HP fic, old and new...
Aug. 31st, 2007 09:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_t_rainWait, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_summergen reveals have taken place? Whoa, when did that happen? Anyway, my entry is Dear Alastor, written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cranberry_crash.
Also, some new post-DH fic, very rough and really more of a ficlet, but I swore I'd write at least one story in the Year After-verse a month, so here I am squeaking in just before my self-imposed deadline. George, Verity, May or June 1998.
Tattered posters advertising U-No-Poo still fluttered from the front of the shop. One window had been smashed; it was a testimony to the fear that had kept even thieves out of Diagon Alley that most of the merchandise was still intact.
“Patented Daydream Charms, three dozen boxes,” said Verity.
George ticked them off on his inventory sheet. It occurred to him that he could say there were thirty-five instead of thirty-six; it was his stock, no one would care. He could take one home and indulge himself this evening with a long daydream about – about – Before.
He didn’t. One of Professor Dumbledore’s maxims had been it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live; he had told the twins that in their first year when he heard them spinning an elaborate fantasy about revenge on some of the older kids who had laughed at their hand-me-down clothes and shared supplies. Which was kind of funny, because he and Fred had kept dwelling on dreams, and the result was this shop, and it had worked out well enough. They’d dreamt up most of the items they sold, hadn’t they? But there were some things you couldn’t dream about without feeling dead miserable when you woke.
“Fever Fudge, twenty boxes.”
“Bin it. It’s stale; we’ll make some new.”
“You are going to re-open the shop, then?”
“Why’d you think we were here, Verity?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
Of course she wasn’t. George hadn’t talked about his plans. He had been used to running his ideas by Fred before he made a decision, or (perhaps more often) looking to Fred to make the decision for him. But somehow, a decision had been made. George wasn’t sure just when he had made it: perhaps when he unlocked the premises that had not been used in nearly a year and contemplated the dusty Skiving Snackboxes and the smashed Magic Fate Ball, which told you which of a hundred dire calamities you were going to suffer in a voice strikingly reminiscent of Sybill Trelawney’s. Perhaps it had been even earlier than that, at the funeral.
“Luminous Lingerie, three brassieres and eight pairs of pants, mixed sizes.”
“Check.”
“You’re – forgive me, but you’re going to need more help around the place, won’t you?”
“I thought maybe my brother Ron would fancy a job. Or Percy, he’s really improved since he resigned from the Ministry, and I reckon a joke shop would suit him down to the ground. Did I tell you he presented Auntie Muriel with a vase full of Farting Flowers the other day?”
Verity looked at him dubiously. “You are joking, aren’t you?” she said after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Were you joking about Ron, too?”
“No.”
“He’d be all right. I’ve only met him once, but he seemed ... nice.” Verity bit her lip, and George wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was. No one had ever described Fred as ‘nice,’ at least not until the funeral, when a lot of people had said a lot of things about a person George hardly recognized as his brother at all.
“Five hundred Belly-Dancing Beer Mats.”
“Check.”
“Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, three pounds nine ounces.”
“Check.” They’d stopped selling it after the first battle at Hogwarts, but they might as well start again.
“Oh! Here’s a cage of Pygmy Puffs, you must have forgotten them when you moved the live stock to your aunt’s.” Verity opened the cage and added, unnecessarily, “They’re dead.”
She started to cry. George moved the cage with its shriveled scraps of pink and purple fur out to the rubbish heap so that she wouldn’t have to look at them, but when he came back Verity was still crying. He decided that this wasn’t really about Pygmy Puffs. “Go home if you like. I’ll finish up without you.”
Verity shook her head. “I’ll stay. I’m all right, really.”
She plainly wasn’t, but George wasn’t either, so he didn’t say anything.
“Extendable Ears, two dozen.” Verity looked up at George. “Could you use one of those?”
George was struck with the idea. “I could. It would be better than the original because of being extendable, and I could make some other improvements...” He grabbed a sketch pad that had been sitting forgotten on a shelf, and began to make notes. “Of course, I’d want to shut it off if I had someone particularly annoying standing on that side of me, and it would be great if I could listen through walls without having to put a glass up to the wall... I know a spell that ought to work, if I can transfer it to the Extendable Ear without having to renew it every time...” It was the first thing he had invented since Fred, and it felt strange to think about that, but he pressed on. “And whenever someone played Celestina Warbeck, I bet I could charm the ear to replace it with the Weird Sisters...”
Verity interrupted this train of thought. “You know what they’re going to call you, right?”
“What?”
“‘Mad-Ear Weasley’.”
George laughed. “‘Mad-Ear Weasley.’ I like it.” He gulped, remembering Mad-Eye, and made himself laugh again.
“Fireworks, eight dozen, assorted.”
“We’re donating those to the Leaky Cauldron. For the celebrations.”
“Oh, are there going to be celebrations?” Verity asked. The second war had ended, not in showers of sparks and floods of mead like the stories George’s parents had told about the legendary Halloween of ‘81, but in quiet reflection and thanksgiving. And in many, many funerals.
