Title:  Preferences

Rating: PG

Author's Note:  For the Classic Canon Challenge "Bartleby the Scrivener"

 

Incredible thanks go to Underlucius for being a fantastic beta/encourager.

 

            To begin with, I must relate to you that although I played no role in the late unpleasantness save that of observer, that is not to say I had no opinions in the matter.  It is as much in the nature of solicitors to have opinions as the common man, but by will if not by inclination they must also possess the ability to put those convictions aside in doing their duty.  One must be able to advocate for both sides of any situation, and this is as apropos to political reality as it is to prosecuting or defending a cutpurse or murderer.   It is the proper province of officials of the Ministry to support the doctrines of the Minister and his government.  While that august gentleman opposed the Dark Lord, then so did I.  Likewise, when rapprochement was achieved and peace proclaimed, my convictions needs must follow suit.

 

            Consequently, I have no agenda or specific point-of-view in the telling of this tale.  I am merely relating the truth of what I experienced. Said truth, by its very definition, is in our time, (dare I say in all times?) a fluid commodity.  Yes, a commodity – a bric-a-brac, a vendible to be parceled off to the highest bidder.  And our Dark Lord has a bottomless purse.

 

            So, to the point in question, then.  I am, as a said, a servant of the public.  It is my vocation and my avocation to serve as a solicitor for the Wizengamot., to bring to justice those malefactors who have perverted our traditions, flouted our laws.  It is an onerous responsibility, but one that I relish, for in fulfilling my duties, I am serving Wizardkind.  My position provides unique opportunities and challenges,   and it is ever-changing.  Why, barely a year ago, I was advocating against the Dark Lord's supporters.  Now my attentions are directed to those who cannot accept the new order.

 

            As one can imagine, such tasks as I undertake are very burdensome of time and talent.  One must draft briefs and motions, prepare arguments, meet with those of high degree who direct one's work.  Further, one must carefully preserve those records which enhance the reputation of one's worthy office, and just as carefully mislay those which do not.  It is my understanding that Muggles have mechanical devices by which they accomplish these tasks. I envy them this.  It would be unthinkable given the current political clime for any Ministry office to adopt Muggle customs, so I, as have my predecessors, employ the use of copyists and scriveners.

 

            But surely you ask, surely there is a magical means of transcribing documents?  Yes, there are indeed several.  But for a document to be sealed, authenticated beyond reproach, it must be hand copied, utilizing special spells for uniformity.  Hence, the employment of scriveners.  As I begin my tale, I had two good lads in my employ.  As at least one of these lads will likely one day reach a position of influence in our society, I will employ pseudonyms that they may not be identified. (Although those who have familiarity with them will doubtless ascertain their true names) 

 

            The first I shall call Dragon.  Dragon was the scion of one of the oldest and best of Wizarding families, and I felt sure from the start of our association that he was destined for a high position – possibly even Minister for Magic someday.  He was a Hogwarts man. (I would employ no other type!), recently come down from school and given this place by virtue of his father, who wished his son to experience working life.  Dragon was a handsome boy, blond, slim-bodied, Quidditch toned muscles.  To my sorrow, his work habits were somewhat haphazard, but on the whole consistent with what I expected from a man of his class and standing.  He was always pleasant and respectful to me and to all his superiors, and I could count on him to meet with important officials and to represent our office when I could not be present.  With inferiors, or those with differing political opinions, the boy presented another colouring entirely, and I felt him insincere in many of his interactions with others; not necessarily a negative trait in those days.

 

            The second boy was of a different calibre altogether.  His sobriquet shall be Ginger, as his hair was of that hue.  He was an orphan, his parents having perished in the battle for Hogwarts, where he had been a student, albeit of that House that is currently out of favor.  I had taken him on as a request to an old friend from school, and I found his work to be competent, if uninspired.  He started like a frightened rabbit when spoken sharply to, and he had a nervous disposition, like an elderly aunt who had spent all her life in the country and was now suddenly cast pell-mell into London's busy streets. He and Dragon had apparently been old rivals at Hogwarts, and I was frequently required to bring peace between them. 

