abitmoody

[abitmoody]

It didn’t take a magical eye to see who had been so cordially invited onto Ministry property, but it did take a great deal of self control on Alastor Moody’s part to remain in the elevator upon seeing Bellatrix Lestrange. But, truth be told, he would have taken the stairs down to the Auror Department if he thought his old leg could handle it. 

“Which level were you attempting to get to, Black? Or, is it Lestrange now?” His voice was gruff, barely more intelligible than growled strung together. 

At one point, he believed there had been a wall in the Auror Department dedicated to this auspicious woman – there certainly had been for her now-brother-in-law, whom Moody had personally taken to the dementors. He’d never say he enjoyed his trysts to Azkaban (that was physically impossible), but there had to be something said about justice, and seeing the guilty quite literally behind bars gave him great satisfaction. 

Less satisfying, however, was witnessing his failure first hand – knowing that he’d once had her in his grasp, ready to be interrogated by the Wizengamot, and she, slippery as a snake, had wriggled her way free. “Didn’t think you worked here. I thought you were off somewhere cursing people for a living.”

WHO: Bellatrix Lestrange & Alastor Moody ( @abitmoody ) WHERE: The Ministry WHEN: Late afternoon

The hustle and bustle of working at the Ministry meant that Bellatrix often found herself summoned from level to level. A cursebreaker -- a decent cursebreaker often found themselves in high demand. In any other circumstance, being needed so much would be appealing, but in the world of the Ministry, it was simply another day. "Hold the lift!" Her voice called, moving to get down the corridor before the doors closed, sliding in as quickly as she could. "Level three, if you don't mind."

Bellatrix was unaware of who was behind her, instead focusing on opening the file in her hand. Brown hues taking in the necessary information that would guarantee her success. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary as the lift began moving until the movement ceased suddenly, making her aware of her surroundings. "There's no way we're already on the right level." Eyes coming around to take in the other person in the lift.

Alastor Moody. "Bollocks."

[abitmoody]

“Don’t tell me how to use my time,” Moody growled, without hesitation, startling a squeak out of the boy. The rumors, however, he did want to hear. But the objects were the first matter of business.

 He limped toward the desk, his wooden foot clunking with the movement, and steadied himself on the desk with his elbow. The downside of needing a cane? Trying to do things with two hands. He considered, momentarily, summoning a chair to sit in but that would be a sign of weakness; besides, all the furniture in the place was surely vermin infested. 

He picked up the unclaimed, stranger’s wand and placed his own ebony want to its tip. With a whisper of “priori incantatem”, the wand began to wispily reveal its secrets. First, a stunning jinx (“Typical, must’a missed,” he muttered), but he kept his own wand firmly attached; next came a flash of green light, the Avada Kedavra (“Got the spirit, I’ll give ‘em that, could use better aim”); then, with a sparkle of light, a tracking charm (“Looking for someone, were you?”). He removed his wand from the other, and pocketed the stranger’s wand. 

His magical eye was trained on the box, that almost emitted a dark, violet glow, but his normal eye narrowed on Pettigrew, waiting for a reaction. His hands did not shake as he undid the golden latch on the box, even as, as it was revealed, the book let out a loud shriek of agony. “Nasty thing you’ve got, here,” he muttered, more to himself than Peter. 

He had to admit, the book did seem to be bound in human skin, though now, at a gentle stroke of Moody’s finger, it was tough as dragon hide. “Ridens cadaver,” he read aloud, the words carved deep into the horrendous cover. “‘The Laughing Corpse.” His fingers itched to open it, but something–maybe the way the book was subtly beating as if it had a heart and the way his magical eye didn’t seem to be able to look directly at it–stopped him.

