Sitting around waiting for someone to make an attempt on your life felt worse than a splinter up your arse. But he was Alastor Moody. Someone always wanted to kill him, and hoping for today to be an exception would be in vain.
Albus was lucky to be a formidable wizard. Everyone feared tangling with him. If they tried, any attacks got bogged in his shields. Alastor Moody was just a decent wizard whom people wanted dead. And as his scars attested, they occasionally came close to succeeding.
The promotion to lead the DMLE took him by surprise. He always commanded special operations, convinced he'd only leave the Auror Office for a desk job if he lost all protruding body parts and control of prostheses. But he was more than willing to endure it for a Time-Turner.
One Alastor Moody sat in his office, shuffling administrative papers and chewing out his subordinates. For heaven's sake, a muggle could do this job!
The only part that worried him was the department's defense system. One one hand, a defense system must be in place. But what if the enemy seized control of it? Then, it needed an emergency shut off switch. But what if the enemy reached the switch? Alastor agonized over this problem for a long time. It was one of the hardest decisions of his life. Eventually, he found a passable solution: tie everything to a single artifact and personally give it to Albus, asking to always carry it with him.
The second Alastor Moody was conducting a never-ending series of drills. Everyone must always be ready to repel an enemy attack! Leave no room for a diversion, especially not a diversion by a known scenario! All conceivable scenarios must be rehearsed!
And no whining! So what if he sneaked into the Auror bathrooms disillusioned and stunned everybody? No one expected them to win without wands or pre-applied charms, but they should have at least landed one measly hit or raised alarm! Even worse, the women managed to get him charged with sexual harassment! You are no longer women, you are now Aurors! Constant vigilance!
To be fair, the rookies did have a few redeeming qualities. His artificial eye saw through clothes that haven't been charmed to the standards of Auror and Death Eater uniforms. So, he easily told apart candidates with a brain from the rest. People with a brain wore non-transparent clothes. It reduced most of the interviews he conducted to a single glance. And the rejects had the nerve to act offended when he instantly showed them the door!
The third Alastor Moody was testing imbeciles and teaching the next generation. They all regularly filed complaints about his "cruel treatment." What cruel treatment, were they insane? If Alastor didn't rough them up, Death Eaters would. No one forbade them from defending themselves! Unforgivables? Lies! The only one he ever used was the Imperius, during the Imperius resistance training mandatory for every Auror. No torture: got distracted - eat a stunner. Managed to dodge, deflect and counterattack? Good job. Didn't manage? Take a nap on the floor till the end of your class. The sorry excuse that you were supposed to pay attention to the teacher while Alastor crept up from behind under an invisibility cloak was your problem alone. Though after one of them fell into a boiling cauldron, Alastor stopped running drills in potions classes.
This was the Auror Department, not Hogwarts where they wiped your snot. Don't like it? Don't let the door hit you on your way out. No one forced you to join. Oh, boo-hoo, Moody hurt you with Dark magic? Only during the final year's full-contact sparring and exams! He always minded his power, else no one but Kingsley would have graduated alive.
And these "accelerants"… Bloody hell, their program was cut so much that he wouldn't trust them with containing a house elf revolt!
Alastor didn't need legilimency to know that nobody liked him. He did his duty, and people hated him for it - enemies and friends alike. But he never thought of relenting. The Auror Department already had a sprawling cemetery, and he'd be damned if he didn't do his best to stop it from growing.
The fourth Alastor Moody was holding the perimeter around the metro. When was this damned Tlahuilopochtli going to make a break for it? They were all dying from boredom here! Alastor could hardly wait to stick the pieces of its smoky corpse into crystal balls and give them out to everybody who called him paranoid. They'd be his constant vigilance trophies. Too bad Albus had banned him from running drills with "look out, Tlahuilopochtli on your right!" What are you gawking at, whelps? Go search for its nest and don't come back until you find a dozen of its babies! Or sparring!
The fifth Alastor Moody was reading and training. That smoky blob from the metro won't know what hit it! He was also considering what parts of this book could be squeezed into the Auror and Order training programs. For instance, the sea serpent that swallowed a Chinese fleet in the 14th century. Even if it was considered a myth.
The sixth Alastor Moody was having fun. What could be better than running around emergency summonses with a competent team? That banshee was exceptionally mean… Did Voldemort molest her or something?
And the werewolves… Something was decidedly wrong here. They killed more werewolves in the past six months than should exist in the whole of Magical Britain! Alastor had already punched the chair of the census committee in the face and tried to fire him. Learn to count, arsehole! Albus pushed his usual line, insisting they take the werewolves alive. They already did, in one-on-one fights. But getting swarmed with a dozen wolves on a full moon? He wrote Abus a response: "Kindly supply every Auror with an Elder Wand."
