Pants Parkinson and the Inconvenient Question
For hd_writers Drabble Day, for the prompt: question. Originally posted here.
[Spoiler (click to open)]
They don’t so much have Percy and Oliver over as the pair of them show up, and it’s only dinner time when they do because George has been late in his workshop lately, trying to perfect his fireworks line. Pansy gets them tea and George handles supper, because she’s still not fabulous with his appliances, and for as much as it’s comfortable to have them in, it’s clear their guests have stopped in with a purpose.
They’re on their second round of tea before Oliver’s small talk gives way to Percy’s explanation and on the surface of it, Pansy can’t see why they’re strained. They’ve been wanting to adopt for a while now - surprising, certainly, but not completely - and they’ve been put on a list that says they’ll wait for ages, only now they’ve found someone they’d like to bring home.
A little boy, they say, and he’s about seven, and he’s lost both parents to an accident. The details she hears don’t sound very nice. Nothing any child should have to live through, anyway. Pansy’s not maternal and she makes no pretense at it but she can understand why the men of this family might want to be fathers and Oliver’s been over the moon about having one of his own.
It sounds perfect. Well, as perfect as such things can be, but ideal enough that they should be thrilled.
Only, they aren’t. There’s some reservation, something holding them back, and when she looks to George, he’s as baffled by it as she is.
Then he isn’t. “What’s his name?” George asks, voice gone a bit thick.
Percy flinches, fusses with his glasses. Oliver looks to his partner and edges back, obviously intending to let Percy handle it.
“That’s just the thing,” Percy says. “His name is Fred.”
For a moment, it hangs heavily in the room, the silent specter of the brother Pansy’s never really known.
“We didn’t ask for it, obviously, and we didn’t choose it,” Oliver says, quickly as though that might change anything. “He’s named for his granddad, I believe? And we’d said that might be an issue for us - wouldn’t want to presume - but he’s too old to change it and if we say no, who knows what’ll happen.”
There it is, the excitement she expects, the absolute enthusiasm at the prospect of fatherhood, only just barely restrained on account of George.
George, who’s gone quiet and rather contemplative.
“We wouldn’t say yes without asking you, first,” Percy says, resting his hand on George’s. “If you’re not all right with it, we can wait.”
“And just leave him out there for Merlin knows who?” George snorts dismissively. Chews a thought before he says, “Only seems right, there being another Fred Weasley. Or would it be Weasley-Wood? Fred Wood? That’s got a ring to it, as well. You should ask him which he prefers.”
“So you’re all right with it?” Oliver asks, with healthy skepticism. “Just like that, you’re all right?”
George nods, tentative and easing into it. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like he’s going to be the spitting image of our Fred, is it?”
The bitterness of that breaks her heart. Her Earless is too far away from her now, she needs to touch him like his brother is, needs to know he knows she’s there.
“What’s he like?” Pansy asks, to break the moment. The things she sees on George’s face have no business playing out before anybody, she thinks; in his position, she’d want a moment to collect herself. Maybe she can’t share his memories of his long-dead brother but she can give him time. “Have you met him?”
Oliver picks right up on it. “We have, yeah. He’s brilliant. Rather like Percy, actually. Reads a lot, loses his glasses sometimes and still has trouble keeping his laces tied, but it suits him. He’s a funny little thing, too. Looks a bit like your Blaise, with the big eyes and the way he holds his head, but you can tell he’s curious, you know? Always thinking, that one, and really polite, but it’s clear as day he’s going to be trouble when he gets older. Fair bit of mischief in him, I reckon.”
Oliver sounds proud of him, pleased as punch. Pansy wonders if this visit is mere formality but no, not with how Percy’s still looking to George.
“If he isn’t now, he will be soon enough,” George says, awkward and wry.
“We’d like you to be his godparents, if you don’t mind,” Percy says. “You and your Pansy.” Percy glances at her, nods acknowledgement, and she doesn’t mind the exclusion because it’s clear he’s speaking to George. “Not that we expect anything to happen, but in the event. Well. You wouldn’t have to raise him unless it suits but if you could look in on him from time to time, see that he’s all right? We’d appreciate it.”
