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Sarai Shacklebolt had only been in her father’s office twice before in her life. The first time, she had been newly fifteen and he had just been named Minister for Magic. More than anything, she remembered the flash of photographers and an endless barrage of questions. Someone had taken portraits then, their family captured forever in magic film. In the years since, her father had hung his favorite of the photographs. He had framed it in gold above the fireplace, a perfect moment frozen in time, the glorious high after a long campaign. They’d been laughing, because the world had been less awful then, even in the wreckage of war. Her eldest brother, Princeton, had tousled her hair as she grinned between him and Amir. Her mother had beamed at the world, relieved and hopeful, bright blue eyes shining. And her father had been every bit the stoic hero the stories painted him. Even in photograph, he emanated complete calm.

The last time she had sat in this office, all plush emerald velvet and gold detailing, she’d been seventeen and they had just buried her mother. There had been no press that time. She had sat beneath that portrait, hysterical with grief. She’d been the only one in tears; her brothers had done their best to imitate their father’s reserve. Sarai had never learned how to swallow sorrow. While her brothers had pretended their world hadn’t shattered, Sarai had drowned. Princeton had thrown himself further into Quidditch, every spare moment at Kenmare’s stadium, honing his skills as if that would chase away the grief. Amir had started sleeping in his cubicle in the Auror’s office, productive in his misery, trying to save the world. Her father had lost too many friends and loved ones to war to let his wife’s death stop him; he had honored her death by working to redeem their world.

Her mother had left Sarai journals in her will. At first the gift had seemed cruel. Her writing had made the woman seem alive, and she couldn’t stop seeing the woman in shadows throughout England. And the more she read about her mother’s travels, about her journey through lands magical and mundane alike, the more Sarai had needed to run.

While the men in her life turned themselves into islands, Sarai left for Kenya.

Her grandmother had, generously, offered to pay the way. And two days after she turned eighteen, not even a month out of Hogwarts, Sarai had packed her bags and left home with a short letter and no goodbyes. And she traveled.

In the end, she had spent two years away from England. Kenya had become Uganda and South Africa, then a jaunt to Madagascar. After a near miss with a Nundu, she had flooed to Greece, wandering further east, always following her mother’s writings. Turkey had become India had become Thailand. She’d taken a plane to Argentina and marveled at the genius of muggles, pocketing her wand somewhere after Brazil. She had traveled until she had run out of gold and wanderlust alike. And just as suddenly as Sarai Shacklebolt had left, she had found herself back in England.

Things hadn’t changed much in her absence. Princeton had been promoted to captain of the Kenmare Kestrels. Amir had married a witch she had never met. Her father had begun financial restitution to the muggleborns affected by the war. They were still islands. Sarai tried to cross the waters of their stoicism, but she never managed the journey.

It was surreal, standing in her father’s office again. It was as if the past two years had never happened. The deserts and jungles and cities and mountains she had so loved were a lifetime away, no more solid than dreams. Back in London, it was as if the fog of the city had settled over her hazel eyes and separated her from her memory. Someone else went on that grand adventure, had escaped from their life. Sarai Shacklebolt had finally returned to Earth, as though nothing had ever happened. She had found a job in the Ministry, working with the muggle wonders she had learned to adore. After crashing on Princeton’s couch for a fortnight, she found a cheap apartment in Diagon Alley.

After two years, she had finally rejoined wizarding society. Everything had become normal again.

Except, nothing normal ever happened in this office.

The portrait stared back at her, their smiles unfaltering, unaffected by the passage of time. The drumming of the rain filled her senses, drowning out everything but the last photograph of her family, happy and whole. Golden flickers of light danced across their likenesses, a fire crackling beneath it. Sarai studied her mother, all kind blue eyes and gentle smile. This was how she wanted to remember the woman; vivacious and laughing, not a withered corpse in a bed at St. Mungos. She had spent her life healing and loving the world in equal measure. After a long moment, Sarai turned away from the portrait, wandering to a false window.

The magic was superb. Sarai could almost believe that she was truly watching the streets of London, not several stories beneath the earth. Leaning against the windowsill, she folded her arms beneath her chest. The autumn chill curled down her spine, even in the relative comfort of her father’s office, cutting through her thick burgundy sweater. Dark legs crossed as she studied the muggles wandering beneath her vision, well above her. Not for the first time, she found herself envying them.

