[fic] Don't Need No Credit Card to Ride This Train
TITLE: Don't Need No Credit Card to Ride This Train
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Some things are better than money and fame. Like bantering with your friends and your girlfriend at the Quidditch World Cup.
WORD COUNT: Approx. 900
A/N: This is for the June/July challenge, broomsticks. The Karakondjul is - according to the ever-so-reliable Wikipedia - a Bulgarian boogeyman which is sometimes evil, sometimes just kind of tricky and playful.
"I always knew you'd betray me, Ron."
"Oh, shut up. I have not. Anyway, what do you mean 'always'? We're best mates. I'd never."
Harry snorted. "That'd be more convincing if you weren't wearing red."
The back of Ron's neck turned the shade of his robes and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not like I have a choice. Not if I want to get laid ever again."
Beside him, Hermione tossed her hair and laughed.
Ron leaned across Ginny, who batted his shoulder, and said to Harry in a stage whisper, "If you want my opinion, she's the bad one. Her and her ultimatums. 'Support my Vicky-poo or you'll have to make do with your hand for a long, long time.'"
"Ew," said Ginny.
"That is not what I said," said Hermione.
"That's the gist of what she said," protested Ron. "Maybe she didn't use those exact words, but-"
"Ron," said his sister, "you're near me. With your red robes."
Ron looked appealingly at Harry, but Harry just shrugged and shook his head. Sorry, mate. I've fought enough battles.
"Fine." Ron slumped back in his seat and put an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "I hope Bulgaria beat Portree. I hope Vicky-"
"Viktor," Hermione sighed.
"-gets the Snitch in the first five minutes."
"Not very exciting, though, is that?" said Harry.
"No," agreed Ron, "but then your shame would last longer." He looked back toward the Quidditch pitch, where five Bulgarian Karakondjuls were juggling balls of fire while tossing one another into the air, to the delight of the spectators.
As that appeared to be the final word on the subject - until either Bulgaria or Portree won, at least - Harry took a sip of his Sooty Floo (iced pumpkin juice with brandy, heavy cream, and a dusting of nutmeg) and pulled Ginny a little closer, so he could rest his head against hers.
He was tired, despite the fact that it was only twilight and the match had scarcely begun. It had been a long day, and not only because they'd left London early. There were so many people here and entirely too many had recognized him and felt the need to stop him and try to strike up conversations. Harry was done giving interviews, done posing for photographs with people he didn't know. Fortunately, his friends were in protective mode, Ron with his muscular height and impressive collection of oaths, Hermione and Ginny with their hexes. Even Crookshanks had deigned to open his eyes and show his claws on Harry's behalf.
Now, as the sky darkened and an autumn-tinged breeze scurried across the back of his shoulders, Harry felt his eyelids drooping.
"Hey, stay awake," Ginny said.
"How'd you know?"
"I can feel you getting heavier."
"Sorry."
"It's all right. I just don't want you to miss the match. I need you to remember stuff so you can help me torment Ron and Hermione later."
He kissed her temple.
"Mmm," she said. "Your lips are cold."
He kissed the side of her mouth.
"And you taste like pumpkin juice and brandy."
He cupped her cheek, turned her face toward his, and kissed her again. "You taste like strawberry candy floss."
"I taste like vomit," Ron commented. "'Cause I just threw up in my mouth, listening to you."
"Who asked you to listen?" Ginny shot back just as Hermione said, "Wow. Someone's not getting kissed for a long, long time."
Ron threw his hands in the air. "I can't win."
"I can't help you," said Harry.
Ginny laughed.
In the pitch far below, the Karakondjuls executed one last gravity-defying leap, then disappeared in a burst of flame that left a strong peppery smell in the air.
"I liked Scotland's mascot better," Ginny said. "But at least the Kara-whatevers are better than Veela."
"The Veela were all right," Harry said without thinking and received a poke between the ribs. "Oi."
"Shame about the Veela," said Ron. "Shame someone we know, who works for the Ministry, has to have connections, and use her influence--"
"You really want to sleep alone for the rest of your life, don't you?" said Hermione.
"In for a Knut in for a Galleon. And if you're so hacked off, how come you're smiling?"
"I'm not," Hermione insisted.
But even three seats away and through the growing darkness, Harry could see that she was.
The Scottish players were being announced. One by one, they flew onto the pitch with their purple robes streaming.
"McCormack! McLaren! Dalrymple! Beaton! Brockie! Lundie! Boardman!"
"You could have been one of them," Ginny whispered in his ear. "If not a Pride, then some other team. Do you wish…?"
Harry fumbled with her robes, found her hand, and squeezed it. "Yeah. Sometimes. But can you imagine the Prophet headlines? THE BOY WHO SCORED. THE BOY WHO PASSED. THE BOY WHO DROPPED THE SNITCH AND BOLLOCKSED IT UP FOR EVERYONE ELSE. I just don't want any of that. It's too soon."
"The war's been over for five years."
Bulgaria had joined Scotland on the pitch by now. Viktor Krum, Harry thought, still looked a bit like an overgrown bird of prey. Harry felt a great deal of admiration and a flutter of envy. Still, it didn't take much effort to say, "It's too soon."
Ginny snuggled against him. Later, when Ron and Hermione were out of earshot, he planned on telling her that being with her was better than flying for England, or wherever. Better than anything, really.
