for merlin's sake, how long has this been going on: master post
This is not new material, unless of course there are bits here you missed! It just seems like a neater way of keeping everything together than sticking all the individual bits in my main fic index on their own.
This fic as a whole is Hilary Thorpe/Viscount St. George (more usually addressed, in wizarding circles, as just Jerry Wimsey), with a side of Hilary/OMC and more general references to Jerry/half the girls at Hogwarts and probably a few from Beauxbatons. Ratings range from G to explicit. No major content warnings.
In short: the 1931-2 Triwizard Tournament, with Peter Wimsey in charge and Hilary Thorpe as the Hogwarts champion; murder and teenage drama inevitably ensue.
The main story
Prologue-ish: after Sir Henry's death. "I hadn't heard you were thinking of taking to Quidditch, though; it's a pity you aren't in our House, or you and Sep Weasley might make quite a nice matched pair of Beaters."
The choosing of the Triwizard champions. "Why did I do it?" Hilary moaned. "Why did I throw my name in, Jerry? Why didn't you throw yours in? Why didn't I throw your name in? It would serve you right for being such an irritating twit all the time."
Hilary and Professor Vane. Professor Vane's smile stiffened, and Hilary remembered belatedly that the older woman was herself Muggleborn; remembered, in fact, that two or three Daily Prophet writers had made much of that fact two years ago.
The night before the first task. And then he kissed her, of all the stupid things, and Hilary-- who, in what Jerry had once claimed were her best moments, could be very stupid indeed-- squeaked in surprise and clutched at his tie.
The first Triwizard task. "You little bastard," said Hilary, in the spirit of speaking the thing's own language, "you frightened me," and prodded the Jarvey away from her with one foot.
The morning after the first task. "You're hardly the first girl to try it." Professor Vane began to measure some of her ingredients into an undersized cauldron, but she cast Hilary a look of concern. "And no matter what anyone else might tell you, it won't ruin your life, either."
Snow! Jerry was waiting there for her, looking far too self-satisfied. "I knew I could count on you, Thorpe. Unlike some people I could think of."
The Yule Ball. Despite the robes and the charmed flower, he looked uncannily like Muggle photographs Hilary had seen of him at similar events, and the memory pained her for reasons she couldn't quite seem to define.
Boxing Day. If the Grey Lady guessed at Hilary's mission, or had passed any judgment on it, she gave no sign, but then again Hilary had known her long enough not to expect one.
Hilary's birthday. "I want to touch you," said Hilary petulantly, though the eagerness with which he was trying to push her gymslip down off her shoulders spoke for itself. "I hope you don't mind."
Aftermath of the second task. She had expected something far more interesting at the end of the trail, that was all, and felt almost disappointed.
Jerry vs. his parents. "Uncle's got a nice respectable Ministry job and is therefore quite beyond saving. The irony must be killing my mother."
Mortimer's portrait. Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey, fifteenth Duke of Denver-- according to the brass plate beneath him, at any rate-- uncrossed and recrossed his legs, looking back down at her with distinct displeasure. “And you’ll be a friend of young St. George’s, I suppose. I ought to have known it would come to this.”
Louis in the infirmary. Hilary felt a sudden flutter of panic. She was not remotely in the mood to have anyone's adoration declared to her, but she couldn't very well tell him that whatever it was she didn't want to know, so she nodded encouragingly.
Jerry in the infirmary. "I don't know what to do, Mr. Parker. No one's ever tried to kill me before."
Interludes
Jerry and Winnie in Diagon Alley. Winnie ate another jelly bean and promptly wrecked her perfect composure by pulling a horrified face; Jerry, who hadn't noted the color, wondered what flavor she'd gotten. He hoped it was rotten egg.
Concerning Winifreds. She was short and chubby, quiet and bookish with a particular knack for Arithmancy; her brother's complete opposite in every way, except that they shared the same fair hair and pale eyes.
Art:
Hilary in her Ravenclaw robes, courtesy of manasseh.
