Two
Moody: Resurrection
Moody stared at the basket for hours, his suspicious Auror’s mind trying to knit the few facts he had into a conspiracy. As usual, Snape’s actions were a nest of contradictions.
If only he had his magical eye, Moody mused, he could at least readily determine whether any of the chocolates had been poisoned. He considered turning them over to Benji’s grandson who was always underfoot, dragging Moody into impromptu walks about the surrounding marshland.
“Ah, I see the owl arrived without any trouble,” Benji commented as he nodded towards the untouched basket. “My niece’s handwriting is not always as clear as it could be.”
Only the slightest hesitancy revealed Moody’s surprise at the statement. “Please thank her for her generosity,” he improvised in his politest voice. “You won’t think me a total boor if I suggest we check it carefully.”
Benji chucked appreciatively. “I was just about to suggest the same thing. In a time of war, sabotage can never be discounted.”
Moody fumbled for his wand in the still unfamiliar clothing, but Benji’s brown hand grabbed his wrist in warning. “Only those who are part of the new order can cast spells without worry. We don’t want to draw any undue attention to our humble community.”
It was a dreary group of weathered huts they occupied, but at least there was no one looking over their shoulders like in the nearby village. It was just one extended family, Moody had come to see, as the older members spoke among themselves in their native tongue.
In the end, it was Tamisan who demonstrated how they could brew a certain potion to use as a poison detector. With the dainty cauldron dangly from her nut-brown wrist, she allowed the slight breeze from the open window to direct the purple steam over the rim of the basket.
Uncertain about an untried procedure, Moody inquired, “How do we know if anything is poisonous?”
“It’s not that he doesn’t trust you, Maa,” Benji interceded in a diplomatic tone.
“I want to learn how to use this should the need arise in the future,” Moody clarified.
With a knowing nod, Tamisan shuffled into the next room only to return with a small dusty vial labeled: Tincture of Arsenic.
“You watch, you learn,” she commented as she eased a single drop into the dregs of that morning’s tea.
Replacing the basket with the tea mug, she approached with the still-smoking cauldron.
Much to Moody’s satisfaction, the smoke parted before the mug and swirled around it, but not over it.
“See, smoke not want to come too near,” Tamisan muttered with a gap-toothed smile.
“Now surely, you can spare a chocolate frog for an old lady?”
“And young Roger as well,” Moody confirmed with obvious relief.
“Rajeesh!” Tamisan’s voice summoned the energetic lad to join them. “Uncle Madai has a treat for you!”
When they left him to his nap later that day, Moody retrieved the newspaper clippings from the bottom-most layer of the basket. Snape had cleverly included full pages that would appear as nothing more than stray padding. No one would even question that the publication dates spanned the past few months.
“It’s a new dawn, a new vision for the wizarding world,” newly confirmed Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse proclaims. “The former administration had a crisis of conscience…”
Moody’s eye scanned down the verbose paragraphs until he found the small disclaimer that confirmed his worst fears:
In secluded retirement, former Minister Rufus Scrimgeour could not be reached for comment.
Not without a pick and a shovel, Moody grumbled. Even though he had not always agreed with Scrimgeour’s policies, an unmarked grave on some desolate moor was not what the man deserved.
From late August, another headline announced Snape’s appointment as Headmaster at Hogwarts. Their all too brief conversation suddenly made that much more sense. Buried near the bottom of the page, a tiny article caught Moody’s attention:
“Traditions are all fine and good; but some subjects, like Muggle Studies, have been modernized,” Alecto Carrow was only too happy to inform us from her new office in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
“It’s an unforgiving world out there,” she elaborated. “Students need to take a more aggressive approach to the Dark Arts curriculum. With my brother, Amycus, at the helm…”
Unfortunately for Moody, the story was continued on another page which had not been included. He couldn’t help but worry whether the term ‘Dark Arts’ was still an abbreviation that simply omitted the words ‘Defense Against’ or did Carrow’s words represent a drastic shift in emphasis?
Near the end of the stack, he was caught short by Harry’s familiar face grinning out at him from a wanted poster much like the ones that had been plastered throughout the countryside to warn of Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban. Huge letters blared:
Confirmed as the last person to see former Hogwarts’ Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, alive, how can we be sure Harry Potter is really as innocent as he’d have us believe? Does an innocent man hide from authorities, we ask? Does he refuse to elucidate events so the true culprit can be identified?
“He refused all overtures to cooperate with the previous Minister and now simply ignores all entreaties,” newly appointed Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, Dolores Umbridge, tells us. “Are we to think his attitude has changed in the past few months?”
It was all Moody could do to keep from setting an Incarcerous Charm to the brittle pages as he cursed that squat woman and her amphibious ancestors. It was an undisputed fact that the only thing that the Prophet got consistently right was the Quidditch scores. But to let itself be used as such a blatant tool of propaganda, that was a new low!
