September 1985
In the pace of one stride, Dumbledore stepped from his office onto a gravel-covered rooftop in Edinburgh, appearing twenty-eight stories above the city with a loud crack. The wind cut into his beard and he hadn't expected the rain, but he didn't mind the way it felt on his face. He wasn't alone. Alastor Moody waited for him, standing on an abandoned equipment curb with his hands shoved into his coat pockets. Moody was surrounded by a shield spell that blocked the wind and rain. Dumbledore stepped inside.
"Do you still have a house in Edinburgh?"
"No," Moody said. He stepped off the curb. "I sold it to a witch with three cats a few years ago. I have a one bedroom flat now, not too far from here."
Moody passed Dumbledore an envelope. He removed a stack of documents and photographs. No matter how often he saw them, Dumbledore never got used to the almost motionless photographs of dead bodies and the silence that came with them. Nothing changed apart from running blood and subtle things like the angles and lighting. Three more muggle-borns. He recognized one as Samantha Jones, a student who had graduated from Hogwarts seven years ago. She had returned to the muggle world to attend college, discouraged by the state of the wizarding world during the war. Samantha had written Dumbledore last year, asking him to be a reference for an accounting job she applied for.
What the hell is she doing in this stack with the others? She LEFT the wizarding world. She got away. She never should have been a target.
He could see her sitting across from him, arguing about the merits of attending college in the muggle world, about there being more to life than magic and war.
"Tell me the Aurors have something."
"They have fuck all on the killings at The Ministry and they aren't doing a fucking thing about the three muggle-born deaths in that envelope. The killings took place outside of our world, and The Ministry doesn't want the Aurors involved, not with all the other work they have."
"The cuts on the foreheads and the way the heads are detached and left atop the bodies is the same as it was in April," Dumbledore said.
"And the same as it was in July. They don't give a fuck, Albus. They can't solve the murders right in front of them, let alone the ones across the rest of the United Kingdom."
Dumbledore thumbed through the autopsy reports but they didn't tell him anything he didn't know from the pictures. The foreheads had been mutilated while the victims were alive and the heads had been removed as a final step. The muggle authority-authored autopsies left out the magic element and were vague in regard to how the heads were aligned, and almost re-attached, to the associated bodies. Dumbledore shoved the documents back into the envelope. He kept the photographs.
"With the four at The Ministry and the two from July, the count is at nine," Moody said.
They are being hunted and slaughtered.
"The Ministry is useless," Dumbledore said. "The Aurors aren't any better."
"If you want muggle-borns to have more protection, than maybe getting them all registered isn't the worst idea."
Dumbledore had to stop himself from taking out his wand. "Never say anything like that again."
"What the fuck else do you suggest? You haven't been attending any of the Wizengamot meetings outside of the bloody hearings."
"I've been preparing for the school year."
"Bullocks. You haven't even been doing that. There's word you weren't at the sorting ceremony last week."
"That isn't anyone's concern but my own," Dumbledore said.
"You're wrong," Moody said. "Whenever you contact me, what you do is exactly my concern."
Dumbledore shoved past Moody and left the shield. Moody let it dissolve and rain fell on both of them.
"I need you to hold yourself together," Moody told him.
"Believe me when I say I'm trying."
"How much are you drinking?"
"Not enough," Dumbledore said. "How much are you?"
"As much as I want. I am, technically, retired."
"I haven't been around as much as I should be, but I've seen enough to know The Ministry needs you back in more than just a training role," Dumbledore said.
Moody took a flask out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a drink. He passed it to Dumbledore, who did the same. He tasted a strong, smooth scotch and held it on his tongue for a minute before he swallowed.
"The war depleted the Aurors, Albus. We have a starved group of seventeen, ten of whom are too old for this shite. The other seven are too young and dependent. Every great Auror we had, every damn one of them, died in the war or ended up like Frank and Alice Longbottom."
"You are one of the great ones."
Moody laughed. "I'm one of the fucking too old ones. I can't keep doing this forever. I am trying to train the ones they've got, but I am only one man. You want more Aurors to solve these crimes and protect muggle-borns? Then do your fucking job and teach the students. I don't have to tell you where the fuck Aurors come from."
Dumbledore handed the flask back to Moody. "I can't promise you I will hold myself together."
"At least do your fucking job. I don't care what shite is in your head, get yourself sorted and help the students. You aren't the only one with fucking post-traumatic stress disorder from the war."
"You'll tell me when there are more deaths?" It wasn't a question of if anymore.
"I'll keep you informed as best I can," Moody said. "Like I said, I'm supposed to be retired."
"Thank Merlin you aren't," Dumbledore said.
Moody walked away. "Be seeing you, Albus."
He vanished and Dumbledore was left standing alone in the rain.