That’s for her, she realizes, because they both know how she feels about kids, and of course they’d ask George to be godfather, who else could be to little Fred Weasley, but George comes along with her, and she is no one’s idea of a mother.
She wants so much to give them what they want, because it’s Oliver and Percy and that means something, and because it clearly matters to George. She’d do just about anything for that man by now and do it gladly, and she’s always rather wondered about him and children. It’s the one thing she’s not sure she could handle, and he’s never asked or pushed or anything, but this…this is different.
This time, he might.
“We’ll let you know about that bit?” George offers. “Big thing, godfathering. I’ll need to sort out whether I’ve the pranks to handle it.”
Percy nods.
“No rush,” Oliver says, too eagerly not to be heartbreaking, as well. “If you’re fine with the name, we’ll get the parchmentwork started and take it from there. Loads of time to sort out the rest of it.”
George smiles then, thin and brittle. Pansy’s heart bleeds for all of them, but mostly for him. “Then you should. Quickly, before they catch on they’ll be leaving an impressionable mind with the likes of you two.”
It’s not quite what they’re after, Pansy’s certain of it, but it’s clearly all they’ll get tonight. Still, Percy wouldn’t be Percy if he let it slide so easily. “George, are you certain?”
George mulls it over before he nods. “I am, yeah. You two are going to be brilliant fathers. You should have your kid. Besides, wouldn’t be right, you leaving him out there in need of a home.” His faint smile twists up in a corner, turns into a grin. “Don’t imagine there’s many people capable of raising a swot without making him unbearable to be around, but I suppose you two could do it, if you set your mind to it.”
Percy rolls his eyes, long-suffering patience, and Oliver looks between them, grinning faintly himself. “Two of us in the family, George. However will you cope?”
It’s three with Hermione, four if Hugo keeps on as he is, but Pansy thinks that’s not precisely what he means. There’s something about the Weasley kids and how they’ve paired off as they’ve grown older, something that makes her think if George had to pick a favourite, it would be the one before him. For all their differences, they’re of a mind.
She’s glad again it’s Oliver she gets on best with, because she thinks it matters that it is.
“Same as I always have, Perce,” George murmurs, more like her Earless than he has since they started. “Pile of pranks and endless patience. Go get your Fred.”
::
She means to leave it be, let George bring it up in his own time, but he doesn’t say anything after they’ve gone. She spends the whole of the night wondering what he’s thinking, which is rare enough to sit oddly, and when he declares he’s for bed, he still hasn’t said a word.
She lasts until they’re curled together, her head on his shoulder and his hand at her waist, her own just on his chest where she’s near enough to touch his face if she likes, turn him for a kiss.
“Are you ever sorry?” she asks, though she knows it’s unfair. She’s still not sure she can promise him anything, and it’s cruel to bring it up.
“About what, Pants?”
“About having kids. Or not having them, as it were. Did you ever want them?” She means to leave be but it’s important, what George thinks, what her Earless wants.
He sighs a little, tightens his grip. “When I was younger, yeah. Didn’t think much about it but you’ve seen how we are. Always just thought it was going to happen someday, no way to stop it, so I might have spent a few hours wondering over the years.” He looks down at her, smiles faint and easy. “Expected that much, can’t say I expected you. I’m not sorry we don’t have them, if that’s what you’re asking, and I’m not sorry we won’t.”
“But you wanted a little George to swing in the garden?”
“I never did, really. Might’ve thought once or twice about a little Fred, especially after, but I don’t think I’m the one to do it, you know?”
She wants to, but she doesn’t. He must see that on her face, because he dips his head in to brush a kiss over her forehead and turns her so they’re wrapped in each other again.
