Order Only: Derby, etc

There is no one more officious and overbearing than an official who has good reason to fear that he is about to be sacked for not doing his job. As I'd arranged with Jenkins, I went out to the Muggleborn camp at Derby this morning to process the Ministry's parchmentwork on Wilbur Thompson. This was the chap who was caught aiding the last two young people who had escaped from that same camp (Kingsley, their names were Beatrice and Charles Knowles, brother and sister). Pucey, of course, had too much to do to rearrange his schedule to overseeing the terrorising of one mere newly minted mudblood, but Hibbert was there, ready and willing to do the job. I expect he also hoped to impress me (as representative from the Dept of Purity Control) with his skills at intimidation. His efforts seemed almost futile, since Mr Thompson at times seemed quite unable to entirely grasp the enormity of how his world had changed.

There was, to begin with, the ritual humiliation. Thompson was stripped of his clothes for a physical inspection by the camp healer--in front of me and Hibbert, mind, without the slightest pretence of a by-your-leave--and then a quick charm shaved him bald ('to keep him from bringing in lice'). He was given a stack of pamphlets (camp rules) and other forms to sign (inmate number, ration book, etcetera). Finally, after Hibbert had given the required speech about the dire things that might happen to mudbloods who dare step out of line, I waved him irritably out the room and told Mr Thompson to have a seat for the final parchmentwork.

He sat and I shoved parchments to him to sign. I don't know why the Ministry even bothers with most of these signatures--well, yes, I do. It's twisting the knife, that's what. Each one informed him of another loss of his rights. No mudblood may hold title to property or licence. No right to use a wand, to brew potions or handle potion ingredients except under the supervision of an employer or officer of the Ministry of Magic. No right to keep a magical familiar. No right to travel. He blinked and read each one carefully and signed them, one after another.

I saved the worst for last: All family ties with his own children are formally severed. He looked up at me for a long moment. 'What happened to the two young people I tried to help?' he asked simply. 'No one will tell me.'

I hated it, but I told him. I felt I owed him that. Crucio, some time with the Dementors, all the rest. His face turned sickly white. 'They were only sixteen and seventeen,' he whispered.

'With luck, they may survive.'

'And will they come back here?'

'I don't know.'

He looked again down at the parchment in his hands, blinking tears away. 'Sixty-three years I had my own wand, and now this. I'm glad my Millie didn't live to see this day.'

He signed the last parchment with a steady hand, and I gently took the quill away from him.

I wanted to tell him he had done the right thing, but the words stuck in my throat. How could I say such a thing? He should be puttering with roses in his garden, coddling his grandchildren. Instead, he faces this: a new, cruel life alone, filled with insults and privation, when all he deserves after a lifetime of work is a little peace with his family.

Bloody hell. There are some days I really hate my job. This was one of them.

Other business, quickly: Sirius, I talked with Bill to see if he had any ideas for someone we could turn to for opening a New London address for Laszlo Ltd, and he did have a name, a Walter Kirke, one of his dormmates. Bright fellow, Bill says, worked with him awhile at Gringotts, but talked of wanting to look into other business opportunities. I'll have Bill sound him out, and will let you know.

I've also written to Charlie, who couldn't shed much new light on the ley lines at Stornaway. Nor has he been able to learn anything new about the three mysterious visitors we saw there over the Christmas holiday. He has been (very obligingly) picking up the notes for owl post from their small administrative office for delivery to the island's owlry, for forwarding on to the Ministry. I'll send the list of names he's culled from those notes to Minerva and Bill; perhaps they will help give us some leads. Of course, it won't give us any hint to whoever the Reserve administrator has been contacting via Floo call, but at least it's a start.

I'm almost at the point of being ready to nominate James Prescott and Norma Brownmiller for the Order to consider for membership. They are definitely with us. You'll just have to decide if you think it wise to widen the circle at this point, Minerva. I'll send you a fuller report via owl.