For Lo.
Word Count: 5026
i.
He's halfway across the lawn, a plate of cookies in his hands, when he notices the man. He has dark skin and dark eyes, and he wears an expensive-looking grey suit, and there's something about him that just looks so out of place. Max can't quite put his finger on it, so he shrugs it off.
It's been a while since he's been to Privet Drive. After the Dursleys disappeared last summer, neither he nor Piers have had much reason to come this way. Maybe the bloke in the suit lives at Number Seven.
Now the Dursleys are back, and Max is certain they'll have a lot to take care of before they can entertain guests, but he wants to welcome them. After all, Piers and Dudley have always been inseparable, so Max has looked at the Dursleys as extended family since he took Piers in years ago.
Petunia answers the door with a tired smile. Something has changed in her. Max isn't sure what it is, but he can see it in her eyes.
"Max, dear," she says. "Lovely to see you again."
"And you, Petunia."
She gestures him inside. As he steps through the door, Max looks over his shoulder. The strange man is gone. It shouldn't seem like some great, extraordinary thing, but something about it doesn't feel right.
"Do you have a new neighbor?" Max asks, following Petunia into the kitchen.
She stiffens. So she's noticed him too. At least Max knows that there is something off about the bloke.
"Is everything okay?" he presses because he knows Petunia would never be the type to call the police. What would the neighbors think?
"Everything's fine," she assures him, and her tone is so sincere that he has no choice but to believe her.
"Okay. Well, I brought cookies."
That's enough to make her smile. "I'll put some tea on."
…
Piers is in the living room with his boyfriend when Max returns from Privet Drive. Max tries to hide his annoyance. He likes Dean well enough; his family have been Max's neighbors for the last five years now, and they're nice people. He's just a little grudging because Dean mysteriously ran off shortly after the Dursleys left.
If he was one for conspiracy theories, Max might think the two incidents were connected.
Piers hadn't been terribly hurt by Dean's disappearance. He had smiled a sad smile and assured Max that it was better that way, that Dean didn't have a choice. Max doesn't know what that had meant, but it doesn't matter. It's too late for questions. Dean is back, and Piers has never been happier.
"I hope you saved a batch of cookies for me," Piers calls, grinning when Max steps inside.
"And what sort of cousin would I be if I didn't?" Max asks, holding his hand over his heart in mock offense. "Hi, Dean."
"Heya, Max!"
Max doesn't have time to stop and chat. A quick glance at the clock tells him that he has to be at the bar in less than an hour. He had stayed and talked with Petunia for too long.
"Pizza money is on top of the fridge. Eat real food before binging on cookies," Max calls, hurrying to his room to change into something for work.
"Yes, Mum," Piers says with a laugh.
"I mean it!"
"We will!" Piers assured him. "You worry too much."
Max stumbles out of his room, a shirt halfway on. "I'm your guardian," he reminds his cousin, popping his head through. "It's my job to worry."
"You know, I am actually legally an adult," Piers reminds him. "Just saying."
Blimey. He really is, though just barely. Max wonders where the time has gone. It seems like just yesterday, Piers was the small, scrawny kid covered in bruises and scars and left in his custody; now he's looking into law school. Where has the time gone?
"Er… Max? You gonna keep staring at me?" Piers asks, clearing his throat. "Or you gonna go?"
Max shakes his head, pulling himself back to the present. He offers his cousin a smile. "I'll be late getting in," he says. "Don't get into trouble while I'm gone."
"You got it."
Max isn't entirely reassured. He turns his attention to Dean. There's something different about him too. Something has aged in him, and it is similar to Petunia, except Dean looks haunted. Max knows what trauma looks like. He doesn't know what happened to Dean, but he knows something has changed.
"Keep an eye on him, will you?"
Dean offers him a salute. "As best I can."
Max chuckles. Really, that's all he can hope for.
…
The bar is more on the empty side, but that isn't surprising. It's a Tuesday, and Tuesdays are almost always slow.
Max sees him again. Same dark skin, same grey suit. He sits alone in a corner, obscured by shadows. In front of him is a dark liquor of some sort, but it doesn't look like he's touched it.
