Rufus and Moody
Title: N/A
Rating: G-abouts
Other: This was written as a sort of last-minute-before-DH and needed to get some Rufus lurve piece. Yep. It is what it is, as they say.
All men were strangers. Evasive, their motives hidden behind every possible expression. It seemed that he had seen every possible mask of a face, every trick of a lie, directed gesture. To operate properly, it was necessary to properly interpret these gestures, to be able to catch each nuance and act accordingly. Politics in particular became quickly a matter of swiftly knowing strangers.
This was not full knowledge, of course. It compromised a listing of perceived desires, methods, the price at which each man might be bought. Useful, though not to be fully relied upon. There could be no sense to placing trust in anyone, nor fully in their apparent inclinations. There were always anomalies. Reasons to remain wary, alert.
Just now, Rufus was inclined to feel rather mistrustful, indeed. The man before him had arrived unannounced, unwanted (so Rufus told himself, yet he had permitted the man’s entrance), and with some particularly confounding design. Almost impossible to believe that this man had come with any well-worn aim; here was no politician, no seeker of power.
That was foolish, though, and Rufus wasn’t about to allow himself such luxurious assumptions. He did not know what this man desired and so could not proceed as if he did. It had been years since they had spoken, and the final years had been unsteady, the product of an ever-widening gap in drive. Acting on what he knew of Alastor Moody would do little good, for this was Moody years later, Moody after doing lord knew what with his life. No, this was not the man he had known, worked beside. This man, too, was a stranger.
What in Merlin’s name was he doing here? Watching across the desk, just watching-that damned thing never stopped watching, Rufus knew it-weighing his words and his time. He had come, Rufus had invited him to sit, speaking more clearly than he might have expected, but with some tension, as well. Even sitting, leaving the too obvious standing position (no need to stand to display authority, not here, and the man would see too cleanly through any such gesture). And the man, Moody, had returned a brief greeting, still watching, watching. Then a silence, and it seemed that this had passed for hours, though seconds only had ticked away.
And not a hint, not one suggestion of why this man should appear here, of all places. That he had dared set foot in the Ministry-What did he want? Rufus couldn’t tell. Didn’t bloody know, because the man was strange to him, and this left Rufus feeling a mild sort of discomfort. There was a story behind them, perhaps, but the years between left an insurmountable difficulty.
As had, for that matter, the years before. Years in which Moody had come to understand what it was that drove Rufus Scrimgeour (and, thankfully-for it was always necessary to hold reciprocal information-years in which Rufus had learned much of Alastor Moody). This understanding could prove unfortunate. If he knew-Well. He may well have guessed much already, have seen what it was that Rufus had come to realize. Hell, for all Rufus knew, the man had simply come to gloat.
But, no. It wouldn’t be so simple as that.
And so he was left to discern the meaning, the motives. Was Moody to be trusted? No. No, and absolutely without hesitation, no. Lord. To even begin to think otherwise was.… It was foolishness, and Rufus was no damned fool.
Deal with this as with others. There was a method of understanding, after all. It required a calculation of the strangeness, to which he would assess what he knew of anyone in general, consider those oft-evaded but ever-present truths. The truth that man, wizard or no, survived through deceit and lived for his own goals. That each one would do whatever proved necessary to obtain his desires. Such understanding alone could be relied upon, expanded to accommodate every situation.
Rufus had understood these truths from a young age-he wouldn’t say how long, preferred to gloss over the time before he truly began, before he was able to impact the world-teaching himself to act accordingly. It was necessary to overcome others to reach one’s own goal, necessary also to hold one particular and very clear goal in mind. Even then, in younger years, all goals had been subjugated to the ambition, the grand idea. Lord, how it had appeared to him… He could perhaps laugh, now, yet there had ever been an earnest force behind this drive, and this compelled his silence.
It, the idea, still appealed. Even now, he was hard-pressed to contain a smile, almost a smirk (and what the stranger would have made of this, Rufus could only guess), at the fact of his own power. Yes, to be sure, he appreciated the force of this claim.
As an unfortunate truth, there were sticking points. Difficulties that he should have foreseen… But there was no point in chasing that particular thread. Useless to mourn in hindsight.
There was some muted pain in the discovery of certain truths. The further he had come, the more he found that his own goals had been… Well. Almost optimistic, perhaps. And much as he might dislike the word or its implications, even somewhat misguided. Thinking the word, he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the matter with this stranger. Never mind his own complications. Honesty with one’s self could only continue for so long, after all.
This complication almost more easily dealt with, this communication. After all, there were only so many ways to speak to another man. None of these, in Rufus’ experience, revolved around the most foolish idea of speaking truth. Better to say what was necessary, what best fit the situation and would achieve the required results. There was no interaction without intent; a goal would form from the briefest of exchanges. Truths, again, that he had known for years. Simple truths. Unyielding.
He did not tell himself that he enjoyed manipulating these, did not need to tell himself; he knew the details of the matter. However much Rufus may have ignored the inevitability of restraint-the whisper pulls heard now and often indicating that, obviously, there was no ideal in existence, that there were only difficulties-and however much he may despise it, there remains the greater scheme, the meetings private and open in which he reads them, plays to and off of them. The instances in which he manipulates to his will. It is at these times that he finds what he has always enjoyed, recalls sharply the why of his experience, his choices.
Only, in this instance... No. What had been done was finished, altered by time and its occasions. There was nothing particularly atypical in this, could not be.
“Do you enjoy this, Minister?”
The response came without pause: “Of course.”
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Title: The Eye
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour, Alastor Moody
Rating: Maybe PG for some blood. Yay blood.
Other: Written for the October 14th challenge (An ice cold eye) for 30_hath.
The first time he met with the eye, Rufus nearly yelped aloud. He counted himself lucky to gape only, mouth open in anticipation of some half-formed question.
Moody hadn’t looked like this last time. He hadn’t looked particularly well, no, but then neither had Rufus. (No one ever looked particularly well after those fights. Pain visited with every attack; a simple fact.) It had been a nasty clash, easily the worst since the war. And the blood. Blood everywhere, and Rufus recalled the blood on Moody’s face, the blood where the real eye once sat. (But where did the eye go? No one seemed to know, and Moody himself was distracted. Everyone was. Unpleasant for everyone. Rufus had sustained his own injuries, his own shattered leg, but Moody’s leg, and then worse still came Moody’s eye…) Briefly, he had seen Moody afterward, once the blood had been cleaned away. It hadn’t been pretty, had been horrific in its own right, but Rufus recalled no sense of utter debasement at the sight.
