Life scared him. Kingsley wasn't afraid of dying, or at least he thought that he wasn't afraid of death. In those last moments, come what may, he felt as though he might freak out in those last moments. Didn't every one act like that? No, he feared the consequences of his life decisions, and he also feared not living. If he continued going down this road wherever it lead, surely he'd have to shoulder the consequences.

Did he know anything? Did he want or need to know? He feared not recognizing himself. Politicians all set out to do the right thing. This was a really twisted view of the world, and he hadn't been a world leader, but hadn't Lord Voldemort done the same thing? In his mind, in his warped, manipulative master plan, You-Know-Who had actually been an effective leader. There was a Muggle leader during the Second World War, Adolf Hitler, who had used rhetoric and charisma to nearly take over Europe back in the day.

Kingsley lay awake at night thinking about these things. Although his mind certainly wanted to sleep, and he desperately needed it, it failed to shut off. He worried about stupid stuff. Did he thank Penelope Clearwater for her efforts towards the press conference? Although he knew he'd done this already, did he send that owl off to what's his name? Should he write his own speeches? He wanted a cup of coffee, but he didn't really need it, and he felt too lazy to get up to get it.

This had lasted for two days. The Minister for Magic didn't take sick days, but he really, really needed sleep. A Sleeping Draught put his body to rest, which is what he had resorted to tonight. Sluggish and dead weight, he'd barely made it to the bathroom, which would've been funny under different circumstances. What was really funny about being in a drug induced state and a forty-something year old wetting himself?
Giving up on sleep for the third or fourth time that night, Kingsley dragged himself into the sitting room and collapsed into an armchair. Patti slept through anything. He probably looked like death. After signing some bill into law, his advisors had told him it was the right thing, but they told him anything. This was the problem with holding a powerful position: everyone acted as your friend and your enemy.

It was two in the morning. What was he going to do? He'd tried reading a book earlier, yet the words played tricks on his tired eyes, and strange words started forming themselves. Without bothering to change out of his wrinkled clothes he walked over to his fireplace and threw a pinch of Floo Powder into the dying flames. An invisible match struck itself. The flames turned emerald green.

He stood there, tittering on the edge of a knife. He needed an ear, but who did he want? He went with the person he knew would be awake at this hour. Early and late meant the same thing to those who could not sleep. When he stepped into Penelope's expensive flat, he was nots surprised she was not asleep.

"It's two o'clock." He straightened himself.

"I would say the same to you, but what's the point?" She didn't sound as tired as him, but sleep evaded her, too. Kingsley vaguely remembered telling her to not visit his place past eight. The door, apparently, didn't swing both ways. She didn't throw him out or ask him to leave. "Do I get three guesses as to what you're thinking about?"
"I didn't know you liked guessing games." Kingsley considered her his faithful work wife because there wasn't much they kept from each other. Yes, they kept their personal and professional lives separate. He turned his back to her and rubbed his hands over the fire.

"You got cornered into signing a bill you didn't like," she said, setting a book aside and getting to her feet. Her curly hair was down, and she wore a demure nightgown. Her dressing gown laid over the arm of the armchair. Penelope said this matter-of-factly, and she strode over to him confidently. Why bother with those other two guesses when she wouldn't need them?

Kingsley was the moral compass. Wasn't he the incorruptible Minister? Well, he felt as though he had blood on his hands. He should've left the goblin rebellion alone. He'd known this the day Bill 702 got on his desk, but there had been pressure from all sides. What was he supposed to do when the Curse Breakers continued on like nothing happened and the goblins at Gringotts threatened to strike? There had been an uprising, a small one. He took responsibility.

"We don't govern them," said Kingsley, speaking to himself. He'd been having this one-sided conversation for a good while. "If they choose not to have a hand in our wars, and that's their right, who are we to get involved? They don't want our help. I've had a meeting with the goblin liaison …"

Penelope massaged his shoulders when he sat down in the wooden chair in the dining room. Though a voice in the back of his mind said he should tell her to stop, he closed his eyes. Her father had been a chiropractor. He wasn't sure what this was. She relieved the pain, tension she called it, with her hands.

"You do this for other people?" Kingsley stared at the neutral-colored walls. Try as he might to pretend they weren't whatever they were, he said, "You need to marry that young man and stop staying at the Ministry until midnight."

