Finally, as advertised: Alastor Moody. Next three chpts are basically one divided into 3 parts, so they'll all be in Moody's POV.
Chapter 7
Memories I
Madeye looked around the sitting room at Grimauld Place. Those members of the Order who had been available when Minerva firecalled: Shacklebolt, Arthur, Molly, Bill and Nymphadora; were gathered in a semicircle at one end of the room, facing the door, wands at the ready. There had been something odd about the call. Minerva had seemed flustered and nervous. Although Hogwarts security had been increased exponentially since the Headmaster's murder, it was still possible that someone had gotten to her, and were using her to attack the Order. If so, then they were in for a rude awakening. Nobody infiltrated the Order, not since that traitor left to rejoin what had been his side all along. They wouldn't be fooled again.
The door creaked cautiously open, and all present were instantly on alert. Slowly, hands raised placatingly, Minerva entered the room. She moved to the centre, facing Moody directly. 'Minerva?' he growled. 'Alastor, you're not going to like this.' He grunted. That was a given. 'Remus has returned,' behind him, Tonks gasped, 'and he has brought some friends with him. Some old friends.' Madeye had a feeling that he knew where this was going. He'd been on his toes around Minerva ever since she and Dumbledore's portrait had taken to proclaiming that bastard Snape's innocence, concocting some crackpot theory about slavery. He respected them both, but their blindspot with regard to the Slytherin had cost the Order too much already. If, as she said, he wasn't going to like this, then one of Minerva's 'old friends' was going to be a smug, greasy traitor with ice in his veins and a penchant for murdering those who trusted him. Well, if he had indeed found the arrogance to return to them after what he had done, then he would be well welcomed. Alastor could use some target practice, and Tonks was behind on her interogation studies.
He smiled, if that's what you could call such an expression, and motioned towards the door. 'Well, bring them in till we have a look-see, then.' She looked at him searchingly, but he'd had decades of hiding his intentions in the beaurocratic maze of the Ministry, and gave nothing away. She nodded. 'Remus?'
The mouse-coloured man entered, an arch to his back, head forward agressively. Alastor wouldn't have been surprised if all the hairs on the werewolf's neck were standing on end. It was full moon, and the man's animal instincts were in overdrive. The suspicion and hostility in the room must have been making him extremely nervous. He stopped inside the door, head turning to each of the Order members in turn, like a wolf testing the air. Alastor saw the flash of warmth directed at Tonks, the recognition that said mate. Once the wolf in him had apparently been satisfied that none here constituted an immediate threat to it, Remus came fully into the room, moving to stand, not with Tonks. as would be expected, but with Minerva. Oh yes, there was confrontation coming, all right.
He was followed in by Poppy Pomfrey. Alastor's nerves jangled at the sight of her, as they always did. It was nothing personal, indeed it had nothing to do with the woman herself at all. It was simply that her presence usually meant that one of theirs was hurt, or dead. The sight of the matronly nurse with her brisk movements always incited an almost parental worry in him, a feeling that he would emphatically deny if asked. Her presence here did not bode well.
On her heels came the first true shock of the day: Albus Dumbledore. Not that damned portrait, but the spectral remains of the deceased Headmaster. Goddammit, one of Minerva's 'old friends' was Albus bloody Dumbledore's bloody ghost! Of all the ... Well, now it was official. Snape was here. The only reason Dumbledore would have to come back would be if Harry needed him, or if he felt the need to act on his misplaced, but powerful, loyalty to the dispossessed Slytherin. Since if the former were true, he'd be off wherever the boy was, the latter must be the case.
He held up a hand to halt the explanations brimming on their lips, and called off through the door. 'Well, Snape? Are you going to stop skulking around and show us your traitorous face? We haven't got all day.' He was answered by a wry chuckle. 'Ah, Moody. Alert as ever, I see,' came the silky baritone. Alastor hefted his wand, grinning in anticipation. As the dark figure entered, he fired off a Stunner, expecting it to be blocked. He wasn't disappointed. A gesture on his opponent's part, and the spell dissipated. The expected retaliation wasn't forthcoming, however. 'I see the old Auror reflexes are sharp as ever,' Severus smirked. 'Oh, aye. The Death Eater ones seem to be alive and kicking also. Pity you lack the spine to retaliate.' The dark eyes glittered as they met his mismatched ones unfazed. 'Of course, after events seventeen years ago, you are quite familiar with my anatomy, aren't you, Madeye?' came the silibant answer. Wand to hand, they squared off. 'Care to try for a repeat performance?' the traitor mocked. They both ignored the attempts to intervene. Seeing his opponent's apparent willingness to 'duke it out', Alastor called up a dueling circle to prevent more substantial interference. A gesture on Snape's part, and a silencing charm also surrounded them. Ready.