“Thing is, my Pants, I wouldn’t ever see him, would I? I’d always see Fred - my Fred, I mean - and that wouldn’t be fair. To either of them, really, or anybody, but mostly to the kid. Can’t say I could have a son and not name him Fred, either, so that’s half our options gone right there.” His nose crinkles regretfully. “And can you imagine me with a little girl? I’d be flat crap at that, I know it. Overprotective, running off her dates, driving her spare. Used to make Ginny mental with my hovering.”
He’s gone boyish again, impish, really, and while it’s clear he means it, it’s also clear it’s not something he regrets. She reaches up to touch his face, slips up to kiss him sweet and deliberate.
“You’d be brilliant with kids if you wanted,” she murmurs. “Your sister just didn’t appreciate you properly.” She can’t even imagine any of her own brothers hovering, protectively or otherwise. “George, about this Fred…”
“Yeah?”
She sucks up her courage, reminds herself she’s not telling him anything he doesn’t already know. “I still don’t want kids. Ever. I’m not…”
“Not the babies sort of Pants?” he suggests. Teases. It’s a weight off her shoulders that he can.
“No, not in the slightest. But this Fred, Oliver’s and Percy’s, I think I could do that. If you wanted.” It’s odd still, awkward, because she’s hedging her bets and trying not to show that she is, but what are the chances anything would happen that would leave their Fred in need of mothering? It costs her nothing to make that promise, probably won’t ever cost her anything. It should be easy, she thinks, and she says as much.
“Oh, Pants,” he says gently. “I like that it isn’t.” He rolls them over, settles on top of her like a blanket and nuzzles her cheek with his nose. “I like that you’ve put this much thought in. That you aren’t just saying what you think we want to hear.” Then he’s cupping her face and kissing her slowly, making her feel precious. It’s still so good, being under him, letting him heat her with his body and breathe into her, look and touch and kiss his fill of her. “Pants, I love you. Not what you might be, not for the babies, only just you for yourself.” His brow knits. He’s achingly serious, intensely sweet. “You’re enough for me - more than, really - and I promise, I don’t want anything else. Not even being this Fred’s godparents, if you’re not comfortable with it.”
She takes a shaky breath, swept away by him again. “George…” she starts and trails off, because the words are too big for her chest. “Oh, my Earless,” she says and smiles, shaky as the breath was and honest as his eyes. “If you’re all right being his godfather, I think I might be comfortable with the rest.”
His laugh is low and warm and it rumbles through her, makes her want to hold on tight and just feel him for a while. When he moves slightly, his weight shifts, presses her down on their bed a little more.
“Don’t like thinking about anything happening to Percy - and don’t tell him I’ve said so or I’ll deny it - but yeah, if you’re sure, I think I’d like to try our hand at being godparents. I mean, we’d have to pry this Fred off Mum with a Beater’s bat and I think Oliver’s parents might be worse, but I think I’d like knowing there’s at least one little person out there who knows he can run here if he needs.”
“Godmother Pansy,” she tries, testing out the name. He makes a face at her, blurts a laugh when she tries, “Godfather George” with a show of distaste.
“No, no, Godmother Pants,” he corrects grandly. “Like Wicked Aunt Pants but better, because there’s more cause to spoil him. We can have him over for an afternoon sometime and send him home all loaded up with sweets and things, and there’s not a thing in the world Percy can do about it.”
She laughs, too, because she can see it, George riling the boy up, giving him free range in the shop, actively encouraging him to go home and do things that will make Percy’s eye twitch. Oliver will laugh about it, probably, and Percy might later, but she’d bet her last Sickle Percy’s going to be the disciplinarian over there.
“Wait, aren’t we meant to be role models?” Her own godparents never really figured in her life and Draco’s were too busy Death Eating to be much help to him, so she only knows what she’s sussed out about it from hearing the Weasleys talk over the years.
“Well, yeah,” George says, “But we never said what sort we’d be. And anyway, if he’s asking us, Percy has to know what’s coming.”
And maybe Pansy never does turn maternal, maybe she never does have any desire to play mother for any great length of time, but she can handle one small boy for a few hours if it’ll put that look of trouble back on her Earless’s face.
