Alastor Moody listened to nobody. Gawain had picked up that note the moment the fool had walked through the heavy oak doors. This morning, he had arrived late and undermined the formalities. Angry, Gawain chose to wait, hoping Rookwood, a man who they’d been trying to catch for ages, may teach him a lesson. Gawain blinked. Next second, piercing screams filled the air. The lighter slipped out of Gawain’s hand. The cigarette still hanging from his lips, Gawain stared, mesmerized, at the human torch who ran in circles in the alleyway.
Rookwood fled and Disapparated. Gawain froze, shocked. “Oh, my God!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gawain saw a cat dash down other street. As it got closer, though he felt sure it was a trick of his eyes. As it got closer, a figure of a woman with dark hair appeared. Minerva wore black robes and strode past him, draping her cloak over the injured man. She drew her wand out of her robes and water shot out of the end of it. Gawain, too, shrugged off his cloak.
“Are you just going to stand there?” she asked, glaring at him.
Gawain snapped out of it and tucked his cloak around the young man’s leg. Moody had slammed his face onto the pavement, and Gawain held him close, cradling him like a small child. With the flames nearly extinguished, the scent of decaying flesh filled their nostrils. The woman steeped back, horrified as Moody’s eye shrivelled like a raisin and fell out of its socket; the optic nerve remained intact. Scared out of his mind, Gawain did not know what to touch, so he stroked the dead hair that fell out in clumps. His voice was caught in his throat. On the off chance that the words soothed him, Moody heard nothing and writhed in pain.
“Can’t you do something?” Minerva glanced down the deserted street.
“Stupefy!” Red sparks flew out of the end of Gawain’s wand. Moody fell silent and went limp in Gawain’s arms. He muttered the same apology over and over. “I’m sorry; this was my fault, all my fault.”
It had seemed a simple trial. Gawain had planned on pursuing the man whilst Moody took notes on the sidelines. As a reward, Gawain had actually considered handing over the interrogation once they had dragged the suspect back to headquarters. The whole plan went up in smoke. This man, the one who he had banked all his hopes, lay motionless. Did they even have anything on Rookwood? He, Gawain, had granted the upcoming hopefuls the benefit of the doubt. Time passed. He didn’t move a muscle until Minerva suggested they must not linger at the scene.
“Don’t touch him.” Gawain slapped her hand away. “No!”
Gawain feared infection if they moved him. Of course, an explanation posed a problem, too. He’d take full responsibility. Minerva yanked away, frightened, and Gawain took a deep breath, apologetic. After a while, he case a Patronus thinking it’d be wise to send a message ahead. The longer Moody waited in lines, rumours and questions ticked away time, and he was in desperate needed of healing. He got to his feet and held the man close to his chest. They couldn’t stay there because the poor man would eventually wake up. If the poor man had thought he’d felt pain when he went up in flames, this would surely eclipse it.
“Are you all right?”
“Walk.” Gawain shook his head, letting the tears fall. A car zoomed past. “It’s “ it’s the stench. Walk.”
They couldn’t risk Apparition. The chances of Moody Splinching were too great, especially with the open wounds. They moved in slow motion. He had to think of something else, anything else. The two of them couldn’t just turn on their heels and vanish out of nowhere. At any rate, his mind swam with his panic. Minerva nodded at a homeless man who huddled beside a dumpster and took Gawain by the arm. It suddenly dawned on him that she’d changed.
“You did it.” He glanced at her, his mind back on the cat. She merely looked at him. “Well?”
This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected, not after all of those years this woman had poured into study and research. In school, she’d tossed this goal around, but Minerva might as well have said she’d planned on jumping off the bridge. She’d applied once before and failed, yet this only fuelled her to scrap everything and start anew.
“Benjamin owes me his vault,” she said, smiling.
“Damn straight,” said Gawain, shaking his head. “What? He’s not speaking with you? Lovely.”
For some reason, this gave him private satisfaction. Despite the age difference, Gawain, the shy one, had grown attached to Benjamin Fenwick and Minerva McGonagall back in their school days. Benjy and Gawain had entered their third year when she’d arrived. Benjy used her for a laugh, and Minerva met him as a match on more than one occasion. She stayed with Benjy over the summers when term ended at the school because he’d insisted on the company.
