Sugar and Spice and Muggle Delights
I don't know why I wrote this. I just know that I do not regret a word of it.
Thank you to Bex (DobbyRocksSocks), my fantastic hooman adult for being special. (And thanks for Brit-picking for me because I needed that XD)
Assignment #2: English Language Studies: 'You, Sir, are the Idiom'
Task #3: 'Add insult to injury' (to make a situation worse) Write about someone having a bad day.
Word count: 5210 words
Warnings: mild language
Summary: Muggles are horrifying and Draco cannot for the life of him understand how supermarkets exist. The only thing worse than surviving a Muggle trip by himself is having Ronald Weasley tag along. So of course, he has Ronald Weasley tagging along.
"Butter?"
"Check."
"Eggs?"
"Check."
"Milk?"
"… Maybe?"
Ron Weasley's head instantly snaps up from the list in his hand. "What do you mean, maybe? We picked it up, Malfoy, I was there to see you put it in the cart." He bends over to check their trolley, an unwieldy devil machine that Draco has decided he hates with a passion, and Draco puts out a hand to wave him off.
"I know we put it in, Weasley, I'm just not sure we picked up the right thing."
Weasley stares. "It says 'milk' on it, Draco."
"It is in a bloody packet!" Draco finally bursts out, barely restraining himself from throwing his hands up in the air like an uncultured Muggle. "Which sane, breathing human being packages their milk in a bulging bloody pouch?" He picks up the milk pouch to shake it for emphasis, then stares in horror in his hand. "It wiggled."
"That doesn't sound good, put it down." Weasley's scandalised face is priceless. Draco cannot even spare enough presence of mind to savour it. To him, that feels like the bigger horror.
For once, he doesn't argue against something Weasley says just to be contrary, setting the still-faintly-trembling packet down into their trolley far too hastily to pass off as anything but terrified. Luckily, Weasley is too freaked out by the milk itself to notice his slip of composure.
"We should have got those white cartons," Draco declares to Weasley, feeling the corner of his left eye twitch. "I told you to take one of those instead."
"And I'm telling you, Mione bought a litre carton of bathroom cleaner that looks just like it! We're not buying milk in anything that looks like it could store bathroom cleaner, Malfoy, who knows what's in it?"
"It said 'milk' on it, Ron!" Draco exclaims in a soft but vicious hiss, unknowingly mimicking what Weasley said to him only seconds earlier.
"And this packet says 'milk' on it too, but we're not sure there's milk in this thing either!" Weasley argues back with just as much frustration—he's just louder about it. Draco fights the urge to look around and check if anybody is staring. He doesn't care what the Muggles think of them. Muggles are stupid. They build stupid constructions and they have stupid practices and they package their milk in stupid creations.
They have a stare-off for another minute before Draco gives in and looks away, sulking. Fighting in favour of a milk carton that, if Weasley isn't shooting off his mouth, resembles a container for bathroom cleaner makes him feel pointless as a person. It's not worth the argument; they're buying something sketchy either way.
"Good," Weasley says almost coaxingly, and he goes back to inspecting the grocery list in his hand. It's an utterly plain white sheet of paper, something Granger said was standard Muggle parchment. It doesn't even have a rudimentary scroll border to decorate its edges. Muggles are so uncreative.
"Fine, we've got the milk, and we've got flour too," Weasley says after a short assessment, his grubby fingers stopping halfway down the scrawled list, and he glances at their cart quickly as if to reassure himself that the flour is still in there. Because Draco wouldn't trust Weasley to keep his least-favourite monogrammed handkerchief safe, he makes sure to also check the cart himself. The flour is still in there.
"Let's go, Mione and Harry want us to get something called vanilla essence next." Weasley nods to the next aisle in the sprawling maze of metal and plastic hedges that the Muggles dare to call a supermarket, and Draco sighs apprehensively at the thought that they still weren't finished with this rigmarole.
"What the hell is a vanilla essence?" Draco dares to ask, and the answer he receives is disappointingly uninformative, if comforting in its ignorance. It wouldn't do for Weasley to know more than him, after all, even if it is to do with Muggles.