“There will be now.”
hp_summergen reveals have taken place? Whoa, when did that happen? Anyway, my entry is Dear Alastor, written for cranberry_crash.Also, some new post-DH fic, very rough and really more of a ficlet, but I swore I'd write at least one story in the Year After-verse a month, so here I am squeaking in just before my self-imposed deadline. George, Verity, May or June 1998.
Tattered posters advertising U-No-Poo still fluttered from the front of the shop. One window had been smashed; it was a testimony to the fear that had kept even thieves out of Diagon Alley that most of the merchandise was still intact.
“Patented Daydream Charms, three dozen boxes,” said Verity.
George ticked them off on his inventory sheet. It occurred to him that he could say there were thirty-five instead of thirty-six; it was his stock, no one would care. He could take one home and indulge himself this evening with a long daydream about – about – Before.
He didn’t. One of Professor Dumbledore’s maxims had been it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live; he had told the twins that in their first year when he heard them spinning an elaborate fantasy about revenge on some of the older kids who had laughed at their hand-me-down clothes and shared supplies. Which was kind of funny, because he and Fred had kept dwelling on dreams, and the result was this shop, and it had worked out well enough. They’d dreamt up most of the items they sold, hadn’t they? But there were some things you couldn’t dream about without feeling dead miserable when you woke.
“Fever Fudge, twenty boxes.”
“Bin it. It’s stale; we’ll make some new.”
“You are going to re-open the shop, then?”
“Why’d you think we were here, Verity?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
Of course she wasn’t. George hadn’t talked about his plans. He had been used to running his ideas by Fred before he made a decision, or (perhaps more often) looking to Fred to make the decision for him. But somehow, a decision had been made. George wasn’t sure just when he had made it: perhaps when he unlocked the premises that had not been used in nearly a year and contemplated the dusty Skiving Snackboxes and the smashed Magic Fate Ball, which told you which of a hundred dire calamities you were going to suffer in a voice strikingly reminiscent of Sybill Trelawney’s. Perhaps it had been even earlier than that, at the funeral.
“Luminous Lingerie, three brassieres and eight pairs of pants, mixed sizes.”
“Check.”
“You’re – forgive me, but you’re going to need more help around the place, won’t you?”
“I thought maybe my brother Ron would fancy a job. Or Percy, he’s really improved since he resigned from the Ministry, and I reckon a joke shop would suit him down to the ground. Did I tell you he presented Auntie Muriel with a vase full of Farting Flowers the other day?”
Verity looked at him dubiously. “You are joking, aren’t you?” she said after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Were you joking about Ron, too?”
“No.”
“He’d be all right. I’ve only met him once, but he seemed ... nice.” Verity bit her lip, and George wondered if she was thinking the same thing he was. No one had ever described Fred as ‘nice,’ at least not until the funeral, when a lot of people had said a lot of things about a person George hardly recognized as his brother at all.
“Five hundred Belly-Dancing Beer Mats.”
“Check.”
“Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, three pounds nine ounces.”
“Check.” They’d stopped selling it after the first battle at Hogwarts, but they might as well start again.
“Oh! Here’s a cage of Pygmy Puffs, you must have forgotten them when you moved the live stock to your aunt’s.” Verity opened the cage and added, unnecessarily, “They’re dead.”
She started to cry. George moved the cage with its shriveled scraps of pink and purple fur out to the rubbish heap so that she wouldn’t have to look at them, but when he came back Verity was still crying. He decided that this wasn’t really about Pygmy Puffs. “Go home if you like. I’ll finish up without you.”
Verity shook her head. “I’ll stay. I’m all right, really.”
She plainly wasn’t, but George wasn’t either, so he didn’t say anything.
“Extendable Ears, two dozen.” Verity looked up at George. “Could you use one of those?”
George was struck with the idea. “I could. It would be better than the original because of being extendable, and I could make some other improvements...” He grabbed a sketch pad that had been sitting forgotten on a shelf, and began to make notes. “Of course, I’d want to shut it off if I had someone particularly annoying standing on that side of me, and it would be great if I could listen through walls without having to put a glass up to the wall... I know a spell that ought to work, if I can transfer it to the Extendable Ear without having to renew it every time...” It was the first thing he had invented since Fred, and it felt strange to think about that, but he pressed on. “And whenever someone played Celestina Warbeck, I bet I could charm the ear to replace it with the Weird Sisters...”
Verity interrupted this train of thought. “You know what they’re going to call you, right?”
“What?”
“‘Mad-Ear Weasley’.”
George laughed. “‘Mad-Ear Weasley.’ I like it.” He gulped, remembering Mad-Eye, and made himself laugh again.
“Fireworks, eight dozen, assorted.”
“We’re donating those to the Leaky Cauldron. For the celebrations.”
“Oh, are there going to be celebrations?” Verity asked. The second war had ended, not in showers of sparks and floods of mead like the stories George’s parents had told about the legendary Halloween of ‘81, but in quiet reflection and thanksgiving. And in many, many funerals.
“There will be now.”
