"Minister, Mr. Moody wishes to see you."
In the office of the Minister of Magic, a thin woman in wizarding robes, carrying a stack of documents, spoke cautiously.
Cornelius Fudge leaned back in his wide chair with an annoyed expression, tossing the document he had been reading onto the desk. "What does he want now? Still about the World Cup?"
"Exactly."
The secretary nodded in confirmation.
"Tell him I'm in a meeting. Busy. No time to see him."
Fudge waved his hand impatiently and picked up the document on his desk again.
"Alright, I'll let him know."
The secretary nodded and turned to leave.
"Wait!"
Fudge suddenly called her back.
"Yes, Minister?"
Cornelius Fudge's expression softened slightly. "Also, tell him that the new school year is about to start. He should focus on preparing for his classes instead of running to my office every other day."
"Understood, I'll pass that along. Ahh!"
As she opened the door, the secretary let out a scream, dropping all the documents she was holding.
Standing right in front of her was a stern-looking man with a limp. He wore a tattered black robe, and two glass spheres hung from his belt. One of his legs was missing, replaced by a wooden prosthetic.
Under his thick, dark gray hair, his scarred face appeared grotesque, with a significant portion of his nose missing.
What was even more terrifying was his eyes—one small, black, and bead-like, perfectly normal. The other was large, round, and a vivid, glaring blue, spinning wildly.
"M-Mr. Moody, why... why are you here?"
The startled secretary crouched down, frantically gathering the scattered documents.
At that moment, two young Ministry officials came panting up from behind, grabbing the doorframe of the Minister's office. "He... he moves... too fast, Minister. Sorry... so sorry!"
They immediately grabbed the old man's arms anxiously. "Come on, Mr. Moody. You can't barge in like this; it's against the rules! The Minister is very busy!"
The one-legged, one-eyed old man remained unmoved. His bright blue magical eye was fixed squarely on Cornelius Fudge, creating an awkward and chaotic scene.
"Enough!"
Amidst the commotion, Fudge coughed irritably. "Why are all of you loitering here? Don't you have work to do? Get out!"
"Yes, Minister..."
The two Ministry employees reluctantly let go of the old man and left, looking sheepish.
The secretary, patting her chest to calm herself, slipped past the stern old man and hurriedly fled the office.
"Mad-Eye, what do you want this time?"
Once everyone had left, Fudge waved his hand in frustration. "How many times do I have to tell you? Stop barging into my office! Do you think you're not retired yet?"
"Believe me, Cornelius, I wouldn't be coming here day after day unless it was absolutely critical."
Moody limped over to Fudge's desk, moving surprisingly fast despite his wooden leg.
A hint of disdain flashed in Fudge's eyes. "Still about the Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup? Listen, Moody, we still don't know if it's truly Voldemort's return or just the work of a delusional fanatic."
"This time, it's not about Voldemort."
The one-legged, one-eyed man reached into his pocket, pulled out a few photographs, and tossed them onto the Minister's desk.
"These are some photos I managed to dig up—taken accidentally by some Bulgarians."
Frowning, Cornelius Fudge picked up the photos, his expression as if he were holding something foul.
The photos showed a few blurry figures wearing peculiar birdcage-like helmets, standing in a crowd with green light glowing faintly around them.
Mad-Eye Moody's voice was firm. "This magical eye of mine can see things most people can't. After the chaos at the Quidditch World Cup, I noticed flashes of green light everywhere, and people disappearing without a trace. I've been investigating this for days.
The evidence suggests that another group was operating covertly during the World Cup—a group that might be even more dangerous than Voldemort."
Fudge massaged his temples, clearly agitated. He tossed the photos back onto the desk. "And what am I supposed to believe from a few inexplicable photos?"
"It's not just the photos."
The one-eyed old man retrieved a sealed bag from his pocket and placed it in front of Fudge. Inside were charred fragments of bone etched with strange markings.
"This," Moody explained, "is a sample I retrieved from the Quidditch World Cup grounds. It contains traces of a highly dangerous magical radioactive substance—something entirely alien to any known magical system. The last time it was detected was fifty years ago in Germany. So..."
"So what exactly are you trying to say?"
Cornelius Fudge didn't even want to touch the sample bag. He just wanted to get rid of this eccentric old man as quickly as possible.
"I'm saying that after the World Cup, someone spread fear—and even death—on a massive scale."
"You're delusional!" Fudge snapped. "The injured were sent to St. Mungo's, and most of them have already recovered and gone home. Where's the death you're talking about?"
"People went missing, Minister Fudge!"
