Liars

“Warning Signs and Decisions Perhaps”

Spring, 1962

The information was worth the sacrifice, Alastor told himself, but that was difficult to remember when his hand was pressed to his side in a somewhat vain attempt to contain his internal organs.

They had thought, he and his partner, that they were chasing down one of Grindelwald’s old supporters who had somehow managed to evade capture for the last seventeen years or so. The man had certainly shown signs of such, and they had made the stupid mistake of assuming that he was weak, helpless, just because he acted weak and helpless.

That was another mistake he could add to the list of those he would never make again, he vowed with gritted teeth. He had watched as the man had used the Killing Curse on Bones right next to him--he had been busy trying to dislodge the heavy branch above the man’s head and bring it down, destroying the temporary shelter the man had rigged at the edge of the trees. Bones had seen what he was trying to do, tried to help and misjudged the angle, and it had cost him his life.

One mistake, Alastor thought to himself. One mistake and I have to tell Amelia her father is never coming home.

That was his least favorite part of his job. Due to what some said was “The Devil’s own luck” and Moody called “chance,” Moody had buried three partners so far. Now, he thought it was because he hadn’t been careful enough, hadn’t been aware enough, hadn’t been vigilant enough. It was a damned dangerous job he did, though necessary.

One false start told Alastor that apparating was a serious mistake in his condition, especially as far as London. Well, he was somewhere in the North, probably up near Scotland. If he couldn’t get to London, he would get to Hogwarts. It was the only other place where he could deliver his message and get his wounds tended to, hopefully before he died.

His broom felt as if it weighed a dozen times what it normally weighed, but Moody managed to drag it over to himself all the same. It was touch-and-go for a moment as to whether he would manage to stay on once he was in the air, but by wrapping the ends of his cloak around the handle of the broom in front of him, he managed to hold himself almost upright.

Though it felt like days he clutched to the handle of his broom, the sun still wasn’t threatening to rise when he finally glimpsed the towers of the school with a half-sob of relief. In his condition, it didn’t even occur to him to check that he didn’t fly too close, as there would most certainly be enchantments to stop anyone flying unannounced into the castle.

***

“Professor McGonagall!”

Minerva started, blotting the parchment she had been writing. Molly Prewett, a second-year Gryffindor, stood looking anxious in the doorway. “Yes, Miss Prewett? What is the matter?”

“The Headmaster says you must come at once, please,” the girl told her with the air of recitation.

“Yes, very well. Where is he?”

“He’s at the gates, Professor. He said it was awfully urgent.”

Minerva stood at once, letting the parchment roll itself back up, and sent the girl back to her dormitory. She always made an effort to look as though she weren’t in a hurry whenever she could, as that would assist in calming the students down. Some times, however, hurrying was simply unavoidable, and a summons from Professor Dumbledore was one of those times. Though why she should meet him at the gates...

She received her answer as soon as she opened the doors at the front of the castle, and saw the crumpled form on the grass. Her father had been a Healer, and since Hogwarts had lost its school nurse to a particularly vicious case of Dragon Pox the week before, Minerva had been filling in. “Albus!” she cried out as she ran, abandoning all pretense, to the auburn-haired wizard kneeling on the ground. “What has happened?” she demanded, dropping down next to him and gasping at the bloody form of Alastor Moody. “What--”

“Help me, please, Minerva.”

“Of course, Headmaster, but what--”

“Do not ask questions,” he told her firmly. “Make certain he is able to be moved to the castle. I am attempting to lift the hexes he incurred while trying to fly into Hogwarts proper. You will have to see to the wound in his side.”

Her eyes widened as they fell on the unsightly gash in the unconscious man’s side, and she turned quickly away. There were many good reasons that Minerva had decided not to become a Healer like her father, and seeing blood on a daily basis was one of them. Still... “I’ll do what I can,” she promised in a voice that only quavered a little.

Dumbledore wasn’t listening, but was twitching and waving his wand in a kind of dance as he mumbled incantations Minerva couldn’t quite work out. Tending to her own work, she set about attempting to convince the severed skin to knit back together, stopping occasionally to siphon off enough blood from the wound that she was able to clearly see what she was doing.

