Just as Moody opened his office door, an owl swept in, dropping a letter precisely into his hand. An owl? The Ministry had transitioned to enchanted paper airplanes for internal memos ages ago.
With a grunt of confusion, Moody tore open the brown envelope. After only a few lines, his magical eye began to spin wildly, and his weathered face set into a grim mask. Dragging his prosthetic leg with surprising speed, he thundered down the hall to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, kicking the door open with a resounding bang.
The on-duty clerk, who had been dozing at his desk, nearly fell out of his chair at the sight of the scarred Auror.
"What is it, Mr. Moody?" Even the Ministry's own staff lived in fear of the veteran hunter.
"Check the monitoring logs for London's Regent's Park—now!" Moody barked, his voice like grinding gravel. "Was there a high-energy spike in the last hour?"
The clerk, trembling, scrambled to check the scrolls. "Yes... yes, sir. Just a short while ago." He looked at the reading with burgeoning dread. "It's registered as a XXXX-level fluctuation."
"And why wasn't I notified? Slacking off again? I'm holding your supervisor personally responsible for this!" Moody slammed his staff into the floor, his temper flaring. The confirmation proved the letter in his hand was no prank.
The clerk tried to stammer out an excuse, but Moody cut him off. "Recall every Auror to base immediately. Send the Hit Wizard teams directly to Regent's Park. Wake the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad and get them moving! Now!"
With that, Moody turned and rushed toward the Ministry exit. It was a damn nuisance that one couldn't Apparate within the building's wards. Behind him, the office erupted into chaos as dozens of paper airplanes took flight to carry out his orders.
The moment Moody cleared the Ministry's gates, he vanished with a sharp crack.
Regent's Park, situated not far from the entrance to Diagon Alley, was deathly still in the early morning light. However, the clearing within the woods told a different story. The earth was scarred by deep, uneven craters; trees were scorched black or toppled like matchsticks. The wreckage painted a picture of a violent, high-stakes magical duel.
Moody surveyed the scene with a practiced eye. He could identify the residue of several powerful spells: Blasting Curses, Repelling Charms, and severe Severing Carms. The intensity of the struggle exceeded his expectations.
He scanned the tree line with his magical eye. Focusing on a seemingly empty patch of shadows, he called out tentatively, "Alan?"
"It's me, Mr. Moody."
The air rippled, and a black-haired young man stepped out from behind a Disillusionment Charm. The boy looked a mess—his clothes were shredded and caked in dust and dried blood. His right hand was clamped tightly over his left arm, which appeared to be badly injured. He walked toward Moody with a visible limp, his breathing shallow.
Moody hurried forward, pulling a vial of Essence of Dittany and a strengthening solution from his coat. He supported the boy's back and carefully helped him drink. Alan coughed, his face pale.
"Easy, son. Rescue teams are on their way," Moody said, his usually gruff tone softening significantly. "How bad is it? Can you stand?"
After the tonic, a flicker of color returned to Alan's cheeks. "It's all right. Minor injuries, mostly. I'm just drained—I overextended my magic to hold them off."
He wasn't lying about the exhaustion; he hadn't slept a wink, though the "battle" had been more of a staged performance than a life-or-death struggle.
"Where are the attackers?" Moody asked, his gaze shifting back to the perimeter.
"I knocked them down in the final exchange. I used a Shield Charm to hide the bodies so no Muggles would stumble across them. I'll drop the barrier now."
Alan pointed his wand at the clearing behind him. Five figures shimmered into view on the grass: Torquil Travers, Goyle, Crabbe, Karkaroff, and the younger Yaxley. They were all unconscious, sprawled in a heap.
"Merlin's beard," Moody muttered. He had sensed the anomaly with his eye, but the scale of the capture was staggering. "Torquil Travers... and the fugitives Goyle and Crabbe. Karkaroff, too? And this young one, Yaxley—Dumbledore warned me about him."
Moody moved to check their pulses, finding them all deeply stunned. He looked back at Alan, genuine shock written across his scarred features. "Your letter said you were under attack, but you took down the lot of them? By yourself?"
"It wasn't easy," Alan said, leaning against a scorched tree with an expression of weary relief. "They were remarkably persistent."
"I don't follow," Moody said, his magical eye darting around as if searching for a hidden trap. "Why would they target you? And why were you out here at dawn? How did you manage to get an owl to me so fast?"
He wasn't accusing the boy, but the timing was too perfect. He needed a coherent narrative for the report.
"It started yesterday," Alan began, his voice raspy. "I went to Diagon Alley to buy gifts for the Longbottoms. I ran into Tom at the Leaky Cauldron—you know him, I stayed there for a while before my first year."
"Aye, I remember," Moody nodded.
"We're old friends. Since we hadn't caught up in years, I decided to stay the night. I sent an owl to Augusta to let her know. She replied, and I kept my owl, Shunfeng, with me at the pub. Tom and I had dinner together; there were plenty of witnesses in the common room."
Alan took a breath, looking at the unconscious Death Eaters. "I suppose they must have been watching me."