Somehow, this was far worse. To see that mechanization, that eye bulging from Moody’s head, to watch it whirl with cold calculation, was worse that the natural injuries. This was the affirmation of the trouble, of the failure of the physical. It seemed separate from Moody. The eye, startling as it was, demanded the attention, threatened to take away from the man. Rufus felt a strong sense of unease at this. He had known, or almost known, Alastor Moody. But this man with the eye… Did he know this man?
Rufus didn’t vocalize a question. There was nothing to ask, nothing at all.
Moody only grinned at him, an expression that only furthered contorted his features around that eye, sent a vague sense of nausea through Rufus. “It’s never polite to stare, Scrimgeour.” And with that he tramped off, taking that horrible eye with him.
Hours later, Rufus felt that the eye was still fixed upon him.
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Title: Harsh Measures for Difficult Times
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour, Alastor Moody [NOT a pairing, thankyousoverymuch]
Rating: Maybe PG for a bit of language
Other: Written for the October 8th contest (Hard times will come) in 30_hath. This is called "Oh, hey, TEMPESTWHOA." <.< Sort of. Oh well. General idea is there, maybe. Or maybe not. Oh, what the hell. Burn it, if it pleases yeh. Whoo. I promise NOTHINGGGGG.
They didn’t speak of it directly afterward. Rufus had a report to complete, while Alastor found himself disturbed enough to claim a similar excuse. It was perhaps an hour before they finally spoke, meeting between two cubicles.
Neither knew precisely what to say. Ideas had played through their minds, had been so playing since the grave announcement during the meeting. They had remained ominously quiet during the meeting-Crouch had thrown vaguely disconcerted glances between the pair of them, having expected near-volatile reaction-with Alastor scarcely grumbling and Rufus wavering quietly between a grin and a frown. Now they only stood in silence, unable even to offer an illusory greeting.
It was Rufus who spoke first, unable to keep further silence on such an astounding, if awaited, issue. “He’s finally done it.”
Alastor’s response was predictably terse, a simple reaffirmation of the fact.
“Taggart was convinced Crouch’d never go for it.”
“And Crouch is a bigger fool than I’d like to believe.”
A pause, and the Rufus continued, sounding as if he were trying to placate the other man. “This should throw events more into our favor, I should think.”
Alastor turned his scowl on Rufus, glaring in marked irritation. “There are other ways. It’s only a poor wizard needs to use an Unforgivable.”
Another pause, and now Rufus seemed to be affected by the anger. It was almost a matter of pride, the way it had most always been. Alastor poking, disagreeing with certain methods. Rufus vying swiftly for chances to explore greater power. The pair had often clashed accordingly, though thus far they had pulled through well enough. Perhaps they weren’t as close as they had once been, but they knew one another well enough, certainly respected one another. Were it not for such disparity of method, they might have been without disturbance.
Here was another situation to clash on. Alastor was dead set against the use of such curses, had spent the past several months warning the others of potential difficulties. Didn’t the others see the corruption that could easily result? Rufus had remained somewhat silent, providing defense only when he could be certain of support. The idea had appealed to him; why should they be handicapped by being disallowed to use the curses? They were swifter, more effective.
Now that Crouch had announced the allowance, Alastor was enraged beyond words. He had kept silent during the meeting only barely; the words that threatened to come would no doubt have landed him in deep trouble with Crouch. Rufus found himself delighted but reticent in speaking to his old friend. He almost wanted to gloat, to wave the victory in Alastor’s face, but there seemed little use in that.
What, then?
“Of course, of course,” he managed a half-grin, then frowned again. “You would say that, though. You might at least consider their potential.”
He didn’t like to be pressed. Especially not when Rufus knew what he felt about the damned things. “You might consider what it could do to any one of us.” He threw Rufus a pointed look.
“Any one of us, is it?” He didn’t like the direct tone, the eyes of accusation. “And what might you be implying, Alastor?”
“Not a thing.” He seemed on the verge of saying something more, then simply shook his head. “But I’ve got work to finish.”
Rufus wasn’t going to allow this to slip away so easily. He had heard the implication, and he could feel his anger mounting. “What were you implying?” He spoke more slowly, almost glaring himself.
“Absolutely nothing.” Alastor turned to leave, but paused after only a few steps and cast a glance over his shoulder. “Only that some of us are lacking a touch in the area of control. I’m sure we’ll be fine, though,” he continued to speak as he started off again. “Harsh measures for difficult times, and all.”
With that, he was gone. Rufus found himself left with nothing to argue against, no one to confront, and perhaps that was for the better. He had clenched his fists as Alastor had spoken, and now he worked at relaxing them, worked at calming himself as he headed toward his own desk. What in the hell did Alastor know, anyway? What made him so damned certain that they would lose so much? He didn’t know, nor could he know; it was ridiculous. Desperate times, hard times didn’t necessarily mean that everything was dangerous, nor did it mean that all would be torn away.
It was a lucky thing that neither man knew just how much they would lose.
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Title: Those of Ruin
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour, Alastor Moody (Also some Crouch Jr., Robards, Dawlish, et autres)
Rating: PG-13 (Cursing, violence, death)
Other: I don't know that I have much to say about this just now... I suppose I don't think this'll how it'll all go over in the end, though I can see Rowling having the Ministry get fucked over the head. Hrn. More likely other ways, and I'm more likely to go with one touched on earlier, but hey, here goes. Used also for fanfic100 (42 - Triangle), as I decided to do that whilst writing this. And it's all... Three-parted. Yes. Something along those lines.
When it happens, he becomes electric. A surging, coursing ecstasy races through his body as his fingers seem suddenly aware, alight.
The utterance itself rings metallic within his ears, swallowing the whole of the world, drawing all situations to a small surrounding sphere. A newfound strength in the sounds sings out, transforming simple word into unworldly invocation. It is reverberation, bordering abandon and freedom; it is a strong-glowing luminescent green.
(And on a deeper level, it chills him. There is a sudden ice whisper, a wrapping throughout his interior, a thorny threat weaving cold. Outwardly he scarce notes their dark icicle pricks.)
“Imperio.” It is power.
He feels his expression twist, no sign of a smile though there creeps a hint of triumph. The contortion is not painful. The contortion is only exterior.
