Chapter Three:
Trouble
4th June 1965
Alastor Moody was good at confrontation. Ask anyone. His cauliflower ears, snarling features, staggering height, large build and forever growing reputation made a frightening combination that petrified even the worst of criminals into submission. However, those features were of little use to him when he was undercover. Alastor Moody was a name whispered on every street of Knockturn Alley making busts like these nearly impossible without the aid of disguise. That meant relinquishing everything that made him utterly terrifying and putting him into an unbelievably bad mood. He had shrunk down several inches; his muscular build now lithe and nimble. His mousy blonde waves morphed into a sleek ebony ponytail and muddy brown eyes morphed into a vivid amber. Scars faded, the raised and puckered skin vanishing whilst his sickly pale skin tanned and brightened. All of his crooked and broken features became softer, straighter, almost delicate. His smashed nose was straight, his face feminine and his eyes were captivating. Moody was a pretty boy… Merlin, kill me now. Grumbling and whinging, he shook the rain from his coat. The floorboards quivered under his feet as he stomped away the mud clinging to his boots.
The inn was packed to the brim with wizards and witches huddled around rotting tables, drinking away their sorrows and their senses. A thick putrid stench hung stale in the air; a disgusting blend of sweat, sick and whiskey. Magic held together the splintering remains of a bar crammed into the corner, threads of magic being the only thing that held it together. A bar that now entertained half the clientele of the room. People fought their way for another glass of anything, so long as it fogged their mind. Stray candles flitted around the room. They circled each customer casting their elongated shadows against the peeling wallpaper before flying above, their flames brushing dangerously close to the wooden timbers.
Charlus Potter pulled up beside Alastor. Usually, he had jet-black hair that stuck out in all directions, a bit like a hedgehog on acid, with dark eyes that gleamed with unfaltering optimism behind thick lenses. Now, blonde stubble sprouted from the top of his head, whilst his eyes shone a clear blue. His features were stronger, the most notable being his nose, and his frame became lankier and longer, to the point where he was a head taller than Alastor. A phenomenon that didn't sit well with either of them. Both pairs of eyes roamed the faces of each individual, occasionally stumbling across someone who they had encountered (arrested) before.
Alastor's steely gaze travelled over the crowd of bodies, picking out a man who occupied the only table devoid of company. Gently he nudged Charlus with his elbow and discreetly nodded to the wizard sitting alone. They strode across the pub, stopping at the lonesome man's table and not bothering to ask before they sat down.
The last flickers of the lamps withered away, and Hermione was left alone wandering in the pitch black. Icy wind played with hair and whipped around her face until it was numb. Harsh gusts, almost knocking her off her feet. A shiver rolled down her spine. Heavy rain drummed down on her, so cold it stung her skin. Another shiver. She had enchanted this impractical little dress with a dozen warming charms but nothing to combat this storm of sleet and hail. Trembling, she ambled down the street. The skin on her feet ripped and tore as she dragged them against the cobbled roadstones, leaving a thin winding trail of blood in her wake. This was pathetic.
The slanted crumbling buildings loomed, murky clouds swirling around each crooked chimney and twisted spire. Small little feet scurried across the paved road, claws scratching against stone. The moonlight broke through the clouds for a heartbeat, showing a scurry of rats clustered and nibbling at the carcass of a crow with its head lolled back in the gutter and its wings outstretched. Hermione wrinkled her nose. Charming.
She was tiny, starving, numb, bleeding, wet, confused. Very confused. Hermione had tried to push all her doubts aside and cram her uncertainty into a cage deep inside her mind. She tried to think rationally. To illustrate some sort of plan but she failed. She couldn't think. Who could she contact? Who would help her? She had to get out of Knockturn, that much was clear but every time she took a step or turned a corner she was kicked, jostled and shoved in the other direction. The streets may have been deserted—apart from dead crows and carnivorous rats—but at the first streak of sunlight Hermione knew the inhabitants of Knockturn would flood its streets. They were all lying in wait, watching for the opportune moment to pounce and carry her further away from Diagon Alley. She thought of them, cradling drinks in their hands and hunkered over plates. Plates of tender meat, over-flowing with gravy and mashed potatoes. Bowls of soup, roasted carrots, sweet parsnips with a dollop of applesauce. Her mouth watered and her stomach raged.
