I F***ing Do! Part 24
Title: I F***ing Do! Part 24
Team Name: Spy for the Men in Black
Word Count: 12x100 (but only eight will count, I’m afraid)
Rating: M (language)
Challenge: Creative Cursing
Characters: Hermione/Severus, Minerva McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Jamie the elf, Buggy, Fluffy et alii
Author’s Notes: Here is part 24 of the round-robin drabble series “I F***ing Do!”, a Hissing Harpies production relating the true story of the Snape-Granger wedding.
Many thanks to
bluestocking79 and
gilded_glamour for a quick and efficient beta, and to
a_bees_buzz for the photo of the wedding cake.
This is also my final installment of the story. Now I can just sit back, relax, and enjoy the fabulous fireworks of my Harpies colleagues in charge of the last explosions!
It has been incredibly stimulating to work with them, and I hope that all of you readers have had just as much fun reading this story as we had writing it. Thanks to everyone involved!
Previous Chapter
All Previous Entries
Next Chapter
*******
The literally stinking bridal party had moved to Minerva’s office. Many cleaning charms had been applied, but the blasted dress was beyond repair. Madam Malkin, hastily summoned, had provided the standard white handfasting tunic, more or less adjusted to Hermione’s measurements.
“I look like a ghost,” sobbed Hermione.
“It’s all I can do at such short notice,” said Madam Malkin regretfully.
“Now, now.” Jocasta was patting Hermione’s back. “We don’t want to meet Severus with red eyes, do we?”
Hermione’s sobs redoubled.
Minerva was meditating on the depths of maternal instinct when she felt an urgent tug on her robes.
*******
“Headmistress must come to the kitchens, quick!”
“Shake your buns and swing your skinny arse, you old thistle!”
Buggy had that infernal parrot perched on his shoulder again. A brief vision of roasted fowl crossed Minerva’s mind, but she refrained from adding to Hermione’s woes.
“Sodden gingerbread! What in the name of ten patched bagpipes is wrong now?”
“The chef is upset, Headmistress. Nasty witch messing with the food!”
Kneazle piss on the rocks. This was serious. Minerva didn’t want to abandon Hermione, but...
“Buggy, go to Professor Snape’s quarters and tell Minister Shacklebolt to meet me in the kitchens.”
*******
Minerva ligthly tickled the pear in the middle of the fruit basket, and the painting swivelled ajar, revealing a slice of the kitchens. A hubbub of elfin voices came through, and the Headmistress stopped to listen.
“By Apicius’ numinous tastebuds, I is scooping your pistachios through your nostrils and roasting them with salt!”
“I is grounding them with lard, parsley and nutmeg for meatballs in tomato sauce! I is showing him how my pestle loves my mortar!” shrilled a second elf voice.
“I is scalding his ears and pounding them thin and tender for a Wiener Schnitzel!” added a third.
*******
The whole brigade-- cleavers, rolling pins, ladles and basting syringes in hand-- was backing its chef. Jamie himself, the undisputed master of Hogwarts’ kitchens, stood in front of the tables laden with food for the Granger-Snape wedding.
The smirking elf that challenged him wore a dark blue tea-towel with golden trim and held a utensil resembling a frying pan with a very long handle.
“Eat Troll brains, you oil-oozing greasy spoon monger. I is only doing my work.”
“Suck your mother’s yolks! You is not touching Miss Bushy’s wedding food.”
“Farty is calling this food? Bits of shit on bread?”
*******
Fried Wrackspurts haggis, thought Minerva. Time to intervene.
As she stepped through the portrait hole, a figure that had been leaning against the counter turned. It was a tall, thin, stern-looking woman in emerald robes, black hair tightly gathered in a bun, eyeglasses perched on top of her nose.
Minerva was facing herself.
Bloody Merlin’s jockstrap. Minerva went for her wand, but she hadn’t drawn it yet when the contours of the figure blurred, dissolved and reformed into a plump, nondescript witch with a worn face, brown mousy hair and a wide, if somewhat toothy, smile.
“I’m sorry,” she drawled.
*******
“I’m Edna Cheshire, Metamorphmagus and Senior Operative at Macavity’s Magical Security. We are checking the Granger-Snape banquet food with Secrecy and Anti-Poison Sensors.” She waved a bit of parchment under Minerva’s nose. “My credentials.”