He looked up at Peter, suddenly, as if coming out of a trance. “Where did you get this? Who brought it in? And, I’m very interested to know those rumors, now, Pettigrew.”

peter has to try not to cringe out of his own skin as moody's horrendous magical eye swivels all over the place. the man radiates disdain and disgust, and peter feels somewhere between outraged and nauseous. he's under no delusion of being well-liked, but that doesn't mean he has to stomach it in his own shop. the auror looks at him and his pets with the same sort of revulsion, and peter can't decide who he's more offended for, himself or his rats.

he jumps a little when moody cuts himself off, stammering and stumbling over his own words for an explanation. "he was! sirius, i mean. you say yourself, sir, constant vigilance! it's good to check, uh, and you should do the same for me, really. a-and, uh, i have a permit. for the gun." pettigrew blinks large, watery eyes at him and adds, "m-most wizards don't have the sense to know what to do if i pull out a gun, sir. and i'm not so good in a duel."

it's a bit more than he intended to spill, squeaky and nervous, but none of it's really incriminating or untrue. he's prepared, and in front of mad-eye moody, there's worse things to be.

"i don't have much for you today, uh, but this," he sets a wand that isn't his own on the table, and a little wooden box. "fella sold me the wand, um, and i don't think it was his, before - uh. so it could be ... evidence. or something. and the book is, frankly, awful - just awful - and i'd like for you to take it out of my store? i'm not sure that's human skin, but it - it really looks like it." he looks a little queasy at the thought, and pushes the box further away from him. "and some ... rumors? rumors. i can save those for sirius or james or, uh, i'm sure you have better things to do with your time?"

[abitmoody]

Alastor never, in his wildest dreams, ever thought that someone could prattle on more than Sirius Black, but he had to admit, the younger of the Black brothers was a contender for first place. Just as arrogant, too, it seemed, as he assumed immediate possession of Frank Longbottom’s desk. A person had to be awfully sure of themselves to use the word innocuous in regular conversation. 

The man was quiet for a moment, but he gingerly took the notes in a scarred hand, his normal eye scanning over them quickly, while his magical one stared fixedly at the boy. As much as he hated to admit it, the notes were thorough, and written in a clear, neat hand that was much better than his own hurried chicken scratch. After he had finished reading what Regulus had verbally described in lengthy detail, he settled the notes in a neat stack on the corner of Frank’s, and now apparently Regulus’, desk. 

“These are… thorough,” it was the highest form of praise Regulus would be receiving, especially is the kid seemed to think that he had the experience to get to the root of it. “But, a countercourse, now, is of little use if we can’t track down where this is coming from. We’ll have more victims, most that we more than likely won’t even know about, that’ll show up. They won’t bring them to us, but to St. Mungo’s, who will be ill-equipped to treat them if we’re fighting the Office to simply realize the scale of this thing.” His words were not flowery, but to the point. The kid was onto something–his ideas were all over the place, but he had, at least, given them a baseline, and theories to keep in the back of their minds. 

Moody straightened back up to his full height, putting his weight back on his cane, and his whole body groaned in protest. “If we have two victims who know which objects the curse came from, we start there. You might not have access to the files, but I do seem to have a little pull within this department.” His magical eye twirled into the corridor, and he called, “Perkins!”

A mousy-looking wizard hurriedly poked his head into the room, his eyes wide and terrified at being directly addressed by Auror Moody. “Get as much information on case 10078 as you can; I want victim statements, names, addresses, anything you can get your mitts on. And, while you’re at it, I need you to contact the Department for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Arthur Weasley. Tell him Moody needs every mention of any cursed silver object in the last, oh, six months.” When Perkins nodded vigorously, but continued to stand in the doorway, Alastor hardened his tone. “Now.”

After Perkins scurried away, both Alastor’s eyes flickered back to Regulus, “And now, we wait.”

"splendid," regulus drawls in a flat, unimpressed tone, commandeering the nearest chair and desk as his own and spreading his notes out without a moment of hesitation. he doesn't care to waste further time, and if moody's as achey and miserable as he is after a full moon, they'll just have to deal with it. "i shan't dawdle further, then."

he's already collected copies of the official reports, passed to him on his way in and neatly annotated in green ink. eight victims, none deceased but all in st. mungo's, afflicted with an unknown dessication curse proving unresponsive to treatment. only two had identified the items that had caused it - a silver tea set for the first, and a tarnished handheld mirror for the second. both had been purchased earlier in the day, from different locations, with no apparent connection but for material. the rest of his notes are neat, concise paragraphs of information and theories and incredibly precise runic circles and diagrams.

