Drabble dump - I haven't done one of these in a while.
I've got a folder full of bits and pieces that need to be trashed because they aren't going anywhere. But I've decided to torture y'all with them, instead.
Also? It's already Thursday. WHERE HAS MY SPRING BREAK GONE?
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HP I
Something for a challenge fic that I ended up scrapping.
Some days, Hermione Granger really hated her job.
“A secretary,” she said mournfully, staring down into her empty pint glass. “Do I look like a secretary to you?”
The corners of Ginny Weasley’s mouth twitched. “Do you really want me to answer that?” she asked, before signalling to Tom. The wizened old man nodded even as he deftly conjured up a fresh round for the two women who’d been sitting in the corner booth of the Leaky Cauldron since dusk. Two hours, a basket of chips, five rounds, and a particularly well-cast Muffliato charm later, the conversation had turned, inevitably, to work.
Hermione was too busy burrowing her head in her arms to notice the way Tom raised his eyebrows at Ginny as he deposited the newest round on their table. The redhead merely grinned and shrugged in a rueful sort of way.
“A secretary!” Hermione yelped suddenly, banging her fist on the table, which caused a bit of her beer to slosh over the sides of the glass.
“Look, Hermione,” Ginny said soothingly, gingerly reaching over to pull both glasses towards herself. “I’m sure it won’t be all that bad.”
Hermione glared at her friend. “I have to pose as a secretary, Gin,” she said slowly. “A secretary to Draco Malfoy.”
Ginny raised her own glass to her lips, pausing to look thoughtfully over the rim at the other woman. “Well, at least he can afford to get you a really nice desk.” It was only her quick reflexes, honed from years of playing Quidditch and Auror training, that saved her from taking a spare chip to the forehead.
-
“No, Hermione,” came Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep, slow-as-molasses voice, even before she had opened her mouth to speak. “I am not taking you off of this case.”
In hindsight, it was probably more than just a little bit childish, but - Hermione stamped her foot. “I’ve got real work to do, Kingsley, I don’t need to be babysitting anyone while I’m at it. This sort of thing isn’t even in my line of work!”
Kingsley sighed and pushed aside the parchment he’d been poring over. He motioned for Hermione to sit down, but she merely glared even harder. Sighing again, he sat back in his chair and surveyed the young witch in front of him. “You’re the only person who knows as much as you do about contemporary Muggle technology, Hermione,” he said with a deep frown. “The entity known only as Seven requested that we extract you from the Department of Mysteries and employ you in the same way that we would one of our own Aurors. You are to infiltrate Draco Malfoy’s corporation. Discover the source of the breach in his security. Contain that source and we’ll take over from there. Any Aurors that are familiar with the Muggle world are busy elsewhere. The rest would find it most difficult to integrate themselves with the specific culture of the Malfoy Corporation. Besides, the secrecy that surrounds you due to your status as an Unspeakable means that nobody outside of this Ministry is aware that you are anything other than a regular, upstanding citizen.”
Hermione groaned. “There’s really no way that I can reason my way out of this one, is there?”
Kingsley smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, we could ensure that you’re provided with an excellent desk.”
-
“So let me get this straight,” Harry Potter said, two hours, a basket of chips, five rounds, and a particularly well-cast Muffliato charm later. “Someone’s been tampering with Malfoy Corporation’s products?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, picking up her pint glass.
“And this poses a threat to national security? Because, I mean, people will start to die if the products continue to malfunction.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re meant to uncover this someone?”
“Yes.”
“By acting as Malfoy’s secretary.”
“Yes,” Hermione said, glaring at the bottom of her pint glass.
Harry took a sip from his own pint, eyes thoughtful behind his glasses. “Do you at least get your own desk?”
Hermione reached for the chips.
-
“Who is this Seven, anyway?” Hermione grumbled the next morning, over breakfast with the youngest Weasley siblings.
“I hear he’s a right bastard to deal with,” Ron Weasley mumbled around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“Isn’t he the head of all intelligence operations?” Ginny said, cradling a mug of tea between her hands. “Which makes him the ultimate head of both the Auror and DoM divisions.”
“And nobody knows who he is, what he looks like, nothing,” Ron chimed in, reaching over the table to spear a bit of Hermione’s bacon on his fork. “He’s the Secret Keeper of his own identity.”
“Why must it be a he?” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “For all you know, it could very well be a woman.”
Ginny grinned. “She’s got some balls, then.”
-
HP II
More something for a challenge fic that I ended up scrapping.
The blond gentleman’s long, lean lines were currently enfolded within a high-backed leather chair, and slim fingers reached up to ignite a cigarette, the silver of the lighter gleaming in the low light. In the hushed silence that dominated the Phoenix’s tearoom and made it a favourite hideaway spot of those members of London’s Wizarding elite who valued their privacy more than the limelight, he was able to hear her arrival before he even saw her. He’d recognize her walk anywhere, and he grinned slightly to himself as her stiletto heels tapped out a jaunty rhythm on the marble tiles.
“Late as always, Gin,” he drawled as he rose up out of his seat to brush a kiss over the petite redhead’s cheek. Ginny Weasley merely grinned at her old friend in a rakish sort of way.
“You’re looking well,” she observed, taking in the well-cut dark suit, the deceptively simple watch that sat elegantly on a wrist, the neatly trimmed, slightly tousled hair.
“I picked up a few tricks in New York,” Draco Malfoy replied dryly, motioning for Ginny to take the seat across from him.
