Super Saturday and other reasons not to emigrate
Was down in London this weekend, having my
. I actually became so overwhelmed with unexpected patriotism that I bought a flag. I now have repetetive strain injury in my wrist and the national anthem as my ring tone.
GO TEAM GB GO!
have got the first few thousand words of my smrw_ficafestentry down, so well ahead of my usual fest writing schedule which is awh-sum. My darkwitches submission is still at a rather inglorious 0 words, but I have a plot-line all mapped out so fingers crossed. This will be my first toe-dip into the whirlpool of femmeslash and my prompts were fairly vague so I'm not planning on trying anything too fancy straight off the blocks.
Am absolutely mad keen for interhouse_fest and hp_darkfest, both of which are opening for prompting/sign ups on the 8th. Interhouse especially is always amazing, definitely one of my faves so well worth getting involved if you weren't planning on doing already! nextgendarkfest has completed posting and now just waiting on the masterlist to start stalking new authors. My entry is in the mix somewhere - a short but hopefully sweet sufficiently dark and twisty one!
And finally - just having a little organise - here's my hp_nextgen_fest entry from earlier this year. Click on the summary if you fancy a little burst of Teddy/Victoire to brighten your Monday.
Title: In Vogue
Rating: PG13/R
Word Count:2178
Pairing(s): Teddy/Victoire
Warnings: Bad language, brief reference to past pos. underage sexual activity
Its half past eight on a Saturday morning and Teddy Lupin is just coming to the end of a brutal, twelve hour night-shift. He’s exhausted, his feet hurt and he doesn’t smell that brilliant either. He’s on his sixteenth cup of coffee and this one tastes just as bad as the fifteen previous ones, maybe worse, but at least he’s going home - and to bed - at last.
Almost.
"Lupin, there you are! Fourth Floor, Room 16, splinching accident. Quick as you can!"
Teddy looks up from a patient chart with bleary eyes, just as Healer-in-Charge Smethwyck slaps another hefty file down on the desk in front of him.
"Actually, Sir, I was just about to-,"
But Smethwyck gives him a pointed look. "As far as I’m aware your shift doesn’t end for another five minutes, Healer Lupin. And besides, you’ve been personally requested by the patient. Now move before I have you assigned to the spattergroit ward for the rest of the month!"
"Sir," Teddy nods, snatching up the case notes and setting off towards the lift.
It’s only when he’s waiting for it to reach his floor - doing his best to ignore the other two Trainee Healer’s gossiping about a bunch of journalists turning up in reception - that he actually bothers to check the name on the patient file.
And there it is. In big, bold, red letters.
WEASLEY
Suddenly, Teddy’s sprinting up the emergency stairs, taking them two, three at a time until he bursts out onto Fourth Floor: Spell Damage. His lime green robes are slipping off one shoulder, his turquoise hair turning an alarming shade of orange as he races along the corridor, almost taking out a rather plump, elderly nurse as he rounds the corner.
Shit, he curses, almost tripping over his robe tails as he runs, his mind darting frantically from name to name, various red headed faces flashing before his eyes. Which one of them is he going to find battered and bruised, bleeding or maimed this time? Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembers owling Molly a good luck card - wasn’t she taking her Apparition test sometime this week? Fuck Merlin, what if she’s gone and ripped her arm off in the process?
Thoroughly out of breath, Teddy bursts into Room 16. What little air was left in his lungs leaves him with a resounding whoosh as he takes in the person sitting stoically on the hospital cot.
The first thing he notices is the bloodied hole on the left side of the patient’s face - Healer’s prerogative. The second, is that this is certainly not sweet little Molly Weasley.
He stares blankly at the woman sat on the bed in front of him. Either he really, desperately needs to get some sleep, or he already is doing - maybe snoring away, slumped against the lift doors - and this is some kind of peculiar dream. He takes in the sky high heels, the designer robes with unmasked astonishment. A little voice in the back of his head tells him that he has just discovered the reason for all the press reporters camped out in reception.
"It seems rather unprofessional of you to gawp," Victoire Weasley mutters coolly, one slim, fair eyebrow raised as she watches him try to establish some kind of composure, still rooted in the doorway. "Hello, Teddy."
