CHAPTER 33: FOOL-EYE, THE RAT, AND THE GHOST
Alastor Moody wasn't a patient man. Far from it, in fact. However, he had never been bothered by it, and in any case, no one had ever dared to reproach him for it. Hadn't this impatience, this willingness to face the enemy head-on without considering the consequences, led him to fill more than half of Azkaban's cells on his own? True, his physical health had taken a serious blow. With one leg replaced by a roughly carved wooden one, a nose half missing and broken, one less eye substituted by another swirling in all directions, allowing him to see behind him, and dozens of scars crisscrossing his body, Moody fit the profile of a man who had fought his entire life at great personal risk.
But above all, he was a man of action, someone who had fought throughout his life to combat any form of injustice and inequality. He favored strength and toughness over passivity, humanism, and logic that some preferred to employ in resolving conflicts. For him, problems weren't solved through long speeches and sweet words to reach an agreement. No, the strong method was the best. By forcing his enemy to yield, retreat, and take cover behind their lines until they had no escape, one could obtain what they wanted.
Some were offended by his methods, considered too strict. He saw it as a means to quickly eliminate any threat to himself or anyone else. This perception of danger starkly contrasted with the stance of his old friend Albus Dumbledore. Well, friend... Theirs was more of a strictly professional relationship, both sharing in their own way the same disgust for anything related to dark magic and its followers. Otherwise, Moody preferred to keep his distance from the seemingly amiable man who hid his true intentions beneath the façade of a grandfatherly figure. Fighting the forces of evil for over forty years had taught Moody one essential thing: always beware of the sleeping wolf, particularly when it came to the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
Even today, the patience of the ex-Auror was being severely tested by Dumbledore and his machinations, though, at present, the source of his frustration wasn't the appearance of the old man spending his time eating lemon sherbets and meddling in affairs that didn't concern him. Instead, it was a young boy of fourteen with tousled auburn hair, struggling for breath on the floor of his living room.
"Get up, lazybones!" he bellowed, casting a small spell that made the boy jump. "We'll start again, and I hope for a better outcome!"
"W-when my father hears about what you're making me do, he... he'll make you pay, old-man!" retorted the other, giving him a dark look.
"About time! I'd like to see what your spineless father can do, someone who probably hasn't cast a single offensive spell in years!" Moody retorted, holding his cold gaze. "Now get up, Potter, or you'll soon know what I'm capable of!"
Matthew, as he was called, didn't need more prodding to get up, albeit painfully. Short of breath and with aching limbs, he struggled back onto his feet. With an outstretched arm, a wand pointed toward his professor, he tried once more to clear his mind and focus solely on the task he had to accomplish today: disarm Moody. Easier said than done! How could he ignore his desire to hurt the old Auror rather than just take his wand? These exhausting weeks of training, the humiliations, the constraints of this tutelage with him, would finally have a satisfying payoff! It had been two years enduring the presence of this irritable old man once a week! Matthew had had enough, even more so, enough of wasting his vacations on training and instructions as uninteresting as they were challenging for him, unaware that his teacher shared the same sentiments. Damn Dumbledore... At that moment, Matthew would have given anything to be in the presence of his mentor and express all the resentment he held towards him.
"Expelliarmus!" he suddenly exclaimed, without waiting for the customary greetings for a duel.
As fast as a musket ball, a bright flash shot from his wand toward Moody, but foreseeing the trickery of his student, the former was already prepared, conjuring a transparent shield just as Matthew's wand began to move in his hand. The spell rebounded effortlessly off the shield and fizzled out in the fireplace, now more animated than before. Without delay, Moody retaliated, and moments later, Matthew's wand flew into his free hand as easily as if drawn by a magnet.
"Did you think you'd get me that easily, my boy?" he taunted. "I haven't fought dark wizards and malevolent sorcerers for decades to not anticipate such trickery!"
"Are you insinuating that I'd be a dark wizard?" exclaimed Matthew, glaring at him.