Inside there is no twisting, no pinching and no collapsing into fragments. There is instead a blurring, figures turning to misty shapes. Misty shapes of potential threats, perhaps, but not targets, not of chief importance for the crucial moment. Shapes without solidity, and he notes their movements, registers every step around him though only vaguely, as if from another room, another situation.
And his hand, so odd, he feels it move as if through destiny’s will, taking aim, taking control and direction. It is liquid movement and strong, its command undeniable. His fingers are white as they clench the outstretched wand. He does not notice. Instead, he feels the power of it, the firmness and the command.
Yes, the power and the freshness, the strange novelty of the word itself as it reaches his ears, registering at last if only vaguely. He has pronounced, whispered, shouted the word before, but it has never been like this. It has never been real. That was training. This is reality, and he feels himself carried by the unknown freedom of it. The invocation has taken on a sense of its own, a new reality with absurdly brilliant possibilities that Rufus cannot but turn toward, yearn to grasp a hold of. And he can reach, he now has this power.
His vision is focused now, the blurry figures moving only on the outskirts as he perceives in clearest detail the target. The body framed by sets of stark lines and polished curves, every twitch and cringe of flesh discernable. Cold eyes reciprocating his own gaze, now widening, now realizing the difference here, the freshness of a cursed spell.
Rufus can see the curse itself, is caught momentarily rapt by the light of this new reality as it charges down the blur toward the clear one, the unbelieving target. Coursing from Rufus, out of his fingertips from the still-churning internal turmoil, the light stretches forward, strident and unstoppable. When it connects with the target, Rufus feels the course of energy expanded, feels an electric tingle as this energy, his energy, takes another into its hold. There is a new presence, but it is hushed, scarcely able to struggle, unprepared. It feels a malleable point of exquisite control.
Though this is new, Rufus knows what has happened, knows what he may do now. He sees possibilities stretched before him, somehow endless, more readily comprehensible than ever before, and each is open to him, wholly open. With this alien current comes opportunity of power. He feels himself, his presence encircling the man, wrapping about the other’s very mind. A part of him sees not through his own eyes but through those of the other, through the targets very consciousness. It is fascinating to feel the landscape of the target’s mind, to note the potential nuances and the quirks, character laid bare under this interrogative light of mind. It is fascinating to feel his own being completely entwined in unreserved control.
(It is distasteful, somehow, to feel so close to grimy filth-thoughts of a damnable target. It is an unfortunate, though necessary, intimacy with the criminal. While Rufus is attracted to this new control, he shudders to be so closely connected with destruction.)
The grimly humming light and possibilities sing to him. He sees an image of a dagger flash, sees the man horrified spill his own blood over infernal neck. (Revolting. Unnecessary.) Sees the man turn his own wand against his own body, the power of those curses returning to the origin, the definer. (Barbaric.) Sees the man tear his own eyes out, fingers working in the sockets to tear nerves, task made difficult by silver-sleek blood. (Bestial.) He sees and feels the strong, silent commands, the mute obedience so easily given.
Yet even as he faces these flashes, he knows what it is that he must do. He knows very well that these are the pitfall temptations of the curse, or that they form together the allure of the curse, itself destruction and ruin as much as distraction. Unsettled, Rufus chides himself, forces a focus. He cannot ignore the reasons, the right reasons for his being there and making use of this-it is use, pragmatic use, that he must make of the so-enticing invocation-rare allowance.
Stricken by a sudden wave of nausea at his near-folly, he does not falter further.
(Thorns of ice can find no hold and hiss in agitation, search and seek but discover no true purchase. Cold inside whispers without claiming him.)
He directs himself and the flow of energy, channels the connection to his informed will of what must be done. An unexpected attack from this now-controlled target onto another changes a blur to solidity and further extends the connection, the charge. Another electric shock as he is successful.
(The worst has shuddered into silence; he has performed and passed his test.)
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[Alastor Moody, who is not Alastor Moody, demonstrates the spited curses to wide-eyed students. He runs through them efficiently, demonstrates their terror. A precaution, he says. Only a precaution.
They believe him, or believes in his desire for precaution, because Alastor Moody is a paranoid one. Alastor-who-is-not-Alastor plays this off very well, and they believe him and allow him to show the students.
Imperceptibly, it is the second of these curses that he relishes most, the experience of which will linger with him, bringing him to grin alone in the office that should not be his, to laugh aloud at the still-tingling memory of it. And there are so many memories… He cannot keep himself quiet. The feel of it was far too exciting. He cannot keep this to himself.
Alastor-who-is-not-Alastor later shares his joy with Alastor-who-is, grinning as the true man lies, restricted. Alastor-who-is-not speaks of the rapture of it, a near loss of control in its encounter, how he had only just been brought back from the tendrils of pain and power. Clear energy after so many years of bindings.
He speaks of its beauty, the voluptuousness of one curse: Crucio.
After he has finished and gone, Alastor-who-is-not feels satisfied, in control of himself. Yet the hum and buzz of his curse, his love, will not fade for days.]
Alastor Moody who is under the imposter’s wretched control shivers inside as he rages, urged to rip the bastard’s throat to pieces but unable, knowing painfully well that he cannot, that he could not even if the bastard stood still before him, all walls removed. He is too bound, too weakened, too unbearably exhausted to defend, let alone attack. Defenselessness makes everything worse. He can do no more than allowed, save think, seethe solitary.
He had heard most strongly in the bastard’s story an obvious delight at the use of the curse, of its effects. He could only cringe inwardly as the filth described a filthy curse’s effects of all sorts, the way the imposter seemed orgasmically pleased by its use. It was disgusting.
Alastor is still disgusted.
Though his hands did not perform the curse, his voice did not give the word, Alastor feels strongly that he must clean, cleanse himself, that the imposter’s body was far too close to his own. He must wash the ugliness away. It is dangerous. To some, it is infectious. He wants no part of it, and his skin crawls. He will need to clean and scour his wand when he sees it again. If-When he sees it and holds it as his own.
He has seen the curse and its effects before, too many times and too often inflicted upon victims wholly innocent. Only thrice has he cast it, and then at inanimate targets, unemotional objects. He had acquiesced only to satisfy the Ministry and its requirements so that they would leave him to his own and far less revolting devices. They had desired that he at least feel a hint of what the enemy wielded and the lure of its power. Begrudgingly, he had at last relented.
Disgusting. That was the most appropriate description of sensation. A violation of his senses, his very being. A rape and pillage of his sensibilities, his senses. It had been a foul thing, reeking in desire for the perverse and with all too much potential for breaking a man. He still spits to think of its clammy tendrils, of the uncontrollable sharp edges of a curse that promises so much, destroys so easily, and should never have been approved.
