Title: A Slant-Told Tale
Author: Squibstress
Rating: MA
Genre: Drama, romance
Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism
Published: 23/05/2017
Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling.
Chapter Thirty-Four
11 June 1977
In the beginning, there was sound.
Something metallic pinged, and there was pain, sharp at first, then it receded like the tide, and he floated over it.
Then pain again. And then no pain.
And more sound. He thought it would go, like before, but it didn’t, and the sound became voices. He knew this, though he didn’t know what they were saying. It didn’t matter, as long as he could just drift on the sea of no pain.
The voices became words—sounds still meaningless to him, but they had meaning, and the meaning taunted him, drawing nearer and flitting away.
He opened his eyes.
Pain! Light!
He shut them again, and the words said, “Here he is. Come on now, Moody. Open up again. Speak to him.”
Moody. It meant something. Something … it was there. Just out of his reach.
A different voice, and more words, their familiarity soothing now instead of maddening. “Alastor? Alastor, can you hear me? Open your eyes.”
The terrible light was waiting, but he wanted to see the voice. The soothing one, because it made him feel something, and that something wasn’t pain.
He opened his eyes again and shut them. And opened them. And shut them. And opened … and this time, the light wasn’t so bad, so he let them stay open.
The voice said, “Alastor,” and it was a sigh, but it was a name. His name.
He saw shapes. And colour. And the shapes and colour became a face. The lovely, familiar face, all cheekbones and thin lips and pale skin, smiled down at him.
And Alastor was speaking, saying her name, but the face was frowning, and the only sound he heard was a strangled gargle. He was drowning, drowning in the sea of no pain … but drowning all the same, and he didn’t want it. He wanted to keep looking at her.
Another face came into view and the lovely vision disappeared. A hand came behind Alastor’s neck and propped him up. Another hand held a basin under Alastor’s chin, and a voice said, “It’s mucous, nothing to worry about. Spit.”
Alastor did, and when he was done, he tried to speak again, but molten lead flowed through his head, dragging it back down to the pillow.
The lead tide overtook him, and he closed his eyes.
~oOo~
Alastor woke again two days later. He was disoriented and combative—which both alarmed Minerva and gave her hope—and Malcolm had to help the Healer subdue him long enough to pour a Calming Draught into his mouth. Bile rose in Minerva’s throat as the Healer put a hand over Alastor’s mouth and held his nostrils shut. Alastor fought and sputtered, eventually swallowing and drawing a gasping breath. Malcolm and the Healer restrained his arms to prevent him from thrashing, and his eye finally drooped and closed, and his breathing slowed. Minerva thought he’d gone back to sleep, but suddenly, the bright blue eye snapped open, blinked a few times, and appeared to focus.
His voice was a sandpapery whisper.
“You dead?”
Minerva gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile and said, “No.”
“Good. Wouldn’t like that.”
Thank the gods.
Minerva was no Healer, but she believed that Alastor had escaped the brain damage they had said sometimes occurred after massive blood loss.
She was about to speak to him, but his eye closed again, and she turned to the Healer in helpless alarm.
“Auror Moody, can you hear me?” the Healer asked loudly.
Alastor opened his eye, and Minerva relaxed again.
She made room at Alastor’s bedside as the Healer withdrew his wand began to wave it.
“Expelliarmus!” Alastor shouted, startling everyone, and the Healer’s wand flew from his hand to soar over the bed and clatter to the floor. At the same time, Alastor’s right arm shot out, and Minerva knew he was going for his wand.
When it didn’t spring into his hand, he shouted, “Accio my wand!” When no wand appeared, he roared and struggled to rise, but fell back against the bed with a hoarse howl.
Malcolm and Minerva were next to him, talking over one another, trying to soothe and calm him.
“Incarcerous!”
Ropes appeared and bound Alastor’s arms to the bedrails.
The shocked, hollow look on Alastor’s face would later appear in Minerva’s nightmares.
“Finite,” Alastor said.
Nothing happened.
“Finite Incantatem!”
“Don’t waste your energy, Auror Moody. You’re far too weak to do any more wandless magic,” the Healer said. His face was red, and the smarmy smile he’d worn since entering the room had disappeared.
“Lemme up!”
“Not while there is a danger you will harm yourself.”
“Isn’t me I’m going to harm, you bastard.”
The Healer went to the other side of the bed and picked up his wand.
Alastor struggled against the ropes.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, Alastor,” Minerva said. “If you calm down, I’m sure Healer Spleen will release the bonds.”