 

 

 

            It was in the fall of the year when an assignment of the greatest import was entrusted to me, one that required more in the way of document preparation than my small staff could possibly manage, and permission was given for the employment of a third scrivener, so I took advertisements in the Sunday Prophet with hope of attracting a suitable young person.  In answer to my advertisement, on Wednesday of that week, I discovered a young man waiting at my office door.  He had the appearance of one who used to carry some excess weight, but had lost it over a short period of time.  His still-rounded face carried marks of pain and sorrow, and he moved slowly, as though his legs had been damaged in the recent past.  This fellow, who introduced himself to me as Trevor P___, and it is as Trevor that I will refer to him, rather than by a pseudonym, presented acceptable references, was able to demonstrate knowledge of the basic scrivening spells, therefore was taken on to start immediately.

 

            My chambers in the Ministry were on a lower level, two rooms in total; one well appointed inner sanctum to which only I had access, a well appointed room with a fine desk and my one conceit, a magical window that showed the viewer scenes of his choice. To come to my office, visitors first passed through an outer chamber that served as both vestibule and office space for the two, now three scriveners.  Each lad had a roll-top desk well appointed with the supplies of their trade, chairs suited to the work, and a hook on which to hang cloaks and outer robes.  I had conducted my interview of Trevor in my own office; then once terms had been agreed upon, brought him forth to meet his fellows.

 

            I was not surprised to discover that both Dragon and Ginger knew Trevor.  Our society is incestuous indeed, and it is a rare wizard or witch who is not connected in some way with the rest of us.  Dragon did not trouble to hide his contempt for the boy, regarding him as a social inferior (which, to be truthful, he was), and Ginger, whom I had expected to embrace his fellow Gryffindor with open arms, was strangely distant from his new colleague.  On one occasion, I emerged unexpectedly from my inner chambers to find Trevor staring intently at his fellow while his back was turned only to make a hasty retreat to his labour when my presence was detected. Another incident occurred when I was returning early from lunch and entered the outer office to find Ginger looming over Trevor's desk, whispering intently, his face pale under the mop of red hair.  Trevor, who had not ceased his work, was shaking his head slowly, and as I shut the door behind me, Ginger immediately returned to his tasks.

 

            As stated, I had set Trevor up with a desk in the outer office, a quill and parchments and set him to work copying some basic documents so that he might prove himself before being granted access to the more significant work that had been assigned to me.  He had a tolerable talent with the scrivening spell, and worked quietly and efficiently.  Over the next few days, I became more and more impressed with Trevor.  He was the first at his desk in the morning and the last to leave, staying well past the decampment of Ginger and Dragon; lingering on even beyond my own departure.

 

 

             

            It is time to speak in more detail of the special commission that I had been given, a task appointed directly from the Minister himself.  Two years after the conclusion of the war, the decision had been made to bring before the bar of justice the former Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.  As you can imagine, this was a matter of some delicacy, as Professor Dumbledore still had quite a reputation in the Wizarding world, and despite his erstwhile defeat by the Dark Lord, was considered a force to be reckoned with.  I was gratified, and somewhat apprehensive that the prosecution of one so significant was delegated to my office, and set about drafting the initial pleadings and documents to set the case in motion.

 

            As Trevor had proven his worth through the assignments with which I had entrusted him, I deemed it appropriate to allow him to make the official copies of the Bill of Indictment for Dumbledore's prosecution.  I laid the original document in his basket, returned to my own work, confident that when I went before the Court for the committal hearing that afternoon, I would have the requisite copies.

 

            Closing on noon, I cleared my desk for a lunch meeting with Minister Fudge himself, where we would be finalizing strategy.  Stopping at Trevor's desk to retrieve the documents, I was startled to see my original parchment still lying seemingly untouched in the tray.

 

            "Trevor," I said.  "You have not completed my copies."

 

            He said nothing, but stared up at me blankly.  I thought perhaps I had not been clear in my instructions.  "I need you to copy this document for the court – three copies, best parchment, done by half past one at latest."

 

            Trevor replied in a firm voice, "I would prefer not to."

 

            "Prefer not to?"  I repeated, incredulously.  Surely I had misunderstood the lad, for whoever heard tell of a clerk expressing a preference over what tasks he was to undertake?  "How do you mean, prefer not to?  Are you ill?"

