Dirty Trousers

Announcement:

2007-02-19T01:27:14Z

Dirty Trousers is now available in an edited, bookmarked, downloadable PDF.

Please right click and save as, and enjoy!

In which nothing ever ends

2006-11-16T18:25:06Z

start at the beginning | what went before | the end

“You have to admit, the whole situation’s rather absurd,” Lav said to Dean, three empty shot glasses upside-down on the table in front of them.

“Bizarre,” Dean agreed, though he wasn’t sure he actually did. It didn’t matter, though. He’d been in and out of love with Nev for years and years, so nothing much had changed, overall.

Lav shook her head. “I wanted what I couldn’t have.” She pinched her forefinger and thumb together. “But only a very little bit. You, though.”

“I’ll be okay.” He would be; he knew it. Nev was important to him, and the band was the most fun he’d had in a long, long time. And Susan; god, could he ever resent Susan anything? There was too much light in her.

From the stage, Seamus called out, “Hey, get a move on, you two,” and walked his fingers up his bass, absently strumming out the opening riff to Day Tripper.

They didn’t normally play Sundays. Curly’s was usually pretty much deserted then, too, smattered with only a few regulars - Flamel and podSal and Hamilton J. Harris the Third, who drank scotch straight-up and had a pronounced lisp. But they hadn’t played since the weekend before, not even practices, and Seamus was vibrating with excess energy. They hadn’t even let him have a dance-off, for god’s sake.

It would’ve been like Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo meets Beat Street meets You Got Served and it would’ve been brilliant.

Ernie bounded onto the stage, grinning. “What’s up first?”

“Lav’s choice,” Seamus said. “As she’s had the most trauma lately.”

Ron twirled his sticks and pounded out a few beats of She Says She Knows Your Mum, segueing into ‘Til the Sky Turns Him Bright, waiting for Dean to settle at the upright.

The pub was thinly lined with Dirty Trousers fans. Han, Terry, Harry, Hermione and Blaise – sweetly holding hands, and they couldn’t think they’d get out of there that night without a proper ribbing from Seamus - were ‘round a table up front. Flicker, Brandeen and Vince were propped up at the bar, with Colin and a few of his friends nearby. Justin and Gin had their heads bent together over at a corner booth, and Ernie spotted Millie, Theo and Midge as they slipped in the door, swiping the first bit of sludgy snow off their coats.

He waved, jaunty, and watched what might have been a flush spread over Millie’s cheeks. Midge waved back.

Seamus jostled his elbow. “You ready?”

“Always,” Ernie said, flashing him a toothy grin.

Lav said, “Brand-new Shoes in round, gentlemen,” then leaned into her mic, voice thicker than usual with drink, and drawled, “Baby, these goddamn shoes are worth more than your life to me. So you better not vomit on them...”

In which Ginny isn't dating Justin

2006-11-15T18:50:20Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | last installment

The sky was gray and the sidewalk was layered with brown slush, seeping cold into Ginny’s shoes. She’d had the entire night and then some to contemplate Justin and his filthy mouth and her apparent attachment to him, and she grabbed his arm before he could push inside the pub.

“Look,” she said when he glanced over at her questioningly. “We’re not dating.”

Justin’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay.”

“I mean it,” she stressed, gripping him almost desperately. She was trying to make a very important point.

He grinned. “Gin, we’re not dating.”

“Right.” She nodded. They weren’t dating. They absolutely weren’t, because that would be dirty and wrong and not at all hot, and it didn’t matter in the least that he might, perhaps, possibly be open to a threesome with Vincent; on the off chance that Vincent would be interested and she could get them all sweaty and bothered beforehand. Right.

“It’s much, much worse than that,” Justin said solemnly.

He leant in close and her eyes went wide and she did not back away, not even a tiny little bit.

“We’re best friends forever.” He patted the hand still manacling his wrist. “I’m afraid you’re never getting rid of me, Weasley.”

Ginny blinked, not entirely sure she understood. “What?”

“Sex would only muck this up,” he explained with a disturbingly patronizing air, gesturing his free hand between them, and there were so many things wrong with that statement.

This was Justin.

Ginny couldn’t imagine Justin ever saying no to sex.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked, slipping her hand off his arm and pressed the back of it against his forehead, his cheek.

“Fine,” he said brightly, offering his arm. “Inside?”

Ginny nodded dumbly, mind a whirl of why and how and, worst of all, half-formed plots to get Justin into bed, and she wasn’t completely sure that hadn’t been his plan all along. The prick.

last installment

In which Michael and Mal are little girls

2006-11-14T18:18:46Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Pansy scowled down at her mobile. Draco had hung up on her. Oh, he would pay.

“What’s wrong, Pans?” Michael asked from his sprawl on the couch. Stuart was, as usual, passed out on the floor, and Mal was perched on the end of the coffee table, palming a big bowl of cereal.

“Draco’s been rude,” she pouted, tossing the phone on top of her purse.

Mal spooned up some cheerios. “Same old, same old, then,” he mumbled, wiping a drool of milk off his chin.

Pansy curled her lip. “For god’s sake, Mal, at least use a napkin.”

“Sorry.” He grinned at her, mouth full, and she rolled her eyes.

“Well, I’m not going to let him or your disgusting eating habits ruin my incredibly good spirits,” she said emphatically, settling down next to Michael. She’d never been so stunned in her entire life, studying the painting Harry had finished for her. He’d stripped himself bare and given her layers, and she wasn’t exactly sure how she knew that, but it’d been buried in the color, the brushstrokes, and the expression on her averted face. She could see right away that he’d been half in love with her, of course, and that certainly explained his foolish behavior. She was big enough to forgive him his fumbles.

Sighing, she snuggled into Michael’s side. “What were you boys up to last night?”

“We watched—”

“Porn,” Michael cut Mal off, shooting him a pointed look. “Lots and lots of porn.”

Pansy arched a skeptical brow. “Really,” she said dryly. She knew he was most likely lying, because she was well aware they tended to play board games when they all got together without her. Monopoly was a long-standing favorite, as was Risk, and occasionally Pictionary, and she’d once caught them playing a very, very old set of Sesame Street Memory.

“So much porn. Disgusting amounts,” Michael went on, nodding, hands waving elaborately.

“Come on, now,” Pansy chastised, smacking his thigh. “Tell the truth.” She spied the monopoly game poking out from under their overstuffed armchair, and also. She stretched out her leg and caught the end of a small box, toeing it closer with her sock-foot. Empty, it collapsed under the pressure, and Pansy switched off and bent down to grab it with her fingers.

“Don’t.” Michael snatched it out of her hands, but not before she spotted the esteemed Mr. Darcy lounging on the cover.

They were all silent for a beat.

And then Stuart let out a massive snore and Pansy cleared her throat and said, carefully, “So. I’m only upset you watched it without me.”

Michael half-heartedly protested, “We didn’t.”

“Right.” She didn’t find it weird, really, because it was Michael and Mal, and no doubt Stuart had something to do with it. And Greg. Honestly, the whole lot of them were little girls.

It was mostly endearing.

“It’s still in there, then?” she asked, grabbing the remote.

More eerie silence.

“Darcy’d just found Lydia,” Mal finally offered, ignoring Michael’s scowl, ‘cause bugger it all, he wanted to see how it ended.

He hoped it was happy.

next installment

In which Ron isn't a leggy Greyhound named Di

2006-11-13T18:20:20Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Draco paced the length of his hallway, phone against his ear. “I’m happy for you,” he said.

“No, you’re not,” Pansy countered sunily.

“No, of course I’m not,” he snapped. “You’re dating a complete mess. Less than ten minutes in his company and I wanted to tear my hair out.” He wouldn’t have, of course, because it was his hair, but he’d been sorely tempted.

There was a pause. Then a low, dangerous, “What do you mean, Draco?”

“Um.” Draco pressed his lips together, mind frantically searching for any way the conversation wouldn’t end up with him dead. And then his intercom buzzed and he tripped over, “Oh, the door, must fly, talk to you soon, Pans,” and fumbled for the off button. He’d deal with that aftermath much, much later.

Thumbing the intercom with near relief, he said, “Yes?” much more cheerily than normal.

Silence.

Draco’s brows knit together and he leaned into the button again. “Di? Are you out again?” he asked, waiting for an answering woof. He still couldn’t quite figure out how his neighbor’s Greyhound learned to buzz his flat, but it happened at least once a week.

“Di?”

“Weasley? Why didn’t you just say?” Draco huffed in only slight annoyance.

“I—”

“Just come up,” he growled, unlocking the door. The back and forth was ridiculous. His heart fluttered a little in his rib cage. It was disconcerting, but he couldn’t bring himself to overly care.

He cracked his door and debated a pose - slouching against the wall? Lounging on the couch? - but before he could decide which would properly display his best attributes, Ron was there, pushing the door open with a wide palm and a tentative, “Draco?”

Henry, hearing his voice, darted out from under the recliner and wound his way around Ron’s boots as he stepped inside, and Draco fought the embarrassing compulsion to do the same.

As it was, he moved towards him and slid a hand up to cup his nape and tugged him down so their foreheads touched. “This is bound to end horribly, you know,” he pointed out.

Ron nodded, a smile slowly creeping over his face. “Yeah.”

next installment

In which Harry's in a daze

2006-11-12T20:50:12Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

“All right, Harry?” Hermione asked, concerned. He seemed a bit dazed.

Harry blinked at her, leaning into the front counter, Celia – miraculously found curled pressed up against Germaine the tortoise’s terrarium just that morning - wrapped around his wrist, just inside the cuff of his shirt. “What?”

Hannah cocked her head at him, settling on the stool by the register. “You’ve gotten laid, haven’t you?”

“Hannah!” Hermione chastened, but Harry was sporting that bewildered expression he often got towards the beginning of his relationships. The one that was minor parts fear and wonder, as if he couldn’t believe his luck and wasn’t quite sure he wanted to.

Terry strode up from the back, hands in his pockets, on the edge of whistling. “What’s Han done now?” he ribbed lightly.

“Merely pointed out the obvious,” she said, grinning.

Harry gathered his wits enough to say, “I was out with Pansy last night,” and Terry heaved an exaggerated, “Ohhhh,” and Hannah giggled.

Hermione rolled her eyes and sipped at her styrofoam cup of coffee. “That’s nice, Harry.”

“I.” Harry grimaced. Pansy had liked the painting. Really liked the painting, apparently, and she’d gone disturbingly soft-eyed and held his fingers as if they were the most delicate things in the world. And then she’d said, “You’ll have to dress up to meet Mother, of course,” and, “I’m in no rush, mind you, but Papa will expect a call before anything’s ever finalized,” and, “I’m actually not very fond of anything big and flashy, so long as it sparkles,” and Harry was pretty sure he was suddenly stuck in a long-term relationship with the girl. He hadn’t decided yet if he minded.

