Damn Tornados 7/13 (RW/HP, PG-13)

[wideworldsend]

Title: Damn Tornados
Author: Mad Maudlin
Pairing: Eventual Ron/Harry, unrequited Ron/Pansy
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Through OotP
Summary: Ron meets a very enthusiastic—and persistant—fan.

Act One, Scene Seven: Whatever Pansy Wants

"Down! Let me down!" Ron cried, trying to dodge light fixtures without falling off the shoulders of his teammates. Being carried off the field was all well and good in theory, but in practice the complications simply weren't worth it. Unfortunately, he couldn't make himself heard over the chorus of five people singing "We Shall Conquer" at the top of their collective lungs, plus Brajnikoff, who didn't even know the words, or the language.

They finally let him down in the locker room, where Wood gave him a congratulatory clap on the back that nearly knocked him over. "That was genius, Ron, pure genius! You're a miracle worker!"

"You weren't so bad yourself," he said. "That penalty catch—"

Oliver snorted. "Please. That was nothing. You're the star here—it's like we can't lose with you!"

Stebbins interrupted Ron's rebuttal by jumping onto the bench; he struck a hero's pose and preened. "Ladies and gentleman, I give you the man who brought down Eleanor Harkins!"

Killjoy actually smiled. "You know, Paul, you very nearly resembled a Beater today."

"And you nearly resembled a human being," Macelwrath said, less snarky than usual. "Thank you ever so much for letting the rest of us have a turn with the Quaffle, by the way."

"Chudley beats the almighty Tutshill and puts their top scorer in St. Mungo's." Stebbins started to dance. "I should have that tattooed on my arse."

Wood cringed. "To much information, Paul."

Funt, who had given way to grinning quietly from ear to ear, suddenly spoke up. "We beat the Tornados by over three hundred points. That puts us ahead of Ballycastle and Puddlemere..."

Ron did the math in his head, but Stebbins had already jumped down and attempted to kiss Oliver on the mouth. "Third place!" he shrieked. "We're third in the league!"

The shouting started over again, louder and more exuberant than ever before; they hugged each other and jumped and screamed themselves hoarse. This had to be the happiest third-place team Ron had ever seen.

Not that he wasn't happy, too. It had only been a few days since he'd moved back in with Harry, and it almost felt like he'd never left. Well, actually, it was, but the differences were all for the good. Harry was back—a little quieter, a little sadder, but more or less the same boy Ron had known in school, his old friend. And he wasn't angry. That was the best part. Ron hadn't had the guts to bring up the subject directly, but every day he was more and more certain that if he came back with his real face, he wouldn't get thrown out on his arse.

And in the meantime, he and Harry had slipped easily back into friendship—or, actually, Harry had warmed up to Ron Hardy with surprising speed. It was so familiar, so comfortable, that Ron occasionally forgot he was meant to be playing a part. It wasn't much of a problem with Harry himself, who often didn't even notice, but the twins hung around at all hours angling for autographs, and they were a bit more difficult to deceive. And Hermione, of course, was impossible. But on the balance Ron didn't think he'd ever been happier, and he intended to enjoy it while it lasted.

He took his time changing, enjoying the high spirits of his teammates. Just as he was getting the last of his padding off, Malfoy sauntered in with a cigarette and an unpleasant grin. "Congratulations!" he called out by way of greeting. "Excellent game, gentleman...lady...And Ron!" He clasped Ron's shoulder roughly. "Excellent work. I'm proud of you, very proud."

"I'm sure you are, Mr. Applegate," Ron said, forcing a smile at the demon.

Suddenly Funt began to cough and wheeze, clutching at his throat. "Oh, bollocks—" Macelwrath, who was already in her street robes, seized him by the arm and guided him out the back door. "Mr. Applegate, you know what that smoke does to him."

"Sorry," Malfoy said, and took another drag.

He hung around while all the other players filtered out, a tacit signal that Ron ought to as well. "Performed impressively today, didn't they?" he asked quietly, watching Brajnikoff meticulously fold his uniform. "One wouldn't even guess that you're carrying the lot of them."

"That's because I'm not," Ron growled, kicking off his shoes.

"Aren't you?"

"I didn't touch the Quaffle today," Ron growled, "and I definitely didn't knock Harkins off her broom."