And, fuck, Teddy thinks, if she doesn’t look exactly the same as she did the last time he saw her, standing on platform nine and three quarters, long blonde hair swirling amidst the steam. The way his stomach churns at the sight of her reminds him that, on that occasion, he may or may not have had his tongue down her throat.
Of course that was a long time ago. Back before the eldest Miss Weasley decided, in her usual impulsive manner, that NEWT’s were an unnecessary hassle and so was having a boyfriend. Back before Victoire decided to cash in on her family’s celebrity status and officially became Wizarding Britain’s favourite young It-girl. He supposes that whole one-eighth Veela thing probably didn’t hurt her cause, either.
And now here she is, looking every bit the same self-assured, beautiful young woman that smiles at him out of glossy issues of Witch Weekly and the Wizarding London Insider. Minus one ear, of course.
"You look terrible," Victoire breaks the awkward silence, appraising his clashing hair, the dark circles rimming his eyes with that familiar, silvery-blue scrutiny.
Teddy can’t fight the quirk that makes its way across his lips. "Says the girl with a hole in her head. Hello, Vic."
At that, Victoire scowls, glancing over at the small metal tray containing a lump of bloody flesh. "I had a…little trouble apparating home last night. I managed to stop the bleeding with some dittany but I don’t know the proper re-attachment spells so," she shrugs, not meeting his eye, "here I am."
"Yes, here you are," Teddy mutters, more to himself than anything, but it makes Victoire shift awkwardly and he’s pleased to know he’s not the only one feeling immensely weird right now.
Teddy shakes his head to rouse himself, suddenly aware that he’s still not moved and has been staring avidly at her face for much too long. He picks up the silver tray and grabs a handful of cotton swabs, pulling a small stool alongside the bed and sitting down to find himself perfectly at eye level with her.
For a brief second, their gazes lock. Up close, Teddy can see every speck of grey in her otherwise bright blue eyes and he forces himself to survey her wound instead.
"I’ll need to clean this. It’s going to sting."
He catches her smirk out of the corner of his eye. "I’m a big girl, Lupin- Ow, fuck!" Her hand fists the bedsheet as he sets to work on the broken skin.
Teddy lets out a low chuckle. "Well, you certainly still swear like one."
She lifts an eyebrow and smiles, wryly. "I wonder who I could’ve picked that up from?"
Teddy clears his throat. "You said you incurred the injury last night? So this wound must have been open for several hours."
She moves to shake her head, wincing as the swab rubs against more of the deep cut. "No… I suppose I mean this morning, I just haven’t been to bed yet."
It’s then that Teddy notices how tired she is too. Her eyes are bleary, there’s a little mascara smudge on her cheek and her shoulders are sagging as if they, especially, need a good long rest. Otherwise though, she really does look exactly the same. Same willowy limbs, same pink bow-lips, same nose…
Of course she has the same nose, idiot - he shakes his head. It’s just that somehow he can’t believe that nothing physical about her has changed these last two years. In all the newspaper articles he reads - although, to be honest, he tries to avoid them - she certainly behaves differently to the Victoire he knew.
"Let me guess," Teddy fails to mask the mocking tone that leaks into his voice. "Another heavy night at The Lycanthropy Lounge?"
Victoire bristles, eyes flashing as she takes her turn to study him. "Funny. I didn’t have you down as an avid Witch Weekly reader, Lupin. Been keeping an eye on me, have we?"
He feels his cheeks flush, and hopes his hair hasn’t coloured to match. "No! It’s my flatmate, she… err, she leaves her magazines around sometimes, that’s all." He turns away to grab his wand and hide his cringe. "Speaking of which, there’s a fair amount of reporters downstairs. I suppose they’ll be wanting to check their favourite socialite hasn’t snuffed it."
He hears her sigh, wearily. "Yes, sorry, they’re a nuisance, I know. I’ll send Rita down with a statement, try and get rid."
"Rita?" Teddy asks, turning his attention to the severed ear.
