Who: Rachel Englewood + NPC'd Ministry staff (AND CREEP MICHAEL LOCHTE)
What: Rachel gets hauled in for bloodline questioning due to her immigration and other "sketchy" details
Where: Ministry offices
When: Today, at 6
This was more irritating than Rachel could ever dream possible. To receive an owl that issued a vague order was an annoyance enough, but an owl that was vague and threatening was appalling in more ways than she could count.
It did, however, tell her to report at the Ministry at 6 in the evening, sharp, at this particular office, and here she was.
And she was beginning to think that whoever was orchestrating this little meeting was running late, which aggravated her as well. If she had any inkling as to the nature of this meeting, she might have been more appeased, but considering Rachel didn't know anything, she was extremely, extremely annoyed, and a little unsettled. It was one step short of being hauled into the Ministry, so far as she was concerned, and she did not stand for this sort of thing, there were rules that needed to be followed for law abiding upper-class citizens.
So she sat, and waited some more.
The door opened with a loud creak, and two men stepped into the room. Their robes were neat, clean, and creased, the shadows in the room briefly obscuring their features before they sat down across from Rachel Englewood. One was big, and rather burly, with menacing features, the other considerably smaller with glasses that kept reflecting the lone source of light, the small lamp on the desk.
The smaller one, Michael Lochte, clutched a folder in his hand. Wordlessly, he placed it on the desk at an angle where all three could see it, and opened it. On top a small pile of documents, an information sheet lay, with a picture of the girl they had extended an invitation for tonight.
"Rachel Englewood?" Lochte's voice was quiet, yet cold. He gestured to himself and the other man, who had yet to speak. "Michael Lochte," he indicated to himself, "and my associate, Ryan Phelps. We're so glad you could meet with us tonight. Surely we're not inconveniencing you in any way?"
The question was polite, but from his small, chilly smile, Englewood's answer had better be as well.
Rachel raised her eyebrow delicately. "Inconvenience?" she purred, voice oozing with fake sincerity. "Why, how could I ever call something this wonderful establishment an inconvenience? I'm simply delighted at anything I can do to help, Mr. Lochte."
She didn't like this. She didn't like the men, she did not like the office, or its location, and she did not like the tone they were using with her. She was starting to feel nervous now, and very bad butterflies were starting to flutter about her.
Crossing her ankles, she looked at the two men critically. "Although I cannot deny the fact that your owl summons left something to be desired both in tone and clarity. But that is neither here nor there, gentlemen, what is the exact reason as to why I am here?"
Lochte leaned forward and nudged the folder closer to the girl. With his index finger, he pointed at her information sheet. "Do you see this?" His index finger pressed at the blood status line. "It says pureblood. But Miss Englewood, we at the Ministry are, frankly having a bit of doubt. We have searched your bloodline and we are finding a bit of, ah, question."
Still leaning forward, he raised his eyes to meet the girl's, the light reflecting once more over his glasses. "Care to dispute our doubts, Miss Englewood? The Ministry, after all, only wishes to look out for our Wizarding families."
What.
What in Merlin's name did they think they were talking about, they drag her down to the Ministry to discuss this, who were they even kidding, this was, this was completely and totally unacceptable.
She said as much.
"Gentlemen, I am not exactly certain on the propriety of this situation, but I can assure you that it is sorely lacking. To drag me in here, without any warning at all, no consideration for the potential conflicts my schedule might have had, to-to what, accuse me of lying about my bloodline? I assure you, Hiram and Sabine Englewood are Pureblooded through and through," Rachel snapped, eyes narrowed.
This was beyond insulting--she was definitelyspeaking to someone about this.
Lochte pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. A smile appeared on his face again, though it was anything but pleasant. "Really, Miss Englewood? Are you really sure that you have come from pureblooded lines?"
His fingers tapped on the information folder, still hunched over. It was plain to anyone that he was enjoying this immensely, and he was only drawing the whole process out for his own amusement.
The nerve of this man. Rachel had to fight the urge to get out of her chair and slap him. She convinced herself there was nothing in the world worth soiling the palm of her hand on, much less this.
She raised her chin defiantly. "Sure? Let me assure you, Mr. Lochte, that I have complete faith in the blood that runs through my veins and there is hardly anything anyone could say that would change my mind otherwise."
The tiny, cold smile on Lochte's face widened to a grostesque grin. One could say that this smile was more chilling than his previous smile, as the joy etched on his face was clear for all to see. He leaned even closer to the girl, enjoying the discomfort that it caused her. His voice was quiet, and his eyes narrowed as his smile widened even more. "Then, Miss Englewood, explain to me why a great-great-great grandfather, on your mother's side, is classified as a Mud -" He caught himself smoothly. "Muggleborn."
He let his last sentence hang in the air as he observed the faint perfume eminating from the girl's skin. Unabashedly, he let his eyes travel down her chest back to her face. Spawn of a Muggleborn or not, there was no denying that she was a pretty little thing. He stroked his chin. A pretty little thing indeed.
She froze.
The air was suddenly very, very still and very, very cold, but she wasn't entirely sure the shivers running up and down her back were caused from the lack of heat.
And Rachel was finding breathing to not be the easiest thing in the world at the moment.
She had to wrap her mind around this thing before her shocked paralysis lasted any longer. Great-great-great grandfather, on her mother's side... classified--classified Muggleborn?
What?
"What?" she blurted out, turning in the direct of Lochte and turning her head away very, very quicky upon noticing how close he was to her. The crossed ankle that was mid-air started shaking very badly. She uncrossed her legs to steady herself and trained her eyes on the desk, contracting every muscle she could consciously reach in her body to keep from shaking.
