Chapter 2: The Importance of Coffee
Gawain had been right. Merlin, if there were ever a time he wished he'd been wrong, it was now. It had been a very long night. Outside, the sun would be newly risen, the birds would be singing, the new spring flowers opening, the Muggle paper boy riding a bicycle down the road. Not that Gawain or the others could see any of that, of course. Gawain was beginning to feel claustrophobic in the underground windowless kitchen, never mind that the room was far from small.
They had spent the entire night going over and over the same blasted things. Security measures in the Ministry, in Hogwarts, who to trust and with how much, how to re-establish broken foreign connections. Merlin, it was enough to make any man wish he were being fed to a hoard of starving chimeras. Gawain glanced at his watch and groaned. It was ten to seven in the morning. Mary is going to kill me.
He had owled his wife from the Ministry the night before, of course, telling her what had happened and that he would be working late. But he was well aware that would not stop the inevitable row. Working late was one thing. Working through the night was something else. He could already hear her voice as she repeated all the same circular arguments she always used. Come to think of it, it wasn't so very different from how he had spent his evening here.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Gawain pinched the bridge of his nose between middle finger and thumb, letting out a long breath. Sliding his hands back, feeling the prickles of his unshaven face, he massaged his temples where his dark hair was greying. He kept his eyes still shut tight, willing away the rising headache.
Letting out another sigh, Gawain straightened up and reached for the coffee pot to top off his cup, craning his neck to crack it as he did so. It must have been the tenth cup he had choked down over the course of the night. Of course, it had to be stale, he thought bitterly. Honestly, if Kingsley is going to keep us here all night, the least he could do is supply us with some decent coffee. Still, caffeine was caffeine. Kingsley had dug the bag of coffee beans out of the pantry the night before along with a dusty chocolate bar. The coffee was set to brew and the chocolate he had had broken up and distributed, making sure Ben had the largest piece.
Poor Ben. The boy was the youngest in the Auror ranks, having only qualified five years previous. He was a promising talent: fast reflexes, good instincts, quick with a wand and with a joke. The kind of bloke you really wanted watching your back in a fight. Gawain had high hopes for him, though he was still green and hardly field tested. But bring a couple of Dementors into the mix, and he was flat on the ground within two seconds.
It wasn't his fault, of course, but there was no convincing him of that. Ben was still young and proud; he was intolerably embarrassed by what he considered a great weakness. Gawain didn't know what memories the Dementors called forth to bring about such an intense reaction. He supposed it had something to do with the boy's parents. He knew Ben was orphaned at a young age, but any time the topic had been breached, Ben had quickly changed the subject. Gawain had never pursued it.
"And I'm telling you, Christophe Xavier will never go along with that!" Burgess was gesticulating fiercely in an attempt to assert a point that no one was disagreeing with. On the contrary, most of the company were no longer even listening, preferring to stare into space with their heads in their hands, or, in the case of Ben, sleep shamelessly on the table. Gawain wondered vaguely why Burgess always spoke as though it were his imperative to convince the world that the sky is yellow.
"Guy. You are the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation," Kingsley sighed, running a hand across his bald pate. "Convince him. Whatever you might say about Xavier, he does want what's best for France—"
He broke off as the door to the kitchen swung open. Gawain, Ben, Margaret, and Edward Bones all jerked upright and drew their wands, surprised that anyone could have made it all the way down the hall without being heard.
"Bloody hell, are you lot still here? You poor sods." Potter strolled into the room, barely sparing a glance for the four wands pointed directly at his chest. Gawain lowered his hand slowly. The others followed suit, though Margaret still looked wary and was sure to position herself where she could easily protect Kingsley.
Potter had freshened up since the night before. He was clean shaven and his hair was still dripping from the shower. The blood and grime had been scrubbed off his skin, though that merely served to draw attention to the fact that some of what Gawain had previously assumed to be dirt, was in fact bruising. His change of clothes, while still rather sullied and travel-worn, was at least free of blood stains. The dark bags under his eyes seemed at least a little lessened, though he still looked far from rested.
