to hell with the heavens, a harry potter fanfic

Gift Tag: Lo requested angel!Seamus or Kingsley soulmate!au, any pairings. So here we are.

Word Count: 15,121

When Hawa Shacklebolt holds her baby boy for the first time, she isn't surprised to find a mark on his skin. Soul marks are commonplace—always small, subtle clues that stain the skin like a tattoo, serving as a beacon to help soulmates find one another.

What does surprise her is that his is not small, subtle, or plain. Intricate gold wings paint her son's dark skin, taking up his entire back. Hawa traces her fingers over the mark, amazed by the detail in it; each feather stands out and looks so real that she is surprised it doesn't feel like an actual feather.

She doesn't know what it means or why her son's mark is so different from any she has ever seen. All she knows is that her son is destined for something great, and Kingsley is the perfect name.

Kingsley wakes with a groan, stretching his arms and popping his back as he sits up. In the six months since the final battle at Hogwarts, he hasn't slept well at all. Between countless funerals and memorials coupled with the sudden and expected responsibility of being Minister for Magic—a title he never asked for, and one no one has been kind enough to take from him—he's been too busy to even think about getting a full night's sleep.

Maybe it's a blessing. He only ever manages to sleep for a few hours at a time, and those moments are always laced with nightmares and terrible memories. The less time he spends asleep, the better.

Kingsley climbs out of bed, his bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. As he grabs a clean shirt, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. The old familiar gold feathers curl around his shoulders. He touches a finger to one of the marks, admiring the elegant loop of it.

Though he still doesn't quite understand his mark, he has grown to love it. It is different, special. Sometimes, he feels like the wizarding world has made a mistake, and he isn't cut out to lead. Then he sees the feathers forever painted on his skin, and he feels like maybe he's wrong, maybe he was born for this.

The day Kingsley Shacklebolt is born, there's an angel in another realm who feels a sudden lightness within his being. When he asks the other heavenly host if they can feel it too, he's dismissed. Too many millennia spent watching and waiting have made him tense.

But he does not relax. There have been countless false alarms before. Some human will be born, and an angel will just know that they've found their purpose at last.

But this is different. The last birth to make him feel so complete had been in a manger in Bethlehem.

This is his human. Now all he has to do is wait for the great plan to reveal itself.

"Good morning, Minister."

Kingsley smiles politely and nods at the acknowledgement. He wonders it that word will ever feel like it truly belongs to him. How is he expected to be a leader when he's still falling apart himself?

"You look miserable." Harry Potter appears beside him, a wry smile on his lips.

"Damn." Kingsley scrubs his hand over the back of his neck. "Here I thought I could at least hide it."

Harry rolls his eyes. It's nice to see him looking so relaxed. At least Harry's major battle is over; Kingsley is almost certain that his own has only just begun.

"Still not sleeping well?"

Kingsley almost laughs at that. He can't remember the last time he's slept through the night. Before the funerals and the endless nightmares, the war had consumed his mind.

"Hardly sleeping at all," he admits, trying to keep his tone light, as though his unhealthy sleeping pattern is some sort of silly little joke.

Harry doesn't look amused. He shakes his head, his glasses sliding down his nose from the motion; he quickly pushes them back up again. "That's not good," he says.

Kingsley offers him a weak smile, painfully aware of how forced and flimsy it must look. "I know," he says with a heavy sigh and shrug of his broad shoulders. "Don't you have Auror training to do, or do you plan on checking on me all day?"

"You're starting to sound like my boss," Harry snorts, touching his fingers to his head in a mock salute.

"I am your boss," he reminds him, his smile becoming more genuine. "Still on for lunch later?"

"Of course."

And with that, they part ways. Harry enters a lift while Kingsley continues down the corridor, making his usual rounds. Though the Ministry is crowded and several people pass him by, their attention seems to be elsewhere. And what makes it even stranger is that he could swear he's being watched.

Siti Danjuma watches as her sister carefully pulls the three year old's shirt off. The sight of the gold wings makes her clutch at her chest. Hawa had told her about the boy's mark, but she isn't prepared to actually see it.

Hawa helps her son into a new shirt before placing him back on the floor. "Go play, Kingsley."

Siti inhales sharply at the name. She prefers her nephew's middle name. Kingsley is far too European; Asim is a strong, proud African name. "Why must you call him that, sister?"

"Because it is his name, Siti. Kingsley Asim Shacklebolt." Hawa smooths her hands over her yellow and orange kanga, smoothing out the creases. "But it is not my child's name that bothers you, is it?"

Siti can still see the mark in her mind. Hawa had been born with a flower on the sole of her foot; many years later, she had met the man she would marry, and no one was surprised that, though Perseus Shacklebolt was a broom maker by trade, he had a passion for gardening.

But Asim… The boy is different, and it worries her.

"Back home, his mark would have been cut off," she says quietly, tapping a slender finger to her chin as she watches the boy chase after Blitzen, Hawa and Perseus' mischievous kitten who serves as Asim's best friend.

Hawa makes a face. "We are not back home," she says. "This is my home now, and it will be Kingsley's as well."

"But you know…"

Soul marks, while completely natural, had been frowned upon in their village. So many still practiced arranged marriages, and the notion of soulmates interferes with that. Those with visible marks are subjected to mutilation. Hawa had been lucky to have hers in such a discreet location, and Siti is forever thankful that she hadn't been born with one at all.

"I have never seen anything like it," Siti adds with a heavy sigh, massaging her temples. "The size, the color… Have you considered a potion to fade it?"

"There is nothing wrong with him!" But the guilty expression that flashes across her features tells Siti that she had at least attempted.

"No," she agrees, taking her sister's hand and squeezing it gently. "He is different. You don't get a soul mark like that if you aren't destined for something big."

For several moments, silence hangs between them, interrupted only by Asim's rapid footfalls as he pursues the cat, calling, "Bissen! Wait, Bissen!"

Finally, Hawa pulls her hand out of Siti's grip. "I know," she admits. "It seems unfair. I don't yet know what burden he will bear, but I am already fearful for my son."

Siti chuckles. "Danjuma blood flows through the boy's veins," she says simply. "He is strong."

"Here you are, Minister."

Kingsley looks up from his coffee with tired eyes. His new secretary, Livvy, beams up at him, holding out a thin file folder. "You wanted any news from the Auror office," she adds, placing file on his desk before adjusting her sleek black bob. "Mister Dawlish just sent that."

Kingsley nods absently, drumming his fingers over folder. "Right." He pulls it closer. "Thank you, Livvy. Is that all?"

She offers him a bright smile. "Yes, Minister!" she confirms before dismissing herself.

Once alone again, he opens the file, disappointed that there isn't much to it. A few photographs are attached to various sheets, visual reminders of which Death Eaters are still at large. There are notes about last confirmed locations, rumored sightings, and something from an anonymous, "reliable" source saying they have it on good authority that the remaining Death Eaters are recruiting, that they aren't going to let their loss at the Battle of Hogwarts stop them from executing their fallen master's plan for the world.

There aren't many left out there. Bellatrix Lestrange is dead, most had been found easily enough after the battle, and the Malfoys had handed themselves over. But the ones still out there… Rowle, Nott, and quite a few other big names with heavy influence. Kingsley is more nervous than he wants to admit.

He stares at the file before exhaling heavily. He justifies his vigilance by saying it's because he's the Minister. It's his job to keep an eye on all matters of concern, on everything that could impact the wizarding world.

But it isn't quite true. There's a part of him—a large, dominant part—that missed being an Auror more than anything. It had been such simpler time, and he longs to go back to that. Chasing dark wizards and exacting justice had been so much more preferable to being responsible for the well-being of an entire population.

"Sorry to interrupt again, Minister!" Livvy enters the office again. This time, her arms are weighed down by multiple thick files.

Kingsley jumps to his feet and closes the distance between them, taking the files and setting them on his desk.

"From the Muggle relations groups," Livvy explains before he can ask. "All of them."

He nods, staring at the small mountain of folders now resting on his desk. Since the war, several groups have come together to advocate for better protection of the Muggles, as well as more inclusion for Muggleborns. He understands their concerns. Voldemort's reign of terror had been an absolute nightmare. So many have yet to recover from the devastation.

There's no doubt in his mind that he needs to make changes and find a way to bring the two worlds together. He just doesn't know how, and it seems like everyone from the various Muggle relations groups has an opinion. Some days, it feels like it would be more of a headache than it's worth.

"Thank you," he says, returning to his seat.

"Do you need anything else?" Livvy asks, smiling brightly, her hazel eyes twinkling.

"I'm fine." He returns the smile, though he knows it looks weak and tired. "Thank you."

With that, the young witch sashays out, closing the door behind her and leaving Kingsley alone with his thoughts once again. Part of him is tempted to call her back in just for her company. His dark eyes wander to the ornate silver clock on the wall. He'll be at lunch soon; maybe he'll find a solution. At the very least, maybe a sandwich will soothe his soul.

"You're hurt," Tonks says, frowning when she sees the blood staining Kingsley's shirt.

"Nasty curse," he mutters. "I'll be fine."

"Let me see."