 

            He sat, calmly looking up at me, his round face showing no twinge of insolence, or any other human characteristic one might expect of a subordinate in rebellion against his superior.  Had he displayed any such demeanor, I would have dismissed him at once, but against this queer composure, I had no defense.  In frustration, I plucked the document from his basket and called to Ginger, who along with Dragon, had abandoned his desk and was watching with mounting interest and horror.

 

            "Ginger, three copies, best parchment, immediately."  I snapped, holding out the original for him to take.  Oddly, rather than take it, he looked at Trevor, who stared back intensely.

 

            "Ginger!" I would not have open revolt in my chambers.  "Take this document or lose your situation."  Still Trevor held his gaze, till finally Ginger flushed, his complexion suddenly as red as his hair, looked down, biting his lip as though ashamed, and took the parchment from my hand.  A flicker of what may have been disappointment flared in Trevor's expressionless eyes, and he returned to his desk, taking the next document, an innocuous deed, and beginning to copy.

 

            Time did not permit me to address this curious behavior in that moment, but I resolved to return to it when my meeting with the Minister was concluded.  Ginger completed his tasks efficiently, and brought me the facsimiles along with my original, still I noted, with flushed face.  As he handed in his work, he declined to meet my eyes, which I find an affront in a gentleman, but was certainly not unexpected in a man of Ginger's station.  I understood him to have come from a very large family, and undoubtedly proper conduct was not of high importance to his mother.

 

            As could be anticipated, the prosecution of the errant Headmaster dominated the both the news of the day and the work of our office thereafter.  All other cases were shunted aside, and the full effort of each and every one of my staff was required to bring the case to fruition.  Again, I had placed documents concerning the case on Trevor's desk.  I went about my business, stopping briefly to confirm his progress.  He sat, staring vacantly at the desk, quill put aside.

 

            "Trevor," I asked, forcing myself to calm, determined to completely get to the bottom of this mystery.  "Why are you not copying?"

 

            "I would prefer not to," was his only reply.

 

            "Are you injured in some way so that using a quill is painful?"

 

            He assured me that he was not, that no physical impediment was responsible for this irrational behavior.

 

            "Well," said I.  "If you will not copy, will you at least proof Ginger's documents?"  For it was common practice for scriveners to verify one another's work, either by means of a spell, or manually as they saw fit.

 

            "I would prefer not to."

 

            "You are determined, then, to refuse my request.  A request, I may add, completely appropriate and within the conventions of our profession?"  He made it clear that such was his intention.  Utterly flabbergasted, I made appeal to Dragon.

 

            "Dragon, Trevor is refusing to copy or to proof.  What do you think of that?"

 

            "Sir," Dragon drawled, "I think he should be sacked for his insolence."

 

            "And you, Ginger.  What do you think?"  Now Ginger made bold to met my eyes, with a look of trepidation, and fear of all things.  He shook his head tightly, saying nothing.

 

            "Ginger, I asked you for your opinion.  What do you think of Trevor's actions?"

 

            Dragon could not resist baiting his fellow.  "Yes, Ginger," he sneered, and the name was a curse as he uttered it.  "Tell us what you think?"

 

            Ginger looked again at Trevor, who again met his eyes, this time slowly nodding his head just once.  "I think…I…" he stopped, swallowed hard and bit his lip.  "I think he should…do his work."  He abruptly turned back and swept up his quill, following his own advice.

 

            "There.  You see, even a Slytherin and Gryffindor are in agreement on this.  Now, be reasonable – pick up your quill!"

 

            "I would prefer not to."  I threw up my hands in disgust.  "I haven't the time to spend with this!  I am due in court soon.  When I return, I will see you working, or you will be dismissed."   With that, I gathered my parchments and abandoned my once tranquil office.

 

 

 

 

            When I returned, in a far better humour due to my success in the courtroom (some preliminary motions related to the Dumbledore prosecution), and I was pleased to see that Trevor appeared to be industriously copying a manuscript.  I made no comment, preferring to assume that his previous behaviour had been an aberration in an otherwise exemplary employee.  I did note that there had been some kind of altercation between Dragon and Ginger, as Dragon was sporting a black eye, and Ginger's nose had the appearance of having been broken.  Boys will be boys.

