FIC: "Bespoke Broom" for anguis_1
Recipient: anguis_1
Author/Artist: smissmarg
Title: Bespoke Broom
Rating: R
Pairings: Millicent/Ron, Millicent/Oliver
Word Count: 3,653
Warnings: Hand job, phallic fixation, what some might see as minor Ron-bashing, canon compliant but EWE
Summary: Ron never dreamed of what Millicent's hands could do to his broom. Now, he has.
Author's Notes: Beta read and Britpicked by Chloe on PerfectImagination. This is a work of fan fiction, based on the Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
***
Ron was first drawn to her hands. They were just like the rest of her, really: solid, no-nonsense, nothing wasted, and utterly capable. Her nails were cut close, but rounded, not flat, and gleamed like well-oiled antique chestnut. But it was the way she held the wood as she worked it, the fat shaft lying securely in her palm while her fingers ran delicately over the surface, feeling for imperfections, that was the stuff of his increasingly frequent wet dreams.
He'd sort of thought he was over that phase; he was twenty-six, and had been getting laid semi-regularly for years now. Being a professional Quidditch player helped in that department. However, he didn't have a steady girlfriend at the moment, so that might have contributed to his subconscious mind conjuring up a picture of Millicent Bulstrode's work-worn, self-assured hands wrapped around his cock and stroking him like she did the broomsticks in her workshop.
The analogy between broomsticks and the male organ was not lost on him, and he felt ridiculous for it, like he was back in third year, sitting up in his dorm with Harry and Seamus, seeing who could come up with the most double entendres. Neville had just sat on his bed, ears red, and pretended not to hear them, and Dean would shake his head and grin at his homework.
To tell the truth, he'd been bloody embarrassed to go back to her shop the first time he'd had one of those dreams. He'd thought she'd be able to tell, but if she had, she hadn't let on. Just had him sit on the dummy broom while she scrutinized him from every angle, to see where the broom took the brunt of his weight, where he held it; technical stuff, he hadn't really paid much attention. He'd been more concerned with not making eye contact, in case she could do some of that freaky wandless Legilimency. Who knew? He'd never have thought she'd turn out to have some sort of gift for broom-making, either.
He'd never really paid much -- scratch that; any -- attention to her in school. He hadn't even recognized the name when Vaisey had told him where he'd had his own custom broom made. Vaisey was their best defensive Beater, and more than a bit big in the head about it. He always took it as a personal insult when the other team scored, and when Ron had let one slip past him in the big game against Wimbourne, Vaisey had practically ripped him a new one. Later, though, once the team Magi-medic had administered a Calming Draught or three, Vaisey had taken Ron aside and told him that if he didn't get a broom specially made to 'account for his bloody appalling lack of balance, reflexes, or hand-eye coordination', he would personally ram Ron's old Weatherbeater so far down his throat he'd be shitting splinters until next Christmas.
Later again, after the Magi-medic had patched both of them up (Ron was pleased he'd only ended up with one broken tooth, whereas Vaisey had needed to have his entire jaw re-grown)... Well, no, it had been much later than that, actually. It took over a week, during which time he'd chewed the incident over with and sought sympathy from Harry, George, Hermione, his mother, and anyone else who'd come within shouting distance. Mostly, they'd agreed with him that Vaisey had been out of line and was just projecting his own inadequacies, but Harry had suggested, after making appropriate derogatory comments about the size of Vaisey's... hands ... that it might not be a bad idea to look into a custom-made broom.
"Just remember what a difference better brooms made for the Slytherins in second year. They weren't better than us, they just had better equipment. The sport's evolving, Ron. It's not all about talent anymore; it's about materials. I reckon players have gotten as good as they're going to get simply based on what their bodies can do. Sure, the Weatherbeater's top of the line, but Vaisey's got a point. It's mass-produced. You're the best Keeper in the league already, no question. But what if you could be better? I don't know." Harry shrugged. "I guess I'm just curious. If it's a question of money..."
"No, it's not the money." Ron brushed the suggestion aside. After playing as a full pro for three years now, not having a family to support, and living relatively modestly, he could certainly afford a new broom. But it would look like he'd let Vaisey get to him.
Still, the idea wouldn't let him go, and he finally decided to go and check this broom-maker out. It didn't mean he'd actually have one made.