Sarai wasn’t sure how long she spent watching the world when her father arrived. Minister Shacklebolt was all crisp black robes and a steady smile. His assistant followed on his heels, the gangly man running off a checklist of something undoubtedly important. He silenced himself suddenly, better interpreting her father’s expressions than Sarai had ever managed. Excusing himself primly, Sarai found herself alone with her father.

Two years had not been kind to him. The lines in his face were deeper now. Had he kept a hair on his head, Sarai suspected they would have greyed. But despite the time, despite the distance, Sarai fit herself into his arms with a deep breath. For a long moment, everything was perfect. Her father’s chin settled on the top of her head, and there was nothing wrong in the world. Sarai breathed in the familiar smell of sandalwood and saffron. For the first time in the month she had been back, she felt like she was home.

“Sarai,” her father boomed in that beautiful baritone. “You look well. How are you enjoying London?”

"It's wet,” Sarai decided on after a long moment, scrunching her nose in distaste. The expression melted to a warm smile, dark fingers tucking brunette locks behind an ear. "But I'm glad to be back."

It was only a small lie. She had missed her father and brothers something awful, but England had thousands of memories of her mother. Sometimes she swore she saw her in Diagon Alley; sat outside what had once been Florean Fortescue’s, perusing a novel inside Obscurus Books, haggling with the apothecary witch. Truthfully, Sarai longed for wild forrests and sprawling concrete, where no one knew her name and her mother didn’t haunt her.

Her father smiled at her. He knew. He always knew. He was truly the most astute, brilliant, and cunning man in the world. For a moment, Sarai felt guilty that she had abandoned him. She should have stayed, should have helped him survive her mother’s death. But he had pushed her away—they all had—and she would have drowned if she had lingered. If he resented her for her cowardice, he said nothing. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Sarai curved into his warmth. For several moments, they relished the quiet, watching the photograph above the fireplace.

“Why’d you ask me to come in?” Sarai finally asked, resting her head against his shoulder. Her father tightened his grip around her, his robes nearly drowning the muggle dress that had drawn disapproving eyes in the atrium but forty minutes ago. Sarai scuffed a black flat against the floor, dropping her gaze from her mother’s radiant smile to study the opulent rug beneath them.

"There have been rumors, Sarai. Dark things, things we haven’t heard since the war." Her father began, his baritone rumbling through her bones. Its comfort was at odds with his words as he began to elaborate.

It was a simple statement, but Sarai understood its weight. She remembered what the war had been like. Only fourteen during the Battle of Hogwarts, she had followed her mother and brothers into hiding. It had been a year of horrible silence, waiting to hear if her father had died. He’d refused to abandon the Order, even as England burned. Sarai’s lips curved into a frown as her father explained, as if the war was still a threat. It had been six years. Blood supremacists were supposed to be in cells in Azkaban, not out to punish ‘blood traitors’ and muggleborns alike.

“You’re joking,” Sarai laughed, because it was ridiculous. It sounded so much like a cheesy muggle drama. Assassins threatening the Minister’s children? There was no humor in her father’s eyes. Her smile faltered as she studied him. He had given so much to their world. He had fought two wars to make things right and then fought a world that wanted nothing less than to change. And he was just a man, exhausted by these endless battles. He’d never retire, of course. Not until his work was done. Sarai bit her lip. “Who would be stupid enough to try that? You were only the best Auror the Ministry has ever known.”

Her father chuckled, and his low laughter filled her with a warmth she hadn’t known for years. His heavy hand smoothed out her dark hair, weaving jagged fingers through her curls. He shifted, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. Sarai closed her hazel eyes, trying to ease the twinge in her chest.

“We don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out soon, I promise. Until then—”A crisp knock at the door interrupted them. Sarai stepped aside from her father, folding her arms tight, as if she could keep herself together through sheer force of will. The door opened to reveal the harried assistant, his glasses magnifying his watery blue eyes to truly comical sizes.

“Minister Shacklebolt, I’m sorry to interrupt; your…help is here.”

Sarai arched a brow at the catch in the man’s voice, all reedy disapproval. Her father nodded, and if he noticed his assistant’s tone, he did not comment on it.