"And just what do you think inspired such feats of greatness?" Malfoy nodded politely as Brajnikoff exited, leaving them alone with the lockers and benches. "You've the one who'd made this team great, Weasley. One good Seeker, remember?"

Ron didn't like to hear his own words spun back at him, and he definitely didn't like what Malfoy was implying. After all, surely he, the least of the Weasleys, couldn't possibly have any influence over the likes of Oliver Wood, Vassily Brajnikoff or Anne Macelwrath...? He couldn't; but superstar Seeker Ron Hardy could, and did. They were ecstatic just to make it into the top three, and they attributed it all to him. Talk about pressure...

"We might be get into second place by the time we get back from Europe, you know," he said, striving for a change of subject. "Funt's figured it all out. If Holyhead beats Applebee next week and Ballycastle beats Holyhead, there's a chance—about a Snitch either way."

Malfoy nodded like he cared. "Hmmm, yes. Excellent possibility. Tell me, Ron, did you notice the rather fetching girl sitting with me in the top box at today's match?"

"Er..." He racked his brain; he'd been concentrating more on the Snitch rather than the spectators. "I think so."

The demon smiled and let smoke trail out of his nose. "Well, it turns out she's quite a fan of yours. She wants to meet you."

"So does everyone else in Britain," Ron said. "What's so special about her?"

"Nothing at all, really, nothing at all..." Malfoy rocked back on his heels, looking at the closed lockers instead of Ron's face. "She's not bad at all, though. Sweet young thing. It would be good for your public image."

Ron checked his watch; it was nearly six o'clock, and the game had started at ten the morning. "I'm tired, Malfoy, and I've got somewhere to be soon."

"A date with Potter?"

Now, why did it sound so...well, unsavory coming from his mouth? "You can skip the lecture," he said bluntly.

Surprisingly, though, Malfoy laughed. "No, no, Weasley—I've changed my mind about that. You do whatever it is that makes you happy. I'm sure you can hold your own with Scarhead and friends." He caught a glimpse of Ron's expression and quickly changed the subject. "But this girl, Weasley—it'll only take a few minutes. Please?"

Ron was perfectly willing to tell Malfoy what to do with this girl, but he'd wrangled with the demon often enough these past few weeks that he knew how to pick his battles. "All right," he sighed. "Just let me finish changing."

Malfoy clapped him on the shoulder. "That's my Weasel. I'll just go get her, shall I?"

Wherever he'd stashed this special girl, it didn't take long for Malfoy to come back with her; Ron had barely got his trousers buttoned all the way. "Ron, my boy," Malfoy said with a smile that was lost on Ron completely, "I'd like you to meet my friend Lola."

Lola smiled and Lola blushed, and Ron had a difficult time looking anywhere else in the room. She was...well, gorgeous didn't begin to encompass it. She was perfect, every contour, every line of her like a dream stepped into the flesh, from her golden tan to her smoky eyes to her enormous, round, heaving—

"Hello, Mister Hardy," she said demurely in a musical tropical accent, offering him a hand. Ron's head snapped up and he blinked stupidly at her for a moment, then gingerly shook with her. Her brow even furrowed gracefully. "I am so honored to make your acquaintance."

"Uh," said Ron.

Malfoy grinned from ear to ear. "Ron Hardy, Senorita Lolita Banana. She was Miss Wizarding West Indies in 1997."

Lola fluttered her eyelashes and looked away. "Mister Applegate is bragging."

"Only telling the truth, darling." Malfoy patted her on the shoulder and glanced at his watch. "Well, will you look at the time—I've got places to go, things to do...you'll keep Miss Banana company, won't you, Ron?"

"Uh," he said.

"Of course you will." Malfoy paused at the door of the locker room to tamp out his cigarette. "Have fun!"

Lola smiled at Ron, who finally got his brain back in gear. This woman was as confounding as a Veela and twice as gorgeous; he wondered if she was going to try to eat him later. "Uh, it's a, it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Banana," he stammered, offering her his hand before he remembered they'd already shaken.

She laughed, a glorious sound, and leaned towards him. "The pleasure is all mine, Mister Hardy. I am very humbled to be meeting so great an athlete as you."

