Thunder and Lightning

Thunder and Lightning

By: Gaineewop

Prologue: "In Dreams"

"For the love of Merlin." Kingsley Shacklebolt rolled his eyes when he reached his cubicle. There was yet another pile of possible Sirius Black sightings lying haphazardly over the already cluttered desk.

His eyes traveled to the photographs pinned to every free space on the walls of his cubicle. His heart twisted painfully in his chest at the winking and smiling photograph of the Potters' wedding. Lily was smiling, radiant with that new bride glow. James had his arm around his wife, whilst a young Sirius laughed merrily. All three of them were gone now, together again at last. It shouldn't have been that way. Of all the people in the world, Kingsley could not understand what had driven the Fates to steal such promising lives.

He tried to regain his composure as he gracefully lowered his tall frame into his uncomfortable chair. The "sightings" were worthless and he knew it. He'd been there. Only a few floors below where he stood now, Kingsley had watched Sirius Black's body fall beyond that tattered veil. He'd heard the agonized screams of a fifteen-year-old boy, the admission from a werewolf that his best mate was dead. He'd taken up the duel with Bellatrix Lestrange and nearly lost his own life for the effort. It was all so pointless. Lestrange escaped, Voldemort had nearly killed Harry, and Sirius was gone.

Over the past two weeks, Kingsley had berated himself. He should have done something. He was a Department Leading Auror for the Ministry of Magic. He could have done something, anything.

Absently, he touched the small red and gold pin affixed to his breast. All five members of the Order of the Phoenix that had gone to the Department of Mysteries that night wore one now, as it was a symbol of mourning for their departed friend. The simple brass pin adorned with satin ribbon had been designed and created by Ginny Weasley's own hand. One by one, she'd sent them to Lupin, Tonks, Moody, himself, and Albus Dumbledore. Touched by her thoughtfulness, Kingsley never took his off.

He sighed, leafing through the sheaves of parchment. His desk was rarely in such disarray. Since Sirius' death, and Nymphadora Tonks nearly leaving this world to join him, he'd had little time to organize his desk. This had not gone unnoticed around the office. He received many a concerned stare or inquisitively raised eyebrow. He paid it no mind; there were more important issues to deal with at the moment.

Like keeping up this painful façade. Shacklebolt began to stack the scrolls on his desk, his mind wandering from the automatic task. Tonks was back on duty, in her cubicle down the hall. She'd not even said Sirius' name since that night. He knew Remus Lupin had gone to tell her while she was in St. Mungo's and he had not intruded. The werewolf seemed deflated by the second loss of his friend. It just wasn't right. Why was it that the side of good always lost its best people to darkness? Why should the light sufer while the dark flourished?

But what could he do? He was the Auror in charge of the search for Sirius Black. He could not tell the Ministry or Madam Bones that Black was dead. They had no idea that Black had been in the Department of Mysteries that night. Instead, while his very soul cried out, Kingsley had told the authorities that the investigation was following Black's trail, somewhere in Brazil. He knew where Sirius was, laughing with his best mate far above them all. However, admitting the truth would mean consequences for many Aurors in his department. Admitting that he'd known where Sirius was all along would cost him his job; it could very well cost Remus Lupin his life.

So he kept on. He would read through these reports and make conclusions. He would lead his team on hopeless endeavors and endure the snide comments about his departed friend. He'd only known the man a year, but Kingsley Shacklebolt was glad for that time. Black had been quite the admirable wizard. Even after spending over a decade in Azkaban, he still had enough heart and loyalty left in his Gryffindor soul to fight the good fight, look after his beloved godson, and prank his best mate.

Slowly, Kingsley leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. He allowed his hairless head to fall between his wrists in silence, interlacing his fingers on the back of his neck. He hunched his back over and desperately tried to just breathe; he could not afford to have his subordinates see him in such a state.

Hopelessness. That was the feeling they all shared now. His cubicle was the same, he knew. The photographs and sightings map still hung in their places. The other Aurors were feverish in their attempt to bring down a wanted man; he could hear the dull murmur of their chatter as always. His quills were in the ivory ceramic urn, a Christmas gift from Remus, on the right corner. His inkpots were spotlessly clean, sitting just to the left of his quills. His files were stacked in order of precedence off to the left of his quill urn.

