I F***ing Do!
Title: I F***ing Do! (Part 8)
Challenge: Creative Curses
Team: Order!
Word Count: 11 x 100
Rating: M (language and content)
A/N: This is the eighth part of the round-robin drabble series ‘I F***ing Do!’, a Hissing Harpies production. Written with an outstandingly large hangover. Thanks to Buzzy, Scoffy, Bluestocking, Coco and Dicky for beta'ing and knocking things into shape!
Previous Chapter
Lucius stood close to the mirror and carefully made the final adjustments to his cravat. A waterfall knot was a bugger to do, but it went so well with his hair that he couldn’t resist the eight non-elf-assisted attempts inevitably required to perfect it.
The clock was ticking. The long hand was pointed towards ‘Unwanted Guests Passing Second Peacock’.
“Get your useless, skinny, watered-silk covered arse downstairs, now!” shrieked Lucius’ supposedly elegant wife. “Eight teachers, three goblins and four Weasleys are on the drive and I’m not facing a bunch of unfashionably early peasants or any slimy fucking troglodytes alone.”
Dropping her cloak on a house-elf, Eileen Snape swept up to the over-awed looking Muggles who were sitting on the staircase clutching glasses of elf-made wine.
"You’ll be the Grangers, then."
"That’s right," said Jocasta.
"Your daughter sounds like a chuffing good thing for my son. But don’t think I’ll stand by and let those poncy, sodding Malfoys walk all over me the way they have you.”
“They haven’t!” Martin retorted.
“This case of Galleon dysentery was your idea?”
Jocasta frowned.
“Severus will do what I say,” declared Eileen.
Martin’s face lit up with amusement.
“You haven’t met Hermione, have you?”
Before Eileen could reply, a fruity baritone rang out.
“Jumping Krups, I don’t believe it! Eileen Prince!”
Mr and Mrs Granger watched in amazement as a flash of colour spread across Eileen’s cheeks in a most un-Snapelike manner. Their jaws dropped as they heard a distinct titter.
“Horace Slughorn! It’s Eileen Snape and you know it. You always were a cheeky bugger!”
"Now, now, Veela lips. Be kind and come and give your old Professor a hug!”
“Horace! Less of the ‘old’! Oh, Professor Slughorn…”
The Grangers’ eyes met. They stood, grabbed each other’s hands and escaped upstairs to explore.
Harry started handing out brimming glasses of 1990 Chateau Malfoi Grand Reserve to all of the house-elves. They were standing in two lines in the middle of the ballroom.
“Right then! Boat race time! You two, Keef and Chegwin, when I give the word, you drink as fast as you can. As soon as you’ve finished, the next elf in line starts. The line to finish first is the winner! Under starter’s orders…”
The elves snapped to attention.
“Ready, steady, DRINK!”
“Circe’s cunty fish-flaps!” muttered Lucius, horrified. “The son-of-a Bundimun!”
Out for some belated revenge, Auror Potter was nevertheless untouchable.
Out to cause maximum embarrassment, Ginny spiked Percy’s drink with Veritaserum. Shortly afterwards, Molly discovered that even her own family thought she was a frumpy, bossy cow with a mouth the size of Asia and the voice of a constipated banshee.
Narcissa found her beloved son in the conservatory, giving Auror Finch-Fletchley an enormously enthusiastic blow-job. But she forgot how shocked she was about Draco’s blatantly hypocritical attitude towards pure-bloodedness when she discovered that the dinner was burnt to a crisp and the elves were all so pissed they couldn’t boil a kettle, let alone produce Beef Wellington for four-hundred.
In the morning room, Hagrid lost little time introducing Hermione’s Department of Magical Creatures chums to the delights of mulled mead with Firewhisky chasers. The centaurs were skittish, the werewolves were hard-headed and the goblins were lecherous. A fug of pipe smoke, mixed with the odour of fresh equine dung, filled the air and clung to the sage velvet curtains.
Taking the mickey out of Firenze constantly, the centaurs decided to have an archery contest. The magically lengthened dining room provided the perfect setting.
“You couldn’t hit a turd in a Delphi sewer!”
Twang-hiss... Thud-crack...
“Mercury’s balls, Bane! Excellent shot...”
Trelawney managed twelve double gilly-water and tonics before throwing up all over the brand new Flutterby topiary. Pomona Sprout shooed her off to the toilet and tried to sooth the distressed bush.
“There, there, my lovely. I’m sorry about my pickled walnut of a colleague. We’ll have you clean in a jiffy. Persephone’s pants! What did she have for lunch?”
The topiary trembled violently, spattering Sprout from head to toe with gilly-water, bile and something that looked like diced carrot.
“What the fuck did you do that for? Look at me! Bloody shrub! I smell like a Bacchanalian bog brush…”
Sinistra, Vector and McGonagall had a lovely time playing strip-snooker in the billiards room. Flitwick sat in a chesterfield wing-back and toasted their efforts whilst simultaneously deploring their language.
