The Avatar Effect

Chapter 15

The Avatar Effect

"Did you not understand the assignment as it was given, Scab Moody?"

Moody closed his eyes and sighed quietly. "Yes, I did, Maestro."

"And at what point did you decide that brandishing your wand in the presence of a Muggle was in keeping with the intent of the exercise?"

"I never suspected that it was, Maestro. However, it was the Dementors that changed the parameters of said exercise, not me."

"Yes, so Shacklebolt has told me. You be sure to report to her after tonight's unveiling for a proper debriefing."

"Yes, Maestro."

Moody rubbed his hand nervously across his forearm, feeling the empty space under his sleeve that usually concealed his backup wand. He stood quietly next to the maestro in the small lift, grateful for the old wizard's penchant for minimal conversation. As they ascended to the eighth floor, he inserted a finger behind the collar of his dress uniform and breathed easier when the clasp loosened. He looked over to the maestro to see if his teacher had noticed this breach of protocol. The glimmer of the accolades pinned on the old wizard's chest caught his eye – particularly the three Order of Merlin medals.

The doors parted and the two were greeted by the echoes of chamber music mixed with undecipherable conversations coming from the end of the hall. They exited the lift and proceeded to the antechamber that overlooked the atrium, which had been converted to a reception area.

When the maestro snapped his fingers, Moody felt his collar pinch his neck when the clasp magically reengaged. The old codger doesn't miss a thing.

They made their way down the grand staircase and were bombarded by members of the press. Moody squinted at the bright lights of the many cameras that assailed them.

During a break in the flashbulbs' onslaught, a young intern greeted them and offered to escort Moody onto the stage. He started to follow but was stopped by the maestro's outstretched arm.

"Get in, shake Pilliwickle's hand and get out," said the maestro. He withdrew his arm and added, "Speak only when spoken to, don't linger, and for Merlin's sake, don't stumble."

Moody gave the maestro a placatory nod and followed the intern. When he stepped onto the platform, the music stopped, and all eyes turned toward him. Ignoring the gaze of the crowd, he kept his attention focused on the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Justus Pilliwickle, who was standing next to the podium.

Pilliwickle had a gentle countenance, much like Albus Dumbledore's, which put Moody immediately at ease. When Moody approached, Pilliwickle stepped from behind the podium to greet him warmly amid a renewed influx of blinding camera flashes. "Cadet Moody, what a pleasure it is to meet an outstanding young wizard such as yourself."

"The pleasure is all mine..."

Pilliwickle took Moody's hand and shook it with enough enthusiasm as to nearly cause Moody to stumble. "Excellent job giving that Dementor the what for."

"Well I didn't exactly..."

"And all for the aid of a defenseless Muggle child, no less."

"Yes, but..."

He placed an arm around Moody's shoulder and turned to face the crowd. "You are proof that the next generation of Aurors is up to the task of meeting the challenges of the future."

Moody looked upon the sea of spectators and forced a smile through clenched teeth. "Thank you, sir."

The intern came to Pilliwickle's side and handed him a dark blue velvet case. Pilliwickle opened the case and presented Moody with the shiny gold medal within.

"The Order of Merlin is the highest award for valour that the Ministry of Magic can bestow. This medal is given for gallantry in the face of an enemy attack which is above and beyond the call of duty." With great ceremony, he pinned the medal to Moody's uniform. "This honour is a cherished tradition, and I am honoured to present it to our newest recipient: Alastor Moody."

The music resumed to the crowd's applause. The moments seemed to go by in a blur as Moody shook hand after outstretched hand extended by complete strangers. Before he knew it, he was being escorted offstage. Pilliwickle immediately began his oratory for the second portion of the night's presentation.

Pilliwickle's words registered dully in Moody's mind as his fingers grazed the unfamiliar weight pinned to his chest. He found his way to the exit where the maestro awaited him at the foot of the stairs.

"Good job, Scab. You might have a future in politics yet."

Moody shook his head. "I don't deserve this."

Maestro snorted loudly. "Of course you don't."

"What happened just now?"

"Institutionalized denial." Maestro took Moody by the shoulder and led him through the crowd to a remote corner of the room away from prying eyes. "People need to know that we are in control of things. They rally around symbolic gestures like this and dress them up with pomp so they can feel safe at night."