 

            Over the next few days, my office seemed to be settling down to normal.  All my lads, including Trevor, were diligent at their work, or so it appeared.  On closer examination, though, I began to notice certain idiosyncrasies.  Trevor worked steadily, never leaving his desk.  He would copy willingly, but when asked to perform any other task, such as running papers to the Clerk or stepping out to Diagon Alley for inks, he would give his stock reply and stay in his seat.

 

Ginger made frequent visits to his desk, picking up Trevor's copies and bringing them to me.  Ginger also made foray to Dragon's desk, which was much outside his routine, would have him avoid the other boy whenever possible.  I observed him once slipping something into Dragon's pocket.  The sounds made convinced me it was coins.  I frowned, assuming a gambling debt, and resolved to speak to Ginger on the evils of gambling and debt to one of his class.

 

 

 

           

            Then, one Friday close to 5:00, I stopped by Trevor's desk, and by happenstance, picked up the document he had most recently finished.  It was not, as I expected, the copy of a deposition taken in the Dumbledore case.  It was an old property settlement from the previous year, apparently taken from my files.  "What is the meaning of this?  Why are you wasting your time on this nonsense, rather than working on our current case as I assigned you?"

 

            "I would prefer not to."  A cut off groan emerged from Ginger's area, and I noted that Dragon was smirking with satisfaction.  "The documents that have been brought to me under your stamp, who has done them?  Have I been deceived?"  He sat there before me, still infuriatingly calm and self-possessed, and it came to me that Ginger had been working longer and harder than normal, clearly doing not only his own work, but that of Trevor as well. (Such is one of the disadvantages of magical scrivening – all copies are in the hand of the original, so ownership of work is hard to ascertain).

 

            "For the final time, Trevor, I am asking you to take up your quill and exert yourself in the Dumbledore matter."

 

            "I would prefer not to."

 

            "You will not, then?"

 

            "I would prefer not." 

           

            Dragon closed, like a shark circling his prey, preparing to savour the sight of Trevor getting the sack.  Looking at my newest scrivener, I contemplated his value.  He was industrious, not unpleasant in demeanor, certainly unalterable by temper or other flights of fancy.  The words of his termination hung on my lips, but remained unsaid as I took up my cloak and left the office, leaving my files and weekends' work behind.

 

 

 

            The next day being Saturday, it was my habit to work from my home, a quiet cottage on the Welsh marches.  I was finishing my breakfast when I realised my mistake in leaving my files at the Ministry, and, as the Floo network would be disabled for the weekend, Apparated to the doors of the Ministry, sought admittance and descended the elevator to the level of my office.

 

            The door was ajar. I called out, and pushing the door open, I peered inside, to see Trevor, robe cast aside, standing in his shirt sleeves, gazing blankly back at me.

 

            "How's this then?" I asked queriously, but detecting the crumbs trailing down the front of the lad's shirt, the ragged blanket pushed under his desk, and recalling that in all the days since Trevor had been in my employ, I had never chanced to arrive earlier than he, nor had he ever failed to remain in the office past any hour of reason, I answered my own question.  Not diligence of duty, but indigence and penurious circumstance were the cause for Trevor's constant presence.

 

            Now, it did not occur to me, as it undoubtedly should have, to order him to vacate, to terminate his employment and wash my hands of the boy.  There was a quality to him, a certain nobility despite his ridiculous round face and shrunken body, that I could not envision myself doing any such thing.  Faced with my own impotence before the self-possessed scrivener, I fled my chambers for a second time, turning away from the confrontation, from the inevitable and inexorable words of my scrivener:  I would prefer not to.

 

            I spent the next hour feebly meandering the corridors of the Ministry, pondering that which I had seen.  That Trevor was of the faction that had lost the war, I had had no doubt from the first; his House affiliation was an almost certain indicator of that fact.  Now it came clear to me that he must also have been orphaned, for surely no Wizarding family would tolerate even a wastrel son falling to such a low state as being forced to reside in a Ministry office.  Or perhaps his parents, like so many who could not accept the new order, had been sent to Azkaban for a term to learn the consequences of disobeying the Ministry.  I wracked my brains, but could not recall any prosecutions of mine that involved the name of P__, if indeed P_ was his surname, for there was no certainty of that.

