Whispers of Power and Family
Dumbledore left the prison, walking through the dark corridors of Azkaban until he reached the main gate. There, a man was waiting for him, as if he knew exactly when he would appear. He wore a dark trench coat, his hair messy, his face lined with scars, and a prosthetic eye that spun restlessly, scanning in every direction. He leaned on a staff with both hands, radiating the aura of a hunter perpetually on guard.
"Alastor, it's been a long time," Dumbledore greeted with a smile, genuinely happy to see an old friend.
"Hello, Albus. Did you manage to get anything out of him?" asked Alastor Moody, straight to the point.
"Not in words," Dumbledore replied, pulling out a small vial. Inside, something floated with a disturbing glow. "He gave me this. Perhaps we can properly investigate what really happened that day." His expression grew grave as he hid the vial beneath his cloak, protected by spells.
Moody nodded seriously. "You'd better hurry. Someone is pulling the strings and has already noticed. They want to give him a trial."
Dumbledore's expression darkened. "And it's not one of ours making that request, is it?"
"That's right. They're demanding his sentence be reevaluated. Crimes of that magnitude, they say, deserve the Dementor's Kiss." Moody's voice was harsh. "If the notice hasn't reached you yet as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, it means they're delaying it as much as possible."
"Sometimes even political titles aren't enough against the power that moves in the depths," Dumbledore reflected. "It shows there are still very influential people willing to spend whatever it takes to achieve their goals."
"Do you think that old man is orchestrating it all?" Moody asked, frowning. "Isn't he supposed to be part of the family?"
"Sometimes, blood ties are not what truly make you family," Dumbledore answered with a trace of melancholy. That thought seemed to stir something in his mind. "Moody, I need you to do me a favor."
"Of course, as long as it's not too complicated. I'm about to retire. I'd rather keep the parts I still have," said the auror with a mocking gesture toward his prosthetic leg.
…
The next day, at the Leaky Cauldron, Moody emerged from the fireplace in a cloud of soot. Several people recognized him at once: some hid behind their newspapers, others began to sweat as they avoided his gaze, and more than one slipped quickly out the back door. It wasn't that they were all guilty of something, but the mere memory of what Moody had done in the past was enough for many to prefer distance from the man they called "Mad-Eye."
"Mr. Moody, it's unusual to see you here. I hope you're not here to arrest anyone… last time it caused quite a stir," said Tom with a slightly forced smile as he greeted him.
"Just passing through," Moody replied simply, waving a hand before heading toward the exit that led to the Muggle world.
The patrons watched him tensely. The metallic sound of his staff striking the floor echoed with every step, and more than one imagined he was heading to some dangerous mission. At least they sighed in relief when they realized he wasn't there for them.
Moody stepped onto the Muggle street with firm confidence. Passersby turned their heads to look at him, puzzled by his strange clothes and limping gait. Thanks to an enchantment, his magical eye appeared to Muggles as nothing more than a simple patch. Still, the scars, the trench coat, and his permanently grim expression drew too much attention.
"Mmm… those idiots are still ten years away from learning how to hide properly," he muttered with a hint of scorn as he slipped into an alleyway.
A couple of men followed him nervously. They waited a few seconds before entering after him. Some onlookers on the street would later swear they had seen strange flashes of light in that alley, but soon enough Moody reappeared, unshaken, and continued on his way.
He could have used Apparition, but ever since he had left the Ministry, anyone connected to Amelia Bones was being watched. Apparition, the Floo Network—nothing escaped the eyes of those who wanted Sirius to fall. Even the Minister herself had warned him to be careful.
The British wizarding world might have seemed to be governed by the Ministry, but the reality was different. The hidden power of certain families still lingered in the shadows. It was no coincidence that Voldemort had gained such strength, placing the whole of magical Britain in check, even though pure-blood families were vastly outnumbered by half-bloods and Muggle-borns. Even now, with many locked away in Azkaban, remnants remained, loyal and waiting for their master's return.