He flung the offensive pages across the room, scowling as they fluttered to the floor and gazed defiantly up at him. Damn the blasted world that seemed determined to drive itself into the deepest, most fiery pit of hell!
Grudgingly, he allowed that if it had been Snape’s intent to goad him into action, he had succeeded admirably.
It was two days later that Moody first heard the voice, or rather the sound of someone clearing his throat nearby.
He staggered up from the chair where he’d been napping and gingerly eased his head past the door into the main sitting room. Still empty. The others had not returned from their weekly trip for supplies. Today was the day of the monthly farmer’s market, young Roger had told him proudly, and absolutely everyone was going.
The hut was remote enough that Moody did not feel it likely anyone could sneak past the border wards unannounced. Thankfully, those charms had been in place for many months and would not give their presence away. Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek at the surrounding sea of wild grass, Moody decided.
Before he could cross to the small barred window, though, the disembodied voice startled him. “I wager it’s not so easy to survey the surroundings without the use of your magical eye.”
It couldn’t be, Moody thought to himself as he crept up to the nearly empty basket which Snape had left behind. But the sound was definitely coming from that direction.
“I’ll just give you a few moments to settle yourself comfortably for a chat,” the voice spoke once again.
Feeling the hairs on his neck come to attention, Moody stopped in mid-stride. “Reveal yourself,” he ordered in a terse undertone as his head swiveled to take in the entire room.
A soft chuckle taunted him as he caught a hint of movement out of the corner of his good eye. Up against the nearby wall, young Rajeesh had arranged his small collection of chocolate frog cards.
My imagination is just playing pranks, Moody allowed. Of course, he’d seen the photos of modern day wizards easing themselves in and out of their frames on the collector cards. Was he feeling that lonely that he had imagined them talking to him as well?
“You’re lucky I have the entire morning free, Alastor, but it won’t last forever,” the voice urged. “Do you not recognize the voice at least?”
Dumbledore! Moody brain latched onto the thought. Great, now he was hallucinating about the dead.
“Are you a ghost?” the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. Now he was talking to himself, he grumbled inwardly.
“No, but I’m not alive in the sense you are, either.”
With a jolt, Moody concluded that the sound was indeed coming from the image on the chocolate frog card. As he peered more closely, Dumbledore’s familiar blue eyes twinkled at him playfully.
Moody said the first thing that sprang into his mind. “Where are your half-moon glasses?”
Dumbledore chuckled as he replied simply, “I no longer need them in this new land where I find myself.”
“And where exactly would that be, old man? The North Pole, Antarctica, perhaps the middle of the Gobi desert?”
“I don’t know,” the august wizard admitted. “It’s more of a concept really. Call it what you will. No nationalities or borders are recognized, so it doesn’t need a name.”
“And who told you this?” Moody prodded, intrigued that his subconscious would go to this much trouble to entertain him.
“It’s just something I worked out on my own.”
“Dumbledore lies buried beneath a slab of white marble on the shores of the Black Lake.”
“I’m glad to see you didn’t suffer any amnesia in your fall,” the chocolate frog card commented.
He had to give his subconscious credit, Moody mused, it had managed to get a fair measure of Dumbledore’s infuriating nature. “Get to the point,” he urged. “I take it you don’t make too many house calls these days.”
“It took me a while to work out the magic,” Dumbledore’s image admitted. “It was something I tinkered with before my death, but apparently it only works from the other side.”
“Then why don’t I see Ptolemy or any of the other legendary sorcerers offering me their wisdom?” Ha, answer that one.
“They are not drawn to you because they did not know you. It’s the power of friendship “ of love, if you will “ that allows me to maneuver among the mists.”
“So you’re among the clouds?”
“Not in the way that you’re thinking. Besides, I think the ambiance appears different to everyone.”
“Have you tested this out?”
Dumbledore shrugged his shoulders. “Just an idle old man filling in the hours with speculations.” The next words caught Moody unprepared, “Have you had a moment to review the newspaper clippings Severus left for you? I helped him to select the ones that would be most beneficial to you.”
Immediately on alert for dark magic, Moody grumbled, “I’m not admitting to anything until I establish who you are!”
“Fearing another nasty surprise from the Death Eaters? I don’t think the despot’s name is Taboo here, but I’m not certain how sound travels.”
“Considering this conversation is taking place inside my head, I doubt that anyone could overhear us.”
“That’s very likely,” Dumbledore allowed. “But that doesn’t make it any less real. Nor does it mean that I’m a manifestation of your fevered brain, either.”
“So now you’re proposing that telepathy exists?”
“Do you have proof that it doesn’t?” Dumbledore shot back with the curl of a smile.
“It’s a proven fact that I can argue with myself,” Moody attested. “Some of the best work on my cases is the product of that.”
“How do you think I know about your ex-wives then?”
“Anyone willing to slough through the paperwork at the Ministry could obtain that information.”
“Not the part about how your second wife, Gwendolyn, accused you of infidelity.”
