(no subject)
eva_c asked for "vaguely Muggle crime-related" fics. I'm sure a little illegal drug use doesn't count for crime, but I'm still blaming this on her. Not very edited, and the drug-related bits may be horrible, but my, er, reference for that isn't online at the moment.
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The bathwater had gone cold, filled level with the grimy ring that circled the greying porcelain. It was the sort of tub in which a person might wake up, on ice, to find one of his kidneys missing. And that tub was in a bathroom, in a flat, in a part of the city where that sort of thing happened fortnightly. That was the rumor, at any rate.
There was a splash, and the water rippled into motion as the tub's inhabitant awoke with a start. Gabrielle Delacour stared absently up at the ceiling, from which a bare bulb hung, burning a round, black afterimage onto her retinas. It was like looking into the sun.
She didn't blink. Had she been dreaming? No. Or maybe yes. She never remembered. At least the headache wasn't so bad anymore.
The light bulb emitted a dull, droning buzz, and from the other room she could hear the sound of a football match being broadcast on TV. Black and white because they couldn't afford the color license, and so she never could tell one club from the other. She wasn't impressed by the sport, anyway, after Quidditch.
She couldn't tell him about that, though, so she feigned indifference to all athletics instead. It was easy. She'd smiled, and he'd believed everything she'd ever said.
Rising from the tub only as far as necessary, her blonde hair, darkened by the water, plastered itself to her back. She groped along the top of the toilet tank for a pack of cigarettes. The carton felt too light. Empty. "Fuck."
She stood and stepped out of the tub, dripping, and reached through the murky water to pull the plug. The water line didn't budge. The drain was clogged; it would take a few hours.
Rooting around in the clothing piled in the corner, she extracted a pair of knickers and one of his old t-shirts, with the Union Jack silk-screened across the chest. She sniffed the crotch, the armpits of the garments. They'd do.
If only Maman could see her now.
She examined herself in the mirror, hair still dripping, her pale blue eyes accented by the dark circles that never left. She looked like shit.
Out in the other room, though, his eyes lit up. "I thought you'd drowned."
"You smoked my last cigarette." Her voice was even, but her accent came out stronger than she liked. He'd called her "Frenchie" when they'd first met. She sank down onto the couch beside him, and it creaked even under her negligible weight.
"I had to take a piss..." He shrugged. "They were right there."
Maybe her charm was wearing off. A test: she reached for the rolling papers, the plastic baggie. He took them and rolled her a spliff, deftly. She always made them too loose; her still-elegant fingers always looked incongruous smashing up the buds, sweeping them onto the paper.
She took it from him carefully and placed one end to her lips. He produced the lighter. She inhaled. He still loved her, as much as anyone, Muggle or wizard, ever would.
On the television, one of the teams--she didn't know which and didn't care--scored. The crowd cheered. He jumped up from the couch (which club did he support, anyway?), pumped his fist in the air.
She exhaled.
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The bathwater had gone cold, filled level with the grimy ring that circled the greying porcelain. It was the sort of tub in which a person might wake up, on ice, to find one of his kidneys missing. And that tub was in a bathroom, in a flat, in a part of the city where that sort of thing happened fortnightly. That was the rumor, at any rate.
There was a splash, and the water rippled into motion as the tub's inhabitant awoke with a start. Gabrielle Delacour stared absently up at the ceiling, from which a bare bulb hung, burning a round, black afterimage onto her retinas. It was like looking into the sun.
She didn't blink. Had she been dreaming? No. Or maybe yes. She never remembered. At least the headache wasn't so bad anymore.
The light bulb emitted a dull, droning buzz, and from the other room she could hear the sound of a football match being broadcast on TV. Black and white because they couldn't afford the color license, and so she never could tell one club from the other. She wasn't impressed by the sport, anyway, after Quidditch.
She couldn't tell him about that, though, so she feigned indifference to all athletics instead. It was easy. She'd smiled, and he'd believed everything she'd ever said.
Rising from the tub only as far as necessary, her blonde hair, darkened by the water, plastered itself to her back. She groped along the top of the toilet tank for a pack of cigarettes. The carton felt too light. Empty. "Fuck."
She stood and stepped out of the tub, dripping, and reached through the murky water to pull the plug. The water line didn't budge. The drain was clogged; it would take a few hours.
Rooting around in the clothing piled in the corner, she extracted a pair of knickers and one of his old t-shirts, with the Union Jack silk-screened across the chest. She sniffed the crotch, the armpits of the garments. They'd do.
If only Maman could see her now.
She examined herself in the mirror, hair still dripping, her pale blue eyes accented by the dark circles that never left. She looked like shit.
Out in the other room, though, his eyes lit up. "I thought you'd drowned."
"You smoked my last cigarette." Her voice was even, but her accent came out stronger than she liked. He'd called her "Frenchie" when they'd first met. She sank down onto the couch beside him, and it creaked even under her negligible weight.
"I had to take a piss..." He shrugged. "They were right there."
Maybe her charm was wearing off. A test: she reached for the rolling papers, the plastic baggie. He took them and rolled her a spliff, deftly. She always made them too loose; her still-elegant fingers always looked incongruous smashing up the buds, sweeping them onto the paper.
She took it from him carefully and placed one end to her lips. He produced the lighter. She inhaled. He still loved her, as much as anyone, Muggle or wizard, ever would.
On the television, one of the teams--she didn't know which and didn't care--scored. The crowd cheered. He jumped up from the couch (which club did he support, anyway?), pumped his fist in the air.
She exhaled.