Chapter Summary: After the final conclusion, Alastor ties up the loose ends in England and arrives in America to claim a new future.

Epilogue

1st December, 1959

Alastor didn't know what to think as he reached the half way point of his walk, and his feet finally touched the cobblestones' of the bridge that gave entry to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Certainly, he knew his thoughts in the moments before he set his feet on solid stone. Mainly it was why in the name Merlin had they decided to build the train station all that way in the arse end of Hogsmeade and make it such a god bloody awful long way away from the Castle. He also thought that his general demeanour had been soured by his continued reliance on his cane for his foot. While around the house he was now back to being able to get around without it, but travelling a fairly long way with a fair amount of walking and no reliable place to sit down was more than a few steps too far.

But remarkably, as soon as his feet were officially on Castle stones, he was almost paralysed by the sense of nostalgia, as his youth practically began to radiate from the rock itself into him. It caught him off guard almost, and forced him to take it all back in. The glorious towers hanging above him, the marvellous view as the Grounds stretched out onto the Black Lake, and heavy snowfall that blanketed everything. It was enough to make him shiver beneath his familiar overcoat, and turned the flanks of his collar up to help shield with from the feeling, before continuing his walk for his opportunity to catch words with the Headmaster.

It was before midday, and a quiet that Alastor had never known had seemingly smothered the Castle, as he supposed both classes and the weather had the students and staff alike all driven inside. Nevertheless, that somewhat added to his sense of nostalgia as he drew closer to the Castle and the shadows of his youth all but beckoning him to join them. They seemed worst of all as he wrapped his cane on the door of the Entrance Hall, expecting as per Dumbledore's instructions, for his chaperone to come along and lead him to the Headmaster's Office.

And he was not disappointed, with the timely arrival of his chaperone, though the sight of her did nothing to strangle the sense of his nostalgia as she opened cracked open the door to allow him entry. "Mister Moody," she said, in the same curt voice she had them all in terror of as a prefect.

He grinned his most toothy, "Minerva."

She rolled her eyes at his remark, "You're late."

Surely it was impossible for her to have remained almost exactly the same as she had been in school, nor to still be treating him as though he was just another one of her brother's band of trouble makers. Fair enough, if that was what she wanted, he would play the part for her benefit, "Am I?" he said, pulling out his fob watch to confirm her analysis, "So I am. Well sorry. As you can see, Minny," he tapped his cane off the floor to draw her attention to it, and winking as her lips tightened and what he called her, "I'm suffering for a wound suffered in the line of duty: not quite as mobile as I would be."

"Mmm." Was the only further response she had to him, before she about turned and led him inside.

As they begin to stroll through the castle and he takes unto account the familiar corridors that dominated his childhood, he feels a growing sense of disappointment. The way the stones continue to call and pull at his ancient memories to the surface and make him glad to be back here, there seems to be know mutual longing from Hogwarts itself: familiar portraits do not meet his eye and wave to him as they once did; suits of armour he had once bewitched to salute him as he walked pass them fail to repeat their courtesy; and perhaps most stinging of all, when his former house ghost glides reverently passed himself and Professor McGonagall he is acknowledged as less than an afterthought.

"Place seems different than when I was last here," he says absentmindedly, "just can't put my finger on what."

Minerva now seems more willing to be drawn into conversation, now his teasing tone of voice has dropped. She suggests to him, "Perhaps it's just you who has changed, Mister Moody."

"Oh certainly I've changed. Mostly for the better, I should hope. When I left here I was bitter, angry, fighting the whole world as I could."

Dryly, she ponders, "And you have changed how, exactly?"

He laughs, and Minerva McGonagall practically vibrates with humour. That's progress, he thinks, if not change. When they first met, she was already a prefect, himself a first year acting far too big for his boots, who seemed hell bent on dragging her youngest brother through the mire. While that final bit may still too great a nugget of truth for him to admit to her, it's nice to see that they can speak amiably.

"I suppose," he carries on saying, "I found something worth fighting. And maybe now I'm wiser in years, I worry at the costs of being so angry for so long."

Though she does not face him, he can hear the startled raise of her eyebrow, "Now that hardly sounds like the same Alastor Moody the Prophet has currently been full of."