Terry slapped him on the back. “No words, mate. There are no words.”

The bell above the door jangled, and Bill stepped inside the shop, a giant, unwieldy box in his arms. “S’alright. I got it,” he huffed, and Hermione rushed over to help hold the door open.

“What on earth...?” She trailed off, peeking over the brim of the cardboard. It was a puppy. A shaggy black and white button-eared bit of a thing with wide blue eyes and huge paws. “Bill,” she started, her stern have-you-lost-your-mind? look in full effect.

The puppy yipped, and Terry’s brows rose. “We haven’t joined the dog-trade, have we?”

Bill grinned. “She’s for Fleur.”

“Fleur,” Hermione echoed, incredulous.

“Figure it might bring out her more motherly instincts.”

“You’re joking. This is Fleur,” Hannah stressed, coming ‘round to get an eyeful of fuzzy puppy herself. “I’m fairly certain Fleur eats babies.”

“And what’re you doing, anyhow, worrying about Fleur’s motherly instincts?” Harry asked. He reached out and scrubbed a hand over the pup’s head. She was busy licking Han’s face, tail wagging furiously.

“Nothing, really,” he grinned wickedly. “Might throw her off her game, though.”

Terry jabbed a finger at him. “This is for the giant protesting dolphin, isn’t it?”

Bill gave a noncommittal shrug, but his eyes gleamed. He palmed the puppy’s muzzle and shook her playfully. “Who couldn’t love this face?”

“Fleur,” Hannah and Harry chorused.

Hermione was pretty sure the pup would end up back with them, chasing Crookshanks around the store, because Remus had a soft heart and Fleur was as close to the devil as one person could possibly be.

“You’ll just make it worse,” she warned.

“Allow me my small joys, Hermione,” Bill pleaded lightly. “Plus, some bastard just left her in the park across the street. Found her crying her heart out.”

“Poor little mutt,” Hannah cooed, hefting her into her arms.

“Who knows,” Terry said, leaning into Han and scratching behind the puppy’s ears. “Fleur might soften up. Halloween’s in a few weeks, and you know Seamus.”

They knew Seamus. The DFE would take the brunt of his juvenile mischief. Toilet paper would most likely feature prominently.

Hermione sighed. “Leave me out of the madness.”

“Oh,” Han said, shaking her head, “you know that’s totally impossible.”

She knew it, yeah. She probably wouldn’t have it any other way.

next installment

In which Theo gets the prize

2006-11-11T16:39:46Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Theo woke up with his nose pressed against the back of Seamus’ neck, arm draped over his waist, body snuggled up behind him, and how terrifying was it that apparently Theo was the one initiating the act?

Seamus smelled like warm sugar, though, and his skin was pale and soft, the green hair thick with brown at the roots, and Theo grinned. He was fairly sure he’d won whatever game they’d been playing. He’d gotten the prize, at any rate.

There was a rather loud yawn, and then Seamus wriggled around, one palm scrubbing at his eyes, and he rasped, “That was spectacularly underhanded.”

Theo grinned wider. “Was it?”

Seamus nodded. There’d been fondue involved. And cheese. He couldn’t be expected to resist that sort of temptation.

“Do you mind?” Theo asked. It was a strangely sincere question, because no matter what Blaise said about them starting off on an unhealthy foot, he’d been having fun. The kind of fun he didn’t normally have. There was something very refreshing about Seamus and his lack of inhibitions; his complete care-less attitude. Theo had a feeling their ‘game’ had made this all the more real for both of them.

Seamus levered himself up onto his elbow, pushing Theo onto his back with a hand to his chest. “Depends, really.”

“On what?” Theo leered.

Seamus waggled his brows. “If you plan on doing it again.”

next installment

In which Nev finds Susan in the morning

2006-11-10T13:47:53Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

It was early Sunday morning when Nev stumbled into his flat, just after dawn, the air still stone-gray and chilly. Han, Anthony and Den hadn’t questioned his request to leave practically in the middle of the night, and Den had slept sprawled out next to him in the back seat for the two hours back into town.

And then he was home, and Susan was curled up on his couch, afghan tucked over her legs, hands wrapped around a huge mug of coffee. “Hey,” she said softly, blinking sleepy eyes, a slow smile spreading across her face. She placed her cup carefully on the low sofa table. “All right?”

Nev swallowed thickly. “Yeah.”

He’d spent the entire day and a half at Hannah’s parents not thinking about Susan or Dean, and then he’d spent the entire ride home picturing Dean’s expression right after he’d kissed him – stunned and hopeful and scared and resigned. He didn’t want to lose Dean, couldn’t lose Dean. But no matter what he felt for him, he couldn’t stop loving Susan, either.

Susan was. Susan was lovely and sweet, and she was currently hollow-eyed, tense lines bracketing her mouth, and Nev realized how much of her enthusiasm had been pure bravado the past few days. “What are you do—”

“I wasn’t ready,” she cut in, and he knew exactly what she was talking about – she hadn’t been ready for them, for their forever - and he found himself asking, “Are you now?”

“God, Nev, I,” she mouthed the words soundlessly, hands fluttering, and he reached out to grab her wrists, urging her to her feet.

“Suze.” He took a deep breath, ready to spill his guts, ready to tell her about his loneliness and Lav and Dean. “Suze, Dean—”

“I know.” She dropped her eyes, lashes ghosting the tops of her cheeks. “He told me.”

Nev deflated with a soft, “Oh.”

“And I know you’ll always be a little in love with him,” she said, still not looking at him, and that wasn’t like Susan at all. She was always so direct and open, and his heartbeat stuttered.

Because he didn’t think he could deny it, and he desperately wanted Susan to forgive him.

“For months,” Susan said, fingers fiddling with his buttons, gazing fixedly at his chest, “all I could think about was how exciting it was, being out in the world without you—” Neville couldn’t help the flinch, her words so bald, but her fingers curled into the material of his shirt, grounding him, and she went on resolutely, “But then. Then I’d imagine how much better it’d be if you were sharing it with me. And I knew right away I wanted to. That I wanted to do everything with you, instead.” She shrugged, wry smile at the curve of her lips. “It’s stu—”

Nev leant down and covered her mouth with his, cupping her head with one hand, gathering her up against him, and when he pulled away, her eyes were bright and wet and he whispered huskily, “I’ll always love you more,” and in that moment there was nothing more true.

next installment

In which there is an interlude of dancing

2006-05-10T17:11:29Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Cho Chang was sweet and pretty, with a charming Scottish lilt and bright eyes, and Lav liked her instantly.

She hadn’t been expecting to, of course, but she easily won her heart when she’d grabbed Ron’s hands and tugged him out onto the dance floor right under Pucey’s nose.

CJ rolled up beside her at the edge of the slippery parquet flooring, and Lav slanted him a look. “She’s nice.”

“Yeah,” he answered, grinning.

The DJ was playing something half-slow and awkward, a request, and Ron was flushed and Cho was laughing up at him, her slim, narrow fingers nearly eclipsed by his wide hands.

Lav cleared her throat, going for more overt friendliness than usual, since he’d been mostly bearable for the past week. “You’ve been with her awhile?”

He turned to gaze up at her, bemused. “We’re just friends.”

Lav almost bit out, “No way,” except CJ seemed completely sincere, and for a smart man he was apparently very, very dense. She debated letting him in on Cho’s really-not-secret-love for him – if she wasn’t in formal wear, Lav suspected she’d be sporting a tee with CJ’s handsome, grinning face on it; the girl practically glowed around him – but it really wasn’t her place. Plus, his obliviousness made him seem slightly more human.

“Ron has no rhythm at all,” CJ said conversationally, just as Lav lifted her pint to her lips.

The spit-take was a near thing, but she managed to swallow the ale, pressing a hand to her chest and choking on a laugh.

“What?” CJ asked, bewildered.

“Ron,” she wheezed, then shook her head. “Ron has nothing but rhythm.”

“So you say.” His amused eyes doubted her claim.

“No, honestly. He’s just always been a bit clumsy on his feet. Give him a few minutes to settle in.” Lav nodded decisively.

Finally, the music exploded into something fast and lush, and Cho’s confident and cajoling grin seemed to rub off on Ron as he swung her around the dance floor, laughing. His big feet caught the upbeat with perfect time, and Lav recognized a bastardized waltz somewhere in there before he let the small girl go and lifted his arms with abandon.

Cho shook her arse and waved at CJ, and Lav marvelled again how the boy could completely miss the infatuated smile.

“Come on,” Lav said, snagging CJ’s glass and downing the rest of his wine, then pushing both of their empties onto a passing waiter, “we’re going in.”

“You dance?” he asked, brows arched in mock-incredulousness.

She gave him a hairy eye. “You tell anyone and I will kill you.”

next installment

In which Millie is in desperate need of cheering

2006-04-03T17:04:56Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

“Are you still moping?” Alicia asked, flipping the lock and the ‘Closed’ sign at the front door.

Millicent growled something unintelligible and slammed the register shut.

“Honestly, Millie, it wasn’t that bad,” Alicia went on.

Millie flashed her a dark scowl before stomping down the small mammal isle, heading back towards the stockroom.

Flicking the light switch with a sigh, Alicia started after her. She stopped at a flurry of knocking, though, and turned around to shout, “We’re closed.” But it was only Angie, illuminated in the spill of neon light from the front sign, grin wide, both hands waving.

Alicia rolled her eyes and plodded back to the door. “What’re you doing here?” she asked as Angie slipped inside.

“Miles is working late. He sent me to walk you home,” Angie offered, still grinning. “How’s the baby?” Stepping forward, she pressed her palms to Alicia’s rounded stomach. “How’s my ickle niece?” she cooed.

“Ang, Axel’s a boy.”

Angelina arched her brows. “We’ll see.” She paused. “Axel?”

“Come on,” Alicia ignored the implied insult – she liked the name – and hooked an arm through Angie’s, urging her along, “Millie’s in the back and in desperate need of cheering.”

“What’s happened to Millie?”

“Disastrous lunch with a boy,” Alicia said conspiratorially, although her voice always carried well and Millie peeked out from the end of the row, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

“I heard that,” she groused.

Alicia gave her a half-sheepish smile. “Yes, well, it isn’t exactly a secret, is it?”

“If it makes you feel any better, Mills,” Angie said brightly as they passed into the storeroom, “I haven’t made any progress at all with Miss Luna.”

