2
Rita Skeeter felt triumphant. Convincing Moody went easier than she had expected. She had previously formed some dismaying mental pictures of having to start her work on the slandering article about him, writing laborious paragraphs before he decided that it was way more sensible to cooperate with her. She was pleased now that she did not need to put any extra energy into this. Besides, she knew that there were a lot of wizards and witches who still worshipped the memory of Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, the brave ex-Auror, and who would not be delighted with the way she might portray his survival. It could easily happen that people would just be happy to know that he was alive, and boycott her paper for smearing his name. This article could prove to be a double-edged sword. She had a different goal for being here. The mentioning of the possibility of her writing the defaming article was more like her way to force his hand. And it worked.
She spent her day at her Muggle hotel room, finishing another article she had to send to the chief editor, otherwise, the long delay would make that moron go ballistic again. She did not feel like making up new excuses. It was a standard piece about a below-average Quidditch team, and she could not immerse herself in her task. Her thoughts returned to her evening meeting, again and again.
It was almost time to prepare for going out, late in the afternoon, when she had her first misgivings about her visit here. It was a flash of unease she could not explain. That it might not be such a good idea to continue with this whole plan. She should just go home. Moody would one hundred percent not be upset if she stood him up. No one else knew she was here. She could leave right now.
She quickly brushed these doubts off.
She put on a magenta skirt with a silvery silk blouse and nylon stockings, momentarily wondering if the skirt might be too short for the occasion. But then she decided not to concern herself with the question. Upon her arrival at the hotel, she saw some Muggle tourists wearing much less. Plus, most of her other clothes were not suitable for this environment. No one was wearing ornate witch dresses here. Those would cause an even bigger distraction. She did not pack too many Muggle-compatible clothes this time because she was not sure how long she could stay. She might have to return to London tomorrow. The chief editor had already started asking bothersome questions about her frequent disappearances. Probably, Uncle Hubbard needing her help with moving house had started to sound less and less convincing around the tenth or eleventh time.
As a finishing touch, she put on a flowery silk scarf, her jeweled glasses, and pink lipstick, matching the shade to her skirt. She was good to go.
It was too warm outside, and the dilapidated, narrow streets seemed to lock the heat inside the darkness. She wished she could shorten the distance with Apparating, but the seaside town was full of Muggles, and she did not know the place well enough anyway, so it was unfortunately out of the question. The breezeless and heavy air felt almost suffocating by the time she arrived at their agreed meeting place.
Moody was standing by the wall, arms crossed, next to the rain gutter where he had attacked her yesterday.
She felt invigorated by the success of finding him exactly where he promised he would be. She was really not looking forward to the inconvenience of searching for him again for long days or weeks, had he been a no-show.
They skipped the empty politeness of greetings, and just ended up next to each other. He was obviously not happy to see her, and she did not care.
He did not look much better than yesterday. Even if not considering his latest scars that made him look like as if his head had been put back together from pieces, or the Muggle glass eye that lacked the finesse of the old magical one, he had the aura of a broken man. His only good eye tired, face worn. He was wearing the same ragged clothes from last night.
"Let's go inside," she stepped in the direction of the closest pub.
"Not that one." He stopped her. "I have already been there on three different occasions."
"So what?"
"I don't go to the same location more than three times. Choose another one."
"Why?" She stood her ground.
He did not reply immediately. Most likely, he was considering whether to give her an answer at all. Finally, he said with a shrug, "I don't want to become familiar with people or places anymore."
This caught her off guard. She expected a mention of lurking dangers, precautions of hiding from enemies – real or imaginary –, working on a private undercover task, or something in the same vein. But this simple, yet forlorn disclosure took her by surprise. This was a good opportunity to pester him about more personal details... But she found herself unable to resume her planned line of questions.
"What about that one?" She showed him another bar instead.
The building was not particularly inviting with its stained windows, broken doors, and walls covered with torn shreds of old paper posters. The pale yellow neon sign was partially burned out. She had no clear idea of how a high-class Muggle bar should look, but she guessed that this was not it. Nonetheless, when seeing his gruff nod, she walked towards the entrance. She considered herself fortunate that she had managed to convince him to sit down with her. No need to push her luck with being choosy about their surroundings.
The place smelled of musty citrus fruit, and was half-empty. There were only two young tourist couples in the corners, and a bored-looking bartender behind the counter – who must have been the owner of the place, because he spent his time drinking booze from the wooden racks behind him. The radio music was corny, almost annoying, but its sound seemed useful to hide their conversation from the Muggles. She was satisfied that this was as good a place as any to talk.
They selected the table farthest from potential listeners. She could not use her quill because of the onlookers, so she had to search through her purse for a mechanical pen and an empty notebook she bought in the souvenir shop of her hotel.