"Don't mind me; just in search of some breakfast," he said, moving around the scrubbed wooden table toward the pantry on the far side of the room. "Solved all the world's problems yet?" Potter asked, as though it were the simplest thing imaginable.
"Not quite, but we're getting there," Kingsley yawned, stretching his arms over his head.
"Well, best get a move on— Dear God, is that coffee?" Potter interrupted himself.
"It's stale. Merlin knows how long it's been sitting in the pantry," replied Kingsley, pouring Potter a cup and passing it to him.
"No bother. It's been so long since I've had a cup of coffee, I'm not sure I remember what it's supposed to taste like anyway," said Potter. He wrapped both hands around the cup and closed his eyes, savouring the warmth and inhaling the scent deeply. He took a sip and let out a sigh. "Oh, my friend, how I have missed you."
"Would it be optimistic of me to choose to assume you were addressing me and not the beverage?" said Kingsley sardonically.
"Yes, it would. You're quite a bit lower down on the List, I'm afraid," Potter responded with a grin. Somehow Gawain imagined this list to be spelt with a capital 'L'.
"The List?"
"Yeah, the List. Of all the things I've missed most while on the run. It goes something along the lines of 'food,' 'a proper bed,' 'coffee,' and just generally 'not dying.' He accented the items of his list, showing with his hand the relative importance of each like the rungs of a ladder, each lower than the one before.
Kingsley laughed. The others let out chuckles or snorts, all hastily stifled as though no one was quite sure whether they were meant to be privy to this conversation between two friends. This seemed to remind Kingsley of his manners. "I suppose I should have introduced you, shouldn't I?" Potter did not reply, merely raised an eyebrow with a small mocking smile on his lips which he hastily covered with a sip of coffee.
Kingsley started on his left, working his way around the table. "This is Margaret Jenkyns and Ben Harrows, both Aurors. Edward Bones, head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes." He moved to the right side of the table. "Guy Burgess, Department of International Magical Cooperation. Brannagh Roslyn, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And Gawain Robards, head of the Auror Office."
Potter nodded his head at each person in turn. His eyes lingered ever-so-slightly longer on Bones, a faint look of curiosity on his face as he sized him up. When Kingsley reached Gawain's name, Potter did the smallest of double takes, a slight crease appearing between his eyes. Gawain immediately began racking his memory for something in Gawain's reputation that could have caused this reaction, before reminding himself he didn't care what a seventeen year old boy thought about him.
Introductions complete, Potter glanced at Kingsley with an unreadable expression on his face. Well, unreadable for Gawain, but Kingsley must have made some sense out of it because he said, "I will vouch that everyone in this room is trustworthy."
"I trust your judgment," Potter replied with a shrug. "Or at any rate, I trust that you know that if any of them kill me, it's on your head," he added, his mouth quirking into a smile. Gawain could hardly believe the ability of this child to joke about being murdered. He spoke as lightly as if discussing what robes to wear the next day. What kind of life has this lad led? Even Kingsley seemed unsure of how to respond. Potter spared him the need by changing the subject, however, as he completed his trek toward the pantry.
"There any food in the house?" Potter asked.
"The pantry looked pretty bare," replied Kingsley apologetically.
Potter sighed. "Well, that figures. Guess I'll pick up some groceries while I'm out today."
"Where are you headed?" Kingsley asked, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.
Potter frowned, studying Kingsley. "Are you asking as a friend or as the Minister of Magic?"
"Does that make a difference?"
"I dunno. Past Ministers have a history of trying to keep tabs on me. I guess I just like knowing whether your interest is due to a concern for my wellbeing or a concern for your approval ratings."
"I'm sorry I asked," replied Kingsley crossly, turning back to his coffee and looking affronted.
Potter studied him for a moment before saying, "I have a few people to see. The Weasleys, Andromeda, the Creeveys…"
Kingsley's face was sombre. "Are you planning on visiting all of the bereaved families?" Potter abruptly seemed very interested in adding some sugar to his coffee. After a pause in which Potter did not answer, Kingsley continued. "That's not your responsibility. None of this was your fault. You can't fix everything."
