Twenty-Three
An Experiment Gone Awry
The special edition of The Quibbler hit the newsstands on a drowsy Sunday morning while the WWN was still rerunning excerpts from their explosive interviews. On the cover, the grainy black and white photograph showed the bleak werewolf compound with an armed Ministry guard flanking the open gate. Only the dark birds winging across the colorless backdrop indicated that this was not a lifeless Muggle still.
It stands in stark obsolescence in a world that has moved on. Where its abandoned chimneys one spewed black smoke over the tranquil landscape swallows now roost, surveying asphalt meadows that had once been green with spring grasses to feed their young.
The derelict skeletons of the Muggle steel industry still dot Britain’s landscape, bereft of life and purpose. But not really abandoned, not in the way that strict security measures made sure Muggles continued to blissfully believe. For a handful of these factories were employed by the Ministry of Magic in a far-reaching social experiment which has only recently come to light. Less than a decade ago, a series of four werewolf relocation camps were housed within abandoned foundries such as the one we visited in the gentle hills not far from the township of Wolverton.
Long banks of high windows allow sunlight to pour onto the pitted concrete floor of the main area where the men’s dormitory had once been filled with metal cots, wooden bureaus and battered steamer trunks. The women and children were housed in similar structures in the next building. A warren of smaller adjoining rooms were used for daily recreational activities such as bridge and backgammon tournaments, reading and the like. Deep at its core, the furnaces still bear smoky traces of fires once stoked to warm residents in the depth of a bitter northern winter.
“It was billed as a new dawn for werewolves everywhere,” long-time advocate Amos Diggory recalls vividly as he wanders through the silent edifice. “A place where they would be housed in comfort between jobs, free to exit beyond the stark steel fences once they secured a new position.”
But as the ragged barbed wire bisects the grey horizon, the hollow outlines of the guard posts stand in silent testimony. The iron mesh gates might have stood open during the day, but it’s a false sense of freedom that comes punctuated with armed guards “ even if their guns were loaded with tranquilizer darts instead of live rounds.
Like the infamous gates of Auschwitz which read: “Work Will Set You Free,” such irony was a staple of everyday life in Compound Gamma, as the site was identified on the Ministry blueprint. No placement officers from Werewolf Support Services ever traveled to any of the sites to assist displaced werewolves in obtaining new jobs. Why would they when the Ministry’s recent decrees imposed crippling restrictions on any employer open-minded enough to hire a werewolf? Nor was any rehabilitation or retraining offered to allow these poor people to aspire to a more productive life.
“It was a dead end; everyone recognized it, although no one was brave enough to voice it aloud,” Amos testifies softly. “Although its creators maintained it was to be a werewolf utopia, it was a vision which failed to match the reality of the situation. Freedom is too high a price to pay for room, board and the companionship of those similarly afflicted.”
Yet rounding up werewolves to participate proved to be remarkably simple. Due in large part to laws which required employers to notify the Werewolf Registry Office of all layoffs, even those individuals who did not apply for government assistance could be pinpointed. Without a spouse who was gainfully employed, a werewolf was marked for temporary relocation to one of the camps. For female werewolves, the system was even less forgiving as they were removed from their child-rearing roles if their husbands became unemployed “ even though, in many cases, the husbands themselves were not werewolves.
“There was a huge increase in werewolf attacks on minors during those dark days,” Amos recalls. “There’s no doubt that a sense of underlying panic had taken hold of the Wizengamot’s social conscience. Whose child would be next?”
But as Amos gravely attests, the creation of the werewolf encampments did nothing to stem the attacks; they just gave Ministry officials somewhere to relocate displaced children. Newly created werewolves whose parents could not face the obstacles in their path. Who better to care for developing werewolves than those of their own kind, Ministry officials were led to believe.
“For the most part, they were an easy going group,” Amos confirms. “The vicious, violent ones who sought to create more suffering among wizardkind with their ‘dark gift’ continued to elude capture. Many werewolves simply left Britain for less restrictive counties, thereby earning the euphemism ‘an ideal solution for all concerned.’”
Amos tells of the many long-time employees who requested transfers from the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures as this plan unfolded. Far too many felt their career of helping a less fortunate segment of society had been subjugated by the Ministry’s short-sighted goals. Amos recalls adding his witnessing signature to non-disclosure statements that were required before transfers to other areas were granted, not that any such documents have surfaced to date.
“It’s as if their very presence signified there was a secret worth hiding,” Amos postulates. “The proponents of this stunted werewolf utopia would rather their deeds fell into dark obscurity instead.”
But somehow, Amos found the fortitude to not abandon his post when things were at their bleakest. “I felt that someone still had to try to create a difference in these poor individuals’ lives,” his gentle voice reassures. “If the Ministry was intent on giving them a raw deal, then I was determined to be there to cushion the blow.”
With a domed row of glass skylights, the oval assembly area that was used for the children’s playroom resembles a concrete circus tent. Although this camp was designated for the younger children, Amos stresses that rudimentary reading lessons and story-telling comprised a large portion of the daily activities, especially when it was too cold for outdoor pursuits.
It was in the education of the younger residents that the Ministry’s edicts were the most successful, Amos confides. But that was in large part due to the efforts of the other werewolves who were familiar with home-schooling methods and pitched in to assist. The process was streamlined by presorting the children so that age groups for 9-11, 12-15 and 16-17 were assigned to the remaining compounds.