“It’s been four years since you’ve been in the country,” Ginny said, studying her friend with an intent gaze. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”
“I didn’t think so either,” Draco said frankly, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette. The smoke rose up to curl itself sinuously around him.
“I heard about your parents, the accident in France,” Ginny said softly. “Are you - ”
“I’m fine,” Draco cut in, the faint trace of a smirk ghosting over his lips to take the edge off of his words. “It’s why I’m back, actually. The manor in Wiltshire has been empty for three years. I figure it’s time for me to sort a few things out here.”
Ginny nodded, looking thoughtful. “Are you moving back in?”
“No,” Draco answered, “I’m staying in a room here. But I’ll be using the office there while I put everything in order.”
Ginny made a face. “The Phoenix, Wizarding London’s seven-star hotel. Stuffy bunch of bastards.”
Draco laughed. “Only the best for a Malfoy, of course.”
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Ginny said with a happy sigh. “I’ve missed you, and now you can go back to torturing Ron. He’s getting soft in his old age. Twenty-two, and already he’s letting the stardom get to his head.”
Draco grimaced. “Let’s not ruin our reunion with talk about the Weasel. Much as it pains me to ask, I feel that as your friend I’m obligated to do so. How are you and Four-Eyes?”
“Oh, Four-Eyes is doing just great,” Ginny said, voice nonchalant. “We’re happy, but we’re taking it slow, what with our careers and everything.”
“Which translates into the two of you shagging like a couple of demented rabbits on your Ministry-provided desks.”
“You know it,” Ginny replied cheerfully, without missing a beat.
“No matter how long I go away, some things never change,” Draco said in a mournful tone.
-
“Ah, Hermione, there you are,” Padma Patil said, leaning against the doorframe of her subordinate’s office. “I was wondering if I could have a word?”
“Of course,” Hermione Granger answered, setting down her quill and motioning for the other woman to enter and take a seat. She brushed a wayward lock of brunette hair out of her face and smiled at her friend. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve just been informed of an excellent opportunity to expand the museum’s exhibits enormously.” The head of the Department of Magical Culture leaned forward, an excited gleam in her eye. “And you’re the only person I trust with a job of this magnitude.”
“Tell me more,” Hermione said, interest piqued.
-
“So, how are things going in the Museum of Magical Fine Arts, Ms Curator?” Ron Weasley mumbled around a mouthful of sausage.
Hermione smiled at Tom as the old wizard placed her dinner before her and shuffled off. She merely rolled her eyes when Harry Potter reached across the table to spear a bit of her food. The three of them had been coming to the Leaky Cauldron for dinner at least once a week since they’d left Hogwarts. Hermione enjoyed these nights immensely - it was so rare that they got to see each other these days, what with Ron’s Quidditch training, Harry’s Auror duties, and her own work at the museum. “Things are wonderful,” she said enthusiastically. “I’m about to start on an exciting new project that will hopefully elevate the museum to another level entirely.”
“What’s that, Hermione?” Harry asked, eyes curious behind his glasses. Ron, for his part, never took his eyes off of his food, although he did nod in Hermione’s general direction.
“Well,” Hermione said, “a scion of an ancient, wealthy family is opening his home to our department - apparently he’s allowing us to take possession of everything, provided we want to take on the task of cataloguing every single item in the manor.” Hermione’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Imagine all the amazing objects I’ll find.”
“Whose manor is it?” Harry asked, an entirely too innocent expression on his face.
Hermione groaned. “Ginny’s told you already, hasn’t she?” Harry just laughed.
Ron looked from one friend to the other, brow furrowed. “Ginny has a manor?” he asked, a chip halfway to his mouth.
“No, you prat,” Harry laughed, reaching over to take the chip out of his friend’s fingers. Ron gave out an undignified yelp and dived at Harry.
Hermione shook her head with an indulgent smile as she took in the spectacle unfolding before her eyes. “I’ll be working with Draco Malfoy,” she said to the combined mass of tangled limbs, causing Ron to whip his head around, eyes wide, which left room for a triumphant Harry to grab the rest of his chips.
Ron sat back in his seat, looking deep in thought. Harry and Hermione glanced at each other with worried looks on both their faces, fully expecting their friend to erupt at any moment.
“Draco Malfoy,” Ron said slowly, drawing out the syllables. “Draco bloody Malfoy.” A minute passed. And then he shrugged and picked up his fork again.
“What, that’s it?” Hermione said, eyeing her friend warily. “You’re not going to try to prevent me from working with him? Not going to make threats against his life? Not going to cause a scene in general?”
“Well,” Ron said, a sly grin beginning to appear on his face. “I’m with Pansy Parkinson now. I win.”
Harry shook his head sadly at his dinner plate.
“Boys,” Hermione huffed.
-
Narnia I
Edmund's thoughts on Narnia, England, & Calormen. Written for a challenge, ended up scrapping it when I couldn't get it to go anywhere - I was looking for something that was in the same universe as 'Secret Places of the Sun'.
There’s a sort of freedom in Narnia that Edmund’s never seen anywhere else. It isn’t unusual - far from it - to grant an audience to a badger immediately after seeing a human. To ride in the country and see a dryad conversing with a centaur. Lucy is fast friends with every creature that draws breath and calls itself a Narnian, often forgoing sleeping in Cair Paravel in favour of joining her friends in late-night feasts and revels. Susan trains every day with the kingdom’s band of archers, cheeks smudged with dirt, grins full of the flush of success and an easy camaraderie. Peter, of course, is often seen touring the grounds, head bent low as he walks in order to better hear what the captains of his army - all leopards - have to say.