Why pain? Why deliver more pain so easily when there is pain all around? Dark wizards make use of it-he has seen them-to torture with their anger, to bring victims twitching screaming cringing sobbing to their knees, to drag them through innumerable indignations and break them, degrade them to a bestial level. Why make deliverance of wrath so much simpler? It is the path to ruin. It is and it brings madness. Alastor has said this before, will stand by it evermore.
Alastor-who-is-not had called it ‘beautiful in memory, but it is so much more exhilarating in performance.’ Alastor, who has been imprisoned, hates to remember this. He cursed then and still curses at the horrid sounds issued forth in such duplication of his own voice. Those words were the ravings of a lunatic, a sick man madder than Moody could ever be. It was unabashed mockery. Sardonic words hit Alastor hard; the red-hot mark stings sharp still.
He feels the press of the cold floor, feels his own breath shallow and irregular, indignant but incapable. Were he able to speak, Alastor would curse his own futility, damn that wretched spell, all three of those spells, and all that they have done. Because he cannot, he only seethes silent inside, condemning the bastard for having dared to use that underhanded curse, loathing the filth for tying himself to such a wretched device.
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The Ministry makes a final stand within its own walls. Those left face clear destruction, see their decimation advancing to claw them apart, to destroy once and for all the Ministry. It will cease to be, will have reached complete ruin perhaps by the fall of evening. Most internal structure has already broken down; it is only the remaining figures of nuisance and perseverance that the Death Eaters must destroy.
Those remaining struggle with greater ferocity. This is not felt as an end so strongly as a chance to take their stand, a chance to fight, if for the last time, against this invading force. They cannot themselves kill the force, though they can weaken it and have weakened it more than the other side would like. Dark wizards have fallen in increasing numbers, adding to the building’s death toll. Yet opposing numbers still are too great, the suddenness of the attack too much of a devastation. The dark ones have managed this, somehow. This ruin. Someone or something has failed, and now the attackers run amok, tearing and screaming dark words while wielding wicked death.
Futility reigns calm, immense as Ministry numbers dwindle and dark forces thrust their way further in. Many of the dark ones have lost or discarded their masks and bear staggeringly stark white or yellowed grins. The need for secrecy has passed, and this alone speaks the coming of an end. The defenders accept this as they accept all else, as an unchangeable piece of the equation, sometimes as a relief. Far better to view the deliverer of finality, to be able to stare him-her-it in the eye and to take a stand as one with unbreakable strength.
For some short time they will have strength enough, have some number of their strongest remaining and an unexpected group of others, the elusive Order come to join in shared battle. No one questioned the arrival of the Order. No one bothered to. They were only glad of further aid, of a chance to stand just a little longer, to hit the attackers with that much more force. No need for questions; policy has changed. The newcomers infused themselves swiftly, joined the forces, soon found themselves caught in the same final positions.
Fall back again. It seems they can do nothing more than recede further, collecting as they go to form further barriers. The few remaining pockets stand strong, resist, clogging the ruthless efficiency of the enemy. Passing review over persistent faces reveals little reflection of their invariable oncoming loss. They seem immovable even as they bleed, immortal even as another falls and is lost to the growing blanket of the dead. A limb dangles, skin splits open, bones crumble. Fire licks and then devours here and again. Still they fight on, enduring the devastation as unchangeable, themselves becoming the final blockade.
If they are to die cornered, they will die fighting valiant.
Robards still leads the Aurors, though a gashing chest wound grows in a scarlet hint that this may not last much longer. Dawlish no longer jokes, his skin pale, struck violently nauseous by some insidious curse, though he too continues to fire and battle as he can. There are others, perhaps the last of the Aurors and their recently removed confederates, Alastor Moody and the Minister himself.
Politics aside, outside loyalties aside, the two have become Aurors again. Scrimgeour and Moody work together as long before, differences eradicated, glad that if they must reach an end, they do so naturally, in such befitting manner. Gone are the differences, years of debate over bounds of power and right versus wrong, of the proper use of improper spells and the appropriate means to an end. Gone are those impeding faces, past demons that can only flee in the face of the concrete oncoming.
There is no need for orders. The remaining Aurors work together, have all known common methods and even now adjust to the same internal workings, the ticking of some vast gliding clockwork. They move together, speaking only spells and the occasional words of encouragement.
On and on against these villains, masked and the unmasked alike. Many they recognize, a few they do not, but it is all the same, the same flashing eyes, grinning teeth, the same curses fired over and over until the air itself becomes dangerous. The painful, the shocking, the most profane curses twist about so that shields and dodging become dire necessities and retaliation comes only in between.
To Scrimgeour, the air has become ominously electric, humming with static and a warning that has hounded him for years. For Moody, this is a confirmation of all ugliness he has believed of the attackers, his mistrust justified. For both of them, this is a chance to battle once more as they knew best, to move as naturally true defenders for a united cause. There have been years of wonder, years caught in a mire of politics and policy and separation, but those years have vanished. It is terrible somehow that this has only come now, but it will suffice.
They cannot fight forever. They would like to believe that they can, but such is not possible; one of the masked threats sees to this. Rediscovered unity is broken by a single curse.
“Avada Kedavra!” Inarguable force.
There are too many. He is distracted, eyes averted, attention turned away in order to attack another. He does not see or even turn until the perilous energy has started toward him, and as he does at last turn he sees green only, electric consumption, and he understands. It-one of them-has come to claim him. In the last instant, Rufus understands that it is the same electric power, but knows also that it has not come from within, is not self-destruction. Faint gladness brings relief even as the curse approaches inevitable. And then there is the energy and its sudden incomprehensible tumult.
Rufus Scrimgeour falls, taken.
It was bound to happen, though that does not make the blow any less difficult to withstand. The Aurors feel it, though even Robards, now whiter than Dawlish, goes on; they cannot quit now. The end is confirmed, has been laid clearer by this sudden end, yet they cannot simply stop.
Alastor Moody finds himself deserted again, finds another he had known too well now gone, swept away. There is nothing for him to do but continue on, to give what remaining fight he has, for indeed it is all that he now has. All that any of them have. Moody fights with greater fury, voice rising, eye twitching, refusing to glance even at the fallen man. He does not inflict their breed of pain but does not hesitate to impose his own, to watch in grim satisfaction as they scream, fall back, even tumble to the ground.
When Moody is at last taken, he falls very near to his old friend.
