Toil And Trouble
Apr. 5th, 2006 11:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
foudebassanBirthday fic for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shiv5468
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: silliness, Mary-Sueism, invasive narrator, choked babies, people getting choked on babies, and – I know, I know, this might choke, er, shock some of the more sensitive readers – babies that are neither choked nor used to choke other people. And yes, that’s babieS, plural. Oh, and out-dated, ridiculous Regency moral values (made fun of, this goes without saying).
Disclaimer: the story is based on the interpretation a Big Name Author made of the HP novels by JKR; it is also based on the plot bunny said BNA generously provided. No money is made, not much harm is intended (except for those that did get choked on babies), and the involved disrespect is not meant to be nasty.
4600 words
Toil And Trouble
War was over – war is always over in my fics, at least for now, as I am not up to writing a final confrontation scene.
Yet toil and trouble had not vanished with the shredded remains of the last Evil Overlord. On the contrary, intrigue and passions had emerged from the battlefield like soft white mushrooms after heavy summer rain. Which is the point of the story, really, otherwise there would be little for me to tell.
Harry had accomplished his task to the very end – he had fallen on the ground a few feet from the Dark Lord, clutching his scar and thrashing around in pain, as he always did in close proximity to his nemesis.
Ron had not faltered from his traditional sidekick role. He had shielded the hero’s prone form with his own body, and still bore several very impressive curse scars in his back to bear witness for that selfless show of courage and loyalty to his friend. Unfortunately, said proof was, as mentioned, in his back, and therefore invisible to the world, except for his lovers, so he could hardly claim any privileges in consequence, which made the entire sacrifice a bit pointless, really, or “Gryffindor”, as his lover of the moment liked to point out affectionately.
Hermione, by way of consequence, had been the one to cast the last spell on Voldemort. No one knew exactly what it was, except that it somewhat managed to annihilate all six Horcruxi and their origin in one single impressive swish of her wand, leaving only a large black aura and a rather unpleasant smell in the air. Hermione herself kept a stubborn silence on the entire subject, refusing to reveal what curse she had invoked. Witches and wizards all around the world commonly believe that she merely channelled Harry’s powers to destroy their enemy; we, dear reader, know better. This is after all an openly feministic fic, so the hero just cannot be a boy. No, Hermione did it all on her own – imagine a powerful combination of academic research, raw magical power, and uncommon capacities of concentration, combined of course with a strong motivation to do her best, in order to show the world just how much a muggleborn witch would be worth. Hermione, as you very well know, is a very concentrated person, and killing Voldemort at the early age of twenty-one just happened to be a step further in her well-thought out career plan – but we shall go back on this later, as it basically is what the story is all about. I know, I know, I am not supposed to give out major plot points in advance, but I thought I would do you a favour just this once.
Defeating a mountain troll together had been the lighting spark of the trio’s friendship, back when they were eleven. Terminating a Dark Lord’s nefarious life together, ten years later, did no less in cementing their alliance. The three of them were committed to each other in a way that common mortals may not easily comprehend.
They were not in love with each other, see; on the contrary, they all had firm inclinations of amorous nature, and those tendencies tended to divert strongly from the rest of the trio. No, they merely felt a compulsion to care for, and to be taken care of, by the two others, and this, until death, or weddings, or some other event of a dreadful nature, parted what life had so obviously intended to remain together.
Bearing this in mind, they decided to share a flat.
This, you may well argue, could prove a very stupid move. Sharing living space often proves deadly to the budding attraction between two or more human beings – the most common consequences being the proliferation of divorce lawyers, and children - as if adding other members to the household would somehow help one to bear the original flatmate!
But you should, dearest reader, take into account the extraordinary character of this peculiar trio. One of them had defeated the Dark Lord, even if patriarchal historians have distorted which one of them exactly it was; and the two others did contribute to filling up a seizable portion of the books and movies, which does count for something. These are no ordinary people; they had saved the wizarding world, had strong personalities, and did not argue over who should do the dishes.
At this point, we should also add, for honesty’s sake, that they did not stay a lot within the flat, so co-habitation tensions were not that dire.
Hermione made a habit of spending all her waking hours in various libraries, ‘researching’ some question or other – both Ron and Harry had long ago renounced asking her what it was all about, as they did not even begin to understand the inevitably long answer that followed. It had something to do with hostile takeovers of the Goblin banking system, and ‘holding all wizards by the short and curly, you know, the financial system! The days of the twin breasts of the country are over, you know, have been over since the invisible hand swept over them!’ – at which point the boys were stuck at trying to figure what testicles, bosoms and invisible hands might have to do with each other, let alone on the same individual. They did presume, though, that it had something to do with her as of yet very mysterious career plans; and neither of them doubted, even for an instant, that said career plans would morph into the most terrifying career the wizarding world had ever seen. After all, Dark Lords succeeded to each other with little to no interruption, and the next Evil Overlord usually happened to be the very one who brought the last one down. On the other hand, they both knew that unbreakable friendship bound the three of them until the end of times; letting Hermione do her ‘research’ and take over the world shortly would guarantee them the place and rank of loyal right hands while they remained free to enjoy the most pleasant aspects of life in the meanwhile.
Harry therefore spent large portions of his time at the Burrow, ostensibly to talk to Arthur about the Muggle world, and not-so-ostensibly to enjoy Ginny’s company. The youngest Weasley was beautiful, and clever, and possessed a witty repartee that always made him feel like a fool. Fortunately for him, she seemed to appreciate having a fool close by to make her sound even smarter, and thus nothing seemed to oppose their budding romance. Of them we shall say no more, as they seem to have filled their role in our narrative; moreover, happy couples seldom provided enough matter to weave an interesting story, and theirs shall therefore have to remain in the cosy shadows of untold tales, blessed unions and other equally unlikely happenings.
