Stafford Savage (bl_stafford) wrote in bloodlines_rp, @ 2009-07-08 09:48:00 |
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Entry tags: | loc: private residence (diagon), sept 2002, stafford savage, type: introspection |
How to know.
Date & Time: 8 September 2009 | Morning
Post Type: Introspection
Status: Closed: Complete
Character: Stafford Savage
Location: Stafford's flat, Diagon Alley
Summary: Stafford, frustrated by the papers and his ignorance, determines to seek out a certain reporter.
Another headline, another column, another disappointment. No answers.
Only reaffirming the deaths. Mysterious causes. The continuation of the much-depleted department (was there anything left? how could there be anything left, it seemed impossible). But nothing. Nothing of why. No hint of the workings beneath (and something must have happened, something must be traceable within and beyond the pattern, almost too obvious, and perhaps that was an indication in itself, perhaps). No reason. Death was to be expected, yes, but this was something beyond the ordinary. There must be some reason.
He needed to know. He was--He had been an Auror. And would be again. He was out of practice, true, but the instinct, the steel-edged habit, never died. And now he had that habit, he felt the familiar drive, but there was no foundation. No outlet. He needed to have time, of course. Time to reacquaint himself with the world and learn its changes, to demonstrate his ability, show that he had recovered. Of course he had recovered. And through his further improvement he would show his fitness, show that he was still and ever would be an Auror.
Patience. There was much work to be done, there was much patience required. But one day, it would come.
In the meantime, he was alone, and his own devices could not discern the truth behind these deaths. Maybe no one had answers. It was entirely possible, even likely. All too often, any more complete answers remained hidden for weeks, months, if they even came at all. Definitive answers were never guaranteed. But. But there were always intimations, and there must have been with this case. Details that had not been released, facts that might lead to further investigation and the discovery of some key, and through that an answer. This information had to exist somewhere, within words or occurrences, places or objects. The difficulty was in finding any of it; always a challenge, an enticing one when given the freedom to act, frustrating when there seemed no path. Stafford couldn't investigate without raising suspicion, couldn't circle in on the sources without calling attention to himself. And he must not do that. Not now, not before he had established himself. He couldn't simply walk into the Ministry and ask, either. He didn't belong there. Not now. Still. There must be someone who would speak.
But no one was going to tell him (why should they? recent denizen of the mental ward, of course, very likely to receive classified information), and who was there to ask? Of the Auror squad, he only knew what Robards had told him and what the papers revealed; the only Aurors left appeared to be Shacklebolt and Williamson (there were recruits, so he had heard, but these seemed difficult to believe in, and he would certainly not even consider the one he had seen briefly, the one he could recall). Stafford had begun to draft letters first to one and then the other, but the effort had been a failure. He wouldn't. Not to them, not yet. Perhaps he should, but.
If it had been someone else. If someone else were fucking alive... Robards, Merlin knew, anyone could speak to Robards. Proudfoot, he could have spoken with, even Pickering. And looking further back (though it didn't feel like looking back, felt as if it were yesterday, as if it were present), to those others who should still have been in existence, why not Mathers, Tonks or... Or Aleta was a different story, perhaps, but here. There had always been a certain tension with Williamson, a too-courteous distance with Shacklebolt. He couldn't speak with either, not like this. Not until he was... Not until he had achieved a position of greater strength. Or at least was certain of himself.
Foolish. It was no good reason, it was perhaps a prideful reason, but Stafford could not shake the feeling. He had visualized a refusal, swift and cold. Or perhaps, out of pity (and wasn't that worse?), one would extend an invitation, an impersonal conversation in which Savage would be politely reminded of the fact that he was no longer what he had been, that the information was beyond his reach. And he knew was the underlying message would be. That he ought to stop trying; the distant goal crushed before he had hardly begun. And so the letters had ended up in tatters on the floor.
No options. The options had been destroyed with everything else. And there was no reason that he ought to know anything.
Still, the more he dwelt on the matter, the more his ignorance grated. He had known these people. He had been one of them (and somehow now was not, a thought that while logical seemed also to be impossible; he had passed out of consciousness as an Auror, had returned as a not-Auror and a not-person or sane person, which was nearly the same, a not anything at all). When he had heard those names, they had been conjoined with his own, had been spoken by superiors or by others in the Ministry, by his few acquaintances. Now they were gone, and he was... Here without really being here. Without amounting, somehow.
And those articles--The fact that these reporters - whoever and wherever they were, well-removed sons of bitches - held more of the information, knew well before he had any inkling, only caused further aggravation, and--
There was a thought.
He couldn't talk to Williamson or Shacklebolt. All right. He had to accept that fact for now. But there was a chance that someone else might know something. Someone who always seemed to know everything. Somehow, she had always known before, and so she must have knowledge of this. Not that he had been particularly close at all to this woman, not that he had ever even spoken to her with any great familiarity, but she was someone that he knew. That made a difference. Savage didn't necessarily like the thought of applying to her for... Not aid, for information, for purposes of an investigation.
Now the task was to find Rita Skeeter.