(no subject)
Title: Yuletide Potions
Team: Spy for the Order of the Phoenix
Word Count: 7 x 100
Rating: G
Challenges: Broken Memory Charm Challenge
Characters: Severus, Hermione, Wendell and Monica Wilkins/Granger
A/N: There’s not much of Hermione in this set, and even less of Severus, but I thought we needed a bit of background on the doings of the missing parents.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
“There’s a track leading back to an old abandoned shack, along the road to Gundaga-a-ai.”
Wendell slipped out the side door of the old pub on the corner, ducking through the colourful plastic strips that kept the flies out. Much as he enjoyed his weekly night out, he always headed home when the singing began, or the reminiscing. He wasn’t one of them, didn’t share their memories.
He found Monica sitting at the kitchen table, staring at another of those infernal bits of paper the bloody kookaburra’s kept bringing. From that girl.
“More blather about her boss?”
“I haven’t looked.”
…
Going to the fridge, he got out a bottle of the Lindemans Bin 65 chardonnay.
They had learnt to read the damn things. The one time he’d thrown one away, she’d shown up, no more than two hours later in tears, frantic with worry. And they had to answer, or the bird wouldn’t leave. Monica had taken to writing early in the week and keeping the letter on the kitchen counter.
Still, no need to read it sober; they’d learnt that too. Somehow, she knew if they read the missives, but not what state they were in at the time.
…
Wendell never could explain exactly what it was about the girl that disturbed him so badly. She did odd things, and then there was the bird, and the fact that she’d somehow just happened to be near to Gerringong the one time he’d ignored her letter. And every few months she’d show up with some odd concoction she wanted them to try, and then she’d wave that funny stick of hers.
No, the really disturbing thing was that he hadn’t put a stop to it. He had even saved the bottles her concoctions came in. Elegant little flasks stamped “HA”.
…
Dear Monica and Wendell,
I trust this finds you well. Please let me know if there is anything you miss that you want me to send for Christmas; Harrod’s does lovely hampers.
Hermione
“Is that all?” he asked, pouring himself a refill and topping off Monica’s nearly empty glass.
“So it would seem,” she replied, turning the curl of sepia-toned paper over, looking for any words she might have missed. “I’ll just get dinner started, then, shall I? I was thinking of that apricot chicken you liked so much at the neighbours the other night. She gave me the recipe.”
…
Despite himself, Wendell felt a twinge of concern. The weekly letters had a definite pattern. First she would discuss the weather, which always struck him as somewhat peculiar, since they’d left England to get away from the bloody weather. Then she would dutifully recite where she had gone with her boyfriend and who else had been along. The next bit was the only part worth reading: the description of her latest encounters with her boss, including verbatim quotations of his barbed witticisms. Wendell never could decide if the man was a vicious beast or the funniest damn thing ever born.
…
“Something’s wrong,” Monica said.
“That’s obvious. Trouble at work, you reckon?”
“No. She’s having man trouble. That boyfriend of hers must have done something awful.”
Pushing back from the table, Wendell replied, “I’ll just go for a stroll before dinner, then.”
Near to midsummer, it was blisteringly hot in the little seaside village they’d chosen for their retirement. He wandered along the long, long beach and watched the waves roll in, one after another, wondering yet again why it was that this Hermione was the only one of their old friends who kept in touch. Surely they’d had other friends …
…
A man couldn’t ask for a better spot to spend his retirement. He was a bit young for it, of course, but he’d done well. Worked hard at … whatever it was. Saved. No kids, that helped, of course. Not that he would have minded having one or two. But then he wouldn’t be here, would he? Whiling away his days doing bugger-all. Had he been more energetic once? More ambitious?
As his mind slipped away from his half-hearted effort to grasp for a memory, Wendell let himself be distracted by the play of the seagulls, circling over the beach.
Part 6
Team: Spy for the Order of the Phoenix
Word Count: 7 x 100
Rating: G
Challenges: Broken Memory Charm Challenge
Characters: Severus, Hermione, Wendell and Monica Wilkins/Granger
A/N: There’s not much of Hermione in this set, and even less of Severus, but I thought we needed a bit of background on the doings of the missing parents.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
“There’s a track leading back to an old abandoned shack, along the road to Gundaga-a-ai.”
Wendell slipped out the side door of the old pub on the corner, ducking through the colourful plastic strips that kept the flies out. Much as he enjoyed his weekly night out, he always headed home when the singing began, or the reminiscing. He wasn’t one of them, didn’t share their memories.
He found Monica sitting at the kitchen table, staring at another of those infernal bits of paper the bloody kookaburra’s kept bringing. From that girl.
“More blather about her boss?”
“I haven’t looked.”
…
Going to the fridge, he got out a bottle of the Lindemans Bin 65 chardonnay.
They had learnt to read the damn things. The one time he’d thrown one away, she’d shown up, no more than two hours later in tears, frantic with worry. And they had to answer, or the bird wouldn’t leave. Monica had taken to writing early in the week and keeping the letter on the kitchen counter.
Still, no need to read it sober; they’d learnt that too. Somehow, she knew if they read the missives, but not what state they were in at the time.
…
Wendell never could explain exactly what it was about the girl that disturbed him so badly. She did odd things, and then there was the bird, and the fact that she’d somehow just happened to be near to Gerringong the one time he’d ignored her letter. And every few months she’d show up with some odd concoction she wanted them to try, and then she’d wave that funny stick of hers.
No, the really disturbing thing was that he hadn’t put a stop to it. He had even saved the bottles her concoctions came in. Elegant little flasks stamped “HA”.
…
Dear Monica and Wendell,
I trust this finds you well. Please let me know if there is anything you miss that you want me to send for Christmas; Harrod’s does lovely hampers.
Hermione
“Is that all?” he asked, pouring himself a refill and topping off Monica’s nearly empty glass.
“So it would seem,” she replied, turning the curl of sepia-toned paper over, looking for any words she might have missed. “I’ll just get dinner started, then, shall I? I was thinking of that apricot chicken you liked so much at the neighbours the other night. She gave me the recipe.”
…
Despite himself, Wendell felt a twinge of concern. The weekly letters had a definite pattern. First she would discuss the weather, which always struck him as somewhat peculiar, since they’d left England to get away from the bloody weather. Then she would dutifully recite where she had gone with her boyfriend and who else had been along. The next bit was the only part worth reading: the description of her latest encounters with her boss, including verbatim quotations of his barbed witticisms. Wendell never could decide if the man was a vicious beast or the funniest damn thing ever born.
…
“Something’s wrong,” Monica said.
“That’s obvious. Trouble at work, you reckon?”
“No. She’s having man trouble. That boyfriend of hers must have done something awful.”
Pushing back from the table, Wendell replied, “I’ll just go for a stroll before dinner, then.”
Near to midsummer, it was blisteringly hot in the little seaside village they’d chosen for their retirement. He wandered along the long, long beach and watched the waves roll in, one after another, wondering yet again why it was that this Hermione was the only one of their old friends who kept in touch. Surely they’d had other friends …
…
A man couldn’t ask for a better spot to spend his retirement. He was a bit young for it, of course, but he’d done well. Worked hard at … whatever it was. Saved. No kids, that helped, of course. Not that he would have minded having one or two. But then he wouldn’t be here, would he? Whiling away his days doing bugger-all. Had he been more energetic once? More ambitious?
As his mind slipped away from his half-hearted effort to grasp for a memory, Wendell let himself be distracted by the play of the seagulls, circling over the beach.
Part 6