Amelia Bones

“Nice one.” Frank picks up a stone of his own - a nice round one, for maximum distance and splash. He weighs it in his hand, as he thinks of his shitty transfiguration grade and the dull sting he feels every time he looks at Molly and Arthur. He lifts the stone and puts all his frustration at the expectations people have of him into it - allows himself to be angry about all of it for once - and flings his arm forward. The rock sails through the air and, as expected, makes quite a splash in the lake. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” says Frank, after a moment of satisfied silence. He smiles at Amelia, so grateful to be next to her and to have her next to him. Sure, feelings hurt and grades sucked, but he figures they’ll manage.

“Bet you I can throw one further than you,” he teases, picking up a sharp looking rock and wiggling his eyebrows at her, “I got a Poor in potions last week.” 

“Oh bring it on,” She says, lifting her hand and curling her fingers in, inviting the challenge. Amelia finds another rock near the shoreline, smaller and curved, and she hold it in her hand, throwing it up and down two or three times for good measure. 

She lets herself think of her frustrating relationship with Alastor, all of the backs and forths that they’ve been feeling lately. There’s no want for the butterflies or the nervousness-- especially not regarding a guy like him, and yet theyre there. She watches him now, much to her own disappointment, and she waits for the inevitable heartbreak to sit with her permanently. The heartache that she sees in Frank is so palpable-- it’s scary to think of it happening to her in the same way. She loads the rock with that fear and frustration and throws it out ont the pond, a loud grunt leaving her mouth with the exertion of the movement. 

He never used to know how to account for that, or most qualitative aspects of being an Auror. To have grit: how do you even test that? Like most soft skills, it turned out to be something you understood about a person as you knew them. First they’re tough; their outer core the most impenetrable force in the world, at least to them, but they crack, especially under pressure, and for half a second, you can see the stuff they’re made of. What magic runs rampant in their veins.

For the first time, he looked at Amelia Bones and thought he saw part of her shell cracking. A glimmer, a spark. Just a sliver: an almost unnoticeable speck of something he was afraid to quantify. 

She was radiant.

Of course, she was stubborn. And annoying. Sometimes. Hardly ever. She was absolutely stunning, obviously, and carried a gaze that would stop you in your tracks or, worse, send you headfirst into the nearest wall. Her lips could stop wars, probably, though he would never put it to the test. Her exterior was lovely; it was why he was madly attracted to her in the first place.

But that tiny piece of the magic that ran through her veins: Amelia Bones, not the Auror, but the woman - nay, the conglomerate of stardust that decided, after eons of time hurtling through space, to capitalize on a fraction of a moment to create her in all of her glory - and he was completely entranced.

So entranced, in fact, that he forgot what they were talking about.

“Er…yeah, I know, bloody weird.”

She quirks an eyebrow, the words she was about to say caught in her throat. Kingsley Shacklebolt looking at her as if she were some sort of prize sitting across from him in the warmly lit restaurant and she feels the burn of her face and fights the urge to tuck out to the loo or even just look down at her plate. Perhaps in all of the years of knowing each other there was a reason that the quiet and reserved Shacklebolt hadn’t ever really reached out-- the look in his eyes is warm and glowing, but there is a solid strength and dedication to that Amelia’s not seen in anyone’s eyes but one other. 

It scares her. 

Objectively, it is a lovely look on Kingsley’s face-- she doubts there are few looks that would be abe to completely eradicate just how handsome he actually is. But subjectively it sends signals to Amelia’s legs that make them shake nervously, and she feels as though perhaps this dinner was a bad idea after all. The flirting and the games, she could convince herself that they were meaningless and flighty on her end, but she is starting to think that on Kinglsey’s perhaps they are an indicator of something far more important-- something that Amelia doesn’t want to look to far into or sit on for too long. 

She clears her throat and reaches for her glass of water, wanting to break the weighty silence between them. 

“Did you read that article in the Prophet last week?”