6.25.07
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Some things are better than money and fame. Like bantering with your friends and your girlfriend at the Quidditch World Cup.
WORD COUNT: Approx. 900
A/N: This is for the June/July challenge, broomsticks. The Karakondjul is - according to the ever-so-reliable Wikipedia - a Bulgarian boogeyman which is sometimes evil, sometimes just kind of tricky and playful.
"I always knew you'd betray me, Ron."
"Oh, shut up. I have not. Anyway, what do you mean 'always'? We're best mates. I'd never."
Harry snorted. "That'd be more convincing if you weren't wearing red."
The back of Ron's neck turned the shade of his robes and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not like I have a choice. Not if I want to get laid ever again."
Beside him, Hermione tossed her hair and laughed.
Ron leaned across Ginny, who batted his shoulder, and said to Harry in a stage whisper, "If you want my opinion, she's the bad one. Her and her ultimatums. 'Support my Vicky-poo or you'll have to make do with your hand for a long, long time.'"
"Ew," said Ginny.
"That is not what I said," said Hermione.
"That's the gist of what she said," protested Ron. "Maybe she didn't use those exact words, but-"
"Ron," said his sister, "you're near me. With your red robes."
Ron looked appealingly at Harry, but Harry just shrugged and shook his head. Sorry, mate. I've fought enough battles.
"Fine." Ron slumped back in his seat and put an arm around Hermione's shoulders. "I hope Bulgaria beat Portree. I hope Vicky-"
"Viktor," Hermione sighed.
"-gets the Snitch in the first five minutes."
"Not very exciting, though, is that?" said Harry.
"No," agreed Ron, "but then your shame would last longer." He looked back toward the Quidditch pitch, where five Bulgarian Karakondjuls were juggling balls of fire while tossing one another into the air, to the delight of the spectators.
As that appeared to be the final word on the subject - until either Bulgaria or Portree won, at least - Harry took a sip of his Sooty Floo (iced pumpkin juice with brandy, heavy cream, and a dusting of nutmeg) and pulled Ginny a little closer, so he could rest his head against hers.
He was tired, despite the fact that it was only twilight and the match had scarcely begun. It had been a long day, and not only because they'd left London early. There were so many people here and entirely too many had recognized him and felt the need to stop him and try to strike up conversations. Harry was done giving interviews, done posing for photographs with people he didn't know. Fortunately, his friends were in protective mode, Ron with his muscular height and impressive collection of oaths, Hermione and Ginny with their hexes. Even Crookshanks had deigned to open his eyes and show his claws on Harry's behalf.
Now, as the sky darkened and an autumn-tinged breeze scurried across the back of his shoulders, Harry felt his eyelids drooping.
"Hey, stay awake," Ginny said.
"How'd you know?"
"I can feel you getting heavier."
"Sorry."
"It's all right. I just don't want you to miss the match. I need you to remember stuff so you can help me torment Ron and Hermione later."
He kissed her temple.
"Mmm," she said. "Your lips are cold."
He kissed the side of her mouth.
"And you taste like pumpkin juice and brandy."
He cupped her cheek, turned her face toward his, and kissed her again. "You taste like strawberry candy floss."
"I taste like vomit," Ron commented. "'Cause I just threw up in my mouth, listening to you."
"Who asked you to listen?" Ginny shot back just as Hermione said, "Wow. Someone's not getting kissed for a long, long time."
Ron threw his hands in the air. "I can't win."
"I can't help you," said Harry.
Ginny laughed.
In the pitch far below, the Karakondjuls executed one last gravity-defying leap, then disappeared in a burst of flame that left a strong peppery smell in the air.
"I liked Scotland's mascot better," Ginny said. "But at least the Kara-whatevers are better than Veela."
"The Veela were all right," Harry said without thinking and received a poke between the ribs. "Oi."
"Shame about the Veela," said Ron. "Shame someone we know, who works for the Ministry, has to have connections, and use her influence--"
"You really want to sleep alone for the rest of your life, don't you?" said Hermione.
"In for a Knut in for a Galleon. And if you're so hacked off, how come you're smiling?"
"I'm not," Hermione insisted.
But even three seats away and through the growing darkness, Harry could see that she was.
The Scottish players were being announced. One by one, they flew onto the pitch with their purple robes streaming.
"McCormack! McLaren! Dalrymple! Beaton! Brockie! Lundie! Boardman!"
"You could have been one of them," Ginny whispered in his ear. "If not a Pride, then some other team. Do you wish…?"
Harry fumbled with her robes, found her hand, and squeezed it. "Yeah. Sometimes. But can you imagine the Prophet headlines? THE BOY WHO SCORED. THE BOY WHO PASSED. THE BOY WHO DROPPED THE SNITCH AND BOLLOCKSED IT UP FOR EVERYONE ELSE. I just don't want any of that. It's too soon."
"The war's been over for five years."
Bulgaria had joined Scotland on the pitch by now. Viktor Krum, Harry thought, still looked a bit like an overgrown bird of prey. Harry felt a great deal of admiration and a flutter of envy. Still, it didn't take much effort to say, "It's too soon."
Ginny snuggled against him. Later, when Ron and Hermione were out of earshot, he planned on telling her that being with her was better than flying for England, or wherever. Better than anything, really.
6.25.07