Moody walked through several neighborhoods, weaving through side streets and alleys to shake off any tail. After a couple of hours, he finally reached his destination.
Privet Drive. But he didn't head toward the famous number four. Instead, he stopped at a nearby house. He knocked on the door, glancing through the window where several cats prowled about. One in particular fixed its gaze on him from the sill before darting away.
The door opened, releasing the smell of boiled cabbage and cat food. An elderly woman stood there, stooped, with short gray hair. She looked at him with surprise, almost fear. Her cats hissed, standing on guard as if ready to defend her.
"Dumbledore sent me," Moody announced, casting a brief look at the felines before locking his eyes on her. "He wants me to make sure the boy is all right."
"Dumbledore?" the woman repeated, surprised. "You're Alastor Moody, aren't you?"
"Yes," he answered calmly, though his expression remained as grim as ever.
"I've heard of you. Do you want to come in so I can tell you what I know… or would you rather go see for yourself?" the woman offered, gradually relaxing.
"I'll go myself. I trust my own eyes more," Moody replied seriously.
The woman didn't seem offended and told him directly where Harry lived.
….
Meanwhile, at the Jackson house.
"Aunt Mor, have you ever seen a Quidditch match?" Harry asked with complete excitement. In his hands he held a small enchanted toy that replayed a past game, with tiny figures flying on broomsticks around a miniature pitch.
Mor, not paying much attention, was busy drawing on Percy's face, which wore an expression of absolute defeat. Around them lay a battlefield of magical games scattered across the floor, clear evidence that Mor had beaten Percy at every single one of them.
"Quidditch? That game where they throw balls through hoops and chase after a little yellow bird," she said absentmindedly, while signing her masterpiece on Percy's face.
The boy rushed to a mirror and let out a groan: his reflection looked like a troll straight out of a bestiary.
"Yes!" Harry replied enthusiastically. "But it's not a bird… it's the Golden Snitch." His eyes sparkled with that childlike excitement that, somehow, managed to soften Mor.
She watched him for a moment and couldn't help but smile. Against all odds, she had grown fond of those two brats. If anyone were to see her at that moment, they would think she was nothing more than a kinder version of Mor. An impostor. Because everyone knew that, in the past, "evil" was far too mild a word to describe her.
"Hmm, I don't recall ever going to see a match in person," she admitted calmly.
"The next World Cup will be in 1990. I wish we could go," Harry said happily.
For a second, the mention made her eyes widen, and a flicker of sadness crossed her gaze. But seeing the boy's smile, she softened her expression.
"Well, if I'm still here, I'll go with you," she promised, ruffling his hair.
"We can go flying on brooms!" Harry exclaimed, even more excited.
"It's better if you don't use brooms outside of England," Mor answered, this time with a trace of seriousness.
"Huh? Why?" Harry asked, and Percy also turned his head in curiosity.
Before Mor could reply, Sally came in carrying an armful of snacks, wearing that gentle smile only she could. The children immediately recognized what it meant, and, forgetting the conversation completely, they ran to her to help carry everything.
"Are you ready for movie night?" Sally announced warmly, while the two boys eagerly surrounded her.
Mor watched them with a faint smile. "There's little time left to keep teaching… soon I'll have to return," she thought, and a slight trace of sadness glimmered in her eyes.
Suddenly, her gaze hardened and locked onto the window. She narrowed her eyes with disdain.
"Are you truly trying to see through the Mist placed by a goddess with such a cheap little trinket? Wizards have forgotten their roots… they don't even remember to whom they owe their magic," she murmured mockingly, before turning her attention back to the children who were calling her from the sofa.
In the end, she stood and walked toward them with a gentle smile, sitting down with the boys as they shared the snacks. Sally took her place in the middle. The movie that appeared on the screen was a Muggle production about wizards, which sent them all into laughter as they compared it to the real magic they now knew.