*
* *
Ron, on the other hand, is to play quite a pivotal role in this story, and I do mean every single word of this statement. Pivotal, as in, could very well bend himself like a skilled contorsionist with a lover on his back, and thus procure to said lover quite an unforgettable experience. Especially as said lover also got to gaze at his impressive war scars, and impressive war scars have a way to make one’s catamite look manly and imposing even while he is… pivoting… over a couch arm and wriggling his bottom against one’s cock. Draco Malfoy, his lover of the moment, appreciated both the manly backside and the pivoting, and therefore indulged in not infrequent visits to the shared flat, to the point that neither Harry not Hermione dared to sit on the couch any more, for fear that even the strongest cleaning spell could not erase whatever contorsions it had witnessed in the recent past.
This was all well and fine, and I have half a feeling to continue the narration in this very vein, describing in great lengths the fornication that went on between the aforementioned couple. Blond hair can look nice in contrast with red hair, after all, otherwise there would not be this much Draco-Ginny fic in the fandom. But, alas, this story is meant for someone who does not enjoy slashy fic, even good vintage Snupin, so the beauty of two Quidditch-muscled, tanned, freckled, nicely shaped male bottoms pivoting in turn on the sofa arm would be lost on her. A shame indeed, I know, but if you feel the loss as keenly as I do, you are very welcome to write it yourself. Do send me the link when it’s completed.
One person did not share this splendid indifference regarding the love life of Draco Malfoy, though, and this person was taking steps to discover what exactly went on over, across and against that sofa arm.
This person you must have identified by now, or else I really should point at the heading of the fic, again – even a minimal dose of insight in the limited depth of the author’s personality should suffice to ascertain that Lucius Malfoy should not be long to appear.
Lucius, indeed, was beginning to wonder whom Draco was seeing (yes, the present fic has literary pretensions, so the phrase ‘who he was fucking’ has been thoroughly banned from the entire word file. The meaning, however, remains unchanged – but you must have arrived to this conclusion already).
You see, Lucius was not getting any younger, and he therefore wished to see his son established in life, possibly with a few children of his own, before he started to roam around the world on expensive cruises like wealthy people tend to do in their old age. This, at least, was the official explanation, the one Lucius liked to give to visitors.
The truth was that Lucius, unbeknown to the rest of the world, harboured deep parenting instincts. He wanted nothing more than to cuddle little babies, feed them and change their dirty nappies. Strange longings, I give you, bordering on the perverse, but he was and is not alone in this case – many otherwise sane individuals take to cooing over infant-filled cribs, regardless of the nuisance the little red-faced brats can be, and usually are. He had married young, in the hope of fathering a large family of his own – but Narcissa turned out to have very different opinions in this matter. She wanted the family to be successful in their enterprises, that is to say, in ruling the world. This entailed long hours of preparing coffee and making photocopies for the Dark Lord, and even longer hours of networking amidst Death Eater tea parties and dart contests, (1) and stubbornly refused to have more than one child, as it would just ‘get in the way’ and impair both their careers. Never was she to understand that Draco had not been enough to relieve Lucius’ longing for babies, babies and more babies.
Granted, the infant years of his one child had been a delight. Draco had been cared for like few babies are – which might have led to his being a tad overindulged, bordering on spoiled, a sad fact that Narcissa may be held responsible for – her concentrating on her career as a loyal minion had, after all, led to her not being at home much when she was needed, and Draco therefore could not feel the strong hand of maternal discipline, and paternal love and tenderness are not enough nowadays.
Anyway, his son was now twenty-one, his biological clock, while still in order, had begun to tick, and Lucius felt that it was his duty to make sure he was married off to someone respectable, and started a family.
‘Respectable’ was a vital part of the plan, though. You see, Pureblooded families respected traditions, and would have none of this ‘both parents at work and children left to childminding Elves’ nonsense. A child’s place is with his father until he or she is old enough to attend Hogwarts, as he possesses the necessary parental qualities of tenderness, protectiveness, and sensibility to care for the young offspring. In the meanwhile, Pureblood wives are left to the typically feminine duties of ruling the world, Wizengamoting, banking, lawyering, and other comparable tasks. Eccentric people like the Weasleys tried to subvert the ancient standards, as if age-old gender roles were meant to be changed, but they would never influence more respectable households like the Malfoys.
Lucius had, alas, not had a daughter to carry on his standing and rank at the Wizengamot like Narcissa had done in her time (and the latter, once again, is to blame – no witch worthy of this name would go on living with her husband without having presented him with a daughter). This role would therefore fall to the new Mrs. Malfoy, Draco’s future wife – and surely you are aware, dear reader, of the dangers inherent to leaving the Malfoy seat at the Wizengamot to anybody else than a Pureblooded witch. When Draco ceased seeing Pansy Parkinson, his father’s heart thus went through the throes of anxiety – would his son find another suitable witch?
And therefore – yes, dear reader, there is a point to this story – did Lucius prowl around the flat our Trio shared, eager for more information. Who lived there exactly? Was the witch – for not an instant did he suspect that his darling son was anything else than a future husband and father – suitable? Doubt installed itself in his heart, nagging him with incessant worries.
Worries that only increased when he did find out who inhabited the flat.
*
* *
As I mentioned earlier, Lucius did not even suspect that his son was not attracted to witches. After all, he was not immersed in fandom, and therefore had little reason to consider the possibility. No, he had understood why Draco would leave Pansy – pug-faced witches clad solely in pink are after all no good match a nice young man like the one he had produced – but he operated under the assumption that she would someday be replaced by an equally feminine individual. The question was merely whether said individual would prove worthy of such attentions.
Hence the despair when he learned that the only witch inhabiting the flat was none other than a Mudblood, and an infamous one at that.
