ofshacklebolt-blog

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

nathanielorion‌:

My god, says the head to the beating heart,

How many times must I bury you?

Oh love, says the heart, blood mixed with grave dirt.

At least once more.

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30 day music challenge —  day 19: a song that makes you think about life

                                       ↳ how to save a life // the fray

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7.16.79 Ministry of Magic 10:32 AM @ofrosier​

At a loss, Kingsley draws back from the door. But the temptation is too strong. It has been a long time since he has spoken to Evan in anything but a professional capacity. Their arguments in the library are so long ago that they might as well have been different people. Certainly, they had both left Hogwarts with the mutual understanding that they would never speak to each other with anything approaching openness again. Even now, the half-buried rancor of seventh year weighs on him. He replays their small-talk from the last few months, but finds no clue on what has changed. Instead, he finds the ghosts of their last conversation at Hogwarts in every image of the Zabini Estate that has been seared into his memories. 

Sparing one more look at the glossy tag that reads “Evan Rosier” by the office, Kingsley knocks. “Auror Shacklebolt,” he says, slow and clear. “May I have a word?” 

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

❝ that would be very noble — but i can’t be that man. ❞ / ❝ is it satisfaction you want? ❞

natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 starters // accepting 

❝ that would be very noble — but i can’t be that man. ❞

“Don’t belittle yourself. You’re more than that.” The words are sharper and faster than he intends, but it is too late to take them back now. All Kingsley can do is stand by them. Something snapped in Evan over the past few days, and it distorted all of their discussions with malice. The days where they argued over the dates of the Goblin Wars and their victors are not long past, but they are gone. Evan is inscrutable in the best of times, but he’d never been spiteful. It must be his father, Kingsley thinks again, wondering at how tragedy can teach one to inflict pain rather than to be kind. The prefect badge sits heavily on his robes. 

He’s aware that he isn’t one to speak to loss. His family, though often overseas, is intact. They saw the uprisings of the 1960s come and go. All that remains is an impression of fear that pales in comparison to death. So he’ll speak of choices instead. That much, Kingsley knows. At eleven, when the Sorting Hat asked him to choose between his ambitions and his curiosity, Kingsley found that the world he saw in his dreams was worth more than any book. And he’s seen, firsthand, his father’s dedication to his siblings. Kingsley knows what it is to give up one’s career to raise a family. 

But the words refuse to come. He is left looking at Evan intently, and they are all of sixteen and seventeen, as if the power of his gaze will be enough to convey all these unspoken hopes. 

❝ is it satisfaction you want? ❞

“No.” Kingsley’s eyes flash. It’s already too far for Evan to assume that Kingsley will take his snide comments in stride. In society, it is different, he wants to tell Evan. In society, he would reply with the expected grace of an heir. But they are among housemates (friends) here, and Kingsley’s patience has been worn thin. Beneath his anger is a hunch that Evan needs more time to adjust. But there are only so many excuses to make for unkindness. 

He counts to ten, and then to twenty to be sure. The action dregs up a resentful thought. Unlike Kingsley, Evan has never tried to contain himself before. Anger might be a private matter, but Evan feels that it is a thing to broadcast to the world. As if he wants it to burn with him. Kingsley counts to thirty. He can’t wipe the frown from his face. “If that is what you think,” he says slowly. He counts to thirty-five. The Slytherin common room is empty but for them. Enough. NEWTs are coming up and he has the first years and the prefects to worry about. Enough. For all of this year, Kingsley has allowed Evan’s spite a place in their talks. Nothing has improved since it all began. If anything, Evan has grown worse. The more chance Evan has to express his anger, the more of it he will express. It is time to end it. “It speaks to a flaw you’ve assigned to me. We should take a break from talking to each other.” 

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

❝ there’s a new wrinkle on your forehead, old friend. ❞

natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 starters // accepting 

“Is there,” says Kingsley, quelling his instinct to dive into the peculiarities of the inefficiencies at the office. That is a conversation for Frank, or Arthur, or Edgar. No, a deeper thing tells him to show no weakness whether his own or his peers’. It is the same law that has governed him since before even the first shadow of war. It is his mother’s business acumen and his father’s ability to avoid entrapment, and while Barty is still the boy who thrives on knowledge, the first seeds of wariness have been planted. Try as he might, Kingsley cannot uproot his suspicions. He settles into his seat at the Three Broomsticks and folds his hands on the table. With four or more firewhiskey shots, it could almost be like another frantic study session. “That is one way to say hello.”

Still, it is good to know that Barty is still capable of the same, sharp humour. Long resigned to being the old man of any friendship, Kingsley smiles. The Three Broomsticks is quieter than he is used to on Hogsmeade weekends, but that is to be expected on a weekday. Rosemerta’s voice is familiar background noise. Yes, it is almost the same, if he ignores the whispers surrounding the company Barty keeps. “I would say the same of you, if I could.” 

