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alt_arthurI had wanted very badly to do the Derby Incident Report--after the fact, because I learned about the incident Friday afternoon, but Warrington's blasted marketing project got in the way. I was out with Dunstan all day Friday, and by the time I got back to the Ministry, Jenkins had already picked up the initial memo and so he was the one to go out to the camp to do the interview. So we'll get no intelligence there. It was particularly a pity, since the incident ended in capture, not death, AND Marcus Covington was the enforcer that went out with Jenkins. I know for a fact from previous camp visits that Covington is particularly chummy with the administrator at Derby (they were dormmates at Hogwarts). A suggestion that he might take the opportunity to catch up a bit with his old friend might have granted me the opportunity of shaking him off long enough to ask the miserable prisoners some careful questions without another listener. Perhaps we might have learned something exceedingly useful about security holes which could be exploited in the future.
Still, tipped off by the mention in Malfoy's journal entry, I high-tailed it into the office quite early and so was lucky enough to snabble the Stoke-on-Trent initial memo. I've just come back from the camp visit.
Beaker was the enforcer sent over by Protectorate Defence to accompany me on this one. I've not worked with him before, so didn't know quite what to expect. (I know from experience, for example, that if I have to go out to do an incident report with Zuckerman, it'll be a wasted trip, since he's hostile as hell to Muggleborns and always sticks to my side like a leech). I had a bit of luck: Beaker seems to be quite a by-the-books bloke about parchmentwork, and so he holed up with the camp security officer for about a quarter hour, which gave me a precious ten minutes alone with the subject's widow, a Mrs Pendleton.
It was quite heartbreaking, honestly. She was a nondescript woman, with mousey hair and very bad teeth, who probably looked rather the worse from a couple of days of constant crying. She answered all my questions indifferently, as if nothing mattered anymore, as if her entire world had collapsed, so why should she care what she told anybody? I had wondered why he had attempted to escape without her, but I soon learned that was not the case. They had pinned their hopes on slipping out together, but she was betrayed by a bunkmate, who sold the news of the attempt to camp security for a bloody bottle of gin. She saw the trap closing in and gave him the high sign, and so he fled without her, but they got him a mere mile away. At least it was quick for him, the poor bastard. I'm sure that's cold comfort to her.
I told her as sincerely as I could that I was extremely sorry for her loss. That was the first thing said that seemed to penetrate her numbed shock, making her actually look at me for the first time. She flushed brick red, and she said in a shaking voice that she didn't see why, since it just meant one less mudblood for the Ministry to warehouse. But then she supposed that we wouldn't be able to get another forty years of slave labour out of him. She could see why 'your sort' would find that most unfortunate.
That, of course, was a thrust right to the heart, and it rocked me back on my heels a bit, although you'd think I'd be used to it by now. Yet why should she think otherwise? There I was, the official representative of the Ministry of Magic, standing in front of her with a bloody wand in my hand. No wonder she despised me. I felt the old dangerous urge welling up to tell her that if the two of them had managed to escape, I would have done anything in my power to help them get away for good. Don't worry, Minerva, I didn't do it. I just fell back on the safest course that I could: kind platitudes, making it as clear to her as I could without saying anything too revealing that what happened wasn't my idea of a good outcome. My only hope is that when the hurt subsides a bit, she'll remember. Maybe she'll tell a few others that the bloke with the red hair from the Department of Purity Control hadn't seemed a bad sort. Maybe the word will spread.
And maybe someday someone at that camp will take the risk to actually trust me, telling me something enough in time to allow me to call in the Order to help, hopefully before someone gets killed.
I have to write the report this afternoon. I'm beginning to regret sending that bottle of brandy off to you, Frank. I could use a stiff pull from it right about now.
Still, tipped off by the mention in Malfoy's journal entry, I high-tailed it into the office quite early and so was lucky enough to snabble the Stoke-on-Trent initial memo. I've just come back from the camp visit.
Beaker was the enforcer sent over by Protectorate Defence to accompany me on this one. I've not worked with him before, so didn't know quite what to expect. (I know from experience, for example, that if I have to go out to do an incident report with Zuckerman, it'll be a wasted trip, since he's hostile as hell to Muggleborns and always sticks to my side like a leech). I had a bit of luck: Beaker seems to be quite a by-the-books bloke about parchmentwork, and so he holed up with the camp security officer for about a quarter hour, which gave me a precious ten minutes alone with the subject's widow, a Mrs Pendleton.
It was quite heartbreaking, honestly. She was a nondescript woman, with mousey hair and very bad teeth, who probably looked rather the worse from a couple of days of constant crying. She answered all my questions indifferently, as if nothing mattered anymore, as if her entire world had collapsed, so why should she care what she told anybody? I had wondered why he had attempted to escape without her, but I soon learned that was not the case. They had pinned their hopes on slipping out together, but she was betrayed by a bunkmate, who sold the news of the attempt to camp security for a bloody bottle of gin. She saw the trap closing in and gave him the high sign, and so he fled without her, but they got him a mere mile away. At least it was quick for him, the poor bastard. I'm sure that's cold comfort to her.
I told her as sincerely as I could that I was extremely sorry for her loss. That was the first thing said that seemed to penetrate her numbed shock, making her actually look at me for the first time. She flushed brick red, and she said in a shaking voice that she didn't see why, since it just meant one less mudblood for the Ministry to warehouse. But then she supposed that we wouldn't be able to get another forty years of slave labour out of him. She could see why 'your sort' would find that most unfortunate.
That, of course, was a thrust right to the heart, and it rocked me back on my heels a bit, although you'd think I'd be used to it by now. Yet why should she think otherwise? There I was, the official representative of the Ministry of Magic, standing in front of her with a bloody wand in my hand. No wonder she despised me. I felt the old dangerous urge welling up to tell her that if the two of them had managed to escape, I would have done anything in my power to help them get away for good. Don't worry, Minerva, I didn't do it. I just fell back on the safest course that I could: kind platitudes, making it as clear to her as I could without saying anything too revealing that what happened wasn't my idea of a good outcome. My only hope is that when the hurt subsides a bit, she'll remember. Maybe she'll tell a few others that the bloke with the red hair from the Department of Purity Control hadn't seemed a bad sort. Maybe the word will spread.
And maybe someday someone at that camp will take the risk to actually trust me, telling me something enough in time to allow me to call in the Order to help, hopefully before someone gets killed.
I have to write the report this afternoon. I'm beginning to regret sending that bottle of brandy off to you, Frank. I could use a stiff pull from it right about now.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-17 01:50 am (UTC)