A/N - Continuing the story right from where we left off, on a rainy fall evening after Quidditch practice. And now, in the immortal words of the Princess Bride - "Prepare for the fight scene!"
Alastor had still been laughing as he rounded the top of the path, racing through the growing twilight and splattering rain, Minerva holding tight. A rather unexpected obstacle, however, caused him to come skidding to a stop, swearing under his breath. Four Slytherin boys lurked on the stairs that led back into the castle, all four watching the three Gryffindors with mild disdain. The abrupt halt knocked Minerva against his shoulder, air leaving her in a sharp gasp.
"Sorry," Alastor mumbled quickly.
"No, I'm alright," Minerva had turned now to look back at Tiberius, who had slipped on the wet ground and very nearly fallen.
"Merlin, mate," Tiberius sounded rather out of breath, "What's tha-"
The remainder of the question was drowned out in a crash of thunder, and rain fell harder now, cold and sharp and painful. Tiberius moved to stand beside Alastor, face grim and wand already drawn. Alastor shrugged again and this time Minerva took the hint, sliding to the ground easily and taking position on his right. Lightning flashed through the air, washing the world in brilliant white and illuminating the faces of the Slytherins.
Damien Rosier and Richard Nott, a pair of thin and wiry sixth years that could have been brothers, rested on the bottom step. Both wore identical glares that looked rather menacing in the twilight. The next seat on the stairs happened to be occupied by Reynard Lestrange. Lestrange might have been a fifth year, but he was still broad shoulder and big for his age in a way that made even Alastor look small in comparison. The final member of the group was also the youngest, a fourth year boy named Tom Riddle, who had seated himself on the highest step, well above his companions. Tom appeared polished and cold as always, idly watching the three Gryffindors with a blank expression. Alastor ignored the sudden gnawing worry in his stomach and drew his wand once more.
"Evening Tom."
At first no one moved, all seven standing or sitting in place, waiting and watching. The wind picked up, spraying cold rain across Alastor's face and slowly soaking into his Quidditch robes. Lightning arched through the sky again, charging the air.
"That's Mr. Riddle to you, Mudblood," Rosier spat, rising to his feet abruptly, and ugly scowl on his face. Alastor clenched his fists but made no other movement. He refused to allow the Slytherins to bait him into another fight.
"Think I'll stick with Tom, if you don't mind."
Rosier muttered something and stormed forward, the threat entirely lost in a howl of wind and rain. The Slytherin boy stopped a foot or so in front of Alastor, attempting to act intimidating but realizing a moment too late that Alastor in fact stood several inches taller. Rosier's mouth opened and closed as Alastor and Tiberius snickered.
"Got something ta say?" Tiberius asked, pointedly leaning down far enough to be at eye level with Rosier. Rather unappreciative of this, Rosier's face flooded red and he managed to find words at last.
"What's the matter, Moody? Don't like people to know your dad's a muggleborn?"
Alastor swallowed back a string of swearing and resisted a very powerful urge to put his fist through Rosier's face.
"Don't you dare talk about my da."
But Rosier had taken on a mad grin now, mouth opened to press the matter further, and Alastor was already beginning to see red at the edges of his vision. Fortunately, Minerva chose this moment to tug on his sleeve, tug him back to reality.
"We're not here to pick a fight," she said firmly, adopting her newly implemented prefect tone. Rosier seemed unaffected, until of course Tiberius straightened to his full height, towering over the much smaller Slytherin and glaring down at the older boy.
"Move. I'll not be asking again."
Rosier cast a glance back over his shoulder toward Tom Riddle, who merely shrugged and made no effort to move out of the way.
"Let them pass. And Damien, really, there's a lady present. Try and use polite language," Tom paused, eyes flickering over Minerva in a way that had Alastor sliding halfway in front of her protectively, "Even if she is a blood traitor."