When he shakes his head, she groans. Her reputation for being clumsy feels like such a burden sometimes. "I won't botch it," she assures him, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

His fingers curl around her wrist. "It's not that. It's…"

He drops his hand with a sigh, shrugging. The reluctance is clear in his face when he allows her to pull his shirt over his head. Tonks doesn't quite understand. Kingsley has never really struck her as a particularly modest bloke.

As she goes to apply pressure to the wound at the base of his neck, however, she understands. The golden wings are unlike anything she's ever seen before. For a moment, she wonders if it's a tattoo that he regrets, but that seems improbable. There is too much detail and care in the design for it to be a tattoo.

"My mark," he confirms as though reading her mind.

"That's it?" Her jaw drops slightly. "That's your mark?"

The pyramid on her calf had seemed like an impressive size, as had the patch of colors that stripe Bill's wrist like a collection of thin bangles. Now, however, she feels like their marks are so small. "It's huge."

Kingsley chuckles. "So I've been told."

"Are you embarrassed by it?"

He doesn't answer straight away. His eyes narrow as though she's asked a particularly difficult question. After several seconds, he sighs and shrugs. "Not anymore."

It seems like there is so much more than those two words, but Tonks doesn't press. Kingsley is warm and open enough, but he still likes his privacy.

She summons a cloth, pressing it to the wound and holding it firmly to stop the bleeding. The silence is too much, and the words fall from her lips before she can stop them. "Have you found her?" she asks. "Or him, if that's the way you swing?"

As he chuckles, Tonks pulls the cloth back. The wound isn't terribly deep; it's just bleeding unusually heavily.

"I thought I did. Maybe? I don't know." He slumps forward slightly, shaking his head. "I was just a kid, but I thought I felt something when I was camping. Maybe it was a dream."

She nods. Tonks can still remember the first time Bill had been close to her. The pyramid mark had felt warm all of a sudden—not a painful heat; it had been more subtle and comforting, like sipping hot cocoa by a fire on a snowy morning.

"Like I said, I was a kid. And I…" He trails off. "Anyway, we should get back."

Tonks checks his injury again. She taps her wand to skin next to the gash and mutters a quick incantation. The skin closes up slowly, replaced by fresh new flesh. Kingsley offers her a smile before pulling his shirt back on.

He's nearly done with his first file—a particularly articulate essay by Hermione Granger (where she's found the time between classes and advanced applications for various Ministry intern programs is beyond him)—when there's a knock at the door. Kingsley glances up to find Harry standing in the doorway. "Lunchtime already?"

Harry nods. "You coming?"

Kingsley is eager to get out of his office and get some fresh air, but he can't quite yet. "Go on ahead," he instructs, holding up the last two pages with an apologetic smile. "I won't be far behind."

Another nod, and then Harry is gone. Kingsley returns his attention to the task at hand, but he finds it hard to concentrate. He stares at the paragraphs a moment longer before sighing. It makes enough sense; he'll think things over during lunch and finish the file when he gets back.

Kingsley climbs to his feet and smooths his hands over his robe. One of the weirdest things about being Minister is that all eyes are on him. He has to take special care with everything he does, lest something as trivial as a wrinkled robe bring his competence under scrutiny.

Satisfied that he looks presentable, he steps outside his office. Kingsley frowns slightly. "Have you used a heating charm?" he asks Livvy.

She looks up from the magazine she's perusing, dark brows raised. "Eh?"

He shakes his head. "Just feels a bit warm. Damndest thing," he says, his eyebrows knitting together in thought. "My back feels warm…"

"I'll check in with maintenance," she assures him

He can't quite figure out why this feels so important, but he doesn't have time to dwell on it. He offers Livvy a small smile and quick word of gratitude before hurrying down the corridor. If he's lucky, he'll be able to grab a Portkey to travel directly to his favorite little cafe.

"Kingsley," Dawlish says, nodding as they pass outside the Department of Magical Transportation.

Kingsley returns the nod and ventures down the corridor until he reaches the section devoted to Portkeys.

"Already got one set up for you, Minister," a young man with frizzy white blond hair says. "Your mate asked me to have it ready for you."

Something about that bothers him. Portkeys are so exact and precise. Could Harry have accurately guessed when Kingsley would follow? He pushes it out of his mind. Lunch is calling him, and his stomach rumbles, demanding attention. Even though the Portkey bothers him, he doesn't have time to think about it.

The other wizard carefully sets a tin can in front of Kingsley. "Any minute now," he says.

Kingsley squirms, fanning himself slightly. The heat in his back seems to gradually grow more intense. It isn't unpleasant. Though it's bizarre, the warmth feels welcoming and borders on euphoric.

"Are you okay, Minister?"

The voice draws him out of his thoughts. Kingsley offers him a soft, confused smile. "I…" The warmth is almost maddening. He feels as though he has been wrapped in the warmest blanket imaginable—safe and secure, so perfectly at peace. He clears his throat. "I'm fine. Sorry… What, er… What were you saying?"

"I wasn't saying anything. Just checking that you're okay."

Before Kingsley can respond, the Portkey begins to glow, ready to transport him to the cafe. Kingsley offers the blond man a polite smile before reaching for the enchanted tin can. His fingertips are a hair's with away when the door suddenly bursts open, and the warmth in his back becomes almost unbearable.

Kingsley pulls his hand away slightly, staring in confusion as the young man rushes into the room. He is short with shaggy sandy blond hair and dark, curious eyes. "Oh, good," he says, and there's an Irish lilt to his voice. "Don't touch that tin can!"

The young man looks strangely familiar. Kingsley's mind races as he tries to place him. There is one memory from so long ago, when Kingsley had been just a kid, but it's impossible. The man hasn't aged a day.

"I… I know you," he says softly.

The man steps forward. Though he doesn't smile, his face is still kind, and Kingsley wants to trust him. Still, he knows how dangerous the world still is, and this is far too suspicious for his liking.

Kingsley reaches out for the tin can again. The stranger moves with bizarre, inhuman speed, tackling Kingsley. In that moment, they both touch the Portkey.

The stranger has a hand on Kingsley's back, and as they're suddenly transported, Kingsley is vaguely aware that his soul mark is no longer maddeningly warm, and that the touch has brought him peace.

The angel—Seamus? Is he Seamus now that he has taken this body as a host? Does he honor the human by keeping his name?—feels the call. The boy, Kingsley, is in danger.

He closes his eyes and reaches out with his mind. Sensing Kingsley has always been so easy for him. His angelic brethren have told him that they can only feel their charges whenever the human is in distress, but Kingsley is different. Seamus can always feel him; panic and distress only makes the connection stronger.

Finding the boy's location, he focuses, putting every ounce of concentration into it. His host's body is not yet used to angelic travel, so it takes longer than he would like. Slowly, the body grows lighter, slowly becoming one with air until he disappears entirely. A moment later, he appears in the forest. A scent fills his nostrils; human senses are not as finely tuned as an angel's, but he knows the scent of an abomination. Canine mixes with human—a werewolf is near.

A moment later, he hears the frantic footfalls and labored breathing of a fearful child. "Help! Help… me!"

Kingsley comes into view. Behind him, a snarling beast charges. In the blink of an eye, Seamus appears between the child and monster, his golden wings outstretched. His skin glows with heavenly fire, and he holds out his hand, his palm aimed at the fearsome creature.

"The heavens rebuke thee, beast!"

There's a distinct smell of burning flesh and fur. Smoke begins to rise from the creature's body, and it whimpers as flames consume it from the inside. Within seconds, all that remains of the werewolf are bones in a pile of ash.

Seamus turns to the child. Kingsley is trembling and sniffling. His dark eyes are fearful as he looks up at Seamus. "D-don't hurt me, mister."

The angel kneels, his wings folding back and vanishing from sight. "Why would I hurt you?" he asks. "You are far too important. We need you alive."

The boy doesn't speak. He looks over Seamus' shoulder, seemingly bothered by the fact that Seamus had burned the monster so completely with heavenly fire. When his gaze returns to Seamus' face, he swallows dryly but still says nothing.

"Ah. Humans are easily traumatized." Seamus offers him an awkward, apologetic smile. "Not to worry. I can fix it."

Before Kingsley can say anything, Seamus touches his fingertips to the boy's forehead. "Rest," Seamus commands. "When you wake, this will all be but a dream."

Kingsley collapses. Seamus considers leaving him there; the danger has passed, and he will be safe. But he can't bring himself to do it. He kneels beside the slumbering child, taking him gently by the wrist and letting his body dissolve into light and air.

They reappear at the campsite. Seamus takes special care as he helps the boy into his sleeping bag.

Once he's certain that Kingsley will not wake, Seamus sinks back into the shadows, sighing heavily. His charge is the type to wander off into dark, dangerous forests in the middle of the night. Up until this moment, he had assumed protecting Kingsley would be a simple enough task. Now, he realizes he has his work cut out for him.

Kingsley expects for them to tumble awkwardly into the cafe. He already dreads thinking about the damage the impact will cause. Worse, still, he can already hear what people will say.

Did you hear about the Minister? Just crashed into that new little cafe in Horizont Alley.

Might have been drunk.

He was tangled up with a younger man.

But when they land, it is very noticeably not the cafe, and Harry is nowhere to be seen. Kingsley looks around, confused. They seem to be in a cellar or something. All he knows is that it is dim and damp, and it is not where he's meant to be. He rounds on the young man who climbs to his feet with a groan.

