Form 84 Section B Subsection C.I.iii (b): Request visit for high security prisoner, Ministry Busines

Form 84 Section B Subsection C.I.iii (b): Request visit for high security prisoner, Ministry Business.Prisoner: R080421Visitor: Auror Susan BonesPurpose of Visit: Routine Investigation re. Case 126806Date: 3/08/2014Approved by: Auror Smith, Auror Unit 9, AzkabanPersonnel on duty: Auror Zacharias SmithTime-In: 10:00 hrsTime-Out: 12:00 hrs ————————————————————————- You’re dead, he thinks as he looks at her, brown hair trimmed in a neat bob and a shapeless brown coat that could be muggle or wizarding - no one could ever tell - you’re not supposed to be here. She says nothing to him, shuffling through her papers and carefully sorting them. There are things he has tried to forget, just like any other human being - just like anyone else who fought in the war, or stood on the sidelines of the first war and watched as death marched through the land. Funerals, so many funerals, looking down into the faces of the dead and wondering which of his friends had been the one to cast the curse which killed. Seeing burns and scars and having to turn away quickly, so that none would know that he knew.  The first time he watches a man - a colleague, a friend - choke to death slowly, tentacula vines pinning him to the bed, twining round his throat. Fabian’s dead, blackened body, reeking of dark magic (dark curses he will later find an antidote to). The smell of blood. The smell of fire and burning. The smell of alcohol and fear. Three days in darkness. A brown-haired woman in brown robes that could be a muggle coat - no one ever quite knew which. But she is dead. “Susan Bones,” she says eventually, “I believe you knew my aunt.” He smiles. He has to. She smiles back at him. Dangerous, just like her aunt. “I don’t see why -” “Routine investigation, Mr Rookwood,” she waves her hand airily, “You understand how it is. Just cross-checking some facts, that’s all.” “That’s supposed to comfort me?” She shrugs, “You tell me.” “I asked for a re-investigation, not for a grilling.” “Standard procedure, sir. I don’t have much control over this.” “I see.” “Now,” she carefully extracts a paper from the pile and reads it out, “According to Auror Scrimgeour, in 1968, you were there at the scene of the crime.” “It was my home.” “But the first time ‘round you said you were visiting your aunt?” “I was scared, I lied. It happens all the time.” “You found the body.” “I told you I was scared.” “Is that what they told you to say?” she asks him, sympathetically. He swallows, “no," too long, too long, "Who are they?” “Really Mr Rookwood,” she says looking at him much as she would at a child, “Do give the Auror department some credit.” He smiles, “You’re just like your aunt.” “I know,” she replies, “Now. Who were or are they?” “I don’t know,” he shrugs, “they were wearing masks.” “Why did you stay silent all these years?” He stares at her, “they threatened me, they threatened mum - they threatened my sister for Merlin’s sake.” “No. Why did you wait ten years before asking for a reinvestigation?” “I had nothing to er, arm-twist Harry with, as you so delicately put it.” “There’s hardly anything new you could have found out in ten years to put even more pressure on Harry.” “I made the threat more real, if you will.” “Why won’t your sister answer any questions?” “Because she knows -” he stops suddenly, “My sister? What does she have to do with this? She wasn’t even born at the time of the murder.” “What does she know?” “I don’t know, ask her, be my guest, badger her with your stupid questions, I had nothing to do with it.” “Then why does Auror Brown say he overheard your sister telling you to,” she picks another paper from the pile, “ 'get your story straight before they question you’?” “Oh how the mighty have fallen,” he sneers, “Eavesdropping for evidence? Tut tut.” “Answer the question Mr Rookwood.” “My sister says all kinds of things without meaning them.” “Then I suppose you won’t mind us giving her Veritaserum and questioning her?"  "No," too soon, too soon. "No?” “Go on then,” he says, and then swallows, “See if I care.” “I’m giving you the chance to tell us the story,” she says gently, then reaches across and squeezes his hand lightly, “You don’t have to be scared about telling us. Were you there?” He swallows, pulling his hand away, and shakes his head, “Don’t.” “Mr Rookwood, we’re only trying to help you - it’s either here or in a public trial.” He shakes his head and buries his face in his hands, “Please, don’t.” “Sir -” He only shakes his head harder. “We’re only trying to help,” she says gently. Silence. One minute. Two minutes. Maybe five. Maybe an eternity. Time has no stop in Azkaban, it comes and goes but its always silent, silent, silent and someone is always watching, this child - or other children - all children watching him, waiting for him to tell them all his secrets and Merlin knows he has many secrets - “Mr Rookwood?” “Charles Nott,” he blurts out, all of a sudden, “Charles Nott, all those nice words he said back in 1968, deeply regretting my father’s death, when he stood there. Just stood there.” He places his hands palms down on the table and looks at her, “Charles Nott was there. Henry Mulciber, he was the one who said they couldn’t just leave him, had to make sure he was dead. Antinous Lestrange, "Honour from blood” the Lestranges keep saying to themselves, honour from blood honour from blood like its some bloody charm, like it protects them, he was there too. God, Scrimgeour asking questions left, right and center, “could have been the Cruciatus” “could have been the entrails-expelling curse”. That was Antinous, all Antinous.“ "So you were there?” “Yes I was there. Does it matter? They’re all dead now.” She pauses before the next question, “Who killed him? How did they kill him?” “You can tell Harry Potter, he probably knows by now - well him or the Granger girl - it’s all a wild goose chase. They were trying to stop him, couldn’t have those papers, couldn’t have those riots.” “You’re not answering my question, Mr. Rookwood.” “By now, Germany’ll be in uproar, tomorrow, Gringott’s won’t open its doors - despite everything the Granger bird’d be doing to show them the wizarding world cares, the fuck do they care, they know the wizarding world doesn’t care for them, as long as they’re there to bow and smile and open bank vaults for them.” “Mr Rookwood -” “The centaurs will be next. Some kid, probably the Lovegood girl - she was the one wa'n’t she? The one who spent her time talking to the creatures, listening to their stories? She’ll have a spanner to throw in the works soon enough and soon, soon, everyone will know.” “Sir -” “But it doesn’t matter, does it?” he is standing and shouting by now, “Because Caius Rookwood is dead and at the end of it, all he is is the father of a good-for nothing Death Eater.” “Sit down,” she says sternly, holding her wand out, “No one, no one is impressed by shouting.” “He's dead. Does it matter, who killed him?” “Answer the question.” Augustus Rookwood sits back down. Takes a deep breathe in and then smiles at her. Cool, calm, bored. Like the mugshot they took of him when they dragged him in here. “I don’t know.” Susan nods, “Thank you, Mr Rookwood, you’ve been er, quite helpful.” “You’re worse than your aunt.” “I know,” she smiles. -- source link

More pics about