Max might think he's being followed, except he sees Vernon Dursley at the bar. Vernon, to Max's knowledge, has never been much of a drinker. Lately, though, he's appeared in the bar every night. He never gets drunk. He tells Max he just needs to clear his head, and he drinks just enough that Max has to call Dudley to pick him up.
"Hey, Frankie," Max says, nudging the other bartender. "That bloke in the corner. What's he drinking?"
Frankie pulls out a bottle of Scotch, setting it on the bar. Max lets out an impressed whistle. It isn't exactly the cheapest thing on the shelf. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Between the suit and the drink, he can only assume the man must be important.
So why is he watching Vernon and his family? The Dursleys are as normal as it gets. As much as Max likes them, they're actually so conventional that they're boring.
Max grabs the bottle and heads over to where the man sits, taking a seat across from him. "Need a refill?"
The man shakes his head. "No. Thank you, though," he says, and his voice is so deep and velvety that it makes Max's heart flutter.
He swallows dryly. Now is not the time to get distracted. "Why are you following the Dursleys?"
If the man is uncomfortable, he doesn't show it. He leans in, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. "What I do is, quite honestly, none of your concern," he says, and Max wonders how anyone can sound so calm and collected. "I am just following up on some things with the family. Anything beyond that is classified."
His face is illuminated by the soft glow of the overhead light, and Max recognizes him immediately. He remembers thinking the Prime Minister's bodyguard was fit, but then he disappeared from the entourage. Max had been more than a little disappointed, and he quickly lost interest in politics.
"I know you," he says. "You were in the Prime Minister's security detail."
Something like amusement flashes through the other man's eyes. His lips quirk into an almost smile. "Kingsley," he says, extending a hand. "Kingsley Shacklebolt."
"Max Polkiss," Max says, accepting Kingsley's hand. "For what it's worth, you won't see much happen with Vernon. His son will be by to pick him up in the next hour or so, I'm sure."
Kingsley doesn't look particularly thrilled with that. It isn't that he looks upset. He just appears disappointed. "I see."
"I'm guessing you know what they're coping with, huh?" Max asks.
"I'm guessing you don't."
Max shouldn't like the way he doesn't give a direct answer, but he thinks it's cute. Something about Kingsley makes an otherwise annoying trait almost endearing.
Max bites the inside of his cheek. He doesn't need to think like that. Kingsley is a complete stranger, and Max is not the type to fall in love with every handsome bloke he sees.
Kingsley picks up his glass, lifting it towards Max. "Cheers," he says before downing it in one slow gulp.
"Long day at work?"
"Almost endless," Kingsley answers, and he smiles like there's a joke Max is missing. "Thank you for your help."
Max isn't sure what he's done to help, but he doesn't have a chance to ask. Kingsley climbs to his feet and crosses the room quickly. Max tries to follow him, trying to summon the courage to ask him out the whole time. When he steps outside, though, the parking lot is empty, almost like Kingsley vanished into thin air.
…
Piers and Dean are sprawled out on the couch when Max arrives home. The TV is still on, soft noise filling the air. Max doesn't wake them; he just takes the blanket that's draped over his chair and uses it to cover them up with.
His grudge toward Dean lessens a little bit. At least Piers is happy whenever Dean's around. That's all he wants, really. All he's ever wanted. If Piers isn't happy, then what's the point?
Max watches them for a moment longer before making his way into the kitchen. The pizza box has been left on the kitchen table, and Piers has attached a sticky note telling Max that they've saved him a few slices and some breadsticks
Max laughs to himself, pulling a slice of cold pizza from the box. Deep down, he had been concerned when Piers had come to live with him. They say that abused kids are at risk for behavioral problems. For a while, Piers had seemed troubled, caught up in reckless and dangerous behavior.
In the end, Max thinks it might have just been regular teenage rebellion. Piers is a good kid. So is Dudley. Maybe they're both a little flawed, but he has seen them grow. Now Piers has gotten his life turned around, and Dudley seems to have a good head on his shoulders.
It's an imperfect little life, but he loves it more than he can ever say.
ii.
Max returns to Privet Drive. He says he wants to walk Piers over to Number Four so that they can have a little one-on-one time. It's partially true, at least. He and Piers are always on the go, and it's so rare that they have a chance to talk anymore.