The worst of all was that Narcissa, once duly informed, did not react – whereas seeing to the family interests, and defending her offspring, really was her duty, not his. She argued that Lucius himself had been responsible for the liberal upbringing their son had received, and that he alone should deal with the result.
Lucius therefore had little choice. He had to act, and had to act quickly. Discussing the matter with Draco was excluded, as youth and romance combined have quite a nasty effect on people’s reason. Speaking honestly with the witch was no better – she was bound to be a greedy little gold-digger, and who in their right mind would renounce shagging a Malfoy?
One single option was thus left. He had to discredit Hermione in Draco’s eyes, and to discredit her so entirely that any future dialogue between them would be highly unlikely.
Sleeping with her and arranging for Draco to discover them in the middle of the dirty deed should do the trick.
I know, I know, some of you are screaming OOCness by now. Lucius would not cheat on his wife, Lucius, as a dedicated father, would not hurt his son so. Please do consider, though, that Lucius was faced with a terrible alternative, the worst alternative indeed that may befall a Pureblood father – his son and only heir marrying under his condition.
Regardless of his own marriage, regardless of the feelings involved, he therefore put his plan in action.
Visits to beauty parlours were required to make the shadow of maturity fade away from his features; some underlings were dispatched to observer Miss Granger’s comings and goings; last but not least, large orders of chocolate were sent to a famous wizarding factory.
And, a few short days after the terrible realisation, Lucius was ready for the operation.
*
* *
He approached her at the library she buried herself in most days; feigned surprise at the recognition; inquired politely after her health; and happened to notice that she was perusing a Dark Arts volume – something about imposing one’s will without using Imperio and all it’s nasty after-effects. Manners only indicated that he should suggest she visit his private library, which contained several books on this very field.
If you were thinking, dear reader, that Hermione Granger did not understand the interest Lucius showed her, you are deeply mistaken. No, not only had Hermione noticed what was going on; she had decided that it would be interesting to play along, and see what would be coming.
She therefore agreed, and arrived to the Manor the day after, hand on her wand and eyes watchful.
So watchful that she could not fail to notice the erotica strewn all around the pile of Dark Art tomes her host had disposed for her use.
The penny dropped – Draco pivoting on Ron on a regular basis, her living with Ron, Lucius’ sudden courteousness. He intended to be seduced by her, and to be witnessed by his son, hence the arousing erotica nearby – hence his heady perfume. Well, he couldn’t have known that she had emulated Mithridates, and that lust potions had no effect on her any more…
Hermione thought about the situation for a little while.
She could of course make great fun of Lucius, pretending to be seduced at the beginning and then stop everything suddenly when Draco arrived. She might even turn the situation to her advantage, and somehow use it to persuade the younger Malfoy to buy a new couch for their living-room, and never, ever to pivot on that one.
On the other hand,… Lucius could prove an ally in more ways than one. She wanted to take the place the Dark Lord had left vacant; who would be in a better position to give her a few tips than Voldemort’s former right hand man, apart of course from Voldemort’s right hand woman ? But approaching Bellatrix was impossible, as she had died in Azkhaban a few years before. So Lucius was after all in the best position to tell her all about which London pub was best to host Dark Revels (2), and which robe-maker consented to make the largest hems, so as to leave more space for kissing. Overtaking the world, you understand, is not complicated for a capable witch; she had after all the necessary brains and competences; yet arranging her minions according to a relevant colour-schemes, managing large Death Eater parties, and other tasks that required high interpersonal skills, were better left to a wizard’s tender touch – I am sure, dear reader, that you agree with this evidence.
Securing Lucius’ help therefore seemed… pivotal… to the march of wizarding history. Hermione, dear reader, was and is not one to back away from big sacrifices; and so she decided to offer to the cause the greatest sacrifice a witch can make.
She feigned to read the first Dark Arts book, and took out a bit of parchment, under the guise of taking notes; she then wrote a short note to Narcissa, summoned a House-Elf, and discreetly ordered it to take the note to its recipient.
After that, everything went without a glitch. Lucius neared her, she smelled that perfume again, and acted as if she reacted to it; kissed him, seized his hips, and firmly led him to a very convenient nearby couch. By the time Narcissa arrived into the room, as the note had asked her to do, Hermione was riding Lucius with an enthusiasm that could hardly have been faked.
And, by the time Draco arrived, as his father had asked him to, Narcissa had repudiated her wayward husband, like wizarding law fully entitled her to (wizarding law also gave her the right to kill him if she caught him in the act, as was the case; but Narcissa had decided to show mercy, as she didn’t want to be bothered with the paperwork involved when assassinating one’s spouse). Hermione, with a wicked smile, had then proposed to Lucius, so as to salvage the thin shreds of honour he might have left; and poor, desolated Lucius, caught in a turmoil of emotions, and post-coital to boot, had accepted.
And so they married, had plenty and plenty of children, and lived for ever after – Hermione had discovered how to make a Philosopher’s Stone in between being elected Minister for Magic and becoming the Evil Mistress of the world - and Lucius was kept busy and happy by the care of their numerous children, grand-children, great-grand-children, great-great-grand-children, and so forth (since they have eternal life, enumerating how many offspring they ended up with would be too tedious, even for a crap!fic author like myself).
The pair was indeed well-matched; if you doubt this, please refer to fics byastarvingwriter. Both ruthless, both striving for more power; and Hermione was more than happy to provide her husband with such power in exchange for regular meals, a tidy home, and daily sexual services.
Oh, and Harry married Ginny; they are said to be happy together, but I didn’t go there myself to make sure, because honestly, I don’t care much either way. On the other hand, Ron bought a new couch of his very own, and may be heard to this day groaning in passion over its velvet-covered arm.