Hermione plodded on, ignoring her bodies pleas to be fed. She knew she needed to cover as much ground as possible before sunrise. Light spilled out on to the street as a door swung open and a drunkard tumbled out. He turned up the collar of his coat against the wind and staggered away, grumbling nonsensical things about 'this bleeding country and its bloody weather'. Hermione edged closer to where he had come from. A squat little pub with muddied windows, a skewed roof and plumes of smoke billowing out from a thin wiry pipe was crammed between to mountains of bricks and barbed wire. Another little pub that would toss her back on to the streets without a second thought. She was about to turn and walk away when the delicious smell of buttery food escaped from under the door and seeped out into the streets. The scent wafted tauntingly under her nose. Her stomach twisted violently, and her resolve crumbled; one smell was all it took to beckon her inside.
Scar pressed to her sopping wet dress; Hermione slipped inside.
Admittedly, Alastor was slightly disappointed. The reports had described the perpetrator as a threat. A hardened criminal fresh out of Azkaban with delusions of becoming the next big businessman of Knockturn Alley; a man scarred from his experiences.. What he got instead was less so a man and more of a boy. His olive skin was dusted with grime and soot whilst his auburn hair hung loosely around his jaw. The clothes he wore were really scraps of fabric held together by strings of thread and perhaps a spell or two. His name was Henry Abernathy, a half-blood wizard who had been brought to the Ministry's attention after many rumours started flying around about a wizard who dealt with the unlicensed selling of wands with illicit properties. Charlus found his location, Alastor arranged the meeting and here they were, sitting together crushed under the weight of a very tense silence.
Charlus was the first to talk, "You Abernathy?"
"Depends," he grinned boyishly, showing off his yellowed teeth, "Who wants to know?"
"I'm Rostov. It was my associate, Dante, who contacted you about a meeting." Alastor signalled to a waitress, asking for three fire-whiskeys. "We're interested about your… – shall we say… – merchandise? We need some."
"What for?"
"None of your damn business," Alastor bit. The waitress ambled over, balancing the drinks on her tray. The glass had barely made contact with the table before Alastor snatched it in his hand and drank it all in one go.
Abernathy propped his chin in his hands, "It's my wands and my decision to who I sell them to. Surely, you can make it my business and tell me why you want them."
"We need to get rid of someone."
"Who?"
"Billy. His name's Billy."
"What's he like?"
"Annoying."
"What'd he do?"
"Kept sticking his nose in places it didn't belong. Much like someone else, we know," he gave Abernathy a pointed glare.
"We just want to make a purchase," Charlus mediated, "We don't want our time wasted."
"Fine." Abernathy's grin dropped. He slipped his hand into the inside of his coat pocket and Alastor couldn't stop his hand from flying to beside his wand. Tantalizingly slow, Abernathy slid what could only be described as a scroll made of velvet from his fraying jacket. He hunched over his merchandise, shielding it from prying eyes. Alastor and Charlus did the same. He unfurled the fabric, revealing seven wands fastened by strips of rich green velvet. "These five, they've got your typical cores, unicorn hair, phoenix feather and dragon heartstring. But these two have something a little more… creative."
"How much?" Alastor asked.
"Sixty Galleons."
Charlus slid a 'creative' wand from its slot. He kept his eyes fixated on it, tilting it in his hands and analysing every characteristic, "What's the core?"
"Can't go around telling people that. That's how you get copycats."
"Well, then how do I know you're not lying? These could just be fancy sticks."
"Aren't all wands just fancy sticks?"
"Don't try to be philosophical with me. How do I know these will work?"
"Because they do."
"I don't know that."
"Sure, you do. I just told you they do."
"And why should we believe you?"
