harry potter is gnomeface, king of gnomes (bravestheart) wrote in flippedrpg, @ 2012-04-27 15:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | ch: can: harry potter, ch: swap: alastriona moody, p: annalisa, p: silyara |
Who: Harrycan & Moodyswap
What: meeting, testing for possible Crouch-impersonation, talking, exploring Candyland
When: Friday after this
Where: Moody's room --> elsewhere
Warnings: TBD
Status: Threaded; incomplete
At the moment, Harry was fairly certain of two things. First, he was fairly sure that Victoire and Teddy-- and somehow even Tonks and maybe Moody-- knew what had happened to Alby, but he couldn't fathom what it might be. They were trying to reassure him, though, and he was so worn out that he wanted to take their word for it, however crazy their words sounded at the moment.
Second, he was almost entirely positive that the female version of Moody really was Moody, and therefore someone he could trust, but he was going to make sure of that. Which would be interesting if she kept babbling at him the way she'd been doing, but no doubt she could still put up a good fight even if she sounded ridiculous. It was either Moody or Crouch; he didn't think there was much chance anyone had impersonated Mad-Eye Moody twice. If it was Moody, everything would go well; if it was Crouch, this was probably going to go very badly. Harry liked his chances that it was Moody, but he was on his guard, nevertheless. If it was Crouch, his chances of coming out of this unscathed were not anywhere near so good.
He was ready, though, for whatever this was. Maybe a little emotionally volatile, but trusting that the kids knew Alby was alright had helped with that. He was always going to be emotionally unstable, really; he'd been through too much not to be, but as he'd told Moody, it didn't stop him from functioning properly. And he was uninjured, not too tired, because he had actually managed to sleep last night after Alby had taken his sleeping draught, even if he hadn't meant to fall asleep. His wand was tucked into the sleeve of his ridiculous red sweater, ready to be in his hand with a flick of his wrist. If he was ever going to have to face off with Crouch-Moody in a duel, his chances probably weren't ever going to get better than they were today.
He arrived at her door, and knocked, then stood back. He was dressed like a candy cane, but otherwise looked much as he always did: an eighteen year old who was much older on the inside, who was used to carrying the world on his shoulders, and half-expecting everything to go to hell all over again at a moment's notice.