Chapter Two

The Astronomy Tower

Moody hadn't slept well. The weight of Dippet's speech, the gaps at the house tables, and the presence of the Dementors all pressed heavily on his mind, leaving him staring at the stone ceiling of the Gryffindor dormitory long after his roommates had started snoring. When dawn finally broke, he rolled out of bed feeling more tired than rested, his thoughts already buzzing with the challenges ahead.

By the time he made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast, the house tables were filling up with students chattering over schedules and steaming cups of pumpkin juice. Professor Dumbledore, standing near the staff table with his usual air of quiet authority, handed out timetables to each student. Moody stepped forward, and the Transfiguration professor greeted him with a warm, encouraging smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Moody," Dumbledore said, his sharp blue eyes sparkling. "Ah, Transfiguration first thing. An excellent way to sharpen the mind for the rest of the day. I trust you'll rise to the occasion."

Moody accepted the timetable with a nod, though his enthusiasm dimmed when he saw the pairing: Transfiguration with the Slytherins, Potions with the Hufflepuffs and finally Astronomy with the Ravenclaws.

Moody's gaze lingered on his O.W.L. timetable, his father's words from the summer rang in his ears, weighted with the sacrifices they both knew had been made: "You've got a gift, Alastor, something I'll never understand—but I'll be damned if you waste it." The pride in his father's voice when he spoke of Moody's potential always carried an edge, as though his success needed to justify what had been left behind. Moody's stomach twisted at the thought of disappointing him, of being less than the son his father believed him to be.

Moody shook his head, and after another forkful of scrambled egg followed Hagrid to Transfiguration his friend's size easily dispersing the crowds of people around them.

In Transfiguration, Moody's frustration grew as the Slytherin students' mocking laughter punctuated the lesson, their thinly veiled disdain directed at Hagrid's clumsy attempts to transform a matchstick into a needle. Their snickers echoed a broader prejudice that Moody, as a Muggle-born, was all too familiar with.

"Transfiguration is not a competition," Dumbledore said, his voice cutting gently through the laughter. "It is a discipline of precision and patience. Those who master it too quickly often fail to understand its true complexities."

His words silenced the Slytherins, though Riddle's calm expression remained unchanged. Dumbledore's gaze lingered on Riddle for a fraction longer than necessary before he turned back to the rest of the class.

But if Moody thought the day couldn't get any worse he was wrong. The Potions dungeon was colder than Moody remembered, the damp air clinging to his robes as he stepped inside. He breathed a little easier seeing the Hufflepuffs—at least there'd be no Slytherins smirking at his back today.

But his relief vanished when he spotted Audrey Potter. The fifth-year Gryffindor stood near the front, her sharp smile as cutting as the badge pinned to her robes: Keep Hogwarts Pure. The silver lettering caught the torchlight, mocking him with every movement. Moody felt like the badge lanced his soul and his stomach twisted with revulsion.

"I'm not good enough," he whispered.

He turned sharply and dropped into a seat beside Francis Bergamot, the Hufflepuff's windswept hair making him look perpetually caught in a storm.

"Rough morning?" Francis asked, glancing at Moody's scowl.

Moody nodded toward Audrey. "What's she playing at, wearing that thing in here?"

Francis sighed, his gaze following Moody's. "Audrey's… complicated. She sees it as pride in her bloodline, not hate. But that badge is a statement, and she knows it."

"Doesn't make it right," Moody muttered, pulling out his textbook.

Before Francis could reply, Professor Slughorn swept in, his walrus-like mustache twitching. 'Good morning, potioneers! Today we'll tackle a Confusing Concoction—challenging, but rewarding. Pair up and fetch your ingredients!'"

Francis and Moody set to work in silence, moving with practiced efficiency. Despite the tension still simmering in Moody's chest, he found himself grateful for Francis's steady presence. The Hufflepuff boy moved with quiet confidence, carefully measuring ingredients and murmuring corrections when Moody's hand strayed.

"Your cutting's too fine," Francis said, tilting his head toward Moody's pile of minced hellebore leaves. "It'll brew too fast."

Moody raised an eyebrow. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Francis replied, his tone light. "Trust me—I've been making potions with my gran since I was five."

Moody allowed himself a small smile. "Alright, Bergamot. Let's see what you've got."

As the lesson continued, Moody couldn't help but overhear snippets of conversation drifting from Audrey's table. She was chatting with a Hufflepuff boy, her voice carrying over the bubbling of the cauldrons.

"It's just a bit of pride," Audrey said, her tone low but firm, addressing the Hufflepuff boy beside her as she dropped a handful of hellebore leaves into her cauldron. "I thought about it a lot over the holidays. I don't agree with Rosier or Riddle—not at all. But if pure-bloods like me don't stand for tradition, then everyone will lump us in with them. And we're not the same."