They worked in near-silence for the better part of an hour before the still form stirred, twitching fingers then finally opening his eyes. They went wide in panic for a moment, then relaxed at the sight of Dumbledore’s face. “Albus,” Moody croaked. “I need to tell you...”

“There will be time for that up in the hospital wing,” Albus assured him, and conjured up a stretcher. He extended a hand to Minerva, still kneeling on the ground, and helped her to stand.

“Albus,” she whispered in the general direction of the much taller man’s ear as they walked, “he needs rest, and proper Healing of a kind that I cannot--”

He raised one long-fingered hand, and she fell silent. “Minerva,” he told her as they ascended the stairs leading towards the Hospital Wing, “please do not doubt that while I do take Alastor’s condition into account, there is information he possesses that cannot wait, no matter what the danger. This may be far more important than anyone yet knows, even me.”

Minerva had no choice but to jog along to keep up with the Headmaster’s long legs.

There were stars above him, and the cold was chilling his bones. He was in space. Drifting...serenely....through space.

“Alastor, you’ve kicked off your blankets. You must be freezing.”

The stern voice woke him up fully, and his eyes gradually adjusted to see Minerva McGonagall’s face looming over his. He jerked away reflexively, only to cry out when the movement opened the wound in his side.

“If you don’t lie still, I’m going to Stun you,” the witch said severely. She was wearing her hair in a bun now--he didn’t like it.

With her help, Alastor managed just barely to settle himself on his back again, sighing in relief as the pain eased. “You should take that out of your hair,” he mumbled under his breath. “Makes you look old.”

Minerva shot him a glare. “I’m younger than you by three years,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but that’s no great shakes. I’m on death’s door.” He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much, and he subsided into a grimace of pain instead.

“You are no such place.” Minerva smoothed his blankets into place, then straightened up. “If you’re comfortable, I’ll just tell Albus that you can answer his questions now.”

Alastor let the shade of a grin creep onto his face. Ah, he loved to watch her walk away.

Albus wasn’t nearly as strict as Minerva had been with him, but he seemed disapproving nonetheless. “I had no choice,” Alastor cut him off before the older man could say anything. “All right, I forgot there were anti-flight jinxes on the castle, but--”

“I am not intending to lecture you about your rather dramatic form of arrival,” the Headmaster told him quietly. “I would, however, be glad to make your report to the Head of the Auror office in your stead, if you are not feeling up to the task.”

“I’d be fine if there were a proper medi-witch on hand,” Moody grumbled, but nodded. “You have perfect recall, right?” At Dumbledore’s nod, he continued. He told the story of how they had heard of a man practicing dark and secret arts on the edge of Gretna Green, how he and Bones had been assigned to investigate, how a thorough search of the town had turned up a few horror stories but nothing more. He told how he and Bones had tracked the man down and managed to hold him for long enough that he knew what they were facing, and how it wasn’t what they had been expecting. Finally, he told Dumbledore about how Bones had fallen, how Alastor had finished the man off and managed to barely get away, and his harrowing flight to Hogwarts at last.

Albus was silent for a moment after hearing the story. His long fingers were steepled together in front of his pursed lips, and his eyes were narrowed. At last, he spoke. “Alastor, as I’m certain you understand, it is absolutely imperative that you do not mention any of what you know to anyone but myself and the Head--” he broke off, seeing Moody’s indignant expression, and nodded. “Of course you would know this, being an Auror. But Alastor, the import of this news...”

“I know what it could do, Albus,” Moody growled, sounding like his old self again. “Why do you think I half killed myself getting the news back to you in the first place? My only question is, why haven’t you done something about him before now? From what our quarry told us, this bastard’s been around for a decade or more, trying to raise followers. Sounds like he’s setting himself up to be the next Grindelwald, if you ask me.” Alastor had heard rumors about Albus’s teenaged involvement with the dark wizard from his father, and had perversely attempted to mention Grindelwald’s name in every Transfiguration class he had taken with Dumbledore, trying desperately to see if he could surprise the older man into a confession or a telltale expression, but was always disappointed. This time was no different.

