FIC: Lead Me Not (Charlie Weasley/Millicent Bulstrode)
Title: Lead Me Not
Author/Artist: pyrobear
Characters: Charlie Weasley/Millicent Bulstrode
Prompt Number: 90
Word Count: 2,107
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: Idle hands were the devil’s playthings, after all.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of this. I was just playing in a sandbox.
Author’s Notes: Thanks so much to my lovely beta, R, for letting me spam you in inappropriate places and making this much better than it had been in the first place. Prompter, I hope I fulfilled your expectations!
Lead Me Not
Life, Millicent had found, has a way of skirting all your plans and expectations. If she'd been asked them as a fifth year, nothing at all would reconcile with the existence she led now. There were those who called this era the ‘golden age’. To Millicent it looked more like shit. There was little room left for Slytherins, especially those who’d had their name tainted by the Death Eaters. Even if you yourself were not directly affiliated with the movement, the Ministry painted you with the same tarred brush. The only reason she had not lost her childhood home was that it had been put in her brother’s name rather than their father’s or their grandfather’s, but their business was still in the shithole. It had been easier to leave Britain than to face accusing looks.
Romania had sounded far enough, but alas, that had been a self-delusion. Most didn’t care what she had come from, who she had been… as long as she did her duties. Some cared even less as she was a female and woman in these parts were a rare breed. Nobody looked twice if you were coming out of somebody else’s tent in the morning, male or female. There weren’t enough people on the Reserve to be picky. Except for one: Charlie fucking Weasley. Except without the fucking part. He’d been a virtual monk in all the time Millicent had been at the Reserve.
Others had told her how the once jovial man had changed after the War. One of his brothers had died, one of the insufferable twins if Millicent remembered correctly. Not that she ever asked. They had never spoken, unless he was barking something at her, much like he did with the rest of the Reserve. Which is why, when they found themselves having to take shelter in one of the emergency cabins that dotted the Romanian landscape, Millicent saw little reason to speak.
The cabin was sparse, hardly more than a shack with a loo and galley kitchen attached, but it kept the snow, wind, and cold away. The blizzard had come up with little warning while she and Weasley had been checking up on a pair of young mating Horntails. With conditions rendering broom flight too dangerous and wards prohibiting apparition throughout most of the Reserve, poaching had become a problem in recent months, leaving travel by portkey as their only option. Unfortunately, emergency protocols didn’t call for the charms to kick in until twelve hours after they were due back, which, according to Millicent’s pocket watch, meant they were stuck for the next fifteen hours.
Rather than brood about the predicament they had found themselves in, Millicent built a fire in the fireplace, wondering why nobody had thought to hook the emergency cabins up to a floo network. She shook her head at the lack of common sense and sat down on the lumpy sofa. The satchel at her feet contained her research notes, though it was not her notebook she reached for, but instead for a ball of sensible black wool, a sock already half-complete on her needles. Idle hands were the devil’s playthings, after all.
Hair still damp from the rather pitiful shower the cabin provided, Charlie stepped out of the bathroom. At least he felt a little more human, though his head was still ringing from a knock the female had gotten in. He was glad to see a fire already lit in the fireplace, only leaving the issue of food to be dealt with. A quick search through the cupboards revealed tinned soup, a box of crackers, tea, and a few bars of chocolate. Not a feast, but it would certainly be enough for the night. He had lived on worse.
“Bulstrode, what type of soup did you want?” The redheaded man turned around to face his companion, only to catch sight of her knitting. Of all the things he could imagine Millicent Bulstrode doing, it was certainly not knitting. His mother knit, for Merlin’s sake.
“I’m sorry, Weasley, did you say something?” Finishing the round, Millicent looked up and saw the frown crossing his face. She hadn’t realized he was speaking, at first. His voice had been surprisingly soft for someone who usually only bellowed. “A problem?” Surely she hadn’t offended him already by mere virtue of being in his presence. Merlin, Weasleys were really more uptight than she had imagined.
He was staring. “No, sorry, you were…” Charlie gestured to the pile of wool in her lap. “Knitting.”
“Yes?” Now Millicent was confused. He was stating the obvious. Perhaps Weasleys were thick as well.
