Ah... writing!!!
ETA" I forgot... I wrote a Remus/Tonks drabble for ljslumberparty this weekend! *waves at new friends* So, here, have a Remus/Tonks drabble...
It didn’t make her nervous, being at Grimmauld Place alone with him-after all, she’d learned enough about werewolves during her training, hadn’t she? Besides, it was the end of his cycle, and he’d probably sleep for days and days.
If she thought otherwise, well, she wouldn’t be wandering about in the halls with just a tee-shirt on, would she? No. Just one last dawn round before crawling back into bed to make sure everything was secure.
Tonks was unprepared for the weight that pushed into her, the arm that anchored around her waist, the way her back was slammed into one of the walls of the dark hallway.
She was unprepared for Remus, newly changed back into his human form, his hair hanging in his eyes, his breath coming in shallow pants.
“What… are you doing?” he ground out, trapping her with a leg between her thighs.
“Just… just rounds, Remus, what do you want?”
“I’ve been curled up on my bed for days, what do you think I want?” He bowed his head and swiped his tongue over her lips, possessive and uncouth, and she felt her knees go weak.
“Oh.”
Yeah, since I slacked all weekend, I figured I could nudge "Consumed" today and see what I got back. I will say Ron and Pans aren't half as fun when they're not together, but... well, we'll see what happens.
There were entirely too many things going on at once for Ron’s comfort. As the sixth child of seven, he’d learned to embrace chaos; as the younger brother of the twins, he’d learned to fear it. Of the two emotions, fear had definitely trumped chaos a long time before. It was simply a survival instinct.
There were vendors selling food-and come to think of it, he was hungry-vendors selling butterbeer and spirits, vendors selling candy, vendors selling only brooms, some selling only broom straws (bit of a waste of time, in Ron’s opinion, everyone knew custom straws were only a vanity), some selling novelty Snitches, other selling lower-grade training Snitches that flew slower than regulation Snitches…
The rows of colorful tents went on and on, and Ron simply couldn’t imagine how he’d been asked to come, or why he hadn’t asked for help.
He felt like he was drowning, and it had only been a few days.
“Excuse me.” The accented voice didn’t catch his attention at first, and he continued to lean his entire torso out the front of his booth, looking down the seemingly endless line of vendors. “Excuse me, sir? Are you Ronald Weasley?”
Ron looked up through his eyelashes, saw the dark-haired woman standing in front of him, and toppled out of the booth. No sooner had he fallen on his prat than she’d reached down to help him up, her grip disconcertingly strong. “I did not mean to disturb you,” she said, trying to hide a smile.
“You’re Evgenia Bezuhov!” He knew he was stating the obvious but couldn’t keep from it. She was the first female Seeker the Vratsa Vultures had played in years, and, much to Hermione’s dismay, Harry hadn’t quite mastered the ability to hide the admiration in his voice when he mentioned her. Ron held out a hand to shake, barely managing not to wince when she gripped his hand tightly.
It was taking everything he had in him not to fumble, not to stammer. It was a big opportunity, having a rising Seeker as a potential buyer. It was, after all, the whole reason he’d come here.
Certainly he hadn’t left home for any personal reasons.
“Who sent you?” he asked, making his way around the booth and back into it, where he felt a little more at ease.
“A friend of yours. He says he cannot play if you have not equipped him.”
“Harry,” Ron answered with a grin. “He speaks highly of you.” And well he should, Ron thought. She looked almost too small to be playing for the Bulgarians, built like Harry was built-only a bit more womanly, Ron thought, making sure to keep his eyes on her face-small, slight, and sleek.
“And he of you.”
They talked shop for a few minutes, dickering over the price of a set of lined gauntlets for the colder games sometimes played in the northern reaches of Russia.
“Throw in a signed photographed for the poor man, and he’ll call it even.”
Ron closed his eyes and barely restrained a sigh at the new clerk he had standing behind him. “Fred,” he said through his teeth.
“Done!” Evgenia said triumphantly, digging in her bag and flashing a toothy grin at the new redhead. She laid her money on the counter and Fred handed her a quill, leaning over the counter conspiratorially.
“Could you make it out to Ron? He so rarely gets the attention of such a lovely lady.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like one yourself… Fred, was it?”
