Other girls get taken to Madame Puddifoot’s for tea and snack cakes, or to the Hog’s Head for a pint if they’re old enough for it. Other girls get taken out to dinner and romanced with flowers and chocolates and such, maybe bits of jewelry if their partner’s got the vault for that sort of thing.
She gets taken to Fortescue’s for a cone and deluged with more prank ideas than she thinks she’ll ever need. She gets post that turns into a pansy in her palm while her co-workers are about, then into a pair of miniature knickers when she’s tucked it in her pocket for the rest of her shift. She gets hysterical owls from her best mates that their hair’s turned blue or their hands green, that someone’s sent their shop assistants an oversized Skiving Snackbox or set their curtains to wrap around them like togas they can’t remove.
Her co-workers tell her their boss comes in one Monday to a package that turns him into a lemon for the morning, until he finally finds someone willing to try the counterspell, and her horrible neighbour the next floor up complains about all his furniture suddenly floating a good inch off the floor, where it cannot possibly make the terrible scratching sounds through her ceiling.
She thinks she’s got the better end of things. Madame Puddifoot’s always smells like a greenhouse turned treacle-sweet, the sort of thing meant for young girls and the boys who want to kiss them but not a thing meant for adults, and the Hog’s Head gets as tiresome as the Three Broomsticks after a while, just another meat market she tolerates at best.
No, the way her Earless woos her is far better, more intensely personal and more compelling for it, and while she’s sure he’d never stoop to swooning charms or love potions to convince her, he really doesn’t have to. She’s won over just by him.
So when she wakes one Saturday morning to a bout of hysterical messages from her shithead brother and his prig wife about someone turning their home into marshmallow filling like from pastries, she laughs until she’s near sick with it.
Then she goes round to see George, who’s waiting at his counter and talking ways to cast jinxes with a student who’s listening with bald adoration, and she waits just off to one side until they’re finished, because, well, this is her Earless, isn’t it? Boyish and lovely. She could watch him work forever, she thinks, and she’s sure she’d like to try.
“Sorry about that,” he says when he’s sent the student on her way. “Poor kid’s been getting bullied, apparently. First Slytherin in her family, prick brother a few years ahead of her. You know how it is.” He shrugs, bashful, and tries to dismiss it. She wants to kiss him all the time but never quite as much as she does just then. “Can I help you with something, Miss Parkinson?”
“So formal,” she teases and slips her arms around his neck, leans up and touches her mouth to his. “You’re delightful, Earless. Come home with me.”
“Pants?” He frowns a bit in confusion. “It’s only half-ten.”
“Did you or did you not make my idiot brother’s house into an oversized sweet?”
He blinks. Must remember then, because he grins a bit wicked. She loves that grin. “I did, yeah. On account of him being a pillock to you last week. Er, sorry. I know you can handle it yourself. You did, didn’t you. But I thought, well. You know how it is. Had a thing I meant to test out on someone, was fairly sure it was safe, thought I might kill two birds with one stone, right?”
She’s nodding along with him, more smitten by the word, and she lets him finish before she leans her forehead against his. “I can, yeah, and ordinarily, I’d have a few things to say about someone else stepping into it. But just this once, I’ll make an exception.” She can barely get the words out for the laughter bubbling up again. “Just, he sent pictures. Or his wife did, whatever. There are pictures, is what I’m saying. And they are at mine, and I need you to come back with me now so I can show you them.” She takes a breath, does something she’s promised herself she wouldn’t. “And when I say show you them, I mean shag you senseless. I’m not sure if that’s clear.”
He’s gawping at her, sort of laughing in shaky, hiccuping blurts and choking on it, but when she stops speaking, he wrangles himself under control. “Because I pranked your brother?”
“Because as courting methods go, that one’s perfect. So. Unless there’s some pressing engagement keeping you here…”
He looks as helplessly fond as she feels, circles her with his arms and holds her close. “There isn’t, no.”
And when she cocks an eyebrow at him, he flicks his wand at his door to spell it locked.
Other girls get taken to Madame Puddifoot’s or out for dinner, get sent flowers and chocolates and jewelry in their time. Pansy gets a nickname she can’t use in public without getting looks and more blackmail material on her friends and family than one girl could ever make proper use of in a lifetime.
But then, other girls don’t get anyone nearly as good, and when Pansy thinks of all the effort he’s put in to wooing her, all the ways he’s shown her how much attention he’s paid to the things that matter, she thinks the other girls settle far too quickly.