"That place owns me," said Penelope.

"It doesn't have to." Kingsley smiled, for he'd been the one to tell her to get out and get a life. He hadn't said it in those exact words, of course, but he didn't know if she'd heeded his word. She let it happen. Even when he was an Auror, Kingsley went out and got a drink or attended a concert art two. He liked Muggle music because there was a better selection. Yesterday, he'd noticed something glittering on her hand. "You accepted. You know he's a foreign correspondent for the New York Ghost."

Penelope nodded. She knew Mr. Spinnett well enough. "He's not marrying me for a story, you know."
Kingsley raised his eyebrows, surprised. That's not what he had meant at all! He'd been there and done this. Patti had stayed in New York for years and placed so much stress on their relationship. Patti owned the brownstone now, which was nice, and rented it out whenever she didn't have a lengthy stay in the States. Last year, after passing the girls off to his parents for New Year's, they travelled to Madison Square Garden to enjoy the holiday.

"I know that," said Kingsley, a little bothered, for he almost said he'd never suggest such a thing. He wasn't easy to anger and felt oddly protective of Penelope. She was something between a sister and something else. Penelope drummed her fingers on his shoulders. "Penelope."

"Yes?"

Kingsley's voice caught in his throat. "I did something wrong."

Penelope pulled out his chair. She lit the candles on the immaculate dining room table; he doubted she ate actual meals here. Neither of them said anything for a long minute. She assured him he did nothing wrong, since these things got swept under the rug all the time. Weren't people allowed to behead their own house-elves and go on about their days like nothing happened? True, the dark truth behind this was that house-elves, according to estate law, were property. Kingsley felt awkward mentioning this, seeing as he had a house-elf himself. If nobody bothered with the house-elves, why should anyone bother with the goblins? "Because they are members of the community." Kingsley gave the expected answer, thinking it was the right thing to say. He believed that. "If the goblins threaten to leave the bank, the economy's shot and inflation will go through the roof. Why can't we all be friends?"

"Because that's naive," said Penelope, perching herself on his lap. Kingsley, shocked at this bold move, said she sounded like Patti. Penelope kissed him and they made out. The years faded away. The Sunday in his office came fresh into his mind.

"You're engaged."

"You're married, Minister." Penelope distracted him again. He didn't remember her being this good of a kisser. He slipped his hands underneath her nightgown.

"Take it off."
"Kingsley." She took his face in her hands. "What do you want?"

Kingsley hesitated for a fraction of a second. "No."

Why had they kept here on staff? Patti had insisted Penelope Clearwater was a talented find. There was no arguing this. He thought about her constantly whenever the two of them were alone in his office. Those were few and far in between, yet they stuck out in his mind. It was like a cat hunting a laser. In truth, his wife had done this to keep him in line.

"You're beautiful. You are very … attractive and alluring." Kingsley got an erection and shoved her off his lap. He refused to cross that line! An affair with his press secretary would ruin him. And her. Penelope, affronted, acted hurt and a little surprised he turned on her. "If things were different, Penelope, I'd gladly take you up on this offer. We can't."

"You'd marry me." Penelope, recovering quickly, smiled sheepishly. She shied away from the embarrassment and painted a picture for him. "And the girls would be ours? You're very idealistic."

"You've probably never met someone as Catholic as me."

Kingsley shrugged when she shook her head. He got that a lot. He stayed devout not so much for his soul as for his sanity. He dropped his face in his hands, struggling to grasp the ongoing battle in his head. Was it possible to love two women at once? Penelope wasn't a distraction. In fact, he held her in high esteem and valued her opinion more than he did anyone else's. Penelope meant more than pretty distraction.

"I've never been with anyone else," he said.

Kingsley was not embarrassed; this was merely a fact. What did he care? He couldn't divorce Patti and run off with his press secretary! Talk about political suicide. No matter what he did with his future endeavors, he'd been known as the idiot who abandoned Patti Shacklebolt and left her out to dry with two children ion tow. Penelope mentioned, embarrassed again, that she'd been Percy Weasley's girlfriend - Kingsley picked up too late on the fact that he ought to have feigned surprise.

"Nobody has to know." Penelope opted for the stupid, careless suggestion first.