“So I was thinking...” 

“Well that’s never a good way to start a conversation.” 

He dreams up the perfect dragon to accompany a cup of tea, and wonders if there’s a way to enchant foam to change colors on command. Or even bubble circumference. Maybe this could be a three-dimensional dragon…and on and on his mind wanders, designing the perfect thing for Amelia Bones that will likely, as he thinks harder, turn out to be inconsequential.

“Not illicit; mostly rookie files, trainees. Stuff that I have to sign off on but haven’t gotten around to doing yet, because it feels like we get applications for new recruits every hour of the day.” Kingsley’d been smacked in the face several times even that morning from mail that missed his slot and veered too far to the right, and when he opened it, it wasn’t even good mail. Recruit applications. Oftentimes the younglings got ahold of his name and thought it would make them more appealing if they sent it to him directly as opposed to going through the channels that would prevent things like this happening. 

Thus: the piles of paperwork at his home.

“Although,” he begins to say, “I do have some files on a particularly interesting burglary that took place a couple of weeks ago. Someone tried to enchant a Vanishing Cabinet so it would only send part of you one way, and they ended up getting splinched in several areas. Moral of the story: just Apparate to your romantic interest.”

“Oh, so the fun stuff?” She smirks, leaning further back in her chair. Her own home files were cold cases, facts scribbled over or gone dead, the latter providing an avenue with which she could pretend that if she scanned them three, four, five times, maybe she could make something of it, bring it into the fold with newer information. The tantalizing idea of something dead coming back to life was too appealing to pass up, even if she found the efforts more fruitless than fufilling. 

“So then let me ask-- what makes you say yes? What’s the thing-” she raises her eyebrows. “-that brings a recruit from ordinary to extraordinary?” It’s not a hard thing to wonder, when every year a new set of faces appear, no context to their entrance outside of the fact that they’re talented and hungry. Amelia occasionally reflects on the fact that she’s not taken the time to know those outside her circle, too internally focused to spend energy on people who may or may not fade into obscurity. Perhaps she was the one losing out. 

“Concerned with your dreams and future and the horrifying continued understanding that adults don’t have all the answers and that we are responsible for creating a better tomorrow for ourselves to live in?” he asks, completely straight-faced, “Yeah, how horrible of you. Don’t you know we’re just supposed to be snogging in cupboards and sneaking in alcohol from Hogsmeade? Jeez, Ames.” Well, the lucky ones among them were snogging, anyway. 

He’s actually so, so relieved to know he’s not the only one that worries, not the only one who feels shit about an average mark. Just the other night he cried about his transfiguration mark, because he knows mum will be disappointed if he doesn’t get at least an Exceeds Expectations. 

“Nah, I’ve just been hanging around Cleona too much, she’s always spouting random wisdom. The napping helps, though, you should try it sometime. Unless you wanna hurl more rocks?” He’s down for it, honestly. He’s got loads of stuff he’d love to throw rocks about. 

Amelia tries not to feel the sting of Cleona’s name, though she doesn’t hold it against Frank. It’s hard to not look at the girl and see all of the ways she fills what Amelia seems to lack. She wants many things, the attention of Alastor being one of them, but she knows that Frank knows her pain, feels it on a level even more keenly than her own. 

She stands up, pulling herself away from him despite the enjoyent of the contact. There is something to be said about the intimacy of a safe moment. Like a steadfast wall she feels Frank’s fortitude when she is missing her own, and hopes that it works in a likewise fashion. “Alright then, Longbottom-- I think I could go for another round of rock throwing.” This one, she could feel as she walked to the shore and found an appropriately palm shaped rock, didn’t hold the same fire as the rocks she had thrown before; the rage of her grades had left her with Frank’s appearance. Instead, she found herself focusing on her general dismay with the world, the moments that brought her and Frank together, their shared heartbreak, the soggy biscuit she bit into last night that had unknowingly been sitting in condensation. Her arm launched forward and she watched the wayward arc of the rock as it soared and plopped satisyingly into the murky waters below. 