"What the hell did you do?" Kingsley demands.

The stranger doesn't seem even remotely bothered by Kingsley's anger. He stands straighter, and, even though he's more than a head shorter than Kingsley, he still manages to look impressive. "What did I do?" he asks loudly, prodding a finger against Kingsley's chest. "Oh, I didn't do anything except try to stop you from making a huge mistake! And do you know what you did, Kingsley?"

"How do you know my name?"

Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. As Minister, he has to have a public presence. There countless people out there who would recognize him from the many speeches he's given, and the funerals he's attended since the war.

"You went and made the huge mistake anyway! Honestly, your kind never learn!"

"My kind?"

"Humans!" the young man rants. "You never listen. 'Hey, Eve, don't eat the fruit from this tree, okay?' Do you know what she did, mate? She ate the fruit anyway!"

Kingsley has no idea who Eve is, or what eating fruit has to do with a defective Portkey, but he doesn't dare ask. Humans. The way the young man said it bothers him. "Humans? You say it like you're not."

"I'm not."

Kingsley tries not to laugh. It must be some elaborate joke. "Right. Well, you look human, mate. Who put you up to this? George? Tell him I thought this was all so hilarious, but joke's over." He sidesteps the man and walks past him. "I'm late to lunch."

The young man Apparates in front of him. Instead of the usual pop, however, Kingsley could swear he hears a soft flutter of wings. "You know, you were a lot easier to put up with when you were a kid. Didn't argue so much."

Kingsley feels a strange cold wash over him. "You… He wasn't real."

"Look, Mum!"

Hawa purses her lips when Kingsley proudly holds up another drawing. Like all the others, it's a man with golden wings that match her son's soul mark. Though it is well drawn, it breaks her heart.

Her poor boy is so lonely that he has to imagine a friend who is just like him. Even if imaginary friends are healthy and normal, she's sure that isn't the case here. As a small child, Kingsley hadn't had one. This strange man with the gold wings hadn't appeared in her boy's imagination until a year ago, when he was nine, after he and his father had returned from a camping trip.

Though it worries her, she tries to push it to the side. Some days, she's tempted to write to Siti for advice, but her sister clings to the traditions they had been raised with, and such things are not helpful in modern British society. Besides, she hates bothering her older sister. Siti has too much worry about like it is, and Hawa cannot bring herself to burden her.

"Very good, mpenzi," she praises, smiling brightly. "Why don't you draw your mama?" The Swahili word for mother comes out; it still feels so much more natural to her than 'mum'.

"Yeah, maybe," Kingsley says with a shrug that tells her that he isn't interested in drawing anything else other than the man with wings.

Hawa watches her son walk back to the little desk Perseus had set up for his artwork. It's littered with sketches, crayon drawings, and paintings. Most sheets feature the imaginary man with his elegant wings. Some only gesture golden feathers.

It's becoming an obsession, and she feels so torn. Does she allow him to continue with it? What if his obsession drives him to insanity? Does she make him stop and crush his clear artistic talent? It feels like a terrible risk regardless of her decision.

"Worrying again, Hawa?" Perseus' arms wrap around her, and she smiles.

"Always."

"You worry too much."

She turns to face her husband, a smile on her lips. "You don't worry enough," she counters playfully, "so I have to worry for the both of us."

Perseus presses a kiss to her forehead, and though she melts into his touch, her mind is too restless to relax. She can only think of her precious Kingsley and his imaginary man.

"Not real?" the man echoes. "In case you haven't noticed, I am very much real. As real as I was the night I saved you from that werewolf."

Kingsley shudders at the memory. His father had assured him that it had been a nightmare, but it had felt so real. His jaw drops as he stares at the man.

That had been decades ago. The man should have aged, but he looks roughly twenty years old, just as he had in the forest. Kingsley takes a step back, his mind racing. It has been far too long since he's extensively considered humanoid magical beings, but he tries to recall them now. All he can think of is vampire, and that doesn't seem particularly plausible here.

"Who are you?" he whispers.

"Ah! Now you remember your manners." The man grins mischievously before offering Kingsley a polite bow. "My name is… Well, most humans find it difficult to pronounce. This body—" He gestures at himself. "—belonged to a young lad named Seamus, and I've been using his name ever since."

"Belonged? What are you?"

Even as the question escapes his lips, Kingsley suspects the answer. He had been so young, and he'd blocked out most of the memory. Still, he can remember standing behind the man and watching with wide, fascinated eyes as golden wings appeared—wings with intricate feathers that match Kingsley's soul mark.

Seamus considers for a moment. Slowly, his wings unfold; they are just as magnificent as Kingsley remembers. "I'm an angel," Seamus answers.

Kingsley feels hysteria bubbling inside his body. A laugh threatens to escape, but he swallows it down, replacing it with an anxious cough. In a way, it all makes sense. Kingsley doesn't know anything about angels, aside from things he gathered by listening to various religious Muggleborns speaking. Still, it explains the night in the woods and…

He's now painfully aware that there is no heat in his back, that it had faded completely the moment Seamus' hand had touched his back. Kingsley wishes he could call it a coincidence, but what are the odds that the creature with wings identical to his mark could take the warmth away with just one touch?

There's no doubt about it. Kingsley tries to find an explanation, but there's none.

This man—this bloody angel—is his soulmate.

"Well… Fuck."

John Dawlish enjoys his evenings with Kingsley. They're comfortable, simple, and he feels like he can truly relax around the other Auror. Most days, they sit in silence, each enjoying his own pint. Other days, like now, John has to talk. Kingsley is so quiet and closed off when they're at the Ministry. John wants to find a way to solve the riddle.

"What would you do if your soul mark lead you to the love of your life, and she can't stand you?" he asks.

Kingsley sets his glass down. A grin tugs at his lips. "I would stop calling her Milly," he says lightly.

John rolls his eyes, but he has to chuckle. He hasn't exactly been shy about his feelings for Amelia, and they're so obviously soulmates. Eventually, she'll come around; he's sure of it. "Fair enough. What about you? At least I've found mine. Have you met yours yet?"

Kingsley's grin fades, and his lips press into a hard, thin line, and his body visibly tenses. After a stretch of silence that feels like an eternity, Kingsley picks up his glass again, and takes a deep drink. "Not yet," he says at last as he returns the glass to the table.

"You do have a mark, don't you?"

John regrets asking almost immediately. Kingsley, ever the private, enigmatic presence, closes up. His eyes focus on his hands, and he says nothing.

"I don't mean to pry," he adds quickly. "You're just a likable bloke. I just thought…"

He doesn't know how to explain what he had thought, really. Maybe Amelia had been right. His bluntness is going to get him in trouble one day.

John shakes his head and sighs. "Sorry, mate," he says, signaling for another drink. "I just want you to be happy. You deserve as much."

"Maybe I'm happy with how things are," Kingsley says before draining the dregs of his drink.

What's truly amazing is that he believes Kingsley. If anyone else had suggested as much, it might sound like a feeble excuse. Coming from Kingsley, though… Maybe he actually is content with his life without a soulmate.

"You didn't answer my question," John says, accepting his drink and fishing a few Sickles from his pocket for payment. "Your mark. Do you have one?"

Kingsley just smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, and he walks away without another word.

John chuckles. Just when he'd thought he could actually make a little progress. Maybe Kingsley is meant to be an enigma forever.

"An angel…" Kingsley throws his arms up in frustration before letting them drop to his side. "Of course."

Seamus raises his brows. "You're taking this surprisingly well."

Kingsley studies him for a moment. Over the years, he had wondered what would happen whenever he finally met his soulmate. If he's honest, he's considered the scenario in his head over and over; it's always been a fantasy of happiness and relief, just like all the stories he's heard. He had been so sure that they would meet, and the world would be a more beautiful place.

Instead, there is only confusion on his part, and Seamus seems completely unaware of what he is to Kingsley. The circumstances aren't ideal, admittedly. He had never imagined finally meeting his soulmate while trapped in a cellar.

The realization hits him suddenly. Kingsley pulls his wand from his pocket, looking around. "We still don't know where we actually are," he says, deciding all thoughts of marks and soulmates could wait until he's certain there's no danger. "Aside from a cellar."

Seamus offers him a smile that's almost apologetic. "Right, yeah. I did try to warn you not to touch the Portkey."

"Why? How did you know this would happen?"

The angel sighs impatiently. "I didn't know this would happen," he says, pacing a short distance, seemingly nervous. "I can't sense exactly what will happen. It's sort of like Spidey senses, I guess."

Kingsley stares blankly. "Spidey senses?" he echoes curiously.

"You know… Like Spiderman?" Seamus says, and Kingsley is certain it's meant to be an explanation, but it only leaves him with more questions. "Look, just forget it. The point is that I don't know what's going to happen exactly. That's God's department."

Kingsley shrugs at the name. He has never given much thought to religion. His mother and aunt believed in deities from their homeland, and his father sometimes attended services for different faiths. Kingsley, on the other hand, has always been fairly agnostic. Even with an angel looking him right in the eye, he can't quite bring himself to believe. "I don't believe in God."