Rating: G-abouts
Other: This was written as a sort of last-minute-before-DH and needed to get some Rufus lurve piece. Yep. It is what it is, as they say.
All men were strangers. Evasive, their motives hidden behind every possible expression. It seemed that he had seen every possible mask of a face, every trick of a lie, directed gesture. To operate properly, it was necessary to properly interpret these gestures, to be able to catch each nuance and act accordingly. Politics in particular became quickly a matter of swiftly knowing strangers.
This was not full knowledge, of course. It compromised a listing of perceived desires, methods, the price at which each man might be bought. Useful, though not to be fully relied upon. There could be no sense to placing trust in anyone, nor fully in their apparent inclinations. There were always anomalies. Reasons to remain wary, alert.
Just now, Rufus was inclined to feel rather mistrustful, indeed. The man before him had arrived unannounced, unwanted (so Rufus told himself, yet he had permitted the man’s entrance), and with some particularly confounding design. Almost impossible to believe that this man had come with any well-worn aim; here was no politician, no seeker of power.
That was foolish, though, and Rufus wasn’t about to allow himself such luxurious assumptions. He did not know what this man desired and so could not proceed as if he did. It had been years since they had spoken, and the final years had been unsteady, the product of an ever-widening gap in drive. Acting on what he knew of Alastor Moody would do little good, for this was Moody years later, Moody after doing lord knew what with his life. No, this was not the man he had known, worked beside. This man, too, was a stranger.
What in Merlin’s name was he doing here? Watching across the desk, just watching-that damned thing never stopped watching, Rufus knew it-weighing his words and his time. He had come, Rufus had invited him to sit, speaking more clearly than he might have expected, but with some tension, as well. Even sitting, leaving the too obvious standing position (no need to stand to display authority, not here, and the man would see too cleanly through any such gesture). And the man, Moody, had returned a brief greeting, still watching, watching. Then a silence, and it seemed that this had passed for hours, though seconds only had ticked away.
And not a hint, not one suggestion of why this man should appear here, of all places. That he had dared set foot in the Ministry-What did he want? Rufus couldn’t tell. Didn’t bloody know, because the man was strange to him, and this left Rufus feeling a mild sort of discomfort. There was a story behind them, perhaps, but the years between left an insurmountable difficulty.
As had, for that matter, the years before. Years in which Moody had come to understand what it was that drove Rufus Scrimgeour (and, thankfully-for it was always necessary to hold reciprocal information-years in which Rufus had learned much of Alastor Moody). This understanding could prove unfortunate. If he knew-Well. He may well have guessed much already, have seen what it was that Rufus had come to realize. Hell, for all Rufus knew, the man had simply come to gloat.
But, no. It wouldn’t be so simple as that.
And so he was left to discern the meaning, the motives. Was Moody to be trusted? No. No, and absolutely without hesitation, no. Lord. To even begin to think otherwise was.… It was foolishness, and Rufus was no damned fool.
Deal with this as with others. There was a method of understanding, after all. It required a calculation of the strangeness, to which he would assess what he knew of anyone in general, consider those oft-evaded but ever-present truths. The truth that man, wizard or no, survived through deceit and lived for his own goals. That each one would do whatever proved necessary to obtain his desires. Such understanding alone could be relied upon, expanded to accommodate every situation.
Rufus had understood these truths from a young age-he wouldn’t say how long, preferred to gloss over the time before he truly began, before he was able to impact the world-teaching himself to act accordingly. It was necessary to overcome others to reach one’s own goal, necessary also to hold one particular and very clear goal in mind. Even then, in younger years, all goals had been subjugated to the ambition, the grand idea. Lord, how it had appeared to him… He could perhaps laugh, now, yet there had ever been an earnest force behind this drive, and this compelled his silence.
It, the idea, still appealed. Even now, he was hard-pressed to contain a smile, almost a smirk (and what the stranger would have made of this, Rufus could only guess), at the fact of his own power. Yes, to be sure, he appreciated the force of this claim.
As an unfortunate truth, there were sticking points. Difficulties that he should have foreseen… But there was no point in chasing that particular thread. Useless to mourn in hindsight.
There was some muted pain in the discovery of certain truths. The further he had come, the more he found that his own goals had been… Well. Almost optimistic, perhaps. And much as he might dislike the word or its implications, even somewhat misguided. Thinking the word, he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the matter with this stranger. Never mind his own complications. Honesty with one’s self could only continue for so long, after all.
This complication almost more easily dealt with, this communication. After all, there were only so many ways to speak to another man. None of these, in Rufus’ experience, revolved around the most foolish idea of speaking truth. Better to say what was necessary, what best fit the situation and would achieve the required results. There was no interaction without intent; a goal would form from the briefest of exchanges. Truths, again, that he had known for years. Simple truths. Unyielding.
He did not tell himself that he enjoyed manipulating these, did not need to tell himself; he knew the details of the matter. However much Rufus may have ignored the inevitability of restraint-the whisper pulls heard now and often indicating that, obviously, there was no ideal in existence, that there were only difficulties-and however much he may despise it, there remains the greater scheme, the meetings private and open in which he reads them, plays to and off of them. The instances in which he manipulates to his will. It is at these times that he finds what he has always enjoyed, recalls sharply the why of his experience, his choices.
Only, in this instance... No. What had been done was finished, altered by time and its occasions. There was nothing particularly atypical in this, could not be.
“Do you enjoy this, Minister?”
The response came without pause: “Of course.”
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Title: The Eye
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour, Alastor Moody
Rating: Maybe PG for some blood. Yay blood.
Other: Written for the October 14th challenge (An ice cold eye) for 30_hath.
The first time he met with the eye, Rufus nearly yelped aloud. He counted himself lucky to gape only, mouth open in anticipation of some half-formed question.
Moody hadn’t looked like this last time. He hadn’t looked particularly well, no, but then neither had Rufus. (No one ever looked particularly well after those fights. Pain visited with every attack; a simple fact.) It had been a nasty clash, easily the worst since the war. And the blood. Blood everywhere, and Rufus recalled the blood on Moody’s face, the blood where the real eye once sat. (But where did the eye go? No one seemed to know, and Moody himself was distracted. Everyone was. Unpleasant for everyone. Rufus had sustained his own injuries, his own shattered leg, but Moody’s leg, and then worse still came Moody’s eye…) Briefly, he had seen Moody afterward, once the blood had been cleaned away. It hadn’t been pretty, had been horrific in its own right, but Rufus recalled no sense of utter debasement at the sight.
