Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Hellblazer: Hogwarts

Chapter 8: All My Scars Are On The Inside

John Constantine sat in a back room somewhere- he didn't know where, he hadn't paid attention- and stared unseeing at the floor. He could still hear the noise. The horribly familiar booming sound kept playing and replaying itself in his head. There was Ginger's voice, describing the silly thing he needed identified- he kept hearing that, too. It kept rising up in his head and twining with the smell, kicking loose memories he'd spent long years burying. Ritchie Simpson, mostly, his mind hooked into his computer and flying on wings of quantum magic while his body scorched into charcoal-

A dull, heavy clunk ripped his attention back to the here-and-now; he lifted his head. The door opened, admitting a figure that would've held John's attention far better under other circumstances. As it was, the man rated only a glance: a tall, heavily scarred man with iron-grey hair and a broken nose. John murmured a greeting and dropped his head again.

"Wouldn't get too comfortable if I were you," growled the man's voice. "I'm here from the Ministry."

"Wonderful," John muttered.

"Name's Moody." There was another clunk, and a dragging noise; the man was pulling up a chair.

Reluctantly, John raised his head once more. The overall impression of height and scarring remained, but- well- his eye. . . One of the man's eyes was as bog-standard as they came, but the other was a brilliant blue that just didn't occur in nature. Without warning, it rotated away from John, even as the normal eye remained fixed on him. The damn thing kept darting glances to one side, then the other, then up, then down. That eye was enough to make a strong man queasy. The rest of Moody was easier to look at- not a broken nose but a gouged one, and enough scars across his face, neck, forearms, and hands to make John wonder how the man still had all ten fingers.

The blue eye abruptly swung back into line with the brown one. His patchy eyebrows rose expectantly.

"John Constantine."

Moody nodded. "Talked to Maggie Mumby before I got here," he said. "She tells me you seemed to know what was going on. Right down to that second explosion."

"Second- they set off another-" John couldn't speak for a moment. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Hurt? You mean other than the ones the first bang left in little black heaps on the floor?" Moody smiled, an incredibly unpleasant expression given his lopsided, scarred features. "You seem to know a bit much about these things, Constantine."

John passed a hand over his face, restraining the urge to snarl at the man. "Look," he said, feeling if anything even more drained than before, "if you're thinking it was me-"

"Oo, he's a smart one, isn't he? As a matter of fact, that's almost exactly what I'm thinking."

John shook his head, slumping in his chair. "I don't believe this. All I said was not to go near because there might've been another charge set."

"Went running up yourself, though, according to Mumby. Sounds like something a man who knows how much time he's got before the next explosion would do, if you ask me."

"I was looking for someone," John said weakly. "I knew he'd gone in. . ."

"Yeah?" Moody leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Who was it?"

"I don't know his name."

Moody might've quirked an eyebrow, but it was hard to tell on a face like that.

John swallowed, forcing himself to speak evenly. "Red hair. Old robes. Didn't come from around here. I ran into him before I got to Gladrags this morning, and he said he'd meet me at the Head."

"Mmm." Moody rose from his chair. "I know about him, all right. Been meeting with you for a few weeks now, hasn't he?"

John nodded, his throat feeling uncomfortably dry. There were a few lingering traces of burning smell still in the air, even here.

Moody's eyes- both of them- narrowed. "And you have no idea who he was?"

"I told you. I didn't get his name." The scarred man was starting to rub John up the wrong way.

"A man turns up to see you every other night for the better part of a month and you expect me to believe you don't know who he is?" That weird blue eye stared at him even as Moody rolled the other one.

"Wasn't my business," John retorted. "People come in, they ask their questions, they give me their money, I answer their questions, they leave."

"So you just happened to be answering questions regularly for that particular man, is that it?"

"Yes." John sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "As a matter of fact that is it. I couldn't tell you his name, because I don't know it, and I couldn't tell you what he does for a living, because I don't know." He coughed. "Was a bloody good customer, I know that much."

"'Was' is right." Moody stumped over to the door, leaning out of the room briefly to murmur to someone. "That little package of yours-"

"It wasn't mine, dammit!" snapped John. "I had nothing to do with this!"

"-destroyed one of the oldest buildings in Hogsmeade and took out four people," continued Moody, as if John had never spoken. "That's the interesting part. The Head hardly ever has customers much before noon. Apart from your red-headed friend, the only people on the premises were the barman and a couple of witches who'd taken rooms over the bar. Nice timing, eh?"