"That's for you to tell me, good-for-nothing!" Moody retorted, tossing his wand back to him. "There's nothing more cowardly than what you just did! You!" he added, turning to the other person in the room. "Come here, you take this sad individual's place!"
Just as Matthew displayed pronounced disdain for what Moody attempted to teach them, the former Auror realized in less than a second that the sentiment applied equally to Ronald Weasley. While the latter reluctantly approached the center of the room, shooting an angry glance at his friend, their teacher wondered what had gotten into Dumbledore to ask him to train these two rascals who, evidently, would have preferred to be anywhere but here with him. Asking him to mentor the chosen one, he could understand, but forcing him to attend a training session he didn't want to attend felt like a waste of time. What was there to teach to a student who didn't want to learn? It was like trying to fill a jug with no bottom, as it would be broken in that place. Everything he tried to instill in this young boy entered through one ear and left immediately through the other. And this wasn't for lack of trying for two years! Only the Disarming Charm was firmly under his command, and even then, more often than not, the wand slipped out of the target's hand, flying off in a direction other than his, sometimes even landing at the opponent's feet. As for the other, this Weasley who preferred to eat gluttonously rather than diligently follow his lessons, Moody still marveled at Molly Weasley sending him home along with Matthew, hoping her youngest son might finally grasp something in that empty head of his. Faced with such unwillingness, the former Auror remained astonished.
"The regulation position, and hurry up!" he shouted as Ron approached him, dragging his feet.
He immediately complied, but his movements betrayed a certain weariness. Even raising his arm seemed to be too much effort for Ron, who, with a tired gesture, brought the hand holding his wand towards his face, his gaze as hard as if he wanted Moody to dissolve in anger before his eyes.
"Good lad," the old man mocked, saluting him in kind. "If you put as much effort into your work as you put into that glare, you wouldn't waste your day with me. Now, go on!"
"Expelliarmus!"
As expected, Moody noticed the spell did not come, and while Ron cursed his supposedly faulty wand, Moody suppressed the urge to sigh in frustration at the redhead's unsuccessful attempts. Of the two, Ron was undoubtedly the worst student: poor in practice, abysmal in theory, lazy when it came to any physical effort, easily distracted and inattentive whenever a subject other than a magic lesson disrupted their session, and especially vulgar, even by Moody's standards. How many times had he corrected the foul language of this young man when he addressed him informally?! He had lost count, but now he appreciated that young Weasley adopted a more formal silence in his presence rather than loudly complain about what he had to endure.
Similarly, Moody found it amusing when Ron cast a glance at Matthew after ceasing his complaints about his wand. There was anger, resentment, perhaps even a hint of hatred in his eyes... This scene amused the old Auror, who, despite being used to rivalries between two individuals from his time leading the Auror department at the Ministry of Magic, still marveled at how two officially friendly teenagers could oppose each other for such a minor issue as intensive training in offensive magic. Well, friends... Moody, who always had a keen intuition, felt it was more like a tacit agreement between two diametrically opposed adolescents, each finding some advantage in this pale image of friendship.
Running a weary hand through his gray locks, Moody quickly ended their little duel by casting a spell between them. The spell hit an old armchair pushed to the back of the room, tearing it apart completely, releasing the worn-out stuffing now floating around the room without anyone taking notice.
"How can I politely express my feelings right now about the extent of your mediocrity?" he began in a low tone, shaking his head slightly. "Oh, I know..."
"A success?" suggested Matthew, brushing off his jacket to remove the specks of dust raised by the last spell. "I did manage to cast that stupid spell on you..."
"SHUT IT!" Moody bellowed, stung by the interruption from the fourteen-year-old.
And to emphasize his point, he sent another spell toward Matthew, who, surprised by his sudden action, barely managed to dodge the reddish beam that grazed his skull.
"You're insane!" he fumed, rising after disentangling himself from his wizard's robe. "You could have hit me!"
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Moody retorted, keeping his wand pointed at him. "I thought I was clear on this: no one will warn you when they deem it fit to cast a spell at you! You must be on high alert at all times!"
