Traditions (dogdaysofsummer Day 10)
(Yes, I know I've skipped a day - it's stuck on my home computer)
Title: Traditions
Rating: G/PG
Disclaimer: Only Fliss is my invention
Prompt: "My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there"
--Philip Larkin, Mother, Summer, I
Summary: The wedding’s over, and the best man’s gone missing again.
The wedding car, trailing tin cans, had just disappeared around the bend. Both mothers were crying, albeit on each others’ shoulders. Remus had lost the best man again.
On the other hand, the purpling stormclouds that were gathering over the Downs had held off all afternoon; nobody had got their lines wrong (which was a distinct improvement over the wedding rehearsal); and Petunia Dursley, despite the muddle with the seating arrangements which had left her sitting between Regulus Black and Horace Slughorn, had not yet descended into hysterics. Maybe, Remus thought hopefully, maybe he could finally relax.
“I’m out of hankies,” Peter said, grinning. “Your turn with the mothers.”
“Where’s Sirius?” Remus grumbled. “Honestly, isn’t he meant to running things?”
“Same old, same old,” Peter said philosophically. “Padfoot and Prongs get the glory and we do the work. The chief bridesmaid’s got him cornered in the porch, if you were worried.”
“What?” said Remus, and the storm broke, with a flash that turned the bruise-dark sky golden.
Everyone ran for cover, the women clutching their hats to their heads and tottering on their heels, and the men obviously yearning for newspapers to shelter below. Most people streamed back into the hall, and Remus found himself squashed into the corner of the porch as they crammed past in a cloud of mothy suits, pastel scarves and perfume.
“Moony!” a panicked voice said, and he turned to see Sirius staring at him, wild-eyed. “It’s not really an ancient Muggle tradition, is it?”
“What?” Remus asked. Fliss Oliphant was squashed in beside Sirius, looking highly entertained.
“Chief bridesmaid has first dibs on the best man,” she said and winked at Remus.
Remus bit down his first instinct, which was to shove her out into the downpour, and considered that wink. Then he said gravely, “Not so much a tradition, old boy.”
Sirius sighed in relief.
“I wouldn’t say law was quite the right word, either, would you, Fliss?”
“Remus!” Sirius wailed.
Fliss patted him on the arm. “Isn’t it a good thing for me that you’re pretty, Black?”
“Nnargh,” said Sirius.
Remus took pity on him. “I’d actually call it more of a long-running joke.”
Sirius’ eyes narrowed.
“Spoilsport,” Fliss said wistfully. “I could have kept him going for hours.”
“You-” Sirius spluttered, pointing at her.
She reached up and patted his cheek, grinning. “What was it you lot used to say? Ah, yes. Mischief managed.”
“You- You-”
Remus could bite back his laughter any longer. “Did Lily put you up to that?”
“Please,” Fliss said, tossing her head. “All my own idea. Where’s Peter, anyway?”
“Inside,” Remus said vaguely. “And if you’re still thinking about the best man thing, he’s the one who actually got us all to the church on time.”
“Smashing,” Fliss said, and gathered up the trailing skirts of her bridesmaid’s dress. “He’s the only one of you lot worth the effort these days. Ta ra, Black.”
“She-” Sirius said weakly, staring at her retreating back. “And you-”
Remus sniggered and eyed the torrential rain. It was wisping into the porch enough that he doubted anyone else would come out here. Satisfied, he slid his arms around Sirius’ waist and murmured, “The only one who’s going to be taking the best man home is me.”
Cumberland Dorset Essex Kent Lincolnshire Middlesex Northamptonshire Surrey Sussex
Title: Traditions
Rating: G/PG
Disclaimer: Only Fliss is my invention
Prompt: "My mother, who hates thunder storms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there"
--Philip Larkin, Mother, Summer, I
Summary: The wedding’s over, and the best man’s gone missing again.
The wedding car, trailing tin cans, had just disappeared around the bend. Both mothers were crying, albeit on each others’ shoulders. Remus had lost the best man again.
On the other hand, the purpling stormclouds that were gathering over the Downs had held off all afternoon; nobody had got their lines wrong (which was a distinct improvement over the wedding rehearsal); and Petunia Dursley, despite the muddle with the seating arrangements which had left her sitting between Regulus Black and Horace Slughorn, had not yet descended into hysterics. Maybe, Remus thought hopefully, maybe he could finally relax.
“I’m out of hankies,” Peter said, grinning. “Your turn with the mothers.”
“Where’s Sirius?” Remus grumbled. “Honestly, isn’t he meant to running things?”
“Same old, same old,” Peter said philosophically. “Padfoot and Prongs get the glory and we do the work. The chief bridesmaid’s got him cornered in the porch, if you were worried.”
“What?” said Remus, and the storm broke, with a flash that turned the bruise-dark sky golden.
Everyone ran for cover, the women clutching their hats to their heads and tottering on their heels, and the men obviously yearning for newspapers to shelter below. Most people streamed back into the hall, and Remus found himself squashed into the corner of the porch as they crammed past in a cloud of mothy suits, pastel scarves and perfume.
“Moony!” a panicked voice said, and he turned to see Sirius staring at him, wild-eyed. “It’s not really an ancient Muggle tradition, is it?”
“What?” Remus asked. Fliss Oliphant was squashed in beside Sirius, looking highly entertained.
“Chief bridesmaid has first dibs on the best man,” she said and winked at Remus.
Remus bit down his first instinct, which was to shove her out into the downpour, and considered that wink. Then he said gravely, “Not so much a tradition, old boy.”
Sirius sighed in relief.
“I wouldn’t say law was quite the right word, either, would you, Fliss?”
“Remus!” Sirius wailed.
Fliss patted him on the arm. “Isn’t it a good thing for me that you’re pretty, Black?”
“Nnargh,” said Sirius.
Remus took pity on him. “I’d actually call it more of a long-running joke.”
Sirius’ eyes narrowed.
“Spoilsport,” Fliss said wistfully. “I could have kept him going for hours.”
“You-” Sirius spluttered, pointing at her.
She reached up and patted his cheek, grinning. “What was it you lot used to say? Ah, yes. Mischief managed.”
“You- You-”
Remus could bite back his laughter any longer. “Did Lily put you up to that?”
“Please,” Fliss said, tossing her head. “All my own idea. Where’s Peter, anyway?”
“Inside,” Remus said vaguely. “And if you’re still thinking about the best man thing, he’s the one who actually got us all to the church on time.”
“Smashing,” Fliss said, and gathered up the trailing skirts of her bridesmaid’s dress. “He’s the only one of you lot worth the effort these days. Ta ra, Black.”
“She-” Sirius said weakly, staring at her retreating back. “And you-”
Remus sniggered and eyed the torrential rain. It was wisping into the porch enough that he doubted anyone else would come out here. Satisfied, he slid his arms around Sirius’ waist and murmured, “The only one who’s going to be taking the best man home is me.”
Cumberland Dorset Essex Kent Lincolnshire Middlesex Northamptonshire Surrey Sussex