Leigh!fic | Il pleut (1/1) | Dean Thomas/Pansy Parkinson
Title: Il pleut (1/1)
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Characters: Dean Thomas/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 855
Summary: Paris is the most beautiful in the rain. Right. Tell that to a woman with designer shoes and a broken umbrella.
Author's Notes: Written as a gift for enchantedteapot as part of my Summer 2014 Drabble Meme. I've never played with these two together before, so I hope it comes off alright. There are a few French phrases in this story -- if you hover your cursor over the italicized text, the English translation will appear. :)
Paris was a lovely city, even in the rain. There was a certain je ne sais quoi about the way the winding cobblestone streets looked under a gray, drizzly sky. The tourists tended to stay inside during the rain, leaving the streets free from their ilk. It was normally a site Pansy very much enjoyed.
Paris, however, was not a lovely city in the rain when she was in possession of a broken umbrella.
"Worthless ten galleon piece of rubbish," she muttered under her breath. The black umbrella would not open, no matter how much she poked and prodded at it. And here she was, both her freshly coiffed hair and her green suede Louboutins dangerously close to ruination. She couldn't do magic -- not here, not in a Muggle area of the city -- and she was still at least two blocks from the nearest Apparition point.
And to compound the matter, the doorway she'd stepped through to avoid the rain was not a charming sidewalk cafe, but a smelly falafel stand. Merlin, her clothes were going to reek.
"Vous allez bien, madame?"
Pansy shook her head irritably, glancing up at the man who'd spoken. "Oui, ça va." Her eyes narrowed at the somewhat familiar face, but she couldn't place him. Tall, dark skin, dark curls and an open, friendly face.
"It looks like you're having umbrella problems," he said easily, adding, "Pansy" at the end. "Here," he thrust out his own umbrella, "you can take mine."
She arched a brow at him. Clearly a fellow Englishman, but she still did not know who he was. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"
He shrugged. "I don't suppose we've chatted, but we went to school together. It was a long time ago, though. I'm Dean. Dean Thomas."
Ah. Now she remembered him. The Gryffindor with singed sleeves -- a byproduct of being friendly with Hogwarts' most notorious pyrotechnic, Seamus Finnigan. She could not recall the last time she'd seen him; though, if she were being honest, she hadn't been keeping track. "I remember." She eyed his umbrella doubtfully, her nose wrinkling with distaste. "Your umbrella has ducklings on it."
Dean grinned. "My little sister gave it to me. Does it's job, though. You look like you need it more than I do."
It looked harmless enough, for a bright blue umbrella emblazoned with tiny yellow ducks. Could Pansy sacrifice fashion for functionality -- at least for two blocks until she could return to the dry -- and odorless -- sanctity of the Ritz? She was sure touching it would burn her fingertips.
But then again, she was not ruining a perfect hairstyle in the bloody rain.
"Thank you," she said, the phrase awkward on her tongue as she took the garish umbrella from him. The vinyl and plastic was offensive to her eyes, but less so than a ruined dry-clean only dress. "I'll return it to you. Where should I send it?"
"17 Rue Tholozé. I've a small garret flat in Montmartre, but don't worry about it," he replied easily. Pansy watched him as he sat down in one of the plastic seats, crossing his long legs at the ankle. "I don't mind getting wet."
"Montmartre. That's very bohemian of you." The 18th arrondisment was a world away from her world on the Place Vendôme; tiny, sloped streets and street urchins, the red-light district, the whole 'starving artist' mantra against Haussmann's boulevards, world-renowned art and culture, haute couture, and Michelin starred cuisine. "Is it too stereotypical of me to guess you're an artist?"
His crooked grin told her she'd guessed correctly. "Guilty, as charged. I suppose it's just as clichéd of me to assume you're staying at the Athénée?"
"You're not far off," she admitted. "And I must be getting back." She and Blaise had tickets to the opera that evening, and she was going to need to indulge in a bit of pampering to get the smell of spicy fried chickpeas out of her hair.
He rose to open the door for her. "Maybe we could meet again before you leave Paris? Save you the trouble of owling my umbrella." His lips twitched.
Pansy's eyebrow rose, and she looked at him -- really looked at him -- for the first time since they'd begun speaking. He was handsome, in an entirely ordinary fashion; he lacked the masculine beauty of Blaise, but he was a strong, sturdy looking sort of fellow. And from the hint of mirth in his eyes, she knew what he was asking.
"I have a fiancé," she informed him.
His gaze flickered to the large diamond on her left hand. Undeterred, he shrugged. "I have a girlfriend."
Her own lips curled. "Then perhaps you should enjoy her charms this evening." Opening the umbrella, she stepped out into the rain. "Merci pour votre aide." Blue and yellow ducklings overhead and the smell of fried foods trailing after her, she walked out of the falafel shop and away from Dean Thomas.