Moody's tone was grave. "Have you not noticed? After the World Cup, the Department of Magical Games and Sports underwent mass layoffs, practically firing everyone who was involved in organizing the event."
"Shouldn't they have been fired?"
Cornelius Fudge's pent-up frustration finally erupted. "The World Cup was a disaster! So many people involved, and yet they allowed the Dark Mark to appear in front of such a massive audience, causing widespread panic. If I were Barty, I'd have sacked those incompetents too!"
"That's not the point, Minister!"
Moody interrupted in a deep voice, "In the past few days, I've gone door to door to visit the homes of Ministry officials laid off by Barty Crouch. But do you know what I found? None of them are at home. Every single one of those dismissed officials has disappeared!"
"Why is that your concern? If they've really disappeared, why haven't their families reported it? Or do you think that taking a vacation means they're dead?"
Fudge chuckled angrily. "First it was Bertha Jorkins, and now it's a group of nameless people. Are we supposed to check in at your house every morning just to keep working?"
"Shouldn't we at least investigate this?"
"Fine, let's assume everything you're saying is true. Then what? The World Cup is over. Do you expect me to track down every single one of them?"
Cornelius Fudge pressed his temples in frustration. "Good heavens, do you have any idea how many countries were involved? How many people? Do you know how many tasks I still have to handle for the Triwizard Tournament this year—three schools, international guests, all sorts of magical creatures? Damn it!"
"Minister, I urge you to believe me—there's something hidden behind all this. Perhaps... someone even more terrifying than Voldemort."
"Don't mention that name here!"
Fudge snapped, his voice sharp with anger.
"Maybe there's someone even more dangerous than the Dark Lord, lurking in the shadows, plotting something. And we don't even know their purpose!"
Moody's words were heavy with concern, but Cornelius Fudge was entirely unmoved.
Slowly, Fudge's expression darkened completely. "Are you suggesting that under my administration, not only has the Dark Lord re-emerged, but someone even worse than him is now at large?"
"It's not impossible."
"It's not impossible," Fudge echoed sarcastically.
Leaning back, he let his chair roll into the plants near the floor-to-ceiling window. He intertwined his fingers, narrowing his eyes at the stern-faced old man in front of him. "Alastor Moody, aren't you scheduled to start teaching at Hogwarts this year?"
"That's correct."
"Good." Fudge folded his arms, his tone mocking. "Since the world is so full of evil, you can handle these matters with Dumbledore. Isn't that the very reason your little Order of the Phoenix exists—to meddle in everything? Go meddle, then."
"Minister Fudge!"
Mad-Eye Moody stepped forward, slamming his hand on the desk, raising his voice.
"Enough!"
Cornelius Fudge's suppressed anger finally erupted. He slapped the desk and stood up, glaring up at Moody's chin. "You're retired! Stop trying to make yourself relevant here! There are boundaries, Moody, and I suggest you not cross them!"
After breathing heavily for a moment, Fudge picked up his water glass with trembling hands, taking a sip to calm himself.
"Alastor Moody, the Ministry of Magic now has a Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If something comes up again, you can contact Rufus Scrimgeour. If he investigates and deems it credible, he'll report it to me."
Silence hung in the room for a few seconds.
Alastor Moody said nothing.
"Do you have anything else to say?"
"Nothing more."
Fudge waved his hand dismissively, as if shooing away a fly. "Then do as I've said. And I don't want to see your face in this office again."
Moody picked up the photographs and samples from the desk, then turned and limped out of the office. After the door closed behind him, Cornelius Fudge angrily tossed his quill onto the desk, splattering ink everywhere.
"Damn lunatic," he muttered.
"Damn lunatic! Bach, do you believe me? When I catch that crazy old man, I'm going to pull out his intestines, wrap them around his neck three times, and strangle him to death!"
Meanwhile, at a motel elsewhere, a young man with straw-like blond hair was speaking excitedly.
"I want him alive," a bald youth standing by the window said coldly, holding a pair of binoculars in his hand.
"Fine. But when I catch him, I'm going to use the Cruciatus Curse on him a hundred times. I'll make him scream, then fire one right at his ugly old face. Blow it up! Do you believe me, Mr. Bach?"
"I want him mentally stable."
"Then I'll break all four of his limbs, stuff him into a toilet with only his head sticking out, and make him survive on liquid food every day! Do you believe me, Mr. Bach?"
"Shut up." Hoffa lowered the binoculars in his hand. "If you keep running your mouth, I'll stuff you into a toilet."