Somehow, this was far worse. To see that mechanization, that eye bulging from Moody’s head, to watch it whirl with cold calculation, was worse that the natural injuries. This was the affirmation of the trouble, of the failure of the physical. It seemed separate from Moody. The eye, startling as it was, demanded the attention, threatened to take away from the man. Rufus felt a strong sense of unease at this. He had known, or almost known, Alastor Moody. But this man with the eye… Did he know this man?
Rufus didn’t vocalize a question. There was nothing to ask, nothing at all.
Moody only grinned at him, an expression that only furthered contorted his features around that eye, sent a vague sense of nausea through Rufus. “It’s never polite to stare, Scrimgeour.” And with that he tramped off, taking that horrible eye with him.
Hours later, Rufus felt that the eye was still fixed upon him.
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Title: Harsh Measures for Difficult Times
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour, Alastor Moody [NOT a pairing, thankyousoverymuch]
Rating: Maybe PG for a bit of language
Other: Written for the October 8th contest (Hard times will come) in 30_hath. This is called "Oh, hey, TEMPESTWHOA." <.< Sort of. Oh well. General idea is there, maybe. Or maybe not. Oh, what the hell. Burn it, if it pleases yeh. Whoo. I promise NOTHINGGGGG.
They didn’t speak of it directly afterward. Rufus had a report to complete, while Alastor found himself disturbed enough to claim a similar excuse. It was perhaps an hour before they finally spoke, meeting between two cubicles.
Neither knew precisely what to say. Ideas had played through their minds, had been so playing since the grave announcement during the meeting. They had remained ominously quiet during the meeting-Crouch had thrown vaguely disconcerted glances between the pair of them, having expected near-volatile reaction-with Alastor scarcely grumbling and Rufus wavering quietly between a grin and a frown. Now they only stood in silence, unable even to offer an illusory greeting.
It was Rufus who spoke first, unable to keep further silence on such an astounding, if awaited, issue. “He’s finally done it.”
Alastor’s response was predictably terse, a simple reaffirmation of the fact.
“Taggart was convinced Crouch’d never go for it.”
“And Crouch is a bigger fool than I’d like to believe.”
A pause, and the Rufus continued, sounding as if he were trying to placate the other man. “This should throw events more into our favor, I should think.”
Alastor turned his scowl on Rufus, glaring in marked irritation. “There are other ways. It’s only a poor wizard needs to use an Unforgivable.”
Another pause, and now Rufus seemed to be affected by the anger. It was almost a matter of pride, the way it had most always been. Alastor poking, disagreeing with certain methods. Rufus vying swiftly for chances to explore greater power. The pair had often clashed accordingly, though thus far they had pulled through well enough. Perhaps they weren’t as close as they had once been, but they knew one another well enough, certainly respected one another. Were it not for such disparity of method, they might have been without disturbance.
Here was another situation to clash on. Alastor was dead set against the use of such curses, had spent the past several months warning the others of potential difficulties. Didn’t the others see the corruption that could easily result? Rufus had remained somewhat silent, providing defense only when he could be certain of support. The idea had appealed to him; why should they be handicapped by being disallowed to use the curses? They were swifter, more effective.
Now that Crouch had announced the allowance, Alastor was enraged beyond words. He had kept silent during the meeting only barely; the words that threatened to come would no doubt have landed him in deep trouble with Crouch. Rufus found himself delighted but reticent in speaking to his old friend. He almost wanted to gloat, to wave the victory in Alastor’s face, but there seemed little use in that.
What, then?
“Of course, of course,” he managed a half-grin, then frowned again. “You would say that, though. You might at least consider their potential.”
He didn’t like to be pressed. Especially not when Rufus knew what he felt about the damned things. “You might consider what it could do to any one of us.” He threw Rufus a pointed look.
“Any one of us, is it?” He didn’t like the direct tone, the eyes of accusation. “And what might you be implying, Alastor?”
“Not a thing.” He seemed on the verge of saying something more, then simply shook his head. “But I’ve got work to finish.”
Rufus wasn’t going to allow this to slip away so easily. He had heard the implication, and he could feel his anger mounting. “What were you implying?” He spoke more slowly, almost glaring himself.
“Absolutely nothing.” Alastor turned to leave, but paused after only a few steps and cast a glance over his shoulder. “Only that some of us are lacking a touch in the area of control. I’m sure we’ll be fine, though,” he continued to speak as he started off again. “Harsh measures for difficult times, and all.”
With that, he was gone. Rufus found himself left with nothing to argue against, no one to confront, and perhaps that was for the better. He had clenched his fists as Alastor had spoken, and now he worked at relaxing them, worked at calming himself as he headed toward his own desk. What in the hell did Alastor know, anyway? What made him so damned certain that they would lose so much? He didn’t know, nor could he know; it was ridiculous. Desperate times, hard times didn’t necessarily mean that everything was dangerous, nor did it mean that all would be torn away.
It was a lucky thing that neither man knew just how much they would lose.
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Title: Those of Ruin
Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour, Alastor Moody (Also some Crouch Jr., Robards, Dawlish, et autres)
Rating: PG-13 (Cursing, violence, death)
Other: I don't know that I have much to say about this just now... I suppose I don't think this'll how it'll all go over in the end, though I can see Rowling having the Ministry get fucked over the head. Hrn. More likely other ways, and I'm more likely to go with one touched on earlier, but hey, here goes. Used also for fanfic100 (42 - Triangle), as I decided to do that whilst writing this. And it's all... Three-parted. Yes. Something along those lines.
When it happens, he becomes electric. A surging, coursing ecstasy races through his body as his fingers seem suddenly aware, alight.
The utterance itself rings metallic within his ears, swallowing the whole of the world, drawing all situations to a small surrounding sphere. A newfound strength in the sounds sings out, transforming simple word into unworldly invocation. It is reverberation, bordering abandon and freedom; it is a strong-glowing luminescent green.
(And on a deeper level, it chills him. There is a sudden ice whisper, a wrapping throughout his interior, a thorny threat weaving cold. Outwardly he scarce notes their dark icicle pricks.)
“Imperio.” It is power.
He feels his expression twist, no sign of a smile though there creeps a hint of triumph. The contortion is not painful. The contortion is only exterior.
Inside there is no twisting, no pinching and no collapsing into fragments. There is instead a blurring, figures turning to misty shapes. Misty shapes of potential threats, perhaps, but not targets, not of chief importance for the crucial moment. Shapes without solidity, and he notes their movements, registers every step around him though only vaguely, as if from another room, another situation.
