#especially seamus since he spiraled
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The Buck and the Fox
Chapter 2 - The Jewel of the Heartlands
Chapter 2 of my ongoing fanfic, the Buck and the Fox.
Tags: Arthur Morgan x female oc, narrative building. i'm trying to stay away from tropes to describe rn, still new to writing and posting fanfiction!
word count: ~4k
Diana Wegner
It had been several days since Diana had her life given back to her, albeit by the skin of her teeth. To her, it may have seemed like months since she had seen the man - Arthur - yet she found herself thinking of him often. Each time she did, she pinched herself, remembering the vows she choked through in the chapel, five years prior.
Not that she had to pinch herself often. Where she grew up with ample time on her hands to think and read and embroider and mull over the state of the world, she now had a ranch to take charge of. Cows to milk, sheep to shear in the summer, chickens to feed.
A typical day began in her tent. This was the first abnormality of her would-be married life. The tent behind the store that Arthur had seen had a companion tent for three quarters of every month. Each morning in the tent had its reason for starting there, but this morning was defined by cold water, a pail, and a set of bloody undergarments.
Diana grunted as she scrubbed them clean. She had grown used to this particular part of womanhood in recent years - before, her parents would never have dreamt she’d be put to such a task. Then again, they would be appalled if they saw her in any capacity today.
After the underclothes were scrubbed beyond recognition - with only a light brown stain, where a deep cherry red had been - she got herself dressed for the morning. For ranchwork, she opted for her pants, a loose pair, with a black unbuttoned shirt. She pulled out a pleasant sage green hat - a round thing that had a sturdy, ornamental rope spiraling around its trim.
The hat provided some good protection from the beating May sun, an especially useful trait given the lack of shade beside the big green barn. The various chores took Diana the better part of the day - feed the chickens, help Cripps set up the stew pot. Finally, she would reward herself with her favorites: the cattle. The great cows, Juno and Bessie, all but ran to the sight of Diana. They were some of her only friends of late - it was too hard for Eugene to forbid her from speaking to animals.
“Hey, girls,” she cooed, petting both of them before picking up some hay. The cows mooed in response, nudging each other’s faces out of the way for the first bite. “There ya go,” Diana said again, feeling their hot breath on her hands. The great big bull stood nearby, waiting his turn. He had just been branded - the scar, and the pain from it, made the beast a bit shy of farmhands. The scar on his rump reminded Diana of her other purpose.
“Seamus?” she called, grabbing another handful of hay. She called the name again as she walked over to the bull, beginning to feed it. “Thereeee, Vulcan, there ya go. I’m sorry, buddy,” she said. She knew better than to try petting him. “I’ll pick you something for that later.”
“Seamus?” she called again. I swear, if he’s drunk again… “Seamus? Where are you, you lazy sod!”
The grunting from behind the workbench told her all she needed to know.
“You been on the moonshine again, then?”
Seamus bumped his head, and swore. “No,” he replied. “I’ve just been organizing the goods all day and magically collapsed!” The moonshine bottles clinked together under the bench.
“Anything of use come by, then?” she asked, hoping for a hit.
“Just these earrings - oh, and a silver bracelet. Nothing of much-”
“I’ll decide that, thank you very much.”
A small bag and a few coins exchanged hands. Seamus and Diana had formed an understanding three years ago, when Diana had caught him buying stolen goods from the brigands found around the county. She gained his allegiance when she’d promised not to tell Eugene, who would not only have thrown a fit, but would have demanded a hefty sum of the profits. Her husband was not only a hard-handed owner, but a ruthless capitalist with a nose for cash like a bloodhound.
In exchange for some money, Seamus gave Diana the fine pieces of jewelry he came across. Paired with the feathers of pheasants, ducks and geese, Diana had grown skilled at creating small trinkets - a skill she had truly perfected as a child. The cowboys who frequented the store often liked to adorn their hats.
The bag secured on her gunbelt, Diana turned again to seamus. “Any new carts?” Seamus also dealt in stolen buggies, which were few and far between.
“Only one - a little two seater buggy. Romantic, fancy little thing,” he answered, and before Diana could ask, he said “Mister Wegner took it out already. Went to Valentine. Something about a horse?”
Diana raised her eyebrows. “How long do you think he’ll be there?”
“He brought a money clip with him. And a flask.”
So, it was an all night excursion. Eugene had a gambling habit, a drinking habit, and, when it suited him, a spending habit. Horses were his vice. He always had to have the fastest steed in the Heartlands, or else it became everyone else’s problem. Before her banishment to the tents, such a thing had been her burden to bear. Diana shuddered at the thought.
But today, a blessing. The house was open. The maids were easy bribes, and the greenhorns who guarded the house were already out with the sheep.
“Thank you, Seamus. That’ll be all.”
“Yes ma’am,” the Irishman replied, and he hightailed his way into the barn looking for something to do. Diana, a spring in her step, walked over to the big green house, the crown of Emerald Ranch. She supposed she should call it her house, but it wasn’t. This house was a place she frequented, sure, but it wasn’t hers.
The maid moved to stop her at the bottom of the steps, but Diana quickly silenced her with a flash of the silver earrings Seamus had given her. It was enough to buy silence for today, but the best bet for future visits was a platinum pair. Diana walked up the stairs, confident, secure in the fact that she didn’t need to hide her steps from her husband. Valentine was a half days trip away - she wouldn’t be surprised if he stayed there overnight.
“Miriam?” she called, hoping not to scare the girl.
“Diana?!” The response came from down the hall, and Diana took out the key, a secret copy Cripps had made for her. The click of the lock was music to her ears, and she opened the door to find her stepdaughter adorned in a simple black nightgown.
Miriam pulled Diana into a bearhug before she was given a chance to say hello.
“My God, I’ve missed you. Father’s been a terror these last few nights,” the girl sighed, face buried in Diana’s hair.
“I’ve missed you too,” Diana said, and she pulled away to notice tears in Miriam’s eyes. This was almost enough to bring tears to her own as well - she blinked them away, trying to focus on every detail of Miriam’s face.
Beautiful as both the women were, they bore little resemblance. Miriam was a blonde, her hair in a permanent updo, her legs perpetually hidden behind a skirt. She was a skinny woman, all skin and bones, a new development since the incident of the saloon. Her face, picturesque as always, was contorted with tears and another emotion Diana recognized well. Anger.