“Send him in,” his baritone echoed through the room. Sarai studied her father, loathing the conclusions her mind was reaching. Threats and ‘help’ and the steel in her father’s eyes, the line of worry in his brow… No. No. She was not a child in need of minding. She had spent two years traveling on her own, surely her father did not think her so incompetent as to waste everyone’s time with protection. Sarai grit her teeth, turning her calculating gaze on the opening door, hoping against all hope that she was wrong. Not likely.

I could reach Greece by nightfall if I left now.

Sometimes it felt like he was still a teenager, trying to find his footing in a war-torn world. You'd thing that having been a teenager in wartime would have provided Tristan with plenty of maturing, but somehow it had only made the whole teenage angst and confusion worse. Oh, he adjusted well enough with the times, and had made his parents and ancestors proud with his high grades and esteemed entrance into the elite Auror corps of the Ministry of Magic, but the fact remained that Tristan Higgs felt disconnected from his life.

He tried a lot of things, from appropriately discreet and private rebellion in the form of adopting the vice of muggle cigarettes and having dalliances with impure girls to going to the current method of crafting a perfect mold to fit inside and thrive in the society in which he was born, but in the end nothing really made him belong anywhere (or even caught his attention, really). He was considered good looking, of prime pedigree and quite talented in the combative magics, so for a while he even threw himself into his studies in both Hogwarts and the Auror academy, ending up being the best of his class at graduation. That was everything he could dream of, right? Everything was at his fingertips! Yet it felt cheap... hollow.

He missed a spark, something that would keep him struggling for once, and when he finally found it in the form of Deep Undercover missions, it was taken from him. Imagine him, the second son of blood purists, was asked by the Minister himself to protect his daughter from arms. He did not understand... from what he could remember, Sarai was not only pretty but fierce as well... ah, better not think about that. The past was the past, and he was over this silly little boyhood crush, right? Right!

What a mess... he would have wanted to continue on his path with high stakes solo missions in enemy territory, but a request from the Minister was as good as an order. Tristan was a Slytherin to the core, and killing his career over a preference of mission made his skin crawl. The answer was easy in the end, but it did not prevent him from getting smashed in firewhiskey the night previous to drown his bitter thoughts over his shattered ambitions. An assignment like that would mean he would have to be a public face from now on, and while he had been groomed for a place in the limelight since birth, Tristan had always been most content in the dark.

Leaning back into his seat by his flat's fireplace, the brunet flicked the empty tumbler to let it land on the thick Persian rug on the hardwood floor before firmly grasping the red bottle. Tonight he would forger, and tomorrow he would do what he had to in order to keep his job, if not his greater ambitions. Pushing the glass opening to his lips, Tristan tipped both the firewiskey and his head back, falling into the torrid arms of drunken oblivion.

Smothering a scowl and a massive hangover the next day, Higgs wondered why he always had to be so stupid when he was upset with something. His head was killing him, his mouth felt horrible despite the multitude of freshening potions and charms he threw its way this morning and he was on his last nerve from the snotty look he got from the filthy little mudblood that dared look down on him just because he schmoozed his way into his spot as the Minister's Assistant. So what if his thought were unkind? Yes, he was proud in his heritage, and right now he did not feel like tolerating the attitude of parvenus!

As he was about to open his mouth and put the filthy little peasant to his proper place at his boots, the soft jingling of his well earned Auror badge reminded Tristan that he could not do as he wanted here, if he wanted to keep his position. It was thus with a heavy heart and a dark glare that he hissed what he had come here for.

“Good afternoon, I have an appointment with the Minister.” seeing the fop about to protest, the glare became a sneer. “That is not a request, lead me to Minister Shacklebolt, he is waiting for me.”

Blissfully, that seemed to do the trick, and soon Tristan was stepping inside the richly appointed Ministerial office. The room was bright and hurt his sensitive eyes, but the brunet bore it as stoically as he could, fighting tooth and nail not to show how hungover he was.

“Good afternoon, Minister. I trust you told... her...?” His sentence, who had started smoothly and confidently enough, had ended in a near squawk as Tristan Higgs spotted Sarai Shacklebolt for the first time in three years.

That was bad... she was even more stunning than he remembered, and from the way his pulse raced and his knees tried to turn to jelly, the brunet had obliviously not been as over his boyhood crush as he had previously assumed he did. Worse still, the whole mess had gotten worse now that she had fully grown into her beauty, and for a moment Tristan could no longer find his voice... or his ability to look anywhere but in Sarai's direction, for that matter.