“I mean…probably, to be honest,” he laughs. “It’s not…it’s not all reupholstered chairs and weird taxidermy. But…” he realizes there’s nothing more he can say about it. “If you’d like though, sometime, I can show you. You can come over…and I’ll actually make you a tea. That is meant for you. You can’t give it to Frank,” he finishes with a sly smile.

“But I have to admit, I do tend to bring a lot of work home with me. So I’ll need some time to hide away files you aren’t allowed to look at.”

An invitation. 

She doesn’t realize that this sort of opening, reciprocation of sorts, is what she’s been waiting for in this back and forth with him. A step into Kingsley Shacklebolt’s home, hopefully for more than just a viewing of his ebroidery. “I think I could be agreeable to that-- I’m curious to see the man behind the wand. Though if you’re in the habit of drawing in your foam, might I suggest a dragon for my next cuppa?” And there she is, shying away from anything that suggested a hint of courting or romance. 

But at the thought that she did not drink the tea, his stomach dropped. “Uh. That…okay.” He didn’t anticipate that Amelia wouldn’t immediately know it was from him to her, but it also didn’t surprise him that the young rookie would do something so callous. It had been common office gossip that Alice was interested in Frank - something that Kingsley was mildly uncomfortable thinking about. 

Sure, they could’ve said that what he and Amelia were doing wasn’t right either, but at least the two of them were consenting to it. From his perspective, the rookie seemed to be head-over-heels for an older man she didn’t know and Frank was certainly not reciprocating. A classic crush like in school, but out in the open: risky and wholly inappropriate.

But, he supposes, Frank could be open to it. He certainly doesn’t know Frank the way Amelia does.

And, just in time to snap him out of his own thoughts, Kingsley feels Amelia’s foot on his, and instant comfort followed by electrifying pulses emanating from his right foot commences. 

“Well.” He begins to think: what is he good at? Or, really, what is he good at that Amelia will care about? “I…I can hem a pair of pants. I took an embroidery course two years ago and can now set my set of needles to do it in my stead. Like right now…I’m having a cushion embroidered to have two blue jays on the front. And it’ll say ‘Home Sweet’…never mind.”

The disappoint in his face leads to a curdling sort of sensation in her stomach-- Amelia didn’t expect him to look so... disappointed. Worst of it though, is that the idea that the tea had been for her had crossed her mind, though the idea of something so cloying made her break out into a sweat, and passing it off had been the only thing to bring her back to a world in which there weren’t men around her... doing that. 

The visual of Alastor doing such a thing makes her want to laugh, and then cry. It is the only frame of reference she has for these sorts of things, and even then it’s certainly not a healthy one to go by. 

She “hmmms” appreciatively in the right spots, trying to slot the information she has reguarding Office Kingsley and Personal Kingsley in the puzzle that seems to grow more intricate every time she places a piece-- though in retrospect that is simply the nature of a person, ever flowing and complex. 

Kingsley turns his head so the moonlight hits his jaw in a way that he knows is tantalizing - from the few women he’s dated, it’s come up quite often, and he has no reason to believe it’s changed. “What if I told you all the things about me that are worth punching me for? Things I deserve? Like…” He brushes the edge of his jaw with his fingers. “Like the fact that I hem my pants. Or…the fact that I steal coffee from Alice. Or the fact that I wear complementary mismatched socks.”

“Or…” He lingers on this thought as he leans forward towards her, his eyes locked on Amelia’s. “Or the fact that once  - and definitely not today, don’t worry - I put that cup of tea on your desk with the foam shaped like a heart.”

He lets there be silence so it dawns on her. “Turns out you’re not the only one that’s good at Charms.”

Oh. 