“The adults were keen on seeing that the next generation was fully able to integrate itself into wizarding society, make no mistake about it,” Amos comments. “Our pleas to commence basic magical education for the older children were heeded for once; although there were some questionable delays in obtaining qualified instructors.”
Due to the uneven education of the adult residents, Ministry policy prohibited werewolves within the compound to carry wands “ even if that had been their custom in the outside world. “It was a safety measure geared to the lowest common denominator,” Amos defends meekly. But what wizard wouldn’t chafe at such demanding restrictions that tacitly likened him to a lowly beast, incapable of skill or judgment?
A persistent cool breeze teases dust devils in the long loading dock with its retractable steel doors which still move smoothly along their tracks. This area had been transformed into an impromptu infirmary during the bitter winter of 1997 when the Ministry’s grandiose plans began to unravel.
“It was a case of too little knowledge,” Amos recounts as his eyes cloud over at the memory. “We were aware that werewolves did not react to cold weather like others, having little need for overcoats or scarves except in the most extreme conditions. It was this inherent hardiness that led us to house them in such spartan quarters in the first place. It was believed that even in the depth of winter, the blast ovens within the factory’s core would provide sufficient warmth for their needs.”
What they failed to take into account, however, was that werewolves needed to consume extra calories in order to regulate their internal furnaces. Notoriously long and lean of limb, it is their bodies’ way of preparing for the upcoming cold. But in the late fall of 1996, the Ministry’s attention was consumed with fighting persistent Death Eater activities, its budget already strained in a losing battle against determined agents of chaos.
“By the time we realized our error, the deep winter had clawed its way mercilessly past the sheltering walls of the compound. An older gentleman was whisked away to St. Mungo’s with a dangerously high fever as all around him the werewolves’ natural immunity to disease began to fail. We scrambled to assemble specialized vaccines for unprecedented cases of influenza and tuberculosis, diseases which had never bothered werewolves in the past. Clothing suited to extreme cold was liberally distributed as dormitories were relocated deep within the furnace corridors to provide extra warmth.
“Most of the residents were affected in one way or another; the closeness of their quarters facilitated contagion. Changing to a richer and more complex diet, those who were not too sick to eat properly soon recovered their previous vigor. Not long after, the Wizengamot terminated all funding with little fanfare and the residents were allowed to go their separate ways.”
In the intervening years, Amos himself has risen through the ranks of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and is currently third man in the hierarchy. Looking back on that dark chapter, he provides, “I cannot speak for those who penned this legislation in the Office of Laws, Edicts and Edification. Was it their intent to establish a serene oasis for a neglected segment of our wizarding population, as they would have us believe? Or were they a group of elitists who had found a clever ruse to avoid rubbing elbows with what they considered to be a less desirable cross-section? The irrefutable evidence of their actions is that this experiment was flawed.”
Why come forward after all these years, though? we cannot help but press. Is it just because interest in werewolves has recently spiked in literary circles?
He leaves us with these sobering words, “The concept of werewolf relocation was spearheaded by none other than Dolores Umbridge. The very woman who has presented herself as the arbiter of misguided Ministry expenditures.”
It did not take much persuasion for Dolores Umbridge to agree to defend her actions. The world needed to hear the truth behind the twisted allegations of disgruntled employees and verbose journalists, she maintained vehemently. All it took was a promise that the WWN would broadcast her interview live.
To balance out the coverage, former Minister Fudge seemed a likely candidate. Wes Morgan, WWN’s director of programming, was certain the man’s reasons for supporting Umbridge’s master plan would be the stuff of legend.
“Call it a political farce,” he announced with barely contained excitement. “Fudge’s buffoonery is sure to spice up the program.”
Much to their dismay, however, Cornelius Fudge was unavailable for the next three weeks.
“The Master is vacationing in Bermuda,” Fudge’s venerable house-elf had announced. As if rehearsed, she also unfurled the contract from the rental agency to illustrate that Fudge always rented the same spacious villa for an entire month in mid-April. “It’s just off-season enough for the Master to get a good rate,” she confided before excusing herself to attend to her other duties.
Not wanting to be left out of the picture, Rufus Scrimgeour volunteered to represent the views of the Wizengamot in general. “I can’t speak on behalf of Cornelius, mind you,” he’d warned with a mirthless chuckle. It was common knowledge that as Head of the Auror Department during the previous administration, Scrimgeour had often disagreed with official Ministry policy.
“You think the Minister also wants to make sure Umbridge doesn’t overstep her authority?” Ginny muttered to her boss.
“Absolutely,” he added with a sly grin. “And that, right there, is enough to guarantee good ratings.”
Within a matter of days, the WWN had secured commercial sponsors for their live interview and were ready to roll.
Eunice calmly reviewed her notes as an audio check of the guests’ microphones continued around her. From behind the two-way glass in the other room, Ginny paced nervously within the small confines of the facilitator’s booth. Remus and Amos had both slaved to ensure that Eunice’s questions would be hard-hitting enough that a facile answer would not suffice. It was Ginny’s job to have Eunice interject them naturally within whatever path Umbridge chose to take. By pointing her quill at the proper question from her long queue, the Protean Charm ensured it would appear on Eunice’s topmost parchment sheet.
