School: Hogwarts Year 2

Theme: King's Cross - Look at the experiences of those discovering magic or new magic for the first time.

Prompts: [Any pairing] Muggle Prime Minister/Minister of Magic (main); [Quote] "It isn't enough to talk about peace. One must believe in it. And it isn't enough to believe in it. One must work at it." —Eleanor Roosevelt; [Quote] "Of all the liars in the world, sometimes the worst are our own fears." Rudyard Kipling

WC: 2357

Moody is the Muggle Prime Minister AU; Kingsley x Moody. ⁂ denotes scene change and time skip.

Kingsley's feet skidded as he moved onto the slick hardwood—varnished by decades of foot traffic, sections lighter to reveal the paths most often taken—but he easily stepped onto surer footing, wand drawn and held ready at his side. The office was simple compared to the gold plated grandeur of the Minister of Magic's office—a room now mostly kept for show as Minister Bagnold conducted her business in a nondescript meeting room several floors below since she came into power.

The letter she had pushed into his hands rustled softly in his pocket as Kingsley took another cautious step forward, head quirked to one side as he listened. Distant traffic rumbled past in the distance, the long haunting call of a siren suddenly clipping out into nothingness. The city was sleeping, the building was empty. Kingsley had watched—first from a small cafe across the road, huddled around a cup of fruity tea, sour but he still drank it; and then, from the cracked blind of his hotel room, breath fogging in front of him, blanket pulled tight across his too large shoulders—as each and every light flicked off, empty eyes staring out across London.

The gun's click was as soft as a kiss, but the muzzle was like a brand as it pressed into Kingsley's back.

"Prime Minister Moody?" Kingsley asked. His voice was matter-of-fact, hands steady at his side, overall outwardly nonplussed by having a gun shoved into the small of his back. His throat was dry, a distant roaring howling in his ears, mind whirring a thousand and one ways of disarming his opponent—not a wizard, so would probably expect him to use his fists which was disappointing as Kingsley had won a number of fights that way.

"I'll ask the questions if you don't mind, lad. Then depending on your answer, you may get to ask some."

The words were soft, the hint of a burr clinging to the edges of them, but no less serious. Kingsley swallowed past the lump in his throat, staring at the faint shadows he could see reflected in the window. They were warped with age, street lamps mostly obscuring any helpful reflections—twisted mockeries of human shapes—with their harsh electric glow, but Kingsley could just see a pale shape behind him. It didn't mean much of course, a significant proportion of the government staff were white, but it was something.

Kingsley nodded, deliberately and carefully, but made no other movements.

"Your name? And why are you here?"

"Kingsley Shacklebolt. I'm here to deliver an... explanation."

Kingsley watched the figure in the window, felt the air shift against the bare skin of his arms—tiny patches peeking through the gaps in the leather of his bracers, pale with the spatters of magical burn scars—felt the man behind him weigh him up, eyes roving over the expanse of his back like a punch.

"Okay."

The gun moved away from his back and Kingsley fought back the urge to shift away, to recoil from a nonexistent wound; but his back remained straight, hands loose and ready at his side.

"Take a seat, Kingsley."

Moody moved like a predator, smooth as silk and just as silent, across the floor to settle behind the imposing desk. Kingsley sat in the offered chair, bracing his feet on the floor, a moment of hesitation despite the sturdy seeming wood.

"Let's hear your explanation," Moody growled, eyes fixed on Kingsley, hand resting next to the pistol. Kingsley knew Moody would shoot him without a second thought if he was perceived as about to attack, and the thought was strangely comforting.

"The explanation I have been told to give," Moody leant forward, a gleam in his eyes that showed he heard the double meaning in Kingsley's words—the admission that there was information hidden just below the surface—and he understood, "is about the strange occurrences yesterday."

Moody nodded, grin cracking through his unconcerned facade.

"Magic is real. Our society has been kept secret from yours for many centuries now, but we are most definitely real. There has been a war raging for the past four years that ended abruptly yesterday. People are celebrating, becoming careless, so now you need to know as well."

"You're aware I now owe a five year old money?"

