I F***ing Do! Part 9
Title: I F***ing Do! Part 9
Team: Spy for the Order
Rating: M (for language)
Word Count: 8x100
Challenge: Creative Cursing
Characters: SS/HG and assorted Malfoys, magical creatures, wedding planners and wedding saboteurs
A/N: This is the ninth part of the round-robin drabble series ‘I F***ing Do!’, a Hissing Harpies production. Thanks go to the entire team for input on this set.
The Previous Chapter
It was a bloody awful morning. Literally bloody for some.
Lucius called off the mass suicide attempt, merely denying the fwoopingly fuckwitted house-elves any hangover-potion. Their failure to spike the plastered guests’ drinks with Sober-Up would not soon be forgotten.
Molly refused to heal the gouges her nails had left across the cheek of the ungrateful, mother-maligning son she should never have allowed to be born.
Draco lovingly levitated out the shards of glass from Justin’s smashingly shapely bum, consequences of his losing control and falling backwards through the conservatory window.
Bane carried Griphook to the forest for arrow-removal services.
…
It was unquestionably the worst morning of Narcissa Malfoy’s life, given that it was a life that renewed itself each morning and never once looked back. Her dreams were in tatters. The party that was supposed to revive the status of the Malfoy name by putting the old, tired prejudices aside to bring together the hot, young, trend-setting war heroes with the crème de la crème of the wizarding world, had been a complete sodding cock-up, with her society friends fleeing in horror after mere token appearances. She groaned in pain, certain she’d been poisoned by the revolting Muggle food.
…
It was an interesting day for the monthly meeting of the Committee for Interspecies Reconciliation. Hermione walked in planning to lambaste her perpetually-squabbling, Horklump-witted colleagues for setting back the cause of interspecies relations by a fucking decade, when she was faced with a roomful of werewolves, centaurs, and even her old friend Hagrid (representing the giants) with “Return Goblin Property” badges affixed to their chests. The thrice-damned, mer-mouthed goblins just grinned.
“Bloody fucking hell.”
The idea of the committee (her idea, if truth be told) had been to unite the sentient magical species with the wizarding world, not against it.
…
It was not a pleasant luncheon.
“Your lot have completely bollocksed things up.”
Severus smirked. “Disaster was inevitable, but Narcissa insisted.”
“This isn’t funny. Your marriage was supposed to boost Flamelixir’s image. We’re losing market share to the fwooping Feathers. This should have turned things around, a union of old and new magic, Pure-blood and Muggle-born, a romance for the ages.” Having reconciled himself to Severus’ choice of bride, Lucius was now certain it had been his own idea.
A raised brow was his only reply.
“Get the damned thing over fast before the publicity gets any worse,” Lucius growled.
...
It was a casual afternoon tea at the Burrow. Just a few girls, dropping round for sandwiches, some cakes and a spot of Darjeeling, though they were hardly ‘girls’, and the main item on the menu was the shit soaked disaster that had been Severus and Hermione’s engagement party.
“We simply must prevent a repeat performance,” Jocasta declared.
“It will need careful planning. We should hire professionals,” Molly pronounced.
“Mmmmm.” A still-glowing Eileen agreed languorously.
Minerva winced, remembering the raven-tressed hussy’s ball-gown-clad, tousle-haired saunter of shame past the entire slack-jawed student body of Hogwarts. Professor Slughorn’s matching dishevelment hadn’t helped.
...
It was a busy workday for Rita Skeeter. By the time the party ended, it was too late to make the morning paper, which gave her more time to craft her poisonous prose and select the most incriminating images for the evening edition. The shot of the potted bride and groping groom-to-be would grace the front page. Assorted pictures of mayhem on the back. But for the centrefold, the image that would ensure the Malfoys were banned from polite society for years; what had Irmengarde Goyle been thinking, grabbing Firenze’s danglies in the front parlour?
She blessed her miniature camera.
…
It was a lucrative day at Magical Moments Event Planning. Lavender Brown, party planner extraordinaire, was contentedly counting up the bonuses from her investors at Veela Feathers. It had cost her an excruciating evening of inane chatter at the Potters’, pretending interest in their Doxy-ridden domesticity, but it had been worth it. Gifting Ginny with a potion sample and a casual mention to Harry of the wizarding “tradition” of elf games (now that Harry had done it, it surely would become a tradition) had paid off handsomely. Pigwidgeon flew in bearing a request for her services with the Granger-Snape nuptuals.
…
It was a dark and stormy night.
“Bloody fucking hellfire!” Severus growled as he slipped on the wet floor while struggling to close the bedroom window.
Hermione giggled. No amount of starry-eyed love could grant a man dignity when he was sprawled on his arse with his balls bouncing between his legs.
Severus tried to glare but ended up grinning. “What if the company goes belly-up and you get fired?”
“They’ll only fire me if another Goblin war breaks out. If that happens, you can charge exorbitant rates for your expert spying skills.”
“As long as there’s a back-up plan.”
