Liars

“The Perils of Survival”

1994-1995

Minerva wasn't entirely certain how she should have reacted when Albus visited her in her office late one evening in June. "Terrible business, about Remus Lupin."

"Yes," she agreed with a hint of sharpness. "It's a shame that certain Professors are so incapable of--"

"Now, now, Minerva," said Dumbledore gently. "I understand that you feel some loyalty to Remus, after having been his head of house, but we must attempt to remain both fair and unbiased. It is entirely possible that Severus believed that he was acting in the best interests of the students."

Minerva did not think that even Albus Dumbledore could believe such a thing from Severus Snape, but knew when to hold her tongue.

"It would seem," the Headmaster continued, "that we are once again at a loss for a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. I have decided to take a somewhat unconventional approach in my appointment, for reasons I will presently outline."

Minerva waited for Albus to get to the point. He would not have come here to tell her about just any staff appointment. He was leading up to something, she was certain.

The headmaster folded his hands and said quietly, "We all know that this world of ours has been darkening steadily over the last fifty years, Minerva. The past thirteen have merely been a respite. I have always said this, from the night that you and I stood in Privet Drive."

Minerva nodded. She remembered that fateful night, when not even news of James and Lilly Potter's deaths had overshadowed the feelings of rejoicing, excitement, and profound relief from the Wizarding community. Even then, Dumbledore had seemed less excited than everyone else, not to mention his distraction in the form of the baby Harry Potter.

"The point, Minerva, is that the shadow has been growing again, and it has almost regained form. Yes, you know of what I speak. That is why I think it will be time for a new direction in our course. I am telling you this," he said in response to her expression that must have asked exactly why, "because I will need your help. Just as I did last year, I will need you to help me convince the other teachers that my appointee can be trusted. And more importantly," and now his eyes met hers over the top of his half-moon spectacles, "I will need you to keep an eye on the students. You of all people know how he can be when he thinks he's being threatened."

The import of his words sank into her, and she gasped, "But you can't! He isn't a teacher, doesn't even like children! He's not qualified, and..." and I don't want to see him again, she finished lamely in her head, certain that as always Albus could pick up on even her unvoiced thoughts. It was not quite Legilimency that the Headmaster utilized, merely a long familiarity and rapport with those he was able to easily read, along with an uncanny understanding of the way most people’s minds worked.

Albus waited until he was certain that Professor McGonagall wasn't going to continue her sentence, then said quietly, "I can, Minerva, and I will, because I must. They need to know what is facing them, especially as certain of them have such a penchant for getting into situations in which even grown wizards would be lost. Alastor can teach them that, teach them what it means to truly fight against the Dark Arts, to dedicate yourself to a purpose so clear that it consumes you. Not only by telling them, but by example."

She knew what he meant. It hurt her to hear it, but she knew it was true. How many would-be heroes would be spared an early death by seeing up close and personal just what so-called heroic deeds could do to a person? And what better object lesson could there be than the once-great Auror Alastor Moody? She had heard of Moody's doings, the last decade, but not spoken to him. She had heard that no one called him by his first name anymore, but "Mad-Eye" for the electric blue magical eye that now resided in one of his eye sockets. She had seen it only once, caught a glimpse at Lily and James's funeral, and it had made her shiver. She had had the uncomfortable sensation that all through the funeral, the eye had been trained on her. Minerva had also heard that Alastor had retired from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, that he was essentially living out his days in various states of deluded paranoia in his cottage. In the old days of the war his enemies had called him mad, but there had been respect in their voices, and they had only spoken of him in hushed tones. He had always been at least two steps ahead of the ones he was fighting, but now he was ten steps ahead, frequently in the wrong direction. Now he was ridiculed for his ‘vigilance,’ she knew. She had heard students speaking of a stupid old man who jinxed his neighbor's cat when it wandered too closely, speaking of it and laughing at the barmy old codger.

It had hurt.

"Being misunderstood is a peril of outliving trouble," Albus said softly, once again as if he could read her thoughts. "You and I have both encountered this. Alastor knows that being ridiculed is an occupational hazard of having survived great conflict. I've told him this myself. It is far easier for those young people who call us mad to think so, because they do not want to think that they could end up like us if they do what is right." His smile was sad. "No one who wants to be a hero when they grow older ever thinks about what happens after the battle. Sometimes, just rewards are unjust."

In the face of both logic and the compassion that Dumbledore obviously still felt for Alastor, Minerva knew that it would be quite wrong of her to complain about the appointment based on a relationship she had had with the Ex-Auror many years ago. "I'll do what I can, Albus," she promised. "I doubt very much that I'll be able to stop Moody if he truly intends to hurt someone--"

"I have already spoken to Alastor about cursing first and asking questions later," he interrupted smoothly. "I have met with him extensively this year, and I believe that his nerves are up to the task. If they were not, I think he would have refused the appointment, don't you?"

"I don't really know what he would or wouldn't do anymore, Headmaster," she admitted, almost ashamed to do so. "I haven't spoken to him for nearly fifteen years, after all." Had it really been fifteen years? Some days it felt like mere hours since she had seen his scarred visage leering down at her, since she had felt him, strong and sure, between her thighs and pressing her into the table.