"It's hot in here." She threw her silk scarf along the back of her chair. It left her neck naked. As soon as the air hit her skin, she realized her mistake. She was distracted by finding the Muggle pen and paper, and did not think. Now it was too late to remember why she had put the scarf on in the first place. Moody caught sight of the marks on her neck, which were a result of him grabbing her last night.
He stepped closer, taking in all the bruises. It must have been worse than what he had expected, because the air left his lungs in a short, coarse exhalation.
"Sorry, I did not mean to hurt you like this," he rasped, continuing to look at the reddish-bluish stains on her pale skin.
She was not sure why, but she preferred his animosity to this embarrassed attempt at friendliness. She adjusted the collar of her silvery silk blouse to cover more of her throat. "It's no big deal."
"I injured you."
"I shouldn't have crept up on you like that."
"Still," he said, apparently unable to tear his one good eye away from the contusions, "let me at least have a closer look."
He made a tentative motion with his fingers towards her neck, but she batted away his hand. "It's nothing," she said with finality. "I have some Fast-Fix salve with me in my travel bag. I will put that on, and the marks will be gone tomorrow."
"Why haven't you already?"
It was a rare moment when she could not find words. She was struggling to formulate an answer, her painted lips parting without a voice. She already had. She had put the magic ointment on her bruises because without it, they would have looked much, much worse today.
He soon understood the reason for her unresponsiveness, and a burning redness of shame crept on his rugged face.
"No, no," he mumbled under his breath.
"It's fine. Let's concentrate on the point of us being here today."
He threw one more sour glance at her neck, and then said, "Let's do that."
Despite the heat, she put her silk scarf back on. It hurt him to watch those bruises, and she wanted to spare him the humiliation of facing the signs of what he had become. The traces a violent, overly suspicious drunk left on her body. Or, more accurately – she corrected herself – she just wanted him focused and on task. Better not to go into the uncharted territory of sympathy. It was the last thing she needed.
"You will be happy to hear that this project I'm working on needs your input on multiple aspects," she told him, opening her brand new notebook. "So you don't have to reply to all my questions right now. I'll be back in a couple of days, and perhaps, a few weeks later as well."
He let out a displeased grunt. Of course, it was no good news to him that he could not get rid of her that easily. This was the usual reaction she got. A lot of people did not enjoy a tabloid journalist's prying questions. She did not mind this kind of discomfort, she got used to it.
"I'm working on a book," she added, though he made no attempt at asking her for details. "It's about the casualties of the Battle of Hogwarts."
"I'm not a casualty."
"You are not, but I want to begin with a more comprehensive description of how the Second Wizarding War influenced the life of so many people. That's why I asked around about your demise, and ultimately, that's how I found you. Anyway, my book will also describe some earlier victims, and how their suffering..." She prepared a longer description of the concept of her book, but when the word 'suffering' left her lips, her voice trailed off. As if a Muggle electrical switch had been flipped, she found herself unable to concentrate on a single thought. It was almost like a thick fog covering her mind. It was not longer than a couple of moments, and it disappeared as soon as it came. She just hoped that he was unable to spot it.
She was back to her former self, eyes lively, a professional smile plastered to her face. She tried to guess where she left off, skipping some parts she was not certain about. "Consequently, that is why I want to ask you questions, Mr Moody. You being so knowledgeable on the topic, and all. Out of all the Aurors I have ever met, you have the most battle scars, don't you?"
"How would I know who you've met?"
"Well, you don't. But can you name anyone who suffered more battle injuries than you?"
"No."
"So, we can say that you are an expert of this field, can we not?"
"What field?" He was swiftly losing patience. She could see from the way he was massaging a huge white scar crossing his temples that he must have had a splitting headache. She made a mental note to research the common after-effects of brain injuries. He had never been the most pleasant man – she could clearly remember their short, and unfriendly old interviews – but his current hair-trigger temper might also partly be the result of some neurological issues that came with this newest skull damage. Anything that had to do with spectacular wounds might fit well into her upcoming book on the Second Wizarding War. Readers liked these kind of gory details.
"Of describing the long-term effects of wars and sinister times," she explained, unperturbed.
"You can see it for yourself. My expertise." He gestured towards the long rows of bottles behind the bar counter.
When he gave no other answer, she tried to spur him on with a deliberately soft remark, "It must be difficult to live with the things you've seen."
"The dreams are the worst," he murmured, now staring in front of himself. "I tried hundreds of potions and spells throughout the years, but I still can't control what returns to me in my sleep."
She made a note of his statement. It was weird to use her freshly bought mechanical pen. It did not seem to fit into her hand, and chafed the delicate skin between her thumb and forefinger. How could Muggles use this on a daily basis?
"Is that why you never started a family?" She immediately seized the opportunity of his ephemeral opening-up to fish for a juicier detail. "Not wanting this darkness to touch them?"
"I don't see how any of this is your business."