The seventh Alastor Moody was training rookies from the Order of the Phoenix. Where were the Longbottoms? Podmore? Vance? How dare they die before Voldemort! Almost no decent fighters left…
The eighth Moody was reviewing special op plans. If the plans didn't survive contact with the enemy, so be it. They might come handy later.
The ninth Moody was indulging in his favorite hobby: investigating muggle murders and patrolling incognito. Lately, many unsolved cases had Death Eaters behind them.
A trail of suspicious magic led him to a muggle residential neighborhood. He briefly thought to call for reinforcements, but not every empty fart deserved reinforcements! Per protocol, he had to at least notify the Auror Office of his location, so they'd know where to send backup or search for his body. But he didn't trust anybody. The Death Eaters' agents were everywhere! He didn't even trust Albus's Phoenix!
After a thorough scan, he entered the suspect house. Inside he found an unconscious woman with a delayed curse and distinct traces of recent apparition. A blatant trap. This meant he could partake in his second favorite hobby: live baiting.
But first, test for the presence of muggle explosives. Sure, no bomb would kill him… unless it was filled with goblin blades in place of shrapnel like last time. Test for poisonous gases, radiation and the rest… Walk in, taking care not to stand under the chandelier. The bulbs could be filled with something highly flammable, like last month. Even though all scanning spells returned clear, this chandelier unsettled him… It could easily be a disguised battle golem, like four days ago. Maybe blast it with something from here? No, then he'd lose his cover and the element of surprise…
Everybody called Moody paranoid. He was not paranoid. Strange and dangerous things always had a way of finding him, even when he worked under polyjuice in the muggle world.
A few days ago, someone tried to run him over with a truck. Out of nowhere, a speeding truck swerved, jumped over the curb and nearly smashed him into a wall. He jumped aside at the last moment by pure miracle. The inner side of the bumper was covered in very nasty runes, and the driver's empty gaze left no doubts about outside control.
Another time, he met an unpleasant trio of muggles - one with a knife, two with lead pipes. Interestingly enough, they didn't bother with simple pleasantries of asking for his wallet and got straight to business. Alastor disapparated the moment he noticed unusual grayish haze surrounding their bodies, so the explosion didn't reach him.
He always scrupulously checked all mail outside of his warded home. But he never expected the owl itself to be the bomb… Blew off half of the protections…
Just yesterday, he wanted to arrive at a crime scene stealthily and took a cab under polyjuice. The muggle driver attacked him with a goblin sword…
Life used to be such a breeze… Idiots would try to AK him from extra-long distances. Idiots! The curse flew slowly, glowing and whistling at subsonic speed. He needed no legs or magic to duck.
Now they regularly tried to snipe him with muggle weapons. It began with ordinary bullets soaked in dragon blood. Then they switched to moonstone but soon gave up on sniper rifles altogether. The latest attempt was much more impressive: a charmed anti-tank missile. That one jolted him a good bit. Apparently, there were muggle-loving Death Eaters. Or was it Weasley fucking around under Imperius? Who'd have thought the henpecked whelp was so talented?
All of that naturally attracted swarms of Unspeakables, who ran off with the evidence. The Unspeakables… Damned wankers who couldn't tell a woman's tit apart from a quaffle because they never touched either in their life! What were they doing in their Department of Mysteries? Where was the superweapon against Voldemort? Aastor only forgave them after the Time-Turner. Almost.
How did the enemy keep tracking him? He had already given up the services of secretaries and house elves! He sincerely suspected the Ministry's interdepartmental memos in espionage. After receiving an upgraded clearance, he read a number of highly classified books. There was a curse that masqueraded as the victim's shadow! He took care of that one by periodically casting Finite at his shadow ever since. Constant vigilance!
Alastor stood frozen, debating what to do about the chandelier. In the end, he tried a simple vanishing spell. The chandelier ceased to exist. Then it was not the culprit. He gave the rug and wallpaper patterns one final look-over. No, clean as well. Check the pipes and wiring underground… It was now safe to approach the unconscious woman.
What happened next, he never expected. Right in the middle of the hall, on top of the body, appeared an astoundingly large cerberus. It got delivered with a plain portkey - a disk the middle head held in its mouth. Each neck wore a collar. One blocked communications, the second blocked all magical travel, and the third appeared to be a powerful defensive artifact… Again like that time with the chimera…
He immediately sent out a message requesting backup and tried to disapparate. When that failed, he reflexively showered the beast with stunners. Zero effect. A ramming charm threw it back but did no harm.
Alastor Moody was a multifaceted specialist. He knew the three-headed dogs swiftly fell asleep from music, so he started to sing the only song he remembered: the Hogwarts hymn. But this beast didn't slow down one bit. Still singing, Alastor went back in the offensive.