“That’s because Luna Lovegood’s a notorious space case. Her father’s one of those UFO nutters, you know. Says her mum hasn’t really passed, but’s been,” Alicia made a zooming hand motion, “whisked away on an interstellar journey beyond the galaxy. Quite sad, really.”

Angelina shrugged, eyes sparkling. “I think she’s sweet.”

“You would,” Millicent said gruffly.

“Now,” Angie grabbed Millie’s arm and tugged her towards the small table at the side of the room, “we’re not going anywhere ‘til you spill about this disastrous boy-lunch.”

Millie dropped down into a chair and buried her head in her hands. “Nothing happened,” she said, voice muffled.

“She brought me and Colin,” Alicia offered cheerily, Millie’s death glare rolling off her like water on a duck’s back. She waggled her brows.

“Pregnancy has made you ten times more annoying,” Millie said darkly

“No, no,” Angie protested, “she’s always been like this. We’ve just got to tolerate it with smiles, now, since she’s roughly the size of a baby whale.”

Alicia patted her stomach. “Fat jokes will get you nowhere.”

“Anyway,” Angie drew out, “we’re not talking about the broodmare, here.” A fond glance at Alicia softened the jab, then she turned dark, incredulous eyes on Millie. “Why in all that is holy did you bring Colin with you on a date?”

“It wasn’t a date!” she exclaimed.

“No?”

“No!”

Alicia leant over. “It was a date,” she whispered to Angie, only again. Millicent heard her loud and clear.

“It was your bloody idea to come along,” Mille ground out, crossing her arms and slumping further into her seat.

“Well, yes,” she conceded, “but only after you’d already dragged Colin into the mix, and you can’t honestly say you’d have rather it just been the three of you now, can you? Also,” she added, “steak.”

Millie scowled. “You had chicken.”

“Yes, but I could smell the steak. And it was delicious.”

Angelina chuckled, then leant forward onto her elbows. “Who was the date with, then?”

“Ernie Macmillan,” Alicia said before Millie could even open her mouth, “of Dirty Trousers fame. He’s adorable.”

“Oooo, I heard him sing Sister Christian once. You’ve got to admire a man who can pull off a power ballad without looking like an idiot with large hair.”

“Ernie doesn’t have large hair,” Alicia said, brow crinkled.

“Right. My point.” Angie nodded. “He doesn’t wear tight trousers and ungodly amounts of makeup, either.”

“Oh, but that wouldn’t be bad, would it?”

“The tight trousers may—”

“Please,” Millie cut in, massaging her temples, face pained, “can we just.” She squared her shoulders and gave the girls across from her a hard look. “The lunch wasn’t disastrous. He’s just not interested, all right? He was polite and funny and maybe if you hadn’t kicked me every time he glanced my way, Al, he wouldn’t have thought I had a nervous twitch, and he wouldn’t have started eyeing me like a wary dog. So can we just not talk about this anymore?”

Angie reached over and patted her hand sympathetically. “Nervous twitches aren’t so bad. At least Colin wasn’t waxing poetic about your eyebrows or something, right? At least the little bloke behaved himself.”

“Er,” Alicia shifted in her seat, “I wouldn’t say behaved, actually. I mean, it’s Colin. He’s barely paper-trained.”

Millicent grimaced.

“Really, though, everything was going fine until he made the napkin puppets.”

Sagging forward, Millie rapped her forehead onto the chipped formica tabletop.

“The other patrons seemed to enjoy the show,” Alicia offered weakly, hands spread.

Millicent rocked her head back and forth, a low, pained croon slipping from her mouth.

“You know, Al,” Angie said, frowning, “you’re not all that good at cheering people up.”

next installment

In which Ginny has an epiphany

2006-03-07T21:18:30Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Ginny stared down at the paper, then sent Justin an incredulous look. “This was a character sketch,” she said.

Justin blinked at her. “Right.”

“A character sketch about a group of sailors.”

Justin made a face, slumping back into the couch. “Yeah, you know, I just felt it didn’t have enough sea imagery.”

“Sea imagery,” Ginny echoed. One of the few perks of living with Justin was that he had excellent campus connections – the English department, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to adore him - and Ginny had been happily sitting in on Professor Trelawney’s creative writing workshops all week, despite being unenrolled. And she’d honestly thought giving over her latest drabble for Justin to proof had been a good idea, but. “Justin, you ass, you rewrote the entire thing. In story form!”

“It was good.” Justin nodded encouragingly. “I just fleshed it out.”

“It was a character sketch,” she emphasized. Really, it shouldn’t have surprised her. Justin normally wasn’t a helpful person.

He grinned, unrepentant. “Jake needed a setting.”

“His name’s John and he’ll have a setting. The professor just wanted brief character sketches. You’ve.” She pressed three fingers to her forehead, willing herself not to laugh, because that would only encourage the prat. She swallowed thickly. “You’ve made this into a gay pirate romance.”

“I. What?” Justin leaned forward and tore the paper out of her hands, eyes scanning the paragraphs rapidly.

“Really, Justin, it’s not that I mind it being a gay pirate romance. Although you’ve leant a disturbing Harlequin edge to it—”

“Harley-what?” Justin asked, gaze still locked on the sheet. “This isn’t—”

“It’s a bodice-ripper,” Ginny clarified. “Or, you know, a. um... trouser-ripper?”

Justin seemed genuinely confused. “I think you’ve misread—”

“Here.” Ginny snatched it back, sent him a pointed look, then read, “Jake lounged against the rail, legs parted wide and swarthy face a grim line of concentration as he studied Trent. The lad seemed able-bodied enough, muscles rippling as he clasped and tugged the rigging, sweat a healthy sheen over the flex and curve of his back—”

“That’s merely manly appreciation!” Justin squawked.

Ginny frowned a little. “You know, I’m curious about this Trent bloke. I mean, you don’t give him much of a story. Just a mysterious stranger at port with little money.”

“He’s the second son of an earl,” Justin offered.

Ginny arched a brow.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Gin, it isn’t a shitty trouser-ripper.”

Her brow arched higher.

“Fine! Give it here.” He held out a hand, snapping impatiently.

“Seriously, Jus,” she said, handing it over. “You’ve got yourself a sexy start.”

“There’ll be a girl,” Justin insisted, then amended, “Girls.”

Ginny pressed her lips together. “There’s nothing wrong with pirates,” she teased. She’d been tempted by the idea herself, though really. Justin’s style was awfully frilly. She hadn’t been exaggerating.

Justin studied the paper again, indignation quickly melting into something more speculative. “Hmmm.”

“Hmmm, what?” Ginny asked, leaning forward.

He smoothed the paper out on the coffee table and took up a pen. “You know what this adventure needs?”

She grimaced. “I really don’t think I want to kn—”

“Lesbians.”

“Justin,” Ginny began, then cut herself off, because really, what could she say to that?

He gave her a smarmy grin. “Lots of hot, slippery, lesbian... mermaids.”

“Mermaids,” she echoed.

“Yes, well, women aren’t traditionally pirates, are they?”

She cocked her head, not really sure she wanted to get any further into the conversation, but at least they weren’t watching porn. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked – it was Justin, after all - and on a boring Saturday night with Ron out of the way it’d certainly been tempting, even if she would’ve most likely wanted to scrub her eyeballs raw afterwards. With a sigh, she plunged on gamely, “Actually, I think there’ve been a few—”

“Aren’t there sorts of mermaids that eat you?” he cut in, pen hastily scratching across the page.

“Um...”

“Lure unsuspecting sailors into their feeding grounds?”

Ginny pursed her lips. “So you want to write a story about manly pirates in love, who get eaten by lesbian mermaids?”

He gave her a disdainful look that was ridiculously out of place, given his personality. “On a purely superficial level, maybe,” he said.

“Why are you even home tonight?” Ginny demanded. Why was she even home? Why were they together on a Saturday night? Sure, without Dirty Trousers playing there hadn’t been much going on beyond a poker game at Hermione’s, but. She froze, fingers curling over her knees. Honestly, when was the last time they hadn’t been together? Her nails bit into the thin material of her worn jeans, probably marking the skin underneath, and her throat constricted around a lump of bile.

When had she started dating Justin?

“Are you—Gin?” Justin’s blue eyes widened, and oh god they were such pretty blue eyes. “Are you hyperventilating?”

“Jus,” she breathed, then sucked in a thin, choking wheeze and all her colors started spinning and christ she was going to pass out.

“Ginny?”

Concern. There was so much damn concern in his voice and it only made Ginny panic more, because this was Justin, slutty, rude bastard with as much dirt in his hair as spilling out of his mouth, and he was concerned about her. Because they were... oh no. Oh, hell no.

“Breathe, Ginny,” he said, voice tinny and distant, and then there was a warm hand on her back, pushing her forwards, ducking her head between her legs. “Just calm down and breathe. You’ll be fine.”

If she hadn’t been busy suffocating, she would’ve laughed.

“You’re fucking freaking me out, Gin,” Justin said gruffly, hand still smoothing circles on her back.

She took a several deep breaths, palms pressed into her eye sockets, willing her heartbeat to slow. And then she had to get away, because Justin being nice and so close to her she smelled the peanut butter he’d had for dinner was just... damn it. It made her want to lick him. And it made her want to stab her brain, which, under the circumstances, was the saner of the two choices.

Pushing away from him, she got to shaky feet and looked anywhere but the set of his scrawny shoulders. “I’m going to Ron’s room,” she said, her voice little more than a rasp.

“Ooookay,” Justin drew out, and Ginny flicked a glance at him, catching a furrowed-brow look that suggested she was off her nut, and if he made one poor comment about her being on the rag she suspected she just might stick her tongue down his throat.

Wisely, she fled the room.

next installment

In which Pansy and Harry size each other up

2006-02-17T20:19:30Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Harry was more apprehensive than nervous.

He wasn’t entirely sure the whole thing wasn’t some elaborate ruse, given that Pansy’s acceptance, more or less, of his apology had been so… uneventful. He really hadn’t thought she’d forgive him so easily or so quietly, although. She hadn’t actually said that she forgave him, had she? She just sort of demanded his presence, which meant there was a high probability that she had minions lurking about, ready to beat him to a bloody pulp. Harry swallowed hard and stared up at the sign over Curly’s doorway. Did he want to chance it?

Pansy was really sort of amazing, though. Beyond terrifying, but amazing. And tough, and smart, and she reminded him of Lav. Although Pansy was mean and arrogant with all sorts of sharp edges, and Lav, well. Lav was softer than she acted and had a huge heart she'd deny 'til the end of time. Really, when he thought about it, Lav and Pansy were complete opposites.

