I F***ing Do! - Part 13
Title: I F***ing Do Part 13
Team Name: Order
Word Count: 100 x 11
Rating: Bad language - PG?
Challenge: Creative cursing
Characters: Severus, Hermione, Lucius, Buggy, Assorted Goblins
Authors Notes: Part Thirteen of the Hissing Harpies' round robin. JKR's toys, we're just playing with them and will put them back in the cupboard after we've washed their mouths out with soap and water. Grateful worship also to a certain great British comedy institution….
Many thanks to the other Harpies for feedback and encouragement, particularly Buzzy, whose critical acuity makes for a better story all round
The story to date:
Introduction 1
Introduction 2
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
and
Part 14
Part 13
Whoever was responsible for the mess that lay on the other side of the door was the person Hermione had privately named Fuckwit of Fuck Hall, Fuck Lane, Fuckton, Fuckshire. Ahead of her lay day five of the post-party negotiations on the craptastic Committee for Interspecies Relations. She briefly leaned her forehead against the panels. "Prospero's pustulant prick," she breathed, taking a talisman from her Intended's vocabulary.
Fighting the urge to skive off the day's meetings and get straight to the drinking and whingeing bit at the pub, she stretched her lips around her gritted teeth and turned the handle.
*
She saw immediately that the dynamic had changed. Griphook, hitherto the Goblins' chief negotiator, was at one side looking pissed off. The new group introduced themselves.
"Leadbelly," said the biggest. "That's Hammerhand."
Hell's teeth, thought Hermione. Well-named…
"That's Tinpot, and that's Brass Monkey." The latter was tall for a Goblin, and high-voiced when he grunted.
Hermione drew breath, but saw Griphook's mouthed "Don't ask" in time.
"We're here because he is about as much use as a cast-iron mangle crank for working filigree. Isn't that right, Griphook, you miserable glass hammer?"
"Gentlemen," Hermione managed.
"Now, about your wedding to Snape…"
*
"WHAT?! What the fwooping hell has my marriage to Severus got to do with our business here?"
"Now, the Goblin Rights Board…"
"We hates the rusty-knackered Goblin Rights Board."
Leadbelly sighed.
"You're one chisel short, Hammerhand. We are the Goblin Rights Board. We hate the Board for Goblin Rights." He gestured rudely at Griphook.
"Oh, yeah. Splitter."
"As I was saying. Buggy here of the Goblin Rights Board…"
"He's not a Goblin!" Hermione exclaimed.
"He is to be regarded as a Goblin under a resolution passed" - he glanced at his nodding cohorts - "right now, and he has a little proposition."
*
"Angrboda's stinking armpits! You have got to be fucking joking!"
The gloves had come off at last and the Committee was finally getting down to business.
"You're saying if Severus and I don't do what you want, you'll freeze all bank accounts, take back every single Goblin-made item in Britain regardless of their having been bought in good faith, and the elves will go on strike?"
"Not strike, Miss Grubby Granger," corrected Buggy, casually thumping himself for the insult. "Work-to-rule."
"Meaning?"
"Food only adequate; laundry a little crisp…"
The idea of Lucius Malfoy in stiffly starched Y-fronts was somehow appealing.
*
"If we say yes?"
"We acknowledge ownership of all items except the Sword, which that grabfisted Gryffindor never finished paying for, and the elves will not make every well-off wizard family curse the Minister's head."
Swine, seethed Hermione. Festering, pus-filled, pox-ridden swine. She fingered her gorgeous Goblin-made ring.
"What do the elves get out of this?"
"We gets the wedding."
"And the Goblins?"
There was no answer, but Buggy and Leadbelly smirked at each other as though they shat ingots.
"Why, Buggy?" she wailed.
"I nearly picked up one of those little hats you knitted," said the elf. "Miss."
*
Meanwhile:
"Severus, you fatwit, take your obsessive, oversized beak out of that cauldron and just look at our figures."
An elegantly manicured hand, convulsively gripping a sheaf of papers, appeared between Snape's eyes and the potion he was watching. He glanced up.
"Nice hat," he commented laconically. "Narcissa still hasn't forgiven you, then?"
"My scraggy, unrelenting, bleached carrion crow of a wife is irrelevant to the discussion in hand." Lucius' tone was clipped.
"And you really think my marriage to Hermione will help? In a ghoul's arse, my friend."
"I manage the firm, Severus, and you're my unlikely poster-boy now."
*
"Don't rush me, Lucius. With five battling biddies and one airheaded Wedding Organiser to work round, we haven't even settled on a venue yet."
"Here." Lucius tossed a glossy brochure at Severus,
"Corfe Castle?"
"Dorset is fashionable. It's puke-worthily picturesque. It's neutral territory. The castle's under a glamour to make the Muggles think it's a ruin, and the village is so full of mystics, Wiccans, and other piffle that anything unusual won't cause comment."
"Fucking expensive, too…"
"Don't bother the moths in your wallet, you Yorkshire skinflint - Flamelixir will fund it."
