Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's Note: While Harry and his friends may make the occasional appearance in this story, it's told from the adults' POV - Moody's in particular. Also, there's likely to be some Moody-centric het romance, so if either of those things make you gag, this is your chance to bail out. If not, welcome and thanks for reading. :)

It had been raining steadily all morning, and Moody had just plugged the last drip in his ceiling and sat down to study the Daily Prophet when the doorbell rang. Grumbling, he put aside the quill he'd been using to mark suspicious sentences - he was convinced that the Prophet's editors used their rag to pass coded messages- and stumped from the kitchen through to the entry. There, he trained his magical eye on the outside step without opening the front door. Say what you would about the thing; it did eliminate the need for a peephole.

At first he thought the dark-haired woman standing on the step was a stranger, and a jolt of apprehension ran through him. Then he looked more closely and realized that he did know her: they had met during the few days he'd spent at Hogwarts after his release from the trunk. He had scarcely spoken to her, as he had been in the hospital wing until the Leaving Feast, but he would have recognized that expression of prim disapproval anywhere.

"What d'you want?" he asked, and watched her jump as his voice boomed from a concealed device in the eaves.

"It's Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress at Hogwarts," she said. "Albus sent me. May I come in, please?"

There was a large brass button on the wall to Moody's right. He punched it, and a long, narrow tray shot out of the front door, right where a flap for letters should have been. McGonagall started again, but stepped nimbly to one side to avoid it.

"Put your wand in and back away," he ordered. She wasn't too pleased about that, if the tight little crease between her brows was any indication, but she did as he asked. He pulled the tray in again, picked up the wand and examined it. Hazel with a unicorn core - an unusual combination, but one that seemed to fit what little he knew of her. It had no untoward enchantments that he could detect, and it had been balanced and polished recently; she looked after it well. Dropping it into the tray, he shot it back through the door to her.

"Are you quite finished?" she asked as she slid it into her sleeve.

"Not yet," said Moody. "See that square in the middle of the door?"

"Yes."

"Put your right hand on it."

"What are you going to - ouch!" She jerked her hand back and automatically put her bleeding index finger in her mouth.

"I really don't think all this is necessary," she said around it.

"I do," said Moody. "Hang on." He drew a long, shining, hollow-tipped needle from his side of the door slab with one hand while retrieving a vial from a nearby shelf with the other. With a tiny clink, he tapped the needle on the vial's rim and let a drop of the professor's blood fall into the clear liquid inside. The blood made a pale-pink cloud as he swirled it, but the liquid itself did not change color. Good. She hadn't taken Polyjuice, then.

As he put the vial back on the shelf, McGonagall's voice came through the door again, muffled but clearly irritated.

"Do you suppose I might come in now? I understand your concern, but Albus asked me to come and see you, and frankly, I have other things to do today."

"All right," Moody said. He drew his wand, just in case, and undid the bars and locks one at a time. The door swung open, and McGonagall stepped across the threshold. Her frown immediately softened into sympathy as she got an eyeful of him. Moody winced. He knew he looked even worse than usual, but that didn't mean he liked to be reminded of it.

"You still look so ill - oh, Alastor -" She broke off, flustered. "Mister Moody. I apologize. It's difficult to remember that I don't really know you."

Moody raised his eyebrows as well as he could; even at the best of times, that part of his face didn't always work the way he wanted it to. "Alastor, eh? Just how well do you 'not really' know me?"

"Not that well." McGonagall's voice was sharp enough to pierce dragonhide. "But we - the other we, not you and I - were colleagues for a year. One does develop a certain level of familiarity."

"Oh, I'm sure one does," Moody said. "Well then, Minerva, what brings you here? I spoke to Albus last night through the fire, and he didn't mention that he planned to send you around."