He expects Seamus to look hurt, or to get angry. Instead, the corners of his lips quirk into a cheeky smile. "That's okay. You don't have to believe in Him, but He believes in you. Not everyone gets their very own guardian angel." He jerks his head toward a set of stairs that appears to lead out of the cellar. "We should probably stop wasting time and get out of here."

Kingsley doesn't argue. He grips his wand more tightly and leads the way. In the back of his mind, he is well aware that he, a human, should take the back seat and let the angel guide him. But Kingsley has always been the default leader somehow, and he slips so easily back into that role now.

He reaches the base of the stairs when hears the shuffling behind the door, followed by voices. Kingsley lifts his hand and presses a finger to his lips before tapping his ear. Thankfully, Seamus understands the code. He comes to a stop beside Kingsey and remains quiet as he tips his head to the side.

"I dunno, mate." Kingsley vaguely recognizes the voice. "Shouldn't we wait a bit longer for your brother? We only have one shot at this."

There's a soft snort. "He only said we can't start the ritual without him," comes the reply. "I think we're allowed to have some fun, make him more compliant."

"Can't you just use the Imperius Curse like you did on Dawlish?"

Kingsley feels his stomach turn sour. He remembers passing by John only moments before the Portkey ordeal. The fingers of his free hand curl inward, forming an angry fist. He isn't sure what's going on or why they would put John under the Imperius Curse, but he hates them for it. John has always been a good friend.

"Honestly, Rookwood, why are you even here?" the second voice demands, and Kingsley hears the faint click of a lock being released. "You lack vision."

The door to the cellar opens. Light spills into the dim room, chasing away the shadows. Augustus Rookwood appears with Rabastan Lestrange on his heels.

The two Death Eaters look at Kingsley and his drawn wand before focusing on Seamus instead.

"Who's he?" Rookwood demands.

Lestrange scowls. "How the hell should I know? Do something!"

Kingsley waves his wand, ready to attack.

Perseus Shacklebolt frowns when his son enters his library. "Is something wrong, Kingsley?" he asks.

"My mark makes me different," the thirteen year old says, his voice trembling.

Perseus doesn't respond. Though he doesn't understand the strange gold design on Kingsley's back, he doesn't dwell on its mystery. As far as he's concerned, it doesn't change a damn thing about his son. He only wishes he could find a way to keep Kingsley from worrying. Merlin knows that Hawa spends enough time worrying over it. He doesn't want his son to lose sleep over something that none of them can control.

He tucks a bookmark between the pages of his current book—a gift from Siti dealing with Ugandan techniques for polishing broomsticks—and closes it before gesturing at the chair on the other side of his desk. "Sit down, son," he says.

Kingsley obeys. He sits with perfect, rigid posture and his hands resting in his lap. The boy trembles slightly, and Perseus sighs.

This isn't the Kingsley that he knows. His son has always been so bold and daring that Perseus had been shocked when the Sorting Hat had placed him in Ravenclaw rather than Gryffindor. It is strange to see Kingsley like this, so nervous and unsure of himself.

After several moments of silence pass, Kingsley blurts out, "What if I never find my soulmate?"

Perseus exhales deeply and pinches the bridge of his nose. It makes sense now. Kingsley is young; he must have spent the past few years at Hogwarts watching his friends find their soulmates. Perseus knows how frustrating it can be. It had taken him twenty-four years to meet Hawa and for him to understand why he, a man who has always considered himself a dog lover, had a mark in the shape of a cat on his left wrist. But he remembers how lonely he had felt as he watched his friends fall in love while he had no one.

And he had survived. He hopes he can make Kingsley understand that it isn't the end of the world.

"Does it really bother you that much?" Perseus asks, though he already knows the answer.

Kingsley nods, but there's a frown on his face as though he isn't quite sure. He opens his mouth to speak only to close it again, his eyebrows knitting together in thought.

Perseus watches him curiously. He had expected a quick answer with no hesitation, that yes, it does bother Kingsley. Looking at his son now, he isn't so sure.

"I keep thinking about the man with the wings," Kingsley says at last. "What if it was him?"

"Did you feel your mark?"

Perseus still doesn't know what happened that night he had taken Kingsley camping. All he has is his son's word, and though it's a strange, impossible story, he feels obligated to believe it. At the very least, he can humor Kingsley now.

"I… I don't know." Kingsley covers his face with his hands and groans. Slowly, he drops his hands back to his lap, his expression so helpless that it borders on pitiful. "It's still blurry… But I didn't dream it, Dad; I know that much."

Perseus nods. It doesn't matter what he thinks. If Kingsley believes he saw a man with wings, Perseus will accept it. If he believes that man is his soulmate…

That will have to wait for another day. Perseus can only help with one major issue at a time.

"Meeting your soulmate… It's a wonderful thing," he tells Kingsley. "There aren't many feelings that even come close."

Kingsley's expression falls. He slumps forward slightly, exhaling heavily. "So, I won't get to experience that?"

"I don't know, son." Perseus refuses to be like others and fill his head with false hope. Sometimes kindness can be the worst form of cruelty. "But it doesn't matter. Siti doesn't have a soulmate, and she is content."

"Auntie Siti would probably scare away her soulmate," Kingsley chuckles.

With a soft laugh, Perseus leans in and reaches across the desk, patting Kingsley's cheek before sitting back again. "She is happy with her life. Soulmates are nice, but they aren't necessary to feel complete."

"Yeah, but—"

"Don't live your life for some stranger you have yet to meet, son. Live it for yourself. Go out there and become so complete that you could go a lifetime without meeting them and still be happy," he says. "That's what I did before I finally met your mother."

Kingsley looks like he wants to argue, but he says nothing. His gaze drops to his hands, and he nods. "Yes sir," he mumbles.

Perseus rises from his seat and walks around his desk, resting a hand on Kingsley's shoulder. "Remember: you aren't half a person. You are whole, and you don't need a soulmate to complete you."

Kingsley smiles, but it still looks shaky and uncertain. "Thanks, Dad."

A curse is on his tongue, ready to fall from his lips. Seamus grips his shoulder and pulls Kingsley back with surprising strength. "Spidey senses."

Kingsley rolls his eyes. "That still makes no sense," he grumbles.

Seamus steps in front of him, protectively blocking him from the Death Eaters. Kingsley is reminded of that night in the woods. But this is different now. He is not some helpless little boy; he is a grown man who is more than able to defend himself.

He doesn't know how an angel would hold up to magic. Kingsley has seen the damage spells can do to creatures and beings, and he doesn't like the idea of Seamus being hurt. For years, Kingsley has wanted to find his soulmate. Now that it's finally a reality, he's not taking any chances.

Lestrange fires a curse at them; Kingsley quickly casts a Shield Charm, deflecting it. Seamus glances back at him and groans. "I can handle this."

"So can I," Kingsley counters stubbornly.

Seamus doesn't get a chance to argue further. A second curse is hurled at them, and the angel waves his hand, filling the immediate area with a bright, white light.

"What sort of magic is this?" Rookwood demands.

"Expelliarmus!"

Rookwood's wand soars through the air. Kingsley catches it easily and tosses it to the side.

The adrenaline is outrageous. His heart hammers within his chest, and the blood in his veins seem to rush. There's a part of him that has truly missed this. Being the Minister for Magic and trying to make the wizarding world a better place is all well and good, but it isn't enough for him. He misses the days of being an Auror, of actually being out in the action and protecting people.

A grin plays at his lips. It has been far too long since he's been able to do this. He laughs triumphantly; he could die here today, and it wouldn't matter.

Just as he casts a Stunning Spell at Rookwood and sends him tumbling unceremoniously down the stairs, Kingsley cries out. He had been so caught up with Rookwood that he had nearly forgotten about Lestrange. Kingsley doesn't know what Curse he's been hit with, but his chest burns, and warm, sticky blood begins to stain his shirt.

"Get down!" Seamus calls. "Close your eyes, and don't open them until I tell you to."

Kingsley wants to protest or at least ask questions, but the urgency in the angel's voice is enough to make him reconsider. He crouches down and leans inward, shielding his head with his arms just in case. The wound on his chest burns and aches, and he clenches his jaw against the pain as he squeezes his eyes shut.

There's a sound like an explosion. Kingsley can feel a burst of warmth wash over him, and, even through closed and shielded eyes, he sees the brilliant flash of light. A moment later, he feels slender arms around his body. With the distinct sound of fluttering wings, he feels himself being lifted away.

Albus Dumbledore is all too familiar with what pining looks like. He can see the wistful glint in Kingsley's eyes as they watch Sirius and Remus enjoy one another's company by the fireplace after the first Order meeting.

"Have you ever considered that perhaps not meeting your soulmate could be a blessing?" he asks.

Kingsley frowns. "A blessing?"

Albus nods. His fingers brush over the mark on his left palm—the Deathly Hallows symbol. When he had been old enough to understand what the mark had meant, he had assumed his soulmate would be a book lover who particularly enjoyed children's stories. Now, he knows he couldn't have been more wrong.

"Forgive me for my cynicism." Albus offers him a warm smile. "Soulmates are a once in a lifetime thing. Sometimes I feel like it is such a cruel fate. What happens to those doomed to love broken people?"

Maybe he isn't just talking about himself. He often wonders what Gellert had thought of his own phoenix mark on his neck. How long, upon meeting Albus, had it taken him to discover that the world had made a mistake.

