CHAPTER FIVE

The Three Broomsticks

Weeks passed in a blur of classes, Quidditch practice, and moments that felt lighter than Moody expected. Gideon Prewett had a way of turning even the dullest Astronomy lessons into something amusing, his whispered commentary drawing reluctant smiles from Moody. Slowly, Moody found himself looking forward to Prewett's easy humor, though it left him questioning how someone could be so effortlessly confident and carefree.

By the time the first Quidditch match of the season—Hufflepuff vs. Slytherin—rolled around, the castle was buzzing with excitement. Cecily dragged Moody and Hagrid to the stands early, declaring they needed the best seats. The air was crisp and buzzing with energy, and for a while, Moody managed to set his unease aside as they cheered for Hufflepuff. The match was tense and physical, with Slytherin's Chasers playing ruthlessly, but Hufflepuff pulled off a narrow victory when their Seeker caught the Snitch just before Slytherin could capitalize on a penalty shot.

After the match, the crowd spilled out of the stands in waves. Moody lingered near the Gryffindor section, caught between wanting to avoid the press of bodies and not quite ready to leave. That's when Gideon found him, his easy grin already in place.

"Don't tell anyone, but I was rooting for Hufflepuff," Gideon said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Slytherin doesn't need another win this year."

Moody snorted. "Traitorous, coming from a Ravenclaw."

"Ah, but next match?" Gideon's grin widened. "I'll root against Gryffindor—got to defend Ravenclaw's honor." His tone softened slightly. "What do you say we visit Hogsmeade together on Saturday? It'll be less dull with you along."

Moody blinked, caught entirely off guard. His heart skipped, a wild flutter rising in his chest that he barely managed to suppress. "As friends?" he blurted.

Gideon tilted his head, his grin sharpening into something mischievous. "What else could I mean?" The double meaning in his tone hung in the air, and Moody felt the heat rushing to his face.

Gideon clapped him lightly on the shoulder before Moody could respond, his brief touch sending a ripple through Moody's chest that he couldn't quite explain. "Saturday, then," Gideon said, his voice easy and confident, like it was the simplest decision in the world.

Moody managed a stiff nod, though his throat felt like it had closed up entirely. He stood frozen, watching as Gideon turned and walked away, his posture relaxed, his stride steady. For a moment, Moody's gaze lingered lower than he intended, drawn to the confident sway of Gideon's steps. He snapped his eyes upward quickly, his face growing hotter than ever.

The crowd in the corridor moved around him, a blur of cloaks and laughter, but Moody's thoughts were anything but blurred. His heart was racing, his palms felt clammy, and the heat that had risen to his face refused to fade. Why did a single conversation leave him feeling untethered, like he was standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable?

On the morning of the is-it-a-date, sliding into his seat in the Great Hall, Moody reached for a slice of toast, his movements slow and absent-minded. Across from him, Hagrid was tucking into a plate piled high with eggs and sausages, grinning between mouthfuls.

"Big day, eh, Moody?" Hagrid said, his voice booming despite the early hour. "First Hogsmeade visit of the term, an' all."

"Careful," Cecily added, smirking as she twisted a curl of hair around her finger. "Wouldn't want to be late for your date with Prewett."

"It's not a date," Moody muttered, his ears burning.

Before Cecily could reply, a rustling of wings broke through the morning chatter. Bader, the family owl, swooped low over the Gryffindor table and landed neatly in front of Moody. Hagrid whistled softly. "Blimey, it's Bader. Thought he'd retired."

Moody frowned, untying the small scroll of parchment attached to the owl's leg. Bader hooted, puffing out his chest before taking off toward the rafters.

"What's that about?" Cecily asked, craning her neck to see the letter. Moody ignored her, his gaze dropping to his father's familiar sharp handwriting:

Alastor,
El Alamein rages on. Montgomery has rallied the Eighth Army, and it's looking like a turning point at last. The papers are full of it, and spirits are rising.

Meanwhile, according to the Daily Prophet Grindelwald stirs closer to our borders. I trust you haven't forgotten that his reach doesn't end where the Muggle war begins. I know your work at school keeps you busy, but a word from you would mean the world to your mother. You've not written in weeks.

Stay vigilant. Stay sharp.
– Father

Moody folded the letter and slipped it into his robes, his appetite fading. The guilt prickled at the edges of his thoughts—how long had it been since he'd written home? Too long, clearly. His father's words about Grindelwald weighed heavily, but the reminder of the Muggle war struck a chord he hadn't expected.