The Next Chapter
Team: Spy for the Order
Rating: M (for language)
Word Count: 8x100
Challenge: Creative Cursing
Characters: SS/HG and assorted Malfoys, magical creatures, wedding planners and wedding saboteurs
A/N: This is the ninth part of the round-robin drabble series ‘I F***ing Do!’, a Hissing Harpies production. Thanks go to the entire team for input on this set.
The Previous Chapter
It was a bloody awful morning. Literally bloody for some.
Lucius called off the mass suicide attempt, merely denying the fwoopingly fuckwitted house-elves any hangover-potion. Their failure to spike the plastered guests’ drinks with Sober-Up would not soon be forgotten.
Molly refused to heal the gouges her nails had left across the cheek of the ungrateful, mother-maligning son she should never have allowed to be born.
Draco lovingly levitated out the shards of glass from Justin’s smashingly shapely bum, consequences of his losing control and falling backwards through the conservatory window.
Bane carried Griphook to the forest for arrow-removal services.
…
It was unquestionably the worst morning of Narcissa Malfoy’s life, given that it was a life that renewed itself each morning and never once looked back. Her dreams were in tatters. The party that was supposed to revive the status of the Malfoy name by putting the old, tired prejudices aside to bring together the hot, young, trend-setting war heroes with the crème de la crème of the wizarding world, had been a complete sodding cock-up, with her society friends fleeing in horror after mere token appearances. She groaned in pain, certain she’d been poisoned by the revolting Muggle food.
…
It was an interesting day for the monthly meeting of the Committee for Interspecies Reconciliation. Hermione walked in planning to lambaste her perpetually-squabbling, Horklump-witted colleagues for setting back the cause of interspecies relations by a fucking decade, when she was faced with a roomful of werewolves, centaurs, and even her old friend Hagrid (representing the giants) with “Return Goblin Property” badges affixed to their chests. The thrice-damned, mer-mouthed goblins just grinned.
“Bloody fucking hell.”
The idea of the committee (her idea, if truth be told) had been to unite the sentient magical species with the wizarding world, not against it.
…
It was not a pleasant luncheon.
“Your lot have completely bollocksed things up.”
Severus smirked. “Disaster was inevitable, but Narcissa insisted.”
“This isn’t funny. Your marriage was supposed to boost Flamelixir’s image. We’re losing market share to the fwooping Feathers. This should have turned things around, a union of old and new magic, Pure-blood and Muggle-born, a romance for the ages.” Having reconciled himself to Severus’ choice of bride, Lucius was now certain it had been his own idea.
A raised brow was his only reply.
“Get the damned thing over fast before the publicity gets any worse,” Lucius growled.
...
It was a casual afternoon tea at the Burrow. Just a few girls, dropping round for sandwiches, some cakes and a spot of Darjeeling, though they were hardly ‘girls’, and the main item on the menu was the shit soaked disaster that had been Severus and Hermione’s engagement party.
“We simply must prevent a repeat performance,” Jocasta declared.
“It will need careful planning. We should hire professionals,” Molly pronounced.
“Mmmmm.” A still-glowing Eileen agreed languorously.
Minerva winced, remembering the raven-tressed hussy’s ball-gown-clad, tousle-haired saunter of shame past the entire slack-jawed student body of Hogwarts. Professor Slughorn’s matching dishevelment hadn’t helped.
...
It was a busy workday for Rita Skeeter. By the time the party ended, it was too late to make the morning paper, which gave her more time to craft her poisonous prose and select the most incriminating images for the evening edition. The shot of the potted bride and groping groom-to-be would grace the front page. Assorted pictures of mayhem on the back. But for the centrefold, the image that would ensure the Malfoys were banned from polite society for years; what had Irmengarde Goyle been thinking, grabbing Firenze’s danglies in the front parlour?
She blessed her miniature camera.
…
It was a lucrative day at Magical Moments Event Planning. Lavender Brown, party planner extraordinaire, was contentedly counting up the bonuses from her investors at Veela Feathers. It had cost her an excruciating evening of inane chatter at the Potters’, pretending interest in their Doxy-ridden domesticity, but it had been worth it. Gifting Ginny with a potion sample and a casual mention to Harry of the wizarding “tradition” of elf games (now that Harry had done it, it surely would become a tradition) had paid off handsomely. Pigwidgeon flew in bearing a request for her services with the Granger-Snape nuptuals.
…
It was a dark and stormy night.
“Bloody fucking hellfire!” Severus growled as he slipped on the wet floor while struggling to close the bedroom window.
Hermione giggled. No amount of starry-eyed love could grant a man dignity when he was sprawled on his arse with his balls bouncing between his legs.
Severus tried to glare but ended up grinning. “What if the company goes belly-up and you get fired?”
“They’ll only fire me if another Goblin war breaks out. If that happens, you can charge exorbitant rates for your expert spying skills.”
“As long as there’s a back-up plan.”
The Next Chapter