A/N - So not only did real life decide to get in the way of finishing this chapter but what's more - I actually had a completely different chapter planned to use here. A certain character who shall go unnamed but should be fairly easy to determine decided it'd be way more awesome to have a chapter looking something like the one you're about to read (or at least I hope you're about to read it. It's much better than the Author's Note, I assure you). We're also switching PoVs here, just to warn you. I think at this point I'll just be rotating them chapterly. *sigh* It's both a good and a bad thing when characters decide to take on minds of their own. Also, in terms of relation to the previous chapter, this takes place a couple weeks later...oh screw it, I'll just give it a date. Read, review, and as always, please enjoy!
September 17, 1941
Smoke hung in the air, thick and choking and distorting the world into odd shapes and angles. The night sky was utterly dark, a sweep of blackness broken occasionally by a flash of red or a burst of light. The stars had gone out tonight. A devastating storm had broken, the distant whine of artillery and the mindless drone of the sirens mingling and screaming in the darkness. One by one the streetlights flickered and faded and died, plunging the street into thick shadows wearing terrible faces. The muggles feared the raids and the bombs and the awful roar of engines overhead. Alastor knew better though, knew there were worse things in the dark London night than the German bombers. In the skies above, Aurors and dark wizards fought from brooms, lighting the sky with magic and fire and death. He had been told a thousand times that if ever he heard the sirens he was to get inside, get to shelter. Get behind the wards and the security spells, take care of his mum and his brother, and be sure not to venture out again until an Auror came round and gave the all clear. Those had been his father's words, his parting instruction to his eldest son. And yet Alastor found himself fighting panic and clutching his wand in one sweaty hand, trapped in the streets as the sirens wailed unceasingly. He had been searching though, searching for something very important. Alastor knew he should remember what exactly he had been looking for, but his mind failed to register anything but the droning sirens and distant roars. The streets were utterly empty, silent save for the noise of the battle overhead, and Alastor found himself watching the alleys and corners, waiting for some unseen enemy to attack. The city felt eerie and cold, as though all the rest of the world had ceased to exist and only he remained alive. Rounding a corner, Alastor skidded to a stop and pounded on the door to a home he knew belonged to a wizarding family, yelled and shouted and pleaded for someone to let him inside. No answer came, though the curtain was pulled back from the window and a square of light reflected out onto the street. Determined to gain the attention of someone, anyone, Alastor pressed his face to the window and knocked against the glass. The sight that greeted him was that of a family seated around the dinner table, parents and children, heads bowed in prayer. Alastor knocked his fist against the glass again, failing to understand how no one heard him at the window. Then the scene changed, and the dining room vanished in a flurry of smoldering flames and blackened furniture, blackened bodies where the family had been sitting at the table. Clapping one hand over his mouth, Alastor muffled a horrified shout, stumbling over the curb in his haste to get away. He fell backward into the street, his wand rolling away as knees and elbows collided painfully with solid stone. Two loud pops echoed above the noise of the sirens, and Alastor went entirely still, half-afraid that he had accidentally gained the attention of some dark wizards out patrolling the burning night. He waited two breaths, then three, and when no one appeared in the shadowed street, Alastor pushed himself back to his feet, retrieving his wand and not daring to look inside the house again. Get help his mind supplied, the only coherent thought over a jumbled mess of panic and horror and a sick, creeping feeling that threatened to return his dinner. Sirens wailed overhead as Alastor ran, feet slapping on stone, breath coming in harsh gasps. The noise of the blitz grew louder, even as the street never seemed to change, and Alastor feared he had indeed been trapped by dark wizards, because he could not seem to get away from the burning house and the burning bodies. All out once, the narrow street faded around him. Alastor halted at the edge of the sidewalk, suddenly finding that the inescapable lane of houses vanished, replaced by a wide square. The square seemed slightly familiar, with the banks and offices buildings on all sides and lamp posts lining the sidewalks. Before Alastor could give further thought to how he might have visited the square before, the air ripped and split into a thousand pieces somewhere behind him, a deafening explosion shaking the very ground. Alastor stumbled and cast a glance back over his shoulder at the flames that now consumed one of the huge banks. Orange and red and gold flared upward against the dark sky, the statues on the bank's steps glowing like strange demons in the night. Slowly, the building collapsed in on itself, a rolling cloud of dust and broken stone overtaking Alastor and the square. The world descended into monotone hues of grey, and Alastor lit his wand, coughing and choking, eyes burning as he wandered onward, aiming to escape the unnatural fog. His ears were ringing now, and the sirens sounded dull and far away. Then the light from his wand caught on a shape in the cloud of debris, a blurred something that might have been a person.
