WHO: Thorne Proudfoot with a side of Joseph Proudfoot WHAT: The Why and How Thorne found himself back in Montana. WHEN: January 14, 2019 and January 18, 2018 WHERE: New York City RATING: Safe for work
The interrogation room was bland. There was no other name for it. It was like who had ever designed it had made it absolutely unremarkable in every way. Drab walls. Utterly unflattering lighting. Thorne sniffed, wrinkling his nose. Recycled air. There were no windows, of course, interrogation rooms never had any windows. Which was fine by him, the glare from the sun could trigger a migraine at the worst possible opportunity and judging from the pounding behind his eyes he was overdue for one.
Groaning softly, he slumped forward, head pillowed on his arms. They'd taken his wand and phone and he didn't have a watch, so there was no telling how long he'd been in the bland little room. It could have been thirty minutes. It could have been three hours. Time was nothing but a construct of man's attempt to control nature.
To be fair, he also was really bad at the whole concept of time in general.
Thorne shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He pushed himself back up into a sitting position and leaned back until his chair balanced on it's two back legs. He should have remembered to wear a hoodie because at least then he might be able to pull the hood down over his eyes and catch a few minutes of sleep. Never mind sleep was often hard to come by these days, but Thorne wasn't thinking about that. Mostly he was thinking about how bored he was. They'd stuck him in a room with some dire warning about not trying anything funny--whatever that meant--and had left him.
He shivered, though the room was neither warm nor cold. The hoodie would have come in handy right now. His stomach grumbled at him, reminding Thorne that he hadn't even finished his customary cup of coffee and breakfast pastry before the aurors had come in, wands aloft, to arrest him. And that had been hours ago. Part of him knew that he should alert someone to the fact that he had a condition that required a steady source of food and energy. But there was another part, mostly made up of pride and stubbornness, that fixed him to his chair as he attempted to count the cracks in the ceiling.
The sound of the door opening had Thorne looking up mild interest. He expected an auror to swagger through, full of bravado because he or she held a badge. That was hardly the case, however, when his father walked in, Thorne felt all the blood drain out of his face. He looked down at his hands resting on the table in front of him and waited for the inevitable lecture to come.
For his part, Joseph Proudfoot did not say anything immediately. Instead, he took the time to study his youngest son, noting the unnaturally pale skin, the nervous twitch of his shoulders, the sunken cheeks. His mouth twitched downwards. Right now, despite everything his son may or may not have done in the eyes of the law, the young man had not only violated his father's trust, but had clearly and completely disregarded their most basic rule: taking care of oneself was the foundation from which everything else could be built from. He thought they'd finally settled the issue once and for all during his youngest's adolescence. Apparently not.
"Hawthorne." The former auror said nothing more, waiting until his gaze was met. "When was the last time you slept for more than six hours? In one night." It paid to be specific.
When no prompt answer came, Joseph nodded to himself and took a seat across from his son. He had an inkling that Thorne had been in New York, based on his occasional use of Wizgram, but his son had wanted independence. Joseph took pride in knowing each of his children and the more he chased after Thorne the fiercer the boy would fight for autonomy. Honestly, Joseph didn't know if he had made the right decision to leave Thorne to his own devices for so long, but as he did not have access to a time turner that was a moot point.
"I don't need to tell you that this is far more serious than the smashing mailboxes incident in your sophomore year."
Thorne sank in his seat. As far as his father knew the incident in question––where he and several classmates when joy riding with the school's quodpot brooms for some good old fashioned hooliganism––was his only brush with law enforcement. They hadn't even been arrested formally. Just gathered in the principal's conference room as each of their parents were portkeyed in and they all had a Very Serious Conversation. If he had his way that would be all his father knew about it.
"So this is how it's going to work," Joseph continued since it appeared that Thorne had no interest in participating in this conversation. "Representation is going to be walking through the door in a few minutes and you're going to discuss your options. I can be in the room or not, that is up to you, but you would be foolish to not cooperate when the aurors return. Answer their questions and let them conduct their investigations."
Thorne's head jerked up from it's previously slumped position, visibly alarmed. "They're railroading Lucy. She's not the sort to do what they're accusing her of doing. No one was supposed to get hurt. It was supposed to be a protest. Nothing more."
Privately, Joseph was glad to see some sort of reaction from Thorne. Good. His son needed to fight now and to see him so passive had been alarming. He did not say any of this aloud, however, choosing to simply nod. "Good. Then you'll have no problem telling the truth."
***
It was amazing to see how differently you were treated when you knew someone in the old boy's club of the Aurors Corps. Even though his father was technically a former auror, now that he was identified as the (adopted) son of Joseph Proudfoot among the New York office suddenly people were much more polite to him. Or as polite as they would be to any snitch. He couldn't even call himself an informant. The only reason he wasn't in the tombs of Bridewell alongside other members of NABE was because he knew someone who knew someone.
"I trust you understand the conditions of your provisional release." The prosecutor was looking pretty smug sitting behind a cramped and dented metal desk, but his father's hand sitting heavy on his should had Thorne keeping that particular thought to himself.
"I do." He ran his fingers over the engraved metal cuff that adorned his right wrist. Enchanted to only be removed by certain members of the magical judicial system or a high-ranking auror, he was a dog on a proverbial leash now. "No further contact with NABE members without express written permission from the aurors. I am not to go more than a ten mile radius from Snowcap. Weekly check-ins with the aurors in Laramie and monthly I will be meeting them in person." He counted off each requirement. "If I am found guilty of any of violating any of these terms I can find myself twiddling my thumbs in Bridewell."
The prosecutor nodded and pulled out a contact. It must have been official because it was typed on parchment and he touched his wand to specific points. "I need you to sign here, here, and here, Mr. Proudfoot."
Thorne picked up a pen, ignoring the available quill for Traditionalists, and scrawled out his signature, trying not to feel like he was signing his life away. It wasn't forever, he reminded himself, once things settled down and the truth came out, he'd be able to get back to his life. Maybe not in New York City, but perhaps in San Francisco or Seattle. He could even go over the border to Vancouver. Anywhere but Montana.
"Thank you, Mr. Proudfoot. You and your testimony will be a great asset for the American Wizarding Confederation."