"You met yours then?" Kingsley guesses, the curiosity heavy in his tone. "You've never mentioned it before."

Albus chuckles. Not many people know about his past with Gellert. Minerva does, of course, and Albus also knows that Minerva's first love—a Muggle farmer named Dougal—had been her soulmate, not her late husband. "I was young," he sighs. "I made many mistakes."

This seems to make Kingsley uncomfortable. He shifts awkwardly in his chair, his hand fidgeting restlessly.

"Obviously not every case is like mine," he says quickly, hoping to offer some reassurance. Albus gestures to Sirius and Remus who still hold hands and snuggle sweetly. "I think I might be the exception, really."

Kingsley nods, though he doesn't look quite convinced.

"My point," Albus continues, "is that you shouldn't worry about something you don't have yet. You aren't sure what you're even missing out on, dear friend."

The younger man snorts and shakes his head. "You sound an awful lot like my dad."

"I was quite fond of Perseus, so I shall take that as a compliment."

Kingsley shrugs. "Fair enough. I'm not… I don't worry about it. Not really."

Albus nods. He might not believe other people who might say the same, but there's a sincerity in Kingsley's voice that speaks volumes. He pats the Auror's shoulder. "Good. That's the way to be."

"You can open your eyes now."

Almost hesitantly, Kingsley obeys. He slowly lowers his arms so that they no longer shield his face, and his eyes slowly open. He looks around, confused. The cellar is gone, and Kingsley recognizes the yellow and grey painted walls of his kitchen. He tries to stand but quickly slumps back to the floor; in the frenzied escape, he had almost forgotten about the wound on his chest. Now, even the smallest movement makes the gash feel like it's ripping open. Kingsley cries out as blood begins to flow from his injury.

"You're hurt," Seamus says, kneeling beside him, frowning. "Let me see."

Kingsley feels a flicker of panic. This isn't like all those other times when someone has seen his mark. Seamus doesn't seem to be affected as soulmates are meant to be. Will he even understand when he sees the golden feathers permanently drawn on Kingsley's skin?

"I'm fine."

"You aren't. This could kill you," the angel tells him, gripping Kingsley's shirt. "I can't let that happen."

Kingsley wants to protest, but he can't bring himself to do it. Maybe he's ready for Seamus to discover the truth; maybe he's just survived too long to let a stupid curse be death of him. Whatever the reason, he allows Seamus to remove his shirt.

There's a certain sense of vulnerability now that he has never felt before. Even if it's just his shirt that's gone, he still feels so exposed. Kingsley wonders if this is natural, if all soulmates have this effect on one another.

Seamus doesn't seem fazed at all. His eyes are fixed upon Kingsley's wound, and his expression stoic and completely unreadable. Kingsley can't help but worry that maybe the universe has made a mistake. Is it possible that Seamus is his soulmate, but he isn't Seamus'?

Kingsley scowls. Now isn't the time to worry about that.

"I used up most of my energy getting us out of there," Seamus says, carefully pressing his hand to Kingsley's chest.

The touch causes him to shiver, but it isn't from the pressure so close to his injury. It should hurt, but Kingsley feels almost euphoric.

"I can heal you," he continues, "but it won't be perfect. I can always go back over it once my energy has recharged."

"Moving drains you?" Kingsley asks curiously.

Seamus clears his throat awkwardly. His eyes shift from side to side, and Kingsley can feel the way Seamus' hand trembles against his body. "It wasn't just the teleportation. I, um…" Again, he clears his throat. His free hand rakes through his hair, and he smiles sheepishly. "I may or may not have been a bit enthusiastic. Tried to just cause a little explosion to stun them, but…"

"But?" Kingsley presses.

"I might have, um… Well, I didn't actually mean to smite them. It just… It happens," Seamus says defensively, his words so rushed that they're almost a nonsensical jumble.

"You accidentally smote them?" Kingsley asks, his jaw dropping. "How… How does that even happen?"

Seamus rolls his eyes as his fingers trace strange symbols around Kingsley's wound. "Excuse me. Some of us contain more power in a single cell than humans contain in their whole body," he says indignantly. "Emotions can make it a bit volatile. Then people go boom!"

Kingsley almost presses the matter, more curious than he would have thought possible, but he feels the subtle warmth in his chest and glances down. Angelic healing seems to be different from magical methods. Kingsley hadn't even felt his skin piecing itself back together. There are no scars, no swelling, no indication at all that there had been a deep wound in his skin only moments ago. Seamus has made him good as new.

"Impressive," Kingsley notes, climbing to his feet and tossing the blood stained shirt in the bin. He has always been awful at domestic magic, and it will be easier to just replace his shirt than to try to charm the stains out. "I should get back to work." He glances at the clock and groans. "Well, at the very least, I should send an owl to explain…"

He trails off. What is he meant to explain? The Aurors already know that there are Death Eaters still on the loose, and they all think it's only a matter of time before the rogue dark wizards strike. But how can Kingsley explain what had happened to him? He doesn't know where he had been or who all had been involved. He just knows about the Portkey—and Dawlish. Merlin, he has to warn someone that John has been compromised—and that two of the men involved with his abduction are now dead.

His skin suddenly feels too tight over his bones, and there's an itch that he knows he cannot scratch. He's longed to be part of the action again. Now that he's finally gotten his wish, now that he's been dragged back into it, he has too many questions, and he doesn't know where to even begin to find answers. All he knows is that something dark and dangerous is afoot.

"What's that?"

Kingsley had almost forgotten about Seamus. The angel had been so quiet, and it's only now that Kingsley's back is to him that he's decided to speak. Of course, Kingsley doesn't have to ask. Seamus has noticed the gold marks on his skin, and he's undoubtedly put two and two together.

Kingsley turns around, clearing his throat. "That's, uh, that's—"

"It looks like my wings," Seamus says. "Only met you when you were a boy. How could you remember the pattern well enough to get a bloody identical tattoo?"

"It's not… I didn't…"

It now occurs to him that maybe soul marks and soulmates aren't as universal as he had believed.

"It's my mark."

"Beg pardon?"

Kingsley sighs, scrubbing his palm over the back his head. "My… soul mark," he says, almost hesitant, unsure of how to explain it. Soul marks are such a normal part of life. "It, uh… It's an indication of my soulmate."

Seamus stares blankly. He steps closer, circling him. His slender fingers brush over Kingsley's back, and it takes all of Kingsley's restraint not to shiver.

"I've heard about humans and their soulmates," Seamus murmurs, his index finger tracing outline of one of the many ornate feathers. "Angels do not have such a concept."

Kingsley doesn't know why his heart feels like it has dropped to his stomach. The universe is such a cruel place. Seamus is his soulmate, but is it possible that the connection doesn't go both ways? He's never done research into the complexities of soulmates and has always assumed or taken the anecdotes of his loved ones to heart, and he hasn't heard of a truly unrequited soulmate until now.

"Can angels fall in love?" Kingsley asks because even if Seamus doesn't have a mark, there has to be hope.

He notices the way Seamus looks pointedly away. In his years as an Auror, Kingsley has learned to read people well enough, and he has a feeling he isn't going to like whatever the angel has to say.

"Angels are not meant to love." His eyes remain fixed upon the floor, as though it's the most interesting thing in the world. "Such emotions are forbidden. It is our job to protect mankind, not to care for you."

"But it's possible?" Kingsley prompts.

The dusty pink that spreads across Seamus' ivory cheeks is answer enough. The angel's lips twist into an annoyed scowl, and he rubs at his face like he can make the heated color go away. "It's forbidden," he says again.

"That's not what I asked."

Finally, Seamus looks up, his eyes locking with Kingsley's. For several moments, neither speak, and the silence is almost maddening. Seamus swallows dryly before nodding, the pink darkening to a rich shade of crimson. "It's possible. In the early days, it was nearly commonplace. Angels would bed human women, and the Nephilim were born."

Silence hangs between them. Seamus wrings his hands together anxiously. After clearing his throat, he continues. "Such relations were forbidden, for they resulted in the creation of abominations."

Kingsley frowns. "That sounds more like lust than love," he comments.

"Perhaps, but it is a risk few are willing to take," Seamus says.

Kingsley considers, shaking his head. He can hear the tremor in Seamus' voice. The angel feels more than he lets on.

"You're safe now," Seamus says before Kingsley can press the subject further. "My work here is done for now."

"You're leaving?"

Seamus smiles, and it almost looks apologetic. "Not exactly. Not really," he answers. "Your destiny hasn't been fulfilled. I'll still be around whenever you need me."

And with that, he disappears. All that's left in his place is a single golden feather that drifts to the floor.

Seamus blends in with the shadows, his body becoming pure darkness as he watches Kingsley.

His human isn't a boy anymore. By that kind's standards, at nineteen, he is a grown man, and that seems to bring so much more danger. The fact that he has decided to become an Auror doesn't help matters at all. Seamus feels worn out, always trying to swoop in and intervene without notice. Some days, it's easy. Others, it's only a miracle that Kingsley survives. But he does survive; Seamus makes sure of it.

He tries not to notice his charge, but it's impossible. There is no denying how handsome the human has become.

