HP:: All Hail the Victor [Andromeda/Ted::PG]
Title: All Hail the Victor
Character(s): Andromeda Black, Ted Tonks
Prompt: 03. the puppet master
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1113
Author's Notes: I like games, and think that somehow life all too often mirrors them, and thus this is the product of that train of thought.
The strings are pulled, taught and tight. She moves a piece and he repartees, responding and backing away. She’s working strategy; he’s trying to survive the game.
She knows how far her name can get her, the simple power of a single five-letter word. She knows that with word she can rule the world. She uses this fact to her advantage.
She knows she’s beautiful. She wouldn’t be a Black if she weren’t. She knows she’s a paradox, a complex pretty mystery and she manipulates situations as she walks away.
She’s used to getting her way. To winning. To taking and leaving and having no regrets. She’s used to pulling the strings, being in control, being the puppeteer. She likes the fact that nine times out of ten, when she says; “jump”, someone will respond with “how high?”
She likes it like that. She likes the feeling of subtle power. She’s not as scary as Bellatrix or as sweetly delicate as Narcissa. She likes gliding under the radar, being the one no one notices has gained control, until with a snap of her fingers and a well chosen word, everyone is tied up by her.
That was until she met her match. She honestly cannot say that she doesn’t like it. She likes being matched action for action; his fumbling moves endearing as she tries to score another point. He questions her, she explains, she retorts, he backs away and tries to come out unscathed.
She thinks that she’s not as in control as she thought. That maybe, just maybe he’s the one pulling the strings and making her dance. That thought both scares and thrills her. She decides it’s worth playing the game regardless.
“You’re doing that translation wrong,” he points out to her one day in the library, their combined Ancient Runes assignments spread out on the table.
She turns to him, tossing her black hair over her shoulder and giving him the hairy eyeball. “No, I’m not,” she returns, pointedly, fully prepared for verbal sparring.
“Yes, you are,” he replies, more firm in his insistence than she’s ever seen him. She rolls her eyes, and looks down at her neat writing, which looks messy in comparison to his organized square script. She looks that book that they are translating and now at her work, and then gives him an almost demeaning look.
“No, I’m not. Have you even read the source material for this translation?” she asks. “If you had, you would know the history and you would know I’m right.”
He looks mildly taken away for a moment; almost surprised that she reads ancient historical texts. She shrugs and gives him a look that tells him she doesn’t care. “What? It’s the truth.”
He recovers, and then leans over and circles a word with his quill. “You’re doing it wrong,” he states for the third time. “That’s not the write word. It’s supposed to be ‘cadmus’ not ‘delphium’.”
She stares at him, blinking slowly and looks down at her translation and then back at the original.
He’s right. She’s wrong. She’s never wrong. She doesn’t know what to do, how to respond to this move of the pieces. So, she shrugs and tries to pass it off as nothing.
“A simple mistake. I wasn’t paying attention,” she replies almost coldly. He looks at her, his expression still one of both amazement and confusion.
She’s got to get her lead back; she has to come back from this. She can almost hear Bella’s voice in her ear telling her not to let a mudblood beat a daughter of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.
She needs to regroup, reorganize, pick a new strategy, and find a way to recover, and she has to do this fast. She needs a plan, and it has to be good. She can’t lose.
He nods slowly watching her with uncertainty on his face and he makes to go back to work. “It’s good we caught it now, I guess. I mean, before we take the OWLs,” he says.
Her expression freezes; this is her opportunity to come back, to regain lost territory. “If this was the OWLs, I wouldn’t have made that mistake,” she replies, steadily and coldly.
He looks mildly shocked and part of her feels bad for the harshness of her words. She doesn’t do anything doesn’t react, and tries to get over this odd twinge of empathy.
“Oh,” is all he says, and that part of her that feels bad grows. She didn’t mean to hurt him; it was an accident, part of the game.
“Thank you, anyways,” she says recovering, trying to make up for her error.
He smiles slightly at her and runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit she knows and finds mildly endearing, and this action elicits a smile from her. A true smile, the kind that come without thinking slides onto her face. It’s a foreign and yet natural expression for her, smiles of various varieties so often finding homes on her.
They both go back to their work, silence falling upon them once again, except for the mutual scratching of quills. Time passes, and suddenly it’s only him that is writing and she’s looking at him, watching him work.
“I’m glad you’re my partner for this translation,” she tells him. It’s the truth, for he’s the best at Ancient Runes after hers, perhaps besting her at times, but she has no idea why she is telling him this.
He stops his writing and looks at her, confusion clearly something that he commonly associates with her. “Thanks, I’m glad you’re my partner as well,” he agrees.
She smiles at him and returns to work, only to stop a moment later when she realizes he’s not working. She looks up and at him and finds him still staring at her. They’re sitting side by side, on the same side of the table, so she has to turn to look him in the eye.
“What?” she asks, touching her face reflexively, wondering if she’s got some ink on her nose. She pulls her hand away and sees that she doesn’t. She still doesn’t grasp why he’s looking at her.
Then in a moment, a single quick movement, Ted leans forward and plants his lips on hers. She’s taken aback, not used to being surprised like this, but she soon reacts and kisses him back.
The kiss lasts only for a moment, but when it’s over Andromeda realizes with quite certainty that she has just lost the game and that he has just become the deserving victor.