"You alright?" Cecily asked, her teasing tone replaced by concern.
"Fine," Moody muttered, brushing crumbs from his robes. He pulled out a sheet of parchment and scribbled a short reply:

Dear Mum,
I'm fine. I've just been busy with classes. I heard about El Alamein—sounds like good news at last. Tell Dad I got his letter. I'll write again soon. Don't worry about me.

Love, Alastor

Folding the parchment quickly, he stuffed it into his pocket, resolving to send it off later. He glanced at Cecily, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and gestured toward the doors. "Come on, we're going to be late and I still don't know what to wear."

Later, in the Gryffindor dormitory, Moody stood in the middle of a chaotic mess—his belongings scattered across his bed like the aftermath of a particularly enthusiastic summoning charm. "Why is everything I own so… dreary?" he muttered.

"There's a war on," Cecily Figg said from where she lounged on Hagrid's trunk, swinging her legs. "You're lucky to have clothes at all."

"Not helping," Moody replied flatly. He didn't know how to dress and Cecily, despite only knowing her for a few weeks did have the advantage of being a girl so maybe knew a little more about how to dress than he did.

Hagrid, cross-legged on the floor, held up a wool jumper. "This one's warm, Alastor. An' sturdy. Yeh don't want ter be wanderin' around Hogsmeade catchin' a cold."

Cecily rolled her eyes. "We're not dressing him for a trek through the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid. It's Hogsmeade—a village with shops and tea, where people might notice if he looks like he's been dragged through a hedge."

Moody sighed, holding up a brown jumper with patched elbows. "This'll do."

Cecily snatched it, inspecting it critically. "Wear the pale blue shirt with it—it brings out your eyes." Moody flushed but complied, pulling on the shirt and jumper.

"You look tolerable," Cecily declared grudgingly.

Just then, Kemp walked in, his face pink from the cold and his broom slung over one shoulder. He stopped short, glancing between Cecily, Hagrid, and Moody. "Uh—Quidditch," he stammered. "The team's doing well. Blythe thinks we'll smash Ravenclaw."

"Glad to hear it," Moody replied, trying to sound casual.

"Right. Good luck with, uh, whatever this is," Kemp added, gesturing vaguely before bolting from the room.

Cecily burst into laughter. "He's smitten!"

"He's not smitten," Moody muttered, adjusting his sleeves.

"Awkwardly smitten," Cecily countered.

Hagrid grinned. "Maybe yeh should've asked him to join us in Hogsmeade."

Moody groaned. "Let's just get this over with."

Cecily smirked, stepping forward to inspect Moody critically. "Don't tempt me. Now, brush your hair—or at least flatten it a bit."

With a resigned grumble, Moody fussed over the final preparations, catching a glimpse of himself in the dormitory mirror. It wasn't much, but he didn't look half bad—comfortable, respectable, and almost like he fit in. Cecily gave an approving nod as they stepped into the castle corridor, where the brisk chill of the approaching winter greeted them like a silent specter.

The path to Hogsmeade was unusually quiet, the chill air heavy with a tension that muted even the faint crunch of footsteps on frost-dusted cobblestones. The usual hum of excitement from students heading into the village was subdued, their voices low and cautious. Along the road, the tall, hooded figures of Dementors stood like frozen sentinels, their stillness somehow more unsettling than movement. Moody felt the cold creeping into his chest, an unnatural, biting frost that made each breath sharp and shallow. His gaze lingered on one of the creatures as it turned slightly, its hidden face seeming to follow the group's progress, and he clenched his wand tighter in his pocket.

Hogsmeade itself was far from its usual bustling charm. The neatly kept streets and quaint shopfronts remained untouched, yet the village felt drained of life. Warm light still glowed faintly behind windows, but the usual bustle of shoppers and chatter of friends were replaced by hushed murmurs and swift, purposeful movements. Even the Three Broomsticks seemed quieter, its doors opening briefly to release a muted burst of warmth and laughter that quickly faded into the stillness. Moody cast a glance at Cecily, who walked beside him, her usual cheerful grin replaced by a tight-lipped focus. The village seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the shadow of the Dementors to finally move on.