Potter was stirring his coffee now, clearly avoiding Kingsley's eye. "None of it was supposed to happen this way. It wasn't the plan; I was supposed to get in and out without anyone being the wiser. No one was supposed to get hurt. They died for me. The least I can do is check in on their loved ones and see how they're holding up."
"Harry—"
Potter set down his coffee mug by the sink with a clank. "I should get going." He took the cloak he had been wearing the night before off the hook on the wall and slung it around his shoulders agitatedly. "Mrs. Weasley will be worrying. I meant what I said before, Kingsley. No trying to keep tabs on me or having me followed. Not even for my own good, you hear?"
"Would I do that?"
"Well, given that I was stalked by Order members for half of my childhood… Yeah, I think you might," Potter responded sarcastically, heading for the door. Kingsley shrugged, conceding the point. Potter reached the door and paused. "Kingsley, let these people go home and breakfast with their families, get a little rest. Yourself included. You can't have slept more than a few hours in the past two days." And with that, he once again disappeared down the hall with a simple call of, "See you later."
Kingsley sighed, looking entirely unsatisfied with the way the conversation had gone. He seemed lost in thought. He ran his hands across his face before looking up and realising all of his companions were watching him, each clearly awaiting a response to Potter's parting words.
He sighed again, grumbling under his breath. "Alright, go on home, but I expect all of you back here by one o'clock understood? And remember to Apparate directly onto the stoop."
There was a flurry of movement as everyone stood, gathering papers and quills. They all looked pleased at the prospect of heading home, but Gawain felt a leaden weight in his gut. He thought he might prefer sitting here listening to Burgess reciting French foreign policy rather than going home to the unavoidable argument with his wife.
He followed the others out of the kitchen, listening to them chatting contentedly, spirits seeming immeasurably improved at the prospect of breakfast and their own beds. Ben was openly smiling and Gawain heard him remark, "You know, I think I'm going to really like this kid."
Gawain rolled over uncomfortably, attempting to find a position that would allow him a few minutes of much needed sleep. But no matter how soft the mattress, how fluffy the pillows, how warm the blankets, he was well aware it was a hopeless endeavour. His brain just wouldn't switch off. Against his will, his mind kept mulling over all the things that were happening; the more he tried to tell himself not to think, the more he found himself thinking. He was restless. He wanted to get up and pace around the room, but he forced himself to lie still as though sleep could come through sheer force of will.
Kingsley had allotted them six hours to freshen up before he expected them back in that cursed kitchen. Six precious hours to eat, see their families, get some sleep, and how was Gawain spending it? Lying on the bed staring at the back of his eyelids, yelling at his wife while his daughter sat at the breakfast table pretending not to notice.
The arguments were so common these days, Gawain hardly need listen to what they were about. They often didn't make much sense to begin with. The more Mary wanted him home, spending time with the family, the more she would bicker with him, and the more she would bicker, the more he would want to stay away. For the past year or two, he had found himself procrastinating at the office, looking for a last minute job to perform while all the others headed home.
It wasn't that he didn't love his family. He did. Fifteen years later, there were still instances that reminded him of why he had married Mary in the first place. And Ella, his pride and joy… He still marvelled that he could have brought such a beautiful creature into the world. But try as he might to avoid it, he always seemed to find himself comparing this life to what he had had…before.
Mary and he had come together through grief. It seemed like a lifetime ago, now. At the time, it had been an unexpected and intense unifier. They had clung to each other for comfort; that desperate need for another person who understood what it was like to have loved and lost had kept them together. But time passed and Mary had recovered. Gawain had not. Whether or not either admitted it, grief and loss was not the ideal platform for a relationship. It was not the ideal platform for anything, but it was the story of Gawain's life. He thrived in grief.
