Nox World
This is my disclaimer. I don't own a thing.
"Oi, John! There are customers over there what need serving. Get to it!"
Jonathon Nott smiled at the barkeeper, stood up, and took the two mugs that were offered to him. His walk was slow. Slow, deliberate – though that could have been because he was being careful not to spill the firewhiskey in both mugs. His small, secretive smile as he set the mugs down, however, had no practical reason.
"Enjoy your drinks," he offered quietly to the couple, glancing at their wands, set out on the side of the table. His glance switched to the window, then back to the couple. "Stormy weather approaching, it seems."
"It was sunny earlier," the young woman pointed out, smiling.
And then they were dead.
The streets of Hogsmeade were patterned with muddy puddles and scorch marks from spells gone wrong, but Alastor Moody hardly noticed as he sprinted down them, occasionally stepping in a puddle or almost slipping on a scorch mark. He was familiar with the chase. And he loved it.
His way was only barely lit by torches, but it was enough (had he had enough time to slow down and light his wand, he would have, but the chase, cruel mistress that it was, didn't allow that). Rounding a corner, sliding over a slippery scorch mark, he spotted the dark figure he was following slipping into the shadows of a long street. The road to Knockturn Alley. Frowning, Alastor slowed his run and padded towards the shadows. So that was how the bastard wanted to play it, was it?
Alastor knew the chase all too well. Knockturn Alley was a prime escape for his victim. Every shop, every house would be willing to hide a Death Eater on the run. Every person – every being - would be willing to protect a Death Eater, on the run or not. Knockturn Alley was where the chase stopped and the fight began.
Alastor quickly took his wand out of his pocket and slipped it up his sleeve. He needed it close, but he couldn't walk through Knockturn Alley with a wand out. It made one a walking target.
That done, he disappeared into the shadows after his victim.
Knockturn Alley came to life at night. Every single shop opened (and the hidden parts that the owners couldn't allow 'normal folk' to see were unveiled), the whores and the pickpockets came out to play. The Death Eaters drank in peace at the local pubs. And it was alive now as Alastor walked through it, taking care not to get too close to the obvious pickpockets.
"Hey, sweet'eart, you got any brass on you?" a voice near his ear slurred and a moment later, he felt a tongue touch it. He stepped away quickly, to see a deathly pale whore grinning at him, displaying yellow teeth.
"None of your business," he replied quickly, turning away and pacing forward again. Look for the shifty ones, he thought, glancing at the various people lining the streets. More whores, in tattered, worn dresses that had been ripped to show too much cleavage; beggars slumped against stone walls; thieves and pickpockets. No sign of Nott. Alastor cursed internally. He'd lost one too many to the tight-knit crowd in Knockturn Alley. He couldn't afford to lose anyone else.
"Did you see a man pass through here?" he asked the person nearest – from the look of them, they were a pickpocket, Alastor supposed. "Tall, with greying hair?" He knew it would most likely do little good, seeing as Knockturn Alley had a closed door attitude to strangers and no help was given – but, as much as he hated to admit it, he'd lost the trail of Nott.
"I didn't see nobody," the stranger slurred, bringing up one dirty sleeve and wiping his nose on it. Alastor wrinkled his nose in thinly veiled disdain and turned away wordlessly.
A gleam from a otherwise ordinary window caught his eye. The window of bookshop, he realised, walking closer towards it and peering through the glass. It was dark. He could make out the outline of a desk and a chair behind it and of course, a lot of books, but the source of the gleam wasn't clear. He sighed, straightening up and turning away. It was a dead end. Probably a light reflecting off of the glass or something, he decided. He suddenly jumped, as a hand shot out from the door and clutched at him, forcing him inside the house.
"Let me g--" he was cut off by a second hand around his mouth. Struggling desperately, he shoved his weight back against the person holding him, to no avail. They were too strong. He tried again, managing to slam his capturer into the wall. They didn't release their grip, tightening it painfully. He let out a strangled sound, muffled by the hand over his mouth.
The sound of distant voices stilled his struggles and he cooperated as he was forced down into a chair. Concentrating so hard on the voices, he hardly noticed as his capturer uttered a spell under their breath and their wand emitted ropes, binding him to the chair.
"Is he in there?"
"Yes – you want to speak to him?"
Alastor strained to hear more but the already quiet voices were drowned out by louder, almost barked words from his captor, who sat across from him, wand still out.
"So. You're Alastor Moody."
"I am," Alastor growled in return, managing a wry grin. "And who might you be, may I ask?" He took the chance to get a better look at his surroundings, noting the hauntingly familiar titles on the spines of the books – Morsmordre: A History of the Death Eaters, The Knights of Walpurgis.
"My name's not important. You're an Auror, isn't that right? On the trail of Jonathan Nott, if I'm not mistaken."
Alastor had a hunch that if he didn't deny this, the next words from the other man's mouth would be Avada Kedavra, but he knew that his name was well-known – and that everyone, especially those in Knockturn Alley, knew he was an Auror.
"Yes."
To Alastor's surprise, the face of his captor lit up. They stood up, murmuring the counter spell – Alastor flinched as the ropes turned to dust around him, and rubbed at his sore wrist - and held out their hand for him to shake.
"Then I need your help, sir."
