FIC: The Little Death (Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson)
Title: The Little Death
Author: ncp
Characters: Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson, past Ron/Hermione
Prompt number: #33
Word Count: 2,300
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: Major character death (past)
Summary: You can’t always control who you are attracted to…
Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me.
Author’s Notes: This one took a bit of work. Thanks to my beta for helping me get the tone right!
The Little Death
“I can’t believe I’m at a club,” Ron muttered. “I’m forty-fucking-four years old, what the hell am I doing here?”
“Supporting your daughter’s career?”
“It’s not a career yet.” Although he had to admit, looking around at the crowd of happy, slightly tipsy people listening to whatever that sound was up on stage, that Rosie had done a spectacular job organizing this show. She had been so busy, flying around handling all the hundreds of tiny details, clearly in her element, that he had barely had time to tell her how proud he was of her. He caught a glimpse of her waving her hands about frantically as she talked to a grey-haired man in outrageously stylish robes. Her face was glowing with enthusiasm, and suddenly, all Ron could see was Hermione, gesticulating wildly and ranting about House-elves or werewolves or Muggle-borns.
His gut clenched sickeningly, like it had been doing at random times over the past six months. He never knew what images would set it off, but the sight of his daughter’s success was obviously one of them. Hermione would never be able to see this, never know that Rosie had finally found something she loved and was good at. And Rosie. All she had ever wanted was Hermione’s approval, and now she would never get to hear her mother say how proud she was of her. It wasn’t fucking fair.
He shook his head violently before he let his thoughts run away with him. He wasn’t going to get all maudlin and let Rosie think he didn’t recognize all her hard work. He turned his attention back to the noise onstage, trying like hell to figure out why his daughter and her friends liked to listen to this dreck. Next to him, McLaggen was swaying slightly in his seat and gazing around the room with a lecherous gleam in his eye. Ron sighed; some things never changed.
“For fuck’s sake, McLaggen, you’re older than I am. Stop chasing after schoolboys.” His friend (since when had he started thinking of McLaggen as a friend?) took a sip of his drink.
“You sound like Hermione. She was always trying to introduce me to stable blokes with boring Ministry jobs and no sense of fun.”
“You have a boring Ministry job.”
“Working for your wife was never boring. I never knew when I’d have to stay up three nights in a row because some poor elf couldn’t take the abuse and hurt someone in a burst of wild magic, or hex some toad from the Prophet posing as a messenger, or...” his face darkened as he trailed off.
“Or stop some crazed anti-werewolf activist from sneaking into her office and cutting her to ribbons?” The words came to his lips before he could stop them, and he backpedaled furiously. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that, I never meant to imply that I blame you for...”
“You know you and Potter are the only people who can get away with saying shit like that, right? Anyone else would have been facing the end of my wand.”
“Harry hasn’t said...?”
“No, Potter’s been his usual professional self throughout this mess. It’s creepy, to be honest, You’d think he’d be... angrier or something.”
To be honest, Ron had no idea how Harry felt about McLaggen. He had shut himself off after the funeral, throwing the entire Auror Department’s resources into finding the killer. Once the trial had started, Harry had drowned himself in work rather than face his own grief. Even Ginny, who was far too accustomed to Harry’s workaholic nature, was getting worried. Any attempts to draw him out were met with the same non-answer. “He says he doesn’t want to jeopardize the trial by doing something stupid. Not that it would help, the way things have been going. I still think you should have been the one to handle it.”
McLaggen swirled the remaining drops of Firewhiskey in his glass. “I’m no lawyer, Weasley, you know that. I can’t even prosecute a Floo Network violation.”
“Bollocks. You carried my wife’s briefcase for twelve years. You spent more late nights with her at the office than I did at home. You know how her mind worked. That little girl doing the prosecuting is...”
“... the best we’ve got, unfortunately. She shows promise, and if Hermione had been around to train her properly, well...” He shrugged. “Hermione hired me because I’m an intimidating bully. If it was me in front of the Wizengamot, the bastard would have had every bone in his body broken twelve times over, and I’d be the one facing charges. Besides, I’m just an assistant. A high-profile murder would be beyond me, especially if I was up against Pansy Parkinson.” He drained his glass and pushed himself back from the table. “And thank you very much for depressing the fuck out of me. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find some eager young lad to suck me off in the loo.”
