WARNING: This be mildly slashy! Hit the BACK button if ya can't cope.
PAIRING: Seamus/Draco (cripes, it's a rare one!)
RATING: PG (Oh my Gawd no!)
DISTRIBUTION: Any archives "Yes!" Others please ask, I'll say yes but I'd like the URL.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, JK's. If they WERE mine they'd have more fun::sniff::
SPOILERS: NOPE, too senseless
FEEDBACK: Sending feedback will make the Muses toast to you before downing their martinis.
DEDICATION: To the Muses, though you don't really deserve it for whackin me with a plotbunny
at 2 am! Bracken goes off muttering: ::they're so lucky I'm an insomniac…::
**NB** ALL emphasis in *....*
============================================================================
The Elf and the Leprechaun Do Cliché # 1
Cliche #1 : I'm referring to the common cliche in which two people bump into each other, drop things, either apologise or argue and sparks fly. Simple enough, eh?
A bump in a hallway.
Both already late for class and with no one else around to testify as to whether either party had premeditated the run-in.
The universal sound of falling books and fluttering sheaves of paper. A muttered curse. Then:
Watch where yer bloody goin' Malfoy!"
A cool gaze meets a fiery glare.
"I rather think…(disdainful once-over of the small, feisty person) …that *you* should watch where *I'm* going. You ought to be more careful where I'm concerned."
"That some kinda threat, Malfoy?"
A plucky, Irish step forward that almost intrudes on personal space.
"Oh *hardly,* Finnigan." a smirk. "There'd be nothing but a waste of effort in threatening a harmless little leprechaun like *you.*"
Light, blue-green eyes roll heavenward.
"Firstly, leprechauns have *red* hair, oh culturally ignorant one, not a handsome shade of lustrous sandy-blond."
An assessing glance at the equally delicate (if not frail) form.
"And secondly, yer hardly giant enough to talk 'bout size, are ya, elf?"
A flash of annoyance in steely grey eyes.
"If that oafish groundskeeper is anything to go by, I *certainly* don't mind not being giant."
"I'm willin' ta ignore that derogative an' perilously xenophobic comment providin' ya pick up m'books an' divination charts, seein' as *you* dropped 'em."
Eyes widen in faked shock. There is a sugary earnestness to the following tone:
"Oh *Seamus,* all those *Big Words!* You *must* be channeling Hermione. You'd better stop now, you know how dangerous actual thoughts are to an Irish mind!"
A derisive snort.
"Malfoy, if twernt fer whiskey, the Irish would rule the world."
A wink.
"We jes happen ta know that whiskey's a better deal. Now, 'bout m'stuff…"
"There's no way I'm picking up your things, it's not my fault they fell. However, feel free to hand me the textbooks you knocked out of my hand when *you* bumped into *me.*"
"Not gonna happen, Malfoy."
A stand off.
A sigh:
"Look, why don' we both get the stuff. Ya know what *compromise* means, doncha Malfoy?"
"Of course I know exactly what it means, Finnigan, which is precisely why I take pains *never* to get mixed up in one."
Another roll of eyes.
"Whatever Malfoy, we go down on three, kay?"
A non-committal shrug. "Three" is reached. Only one person is down on the floor. No free guesses as to whom it is.
"Malfoy, ya immature bastard, get down here an help me!"
A Cheshire cat grin.
"Oh, I don't think so Finnigan, I'm enjoying the view. You look rather fetching on your knees before me, by the way."
A pause. Then:
"Well *damn* Malfoy! It never occurred ta me ya might be that way inclined…"
A speculative glance up the floor.
"…but now I wonder why I dinna see it sooner."
A suspicious, guarded glare down.
"I was merely referring to the fact that servitude seems to suit you so well."
A conspiring wink.
"Riiiiggghhhttt, a' *course* ya were."
"I was! And what do you mean by you should have seen it sooner?"
"Well, there are signs."
Curiousity cannot be stifled.
"What signs?"
"I'll tell ya - but only if ya help."