The clock on the night table was ticking insistently. Each tock seemed to be screaming at him, "Sleep while you can!" but he knew it was of no use. He knew he was lucky Kingsley had even given them this break and that they weren't likely to get another anytime soon, but there was no chance he would be able to take advantage of it. He found himself itching to get back to work. It was the only way he knew of to stop himself from all this incessant thinking. He glanced at the clock face for the millionth time in the past few hours and saw that he had a little over an hour before he needed to be back at the Headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix. This is hopeless. He rolled out of bed and walked over to the window. Propping himself on the sill, he stared out at the gardens below him, thinking, always thinking.
The morning sun was reflecting off the muddy ground, still wet from a sprinkling of rain the night before. Beyond the low rock wall around their garden, the Yorkshire moor stretched out, beautiful in its ugliness. Grey and barren and drab, the country may seem to most, but Gawain loved it all. He felt at home in the sober wildness of the land.
Frequently, Mary wondered aloud what the love of this land said about his state of mind. She could not see the appeal. She set to work, attempting to cultivate their little garden, trying to overcome the power of the land by planting bulb after bulb of large, brightly-coloured flowers. But beyond the wall, the wild heather and foxglove and harebell dominated the eye, crushing the valiant opposition of Mary's hydrangeas and primroses. When they had first married, Mary had begged Gawain to move to a new house, but Gawain couldn't. Giving up this house would be like forgetting the life he had had before. Forgetting Katherine.
Gawain mentally shook himself. He couldn't keep doing this; there was so much work to be done. The War was over, but the reformation had just begun. The end had come so suddenly. The day had been like any other. Gawain had gone to bed one night and woken up the next morning to find everything had changed. Everything was different. And who had instigated it all? A seventeen year old boy whom most had believed long dead. It was a remarkable feat. But now for the real work.
In just the past few months, the Death Eaters had managed to decimate the entire infrastructure of the British Magical political system. So many Ministry workers had been involved in horrific acts, some in open support of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, some under the Imperius Curse, and some desperately trying anything and everything to keep themselves and their families alive. The very thought of spending the next months trying to decide who was culpable, who to absolve, who to punish and how much… it all gave Gawain a headache. He didn't even want to think about the tasks of trying to obtain unbiased records of known Death Eaters, victims who had died, been imprisoned, or were missing; of trying to maintain cooperation with other suffering countries; of trying to renew the devastated economy; of rebuilding public moral and faith in the government; of restoring Muggle relations… The list went on and on. It was going to be a long time before the country completely recovered. At the moment, many had doubts they ever would.
Gawain sighed and abandoned all thoughts of rest. He headed toward the kitchen for coffee and something to eat. As he made his way down the hall, he paused outside the sitting room at the sound of his daughter's voice chattering away. He poked his head inside to see Ella sitting with her sketch book, her grandmother sitting on the sofa nearby with a newspaper in her lap. Both looked up at the sound of Gawain's footsteps.
"Da'! Come look at my drawing!"
Gawain crossed the room to sit beside her. He pushed the dark hair back from her face and kissed her temple before looking at the sketch. Even as a crude childish depiction, Gawain could see it showed two wizards standing facing each other with wands outstretched, clearly in a duel.
"It's Harry Potter and You-Know-Who! Nan was telling me about it. She says Harry Potter killed him and the War is over!"
"I was reading tae her from the Daily Prophet," Gwen offered in explanation, passing him the paper. He opened it to the front page and skimmed the main article, a testimonial from some witnesses at the Battle of Hogwarts. "Tis remarkable, isnae it? Is it true?" Gwen was no fool. She knew not to believe everything in the newspaper. Gwen's Edinburgh accent was much thicker than that of her daughter's; Mary's had quite softened over the years. Sometimes Gawain missed it. But Ella was so much with her grandmother these days that sometimes he caught snippets of it in her speech too.
"Mostly," Gawain replied, browsing the front page, all about Harry Potter, of course.
"I imagine it's going to mean a proper amount o' chaos at werk," Gwen said, sympathetically. From the look she gave him, Gawain suspected that Mary had told her mother something of her argument with Gawain from that morning.