“Oh, I think he is attempting to do far worse than that,” Dumbledore agreed. “As to why I haven’t ‘done anything’ about him until now...my dear boy, do you really think that to be true? I assure you, I have set careful safeguards around the one styling himself Lord Voldemort. If he attempts to do more than he has already--which is to say, if it seems as if he is committing crimes himself instead of gathering followers with dark tendencies--please be assured that the head of your office will have my full cooperation. However, while he remains in the shadows...” Dumbledore sighed and shook his head. “There is little I can do about a man I suspect might be a threat in the future.”

Moody nodded his grudging acceptance. “Still think you should just take the bastard out, though. Save us all a lot of--”

“I will have none of that talk in my school, Alastor,” Albus said warningly, and Moody shut his mouth at once. “Think about the implications of what you are saying. Those are the same sorts of allegations that lead to Gryffindors stating that we should throw out all those sorted into Slytherin House, or think themselves justified in hexing members of that house for imagined wrongs. Yes, I remember how you behaved when you were a student here, and I had sincerely hoped that those tendencies had waned by now.”

Alastor had the good grace to look abashed. “I didn’t...all right, yeah, I did,” he admitted. More formally, he said, “I respect your opinions, but we’ll have to differ on this one.”

Albus smiled. “I can ask for no more of a friend. And speaking as a friend, would you mind terribly if I asked what you have done to upset my Transfiguration teacher so?”

Alastor blinked. “Me? Upset? When?”

“The last time I mentioned your name, she implied there was, ah, bad blood between the two of you. I do not require you to be friends, but as you are two of the best pupils I have ever trained I would be very much obliged if you would be willing to work together if I were to so require it.”

Alastor barked a laugh. “I’ll work with her, sure,” he said generously. “If she’ll work with me. And if she asks you what--”

“I do not require details,” Dumbledore said, standing up, “nor do I desire to be an intermediary between you. But between you and I, Alastor, I would be quite polite to Minerva while she is tending your wounds. Good night.”

Albus had only been gone a minute or so before Minerva came bustling back in. He thought she always looked like she was in a hurry. “Your wounds?” she asked brusquely.

“Hurt,” he answered, just as shortly. “Take your hair down.” He reached up for it, but she slapped his hand away.

“There will be none of that movement for you, Mr. Moody. I expect you to lay very still while I change the dressings.”

Alastor grinned. “I can do that.”

“The stillness includes your mouth.”

“Is that medically necessary, Madam?”

“It is necessary for the mental health of your erstwhile Healer, Mr. Moody.”

Alastor waited, not wanting to move too much for fear of reopening his injury, but caught her wrist in his hand when it ventured close enough. “You haven’t been to see me in months.”

“Let me go,” she said quietly, “or your bandages won’t be changed.”

He released her, grimacing in pain as she pressed the edge of the bandage to his burning side. “Any chance of a potion to take the pain away?”

Minerva conjured a chair and sat in it, to his surprise. “This is far more comfortable than bending over you,” she said in response to his inquisitive look.

“Yeah, but now I can’t see your tits,” he pointed out. “That’s a serious flaw in your--OW!”

“I told you to keep your mouth still,” she said reprovingly, tightening his bandage. “I have to make certain this stays on, and if you make me angry...” she trailed away, allowing him to fill in the details for himself.

Her accent made him hard. Or maybe it was the smell of her after five months of nothing at all. He doubted it was her soft touch--her fingers had always been bony and a little cold, and now she was prodding him painfully. He wasn’t sure if he hoped she would notice his erection or not. Knowing her, the mad witch might take offense and punch him.

Minerva worked in silence for a few minutes. The only sound was the soft rustle of bandages against cloth and skin, and he noticed that he was the only patient in the hospital wing. Contrary to his expectations, he actually found himself starting to relax under her ministrations which, although not gentle, were certainly thorough. Bit like himself, he thought in amusement, and let one side of his mouth quirk into a grin.

Fortunately, she didn’t notice. “There,” she said briskly. “You’re all patched up. You should stay here for the evening, then we’ll transfer you to St. Mungos.”

“Don’t go yet,” he said when she turned to leave.

“Why not?”

Alastor shrugged. “All right, don’t tell me why you chose me. Don’t tell me why you came to my apartment every month for five years so that I could screw you through the table. But tell me why you stopped coming.”