Instinctively, he snorts, "Shouldn't believe everything in that filthy rag."

"Nor do I."

"Good," a pause and easy quiet gradually descends as they move off the Grand Staircase and into the corridor of the Headmaster's Tower. But then Alastor feels the need to blurt out, "What made you leave?!"

She stops, and turns to look at him with the familiar, icy glair, "Leave?"

"Well, umm," he fumbles his words and stumbles over his own mouth to contemplate the idea. "The Ministry, I mean. I-it's just, I remember after you left this place you were as good as on your way to climb high. Could've been an Auror too, if you wanted – prefect, and with your grades and all. Then the last I hear of you from Robert was you as good as said 'sod that' and shacked up here. I just… wonder what made you leave."

He expects her to ignore him, turn round and carry on walking as if he never said anything; at the least he expects her to tell him 'none of your business' and then moving away; what he does not expect, and what absolutely catches him the other way, is for her to answer him.

"Personal reasons."

Albeit, not much of an answer, but she at least goes on to elaborate a little. "Truthfully, I had made my mind up to leave long before I did. The people there, I'm sure you know the kind, I couldn't stand them. And my work didn't fulfil me – Hogwarts had a vacancy, and needed my help. I've done more good here than fighting tooth and claw up the Ministry."

He doesn't respond initially. Part of him doesn't entirely know what made jump with the outburst, but the fact is all he has done is run rings round himself contemplating his future the past week. His reinstatement as an Auror is far from certain, but even if it was he can say for sure whether he would go back or not. True, he would be needed. He is now the Office's leading expert on the Knights of Walpurgis, but what does that mean? When everyone round a corner, in every other cubicle could be sympathetic to them, what would use would he be? If the worst should come, he would spend more time fighting his own side than the Knights, and it would be a cloak and dagger war – the kind of combat he doesn't have stomach or patience for. And then there is the factor of Druella to consider. If she came back to England with him, on that remote possibility, then would it be right for him to drag her into his enemy's line of sight, put her at risk?

"And what if you could have done good work at the Ministry?" He asks Minerva, not at all on his own behalf.

"Well… I would have sought advice." She replies, contemplating slowly.

"Who?"

Quickly, she shrugs, and then signalling the end of the conversation, Minerva turns and continues her walk to the Headmaster's Office. The hideous, stone gargoyle that guards the entrance has grown no more attractive to the eye since the lats time he saw the beast. It also seems surprisingly smaller than recalled it, despite the fact he can't have grown less than an inch, including the heels on his boots.

Professor McGonagall gestures to it, opening her mouth, but he raises a hand, grinning as he reminds her, "I remember how it works."

Sardonically, she notes, "Of course you do."

"Love to Robert, if you see him before I do," he offers, as he stands on the space next to the gargoyle. She nods and murmurs the password which elevates one out of the other's view. He rests an elbow on the stone animals head, telling it, "Never thought I'd see her again."

"I could say the same about you," it replied.

Despite the change in ownership to Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster's Office was as awe-inspiring, articulate in its decoration and as able to arouse the impressing air of authority on Alastor as it was in Armando Dippet's duration. Of course a collection of items that had not been there now turned up, yet he still recognized them from Dumbledore's Office from when he was still merely teaching Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor House. The usual array of instruments billowing out puffs of smoke into the air, familiar books that were ticker than Alastor was wide, and finally, the familiar, firey-red, phoenix, Fawkes. The bird must have recently burned itself up, Alastor noted, as the usual magnificent beast with more pride and grace than a swan when seated on his perch was merely a small, tufty creature, more like a chicken or a baby parrot, whose wings were still not strong enough to carry him from the ashes of his former self back to his perch, and instead strutted around, pecking at his ashes.

There was also, of course, the man himself: Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was merely himself: immortal and perpetual in his appearance as he always had been since Alastor had known the Professor. Silver hair hidden beneath a traditional pointed wizard's hat, and stretched around into the magnificently long and shiny beard that fell bellow his waist. The crooked nose that arched downward and remained guarded by the halfmoon spectacles that magnified the penetrating, baby, blue eyes that sparked a glimmer of surprised when the ancient wizard clapped his eyes on him.