"You know, your case would certainly interest general hospitals?" argued Matthew. "This constant sense of insecurity might be a sign of madness!"
Far from feeling insulted, Moody responded with a simple, toothless grin that gave the chosen one goosebumps. Yes, he knew he was sometimes paranoid about his safety, but who could blame him? Wasn't it better to be constantly vigilant than to let danger come to you?
"If you put as much energy into your spells as you do into insulting your superiors and spewing your bile through your foul mouth, we wouldn't be here staring each other down, my boy," Moody reminded him sternly. "And that goes for you too, Weasley," he added, turning to Ron.
Pacing in front of them, Moody then launched into a monologue, seemingly disregarding his two students:
"Over forty years of service, and here I am: playing babysitter to two idiots who can't even remember the proper stance for a duel. Bah! This is what I get for wanting to retire! I don't know what Dumbledore is plotting with these two, but damn him! I've already wasted enough time and energy trying to instill everything I know into two empty heads!"
"You know we're still here?" Matthew informed him disdainfully.
In response, Moody again sent a spell towards Matthew, who managed to avoid it with a clever roll.
"Mr. Moody?" surprisingly polite, Ron called out.
"Hm?" Moody huffed, intrigued by the polite tone of the redhead.
"It's nearly seven o'clock now, and if I'm not mistaken, that means our class is over," Ron stated, sounding more like an assertion than a veiled attempt to take leave.
Moody didn't immediately respond, his two eyes fixed on Mr. Weasley's son to the point where he stepped back a few paces, intimidated by his teacher's gaze. Then suddenly, without warning, Moody sent various spells of his own making towards them again, most deliberately aimed away from them to avoid causing harm. But the urge was there, and the old man ardently desired it at that moment.
"Rascals!" he roared incessantly. "Wretches! I am the bell here, and until I say stop training, you won't stop! Mother's good meals can wait!"
"But I'm hungry!" Ron retorted, hiding behind a piece of furniture. "And you can't keep us against our will here!"
"He's got a point!" Matthew agreed, diving behind a chair. "Dumbledore specified that our training was to last until seven in the evening, no later! And our parents might worry if we don't return on time!"
"Well, then go, you little scatterbrains!" Moody invited them, ceasing his barrage of curses. "And don't come back! I'm tired of giving my time to two idiots who can't even disarm a poor old man like me! It's been two years now that I've been trying to get everything I know into your little brains, and two years that I've run into a wall of stupidity! In the future, you're excused from showing up here! Just tell Dumbledore that I felt too tired for this! Now, get out, or I'll kick you out!"
The two boys didn't need to be told twice, and without further ado, each arrived in large strides facing the fireplace, into which Matthew threw a small amount of powder, immediately turning the flames roaring in the hearth a greenish hue. After one last glance in the direction of the ex-Auror, the chosen one promptly stepped inside the fireplace, and with a loud voice before tossing more powder at his feet, distinctly uttered the address of his home, disappearing in a whirlwind of flames engulfing him entirely. Ron followed suit, but unlike Matthew, he seemed unconcerned about Dumbledore's reaction when he learned that Moody was refusing to teach them anymore. Only one thing occupied his mind: finally, the real holidays were about to begin! This thought pleased him as much as the delicious meal his mother must have cooked, waiting for him now.
"The Burrow!" he shouted before disappearing in turn, leaving behind only an old man in his small cottage on the edge of the forest.
Moody didn't wait for the last green flames to disappear from his fireplace before turning away, preferring instead to restore his living room to its ordinary state, as if to erase any memory left by Potter and Weasley within it. With a wave of his wand, armchairs, coffee table, cupboards, and other trinkets returned to their initial positions in the room, while the curtains, previously drawn to never alert the two young adolescents to the waning day outside the windows, opened to let in the sunlight still high at this precise hour. Letting out yet another sigh, Moody extinguished his fireplace with a wave, opening the windows to let in the coolness of the relatively mild summer weather. Then, he sat heavily on his favorite armchair, ignoring the large hole he had caused earlier, and propped his heavy wooden leg on the small stool provided for that purpose, sighing with relief. Damn, that leg hurt! Rowle was lucky to be dead during the last war; otherwise, Moody would have relished making him regret the loss of his limb.