"He didn't know at the time," said Minerva, folding up her green plaid umbrella and looking around the entryway for a place to put it. Seeing nothing but a dented antique spittoon and the shelf of vials and gadgets, she shrank the umbrella to toy size and tucked it into a pocket of her cloak. "We only heard from Remus Lupin this morning. He was able to find Sirius Black at last, and they're on their way to London as we speak. We'll be setting up headquarters for the Order in Black's family home at 12 Grimmauld Place. It's Unplottable, so Albus has asked me to take you there."

Moody aimed his magical eye at her in a long, hard and rather impolite stare, examining everything from the edging on her cloak to the toes of her sensible black boots.

"How do I know it's safe to go anywhere with you?" he asked.

"You've just drawn my blood and poked at my wand," said Minerva in exasperation. "What more do you want?"

"Ah," said Moody, limping closer and looming over her - a nice trick, as he only topped her by a couple of inches. "That was to find out if you are who you say you are. I'm satisfied there. But you could be Minerva McGonagall and still be a traitor, couldn't you? Suppose Albus doesn't even know you're here?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Minerva fumbled in her cloak pocket again and brought out a square of parchment. "I thought Albus was wasting his time with this, but it seems he wasn't. Here." She pushed the parchment into Moody's hand; he unfolded it and scanned the few lines within.

"You can see it's in Albus' writing," said Minerva, watching him. "So when will you be ready to leave?"

Moody scowled at the parchment, which was, indeed, unmistakably written in Albus' loopy hand. He did not like what it said at all. The Black family home was the last place he would have chosen for the Order's headquarters, and he told Minerva so.

"I'm willing to accept that Sirius Black wasn't guilty of betraying James and Lily Potter, but that doesn't mean I trust him, and it sure as hell doesn't mean I trust his family, dead or not. I wouldn't be surprised if their house was full of old Death Eater traps and Dark magic."

"Albus did mention that we might need to tidy up a bit," said Minerva delicately, "but he was quite certain it was the best place for the Order, and I don't doubt he's right."

"And just how do you know so much about what's right for the Order?" Moody demanded. "As I recall, you weren't in it last time around."

An angry flush blossomed in Minerva's cheeks, but she restrained herself and chose her words with visible care.

"Albus had his reasons then," she said, "and he has his reasons now. And I don't suppose it's your place to question them any more than it is mine."

"We'll see about that," said Moody. "Is Albus planning to be at the Blacks' Fortress of Fear when I get there? Seems I have plenty to discuss with him."

"I am not privy to Albus' timetable," said Minerva through clenched teeth. "Do you need to pack before we go?"

"Just a thing or two," said Moody, and set about filling a bag with poisons and explosives.

They took a Portkey to the city, landing in a dodgy-looking alley off a street full of Muggle piercing and tattooing shops. Minerva informed him sharply that they would walk from there, and snapped her umbrella open like a shield. As he had no choice but to follow her, Moody pulled his hat down and his collar up and did so.

By the time they had gone half a block, he was sure he was going to be sick. He'd only left his house once since he'd returned from Hogwarts, and then he had waited until after midnight, hoping the darkness and relative quiet would be easier on his raw nerves. Even so, he had nearly run screaming when a man out walking a dog had passed too close to him on the street. Now there were hundreds of people around him, brushing against him, bumping him from behind, and no way to know who or what any of them were. He pushed his free hand deeper into his pocket, clasping the glowing blue globe that lay at the bottom. Throwing it into the crowd would go against all his years of training - using magic in front of Muggles, creating a mess that overworked Aurors would have to clean up - but the temptation was strong nonetheless.

"Stop it," he muttered to himself, and walked on. The smells of exhaust and wet pavement and frying fish assailed him; the sounds of traffic and people's chatter hurt his ears. His magical eye swiveled in every direction, trying to take in all the sights. It made his head ache.

Minerva, for her part, was clearly still put out over their recent conversation. She was a good fifteen feet ahead of him, walking as fast as she could under the circumstances, back rigid and heels clacking in a furious rhythm. At any other time he would have had no problem keeping up, but he was still getting used to the wooden leg again after his year away, and the last thing he wanted to do was trip and go tumbling into a puddle. Gritting his teeth, he walked a little faster. He wasn't going to plead with this woman he scarcely knew to slow down for him.