Surprisingly obedient. Hands scrabble on cold stone floors. Books and papers are haphazardly stacked. There is an air of impatience, until finally:
"So spill, Finnigan."
A quirked eyebrow. A striving - for - innocent look. Blue eyes blink.
"What?"
"Spill Finnigan. What makes you think I'm, uh, I'm…*that way inclined?*"
"The hair."
Answered immediately with a sincere level of solemnity.
"And…?"
"No really, that's it."
"Oh, and may I ask *why?*"
"Certainly."
A silence. Then finally, a rather irritable:
"**Why?**"
"Well, seein' as ya asked, it's the way ya treat it."
A perplexed you're-bordering-on-insanity look.
"*Treat it?* I treat it like anybody else would."
"Nuh-uh."
Exasperated sigh.
"Fine, have it your way Finnigan. How *do* I treat it then?"
"Well, ya see, ya always touchin' it-"
Interrupted. Grey eyes narrow.
"*Always,* Finnigan? Are you saying you… *watch* me?"
"No! It's jes that…well…whenever I *do* see ya, yer touchin it or…or somesuch. Ya…ya, well, ya primp."
Accusation hangs in the air.
"I *do not* primp, I'm merely vain."
Disagreeing shake of head.
"I seen other vain people, they don' behave like ya do."
"Oh *thank you*, Finnigan…"
With a rather overt sarcasm carried over into the next statement.
"…seeing as you deem yourself expert on such things. And just how *do* you qualify to judge other people's *inclination*, hmmm, Finnigan?"
Blue-eyed gaze now much like a cornered rabbit. He continues:
"Because *I've* always been told that it takes one to know one…"
A sharply inhaled breath.
"Is that true, Finnigan?"
Finally:
"Maybe Malfoy," a careless shrug, "who's ta know?"
"Oh, *I* might know."
Eyes connect.
"Well, good fer ya then. But I gotta go predict my own death in Div ta make up fer bein' late."
They stand, nod and head for their respective classes.
In Transfiguration Draco turns his pencil into a shamrock. In Divination Seamus predicts an unexpected person in his love - life.
~The End~
A/N you can review now **hint.hint**
PAIRING: Seamus/Draco (cripes, it's a rare one!)
RATING: PG (Oh my Gawd no!)
DISTRIBUTION: Any archives "Yes!" Others please ask, I'll say yes but I'd like the URL.
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, JK's. If they WERE mine they'd have more fun::sniff::
SPOILERS: NOPE, too senseless
FEEDBACK: Sending feedback will make the Muses toast to you before downing their martinis.
DEDICATION: To the Muses, though you don't really deserve it for whackin me with a plotbunny
at 2 am! Bracken goes off muttering: ::they're so lucky I'm an insomniac…::
**NB** ALL emphasis in *....*
============================================================================
The Elf and the Leprechaun Do Cliché # 1
Cliche #1 : I'm referring to the common cliche in which two people bump into each other, drop things, either apologise or argue and sparks fly. Simple enough, eh?
A bump in a hallway.
Both already late for class and with no one else around to testify as to whether either party had premeditated the run-in.
The universal sound of falling books and fluttering sheaves of paper. A muttered curse. Then:
Watch where yer bloody goin' Malfoy!"
A cool gaze meets a fiery glare.
"I rather think…(disdainful once-over of the small, feisty person) …that *you* should watch where *I'm* going. You ought to be more careful where I'm concerned."
"That some kinda threat, Malfoy?"
A plucky, Irish step forward that almost intrudes on personal space.
"Oh *hardly,* Finnigan." a smirk. "There'd be nothing but a waste of effort in threatening a harmless little leprechaun like *you.*"
Light, blue-green eyes roll heavenward.
"Firstly, leprechauns have *red* hair, oh culturally ignorant one, not a handsome shade of lustrous sandy-blond."
An assessing glance at the equally delicate (if not frail) form.
"And secondly, yer hardly giant enough to talk 'bout size, are ya, elf?"
A flash of annoyance in steely grey eyes.
"If that oafish groundskeeper is anything to go by, I *certainly* don't mind not being giant."