Edmund sits in meetings with the faun Tumnus, one of his most trusted advisers, and he thinks fleetingly of what could possibly be happening back in England - of the propaganda posters pasted on the sides of every building, of the messages that pour forth from the wireless, shadowed with a certain diction and full of insinuations that only seem to be permissible in a time of war.
In Calormen, Edmund’s sharp eyes take in the way the gold cuffs on the royal servants flash bright and gold in the sun. He notes the deadened look in the eyes that peek out of the slum’s darkened alleys, the way the poor scatter in the dusty streets when threatened by the whips of the soldiers.
Edmund notices, too, the way the youngest daughter of the Tisroc has to avert her eyes slightly if she speaks to him in the presence of others, even if her cheeks are dimpled mischievously.
“Don’t you ever feel trapped?” Edmund asks her, one day after she has taken him on a tour of the royal palace. He is aware the entire time of the Calormen guards who follow at a discreet distance.
-
Narnia II
I had this fantastic image in my head of exactly where I wanted this to go - only I didn't have the time to make it do all those things. Le sigh. Maybe I'll finish it someday.
It starts with a day at the pool.
“Come on, Lu,” Edmund says one morning, sitting in the parlour. He’s drumming his fingers on the windowsill, face turned eagerly towards the sky in the hopes that a wayward breeze might find its way into the room. It’s already shaping up to be an unnaturally hot day in England - Lucy’s sitting on the floor with a book open on her lap, but she’s more focused at the moment on fanning herself with one of Susan’s old magazines.
“Come on where, Ed?” Lucy asks, looking over at her brother. Edmund smiles in a way she rarely gets to see these days, and she can’t help but smile back.
“Remember when mum used to take us to the YMCA on weekends?” Edmund asks, standing up and extending a hand towards her. “Well, why don’t we go for a swim?”
-
There’s a YMCA centre not too far from where they live, and so they decide to walk, both pleased and irritated to find that it seems to be cooler outdoors than in.
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Narnia III
Something I started writing for a challenge, but scrapped - though I quite like this, I dunno.
One of his earliest memories of Narnia has always been and will always be of her. To this day he can recall the taste of that Turkish Delight on his tongue - sticky and sweet, but cloyingly so. He was too young to realise it at the time, but now he knows what that taste was. It was the taste of a terrible power edged in decay and laced with desperation.
Years later, his mum will arrive home one afternoon with a box of Turkish Delight, something especially rare in those days, what with the war and everything. “But you used to love these so,” she will say, face a little bit sad, when Edmund initially refuses the treats. And because he will feel bad, he’ll take the box from her outstretched hands, press a soft kiss to her fragrant cheek, and eat one right there, all for her sake. It will be the first time he’s eaten Turkish Delight in over a lifetime.
Later that night he will lie awake for hours, half because he expects her to visit him, and half because he hopes to put it off for as long as he can. But before he knows it he’ll be waking up the next morning without that taste of her on his tongue that he was waiting for.
After that, he’ll reckon he was a bit of an idiot for being afraid of sweets for so long.
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HP III
A random conversation, just meant to paint a background for the assassins fic I've been toying with for ages.
He loved Quidditch. The feel of flying on a broomstick hundreds of feet above the ground, perfectly free, the rush of adrenaline that swept through him as he raced the other team’s Seeker for the Snitch, that extra burst of speed as he edged forth inch by inch, reaching a hand out towards the glimmer of gold that was just out of his reach -
“HARRY!”
Harry Potter sat up with a jolt, looking around worriedly. “What’s happening? Where the bloody hell is my wand? What’s going on?”
“Harry,” Susan Bones said again, and this time Harry followed her voice with his gaze to find his old schoolmate and now co-worker rolling her eyes at him in amused exasperation.
“Oh hey, Su,” Harry said as casually as possible, as he pried a slip of parchment off his cheek.
“You spent the night in your office again, Harry?” Susan asked, shaking her head.
Harry grimaced and ran his fingers through his already tousled hair. “We just completed that Seybold case last night,” he explained. “Loads of paperwork, you know the drill.”
Susan tsked. “You and Ron have been working on that case for months. One more night wouldn’t have hurt much. And I notice that Ron didn’t spend the night.”
Harry shrugged. “Hermione would have thrown a fit,” he said, grinning. “Perks of being a bachelor mean that I get to send my best mate home to his wife and hog all the paperwork to myself.”
Susan laughed. “That’s your prerogative, Potter. I was just dropping by to let you know I can’t make it to dinner tonight. Do send everyone my apologies, won’t you?”
“Especially Neville?” Harry asked slyly, earning another tsk in return. “What’s up? You haven’t missed a DA reunion dinner in years.”
“Kingsley’s sending me to New York,” Susan explained with a sigh. “Apparently a British Wizard has been murdered abroad.”
Harry looked thoughtful. “That’s the - ”
“Fourth in as many years, yes,” Susan finished. “I don’t see any connection, personally. Different methods, different cities, too far apart in time. But Kingsley’s nothing if not thorough, eh?” She turned to leave, but then glanced back at her old friend. “You work too hard, Harry,” she said, frowning. “Try to get as fucked up as possible tonight, yeah?”
Harry just laughed. “Take care, Su.”
-
HP IV
Assassins galore! I'm quite in love with my execution scenes (I know, morbid)...and hopefully I can find a way to work these into my overall assassins fic, because I absolutely refuse to let it slip by unfinished. I've been working and reworking the plot every day now, trying to get it just right, and so I ended up cutting these (for now) because they didn't really fit. Actually, because I want the fic to be H/G, I might end up cutting Draco out and writing a parallel fic for him. Or something. Gah!