Gawain looked at Gwen but didn't speak right away. He was beyond grateful to his mother-in-law. Mary had gone down to part-time at Saint Mungo's when Ella had been born, but even so, there had been more than a few occasions when they had needed to call upon Gwen to come watch Ella when one or the other had gotten stuck at work. Parenting was hard enough. With two working parents, it sometimes felt impossible. He wasn't sure what they would have done if Gwendolyn Macdonald had not been such a dependable grandmother. He sometimes wished she was less observant however. She never seemed to judge him or take sides, but she observed. And sometimes that alone was enough to make his gut twist in guilt.
"It is going to mean some late nights, yes. Just until we get things sorted." He downplayed it. He wasn't keen on a refrain of the previous argument. To Gwen's credit, she did not push the topic. Merely nodded. He had no doubt she knew it would be a very long time until things were 'sorted'.
"When dae yeh need to be back at the office?"
"One o'clock," Gawain replied, not dissuading her assumption that he would be returning to the Ministry.
"Well, yeh'll be needing some coffee and something to eat before yeh go then." And with that, she bustled off into the kitchen. He smiled after her gratefully.
Gawain turned back to Ella who was busy colouring her drawing. She had been chattering, and he had not quite heard what she had been saying. Her dark curtain of hair was covering her face again as she lay on her stomach on the floor, scribbling away. He reached over and tucked her hair back behind her ear again.
"The Daily Prophet says that he's immoral," Ella was saying.
"Who?"
"Harry Potter, of course! They say he's immoral."
"Why would they say that?" Gawain asked, looking back toward the Daily Prophet, surprised to hear of this spin on the tale he had heard from Kingsley. But who could keep up with who was in the Prophet's good graces at any given time.
"They say that You-Know-Who tried and tried to kill him, but he can't die! So he must be immoral."
Gawain gave a small chortle. "I think you mean 'immortal,'" he corrected, gently.
"That's what I said. He's immortal."
"Of course you did. Must have misheard."
"Da'? What do you suppose he's like?"
"Harry Potter? I don't have to suppose so much. You're old da's met him."
Ella's hazel eyes widened to the size of saucers as she straightened up from her prone position on the floor. "You've met Harry Potter?"
"Just last night."
"Nan!" Ella called as Gwen re-entered the room with a plate of bacon sandwiches and a steaming mug of coffee. "Da' met Harry Potter last night!"
Gwen paused, looking at him. Then set the lunch down for him on the end table. "Did yeh, indeed?" she asked, more cautious than excited. "Dinae mention that to Mary, did yeh?"
"It didn't come up, no." Gawain understood the concern in her voice. Any topic of conversation related to the Potters was always a painful one for his wife.
"What's he like?" Ella interrupted excitedly, her drawing now quite forgotten as she stared at him expectantly.
It was a good question. Gawain didn't quite know what to think about Harry Potter. He'd certainly not expected to meet him last night, and the encounter had left his mind reeling a little too fast to have formed a fully-fledged opinion.
Gawain reached for a bacon sandwich as an excuse to give him time to consider the question. He chewed thoughtfully.
Potter was one big, walking contradiction. The way he had spoken with Kingsley was as though they were great friends of old: chatty, freely teasing each other with no mind to causing offense. Potter seemed confident and loquacious.
But there was an awkwardness to the boy as well. A timidity not immediately apparent. His tendency to ignore the others in the room, to avoid eye contact, scarcely acknowledging their existence, might to some appear rude, but Gawain suspected this was a mechanism to protect himself from the feeling of being goggled at as though he were an animal in a zoo. He had seemed uncomfortable when Kingsley had introduced him to the small assembly of Ministry heads of office. Gawain would have thought that after years of people gaping at him, the boy would have gotten used to it and accepted it, but his eyes clearly tried to avoid looking at any of the company who were staring overtly with mouths open.
Moreover, Potter had not seemed to want to discuss his own well-being or be thanked for saving their lives. Could this be modesty? That was a trait Gawain would not have expected to find in Harry Potter, the Chosen One. The boy was a legend, famous since infancy. That was enough to give anyone a fat head. The media had never given Gawain cause to doubt it. But quite suddenly, it was occurring to Gawain that there was a great deal more to Harry Potter than one read about in the papers.