He didn't have to. Three blocks later, Minerva turned around to check on him and noticed how far he had fallen behind. To her credit, she stopped, glaring at a pair of spike-haired, nose-pierced Muggle teenagers who shoved on past her, and waited for him to catch up.

"Are you all right?" she asked as he came clumping toward her.

"Fine," said Moody shortly.

Minerva raised an eyebrow. She was much better at it than he was. She probably spent hours in front of her mirror, plucking those thin, dark brows into the perfect shape for raising at people. Moody stared back at her and said nothing.

"If you're sure, then," she said. She began walking again, but this time he noticed that she matched her pace to his. He couldn't help feeling a certain grudging gratitude for it.

After a few minutes, they turned into a quieter street, and Moody sighed with relief as the crowds thinned and disappeared. With some effort, he unclenched his fingers from the globe in his pocket and readjusted his grip on the worn leather handles of his bag. Minerva, who had seen most of what he'd put inside, eyed the bag with deep suspicion.

"It's all necessary," he said. "Most of it is even legal."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Minerva. "I would hate to think of you having to arrest yourself."

Moody snorted. "I don't have the authority to arrest anyone anymore. I'm retired, in case you didn't know."

"I know." She held the umbrella a little higher to cover both of them. "You told me so last autumn. I mean Crouch told me. Damn it! I do know the difference between you, I promise."

She was doing better than he was if she did, Moody thought. Ever since his release, he'd been dreaming that the real Alastor Moody had been locked away in Azkaban, soulless and staring, and that he was actually Barty Crouch in disguise. He had no intention of telling her that, though. He had her measure by now; anything he said would go straight to Albus, and friend or not, Albus didn't need to know about his every insecurity.

"Well, as long as we're talking about Crouch, maybe you can clear something up for me," he said. A car whizzed by scant inches from them; he stiffened a bit, but managed to keep from flinching outright. "Albus didn't go into much detail - understandable, since he had the wool pulled over his eyes like everyone else - but Crouch must've done a bang-on impression of me to pull it off for as long as he did. What d'you think? Was he good?"

"Oh yes," said Minerva. "There are some differences, of course. He was a little clumsier than you are, because of the - er -"

"The leg," said Moody. "It's all right to mention. I know I've got it."

"Yes, right, the leg." Minerva's cheeks were flushed again, but not, he thought, with anger. "He must not have known how to use it very well at first. He got better with time, although he was a menace on the dance floor."

"Dance floor?" asked Moody, horrified.

"Well, there was a ball, you know ..."

Moody imagined Crouch barging around a ballroom on his wooden leg and shuddered. "Let's not dwell on that," he said. "What about his personality? Did he behave like me?"

"He was stubborn, abrasive, and unorthodox in his methods," said Minerva. "Make of that what you will."

Sounds about right, Moody thought, but remained silent. His stump was really beginning to ache now where it rested on the wooden leg, the way it had when he'd first lost it years ago, and he needed to concentrate harder and harder on walking and not falling over. Crouch must have had a terrible time getting used to it. He hoped it had hurt like the devil.

"But," Minerva added, "I liked him in a way. I suppose you could say we were friends. We worked well together, at any rate." She shot him a look over the rims of her square spectacles. "I hope you and I will be able to do the same."

Moody grunted, unable to muster the breath for more. He saw a fresh scowl begin to form on Minerva's face, but it wavered and vanished as she realized how much he was struggling.

"Here, we can stop and rest." Her hand hovered just above his elbow, but she had the good sense not to touch him. "If you sat on the steps just there -"

"I'd never get up again," said Moody. "Give me a minute." He hobbled over to the nearest building and leaned against the worn old bricks, trying to ride out the pain. From the corner of his eye, he saw Minerva slip her wand out of her sleeve and cast a Concealing Charm over the both of them. A clever idea, that. They didn't need Muggles stopping to ask what was wrong - or to try robbing them, which was a more likely possibility in this neighborhood.