“Come on, Minnie! Your snatch hasn’t seen candlelight since the seventies! Off! Off! Off!”
“Oh, I say!”
“Speak for yourself, you silly, stargazing slag! That was a foul and a miss. Tits out for the Charms Master!”
“Heavens above!”
Vector checked the angle of her shot and potted a red cleanly. Her position on the black was perfect. Leaving McGonagall with an impossible shot, she downed a shot of Salazar’s Sambuca.
Howls of laughter, neighs of embarrassment, increasingly frantic grunts and croaks and the occasional crunch of shattering crockery filtered through the elegant hallways of Malfoy Manor. In the garden, Kingsley Shacklebolt checked carefully for eavesdroppers before snipping a beautiful yellow rose from a nearby bush with a flick of his wand.
“For you, my darling,” he drawled.
“Oh, King. You shouldn’t have! You wouldn’t be the first Minister of Magic a Malfoy flayed alive, you know.”
“Rolanda, if you kiss me, it’ll be worth the risk.”
“I can do more than that. And broomsticks look gorgeous in the moonlight.”
“Holymotherofmerlin!”
Ronald grudgingly abandoned all thoughts of an elf-made feast. Borrowing Hermione’s mobile phone and visa card, he walked to the gates with Neville, Seamus and Dean and called the four nearest branches of Pizza Hut.
By midnight, four-hundred assorted magical beings were sat on the floor in the ballroom, tucking into garlic bread, potato wedges, coleslaw and two-hundred extra-large stuffed crusts.
Luna found a beetle in her coleslaw, carefully cleaned it off and put it outside.
Lucius didn’t even argue about footing the bill.
Narcissa cursed him with a case of the mange (“Demodex Maritus!”) and went to bed early.
Sprawled on a sofa, one hand blatantly up Hermione’s skirt, Severus bemusedly watched Horace Slughorn slow-dancing with his mother. At five a.m., guests were finally leaving.
“Fucking fantastic party, Snape! Can’t wait for the wedding!”
“Get a room, you randy Nifflers!”
“Thanks for the best night since records fwooping began!”
“Flitwick Aberforthed a goblin? Gross!”
Hermione groaned and shifted her legs. Severus’ eyes began to glaze over.
“Happy, darling?” she whispered.
“I’ve never enjoyed a party so much.”
“It’s been fantastic fun. And your mum’s pulled.”
“Good. She’ll be sweet as a kitten when I introduce the two of you.”
A/Ns: Mange causes itchiness and hair loss. Aberforthy is used here to refer to sex between two different species. Phrase courtesy of Buzzy.
Next Chapter
Challenge: Creative Curses
Team: Order!
Word Count: 11 x 100
Rating: M (language and content)
A/N: This is the eighth part of the round-robin drabble series ‘I F***ing Do!’, a Hissing Harpies production. Written with an outstandingly large hangover. Thanks to Buzzy, Scoffy, Bluestocking, Coco and Dicky for beta'ing and knocking things into shape!
Previous Chapter
Lucius stood close to the mirror and carefully made the final adjustments to his cravat. A waterfall knot was a bugger to do, but it went so well with his hair that he couldn’t resist the eight non-elf-assisted attempts inevitably required to perfect it.
The clock was ticking. The long hand was pointed towards ‘Unwanted Guests Passing Second Peacock’.
“Get your useless, skinny, watered-silk covered arse downstairs, now!” shrieked Lucius’ supposedly elegant wife. “Eight teachers, three goblins and four Weasleys are on the drive and I’m not facing a bunch of unfashionably early peasants or any slimy fucking troglodytes alone.”
Dropping her cloak on a house-elf, Eileen Snape swept up to the over-awed looking Muggles who were sitting on the staircase clutching glasses of elf-made wine.
"You’ll be the Grangers, then."
"That’s right," said Jocasta.
"Your daughter sounds like a chuffing good thing for my son. But don’t think I’ll stand by and let those poncy, sodding Malfoys walk all over me the way they have you.”
“They haven’t!” Martin retorted.
“This case of Galleon dysentery was your idea?”
Jocasta frowned.
“Severus will do what I say,” declared Eileen.
Martin’s face lit up with amusement.
“You haven’t met Hermione, have you?”
Before Eileen could reply, a fruity baritone rang out.
“Jumping Krups, I don’t believe it! Eileen Prince!”
Mr and Mrs Granger watched in amazement as a flash of colour spread across Eileen’s cheeks in a most un-Snapelike manner. Their jaws dropped as they heard a distinct titter.
“Horace Slughorn! It’s Eileen Snape and you know it. You always were a cheeky bugger!”
"Now, now, Veela lips. Be kind and come and give your old Professor a hug!”
“Horace! Less of the ‘old’! Oh, Professor Slughorn…”
The Grangers’ eyes met. They stood, grabbed each other’s hands and escaped upstairs to explore.
Harry started handing out brimming glasses of 1990 Chateau Malfoi Grand Reserve to all of the house-elves. They were standing in two lines in the middle of the ballroom.