And eventually, once she knows him better, she finds she can do it just for the sake of this Fred.
~ back ~
[Spoiler (click to open)]
They don’t so much have Percy and Oliver over as the pair of them show up, and it’s only dinner time when they do because George has been late in his workshop lately, trying to perfect his fireworks line. Pansy gets them tea and George handles supper, because she’s still not fabulous with his appliances, and for as much as it’s comfortable to have them in, it’s clear their guests have stopped in with a purpose.
They’re on their second round of tea before Oliver’s small talk gives way to Percy’s explanation and on the surface of it, Pansy can’t see why they’re strained. They’ve been wanting to adopt for a while now - surprising, certainly, but not completely - and they’ve been put on a list that says they’ll wait for ages, only now they’ve found someone they’d like to bring home.
A little boy, they say, and he’s about seven, and he’s lost both parents to an accident. The details she hears don’t sound very nice. Nothing any child should have to live through, anyway. Pansy’s not maternal and she makes no pretense at it but she can understand why the men of this family might want to be fathers and Oliver’s been over the moon about having one of his own.
It sounds perfect. Well, as perfect as such things can be, but ideal enough that they should be thrilled.
Only, they aren’t. There’s some reservation, something holding them back, and when she looks to George, he’s as baffled by it as she is.
Then he isn’t. “What’s his name?” George asks, voice gone a bit thick.
Percy flinches, fusses with his glasses. Oliver looks to his partner and edges back, obviously intending to let Percy handle it.
“That’s just the thing,” Percy says. “His name is Fred.”
For a moment, it hangs heavily in the room, the silent specter of the brother Pansy’s never really known.
“We didn’t ask for it, obviously, and we didn’t choose it,” Oliver says, quickly as though that might change anything. “He’s named for his granddad, I believe? And we’d said that might be an issue for us - wouldn’t want to presume - but he’s too old to change it and if we say no, who knows what’ll happen.”
There it is, the excitement she expects, the absolute enthusiasm at the prospect of fatherhood, only just barely restrained on account of George.
George, who’s gone quiet and rather contemplative.
“We wouldn’t say yes without asking you, first,” Percy says, resting his hand on George’s. “If you’re not all right with it, we can wait.”
“And just leave him out there for Merlin knows who?” George snorts dismissively. Chews a thought before he says, “Only seems right, there being another Fred Weasley. Or would it be Weasley-Wood? Fred Wood? That’s got a ring to it, as well. You should ask him which he prefers.”
“So you’re all right with it?” Oliver asks, with healthy skepticism. “Just like that, you’re all right?”
George nods, tentative and easing into it. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not like he’s going to be the spitting image of our Fred, is it?”
The bitterness of that breaks her heart. Her Earless is too far away from her now, she needs to touch him like his brother is, needs to know he knows she’s there.
“What’s he like?” Pansy asks, to break the moment. The things she sees on George’s face have no business playing out before anybody, she thinks; in his position, she’d want a moment to collect herself. Maybe she can’t share his memories of his long-dead brother but she can give him time. “Have you met him?”
Oliver picks right up on it. “We have, yeah. He’s brilliant. Rather like Percy, actually. Reads a lot, loses his glasses sometimes and still has trouble keeping his laces tied, but it suits him. He’s a funny little thing, too. Looks a bit like your Blaise, with the big eyes and the way he holds his head, but you can tell he’s curious, you know? Always thinking, that one, and really polite, but it’s clear as day he’s going to be trouble when he gets older. Fair bit of mischief in him, I reckon.”
Oliver sounds proud of him, pleased as punch. Pansy wonders if this visit is mere formality but no, not with how Percy’s still looking to George.
“If he isn’t now, he will be soon enough,” George says, awkward and wry.
“We’d like you to be his godparents, if you don’t mind,” Percy says. “You and your Pansy.” Percy glances at her, nods acknowledgement, and she doesn’t mind the exclusion because it’s clear he’s speaking to George. “Not that we expect anything to happen, but in the event. Well. You wouldn’t have to raise him unless it suits but if you could look in on him from time to time, see that he’s all right? We’d appreciate it.”
