and Tiberius shifted his scowl toward the window. After a moment or two, Geoffery's wan smile faded, and the table descended back into awkward, unhappy silence. Minerva ran one hand through her hair, sighing and casting a look over her shoulder at the rest of the pub. All the other students were laughing, smiling, enjoying the freedom of the day. None of the rest of them had been touched by tragedy, not yet. Anger sparked then, because this was all horribly unfair. Alastor was supposed to be here today, in Hogsmeade, with her, and they were supposed to go on a proper date. He ought to be here, being his usual stubborn, gruff, utterly impossible self, rather than grieving at home for a father who had died too soon. Minerva could not bear the thought of losing her own father, and could not begin to imagine the pain of the blow Alastor and Albert had suffered. Nobody deserved that.
"Where d-do you suppose h-he is now?" Geoffery seemed to be waiting for Tiberius to answer this particular question. Realizing he would have to speak, Tiberius sighed and shrugged, drumming his fingers on his knee.
"Could be at tha wake I suppose. Doubt tha funeral's today, but they're Catholic, and I donnae know if that means they do anything different."
Minerva was once again struck by the wrongness, the unfairness of the situation. All she could think of was Alastor, the lost, angry Alastor that had been sitting in a flooded bathroom last night. She could not stand the thought of him being alone now. Well, not really alone, strictly speaking, because surely the rest of his family would be there. But being here, pretending to enjoy a trip to Hogsmeade while Alastor buried his father, felt like some sort of abandonment. A sudden, mad idea struck her, and Minerva made up her mind before she spoke. She would not allow herself to be dissuaded, not on this matter.
"We ought to go."
Donald glanced up sharply, eyes narrowed.
"And how might we do that?"
"Well..." Minerva rapidly realized that she probably ought to have given the idea a bit more thought. "We could use the Floo."
"D-don't even know w-where he lives," Geoffery protested, frowning.
"I do," Tiberius said. He alone did not look shocked or concerned, and if Minerva had to guess she would say that Tiberius had been thinking precisely the same thing. "I know tha place."
"Alright...the two of you then," Donald nodded quickly, already leaning away from the table and inspecting the rest of the pub. There was a sudden, dizzy, feeling, because Minerva had been expecting to have to fight for this. Now that acceptance had come so easily, however, her determination was quite set.
"Not all of u-us?" Geoffery looked a bit hurt at the suggestion that he and Donald be left behind. Donald, on the other hand, merely rolled his eyes and continued his calculations.
"Two is easier than four. They can slip away, and we can cover for them."
Geoffery seemed more or less satisfied with this and halfway rose from his seat, looking over top of Donald's head to survey the crowded pub.
"The F-floo in here won't do. Too b-busy."
"Could use tha common room fire," Tiberius suggested.
"No, you couldn't. We've tried. Most of the fireplaces in Hogwarts have been disconnected from the Floo network," Donald explained, "Wartime precaution and all."
Tiberius thumped his fist on the table, sending three drinks skittering dangerously close to the edge. Nobody really seemed to notice. Minerva, however, did make note to ask later where exactly Donald had been trying to reach by Floo.
"What about Gladrags?" Minerva snapped her fingers, feeling quite pleased with herself until Tiberius snickered.
"Now's hardly tha time fer shopping."
"They probably have a Floo in back," Minerva paused long enough to smack Tiberius in the shoulder with the back of her hand. "for shipments and that sort of thing."
Tiberius sobered rather quickly, nodding in understanding.
"Aye. That'd work."
A flicker of anticipation followed the words, because Merlin this might actually work. Firstly though, they had to actually reach Gladrags, more or less unnoticed, and somehow slip into the back room, once again unnoticed. Unnoticed seemed to be the primary key to the plan.
"We'll have to make sure no one follows us..."
"Oh, w-we'll take care of t-that," Geoffery grinned, rolling up his sleeves. "Won't we, Don?"
"We'd be honored, in fact," Donald tilted his head toward Geoffery in agreement, taking his glasses off and tucking them in the pocket of his coat. "Though we do ask that you deliver our sincerest condolences to Alastor, and his family."
"Of course," Minerva said, "Did you know Mr. Moody."
Geoffery shook his head, rising from his seat.
"N-never met the m-man."
"But if he's much like Alastor," Donald pushed his chair back, wood grating beneath the sudden shift, "I'd wager the world has suffered a great and terrible loss."
"Half a moment," Tiberius himself stood now, ducking a bit so as not to hit his head on the stairs. "How exactly are you two planning ta distract a pub full of people?"
"Come now, Tiberius," Donald rolled his sleeves as he stepped away from the table, "How does one usually create chaos in a crowded pub?"
Minerva's eyes widened as the meaning of Donald's words sank in. As a prefect, she probably ought to stop whatever was about to happen. As a best friend on an important mission, she intended to do just the opposite.
"Good luck then."
"Thank y-you kindly," Geoffery smiled, "And good luck t-to you t-too."
Minerva hastily rose to her feet, wrapping her scarf around her neck as Donald levitated his still-full drink into the air. With infinite precision, Donald manage to navigate the glass across the room, emptying the contents over the head of a seventh year Hufflepuff. Unsurprisingly, the seventh year boy did not at all appreciate this, and responded by turning and punching the first person who looked to be holding a drink. The brawl expanded in seconds, and Donald and Geoffery raced away to join the fray, dodging blows and creating as much confusion as possible. Minerva watched for a moment, transfixed at the sight and still fighting the temptation to intervene. Then Tiberius stepped past her, taking her hand and tugging her along after him. Somehow they managed to pass through the crowd unscathed, escaping into the snowy streets with the rest of the crowd. Other students had taken the chance to run as well, avoiding the fight and the detentions that were almost certain to result. Minerva and Tiberius lingered in the mass of students for a moment before slipping away, slowing to a walk as they neared Gladrags Wizard Wears. With the distraction in place, Minerva drew in a deep breath of chill November air, sincerely hoping that the next phase of the plan went just as smoothly.
