Suspected
Chapter Six: A Moody Confrontation
In the past three years, it was customary—or it had become more of a habit rather than an actual courtesy—for Rita to simply show up at the prospective Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher's home as pre-requisite for understanding the foundation of her new boss: with Quirrell, she had simply Apparated into his home (in hindsight, quite peculiar that a man with the Dark Lord on the back of his head had not a single Protection Charm around his home); with Gilderoy Lockhart, all Rita had to do was simply find him at the closest bookshop where he had mistaken her for a potential fondling of his many 'achievements'. Last year, Rita had showed up in the middle of Lupin's kitchen.
Although it was tempting to meet Mad-Eye before the school year began, Rita gave warning that if she were to suddenly appear in his home, he'd jinx her on sight—if she could even enter his house without being propelled off the property to begin with by a Protection Charm. Opting for some fresh air, Rita noted to Snape that she was stepping out for a drink ("If you should come home sloshed again," Snape had said on her way out the door, "Please don't break anything; just crawl into bed, please), and went out to a local pub just a few blocks away.
Sitting in the corner furthest away from the entrance, though keeping a very good eye on the closest exit, Rita slid into a booth, placed her glass of sherry onto a coaster, and unfurled The Daily Prophet onto the table.
"SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP" was the headline, prompting the black and white photograph of the Dark Mark suspended over a tree line. Skimming the rest of the article, Rita caught several words that wrinkled her nose with disgust: ministry blunders…culprits not apprehended…lax security…Dark Wizards running unchecked…national disgrace… Rita pointed to the author of such rubbish: Rita Skeeter.
There were cruel people in the world that would torture and kill, much like Rita had done in the First Wizarding War—and then there was Rita Skeeter, a woman who did as much with libel and slander for profit. A Prophet for profit. She could have had no evidence whatsoever, and she still managed to write: 'If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen—'
To have the same name as a skiving bitch like Skeeter—
"There weren't any bodies," Rita remarked irritably, shoving The Daily Prophet aside.
"Is that right? Would you know because you were there?"
The voice, graveled, deep, and filled with malice made Rita jump—She withdrew her wand immediately from her robes, and turned in her booth to point it at a man whom was missing a large chunk out of his nose, meeting her hostile gaze with a swiveling blue eye and a normal, brown eye—Mad-Eye Moody…
Moody frowned at her, and with a bold hand, he lowered her wand from his face and indicated the rest of the patrons—
"Put that down, lass, Muggles are here too." He ushered her to scoot to the wall, "Scooch."
Rita stared at him suspiciously, but considering all of the witnesses within sight, she allocated space for him to sit down beside her. However, her hand gripped the base of her wand tightly at the height of her knee, ready to react in case he was ready to curse her—
"Oi," Moody gestured to one of the waiters, "I'll have whatever this lass is having."
Rita waited for the waiter to leave before speaking. "What are you doing here?"
"Let's get one thing straight, the elephant in the room," said Moody in his gravel, hoarse voice, hinted with a threat. "I don't care what the bastards at the Ministry are saying, but I know that little Mark on your arm is tingling—" All the while, Rita stared at him, taken aback by his forthright manner— "And as much as you've got the others to believe that you're on the straight and narrow path, everything about you stinks Dark Witch."
"Excuse me?" Rita began to object, but Moody silenced her as the waiter came back with his drink.
He didn't speak again until the waiter left their table.
Rita went to take a sip of her glass of sherry; Moody casually grabbed her wrist pointedly; and while she attempted to rip her greying fingers out of his grasp, he was quietly firm despite her objection:
"Dark Magic leaves traces, Rita." Moody whispered. "Your fingers are black as hell. And that ring on your finger tells me that you found a Dark Wizard who can tolerate your dabbling—Snape, eh? That the last name you've decided to take."
Rita frowned at him. "So, you wanted to confront me one-on-one instead of at the Staff Table, hm? Wanted to do it here?"
"Better than you coming to my house," said Moody. "I got enough trouble keeping the likes of you away from my fucking home without thinking that you're gonna pop in to give me a 'proper' greeting…"
Moody released her hand.
He gave his own glass a good swig before saying, "You wouldn't have been able to penetrate it, by the way."
"I'd have assumed you had it rigged—"
"Protected," Moody corrected her sternly. "That kind of proves my point now, doesn't it? Criminals alike call it 'rigged'. Just like all your friends call him 'The Dark Lord'. All of you have your own language—I don't call him that. He's Lord Voldemort—"
"Could you not?" Rita objected loudly.
"See, see," Moody breathed with triumph, "There it is. Now, how's your old flame, Bellatrix?"
Wow, Rita thought, staring at him. He's really covering all the bases, isn't he?
"She's fine," was how she answered her question, though her tone shook disdainfully. A touchy subject.
"I might not have been able to put you away, but I managed to put away your friends—"
"What do you want, a gold star?" Rita said waspishly, trying to maintain a low voice in the presence of Muggles in the pub. She wanted to shout at him. He was trying to provoke her, perhaps, by bringing up the fact that the majority of her friends—and her only family outside of her husband—had been imprisoned for the same crimes that she had committed.
"You're dirty," said Moody, "And eventually, you will slip up, and I'll prove it; and not even Dumbledore can save you. I know everything about your little visits to Azkaban with Madame Lestrange—You'll knock that off as long as I am your employer."
Rita frowned at him. "God, you really hate me, don't you?"
"Everyone makes mistakes, Rita," said Moody. "But at some point, if you constantly repeat those mistakes, it becomes a choice. And you made yours, didn't you?"
"If you hate me that much, and you knew I was going to be your aid, why take the job to begin with, Alastor?" Rita replied coldly.
"I took the job because Dumbledore asked me to." Mad-Eye answered. "The point of this conversation is that I want you to know exactly where you and I stand. And I think that I made that point quite clear. So…I think that I'll be leaving. I'll see you at work." He rose to his feet, and with one final grimace, he left Rita at the booth.
Rita stared after him, feeling a bit threatened…and more vulnerable than she did before he had sat down beside her.