"Beats me," Weasley shrugs, folding his list and slipping it into his pocket carefully, like it's his lifeline. "But whatever it is, it comes in a bottle." Without a look back, he squares his shoulders and dives into the aisle ahead.
"Comes in a bottle," Draco repeats to himself mockingly, giving his cart a push to make it go. "Very helpful, Potter. Only rules out about a third of the items in this hellscape."
Draco looks down into their trolley for the millionth time as he trundles it along white-tiled floors with its dirt-infested grouting, trying to take comfort in their smaller successes. The trolley. The trolley is a success. The four successfully found items in the trolley are successes. Everything about the trolley is a success. Draco hopes that if he keeps telling himself that, he'll believe it. Of course, of all times the Malfoy stubbornness must come to bite him someplace painful, it has to be in a Muggle supermarket.
When they entered the shop what feels now like a lifetime ago, they had spent nearly five minutes hunting around the place to find the wheelie carts they spotted all the customers in the shop using, only to find them all stacked into one another at the entrance itself. And then spent another minute figuring out how to pull out just one, because they were too busy arguing over the procedure among themselves to observe the mother of three who had nudged them aside to pull out a trolley of her own. They now have their very own rusty wheelie cart now, but it doesn't feel much like a win—not when Draco is the one who has to lug it around everywhere.
In hindsight, they've realised that maybe they should have gone hunting around for the blue baskets instead. Logically, Draco knows that it's not Ron's fault for not noticing the more understated baskets being toted around by a handful of the crowd when they walked in—they're both at fault, he didn't notice them either—but he feels no guilt at glaring at the other man in offense every time they pass by someone clutching one of those medium-sized blue baskets. Merlin, the basket would have been so much easier to manoeuver than this monstrosity. Draco feels like he is in an obstacle race course, finding it hard to keep up with Weasley while manhandling his cart away from its resolute mission to nose-dive into the first six-feet stack of metal cans it sees. Adrenaline is entirely uncalled for on a grocery run, in Draco's very valid opinion.
The cart holds far too much depth for their paltry haul—the space within the trolley overly spacious almost to the point of it being comical. Draco has appraised the cage-like mesh of the little metal bars the cart is made of more than he should have, and now he cannot stop thinking of the carton of eggs they've acquired standing in a neat row against the bars of a sparse Muggle prison, begging to be let out. He now also has the irrational urge to place each of their four items against the four corners of the cart to cover more of the area in the trolley. They can be like little pillars, he thinks to himself a little irrationally, or four fugitives trying to climb the pillars.
Draco feels like he's dragged himself halfway around the shop. Weasley is darting from aisle to aisle, scanning every bottle he sees, but Draco is having enough of a time keeping up with Weasley and pushing around his trusty little hindrance to check the shelves himself. The lights overhead are stark and brightly white, and he is quite sure that the number of people within this single shop could rival the crowd of last-minute school shoppers gathered in Diagon Alley on the day before a new Hogwarts term.
Ahead, he can see Weasley frantically gesturing to a young man sporting an incredibly drab pinstriped shirt and a rectangular button above a pocket, and he wants to roll his eyes. Of course Weasley was magnetised to the most boring person lurking around in this Merlin-forsaken place. If he wanted to have a chat, couldn't he have picked the lumberjack-like bloke hunched over the rack of kitchen knives? At least that bloke looks like he has a story—Draco would never willingly go over to the threatening man himself, but he can appreciate a bloke with a good story.
It's only when pulls himself and his cart up to his red-headed companion that he realises that the rectangular button on the young man's shirt is a nametag. It's a simple, glossy black thing. No changing colours, no flashing words. Not even a hint of sparkle. Muggles are so boring.
"Come on, Malfoy!" Weasley says to him when he senses Draco's presence beside him. His blue eyes are wide, and they look a little manic. "Edwin here is a shop supervisor. He's going to show us where the vanilla essence is."
"It's not far," Edwin-the-shop-supervisor says with a reassuring smile, "Just a few aisles down."