But it isn't just that. There's a hopeful part of him that expects to see Kingsley again, overdressed and strolling across the pavement, trying to look inconspicuous. He isn't there today, but that doesn't stop Max from looking.
"What's his name?" Piers asks.
"Whose?"
Piers gives him a knowing smile. "The bloke who's on your mind," he says, snorting. "You've got that ridiculous little lovesick puppy look going for you."
"I do not!" Max insists, and he's suddenly painfully aware of the muscles in his face. Has he given something away?
There's nothing to give away. It isn't like he's smitten with Kingsley. They barely know each other. It's just a crush, and it will pass. It always does.
"Oh, please. It's Adam all over," Piers teases.
"Hush, you." Max affectionately ruffles Piers' dark hair the way he's done since Piers was a kid. "You know I don't date. The only special bloke in my life is you."
Piers rolls his eyes. "You know that's creepy as hell now that I'm older, right?"
"Oh, shut up."
…
Kingsley doesn't come to the bar that night either. Vernon is there, looking so lost and confused.
Max pours him a drink. "Alright, Vernon?"
"You're a nice boy," Vernon says quietly, stroking his moustache and seeming to lose himself in thought for several moments.
Max doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just nods, lingering there. It's another quiet night. The bar won't pick up again until Friday. Until then, it's slow night after slow night, waiting around, and tending to few customers who make their way in.
Just to keep busy, Max wipes down the bar.
"I'm not nice," Vernon continues.
"Don't say that. I'm sure you're lovely."
Sure, Vernon may be a little rough around the edges, and he doesn't like anything that goes against his cookie cutter idea of the world, but he can't be completely awful, can he?
"Never felt comfortable with Dudley at your place. What with you being… being…"
"Gay," Max says bluntly. "I'm gay. You can say it. It isn't a dirty word."
If Vernon takes offense to Max's tone, he doesn't show it. He simply down the last of his drink and signals that he wants another. Max obliges.
"But you're okay. You're good, even if you're different."
Max doesn't feel particularly comfortable with this conversation anymore. Different. At least it's a much kinder word than most use for him. He gives Vernon credit for that.
"Harry turned out to be okay too," Vernon says, tipping the glass back and finishing it quickly. "Better than I ever thought."
"Let's get you home, Vernon."
…
Later that night, Dudley returns to the bar without his father. He sits down, but he only orders a Coke, and Max is happy to serve him.
"Welcome back," Max says.
Dudley doesn't look quite as haunted. He's troubled and distracted, like whatever is going on inside his head is too great to focus on much else, but he seems okay. "Alright, Max?"
"Alright," Max replies, nodding. "Have a good… holiday?"
He doesn't know what else to call it. All he knows is that an entire family disappeared without a trace, and Piers' heart broke. Maybe he'll never know what actually happened during their absence, but he needs to know that things will go back to normal, that everything will make sense again.
Dudley's lips twitch. He plucks a cigarette from his pocket, tucking it between his lips and lighting it. "Bad habit," he says. "Maybe I ought to quit."
"Did you know someone's keeping tabs on you?" Max asks.
He doesn't think Kingsley means any harm, but still. He just wants to know something. Anything.
Dudley nods and exhales smoke. "It's okay," he says. "They're good people."
There's something about the way he says good that gives Max some reassurance.
"Thanks for keeping an eye on my dad when he's here," Dudley tells him, smiling. "It means a lot."
Max wants to say that it's just part of his job, but he knows that isn't quite right. He takes extra care with Vernon because that family is so closely tied to his own, because Dudley means the world to Piers. Maybe it's the same reason he's developed a sort of camaraderie with Petunia. It's all because of Dudley, and it all leads back to making Piers happy.
"Don't mention it," Max says, trying to sound casual about it and pretend it isn't a big deal.
Dudley sets a few bills down to cover his drink before sliding off the stool and offering Max a quick farewell wave. Once he's gone, Max sighs and shakes his head. He still wants answers, but maybe he's going to have to accept that he is never going to get those answers.
His eyes sweep over the dim room, and he still finds himself searching for Kingsley. He isn't there, and Max hates how disappointed he feels.