“How do I know he’s a Healer?”
“You’re in St Mungo’s. He’s been caring for you for almost a week.”
“And how do I know yer tellin’ the truth?”
How could she answer?
Malcolm knelt by Alastor and spoke very quietly. “Alastor, you were injured. They saved your life. Don’t you think that if anyone here wanted you dead, you’d already be buried?”
Alastor looked from Malcolm to Minerva.
“Let them help you. As they’ve done before,” Malcolm said.
Alastor’s breathing slowed, and at last he said, “Reckon you’ve got a point.” To the Healer, he said, “Get these ropes off.”
“Will you allow me to do my tests?” the Healer asked.
“Hah! Sure, why not?” Alastor said. “Now get ’em off.”
The Healer stood there, as if considering, and Minerva said, “Please, Healer Spleen. He’s fine now. He was only a little disoriented. And when you came at him with the wand—”
“I hardly ‘came at him,’” Spleen said, sounding like a petulant child.
Minerva’s temper rose, but she kept her voice steady. “No, but you gave him no warning. You can hardly blame him for reacting, after what he’s been through.”
Spleen’s lips pressed together and curved upward in his imitation smile. He gave her no answer and turned back to his patient.
“I’m going to use my wand to do the tests. If you can remain calm, I will remove the ropes, but I will not hesitate to bind you again if you fight.”
Alastor nodded once, and Spleen released the bonds.
He approached Alastor, wand drawn, and waited for a moment, as if challenging a tetchy Hippogriff. Alastor didn’t move, his eye stony and fixed on Spleen’s still-pink face. Spleen proceeded with the exam, waving his wand in arcs and complicated figures around Alastor’s head. That completed, he took the chart from the end of Alastor’s bed and pulled a self-inking quill from his robe pocket to make notes.
He said, “I need to test your cognitive functioning, so please try to pay attention.”
“I’m fine,” Alastor said. His glare was less intimidating without anything covering the empty socket where his right eye should have been.
Smile still cemented on his face, Spleen said, “Well, I think you should let me be the judge of your condition, hmm?” He drew his wand again, and for a moment, Minerva thought Alastor would refuse, but he said, “Suit yerself.”
Spleen took Alastor through a series of tests: of his eye, his ears, and the reflexes in his hands and arms. When he finished, Spleen tucked his wand away and picked up Alastor’s chart again.
“My name is Healer Spleen,” he said, quill moving rapidly across the parchment. “I’m going to ask you a few questions.”
Without looking up from his note-taking, he asked, “Who is Minister for Magic?”
“Milly Bagnold.”
Minerva and Malcolm exchanged a smile.
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“Clara. Was.”
“My name is Healer Spleen. What year is it?”
“Nineteen seventy … seven.”
“Month?”
“Ap— May. Maybe. Dunno.”
Minerva tensed.
“I am Healer Spleen. What’s the next word in this sentence: Never tickle a sleeping … ?”
“Dragon.”
“Who is that man over there?” Spleen pointed to Malcolm.
“Malcolm Macnair.”
“And this woman?”
“Minerva. Minerva McGonagall.” He didn’t look at her.
“And who am I?”
Alastor frowned.
Spleen looked up from his notes. “What’s my name?”
“Hell if I know! Stop askin’ stupid questions!” Alastor’s eye closed again, but Minerva knew he hadn’t fallen asleep.
She waited for the Healer to reassure him that some memory difficulty was to be expected, but there was silence as he wrote in the chart. He flipped it closed with a decisive crack that made Minerva jump, and Alastor’s eye popped open again.
Spleen said, “Auror Moody, we have things to discuss.”
“So. Discuss,” Alastor said. His voice was stronger and his words clearer than when he had first awoken.
“You were very gravely injured.”
“No kidding?”
Minerva let a laugh escape her, more out of a hysterical sort of relief than out of amusement. She suppressed it when Spleen looked over at her in irritation.
He cleared his throat and looked back at Alastor.
“We couldn’t save your right leg.”
Minerva watched Alastor’s jaw work as if he were chewing a particularly gristly piece of meat. She bit down hard on her tongue to keep from crying.
The moments clicked agonisingly by, and finally, Alastor raised a shaky hand to scratch at his nose. “Imagine you couldn’t find it.”
Spleen’s smile returned. “Quite. You were badly Splinched.”
“Yeah. You might say that.” Alastor’s personality had re-emerged on the same trajectory as the strength of his voice. “So tell me, Healer …” He leant up to read the Healer’s badge but gave a sharp hiss and flopped back against the pillow, his teeth clenched.
