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Chapter 30: A Visitor in the Night
Alastor Moody trudged up the worn path to his cottage, the day's events swirling in his mind. The ministry was abuzz with the aftermath of the mysterious attack on Rookwood and his associates. Seven dead, and no one had any concrete leads on the assailant. His magical eye rotated continuously, scanning for any signs of danger as he approached his home. The wards he'd meticulously crafted around the property shimmered faintly, assuring him they were intact. Still, his instincts—a sixth sense honed through decades of fighting Dark wizards—nagged at him. Something was off.
Entering cautiously, he closed the door behind him, setting his wand on the small table by the entrance. The familiar creaks of the old cottage greeted him, the scent of aged wood and faint traces of potion ingredients filling the air. Yet, another scent lingered—tea, freshly brewed, with a hint of something floral.
Moody's magical eye swiveled, and his gaze locked onto the living room. There, sitting calmly in one of his armchairs, was a young man with tousled black hair and piercing green eyes. The same young wizard whose description had dominated the ministry's discussions—the one who had single-handedly thwarted the attack on Diagon Alley.
The boy—no, the man—looked up, a faint smile gracing his lips. He held a cup of tea in one hand, his demeanor relaxed, as though he were an invited guest rather than an intruder.
"Good evening, Alastor," Harry greeted, his voice calm and steady.
Moody didn't move immediately. His magical eye fixed on Harry, scanning for any signs of a threat. His regular eye, however, betrayed a flicker of curiosity. Slowly, he made his way to the armchair opposite Harry, lowering himself into it with the deliberate caution of a man who trusted few.
"You've got some nerve, lad," Moody grumbled, reaching for the teapot to pour himself a cup. "Breaking into an Auror's home isn't exactly a smart move."
Harry's smile didn't waver. "I didn't break in. Your wards are impeccable. I merely... bypassed them."
Moody's eyebrow lifted slightly, but he didn't comment. He took a sip of his tea, the warmth spreading through him as he kept his gaze fixed on the young man before him. "Alright. Who are you, and what do you want?"
Harry set his cup down, leaning forward slightly. "I'm here to help you."
Moody snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Help me? How exactly do you plan on doing that?"
Harry's expression softened, a hint of seriousness creeping into his gaze. "By healing you."
Moody's eyes narrowed. "Heal me? There's no healer alive who can fix what's been done. Dark curses don't leave without a trace."
Harry's gaze didn't falter. "Most can't. But I'm not most."
Before Moody could respond, Harry raised his wand, moving it in a slow, deliberate motion. The words he spoke were in Parseltongue, a language Moody recognized but had rarely encountered. The hissing tones filled the room, and a strange sensation washed over Moody.
From his scars, a dark mist began to rise, as though being drawn out by an unseen force. Moody tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand, but he stopped himself. There was no pain, only an odd lightness as the mist dissipated into the air, leaving behind unmarked skin.
Harry finished the incantation, reaching into his cloak to pull out a small vial of emerald-green potion. He handed it to Moody, who took it with a wary expression.
"Drink this," Harry instructed softly.
Moody hesitated for a moment before uncorking the vial and downing its contents in one swift motion. The potion spread warmth through his body, a soothing balm to the aches and pains he'd long since grown used to. Slowly, the scars from dark curses faded, the lines smoothing out until his skin was unmarred. The old wounds from magical creatures remained, but the damage wrought by dark magic was gone.
Moody stared at his hands, then reached up to touch his face, feeling the smoothness where once there had been rough, jagged lines. His reflection in a nearby mirror showed a man he barely recognized—himself, years younger, unburdened by the marks of battle.
Harry watched quietly, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. "You're whole again, Alastor. The dark magic is gone."
Moody's gaze snapped back to Harry, a mixture of disbelief and awe in his expression. "How... how did you do this?"
Harry leaned back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful. "I've faced things that forced me to learn. The kind of things that don't leave room for error. I had to find ways to undo what others said couldn't be undone."
Moody's eyes narrowed. "Why me? Why now?"
Harry's expression grew serious. "Because you're important, Alastor. You're one of the few who'll be crucial in the battles ahead. You need to be at your best."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Finally, Moody nodded slowly, a rare, genuine smile breaking across his weathered face. "I don't know who you are, lad, but I owe you one."
Harry stood, his movements fluid and purposeful. "Just remember, trust your instincts. The time will come when you'll understand everything."
As he moved toward the door, Moody called out, "You never did tell me your name."
Harry paused, glancing back with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You'll figure it out, Alastor. When the time is right."
With that, Harry slipped out into the night, leaving Moody to sit in the quiet of his home, his body healed, his mind buzzing with questions, and a newfound strength he hadn't felt in years.