His eyes, which had until now lingered on the still-smoldering embers in the fireplace, found a bottle of whiskey sitting in the bay window—a new focal point that quickly captured his interest. Too tired and especially eager now to use some magic too long suppressed by the weakness of the chosen one and his red-haired sidekick, Moody wasted no time summoning this delicious nectar to him once again with his wand, along with a small cup that he placed leisurely on the wooden table nearby. With the bottle open, he could sense the pleasant alcohol aroma, whispering in his ear that he could forget all the day's troubles in a single gulp, savoring the voluptuousness and soothing caress of this drink down his throat.
"How can I resist?" he muttered to himself, pouring himself a generous amount and immediately bringing it to his lips.
As anticipated, a sigh of relief escaped his mouth as he downed the entire drink in one go, eyes half-closed and a smile on his face. Oh yes, nothing beat a good whisky to banish from his mind the discomfort that these two troublemakers had caused him all day. It felt especially good to be lying there, in that chair as old as himself, touched by the breeze that rustled through his hair and warmed at the same time by the nectar that now resided in his stomach. For a moment, he almost fell asleep there, indifferent for the first time in a long while to his surroundings. This sensation reminded him most of the time when he, a poorly dressed yet incredibly brave young man, traveled the four corners of the United Kingdom with his comrades to track down the vilest and cruelest sorcerers of his time. Nostalgia began to wash over him as he thought of all those men and few women who had marked his life but had since disappeared... Their company would have been much better than that of Dumbledore's two proteges!
Now that he was rid of these two nuisances for the rest of August, Moody could more peacefully contemplate the change that would soon take place in his life when he would make his way to Hogwarts to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.
A guttural laugh escaped his lips when he thought of what had happened to the last teachers in that position: One mysteriously died, the next abruptly fled, terrified by the events that occurred within the school due to the opening of the mysterious and highly renowned Chamber of Secrets, and the third simply resigned at the end of the year when his name was tarnished in the newspapers by suspicions of misconduct with a minor, if it didn't go beyond that. Damn Sirius... Moody didn't doubt for a moment that he might have attempted to seduce young girls in need of love, even if they were nearly twenty years younger than him, but assaulting them seemed inconceivable.
Would the same thing happen to him as to his predecessors? Would he only stay in his position for a year before being forced in one way or another to give up, flee, or even succumb to it? This prospect, far from frightening him, made him smile instead, someone who had never refused a worthy challenge. Regardless of the outcome of this task, he would endeavor to do his job in the best way possible—by making his students sweat and toil. Dumbledore wanted him to take this position? Well, so be it, but in his own way! Only one more month, and the entire young generation of wizards would learn who Maugrey Moody was.
A sudden noise of a fall outside his house caught his attention, and as he quickly grabbed his wand and readjusted his false leg with its help, the ruckus had suddenly ceased as abruptly as it had appeared.
"Damn it," he grumbled, heading towards the front door. "What's all this racket now!?"
The door, violently flung open, almost torn from its hinges, left him momentarily immobilized on the threshold when the August setting sun's brightness completely blinded him. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he immediately turned his head toward what he thought was the source of the commotion, beyond the wild rose bushes and the poorly mowed lawn that passed as a garden for him. To hell with a peaceful retirement cultivating a garden—Moody preferred the wild, untamed, and slightly mad nature that characterized him so well.
His bungalow, consisting of a simple living room, kitchen, and bedroom, also had an outbuilding that essentially served as a shed to store the equipment he no longer used and which had once been a small stable where he used to spend time after missions, stroking his two horses, his most loyal companions, but who, like him, had experienced the ups and downs of life and had passed away several years ago. That something or even someone might be there seemed plausible to him considering that no living being was supposed to be there, and his wariness increased even more when he noticed that the door was slightly ajar.
