The Marauders - Order of the Phoenix Part Three

CXXXIV: The Other Moody

Alastor Moody sat on the floor, rubbing the stub of his leg. It was dark, but a single light far off above him afforded a bit of vision at least. Enough to clearly see that the pain in his phantom limb was no more real than it had ever been. It felt like his leg should be there, stretching out from his knee like his other, whole leg; as though it had merely "fallen asleep" and it often tingled with that pins-and-needles sensation, even though it wasn't there. That's what it was doing now as he grumbled to himself and massaged the nub, wishing he had some balm or cream or something to ease the feeling.

Suddenly, far up above him, there was a crack of light and he squinted up with his one eye at the brightness - white against the black of the place he'd spent the last.... - Moody had no idea how many days, actually, which frustrated him. He had no way of seeing natural light, of gaining any sort of sense of the circadian rhythm to keep track.

First thing he used to teach his new recruits about hostage situations: Keep track of time and count  the days. Plan for longevity, look forward to dates in the far-off future, to make goals to survive to one anniversary, to the next, and the next, adjusting as needed.

There was a series of loud thumping sounds as stairs folded out from the wall and Moody glowered at them. 

Down the stairs, slowly, came a large hulking figure. Clunk, step. Clunk, step. Clunk, step. Finally, the figure reached the bottom stair and turned toward him, limping, leaning against the familiar gnarled cane. 

It was himself.

Another Alastor Moody.

The Other Moody.

Moody stared up at Moody. He watched his own magical eye whir about as the other Moody clunk-stepped toward a work bench on the far side of the room. On it stood a cauldron and dozens of vials of already-brewed polyjuice potion, stoppered and wax-sealed. Another batch bubbled on the low burner. He watched in silence as the Other Moody crushed a bit of a long bicorn horn with a pestle and mortar. When it was ground, he swept it into the cauldron and stirred, shaking the spoon off as he drew it out of the cauldron when he was finished. He opened a drawer and took out a potion in another small vial and clunk-stepped over to a chair, sinking into it with a groan.

Moody watched himself knock his fist against the top of the prosthetic leg and open the pain-reducing potion and swig it down.

"Hurts like a sun'va bitch, don't it?" he muttered.

Inject humor into the situation where possible.

The Other Moody looked at him with his good eye - the magical eye whirring about still, keeping watch on something up - at the top of the stairs.

"When it aches, yeh should take the blast thing off and use a bit of balm on it," Moody told the Other Moody. "There's one in yeh book there made with chili peppers that'll do yeh miracles on that nerve pain yeh're feelin'."

Live your values. Show them the mercy you want to be shown.

The Other Moody stared at him for a long moment before turning away, focusing on his leg again as he knocked his fist against the prosthetic some more.

"I mean yeh don't got to listen to me if yeh don't want to but you're a dafty if yeh don't. Ain't like I don't know exactly what yeh're feelin', seein' as ye're me."

Ok this was a breach of etiquette. You oughtn't insult your captor, but it might fall under the humor category, so long as it was gentle like taking the mickey out of a friend. Does not apply in every situation.

The Other Moody's jaw tightened, then, he looked over again. "And why would yeh help me, old man?"

"As I've said ye're me, ain't yeh?" Moody shrugged.