After spending a miserable day in the Library, during which he found nothing which might help him fight a Dragon in the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, Harry threw himself onto the sofa by the fireplace in Gryffindor Commons. He started upright, however, at the sound of a familiar voice issuing from the fire.
“Harry? You there, Harry?”
“Sirius!?” Harry exclaimed. He dropped to his knees before the grate, looking into his godfather's face. “It's you! How are you—?”
“I don't have much time, Harry,” Sirius said quickly. His breath left his mouth in little clouds of smoke. “But I had to know that you were okay. I heard about the Tournament.”
“Someone put my name in that Goblet,” Harry said flatly. He was tired of defending himself to everyone, even Ron. “I didn't do it, no matter what anyone thinks.”
Sirius frowned. “Who says you did, Harry?”
“Ron. And Malfoy. The entire school, pretty much. I think even Dumbledore has his doubts about me.”
Sirius' face was pensive. “Malfoy... you mean Lucius Malfoy, the Death Eater?” His voice went deep, stern. Harry wondered if that was what his own father might have sounded like, rising to his defense. It was a good feeling, even though Sirius wasn't really his parent. It was good to have someone who cared, someone who believed him at his word.
“No, not Lucius Malfoy. His son, Draco. That git made these badges, and everyone's wearing them. They say 'Support Cedric Diggory, The REAL Hogwarts Champion.' And then the message changes to say 'Potter Stinks.'”
Sirius nodded knowingly. “Sounds like this isn't the first time you've had trouble from this Malfoy chap.”
Harry shook his head. “Malfoy's been at me since first year, when I didn't want to be friends with him or some bollocks. He picked on my friends, took Neville's Remembrall, called Hermione a Mudblood, made fun of Ron's family for not being well-off—loads of stuff. He's just a prick. These badges... I shouldn't have expected any less. They're par for the course where Malfoy's concerned.”
Sirius's dark eyes were very wide—like coals from the hearth were resting in his eye sockets, fire slowly suffusing his face. He was looking somewhere very far away.
“Harry...” he said gently. “Do you do anything to encourage Malfoy's behavior?”
“What?” Harry started. “No! I mean... I might've spied on him second year—but that was only to make sure he wasn't the Heir of Slytherin, trying to kill people with Slytherin's monster basilisk. Most of the time he comes after me.”
Sirius looked happy and sad at the same time. It was the strangest thing. “Harry, this may be hard for you to hear. I can explain this Malfoy boy's behavior toward you... but you may not like it.”
“I don't like it,” Harry insisted, folding his arms across his chest. “Malfoy's the biggest thorn in my side that ever was.”
“Calm down, Harry,” Sirius chastised. “You need to hear this. Imagine, just for a moment, that you are a girl instead of a bloke. Just imagine it for me,” he insisted before Harry could interrupt. “Now take all the things that Malfoy has done towards you, and think of what else he would do if you were female. He'd probably pull your hair, flip your skirt, maybe even... try to kiss you. Harry, do you understand what I'm saying?”
Harry had collapsed back on his bum, remembering every time Malfoy's pale hands had come at him, whether offering friendship at first, or threatening him and his friends with hexes and fisticuffs in these last few years. Malfoy did everything in his power to stay close to Harry, it was true. Malfoy made efforts to be a part of his life, even if that part was only an annoyance. It was like he needed to be near.
“You mean....” Harry couldn't finish the thought—not out loud, anyway, but he was certainly thinking it.
“I suspect this boy has feelings for you,” Sirius offered quietly. “But, the same as fancying a girl, he doesn't know how to say it. So he's cruel to you, to preserve some small space in your life that will always be his.”
“Malfoy... fancies me?” Harry choked.
Sirius smiled, a devious grin. “Worse. With these badges, I think he may be full-on courting you.” Harry fell against the carpet in despair. From his back, he could still hear Sirius laughing from the fireplace. “Watch out, Harry! You have a suitor on your hands!”
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fill: Pants Parkinson and the courting methods of one George Weasley, pg, 1/2
Date: 2012-04-22 04:09 am (UTC)She gets taken to Fortescue’s for a cone and deluged with more prank ideas than she thinks she’ll ever need. She gets post that turns into a pansy in her palm while her co-workers are about, then into a pair of miniature knickers when she’s tucked it in her pocket for the rest of her shift. She gets hysterical owls from her best mates that their hair’s turned blue or their hands green, that someone’s sent their shop assistants an oversized Skiving Snackbox or set their curtains to wrap around them like togas they can’t remove.