So many things that could go wrong, Ginny’s mind churned inwardly, so many opportunities that she could fumble. Live broadcasts did not have a margin for error. It would either be a triumph or a disaster. If things fell apart, she just needed to make sure the fault lay with their guests’ reactions to one another and not with Eunice’s questions.
“I’m only a Patronus away if you find yourself in a quandary,” Remus had reminded her before she left the house. “Take a deep breath and remember you can always return to an earlier point if the need arises.”
“We’ll be listening to every word,” Harry breathed in her ear as he’d released their embrace. “You won’t be flying without a net, no matter how lonely it seems in your booth.”
A flash of pink through the window announced that Umbridge had arrived. As final adjustments were made to her voice levels, Eunice’s friendly patter quickly put her guest at ease. Ginny was about to mute the volume when a scowl on Umbridge’s face redirected her attention to the studio entrance.
Flanked by his customary Auror escort, Rufus Scrimgeour settled himself to Eunice’s other side as he patiently allowed for the requisite equipment checks. Umbridge’s eyes narrowed even more as Kingsley Shacklebolt assumed the adjacent chair.
“Why, Rufus, I didn’t expect you to bring the Head Auror as your assistant,” Umbridge oozed with barely banked hostility. “Expecting to encounter any dark wizards today?”
“And a good day to you, too, Dolores,” Scrimgeour remarked glibly. “Glad to see you’re on your toes already. Did you forget that the Minister is always accompanied by a bodyguard?”
“Don’t play me for a moron,” Umbridge bristled. “It’s your choice that’s unexpected.”
With unruffled serenity, Kingsley ignored her jibe as he whispered into Scrimgeour’s ear. At the Minister’s curt nod, Kingsley trained his impassive eyes on Umbridge. “If you’ll allow me, it was my suggestion to accompany the Minister today. All the remaining Aurors were on assignment. I could do a massive reshuffle or just fill in myself. Expediency won out.”
Taking a cue from the announcement that they had ninety seconds to airtime, Ginny watched the contenders retreat to their positions on either side of Eunice. Settling down to the task before her, she briefly entertained that perhaps her former classmate, Oliver Wood, might have been the ideal moderator for today’s interviews. As the Gryffindor Keeper, his experience with defensive postures would be handy in the brewing verbal match.
“Good afternoon, witches and wizards!” Eunice intoned as soon as the opening music came to a close. “Today in our studio we have none other than Dolores Umbridge who has kindly consented to a live interview. I take it, Ms. Umbridge, that retirement hasn’t been as relaxing as you might have wished?”
Umbridge snatched at the opening with a girlish giggle that showed a marked change from her earlier demeanor. “Life always comes with unexpected twists and turns, doesn’t it? For so many years my career dominated my entire life and now it seems, try as I might, I just can’t put it behind me.”
“There are those who would call that dedication,” Eunice drew her out expertly.
Chuffed at the compliment, Umbridge continued in her trademark saccharine manner, “I just feel that the public needs to know the truth, to hear the other side of the story as such. Although we may not always agree on the best course of action, we Ministry employees are all dedicated to furthering the cause of wizarding kind. All of us. I did not serve four consecutive terms on the Wizengamot to have my reputation muddied so!”
“I take it you’re referring to the recent controversy over the werewolf internment camps,” Eunice provided for the benefit of the listeners.
“It was a housing project,” Umbridge corrected sharply. “A social program such as those employed by Muggle governments to provide assistance. It was hardly a death camp as recent reports have painted it!”
“So participation was voluntary?” Eunice prompted.
“We allowed for volunteers; they would not have been turned away.”
“And just how many werewolves volunteered to be relocated?”
There was dead silence as Ginny watched Umbridge stare daggers at Eunice. Then clearing her throat in an overly artificial manner, she acknowledged, “Not as many as we would have liked. Perhaps we should have done a better job of getting the word out.”
“No statistics?”
“Those documents were filed in the Ministry archives long ago, I’m afraid.” Was that a small glint of satisfaction Ginny saw in the toad woman’s eye?
“I understand you were one of the major architects of the legislation itself,” Eunice inquired as prompted. “Surely you can tell us much more about this project than just about anyone else.”
“It was designed to help unemployed werewolves until they could get back on their feet. We were trying to provide for a segment of the population who is often ignored. No one was a prisoner, for Merlin’s sake! The residents were allowed to come and go as they pleased as long as they had a friend or relative assume responsibility for them until they returned.”
“But the friend or relative couldn’t be another werewolf, could he?”
“That was never specified,” Umbridge huffed. “But I don’t believe the situation ever arose, to tell you the truth.”
“What about the children?”
“Yes, let’s not forget the children,” Umbridge echoed with unrepentant hypocrisy. “It’s so easy “ and unfair “ to incite public outrage when children are involved, isn’t it? Holy hippogriffs! We don’t think anything of sending our sons and daughters to boarding school; why should this be any different? Many of these children were going through a traumatic period of adjustment. Interacting with others who were similarly afflicted demonstrated that it was possible to lead a productive life. Who better to assist them with the new challenges they faced?”
“Forgive me for saying so, Ms. Umbridge,” Eunice interjected with just the proper hint of humility, “but how could people who were forced to accept government assistance because of their lycanthropy be classified as leading a productive life -- by any stretch of the imagination?”
