A/N: Although he seems to be the right age (and I've always imagined some years older than the Marauder era) there's no indication, ever, that Kingsley Shacklebolt was in the first Order. And though it's never addressed again, his first line in the books tells us he knew James Potter on an at least friendly-enough basis: "Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus…he looks exactly like James." Anyway, hope you all enjoy, sorry for the long, long delay!

Each time James Potter was arrested, he came quietly, officially, since he never put up the slightest fight. Off the record, he wouldn't shut up.

"Did you ever play Quidditch?" Potter asked conversationally, looking over his shoulder and up at the tall Auror cuffing his hands behind his back. "I've seen Beaters for England with arms not half the size of yours. Merciful Mungo, what the hell do you eat for breakfast?"

"Elephants," Kingsley Shacklebolt replied dryly, snapping the cuffs shut.

Potter gaped silently. It didn't last long. "So there's a sense of humor lurking somewhere behind the badge," he said, grinning around his words.

Kingsley felt a stab of annoyance. Walking around in Auror uniform came with the unfortunate consequence of everyone conveniently forgetting he was still a human being and not just part of the law's strongest arm. "Comes with the badge," he said curtly. "Standard issue."

"The last Auror to arrest me must have been out sick when they were passing those out, then," Potter said thoughtfully.

Kingsley pulled out his wand in preparation to depart. The cuffs would keep Potter bound to him in side-along teleportation back to the Ministry. "So you make a habit of climbing through the windows of Muggle residences in the dead of night."

"No," Potter said, before cocking his head in second-thought. "Well, yeah. But only my girlfriend's, usually. This was slightly a special case. I told you, I was—"

"Following a suspicious hooded figure. Which, by the way—" Before Potter could anticipate it, Kingsley placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder and clapped his free hand against the badge on his chest. He felt a jerk at his stomach, like a fish on a hook, and managed to stay steady on his feet as the Portkey dropped them directly into the Apparition-proof holding cells on the lowest level of the Ministry.

Potter, without his arms free to help him balance, went sprawling on the floor when Kingsley instinctively let go of his shoulder on arrival. Kingsley managed to restrain his booming laugh into a quiet cough and tugged Potter to his feet.

"—is my job," Kingsley finished, a bit grimly.

Potter's glasses had slid up onto his forehead, to perch just against his hair. "You got there a bit late to do it," he said, his eyes flashing with intensity. "If I hadn't run Wilkes off—"

"Royce Wilkes?" Kingsley said, lifting his hand from his badge. "You saw his face? You could testify before the Wizengamot that you saw Royce Wilkes dressed in the gear of the so-called Death Eaters while illegally entering a Muggle home on our watch list?"

Potter was twitching his head awkwardly, trying to send his glasses sliding down his face. They were defiantly caught in his hair. "I didn't per se see him so much as I knew it to be him… do you mind?" he said helplessly, jerking his chin upward.

Kingsley brusquely grabbed the glasses—"Ow," Potter said sullenly, as a few strands of hair went with them—and stuck them back over the bridge of Potter's nose. "Explain," Kingsley said shortly.

"Wilkes went into an old phone box being very obviously sneaky, a masked and hooded man came out. It's not Arithmancy," Potter said. He managed to look very casual despite being cuffed and eyed up by other Aurors passing through the lower office and giving Kingsley friendly nods.

"I don't suppose you actually saw him break into the house either," Kingsley said, weary with disappointment.

"I knew where he'd gone," Potter said. "And I'd have had him, too, if it wasn't for your shouting and spotlight and meddling—"

"Remind me, which one of us is the real law enforcement here?" Kingsley said, figuring he better get Potter escorted into a cell till he could send one of the secretaries to officially take his statement while he recorded the breaking and entering charges. He gave him a slight push, not enough to stagger him but just enough to make him move.

Potter looked over his shoulder at him as they marched, all insouciance. "Well isn't that the question of the hour?"