And yet it was not the same. His eyes welled up with tears he refused to shed. Sirius was gone. The first real death since the war had begun. It was real now; the air at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had been ripe with tangible guilt, sorrow, and death. To all outward appearances, Kingsley had kept on with his life, but part of him remained in that room in the Department of Mysteries. Part of each of them had been left behind that fateful night.

He'd lost that last bit of innocence two weeks ago. He'd escaped the horrors of war the first time around with Lord Voldemort. Hogwarts had been his refuge as he watched James Potter and his friends prepare to fight. In his life, he'd always been ready to fight, ready to give his life for the Cause. But this time around, Kingsley was actually there in the thick of it all. He'd never lost a friend or colleague in war...but now he had. That last fraction of comfort had been stolen.

Kingsley felt alone, exposed, and naked for the world to see.

This truth was kept locked away in his heart and mind. No one else could see it; no one else was ready to deal with it. But suddenly, Kingsley needed to speak with Remus about it all. He needed to ensure that his close friend was going to survive this latest test to his sanity. Yes, he would go to Grimmauld Place tonight. His friend needed him, but more importantly, he truly needed his friend.

"Kingsley?"

A soft, feminine voice jerked him from his thoughts. Snapping his head up, he nodded curtly to the Auror at his desk. She eyed him curiously before handing him a sheaf of parchment with the Minister's seal embossed across the top.

"Here is the Minister's guard watch bill, it looks like you and Dawlish have tonight."

Kingsley gripped the parchment tight enough to crumble it in his hands. The very last thing he wanted to do at the moment was protect the Minister of Magic. However, with the admission of Voldemort's return, the leading government official was deemed 'in great danger'. The old fool had assigned two Aurors to accompany him at all times, rotating the shifts. Kingsley was sure his shift had come far too early.

His mind wandered back to the night at Hogwarts, when he'd altered the mind of a young girl right under Fudge's nose. He felt guilty for the betrayal, but the girl-Edgecombe he remembered- had nearly cost them the life of Harry Potter. His guilt weighed on him, however, combined with the guilt of Sirius' passing. He dimly wondered if he would ever be free of that hateful emotion.

"Kingsley? Are you all right?" the young woman asked, her eyebrows furrowed in concern. Her blue eyes narrowed as she appraised him.

He'd forgotten she was there for a moment. He nodded, placing the watch bill on his desk. "I'm sorry, Victoria, it has been a rough week."

She nodded slightly, leaning into his cubicle to speak in a whisper.

"Why don't you skive off the rest of the day? I'll cover for you."

Kingsley was touched by the offer, though he knew she would not be offended if he declined. He could not go home, not yet. His mind was not sufficiently exhausted to ward off the insomnia that he'd had since that fateful night. Victoria was looking at him, expecting an answer. He shook his head gently, noting the disquiet pass over her face before she managed to cover it.

"Thank you, but I must decline. I have a good deal of work to do today, Victoria."

He forced himself to smile at the petite woman. Victoria patted his shoulder softly before she moved on. He watched her leave, rich blue robes sweeping behind her. She was easy to be around; Victoria never asked personal questions and it was a quality he greatly appreciated - one among others. But Kingsley sighed inwardly, reminding himself that such thoughts were improper.

He shook the image of Victoria Van Wyk from his mind and turned back to his paperwork. He would finish the bulk of the reports before heading to Grimmauld Place. He cast another glance to the photo of the Potters' wedding, the pain twisting in his gut anew.

He forced himself to look away, and, grasping a quill, he began to sift through his paperwork. Kingsley had work to do and in his life, work was always meant to come first.

The wind had picked up quite suddenly as the children chased one another on the plains. In the darkening sky the wildebeest and elephants had begun to move, their hooves pounding into the earth causing the ground to tremble beneath his feet. The other children he played with did not stop as they ran toward their homes, fear of what was to come embedded in their young hearts.

But he stopped. He turned his dark eyes into the angry sky, watching as the clouds battled one another in the heavens. He could hear many of the villagers hasten to the shelter provided by their huts or tents, but he remained apart, his eyes locked onto the coming storm.

He stood alone on the edge of the savannah, a child of the earth embracing the brutality of nature, relishing the absolute power and beauty it contained. At the first roll of thunder, a shiver ran the length of his spine.