He realised Ella was still waiting for a response to her question. He smiled at her fondly. "He was both quite ordinary and quite extraordinary, all at the same time."
He looked at his watch and saw that he was due back to Grimmauld Place in twenty minutes. Downing half the coffee in one gulp he said, "I'll tell you all about it later. I have to head back to work." He kissed Ella on top of the head and turned to Gwen. "Mary should be home by seven. Thanks so much for watching her again." She nodded. She still looked vaguely worried, but Gawain had nothing he could say to assuage these worries. Not just then.
With that, he left the sitting room to squeeze in a quick shower and a shave before he went. He carried his cup of coffee with him gratefully. The coffee was much better than the brew they had been drinking through the night. He wondered if he could find a way to bring a whole pot's worth with him.
Gawain let himself into the old house. He reached back to shut the door behind him, but before he did, he heard a crack and turned to see Ben had just Apparated onto the stoop. Gawain held the door open for him.
"Morning," Ben said with a yawn. "Or afternoon, or whatever it is."
Gawain nodded in response. "Where's Kingsley? Aren't you supposed to be guarding him?"
They made their way down the hall toward the kitchen. "He said it wasn't necessary to have two of us. Margaret is with him. I'll take over tonight."
Gawain grumbled under his breath. "He's going to get himself killed. The political climate is too unstable for him to be so lax right now. He's the Minister of Magic! Does he not realise how many people are going to want him dead?"
Ben shrugged. "This is Kingsley we're talking about. If anyone knows how to take care of himself, I suppose it's him."
They broke off the conversation as they entered the kitchen. Kingsley was already seated at the head of the table talking to Magaret Jenkyns to his left in a low voice. Brannagh Roslyn and Edward Bones were exchanging pleasantries as Bones rounded the table to find his seat on the far side. Guy Burgess was just shrugging off his jacket and settling himself into a chair which creaked in protest. He seemed lost in his own thoughts and was sucking on his own teeth, his brow furrowed.
Kingsley looked up as Gawain and Ben entered. "Excellent. Everyone's here; we may as well get started." Gawain again chose the chair closest the door as Ben circled the table, selecting a seat near the fireplace. Their Auror training second nature at this point—always be aware of the places from which an attack might originate. "The sooner we get through the agenda, the sooner we can all head home." He shuffled a sheaf of parchments to the front of the pile and continued. "This morning we left off on discussion of how we can ensure French cooperation with extradition—"
"Before we continue that, there is something else I would like to discuss."
Six pairs of surprised eyes turned toward Guy Burgess. Gawain frowned. Kingsley may be a new Minister, but that was hardly an excuse to interrupt him midsentence. Did Burgess really have the gall to think himself so superior that he could determine the agenda? Burgess had been appointed by Cornelius Fudge, and he had always been one of Fudge's favourites, a prominent member of his administration. It seemed his ego had failed to deflate alongside Fudge's political career.
After a moment of shocked silence, several eyes sneaking over to Kingsley to see how he would handle the situation, the Minister lowered his notes, taking the time to stack them neatly on top of the others, then raised politely attentive eyes toward Burgess and said softly, in his usual calm voice, "And what would that be, Guy?"
"Harry Potter."
Immediately Kingsley went stiff, his posture defensive. "What about him?" His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it Gawain had never heard before, almost daring Burgess to say the wrong thing.
"Well," Burgess barrelled on pompously, clearly oblivious to the change in Kingsley's tone, "we are in his house; you must have had some intentions when you brought us here. It seems as though he is privy to more of the Ministry doings than many who work there. Don't you think we deserve to know the particulars about Potter's relationship with the Ministry and his role in these proceedings? These are dangerous times. We need to be careful who we trust." Gawain had the impression Burgess had spent most of his morning practicing this little speech.