Clarence Pelham was having a very good night. He took a sip of his wine, hungrily eyeing the well-dressed young blond seated across from him.
“It’s so rare that I ever get to meet anyone from back home,” Clarence said casually, settling back into the luxurious leather of his chair. His company arched an eyebrow and took a pull on his cigar.
“Is that so?” the man murmured, lips curving up in a way that made Clarence shiver slightly. Noticing the reaction, the man looked around to check that the smoking lounge was, indeed, empty at this late an hour, save for them. He leaned forward and placed a pale, graceful hand on Clarence’s knee, lightly caressing it over the thin material of his dark suit trousers.
“I’ve got the penthouse suite,” Clarence choked out, as the man began to slowly skim his hand up his leg. The blond studied him with his unusual eyes for a long moment that had Clarence holding his breath.
“Show me.”
-
Clarence began to sweat from his excitement as the two men journeyed upstairs. The ride in the lift was torture - a family had entered right after Clarence and his companion, effectively rendering the two silent. Outside the suite, Clarence fumbled with his keys, letting out a string of curses until the other man plucked them out of his hand and unlocked the door.
“Don’t,” the man said in a low voice, as Clarence moved to switch on the lights.
“Oh, right,” Clarence said, licking his lips in anticipation. “More romantic this way.”
The man smiled slightly. “Something like that.” He brushed past Clarence, moving towards the living room, pausing once to glance at the older man over his shoulder and arch an eyebrow. “Well?” he asked, and he seated himself on the couch, facing Clarence, arms flung out along the back of it in a relaxed manner. Clarence’s mouth went dry at the long, lean lines of the other man. “Aren’t you coming?”
-
It all happened so fast, Clarence never even registered the sharp click of her heels coming up behind him. He was nearly to the couch before he was forced to his knees on the cold, hard, marble tile of the floor. “Wha-?” was all he managed to get out, before something slid swiftly over his head and began to tighten around his neck. All the while that he was being garrotted by a piano wire, the blond who he’d just had dinner with sat in front of him, smirking. The man lazily lifted a hand to adjust his tie as Clarence scrabbled at the wire cutting into his neck with desperate fingers, legs flailing to find purchase on the slick floor, sight beginning to go fuzzy and black around the edges.
“See you in hell, Mr Pelham,” the other man said, grey eyes empty.
Those were the last words Clarence Pelham would ever hear, before his body gave one last shudder and finally went limp.
-
The doorman touched a finger to his hat in respect, holding the door open for the elegantly dressed couple as they exited the famous Manhattan hotel.
The blond smirked slightly and stepped aside to let his companion through first, bowing in an exaggerated manner, making the petite red head roll her eyes.
“Prat,” she murmured affectionately, as she slipped an arm through his. It was a beautiful night out, crisp and clear, and by mutual and silent agreement the two began to make their way down the street in favour of taking a cab.
“Four down, one to go,” the man said after a long moment, glancing down at his companion. “You know what that means.”
She gazed back up at him with dark eyes, a humourless smile touching her lips. “Time to go back home.”
-
Neville Cavendish had been the first. She’d wanted to go after him right away, her hatred and anger coursing through her veins, keeping her up nights. But he’d managed to convince her that it was better to wait, to plan, to savour the feel of accomplishment. He’d convinced her that it’d be well worth it in the end. And so they’d bidden their time, renting out a low-key flat in Sydney and keeping tabs on him every day, enough that they had his schedule memorised. It was almost laughably easy in the end, after nearly a month of waiting, but the sense of inevitability, the delicious justice of it all didn’t escape them. They’d fought over who would get to do the job - that same hatred and anger was nearly consuming him as well, after all. But Neville had a thing for pretty, young redheads. And so she had been the bait that time, in her sleek white bathing suit, all powerful, graceful strokes that brought her further and further out from the beach and into the sea, hot from the sun. He’d followed her, as they’d expected, to a small cove. He never noticed the other man swim up behind him, and as he struggled underneath unknown hands to break above surface for air, she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of his own wide, confused, and desperate ones.
“Are you alright?” her companion had asked, as they’d taken their dinner at a little seaside restaurant later that night.
She hadn’t said anything, but her small smile had told him what he needed to know.
Neither one of them would stop now, not until it was over.
-
He’d followed her because it had been his job. Everyone assumed that they’d left because they were in mourning, but he knew how the other man operated, and certainly knew how she thought - he knew there had to be more to it. But he hadn’t let anyone else know. He tracked her instead of the actual target because he thought that he’d be able to find her more easily. Because he needed to talk to her, to see her, something.
He’d followed her because he’d been worried. She’d left the country without anything more than a note addressed to “Everyone I love”, and though they’d looked at him sadly they hadn’t stopped him. And so he’d tracked her, because it’s what he was good at, was his job, and he finally found her sharing a Muggle flat with exactly the person he’d expected. Only he was too late. He knew it was a terrible thing to think, but he couldn’t help but muse that she could have been just as good an Auror as him or anyone he worked with - possibly even better.
He’d seen it on the local news as he’d sat in his own hotel room, planning out how he’d approach her and what he’d say exactly. One Neville Cavendish, middle-aged, unassuming British citizen on holiday in Sydney - drowned at sea.
Kingsley had looked every bit his years when told that the man they were supposed to bring in was already dead. “Nothing we can do about it now, but move on to the next suspect,” he’d said.