Minerva gasped, and Tiberius shouted, but both sounds were muted in the wake of another peal of thunder. Alastor barely took a breath before his control on his temper snapped entirely and he raised his wand. With a bang and a crash, Tom Riddle went rolling away from the top of the stairs, clutching at his face and roaring for his little gang to act. Rosier and Nott responded eagerly, like hounds who had merely been waiting for a chance to be released. Alastor, still seething in place and utterly furious, would have been hexed rather quickly had Tiberius not reacted and deflected the spell into the ground. A shout and another bang, and Tiberius had taken on Rosier in a furious duel of snaps and spells and spoken words. The sudden movement snapped Alastor back to reality, back to the wind in his face and the rain running down the neck of his jumper, the sound of close and furious fighting. Nott, grinning wickedly, fought Minerva a few feet away, her own face set in grim determination as light from all the spells glowed against her glasses. Alastor's first instinct was to jump in and help, but Minerva seemed to guess his intention and shook her head, gesturing past his shoulder. Spinning around, wand drawn, Alastor discovered that Lestrange had finally lumbered into the fight.
"Stupefy!" The spell sounded odd and echoed in Lestrange's deep voice, and Alastor barely managed a Shield Charm in time to bounce the stunner harmlessly away. The rest of the world faded and ceased to exist, narrowing to the duel, the snap and hiss of magic, the smell of sweat and soot and damp earth, and the scowl on Lestrange's face.
"Expelliarmus!"
Alastor grinned triumphantly as the disarming spell sent Lestrange's wand tumbling away in the direction of the stairs. For a moment, the big Slytherin looked rather confused, and Alastor realized later that he really should have taken that opportunity to finish the duel. Unfortunately, Alastor had failed to notice that as a result of the duel, he and Lestrange stood only a few feet apart. He did not in fact notice this change in location until Lestrange's fist swung upward and into his line of sight. Alastor never had time to duck. With a flash of light and an awful, staggering pain, the big Slytherin's fist connected with Alastor's face. The force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards as his head spun and lights continued to pop and explode across his vision. This must be what one felt like after being hit in the face with a hammer, Alastor reasoned. The world began to spin and slope dangerously, and Alastor very nearly lost his balance and did in fact manage to drop his wand. Alastor barely recovered in time to duck away from a second punch that would have caught him across the jaw and very likely would have knocked him out. Catching Lestrange by surprise, Alastor dove forward, all but blind in one eye and tackling the bigger boy with all the force he could manage. The Slytherin's head knocked against the ground with a dull thud, and all pretense of magic, of duels and propriety, were lost entirely. There were only fists and elbows and bloody noses and a rolling brawl through wet grass and puddles.
"Enough!"
A loud bang split the air, and Alastor tumbled away from Lestrange, thrown by some unseen force. He landed on his back a few feet away, staring blearily up at the deepening gray sky. Raindrops fell in slow motion, shining and clear against the dark sky, splashing down onto his face. Something had begun to drip into his eye, rain he supposed, but when Alastor wiped at his forehead his hand came away smeared red. He stared at his hand for a moment with his good eye, utterly confused at first. Finally, his mind registered that he must in fact be bleeding. Rather profusely, actually. Potentially, this could become a problem. Footsteps slapped on grass and stone, and then there were hands clutching at shoulder.
"Alastor!"
Minerva sounded half-panicked, but she had knelt down out of his line of sight. Alastor raised up slowly on his elbows, turning so that he could see her with the eye that still seemed to be responding properly. Her hair had come loose and her face was flushed and Merlin but she looked beautiful, soaked Quidditch robes and all. Alastor very nearly informed her of this before the part of his mind that had not taken a severe beating insisted that he keep his mouth shut. Instead he attempted a crooked grin, but Minerva still frowned and looked a bit frightened. This was both puzzling and upsetting, because Alastor could never recall an incident where he had seen Minerva scared. Admittedly, his memory did not presently feel up to the task for doing much recalling, but still Alastor hated to think he had frightened her. Alastor managed to open his mouth, determine to apologize only and avoid any inadvertent compliments, but was suddenly very aware of the hard press of a wand beneath his chin.
