Life's only living rival, a casket built for two

[ocularlunacy.livejournal.com]

*Moody's house looks deserted from the street, the slats of plastic blinds all boasting a layer of grime and dust between which no light seeps out, and the murmur of voices of the ever-thinning Order are silenced by the most effective of charms. No one, no group of hoodlum kids roaming the streets and no spy sent to discover their plans, could even know anyone was at home that night. Inside, the bulbs of lamps are unscrewed under their shades and even the keyhole at the front door has been taped over – Moody has made his home a place to be forgotten, something airtight and impossible to stake out. The only way in is through his guests, and each of them is a chance he must take in times like these.

A pile of parchment is passed hand to hand around the room, updating everyone on Jones' runes; furtively taken photographs of known Death Eaters walking the streets and seen through shop windows; any (mostly fraudulent) copies of medical, financial, and criminal records that they could as a group get their hands on; and newspapers with notes scribbled in margins. Candles light Moody's face like a particularly grotesque jack-o-lantern from the coffee table, and no one comments as a tear of wax rolls down off the base of it's candlestick and turns one half of Fabian Prewett's photographic face a glossy dark grey as it seeps through the paper to mar even more deathtolls beneath the two most devastating to them.*

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[rattrapped.livejournal.com]

*Peter thought he would feel less afraid, not more.

In some ways he is less afraid. He is less afraid when he makes his eggs in the morning and eats them at the small table-for-one in his flat. He is less afraid when he walks the near-deserted streets of Diagon Alley. He is less afraid when he goes to sleep at night, now that he can sleep. He is less afraid to read the Prophet, when he reads the Prophet at all--which isn't often.

But here, among his friends and comrades (or the people who had been his friends and comrades, he is quick to remind himself) he is more afraid than he has ever been. As they all gather to mourn the twins, the ones he killed, Peter knows every last one of them would kill him in a heartbeat if they knew. Alastor Moody would have his head on a platter at this sad little coffee table before anyone would blink.

And that is why he's cheesey-pale, why he arrived early and alone as usual and isn't sitting near anyone, his head in his hands. It looks like grief--looks exactly like the other crushed and defeated Order members filling the room--but of course it's anything but. It's shame, and terror, but it isn't grief--and it isn't regret, either.*