Bulstrode's Broomshop turned out to be just around the corner from Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, hidden behind a dusty, unassuming storefront. The shop actually belonged to Millicent's uncle, who still did all the charms. But he was over eighty, and when he'd seen that Millicent had an aptitude for the physical side of the craft, he'd been more than happy to apprentice her. She handled most of the customer side as well, now. Not that she was exactly a people person; Ron had very nearly done an about-face and left when she'd looked up from the broom she was shaping and glowered at him, then grunted, "What do you want?" Ron noticed that her hands didn't stop caressing the length of wood on her lap.
"You were recommended to me," he'd shot back. "But if you don't want the business, I can go." He had his hand on the door handle, but was distracted by the motion of her fingers. The sunlight was filtering in through the grimy window in a way that seemed to spotlight her work area, making the wood glow warm and reddish.
"You play." It was a statement, not a question.
Ron hesitated. "Yeah. Quidditch."
"I wasn't talking about Gobstones." She seemed both annoyed and amused. "Cannons Keeper," she recited, "picked up in 2003. Starter for the last two years. Save percentage seventy-three. Weasley." Her face remained impassive, as her thumb rubbed a circle on the unfinished wood.
Ron grinned and his hand left the door handle. His estimation of the witch before him increased several-fold. "So you follow me?"
One corner of Millicent's mouth turned down. "I follow the game."
Ron's smile faltered. "Oh. But, still, you know who I am," he pointed out.
"I'm not looking for an autograph." Millicent shifted her weight and hunched back over the half-finished broomstick.
Things might have ended there, had she not begun to work the wood in earnest. Her flat, square face took on a look of intense concentration as she stroked, rubbed, and squeezed the length of reddish-brown wood. Ron watched in fascination as she shaped it as if it were clay. The only sound was her breathing, in time with her strokes. Forward... back... her fingers clasped around the girth and she pulled toward her body, then away again, her thumb making an extra swirl. As she worked, her upper body swayed back and forth as well, the force coming from her well-muscled back and shoulders and flowing down into her wrists and hands. Ron found himself breathing in and out with her, and felt an urge to move his hips along with her strokes that he was only just able to check.
"So you want a broom?" she asked abruptly without looking up. Ron started, and tried to shake off the hypnotic effect.
"Uh... yeah... I mean, I was just curious, you know." He tried not to sound interested, and to ignore the slight tightening in his pants.
"Come back on Tuesday. Bring your gear."
He'd had the first dream that night. He hadn't seen her face, but he'd known it was her. They were sitting facing each other, straddling the bench in her workshop. She had his cock in her hands. She started by wrapping both palms around it, thumbs on top, and gently yet firmly rubbing down and away from herself. Her skin was warm and dry, and smoother than he would have thought. As she worked, his dream-cock got longer; not as long as an actual broom-handle, but longer than it was in real life. It also became harder and harder, until he felt he could really have driven in nails with it. His dream-self was inordinately pleased by these changes, and planned on showing his new equipment off to Vaisey as soon as Millicent was done.
It wasn't just the outward changes that he revelled in, though. His dream-self hadn't lost any sensitivity, despite having a true 'woody' for a cock, and the physical pleasure from Millicent's expert attentions was such that he didn't think he'd be able to hold back much longer. He wanted her to speed up, pay more attention to his engorged knob, but aside from a firm pressure from the heels of her hands at the start of every downstroke, she seemed more interested in the shaft, working it with her confident fingers and palms. It was an exquisite torture, but he somehow knew he couldn't rush her or tell her what to do.
He groaned and bit his tongue, and gripped the bench behind him with his hands until he felt splinters. Both of them were panting now, Millicent with exertion and Ron with anticipation. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, giving himself over to the sensations, until... Well, he'd woken up mighty glad to be alone in the bed.
On Tuesday, he wore his full uniform to her shop, feeling quite puffed up at the admiring looks he garnered from passers-by. Millicent looked him over and hmphed, then had him sit on the dummy and run through a set of moves and poses, all the while dictating notes to a hovering quill and parchment. After the first round, she had him take off the heavy pads and outer robes, then went through the whole thing again.
While she was assessing him, Ron started talking and asking questions, mostly in order to distract himself from constantly thinking about that dream. That was how he found out about her uncle, as well as discovered that she was actually not bad company. She didn't run off at the mouth, and knew her stuff. She also didn't really seem interested in impressing him, which was refreshing. She didn't wear any scent, and he could smell her sweat when she came near, onions and something tart, like vinegar. It reminded him of his mother's kitchen.