"I'm willin' ta ignore that derogative an' perilously xenophobic comment providin' ya pick up m'books an' divination charts, seein' as *you* dropped 'em."
Eyes widen in faked shock. There is a sugary earnestness to the following tone:
"Oh *Seamus,* all those *Big Words!* You *must* be channeling Hermione. You'd better stop now, you know how dangerous actual thoughts are to an Irish mind!"
A derisive snort.
"Malfoy, if twernt fer whiskey, the Irish would rule the world."
A wink.
"We jes happen ta know that whiskey's a better deal. Now, 'bout m'stuff…"
"There's no way I'm picking up your things, it's not my fault they fell. However, feel free to hand me the textbooks you knocked out of my hand when *you* bumped into *me.*"
"Not gonna happen, Malfoy."
A stand off.
A sigh:
"Look, why don' we both get the stuff. Ya know what *compromise* means, doncha Malfoy?"
"Of course I know exactly what it means, Finnigan, which is precisely why I take pains *never* to get mixed up in one."
Another roll of eyes.
"Whatever Malfoy, we go down on three, kay?"
A non-committal shrug. "Three" is reached. Only one person is down on the floor. No free guesses as to whom it is.
"Malfoy, ya immature bastard, get down here an help me!"
A Cheshire cat grin.
"Oh, I don't think so Finnigan, I'm enjoying the view. You look rather fetching on your knees before me, by the way."
A pause. Then:
"Well *damn* Malfoy! It never occurred ta me ya might be that way inclined…"
A speculative glance up the floor.
"…but now I wonder why I dinna see it sooner."
A suspicious, guarded glare down.
"I was merely referring to the fact that servitude seems to suit you so well."
A conspiring wink.
"Riiiiggghhhttt, a' *course* ya were."
"I was! And what do you mean by you should have seen it sooner?"
"Well, there are signs."
Curiousity cannot be stifled.
"What signs?"
"I'll tell ya - but only if ya help."
Surprisingly obedient. Hands scrabble on cold stone floors. Books and papers are haphazardly stacked. There is an air of impatience, until finally:
"So spill, Finnigan."
A quirked eyebrow. A striving - for - innocent look. Blue eyes blink.
"What?"
"Spill Finnigan. What makes you think I'm, uh, I'm…*that way inclined?*"
"The hair."
Answered immediately with a sincere level of solemnity.
"And…?"
"No really, that's it."
"Oh, and may I ask *why?*"
"Certainly."
A silence. Then finally, a rather irritable:
"**Why?**"
"Well, seein' as ya asked, it's the way ya treat it."
A perplexed you're-bordering-on-insanity look.
"*Treat it?* I treat it like anybody else would."
"Nuh-uh."
Exasperated sigh.
"Fine, have it your way Finnigan. How *do* I treat it then?"
"Well, ya see, ya always touchin' it-"
Interrupted. Grey eyes narrow.
"*Always,* Finnigan? Are you saying you… *watch* me?"
"No! It's jes that…well…whenever I *do* see ya, yer touchin it or…or somesuch. Ya…ya, well, ya primp."
Accusation hangs in the air.
"I *do not* primp, I'm merely vain."
Disagreeing shake of head.
"I seen other vain people, they don' behave like ya do."
"Oh *thank you*, Finnigan…"
With a rather overt sarcasm carried over into the next statement.
"…seeing as you deem yourself expert on such things. And just how *do* you qualify to judge other people's *inclination*, hmmm, Finnigan?"
Blue-eyed gaze now much like a cornered rabbit. He continues:
"Because *I've* always been told that it takes one to know one…"
A sharply inhaled breath.
"Is that true, Finnigan?"
Finally:
"Maybe Malfoy," a careless shrug, "who's ta know?"
"Oh, *I* might know."
Eyes connect.
"Well, good fer ya then. But I gotta go predict my own death in Div ta make up fer bein' late."
They stand, nod and head for their respective classes.
In Transfiguration Draco turns his pencil into a shamrock. In Divination Seamus predicts an unexpected person in his love - life.
~The End~
A/N you can review now **hint.hint**