He rose from his desk, stretching his arms wide in welcome, "Alastor Moody," he said, jovial, shuffling around the desk to actually shake hands and take in the changes that life and its natural and unnatural side effects that had been inflicted on his former student in the years that had divided their last meeting.

Alastor stepped further into the office, to lessen the distance between them, and it was only then that he felt the bundle of nerves in the pit of his stomach catch fire and start burning a chant of nervousness that he hardly knew in his life, except when he came face to face with Albus Dumbledore in his office. There was also the added fuel now that he was here on false pretences, and Alastor could feel the sudden moistening of his palms as he grabbed the Professor Dumbledore's outstretched hand.

"It is good to see you again, Alastor. It has been sometime."

"Professor," he merely grunted in return, unsure of what else to say, "Been a while."

Dumbledore smiled, as if embarrassed, then laid his other hand on over Alastor's and squeezed. "Please, Alastor," he said shyly, "I am no longer your teacher. Feel free to call me 'Albus'." And released his hands of Alastor's.

"Yes, Professor."

He blinked, his mind suddenly blank of what else to say. It was plain for Dumbledore to see, and so he tilted his head up a little his eyes looking down at Alastor along his long nose, and down his glasses, as if to better examine the sudden problem he had found in Alastor's face. Then he turned away, gesturing to Alastor the seat across from his desk, while shuffling back around to his own much grander chair.

"I must say, I am glad and reassured to speak with you again. See you also, though you look somewhat worse for weather than our last conversation – if I might say." Dumbledore's tone of voice was much more languid, than the excitable one he'd spoken with when he first saw Alastor cross his threshold. Trying, he suspected, to make him more comfortable, and so their conversation flow easier.

"Yeah, well… comes with the job," he said, relieved to take all pressure off of his foot and to put aside his walking stick. "Not that it's likely to be my job for much longer."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Is there any particular reason?"

Perhaps more embittered and rude than he should do, Alastor instinctively, sniggered, "Oh, come off it, Dumbledore. You can't have not seen the Prophet. And you're on the Wizengamot. Should think you know exactly I'm facing the sack."

"Ah, you mean, your recent involvement into the Investigation of Hector Shafiq," The Headmaster looked puzzled for a moment, he shrugged and tilted his head, "While I cannot speak for what the Daily Prophet writes about you – not an avid reader of it – I believe I can speak for the Wizengamot: and as far as the majority of its members are concerned you acted honourably, with great courage and determination above that expected for your office. There is a rumour that the new Minister for Magic is putting you in for the Order of Merlin."

"Really?"

Dumbledore nodded reassuringly, "Oh yes, Second Class by all accounts."

Alastor slumped back in his chair, wide-eyed put a hand to his chin and thought seriously, while wishing he'd done a better job of shaving before he'd turned up. Warily, he dared to ask, "Who will be the new Head of D.M.L.E? And the Aurors?"

This time Professor Dumbledore simply shrugged, "Of that I cannot tell you. A decision has yet to be named on either account. Although you may be glad to hear I've heard your friend, Charlus Potter, mentioned…"

A tear of laughter ripped from his throat. "Oh Merlin, no." He groaned, slapping his head, "The power will go to his head in a week!"

Dumbledore joined him in the chuckle before saying, "Nevertheless, I therefore think I can tell you that there is little danger of you being relieved your duties as an Auror. I shall of course entirely understand then if this fact changes your desire for a position at this School. And should my calculations be totally erroneous or you reconsider in the future, then I shall likewise be glad to take you on as a teacher."

"Ah." Alastor said, flatly. His hand slid down his face to scratch at his new scar. "Well frankly, Professor, I never intended to apply for a job. I just needed an excuse to come talk to you in private, confidentially." Dumbledore's face was an blank as fresh parchment, and with a lack of encouragement, Alastor simply pressed on with the addition, "It's to do with this busines I've been wrapped up in and things… things which you won't have heard and you probably won't do unless they're from me… because I haven't told anyone, not even written down, not filed away somewhere, not told Charlus, or Alphard or Dorea. Haven't even said them out loud, because you, Professor, are the only man I trust to and whom it might seriously concern.

A white whisper of an eyebrow raise, Dumbledore merely said, "Go on then, if you please, Alastor."

