CONSUMED OMG

Apr 25, 2005 22:36


Kids, don't write chapters in pieces.  They end up looking like this.

If you haven't seen the rest of this, and you're just joining me, Consumed is Ron/Pansy and allll in the memories.  :)



Divide and conquer.  It wasn’t their usual modus operandi, certainly-in fact, one could almost say the Weasley twins lived by the proviso “United we stand, divided we fall.”  But in very special cases-and they knew they had a very special case on their hands-they would do whatever it took.

And in this case, it took a little division.

They flipped coins over who would get which assignment, not because one was less desirable than the other, but because both were simply delicious.

Fred called heads on the Galleon and ended up Apparating to his little brother’s tent, and George ended up strolling through the front doors of Malfoy, Ltd., looking a bit too mischievous to pass as nothing more than the boss’s brother-in-law.

He passed said brother-in-law’s door and headed straight for the legal department.

He watched her from the doorway for a moment, the way she dominated the office, the way she was dressed, dear Merlin, and he was torn between sheer amazement and a sarcastic remark.  Who knew a single dance could lead his brother into all that?  All what, exactly, he didn’t know.  That was what he was there to find out.

“Alone at last,” he said, a grin already fixed on his face when she looked up, her blue eyes wide and startled.  He fought the urge to shake his head.  Ron and this tiger?  It was a wonder he was still alive.

For the barest of moments, she’d both heard and seen Ron-ginger hair and Weasley voice-but the hair was too long, the voice too sarcastic.  She just had Ron on her mind, was all, and had since the previous night.  A professional Quidditch player one moment, and the next, all of it thrown out in some foolish idea of nobility.

She had been wrong to think she had understood him, and more wrong still to think she had already exhausted everything worth knowing about him.

Being wrong worried her.

And because she was worried-and suspicious, as well, who wouldn’t be suspicious of a Weasley twin standing in their midst?-she fell easily into flirtation, an intentionally crooked grin flashing dimples in her cheeks.  “Well, hello, handsome,” she said, setting down her quill.  “To what do I owe the-”  A pause for a practiced gaze, a sweep of her eyes from head to toe-“Immense pleasure?”

He stood under her measuring stare, completely and unquestionably comfortable.  “Pleasure’s all mine,” he said easily.  He’d have enjoyed a little harmless fun with her, if it truly would have been harmless, and if he hadn’t been so certain she belonged to someone else.

“So,” he said, helping himself to a chair and propping one ankle on the other knee, “May as well get down to business.”

She merely raised an eyebrow as though to imply she knew what sort of business he would get up to.  This man and his twin were too much like her, Pansy assessed.  She rather enjoyed it.

George looked her straight in the eye and spoke with deceptive casualness.  “How long have you been… associated with my brother?”

Pansy’s hands stilled their movement on her blotter, her fingers suddenly cold.  Had he told them, the bloody traitor?  Or had she done something?  Not that it mattered; she wouldn’t even have to lie to answer his question.  She wasn’t associated with Ron at all now.  She’d severed those ties not once, but twice and both times had done it in such a way that he’d never be able-or want-to dispute it.

She resisted the urge to press the heel of her hand to her breastbone.

“I’m more than flattered at the notion any one of the strapping and studly Weasley men would bother associating with me, sugar-”

“George,” he said helpfully, spotting her ignorance of his identity.

She raised an eyebrow, not about to show her relief at knowing her adversary by name.  “Regardless, flattering or no, I’m afraid your assumption is mistaken.”

George leaned forward, fingers peaked together.  “Are you trying to fool me?” he asked, brows drawn down as though he were actually trying to peer into her mind to discern that very thing.  He laughed finally and shook his head, truly awed.  “Can’t trick a trickster, love.  My brother and I have made our living out of that, after all.”

Her eyes cooled just a fraction.  So he wanted a showdown, she thought, he could have one.  She scooted her chair back and crossed her legs, letting the slate-colored skirt work its way up her thighs.  She wasn’t ashamed to use any dirty tricks she had.  “I’m a solicitor, darling, don’t you think I’ve done much the same?”

“All the more reason to think you’re not being honest with me.”  He wasn’t going to waver.  He’d seem the absorption on her face as she’d looked at Ron’s pictures, the way her hand had moved to touch his photograph.  He’d both seen and heard the shocked indignation in her voice when she’d heard of Ron’s sacrifice for Harry.