Spleen said, “I’ll order more pain potion for you in a little while.”
Alastor turned his head away from them, and when he turned it back, the grimace was gone. Minerva wondered how much effort his strong, even tone cost him when he asked, “When do I get out of here?”
“Oh …” Spleen chuckled as if at a small child’s antics, and Minerva wanted to hex him.
“It will be quite some time. Probably a matter of weeks.”
“No chance. Fix me up with a wooden leg, and I’ll be out of yer hair.”
“I’m afraid it isn’t that simple. You lost nearly fifty percent of your blood volume. Frankly, no one expected you to survive. No patient in my experience has ever lost more than forty percent and lived, never mind neurologically intact.”
“Which means?”
“It means that we don’t know if your brain is functioning normally,” said Spleen. “You have problems with immediate recall, among other difficulties. That could be temporary or permanent. We’ll make some more tests over the next few days to be certain. There may be other sequelae that aren’t yet apparent. At the very least, you’ll be too weak to move for a few weeks. And fitting a prosthesis will be challenging, as you lost the leg above the knee, which makes things more complicated.”
“Complicated,” Alastor muttered, and the Healer looked at Minerva as if his patient’s truculence were her fault.
She came up to the bed and said, “If you need anything, Alastor, I’ll—”
Alastor gave a deep groan that Minerva felt in the pit of her belly. His hands groped down his leg to just above where the sheet went abruptly flat.
“What is it?” Minerva asked, alarmed.
“Nothing,” Alastor said through gritted teeth.
“Alastor—”
“Nothing, I said!”
Spleen grabbed the sheet covering Alastor’s legs, but Alastor held it fast.
“Leave it!”
“Auror Moody, I have to check your leg.” He tore the sheet from Alastor’s grip and pulled it down.
Minerva caught a glimpse of white bandages, spotted with red before Alastor tugged the sheet back up, shouting, “I said leave it!” His face was the colour of congealed oatmeal, and his eye careered around the room, as the magical one usually did, lighting briefly on Minerva, then on his injured leg and darting away.
Spleen had drawn his wand, obviously contemplating restraining his patient once again, but Malcolm stepped toward him, shaking his head in warning. Spleen lowered the wand. He put it in his pocket and took up the chart, pretending to ignore the angry wizard towering over him.
“Just get me some pain potion,” Alastor said.
Spleen was scratching notes. “Mmm, hmm. As soon as I’ve—”
Minerva said, “Now, Healer Spleen.”
Spleen’s head snapped up in surprise at her sharp tone. He looked at Malcolm, whose gaze was blue steel. A shiver of primal fear ran through Minerva and blended into a great rush of love for her son.
“Get it.” Malcolm said. “Run, in fact.”
When the door shut behind the Healer, Alastor, whose fists were clenched into tight balls, said, “Malcolm. How long have you been here?” His cadence was careful and measured.
“Since two days after your injury,” Malcolm said. “Mum owled me.”
Alastor’s eye found Minerva, and she nearly touched his arm, but something in the way he looked at her made her hold back.
“Good of her,” he said as if she weren’t even there.
Malcolm glanced at his mother. He said, “Yeah. She was really worried, weren’t you, Mum? We all were. You gave us a hell of a scare, Alastor.”
“I’ve been in scrapes before.”
“But not like this,” Minerva said. “You frightened me. Us.”
“I’m all right,” Alastor said, too loudly.
The Healer came back in with the potion.
“This should help you sleep,” he said.
“Bugger that. I’ll sign whatever you like, but I’m getting out.”
“Once you’re stable and you’ve got some strength back, we can consider it,” Spleen said, the false smile so wide it reminded Minerva of the exaggerated mouth of a puppet she’d seen once as a child in Inverleith Park.
“I’m stable enough,” Alastor said.
The Healer’s Punch-and-Judy grin never faded. “Take your potion,” he said, and placed the phial on the stand beside the bed, far enough away that Alastor would have to stretch to reach it. “Perhaps you’ll be calm enough for me to examine the stump then.” He took his quill and made a show of writing a final note on Alastor’s chart, then left without another word.
“Bastard,” Alastor said. His face was still white.
Minerva retrieved the phial and gave it to Alastor, who took it without meeting her face. He uncorked it and sniffed deeply. Only then did his eye fix on her, as penetrating as always. He swallowed the potion and tossed the empty phial on the floor, where it shattered.
Malcolm said, “Alastor, is there anything we can do for you?”