"As I told you before, I'm collecting background information for my new book on..."
"You were lying."
She felt truly taken aback this time with his harsh reply. "I was most definitely not."
"Yes, I believe that you are writing the book you described, but you have a different goal for being here; I just don't know what."
"You are paranoid," she countered.
"That doesn't mean I'm not right."
Her red nails drummed a beat or two on the wine-stained, sticky wooden surface of the table.
"So, what can you tell me about your decision not to start a family?" She tried to get back on track.
"What can you?"
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Last I heard, you were also single with no children."
Normally, she was not shy when it came to discussing her private life. She just had an utter disinterest for the subject. Her 'love life' for example was merely a tool for her to further her career. Her dates were influential men – some of them married, most of them only one-night stands, and all of them lacking any real appeal to her. But this way, it was easy to gain leverage for any future stories she might need help with. And that was it.
She was about fifteen years old when she decided that 'true love' was for sniveling fools, and hopeless losers. So she weeded out any and all fantasies about romantic fairy-tales, princes, and happily-ever-afters. She never went back, and never regretted her decision either.
Even if her life had depended on it, she would not have been able to tell why talking about this topic with him now made her suddenly self-conscious.
"This is inappropriate." She hoped that she sounded businesslike, and not just plain defensive. "We are discussing you, not me."
"Alright, but first, tell me the real reason for you being here, questioning me."
"I see that you live by 'attack is the best defense'."
"And you've always been hiding behind your stories, using them as a shield between you and other people. But you can't fool me. I know a liar when I see one."
"I have nothing to hide."
"If that's the case, why didn't you want me to talk about you before?"
"Because my marital status, or the number of children I have has nothing to do with wizarding wars."
"That's not what I mean. I mean before before."
"We had not talked about me before that."
"Yes, we had." He made a pointed gesture towards the scarf hiding her bruises.
A short sigh left her lips. "Would you prefer me to make a fuss? To compose an article on how an ex-Auror physically assaulted me, going into great detail about the injuries I suffered?"
"Then, it would be just another one of your stories to hide behind."
"And your point is...?"
He did not give a reply, just watched her with a fixed stare. She had to admit to herself that she had let the conversation go completely haywire.
"Why don't we drink something before they kick us out for not ordering?" she asked quickly, and not waiting for his answer, got up, and walked up to the bartender.
When she returned with two glasses of Muggle rum, she was back to her professional composure.
It was high time she directed the conversation back to him. She put the glasses down, and then poised her pen above her notes. She asked bluntly, "Are you dying?"
Now it was his turn to be on the back foot. He cleared his throat. "Now, why would you ask that?"
"It would explain why you are avoiding all human attachments, new and old, refusing to get to know the places you visit here, or to contact your former associates. Moreover, before your disappearance, I heard you had been extremely careful with what to eat or drink, never would have ordered casually at Muggle pubs. But if there is not much time left, why bother? Am I right?"
He was speechless.
"So, are you dying?" she repeated her question, scribbling a note to herself about his reluctance to speak about his current maladies.
"I'm not sure," he said finally, and drank his rum in one big gulp. "The doctors told me that my brain is full of tiny skull fragments they could not remove without causing more damage. If any of those gets dislodged, the consequences might very well be lethal. But it may not happen. I might die tomorrow, or live another couple of decades. I'll never know."
"And what's your take on it?"
"This is nothing new. My life has always been on the edge of death."
"What changed?"
"What's different is that now I feel useless," he admitted. "Voldemort is gone, there is nothing left for me to fight against. What's the point of dying, if there is nothing to die for?"
"And drinking gallons of cheap Muggle beer is helping you find a new purpose – how?"
He made an uncomfortable motion to adjust his bad leg under the table. She could see that she had managed to startle him with her skill of learning his usual daily routine. Though, he should not have been surprised, considering that she had ordered rum, his second standard drink of choice, just now.
"At least it helps me through the day," he said finally. "If everything is a blur, the flashbacks are also hazy."
"Nice quote." She still had not touched her liquor, just played with her glass in her other hand while writing notes. "Alright, let's proceed with how you survived the latest incident that made everyone believe you to be dead."
"The Killing Curse hit me in the face."
"That should have been instant death."
"My magical eye deflected away the brunt of it. Nevertheless, the impact of the curse shattered my skull, and sent me reeling from my broom. Muggle emergency services found me hanging from the branches of a park tree, unconscious. They took me to their own hospital where they treated me for months. For a long time, I had no idea who I was. After waking up from a coma, I needed weeks before I started recovering my very first memories. You see? There is no story behind me being absent. I just needed more than a year of physical therapy to heal."
"But you are yet to contact anyone with the news of your survival."
"It's just that I don't have anything to go back to, other than nightmares. As I told you yesterday, I prefer to be left alone."