Victoire waves a hand and sits a little further back on the bed. Teddy can’t help but notice how long her legs look, stretched out like that. "My publicity co-ordinator, Rita Skeeter. She’s a legend of the tabloids, a real battle-axe." And then she smiles, wickedly - a big, wide grin that Teddy hasn’t seen in years and makes his chest hurt. "Maman says Aunt Hermione was fuming when she heard I’d hired her. But then, it never did take much to get her wound up, did it?"
Teddy is sure his hair must have turned a flaming red this time, knowing that Victoire is referring to one particular night during a rather hazy summer holiday. An evening of babysitting that had gone somewhat awry, when Ron and Hermione Weasley had returned home to find them groping on the kitchen floor, Teddy with his hand up their eldest niece’s skirt. He couldn’t remember ever receiving such a bolloxing in his life - not even from his Gran.
He looks up to find Victoire smirking at him, obviously studying his reaction and Teddy is suddenly acutely aware just how very much he misses her. And how very easy it would be to stop resenting her, just for a moment.
The questions - or should that be accusations? - are all there, right on the tip of his tongue. How is life in the spotlight? Does it make up for disappointing her parents, for ditching her cousins and friends? Did she decide to dump him by owl because she felt guilty or could she just not be bothered to turn up in person?
But there are other things he wants to say too, things he wants to smack himself for even thinking. Like how fit she looked in the paparazzi shots of her on her last birthday, like how she should ditch her latest flame - something Urquhart, Teddy’s brain supplies begrudgingly - and come home.
"Nearly done?" she asks, quietly.
He nods, "Ready for the re-attachment now," and yanks on a glove. "Sure you don’t want to leave it? I’ve heard the whole asymmetrical look is going to be huge this year."
"And let Uncle George think he’s the real trend-setter in the family? Not bloody likely," she laughs brazenly, stiffening slightly as Teddy brings a hand up to hold her neck still. "Your hands are cold."
"Sorry," he mutters. "Try not to move for a second."
He fusses with her ear, making sure it’s perfectly aligned to the jagged splinch-cut and then aims his wand. Victoire hisses, tensing her shoulders as the red skin glows yellow for a moment before settling down, nicely fixed.
"All done." He leans back on his stool, instinctively reaching out to grab her hand when she moves to touch the re-attached flesh. "It’ll heal much quicker if you don’t mess with it."
She nods, staring thoughtfully at his fingers laced with hers. "Will it scar?"
"Worried it might ruin your pictures?" It’s meant to be a cruel jibe, but Teddy’s voice lacks the necessary malice when he feels the pad of her thumb run across his palm.
And suddenly his tongue feels numb under the weight of the words: 'I still want you.' He thinks briefly about just saying it, throwing it out there and letting the sentiment hang in the air. His mouth is too dry though and he gets distracted when her other hand comes up to brush his jawline.
"You need a shave," she says quietly. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it almost sounded affectionate. But this is Victoire. The girl struggles with pleasantries, never mind actual emotion.
Teddy offers her a lopsided grin. "Yeah? I think it makes me look rugged. The nurses love it."
"I bet," she laughs.
A moment of quiet envelops their little room, then. Teddy can hear the faint sounds of the day carrying on without them outside - a murmur of chatter, the lift doors closing further down the hall. He wonders, idly, how long they could stay in here without being missed. Probably all of two minutes in Vic’s case, he thinks ruefully, in fact he’s incredibly surprised the world hasn’t come to claim her back from him already.
He hates that he has ever been made to share her.
Victoire smiles and detaches her hand from his. "It was nice to see you again, Teddy."
Teddy swallows thickly. "Oh, you’ll need this!" He jumps up, rummaging in a nearby drawer and producing a little white potion bottle. "Antiseptic, for the wound."
Victoire nods and folds the bottle into her glittery purse. "Thank you," she mutters and then, before he can rouse himself, before he can work out a suitable parting sentiment, she’s reaching up onto her toes and pressing a warm, chaste kiss to the very corner of his mouth.
Instinctively, Teddy moves to turn his head, to catch more of her, but in a millisecond she’s gone again - gathered up her shiny fur coat and breezed out of the room.
The door swings shut behind her.
"Nice to see you too, Vic," he murmurs, even though honestly, he’s not quite sure it was.
Phew! I feel like Jess Ennis, except this was the heptathlon of fest-plugging.