Ron grimaced as he watched McLaggen walk away. As if his life wasn’t bad enough -- a murdered wife whose killer was about to go free, and a best friend who couldn’t bear to talk to him any more -- McLaggen had just reminded him of the other thing that had been bothering him lately. Sex. Or rather, the lack of any. Until recently, he’d been having trouble sleeping because his bed was still too big, and there was no one to complain that he was stealing the covers, and his calves remained depressingly unmolested by freezing cold toes. In the last few weeks, however, his long, sleepless nights were filled with images of what he used to do to warm those toes up, followed immediately by the intense need to do something like that to someone else, and soon.
It wasn’t something he could talk about. He was still in mourning. He still loved Hermione. He wasn’t ready to move on. But somehow, his prick seemed to think that six months was quite long enough to go without sex, thank you. At first it was just incredibly vivid dreams involving Hermione, which would cause him to wake up hard, horny, and incredibly depressed. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was the more recent desire to hover creepily near the pink corner of the shop where all the teenage girls congregated, or grab the pert, round arse of the Potions’ delivery girl or pin Rosie’s friend Cora Finnegan against a wall and see if her tits were like her mother’s. It was wrong. It was dirty, disgraceful, an insult to Hermione’s memory. And it was all he could think about.
Taking a deep breath, he looked around for Rosie’s auburn curls. Not seeing her, he figured she was probably somewhere backstage and wouldn’t miss him if he stepped outside for a bit. His ears needed a rest. There were more than enough Weasleys lending their support (all under strict orders to spread out and not mingle with one another). He made his way through the crush of sweating, swaying young people and slipped through a side door to the alley behind the club. He leaned back against the wall, breathing in the crisp fall air and enjoying the silence.
“Weasley. Didn’t expect to see you at this type of place.” Ron closed his eyes and groaned. He knew that voice all too well, and it was the last person he wanted to see right now -- or ever.
“Bugger off, Parkinson.” Pansy Parkinson, looking just as bitchy and polished as she did in front of the Wizengamot, was leaning against the opposite wall of the alley, smoking a cigarette. She was wearing some sort of Muggle-style dress with a low neckline and a short skirt. Most men would probably think she was really sexy. Of course, most men didn’t spend all day sitting in a courtroom listening to her defend the man who had murdered his wife. No amount of tantalizing skin and shapely legs could make him forget that.
She took a drag of her cigarette, took a step towards him, and blew the smoke directly in his face. He blinked and tried not to cough -- she might be winning her fucking case, but he wouldn’t let her win whatever game she seemed to be playing right now. “You strike me as the Celestina Warbeck type.”
“Nothing wrong with the classics.”
“She’s terrible. She was terrible thirty years ago, and she’s gotten worse with age.” She flicked an ash and shivered slightly in the cold.
“Better than the noise in there. I’d rather listen to the Weird Sisters, and I never liked them either.”
She wrinkled her pug nose. “Which begs the question, Weasley. What are you doing here?”
Ron sighed. “My daughter’s managing the band. We’re all just showing our support and loyalty. Nothing you’d understand.” What did that even mean? He was probably tired -- he had come up with much better insults in the past. “Werewolf-hating vampire bitch-snake” was a particular favorite.
“Your daughter? How did she get such good taste in music, then? Probably from Granger.” She rolled her eyes and took another drag from her cigarette.
He could feel the heat pooling in behind his eyes. It was bad enough he had to sit through her slimy Slytherin courtroom tactics every day as she tried to convince everyone that Hermione was some sort of dangerous freak who needed to be stopped before she unleashed an army of werewolves onto an unsuspecting Wizarding public. He didn’t need to stand here and let her insult him during his personal time. And she really didn’t need to stand there looking all polished and sleek and fuckable either. “You have no right to talk about my wife.” he growled. “You’re the reason...”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“No, you’re just letting her killer go free.”
She crossed her arms across her chest. “I wasn’t aware the trial was over, Weasley. I’m glad to hear my social life can get back to normal.”
Merlin, she was infuriating. He stared at a brick next to her head, trying to remember how she was ruining his life. It didn’t work. In court, she wore Wizengamot-issue professional dress robes and tied her hair up in a tight, sensible bun. It was hard to reconcile that obnoxiously serious woman with the obnoxiously sexy one standing in front of him wearing that tiny scrap of a dress.
Hermione had worn a dress like that once. It was a few months after Hugo was born, while he was still an Auror. Two pregnancies and some extra weight on her hips had caused her some uncharacteristic anguish about her appearance, so she had bought a ridiculously tiny dress and Muggle undergarments that might as well have not been there at all. Ron had taken one look at her, burst into giggles, and taken the crazy, sexy, wonderful mother of his children to bed, leaking breasts, stretch marks, and all.
