Order Only: The entire Fleet family has been killed

Dominic Selwyn just told me over Firewhiskey in his office. He needed it, the bastard.

Our Glorious Lord Protector, in His infinite wisdom, decreed that the entire family had to be wiped out, 'root and branch.'

Two parents, three children. Selwyn says that Barty Crouch and Bellatrix Lestrange killed the parents. Virgil Crispin was assigned the task of offing the oldest son, Herbert, who has just recently left Hogwarts. Apparently, Crispin's ambitions have been noted, and this was part of his initiation into rising higher in the ranks.

Selwyn apparently tried to argue that the younger ones should be spared, put into fostering. But I gather the Lord Protector wasn't particularly inclined to be merciful. So Selwyn was ordered to take out Sophie and her younger brother Justin. It sounds like he didn't have much stomach for it. He told the boy it was all a misunderstanding, and he'd be with his parents soon. Gave him some cocoa with a sleeping potion in it, and then murdered him in his sleep. A kid of about eight. And about Sophie, he said that it was a bit easier. She was expecting the worst, he thought. He wasn't there to cruciate her, but just to end it and it came as 'almost a relief.'

Bloody hell.

Sirius, you can't say anything about this as an addendum to the Grim Truth or anything. This is secret for now, although the news may leak out eventually when none of them show up to the camp.

Order Only: Private message to Charlie Weasley

There 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.