The words drifted across the dungeon, sharp enough to prick Moody's ears. His hands clenched the stirring rod tighter, the potion in his cauldron swirling unevenly as his temper flared.

Francis noticed immediately, placing a calming hand on Moody's arm. "Let it go," he whispered. "She's not worth it."

There had been a time—fourth year, maybe—when Moody might have stayed quiet, worrying about making things worse. But his father's words came back to him now: "The world's full of people waiting to tear you down, Alastor. Don't give them the satisfaction. Just be you, and make that enough."

Moody sat straighter, jaw tightening as he watched Audrey drop hellebore leaves into her cauldron. He wasn't fourth-year Moody anymore. He wasn't going to let her badge—and what it represented—go unchallenged.

"That badge, Potter. Very brave of you—if Gryffindor courage means hiding behind 'tradition.'"

Audrey froze for a moment, her stirring hand poised in mid-air. Then she turned slowly, her dark eyes narrowing as they met Moody's. "And what's that supposed to mean, Moody?" she asked, her voice calm but edged with steel.

"It means," Moody said, standing straighter, "that wearing that thing makes you no better than Rosier and his lot. Gryffindors are supposed to stand for what's right, not hide behind rubbish like 'tradition.'"

Audrey's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't smirk or sneer, but her voice grew colder. "And I thought Gryffindors didn't go around shouting accusations without knowing the whole story. Guess we've both been let down."

"What's there to know?" Moody shot back, his voice rising. "That badge isn't just about tradition. It's a statement. And you're doing Rosier and Riddle's work for them."

Audrey's eyes narrowed further, and her tone sharpened like a blade. "Helping Rosier?" she hissed. "My family employs Muggle-borns in our company. We've done so for decades. And we donate to St. Mungo's every year, helping families who can't afford care. But none of that matters to you, does it? Not when you've already made up your mind."

Moody's temper flared hotter. "That badge says it all for you, Potter," he snapped. "Whatever your family's done doesn't matter when you walk around wearing that. You're giving them exactly what they want—a pure-blood face for their twisted cause."

Audrey stepped closer, her wand still in hand but held loosely at her side. Her voice dropped, cutting through the dungeon. "You think you're so righteous, don't you? That throwing your weight around and shouting at me makes you better than anyone else here? Newsflash, Moody: you're not half as clever as you think you are."

"It's not about being clever," Moody snarled. "It's about standing up for what's right. And that badge isn't right."

Audrey tilted her head, her lips curling into a faint, unpleasant smile. "You think you know everything, don't you? But here's the difference between us: I don't care what you think. And that scares you, doesn't it? That someone like me can wear this and not give a damn about your approval."

Moody's chest burned with frustration. Her words weren't loud, but they struck deep. Around them, the bubbling of cauldrons felt muffled, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

He turned back to his potion, forcing his trembling hands to adjust the flame. Behind him, Audrey had already returned to her work, her movements steady and deliberate, as if the argument hadn't shaken her at all.

Francis leaned closer to Moody, his voice soft but pointed. "She's baiting you. Don't let her win."

Moody didn't answer, the heat of the argument still simmering in his chest. As he watched the swirling green of his potion, one thought lingered in his mind. She's doing their work for them. Whether she knew it or not, Audrey Potter was helping the very people she claimed to stand against. And that made her even more dangerous.

Moody returned to his potion, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the flame beneath his cauldron. He could still feel the sting of her words, but worse than that, he hated the sinking realization that she'd won this round.

The tension in the Potions dungeon hung thick as cauldron smoke, even after Audrey returned to her work. Moody's hands shook slightly as he added powdered asphodel to his brew, forcing himself to focus on the potion rather than the sting of her words. The shimmering green hue of his potion was nearly perfect, though he barely noticed.

Professor Slughorn bustled over, evidently trying to dispel the charged atmosphere. His mustache twitched as he peered into Moody's cauldron, his eyes lighting up with theatrical delight. "Oh, splendid! Splendid indeed, Mr. Moody!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "That's exactly the hue we're looking for. Why, this is brewing with flair! Positively textbook five points to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff apiece."

Moody barely managed a nod, his lips pressed into a thin line. Slughorn didn't seem to notice—or perhaps didn't care—as he gave Moody's shoulder a jovial pat and swept off to the next table, humming a little tune.

Across the bench, Francis Bergamot leaned closer, his soft voice cutting through Moody's simmering frustration. "That was brave," he said earnestly, glancing toward Audrey, who was still stirring her cauldron with deliberate calm. "Calling her out like that. Most people wouldn't have said anything."

"It wasn't brave," Moody muttered, his voice tight. "It was a waste of time. She's not going to change."

