CHAPTER EIGHT
The Greater Good
Moody slipped cautiously through the doorway to the Hogwarts kitchens, following professors Dumbledore and Merrythought, his wand raised. The faint shimmer of his Disillusionment Charm rippled around him as he stepped inside, the air thick with steam and the sour bite of burnt magic all metallic and heavy with the smell of blood.
The Halloween feast lay in ruin. Platters of roasted beef and chicken had been overturned, sodden in the water pooling across the stone floor. Thick cuts of gammon had been kicked aside, glistening with fat, mashed potatoes smeared like paste against the flagstones. Gravy mixed with the flood, swirling in oily spirals, while a huge burst pipe in the far corner hissed furiously, clouds of scorching steam curling against the high ceilings like ghostly fingers.
And yet, amid the destruction—the house-elves skittered around the place. Not in unison. Not with their usual effortless, whisper-soft efficiency.
Chaotically.
One crouched in the mess, mechanically scooping fistfuls of mashed potatoes into a shattered bowl, hands shaking but unrelenting, as if clinging to the one thing they could still control.
A group of elves clutched at each other, tiny fingers twisted in fabric, heads bowed, shoulders shaking. No wails, no outbursts—just soft, strangled keening rising above the drip-drip-drip of water leaking from the ceiling.
And through it all, they avoided looking at the centre of the room.
The nine house-elves. Frozen in place, their tiny, fragile bodies stiff with something worse than death. Their hands were mid-motion, some reaching as if to grab something, others flung up in defense, one caught mid-run, one foot barely touching the ground. Glass-eyed. Unblinking. Silent.
Not stone. Not petrified.
But something was missing inside them.
One elf, still moving was on hands and knees, pawing at a frozen elf's motionless shoulder, shaking him violently, whispering desperately as though sheer willpower could force movement back into lifeless limbs.
A tiny elf with trembling hands pressed his forehead to another of the frozen ones' knees, whispering something too soft to hear.
Another, still scooping food, let out a thin, hysterical giggle, a sound so brittle it cracked apart into a sob before it even fully formed.
Moody clenched his jaw.
And as the air shifted, the hairs on the back of his neck rose.
He heard something move in the pipes.
A deep, unnatural clanking, grinding like iron bones scraping together, echoed through the walls. It started slow—a sluggish, crawling sound, winding through the network of tunnels, a thing shifting in the dark. Then—a sharp, metallic rattle, too deliberate, too knowing.
For a single, horrible second, the pattern almost sounded like a laugh.
Then—a sudden, deafening bang.
The pipes shuddered violently. A heavy thud. A deep, guttural hiss slithered through the steam-filled air, rattling the fixtures, making the water on the floor ripple in eerie concentric circles.
A quiet whimper escaped one of the house-elves.
Moody tightened his grip on his wand as his eyes darted to the far wall, and his chest tightened. There, etched in thick, glimmering black ink, was the unmistakable mark of the Deathly Hallows. Beneath the symbol, written in jagged, furious strokes, were words that seemed to hum with menace:
"For the Greater Good: The Heir of Slytherin is risen. The Chamber of Secrets is open. Hogwarts will kneel."
The words loomed over him, etched into the wall like a scar on the castle itself, pulsating slightly as if they were still breathing. Moody's grip on his wand was so tight his hand shook, but he didn't loosen it. He couldn't. The jagged strokes of the writing felt like they had been carved into him—a cruel reminder of what he was. What he wasn't.
The heat of his fury surged through him, sharp and uncontrollable, making his chest tighten painfully. But beneath it, tangled in the fire, was a deep, gnawing shame. It was the kind of shame he never said aloud, the kind he buried beneath hours of studying and relentless practice with his wand. But no amount of hard work could change the truth that was written in his blood. Not pure. Never enough.
The message wasn't just a threat—it was a branding iron, searing into him what people like Riddle, like Rosier, like Audrey Potter, already believed. The thought of Potter and her badges made his stomach churn. Keep Hogwarts 'd seen them flash in the torchlight, their polished silver mocking him with every glance. The smugness on her face, her words wrapped in false pride: It's not about hate, it's about heritage. But what was written on this wall stripped away any pretense of tradition or pride. It laid bare the hatred underneath, and it felt like a fist tightening around his throat.
And yet, deep down, some part of him whispered that they were right. Not about their twisted ideology, but about him. He hated that part of himself—the part that wanted to vanish into the shadows when someone sneered "mudblood," the part that wondered if he'd ever truly belong here. His fingers tightened on his wand, and he shook his head violently, trying to banish the thought. Self-pity was as useless as the people who spat those words.
But it was there, like a festering splinter in his soul.
