“You have reached the office of the Prime Minister,” Kingsley answered in a silken tone befitting the secretary of a man more powerful than most of the world’s Muggle leaders. “No, sir. The Prime Minister is in South America on a peace mission. How may I direct your call?”
He rather enjoyed receiving phone calls from various people who refused to tell him their names, their occupations, or their business. It gave him an opportunity to create a new destination and mission each time. In less than five minutes, the Prime Minister had crossed the globe no less than three times. He had even cured world hunger. “Yes, sir. I shall direct you to his voice mail.”
In fact, Britain’s esteemed leader was currently en route to the Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Kingsley sighed as he recalled hearing the news only moments before. An entire Muggle village in rural France had been demolished. Above the smoldering ruins were the cryptic skull and snake. In broad daylight this had occurred, and a motive was unclear. While Aurors worked frantically to discover the perpetrators, the Muggle Relations office and Spell Reversal Squad out of Paris were diligently working to rid the sky of the cursed spell. Kingsley was sure they managed to turn it into a green blob, which was far better, as they could blame it on chemical warfare rather than having to admit to a wizard-on-Muggle massacre.
It was difficult, to say the least, to constantly lie to the press, Parliament, and everyone else about the truth of the war at hand. Constantly, he heard his grandmum in the back of his mind, scolding him for the life he’d chosen, one of cruelty, pain, death and ruin. It was true that he believed he’d chosen the good side, if ever a thing existed during dark times. Still, the voice of his grandmum could not be consoled, aware of the invisible blood on Kingsley’s hands.
He stared at those same hands now. One hung upon the neck of the phone, the other resting on the cherry wood desktop, beside it.
Your eyes have the look of a frozen monster, Shackles. The devil himself would want for them, if you would only willingly give yourself to him.
He got a chill down his spine and shook it off with a deep breath. Now was not the time to question the fate of his unresting soul. The ticking of the clock reminded him of his limited time. He would need to prepare to Apparate to Paris, meeting Prime Minister Geoffrey at his gate. He’d never asked Kingsley how he always managed to arrive before even the fastest airplanes on earth, though the latter guessed it had something to do with the late-night visit from Scrimgeour. Though he would never admit it to another breathing being, Mr. Shacklebolt had stolen one of the Extendable Ears from the Burrow and used it that night.
Shackles…
Three minutes.
He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and smiled to himself. Gertrude Giovanni. There was never anything quite like a beautifully rounded arse to distract a man from undying guilt.
“Fine day, innit, Mr. Shacklebolt?” She smiled at his suddenly mischievous demeanor with equal coyness. Her eyes flitted between him and the cherry wood desk until he understood that he was in her way.
“Yes, very fine. Did you need me to move?” he asked, standing and stepping off to the side of his desk while she sashayed around and squatted to pull out the bin from under his desk. While he had the opportunity, he got a good look at her rear, and admired it quite brazenly until he could spot the blush in her cheeks. She often got so rosy, she clashed with her bark-colored hair. Brushing a waving tendril behind her ear, she rose with the bin in hand. He started just as a tiny ting went off on his watch. Returning his attention to Gertrude, he said, “You really are lovely, Miss Giovanni. Unfortunately, I must be going. Goodbye.”
He stalked off at a rapid pace, still feeling those flashing eyes on his skin, and wishing it was her lips.
As he rounded corners and meandered through the hallways, he thought about his mission today. Prime Minister Geoffrey’s airplane had only taken off approximately ten minutes prior. Kingsley planned to leave exactly ten minutes after the former, timing it so that he would have the perfect amount of time for securing the premises and checking on the situation in the village of Châtel without any curiosity from other guards. He would be waiting at the gate as the Prime Minister arrived, impeccably dressed and ready to assist. He felt at his front pocket for the pad and pen he kept on hand to appear the dutiful secretary, but felt no lumps.
