Note: Did you know that JK Rowling wrote and owns the intellectual property that is the Harry Potter universe? Well now you do.
Okay so this is a very short chapter and I almost feel terrible about posting it. Almost.
You are doomed to make choices. This is life's greatest paradox.
Wayne Dyer
When Kingsley had been shunted off into a desk job, he'd foolishly imagined traipsing home after the sunrise would become a thing of the past. Six months of deskwork in the Auror offices, however, had quickly disabused him of that notion. Funnily enough, during his years of mentally and physically draining Auror training, the possible career path that involved sitting behind a mountain of paper work, tracking down the assets and lubricated funds of the stuffy pure-blood and now incarcerated nobility, had never actually been pointed out to him. It wasn't on the brochure when he'd picked his newts. Somehow the dingy, cramped office he'd spent the last 10 hours in had never been included on tours of the Auror faculty.
For one good reason he presumed; technically his position didn't exist.
Burges and his lot had shackled him to a desk as an independent over-seer in the back offices of the Wizengamot Administration Services, along with three of his best, and more importantly, loyal, Auror companions. Technically speaking the Auror office had no business hunting down dodgy accountants or chasing paper trails, but seeing as the Wizengamot Admin was collectively incapable of finding their arses with a map, Kingsley and his men had been diverted for the cause. Because what, in a time where dangerous ex-death eaters still roamed Britain along with scores of witches and wizards chasing down their own personal vendettas, could possibly be more important to the ministry than hunting down the now illusive seized assets of the once magnificent Malfoy estate?
Whether his position was unprecedented or not was largely immaterial, Kingsley knew it was unavoidable. He had neither the assets of inclination to draw political support in the same manner as Theodore Burges, and any attempt at ethical reasoning was lost with a cabinet as bought out as the current Wizengamot. Kingsley feared that any hope he had for his current government, any belief he once fostered in its eventual redemption had been damaged beyond repair. Albus had always laughed aside Kingsley's cynicism, his damnable eyes twinkling as he claimed those best suited to leadership were exactly those who would never seek out the position. Of course, Albus hadn't been around to see Kingsley flounder under the weight of his title, and a small part of him was grateful the great man hadn't witnessed his failure. Kingsley was not a man of great ideals, of grand illusions about the possibilities the ministry had for change. The place would always be rotten at its core, good people sucked in and chewed out, while the machine of so called justice continued to limp along the best it could, always a pace or two behind those morally uninhibited.
Sighing, Kingsley wearily rubbed his eyes and continued up the dreary London path. He'd kept on the small muggle flat he'd bought while acting as the muggle prime ministers personal assistant cum bodyguard. The place had no real market value, perched as it was behind a discount chemist warehouse and next to a blatantly dubious massage parlour, but he'd never been bothered, during the turmoil of the following war to go off flat hunting. Now the point was rather moot, he'd gotten used to the place, at least during the few and far between paltry hours he got to spend there.
Walking up the creaky wooden stairs in the dim landing, Kingsley was brought to a halt at the large tawny barn owl perched asleep on the top of the railing, directly before his front door.
He'd have to obliviate his neighbour Mrs Dawkins.
Again.
Nudging the bird slightly into wakefulness, he allowed the docile owl to perch on his worn travelling coat before fumbling through his pocket for his keys. Letting himself into a modest living room, he collapsed into a worn, beaten up armchair before detaching the small note tied to the owl's leg.
Kingsley:
I don't know if the tanned blonde wizard you mentioned would happen to go by the name Emmanuel, but my luck at the moment and the basic workings of the universe are enough to convince me that he does. He was waiting for me tonight at St Mungo's, waiting with Ron as it happens. I think he knows- that is, he could definitely tell there was nothing between Ron and I. This is all coming out muddled, it's late and I'm absolutely knackered, to use the Weasley saying. I think he can tell, well, that he suspects I know about the law, and that I have no intentions of adhering to it. I don't know if it's my nerves, or if I was reading too much into it, but for a friendly chat there was more than one veiled threat and hidden allusion. He didn't say anything outright though, and other than that yesterday went well. I've only got one lot of files left to go through, so I should get that lot done tomorrow.
Can we meet up tomorrow night?
Hermione.
Bugger.
Bugger shitting arse head and hole.
Kingsly leapt from the armchair, examining the note as if looking for some invisible mark, some telling sign that would answer his remaining questions. His Auror training kicked in before second thought had a chance of catching up, and he waved his now drawn wand over the note. It had been written at least nine hours ago, possibly more. Glancing at the dented watch upon his wrist, Kingsley's frown grew deeper. He needed to talk to Hermione, find out exactly what was said- he needed to warn Arthur, get him to keep an eye on the ministry before he went to work.