Draco proceeds to feel relief for a few shining seconds before he is led down a merry chase through the other half of the shop, dogging their new tour-guide's footsteps religiously and endlessly. Draco shares a pained yet commiserating look with Weasley—Weasley of all people—and questions every second of his life that led him to this moment.
It's all Weasley's fault, as it should be. It's the only part of this unfortunate series of events that has turned out the way it's supposed to.
Because of course, Weasley had to go and argue with his pregnant and extremely moody wife over something Draco never wants to know about, and of course they made a bet Draco never wants to hear details of, and of course Weasley had to go and lose to Granger, because really, who ever wins against Granger? And of course Draco got dragged into the whole affair because of course his idiot boyfriend couldn't resist bringing Draco into the equation for his own enjoyment, so it's no wonder Draco is here right now. Really. It makes perfect sense. He should have seen this coming.
Draco, it'll be fun! It's about time you had a proper Muggle experience. You could even bond with Ron! Won't that be brilliant?
Oh so brilliant, Potter, Draco says wryly in his head. He's having the time of his life. This is exactly how he wanted to spend his Sunday.
The bottom line is that Draco and Weasley were promised that if they went out together and successfully got a list of ingredients for a chocolate cake from a Muggle shop, Granger and Harry would bake a cake for them with those ingredients. Weasley is doing it for the cake. Draco is doing it for the chocolate.
He's also doing it for the look on Harry's face when he steals the cake Harry will painstakingly make for them and not let him have even a sliver of a slice. Revenge will be sweet and chocolatey, and that's the only reason Draco is in here at all. It has nothing to do with the possible pride in Harry's bright green eyes that he might come home to if he comes home with a full bag of ingredients from a Muggle supermarket.
It takes them long, precious moments, but Edwin-the-shop-supervisor does eventually lead them to the vanilla essence. Weasley nearly pounces on the bottle when they get to the right section, but Draco is more busy being offended by how small the bottle is. It is so small. All that manoeuvring and effort for something so little.
"Let me see that." He snatches the bottle from Weasley's hand to inspect it. "Don't you have this in a bigger size?" he asks, glancing up at Edwin sceptically. The supervisor shakes his head.
"I'm sorry, sir, but this is the only size we have," Edwin replies apologetically, hands primly clasped in front of him. Draco hums, then stares at him more analytically. They could stand to keep Edwin around; he could be useful. They could drag him around everywhere and get him to lead them to all the rest of the items on their list.
"Grab another bottle of this stuff," he directs to Weasley before he gets ahead of himself. "I'm not coming back here for another one if Harry and Granger decide this isn't enough."
Weasley looks ecstatic, snatching a second bottle of essence from the rack with just as much fervour as he picked up the first one with. He cradles the vial like it's his own baby, and Draco shakes his head at the sight. For all he knows, Weasley is trying to get in practice at being a father. It'd be just like him to try it out on a bottle.
When Draco's future godchild grows up—because if Harry is going to be the official godparent, then so help him Merlin he is going to be the unofficial one—Draco is going to tell them all about how their dad practiced fatherhood on a bottle of ingredients for chocolate cake. The story will live on for years to come. He will taunt Weasley through his own child. It will be beautiful.
It is as he thinks these glorious thoughts that the critical pawn for his new plan falls through. While Draco is rolling his eyes at Weasley, a mother of three—Draco suspects that it is the same one who stole a trolley right under their eyes—calls for Edwin-the-shop-supervisor from across the aisle, and Edwin is gone over to help before either of them can stop him. Draco decides right there and then that he hates both her and her children and also any future descendants that might come along.
Weasley shares a look with him. Belatedly, Draco realises that the other man had the same plan as he did, and… he can feel his respect for the redhead increase. Already, his brain takes to calling Weasley Ron in his head. His brain has always been quite quick on the uptake.
A quick flash of chocolate brown hair, and Draco's eyes snap to it to see Edwin-the-shop-supervisor's bobbing head all the way at the other end of the aisle. Edwin is making his way out, and in a fit of desperation, Draco lets go of the handle of his cart and the painstakingly acquired contents within to run after him and call him back.