"If it's those wild beasts again, I'll make sure they'll think twice about coming to scavenge for food on my land..." he grumbled, moving towards the stable, already imagining making a pair of slippers from the fox's skin that had been disturbing his peace for months by occasionally paying him a visit.
"He was thus surprised to see, a few moments later, not a red animal, but a short man with a slim silhouette concealed under a thick leather coat, immediately recognized as the traitor Peter Pettigrew, whom he had known during the days of the Order of the Phoenix and the war against Voldemort.
Azkaban had not improved the repulsive appearance of this solitary and cowardly man, except for shedding the extra weight, leaving him with nothing but skin and bones. However, his small eyes, pointed nose, and protruding teeth maintained his rodent-like appearance, especially emphasized by his now advanced baldness. Moody was surprised, to say the least, finding this escaped prisoner at his home, especially since Pettigrew hadn't chosen the easiest adversary if he had indeed appeared today to confront someone. Furthermore, the frightened look on Pettigrew's face was enough for Mad-Eye to understand that the traitor was not looking for a fight. Yet, Moody preferred to remain cautious; despite Pettigrew's cowardly demeanor, hadn't he betrayed the Potters by revealing their hiding place to Voldemort, despite being their Secret-Keeper? Hadn't he managed to escape Azkaban a year ago, becoming the first man to flee from the most terrifying prison in Europe? This man was cunning and sly, and caution remained the watchword for any potential confrontation.
"Pettigrew!" shouted Moody as soon as he recognized the small man. "Miserable insect! I'll make you regret leaving your cell!"
Peter immediately shuddered at the ex-Auror's tone, knowing well that the old man wasn't joking. Without waiting, he transformed into a rat and scurried away towards the nearby forest. Moody quickly followed suit, casting numerous spells as he attempted to catch Pettigrew, who managed to evade them at the last moment with surprising acrobatics. Both continued to run, passing the first trees of the woods unnoticed. Moody persisted in his attempts to stop the fugitive, alternating spells intended to immobilize and those that could harm him more or less severely. After all, wasn't Pettigrew wanted dead or alive? Whether he brought back the corpse of the filthy rat or the emaciated body of the escaped prisoner made no difference to Moody. Not once did he consider that Pettigrew hadn't attempted to Apparate or even bury himself underground, using the tunnels dug by his fellow rodents to escape vigilance. Nor did he notice that Pettigrew wasn't blindly running, constantly changing direction, but instead following a precise path only deviating when obstructed by a tree. Even when Moody, almost tripping over a tree root, exploded the trunk in front of Peter to stun him and attempt to injure him with flying bark fragments, Peter didn't change his course, continuing the frenzied run with a predetermined goal. Moody's constant vigilance, advised to all, evidently did not concern Pettigrew...
It was then that an explosion a few meters away caught his attention, accompanied by a sudden pain in his stomach, causing him to fall heavily. The pain in his abdomen increased as he leaned heavily on it, a groan escaping his lips. Confused and disoriented, Moody took a few seconds to realize his situation and the sticky liquid now seeping through his clothes, forming an increasingly large stain. Paralyzed by this sudden wound, his magical eye continued to whirl frantically in its socket before focusing on the source of this unbearable pain, confirming it to be nothing but...
"Blood," he muttered, feeling the area. "Yet, I saw nothing..."
With difficulty, Moody managed to get up, realizing with dismay that in his fall, his wand had escaped his grasp and now lay who knows where. Fortunately, his magical eye quickly spotted it just a few meters away, hidden under a small pile of dead leaves, which he brushed aside to retrieve it, the other hand still pressed against his wound to try and stem the flow of blood. A quick assessment confirmed that Pettigrew had taken advantage of the situation to flee, leaving Moody alone in the middle of a dark forest where the tall trees concealed the sky's brightness, wounded and alone.
"Damn it," he spat, grimacing as another wave of pain made him falter.
Alert, Moody began retracing his steps, his gait uncertain, yet his magical eye still swirling in its socket, searching for any suspicious signs to explain the strange explosion that felt so familiar, but whose origin he couldn't recall.