The Head Auror before him had been a wise, competent man. He loved repeating that the forehead of every living creature had a weak spot at the intersection of two lines: from the left ear to the right eye, and from the right ear to the left eye. One hard strike right above this point guaranteed brain death. The late Head Auror was great at killing.
Having made a quick estimate, Alastor aimed a mountain excavating charm at the middle head. Repeat it twice more, and the dog should be ready for the butcher's table. But either due to the protective collar or its sheer body size, the attack did nothing more than break some skin. The creature reeled back, shook its bleeding head, and charged at him with a low growl.
With no room to dodge, he transfigured the nails on his left hand to pierce the palm and sprung up a blood shield. More blood spurred forth into a whip. A few skilled swings took out the cerberus's eyes - all six of them. Yet the beast continued to press against the blood shield with the same vigor and sensed him without eyes - by sound, smell, or perhaps magic itself.
"Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!" Alastor rattled off as fast as he could.
Each head went limp only to rise up less than a second later. And pulling off three Killing Curses in a fraction of a second would take Voldemort…
Cruciatus overwhelmed one head but only angered the other two. Imperius didn't take, as expected with such a powerful magical creature.
Alastor's mentor had also taught him an excellent tactic for wrangling large, sharp-toothed beasts: hook them by the flesh on both sides of the neck, right under the jaw. He morphed the whip into a bizarre parody of tentacles. The new whip-hands lashed forward. He braced for the impact, trying to keep balance while latching onto a gigantic, heavy magical creature in the middle of a jump. It was going to be alright, his protections included inertia dampening… Alastor's imagination flashed with a chilling picture of chewed off arms, but he nonetheless managed to hook each head under a chin and strangle the middle one. The captured cerberus jerked up, heads smashing into the ceiling.
The sound filtration charms helpfully notified that they just saved him from a world of pain - the beast roared and snapped its slobbering jaws on empty air less than a foot from his face. In this very moment, Alastor suddenly realized he had no idea what to do next.
And so they stood there at impasse: a crippled Auror and a giant cerberus that couldn't fully stand up on its hind legs because its heads were pressing against the ceiling.
Moody didn't give up. He continued throwing cutting charms at the dog's stomach and necks. The heads wouldn't sever, and leaving it unable to procreate was a hardly a consolation. The beast was bleeding out but still had all the chances to outlive him.
He fought off the temptation to send another blood cord at the gut. A branched blood whip was an Azkaban-level accomplishment, and he would only get one chance to eviscerate the dog before its teeth closed on his head.
Unable to come up with anything better, he threw two spears at the cerberus's heart. The beast recoiled but had no intention of dying - at least not right away. It was twisting out of the grip, trying to bite through the blood ropes. Alsastor promptly turned the blood into acid right in the creature's mouths and threw it back, dispelling his improvised "whip hands."
The beast did a backflip, slammed into a wall and made a sound halfway between a moan and a growl as it crashed to the floor.
Alastor had time to shatter the bones of its right leg before the beast got up quicker than should be possible. It tucked the wounded paw and roared, glaring at him with empty sockets. While the beast was raging, it suffered a dozen more spells that added up to life in Azkaban. It broke out in boils, wounds and tumors, looking like a zombie dog. This time, it finally slowed down.
Perhaps Alastor could have finished it off with standard methods, but he refused to take the risk. Feeling faint from blood loss, he blasted the dog into the far corner and conjured a gaping dark fissure under it.
To the naked eye, it appeared that a blotch of black mud burst forth and dissolved part of the floor. A much larger blotch than he had envisioned - precisely the reason why doing this in close quarters was a terrible idea. Magical sight showed some… incomprehensible chaos.
The cerberus sank into the puddle and let out a blood-curdling howl. It stubbornly tried to crawl even as its legs were melting into stumps. Alastor added a couple of ramming charms from above to force the heads down. They too started to dissolve as soon as they touched the blackness. The cerberus was defeated.
Not bad for an assassination attempt.
But for Moody, everything was just beginning.
"You are surrounded! Surrender!" He heard the voices of his own subordinates outside.
Fighting them all was a lost cause… Not to mention they might call his past self for backup! This house got drenched in so much Dark magic that no one would believe that he was not a disguised Death Eater. Alastor should know, he trained them himself.
Although, if the collars dissolved along with the beast… The solution clicked into place.
"Don't come in! I have hostages!" he screamed in a changed voice while trying to contact Albus.
No assault came. Within minutes, Albus's figure silently materialized out of thin air.
"And what is this meant to be? Another test of vigilance?" asked the alleged Albus. Luckily they had a way to verify each other's identities.
"What did I do to the Japanese ambassador's wife four years ago?" Alastor probed him.