He felt his face warming and tore his eyes away from her. "It's, um, I'm not really...d'you want to sit down?"

She smiled, and sat on the bench. "So this is where you all get ready?" she asked, looking around the locker room like it was utterly fascinating.

"Er...yeah, this is where we change clothes and, and stuff." He winced at his own banality. "It's not that interesting."

"Oh—what are those?" Lola pointed at something stacked on top of the locker, and before Ron could ask her what she meant, she'd climbed up onto the bench and grabbed it. He had a moment to admire the acrobatic sensibility it took to climb anything in spiked heels, before he realized she was holding Stebbins' athletic supporter by the strap. "What is this, Mister Hardy?"

"Nothing!" he yelped, and grabbed it, before he remembered where it had been and threw it to the ground. "It's, er, it's just some...equipment, that we wear. Um. It's not that interesting."

"Oh." She actually looked disappointed for a moment, before she looked at the ground below her and held out her arms. "You help me down?"

"Uh...sure..."

Ron took a deep breath and placed his hands on her slender waist, with the innocent intention of lifting her down off the bench. But Lola threw her arms around his neck, pulled him forward, and used his body like a slide. She was wearing clingy, filmy robes that left just enough to the imagination, and he felt every perfect curve acutely as she eased herself down his front. She was soft in all the right places and firm in all the others, and smelled faintly of wildflowers and girl things. She fit against him smoothly, and once her feet hit the floor she leaned up to his ear and breathed on it as she whispered, "Thank you, Mr. Ron."

He couldn't have leapt away faster if her purse had started ticking. "Uh, d'you want to, uh, go get some candy?"

"Candy?" she echoed, brow furrowing again.

"Yeah, candy." Candy was, in fact, a brilliant idea; anything to get them into a public place. "There's a stand that sells it upstairs, and they're open pretty long after the matches, and I don't know about you, but I'm starving."

"I don't think I would like any candy," she said, stepping closer. "A girl has got to watch her figure."

"Oh, I can watch it for you—" He cringed. He had not just said that.

But he had, though Lola only laughed. "Oh, Ron! You are too sweet."

"I am?"

She twined her arms around his neck, once again getting far too close for comfort. "You're very honest," she said earnestly.

"Uh...yeah, sure."

"I like a man who does not brag about himself," she sighed, and stroked the side of his neck with the tip of one lacquered nail as she eased closer.

He tried to back away. "I, uh, I...you know, Mal—App—my manager, he—"

"Would you like to take me out dancing tonight?"

Ron's back hit a locker; he was trapped between cold steel and warm flesh. "I don't dance," he croaked.

Lola grinned, and leaned closer. "I can teach you..."

"M-M-Mr. Coulter likes us well-rested," he stammered, trying to dodge those ripe red lips. "You know, in b-bed early..."

She grinned mere inches from his face. "Oh, I can arrange that, too."

Oh, holy shit. Ron gave up being the gentleman and pushed her back, dodging sideways. He tried to keep it in his head that this Lola woman only wanted him because he was famous—unfortunately, certain parts of his body were just happy that she wanted him at all. He took a deep breath that didn't calm him in the slightest. "Miss Banana," he said crisply, "I'm sorry. You're a—a lovely girl, really. It's just, well, I already had plans this evening, at home."

Something in her face darkened. "Home?" she echoed with a pout.

"Yeah." Ron tried to sound apologetic, even as he backed away towards his locker. "I kind of promised."

"You want to hurt my feelings?" she asked, pouting a little.

"Well...no—" Damn, but she was making this hard. Difficult. God. "It's just, well...look, you're really a nice girl and all, and if I was two people I'd love to stay, but I'm not, and...and there's some place else I'm meant to be." He snatched his bag with one hand and his cloak in the other, and slipped out of the room as quickly as he could, heading for the nearest Apparation area, and his flat, and Harry.

-x-X-x-X-x-

Draco stepped out of his hiding place and glared at Pansy. "That was pathetic," he snapped. "I thought you didn't make Class B for nothing?"

She glared back before snatching up her handbag. "So I made a miscalculation."

"Miscalculation!" He goggled at her; did succubi have to surrender their brains as part of their training? "Pansy, you threw yourself at him like a bitch in heat. What was calculated about that?"