"Do you want them or not?"
"I want a wand that does what I've been promised."
Alastor rolled his eyes, maddened by the conversation he was being forced to listen to. This would be a long night. He leant back and watched as Abernathy teased and as Charlus grew increasingly frustrated, which proved to be slightly entertaining. But Alastor's eyes never strayed from the wands.
No one seemed to notice the shivering little girl as she snuck in. Or the sea of rainwater pooled around her feet. Warmth enveloped her and she had sighed in contentment. Hermione had managed to sneak under the table unseen and unnoticed. She had stationed herself under the table, hidden under the shadows of those slumped around it, half-conscious and sprawled in their dinner. Her hand shot up and snatched pieces of chicken slick with gravy. They were gone within a second. She didn't realise how hungry she was until after the first swallow. Her hands flew out and snatched all they could carry. Mashed vegetables caked her hands and she licked him them clean before scooping another handful and then another and another. She grabbed a Yorkshire pudding, yanking it apart in tufts. Too hungry to chew, she gulped it down whole.
"Oi!"
Hermione stiffened. Shit. Her gaze drifted away from her stolen dinner. A wizard crouched in front of her, the candlelight glinting off his shaved head. Muscles bulged beneath his shirt and stretched his trousers; hideous scars twisted down his face and disappeared beneath his shirt collar. Even squatting he towered over her. Trembling, much to her chagrin, she scooted away until her back hit the table leg. Hermione's defiant glare had his lips bending into a crooked grin. His hand disappeared. The table shook as he groped for something. When his hand reappeared, a pewter plate mounted with food accompanied it. A noise erupted from deep within her throat. He placed it next to her bloodied feet.
She wasted no time guzzling down her dinner. All manners of food smothered her hands. He reached up again and passed her a frosted mug of butterbeer. She inhaled it, slurping it down in one go and lapping the remnants of cream. Hermione looked back at this new stranger. Still stiff and rigid, she gave him a curt nod of appreciation, "Thank you."
He smiled, "You're welcome. What's your name?"
"I…"
"It's okay. You don't have to tell me. I'm Henry, by the way. Henry Abernathy."
Something was off about Abernathy. From the beginning he was obnoxious, cocky, wouldn't shut up. But then a switch went off in his head and his eyes couldn't settle. They flickered between them and a table close to the front door and arrogance became uncertainty. Charlus didn't see it. He was too busy arguing like a petulant child. Abernathy's eyes were transfixed to the back table, so much so he didn't notice Alastor catching on.
A man popped up from underneath the table. Bald, burly and every inch of visible skin scarred and disfigured. Alastor's gaze travelled back to Abernathy. The tension eased from his shoulders; the instant Scarface appeared. The vigour returned to his eyes as he chatted animatedly. As if those few moments of confusion never happened. His eyes shot wide.
A man scarred from his experiences.
Charlus was still arguing, "We would really like a wand."
"Is that right?"
"So, if you could tell us what's in the wand."
"Why are you so curious?"
"If I could intervene," Alastor breathed. He snatched the wand from Charlus and flicked its tip, Abernathy only had a second to look panicked before a stream of crackling blue light hit his chest and sent him spinning into the tables behind. His skull smacked against the mahogany. Another flick and Scarface crumpled against the wall. A hush fell over the customers. "There. They work. I'd say some sort of crystal powers this, probably enchanted. Would I be right? What? No answer?," Alastor stalked towards his suspect, "Whoever-you-are you're under arrest for the selling of illegal wands and for hiring that insufferable git."
"The latter's not an arrestable offence."
"It should be. So, I'm guessing you're actually Abernathy."
"Guessing? That's not very professional of you."
The 'Fake Abernathy' put two and two together as Charlus bound his hands with a wave of his wand. "You're – you're Aurors?"
The second the word 'Aurors' left his mouth the entire pub froze. Every single pair of eyes stayed trained on the floor. No one dared to even breathe. Alastor stooped down until he and Scarface were eye-level. "Doesn't he catch on quick? Is that why you hired him to be the face of your pitiful operation."