With strained patience, Umbridge replied, “The camp was designed to be a temporary refuge only. For the most part, the adult residents had husbands, wives, children of their own. Their lives were not unlike everyone else’s.”
“Until the new government policy required them to be separated from their loved ones, you mean?”
“Need I remind you that the gates stood open every day? Except during a full moon, of course. We just didn’t have the facilities or the resources to relocate entire families.”
“But family members could sign out a resident for a day or so?”
“Even longer if they wished to go on holiday. Although a short requisition form was required for absences of longer than a few days.”
With unerring accuracy, Eunice clarified, “You needed to know where to find the errant werewolves if it became necessary.”
“There was always another full moon just around the corner.”
“Such an open-gate policy makes me wonder how many werewolves simply didn’t return?” Eunice pondered aloud. “Did that prove to be a problem?”
“You’d have to ask Cornelius,” Umbridge harrumphed. Recovering quickly, she added, “That’s Cornelius Fudge, former Minister for Magic. He was also a great proponent of this plan. Involving Magical Law Enforcement would have been at his discretion, not mine.”
“Unfortunately, the former Minister is abroad and could not join us today,” Eunice narrated. “However, current Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, was kind enough to lend us a bit of his time. Can you provide us with some background about the role of the MLE in this?”
“As much as I’m able, Eunice,” Scrimgeour answered. “I actually headed up the Auror Department during Minister Fudge’s administration so my staff would not have been routinely called upon in these issues. We had more than enough dark wizards to pursue in those days. But Ms. Umbridge is essentially correct: to involve support staff from Magical Law Enforcement required a direct request from the Minister himself. After all, the werewolf project was assigned to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures “ and they have their very own Werewolf Capture Unit.”
“I was led to believe that Werewolf Capture only dealt with dangerous werewolves,” Eunice posed.
“Those who presented a danger to those around them, that’s true,” Umbridge affirmed.
“And those who roamed the countryside, blissfully underemployed, certainly threatened the self-contained utopia you had created for them,” Scrimgeour postulated with a daring lift to his brow.
“You have no right to insinuate that, Minister!” Umbridge barely managed to add the last word without sounding overly petulant.
“We have the testimony of a former employee of the Capture Unit,” Eunice interjected with diplomatic delicacy. “He was very displeased when his job duties were modified.”
“Official escorts only,” Umbridge defended. “A measure intended to avoid confrontations.”
“Confrontations?” Eunice was quick to emphasize. “Sounds like there was some resistance to what should have been a peaceful process.”
“Change rarely comes without strife,” Scrimgeour volunteered.
“Then you, too, supported the werewolf relocation project, Minister?” Eunice prodded.
With the slippery ease of a born politician, Scrimgeour prevaricated, “I was hardly involved in the project. In the wake of an unlawful incursion into the Ministry itself, my first priority after taking office was to deal with the Death Eater threat. It was all I could do to try to reverse years of inertia while Fudge insisted that his darkest nightmare could not possibly be a reality.”
“Are you not entrusted with safeguarding all of wizardkind?” Eunice proposed in a whisper that seemed to reverberate against the walls.
“I take my office very seriously, Ms. Sharpe,” Scrimgeour growled lowly. “But priorities are an unfortunate fact of life. We were facing anarchy on many fronts. A social program that was not performing according to plan was something to be corrected at the next appropriations meeting. At which point, the Wizengamot agreed that funding should be curtailed.”
“It’s a good thing you clarified that, Rufus,” Umbridge issued with a unique blend of sugary sarcasm. “Otherwise the listening public might think you had not been aware of the actions of a major branch within your government. When I was Senior Undersecretary to Cornelius, I made certain he always stayed abreast of things. Didn’t your personal assistant do the same for you? Let me see, his name was Weatherby, wasn’t it?”
In an icy tone, the Minister amended, “The lad’s name is Weasley, Dolores. Percy Weasley. I’m surprised you haven’t learned by now that employees respond so much better when you take the time to learn their names. Although he has since been promoted to the Head of Protocol, I always found Percy a most able assistant, rather a whiz at organizing the archaic filing system I inherited from my predecessor.”
Indicating Kingsley with a wobble of her squat head, Umbridge added, “And don’t give me that aloof look of yours, either. I know for a fact that you escorted werewolves to the facility personally!”
Eunice was quick to supply the necessary background. “For our listeners, let me explain that Kingsley Shacklebolt, current Head of the Auror Department, accompanied the Minister as his bodyguard today. Do you wish to respond to Ms. Umbridge’s allegations, Mr. Shacklebolt?”
Ginny watched as Scrimgeour spoke a few terse words into Kingsley’s ear as he unclipped the small badge which served as a microphone. Leaning over the Minister’s hand, Kingsley cleared his throat experimentally. At the soundboard, a young WWN technician made a quick wand adjustment followed by a signal to proceed.
“I won’t deny my actions,” Kingsley volunteered in a deep voice, “although they were motivated by leniency. I commuted an overly harsh sentence that would’ve condemned a man to Azkaban for a barroom brawl. By virtue of being a werewolf, any infraction, regardless of how minor, could not be tolerated. I obtained approval to allow the poor bloke to serve his time in one of the werewolf compounds instead.”
“You put a criminal in the same camp as women and children?” Umbridge gasped. “Who approved such a thing?”