That’s for her, she realizes, because they both know how she feels about kids, and of course they’d ask George to be godfather, who else could be to little Fred Weasley, but George comes along with her, and she is no one’s idea of a mother.
She wants so much to give them what they want, because it’s Oliver and Percy and that means something, and because it clearly matters to George. She’d do just about anything for that man by now and do it gladly, and she’s always rather wondered about him and children. It’s the one thing she’s not sure she could handle, and he’s never asked or pushed or anything, but this…this is different.
This time, he might.
“We’ll let you know about that bit?” George offers. “Big thing, godfathering. I’ll need to sort out whether I’ve the pranks to handle it.”
Percy nods.
“No rush,” Oliver says, too eagerly not to be heartbreaking, as well. “If you’re fine with the name, we’ll get the parchmentwork started and take it from there. Loads of time to sort out the rest of it.”
George smiles then, thin and brittle. Pansy’s heart bleeds for all of them, but mostly for him. “Then you should. Quickly, before they catch on they’ll be leaving an impressionable mind with the likes of you two.”
It’s not quite what they’re after, Pansy’s certain of it, but it’s clearly all they’ll get tonight. Still, Percy wouldn’t be Percy if he let it slide so easily. “George, are you certain?”
George mulls it over before he nods. “I am, yeah. You two are going to be brilliant fathers. You should have your kid. Besides, wouldn’t be right, you leaving him out there in need of a home.” His faint smile twists up in a corner, turns into a grin. “Don’t imagine there’s many people capable of raising a swot without making him unbearable to be around, but I suppose you two could do it, if you set your mind to it.”
Percy rolls his eyes, long-suffering patience, and Oliver looks between them, grinning faintly himself. “Two of us in the family, George. However will you cope?”
It’s three with Hermione, four if Hugo keeps on as he is, but Pansy thinks that’s not precisely what he means. There’s something about the Weasley kids and how they’ve paired off as they’ve grown older, something that makes her think if George had to pick a favourite, it would be the one before him. For all their differences, they’re of a mind.
She’s glad again it’s Oliver she gets on best with, because she thinks it matters that it is.
“Same as I always have, Perce,” George murmurs, more like her Earless than he has since they started. “Pile of pranks and endless patience. Go get your Fred.”
::
She means to leave it be, let George bring it up in his own time, but he doesn’t say anything after they’ve gone. She spends the whole of the night wondering what he’s thinking, which is rare enough to sit oddly, and when he declares he’s for bed, he still hasn’t said a word.
She lasts until they’re curled together, her head on his shoulder and his hand at her waist, her own just on his chest where she’s near enough to touch his face if she likes, turn him for a kiss.
“Are you ever sorry?” she asks, though she knows it’s unfair. She’s still not sure she can promise him anything, and it’s cruel to bring it up.
“About what, Pants?”
“About having kids. Or not having them, as it were. Did you ever want them?” She means to leave be but it’s important, what George thinks, what her Earless wants.
He sighs a little, tightens his grip. “When I was younger, yeah. Didn’t think much about it but you’ve seen how we are. Always just thought it was going to happen someday, no way to stop it, so I might have spent a few hours wondering over the years.” He looks down at her, smiles faint and easy. “Expected that much, can’t say I expected you. I’m not sorry we don’t have them, if that’s what you’re asking, and I’m not sorry we won’t.”
“But you wanted a little George to swing in the garden?”
“I never did, really. Might’ve thought once or twice about a little Fred, especially after, but I don’t think I’m the one to do it, you know?”
She wants to, but she doesn’t. He must see that on her face, because he dips his head in to brush a kiss over her forehead and turns her so they’re wrapped in each other again.
“Thing is, my Pants, I wouldn’t ever see him, would I? I’d always see Fred - my Fred, I mean - and that wouldn’t be fair. To either of them, really, or anybody, but mostly to the kid. Can’t say I could have a son and not name him Fred, either, so that’s half our options gone right there.” His nose crinkles regretfully. “And can you imagine me with a little girl? I’d be flat crap at that, I know it. Overprotective, running off her dates, driving her spare. Used to make Ginny mental with my hovering.”