There was just one thing he needed to do.
-
Also? It's already Thursday. WHERE HAS MY SPRING BREAK GONE?
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HP I
Something for a challenge fic that I ended up scrapping.
Some days, Hermione Granger really hated her job.
“A secretary,” she said mournfully, staring down into her empty pint glass. “Do I look like a secretary to you?”
The corners of Ginny Weasley’s mouth twitched. “Do you really want me to answer that?” she asked, before signalling to Tom. The wizened old man nodded even as he deftly conjured up a fresh round for the two women who’d been sitting in the corner booth of the Leaky Cauldron since dusk. Two hours, a basket of chips, five rounds, and a particularly well-cast Muffliato charm later, the conversation had turned, inevitably, to work.
Hermione was too busy burrowing her head in her arms to notice the way Tom raised his eyebrows at Ginny as he deposited the newest round on their table. The redhead merely grinned and shrugged in a rueful sort of way.
“A secretary!” Hermione yelped suddenly, banging her fist on the table, which caused a bit of her beer to slosh over the sides of the glass.
“Look, Hermione,” Ginny said soothingly, gingerly reaching over to pull both glasses towards herself. “I’m sure it won’t be all that bad.”
Hermione glared at her friend. “I have to pose as a secretary, Gin,” she said slowly. “A secretary to Draco Malfoy.”
Ginny raised her own glass to her lips, pausing to look thoughtfully over the rim at the other woman. “Well, at least he can afford to get you a really nice desk.” It was only her quick reflexes, honed from years of playing Quidditch and Auror training, that saved her from taking a spare chip to the forehead.
-
“No, Hermione,” came Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep, slow-as-molasses voice, even before she had opened her mouth to speak. “I am not taking you off of this case.”
In hindsight, it was probably more than just a little bit childish, but - Hermione stamped her foot. “I’ve got real work to do, Kingsley, I don’t need to be babysitting anyone while I’m at it. This sort of thing isn’t even in my line of work!”
Kingsley sighed and pushed aside the parchment he’d been poring over. He motioned for Hermione to sit down, but she merely glared even harder. Sighing again, he sat back in his chair and surveyed the young witch in front of him. “You’re the only person who knows as much as you do about contemporary Muggle technology, Hermione,” he said with a deep frown. “The entity known only as Seven requested that we extract you from the Department of Mysteries and employ you in the same way that we would one of our own Aurors. You are to infiltrate Draco Malfoy’s corporation. Discover the source of the breach in his security. Contain that source and we’ll take over from there. Any Aurors that are familiar with the Muggle world are busy elsewhere. The rest would find it most difficult to integrate themselves with the specific culture of the Malfoy Corporation. Besides, the secrecy that surrounds you due to your status as an Unspeakable means that nobody outside of this Ministry is aware that you are anything other than a regular, upstanding citizen.”
Hermione groaned. “There’s really no way that I can reason my way out of this one, is there?”
Kingsley smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, we could ensure that you’re provided with an excellent desk.”
-
“So let me get this straight,” Harry Potter said, two hours, a basket of chips, five rounds, and a particularly well-cast Muffliato charm later. “Someone’s been tampering with Malfoy Corporation’s products?”
“Yes,” Hermione said, picking up her pint glass.
“And this poses a threat to national security? Because, I mean, people will start to die if the products continue to malfunction.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re meant to uncover this someone?”
“Yes.”
“By acting as Malfoy’s secretary.”
“Yes,” Hermione said, glaring at the bottom of her pint glass.
Harry took a sip from his own pint, eyes thoughtful behind his glasses. “Do you at least get your own desk?”
Hermione reached for the chips.
-
“Who is this Seven, anyway?” Hermione grumbled the next morning, over breakfast with the youngest Weasley siblings.
“I hear he’s a right bastard to deal with,” Ron Weasley mumbled around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“Isn’t he the head of all intelligence operations?” Ginny said, cradling a mug of tea between her hands. “Which makes him the ultimate head of both the Auror and DoM divisions.”
“And nobody knows who he is, what he looks like, nothing,” Ron chimed in, reaching over the table to spear a bit of Hermione’s bacon on his fork. “He’s the Secret Keeper of his own identity.”
“Why must it be a he?” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “For all you know, it could very well be a woman.”
Ginny grinned. “She’s got some balls, then.”
-
HP II
More something for a challenge fic that I ended up scrapping.
The blond gentleman’s long, lean lines were currently enfolded within a high-backed leather chair, and slim fingers reached up to ignite a cigarette, the silver of the lighter gleaming in the low light. In the hushed silence that dominated the Phoenix’s tearoom and made it a favourite hideaway spot of those members of London’s Wizarding elite who valued their privacy more than the limelight, he was able to hear her arrival before he even saw her. He’d recognize her walk anywhere, and he grinned slightly to himself as her stiletto heels tapped out a jaunty rhythm on the marble tiles.
“Late as always, Gin,” he drawled as he rose up out of his seat to brush a kiss over the petite redhead’s cheek. Ginny Weasley merely grinned at her old friend in a rakish sort of way.
“You’re looking well,” she observed, taking in the well-cut dark suit, the deceptively simple watch that sat elegantly on a wrist, the neatly trimmed, slightly tousled hair.
“I picked up a few tricks in New York,” Draco Malfoy replied dryly, motioning for Ginny to take the seat across from him.
“It’s been four years since you’ve been in the country,” Ginny said, studying her friend with an intent gaze. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back.”