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

❝  he is not a great man, none of us are great men. we are just caught in the wave of history.  ❞

natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 starters // accepting 

Kingsley pauses. It will not do to leave Lestrange with the impression that he agrees, particularly in this context. 

“Harold Minchum is an admirable Minister,” Kingsley says eventually, turning his attention from Harold Minchum to the man he is to guard. It has been a long session at the Wizengamot with less than nothing to show for it. It is times like these that Kingsley wishes he had the ability to transport his thoughts elsewhere. Unfortunately, he is still in the present, mulling over Minchum’s remarks on Intro-788. As he considers the proposed bill and its intricacies, he becomes aware that he is disappointed by the entire affair. The lofted ceilings and marble floors are worth more than a bill concerning the proper weight of gold cauldrons. The lives of muggles are so much more invaluable than more of this same drivel. But Minchum is nothing more than a prop to keep the show going – the same show that has been playing since 1701. 

Then, it occurs to him that Lestrange might be forming the beginnings of a complaint. Not one to keep others waiting, Kingsley smooths his expression until all that remains is the blank façade of an auror on duty. “History has been made today.” 

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

MODERN MUGGLE AU — ‹ Kingsley Shacklebolt’s Instagram

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

❝ if you tell, you are my enemy! ❞, ❝ forget everything and forgive me. ❞ & ❝ i know you are capable of anything. i know you so well, my friend. ❞ -- frank

natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 starters // accepting 

❝ if you tell, you are my enemy! ❞

A glint of amusement, sly and startling all at once, appears in Kingsley’s eyes. It looks like comeuppance has arrived. There are many years of similar instances on Frank’s part to make up for, and the least of them is Frank’s having explained to Arthur what those seventh year study sessions with Oliver actually meant. And Kingsley is just getting started. 

“Tell Alice that you are lactose intolerant?” he asks, as if he has no idea what Frank’s talking about. He continues eating his Florean’s ice cream cone. It is delicious. He almost understands Frank’s dilemma, but then again, Kingsley is constantly reminded that of his friends, he seems to be the only person to treasure his own health. “I have never had an enemy before, but I am glad that you are the first, my dear friend.” 

❝ forget everything and forgive me. ❞

“No.” The instinctive response is as fast as it is jarring. It tears from him like a shout, and its absence is all aching emptiness. There is an ocean inside him, or a torrent of hope, worry, and fear that he cannot put into words. You will live. You will love Alice. You will see Neville grow old. We will see Arthur and Edgar again. By Merlin, you will live. Kingsley paces, too choke-full with dreams to be still. He observes Frank’s tired eyes and the way the both of them stand, waiting for the ambush that still hasn’t come. The shape of the war lies in how they have all been chipped at until only curses and counter-curses remain. But never Frank. Never Frank. The very thought is enough to shake Kingsley, and if he were to have to tell Arthur or Edgar, it would be the end of them all. “Don’t ask the impossible of me. After all, you’ll always be here to remind me to make another terrible decision.” 

There are few moments in his life without Frank. Continents away, Frank has always managed to leave his mark. Kingsley remembers Meredith informing everyone that Frank stole Kingsley’s sense of fun, or Winfred asking after Frank in their letters. Hogwarts is as much remembering the secret passages and lessons as it is remembering Frank. Kingsley will not be left with only memories. All too aware that he is about to make a promise beyond his power to keep, Kingsley raises his wand with his right hand. With his left, he grasps Frank’s shoulder. “If Voldemort himself comes, I will not forget everything and forgive you, as you say. I’ll fight, and we’ll both have another story to tell. We’ll see the end of this violence.”

❝ i know you are capable of anything. i know you so well, my friend. ❞

And Kingsley, deep into his fifth gillywater, smiles. It is a visionary’s smile, and it is full of summer and only broken at its edges. It is the smile of one who has not yet learned the nature of life and how it slips away, and who cannot believe that some deaths may truly be in vain. Of one who knows that he is insignificant in the overarching story of the past and even the present, but who nevertheless must believe that one more practice duel, one more hour spent with pouring over the disappearances, will turn the tides of the war. Edgar is a fresh wound, after all, and there cannot be any true justice or any true goodness in the world if this much is not true. “Here’s to you,” Kingsley agrees, “and here’s to me. To the days gone by.” 

Autumn can continue its onslaught. Brown can seep into the leaves and dread into each silence, but this is something else. Sitting side by side with Frank, it is almost possible to forget that they are all cogs in the machine. The war may be an expression of hate, but there is no hatred tonight. The hours spent reminiscing about Edgar offer a glimpse into what could be. The gillywater clouds his thoughts so that he trusts, if only for a whisper of a moment, that all they need is patience and time. What evil, what malevolence, could withstand them? The warmth of the fireplace of 13.5 Saint George’s Drive spreads though Kingsley’s bones. They have spent a lifetime here, cooking up terrible plots or conspiring about one ongoing bet or another. The house that’s been left to him by his parents knows Frank, Edgar, and Arthur as well as it knows Kingsley. 