Angels aren't meant to feel attraction; they are only meant to serve. He can't notice, refuses to notice.

But he does.

Seamus has talked to the other heavenly host, and all have said the same things. Over the millennia, none have felt anything for their humans except a sense of duty. That's to be expected, though. Angels serve and nothing more.

Those who dare to disobey such an order fall in flame. Seamus doesn't know what becomes of them, but he decided long ago that he would rather not know. He is an obedient angel, and his only goal—as it has been since his creation—is to serve God. Nothing can stand in his way, especially not silly emotions.

So why does he keep looking at his human? He knows that he shouldn't, but he can't seem to help himself. It would be easy to simply return the heavens and wait for a call to summon him, but he doesn't. There's something about Kingsley Shacklebolt that seems to keep him bound to earth.

He watches the young human draw his wand and stand face to face with his opponent—an older, grouch of a wizard Seamus thinks is called Alastor.

"Back straight!" the older man barks, and Kingsley quickly obeys.

Seamus has never considered what it would be like to give in. Would it be worth the fall from grace?

He thinks of the Nephilim from days long since gone, and he shudders. Such creatures are a reminder of why man and angels must never join together.

But, if he's honest, Seamus wants to more than anything.

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Kingsley manages to get word about John to Harry. Still shaken from the events that had unfolded, he doesn't go back to the Ministry. His head spins, and he feels like the ground has been pulled from beneath his feet.

He doesn't tell anyone about what transpired in that cellar. It isn't an emergency—not yet, at least—and the last thing he wants to do is incite panic. He is meant to lead, not spread fear.

That's what Cornelius did, he thinks, but he doesn't want to believe it.

That had been different. Cornelius had denied concrete proof that Voldemort had come back. He had actively spent his days trying to discredit anyone who opposed him.

Kingsley, on the other hand, is just waiting and trying to figure out what to do next. One of the first things he had learned was that there is no neat, tidy little handbook outlining what it takes to be the Minister. It's all his call, and, though he has guidance from others, most things boil down to whatever he feels is right.

With this, it doesn't feel like there is a right answer. The Death Eaters are planning something, but he doesn't know if they're enough of a threat to really worry about. Even without Seamus' divine intervention, Kingsley thinks it would have been easy enough to escape the Death Eaters in the cellar.

He pulls on his pajama bottoms before pacing anxiously, his feet wearing down a visible path in his bedroom carpet. He's tempted to send word to the head Auror, but he can't bring himself to just yet. Even if he had enough information to justify reaching out, it's late. There is nothing that can be done now. He promises himself that the first thing he will do at the Ministry the following morning will be visiting the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and having a long chat.

He wishes Seamus hadn't disappeared. His mind races, and he needs to talk to someone. Even if Seamus can't really offer anything insightful—whether from stubbornness or actual lack of knowledge, Kingsley doesn't know—it would be nice just to have his company.

Kingsley scowls. Somehow, he has the feeling he won't be seeing Seamus again for a while. The atmosphere had undeniably changed when he'd mentioned marks and soulmates and pressed for information about loving as an angel. There will be only tension between them from here on out; Kingsley can feel it in his bones.

His lips quirk, and he can almost bring himself to smile, even if it would be little more than a bitter curve of his mouth. He's waited for years, hoping to find his soulmate at last, always feeling so left out and worrying that there's something wrong with him. Now, he has found his soulmate, and he feels absolutely miserable.

A dry, humorless laugh escapes his lips as he's reminded of the old nugget of wisdom Auntie Siti would give him as a child: be careful what you wish for.

Kingsley finally stops pacing when he feels a slight strain in his calf. He doesn't know how long he's continued his pointless trek from one side of the room to the other, but the carpet is now noticeably worn down, and he is exhausted. He takes a few more steps toward his bed before slumping onto the mattress with a heavy sigh.

His head sinks into the pillow, and his heavy eyes close. In that moment, sleep comes so swiftly that he doesn't hear the heavy footsteps in the living room.

Rosmerta can hardly believe her luck. Several people have tried to date Kingsley Shacklebolt, but none have been successful—until now, at least. She wonders what's changed the fifth year's mind, but she doesn't ask. If he wants to take her on a date, she certainly won't complain.

"We aren't soulmates," he says flatly as their waitress brings their hot chocolate and muffins.

Rosmerta wonders if his words should hurt. Soulmates seem to be all anyone cares about these days, like they're the only thing that matters. Rosmerta has barely even given it any thought. She doesn't have a soul mark, and she doesn't care. Neither of her parents had one, but they're doing well enough, and their marriage is happy and strong. She has taken a page out of their book, and she's not letting such things define her happiness.

"No," she agrees, poking a fluffy marshmallow into the rich, hot drink. "I'm well aware."

He studies her curiously for a moment before smiling. "It doesn't bother you?"

"I don't have a soul mark," she says simply as she pinches off part of her muffin and pops it into her mouth, moaning happily at the sweet taste. "Why should I let it bother me? It doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself."

She doesn't know what the big deal about it is. Why should the universe have any say in these matters?

Kingsley smiles at that. "That's why I like you," he says. "Your attitude is perfect."

She snorts. "Being cynical is perfect?" That's definitely a first. Most people call her a smartass. "Do you have a mark?"

Kingsley hesitates, and she feels a flicker of hope. Is it possible that he doesn't have a soulmate? She has fancied him for quite a while,and it would be perfect if they could defy the universe.

"Yes," he answers at last, and she would be lying if she said it didn't hurt.

"Let's see it, then," she says, her voice strong despite her disappointment. "Maybe I can help you work out who it is."

"Does it matter?"

His response surprises her. Rosmerta is so used to soul marks meaning the world to everyone.

A small smile tugs at her lips. "I suppose it doesn't," she agrees, lifting her mug and taking a deep drink of the thick, warm, chocolatey beverage.

"Cheers," Kingsley says, raising his mug toward her as if to share in a toast. "May we make the most of our time together."

She grins. "And may you find happiness when you meet your soulmate."

Kingsley groans, his eyes opening. It takes only a few moments for him to realize something is horribly wrong. Even at night, his bedroom is never pitch black. His room is always bathed in the soft, silvery glow of moonlight. Now, there is only darkness.

Panic causing his heart to race, he tries to sit up, but he is restrained.

Keep calm, he tells himself. You've been in worse situations than this.

But his little pep talk does nothing to calm him down now. In the back of his mind, he can't help but think that Mad-Eye would be disappointed in him, both for letting his guard down enough to be captured and for panicking.

"Hey!" he calls.

He knows in most situations he shouldn't draw attention to himself. Since someone obviously knows he's there anyway—the fact that he's restrained is more than enough proof of that—it won't matter. Maybe he'll get lucky and manage to speed up whatever this is.

"Hello?"

No answer.

Kingsley swallows dryly, his mind racing. He tries to get a grip on himself, but it's hard when he's dazed and disoriented. There's no way to get a glimpse of his surroundings to form an escape plan, his wand is undoubtedly still on his bedside table at home, and he has no idea who or what he's even up against.

Worse still, Kingsley is alone. He listens, holding his breath and trying to hear that soft flutter of angel wings, but there is only silence. Is it possible that Seamus has fallen asleep? Do angels even sleep? If so, he has chosen the worst possible time to rest.

"I don't know who you are," he calls, raising his voice as loud as he can, "but can we please get this over with? I don't have all night."

That's probably not actually true. He is at his captors' mercy now. It's completely possible that they can keep him here for days.

He hears heavy footfalls in the darkness, and his heart sinks. He had hoped Seamus would appear and save the day, but luck does not seem to be on his side.

A deep voice mutters an incantation, and the room is filled with the soft glow of several candles that line the shelves in the walls. It takes Kingsley's eyes several seconds to adjust to the dim light, but when they do, he finds the source of the voice. Rodolphus Lestrange stands over him, his eyes narrowed; there is no denying the mix of anger and disgust that twists his features. "You killed my brother," he says darkly, prodding his wand sharply into Kingsley's side.

Kingsley cries out at the pain in his ribs. The other man laughs and pulls his wand away before jabbing Kingsley with it again. Kingsley clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, trying to breathe through the sharp pain.

"I loved my brother very much," Lestrange continues, emphasizing each word with another rough jab. Kingsley is certain his body will be covered with bruises if he actually survives this.

"Maybe he shouldn't have kidnapped me," Kingsley snaps, wincing at yet another prod.

"He was just following orders!"

Kingsley wants to ask whose orders. Death Eaters don't just follow anyone blindly. Voldemort had inspired unquestioning loyalty; Bellatrix Lestrange commanded a level of respect so few could ever hope to achieve. Both are dead, and he can't imagine anyone powerful enough to take their places. Still, he doesn't ask. Lestrange isn't the type to freely betray information, and Kingsley doesn't exactly have any bargaining chips.

"And what orders are those?" he asks instead.

As expected, Lestrange doesn't answer. He circles Kingsley, studying him. "How did you do it?" he asks. "There was nothing left of my brother and Rookwood. Only ash. You even destroyed their bones."

"I never touched them."

"Liar! You were in that cellar! We made sure of that! What sort of dark magic did you use?"

"Enough!"

Kingsley hadn't even realized that they aren't alone until the new voice filled the air. He lifts his head, straining, trying to identify the speaker, but it's no use.