He cursed to himself before dashing a retreat around the corners, angry that his schedule would be off for the rest of the day. He would have to get a quick update in Châtel now to make up for time lost. Blasted desk, clear on the other side of the building! Of course, it was too risky to Apparate in a building such as the Prime Minister’s residence. It would be a death wish. The Muggles would likely put torches to the walls.
Finally, he turned the last corner, but paused and threw himself back against the wall so he wouldn’t be seen. Just past Kingsley’s own desk was Prime Minister Geoffrey’s office door, and just outside his door was Gertrude, gently closing and locking the door, a paper in hand.
There is no time!
Deciding to go without, and to leave the silly girl to her silly devices, he closed his eyes, concentrated, and felt himself being pulled toward the Alps of France.
In but a moment, he found himself strolling down the wildflower-covered hill toward a tent where the Headsman of the Spell Reversal Squad stood, drinking a cup of tea. It was too beautiful a day to be standing just outside a site where nearly 50 deaths had occurred. The wind carried a slightly sweet scent, and picked up and dropped like a child plays with a ball. It was warm enough for summer robes, though it was only spring.
“Salut, Yemir. How is it? Comment vas-tu?” Kingsley asked to the Headsman.
"Il restera jusque le matin," the paunchy Yemir replied, shaking his head.
“Keep at it, then,” he said. With that, he bid adieu and Apparated just along the road toward Charles de Gaulle International Airport and found a steady pace until he had gone entirely through check in, past the shopping area, through security, into the shuttle, through more security, and finally at Gate G. Due to his privileged status of being the secretary of arguably the most powerful man in the world, he was able to move fairly quickly, only having to suffer a pat-down at the second security stop. Even then, he suspected the Muggle man was going above the call of duty to take a little pleasure.
Finally, there came the noticeable change of tempo in the air, where every particle of life energy emanating from every person picked up on it and vibrated with a renewed intensity. There came an excited squeal from a woman in a red pantsuit, as she jumped up and shouted, “It’s landing!”
Surely enough, the Prime Minister’s plane had landed and was lumbering its way toward the extended arm of the walkway. Kingsley stood ramrod straight, and appeared to be the picture of patience and regality while his mind was churning and ticking away inside. He watched as the workers anchored the great plane to the walkway, watched as the reporters all set up their cameras and gave last instructions to their parties. It had turned into a silent circus as the blood rushed through his mind and blocked out all sound. It was nearly a comedy, watching the excited faces of the paparazzi. Prime Minister Geoffrey finally came into view, and into a flurry of flashing lights, rolling cameras and a garbled collage of voices.
Geoffrey’s eyes widened slightly when he spotted Kingsley, just as they usually did. The man that used to be known as Shackles was certainly a formidable sight. Tall, dark, and with a shining smile, he was usually the most noticed person in a room; unless he was in a room with a world leader, that is. No words passed as Kingsley sidled up to the Prime Minister, falling in step with his stride. They kept their eyes focused forward to avoid conveying any meaning to their trip. The best thing to do was to keep Muggles in the dark. The less they knew about the other reality that controlled their lives, the better.
Focus maintained, they finally reached a simple, black car. Kingsley opened the door for the Prime Minister just as a young woman, clothed in what could only be the ugliest paper sack to land on earth, bumbled up to the car, recording device held out before her like the Holy Grail. With a quiet nod, Kingsley and the other body guards eased and let her speak.
“Oh gosh. I didn’t think you’d let me talk! Um,” she coughed, “Prime Minister, are you here to give your condolences to the ailing President of France?”
Geoffrey leaned in to the recorder. “I am here merely on a pleasure trip. I wish to extend my deepest regrets toward the President for being unable to visit during this time, but I wish him a speedy recovery from his flu.”
“Nice job, sir,” Kingsley whispered, impressed.