His teeth ground against each other. "Pure-blood supremacy," he spat under his breath, his voice trembling with a mix of rage and disgust. They wanted Hogwarts to kneel, but what they really wanted was for him to kneel. To bow his head and accept his place at the bottom, grateful for scraps of recognition. It would be so easy to give in, wouldn't it? To let the shame win. To let them win.
"No," he muttered fiercely, the word breaking the stillness of the room. He forced his breathing to steady, the heat in his chest now cooling into something harder, something sharper. They wanted Hogwarts to kneel? Let them try. He would stand. Even if no one else did.
Dumbldore's piercing blue eyes flicked over the scene, lingering on the frozen elves before rising to the dark words on the wall. Every line on his face seemed tired, for a moment, and then Professor Merrythought strode over, her wand gripped tightly in her hand. Her usual sharp expression was marred by a faint crease of unease. She glanced from the elves to Dumbledore, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Albus," she said cautiously, her voice unsteady, "this… this is beyond anything I've seen before."
Dumbledore's gaze remained on the elves, his expression grave but controlled. "Indeed," he murmured, his voice low and formal. "To rob living beings of their freedom in such a way... This is magic devised to cause fear, Galatea. Fear and submission."
Merrythought's brow furrowed as her eyes darted to the writing on the wall. "The Chamber of Secrets," she whispered. "Surely, that's a children's tale?"
Dumbledore straightened, his gaze moving to Grindelwald's Mark. "Perhaps it is, but then we both heard the pipes" he said softly.
His words hung in the air, heavy and ominous. Hidden under his Disillusionment Charm, Moody stayed motionless, but his heart raced. For a brief moment, Dumbledore's sharp blue eyes flicked toward the spot where Moody stood. Though his charm held, Moody had the unsettling feeling that the professor could see straight through it.
"Galatea," Dumbledore said after a long pause, "we must act swiftly. Gather Madam Higgins and Gallows—ensure the elves are transported to the hospital wing immediately. They must be stabilized."
Merrythought nodded, though she cast another nervous glance at the wall. "And the writing?"
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the ominous mark, his voice calm, yet edged with something colder than usual. "I doubt Mr. Ogg will be able to remove it, but he should try. Let him try." There was no warmth in his tone, no illusion that this was anything but a symbolic effort. The mark would remain—whether on the wall or in the minds of those who saw it.
He exhaled slowly, his eyes flicking across the ruined room, the frozen elves, the broken feast. "The strength of this school has always been its people," he said at last. "But I wonder how long that will last."
Merrythought shifted uncomfortably, her fingers tightening around her wand. "Do you think this will be enough?" she asked, her voice quiet but sharp.
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept the room once more—pausing, just briefly, at the space where Moody stood, unseen. His expression darkened.
Merrythought spoke again, her voice lower now, firmer. "This is him. You know it is. Riddle."
A beat of silence. Then—Dumbledore nodded.
"Yes."
There was no hesitation, no doubt.
And yet—
"But we have no evidence."
It was a statement, flat and cold. Not an excuse, not a protest. A simple, irrefutable fact.
His gaze flicked upward, to the distant walls of the castle, as though he could see beyond them. As though he already knew what was coming.
"And without evidence, there are those who would rather turn on each other than face the truth."
His tone was measured, careful—but not kind.
Merrythought exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Dippet," she muttered.
Dumbledore's expression didn't change. He didn't confirm it, didn't deny it. He simply turned away from the wall, straightening his shoulders. The discussion was over.
"Come," he said. "There is still work to do."
Moody had seen enough. The kitchens, the mark, the writing—it was all too much. He needed to check on Prewett, to find some semblance of reassurance amidst the chaos. Slipping back into the shadows, the faint shimmer of his Disillusionment Charm keeping him hidden, he crept toward the staircases. His destination was Slughorn's office—Prewett had mentioned this being the venue for his party and if there was any chance he was still there, Moody needed to know.
The muffled strains of a harpsichord reached his ears as he neared the door, the tune light and meandering, utterly incongruous with the weight of the night. Edging closer, he peered into the room through the slight gap in the heavy oak door. The once-bustling party had long since cleared out. Only the enchanted harpsichord remained, its keys pressing themselves in rhythm, the notes bouncing hollowly off the walls.
The room was empty, save for the scattered remnants of Slughorn's indulgence—half-eaten roast beef, wilted salad leaves, and empty goblets of mead. There was no sign of Prewett, nor anyone else, and Moody began to step back, his frustration mounting.
"You're a long way from the Gryffindor dormitories, Moody."
The voice, calm and smooth, sent a chill down Moody's spine. He froze, heart pounding, before slowly turning toward the doorway. There, leaning casually against the frame, stood Tom Riddle.
The Slytherin prefect's expression was one of practiced ease, his dark eyes gleaming with a knowing sharpness. His arms were crossed, his wand loosely held in one hand, and the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. For a moment, Moody was certain his Disillusionment Charm had held, but the way Riddle's gaze fixed directly on him said otherwise.
