An Ironic Title

Chapter 10: Seeing the Light

People say a ton of things about old Mad-Eye, some of them facts, some of them rumors embroidered beyond belief, and some of them pure lies that unscrupulous, conniving sneaks come up with.

They say that he lost part of his nose to that Muggle-torturing fool, Rosier.

That is true.

They say that he lost his eye during the desperate struggle to get to Gideon and Fabian Prewett before it was too late. Well, it was; brave lads those two were.

That is true.

They say that he's so paranoid that, upon thinking one of his presents was a basilisk egg, smashed it to bits before realizing that it was a carriage clock. It did look quite a bit like a basilisk egg, though.

That is true.

And these rumor-mongers also say that Mad-Eye Moody was one of the most brutal Aurors to ever walk the face of this Earth.

That is not true.

I'll testify to being a tough and valiant Auror in front of the whole damn Wizengamot. However, anyone who I ever hear saying that I am a brutal Auror, one that deserves Azkaban just as much as any of the Death Eaters, find themselves with a stubborn jinx on them which cannot be displaced by a simple "Finite Incantatem."

I'm not Barty Crouch, not one to think that death is the greatest punishment of all. Death Eaters deserve far more than a Kiss or, in the older days, a push through the veil. No, they deserve to relive what they've done, hear the screams of the innocents they've killed as they rot away in a cell where only fellow prisoners can hear their screams, especially those ones.

Those ones who said they were ridding the world of evil - Muggles, Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and blood traitors who didn't deserve to be wizards, in other words who opposed them and their pure-blood mania. An odd definition of evil if you ask me, when they, to most of the wizarding world, were the evil ones. No, not the Death Eaters, the Knights of Walpurgis. Knights, it's a mockery, a mockery, I tell you! Aren't knights the ones who are supposed to ride in on snow-white horses and save the day? From what Muggle literature I've read, that sounds about right.

But not these knights, not the knights that came to our house one evening and tortured my mother and father into insanity where they died in St. Mungo's an hour later, simply for defending what they knew was right. A lot like Longbottom's parents now that I think of it, but he has to live with what's happened to them as he visits them during the holidays. He's a brave lad, standing up there at Potter's casket. Braver than me, anyway. . . .

Braver than that army of knights - for they only dared to attack in groups - that nearly killed me as I made a run for freedom. Freedom that my parents had sacrificed themselves for - freedom for me, freedom for the wizarding world. Not the knights that caused me to have a peg leg at thirteen years of age and to have to gaze down at my parent's blank faces as I was taken away from the only life I had ever known. No, not those knights.

However, these travesties of knights did teach me one thing - inadvertently, of course - for, as I gazed down at my parent's lifeless bodies that dreary day much like today, I knew that I would never stoop to their level, to Barty Crouch's level. I would only kill when necessary.

"Nobility," some would call it. "Bravery beyond measure, he deserves an Order of Merlin - Second Class, at least!" others would insist. However, if one were to look up 'nobility' in the dictionary, you wouldn't find my face next to it. Would probably scare some students out of their wits if it were.

No, I don't call it nobility, I call it doing what you have to do, for never have I done a less noble act. For it is not for them that I show mercy (if you can call being sent to an earth-bound hell for the rest of your life, mercy), but for myself.

It's pathetic, I know. Crazy that a tough Auror such as myself is afraid of . . . well . . . do you really need to know? After all, I've gone through life just fine without anyone knowing. Not even close to knowing. All they've seen is the constantly swiveling eye, the broken nose, the mockery of a human face, the peg leg. . . .

They've seen Mad-Eye. They haven't seen Alastor or Al, as my parents used to call me. For that's how I like to think of myself, two entirely different facets of the same person, much like in that Muggle novel, can't think of the name of it right now.

Of course things are never as simple in life as they are in books, and my facets aren't obvious. I don't morph into a raging animal or start howling at the moon now and again. No, not like that, you have to look closer. Thank Merlin that not many have; for if they had, they may have seen a slight translucence in my eye (the normal one), during the will reading, a tiny falter in my step, despite that damned peg leg while approaching his body, his corpse.