The energy shifts, Kingsley emitting something that brings Amelia back to the moment where she was trapped between Kingsley and the wall of photo frames, and she crosses her legs at the ankles in a moment of flushed confusion. “Would you like me to punch you for having a fashion sensibility? For teaching a rookie the ropes?” She pauses. “You may actually have something about the socks there.” 

At this point she feels as though she’s utterly abandoned the beautiful meal in front of her, far more interesting in the game that Kingsley seems to be playing. She meets his eyes, her hand raching out to clasp the stem of her glass as she finishes it, never breaking his gaze. 

“I suppose it’s a bit of a shame, then, that I thought it was from Alice, meant for Frank.” Her lips twitch, wanting so badly to give into the smile that pushes rom the inside of her mouth. “He loved it, for what it’s worth.” 

As their meals arrive, Amelia’s talking about Ed - her brother. He’d met Ed maybe twice, both times in relation to an assignment he was working on. Kingsley went to see Ed to talk about a body - or, more hopefully, a person that was still alive that could provide eye-witness testimony. 

“Ed seems like a swell sort of man…if a little…nerdy.” What was he saying; he literally just discussed how he was book smart rather than social. “I mean, so am I, but Ed…he just knows a lot about the human body and it’s kind of scary sometimes.”

He snakes his hand over to hers, linking their fingers. He wonders how open they can be, but after what she said, he’s so overwhelmed by the nicety of it all - the fact that Amelia didn’t make fun of him for being a loser during Hogwarts - that he tells himself that if Moody sees the two of them, he’ll have no trouble hexing him on the spot.

“Me too,” Kingsley says gently. “Even if you did punch me that one time. What? I’m not going to let it go; my nose still hurts.” He feigns pain by sighing into a napkin and covering his nose, a ruse that he hopes Amelia will both take lightly and also will rouse him from.

“Swell is a good word-- he’s got a lot more heart than me and Isaac, our younger brother. Think it’s probably why he brings good people up while I try to take bad people down...” 

And then his bloody hands and linked with hers and suddenly this is quickening to a place that Amelia is not sure she wants to be... a place of warmth and heart and softness. Those are ideals that, while appealing to Amelia, also terrify her. She fights the immediate urge to rip her hand out of his, lest ruining the tentative peace they’ve seemed to build at the table. Her brain flashes to Al, his face contorted into one of heartbroken agony, and her heart suffers a painful clench. 

It quickly diminishes as Kingsley references their unfortunate meeting during Auror training and she laughs, the sound surprising her. She uses the opportunity to squeeze his hand gently before letting go, her body leaning all of the way back until her shoulderblades are flush with the back of the chair. “Shove off, Shacklebolt.” She teases without malice. “Ten years later and your nose hasn’t healed? I think wounded pride is the only thing with that much longevity.” Lifting her napkin as well she waves it once. 

He thinks back to Transfiguration, fifth year. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. McGonagall is telling them all about changing bats to boxes. Kingsley is fixated: he’s writing with ferocious speed. 

He’s sitting alone, which was intentional. He had too many books to share a desk with someone else. Luckily, Eustace Pennyweather was in the Hospital Wing that week, and no one questioned him.

And then McGonagall asked them to pick partners. Projects. Kingsley is mortified because he can’t imagine who in the room would want to work on a project with him.

“Bones - with Shacklebolt.”

That sentence was only ever uttered once more: when their Auror Trainers asked Amelia to do combat training with Kingsley. Which is when she punched him.

“Do you remember,” Kingsley asks, “Fifth year Transfiguration? Bats and boxes? You and I…I think we were on a project together.”

He doesn’t want her to remember how standoffish he was. How closely guarded he kept himself. It would make sense that - if she had the memory at all - she would’ve thought he was a total prick.

But it comes out of nowhere, and now that Kingsley has said it, he can’t take it back.

“I was…a loner. Really book smart. Not very…socially adept, shall we say. I learned it over time. I…this is going to sound so weird, but I loved just…being alone. It felt safer. Safer than making friends, I mean.”