So Harry was left fidgeting in mild panic, seriously contemplating running away.

“Well, Potter. Are you going to stand out here all night?”

Harry spun about – she enjoyed sneaking up on him, didn’t she? – and squeaked out an embarrassing, “Pansy!”

She cocked her head at him, one dark brow arched. “I suppose it’s too much to assume you’ve gone to the trouble of making reservations somewhere nice.”

“I—”

“Doesn't matter,” she interrupted him, waving a hand, “I’m always prepared for the unanticipated.”

Harry rubbed a palm over his nape and bit down on his lower lip. He honestly didn’t want to risk an attack by pointing out her use of complete contradictory terms. Then she crooked her finger and he found himself trailing mutely after her, hands stuffed in his pockets.

It was damp out, but not nearly as chilly as it should’ve been for the end of September, and the air was thick and foul-smelling and noisy, and everything Harry loved about living in the city. His childhood had been rife with disappointment, orphaned at a young age and forced to live with an aunt and uncle who resented everything about him, and he preferred the busy streets to the quiet of suburbia.

He was lucky to have had Sirius, his godfather, even though the man had never officially taken over his guardianship. Sirius had been deemed an “unfit parent” – which was absolute bunk, but even Harry had to concede that his past transgressions and wild youth legally hadn’t been a plus - and the kicker of it was that Uncle Vernon had initiated the inquiry against him. Uncle Vernon, who hated Harry’s guts. Harry’d never fully understood why, but he always suspected it was a mixture of revenge against his father, one of Sirius’s best mates, and something to do with Aunt Petunia, who, despite her obviously dislike for Harry, must’ve felt some sort of deep-seated obligation towards a blood relation.

Sirius had given him this city, though. Sirius had given him his family; had given him Remus and Ron and Hermione and Seamus.

After a few silent minutes, Pansy snapped, “You’re not usually this quiet, are you Potter?”

“Er... no,” he replied warily. Then, “Where are we going?”

She pursed her lips. “To my car, Potter. Then dinner, then your place.”

Her grin was all teeth. Harry bit back a whimper.

Dinner ended up being posh, but pleasant, in an out-of-the way bistro with a fancy name Harry couldn’t pronounce. At least, he couldn’t pronounce it without feeling like a complete idiot. Pansy sat across from him and sent him knowing smirks over the top of her wine class and Harry’s clothes felt too tight and his neck felt hot, and his hands were slippery with sweat, fingers tightening on his fork, flashing white knuckles.

He cleared his throat, managed a bite of his really very delicious chicken piccata, then asked as conversationally as he could, “So. What, ah, studies are you doing?”

Pansy grinned at him. Potter was uneasy, a measure of fear buried in his green eyes, and it was utterly adorable. “Business. Hospital management, mainly.”

Harry nodded. “Good. That’s, ah, interesting.”

She arched a brow. “You’re a sterling conversationalist, Potter.”

“I’m nervous,” he blurted out, surprising both of them.

Candidness. Unexpected from Harry, but definitely a trait Pansy enjoyed. It was one of the main reasons Draco, virtually unable to curb his blunt tongue under any circumstances, amused her so much.

So she graciously decided to give him a break. “Harry,” she said, leaning back in her chair, tapping a finger on the damask tablecloth, “you’re a mess.” Physically and mentally, she added to herself. And he was honestly brilliant with a paint brush, and almost unbearably sweet. And he had an ability to focus, intensely, that was so very alluring.

“You’re a mess,” she repeated, “but for some reason I find that attractive.”

His eyes widened. “Um—”

“There’s no reason at all for you to be nervous,” Pansy cut him off, “since you couldn’t possibly do anything worse than you’ve already done.”

Harry sagged a bit in his seat. “I’m not sure if that’s a relief or not,” he said. Nothing killed a mood faster than having how much of a fuckwit you were pointed out so blatantly. Although there really hadn’t been much of a mood to start with, unless he counted ‘palpable fear.’

In which case, things were definitely looking up. He didn’t feel afraid so much anymore as resigned.

“Cheer up, Harry,” Pansy said, taking a sip of water. “Unless you manage to set something on fire, I’d say you’re pretty much guaranteed a second date.”

next installment

In which there is an interlude at Michael and Mal's

2006-02-09T18:18:06Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

“Top hat,” Draco snapped irritably, palm out.

Michael rolled his eyes. “You know, you don’t have to play.”

Glaring, he enunciated, “Top. Hat,” through his teeth.

“Just give him the piece,” Stuart said, unfolding the board and pulling out the money sleeve. Michael was always the top hat, but there was no way he was sitting through an entire evening of Draco’s whining if he didn’t get what he wanted.

“Why aren’t you with your new conquest?”

Draco blinked at Greg. “Did you just use the word conquest?” he asked with a sneer. “Have you been reading Pansy’s trashy novels again?”

“No,” Greg denied hastily, which was a complete lie and everyone knew it, since he had a not-so-secret addiction to historical romances. He took a long pull at his beer and tried his very best to look engrossed in the music video on the telly.

“Maleficent,” Stuart said grandly as Mal ambled into the room, a bowl of popcorn in his hands, “are you ready to get your arse handed to you?”

“Fuck off, Ackerley,” Mal growled good-naturedly, flopping down on the couch. “Terry’s going to be late.”

“Why?”

He stuffed a handful of fluffy kernels into his mouth, muffling his voice. “Hannah’s cat’s got him trapped in the bathroom.”

Michael laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Mal swallowed and swiped butter-salt fingers on the couch arm. “Said he’d try to squirm out the window, but most likely he’ll have to wait for Jox to get bored.”

“Fucking Terry,” Draco muttered. “Can we start the game already, then?”

“What’s up your bum?” Michael asked, tossing the blond the pewter top hat and snagging the dog for himself. Not that he was honestly complaining, though. Pissy Draco was familiar territory, and ten times less creepy than Cheery Draco.

“What do you think? I’m stuck on a Saturday night with nothing to do but hang out with you losers and play monopoly,” he spat out.

“Watch who you’re calling losers, Draco,” Stuart advised, arching both his brows. “You could be home moping all by your lonesome and without our excellent supply of porn.”

“Straight porn,” Draco groused.

“Can’t we watch a movie instead?” Mal asked hopefully.

“Oh no, no no.” Stuart wagged a finger at him. “Two Weeks Notice was the absolute last time you were allowed to choose a film.”

“But,” Mal leant over and dug a careworn double-tape box out of the messy pile of magazines by the sofa, holding it up with a grin, “Mum just sent me Pride and Prejudice.”

“Ah, well,” Stuart cleared his throat.

No one said anything else, and Stuart fussed with the real estate cards and Greg tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, fingers tapping on his thighs, and Draco finally just grabbed the tape out of Mal’s hand and stalked over to the telly.

“Pansy must never know,” Stuart said.

Michael nodded. “Understood.”

next installment

In which Harry is still clueless

2006-02-03T18:00:34Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

“So. How do I look?”

Parvati shuffled the deck of cards, eyeing him carefully before dealing each of the girls around the kitchen table a hand. “Like a weekend banker.”

Harry frowned down at himself. “Really?”

“You look like my dad,” Morag offered, the end of a swizzle stick poking out of the corner of her mouth. She clenched it with her teeth. “Why’re you wearing a tie?”

Harry bit his lip. He thought he looked rather nice, actually, but then. Normally he’d be wearing whatever t-shirt smelled the least rancid and comfy sweats. He’d ironed his jeans.

“Did you iron your jeans?” Morag tilted her head, gaze narrowed on the crease running down the outside of his leg.

“Come on, Mo,” Parv snorted. “There’s no way… he…” She trailed off, staring at Harry’s trousers. “You ironed your jeans.

“I’m going to go change,” Harry said morosely.

“No! No, don’t, you look.” Morag sent Susan a desperate glance.

“Dashing,” Susan said brightly, tapping her cards on the table. “Absolutely dashing. Honestly.”

Nat, Parv, Pad and Mo all nodded emphatically, and Harry’s usual jovial expression fell into a sad little scowl. “I’m changing.”

“Oh, but Harry, you don’t have to—”

“Good,” Parv cut in.

Susan gave her an admonishing, “Parv.”

“What? Oh, really, Susan, he can’t wear that. Parkinson’d eat him.”

“You know Pansy?” Harry asked, absently tugging on the cuffs of his blue oxford. They were a little tight. He’d managed to avoid wearing a dress shirt for nearly five years.

“I know of her,” she explained ominously, eyebrows waggling.

“She’s like,” Morag leant forward and stage whispered, “an urban legend.”

Harry blinked. “That makes no sense.”

Parvati shook her head. “I heard she chopped her last boyfriend up into itty bitty pieces—”

“And then baked him into a batch of cookies,” Padma finished for her. She tucked her cards under the edge of her pizza plate, then tossed five m&ms into the pot.

Susan saw her five m&ms and raised her a gumball. “I heard that if you say her name three times while looking into a mirror, she’ll appear out of no where and harshly mock your sense of fashion.”

Harry furrowed his brows. “Well, that’s… that sounds familiar, actually.”

Natalie raised her right hand, curling two fingers and slicing them through the air. “I heard she really has a hook for a hand, and—”

“You’re all just being stupid now,” Harry accused, mouth twitching involuntarily from amusement.

“Once,” Morag pressed her palms flat onto the tabletop, “there was this boy driving home from a party, and the auto behind him kept flashing his highbeams and riding close to his arse, and generally being really scary, right? But it turns out that Pansy was in his backseat with a knife and—”

“Mo.” Harry rubbed a hand over his face, laughter finally slipping past his lips.

“No, no, seriously. Pansy was in the backseat, and every time she’d rise up to, like, stab the bloke—”

“Mo.” Harry shook his head.

Parvati rolled her eyes. “Go change, Harry.”

next installment

In which Lav's mum gets married

2006-02-01T18:36:10Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Ron’s jacket was too tight across the shoulders, straining the seam down the middle of his back, and the trousers were just a hair too long, pooling halfway down his laced shoes and threatening to slip under his heel. But Charlie was apparently the only Weasley who owned a decent suit, and Ron wasn’t going to complain. Well, he wasn’t going to complain about anything other than having to wear the bloody thing to begin with, of course. Lav owed him big time.

He yanked absently at his cuffs and slipped into the back of the church, sliding into one of the back rows and giving a small sigh of relief that he’d actually made it on time. At the front of the church, Lav looked beautiful and sullen, mouth pulled down into a small frown that smoothed when she briefly caught Ron’s eye. Ron gave her a small wave. And then a body sidled up next to his and murmured slyly, “Hey there, Weasley.”

