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alt_billThere was a little more about that meeting with Selwyn that I didn't say to the Order as a whole.
He was talking about Virgil Crispin. Percy's bleeding role-model, the ever-perfect Crispin, you know. Selwyn said that Crispin had expressed an ambition to join Our Lord's inner circle, and killing Herbert Fleet was his test. Or his duty, or his privilege, or maybe all three. And then he gave me this crooked smile and asked if I were ambitious.
I swear, I could feel the hair rising on the back of my neck. It was as if--as if I was on the other side of that Moment that Dad and I always talked about, when we would sound out people, to see if they're prospects for the Order. Except Selwyn was sounding me out for something completely different. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is just the first probe. Maybe I'm not a good candidate anyway. I'm probably not. I'm the son of the regrettable Arthur Weasley, and my parents are suspected of having blood traitorous sympathies.
But for a moment there...bloody hell. I could almost see it, you know? Having a prospect like that dangling in front of my nose. Or maybe just a hint it might be offered in the future. A chance to be a part of the Inner Circle, and maybe the chance to bring back information, real information that could give the Order a chance, that could maybe cut a few years out of our feared timeline of throwing off these fucking psychopaths.
All I would have to do would be to convince them I'd be happy to become a psychopath myself. To get in, I might have to do murder.
Dad had to do stuff he hated.
But MURDER? What could possibly justify that?
(And we were worried about Percy going bad....)
This is the choice that Minerva faced, isn't it? And yes, her information is crucial. But look what a mess she is now.
I knew I had to say something, but I was so afraid of getting it wrong, and closing the door for good. So I said that he must have been ambitious. Did it worked out as well as he had hoped?
The only answer he had to that was a bitter laugh.
I thought it wouldn't be quite believable if I seemed too eager. So I said that I wasn't sure if I could do what he and Crispin had done. It must be normal to have doubts; how did he overcome them?
He told me (in the flattest, deadest voice imaginable) that all that he could do was to trust that Our Lord's wisdom was surely greater than his.
I told him I want to serve the Protectorate. And I was glad for the opportunity he had given me, with the Assistant Director job. And I knew that to rise to the top might take a kind of determination, of fortitude--all right, ruthlessness--that was rare. I'd like to keep the possibilities open.
He asked me, 'You wish to serve the Protectorate? Or the Protector?'
The only answer I could think of for that was, 'aren't they one and the same?' Which led to him giving me an ironic little salute with his glass of Firewhiskey.
I don't know how I did. I don't think I've hopelessly bolluxed up any future possibilities.
I'm just not sure I want to face them.
I wish I could talk with Dad.
P.S. I've been thinking about Ron. It feels even more urgent to write to him and far more impossible. With Dolores Umbridge on the prowl, pouncing on anyone writing a Private message, it seems much too dangerous now. And I'm not sure sending an owl would be secure enough.
He was talking about Virgil Crispin. Percy's bleeding role-model, the ever-perfect Crispin, you know. Selwyn said that Crispin had expressed an ambition to join Our Lord's inner circle, and killing Herbert Fleet was his test. Or his duty, or his privilege, or maybe all three. And then he gave me this crooked smile and asked if I were ambitious.
I swear, I could feel the hair rising on the back of my neck. It was as if--as if I was on the other side of that Moment that Dad and I always talked about, when we would sound out people, to see if they're prospects for the Order. Except Selwyn was sounding me out for something completely different. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is just the first probe. Maybe I'm not a good candidate anyway. I'm probably not. I'm the son of the regrettable Arthur Weasley, and my parents are suspected of having blood traitorous sympathies.
But for a moment there...bloody hell. I could almost see it, you know? Having a prospect like that dangling in front of my nose. Or maybe just a hint it might be offered in the future. A chance to be a part of the Inner Circle, and maybe the chance to bring back information, real information that could give the Order a chance, that could maybe cut a few years out of our feared timeline of throwing off these fucking psychopaths.
All I would have to do would be to convince them I'd be happy to become a psychopath myself. To get in, I might have to do murder.
Dad had to do stuff he hated.
But MURDER? What could possibly justify that?
(And we were worried about Percy going bad....)
This is the choice that Minerva faced, isn't it? And yes, her information is crucial. But look what a mess she is now.
I knew I had to say something, but I was so afraid of getting it wrong, and closing the door for good. So I said that he must have been ambitious. Did it worked out as well as he had hoped?
The only answer he had to that was a bitter laugh.
I thought it wouldn't be quite believable if I seemed too eager. So I said that I wasn't sure if I could do what he and Crispin had done. It must be normal to have doubts; how did he overcome them?
He told me (in the flattest, deadest voice imaginable) that all that he could do was to trust that Our Lord's wisdom was surely greater than his.
I told him I want to serve the Protectorate. And I was glad for the opportunity he had given me, with the Assistant Director job. And I knew that to rise to the top might take a kind of determination, of fortitude--all right, ruthlessness--that was rare. I'd like to keep the possibilities open.
He asked me, 'You wish to serve the Protectorate? Or the Protector?'
The only answer I could think of for that was, 'aren't they one and the same?' Which led to him giving me an ironic little salute with his glass of Firewhiskey.
I don't know how I did. I don't think I've hopelessly bolluxed up any future possibilities.
I'm just not sure I want to face them.
I wish I could talk with Dad.
P.S. I've been thinking about Ron. It feels even more urgent to write to him and far more impossible. With Dolores Umbridge on the prowl, pouncing on anyone writing a Private message, it seems much too dangerous now. And I'm not sure sending an owl would be secure enough.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-24 01:10 am (UTC)I don't even know what to say. It sounds as though you made the right answers to leave the door open without being too committal, but who the fuck knows? Who knows what he was looking for?
I don't know. I don't know if I could do it, if I were you. Or if I think you could do it, without losing yourself like Minerva has. You're right it would be an incredible opportunity -- but you'd have to pay a pretty fucking big cost for it.
You'd need to be damn fucking good at Occlumency before you could even try, though. So it's not like you could do anything soon.
You should talk to Minerva, now that she's more herself. And Macnair, or Snape: they'd be more able to tell you what kind of things you'd be getting yourself into. Snape at least seems to think it'd be possible for someone to do it without falling to bits, from what he's said -- I don't know if I'd trust his assessment, since he at least joined up with that lot willingly at first, but maybe you should talk to him and see why he thinks that.
And yeah, I wish I could talk to Dad too. I miss him so fucking much. It's odd: I've gone longer without talking to him or to Mom in the past, when I get caught up with something. But this time, knowing I can't anymore makes all the difference.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-24 01:40 am (UTC)I just don't know. I don't think I can do murder. And that may be the rock bottom price.
no subject
Date: 2013-01-24 01:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-24 02:10 am (UTC)Well...at least Selwyn thinks I'm keeping my options open. Maybe I can still impress him as being willing and useful, short of doing something quite so reprehensible. There's still a lot of scope of what I can do for the Order, as long as he has me marked out as a young man on the rise.
(And I'm trying not to shudder at the idea of having a conversation like this with Ron in about five or six years time. I'm sort of surprised that Dad's hair wasn't completely white by the time he died from worrying over us.)