Amelia thinks back to that day in the classroom, her memory colored by the fact that she had been in a rare fight with Arthur at the time. She wants badly to tell him that she remembers, that she knows what he was doing or thinks fondly o n their conversation together but she.... doesn’t. 

“It rings a bell.” A small smile is offered and she hopes that that’s enough to avoid her looking like more of an ass than she feels like. “Was never the strongest in Transfiguration though-- more of a Charms girl myself.” 

A moment of awkward silence is punctuated by an awkward server who takes their meals. Throughout Amelia tries to push down the fact that she never paid him the mind he was due. 

“It doesn’t sound weird.” It’s the only thing she can offer him-- that comfort. He clearly looks displaced by the conversation and though he brought it up she’s wondering if it would’ve been better to redirect regardless. “It’s a tough time, those few years. Still pretty sure having an older brother like Ed was the only way I made friends in the first place... But we’ve ended up in the same spot now.” She takes a sip. “A fact that I’m rather grateful for.” 

As Kingsley sits down, he knocks his knees against the table, sending a candle toppling over onto the tablecloth. As it ignites, Kingsley swears under his breath, his left hand dashing to his wand, and then he whispers the dispelling charm under his breath with his heart practically beating out of his chest.

The whole incident is barely seconds long: his long years of Auror training and conflict resolution taught him to be quick on his feet. But quick on his feet at the expense of a lovely dinner with a beautiful woman - that was a module all its own, and one nobody can train you for.

“What?” he asks when he sees Amelia’s eyes - dazzling, but a little judgmental - dart to his own. “I have long legs. I’m tall.”

These are both facts that a stranger would already know, but Kingsley’s currently not willing to admit that he’s nervous about of his mind for a date with Amelia, which is something he didn’t think he’d be able to have, especially after everything had transpired.

There’s a poetry to the way the turquoise bolt of fabric leans gently into Kingsley’s periphery, framing Amelia as if it’s purposefully pointing to her and her alone. Even after ordering their drinks, he’s barely able to maintain a full conversation with her because of how beautiful she looks right here and right now.

Get it together, Kings, he thinks to himself. You are an adult. Get it together.

“So,” he begins, thinking of the question he had most been wanting to ask. “What was Amelia Bones like during Hogwarts?”

What leaves her mouth resembles something closer to a loud choking sound rather than a genuine laugh, until she remembers that Kingsley and she hadn’t crossed paths that often during their time together, and she didn’t actually know much about his time their either. 

When the glass of wine that she’s ordered makes it back to the table she sips it gratefully. “Terribly annoying, high strung, competitive and mouthy.” She says it with a sense of pride, though there is a thought that she’s tempered herself a bit since those days a decade earlier. “I’m sure that’s not hard to imagine.” Amelia is sure that Hogwarts Kingsley would’ve found her utterly intolerable.  “Considering my group of mates has been fairly consistent from the get go-- it’s not hard to forget where you’ve come from.” There is no lack of appreciation towards her friends for keeping her sane and accountable. 

“And Kingsley Shacklebolt, elusive Ravenclaw-- what was he like during Hogwarts?”

“Not really….” She continued with a laugh. Between Amelia and Frank they were good at pulling her up on her weaknesses. She dind’t mind though. They both wanted her to succeed. Her weak spots though? Frank? He was a big weakness for her, but she wasn’t about to say that. It was a problem she was trying to overcome. She wouldn’t be a good auror if she let her partner distract her. “Forgetting defense in duels is a big one I guess…. I have a bad habit of going straight for the offence, and neglecting defense.. It’s why Frank is so good at kicking my ass”

Amelia smiles weakly, the bond between Alice and Frank had been one that recently she’d been looking at more speculatively, wanting Frank to be mindful... though she wasn’t in much of a position to talk. “That’s fair-- he beats a fair few of us at dueling.” She can remember the times that Frank had knocked her flat, though he had always been the most graceful at pulling her back up again. She was lucky to have a teacher in him. 