“What has he been doing? Talking about?” Diana asked. How strange it was, for a wife to ask that of her husband.
“Mostly blather about the ranch. Farmhands never do enough, blasted maids, you know. But yesterday and today he was on about some horse up in Valentine,” Miriam reported, transformed. This was business now.
“I heard about that, from Seamus. Did he say anything more about the sheep?”
“Why?” Miriam looked puzzled at the question. “What’s wrong with the sheep?”
Diana couldn’t believe it. She knew Eugene kept Miriam in a proverbial ivory tower, but she could scarce believe how much he kept from his own daughter. Miriam was practically a grown woman, at 16 years old, but Eugene sheltered her like a 6 year old princess.
“You didn’t hear the gunshots a few days ago?”
“When?”
“About two hours before I came to dinner that day. It was mutton that night. Ring any bells?”
Miriam paled - she looked sick at the mention. “I do. But I didn’t hear, because…”
Diana’s heart pounded. What the hell happened while she was out?!
“We were in the basement before dinner. He…was having me try on mother’s old dresses. Claimed he wanted to sell some, but he didn’t want to get rid of anything that fit me,” Miriam said, her eyes downcast. “That’s why I was so quiet at dinner.”
Diana recoiled. She hadn’t been surprised that a family dinner was quiet - they either devolved into a den of snakes snapping at each other, or remained silent for their duration. Eugene was a firm believer in being the man of the house, and asserted this often at the dinner table.
She was more concerned about the basement.
“Did he…do anything else?” she probed.
“No,” Miriam replied, quickly. Assertively. “He just said I looked nice in the dresses, then went back upstairs. I…imbibed that night.” Miriam blushed at the confession.
“So did I,” Diana said, the memory of the moonshine sliding down her throat like berry-flavored kerosene. She was surprised that Miriam didn’t imbibe more often, given her seclusion.
“I did meet someone,” Diana added, an involuntary blush rising to her cheeks. “Two days ago, some O’Driscoll’s tried to come after the sheep. I thought I was a goner, until some cowboy shot them both in the head. It was like he shot at the speed of light, and twice as accurate. They didn’t know what hit them!” Diana was gushing now, and she couldn't stop. “Had a nice southern accent too.”
Miriam giggled, but there was a caution to her. “So…are you…”
Diana started. “Heavens, no!” she yelped. “No…I was talking about him…for you! If Eugene knew you could get a suitor, and if it was some strong cowboy like this man, then maybe-”
Miriam’s eyes, at their spilling point, gave Diana pause. She turned towards the window, looking down the center of the ranch.
“I know you love me like I’m your own…but please. You need to know me, too. You need to know that I’m not ready yet,” she choked.
“Miriam, I-” Diana stuttered. “I’m so sorry, I just thought…” she trailed off, and steadied herself, walking towards her stepdaughter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open up old wounds.”
“It’s not that old. Maybe to you it is, with your ranching and your sheep, but up here? Time moves like molasses, and grief twice as slow.”
Miriam was three times the reader Diana would ever be, and for good reason. It showed in these moments, where she seemed more the ghost of a poet than an imprisoned prairie nymph. Diana was almost unstung by her words.
“I…well, I can’t say I know, but I understand. Time will resume soon.”
“How?”
“Because I’ll kill Eugene if he keeps you here beyond your 18th birthday.”
“Good luck with that,” Miriam said, scoffing. “More likely he’ll just marry me off and you’ll never see me again. Send me off in the night…”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Diana said, setting herself up for a joke. “In fact, if he even tries-”
The pair were cut off by Pluto’s barking, right below the window. The dog was in earnest. All Diana knew was that Pluto only barked like this as an alarm. A warning.
“Damn,” she muttered. “It’s Pluto.” Miriam knew what she meant instantly.
“Father’s not supposed to be back this early! He wouldn’t even be halfway to Valentine yet!”
“Either way, it’s something. Pluto doesn’t mess around.” Diana moved to leave, before pausing. She reached into the small bag Seamus gave her, and pulled out the silver bracelet. She held out the pretty thing to Miriam. “Here,” she said, unhooking the clasp.
Miriam kept her wrist at her side, to Diana’s confusion. It wasn’t like Miriam to deny such a gift - it was something that kept her sanity, handling the trinkets from the wider world.
“Keep it. Give it to Josh,” she whispered, moving to her desk. She pulled out an envelope. “I know it's a waste of paper, too, but…” she handed the envelope to Diana. It said, in bold letters on the front, Dear Mother. “Burn these two and spread the ashes over both of them. They’re both in the envelope,” she said.
Diana knew immediately what she meant, and nodded. “I will,” she said, and paused. “I love you, Miriam,” she added.
“I love you too,” Miriam replied. “Now go. You know what could happen.” Diana hesitated, to which Miriam laughed. “I’ll be fine.”
“So will I,” Diana said, grinning. “What else could he do, anyway?”
Arthur Morgan
There was still sleep in Arthur’s eyes when he heard Tilly’s voice float over to him. A welcome wake-up, compared to something like Bill’s grumbling or the drunken singing of Reverend Swanson. Arthur had slept most of the day away after being on guard duty the night before.
“Hey, Arthur- oh, sorry. Want me to come back another time?” Tilly asked, concern showing on her face.
“Nah,” Arthur grunted as he rose. His neck popped as he turned his head to the side. “D’you need something?”
“I just got a message from Hosea - he said to ask if you could meet him at some place called Emerald Ranch. Said he found something, struck a deal with the foreman near there?”
Emerald Ranch. Arthur was glad for the excuse to go back there. He could check on his bear hide, swindle the tanner for some more stew or whiskey.
He could even get a look at that shepard again.
He cleared his throat, and responded. “Thanks, Tilly. I’ll head over now. Save me some stew, will ya?”
“Even if Pearson messes it up?”
“Even if he overcooks it. That's what whiskey is for.”
Tilly laughed, and walked away. Arthur moved to put on his old hat, but caught a glance of himself in his tiny mirror. His beard had grown bushy - Dutch had kept him busy these last few days. Hosea could wait a few minutes for a man to shave, right? Plus, arthur wanted to look presentable for a new client, or partner in crime, or whoever this foreman was. Nothing else to it.