 

            For whatever reason, the boy was abandoned, isolated from the world of his past; as his employer, I had both opportunity and obligation to direct him to a new place in the world.  However, it was not to be borne that I would be forced from my own premises by a hired scrivener, I decided, and returned forthwith to my office, determined to ascertain the truth of these matters, and to settle once and for all the affair of Trevor.  My door was closed as I approached, and I took out my wand and worked the spell that would open it.  Upon entering, I made a cursory examination and discovered the chambers empty.  The blanket had been neatly folded and stowed beneath Trevor's desk.  The top of the desk was rolled down, and the desk itself was locked against intrusion.

 

            My motivations were far purer than simple curiosity.  I intended to save this boy from his folly, and surely the contents of this desk could only help me in that endeavor,  I told myself, and pushing back the voice of conscience which nagged at me to respect the privacy of my fellow, I again took up my wand, and carefully opened the lock.  It was, after all, my desk, in my office, and it was my obligation as a representative of the Minister to be certain of its good use.

 

            Aside from quills, penknife and ink, a few rolls of parchment and other accoutrements of the scrivener's art, the only content of the desk was a small wooden box.  Again firmly ignoring any reticence about intruding into Trevor's personal belongings, I opened it.  The contents were innocuous enough; the Gryffindor patch removed from a set of school robes, a lock of dark hair tied with a red ribbon, a small Muggle photo of a toad, the wrapper from a piece of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, other such trifles. 

 

The last of the objects removed and laid aside, I could see that the last item covering the bottom of the box was a Wizarding photograph.  Pulling the picture out for a closer look, I paled, amazed by what I saw.  Two boys were standing in a corridor, at Hogwarts, I thought, with their arms flung about each other.  One of them was Trevor, fatter, smiling shyly first at the camera, then turning to look almost adoringly at the other boy, who gazed fondly back at him. 

 

 

 

 Although I had never laid eyes on him in the flesh, I knew him immediately as He Who Must Not Be Named.  The tousled black hair, the scar, the spectacles instantly branded him as the forbidden one, once hero, now  humiliated and disgraced.  Even in writing, I dare not say his name, for to mention him, to write about him; certainly to possess photographs of him would be enough to send all but the most senior Ministry official to Azkaban.  Written underneath the picture, in an uneven scrawl were words that had been crossed out by angry quill marks, ripping into the paper as though blotting out not only the words, but the ideas that sparked life to those words.  Holding the image closer, I could make out the words through the slashes.  The Boys Who Lived.

 

A sound behind me cut through my reverie, and I turned to see Trevor standing there, as I knew he would be.

 

"Trevor," I began, gently, wanting not to upset or disturb him, but only to know the truth.  He walked past me into my inner office to gaze from my window.  A snow covered courtyard, massive stone walls surrounding it, bisected by the frames of the window itself lay peacefully in front of him.  I again called his name, but was given no reply.

 

"Will you not tell me your true name?" For with the discovery of the picture, I knew that this persona of scrivener, this Trevor, was naught but a mask behind which he hid his very self.

 

"I would prefer not to."  His voice sounded world weary, far beyond the 19 years to which he had admitted.

 

"Will you tell me who and where your parents are?"  This elicited a slight flinch, as though I had inadvertently touched a nerve, so I moved on quickly. "I understand that you do not wish to assist in the prosecution of Headmaster Dumbledore.  Is that so?"

 

He nodded.  Gratified to finally have breached the incomprehensible wall that the boy had so effectively built around himself, I pushed forward.  "If I were to give you other tasks, other documents to copy that had no relation to Dumbledore, or to any other…"I broke off, for the acceptable terms for those who favored Dumbledore, which would include the young man standing before me, were somehow unacceptable.  I could not call him Criminal, nor Rebel, nor Traitor.  "To any other matter of that nature, would you complete those tasks?"

 

"I would prefer not to."