"Maybe not," Francis admitted, carefully wiping his stirring rod clean, "but at least you spoke up. That's more than most people would do."

Moody gave a sharp shake of his head. "It doesn't matter. All anyone saw was me making a fool of myself."

Francis hesitated, then smiled faintly. "Maybe. But sometimes it's the fools who make the biggest difference."

Moody snorted softly, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if to smile. "You're too nice, Bergamot."

Francis chuckled. "You're too hard on yourself."

Moody stormed out of the dungeons, his pulse pounding as loudly as his footsteps echoed against the stone walls. The argument with Audrey still burned in his chest, each word she'd said twisting deeper. Had he been right to call her out, or had his anger gotten the better of him? He stopped at an empty stretch of corridor, leaning against the cold wall. "Justice," he muttered, as if saying it aloud would make him believe it. But the doubt lingered, sharp and insistent: Had he stood up for what was right, or just shouted because he didn't know how to do anything else?

Dinner in the Great Hall offered little relief. Moody sat beside a quiet Hagrid, shoveling down mash and sausages without tasting them. Around him, whispers flitted, always coupling his name with Potter's. Across the hall, Rosier smirked and whispered to another Slytherin, both glancing his way and laughing. Moody's grip tightened on his fork.

"Let 'em stare," Hagrid muttered, his tone low. Moody glanced at his friend but said nothing, the weight of his own frustration too heavy.

He finished quickly, muttering a goodbye to Hagrid before striding out. The castle's cold corridors bit into him as he marched to the Astronomy Tower, anger and embarrassment swirling in his chest. The spiral stairs were no kinder, the wind slicing through his robes. By the time he reached the top, his frustration had settled into a heavy knot. The night sky stretched above him, sharp and cold, but offered no solace. Not yet.

Astronomy had never been his favorite subject, but it was required for his Ordinary Wizarding Levels (O.W.L.s), and Moody was determined to excel. He couldn't afford not to, not if he wanted to keep his options open for the future. Becoming an Auror meant top grades, and that meant focusing even on the subjects he found tedious.

When Moody reached the top of the tower, the wind slapped him in the face, tugging at his robes and rustling the parchment tucked under his arm. A small group of students was already gathered by the telescopes, their breath fogging in the chill night air. Normally, Astronomy lessons were divided by year and house, but with the reduced numbers of students this term, the classes had been combined. Moody recognized faces from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—a mix of fifth- and sixth-years clustered near the parapet.

He spotted Gideon Prewett leaning casually against the stone railing, his auburn hair catching the starlight like embers in the dark. A couple of Ravenclaw girls nearby giggled at something, their voices faint over the howling wind, but Gideon didn't seem to notice. His sharp green eyes scanned the sky, and he toyed absentmindedly with the strap of his telescope bag. There was something maddeningly easy about the way he stood, as if the cold didn't touch him, as if this tower were his domain.

Moody's gaze lingered for a moment longer than he intended before he turned his attention back to his telescope. He gritted his teeth as a surge of frustration swept through him. His argument with Audrey Potter still gnawed at him, her sharp-edged words echoing in his mind: You're not half as clever as you think you are. The memory of her calm disdain—of how she had dismissed him so effortlessly—made his stomach churn. And now Gideon Prewett stood there with that same infuriating ease, that same confidence as if the world bent to accommodate him.

Professor Sinistra swept onto the tower moments later, her black robes billowing like smoke. "Good evening, everyone," she called crisply, clapping her hands to get their attention. "Tonight, we'll be mapping the Orion constellation and discussing its magical applications in navigation. O.W.L. candidates, I expect detailed star charts by the end of the month. Sixth-years, your assignments will include theoretical applications. Pair up if you need assistance."

Moody sighed, pulling out his notebook and quill as he trudged to a telescope near the edge of the tower. The wind bit at his fingers as he adjusted the focus, but the stars in the lens stubbornly refused to sharpen. His hands trembled with a mixture of cold and the lingering tension from earlier, and he muttered a curse under his breath.

"Orion's Belt giving you trouble?" came a familiar voice, smooth and teasing.

Moody glanced up sharply to see Gideon standing beside him, arms crossed and a faint smirk playing on his lips. His presence felt as intrusive as it was irritating.

"I've got it," Moody said curtly, his cheeks burning as he fumbled with the knobs. The stars blurred further, mocking his efforts.

"Sure you do," Gideon replied, stepping closer. Without asking, he reached over and adjusted the telescope himself. His long fingers moved deftly, the stars snapping into sharp clarity almost instantly.

"Better?" Gideon asked, tilting his head, his smirk deepening.