Ron glanced over, startled, at… “Pucey.” He pulled a face and shifted sideways. “What are you doing here?”

“Support of CJ as his dad marries the spider woman.” His mouth turned up suggestively. “And look who’s here for Lavender.”

His grin was cheeky and languorous – and highly disturbing - and Ron shifted sideways again, only to find himself already plastered up against the end of the pew. Still, he spat out, “Lav’s mum isn’t a spider woman.”

“Of course she is,” Pucey said dismissively. “The Tremaine women are notorious man-eaters.”

Ron’s mouth tightened. “Just. Go away, Pucey,” he growled.

“Shhhh,” Pucey hushed him, leaning into his side and squeezing his thigh, “the ceremony’s starting.”

“Get off,” Ron hissed, swatting at his hand.

Pucey gave him a mock-frown. “Be nice now, Ronnie.”

Ron wasn’t exactly sure what always set him on edge around Adrian Pucey. The man wasn’t particularly large or overtly menacing, shouldn’t have been more than an annoying buzz to him, really, but. Ron had gone way past uncomfortable.

The ceremony was thankfully short, and Ron was scrambling up and out of the pew just as the recessional march finished, grabbing Lav’s hand before she reached the end of the aisle and tugging her along behind him, pushing his way unapologetically through the crowd.

“Ron,” Lav’s fingers squirmed in his grasp, “I have to do the stupid receiving line with mum.”

Ron snorted. “She’s probably thanking her lucky stars she even got you up by the altar,” he said, leading her out a side door and into… well, it looked like a coat room. “She won’t even miss you.”

“Not the point, but I suppose I really don’t care anyway.” She sighed. “Though… was there a reason for this little freak out? Is your formal wear itching?”

“Did you know that Pucey’s here?” he exclaimed. “Did you know that Pucey knows I’m here?”

Lav blinked. “Pucey? Well, I…”

“You did know,” he accused. “I can’t believe you!”

“No, no,” she waved him off. “I mean, vaguely I knew they were friends with the Diggorys, but it never really occurred…” She looked squarely up at Ron, censor in the line of her brows. “You don’t honestly think I’d let him anywhere near you on purpose, do you?”

Ron opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, then slumped his shoulders. “No,” he mumbled miserably, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s here, and—”

“Knows you’re here, right,” Lav finished for him, eyes narrowed in thought.

And then the door creaked open and CJ rolled through with a wide grin. “You and coat rooms, Lav. Figured this was where I’d find you,” he ribbed lightly, then took in Ron’s pained expression and asked earnestly, “Anything wrong?”

“Adrian Pucey isn’t your friend, is he?” Lav demanded.

“More like,” he cocked his head, “almost-cousins. Why?”

Lav curled a hand over Ron’s forearm. “Ron has a bit of a problem with him.”

“He’s insane,” Ron said, shifting nervously on his feet. “And look, I know it sounds funny and all, since I’m nearly twice his size, but. He scares the shit out of me.”

“Well, I,” CJ paused, slightly mystified. “Adrian’s all mouth, really. He can be illogically obsessive about things, but I don’t think he’s dangerous.”

“Huge difference between think and know, mate.”

A smile slid back onto CJ’s face. He leant forward, elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair, a hint of a twinkle in his eyes as he shared conspiratorially, “Would it help to know that for a brief period in 1991,” his brows shot up, “Adrian was convinced the entire cast of Beverly Hills 90210 were his close, personal friends, and he’d get unreasonably upset and huffy whenever anyone disparaged them around him?”

Lav choked on a laugh, and after a moment of stunned silence, Ron said, “That actually supports my ‘he’s insane’ theory, but yeah. It does.”

next installment

In which there is an interlude at the LFS

2005-10-28T18:05:46Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

“What’s going on?” Hermione asked, frowning down at Harry’s… bum.

His head popped up and he craned his neck around to look at her, hair sticking out in every direction, glasses perched on the very end of his nose. “Nothing.”

Hermione stared steadily at him. “Nothing?” He was on all fours in the middle of the aisle, elbows bent, arse waggling.

“I’m just. Ah. I dropped my.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes?”

Sitting back on his heels, his eye twitched and he rubbed a finger over it, pressing into his socket.

“Harry.”

He sighed, shoulders drooping. “I was cleaning Celia’s cage and she got away.”

Celia, Celia. She probably should know who Celia was, but Harry named every single reptile that passed through their back room, and she’d given up keeping them straight years ago. “And Celia is?”

Harry scratched the back of his head and muttered, “Baby ball python. Just got her last week, too.”

“A snake?” Hermione was not on the best of terms with snakes. She’d briefly touched on herps in one of her classes the term before, and managed to work up a certain amount of respect for the animals, but. She’d rather just look at them from afar. Way afar, with heavy glass preferably between them.

She automatically took a giant step backwards and Harry shouted, “Watch your feet!”

“Where do you think she could be?” Hermione asked warily, eyeing the floor.

“Anywhere. I’m setting out bits of her favorite trea—”

“Crookshanks!” Hermione cut in.

“Remus locked him upstairs. Should do for now. And Bill’s—”

“What do you think?” Bill slid out at the end of the aisle, holding up a large “Watch Your Feet!” sign, complete with an eyeball at the “a” and a little squiggly snake marker-ed across the bottom.

“—making a sign. Perfect, Bill, thanks. She’s probably holed up somewhere now, but better to be safe.” He pushed his glasses up his nose, hand traveling on to smooth back his terminally messy hair.

“Is that supposed to be a snake?” Hermione asked, cocking her head to the side.

“Hey,” Terry said, walking up behind her and peering over her shoulder. “What’s with the caterpillar sign? Are we carrying bugs now?”

“It’s a snake,” Bill said amiably, tapping the thin poster board. “See? Little pink, forked tongue.”

Terry squinted. “But what are those lines? Feelers? Hair?”

“Um.” Bill glanced down. “They’re…”

“Zebra stripes?” Harry offered, grinning.

Bill’s brows rose comically. “I’m going to ignore all of you and go post this up near the front.”

next installment

In which Blaise tries to give Theo advice

2005-10-25T17:15:36Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

“What are you doing?” Blaise asked, incredulous.

“Smelling candles.”

“Smelling…” He trailed off, head tilted to the side. “Feeling alright, Theo?”

“No, of course not. I’m smelling candles.” He shoved a short white one under Blaise’s nose. “Too musky?”

Blaise took a deep breath, coughed on the fumes and blinked rapidly to stave off tears. “Yes.” He snatched it from Theo’s hand and tossed it onto the couch. “What’s going on?”

Theodore rolled his eyes. “Romantic ambiance, Blaise. I’m cooking Finnigan dinner tonight.”

Blaise arched both brows.

“All right, fine,” he conceded graciously. “I’m ordering from Carla’s. Still. Ambiance is key.”

“And is Seamus suddenly a girl?”

Theo waved a dismissive hand. “I certainly hope not. And I’m not even going to bother touching that incredible generalization you just made.” Thrusting another candle, blue this time, at Blaise, he asked, “Better?”

“Um… kind of?” It didn’t make him want to gag, at least. “So you think he’ll give in?”

He palmed and sniffed an orange-yellow pillar. “Oh, he’ll definitely give in, Blaise. Of course, I have no intention of indulging.”

“Uh huh,” Blaise said, unconvinced, eyeing the apartment. It was frighteningly bordello-like, with artfully draped throws and fat candles and bunches of black magic roses on just about every flat surface. “Want some advice?”

“No,” Theo said succinctly. “Especially not from you.”

“Hey, I’m doing a lot better on the dating front than you. And my advice,” he stressed, “would be to relax and talk to the bloke a bit.”

Theodore blinked at him.

“Talk? Chat? Converse awhile? Not entirely a foreign concept, is it?”

“You honestly think—? We did that on the first date, Blaise. I’m not that big a bastard.” He dropped down onto the sofa, careful not to disturb the perfect arrangement of silk pillows. “We talked awkwardly about dinosaurs, the weather, his bass, my mother’s maid, Weasley’s tattoo artist, my sound fear of needles, his tongue piercing, our favorite colors, how many children we want to have—”

“How many children?” Blaise cut in. “What?”

“Well, it was something like that. My brain was only functioning at half capacity after the tongue conversation.”

Blaise fought a grin. “My point is—”

“Oh, you have a point? Excellent.”

“My point is,” Blaise began again, “starting a relationship by trying to one-up each other can’t be healthy.”

“I’d hardly call this one-upping. He issued a blatant challenge, and I’m merely doing my best to see that he crumbles.”

“You did hear the part about this being unhealthy, right?” Blaise pressed. “Because I think that still stands.”

Theo cocked his head. “Not seeing it.”

“You’re trying to break him into having sex.” He would’ve said “seduce him,” except it’d clearly gone beyond that. There was a fondue pot set out. And cheese.

“Technically,” Theo countered, “I just want him to beg for it.” Evil smile? Check. His canines were even showing.

Blaise gave up. “Oh, go ahead and rub your hands together, Theo. You know you want to.”

next installment

In which Millie has a panic attack

2005-10-24T19:36:30Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Five minutes to twelve, Millie freaked out and did the worst thing she could possible do. She invited Colin.

He’d been hovering, and she’d been nervous, and she’d just… invited him.

And then around half-past she hied herself off to the employee loo and hyperventilated as quietly as she could.

“Millie? Are you all right?” The door squeaked open and Alicia popped her head around the jamb. “Millie?” Her large, rounded stomach came through next, and then she had a slim hand on Millie’s arm and Millie was just this close to passing out.

“Millie. Breathe,” she demanded.

Fingers curled over the slick countertop, knuckles white, Millicent dropped her head and took a shuddery breath.

Alicia’s hand slipped from her arm to her back, making slow, soothing circles over her jumper. “Better?” she asked.

“No,” Millicent grumbled, but she could see clearly again, didn’t feel quite so much like puking up a lung, so that was good.

“Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

No, not really, she thought loudly, grimacing, then rushed out anyway, “Midge tricked me into a date with Ernie Macmillan, though I don’t think he’s even thinking of it as one, and now I’ve got to meet him for lunch at one.”

Alicia blinked. “All right, that’s not so—”

“And I just invited Colin along,” Millicent continued, voice as near a wail as it’d ever been. Oh dear god.

“Wha-Why?”

Millicent just shook her head, and Alicia pinched the bridge of her nose, lips twitching. “So now. Now you’ve got a date with—does Colin think this is a date?”

Millie’s eyes rounded in horror. “Oh hell.”