As for Narcissa… She had been humiliated to see her husband commit himself to a Mudblood, and even more to see said Mudblood conquer the world. Such was not the Way Things Should Be, she decided. She therefore founded the resistance to Minister Granger’s hegemony, and went right into history books as the founder of the Order of the Basilisk. Her relationship with a Severus Snape remains unclear; whereas the latter’s attachment to the Order of the Basilisk is not to be discounted, the Potions Master also was to his dying day a fervent minion of Granger. This might be explained by the fact that both Hermione and Lucius derived great entertainment from observing the resistance’s feeble attempts to restore a free world; when Narcissa finally succumbed to a lethal accident involving Acromantulas and the Draught of the Living Dead, she was indeed mourned a lot more in Wiltshire than in the rest of Britain.
Have I covered the doings and happenings of all the main and minor characters, now? Well, I believe so. It is therefore time, dear reader, to reach
The End.
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“Where are the choked babies?” would you ask at this very moment, dear reader, were you not prevented from doing so by the sad fact that I am right now all alone, facing my computer, that you are not even aware of the very existence of the story, and therefore that you have not even read it yet.
Well, I am sorely tempted to plead literary liberty (which would translate into “sod off” in colloquial English, if I were to renounce all hope of qualifying as an Author Who Makes Use Of Good Grammar) and confess that the heading was only there to appeal to your curiosity and entice you to read further. But I would be loath to disappoint your honest confidence in my humble self, and shall therefore strive to obtain your satisfaction.
Sooo… one day, Lucius was changing the nappy of his eighty-fifth great-grand child. The infant had been fed ground spinach, and a stale odour emanated from the entire crib, which did not render the task any more pleasant.
At the very same moment, great-grand-child number sixty-nine, a sturdy three-year-old, started to demand his afternoon snack.
I cannot give coherent explanations for what happened after; thinking of what might have prevented it is therefore useless. Maybe, if great-grand-child nimber eighty-five had not been given this spinach the day before… Or if great-grand-child number sixty-nine’s usual afternoon snack hadn’t been boiled spinach… Or if Hermione insisted on Lucius’ finishing his plated of roasted spinach with Bechamelle sauce the night before… Well, maybe it would not have happened.
But, alas, this is not the case. It did happen, and Lucius’ nerves were in no shape to resist the combined assault of all this spinach put together. His mind snapped. He took great-grand-child number eighty-five in his right hand and the gaping great-grand-child number sixty nine in his left hand, and mercilessly stuffed the former into the latter’s mouth, before yelling to the House-Elves to come look after the ‘rotten little spinach-eating buggers’, to quote his own words, as I would never dare use such vocabulary into a fic with Literary Pretensions.
History does not reveal whether the House-Elves managed to disengage the baby from the child’s mouth. It may however be supposed that neither of them ever ate spinach ever again – such is the unfortunate consequence of most early childhood traumas.
Lucius, on the other hand, was indeed fed up with nursery work. He had come to the conclusions that no wizard should ever be expected to care after his great-grand-children – children and grand-children are after all quite enough. He therefore went back to more traditional male duties, cleaning after Hermione, carrying her slippers to her after a hard day’s work, and remaining leashed and erect for her to have her wicked way with him when the impulse took her. He had never been happier, and Hermione has yet to complain about having a blonde pet follow her almost everywhere.
On the contrary, she always seems ecstatic to those visitors who have caught a glimpse of her in the large Oval Office at the Ministry, where the huge desk masks the conspicuous absence of her leashed and tamed husband of many years.
Oh, and this time, it is indeed
THE END
Aaaaaand, the inevitable author’s notes:
(1) Yes, this is a subtly disguised plea for you to write that Dark Revel when Smudger injured a Muggle captive with darts.
(2) This, dear reader, is proof that Hermione is no Mary-Sue. Had she been one, she would have known everything, including which pub give free peanuts to Death Eater parties. Doesn’t it feel good to know something she doesn’t?
“Toil And Trouble” is of course from Macbeth. It has in fact little to do with the story itself, but I just wanted to use that title sometime, somewhere, so this seemed a good opportunity.
“The twin breasts” refers to a phrase by Sully (“agriculture et élevage sont les deux mamelles de la France”), which is wildly outdated in view of modern economic theory.
“The invisible hand” is a metaphor by Adam Smith to characterise the way an economy market comes to an equilibrium without outside intervention.
Mithridates was an ancient king who cultivated paranoia. He suspected his family of wanting to poison him, and therefore ingested very small quantities of various poisons, slowly increasing the dosing, so that none of them even affected him any more. (Unfortunately for him, he ended up being conquered by the Romans, and had no choice left but to commit suicide, something rendered a bit more difficult by his not reacting to poison any more…).
Being allowed to kill one’s adulterous wife if surprised in the act is no joke, it used to be the case in France (a wife, on the other hand, was allowed to ask for divorce only if her husband slept with his mistress in the conjugal bed). Purebloods are of course much more civilised than Muggles, so the roles are inversed.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEARshiv5468!
Now, an addition to any one of your WIPs would be a very suitable reward for the exertions of your loyal minions, would it not, Ô Great One?
shiv5468Rating: PG-13
Warnings: silliness, Mary-Sueism, invasive narrator, choked babies, people getting choked on babies, and – I know, I know, this might choke, er, shock some of the more sensitive readers – babies that are neither choked nor used to choke other people. And yes, that’s babieS, plural. Oh, and out-dated, ridiculous Regency moral values (made fun of, this goes without saying).
Disclaimer: the story is based on the interpretation a Big Name Author made of the HP novels by JKR; it is also based on the plot bunny said BNA generously provided. No money is made, not much harm is intended (except for those that did get choked on babies), and the involved disrespect is not meant to be nasty.
4600 words
War was over – war is always over in my fics, at least for now, as I am not up to writing a final confrontation scene.