“Yeah. Get me out of this hellhole.”
“As soon as you’re well enough. I promise.” Malcolm took Alastor’s hand. “I promise.”
The pain potion must have begun to work its magic, because Alastor made no reply, and his face relaxed. When he fell asleep, Minerva and Malcolm went out into the corridor.
Spleen was coming out of a room a few doors down, and the fury she’d banked bubbled to the surface and threatened to overflow if she didn’t give it voice.
“Spleen,” she called, striding over to him. “I want a word with you.”
She had a word—several words—and by the time she finished, all traces of Spleen’s smile had evaporated, and he was stammering apologies and nodding his head in vigorous agreement when she told him that she expected to hear that Senior Auror Alastor Moody had received nothing but the most respectful and compassionate treatment, lest Spleen find himself answering to her, to Malcolm, and to Albus Dumbledore, Auror Moody’s dear friend.
Spleen hurried off down the corridor, and Malcolm said, “Well done, Mum,” and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Wait here a minute,” she said. She opened the door and peeked into Alastor’s room. He was sleeping. She slipped in and went to the small cupboard. It was sealed, but a simple spell broke the charm, and the door swung open. She found what she was looking for and debated for a moment before choosing the patch over the magical eye. She carefully slipped it on Alastor, fastening the strap behind his head. He looked less vulnerable, more himself. As she looked at him, her hand reached out, stopped mid-air, and continued on to brush a strand of hair from his damp forehead. On impulse, she leant down and kissed it.
“Sleep well, love,” she whispered and slipped back out of the room.
~oOo~
It was two weeks before they could arrange to take Alastor home.
His strength had improved enough that the Healers had fitted him with a prosthetic leg—an ugly, unwieldy thing with a leather sleeve for his stump and straps that went around his hips. It squeaked every time the fake knee bent. He still hadn’t been able to take a step on it without a crutch, but he refused the pushchair Malcolm had requested from Mungo’s.
Healer Spleen insisted that Alastor was still too weak to Apparate or Floo, so he and Malcolm had to take a Muggle taxi to Alastor’s flat. Alastor hoped to Christ that there were no Death Eaters watching the flat when Malcolm helped him out of the taxi and up the three steps to the door.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Malcolm said, “Mum and I couldn’t get past your wards, so Auror Shacklebolt let us in. We got in some food and tidied up a bit.”
Panic sliced through Alastor’s chest. Shacklebolt could always break through his wards, the only one who ever could. The man had a freakish talent for it. It used to be a game between them, but now it seemed sinister.
“You okay, Alastor?”
“Yeah, fine. You and your mum were here?”
“Yes. Just to get things ready for you. She wanted to come today, but she had something she had to do. I told her I could manage.”
Alastor wondered if the “something” Minerva had to do was Order-related. Or maybe she’d taken the hints he’d dropped over the week and decided he wasn’t worth the effort anymore. That would be good.
Malcolm drew his wand and removed Kingsley’s wards. When the door opened, Alastor tensed, his magical eye darting about, searching for threats behind the walls of the entryway. He was so intent on his perimeter check that he didn’t notice when his crutch caught on the threshold. He stepped out into space onto a leg he didn’t feel, and for a moment, he was in free fall. A bolt of fire shot up his stump, and he cried out. Fortunately, Malcolm grabbed him, so anyone watching was spared the sight of Senior Auror and Pathetic Crip Alastor Moody falling arse over teakettle.
He stood panting, leaning against Malcolm. The pain subsided, and after he caught his breath, he nodded that he was ready to continue. Malcolm Summoned the crutch, and they went into the flat, the dull thud of the crutch and the faint but shrill squeal of his false knee mocking Alastor with each step.
The tiny sitting room was much cleaner than Alastor remembered.
So she’d seen the empty carry-out tins, the endless bottles of Butterbeer that were the only thing he kept in his cool cupboard because he was afraid if he ran out, he’d turn to something stronger to slake his thirst. Had she also seen the picture that sat on the table by his rumpled bed? Did she guess that sometimes, when his thoughts were so riotous he feared they might burst from his head and become real, he stroked his cock as he looked at her picture, not for the pleasure—it was hardly that, anyway—but to replace thinking with sensation? Sometimes he couldn’t even make himself come. He might as well have taken a razor to his arms. Had she seen the picture and known that he beat off looking at it? Or worse, did she guess that he sometimes spoke to the picture?
The thought left him breathless again.
Malcolm saw him falter, and took his arm to lead him to a chair.