"You thought a test of vigilance was in order," the man replied wearily, "so you rearranged the embroidery on her dress into two hieroglyphs. She walked out to an official dinner with the word "cheap" over one breast and "delicious" over the other. A scandal ensued."
"Good. Your turn, Albus. You check me now," he ordered.
"Tell me about case 5418A."
"What's there to tell? We handed those frogs' and krauts' arses to them on a silver platter. With almost no losses! And it doesn't count, everyone with halfway decent clearance knows about this."
"Yes, but only you would put it like that. What happened here?" said Albus, removing the curse from the woman.
"Bastards. I went in expecting a regular operation and ended up fighting a cerberus. It wouldn't fall asleep with music, probably deaf from Dark magic. Forced me to go all out. They wanted to sic me on my own people and myself from a different time stream. Finally something new! I was getting tired of turning in exotic poisons to the Unspeakables."
"Be careful, Alastor. I will tell them the hostage is safe and send everybody back in a moment. Who is this woman? Is there a reason they chose her?"
"A muggle. I'll check her memories."
In two hours, after tying all the loose ends, Alastor turned his full attention to the case that almost cornered him. The muggle woman appeared unconnected. Her lover, however, was a hot lead. Alastor's people had already investigated this buffoon in the past and found nothing. But he knew their negligence firsthand. Bloody idiots. He had to do everything himself.
The suspect was a relatively famous local artist, a womanizing junkie with a hobby of organizing occult-themed orgies to gain "mythical powers." Prime Azkaban material, except this one wasn't a wizard or a squib. Just a muggle fickwit. The Aurors filed him under potential danger to the Statute - in reality, as a potential scapegoat for something paranormal. Until then, he was the muggles' problem to sort out.
Alastor knocked on the suspect's door.
"Who's there?" a male voice asked.
"I'm here to buy your paintings!" he replied.
"Come back tomorrow! It's my day off!"
Well, it was not Alastor's. One charm to unlock the door, another to freeze the muggle in place, legilimency - and he was all prepped to begin the interrogation.
In thirty minutes, he learned the lead was a dead end. Nothing but a common loon who heard voices promise him power for consensual ceremonial sex. While not the best example of humankind, he had done nothing worthy of arrest. Hell, he wasn't even under wizarding jurisdiction.
Once the man got his helping of Obliviate and went to bed, Alastor set out to search the flat. The muggle could have been used unwittingly. He'd scan every last piece of junk to be sure!
In another hour, Alastor discovered that the muggle was decent at painting much more than nude darlings. He especially admired one picture of a serene clearing. So lovely that he just wanted to reach out and run his fingers across the gently rustling leaves…
Fuck that. He wasn't going to touch anything. It could be cursed. But it looked so enticing…
Alastor violently shook his head, then cast a cleansing charm on himself. The fog faded from his mind. He began shooting out diagnostic spells. Clear, clear, clear… Although… This lovely piece was cursed. Solely against wizards.
That was it, he learned enough. Time to call for backup and carefully seal the scene.
Two hours later, he sat down in Albus's office to give his weekly report.
"Alastor, your results continue to… impress. Recruiting. Training. Planning. Assignments based on everybody's strong suits. Low casualties. Despite your reputation, you go out of your way to protect people… If only you took the same care of yourself… However, your methods…" Albus trailed off.
Alastor rolled his eyes. "What did I do wrong now, Albus?"
"You had no right to break into that muggle's home. No right to erase his memories."
"I'm the head of the DMLE. I can sign my own warrants. I uncovered the Death Eaters' treacherous plots! They wanted to assassinate me with a cerberus, then fool me into attacking myself! They know my meticulousness, they know I would search the house from top to bottom, so they cursed that whore's painting! And the idiots on duty missed it! A thousand extra hours of guard duty, all of them! I'm the only reason they are still breathing!"
"I know. I would gladly close my eyes to this incident, but it is far from the only one." Albus pulled out a folder and shook it in front of Moody's face. "Alastor, this is an official complaint about you. Seventeenth this week! Rita Skeeter claims you threw her out of a window."
"It's not my job to teach her manners! Too bad she didn't die! The bitch jumped out on her own!"
"And if we are being serious?"
"Look, here is the warrant. I was waiting in ambush for Sadomaso von Dom, but she dragged in a gaggle of journalists! She works for Voldemort! I was removing an obstacle in my operation. As a veteran Auror, I know that the best spell for removing human obstacles is "Legilimens." She chose to jump out of the window to break eye contact!"
"Strange," said Albus, studying the warrant, "you usually make a fool of yourself first, then cover for it with paperwork. The signature and stamp here came before the incident… How did you do it?"
"Albus, you gave me a Time-Turner yourself."
"I see. Very well, we can skip the complaints from your subordinates and students for now… Alastor, mind your use of Dark magic."