Moody clenched his jaw. "Yeah. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Gideon said lightly, though there was a knowing glint in his eyes. He lingered for a moment, his grin turning playful. "I'm good with belts," he added, his tone laced with double meaning. Moody's heart thudded painfully, but he refused to let it show. How could he be so weak that both an ignorant bigot like Potter and somebody as charming as Prewett could disarm him so easily.

Vigilance, he thought, busying himself with his notes.

The teasing edge in Gideon's expression softened as he leaned back slightly. "You're Moody, right? Fifth-year Gryffindor?"

"That's right. And I'm Muggle-born," Moody said sharply, his words coming out harsher than he intended. "And you're Prewett—with a name like that, I'm guessing pure-blood."

Gideon blinked, his smirk slipping. "And what if I am?" he asked, his tone quieter now, almost cautious.

Moody's chest tightened. He hadn't meant to lash out, but the words had tumbled out too quickly, raw and unguarded. "Nothing," he muttered, turning back to his telescope. "Forget it." He was suddenly aware of his heart beating and the peculiar jade green of Prewett's eyes and his high cheek-bones.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension. Moody half-expected Gideon to walk away, but instead, he spoke again, his voice measured. "Fair enough. But just so you know, I'm not exactly the poster boy for tradition."

That caught Moody off guard. He looked up, surprise flickering across his face. Gideon shrugged, his expression softening. "Not everyone's as simple as you think, Moody. Though Potter might be," he smirked.

"You heard about potions?" Moody asked.

"Yeah, of course I did. Half the school's talking about it. Some might call you brave, but I'm not sure you're clever enough to realize just how stupid it was."

Moody narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the older boy's face for any hint of what he truly meant.

"Seriously," Prewett continued, his tone sharper now. "If you're Muggle-born, I hope your family's got a place in Diagon Alley. I'd expect a few Howlers in the post, at the very least. You've just put a massive target on your back for every Muggle-born hater out there."

Moody frowned, his mind twisting uncomfortably. Audrey's cutting words blended with his irritation at Gideon's confidence, his teasing, and now his warning. Prewett smiled then—a small, knowing grin—and, before he realized it, Moody found himself smiling back.

Wait, he thought suddenly. What am I doing? They both paused, each taking a breath as the weight of the moment settled between them.

"So," Gideon said, gesturing toward the telescope. "Are you trying to chart the whole constellation from memory, or do you actually check your work?"

Moody snorted despite himself, some of the tension cracking. "I'll manage."

"Of course you will," Gideon said with a grin, leaning against the parapet. "Let me guess—Defense Against the Dark Arts is your favorite subject. Always the most determined in class, always planning two steps ahead. What is it you're aiming for? Auror?"

Moody hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Auror."

Gideon whistled softly. "Ambitious. I like it. Gryffindors aren't supposed to be that strategic. Thought you lot just charged into danger."

"And I thought Ravenclaws weren't supposed to be so nosy," Moody shot back, though his words lacked real heat.

Gideon chuckled. "Fair. But nosiness is how you learn things, isn't it? Like how to not become public enemy number one."

Moody didn't reply, focusing on his notes. But he couldn't ignore the weight of Gideon's gaze or the way it unsettled him. It wasn't just irritation. It was something he didn't want to name, something that made his pulse quicken in a way he hated.

"I think you're going to make it," Gideon said suddenly, his voice quieter now. "You've got it in you. I can see that already."

Moody froze, the words hitting harder than he expected. He looked away, his throat tight. "How can you tell?" he muttered.

"Simple," Gideon said with a shrug. "You care. That's rarer than you think."

"And what is it to you anyway?" asked Moody.

"Always the accusing tone," Prewett laughed. "Let's just say after I heard about your argument I wanted to meet the idiotic hero who stood up to Potter."

Moody scowled at him, not knowing what to think.

"And I wasn't disappointed," Prewett said slyly.

The words lingered as Professor Sinistra clapped her hands, signaling the end of the lesson. Moody packed his things quickly, avoiding Gideon's gaze as they descended the spiral staircase. But Gideon fell in step beside him, their paths aligning until they reached the corridor where they would part.

"Good luck, Moody," Gideon said, his tone lighter now. He reached out briefly, his hand holding Moody's arm—a fleeting touch that sent a shock through him. "Don't let anyone get to you. You're better than that."

Am I? Moody thought. He didn't respond, his throat too tight to speak. He imagined his fathers voice echoing from the past.

The cold night air bit at Moody's cheeks as he trudged back to the castle. Gideon's voice lingered in his mind, light and teasing, yet somehow sharper than he wanted to admit. "You care. That's rarer than you think." Did he care? Did it matter? What if caring wasn't enough? His father cared too, didn't he? Cared enough to leave the sky behind. But caring hadn't stopped Grindelwald's men. Caring hadn't saved Tinworth.