Pants Parkinson and the Goblets
For hd_writers' Drabble Day, for the prompt: Billywig. Originally posted here.
[Spoiler (click to open)]
She’s on her third goblet by the time George gets home, looking a bit frantic-haired and bedraggled as he comes through the door. She’s made herself comfortable at the dining room table with a mess of papers and her ledger, and she spares a quick glance at him to reassure herself he’s all right.
Of course he would be, but there’s no telling what the manic sounds from downstairs have been and while she’s learned not to venture down to the shop when she knows he’s in his workroom unless she’s been summoned, she does still worry every now and again.
There’ve been a lot of crashing and thumping and clanging going on down there, though she suspects the little blue things she’s seen flitting about might be responsible.
“You all right, Pants?” he asks as soon as the door’s shut, only a bit breathless when he does.
“Yeah, of course.” She toys with asking how his day’s been, decides he’ll tell her if he’s of a mind to share. “Hungry? I thought we’d start dinner at half-seven, if that’s good for you?”
He nods once, resolute, and makes his way across the flat, probably to change out of his grubby clothes. Few things wreck a decent set of robes the way time spent in his workroom can and Pansy’s learned not to be fussed much about how it looks. He’s always been safe, her Earless, and she can’t think why he’d take foolish risks with himself now.
Still, he lingers at the bedroom door, turns back to her and only just watches for a moment. He looks tired and rather less impressed with himself than she likes to see, but that’ll change quick enough now he’s home.
“You’re sure you’re fine?” he asks carefully. “Not, I don’t know, not seeing things or anything? Not feeling giddy?”
She lifts her eyebrows and taps her quill. “I’m doing our taxes, George. That’s hardly giddy-making.”
He blinks at her, stares blankly. “Taxes. Right. Course you are.” Then he makes a face, screws up his nose uncertainly. She wonders what he means to ask, how worried she should be that it’s taking him a bit to actually get to it.
He’s been doing so much better speaking just for himself lately, the past six months at least without a slip, but she knows there’s a world of memories down in that workroom, that each day’s its own challenge. “Yeah, taxes,” she murmurs. Straightens her shoulders and slants him a cocky smile. “Just getting to the good bit, actually.” She waggles her brows when she says, “Deductions,” just to see him smile back.
“Deductions,” he repeats. “And you’re smiling. You sure you haven’t run into anything? Maybe had a bit of an itch somewhere, like a bug bite?”
She hides her laughter in a blandish shrug. “Quite sure, yeah. Should I not be?” She waits for the flicker of uncertainty to pass over him before she says airily, “If you mean your blue bits, they’re just there.” She flicks her quill at the goblets. “Should I ask what they are or just assume it’s best I caught them as they started hovering?”
His mouth twitches after a moment, a blurt of laughter he’s considering and enough disbelief to flush his cheeks pink. It should look atrocious with his colouring, but it never does to her. She likes when he laughs.
Loves when she’s made him.
“You made goblets of them?” he asks, and she nods confirmation. “Do you know what they are?” She hikes a brow, resolves she’ll get back to the joys of tax deductions eventually, when he’s skipped off to change, and gives him all of her attention.
Though, to be honest, he’s had it since he walked in.
“Can’t cast a decent Transfiguration charm without knowing both states,” she reminds.
He bobs his head at her, grins crooked and faint in thought. “Escaped billywigs,” he says. “Ruddy supplier left the cap on without the proper sealing charm. Minute I opened the carton, off they went. Spent all of my day tracking them down -” he squints at her, mock-accusingly “-and caught nearly all of them. With a few obvious exceptions.”
“Should I change them back?”
“You know we can’t drink from them. Class B narcotic, those stings.”
“So what I’m hearing is, we should save them for a special occasion?” she teases. Mocks thought and the charm of discovery. “Maybe when we’ve family over?”
It’s harder than it should be to ask that one straight-faced, far too easy to picture the dour-faced Weasley eldest giggling himself silly, the prig-idiot Parkinson boy batting at nothing and prattling on. She wouldn’t ever really do it, because she has to live with them all and will forever, but she can dream.
“Might take you up on that.”
Which is when it occurs to her the next lot of relatives they’ll have to see is going to be her side. And actually, for all the gin pickling her mother, the billywig stings couldn’t hurt.
“So that’s a plan, then,” she murmurs, twisting her quill again as though she means to get back to taxes. “Do you want to get cleaned up and I’ll start on dinner?”
“Suppose I should, yeah.” He watches her a moment longer, makes her feel all warm and soft inside when he does. “Going to be much longer on the taxes, d’you think?”
“Steady on, my Earless. Be quick about it and I promise not to start dinner on my own.” She flicks a look over him, his broad, rangy body and his dear, smudged face. He’s delightful and he’s dusty and the only reason he hasn’t been summoned over for a kiss yet is that Merlin only knows what it is he’s got on him. “Least I can do after a day like you’ve had is keep it edible, don’t you think?”
He blurts a laugh then, scratches near his hairline and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, give me ten and I’ll get something started.”
And maybe they never do get around to using Pansy’s goblets as anything more than decoration, but some nights, the miserable and cold ones, the ones after long days, it’s enough to think they could.
