DRABBLE: Discreetly Indiscreet (Tom/Hagrid)
Title: Discreetly Indiscreet
Pairing: Tom/Hagrid
Word Count: 415
Rating: PG
Summary: Yet for all his staring and waiting, he is not at all well-practiced in the art of patience.
Author’s Notes: Written for rarepair_shorts's Winter 2009-2010 Fic Exchange. Originally posted here. I honestly don't know how no one realized this was mine. I mean, CRACK.
The hall-watcher keeps his careful gaze on the door, minding neither the empty glass in his hand nor the curvaceous barmaid trying to fill it. Yet for all his staring and waiting, he is not at all well-practiced in the art of patience. He sees shapes move past but is too anxious to recognize them.
“Oi, Tom!”
He hears a faint din but does not listen.
“Would you like another drink, boy?”
He talks, to himself mostly, but does not speak.
“I’LL JUST HAVE A PISS IN YOUR MUG, THEN.”
“NI!” he cries abruptly, jumping up from his barstool, causing the barmaid to shriek and cover her ears.
“Merlin’s beard, Tom, there’s no need for that!”
“Oh,” Tom says, noticing her at last, “I’m terribly sorry, Susanna. I’m not myself today. Perhaps another firewhisky would do the trick, do you think?”
“Right-o,” Susanna responds, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to pour his drink. As she does so, the door opens at last, and a great big brute blunders through, wearing a most horrid, brown hairy suit and a dingy, mismatched tie.
Hagrid.
Tom breathes heavily in disgust. Chap was a third-year and could barely fit past the doorframe. His wand had to be four times as long the usual length in order for him to properly wield it.
But he is just the person Tom has been looking for.
“You,” Tom hisses, charging straight at him, “You draw far too much attention to yourself.”
“Whadda yeh mean?” Hagrid sputters as Tom roughly tries to grab him by the collar. “Oi, don’ touch me suit, jus’ bin washin’ it an’ all.”
“Your suit is disgusting. It, much like you, has no place in this room.”
“AND WHO DO YEH THINK YEH ARE, EH? YEH THINK YEH CAN TAKE CHARGE O’ THE PLACE ’CAUSE EVERYONE’S BOUND TER LIKE YEH. WELL I DON’ LIKE YEH ANY MORE’N YEH LIKE ME SUIT!”
With that, Hagrid picks Tom up easily, slings him over his broad shoulder, and marches out the door; those remaining inside The Three Broomsticks are utterly bemused by this display.
“Put me down, fool. I haven’t time for one of your oafish tantrums,” Tom says when they are far out of earshot.
“Codswallop. This was all part o’ yer brillian’ plan, yeh can’ stop pretendin’ yeh don’ like me suit an’ tie now.” He extracted a bottle of mead from one of his massive coat pockets, and offered it to Tom. “Cheers. Have a rock cake.”
Pairing: Tom/Hagrid
Word Count: 415
Rating: PG
Summary: Yet for all his staring and waiting, he is not at all well-practiced in the art of patience.
Author’s Notes: Written for rarepair_shorts's Winter 2009-2010 Fic Exchange. Originally posted here. I honestly don't know how no one realized this was mine. I mean, CRACK.
The hall-watcher keeps his careful gaze on the door, minding neither the empty glass in his hand nor the curvaceous barmaid trying to fill it. Yet for all his staring and waiting, he is not at all well-practiced in the art of patience. He sees shapes move past but is too anxious to recognize them.
“Oi, Tom!”
He hears a faint din but does not listen.
“Would you like another drink, boy?”
He talks, to himself mostly, but does not speak.
“I’LL JUST HAVE A PISS IN YOUR MUG, THEN.”
“NI!” he cries abruptly, jumping up from his barstool, causing the barmaid to shriek and cover her ears.
“Merlin’s beard, Tom, there’s no need for that!”
“Oh,” Tom says, noticing her at last, “I’m terribly sorry, Susanna. I’m not myself today. Perhaps another firewhisky would do the trick, do you think?”
“Right-o,” Susanna responds, eyeing him suspiciously as she turns to pour his drink. As she does so, the door opens at last, and a great big brute blunders through, wearing a most horrid, brown hairy suit and a dingy, mismatched tie.
Hagrid.
Tom breathes heavily in disgust. Chap was a third-year and could barely fit past the doorframe. His wand had to be four times as long the usual length in order for him to properly wield it.
But he is just the person Tom has been looking for.
“You,” Tom hisses, charging straight at him, “You draw far too much attention to yourself.”
“Whadda yeh mean?” Hagrid sputters as Tom roughly tries to grab him by the collar. “Oi, don’ touch me suit, jus’ bin washin’ it an’ all.”
“Your suit is disgusting. It, much like you, has no place in this room.”
“AND WHO DO YEH THINK YEH ARE, EH? YEH THINK YEH CAN TAKE CHARGE O’ THE PLACE ’CAUSE EVERYONE’S BOUND TER LIKE YEH. WELL I DON’ LIKE YEH ANY MORE’N YEH LIKE ME SUIT!”
With that, Hagrid picks Tom up easily, slings him over his broad shoulder, and marches out the door; those remaining inside The Three Broomsticks are utterly bemused by this display.
“Put me down, fool. I haven’t time for one of your oafish tantrums,” Tom says when they are far out of earshot.
“Codswallop. This was all part o’ yer brillian’ plan, yeh can’ stop pretendin’ yeh don’ like me suit an’ tie now.” He extracted a bottle of mead from one of his massive coat pockets, and offered it to Tom. “Cheers. Have a rock cake.”