Some days it felt like it had never happened at all.

"Well," Albus said briskly, getting to his feet, "I suppose that is that. I will leave you to your evening, as I have a few owls to send. Are we still having tea tomorrow?" She nodded, and he swept out of the room, leaving only uncomfortable memories and a vague sense of forboding in his wake.


Alastor fought with everything he had, but there were two of them and only one of him, and he was overpowered and no longer young, just as he had always feared. The intruder alerts had worked, but the bastards seemed to know exactly what to do to get around each and every one of them. It's just as I always feared, he thought with a mix of terror and triumph. "COME OUT AND FIGHT LIKE MEN!" he roared, aiming swift jinxes through the window as fast as he could, but it was no use. They had taken him asleep and as unprepared as he ever was, and there were two of them, and he was caught.

He was caught by the enemy at last.


Minerva was shocked to see Alastor when he first arrived so dramatically into the Great Hall. The scars that had been angry welts the last time she had seen them were faded to thin lines, giving his skin a patched and faded look. His magical eye was as frightening as ever, and she wondered absurdly whether he could see through clothing, hers in particular. The thought caused her to flush and look away when he turned to see her.

The most frightening thing for Minerva about seeing Moody again was that he hardly seemed to recognize her. Had it been so long? Had he...no, he couldn't have forgotten. He was not truly mad, after all, or Albus would not have allowed him to teach. He must be ignoring her for some reason, she was certain. Perhaps they hadn't parted on the best of terms, but that was no reason they couldn't be civil to each other when they were going to be colleagues, for Heaven's sake.

She made an overture to him, invited him to her room for tea, but he brushed her off. "Can't be too careful," he had said, patting his hip flask. "Don't accept drinks from just anyone."

Minerva McGonagall struggled for a moment to keep her face still, not betraying the internal shock and hurt she was feeling. The worst part, she thought as she marched back to her office, was that he didn't seem to realize he had said anything to upset her.

She caught him only two days later, transfiguring Draco Malfoy into a white ferret. She, once again, was forced to play the Professor, telling him off as well as the students loitering about. Again, Moody seemed supremely uncaring. It was enough to drive her mad.

If he had truly been mad, she could have forgiven him. If he had run about cursing everything that moved, or trying to dance with suits of armor, or giving out blowing gum wrappers like poor Alice Longbottom, she could have forgiven him a thousand times, would have done anything, anything to try and help. But Alastor Moody, it became very clear, was not mad.

He just no longer cared about her.


Locked in his own truck, subdued by spells and potions, Alastor Moody brooded. There wasn’t much else he could do in the situation. Without his leg, he was immobile. Without his eye, he was impaired. Without his wand, he was powerless. Without his wits about him, all he could do was brood. Brood, and take savage pleasure in the fact that the Impostor, as he called the man in his mind, had not thought to ask about Minerva McGonagall. He had been bombarded with every sort of question about himself, about Albus, about the school itself, and had given full and complete answers to every question he had been asked. The Imperius Curse was far worse than either of the other Unforgivables, he thought darkly, because it stripped a person of their very mind. He would far rather have been tortured or dead than trapped in this hell. If he had kept his wooden leg, he would have swallowed the clear potion without hesitation rather than be used against those he had considered friends and allies for half a century. He wondered if the Impostor was teaching the children about what it felt like to be Imperiused right then and there. It had been part of his planned curriculum, after all.

Deep in the part of his mind that was still his own, one bruised and battered corner of it, Moody clung fiercely to two thoughts. The first was that the mission (whatever it was) could not be going according to plan, or he wouldn't still be here. The second was that surely, surely, before long, either Minerva or Albus would notice that it wasn't him, couldn't be him, was as unlike him as a person could be. There was no way that anyone could duplicate another person so fully as to be indistinguishable to even their closest friends.

But day after day, Moody had to concede that he was wrong.


Minerva hated Alastor Moody. She had hated him since she met him. She hated everything about him, from his hip flask to his scars to his stupid hidden compartment in his stupid hollow wooden leg. She hated the way he used to touch her, and hated more fiercely the way he no longer did.

Most of all, Minerva hated the way that he obviously didn't care for her, but she couldn't stop thinking about him.


Deep in his own trunk, Alastor Moody lost track of the days. As hard as he could, he focused on anything, anything, other than Minerva McGonagall. His thoughts were weapons against those he loved in the hands of The Impostor.

She would not die because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She would not.


The Third Task ended horribly, unexpectedly, in murder. Minerva stared down at the Diggory boy’s body, unable to believe what she was seeing. He couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t. Looking around in a panic, the first person she saw was Moody, limping purposefully towards the body on the ground. “Alastor,” she begged with a sob about to rise in her voice, “he might just be sleeping. Give him the Awakening Draft, please.”

“Don’t have time to brew one,” was his response, and he seemed focused on something besides even the dead boy on the ground. She watched in surprise and growing horror as he stumped over to the Potter boy, leading him back up to the Castle. A howl broke into her concentration, and she turned back to see Amos Diggory, a good man, weeping brokenly on his knees.

