When: Thursday evening
Where: Lliving room
Charlie was hunched over what was passing for a coffee table, where an aging map was spread. With a purple washable marker - the sort one found in a muggle child's school supplies - he was sketching a line between a spot in Romania and his current location, muttering softly to himself.
A brief conversation with Moody had left him feeling angry, distressed, and a little uncertain about how to move forward. Apparently, a co-worker of his had managed contact with the ex-auror, asking for asylum from the Death Eaters. There was mention of his ordeal over the past year, connecting him with Charlie, and Moody had questioned him on the man's loyalties.
As if Charlie knew. Absurd.
The man was dodgy, and Charlie hadn't totally trusted him. In fact, it had been his suspicion that the attacks had been aided by someone from the inside, and if anyone seemed a likely candidate, it was this person. He hadn't mentioned his suspicions to Moody, however - how could he? He didn't trust Moody, either.
So now, feeling utterly unprepared to face the world just yet, he was drawing out from memory the path he had taken from work to home over the course of twelve months. Maybe that would help Moody establish how this contact had managed to evade Death Eater supporters for so long.