InsaneJournal

WHO: Rufus Scrimgeour and Kingsley Shacklebolt
WHERE: The office of the Head of the DMLE
WHEN: Backdated to a few days before the murderous attack on the French consulate
WHAT: There are things to be discussed

Strange how the years had done little to change a place that had been the heart of so many maelstroms. The same too-bright lighting, the cubicles where officers spent their time when not walking their individual beats examples of organised chaos, fliers upon fliers of safety notifications and wanted posters wherein grimacing faces leered out from beneath promises of reward money; the smell of stale sweat as you passed the training rooms, the battered, tired faces of trainees hopped up on too much caffeine as they smartly went from exercise to exercise. Little had changed.

Except, of course, the management. Drastically different these days, and although the man who sat at the very top of the Ministerial hierarchy was a person Rufus Scrimgeour despised in the same way he despised all Death Eaters, apologetic or otherwise, the man now running the DMLE was one he’d watched train, one he ultimately respected, and one who’d requested a meeting. And so Rufus, who had had enough of studying the English temperament since his return from the Continent, obliged, walking the familiar hallways and largely ignoring the surprised whispers of those who recognised him as he stopped in front of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s personal assistant.

A smile, still with the potential to be disarming after all these years for all that it was tired now, as he pulled out a battered old leather-bound badge (an Auror’s, with his name engraved below). “He’s expecting me.”

The young witch, who was still relatively new to the position since Kingsley's last had retired, gave a bored wave and acknowledged the badge a flick of her hand toward the head's slightly-ajar office door. She did have in her notes that Scrimgeour was to be let through, so she saw no reason for an interrogation.

Kingsley sat behind his desk poring over the latest information on the Macnair case, even though the latest information hadn't changed in a few weeks. At least, he thought, it had remained mercifully quiet since Christmas, or thereabouts. He looked up and straightened as Rufus walked in. "It's been a while," he said, standing and offering a hand then motioned to one of the two empty chairs opposite his desk.

Rufus took the proffered hand, giving it a firm shake before accepting the leftmost seat, but not before removing his jacket and hanging it neatly off the chair’s back. The badge had already been returned to its place within a pocket; he rested his seemingly empty hands on his lap, a quick glance around more than enough to update him on the changes Kingsley had made since the days of his predecessor.

“You have an interesting definition for ‘a while’,” came with a short chuckle. “My brother is still surprised I haven’t acquired a permanent French accent. Anyway, Kingsley, happy new year -- for this, and all the ones I’ve missed. Liking the job?”

Kingsley considered his job for a moment and then nodded. "I wouldn't have accepted it if I thought I wouldn't like it," he said. Of course there were some things, like these murders and the poisoning and Lady Noir that were putting a strain on the department, but then again -- what good was an Auror department without cases to solve and dark wizards to catch? "How are you enjoying being back to England?"

“I’m not,” was frank and, in many ways, truthful. “It’s frustrating to see that all of our hard work during the war wasn’t enough to prevent this new wave of bigotry and violence. I wonder if the country forgot how hard-won peace was and let itself slide back.” A beat, Rufus considering his next words before he uttered them aloud. “Is Black going to be a capable wartime Minister?”

While the head of the department rarely made his opinions on politics, specifically the minister, known, it wouldn't have been hard to guess where he stood in regards to Minister Black. The bigger question yet was whether or not to call this current wave of murders and threats as "wartime," which he hesitated to do for several reasons, the first of which being that he assumed his Aurors would have this under control before it manifested itself out to a full-blown war. "I'm sure only time will give us that answer," he said.

“Very diplomatic, my friend,” and if there was any levity to the words, it was not matched by a smile of any sort. Time and the effort they put into nipping this wave of violence in the bud was what would give them any sort of indication whether or not this qualified as wartime -- but Rufus had become less of the optimistic realist over the past ten years.

“How can I help?”

"You could help by returning to the force," Kingsley said simply. "Now that you're back in England, you need something to do, don't you?"

Indeed he did -- sitting on the sidelines, seething, had never been Rufus' style.

"Return in what capacity?"

Kingsley settled back and crossed his arms. "Depends," he said. "What sort of capacity would you be comfortable with?"

"Head of the force," Rufus replied, unhurried but firm. "My old position back."

He raised an eyebrow and pressed his fingers against his lips for a moment. "Possible, yes, but not definite."

A snort. "And what were you thinking as an alternative, Kingsley?"

"I was thinking you ought to work for it. You did, after all, choose to leave the position in the first place." Kingsley had gone through several Chief Aurors since Rufus left in 1990, and none had worked out as well as he'd hoped. The wizard in the position now seemed to be failing on all accounts, as it were, and he couldn't imagine Scrimgeour doing worse. Hell, he'd probably do better. "Tell me why you think I should just fire Tufftley and reinstate you."

"Because you just asked me to rejoin the force." A sigh as Rufus leaned back in his seat, drawing his hands loosely across one knee. "I left when I did because a wartime Chief wasn't needed in a time of peace--" that said peace had been brokered in part by a fallen Death Eater did not need to be uttered aloud; Rufus' thoughts on the matter had always been clear enough; "-- and that's what we thought we'd achieved at the time. Peace. We forgot to dig through the dirt and pick out the poisonous seeds of fanaticism, so relieved were we to have ripped out the roots. Your man Tufftley isn't up to the task."

No, he wasn't up to the task. He didn't know many aurors who were except the Longbottoms and a few others, but they weren't interested. Kingsley had tried though, of course. "It would have been nice to have you to keep the team up to wartime speed so when things like this happen, they're prepared. Don't you think?"

Meeting his gaze, Rufus shook his head slowly. “Would have, should have. Shall we look forward now, Kingsley? The DMLE was always in good hands with you.”

Ah, flattery. Kingsley smiled wryly and nodded. "I'll start the paperwork as soon as you leave," he said.

Were the circumstances surrounding this victory (could it even be called that?) different, Rufus would have flashed his old front-page-ready smile. Instead, Kingsley received a brief upturn of his lips and a short nod as he rose up to his feet. “Good man,” he said, shaking his hand before shrugging into his coat.

The years away had been difficult for reasons numbering many and complex, but ultimately, the Ministry had always been his home. Perhaps leaving it had been a mistake. Or perhaps he’d needed the chance to gain perspective. Either way, something in his chest had eased -- this was, in a way, a relief.

“I’ll see myself out.”

Kingsley nodded as well. "I'll be in touch."