#managtmstarter

Alastor does his best to straighten out his flat. In the back of his mind he questions why he is going to such lengths to apologise to Aislinn Collins after canceling on her. It’s a part of his job, to cancel plans pertaining to his personal life. The murders of the Evans still stood starkly at the forefront of investigations his department are still trying to tackle and countless other minor attacks and damages to properties are coming up more and more. As Head Auror, he couldn’t start pointing fingers at suspected Death Eaters without probable cause but as an Order Member...the rules were far different. And perhaps the rules of the Order of the Phoenix will grant him breaks in cases as an Auror.

Breaking rules is not something Alastor feels any pleasure in doing but it must be done. He only feels incredibly grateful that he doesn’t have to be the one to act on it. Marcus has the nerve for it.

He trusts Marcus to do what needs to be done and will check on him soon enough. For now, Alastor forces himself to think less of his demanding work and more about just what he should do with the random mismatched mugs and cups he owns. His mother had a sense of togetherness in the home but it never made a dent in his own concept of home living. Now he wonders with Aislinn will notice all the odds and ends, worn and frayed books, the afghan his great grandmother made that is showing signs of serious improper care.

With pupils dilated to near pinpricks, Emma steps into the shop and holds her offering over her head. “Severus, I’m here for better company and I come bearing food.”

“Are ye certain it’s tadae ye wan’te go lookin’ fer a flat, Juliette?” Alastor stands in the doorway of the private room Marcus’ wife has been staying in at St. Mungo’s. He’s spoken with the healer who did further examinations and he’d cautioned that Lady McKinnon’s mental state is still very fragile, even if her body is recovering well.

There are four things Alastor Moody never leaves home without besides his wand: a piece of wood, a carving knife, his sneakoscope, and chewing tobacco. The trouble today is that he somehow failed to keep his tobacco supply stocked and is in desperate need of more.

Which is how he finds himself in Diagon Alley on the rare occasion. Associating with the denizens but constantly aware of his surroundings. His eyes take in the laugh of a child playing a trick on a friend, the hooded woman who sits in the shadows of a closed storefront with a tin, silently seeking out a spare knut or sickle. Every individual face is a potential assailant. That much his parents had made certain to instill him as a child and it still lives like a constant ally in his bones.

She’d sent her resume to the Department of Mysteries via owl right before she’d stepped on the train to head to King’s Crossing. They requested she come to their offices a day later to fill out some preliminary paperwork and emphasised that doing so would not guarantee her a position within their Department. Emma’s almost certain they do this to feel each candidate out. She knows that admission into the ranks of Unspeakables is a process far different from earning an entry level position in any other Ministry Department. No one knows what the employees do in the Department, which means no one can dictate how or who they hire, what their rules of employment can be.

The concept of utmost secrecy appeals to Emma, as does the opportunity to investigate or study, as many people have speculated the Unspeakables do. Dressed in her most formal muggle-safe attire, the young woman finishes paperwork and finds her way toward the main atrium.