"Who's there?" Alastor jogged forward, scrubbing at his eyes and fully intent on taking on a dark wizard if necessary. His voice sounded odd and echoed. "Who's there?"
The cloud parted just enough for him to see a dark haired girl in a white dress, arms crossed behind her back. She was looking upward, and on any other night she might have been stargazing.
"You shouldn't be out here," Alastor grumbled. "It's dangerous."
"But you're out here," the girl turned to face him now, smiling slyly. A muggle plane roared low overhead, kicking up the dust and debris and a stinging wind. Alastor shoved his hair back out of his eyes, even as the girl's hair whipped around her face, dark and shifting as the night. "What are you looking for?"
"I...I don't know," Alastor admitted, troubled when no ready answer supplied itself. There must have been a reason for him to be outside, for him to be away from home. A feeling nagged at the back of his mind, the tug of memory that he ought to recall. Much to his frustration, however, Alastor simply could not remember what he had been searching for, what he had braved sirens and bombs and dark wizards to find.
"What are you looking for?" the girl asked again. Before Alastor could reply, another shrill whine broke the air and the street exploded beneath them. The ground vanished, and there was only air and free-falling, sharp edges against his face and skin. Alastor hit the ground with a painful crack and lay still for a moment as broken stone continued to fall from overhead. The world had gone entirely crooked now, fallen sideways and faded on the edges. His head ached and so did his arm and Alastor wanted nothing more than to just fall asleep and pray someone found him by morning. But there was still the girl in the white dress lost somewhere in the cloudy, upside down world, and he simply had to find her. Suddenly finding the girl was a matter of grave importance. Staggering to his feet, Alastor paused for a moment, slumped over and gasping for air as his heart raced in his ears and his body protested further movement. Then his wand was lit and he managed to recall how to walk, one foot then the other. He ought to have shouted, called out to the girl in an effort to speed the search. But he did not know her name, and words failed him besides, his throat dry and aching and raw from the dust and smoke. He tripped up once over a great gaping hole in the ground, then tripped again over a large lump that rolled slightly upon contact. Unlike piles of stone and rubble, however, this lump appeared to be breathing. Heart still racing, Alastor sank to his knees, hands shaking as he turned the girl over. The white dress was stained now, smeared grey and brown and accompanied by a slow spread of deep crimson. Alastor swore and pressed his hands to the ugly wound, knowing the girl was dead, refusing to believe nothing could be done. He had to save her. And then the girl's face changed, and she was a stranger no more as Minerva looked up at him unseeing, eyes wide and empty. Alastor's eyes widened, and he must have shouted, and his hands were shaking even more now as he slowly, slowly reached for her face.
"No..." he breathed, prodding with his wand at the rapidly spreading pool of crimson. The healing spells fizzled and died and failed entirely, and Alastor was gasping and desperate now, feeling for any signs of life as the sirens wailed on overhead.
"NO!"
Alastor Moody sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily. Cold sweat clung to him and his heart was racing. Distantly he could still hear the wail of the sirens and the roar of bombs, the smell of smoke and ash and death. Suddenly the sheets were trapping him, wrapped around his legs and soaked with sweat. Alastor struggled for a moment to free himself, nearly falling out of the bed in the process and swearing spectacularly. Finally he won his way free, shoving apart the bed curtains with a desperate gasp. Cold air kissed his skin and silver light shimmered on the window pane, breaking up the darkness. Alastor shut his eyes and breathed deep of the cold, clean air, reminding himself over and over he was at Hogwarts now. He was safe.
Although reassuring to a degree, the thought did little to dispel the lingering fear, the slippery tendrils that wrapped around his heart like ice. The nightmares had plagued him for more than a year now, and still Alastor found himself awake in the dark watches of the night, half-remembered sounds and sights playing in the shadows. Ever the same dream came night after night, of bombs and fire and the girl in the white dress. Of course, the girl had at first just been an ordinary, unknown victim. Alastor was unsure when exactly the dream had begun to change, begun to portray Minerva as the girl in the white dress. Begun to portray her as the girl who died. This change made the dream far more frightening, and the image now burned in Alastor's waking mind. He scrubbed his hands on his pajama pants, knowing there was no blood, no real blood at least. His eyes watched the shadows in the corners of the room, and Alastor realized that he had grabbed his wand without thinking. He slipped his legs over the edge of the bed, hands pressed to the mattress and head hanging. Long months of the same nightmare had proved that once awake, Alastor would not be returning to sleep anytime soon.
"Alastor?"
The noise startled him, and Alastor jumped to his feet in an instant, wand raised in the direction of the voice. Phantoms from his nightmare formed in the shadows, dark wizards and wailing sirens. Then the curtains of the next bed opened, revealing the frowning face of Tiberius Kirk. The curly haired Scotsman had his own wand raised, and motioned for Alastor to disarm.
"Not that I donnae trust you mate, but I'd rather you dinnae hex me at three in the morning."
Alastor mumbled an apology and set his wand on the nightstand, sinking back to a seat on his bed. He ran both hands through his hair, breathing deep and wishing his heart would stop racing. A prickling feeling ran across the back of his neck, as though someone were watching from behind, and Alastor reflexively twisted to look over his shoulder. Only another bed, another set of curtains, and another moonlight-filled window filled the space. Alastor shut his eyes tight and forced himself to turn back around and ignore the lingering feeling of being watched.
"You get them too?" Tiberius asked quietly. Alastor's eyes jerked open, his attention on Tiberius in an instant, who had in turn shifted his own attention to the window. Tiberius commonly avoided any subjects that appeared to lead into uncertain or gloomy territory. In fact, if unable to inject a bit of humor into a situation, Tiberius tended to remain awkwardly silent and simply listen. Thus the question baffled Alastor entirely, because Tiberius could only be referring to the nightmares. And Tiberius had to know that this would be a rather humorless conversation, but still seemed to be making an effort to discuss the matter anyway.
"Ah...I...what?" Alastor feigned confusion, rather unsure as to whether or not he wanted to admit that he was a fifteen year old wizard being kept awake by nightmares and midnight phantoms. There were appearances to keep, after all. Tiberius shrugged and halfway smiled, still looking out the window.
"You know. The nightmares. About the raids."
Silence spread between them, broken on occasion by shallow breaths and shifting sheets as the other occupants of the room slept on unaware. The window panes split the moonlight into squares, casting a divide between the two boys. Alastor was vividly reminded of the dim confessional visited in a childhood that felt too far away. In the semi-darkness and hushed silence, sharing the secret, telling Tiberius of the nightmares, suddenly seemed much easier.
"Oh. Aye," Alastor admitted quietly, hands tightening on his pajama pants once more. "Suppose I do."
When Alastor glanced up, meeting the eyes of his friend, there was a familiar look in Tiberius' an understanding passed between the two. An unspoken oath of secrecy and confidence, sealed with two quick nods.
"Mine started last summer," Tiberius said in a rush, as though he had been waiting for the proper signal. "All the raids on Aberdeen. Tis not just the muggle raids either."