Shit!

‘Surprised’ didn’t really begin to cover it.

Sarai had known Aurors her whole life—her father had been the best, after all. How many dinners had her mum hosted, welcoming new blood to the ranks, ever welcoming? Every Victory Day, in the courtyards of Hogwarts where the war had ended, she’d met yet another hero, someone else whom her father had fought with and esteemed. The world seemed to be overfull with heroes.

Then she had seen the memorial—a candle for each of their dead—and she’d realised just how many heroes their world, her father, had lost.

So when she had figured out her father's idea, she had expected to see Proudfoot, or Advani walk through that door. Hell, even Callaghan would have made more sense. He was so young, so unfamiliar...except, hang on, she could have sworn--

“Harrigan?” She queried cautiously. She looked to her father, whose lips had twitched briefly. Harrigan wasn't right, was it? She tried to remember, but she knew she'd seen him...a Ravenclaw? No, a Gryffindor? Morgana’s tits, the name was just out of reach...

“Sarai,” her father's rumbling voice cut through the haze of confusion, and reminded her just what he was proposing. “This is Auror Higgs--”

Not even close .

The reality of the situation finally truly settled in.There was no way this was happening. Yet he seemed completely committed to the idea. He almost looked amused. Well, as much as Kingsley Shacklebolt ever did. Sarai turned her sharp gaze on him, trying her hardest not to let his maddening calm spark her temper further.

“You have completely lost your mind, you utter lunatic,” Sarai deadpanned, nails digging into her arms. “I do not need a nanny --”

“It would not be the first time I've been called mad,” Kingsley had the nerve to chuckle, and Sarai could not longer keep her temper at bay.

“No, this is ridiculous. It’s mind-bogglingly stupid, actually,” she hadn’t meant to snap so harshly at her father. Not that it mattered; he simply arched a heavy brow at her in carefully measured calm. “Merlin’s spleen, I’m not completely incompetent. I can mind myself.”

Sarai had looked after herself for two years, had put herself back together beneath open skies and in crowds of strangers. It was infuriating to come home to this coddling. They hadn’t coddled her when she had needed it, every nerve raw with grief. This went against everything she’d ever been taught.

As a child, her father had always told her to keep her back straight, to rely first and foremost on herself. He’d taught her magic to keep safe, the value in keeping the world at arm’s length while you observed, how love was a power worth having, but that its power was equal parts disaster and softness. Shacklebolts did not depend on others when they could get the job done themselves. They reached out only when a problem was beyond their grasp, but they never burdened others. They were the spine of this world--you could always rely on a Shacklebolt to keep the world from falling to pieces.

Had he ever meant those lessons, meant to clad her spine in steel and drive her to excellence? Or had he simply lost faith in her when she’d dared to fall apart and run?

“And are you wasting resources on Amir or Princeton?” Sarai scowled, searching his suddenly too-placid face. “Oh, of course not--”

“Amir is an Auror in good standing, Sarai. Princeton has his own detail. This is not me wasting resources.”

“You really think the papers will buy that? Minister Shacklebolt, frivolously wasting funds and manpower on his wayward daughter?” Sarai’s voice had softened, gone equal parts pleading and concerned. The world had fallen away to this battle of wills. She had to make him see . “Dad, they'll burn you at the stake.”

“They can certainly try,” he intoned with a finality Sarai had never once questioned. She bit her tongue. His heavy hand found her shoulder, squeezing firmly. “This is not up for debate.”

Sarai’s looked up into black eyes and she knew she couldn’t truly defy him. That was the downside of being born to a man who belonged more to legend than reality. He saw more, knew more, and in all her years she had never known him to be wrong. She might have dismissed it as mere hero-worship if she hadn’t seen that same wonder across dozens of other faces. Her father was stars made flesh, a force of nature and it was foolish to fight him.

Damned if Sarai wasn’t going to give it her best shot. She’d just have to find another angle, whatever weak point existed in this whole clusterfuck.

“Higgs,” he insisted, gently turning her shoulder, “will be providing your security.”