“For what it’s worth, PF, from reading this and knowing what I know of you, I think you’re a bit too focused on the assertive parts of being an auror. The offense in dueling, the interpersonal aspects of the job... those sorts of things. But look beyond what it means to be an Auror at face value. How do you think you connect with the community? Are you good at speaking to witnesses, interrogating suspects? What causes you anxiety, and what do you actively look forward to? At this point it’s okay if you don’t have the answers--- I certainly didn’t at your age.”

 It was hard to look at Alice and not see a bit of herself at the same age-- the youth that pulled at her when all she wanted was to succeed. The gap between Hogwarts and Training had been nonexistent and Amelia had never really had a good opportunity to transition... Something she thinks she sees in the woman next to her. “But these are good places to start, especially as you grow in this department and take different responsibilities onto your plate. Though we’re all quite talented, there are people who clearly excel in one skill over another.” 

He follows her to the Turkish restaurant of which she speaks, and he’s hoping that she keeps speaking about it - about anything at all, really - because the sound of her voice has recently caused several cataclysmic reactions in his heart that he’d be remiss to reveal to her. But, like most addictions, he is both yearning for and weakened by her timbre and cadence, as well as the glorious way her lips purse and widen after each breath.

He can’t believe he’s actually thinking about any of this. What kind of crazy person looks that closely at another’s lips? Who catalogs it in their mind? 

And then, as transfixed on this transgression as he has ever been, he’s pulled back into reality by a hand he recognizes simply because of the location of the rings on it. The storm raging in his heart and head reacts to the metal on Amelia’s fingers and causes bolts of lightning to surge through his body. Kingsley inhales sharply to quell the tempest inside him, lest it leak out of his body and expose him for all the crazy that he feels within.

But they don’t break apart. The longer they hold hands, the easier it becomes to hold her hand, which Kingsley finds both odd and also comforting. “I’ve never been to this part of London,” he manages to say, trying to focus on anything else. “It looks really historic, though.” True, the architecture of the area she’s led him down is reminiscent of Victorian London, with its crawling scrolls and winding stone. 

They finally happen upon a building that looks completely out of place in this moody construction, but describes perfectly the kind of restaurant Amelia was originally talking about. “Is this the place you meant?”

The restaurant had really found her more than the reverse. A cold day months prior and a need for a walk where the odds of seeing a familiar face were zero had led her, starving and half frozen to their door step for refuge. It was the type of place where you were treated as family even if it was your first moment in the place, and Amelia had been enchanted. She’d tried multiple times to explain and drag people along to see it with her, but the timing had just never leant itself in her favor again. 

“For all of the excitment you have four blocks over, I’ve always found this to be a bit of a hidden gem.” She tightens her hold on his hand, not giving the emotional impact of such a gesture it’s due moment, and pulls him forward into the warmth and energy of the restaurant. Immediately, the wave of scents assaults her as the noise of the restaurant reaches them. The dining room is a unique blend of casual and ornate, with rich thick tapestries hanging off of every available wall and the tables gathered closely together are that of a mismatched variety, no singular chair belonging to any particular table. It gives the impression that while this place is very well loved, that love is not found in the heart of the decor. Many diners are already seated at various tables and the rumble of the space is built on mostly laughter and cheer. 

The man behind the podium when they enter gives Amelia and Kingsley a warm and welcoming smile, and Amelia feels a trill of adrenaline when he asks how many and she responds with “It’s just us two.” as though this wasn’t something verging on clandestine but was an average couple going for an average evening of dinner. 

Within minutes they are at their own table, tucked into a corner where a turqouise bolt of fabric drapes itself delicately around them. The table, laden with one well worn candle and two empty glasses, is small enough that when they both sit their knees knock together if not careful. She loves it. 

“Well? What do you think? I know it’s not really fancy but the energy of the space just sort of captivates.” 

When he lands, it’s at an angle and on a box, which is of course what happens, and so Kingsley goes tumbling from the inside of an alley and cresting into the sidewalk, where he narrowly misses a bike running over his left hand. Several Muggle onlookers ask if he’s alright, question his sobriety, and Kingsley has time for neither of these inquiries and wishes, for once, he was as invisible as the air around him. 

Trafalgar Square is mocking him as he approaches it from the other side of the street. He wishes he wasn’t such a bumbling fool sometimes, even though later he would admit that it was not his fault that the produce deliveryman had left a couple of empty apple boxes in his way, but perhaps it’s the universe’s way of reminding him he’s wholly unprepared for being Amelia Bones’s date. He’s in jeans, which already feels wrong, because he’s not sure she’s ever seen him lower his fashion guard to the point of choosing denim over linen. He didn’t stoop to the point of a T-shirt (of which he had only a few clean ones to choose from at the moment), and instead chose a cool green button-down that he felt accentuated the parts of his body of which he was most proud.

But still: Amelia Bones is somewhere in this square and he has no idea how to begin a conversation with her, even though admittedly he knows she’s a person just like anyone else, but is she?

He finally finds her at the base of Nelson’s column, her curly hair matching the timbre of the lion’s mane, the poetry of which Kingsley thinks on fondly. Their eyes meet in what Kingsley can only describe as a cosmic event, because it’s in seeing her looking at him that his heart bursts in the way that stars explode when they run out of air to breathe. Or something like that.

“Amelia,” he croaks, which is already a sign of things going well. He clears his throat. “You look lovely.”

Reflexively she looks down at her camel coat, casual blouse, and jeans, feeling slightly exposed, though Muggle London had a tedency to do that to her regardless of the outfit in the moment. “Thank you.” It’s slightly stilted but genuine in it’s appreciation. 

Kingsley doesn’t look so bad himself. Stripped of the nice clothes, she finds that it seems even easier to appreciate the man inside the fabric. Fighting the heat that lingers in her cheeks she coughs slightly into her hand, distracting herself from the strong thighs she suddenly seems to have just noticed. “You look great as well. Even though I requested a dress down I don’t know that I ever considered that you might own jeans.” She pushes herself off the the monument and straightens out, running a stray hand over her clothes to make sure that every is sitting correctly. 

“I appreciate you meeting me out here... I know it’s sort of unconventional.” She steers them in a walking direction and leans down, tentatively brushing the back of her hand against the back of his as their steps echo off the stone ground. It’s only when he goes to walk down the wrong street does she grab his hand, the split second decision to intertwine their fingers coming to her and enacting itself before she has the mind to question it. “I found this Turkish place about a year ago, but I haven’t been able to show it to anyone yet.... Figured you might be a good test subject for the experience.”

Muggle London. 

Meet me at Nelson’s Column. 

7pm. 

Dress down. 

A. 

When he’d asked her to pick the place she wrestled with the choice-- It would’ve been more than easy to just pop over to the Leaky Cauldron or even the Hog’s Head of any of the other establishments they frequented on their own. But the more she thought about a dinner among her peers, the more she felt uncertainty creeping up the back of her neck. 

Did she want to stop what was currently developing? No. But at the same time she harbored no desire to flaunt her choices in the faces of those who didn’t need to know. It wasn’t their business. 

Amelia considers all of this for the umpteenth time as she wraps her coat around her, Trefalgar Square slowly emptying as twilight settles and the shape of the city changes. Where there were legions of school children and tourists she now sees pensive adults, speaking to each other in hushed tones or a group of young twenty somethings, clearly on their way to a raucous night out. 

The base of the monument holds her weight easily as she scans the area, suddenly bundled with nerves. She fights the urge to regret leaving him the note at all or choosing something so clearly out of her comfort zone, but she wants to trust her gut instict that tells her that this, showing Kingsley this, is the right idea. The jeans that she’s worn to replace her work slacks sit stiffly against her skin and she hopes that he’s taken her note to heart and not come in a full suit to meet her. 