Alastor sighed and leant forward, rubbing both hands across his face and pressing them into his forehead, as if to try and help iron out his thoughts. "You'll obviously know about this group in Germany – call themselves the Knights of Walpurgis?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"And you'll know that Miklós Bethlen was a member, or at least somehow involved with them, and it was he who was responsible for the deaths of Hector Shafiq and his wife."

Again, the Professor nodded.

"Well while I was trying to bring him down, Bethlen told me who the leader of the Knights was… is. Sir…" Alastor raised his head up, and stared dead straight into Dumbledore's languid, waiting eyes, "Professor he said, their leader is Tom Riddle."

There was none of the enormous signs of great surprise that Alastor had expected to see in the Professor's face. He merely raised a second eyebrow to match its height with the one he had originally raised, and softly murmured, "Tom Riddle…"

Alastor nodded, slightly, "Yep… although," he hastened to add, "by all accounts he's not calling himself that anymore. He's calling… calling himself…" He fumbled with his memory about, trying to root around in his own skull for the name that he had since dropped out of it, "calling…"

"Voldemort," Dumbledore prompted, and Alastor's eyes snapped wide as he starred at the Headmaster in a sudden eureka moment.

"That's it!" But then he stumbled over the realization, furrowed his brow into a scowl and growled, "You know."

At the change of his mood with a snap of his fingers, Dumbledore suddenly rose out into himself. His face changed from resignation to a softer conciliatory appearance, and looked with an assuring face to Alastor, offering a, "By no means. Well…" and then he turned decidedly more sheepish in his expression as he further considered the implication of the revelation, "I knew of this Lord Voldemort, and that he was the leader of these Knights of Walpurgis."

"But as for Tom Riddle?"

Sharply, the elderly wizard snapped him down, "As for Tom Riddle, Alastor. I only ever took you at your word that he died when you were off together on your travels together. Perhaps maybe I should not have been so trusting of you, Alastor, hmm?"

Suddenly enraged, Alastor rose in a flash to take his feet before the Professor's desk, but at the awkward pressure on his foot he gushed a hiss of pain from his throat and fell back down on his rump in the chair. Nevertheless with eyes flashing he barked at Dumbledore, "Then perhaps you should have had someone else do your own damn, dirty work!" And folded into himself a little, massaging his bad leg, and not daring to see the expression on the older man's warn out face.

He heard, rather than saw, Dumbledore's pained sigh, and from the corner of his eye saw him stand, shuffle round his desk and put his back to him, facing the phoenix he so treasured – the bird cooed and clucked appreciatively at the Headmaster's reassuring hand petting him. It flapped, squawked and jumped, testing its wings trying to see whether it could achieve flight with its master's encouragement. Despite its bets efforts it could not, and flopped straight down onto the desk, shook itself out and ruffled its feathers, before stamping across the fresh surface, kicking up parchment and pushing out of its way various offending objects that were already in a jumbled scatter about the Dumbledore's workstation.

"Forgive me, Alastor," he said eventually, "that was unkind of me."

In reply, he merely grunted, "Yeah, well… not your fault." Then he considered, after a pause, admitting, "And maybe you would have been better off. When I think back on it, I made mistakes, maybe too young, too angry for what you needed me to do. Maybe Riddle knew that, manipulated me in to doing what he wanted, maybe I let him. I dunno. Probably you were wrong to trust me then." He's rambling, but Dumbledore can wade himself through the words for his meaning, and at the very least appreciated the effort. The old man turned around and smiled, and he sheepishly smiled in returned, then stood gripping his walking aid.

"Well, that's about it. All I came to say, hope you'll do something with it."

Dumbledore shrugged, "I shall certainly think on it, Alastor."

He nodded, "Fair enough. If you decided to do something about these Knights, call on me. This time you can fully count on me. We hate these bastards as much as each other, we both know what they're capable of, and we both know that its going to be plenty ugly to stop them – the kind of people like me and you are the best chance we have to stop them. It won't be pretty work, but nor are we, and it'll be better than the alternative. So when you need me, I'm your man. Remember that."

His former teacher's face formed a frown, before grimly nodding, then he came forward, arm outstretched showing him the way out. "I'll bare that in mind, Alastor." He said, snapping his fingers which gently opened the door for him, only to lay a hand on his arm and stop him for a final word, "Where will you go for now?"