Moody stood under the entrance to the Three Broomsticks, glancing irritably at the two figures lingering next to him. Cecily was leaning against the stone base, humming cheerfully to herself, while Hagrid shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking as though he might bolt at any moment. Both had ignored Moody's protests when they insisted on "seeing him off." "You know you don't have to stay," Moody hissed under his breath, shooting a glare at Cecily.

"What, and miss all the excitement?" Cecily replied, grinning. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't scare Prewett off with your 'brooding loner' act."

"I don't brood," Moody snapped, though the tips of his ears flushed pink.

Hagrid chuckled. "Yeh do a bit, yeh know."

Moody groaned. "Just bugger off, will you?"

"Oh, fine," Cecily said with an exaggerated sigh. "But you'll thank me later for making sure you don't show up alone and awkward."

Before Moody could argue further, Prewett appeared, striding toward them across the square. Moody froze for a moment, blinking in mild shock.

Prewett looked as if he'd stepped out of a wizarding tailor's dream, his forest-green tweed coat tailored to perfection and his auburn hair catching the sunlight in just the right way. A burgundy scarf was slung casually around his neck, setting off his sharp green eyes, and his polished boots crunched against the frost-dusted cobblestones with an easy confidence.

Next to him, Moody felt like he'd rolled straight out of his wardrobe. His brown jumper was scratchy, his old hand-me-down coat hung awkwardly at the shoulders, and his blue shirt wasn't quite tucked in properly. Still, he grudgingly admitted Cecily was right about the color; it made him look less like a potato and more like a respectable human.

"I didn't realize this was a party," Prewett said, his brows lifting slightly as he took in the trio.

"It's not," Moody said quickly, flustering. "They're just leaving."

Cecily ignored Moody entirely, stepping forward with a grin. "Cecily Figg. Chaperone extraordinaire. Don't mind me—I'll be meeting my parents at Madam Puddifoot's later. Hagrid's coming too. It'll be good to see the kneazles."

Hagrid's eyes lit up. "Oh aye, kneazles! Brilliant creatures, they are. Smart as anything, and loyal too."

Prewett smiled faintly, his gaze flicking briefly to Moody as he shook Cecily's hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Cecily replied, her grin widening. "You're braver than you look, agreeing to spend a day in Hogsmeade with this one."

Moody scowled. "I'm standing right here."

Cecily shrugged. "Just saying."

Hagrid cleared his throat, shuffling awkwardly. "Er, anyway, I'll meet yeh at Madam Puddifoot's later, Cecily. Don't worry—I'll make sure they save us a seat."

Before Cecily could respond, Moody leaned toward Hagrid and nodded toward a group gathered near the edge of the road. "That lot over there—they were with Audrey at Quidditch tryouts."

Hagrid squinted in the direction Moody indicated. A cluster of seventh-year students stood huddled near the square, their faces partially obscured by their hoods. They were speaking in low voices, their postures tense. Hagrid's expression shifted from cheerful to concerned.

"Blythe said she's been talking about revenge—and those lot look suspicious as anything," Moody muttered. "If those are her co-conspirators, I want to know what they're up to."

Hagrid frowned, glancing between the group and Cecily. "Come off it Moody! Yeh don't think she's actually plannin' somethin', do yeh?"

"I don't know yet," Moody replied. "But can't hurt to keep an eye on them can it?"

Hagrid sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. "I'm not exactly built fer spyin', yeh know. Stick out like a dragon in a pumpkin patch."

Moody's lips twitched, but he pressed on. "You're not subtle, but you're big enough to keep them in line if they're up to something stupid. Just watch them. Listen."

"Fine," Hagrid muttered, casting a wistful look in the direction of Madam Puddifoot's. "But yeh owe me fer missin' out on kneazles, Alastor."

Cecily hooked her arm through Moody's and steered him toward the bustling street. "You owe us both," she said, her grin returning. "First you ruin Hagrid's tea plans, now you're dragging me through Hogsmeade with your constant brooding. Prewett's going to think we've all lost it."

Moody glanced back as Hagrid lumbered toward the group of seventh years, his massive frame impossible to miss even in the crowded square. Cecily's chatter barely registered as unease tightened in his chest.

"Come on, Alastor," Cecily said brightly. "Let's not waste the day. I'm sure your date can't wait to start. See you."

"It's not a date," Moody muttered, but as he followed Prewett into the village, he found himself standing a little straighter, suddenly glad Cecily had made him wear the blue shirt after all.