Minerva slipped her hand into her pocket and showed him a handsome quill, one of Benjy’s favourite possessions.
“You’re going to kill him,” he said.
They strode past the dilapidated buildings and Gawain waited for about thirty seconds for a small crowd of gossiping women to move out of the way. They were admiring a green dress hanging on a mannequin. Apparently, the display window showcased a new fashion, and the shoppers wondered aloud why this place didn’t turn around profits. Gawain cleared his throat and pressed his face against the glass.
They waited and they waited some more. Planning ahead rarely solved anything. The queue moved faster than usual. Honestly, Gawain couldn’t make that comparison because anytime he had to hurry up and wait, his mind turned to mush and everything sort of blended together. Eventually, they placed Alastor Moody in a ward and the waiting started all over again. He slid down the wall and squatted down, listening to the screams. Minerva had left after the Healers had sorted everything with admissions. Gawain could leave, too, but Moody had no next of kin. He stayed.
“Those aren’t allowed,” said a voice.
Gawain took a long drag on his cigarette and looked up, exhausted, expecting to see a figure dressed in lime-green robes. Nobody told him off. A thin man with damp dirty blonde locks and grey eyes grinned at him as he wiped his glasses on a soaked shirt. Benjy grinned and tossed him an edition of the Daily Prophet.
“Who asked you?” Gawain looked down at his hand. He’d been clicking a dead lighter.
Benjy tossed him a red one. “You left it in your writing desk, and you’re welcome, you prick.”
“I’m not reading your shit rag.” He glanced at the front page. A man with a long mane of thick hair and thick eyebrows stared back at him. “Definitely not. This tomorrow’s edition? Oh, look, you wrote it.”
“You and Scrimgeour are going to murder each other,” Benjy said.
“Funny, I said the same thing about you,” said Gawain, frowning. Benjy waited for him to clear that up. “Oh, you’ll find out later. So, she signed the registry this morning?”
“Who? Minerva? Yeah. She hadn’t slept for three days, either, not that I care.”
Gawain knew by his tone that he was kidding. “I told you not to play with that woman. Telling her no, you’re just asking for it. What’d you tell her before she addressed the committee?”
“Oh, I just said we’d make a detour to Tower Bridge on the way.” Benjy laughed. “I bet she’s ripping the ribbon out of my typewriter, the wrench.”
Gawain opened his mouth, weighing his options and thinking he’d be better off standing in for her defence. He highly doubted Minerva would resort to such drastic measures; she set an example for those kids. People honestly didn’t know her, and, he believed on some level, Minerva too, had forgotten herself as she conditioned others to stay inside the box. It proved an easier route no doubt. Gawain never enjoyed being around children because half the time he felt as though he was crawling out of his skin to connect with them and not have them run off screaming for Mummy.
“She won’t do it,” Benjy mumbled, speaking to himself.
“Mr Robards.” A Healer cracked open the door and Gawain finished off the cigarette. She glanced at her clipboard and invited him inside. “He’s asking for you.”
Gawain clambered to his feet and threw the butt into a potted plant in the corner, which swallowed the evidence and belched. Benjy said nothing and merely picked up the paper and leafed through it with a bored expression. Beds lined the walls, and he spotted a man whose detached leg kept hopping onto a bedside cabinet. The man, however, looked quite serene and sipped from a smoking goblet.
If Moody felt any pain, he showed none of it on his face. It was rather hard to tell. He refused to look at anyone for long and insisted that they dress his ripped stump and get on with it because he had better things to do. The Healer offered him an eye patch and he answered her by throwing a bedpan at her. He missed. Gawain pulled up a chair and helped himself to a bowl of soup. He spooned up a bit and held it over the man’s mouth.
“You’ll need your strength,” he said, nodding at the young Healer who stood nearby. “Reconsidering your career?”
She merely waved her wand, siphoning the mess into a bucket.
“What’s your name?” Gawain asked, pulling out his handkerchief when Moody’s chapped lips split and bled. The Healer stopped her work and conjured a crystal goblet filled with ice chips out of thin air. “Thank you.”