Nothing at all.
Ares was chomping at the bit when Arthur got to him. The war horse, he had learned, was an impatient one, wanting to run amok at nearly all hours of the day. This was a bit of a nuisance, but good for the ride ahead. It was quite some distance to the ranch, over flat plains. Ares would have the time of his life galloping there - and he did. The ride was a good deal shorter thanks to the horse’s restlessness.
By the time Arthur arrived, it was evening, a golden light bathing the Heartlands. Hosea was perched and waiting by the big barn on the south end, talking to some crusty ranch hand who looked more like a criminal than most of the Van der Linde crew. Hitching his horse, Arthur could hear some of Hosea’s nonsense - the man was spinning some yarn about the supposed “layoffs” the gang had endured up north, a part of their grand cover story.
“Now, being short on money, many of us are forced to sell some of our most precious belongings, and if you tell me you have a market for such things, then we would be much obliged-”
“I buy and sell ‘lost’ things, mister. How they got lost is none of my concern, and I pride myself on my…discretion. I hope I can depend on yours,” the man replied.
Hosea seemed taken aback, but recovered quickly. Noticing Arthur, he waved, and brought him towards the ranch hand.
“Arthur, my boy, this kind man is Seamus, he’s the foreman here at Emerald Ranch. He has promised to turn our treasures that we find around here into gold, isn’t that right, Seamus?”
The foreman nodded curtly, and set a box down on the small counter he had built up.
“Jewelry, watches, even teeth, if you gottem,” he said. “Your old man here has given me quite a few things already.”
“That I have,” Hosea gloated. “And he paid a good price. I’d love to stay around and chat, but I have some affairs to attend to back at home. The wife must be furious by now!” he patted Arthur on the back, a shit-eating grin on his face as he turned. He was off, kicking dust in the air on horseback within the minute.
Turning to the foreman- Seamus - again, Arthur took some of his findings out of his bag. A few pocket watches, one gold tooth, nothing much to show.
“Well, these are fine material - platinum too? Hefty profit. A shame these bastards lost these things,” Seamus remarked.
“Shut up, you know what this is about,” arthur replied.
“You sure you don’t wanna buy anything from me? I have a nice assortment - moonshine too. Rings, necklaces, some nice things to bring back to a lady…”
“Boss man know you’re doing this?” Arthur asked.
“Jesus, no, he’d skin me alive. Or worse,” Seamus whispered, “take a cut of the profit. Now that we can’t abide. The missus doesn’t mind though.”
Arthur paused. Did this slime of a man mean…Diana? The shepard?
“Oh, so you’ve seen her?” Seamus asked, smirking. Arthur was acutely aware of his freshly shaved face. Should he have left some stubble on?
“...Yeah. saved her a few days ago from some of them O’Driscoll’s," Arthur replied.
“Oh, well at least you ain’t lookin for Miriam,” Seamus said. This was confusing, now - was Arthur supposed to know this other name?
“I probably shouldn’t ask, but….who’s that?”
“You're not from around here, so I’ll answer - for a price. Normally we keep this sort of thing on lock. For just a few dollars for a poor, poor underpaid foreman, you too can know-”
“For god’s sake man, tell me before I put a bullet in your head and take my business somewhere else!” Arthur spat the words out. He moved to grab his gun.
“Jesus sir, fine, I’ll throw in some moonshine too…” Seamus grabbed a bottle.
“Gimme that, ya clown. Now spill, like two men talking over drinks ought to.” Arthur said, grabbing the bottle and taking a sip. The shine was flavored - something sweet, like apple cider. Arthur had tasted stronger beer.
“And the money-ugh never mind,” Seamus looked dejected, and a bit afraid. Arthur liked his business partners that way - made ‘em less likely to squeal.
“So, Miriam is the daughter of Mister Eugene Wegner. She’s Missus Diana’s stepdaughter, and a fine, pretty girl. She had suitors from allllll over the Heartlands, and some from Rhodes too. One even came from Saint Denis. But she decided to shack it up with one of the farm boys in that old abandoned saloon. Now, Mister Eugene? He was never the same after that. Man went on a rampage like no other. He was never like to marry off Miss Miriam, and shot that farmhand dead when he caught them...copulating.”
Arthur hadn’t anticipated this much of a story. But then, he hadn’t expected to save a woman who turned out to be the missus of the ranch. He had to hide how invested he was - he felt like Mary-Beth must feel, everytime she read one of her novels.
“...okay? And then?”
Seamus snickered. “Take another sip, this here’s a doozy.”
“Fine,” Arthur said. The moonshine’s sweetness exploded in his mouth. It was still weaker than an old drunk taking a swing.
“Now, Missus Diana came back from some hunting trip to find the carnage, and threw a goddamn fit. Pulled some new fancy bow and arrow and aimed at Mister Eugene. Half the ranch drew on her before she put the bow down. Now, I don’t know the rest of the specifics, but after that day? Miriam’s been locked in that big ol’ house, and Missus Diana doesn’t sleep in the house except for one week, every month. Mister Eugene shouted something to the effect of ‘you wanna act like a savage, sleep outside like one!’ to her last time she tried to go in,” he continued.
“Now, I ain’t no gossip, or a snitch, but seeing as you seem interested, i’ll tell you myself; stay on Mister Eugene’s good side. Whatever kinda bandits you and your old man are, don’t steal from here. The man is a mean old bastard, sure, but he…there’s other stuff too. He’s a time bomb.”
Arthur nodded again, though he was left with plenty more questions. Before he could ask any of them, a big black lab came bounding down the lane, barking up a storm. Pluto.
A small buggy came barreling down the lane, almost running over the dog, who whimpered and spirited away. Behind the buggy, tethered to its back, was a magnificent horse, the same blue roan color as Ares.
“Woah!” the driver shouted. He was an old man, mutton-chopped. His face was a sour one, despite the steed he had in tow.
“Mister Wegner! New horse?” Seamus shouted back.
Wait. Was this man…
“That’s Mister Eugene. Be polite, man,” Seamus whispered to Arthur. “And put that damn moonshine away!”
“Meet my newest stallion, a horse - hic - fit for a king!” Eugene said. He was clearly drunk - it was a wonder he’d gotten back from Valentine in one piece. The stallion whinnied behind him. He didn’t look too thrilled with his new rider.