Pansy Parkinson didn’t have a single wrinkle on her. Just as well -- someone self-absorbed enough to spend all that money on cosmetic potions and Charms would have made a terrible mother anyway. Her true personality was hiding under all that taut skin and firm breasts and expertly applied lipstick.
Unfortunately, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he would be better off just going back inside and listening to what passed for music, he couldn’t do it. Something was keeping him trapped in that alley, and that something was growing by the second. He tried to keep his eyes from wandering all over her unrealistically perfect body, but the smirk on her face was proof enough of his failure.
“Like what you see, Weasel?”
“Hardly.”
“Hard is right,” she responded, her eyes on his crotch. “Well, well, Weasley. How long has it been? Six months? Probably longer, given that frigid cow you were married to...”
The next thing he knew, he had her pinned to the wall behind her. “Shut up, you fucking bitch. You can say what you want about her in that courtroom; everyone knows it’s a pack of lies. But you will not insult my wife to my face,” he spat.
Parkinson tilted her head back and let out a throaty laugh. “Drop the grieving widower act, Weasley. That Sword of Gryffindor poking into my hip tells a different story.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s the idea, Weasel. I haven’t had a cock inside me since this trial started. Might as well be yours.” She rolled her hips against his and he jerked against her involuntarily. The sudden contact sent a jolt through his body straight to his cock, and he thrust himself against her repeatedly. He was out of his mind to be doing this, but there was no stopping now. The tension built inside him as he heard her panting in his ear and felt her rubbing herself against his thigh. Less than a minute later, he had come inside his pants like some teenager seeing his first naked girl.
Parkinson, for her part, looked irritated. “That’s the best you can do, Weasley? I didn’t even have a chance to get wet. I have a new theory to present the Wizengamot now. My client is innocent because Granger died from sheer sexual frustration.”
“I told you not to talk about my wife,” he growled, backing away from the wall. He felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. It was one thing for him to be horny all the time -- it was quite another to disgrace his wife’s memory by getting off with the woman who was her exact opposite. He turned to go inside, rapidly applying a Scourgify to remove all evidence of his mistake.
“Where do you think you’re going? You’re just going to leave me here?”
His hand on the door handle, Ron turned back one last time. “You seriously expect me to do anything after what you just said? Yeah, I’m a little horny, and you’re more attractive than my right hand. You’re a lawyer, so you’re pretty good at getting people off. Why don’t you just fuck yourself?”
Author: ncp
Characters: Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson, past Ron/Hermione
Prompt number: #33
Word Count: 2,300
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: Major character death (past)
Summary: You can’t always control who you are attracted to…
Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me.
Author’s Notes: This one took a bit of work. Thanks to my beta for helping me get the tone right!
The Little Death
“I can’t believe I’m at a club,” Ron muttered. “I’m forty-fucking-four years old, what the hell am I doing here?”
“Supporting your daughter’s career?”
“It’s not a career yet.” Although he had to admit, looking around at the crowd of happy, slightly tipsy people listening to whatever that sound was up on stage, that Rosie had done a spectacular job organizing this show. She had been so busy, flying around handling all the hundreds of tiny details, clearly in her element, that he had barely had time to tell her how proud he was of her. He caught a glimpse of her waving her hands about frantically as she talked to a grey-haired man in outrageously stylish robes. Her face was glowing with enthusiasm, and suddenly, all Ron could see was Hermione, gesticulating wildly and ranting about House-elves or werewolves or Muggle-borns.
His gut clenched sickeningly, like it had been doing at random times over the past six months. He never knew what images would set it off, but the sight of his daughter’s success was obviously one of them. Hermione would never be able to see this, never know that Rosie had finally found something she loved and was good at. And Rosie. All she had ever wanted was Hermione’s approval, and now she would never get to hear her mother say how proud she was of her. It wasn’t fucking fair.
He shook his head violently before he let his thoughts run away with him. He wasn’t going to get all maudlin and let Rosie think he didn’t recognize all her hard work. He turned his attention back to the noise onstage, trying like hell to figure out why his daughter and her friends liked to listen to this dreck. Next to him, McLaggen was swaying slightly in his seat and gazing around the room with a lecherous gleam in his eye. Ron sighed; some things never changed.
“For fuck’s sake, McLaggen, you’re older than I am. Stop chasing after schoolboys.” His friend (since when had he started thinking of McLaggen as a friend?) took a sip of his drink.
“You sound like Hermione. She was always trying to introduce me to stable blokes with boring Ministry jobs and no sense of fun.”
“You have a boring Ministry job.”
“Working for your wife was never boring. I never knew when I’d have to stay up three nights in a row because some poor elf couldn’t take the abuse and hurt someone in a burst of wild magic, or hex some toad from the Prophet posing as a messenger, or...” his face darkened as he trailed off.
