Title: Damn Tornados
Author: Mad Maudlin
Email: mekamorphat yahoo dot com
Category: Adventure, romance, sports drama
Keywords: Ron Weasley, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, slash, Quidditch, Cannons, Damn Yankees, musical
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Through OotP
Summary: Misery loves company; good thing that Ron is miserable, then.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
In other words, they're not mine; talk to the nice Scottish lady.
Act Two, Scene Three: Two Lost Souls
Ron stood before St. Paul's, staring without seeing at the ponderous lines of its towers and dome. The last evening service had ended hours ago, and he was alone with his thoughts and the statue of Queen Anne. Her granite gaze went somewhere off to the left; he couldn't really blame her, himself. He wouldn't want to look at him, either. He wasn't sure how late it was, or how long he'd been out; it was rather difficult to care. He had reached a point where he felt nothing but empty and numb, and after the events of the day empty and numb was a wonderful place to be.
He heard the footsteps on the pavement behind him long before anyone spoke. "I've been looking for you," Parkinson said softly.
"Couldn't you just ask Malfoy to speak me up?" Ron asked. He twisted the manila envelope in his hands, creasing the paper, and watched the car headlights cast weird shadows on the edifice of the cathedral.
Pansy put her hand on his shoulder; it felt light, insubstantial, and Ron wished she'd take it away. "I've got nothing to do with Malfoy anymore."
"Course not," he growled. "You did your job, didn't you?
She stepped back, heels clicking. "If you honestly think I had anything to do with151;"
"No...no. I'm sorry." He sighed, and turned to look at her. She was dressed like a normal person for once, a leather jacket over a printed blouse and tan slacks. It suited her better than the provocative robes he was used to seeing her in. "I know you didn't...this is all my fault."
She sighed, and rubbed his arm. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't help, but I am anyway."
"Thanks." He looked back at Queen Anne, but her scowl remained the same.
Pansy stood next to him and regarded the cathedral front151;rather calmly, he though, for a demon. "This isn't exactly on your way home, is it?" she asked after a moment.
"I haven't been home for months."
"You know what I mean."
"I do." He paused, considering different lines of attack. "I went to St. Clement's, after the press conference."
"You mean after you tried to kill Malfoy."
"He's already dead anyway, it's not like I actually hurt anything." He flexed his bruised knuckles, trying not to remember the satisfying jolt of his fist slamming into Malfoy's jaw. Empty and numb. "I went to St. Clement's151;I had to buy a little map from a bookshop, but I found it, and I stood outside for an hour and a quarter. And then I decided, I'd just visit all the churches that rhyme about the oranges, just to see them all. But I couldn't remember the whole thing, so I ended up here."
"What rhyme about oranges?"
"It's a Muggle rhyme151;or maybe it's lemons151;something about citrus fruit and chuchbells that owe each other money. My sister brought Dean Thomas round for dinner one night and my dad made him say it about a hundred times over..." Something squeezed in his chest at the memory, a hollow place that he was sure he'd never be able to fill again.
Pansy took his hand and squeezed it; he should've shaken her off, but he didn't really mind the comfort, even if it was from a demon. "Why don't you go in?"
He bowed his head. "I'm scared."
"Scared of what?" Pansy asked. "Bursting into flames as you cross the threshold? It's not that bad."
"How bad is it?" he asked.
She shrugged, and regarded Queen Anne. "Not at all, really. At least, not physically." He waited for her to stay more, but she didn't.
They stood before St. Paul's for several minutes, in silence, before Pansy tugged on his sleeve. "Come on."
"Where are you going?"
"Just a place. To relax. It's nothing to do with Malfoy."
"You want me to relax."
She rolled her eyes. "Well, you can't stand outside some bloody cathedral all night, that's morbid. A little alcohol will clear your mind."
Something didn't sound right about that statement, but Ron dismissed it. He wanted to forget for a while, to stay empty and numb, and one distraction was as good as another. "What do you propose we do?"
Pansy smirked, and flung out her arms. "Would you like to take me out dancing tonight, Meester Ron?" she asked in her Lola Banana accent.
He blinked at her, backlight by headlights and signs. "Why not go mad?" he asked, and tucked the envelope under his arm.
Pansy didn't ask about it until they'd negotiated their way into the Tube station. She breezed through the till without paying, and nobody seemed to notice Ron clambering over a barrier to follow her. On a car occupied only by two veiled-swaddled Indian women and a snoring hobo, she plucked at the envelope's corner. "What's this?"
"Oh. My future." He fumbled with the catch. "Malfoy gave it to me."
"Before or after you punched him?"
"Doesn't much matter, does it?" He pulled out the glossy black and white photographs, a bit more creased and crumpled than they had been that afternoon. "He explained the scam is, with the Cannons losing and all. He says he's got the rest of my life arranged already as 'compensation.'"
"Really. I'd like to see that." She took them from Ron and flipped through them rapidly. "Let's see. Ron Hardy, Butterbeer Spokeswizard151;Barney the Bat will be disappointed. Ron Hardy, signing autographs. Ron Hardy, in the south of France...in New York...on a beach. Nice tan. Ron Hardy playing for England, Ron Hardy with the League Cup151;aren't those the Tornados' robes?"