“Anwho’sthisfeller?” Eugene slurred, glancing briefly between arthur and seamus.
“This here’s a man lookin’ for goods, Mister Wegner. I was just about to send him over to Cripps to see if he wants any,” Seamus replied. Quick thinking, even though that wasn’t technically a lie.
“Great! Terrific! Have a good gander, sir! Now where’s my wife?”
The moonshine burned Arthur's throat at the question.
“W-what about her, Mister Wegner?” Seamus asked. Even he seemed nervous at the question.
“I’m gonna,” Eugene began, hiccuping as he spoke. “I shall have her tonight, a time for celebrating!” he leered.
A few things sunk in for arthur. While he’d known the woman- Diana - was married to this fool, it hadn’t dawned on him how much older Eugene was. The man must be at least 60 - and Diana was a young woman. She must be John’s age - and must’ve been even younger when she married the man. His stomach roiled, and he knew it wasn’t the damn moonshine.
Desperate to get out of the conversation, arthur murmured a goodbye to Seamus and rode down the lane to the store. Cripps was in the back, stirring the stew that was left.
“Hey, mister,” Arthur said, strolling up to the old man.
“Mister Morgan! The savior of sheep! Welcome back!” Cripps exclaimed. He too was clearly drunk, but a jolly one.
Before Arthur could respond, Cripps got a bit excited. “And have I got news for you, my friend!”
“Oh? About…”
“About your pelts, good man! I’ve made some fine things, you’ll love ‘em!”
Arthur tried to hide his disappointment, semi-successfully. The stew in the pot smelled delicious, but his stomach still churned with the thought of Diana and Eugene. He would’ve drank it away, if not for the fear of throwing it up. Damned moonshine.
He sighed, and gestured to Cripps.
“Let’s see ‘em then,” he said.
Some time later - it had to be an hour or more - Arthur sat atop Ares on a hill, east of the ranch. It really was a pretty spot, a glen - a good spot for hunting, if he had space on his horse. On the back of Ares sat a parcel. The old man Cripps had given arthur a grand tour of his tanning setup - complete with his plans on what to do with the gargantuan bear pelt arthur had given him.
“This thing is big enough to make 3 big coats,” Cripps had said, “but I’m loath to cut it all up like that! Maybe i could make it a wall-hanger for ya’!”
“Well, I’m sure that would look good, mister, but I’m not in the market for wall hangings. I’d have to have a wall, first,” Arthur replied.
“Well, then…how about a blanket then? In case you and your comrades get stuck up in the Grizzlies again.”
Normally, Arthur would have rejected such a thing - a blanket seemed like a luxury, given the shit that the gang had been up to lately. But feeling the heavy softness of the pelt, he caved. After all, Dutch was the one who’d said things were looking up for the gang, on the first day they settled onto their new camp. Who knew how long they’d be stuck here - may as well make Horseshoe Overlook feel like home.
“Sure,” he’d said. “Anything else you got for me, mister?”
“Well, I’ve got two gifts for ya. One’s from me, the other from the missus.”
Arthur’s heart skipped a beat as Cripps gave him the parcel that now adorned Are’s back.
“Don’t open them until you’re home. We like surprises, here mister Morgan. Hope you’re alright with that.”
And so Arthur sat atop the hill, a parcel at his back and a small moonshine bottle in his hand. As he took one final sip of the sweet stuff, he spotted a figure in the distance. It stood in a skirt and blouse before a gravestone, towards the train station.
He watched as the figure lit a small paper aflame, and let it burn on top of the gravestone.
Suddenly, she looked towards him, and appeared to squint, before waving. As the sun caught her hair, he knew instantly. The figure was Diana. He gave a small wave back, a sheepish one, and turned his horse. He would not even allow the setting sun to see his blush as he broke Ares back into a gallop.
#rdr2#the buck and the fox#diana wegner#arthur morgan x oc#rdr2 oc#rdr2 fandom#rdr2 community#red dead redemption 2
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OC Favorites Tag
Thank you so much for the tag, @jessica-writes22 and @quill-spills-ink. I really love both of your characters' favorite clothing.
Rules: What is your character's favorite items based on keywords given.
I am going to do this for Anabelle Vasser, the main character for Pale Fire.
My 1st words are: Sport, Song, Time of day, person, activity.
Activity: Anabelle's favorite activity is reading. In her summer manor located in Lucci, she has a large library that she will disappear into for hours. This library has large dark pecan bookcases lining the walls. There is also a spiral staircase heading to an upper level. This is also her favorite place to be.
Person: Before she has her children, her favorite person would be Seamus Jorinuson. They have a love and hate relationship, but he would do anything to protect her.
Song: This is hard as Arathean music is not the same as ours. She would have liked opera music dominated by castratos, but she also would have liked to listen to the music from the minstrels and troubadours. She loves to go to opera house in Olessa, the capital of the Olessan Empire. A real-life example would be anything from The Marriage of Figaro.
Sport: She enjoys watching a version of billiards and a rougher version of what we know as football. She also liked to watch bare-knuckle boxing.
Time of Day: Anabelle's favorite time of day is dusk. She enjoys watching the sunset with Seamus at his lavish manor in Glorendt. Preferably with a glass of wine in her hand.
I'm going to do this second round of keywords for Brennan Draig, a main character of Flight of the Dragon.
My 2nd set of words are cook, spot to relax, way to spend a day, animal.
Animal: This is a great question. Brennan recently had a hatred of dogs as when he was just a hatchling and learning to fend for himself dogs would terrorize him. As he spent more time with Alystin after the Huntsman Inn burnt to the ground, he started to have a newfound respect for Emray, her black and white malamute.
Cook: Brennan is an obligate carnivore. He typically likes his meat as raw as possible. Alystin has learned to cook any meat for a few seconds on each side and serve him. He especially enjoys a rare piece of deer steak.
Spot to Relax: As with most silver dragons, Brennan enjoys spending the majority of his time in the sky and resting on clouds. When the first time he was there, he had dew on his wings and plummeted to the ground only to save himself at the last moment. It is peaceful there, without little interruption. He does bring Alystin up in the sky once or twice since he known her. She shares his sentiment.