"Now take off the breeches and tunic."
Ron stared, shocked back to reality. "What, naked?" His voice squeaked embarrassingly.
"Only if you've nothing else on underneath," she said without a twitch. "I need to see the line of your body. These things are too loose." She indicated the bulky breeches and ample tunic that were the standard under-robe part of the team uniform.
Ron sat back. "You're the one who told me to wear it."
"I have to see how you hold yourself and move with the robes and pads. That's how you'll be flying most of the time. Then without the outer gear, so I can see the position of your legs and hands. Then without the uniform, so I can get the true line of your body." She looked quite serious, and not up for an argument. Ron divested himself.
And that was the stuff of his next dream. This time, she was standing next to him and he was sitting, naked, on the dummy broom. (He had been wearing his Cannons boxers and an undershirt in real life, but he wasn't about to argue with his fantasy.) He could feel her clothed body against his shoulder. She was broad and firmer than he would have thought, given her bulk; must be all muscle, he realized. But that wasn't nearly as interesting to him as those hands. One fist reached down and curled around him, sending a flood of pleasure through him as he relaxed into her by now familiar touch. This time, the position was much more similar to when he took himself in hand, and he was appreciative that her motions and rhythm were more like those he was used to. But then she started doing that thing with her thumb, making a little swirl at the top of each stroke, flicking into the little cleft at the base of the head, and he was gone again. His moans mixed with the sounds of her breathing, and when he came, her other arm wrapped around his shoulder and pulled him against her so that he was grunting into her neck, breathing in the smell of wood polish and onions.
Ron went back and forth with himself on the subject of Millicent Bulstrode over the next couple of weeks. She certainly didn't fit the type of girl he'd usually want to be associated with. She appeared outwardly dull, thuggish even. Her short-cropped, dark hair and thick physique made her appear masculine. But to his subconscious, she was the most fascinating woman alive. Night after night, his sleep was disturbed by her, pleasuring him, teasing him to climax; he began to wonder if she mightn't have put him under some sort of enchantment, or if George hadn't slipped him a love potion somehow, just for yucks. Even if he had, Ron decided, he didn't care. He was enjoying the nocturnal attentions, and hadn't done anything foolish like ask her to marry him.
He didn't dare discuss her with any of his friends, either; they'd only laugh at him. But he couldn't deny, there was something about her, and that made him quite proud of himself, actually. He felt decidedly non-shallow in admitting he was interested in someone as physically mundane as Millicent. Didn't this show that he was maturing? He could be grown-up when he wanted to.
He knew by now that he had to have that broom. Even if it didn't turn out to be a whit better than the Weatherbeater, the mere fact that it would be rubbed, stroked, formed, coaxed into being, by Millicent's hands, made it worth the trouble and cost.
And so when he received the owl that it was ready, he felt like it was an invitation to a first date. In fact, he decided to turn it into just that. He would ask Millicent out, damn it. Maybe not to a high-profile place, nothing fancy, just someplace where they could have fish and chips and an ale, and ... talk, or something. He could tell her about some of his games. She'd like that.
He decided to wear his uniform again; he knew he looked good in it, and he thought it would impress her. He left the headgear at home, though. There were limits.
The owl had said to come by at the end of the day. Maybe, he considered, she'd hoped that he'd casually ask if she was doing anything, and would she like to join him for a drink, and then she could close up the shop and go with him. He thought that was a fine plan, and admired Millicent for being so crafty. Well, she had been in Slytherin, after all.
As he stepped into the dusky workshop, and the sawdust hit his nostrils, he felt a little jolt of excitement shoot through his groin. The associations he'd built up over the past couple of weeks were powerful.
Millicent was standing behind the counter. A broom lay on the surface, and she was fiddling with the tail twigs, running through and ordering them with her fingers. Ron immediately imagined what those same fingers would feel like, running through his nether hair. He smirked to himself. Maybe he would be finding out sooner rather than later.
"Is this it?" he asked as he approached.
Millicent frowned in concentration at her work, then picked up the broom and balanced it on one hand, eyeing it. Finally, she laid it down and pushed it toward Ron.
"That's it."
