Then

October 30th, 1940 - "Eighteen Minutes To All Hallows Eve"

Cygnus glowered at the matchbox in his fingers with the utmost of hatred. How could Muggles put up with this rubbish alternative to magical combustion? Crouch had insisted upon a strict no magic policy as long as he remained a tenant in this lousy motel, and Cygnus couldn't afford to embarrass himself again in front of his boss again.

By now, the box was almost empty. Each one of the broken matches littered across the floor beside Cygnus' bed and all over his bedsheets stood as a tribute to his increasing frustration. His partner might have found it amusing, were he awake.

The room had two beds, but instead of resting there, Cygnus' Auror partner had decided to prop himself up against the wall with his arms folded and knee slightly bent, his head not even drooping.

Cygnus had briefly considered asking his partner for help twelve attempts ago, but rejected it quickly. After all, he didn't know for instance if his partner would resent being woken up for something so trivial. Might think less of him as a man. And after all, if Muggles could figure this out, how hard could it be?

Light finally flashed in front of Cygnus' fingers, with the frustrated Auror almost crying out in triumph but catching himself at the last second. Pinching the match in between his thumb and forefinger, he groped around in the dim light with his spare hand for a cigarette. Just as Cygnus managed to position his tobacco-infused vice in his lips, he felt both his fingers burn and he immediately cried out in pain, dropping the lit match and rushing to the sink to douse his fingertips.

However, seeing that he had lit his bedsheets ablaze, Cygnus soon had to rush back, seizing his pillow to smother the miniature flame he had created.

"I know an easier way." Alastor grunted.

"Oh, no, it's fine, it's fine-" Cygnus whispered, startled a bit. "I can manage it, go back to sleep-"

"I slept earlier this evening."His partner grunted, helping himself up. "I should be awake now anyway. Don't want to be caught with my pants down during the witching hour."

"Well, if you're up anyway." Cygnus shrugged. "I'm sorry, Alastor, what was that last thing you said? Is that a code word or something Scrimgeour told you?"

"The witching hour is an expression from the nineteenth century." Alastor said, extending his palm. "Give me that, please? Thank you. Didn't you learn about it in History Of Magic?"

"Ah- that's possible." Cygnus grumbled. "What section was it?"

"I remember it being an aspect of witch burnings as taught in my Third Year, but the curriculum may have changed since then." Alastor shrugged.

"I certainly remember that part of the class." Cygnus scowled. "Children, rounded up, enslaved or slaughtered like pigs for the crime of being given such a gift… those illustrations gave me nightmares for weeks."

"To be fair, it wasn't something that was discussed in detail." Alastor shrugged. "My textbook only really mentioned it at one point as a way to caution children to stay indoors at night lest Scourers snatch them up. It's practical advice, but also severely outdated, an artifact of a previous edition. No one really knows we're there anymore. And that's just how I like it."

"And what exactly is this witching hour?" Cygnus insisted impatiently. Alastor played with the cigarette Cygnus had handed him between his fingertips as he pondered upon a way to explain it accurately.

"You didn't happen to take Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, did you?" Alastor asked.

"I most certainly did not." Cygnus turned his nose up, clearly offended.

"Didn't think so. Basically, according to Muggles, the witching hour is the time of night when a witch or wizard's powers are at their strongest." Alastor said, closing the cigarette in his palm. "The hours vary, sometimes it begins at midnight, other times at two o'clock or three o'clock, but generally is considered to have ended at four."

Opening his palms to display the cigarette was nowhere to be found, Alastor began to pat around the many pockets in his jacket in mock confusion.

"Of course, this was mainly used as a method by witch hunters to murder Muggle women who weren't able to explain with sufficient reason why there were out beyond curfew." He continued. "This term is meant to prey on the fears and superstitions of Muggles everywhere, and we teach it to kids."

Alastor seized out his hand to grab something behind Cygnus' ear, producing the lost cigarette. As he held it between his fingers, a yellow spark seemed to travel up through Alastor's fingernails and into the butt, lighting the tip of it on fire while leaving the rest untouched, casting an eerie orange glow over the Auror's face.

"You can imagine why Grindelwald tends to favor this time of night." Alastor finished, offering the butt to his partner.

"Thanks." Cygnus said, gingerly taking an extended puff and blowing out nervously.

"Mind if I smoke too?" Alastor asked.

"Go ahead." Cygnus said.

