Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J.K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more.
One
Moody: Limbo
Falling into infinity.
Where seconds before the streaks of spells in red, green, and violet had been, there is only blackness. A silence so absolute it chills him to the profound depths of his soul.
Where his hands had been clutching the handle of his broom there is nothing, even the peppering of stars in the distance has been blocked out by the dark presence of evil.
The shrill sound of gears grinding together -- a sound he associates only with Muggle vehicles -- reverberates inside his skull. His hair flaps like icy feathers about his head; he can feel it. But still, his eyes see nothing.
Eternity opens up before him, its unnatural jaws snapping at him voraciously. He is not ready to die, his mind screams. But there is no one to hear, no one to care. Even if he’d found the will to utter the words aloud, the wind would have ruthlessly snatched them away.
As he gains momentum, the very air leans heavily against him. In desperation, he claws at it but finds no solid purchase.
The impact comes without warning, forcing the last breath from his straining lungs. His final thoughts are panicked, struggling against intangible foes as mental images become disjointed…
Rustlings in the background and the unfamiliar smell of new surroundings. He barely forms the thought before it floats off into the stratosphere, tugging his defenseless body by an invisible tether.
With his next musing, he wonders if he even has a body anymore. He can’t feel anything, but the air surrounding him is a comfortable temperature. That he can sense on his lips. And if he has lips, well, then it follows that he has a face…. He loses track of where this thread is leading once more.
So this must be how it feels to be dead, he concludes as he continues to float outside of time. The insubstantial noises in the background must be angel’s wings, if the vague tales he’d heard are true.
He feels his eyelids flutter, protesting the too white light after the soothing darkness of the womb. Triumphantly, he takes this to be further confirmation that he still has a face.
After an indeterminate amount of time, indistinct cadences inside his brain resolve themselves into voices, but he doesn’t understand the words. Is it a foreign language or an undiscovered form of communication?
Then one day, the words seem familiar as they tease him from afar. A lost melody dreamed in the night but fading in the morning light. How does he know it’s morning? He has no suitable answer, no frame of reference anymore; but somehow he is certain that he’s right.
The incandescent mist before his sight begins to clear and he distinguishes blurred outlines of the rustic whitewashed rafters above. Is that thatch he spies beyond? He would have never imagined that spirits -- or whatever incorporeal form he now inhabits “ would need shelter from the elements. Likely it’s a quaint manifestation of his own mind, he postulates. It must be overwhelming to come to terms with the alternate reality of death.
After what seems like hours of feverishly searching the featureless ceiling, he hears the distinct sound of a door opening and whispered voices. A blurry ring of faces comes into his line of sight; and with it, he is suddenly slammed back into his body. His involuntary scream echoes in his own ears as his limbs are assaulted with pain so intense he cannot get his breath.
He hadn’t considered that he might end up in hell, but that can be the only conclusion. He expected flames dancing on the walls and perhaps the unmistakable reek of brimstone. Not that he’s familiar with the odor, but he always imagined it to be very similar to burning creosote.
When he is finally able to take a ragged breath, his chest heaves with the effort. It comes as a surprise to find the air fresh and clean. Wait, is that a faint hint of curry tickling his memory?
It was a long time before Alastor Moody felt like he was a reasonable remnant of himself once more. He did not know his rescuers, but the language they spoke among themselves was clearly Hindi as they had told him in very passable, though accented, English. He no longer had his magical eye, a black eye patch covering the unsightly puckered skin. It was not safe to seek a replacement at the moment, not in a land torn by war; or so his new friends cautioned him.
His artificial leg had been mangled in the fall as well, but they were able to hammer it back into fairly workable shape. It was clear by their conversation they were familiar with the magical world; the leader, Benji, assuring him that he had nieces who had attended Hogwarts.
“Why did you not perform a magical repair? I can help you with the strange spells, but I seem to have misplaced my wand,” Moody offered solicitously.
Benji shook his head sadly as he loosened the neck of a rough grain sack and allowed Moody to look inside. Slowly, he recognized that the pile of jumbled sticks were wands. “We dare not expose ourselves by the use of spells,” Benji hissed.
“Is my wand among those?” Moody asked unnecessarily as he’d felt the familiar presence.
“Among others which fell from the sky that night,” a swarthy grandmotherly type named Tamisan assured him gravely.