"Even if it's not entirely accurate?"

"Welcome to the world, young one. There's a lot at stake: old bloodlines and even older money."

Moody looked toward the stage. "I feel so...."

"Used? Discarded? Irrelevant?" the maestro interjected with a grin.

"I was going to say, 'Confused.' But I'm sure your words will apply in forty years or thereabouts." Moody tried his best to hide a smirk in response to the sneer that the maestro shot his way. "How many of these things have you been to, anyway?"

Moody wasn't surprised when the maestro didn't bother to answer. A waiter came by with a tray of spirits, and each of the two men took a glass of wine. Moody partook of a sip and, for the first time, took notice of the large red curtain across the atrium. It ascended halfway to the ceiling and served as a backdrop for the stage. Knowing that what the curtain concealed was the main draw for the night's crowd, he struggled to read the embroidery within the swaying folds of the scarlet fabric.

Fountain of Magical Brethren

Three wizards walked onto the stage. Pilliwickle greeted them in the same warm fashion. Each of the three was presented with a plaque, the significance of which seemed to be related to the mysterious object behind the curtain. They gathered at the center of the platform to pose for more pictures. The crowd's applause was deafening.

Maestro took the opportunity to point out the identity of these affluent wizards, beginning with the one with greying blond hair.

"The Malfoy family...a relatively new bloodline but very wealthy. They practically bankrolled this entire event. They think money can curry favour." The maestro took a sip then smirked. "And they're right."

Moody already knew the second wizard as Druella's father; however, he saw no point in interrupting the maestro.

"The Rosiers...neither exceedingly wealthy nor influential, but their pristine pedigree is their currency."

The third wizard was younger than the rest. He looked familiar, but Moody could not recall if he had met him before.

"The Blacks have it all. They're a bunch of inbred aristocrats, that lot. I suspect they're on the prowl for fresh blood." The maestro snorted. "It plays like a bloody soap opera."

Moody eyed the maestro thoughtfully. "What's a soap opera?"

"Never you mind," the maestro replied with a sour expression. He was about to take another sip from his glass when he was interrupted by a gentle voice.

"It's good to see you again, Maestro."

The maestro turned to acknowledge the older wizard who stood humbly before him. "It's been a long time, Professor Dumbledore."

"You're looking very well," Dumbledore said, extending his hand.

"As are you." The maestro paused to regard Dumbledore and tentatively returned the handshake. "How long do you plan to let that thing on your chin grow?"

Dumbledore smiled and stroked his beard. "Up until I find a razor up to the task."

"Indeed." The maestro tried to smile in return, but judging by the preponderance of new wrinkles that formed on his face, it was clearly an exercise to which he was unaccustomed. "And however did they coax you out of your castle to attend such a gala?"

"I always try to make time to follow up on my students," Dumbledore said, glancing to Moody. "That, and the hors d'oeuvres are first rate." He turned his attention to the young wizard, who had been watching the exchange with piqued interest. "How have you been, my boy?"

Moody nodded graciously in response. "Fine, thank you, Professor."

The maestro took another sip from his glass. "So, this one is your doing, eh? I should've known."

"I wish I could take all the credit for this excellent young man." Dumbledore placed a hand on Moody's shoulder, and the young wizard flinched slightly. "But I see that he has flourished under your tutelage, Maestro."

"We'll see." Maestro finished the rest of his wine abruptly. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'm expected to mingle. Enjoy the rest of the party."

Moody looked on in curiosity as the maestro sauntered off and exchanged his empty glass for a fresh one at the nearest wait station. Moody had never thought that he would live to see the old warhorse make a tactical retreat.

"You are very perceptive, Alastor." Dumbledore said with a sombre voice. "There has been... tension between the Head Auror and myself for some time now." He chuckled softly when Moody glared at him. "Don't worry; it doesn't take Legilimency to read your body language."

Moody grinned in relief. "It has something to do with the final push against Grindelwald, I take it?" he asked, recalling his history lessons on the subject.

"You would be correct."

Moody nervously swished the contents of the glass in his hand. Even though he was of age, he felt uncomfortable drinking in Dumbledore's presence. "Is that one of those 'drawbacks' you tried to warn me about in my seventh year, Professor?"

Dumbledore averted his eyes and pursed his lips. "About that. I want you to know that, in spite of what I told you, I never had any doubt that you would make an exemplary Auror."

