Title: Suede Elbow Patches
Author: Chloe, pen name- Atalanta de Lioncourt
Disclaimer: Sadly, Ron and Draco and basically the rest of the HP world belong to J.K. "I'm a goddess" Rowling, Raincoat Books, Scholastic Books, and Bloomsbury Books. I'm pretty sure Warner Brothers has a leg in there as well. Anyway, let it be known that this is a purely not-for-profit little story and written for my own enjoyment. Believe me, if I owned them...
Thank you: To Lauren (or Remus, Louis, Ken, BJ, etc.) Thank you for your presence, inspiration and that whole "built-in-beta" thing. You're my muse. Thank you to Ri who thinks Ron is mildly IC and to Jori who read this and liked Draco. I also have to apologize and thank all the people I forced this on before I got the nerve to post it. Gracias.
Warning: This may or may not become slash. I know that Ron/Draco romance is very much out of the question when confined within the wall of IC-ness. Basically, it was raining one night and I began to write; the following is what came out. As I continue to write we shall see what path Ron and Draco choose to lead me on. Warnings will change as the plot moves.
Rating: PG-13, but only for mild language. So far ^_~
----------------------
It was raining. The lovely insistent kind of rain that falls down in pre-established puddles and tries to down you should you be so unlucky to get caught in it. It streamed down the windows in droplets the size of his pinky nail. Ron pressed his nose to the cold glass, breathed a light covering of condensation, then pulled back to scrawl his name in it. Backwards of course, so the owls could read it. He blew a strand of red hair out of his eyes, puffing out his cheeks in boredom. This was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad way to spend his summer. Cooped up here in his attic bedroom while it seemed Mother Nature was doing her best to rain all things Weasley off the face of English soil.
It had been raining for almost a week now. Days and days of endless cold rain pouring over the Burrow, drowning the garden and even driving the garden gnomes to higher ground-- cowardly little gits, couldn't handle a bit of rain. Ron rolled his eyes remembering how they had all fled one day, up to their miserable little waists in water and ran out into the meadow behind the yard. Even Pig was becoming restless; with only the attic to soar around, the owl had no place to work off all its hyper energy.
Ron smacked his head lightly against the window. "Bored, bored, bored," he muttered, "bloody bored." It wasn't like he could write to Harry; Dumbledore had told them to keep contact to a minimum unless it was absolutely necessary. Dumbledore said letters were too easy to be tracked and that their best bet at the moment was to draw as little attention to Harry's summer location as possible. He was sorely tempted to write to him anyway, because being piss-poor bored was reason enough as any to put his friend in mortal danger.
Ron sneered at his reflection in the window, what a ridiculous thought. It was, he had to admit, miserably unfair that Ginny had made school chums who lived reasonably close to the Burrow and that the Twins would always have each other for company. Typical that his best friends were probably the most unreachable best friends a person could have. One "across the pond" doing some Salem summer exchange program that Professor McGonagall had found for her, the other quite possibly the most closely guarded boy in Britain beside the Queen's own grandchildren. Pity Ron got stuck all by himself, miserable and lonely with only the over-excitable Pig to keep him company-who was, as usual beginning to wear his nerves very, very thin.
Even a disgustingly large part of him was beginning to miss Malfoy, because then he'd have someone to take his anger out on. Stupid prat, probably off having a wonderful time with all his Death Eater friends; Ron could just picture them torturing small puppies or something. He shuddered at the thought.
"No use staying up here, I guess." Ron spoke in the general direction of Pig's perch, who let out an excited chirp at the sound of his voice. "Don't get your hopes up; I'm not letting you out. The wind is way too strong." Ron smirked, an image of little owl flying haphazardly through the pouring rain, wings flapping helplessly flew through his head. When had he become so sadistic? He had to get out of this attic; it was beginning to affect his mental health.
Ron stood, stretched his arms high above his head and let his fingers lay flat against the low ceiling; he cracked his neck. He'd been sitting by the window for too long; his nose was freezing. Stretching just a bit more, he walked over to his dresser where Pig's perch sat, his head almost scraping the sloping ceiling. Giving Pig's head a gentle scratch, Ron received a playful nip on the fingers from his tiny beak. "I'll bring you back a mouse or something." He said, smiling when the owl gave an appreciative chirp. He was about to exit the room when there was a tap at his window.
