It is the Soldier, not the reporter
Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the Soldier, not the politician
Who has given us the right to vote.
... from the British perspective, the 2002 W9 conference will be remembered as nothing short of a fiasco. Kingsley smoothed his hand over his forehead as he reread that line for what must have been the fifth time this morning.
He had been foolish enough to believe Nyström – and his own advisors within the British Ministry – that releasing Purcell, a man who should have remained in Azkaban for the rest of his natural (and unnatural) life, would be worth it to secure trade with Sweden. That they
needed a favourable deal with the Swedes. Kingsley was not a businessman, nor a politician; he was a warrior, a solider. He could lead, but – increasingly, in recent months – he wondered if he
should. The British Ministry was slowly reshaping into something he felt he could be proud of, with the help of those who’d suffered most, but at what cost?
Krupin’s representatives had seemed positive in the initial talks in Ibadan, he thought, but given the nature of what Russia was going through in this particular moment, was it wise to align with him? If it was purely business, Britain needed to take what they could get, but Kingsley knew nothing was that simple anymore. Nyström was jostling to be seen as not only Sweden’s leader, but (at least ideologically) Europe’s too. Kingsley had no great desire to claim that title, but the ideology of Swedish society was a step backwards, to say the least. Anyone who sought to release a mass murderer, and who would blackmail an entire country to do so, obviously had an ulterior motive. The question was: what?
And, if the
Prophet was to be believed, Purcell was back on British soil. The conditions of the Death Eaters release had been to check in once fortnightly, but the man had left the country almost immediately – he supposed, were he in the position, he would do the same. Kingsley had discussed the situation at length with Silverman and Robards, and they’d agreed to tasking the Investigations Head with at least keeping track of where Purcell was; combing through foreign papers and keeping in contact with their counterparts in other Ministries – all classified, of course.
The official statement at this point was simply: “We are confident of Purcell’s current whereabouts.” It sounded much better than “we
think he’s holidaying in Lombardy, enjoying the wine, food, and sunshine”. The fact that he wasn’t hanging around the old crowd was the only thing allowing Kingsley to turn a blind eye to him not reporting in as stipulated. That, and the desire not to cause a panic. Did this make him as bad as Fudge? To hide the truth from the British wizarding population?
He sighed and rested back in his chair, gazing around the office that he
knew was his but still felt like it belonged to the men before him, despite the presence of his own trinkets. He’d left it as inherited for a long time after taking office, only changing décor in more recent months, as things had finally started to calm down. The room no longer had the lavishness it had had under Fudge, nor the starkness Scrimgeour had preferred, instead a gentle medium. A large mahogany desk, at which he now sat, and two comfortable yet fashionable sofas for private meetings. The walls still home to portraits of Ministers past, most snoozing in their frames as they seemed wont to do when Kingsley was alone. He was boring, apparently.
He wondered if he ought to reach out to the Order, though he knew it was no longer his place to do so. Potter had his ear to the ground – he was in the bowels of the Auror Office, he would know what to do if there was need of it. It was a relief that several members of the Order were now working in the Department, and if they weren’t in the order, a number of the newest recruits had been part of Potter’s school-age division: Dumbledore’s Army, they called it. Kingsley allowed a small smile at the thought of it all. How long ago it all seemed now.
A knock. “Come in.”
The door opened enough for a slim, greying witch with a pointed face to poke her head in, “Minister Shacklebolt, do excuse me for interrupting.”
“Danielle,” he smiled, not without effort. “What is it?”
She opened the door wider and approached, an already-opened envelope in hand. “An owl from the French Minister about your upcoming meeting, sir.”
END