…
Piers is asleep on the couch when Max gets home, but Dean isn't. Instead, he finds Dean in the kitchen, a glass of vodka sitting before him.
"Don't tell me you're going to drink that straight," Max says, shuddering. "Only psychopaths drink vodka without a mixer."
Dean makes a face, but his heart isn't in it. Max recognizes that expression too well; he's seen it on his own face more often than he'd like to admit. He thinks he might have worn that very expression after they laid his mother to rest, and he and his first boyfriend got so drunk that they passed out in Max's dad's front lawn. That's the sort of pain that has seen some shit that can never be erased.
Maz sighs and pulls out a soda before sitting across from Dean. "Wanna talk about it?"
Dean's expression says that no, he most definitely doesn't want to talk about it. But there's something else. There's a desire in his dark eyes that breaks Max's heart. He's carrying something so heavy.
"It's hard to go on sometimes," Dean says.
"What happened to you?" Max whispers.
"To me?" Dean laughs and shakes his head. He takes a gulp of vodka, wincing at the burn. "A lot. I saw someone die."
"I'm sorry."
"He was protecting me."
Max isn't sure what to say to that. He just sips his drink, waiting for Dean to continue.
"It should have been. I should have fought harder. I just…" Dean downs the last of the drink. Tears streak his face. "I don't know what to do."
Max wishes he had some sage advice that could take Dean's pain away. He doesn't. It doesn't matter that he's been there too, that he's lost so many loved ones; there is nothing that can be said to make things go back to normal.
So he talks because there is something so healing about knowing that you're not alone and other people know the pain that you know. He talks about his mum's desperate battle, and how she had been unable to recover because the cancer spread too quickly and took her far too soon. He talks about how his dad was never the same and always saw her ghost everywhere, and one day he couldn't take it anymore, so he decided to join her. Max had found his body, and he went to therapy two days later. He talks about the time Jeremy's father found out about them, and Jeremy was beaten mercilessly, and Max had stayed by his side in the hospital because that's what you do when you love someone.
By the time it's over, he's traded his soda in for something harder. He doesn't drink to forget; he is so past that. He drinks because he understands, and he wants Dean to be comfortable.
"Does Piers know?"
Dean nods. "Everything."
Max assumes that means there are things that Dean isn't telling him, and that's okay. He understands that sometimes you can only give away pieces of the pain.
"You're an okay bloke, Dean," Max says, grinning. "Even if West Ham is a bit shit."
Dean rolls his eyes, but he can't hide his smile. "Yeah, well, at least you don't support Chelsea," he chuckles.
Max climbs to his feet. "You guys know that Piers has a bed, right?" he asks, his eyes flickering to the couch that's barely visible through the doorway. "You don't have to keep sleeping on the couch."
Dean laughs, standing. He's a little unsteady on his feet, and Max suspects he doesn't drink very often. "Right," he says. "Bedroom. Maybe next time."
As he makes his way to his own room, Max finds himself smiling. Maybe everything is going to work itself out. Maybe everything will be okay, and they will find a way to heal.
iii.
It's nearly a week before he sees Kingsley again. His shift has barely begun, and it's a normal quiet Monday, and he is already bored out of his mind. Frankie is busy chatting up a uni student at the other end of the bar, but Max doesn't care. There isn't anything going on tonight.
A stool at the bar slides back, and Max looks up. Kingsley doesn't wear a suit this time. He's dressed in a plain white t-shirt and dark jeans, and it isn't fair that he looks this good in casual wear too.
"Hello," Max says, and he feels ridiculous because that isn't how he's supposed to greet a customer. "Er… What can I get for you."
"Surprise me."
Max isn't sure what to make of that. He doesn't know what Kingsley likes other than Scotch. Dark liquor? Clear? Break open a nice lager?
He decides to play it safe, opting for a Coke and rum. Kingsley looks delighted as he drinks it.
"Still work for the Prime Minister?" Max asks. Small talk is terribly boring, but what is he supposed to do? He doesn't know anything about the bloke.
Kingsley looks amused, like Max has said something funny. "I guess you can say I got a promotion."
"No shit?"
Kingsley chuckles. "No shit," he confirms.