Kingsley saw red. He'd had three years rigorous training, two years as a junior partner mentored under Alastor Moody, the finest Auror of the age, and another three earning his own respect while fighting a street war against terror and keeping it silent to the wider world. This kid was eighteen and straight out of the school room, and, Kingsley well knew, straight from old money, too. "Alright, you little punk—"

Potter started shaking with not-quite-silent laughter as Kingsley opened the cell door. "I'm sorry," he said, getting his face straight as he stepped in and turned to look at Kingsley. He immediately crinkled up into laughter again. "Sorry. You'd be surprised how often I get called that. Or… maybe you wouldn't be."

"We don't need children getting in our way," Kingsley said coolly, moving to leave.

"You got in my way," Potter called after him, exasperated. "Just saying!"

"If your story's to be believed," Kingsley said, to the opposite wall. There were no signs Potter had been under an Imperius or acting against his will and he'd surrended at once. Still, Potter was a pureblood caught halfway through the window of the home of the Muggle Johnsons, on a Ministry watch list. The eldest son of the home, Reece, had turned out to be a Muggle-born and was now a master anti-cartographer often called upon when the Ministry needed a building made Unplottable. Kingsley also counted Reece Johnson a personal friend.

Potter heard him. "You know I'm telling the truth! C'mon! Auror Shacklebolt! I saw your face when I said Wilkes! You know what he is!"

What Kingsley knew and what he could prove was a different story. He left Potter in the cell, filled out a quick form, and left him in the hands of the administration to finish his patrol.

He ran into Dawlish on his way to clock out, as the blue light of encroaching dawn appeared above the rooftops.

"Only one last night, Shack?" Dawlish asked chummily. Kingsley did not like the nickname.

"Only a kid making trouble," he said.

"James Potter," Dawlish said, nodding. "I had him in a month ago for an altercation with a giant. In Bristol."

Kingsley started. "What?"

"I know, they're getting bold. Bristol!"

"A giant."

"The property damage was excessive and engaging before the arrival of authority to properly contain witnesses was idiocy plain and clear. And there was an improperly enchanted Muggle vehicle on the scene but it cleared out before Hit Patrol could tag it. Bullheaded little punk wouldn't give up who was helping him, but there's no how he took the giant down alone."

Kingsley felt a little dazed. "How did he, erm—"

"Tripped it," Dawlish said flatly. "Some slick spell, knocked it into the harbour. Not sure how he held it down—are you smiling?"

Dawlish, of course, had been absent the day senses of humor were handed out.

"He shouldn't have engaged," Dawlish said.

Kingsley frowned, since that was essentially what he'd been saying. Dawlish went on about wanting to know who'd been with Potter, but Kingsley tuned him out. "Left something at my desk," he said with a nod, then strolled off, not toward his desk but the lower floor.

He didn't recognize the secretary in front of the holding room entrance. She was dark-haired, round-faced, and a bit younger than him—though not as wet-behind-the-ears as Potter. "Temp?" he asked, stopping at the front desk.

"Yes, sir," she said, smiling.

'Sir'. That made him feel a little old, which he wasn't, at all. "Buzz me on through to James Potter in holding, would you please…" He glanced down at her name tag. "Miss Jones?" he said, grinning widely at her. Secretaries always loved him.

She looked at the book of names open in front of her desk. "Ah…his name's not listed here."

Kingsley restrained a groan. If someone had pushed that boy on to Azkaban to open up room in holding, he'd have to fetch Potter back himself, straightaway. Annoying or not, the kid didn't deserve that.

"Unless he's the tall skinny kid with glasses Mr. Moody came and cleared?"

"Ah," Kingsley said smoothly, trying to hide how startled he was. "I suppose Mr. Moody beat me to it. Thank you for your time, Miss Jones." Moody never, ever bothered with any offences as minor as the sort that landed someone in holding.

Kingsley would have to turn this one over in his mind for a while.

The next time Kingsley saw James Potter was behind a barricade. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt with some golden bird on it, his head was bleeding, and a large black dog was padding after him.

"What is that damn fool doing?" Gawain Robards, in charge of the Aurors on the scene, roared. "Obliviators, stat!"