"We have a job to do, Rodolphus. Think of the rewards when our master comes back."

"I hate to be the one to disappoint you," Kingsley says, "but your master isn't coming back. Harry Potter made sure of that."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. You see, there are ancient texts that spoke of death magic—ways to kill, but also ways to bring back the dead. Most of the books were destroyed in the Crusades, but a few survived."

"And you just happened to get your hands on it," Kingsley snorts. "Convenient."

The figure steps out of the shadows and into the light. Kingsley shakes his head, unable to believe his eyes.

"It's amazing what the Malfoy name can get you," Lucius says with a smirk.

"Well, Asim?" Siti walks with her nephew at her side. It amazes her how much he has grown over the years. At twenty, he towers over her. "Your mother tells me that you have officially become an Auror."

He nods, and she frowns. These British people are too soft on their children. If she had responded to an adult with a simple nod, she would have had to perform several difficult chores without magic. She clears her throat.

Asim smiles apologetically. "I mean, yes ma'am," he says.

Siti studies him with pursed lips. She had always worried about her nephew. Asim had been a late bloomer, but he has more than made up for it. With a grin, she wraps an arm around her nephew. "Good," she says. "I am very proud of you. You get your talent from the Danjuma side, you know."

Asim chuckles and shrugs. "Are there many Danjumas in law enforcement?" he asks.

Siti rolls her eyes. "No," she says. "But they asked me to interrogate criminals for them. They say, 'Siti, you are a lion. You can make them talk.'"

His laugh grows louder. "I believe it,'" he teases. "You're about as scary as a lion."

"I am gentle as a little kitten," Siti insists, throwing her head back and laughing. "Now you have a career. Are you satisfied with your life?"

Over the years, Hawa's worries seem to have dwindled. Once, she had confided in Siti countless times a month, fearing that Asim will never find happiness. Siti had tried to make her understand that romantic love is not synonymous with happiness, but her sister had refused to listen. Eventually, Hawa seemed to understand. Her worried letters became less frequent, replaced instead by letters detailing Asim's accomplishments.

Asim doesn't even hesitate; he nods. "It's great."

"Still no soulmate?"

His cheer falters slightly, but his smile remains. Good. Siti has seen people grow immediately depressed at the mention of such things. It makes her happy that he is able to keep his composure.

"No," he confirms.

"And how do you feel about that?"

Asim comes to a stop at a park bench. He takes a seat and stretches his long legs. For several moments, his gaze remains fixed upon the scene straight ahead—children playing on swing sets, lovers holding hands as they walk along.

"I'm okay with it," he says. "I don't know… I just have the feeling there's a reason my mark is so different."

Siti sits beside him and pats his knee gently. Over the years, she has seen plenty of marks, and none of them compare to Asim's. Perhaps he is right; perhaps being different and being special go hand in hand in this case.

"It will happen if it's meant to," he adds with a nod. "And if it doesn't… Well, that just means it isn't meant to be."

Siti grins. "When did yo get so smart, Asim?"

Her nephew returns her grin. "Must be that Danjuma blood."

Maybe he shouldn't be so surprised. Lucius Malfoy has always been a fairly slimy character. After the final battle, even when Lucius turned himself in, Kingsley hadn't been impressed. Harry had insisted on testifying on behalf of the Malfoys, and his word is the only thing that kept Lucius from rotting in Azkaban.

Still, he ought to have some loyalty. After everything he had done, Harry still insisted on saving Lucius simply because Narcissa Malfoy had protected him.

As though he can read Kingsley's thoughts, Lucius chuckles and steps closer. "I know. My name was technically cleared," he says, drumming his fingers against the table Kingsley is bound to. "Unfortunately, no one really cares about technicalities. To them, I'm still Death Eater scum. Why not embrace it?"

"You could be so much more, Lucius," Kingsley insists. "It isn't too late."

Lucius laughs, a cold, dry laugh as he grips Kingsley's shoulder, his longer fingers digging into his skin. "So much more? Husband to a woman whose soul mark is for her sister's husband." His icy blue eyes flicker brief, focusing on Lestrange for a fraction of a second before returning to Kingsley. "Father to a son who doesn't have enough spine to do what needs to be done. What else could I be?"

"An upstanding member of society?" Kingsley suggests dryly. "Most people seem pretty content to be that."

"And most people aren't worth a damn thing," Lucius retorts. "I would stop trying; you are hardly in a position to bargain. Be a good boy and keep your mouth shut. The ritual will go a lot more smoothly if you don't struggle."

"Ritual?"

But Lucius seems to be done answering questions. Kingsley has to admit he's somewhat disappointed. If he could have left Lucius talking for a while longer, maybe he could have formulated an escape plan.

Other figures join Lucius now, surrounding Kingsley—Amycus Carrow, Thorfinn Rowle, and several Kingsley cannot see from this angle. There's a shuffling and scraping sound to his left. When he turns his head, he feels his stomach turn sour, and his dinner threatens to come back up. The foul, rotting stench of death fills the air, but that isn't the worst of it. The man brought in—despite the bones peeking through rotted, peeling flesh and the still wriggling maggots that seem to call the body him—is still easily recognizable as Lord Voldemort.

He's dead, and there's no way to come back from that level of decay. Even if it were possible, it wouldn't be practical. The reanimated corpse is too far gone and would fall apart before they day ended.

"It didn't have to be you, you know," Lucius adds, holding up an ornate ritual knife encrusted with jewels. Strange symbols Kingsley does not recognize are carved into the silver blade. "It could be anyone, really. But you, Minister… You are ideal."

"Ideal for what?" Kingsley demands.

Instead of answering, Lucius just laughs and makes his way to the corpse of his fallen master. "Carrow, prepare our guest," he instructs as he pulls away the tattered scraps of cloth still clinging to the dead man's remains. He carefully guides the tip of the blade along Voldemort's skin before seeming to find the spot he's looking for. The blade sinks into the body, and Lucius lifts it. The sound of bones splitting fills the air, and Kingsley feels an even stronger desire to throw up.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Quiet," Carrow says, gripping Kingsley's shirt and ripping it roughly, exposing his chest.

Kingsley tugs frantically against the enchanted bindings. He knows it's no use, but he has to try. There's no way he's going down without a fight, and being hit with a dozen Killing Curses is preferable to being cut open and used for whatever dark ritual they have planned.

"Quit squirming!" Carrow bellows before striking Kingsley roughly in the temples.

The blow is hard enough to stun him momentarily. Kingsley blinks rapidly, tears stinging eyes. His vision swims, and he can't bring himself to focus on his surroundings.

Panic quickens his heartbeat. After everything he's been through, after surviving the bloody war and trying so hard to fix the wizarding world and ease the suffering in the aftermath, he is going to die strapped to a table and surrounded by the enemy. A hysterical laugh bubbles from his throat. This isn't quite what he'd had in mind all those years ago when he had dreamt of a heroic death.

"Are you done yet?" Lucius demands, returning to Kingsley's side with a human heart—Voldemort's, Kingsley assumes—in his hand. "Useless. I don't know why I bother with any of you."

Lucius shoves the bloodless organ into Rodolphus' hands before reaching for something Kingsley cannot see. Moments later, he feels oil being rubbed into his skin. A spicy scent fills the air and seems to stick in the back of Kingsley's throat. He coughs, but it doesn't rid him of it.

"Now, hold still," Lucius instructs, lifting a second ritual knife. This one is plain, though Kingsley is reasonably sure the blade is made from sharpened bone.

The tip of the knife presses into his skin. Kingsley screams, drowning out Lucius' ominous chanting. The knife doesn't go too deep, but it slices into Kingsley's skin again and again, leaving little trails of fire across his flesh.

"Seamus!" Kingsley screams, and the name brings him comfort. "Seamus!"

The pain becomes too much. Kingsley's vision blurs and doubles. His breathing becomes ragged, and darkness begins to envelop him. He doesn't know if it's wishful thinking or reality, but he would almost swear that he hears angel wings when his eyes close.

"Have you ever considered giving John a chance?" Kingsley asks.

Amelia groans but doesn't look up from the paperwork. Keeping her eyes fixed upon the latest notice from Fudge, she dips the tip of her quill into the pot of ink. Silence doesn't seem to deter Kingsley; the Auror remains in front of her desk.

"Why would I do that?" she asks, abandoning her quill and finally lifting her gaze to him.

Kingsley shrugs and sits across from her, leaning in and resting his elbows on her desk. "He's your soulmate, isn't he?"

Amelia tenses and leans back in her chair. She laces her fingers together and rests her hands in her lap, studying him. "Did he put you up to this?" she demands.

"No." And Amelia can't help but believe him. "I just thought… I dunno. If you know who your soulmate is, shouldn't you try?"

Amelia inhales sharply. She has known John is her soulmate for over a decade, but she can't bring herself to make that sacrifice. Falling in love means too many things. What if the day comes where she will have to choose between love and her career? Amelia has spent too long making a name for herself to just let it all fall apart. "Why do you care so much?"

The Auror shrugs with a heavy sigh. He rubs his palms over his face before dropping his hands to rest upon the arms of his chair. "I… I dunno. Maybe it's that I have a mark, and I still want to know what it will feel like to finally…"

He trails off, but Amelia understands. Kingsley has always been so content to be alone that she had always assumed he doesn't have a mark at all.