“Quite certain,” the twin answered. He took the money, handed the photograph to an astounded Ron, and gave her accurate change without so much as looking at the till. “Nice to meet you, love!” he said, dropping her a wink as she walked away.
“I don’t know whether to be brassed off that you just undercut the price I was attempting to stick to, glad that you showed up to help, embarrassed that you made her leave a signed photo, or amazed that you even know how to count.”
“I should bloody well think so,” Fred said. “’swhat I do for a living, isn’t it?”
“Usually only with the other half of your brain around.” Ron looked around his temporary shop, assessing how much would be lost if, say, Fred had something on him that would explode.
He’d simply have to trust him for now.
“Gin said you’d come, thought you’d need a bit of a hand. She’s turning into Mum, that one, all worries and nags and ‘Merlin’s sake, Fred, why aren’t you married yet?’” Fred and Ron shuddered in unison. “Anyway, she said you shot out of there a few days ago with hardly so much as a ‘see you later,’ so she dwelt on it. Typical woman.”
“Typical woman,” Ron repeated, wishing like hell his brother hadn’t brought up his departure. He’d not handled things as well as he could have, and a few days alone in a tent in the middle of nowhere had given him time to think about it. So he’d thought about that and that alone-the way he’d left his sister and her new husband, not the way he’d left Pansy. That part didn’t particularly bear thinking on, he supposed. What was done was done, and by the time he got back, she’d be happily hanging her pointed hat at the home of another wizard, or witch, and he could get back to the comfort of routine.
In the meanwhile, he had a buffer.
“You’re not staying in my tent,” he said warily, eyeing his older brother.
“I’m not staying at all, little brother.” Fred started rearranging displays, tweaking things here and there. “I just stopped by to take the mickey out of you and report back to Mini-Mum that you were making it along all right. Of course, that will be a fib, but it’ll be between us, eh?”
“Wanker,” Ron said, grinning crookedly at Fred. “Go home. Find the other half of your brain.”
“Rather lose a half of my brain than half of my-”
“Go!” Ron shouted, afraid if Fred stayed much longer, he’d be stuck with him, and just as afraid he’d be okay with that.
He held the autographed photograph in his hands, chuckling at the pretty Seeker in her orange robes, her hair loose and her broom in one hand. Occasionally, she would jump and take a swat at the Snitch flying just above and around her head. “I guess I’ll have to find a spot for this.”
“I’ve a few suggestions,” Fred piped up, looking over Ron’s shoulder.
“Aren’t you gone yet?” He picked up his wand, though he didn’t at all intend to cross wands with his trickster brother, and before he could even pretend he was going to hex Fred, the twin had Disapparated with a ‘pop’ not half as loud as his voice.
~~~
Hell had frozen over. Merlin’s dungeons had sprouted flowers. The Chudley Cannons had won the league.
In short, Draco thought, all things impossible had come to pass.
He had lived to see the day Pansy Parkinson arrived to work before him.
Relishing the opportunity, Draco stood in her doorway, trying to find a comfortable position in which to lounge in her doorway. She always seemed to slink against the doorframe, making it look bloody easy. Having a jamb thrust into one’s shoulder wasn’t, he thought, the best way to start out one’s day.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, enjoying the shock on her face as she jumped, eyes wide. “Startled? Now you know how I felt when I saw you’d arrived before me.”
Pansy fought the flush that wanted to steal over her cheeks; she had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. “Well, what can I say?” she said, leaning back in her chair and trailing the blood-red feather atop her quill over her throat and to the dip in her jacket. “I’ve had a good few days. I’m feeling very… energetic.” Fueled by anger, by offense, was the more accurate term, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Much as she hated to think of it, Draco was now related to Ron Weasley.
For all that, though, Draco might have killed him, anyway, if she’d only ask.
But Pansy preferred to mete out punishment herself.
She’d been into work early for the past several mornings, and stayed late. Luckily for her, Draco hadn’t noticed before now, blissfully tied up in matrimony as he was.
She had bribed the secretaries not to tell him. If they’d thought her mad before, they had written her off as hopeless now.