"They are." He couldn't bear to look at the photos a second time, to see the face he was stuck in grinning and waving the trophy, in enemy uniform. "He says he's got the contract inked already."
"And he considers that compensation?"
"You haven't got to the girl yet."
"What girl151;? Oh. Oh, my."
"That girl."
"She's going to put out her back doing that."
"Malfoy says I'm going to marry her."
"Oh." Pansy quickly gave the photographs back.
Ron stuffed them back in the envelope, tearing a corner in the process. "It's not that bad, is it?" he asked, forcing joviality. "I ought to be ecstatic, really. I get fame and I get money and I get all sorts of shiny objects and a wife with tits bigger than her head151;"
"Shhh." She covered his mouth with one slim hand and nodded at the two women, who were watching them with alarm.
Ron exhaled. "Sorry."
"I don't know why they gave Malfoy a job that requires him to deal with real human beings," Pansy said harshly. "Maybe if he'd ever actually been one..."
Ron let that slide, and didn't speak for the rest of the trip. Pansy seemed remarkably knowledgeable about Muggle transit, and led him back to the surface at an unfamiliar station. He followed her a few blocks in silence until she stopped before a set of stairs that lead to the basement of a building. The neon sign that sputtered over the door said LIMBO.
"Try to look artistically jaded," Pansy suggested, and lead him down the cracked cement steps She took his hand; it felt strange, and Ron wasn't sure whether to pull away or squeeze.
The bouncer of the club151;who looked awfully troll-like for a Muggle in Ron's opinion151;looked them both over critically before allowing them inside. Ron let Pansy pull him into the crowd, let her pull him in close and guide him through the moves. He let his hands settle on her waist and let the throbbing beat of the music wash his mind absolutely clear. She was a warm, friendly body and the steps required just enough concentration to occupy him; it wasn't as good as forgetting, but close enough, and it didn't require him to feel. He let his head drop down, until his face was pressed into her hair. She smelled like wildflowers...
They danced long enough to work up a sweat, then Pansy waved him off the floor to a moodily-lit table away from the worst of the noise. The chairs were upholstered in hideous blue vinyl and the tabletop was scuffed and stained, but a waitress in an indecently short skirt brought by drinks without them actually having to order. "The perks of being a demon?" he asked when the girl was out of earshot.
"One of few," Pansy said.
Ron examined the deep red liquor in the glass. "What is this, exactly?"
"Expensive." She lifted her glass in a toast. "To damnation."
"To damnation," Ron said, and sipped. "I don't suppose the drinks are on the house?"
She shook her head. "On Malfoy's expense account. He let me have his company credit card."
"To Malfoy, then," Ron said, and toasted her again.
"May he get exactly what he deserves."
Either there was something about a this drink that he wasn't sophisticated enough to appreciate or its primary appeal was the price; either way, it was certainly not the best way of getting drunk he'd ever encountered. "I can still get drunk, can't I?"
"Of course," Pansy snorted. "You're still alive, Ron, you're just...owned."
"What about you?"
She sipped her drink delicately. "If I want to. It's mostly psychological151;with what passes for my metabolism, it would take a Hell of a lot of alcohol to even get me tipsy."
"How appropriate."
He twirled the swizzle stick in his drink and watched the deep red liquor swirl. Pansy watched him intently. "What were you really doing at that church, Ron?" she asked.
"I don't know." Twirl, swirl, whirl; the liquid climbed the sides of the glass, a whirlpool in his hand. "Maybe I was trying to get the balls to ask for forgiveness."
"It's worth a shot," she said mildly.
Ron looked up sharply. "I beg your pardon?"
"I said it's worth a shot." She sipped her drink again. "Though you've got a lot to forgive, what with selling your soul and all."
Ron let go of the swizzle stick and watched it spin on is own, dragged along by the maelstrom in the glass. "Are you saying151;"
"It's not a loophole," she said, "so don't get your hopes up."
"I didn't," Ron snapped, and downed most of his drink in a shot.
When he'd stopped coughing, Pansy placed her hand over his and left it there. "It's not a loophole," she repeated. "It's more like...like a catch twenty-two."
"A what?"
"It's a catch." She drummed her nails on the tabletop. "He forgives, Ron. He'll forgive anything, no matter how big or how long ago, any time and anywhere. All you have to do is ask151;humbly, sincerely, and with a penitent heart. Which is a bit hard to do when you're still enjoying the perks of the crime, and in your case it's not like Malfoy's going to let you stop playing Quidditch and become a hermit."
"But...you..." He swallowed hard; despite having dealt with a demon on a regular basis for six months, he felt himself to be on shaky and treacherous ground. "If you can151;if you just have to ask151;why151;?"
"151;am I still a class-B succubus?"
"Yeah."
