The early summer night was warm and balmy, but high in the air the wind whipped chill against Kingsley Shacklebolt’s powerful frame. He gripped the handle of his broom with numbing fingers and chanced a glance beside him. He knew that Alastor Moody was flying almost knee to knee with him, but the Disillusionment Charm he had cast was a good one; Kingsley could only make out a vague ripple in the air next to him. He looked down to his own hands, a slight heat wave above sprawling London City.
“This is a bit unorthodox,” he observed, his slow, deep voice sounding muffled in the wind.
“Necessary,” grunted Moody. “Got to pick up Tonks on our way.”
“She can’t Apparate?”
“Too tired to be safe. She’s been on assignment with Mundungus Fletcher for almost forty-eight hours, told her not to risk it.”
“Is this Fletcher in the Order as well?”
“Yes,” growled Moody, sounding thoroughly disapproving. “We’ll be picking him up as well, I suppose”they’re on our way there.”
There. Normally unflappably calm, Kingsley felt his heart thump a little harder in anticipation. He had left his cubicle a few hours earlier in a state of high confusion. In response to his immediate inquiries, Moody had explained shortly that an outside source had sighted Sirius Black days ago, but that there might be some important information worth looking into. Moody seemed disinclined to talk, and discouraged Kingsley from alerting anyone or even bringing anything along. Hopes of a new lead fading, he had nevertheless followed obligingly, noting with a frown one of the younger Aurors rolling his eyes as Moody stumped past.
They had taken the Floo Network to Moody’s own well-fortified home where Moody had quickly explained in low, terse tones that he had brought Kingsley there under false pretenses, that he had been sent to collect him because Moody’s own reputation for paranoia would ensure that he could lure Kingsley away without arousing suspicion, that they were not there to discuss Black at all, but rather, the return of Lord Voldemort.
Kingsley had been silent during Moody’s hurried explanation of the mysterious events surrounding the Triwizard Tournament. He had had to sit down when Mad-Eye got to the part about the reunion of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters, but looked up again when Moody mentioned, almost casually, that certain people felt the Ministry was mired in denial, that certain people believed immediate action was called for. Kingsley had stared into the mismatched eyes of the battle-scarred ex-Auror and wondered if he knew what he was hearing.
“You’re a smart boy, Shacklebolt. What would you do?”
Kingsley had measured his words before replying slowly, “Take matters into my own hands.”
Moody grinned lopsidedly. “That’s exactly what we wanted to hear.”
After reinforcing a host of anti-intruder and anti-eavesdropper spells, the ex-Auror revealed that Albus Dumbledore had reformed a group that was dedicated to bringing Voldemort down. He explained the trouble they had had recruiting people under the Ministry’s nose, confided that Kingsley had been watched for a long time to make absolutely certain of his loyalties, and outlined bluntly the dangers attached to joining such a group. For Kingsley there had been no decision to make. He had accepted immediately.
“But isn’t this dangerous, telling me all this?”
“Don’t have much choice, do we? We need more people. Besides, I know your work, and Tonks knows you as well; she vouched for your character.”
“Nymphadora Tonks?”
Moody nodded. “Inducted her a few weeks ago.”
Kingsley frowned, his practical mind unsatisfied. “What if I had said no?”
“Then you’d find yourself outside your home, remembering only that my tips
came to nothing and that you seemed remarkably preoccupied tonight.”
Kingsley had looked up into the formidable face of the ex-Auror and smiled grimly. He had no doubt that was exactly what would have happened.
Now, several hours later, they were flying to headquarters. There. The frustration of the past months was wiped away in a rush of purpose. He was not a man to rush into things, and Kingsley was surprised that he felt so comfortable being inducted into this mysterious Order. But he had no illusions about the Ministry for which he worked, and if the likes of Alastor Moody and Albus Dumbledore were in charge, he was ready to follow their lead.
Before he knew it, they had touched down in a grotty little alley in the heart of London, where an exhausted but cheerful Tonks (“Wotcher, Kingsley”) and a grimy, shifty character with a lumpy rucksack that Kingsley could only assume was Mundungus Fletcher awaited them. Once all of them were Disillusioned, they set off, London fading once more to a network of pinprick lights beneath them. They flew on in silence for perhaps twenty minutes more before Moody called for a landing.
It was not what Kingsley had expected. The houses before him were grim and sullen, paint peeling, windows resolutely shut against the summer night. The smell of old garbage wafted over to them as they regrouped. Kingsley had to squint to make out the hazy outlines of his companions. There was a small scuffling sound, and Tonks appeared out of thin air, Disillusionment Charm lifted and hair shockingly purple against her dreary surroundings. To her left, a huff of outrage punctuated the scuffling.
“Oh give it up, Moody; no one’s watching and we can’t see each other like this.”
Ignoring Moody’s invisible protests, she withdrew her wand and cracked the air over her head to her right. Mundungus Fletcher appeared, rubbing his head.
“That ride was summfink ‘orrible, think I got a splinter in me thumb. Oi, Mad-Eye,” he complained, staring at a spot a good four feet to the left of where Kingsley knew Moody to be. “G’wan, then, you’ll never find it like that; and I’m perishin’ of ‘unger out ‘ere!”
Growling under his breath, Moody lifted the charm and appeared, still rummaging in the pockets of his robes. Kingsley followed suit as Moody finally extracted a slip of parchment and handed it to him.
“Memorize it.”
Fidelius Charm, Kingsley realized, glancing at the parchment. Quickly, he memorized the address of his new headquarters. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Somewhere in his brain, the address rang a bell, but he was too focused on what was to come to take note of it. Nodding once, he lit the parchment on fire with the tip of his wand; it ghosted brightly to the ground before he stamped out the flame against the cold asphalt. Turning to the houses before them, he stared at the crack between number eleven and number thirteen, concentrating on what he had read, waiting and still. Slowly, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place squeezed into view. Kingsley’s heart hammered back into place in his chest.
Moody’s gravelly tones punched the silence. “Everyone in, and quick.”
They moved as one to the forbidding threshold, Kingsley noting with some trepidation the twining silver serpent that formed the knocker.
“What…?”
Tonks grinned at him. “Oh, it’s a bit gloomy, but we call it home, eh chaps?” Brightly, she reached out to ring an old-fashioned doorbell.
At once, several things happened. Muffled shrieks sounded from the other side of the heavy black door, Moody cursed; Mundungus chuckled, and Tonks clapped both hands to her face. “Sorry,” she moaned from between her fingers. “I forgot.”
Utterly bemused, Kingsley strained to distinguish the words of the shrieking voice. It sounded as though someone was dying. Before he could ask, however, thumping footsteps and a man’s bellowing voice caught his attention.
“Tonks! How many times? For the love of Merlin, you ghastly old woman, will you stop that horrible noise!”
Momentarily shocked, Kingsley glanced at Tonks, who had not said a word. Apparently not offended, she merely stared sheepishly at the door. As none of the others seemed surprised, Kingsley concluded the voice must have been referring to someone in the house. Glad he hadn’t said anything, he listened as the footsteps and voice grew louder.
“No, Remus, I’ve got it, just shut her up for me, will you?”
Clicks and screeches of many locks being opened, a drag of the heavy door, and a tall, dark-haired man stood before them, wearing long gray robes and an exasperated expression. Kingsley’s sharp intake of breath was lost; the man looked straight past him.
“Why do you even need to ring the doorbell, you’ve all got wands””
“”Sorry, I just keep””
But what Tonks kept doing was never discovered. Kingsley’s wand arm flew up instinctively; red light bloomed against the dark doorway as Sirius Black was blasted off his feet.