Yet toil and trouble had not vanished with the shredded remains of the last Evil Overlord. On the contrary, intrigue and passions had emerged from the battlefield like soft white mushrooms after heavy summer rain. Which is the point of the story, really, otherwise there would be little for me to tell.
Harry had accomplished his task to the very end – he had fallen on the ground a few feet from the Dark Lord, clutching his scar and thrashing around in pain, as he always did in close proximity to his nemesis.
Ron had not faltered from his traditional sidekick role. He had shielded the hero’s prone form with his own body, and still bore several very impressive curse scars in his back to bear witness for that selfless show of courage and loyalty to his friend. Unfortunately, said proof was, as mentioned, in his back, and therefore invisible to the world, except for his lovers, so he could hardly claim any privileges in consequence, which made the entire sacrifice a bit pointless, really, or “Gryffindor”, as his lover of the moment liked to point out affectionately.
Hermione, by way of consequence, had been the one to cast the last spell on Voldemort. No one knew exactly what it was, except that it somewhat managed to annihilate all six Horcruxi and their origin in one single impressive swish of her wand, leaving only a large black aura and a rather unpleasant smell in the air. Hermione herself kept a stubborn silence on the entire subject, refusing to reveal what curse she had invoked. Witches and wizards all around the world commonly believe that she merely channelled Harry’s powers to destroy their enemy; we, dear reader, know better. This is after all an openly feministic fic, so the hero just cannot be a boy. No, Hermione did it all on her own – imagine a powerful combination of academic research, raw magical power, and uncommon capacities of concentration, combined of course with a strong motivation to do her best, in order to show the world just how much a muggleborn witch would be worth. Hermione, as you very well know, is a very concentrated person, and killing Voldemort at the early age of twenty-one just happened to be a step further in her well-thought out career plan – but we shall go back on this later, as it basically is what the story is all about. I know, I know, I am not supposed to give out major plot points in advance, but I thought I would do you a favour just this once.
Defeating a mountain troll together had been the lighting spark of the trio’s friendship, back when they were eleven. Terminating a Dark Lord’s nefarious life together, ten years later, did no less in cementing their alliance. The three of them were committed to each other in a way that common mortals may not easily comprehend.
They were not in love with each other, see; on the contrary, they all had firm inclinations of amorous nature, and those tendencies tended to divert strongly from the rest of the trio. No, they merely felt a compulsion to care for, and to be taken care of, by the two others, and this, until death, or weddings, or some other event of a dreadful nature, parted what life had so obviously intended to remain together.
Bearing this in mind, they decided to share a flat.
This, you may well argue, could prove a very stupid move. Sharing living space often proves deadly to the budding attraction between two or more human beings – the most common consequences being the proliferation of divorce lawyers, and children - as if adding other members to the household would somehow help one to bear the original flatmate!
But you should, dearest reader, take into account the extraordinary character of this peculiar trio. One of them had defeated the Dark Lord, even if patriarchal historians have distorted which one of them exactly it was; and the two others did contribute to filling up a seizable portion of the books and movies, which does count for something. These are no ordinary people; they had saved the wizarding world, had strong personalities, and did not argue over who should do the dishes.
At this point, we should also add, for honesty’s sake, that they did not stay a lot within the flat, so co-habitation tensions were not that dire.
Hermione made a habit of spending all her waking hours in various libraries, ‘researching’ some question or other – both Ron and Harry had long ago renounced asking her what it was all about, as they did not even begin to understand the inevitably long answer that followed. It had something to do with hostile takeovers of the Goblin banking system, and ‘holding all wizards by the short and curly, you know, the financial system! The days of the twin breasts of the country are over, you know, have been over since the invisible hand swept over them!’ – at which point the boys were stuck at trying to figure what testicles, bosoms and invisible hands might have to do with each other, let alone on the same individual. They did presume, though, that it had something to do with her as of yet very mysterious career plans; and neither of them doubted, even for an instant, that said career plans would morph into the most terrifying career the wizarding world had ever seen. After all, Dark Lords succeeded to each other with little to no interruption, and the next Evil Overlord usually happened to be the very one who brought the last one down. On the other hand, they both knew that unbreakable friendship bound the three of them until the end of times; letting Hermione do her ‘research’ and take over the world shortly would guarantee them the place and rank of loyal right hands while they remained free to enjoy the most pleasant aspects of life in the meanwhile.
Harry therefore spent large portions of his time at the Burrow, ostensibly to talk to Arthur about the Muggle world, and not-so-ostensibly to enjoy Ginny’s company. The youngest Weasley was beautiful, and clever, and possessed a witty repartee that always made him feel like a fool. Fortunately for him, she seemed to appreciate having a fool close by to make her sound even smarter, and thus nothing seemed to oppose their budding romance. Of them we shall say no more, as they seem to have filled their role in our narrative; moreover, happy couples seldom provided enough matter to weave an interesting story, and theirs shall therefore have to remain in the cosy shadows of untold tales, blessed unions and other equally unlikely happenings.
* *
Ron, on the other hand, is to play quite a pivotal role in this story, and I do mean every single word of this statement. Pivotal, as in, could very well bend himself like a skilled contorsionist with a lover on his back, and thus procure to said lover quite an unforgettable experience. Especially as said lover also got to gaze at his impressive war scars, and impressive war scars have a way to make one’s catamite look manly and imposing even while he is… pivoting… over a couch arm and wriggling his bottom against one’s cock. Draco Malfoy, his lover of the moment, appreciated both the manly backside and the pivoting, and therefore indulged in not infrequent visits to the shared flat, to the point that neither Harry not Hermione dared to sit on the couch any more, for fear that even the strongest cleaning spell could not erase whatever contorsions it had witnessed in the recent past.