"I'll stall Edwin," he quickly instructs Ron as he wiggles out from behind his trolley to go after the shop employee, "You—"
A blunt force clocks him right in the hip, and he halts his hasty movements to turn around behind him and check on who or what banged into him.
"Oh, pardon me!" a diminutive figure says, and the young woman veers her way around him instantly, pushing ahead an overfull trolley stacked high with buckets and heavy-looking cookware boxes far too quickly than she has a right to for her small frame, leaving Draco still wide-eyed and rubbing his aching hip.
He can feel the twitching in his left eye start up again. "No, you're not pardoned!" he calls out angrily to her retreating back, "I reject your pardon!" She doesn't even bother to turn around and acknowledge him. Draco is apoplectic with rage for all of two seconds before his eyes roam to the end of the aisle and find it devoid of Edwin-the-shop-supervisor, the chocolate brown head nowhere to be found. Then, he just lets himself fall into resignation. It is almost depressing in its intensity.
"What do we do now?" Ron asks him a little desperately, and Draco sees no other options before him.
"Suffer," he gravely responds.
Ron can only sigh, nod, and pull out his Muggle paper to consult the list once again.
Draco is pretty sure that they have gone around the whole shop, into every nook and cranny and crevice of this neverending wasteland at least three times. He has never had a life experience that has bamboozled him as much as this has. The lightweight feelings of hope gain more weight the further they get to the end of the list—the sugar was easy to find, the whipping cream was not—even as the exhaustion settling into his body burrows deeper into his bones with every push of his cart.
When Weasley announces that chocolate is the last thing they have to find, he nearly knocks off a few shocking pink boxes from a display of the disgustingly sugary cereal Harry always buys for himself in an attempt to lift his arms up in victory, and then nearly knocks his wrists on the handle of his trolley when they flop down limply, his arms too heavy to raise.
"What was that?" Ron asks him, his voice carrying amusement and his face doing a twitching thing that Draco takes to be judgement—highly inappropriate judgement, he might add. Draco is simply tired. Draco bets Ron is tired too.
"Just go on, Weasley," he mutters and looks away, feeling heat crawl up and tinge red his painfully pale cheeks.
Ron chuckles, sounding surprisingly mature in his amusement. Draco didn't know he could pull off restraint. "Don't you worry, Malfoy, I won't tell."
Draco's lips twitch into a grateful smile of their own accord, but he doesn't promise in turn that Granger and Harry won't hear about him practicing fatherhood on the bottle of vanilla essence, because Draco is an inherently mean person.
They find the aisle holding chocolate relatively quickly. Draco had made sure to remember that they'd found the aisle in question near the dairy section on a previous jaunt around the shop, and his memory marker proves helpful. Belatedly, Draco wishes he could have kept track of all the things they had passed that looked like it could be on the list—Salazar knows it could have saved them a few rounds in the shop—but he also knows himself as a person, and he knows that he couldn't bring himself to be invested enough in any of the other ingredients to want to look for them the way he's invested in the chocolate.
"Mione says we can pick out either chocolate chips or a slab for them to cut into tiny little pieces," Ron comments, tearing his eyes away from the list. Draco finds them sparkling for the first time since they stepped foot in this supermarket. "What say we try to convince them to use both?"
"I say we can be plenty persuasive if the occasion calls for it," Draco replies, grinning both at the thought of twice the chocolate and that Ron's finally found something to agree with him on. It has taken them so long to get to this point.
"Both it is," Ron says, grinning victoriously. He dives low for the unbranded bag of chocolate chips he's spied pushed back unobtrusively on the bottom-most shelf, and Draco heads straight for the slabs of dark chocolate sitting prettily on a more prominent rack. He picks one, then two, then reconsiders and also grabs one that says 'milk chocolate' on the front. He doesn't know if the brand is a good one or not, but the packaging is tasteful and there is the most delicious picture of chocolate pieces drowned in a fine drip of liquid chocolate, and that's really all that matters.
