Unlikely Neighbors
I'm going to lead with the randoms before I get to the ficage.
So, I am 3/4 of the way done with my hp_kinkfest entry. (Who has no life? *raises hand*) And I have decided that my goal is to wrap this one up ASAP, so that I can claim another and write some Albus/Gellert. I'm having a serious relapse into my adoration of their canon-ness.
And... I've just realized that I still haven't posted the challenge for crossgendrabble . I shall awkwardly go do that now.
Annnnd... to the fic.
Title: Unlikely Neighbors
Words: 499 (Phew!)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Charlie/Narcissa
Warnings: EWE
A/N: I am so proud of this drabble. Just. I love this. Also... three weeks in a row... I'm getting that awkward feeling again. *sigh*
She does it for the money, for the stinking, God-only-knows-where-it’s-been Muggle money.
But then again, she hasn’t thought about it that way for years.
She took the job for the money, as previously described. The class wanted a nude model, but Narcissa, far too embarrassed, stays naked under this disgusting sack of maroon drapery and lets them draw her every Tuesday and Thursday for the last three years.
She hardly thinks about Lucius and Draco anymore, wasting away in Azkaban.
Granted, her flat is tiny, and she’s spent the last three Christmases alone with a can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti-and-meatballs, but it’s the kind of life that real people live, and, to be honest, it has its moments.
This Christmas is to be much the same; Narcissa hoists the bursting paper bag higher in her arms and scrambles in her pocket for the key to her flat. The bag is full of detergent and canned pasta, including ravioli filled with some sort of ground beef.
Chef Boyardee products taste nothing like pheasant, but Narcissa likes them.
But today, several days before Christmas, there is a break in the routine. As Narcissa rounds the corner, key successfully dug from her pocket, there is a man attempting to open the door to her flat.
He has his key in the lock and is wiggling it frantically, cursing with a mouth fit for a sailor. He looks up after a moment and sees her watching, and his cheeks turn the color of his hair, a rich, blazing red.
“This is your flat, isn’t it?” he says quietly. Narcissa nods.
“Well,” the man says. “I suppose that would explain why my key isn’t working.” He takes an awkward step to the left and inserts his key into the lock of the neighboring door.
“What are you doing here?” Narcissa asks. She knows this man. This is Charlie Weasley, the one who works with the dragons and is sometimes in the paper. He looks good, she finds herself thinking.
“I could ask you the same thing, Mrs. Malfoy,” he says, finally pushing his door open.
“Miss Black,” she corrects, and Charlie’s eyebrows shoot into his hair. “For all intents and purposes,” she adds.
Charlie regards her cooly, halfway into his own flat. “I’m taking a break this year, from everything. I want to do something with a little more… finesse.”
“Ah,” she says, inserting her key into the lock.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Charlie asks suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“Because I think that I would like to give you some bravery,” he adds.
They stare at each other, doors to their flats open, awkward neighbors under strange circumstances.
“Think about it,” he says, and the door slams shut.
But tomorrow, when she is wrapped in the unsightly maroon fabric, she glances out over the class from her pedestal and sees him: Charlie Weasley, charcoal in hand. Happy Christmas, he mouths.
And Narcissa Malfoy drops the fabric, which is suddenly unnecessary, to the floor.
So, I am 3/4 of the way done with my hp_kinkfest entry. (Who has no life? *raises hand*) And I have decided that my goal is to wrap this one up ASAP, so that I can claim another and write some Albus/Gellert. I'm having a serious relapse into my adoration of their canon-ness.
And... I've just realized that I still haven't posted the challenge for crossgendrabble . I shall awkwardly go do that now.
Annnnd... to the fic.
Title: Unlikely Neighbors
Words: 499 (Phew!)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Charlie/Narcissa
Warnings: EWE
A/N: I am so proud of this drabble. Just. I love this. Also... three weeks in a row... I'm getting that awkward feeling again. *sigh*
She does it for the money, for the stinking, God-only-knows-where-it’s-been Muggle money.
But then again, she hasn’t thought about it that way for years.
She took the job for the money, as previously described. The class wanted a nude model, but Narcissa, far too embarrassed, stays naked under this disgusting sack of maroon drapery and lets them draw her every Tuesday and Thursday for the last three years.
She hardly thinks about Lucius and Draco anymore, wasting away in Azkaban.
Granted, her flat is tiny, and she’s spent the last three Christmases alone with a can of Chef Boyardee spaghetti-and-meatballs, but it’s the kind of life that real people live, and, to be honest, it has its moments.
This Christmas is to be much the same; Narcissa hoists the bursting paper bag higher in her arms and scrambles in her pocket for the key to her flat. The bag is full of detergent and canned pasta, including ravioli filled with some sort of ground beef.
Chef Boyardee products taste nothing like pheasant, but Narcissa likes them.
But today, several days before Christmas, there is a break in the routine. As Narcissa rounds the corner, key successfully dug from her pocket, there is a man attempting to open the door to her flat.
He has his key in the lock and is wiggling it frantically, cursing with a mouth fit for a sailor. He looks up after a moment and sees her watching, and his cheeks turn the color of his hair, a rich, blazing red.
“This is your flat, isn’t it?” he says quietly. Narcissa nods.
“Well,” the man says. “I suppose that would explain why my key isn’t working.” He takes an awkward step to the left and inserts his key into the lock of the neighboring door.
“What are you doing here?” Narcissa asks. She knows this man. This is Charlie Weasley, the one who works with the dragons and is sometimes in the paper. He looks good, she finds herself thinking.
“I could ask you the same thing, Mrs. Malfoy,” he says, finally pushing his door open.
“Miss Black,” she corrects, and Charlie’s eyebrows shoot into his hair. “For all intents and purposes,” she adds.
Charlie regards her cooly, halfway into his own flat. “I’m taking a break this year, from everything. I want to do something with a little more… finesse.”
“Ah,” she says, inserting her key into the lock.
“What do you want for Christmas?” Charlie asks suddenly.
“Excuse me?”
“Because I think that I would like to give you some bravery,” he adds.
They stare at each other, doors to their flats open, awkward neighbors under strange circumstances.
“Think about it,” he says, and the door slams shut.
But tomorrow, when she is wrapped in the unsightly maroon fabric, she glances out over the class from her pedestal and sees him: Charlie Weasley, charcoal in hand. Happy Christmas, he mouths.
And Narcissa Malfoy drops the fabric, which is suddenly unnecessary, to the floor.