It was the sheer unexpectedness of the question that cracked Kingsley's professional exterior, a laugh bubbling out of his chest before he could contain it. Moody grinned, wide, teeth bared.

"My assistant's daughter told me it was magic. She's got a good eye as it turns out."

Kingsley laughed fully then, head thrown back and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He'd been briefed before this assignment—listening to the dull rote words as fury bubbled in his stomach—but that information was less than useless.

"Nothing against you, lad, but shouldn't it be a superior here to see me?"

"You weren't supposed to see me," Kingsley explained, face contorting in a suppressed wince, pressing one hand to his ribs. Eventually the damage would heal, the Healers said, but eventually felt like forever when even breathing sent crackles of pain down his nerves.

"I was supposed to leave a letter. All for plausible deniability."

Moody snorted in response, shaking his head slowly.

"Orders from your boss, I take it?"

Kingsley nodded, careful to keep his face blank, old anger beginning to prick his chest. At its core, it wasn't fair. Each passed over promotion hurt a little more; each 'helpful' comment cut a little deeper. Kingsley watched his colleagues be praised for their 'dedication to the cause', their 'bravery in the face of adversity', only to be belittled when he acted the same.

This entire mission was meant to mollify him, pacify the burning rage in his chest, but as Kingsley looked at Moody—a wartime Minister elected during supposed peacetime, a sign that the Muggles may not understand but they were scared; and Kingsley had been ignored, yet again—and knew that he understood, not fully as there were nuances Moody would never experience; but he understood.

"For the record, here is the letter."

Kingsley carefully, eyes fixed on Moody, pulled the letter from his pocket, paper rustling in the quiet of the office.

"And off the record, I'll answer whatever questions you like."

Moody's grin was shark like, moonlight highlighting the scars on his face.

"I feel like this will be a very beneficial friendship, Kingsley Shacklebolt."

⁂

The sun beat down relentlessly overhead, sending the entirety of London out into the streets to enjoy the precious sunshine. This truth held true for both Muggles and Wizards; and it was easy enough for Kingsley to slip through the packed streets of London—politely nodding at passersby, their faces drawn and nervous, nails bitten to the quick—and make his way into Diagon Alley.

Fear was almost palpable in the air, a twisted undercurrent that permeated everything, leaving an iron taste in Kingsley's mouth.

Moody was waiting for him as he ducked beneath the striped awning of Fortesque's ice cream shop, back pressed against the cold brickwork, as confident as any king could be in a world he didn't belong in.

"Shacklebolt."

His voice was clipped, eyes studying every passing stranger with suspicion.

"Fudge is still insistent," Kingsley sighed, metal of the chair screeching as he dragged it to the side, sitting to provide cover for the blind spot in Moody's surveillance, offering up his own flesh as a sacrifice to the cause.

"The man's an idiot."

Moody's finger tapped slowly over the gun in his jacket as he thought, a tell as familiar to Kingsley as breathing.

"Your lot," He glanced at Kingsley, scanning him up and down in a look that was at once mechanical assessment—a flicker of a smile when he caught sight of the knife strapped to Kingsley's thigh—and caring concern, "are going to be exposed one day. They need to make sure it's on their terms or it's going to turn very bad, very quickly."

"They won't believe that. I've been in meetings with the older British purebloods and it's as if they think Muggles have barely moved past fire, because that is where they stopped."

Kingsley could remember the freezing cold of Hogwarts, the emptiness of a giant castle in the depths of winter with not enough bodies to heat it, and precious few fireplaces for the blazing heat he was used to. Any mention of runes for warmth had been quickly rebuffed with the familiar, hated excuse: 'This is the way it has always been.'

"An argument for after this war," Moody growled, head twisting to follow the path of a passerby, a frown creasing his face. He looked tired. It wasn't noticeable to most, but Kingsley had spent more time in close proximity to Moody than most—Moody had framed his favourite newspaper headline the day after Kingsley was photographed leaving his house, coat buttoned up to his throat despite the relatively warm spring day.

There were the faintest hints of purple beneath his eyes, and the skin around his scars were reddening, nail marks clear on the unbroken skin. His weight was shifted, almost imperceptibly off his prosthetic leg, painkiller box poking out of one pocket. He wasn't just carrying the one gun, a second was in his boot. He was dressed, once again, as a man ready to kill.