Way to spend the day: His favorite way to spend the day is to be hold up in his living quarters with Alystin as they tell each other riddles. Alystin has never came up with a riddle that could stump him, but he recognizes that she is terrific at their game -- even if, in his eyes at some points, she's just a short-lived human.
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Like Kicking a Quaffle
Today, the Spring Fling is happy to bring you a missing Dean/Ginny moment, courtesy of @hinnyfied - read on below, or on ao3 here.
Username: Hinnyfied
Pairing: Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley
Summary: Dean planned on a quiet morning to himself. A chance encounter in the common room changes all that.
Warnings: None
Dean awoke quite early on his first day of freedom. It was Saturday, and his O.W.L.s were finally over. Dean was quite certain that if he had to cram one more piece of information into his brain, it would simply burst, and he was relieved that his tortuous study schedule was behind him at last.
Despite the early hour, sunlight was already streaming into the dormitory, hinting at the summer holidays lurking just around the corner. Closed curtains and soft snores around him told Dean that Ron, Neville, and Seamus were still fast asleep. He glanced over at the bed next to Ron’s and was unsurprised to see that it was empty. In the few days that had passed since the fight at the Ministry, Harry had been making himself as scarce as possible, making sure to come to bed late at night and rise again long before the others in the morning.
The exact happenings at the Ministry were still a bit of a mystery, but Neville had filled him and Seamus in as much as he was able, clearing things up far more than the measly statement that Minister Fudge had put out the following day. Dean thought it was complete bullocks that the Ministry and the Prophet neglected to apologise to Harry and Dumbledore in their announcement of You-Know-Who’s return, and he wasn’t the only one. Seamus had been positively livid.
It frightened Dean more than he cared to admit to think about You-Know-Who being back. He had believed Harry from the start of course, but things would certainly change now that the dark wizard had ceased to hide in the shadows. Dean thought of his muggle sisters and shuddered.
Determined to start his day with more cheerful thoughts, he opened his bedside drawer and pulled out the fat stack of football magazines that his mother had sent to him. It was hard to get muggle news at Hogwarts, but his family had made sure to keep him up-to-date on the world cup. With all the chaos of his O.W.L.s, he hadn’t had the chance to read much of them yet, and he looked forward to catching up before the final match.
Dean decided to head down for an early breakfast while he read through the articles. The Great Hall would be fairly sparse that early on a Saturday, and it would be easier to concentrate without people around. Seamus would be annoyed that Dean went without him, but given that the alternative was for Dean to wake him up, he suspected Seamus would find it in his heart to forgive him.
After dressing as quietly as he could and sneaking out of the dormitory, he walked down the spiral staircase to the common room. Dean had fully anticipated being the only one up and about and was therefore surprised to find Ginny Weasley sitting in the puffy chair closest to the fireplace, combing through last night’s evening Prophet.
“Hey,” Dean said as he walked over towards her. She looked up from the paper.
“Morning,” she said, stifling a yawn. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be up this early.”
“Me neither.”
Dean hadn’t run into Ginny since her involvement at the Ministry, and he couldn’t help but notice that she looked rather poorly rested. It crossed Dean’s mind that perhaps Harry wasn’t the only one who wasn’t sleeping well these days.
“Your ankle alright then?” he asked tentatively.
“Yeah. Madam Pomfrey was able to mend it in a heartbeat,” said Ginny, her eyebrows raised. “How did you know about that?”
“Neville filled us in on the basics. When three of your roommates disappear all night without warning and one shows up again the next morning looking like hell, you tend to ask questions, especially when it’s the same night of some big altercation with You-Know-Who and one of said missing roommates is Harry.”
“I suppose you have to get used to that sort of thing, living with him and Ron. Bet you didn’t count on Neville though,” said Ginny with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“No. Neville was definitely a surprise,” said Dean, taking a seat in the chair across from Ginny. He caught a brief glimpse of Sirius Black’s mugshot from one of the inner pages of the paper as she folded it up and placed it on the table between them.
“Did you know him? Sirius Black?” Dean blurted out.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed, and she did not speak. Upon reflection, Dean supposed it sounded like a rather odd question given that the Minister had only briefly mentioned Black’s death in his statement to the Prophet, conveniently leaving out his innocence. To most readers, the statement could even be interpreted to mean that Black had been at the Ministry on You-Know-Who’s side. Dean thought of Harry and his anger at the Minister sizzled once again.
“Neville told me that he and Harry were close, that he was on our side,” Dean clarified. “I just thought maybe you and Ron would have known him too then.”
Ginny gave Dean an appraising look and seemed to accept that he could be trusted with the truth.
“I got to know him pretty well last summer, and we spent Christmas with him while my dad was in the hospital. He was a good man,” she said softly.
Dean was immensely curious as to how Ginny came to spend her holidays with an escaped convict, innocent or not, but thought it best not to ask for the time being.
“Look, I don’t know what all happened exactly, and I’m not asking,” Dean added quickly, holding his hands up, “but I think you’re really brave for having gone.”
“Thank you,” she said, pulling her hair behind her ear. Her cheeks flushed slightly.
They fell into a slightly awkward silence. It occurred to Dean that he and Ginny had never really been alone before. They had spoken plenty, goofing off together in DA meetings and making small talk while studying in the common room, but that had always been with other people and never regarding anything more serious than Quidditch or dreaming up ways to sneak a Skiving Snackbox into Umbridge’s food.
“What have you got there?” Ginny asked, gesturing to his stack of magazines. Dean was grateful for the subject change.
“Football articles. The world cup is happening right now, and I’m going to the final in London with my mum and sisters right after the end of the term. They’ve been sending me these so I can keep up with everything.”
Dean tossed one to Ginny, the Czech team unmoving on the front cover. Dean kept his muggle life a little closer to the chest these days. It felt as if with each passing moment, there were more people in the wizarding world who looked down on him for his muggle life, but he had no such reservations about Ginny, or any Weasleys for that matter.
“It looks like they’re kicking a quaffle around,” she said as she flipped through the magazine. Her eyes were bright and curious.
“Honestly, that’s not the worst description of football,” he said. “There’s only one ball though, no snitches or anything like that.”
“And they have to run back and forth across this massive field? What ends the match?” asked Ginny, not with the teasing tone often adopted by her brother when they discussed muggle sports, but with genuine interest.