She only looked back once.
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Characters: Dean Thomas/Pansy Parkinson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 855
Summary: Paris is the most beautiful in the rain. Right. Tell that to a woman with designer shoes and a broken umbrella.
Author's Notes: Written as a gift for enchantedteapot as part of my Summer 2014 Drabble Meme. I've never played with these two together before, so I hope it comes off alright. There are a few French phrases in this story -- if you hover your cursor over the italicized text, the English translation will appear. :)
Paris was a lovely city, even in the rain. There was a certain je ne sais quoi about the way the winding cobblestone streets looked under a gray, drizzly sky. The tourists tended to stay inside during the rain, leaving the streets free from their ilk. It was normally a site Pansy very much enjoyed.
Paris, however, was not a lovely city in the rain when she was in possession of a broken umbrella.
"Worthless ten galleon piece of rubbish," she muttered under her breath. The black umbrella would not open, no matter how much she poked and prodded at it. And here she was, both her freshly coiffed hair and her green suede Louboutins dangerously close to ruination. She couldn't do magic -- not here, not in a Muggle area of the city -- and she was still at least two blocks from the nearest Apparition point.
And to compound the matter, the doorway she'd stepped through to avoid the rain was not a charming sidewalk cafe, but a smelly falafel stand. Merlin, her clothes were going to reek.
"Vous allez bien, madame?"
Pansy shook her head irritably, glancing up at the man who'd spoken. "Oui, ça va." Her eyes narrowed at the somewhat familiar face, but she couldn't place him. Tall, dark skin, dark curls and an open, friendly face.
"It looks like you're having umbrella problems," he said easily, adding, "Pansy" at the end. "Here," he thrust out his own umbrella, "you can take mine."
She arched a brow at him. Clearly a fellow Englishman, but she still did not know who he was. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"
He shrugged. "I don't suppose we've chatted, but we went to school together. It was a long time ago, though. I'm Dean. Dean Thomas."
Ah. Now she remembered him. The Gryffindor with singed sleeves -- a byproduct of being friendly with Hogwarts' most notorious pyrotechnic, Seamus Finnigan. She could not recall the last time she'd seen him; though, if she were being honest, she hadn't been keeping track. "I remember." She eyed his umbrella doubtfully, her nose wrinkling with distaste. "Your umbrella has ducklings on it."
Dean grinned. "My little sister gave it to me. Does it's job, though. You look like you need it more than I do."
It looked harmless enough, for a bright blue umbrella emblazoned with tiny yellow ducks. Could Pansy sacrifice fashion for functionality -- at least for two blocks until she could return to the dry -- and odorless -- sanctity of the Ritz? She was sure touching it would burn her fingertips.
But then again, she was not ruining a perfect hairstyle in the bloody rain.
"Thank you," she said, the phrase awkward on her tongue as she took the garish umbrella from him. The vinyl and plastic was offensive to her eyes, but less so than a ruined dry-clean only dress. "I'll return it to you. Where should I send it?"
"17 Rue Tholozé. I've a small garret flat in Montmartre, but don't worry about it," he replied easily. Pansy watched him as he sat down in one of the plastic seats, crossing his long legs at the ankle. "I don't mind getting wet."
"Montmartre. That's very bohemian of you." The 18th arrondisment was a world away from her world on the Place Vendôme; tiny, sloped streets and street urchins, the red-light district, the whole 'starving artist' mantra against Haussmann's boulevards, world-renowned art and culture, haute couture, and Michelin starred cuisine. "Is it too stereotypical of me to guess you're an artist?"
His crooked grin told her she'd guessed correctly. "Guilty, as charged. I suppose it's just as clichéd of me to assume you're staying at the Athénée?"
"You're not far off," she admitted. "And I must be getting back." She and Blaise had tickets to the opera that evening, and she was going to need to indulge in a bit of pampering to get the smell of spicy fried chickpeas out of her hair.
He rose to open the door for her. "Maybe we could meet again before you leave Paris? Save you the trouble of owling my umbrella." His lips twitched.
Pansy's eyebrow rose, and she looked at him -- really looked at him -- for the first time since they'd begun speaking. He was handsome, in an entirely ordinary fashion; he lacked the masculine beauty of Blaise, but he was a strong, sturdy looking sort of fellow. And from the hint of mirth in his eyes, she knew what he was asking.
"I have a fiancé," she informed him.
His gaze flickered to the large diamond on her left hand. Undeterred, he shrugged. "I have a girlfriend."
Her own lips curled. "Then perhaps you should enjoy her charms this evening." Opening the umbrella, she stepped out into the rain. "Merci pour votre aide." Blue and yellow ducklings overhead and the smell of fried foods trailing after her, she walked out of the falafel shop and away from Dean Thomas.
She only looked back once.