"I told you I was fine," he said gruffly, aware that she had put the wand away and was staring at him.

"You don't look it," she said. "Tell me the truth, Mister Moody. Are you well enough to work for the Order in an active capacity again? I know Albus thinks a great deal of you, and he would sooner have your help than anyone's, but he wouldn't want you to endanger your health."

"Or anyone else's, isn't that right?" Moody straightened up and looked her dead in the face. "I may not be well enough, Professor McGonagall, but it isn't as if I'll live out my last few years in peace anyway if Voldemort's allowed to run rampant again. My health is the least of our worries, and Albus knows it."

He had expected her to argue with him; arguing seemed to be something she had been born to do. It was a bit of a shock when her face crumpled and she turned away, wrapping her arms around herself as if for comfort.

"I know it too," she said, barely above a whisper. "It's why Albus allowed me into the Order this time. He kept me out before so that if something happened to him, I would be able to take over and run Hogwarts without any suspicion that I'd been involved in a secret organization. But now - I think he believes that there may not be a Hogwarts to run for much longer. And I think he may very well be right."

Moody said nothing. There was nothing to say. Instead, he put his weight back on the wooden leg and tried a few steps.

"Is it far now?" he asked.

Minerva sniffed and shook her head, still not looking at him. "Not very."

"Come on then," Moody said. "At least it's stopped raining."

As they turned the next corner, he decided it was time to change the subject to anything other than the imminent doom of the wizarding world.

"As long as we're playing True Confessions," he said, "suppose you tell me what the Blacks' house is really like. And never mind what Albus thinks of it. I want to know what you think."

Minerva, who appeared to be just as embarrassed by her moment of weakness as he had been by his, looked grateful for the diversion.

"It's like Torquemada's summer home," she said, "only less cheerful."

Caught off guard, Moody choked, then laughed. "Well, that's not what I wanted to hear, but it's something I can deal with. Anyone else there yet?"

"Molly Weasley's coming," said Minerva, "and Arthur, and some of their children, and Lupin and Black of course, and I expect Severus Snape will be around sooner or later."

Moody had plenty to say about the last name on her list, but before he could say any of it, she pointed ahead with the tip of her now-furled umbrella.

"There it is. 12 Grimmauld Place."

On the last word, the house itself materialized between numbers eleven and thirteen. It didn't look that bad from the outside - more dirty and derelict than anything else - but as Moody swept its facade with his magically enhanced vision, he saw all manner of nasty things lurking within, coiled in dark corners and shifting restlessly behind forgotten doors.

"Ugh," he said.

"Yes, well," said Minerva. "You must admit it's secret, at least."

"It is that," said Moody. Glancing in her direction, he caught her stealing an upside-down look at the silver locket watch that hung on a chain round her neck.

"Well, I won't keep you," he said. "Other things to do today, you said. Thanks for bringing me this far."

Minerva hesitated. "Perhaps I ought to go inside with you, just to be certain -"

"'S all right," Moody said. "Molly's there already; I can see her in the kitchen. You go on."

Minerva still looked uncertain, but she gave him the polite little nod that had long ago replaced bowing and curtseying among purebloods. "Good day, Mister Moody. I suppose we shall see each other from time to time."

"Oh, I think so," said Moody. "I think we'll work well together. In fact, we might even be able to say we're friends one day."

A surprised expression crossed Minerva's face, but in its wake came a smile - a warm, genuine one. It did wonders for her looks, and Moody grinned back.

"Goodbye for now, then," she said, and Disapparated.

Once she had gone, Moody looked up at 12 Grimmauld Place and settled his bag more firmly in his hand again. He hadn't had to use anything in it on the way here, but from the looks of the place, he might need every bit of it once he got inside. At the very least, he'd have to do something about whoever was playing that obnoxious Muggle music in number eleven. It wouldn't be good for his nerves at all. Swinging the bag, and being careful not to step too hard on his wooden leg, he headed for the front door.