"I think that was entirely unnecessary, Mr. Moody," Tom said slowly, voice soft and cold. He jabbed the wand more firmly into Alastor's chin, forcing him to look up. A trail of blood leaked from a thin gash above Tom's left eye, his normally perfect hair rather disheveled. Tom's eyes though, eyes that usually remained cold and flat, had taken on a sharp, frightening gleam. Minerva's fingers tightened around Alastor's shoulder, and he had half a mind to tell her to move away. He knew perfectly well that she would refuse, however, and figured now was really not the time to have that particular argument. Tiberius disarmed and stunned Rosier with a flourish, moving with easy grace to stand at Alastor's left, wand still extended.
"Donnae ye dare, Riddle."
"And what would you do, hmm?" Tom asked, grinning wickedly now. "Either one of you makes the wrong move, even so much as looks like you've got a spell in mind, and I can assure you Alastor will not appreciate it very much at all."
The courtyard descended into stiff silence, broken by rolling, crackling thunder and the steady beat of rain against the ground. Lestrange and the other downed Slytherins groaned and muttered to themselves but did not appear to be standing again anytime soon. Tiberius had gone silent, curly hair plastered to his head, red-faced and furious, a white-knuckle grip around the wand that had fallen to his side. Alastor stayed frozen in place, not daring to move as his head pounded and his heart raced in his ears. Each new burst of lightning sent another dazzling bolt of pain through his skull, and Alastor figured any moment now he was going to be hexed to hell and back. There were no regrets, however, no regrets about hexing Tom or fighting Lestrange. Alastor might have been too afraid to admit his feelings for Minerva, but he would certainly not allow anyone to talk badly of her. Minerva herself still kneeled beside him, one hand holding a death grip on his jumper, the other pressed against his neck. Tom loomed above them both, his face dark and twisted, a frightening break in the boy's normally calm facade. Seconds passed, seven shapes poised and waiting as wind and rain howled down on them, lighting dancing in the sky overhead. Then the wand jabbed upward again as Tom's eyes narrowed, and Alastor made an effort to push Minerva out of the way, because if he was going to be hexed he certainly was not about to let her be hurt as well. But the spell never came.
"Lovely evening, isn't it?"
Alastor felt rather confident that he had never in his life been happier to hear the voice of Albus Dumbledore. Tom's face shifted abruptly at the sound, one moment dark and grinning wickedly and the next as utterly calm and detached as ever. The wand vanished from beneath Alastor's chin, tucked away into a pocket of Tom's robes in a rapid motion.
"Come on, mate," Tiberius muttered, lifting Alastor to his feet with an awkward pull and tug. The world slipped sideways, and Alastor would have fallen had Minerva not been on his opposite side, bracing him upright. Professor Dumbledore approached from the doorway, ignoring the rain and thunder entirely, wand raised and lit. Alastor had not until that moment realized precisely how dark the evening had grown. Tom spared one last steady glare for the three Gryffindors, then turned his attention to Dumbledore. Alastor had no doubt that the slippery fellow was about to try and escape any and all blame. Tom did indeed seem prepared to make an effort of some sort, mouth opened and hands in his pockets, but Dumbledore raised a hand and cut the boy off entirely.
"There will be no excuses this time, Tom. I'm fully aware of you involvement here."
"But Professor, the Gryffindors started all this," Tom said coolly, as though stating facts in class. "We were just sitting on the stairs."
"Really? Sitting outside in tha rain? Bollocks ta that," Tiberius challenged. Dumbledore's gaze shifted from Tom Riddle to the three Gryffindor Quidditch players, all of which were soaked to the skin and looked at this point rather worse for the wear.
"So, might I ask how all of this started then?" Dumbledore's tone was light and his face solemn, but Alastor would have sworn he saw a twinkle in his Head of House's eyes.