"He's a wizard, Robards," Kingsley shouted back.

"Why's he dressed like that?"

"Because he thinks he's a punk, apparently," Kingsley muttered.

"What?"

"I've got it in hand," Kingsley shouted, making his way over to him.

"You better!"

Potter waved at Kingsley as he stalked toward him, a silhouette against the burning buildings in the background.

"How'd you get back here?" Kingsley hollered.

"I'm sneaky. We're here to back you up."

"We? What, are there more of you?"

"Well, no one's exactly like me," Potter said, in a mock modest tone. "Think of us as the neighborhood watch."

"No wizarding family lives within seven miles," Kingsley said flatly. However, two Muggle families in this block—Entwhistle and Clearwater—had children tagged for Hogwarts. Perhaps it was coincidence, but more frighteningly, it seemed the Death Eaters had gotten hold of this information, or at least the rough location.

Potter grinned. "Our friendliness knows no bounds. Two things you need to know—we've gotten the civilians out—"

"Which means you consider yourself a combatant?"

The dog woofed and James stared at him evenly. A few red bolts streaked over their heads and both men instinctively ducked. The magical shields were apparently down again, Kingsley thought, cursing mentally, though the magically reinforced wall summoned from all around the street—parts of fences, garbage cans, tree branches, and a dog house (though not nearly big enough to house the black monstrosity with Potter).

"Of course I'm a combatant," Potter said confidently. "There's no innocents to hold you back. There's only seven of them, they're all to the right, and they're old."

Seven? There were twenty-odd at least. And—there was another roar—a dragon.

"Avery's a highly skilled illusionist," Potter shouted, over another boom. He grinned again. "And no, I can't prove he's one of them."

Five highly trained Aurors could take out seven power-drunk idiots terrorizing innocents any day, any time. "You better be right," Kingsley said and left Potter behind to take care of himself. He needed a coffee.

Potter's information was right—the elder Avery was captured, though Kingsley suspected his son had been there as well. The seven seemed to be the fathers of several Slytherins who'd been in school at the same time as Kingsley—all current suspected Death Eaters themselves. Royce Wilkes' father was found dead in his mask and hood after the Aurors shattered their own barricade and plowed through, but an inquest insisted upon by Abraxas Malfoy found Wilkes Sr. had been under the Imperius. He had been no such thing, but the Auror department still received a slap on the wrist in the temporary suspension of Robards from his role as field leader. Dawlish was given the place.

Dawlish was an Auror who did everything right, everything Kingsley himself believed in. He could never figure out what about the man set his teeth on edge.

"Stay where you are, scum!" Dawlish hollered down Knockturn Alley, Kingsley racing at his heels.

"Run, Jimmy!" a voice that did, in fact, sound scummy hissed in the worst whisper Kingsley had ever heard.

"Mundungus Fletcher!" Kingsley boomed, recognizing it.

Mundungus scurried away like a weasel, and Kingsley slowed. "Dawlish," he shouted. "Don't bother, the Hit Patrol can handle the bit stuff like—"

"Got the other one!" Dawlish said triumphantly, dragging James Potter by the scruff of his shirt.

"I didn't run," Potter said, hands in the air. "How's it going, Kingsley?"

"Possession of nightswrath!" Dawlish said, dangling a bag of purple herbs in his wand hand.

"Fleeing from officers of the—"

"Didn't flee," Potter repeated, rolling his eyes at Kingsley.

"Jimmy?" Kingsley said, shaking his head, since apparently Potter had decided they were now first-name friendly.

"Jimmy Potts," James said, laughing, although he couldn't have been comfortable half-lifted by his collar, with only his heels on the ground, "it's my 'street name'—"

Kingsley tried desperately not to laugh.

"Impersonation of an officer of the law, suspicious presence at the scene of the assault, reckless endangerment and engagement with Muggles—"

"I'm engaged, but the only one really recklessly endangered by that is me, since my fiancée sometimes wants to kill me," James confirmed. "Also, wasn't that all from last time? That attack in the country? I helped. Didn't I help?"