What a grand idea! Kingsley stopped himself from chiding her. However much she may appear to have it all together, she was still learning, too. What if they waited until after he left office? Of course, the tabloids and the rags would lap it up, or Rita Skeeter would catch wind of a scoop - a worthy scandal - but they could live quietly.

"Penelope, you are engaged." Kingsley spoke evert would clearly and slowly, willing for her to get this in her brain. She entertained him with this fantasy, and perhaps it would work. When she mentioned kids, a son, still riding off her active imagination, he laughed mirthlessly. "My father would disown me."

"You don't care about money," she said, uncertain. She went into the kitchen and came back with expensive coffee. "Never mind. I don't want children."

"You will," said Kingsley darkly, sipping his coffee. He didn't know this for certain. When he was young and in his mid-twenties, the very last thing on his mind was children. He came from a pure-blood family. The day he found out about Rachelle, he changed as a person. Penelope shook her head, tears in her eyes, insisting family didn't matter. "You say that. You don't know!"

"The girls. Rachelle and Amarie … they can be our girls."
"After I get divorced? I'm telling you the moment I turn my back on Patti …"

"People get divorced all the time!" Penelope pointed out that her own parents and her aunt and uncle were divorced.

"You're going to convert to Catholicism for me?" Penelope shook her head, backtracking a little, hesitant. "You've been there and done that, haven't you? Cross it off the list."

Kingsley actually threw his head back and laughed. Blushing, Penelope mentioned she wasn't one to follow organized religion. He knew she didn't attend church on Sundays. This was all simply hypothetical, wasn't it? She could live in this illusion with a little boy, and Rachelle, and Amarie. Kingsley had promised himself to another woman and his heart belonged to another. He could love two women, but his heart belonged to one.

"I love her." Kingsley got to his feet. If he gave Patti away over this, over a yearning for something new, he'd spend the rest of his life begging her to come back. Penelope said no. Kingsley didn't want to hurt her. If he had to choose, there would be no contest. He needed her to hear this because she clearly didn't get this the last time. Penelope's tears moved him so much that he almost caved. "I hope you find someone … and maybe this Mr. Spinnett is it. Patti - she's everything."

"You love me," Penelope said meekly, though he'd never said this to her.

"I don't know." Kingsley went with honesty. Perhaps it was nothing more than infatuation because she presented herself as a new love. Penelope said no again. Exhausted, he threw up his hands in exasperation. It took him a moment to see she could drag him down to hell. What if she wrote a memoir or leaked whatever they were doing to the press? "I'm going to bed."

"Kingsley. Please."

"You need to go to your fiancé, Penelope, and dive into wedding plans or whatever you need … because this isn't happening. My wife forgave me. People like her … they don't give second or third chances." Kingsley refused to lose Rachelle or Amarie, for there was simply too much at stake. "I am not this person. What I did yesterday with that bill. What the hell in the matter with me?"

He knew this was a loaded question. Kingsley didn't want to be this person who took advantage of power simply because it was there. After he said good night, he stepped back into the fireplace and went home. When he clambered out of the fireplace, feeling an odd sense of dejá vu, he walked over and kissed his wife. Patti had come downstairs after she'd noticed he was not in bed.

"You're not wearing shoes," said Patti. When he suggested they make love, she shook her head. "You're dead on your feet. And they're filthy. Go to bed. Take a shower first."
"Yeah, yeah," he said, dragging himself upstairs. He fell asleep in the bath.

The following morning he slept in. Patti must've given some excuse because nobody sent him an owl. It was one o'clock in the afternoon when he woke up in the bed, and he drifted off again. Patti, he guessed had clothed him, and she confirmed this later, though he didn't remember this. Startled, he sat bolt upright and looked around frantically. Patti sat on the edge of the bed, forced him down, and spoon-fed him soup.

"I'm not four," he said. Kingsley knew by the taste of this she hadn't made it. "Who made this?"

"Who do you think?" Patti handed him the bowl and the large spoon.

"Posey." Kingsley hadn't really been home enough recently to appreciate the house-elf's cooking. The hearty homemade soup made him feel warm inside. Patti said he had a temperature and the sweats. She'd warned him that if he kept running ragged like this, it would catch up with him. "I'm dragging."