Alastor held his breath a moment, before deciding to admit the truth. "America," he said slowly, "Tonight, I'm booked in for the a Portkey to New York. I don't know how long I'll be there for. I still have to come back to the Ministry for the tribunal in the New Year, I know that. Expect I'll see you there."

The Professor nodded kindly, "Yes, and you may rely on my support." Then removed his hand, and sent the guardian staircase moving again as soon as Alastor set foot on it.

"Thanks," Alastor said, the last word that would go between them as far as the future could see.

America was not what he had envisaged. Nor was New York, for that matter. Muggle or wizard, the place was a decided down turn compared to what was on offer in Europe or Britain. From the top down it was filthy. In terms of weather it was palpably wetter, which from a Scot like him was saying something. Snow was piled high on street corners and on the side of roads, but from the sky a torrent of rain poured down and damp wind cut down at everything, and snow turned into a sludge-like sludge that ran down the roads and pavement, invading shoes and hold socks hostage to trench foot.

The people were no less glamourous.

Upon his arrival, small brown suitcase in hand, Alastor was bombard with fully loaded battery of bureaucratic MACUSA workers, who in turn had each an elf with a wheel-barrow full of paperwork. They all but mugged him, barrelled him to one side and accosted him about everything from his purpose to personality, treating like some out of place vagrant for daring to venture to their side of the Atlantic. Rapidly tiring of this, Alastor told them all in turn to fuck off, and after a fumble with the pocket in the lining of his coat, waved his Auror badge in front of them, which seemed to nullify any protests they might have had to his manner. It may have been slightly illegal, being as he was officially relieved of duty, but nevertheless a stint in Azkaban was preferable to being smothered in American parchment. The Muggles weren't so bad, in the sense that they all seemed to act as they were the only person in existence, ramming the streets and barging passed and through anyone that failed to walk faster than themselves, or firing off their car horns at anyone crossing the road as if they were being paid for the privilege of their action.

Despite the warm welcome, Alastor found his destination of Druella's hotel after a short consultation of a Muggle tourist map. Its interior was definitive improvement on its exterior. Still it was affirmably American in its own American way, full of American Americanisms. And the Muggles had already decorated it for Christmas, less grandly than wizards were capable of, yet no less endearing, and no less lacking in baubles and tinsel.

He made little of himself as he entered the reception, asked for a room, which they were happy to give as he placed his wad of money on the desk, and discreetly asked about Dru. They gave him her room number after an extra slip of money, then he took his key and went to his own room.

Once there he placed his suitcase on the bed, took out his wand, and waved it across the breadth of the case. The lock snapped open, and like a burst damn, its contents flew around the room in an order formation, opening draws and refolding themselves inside, opening wardrobes and fitting themselves to the coat hangers inside. His shaving bag zipped through to the bathroom and unpacked itself of his razor, aftershave and the rest.

All that was left was his finest suit: a gift he'd had from Alphard years ago, and as a composite was made from many a thing that were all highly illegal, but the craftsmanship nevertheless shone through, which was why Alastor rarely wore it; a shirt threaded together from silk of acromantula webs, a jacket made from Chimera skin that had cufflinks and buttons from the tail of a Horned Snake and Wampus hide for the lining, with trousers from the back of a Griffin. It was a deep, golden brown in colour, with fur down the lapel, and he add pieces of his own: a belt, that was his grandfather's, made from leather taken from a dragon, and the buckle a shimmering scale of the same Antipodean Opaleye, which reflected a dazzle of colours when it caught the light; and a tie which had Occamy feathers, threaded into it which formed a shiny, dark azure strip down the front of the shirt.

After checking the time, Alastor bathed and folded himself into the suit as best as he could, keen not so ruffle the smoothness that had been pressed into the shirt and trousers. He didn't dare look in the mirror, knowing that fresh scar that slashed its way across the best part of his face couldn't be hidden by any fine suit, and remembering an old muggle saying about faeces and polish. Still it was about as good as he was liable to look. He checked his fob watch for the time, and decided that three o'clock was as good a time as any and with Druella's room number in mind, set off out his room in search of it.