Again Kingsley was silent for a moment before responding. "Are you suggesting," he said very slowly, "that Harry Potter," he stressed the name, "might be inclined to share information with the Death Eaters?" Kingsley's tone was becoming dangerous. Gawain had rarely heard Kingsley come even close to losing his temper, but this seemed to be heading in that direction if Burgess didn't take a hint.
He didn't. "Perhaps not advertently, but maybe if he were to take the wrong person into his confidences…"
"Harry has not survived these seventeen years by being careless concerning who he 'takes into his confidences.'"
"I'm merely saying that if we are all going to be working here with him, in the interest of national security, we should have some background information about—"
"What is this really about, Mr. Burgess?" The formal address spoke volumes. "Ensuring national security, or satisfying your curiosity about a person I happen to know likes to keep his private life… private."
Gawain had never heard this tone from Kingsley. His face was calm, but Gawain could tell he was furious and, if Gawain wasn't mistaken, protective. Just how well did Kingsley and the boy know each other? Gawain exchanged a look with Margaret. There was a crease between her eyebrows that seemed to him to be asking the same questions.
Burgess finally seemed to be catching on to the fact that he was on thin ice, but he blundered on nonetheless. "We can't just ignore the fact that the boy has a criminal record!" he spluttered.
"The only crimes he has ever committed have been in defence of his own life or of others." Kingsley's fists were balled by this point and his teeth ground together. "If there is one person I trust to always make the right decisions, it is Harry.
"'The right decisions?!' Have you been paying any attention to the trouble he's been getting himself into at school for the past seven years?" Burgess voice was getting louder with every word.
"We are hardly here to discuss a schoolboy's habit for mischief."
"What about that Patronus Charm he conjured in front of a Muggle a few years ago, then?!"
Potter chose this moment to sidle in the door, his arms full of groceries. He had a mildly puzzled look on his face as he caught Burgess's last few words. Neither Kingsley nor Burgess noticed Potter's entrance.
"You were at that hearing. You know full well he was cleared of all charges on account of the fact that he was in the middle of a battle for his soul!" Kingsley responded angrily, enunciating the last few words.
Potter quickly seemed to comprehend the topic of the conversation. He stood in the door chewing on his lip, clearly deciding if he should announce his presence or leave the room. He glanced at the groceries in his arm, sighed, and shrugged. He made his way into the room, seeming quite unperturbed by the quarrel which was still in full swing. He made his way to the opposite end of the table from the arguing wizards, set down the bags on the table, and calmly began unpacking them. This put him immediately to Gawain's right.
The other occupants of the room were now looking uncomfortably between Potter and the still bickering Burgess and Kingsley. "Should we…er…stop them?" Ben asked Gawain quietly, shooting an embarrassed look at Potter.
"Oh, no, don't do that. It's about to get good. He's about to point out that I'm a Parselmouth." Potter was smiling softly as he continued to pull food out of the grocery bags and sort it.
Sure enough, mere seconds after Potter had said this, Burgess's voice was echoing off the walls as he shouted, "He's a Parselmouth, for the love of God!"
Potter raised his arms in mock triumph before moving to take a jug of milk over to the ice box. "Next comes the fact that I blew up my aunt." He spoke softly and neither of the bickering wizards seemed to notice as the attention in the room shifted toward the other end of the table.
"And that's not to mention all the offenses against the Restriction of Underage Sorcery, and the International Confederation of Wizards' Statue of Secrecy! He. Blew. Up. His. Aunt!"
Potter chuckled quietly under his breath. Eyes were dazedly passing between Potter and Burgess. Edward Bones, sitting just across the table from Gawain and to Potter's right finally asked bemusedly, "How are you doing that?"
"Friend of Fudge's, was he?" Potter asked, nodding his head in Burgess's direction.
"Yes," Bones responded slowly. "Fudge appointed him a few years ago when Barty Crouch disappeared."
"What a surprise," Potter responded sarcastically, more to himself. "Well, Fudge could sue for royalties. This bloke's plagiarising Fudge's favourite speech." By this point Potter had moved on to making himself a sandwich. He was dexterously slicing a cucumber when he asked, "Has Kingsley given you lot time to eat, or would anyone like some sandwiches?"