“I didn’t think so either,” Draco said frankly, pausing to take a drag on his cigarette. The smoke rose up to curl itself sinuously around him.
“I heard about your parents, the accident in France,” Ginny said softly. “Are you - ”
“I’m fine,” Draco cut in, the faint trace of a smirk ghosting over his lips to take the edge off of his words. “It’s why I’m back, actually. The manor in Wiltshire has been empty for three years. I figure it’s time for me to sort a few things out here.”
Ginny nodded, looking thoughtful. “Are you moving back in?”
“No,” Draco answered, “I’m staying in a room here. But I’ll be using the office there while I put everything in order.”
Ginny made a face. “The Phoenix, Wizarding London’s seven-star hotel. Stuffy bunch of bastards.”
Draco laughed. “Only the best for a Malfoy, of course.”
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Ginny said with a happy sigh. “I’ve missed you, and now you can go back to torturing Ron. He’s getting soft in his old age. Twenty-two, and already he’s letting the stardom get to his head.”
Draco grimaced. “Let’s not ruin our reunion with talk about the Weasel. Much as it pains me to ask, I feel that as your friend I’m obligated to do so. How are you and Four-Eyes?”
“Oh, Four-Eyes is doing just great,” Ginny said, voice nonchalant. “We’re happy, but we’re taking it slow, what with our careers and everything.”
“Which translates into the two of you shagging like a couple of demented rabbits on your Ministry-provided desks.”
“You know it,” Ginny replied cheerfully, without missing a beat.
“No matter how long I go away, some things never change,” Draco said in a mournful tone.
-
“Ah, Hermione, there you are,” Padma Patil said, leaning against the doorframe of her subordinate’s office. “I was wondering if I could have a word?”
“Of course,” Hermione Granger answered, setting down her quill and motioning for the other woman to enter and take a seat. She brushed a wayward lock of brunette hair out of her face and smiled at her friend. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve just been informed of an excellent opportunity to expand the museum’s exhibits enormously.” The head of the Department of Magical Culture leaned forward, an excited gleam in her eye. “And you’re the only person I trust with a job of this magnitude.”
“Tell me more,” Hermione said, interest piqued.
-
“So, how are things going in the Museum of Magical Fine Arts, Ms Curator?” Ron Weasley mumbled around a mouthful of sausage.
Hermione smiled at Tom as the old wizard placed her dinner before her and shuffled off. She merely rolled her eyes when Harry Potter reached across the table to spear a bit of her food. The three of them had been coming to the Leaky Cauldron for dinner at least once a week since they’d left Hogwarts. Hermione enjoyed these nights immensely - it was so rare that they got to see each other these days, what with Ron’s Quidditch training, Harry’s Auror duties, and her own work at the museum. “Things are wonderful,” she said enthusiastically. “I’m about to start on an exciting new project that will hopefully elevate the museum to another level entirely.”
“What’s that, Hermione?” Harry asked, eyes curious behind his glasses. Ron, for his part, never took his eyes off of his food, although he did nod in Hermione’s general direction.
“Well,” Hermione said, “a scion of an ancient, wealthy family is opening his home to our department - apparently he’s allowing us to take possession of everything, provided we want to take on the task of cataloguing every single item in the manor.” Hermione’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Imagine all the amazing objects I’ll find.”
“Whose manor is it?” Harry asked, an entirely too innocent expression on his face.
Hermione groaned. “Ginny’s told you already, hasn’t she?” Harry just laughed.
Ron looked from one friend to the other, brow furrowed. “Ginny has a manor?” he asked, a chip halfway to his mouth.
“No, you prat,” Harry laughed, reaching over to take the chip out of his friend’s fingers. Ron gave out an undignified yelp and dived at Harry.
Hermione shook her head with an indulgent smile as she took in the spectacle unfolding before her eyes. “I’ll be working with Draco Malfoy,” she said to the combined mass of tangled limbs, causing Ron to whip his head around, eyes wide, which left room for a triumphant Harry to grab the rest of his chips.
Ron sat back in his seat, looking deep in thought. Harry and Hermione glanced at each other with worried looks on both their faces, fully expecting their friend to erupt at any moment.
“Draco Malfoy,” Ron said slowly, drawing out the syllables. “Draco bloody Malfoy.” A minute passed. And then he shrugged and picked up his fork again.
“What, that’s it?” Hermione said, eyeing her friend warily. “You’re not going to try to prevent me from working with him? Not going to make threats against his life? Not going to cause a scene in general?”
“Well,” Ron said, a sly grin beginning to appear on his face. “I’m with Pansy Parkinson now. I win.”
Harry shook his head sadly at his dinner plate.
“Boys,” Hermione huffed.
-
Narnia I
Edmund's thoughts on Narnia, England, & Calormen. Written for a challenge, ended up scrapping it when I couldn't get it to go anywhere - I was looking for something that was in the same universe as 'Secret Places of the Sun'.
There’s a sort of freedom in Narnia that Edmund’s never seen anywhere else. It isn’t unusual - far from it - to grant an audience to a badger immediately after seeing a human. To ride in the country and see a dryad conversing with a centaur. Lucy is fast friends with every creature that draws breath and calls itself a Narnian, often forgoing sleeping in Cair Paravel in favour of joining her friends in late-night feasts and revels. Susan trains every day with the kingdom’s band of archers, cheeks smudged with dirt, grins full of the flush of success and an easy camaraderie. Peter, of course, is often seen touring the grounds, head bent low as he walks in order to better hear what the captains of his army - all leopards - have to say.