"i wasn't given any access to testimonies or personal information of any affected, only the initial reports," he notes, before moody can accuse him of anything. "fill in if i'm missing anything. i'd like to inspect the suspect items in person, but i have some theory as to the nature of the curse - namely, that it seems at the very least time-delayed, not taking effect immediately but instead after a few hours. assuming the curse is implanted upon touch and activates after a certain period ... all it would take is a single artifact attracting curious fingers, and we could have dozens of victims. multiply that by the possibility of a number of cursed items, lying innocuously in wait ... and i'd be so bold as to theorize this case threatens to be much more catastrophic than your superiors seem to think it is. at least, judging by them putting you alone on the case and hiring a wizard of suspect background."

he notes it all with an impassive sort of professionalism, focusing entirely on the task at hand - efficient reporting. "both recovered items being of the same material is as interesting as it is concerning. it grants credence to our perpetrator being an individual or coherent group with intent, rather than a new hex used indiscriminately. but it seems entirely indiscriminate in who it effects, no? cursed items left out in shops where anyone could pick them up ... but, old silver, specifically. most old families have their own silverware sets, so our perpetrator could assume only poorer individuals would be handling the items, suggesting blood purists or death eater sympathizers. alternatively, under our current climate, it could be a plot meant to target non-werewolves who suffer no adverse effects to pure silver. there's a small chance it's some overlap between the two, or neither of the above, but it's ... a possibility." he sets down the sheet in his hands, offering the stack to moody and steepling his fingers together.

"so. you're the expert here. what do you propose our priorities are - a countercurse, or getting to the root of it? i can do both, but perhaps not at once."

[abitmoody]

He recognized the look on the boy’s face, just a flicker, but so reminiscent of his coworkers, of the workers at St. Mungo’s who had to clean him up and piece him back together. Pity. It made him bristle, immediately, and he stiffened. The boy clearly had injuries, and a cane that almost matched Moody’s, though more elegant and finely crafted. 

“Independent researcher,” He repeated with a growl, “I’ll say.” But he couldn’t help but notice that the boy put weight on his cane rather than his leg, and couldn’t help but wonder, against his better judgment and what he knew of Regulus Black which was more than he cared to know, if the boy in front of him was also facing wolfish repercussions. 

But then the ridiculous little urchin had to open his mouth, thick with Black-arrogance that Alastor was all-too-familiar with, and all fleeting traces of kinship were swept away in an instant.

Moody’s eyes fixed on the boy, his brown one narrow with dislike, but he swept the arm not holding himself up around the room. “You’re looking at our workspace. Being an independent researcher doesn’t allow you a place at an auror’s desk, Black.” 

He ignored the question about the leg, yet repositioned it slightly, the stump was beginning to ache with overuse. If the boy was joking – the joke wasn’t funny, and Alastor was in no mood for jokes to begin with. If the boy was being genuine, he had such an air of superiority that Alastor didn’t deign to answer the question. 

Of all the cursebreakers or independent researchers they could have assigned him, it really had to be Regulus Black? He’d be having words with Scrimgeour after this.

regulus has always coped with stress well, even before he had layers of curses carved into his skin by grasping fingers and sharpened claws. he just tucks it away, occludes so hard his emotions are locked in a little box far out of reach - moody probably won't arrest him right yet ... maybe.

he takes quick stock of moody's state rather than dwelling on the thought. he'd heard the man had recently been hospitalized, but regulus is suddenly very glad that his leg is still intact, at least, and can't quite hide a sympathetic wince. even now, the calculating part of his brain is breaking down what he knows about magical-creature-injuries (a lot) and the scars they leave behind (he may as well be an expert). moody fared even worse than he did. poor bastard. he probably hurts more than regulus does.