As if in response to his pondering, another sudden explosion resonated. However, Moody had anticipated this possibility and immediately turned towards the source of the sound, conjuring a transparent shield to counter the attack. Yet again, another impact struck his leg, causing him to fall backward.
At the same time, movement could be felt on his left when, perhaps accidentally, someone or something began stepping on twigs, causing them to snap. Moody promptly sent a spell in the direction of the new sounds and was both satisfied and displeased to notice a tall figure shielding themselves from the curse with a simple wand movement. For now, the man had a hood covering his head and a long cloak covering almost his entire body, except for his arms. A leather strap covered part of his stomach, holding a long and peculiar instrument on his back that, for a moment, Moody mistook for the handle of a long axe, though he couldn't be certain. His gaze lingered on the unknown figure's boots, the material of which, difficult to discern due to the darkness, seemed to be made of dragon leather. The man stood patiently, his wand pointed towards Moody as if expecting the ex-Auror to make another attack. However, due to the condition of Moody's leg and stomach, he could barely muster the slightest movement to try and stand and face him. Nevertheless, the old man didn't complain or seem concerned about his pitiful state. He preferred to stare fiercely at the newcomer, head held high, challenging him with a simple glance to make the first move.
"Whoever you are, you've picked the wrong person, lad," Moody mocked, a sneering grin forming on his face, marked by scars.
"There's no time for boasting, old fool," the other calmly and surprisingly composedly replied. "Fallen so low, yet still maintaining such high self-esteem when circumstances would warrant you to beg for my mercy..."
Maugrey lui répondit d'un bref mais bruyant rire avant de cracher dans sa direction, les "His eyes fixed on the figure. Strangely, despite his magical eye, he couldn't see beyond the cape of his new interlocutor. But when the figure began to approach, he could see that the handle he initially mistook for a weapon was, in fact, a long-barreled rifle, the same sometimes used in Muggle wars. Faced with this, Moody cursed his own foolishness, having dealt with such Muggle weaponry in the past, having even held it himself. It seemed surprising to him that this wizard would use it; most preferred to rely on their magical wands rather than an object whose core they couldn't see. However, he had no time to dwell further on the subject as the man began sending various spells at him again, which he tried to dodge by rolling on the ground or attempting, with great difficulty, to deflect them with a new magical shield. But his strength abandoned him simultaneously with the blood flowing from his wounds, and soon, even his vision started to blur and betray him.
"You haven't lost your reflexes, I see," commented the other, amused. "I must say, I'm somewhat disappointed in this fight that I hoped would be more... thrilling."
"If you hadn't shot at me while hiding like the coward you are, we might have had a longer conversation, and perhaps I might have spared your life to take you to the Ministry!" Moody retorted, continuing to dodge the spells, ignoring the piercing pains when he rolled on his injured leg.
"But that was the goal, old man," the man indicated. "It's astonishing to see that someone who preached constant vigilance throughout his life was unable to notice that my dear associate, Wormtail, was leading you straight into a trap..."
At that instant, a blinding flash erupted in his vision. Even before he turned towards this new source of light, the spell hit him squarely, sending him flying to crash into a tree a few meters away. Moody hadn't even touched the ground when multiple cords appeared on his body, tying him from head to toe so tightly that he seemed to sleep within a silk cocoon. His opponent, who hadn't moved since the moment the spell hit him, quickly approached and checked his pulse by touching his neck.
"Fool!" he erupted, rising with sudden fury. "You could have killed him!"
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to!" a tearful voice, unmistakably Pettigrew's, apologized. "I thought the spell would just knock him out!"
"Then don't use a spell when you don't know all its effects!"
The man, seized by a sudden impulse, removed his hood to reveal a pallid face marked by age and malnutrition. His sharp, black eyes resembled those of birds of prey, with drawn features and a neglected, stubbled beard. His once luscious blonde hair, now tangled and untidy, was tied behind his head and left loose around his emaciated face. It was undeniable that this man could have been a handsome young man once, but time had apparently ravaged the delicate features of his face, along with the nervous tic of sticking his tongue briefly out of his mouth, resembling a serpent, giving him a mad appearance. The icy glare he directed at Peter, along with his uninviting appearance, made the latter step back, simply frightened by the aura of anger emanating from his counterpart.