Glancing at his watch once more, Kingsly weighed up the timing involved.
Hermione wasn't due in at St Mungo's until nine.
Arthur usually got into work at around eight thirty.
In short order, Kingsly had snapped his wand at the window, releasing the owl, lit the hearth and summoned an old cedar box off his desk, flinging the powder within to now glowing flames.
Briskly stepping into the green tinged grate, Kingsley sent a silent prayer to Merlin's favourite tea set.
A full breakfast looked wrong on the table. The orderly lines of toast, marshalled by pompous displays of spread and toppings, hemmed in by plates of Sausages and bacon, all glistening in their armour of oil and crisping. Breakfast had always been an operation of military precision in the Burrow, Molly standing commander in chief brandishing a spatula and wand in equal parts.
It had become a habit, a short order of motions she'd perfected over the last 20 years, one that she now found difficult to curb.
The breakfast stood camped on the empty table, the chairs around it the now deserted battle fields. What with Arthur at work early, Charlie back in Romania, Bill at Shell Cottage with the pregnant Fluer, Percy staying at dear Oliver's (finally), George still camping out above the Joke shop, rather than facing his once shared bedroom, Ron in St Mungo's and Ginny over in London, Molly found herself alone in the creaking empty house.
Pouring out a cup of tea from the now steeped pot, Molly determinedly switched on the wireless with a flick of her wand. A silent Burrow was simply unnatural. Perhaps she'd set about clearing out Ginny's room. It was very possible she'd be set up at Grimauld place for good.
A flash of green light from the hearth pulled Molly from her thoughts, as the head of Kingsly Shacklebolt came spinning into vision.
"Molly, is Arthur about?" Apparently the man had no time for frivolities like greetings.
"He got called into the Ministry early this morning, absurdly early."
The darkened face of Kingsly fell at her news, and Molly shrewd eyes narrowed. Something was up.
"Do you want to leave a message for him then?"
Molly could almost hear the man swallow deeply over the faint crackling flames.
"Not to worry, I'll reach him at work."
With that puzzling end to a far from clear conversation, Kingsley's image spun out of focus, leaving the grate empty and Molly alone with her thoughts once more.
Reg Cattermole sighed as the long list of parchment to his left glowed and emitted a faint ding. Moments later a folded piece of parchment appeared on the desk before him. Opening the pristine page, Reg gazed down at the immaculately printed transcript, knowing without checking the Grate address, exactly which watched fireplace it documented. Looking over at the smiling, faded photograph of Mary on his desk, he sighed once more, moving the parchment into his empty out tray, where it lingered for half a second before promptly disappearing in a puff of smoke.
At least he'd attempted to help.
Hermione couldn't remember ever sitting down and failing to become interested in a book. While at any other time a history of the Peruvian clan first accredited with animagus transformations in the Americas, would have captivated her immediately, this morning she found herself re-reading the same paragraph over and over.
Why was it only 7.47? How had the last hour and a bit gone so slowly? Surely it wouldn't be to out of character to leave for work now. Worrying on her bottom lip, Hermione weighed up her options before firmly closing the book and standing up from the low sofa of Grimauld place. Harry was still clanking around in the kitchen, groggily fumbling for his morning coffee and a bowl of cereal. Brushing down the back of her work robes, Hermione stuck her head in the kitchen door and smiled quietly at the mad, scruffy hair of her best friend.
"I'm off to work."
Hermione couldn't make out the mumble of his response, and only raised her eyes until Harry dutifully swallowed.
"You're early aren't you?"
"Lucy might be in early, I can ask a few more questions without any ministry morons about." Hermione quickly responded. The truth was she was sick of hanging about, thinking up half a dozen worse case scenarios surrounding the watched hospital.
"Have fun. Stay safe." Harry reminded her, seeming, as he often did, twice his age.
"If you get word from Kingsley, tell him to owl me at work."
Harry only nodded, his mouth full, before Hermione walked out of the room with a final smile. Not ten seconds after the front door had slam shut, a silver lynx sprang into the kitchen, diving through the wall and circling the kitchen table. Kingsley's deep voice rang through the room.
"Hermione, Stay where you are. Don't leave the house."
Harry was onto his feet before the Lynx' silver form had begun to fade, racing through the narrow hallway and wrenching the front door open.
Hermione was nowhere to be seen on the grey muggle square and Harry's calls rang uselessly down the empty street.
A/N See how I could almost feel bad about posting that? I hope there's a few of you left who don't hate me, please let me know what you thought :)
