Moody's POV.

So apparently my touchpad said goodbye? Had to go and get my mouse to be able to finish this...

Chapter 3: Alastor Moody

The door to the Auror Office slammed against the wall, and about half the common space looked up from their work – the other half was too taken by the work they'd almost all been redirected at after the evening's news to really notice – to look at the wizard who'd opened it so violently.

No one came into the Auror Office slamming doors – not unless they were amongst their superiors, and those generally didn't have that kind of temper – and anyone who'd do such a thing would end up with several trained aurors and possibly hit wizards aiming their wands at them.

In fact, amongst those who'd looked, most had their wand drawn and ready to aim at the intruder – as well as one of the witches who hadn't looked up, but was still aiming the tip of her pear-tree wand perfectly.

Of course, when they recognized the wizard's identity – not a particularly difficult feat, considering he'd spent twenty-seven years working there, and even now was teaching in the Auror Training Program as a retiree, which meant that he knew absolutely everyone here – they concluded there was nothing to fear – except perhaps a telling-off for letting down their wands without actually checking he was in fact himself and not someone impersonating Alastor Moody.

What, exactly, he was doing here today was as much of a mystery – the ATP facilities weren't at the Ministry, unlike the Auror Office – as it was obvious – no one doubted the evening news had brought him here.

Alastor Moody squinted at the aurors going back to their work – all of them, almost, on the same case, because never before had there been an escape from Azkaban – but did not comment, his magical eye scanning for the Office's Head.

Alastor may be retired, but he would not sit this one out, and Rufus would let him.

Because Rufus Scrimgeour had been one of the aurors assigned to James Potter's Training Program – with Arcea Fawley, who Alastor could see combing through a heavy stack of files with bullheaded anger, possibly because they'd been filed by the very man they were tracking, between 1979 and 1981.

Because Alastor – with Eveline Smith, who wasn't here right now, maybe combing through Azkaban in search of an answer – had been one of the aurors assigned to that wizard's Training Program.

Because by the 31st of October 1981, neither Rufus nor Alastor were supervising either James Potter or him, but they still had lost both their students before they could even graduate the ATP.

And even if no one would say anything about it – even if most didn't know – because Alastor had worked with the escapee in Albus' Order.

Because there was one thing Alastor despised more than any other kind of depravity, and it was betrayal – and he was quite certain, despite what some people said, that Black hadn't always been a plant, for all that his allegiances had obviously shifted by the end of the war.

His magical eye spotted Rufus Scrimgeour, standing next to a dark-skinned – Kingsley Shacklebolt, if he remembered right, Arcea had supervised his TP too – auror in his late twenties, and an older, lighter-skinned witch with coiled hair wearing a hit-witch uniform – he remembered her, Holly Harker, muggleborn, she'd gotten promoted to head of her team just before 1981.

As he turned around and headed for Rufus, his magical eye continued searching, until it fell on pink hair with red tips – angry, then. Nymphadora Tonks hadn't yet finished her TP, but she was in the third phase of auror training – a team of three or four trainees under the authority of a senior auror – and therefore was allowed on the field.

Alastor focused back on Rufus, sparing only some of his attention to evaluate all possible threats and keeping an eye on Shacklebolt and Harker.

The head auror looked about to say something about his presence – but they both knew it wouldn't change anything, because like it or not the retiree would investigate Black's evasion, and it would be better for everyone if they pooled their resources.

"What do you know."

He didn't bother with an interrogative tone, lost somewhere in the grunt of his voice.

"You're retired, Alastor."

"Great. I'm enjoying the liberty to do whatever I want instead of working. What do you know?"

Rufus sighed, exasperated, but moved so that his former colleague could stand next to him and see the files in front of him – not that reading upside down had been a problem for Alastor, not since he'd gotten that eye after Rookwood had cursed his original one dry as they'd gone to arrest him. Shacklebolt and Harker gave him a nod, but didn't say anything.

They were looking at a transcript of dementor speech, Alastor could say – he'd recognize the lack of personal pronouns anywhere, none of the translators ever managed to insert those without it sounding even more unsettling. He scanned it as the head auror started talking.