"Are you running for office again?" Kingsley asked, question tumbling from him before he could stop himself.

Moody barked out a laugh, and bared his teeth in more of a grimace than a smile.

"Not by choice," he growled, fingers picking up that statcato beat once again, "I'm a wartime prime minister, I'm fine with that. I would have been happy to spend my final few years letting idiots argue over stupid things, and do my best by my people. But…"

Moody shrugged, spreading his hands—the callouses thick over his palms and the pads of his fingers, so different from the soft smooth hands of the politicians Kingsley was used to in this strange political landscape he found himself—saying more in that gesture than any words could convey.

"People are scared here as well," Kingsley sighed, looking down the street, not at the people, but at the shop fronts—the apartments above them carefully locked up and abandoned, windows lying bare like an unattended altar, "And yet Fudge won't admit anything is wrong."

Kingsley had a lifetime of regulating his emotions: cautious of appearing too much; too loud, too angry, too quiet, too stubborn. He had clawed his way up through the ranks, dancing to their tune until he had eked out a tiny portion of control, of space to breathe and simply be. And then the rumours started, whispers of Voldemort's return and Kingsley found himself in a far different war zone than he was used to: politics.

He had thought Moody was exaggerating. It was human nature, after all. But the realisation was cold and suffocating; so Kingsley went to war once more.

"He will have to, and then he'll have to deal with me," Moody laughed.

His grin was as sharp as ever, an old familiar thrill passing down Kingsley's spine. Moody glanced at his watch, a low groan rumbling in his chest, one hand rubbing at his temples.

"Stay safe," Moody said, voice soft. He stood, bracing himself on the table, Kingsley mirroring his movement. Moody had to tilt his chin back to look into Kingsley's eyes, searching his face as if trying to commit it to memory.

"Likewise."

Moody's hand was warm in his, outwardly nothing more than a friendly handshake, but the weight it carried was crushing.

Kingsley watched Moody limp away, head raised and glaring at anybody foolish enough to wander too close, and felt his heartbreak in his chest. There were no guarantees in war, so Kingsley could only hope against hope, and cling to the knowledge that whatever the outcome, he would see Moody again one day; in this life or the next.

⁂

"Minister."

Kingsley didn't outwardly react—decades of practice of schooling his face, modulating his emotions kicking in in a heartbeat—but his heartbeat picked up in his chest, warmth flooding through his veins.

"Minister," Kingsley replied, turning to face Moody.

His hair was greying at the temples, a visible reminder of fragility that wouldn't touch Kingsley for several decades. His scars stood out in stark relief against his weathered skin, several new—a softer pink against the silvery grey of his older, familiar scars. His grin was the same as it was on the night of their first meeting; and Kingsley couldn't help but smile back, clasping Moody's hand warmly in both of his own.

A weight he wasn't aware he was carrying lifted from his shoulders as Moody's hand squeezed his—silent reassurance and promise in a simple, disguised gesture.

"Are you looking forward to today?" Moody asked, tone deceptively mild as the two fell into step, moving in unison down the hallway towards an uncertain future.

"It's a long time coming, and this is just the start," Kingsley answered, voice low. His nails were bitten to the quick, exhaustion dragging at his bones. War had, somehow, seemed easier than the backstabbing that was politics; a fight Moody knew well.

"My replacement is a good woman, she'll do right, when she takes the office," Moody confirmed. "I'm looking forward to retirement."

"You'll be bored."

Moody laughed, relief flooding through Kingsley's chest.

"Possibly. I'm sure you'll keep me busy, politics is a different fight to what you're used to."

Kingsley grimaced, a brief twitch of his lips that spoke volumes.

"No-one ever said peace was going to be easy, lad," Moody said gently, drawing Kingsley to a stop before the closed doors of the meeting room—imposing sheets of unmarked grey stone, almost blending into the walls on either side of them.

"No, but the work needs to be done."

Moody nodded grimly, and stepped back, letting Kingsley step up to the doors, and push them open into a strange, new future.