"Oh, here we go again! What do you want me to do, let them kill me? I won't live long enough to lose it! I don't perform Dark rituals, I don't sacrifice people! Until I start torturing trainees with Cruciatus, I'm completely fine. Don't you dare send me into retirement while Voldemort is still sullying the earth!"
There was a moment of awkward silence.
This whole deal with Dark magic reeked of shit. It reminded Alastor of the tale about a man who accidentally swallowed a poison with no antidote. The man consulted a textbook he wrote himself some years ago and saw that the dose was lethal. Then he checked the book by his rival poison expert. According to it, he took less than the lethal dose. All he could do was pray he was the one in the wrong.
"Better tell me your verdict on the painting," Alastor changed the subject.
"A quality curse. It is inactive now."
Albus pulled the cloth off the painting in the corner. It depicted a grassy glade basking in sunlight and a part of something bright shining near the right edge. Albus pointed his wand at the painting, leaned in to breathe on the surface, then flicked it with his nail. The painting rang like a glass chime and came to life. The shadows stirred and pulsed as night gradually came over the landscape. Albus glided his hand over the surface, and the image reverted to the static sunny clearing.
"It drains the victim to turn the image increasingly more vivid. You would have died from magical exhaustion. Some delicate craftsmanship… It will be studied and destroyed. But let us return to the subject of your work."
"What is it this time?"
"Are you aware of how many search warrants you have signed?"
"I didn't count. Not enough, clearly."
"You've issued warrants for every old pureblood family. Including Susan Bones, whose relatives died fighting Death Eaters. Susan is three years old."
"We must check them all, Albus. Everyone is a suspect. There are no innocents, only degrees of guilt."
"How do you intend to search the Blacks? Their house is impenetrable and unplottable. There is nothing more foolish than giving impossible orders."
"That stinking hag should be arrested as it is! She ignored a summons for her son's case and never answered a single letter!"
"You will accomplish nothing but a repeat of the Malfoy case. Do you want to get sued again? But forget about the old families for a moment. You've issued search warrants for every non-muggleborn witch and wizard in Britain! Including children!"
"It is the right thing to do!"
"It means you must search and arrest yourself! Alastor, Britain is not split by blood purity! With that reasoning, the Weasleys support Voldemort! And Andromeda Tonks! Brave people fighting for their children's future! And as if that wasn't enough, you wrote warrants for every magically protected building. Including embassies! You have no rights on foreign soil!"
"I don't see the problem," huffed Alastor, crossing his arms.
"I do. That is, aside from the fact that it effectively declares multiple wars. Four years, Alastor. It would take the entire Auror force four years to search them all. Working with no breaks, eating or sleeping. In the meantime, they would move banned items from house to house. Your job is to refine the search, not widen it!"
"Well, we've got to start somewhere!"
"Yes, we do. That's why your people started with the most protected house in Britain - mine! You are lucky they fell unconscious from the first few charms!"
"Heh, whelps. I thought they'd at least make it halfway."
"Alastor, this is no laughing matter. Rescind your warrants. Now."
"Can I still sign new ones?"
"Yes. After I approve them. Don't bring me any without evidence."
"Albus, for old time's sake… Ten search warrants without evidence a day?"
"No."
"Seven!"
"No."
"Five! Or find yourself a new DMLE Director!"
"Alastor, this is your last warning: stop wasting your time on this wild goose chase. No searches without evidence, or I take away your Time-Turner."
"Deal! Albus, I think Skeeter works for Voldemort."
"She is a journalist. Spinning dirt is her bread and butter. It all falls under a concept we call freedom of speech."
"Let's ban freedom of speech."
"No. If we ban something, it would only increase its popularity."
"But Albus! The bitch calls me an angry Auror arse-bandit in her articles! She is smearing our image!"
"It is your own fault. You say "arse" only slightly less often than "constant vigilance." Now why would you tell a man "I'll stick my peg leg so far up your arse that the moisture on its sole will quench your thirst?"
"Have you seen that oaf?" protested Moody. "He missed his targets from twenty meters off! I don't know who he bribed to get in! He refused to learn! You know I only insult people to motivate them to work harder or to check what methods they pick for their fantasizes of killing me. But this whelp started crying! What kind of an Auror would he become?! At least now he lives a quiet civvy life. Alive and well. The love to complain, but why is it that every time somebody gets in deep shit, they call me for help?"
"You are no longer an Auror. You are the Director of the DMLE. Try to act the part. And leave Skeeter alone already. If anything happened to her, we would have a hard time proving it was not you."
"But Albus! Her articles make it sound like you are Sadomaso von Dom. It's Voldemort's lies! She is humiliating the Order!"