She stopped writing, and took her glass of rum. She emptied it before she had enough time to regret her decision. It was her first time drinking this sort of hard liquor made by Muggles. It was stronger than she expected, burning her throat like fire. And she really tried not to dwell on the after-taste too much.
"How can you drink this?" She pushed the empty glass away. "This is worse than the homemade Bouncing Bulb Brandy of my Auntie Melinda."
"I don't care how it tastes." He gave a hoarse reply. But then he added with a little bit less bitterness, with the faint shadow of a tired smile, "After the third round you won't mind it either."
He signaled to the bar tender for the next. She was wondering if this was a good idea. Naturally, for her interview subjects, it was fine to let their guard down. It could only support her work. But what about her? She should remain self-possessed. However, tonight, she did not manage to pose her questions as smoothly as she would have liked. Maybe the alcohol can help loosen her up. Or so she hoped.
On the other hand, she could already sense the heat in her veins after the first glass. It did not really seem like a wise decision to drink even more.
But when the bartender arrived with their drinks, leering at her short skirt, she felt it was the better choice to drink one more round. She did not want to be too aware of their circumstances anymore.
Moody also understood the obnoxious look the bartender gave her.
"Do you want me to punch him?" he asked her when the man was out of earshot.
She shook her head, feeling even more tense now that he did not leave it unmentioned. Causing a pub brawl was absolutely not on her list of how she planned this interview to go. Anyway, she did not need him to stand up for her. She could handle that creep anytime if it came to it. But it was more reasonable to pick her battles than making a big deal about a man merely looking at her. Normally, she would not even give it a second thought. It was just that the wretched bartender directed Moody's attention to her legs. For some incomprehensible reason, that flustered her. She wished she had added a couple of inches of fabric with a spell in her hotel room so that the skirt remained a neutral part of her interview outfit.
"It would not be the first time the Muggles lock me up for a night for getting into drunken fights," he added with a shrug. "Once, some little punks insulted me because of my glass eye, and there was that incident with those football hooligans..."
"I know. I checked your background before coming here. These fine details of your current activities would have looked captivating in my article if you'd let me write that one instead of helping me with my book."
He just growled at her as a reply.
They drank in silence, and then she made an attempt to return to her notes. "Can you tell me some more about your stay at the Muggle hospital?"
"I've already told you more than enough."
"What about your memories?"
"What about those?"
"Were you able to regain all of them?"
"More or less."
She found nothing useful in his curt, and reluctant replies.
"Why are you asking?" he retorted.
"I want to have a clear picture of what kind of battle injuries we are dealing with here. In order to fluently incorporate them in my book..."
"No. There was something about the workings of my brain. What did you want to hear?"
When she did not answer, he got up, and brought them two more drinks. She was grateful for the interruption. They drank even faster than in the previous two instances. She guessed they both needed it.
The heat of the ill-ventilated room and the drinks made her light-headed. It was almost pleasurable, in a way, careless... And then the door of the bar opened. A new patron – looking like a fisherman – walked up to the counter, and as the man passed by their table, the distinct smell of fish scales and cheap cologne hit her nostrils with a whoosh. Something stirred in the back of her mind. She felt a sudden instinctual wave of repulsion, and had to grab the edge of the table to balance herself. Her pulse was racing now, and a foul surge of nausea rushed through her whole body. It left an acidy taste in her mouth.
"Are you alright?" Moody asked. Apparently, holding the wooden slab of the table firmly was not enough to hide the shaking of her fingers.
She took a deep breath to slow down her heartbeat, back to normal.
In that moment, she felt a profound need to disclose the real reason for her being there. Why pretend? It seemed logical to be honest, because what was the point of lying? He was right, she should just come clean. Why not?
Leaning forward, she took another fresh gulp of air, and tried to find the right phrasing...
A shadow was crossing their table. After serving the fisherman, the bartender came for their empty glasses.
It brought her back to her senses on the instant.
She swallowed back the words ready to leave her lips, and tried to act natural, pushing her chair back, leaving room for the man to clear the table. To her horror, Moody was watching her with a knowing look on his face that made it obvious he had recognized her previous intention.
She should not have drunk the dubious Muggle liquor. Her near-miss decision to divulge the truth was looking bad enough right now, in the haze of alcohol, but she was definitely going to be mortified tomorrow after sobering up. How could she have made an utter mess of this simple routine interview?
She was wishing for the bartender to spend as long as possible by the table, so that she had time to pull herself together.
After the man had finally left, she did her best to sound relaxed and detached when she spoke, "After these drinks, I'm not sure I'm up to doing any more work today. Why don't we meet tomorrow, with a clear head?"
And before he could answer, she started sweeping her things back into her purse.
This was a maneuver she rarely used. Not in her work, and not in her private life. She was not the type of person to shy away from a difficult or complicated situation. Yet, this time she did not see any other solution but to run away.