Ron whirled around, and quirked an eyebrow at Pig, who hooted a little 'who knows' hoot. Hmm. He pursed his lips and headed back toward the window. Peering out into the yard, Ron could barely make out the shape of what had to be a very damp person, through the sheets of falling rain. The unidentified person pulled back their arm in preparation to hurl another stone- presumably to get his attention -and Ron opened the window. The little rock hit him square in the forehead. He felt rather dazed. Nonetheless, Ron stuck his head out the window anyway, cold rain cooling the back of his neck and clearing the slight fog that had settled over his brain.
"Who's down there?" He called, craning his neck to get a better look at his pebble-hurling trespasser. The soaking wet person, dressed in drenched traveling robes (that were probably very stylish when dry), put a hand over his eyes like a shield and stared up at Ron, not answering. Ron stared back down. "You're very wet," he called.
"Yes. I know," said the stranger in a prim, frazzled voice.
"Er, do I know you?" Asked Ron.
"Yes," said the person huffily, a waterlogged broomstick trying to shake itself dry on the ground next to him. Ron scratched his scalp; there was water streaming down his face now.
"Look, do you think you can fly up to the window? There are wards on the front door that I can't take down," Ron said.
The person nodded, and picked up his broom; he gave it a final shake and hopped onto the handle. The broom fought its way up through the pouring rain. Ron pulled the widow all the ways open so that his mysterious visitor could fit through. He stepped back and waited. A figure tumbled through the window, broomstick held tightly in hand, obviously plucked from the air at the last possible second.
Ron gasped when the black hood of the traveling cloak fell back to reveal white-blond hair. Malfoy. "Oh shit," he muttered.
To be continued....
I live on feedback; it is the very means by which I survive. Please, send me some. Email or otherwise. SuckerIove@aol.com, or reviewing on FF.net is lovely as well. The more reviews the more I want to write! I [heart] you all.
Author: Chloe, pen name- Atalanta de Lioncourt
Disclaimer: Sadly, Ron and Draco and basically the rest of the HP world belong to J.K. "I'm a goddess" Rowling, Raincoat Books, Scholastic Books, and Bloomsbury Books. I'm pretty sure Warner Brothers has a leg in there as well. Anyway, let it be known that this is a purely not-for-profit little story and written for my own enjoyment. Believe me, if I owned them...
Thank you: To Lauren (or Remus, Louis, Ken, BJ, etc.) Thank you for your presence, inspiration and that whole "built-in-beta" thing. You're my muse. Thank you to Ri who thinks Ron is mildly IC and to Jori who read this and liked Draco. I also have to apologize and thank all the people I forced this on before I got the nerve to post it. Gracias.
Warning: This may or may not become slash. I know that Ron/Draco romance is very much out of the question when confined within the wall of IC-ness. Basically, it was raining one night and I began to write; the following is what came out. As I continue to write we shall see what path Ron and Draco choose to lead me on. Warnings will change as the plot moves.
Rating: PG-13, but only for mild language. So far ^_~
----------------------
It was raining. The lovely insistent kind of rain that falls down in pre-established puddles and tries to down you should you be so unlucky to get caught in it. It streamed down the windows in droplets the size of his pinky nail. Ron pressed his nose to the cold glass, breathed a light covering of condensation, then pulled back to scrawl his name in it. Backwards of course, so the owls could read it. He blew a strand of red hair out of his eyes, puffing out his cheeks in boredom. This was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad way to spend his summer. Cooped up here in his attic bedroom while it seemed Mother Nature was doing her best to rain all things Weasley off the face of English soil.
It had been raining for almost a week now. Days and days of endless cold rain pouring over the Burrow, drowning the garden and even driving the garden gnomes to higher ground-- cowardly little gits, couldn't handle a bit of rain. Ron rolled his eyes remembering how they had all fled one day, up to their miserable little waists in water and ran out into the meadow behind the yard. Even Pig was becoming restless; with only the attic to soar around, the owl had no place to work off all its hyper energy.