More Hilary outfits, by me.
"Snow!" in comic form oh my god, also by manasseh.
This fic as a whole is Hilary Thorpe/Viscount St. George (more usually addressed, in wizarding circles, as just Jerry Wimsey), with a side of Hilary/OMC and more general references to Jerry/half the girls at Hogwarts and probably a few from Beauxbatons. Ratings range from G to explicit. No major content warnings.
In short: the 1931-2 Triwizard Tournament, with Peter Wimsey in charge and Hilary Thorpe as the Hogwarts champion; murder and teenage drama inevitably ensue.
The main story
Prologue-ish: after Sir Henry's death. "I hadn't heard you were thinking of taking to Quidditch, though; it's a pity you aren't in our House, or you and Sep Weasley might make quite a nice matched pair of Beaters."
The choosing of the Triwizard champions. "Why did I do it?" Hilary moaned. "Why did I throw my name in, Jerry? Why didn't you throw yours in? Why didn't I throw your name in? It would serve you right for being such an irritating twit all the time."
Hilary and Professor Vane. Professor Vane's smile stiffened, and Hilary remembered belatedly that the older woman was herself Muggleborn; remembered, in fact, that two or three Daily Prophet writers had made much of that fact two years ago.
The night before the first task. And then he kissed her, of all the stupid things, and Hilary-- who, in what Jerry had once claimed were her best moments, could be very stupid indeed-- squeaked in surprise and clutched at his tie.
The first Triwizard task. "You little bastard," said Hilary, in the spirit of speaking the thing's own language, "you frightened me," and prodded the Jarvey away from her with one foot.
The morning after the first task. "You're hardly the first girl to try it." Professor Vane began to measure some of her ingredients into an undersized cauldron, but she cast Hilary a look of concern. "And no matter what anyone else might tell you, it won't ruin your life, either."
Snow! Jerry was waiting there for her, looking far too self-satisfied. "I knew I could count on you, Thorpe. Unlike some people I could think of."
The Yule Ball. Despite the robes and the charmed flower, he looked uncannily like Muggle photographs Hilary had seen of him at similar events, and the memory pained her for reasons she couldn't quite seem to define.
Boxing Day. If the Grey Lady guessed at Hilary's mission, or had passed any judgment on it, she gave no sign, but then again Hilary had known her long enough not to expect one.
Hilary's birthday. "I want to touch you," said Hilary petulantly, though the eagerness with which he was trying to push her gymslip down off her shoulders spoke for itself. "I hope you don't mind."
Aftermath of the second task. She had expected something far more interesting at the end of the trail, that was all, and felt almost disappointed.
Jerry vs. his parents. "Uncle's got a nice respectable Ministry job and is therefore quite beyond saving. The irony must be killing my mother."
Mortimer's portrait. Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey, fifteenth Duke of Denver-- according to the brass plate beneath him, at any rate-- uncrossed and recrossed his legs, looking back down at her with distinct displeasure. “And you’ll be a friend of young St. George’s, I suppose. I ought to have known it would come to this.”
Louis in the infirmary. Hilary felt a sudden flutter of panic. She was not remotely in the mood to have anyone's adoration declared to her, but she couldn't very well tell him that whatever it was she didn't want to know, so she nodded encouragingly.
Jerry in the infirmary. "I don't know what to do, Mr. Parker. No one's ever tried to kill me before."
Interludes
Jerry and Winnie in Diagon Alley. Winnie ate another jelly bean and promptly wrecked her perfect composure by pulling a horrified face; Jerry, who hadn't noted the color, wondered what flavor she'd gotten. He hoped it was rotten egg.
Concerning Winifreds. She was short and chubby, quiet and bookish with a particular knack for Arithmancy; her brother's complete opposite in every way, except that they shared the same fair hair and pale eyes.
Art:
Hilary in her Ravenclaw robes, courtesy of manasseh.
More Hilary outfits, by me.
"Snow!" in comic form oh my god, also by manasseh.