From the lines around her eyes, Moody concluded they must have readily creased with laughter in the past. But the darkness threatening their way of life has stolen that away and replaced it with barely banked fear.
“Where did you find me?” Moody asked over and over only to be met with polite silence.
Finally, one of the young women had given him a nonsensical reply. “You came to our door in need of assistance.”
“But how “ “ he started to say when Benji sat up sternly.
“You must be patient, my friend. You may be anxious to return to the war, but there are many who would kill you on sight.”
“A dead man cannot be killed,” Tamisan whispered as she tidied up in the background.
It was all an enigma throughout his convalescence, but there was no doubting the kindness and generosity of those who nursed him back to health. He did not think it was a language barrier that kept them from supplying him with the whole truth, but he would be hard pressed to say how he was so certain.
Patience had never been once of his best qualities. Truth be told, he’d had little use for it as an Auror, but now he had no choice. Much to his surprise, he found that surrendering himself to the simple task of recovery did much to ease the turmoil in his mind.
On a day when the chill of autumn was working its way through every joint, the answers arrived on a bitter wind.
“How is my friend?” demanded the unmistakable voice of Severus Snape.
“Much better than the last time, your excellency,” Benji replied in subservient tones. “You were away for a long time.”
Moody felt the looming presence as if a dementor was seated at his bedside. The instant chill between the two men was apparent to the others who shuffled hurriedly out of the room, leaving only Benji lingering by the door.
“Well,” Snape grunted as he cleared his throat, “it’s not so easy to slip away unnoticed. My duties have changed somewhat.”
“Chained to the Dark Lord, Severus?” Moody growled. “You should be chained in Azkaban for striking down a defenseless old man like Dumbledore!”
Anger flashed darkly in Snape’s unfathomable eyes, but his voice was oddly modulated as he scoffed, “Dumbledore defenseless? Don’t insult my intelligence! Frozen naked in a chunk of ice, that man could have wielded more power than the lot of us --”
“Who exactly is this us?” Moody dared although he could see Snape was inches away from drawing his wand.
“The same as it’s always been, you demented old fool,” Snape shot back. “But I don’t have the luxury to debate it now.”
“So I’m supposed to trust you implicitly?” Moody pressed.
“Rot in hell for all I care!” Snape retorted. “Just don’t take your venom out on these nice people who have been urging you back to health. At my request, mind you.”
Moody glared in return. “I find that hard to believe!”
“Then why am I not carting you off in ropes?” Snape maintained as he crossed his arms across his chest. “Do you think I’m saving you for the Yuletide feast at Malfoy Manor?”
“I’ve been trained to resist Veritaserum,” Moody warned.
“As have I.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Benji implored. “The subject at hand.”
“Of course,” Snape harrumphed with a vicious scowl. “Fact is the Daily Prophet reported your demise months ago.”
“Surely you informed the Order…” Moody trailed off as he saw a hint of sadness flicker across Snape’s saturnine features.
Snape hesitated only long enough for Benji to leave the room, then flashed an Imperturbable Charm in the direction of the wooden door. “Things have changed dramatically in your absence. I can no longer contact the Order without exposing myself “ nor it is likely they will believe me anyway.”
“But they will think --”
“They will have already mourned their fallen comrade,” Snape pronounced in a hollow tone. “They have accepted it and moved on. You should do likewise. Are you so anxious to face your four ex-wives?”
“What do you propose I do then? I’m retired; I have nothing other than my work with the Order.”
Snape shrugged as if he were dislodging a bothersome insect. “That is for you to decide. I’m not in a position to offer advice to anyone. Hire a social secretary, if you think that will help! Just don’t go forth as Alastor Moody “ not unless you want the next Killing Curse to be permanent.”
Fragments of memory vied for Moody’s attention: sinister images of black shadows ringing his broomstick and blocking the feeble moon. A virulent jet of green rushing to meet him as he hurled through the sky. Visibly shaken, he returned his attention to Snape. “Who?” was his overriding thought.
“I can’t say for certain. Does it really matter?”
“Then they have no idea they missed?”
“Technically, they didn’t; but the spell connected with your broom and not your person. But they don’t know that. Everyone remembers seeing you tumble towards the ground from a great height.”
“So I have you to thank for scraping me off the ground,” Moody grumbled.
“I hardly carry a spatula in my back pocket! I was able to maneuver my broom to break your fall. Nearly shattered my collarbone in the process,” he snarled.