“No, no. Think. Did you mention Ernie when you asked Colin along?”

“I’m not… maybe?” She was panicking again, and her hand clutched the top of her jumper, pulling it desperately away from her neck. “Is it abnormally hot in here?”

Alicia failed to stifle a giggle, and Millie sent her a glare.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, it really is,” Alicia argued, eyes glittering.

The glare turned into a glower. “Well you’re not helping,” Millie stressed, although she really kind of was. Headlong panic had been nipped in the bud by pure irritation.

“How about this then; why don’t I tag along, too?”

“Oh, right, because that doesn’t look pathetic at all.” Millie snorted.

“Better four than three.” She shrugged. “I’ll distract Colin while you charm Ernie.”

“Charm?” Millicent held no illusions about herself. She wouldn’t have been able to charm herself out of a paper bag. Bluntness she had in spades, but flirtation was very nearly a foreign language for her.

Alicia ignored the note of disbelief in Millie’s voice, pressing in an only slightly wheedling tone, “Besides, I’m pregnant.”

Millie stared at her blankly.

“You have to cater to my whims,” she clarified. “I could use a Delgado steak right about now. So rare it could possibly moo at me.” She was practically drooling, both hands spread over her belly, and Millie gave her an odd look.

“Aren’t you a vegetarian?”

“Loosely. And Axel, here—”

“Axel? I thought this week he was Leon.” The board in the break room with Alicia’s weekly baby trial names usually didn’t change until Monday morning.

“He hated Leon. He tried to kick right through my uterus last night.” She bit her lip and stared down at her belly thoughtfully, patting it fondly. “He seems sort of jolly about Axel so far.”

“And you’re happy about that?” At the very least, Millie couldn’t picture Miles - stodgy and way too proper and basically the complete opposite of Alicia - going for that name.

Alicia shot her a grin. “Anything that stops him from trying to puncture my bladder works for me. Now let’s go. Axel’s hungry.”

next installment

In which Ron is understandably scared of Pansy

2005-10-21T17:02:41Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Ron woke up disoriented, obnoxious, persistent ringing piercing through his sleep-fogged, utterly tired brain, and Draco shoved him sharply with an elbow and a grumbled, “Answer your bloody mobile, already.”

Groaning, Ron rolled over and reached for his trousers, rummaging in the pockets for his phone, then flipped it open with a groggy, “Hello?”

“Oh, oh, look who’s finally answering,” his sister’s voice, small and tinny but surprisingly loud, said.

“Gin?”

“Where the hell are you, Ronald?”

Ron rubbed his forehead and sat up, sheet slithering down to puddle in his lap. Draco curled a hand around his hip, narrow fingers caressing the crease at his thigh, and Ron covered it with his own, squeezing lightly to keep it still. “Gin?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here,” she snapped. “And apparently no one’s seen or heard from you in a day and a half.”

“What time is it?” he asked, twisting his body and searching for a bedside clock.

“Ten thirty in the morning. Nearly noon.”

Ron snorted. “S’not noon. On Saturday?”

“You know, I don’t expect to keep tabs on you, but it’d be nice if you didn’t just up and disappear on everybody. You missed a DT meeting last night.”

“Shit.” Ron grimaced. He knew none of them would be particularly upset with him, but they’d badger him endlessly about whatever he’d deemed more important than the band.

“And don’t you have a wedding to go to today?”

“Fuck!” He scrambled out of the covers, flicking the mobile shut and tossing it behind him, pegging Draco in the head.

“Ow! Weasley,” Draco growled.

“Not now,” Ron muttered, grabbing his boxers from half under the bed. He slipped them on, hopping slightly and scanning the room for his shirt, then he sat back on the end of the bed to pull up his jeans. “Shirt. Where’s my fucking shirt?”

A swish of material behind him and then something landed on his back.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Draco’s voice was low and deceptively amiable. Ron wasn’t fooled.

He threw a disgruntled look over his shoulder, swallowing an irritated growl. Draco was stretched out, arms above his head and eyes half-closed, blindingly white skin splayed over even whiter sheets. “You need a tan, Malfoy.”

His eyes widened in horror. “Do you have any idea what sunrays do to your skin?”

“Make you look human?” Ron needled.

Draco scowled. “Very funny.”

“I thought so.” He bent down, shackling Draco’s hands in one of his own and pressing their lips together briefly without thinking. “Tomorrow?” he ventured, only slightly hesitant.

“Today?” Draco countered, the question more of a pissy demand than anything else.

Ron’s thumb softly rubbed the inside of Draco’s wrist. “Can’t. I’m taking Lav to her mum’s wedding.” He tightened his hold, sweeping his mouth across the blond’s again. “And I’m running late.”

The whole situation still felt a little surreal. Draco Malfoy, giant bastard of a professor, king of irrational fits, petty rage, and general meanness, was letting Ron kiss him.

The front door rattled and Ron sat up again, startled.

“Draco, darling, are you decent?”

Draco groaned. “Why did I ever think giving her a key was a good idea?” he groused to himself. Ron was turning a pretty shade of pink, though, and his red hair was fluffed up in the back, and Draco decided ‘mussed’ was an annoyingly adorable look for the man. “Go away!” he shouted, then tugged on Ron’s arm, trying to lever him back down on top of him.

Pansy moved into the bedroom doorway, one hand on a hip, openly smirking. “Why, Mr. Weasley. Fancy seeing you here.”

Ron’s skin had gone from pink to mottled red, and he twisted his arm out of Draco’s grip. “I’ve got to go,” he muttered, pulling on his shirt.

Pansy’s brows shot up as Ron slipped past her and out of the room, and she sauntered forward to perch on the edge of Draco’s bed. “He’s gone all shy,” she said, laughter laced through her voice.

“You scare him.” Draco yawned and reached for his watch. “It’s rather amusing.”

She smacked his side. “Get up. You’re taking me to breakfast.”

One brow arched. “I am?”

“I haven’t seen you since Thursday.” She sniffed disdainfully. “You’re a horrible friend.”

“Fine, fine.” He shifted into a sitting position, one hand fisted over the pooling sheets. “Avert your eyes, Pans, or run the risk of being blinded by my naked gorgeousness.”

She gave him a slow, assessing glance. “I’m not sure I like your mood.”

He frowned. “That’s because you lot never want to see me happy.”

Sliding her fingers over his arm in a loose clasp, she said mock-seriously, “The unknown can be frightening, Draco.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He shook away her grip and stood up, stalking towards the loo.

Pansy laughed. “Is that a hickey on your bum?” she called after him.

He sent her a rude gesture without turning ‘round and slammed the door shut behind him.

next installment

In which there is a band meeting

2005-10-20T18:11:11Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

“Has anyone seen Ron today?” Seamus asked, sprawled out on the couch, an open notebook lying facedown over his stomach, his green hair flat on one side, tufts sticking out over his ears.

Dean dropped down into an armchair with a sigh. “He wasn’t scheduled at the café today, so not me, no.”

“I hardly ever see Ron on Fridays,” Ernie offered, shrugging out of his coat. “Is Lav home yet?”

“Should be soon.” Seamus grinned and tapped the spine of his book with three fingers. “Come up with anything, Ern?”

The big blond shoved Seamus’ feet off the end of the sofa and settled in, one arm long across the back. “How about a cover of Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner?” The actual writing of new stuff hadn’t gone well. It never really did without Lav to bounce ideas off of. And no matter how he rhymed it, the phrase “women in trouser suits” just wasn’t melodious.

Seamus blinked at him. “Ernie, you are very nearly a genius. Roland. Or, or!” He snapped upright, slapping Ernie’s thigh with his notebook. “Excitable Boy! How come we didn’t think of this before?”

“We tend to make our covers more normal than our originals,” Ernie pointed out, and then the flat door opened with a bang, and Lav came stomping through, dropping her jacket on the floor and unceremoniously draping herself across Ernie’s lap with an aggravated, drawn-out groan.

“Tough night?” Ernie asked, tweaking the end of her large, pink balloon… crown.

She rolled over onto her back and gave him a pleading look. “Just. Kill me now. Otherwise I won’t be responsible for my actions tomorrow.” She nodded solemnly. “Blood will most likely be spilled, and it’ll all be on your head.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Seamus said, grinning. “Ron’ll be there to keep you from doing anything too rash.”

“Ron will aid and abet,” Lav said with a sigh, righting herself and squeezing down into the small space between the two boys on the couch. “Ron will cheer me on. Ron will hate the Diggorys.”

“Ron’ll get lit with your grandmère.”

Lav snorted. “Probably.” Finally taking the time to glance around the room, she asked. “Where is Ron, anyway?”

“No one,” Seamus said grandly, “has seen him all day.”

Lav’s brows waggled. “All day? Would this have anything to do with his date last night?”

“What date?” Dean asked, curious.

“With Professor Draco Malfoy. Ten pounds says he mucks it up within a week.” As far as he knew, Ron hadn’t had a marginally successful, lasting relationship since he was fourteen and spent an entire summer ignoring Harry, Hermione and him for a sixteen-yr-old budding molecular biologist named Olga and—huh. Ron certainly had a thing for smart people, didn’t he?

“Seamus,” Lav said sternly, “that’s not very nice.”

“Oh, come on. This is Ron. He freaked out when his brother gave him that rat, remember? Had it for a week and a half, and he started making everyone wash their hands when they entered the flat. And then it got the sniffles, and he didn’t sleep for three nights straight. Remember that?” He poked Lav in the side. “Can you imagine him with a person?”

“Nah, shouldn’t be too bad,” Ernie disagreed with a loose grin. “Draco’s just as touched in the head as Ron, really. Perfect match.”

“Draco?” Seamus asked, brows arched. “On a first name basis with the bloke, are you?”

“Hang on, Ron’s dating a professor?” Dean gazed at them with wide, dark eyes. “Is that even allowed?”

Ernie cocked his head to the side. “Huh.”

“That probably isn’t good, is it?” Lav asked, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Seamus scratched the short hairs at his nape. “I’m thinking not.”

next installment

In which Midge is obvious and trite

2005-09-15T18:54:53Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

“Oh my, Millie,” Midge cooed, leaning into her side and grasping her elbow. “That Macmillan fellow is here. Dirty Trousers Macmillan.”

Millicent flashed a glance across the café over her shoulder, heart nearly stopping when Ernie looked up at that exact same moment and caught her eyes with a smile. She clenched her jaw, then faced forward again.

Midge poked her. “Go talk to him.”

“No,” she hissed.

“But. Dirty Trousers!” Midge protested.

The larger brunette pursed her lips. “Have you ever even seen them play?” she asked.