"i don't," he hums simply, leaning off the desk and putting his weight back onto his cane. "work for gringotts, that is. the leg's a liability when it comes to tomb-robbing or whatever such nonsense they get up to. i would hardly refute being an expert in the field, though i'm more of an independent researcher." he grins mirthlessly, no trace of warmth in his eyes, teeth a bit too sharp. "i brought my notes on the case, if you could show me where we're setting up - what took yours?" he tilts his head. "your leg, i mean. should i be keeping moon phases in mind while arranging for any field work?"

his voice is too flat to tell if he's mocking or not - but the boy was rumored to be a death eater. he likely has worked with werewolves before, and seems entirely nonchalant about the possibility.

[abitmoody]

This place is a pit is the first thing that crossed Alastor’s mind as soon as he set foot (literally) into the Rat’s Nest. The second thought that popped into his head, as his magical, electric blue eye surveyed the place, is that it is filled with magic. And, as it surveyed behind the desk, that there appear to be rat tunnels throughout the walls. He has to stop himself from physically cringing. He’s not a fan of vermin, and rats rank right at the top of his list. But the moment he staggers into the…eclectic establishment, Peter Pettigrew is already yapping at him in that shrill voice that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

Both Alastor’s eyes settle upon the mousy man – if he could even be called that, he was barely older than a child – and his brown one narrowed, what was left of an eyebrow quirked in suspicion. 

“Not who you were expecting, Pettigrew?” The name dripped with disdain. Of all the self-proclaimed ‘marauders’, Peter Pettigrew was his least favorite. James and Sirius, reckless though they may have been, at least had some backbone. Remus, though more on the reserved side, seemed to have a logical head on his shoulders that the others lacked. But, all three of them didn’t live in squalor as Pettigrew seemed to. 

“I really thought it was Black that was supposed to do the pick up this evening, but unless you’re implying that I’m mad,” That magical eye whirled in its socket, dizzying him slightly, but work it for the effect, “Or you’re lying to me, I don’t-” He paused, his eye catching on an interesting object behind the desk. “Is that a muggle gun? Expecting petty criminals to rob you, eh?” 

He can’t wait until he can get out of this cramped, odd little shop. Perhaps he should have let Black come – he wasn’t sure that this was better than all-encompassing boredom.

⬐[rp starter for @abitmoody]⬏ ━━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━━

it's just another wednesday, so far. later in the evening - but peter stays open late, because knockturn stays open late, and because his sleep schedule's beyond repair. still, it's wednesday. mundane, slow, a bit dull. he's waiting, a bit impatiently, for padfoot to turn up. it's a weekly thing, an order thing, for someone to drop by. pick up news and sometimes cursed or troublesome items that find themselves pawned off at the rat's nest. and it's a chance to catch up with pads or prongs or moony, and pretend to just be normal for a bit.

the little bell above the door rings, and he's halfway through saying, "hey, pads, what's -" before his brain processes that the footsteps are wrong and he shoots his eyes upwards from the ledger he's writing in. alastor moody is one of the few people who really has no business to be visiting the nest, unless peter is...

they can't know. they don't know. prongs wouldn't let it be moody if they knew, it'd be anyone but moody. peter is terrified of the man. merlin, he isn't sure they've ever even been in the same room together, alone. no, he can't be under arrest, and that makes even less sense.

peter's face is nothing but surprised for a moment, and moody can practically see the gears turning behind his eyes. after a second, he begins, "uh, sir. is ... did something happen to prongs?"

it's a test, the subtle fishing for confirmation that the man is who he looks to be. on a surface level, anyone who knows of the marauders knows their frankly stupid nicknames for each other. the real alastor moody would undoubtedly be expected to know such a thing ... and the real alastor moody would know peter is expecting sirius tonight, not james.

it's calculated in a way that's easy to miss, benign and polite, as inoffensive as peter's fingers very idly resting on his wand, ready to retaliate if need be.

merlin's beard, he might be onto something, with the constant vigilance.

