MOST WANTED (PG) BY IAMSHADOW
Title: Most Wanted
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen
Word Count: 1,067
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Neville quickly works out something funny is going on.
A/N: Written for Neville month on helmet_fest2008 for the prompt: Neville's grandmother finds he is a finalist for the most eligible wizard.
Coming in late with this one, I'm afraid, but better late than never! This is set in my Aftermath 'verse.
If he hadn’t been so caught up mentally plotting out a plan of attack for the third greenhouse - the one they’d deliberately left until last because of a particularly bad tempered Tentacula and a massive infestation of Piranha Thistles - he probably would have noticed the unusual mood at the breakfast table the moment he entered the room. As it was, he had drunk half his tea in one mouthful (scalding his tongue) and was drizzling honey on his toast with an absent minded air before he realized something was different.
Draco’s morning greeting had been cheerful. Almost… friendly.
Neville glanced across the table at him, and was met with a sunny smile. Not a sneer or a smirk, an actual smile.
That was when he knew the Apocalypse was nigh. Either that, or something had happened to make Draco very happy, which probably meant trouble for someone else.
Only then did he look down the table towards his Gran, who was efficiently sorting a large stack of letters into three neat piles.
Probably just to do with the Witches’ Institute, he told himself, and took a bite of his cooling toast. His Gran was very active in the local group, though from the way she dictated over the committee, you could be forgiven for thinking her its leader rather than simply a member, albeit a well-connected one.
Daisy entered the room her arms full of yet more letters, which were held in place with her long, pointed nose. “More Owls for the Master,” she said, her high-pitched voice slightly muffled by the parchment.
“For me?” he gaped. He hardly ever got mail, save the odd letter from one of his friends from the DA, and the Seeds and Shoots periodical.
“Just put them here, Daisy,” his Gran said, without looking up. She discarded the letter she was reading with obvious disdain, placing it on top of one of the piles.
The House Elf obeyed his Gran, though she shot him a very apologetic look as she did so, and shuffled guiltily from the room. He’d have to find her later and reassure her.
“I have letters?” he asked again.
“Yes, dear,” his Gran said, placing a letter on a pile with a slight smile, and opening another. She neatly hexed it when it began to sing, and added it very quickly to what was apparently the ‘reject’ pile.
He knew better than to ask for them outright, but he did it anyway, and was unsurprised when his Gran feigned deafness. In truth, her hearing was as sharp as ever, but it was a very efficient tactic against most opponents, and Neville knew he’d never be so bold as to call her bluff. Instead, he turned to Draco, who was watching Neville with clear amusement.
“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked, knowing he would probably regret it.
Draco affected a melancholy expression, which was ruined somewhat by that smile, which kept creeping back. “Some kind of temporary mass hallucination afflicting British witches. Terribly tragic.”
“It isn’t just witches,” his Gran said absently, opening another letter and fending off a shower of confetti.
“Here.” Draco tossed the morning’s Prophet across the table, nearly upsetting Neville’s teacup. “Page three.”
The headline was nothing special - War Hero Tops Witch Weekly’s ‘Most Eligible Wizard’ List. It was the photograph accompanying it which gave him pause.
“This is a mistake. It has to be,” he said, a little desperately. “I’m not a... a... ‘mysterious heart-throb’. Or a ‘dreamy dish’.” He felt faintly ill.
“It pains me to say this, but I agree with you entirely,” Draco said, tutting in what Neville assumed was disgust at Weekly, Wizarding society, or humanity in general.
A glare from his Gran silenced Draco quickly, and he turned his attention back to pouring himself another cup of tea. Draco even refilled Neville’s cup, without even asking.
“A gentleman would have refilled the lady’s cup before any others,” his Gran commented. Draco flushed and moved to pour her a cup so hastily he nearly slopped tea on the tablecloth.