And for once, she doesn’t think she cares.
Character(s): Andromeda Black, Ted Tonks
Prompt: 03. the puppet master
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1113
Author's Notes: I like games, and think that somehow life all too often mirrors them, and thus this is the product of that train of thought.
The strings are pulled, taught and tight. She moves a piece and he repartees, responding and backing away. She’s working strategy; he’s trying to survive the game.
She knows how far her name can get her, the simple power of a single five-letter word. She knows that with word she can rule the world. She uses this fact to her advantage.
She knows she’s beautiful. She wouldn’t be a Black if she weren’t. She knows she’s a paradox, a complex pretty mystery and she manipulates situations as she walks away.
She’s used to getting her way. To winning. To taking and leaving and having no regrets. She’s used to pulling the strings, being in control, being the puppeteer. She likes the fact that nine times out of ten, when she says; “jump”, someone will respond with “how high?”
She likes it like that. She likes the feeling of subtle power. She’s not as scary as Bellatrix or as sweetly delicate as Narcissa. She likes gliding under the radar, being the one no one notices has gained control, until with a snap of her fingers and a well chosen word, everyone is tied up by her.
That was until she met her match. She honestly cannot say that she doesn’t like it. She likes being matched action for action; his fumbling moves endearing as she tries to score another point. He questions her, she explains, she retorts, he backs away and tries to come out unscathed.
She thinks that she’s not as in control as she thought. That maybe, just maybe he’s the one pulling the strings and making her dance. That thought both scares and thrills her. She decides it’s worth playing the game regardless.
“You’re doing that translation wrong,” he points out to her one day in the library, their combined Ancient Runes assignments spread out on the table.
She turns to him, tossing her black hair over her shoulder and giving him the hairy eyeball. “No, I’m not,” she returns, pointedly, fully prepared for verbal sparring.
“Yes, you are,” he replies, more firm in his insistence than she’s ever seen him. She rolls her eyes, and looks down at her neat writing, which looks messy in comparison to his organized square script. She looks that book that they are translating and now at her work, and then gives him an almost demeaning look.
“No, I’m not. Have you even read the source material for this translation?” she asks. “If you had, you would know the history and you would know I’m right.”
He looks mildly taken away for a moment; almost surprised that she reads ancient historical texts. She shrugs and gives him a look that tells him she doesn’t care. “What? It’s the truth.”
He recovers, and then leans over and circles a word with his quill. “You’re doing it wrong,” he states for the third time. “That’s not the write word. It’s supposed to be ‘cadmus’ not ‘delphium’.”
She stares at him, blinking slowly and looks down at her translation and then back at the original.
He’s right. She’s wrong. She’s never wrong. She doesn’t know what to do, how to respond to this move of the pieces. So, she shrugs and tries to pass it off as nothing.
“A simple mistake. I wasn’t paying attention,” she replies almost coldly. He looks at her, his expression still one of both amazement and confusion.
She’s got to get her lead back; she has to come back from this. She can almost hear Bella’s voice in her ear telling her not to let a mudblood beat a daughter of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.
She needs to regroup, reorganize, pick a new strategy, and find a way to recover, and she has to do this fast. She needs a plan, and it has to be good. She can’t lose.
He nods slowly watching her with uncertainty on his face and he makes to go back to work. “It’s good we caught it now, I guess. I mean, before we take the OWLs,” he says.
Her expression freezes; this is her opportunity to come back, to regain lost territory. “If this was the OWLs, I wouldn’t have made that mistake,” she replies, steadily and coldly.
He looks mildly shocked and part of her feels bad for the harshness of her words. She doesn’t do anything doesn’t react, and tries to get over this odd twinge of empathy.
“Oh,” is all he says, and that part of her that feels bad grows. She didn’t mean to hurt him; it was an accident, part of the game.
“Thank you, anyways,” she says recovering, trying to make up for her error.
He smiles slightly at her and runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit she knows and finds mildly endearing, and this action elicits a smile from her. A true smile, the kind that come without thinking slides onto her face. It’s a foreign and yet natural expression for her, smiles of various varieties so often finding homes on her.
They both go back to their work, silence falling upon them once again, except for the mutual scratching of quills. Time passes, and suddenly it’s only him that is writing and she’s looking at him, watching him work.
“I’m glad you’re my partner for this translation,” she tells him. It’s the truth, for he’s the best at Ancient Runes after hers, perhaps besting her at times, but she has no idea why she is telling him this.
He stops his writing and looks at her, confusion clearly something that he commonly associates with her. “Thanks, I’m glad you’re my partner as well,” he agrees.
She smiles at him and returns to work, only to stop a moment later when she realizes he’s not working. She looks up and at him and finds him still staring at her. They’re sitting side by side, on the same side of the table, so she has to turn to look him in the eye.
“What?” she asks, touching her face reflexively, wondering if she’s got some ink on her nose. She pulls her hand away and sees that she doesn’t. She still doesn’t grasp why he’s looking at her.
Then in a moment, a single quick movement, Ted leans forward and plants his lips on hers. She’s taken aback, not used to being surprised like this, but she soon reacts and kisses him back.
The kiss lasts only for a moment, but when it’s over Andromeda realizes with quite certainty that she has just lost the game and that he has just become the deserving victor.
And for once, she doesn’t think she cares.