This was all well and fine, and I have half a feeling to continue the narration in this very vein, describing in great lengths the fornication that went on between the aforementioned couple. Blond hair can look nice in contrast with red hair, after all, otherwise there would not be this much Draco-Ginny fic in the fandom. But, alas, this story is meant for someone who does not enjoy slashy fic, even good vintage Snupin, so the beauty of two Quidditch-muscled, tanned, freckled, nicely shaped male bottoms pivoting in turn on the sofa arm would be lost on her. A shame indeed, I know, but if you feel the loss as keenly as I do, you are very welcome to write it yourself. Do send me the link when it’s completed.
One person did not share this splendid indifference regarding the love life of Draco Malfoy, though, and this person was taking steps to discover what exactly went on over, across and against that sofa arm.
This person you must have identified by now, or else I really should point at the heading of the fic, again – even a minimal dose of insight in the limited depth of the author’s personality should suffice to ascertain that Lucius Malfoy should not be long to appear.
Lucius, indeed, was beginning to wonder whom Draco was seeing (yes, the present fic has literary pretensions, so the phrase ‘who he was fucking’ has been thoroughly banned from the entire word file. The meaning, however, remains unchanged – but you must have arrived to this conclusion already).
You see, Lucius was not getting any younger, and he therefore wished to see his son established in life, possibly with a few children of his own, before he started to roam around the world on expensive cruises like wealthy people tend to do in their old age. This, at least, was the official explanation, the one Lucius liked to give to visitors.
The truth was that Lucius, unbeknown to the rest of the world, harboured deep parenting instincts. He wanted nothing more than to cuddle little babies, feed them and change their dirty nappies. Strange longings, I give you, bordering on the perverse, but he was and is not alone in this case – many otherwise sane individuals take to cooing over infant-filled cribs, regardless of the nuisance the little red-faced brats can be, and usually are. He had married young, in the hope of fathering a large family of his own – but Narcissa turned out to have very different opinions in this matter. She wanted the family to be successful in their enterprises, that is to say, in ruling the world. This entailed long hours of preparing coffee and making photocopies for the Dark Lord, and even longer hours of networking amidst Death Eater tea parties and dart contests, (1) and stubbornly refused to have more than one child, as it would just ‘get in the way’ and impair both their careers. Never was she to understand that Draco had not been enough to relieve Lucius’ longing for babies, babies and more babies.
Granted, the infant years of his one child had been a delight. Draco had been cared for like few babies are – which might have led to his being a tad overindulged, bordering on spoiled, a sad fact that Narcissa may be held responsible for – her concentrating on her career as a loyal minion had, after all, led to her not being at home much when she was needed, and Draco therefore could not feel the strong hand of maternal discipline, and paternal love and tenderness are not enough nowadays.
Anyway, his son was now twenty-one, his biological clock, while still in order, had begun to tick, and Lucius felt that it was his duty to make sure he was married off to someone respectable, and started a family.
‘Respectable’ was a vital part of the plan, though. You see, Pureblooded families respected traditions, and would have none of this ‘both parents at work and children left to childminding Elves’ nonsense. A child’s place is with his father until he or she is old enough to attend Hogwarts, as he possesses the necessary parental qualities of tenderness, protectiveness, and sensibility to care for the young offspring. In the meanwhile, Pureblood wives are left to the typically feminine duties of ruling the world, Wizengamoting, banking, lawyering, and other comparable tasks. Eccentric people like the Weasleys tried to subvert the ancient standards, as if age-old gender roles were meant to be changed, but they would never influence more respectable households like the Malfoys.
Lucius had, alas, not had a daughter to carry on his standing and rank at the Wizengamot like Narcissa had done in her time (and the latter, once again, is to blame – no witch worthy of this name would go on living with her husband without having presented him with a daughter). This role would therefore fall to the new Mrs. Malfoy, Draco’s future wife – and surely you are aware, dear reader, of the dangers inherent to leaving the Malfoy seat at the Wizengamot to anybody else than a Pureblooded witch. When Draco ceased seeing Pansy Parkinson, his father’s heart thus went through the throes of anxiety – would his son find another suitable witch?
And therefore – yes, dear reader, there is a point to this story – did Lucius prowl around the flat our Trio shared, eager for more information. Who lived there exactly? Was the witch – for not an instant did he suspect that his darling son was anything else than a future husband and father – suitable? Doubt installed itself in his heart, nagging him with incessant worries.
Worries that only increased when he did find out who inhabited the flat.
* *
As I mentioned earlier, Lucius did not even suspect that his son was not attracted to witches. After all, he was not immersed in fandom, and therefore had little reason to consider the possibility. No, he had understood why Draco would leave Pansy – pug-faced witches clad solely in pink are after all no good match a nice young man like the one he had produced – but he operated under the assumption that she would someday be replaced by an equally feminine individual. The question was merely whether said individual would prove worthy of such attentions.
Hence the despair when he learned that the only witch inhabiting the flat was none other than a Mudblood, and an infamous one at that.
The worst of all was that Narcissa, once duly informed, did not react – whereas seeing to the family interests, and defending her offspring, really was her duty, not his. She argued that Lucius himself had been responsible for the liberal upbringing their son had received, and that he alone should deal with the result.
Lucius therefore had little choice. He had to act, and had to act quickly. Discussing the matter with Draco was excluded, as youth and romance combined have quite a nasty effect on people’s reason. Speaking honestly with the witch was no better – she was bound to be a greedy little gold-digger, and who in their right mind would renounce shagging a Malfoy?
One single option was thus left. He had to discredit Hermione in Draco’s eyes, and to discredit her so entirely that any future dialogue between them would be highly unlikely.
Sleeping with her and arranging for Draco to discover them in the middle of the dirty deed should do the trick.