Pansy took her time formulating an answer, wanting to be very careful, not just for her own sake, but for the man whom they were discussing, as well.  How hellish would his life be if they found out about Ron’s… indiscretions?  “I’ll play devil’s advocate-”

“Does that make me the devil?” he retorted, sounding rather hopeful.

“And a wickedly handsome one,” Pansy finished, but she rather thought he could be the devil.  He was good- he and his brother were both good.  Frighteningly so.  “If I were to have wielded my wiles against any of your brethren, my love, which was it you thought I’d set my sights on?”

George smothered his laughter; she was so obviously constructing things it was nearly pathetic.  She may have been an excellent actress, but she was a piss-poor liar when it truly mattered.  “Charlie,” he said casually.

And she started.  Not much, but it was there.  Her brows drew together, her mouth firmed.  She was, he thought, confused.

“Don’t I wish,” she finally purred, but it was too late.  She’d seen the triumph in his eyes-Merlin and Morgana if the cunning bastard wasn’t enough like her to be able to identify just what he was thinking and when.  Bastard.

“If you were to have wielded your wiles against any of my brethren, Pansy, which was it you thought I’d suspect?”

The thought came, unbidden, of Ron captured on film, proud of his Quidditch kit, proud of the CC on his chest, and her breath caught in a sigh.  “Isn’t each as outlandish at the next?  I mean, let’s be serious, my love, I’d say your twin, but something tells me the two of you share everything.”

“You can’t stop, can you?” George asked.  “What in the bloody hell are you so afraid of, Parkinson?  He’s a bit of a prat, sure, but nothing to turn that pointed nose up at.”  She was acting antsy, like Mrs. Norris used to every time she caught a glimpse of the twins in the halls.  Though she’d had good reason to be antsy, George reckoned.  He couldn’t imagine a single thing Ron would have done to warrant that reaction, though.

“I’m afraid you’re taking up time, Mr. Weasley, not to mention being a fool,” Pansy said, her voice suddenly brisk.  She couldn’t do this, not to herself and not to Ron.  They’d made promises, of sorts.  He’d voiced it, and she’d agreed.

No one finds out about this.

Of course not.

“That’s probably true,” George said agreeably, though he wanted to reach across the desk and shake her.  Ron might have been an idiot, but he was a Weasley, and you didn’t just toss a Weasley aside.  “I’ll leave you, then.”  He stood, thrust his hands into his pockets, and inclined his head in farewell.

Pansy sagged back in her seat, glowering at him, and she couldn’t keep from sneering as he looked up at her through those rose gold lashes.  “Oh!” he said, eyes widening.  “What’s this?”

He withdrew his hand from his pocket, made a casual flicking gesture with his hands, like a man trying to shoo away a pixie, and turned before she saw the snapshot sliding across her desk.

She didn’t see George Weasley leave, because she couldn’t help it, couldn’t take her eyes off the Weasley in front of her, the photograph of Ron in Quidditch kit, looking up at her as though he knew enough to keep him happy for life.

“Damn it,” Pansy said, putting her hand over the picture.

