Post by Deleted on Dec 22, 2012 11:08:04 GMT -5
 [style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;] TAG: Minerva McGonagall, WORDS: 1456, NOTES: I started writing and just couldn't seem to stop... hope this is okay FOR THE GREATER GOOD | [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;]If one was astute and paid the necessary attention they would note the Minister of Magic was starting to look tired. Sleepless bags now a stable point beneath square rimmed glasses, he was no longer quite as cleanly shaven as he usually presented himself and appeared thinner then ever. He was late. Rufus Scrimgeour was not a man accustomed to being late. He was painfully punctual, precise by nature. But with the chaos of this destructive war, meetings running over, necessary detours and rearrangements, lateness had become a stable point of his days. [/style]Rufus dismissed the two men stood in his office with a cold gesture to the door and a harshly worded ‘get out of my sight’ filled with the considerable promise of the consequences if they didn’t obey. That damned ball. He had known all along it had been a fool’s idea, that it could only invite trouble in with open arms. But even in the seat of power it seemed one could not always get their way. His own concerns and that of the Auror Department had been quietened if only slightly by the promise all the necessary precautions would be taken, that a ball would raise morale and acquire some much needed funding. All the ‘necessary precautions’ it seemed had not been enough. Already the aurors and other security had received the type of chastisement and look that could have curdled milk. Though it seemed sheer luck had been on the death eater’s side and the Werewolf Registration List now rested in their hands. Werewolves. It was a word he was coming to loathe. The papers were of course fanning the flames of terror as only the press could. Were the Daily Prophet to be believed the Ministry managed to both successfully do absolutely nothing while busily mounting a blood thirsty cull. A damned impressive feat to manage both. Rufus could not deny that the more time passed, the more the later accusation seemed an ever tempting possibility. Werewolf murders and mauling’s had increased exponentially, with a recruitment list all but handed over he-who-must-not-be-named and his leashed dog Greyback had only to pluck the names off the list. And then there were the disappearances, kidnapping of those on the list, the uproar of terror that believed the legislation of werewolves would force ever growing numbers to Voldemort’s ranks. So they gathered in ranks protesting for their freedoms or their slaughters. A political crisis that had snuck from the outside world into the very employees of the institution. A political crisis designed to drag their attention from the very war that threatened it all. The answer was not going to be a simple one. For centuries the legislation on werewolves and their rights had hung in an awkward in-between limbo. The demands of the people, of those affected by the disappearances had ensured that a decision had to be made. That the Wizengamot had never agreed to make the wolfsbane potion a mandatory and imposed requirement for all registered werewolves had always staggered him. They could gift the werewolves their freedom and rights, gain back the lost popularity and support of the people, perhaps stop those few from signing themselves over, but with the list in the enemies hand they would not last long and with Greyback’s growing numbers gifted freedoms could only be detrimental to a staggering degree in their fight against a vicious foe. But if they chose to restrict those few freedoms, to return to the old ways, to have the freedom to restrict their movements and hunt down those that had fallen to enemy ranks with the full force while securing all those from that list to stop the problem at the source. The latter was certainly more appealing to the staunchly suspicious old auror, but the outrage of the people would be staggering and the opening the floodgates not just in the case of werewolves for those that would exercise their bigotry might well be irreversible. With the threat of the werewolves other minorities had soon started their panicking. And then of course there was the increase and outright blatancy of attacks in both the Wizarding and Muggle world. The vanishing and reappearance of children from inside Hogwarts that filled parents with terror and once more turned attention to Albus Dumbledore who naturally had little to say on the matter when Rufus was certain he knew full well all that had taken place. That he didn’t know what the old man was playing at other then attracting media attention, what he was planning was enough to drive the minister to distraction. And then Potter. The Daily Prophets chosen one, the arrogant, conceited child’s stubborn refusal to toe the line and place his backing behind the Ministry instead of distracting the people’s attentions with wistful hopes of prophecies and fear mongering. The Wizarding World was in chaos. Rufus had always been a man who lived for his profession, who refused to rest until the work was done. He could not remember the last time he had slept more then a few hours or eaten a full undisturbed meal. Today would be no different. He raised from his desk the moment the two men left the room. The winter chill had settled harshly into the old wound in his left leg and much to his distaste he was left leaning heavily on his cane (a cane that was normally left hidden in his office whenever he could manage it, least a image of weakness be presented) as he made his way to the elevators that would drop down to the courtrooms. Stan Shunpike. A simple case that had proved a headache beyond belief. The likes of Potter and Dumbledore protested his innocence profusely. In truth it was doubtful the fool had any connections with the Death Eaters no matter what he had claimed boastfully to impress his comrades. But stupidity was not a matter to be tolerated. Stupidity could be as dangerous as malice when applied correctly. The boy had claimed to have his contacts in the ranks and he would be treated as such. He should be thankful really, he doubted the Death Eaters would leave him in such a whole state should he be released and they hear of such declarations. Progress had to be seen to be done. They could not be seen to be releasing people who claimed to be a death eater even if only in jest. He was not truly needed at these proceedings, the Wizengamot was capable of handling a simple appeal procedure without the Ministers presence. But this case had proved enough of a nuisance he had felt the need to watch. So instead of his usual place amongst the pews he would place himself to a back corner, a position he was more familiar with. He had spent hours at the back of these courtrooms as an Auror, watching the dealing of sentences, giving evidence when requested to the criminals he had spent forty years dragging in as a young man and later as Head of the Department. There were few empty seats remaining, the case having attracted enough attention for the vultures to show their faces. Sharp yellow eyes surveyed the room soon finding a seat at the back that would suit his preferences. He made a move towards it before recognising whom he would be sat next to. For a moment he considered turning around and choosing elsewhere but a change in direction now would be nothing short of blatant. Minerva McGonagall. Professor of Hogwarts and if talk were to be believed one of Dumbledore’s closest advisors. Dumbledore for all he claimed remained a distrusted enemy which placed Minerva in the same category. Rufus had known her when she was little more then a wisp of a girl with a frightful Scottish accent, he a rake thin excuse of a boy with glasses to big for him and a mass of tawny hair that stuck out at odd angles. A fellow Gryffindor and a magically talented one at that. It had always seemed a waste that such talent had sifted from the Department of Magical Law to a school. “Professor McGonagall.” He greeted with a nothing less then professional coldness as if the two had not known one another as children for years. “I was unaware we would be receiving a representative from Hogwarts today.” He surveyed her somewhat suspiciously with keen yellow eyes, eyes many reported seemed to be able to look straight to the heart of a person and always find them wanting. Was she here to continue Dumbledore’s loud protestations of Shunpikes innocence? She would be sorely disappointed. “May I?” Rufus gestured to the free seat. |
TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0