"Likely intoxication—"

"He's not high, John," Kingsley said firmly, invoking Dawlish's first name to encourage him to be sane.

"That remains to be seen," Dawlish said. "Cuff him, Shack." Kingsley really disliked being called that. Technically, though, Dawlish was his momentary superior. He sighed and did as he was told.

"I've heard you were in Hufflepuff," James said to Kingsley as, once again, he was marched to a holding cell.

Kingsley stiffened. He'd had to knock a few people down in Auror training who thought Hufflepuffs were all soft duffers.

"So how come you never played Quidditch?"

"Back to this?" Kingsley said. "You weren't in school then. What makes you think the team then could've used me?"

"If you were in Hufflepuff, I'm relatively sure any team in their history could have used you." Kingsley's glare didn't give him pause, perhaps because he was standing behind James and his arrestee was looking forward. "Unless you're afraid of heights. Or can't sit a broom. Or—"

"I'm allowed to render prisoners capable of doing me harm unconscious," Kingsley said warningly. "And I'm feeling a headache coming on." Truthfully, he hadn't had time for Quidditch. His family didn't come from piles of Galleons like James'. He'd always known he'd needed the grades to get a job to pay back his tuition loans as soon as possible after school, and once he'd found himself drawn to a career as an Auror, he'd focused on that with single-minded determination. He had participated in Dueling Club, but more because that looked good on an Auror application than for the fun of it. "Why didn't you apply for Auror training?" he countered. "Even if you didn't have the grades, with your family connections, I'd wager you'd get in."

James' back stiffened. "Takes too long," he said. "We're needed now."

"Your mysterious 'we'," Kingsley commented. He left Potter planted in place, unlocking the cell door. He could have passed him off to someone else to escort to holdup, but, in all honesty, he was curious. "Your friends, I believe. I suppose you couldn't have joined the Aurors without your friend the werewolf, and frankly, that'd never be allowed. Which is quite probably a shame."

James stared in horror.

"I didn't think you were buying nightswrath recreationally," Kingsley said. "I'm familiar with its uses in easing the pain of such transformations. It's that time of the month. And it's clearly not for you. So, a friend. Or, that fiancée?" James was pleasantly silent and his eyes were matching the roundness of his glasses. "No, I didn't think so. Your friend with the motorcycle—Mr. Black maybe? The Auror office has a profile on every member of the Black family, I should dig his up—he'd never make it through Auror background check." Kingsley liked that Potter had kept to a route that kept him close to his friends. He liked loyalty. It was the unauthorized, wannabe rebel part he had a problem with. "So, a vigilante movement of well-meaning youths the system could never condone. Close, am I?" Kingsley tapped his wand against his wrist in thought. "Except you've got Alastor Moody getting you off the hook." So it was more than that.

James said nothing for a moment, then leaned against the cell wall. "You going to let me off first this time, Kingsley?"

All he could think was what a bad precedent it set. Evan Rosier had been bailed out of Azkaban by his mother twice this month alone, after weeks of work to get him arrested on suspicion of Muggle torture. Malfoy money had seen to it the Wizengamot cleared Garfield Goyle of all charges in a rape case involving Imperius and elderly Mrs. Macnair on some to-do with necromancy. Royce Wilkes worked in law enforcement and let the minor thugs he was friends with out left and right. How was he different from them, if he, too, worked around the law, treated it like a joke?

A quieter voice in his head left him feeling slightly petulant. If Alastor Moody was manning his own watch in the name of constant vigilance, wouldn't he choose the best? Why James Potter and his miscreant friends…and not Kingsley? He'd break the rules for Moody, wouldn't he? Even if he did think his old mentor to be occasionally extreme and unbalanced…? It made Kingsley feel like a kid in the schoolyard, left out of the cool kid's game, and he didn't like it, one bit. If he let Potter out, though…wouldn't that be a sign to them he was in?

He rubbed at his forehead. "You want a coffee?" Kingsley said to James.

James lifted his head from the wall. "Double milk and double the sugar."