He refused to entertain the thought of seeking extra strength from a bottle, and made a point to try and push the worst of his shaggy hair behind his ears, suddenly conscience of the fact his hands were sweaty and his hair was in desperate need of cutting as he found the right number nailed to the right door. On the balls of his feet, he rocked back and forth, as if trying to build moment to push his hand forward and knock on the door. Then he shied away from it, and consulted his watch once more. It was 5 past, and the thought struck him that she might be out, so figuring he had nothing to lose, just went for it, and wrapped his knuckle on the door.

Behind the door, he could hear the cautious scuffle, as the occupant presumably fumbled with the lock, or examine him through the peephole. Eventually, it opened slow to reveal Druella Rosier, Black as she presumably still was. Alastor felt a breath stall in his throat at the sight of her: her magnetic beauty had gone unchanged, dark, long flaxen spilling over her shoulder, and a loose band of it falling across her heavy, rounded eyes from which she looked up at him, with a coy, knowing smile.

"Alastor," she said practically rolling her eyes as the words came off her tongue, as if he were an errant child, or a dog that gotten too excitable but retained its endearing nature.

"Dru," he murmured, and dipped his head, suddenly ashamed a the growing pinkness he could feel in his cheek.

Then she came at him, arms outstretched, and hugged him around the waist. He returned it, awkwardly shifting to place his hands on the small of her back, his eyes closed and lost in the memory of her smell, her feel, her touch. Holding her close to him and squeezing.

"I have missed you," she said, muffled into his chest, resting her head on the comfort of his suit. Her hands drew a circle on his back, "I like the suit."

All he could manage was a grunt. The was too much he wanted to, too much that he couldn't say, and needed to say, and didn't know how to say, didn't if he could or whether he should. So he held his tongue, and enjoyed the moment.

After a while, Druella drew back her head from his chest, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, where for the first time she must have seen the line that had been stretched into his face for him, and the walking that had gone clattering to the ground as he embraced her. She touched the scar, her eyes imploring with questions, to which he merely shrugged, before turning a grin to her.

"Sorry that your toad has gotten a little uglier, Druella."

She gave a sorry smile, and sudden dampness seemed to fill her eyes, but it was only a moments. Nevertheless, it was long enough for Alastor to catch lines that age was slowly pressing into her own face, a new tightness when she smiled and the like. But she was still beautiful, and he told her so.

"Flatterer," she laughed, playfully swotting him on the lapel, when grabbing his tie, and pushing further up his collar. Suddenly, he turned serious, found the words he needed to say.

"Druella… Dru… I'm not going to ask why you wrote me, your reasons, and what for. I'm just glad you did. But I want you to know, this time, I'm her for keeps. All that bullshit from before, I'm done with it. I can't tell you why, not yet, in fact you might find out soon enough, but the Aurors might not take me back, and I'm fine with that. If they do then I'll take as it comes. But I'm done with being angry, the fight for its own sake. There's no other firm holding me back now, I'm free and willing, and got a bit of gold to my name too. So whatever it is that's got you here, I'm offering you a leg out. I'll be your Prince now, if you'll have me?"

Her hands fell down to his, she took them in his, and squeezed them. "I've left Cygnus, and our daughter," she said, plainly, "But I'd never presume that you owed me a hand, Alastor. Or an alternative, but I'm not exactly free on the market. I'll never be able to get a divorce, and I daren't even go back to England. You know what my people are like. It'd paint a target on your back, and I couldn't put you in that kind of danger…"

He shrugged, "Cygnus Black already know my name. So do the rest of your people – and it might just be a reckoning for them soon. But until then, I'm not afraid, because I have my people – our people. Charlus, Dorea, Alphard. They'll welcome you back with open arms whatever the terms, trust me. There was never nothing we couldn't do, remember? So… how about it? Me and you, again?" He could feel the strength that she was drawing from him, the determined smile entrenching itself in her face.

"I'd like to try."

Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who has managed to read this far into this piece. You might be wondering why end it here, well the fact is, it doesn't. As we know, Alastor Moody didn't end with the girl, retiring as an Auror, and moving to America. Instead, he came back to England and fought Voldemort to his last, dying breath and went mad. This is the first of at least two fics I have planned to tell Alastor's story, and in a few weeks, I'll have the next part of his story: The Lost Auror.