“Or stop some crazed anti-werewolf activist from sneaking into her office and cutting her to ribbons?” The words came to his lips before he could stop them, and he backpedaled furiously. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that, I never meant to imply that I blame you for...”
“You know you and Potter are the only people who can get away with saying shit like that, right? Anyone else would have been facing the end of my wand.”
“Harry hasn’t said...?”
“No, Potter’s been his usual professional self throughout this mess. It’s creepy, to be honest, You’d think he’d be... angrier or something.”
To be honest, Ron had no idea how Harry felt about McLaggen. He had shut himself off after the funeral, throwing the entire Auror Department’s resources into finding the killer. Once the trial had started, Harry had drowned himself in work rather than face his own grief. Even Ginny, who was far too accustomed to Harry’s workaholic nature, was getting worried. Any attempts to draw him out were met with the same non-answer. “He says he doesn’t want to jeopardize the trial by doing something stupid. Not that it would help, the way things have been going. I still think you should have been the one to handle it.”
McLaggen swirled the remaining drops of Firewhiskey in his glass. “I’m no lawyer, Weasley, you know that. I can’t even prosecute a Floo Network violation.”
“Bollocks. You carried my wife’s briefcase for twelve years. You spent more late nights with her at the office than I did at home. You know how her mind worked. That little girl doing the prosecuting is...”
“... the best we’ve got, unfortunately. She shows promise, and if Hermione had been around to train her properly, well...” He shrugged. “Hermione hired me because I’m an intimidating bully. If it was me in front of the Wizengamot, the bastard would have had every bone in his body broken twelve times over, and I’d be the one facing charges. Besides, I’m just an assistant. A high-profile murder would be beyond me, especially if I was up against Pansy Parkinson.” He drained his glass and pushed himself back from the table. “And thank you very much for depressing the fuck out of me. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find some eager young lad to suck me off in the loo.”
Ron grimaced as he watched McLaggen walk away. As if his life wasn’t bad enough -- a murdered wife whose killer was about to go free, and a best friend who couldn’t bear to talk to him any more -- McLaggen had just reminded him of the other thing that had been bothering him lately. Sex. Or rather, the lack of any. Until recently, he’d been having trouble sleeping because his bed was still too big, and there was no one to complain that he was stealing the covers, and his calves remained depressingly unmolested by freezing cold toes. In the last few weeks, however, his long, sleepless nights were filled with images of what he used to do to warm those toes up, followed immediately by the intense need to do something like that to someone else, and soon.
It wasn’t something he could talk about. He was still in mourning. He still loved Hermione. He wasn’t ready to move on. But somehow, his prick seemed to think that six months was quite long enough to go without sex, thank you. At first it was just incredibly vivid dreams involving Hermione, which would cause him to wake up hard, horny, and incredibly depressed. That made sense. What didn’t make sense was the more recent desire to hover creepily near the pink corner of the shop where all the teenage girls congregated, or grab the pert, round arse of the Potions’ delivery girl or pin Rosie’s friend Cora Finnegan against a wall and see if her tits were like her mother’s. It was wrong. It was dirty, disgraceful, an insult to Hermione’s memory. And it was all he could think about.
Taking a deep breath, he looked around for Rosie’s auburn curls. Not seeing her, he figured she was probably somewhere backstage and wouldn’t miss him if he stepped outside for a bit. His ears needed a rest. There were more than enough Weasleys lending their support (all under strict orders to spread out and not mingle with one another). He made his way through the crush of sweating, swaying young people and slipped through a side door to the alley behind the club. He leaned back against the wall, breathing in the crisp fall air and enjoying the silence.
“Weasley. Didn’t expect to see you at this type of place.” Ron closed his eyes and groaned. He knew that voice all too well, and it was the last person he wanted to see right now -- or ever.
“Bugger off, Parkinson.” Pansy Parkinson, looking just as bitchy and polished as she did in front of the Wizengamot, was leaning against the opposite wall of the alley, smoking a cigarette. She was wearing some sort of Muggle-style dress with a low neckline and a short skirt. Most men would probably think she was really sexy. Of course, most men didn’t spend all day sitting in a courtroom listening to her defend the man who had murdered his wife. No amount of tantalizing skin and shapely legs could make him forget that.
She took a drag of her cigarette, took a step towards him, and blew the smoke directly in his face. He blinked and tried not to cough -- she might be winning her fucking case, but he wouldn’t let her win whatever game she seemed to be playing right now. “You strike me as the Celestina Warbeck type.”