No way was he giving James Potter double sugar. Kingsley nodded at him and strolled away, still thinking.

When he came back with the coffee, Miss Jones at the desk, temping again this week, told him Fabian Prewett of the Hit Patrol had been by to spring James Potter not five minutes previously.

James Potter was being arrested for blatant disregard of the Statute of Secrecy, in other words bringing a statue to seeming life in Kensington Gardens, in front of any number of tourists, when Kingsley next came across him. A very pretty redheaded girl was arguing against it and waving her wand at the Wizarding Hit Patrol officers holding James down on the grass. She looked likely to be arrested herself, and James, though one cheek was pressed against the ground, seemed to be calmly telling her to get a grip.

"What seems to be the trouble here?" Kingsley asked calmly. He'd been nearby in Hyde Park, quelling an attack on tourists and wiping the Dark Mark out of the sky. It seemed there'd been some spillover.

The third of the officers, the one not occupied holding James down, explained what they knew of the situation, from a report called in to the Muggle police. They'd caught James, matching multiple descriptions of the perpetrator, on his way out of the park with the angry young lady.

Kingsley looked at James, who somehow managed to shrug despite being pinned down on the ground. Undoubtedly, he'd had cause for whatever he'd done. Simply not the authority to do it.

"But none of you actually saw this young man cast the spell?"

The Hit Patrol officers did not appear to like the direction this was heading in.

"I'm afraid the evidence won't hold up," Kingsley said, flashing a very white smile at them. "I can name at least three potential suspects fitting the description right now—including one very nasty piece of work called Jimmy Potts—much more likely than James here, out for a stroll with his—quite lovely—" He added in the direction of the girl, "—fiancée, especially since he's such a close and personal friend of both Prewett brothers. Who I believe are well-respected colleagues of yours, officers."

He hated pulling rank. He really did. But Aurors came in far greater in the weighing of the wands than the Hit Patrol, which everyone knew was full of would-be Aurors who hadn't made the grades and Quidditch players who hadn't made a team. "Let him up now, please," he said, and though his tone was cordial, it brokered no room for argument. "I believe the Obliviators back in Hyde Park could use some aid in the clean-up. I'll take any remaining questioning from here." The officers stepped away from James, but they made no move to actually leave, looking between James and Kingsley with wary, disappointed eyes. He'd never before had a reputation for letting friends off. Likely he would now. "Dismissed," Kingsley said sharply, and with a crack! the officers Disapparated.

"Thank you," the pretty redhead said, yanking James' arm and beginning to pull grass out of his hair before he even stood up all the way. James spat a little dirt out of his mouth. She looked over at Kingsley and he could see her measuring him up behind those big green eyes. "James didn't have a choice, you see—"

"Miss," Kingsley said, "all I know is, your stroll was unfortunately interrupted. And right now I don't need to know anymore. I've got to get back to work."

She looked at him shrewdly. "It's good work," she said quietly.

He nodded his head at her. "I like to think so."

"Someday, you should—"

"Not today, Lily," James said quietly, stilling her with a slight brush of his hand against hers.

"No," Kingsley agreed, even more softly. "I think not." He wanted to do things the right way, as long as he could. It seemed, though, with each day, he was losing track of the right thing a little more. Aurors were allowed to kill now. To compel. To torture. If he could adjust to those shades of grey, he could certainly make room for a little vigilantism in his worldview.

Maybe then Alastor Moody, his hero, would want Kingsley Shacklebolt in his secret club. "Be seeing you, punk," Kingsley said, with a straight face, and turned around to walk over and investigate what remained of Potter's handiwork.

"Hey, Kingsley," James called after him. He smiled tiredly when Kingsley turned back. He was wearing that same silly T-shirt with the golden bird, though the white had long gone grey, from alley dust and soot and likely the blood being washed out many times. He couldn't be twenty yet. He looked much older. "Wish you had played Quidditch. You'll get it yet, but the game teaches you early."

Kingsley couldn't help himself. "What's that?"

James winked. "When you ought to break the rules."