If his thoughts stumble or if his heart stutters and protests at Edgar, it is lost with the third or fourth gillywater. Kingsley lifts his glass and proposes his own toast. “One day, we’ll see that everyone is equal. The centaurs will have their own land. The werewolves will have the right to work anywhere they are qualified. No one will prize blood-status more than talent. There will be free elections for the Wizengamot, just like the muggles do for their parliament. There will be no more dementors at Azkaban, because there’ll be no more darkness. Then, you, Arthur, and I will visit Edgar. And he’ll know that we’ve won.” 

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

Elena Ferrante

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

F. Scott Fitzgerald

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

arthur --- ‌

He leans against the frame of Kingsley’s cubicle, buttons on the double breast of his work robes fastened in a haphazard mismatch and a wispy chamomile smile on his lips. ( Just tell me, it asks. A bit quiet, a bit melancholy, half-waiting for Kingsley to tell him what’s actually plaguing him and half-worried of what he might hear. ) 

Blue eyes skim over the network of information that sprawls across the wall, places and people and politics swimming in a mess of moving black and white. His brother-in-law’s face stares back at him from a corner. He flinches. And suddenly, something raw and red claws at his ribcage, an irrational resentment that Arthur has become better acquainted with in the past few weeks, because it’s stupid, it’s hopeless, trying to find method and meaning in such horror and loss. It’s empty against the onslaught of death. There’s no reason to hypothesize, because none of it matters.

Putting Gideon’s murderer in Azkaban won’t bring him back. A five-week-long court case won’t change the fact that Bilius is ten feet under, rotting in a grave. 

Arthur’s horrified to find that something hitches in his throat and he may be about to start crying, and in front of Kingsley, no less, so he blinks away the blur swimming at the edges of his eyes, chains his anger up with guilt and a fragile sort of optimism that’s growing more hard-won every day. 

“Frank?” The name comes out as a question, but not due to surprise. Frank’s always been the troublemaker of their little group. Arthur wouldn’t expect any less of him. But this is Kingsley, and Arthur doesn’t see a trace of humor in his voice, which means that it’s not just because their friend did something embarrassing. “Why, is something wrong?”

Now that Arthur is here, the decision Kingsley has come to over the last few days wavers. It must be selfishness to tell Arthur more than he already knows. It has been his job to keep Frank safe since they were young; the office only confirms what has already been ingrained. 

And Arthur, too. As the war drags on, Kingsley finds himself dwelling on the Weasleys. There is something so stubborn in living during the war -- in not just living, but marrying and having children. It is an action that is so like Arthur that it is impossible to know if it inspires worry or respect. Frank doesn’t need to be another person for Arthur to worry about. 

Kingsley glances at the wall again and at its web of unsolved deaths and absences. It is this, more than anything, that pushes him to speak. If he is honest, the space that has opened up since Dorcas’s and Gideon’s deaths have taken he and Frank, too. They stray away from the nights Frank has stayed too late at the office, or the tiredness that hangs about Frank. How Arthur shrinks in on himself doesn’t escape Kingsley, but Arthur must understand. Loss is haunting them. For all that they joke about battle scars, Frank has a few too many. And Kingsley, too, is tired. “Frank doesn’t seem to be sleeping. He does not take long enough to recover from his missions.” 

If Kingsley had been still at the start of this conversation, he grows stiller yet. He has had years to admire how certain people shine with an interminable warmth and to know that he is not one of them. But Frank had never withdrawn from him before. And Frank, as much as Winfred, is his brother. The thought of Frank becoming another name on the wall or another set of untraceable hints connected only by wavering dots of magic is unbearable. 

Caught between an apology or giving voice to the sudden premonition, Kingsley says no more. 

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

That night I put my youth in a casket // And buried it inside of me // That night I saw through all the magic // Now I'm a witness to the death of a hero

listen here. 

death of a hero — alec benjamin big god — florence and machine glory — bastille youth — glass animals mouth of the river — imagine dragons white flag — bishop briggs baltimore’s fireflies — woodkid brideshead revisited: always summer -- adrian johnston godspeed — frank ocean humility — gorillaz 20 something — sza home again — michael kiwanuka

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

emma vanity --- 

With each breath she took, she lost more and more air. The smoke filled the air faster than she could catch her breath and it was beginning to get very frustrating. Emma was not the sort of person that liked to accept help from anyone. Anything and everything she did, she did by herself as it boosted her ego quite a lot more. Wriggling in her spot, she tried to bring her legs closer and closer to her body. In order to save herself and finally, for once in her life, let someone else help her out of a sticky situation. At this point, Emma was sure she couldn’t breathe, at all, especially with how close her knees were to her chest. 