Riddle tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening. "You Gryffindors are so… predictable," he murmured. "You fight because you think it makes you strong. But deep down, you know the truth."
His voice softened, almost gentle.
"You can train, you can bleed, you can throw yourself in front of a curse. But no matter how hard you fight, Moody…You saw the words," he leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "You will never be one of us."
Moody's blood ran cold, but anger surged alongside his fear. His fingers tightened around his wand, forcing his voice low and sharp. "How do you know anything about tonight, Riddle?" he snapped. "You were at Slughorn's party."
Riddle's smirk widened, his dark eyes gleaming with something unspoken. He stepped forward, each movement unhurried, deliberate. "Oh, I was," he replied smoothly, his tone rich with mock sincerity. "But it's funny what you pick up when you pay attention. Like at the Three Broomsticks earlier. You and Prewett looked so… focused."
"So what?" Moody shot back, his voice sharp with defiance.
"I just find it interesting," said Riddle. "Your conversation seemed very intense."
Moody's lips curled into a sneer before he could stop himself. "Interesting? Like an orphan?" he snapped. "Bet you've had plenty of time for that, haven't you, Riddle?"
Riddle's smirk froze, his dark eyes narrowing. For a moment, Moody thought he'd gone too far. Riddle straightened, his hardening into something primal. His lips curled back slightly, his teeth glinting faintly in the flickering light, and his eyes—once calculating and smug—flashed with something raw and bestial, a rage so deep and terrible it barely felt human.
It lasted only a moment but to Moody it seemed like an age.
When Riddle finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, but every syllable felt like the blade of a knife. "Careful, Moody. You never know when saying the wrong thing might… well… You saw the writing, you filthy mudblood."
Moody's breath caught in his chest. For a second, he thought Riddle might raise his wand—might attack him right there in the empty room. But then the moment passed. Riddle's composure slid back into place as easily as a mask, the polite smirk returning, though his eyes remained colder than before.
"You should go back to your dormitory," Riddle said softly, his voice now light and mocking.
Moody's grip on his wand tightened, but his mind raced too fast to form a response. He stood frozen as Riddle turned and walked toward the doorway, his footsteps slow and deliberate.
"Goodnight, Moody," Riddle said over his shoulder, his voice as smooth as ever. "I do hope you learn to keep your tongue in check."
With that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Moody alone with the faint, hollow notes of the enchanted harpsichord. For a long moment, Moody remained rooted to the spot, his chest heaving as anger and fear warred inside him. The image of Riddle's face—so calm one moment, so terrifying the next—lingered in his mind, refusing to fade.
Finally, he forced himself to move, his wand still clenched tightly in his hand. He needed to find Prewett, but no matter how hard he tried to focus, Riddle's cold, beastlike expression lingered, haunting him like a ghost.
The harpsichord's tune meandered on, empty and eerie, as Moody clenched his jaw and turned to leave. He needed to find Prewett. But even as he moved, the chill of Riddle's words lingered, wrapping around him like a noose.
The dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts seemed colder than usual as Moody paced toward the fifth floor. His mind churned with unease after his confrontation with Riddle in the hallway. Every word, every glance, had felt like a chess move in a game Moody hadn't even realized he was playing.
He clenched his fists, trying to focus. Riddle's insinuations, the chaos in the kitchens, the ominous writing on the wall—it all pointed to a plan already in motion. But Moody wasn't alone in this. Prewett had been watching Riddle at Slughorn's party, just as they'd planned. Surely, by now, Prewett would have some answers.
The problem was where to find him.
Moody's first instinct had been to check the Ravenclaw common room, but that would've been pointless—Prewett wouldn't have gone back there, not with the risk of being overheard by nosy housemates. The Great Hall and the library were equally unlikely; both were far too public. Prewett would want somewhere private, somewhere they could talk freely.
And suddenly, Moody knew exactly where that was.
The Prefects' Bathroom. They had only been there a few hours ago getting ready; it was perfect. He reached the ornately carved door and muttered the password, "Keep Calm and Carry On."
The ornate door to the Prefects' Bathroom creaked open as Moody stepped inside, the faint scent of lavender and the warmth of enchanted steam wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. The vast, pool-like bath glimmered in the dim light, but Moody barely noticed. His eyes locked immediately on the figure perched at the edge of the tub—Gideon Prewett.
Prewett sat with his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, hands gripping the marble edge. He looked up sharply at the sound of Moody's footsteps, his face pale and drawn. For once, his usual easy grin was nowhere to be found.
"Alastor," Prewett said quietly, his voice rough with exhaustion. "I figured you'd find me here."
Moody crossed the room, the sharp click of his boots on the marble echoing around them. Prewett sat slumped on the edge of the massive bath, his usually neat hair disheveled, his eyes darker than Moody had ever seen them.