John suppressed another cough, scowling at Moody, who didn't seem to notice.

"And then there's the little matter of the second explosion. . ." There was a rap at the door. "Don't try anything," Moody warned. "This whole place is under an Anti-Disapparition Jinx. I've got my eye on you, Constantine."

The scarred fellow stepped out with a series of clunks, and the door slammed shut behind him. John slouched again, the hollow feeling in his stomach mingling now with an urge to crack Moody over the head with something heavy. He expected this kind of thing from interrogators back home, but he had a record there. Moody didn't know him from Adam. . . Hell, if Moody knew anything at all about John, he'd know better than to accuse him of thiis kind of shit.

A random thought crossed his mind: he was nowhere near the Hogwarts grounds. Silently grateful for small favours, he reached into one of his pockets- damn. No fags. It'd been too long since he conjured them up. A few moments' more searching revealed that his wand was nowhere to be found, either. Someone must've taken it from him on the way here- yeah, he remembered being asked to leave it up front until the questioning was done. He probably should've been angry about that, but he didn't feel up to the task of yet another emotion. Frankly, it was easier to get mad about the smokes right now. He'd worry about the wand later.

God, he could still smell the burning. Even taste it, across the back of his tongue. . .

The door swung open again. It was Moody, but this time the scarred man bore a roll of parchment and a long red quill. "Procedure," he growled, sounding disgusted. "Since I'm not officially on the lists at the moment, they want me recording everything I ask you, along with everything you say." He set the implements aside and conjured up a small writing-desk. Shaking his head, he added, "If you've got to nip out to the khazi, now's the time."

John shook his head. "No- but who d'you have to blow to get a drink around here?"

Moody stared at him for a moment, then let out a sound that might've been a laugh, or might've been a bark of disapproval. "Not going to answer that," he said, "but here." From under his robes he produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the top, took a long pull from it, and wiped its mouth on his sleeve before handing it over.

John sniffed the contents before eyeing Moody dubiously. "This is fruit juice."

"Pumpkin, yeah."

"You carry pumpkin juice in a flask?"

"It's not noon yet."

"Why did you bother?"

"I don't trust anyone to handle my drink except me. Ever. Did you want that or not?"

Feeling distinctly cheated, but wanting to get the vile, ashy taste out of his mouth, John nodded and drank. It helped- a little. "Still weird, if you ask me," he muttered as he handed it back.

"Get your own, then." Moody laid out the parchment on the desk, and the quill leaped into position at the top of the page. A number of small, heavy objects were produced from Moody's pockets to weight down the ends of the curling parchment; the blue eye never once drifted from its watch on John. "That's as good as it'll get around here. . . ready to talk?"

"I don't have a choice, do I?"

Moody shook his head. "No," he replied, "you don't. Now, to start at the beginning. . . name?"

With a sigh, John answered. "John Constantine." The quill started scritching away of its own accord.

"Date of birth?"

What d'you want to know that for? John wondered- but what came out was, "Fifth of October, nineteen-fifty-three."

Moody grunted. "Occupation?"

"Right now? Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts."

The quill paused for a second; Moody looked up. "You're joking," he said gruffly. "You?"

"I owe Dumbledore," John said, slouching further in his seat.

For a moment Moody looked as if he wanted to ask more, but he shook his head and looked over at the parchment. "Not important right now-"

"Good."

Moody ignored that. "Tell me what you were doing in Hogsmeade today," he said. "To start with."

"To start with," John said sourly, "I wanted to get my robes from Gladrags Wizardwear. And then I wanted to tear down all the notices I'd put up about being a Muggle expert. That was it."

Both Moody's eyes rolled at that. "Right. And I suppose I'm to believe your meeting with Arthur Weasley was a coincidence?"

John raised an eyebrow. He'd be damned if he let a question as idiotic as 'who?' pass his lips.

"Answer the question, Constantine."

Reluctantly, John nodded. "He found me as I was taking down a notice, and said he'd meet me in the Hog's Head when I was done with Maggie. I bloody well didn't have an appointment with him. So, yes, coincidence."

"Mmmm. Bit of a thin excuse if you ask me. . . " Moody leaned over to look at the parchment again. "How long had you been meeting with him before this?"