“I did,” Scrimgeour defended. “And a bit of drunken scuffle is hardly the sort of thing which demands a prison sentence. That would have only been justified if there had been any deaths.”
Recovering quickly to the new question that Ginny hastily scribbled, Eunice offered, “Did this incident occur during a full moon?”
“Not at all,” Kingsley supplied. “Which was one of the major reasons why I argued that we had no right to treat this man any differently than we would any other.”
“When did this occur?” Umbridge demanded of Kingsley.
With a slight tilt of his patrician head, Kingsley made a quick calculation. “Fall of ’96, I believe.”
“I would’ve just been reclaiming my post as Undersecretary then. Working through reams of documents that seemed to have found a permanent home on my desk during my absence,” Umbridge mused. “Well, I have to say this gentleman certainly got off lightly in the end. Weren’t the compounds disbanded less than a year later?”
“Perhaps you can tell us a bit about how that came about, Minister?” Eunice interceded.
Before Scrimgeour could open his mouth to answer, Umbridge cut across, “Do tell, Minister. We’d all like to hear about the crisis of conscience that focused your attention on the werewolf situation “ considering the world was reeling from the murder of Albus Dumbledore at the time!”
The Minister took a deep breath as he composed his thoughts. With a calmness that showed signs of being frayed around the edges, Scrimgeour amended, “I believe you may have gotten ahead of yourself with the dates there. The crisis that necessitated the disbanding of the werewolf housing project took place a number of months earlier, when record freezing temperatures swept across much of the English countryside without any respite.
“Our data on werewolf physiology was incomplete, so we failed to anticipate the added strain such extreme temperatures would put upon them. Moving the dormitories into the old smelting chambers where a constant fire could be maintained helped to some degree, as did the course of vaccinations that were quickly reconfigured for werewolf immune systems. But the close living quarters ultimately proved to be the most problematic of all. Once the first resident was taken with an overly high fever and had to be removed to St. Mungo’s, there was little stopping the epidemic from spreading slowly among the rest.”
“What was the diagnosis from St. Mungo’s?” Eunice urged.
“Severe influenza brought on by hypothermia. The elderly chap had suffered from asthma as a child, coupled with decades of smoking as an adult werewolf. His system had been made inherently weaker than that of the others.”
“Did he survive?”
“Most definitely,” Scrimgeour confirmed. “Although by the time he had fully recovered, the decision to disband the compounds had already been made. So one should not jump to any grim conclusions just because he never returned to the camp.”
Ginny scribbled wildly as Eunice seemed to lift the words right off the end of her quill. “Were the gentleman’s camp associates ever notified?”
Scrimgeour stroked his chin in thought. “I’m not certain that would have even been possible, Eunice. It was decided that anonymity was the best we could offer these werewolves, so all resident rosters and visitation records were destroyed at the direct order of the Wizengamot.”
Digging deeper, Eunice inquired, “So restitution would have been out of the question?” .
“Restitution?” Scrimgeour considered the word as if he’d never heard it before.
To his apparent relief, Umbridge spoke up, “Restitution for whom?”
“Why for the werewolves, of course,” Eunice provided smoothly. “For those whose very lives had been impacted by the Ministry’s master plan.”
“We fed them, housed them, and in many cases also clothed them,” Umbridge shot back. “Why would they require extra recompense?”
“Besides, there was no appropriation for that,” Scrimgeour briskly expounded. “The budget had already been strained with the extra medical care and heavy coats which were provided to each and every resident.”
Ginny struggled with maintaining the impact of Eunice’s line of questioning. Somehow, she needed to expose the underlying elitism that allowed the Wizengamot to even consider such a thing as werewolf encampments in the first place. To her way of thinking, simply portraying Umbridge and Scrimgeour as unfeeling bureaucrats seemed too much like business as usual.
“So is this a plan you would like to rework, Minister?” Eunice fished. “What modifications would you make, Ms. Umbridge?”
Clearing his throat in a haughty manner, Scrimgeour assumed control. “It’s a dark page in history I’d prefer to not see revisited. Panic in wartime often fuels actions which seem overly drastic in times of peace. It was a social experiment which failed to bear fruit; let it rest in peace.”
“What made things so different in wartime?” Eunice continued.
“There had been an alarming increase in werewolf attacks, far too many zeroing in on children to be strictly accidental,” Umbridge supplied in her defense.
With a quick glance at her background material, Eunice asked, “At the time were you unaware that Fenrir Greyback was behind that?”
“We suspected,” Scrimgeour clarified. “Very little went on among werewolf society that did not involve him in one way or another. Particularly actions that seemed unseemly to the outside world.”
“Based upon general descriptions, I would think a major cross-section of the werewolf population would consider Greyback to be their enemy as well,” declared Eunice.
“He was the number one undesirable in the Werewolf Capture Unit, had been for years,” Umbridge volunteered. “But somehow he always outsmarted them.”
“My notes indicate that Fenrir Greyback is currently serving several concurrent sentences in Azkaban,” Eunice noted. “Was it the Auror Department who finally brought him to justice?”
There was a long moment of dead air as Scrimgeour mentally prepared his response with a few whispered words from Kingsley.
“Not exactly.” Scrimgeour had the look of a man who was artfully dancing around the truth. “Greyback waltzed into our office one day, practically dared us to arrest him on the spot “ if we were men enough. That’s exactly how he put it, too. If we were only men enough. I thought we were going to have to administer Enervating Draughts all around.”
