If I find that you ain't got no trust in me, then it's time to use my psychology

[notquitefacist.livejournal.com]

*There is an infuriatingly frightening tactic exercised by parents the world over that has been very firmly adopted into the judicial system. Ominous and demeaning enough when it is performed by one's mother or father in the privacy of home, it is all the more formidable when the law is behind it. The Minister of Magic, a man who waits every day for his son to be found and clandestinely executed on his own orders, strikes even the layman as decidedly the right sort of parent and politician to truly maximise the effect of this particular punishment.

Several days have gone by after their famous guest's short stay in the Auror office. It is only when the busiest time of the week rolls around, after Siruis has had time to be publicly discussed and humiliated, that Crouch Sr. makes his appearance in the squad room. From the moment he enters, followed by a member of his personal staff with an untelling expression and a particularly formal looking folder in hand, it is clear what everyone had been wondering since the word got out. Sirius is indeed to be made example of.*

Comments

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*Sirius is sitting at his desk and working--the truth of the matter is, he's working even harder, as if through some force of will and dedication he could repel this oncoming doom. But when the Minister appears, something drops out of the bottom of his stomach, and he puts his quill aside and pushes away from his desk so he can meet them standing. There's no mastering his face; he's angry, mutinous even, and it shows.*

Sir.

[notquitefacist.livejournal.com]

Mr. Black. I'm satisfied to find you inside at your desk.

*The 'Mr.' is distinctive from his lips. Crouch Sr. can make a rank or a title sound as natural and as a part of a person as their first name. 'Auror' is not a title awarded lightly, and, were this any sort of even marginally good news, an Auror would be addressed as such.

Around the room, there are attempts made to spare Sirius some shame, to go about one's business as usual - they are a strange and brutal sort of family, after all. However, as firings are rare and always handled by the Department Head, Crouch Sr.'s presence brings enough suspense with it that even some of Britain's best trained stealth experts being onlookers.*

I've come for your signature.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*Sirius glares at the folder in Crouch's hands. But even if he could just do a bit of wandless, wordless magic and set it aflame, it would only be delaying the inevitable. This is it, then; it's all come crashing down, and here's the end to all of it--to following James, to being in with the Ministry and all the power and information that brings, to having whatever safety being an Auror might confer on a wayward overgrown weed like Sirius Black.

But if Crouch has come in person, it's not because he wants to wish him well. He wants this to be a warning to the rest. Well, it can be a warning, all right.

Sirius lifts his gaze from the folder to Crouch's face, slowly mastering his tone and face until he is placid and neutral--even respectful--once more.*

What would you like to have me sign, sir.

[notquitefacist.livejournal.com]

Your transfer papers.

I've found there is sometimes some 'lack of clarity' in circumstances like these. Papers wind up misplaced for some reason, duties slip through the cracks. Those sorts of errors aren't acceptable the way things done now.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

Transfer.

To what department, sir.

[notquitefacist.livejournal.com]

No department, that bridge will be crossed if you come to it. You have an assignment.

*The robotic assistant at his side reaches past him and delivers the folder to Sirius.*

As you know, Mr. Black, this squad is made up of the very best. Ministry trained and certified. The position of an Auror is one that many of your classmates tried and failed to achieve, some people simply aren't made to represent the British government. With that in mind, you'll find all information about your client in there.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*Client. That's clear enough. Guard duty. A glorified bodyguard. Flicking open the folder with an index finger, he looks at the images within. The photograph barely moves but for the gentle up-and-down of the chest. The man's a vegetable. The words in the file swim--Sirius realizes just how tense he is just now and tries to breathe, but it doesn't make the words organize themselves into any kind of sensible order. He clears his throat.*

I'm--Sir, I'm not trying to be--is that really the best use of--not just me, but any man loyal to the Ministry in a time of war? Isn't there some place I can be more use?

[notquitefacist.livejournal.com]

Ivan Modred was a valued and influential asset to the Beast Division for his entire career - without whom there would likely have been no modernisation of Capture units in the 20s, for any Dark Creature. At the very least we would be a dozen years behind where we are today without his contributions. I don't care if you are grateful or not, Mr. Black. But you should be.

Besides, the personnel at St. Mungo's will be relieved to have the presence of someone with the credentials you've been granted. I hear that ward is very quiet.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*He flicks the folder shut again with a finger. It's hard to keep the anger out of his face. It's the Minister, and he's offering a way for Sirius to not be completely kicked out. But he's going to put him in a corner to think about what he's done. There's no ignoring that, and he can't just let it go as understood. He wants to hear it from the Minister's mouth: that they don't actually want to catch Death Eaters if the face under the mask is someone they've seen at a gala. No donors to St Mungos will go to Azkaban, regardless of guilt.*

Is this punishment, then, sir? For bringing a self-admitted Death Eater to the Ministry?

[notquitefacist.livejournal.com]

*There is just a flicker of a moment when it looks as though Crouch Sr. is about to roll his eyes. But where Sirius just manages to control his temper much of the time, Crouch Sr.'s frustrations are strictly allowed no leaks to the surface. Instead he keeps them all in one place for their time, and Sirius gets nothing more than the stony look of a preacher.*

This squad operates on a model of process, skill, and control, none of which you have demonstrated. The law is no Junior Auror's to decide, Mr. Black. Your purpose is to carry it out. If you knew your place, you would see that this is no punishment.

I expect you at the side of bed number twelve at six o' clock tomorrow morning.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

So all that matters is procedure. Not ending this war. Sir.

[notquitefacist.livejournal.com]

*It's difficult not to look menacing if one has been blessed with a less than charming face, and Crouch Sr. most certainly has. The office, unable not to look on, plunges into the impermeable silence. Everyone from the veteran Aurors who worked with Crouch Sr. themselves and remember his responses to being challenged, all the way to the poor girl from Records trapped with a stack of reports in her arms unable to complete her should-be simple delivery.

Still, even with all eyes on them, he does not let go, stubbornly holding on to his control until he squeezes so tight it shatters. Even though his face remains smooth and his stance disciplined, his eyes bore into Sirius with the bulging dare of his son's.*

Mr. Black. As the officer responsible for single-handedly shaming this institution, would you care to repeat that statement. Or do you perhaps have some files to catch up on.

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

I said, you don't give a fuck about actually trying to win this war. We're so busy torturing people who can't buy their way out, and harassing werewolves, that no one here can see the forest for the trees. One skinny death eater couldn't have taken out the Prewetts by themselves, and Bellatrix good as admitted it, and you don't fucking care about finding the people who murdered them in their home--