saw the darkest hearts of men

"That’s enough." 

Amelia frowned. What was enough? He’d seen enough? Or… Please don’t make me ask, Moody, just tell me. It can’t possibly get worse. 

He wasn’t going to tell her. He wasn’t going to explain anything. The panic clawed at her throat again as he set down the small bottle and grabbed her charts, preparing to leave. He gave her instructions, telling her things she already knew as she sat there, clutching her pajamas to her chest. She couldn’t pull them back up without the bandage in place unless she wanted the fabric to stick to the wound. She couldn’t even lay back down yet, how did he expect her to sleep?

"Wait, please…Al—- Moody, wait," she begged. If she would have been capable of moving, she would have tried to block his path. "What is it? What did he carve into my back? Does it mean something? I know you don’t like me, but please…please just tell me what’s going on. Please." 

Teeth worried her bottom lip while she waited to see if he’d answer her questions and her eyes fell to the little bottle he’d left by the balled up bandages. What was it? Why had he put it there? Did he think she wouldn’t notice? What are you up to, Moody?

Moody would have groaned had he an ounce less self control than he did; as it was, he stopped in his tracks and inclined his head slightly, an expression of poorly-restrained impatience sliding over his face. Why couldn't he just leave? Why couldn't he say something, be done with it, and not have to deal with people interjecting themselves when all he wanted to do was find somewhere quiet-- or, quieter, silence was no longer an option for him-- and think about what he wanted to do? Because then everything would be too easy. (you don't want life to be easy, do you?)

Wouldn't mind it at this point.

He stopped counting after the first three of her 'please's', the word enough of a surprise to lead him to turn enough to observe the young hit witch out the corner of his eye. If he took a step back from his bias, what was she? A small, pale, wounded wisp of a woman and of her former self, begging for some peace or comfort. It was difficult to compare the sight to his mental image of her, the hit witch who'd happily gone out of her way to prove herself as petty by going after his lads in her stupid little quest. Difficult, but not impossible. A nuisance delayed, he told himself, but no matter how much of a nuisance she was, he own sense of guilt made him feel responsible for her.

Moody hated feeling responsible for people.

“My opinion a' you doesn't matter, stop bringin' it up. You know he thinks he's an artist. I can't tell if that mark is supposed to be more 'art' or his signature.” He raised and lowered a shoulder. “S'different than his usual.” It hadn't passed him by unnoticed that she had seen the bottle he'd left behind; he hadn't expected it would. “What's important now is rememberin' he won't attack afore you've recovered. You have time to breathe, least. It's no fun for him if it's too easy."

The charts were slipped inside of his coat as he remembered them. "I'll send a Healer to re-do the bandages-- an' that's Dreamless sleep. The concentration is higher than what would be brewed for you, so don't take more'n half of it. If you need more, you have three days on that bottle to find your own, an' a month off work to figure out how to sleep on your own without it.”

       Moody’s reaching in his cloak, shitfuckinghellMerlin’s        saggysoddingballs, Alastor Moody is going to                k  i  l  l     m  e  .  .  .

No weapon. No threat. Or, threat, but one that would come with enough warning for him to respond. Threat, was this boy a-- fucking shit! The last thing he wanted to do was consider that word in relation to the young wizard in front of him, but as powerful as his predilection toward denial could be, it was damnably brittle. The slightest pressure would crack it and allow facts to filter through.

Alastor's shoulders twitched when Lupin took a step back, but he made no further movements. Within one pocket, his hand crushed his gloves; within the other, his fingers were wrapped around the hilt of his wand, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. Several heartbeats were spent like this, still and staring, before: