Fic: Pretty In Pink
Pretty In Pink
By minnow_53
Disclaimer: The originals of these characters belong to JK Rowling and various corporations.
Pairing: Remus/Tonks
Summary: Our favourite HP couple go shopping for their wedding!
Rating: PG-13, for use of excessive violence.
Thanks: To astra_argentea for the quick online read-through, and for helping me with a bit of maths.
Warning: Tonks-bashing carried to extremes. If you like her, please don’t read this.
This was specially written for too_old_too_gay: it's posted on my journal and linked to the comm.
Pretty In Pink
Ahhh… It’s Nymphadora Tonks, looking good enough to eat: pink hair, fluffy pink angora jacket, pink bag with poodle motif. She’s cute and girly, she’s with her Remy, and life is brilliant.
She’s puffed up her breasts, so when she wears her new Weird Sisters t-shirt you can only make out the letters WE and RS. Remus nuzzles her and asks, ‘Does that refer to your favourite werewolf, Nymphie-baby?’ and Nymphie rolls her eyes and says, ‘Course not, Remy, love. Were’s got an e, hasn’t it? Stupid!’
They’re shopping for The Wedding. That’s what Nymphie calls it in her head, The Wedding, with a capital T and W.
Up the escalator they go, to the shop of many jewels. These are magic jewels, exquisite and rare: sapphires the size of a bird’s egg, pearls that almost weep in their translucence, rubies bleeding internally in stoic silence…
Nymphie wants a big diamond: a humungous diamond, a diamond weighing so heavy on her finger that she’ll need wheels and a little engine in order to get around. Well, a very large diamond anyway, in a gold setting. That’s just the engagement ring. The wedding ring will be specially forged by the firm of goblins that once forged goblets for the Blacks of Grimmauld Place.
Oh, but wait! A diamond isn’t pink, and Nymphie must have pink! She stamps her tiny foot and wails. She must have a hybrid jewel, a diamond with just the teeniest touch of ruby to colour it beautiful.
Not a cheap date, Nymphie, but so sweet and cuddly and pink. Doesn’t Remy just adore her? Yes, he does. Of course he does.
He doesn’t adore her quite as much when the threatening owls from Gringotts arrive, so now he’s simply stopped opening them. He’s managed to extend the limit on his MagiCard, but all his other sources of income have been frozen. Nymphie blames ‘horrid old cousin Sirius.’
‘He was just using you, Remy! Getting all friendly with you every night, then leaving his money to Harry every morning,’ Nymphie whines. ‘Bad Sirius!’
‘He only left it to Harry once, Nymphie-baby,’ Remus objects.
Nymphie isn’t listening. Now the ring’s been sorted out, she’s darting over to the cake shop. This isn’t any old cake shop, but an exclusive emporium where wizards of discernment order cakes with only the finest ingredients: dates, nuts, spice and raisins sourced from all over the world. Even with a war on, Gatto’s is still doing a roaring trade. There’s a discreet shield on the door: By Appointment to the Lord Voldemort. Seems that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is very partial to lemon torte.
The wedding cake will run to eighteen tiers. ‘Those Weasleys are big eaters, Remy!’ Nymphie squeals. ‘And there are so many of them. Maybe we’ll have a family of our own some day.’ She goes misty-eyed at the thought.
Remus coughs into his handkerchief to disguise his sardonic laugh. ‘Yeah, sure, Nymphie-baby. Anything you like.’
Nymphie earnestly discusses icing with the baker. ‘Pink, Mr Gatto. But it’s got to be the right pink. Use your wand, if you like, but I don’t want even the faintest tang of magic. Otherwise, I’ll send it back and you’ll have to start all over again.’
After the cake come the big guns. Nymphie has flatly refused to wear the traditional white robes, or even pink ones. She’s cried and threatened and screamed and thrown a huge, enormous tantrum. Remus had a headache for days afterwards.
Instead of robes, she's being fitted for the fullest, puffiest, palest pink dress ever. The ten-foot train will be carried by Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood. The skirt is so wide that during the ceremony Remus is going to have to stand about two metres behind the bride. The veil is to be hand-stitched with miniature fairy-lights charmed to flash on and off at ten-second intervals. Nymphie’s hair will be high and sculpted. Her eyes will be very blue.
While she’s discussing the shape of the fairy-lights with the seamstress, Remus drifts into a daydream. In his fantasy, the vicar has just asked if anyone knows any reason why Nymphie and her Remy should not be married, when bang! A thunderbolt crashes through the roof of the church and on to the altar, knocking Nymphie to the ground. A familiar voice bellows, ‘He’s mine, Nymphadora, and you must die!’
He runs through this scenario and similar ones with a little smile on his face. Nymphie, glancing round to check that he’s taking in all the intricacies of her wedding toilette, is pleased that her fiancé looks so happy. So he should. He’s old, poor and dangerous, and jolly lucky to have a lovely and gorgeous girl to cuddle. Not that they’ve done much cuddling, but that’s because her Remy respects her and wants to save himself for marriage.
Talking of which, it’s trousseau time! Not only does Nymphie need new robes and Muggle clothes, but seductive underwear and nightgowns. She has already ordered several books from Flourish and Blotts with titles like How to Please Your Man in Bed, and charged them to Remy’s Magicard. Those were a bit boring, so she’s now waiting for her copy of How to Make Your Man Please You in Bed.
The lingerie shop is right beside the escalator. In the window, figure-hugging sheaths of pixie-woven silk edged with swansdown beckon the eager bride. Nymphie, enraptured, stops to look at the price tag on a nightgown apparently held together only by cobwebs and a Permanent Sticking Charm.
‘Goodness! Fifty Galleons!’ she cries.
Remus steps back. ‘Fifty Galleons? For that? Really, Nymphie-baby, your Remy could conjure you up something a lot more substantial without any trouble at all.’
Nymphie isn’t listening. ‘It’s so cheap! Must be sale prices,’ she decides. ‘You have to buy it for me before it goes up again.’
Remus looks at the nightgown and at Nymphie, imagining her wearing it; imagining their wedding night, and the breasts jutting out - Merlin, she might make them even bigger - and her curvy hips, and every womanly inch of her revealed by a fifty Galleon nightgown.
He takes her hand and pulls her to him, making quite sure that nobody is looking. Quick as a flash, he pushes her down the escalator, and watches with detached interest as her fluffy pink angora jacket catches in the mechanism, hindering her long fall to the marble floor below.
Already, people are shrieking and a crowd has formed where Nymphie lies, her pretty clothes mangled and torn. Remus notes that her body is blocking access to the ice-cream kiosk. Pity. He’d have liked a vanilla cornet to keep him going until dinner.
Before he Apparates home, under cover of the tumult, he peeks to see if her blood is actually pink too.
It isn’t.
End
By minnow_53
Disclaimer: The originals of these characters belong to JK Rowling and various corporations.
Pairing: Remus/Tonks
Summary: Our favourite HP couple go shopping for their wedding!
Rating: PG-13, for use of excessive violence.
Thanks: To astra_argentea for the quick online read-through, and for helping me with a bit of maths.
Warning: Tonks-bashing carried to extremes. If you like her, please don’t read this.
This was specially written for too_old_too_gay: it's posted on my journal and linked to the comm.
Pretty In Pink
Ahhh… It’s Nymphadora Tonks, looking good enough to eat: pink hair, fluffy pink angora jacket, pink bag with poodle motif. She’s cute and girly, she’s with her Remy, and life is brilliant.
She’s puffed up her breasts, so when she wears her new Weird Sisters t-shirt you can only make out the letters WE and RS. Remus nuzzles her and asks, ‘Does that refer to your favourite werewolf, Nymphie-baby?’ and Nymphie rolls her eyes and says, ‘Course not, Remy, love. Were’s got an e, hasn’t it? Stupid!’
They’re shopping for The Wedding. That’s what Nymphie calls it in her head, The Wedding, with a capital T and W.
Up the escalator they go, to the shop of many jewels. These are magic jewels, exquisite and rare: sapphires the size of a bird’s egg, pearls that almost weep in their translucence, rubies bleeding internally in stoic silence…
Nymphie wants a big diamond: a humungous diamond, a diamond weighing so heavy on her finger that she’ll need wheels and a little engine in order to get around. Well, a very large diamond anyway, in a gold setting. That’s just the engagement ring. The wedding ring will be specially forged by the firm of goblins that once forged goblets for the Blacks of Grimmauld Place.
Oh, but wait! A diamond isn’t pink, and Nymphie must have pink! She stamps her tiny foot and wails. She must have a hybrid jewel, a diamond with just the teeniest touch of ruby to colour it beautiful.
Not a cheap date, Nymphie, but so sweet and cuddly and pink. Doesn’t Remy just adore her? Yes, he does. Of course he does.
He doesn’t adore her quite as much when the threatening owls from Gringotts arrive, so now he’s simply stopped opening them. He’s managed to extend the limit on his MagiCard, but all his other sources of income have been frozen. Nymphie blames ‘horrid old cousin Sirius.’