"Kingsley! Hurry! Get into the tent!" the voice of his mother was far off, filled with fear.

And yet, he could not move from the awesome sight. He watched the clouds, listening to the crash of Radi as the large wet drops of heaven fell onto his parched skin; saturating the land around him.

He was waiting. Waiting for that single bolt of light that would cast the world around him into sharp focus. His mother called him again, this time joined by his father. Yet he waited. He had to watch the storm swell and roll over itself above him. He needed to see that first electric bolt reach from sky to earth.

When it came, it was well worth the wet clothing and ringing in his ears. It joined a massive clap of thunder. It shot across the sky in a jagged line, filling his eyes with blinding light. He did not close his eyes to the sight; he was too in awe of it all. Radi and Weupe joined together in the heavens above, saluting the land, blessing the lone boy who welcomed it.

A sudden pain surged through his right arm and he gasped at the shock of it. The bolt of lightning had come within a few feet of where he stood, singeing the hairs and flesh of his limb. He did not cry out, he could only feel as though the very sky had reached out to bless him. He'd been given a gift from above, one he was sure to cherish for the rest of his days.

He felt the arms of his father circle him, pulling the boy into his strong embrace and sprint back to the shelter. The many children watched them from their shelters, as Kingsley Shacklebolt fought his father to see the next shot of light.

He glimpsed the jagged beam one last time before the tent flap closed behind him. He allowed his father to warm him with fresh towels, chiding him for remaining in the storm so long. His mother had her wand trained to his arm, healing the small wound inflicted by such a powerful thing.

He could not help but watch the storms, he'd told them. He felt the power of Africa when he watched the storms, as no one else in his family could ever understand. Something told him Radi na Weupe would lead his life, by that same power and beauty. His brother laughed when he said this, but he knew. One day the storm would follow him home...

Kingsley jerked his head up from his desk and looked around. Raindrops splashed against his bedroom window, the white-hot light of the storm flashed into the lamp lit room. He had apparently fallen asleep at his desk while pouring over the shift schedules he had brought from the office. He'd gone to Grimmauld Place earlier in the evening only to find that Remus was not there. After waiting nearly an hour, Kingsley had gone back to the Ministry, meeting up with Dawlish for the midwatch-six to midnight. The Minister had dined with Narcissa Malfoy before turning in, leaving the two Aurors to stare blankly at the walls, almost wishing for an attack. He'd come home to work on some reports and dozed off at his writing desk.

But the dream weighed heavily on his mind. Though he was not a spiritual person, could not deny that whenever he had that dream of the storm in Africa, something changed for him. He sighed, pushing his chair away from the desk and moving to the window. He leaned against it, watching the few people on the streets below him hurry out of the warm summer rain. A clap of thunder shook the glass as he turned his thoughts back to his brief slumber and all it contained.

It was not only a dream, but also the memory of an eight-year-old boy who had never been content to merely listen to the storm within the safety of his tent. At a young age, he'd become nearly obsessed with watching the storms. He would stop beneath the dark clouds, waiting to see that first lightning bolt. His parents had often feared for his life, but he'd only been injured once.

That dream-memory had been the only time the first bolt of light had come too near. It had singed his right arm a bit, coming close enough for him to feel the pulsing power of it. He'd been mesmerized, then and in his dreams he could revisit that feeling of oneness with the earth, as he'd never felt before or since.

It had been three days after that storm that his parents had decided to return to England.

Since that tender age, whenever he dreamed of that day, that storm, something in his life changed. The last time was more than a year ago, just before his induction into the Order of the Phoenix. What would it be this time? Sirius had already passed on with no warning from his mind in the days leading up to it. He was not sure he was ready for another change.

He watched the lightning and listened to the thunder a moment before turning away. English storms were not the same as the raw power of Africa. He undressed quickly, falling into his bed and burrowing under the covers, willing the dream to be nothing more than that. He knew it was futile, that change was as fickle as those summer storms. He sighed as he extinguished the light in his room, ordering his body to succumb to the sleep he craved.

Between Sirius, Remus, and the storms, his mind was in turmoil. The pain, concern, and wonder bubbled and melded in his weary brain. He knew he would have to think it all over eventually, but on this night sleep found him quickly, whisking him back to the wilds of home, to the storms of Tanzania...