Charlie shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve only ever seen my mother knit before.” And it never looked like what Bulstrode was doing. Instead of the more familiar metal needles about the thickness of his wand, these were smaller, looking like they would be better used for toothpicks than anything else. “I didn’t think someone like you-”
“Someone like me?” Millicent raised an eyebrow. “A big bad Slytherin would have a similar interest to your sainted mother?” She wondered if he could see how much a bloody hypocrite he was being, disliking her for the simple fact that she was sorted into the ‘wrong’ house. No one could change that anymore than they could change their bloodline.
The slight front turned into a full on scowl. “Never mind, Bulstrode. There’s tinned chicken soup for dinner.” He turned away from her, using his wand to open the tin and dumped its contents into into a pot. Fifteen hours until the emergency portkey activated. He’d spent longer in worse situations.
Normally Millicent didn’t mind being referred to by her surname. It was common practice at the reserve, but the way he said it, spat it, made her hackles rise. She stood, her knitting falling to the ground. Not bothering to pick it up, the dark haired woman rounded the sofa. She’d done nothing to receive his ire, yet here it was, piled upon her all the same. “I have a proper name.” Her voice remained calm, steady. She had faced worse than an annoyed Weasley.
The spoon Charlie had been using to stir the soup clattered to the floor, making him wince. The dull throbbing at his temple was rapidly developing from irritation into migraine. “Yes, well so did my brother Fred, but you and yours still cut him down,” he snapped.
Just because it annoyed her, Millicent pulled out her wand, sending the fallen spoon to the sink. She couldn’t abide unnecessary messiness. “And what do you know of me?” she hissed. “I didn’t fight in the War and they would have killed my mother because she was only a mudblood to them, if she hadn’t already died.” Her voice caught, as it always did, when talking of her mother. It wasn’t a subject Millicent enjoyed dwelling on, with too many memories of being reminded that she had the same weak blood as her muggleborn mother.
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Charlie questioned, his hand searching blindly for another spoon for the soup, knocking the box of crackers off the counter. He cursed loudly as they scattered across the floor, crunching underneath his boots as he bent down to pick them up. He was usually never this clumsy in the kitchen.
He could feel her eyes on him, watching, and Charlie twisted around so he could raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you even going to help?”
Millicent snorted and flicked her wand again. All the crackers that had not been stepped on flew back into their box and landed back onto the counter. “The soup’s burning,” she stated.
“Oh sod the soup,” he grumbled, but turned back to the stove to remove the pan from the hob and salvage their meager dinner. “You could get some bowls out for us. Spoons.” There was a half-hearted gesture towards the cupboard as he reached for the salt and pepper. A lot of things could be fixed with only a few basic staples. His mother had taught him that.
Charlie had been content enough to let them work silently, but then he realized he wasn’t done talking. “You know what, Bulstrode?” He angled his body so she was trapped between him, the counter, and the wall. “I’m sorry you lost your mum. That’s a bad deal, but you’re not as guiltless as you’d think. What was it, the Inquisitorial Squad? That’s not exactly a picture of innocence, isn’t it?”
Weasley was close, too close. Millicent could smell the soap he’d used in his shower and see the line of stubble across his chin. She could hex him, but didn’t want to, she realized. After being so goddamn distant for the past ten months, it was a relief to see that the man in front of her was actually human. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake that you later regret?” Millicent countered.
Not kissing Tonks when he had the chance during their seventh year. Missing his niece and goddaughter's birth. Never saying the things he needed to Fred, and the things he still didn’t know how to say to George. Too many lost chances to count or dwell on, Charlie conceded privately, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of saying so aloud. “Never said I was perfect.” Charlie’s voice was gruff with emotion he didn’t wish to fully comprehend.
“Perfection is boring.” She’d learned long ago it was useless to strive towards ideal. It only left you bitter and angry. She would always be the one whose hips were too wide and waist too straight. Her hair would never be silky smooth and it was easier to tie it back or hack it all off. Millicent’s mouth tilted into a small smirk. “It’s the damaged bits that capture another’s interest.”