Ron smacked his head lightly against the window. "Bored, bored, bored," he muttered, "bloody bored." It wasn't like he could write to Harry; Dumbledore had told them to keep contact to a minimum unless it was absolutely necessary. Dumbledore said letters were too easy to be tracked and that their best bet at the moment was to draw as little attention to Harry's summer location as possible. He was sorely tempted to write to him anyway, because being piss-poor bored was reason enough as any to put his friend in mortal danger.
Ron sneered at his reflection in the window, what a ridiculous thought. It was, he had to admit, miserably unfair that Ginny had made school chums who lived reasonably close to the Burrow and that the Twins would always have each other for company. Typical that his best friends were probably the most unreachable best friends a person could have. One "across the pond" doing some Salem summer exchange program that Professor McGonagall had found for her, the other quite possibly the most closely guarded boy in Britain beside the Queen's own grandchildren. Pity Ron got stuck all by himself, miserable and lonely with only the over-excitable Pig to keep him company-who was, as usual beginning to wear his nerves very, very thin.
Even a disgustingly large part of him was beginning to miss Malfoy, because then he'd have someone to take his anger out on. Stupid prat, probably off having a wonderful time with all his Death Eater friends; Ron could just picture them torturing small puppies or something. He shuddered at the thought.
"No use staying up here, I guess." Ron spoke in the general direction of Pig's perch, who let out an excited chirp at the sound of his voice. "Don't get your hopes up; I'm not letting you out. The wind is way too strong." Ron smirked, an image of little owl flying haphazardly through the pouring rain, wings flapping helplessly flew through his head. When had he become so sadistic? He had to get out of this attic; it was beginning to affect his mental health.
Ron stood, stretched his arms high above his head and let his fingers lay flat against the low ceiling; he cracked his neck. He'd been sitting by the window for too long; his nose was freezing. Stretching just a bit more, he walked over to his dresser where Pig's perch sat, his head almost scraping the sloping ceiling. Giving Pig's head a gentle scratch, Ron received a playful nip on the fingers from his tiny beak. "I'll bring you back a mouse or something." He said, smiling when the owl gave an appreciative chirp. He was about to exit the room when there was a tap at his window.
Ron whirled around, and quirked an eyebrow at Pig, who hooted a little 'who knows' hoot. Hmm. He pursed his lips and headed back toward the window. Peering out into the yard, Ron could barely make out the shape of what had to be a very damp person, through the sheets of falling rain. The unidentified person pulled back their arm in preparation to hurl another stone- presumably to get his attention -and Ron opened the window. The little rock hit him square in the forehead. He felt rather dazed. Nonetheless, Ron stuck his head out the window anyway, cold rain cooling the back of his neck and clearing the slight fog that had settled over his brain.
"Who's down there?" He called, craning his neck to get a better look at his pebble-hurling trespasser. The soaking wet person, dressed in drenched traveling robes (that were probably very stylish when dry), put a hand over his eyes like a shield and stared up at Ron, not answering. Ron stared back down. "You're very wet," he called.
"Yes. I know," said the stranger in a prim, frazzled voice.
"Er, do I know you?" Asked Ron.
"Yes," said the person huffily, a waterlogged broomstick trying to shake itself dry on the ground next to him. Ron scratched his scalp; there was water streaming down his face now.
"Look, do you think you can fly up to the window? There are wards on the front door that I can't take down," Ron said.
The person nodded, and picked up his broom; he gave it a final shake and hopped onto the handle. The broom fought its way up through the pouring rain. Ron pulled the widow all the ways open so that his mysterious visitor could fit through. He stepped back and waited. A figure tumbled through the window, broomstick held tightly in hand, obviously plucked from the air at the last possible second.
Ron gasped when the black hood of the traveling cloak fell back to reveal white-blond hair. Malfoy. "Oh shit," he muttered.
To be continued....
I live on feedback; it is the very means by which I survive. Please, send me some. Email or otherwise. SuckerIove@aol.com, or reviewing on FF.net is lovely as well. The more reviews the more I want to write! I [heart] you all.