He’s gone boyish again, impish, really, and while it’s clear he means it, it’s also clear it’s not something he regrets. She reaches up to touch his face, slips up to kiss him sweet and deliberate.
“You’d be brilliant with kids if you wanted,” she murmurs. “Your sister just didn’t appreciate you properly.” She can’t even imagine any of her own brothers hovering, protectively or otherwise. “George, about this Fred…”
“Yeah?”
She sucks up her courage, reminds herself she’s not telling him anything he doesn’t already know. “I still don’t want kids. Ever. I’m not…”
“Not the babies sort of Pants?” he suggests. Teases. It’s a weight off her shoulders that he can.
“No, not in the slightest. But this Fred, Oliver’s and Percy’s, I think I could do that. If you wanted.” It’s odd still, awkward, because she’s hedging her bets and trying not to show that she is, but what are the chances anything would happen that would leave their Fred in need of mothering? It costs her nothing to make that promise, probably won’t ever cost her anything. It should be easy, she thinks, and she says as much.
“Oh, Pants,” he says gently. “I like that it isn’t.” He rolls them over, settles on top of her like a blanket and nuzzles her cheek with his nose. “I like that you’ve put this much thought in. That you aren’t just saying what you think we want to hear.” Then he’s cupping her face and kissing her slowly, making her feel precious. It’s still so good, being under him, letting him heat her with his body and breathe into her, look and touch and kiss his fill of her. “Pants, I love you. Not what you might be, not for the babies, only just you for yourself.” His brow knits. He’s achingly serious, intensely sweet. “You’re enough for me - more than, really - and I promise, I don’t want anything else. Not even being this Fred’s godparents, if you’re not comfortable with it.”
She takes a shaky breath, swept away by him again. “George…” she starts and trails off, because the words are too big for her chest. “Oh, my Earless,” she says and smiles, shaky as the breath was and honest as his eyes. “If you’re all right being his godfather, I think I might be comfortable with the rest.”
His laugh is low and warm and it rumbles through her, makes her want to hold on tight and just feel him for a while. When he moves slightly, his weight shifts, presses her down on their bed a little more.
“Don’t like thinking about anything happening to Percy - and don’t tell him I’ve said so or I’ll deny it - but yeah, if you’re sure, I think I’d like to try our hand at being godparents. I mean, we’d have to pry this Fred off Mum with a Beater’s bat and I think Oliver’s parents might be worse, but I think I’d like knowing there’s at least one little person out there who knows he can run here if he needs.”
“Godmother Pansy,” she tries, testing out the name. He makes a face at her, blurts a laugh when she tries, “Godfather George” with a show of distaste.
“No, no, Godmother Pants,” he corrects grandly. “Like Wicked Aunt Pants but better, because there’s more cause to spoil him. We can have him over for an afternoon sometime and send him home all loaded up with sweets and things, and there’s not a thing in the world Percy can do about it.”
She laughs, too, because she can see it, George riling the boy up, giving him free range in the shop, actively encouraging him to go home and do things that will make Percy’s eye twitch. Oliver will laugh about it, probably, and Percy might later, but she’d bet her last Sickle Percy’s going to be the disciplinarian over there.
“Wait, aren’t we meant to be role models?” Her own godparents never really figured in her life and Draco’s were too busy Death Eating to be much help to him, so she only knows what she’s sussed out about it from hearing the Weasleys talk over the years.
“Well, yeah,” George says, “But we never said what sort we’d be. And anyway, if he’s asking us, Percy has to know what’s coming.”
And maybe Pansy never does turn maternal, maybe she never does have any desire to play mother for any great length of time, but she can handle one small boy for a few hours if it’ll put that look of trouble back on her Earless’s face.
And eventually, once she knows him better, she finds she can do it just for the sake of this Fred.
~ back ~