Lifting up her dress, Emma took the smallest breaths she possibly could, reaching for the bottom hem, practically yanking it up as fast as she could, wishing against all hope that she had enough breath in her body to cast this spell. She needed Kingsley to save her, needed someone to help her out, desperately. Her hand went into her boot, snatching her wand out of her hand, so glad that she’d actually thought to pack it. Gripping her wand tightly, Emma muttered sonorous under her breath. A loud roar boomed through the hall and for a split second, her voice raised, something loud and hopefully what could save her.

“Back right corner, behind a plant!” Emma stated. Perhaps now, Kingsley could find her and they could get out of here and she could find herself in a safe place again. Lifting her head, she searched for him, searched for that familiar face, the face that was there to save her. At that moment in time, he was her life saver and she didn’t know what she’d do to thank him. What could she do? Was there anything she could say?

“Thank you,” she muttered.

They are told to keep their feelings separate from their work. When disaster strikes, what people need is not Kingsley, but an auror. But it is one thing to score high marks on the aptitude tests and another to erase himself when Emma is in danger. In the grand scheme of the world, his little life doesn’t matter at all. Yet his heart races. His lungs continue to burn as he pushes his way through the crowd, stopping only to offer quick reassurances when there are no other aurors around. 

Around him, the fiendfyre rages. Despite the brightness of the flames, he can barely see anything. It is a familiar nightmare that haunts him now: running quickly, but not quickly enough. Smoke-wild, his thoughts turn to possibility that tomorrow might be slipping away. Emma, the person who taught him that there was more to Hogwarts than met the eye, who introduced him to Arthur, is dying. His steps are muffled by the raw panic of the guests, but he feels them all the same. Has he always been so slow? He rounds the corner toward the plant Emma described. “I’m opening the door,” he says, his voice steady even as his thoughts and the estate disintegrate in the fire. “Stay calm. No one is dying tonight.” 

The heat of the door and its surrounding walls is shocking. He can picture it eating through him. All it would take is a spark or an ember landing on his robes. He wishes he’d never had to learn what fear sounds like in her voice; in that moment, Kingsley forgets to be afraid. The thought of failure is unbearable, and it silences all else. No more casualties. Heedless of the fire, Kingsley pushes through the door. At first, he sees nothing. Only the great fiery beasts dancing before him. Then, he sees her. Emma is curled in on herself and his blood chills. It is not so long since he found Dorcas in a similar position. Wordlessly, Kingsley begins casting the counter-curse, warding off the fiendfyre one small patch at a time as he rushes toward Emma, the air too tight in his throat for him to attempt to speak, and his sleeve catching fire as he goes. 

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

Rise like lions after slumber In unvanquishable NUMBER! Shake your chains to earth, like dew Which in sleep had fall'n on you: YE ARE MANY-THEY ARE FEW.

Shelley, Percy Bysshe - The Masque of Anarchy (1832)

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

THERE are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the peace of their self-content; There are souls like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths Where highways never ran- But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man. Let me live in a house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by- The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner’s seat Nor hurl the cynic’s ban- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man. I see from my house by the side of the road By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardor of hope, The men who are faint with the strife, But I turn not away from their smiles and tears, Both parts of an infinite plan- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man. I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead, And mountains of wearisome height; That the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone. Let me live in my house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by- They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish - so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat, Or hurl the cynic’s ban? Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Sam Walter Foss, The House By the Side of the Road

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

[ofshacklebolt-blog]

❝  there’s a new wrinkle on your forehead, old friend.  ❞

natasha, pierre, and the great comet of 1812 starters

From behind his desk, Kingsley peers up at Arthur and tries not to wince. There is a crick in his neck that won’t let up no matter how he stretches. A new wrinkle, indeed. It is another way for looking at the stacks of paperwork and The Prophet on his desk. “It is Frank,” he says. 

He gestures to the wall of news-clippings just behind the door, encompassing the map of the British Isles with green pinpricks of light hovering over what must be at least sixty streets in his movement. It is explanation enough. If Arthur examines the wall of clippings more closely, he will find that half of them concern the events of June 8th. Following the hostage situation, a chasm had opened at headquarters whose presence is not betrayed by the absence of Dorcas’s desk, but by the sudden lack of things to say. Since then, days have passed more quickly. A frenetic energy has seeped into them all. It feels thin -- stretched, as if waiting for something to break. 

And Frank. 

They had a joke, once, in the poor taste that only the very young can manage, that Kingsley will grow old first, Arthur will marry last, and that Frank will die young. It had been forgotten over the years. But now, Kingsley finds himself turning the old words over and over in his mind, as if repetition is enough to smooth the way it catches at his lungs. “You should speak with him.”