She lacked the courage to tear it apart.

~~~

He was trying to have a bit of tea to wind down at the end of the day.

The pop that sounded through the small portable flat, however, had him jumping to his feet and sloshing hot tea over his hands.  “Buggering fuck!” Ron exclaimed, tea dripping from his hands and onto his pants as he stared at his older brother.  “Brilliant!” he said exasperatedly, setting the cup down and shaking the tea-it would get sticky soon, damn it-off his hands.

“Tsk, tsk,” Fred said, leaning back on his elbows and testing the softness of Ron’s bed, atop which he’d Apparated.  “Mum would cut your tongue out for that sort of language.”

“Have you ever tried knocking?” Ron asked.  “I could have been…”  He blanched and shoved a hand through his hair, forgetting the drying tea on his palms.

“Could have been what?” Fred asked, looking at his baby brother with interest.  “Certainly not shagging someone, because we’d know if you were shagging someone, wouldn’t we?”

Unless, Fred thought gleefully, that someone happened to be an ex-Slytherin princess who liked witches as well as wizards.  He really and truly hoped his and George’s hunches were spot on.  It was simply too delicious not to want to root for.

Ron snatched a dirty tee-shirt from his floor and wiped his hands on it, narrowing his eyes at his brother.  “Knock next time,” he said, his patience worn thin.  He was sick of this place, to be perfectly frank.  He was sick of Hermione and Harry occasionally popping in, he was sick of being away from home, and he was sick of having Pansy fucking Parkinson on his brain all the bloody time.  If she’d stayed gone, he’d have been a hell of a lot better off.  In fact, if she’d stayed gone, he might have ended up with Evgenia back in his tent for some pleasant, non-threatening, completely vanilla shagging.

And he’d have been bored out of his mind.

“We missed you at supper yesterday evening,” Fred said.  “You look like you could use a home-cooked meal and a kick in the arse.”

“I’m busy,” Ron said, jerking a shoulder.  It wasn’t entirely a lie; he’d done a lot of business at the gathering, had sold plenty of equipment, made a lot of connections.  He’d sold brooms to witches and wizards he’d once wanted to fly with, had sold gauntlets and boots to those he’d practiced with and against.  He’d made plenty of money off of people doing what he’d wanted to do.  What wasn’t there to love?

But he did feel guilty for not going.  Ginny had owled and asked him, and he’d certainly been as nice as he could about saying no, but he still hadn’t told her the truth.  How was he supposed to do that?  Dear Gin, Thanks for the invite, but can’t come home.  Have shagged Pansy and am very confused.  Give Mum my love.  He thought not.

“Was everything all right?” he asked, softening a bit and looking at Fred curiously.  “Gin wasn’t angry, was she?”

“Nah.”  Fred leaned over and clapped a hand on Ron’s knee, an evil glint in his eye.  “In fact, she and the Slyth-in-law brought a guest.”

Ron was not as studied a liar as Pansy, nor was he anywhere near the twins’ caliber.  Of them all, the twins had stolen the lions’ shares of cunning in the family.  His curiosity was evident on his face.  “Oh, really?”

“The beautiful and bawdy Pansy Parkinson,” Fred said as though relaying a secret.  “She’s fit, isn’t she?”

Ron was very glad he’d put down his tea.

“She’s all right,” he said, his voice a bit flat.  “How’s Gin?”

“Pregnant,” Fred said.  “But Parkinson and Mum went head-to-head, you should have seen them.  She’s a firecracker, really something else.”

Ron’s head was swimming.  “Wait.  What?  Ginny’s pregnant?  Pansy fought with Mum?”

Pansy.  Fred latched onto the first name familiarity in less than a heartbeat.  “Oh-ho, Pansy, is it?”

“That’s her bloody name!” Ron said, impatient with his brother.  “What on earth were she and Mum rowing about?”  He thought over his question.  “And Ginny’s pregnant?!” he repeated.

“Yes, pregnant.  Women get pregnant every day.  Focus.  You’re on a first-name basis with Parkinson?”  Fred was all but jumping up and down inside his skin.  Ron was bloody well hooked, completely buggered over.  Fred only wished he’d been able to see it from the very beginning.

Ron felt it might not be out of the question to curl up in a ball and die as to avoid the bizarre turn of questioning.  “That’s her name, isn’t it?” he asked, feeling all of seven years old.

“How long have you been on a first name basis with the saucy solicitor, brother?  I am impressed!”  Fred was in high spirits, and a high-spirited twin was a relentless one.

“Can you leave?  I need to get back to the booth.”  Ron stood and walked past his brother, knowing full well the request would warrant no agreement.  He couldn’t sit and talk about her any more as though she were just some object, and he certainly wouldn’t talk to anyone about it.  She’d likely throttle him with that tie she’d taken such a shine to.

“I’d love to go for a walk,” Fred said.  “Thanks for asking.”  He hopped up to stand by the door.  When Ron merely glared at him, Fred finally relented a bit, sobered up.  “Never thought any woman would show enough stupidity to allow me to say this, but she actually cares about you.”  He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe it.  “And she’s bloody well fit, Ron.  Really.”

“I know,” Ron replied through clenched teeth.

He didn’t bother saying which part he was agreeing to.  He wasn’t altogether certain himself.

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