"Couple of weeks. He had a lot of questions, and his money was as good as anyone else's." A thought occurred to John; before he could stop himself, it tumbled out. "Here, he's not a suspect, is he?"

Both Moody's eyes went wide at that. "Weasley? Working for You-Know-Who? Don't make me laugh." The scarred face suddenly twisted with some odd expression, and he leaned forward. "Or are you trying to throw suspicion off yourself, I wonder?"

"A little," John admitted, "but only because you haven't said anything about him, and you've asked a hell of a lot of questions. The way I see it, if he were an innocent, you'd be using every trick in the book to get me feeling guilty so I'd talk."

"I'd have to think you could feel guilty first."

"Oh, I can," John said quietly. "More than you could ever imagine."

Moody was silent for quite a while after that. At last, he said, "No. Weasley's no suspect. Far as we can tell, he was the target."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

The other man nodded. "Know anything about him?"

"Only that he had a bloody huge supply of Muggle devices he wanted explained. What happened to him?"

"He'll live," Moody said gruffly, and a wave of relief washed over John. "Barely. Thought he was as dead as the rest when we found him- looked like something you'd fish out of a November bonfire- but they got him to St. Mungo's in time. He's in a burn tank. Hasn't got enough skin left to touch anything but liquids."

Ritchie Simpson, indeed. John closed his eyes, forcing the memory down with all his might.

"Far as we can tell, the explosive package arrived by owl-"

"Feathers," murmured John.

"What?"

"There were feathers in the smoke this morning. I thought it was pigeons, but-"

Moody shook his head. "Post Owl," he said. "Weasley seems to've received the package, then thrown it across the room- found him under a table in the back, but the worst of the damage was up by the bar proper. Why he didn't just Vanish it I don't know." He cocked an eye at John. "You?"

John shrugged. "Dunno," he said. "He never did anything much in the way of magic during our meetings."

"About that." Moody leaned forward, leaving the quill to its own devices. "Did you ever see him, or have any contact with him, outside of the explanation business?"

"No. Never," John said. "Except for today, I'd never so much as seen him outside the Hog's Head."

"Who sent the explosive package to the Hog's Head, Constantine?" Moody asked without so much as a change of expression.

"Don't know," John answered promptly. "Wasn't me."

"Who gave the order to have it sent, then? Whose idea was it?"

"Again," John said, "I don't know. But it wasn't me."

"How'd you know about the second explosion?"

"I didn't. It's a common terrorist tactic, back home."

"Ah? Where's home, then?"

"London," John said. "Different London from yours, though. Mine's two or three worlds away. Maybe more."

Moody stared at him.

"D'you want the address?" John continued recklessly. "Only it doesn't exist here. I already checked."

"'Two or three worlds away'?" echoed Moody. "Are you mad, Constantine?"

"Not at the moment."

Moody pinched the bridge of his ill-used nose with two fingers, and sighed.

"Talk to Dumbledore if you want," John suggested. "He's been in my head- he believes me."

"He what?" Moody dropped his hand.

"Oh, yes." John grinned. "Wave the wand and smile and say 'legilimens' and go rooting through the stranger's head to corroborate his story- he did the whole thing, right before he offered to hire me-"

"Well, that's a first," Moody muttered. "Been telling him he needs to be more careful with his hires. . . I'll be talking to him about that, don't think I won't."

"Go ahead," said John. "It's not like I can stop you."

"That's true," Moody mused. "Which reminds me, actually. There's someone else who wants to speak to you about what happened today." He glanced over to the door. "Come on in, Snape."

Fighting back the urge to groan as the Potions Master stalked into the room, John turned to Moody instead. "Here, I thought you were doing this for the Ministry! What's he doing here?"

"Seeing, Mr. Constantine, to the best interests of Hogwarts," Snape said with a faint arch of his eyebrows. "After the events of the past year the Ministry has been forced to concede that governance of the School is best left in the hands of the Headmaster and his chosen representatives."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"Everything." Moody stood away from the writing desk; Snape settled into the chair instead, his black robes billowing about him. "You are a loose cannon, Mr. Constantine, a dangerous element. The most rudimentary of investigations revealed to me that there is no record of your prior existence anywhere in the annals of wizarding Britain-"

"Dumbledore knows that," John said wearily. "That's why he-"

"Attempted Legilimency on the mind of a man who not only practiced Occlumency, but who did so well enough to hold him off for a full minute?"