Barty Jr. grumbled but obediently shut up. He leaned against the windowsill of the motel, gazing at a dilapidated standalone house across the street. With a finger, he wiped some dust off the windowsill, his expression a mix of disdain and satisfaction.
It was about 4 PM. There was still one night left before the Hogwarts term began. Two days ago, Hoffa and Barty Jr. had tracked down Alastor Moody's residence in the northwest suburbs of London.
After locating it, they rented a motel nearby to surveil Moody's house. For some reason, even though they had pinpointed his residence, the man hadn't returned yet, and his whereabouts remained unknown.
After waiting for another half hour, Barty Jr. anxiously stared at the street opposite.
"Bloody hell, why isn't that old lunatic back yet? Mr. Bach, are you sure we got the right place? If you ask me, that geezer used to catch so many people as an Auror—surely the Ministry must've given him some nice perks. There's no way he'd live in a dump like this."
"No mistake," Hoffa replied confidently.
"How can you be so sure? We only got this location by randomly asking some passerby." Barty Jr. muttered, "If I were that old geezer, I'd have gone into hiding long ago. No way I'd be this easy to find."
Why was he so sure? Hoffa didn't answer, but a wry smile tugged at his lips.
Because in the original story, Old Moody was taken out by "Barty Jr." tonight. If this storyline was anything to go by, Hoffa figured he could've laid down anywhere randomly, and Moody's house would still somehow pop up next to him.
Sure enough, it didn't take long.
From the distant end of the street, a one-eyed, one-legged old man appeared, hobbling along with the aid of a cane and carrying a paper bag. His gait was labored and slow.
Barty Jr., who had been glued to the window, suddenly exclaimed, "He's back! Damn, Mr. Bach, you're good!"
"I know," Hoffa said, completely unfazed, even a little bored. Everything was playing out exactly as he expected.
Barty Jr. leaned closer to the window, watching the one-eyed, one-legged man walk past below. A deep-seated hatred twisted his face.
"Old bastard! Just wait—I'll tear you limb from limb!"
The old man below seemed to sense something. He abruptly raised his head, his sharp blue eye scanning the second floor of the motel. After a few moments of looking and finding nothing unusual, he lowered his head again and limped into the shabby house under the glow of the setting sun.
Once Moody entered, Hoffa released his grip on Barty Jr.'s shoulder. Both of them slowly withdrew from their ghostly stealth state.
Barty Jr. cursed under his breath, "Damn it, his nose is just as sharp as ever."
"Still planning to do it yourself?" Hoffa asked.
For the past few days, ever since Barty Jr. had learned they were after Moody, he had been ranting endlessly. He fantasized about killing the "Mad-Eye" in every gruesome way imaginable—decapitation, dismemberment, burning, or the Cruciatus Curse until death.
If words alone could kill, Alastor Moody would've already died over six hundred times.
"Of course I'm doing it myself."
Barty Jr. clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Thirteen years ago, he was the one who threw me into Azkaban. This time, I'll make him pay back everything, with interest!"
Hoffa frowned skeptically. "You sure you can take him on?"
"Don't worry. He's just a retired old Auror."
Barty Jr. pulled out a brand-new wand he had bought recently from Diagon Alley. "Trust me, Mr. Bach. I could take on a hundred of him!"
Hoffa glanced at the clock. The sun was about to set.
"Fine, do as you like. Just remember—I want him alive, mentally stable, and—"
Before he could finish, Barty Jr. Disapparated with a crack, vanishing from Hoffa's side.
Hoffa narrowed his eyes, raising his binoculars to watch the distant house. Through the lens, he saw Barty Jr. appear at Moody's doorstep, wave his wand, and storm inside.
Moments later, explosions erupted from the run-down house. The windows flashed yellow, blue, and red in quick succession before finally shattering under the shockwaves. A passing Muggle walking their dog yelped as shards of glass scattered everywhere and fled in panic.
About twenty seconds later, silence fell.
"Damn it!"
Hoffa lowered his binoculars and hurriedly left the motel, making his way to Moody's doorstep.
Roughly ten seconds later, Barty Jr. emerged, dragging a battered old man out of the house. They stopped silently at the door.
Moody's jaw had been broken, and his wooden leg was missing. He tried to speak, but his jaw trembled soundlessly.
"Want to come over and take him?"
Barty Jr. looked at Hoffa with a sly smirk.
Hoffa didn't respond, casually strolling toward the two.
Suddenly, Barty Jr. whipped out his wand.
A bolt of lightning shot straight toward Hoffa's forehead.
(End of Chapter)
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