Draco raised an eyebrow right back at her and barely kept himself from telling her what he knew-that she’d been an uncharacteristically good little worker bee, an early riser and a late retiree. And for some odd reason, other than Pansy’s usual weirdness, she’d seen fit to go out of her way to hide it from him.
His barrister had clearly underestimated his employee loyalty.
“My wife wants you to come by for tea today,” he said finally, the urge to prove her wrong momentarily gone.
“Fantastic,” Pansy said, licking her lips. “I always like something a little sweet around lunchtime.” At his glower, she smirked. “You’re so easy, darling.” When he returned her smirk, she relaxed, her mind racing over the possibilities of why Ginny would want to see her for tea. They’d never been quite so casual before.
“If that isn’t the cauldron calling the kettle black, Parkinson, I don’t know what is.” He watched her carefully, her gestures, the evil glint that had flickered in those cobalt eyes before she’d made the requisite lewd comment about Ginny.
He didn’t care what his witch said, Pansy seemed perfectly fine to him. Hippogriff-headed Gryffindor thought a few days of long hours at work meant something was amiss.
Draco figured it meant something was finally right in the frightening place that was Pansy’s brain.
“Any particular reason she wants me over for tea?” Pansy finally asked, finding no way around it, short of asking ‘Does your wife know I shagged her brother?’
“So she can talk about her shoes to someone who knows what the bloody hell she’s talking about?” Draco asked, summoning a stack of parchments off her desk to shift through. Daft witch. It was like she grew softer the farther from Hogwarts she grew. Did she honestly think he’d be honest with her? She would be walking right into a trap at tea, a concerned, solicitous, beautiful trap with a head of red hair.
And, Draco thought, as long as Pansy was listening to Ginny worry about her, Ginny was happy, and Draco figured the least he could do was keep Ginny happy.
She was a very frightening witch when unhappy, he thought, recalling keenly being thrust through a Floo into her parents’ home.
“Well,” Pansy said, sauntering toward him with deceptive languor, jerking the parchments out of his hand, “As long as you’re not loath to leave me alone with the little woman, perhaps I can finally find out if you’re any good in bed.”
A lazy smile spread over his features and he turned his back on her, headed to his office. He’d finished his spousal duties, now he could get to work. “You could have asked me, Parkinson. I’m bloody fantastic.”
It didn’t make her nervous, being at Grimmauld Place alone with him-after all, she’d learned enough about werewolves during her training, hadn’t she? Besides, it was the end of his cycle, and he’d probably sleep for days and days.
If she thought otherwise, well, she wouldn’t be wandering about in the halls with just a tee-shirt on, would she? No. Just one last dawn round before crawling back into bed to make sure everything was secure.
Tonks was unprepared for the weight that pushed into her, the arm that anchored around her waist, the way her back was slammed into one of the walls of the dark hallway.
She was unprepared for Remus, newly changed back into his human form, his hair hanging in his eyes, his breath coming in shallow pants.
“What… are you doing?” he ground out, trapping her with a leg between her thighs.
“Just… just rounds, Remus, what do you want?”
“I’ve been curled up on my bed for days, what do you think I want?” He bowed his head and swiped his tongue over her lips, possessive and uncouth, and she felt her knees go weak.
“Oh.”
Yeah, since I slacked all weekend, I figured I could nudge "Consumed" today and see what I got back. I will say Ron and Pans aren't half as fun when they're not together, but... well, we'll see what happens.
There were entirely too many things going on at once for Ron’s comfort. As the sixth child of seven, he’d learned to embrace chaos; as the younger brother of the twins, he’d learned to fear it. Of the two emotions, fear had definitely trumped chaos a long time before. It was simply a survival instinct.
There were vendors selling food-and come to think of it, he was hungry-vendors selling butterbeer and spirits, vendors selling candy, vendors selling only brooms, some selling only broom straws (bit of a waste of time, in Ron’s opinion, everyone knew custom straws were only a vanity), some selling novelty Snitches, other selling lower-grade training Snitches that flew slower than regulation Snitches…
The rows of colorful tents went on and on, and Ron simply couldn’t imagine how he’d been asked to come, or why he hadn’t asked for help.
He felt like he was drowning, and it had only been a few days.