"Occluwhat?"

Snape glared at John, dark eyes narrowing sharply. "Do not play the fool with me, Mr. Constantine. You won't get a second chance, I assure you."

"But I don't-" John started to say, I don't know what this 'occlumency' of yours is, but stopped himself. It was phenomenally difficult to choke the words back, for some reason. "Fine," he managed instead. "Think what you like. I don't care."

"No? I suppose you don't." The quill, which had paused in its scratching while Moody fetched another chair, rose again and hastily resumed scribbling. "But some of us do," Snape continued softly.

"Good for you, then. I'm not talkin'."

Another man might have laughed. Snape only smiled, a thin, unpleasant expression, and pressed the tips of his fingers together. "Oh," he said, "I rather think you will. . ."

His posture changed fractionally, no more than a slight inclination of his head in Moody's direction. From the folds of his sleeve, the scarred man produced what looked like a gleaming eyedropper.

John's stomach knotted at the sight; if his mouth had felt dry before, it was nothing compared to this. "The juice," he began, but the rest of the words didn't want to come out. At last, he managed, "Poison?"

Snape sniffed. "Hardly," he said. "The vast majority are completely unsuitable for interrogation purposes. Believe me, Mr. Constantine: had I wanted you dead, you would be so already."

There was no room for relief in John's head, only a dull, burning sort of rage that grew as Snape continued to speak. "I suspect Dumbledore saw in your thoughts precisely what you wanted him to see. I do not intend to make his mistake. What I want from you now is answers- truthful ones- and I will have them. The Veritaserum you were given was of my own manufacture, brewed to the most precise standards wizard-kind can achieve. A mere three drops in a single cupful of other liquid would be enough to have the drinker not only incapable of lying, but unable to resist revealing anything I cared to ask him about."

"Oh, fucking wonderful," John muttered. Wonder if this is what the First felt like, after that holy water I got him to drink. . .

"Indeed," said Snape. The look on the Potions Master's face was the most disgustingly smug expression John could remember seeing on anyone human, outside of the occasional mirror. "Shall we begin?"

Wearily, John flipped Snape off.

"I shall take that as a yes." Snape's lips twitched in a flat, humourless smile. "Who are you really, Mr. Constantine?"

"Uh, Snape-" That was Moody. John didn't listen to the ensuing words; he was considering his situation. On the one hand he had a stomach full of truth serum, a government investigator who wasn't on the official roster (and who had no qualms about dosing his subject without telling him), and a first-class dueller who had every reason to hate him. On the other, he had- what? Not much; for once in his life he wasn't responsible for the disaster. Didn't have a wand, true, but he'd never had a wand before. Didn't have any allies to call on, but that wasn't new either. No access to magic and no one to fall back on. . . but-

Snape knew other ways of getting a man to talk. Everything John had ever heard at Hogwarts pointed that way. But he'd chosen the truth potion instead- his own manufacture, he'd said. That pointed to an awful lot of confidence in his own skill. And he was barely a hairsbreadth away from gloating. Men like that. . . oh, John knew men like that, all right. They hated it when they heard things they didn't want to hear, even when they were hearing the truth. It meant they made mistakes- big ones.

"What on Earth are you smiling about?" demanded Snape, who had finished his argument with Moody.

"Just thinking about the truth," John answered, leaning back in his chair.

With the right words, John knew, he could talk a man into just about anything. And he didn't even have to lie to do it, if he played his cards right.

Snape nodded, though his expression remained suspicious. "Very well," he said. "Then answer my question of earlier-" His gaze shot briefly in Moody's direction. "-despite any duplication of effort it may represent. Who are you really?"

Still smiling, John stretched both his arms upwards, then brought them down behind his head. "I'm John Constantine," he said, looking straight back at Snape. "And I'm the biggest bastard in the world."

Huh. So it was still true, even here?

He was just about to add, I'm also the most hated man on Earth, when Snape spoke up. "In your estimation, perhaps. Do try to keep the hyperbole to a minimum, Mr. Constantine. I am not interested in what you think of yourself."

"Oh, no, no, see, I've been told this." John grinned, but his mind was racing- 'what you think of yourself', eh? That meant it could only compel the truth as he knew it, not absolute truth. "By lots of people. Ask anyone who's ever known me, they'll tell you-"

"That's as may be," Snape interrupted, "but I find it irrelevant to the situation at hand. Back to the questions, Mr. Constantine; what are you doing here?"