“The matches are 90 minutes, played in two halves, and the winning team is the one with more points when the time is up.”
“Fascinating,” said Ginny, smiling at him. “That must get quite suspenseful.”
“It definitely can. That’s part of the fun though, isn’t it?”
“Sure, but what happens if they’re in a tie?” she asked, launching them into a far more detailed discussion about the rules of football than Dean had anticipated getting into when he woke up that morning.
The initial feeling of awkwardness had passed, and he was surprised to note just how comfortable it was to be around her, to let her into his world. Dean had never really appreciated just how pretty Ginny was, but as they chatted happily, he wondered more and more how oblivious he must be for her attractiveness to have escaped his notice all this time.
They went through several of the magazines, Dean going into great detail about his favourite teams, football strategies, and the most memorable games he’d been to as a kid. Much to Dean’s delight, Ginny was enthralled, asking endless questions and making frequent comparisons to wizarding sports. It was a glorious reprieve from the fear and anxiety of the last few days, and it wasn’t until Dean’s stomach gurgled hungrily that he realised just how long they had been talking.
“Hey Ginny?”
“Yeah?” she said, seemingly unable to prise her eyes from the page of the magazine displaying the bracket of teams.
“I was thinking I’d head down to breakfast soon. Want to join me? You can keep pestering me with football questions.”
Pestering? You bloody idiot, thought Dean, but before he could open his mouth to remove his foot, Ginny laughed.
“Pestering you?” she smirked, her eyes narrowing playfully as she looked at Dean. “As if you haven’t been loving every second of this.”
“You caught me,” he smiled. The butterflies that erupted inside him at the sound of Ginny’s laughter did not escape his notice.
“Let’s go. I’m starved,” Ginny said, closing the magazine and rising from the chair. “And for the record, I will spend the entire time asking you more questions. My father absolutely loves muggle stuff, and if I can properly teach him about a real muggle sport, it will cement my standing as his favourite child.”
“Well in that case, I’d be more than happy to be your tutor,” said Dean.
Their conversation continued to flow with ease as they walked through the portrait hole and down to the Great Hall.
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Wannabe
Summary: The Sixth Year Gryffindor boys discover the Spice Girls, but Harry only wants to be Ginny’s lover.
Yes, you read that right. This fluffy, kind-of-crack HBP missing moment was born from a conversation in the Hinny Discord (and my 90s tween years).
Content warning: If you aren’t into wank jokes, teenage boys shamelessly ogling pop icons, unfiltered Ron, and don’t agree that Sporty was the least attractive Spice Girl (apologies, Mel C), then this may not be the fic for you ;)
Since historical accuracy is paramount to this story (sarcasm), the magazine referenced in the fic is the March 1997 issue of The Face. Google it if you want to see the cover and photos (you know you want to).
Thank you @thedistantdusk, beta supreme, for editing and always encouraging my ridiculousness ;) Happy Thursday!
Read it below the cut, or on Ao3.
Harry flopped onto his bed, tired but pleased with how well the team was flying. At this rate, they’d have a fighting chance to win the cup against Ravenclaw, especially now that Katie was back. It’d been their best practice yet, although he’d been repeatedly distracted by Ginny, laughing at her antics, admiring the way her eyes blazed with determination just before she scored a goal, trying not to stare at her arse as she bent low over her broomstick.
“What’s that?” Ron said, jolting Harry from his thoughts.
Ron looked across the dormitory at Seamus, who sat on his bed staring intently at a magazine with Dean looking over his shoulder.
“See for yourself, mate.” Seamus smirked, holding up the magazine to reveal the cover, a Muggle photograph of five girls, all scantily clad in lingerie and extremely fit.
Harry sat up immediately for a better look. Even Neville, from his bed next to Harry’s, had his eyes glued to the cover.
Ron let out a low whistle. “Where’d you get that?” he asked, clamoring across the room to stand next to Seamus for a better look.
“Took it from my little sister over Easter hols and brought it back for Seamus,” Dean said, grinning. “Thought he’d appreciate it.”
“What’s your little sister doing with something like this?”
“Not what you’ll be doing with it later, that’s for sure,” Seamus said, making a rude hand gesture. Ron flipped him off as the rest of them laughed.
“They’re the Spice Girls,” Dean explained. “A Muggle singing group. All the girls are obsessed with them right now. Girl Power, you know?”
Harry didn’t know, but he decided he would very much like to find out as he walked over for a closer look.
“Fuck, they’re fit,” Ron said, looking over Seamus’ shoulder at the cover of the magazine.
Harry had to agree. There was a perky, smiling blonde, two brunettes in the middle with dark, shiny hair and sultry gazes, a redhead with great tits next to them, and a pretty girl with wild curls and tanned skin posed seated at their feet.
“And this is just the cover, wait ‘til you see the photos inside.” Seamus said, waggling an eyebrow.
“They’re everywhere right now- can’t turn on the radio without hearing their songs- they’re all over the telly too,” Dean said, as the rest of them continued to stare at the cover. “They go by nicknames, and the girls all have favorites.”
Dean pointed to the blonde. “This one’s Baby, there’s Sporty on her other side. The redhead is Ginger-“
“Original, that one,” Harry said dryly, and the others laughed.
Dean continued as the laughter subsided. “The one next to her with that stuck up look is Posh, and the one sitting down is Scary- she’s my sister’s favorite. I’m with her on that one.” He finished with a wink.
“Reckon Scary’s my favorite too,” Seamus said, his tone thick with bravado.
“No way,” Ron said, indignant, “that Posh one, she’s the fittest. Look at her legs.”
“Nah, she’s a bit too high and mighty. She looks like she’d always be telling you what to do,” Dean said.
“Just Ron’s type then,” Seamus quipped.
Dean and Seamus roared with laughter. Out of loyalty, Harry tried (but failed) to suppress his own laughter, his shoulders shaking with mirth.
“Oh, fuck off,” Ron replied, the tips of his ears red.
“What’s The Chosen One’s choice?” Seamus asked, turning to Harry.
Harry rolled his eyes. “I’d go with Ginger.”
“Oooooh, Harry picks the redhead,” Seamus said, eyebrow raised, exchanging a pointed look with Dean.
“Got a thing for gingers, do you then?”