The warmth of The Three Broomsticks wrapped around Moody and Prewett as they stepped inside, melting the frost from their cheeks. The pub was alive with sound—laughter, the clink of mugs, the murmur of conversations blending into a soothing hum. Moody's eyes scanned the crowded room, searching for a table, but he felt himself drawn to the firelight flickering off the walls. There was something magnetic about the place, as though it had been designed to lure you in and make you forget the cold outside.

Prewett, as natural as ever, caught sight of an empty table tucked into a quieter corner and motioned Moody to follow. The auburn gleam of his hair caught the light as he moved, and Moody felt the magnetic pull shift—to him.

They wove through the throng, Prewett brushing close as they passed a group of boisterous Ravenclaws. Moody's pulse quickened when Prewett's hand lightly grazed his elbow, a fleeting touch that felt both casual and deliberate.

As they reached the table, Prewett pulled out his chair with a casual flourish. "Sit tight," he said, grinning. "I'll grab us some drinks. Butterbeer, right?"

"Yeah," Moody replied, though his voice was tight. He shrugged off his coat, settling into the chair as Prewett walked toward the bar. Moody glanced at his reflection in the window—brown jumper, rumpled blue shirt, and his father's old coat. He looked like an outsider trying to fit in.. Prewett returned, balancing two steaming mugs of butterbeer, his grin so disarming that it cut through the haze of doubt in Moody's mind. "Here we go," he said, sliding one across the table. For a fleeting moment, Moody allowed himself to smile back. The warmth of the butterbeer was a comfort against the cold outside, but Prewett's presence offered something harder to name.

"So," Prewett began, tilting his head. "What does Alastor Moody do for fun?"

Moody stiffened slightly, then forced a smirk to cover his unease. "Why do you care?"

Prewett shrugged, his grin widening. "You're fascinating. Hard to figure out. I like a challenge."

Moody huffed a laugh despite himself, looking down at his mug as if it held an answer. "Planes," he muttered. "Muggle ones. My dad was in the RAF. We used to build models together." The words came out quieter than he'd intended, tinged with a vulnerability he immediately regretted.

"Planes?" Prewett repeated, his eyes lighting up. "That's brilliant! Like actual fighter planes?"

"Spitfires, mostly," Moody admitted, his voice steadier now. "Still have a few at home. It's... calming, working on them."

Prewett leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "You're full of surprises, Moody. I bet you've got the hands for it—strong, steady, good with detail."

Before Moody could deflect the compliment, Prewett reached across the table, taking one of Moody's hands in his own. His breath hitched, every nerve screaming at him to pull away, but he stayed still. Prewett's hand was warm and soft, a stark contrast to Moody's calloused palms.

"They're good hands," Prewett said softly, his grin fading into something gentler. "Hands that build things. Protect things."

Moody swallowed hard, his throat tight. "They're not... they're not like yours," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His mind raced, thoughts clashing between the quiet warmth of Prewett's touch and the voice in his head reminding him of his father's disapproving frown.

Prewett's smile returned, softer now but with a hint of mischief. "No, they're better. Yours have stories. Mine are just soft from too much time holding quills."

Something broke through Moody's tension then—something like defiance. He let Prewett hold his hand for another beat, his own grip tightening slightly before he pulled back. "You're ridiculous," he muttered, gripping his mug as if it could ground him.

"And you're endearing," Prewett replied with a wink, leaning back in his chair. "Don't let it go to your head."

Moody felt the flush rising to his face, but he didn't look away. "What about you?" he asked, his voice steadier now. "What's your thing?"

Prewett chuckled, launching into a story about his father's work with Mer-People and his own growing interest in becoming a healer like his mum at St. Mungo's or a curse-breaker. "Probably the only reason I get invited to old Slughorn's little soirées," he added with a self-deprecating grin. "My parents' reputation keeps me on his radar more than anything I've done."

Moody listened carefully, though part of his mind churned with questions he didn't dare ask. Was this a date? Could it be? His heart raced at the thought, but for the first time, it wasn't entirely from fear. Maybe it didn't matter what his father or anyone else thought. Maybe this was his choice.

When Prewett's voice dipped into a teasing tone again, Moody leaned forward slightly, his lips twitching into the faintest of smirks. "Careful, Prewett. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you like me."

Prewett's eyes gleamed. "Would that be so bad?"