Charlie let out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. “Are you saying that I’m damaged?” His stance shifted, closing the small gap that remained between them. “Or that you’re interested?”
Grey eyes searched out blue, the same color as a winter’s sky, Millicent noted idly. “Yes.” He had been the man to cut himself off from everyone, and from what Millicent knew about the Weasleys they were meant to breed like rabbits. She could not help but be curious.
It was now Charlie’s turn to smirk. He knew what other dragon trainers said about him. He cared more for dragons than he did for actual people, and for the most part they were right. Don’t get him wrong, he liked his fellow trainers well enough, could share a pint or four with some of the more seasoned (singed) ones, but everything was a matter of fact with them. There was no more to discover. But here, here was a puzzle wrapped in a mystery inside of an enigma.
“Is that so?” He reached out, tipping her chin up slightly. A calloused thumb traced the line of her jaw and Charlie let the unasked question hang in the air.
Millicent had no immediate response. Her tongue felt thick and awkward. His simple touch sent a bold of energy down her spine, but she would not give Weasley the satisfaction of seeing the sort of effect he had on her. Though her initial reaction was to jerk away, she forced herself remained still. “Do I need to repeat myself?” she finally settled on, surprised at herself. She was rarely so clever with words.
While not the haughtiest response Charlie’d ever heard, her voice did carry a fair amount of smugness. If she could still speak, then he clearly wasn’t doing he job. His hand left her chin to brush a few knuckles across her cheek and down her neck before his hand slid up to tangle in her hair. “No, I think you’ve made yourself quite clear.” As he spoke, his voice dropped an octave. Charlie could see the pulse in her neck, see it quicken. She was excited. Good.
“You don’t know me, Weasley.” Her pulse was so loud in her own ears, Millicent was sure even the man in front of her could hear it. As their gaze met for a second time, she could see the change in his eyes. The hunter stalking his prey.
Charlie smirked at her, just wicked enough to be unsettling. He leaned closer, near enough to smell the soap she’d likely used that morning. “I have a first name,” he whispered against her lips, “and you’re going to scream it.”
The kiss pushed them onto a path leading only unto temptation. Millicent found he didn’t bellow quite so much after that.
Author/Artist: pyrobear
Characters: Charlie Weasley/Millicent Bulstrode
Prompt Number: 90
Word Count: 2,107
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: Idle hands were the devil’s playthings, after all.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of this. I was just playing in a sandbox.
Author’s Notes: Thanks so much to my lovely beta, R, for letting me spam you in inappropriate places and making this much better than it had been in the first place. Prompter, I hope I fulfilled your expectations!
Lead Me Not
Life, Millicent had found, has a way of skirting all your plans and expectations. If she'd been asked them as a fifth year, nothing at all would reconcile with the existence she led now. There were those who called this era the ‘golden age’. To Millicent it looked more like shit. There was little room left for Slytherins, especially those who’d had their name tainted by the Death Eaters. Even if you yourself were not directly affiliated with the movement, the Ministry painted you with the same tarred brush. The only reason she had not lost her childhood home was that it had been put in her brother’s name rather than their father’s or their grandfather’s, but their business was still in the shithole. It had been easier to leave Britain than to face accusing looks.
Romania had sounded far enough, but alas, that had been a self-delusion. Most didn’t care what she had come from, who she had been… as long as she did her duties. Some cared even less as she was a female and woman in these parts were a rare breed. Nobody looked twice if you were coming out of somebody else’s tent in the morning, male or female. There weren’t enough people on the Reserve to be picky. Except for one: Charlie fucking Weasley. Except without the fucking part. He’d been a virtual monk in all the time Millicent had been at the Reserve.
Others had told her how the once jovial man had changed after the War. One of his brothers had died, one of the insufferable twins if Millicent remembered correctly. Not that she ever asked. They had never spoken, unless he was barking something at her, much like he did with the rest of the Reserve. Which is why, when they found themselves having to take shelter in one of the emergency cabins that dotted the Romanian landscape, Millicent saw little reason to speak.