"No, the wizards too. They're just as bad. Worse, even," Alastor agreed. The airborne battles fought by the Aurors had featured prominently on the front page of the Prophet. What the Prophet failed to share was just how many enemy wizards managed to reach the ground untouched. "How often do you um...have them? The dreams, I mean."
Tiberius winced and closed his eyes, leaning back against the headboard of his bed.
"About as often as you do I expect. Although I don't think I've woken up screaming yet."
Anger flared, furious and dark, and Alastor's jaw clenched as he scowled at Tiberius, resisting a powerful urge to take a swing at his friend, reaching for his wand on the nightstand. Tiberius sighed, shaking his head.
"Honestly, Alastor, it was a joke."
"A rather poor joke, I'd say," Alastor muttered, exhaling sharply and forcing himself to relax, to breath, to stay calm. He ought to know by now, ought to expect Tiberius' half-hearted attempts to brighten the mood. At present, however, Alastor was in no mood for Tiberius' sense of humor.
"In which case, I apologize," Tiberius murmured, "I dinnae mean to offend. Just trying to cheer you up, mate."
Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes and falling backwards onto the bed. The sheets were still in a tangled bunch, lying where they had fallen during his desperate attempts to escape. A stray thought struck him, a troubling matter that had been bothering him since the dreams first began to change, and Alastor asked the question aloud without properly thinking.
"You suppose Minerva's safe?"
Regretting speaking almost immediately, Alastor clapped a hand over his mouth a second too late. Tiberius, who had closed his eyes again, opened one green eye and tilted his head to the side, fixing Alastor with a confused stare. Alastor felt his face coloring rapidly and was exceedingly thankful for the relative darkness provided by the four poster bed. He may have admitted his nightmares, but Alastor would die before he admitted to anyone, especially Tiberius, how exactly he felt about Minerva.
"What you on about?" Tiberius asked. "Course she's safe. She's in the tower, same as us. Got that bloody slippery staircase too."
"I, yes...I meant...at home. Do you suppose she's safe at home?" Alastor floundered for words, covering his face with his hands. He could still hear Tiberius' muffled laughter, though he tried his best to ignore the sound.
"She lives in a wizarding village, Alastor. In the middle of the country. Far away from any muggle ports or cities. She's safer than me in Aberdeen. Far safer than you are in London. Why?"
"Haven't been in London," Alastor mumbled, apparently too quietly for Tiberius to hear. He did not bother repeating the statement. Tiberius would never tell, would never reveal the secrets shared in moonlight and shadow. But Alastor was not much keen on sharing the fact that he and his brother had been sent to live with his mother's relatives in the country. Perhaps another night there would be a chance to tell that particular story. Tiberius may have been like his brother, but even between brothers and friends a fellow could say too much.
"I was just wondering," he said instead, sitting up on his elbows and managing an awkward shrug.
"Stop worrying so much Alastor," Tiberius smiled and shook his head, "Merlin, but you're going to be paranoid if you keep this up. We're at Hogwarts. I'm safe, you're safe, and Minerva's safe. Now please, go back to sleep."
Alastor smiled weakly and murmured goodnight as Tiberius vanished once more behind his bed curtains. The room descended into silence, or at least as silent as the boys dormitory had ever been. Sheets rustled and somewhere on the far side of the room a pillow hit the floor with a dull thud. Wind rattled the window pane and mingled with the sounds of snoring and shallow breaths. Alastor tugged his own bed curtains back into place, sliding between the sheets as the last traces of silvery moonlight vanished and darkness surrounded him once again. He pressed his head to the pillow, forced his eyes to close, and focused on the sounds around him, the heartbeat of the place. He was at Hogwarts. He was safe. Minerva was safe. Suddenly Minerva's safety, Minerva's happiness, mattered much more than he ever remembered them mattering before, and the change troubled him greatly. Alastor breathed deep, pushing back the threatening wail of warning sirens, instead remembering warm September sun and rainbow colored animals in the grass. Minerva is safe, his mind repeated over and over, reminding him, assuring him, finally lulling him to sleep.