“The number one cause for divorce. Good guess!”
“Ernesto Sandoval,” Dumbledore threw up, crossing his arms across his chest expectantly.
Through ashen lips, Moody returned, “Never met the man.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t,” Dumbledore volunteered with a wry chuckle. “But you looked into his reflection in your bathroom mirror while you were undercover in Barcelona.”
“If you expect me to fill in the details for your benefit, you’re wrong.”
“An irredeemable playboy, quickly approaching his middle years without having acquired any ties to home and family. You dyed your hair black and wore the most outrageous robes you could find in the London street markets.”
“Surely the eye patch reminded you of what a rakish look that was.”
“Don’t toy with me, Alastor! That was long before you lost your eye.”
“A fact that would not have escaped my subconscious!” Moody growled.
Dumbledore shot him a trademark inscrutable look. “Is that the game we’re playing? Then how about something your subconscious wouldn’t know?”
“How will I know it’s true then?” Moody countered with determination.
“That’s for me to worry about, isn’t it?” Dumbledore retorted. After a few moments of thought, he volunteered, “Neither Harry, Ron nor Hermione reported to Hogwarts on September the first.”
“Hardly surprising that! The place is an anthill of Death Eaters and you expect the lad to just present himself to those who labeled him as the most wanted criminal in the land?”
“Ministry records still show Sirius Black as being guilty,” Dumbledore volleyed. “Even without Fudge at the helm, that group plays a rather loose game of table tennis with the truth.”
Moody barked a sharp laugh in spite of himself. “Scrimgeour may have been a pompous old wind bag, put he didn’t strike me as that easily corrupted.”
“Another casualty of war, I’m afraid.”
The confirmation was abhorrent to Moody, but hardly unexpected. “And the puppet they installed in his place?”
“A rough named Pius Thicknesse, a Death Eater of long standing.”
“Riddle’s losing his touch,” Moody growled. “I would’ve expected another anagram of his name, at least.”
Dumbledore chuckled at Moody’s trademark irreverence. “In the midst of a war, expediency always overshadows finesse, even of the most sinister sort.”
“What about the trio?” Moody urged, falling back into the code names the Order had once employed.
“They were residing at Grimmauld Place for a while; that much Minerva was able to learn from Kreacher. After the elf despaired of their return, he wandered back disconsolately to work in the Hogwarts kitchens once more.”
“That ruddy elf was senile, Albus. He thought his long-lost mistress was still alive every time her portrait screeched a welcome to arriving guests.”
Dumbledore shook his head slowly. “I once would’ve thought so, too. But it appears that was another area in which I was sadly mistaken. Kreacher was at a loss for a master to serve, no different than any other house-elf. Sirius rejected him outright; but when he realized the trio were holed up in that townhouse with little to no sustenance, he came to their rescue. All it took was a little kindness on their part; for that we have Hermione’s wisdom to thank.”
“So if they’re no longer at the townhouse, where are they now?”
“We’re not certain. They’ve been Disillusioning themselves quite handily and managing to avoid those forces who would seize them just as much as those who would help.”
Thinking like the Auror he’d been for all of his adult life, Moody prompted, “And just how do you expect them to know the difference? Knowing they have no true way to recognize friend from foe, they trust in one another only.”
“I tried to leave them the necessary tools in my last testament, but the hapless bureaucracy interfered,” Dumbledore complained.
“Never underestimate the government’s ability to complicate everything,” Moody commiserated. “I actually suggested that for the inspirational banner Fudge used to drape across the Atrium.”
Dumbledore chuckled deeply. “How close were you to retirement at the time?”
“Not as close as you’d think, old man. An Auror doesn’t get anywhere without steel-plated bravado.”
“Keep an eye on them, Alastor. It’s no longer my place to run things -- not that I’d expect you to take orders from a spirit, mind you.”
“Can’t blame a man for following his own subconscious, though.”
Dumbledore nodded in agreement. “They hold the key to victory if they can just find their way through the thicket.”
“Always in riddles, Albus?”
“I have no choice, my old friend. Secrecy must be their last and only friend. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make a difference. Just stick to your anonymity. If neither Severus nor I know of your activities, you will be that much safer as well.”
Still as inscrutable as ever, Moody thought to himself as he mused over Albus’ words. Taking advice from a chocolate frog card, he chided himself. Nymphadora would convulse with laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Well, at least the enemy would never anticipate his next move, that’s for certain.
When the Patil clan returned, arms laden with foodstuffs and Rajeesh bursting with amusing tales for his adopted uncle, Moody found a moment to take the venerable Tamisan aside.
“Tell me of your home country, Maa. Tell me about the traditional caste system that allows those in the lowest strata to virtually disappear from public scrutiny,” he urged fervently. “I need to learn how to pass unnoticed among other wizards.”
No one will give a street beggar with only one eye and a ravished physique another look, he thought to himself. Snape had been right, damn the arrogant bastard! He’d been granted a singular opportunity.