“Thanks,” Alastor said once he was settled, and Malcolm helped him lift the bum leg to rest on the ottoman Minerva had insisted on buying to keep him from putting his feet up on the tea table. The sturdy blue burlap had worn away over the years to the point where the stuffing peeked through in spots, but he’d been unable to get rid of this, the only item they ever purchased together for the flat.
Malcolm made them tea and sandwiches, which tasted like heaven after the slop they’d given him in Mungo’s. His belly full, Alastor realised that he was exhausted. As humiliating as it was, he had to let Malcolm help him hobble to the bathroom and get seated on the bog.
It was hard to balance on the seat, and he kept a hand on the side of the sink. He almost fell off when he reached for the paper.
When he came out, Malcolm had laid out a nightshirt and put a glass of water on the nightstand next to Alastor’s bed along with a phial of pain potion and clean pads and gauze for his dressing. Holding out up a tin of something Alastor didn’t recognise, Malcolm said, “My apprentice sent this over. It’s a topical salve to help relieve the chafing from the prosthesis. I added some Tibetan potentilla to help with phantom pains. It’s a little experimental, but I checked with Spleen, and he gave his blessing. Just rub a pea-sized amount into the grafted skin when you change the dressing.”
“Great, thanks.”
“I’ll kip out there on the settee. Yell if you need anything else. Good night, Alastor.”
“Good night.”
It took Alastor nearly ten minutes to change his clothes and remove the false leg. He wished he had pyjamas; he looked … incomplete with just one white, hairy limb sticking out from under the nightshirt.
Helpless.
He sat there for a few minutes, using the calming exercises he’d learnt long ago in Auror training—ones he’d rarely had to use in combat—to quiet the madcap beating of his heart.
He took his wand from under his pillow. The cedar was warm in his hand, its power a thrum that ran not through his hand but through his blood. His heart gradually slowed and steadied its pace, and he turned his attention to his dressing.
The stump was cool, only weeping slightly when he removed the bandage. When he couldn’t put it off any longer, he opened Malcolm’s salve and applied it. It hurt like a Banshee’s wail, and he gritted his teeth to keep the moan from escaping, but after a few minutes, warmth spread over the electrified end of the leg, and it felt better than it had all day. In fact, Alastor decided he’d give the pain potion a miss tonight. It made him sleep too deeply, and you couldn’t be too careful. He applied the fresh dressing and fell asleep, wand still in his hand.
He woke three times during the night, certain he heard voices in the room. He sat up in bed each time, trembling and sweating, wand at the ready. When he finally slept again, his dreams were filled with the reds and greens of curse-light and the lifeless eyes of the Death Eater.
~oOo~
Malcolm had put breakfast on the table when Alastor came thunking in.
After they ate, Malcolm told him, “Mum said she’d be here at ten.”
“She’s coming here? Today?”
“Well … yes. Why?”
“Best not.”
“I see.” Malcolm spoke softly.
He didn’t see. He didn’t see at all, and that was fine by Alastor. It was better that way. Better Malcolm should think it was animosity rather than fear. He and Minerva didn’t need to be lumbered with a useless old cripple who was prone to hearing things that weren’t there. They both had better things to do.
Malcolm said, “She only wants to help. She cares about you.”
“Don’t need her help.”
It sounded harsh and ungrateful, and it was. He was suddenly angry, and he couldn’t be grateful that a woman who once loved him now felt sorry enough for him to spend her precious summer days caring for the gimp he’d become.
Malcolm said, “You’ll need someone’s help.”
“Your mum’s busy. And you’ve got your own life. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Kingsley said he’d look in on me.”
“Alastor—”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done. You bein’ here has meant … meant a lot. But it’s time for you to go home to your girl.”
Malcolm shook his head, and Alastor got a sudden glimmer of intuition that Malcolm’s troubles weren’t all to do with him.
“What?” he asked Malcolm.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing when you won’t look me in the eye. I’m not that ugly.”
Malcolm went over to the window and stared out for a few moments. Alastor stayed quiet. If Malcolm wanted to tell him what was bothering him, he would.
Malcolm turned back and said, “It’s just that being here has given me time to think.”
“Thinking’s good,” Alastor said. “More people should try it.”
“Yeah, well … I’m thinking I might like to come back to Scotland.”
“Nothing wrong with that. What’s Eliane say?”
“I’m not sure … I’m not sure I want her to come with me.”
Alastor’s neutral “oh” belied the heaviness that blossomed in his chest. Malcolm and Eliane had been together for fourteen years. A year longer than he and Minerva had lasted.