"You can't do this alone. Haven't I told you?" Patti handed him a tonic and told the girls to go play. Rachelle and Amarie hadn't seen Kingsley for the longest time outside of a hello and a goodbye. "Kingsley, if you insist on carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders…" "…I'm going to drop it," he said, finishing one of her old sayings. Patti had a lot of these tidbits for her clients. The broth at the end was the best part. Posey went to fetch him seconds.

Patti nodded, seeming to appreciate that he listened to her. Or perhaps he simply wanted him to shut up. She said so.

"No. I don't like cooked celery." He scrutinized the ingredients in the spoon. Oddly enough, he thought Posey knew this.

"Posey doesn't like you ill and nether do I." Patti gave the house-elf free reign, though she had initially been against having her around. Posey's mother had initially helped raise Kingsley. As he ate the soup, Kingsley he couldn't really taste the celery bits.

"What do you think about house-elves?"

"They aren't used in the United States," she said, clarifying after a moment. "Well, they are, but they aren't slaves. They work in establishments like restaurants, pubs and places like that. You tip house-elves there like you do servers. They earn a living. One of them thought me to play cards."

"Really?" Interested, Kingsley kept Posey in the room when she served him fresh bread. He wanted her to hear this. Whilst Posey was as devoted as any other house-elf, she got certain freedoms. He knew that house-elves were not goblins; it was dangerous to make such classifications.

"Posey enjoys serving Master Kingsley," said Posey. She climbed into a chair like a small child and automatically asked if he needed anything else.

"No, thank you, Posey." Kingsley winced when Patti mentioned that she had sent an owl telling the Ministry he'd be back on Monday. He'd gotten another day off. "There's no point." The job wore on him and there was no denying it. Kingsley needed to taker better care of himself. It wasn't enough to go running. He knew that. The girls, not to be deterred from their father when he was actually home, jumped into the bed with him. Rachelle, seven now, acted like her own person. She liked her little sister, which was good, because she felt rather protective of her. It astounded Kingsley with all the gene combinations, how much these two resembled each other. Amarie was Rachelle in miniature.

"Hey," he said, grinning when Amarie snuggled next to him. She passed out for an afternoon nap. "You want to make another carbon copy?"
Patti's eyes got really big. "No. Ha, ha. She's four, and she's eight. I'm done."

"I was kidding," he said, smiling at Rachelle. Not that he had a favorite, but if he did, she'd be it. She was a bright child. And he wasn't simply saying this because he was her father; the girl surpassed him and surprised him day after day. He played regular Muggle's chess with her on the bed. "Do you want another sister?" "Kingsley," said Patti warningly. The daughter got no vote here.

"No." Rachelle helped herself to his pawn and laid on her stomach; her feet swung in the air. "When're we going back to New York?"

"To live? We're not. That's mine." Kingsley slapped Rachelle's hand as she tried to cover up her mistake. He snatched her rook. "Your move."

"You never lived there, Dad." Rachelle decided she was done for the time being and set the chessboard carefully under the bed.

"Actually I lived there before you were born. For a month." Kingsley had spent his time fixing things mainly. Rachelle frowned at him, skeptical. "Don't believe me? There's a cubbyhole behind the clock. And your window seat? I built that. Mum used to read there."

Patti shared a laugh with Kingsley. Before the kids had come along, they had the world in front of them. Kingsley wasn't the best carpenter, but he was smart enough to see the bigger picture and figured stuff out. He'd also helped Patti with the nursery.

"We'll go for Christmas." Patti didn't specify which Christmas. Kingsley took this as a smart move. He neither liked nor disliked New York, but for him, it presented an escape more than anything else. She got up when the doorbell rang. "I'll get it."

"Bet Daddy's got to go to work." Kingsley mirrored Rachelle's disappointment, making her laugh. He put a finger to his lips, telling her to keep it down whilst her sister slept. "Are you coming?"

Rachelle liked watching people. Kingsley couldn't remember if this was his doing or not, though it probably was. But he'd had a job teaching her not to stare people down; people watching crossed a fine line this way. Curiosity became rudeness really quick. Some people went window shopping, and he took his daughter people watching.

"Neville!" Rachelle ran past Kingsley.

"Oh, my goodness, look how big you are. You keep growing. Like a weed!" Neville turned away from Patti and scooped Rachelle up awkwardly. "You're going to be, like, six feet when you get to school."

