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21. ALASTOR MOODY AND A MORAL LESSON
Four hours.
That was how long it had been since Hadrian Percival vanished—ripped from the world as if he had never existed.
Three hours since the deafening silence settled over Privet Drive, replacing the screams and the noise of the massacre that had stained with blood and horror a place meant to be a home.
Alastor Moody had been among the first to arrive—early enough to witness the aftermath of the carnage left behind. The air was still heavy with the metallic scent of fresh blood mixed with the sweeter, nauseating stench of death that had finished its work.
Moody went after what mattered most: finding Hadrian.
His wand, a tense extension of his arm, traced patterns in the air, casting beams of spectral light that searched for traces, magical signatures—anything that wasn't the obvious horror. Someone skilled had been there. Very skilled. Careful as a spider weaving its web, leaving behind only misleading crumbs.
The lack of clear answers was a burning coal in Moody's mind, feeding a deep, silent, dangerous irritation.
Not knowing burned him. The Firewhisky burning down his throat too—but that was irrelevant.
What truly burned was the desire for retribution for the innocent blood spilled on that pavement. Blood that silently demanded an answer. Not a measured answer. Not a Ministry answer drowning in bureaucratic swampwater.
A response equal to the crime. Proportional. Brutal.
Moody knew the Order of the Phoenix—weak, cornered—would need to give that answer. Or they were all doomed.
Sitting on a public bench far from Privet Drive, under the shade of a tree that seemed ashamed of its own leaves, Moody waited.
It wasn't passive waiting.
It was the tense stillness of a predator before the pounce.
Blood called for vengeance, and hidden under an invisibility charm, he watched a modest house across the street with unwavering focus. He waited.
Beside him, also invisible, trying to be as discreet and useful as a peacock on a stealth mission, sat Dedalus Diggle.
Diggle radiated a sort of enthusiastic volunteer energy that almost overshadowed his inexperience. Moody could smell the magical high-end perfumes woven into the man's impeccably tailored clothes. Dedalus was wealthy—that much was obvious—but his wealth felt less like arrogance and more like fuel for his peculiar eccentricities.
He enjoyed wearing an obsessive collection of hats, souvenirs, trinkets and useless artifacts that granted trivial enhancements. At that moment, he wore an especially flashy piece: a lime-green bowler hat adorned with a tiny golden phoenix feather (probably fake, Moody grunted internally) said to grant a refreshing breeze to the wearer, ideal for hot weather.
Dedalus seemed to believe wholeheartedly that the right magical accessory could bestow the solemnity or courage the situation required.
He fidgeted with the brim of his hat, eyes darting nervously between Moody and the house they were watching—clearly uncomfortable, yet determined to be there.
A well-intentioned volunteer, Moody thought with a spark of impatience. A part of him would have loved to see what the man would sing under torture. Pain, after all, was the only thing that revealed what men truly were.
"I need to pee," Diggle muttered, breaking the tense silence.
Moody, expressionless, finished a swig from the bottle of whisky he'd been drinking and handed it to his partner without taking his eyes off the house.
"Well… thank you," Diggle said, awkward and unsure.
Moody didn't respond.
"Just don't move too much. You'll break the charm."
Flustered, Diggle looked at the bottle with a pained expression. Even under invisibility, the idea of urinating next to Moody felt… strange. Still, he discreetly turned away, lowered his trousers slightly, and relieved himself as silently as possible.
When he finished, he whispered:
"Are you sure the man is going to show up?"
Moody ignored the question.
"Who would've thought…" Dedalus mused after a moment. "A Death Eater hiding a Muggle family. If his little friends knew…"
"Mortavius' ranks aren't made only of lunatics, murderers and misfits," Moody replied, dry as bone. "Some follow him out of fear and cowardice."
At that moment, a black car parked in front of the house.
A man in a suit and tie stepped out. He looked like a Wall Street agent.
The afternoon sunlight struck his face just enough to reveal familiar features.
Amycus Carrow.