Her co-workers tell her their boss comes in one Monday to a package that turns him into a lemon for the morning, until he finally finds someone willing to try the counterspell, and her horrible neighbour the next floor up complains about all his furniture suddenly floating a good inch off the floor, where it cannot possibly make the terrible scratching sounds through her ceiling.
She thinks she’s got the better end of things. Madame Puddifoot’s always smells like a greenhouse turned treacle-sweet, the sort of thing meant for young girls and the boys who want to kiss them but not a thing meant for adults, and the Hog’s Head gets as tiresome as the Three Broomsticks after a while, just another meat market she tolerates at best.
No, the way her Earless woos her is far better, more intensely personal and more compelling for it, and while she’s sure he’d never stoop to swooning charms or love potions to convince her, he really doesn’t have to. She’s won over just by him.
So when she wakes one Saturday morning to a bout of hysterical messages from her shithead brother and his prig wife about someone turning their home into marshmallow filling like from pastries, she laughs until she’s near sick with it.
Then she goes round to see George, who’s waiting at his counter and talking ways to cast jinxes with a student who’s listening with bald adoration, and she waits just off to one side until they’re finished, because, well, this is her Earless, isn’t it? Boyish and lovely. She could watch him work forever, she thinks, and she’s sure she’d like to try.
Re: fill: Pants Parkinson and the courting methods of one George Weasley, pg, 2/2
Date: 2012-04-22 04:10 am (UTC)“So formal,” she teases and slips her arms around his neck, leans up and touches her mouth to his. “You’re delightful, Earless. Come home with me.”
“Pants?” He frowns a bit in confusion. “It’s only half-ten.”
“Did you or did you not make my idiot brother’s house into an oversized sweet?”
He blinks. Must remember then, because he grins a bit wicked. She loves that grin. “I did, yeah. On account of him being a pillock to you last week. Er, sorry. I know you can handle it yourself. You did, didn’t you. But I thought, well. You know how it is. Had a thing I meant to test out on someone, was fairly sure it was safe, thought I might kill two birds with one stone, right?”
She’s nodding along with him, more smitten by the word, and she lets him finish before she leans her forehead against his. “I can, yeah, and ordinarily, I’d have a few things to say about someone else stepping into it. But just this once, I’ll make an exception.” She can barely get the words out for the laughter bubbling up again. “Just, he sent pictures. Or his wife did, whatever. There are pictures, is what I’m saying. And they are at mine, and I need you to come back with me now so I can show you them.” She takes a breath, does something she’s promised herself she wouldn’t. “And when I say show you them, I mean shag you senseless. I’m not sure if that’s clear.”
He’s gawping at her, sort of laughing in shaky, hiccuping blurts and choking on it, but when she stops speaking, he wrangles himself under control. “Because I pranked your brother?”
“Because as courting methods go, that one’s perfect. So. Unless there’s some pressing engagement keeping you here…”
He looks as helplessly fond as she feels, circles her with his arms and holds her close. “There isn’t, no.”
And when she cocks an eyebrow at him, he flicks his wand at his door to spell it locked.
Other girls get taken to Madame Puddifoot’s or out for dinner, get sent flowers and chocolates and jewelry in their time. Pansy gets a nickname she can’t use in public without getting looks and more blackmail material on her friends and family than one girl could ever make proper use of in a lifetime.
But then, other girls don’t get anyone nearly as good, and when Pansy thinks of all the effort he’s put in to wooing her, all the ways he’s shown her how much attention he’s paid to the things that matter, she thinks the other girls settle far too quickly.
no subject
Date: 2012-04-22 05:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-22 01:41 pm (UTC)Word Count: 121
Warning/Rating: Pg-13.
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Remus/Sirius
“I’m not going to court you or woo you or anything like that though.” Sirius stated as they curled up together.
“Who is to say that you would be the one doing the courting?” Remus replied.
“Moony, please, you are clearly the girl in this thing,” Sirius said.
Remus turned to look at Sirius, catching his wrists and trapping them on each side of Sirius.
“I think someone has forgotten just what went down here earlier.”
Remus watched as Sirius shivered and leaned down for a kiss.