"Uh, mate, we only need one," Ron hesitates to say, tapping his shoulder from behind.
"The rest are for me," he declares in response, not even bothering to turn around. "I deserve it after all this work."
"Oh good, because if you were gonna say that they were for Harry I'd tell ya that he likes sticky things better. You know, treacle, caramel, toffee…"
"I know what Harry likes," Draco cuts him off, rolling his eyes. His head snaps up. "Wait, why would I buy Potter chocolate?"
"Because it's what a good boyfriend would do? I don't know, mate, you know I don't get how you two work."
"If Potter wants chocolate, he can bloody well get his own damn chocolate."
A pause. "You're passionate about this." Draco turns around to stare at him—because what kind of question is that?—but Ron continues before he can open his mouth to retort. "It's Muggle chocolate, though, didn't know you'd be one for it."
"It is chocolate," he counters, huffing. "Even Muggles can't fuck up chocolate."
Ron considers this, then reaches around to angle the chocolate bars in Draco's hand to be more visible to him. "What kinds did you get," he mutters quietly with neither inflection nor shame, but Draco simply has a short, silent sulk to himself and forgoes the manhandling in favour of keeping secure the new understanding they have come to have in these two hellish hours. Ron is forgiven for touching his chocolate.
Ron now hums, reaching out and pulling out a fourth slab from the rack. "You haven't chosen this one," he says, showing Draco the front. The cover is a gorgeous shade of cream, unlike the silky brown slabs clutched in his own hand, and it has gilded golden designs making beautiful patterns all across the front. Draco loves it; the elegance speaks to him.
"It says 'white chocolate', though," he realises as he reads the name off the cover. "And look at the picture, the chocolate itself is white. Are we sure this is chocolate? Could be a ripoff."
"We'll never know unless we try it, eh?" Ron answers, shrugging. "How bout you and me split this and the milk stuff in your hand? We'll go halves."
Draco doesn't need time to turn over the proposition. "Chuck it in," he replies with a tilted smile, gesturing with his chin to the trolley. Ron grins widely and does as he says, and then Draco lays out his own haul over it to form a neat stack.
"I want something for myself now," Ron declares, looking around the aisle hopefully.
"We've got chocolate, what more do we need?" Draco asks him, genuinely confused.
"Mate, we're in a Muggle shop. Don't you want to know what they eat for a reward? Muggles are fascinating creatures, Malfoy, and we have the perfect opportunity to spy on their tastes."
Draco pauses. "We cannot 'spy' on something everyone and their fathers have access to, Ronald."
"Tell me, would a pureblood wizard or their father walk into a Muggle supermarket?"
Draco considers this. "Unless the father was your father, no. They'd stay quite far from this place, undoubtedly."
"Then we have an advantage. We're pureblood wizards who walked into a Muggle shop and walked out to tell the tale."
"If we walk out alive."
"We have access to knowledge no other pureblood would." Ron's blue eyes are sparkling, intent on him. "Don't you see? We could have such fun with this. Muggle references no other would get, inside jokes all the purebloods would be left out of, wise advice they'll have to depend on us for. Your friends, Parkinson and Zabini—they'll be coming to you for a pureblood take on Muggle culture. We could be gods among people like us. And all the Muggleborns we know will love us."
Draco stares. "When did you get so ruthless?"
Ron huffs and looks away. "Since Ernie Macmillan decided to call me a good-for-nothing wimp terrified of arachnids in that bloody tell-all wartime biography book of his. The rest of the Aurors give me grief 'bout it like nothing else."
Draco blinks, then sucks in his lips carefully. It would not do to laugh in Ron's face and isolate him when they could make such a fantastic team together.
And Draco does find it best to needle a person when they least expect the needle.
"Alright, we're doing this then," he straightens and announces, looking around. "Have you already decided what we're going to test out, or do we scour the aisle?"
"Nope, I already know what I want." Ron walks right back down to the end of the aisle they had entered from, turns to the racks opposite the ones Draco selected his chocolate from, and picks out a transparent bag filled with a big ball of some kind of pastel pink fluff.