I know, I know, some of you are screaming OOCness by now. Lucius would not cheat on his wife, Lucius, as a dedicated father, would not hurt his son so. Please do consider, though, that Lucius was faced with a terrible alternative, the worst alternative indeed that may befall a Pureblood father – his son and only heir marrying under his condition.
Regardless of his own marriage, regardless of the feelings involved, he therefore put his plan in action.
Visits to beauty parlours were required to make the shadow of maturity fade away from his features; some underlings were dispatched to observer Miss Granger’s comings and goings; last but not least, large orders of chocolate were sent to a famous wizarding factory.
And, a few short days after the terrible realisation, Lucius was ready for the operation.
* *
He approached her at the library she buried herself in most days; feigned surprise at the recognition; inquired politely after her health; and happened to notice that she was perusing a Dark Arts volume – something about imposing one’s will without using Imperio and all it’s nasty after-effects. Manners only indicated that he should suggest she visit his private library, which contained several books on this very field.
If you were thinking, dear reader, that Hermione Granger did not understand the interest Lucius showed her, you are deeply mistaken. No, not only had Hermione noticed what was going on; she had decided that it would be interesting to play along, and see what would be coming.
She therefore agreed, and arrived to the Manor the day after, hand on her wand and eyes watchful.
So watchful that she could not fail to notice the erotica strewn all around the pile of Dark Art tomes her host had disposed for her use.
The penny dropped – Draco pivoting on Ron on a regular basis, her living with Ron, Lucius’ sudden courteousness. He intended to be seduced by her, and to be witnessed by his son, hence the arousing erotica nearby – hence his heady perfume. Well, he couldn’t have known that she had emulated Mithridates, and that lust potions had no effect on her any more…
Hermione thought about the situation for a little while.
She could of course make great fun of Lucius, pretending to be seduced at the beginning and then stop everything suddenly when Draco arrived. She might even turn the situation to her advantage, and somehow use it to persuade the younger Malfoy to buy a new couch for their living-room, and never, ever to pivot on that one.
On the other hand,… Lucius could prove an ally in more ways than one. She wanted to take the place the Dark Lord had left vacant; who would be in a better position to give her a few tips than Voldemort’s former right hand man, apart of course from Voldemort’s right hand woman ? But approaching Bellatrix was impossible, as she had died in Azkhaban a few years before. So Lucius was after all in the best position to tell her all about which London pub was best to host Dark Revels (2), and which robe-maker consented to make the largest hems, so as to leave more space for kissing. Overtaking the world, you understand, is not complicated for a capable witch; she had after all the necessary brains and competences; yet arranging her minions according to a relevant colour-schemes, managing large Death Eater parties, and other tasks that required high interpersonal skills, were better left to a wizard’s tender touch – I am sure, dear reader, that you agree with this evidence.
Securing Lucius’ help therefore seemed… pivotal… to the march of wizarding history. Hermione, dear reader, was and is not one to back away from big sacrifices; and so she decided to offer to the cause the greatest sacrifice a witch can make.
She feigned to read the first Dark Arts book, and took out a bit of parchment, under the guise of taking notes; she then wrote a short note to Narcissa, summoned a House-Elf, and discreetly ordered it to take the note to its recipient.
After that, everything went without a glitch. Lucius neared her, she smelled that perfume again, and acted as if she reacted to it; kissed him, seized his hips, and firmly led him to a very convenient nearby couch. By the time Narcissa arrived into the room, as the note had asked her to do, Hermione was riding Lucius with an enthusiasm that could hardly have been faked.
And, by the time Draco arrived, as his father had asked him to, Narcissa had repudiated her wayward husband, like wizarding law fully entitled her to (wizarding law also gave her the right to kill him if she caught him in the act, as was the case; but Narcissa had decided to show mercy, as she didn’t want to be bothered with the paperwork involved when assassinating one’s spouse). Hermione, with a wicked smile, had then proposed to Lucius, so as to salvage the thin shreds of honour he might have left; and poor, desolated Lucius, caught in a turmoil of emotions, and post-coital to boot, had accepted.
And so they married, had plenty and plenty of children, and lived for ever after – Hermione had discovered how to make a Philosopher’s Stone in between being elected Minister for Magic and becoming the Evil Mistress of the world - and Lucius was kept busy and happy by the care of their numerous children, grand-children, great-grand-children, great-great-grand-children, and so forth (since they have eternal life, enumerating how many offspring they ended up with would be too tedious, even for a crap!fic author like myself).
The pair was indeed well-matched; if you doubt this, please refer to fics by
astarvingwriter. Both ruthless, both striving for more power; and Hermione was more than happy to provide her husband with such power in exchange for regular meals, a tidy home, and daily sexual services. Oh, and Harry married Ginny; they are said to be happy together, but I didn’t go there myself to make sure, because honestly, I don’t care much either way. On the other hand, Ron bought a new couch of his very own, and may be heard to this day groaning in passion over its velvet-covered arm.
As for Narcissa… She had been humiliated to see her husband commit himself to a Mudblood, and even more to see said Mudblood conquer the world. Such was not the Way Things Should Be, she decided. She therefore founded the resistance to Minister Granger’s hegemony, and went right into history books as the founder of the Order of the Basilisk. Her relationship with a Severus Snape remains unclear; whereas the latter’s attachment to the Order of the Basilisk is not to be discounted, the Potions Master also was to his dying day a fervent minion of Granger. This might be explained by the fact that both Hermione and Lucius derived great entertainment from observing the resistance’s feeble attempts to restore a free world; when Narcissa finally succumbed to a lethal accident involving Acromantulas and the Draught of the Living Dead, she was indeed mourned a lot more in Wiltshire than in the rest of Britain.
Have I covered the doings and happenings of all the main and minor characters, now? Well, I believe so. It is therefore time, dear reader, to reach
The End.
