Hey, writing this as Beater 2 for Tutshill Tornados, about a Shacklebolt. My prompts were print and rare.
…
Kingsley slid his head round the door, into the office, feeling like the pink panther theme tune should be playing in the background. He looked both ways. He pushed the door open slowly. He half tiptoed over to the desk. As he went to put the folder down on the table, he suddenly burst into laughter.
Who was he kidding? This was his office, and the department he was head of, only next to the work rooms of his employees, who he knew he worked to the bone. Who would still be here this—
"Uh, boss?"
Dammit.
"You okay?"
Kingsley turned slowly. "Yes, Miss Cravestock, I'm fine. What are you doing here so late?"
She smiled at him. "Oh, I was just leaving. I, er, heard you laughing though? Thought you might want some company?"
"Ah," Kingsley got out, half grimacing. "Of course. Just give me one moment, and I'll be right with you."
She smiled again. "No rush." There was an awkward silence as Kingsley pretended to rummage on his desk, praying to whoever was bloody up there that she would leave, so he could finish what he came to do.
"So, what's this folder—"
"Actually, Miss Gravestock," Kingsley interrupted quickly, moving around the desk and standing in front of the folder. He tried to subtly push it back, but saw her eyes follow him. Damn, he had chosen his aurors well. "I've been meaning to talk to you about your work on the," think, think "Hammerdale case." He guessed wildly.
"The Hammerdale case? That's not my department, I'm afraid, boss, Cathryn's been managing that."
Kingsley nodded slowly, cursing inside. "Yes, actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about." He invented rapidly. "How do you think the case is going? I thought I might put you on it, as it seemed almost like they needed an extra hand."
His employee gave him a weird look and sat down slowly in the chair opposite his desk. "Um, I think Cathy's team are doing fine actually. They have the new blood, Richard, and at least two senior aurors, I'm pretty sure. You'd have to ask her, I'm afraid."
"Right, right." Kingsley nodded along, putting his chin on his hand, pretending to think. Again, he shifted his position balancing on the desk in an attempt to hide the folder, trying to shift it. "Does she work on Wednesdays, do you know?"
Another odd look. "Well, normally, but not tomorrow. She's off, because of her wife's new baby, if you remember? We had the party a week or so ago? On Friday, I think. She'll be back soon, I'm sure."
"Ah." Kingsley carefully nodded, mentally hitting himself. He needed to know his colleagues better. He could have sworn it was the woman in front of him whom they held a party for last week. "Yes, that's it, I remember now. Yes, that was why I wanted to talk to you. I was hoping you could take on some of the work for a little while, just until she comes back? Not for long, you understand."
The woman nodded, finally seeming satisfied. "Right, yes, of course. Harold had been managing it, but I'll tell him not to bother." Aha, that was perfect. Even he knew it was rare that Harold got any work done.
"Right, thank you." Kingsley smiled and turned definitively back to his desk, clearly implying - in his mind at least - that their conversation was over. She didn't seem to get the memo.
"You still working on the Black case?"
Kingsley was glad he was not facing her at this point. He felt his face drop and his eyes flicker to the folder on his desk. He coughed.
"Yes. Um, tricky one. Will be glad when he's locked up again."
"I heard, well, um," Kingsley turned his head to see her looking nervous. "I heard that you went to Hogwarts together?"
Kingsley ducked his head again immediately. Did she know?
"Ah, well," he smiled at her, but felt that it was probably more of a grimace. "Not as such. He was merely a first year when I became prefect, and so it was only a couple of years. Barely knew him."
"Yeah, but surely you remember him?"
"Oh, Merlin," Kingsley attempted an awkward laugh. "This is twenty years ago we're talking! He, well, obviously has just been more memorable since, I guess."
He sat down slowly on the chair.
"I heard he and his friends were very, er, memorable?"
Kingsley blinked, and suddenly he could see the Great Hall, his first day of fifth year, as a prefect, pride filling his bones. It was the new first years sorting ceremony, and he tried to concentrate. The second kid up was a Black, who he essentially ignored. Until, that is, the Hat yelled 'GRYFFINDOR!' and Kingsley turned to look, along with the rest of the school. The eleven year old didn't look embarrassed or scared, but smug, and almost proud, as he sauntered towards the table of the brave. Yes, thought Kingsley, maybe he did belong there.