"Where else would you be?" Moody muttered, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness. The sight of Prewett—unraveled in a way he never allowed anyone else to see—drew out something softer in him, something he couldn't quite name. "Tell me. Did Riddle leave the party at all?"
Prewett shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair. "Not once," he said, his voice tight. "I didn't take my eyes off him. He had Slughorn eating out of his hand, laughing, smiling—like he didn't have a care in the world." He let out a hollow laugh. "And the worst part is, he's good at it. Too good."
Moody frowned, the knot in his chest tightening. "Then someone else did the work for him," he said grimly. "Or..." He hesitated, meeting Prewett's tired gaze. "He used the Imperius Curse."
Prewett flinched, his mask of confidence slipping further. "You don't just throw that out there, Alastor," he said quietly, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. "That's not just dark magic—it's a complete violation. I—" He faltered, his hands gripping the marble beside him.
"If Riddle's using the Imperius Curse," Moody persevered, "it just proves how dangerous he is. And it means we're right to be watching him."
Prewett nodded, though his eyes flicked to the floor. "That's dark magic though Moody," he said, "I don't think even Riddle would be capable of that."
"Dumbledore does," said Moody, "I heard him, and Merrythought agreed."
"They were there?"
Moody hesitated, then spoke quietly. "I saw them tonight. In the kitchens." He told Prewett about the frozen house-elves, about the mark carved into the wall. "Grindelwald's sign, right there for everyone to see. And beneath it—'For the Greater Good. The Heir of Slytherin is risen.'"
Prewett stiffened, his eyes snapping to Moody's. "Grindelwald's mark isn't just his," he said, his words tumbling out. "It's the symbol of the Deathly Hallows. Three magical objects—people say they make you the Master of Death. Grindelwald turned it into a rallying cry for wizards who wanted supremacy, control. Riddle's doing the same thing. It's not about the Hallows—it's about power."
Moody's stomach churned. "So he's using it to scare people. Or to recruit them."
"Probably both," Prewett said bitterly. He paused, glancing at Moody. "You don't have to do this, you know. You don't have to drag yourself into all this mess. You're not—"
"I do," Moody interrupted, his voice firm. "Because if I don't, who will? You didn't hear them Prewett, Dumbledore said they didn't have any evidence, that's what we have to do, get something on him."
For a moment, Prewett just stared at him, something unreadable flickering in his green eyes. Then, after what felt like an age, he gave a small, almost hesitant smile. "You're a bloody stubborn idiot, Alastor. And I think that's why I..." He paused, his voice faltering as he glanced down. "Why I trust you."
Moody's breath caught. His throat felt tight, and his heart thudded awkwardly in his chest. For once, he didn't look away. "Yeah," he said, his voice quieter than he'd intended. "Well... I trust you too. And not just for that. I, uh..." He swallowed hard, then added quickly, almost stumbling over the words, "I like being around you, Gideon. You don't... You don't make me feel like I don't belong here."
"Well you do," Prewett said, "As much as I do, and I can trace my pureblood status back twenty-three generations or more," he said.
Moody glanced down, his face burning. "Thanks," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile, but close enough. "I just thought you should know."
Prewett chuckled softly, the sound light but filled with something deeper. "You're terrible at this," he teased, nudging Moody's arm lightly. "But I'll take it. My older siblings Muriel and Ignatius, they'd be furious about you," he laughed, "But that's them!"
The air between them felt lighter somehow, and Moody's shoulders eased for the first time all night. He let out a small, awkward huff of laughter. "I'm serious, though," he said. "Don't let it go to your head."
Prewett was still smiling, but instead of replying, he shifted slightly closer, his expression turning thoughtful. The quiet stretched between them, not uncomfortable but charged with an energy that made Moody's chest feel tight again, though for an entirely different reason.
Without warning, Prewett rested his head gently on Moody's shoulder. Moody stiffened, his breath catching as he froze, uncertain what to do. The warmth of Prewett's presence pressed against him, steady and grounding, and before Moody could pull away or say something sharp to deflect the sudden intimacy, Prewett spoke, his voice soft and sure.
"You don't have to carry everything on your own, you know," he murmured. "You're allowed to let someone in."
"I know Gideon," Moody began, his voice low and uncertain, "But whatever this is we have to be careful, Riddle knew I would come looking for you tonight. I… I don't want him to hurt you."
"It's alright," Prewett said gently, not moving from where he leaned against Moody, he felt heavy and comforting. "We can be careful - we'll figure out something but until then let this be enough."
Moody's throat tightened, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. The warmth of Prewett's shoulder against his, the steady rhythm of his breathing, was grounding in a way that felt both uneasy and comforting. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to believe it could be enough—to let the quiet settle between them, to draw strength from this small moment of connection.