This--this could not be happening. Nothing about this conversation could be happening.
Lochte enjoyed Rachel's discomfort greatly. It made her pale, alabaster skin flush ever so slightly, and her lips -
Well. That was rather unprofessional of him, now wasn't it? Lochte tore his eyes away from the girl's slender neck. "Why yes, Miss Englewood." His voice was still quiet, but sly and silky. "Was your great-great-great grandfather a Monsieur Alain de Gaulle?" He pronounced his French horribly, and leaned closer still. "According to my records, he was. And according to my sources, he has two Muggle, magic-less parents."
She could not move. No matter how hard she tried, there was no possible way to get any of her limbs moving. The shaking she had been suffering from previously and completely reversed itself.
It did not matter how far back the sullying of the line had been. It made no difference whatsoever, especially concerning the exact position of the Ministry right now.
Her entire life, she had been raised with a lie, the severity of which and implcations of were now fully coming into play.
Who had lied? Who was so ashamed of breaking the line that they covered it up, evidently quite badly.
Rachel was quite sure that if she had an inkling of who it was, there was very little stopping her from going and taking care of them now, except maybe their own natural death preventing her.
The shiver ran up her spine again, particularly violent in contrast to the paralysis she seemed to be experiencing.
"That was him," she said, strainging to keep her voice cold and steady. "And what of Monsieur Alain de Gaulle's parenting?" she mocked him with her perfect accent, "That's breaking the lineage by a mere fraction of a percent by now."
"Technicalities are technicalities, I'm afraid, Miss Englewood," Lochte simpered, adjusting his glasses. "The law may seem trivial to you, missy, but to the Ministry, we are quite serious." He made a big show of stacking the papers back in the file. "For instance, Mister Phelps and I," he pointed to himself, and his silent, menacing partner, "we are both direct descendants of the Umbridges, a most noble and upstanding Wizarding family."
He placed the folder down in front of him, folding his hands tightly in front him. "Now, Miss Englewood, we are of course so sorry to be the bearers of bad news, but of course, we feel that it is our right to, ah, keep tabs on the proper bloodlines of witches and wizards."
Her jaw tightened. If she did the math correctly on this, this was what-- five generations ago? Dividing the line by half every time... that was just-- that was just... it had to be only--
"1/32?" she asked, in disbelief. "You are revoking a blood status that has labelled my family for generations over the fraction 1/32? I'm 31/32 Pureblood, this is ridiculous, you can't do this to me! I don't give a fuc--"
"To be defined pureblood to mean to have the purest of blood!" Lochte's quiet voice suddenly grew loud, and its change of volume was sudden and booming. Besides him, the silent Phelps raised his fists and cracked his knuckles loudly, his beady eyes on the girl. Light reflected off of Lochte's glasses, completely obscuring his eyes.
"Miss Englewood, you do realize that in arguing with the Ministry is bad news? You should know a thing or two about following authority, as you are under a Mister Hippocrates Smethwyck as a Healer Assistant?" Lochte leaned back in his chair. He opened his folder again, holding it closely to him. "Ah, here he is. I just thought I would have the foresight to bring his information before I talked to you. Healer and a halfblood, I believe."
The tiny, cold smile appeared on his face again. "If you know what's best for you, Miss Englewood, I would advise that you refrain from arguing with me. I hear the prison system isn't very pleasant, especially to such delicate little girls like yourself." This time he made no disguise as he openly leered at her.
Her heart started to beat bizarrely fast as she assessed the situation. There was no way out of this. If she got even the slightest bit physical, she did not think these men would hesitate to whack her back and throw her in prison, and no matter how short the duration would be, that was not going to be happening.
Rachel had to work her jaw for a few seconds before it became loose enough to allow for speaking.
"What do I need to do?" she asked through clenched teeth. She hated them right now, she hated hated the Ministry for putting her in this position. But she didn't have any options right now. Why had they even brought her in--what made them think to look at her? Because she immigrated, technically speaking? Because she was a Pureblood (Halfblood, she thought bitterly) who had chosen to replace the Halfblood and Muggleborn working staff at St. Mungo's while they were on "forced leave" by the Ministry and that made her look suspicious? And bringing up Smeth--this just-- she seriously had no options.
Lochte didn't even try to hide his triumphant expression. "I'll need to see your ID so we can revise it, as you are clearly not pureblood." Another leer in her direction. "I'll go easy on you, Miss Englewood, for attempting to lie to the Ministry about your true roots. But lying to the Ministry has a price to pay, and when you receive your ID back by owl, you will see."
He held his hand for the girl's ID and made a mental note to thank his Aunt Dolores for giving him the best job he had ever gotten in his entire life.
The look she gave him was one of the purest ice stares she had ever given anybody in her life and she was quite sure she could never quite emulate the hatred that was behind it ever again. After a few long seconds, she slipped her hand into her bag and pulled out her ID, careful not to remotely touch Michael Lochte, for fear she might catch something disgusting. She turned her gaze to the obnoxiously large man in the corner and back to the ID. Rachel withheld the shudder that was threatening to run up her spine and said, "Pleasure doing business with you, Mister Lochte."
It was probably the foulest sentence that she had ever had the displeasure of voicing.
Her entire existence a lie. By a mere fraction. Only, it didn't matter right now. 1/32 was as good as 1/2 right now. It was ridiculous that she felt responsible for what would inevitably happen to her parents, but. She stood up and walked out the door, dreading having to face anybody for what felt like would be the rest of her life.