"You didn't give me enough time," she mumbled, and pulled a cigarette out of the air.

"I gave you over a week," he reminded her. "That should've been plenty of time. And what do you come up with? 'Ooooh, Meester Hhhhahdy, hyoo are so seeeexy, voulez-vous coucher avec moi?'"

"That's French, you idiot," she snarled. "Look, Malfoy, I can get him, I just need more time—"

"Which is exactly what we don't have!" he yelled. "They've got a European trip coming up, which means they get to zoom around, playing teams outside the league and padding out their standings, while their competition tear at each other's throats back here. If they get more than a Snitch ahead of Tutshill, they'll have the Cup in the bag, my plan will be ruined, Weasley will use the escape clause to go off and live in nauseatingly perfect harmony with Pott-head and the rest of his red-haired rabble, and I will spend the next six hundred years buried up to my neck in SHIT!"

She winced and blew a trail of smoke in his face. "You're the one who made him so good," she said. "Why don't you just...well, take it back? "

He rolled his eyes. "Because, you miserable strumpet, it's part of the contract. I get his soul, he gets to be the greatest player in history. If I shave so much as an ounce of talent off the package, the whole thing's voided. Undone. Kaputt."

"So what are you going to do?" she asked, throwing he butt to the floor.

He shook his head. "I'll think of something. In the meantime, do try to come up with something besides that Latin love goddess act? Something that might, I don't know, work?"

Draco left her fuming in the locker room and made his way outside. Standings, souls, succubi—everything was going to Heaven on him. It would not do. He turned a corner and found himself face-to-face with the last two mortals he wanted to deal with at the moment.

"Why, hello, Mr. Bagman, Mr. Coulter," Draco said, smiling. "How wonderful to see you."

Bagman nodded to him, grinning like the fool he was. "Applegate! Did you see the game Ron had today? Fantastic!" The old fraud reeked of cheap champagne, and he had a moldy-looking cigar clutched between his teeth. Luckily Coulter was doing the steering.

"Indeed," Draco said politely. "He's exceeded even my expectations of him." Unfortunately.

"Listen," Bagman said, leaning in close. "Listen, Applegate, some of us were thinking about throwing a little party for the old boy—a little shindig, just to thank him for all he's done."

Coulter sighed, and steadied the team owner with one hand. "It can wait until the end of the season, Ludo."

"The seasons is over!" Bagman hollered, drawing the attention of several passers-by. "That Cup's already got its name on us...I mean..."

"I know what you mean," Draco said quickly. "What sort of a party did you have in mind?"

Bagman waved his hands, sketching pictures in the air that only he could interpret. "Food. Music. Let the fan clubs put on a little dance. Invite some big names, make it a ph-ph-photo op."

"Why not let's wait until we've got the Cup in our hands," Coulter said evenly. "I don't want to distract anyone on the team."

"Distracted?" Bagman snorted. "Who's distracted? I'm not distracted."

Big names. Fan clubs. The media. Draco's brain was already in motion. "You know, Mr. Bagman, I think a party would be a wonderful idea," he said, slinging his arm around the ignorant lush's shoulders. "We can make it a real event. Open it to the public—sell tickets! You could get as much revenue out of it as a match, maybe even more...just think of all those Galleons jingling..."

Coulter frowned at him. "I don't think it's quite cricket to sell—"

"Brilliant!" Bagman boomed, grinning stupidly at them. "That's brilliant, Applegate! You're a genius!"

Draco smiled, and stepped away from the fumes. "I try."

"We'll do it right away..." Bagman rounded on Coulter and shook his shoulders. "We'll do it right away, you hear me?"

"We're playing in Europe for the next few weeks," Coulter said, trying to right his employer. "We won't be around to have any party."

Bagman's face fell. "Oh...hmmm...when they're back, then! We'll throw the party as soon as the team is back! We'll make it a real bash." He tipped his imaginary hat to Draco, then staggered off. Coulter favored the demon with a single nasty looked before he followed.

A major media event, centered on Ron, bare weeks before the end of the season. Lots of guests...lots of reporters...lots of witnesses. Draco smiled to himself as he made for the nearest stadium exit. He couldn't have set things up better if he'd actually tried.

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