* *
“Where are the choked babies?” would you ask at this very moment, dear reader, were you not prevented from doing so by the sad fact that I am right now all alone, facing my computer, that you are not even aware of the very existence of the story, and therefore that you have not even read it yet.
Well, I am sorely tempted to plead literary liberty (which would translate into “sod off” in colloquial English, if I were to renounce all hope of qualifying as an Author Who Makes Use Of Good Grammar) and confess that the heading was only there to appeal to your curiosity and entice you to read further. But I would be loath to disappoint your honest confidence in my humble self, and shall therefore strive to obtain your satisfaction.
Sooo… one day, Lucius was changing the nappy of his eighty-fifth great-grand child. The infant had been fed ground spinach, and a stale odour emanated from the entire crib, which did not render the task any more pleasant.
At the very same moment, great-grand-child number sixty-nine, a sturdy three-year-old, started to demand his afternoon snack.
I cannot give coherent explanations for what happened after; thinking of what might have prevented it is therefore useless. Maybe, if great-grand-child nimber eighty-five had not been given this spinach the day before… Or if great-grand-child number sixty-nine’s usual afternoon snack hadn’t been boiled spinach… Or if Hermione insisted on Lucius’ finishing his plated of roasted spinach with Bechamelle sauce the night before… Well, maybe it would not have happened.
But, alas, this is not the case. It did happen, and Lucius’ nerves were in no shape to resist the combined assault of all this spinach put together. His mind snapped. He took great-grand-child number eighty-five in his right hand and the gaping great-grand-child number sixty nine in his left hand, and mercilessly stuffed the former into the latter’s mouth, before yelling to the House-Elves to come look after the ‘rotten little spinach-eating buggers’, to quote his own words, as I would never dare use such vocabulary into a fic with Literary Pretensions.
History does not reveal whether the House-Elves managed to disengage the baby from the child’s mouth. It may however be supposed that neither of them ever ate spinach ever again – such is the unfortunate consequence of most early childhood traumas.
Lucius, on the other hand, was indeed fed up with nursery work. He had come to the conclusions that no wizard should ever be expected to care after his great-grand-children – children and grand-children are after all quite enough. He therefore went back to more traditional male duties, cleaning after Hermione, carrying her slippers to her after a hard day’s work, and remaining leashed and erect for her to have her wicked way with him when the impulse took her. He had never been happier, and Hermione has yet to complain about having a blonde pet follow her almost everywhere.
On the contrary, she always seems ecstatic to those visitors who have caught a glimpse of her in the large Oval Office at the Ministry, where the huge desk masks the conspicuous absence of her leashed and tamed husband of many years.
Oh, and this time, it is indeed
Aaaaaand, the inevitable author’s notes:
(1) Yes, this is a subtly disguised plea for you to write that Dark Revel when Smudger injured a Muggle captive with darts.
(2) This, dear reader, is proof that Hermione is no Mary-Sue. Had she been one, she would have known everything, including which pub give free peanuts to Death Eater parties. Doesn’t it feel good to know something she doesn’t?
“Toil And Trouble” is of course from Macbeth. It has in fact little to do with the story itself, but I just wanted to use that title sometime, somewhere, so this seemed a good opportunity.
“The twin breasts” refers to a phrase by Sully (“agriculture et élevage sont les deux mamelles de la France”), which is wildly outdated in view of modern economic theory.
“The invisible hand” is a metaphor by Adam Smith to characterise the way an economy market comes to an equilibrium without outside intervention.
Mithridates was an ancient king who cultivated paranoia. He suspected his family of wanting to poison him, and therefore ingested very small quantities of various poisons, slowly increasing the dosing, so that none of them even affected him any more. (Unfortunately for him, he ended up being conquered by the Romans, and had no choice left but to commit suicide, something rendered a bit more difficult by his not reacting to poison any more…).
Being allowed to kill one’s adulterous wife if surprised in the act is no joke, it used to be the case in France (a wife, on the other hand, was allowed to ask for divorce only if her husband slept with his mistress in the conjugal bed). Purebloods are of course much more civilised than Muggles, so the roles are inversed.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR
shiv5468!
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no subject
Date: 2006-07-08 07:25 pm (UTC)je sens que cette fic est hilarante mais j'ai une flegme monstre de me remettre à la lecture en anglais, donc est-ce que tu en as fait une version française quelque part? merci :)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 11:22 am (UTC)Allons, essaye de te mettre à l'anglais... Les fics de
no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 11:30 am (UTC)non bon d'accord je comprend (sauf que t'as fini de dévaloriser ton super travail oui?) mais j'en ai tellement "mangé" de l'anglais pendant deux ans, à la fac et sur le net, que j'ai une terrible envie de français maintenant.
Il y a pas mal de bons auteurs, contrairement à ce que beaucoup de gens (énervaaaaaants),qui vouent un culte démesuré et hautain aux auteurs anglais (c'est pas vraiment ça que je critique, c'est le fait que ces gens dénigrent les fics françaises, et sont eux-même incapables de la moindre originalité) pensent. Mais je crois que dans les HG/SS j'ai fait le tour. Après faudrait que je me mette à d'autres pairing, et je pense que les fics sur Lucius peuvent être un bon départ :D
no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 11:35 am (UTC)Et je dois avouer que je préfère voir des fautes d'anglais que de français, ça me choque moins. Donc, à qualité égale, je préfère les fics anglophones...
no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 11:40 am (UTC)Je remarque très peu les fautes en anglais, malheureusement certainement, donc de ce point de vue là je dois aussi préférer les fics anglaises ;) C'est bizarre j'ai l'impression de ne pas ressentir la même chose quand je lis dans l'une ou l'autre langue.
Il y a plus de style et d'ordre en anglais, mais plus d'émotion et de légèreté en français. ça dépend peut-être aussi du choix des fics... mmh-mmh...