(1938-10-15) Unorthodox Recruitment Tactics
Details for Unorthodox Recruitment Tactics
Summary: Douglas is in hot water, but Headmaster Flint offers him a way out.
Date: 15 October, 1938
Location: Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts
Related: The Fox Takes Possession of the Henhouse

When Caretaker Pringle came for Douglas, there was a look of predatory glee in his eye. "You're in for it now, Macmillan," he growled as he roughly dragged the Gryffindor through the halls, all the way to the Headmaster's Office. Could this be it? There have been rumours of students entering Flint's office, never to return, after all.

Within, Headmaster Flint is stands beside his desk, clearly awaiting Douglas's arrival. He gives Pringle a curt nod, and the Caretaker steps out, leaving the Headmaster and the young man alone. "Mister Macmillan. Sit down," he commands. "We have something to discuss."

Douglas rubs at his shoulder where he's been manhandled, then runs a hand through his hair to try to make himself presentable. "Sir," he responds simply, moving over to the seat and lowering himself, posture straight. Yep. He knows he's in for it for something.

Flint steps around Douglas, walking behind him as he speaks. "You strike me as a young man with a great deal of potential, and absolutely zero initiative and direction. Under normal circumstances, I would be inclined to simply fail you, and see you removed from Hogwarts. But here you are, persevering through your Seventh Year, in spite of your regular efforts to escape learning. Why is that, Mister Macmillan?"

"Sir?" Douglas responds, twisting in his seat to look back at Flint as he paces. "How do you mean, sir?" He runs a hand nervously through his hair once more. "I'm… well, I'm just about passing my classes, sir. Thing is I'm not exactly the most…. you know…" He clears his throat, admitting quietly, "Basically, sir, I'm pretty thick."

"Balderdash," Flint snaps back. "You simply lack discipline. Mr. Pringle is quite eager to deliver that discipline, in his own manner. Particularly after we received a report of your presence in the Three Broomsticks on Sunday, drinking, smoking, and fraternizing with harlots. Oh, yes, Mister Macmillan. I know all about your 'extracurricular jaunt'. It will cost your house fifty points. I'm sure your housemates will express their displeasure with you once word gets out. But believe me, that will seem like an afternoon picnic compared to what Mr. Pringle has in store. Do you understand what I am telling you?"

Douglas winces a little at that. "I, um, I take it that it wasn't a Hogsmeade weekend, sir?" he attempts gamely, running his tongue over his teeth. "My dad always said you should make contacts with people who might be useful, sir. For career prospects and things, sir."

Flint steps around into Douglas's view, delivering a scimitar-sharp scowl. "Do not ply your attempts at playing dumb on me, boy. Nobody clever enough to accomplish your many escapes is stupid. Merely foolish and unfocused." Stepping behind his desk, he finally sits in his thronelike chair. "You need incentive to excel. Would you prefer Mr. Pringle's methods? I am quite certain he is ready to test his new rack. Between your enforced labour duties, that is. Or would you like to hear the alternative?"

"What are my options, sir?" Douglas queries, taking a breath and sitting forward a little in his seat to listen. "Much as I respect and love Mr. Pringle and the sterling work he does, sir, I'd certainly be interested in an alternative."

The twist of Flint's lips could potentially be interpreted as a smirk, but it sure look a lot like a sneer. "Option. Singular. The Magijugend are just the sort of group to get you on track, Macmillan. Among them, you will find the support you need to find your direction in life, and end this flibbertygibbet nonsense that has gripped you." He reaches into a drawer of his desk, producing a rune-edged parchment, which he slides across the table toward Douglas to look over. Upon it is written was appears to be a contract. "Read it."

I, the undersigned, hereby assert that magic is, and always has been, the sole purview of wizardkind. Furthermore, I promise to stand by my assertion and defend true witchcraft and wizardry against all that would corrupt and dilute it. I swear to always act to protect my fellow Magijugend and promote our mutual interests, and never to reveal our secrets to those not among us. May my wand break with my word, should I prove false. I do this for the greater good.

Douglas carefully reads the parchment over, running his finger along the words slowly before he reaches the bottom, straightens a little, and begins to read it once more. "Well, it sounds good," he finally responds, tone dubious, "but does it mean you can't still use the mudbloods where they're useful to you? I mean, sure, real wizards are always going to be a better bet, but it doesn't hurt to have a few favours owed." He glances up at Flint. "I mean, some of the prefects are half bloods. And you've got to keep them sweet to make life easier, sir, eh?"

"The fate of the Muggle-born is out of our hands," Flint says dryly. "In the meantime, we deal with them as the law allows, and with pragmatism. Half-bloods, at least, have some degree of true magic in their veins." His eyes shift to the inkwell and quill on his desk, kept, for the moment, out of Douglas's reach. "If you find this contract preferable to being released to Mr. Pringle's ministrations, hand me your wand." He holds out his craggy hand expectantly.

"Most of the half bloods I know are bloody idiots," Douglas points out, digging in his robes for his wand and offering it over. "They're all 'meeeh, muggles are great, muggles are awesome, look at how they try really hard to make the world better for them, meeeeh!'. It's like they don't care about being wizards. Let 'em go play with the muggles, then, I say. Where do I sign, then, sir?"

Flint takes the wand, taking from the drawer a thin iron ring, which he fits over the shaft until it rests snugly just above the wand's grip. "As Magijugend, you will set a better example." He slides the inkwell toward Douglas.

"Thing is, sir," Douglas explains, even as he signs, "if I'm in classes and stuff goes wrong… which it usually does… I just look stupid. If I'm not there, sir, I can't look dumb. Especially in front of the mudbloods."

"Then our first task is to shed you of concern for what lesser wizards think of you." As Douglas finishes the last stroke of his signature, the ink glows brightly for a moment. With a light hissing sound, the iron ring contracts slightly, clinging firmly to Douglas's wand. Flint rises, presenting the newly "decorated" wand to Douglas. "You've made the right choice, young man. Wear this with pride." The final object he produces from his desk drawer is a silver pendant in the shape of the now-famous "Eye of Truth," the insignia of Gellert Grindelwald.

Douglas examines the wand thoughtfully, turning it this way and that in his hand. "Uh, thanks, sir," he hazards, accepting the pendant and slipping it into his pocket. "Um. While I'm here, though, sir," he begins, flashing a hopeful smile, "I've got this job lined up next year with the ministry, and I was going to get my aunt to show me around the place over the holidays. Can I get leave to get away a couple of days early for Christmas so I can do that, sir?"

Flint gestures to the pocket. "Around your neck, young man. You wear the Eye with pride." He takes the contract, slipping it safely into a separate drawer. "As for this Christmas business, we shall see how you perform, yes?" He offers a smile without warmth, but filled with satisfaction.

"I'll need to get somebody to fasten it for me, sir," Douglas explains matter of factly. "I'll get Malfoy to do it. She'll be jealous."

Flint frowns. "Put it on, Macmillan. It is a badge of honour, and you will wear it like one." He retakes his seat, immediately getting to work on some bit of paperwork. "See yourself out. If you do speak with Miss Malfoy, see to it that she understands the benefits of being Magijugend."

Douglas draws the pendant from his pocket, pondering the logistics of following the instruction, and finally settles on looping it around his tie. He pulls himself upright, scratches the back of his neck, then just sort of sidles out. Best not to say anything else.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License