The smile on Sirius's face froze.
He knew exactly what Moody was referring to.
But he couldn't bring out that map.
"There are still technical difficulties, Alastor," Sirius answered carefully. "And Headmaster Dumbledore believes protecting the students' privacy matters too."
"Privacy?"
Moody let out a short, sharp laugh, like gravel scraping against stone.
"Death Eaters won't care about your privacy! They'll hit you with a Killing Curse the moment you let your guard down!"
He drove his walking stick into the floor. The impact rang out in a heavy, hollow THUD.
"Rules and privacy are worthless against the Dark Arts! Constant vigilance is the only thing that keeps you alive!"
He growled it like a threat.
Sirius didn't argue.
Debating the value of privacy with a paranoid man was a waste of breath.
"Right, Alastor." He checked his watch and changed the subject. "Patrols are all arranged. Let's go see Douglas — his office is just next door."
Moody took another pull from the flask on his hip, gave a curt nod, and turned for the door.
The corridor was utterly silent.
Whatever noise the students made was swallowed whole by the thick stone walls. The only sound was Moody's wooden leg striking the flagstones , heavy, rhythmic, relentless. CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
Like some ancient grandfather clock, counting out the seconds of a quiet night.
His magical eye was something else entirely. It moved like an unleashed dog, frantic and all-seeing, raking over everything in range. The hangings on the walls. The arched vault of the ceiling. The shadows seeping through the joints of suits of armor. It punched through the wall into the neighboring classroom, swiveled back, and settled on the back of Sirius's head.
"His office is just ahead," Sirius said. His voice cut through the silence.
He glanced sideways at Moody. The man's normal eye — small and black as a beetle's , was already locked onto him.
"I know," Moody rasped. His voice sounded like rusty chains being dragged across stone. "I've been to Hogwarts more times than you'd think."
Sirius shrugged and let it go.
---
Inside Douglas's office, the fire burned low and steady, sending soft crackles into the stillness. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the world outside into grey shapes.
Douglas sat in an armchair by the hearth, working through a book on ancient magical script. The oppressive atmosphere from the start-of-term feast hadn't followed him here.
The knock at the door was not polite.
Two blows, heavy and abrupt , something hard, probably a stick's iron cap, driving against the wood.
THUD. THUD.
Douglas set down his book. "Come in."
The door swung open. Sirius entered first, then stepped aside to reveal the scarred figure behind him.
"Douglas. Alastor wanted to say hello."
Moody limped through the doorway.
CLACK!
In the quiet of the room, the wooden leg on stone was jarring.
He stopped just inside the threshold. That blue eye snapped to life immediately, sweeping the room like a searchlight with no sense of restraint , corner shadows, the space under the desk, the ceiling beams overhead , before locking onto Douglas.
It was a brute-force probe. The kind that tried to strip away every disguise and see straight to the marrow.
Douglas felt it the moment it touched him. Cold. Obsessive. It carried the taste of rust and old blood.
Then something shifted.
In Moody's vision, Douglas's silhouette suddenly warped and fractured, splitting apart like light through a prism made of spinning mirrors. The eye couldn't find purchase. There was no flesh, no bone, no magical core to read , only a vortex of golden runes, ancient and bottomless, spinning like a galaxy made of fire.
The symbols flowed and turned, ancient beyond reckoning, forming a barrier that could neither be understood nor crossed.
The magical eye pushed harder. It surged. And hit a maze with no exit, nothing ahead but blinding white and spinning dark.
"Ngh—"
A strangled grunt forced its way out of Moody's throat. The electric-blue eye jerked violently, then broke away, fixing itself on a blank patch of wall as if something had grabbed it by the roots and wrenched it sideways. A magical backlash, sudden and total.
Only then did Douglas look up.
He wore the kind of smile that was perfectly measured , calm, faintly curious, as though he'd just glanced up from his book to greet an ordinary guest.
He rose from the armchair and walked to the cabinet. Three crystal glasses. A bottle of good Firewhisky.
"Good evening, Professor Moody." His tone was even, respectful. "Cold night out there. Care for something to warm up?"
"Never drink anything someone else hands me."
Moody's voice came out rough as gravel, as if nothing had just happened at all. His normal eye stayed fixed on Douglas's hands as they worked around the bottle.
He reached inside his heavy, much-patched cloak and produced his own flask , curved, dented, and clearly ancient , unscrewed the cap, and drank from it himself. A long, deliberate pull.
Classic Moody.
Paranoid. Trusting no one.
If he was an impersonator, his performance was airtight.
"Wise," Douglas said with a smile, exactly as though he'd been paid a compliment.
He poured for himself and Sirius. The amber liquid caught the firelight and gleamed.
"These days, you can never be too careful."
Sirius accepted the glass and settled into the other armchair, watching them both without making it obvious.
Moody didn't sit.
He planted himself in the center of the room and leaned on his stick, like a statue eroded by decades of hard weather.
"You turned down the Auror Office, Holmes."
He said it out of nowhere, and there was an edge in it. His magical eye kept roaming, but his normal eye had locked onto Douglas's face and wasn't moving.
"I put your name to Scrimgeour myself. Told him you were the kind of material we needed. I figured you'd sign on."
He paused. The corner of his mouth pulled into something that didn't quite qualify as a smile.
"Didn't picture you staying at a school. Playing nursemaid."
The contempt wasn't even dressed up.
Douglas wasn't rattled.
He turned his glass slowly, watching the Firewhisky cling to the crystal and slide.
"Being an Auror is honorable work," he said, his voice easy. "But I'd rather show someone the right path before they lose their way than chase them down after they already have."
"Show them the path." Moody's laugh was flat and cold. "Pretty words. Sounds like cowardice to me."
Sirius's brow tightened. He looked like he had something to say about that.
Douglas stopped him with a glance.
"Maybe." He took a sip. The Firewhisky burned clean on the way down. "But I saw what your students did at the World Cup."
➤ Next: Sirius Black: Doug, You're Really a Dog!
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