Neville managed somehow not to laugh. Draco’s obvious healthy fear of his Gran was amusing, but it was always tempered in his mind with an ounce of sympathy. He certainly didn’t cross his Gran if he could help it, and it hadn’t escaped him that his Gran seemed to delight in keeping Draco on his toes. She wasn’t vindictive; she just seemed to have worked out Draco needed a firm hand, and surprisingly, for the most part, Draco didn’t appear to mind.
He pulled himself together a little. “So, they’re all...”
“People who wish to court you,” his Gran said.
Draco bit his lip very hard, as if he were holding in laughter.
“Then, shouldn’t I be the one...” he attempted.
“Oh, no,” his Gran said, disapprovingly. “Some of these people are highly unsuitable.”
“I’d sort of like to choose for myself,” he said, surprising himself with his boldness.
His Gran furrowed her brow into a frown. “Of course you may choose for yourself! But you should have some sensible advice from someone older than you, rather than just running off with the first girl who flatters you, regardless of compatibility.”
“Right,” he said, his feeling of helplessness deflating a little.
“I have some calls to make today,” his Gran said, rising from the table, her hands filled with parchment. “I shall present you with the letters and a list of those I consider appropriate at dinner this evening,” she told him.
“Thank you,” he said, feeling a strange mix of exasperation and relief.
Across the table, Draco was openly snickering.
“Ignore him, Neville,” his Gran said on her way out. “He may have composed a lovely letter, full of flattery, but he won’t be on my list.”
Neville burst out laughing when Draco’s face stained dark pink, and he began to stammer incoherent protests. Draco’s embarrassment turned to impotent fury.
He drained his teacup and stood, snagging a few more slices of toast to eat on the move.
“Coming, then?” he said to his employee. “Those thistles aren’t going to pull themselves.”
He could hear Draco grumbling mutinously behind him the whole way outside, but fame and irritation were soon relegated to irrelevancy against the very real prospect of being devoured. It wasn’t long before they were united in battle against the angry swarm of weeds.
<- A History of Violence ~@~
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Gen
Word Count: 1,067
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Neville quickly works out something funny is going on.
A/N: Written for Neville month on helmet_fest2008 for the prompt: Neville's grandmother finds he is a finalist for the most eligible wizard.
Coming in late with this one, I'm afraid, but better late than never! This is set in my Aftermath 'verse.
If he hadn’t been so caught up mentally plotting out a plan of attack for the third greenhouse - the one they’d deliberately left until last because of a particularly bad tempered Tentacula and a massive infestation of Piranha Thistles - he probably would have noticed the unusual mood at the breakfast table the moment he entered the room. As it was, he had drunk half his tea in one mouthful (scalding his tongue) and was drizzling honey on his toast with an absent minded air before he realized something was different.
Draco’s morning greeting had been cheerful. Almost… friendly.
Neville glanced across the table at him, and was met with a sunny smile. Not a sneer or a smirk, an actual smile.
That was when he knew the Apocalypse was nigh. Either that, or something had happened to make Draco very happy, which probably meant trouble for someone else.
Only then did he look down the table towards his Gran, who was efficiently sorting a large stack of letters into three neat piles.
Probably just to do with the Witches’ Institute, he told himself, and took a bite of his cooling toast. His Gran was very active in the local group, though from the way she dictated over the committee, you could be forgiven for thinking her its leader rather than simply a member, albeit a well-connected one.
Daisy entered the room her arms full of yet more letters, which were held in place with her long, pointed nose. “More Owls for the Master,” she said, her high-pitched voice slightly muffled by the parchment.
“For me?” he gaped. He hardly ever got mail, save the odd letter from one of his friends from the DA, and the Seeds and Shoots periodical.
“Just put them here, Daisy,” his Gran said, without looking up. She discarded the letter she was reading with obvious disdain, placing it on top of one of the piles.
The House Elf obeyed his Gran, though she shot him a very apologetic look as she did so, and shuffled guiltily from the room. He’d have to find her later and reassure her.