"Dawlish brought Esta Goldhorn to Azkaban at 2 p.m., and decided to show her Black before leading her to her cell in the Rodin wing. When they got to his cell, it was empty, yet still closed, and next thing Dawlish knows, he's on the floor in a trance, his patronus nuzzling him awake, and Goldhorn is dead, suffocated. He's at St Mungo's, right now, but he's awake and not overly injured."

Alastor grunted – the transcript explained how Black had been inside the cell when a dementor had brought the midday's meal, and how his soul had dimmed by the time they'd left, almost as if he wasn't there anymore. Which, considering the next events, had to be taken more literally than it had been at the time. It still didn't explain how the lad – Black – had gotten past the door, considering that meant passing right by the dementor opening it, which was never a good idea.

"Yeah, Black did that a couple of times when he was shadowing Eveline and me. Not that he was supposed to, phase 2 of ATP, follow and observe a duo of certified aurors, only intervene in case of emergency or with the blessing of your supervisors, but he never quite liked sticking to rules. Had a wandless trick, if he could get both his hands on your head you'd go into a trance for a couple of minutes, though the people he did that to didn't fall to the ground or notice any of it; he's probably rusty and unable to focus, what with the dementors. Useful when you have to pass by a sentinel without being noticed."

There was a moment of silence, during which Rufus refused to look up from the transcript – people had done that a lot, after someone inside the Auror Office or the Hit Wizard Squadron was revealed to be a traitor. Refusing to speak of it, unless it was directly addressed. There had been Garrell and Deschamps – passed intel to the other side – Higgins – Death Eater – and Ravyar – disappearing evidence, only found out after half the trials had happened – amongst the hit wizards, and Julius Travers – killed, ironically, by Black himself, during a scuffle against Death Eaters – and Rowena Robards – who would close cases even with active leads during the war – for the Auror Office.

Black, of course.

But today was a day when none of them got to pretend he hadn't been one of them.

That they hadn't been betrayed.

"Dragon's breath, Rufus, I taught the goddamn traitor."

Diplomatically – but Alastor wasn't one for diplomacy – the head auror answered:

"You taught about half the people here, Alastor. That's what happens when you alternate between taking slots as a teacher on the program and supervising phase 2 trainees for twenty years."

"Let me rephrase: Black was, specifically, my trainee from June 1979 to June 1980. Most of what he knows about evading the Auror Office comes from me teaching him how to catch dark wiz..."

Alastor cut his words short and spun around, wand in hand, to intercept the projectile aiming for the back of his head.

The quill stopped its trajectory about two inches from his face – and one inch from the tip of his wand – and the whole common space fell silent, their eyes stuck on the scene.

Alastor growled at the witch who'd thrown her quill at him – he'd noticed someone coming in as he'd started talking with Rufus, but he hadn't realized it was her, and here they were.

Eveline Smith looked livid – the news, the escapee, Alastor's words, certainly – with her notepad stuck under her arm but without the quill that went with it. She'd just gotten back from Azkaban, he surmised.

They'd supervised Black together for a whole year, and neither of them had thought...

Well, of course, Alastor had been careful. He'd doubted his trainee, more than once, but he'd done that for every other trainee before and after Black, so it wasn't quite the same as being actively suspicious of the lad's intentions. He was reasonably certain – reasonably, because doubt was a good thing, it was necessary – that Black hadn't been turned yet, when the three of them worked together.

"Don't hog the freaking glory, Mad-Eye! I've got as much to blame myself for as you do, he was my trainee too!"

Alastor only grunted as Rufus stepped between them, a stern look on his face. He had other things to do than deal with the witch's anger, and Rufus was welcome to it.

So he refocused on the two who remained – Harker and Shacklebolt – and went on.

"As I was saying: Black knows every trick we do, because he worked here, however short that particular stint turned out to be. He was one month away from graduating the ATP, and there was no doubt that he would."

He stopped at that, his magical eye going back to one of his earlier concerns – he saw Rufus berating Eveline, and asking her if she knew more, but that wasn't what he was looking for.