Edmund sits in meetings with the faun Tumnus, one of his most trusted advisers, and he thinks fleetingly of what could possibly be happening back in England - of the propaganda posters pasted on the sides of every building, of the messages that pour forth from the wireless, shadowed with a certain diction and full of insinuations that only seem to be permissible in a time of war.
In Calormen, Edmund’s sharp eyes take in the way the gold cuffs on the royal servants flash bright and gold in the sun. He notes the deadened look in the eyes that peek out of the slum’s darkened alleys, the way the poor scatter in the dusty streets when threatened by the whips of the soldiers.
Edmund notices, too, the way the youngest daughter of the Tisroc has to avert her eyes slightly if she speaks to him in the presence of others, even if her cheeks are dimpled mischievously.
“Don’t you ever feel trapped?” Edmund asks her, one day after she has taken him on a tour of the royal palace. He is aware the entire time of the Calormen guards who follow at a discreet distance.
-
Narnia II
I had this fantastic image in my head of exactly where I wanted this to go - only I didn't have the time to make it do all those things. Le sigh. Maybe I'll finish it someday.
It starts with a day at the pool.
“Come on, Lu,” Edmund says one morning, sitting in the parlour. He’s drumming his fingers on the windowsill, face turned eagerly towards the sky in the hopes that a wayward breeze might find its way into the room. It’s already shaping up to be an unnaturally hot day in England - Lucy’s sitting on the floor with a book open on her lap, but she’s more focused at the moment on fanning herself with one of Susan’s old magazines.
“Come on where, Ed?” Lucy asks, looking over at her brother. Edmund smiles in a way she rarely gets to see these days, and she can’t help but smile back.
“Remember when mum used to take us to the YMCA on weekends?” Edmund asks, standing up and extending a hand towards her. “Well, why don’t we go for a swim?”
-
There’s a YMCA centre not too far from where they live, and so they decide to walk, both pleased and irritated to find that it seems to be cooler outdoors than in.
-
Narnia III
Something I started writing for a challenge, but scrapped - though I quite like this, I dunno.
One of his earliest memories of Narnia has always been and will always be of her. To this day he can recall the taste of that Turkish Delight on his tongue - sticky and sweet, but cloyingly so. He was too young to realise it at the time, but now he knows what that taste was. It was the taste of a terrible power edged in decay and laced with desperation.
Years later, his mum will arrive home one afternoon with a box of Turkish Delight, something especially rare in those days, what with the war and everything. “But you used to love these so,” she will say, face a little bit sad, when Edmund initially refuses the treats. And because he will feel bad, he’ll take the box from her outstretched hands, press a soft kiss to her fragrant cheek, and eat one right there, all for her sake. It will be the first time he’s eaten Turkish Delight in over a lifetime.
Later that night he will lie awake for hours, half because he expects her to visit him, and half because he hopes to put it off for as long as he can. But before he knows it he’ll be waking up the next morning without that taste of her on his tongue that he was waiting for.
After that, he’ll reckon he was a bit of an idiot for being afraid of sweets for so long.
-
HP III
A random conversation, just meant to paint a background for the assassins fic I've been toying with for ages.
He loved Quidditch. The feel of flying on a broomstick hundreds of feet above the ground, perfectly free, the rush of adrenaline that swept through him as he raced the other team’s Seeker for the Snitch, that extra burst of speed as he edged forth inch by inch, reaching a hand out towards the glimmer of gold that was just out of his reach -
“HARRY!”
Harry Potter sat up with a jolt, looking around worriedly. “What’s happening? Where the bloody hell is my wand? What’s going on?”
“Harry,” Susan Bones said again, and this time Harry followed her voice with his gaze to find his old schoolmate and now co-worker rolling her eyes at him in amused exasperation.
“Oh hey, Su,” Harry said as casually as possible, as he pried a slip of parchment off his cheek.
“You spent the night in your office again, Harry?” Susan asked, shaking her head.
Harry grimaced and ran his fingers through his already tousled hair. “We just completed that Seybold case last night,” he explained. “Loads of paperwork, you know the drill.”
Susan tsked. “You and Ron have been working on that case for months. One more night wouldn’t have hurt much. And I notice that Ron didn’t spend the night.”
Harry shrugged. “Hermione would have thrown a fit,” he said, grinning. “Perks of being a bachelor mean that I get to send my best mate home to his wife and hog all the paperwork to myself.”
Susan laughed. “That’s your prerogative, Potter. I was just dropping by to let you know I can’t make it to dinner tonight. Do send everyone my apologies, won’t you?”
“Especially Neville?” Harry asked slyly, earning another tsk in return. “What’s up? You haven’t missed a DA reunion dinner in years.”
“Kingsley’s sending me to New York,” Susan explained with a sigh. “Apparently a British Wizard has been murdered abroad.”
Harry looked thoughtful. “That’s the - ”
“Fourth in as many years, yes,” Susan finished. “I don’t see any connection, personally. Different methods, different cities, too far apart in time. But Kingsley’s nothing if not thorough, eh?” She turned to leave, but then glanced back at her old friend. “You work too hard, Harry,” she said, frowning. “Try to get as fucked up as possible tonight, yeah?”
Harry just laughed. “Take care, Su.”
-
HP IV
Assassins galore! I'm quite in love with my execution scenes (I know, morbid)...and hopefully I can find a way to work these into my overall assassins fic, because I absolutely refuse to let it slip by unfinished. I've been working and reworking the plot every day now, trying to get it just right, and so I ended up cutting these (for now) because they didn't really fit. Actually, because I want the fic to be H/G, I might end up cutting Draco out and writing a parallel fic for him. Or something. Gah!