Shit. Panic that his casual admission might reveal his most private, fiercely-guarded feelings about Ginny began to overtake him.
“Didn’t pick her for her hair color, mate,” Harry retorted, trying to sound flippant, as he gestured to her tits.
Seamus laughed and slapped Harry’s shoulder. Harry breathed a small sigh of relief, hoping that he hadn’t just made the fact that he fancied Ginny completely obvious. In truth, the girl did remind him a bit of Ginny- not just her hair color, but her build too, and something about the way she carried herself in the photo. He tried not to blush, though heat rushed to his cheeks. He stole a glance at Ron who, thankfully, was still gaping at the magazine and not paying attention to the exchange.
“What’s your vote, then, Nev?” Seamus asked.
Neville, standing next to Harry, his cheeks already pink, looked startled to be included. “Erm, she looks nice,” he said softly, motioning towards the blonde, “but they’re all good looking, really,” he added, his round face now flaming scarlet.
“Nobody for Sporty then?” Dean asked, laughing.
“Nah, who's picking Sporty over any of those four?” Ron said bluntly. “Let’s see what’s inside, then.”
The photo spread inside the magazine did not disappoint, Harry thought, taking in the individual, full body photos of each girl in very suggestive poses.
“Damn,” Ron said appreciatively.
“Told you it was good.”
The dormitory grew quiet for a moment as Seamus flipped through the pages.
“Wait,” said Ron, pointing to a line in the article, “This says the lyrics to their hit song are ‘If you wannabe my lover, you gotta get with my friends.’ Really?”
“Are you actually reading the article, mate? That’s impressive,” Harry said wryly.
“It’s true- heard it a million times over Easter break, that bloody song’s on the radio every other minute,” Dean replied.
“Well, it’s fucking terrible advice. What girl wants you getting with her friends?” Ron said.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
“Ron,” a voice called. Harry realized instantly that it was Ginny.
Fuck. Seamus shoved the magazine under the duvet as the rest of them scrambled to disperse, Neville tripping over his own feet, Ron hitting his head on the top of the bedpost as he ducked to sit on his bed.
“Come in,” Ron called.
Ginny opened the door and leaned on the side of the doorframe. She looked unfairly beautiful, Harry thought, her cheeks still rosy from practice, her long hair loose and flowing down her back, ending just above the swell of her arse, which looked fantastic in her tight joggers.
Her eyes narrowed as she took in the scene. The five of them had each ended up on their respective beds, fully dressed, shoes and all, with no books or parchment in sight. It must’ve looked strange.
She quirked an eyebrow. “You five having a cosy little chat?”
Neville chuckled nervously. Seamus coughed. Ron’s ears turned red. Dean stared at the duvet, determined to avoid her gaze, probably for a variety of reasons, Harry thought.
Ginny shook her head slightly. “Never mind, I’m sure I don’t even want to know,” she said, grinning at Harry. His cheeks grew warm, and he gave a slight shrug back.
She turned to Ron, her tone more serious. “Hermione asked me to get you. The Second Years were playing Exploding Snap at a table in the common room, and the explosion blew up some inkwells. There’s ink all over everything. She needs your help cleaning off the boys. Euan Abercrombie’s covered head to toe in it.”
“Little idiots,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. He stood and walked past Ginny onto the spiral staircase.
“Great practice, Harry,” Ginny said. She beamed at him, her smile brilliant, and in that moment, he wished, more than anything, that they were alone in the dormitory, instead of awkwardly surrounded by her (very recent) ex, Seamus, and Neville.
“You too. We’re going to flatten them,” he managed, hoping he didn’t sound like his breath was caught in his throat, which it was.
She just winked back. His heart, already fluttering faster than the wings of a snitch, skipped a beat. “Night all,” she said, with a wave to Neville.
As she closed the door, Harry sank back onto his pillows, thinking only of Ginny, the magazine long forgotten.
#hinny#hinny fanfic#hbp missing moment#sort of crack#fluff#spice up your life#unfiltered ron weasley
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Bite (Part Two)
Summary: Peter’s team is invited onto a big case in which their involvement will have serious consequences. (Part 2/3)
Word Count: 6,323
Warning: Brief mention of hard drugs and their abuse.
“Stupid me,” you grumbled, grabbing your bottles of sparkling cider and shoving them back into your bottom left desk drawer. “I should never get cocky.” The glimmering, golden, spiralized ribbons wrapped around their necks felt like they were particularly insulting. It took a lot of self-control not to grab your scissors and snip them off for the trash.
You’d been so excited for the case to end. So, so excited for the case to finally be over and things in the office to go back to normal, and for you to finally have that talk you and Neal decided to put off for “later”. Now you had share-size bottles of cider and a big case of plastic cups in your desk and no reason to share it and get it out.
“Y/N,” Diana said, watching you move with terse movements. “It could’ve gone so much worse.”
You knew that. Damn it, you knew that, you did, but you still didn’t feel much better. Neal was still alive, but your victory was taken away. Instead of being held accountable for his actions, Brady got to just take a permanent escape. There was no retribution, there was no restitution. No justice for the man he murdered or for any of the poor victims who made the mistake of trusting him. You put all your energy, all your time into this freaking case and now it was all for nothing because the coward preferred to die than go to prison, and had threatened to kill in order to force Peter to honor his wish.
Diana spoke again, trying to get your attention. “Neal could be hurt a lot worse.”
“Yeah, Di, I know he could’ve been,” you said through gritted teeth. “I still wish that ass were still here so I could kick him in the goddamn face for putting a knife to my friend’s throat.”
~~~ Bite ~~~
Brady tried to arrange a meeting as soon as possible, but Neal, playing his enthusiasm down to be sure not to jump too high, managed to delay the second rendezvous to Wednesday afternoon. According to the artist, the embezzler wasn’t happy with waiting but had more decorum than to insist that a man not even in his employ drop everything when called, and this gave you time to implement the operation you had spent the last week preparing for.
Peter had a thorough game plan. Neal as going to be wearing a wire fully concealed by his clothes, and the techs knew to thread the microphone so that it was covered by his tie in case he was patted down. Stealth aside, Peter, Madeline, and Ruiz were all confederates in Brady’s company suite, Damien had the back exits and fire escape covered, Matt and Diana were in the lobby looking busy, and you and Jones were in the van, coordinating all teams.