Fast forward almost six months, when the year was more than half way through. Kingsley was worrying about his OWLs constantly. He needed something to cheer him up. As if someone had read his mind, a loud bang filled the room, and a couple of young kids screamed. Kingsley jumped up, along with half the students, and all the teachers, to find a Slytherin first year, standing next to his seat, covered in a pink slime. Immediately the hall was whispering and laughing, and Kingsley didn't know whether to feel sorry for the kid running from the room. Within moments he was given knowledge of the perpetrators; news was getting around fast. One look at the Gryffindor first years confirmed it. Kingsley sat down again, leaving them for McGonagall to deal with. After all, hadn't he asked for a distraction?
The next September, Kingsley had been sitting with his friends, laughing and gossiping, hearing everyone's holiday news, as was always the custom on the first day back. Then, surprising everyone just as much as the time before, a bang sounded and everyone shrieked. Kingsley looked around the room of sudden colour, finding his robes still intact. One look, however, showed that he was lucky. The Ravenclaws were all suddenly wearing Hufflepuff robes, and vice versa, and the Slytherins all Gryffindor. Except, that is, for the group of now second year Slytherins. One's robes were tattered and ripped to shreds, and one boy's were flashing multi-colour. One was even playing music. Kingsley was admiring the spell work, when he saw the main victim of this obvious crime, and immediately realised the criminals. The kid who he recognised from the year before had his school uniform all vanished, except for the bright, luminous pink glittery robes, and an almost invisible pair of similarly coloured booty shorts underneath. This time, Kingsley didn't need to be told of the mischief makers' identities.
By the end of his seventh year, attacks of the so-called Marauders were a fairly regular occurrence. Kingsley no longer jumped when a Slytherin screamed, or flung out his wand when a bang sounded. Having to find new routes to classrooms was a common necessity. When he heard McGonagall screaming and yelling, he no longer scarpered, but laughed and wondered what the boys had done this time. Their '74 Valentine's Day show had been their best yet, and Kingsley couldn't help adding the troublemakers to his list of things he was going to miss when he left at the end of the year. He was walking to his last transfiguration lesson before his NEWTs, and he stopped when he heard soft crying from the empty classroom he was walking past. He hurriedly put an ear to the door and, deciding transfiguration could wait, stuck his head inside.
Sirius Black.
"Oh. Hi there. Sirius, right?"
The boy jumped almost a mile in the air, and grabbed his stuff. "Sorry, do you need the room? I'll just—"
"No, no. You're fine. I just wanted to know if, well, you were alright." Long silence. "Or if, maybe, you wanted to talk?"
When he met the eyes of the teenager, Kingsley realised it was the first time he had seen the boy not laughing. When Kingsley had found younger students crying before, he always thought they looked younger, like little kids. Sirius Black looked ten times older.
"My parents have disowned me."
Kingsley stared, dumbstruck, at the fidgeting boy. He thought of what he knew of the Blacks, and immediately realised it was true. He sat down near Sirius.
"Why?"
Sirius let out a loud sarcastic snort, paining Kingsley who had heard his loud, carefree barking laughter many a time.
"Why? Because I'm a Gryffindor. Because I'm not evil. Because I don't want to join a man who would kill my best friends. Because I'm not in to women. Because I like muggle shit. Because I'm dating a werewolf. Because I'm not what they wanted. Because I'm not my brother. Because he tells them everything I do. Because I'm a terrible son, and I've let them down, and don't I owe them everything for raising me to be a man, and shouldn't I repay them by acting like one."
Kingsley stared at him, and couldn't find a thing to say. Sirius looked down again.
"Sorry. I'm overreacting. Her words just keep going around in my head and she keeps saying I should be grateful to them, I'm just angry. Sorry."
"It's okay to be angry, you know. Let it all out."
Kingsley had visited Sirius in Azkaban. He had been his first visitor, apparently. The man looked haggard and pained and tired, and yet he smiled and tried to make a joke. He talked to Kingsley about that day, laughing about how that seemed so insignificant now, and yet it had all come around in a circle, because he was in prison for murdering his best friend, and the whole world thought he was no better than any other Black.
"Boss?"
Kingsley jumped and sat up.
"Oh, sorry, got distracted. School memories, you know? Don't really remember the Black boy, though. Still, never would have guessed he'd have done this."
The woman smiled at him, and gestured to the door. As he stood up to follow, he finally managed to slip the file into the right drawer, as if it had been placed there by a messenger, written in block print.
'Sirius Black spotted in Tibet on May 17th.'
Yes. He knew he was doing the right thing.