 

"Whyever not?"  I believed my compromise to be infinitely preferred to the alternative, which was to be cast out without regard or reference.

 

"I have given up copying."  Trevor continued to stare out the window, which now showed a Quidditch pitch in spring, young people on brooms rocketing past so quickly as to be unrecognizable.

 

Frustrated, completely out of my depth, and realising that I was treading in dangerous waters, I determined to see the thing through to its end.  "Will you tell me of this?"  I said, holding up the photograph.

 

He was silent for a time, and I held hope that at long last, I might be close to an answer.  "I would prefer not to." The response came at barely a whisper, and the window changed to an interior view, five four-poster beds encircling a tower room, red and gold hangings decking stone walls.

 

"Trevor, if that is indeed your name, you know that with this picture in hand, I could force all this information from you.   You could be questioned with veritaserum, you could be sent to Azkaban.  Merely possessing this," I brandished the image, "is a violation of Wizarding law."

 

He said nothing.  All that I had said was true, he knew it well.  The laws had been widely disseminated that ignorance could not be pled as pretext.  "Trevor, I am fond of you, I do not wish to see you suffer, but I cannot have a scrivener who will not work.  If you would but explain yourself, make me understand why you cannot or will not fulfill your responsibilities to me, perhaps I could assist you in finding a situation that would be more to your liking.  I am ready to listen, not to judge.  Will you please talk to me?"

 

The window's eye showed a broken town, once prosperous shops flattened, the wreckage of a wooden house high on a windswept hill.  Hogsmeade, I recognized, and my chest tightened.  Abruptly the carnage vanished, displaced by stark white as Trevor turned to me.  "Will you please talk to me?" I repeated.

 

"I would prefer not to."  He smiled as he said it, and held out his hand.  With a strange reluctance, I laid the icon, for I saw that that was what it was – a symbol of another life and time, golden to some, cold iron to others, but gone now, forever, I laid it into his hand.  He looked at it, stroking the other boy's smiling face with one finger, shoved it back into my hands, and then he left.  I was not to see him again, this Boy Who Lived. 

 

But the tale does not end, not yet.  Monday morning, I entered my office early, half expecting to see Trevor sitting at his desk.  Of course, he was not, and in due course, Ginger, and then Dragon came in at their usual times.  Both looked towards Trevor's desk, Dragon with unambiguous glee, Ginger with something approaching reverence and apprehension combined, but neither mentioned their absent comrade.  They took up their daily tasks, as did I.

 

It was a most unproductive morning.  Every few minutes I would pause, look to my magical window, which could seemingly show me only vanished Hogwarts in various seasons – the patterned foliage of autumn rising up around the castle's walls, soft snow falling over the towers, a ring of butter-hued daffodils timidly peeking up, seeking the sun. Trevor had placed a curse on it, or perhaps on me, as my mind ranged backwards to my own days there, happy nights in the Ravenclaw common room, flinging the quaffle into the hoops to the roars of my friends, learning eagerly from my professors, including Albus Dumbledore whose fate was now at least partially in my hands.

 

At last I turned from my office, hoping that a change of scene might clear my mind so that my tasks could be accomplished.   Entering the outer office, I noted that Dragon was finishing the last of the stack of documents I had set him to.  So he, at least, was unaffected by the passing of his strange colleague.  I gathered the stack of documents, intending to take them, and whatever Ginger had accomplished to the file room on my way to lunch.  Approaching Ginger's desk, I saw that the mound of parchments on his desktop had not diminished at all.  He sat hunched over the desk, both hands wrapped around something.  I called his name, but he did not respond, and moving closer, I saw that the article in his hands was the photograph, which had been discarded, or perhaps passed on?  in the office that past Saturday.

 

"Ginger," I called again, touching his shoulder.  Dragon was studiously not paying any heed to us, which was frankly more than I had expected of him.  "Ginger, you must put that away and return to your work.  I need to you complete these documents today."  And that was so, as they were witness statements needed for the trial which would commence the following day.  Ginger's grasp on the photo tightened, and he drew a harsh, deep breath.  He slid the picture inside his robes, turned to me calmly, without a trace of his usual nervousness, and made his reply.

 

"I would prefer not to."