Chapter 181: A Substitute for the Real Thing
The night sky overhead was pitch-black, dotted only with faint, twinkling stars.
On the Quidditch Pitch, everyone—spectators, referees, and players alike—had their eyes fixed on Harry Potter, stunned by the horrifying news he had brought.
Almost no one noticed that Alastor Moody, one of the referees and Hogwarts’ Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, was at that very moment limping out of the maze.
Mad-Eye Moody did not join the crowd surrounding Harry. Instead, he walked in the opposite direction.
Taking advantage of the distraction, he moved with his peculiar limp toward the castle.
...
The castle was nearly empty, with almost all students and teachers at the Quidditch Pitch watching the Triwizard Tournament final.
Mad-Eye Moody passed through the Great Hall, climbed the staircases, and made his way up to the eighth floor.
There, caretaker Argus Filch was polishing a window.
“Professor Moody!” Filch said respectfully; he always showed deference to teachers.
“Good evening, Mr. Filch!” Mad-Eye replied. He looked almost cheerful—a rare expression that only made his scarred face seem more grotesque.
After greeting Filch, Moody continued toward Albus Dumbledore’s office. He stopped in front of the ugly stone gargoyle.
“Password?” The gargoyle, unusually dutiful, demanded with seriousness.
“Mead,” Moody replied.
It was correct. The stone guardian stepped aside, allowing Moody to pass before resuming its vigilant scanning.
...
Inside Professor Albus Dumbledore’s office, whispers filled the air.
The portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses, which normally dozed in their frames, had instead gathered in a single portrait, deep in discussion.
“Don’t be sad, Dilys!” Headmaster Everard tried to comfort the witch beside him.
“Ah, that boy... how could he just die like that?” Phineas Black sighed. “I always thought he had a hard life force.”
“Perhaps it’s just a rumor. We’ll ask Dumbledore in detail when he returns,” Headmaster Dexter Fortescue said in a low voice.
At that moment, the office door opened.
Mad-Eye Moody, with his gray hair and limp, stepped inside. The portraits of the headmasters all turned expectantly, thinking Dumbledore had returned...
But seeing only a teacher, they looked away in disappointment.
Moody walked to Dumbledore’s desk and pulled a small pouch from his robes.
He carefully emptied its contents beneath a tall, gilded perch near the door.
A pile of gray-black ash—the remains of something burned.
“Hey, don’t dump things there!” Phineas Black barked. “That’s where the phoenix lives!”
“Yes.” Moody’s magical eye swiveled toward Phineas. He gave a deliberate wink, the grotesque expression startling the century-old headmaster. “A phoenix.”
Just then, the ashes stirred. A tiny, wrinkled chick poked its head out, glancing around.
Moody’s scarred hand gently stroked the chick and set a few leaves of herbs before it.
“Oh heavens!” Phineas exclaimed. “That foolish bird again—it actually died once more...”
“Fawkes isn’t foolish at all!” Moody said offhandedly. “He’s very clever.”
“I’d say I’m more qualified than you to speak on that!” Phineas snapped. “I’ve watched that stupid bird since it was young, and I’ve witnessed her rebirth more times than I can count...”
Moody ignored him and turned back to Dumbledore’s desk.
He pushed aside Dumbledore’s silver instruments, books, and newspapers, then began emptying more items from his pockets onto the cleared surface.
First, he drew out a parchment map.
“Mischief managed,” he murmured, tapping it lightly with his wand.
The ink faded away until the parchment appeared completely blank.
Next, he placed a wand as long as a walking stick on the desk.
Then came a densely written notebook, followed by an empty, curved wine bottle.
“What exactly are you doing?” Phineas asked curiously.
Moody continued his strange work. He detached the prosthetic leg from his right hip, setting it beside Dumbledore’s chair; then he plucked out his magical eye and placed it on the desk.
The portraits now watched him with fascination and shock.
Their gazes fixed on Alastor Moody’s scarred face—
...
Yes, Moody’s face was changing.
The disfigured wounds smoothed over; the skin grew unblemished. His ruined nose reformed, smaller and whole. His long gray hair shrank and darkened to brown.
His missing leg regrew in seconds. The empty socket filled, a gray eye appearing in place of the magical one.
“Good evening, Headmasters!” said a boy of thirteen or fourteen, turning to greet them.
“Ah...” Phineas Black gave a strangled cry. “Unbelievable!”
“By Merlin’s beard!” Dexter Fortescue rubbed his eyes.
“Dilys, look!” Everard exclaimed.
“Quiet, I see it!” Dilys Derwent snapped, her eyes still red with tears.
“What have you done?” Her gaze softened as she addressed the boy. “If I recall correctly, the form you took with the Polyjuice Potion should have been Hogwarts’ Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?”
“No,” Jon Hart shook his head. “He was a Death Eater.”
As he spoke, he set down a crystal vial with the rest of the items.
Inside was a small amount of transparent liquid.
Finally, Jon Hart stretched lazily.
Relief spread across his face as he dropped into Dumbledore’s chair, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back comfortably.
Author's Note
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