"Answering your questions," said John, "and his." He nodded at Moody. It was a little like being drunk, and a lot like being under the influence of something stronger. It took a concerted effort of will to stop the words And annoying the living hell out of you from spilling out of their own accord.

"Beyond that." Snape's expression, if anything, grew grimmer. "Who sent you here?"

"Well, no one so much sent me as they led me-"

"I mean to Hogsmeade."

"Oh, that? I walked here on my own. Had to pick up my-"

"I mean to the area of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts School in general!"

It might've been just John's imagination, but he thought he could see one little blue vein starting to throb at the Potions Master's temple. Moody, for his part, was starting to look extremely frustrated; his eyes kept darting over towards Snape, and he'd folded his arms across his chest. John shrugged. "That'd be Hagrid," he said. "The grounds-keeper? You know? I ran into him in London-"

"I see," said Snape. "And what were you doing in London, hmm?"

"Trying to find a place where I could smoke in peace, frankly," John said. "That, and trying to figure out what the hell had happened to me."

"What had happened to you?" interrupted Moody.

John shrugged. "I tried to break up a magical battle-" Snape leaned forward suddenly, expression interested. "-and came out the worse for it. Got thrown here by the backlash, more or less. The bloke I'd taken down blasted the hell out of me, and that's the last I saw before I landed in the street."

"Ah," said Snape softly, "now we are getting somewhere. A battle, you say? Between whom?"

"The names won't mean anything to you," John warned.

"I'll be the judge of that. Speak."

"Arf, arf," said John dryly, before resuming. "A kid by the name of Tim Hunter, and his extra-dimensional doppelganger."

Snape stared at John blankly; Moody got a thoughtful look, as of a man riffling through his memories.

"Told you the names wouldn't mean anything," John said.

"Extra-dimensional doppelganger?" said Snape slowly. "Do you truly expect me to believe that?"

"Dunno," said John. "You sure you got that potion mix right?"

Snape scowled; John knew he'd struck a nerve. Nevertheless, the sallow wizard nodded. "Quite," he said grimly. "Very well, Mr. Constantine. This 'Tim Hunter' of whom you speak. . . who is he?"

"Boy wizard. Former pupil of mine. Going to be the most powerful wizard of his generation, if he lives to adulthood. Doesn't seem to exist here, though. I already tried looking for him- can't even find his family, let alone Tim himself."

Moody shifted in his chair. Snape glanced at the still-writing quill. "I suppose you're going to tell me next that you, also, are someone's extra-dimensional doppelganger?"

"Fuck no," said John, and then paused. "Well- not unless you count the Golden Boy, but that's not the same thing."

"The what?"

"My twin brother. Stillborn, but I found this dimension once where he'd lived and I'd died-"

"This is getting ridiculous, Snape," growled Moody. "Can't you see what he's doing?"

Snape glared at Moody. "I believe I know when someone is buying himself time, thank you. It's happened more times in my classroom over the years than I care to count."

"Not that." Moody jerked his chin at John. "He's getting away from you. At this rate he'll be asking you the questions next."

"He's right," John noted, as quietly as the drug's compulsion would allow.

"You be quiet," snapped Snape. Turning to Moody, he asked, "What would you suggest instead, then?"

"Ask him exactly what you want to know. Nothing else." Moody gave John a long, hard look. "He'll take whatever you give him and run with it- don't let him. Not if you want your answers any time this month, anyway."

"Very well." Snape turned back to face John, dark eyes hardening. "I had hoped that given enough rope, you'd hang yourself, but apparently not. . ." As John drew breath to speak, Snape held up one hand. "Answer me this, instead. Are you in any way, shape, or form affiliated with the Dark Lord, Voldemort?"

"No."

Moody muttered something, but Snape ignored him. "Did you have anything to do with today's attempt on the life of Arthur Weasley?"

"N-" John stopped. There were words trying to come out that he didn't particularly want said.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Not to my knowledge," John said, grimacing. The compulsion was too strong to ignore. "People who know me. . . they don't always do so well. I tend to be what you'd call a bad-luck charm."

"Suited to your employment, then," Moody commented.

"Be still, Moody." Snape straightened in his seat. "What about the attempt ten minutes later on the life of Nymphadora Tonks, in London?"