[abitmoody]

RAHUL KOHLI as Sheriff Hassan MIDNIGHT MASS | S01E01

[abitmoody]

“I’d say it just hasn’t picked up yet,” muttered the man, both his normal and magical eye flicking towards the setting sun. “Just you wait, once the sun goes down, the firewhiskey’ll be flowin’ and thing’ll get a bit more raucous ‘round here.” Raucous was the key word, and, for once, he was glad he wasn’t on duty – not that, with a can clutched in his left hand and a flask in his right, he could be doing much – as he wouldn’t want to be the one to, later, tell the Harpies fans to settle down. They tended to gravitate toward pyromania after a win. 

“Quidditch is…” His electric blue eye flicked in every direction before settling itself on the girl, “An acquired taste, I’d say. Is it not popular in the States, or is it just not popular with you?”

a mini lyric starer for alastor @abitmoody

"i spend my whole life following the night time."

"and yet there are no bars open here. " maya sighed - her new york accent rolling off her tongue. "is this what you guys do over here ? " had maya ever been to a quidditch match ? nope. wasn't really her thing - she preferred the dueling arena. but did like watching the quidditch matches on the tv with her grandfather. he might have been a muggle but he was so interested in that part of his family's life. to him - it was like watching a football match.

[abitmoody]

The first few weeks back at work had, quite unfortunately, been what Alastor had been expecting. He’d been coddled, like a child, as they tried to protect him from the horrors of the job (as if he had not already been, literally, painfully aware). But, people had also gawked at him, like a caged animal. If he was entirely honest, he couldn’t blame them – a great whizzing blue eye, the lack of a left leg, and so many new scars he looked as if he was made of particularly roughly hewn wood – it had been quite a transformation. 

Still, he wished people would talk to him, rather than hear the whispers about how he was doing, about if he was still up to snuff. He’d practically begged Scrimgeour to give him an assignment, any assignment, something to pass the monotony nicely. And, the head auror, shockling, had obliged. 

A curse. A particularly mind-boggling curse. Technically, he would be the lead on the case, but they were bringing in a curse breaker of some sort, an expert, who knew everything there was to know about curses. Alastor was supposed to follow their lead. However, Alastor didn’t tend to follow anyone’s lead. 

In he clunked, his hard, wooden leg heavy against the floor, his presence known to all before people could even see him – though he could now apparently see through walls, which was disorienting, to say the least – and he made his way to an unused office, not expecting to see a scrawny, black haired boy who was supposed to be the supposed ‘curse breaker’.

Alastor inclined his head to Regulus Black slightly, with a bit of a grunt in response. “Didn’t know you had started working for Gringotts, Black.” His voice dripped in sarcasm and his magical eye whirled around in its socket. “You’re my curse expert? Well… yeah, I s’pose you do have experience with curses, don’t you?”

⬐[rp starter for @abitmoody]⬏ ━━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━━

regulus wouldn't have answered the first letter at all if he had known it was for an official ministry case. when an old yearmate wrote to him about an unknown curse, he'd been initially excited. the effects are utterly gruesome, but non-lethal, apparently - and recent enough that they've yet to discern if there's any way to undo the limb damage. it's terribly exciting, a puzzle he eagerly writes back for, uncovering every extra piece he can through his classmate's limited knowledge to try to figure out the larger image.

she eventually admitted that this was for an ongoing ministry case, and the aurors were stumped, and the victims weren't significant enough (apparently) to warrant negotiating for a second gringotts curse-breaker after the first had failed to tell them anything. and it was so terribly convenient that she'd gone to school with a rumoured expert on these matters! regulus does not care for the ministry, and certainly not for aurors. he'd rather eat his cane than do them any sort of favour.

