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Alastor Moody was not the type of man to yell, or sulk, or throw some sort of tantrum; he was quieter than that, his subtle rage reaching to the very marrow of the cause of his anger. But he strived for excellence and never hesitated, if someone was found lacking, to fix the problem with a simple session of what the more experienced Aurors dubbed "an exercise in building character".
Frank was still smarting, hours later, from a tongue-lashing that had not only bruised his ego, but left his stomach clenched with shame; this particular verbal exhibition of Moody's displeasure had been accompanied by the rhythm of Moody pounding a fist upon his desk-a fist that had been clenched around the day's Prophet.
Even though the man had been sitting down and Frank standing, Frank had still stiffened his back and clenched his teeth as the words barreled into him, Moody's steady, even tone making the fierce lecture all the worse: Rita Skeeter writing articles about information that is supposed to be behind locked doors! How did she find out, Longbottom, eh? Oh, you don't know-you don't know! Do you want to be an Auror or not, son, this is supposed to be your specialty-I reckon you better get your arse in gear and find out how she did it or you'll find yourself out of the bloody program, and until you do I'll have you tailing these werewolves until you can't stand the sight of a dog-
It suddenly occurred to Frank that, while the entire Auror department regarded Frank's new assignment as an obscure form of punishment, Moody had simply reacted to the circumstances in a way that allowed Frank to more efficiently gather information for the fledgling Order of the Phoenix. In fact, aside from the harsh reprimand, Frank didn't regard this new situation as a punishment at all, but rather as a sort of premature promotion; shadowing, spying, gathering intelligence on the enemy.... this was the sort of work that Frank had signed on for, and Moody knew it.
The Order.... Frank drew in a long breath. He had gotten himself into something very dangerous-plunged headfirst into it, actually. Fellow members estimated that the Order was outnumbered by Death Eaters three to one, and Voldemort was beginning to catch on to their existence: attacks targeting Order members were happening, now, with increasing frequency. The Order was a gamble, a long shot conceived by Dumbledore himself-but there was so much at stake anyway that making a distinction between just life, or life as an Auror, or life in the Order, was futile.
Frank grinned, shaking his head at his own foolhardiness. And I decided to wager in all three arenas.
The air of the pub that Frank found himself in was suffocating, choked with pipe smoke that created a haze over the candlelight. It was dim, the pub's patrons existing simply as shadowy figures through the gray miasma, silhouettes shrouded in dark garb, hoods drawn, eyes gleaming. It seemed that the wizards who frequented this place preferred a dark and edgy atmosphere; Frank, when deciding which werewolves were suspicious enough to tail, had chosen wisely.
This werewolf really is twisted in the head, thought Frank grimly as he sipped his drink, covertly studying the bloke through the reflection in his once dusty glass. Though he only knew one werewolf to use for comparison-Remus-the contrast between the two was startling: Remus was quiet, slight of stature, a perfectly respectable gentleman; Frank's target was a large, loud man with a history of violence who had miraculously found a job at the Ministry as a liaison to St. Mungo's, counseling recent victims of werewolf attacks on how to handle their situation. Frank shivered, watching the man bite ravenously into a bleeding steak and savor the flavor, licking the taste from his lips and fingers with a smile, letting the juice dribble through the long stubble on his chin. The man kept his nails long, using them to spear his steak as he ate, and it was painfully obvious that he reveled in his plight. It appeared that Frank was the only person in the pub who seemed to mind.
He wasn't sure that he was comfortable with the thought that this man, Fenrir Greyback, was the person adjusting other werewolves to their new lifestyle.
At long last, after several dice games and many more drinks, Greyback finished his meal and tossed a few coins to the barkeep. "S'you t'morrow," he slurred to his cloaked companions before staggering drunkenly from the pub, flinging the door open only to let it slam shut behind him.
No, you won't, thought Frank with a hidden smile as he quickly knocked back the remainder of his drink, his shaggy hair falling into his eyes at the motion. The next night Frank planned on borrowing Moody's invisibility cloak-if Moody's anger had blown over by then-to walk as Greyback's unseen right-hand man.
Frank gave the werewolf a seven-second head start before rising and slipping unnoticed to the door, pulling his wand from his robes, and fervently hoping that the steak had satiated Greyback's blood lust. A quick mental shake, a quiet breath, and then he was out the of the pub, onto the deceivingly calm street.
He slunk along the shadows near the sidewalk, edging away from the lamppost lights, calmly dogging Greyback's heavy footsteps. It was only a matter of time before Greyback took advantage of the chaos of an attack and struck again, or-Frank thought, his heart rate spiking-before he was called upon by the Darkness itself. Setting his teeth, Frank vowed to be there when it happened. Do it, or die.
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