"Just a bit more and you could have killed him!" the man continued, gesturing with his head towards the unconscious form of the old auror. "If that had happened, do you think the master would have been pleased with your deed? The entire plan would have been ruined by your stupidity!"
"Please, Barty!" pleaded Peter, kneeling before him. "Please, don't tell the master! The Dark Lord wouldn't give me any task after this, and his wrath would be terrible upon learning of my mistake!"
"Stupid rat..." Barty mumbled, turning away. "The master has fallen so low to trust such creatures like you, he who had such good and loyal subjects to obey his orders. But soon everything will be in order when our brothers and sisters imprisoned at Azkaban break free from the chains holding them to return to the Dark Lord, and at that moment, he will rise again and crush our enemies with his power. As for me, I will be rewarded beyond all my expectations by our revered master..."
"I remind you too," muttered Peter in a sullen tone as he got up.
Barty just chuckled before releasing from its strap the rifle he held at his back, at the end of which was fixed a bayonet, which he used to lightly move Moody's face.
"How much I wish I could plunge it into your heart, stupid old man..." he muttered more to himself than to Peter. "My brief stint at Azkaban is entirely your fault, and I will make you pay for it when the time comes. Bella and Rodolphus would kill for my position if they knew what has happened to you."
"Speaking of which, how come you used that Muggle object instead of your wand to harm him?" Peter inquired before quickly lowering his gaze under Barty's stare.
"The advantage of having a father who was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is that I had frequent contact with Muggles and could discover the weapons with which these creatures fight..." he explained absentmindedly, placing his rifle back behind his back. "It's a shame that this wonder wasn't invented by wizards; otherwise, the Muggle question would have been swiftly resolved... As for my father, dear old Barty Crouch, I have no doubt he wouldn't appreciate seeing me with such a weapon in hand, considering he kept me against my will at his home for more than ten years precisely to prevent me from acting on the murderous impulses that led me to pledge allegiance to the Dark Lord... If he saw me now, but oh! Exactly! He doesn't see me!"
Barty then burst into a strange laughter that sent shivers of fear down Peter's spine. Seen in this light, it certainly confirmed the father's assertions about the son's insane nature, and Peter promised himself never to oppose his colleague again.
"Now, let's go back to that idiot and make sure he survives his wounds," explained Barty, levitating Moody's unconscious body. "It's essential that he doesn't die; otherwise, I won't be able to exploit his memories and take on my new role... We'll send a message to the Dark Lord tonight to inform him of the success of our project, and then we'll start exploiting this old fool's memory. I think in a month, we will have acquired all the subtleties of his personality, and I hope the acting lessons my dear and departed mother insisted on giving me will facilitate my role as an actor..."
With a flick of his wrist, Barty moved Moody's floating body towards his house, following behind while keeping his wand pointed at the unconscious form to prevent it from falling, blatantly ignoring whether Peter was following or not. Pettigrew breathed heavily, releasing the tension stored within as he followed. A faint smile escaped his lips when he thought about their mission and its conclusion, happy at the idea of reporting the success of the first part of their plan to his Lord and Master, a success for which he was partly responsible for playing the bait so brilliantly. Oh yes, his master would be proud of him, and at this moment, it was better to bring him good news than bad.
Now, the second part of their project would be set in motion, but this would only start with the beginning of the school year at Hogwarts when Barty would occupy the position originally intended for Moody, having thoroughly studied his character, his daily quirks that characterized him so much, and especially by playing his new role so well that not even Dumbledore would suspect. The sequel promised to be particularly enjoyable to execute, and the Triwizard Tournament, planned for this year between Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons, would be just the cherry on top of their wonderful project.
Pettigrew was already salivating at the mere thought."
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