"Moody hexed me for no reason," Tom declared bluntly, pointing one accusing finger at Alastor. Honestly Alastor was too stunned to properly react. Although admittedly at this point, with the combination of Dumbledore's presence and the persistent ache in the back oh his skull, Alastor would not have been able to properly react anyway. Minerva, on the other hand, seemed quite furious, and was quick to leap to his defense.
"That's not true! He called Alastor a...he called him a mud-you-know-what!"
While Alastor normally did not object to Minerva's distaste for foul language, he really thought that in this case, using the proper word would actually have been a bit easier, if not more helpful. Dumbledore seemed to understand her meaning, at least, his face losing all trace of gentle inquiry as suddenly hard eyes locked on Tom Riddle. The light from his wand fell fully onto the Slytherin boy now, casting Tom's face into odd angled shadows.
"Is this true, Tom?"
"I've no idea what she's talking about," Tom replied, casually inspecting his fingernails. Alastor succeeded in reacting this time, his temper up and flaring once more. He jabbed a finger into Tom's face as Tiberius fought valiantly to hold him back.
"You called Minerva a....Apologize to her!"
Tom blinked twice but never responded, and Tiberius was forced to double his hold to prevent Alastor from charging forward. Slowly, Alastor managed to calm himself, taking deep gulping breaths of the wet autumn air as the adrenaline and pounding anger left him. Professor Dumbledore sighed and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he waved his wand in the direction of the three fallen Slytherins. All three boys vanished with a pop, leaving only slight impressions in grass and shadow.
"Fifteen points from everyone involved in the fight. And an extra twenty from you, Tom, because that kind of language is simply not excused at Hogwarts."
Tom seethed in place for a moment, looking like he might argue. Then he stormed away, black robes swirling in the wind as he vanished into the darkness of the doorway. Dumbledore watched Tom leave, shaking his head again. Then he seemed to remember the three Gryffindors standing huddled together in the rain.
"Mr. Kirk, Ms. McGonagall, I suggest you find your way back to the Tower before this rain decides to truly break. Mr. Moody, if you'll please come with me."
Alastor hesitated, largely because Minerva had suddenly seized hold of his shoulder once more, but also because his legs did not feel nearly up to the challenge of walking.
"We'll come with him," Minerva insisted, and Alastor would certainly not have argued with the look on her face. Dumbledore, however, seemed entirely immune to Minerva's stern gaze, although he did at least offer a small smile.
"No my dear, I think Madame Hewitt will be able to patch him up and return him to you shortly. And I'm sure Mr. Moody will be very glad to see you when he gets back to Gryffindor Tower," Dumbledore said gently.
"Mr. Moody would like to note that he is not in fact dead or unconscious, and is in fact standing right here," the thought left his mouth before Alastor really had proper time to recall he was speaking to a professor. Minerva's eyes widened, and Tiberius stifled a laugh as Alastor groaned and felt color rush to his face. Idly he wondered if perhaps the head injury gave him the ability to deny responsibility for that particular statement. Dumbledore, however, seemed nothing more than amused, motioning Alastor forward with his free hand.
"I apologize then, Mr. Moody. This way, please."
Minerva relinquished her hold this time, albeit with more than slight reluctance.
"I'll wait up for you," she promised. The same stern look was still on her face, and Alastor did not dare try and convince her that he honestly did not mind if she simply went to bed. She had at least stopped looking frightened, and now merely seemed deathly serious, and Alastor had really taken enough of a beating for one day. He simply shrugged and gave her a her a halfway smile, a difficult feat since his face did not seem to want to respond properly. Tiberius prodded him gently forward, adding a murmured farewell for good measure. Then Tiberius and Minerva were past, climbing the steps and passing through the open doorway, Minerva casting backward glances toward him every few seconds. Alastor stumbled toward Dumbledore and the castle, fighting the sickening dizziness that swarmed with each step. Thunder rolled, distant and dull now, although the rain had begun to fall more steadily in the darkness. Quietly Alastor followed Dumbledore up the stairs and crossed the threshold into the castle, the sudden brightness adding a fresh ache to his already pounding head.