... but he's interested now. regulus can't just let the matter slip past, or let an interesting new bit of dark magic slide from his grasp. not even for the ministry. it could be brand new, or ancient, and regulus can't just ignore it. he'd think he was snared by a cunning plot, if his old yearmate hadn't been a hufflepuff.

so he sends back his terms (lower pay than an official cursebreaker, but he gets full credit for any counter-curses he comes up with and the legal rights aurors carry to break spellcasting regulation during investigations, because he cares about that more than stuffing even more gold into the family vaults). he's expecting to be turned down ... and instead, he's simply told he'll be assigned an auror to accompany and monitor him during his own investigation, and when to arrive.

and so he does, feeling more apprehensive than ever about the mark on his arm, or the ugly scars crossing his face. he dresses well but not too well and arrives twenty minutes early, leaning against a desk in an empty office and reading through his own notes.

he only looks up when the door swings open again, and his pale face goes even paler. he'd been expecting some younger auror, useless enough to be spared for babysitting, not -

"auror moody," he greets in a soft, flat voice, perfectly level and calm. "it's a pleasure to meet you."

[abitmoody]

「 ✦ rahul kohli. cis man.  he/him.  ravenclaw  +  hogwarts alumni.✦ 」 was  that  ALASTOR MOODY seen  wandering  the  streets  of  diagon  alley ? the  THIRTY-EIGHT  y  /  o  WIZARD/HALF-TURN was  last  seen  in LONDON. i  hear they  are  working  as  an  AUROR and  have  sided  with THE ORDER. they  have  been  described  as  STRATEGIC +  PARANOID  with  the  familiarity of a personal vendetta; still getting used to the feel of his prosthetic leg and the weight of a cane in his hand; sharp, bloodshot eyes assessing those around him; the slight tremble of fingertips when the adrenaline has faded from his body, though his wand does not leave his grasp; fresh scars claw marks down his face and an unfortunate craving for raw meat. they  have  been  heard  humming  PARANOID  by  BLACK SABBATH.      

CHILDHOOD & HOGWARTS

Francis and Evelyn Moody were well-off individuals, though they didn’t keep up with the scandals that seemed to encapsulate London’s pureblood society – at least, not since twenty-three year old Evelyn married forty-one year old Francis and the pair were the talk of the town. The well-to-do purebloods were well behind modern society standards. They said he had married for love, besotted with the young lady; but whispers flew that she married him for his money – after all, he was a well-established potioneer with international connections. So, the Moodys set off for a quaint cottage with sprawling hills near Bingham, where they could leave the whispers behind them. 

Alastor was born just a year after their nuptials – a quiet boy, sweet, with a mind that whirled a mile a minute. He was a serious child, and that seriousness turned into a quick wit and scathing comments. Though tucked away near Sherwood Forest with just his mother and house-elf Posy, Alastor never found that he was lonesome, with large grounds that he could take a miniature broomstick out on, dense forestry that he could usually be found curled up with a book in. Solidarity activities suited him just fine; he’d never known any better. 

Alastor was fond of his mother—she was his mother, after all—but she was flighty. Enough time had apparently passed and the London Wizarding World buzzed with other scandals rather than the lengthy age gap between Mister and Madam Moody, so Evelyn’s vulturish friends frequented the house, squawking about. They doted on their own children yet never seemed to ask a question about anyone else’s, the garden parties tended to consist of women talking, talking, talking at each other, rather than having conversations. Alastor, having attended simply by nature of proximity, had been the most well-informed eight-year-old of the goings-on in ‘well-bred society’.

While he truly did love his flighty, gossip-monger mother, Alastor positively idolized his successful, infrequently seen, father, who had stories of India and France and and America — embellished for young Alastor’s interest — and could jabber about the wonders of potions and medicines if no one stopped him. And Alastor never would. Francis seemed to always be gone on business endeavors, but, like any good father missing his son growing up, always brought back exorbitantly priced gifts. 

But tragedy struck the Moodys just two years later when a ‘freak accident” killed Francis at work, leaving an unemployed Evelyn and ten year old Alastor to fend for themselves. The family never got details of the incident, appearing to be ‘too top secret’ and simultaneously could ‘destroy all they had been working towards’; it was a mystery—at least to any ten year old boy who read too many forbidden Sherlock Holmes novels. In reality, there was nothing that could have been done; explosions, accidents, unforeseen amputations occurred often in the name of magical innovation. Even still, there hadn’t been enough of him even to bury, so the coffin was simply symbolic—and empty. 