"I understand, Professor. It was sound advice for which I am grateful." He extended his hand to Dumbledore and smiled when his former teacher shook it eagerly.

A hush fell over the crowd, which prompted Dumbledore and Moody to turn their attention toward the stage. After a brief oratory, the curtain was drawn to reveal the statue that had been concealed behind it.

The sculpture reflected bright, shimmering light throughout the surrounding atrium. It depicted five effigies: a wizard, a witch, a goblin, a centaur and an elf. Spouts of water streamed from the sculpture. Moody looked in awe upon the sheer grandeur of the piece. It was not lost on him, however, that the wizard and the witch were the centerpieces of the fountain while the other, non-human, creatures were depicted to regard them in rapt adoration.

Dumbledore leaned in and asked Moody, "So, what do you think?"

Moody examined the statue thoughtfully as he sipped his wine. "Beautiful, really. The craftsmanship is top notch, reminiscent of the Baroque period masters."

"Indeed." Dumbledore flagged down a passing waiter carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres. After sampling one, he grabbed several more, putting a few in his pocket. "So, what do you really think?"

"It's a bit pompous."

"Quite."

The two smiled at each other knowingly.

A final round of applause diverted Moody's attention back to the podium. His eyes followed Mr. Rosier walking off the stage side by side with the familiar Mr. Black. They seemed particularly chummy as they navigated through the crowd to the far side of the room, where they were met by Moody's fiancée, Druella. After a brief chat, Mr. Rosier left the couple alone.

Moody couldn't hear their conversation from so far away, but his eyes narrowed at what he saw: the way he kissed her hand, the way he trailed a lingering stroke on her forearm, the way she laughed at his jokes. Moody's hand tightened around his glass like a vice.

When they had disappeared from sight, Moody finished his wine in a single gulp, said his goodbyes to Dumbledore and excused himself.

It took a while for Moody to make his way through the crowd. He caught up to Druella when he turned the corner of the adjacent hallway, but by the time he arrived, Mr. Black had already taken his leave of her. Seeing him up close, Moody finally recognized him as a contemporary from his time at Hogwarts. Cygnus.

Cygnus acknowledged Moody as he passed. "Congratulations, Moody. On both counts."

Moody made sure that Cygnus had left before engaging Druella. She wore the same dress from the night that they had gone stargazing.

Her eyes widened, and she blushed as he approached. "Oh my, you look very dashing..."

"What the devil is going on with you tonight?" he snapped.

She took a step back, surprised by the rebuke. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't act coy. You must have seen me in the crowd tonight."

She smiled. "I forget sometimes that you're not versed in these things." She took a tentative step closer and explained in a hushed voice, "Our engagement hasn't been officially announced. It would not have been proper to approach you without a formal introduction."

"And what about Cygnus, fawning over you like that?"

She waved him off dismissively. "It's nothing. He was just a suitor."

"Suitor?" Moody had no regard for the volume of his voice. "Did they change the definition of 'betrothed' while I was away?"

"It was my parents' idea. Why do you think I took him aside? So as not to cause a scene." A hint of a smile visited her lips. "I've never seen you like this before. You're jealous."

"I am not jealous." As if to prove it, he softened his voice but still retorted, "How would you like it if I came in with a tart on each arm?"

"I wouldn't like it at all, but it's different for you, being a boy." She placed her hand on his shoulder. "This is how the game is played, honey."

"Well, I don't like this game. And I don't like the way it changes you." Moody rested a gentle hand on her cheek, taking notice of the way it caused her hair to change to violet.

Immediately, Druella closed her eyes and willed her hair back to its natural color. "We all have to be a bit of a Metamorphmagus in that regard, I'm afraid."

"That's going to change once we're married."

At that, Druella opened her eyes and pushed his hand away. "Do you think I like getting an owl the first thing in the morning telling me that you've been hurt? Do you think I like the notion of sitting at home waiting, wondering whether you're on your way with a bouquet of flowers or bleeding out in some urban ghetto?" She calmed her voice and continued, "If you want me to be tolerant of the life you have chosen, then you have to accept mine, too."

Moody looked down at his feet. "You're right, of course."

She smiled, stroking his hair. Her other hand hovered over his accolade. "The Order of Merlin, Third Class. Daddy has to take you seriously now. He won't try this again."