Moody's blue eye snapped around towards Snape immediately- an unnerving sight, given that the rest of him was facing John.

John shook his head. "Until you mentioned it just now, I hadn't heard there was one."

"Neither had I," murmured Moody.

"There was," Snape confirmed. "An explosive package, sent by owl, in London. She had the presence of mind to Disapparate out of range of the explosion." He looked at Moody. "There was no Dark Mark afterwards."

"I had nothing to do with it," said John. "All right? I'm not interested in your Voldemort. Before I met Hagrid, I'd never heard of him. I'm not interested in your war, either, except as far as it affects the school."

An undefinable spark seemed to light in Snape's eyes. "Why did you come to the school, Mr. Constantine? What are your intentions, now that you are employed at Hogwarts?"

John heard Moody groan, but ignored it. "Intentions?" he said. "I want to go home. That's the extent of it. Dumbledore said if I taught for him for a year, he'd do everything he could to send me home. That's as close to an ulterior motive as you'll get. I didn't like school one bit back when I was in it, and I don't care for it much more now."

"Then-" Snape leaned forward, and his voice took on a more distinctly menacing quality. "What makes you think you will be anything but a millstone around the collective necks of your students? This is no casual course in easy studies, Mr. Constantine. Defense Against the Dark Arts is vital to the students' survival in the months and years to come. Our six upper classes have already lost a year's worth of time to a teacher who should never have held the position in the first place. Why should so diffident a scholar as yourself be permitted to endanger wizarding Britain's future any further?"

The words blazed up in John's head- denunciations, defenses, justifications, all of them true. It took him a moment before he could gather enough wit to speak clearly.

"I said I didn't like school," he answered at last. "I never said I didn't like study. We don't have public schools for magic where I come from; there aren't enough students, and it's too bloody dangerous anyway. Everything I know, I had to learn on my own. I put everything I had into teaching myself magic, and I'm still learning. That's why I'm still alive." He looked to Moody, and then to Snape. "The kind of things I've seen, the kind of enemies I've fought and faced down- I really don't think there's anything in this world of yours that can compare. If there is, I hope like hell that you never have to deal with it, because I only made it through by the skin of my teeth more times than I can count. But I made it through, and I don't want to see anyone else fail to make it through. I've survived this far. I'll see to it that the kids do, too."

"And if you don't?" asked Snape, one eyebrow arching.

"Then I deserve what's coming to me," John answered. "Every last bit of it."

Snape fell back with a dissatisfied look, but Moody nodded. "Thank you," he said, checking over the parchment. "I think that'll do."

"You're sure?" John glanced at Snape.

"Yeah, I'm sure." Moody tapped the writing-desk with his wand, and the quill laid itself down. Blowing briefly on the wet ink to dry it, he started rolling the parchment up. "Besides, if we have any more questions, both of us know where to find you."

John started to stand. "Can I go, then?"

"Might as well. Don't try leaving the area any time soon, though."

"Thank you." A thought occurred to him. "When does this Veritaserum stuff wear off?"

Moody looked to Snape, who murmured, "If you gave him the entire dropper's worth, in two hours."

"I'll have to avoid people for a while, then."

"Why's that?" asked Moody.

"I just witnessed a terrorist attack on a public place that nearly killed someone I knew," John said wearily. "I've been interrogated by an absolute stranger and by a man who despises me for the better part of an hour. I've been dosed with truth serum, and I'm out of decent smokes. I'm in no fit mood to speak with man nor beast. In fact, I think I'll go and-" He stopped. "No, I won't go and get drunk after all, because it was the bloody pub that blew up. Lovely. Fucking lovely."

"Veritaserum and alcohol don't mix well," Moody said. With a wave of his wand, the writing-desk vanished.

"Whatever. I'm leaving, regardless." He knew Snape was watching him; he didn't care. He didn't have much left in the way of sustaining anger now that the questions were over, and he wanted to get away before the events of the morning came crashing down on him again. Which reminded him. . . "Oi, Moody? Can I ask you a favour?"

Moody squinted at him suspiciously.

John dug into his robe's inner pocket and tossed a small bag to Moody, who caught it in mid-air. "That's for Maggie Mumby," he said. "I still owe her for these. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't be there myself. I'm not facing anyone else today if I can help it."

Moody started to say something, but John had already closed the door behind him.