After one moment more, something clicked. She turned and saw Albus, suddenly rigid, and their eyes met. Many times they had shared a thought on the heels of one another, and this was one of those times yet again.

The man who had just left the pitch was not Alastor Moody.

Then they were running, pelting up the distance to the castle, and somehow Snape had joined them, and they weren’t going to be in time, and how could she have been so stupid?

That Harry was only almost-killed by the time they made it into the room was nothing short of a miracle coupled with a penchant of Dark wizards to speak for eternities. Minerva had been sent by Albus to fetch a dog from a pumpkin patch (though why that was important she was certain Albus would explain later), and so missed seeing the twisted flesh of Moody be replaced by the firmer and smoother skin of Barty Crouch, Jr. The man told his sickening story, a tale of deception and betrayal that made her feel ill with disgust, and her heart clenched painfully when he talked of surprising Alastor in his own home. Just as he always feared, she thought with a wrench. The Potter boy was shaking by the end of it, and Albus removed him from the room, leaving her to keep vigilant.

She was startled when the door opened again and Poppy Pomfrey bustled in, looking as serious as ever. “Where is he?” she asked, and Minerva stared at her in confusion. “Alastor Moody, the real one,” the harried witch elaborated, looking around the room. “Snape said that he was here.”

With a jolt, Minerva caught sight of the trunk, standing open mere feet from her. “He must be in there,” she said quickly, keeping her wand trained at the throat of Barty Crouch Jr. Sure enough, Alastor was recovered from the depths of the trunk, covered with a traveling cloak and looking... worrying.

Minerva forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. For the first time, she understood the fury Alastor had always told her about, when he had a Death Eater at his mercy and was forced to hold back.


When everything was said and done, the man who had committed the crimes Kissed in front of her very eyes and the school in mourning, she sought Alastor in his darkened office.

“Who is it?” he barked.

“It’s Minerva.”

The door opened just a crack, and she could see his magical eye scanning her intently. After a moment he growled, “Why did you hate me at school?”

It was such an odd question that Minerva laughed, then stopped at the look on his face. “Because you lost Gryffindor so many points,” she said, and the door opened the rest of the way.

“Had to make sure,” he said gruffly, and she felt another squeeze to her chest as she saw how he had changed.

Once inside his office, she realized she had no idea what to say. She hadn’t come with any specific purpose in mind other than to reassure herself that they were real, all the years she and Alastor had spent together, and that he was alive and as whole as he could be. Once she saw him, though, she was at a loss for words. Their years had obviously happened--it seemed foolish now, the way she had begun to doubt. And Alastor was deeply shaken by his ordeal, she could tell. He was even more jumpy and distrustful than usual, though at least now he seemed to have no problem in meeting her eyes.

Finally, she knew she had to say something--anything--to break the silence. “You look better,” she said lamely, but was rewarded with a harsh bark of laughter that put her somehow at ease.

“Not quite dead yet,” he said grudgingly. “Not for the bastard’s care and tenderness, though. Filth,” he added in disgust, eyes wandering to his old trunk. He looked as if he were steeling himself to say something, and she felt a lump grow in her own throat.

At the exact same moment, they both said, “Forgive me.” Then, “For what?”

Minerva laughed a little sadly. “For not realizing at once that it couldn’t have been you. For suspecting that you had changed so much as to be unrecognizable.”

“I have changed,” he said harshly. “I’m not the man I used to be, Minerva. I’ve only got pieces of him left.” He turned away, facing his sneakoscope which lay, dismantled and quiescent, on the table. “I’m sorry I let them take me. I endangered the school, the students, the whole world.” There was pain etched into the deep lines and grooves in his face, and she reached for him instinctively.

She had expected him to pull back, or even hex her out of reflex, but instead he pulled her close. His arms were around her, her head pressed into the crook where shoulder met neck, and his breath was warm on her neck.

For just a moment, it was as if nothing had ever changed. Alastor’s arms were just as strong as they had ever been, and they held her just as tightly as they ever had. Minerva looked into his eyes then--or his eye, as the magical blue one was still scanning the room for any possible threat even then. It wouldn’t matter when her eyes were closed, she thought firmly, and kissed him.

Even his lips were scarred now, split by the same thin lines that split the rest of his skin, but she didn’t care. His walking stick hit the floor with a clatter as both of his hands came to her head, holding her still as if frightened she would slip away.

Then, it seemed as if nothing mattered.

It didn’t seem to matter that they were both moving more slowly now, both over the age of seventy.

It didn’t seem to matter that he had to sit in the chair as he could no longer stand for long periods of time.

It didn’t seem to matter that she was riding him, gentle and slow, instead of being taken hard and fierce.

It didn’t seem to matter that it had been fifteen years since he had last been inside her, for he fit as perfectly as ever.

They took longer, went slower, than they ever had before. There were caresses, to make sure that the other was real. There were kisses, to make sure the other still had feelings. There was pleasure, to link the two of them in ways they had both thought abandoned to the recesses of time long ago.

And finally, there was absolution, resolution, and forgiveness.