Alastor took the first move, an Incarcerous. Chains, reminiscent of those used to bind prisoners for trial, shot out of his wand. Snape merely smirked, and ducked smoothly underneath the shot. As the chains rebounded off the circle's shielding, he caught them and tossed them back contemptuously. With a disgusted wave of his wand, the Auror dispatched them. He fired off a round of Stunners in sequence, designed to catch attempted dodges. His enemy cast a wandless Protego that manifest as an onyx wall. The Stunners bounced off, useless. As the shield came down, Alastor cast a rapid Capre Blessure, one of the nastier curses in the Auror repetoire, designed to incapacitate through appalling pain. Alastor had been on the recieving end once. Not pleasant. Snape apparently had too, for he knew the appropriate counter-curse. The Capre fizzled out. Moody braced for retailiation, but the other simply smiled and waited. Frustrated, Alastor launched into a brutal series of curses and hexes, all of which were deflected, disarmed, or dodged. Panting, Alastor took a moment to recover. In that moment, Snape acted, not magically, but physically. He darted across the circle, and caught the upcoming wand hand.
Madeye was momentarily stunned, but the reflexes kicked in, and a vicious struggle ensued. But Snape had been prepared for it, while the Auror had not, and after some minutes spent grappling, Alastor found himself pinned against the shield, arms held above his head, legs tangled, and the traitor's sweaty face in his own. Mentally berating himself, constant vigilance, Alastor waited. Then Snape dipped his head to one side, resting it against Moody's pinnioned arm. He began to speak, low and quiet, into his captive's ear.
'Alright Moody, you've had your fun. Now, listen.' Fury rose. 'I'll not listen to anything you have to say, you...' He was cut off by an exasperated sigh. 'Shut up,' said Snape, conversationally. 'I'm tired. I'm beyond tired. I'm exhausted, drained. I've no strength left for this, physical or magical. In fact, I'll probably collapse in a few moments.' Moody sneered. 'Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?' 'No. You're supposed to listen. Albus and Minerva have both spoken to you already, but it's obvious from your reaction to me that you don't believe a word of it.' Alastor shifted, testing his captor's strength. It held. 'Should I believe?' Snape laughed. 'On current evidence? The word of a distressingly loyal, possibly senile old codger, and a woman so loyal to him that more than once she has let her own opinions slide in favour of his? Be serious. However, that testemony in tandem with some hard evidence ... ?'
Alastor held very still as he thought it through. The bastard knew him too well. The points he laid out echoed his own thoughts too closely. But the man knew Auror thinking, Auror methods. He was aware that they knew that traditional interogation techniques wouldn't work on him. Veritaserum was right out. Using a potion on a potions master? The Ministry's most expert Leglimens had drawn a blank.Torture had also failed to gain results. Dammit, the man hadn't even screamed. He had severly distressed some of the younger Aurors at the time. So...
'What evidence?' If he hadn't been monitoring his captor so closely, he might have missed the the tension that eased slightly in the taunt frame ranged against him. The head came up, and dark eyes met his. Eyes clouded with exhaustion. With pain. A ruse, undoubtedly. From this man, always a ruse. But a damn good one, that was for sure.
He hadn't known what to expect next, but it wasn't what he got.Snape released him, stepping back, stumbling. He recovered, but was shaky on his feet. He reached into his robes. Immediately, Alastor was on him, seizing his wrist. The man looked at him, had the audacity to roll his eyes. 'It's a small vial. It contains memories, mine, that will verify Albus' claims. Evidence. You may test them for tampering if you wish. If you can wait until I regain consciousness, I would view them with you.' Bet you would. 'If not, do not view them alone, for your own sake.' Alastor blinked at that. 'For my sake?'
Snape looked up at him. The spy was swaying, barely able to stay upright. From the unfocused look in his eyes, Alastor guessed that he was indeed about to collapse. His precarious position aside, the man was in no condition to be concerned about others. Then he said one word that made Alastor's heart freeze in his chest, almost dropping him to his knees. 'Maria,' Snape whispered, and crumpled.
He lowered the shield. Two seconds later, Poppy leapt past him to gather Snape into her arms. She stood, cradling the grown man against her as another would hold an infant. She glared at the stunned expressions ringing the room. 'It's not hard to lift someone when they're little more than bones!' she spat. Most, himself included, were confused by her aggressive display, but Molly Weasley stepped into the breach. 'Poppy? Is there something you haven't told us?'