Sarai looked reluctantly at not-Harrigan, having the good grace to wince at that faux pas. He looked...well, not entirely at ease with this whole situation. And young. She couldn't figure out her father's rationale--Higgs was the last person she would have expected. Merlin’s balls, she hadn't even known he was an Auror.

Now that she had his name, it was easier to recall who exactly he was. She'd had the occasional lesson with him--they might have spoken about homework once or twice--but they had run in different circles. Shacklebolt had become synonymous with blood traitor, and so many of her classmates nursed wounds as mothers and fathers and siblings and loved ones were buried or jailed in the aftermath. She had stuck to the people she could trust to watch her back, closing ranks with her house against those who would raise their wands to strike. Higgs was a name that meant old money, old world, old values .

Her father must be mad to trust him.

And yet...her father knew the hearts of men better than most, he was so wise and clever and if he had really done this, if he really thought this was right, it would be utterly foolish to disagree. Sarai felt the beginnings of a headache behind her temple. She suddenly felt very tired, hazel eyes flicking to the portrait above the fire. Her mother looked so sad, so far away, and Sarai felt her throat tighten and looked away.

“And what does this entail?” She said finally, voice weary. “If you say he's watching me piss, I'm torching your office.”

That earned a rumbling laugh, and despite her frustration it felt good to hear it. He laughed so rarely these days.

“No, not that,” he reassured her. “He will be like Proudfoot was.”

Was? Her stomach dropped. Proudfoot had protected them when they'd gone into hiding, had taught her riddles and card games, had talked Quidditch with Princeton and given books to Amir and helped mum keep their tiny safe house in order--Proudfoot should not be a was. He had been a good man, his smile kind beneath his heavy moustache, always willing to chase away her nightmares with a story.

“When?” She rasped, spine stiffening.

“Three months ago,” he murmured. Sarai stood very still and nodded, blinking hard. She wanted very badly to cry and to scream, but allowed herself neither. Not here. She'd wait until she got home until she raged at this shit hole of a world that took Proudfoot.

Except home wasn't private anymore, was it?

Suddenly, irrationally, she hated Higgs. She wanted nothing more than to transfigure him into something vile and fragile and it was a horrible thing to think, she knew that, but he was to invade her life, her home and she couldn't stop herself.

He must have stood there, awestruck and lovelorn, for quite a while before Tristan finally managed to focus enough on what was happening around him to snap out of his staring. He hadn't missed that feeling he got around the Shacklebolt daughter, a mix of helpless adoration and sickening lack of control over his own body. His mind was a mess, his usually pristine occlumency shields shattered in the chaos of his thoughts of both past, present and silly hopes for a future with the goddess before him. He suddenly remembered all the fantasies and imaginary dates he had with the girl in his adolescence, and had to stifle an embarrassed groan at the thought that his mind decided to apparently break now and apparently do the closest thing to assisted suicide by dropping his occlumency and think dirty thing about the daughter of the very powerful warrior that just happened to be not five feet away from him.

'This is a disaster, think about something else, you idiot, do you really want to die that young and that painfully?!' His logical mind tried its best to control his heart and hormones, but the two had apparently been chugging pepper up potion mixed with mind sharpening elixir because soon enough the Auror had to hid his crimson face and uncomfortable effusion of hormones from the arguing pair as he discretely got rid of his problem with a nonverbal and well aimed chilling spell and calming charm.

After making sure that everything was as normal as he could make it while still hungover, Tristan turned back to his employer and new charge, valiantly trying to look as professional and innocent as he possibly could. As it turned out, he was currently in the clear as both Shacklebolts were still arguing... small mercies.

...

Well, that was a mercy until he was suddenly involved in the arguing, the lovely Sarai glaring daggers at him all the while as the brunet struggled to think about what he had been asked about. For that matter, what did he do to earn such ire? He didn't remember any incident with the woman, and could actually count the number of interactions they had on one hand, so what gives?

Feeling a disgusting film of nervous sweat at the the hostility he gained from his old crush, the Higgs boy did what any Slytherin did best: bullshit his way out of trouble.

“I agree that this may sound excessive, Miss Shacklebolt, but your father only wish for you not to burden yourself with the unworthy fiends who would fail to harm you. I am here as a shield between your everyday life and such vermin and...” he started, face like stone in his bluffing.