It was, Ron had to admit, a beautiful broom. The broomstick itself was a dark brown, as shiny as if it had been made out of polished stone. He let his hand hover over it for a moment, as if there were a protective aura around it that he didn't dare yet to desecrate. He imagined that he could feel it vibrating with the anticipation of getting up into the air. Finally, he let his hand sink down to touch it. It was so sleek and slippery that he was sure there was some sort of anti-friction enchantment on it. The footrests and bindings were made of a burnished metal that veritably glowed in the dim room, and the tail was composed of gently curved twigs that were as smooth as glass. It was a work of art, even Ron could see that.
"Cor, it's bloody brilliant," he breathed out in awe.
Millicent nodded her head once, curtly. "Best I've made."
Ron tried to catch her eye; had she put in an extra effort for his sake, hoping to impress him? But she was looking at the broom.
"Well, I guess the only thing left is to take her for a spin," Ron said, as he lifted the broomstick up to get the heft of it. It was lighter than he would have thought, but by no means delicate. He thought by analogy of its maker.
"Give yourself a couple of days to get used to it," she said. "It'll handle differently than the Weatherbeater." Of course she knew what broom he flew, without him having told her. He suspected she followed him more closely than she was letting on.
Ron nodded. The time had come. He held the broom so that he was looking down its length, pretending to check its symmetry. "You about to close up?"
"Yes. But you don't need to rush."
"Not at all. It looks fantastic, Millicent, really." It was the first time he'd called her by name. It was his way of introducing a new phase of their relationship, a more personal one. He lowered the broom. "Hey," he said, as if only just thinking of it. "If you're not busy, I was just going to head over to the Leaky as long as I'm in the area, grab a pint or something. You could tell me some more about the special features of this baby here."
Millicent looked at him now. She had rather an odd look on her face. Ron could tell she wasn't sure how to respond. Probably never been asked out before.
"I can tell you now. Or I can arrange for my uncle--"
The door chimed, announcing another customer. Ron turned to see Oliver Wood, and groaned inwardly. Great, just what he needed.
"Weasley!" Oliver's easy-going face broke into a large smile, and he thrust out his hand to shake Ron's. "How're things with the Cannons? Tough start to the season, mate. Let me know if you ever want any pointers." He thumped Ron hard on the shoulder.
Ron returned the greeting sourly. Oliver was Puddlemere's Keeper, ranked second in the league. Ron was ninth. It looked like everyone was going to be riding a Bulstrode. Ron was smug that he'd beaten Oliver to one, at least.
"Whoa, is this yours?" Oliver indicated the broom Ron was holding. "She's a beauty, she is." Oliver hardly looked at the broom, though; Ron found it odd that he wasn't more interested, and that he had pronounced judgment on it without inspecting it properly. If nothing else, Ron knew Oliver as an anal-retentive perfectionist.
"I should probably be jealous," Oliver continued. "Some of her best work. Ah well, you'll just have to make me a better one, won't you?" Oliver leaned over the counter towards Millicent. "Heya," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "About ready?"
Ron gawked. His hands felt thick and his tongue numb. Oliver and Millicent? But how long... But she was... And those dreams... Ron felt distinctly uncomfortable, and was aware of what a pompous arse he must appear, standing there in full kit.
"Weasley still had some questions," Millicent mumbled without looking at him. Apparently he'd embarrassed the hell out of her, too.
"No, no, it's fine," Ron said grandly, tucking the broom up under his arm. "I'm going to try it out right away. 'S why I wore the robes," he explained to Oliver confidentially. "Get a feel for flying her in a game." He turned to Millicent and patted the broom. "Like you said, I'll just go easy on her the first couple of days. If anything comes up, I can always owl your uncle."
Millicent nodded, studiously avoiding making eye contact.
"Brill!" Oliver exclaimed brightly, apparently oblivious to the undercurrent. "That's us then, Mill." She looked at him and smiled (a smile she had never shared with Ron), and it was clear that this was more than a casual get-together between friends.
"Right then, I'll be off," Ron said with great bluster. "You two kids have a grand time." He raised the broom in salute as he backed towards the door. "Cracking."
Oliver raised his chin in acknowledgement. "Cheers, mate! Don't spend it all in one place!"
Ron laughed.
And then he was outside, and the door was shut behind him. The sun was bright, and he felt sweaty, especially weighted down as he was in his Quidditch gear. He looked at the broom in his hand, and felt the looks of the passers-by on him, some curious, some admiring. Or were they smirking?
He sighed and trudged toward the Leaky Cauldron. He might still get lucky. After all, he was a professional Quidditch player. And he had a kick-arse, bespoke broom.