Moody's mouth opened before his brain caught up. "Do you?" he blurted. "I mean, do you like me? Is this… a date?"

The words hung in the air, and Moody instantly regretted them. His face flushed as Prewett blinked in surprise, his grin softening into something more thoughtful.

"Do you want it to be?" Prewett asked lightly, his teasing tone giving way to something quieter, more curious. Before Moody could stammer out an answer, Prewett tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Moody's chest tightened, a strange mix of excitement and panic bubbling inside him. He was about to say something—anything—when a voice cut through the hum of the pub, low and smooth, drawing the attention of anyone nearby like a spell.

"…and isn't that the beauty of it?" The voice, smooth and deliberate, floated above the pub's hum, demanding attention. "Legends endure not because they're true, but because they speak to something greater."

Moody turned sharply, his stomach knotting. Near the fire, Tom Riddle lounged like a monarch, his dark eyes catching the light as he spoke. Mulciber and Rosier leaned in close, their faces alight with awe. Riddle's voice, calm but edged with authority, seemed to carry the weight of inevitability.

"That's him?" Prewett murmured, his grin gone as his gaze hardened.
Moody nodded, gripping his mug tightly. "Yeah."

Riddle's words drifted over, calm and measured. "Stories," he said, almost amused. "They shape us—reveal what we long for, what we fear. Sometimes, they hold truths others are too blind to see."

Mulciber whispered eagerly, "It's real, then?"

Riddle smiled faintly. "What matters is not the story itself, but the power it represents. Power like that doesn't vanish. It waits—patiently—for those who are willing to grasp it."

Moody's stomach churned. Riddle's words didn't just target Muggle-borns—they echoed prejudices Moody knew all too well. The sneers in dormitories, his father's terse disapproval of "weakness," and the wizarding world's whispers about "purity." It was the same poison, dressed in finer words. He glanced at Prewett, whose smile—so warm and genuine—was the opposite of Riddle's cold precision. Where Riddle's power thrived on fear and division, Prewett's quiet confidence seemed to challenge that darkness, a reminder that bravery didn't always roar—it could also be the simple choice to stay open, even when the world urged you to close off. Could it? Would it be enough? Moody wondered.

"The truth isn't just a secret," Riddle continued, his voice dropping, forcing even the room's murmurs to quiet. "It's a test. A promise. Left behind for those who understand what truly matters—and for those willing to do what must be done."

Moody's grip tightened. Riddle's rhetoric wasn't just ambition—it was destruction masquerading as legacy, the same poison Moody knew all too well. The sneers in dormitories, his father's terse disapproval of "weakness," and the wizarding world's whispers about "purity" all echoed in Riddle's smooth words. Power like this didn't lift people up; it divided and crushed, leaving scars on those who didn't measure up. People like him.

Rosier leaned in, his voice hushed. "And when the test is passed?"

"Halloween," Riddle said softly, his tone reverent. "It will all begin on Halloween. The masks will fall. Hogwarts will finally reflect what it was always meant to be. You'll see."

Moody's jaw clenched, but when he shifted to rise, Prewett's hand brushed his arm. "Not yet," Prewett whispered, his voice tight. "We need to hear this."Prewett exhaled shakily, breaking the silence.

"There you two are!" Cecily's voice cut through the tension like a crack of thunder, her braid bouncing as she approached. She paused, her grin faltering slightly as she glanced between Moody and Prewett, sensing the unease. "What's with the brooding?" she asked lightly, though her eyes lingered on Moody's stiff posture.

Riddle's gaze flicked toward their table, his eyes locking with Moody's. The look wasn't long, but it was sharp, calculating—an evaluation. Moody felt exposed, as though Riddle had already decided where they fit in his design. Prewett stiffened beside him.

Moody's throat tightened. "We're leaving," he said, shoving coins onto the table.

Cecily blinked, confused. "But I just—"

"Now," Prewett snapped, standing and pulling Moody to his feet. Cecily frowned, sensing something deeper at play, but she followed without another word.

The icy air outside felt almost freeing. Moody cast one last glance over his shoulder. Riddle remained by the fire, his dark eyes following them as the pub door swung shut. That faint, knowing smile lingered.

Moody shivered, his thoughts churning. Riddle's words weren't just dangerous—they were a warning. He hadn't simply seen them. He had marked them. And with Halloween only just over a week away, Moody couldn't shake the feeling that they were running out of time.