Word Count: 701


If he's honest, Kingsley doesn't want to be here. Since the final battle, he's been acting as Minister, and he has seen so much. He isn't sure he will ever be able to sleep again without seeing crying families mourning their fallen loved ones. How many hands has he held? How many comforting words have fallen from his lips?

He's exhausted, but he has a job to do. Tonight, that job takes the form of attending a ball. If he looks happy, maybe others will start to feel it too. Kingsley hates it. Let people mourn and grieve as they need to.

Still, it seems to help. There's an air of relaxation that Kingsley hasn't felt since before the war. People are laughing and smiling, the aura of hope is so strong that he can feel it on his skin as he makes his way along, dressed in his nicest robes, smiling and chatting as he needs.

"Shacklebolt!" Dawlish calls, making his way over, grinning broadly. "Good to see you, mate!"

Kingsley is more grateful than he can ever say. Too many people simply call him Minister, as though that's all he is now. He's glad for the normalcy and familiarity.

"Look at you! Looking good, eh?"

"Good to see you, John," Kingsley chuckles.

"We've got to do lunch this week, mate. Look at you, all official and whatnot. Can't be bothered with the Aurors."

"How much have you had to drink?"

John waves a dismissive hand. "Not enough."

There's a sadness in his voice that Kingsley understands. Amelia. He wonders if a night passes where John doesn't try to drink away her memory.

A moment passes, and John clears his throat. "Right. Well, congrats again, Shacklebolt. You're doing a damn fine job," he says, offering Kingsley a salute before turning on his heel.

Kingsley is left feeling heavy again. No one and nothing have been left untouched and unblemished by this war. There's still so much pain at every turn. A ball to celebrate the victory cannot mask that.

"You are horribly low on champagne! Might need another case. Oh, what about butterbeer? That seems to be a favorite tonight. Looking for comfort, bless."

The familiar voice draws him out of his thoughts, and he follows it, chuckling to himself. Rosmerta is terrorizing the catering staff. He takes the opportunity to approach her.

"If I remember correctly," Kingsley says, folding his arms over his chest, "you are a guest tonight, not a caterer."

Rosemerta turns to him, smoothing her hands over her lilac gown. "Yes, well, I'm sure you know better than anyone that sometimes you take your work with you."

Kingsley flinches at that. There have been too many nights when Rosmerta would open the pub for him after it had closed. She had listened and fixed him a drink as needed, though she always made sure he didn't consume enough to drown.

"Sorry. That was a bit… blunt," Rosmerta says softly. She grabs two glasses of wine and hands one to Kingsley. "Forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive. You know I appreciate you for being so straightforward," he says, lifting his glass. "A toast?"

"To healing," she says.

"To the people who help us along the way," he agrees, clinking his glass against hers.

"For what it's worth, I think you're doing great," she says, offering him a soft smile.

Sometimes that's all he needs. Having it come from someone who is sincere and not trying to tell him what he wants to hear makes all the difference in the world. Rosmerta is too much of a Ravenclaw to waste words; she prefers to speak the truth, and to keep it brief.

Kingsley still isn't sure what he's doing. No one left instructions on how to keep all of wizarding Britain running smoothly. Cornelius has visited him twice, and his only words of wisdom have been "Don't be like me, dear Shacklebolt.", which is hardly helpful at all.

But then there are days when he feels like he's going to be okay. They truly are all in this together. He's still figuring it out, but maybe it's enough. Maybe he can teach them to make it through.