InsaneJournal

WHO: Jo Savage & Rufus Scrimgeour.
WHAT: Discussions. Wine.
WHERE: Jo's place.
WHEN: Backdated to Thursday night.

Generally, it became much easier to think about marriage as a simple transaction between two consenting people in the hopes that one’s country would not fall to madness the more one thought about history. Britain’s congress with France had been so incestuous as finally, Jo supposed, on the Muggle end, the only difference was the French did what was right to begin with and sent their aristocrats to the National Razor. The Wizarding element, with ever an eye to the progressive, had been saved much of the hubbub.

It was, of course, ever those steeped in Victoriana which needed a good ideological razing. And Jo believed - fervently - she’d spilled enough blood in the name of England to be English enough. She believed - fervently - that to protect her own homeland, she would steer Britain and mold new minds with open perspectives and ready smiles. Years ago, she would have believed that Rufus Scrimgeour had been born and bred for the role, but with his claws dug into law enforcement, she wanted a hand at executing the legislation in his favour.

After all, most wars were fought on multiple fronts. She’d just changed her viewpoint.

But it still broached discussion. Which was why she, glass in hand, poured him a liberal draught of Bordeaux before seeing to her own.

“I’m going to run for Minister, Rufus.”

Rufus Scrimgeour presumed many things, but knowing the workings of Jo Savage's mind was not one of them. They'd been ferocious in their days of working as Aurors together — in France, in Britain — and whatever brawn and overwhelming sense of self that Rufus possessed was possibly only matched by Jo's innate genius for all things manoeuvring, whether it was politically or violently mandated. He expected to be surprised by her.

But expectation never quite measured up to the reality, and the reality was this: Rufus, sliding two fingers over the base of his glass in order to slide it over, found himself darting an abrupt look at the woman he'd asked, once upon a time, to leave France, to fight a war that wasn't hers, to follow his lead. He found himself quite simply recognising a conclusion he'd long ago formed — it was time to follow her.

"Of course you are." And he lifted his glass, half tilted in a toast.

It should be you, of course. “ … a foregone conclusion in your mind, darling?” she asked him, walking round the butcher block island to perch next to him on a stool. Rufus shone with new purpose and meaning, back within the clutches of the Auror department. It was a sheen she missed on him and now, would this announcement upset it? She did not know. But there were only a small handful of people in the world who could sway her thoughts on any one thing. He was one and, suddenly, she found his blessing mattered.

“Citizenship is my Chief-of-Staff’s main concern. She’s a quarter Veela, so if you’re approached, be wary.”

Why would…? Then it clicked and Rufus did not bother to stifle a laugh. Citizenship was easy enough if you knew the right steps to take, and certainly such steps were as clear as anything to one such as Jo. "Is your quarter Veela Chief-of-Staff approaching me for vetting purposes, by any chance?" came with a smile that hovered crookedly across his lips.

Given their shared history, what was implied was either insulting or hilarious; Rufus chose to settle on the latter.

"You're going to have to learn how to queue if you're going to become one of us. You Continentals generally don't know the meaning of the word."

“Yes, you old cat. You’re getting a thorough vetting on behalf of your good looks and sterling war record. You, Abbott, some child named Fawley and another one named Tuft.” She took a deep breath, finding it slightly easier to watch the play of shadow and light within her glass than upon his face.

“Queuing is the least of my worries. Imagine the horror. The Malfoys will turn purple and how will that look beneath their fair silver locks.” She paused. “If this is a bad idea, tell me so at once.”

"It's not a bad idea." Interesting that she couldn't quite meet his eye. "It's not the best one, either — but obtaining citizenship the usual way takes an age, and none of us had the foresight to predict Black would step down at this point. As long as you're aware that they will try to tear you apart over such a blatantly politically motivated marriage — and I know you are — you'll be fine."

Thank Merlin his deputy was on-shift this evening, because the Bordeaux Jo'd given him was dangerously drinkable.

"Jo as Minister? Good idea. You're the only one with the spine for it. Rufus as Mister Savage? Narratively, it makes sense."

“You know, the rhetorical positioning inherent in suggesting someone is so committed to Britain so as to engage in transactional union to secure political stability isn’t a new concept. Not even among wizards. See: half the monarchy of the past nine hundred years.” She took a long, languorous draught of her glass and finally caught the golden-flecked gaze she’d so studiously avoided.

“You are the only one I’ve ever loved. Perhaps the only man I’d ever had a thought of marrying because of nothing but that feeling you produce deep in the pit of my belly. Selfishly.” She shrugged. “But in so doing, I’ve been sure, more than once, I ruined you. If I fail, you have to succeed. If we both succeed, so much the better. But I cannot hitch your wagon here, darling. I may want you but I know what needs you.”

"— the monarchy and every pureblood who believes themselves born in the purple." But Jo's next words drew from him a silence, easy and meditative, if long and not one he was in any rush to break, for silences with Jo were never an absence of sound, but a focus upon shared breath and shared memory. Between them, they had enough to fill two lifetimes.

"I know." And, again, seeking her gaze and finally finding it — "I know."

“Purple. Always hated that colour. Then --” a swallow -- “we are agreed. And that is that.” And as the blush rose high in her cheeks, she reached out to fill their glasses each a little over full before letting her weight fall onto one elbow.

Then, brighter -- “What’s coming along in the Auror office?”

Rufus knocked his knuckles against the edge of her hand before taking his glass. Some things didn't need to be vocalised; they were felt, they were known, they simply were.

After a moment and a long drink of the wine, he said, "Good things, I hope. In a way, it was like coming home." Even if he didn't know all of the Aurors as well as he once had, even if the faces were younger, almost too untouched by time to surely be able to withstand what was approaching their country. And yet, they were Aurors, and he owed it to them all (to himself) to not fail them.

"You're missed. Come by one day and say hello."

“ … you’d kept yourself away for so long, chasing down the shades of what we’d missed, that I think being back with your feet firmly planted does you well. They already look up to you, want to be you, feel as though they owe you … already. You are born to it, Rufus.” She smiled, drawing in a breath. Here, he was happy and all that he left would only be a memory in time. They could pinch the seam together.

“Maybe I will.”

"Good."

And now he did let his hand rest fully upon hers; no more brushing sweep with his fingers, but the warmth of his palm across her skin.

"You know I love you too."

There would always be the rogue breakfast, the years of muscle memory fighting side by side before they found themselves again together upon British soil staring across the same stretch of ground they’d bled for years ago. And the love they bore for one another could, perhaps, go far in making Britain whole.

She leaned against him, cheek resting upon his shoulder.

“I know.”

A finger crooked beneath Jo's chin allowed Rufus to tilt her head just so. Grief, strife and triumph had crystallised the beauty of her fine features, the broad angle of her cheek and the line of her jaw as unyielding now as ten, fifteen years ago.

Before he kissed her, slow though not timid; "You'd look damn good on a coin."

“My French face shall claim all your sickles,” was a mutter before she yielded to him, her fingertips fisting in the cuff of his shirt. Rufus could be anywhere and that somewhere was a kind of home. And if she slid off her stool to press closer, to round on him with her free hand draped across his lap, she found in herself no cause for blame. They were … it didn’t matter. They simply were.