"What is it?" Draco asks as he approaches the cart again, bag clutched in hand.
"Candy floss." Ron stares at his bag like a child handed the one thing he longed for at Christmas. Draco looks at its contents analytically, and finds that the pink fluff looks distinctly like coloured tufts of cotton.
"Candy floss," he repeats sceptically. "I don't know, Ron, it looks like cotton to me. We're going to eat a bag full of cotton?"
"It's not cotton," Ron corrects him, glancing up. "They had this stuff at the Muggle carnival Mione once dragged me to. There were children eating it, all in different colours. They wouldn't give children cotton to eat."
"They're Muggles," Draco stresses, "They package milk in pouches and make wheelie prison cages to cart around all their groceries in. We have no clue what their stance is on making children eat cotton."
Ron thinks over this argument intently. "Nah, they wouldn't," he says at length, shaking his head, "Muggles are very odd, I agree, but they're not savages. Pretty sure they'd not want to poison their own children. Besides, can you even chew cotton?"
"I've… never given a thought to it, actually."
"Really?" Ron asks, interested. Draco decides that the expression reminds him distinctly of Arthur Weasley. Ron's face is just as annoyingly, excitably curious as that of his father.
"Yes," he says dryly, "The thought of masticating a wad of cotton balls for lunch came up neither during my childhood nor in adulthood. Unusual, isn't it?"
Ron pauses, then wilfully ignores him. "I've heard that this stuff is made from spun sugar. I don't know why it looks so much like cotton, but then again, I never did claim to understand Muggles. Seems harmless, though. Come on, let's try it? If we don't like it, we'll just throw it out. It looks like the wildest thing in this aisle from what I see, if we knock this outta the way we get the ultimate Muggle experience."
Draco takes one glance at Ron's pleading face and crup-dog eyes, then a second glance, and finally a third. "Oh fine!" he exclaims when Ron's pleading look only gets more persuasive, "Fine! Throw it in. We'll get sick from sugar at least, and at most, we'll asphyxiate on cotton. No harm, no foul."
"If we get poisoned there's cure potions in our bathroom cabinet at home," Ron promises, adding the candy floss to the cart gleefully, "Mione makes sure the cabinet is always fully stocked."
"Oh please, Weasley, if I get poisoned I'm using my own potions," Draco scoffs in mock offense. "I trust nothing that isn't brewed by my own hand."
"Fine, we'll use your potions. I'll even trust you not to poison me with something else," Ron quips in response, grinning. His eyes snap to Draco. "To the checkout?"
"To the checkout," Draco affirms, displaying his relief with a full-on smile and readying his hands strategically on the handle to give his cart a mighty push.
Ron's hand clamps gently over his arm, stopping him. "We're going to have to figure out Muggle money," he warns before Draco moves the cart out of the aisle they are occupying.
Draco scrunches his nose. "You have the bundle Granger gave you, right?"
"Safe here," Ron replies with an unsure nod, patting his trouser pocket.
"Then we'll figure it out when we get there," Draco says, giving his best efforts to sound reassuring. After all, he likes Ron now. "We've already done seventy percent of the work, how hard can it be?"
"You underestimate how complicated Muggles can make the simplest things," Ron counters wryly, but he does seem a little less apprehensive. Draco will take that as a win. "So we're selling over our souls completely, then?"
"All the way to the devil, Weasley," Draco quips with a dry chuckle. "We're getting that cake if it's the last thing we do."
"They had better make it a big one," Ron adds, agreeing with a quicksilver grin.
"And we're not letting them have any," Draco finishes, smirking. Harry tells him that his smirk is fitting for an evil mastermind. Draco has taken it to be a compliment.
Ron pauses. "Wait, not even Mione? But she's pregnant."
Draco rolls his eyes immediately. "She's pregnant, not dying. She can deal. Granger knew what she was getting you into when she made that bet with you."