The cabin was sparse, hardly more than a shack with a loo and galley kitchen attached, but it kept the snow, wind, and cold away. The blizzard had come up with little warning while she and Weasley had been checking up on a pair of young mating Horntails. With conditions rendering broom flight too dangerous and wards prohibiting apparition throughout most of the Reserve, poaching had become a problem in recent months, leaving travel by portkey as their only option. Unfortunately, emergency protocols didn’t call for the charms to kick in until twelve hours after they were due back, which, according to Millicent’s pocket watch, meant they were stuck for the next fifteen hours.
Rather than brood about the predicament they had found themselves in, Millicent built a fire in the fireplace, wondering why nobody had thought to hook the emergency cabins up to a floo network. She shook her head at the lack of common sense and sat down on the lumpy sofa. The satchel at her feet contained her research notes, though it was not her notebook she reached for, but instead for a ball of sensible black wool, a sock already half-complete on her needles. Idle hands were the devil’s playthings, after all.
Hair still damp from the rather pitiful shower the cabin provided, Charlie stepped out of the bathroom. At least he felt a little more human, though his head was still ringing from a knock the female had gotten in. He was glad to see a fire already lit in the fireplace, only leaving the issue of food to be dealt with. A quick search through the cupboards revealed tinned soup, a box of crackers, tea, and a few bars of chocolate. Not a feast, but it would certainly be enough for the night. He had lived on worse.
“Bulstrode, what type of soup did you want?” The redheaded man turned around to face his companion, only to catch sight of her knitting. Of all the things he could imagine Millicent Bulstrode doing, it was certainly not knitting. His mother knit, for Merlin’s sake.
“I’m sorry, Weasley, did you say something?” Finishing the round, Millicent looked up and saw the frown crossing his face. She hadn’t realized he was speaking, at first. His voice had been surprisingly soft for someone who usually only bellowed. “A problem?” Surely she hadn’t offended him already by mere virtue of being in his presence. Merlin, Weasleys were really more uptight than she had imagined.
He was staring. “No, sorry, you were…” Charlie gestured to the pile of wool in her lap. “Knitting.”
“Yes?” Now Millicent was confused. He was stating the obvious. Perhaps Weasleys were thick as well.
Charlie shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve only ever seen my mother knit before.” And it never looked like what Bulstrode was doing. Instead of the more familiar metal needles about the thickness of his wand, these were smaller, looking like they would be better used for toothpicks than anything else. “I didn’t think someone like you-”
“Someone like me?” Millicent raised an eyebrow. “A big bad Slytherin would have a similar interest to your sainted mother?” She wondered if he could see how much a bloody hypocrite he was being, disliking her for the simple fact that she was sorted into the ‘wrong’ house. No one could change that anymore than they could change their bloodline.
The slight front turned into a full on scowl. “Never mind, Bulstrode. There’s tinned chicken soup for dinner.” He turned away from her, using his wand to open the tin and dumped its contents into into a pot. Fifteen hours until the emergency portkey activated. He’d spent longer in worse situations.
Normally Millicent didn’t mind being referred to by her surname. It was common practice at the reserve, but the way he said it, spat it, made her hackles rise. She stood, her knitting falling to the ground. Not bothering to pick it up, the dark haired woman rounded the sofa. She’d done nothing to receive his ire, yet here it was, piled upon her all the same. “I have a proper name.” Her voice remained calm, steady. She had faced worse than an annoyed Weasley.
The spoon Charlie had been using to stir the soup clattered to the floor, making him wince. The dull throbbing at his temple was rapidly developing from irritation into migraine. “Yes, well so did my brother Fred, but you and yours still cut him down,” he snapped.
Just because it annoyed her, Millicent pulled out her wand, sending the fallen spoon to the sink. She couldn’t abide unnecessary messiness. “And what do you know of me?” she hissed. “I didn’t fight in the War and they would have killed my mother because she was only a mudblood to them, if she hadn’t already died.” Her voice caught, as it always did, when talking of her mother. It wasn’t a subject Millicent enjoyed dwelling on, with too many memories of being reminded that she had the same weak blood as her muggleborn mother.
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Charlie questioned, his hand searching blindly for another spoon for the soup, knocking the box of crackers off the counter. He cursed loudly as they scattered across the floor, crunching underneath his boots as he bent down to pick them up. He was usually never this clumsy in the kitchen.