And his hand, so odd, he feels it move as if through destiny’s will, taking aim, taking control and direction. It is liquid movement and strong, its command undeniable. His fingers are white as they clench the outstretched wand. He does not notice. Instead, he feels the power of it, the firmness and the command.
Yes, the power and the freshness, the strange novelty of the word itself as it reaches his ears, registering at last if only vaguely. He has pronounced, whispered, shouted the word before, but it has never been like this. It has never been real. That was training. This is reality, and he feels himself carried by the unknown freedom of it. The invocation has taken on a sense of its own, a new reality with absurdly brilliant possibilities that Rufus cannot but turn toward, yearn to grasp a hold of. And he can reach, he now has this power.
His vision is focused now, the blurry figures moving only on the outskirts as he perceives in clearest detail the target. The body framed by sets of stark lines and polished curves, every twitch and cringe of flesh discernable. Cold eyes reciprocating his own gaze, now widening, now realizing the difference here, the freshness of a cursed spell.
Rufus can see the curse itself, is caught momentarily rapt by the light of this new reality as it charges down the blur toward the clear one, the unbelieving target. Coursing from Rufus, out of his fingertips from the still-churning internal turmoil, the light stretches forward, strident and unstoppable. When it connects with the target, Rufus feels the course of energy expanded, feels an electric tingle as this energy, his energy, takes another into its hold. There is a new presence, but it is hushed, scarcely able to struggle, unprepared. It feels a malleable point of exquisite control.
Though this is new, Rufus knows what has happened, knows what he may do now. He sees possibilities stretched before him, somehow endless, more readily comprehensible than ever before, and each is open to him, wholly open. With this alien current comes opportunity of power. He feels himself, his presence encircling the man, wrapping about the other’s very mind. A part of him sees not through his own eyes but through those of the other, through the targets very consciousness. It is fascinating to feel the landscape of the target’s mind, to note the potential nuances and the quirks, character laid bare under this interrogative light of mind. It is fascinating to feel his own being completely entwined in unreserved control.
(It is distasteful, somehow, to feel so close to grimy filth-thoughts of a damnable target. It is an unfortunate, though necessary, intimacy with the criminal. While Rufus is attracted to this new control, he shudders to be so closely connected with destruction.)
The grimly humming light and possibilities sing to him. He sees an image of a dagger flash, sees the man horrified spill his own blood over infernal neck. (Revolting. Unnecessary.) Sees the man turn his own wand against his own body, the power of those curses returning to the origin, the definer. (Barbaric.) Sees the man tear his own eyes out, fingers working in the sockets to tear nerves, task made difficult by silver-sleek blood. (Bestial.) He sees and feels the strong, silent commands, the mute obedience so easily given.
Yet even as he faces these flashes, he knows what it is that he must do. He knows very well that these are the pitfall temptations of the curse, or that they form together the allure of the curse, itself destruction and ruin as much as distraction. Unsettled, Rufus chides himself, forces a focus. He cannot ignore the reasons, the right reasons for his being there and making use of this-it is use, pragmatic use, that he must make of the so-enticing invocation-rare allowance.
Stricken by a sudden wave of nausea at his near-folly, he does not falter further.
(Thorns of ice can find no hold and hiss in agitation, search and seek but discover no true purchase. Cold inside whispers without claiming him.)
He directs himself and the flow of energy, channels the connection to his informed will of what must be done. An unexpected attack from this now-controlled target onto another changes a blur to solidity and further extends the connection, the charge. Another electric shock as he is successful.
(The worst has shuddered into silence; he has performed and passed his test.)
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[Alastor Moody, who is not Alastor Moody, demonstrates the spited curses to wide-eyed students. He runs through them efficiently, demonstrates their terror. A precaution, he says. Only a precaution.
They believe him, or believes in his desire for precaution, because Alastor Moody is a paranoid one. Alastor-who-is-not-Alastor plays this off very well, and they believe him and allow him to show the students.
Imperceptibly, it is the second of these curses that he relishes most, the experience of which will linger with him, bringing him to grin alone in the office that should not be his, to laugh aloud at the still-tingling memory of it. And there are so many memories… He cannot keep himself quiet. The feel of it was far too exciting. He cannot keep this to himself.
Alastor-who-is-not-Alastor later shares his joy with Alastor-who-is, grinning as the true man lies, restricted. Alastor-who-is-not speaks of the rapture of it, a near loss of control in its encounter, how he had only just been brought back from the tendrils of pain and power. Clear energy after so many years of bindings.
He speaks of its beauty, the voluptuousness of one curse: Crucio.
After he has finished and gone, Alastor-who-is-not feels satisfied, in control of himself. Yet the hum and buzz of his curse, his love, will not fade for days.]
Alastor Moody who is under the imposter’s wretched control shivers inside as he rages, urged to rip the bastard’s throat to pieces but unable, knowing painfully well that he cannot, that he could not even if the bastard stood still before him, all walls removed. He is too bound, too weakened, too unbearably exhausted to defend, let alone attack. Defenselessness makes everything worse. He can do no more than allowed, save think, seethe solitary.
He had heard most strongly in the bastard’s story an obvious delight at the use of the curse, of its effects. He could only cringe inwardly as the filth described a filthy curse’s effects of all sorts, the way the imposter seemed orgasmically pleased by its use. It was disgusting.
Alastor is still disgusted.
Though his hands did not perform the curse, his voice did not give the word, Alastor feels strongly that he must clean, cleanse himself, that the imposter’s body was far too close to his own. He must wash the ugliness away. It is dangerous. To some, it is infectious. He wants no part of it, and his skin crawls. He will need to clean and scour his wand when he sees it again. If-When he sees it and holds it as his own.
He has seen the curse and its effects before, too many times and too often inflicted upon victims wholly innocent. Only thrice has he cast it, and then at inanimate targets, unemotional objects. He had acquiesced only to satisfy the Ministry and its requirements so that they would leave him to his own and far less revolting devices. They had desired that he at least feel a hint of what the enemy wielded and the lure of its power. Begrudgingly, he had at last relented.
Disgusting. That was the most appropriate description of sensation. A violation of his senses, his very being. A rape and pillage of his sensibilities, his senses. It had been a foul thing, reeking in desire for the perverse and with all too much potential for breaking a man. He still spits to think of its clammy tendrils, of the uncontrollable sharp edges of a curse that promises so much, destroys so easily, and should never have been approved.