Pansy's eyes focused on something over Ron's shoulder, and her face went smooth and blank. "Pride," she said softly. "The original sin. Getting down and asking151;begging151;no matter how much you regret it or how miserable you are151;" She shook her head and looked back at her drink. "The only way to get a camel through the eye of a needle is to cut it into very small pieces. I'm not that desperate yet...and in Hell, at least, I have some limited upward mobility."
He stared at her, at her beautiful body, and wondered if he ought to be disgusted or feeling sorry for her. "Is that why you joined You-Know-Who?" he asked. "Pride?"
She shook her head. "I was never a Death Eater. That was all Draco's doing, the sneak attack and the...other things."
"But you151;"
"151;helped him?" She smirked crookedly. "That was ambition, Weasley, the charter of our House. My family wasn't nearly as influential as his, but his parents approved of me. My future depended on his surviving long enough for me to marry him and make a claim on the Malfoy fortune."
"But you died instead."
"I was trying to get escape the castle when it all went to shit," she said dully. "Dying wasn't part of the plan."
Ron shook his head. "I'm not nearly drunk enough for this."
"Easily fixed." Pansy signaled the waitress with one elegant finger. "It's not like we're even paying for it."
"Not for this, anyway."
The second round of drinks arrived, more expensive red things, and this time the toast was silent. Halfway to the bottom, he had a thought. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Defrauding the underworld to get me drunk."
"You looked like you needed the drink and I had the credit card."
"No," he said, and sucked down most of the rest of the glass. "I mean...why do you care if I'm suffering? I thought demons like that."
"Most do." For all the self-assured swagger she'd been presenting before, Pansy now seemed very skittish. Or maybe it was the way the rest of the room was weaving back and forth. "I think you need another drink."
"I think I do." She flagged down the waitress; another glass appeared in front of him. "If most demons do like it, why don't you?"
She sighed and steepled her fingers. "I'm not a very good demon."
"What happened to upward mobility?"
He sipped his fresh drink while she shredded a damp napkin. "I'm a very bad demon, in fact," she announced.
"I would think that's a plus."
"Not like that." She sighed. "It's hard to explain, Ron."
"Harder than original sin?"
"In a way."
He sipped his drink and leaned forward in the chair, feeling oddly disconnected from his movements. "Try me."
She sighed and leaned forward herself, looking him straight in the eye. "Demons are supposed to enjoy the suffering of mortals. Our whole job ultimately boils down to trying to bring as many souls to eternal damnation as we can. It's a bit difficult to sympathize with someone at the same time as you're working to ensure they'll spend eternity in excruciating agony."
"Naturally," Ron said, with a wobbly nod.
"I'm a professional succubus," Pansy said. "My job is sex, and I'm not supposed to get involved with the higher brain functions. I'm certainly not supposed to actually like the guy I'm screwing. But I think...I think I rather like you."
"You do?"
She smiled weakly and looked away. "I told you before, you make me feel human again. You make me feel alive, which is quite the accomplishment considering how thoroughly I got myself killed."
He had the impression that this conversation was going somewhere he didn't necessarily want to follow. "Glad I could be of service," he mumbled.
Pansy squeezed his hand151;the hand she'd been holding practically all night151;and brought her other hand up to his shoulder. "I'm normally a pretty good demon," she said softly, "but you are an exception. And I lately I've been thinking...I think, maybe, if I had someone to share it with...damnation might not be so bad."
And then her eyes slipped shut, and she was getting closer, and closer, and her perfume smelling like wildflowers and her face was smooth and her lips were full and red151;red like cherries151;red like the drinks151;her hand was warm in Ron's and she was there, available, instant oblivion. She was willing, no, eager, and he, what did he have left to lose...?
He suddenly thought of Harry in the café, looking at him with wounded eyes. He pressed a hand against her shoulder, stopping her short. "No," he said softly. "I can't."
Pansy opened her eyes and leaned back. She didn't look angry, to Ron's surprise; more like disappointed, and somehow profoundly sad. "I understand," she said softly, looking away.
"I don't think you do."
"Think what you like."
Ron finished his drink in silence, but instead of ordering him another Pansy took him by the arm. "Come on. You've got a game in the morning, the last thing you need is to play with a hangover."
"We're going to lose anyway," he grumbled. "Malfoy said so."
"Come on anyway."
Pansy lead him out of the club and into the cool, breezy street beyond. They walked about a block in the direction of the Tube station, but then she guided him down a blind alley. Then she reached inside his jacket and pulled out the manila envelope full of pictures. "Remember this?"
"Yeah."
"Can you see it?"
"I'm not blind, Parkinson151;"
The envelope burst into flames in her hand. She dropped it, and they both watched it burn down to ash and black curls on the cracked cement. "There's what I think of Malfoy's plans," Pansy said softly, after a beat.
Ron looked at her. "You were the one telling me not to get my hopes up earlier."
"I lied." She stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek, in a friendly sort of way. "Good luck tomorrow, Weasley."
"It's Hardy now."
"Ron, then." She squeezed his hand and took three steps into shadow, and called out before she Disapparated, "I have a feeling it'll be a game to remember."