Okay, from the Minister he seemed to be in the clear, as the man even seemed... amused? By the speech he gave. Daring a glance to the one he was really trying to impress here, he felt his face fall a little. She seemed to despise him now, and he had no idea why!

Inwardly panicking despite not letting much show through his long practiced mask of civil placidity, Tristan forgot about what he was saying in a vague attempt on his part to fix things. While his mind tried to find something better to say, the young pureblood could only watch helplessly as his body walked slowly towards Sarai and knelled before her, swiftly yet delicately taking her hand.

“You are upset, I can understand that. How can I make you show me that pretty smile of yours?” His retarded mouth then proceeded to say without his assent.

What the fuck, brain?!

Merlins. Sagging. Scrotum.

For a long moment, Sarai stared in stunned silence. She blinked intelligently. Hazel eyes slooooowly moved down to look at the hand clasping hers. She blinked again and looked down to meet eyes with the wizard kneeling in front of her .

“What,” she said flatly, paused, and tried again. “What are you doing ?”

She could feel her father's presence beside her, that barely audible huff of restrained laughter. She might have found it funny too if it had been happening to literally anyone else. Except, it was her old classmate, who was supposed to mind her like a child telling her to give him a pretty smile.

Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Sarai Shacklebolt did not smile. She jut out her chin and reclaimed her hand, perhaps rather more forcibly than was necessary. Looking at her father, who had that fucking impossible calm on his features, and spoke archly, “This is your fault.”

“I know,” he said. He looked to Higgs the Bafflingly Obnoxious, still placid. How any one human managed such endless calm ought to be the most pressing research in the Department of Mysteries, she mused. “I trust you will give this assignment your utmost attention. It is, perhaps, not the most—traditional route,” and Sarai could only wonder what he meant, only knew that it was part of the snake in her father, the green and silver he had worn decades ago, and resolved to figure out what real meaning lay behind those words. “But, if an old man may impart some advice—there are many paths there.”

Sarai grit her teeth, ignoring the irrational surge of envy. How dare Higgs the Bafflingly Obnoxious earn her father’s wisdom, his goodness? She had decided him unworthy already—why would he be given that gift, when it was so hard won among even his own children? Was it that much easier for him to give his heart to his Aurors? Was this why Amir had followed his footsteps into the aftermath of war and a broken world?

“Minister?” That reedy voice came with a gentle knock on his oak door. Kingsley glanced to his watch, and nodded towards them.

“Ah, I believe my two o’clock is here,” and Sarai huffed, debated on leaving, and promptly wrapped her arms around her father’s middle.

“I’m still mad at you,” she muttered. He simply smiled as she pulled away, searching her face for something. She could see something flicker across his eyes—fear? Concern? She had never been quite able to read him. The moment passed, and he inclined his head towards the door.

“Until next time,” he spoke, and Sarai nodded, leaving Higgs in a swish of dark hair and the occasional clatter of her flats.

She walked quickly, head high, hands clenched into fists at her side, as if she could shake him. The ante room was filled with men and women in robes and her father’s assistant, who had at least improved his demeanor in the past half hour. Sarai smiled tightly, slipping out the door to the empty hall and making it halfway down its black marble before finally stopping and wheeling on her bleeding nanny.

“Look,” her voice was sharp, and she hated how her temper burned in her veins. This wasn’t her, wasn’t who she wanted to be. She’d thought she was better than this, kinder, but it was hard to get past the red. “Neither of us want to deal with this, right? So let’s simply not and go our separate ways, all the happier for it.”

It was worth a shot, as impossible as she knew it to be. If she couldn’t defy her father, how could she reasonably expect one of his underlings? Still, if there was a soft joint in any of this, she suspected it would be Higgs himself.

The Slytherin alumni stayed frozen in his kneeling position for a while, his mind needing a bit of time to process what was happening as father and daughter bid each other goodbye. While the fact that he apparently turned back into a stupid lovesick kid when in the vicinity of Sarai Shacklebolt still stung (as did her apparent loathing of him), it was the Minister's words that gave him most pause. By Morgana's tits, did the scariest father in wizarding Europe just give him his blessings to court his only daughter?