Pressing her advantage, Eunice asked, “Any idea what prompted the man to do such a thing?”
Scrimgeour gave her a baleful look over his reading glasses. With an exaggerated shrug, he proclaimed, “With as many Death Eaters as we had rounded up in the wake of the final battle, perhaps he was feeling lonely without his usual playmates.”
Umbridge gave a most inappropriate giggle which sent unpleasant shivers down Ginny’s spine.
Taking a different tack, Eunice turned to Umbridge. “And what would you have done if you had caught him? Thrown him into the tank with all his brethren?”
“I can’t say I like--” Umbridge started to protest with a mighty scowl, but Scrimgeour cut across her.
“We would have done no such thing! Greyback was a criminal facing a multitude of charges. We would never have housed him with the others. He was destined for Azkaban from the start.”
With grim accuracy, Eunice proclaimed, “I sense a bit of unintentional irony here. Did anyone consider that concentrating the werewolf population in such a manner would merely facilitate their recruitment by dark forces?”
“If you’re insinuating that all werewolves are dark creatures,” the Minister warned tersely, “there are many in the Department for Regulation and Control who will vehemently disagree.”
“Not at all, Minister.” Eunice reeled him in with just the perfect hint of contriteness. “Reviewing the camps’ living quarters, I can’t help noting the similarity to military barracks. What are we to make of that? A ready-made army which already bore a grudge just waiting for some lunatic to rise to the fore?”
“We were more optimistic,” Umbridge dismissed.
“Admittedly, we were naïve,” Scrimgeour allowed. “Never anticipating that a self-proclaimed werewolf visionary would pen his fevered dream for all to admire.”
“So you would say that this anonymous chap was likely to have been a former camp resident?” Eunice mused.
“Anything I could offer at this point would be pure conjecture,” Scrimgeour demurred.
“All the reports I read indicated the camp residents were a complacent bunch for the most part,” Umbridge defended.
Too cowed by years of constant harassment, Ginny thought to herself, but stayed her quill. With sudden inspiration, she crossed through a portion of a question and reworked it to her liking.
In the next room, Eunice caught Umbridge’s beady eyes. “So no one objected to having to turn in their wands at the gate? I always wondered how a witch or wizard could accept such a restriction. “
“It was not a popular regulation,” Scrimgeour admitted in a hollow voice. “But, unfortunately, we couldn’t allow anyone with spotty magical training to be at the mercy of others who were more adept.”
“Any werewolf who had been bitten as a child would’ve likely received magical training at the hand of a parent,” Umbridge announced with absolute certitude. “It would have been unfair to pit them against someone who had a distinct advantage.”
“So you anticipated violence?”
“Not at all!” Umbridge oozed false sincerity. “But wizards use wands for all sorts of everyday things; spells can go awry…”
“Doesn’t cause much to start an altercation in close quarters,” Scrimgeour confirmed.
“Yet they were left defenseless under the influence of the full moon,” Eunice provoked.
“Some things we are powerless to change,” Scrimgeour attested.
It was the opening Eunice had been seeking. “What about the Wolfsbane Potion? Did it not occur to anyone that having the inmates curl into sleepy balls until morning would greatly ease the monthly transformations?”
There was a long silence as Scrimgeour’s facial expression betrayed just how many responses he considered and discarded. Finally he settled for, “I have to commend you on your thorough research, Eunice. But it’s not as simple as you would make it out to be. Sure a skilled potioneer can prepare the dosage for a single werewolf without too much troub--”
“Assuming he could locate the ingredients,” Umbridge interjected. “Not to mention how expensive they can be.”
“With a large group,” the Minister resumed, “it becomes extraordinarily difficult. Every werewolf requires his own formula practically. Age, weight, body mass; all factors which must be taken into consideration.”
“Not to mention we’re uncertain how advisable such a treatment is for children,” Umbridge supplied.
In a tone laced with regret, Scrimgeour concluded, “Like any other government-sponsored program, it all comes down to galleons in the end. The Wolfsbane Potion would have bankrupted us, I’m afraid.”
“What the documents cannot convey is the long-term vision for these werewolf communities,” Umbridge insisted in an ingratiating manner. “In time, we expected these colonies to become self-sufficient enough to allow family members to relocate as well.”
“Really?” Eunice stalled as the words slowly materialized before her. “What manner of enterprises did you have in mind?”
“The details hadn’t been worked out yet; I’m only giving you the broad overview. So many of the intricate workings were left purposely vague so the colonies themselves could decide what best suited them.”
“With so much untapped potential, you would’ve expected these same residents to be more successful in the outside world,” Eunice added on cue.
“They would certainly find it easier to coexist among their own kind,” Umbridge confirmed.
“Acceptance in the pack?” Eunice dared.
“Your words, not mine,” Umbridge shot back with such icy dispassion it was clear Eunice had struck a nerve.
“No, not yours,” Eunice provided, suddenly thankful that Ginny’s research notes had been so thorough. “But you are aware, both of you, that transcripts are kept of testimony offered before the Wizengamot in cases of proposed legislation as well as criminal and civil trials?”
“Of course,” Scrimgeour volleyed back. “It allows council members to review the proceedings even if our other duties demand that we absent ourselves from a session or two.”