"Speaking of which, Tonks, come over here and be a useful trainee, we're talking about your goddamn cousin here."

The young witch started from where she was talking with the other trainees on her team, looked at her supervisor – Robards, a distant cousin of Rowena, nodded – and made her way to them.

By the time she'd joined Alastor, Shacklebolt and Harker, the red tips to her pink hair were turning a darker shade, taking over the rest of the hair – only the roots remained pink. Alastor made a face; she still wasn't in complete control of her emotions, if her hair kept acting like a mood ring. He remembered her very well from phase 1 – intensive training, with lessons – and while she was very good at most of the curriculum, her clumsiness and the heart on her sleeve were her weak points.

Not at all like Black, who'd been able to lock away any emotion, but mostly hadn't bothered – Azkaban may have eaten away at that capacity, of course – and who'd moved like a predator half the time.

The thing with Black...

Tonks scowled at them, but Alastor suspected it had more to do with the whole situation than anything else.

"What about him?"

A pointed look at the common space – almost everyone working on the man's escape – and Tonks blushed, embarrassed.

"I mean, what about me, about him and me, not that I've seen him at all, he's..."

Alastor decided to end her misery – if only because he didn't have the time for that.

"You remember him? He used to visit your mother, back before his change of heart."

Tonks shifted on her feet, nose scrunched up, obviously far from eager to talk about her mother's family – understandable, considering Bellatrix Lestrange had harassed her family for about four months before deciding she'd rather torture the Longbottoms into insanity.

And the witch pushed against the desk, sending the transcript and a few other files to the floor, before swearing – her mother would wash her mouth with muggle soap for that, but Andromeda Tonks wasn't here – and diving to get it back.

"A bit, yeah. Was eight when he..."

She gathered the papers and parchments, and stood back up – sending the desk screeching two inches back as her elbow collided with it, but Harker and Shacklebolt had apparently seen it coming, because they rested their weight on the desk and prevented it from moving further.

"Ouch, Circe, Merlin, Salazar and Helga!"

Alastor stared at her, waiting for the young witch to get back to it – though, he noted, her mother's family shone by her choices of swear words. Merlin was common enough in the wizarding world, but also one of the very first students of Slytherin House; Circe was used mostly by witches and the Black family, and there was a casual debate over whether she'd have been in Slytherin or Ravenclaw dating back to the sixteenth century; Salazar had to come from her mother, because slytherin alumni were the most numerous using that one. Helga was the only one revealing her as a hufflepuff alumna.

She'd probably thought of the Blacks a lot more than usual in the last hours.

Tonks winced, and continued.

"Anyway. Black visited, what, maybe a half a dozen times in the last year. Less than before. Mom said she'd thought he was being more paranoid than ever, but apart from that, she didn't suspect a thing. I think she came to the conclusion that something happened sometimes during 1980, because she's certain he wasn't on their side before that."

"Hmm."

Alastor didn't know what to say to that. It was more or less his conclusion, too, and he couldn't exactly say that paranoia was a telling symptom of being a traitor – not without being hypocritical. Of course, being a traitor could cause paranoia, but there had been a lot of reasons to be paranoid back then.

So he focused back on the now and here.

"Bloody Black. Intelligent, vicious, and powerful. Great on our side, not so much on the other. Any idea what he wants?"

Nymphadora Tonks – he knew what she looked like, under the masks she put on thanks to her abilities, and while she didn't quite look like a Black, she had her mother's hair and eye color, and he'd recognize those cheekbones anywhere. And her mother looked uncomfortably like Tonks' aunt – to the point that, during those months spent harassing the family, Bellatrix had almost gotten her hands on her niece when her muggle school teacher hadn't spotted the differences. Alastor would never forget the day Andromeda Tonks had called the Auror Office about her sister almost abducting her half-blood daughter.

The girl – yes, she was of age now, but she also wasn't yet twenty, she was still a trainee – shrugged.

"Well, I'd say nothing good, maybe going after Harry Potter or his son, because he's Potter's godfather, and..."

Shacklebolt let his quill fall on the desk at the statement.

"He's what?!"