Max lets out an impressed whistle. Maybe he doesn't know what Kingsley does now, but he knows it must be important since he was already close to the Prime Minister.
"What's he got you doing then? Some sort of secret agent stuff, isn't it?" Max asks, a little too eager for details. "Are you undercover now or something?"
"You watch too many movies," Kingsley says, finishing off his drink. "We can talk more on your break if you'd like."
He's on his feet, digging in his pockets. The way he handles the bills in his wallet is funny, almost like a tourist who struggles to make sense of the currency. Max wonders why that is, since Kingsley is clearly English.
"I take my breaks at nine," Max tells him.
Kingsley just grins. "I know."
And Max has a feeling that Kingsley knows a lot about him. He isn't sure how to feel about that, but, overall, he doesn't really mind.
He watches as Kingsley walks away, disappearing from the door. Max tries not to feel disappointed. It would be nice to be able to be like Frankie, too lean against the bar and laugh and flirt whenever he's free.
Instead, he grabs a rag and wipes down the bar again.
…
Kingsley is waiting for him at exactly nine. He has a burger and chips ready for him, and they're still gloriously warm like they're fresh from the pub. Max raises his brows. "You didn't have to do that," he says.
"I had the time," Kingsley responds, like it's nothing at all.
Maybe it isn't to him. Maybe he's the type of fella who goes around and does good deeds for strangers. Max wonders why he's so special, why Kingsley would bother with him.
"I'm going to eat in my car," Max tells him. "You can join me."
Kingsley nods and follows him. Max's stomach growls. He usually spends his lunch breaks snacking on anything he can find and drinking a Coke. He can't remember the last time he's actually gotten to sit down and enjoy a break. The fact that Kingsley is with him makes it better.
He bites the inside of his cheek. Kingsley is still a stranger, and he is getting ahead of himself. So what if Kingsley is good-looking? It doesn't mean anything. Max needs to stop getting his hopes up.
"I wasn't sure what you liked," Kingsley says. "I got it plain."
Max shakes his head. "It's fine."
He bites into the burger, savoring the grilled taste, relishing the way the juices roll onto his tongue. He hasn't eaten since lunch, and he's tired and hungry, and this is exactly what he needed.
"I'm sorry I didn't come back."
Max blushes, taking another bite of his burger. "It's cool," he says before swallowing. "It's not like I sat around and waited for you."
Except that's exactly what he did. Though he isn't looking at him, Max imagines Kingsley is giving him a knowing smile, like he can sense that Max is lying. Is it really that obvious? Maybe he's just being paranoid.
"The truth is, it's difficult," Kingsley says, sighing heavily. "It… Well, while there aren't laws against it anymore, it can still be tricky."
Max turns to look at him now. It's interesting to see Kingsley look even remotely flustered. "What? You wouldn't be the first black guy I dated," he says, confused.
Is it really a big deal to him? Surrey has gotten a lot more progressive over the years. Hell, sometimes he can even go out without little old ladies looking at him like he's the devil. It's better than it had been when he was a teenager, anyway.
Kingsley laughs. "No. I'm not talking about race," he says.
"Then what is it?"
Kingsley pulls something from his pocket. It looks like a slender piece of wood, and Max can't help but stare, the confusion building.
"What's that?"
"A wand."
Max raises his brows, intrigued. "Oh. Do you do those Renaissance fairs?"
"It's real," Kingsley says patiently. "My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. I am a Pureblood wizard, and a Ravenclaw. Until recently, I worked as an Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. After the Battle of Hogwarts, I was made Minister of Magic."
Max blinks, trying to take it all in. It takes a moment, and all he can do is stare at Kingsley, searching his face for a punchline. There is only sincerity there.
"You're saying… You're telling me that magic is real?" Max asks.
Kingsley nods. "Ask the Dursleys. Ask Dean. Harry is one of the most famous wizards in our world, and Dean Thomas proved to be a brave fighter during the war."
War. That must be the great trauma Dean has faced.
"Why was he on the run?"
Kingsley shakes his head. "That isn't my story to tell," he says.
"Then why are you telling me any of this?" Max asks, rubbing his temples, his burger and chips forgotten.
