dial m for mayhem (macdougal) wrote in afic, @ 2011-06-25 17:33:00 |
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Morag made it home with her supervisor's praise still burning across her cheeks. It embarrassed her, being told she'd done good work, that she'd gotten a criminal off the streets, that she was a credit to her uniform. She discarded her auror robes into a pile on the floor wishing she could discard the moral and ethical concessions she had to make just to go into work every day as easily as she could her uniform. Good would have been rallying against the increasing strangle-hold the government had on the populace. Good would have been standing with her friends on the wrong side of the law, would have been resisting arrests and taking her brand as a bona fide enemy of the state. Good was a moral marker that seemed to have increasingly little meaning these days. The best she could hope for was just, and just... well. It just wasn't cutting it any more.
Dirty and angry, she kicked the grating of the fireplace open, knowing Sally Anne would be by soon -- with food, which Morag desperately needed. Roger'd brought by cheese last night, but as far as meals went, it was a bit on the sparse side, especially when she'd had to split his mini-wheels between not one but three separate meals. It was her own fault. Cutting off your nose to spite your face, her mother used to tell her, constantly, and Morag, safe now in a shower (no time for a bath), cried angry tears up into the shower-head. She was angry at being hungry, at being over-worked, but most of all, she was angry that a woman was going to die as the direct result of her actions. That woman, whom she'd been in an interrogation room with for nearly twenty hours, was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing she could say or do or plead or barter would change what had to be the Wizengamot's ruling.
Yes, she'd killed; yes, she deserved to be punished, but what kind of society did they live in where the only options were years of torture or death. There was no rehabilitation. There was no consideration for crimes of passion versus crimes of forethought, not practically. What the fuck was going on.
Memories of the newspaper clipping someone had left on her desk, probably meant in congratulations, gnawed at her as she scrubbed stomach and thighs, exhaling out frustration into heavy steam. The woman had attacked a Muggleborn and a Muggle. Those sorts of people couldn't be rehabilitated. Again and again she repeated this one, hollow mantra. Again. It didn't seem to settle her stomach, and when she finally stepped out of the washroom, half naked and towelling at her hair, she'd forgotten about Sally-Anne, forgotten about the floo, too busy trying to figure out where everything had gone wrong.