[fic] Harry Potter and The It Was All Only A Dream
TITLE: Harry Potter And The It Was All Only A Dream
STYLE/WARNINGS: Gen, xover with Life on Mars.
WORD COUNT: 926.
SPOILERS: None.
SUMMARY: Harry's stressed out, and Ron's a good friend.
DISCLAIMER: All characters are property of RoRo, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Kudos, and/or the BBC. No infringement intended or implied and no money is being made. Monkeys, on the other hand...;)
"Ronald Weasley, what did you think you were doing?" No-one could glare like Hermione could glare. Except perhaps Professor McGonagall. Although even that was looking rather unlikely.
Ron gulped, then managed to swallow down his apprehension long enough to reply, "I, er, well, you see, that is...erm..." and then mentally slapped himself for making such a brilliant retort.
"In English, Ron?" Now Hermione had her hands on her hips. In a moment, her right foot would start to tap anxiously and he'd be done for.
"I only thought it would help! I mean, you're his friend too, you've seen what a state he's in. Madame Rosmerta's can cure anything, and it's not long before we're of age anyway! Really, I don't see what the big deal is," Ron scoffed, suddenly finding strength in his perceived rectitude.
"You know there are rules against this sort of thing for a reason, Ron." Hermione's voice wavered slightly. She knew she was right, but she still couldn't help feeling sorry for poor Harry. Even though, at the moment, she was rather impressively angry with both him and Ron.
******
Everywhere around him Harry looked, things just seemed wrong.
He'd thought he remembered walking into Madame Rosmerta's with Ron and Hermione, like he often did on a Hogsmeade weekend. And while this almost seemed right, it just wasn't, somehow.
Everything seemed a bit dingier. There was a thin film of something---perhaps tarry cigarette residue---on everything in the place. Madame Rosmerta would never let any establishment bearing her name come to such disgrace. She enjoyed running her pub, and she enjoyed her patrons immensely, but she did not enjoy them to the point of tolerating their filth. Everything in her pub was as clean as possible---well, considering it was a pub, after all.
By contrast, this place appeared much more lived-in. The telly on the wall was ancient, however, and looked like it might not last very long the way it had been mounted on the wall.
Before Harry's brain fully registered what he was doing, he was on his feet and addressing the barkeeper with, "Excuse me, but I think your television's about to fall."
"Mon brave, what makes you so certain?" The barkeeper smiled and continued wiping a glass, which was what he'd been doing prior to Harry's interjection. The man was middle-aged, black, and had dreads---definitely not Madame Rosmerta. Harry was quite sure he'd never seen this man in his life.
"It's shoddy workmanship, and I'm sorry if you're the one who put it up, but I can tell it a mile off. My uncle used to put me to work every summer fixing up every tiny thing he could think of, and I'm well acquainted with DIY. Mind if I have a look?" Harry drew himself up to his full height, trying to make himself seem as adult as possible. Which wasn't terribly difficult, given his recent growth spurt and the fact his voice had finally levelled out to a reasonably masculine pitch, minus all the nasty cracking and squeaking it had been doing (of its own volition, of course) not so very long ago.
"Go right ahead. I don't want a liability on my hands!" the barkeeper chuckled. "I'm Nelson, by the way. A pleasure to meet you." The smile on his face couldn't have been more genuine as he shook Harry's hand.
"I'm Harry, and I'll make sure it doesn't fall on any of your patrons," Harry smiled, coming back behind the bar to examine the handiwork which had put the set on the wall more closely.
"It's not the falling I'm afraid of; it's the patrons getting angry once they can't watch the sport! Afraid Sam's idea paid off a little too well, if you ask me." Nelson chuckled, now wiping off the counter and simultaneously dumping the contents of an overflowing ashtray in the trash.
"Does this Sam help you out around here?" Harry's mouth set in a disapproving line, and if anyone had told him it looked suspiciously like Aunt Petunia's habitual expression, he'd never have spoken to that person again, truth or not.
"No...afraid he's a guest, like yourself. Any particular reason?"
"Oh, well, in that case...it's just that he clearly doesn't know what he's doing. I don't think he bothered to anchor these brackets properly at all. It's a wonder your whole wall hasn't been brought down! Have you got any tools around here?" Harry huffed impatiently, grabbing a barstool and clambering up it to try to get a better look.
"Better talk to Gladys about that, he's a regular little Boy Scout, isn't he?" a loud, belligerent voice issued forth from a bear-like blond gentleman in a camel-hair coat as he swaggered up to the bar.
******
"Harry? Harry! Good, you're awake. I was worried---if Professor McGonagall caught us again..." Ron's voice trailed off out of its previous anxious whisper.
"My head feels like it's been in a vise. What did you give me, anyway?" Harry shoved his palms up against his eyes, pressing in and trying to remember to breathe.
"Scotch, single malt. Fred and George used to swear by it during exams." Ron grinned. "Took a bit of work, but I thought it would help. Did it?"
"Not entirely. Even in my dreams, I'm cleaning up someone else's mess!" Harry winced as he prodded his forehead gingerly with the tips of his fingers. "Have you got any Lucozade?"