Ben, forever the bottomless pit, replied enthusiastically in the affirmative, and Potter pulled out half a loaf of bread and began spreading each piece with cheese systematically. Most everyone's attention had now shifted to Potter and the debate between Kingsley and Burgess was quite tuned out. When Potter had assembled a half dozen cucumber sandwiches and cut them into quarters, he casually walked around the table until he stood directly behind Kingsley and Burgess and half set, half dropped the plate of sandwiches onto the table between the two wizards with a crash. Both men jumped and looked around. Kingsley looked abashed and Burgess seemed to be unable to decide between mortified and furious. Gawain heard a distinct snort of laughter from Ben, audible even across the table.
"How…er...long have you been there?" Kingsley asked as though he truly did not wish to hear the answer.
"Oh, only about ten minutes or so," Potter replied casually, walking back to the other side of the table to move the cutting board and knife to the sink and the leftover cucumber and cheese to the icebox. Kingsley winced.
Burgess heaved his girth off of the chair indignantly and, seeming to have decided to cover his embarrassment with an overinflated show of antagonism, he said "Since my input is clearly not going to have any effect here, I hardly see how my presence is necessary." And with that he huffed out, looking more like a petulant child than anything.
Potter still had a smile on his lips. "Sorry about that." He downed one sandwich quarter in two bites.
Kingsley sighed, "No you're not."
"You're right…not even a little bit." Potter licked a bit of cheese off his finger and grinned in a way that was too contagious for even frustrated Kingsley to resist. They heard the front door slam which only made Potter's grin widen.
"Well, good riddance, I say. That man annoys the hell out of me," Ben muttered good-naturedly, helping himself to a sandwich.
"Oh he'll be back." Potter said confidently, reaching over the table for another sandwich himself.
"You don't even know him. How can you be so sure?" Kingsley asked.
"I don't need to know him to notice that he forgot his jacket." And with that, he grinned, enunciated his point with a large bite, and made his way to the door, chewing contentedly. All eyes followed him as he passed Burgess's chair where a jacket was hanging forgotten.
A note to the reader: AP Mom has raised an excellent question which I think is well worth explaining where others can see it. Usually, for every one person who asks a question, you can bet that 20 others are wondering the same thing. This will take some time to explain, so you are in no way obligated to read this.
The question concerns Kingsley's willingness to trust such a large group of people who all worked in the Death-Eater-run Ministry. This is a very complex question and the answer is different for each character. Some of them, most notably Guy Burgess, are present for political reasons. Kingsley is, for all intents and purposes, the Minister of Magic, however, he was appointed to the post by Ministry officials, not elected by the public. As such, at least until he is officially elected, he needs to tread very carefully so as to avoid offending anyone. He can't do everything on his own, but neither can he go around appointing friends or Order members to positions of power, even if they would do a better job. As for some of the others, such as Gawain, Margaret and Ben, Kingsley worked with them for several years, and he knows and trusts them intimately. Remember, even Arthur Weasley remained at the Ministry through the war—staying is not necessarily an indicator that they are not good people.
I will add that I do know my characters. Each has a very unique personality and a back-story which combine to explain a.) why they stayed at the Ministry after it fell to the Death Eaters, and b.) why Kingsley continues to trust them. For some of them, particularly Gawain, I don't want to say too much, as it may come up in some importance in the future plot. Others, I may never find a satisfactory way to weave into the story. I am in firm opposition to giving or receiving spoilers for anything, so I will say no more here; but if you remind me as it comes up, I'd be more than happy to fill you in on anything I did not satisfactorily explain in the story.
I do hope, in time, you'll get a better idea of who all these random people are. If you're feeling a little lost right now, that's fine; that's how I intended it. Well, I hope you're lost for the reasons I intended and not for those I didn't…There are so many facts crammed into my head, I forget while I'm writing that the reader doesn't already know them all.
Cheers!
Baguette