"Alastor… It is a sensationalist hoax. People have the right to think and say what they will. What would you have me do? Send the Order to picket the streets with signs "behead everyone who accuses us of violence"? Sentence Skeeter to prison? Catch a Dementor and give her the kiss without wasting time on due process?"
"We answer him with the same!"
"How? People are afraid to talk about him. Nothing we can say will make him look any worse, we would only spread more fear. Publishing his bloodline would convince people they too can gain power through Dark magic and murders."
Alastor relaxed his mental defenses and bored into Albus's eyes.
" People say you are a better wizard than him. I say we spread rumors that Albus Dumbledore overshadows You-Know-Who not only as a wizard but as a man. Order the Hogwarts house elves to vandalize walls with "Albus has a giant cock."
"Alastor… I thought you would propose something worthwhile. This is excessive."
"Aha! Got you! So it's perfectly fine for you to illegally use legilimency on the Director of the DMLE, but the Director of the DMLE can't use legilimency on Skeeter?"
"Enough! I always search for reasons to avoid it, while you do the opposite! This is exactly why you must steer clear of legilimency!"
"Alright then, here is another idea. Let's hit his pride. He recently turned tail and ran away from me with a Death Eater corpse. We should promote it."
"How?"
"Make a good propaganda poster! I'm sick of the "MAGICAL BRITAIN COUNTS ON YOU" horseshit. And Kingsley folds over laughing every time he sees "STOP THE DARK THREAT."
"I never imagined I would say this today, but you may be right."
"I've already drawn a sample!"
Alastor pulled out a tube and unrolled the poster.
It showed a realistic, life-size Alastor Moody in front of the looming walls of Azkaban. He was clutching a wand in his raised hand and stomping a snake and a human skull with his wooden leg. On the side was a caricature of fleeing, bleeding Voldemort, punctuated by a slogan.
"Alstor, please tell me you haven't published this," said Albus, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.
"No. I wanted to show you first."
"A thousand points to DMLE! Do you even understand what you have done?"
"What's wrong with it?"
"You drew yourself realistically, with all your scars and injuries. Who would join if this is what awaits them? You included Azkaban, the worst part of Britain, a painful reminder of the Ministry's mistakes. And Dementors, who are now one of Voldemort's most terrifying symbols. You also drew a realistic image of your wand. Many people believe a short wand points to all sorts of character flaws. But all of this is more or less tolerable. I am far more concerned with the slogan."
"Well, first I wanted to write "DO OR DIE," explained Moody. "Then I thought "DIE BUT GET IT DONE" sounded better but changed my mind because it might discourage recruits. So I added a running Voldemort, a smashed snake and skull to symbolize the Dark Mark, and a new slogan to match."
"And it is absolutely unacceptable. I understand it is about Voldemort, but how will the people interpret it? Alastor, what were you thinking? "AURORS: MAKING THE BALD MAN CRY"?!
Albus Dumbledore
Albus studied the cursed muggle painting. If only Tom channeled all this talent into something peaceful…
The painting stirred up some very disconcerting thoughts. He stopped by the Department of Mysteries to check the Mirror of Erised. A fake… This meant opening another internal investigation to see whether Tom was in league with the Board or the Unspeakables…
Albus turned his attention back to the painting. Untold amounts of Dark magic swirled within almost unnoticeably. The curse was vampiric in nature, overlayed with some inverted modules from the Mirror of Erised that tricked the viewer into believing the painting to be their deepest desire.
No curses surprised him anymore, but this one was close to flawless: seductive whispers in place of brute force, drawing power from the victim rather than any external sources. Of course he didn't plan on destroying it. After the last battle, Albus started preparing new aces to play. Life was infinitely more complex than a duel, and he very much doubted he could win by self-sacrifice alone. He was on the lookout for something special… Efficient…
Tom always took care not to leave behind body parts, but now… How terribly sloppy. Putting aside the practical difficulties, one could substitute body parts with personally charmed objects. This might do, after painstakingly long and complicated processing. He would never stoop this low, but Tom had already performed the sacrifice. Albus needed only to alter the painting. A year ago he would have found it impossible…
Albus opened his safe and took out the Potters' cloak. The third Hallow. He had all the reasons to believe that the Peverells added invisibility to this masterpiece as an afterthought, to fool potential thieves of its real value. Using the Cloak to stay invisible was no wiser than using the Elder Wand for picking out earwax.
The Cloak blocked any and all magic. Albus had his own workshop isolated from ambient magic, and it still failed to block everything, introducing flaws into every artifact he created. The Cloak overshadowed his workshop as much as the Elder Wand overshadowed ordinary wands.
Alas, this was not a time for research. Albus knew enough to use two Hallows to turn the cursed painting against its creator. And then, Tom's dreams of immortality and absolute power would become his own damnation, horcruxes or not. He must only rest his eyes on the painting…
I was sitting in the study and reflecting on results.