He wondered what he might dream about that night.
***
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Author/Artist: smissmarg
Title: Bespoke Broom
Rating: R
Pairings: Millicent/Ron, Millicent/Oliver
Word Count: 3,653
Warnings: Hand job, phallic fixation, what some might see as minor Ron-bashing, canon compliant but EWE
Summary: Ron never dreamed of what Millicent's hands could do to his broom. Now, he has.
Author's Notes: Beta read and Britpicked by Chloe on PerfectImagination. This is a work of fan fiction, based on the Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
***
Ron was first drawn to her hands. They were just like the rest of her, really: solid, no-nonsense, nothing wasted, and utterly capable. Her nails were cut close, but rounded, not flat, and gleamed like well-oiled antique chestnut. But it was the way she held the wood as she worked it, the fat shaft lying securely in her palm while her fingers ran delicately over the surface, feeling for imperfections, that was the stuff of his increasingly frequent wet dreams.
He'd sort of thought he was over that phase; he was twenty-six, and had been getting laid semi-regularly for years now. Being a professional Quidditch player helped in that department. However, he didn't have a steady girlfriend at the moment, so that might have contributed to his subconscious mind conjuring up a picture of Millicent Bulstrode's work-worn, self-assured hands wrapped around his cock and stroking him like she did the broomsticks in her workshop.
The analogy between broomsticks and the male organ was not lost on him, and he felt ridiculous for it, like he was back in third year, sitting up in his dorm with Harry and Seamus, seeing who could come up with the most double entendres. Neville had just sat on his bed, ears red, and pretended not to hear them, and Dean would shake his head and grin at his homework.
To tell the truth, he'd been bloody embarrassed to go back to her shop the first time he'd had one of those dreams. He'd thought she'd be able to tell, but if she had, she hadn't let on. Just had him sit on the dummy broom while she scrutinized him from every angle, to see where the broom took the brunt of his weight, where he held it; technical stuff, he hadn't really paid much attention. He'd been more concerned with not making eye contact, in case she could do some of that freaky wandless Legilimency. Who knew? He'd never have thought she'd turn out to have some sort of gift for broom-making, either.
He'd never really paid much -- scratch that; any -- attention to her in school. He hadn't even recognized the name when Vaisey had told him where he'd had his own custom broom made. Vaisey was their best defensive Beater, and more than a bit big in the head about it. He always took it as a personal insult when the other team scored, and when Ron had let one slip past him in the big game against Wimbourne, Vaisey had practically ripped him a new one. Later, though, once the team Magi-medic had administered a Calming Draught or three, Vaisey had taken Ron aside and told him that if he didn't get a broom specially made to 'account for his bloody appalling lack of balance, reflexes, or hand-eye coordination', he would personally ram Ron's old Weatherbeater so far down his throat he'd be shitting splinters until next Christmas.
Later again, after the Magi-medic had patched both of them up (Ron was pleased he'd only ended up with one broken tooth, whereas Vaisey had needed to have his entire jaw re-grown)... Well, no, it had been much later than that, actually. It took over a week, during which time he'd chewed the incident over with and sought sympathy from Harry, George, Hermione, his mother, and anyone else who'd come within shouting distance. Mostly, they'd agreed with him that Vaisey had been out of line and was just projecting his own inadequacies, but Harry had suggested, after making appropriate derogatory comments about the size of Vaisey's... hands ... that it might not be a bad idea to look into a custom-made broom.
"Just remember what a difference better brooms made for the Slytherins in second year. They weren't better than us, they just had better equipment. The sport's evolving, Ron. It's not all about talent anymore; it's about materials. I reckon players have gotten as good as they're going to get simply based on what their bodies can do. Sure, the Weatherbeater's top of the line, but Vaisey's got a point. It's mass-produced. You're the best Keeper in the league already, no question. But what if you could be better? I don't know." Harry shrugged. "I guess I'm just curious. If it's a question of money..."
"No, it's not the money." Ron brushed the suggestion aside. After playing as a full pro for three years now, not having a family to support, and living relatively modestly, he could certainly afford a new broom. But it would look like he'd let Vaisey get to him.
Still, the idea wouldn't let him go, and he finally decided to go and check this broom-maker out. It didn't mean he'd actually have one made.