Poppy smiled brightly, like the glitter of smashed glass. 'Oh, nothing much. Only that Alastor has just duelled my already badly injured husband into collapse on our wedding night. Not a great start to the honeymoon, wouldn't you say?' For the second time in as many minutes, Alastor felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. Molly opened her mouth to say something, but he couldn't help cutting across her. 'Husband? Him?' She turned to him, a venomous expression on her face. 'Why, yes, Alastor. Him. Severus Snape. Why? Does that make me a traitor too? Hmm? Do you think I'm a Death Eater now as well?' She snarled in frustration. 'Oh, I don't care! I'm taking him to lie down. After this little circus, he'll need to recover.' She stalked towards the door, but Molly caught her shoulder. 'Poppy, wait,' she said quietly. 'We're sorry. Congratulations. Here, let me help. Take him up to the second floor bedroom, and I'll bring us up some hot chocolate.' She smiled warmly, and Moody could see Poppy smile warily in response. 'Alright.'
He left HQ, leaving all off them behind. He needed to think, badly. These events had shaken him, more than he could allow the others to see. Aside altogether from the fact that his solitary prey was suddenly a married man, there was the matter of how he had discovered that secret. How could he have known of them, of Maria? Hell, not even Albus knew of what had happened.
He sat down on a bench in a quiet park in Muggle London. He was alone. Looking down at his hands, he studied them, their pattern of scars, marks left behind by three wars. He had plenty of scars, and he kept them, allowed them to remain visible where others would disguise them. Many people assumed that he took a warped delight in the reactions of others to his physical appearance. In reality, he didn't give a shit what he looked like, because he had learned that no physical pain, no disfigurement, could matter as much as the holes left inside by loss. Those were the real scars of war, the true marks left on people's lives.
The crystal vial glowed softly in his hands, looking absurdly delicate. He hadn't been aware of taking it out. Gently, he rubbed it, watching the movement of the silvery substance inside. Memories. Such elusive things. Hideous, terrifying, links to a past that you couldn't escape, yet precious, because they held fleeting glimpses of lost times when so much had seemed possible. Their pain, bright and new every time you looked at them afresh, couldn't halt the lure, of seeing again the faces of those lost or changed, of living again, for brief moments, the rhythms and dreams of long ago times. Memories.
He remembered, all right. He couldn't ever forget. The first time he'd met Liza, so bright and joyous, laughing as she tossed back a toast to Grindlewald's destruction, giggling wickedly as she lured the young, serious Auror onto the dance floor of a back-alley Bavarian pub. He remembered the suggestive way she'd shymied against him, the chaste kiss she'd planted on his cheek for contrast. He remembered three glorious nights together, her smoky brown eyes full of life as they met his. He remembered sorrow of parting, letters, full of simple sentiments, finding their way from shady hand to shady hand, tracking the course of missions across the length and breadth of Europe. He remembered the news, ten months after he'd left her, of a child, a baby girl with her mother's smoky eyes, and her father's stubborn chin. Maria.
He remembered Grindlewald's death, cheering Albus Dumbledore as the hero of the age, the elation of going home, of seeing Liza, of meeting his five-year old daughter for the first time. He remembered their finally getting married.
And he remembered that day, returning home from a brief recon mission to flush out one of the remaining dark groups, to be greeted by burned houses, mangled bodies, the stench of blood and decay. He remembered the paniced run for home, to check on his wife, his child. He remembered the sight of them, outside the blackened shell of what had been their home, tossed aside like broken dolls. Even then, and how he hated himself for it, even then his instincts had kicked in through the horror and grief, alerting him to the presence of an enemy.
She'd been good, Liza. Even though her speciality among the resistance had been information, not assault, she'd been good, getting her shots in in defense of her family. He'd torn the survivor's mind apart, there in front of their bodies. He'd seen their ruin, their defilement, their torture, through the eyes of a semi-conscious Darkling. He'd watched as his little girl was raped and murdered, as his wife suffered for her courage before death. And never, ever again had he entered another's mind.
He'd buried them together, Maria cradled in Liza's arms, in a forgotten glade deep in the Black Forest. The villagers had been massacred, the invaders rounded up and executed not long after. There'd been no-one left to remember them, save him. No-one left to mourn the loss of such bright lives.
For unknown moments he sat in that Muggle park, tears falling silently and unheeded. He absorbed again the overwhelming grief. Then, efficiently, he turned it off, slipped it back in it's box. He turned his thoughts back to the case at hand. How had the man known? He weighed the vial in his hand. I would view them with you. He didn't trust Snape, didn't particularly like the man. After such an act of betrayal as murdering Dumbledore, he certainly didn't deserve any leeway. But that wasn't what it came down to. He didn't venture into the minds of others, and memories, no matter whose they were, were precious.
He nodded, desicion made. Resolve firm, he put the vial back in his pocket, and headed back. He would wait.