"I hear mine is bad for business."
Alastor had to smile at that.
"He paid me to do it! He forced me! Influenced me into a criminal! I'm the victim here!" 'Fake Abernathy' screamed as Charlus dragged him to the door. "You can't do this! I'm young! I know my rights!"
"Clearly you don't," Charlus muttered.
Alastor span on his heel, "Get him out of here!" Charlus wrestled the boy out into the street and Alastor watched an onslaught or kicking and cursing. He'd be lying if he said that he didn't find it funny.
And then a child screamed.
Hermione had been backing away through the whole confrontation. She had crept away, hidden beneath tables and shadows, she was so close to the door she felt the draught brush her knuckles. Then the pretty boy had to turn his back. Abernathy had his wand in hand within a second. He flicked his wrist and something strong and invisible wrapped around Hermione's feet, yanking her across the splintered floorboards. She yelped as shards of wood sunk into her flesh. A strong arm snaked around her ribs and crushed her to his chest. Hermione thrashed and twisted. She tried to wrench her arms free and the heel of her foot crunched into his groin. He doubled over. She slammed the crown of her head into his jugular, smiling triumphantly when he gargled and choked. "I'm very sorry," he whispered. The sharp tip of his wand stabbed her throat. She winced. She knew what she could do to him even without a wand, but the risk of having so many witnesses made her mouth freeze before she could whisper out a spell. Hermione had to wait. Every muscle, every organ in her body stilled. All except her heart which thundered against her ribs.
Abernathy rose. Slowly. Tauntingly. Hauling Hermione up with him, holding her like a ragdoll. He stared down the Auror. "We're going to leave here and you're going to let us. I'm sure you can work out what's going to happen if you don't comply," The Auror ground his jaw and slipped his wand away, to remove temptation. Abernathy continued, "You've put up Apparation wards?"
The Auror nodded.
"Just this building?"
"This block."
"You put a lot of effort into catching me. I'm flattered."
"Well, that's why we do it. For your ego." The Auror glowered and the amber in his eyes melted away to reveal the dark brown hidden beneath them. Hermione's brow furrowed. Those eyes. She knew those eyes. She was certain she'd never met this man in her life, but she swore she knew those bloody—
She was jerked out of her trance by the harsh wind greeting her again. The rain was unrelenting, it fell hard and fast, each splash like a shard of ice glass slicing her skin. Goosebumps rippled her flesh. Hermione fixed her eyes on the warm glow pouring from the inn's open door. Shouts of the second Auror's support and comfort were drowned out by roar of the summer storm. She couldn't see him. She couldn't see anything. Just that one light. Abernathy backed into the shadows, sinking further into darkness. His wand dug deeper into her throat. His rigid arm cracked her ribs and arms as they edged down the narrow street. The light shrivelled away.
Alastor rammed his boot into the door. It flew off its hinges. He tugged back on his coat and braced the storm. Throwing Charlus his coat, he tore down the alley after them and shouted back over his shoulder, "Follow him! Go around and cut him off! Don't let him see you and don't do anything until he's let go of the girl!"
Alastor didn't wait for a response before he bolted down the lane. A ball of light burned at the tip of his wand. He skidded to a halt; Alastor's eyes narrowed as he surveyed each of the four winding paths. "Shit," he growled and raked a hand through his hair.
The instant they were out of sight, Abernathy broke into a sprint. A hurried Lumos illumed his path and shattered the darkness. Hermione watched her surroundings blur past as Abernathy ran. Without pruning the ivy had gone native, the leaves and bulbs now withered and black. It strangled wrought-iron fences like a noose on a neck. The trees with white naked limbs leant close to one another, their branches intermingled in a strange embrace; their gnarled roots looked like skeleton claws. And when the wind blew, they whispered to each other.