Bulstrode's Broomshop turned out to be just around the corner from Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, hidden behind a dusty, unassuming storefront. The shop actually belonged to Millicent's uncle, who still did all the charms. But he was over eighty, and when he'd seen that Millicent had an aptitude for the physical side of the craft, he'd been more than happy to apprentice her. She handled most of the customer side as well, now. Not that she was exactly a people person; Ron had very nearly done an about-face and left when she'd looked up from the broom she was shaping and glowered at him, then grunted, "What do you want?" Ron noticed that her hands didn't stop caressing the length of wood on her lap.
"You were recommended to me," he'd shot back. "But if you don't want the business, I can go." He had his hand on the door handle, but was distracted by the motion of her fingers. The sunlight was filtering in through the grimy window in a way that seemed to spotlight her work area, making the wood glow warm and reddish.
"You play." It was a statement, not a question.
Ron hesitated. "Yeah. Quidditch."
"I wasn't talking about Gobstones." She seemed both annoyed and amused. "Cannons Keeper," she recited, "picked up in 2003. Starter for the last two years. Save percentage seventy-three. Weasley." Her face remained impassive, as her thumb rubbed a circle on the unfinished wood.
Ron grinned and his hand left the door handle. His estimation of the witch before him increased several-fold. "So you follow me?"
One corner of Millicent's mouth turned down. "I follow the game."
Ron's smile faltered. "Oh. But, still, you know who I am," he pointed out.
"I'm not looking for an autograph." Millicent shifted her weight and hunched back over the half-finished broomstick.
Things might have ended there, had she not begun to work the wood in earnest. Her flat, square face took on a look of intense concentration as she stroked, rubbed, and squeezed the length of reddish-brown wood. Ron watched in fascination as she shaped it as if it were clay. The only sound was her breathing, in time with her strokes. Forward... back... her fingers clasped around the girth and she pulled toward her body, then away again, her thumb making an extra swirl. As she worked, her upper body swayed back and forth as well, the force coming from her well-muscled back and shoulders and flowing down into her wrists and hands. Ron found himself breathing in and out with her, and felt an urge to move his hips along with her strokes that he was only just able to check.
"So you want a broom?" she asked abruptly without looking up. Ron started, and tried to shake off the hypnotic effect.
"Uh... yeah... I mean, I was just curious, you know." He tried not to sound interested, and to ignore the slight tightening in his pants.
"Come back on Tuesday. Bring your gear."
He'd had the first dream that night. He hadn't seen her face, but he'd known it was her. They were sitting facing each other, straddling the bench in her workshop. She had his cock in her hands. She started by wrapping both palms around it, thumbs on top, and gently yet firmly rubbing down and away from herself. Her skin was warm and dry, and smoother than he would have thought. As she worked, his dream-cock got longer; not as long as an actual broom-handle, but longer than it was in real life. It also became harder and harder, until he felt he could really have driven in nails with it. His dream-self was inordinately pleased by these changes, and planned on showing his new equipment off to Vaisey as soon as Millicent was done.
It wasn't just the outward changes that he revelled in, though. His dream-self hadn't lost any sensitivity, despite having a true 'woody' for a cock, and the physical pleasure from Millicent's expert attentions was such that he didn't think he'd be able to hold back much longer. He wanted her to speed up, pay more attention to his engorged knob, but aside from a firm pressure from the heels of her hands at the start of every downstroke, she seemed more interested in the shaft, working it with her confident fingers and palms. It was an exquisite torture, but he somehow knew he couldn't rush her or tell her what to do.
He groaned and bit his tongue, and gripped the bench behind him with his hands until he felt splinters. Both of them were panting now, Millicent with exertion and Ron with anticipation. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, giving himself over to the sensations, until... Well, he'd woken up mighty glad to be alone in the bed.
On Tuesday, he wore his full uniform to her shop, feeling quite puffed up at the admiring looks he garnered from passers-by. Millicent looked him over and hmphed, then had him sit on the dummy and run through a set of moves and poses, all the while dictating notes to a hovering quill and parchment. After the first round, she had him take off the heavy pads and outer robes, then went through the whole thing again.
While she was assessing him, Ron started talking and asking questions, mostly in order to distract himself from constantly thinking about that dream. That was how he found out about her uncle, as well as discovered that she was actually not bad company. She didn't run off at the mouth, and knew her stuff. She also didn't really seem interested in impressing him, which was refreshing. She didn't wear any scent, and he could smell her sweat when she came near, onions and something tart, like vinegar. It reminded him of his mother's kitchen.