Moody returned her smile. "You're sure?"

Druella lifted Moody's chin and met his eyes. "Trust me, darling."

"Druella," a voice boomed from down the hall.

The couple turned to see Druella's father, Mr Rosier, standing at the corner.

Druella stepped back from Moody, almost with a start, and broke their eye contact. "I'll see you later." She rejoined her father, and they left Moody alone in the hall.

Moody had had quite enough, so he decided to take his leave of the festivities. He took the lift back down to the second floor, which housed the Auror Division. He fumed all the way to the north wing where the training rooms were located. By this time of night, the halls were empty, so he had his pick of the rooms. He used his code to open what looked, from the outside, like a small closet door. He stepped into an expansive room filled with exercise equipment. He eagerly removed his uniform top and draped it over a small bench along with his wand.

After slipping on a pair of leather gloves, Moody began to operate the speed bag, slowly at first, then built it up to a furious rhythm. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the soothing sensation of the bag rebounding off his knuckles.

His concentration was interrupted by the opening of the door followed by the sounds of gentle footsteps. Moody looked over his shoulder and stilled the speed bag when he recognized the entrant.

"Auror Shacklebolt?" he said in surprise. "May I help you?"

"You were supposed to report to me right away. Did the maestro not tell you?"

"Yes, he did. I just didn't realize he meant 'right away' as in 'tonight.'"

"I see." Shacklebolt came closer and stood at the edge of the mat. "I was just going over your statement with the patrol wizards. Everything seems to be in order. "

"That's good to hear." Moody removed the gloves and left them hanging on the station. He stood at relaxed attention with his hands clasped behind his back.

"In the future, I would suggest that when writing out your reports you don't make the language so flowery. Stick to the facts; it's not a poetry contest."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."

Shacklebolt kicked off her sandals and stepped onto the padded flooring. "It could make someone think that you're leaving details out intentionally."

"Perish the thought." Moody eyed her as she walked around him. "Any other advice?"

"No, just a request. Conjure a Patronus for me."

Crap! Shit! Bollocks! "Er, pardon?"

She circled him slowly, tapping the tip of her wand across his shoulders to accentuate the words. "Conjure. A. Patronus."

Without turning his head, Moody kept his eyes trained warily on her. "No."

"Is that insubordination, scab?"

"Well, you did say it was just a request," he quipped with a grin.

Shacklebolt was not impressed. "Are you sure you want to play games with me?"

"I can't." Moody faced her. "You're going to throw me out of here, then?"

"Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren't we?" Shacklebolt removed her headdress, allowing the locks of her braided hair to fall around her shoulders. She placed the headdress, along with her wand, on the bench next to Moody's things and stood with her back to him. "I want you to grab me from behind."

"Pardon?"

"Is there something wrong with your hearing?" When she felt his hands reach around her only tentatively, she snapped, "Tighter!"

Biting his lip, he squeezed her firmly. "Like this?"

"That'll do."

A shift in weight caused Moody to lurch forward. The world turned upside-down, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, trying to recapture the wind that was knocked out of him.

"Get up and come at me again." Shacklebolt grinned as she stood over him. "Do you know what makes a Patronus so effective?"

"Yeah. Happy thoughts." Moody proceeded to rise painfully. "Which is all well and good... unless you don't have any."

When Moody reached for her, Shacklebolt parried the grab, kicked his foot out from under him and hip-tossed him onto his side with a loud, echoing thud.

When Moody tried to sit up, Shacklebolt pinned him down, her foot on his chest, and taunted him, "What's wrong? Mama didn't give you enough hugs? Daddy didn't get you that pony for your sixth birthday?"

Moody winked. "I wanted a puppy, actually." He grabbed her foot and twisted her off balance. He vaulted to his feet just as Shacklebolt rolled upright. "I just think it's silly to expect one to think of sunny days and posies when engaged in battle."

Shacklebolt nodded in approval, but persisted. "Grab me again."

With breakneck speed, Moody managed to get a hold of her by the neck. Shacklebolt dropped her weight and used their combined momentum to tumble Moody headfirst onto his back. Moody regained his bearings to find that Shacklebolt was straddling him, her elbow just short of smashing his throat.

