The Worn Quill wasn't much to look at. A small, rundown establishment nestled between two rundown buildings, its wooden sign swayed slightly in the wind, the paint long faded. The windows were clean but dull, the kind of place that looked forgettable by design.
Alastor Moody pushed open the door, stepping inside with his usual caution. The scent of old parchment and firewhiskey filled the air, blending with the quiet murmurs of scattered patrons. A few heads turned to glance at him—just briefly—before returning to their drinks or hushed conversations.
He scanned the room, his normal eye sweeping over the rows of tables while his magical one whirled erratically, peering through cloaks, hoods, and illusions alike.
Nothing.
No sign of him.
Moody's grip tightened on his walking staff. He muttered, just loud enough for those closest to hear:
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE."
The words carried through the room like a whip crack, but no one reacted. Good. The real players knew what to listen for.
His magical eye whirled faster, then froze—locked onto something. A corner booth, seemingly empty, but with something… off about it. Moody stomped forward, his heavy boots barely making a sound despite his limp. As he approached, he felt the faintest tingle of magic.
A barrier.
He walked straight through.
The space flickered, and suddenly the shadowed booth came into view—still obscured by enchantments, details blurred beyond recognition.
Moody didn't waste time.
"The phoenix soars at noon," he said, voice low.
A pause. Then a voice, equally measured, replied:
"And sleeps at night."
Moody nodded. The final phrase, now.
"Only to start anew at the morrow."
The shroud melted away.
And there he was.
Albus Dumbledore sat before him, hands folded neatly, his robe a deep navy—subdued compared to his usual extravagant garb, though still embroidered with faint, golden patterns. His half-moon spectacles glinted in the dim light, and his blue eyes twinkled with their ever-present mischief.
"Alastor," Dumbledore greeted warmly.
Moody grunted and took a seat across from him. "It's done," he said. "But damn me, Albus, it was a bloody nightmare."
Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Oh?"
Moody scoffed. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a child even half the size of that fat one? Absolute madness. And the cleanup, Albus! You wouldn't believe how many Scourgifys it took to get rid of all the mess. Tell me—why in Merlin's name did we go through all that effort?"
Dumbledore chuckled lightly, stroking his beard. "Hoo hoo, Alastor. You, who doubted the prophecy so fiercely, are now willing to follow its guidance so blindly? Fate does have a sense of humor."
Moody scowled. "Shut it, old man." His voice was a growl, but there was no real heat behind it. "Do you know how many men I lost to that abomination? Too many! And then you tell me a child—a mere boy—is supposed to be our best weapon against him?" He shook his head. "Nonsense. And yet… that's exactly what happened."
He exhaled sharply, fingers drumming against the table. "I don't understand it, but I'll believe it if it means we can kill him for good." He leaned forward. "So why are we keeping the boy there? Just seal his magic, hide him in some quiet place, and when the time comes, we throw him at Voldemort. He'll kill him, weaken himself in the process, and that'll be our chance. That's the plan, isn't it?"
Dumbledore smiled, but his eyes—sharp and knowing—betrayed something colder beneath.
"Ah, but Alastor," he said smoothly, "fate is fickle. Just because I expect Harry to die while weakening him… does not mean it will happen that way." He sighed, his fingers tracing idle patterns against the wood. "Fate, I have found, has a way of fulfilling itself in the most unexpected ways."
Moody frowned. "What are you saying?"
"I am saying, my dear friend, that it is entirely possible Harry will rise beyond what we predict. That he will become the wizard who defeats him—not just as a sacrifice, but as a true victor. And if that happens, what then?"
Dumbledore's voice lowered, his words measured, deliberate. "What if he wins… but grows to resent the world he fought for? What if, instead of a savior, we create another Dark Lord?"
Moody's scowl deepened, but he said nothing.
Dumbledore continued, his gaze unwavering. "No. He must never know we are influencing his life. To him, it must always be the Muggles who mistreat him. And when he comes to us—when he sees our world as his escape—we will welcome him. We will give him a home, a purpose. And he will fight for us. Even unto his death."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Moody exhaled slowly. "And if he does find out?"
Dumbledore's smile didn't falter. His eyes twinkled as he combed his fingers through his beard.
"He won't," he said simply. "No matter how clever he may be, he does not have the experience that comes with living." He leaned back, tone light, almost playful. "Remember, Alastor—no one can ever know what we have done."
Moody stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, he stood, shaking his head.
"… I really don't like it," he admitted. "But I don't see another way to beat him."
Dumbledore said nothing, merely watched as Moody turned and stomped toward the exit.
The moment he was alone, the twinkle in his eyes dimmed.
He clasped his hands together, looking down at the table in thought. Then, softly, almost to himself, he murmured:
"For the greater good."