This is my disclaimer. I don't own a thing.
"Oi, John! There are customers over there what need serving. Get to it!"
Jonathon Nott smiled at the barkeeper, stood up, and took the two mugs that were offered to him. His walk was slow. Slow, deliberate – though that could have been because he was being careful not to spill the firewhiskey in both mugs. His small, secretive smile as he set the mugs down, however, had no practical reason.
"Enjoy your drinks," he offered quietly to the couple, glancing at their wands, set out on the side of the table. His glance switched to the window, then back to the couple. "Stormy weather approaching, it seems."
"It was sunny earlier," the young woman pointed out, smiling.
And then they were dead.
The streets of Hogsmeade were patterned with muddy puddles and scorch marks from spells gone wrong, but Alastor Moody hardly noticed as he sprinted down them, occasionally stepping in a puddle or almost slipping on a scorch mark. He was familiar with the chase. And he loved it.
His way was only barely lit by torches, but it was enough (had he had enough time to slow down and light his wand, he would have, but the chase, cruel mistress that it was, didn't allow that). Rounding a corner, sliding over a slippery scorch mark, he spotted the dark figure he was following slipping into the shadows of a long street. The road to Knockturn Alley. Frowning, Alastor slowed his run and padded towards the shadows. So that was how the bastard wanted to play it, was it?
Alastor knew the chase all too well. Knockturn Alley was a prime escape for his victim. Every shop, every house would be willing to hide a Death Eater on the run. Every person – every being - would be willing to protect a Death Eater, on the run or not. Knockturn Alley was where the chase stopped and the fight began.
Alastor quickly took his wand out of his pocket and slipped it up his sleeve. He needed it close, but he couldn't walk through Knockturn Alley with a wand out. It made one a walking target.
That done, he disappeared into the shadows after his victim.
Knockturn Alley came to life at night. Every single shop opened (and the hidden parts that the owners couldn't allow 'normal folk' to see were unveiled), the whores and the pickpockets came out to play. The Death Eaters drank in peace at the local pubs. And it was alive now as Alastor walked through it, taking care not to get too close to the obvious pickpockets.
"Hey, sweet'eart, you got any brass on you?" a voice near his ear slurred and a moment later, he felt a tongue touch it. He stepped away quickly, to see a deathly pale whore grinning at him, displaying yellow teeth.
"None of your business," he replied quickly, turning away and pacing forward again. Look for the shifty ones, he thought, glancing at the various people lining the streets. More whores, in tattered, worn dresses that had been ripped to show too much cleavage; beggars slumped against stone walls; thieves and pickpockets. No sign of Nott. Alastor cursed internally. He'd lost one too many to the tight-knit crowd in Knockturn Alley. He couldn't afford to lose anyone else.
"Did you see a man pass through here?" he asked the person nearest – from the look of them, they were a pickpocket, Alastor supposed. "Tall, with greying hair?" He knew it would most likely do little good, seeing as Knockturn Alley had a closed door attitude to strangers and no help was given – but, as much as he hated to admit it, he'd lost the trail of Nott.
"I didn't see nobody," the stranger slurred, bringing up one dirty sleeve and wiping his nose on it. Alastor wrinkled his nose in thinly veiled disdain and turned away wordlessly.
A gleam from a otherwise ordinary window caught his eye. The window of bookshop, he realised, walking closer towards it and peering through the glass. It was dark. He could make out the outline of a desk and a chair behind it and of course, a lot of books, but the source of the gleam wasn't clear. He sighed, straightening up and turning away. It was a dead end. Probably a light reflecting off of the glass or something, he decided. He suddenly jumped, as a hand shot out from the door and clutched at him, forcing him inside the house.
"Let me g--" he was cut off by a second hand around his mouth. Struggling desperately, he shoved his weight back against the person holding him, to no avail. They were too strong. He tried again, managing to slam his capturer into the wall. They didn't release their grip, tightening it painfully. He let out a strangled sound, muffled by the hand over his mouth.
The sound of distant voices stilled his struggles and he cooperated as he was forced down into a chair. Concentrating so hard on the voices, he hardly noticed as his capturer uttered a spell under their breath and their wand emitted ropes, binding him to the chair.
"Is he in there?"
"Yes – you want to speak to him?"
Alastor strained to hear more but the already quiet voices were drowned out by louder, almost barked words from his captor, who sat across from him, wand still out.
"So. You're Alastor Moody."
"I am," Alastor growled in return, managing a wry grin. "And who might you be, may I ask?" He took the chance to get a better look at his surroundings, noting the hauntingly familiar titles on the spines of the books – Morsmordre: A History of the Death Eaters, The Knights of Walpurgis.
"My name's not important. You're an Auror, isn't that right? On the trail of Jonathan Nott, if I'm not mistaken."
Alastor had a hunch that if he didn't deny this, the next words from the other man's mouth would be Avada Kedavra, but he knew that his name was well-known – and that everyone, especially those in Knockturn Alley, knew he was an Auror.
"Yes."
To Alastor's surprise, the face of his captor lit up. They stood up, murmuring the counter spell – Alastor flinched as the ropes turned to dust around him, and rubbed at his sore wrist - and held out their hand for him to shake.
"Then I need your help, sir."