AN: Written for the Pocket Morty Competition (Shell Shocked Morty: write about someone dealing with the aftermath of the war) and the Social Media Competition (LinkedIn, Connection: somewhere job-related)
"Back again, Minister?" Rosmerta calls as Kingsley sits before her.
He doesn't greet her with a warm smile or a kind word, the way he had before the war. He sits silently, and his exhaustion is written over his handsome face.
How many kids did he see buried today? How many friends did he watch be laid to rest? How many families did he have to speak to and pretend to be strong for them while they sobbed?
He is a strong man. Still toned in his later years from his Auror work. But Rosmerta can see the vulnerability and fragility as she sets down a glass of her strongest liquor in front of him.
"I don't know how long I can keep doing this," he admits before taking a deep drink, draining half the glass. "They look to me, but I don't have the answers, Rosmerta."
She pulls up her stool from behind the bar and sits across from him. Hesitantly, she reaches for him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "None of us know how long we can keep this up. Merlin, I haven't had so many patrons in this pub before. We're all breaking, Kingsley."
He smiles bitterly. Her words are meant to be a comfort. The admission that they're all feeling it too is better than false promises of how everything will be all shiny and perfect again in the blink of an eye.
But she wonders if she's only made things worse.
Kingsley finishes off his glass, and, without prompting, Rosmerta summons the bottle, refilling his glass and pouring herself some.
"You hear it as much as me," he says quietly. "People come to drown their sorrows, and I know they tell you all about them."
She nods. Several of the Weasley siblings had cried for their fallen brother at the table in the corner.
Oliver Wood had drank and told her about how small the Creevey boy had been in death, how carrying his body had been like carrying a sack of feathers. Horace Slughorn and Pomona Sprout had comforted one another over wine as they mourned for the students and friends they had lost.
She hasn't been at the battle, but Rosmerta had felt as though she knew everything firsthand, living through the others' grief.
She finishes her drink. Merlin, it's tempting to pour another, but she has to close the pub soon.
"I don't want to go home," Kingsley admits. "It's so lonely there, and I'm left alone with everything I've seen. I feel like I've gone mad."
"You can stay with me. I feel the same."
…
They tumble into bed. They aren't in love. Maybe there's some spark of attraction that could have lead to something deeper, had the circumstances not been so dark. But this is all they have. Two bodies, desperate trying to take the pain away, tangling beneath the sheets and kissing like they're trying to pull the poisonous thoughts from the other's mouth.
...
Kingsley tosses in his sleep. He doesn't wake Rosmerta because she so rarely manages to drift off into dreams, so haunted by everyone's demons.
She holds him, soothing him as best she can as he thrashes about in her arms.
"It's okay. It's okay. I'm here. You can break," she mumbles, though she knows he can't hear her.
She wonders what he's dreaming about. Which death is mind forcing him to relive tonight?
Rosmerta supposes it doesn't matter. He is broken and still shattering. His demons have come out to play.
Which demon does not matter. All that matters is that her heart breaks along with his, and she doesn't know how to fix it.