#whatdoesn'tkillme

5:00 Tonks' Residence

Was he wrong? No-- He was just being cautious. Of course he was pleased they were back-- No, he enjoyed thinking about every possible fate that could have befallen the two, really, give him some credit for not being completely heartless here-- That wasn't the point he was trying to argue! The point he had an issue with was that, that they were back. There were a few visible injuries, and certainly they were shaken, but they were just... back. It felt too much like a miracle.

Don't you believe in miracles, he'd asked.

Of course not, Moody had replied.

He had more experience with missing persons cases than he cared to think about, especially considering the fact such cases technically fell under the jurisdiction of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, unless there was evidence dark wizards may be involved or the case was declared sensitive (usually involving a child or some other person of interest.) Since the war had broken out in earnest, however, more and more missing persons were connected to the Death Eaters, so naturally they wound up in his office. And he hated it-- before, when someone went missing, they were usually found shortly and the search called off. If they weren't found within two days, they typically weren't to be found at all, beside the occasional discovery of a rotten corpse or the even rarer find of a mentally and physically traumatized (but living) victim. Now, when someone went missing, he had the privilege of looking forward to finding a mutilated body; it was just a matter of time before those bastards exhibited their work.

Moody had prepared himself for the worst. And watching the two-- Mrs. Tonks managing to be an excellent host in spite of her recent adventures, the young Bones with his friends-- he found that the sense of relief that was currently humming amongst the bodies in the room was avoiding him like a man with dragon pox.

Don't worry, Alastor. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation, we need just wait and see, Dumbledore had insisted, calmly shooting down his request to question them privately beforehand, citing his earlier reasoning that to separate them from their worried friends and family when they'd only just returned home and force them to relive any trauma would be inhumane.

The Death Eaters slaughter at will, but Merlin forbid we're 'inhumane'! Arguing with Albus was like dealing with doxys: The second you think you've won, you've lost, and lost hard. He could see why so many people chose to avoid arguing with the man in the first place. Better to save one's energy for tasks one might actually have a chance at succeeding at, such as, say, befriending a dragon, or getting the fabulous foursome to shut up for thirty seconds. That realization didn't mean Moody was going to give up, merely that he was going to be perfectly aware of his odds as he continued to beat his head against the unmovable force that was the will of their leader until he gave himself a concussion. Such was his lot in life.

And so he was forced to exercise some patience, hovering around the peripheries of the group, back to a wall, acutely aware of all exits, as he was wont to do. Moody was starting to know these people despite his best efforts to keep himself distanced, and a lot of that could be chalked up to the events of the week before. No matter how much he'd objected to letting so many untrained and untested children stretch their necks out for the Order, he had to begrudgingly admit that they'd handled themselves well-- or, as well as they could, given the circumstances-- much better than he'd feared. That didn't mean he was going to be easier on the lot of them, but it did mean there might be some small chance a couple of them might live past the end of the war. (He hoped.)

When someone called for a toast, Moody carefully avoided a certain man's eyes, sighing inwardly. If he chose not to partake, it'd look like he was objecting to the message, which was the opposite of his intentions. Just because he was constantly suspicious didn't mean he wasn't pleased to see the two alive. Accepting a glass of whatever mystery drink that was being passed around, he tilted it in recognition of the toast, taking a swallow. Whatever it was, it was warm and sweet and not nearly strong enough, but perhaps the rest of the glass would be enough to take the bite out of his normal anxieties, if only for the course of the meeting.

He didn't notice the creeping exhaustion-- how would he, he was always tired, that feeling was nothing new for him. Moody did, however, begin to notice several peculiar traits in others long before he became aware of the uncharacteristically sluggish quality of his own thoughts. A slurred word here or there, drooping eyes, the jerk of the head as someone caught themselves before they fell asleep. Curious. Perhaps it was past bed time for the kids.

With a heavy thunk, the first head hit the table, followed by the much louder crash of glass smashing against the floor as someone lost their grip, causing his shoulders to twitch, a halfhearted flinching from the sudden noise. There was a certain ringing in his ears, different than what he was becoming accustomed to hearing, and the world was taking on a slower quality, as if time had decided now was a good opportunity to see how long it could stretch the space between seconds. His instincts, subconsciously aware that something was wrong even as Moody was not, took over, forcing him to focus on one task at a time. Put the glass down on the table. Note who's fallen. What do they all have in common?

The last two thoughts Moody remembered were I bloody fucking told you so! and that he should put some serious consideration into using that wall behind him to support some of his weight, but he wasn't quite sure when the two thoughts occurred relative to one another.

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 Why a park?

It was a park, wasn't it? There were children playing, running around, laughing and shouting, their sweet voices ringing and echoing in ways that were only possible outdoors. But there was no grass, no sky. It felt like tile beneath his boots, and above him he was almost certain there was a ceiling. Yes, there must be-- the lighting. The lighting wasn't natural. It was cold and sterile, starkly lighting certain surfaces and casting harsh shadows wherever it could not reach. Sunlight didn't act like that, sunlight was stronger, warmer, safer somehow, and candles never burned so brightly.

Florescent lights, then.

An indoors park, then. Did those exist? Almost his entire knowledge of children came in the form of the mental images of young corpses flooding the floors of a hospital forever burned into his brain, and that knowledge was rubbish in this situation. Taking a step to the side, Moody allowed a little girl to run past him, in hot pursuit by a boy about her age, both giggling and breathless, both somewhat familiar in ways he couldn't quite figure out. He watched them carefully for several seconds, watched as the boy finally caught up, slapping the girl's arm before turning and running in a new direction. Tag. They were playing tag.

Indoor parks must exist.

Even as he continued to watch, Moody couldn't shake the feeling of something wrong, the same wrongness that had been clinging to him for who-even-knew how long, seeping into his bones and causing his heart to pick up the pace. Sliding his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, he felt the warm handle of his wand in his right pocket, reassured and somewhat surprised to find it there. He only kept his wand in his pocket if he expected he might need to use it and use it often, or to get the jump on someone. The sense of wrongness meshed with the sense that he needed to be present at this indoor park for some reason, but no matter how long he spent trying to piece the puzzle before him together, certain answers stubbornly eluded him.