The war marched on its regular course. Yet another attempt to eliminate Moody ended with nothing. It was all right, I'd get my hands on him one of these days. Meaning, Elena's hands. The Dark Lord's right hand crushing Albus's right hand. It had a ring to it.
The last full moon shattered all records with the number of killed werewolves. The idea to turn muggles into disposable soldiers was brilliant. We now sent werewolves ahead alongside Dementors and supported them from brooms.
The latest combat operations brought mixed results. Poor Ted Tonks heroically perished while serving the Dark Lord under Imperius. I couldn't decide whether to mark him, so he died from sacrificing both arms for a Dark spell.
A new camp opened near Rowle's home. He wasn't a particularly good choice, but the rest were worse.
And now it was time to make a trek to Africa, where my people had been negotiating with magical crime rings over prisoner deliveries. They sent back unpleasant news that the riled up locals could do something stupid. The Dark Lord ordered Rosier to take care of it, with Elena Ivanova as his interpreter.
Soon I was in Africa, feeling like an Eskimo at the beach. Magic replenishment slowed tenfold. As for the scenery… I was no expert, but the nature of Burkina Faso didn't impress me.
Rosier lead the negotiations, surrounded by two dozen of our people, me included. In a world where everyone used translation artifacts, a live wizard interpreter made for a powerful status symbol.
The local magical underworld was represented by nearly three dozen wizards, two humanoid golems and a beast that looked like a cross between a sphinx and a griffon. Most of the wizards were African, some European mercenaries between them.
It made no sense to lead the negotiations myself when Rosier would do no worse. If curses started flying, who'd be the first target? The liaison and his bodyguards. Who would ever bother with an interpreter?
Then began the mind-numbingly boring negotiations. The situation was complicated by the fact that the Africans wanted a number of rare ingredients on top of gold.
"You may call me Zalika," said a scraggy elderly woman, stepping forward.
"My name is Jack Smith, and I have the unfortunate honor of escorting the Dark Lord's representative," I said, casting a dejected look around. The rest of our people wore masks, and I alone was hiding with polyjuice. Again crunching on these damned vials… At least teeth were easy to replace… "We are gathered here today to discuss the terms of trading muggles that will serve the noble cause of preserving Dark magic in our world."
"We demand double the gold," she declared and went on to list ingredients ranging from knotweed to dragon blood.
I maintained a link to Rosier's mind, trying not to slip too deep. He had let me in in advance on the Lord's orders, in case he needed to ask for advice or relay the signal to attack. Abidemi had given us some wooden amulets he swore would protect from the local detection methods.
But Rosier needed no assistance. I immediately started translating his words.
"Preposterous! What are you using to catch these muggles, expensive paralyzing potions? They are dying of starvation, a drunk squib can collect them! Our last offer was more than generous. We are not in the business of bartering ingredients! Gold is enough! If anything, you owe us a refund! We paid for adults, but you tried to peddle us a third of illiquid leftovers! We'll pay no more than one-sixth of the full price for children under five. They yield barely any blood or organs, and I'll soon develop nearsightedness from opening them up!"
The haggling started. Eventually, they agreed on one-third per child.
"They must comprise no more than a tenth of the total lot!" said Rosier. "For all their uselessness, they are as much hassle as adults."
It dragged on and on… Our opponents tried to feel us up. Abidemi's peer, whom I identified by drugged eyes and a bone nose piercing, started grumbling something about powerful spirits but quickly fell on his knees, throwing up bile. The woebegone shaman's friends carried him away. Another wizard tried legilimency and received an attack in return. He rubbed his temples but stayed in line.
"No dragon blood. No ingredients above class seven whatsoever! Your muggles aren't even worth class five!" Rosier cut her off again.
The tempers kept rising. They gave up dragon blood and human parts but wouldn't budge on other ingredients.
"The price is still outrageous!" Rosier argued. "We are paying you to haul off your muggles. You'll be rid of them AND make money! I want a deal like this for myself! How about we sell you British muggles on the same conditions? Oh, you don't want them? Then why should I care for your offer?"
"So what is it you want?" The woman furrowed her brow.
"We are ready to give you half the gold and a third of the ingredients. It's more than they are worth!"
It was Rosier's turn to drown in a wave of indignation from the Africans. Some of them reached for their weapons.
"If I agreed to your insane demands, the Dark Lord would kill me where I stand!" he exclaimed. "For that much money, your muggles must shit gold!"
"Any wizards worth their salt make their own fortune, not beg for handouts," Zalika paid back in kind.
This went on for three hours… What were they waiting for?! This sort of emotional bickering made for a perfect a surprise attack! I already gave them everything: got distracted myself, distracted my people. Our team holding the perimeter was playing brain-dead orangutans, no one was paying attention - just come from behind and strike! Why wait? For our protections to drain us? Never going to happen. I already had a sore tongue and a migraine from these bullheaded cretins!