“That’s right.” Shacklebolt had stepped through the hole behind Minerva.
She turned on him.
“What were you doing in the Malfoy Manor gardens, a few weeks ago?”
Shacklebolt flushed a deep red.
‘So it is you, miserable excuse for protoplasm,” snapped Minerva. “I want the blasted Metamorphmagi out of the castle now, oh shining light of the wizardkind!”
“Stop screeching like a bloody constipated banshee, Minerva!”
*******
“I can’t cancel the contract now; it would cost an arm and a leg. Besides, it’s top security procedure. Seven metamorphmagi, assisted by magical creatures, blending into the scenery. They did a great job at the last Quidditch World Cup. Remember how they took out those terrorists?”
“Yes, and half of the public too. Kingsley, if anything serious happens to Hermione or Severus, I’ll feed you to the Giant Squid.” Minerva nodded to the security staff. “Proceed.”
When the Macavity operatives had at last left with Kingsley, Minerva turned to the glaring elf brigade.
“And now, where’s the real food?”
*******
A cheer erupted. Jamie snapped his fingers, and the back wall disappeared, revealing a kitchen as vast as the Room of Requirement.
Dozens of kitchen assistants worked at the long tables: peeling, dicing, skinning, filleting, molding, icing and dressing. Five of them were deboning a dragon paw, while three older elves were patiently building a pièce montée from dragon eyes rolled first in lapis-lazuli powder, then in thin leaves of gold.
“For the goblins?” asked Minerva.
Jamie nodded.
Tiny apprentice elves were running under the tables, squealing and trying to catch the lobsters that had spilled from an upturned crate.
*******
Silver Goblin-made trays of all shapes and sizes, bearing Hermione’s and Severus’ intertwined initials, were zooming in mid-air, artfully avoiding collision while speeding towards a mysterious goal.
The small ones, no bigger than a saucer, bore only a mouthful of carefully crafted food. Oysters cooked in chervil and curry cream, figs stuffed with foie gras, tiny vol-au-vents filled with mushrooms and sweetbreads, cherry tomatoes topped with goat cheese and basil leaves, fat prawns rolled in pink pepper and skewed with pickled pineapple cubes on silver filigree pins and hundreds of other succulent looking and divinely smelling morsels flew past Minerva.
*******
However, Minerva quickly saw that the small plates would assemble to form the larger trays, just as the fine morsels assembled to form glorious roasts, pièces montées, seafood platters or cheeseboards. There was a replica of Hogwarts entirely made up of shellfish, with a tiny squid in a lake of caviar (“Miss Bushy loves seafood”), and the Forbidden Forest reconstitued from almond paste, complete with crisp golden leaves and luscious brown cepes (“Professor Greasyhead likes marzipan”). A whole roast boar, steaming from the oven, was disassembled and assembled before her eyes.
“Finger food and yet not finger food. Congratulations, Jamie.”
*******
Yielding to the temptation, she tried to grab a bit of fragrant meat, but the tasty morsel scuttled back, squeaking, “Mind your cholesterol!”
“Circe’s fatty bacon! Dietary requirements clause, I suppose,” grumbled Minerva.
“Headmistress Whiskers fear not! Only for the banquet.”
“I hope so,” she mused, nibbling a prawn nicked from a pink flamingo’s wing. The ‘beach’ under the bird’s feet was made of tiny blond quiches interspersed with fried chanterelles. “No funny stuff, though?”
The chef energetically shook his head.
“No stuffed Pogwumps? No pickled owl eggs? No honey-stewed weasel pups? No young centauress tits? Well, if you’re sure...”
*******
At a snap of the elf’s bony fingers, the wedding cake materialised.
The first six tiers were made of tightly interlocked White Chocolate Marzipan Frogs, with pomegranate eyes. Festoons of amaretto-filled Ice Mice ran around, flicking their iridescent tails.
The seventh tier, however, was a solid fruit cake, covered in smooth royal icing. On top of the immaculate surface, a thick-lashed sugar ladybird was snugly ensconced in a green leaf. A long-limbed black spider, awkward on his fondant legs, was obviously inviting her to his shelter of sugar flowers.
“Hmm,” said Minerva. “I hope Hermione and Severus will enjoy it.”
