Who: Alastor Moody - NPC Greta Catchlove What: Moody has his dream Where: Dreamland When: Thursday, August 1 - early morning - BACKDATED because I thought the dream plot went longer.
TWACK!
"OW! Son of a BITCH! What the hell did you hit me for?!"
Alastor angrily spun around to face the person who hit him, and found Greta standing there, her arms indignantly folding across her chest, her metal spatula in her hand. She was young, just like he remembered her during the first War, but he was in his present, scarred body with wooden leg and magical eye. He glared at her and she glared right back, not about to take any of his shit.
"Would it kill you to be nice once in a while?" she demanded to know.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Alastor snapped. "I'm the nicest goddamn person I know!"
"Don't give me that," she said, threatening him by waving her spatula. "You know what I mean! This is not your usual grumpiness, you're going over and beyond the call. At this rate, you're going to give yourself a heart attack by the end of the week."
"What the fuck do you expect! There are Death Eaters out there and..."
"AND that doesn't mean you have to constantly go around in a seething rage. I'm worried about you, and I'm not the only one."
Alastor scoffed, making a sweeping, dismissive gesture with his arm. "Why should you care?"
The expression on Greta's face changed, she was deeply saddened that he would ask that question. Seeing her face was enough to shut him up and Alastor immediately regretted his words, though he would never apologize.
"All I'm asking," Greta said in a measured tone, "is that you be less of a jerk. If not for your own sake, then for mine."
There was a long pause before Alastor spoke again. "Do you still love me after everything?" And by everything, Alastor meant how old he'd grown and how damaged his body had become, though he could not bring himself to say exactly what he meant.
Greta smiled at such a silly question. "I'm here, aren't I?"
________________________________________
Moody opened his eye slowly and found himself staring at the ceiling. This was the first dream he'd remembered in decades. It felt so real that he swore he could still feel the throbbing on his head where Greta had hit him. Turing his head to the side, the only thing there was the empty space in bed, beside him and he simultaneously felt a surge of comfort and loneliness.
"Fuck it," he grumbled to himself. Those kinda of emotions made him uncomfortable. He tried to dismiss it at just a dream, but couldn't. A few hours later, the alarm clock rang, and he was still awake, remembering the way she looked.