The Moody One
Chapter one
Her
The Moody's were not normal, neither were they pretty. A mother without a smile, a father without chuckle, and a son, well, the locals dare not speak his name in fear of him haunting them whilst they lie tucked up in bed. They were not conservative, a little out of the box, their idea of fun was to be as departed from the community as possible. That was what made them interesting.
It was forty years since the elder generation had passed on, whilst the lad was away at school, they froze to death as they refused to venture outside for fuel for the fire, and so the son grew up, awkward, but nevertheless taller than what he was before.
For many years he went missing, rumours circled the rural village of his flight; that he had been brought up to become a butcher in a far off land, that he had joined the circus, that his cousin had become famous and had commissioned him to do her hair for her, that he had fallen in love with a Russian gymnast, sold his possessions and gone on the run from the bailiffs. Truth be told, it was much less exciting; he became an auror.
It wasn't a glamorous life. His clothes often reeked and he was often accused of being a little too fond of an odd tipple here and there but he was happy.
"Alastor!" An enquiring shout came from the door. It was heavily bolted and gleamed alluringly whenever the sun shone "its Minerva, I have to speak to you"
The old man pulled himself out of the bath; his scars form his fights giving an odd distortion to his frame, as though a hug would pierce his partner's skin. Quickly he covered himself with a towel, roughly checked his reflection and hurried down the chintz-covered stairs grumbling madly all the way.
"Alastor, may I remind you that it is the middle of winter and I appreciate that you may have lost body parts to worse fates, but I on the other hand would like to keep my corpse in tact for the worms in my grave." The stern voice carried throughout the house, echoing from cobweb-covered corners. Creaks of the bolts sent a shrill chill down the toga wearing auror's back, he knew that his judders would be made worse in the next few minutes with his "favourite" lady as company. Alas, it would be over soon enough.
She strode into the house, tight lipped as ever, just the way he remembered her. "Ah, Minerva, how lovely to see you here at this very late, almost time for you to leave and me to go to bed, hour and to what honour do I owe this pleasure?" She stared him up and down, turning her nose up at the ceiling to avoid his nudity but then seeing the yellow, stain riddled mass of tiles, diverted her attention to a dusty, old, carriage clock that rested on the mantelpiece.
"erm, yes, err, well" the resident naturist chuckled to himself, it was not often that someone managed to stir the unbreakable Minerva McGonagall's unalterable formalities. He took the chance to notice a few grey hairs on the old girl's head and thought he saw a couple change whilst she was stood there. How he would have loved for him to be the cause of McGonagall's telltale symbol of old age.
"well" she continued "I'm here to discuss the current state of affairs at the Leaky Cauldron, of course I will wait until you have made yourself decent for I do not expect that a towel is what you usually wear when in company"
"my house elf friends say its very flattering but if its what the lady wants" and with that, he traipsed back upstairs whilst McGonagall continued to inspect the downstairs area, not sitting down, considering it a hazard to her health.
Moody returned to the living room to the severe woman, his robes, not his best, but if she did not care about her intrusive greys, then he certainly did not care about his canned-food-stained, mouldy robes. His thoughts were cut short and forgotten though, as she unclasped her dragon skin handbag with a snap, which reminded Moody of a bone he had once broken fighting a particularly dim-witted death eater.
He tried to feign surprise and gave a tiny gasp when she excluded from her bag with her long fingers and rounded nails, a tiny set of muggle clothes, "Don't even pretend that you didn't know it was in there," she said, an air of grace – or snobbery as Alastor liked to call it – covering her face, "I've heard all about that eye of yours"
"I in return have heard all about your charitable nature, doesn't mean its true does it."
he tried to close his eyelid, something he had not done in years due to the fact his magically enhanced glass eyeball was enormous. The lady chuckled to herself as she watched the distorted face look, strangely, more natural than it had ever been before.
"the fact remains" she continued, pushing past the interruption, "that these little things remain the most lethal objects in our society"
"So, why isn't the ministry telling me this? Where's the official fanfare, the piles of galleons? Why do you, a teacher for Pete's sake, make it your business to tell me about miniature clothes that are more suited to muggle children's play things?"
He turned away and pretended to make himself busy inspecting the dead spider that adorned the pale pink teapot on the sideboard. "I thought I told you, I don't do favours any more."
"Its more than a favour." she sighed, her usual tone lost, "The ministry doesn't know because nobody's told them, its dangerous to even mention them, and as for galleons, I'd be thankful I'm here at all with these things in my handbag; I'm worth more than all the gold in the world to you if you'd just let me speak, no, in fact, I'm priceless. You have more to do with those clothes than you could ever imagine, we have more to do with them."
A sudden mist surrounded the pair, she writhed, her legs buckled under her weight, her eyes bulged oddly as the skin on her forehead stretched to reveal veins that looked ready to burst, her hands twitched violently from fists to claws, and her mouth glued shut. She made no sound.