“Right then! Boat race time! You two, Keef and Chegwin, when I give the word, you drink as fast as you can. As soon as you’ve finished, the next elf in line starts. The line to finish first is the winner! Under starter’s orders…”
The elves snapped to attention.
“Ready, steady, DRINK!”
“Circe’s cunty fish-flaps!” muttered Lucius, horrified. “The son-of-a Bundimun!”
Out for some belated revenge, Auror Potter was nevertheless untouchable.
Out to cause maximum embarrassment, Ginny spiked Percy’s drink with Veritaserum. Shortly afterwards, Molly discovered that even her own family thought she was a frumpy, bossy cow with a mouth the size of Asia and the voice of a constipated banshee.
Narcissa found her beloved son in the conservatory, giving Auror Finch-Fletchley an enormously enthusiastic blow-job. But she forgot how shocked she was about Draco’s blatantly hypocritical attitude towards pure-bloodedness when she discovered that the dinner was burnt to a crisp and the elves were all so pissed they couldn’t boil a kettle, let alone produce Beef Wellington for four-hundred.
In the morning room, Hagrid lost little time introducing Hermione’s Department of Magical Creatures chums to the delights of mulled mead with Firewhisky chasers. The centaurs were skittish, the werewolves were hard-headed and the goblins were lecherous. A fug of pipe smoke, mixed with the odour of fresh equine dung, filled the air and clung to the sage velvet curtains.
Taking the mickey out of Firenze constantly, the centaurs decided to have an archery contest. The magically lengthened dining room provided the perfect setting.
“You couldn’t hit a turd in a Delphi sewer!”
Twang-hiss... Thud-crack...
“Mercury’s balls, Bane! Excellent shot...”
Trelawney managed twelve double gilly-water and tonics before throwing up all over the brand new Flutterby topiary. Pomona Sprout shooed her off to the toilet and tried to sooth the distressed bush.
“There, there, my lovely. I’m sorry about my pickled walnut of a colleague. We’ll have you clean in a jiffy. Persephone’s pants! What did she have for lunch?”
The topiary trembled violently, spattering Sprout from head to toe with gilly-water, bile and something that looked like diced carrot.
“What the fuck did you do that for? Look at me! Bloody shrub! I smell like a Bacchanalian bog brush…”
Sinistra, Vector and McGonagall had a lovely time playing strip-snooker in the billiards room. Flitwick sat in a chesterfield wing-back and toasted their efforts whilst simultaneously deploring their language.
“Come on, Minnie! Your snatch hasn’t seen candlelight since the seventies! Off! Off! Off!”
“Oh, I say!”
“Speak for yourself, you silly, stargazing slag! That was a foul and a miss. Tits out for the Charms Master!”
“Heavens above!”
Vector checked the angle of her shot and potted a red cleanly. Her position on the black was perfect. Leaving McGonagall with an impossible shot, she downed a shot of Salazar’s Sambuca.
Howls of laughter, neighs of embarrassment, increasingly frantic grunts and croaks and the occasional crunch of shattering crockery filtered through the elegant hallways of Malfoy Manor. In the garden, Kingsley Shacklebolt checked carefully for eavesdroppers before snipping a beautiful yellow rose from a nearby bush with a flick of his wand.
“For you, my darling,” he drawled.
“Oh, King. You shouldn’t have! You wouldn’t be the first Minister of Magic a Malfoy flayed alive, you know.”
“Rolanda, if you kiss me, it’ll be worth the risk.”
“I can do more than that. And broomsticks look gorgeous in the moonlight.”
“Holymotherofmerlin!”
Ronald grudgingly abandoned all thoughts of an elf-made feast. Borrowing Hermione’s mobile phone and visa card, he walked to the gates with Neville, Seamus and Dean and called the four nearest branches of Pizza Hut.
By midnight, four-hundred assorted magical beings were sat on the floor in the ballroom, tucking into garlic bread, potato wedges, coleslaw and two-hundred extra-large stuffed crusts.
Luna found a beetle in her coleslaw, carefully cleaned it off and put it outside.
Lucius didn’t even argue about footing the bill.
Narcissa cursed him with a case of the mange (“Demodex Maritus!”) and went to bed early.
Sprawled on a sofa, one hand blatantly up Hermione’s skirt, Severus bemusedly watched Horace Slughorn slow-dancing with his mother. At five a.m., guests were finally leaving.
“Fucking fantastic party, Snape! Can’t wait for the wedding!”
“Get a room, you randy Nifflers!”
“Thanks for the best night since records fwooping began!”
“Flitwick Aberforthed a goblin? Gross!”
Hermione groaned and shifted her legs. Severus’ eyes began to glaze over.
“Happy, darling?” she whispered.
“I’ve never enjoyed a party so much.”
“It’s been fantastic fun. And your mum’s pulled.”
“Good. She’ll be sweet as a kitten when I introduce the two of you.”
A/Ns: Mange causes itchiness and hair loss. Aberforthy is used here to refer to sex between two different species. Phrase courtesy of Buzzy.
Next Chapter