"And what about Hermione? She'll be wanting her say."
*
"Too bloody right, she will," said Hermione, lurching a tad unsteadily out of the Floo.
"Negotiations finished early today?" enquired Severus.
"If I don't get a… a… pint of crème de menthe with a little umbrella in it right now, somebody's knackers are going to be chargrilled and fed to them with Tabasco sauce. On a lettuce leaf. NOW!!!!" she bellowed.
Then she noticed the brochure and burst into noisy tears.
"We've got a sodding venue, and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it."
"Am I to fear the worst?"
"Yes, Severus - it's Ho- Ho- Hogwaaaaarts!"
Lucius smiled happily.
*
"Loki's tits! And the elves are behind it all? What the fuck do they achieve by getting their disgusting, treacherous little fingers in the pie?"
"Massive elf bragging rights. Plus a bit of pay-back for SPEW…" She sniffed. "Well-named, in hindsight. Right now I want to vomit right down the front of Buggy's 'oh-look-at-me-I'm-so-bollocking-immaculate' tea-towel. He reckons I 'owe them for the inconvenience'…"
"And the Goblins? What in the name of Wayland's wanger do they get?"
"They won't spill a fwooping bean. Not even Griphook - and I got him drunk enough to proposition Ron in the toilets at the Cauldron."
*
Severus went against his better judgment and looked on the bright side.
"Well, Scotland's nice in the summer."
Lucius interrupted, brandishing two magazines he had brought in.
"I hope to Merlin's beard-spangles that we can last that long. Do you know how much damage can be done with words like 'old-fashioned' and 'conservative'?"
"But I'm the most innovative…"
Hermione opened International Glamour while they argued. She caught herself drooling over a Veela Feathers advert and blinked. She looked again more closely.
"It's worse than that, gentlemen. The cunty arseholes are using illegal Compulsion Charms in their advertising."
*
Every diagnostic they ran caused the subtle Compulsions to dissipate, leaving nothing concrete for the Wizengamot.
"Beelzebub's bollocks," breathed Lucius, impressed.
"It'll take a stinking shitload of work to prove this."
"And meanwhile, Flamelixir goes down the pan," summed up Hermione. "Bridgid's bra-straps, they really do have us all by the short and curlies."
"So we need some positive publicity, very quickly, to buy us the time we need," drawled Lucius suavely. "Miss Granger has secured us a venue for the wedding of the year…"
"Oh, ha bloody ha."
"… and I give you the date: you have three weeks."
*
Team Name: Order
Word Count: 100 x 11
Rating: Bad language - PG?
Challenge: Creative cursing
Characters: Severus, Hermione, Lucius, Buggy, Assorted Goblins
Authors Notes: Part Thirteen of the Hissing Harpies' round robin. JKR's toys, we're just playing with them and will put them back in the cupboard after we've washed their mouths out with soap and water. Grateful worship also to a certain great British comedy institution….
Many thanks to the other Harpies for feedback and encouragement, particularly Buzzy, whose critical acuity makes for a better story all round
The story to date:
Introduction 1
Introduction 2
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
and
Part 14
Part 13
Whoever was responsible for the mess that lay on the other side of the door was the person Hermione had privately named Fuckwit of Fuck Hall, Fuck Lane, Fuckton, Fuckshire. Ahead of her lay day five of the post-party negotiations on the craptastic Committee for Interspecies Relations. She briefly leaned her forehead against the panels. "Prospero's pustulant prick," she breathed, taking a talisman from her Intended's vocabulary.
Fighting the urge to skive off the day's meetings and get straight to the drinking and whingeing bit at the pub, she stretched her lips around her gritted teeth and turned the handle.
*
She saw immediately that the dynamic had changed. Griphook, hitherto the Goblins' chief negotiator, was at one side looking pissed off. The new group introduced themselves.
"Leadbelly," said the biggest. "That's Hammerhand."
Hell's teeth, thought Hermione. Well-named…
"That's Tinpot, and that's Brass Monkey." The latter was tall for a Goblin, and high-voiced when he grunted.
Hermione drew breath, but saw Griphook's mouthed "Don't ask" in time.
"We're here because he is about as much use as a cast-iron mangle crank for working filigree. Isn't that right, Griphook, you miserable glass hammer?"
"Gentlemen," Hermione managed.
"Now, about your wedding to Snape…"
*
"WHAT?! What the fwooping hell has my marriage to Severus got to do with our business here?"
"Now, the Goblin Rights Board…"
"We hates the rusty-knackered Goblin Rights Board."
Leadbelly sighed.
"You're one chisel short, Hammerhand. We are the Goblin Rights Board. We hate the Board for Goblin Rights." He gestured rudely at Griphook.
"Oh, yeah. Splitter."
"As I was saying. Buggy here of the Goblin Rights Board…"
"He's not a Goblin!" Hermione exclaimed.