"Now take off the breeches and tunic."
Ron stared, shocked back to reality. "What, naked?" His voice squeaked embarrassingly.
"Only if you've nothing else on underneath," she said without a twitch. "I need to see the line of your body. These things are too loose." She indicated the bulky breeches and ample tunic that were the standard under-robe part of the team uniform.
Ron sat back. "You're the one who told me to wear it."
"I have to see how you hold yourself and move with the robes and pads. That's how you'll be flying most of the time. Then without the outer gear, so I can see the position of your legs and hands. Then without the uniform, so I can get the true line of your body." She looked quite serious, and not up for an argument. Ron divested himself.
And that was the stuff of his next dream. This time, she was standing next to him and he was sitting, naked, on the dummy broom. (He had been wearing his Cannons boxers and an undershirt in real life, but he wasn't about to argue with his fantasy.) He could feel her clothed body against his shoulder. She was broad and firmer than he would have thought, given her bulk; must be all muscle, he realized. But that wasn't nearly as interesting to him as those hands. One fist reached down and curled around him, sending a flood of pleasure through him as he relaxed into her by now familiar touch. This time, the position was much more similar to when he took himself in hand, and he was appreciative that her motions and rhythm were more like those he was used to. But then she started doing that thing with her thumb, making a little swirl at the top of each stroke, flicking into the little cleft at the base of the head, and he was gone again. His moans mixed with the sounds of her breathing, and when he came, her other arm wrapped around his shoulder and pulled him against her so that he was grunting into her neck, breathing in the smell of wood polish and onions.
Ron went back and forth with himself on the subject of Millicent Bulstrode over the next couple of weeks. She certainly didn't fit the type of girl he'd usually want to be associated with. She appeared outwardly dull, thuggish even. Her short-cropped, dark hair and thick physique made her appear masculine. But to his subconscious, she was the most fascinating woman alive. Night after night, his sleep was disturbed by her, pleasuring him, teasing him to climax; he began to wonder if she mightn't have put him under some sort of enchantment, or if George hadn't slipped him a love potion somehow, just for yucks. Even if he had, Ron decided, he didn't care. He was enjoying the nocturnal attentions, and hadn't done anything foolish like ask her to marry him.
He didn't dare discuss her with any of his friends, either; they'd only laugh at him. But he couldn't deny, there was something about her, and that made him quite proud of himself, actually. He felt decidedly non-shallow in admitting he was interested in someone as physically mundane as Millicent. Didn't this show that he was maturing? He could be grown-up when he wanted to.
He knew by now that he had to have that broom. Even if it didn't turn out to be a whit better than the Weatherbeater, the mere fact that it would be rubbed, stroked, formed, coaxed into being, by Millicent's hands, made it worth the trouble and cost.
And so when he received the owl that it was ready, he felt like it was an invitation to a first date. In fact, he decided to turn it into just that. He would ask Millicent out, damn it. Maybe not to a high-profile place, nothing fancy, just someplace where they could have fish and chips and an ale, and ... talk, or something. He could tell her about some of his games. She'd like that.
He decided to wear his uniform again; he knew he looked good in it, and he thought it would impress her. He left the headgear at home, though. There were limits.
The owl had said to come by at the end of the day. Maybe, he considered, she'd hoped that he'd casually ask if she was doing anything, and would she like to join him for a drink, and then she could close up the shop and go with him. He thought that was a fine plan, and admired Millicent for being so crafty. Well, she had been in Slytherin, after all.
As he stepped into the dusky workshop, and the sawdust hit his nostrils, he felt a little jolt of excitement shoot through his groin. The associations he'd built up over the past couple of weeks were powerful.
Millicent was standing behind the counter. A broom lay on the surface, and she was fiddling with the tail twigs, running through and ordering them with her fingers. Ron immediately imagined what those same fingers would feel like, running through his nether hair. He smirked to himself. Maybe he would be finding out sooner rather than later.
"Is this it?" he asked as he approached.
Millicent frowned in concentration at her work, then picked up the broom and balanced it on one hand, eyeing it. Finally, she laid it down and pushed it toward Ron.
"That's it."