“Once. And it so happens that I’ve slept with their drummer.” A smug smirk played around her mouth.

“You have not,” Millie countered. She had it on good authority – well, from Vince, at least – that Midge didn’t have the requisite parts to sleep with Weasley.

“Have so. Hurry up and order,” Midge urged. “Don’t want him to leave, do you?”

Millicent growled under her breath, but stepped up to the counter. “Just some tea. Orange,” she offered to the slim, tall man behind it. He looked vaguely familiar, but Millie wasn’t one to start awkward, unprovoked conversation, so she didn’t bother mentioning it. Midge, of course, had no such qualms, and she obviously didn’t know the meaning of the word awkward.

“You look just like that pianist,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Thomas Whatshisname.” She turned to Millie. “The Quixotic Press says he’s missing, you know.”

Millie snorted derisively. “And the QP is so reliable. What happened? Abducted by aliens?”

“No,” her voice was conspiratorial, but laced with amusement, “but they might’ve found his bones buried in Russell Crowe’s backyard. They were friends of a sort.” She waggled her brows. “Lovers, perhaps?”

“Jesus, Midge, you need to stop reading that crap. Thanks.” Taking the offered tea, she forced a grin for the café worker. He seemed to be on the verge of laughter, dark eyes glittering, and she shrugged and rolled her own, silently telling him to pay Midge no mind.

“I would like three chocolate chip cookies and a decaf coffee,” Midge ordered, then nudged Millie aside. “Go talk to Macmillan. Go. Don’t make me shout out his name,” she warned.

Millicent glared at her.

“Not joking,” she sang-sung. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth—

“Fine. Fine,” Millie grumbled. “I’ll go say hello.”

“Good girl.”

Cautiously, Millicent made her way back towards Ernie, cup of tea cradled in her hands. The man was hunched over a round table, on the edge of a high-backed chair, pen tapping on a half-filled piece of notebook paper. He was humming, soft and low, chewing on his lower lip thoughtfully, and Millie was hesitant to break his concentration.

Before she could step away, though, he flicked his eyes up and broke into another wide smile, pushing his hair back off his face.

“Millicent, hi,” he greeted cheerfully. “How are you?”

“Good,” she managed to answer, fingers gripping the cup more firmly to stem her nerves. Of course, then she went fully dumb and just stared at him, mind blank of everything except pretty.

“What’s pretty?” Ernie asked, and Millicent realized with blooming horror that she’d muttered that last thought out loud.

“Um. The chair… pattern.” She was an idiot, a complete, blithering moron.

“Hello, hello,” Midge said, popping up next to her.

“Hello,” Ernie returned with a lop-sided, friendly grin. “I’m sorry. I know we’ve met, but…”

“Midge. I’ve slept with your drummer.”

Ernie boomed a laugh, tossing his head back. “I was thinking of last Sunday at the Fish Emporium, but…”

Midge grinned cheekily. “The other story’s a much better ice breaker. What’re you writing?”

“Song.” Ernie shrugged.

“Oooo.” Midge bounced into the seat next to him. “About what?”

He scratched above his left eye, squinting down at his paper. “So far? Women in trouser suits.”

“Women in…” Midge trailed off, giggling, then grabbed the tips of Millie’s fingers and pulled her closer to the table. “Millie, sit down, would you?”

Millicent grimaced and gingerly settled across from Ernie. He gave her a warm look that was both welcoming and understanding, and Millie had never been so embarrassed in her entire life. She hardly ever got embarrassed. She wasn’t sensitive or touchy, rarely cared about what others thought, even enjoyed using her naturally gruff demeanor and larger size to put certain people off. But there she was, painfully discomfited and staring down at the polished wooden table, and Midge was tattering on about… “What?”

“I’ve invited Ernie to have lunch with us tomorrow,” Midge said, then wagged a cookie at Ernie. “Sal – you know Sal, right? From Quidditch? – Sal’s uncle’s place, El Guapo Delgado, is right around the corner from our flat, and has a sugared spice cake to rival José’s over at Turnovers, and—oh!”

Millicent narrowed her eyes at her. Even Midge had her limits. She would not do something so obvious and trite and—

“I completely forgot.” Midge shook her head on a self-depreciative chuckle. “I promised my dad I’d spend the day with him, and if I canceled it'd just break his heart. Well, no matter,” her grin for Millie was wicked and bright and slightly daring, “you two can still go.”

“We could just go ano—”

“No, no,” Midge cut Ernie off. “Millicent absolutely loves their spice cake, don’t you Millie? She absolutely does.”

“I—”

“I can’t believe you haven’t been there already,” she exclaimed, bowling over whatever protest Millicent was most likely going to make. “You’ve been deprived long enough, my dear Ernie, so it’s definitely settled. You can meet Millie at the corner of Doover and Vine tomorrow, say, just around one?” At Ernie’s bemused nod, she got to her feet and tugged Millie up as well. “Excellent. Come on, Millie, we’ve got to stop ‘round Theo’s before heading home.” She sent Ernie a small wave, then pulled a nearly rigid Millicent towards the café door.

“I really, really hate you, Midge,” Millicent growled.

Midge just patted her hand and giggled. “I know.”

next installment

In which Nev is surprisingly messy

2005-09-14T18:23:17Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

It was after seven when Nev peeked out the peephole to find Hannah’s brown eyes smiling at him. Then she gave a little wave, waggling her fingers, and though he wasn’t much up for company, he sighed and slid the chain off the door to let her in.

“All right, Nev,” she said, pushing her way past him and into the flat. “Let’s go.”

Nev blinked at her. “Go where?”

“My mum’s.” She flashed him a bright grin, then urged him down the hall towards his bedroom. “Susan here?”

“Not at the…um… Your mum’s?” Nev gave her a befuddled frown. “Why?”

Hannah glanced curiously around Nev’s room. It was surprisingly messy, a lump of clothes piled on the floor by his dresser, nightstand and desk littered with papers and books. She’d always figured him as a neat-as-a-pin sort of bloke. Sighing, she kicked a dirty sock out of the way and flung open his closet. “Won’t need anything dressy,” she said absently, leafing through what little he’d bothered to hang up.

“Han, why are we going to you mum’s?” Nev tried again.

“You need to get away.” She shut the closet in favor of sliding open a few drawers, finding a pair of old jeans and some tees that at least looked clean. Tentatively, she held them up to her nose, then shrugged and tossed them onto the unkempt bed. “Leave Susan a note, will you? Dean already knows we’re going.”

At the mention of Dean, something soft in Nev seized up, catching his breath, and Hannah sent him a sympathetic glance.

“This’ll be good for you, Nev,” she said, keeping her tone deliberately even and brisk. She didn’t want Nev to wallow or break. This wasn’t about that.

He shifted back and forth on his feet. “And Terry?”

Hannah waved a hand. “Terry’s feeding Jox. We’ll be gone three days, Nev. Nothing to get worked up about. And you can tell me anything you want or nothing at all.” She smiled. “Mum’ll love you, and she makes the best baklava.”

Nev’s eyes immediately brightened. “Would she show me?”

“Just so long as you don’t blow up the kitchen,” Hannah teased, then placed her hands on her hips and studied the small pile of semi-clean clothes she’d made. “I hesitate to ask whether you have luggage or not.”

“Bin bag?”

“A bin bag?” she echoed incredulously.

He shrugged, cheeks reddening. “I don’t travel much.”

“Let’s see if Den’s home, then,” she suggested, reaching for the phone.

Not an hour later, Den and Anthony were both in Nev’s apartment, Den shaking a large fuzzy koala bear tote in the air triumphantly, Tony bogged down with two hastily packed bags and an apologetic smile.

“I adore your mum, Han,” Den exclaimed.

“Suppose that means you’ll be coming along?” Hannah asked with amusement, eyeing their luggage. Her mum was fond of Dennis as well, of course, so she didn’t think there’d be a problem. Though the boy made her dad vaguely uncomfortable. His current attire of bright purple sweats, hair pulled back in a high ponytail, probably wouldn’t help.

“Baklava! And those spiced beef cubes and good lord, Nev, you haven’t lived ‘til you’ve tried Mrs. Abbott’s walnut-stuffed pears with those oh-so-yummy coconut shavings on top.”

“No clue how he stays so thin,” Anthony muttered dryly.

Den playfully stuck his tongue out at him, then hooked his arm through Nev’s, admonishing with a nod, “You need to get every single recipe.”

“Right,” Tony said, eyes twinkling, “and then he’ll never get rid of you.” He cocked his head at Hannah. “You’re seeing this, right? I’m being passed over for food.”

“Walnut-stuffed pears,” Den stressed, and Hannah laughed.

“Come on,” she said, tossing Anthony her keys. “Bring the car ‘round while I help Nev pack.”

next installment

In which CJ is mysteriously amused by Lav

2005-09-09T20:53:49Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

The rehearsal party was going swimmingly, so of course Lav was sitting in the coat-check closet with her grandmère, the fifteen year old coat-check boy, and the biggest bowl of chocolate ice cream they could finagle out of the kitchens. It would serve her mum right if she couldn’t fit into her dress the next day. The entire Diggory family was there. It was pure, mind-numbingly dull torture.

“See, Jeremy,” Lav said, licking up the side of her spoon, “my mum is marrying into the perfect family. The bulk of them robots, if you ask me. All blond and blue-eyed and, Grandmère, did you notice how CJ’s grandmother was fawning all over Mum? I mean, she didn’t act that way towards me—”

Grandmère snorted lightly and muttered, “Pretentious twit,” under her breath.

“Yes, exactly,” Lav agreed, shoveling another large scoop of ice cream into her mouth. Jeremy smiled widely at her, brown eyes adoring. The boy was a great ego boost.

“Hat or dog, boy?” Grandmère asked briskly, stretching out a thin yellow balloon with narrow, knobby fingers. She was perched on the edge of a footstool, knees almost up to her chest and the hem of her long, pleated chiffon skirt lying in soft folds on the floor.

Jeremy shrugged, but said, “Hat.” He kinda thought the old lady was off her rocker.

She winked at him. “Excellent choice.”

Lav already had an oversized pink crown banded about her head - she could feel her hair prickling up in static-y strands - as well as two green and blue armbands around her left forearm. “Try a bird next,” Lav suggested, spoon-battling Jeremy for the last bit of half-melted ice cream. She won with a smug grin. “Or a hotdog.”

“Hello? Anyone—oh! Hi, Lav, Grandmère,” CJ pushed the door wider and glanced around the oblong closet, eyes twinkling. He nodded towards the balloons. “Do I get one, too?”