Taking his words as a confirmation of sorts, Eunice elaborated, “What’s particularly striking is that when edicts are voted down, the records detail the many arguments which were crucial in bringing about that decision.”
“An invaluable source,” Scrimgeour agreed.
“However, if a proposal is accepted, the transcripts weigh heavily on the opinions of the proponents of the bill. Objectors are barely mentioned, if at all,” Eunice continued. “Historians might argue that elected officials did not want to be reminded of those whose clearer vision predicted disaster from the onset.”
“The nay-sayers,” Umbridge denounced. “Too caught up in tradition to turn their eyes towards the future.”
“Unfortunately, there are those who are never willing to give a new notion a fair chance unless they thought of it themselves,” the Minister upheld.
“I’m certain your predecessor felt that way, Minister. Cornelius Fudge was convinced that Albus Dumbledore lived to covet his office, forgetting that the post had been offered to Dumbledore repeatedly only to be firmly declined. Why was his testimony omitted in the case of the werewolf compounds?”
“I assure you, I was not aware of any such--” Scrimgeour fairly sputtered.
“We have testimony of other members of the Wizengamot who remember Dumbledore’s eloquent words quite distinctly,” Eunice promised softly.
“Madmen are often eloquent,” Umbridge pronounced. “A governing body has no business weighing testimony that is laced with emotion and vague memories. It would be like determining our future on the roll of the dice. Only cold hard facts are important.”
“How could there be facts with respect to an experimental community?” Eunice contended.
“We have only to turn to similar social welfare programs initiated within Muggle societies in Britain and abroad,” argued Umbridge.
“Just as Dumbledore made comparisons with internment camps during the last world war, some of which he’d visited first-hand,” Eunice prompted.
“He accused us of planned genocide!” Umbridge railed through clenched teeth. “Such closed-mindedness. This was not a ‘final solution’ as he fairly insinuated, but a social program.”
“But with such scope, clearly an inordinate amount of planning was involved in such an undertaking,” Eunice coached. “Was there any input from the werewolves themselves? How did they envision utopia?”
“You’re likely to receive a different response from everyone,” Scrimgeour cautioned.
“In a broad cross-section, that’s often the case,” Eunice conceded. “But for groups who have been herded, persecuted, stamped and catalogued without their consent, the results might be a bit more consistent.”
“How many werewolves have you interviewed directly then?” Umbridge challenged.
“None,” Eunice admitted. “But I can tell you how I would feel in their place: I would wonder about the reasons behind such a large undertaking requiring years of commitment, manpower and escalating costs. I would wonder why acceptance of werewolves into the general wizarding populace was never put forth as an option “ especially when it’s the most cost-effective alternative.”
“That’s hardly an objective approach,” advised Scrimgeour.
“How about consulting with those who are most likely to be affected by legislation?” Eunice remarked. “Seems to me that if you pledge to uphold the rights of all the citizenry, it’s patently unfair to allow one faction to fall beneath the boots of another.”
Deep within his bastion of polished mahogany, Gerard Mortimer allowed himself a satisfied smile. It had been a long time since he’d found wireless programming so amusing.
Ministers came and went, either imploding due to corruption or floating away on helium currents of pure ego. But that Umbridge woman was really something to keep airing her vapid opinions before the public like that. Single-handedly, she’d brought the issue of werewolves back into people’s minds.
All he needed to do now was stir in a spot of controversy and let the brew ferment on its own. If they wanted to hear a werewolf’s viewpoint, he was more than willing to do his part to make that happen.
With the unerring instinct handed down from father to son, Mr. Gerard knew that this was the moment. The tide of public sentiment was exerting its inexorable pull, calling forth his client in uncertain terms. He’d wager that within a week of airing the man’s carefully disguised voice, every witch and wizard would have purchased a copy of the enigmatic book, if they hadn’t already. Maybe even second copies, if they had worn down the pages sufficiently.
But being a gentleman, he really should send some flowers to that Umbridge woman. Having seen her squat countenance in the papers once or twice, he knew instinctively what she would prefer. Large, fat cabbage roses -- in varying shades of pink, of course. He stopped himself halfway to reaching for his quill as he remembered his client’s distinct wishes.
“I want the public to perceive me as the ‘lone wolf’,” he’d insisted from the start of their negotiations.
With utmost delicacy, Mr. Gerard had countered, “You should really leave the publicity and marketing to my firm. After all, we expect to earn our percentage.”
“It’s one of the few points I won’t concede,” his client affirmed darkly. “Too many mixed up loyalties still linger from the war. Better that I disassociate myself from them.”
Considering that he was already planning on marketing his newest client as a fresh voice in the wilderness, Mr. Gerard had relented.
Well, clients were known to be stubborn, he acknowledged. And some required more molding than others. He’d go along with the mysterious past and unrevealed identity for now. Sparking the public’s curiosity always translated into more galleons for everyone concerned.
There would come a time, however, when Mr. Gerard would have to sternly instruct his client that continued anonymity belonged to those authors whose works were destined for the dustbin. The readers needed someone to acknowledge the furor that his words had caused. Eventually, he would need to step forth and accept his accolades.
Either that, or it was likely that the secret would come out in a random manner. Better that they control the situation so it could be manipulated to its greatest advantage. Surely a man as practical as his client could understand such simple logic.