Minerva adjusted her robes self-consciously. “Perhaps I didn’t need you anymore,” she informed him. “Perhaps I found someone different, willing to take care of my needs without--”

“No, you didn’t,” he said with certainty. “You’d flaunt it in my face if you did. So why did you stop? Don’t give me any of your perhapses, either.”

“Perhaps it has escaped your notice, Mister Moody, but I am neither your pupil nor your underling,” she said coldly, drawing herself up to her not-inconsiderable height, “and I would appreciate you remembering that you cannot order me around as such.”

Moody rolled his eyes. “It was a simple question, girl. No need to get your--”

He stopped talking as she turned once more to leave. “Wait, Minerva!” he called.

She turned around to face him. “And why should I?”

Almost apologetically, he gestured to the bulge under the sheet. “Because, Nurse, I have another wound that needs seeing to.”

He truly thought for a moment that she was going to aim a curse--possibly an Unforgivable--at his chest. He looked right up into her eyes, unrepentant, and was a little relieved to see that her wand arm, which had become very tense, relaxed after a moment (though she still looked furious).

“Why would I ever want to do something like that?” she hissed.

Moody cast his mind around for a reason. “Because....you feel sorry for me?” he tried. “Wounded in the line of duty and righteousness?”

Her mouth pursed and all of a sudden she really looked like a Professor to him. “If you have ever been on the side of righteousness, I have no doubt that it was entirely by accident.” But she didn’t leave.

“Because...” he tried again, “you miss it?”

“Hardly.”

Alastor was enjoying himself now, every time she didn’t turn and leave him there. “Because you can pretend I’m someone else?” That was a risky one, he knew, but it was better than not trying at all.

Her eyes narrowed. “I would be very careful about that subject if I were you,” she said.

“Why?” Oh Hell, the worst she could do was kill him. “It’s why you came to me in the first place, isn’t it? Or don’t you want him anymore?”

She opened her mouth (he was certain) to yell at him, but he cut her off smoothly. “Or is it that you found out the reason he doesn’t want you?”

That stopped her short, as he had known it would. Was it really possible she didn’t know? But every reaction she made seemed to connote that... “Give me a ‘hand’ here, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“That would, in fact, make me a prostitute.”

He laughed. “I’m not offering you any money. Just information. You know, between friends. You stroke my--”

“Back,” she supplied quickly.

“Right,” he agreed readily, “and I’ll stroke...yours.”

Her hand was so close now, definitely close enough to touch, and Alastor was hyper-aware of his helpless state. It seemed that Minerva was somewhat aware of it as well, as she didn’t look nearly as angry as before. “We are in trouble, aren’t we?” she asked delicately, sliding the sheets off his lower body.

“Yes, Nurse,” he said with an impish nod. He knew without a doubt that if Minerva McGonagall really hadn’t wanted this to happen, she would have found another way to get her information. She was far cleverer than he was, and just as good at getting what she wanted. His eyes closed as her fingers (not as bony or as cold as he had remembered) closed around his length for what he realized was the first time. They had never been much for foreplay, those scattered nights he had taken her, and he rested his head back on the pillow with a groan. “Good,” he muttered softly. “Really good.”

He heard a strange rustling noise, and looked up to see that she had taken her hair down. It was falling around her face in dark waves once liberated from the bun, and he reached up tentatively to run his fingers through it. She didn’t object, and he sighed. “Really good,” he repeated as her hand worked up and down, trying to surreptitiously smell her hair. He liked the way she smelled.

“Stop that,” she told him, and he guiltily dropped his hand. “I told you to lay still. Or do you want everyone to say that I don’t know how to administer a proper bedside manner?”

Alastor’s jaw dropped down to his chest. This...this flirty playfulness, this mock-sternness, this loose-haired vixen, was not any Minerva McGonagall he had ever met. The one he had known was angry, uptight, and disapproving. This woman was, well, rather attractive, and she was treating his cock ever so nicely with her hand, and oh--her mouth!