Everyone present winced – Harker passing a scarred hand across her throat, possibly remembering the old days, when James Potter and Sirius Black would skip into work together and leave at the same time for a drink; or an Order meeting, but she couldn't know about that.

It fell back on him, he guessed.

"Black and Potter, they were thick as thieves. That's why he could betray the Potters, because they trusted him enough to make him their Secret Keeper."

Albus had spent eight months researching obscures, Middle-Aged wards, spells that weren't used anymore, magicks the other side wouldn't guess at, because no one remembered them. The Fidelius Charm had fallen out of use by the middle of the fifteenth century – use it too often, and random people would get tortured for nothing even if a Secret Keeper could only give the information willingly – and only the ones who were directly involved, Black for the Potters, and Augusta for the Longbottoms, were to know the specifics of it. The name of the charm itself.

Because if no one knew what they used, no one could figure out the way around it.

Even with the traitor they had suspected to be within the Order, Black hadn't needed to go into hiding, because no one but himself, the Potters, the Longbottoms and Albus knew there was a Secret Keeper.

"For the good it did them."

Of course, the traitor hadn't needed to know to look for the Secret Keeper.

Back then, Alastor wouldn't have thought – he'd taught the bloody murderer, after all, and never before had Black shown anything about being on Voldemort's side. Betraying the Order, the aurors, and the Potters? He'd been blindsided – but a lot of betrayals were unexpected, back then, and this one wasn't any different.

Nobody had suspected Julius Travers – halfblood, the bastard child of Lord Travers, auror – until Black had exploded the man's head while he'd been out as a Death Eater. Travers had murdered his own father three years before that, because he blamed Lord Travers for being a halfblood, unlike his pureblooded sisters, but no one had suspected.

So no, Alastor wouldn't have pegged Black as a traitor, back then.

However, if someone had told him that Black would be jailed for murder? That he could have believed. Sirius Black had been an angry piece of work, with a vicious streak a mile wild. He'd never really cared about the pain he inflicted, though he hadn't ever gone out of his way to do it either. He'd been able to do about anything necessary, even if – especially if – it involved dark magic. He'd once executed seven death eaters – Julius Travers amongst them, actually – in a row to protect a muggleborn kid, while still in training and waiting for reinforcement – shouldn't have been out there alone to begin with, damn phase 2 trainee who couldn't listen to instructions. When Alastor had gotten there, three of the attackers had lost their heads, and Black was dripping blood with three crying children in his arms.

Whatever had happened, had happened long after that. Maybe his cousin had gotten to him at some point, maybe they'd managed to... persuade him one way or another. Maybe they'd gotten their hands on him for long enough, long enough to change his mind, long enough to twist his mind around.

Maybe he'd finally acknowledged that something was rotten in him, and who cared if his master was campaigning for something he didn't believe in himself – something which had gotten his own brother killed, if the rumors were to be believed – as long as he was given the opportunity to do the things he had no problem doing, but no one else considered acceptable

"Anyway. His goals. He could be going after Potter or his child, or he could be trying to disappear. Either way he needs to be discreet. Can't go around looking like the wanted posters. He doesn't have a wand either, so no glamours. Might want to..."

A hit wizard shoed his way in the conversation, sharing a look with Harker before looking at Alastor.

"A message from Dumbledore, Sir."

"Well, bloody read it!"

He'd snapped, he was aware of it, but that wasn't exactly unusual. Like for diplomacy, Alastor Moddy wasn't known for his good temper.

The hit wizard didn't let it faze him, anyway. Alastor didn't recognize him, probably a newbie, but at least he had his head screwed on right. Might make it in that job – the Hit Wizard Squadron didn't ask for the same qualifications as the Auror Office, only four months of training, and about half the graduates changed jobs before the five years mark.

"Says a safe house from the war was accessed, Sir. When he got there after an alarm went off, the headmaster found cut-off black hair, a rag of prisoner robes, and a message for a Remus Lupin?"

"Lupin?"

Moody's eye twisted off to look through the parchment, as if to read the text himself – as if it would say something else, should he be the one to look.

"What did it say?"

The hit wizard cleared his throat, and pulled open a strip of parchment attached to the letter he'd come with.