"Speaking of school, how're those interview rounds coming?" asked Kingsley.

Kingsley had initially been put out when Neville quit the Auror Department for the comfort of Hogwarts Castle. But Neville belonged amongst his plans. The way he talked about some of these plant species, Kingsley would've thought that he revered some of them as his children. Some people had children; some people had grandchildren; some people had pets; Neville had his plants. Kingsley had heard through the grapevine that Neville was pretty much a shoe-in for the position as long as he didn't screw it up. He couldn't tell Neville this, of course, because a nervous Neville meant a Neville on his game.

"Pretty good. I mean, their not really interviews where you sit down and chat, are they? We moved around the greenhouses the whole time. I didn't know it, but Professor McGonagall had me arrive a couple hours early so I wouldn't be late." "Did she now?" Unbeknownst to Neville, this had been Kingsley's idea - Minerva rather thought it was a stroke of genius. Posey went to go fetch food for their guest. Neville explained he'd sent an owl to Kaspar Williamson asking about Kingsley's whereabouts and had heard he had taken ill. "I'm fine. I'm a little under the weather, but I'm fine. I thought of a place for you to go."

Depending on whether he got the job or not, Neville planned on traveling the world to study plants. As a parting gift from the Ministry, Kingsley had gotten him a little something. Patti, grinning, went to go fetch it from the study. The study was actually a third bedroom. It was a glass box. He could've probably gotten this from Hagrid. But Kingsley went through the trouble of using other contacts. There was a Bowtruckle in a rectangular glass box.

"That is awesome!" Neville clapped his hands together.

"Oh, good." Kingsley sounded relieved. He wasn't sure whether this was going to work or not. "I knew you're a herbologist. I read Newt Scamander was rather fond of these. I call it Zeek. Your father used to use that as a cover. Mr. Todd."

"Ezekiel? No kidding?" Patti frowned at Kingsley as something dawned on her. She thanked the house-elf for the drinks and cursed. Rachelle, surprised, gaped at her. "I think Frank Longbottom hit on me."

Neville and Kingsley burst out laughing.

"For like an hour. Oh, my God." Patti flushed red and buried her face behind a throw pillow.

"Oh, yeah! That was the day he told me to keep you on a tighter leash. And Mad-Eye did this." Kingsley, still laughing, shook his finger disapprovingly at Patti. He did it for a good minute because it took a moment for Patti to lower for pillow. "Shame, wife, for shame. I bet Longbottom loved that."

"He … he was very funny." Patti smiled at Neville. "Frank Longbottom. Damn."

Zeek the Bowtruckle seemed quite at home when Neville let him - or it- out. He showed it to Rachelle first, careful of its sharp pinchers, and stuck it in the pocket of his coat. Neville seemed happy because his toad, Trevor, had recently passed. That toad apparently had a record with getting lost. If Neville had a hard time keeping his hands on a toad, Kingsley didn't have high hopes for a Bowtruckle.

"I never learned how to handle those things in school," said Patti, admiring Neville's fingers.

"Oh, they're easy. Low maintenance. Got some wood lice and you're good to go." Neville caught a pouch Kingsley found in the functional foot rest. The lid came off for storage. "Awesome."

"Don't put in the same pocket!" Kingsley warned him as Neville changed his mind and stuffed the wood lice into his trousers pocket. "So, when do you start?"

Neville studied Kingsley quizzically as if he studied a particularly interesting specimen. He asked to use the kitchen, and they said it was fine. Neville didn't ask where stuff was because he stuff around him and there and used a Summoning Charm. Whatever he was making in there, he used a mortar and pestle. When he came back, he handed Kingsley a green gunky paste in the mortar. He had some on his face.

"No, thank you," said Kingsley.

Neville wiped the gunk off with his finger and tasted it. "I've made batches of it. It clears you up really well because it clears the airway passages. Madam Promfrey swears by it. It's like avocado."

"Got any cocoa powder?" asked Neville, not picking up on Kingsley's doubt. Patti Summoned some, and Neville sprinkled it in. He gazed at Kingsley, expectant. "It's creamy."

"Mad-Eye would say not to do this," said Kingsley.

"Yeah, and it was crazy." Neville started chatting up Zeek the Bowtruckle. "Me? Not crazy."