And then. Oh, and then.

Amelia’s hand drifts towards his under the cover of the desk: a secret the two of them got to keep. In public. A stray eye could end it all, but Kingsley imagined them covered by an Invisibility Cloak, hiding under the cover of collegian reverie, discussing nothing in particular, an office unchanged and unmoved by what just transpired between them. 

“Dinner? Yes. You pick the place.”

Amelia moves her hand away, if only because she felt the moment end. A calm warmth, oh so unfamiliar, fills its place. She feels an indulgent smile grown and she reaches for the paperwork that she was working on before he had made his way over to her. 

“I’ll send you a memo about it.” Her voice returns to its normal volume, and she leans back in her chair, her face fully embodying a cat who’s succeeded in eating the canary. 

She takes a hand and shoos him good naturedly. “Alright, Shacklebolt-- back to your desk. Some of us have work to do.” There’s no acid in the remark and Amelia spies Frank’s head turn in her direction at the tone. Amelia Bones? Playful?

So Kingsley leans in.

“What’s between us…as scary as it is, I can’t really stop. I can’t…look, I can’t stop thinking about you.” It occurs to Kingsley that this might come off as too strong, and who was Amelia to have to heed anything he was saying? But never matter…commit, Shacklebolt.

“I can’t stop thinking about you and I can’t take my eyes off of you and…well, having bourbon with you was the first time I’d ever been in the Aurory and had not been afraid.”

This is not something he had expected to say, but there it was. Kingsley isn’t sure he is ready to actualize or elaborate on what he meant; the thought poured out of him with no inhibition. 

But it was true. Whether Amelia Bones would take him in any way romantically was almost not the point: having a bourbon with her broke all the rules in the handbook: rules he clung to for dear life, for fear of the repercussions of losing himself again. Like with the Muggle girl, where his whole life - not to mention her life - was laid out in front of him, all of the decisions he had made to run away from himself all catching up to watch him fall.

Breaking the rules with Amelia had shown him a glimmer of a life that didn’t depend on the approval of others, or the forcing of other people to see you the way you wanted them to.

“I don’t have all the right words - Merlin, I don’t even have a plan - and you don’t have to do anything about any of this, but neither of us can deny that this is something…at least something worth exploring. Right?”

Amelia just listens. 

The restraint it requires her feels herculean, but his eyes and his voice betray the importance of his feelings regarding these words, and she reliquishes the floor to him. It’s like some sort of trainwreck, the way the words spill out of him, and she doesn’t seem to have the want or will to look away. 

Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind she remembers that she is supposed to be heartbroken, nursing a wound far too deep to explain to this man that she still barely knows. But she replays her words to Benjy, the fact that the battered heart inside of her is more ruined from her own doing than from anyone else’s, and her reasons for walking away and staying away were as valid as ever. It was a connection based in the past. 

But this treacherous glimmer of a connection made in the present, a man who sees only who she is, sparks within. Kingsley is right-- what lives between them is real and tangible. Amelia fights the urge to shove it into one of the two boxes in her heart-- one labled “For tonight” and the other labled “Forever”. The idea of an exploration, and opportunity to allow herself a moment of breath, of comfort, familiarity of someone who couldn’t see and predict her thoughts better than herself... it was tempting. Deeply tempting. 

With that thought, she leaps. 

She snakes out her hand so that is rests next to his on her desk, and oh so gently allows her thumb to slide out, the top of her finger grazing Kingsley’s wrist with an exacting precision. Not enough contact to be seen by anyone even standing over their shoulders, but enough to be felt. When coupled with a direct look in her eyes she hoped that it conveyed the conclusion she’d surmised. That this was somewhat  stupid, and that she didn’t really care. That Kingsley Shacklebolt was fussy, precise, good natured, strict, rule follower-- and she liked him all the more for it; liked him enough even to try again, despite the high probability of disasterous results.