"'Find me if you can.'"

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Alastor grabbed for the letter himself, before reading it again on his own. He was aware of Harker, Tonks and Shacklebolt staring at him, waiting for further instructions.

He couldn't help but feel that something was very, very wrong.

He looked back at the hit wizard, who was politely waiting for more orders and didn't seem at all intimidated by Alastor's barking.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Give us the address, we're getting a look there!"

Then he looked at the others, and completed – he wasn't in charge, he was retired, for Helga's sake, but no one seemed to mind, and he wasn't going to complain when they did what he thought best. Though he might have to complain, later, that apparently they couldn't think for themselves in the first place.

"Harker, you and your team, you come and secure the place. Shacklebolt, go and find your partner, you're heading this investigation, aren't you? Tonks, ask your supervisor if you can come along, and by ask I mean make him understand you are coming with us on the hunt for your other psychopathic family member."

Ten minutes later, they were all portkeying to the safe house after a trip to level 6, where the Portkey Office was hidden away in a corner. You couldn't apparate to a place you didn't know, and Alastor wasn't going to side-along apparate seven people even if he more or less recognized the address – if only because you couldn't side-along apparate that many people.

They found themselves in a dark alley – and Alastor, indeed, remembered the place, he'd used it a couple of times with the Order, amongst which a mission with Lupin and Black. This explained that, apparently.

Harker dispatched her team to secure the alley, and accompanied them, leaving Alastor with Tonks, Shacklebolt and Balrock. He sent them to look for clues and anything of import in the alley itself – they'd deal with the inside later.

Almost immediately afterward, Albus walked out of the safehouse and greeted him.

The old wizard looked grim and shook his head when Alastor asked him if he'd found anything more since he'd sent his message. They walked back in, and started looking again, but no – they could see the matted, cut hair in the bin, the closet opened wide with the rags Black used to wear in Azkaban thrown on the floor, and obviously he'd taken the opportunity to raid the canned food and the leftover energy squares from the war.

Alastor was looking at the message for Lupin when Tonks and Balrock came in, saying they hadn't found anything new. There was a big, black dog sniffing around in the next street – a rotation to his magical eye and Alastor could verify that – but that was about it.

"Shacklebolt is asking people if they saw anything, but no one really spends time here, so."

He was listening, trying one more spell on the message – it didn't reveal anything, seemed to be only ink and nothing nefarious or secret behind that – but his eye doesn't leave the silhouette of the dog he can make out through the walls of two successive buildings.

He'd had a discussion about grims, once, with Black. The lad had been adamant that it was all superstitions, and that the only thing magical about a live grim was its ability to see through magical lies, and the effects of its fangs on the products of necromancy – utter destruction, to be precise. Which was true, because grims lived in dangerous lands, and they were only an omen of death in that you were traipsing in a lethal place should you see one.

The dog, from what he could make out with his magical eye, could have been a grim, had it not been so underfed.

Tonks looked out the window.

"You think he's well enough to apparate?"

Good question. Apparition didn't need a wand, nothing which affected the whole body – and not only its appearance or its state – did, and though it could be traced, it was extremely difficult to do so, especially if you tried that a long time after the fact. But no.

Balrock answered for him, though, as she started looking methodically through the bathroom.

"If he wants to splinch himself, sure. Whatever state he was in after eleven years in Azkaban, he's lacking a lot. You have to be healthy enough to apparate. Or to do magic in general, actually."

Tonks scoffed, and levitated the matted hair from the bin, in case something else was in there.

"Well, that didn't stop him from killing Esta Goldhorn."

Only silence met her claim – and she wasn't wrong, and they all knew it, but.

"There's no proof."

"What?"

"There's no proof. He didn't have a wand, no physical marks on her, and she died of suffocation. There's also no point looking for residual dark magic, not with all the dementors around."

Alastor remembered how Black was always very good with the breathless hex – two dead that way, amongst the seven Death Eaters attacking a muggleborn – and wondered.

His magical eye caught some movement in the alley – but it was only the dog sniffing his way around the street, with Harker and her team keeping an eye on it.