Shacklebolt withdrew her elbow and rested her palms on either side of his head. Her many braids dangled just over his brow. "Your assessment shows a complete lack of understanding. A Patronus is a parasite. It feeds off the negative energy of dark magic and redirects it, turning it into something positive. We call it the Avatar Effect."

Moody sighed in frustration. "I don't understand."

She hopped off of him and waited for him to rise. "Come. At me. Again."

Moody angled toward her slowly. After a brief feint, he bolted towards her and managed to grab her wrist. Shacklebolt calmly spun under his arm and flipped him. Moody countered by somersaulting forward and coming about to grab her elbow, attempting to pin it behind her back. Shacklebolt rode on the strength of his push to whirl gracefully over his shoulders. She landed on her feet and changed the direction of the momentum to clothesline Moody on his neck.

Moody grunted when he fell on his back.

Shacklebolt knelt beside him so as to tap her fingertip on his forehead. "Use your opponent's negative energy, and redirect it to your advantage."

Moody considered the words and finally applied their meaning to the sparring lesson. It was like a light bulb illuminating the darkness. "Right."

She smiled and retrieved her wand. She pointed it towed a collection of mud bins stowed in the corner and levitated one to the center of the room.

"Golem Surrectum."

A pillar of wet earth rose from the bin. It took on a humanoid form, stepped out of the vat and trudged towards them, its arms outstretched in a menacing fashion.

Shacklebolt raised her wand, and a silver bolt shot out. It hung in the air and howled before attacking the golem. When the earthen beast had been smashed back into a pile of wet mud, the Patronus returned to Shacklebolt's side.

At first, Moody thought that the Patronus was an avatar of a dog. But as he made a closer inspection of its hunched, massive head and its prominent forepaws, he realized that it was anything but.

Shaklebolt patted her Patronus' head as it nuzzled against her leg. "Now you try."

Moody pointed his wand at the strange creature. "What the devil is that?"

Shacklebolt snorted. "It's my Patronus."

"Yeah, but what animal is it?"

"Fisi...a hyena."

"Aren't those scavengers?"

"As is the lion that you Gryffindors hold in such high esteem." She cocked an eyebrow. "What of it?"

"I meant no offense. It's just... odd, I suppose."

"Do you know nothing of the world outside of your Eurocentric bubble?" With a flick of her wand she dispelled the Patronus. "The Lion and the Hyena are the same in that both are eaters of death. Without the death eaters, the world would be overrun with pestilence."

"Right... Sorry."

Shacklebolt uttered an incantation to reconstitute the golem and ordered it to advance. "Stop apologizing and show me your Patronus already."

Moody took his guard and aimed at the slow moving hulk. "Expecto Patronum." He scoffed when he failed to summon a Patronus of his own. His stomach tightened when he felt Shacklebolt's hand on his abdomen.

Shacklebolt started to rub his belly. Her hand glowed a dull red as she did so. "Feel my magic? I'm simulating the euphoric effect of a Patronus."

Moody did indeed feel it. He stood erect as the warmth began to penetrate his core.

"Concentrate on it; let it pulse through you in waves like ripples in a pond. You should feel it getting stronger. Let those ripples turn into tides crashing on the surf."

Moody felt the warmth diffuse into his wand arm, causing it to stiffen until it was on the verge of cramping.

"Don't think of your wand as an extension of your arm but rather as an extension of the magic inside you." Shacklebolt moved her hands to his outstretched arm and started to stroke its length gently. "Do you feel it?"

"Yes," Moody chuckled quietly in response as the giddy sensation within him approached critical mass. "I feel it."

She released him. "Then say the words."

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

A silver, misshapen blob forced its way out of Moody's wand. It pounded the golem mercilessly and obliterated it. The sheer force of its assault blew Moody and Shacklebolt off their feet.

Moody wiped the mud from his face. His heart racing, he sprung upright and howled joyously. When he had regained his composure, he looked to Shacklebolt. There she sat, her chin trembling as she struggled in vain to pick the mud out of her braids.

Blushing, Moody extended a hand to help her up. "Sorry, that's... never happened before."

She glared at him and retrieved the rest of her belongings. "You'll have to work that problem out on your own, I'm afraid."

After she left, he looked upon his handiwork with pride. He pointed his wand.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Nothing happened, save for a single ember that sputtered from the tip of his wand.

"Bollocks."