Certain that he was riding the crest of a wave, Mr. Gerard grasped his quill more firmly as he directed a note to Kingsley Shacklebolt instead.
When he was done, a small smile ghosted across his pinched features. The Muggle world beckoned seductively; perhaps with a bit of careful tooling, he could circumvent the Statute of Secrecy after all.
Despite the boisterous celebration which met her return to Godric’s Hollow later that evening, Ginny couldn’t help feeling that she had fallen short of her goal. So Eunice had exposed them both as postering politicians; would that really surprise anyone?
Harry handed her a punch cup with strangely sparkling contents. “Don’t let the virulent color put you off; it’s really quite tasty.”
“Another of Dobby’s experiments?”
“Xeno’s the mixologist; the directions came from him.”
Before she had a chance to fully appreciate a tentative sip, Ron sidled up and practically made her sputter. “We’re calling it Umbridge Stew,” he confided with a wicked smirk.
“Sounds like something that gives you warts!” Hermione chortled as she joined the group. “I can see why the twins rarely ask for your marketing advice. That name would put off even the most die-hard Slytherin!”
Reminded of the source of her discontent, Ginny’s shoulders slumped with weariness.
Instinctively, Harry allowed her to lean against him as he rubbed her knotted muscles. “Surely the WWN isn’t considering this anything less than a total rout…”
“No,” Ginny replied. “My programming director was guffawing so loudly only the sound-proofing in the director’s booth prevented him from being overheard in the main studio.”
“Then why the pursed lips, sis?” Ron prodded.
Ginny caught sight of Percy across the room, his arm draped easily across the sofa back as Penny, Tonks and Remus were embroiled in a lively discussion. Tonks’ exaggerated arm movements indicated that her spirited recount would soon have them all in stitches.
“Was it really enough?” she posed, giving voice to her inner doubts. “So Umbridge is a big, bulbous blowhard. She’s lived with that for years --”
“Decades,” Hermione corrected with a wide grin.
“Half a century at least,” Ron echoed.
“You don’t think she’s going to back down,” Harry surmised.
With a small shrug, Ginny explained how she had wanted to unveil Umbridge as the true villainess she’d shown herself to be “ and for that she needed to tie her to Voldemort, or at least Greyback.
“One step at a time,” Mad-Eye Moody grumbled good-naturedly as he helped himself to more punch. “This isn’t over yet.”
“What I’ve never understood is why Scrimgeour didn’t kick her out with the rest of Fudge’s staff?” Hermione mused.
“I’m sure Rufus is thinking that very thing right about now,” Moody affirmed.
“Actually, Percy gave me some valuable insight,” Ginny volunteered as she ventured another look towards the sofa. “He concluded that Fudge had never been the object of Umbridge’s unwavering devotion as everyone supposed. Her true loyalty was to the bureaucratic ideals espoused by the Ministry itself.”
“I suspect Scrimgeour also wanted as seamless a transition as possible in a time of crisis,” Harry put forth.
“If only I could have worked it into the interview that Umbridge had been sorted into Hufflepuff,” Ginny chided herself. “Start everyone thinking about her true loyalties.”
“Too deep a thought for the airwaves,” Moody remonstrated. “It would just play as an irrelevant bit of padding.”
“Yet it’s the key to the issue,” Hermione insisted.
“How so, lassie?” Moody urged as he adjusted his artificial leg more comfortably before him. “If it doesn’t bother me that everyone thinks that slavering toad was in Slytherin, what makes it so important to you?”
“You were in Slytherin?” Ron gaped.
“Can’t deny it,” Moody rumbled. “There was bound to be one golden apple among the whole rotting bunch. But it’s not the sort of thing one wants paraded before the public; too many bad associations. Just ask Scrimgeour himself.”
“The Minister was in Slytherin, too?” Harry prompted.
“Absolutely,” Moody reminisced with an amused grimace. “A smug little miscreant, if ever I saw one during my tenure as House Prefect.”
“See it fits,” Ginny proposed. “Scrimgeour is out to line his own proverbial coffer, but Umbridge is the quintessential evil minion.”
“So you expect her to admit it on air?” Moody chuckled darkly. “Percy would’ve tripped her up long ago if she were that careless.”
“Alastor’s right,” Hermione conceded. “You can’t get the listeners to connect the dots when they can’t visualize the puzzle like we do.”
“Besides, after the bloody nose Eunice gave her, Umbridge would be smart to stay out of the ring,” Ron supplied.
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” the deep tones of Kingsley Shacklebolt interjected as he unfolded himself from the hearth. “I’d brace myself, Percy. The Minster insisted on making some notes while his mind was still fresh, so he may be calling for his Head of Protocol before the night’s out.”
Percy flashed an apologetic look to where Penny was resting her head against his shoulder.
“Wotcher, Kingsley,” Tonks called out lightly. “I’d’ve thought after being dragged about by the Minister for most of the day, your first thought would be to escape home to your wife.”
Eyes crinkled in amusement, Remus amended, “Not that we’re not happy to have you join our celebration, mind you.”
“I really only stopped by for a moment,” Kingsley acknowledged as he politely declined a cup of punch. “An express owl arrived at my Ministry desk. Contained an official requisition for an interview to be broadcast from Azkaban. Looks like our anonymous werewolf friend wants to come out and play. Thought you’d appreciate a bit of advance notice.”
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