It was almost laughable, in Alastor’s mind, how quickly his mother found her second husband. And therefore how often he was left with just Posy for company as she and her new beau traipsed around in London society. He hardly saw his mother that last year before he went to Hogwarts, and by the time he came home for the Christmas holidays, he’d acquired a step-father. 

Though he and his father had both been promptly replaced (his mother seemed to have no trouble getting pregnant), Hogwarts was somewhere that he was one of a kind. He was still quiet, never one to insert himself into unnecessary conversations, but his dry sense of humor could send chortles around a room. He was an ace with a well-timed, cutting joke and even better in classes - could transfigure a piece of straw into a needle with his eyes closed. 

His mother had his little sister Clarissa, and he didn’t spend much time at home, for Sam made it clear that he was not his father. But he had his studies for company. And his broomstick, and the gaggle of friends that sent messages in and out of his window during the holidays. 

He’d just gotten his Prefect letter when another one followed right on its tail – five years ago, his father hadn’t died in a potioneering incident, but had been dealing in all sorts of illegal ingredients that he couldn’t pay for, and was subsequently murdered. 

The letter wasn’t signed, and his mother would have had a fit had he asked her for details, so the information was stuck in his brain and his alone; who could he have told, anyway? Who would have believed him? It knocked his nearly-perfect father down a peg in his mind, but it also opened up questions he didn’t have the answers to; why did they cover it up? Was this about saving face, or was something more sinister involved? It was the first real mystery that he’d seen, but one that never gave him any answers, not that he delved into it too deeply. It was painful, it would have tarnished his father’s, and his, good name. 

Hogwarts passed without incident, save for being a Prefect and Head Boy and a fill-in Beater for a few Quidditch matches. High marks on his OWLs and even higher marks for his NEWTs, it wasn’t even a question when he was a shoe-in for Auror training. He’d hoped this would allow him to gain control in his life. That he could make things happen instead of happening to him. And, besides, he’d get to be a regular Sherlock Holmes. 

AUROR ANTICS & THE FIRST WIZARDING WAR

Alastor rose quickly through the Auror ranks, and by the time he was twenty-five, he had already become a Senior Auror – even though, technically fifteen years of experience were supposed to be needed; desperate times called for desperate measures, he supposed.. Moody was bright, with a head for strategy and an ear for stealth. Stealth helped him in more ways than one, as Dumbledore pounded on his Chiswick cottage mere days after his promotion, asking not only for information, but for help. 

Though Albus Dumbledore had been his professor and headmaster and was forty years his senior, there was a camaraderie between the two, a wealth of information and intuition that made it a productive pairing. It was advice that Albus needed, it was an ear on the inside, listening to hear rumblings of what Lord Voldemort was going to do. Listening for secrets. Listening for liars. That icy February evening was the first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, and Alastor Moody was the first unofficial member. Whispers swirled of Voldemort’s rise to power.

It took years for those whispers to catch, and for the whole world to erupt in flames, but eventually, everything was shot to hell. The Auror office was in a tizzy, trying to figure out who was acting of their own accord and who wasn’t. Alastor was out in the streets night after night after night that he couldn’t ever really think straight – raids would be called, and he would head them. Dark Marks burned green in midnight skies, and he could only take a breath and face whatever was waiting for him underneath. 

They were rough years, and any time off work was spent with heads bent over blueprints with Dumbledore – the headmaster had added a few people to the group by then, as Alastor could only be in so many places at once. But it still wasn’t enough, and soon, to Alastor’s dismay, Dumbledore had added fresh-faced kids right out of school to the Order. They wanted to help, of course, but they were reckless. They didn’t know battle, didn’t know loss like he did. 