As Moody’s suspicious mind weighed the new information, a disturbing thought took hold. “You were one of the Death Eaters who ambushed us, weren’t you?”
There was no denying the turbulent cloud that shadowed Snape’s features. “Don’t act so surprised! It’s hardly a revelation that I’m forced to consort with such filth.”
“Then why do it? Walk away as you’re suggesting I do,” Moody grimly put forth.
“I have no wish to sacrifice myself for Guy Fawkes Day!” Snape snorted. “I must go on alone if I’m to fulfill my assignment for Dumbledore.”
“Come, Severus, are you now able to exhume the dead for a cozy chat? Surely even Vol -- ” He got no further as a black gloved hand closed tightly around his windpipe.
“Don’t say the name,” Snape hissed lowly, his face inches away. “Call him the Dark Lord or create a new euphemism. But the name has been made Taboo; Death Eaters will surround us in minutes.” Gingerly he loosened his grip and returned to his overturned chair.
Moody’s remaining eye registered shock, but there was no doubt they had underestimated the scope of their enemy’s magical abilities.
“Who else knows I’m here?”
“No one. And these kind people only know they offered their assistance to another in a time of need.”
“Yet they’re bound to remember you,” Moody remarked as his brain followed the familiar paths of an Auror.
“Not if I can help it! I’ll have to modify their memories on my way out.”
At Moody’s shocked expression, Snape stressed, “For their own good, of course.”
“Let me guess: the Order would love to get their hands on you right now. Perhaps employ a bit of persuasive interrogation techniques.”
“Hardly! They’re in such disarray, it’s a wonder they remember what day it is.”
“And whose fault is that?” Moody growled, but Snape’s cool reply caught him off guard.
“Dumbledore’s. That man insisted on keeping his cards too close to his waistcoat.”
“In other words, you’re not going to tell me.”
“I’d prefer to save you the indignity of a memory wipe. The less you know the better.”
“So I’m supposed to wait this fight out from the sidelines?”
“Great Merlin’s beard! Where ever did you get that idea?” Snape volleyed back as he paced impatiently in the small room. “You have a unique opportunity to engage in undercover activities, but you’ll have to do it completely on your own.”
Irreverently, Moody grumbled, “What do you stand to gain from this?”
In a swirl of black, Snape was in his face. “If I’d known you were going to be so much bloody trouble, I would’ve blasted you myself!”
“Why didn’t you? Could have earned you a few extra points with …the Dark Lord.”
Much to his surprise, Snape resisted the taunt as an aura of icy control descended over his features. “Somehow I didn’t think what you’d most miss from the world was an argument,” he observed with cold detachment.
“It’s not so easy to separate myself from my previous life.”
“If you don’t, there are those who will be only to willing to oblige you.”
“Somehow, I got that,” Moody returned sullenly. The small flash of annoyance he saw in the back of Snape’s eyes gave him a tiny measure of satisfaction. “It’s a prison sentence of sorts to know that you will be cut off from all your friends, those you’ve come to think of as family almost…”
“Each passing day makes it easier,” Snape attested morosely. “But if you’re thinking of Nymphadora, she has her own family problems to consume her at the moment.”
“She should have someone she can trust watching her back at the Ministry.”
“She’s not at the Ministry “ or so my sources assure me.”
“Where is she assigned then? Perhaps I can keep an eye on her covertly.”
“She’s been made redundant.”
“What do you mean redundant?” Moody roared. “I wager there isn’t another Metamorphmagus in all of Britain; how could she no longer be an asset to the department?”
“Bearing in mind that I’m only the messenger…” Snape held up a long finger in stark warning. “…I understand they were none too pleased when she requested reassignment to desk duty due to her pregnancy.”
“Tonks pregnant? What were she and Remus thinking?” Moody shook his head in amazement. A wide grin was working its way across his grizzled face when it froze in mid-stream. “I won’t be able to be a part of that, will I?”
“Not until the war is over,” Snape confirmed, yet it was a ray of distant hope.
“Wait right there!” Moody shot to his feet and pointed a gnarled finger in Snape’s chest. “They can’t discharge her for being pregnant! There are laws prohibiting such forms of --”
“Discrimination,” Snape finished succinctly.
“Despite the Ministry’s archaic practices, at least they’ve been progressive in that respect!”
“There’s been a change in power.” The vagueness of Snape’s words filled Moody with dread. “But she was not discharged for being pregnant, make no mistake about that. She was sacked because the father of her child is a werewolf.”