Clarence Pelham was having a very good night. He took a sip of his wine, hungrily eyeing the well-dressed young blond seated across from him.
“It’s so rare that I ever get to meet anyone from back home,” Clarence said casually, settling back into the luxurious leather of his chair. His company arched an eyebrow and took a pull on his cigar.
“Is that so?” the man murmured, lips curving up in a way that made Clarence shiver slightly. Noticing the reaction, the man looked around to check that the smoking lounge was, indeed, empty at this late an hour, save for them. He leaned forward and placed a pale, graceful hand on Clarence’s knee, lightly caressing it over the thin material of his dark suit trousers.
“I’ve got the penthouse suite,” Clarence choked out, as the man began to slowly skim his hand up his leg. The blond studied him with his unusual eyes for a long moment that had Clarence holding his breath.
“Show me.”
-
Clarence began to sweat from his excitement as the two men journeyed upstairs. The ride in the lift was torture - a family had entered right after Clarence and his companion, effectively rendering the two silent. Outside the suite, Clarence fumbled with his keys, letting out a string of curses until the other man plucked them out of his hand and unlocked the door.
“Don’t,” the man said in a low voice, as Clarence moved to switch on the lights.
“Oh, right,” Clarence said, licking his lips in anticipation. “More romantic this way.”
The man smiled slightly. “Something like that.” He brushed past Clarence, moving towards the living room, pausing once to glance at the older man over his shoulder and arch an eyebrow. “Well?” he asked, and he seated himself on the couch, facing Clarence, arms flung out along the back of it in a relaxed manner. Clarence’s mouth went dry at the long, lean lines of the other man. “Aren’t you coming?”
-
It all happened so fast, Clarence never even registered the sharp click of her heels coming up behind him. He was nearly to the couch before he was forced to his knees on the cold, hard, marble tile of the floor. “Wha-?” was all he managed to get out, before something slid swiftly over his head and began to tighten around his neck. All the while that he was being garrotted by a piano wire, the blond who he’d just had dinner with sat in front of him, smirking. The man lazily lifted a hand to adjust his tie as Clarence scrabbled at the wire cutting into his neck with desperate fingers, legs flailing to find purchase on the slick floor, sight beginning to go fuzzy and black around the edges.
“See you in hell, Mr Pelham,” the other man said, grey eyes empty.
Those were the last words Clarence Pelham would ever hear, before his body gave one last shudder and finally went limp.
-
The doorman touched a finger to his hat in respect, holding the door open for the elegantly dressed couple as they exited the famous Manhattan hotel.
The blond smirked slightly and stepped aside to let his companion through first, bowing in an exaggerated manner, making the petite red head roll her eyes.
“Prat,” she murmured affectionately, as she slipped an arm through his. It was a beautiful night out, crisp and clear, and by mutual and silent agreement the two began to make their way down the street in favour of taking a cab.
“Four down, one to go,” the man said after a long moment, glancing down at his companion. “You know what that means.”
She gazed back up at him with dark eyes, a humourless smile touching her lips. “Time to go back home.”
-
Neville Cavendish had been the first. She’d wanted to go after him right away, her hatred and anger coursing through her veins, keeping her up nights. But he’d managed to convince her that it was better to wait, to plan, to savour the feel of accomplishment. He’d convinced her that it’d be well worth it in the end. And so they’d bidden their time, renting out a low-key flat in Sydney and keeping tabs on him every day, enough that they had his schedule memorised. It was almost laughably easy in the end, after nearly a month of waiting, but the sense of inevitability, the delicious justice of it all didn’t escape them. They’d fought over who would get to do the job - that same hatred and anger was nearly consuming him as well, after all. But Neville had a thing for pretty, young redheads. And so she had been the bait that time, in her sleek white bathing suit, all powerful, graceful strokes that brought her further and further out from the beach and into the sea, hot from the sun. He’d followed her, as they’d expected, to a small cove. He never noticed the other man swim up behind him, and as he struggled underneath unknown hands to break above surface for air, she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of his own wide, confused, and desperate ones.
“Are you alright?” her companion had asked, as they’d taken their dinner at a little seaside restaurant later that night.
She hadn’t said anything, but her small smile had told him what he needed to know.
Neither one of them would stop now, not until it was over.
-
He’d followed her because it had been his job. Everyone assumed that they’d left because they were in mourning, but he knew how the other man operated, and certainly knew how she thought - he knew there had to be more to it. But he hadn’t let anyone else know. He tracked her instead of the actual target because he thought that he’d be able to find her more easily. Because he needed to talk to her, to see her, something.
He’d followed her because he’d been worried. She’d left the country without anything more than a note addressed to “Everyone I love”, and though they’d looked at him sadly they hadn’t stopped him. And so he’d tracked her, because it’s what he was good at, was his job, and he finally found her sharing a Muggle flat with exactly the person he’d expected. Only he was too late. He knew it was a terrible thing to think, but he couldn’t help but muse that she could have been just as good an Auror as him or anyone he worked with - possibly even better.
He’d seen it on the local news as he’d sat in his own hotel room, planning out how he’d approach her and what he’d say exactly. One Neville Cavendish, middle-aged, unassuming British citizen on holiday in Sydney - drowned at sea.
Kingsley had looked every bit his years when told that the man they were supposed to bring in was already dead. “Nothing we can do about it now, but move on to the next suspect,” he’d said.
There was just one thing he needed to do.
-