Team Name: Spy for the Men in Black
Word Count: 12x100 (but only eight will count, I’m afraid)
Rating: M (language)
Challenge: Creative Cursing
Characters: Hermione/Severus, Minerva McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Jamie the elf, Buggy, Fluffy et alii
Author’s Notes: Here is part 24 of the round-robin drabble series “I F***ing Do!”, a Hissing Harpies production relating the true story of the Snape-Granger wedding.
Many thanks to
bluestocking79 and
gilded_glamour for a quick and efficient beta, and to
a_bees_buzz for the photo of the wedding cake.
This is also my final installment of the story. Now I can just sit back, relax, and enjoy the fabulous fireworks of my Harpies colleagues in charge of the last explosions!
It has been incredibly stimulating to work with them, and I hope that all of you readers have had just as much fun reading this story as we had writing it. Thanks to everyone involved!
Previous Chapter
All Previous Entries
Next Chapter
*******
The literally stinking bridal party had moved to Minerva’s office. Many cleaning charms had been applied, but the blasted dress was beyond repair. Madam Malkin, hastily summoned, had provided the standard white handfasting tunic, more or less adjusted to Hermione’s measurements.
“I look like a ghost,” sobbed Hermione.
“It’s all I can do at such short notice,” said Madam Malkin regretfully.
“Now, now.” Jocasta was patting Hermione’s back. “We don’t want to meet Severus with red eyes, do we?”
Hermione’s sobs redoubled.
Minerva was meditating on the depths of maternal instinct when she felt an urgent tug on her robes.
*******
“Headmistress must come to the kitchens, quick!”
“Shake your buns and swing your skinny arse, you old thistle!”
Buggy had that infernal parrot perched on his shoulder again. A brief vision of roasted fowl crossed Minerva’s mind, but she refrained from adding to Hermione’s woes.
“Sodden gingerbread! What in the name of ten patched bagpipes is wrong now?”
“The chef is upset, Headmistress. Nasty witch messing with the food!”
Kneazle piss on the rocks. This was serious. Minerva didn’t want to abandon Hermione, but...
“Buggy, go to Professor Snape’s quarters and tell Minister Shacklebolt to meet me in the kitchens.”
*******
Minerva ligthly tickled the pear in the middle of the fruit basket, and the painting swivelled ajar, revealing a slice of the kitchens. A hubbub of elfin voices came through, and the Headmistress stopped to listen.
“By Apicius’ numinous tastebuds, I is scooping your pistachios through your nostrils and roasting them with salt!”
“I is grounding them with lard, parsley and nutmeg for meatballs in tomato sauce! I is showing him how my pestle loves my mortar!” shrilled a second elf voice.
“I is scalding his ears and pounding them thin and tender for a Wiener Schnitzel!” added a third.
*******
The whole brigade-- cleavers, rolling pins, ladles and basting syringes in hand-- was backing its chef. Jamie himself, the undisputed master of Hogwarts’ kitchens, stood in front of the tables laden with food for the Granger-Snape wedding.
The smirking elf that challenged him wore a dark blue tea-towel with golden trim and held a utensil resembling a frying pan with a very long handle.
“Eat Troll brains, you oil-oozing greasy spoon monger. I is only doing my work.”
“Suck your mother’s yolks! You is not touching Miss Bushy’s wedding food.”
“Farty is calling this food? Bits of shit on bread?”
*******
Fried Wrackspurts haggis, thought Minerva. Time to intervene.
As she stepped through the portrait hole, a figure that had been leaning against the counter turned. It was a tall, thin, stern-looking woman in emerald robes, black hair tightly gathered in a bun, eyeglasses perched on top of her nose.
Minerva was facing herself.
Bloody Merlin’s jockstrap. Minerva went for her wand, but she hadn’t drawn it yet when the contours of the figure blurred, dissolved and reformed into a plump, nondescript witch with a worn face, brown mousy hair and a wide, if somewhat toothy, smile.
“I’m sorry,” she drawled.
*******
“I’m Edna Cheshire, Metamorphmagus and Senior Operative at Macavity’s Magical Security. We are checking the Granger-Snape banquet food with Secrecy and Anti-Poison Sensors.” She waved a bit of parchment under Minerva’s nose. “My credentials.”