It was, Ron had to admit, a beautiful broom. The broomstick itself was a dark brown, as shiny as if it had been made out of polished stone. He let his hand hover over it for a moment, as if there were a protective aura around it that he didn't dare yet to desecrate. He imagined that he could feel it vibrating with the anticipation of getting up into the air. Finally, he let his hand sink down to touch it. It was so sleek and slippery that he was sure there was some sort of anti-friction enchantment on it. The footrests and bindings were made of a burnished metal that veritably glowed in the dim room, and the tail was composed of gently curved twigs that were as smooth as glass. It was a work of art, even Ron could see that.
"Cor, it's bloody brilliant," he breathed out in awe.
Millicent nodded her head once, curtly. "Best I've made."
Ron tried to catch her eye; had she put in an extra effort for his sake, hoping to impress him? But she was looking at the broom.
"Well, I guess the only thing left is to take her for a spin," Ron said, as he lifted the broomstick up to get the heft of it. It was lighter than he would have thought, but by no means delicate. He thought by analogy of its maker.
"Give yourself a couple of days to get used to it," she said. "It'll handle differently than the Weatherbeater." Of course she knew what broom he flew, without him having told her. He suspected she followed him more closely than she was letting on.
Ron nodded. The time had come. He held the broom so that he was looking down its length, pretending to check its symmetry. "You about to close up?"
"Yes. But you don't need to rush."
"Not at all. It looks fantastic, Millicent, really." It was the first time he'd called her by name. It was his way of introducing a new phase of their relationship, a more personal one. He lowered the broom. "Hey," he said, as if only just thinking of it. "If you're not busy, I was just going to head over to the Leaky as long as I'm in the area, grab a pint or something. You could tell me some more about the special features of this baby here."
Millicent looked at him now. She had rather an odd look on her face. Ron could tell she wasn't sure how to respond. Probably never been asked out before.
"I can tell you now. Or I can arrange for my uncle--"
The door chimed, announcing another customer. Ron turned to see Oliver Wood, and groaned inwardly. Great, just what he needed.
"Weasley!" Oliver's easy-going face broke into a large smile, and he thrust out his hand to shake Ron's. "How're things with the Cannons? Tough start to the season, mate. Let me know if you ever want any pointers." He thumped Ron hard on the shoulder.
Ron returned the greeting sourly. Oliver was Puddlemere's Keeper, ranked second in the league. Ron was ninth. It looked like everyone was going to be riding a Bulstrode. Ron was smug that he'd beaten Oliver to one, at least.
"Whoa, is this yours?" Oliver indicated the broom Ron was holding. "She's a beauty, she is." Oliver hardly looked at the broom, though; Ron found it odd that he wasn't more interested, and that he had pronounced judgment on it without inspecting it properly. If nothing else, Ron knew Oliver as an anal-retentive perfectionist.
"I should probably be jealous," Oliver continued. "Some of her best work. Ah well, you'll just have to make me a better one, won't you?" Oliver leaned over the counter towards Millicent. "Heya," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "About ready?"
Ron gawked. His hands felt thick and his tongue numb. Oliver and Millicent? But how long... But she was... And those dreams... Ron felt distinctly uncomfortable, and was aware of what a pompous arse he must appear, standing there in full kit.
"Weasley still had some questions," Millicent mumbled without looking at him. Apparently he'd embarrassed the hell out of her, too.
"No, no, it's fine," Ron said grandly, tucking the broom up under his arm. "I'm going to try it out right away. 'S why I wore the robes," he explained to Oliver confidentially. "Get a feel for flying her in a game." He turned to Millicent and patted the broom. "Like you said, I'll just go easy on her the first couple of days. If anything comes up, I can always owl your uncle."
Millicent nodded, studiously avoiding making eye contact.
"Brill!" Oliver exclaimed brightly, apparently oblivious to the undercurrent. "That's us then, Mill." She looked at him and smiled (a smile she had never shared with Ron), and it was clear that this was more than a casual get-together between friends.
"Right then, I'll be off," Ron said with great bluster. "You two kids have a grand time." He raised the broom in salute as he backed towards the door. "Cracking."
Oliver raised his chin in acknowledgement. "Cheers, mate! Don't spend it all in one place!"
Ron laughed.
And then he was outside, and the door was shut behind him. The sun was bright, and he felt sweaty, especially weighted down as he was in his Quidditch gear. He looked at the broom in his hand, and felt the looks of the passers-by on him, some curious, some admiring. Or were they smirking?
He sighed and trudged toward the Leaky Cauldron. He might still get lucky. After all, he was a professional Quidditch player. And he had a kick-arse, bespoke broom.
He wondered what he might dream about that night.
***
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