"He is to be regarded as a Goblin under a resolution passed" - he glanced at his nodding cohorts - "right now, and he has a little proposition."
*
"Angrboda's stinking armpits! You have got to be fucking joking!"
The gloves had come off at last and the Committee was finally getting down to business.
"You're saying if Severus and I don't do what you want, you'll freeze all bank accounts, take back every single Goblin-made item in Britain regardless of their having been bought in good faith, and the elves will go on strike?"
"Not strike, Miss Grubby Granger," corrected Buggy, casually thumping himself for the insult. "Work-to-rule."
"Meaning?"
"Food only adequate; laundry a little crisp…"
The idea of Lucius Malfoy in stiffly starched Y-fronts was somehow appealing.
*
"If we say yes?"
"We acknowledge ownership of all items except the Sword, which that grabfisted Gryffindor never finished paying for, and the elves will not make every well-off wizard family curse the Minister's head."
Swine, seethed Hermione. Festering, pus-filled, pox-ridden swine. She fingered her gorgeous Goblin-made ring.
"What do the elves get out of this?"
"We gets the wedding."
"And the Goblins?"
There was no answer, but Buggy and Leadbelly smirked at each other as though they shat ingots.
"Why, Buggy?" she wailed.
"I nearly picked up one of those little hats you knitted," said the elf. "Miss."
*
Meanwhile:
"Severus, you fatwit, take your obsessive, oversized beak out of that cauldron and just look at our figures."
An elegantly manicured hand, convulsively gripping a sheaf of papers, appeared between Snape's eyes and the potion he was watching. He glanced up.
"Nice hat," he commented laconically. "Narcissa still hasn't forgiven you, then?"
"My scraggy, unrelenting, bleached carrion crow of a wife is irrelevant to the discussion in hand." Lucius' tone was clipped.
"And you really think my marriage to Hermione will help? In a ghoul's arse, my friend."
"I manage the firm, Severus, and you're my unlikely poster-boy now."
*
"Don't rush me, Lucius. With five battling biddies and one airheaded Wedding Organiser to work round, we haven't even settled on a venue yet."
"Here." Lucius tossed a glossy brochure at Severus,
"Corfe Castle?"
"Dorset is fashionable. It's puke-worthily picturesque. It's neutral territory. The castle's under a glamour to make the Muggles think it's a ruin, and the village is so full of mystics, Wiccans, and other piffle that anything unusual won't cause comment."
"Fucking expensive, too…"
"Don't bother the moths in your wallet, you Yorkshire skinflint - Flamelixir will fund it."
"And what about Hermione? She'll be wanting her say."
*
"Too bloody right, she will," said Hermione, lurching a tad unsteadily out of the Floo.
"Negotiations finished early today?" enquired Severus.
"If I don't get a… a… pint of crème de menthe with a little umbrella in it right now, somebody's knackers are going to be chargrilled and fed to them with Tabasco sauce. On a lettuce leaf. NOW!!!!" she bellowed.
Then she noticed the brochure and burst into noisy tears.
"We've got a sodding venue, and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it."
"Am I to fear the worst?"
"Yes, Severus - it's Ho- Ho- Hogwaaaaarts!"
Lucius smiled happily.
*
"Loki's tits! And the elves are behind it all? What the fuck do they achieve by getting their disgusting, treacherous little fingers in the pie?"
"Massive elf bragging rights. Plus a bit of pay-back for SPEW…" She sniffed. "Well-named, in hindsight. Right now I want to vomit right down the front of Buggy's 'oh-look-at-me-I'm-so-bollocking-immaculate' tea-towel. He reckons I 'owe them for the inconvenience'…"
"And the Goblins? What in the name of Wayland's wanger do they get?"
"They won't spill a fwooping bean. Not even Griphook - and I got him drunk enough to proposition Ron in the toilets at the Cauldron."
*
Severus went against his better judgment and looked on the bright side.
"Well, Scotland's nice in the summer."
Lucius interrupted, brandishing two magazines he had brought in.
"I hope to Merlin's beard-spangles that we can last that long. Do you know how much damage can be done with words like 'old-fashioned' and 'conservative'?"
"But I'm the most innovative…"
Hermione opened International Glamour while they argued. She caught herself drooling over a Veela Feathers advert and blinked. She looked again more closely.
"It's worse than that, gentlemen. The cunty arseholes are using illegal Compulsion Charms in their advertising."
*
Every diagnostic they ran caused the subtle Compulsions to dissipate, leaving nothing concrete for the Wizengamot.
"Beelzebub's bollocks," breathed Lucius, impressed.
"It'll take a stinking shitload of work to prove this."
"And meanwhile, Flamelixir goes down the pan," summed up Hermione. "Bridgid's bra-straps, they really do have us all by the short and curlies."
"So we need some positive publicity, very quickly, to buy us the time we need," drawled Lucius suavely. "Miss Granger has secured us a venue for the wedding of the year…"
"Oh, ha bloody ha."
"… and I give you the date: you have three weeks."
*