“That’s right.” Shacklebolt had stepped through the hole behind Minerva.
She turned on him.
“What were you doing in the Malfoy Manor gardens, a few weeks ago?”
Shacklebolt flushed a deep red.
‘So it is you, miserable excuse for protoplasm,” snapped Minerva. “I want the blasted Metamorphmagi out of the castle now, oh shining light of the wizardkind!”
“Stop screeching like a bloody constipated banshee, Minerva!”
*******
“I can’t cancel the contract now; it would cost an arm and a leg. Besides, it’s top security procedure. Seven metamorphmagi, assisted by magical creatures, blending into the scenery. They did a great job at the last Quidditch World Cup. Remember how they took out those terrorists?”
“Yes, and half of the public too. Kingsley, if anything serious happens to Hermione or Severus, I’ll feed you to the Giant Squid.” Minerva nodded to the security staff. “Proceed.”
When the Macavity operatives had at last left with Kingsley, Minerva turned to the glaring elf brigade.
“And now, where’s the real food?”
*******
A cheer erupted. Jamie snapped his fingers, and the back wall disappeared, revealing a kitchen as vast as the Room of Requirement.
Dozens of kitchen assistants worked at the long tables: peeling, dicing, skinning, filleting, molding, icing and dressing. Five of them were deboning a dragon paw, while three older elves were patiently building a pièce montée from dragon eyes rolled first in lapis-lazuli powder, then in thin leaves of gold.
“For the goblins?” asked Minerva.
Jamie nodded.
Tiny apprentice elves were running under the tables, squealing and trying to catch the lobsters that had spilled from an upturned crate.
*******
Silver Goblin-made trays of all shapes and sizes, bearing Hermione’s and Severus’ intertwined initials, were zooming in mid-air, artfully avoiding collision while speeding towards a mysterious goal.
The small ones, no bigger than a saucer, bore only a mouthful of carefully crafted food. Oysters cooked in chervil and curry cream, figs stuffed with foie gras, tiny vol-au-vents filled with mushrooms and sweetbreads, cherry tomatoes topped with goat cheese and basil leaves, fat prawns rolled in pink pepper and skewed with pickled pineapple cubes on silver filigree pins and hundreds of other succulent looking and divinely smelling morsels flew past Minerva.
*******
However, Minerva quickly saw that the small plates would assemble to form the larger trays, just as the fine morsels assembled to form glorious roasts, pièces montées, seafood platters or cheeseboards. There was a replica of Hogwarts entirely made up of shellfish, with a tiny squid in a lake of caviar (“Miss Bushy loves seafood”), and the Forbidden Forest reconstitued from almond paste, complete with crisp golden leaves and luscious brown cepes (“Professor Greasyhead likes marzipan”). A whole roast boar, steaming from the oven, was disassembled and assembled before her eyes.
“Finger food and yet not finger food. Congratulations, Jamie.”
*******
Yielding to the temptation, she tried to grab a bit of fragrant meat, but the tasty morsel scuttled back, squeaking, “Mind your cholesterol!”
“Circe’s fatty bacon! Dietary requirements clause, I suppose,” grumbled Minerva.
“Headmistress Whiskers fear not! Only for the banquet.”
“I hope so,” she mused, nibbling a prawn nicked from a pink flamingo’s wing. The ‘beach’ under the bird’s feet was made of tiny blond quiches interspersed with fried chanterelles. “No funny stuff, though?”
The chef energetically shook his head.
“No stuffed Pogwumps? No pickled owl eggs? No honey-stewed weasel pups? No young centauress tits? Well, if you’re sure...”
*******
At a snap of the elf’s bony fingers, the wedding cake materialised.
The first six tiers were made of tightly interlocked White Chocolate Marzipan Frogs, with pomegranate eyes. Festoons of amaretto-filled Ice Mice ran around, flicking their iridescent tails.
The seventh tier, however, was a solid fruit cake, covered in smooth royal icing. On top of the immaculate surface, a thick-lashed sugar ladybird was snugly ensconced in a green leaf. A long-limbed black spider, awkward on his fondant legs, was obviously inviting her to his shelter of sugar flowers.
“Hmm,” said Minerva. “I hope Hermione and Severus will enjoy it.”
