|Heath (heathism) wrote in wished,|
@ 2010-01-24 11:12:00
|Entry tags:||!1998: 01, !complete, heathcote barbary|
What: Muggleborn Registration
Where: Ministry of Magic
When: Early this morning.
Sneaking out of the house in Ireland, Heath felt a little bit like he was back at Hogwarts, sneaking out of Ravenclaw after hours. Technically it was before hours, since the sun was up and he was fairly sure the rest of the world, or a good portion of it, was already awake, but the house was still dark and quiet as he pulled up the hood of his jacket and stepped out into the cold.
Apparating to London, he knew that it might be one of the last things he did - he wasn't thick enough not to know that registering was dangerous. But yesterday's notice had put him on edge. Anyone harboring muggleborns would have their wands broken and be sent to Azkaban? Gideon and Merton were his brothers, were probably the most important people in the ridiculously small circle of people he cared about, and he wasn't going to put them in jeapordy just because he lived with them and didn't have the balls to walk into a sodding building.
He'd never been to the Ministry of Magic before. It took him a half hour or so, just to figure out how to get into the damn thing - he watched carefully as a few other people came in, boring looking and well dressed and businesslike, it was ridiculously busy for a Sunday morning and he wasn't sure why he thought it would have been empty today - and then there was that sodding terrifying statue in the lobby that almost made him turn around and run as fast as he could away from the sodding place. Unfortunately, he didn't have time for that before he was recognized, and he ended up signing ten of the most surreal autographs in his life - who signed autographs when they were on their way to be sentenced to prison or whatall, really? - before someone thought to ask him where he needed to go.
The looks on their faces when he told them what business he was here for reminded him just how worried he needed to be - he might as well have said he was on his way to be eaten by a basilisk. Eventually, though, one young watchwizard showed him through the corridors until he was in front of an office clearly marked "Muggleborn Registration Commission."
An hour later, he left the office. And he was confused, and relieved, and a little sick to his stomach - because he'd watched the woman who was sentenced before he'd been called up. He thought he might have recognized her from a few years ahead of him in school, though she'd looked roughed up and he couldn't quite tell even when the committee said her name and he tried to place it. The door the Auror had led her through certainly wasn't a door to freedom.
But for him? Apparently he'd been labouring under the misconception that he was a muggleborn when he could really be traced back to a Towery some six generations back. It was rubbish - he knew it was rubbish - and he was free because of it, and the dog-faced woman who'd pronounced him had also insinuated that his colleagues should come in as well just to get it over with, since they'd have similar findings, she was sure. He was relieved, and he felt ill that he was relieved
And he'd really, really have to try to do something about this.