“I have letters?” he asked again.
“Yes, dear,” his Gran said, placing a letter on a pile with a slight smile, and opening another. She neatly hexed it when it began to sing, and added it very quickly to what was apparently the ‘reject’ pile.
He knew better than to ask for them outright, but he did it anyway, and was unsurprised when his Gran feigned deafness. In truth, her hearing was as sharp as ever, but it was a very efficient tactic against most opponents, and Neville knew he’d never be so bold as to call her bluff. Instead, he turned to Draco, who was watching Neville with clear amusement.
“Do you know what’s going on?” he asked, knowing he would probably regret it.
Draco affected a melancholy expression, which was ruined somewhat by that smile, which kept creeping back. “Some kind of temporary mass hallucination afflicting British witches. Terribly tragic.”
“It isn’t just witches,” his Gran said absently, opening another letter and fending off a shower of confetti.
“Here.” Draco tossed the morning’s Prophet across the table, nearly upsetting Neville’s teacup. “Page three.”
The headline was nothing special - War Hero Tops Witch Weekly’s ‘Most Eligible Wizard’ List. It was the photograph accompanying it which gave him pause.
“This is a mistake. It has to be,” he said, a little desperately. “I’m not a... a... ‘mysterious heart-throb’. Or a ‘dreamy dish’.” He felt faintly ill.
“It pains me to say this, but I agree with you entirely,” Draco said, tutting in what Neville assumed was disgust at Weekly, Wizarding society, or humanity in general.
A glare from his Gran silenced Draco quickly, and he turned his attention back to pouring himself another cup of tea. Draco even refilled Neville’s cup, without even asking.
“A gentleman would have refilled the lady’s cup before any others,” his Gran commented. Draco flushed and moved to pour her a cup so hastily he nearly slopped tea on the tablecloth.
Neville managed somehow not to laugh. Draco’s obvious healthy fear of his Gran was amusing, but it was always tempered in his mind with an ounce of sympathy. He certainly didn’t cross his Gran if he could help it, and it hadn’t escaped him that his Gran seemed to delight in keeping Draco on his toes. She wasn’t vindictive; she just seemed to have worked out Draco needed a firm hand, and surprisingly, for the most part, Draco didn’t appear to mind.
He pulled himself together a little. “So, they’re all...”
“People who wish to court you,” his Gran said.
Draco bit his lip very hard, as if he were holding in laughter.
“Then, shouldn’t I be the one...” he attempted.
“Oh, no,” his Gran said, disapprovingly. “Some of these people are highly unsuitable.”
“I’d sort of like to choose for myself,” he said, surprising himself with his boldness.
His Gran furrowed her brow into a frown. “Of course you may choose for yourself! But you should have some sensible advice from someone older than you, rather than just running off with the first girl who flatters you, regardless of compatibility.”
“Right,” he said, his feeling of helplessness deflating a little.
“I have some calls to make today,” his Gran said, rising from the table, her hands filled with parchment. “I shall present you with the letters and a list of those I consider appropriate at dinner this evening,” she told him.
“Thank you,” he said, feeling a strange mix of exasperation and relief.
Across the table, Draco was openly snickering.
“Ignore him, Neville,” his Gran said on her way out. “He may have composed a lovely letter, full of flattery, but he won’t be on my list.”
Neville burst out laughing when Draco’s face stained dark pink, and he began to stammer incoherent protests. Draco’s embarrassment turned to impotent fury.
He drained his teacup and stood, snagging a few more slices of toast to eat on the move.
“Coming, then?” he said to his employee. “Those thistles aren’t going to pull themselves.”
He could hear Draco grumbling mutinously behind him the whole way outside, but fame and irritation were soon relegated to irrelevancy against the very real prospect of being devoured. It wasn’t long before they were united in battle against the angry swarm of weeds.
<- A History of Violence ~@~