"Fine! But we won't go any lower!" Zalika gave in. Judging by her expression, she too got winded.
"Hrmm," hummed Rosier, "all right, how many do you have right now?"
"Three hundred and seventy six," the woman bit out. "We can double it in a month without drawing attention."
"Deal. The delivery is on you. I'm done transporting this filth."
"No deal! We are busy with our own problems here, keeping the competition from stabbing us in the back!"
Oh, when the fight finally erupts, they'll all get a taste of the Dark Lord's wrath! I'll show you a heated argument!
But the impossible happened: they reached an agreement in under twenty minutes. They must have discovered our backup and decided not to tempt fate.
"We will sell to you if you prove you are honorable wizards. Sign a magical contract!"
Things were about to explode.
"I give you my word as the Dark Lord's faithful servant! His word is my word!" Rosier screamed with strained voice. He now wanted to burn this rotten old bag alive as much as I did.
"The word of a murderer who hides his face is not worth much!"
"More than the word of a squib good for nothing but catching muggles!" he was getting more and more worked up. "The Dark Lord is the most powerful wizard in the world! He might consider losing suppliers a fair price for punishing those who dare insult him! I am doing my best to avoid it, conceding to the lowest possible price! This is our final offer. If you decline, the negotiations are over. I'll enjoy watching you get raped by giants, then personally stuff your saggy gut with live snakes! We are not old friends meeting over a pint! Your ludicrous demands and insulting the Dark Lord make me think negotiating with you is a waste of time!"
The moment of truth finally arrived: they start a fight or eat everything up.
"I challenge you to a duel!" announced the woman furiously.
To be honest, I didn't know who would win as I never tried scanning her. Abidemi warned that some shamanic amulets could register my spells.
"You? Challenge me?" replied Rosier. "I kill a dozen of your kind every day! Take two more to help you, and I'll let you fight my interpreter out of pity."
Yes, this was our plan. We would then spread rumors that the interpreter prayed to Voldemort and won. Though we planned for a one on one fight… Damn it, Rosier, why did you have to be so sensitive?
I had no access to the woman's mind but easily imagined it. If anger didn't cloud her judgment, she was thinking of how to use this to her advantage.
"Two of my men against your interpreter," she said, switching to English. "If he wins - what we agreed, if he loses - my first offer."
"Deal," said Rosier.
While they were discussing the rules, I thought over the situation. How to beat them without losing cover? Kill both in a single hit with something not too Dark, giving them no opportunity to note my style. I slid my hand into my inner robe pocket to sort through the wands. Elena's - no, too memorable. A few more joined it on the side. Although… why not? Nicholas Flamel from the Order of Death had to occasionally charge his Stone, right?
On to my opponents. One was a classic African with a staff. As far as I knew, staves trumped wands in raw power but considerably lost in fine control. Then, a couple of crude, forceful attacks were to be expected. The second was a familiar-looking European mercenary. We had hired him once or twice. Skilled but nothing noteworthy.
I had a good plan: my recently developed coherent radiation spell, more commonly known as laser. Tests showed I severely underestimated it. Anyone without protection from light died on the spot. A shield capable of stopping it also stopped all visible light, effectively blinding the opponent. Pre-applied light filtration charms did render this spell as harmless as a lighting bug, but in my experience paranoiacs who thought to use them were few and far between.
While I was thinking, they finished warding an improvised rink. We faced each other fifty yards apart. Our audience gave the signal to start.
The African hurled forth an elephant-sized fireball and tried a mental attack that didn't get through. The European targeted me with Cruciatus and Killing Curses in a row, then started conjuring Fiendfyre. They must have suspected a trick and wanted to finish this quickly.
In the same breath, I began my own attack.
"Morsus Conscientiae!" I shouted, raising my Elder Wand replica while silently creating a rainbow of laser rays.
The rays pressed against the enemy's protective charms in front of them; it looked as if we were connected by glowing multicolored strings. Both men found themselves in opaque spheres.
My shields swallowed the African's fire, leaving me to dodge the Unforgivables. They didn't measure up to the speed of light and could not change trajectory like a whip, so it was more than doable at this distance.
I sent out two wandless Killing Curses, mixing them with the other rays and muffling the sound.
While the European was busy conjuring Fiendfyre and the African kept on trying to roast me with flames of his own, two of the many green rays passed right through all the magical barriers, instantly killing them. Their protections vanished, and the rest of the light reached the bodies. Both were seared before they hit the ground.
The fight barely lasted two seconds.
As the rumors would later whisper, no one knows who bought African muggles, but his interpreter wielded an elder wood wand and used the spell "Pangs of Conscience."