“How could I forget?” Moody grumbled. “That Umbridge pig practically made it illegal to be a werewolf, as if it were a lifestyle choice the victims had embraced wholeheartedly.”
“Be careful what you say about Dolores, her delusions have landed her a rather prestigious post with the new administration.”
“Then they must be the lapdogs of lunacy!” Moody exploded with pent up frustration.
With a bitter laugh, Snape attested, “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Not that I have the luxury of speaking my mind, not even in the ruddy mirror. As it is, the able associates the Dark Lord assigned me are likely wondering about my absence. Now that they’ve had long enough to tie their own shoelaces, mind you.” He made as if to leave.
“Wait!” Moody blurted in spite of himself. “When will I see you again?”
“You won’t.”
As Moody strained to work his legs without stumbling from lack of practice, Snape elaborated in a hollow tone, “It’s much too dangerous for everyone concerned. You, me, the Patil clan who have so generously taken you in. Their large family has intermarried enough among the locals that no one will doubt you are some manner of in-law. This damnable war has spawned refugees left and right.”
“But I can’t just live off of them,” Moody protested as he considered the difficulty of obtaining employment with nothing but a trumped up background.
“Another needless worry.” Snape scowled as he withdrew what looked like a tiny sachet from his robes. A dismissive wave of his wand sent it soaring towards Moody’s lap where it assumed normal size.
Moody stared at the golden galleons tumbling out of the worn money pouch. His eyes were troubled as they searched out Snape’s unreadable expression. “I can’t…I would…never…in good conscience…” he stammered.
“A lesser host would be offended by your lack of gratitude,” Snape dismissed darkly. “But rest assured, it’s nothing but your own spoils that you squirreled away for safekeeping.”
“Then tell me how you bloody well accessed the bank vault of a dead man!” Moody demanded venomously. “Did you destroy my last testament? Or did you devise some sinister twist to the Imperius Charm that could penetrate the goblins’ natural resistance?”
“Neither, although your irreverent musings make me wonder why the Dark Lord didn’t make more of an effort to recruit you. After all, Alastor, I was rather surprised to discover that you, too, were in Slytherin House.” Snape’s words invoked the charm of a rattlesnake.
“What of it? In those years, it wasn’t such a training ground for junior Death Eaters. Just look at Horace Slughorn: nothing but a pompous, egotistical social climber, but the most heinous thing he ever did was to snub someone.”
“I daresay Horace is having to adjust to the new regime as well. But if it’s an analysis of the idiosyncrasies of the Hogwarts faculty you seek, I suggest Minerva is much better suited to the task.”
Refusing to be sidetracked for long, Moody persisted, “You didn’t really answer my earlier question. Is this blood money?”
“There’s a hollow within a rocky ridge that rises much like the skeleton of an ancient beast among the desolate fens of East Angl--”
“You found my emergency stash? How in the name of creation were you able to do that? Not even with a magical eye --”
“Dumbledore knew.”
“And I suppose he sent you an owl?”
With a disdainful sneer, Snape replied, “If I weren’t a sarcastic bastard myself, I’d refuse to answer. But as it is, did you forget the portraits of the former Headmasters which grace the walls of Hogwarts?”
“What of the nest egg in my Gringotts vault? Did those officious wankers distribute it as I saw fit?”
“Not exactly. There was a counter-suit brought by one of your ex-wives. Raised a minor scandal about Nymphadora’s suitability as an heir.”
“Which one?”
“Shirley, I believe.”
Moody screwed up his face in displeasure. “Nothing but a desiccated old vulture, she is. Jealousy and spite. It’s my money to do as I see fit; and from what little you’ve told me, it sounds as if Tonks and Remus could use a generous wedding gift.”
“No need to worry needlessly. Andromeda has taken them in; Bellatrix is quite enraged over her sister’s continued duplicity.” There was something in Snape’s tone that made Moody think there was considerably more to that story.
“But--”
“No more buts, old man, or they may be our last. Let it not be said I failed to bring an appropriate token to the bedside of an injured man.”
Without a backward glance, Snape pulled his midnight black cowl over his sharp features and let himself out. He left a small hamper overflowing with chocolate frogs and all manner of confections.
Chocolate Frog by L A Moody
Chapter Notes: The events of this story begin during the Battle of the Seven Harrys as outlined in Chapter Four of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.