All this time, Moody had never felt safe, but he had always felt as though he flew under the radar. Sure, he’d gotten a healthy promotion and was running covert missions for both the Ministry and the Order of the Phoenix, had landed multiple suspected and convicted Death Eaters in Azkaban cells, but that didn’t ever make him a target. It wasn’t until his boss, Darius Runcorn, Head Auror, had brought him a gift for his birthday – single malt whiskey – that he ever figured there was a problem. It had been a long day at the office, and he had just gotten off duty, so he and a handful of Aurors popped open the bottle to celebrate; after all, thirty was a big year. But Lionel Edgecomb had been the unlucky victim, as the whiskey passed his lips first, and he stopped breathing within seconds. Runcorn, it was later found out, had been under the Imperius Curse.

There’s a reason Alastor only drank from his hip flask – just don’t ask about the bourbon smell that perfumed the air.

The war continued and suspicion grew. Alastor could barely keep straight who knew what and who was pretending they didn’t know things and who he was pretending to not know in public. But the unthinkable happened–even with all the intel The Order was supposedly receiving from a handful of spies–and Voldemort’s prized pet quite literally bit the hand that fed him. Pandemonium, obviously, ensued. Despite Alastor’s very hearty protests, the Ministry decided to let convicted Death Eaters out of Azkaban–many of whom Alastor had personally dealt with–in the name of ‘reformation’ and began a new werewolf registry and new taskforce. The Ministry was coming from a place of fear; Voldemort had been a known enemy, but the werewolves were altogether an unknown force.

An unknown force that somehow managed to take his leg, the better part of his nose, and give him a newfound craving for particularly raw meat. 

RANDOM FACTS & TIDBITS

Alastor is painfully technologically illiterate. He might call someone on his runestone phone, but if you attempt to text him? You’ll receive an owl in 1-2 business days. If it’s urgent, you might have a very grumpy Auror standing in your fireplace at three in the morning.

Frequent flier at St. Mungo’s–the man has a dangerous job! Knows many of the healers on a first-name basis, even if he’s a horrendous patient and always wants to get back to work before he’s fully ready. 

Very recently got bitten by an untransformed werewolf, still hasn’t quite come to terms with it, as he’s healing from his many other injuries sustained in that particular raid. He’s struggling to hobble around with his new prosthetic leg and angry that he can’t go back to work yet. (Haven’t figured out whether this was a Ministry/work related event or something with The Order so I’m waiting for connections to solidify that).

Bad relationship with his family–no he does not want to talk about it.

As much as they get on his bloody nerves, he does look at the younger bunch of kids in The Order as… bothersome younger siblings who he’s actually begun to care about. Even when they do idiotic, reckless things like actually join The Order. 

BITS & BOBBLES

Full name: Alastor Francis Moody

Age & birthday: 38; January 2nd

Blood status: Pureblood

Occupation: Senior Auror

Former House: Ravenclaw

Residence: Townhouse in Chiswick

Wand: 12 inches, ebony wood, dragon heartstring core; fairly rigid

Patronus: Eagle owl

Positive traits: strategic, determined, intuitive, dependable, resilient, wise

Negative traits: paranoid, gruff, scathing, suspicious, closed-off

WANTED CONNECTIONS

Mentee – someone for Alastor to pass on his wisdom to, whether they’re an Auror or not, and hopefully help them stay alive.

Adversar(ies) – any ‘reformed’ Death Eater that Alastor personally put in Azkaban (bonus points if they now have to work alongside each other). 

Trusted healer – the one that Alastor always requests when he’s (once again) in St. Mungo’s.

Confidant – Alastor doesn’t have many actually, fully trusted, friends. This is someone he can share his deepest thoughts with and know they won’t blab to the whole Wizarding World

Enemy (aka ‘The Bastard That Cost Me My Leg (and Bit Me)’) – mildly self-explanatory, but Alastor has a personal vendetta against this particular werewolf.

Friends & casual acquaintances – he just needs people that don’t hate him, I’m begging.  

[abitmoody]

PARKS AND RECREATION 3.02 | Flu Season

[abitmoody]

"You shouldn't run away from grief, but my God, you must run from madness."

Helen Oyeyemi, The Opposite House