~ back ~ next ~
[Spoiler (click to open)]
She’s on her third goblet by the time George gets home, looking a bit frantic-haired and bedraggled as he comes through the door. She’s made herself comfortable at the dining room table with a mess of papers and her ledger, and she spares a quick glance at him to reassure herself he’s all right.
Of course he would be, but there’s no telling what the manic sounds from downstairs have been and while she’s learned not to venture down to the shop when she knows he’s in his workroom unless she’s been summoned, she does still worry every now and again.
There’ve been a lot of crashing and thumping and clanging going on down there, though she suspects the little blue things she’s seen flitting about might be responsible.
“You all right, Pants?” he asks as soon as the door’s shut, only a bit breathless when he does.
“Yeah, of course.” She toys with asking how his day’s been, decides he’ll tell her if he’s of a mind to share. “Hungry? I thought we’d start dinner at half-seven, if that’s good for you?”
He nods once, resolute, and makes his way across the flat, probably to change out of his grubby clothes. Few things wreck a decent set of robes the way time spent in his workroom can and Pansy’s learned not to be fussed much about how it looks. He’s always been safe, her Earless, and she can’t think why he’d take foolish risks with himself now.
Still, he lingers at the bedroom door, turns back to her and only just watches for a moment. He looks tired and rather less impressed with himself than she likes to see, but that’ll change quick enough now he’s home.
“You’re sure you’re fine?” he asks carefully. “Not, I don’t know, not seeing things or anything? Not feeling giddy?”
She lifts her eyebrows and taps her quill. “I’m doing our taxes, George. That’s hardly giddy-making.”
He blinks at her, stares blankly. “Taxes. Right. Course you are.” Then he makes a face, screws up his nose uncertainly. She wonders what he means to ask, how worried she should be that it’s taking him a bit to actually get to it.
He’s been doing so much better speaking just for himself lately, the past six months at least without a slip, but she knows there’s a world of memories down in that workroom, that each day’s its own challenge. “Yeah, taxes,” she murmurs. Straightens her shoulders and slants him a cocky smile. “Just getting to the good bit, actually.” She waggles her brows when she says, “Deductions,” just to see him smile back.
“Deductions,” he repeats. “And you’re smiling. You sure you haven’t run into anything? Maybe had a bit of an itch somewhere, like a bug bite?”
She hides her laughter in a blandish shrug. “Quite sure, yeah. Should I not be?” She waits for the flicker of uncertainty to pass over him before she says airily, “If you mean your blue bits, they’re just there.” She flicks her quill at the goblets. “Should I ask what they are or just assume it’s best I caught them as they started hovering?”
His mouth twitches after a moment, a blurt of laughter he’s considering and enough disbelief to flush his cheeks pink. It should look atrocious with his colouring, but it never does to her. She likes when he laughs.
Loves when she’s made him.
“You made goblets of them?” he asks, and she nods confirmation. “Do you know what they are?” She hikes a brow, resolves she’ll get back to the joys of tax deductions eventually, when he’s skipped off to change, and gives him all of her attention.
Though, to be honest, he’s had it since he walked in.
“Can’t cast a decent Transfiguration charm without knowing both states,” she reminds.
He bobs his head at her, grins crooked and faint in thought. “Escaped billywigs,” he says. “Ruddy supplier left the cap on without the proper sealing charm. Minute I opened the carton, off they went. Spent all of my day tracking them down -” he squints at her, mock-accusingly “-and caught nearly all of them. With a few obvious exceptions.”
“Should I change them back?”
“You know we can’t drink from them. Class B narcotic, those stings.”
“So what I’m hearing is, we should save them for a special occasion?” she teases. Mocks thought and the charm of discovery. “Maybe when we’ve family over?”
It’s harder than it should be to ask that one straight-faced, far too easy to picture the dour-faced Weasley eldest giggling himself silly, the prig-idiot Parkinson boy batting at nothing and prattling on. She wouldn’t ever really do it, because she has to live with them all and will forever, but she can dream.
“Might take you up on that.”
Which is when it occurs to her the next lot of relatives they’ll have to see is going to be her side. And actually, for all the gin pickling her mother, the billywig stings couldn’t hurt.
“So that’s a plan, then,” she murmurs, twisting her quill again as though she means to get back to taxes. “Do you want to get cleaned up and I’ll start on dinner?”
“Suppose I should, yeah.” He watches her a moment longer, makes her feel all warm and soft inside when he does. “Going to be much longer on the taxes, d’you think?”
“Steady on, my Earless. Be quick about it and I promise not to start dinner on my own.” She flicks a look over him, his broad, rangy body and his dear, smudged face. He’s delightful and he’s dusty and the only reason he hasn’t been summoned over for a kiss yet is that Merlin only knows what it is he’s got on him. “Least I can do after a day like you’ve had is keep it edible, don’t you think?”
He blurts a laugh then, scratches near his hairline and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, give me ten and I’ll get something started.”
And maybe they never do get around to using Pansy’s goblets as anything more than decoration, but some nights, the miserable and cold ones, the ones after long days, it’s enough to think they could.
~ back ~ next ~