| Details for Magijugend Interview - Augustin |
| Summary: | Professor Flint interviews Gus for membership into the Magijugend Club. |
| Date: | 1938-09-08 |
| Location: | Headmaster's Office |
| Related: | — |
| Characters |
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Flint's office is a stark, spartan affair. Unlike many other professors, his space is only sparsely decorated, and even that is primarily framed certificates of his accomplishments, and a single, cracking tapestry made of some kind of animal hide, marked with unintelligible runes. At the knock on his door, his stern, deep voice commands, "Enter. Take a seat."
Augustin enters when bid, looking just a tad apprehensive. "Hullo," he says. The fingers of his left hand fiddle with the hem of his sleeve, and he quickly crosses to a chair and sits down. "Er, sir. Hullo, sir."
Flint gives Augustin a hard gaze. But then, his face is generally fixed that way. "Mister Rousseau," he says curtly. "Why do you wish to join the Magijugend?" Straight to the point, Professor Flint is not a man noted for his flowery speeches or social graces.
"Well," Augustin says. "My mother thought it would be a good idea," he answers. "She heard of it somehow and, well, encouraged me to join." He blinks a couple of times at Flint and then reaches up and pulls at his collar. "She's always going on about duty to family and whatnot. Father told me I should at least see what it's all about." He grins unevenly, but that kind of withers and dies in the face of Flint's hard gaz.
Flint takes up his quill, dipping it into a stone inkwell, and writing a few notes in the large, leather-bound tome that is open on the desk before him. "Mmmmhm. I see. What is your blood status?"
"Um, pureblood," Augustin answers, sounding a little confused as to why the question is even being asked. "French. For about a thousand generations on both sides, from what they tell me." He frowns a bit. "Does that matter?" he asks. He sits up a little straighter in an effort to read whatever it is that Flint is writing in the ledger.
Flint's crag-framed eyes shoot up at Augustin, the curl of his lip stiffening. For a few moments, there is deafening silence, and the gathering tension is palpable. "What is your opinion on teaching magic to half-bloods and the Muggle-born?"
Gus blinks. Then he blinks again. "My — my opinion, sir?" he asks.
"Was the question so unclear that it requires that you repeat me?" Flint snaps back in a dry, cold tone.
"Well, I'm just — I mean…" Augustin stops stammering and clears his throat. "What I mean to say is that, ah, if a child is born with magic, they have to be taught don't they? Children will do magic even without wands, and sometimes that's dangerous to themselves and to others. So someone has to teach them how to control it, right? And then someone has to teach them the laws, like… you know, don't use an Unforgivable Curse, don't expose the Wizarding World to the Muggles, that kind of thing. If Muggle-borns weren't taught by us, it could be pretty disastrous, eh?"
Though Flint's expression barely changes, the displeasure behind his eyes is not subtle. "There are alternatives," he states plainly. "That will be all, Mister Rousseau. You may go." His eyes drop back to his tome to continue writing.
"There are?" Gus asks, as if he's never heard of that possibility before. He stays in his seat for a second or two too long before slowly getting to his feet. "What… alternatives…?" he asks
Flint slowly lifts his eyes, revealing a hint of menace in his gaze. "That. Will. Be. All. Get out."
Gus flushes, mostly in anger, and his lips press together. "Oh. I see," he says, practically spitting the words out. He makes a noise of disgust and turns on his heel to make his way out.
Flint mumbles, almost inaudibly, without so much as looking up from his book again. "Five points from Hufflepuff, for your disrespect."
"With all due respect, sir," Augustin says, emphasizing the last two words in a way that conveys he means exactly the opposite, and pausing with his hand on the knob, "Your club stinks and frankly I'm relieved I don't meet your narrow-minded, slimy, myopic criteria. In fact, I think I'll go join the Mud Club. Hah!" He whirls through the door again and slams it shut behind him.