Geoffrey was not entirely keen on the circumstances of his office, given the times, but after a hard brandy, he embraced his new role in a way that gave Kingsley new faith in Muggle-kind. In the interim, he’d learned many things about the Wizarding World and had even learned some of the nuances of their culture.
They all crawled into the car and held their silence. The Paparazzi really would put a camera nearly anywhere, and there was nothing to be said just yet. Whenever Geoffrey had seen the damage….well, then he would have to formulate an idea on how to deal with the issue. Normally, this would be in President Marcoux’s realm of power, but given his mysterious and debilitating illness, Prime Minister Geoffrey was asked to take care of the matter in his stead. Most of the world was unaware of the green cloud over Châtel, but that wouldn’t last for long.
Kingsley could feel it as they drove through the protective barrier the Muggle Relations office had erected around the site of the massacre. Looking at his companions, they could feel it too, but likely had no idea what had just happened. Often, it seemed to strike Muggles as a turn of the air or a sudden chill.
They had arrived at the tent, the green fog hanging over the small, dead village like an acid ceiling. One of the burly body guards opened the door, eyeing the land, taking in its many corners and shooting wary looks at the workers a hundred meters away. Kingsley stepped out between yet another guard, the Prime Minister, and another guard. Sure that the first guard had done his job properly, Kingsley stretched and took in the air. It was then that he smelled something….rotting…
Something small caught his eye on the ground. A few steps brought him upon a dead bird of the small variety. He felt it, and it was still warm. A bit to the right was another….and another…
Target practice.
He was trained well enough to know what a death curse looked like when he saw it. He whipped his body around to tell the Prime Minister to get back inside the car when he saw the figure on the hill behind the black vehicle. He knew from the position the attacker was taking that it was nearly the end.
“Prime Minister, down!”
Kingsley whipped out his own wand and forced the Prime Minister into a subjugated bow using the only spell that popped into his head at that moment. Everyone else had already hit the ground, and the erstwhile Shackles landed on the ground, his huge body landing with a thud. He moved closer to the Prime Minister by crawling along the ground, careful to be sure the car offered some protection from the villain behind it.
“What the bloody hell was that?” cursed Geoffrey, who had understandably gone quite red and angry.
“Pinprickers,” Kingsley answered absentmindedly, trying to find a peeking spot between the wheels.
“What the fuck is that?” he spat like a local drunkard.
“They strike so fast you don’t know what hit you until you see the blood. They’re what you people call ‘sharp-shooters’,” he said seriously, watching the Prime Minister’s face for some reaction.
“Kill him,” he said matter-of-factly. Kingsley suddenly stood up, eliciting a hiss from the Prime Minister.
“There is nothing to be done. They’re gone.” The other body guards had many words in response to that, but the Prime Minister hushed them.
“If Shacklebolt says they’re gone, they’re gone.” The guards fell silent.
Kingsley didn’t say a word about it, but judging by the mane of black hair he saw in the wind, it was not a man at all.
Back in his office in London, the Prime Minister had no easier time with the events of that day.
“But why? Well, I’m not a man without enemies. That much I know. But…but no one knew where I was, right? D-didn’t they?” He paced the blue carpet before his oak desk. “President Marcoux is a good friend of mine. He would not have asked for my help if he’d known there was a possibility of an assassination-“
“Sir, there’s always a possibility of assassination,” chimed in one of the guards.
Geoffrey threw his hand up to silence him, and the guard fell dutifully quiet.
Kingsley thought of Gertrude. The sweet girl with the beautiful arse. Then he thought of the paper she had been holding as she left the Prime Minister’s office- which she should have never had access to.
“Sir, I have a reason to believe that someone had been in your office, and had stolen a document of some sort.”
Geoffrey stopped pacing and faced Kingsley directly, his eyebrows pursing inward. “What document?”
“I …don’t know, sir,” he replied. He was not entirely sure why he was not saying her name. This was the Prime Minister for God’s sake! He should have been willing to divulge the color of his fecal matter!