“Excuse me.” The accented voice didn’t catch his attention at first, and he continued to lean his entire torso out the front of his booth, looking down the seemingly endless line of vendors. “Excuse me, sir? Are you Ronald Weasley?”
Ron looked up through his eyelashes, saw the dark-haired woman standing in front of him, and toppled out of the booth. No sooner had he fallen on his prat than she’d reached down to help him up, her grip disconcertingly strong. “I did not mean to disturb you,” she said, trying to hide a smile.
“You’re Evgenia Bezuhov!” He knew he was stating the obvious but couldn’t keep from it. She was the first female Seeker the Vratsa Vultures had played in years, and, much to Hermione’s dismay, Harry hadn’t quite mastered the ability to hide the admiration in his voice when he mentioned her. Ron held out a hand to shake, barely managing not to wince when she gripped his hand tightly.
It was taking everything he had in him not to fumble, not to stammer. It was a big opportunity, having a rising Seeker as a potential buyer. It was, after all, the whole reason he’d come here.
Certainly he hadn’t left home for any personal reasons.
“Who sent you?” he asked, making his way around the booth and back into it, where he felt a little more at ease.
“A friend of yours. He says he cannot play if you have not equipped him.”
“Harry,” Ron answered with a grin. “He speaks highly of you.” And well he should, Ron thought. She looked almost too small to be playing for the Bulgarians, built like Harry was built-only a bit more womanly, Ron thought, making sure to keep his eyes on her face-small, slight, and sleek.
“And he of you.”
They talked shop for a few minutes, dickering over the price of a set of lined gauntlets for the colder games sometimes played in the northern reaches of Russia.
“Throw in a signed photographed for the poor man, and he’ll call it even.”
Ron closed his eyes and barely restrained a sigh at the new clerk he had standing behind him. “Fred,” he said through his teeth.
“Done!” Evgenia said triumphantly, digging in her bag and flashing a toothy grin at the new redhead. She laid her money on the counter and Fred handed her a quill, leaning over the counter conspiratorially.
“Could you make it out to Ron? He so rarely gets the attention of such a lovely lady.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like one yourself… Fred, was it?”
“Quite certain,” the twin answered. He took the money, handed the photograph to an astounded Ron, and gave her accurate change without so much as looking at the till. “Nice to meet you, love!” he said, dropping her a wink as she walked away.
“I don’t know whether to be brassed off that you just undercut the price I was attempting to stick to, glad that you showed up to help, embarrassed that you made her leave a signed photo, or amazed that you even know how to count.”
“I should bloody well think so,” Fred said. “’swhat I do for a living, isn’t it?”
“Usually only with the other half of your brain around.” Ron looked around his temporary shop, assessing how much would be lost if, say, Fred had something on him that would explode.
He’d simply have to trust him for now.
“Gin said you’d come, thought you’d need a bit of a hand. She’s turning into Mum, that one, all worries and nags and ‘Merlin’s sake, Fred, why aren’t you married yet?’” Fred and Ron shuddered in unison. “Anyway, she said you shot out of there a few days ago with hardly so much as a ‘see you later,’ so she dwelt on it. Typical woman.”
“Typical woman,” Ron repeated, wishing like hell his brother hadn’t brought up his departure. He’d not handled things as well as he could have, and a few days alone in a tent in the middle of nowhere had given him time to think about it. So he’d thought about that and that alone-the way he’d left his sister and her new husband, not the way he’d left Pansy. That part didn’t particularly bear thinking on, he supposed. What was done was done, and by the time he got back, she’d be happily hanging her pointed hat at the home of another wizard, or witch, and he could get back to the comfort of routine.
In the meanwhile, he had a buffer.
“You’re not staying in my tent,” he said warily, eyeing his older brother.
“I’m not staying at all, little brother.” Fred started rearranging displays, tweaking things here and there. “I just stopped by to take the mickey out of you and report back to Mini-Mum that you were making it along all right. Of course, that will be a fib, but it’ll be between us, eh?”
“Wanker,” Ron said, grinning crookedly at Fred. “Go home. Find the other half of your brain.”
“Rather lose a half of my brain than half of my-”
“Go!” Ron shouted, afraid if Fred stayed much longer, he’d be stuck with him, and just as afraid he’d be okay with that.