Abernathy barrelled down lanes, streets, alleys. Cutting across the remnants of houses and shops, skidding across the paved stone. For a second, he stopped at the back of a rickety little shack. The next, he had blown off the door. Gently, he put Hermione down, but his wand never strayed from her neck. The room was completely barren. The only decorations being yellowed wallpaper, a flea-infested carpet and a spray of shattered glass. Abernathy stayed crouched down in front of her, rifling through his pockets with his free hand. He looked at her, questioningly, then said, "I would've thought you'd be crying."
"Do you want me to cry?"
"Well… no."
"Good," Hermione said. She stared at the wand poised inches away from her skin. "Why do they want to arrest you?"
"I did something illegal."
"Yes, I had gathered that."
His brows drew together, and he cocked his head, "You're a strange little thing."
She gave him a look, "What did you do?"
"I sell wands. Illegally."
"Stolen or home-made?"
"Both."
Hermione whistled lowly, "So… How many have you got on you now?"
He stiffened, "Why?"
Hermione knocked the wand from his grip. It skittered across the floor. A silent Accio and the wand flew into her hand. She jerked her wrist and Abernathy crashed into the wall. There was a sickly noise as his skull struck against the stone. Hermione scrambled to the door. A jet of crackling light seared at her. She narrowly curved away, throwing up a shield.
Then she closed her eyes.
She stood at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. The last of the Weasleys ginger hair disappeared between the trees. Streams of magic spiralled towards her. Hermione snapped her palm and phosphorescent energy rippled around her. Each ribbon of light bounced off the shield and ricocheted back towards their pursuer. With a violent thrash of her wand white-hot tendrils of lightening snapped and cracked at the Death Eater. She cried spell after spell. Blood spurted from their veins. Hermione watched in agony as spells, her spells, painted the ruins of Hogwarts with blood. Screams tore past the Death Eater's mask, raw and unhinged; fresh and new; it was the scream of someone had never had to scream before. Hermione's wand sliced the air. Viscera tumbled out of the Death Eater's stomach and splattered on the ground. They collapsed.
She crept closer, running a finger over the indents on her wand. Her breaths came out in pants and her heart pounded against her ribs, as if telling her what she was about to do was wrong. But words rang in her head, Kill or be killed. Sucking in a sharp breath she pointed her wand, swallowed the emotions choking her throat and numbly echoed "Avada Ked—"
"NO!"
The Death Eater mask rolled away, revealing a shaven head covered in scars. The Forbidden Forrest was beaten away and reality seeped through. And Hermione's relief barely lasted a second.
Hermione's eyes shot open. Abernathy lay crumpled at her feet. Blood dribbled down his throat as he gulped for breath and cradled his innards in his arms. Terror flooded his eyes as she dropped to his side. He tried to scrabble away, seemingly forgetting he was holding himself together. "I-I'm sorry. I… I can fix it," she stammered. Hermione's hands shook worse than her voice as she dragged them over his torso, whispering every healing spell she knew. Blood slickened her hands and stained her dress. The metallic twang had Hermione's stomach churning. His flesh knitted together under the touch of her wand, bones snapping back into place, muscle neatly falling back into his body. Something hot and wet streamed down her cheeks. A sigh escaped her lips as air swelled in his lungs and Abernathy started breathing.
A shadow stretched across the floor. Shaking, crying, wheezing Hermione followed it until her eyes settled on leather boots. She raked her gaze across the body in the doorway. A man, tall and large with small blemishes peppering his face stood in the doorway. His eyes glowed. Muddy brown and familiar. The last ebony strands in his hair lightened to murky blond.
Hermione's heart stopped. Alastor Moody towered in front of her, wand drawn, a spell ready and bubbling at its tip. He stalked forward. "You're both under arrest."
A.N. Hello good people and possibly bad… and possibly robots. This is just a quick little note to say that I'm sorry I haven't updated for a while. You have my sincerest apology. I've just started a new hobby and it's taken up a lot of my time. It's called 'procrastinating'. Also, it is notoriously hard to write about a wizard's wand without it sounding like an innuendo as I have recently discovered. Oh. And I know it is canon that Fleamont and Euphemia are James's parents but… no.