Moody coughed.
“Support his head,” she suggested. Gawain followed her orders and ignored Moody’s one-eyed glare. The Healer set potion vials on the bedside cabinet and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Let him get something in his stomach first before he takes a swig. He’s lucky to be alive, this one. And it’s Poppy.”
Gawain watched her wander over to another patient and yank the curtains closed for privacy. He held the bottle up to a burning taper and thought that was an ingredient.
“You’re a fool,” said Gawain, taking full advantage of the one-sided conversation. Moody had acted on instinct; the senior officials could hail this as heroic bravery or complete stupidity. He didn’t know where he stood on that one yet, though something inclined him to lean towards the latter. There was no use beating the man to death with a lecture. He cleared his throat and ran a hand over his scruffy chin. “Hell, I would have done it, too.”
Moody stared at the ceiling and remained silent, no doubt playing the day’s encounter over in his mind’s eye. Gawain knew his words weren’t comforting, and in all honesty, he couldn’t have predicted that. Maybe at nineteen. Gawain doubted it, but maybe, just maybe. Moody ate a few mouthfuls and shook his head for no more.
“A sleeping draught.”
Gawain leaned over and read scribbled instructions on a clipboard. The potion ought to kick in any moment now, and, luckily, Moody wasn’t disturbed by another visitor. He looked up when the door opened and raised his head, telling Poppy that it was all right that Benjy took it upon his own invitation to step into the ward. Benjy conjured a chintz chair and crossed his legs, pretending to skim for an article.
Gawain scoffed. “Like you don’t know that thing front to back.”
“Spell check,” Benjy said, putting on his spectacles. He nodded at Moody, who turned away and rolled onto his side. He started whistling a familiar tune and waved Poppy over, throwing out a suggestion in a carrying whisper, “You need a wireless in here. Calms the nerves.”
“His mind’s a bit addled, you see, Benjy here thinks he’s a writer.” Gawain finally got her to smile. “An illusion, of course, and since he’s all renowned, it’s assumed all places should have a damn wireless.”
Benjy neither confirmed nor denied this,and they all laughed.
“They asked for me again, the Times.” Benjy watched a mop dancing around the floor with a bucket. He guided his fingers along the folded creases and wiped his hands on his trousers. When Gawain said nothing, he pressed on. “Lawrence, my uncle, was their best writer back in the day, you know, he’s the one who left me the typewriter and the books. Minerva says she’d take it.”
“Yeah, but she writes for academia,” Gawain pointed out. “We can’t string two words together without a nod or proposal, her and me. And she would say that.”
Benjy must have picked up on Gawain’s change of tone because he asked, “Why?”
Gawain shrugged his shoulders. He thought the answer had been obvious for years. Neither of his friends, fools, ever made a move because they were frightened that their relationship might change. Minerva masked her interest with pure curiosity, a tagalong.
“You never asked her.” Gawain got to his feet and lit a smoke, holding a hand over the flame. Poppy had slipped into an office and reported to her Healer, so they were quite alone. He know that Moody would be utterly embarrassed to find an Auror, a man he disliked, greeting him first thing in the morning. “She invited you to the Ministry to gain your approval. Forget the bet. She could care less.”
“What’re you talking about?” Benjy asked, lost.
“Minerva tells you what you want to hear.” Gawain shrugged and put a hand on his best friend’s shoulder. He didn’t sound angry. “Sure, she adds her lengthy bits here and there, and let’s face it, Benjamin, you were always a better chess player than me.”
Minerva had run down the alley to tell Gawain of her accomplishment, and he was proud of her. He couldn’t think of the words to express the pride he felt for her. Not Benjamin. No, he had been given a front row seat and enjoyed the show because he had been there through all the rehearsals. It was a small gesture, and Gawain knew in his heart that even Minerva might not have meant anything by it. Gawain walked through the doors and down the corridor. Deep down, he’d known the truth all along and chose not to do anything about it. It had been an easy choice, and Gawain, always the naïve gentleman, still waited for the game to start.
He lacked any defence.