“I think we’ll just agree that there is no need for wooing or courting and leave it at that.” Sirius said, breathless after the kiss.
“Well, as long as you’re mine, I’m okay with that.”
no subject
Date: 2012-04-22 11:54 pm (UTC)Rating: PG
Warnings: mild cursing, mention of pre-slash
Prompt #22: Court
Words: 780
PART 1
After spending a miserable day in the Library, during which he found nothing which might help him fight a Dragon in the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, Harry threw himself onto the sofa by the fireplace in Gryffindor Commons. He started upright, however, at the sound of a familiar voice issuing from the fire.
“Harry? You there, Harry?”
“Sirius!?” Harry exclaimed. He dropped to his knees before the grate, looking into his godfather's face. “It's you! How are you—?”
“I don't have much time, Harry,” Sirius said quickly. His breath left his mouth in little clouds of smoke. “But I had to know that you were okay. I heard about the Tournament.”
“Someone put my name in that Goblet,” Harry said flatly. He was tired of defending himself to everyone, even Ron. “I didn't do it, no matter what anyone thinks.”
Sirius frowned. “Who says you did, Harry?”
“Ron. And Malfoy. The entire school, pretty much. I think even Dumbledore has his doubts about me.”
Sirius' face was pensive. “Malfoy... you mean Lucius Malfoy, the Death Eater?” His voice went deep, stern. Harry wondered if that was what his own father might have sounded like, rising to his defense. It was a good feeling, even though Sirius wasn't really his parent. It was good to have someone who cared, someone who believed him at his word.
“No, not Lucius Malfoy. His son, Draco. That git made these badges, and everyone's wearing them. They say 'Support Cedric Diggory, The REAL Hogwarts Champion.' And then the message changes to say 'Potter Stinks.'”
no subject
Date: 2012-04-22 11:56 pm (UTC)Sirius nodded knowingly. “Sounds like this isn't the first time you've had trouble from this Malfoy chap.”
Harry shook his head. “Malfoy's been at me since first year, when I didn't want to be friends with him or some bollocks. He picked on my friends, took Neville's Remembrall, called Hermione a Mudblood, made fun of Ron's family for not being well-off—loads of stuff. He's just a prick. These badges... I shouldn't have expected any less. They're par for the course where Malfoy's concerned.”
Sirius's dark eyes were very wide—like coals from the hearth were resting in his eye sockets, fire slowly suffusing his face. He was looking somewhere very far away.
“Harry...” he said gently. “Do you do anything to encourage Malfoy's behavior?”
“What?” Harry started. “No! I mean... I might've spied on him second year—but that was only to make sure he wasn't the Heir of Slytherin, trying to kill people with Slytherin's monster basilisk. Most of the time he comes after me.”
Sirius looked happy and sad at the same time. It was the strangest thing. “Harry, this may be hard for you to hear. I can explain this Malfoy boy's behavior toward you... but you may not like it.”
“I don't like it,” Harry insisted, folding his arms across his chest. “Malfoy's the biggest thorn in my side that ever was.”
“Calm down, Harry,” Sirius chastised. “You need to hear this. Imagine, just for a moment, that you are a girl instead of a bloke. Just imagine it for me,” he insisted before Harry could interrupt. “Now take all the things that Malfoy has done towards you, and think of what else he would do if you were female. He'd probably pull your hair, flip your skirt, maybe even... try to kiss you. Harry, do you understand what I'm saying?”
Harry had collapsed back on his bum, remembering every time Malfoy's pale hands had come at him, whether offering friendship at first, or threatening him and his friends with hexes and fisticuffs in these last few years. Malfoy did everything in his power to stay close to Harry, it was true. Malfoy made efforts to be a part of his life, even if that part was only an annoyance. It was like he needed to be near.
“You mean....” Harry couldn't finish the thought—not out loud, anyway, but he was certainly thinking it.
“I suspect this boy has feelings for you,” Sirius offered quietly. “But, the same as fancying a girl, he doesn't know how to say it. So he's cruel to you, to preserve some small space in your life that will always be his.”
“Malfoy... fancies me?” Harry choked.
Sirius smiled, a devious grin. “Worse. With these badges, I think he may be full-on courting you.” Harry fell against the carpet in despair. From his back, he could still hear Sirius laughing from the fireplace. “Watch out, Harry! You have a suitor on your hands!”