Geoffrey was too deeply entrenched in thought to notice Kingsley’s moral dilemma written across his face. “If someone was in my office, digging through it…then they must have set up a reason for me to be gone… But Marcoux wouldn’t do that.”
“But he’s sick, sir,” the annoying guard unhelpfully pointed out.
“I know that, Crunfel.”
Something clicked in Kingsley’s head. Of course! “Sir, perhaps the president …” he eyed the other people in the office, “was poisoned?”
“What?” jumped the guard defensively. “I didn’t do it!” Kingsley only rolled his eyes at the man.
“But if they just wanted the document, they would have sent you off on some expedition …there is no need for poisoning.”
“Perhaps…this really was meant to be an assassination, and the paper is evidence of it.”
“If I’d read a document about my own assassination, I would have noticed,“ the Prime Minister said. Clearly, he was offended. “And I read every single piece of paper that goes through my office!” He seemed to think for a moment, and an expression of deep frustration entered his features, pulling his face into a full-facial pursing. “No, the only documents regarding this visit were my flight schedule, Marcoux’s certified letter, my packing list…”
“Prime Minister…what did that letter say?”
“Just that there was a disturbance in Châtel that he could not attend to due to illness, and asking if I would fulfill his duties on the matter, as it was so pressing.”
“Was it sent just before you notified the airport of your departure?”
“About three in the morning. I didn’t check my mail until five.”
Marcoux is notoriously never awake in the morning hours. He wouldn’t have been up at three.
“Sir, President Marcoux is ill. Did it say what sort of illness he suffers from?”
“Yes…actually….no. Well, here, read it yourself.” Geoffrey looked around his desk, opened his drawers one by one, checked them all once more. “I can’t find the letter.”
Kingsley’s face went deadpan. His hand moved to his forehead, kneading his temple. Unthinkingly, he rambled his thoughts aloud in a tone no stronger than a steady, gutteral whisper. “The letter was what was stolen. The letter is evidence that Marcoux wrote him to act in his stead…but Marcoux is very ill, and could not have sent it himself. In fact, he very likely hasn’t been conscious in the last 24 hours.” He took a deep breath, alternately opening and closing his eyes to the rhythm of his thoughts, not acknowledging the other people witnessing this interlude with so much as a mental tick. “So who would send him a letter but someone who wanted him there, who wanted him to witness what happened at Châtel? Someone who wanted to be sure there was an event significant enough that it would require a head of state to personally visit the site. And that person happens to be keeping hold on the Muggle population at the center of activity- in Britain. This someone knew that the moment he is gone, British Muggles will be leaderless, and a leaderless group is as good as dead.” As he came out of the images racing across his mind, he watched the faces of those in the room turn from disbelieving, to wonder, to the basest emotion: fear.
“And the most terrible part is that they’re right. But why couldn’t the Pinpricker do it here, in England?”
“Your home is well guarded. You rarely even leave your home.”
“Why in France?”
“I don’t know.”
Prime Minister Geoffrey turned to face Kingsley in a way that forewarned of his seriousness. “Mr. Shacklebolt, I expect you to move your belongings into the room adjacent to mine. Now, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Kingsley turned to leave and got all the way to the door before he turned around once more, his stomach twisting, knowing what he was doing and still hating himself for every bit of sureness. “Sir? Gertrude Giovanni took the letter. I will testify if need be.”
A short nod was all that came in answer before Kingsley left the room, let out all the air in his lungs, and hated himself for every step he took away from that room, knowing he assigned a woman to her death without knowing her circumstances. Such power over a person’s life felt grotesque. Grandmum would have been ashamed of him.
Kingsley arrived on the hill above Châtel. Here was where she stood, the Pinpricker. He kneeled down on the grass, running his fingers through it. She had nearly made history again, Bellatrix Black. He frowned as he spied a bit of discoloration amidst the green. Upon closer inspection, it was…
Blood.