“It isn’t her fault,” Malcolm said.
“Never said it was.”
“She wants to get married.”
“Not unreasonable after you’ve been living together for so long. But you don’t want to.”
“No, it isn’t that I don’t want to, but she wants to get married because she wants children. Time’s running short, she says.”
Eliane was only a few years older than Malcolm. So young, Alastor thought, the both of them. Had he and Minerva ever been so young?
Malcolm looked pained. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.”
“Don’t be an eejit. Besides, it’s good for me to think about someone else’s troubles for a change. So, you don’t want kids, or you don’t want them now?”
Malcolm didn’t say anything, and Alastor prodded him. “Answer my question. Do you want kids?”
“What I want or don’t want doesn’t come into it. I can’t have children.”
“Come again?”
“Alastor. I know about my family.”
Careful, man.
He said, “And?”
“Oh, come on, Alastor. My grandfather? His brother? My father? The men in my family go mad. I can’t do that to a child. And I can’t do it to Eliane. I have to face that.”
“Hold on here, Malcolm,” Alastor said. “I know all about your great-uncle and your granddad. I’ve read the case files. Far as I can tell, they were cracked from the time they got out of short pants. You’re thirty-what now? Thirty-two? You’re not like them.”
“You don’t know that. My dad—”
“Wasn’t mad. I knew your dad at school, not well, but some. And I know what your mother’s told me, and he wasn’t mad. He was a drunk and maybe a lot of other things, but there was nothing wrong with his head that his own da and Firewhisky didn’t put there.”
“No,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. “I can’t accept that. Every single man in my father’s family has been violent since my great-grandfather started killing women as a hobby. Maybe even before, I don’t know.”
“Your Uncle Walden—” Alastor said, clutching at straws.
“Slaughters animals for a living. And Merlin knows what else on his days off.”
There was a short silence.
Alastor broke it. “And that’s why you’ve not married Eliane after all this time?”
Malcolm nodded.
“And what’s she say about it?”
“She doesn’t know. I haven’t told her much about my family.”
Secrets. More bloody secrets.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” Alastor said.
“What?”
“That I’d call Malcolm Macnair a coward.”
“How anxious would you be to tell the woman you love that every single man in your family ended up a killer?”
“I’d give you good odds she knows already. She never struck me as stupid.”
“She’s never said anything.”
“Did you ever stop to think that it could be she’s scared too?”
“Then why—”
“She knows you, Malcolm. Like I do. You’re not a killer.”
“Not now, but—”
“Not now, not ever.”
He got up and lumbered over to where Malcolm stood.
“Malcolm,” he said, digging his fingers into Malcolm’s arm to make him remember. “Listen to me as you’ve never listened before. You aren’t like them.”
Malcolm stared at him.
“You aren’t like them.”
He saw that Malcolm didn’t believe him.
Alastor released Malcolm’s arm. “I think you should talk to your mother.”
“I don’t want to upset her.”
“I don’t blame you. But I think she’ll be upset if you split with Eliane over this.”
“She never—”
“Malcolm. I’m telling you again. Talk to her. Tell her your fears.”
Too many fucking secrets.
They’d destroyed what Alastor and Minerva could have had, and Alastor was damned if he’d sit back and watch them destroy Malcolm.
He’d almost blurted it out. But the thought of what he might set in motion terrified Alastor, and he’d pulled back at the last moment, only giving Malcolm the pathetic response one gives to a child who’s asked a difficult question: Daddy’s busy. Go talk to mummy.
Opening the Pandora’s box of Minerva’s past could do as much damage as letting it alone. Merlin only knew how Malcolm would react to the news that the man he’d mourned as his father was a sad mirage. It wasn’t Alastor’s risk to take.
And somewhere, buried in a secret, shameful place in Alastor’s heart, dwelt the fear that, learning the truth, Malcolm would pull away from him, too. Learning that his father, his real father, wasn’t a drunken buffoon, but the greatest wizard of the age. A wizard who’d been there throughout his growing-up, guiding and teaching, doing all the things Alastor tried to do, but doing them effortlessly and much better than a man who only had occasional weekends and a week in summer to give to a boy who needed so much more.
A fierce, almost angry love for Malcolm took Alastor by surprise, and he turned away, pretending to get a sip of water, so Malcolm wouldn’t see.
Minerva will tell him.
It had to be done, the scab ripped open like a wound that festered, and Alastor had plenty of first-hand experience to tell him how painful that would be.