He could feel her eyes on him, watching, and Charlie twisted around so he could raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you even going to help?”
Millicent snorted and flicked her wand again. All the crackers that had not been stepped on flew back into their box and landed back onto the counter. “The soup’s burning,” she stated.
“Oh sod the soup,” he grumbled, but turned back to the stove to remove the pan from the hob and salvage their meager dinner. “You could get some bowls out for us. Spoons.” There was a half-hearted gesture towards the cupboard as he reached for the salt and pepper. A lot of things could be fixed with only a few basic staples. His mother had taught him that.
Charlie had been content enough to let them work silently, but then he realized he wasn’t done talking. “You know what, Bulstrode?” He angled his body so she was trapped between him, the counter, and the wall. “I’m sorry you lost your mum. That’s a bad deal, but you’re not as guiltless as you’d think. What was it, the Inquisitorial Squad? That’s not exactly a picture of innocence, isn’t it?”
Weasley was close, too close. Millicent could smell the soap he’d used in his shower and see the line of stubble across his chin. She could hex him, but didn’t want to, she realized. After being so goddamn distant for the past ten months, it was a relief to see that the man in front of her was actually human. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake that you later regret?” Millicent countered.
Not kissing Tonks when he had the chance during their seventh year. Missing his niece and goddaughter's birth. Never saying the things he needed to Fred, and the things he still didn’t know how to say to George. Too many lost chances to count or dwell on, Charlie conceded privately, but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of saying so aloud. “Never said I was perfect.” Charlie’s voice was gruff with emotion he didn’t wish to fully comprehend.
“Perfection is boring.” She’d learned long ago it was useless to strive towards ideal. It only left you bitter and angry. She would always be the one whose hips were too wide and waist too straight. Her hair would never be silky smooth and it was easier to tie it back or hack it all off. Millicent’s mouth tilted into a small smirk. “It’s the damaged bits that capture another’s interest.”
Charlie let out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. “Are you saying that I’m damaged?” His stance shifted, closing the small gap that remained between them. “Or that you’re interested?”
Grey eyes searched out blue, the same color as a winter’s sky, Millicent noted idly. “Yes.” He had been the man to cut himself off from everyone, and from what Millicent knew about the Weasleys they were meant to breed like rabbits. She could not help but be curious.
It was now Charlie’s turn to smirk. He knew what other dragon trainers said about him. He cared more for dragons than he did for actual people, and for the most part they were right. Don’t get him wrong, he liked his fellow trainers well enough, could share a pint or four with some of the more seasoned (singed) ones, but everything was a matter of fact with them. There was no more to discover. But here, here was a puzzle wrapped in a mystery inside of an enigma.
“Is that so?” He reached out, tipping her chin up slightly. A calloused thumb traced the line of her jaw and Charlie let the unasked question hang in the air.
Millicent had no immediate response. Her tongue felt thick and awkward. His simple touch sent a bold of energy down her spine, but she would not give Weasley the satisfaction of seeing the sort of effect he had on her. Though her initial reaction was to jerk away, she forced herself remained still. “Do I need to repeat myself?” she finally settled on, surprised at herself. She was rarely so clever with words.
While not the haughtiest response Charlie’d ever heard, her voice did carry a fair amount of smugness. If she could still speak, then he clearly wasn’t doing he job. His hand left her chin to brush a few knuckles across her cheek and down her neck before his hand slid up to tangle in her hair. “No, I think you’ve made yourself quite clear.” As he spoke, his voice dropped an octave. Charlie could see the pulse in her neck, see it quicken. She was excited. Good.
“You don’t know me, Weasley.” Her pulse was so loud in her own ears, Millicent was sure even the man in front of her could hear it. As their gaze met for a second time, she could see the change in his eyes. The hunter stalking his prey.
Charlie smirked at her, just wicked enough to be unsettling. He leaned closer, near enough to smell the soap she’d likely used that morning. “I have a first name,” he whispered against her lips, “and you’re going to scream it.”
The kiss pushed them onto a path leading only unto temptation. Millicent found he didn’t bellow quite so much after that.