Alastor stared down at a sight he never thought he would see, as Minerva sucked him into her mouth. He wouldn’t have made fun of her now for lack of experience--she had clearly had enough to be getting on with. Not only that, but she was downright good at what she was doing, taking him skillfully into her mouth and pulling back effortlessly, swirling her tongue around the head, making his hips lift pleadingly off the mattress for more.

She took him in again and again, one hand reaching down to softly stroke the heavy sac between his legs, and he started to tremble. “Gods, Minerva,” he breathed, feeling his muscles begin to tense---

And then it was gone. She was sitting up, brushing her hair away from her face, looking rather pleased with herself.

“Er,” he said, trying to form a better sentence than ‘you aren’t finished,’ “Are you....”

“Going to finish you off?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. “That depends. What do you know about Albus Dumbledore?”

He stared up into her uncompromising face. “I....Minerva, that wasn’t the deal we--”

“What,” she asked again, running just the edge of a fingertip all the way up his length to the tip, “do you know about Albus Dumbledore that I don’t? I can continue doing this as long as you like.”

He took one look into her eyes, decided she was telling the truth, and capitulated. “Rumors,” he admitted, “I’ve only heard rumors that he was--Merlin, please, Minerva...”

“Rumors?” she asked with a hint of steel in her voice, and her fingers closed around the base of his cock again, making him whimper.

“Yes, that’s all they were,” he assured her. “Probably not even true...”

She seemed to decide that he needed a bit more incentive, and hiked her robes up to her waist, discarding her underthings and climbing on top of the bed. Alastor’s eyes lit up and his hips strained upwards, but she paused, right at the apex of their joining. “I believe,” she told him with just a hint of a catch in her voice, and he could feel the moist heat of her so perfectly positioned, “that you were going to tell me about these rumors....”

“Rumors that he was romantically involved with Grindelwald!” he shouted in a panic to make the moment end, but instead of sliding down on him, she froze. Too late, he realized how stupid it had been to say that to her. “Minerva,” he stammered, “like I said, it’s only rumors...please, Minerva, no more teasing.”

Would she give in to him? Would she leave? He didn’t breathe as she made up her mind. He registered, seeing her face, how stricken she was. Merlin, he thought to himself. She’s really mad for him.

The moment seemed to last for an eternity for Alastor, who was certain he would pass out soon from lack of oxygen as she seemed to hover, immobile. Somehow Moody knew that she was torn between running after Albus to throw herself at his feet and accepting things as they were, here at this turning point straddling his hips.

Then her eyes met his and she sank down, impaling herself with a swift cry. He groaned, trying not to shoot already just from all of the teasing she had put him through.

Her black hair was cascading down her back and shoulders, and he wished she were naked so he could see those perfect tits of hers, too good for a bookworm, wished that he could grab her hips like he used to and force her down at his pace, punishing them both with the force of it. But this was Minerva’s ball, court, and match, and all the moves were up to her.

Her thighs were trembling as she raised herself up each time, then sank slowly down. He was filling her more than ever before, mostly because he felt harder than he had ever been, and she felt tighter. Alastor found himself utilizing the breathing and relaxation techniques he had been taught in combative training in order to restrain himself as she slowly, slowly fucked herself on his cock.

After long minutes, Minerva began to speed up, and at her gasp he opened his eyes. She was touching herself, her hand rubbing frantically between her legs right above where he was disappearing into her body again and again, and her moans were driving him over the edge and he heard a low growl building in his throat, louder and louder until it threatened to rip through his chest...

It was all too much for both of them far too soon, and he had never heard her scream so loud no matter how hard he had taken her, and he was calling out too, and he marveled in that dim corner of his mind that was still paying attention to such things at the fact that she managed to fall on his uninjured side.

They lay panting in sync on the hospital bed for long minutes, neither feeling up to speech. Only the thought that someone would eventually need either the Hospital Wing or the Transfiguration Professor interrupted their reverie, and Minerva shakily tugged her robes back down over her legs. Shame, he thought. She had nice legs.

Neither of them spoke as she removed herself from his bedside, but something had changed between them, something subtle in the moment that she had chosen to stay. What exactly had happened Alastor was sure he could try and figure out once he could move again. For now, he contented himself with once again watching Minerva McGonagall walk away.