"Actually, it wasn't a bet—"
"I don't want to know what that bet was about!" Draco hastily finishes. He cannot be certain that whatever their tiff was for wasn't to do with the bedroom. "I'm just saying, we didn't know what we signed up for. They did. Thus comes revenge."
"…I can do revenge if it gets me cake."
"And I can do revenge whether or not it gets me chocolate. So we are in agreement?"
"For sure, mate."
"Good." Draco knows that he looks evil right now. He's good at evil. "Then let's get these little bastards sorted out and paid for, and we'll set a Bombarda to this place on our way out."
"Good plan," Ron says. He pauses. "Figuratively, right?"
Draco makes himself look innocent. "We can make it literal if that's what you're good for."
"No blowing things up in public, Malfoy," Ron eventually says, shaking his head. He almost looks sad about it. Draco is gleeful at swaying the man to his way of doing things. "Right. Checkout. Muggle money. Then home. And then cake."
"We can break out a bottle of red if we stop at my place before we go to yours," Draco offers magnanimously. "Harry must be with Granger right now, so there'll be no one at home to mock us for grabbing a bottle till we open it at your place."
"Now that's a solid plan," Ron responds instantly, grinning brightly. "Make it a whiskey and I'm down."
"Whiskey it is," Draco chuckles. "Shall we head to the next part of our doom?"
"Yeah," Ron sighs, clapping him on the back. "Let's go. The sooner we figure this shit out, the sooner we get cake."
"Because that's what we're doing this for," Draco supplies as he pushes their cart out of their secluded little chocolate aisle and they plunge once again into madness. "We're doing this for the cake."
"And not because we're so gone for those two waiting at home for us," Ron adds, catching on.
Draco shares a look with him.
"Right," they confirm in unison and continue the walk side by side, Draco with his cart and Ron with his list, and they grin manic smiles that match each other's right down to the twitch at the corners of their lips.
Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, sitting cosy on the couch of the Granger-Weasley home and laughing their mischievous laughs, will never know what they unleashed on this marked day.
Prompts:
[August] Writing Club:
Bromance to Romance: (trope) Partners in Crime
Written in the Stars: (color) golden
This or That: Marriage Prompts - (Emotion) Overwhelmed
Book Club: Gibby: (word) critical, (trait) loyal, (plot point) a fight, (genre) friendship
Showtime: What's Inside - (word) Sugar
Film Festival: Trait: Dramatic
Lizzy's Loft: Who We Are - We were never welcome here [bonus]
Elizabeth's Empire: (prompt) Write about someone who never gives up. BONUS
Angel's Archive: Chocolate brown [BONUS for using as hair colour]
Amber's Anime Adventure: (action) smiling
Lyric Alley: I thought I'd never make it through
EnTitled: Twilight's Last Gleaming - Emotion: Devastated
Artist Appreciation: You And Me: Prompt - (style) future fic
Resolution Evolution!: Write a fic with the theme: Taking a Leap
Buttons: (word) apoplectic; (emotion) Regret
[Summer] Seasonal Challenges:
Days Of The Year: 29th June - Saints Peter and Paul (Christian) : Write about a shared connection between two people
Anti-Boredom Month: Go to one of those fun indoor facilities
Indoor Plant Week: Blushing Bromeliad - (emotion) flustered
International Body Piercing Day: Dolphin bites - (word) Tasteful
International Beers Day: Pure Brewery - (Character type) Pure Blood
Book Lovers Day: Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart - "Let me see that."
Colours: Shocking pink
Crystals And Gemstones: Emerald - Write about someone who puts up emotional barriers.
Tarot Reading: Seven of Wands, Reversed - Write about someone being overwhelmed by life.
Gryffindor Challenge: Props - (object) bucket
[Summer Quarterly] Southern Cookout:
Meats: Shish Kebabs- (genre) family
[August] Auction:
Day 4, Auction 4: (candy) Cotton Candy/Candy Floss
[August] Fight Club:
Choose Your Competitor: (Word) Bamboozle
[August] Gobstones:
Stone - (theme) Blue Stone - Peer Pressure
Accuracy - (word) complicated
Power - (word) effort
Technique - (word) pain