Why pain? Why deliver more pain so easily when there is pain all around? Dark wizards make use of it-he has seen them-to torture with their anger, to bring victims twitching screaming cringing sobbing to their knees, to drag them through innumerable indignations and break them, degrade them to a bestial level. Why make deliverance of wrath so much simpler? It is the path to ruin. It is and it brings madness. Alastor has said this before, will stand by it evermore.
Alastor-who-is-not had called it ‘beautiful in memory, but it is so much more exhilarating in performance.’ Alastor, who has been imprisoned, hates to remember this. He cursed then and still curses at the horrid sounds issued forth in such duplication of his own voice. Those words were the ravings of a lunatic, a sick man madder than Moody could ever be. It was unabashed mockery. Sardonic words hit Alastor hard; the red-hot mark stings sharp still.
He feels the press of the cold floor, feels his own breath shallow and irregular, indignant but incapable. Were he able to speak, Alastor would curse his own futility, damn that wretched spell, all three of those spells, and all that they have done. Because he cannot, he only seethes silent inside, condemning the bastard for having dared to use that underhanded curse, loathing the filth for tying himself to such a wretched device.
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The Ministry makes a final stand within its own walls. Those left face clear destruction, see their decimation advancing to claw them apart, to destroy once and for all the Ministry. It will cease to be, will have reached complete ruin perhaps by the fall of evening. Most internal structure has already broken down; it is only the remaining figures of nuisance and perseverance that the Death Eaters must destroy.
Those remaining struggle with greater ferocity. This is not felt as an end so strongly as a chance to take their stand, a chance to fight, if for the last time, against this invading force. They cannot themselves kill the force, though they can weaken it and have weakened it more than the other side would like. Dark wizards have fallen in increasing numbers, adding to the building’s death toll. Yet opposing numbers still are too great, the suddenness of the attack too much of a devastation. The dark ones have managed this, somehow. This ruin. Someone or something has failed, and now the attackers run amok, tearing and screaming dark words while wielding wicked death.
Futility reigns calm, immense as Ministry numbers dwindle and dark forces thrust their way further in. Many of the dark ones have lost or discarded their masks and bear staggeringly stark white or yellowed grins. The need for secrecy has passed, and this alone speaks the coming of an end. The defenders accept this as they accept all else, as an unchangeable piece of the equation, sometimes as a relief. Far better to view the deliverer of finality, to be able to stare him-her-it in the eye and to take a stand as one with unbreakable strength.
For some short time they will have strength enough, have some number of their strongest remaining and an unexpected group of others, the elusive Order come to join in shared battle. No one questioned the arrival of the Order. No one bothered to. They were only glad of further aid, of a chance to stand just a little longer, to hit the attackers with that much more force. No need for questions; policy has changed. The newcomers infused themselves swiftly, joined the forces, soon found themselves caught in the same final positions.
Fall back again. It seems they can do nothing more than recede further, collecting as they go to form further barriers. The few remaining pockets stand strong, resist, clogging the ruthless efficiency of the enemy. Passing review over persistent faces reveals little reflection of their invariable oncoming loss. They seem immovable even as they bleed, immortal even as another falls and is lost to the growing blanket of the dead. A limb dangles, skin splits open, bones crumble. Fire licks and then devours here and again. Still they fight on, enduring the devastation as unchangeable, themselves becoming the final blockade.
If they are to die cornered, they will die fighting valiant.
Robards still leads the Aurors, though a gashing chest wound grows in a scarlet hint that this may not last much longer. Dawlish no longer jokes, his skin pale, struck violently nauseous by some insidious curse, though he too continues to fire and battle as he can. There are others, perhaps the last of the Aurors and their recently removed confederates, Alastor Moody and the Minister himself.
Politics aside, outside loyalties aside, the two have become Aurors again. Scrimgeour and Moody work together as long before, differences eradicated, glad that if they must reach an end, they do so naturally, in such befitting manner. Gone are the differences, years of debate over bounds of power and right versus wrong, of the proper use of improper spells and the appropriate means to an end. Gone are those impeding faces, past demons that can only flee in the face of the concrete oncoming.
There is no need for orders. The remaining Aurors work together, have all known common methods and even now adjust to the same internal workings, the ticking of some vast gliding clockwork. They move together, speaking only spells and the occasional words of encouragement.
On and on against these villains, masked and the unmasked alike. Many they recognize, a few they do not, but it is all the same, the same flashing eyes, grinning teeth, the same curses fired over and over until the air itself becomes dangerous. The painful, the shocking, the most profane curses twist about so that shields and dodging become dire necessities and retaliation comes only in between.
To Scrimgeour, the air has become ominously electric, humming with static and a warning that has hounded him for years. For Moody, this is a confirmation of all ugliness he has believed of the attackers, his mistrust justified. For both of them, this is a chance to battle once more as they knew best, to move as naturally true defenders for a united cause. There have been years of wonder, years caught in a mire of politics and policy and separation, but those years have vanished. It is terrible somehow that this has only come now, but it will suffice.
They cannot fight forever. They would like to believe that they can, but such is not possible; one of the masked threats sees to this. Rediscovered unity is broken by a single curse.
“Avada Kedavra!” Inarguable force.
There are too many. He is distracted, eyes averted, attention turned away in order to attack another. He does not see or even turn until the perilous energy has started toward him, and as he does at last turn he sees green only, electric consumption, and he understands. It-one of them-has come to claim him. In the last instant, Rufus understands that it is the same electric power, but knows also that it has not come from within, is not self-destruction. Faint gladness brings relief even as the curse approaches inevitable. And then there is the energy and its sudden incomprehensible tumult.
Rufus Scrimgeour falls, taken.
It was bound to happen, though that does not make the blow any less difficult to withstand. The Aurors feel it, though even Robards, now whiter than Dawlish, goes on; they cannot quit now. The end is confirmed, has been laid clearer by this sudden end, yet they cannot simply stop.
Alastor Moody finds himself deserted again, finds another he had known too well now gone, swept away. There is nothing for him to do but continue on, to give what remaining fight he has, for indeed it is all that he now has. All that any of them have. Moody fights with greater fury, voice rising, eye twitching, refusing to glance even at the fallen man. He does not inflict their breed of pain but does not hesitate to impose his own, to watch in grim satisfaction as they scream, fall back, even tumble to the ground.
When Moody is at last taken, he falls very near to his old friend.