The corpse, or rather, the boy, that saw Al. He was one of the few who could, him and Dumbledore. Of course, Albus knows everything that goes on, but him? He is (or rather, was), a mere boy, yet he sees more than people give him credit for. He saw past the monster that many people think werewolves to be and saw Remus Lupin, he saw past abysmal Neville and saw talented Auror Longbottom (that does have a nice ring to it), and, most difficult of all, he saw past Mad-Eye, he saw Al, the not-so-noble Auror. The Auror that's afraid of one of the main things we deal with - bodies. Bodies and what they go hand-in-hand with - death.

And he knew that! Goddamn it, the boy knew that and he used it to his advantage! He knew that Aurors would come to retrieve him after the battle with Voldemort; he knew that I would come to retrieve him as an experienced former Auror; he knew that I would have to see the, well . . . the body and. . . .

He made me face it, he's a pretty sensible lad now that I stop and think about it. After all, can I really avoid going to fellow colleagues funerals or killing a Death Eater in a skirmish? Would I have the heart to not attend Albus's funeral when the time comes - as much as I hate to think of it - for his death? No, I answer myself, I wouldn't, but I need to face it someday - whether in the loss of a loved one or in . . . passing on myself.

And I certainly don't want to face the facts of death when I'm walking down that dark tunnel. I'd probably panic and start beating at the darkness, tearing at it, trying to break through it as we are so close to doing right now. For, it doesn't seem as if the Darkness can hold out much longer now that Voldemort's gone; instead, we're moving toward the light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Just as I should be doing.

Well, that settles it. Lifting myself onto my mismatched feet with a groan, I begin to limp my way down the aisle toward the . . . the casket. I remember well the last time I did this - a much-younger Albus asking me if I'd like to say goodbye, him grasping me warmly by the shoulders as he led me down the aisle that rainy morning, me crying ever so slightly as I saw my parent's bodies. A tear makes its way down my cheek and I hastily twist my face into a menacing snarl, casting both eyes around beadily, checking if anyone saw. I do have a reputation to uphold after all. But, no, there's only Tonks stumbling over her own feet as usual. How she got to be an Auror, I'll never know; she could give anyone away with that clumsiness of hers. . . .

Longbottom's left by now, so I have a clear view of the casket. The thing's covered with jewels and other sundry treasures, but my eyes pass over that, moving, instead, to the most valuable treasure in the wizarding world - up until a few days ago, that is. Then, they'll bury him under the earth and Harry Potter will become only a legend told to young children for a bedtime story as my parents told the tales of King Arthur to me as a child.

I shudder, hoping that other grievers attribute it only to the cold wind. Harry - yes, Harry, not 'boy,' not 'lad' - will be forgotten, just as my parents were forgotten as heroes, just as Gideon and Fabian were forgotten, just as countless others were forgotten, even in the hearts and souls and minds of those who loved and knew him. Won't we?

With immense difficulty, I force myself to look straight into the blank, unseeing eyes of the Boy-Who-Lived. There's nothing there, he's dead. He's gone. Forever. I turn to leave, but, just then, spot something on the boy's face. It's so subtle, I barely notice it but it's there. There is something! I almost feel like screaming it to the heavens - and, inadvertently, to the many assembled here - but I'm expected to be "Mad-Eye" Moody after all, not a boy, not Al. Nevertheless, there, on Harry's face, is a sense of peace. He'd done what he set out to do and now he can reap his well-deserved reward. He can be with his parents and that reckless godfather of his, can see my parents, too. And he's still looking down, is still alive in our hearts, just as my parents are alive in my heart - having a cup of hot cocoa on a cold winter's night, reading together for hours on end when weather kept us indoors. And I'll see them again, experience that wonderful feeling of camaraderie that I've never felt since I was thirteen - even with Albus - it's only a matter of time.

I smile warmly, almost forgetting to change my mouth to a grim line as I turn around. I swear that I saw those photographers looking at me oddly. Yes, a great picture for a blaring headline (most likely by that Skeeter woman): Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody Caught Smiling: Has He Gone Crazy?. I let out a small chuckle, surprised at my own daring. Why, at this rate, most of the Order may see beyond Mad-Eye. What's happening?

However, I know that this is a feeble question, for I know the answer. Simply put, my name is Alastor Moody, and I have seen the light.

And I know without a doubt, that that is true.