"Maybe it's the fact that war is on the horizon, and…" He pauses, offering her an almost apologetic smile and clearing his throat. "Well, don't you think it's a good time to give it a try?"

"Thank you, Kingsley. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have quite a lot of paperwork to finish up."

He nods and climbs to his feet, offering her one last smile before walking out of the office.

Alone at last, she allows herself to really think about it. Maybe Kingsley has a point. So many people are still walking around without knowing their soulmate. Shouldn't she try? And with war so close, does she really want to live with the regret of never giving it a try?

With a sigh, Amelia gets out of her chair and walks to her office door. Her navy eyes scan the small crowd until she spots Dawlish standing over Tonks' desk, talking and laughing. Amelia opens the door. "Dawlish! My office, now!" she calls.

"Milly, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks, abandoning Tonks and swaggering over with a triumphant grin.

Amelia groans, eyes rolling, but the smallest of smiles play at her lips. Maybe Dawlish isn't so bad. She only hopes Kingsley will find his soulmate soon so that he can know the sense of warmth and calm that their presence can bring.

"I can't heal dark magic," Seamus says when Kingsley awakens. "Sorry. The wounds are closed, but they'll scar."

Groaning, Kingsley sits up and glances at his bare chest. The symbols Lucius had carved into his skin are painfully noticeable. "What… What were they doing?" he asks.

The angel shudders and shakes his head. "Necromancy." He practically spits the word, disgust dripping from each syllable. "The darkest of all magical practices. These symbols—" Seamus gently traces his finger along Kingsley's chest, outlining the carved marks. "—are to bind your soul so that another soul can take it over. Voldemort's, I would assume."

"If it's so dark, why do you know about it?"

He expects Seamus to grin or laugh. Instead, he shudders and looks at Kingsley. In that moment, Kingsley finally understands that Seamus isn't a young adult. The eyes give him away; they are ancient and so very tired, and Kingsley feels his heart aching at the sight of them. "I fought against the demons who first taught man the ways of the necromancer," he answers grimly, shuddering again, like just the mention of it has flooded him with memories.

Kingsley doesn't say anything. His mind drifts to this new information. Could it have been possible? What would have happened if Seamus had not intervened? He is too scared to ask. There is a reason that all research dealing with death is kept within the Department of Mysteries. Some things are better left unknown.

"What happened to them?" he asks instead. He tries to keep his tone light as he feels panic threaten to take over again. "Did you accidentally smite them again?"

Seamus' eyes narrow, and his expression hardens. "This time it wasn't an accident," he says flatly.

"You killed them?"

"For you?" Seamus nods. "I didn't hesitate."

Kingsley shakes his head, trying to take it all in. "Why?"

"You're important."

"Just because I have some great destiny?" Kingsley asks. "I don't feel like I'm worth that."

"It's not just that." Seamus takes his hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. His thumb brushes softly over Kingsley's knuckles. "You have a destiny, yes. No one else is going to make as much progress bridging the gap between the magical community and those without magic. But it's more than that. You… You're important to me."

His words make Kingsley's insides feel strange. It's almost like he's swallowed a thousand live butterflies, and they're all fluttering like mad within his stomach. He is used to being important. Everyone still looks at him like he has the answers to salvation, like he can find a way to fix everything. But there is something different about having his soulmate call him important.

"Angels do not have soulmates," Seamus says, moving his hand slowly along Kingsley's arm. "It conflicts with everything we stand for. I remember hearing about those who willingly fell when I was first created, and it's terrifying." He takes a deep breath and leans in closer so that his face is only inches from Kingsley's. "But it's even more terrifying knowing that I am drawn to you and that I could have spent my entire existence unable to tell you."

Kingsley swallows dryly. Soulmates aren't supposed to be such a complicated concept. It doesn't seem fair. He wonders if it's hopeless, and he finds himself cursing the fates for ensnaring him in such a complex web.

"What does that mean?" Kingsley asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His throat seems to tighten uncomfortably, and his lungs forget how to work for a moment. "You're drawn to me?"

"I don't know. None of the others in heaven have spoken of such feelings," Seamus answers, frowning. His fingertips ghost over Kingsley's collarbone and up his neck. "I think that only the fallen have ever experienced this."

Kingsley knows that he should pull away. Even if Seamus is his soulmate, he is still an angel. If such things are forbidden, he should just leave it be. All he had wanted, after all, was to meet his soulmate, and finally has that. Nothing else should matter.

But when Seamus' lips tentatively press against Kingsley's, logic no longer matters. He wants nothing more than to hold the shorter man close and never let go. His fingers tangle in the angel's sandy blond hair, and he deepens the kiss. Seamus mirrors Kingsley's mouth's movements; he seems just as eager, just as desperate for this moment as Kingsley is.

"We shouldn't," Kingsley whispers. "The heavens—"

"To hell with the heavens."

Now, Kingsley finds the strength to pull away. His wide eyes are fixed upon Seamus, and his mouth hangs slightly open. For a moment, he seems unable to speak. Finally, he finds his voice again. "What does this mean?" he asks. "If you defy the heavens, won't you fall?"

Seamus looks afraid for only a fraction of a second. It's such a fleeting quiver of his lips, but he manages to combat it with a proud grin. "Some people are worth falling for," he says softly, pressing his lips to Kingsley's once more.

"What happens now?"

But he doesn't have to wait long for an answer. Seamus' body changes. It seems to be made of golden smoke. Slowly, he becomes more wisp and less man.

"Seamus?" Kingsley reaches for him, but his hand passes right through him. "What's happening?"

Seamus doesn't look afraid. Even as he fades a little more, he laughs, and he sounds so free. "If I had a mark, what do you think it would be?" he wonders.

Kingsley thinks that this is a terrible time to ask such a question. It shouldn't even matter. If Seamus is falling and ceasing to exist, nothing is important anymore. But Kingsley answers without hesitation. "A lion," he answers. "Auntie Siti would tell me that she and I are guided by the spirits of lions."

"A lion," Seamus echoes. "Fitting."

And then he is gone. There are no flutters of wings this time, only silence.

II.

When Seamus Finnigan is born, a comet flies overhead. His aunt tells the story that it hovered right outside the window and bathed the room with the most glorious light and didn't disappear until Seamus had drawn his first breath.

The Healers call it a miracle. Seamus had been delivered dead, but the universe seems to have other plans.

…

Seamus likes his soul mark, but it feels strange to him. "I don't think I'm supposed to have one," he says, prodding it as though it will make the lion that paints his forearm disappear somehow.

His mother just laughs at that. She tells him how silly he is, how he's always had such a brilliant imagination.

But it isn't his imagination. He can feel it deep within his bones, a constant reminder that this isn't really his life, that he will never truly belong.

…

When he's eleven years old the first person he meets on the train is Draco Malfoy. Between dragon soul mark on his cheek and his constant sneer, Seamus quickly decides a friendship isn't possible. He walks the length of the Hogwarts Express, hoping to find the warmth that only a soulmate can provide.

Instead he finds Dean Thomas and wants more than anything for them to match. But Dean hates lions (one roared at him when he was a child, and he's been traumatized ever since) and his soul mark is something that looks strangely like a radish on the nape of his neck.

Seamus tells himself that it's okay, that the universe knows what it's doing. He and Dean become the best of friends anyway.

…

"Do you ever feel like you don't belong?" Seamus asks as he and Dean walk back from their first Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

"All the time."

But Seamus wonders if Dean truly understands. Everything about his life is strange, and nothing makes sense, but he carries on and hopes for the best.

…

Sometimes he dreams that he has wings. Those are the best dreams at first, but it always ends in flame, and Seamus wakes screaming. There's no way to shake the sense of falling, and no amount of deep breaths can silence the panic that causes his heart to pound painfully within his chest.

…

It's easy to deny what Harry Potter says. You-Know-Who cannot be back. People can't just rise from the dead.

But even as he thinks it, there's something in his heart that dares to believe. Part of him feels he's been here before and has seen it all play out.

He has forgotten what it's like to exist without a constant feeling of deja vu.

…

Other nights, he dreams a man with dark skin and kind eyes walking alongside a lion. "You left me," he says in a deep voice as smooth as silk.

"I had to go back," Seamus tells him. "It's the only way."

"Back where?"

"Not where. Back when."

…

Seamus can't shake the feeling that he recognizes Kingsley Shacklebolt from somewhere, but he cannot quite place him. He knows that now is hardly the time. The battle is on the horizon, and he has bigger things to worry about, but he still tries.

"This way!" Kingsley calls, and he grabs Seamus by the arm, his fingers wrapping around the soul mark.

The warmth slowly fades from his skin, and he only feels peace.

Kingsley's eyes meet his, and he wears the same expression of understanding. "I've seen you in my dreams," he says quietly. "You had wings."

"Golden wings," Seamus confirms. "You walked with a lion."

Kingsley nods, understanding mixing with confusion. "We had the same dreams?"

"We can discuss them over drinks if we make it out of this alive," Seamus assures him.

And as he follows Kingsley along, he fights back a groan. The universe is cruel; he can't think of a worse time to find his soulmate than during a battle where nothing is promised.