"You know Alastor – do you mind if I call you Alastor?" Dumbledore asked suddenly. The door closed with a rolling boom that made Alastor's very teeth hurt. The air in the hall was cold too, made more uncomfortable by the fact that his hair and skin and Quidditch robes were all quite soaked. Alastor had barely gone three steps before he was shivering. Dumbledore tapped his wand to the side of his half-moon glasses, vanishing the drops of rain that hung on the lenses.
"No, 's fine," Alastor managed. Dumbledore smiled, careful to stay on the side with the one eye Alastor could still presently see with, apparently intent on having some sort of meaningful conversation. The fact that Alastor happened to be battling a distinctly unpleasant headache did not deter the professor in the slightest.
"Splendid. You know Alastor, that was a very brave thing you did. A bit foolish, but brave."
"Ah...what, exactly, was that sir?" Alastor frowned, following Dumbledore around a corner and up another flight of stairs. Perhaps the head injury really had caused some damage. The staircase moved, which did nothing for Alastor's already suffering sense of balance, and he rapidly found himself clutching at the banister in an attempt to stay upright. Dumbledore seemed not to notice. The portraits, however, took great notice, and in fact seemed to be laughing.
"Leaping, quite literally, to the defense of Ms. McGonagall," Dumbledore explained. Alastor had the uncomfortable suspicion that Professor Dumbledore had seen more of the fight than originally expected.
"Seemed like a good idea at the time, I suppose."
"Hm. There are plenty of wizards, unfortunately, who would not have acted at all, I'm afraid," Dumbledore waved to a portrait, then turned down another corridor, pausing to fix Alastor with an odd look. Color flooded to Alastor's face as he guessed at what precisely the professor was suggesting.
"I...well...she's my friend, and I...that's not a nice thing...not a nice way to talk about someone."
The words sounded odd and jumbled and Alastor winced as he spoke, wishing very much that the door to the Hospital Wing would just conveniently appear. That, or for the floor to swallow him entirely. Dumbledore merely smiled and nodded, far too knowingly for Alastor's taste.
"Perhaps you might look into putting your opinions and your temper to good use after Hogwarts."
"How do you mean?" Alastor frowned, glancing up at Dumbledore.
"This is your OWL year, correct?"
Alastor nodded, still frowning and not entirely understanding the change in subject.
"Then perhaps, when you make your appointment to speak with me about possible careers, you should inquire about the Auror Department," Dumbledore smiled again, only this time the smile was off somehow, different in a way Alastor could not precisely place. Before he had time to ask any questions, the door to the Hospital Wing finally appeared. Dumbledore ushered him inside without another word, save for a quick farewell, leaving Alastor alone in entrance to the long chamber.
Honestly Alastor had never much cared for the Hospital Wing, though he had indeed made frequent visits over the years thanks to various Quidditch injuries. The air was heavy with potions and spices and cleaning supplies, and the smell burned his nose. Alastor shifted in place, wet clothes still sticking to his skin, wondering if perhaps he could leave without anyone realizing. Minerva could probably patch his face up just fine, after all, and she had seemed very worried about him, and for some reason Alastor felt quite bad for worrying her at all. The ache in his head and the fact that he could only see out of one eye rather paled in comparison to the thought that he had upset Minerva. Alastor made up his mind and shuffled back towards the door, intent on apologizing to Minerva as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Madame Hewitt chose that moment to appear, took one look at his face, and ordered him to a seat on the nearest bed. Alastor sighed and begrudgingly obeyed, wincing as he nurse began to repair the cuts and bruises, fully intent on escaping at the nearest possible opportunity. Minerva had promised to stay awake until he returned, and Alastor did not intend to keep her waiting.