‘He was just using you, Remy! Getting all friendly with you every night, then leaving his money to Harry every morning,’ Nymphie whines. ‘Bad Sirius!’
‘He only left it to Harry once, Nymphie-baby,’ Remus objects.
Nymphie isn’t listening. Now the ring’s been sorted out, she’s darting over to the cake shop. This isn’t any old cake shop, but an exclusive emporium where wizards of discernment order cakes with only the finest ingredients: dates, nuts, spice and raisins sourced from all over the world. Even with a war on, Gatto’s is still doing a roaring trade. There’s a discreet shield on the door: By Appointment to the Lord Voldemort. Seems that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is very partial to lemon torte.
The wedding cake will run to eighteen tiers. ‘Those Weasleys are big eaters, Remy!’ Nymphie squeals. ‘And there are so many of them. Maybe we’ll have a family of our own some day.’ She goes misty-eyed at the thought.
Remus coughs into his handkerchief to disguise his sardonic laugh. ‘Yeah, sure, Nymphie-baby. Anything you like.’
Nymphie earnestly discusses icing with the baker. ‘Pink, Mr Gatto. But it’s got to be the right pink. Use your wand, if you like, but I don’t want even the faintest tang of magic. Otherwise, I’ll send it back and you’ll have to start all over again.’
After the cake come the big guns. Nymphie has flatly refused to wear the traditional white robes, or even pink ones. She’s cried and threatened and screamed and thrown a huge, enormous tantrum. Remus had a headache for days afterwards.
Instead of robes, she's being fitted for the fullest, puffiest, palest pink dress ever. The ten-foot train will be carried by Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood. The skirt is so wide that during the ceremony Remus is going to have to stand about two metres behind the bride. The veil is to be hand-stitched with miniature fairy-lights charmed to flash on and off at ten-second intervals. Nymphie’s hair will be high and sculpted. Her eyes will be very blue.
While she’s discussing the shape of the fairy-lights with the seamstress, Remus drifts into a daydream. In his fantasy, the vicar has just asked if anyone knows any reason why Nymphie and her Remy should not be married, when bang! A thunderbolt crashes through the roof of the church and on to the altar, knocking Nymphie to the ground. A familiar voice bellows, ‘He’s mine, Nymphadora, and you must die!’
He runs through this scenario and similar ones with a little smile on his face. Nymphie, glancing round to check that he’s taking in all the intricacies of her wedding toilette, is pleased that her fiancé looks so happy. So he should. He’s old, poor and dangerous, and jolly lucky to have a lovely and gorgeous girl to cuddle. Not that they’ve done much cuddling, but that’s because her Remy respects her and wants to save himself for marriage.
Talking of which, it’s trousseau time! Not only does Nymphie need new robes and Muggle clothes, but seductive underwear and nightgowns. She has already ordered several books from Flourish and Blotts with titles like How to Please Your Man in Bed, and charged them to Remy’s Magicard. Those were a bit boring, so she’s now waiting for her copy of How to Make Your Man Please You in Bed.
The lingerie shop is right beside the escalator. In the window, figure-hugging sheaths of pixie-woven silk edged with swansdown beckon the eager bride. Nymphie, enraptured, stops to look at the price tag on a nightgown apparently held together only by cobwebs and a Permanent Sticking Charm.
‘Goodness! Fifty Galleons!’ she cries.
Remus steps back. ‘Fifty Galleons? For that? Really, Nymphie-baby, your Remy could conjure you up something a lot more substantial without any trouble at all.’
Nymphie isn’t listening. ‘It’s so cheap! Must be sale prices,’ she decides. ‘You have to buy it for me before it goes up again.’
Remus looks at the nightgown and at Nymphie, imagining her wearing it; imagining their wedding night, and the breasts jutting out - Merlin, she might make them even bigger - and her curvy hips, and every womanly inch of her revealed by a fifty Galleon nightgown.
He takes her hand and pulls her to him, making quite sure that nobody is looking. Quick as a flash, he pushes her down the escalator, and watches with detached interest as her fluffy pink angora jacket catches in the mechanism, hindering her long fall to the marble floor below.
Already, people are shrieking and a crowd has formed where Nymphie lies, her pretty clothes mangled and torn. Remus notes that her body is blocking access to the ice-cream kiosk. Pity. He’d have liked a vanilla cornet to keep him going until dinner.
Before he Apparates home, under cover of the tumult, he peeks to see if her blood is actually pink too.
It isn’t.
End