~~~fin~~~
STYLE/WARNINGS: Gen, xover with Life on Mars.
WORD COUNT: 926.
SPOILERS: None.
SUMMARY: Harry's stressed out, and Ron's a good friend.
DISCLAIMER: All characters are property of RoRo, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, Kudos, and/or the BBC. No infringement intended or implied and no money is being made. Monkeys, on the other hand...;)
"Ronald Weasley, what did you think you were doing?" No-one could glare like Hermione could glare. Except perhaps Professor McGonagall. Although even that was looking rather unlikely.
Ron gulped, then managed to swallow down his apprehension long enough to reply, "I, er, well, you see, that is...erm..." and then mentally slapped himself for making such a brilliant retort.
"In English, Ron?" Now Hermione had her hands on her hips. In a moment, her right foot would start to tap anxiously and he'd be done for.
"I only thought it would help! I mean, you're his friend too, you've seen what a state he's in. Madame Rosmerta's can cure anything, and it's not long before we're of age anyway! Really, I don't see what the big deal is," Ron scoffed, suddenly finding strength in his perceived rectitude.
"You know there are rules against this sort of thing for a reason, Ron." Hermione's voice wavered slightly. She knew she was right, but she still couldn't help feeling sorry for poor Harry. Even though, at the moment, she was rather impressively angry with both him and Ron.
******
Everywhere around him Harry looked, things just seemed wrong.
He'd thought he remembered walking into Madame Rosmerta's with Ron and Hermione, like he often did on a Hogsmeade weekend. And while this almost seemed right, it just wasn't, somehow.
Everything seemed a bit dingier. There was a thin film of something---perhaps tarry cigarette residue---on everything in the place. Madame Rosmerta would never let any establishment bearing her name come to such disgrace. She enjoyed running her pub, and she enjoyed her patrons immensely, but she did not enjoy them to the point of tolerating their filth. Everything in her pub was as clean as possible---well, considering it was a pub, after all.
By contrast, this place appeared much more lived-in. The telly on the wall was ancient, however, and looked like it might not last very long the way it had been mounted on the wall.
Before Harry's brain fully registered what he was doing, he was on his feet and addressing the barkeeper with, "Excuse me, but I think your television's about to fall."
"Mon brave, what makes you so certain?" The barkeeper smiled and continued wiping a glass, which was what he'd been doing prior to Harry's interjection. The man was middle-aged, black, and had dreads---definitely not Madame Rosmerta. Harry was quite sure he'd never seen this man in his life.
"It's shoddy workmanship, and I'm sorry if you're the one who put it up, but I can tell it a mile off. My uncle used to put me to work every summer fixing up every tiny thing he could think of, and I'm well acquainted with DIY. Mind if I have a look?" Harry drew himself up to his full height, trying to make himself seem as adult as possible. Which wasn't terribly difficult, given his recent growth spurt and the fact his voice had finally levelled out to a reasonably masculine pitch, minus all the nasty cracking and squeaking it had been doing (of its own volition, of course) not so very long ago.
"Go right ahead. I don't want a liability on my hands!" the barkeeper chuckled. "I'm Nelson, by the way. A pleasure to meet you." The smile on his face couldn't have been more genuine as he shook Harry's hand.
"I'm Harry, and I'll make sure it doesn't fall on any of your patrons," Harry smiled, coming back behind the bar to examine the handiwork which had put the set on the wall more closely.
"It's not the falling I'm afraid of; it's the patrons getting angry once they can't watch the sport! Afraid Sam's idea paid off a little too well, if you ask me." Nelson chuckled, now wiping off the counter and simultaneously dumping the contents of an overflowing ashtray in the trash.
"Does this Sam help you out around here?" Harry's mouth set in a disapproving line, and if anyone had told him it looked suspiciously like Aunt Petunia's habitual expression, he'd never have spoken to that person again, truth or not.
"No...afraid he's a guest, like yourself. Any particular reason?"
"Oh, well, in that case...it's just that he clearly doesn't know what he's doing. I don't think he bothered to anchor these brackets properly at all. It's a wonder your whole wall hasn't been brought down! Have you got any tools around here?" Harry huffed impatiently, grabbing a barstool and clambering up it to try to get a better look.
"Better talk to Gladys about that, he's a regular little Boy Scout, isn't he?" a loud, belligerent voice issued forth from a bear-like blond gentleman in a camel-hair coat as he swaggered up to the bar.
******
"Harry? Harry! Good, you're awake. I was worried---if Professor McGonagall caught us again..." Ron's voice trailed off out of its previous anxious whisper.
"My head feels like it's been in a vise. What did you give me, anyway?" Harry shoved his palms up against his eyes, pressing in and trying to remember to breathe.
"Scotch, single malt. Fred and George used to swear by it during exams." Ron grinned. "Took a bit of work, but I thought it would help. Did it?"
"Not entirely. Even in my dreams, I'm cleaning up someone else's mess!" Harry winced as he prodded his forehead gingerly with the tips of his fingers. "Have you got any Lucozade?"
~~~fin~~~