"Because I like you," Kingsley says. "If this is too much, let me know, and I can…" He clears his throat. "Well, we have Obliviators who… sort of… make people forget when they've seen magic. I'm not an Obliviator, but…"
"Can you show me? Magic, I mean. Not the memory erasing."
Kingsley points the wand at a crack on Max's windshield. Max has been meaning to get it fixed for ages now, but he never seems to get around to it. "Reparo!" The crack seals itself, the glass completely smoothing out.
"Well… Shit," Max says. "I guess magic does exist."
"Yes, it does."
"Would you like to come over tonight?" Max asks, blushing. "Maybe have a glass of wine."
Kingsley smiles and tucks his wand away. "I'd like that."
…
They have more than a glass of wine, and they end up tumbling into Max's bed, lips desperately moving over skin. Kingsley is on top of him, and his weight is comforting and reassuring, and Max kisses him again.
"I don't usually do this," Max whispers as Kingsley pulls his shirt away and tosses it aside.
Kingsley chuckles, stroking Max's dark curls. "I wouldn't care if you did," he assures him.
Kingsley's teeth find his neck, and he nips and nibbles just beside his pulse point. Max closes his eyes, a soft moan escaping his lips. It has been too long, and he is so damn lonely. But Kingsley is warm and comfortable, and Max can't remember a moment ever feeling so right.
iv.
Kingsley stays the night. Waking up beside him is nice. Max thinks he wouldn't mind doing it more often, but he quickly scolds himself because he's jumping too far ahead again. For all he knows, it's just a one night stand, and he doesn't need to get his hopes up.
Kingsley opens his eyes, grinning when he sees Max. "Were you watching me sleep?"
"Don't make it sound so creepy," Max laughs, climbing out of bed and changing into something comfortable. "I was only awake for like five minutes."
Kingsley sits up, stretching. Max steals a glance at him, admiring the shape of his body, the firm muscles, the… He clears his throat, blushing. Dean and Piers will undoubtedly be awake by now. The last thing he needs is to get noisy and end up having an uncomfortable conversation during breakfast.
"I don't have anything that will fit you," Max says apologetically.
"Don't worry." Kingsley plucks his shirt from the floor. "It won't hurt to wear the same clothes."
"Do you want breakfast?" Max asks. "As the Minister of Magic, I'm sure you have to get to work, but…"
Kingsley smiles. "Breakfast sounds amazing."
…
Max has already fixed everyone's plates when Dean and Piers join them in the dining room. Dean stares at Kingsley with wide eyes.
"I already know the big secret," Max assures him, chuckling as he sits beside Kingsley. "I take it you two know each other already, so I won't bother with introductions. Piers, this is Kingsley Shacklebolt."
"Pleased to meet you," Piers says with a polite nod.
"Mate, your cousin is shagging the Minister of Magic," Dean says, and Kingsley almost chokes on his pancake.
Max rolls his eyes. "Don't you have a home of your own? Right next door?"
Dean just laughs, shrugging. "You're not denying it."
"And you're not sitting down for breakfast with your mum and sisters," Max counters.
"Are they always like that?" Kingsley asks, clearly amused.
"Every damn day," Piers confirms.
…
"So, you have a boyfriend now," Piers says after Kingsley has left for work and Dean has gone home for a little while.
"He isn't my boyfriend," Max mutters, blushing.
"Oh, you are adorable," Piers snorts. "You don't make breakfast for random hook-ups."
Max wants to ask how he knows that he has had random hook-ups. Maybe he isn't as discreet as he thought.
"I'm hopeful," Max says, shrugging.
Piers nods, tucking a cigarette between his lips. Max glares a warning, and his little cousin mutters a quick apology before returning the cigarette to the pack again. "Hopeful is good," he says. "Dean says Kingsley is good. Apparently he's quite important."
Max had assumed as much. He may not know much about Kingsley's world, but Minister of Magic is a fancy title, and he imagines it must come with a lot of power and responsibility.
"As long as you're happy," Piers says, resting a gentle hand on Max's shoulder.
"I am."
Things are slowly falling into place, and he's starting to feel like maybe the world can be normal again. It isn't there yet, but Max has a feeling that it's smooth sailing from here.