Looking for all the world like a particularly stunned-looking statue, the auror only turned back to life after being slapped in the face with a curtain of sweet smelling air. Fighting to both remove said hair from his open mouth and commit that scent to memory all at once, the red robed wizard quickly stood and chased after his charge while silently blessing whoever designed auror robes to allow their wearer to run and dodge through a crowd without falling flat on his or her face. That would not only be embarrassing for him, but it may cost him both his job and his chances with the Hufflepuff beauty.

Silvery eyes fixated firmly on the slighter back of his quarry, Tristan used all of his training in evasion to not lose track of Sarai, from ducking under a silver platter holding some tasty smelling stew all the way to skillfully hopping over a stray cat that somehow found its way in the Ministry of Magic. One would think the whole world wanted him to lose his hard earned job! Scowling darkly at how difficult this whole mess was turning out to be, Higgs nearly didn't stop in time to not bowl over the Shaklebolt heiress as she suddenly stopped and turned around to face him.

Nearly skidding to a halt barely a foot before the young woman, Tristan panicked for a moment as he tried to calm down and put back an air of complacency before the incensed witch decided to curse him. While he was confident that we was the better dueller, he was well aware that both his job and his infatuation with Sarai would put him at a grave disadvantage if any fight broke out between them. At worse, he could subdue her, but even that would have its consequence on his present and future love life. Subtly trying to put his uniform and hairstyle back into order, the poor wizard was subjected to a venomous rant before being promptly dismissed.

That could not happen, not if he wanted to keep his job. Truthfully... looking into the eyes of the girl he had liked for longer than he could remember, Tristan tried to be as firm but kind as he could as he spoke his mind clearly for the first time since seeing the witch again this afternoon.

“I'm sorry, Miss Shacklebolt, but I love my job and worked as hard as I could to get even a scrap of recognition in this new world. Truthfully, I would not endanger my chances to fight for what is right for once for anything... not even you, and not even if I never manage to get into the my dream position ever again.” Ah, he should probably not mentioned that last part, but that woman had strange effects on him.

Straightening his posture and trying to look as unmovable as possible, Tristan prepared for the worst possible scenario he could thing of as he said his last piece of mind.

“Should you wish to be free of my presence, you would have to either convince your father to order me away or walk away on your own over my own dead body.”

Yeaaah, that was dramatic, but with enough luck the high amount of traffic in the lobby would keep her screaming to a minimum... he hoped.

Higgs towered, and nearly toppled, over her. It, rather unreasonably, incensed her. It was hardly his fault that he’d grown taller—and certainly not his fault that she was spectacularly short—but in this moment, she was all too happy to blame him for this as well.

She could hex him. She was clever with a wand, had learned half a dozen curses that awful year in hiding. That she’d never fired them at another person was irrelevant—right? Sarai’s nostrils flared, fists clenched, her temper spiking inwards. Did she really just think that? She was frustrated, hurt, and lashing out with a wand disgusted her to her very core. Her skin crawled, and it took more will power than she’d care to admit to keep from wallowing in her shame.

Sarai took a deep, steadying breath, looking up at the most unfortunate wizard in Britain. As frustrating as this was for her, having someone invading her life and coddling her, it had to be worse on his end. He was stuck minding her like a child—and she’d certainly acted like one, she admitted grudgingly. Higgs was wasting his time as much as her father was manpower. The thought didn’t erase her frustration, but it let her wrestle back a sliver of composure. Sarai straightened, slowly unclenching her fists. Arms folding beneath her chest, she listened as Higgs, understandably, rejected her unrealistic plan.

He spoke with conviction, finally stringing together something remotely sensible. He had everything to lose here—undoubtedly his career had just taken a turn for the complicated. What Auror in their right (relatively) mind would give up hunting dark wizards for shadowing her in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office? Sarai searched his eyes for a long moment, as if he might falter. Higgs did no such thing. With an irritated scoff, she looked away, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like bloody Aurors.

“Fine,” Sarai relented, attempting to sound civil. She failed spectacularly. “If you must. Stubborn git.”

Insulting Higgs, she mused, was not nearly as satisfying as it should have been. Unfair.

Running a hand through tight curls and skimming them behind an ear, Sarai Shacklebolt resigned herself to her fate. Casting a glance around the crowded hall, she simply nodded towards the elevator. The fight fled her veins in a rush, and she suddenly felt exhausted. She needed air—and a very stiff drink. Or six. The Leaky Cauldron would solve both of these problems handsomely.