Lav scowled around her spoon, swallowed hastily, then demanded, “What are you doing back here?”

“We’ve been released, and I’m off to play hoops,” he said, a teasing smile at his lips, those damn dimples flashing under the apples of his cheeks. “Thought it might be helpful to get my jacket first. Hang out in closets often, do you?”

“Play hoops? But you can’t walk,” Jeremy commented baldly.

CJ chuckled and glanced down at his wheelchair, blond fringe falling across his forehead. “Yes, well—”

“What happened?” the boy blurted out, and Grandmère reached over and smacked him on the back of the head.

“Accident. Gods, like, so many years ago,” Lav answered dismissively, ignoring the bemused expression CJ turned on her. “Look, if you’re going to hang around to chat, come in and shut the door, will you? You may’ve been released, but some of us have to stay here ‘til Mum carts us home, so. I’d rather not be out there.”

CJ shook his head. “Just need my coat, please,” he said good-naturedly, and god.

Lav had no idea what it was that had set CJ off, but for the past week everything about her seemed to amuse him. He had that look in his eyes, like he’d figured her out and was just waiting for her to get a clue. Which was absurd, of course, because Lav knew exactly what she was about, and none of it was amusing. She was an arguably tough-hearted guitar player who missed her dad, rode a Triumph, and only took shit from her grandmère and the boys in the band. Everyone else could fuck off.

“Ticket?” Jeremy asked, jumping to his feet.

CJ fished it out of his pocket, then waved a hand behind Lav. “The black one over there. Lav, you sure you don’t want to take off with me?”

“I’m sure,” Lav near snarled, although she would’ve loved to get out of there, even if it meant meeting all of CJ’s no doubt perfect friends. If she left Grandmère alone, though, she didn’t think the woman would ever forgive her.

He left with a loose shrug, and Jeremy quickly pushed the door closed behind him.

“He has got lovely teeth, doesn’t he?” Grandmère said idly.

Lav frowned down at her empty bowl. “I’m going to need more ice cream.”

next installment

In which there is an interlude with Flicker

2005-09-07T17:08:02Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

Ginny glanced at the clock – it was only two in the afternoon - then over at Flicker again, who’d downed one pint and was on the verge of slipping off his stool, as he’d already been hopped up on painkillers when he’d hobbled through the pub door, eyes cast with a wet glaze.

“So then the old man, he’s trying to convince me he’s Sal, right? Has his wallet and everythin’, says he’s been hit by an ‘aging ray,’” he made sloppy air quotes and Ginny stifled a giggle. “So he’s like eighty now, right?” He leant in close to the bar, beckoning Ginny towards him with two fingers, then stage whispered, “Only thing is, he’s not Sal, ‘cause there’s no such thing as an ‘aging ray,’” air quotes again, “is there? And Sal’s in a ditch somewhere, only I don’t know that, but the audience knows, and I live out the rest of my days with podSal and that’s the end. Creepy, eh?”

Vince rolled his eyes. “What’s the point to it?” he asked gruffly.

Flicker flapped a hand in the air. “No point. Doesna have to have a point. It’s for the telly. Haven’t you ever seen that show about the,” the flapping grew more pronounced, “chatty, alien dog who lives under a bed? Does that have a point?”

Ginny shrugged. “It’s got a talking St. Bernard, Flicker. You’ve got a…” She rolled her wrist, and Vincent mocked Flicker’s slouched position on the stool next to him, lifting his fingers in air quotes and droning, “Aging ray.”

“Yes, but it’s not an aging ray, is it? I only think there’s one,” he protested, oblivious to Vince’s chuckles. He tapped the bar, silently asking Ginny for another beer.

“Are you sure you should be drinking?” she asked skeptically, refilling his pint.

“What? No, of course I shouldn’t,” Flicker answered readily, snatching the glass out of her hands. “I’m high as a fucking air balloon. Keep the EMTs on speed dial,” he admonished.

“Aging rays,” Vincent said, nodding at Ginny, then gently pried the beer from Flicker’s hands.

“Too right, ‘aging rays.’” His mouth followed the lip of the glass like a baby bird until Vince drew it well out of his reach. He pouted. “Fucker.”

An old man at the bend of the bar, three seats down from Flicker, fished a handful of peanuts out of a bowl, munching absently. “I’m not supposed to be Sal, am I?” he asked with amusement, having blatantly overheard Flicker’s entire plot.

“No, no, pay attention,” Flicker snapped impatiently at him. “You’re podSal.”

The man nodded and moved to stand up. “Right, sure. Want to go grab something to eat?”

“Stupid question, Sal. I always want to eat,” and Flicker stumbled to his one good foot, latching onto his crutch and jerking his head towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Winking at Gin, the elderly man gripped Flicker’s elbow as they stepped outside.

“Did Flicker just get picked up by an eighty year old?” Ginny asked Vincent, head cocked to the side.

“Looks like,” Vince said, taking a sip from Flicker’s abandoned beer.

“Huh.”

next installment

In which Ron very loudly freaks out

2005-09-06T20:43:14Z

start at the beginning | what went before | this installment | next installment

For the third time in less than two weeks, Ron woke up snuggled against another warm body in his bed. Only, technically, it wasn’t his bed. And he had the added bonus of remembering every little detail of the night before. The bickering, the sharp, nasty jabs that’d been – overall - somewhat playful, and, yes. Malfoy had flirted with him, and Ron, oddly enough, had flirted back.

Which was not to say that he wasn’t freaking out, of course – although it was a very, very quiet sort of freaking out – because he’d slept with, had sex with his professor. Was, in fact, in his professor’s bed, in his professor’s flat, with one of his professor’s hands tucked over his ribs, and Ron suddenly realized he was dangerously close to a very, very loud sort of freaking out.

All the confidence he’d gained from The Baron the night before, all that self-assuredness that had, obviously, landed him in the arguably pleasant spot he was currently occupying, had apparently leaked out of his ear while he was sleeping.

“I can hear you vibrating,” Malfoy drawled with a yawn and a squeeze of his fingers along Ron’s ribcage.

Oh god, he was in such trouble. Weren’t there rules about shagging your boss? And Flicker had seen them, and that boy couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut about anything that had to do with anything, and why the hell had Ron taken Malfoy to Dempsey’s of all places? What had he been thinking?

Vibrating, hell. More like hyperventilating.

Malfoy’s mouth moved into a frown against the top of his spine, but the words, “If you’re going to freak, at least do it out loud,” took Ron completely by surprise.

“Why?” he rasped, then cleared his throat and asked louder, “why?”

Draco rolled his eyes and bit the sharp wing of Ron’s shoulder blade, then lathed his tongue over the tail end of the black dragon tattoo, its red claws flexed open on the redhead’s pale skin. “I can’t properly harass you for your idiocy,” he murmured, “if I don’t know precisely what you’re thinking, can I? You could be having a bad reaction to the fish.” His palm smoothed down his side and back up again, fingers teasing across Ron’s waist, hip, thigh.

“Fish,” Ron echoed woodenly, tensing his muscles in an effort to stave off the shivers automatically spreading out from Malfoy’s moving touch. Finally, he cleared his throat again and said, “All right, this is just. Really, really wrong.”

“Obviously.”

“And—wait, what?” Ron twisted in the blond’s arms, staring at him incredulously. He looked disturbingly soft-eyed and affectionate. It was slightly creepy. “You’re agreeing with me?”

Draco thought Weasley looked gorgeous - hair mashed up in a rooster comb, blue eyes bruised with restless sleep, an irritated flush blotching his face, spreading down his throat to blend with the two rather large marks Draco’d bit into his neck during what he clearly recalled as having been an intensely lovely orgasm - which probably would’ve ticked him off, as gorgeous was a term he rarely used beyond self-descriptions, if he wasn’t exactly where he’d wanted to be for the better part of three weeks. “Yes, I’m agreeing with you. This is all very horrible and wrong, most likely against several university codes, morally ambiguous—”

“Morally ambiguous?”

“I’m faculty, Weasley,” Draco hitched closer, eyeing the brown-red stubble shading Ron’s jaw, “this could be construed as me taking advantage of you.”

“And you’re not?” Ron managed, tilting his head back because, yes, Draco had a really wonderful mouth. When he wasn’t talking.

The question, surprisingly, stilled something inside of Draco, and he pulled back and away from Ron with a flash of hurt. Slowly, he said, “I think you should go.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “You think,” he sputtered, “you. You!” He jerked upright, sheets pooling in his lap, and he would’ve stalked from the room if he hadn’t been naked as a jay and really unsure where any of his clothes were.

Draco furrowed his brow. “What?”

“You bloody bastard, you think I should go? Fuck! You’re just.” He shoved a frustrated hand in his hair and yanked it through the tangled strands. “Fuck, you’re annoying. And insane. And you know what?” He glanced at the clock. “It’s not even five in the morning, and I’m not going anywhere, you wanker!”

“Staying here isn’t going to gain you any sort of bonus,” the blond said stiffly, manueving into a sitting position as well and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Are you.” Ron glanced around, frantically searching for anything he could brain the man with. “Are you trying to make me kill you? Bonus? For sex? Are you calling me a whore?”

Judging by Ron’s murderous expression, Draco thought he might’ve taken the whole morning in the wrong direction. “No,” he answered cautiously. “Not unless you’re saying you felt… compelled to join me here,” he pointed to the mattress, “in fear of losing your job.”

“I.” Ron opened and closed his mouth dumbly. “I don’t. Maybe I should go.”

“Right.”

Ron studied the professor carefully. He looked a bit like a petulant, hurt child, lip jutting out and eyes downcast and Ron still wasn’t exactly sure why the hell they were arguing about what sounded like sexual harassment and manipulative whoring and none of that had ever even crossed Ron’s mind, not from the moment he’d accepted the date, ‘til Draco had said—oh. Oh fuck.

Ron had practically accused the professor of taking advantage of him, and the entire mess was his own stupid fault. Damn it. “Draco,” he ventured, ducking his head and searching out Malfoy’s gaze. “Draco, I was supposed to meet with you at nine…”

“Right,” Draco muttered again, then took a deep breath, prepared to give the man the day off, since apparently he suspected Draco was using him. “Well—”

“So it would make the most sense if I stayed,” Ron rolled over Draco’s words.

Draco’s head snapped up, and Weasley grinned at him, a smile that turned predatory at the edges, and then a big, warm hand was on his knee and slipping upwards, and, pathetically, it only took about five seconds for the blond to groan and wrap his hands around Ron’s nape, tugging him towards him with a soft, “Okay, yes.”

next installment