“Nothing wrong with the classics.”
“She’s terrible. She was terrible thirty years ago, and she’s gotten worse with age.” She flicked an ash and shivered slightly in the cold.
“Better than the noise in there. I’d rather listen to the Weird Sisters, and I never liked them either.”
She wrinkled her pug nose. “Which begs the question, Weasley. What are you doing here?”
Ron sighed. “My daughter’s managing the band. We’re all just showing our support and loyalty. Nothing you’d understand.” What did that even mean? He was probably tired -- he had come up with much better insults in the past. “Werewolf-hating vampire bitch-snake” was a particular favorite.
“Your daughter? How did she get such good taste in music, then? Probably from Granger.” She rolled her eyes and took another drag from her cigarette.
He could feel the heat pooling in behind his eyes. It was bad enough he had to sit through her slimy Slytherin courtroom tactics every day as she tried to convince everyone that Hermione was some sort of dangerous freak who needed to be stopped before she unleashed an army of werewolves onto an unsuspecting Wizarding public. He didn’t need to stand here and let her insult him during his personal time. And she really didn’t need to stand there looking all polished and sleek and fuckable either. “You have no right to talk about my wife.” he growled. “You’re the reason...”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“No, you’re just letting her killer go free.”
She crossed her arms across her chest. “I wasn’t aware the trial was over, Weasley. I’m glad to hear my social life can get back to normal.”
Merlin, she was infuriating. He stared at a brick next to her head, trying to remember how she was ruining his life. It didn’t work. In court, she wore Wizengamot-issue professional dress robes and tied her hair up in a tight, sensible bun. It was hard to reconcile that obnoxiously serious woman with the obnoxiously sexy one standing in front of him wearing that tiny scrap of a dress.
Hermione had worn a dress like that once. It was a few months after Hugo was born, while he was still an Auror. Two pregnancies and some extra weight on her hips had caused her some uncharacteristic anguish about her appearance, so she had bought a ridiculously tiny dress and Muggle undergarments that might as well have not been there at all. Ron had taken one look at her, burst into giggles, and taken the crazy, sexy, wonderful mother of his children to bed, leaking breasts, stretch marks, and all.
Pansy Parkinson didn’t have a single wrinkle on her. Just as well -- someone self-absorbed enough to spend all that money on cosmetic potions and Charms would have made a terrible mother anyway. Her true personality was hiding under all that taut skin and firm breasts and expertly applied lipstick.
Unfortunately, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he would be better off just going back inside and listening to what passed for music, he couldn’t do it. Something was keeping him trapped in that alley, and that something was growing by the second. He tried to keep his eyes from wandering all over her unrealistically perfect body, but the smirk on her face was proof enough of his failure.
“Like what you see, Weasel?”
“Hardly.”
“Hard is right,” she responded, her eyes on his crotch. “Well, well, Weasley. How long has it been? Six months? Probably longer, given that frigid cow you were married to...”
The next thing he knew, he had her pinned to the wall behind her. “Shut up, you fucking bitch. You can say what you want about her in that courtroom; everyone knows it’s a pack of lies. But you will not insult my wife to my face,” he spat.
Parkinson tilted her head back and let out a throaty laugh. “Drop the grieving widower act, Weasley. That Sword of Gryffindor poking into my hip tells a different story.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s the idea, Weasel. I haven’t had a cock inside me since this trial started. Might as well be yours.” She rolled her hips against his and he jerked against her involuntarily. The sudden contact sent a jolt through his body straight to his cock, and he thrust himself against her repeatedly. He was out of his mind to be doing this, but there was no stopping now. The tension built inside him as he heard her panting in his ear and felt her rubbing herself against his thigh. Less than a minute later, he had come inside his pants like some teenager seeing his first naked girl.
Parkinson, for her part, looked irritated. “That’s the best you can do, Weasley? I didn’t even have a chance to get wet. I have a new theory to present the Wizengamot now. My client is innocent because Granger died from sheer sexual frustration.”
“I told you not to talk about my wife,” he growled, backing away from the wall. He felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. It was one thing for him to be horny all the time -- it was quite another to disgrace his wife’s memory by getting off with the woman who was her exact opposite. He turned to go inside, rapidly applying a Scourgify to remove all evidence of his mistake.
“Where do you think you’re going? You’re just going to leave me here?”
His hand on the door handle, Ron turned back one last time. “You seriously expect me to do anything after what you just said? Yeah, I’m a little horny, and you’re more attractive than my right hand. You’re a lawyer, so you’re pretty good at getting people off. Why don’t you just fuck yourself?”