Alastor rummaged through his pockets once again and produced a cigar, biting off the top with his teeth and spitting it out into a wastebasket. Choosing to abstain from his finger trick, Alastor instead retrieved the matchbox and managed to light his cigar, puffing out a large cloud of blue smoke from his mouth.

"Are those cuban?" Cygnus asked, gesturing nonchalantly towards Alastor's cigar.

"Yeah." Alastor grunted. "Don't always smoke 'em, but it's a special occasion. Proudfoot just had a baby, and she sent 'em to the office as a way to celebrate."

"Oh, that's nice." Cygnus said. "I think she mentored my buddy, Phillip. Kind of a strange tradition, isn't it; sending a cigar when a baby is born?"

"How so?" Alastor asked.

"Been reading up on parenting lately. Turns out all the smoke is bad for the baby." Cygnus pointed out. "Who would have guessed? My Mother smoked two packs a day all her life whenever The House-Elves couldn't find her pipe. Maybe that's why I'm so turned around."

Alastor raised his eyebrow. Well, that was interesting.

"Got yourself a little bundle of joy on the way, Black?" Alastor asked.

"No, no. Not yet. Need a wife first. Not going to be an Auror forever, you know." Cygnus mused. "Eventually, I'm going to have to settle down, help Orion out with family affairs. When that time comes, then I'll have kids. How about you?"

Alastor shook his head. "I'm not that interested either. Too much hassle."

"If I did, I'd want a boy." Cygnus said, a look of dreamy longing filling his eyes. "Someone just like me, only better. And someday down the line, have some grandkids, tell them all about my adventures, tell them all about Grandpa Black's time as an Auror. About the time we made history on this day, October 31st."

"Here's hoping we don't go down the path of Napoleon. " Alastor grunted. "You think Crouch is going to run for Minister?"

"I think so." Cygnus nodded. "I may not like him, but he's really the one on the front lines. And with that fancy shapeshifter repellent, he's sure to pull in a lot of sympathy from our crowd. We could put an end to lycanthropy, can you imagine?"

"I can." Alastor agreed. "I can also imagine that stuff being put into the rain to flush out all the shapeshifters who AREN'T under Grindelwald's employ just because they make Crouch uncomfortable."

"True, but if people really undertook the Animagus process illegally that's more on them then on us." Cygnus rebutted, shrugging his shoulders. "Pretty sure all the legal ones are on our side, last time I checked."

"And what about people who didn't ask for those abilities to begin with?" Alastor pressed on.

"What do they have to hide?" Cygnus said, growing a little more irritable. "Crouch said it doesn't even work on un-transfigured people. Why do you care?"

"Someone has to." Alastor said. "Metamorphmagi, Animagi and Werewolves are turning to Grindelwald for help because history has shown we've screwed them over time and time again. Just look at the numbers, despite our own past with persecution I think we're actually worse. If it's not centaurs or goblins it's our own kind. This isn't gonna turn the tide, it's gonna piss 'em all off and side with Grindelwald."

"That's not fair. I was just trying to engage with you, Moody, and you jumped down my throat." Cygnus began to look flustered.

"So was I." Alastor responded evenly. "You asked me my opinion, and I gave it."

"Forget I said anything." Cygnus turned away from his partner. "Just trying to pass the time, and you look at me like I'm some kind of monster."

There was a pause as Cygnus gazed out at the moon.

"You think I don't know about the traffickers? That I'm just happy to let it happen as long as it doesn't personally inconvenience me?" Cygnus swallowed hard.

"When I was eight, I had no idea what a Metamorphmagus was. Just assumed they were particularly skilled at Transfiguration. Then one day - well, I was crawling through the grates of my house, I think I was looking for a toy I had lost or something. I saw my Uncle with this woman, or man or whatever and he ordered them to turn into his ex-wife so he could - you know. When I looked in their eyes, I saw nothing. Just no light at all, it was like they had gotten the dementor's kiss. I saw that look again when Crouch wheeled out that assassin."

Cygnus took another puff from his cigarette. "Never told anyone that before." He muttered.

Alastor carefully considered his partner. "I'm stressed. I put a lot of that in you. I'm not great at apologies."

"It's fine." Cygnus said simply.

Alastor reached into his overlarge jacket and withdrew two decks of cards. Until the witching hour began, the two Aurors played in silence, smoke steadily beginning to fill the room.