He held the autographed photograph in his hands, chuckling at the pretty Seeker in her orange robes, her hair loose and her broom in one hand. Occasionally, she would jump and take a swat at the Snitch flying just above and around her head. “I guess I’ll have to find a spot for this.”
“I’ve a few suggestions,” Fred piped up, looking over Ron’s shoulder.
“Aren’t you gone yet?” He picked up his wand, though he didn’t at all intend to cross wands with his trickster brother, and before he could even pretend he was going to hex Fred, the twin had Disapparated with a ‘pop’ not half as loud as his voice.
~~~
Hell had frozen over. Merlin’s dungeons had sprouted flowers. The Chudley Cannons had won the league.
In short, Draco thought, all things impossible had come to pass.
He had lived to see the day Pansy Parkinson arrived to work before him.
Relishing the opportunity, Draco stood in her doorway, trying to find a comfortable position in which to lounge in her doorway. She always seemed to slink against the doorframe, making it look bloody easy. Having a jamb thrust into one’s shoulder wasn’t, he thought, the best way to start out one’s day.
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, enjoying the shock on her face as she jumped, eyes wide. “Startled? Now you know how I felt when I saw you’d arrived before me.”
Pansy fought the flush that wanted to steal over her cheeks; she had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. “Well, what can I say?” she said, leaning back in her chair and trailing the blood-red feather atop her quill over her throat and to the dip in her jacket. “I’ve had a good few days. I’m feeling very… energetic.” Fueled by anger, by offense, was the more accurate term, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Much as she hated to think of it, Draco was now related to Ron Weasley.
For all that, though, Draco might have killed him, anyway, if she’d only ask.
But Pansy preferred to mete out punishment herself.
She’d been into work early for the past several mornings, and stayed late. Luckily for her, Draco hadn’t noticed before now, blissfully tied up in matrimony as he was.
She had bribed the secretaries not to tell him. If they’d thought her mad before, they had written her off as hopeless now.
Draco raised an eyebrow right back at her and barely kept himself from telling her what he knew-that she’d been an uncharacteristically good little worker bee, an early riser and a late retiree. And for some odd reason, other than Pansy’s usual weirdness, she’d seen fit to go out of her way to hide it from him.
His barrister had clearly underestimated his employee loyalty.
“My wife wants you to come by for tea today,” he said finally, the urge to prove her wrong momentarily gone.
“Fantastic,” Pansy said, licking her lips. “I always like something a little sweet around lunchtime.” At his glower, she smirked. “You’re so easy, darling.” When he returned her smirk, she relaxed, her mind racing over the possibilities of why Ginny would want to see her for tea. They’d never been quite so casual before.
“If that isn’t the cauldron calling the kettle black, Parkinson, I don’t know what is.” He watched her carefully, her gestures, the evil glint that had flickered in those cobalt eyes before she’d made the requisite lewd comment about Ginny.
He didn’t care what his witch said, Pansy seemed perfectly fine to him. Hippogriff-headed Gryffindor thought a few days of long hours at work meant something was amiss.
Draco figured it meant something was finally right in the frightening place that was Pansy’s brain.
“Any particular reason she wants me over for tea?” Pansy finally asked, finding no way around it, short of asking ‘Does your wife know I shagged her brother?’
“So she can talk about her shoes to someone who knows what the bloody hell she’s talking about?” Draco asked, summoning a stack of parchments off her desk to shift through. Daft witch. It was like she grew softer the farther from Hogwarts she grew. Did she honestly think he’d be honest with her? She would be walking right into a trap at tea, a concerned, solicitous, beautiful trap with a head of red hair.
And, Draco thought, as long as Pansy was listening to Ginny worry about her, Ginny was happy, and Draco figured the least he could do was keep Ginny happy.
She was a very frightening witch when unhappy, he thought, recalling keenly being thrust through a Floo into her parents’ home.
“Well,” Pansy said, sauntering toward him with deceptive languor, jerking the parchments out of his hand, “As long as you’re not loath to leave me alone with the little woman, perhaps I can finally find out if you’re any good in bed.”
A lazy smile spread over his features and he turned his back on her, headed to his office. He’d finished his spousal duties, now he could get to work. “You could have asked me, Parkinson. I’m bloody fantastic.”