You had executed plenty of highly successful operations before with less manpower, but this one somehow went so wrong that you weren’t even sure how. Neal went in without even acknowledging your confederates, and he arrived separately from your unmarked vehicles. There was nothing linking him to the bureau. Brady received him with the smarmiest facsimile of hospitality you’d ever heard and invited him into his office.
The first five minutes were tense for all of you. You, especially, were feeling particularly wound up. Fidgeting your knee made Jones give you a look, but not being able to do anything was one of the worst assignments you could have possibly gotten. Neal made friendly with Brady, and Brady brought up how there was a fed questioning his practices. Peter made a petty comment which somehow helped to relax your nerves, and Brady hypothetically asked Neal what experience he might have with nosy feds.
After that, it went quiet. To occupy yourself, you imagined what expressions Neal might be making, what gestures, what body language he was using to say-without-saying that the feds weren’t as smart as he was.
The quietness lasted too long. Twenty seconds. Thirty.
“Is anyone else hearing anything?” Matt asked with his voice low, calm but concerned.
You turned on the switch allowing for you and Jones to talk over the communicators. “Our bugs aren’t the problem,” you answered to everyone, glad that someone else was the one to ask. Even after you responded, there was still no noise from Neal, or anyone in the office with him. “Damien?”
“Here,” Ruiz’s agent reported.
You frowned nervously. Something was off. “Neal, if you can hear, cough.”
There was still nothing – not just the absence of a cough, but the absence of any audio at all. It sounded louder than anything before it had, like white noise. With the rest of the earpieces fully functional, that made it clear something was very wrong.
“Peter, how far are you from the office?” Jones asked, standing up as you did the same and getting his sidearm from the collapsible table.
No answer came, even when Jones tried again, this time asking for Ruiz, and then for Madeline. Diana answered when prompted, but none of the wires in Brady’s suite were responding.
~~~ Bite ~~~
CSI found a signal jammer in one of Brady’s desk drawers after the body had been taken away, which explained why you had lost contact with your team. As soon as your team leaders realized that they couldn’t contact Neal or any of their backup, they stormed the office.
You got the chance to read Peter’s statement. He had moved impulsively, rashly, before Ruiz had made the same call. He was the first to enter, and he had kicked the door in to do so. Neal had been put down on his knees with a bloody lip, and the embezzler had held a sharp hunting knife to Neal’s throat. Neal was begging him not to do it. Your heart clenched when you read and it almost made you put the paper down, but it had gone so far sideways that you needed to know in case you were facing a review. Once Brady saw Peter’s gun and knew that he wasn’t leaving, he raised the knife and charged the agent. Peter had to shoot him twice before he fell, and he was dead before Ruiz got into the room.
Neal was able to report later that he had been made since before he even entered the building. It wasn’t a problem with the specific operation – it was that Seamus Brady had known exactly what Neal and Peter were up to, and he had turned the tables, using the con to lure Neal into an ambush. Ruiz went on what you would call a rampage and if Peter hadn’t been busy making sure that Neal was okay, and stunned by the blood on his own hands, you were sure he would’ve been laying into everyone, too. There had to be a leak somewhere in the bureau, either in the WCCD or in Organized Crime. Hughes heard the case, heard Neal was sent to the hospital and Peter had been forced to fire, and ordered everyone off. Ruiz’s division chief did the same, and the two together disbanded the Brady task force.
Neal went to the hospital to be checked out and was released within a few hours. Peter drove him home and then went back to Brooklyn, where he called in on Thursday and claimed to be sick. No one bought it, but no one bought him on it, either. Peter hadn’t done anything wrong, but the cost of protecting himself was staggering, and in your division you rarely, if ever, had such an event occur. No one could blame the man for wanting to stay home with Elizabeth for a day or two. Similarly, Hughes called Neal and said that he didn’t need to come in on Thursday, and on Friday morning, Neal called in sick, as well.
A brass from over Hughes’ head came and questioned Peter’s team that Friday. You, Diana, and Jones put your heads together so you could give as clear a picture as you could, but you had missed so much that all you could really offer was a photocopy of the statement Peter wrote and a promise to forward one of Neal’s once the conman issued his own. You went to Organized Crime for just a couple of minutes, saw Madeline at her desk, and compared notes. The same steps were being taken in their division as in yours, but they had even less to offer because Ruiz had been behind.
Peter and Neal both returned to the office on Monday. Peter had rebounded, for the most part, but Neal looked like he had hardly slept. It didn’t help that OPR also came to the WCCD on Monday, opening an investigation into who tipped off Brady. Your brain knew that the vast majority of OPR agents were well-intentioned and following orders, but after everything that happened with Fowler, having them around made you feel like your office had a roach problem.
The entire week passed in slow motion, and as it did, you watched Peter grow both stable and weary – stable as he accepted what he had been forced to do, and weary as he accepted that, yet again, he had to look over his shoulder for a traitor within the bureau. It was a heavy weight on all of you, but none of you felt it more than the Burke-Caffrey duo, and you wished you knew how you could help. While Peter at least recovered from the ambush itself, you saw Neal moving in the opposite direction. He pulled away from everyone, preferring quiet and solitude. He was willing to spend time with Peter during lunch breaks, and make small talk when prompted, but he didn’t act like the social butterfly he usually was and he didn’t return your friendly attempts at flirting.
It hurt to watch him withdraw. You hadn’t seen him doing such a thing since Kate had died, but even this was on a completely different dimension. When the jet exploded, Neal emotionally withdrew but he wanted to seem like he was fine. He slapped on a veneer of happiness to hide the anger and devastation, and he used friendships to distract himself from how badly it hurt to be alone with his thoughts. This was different – he was physically present, but he wasn’t making any attempts at acting as he normally did.
While waiting for the Brady case to make another move, you had started to complain to yourself that your “later” wasn’t going to ever come. Now, as he turned down offers to leave the building for lunch, failed to reciprocate any signs of interest, and rebuffed any attempts to have a conversation that didn’t strictly revolve around work, you were thinking that it really might not ever happen. Worse than thinking that the romantic potential might go unfilled was the hurt you felt at the threat of losing a good friend.
The second week after Neal was ambushed, OPR left the WCCD in peace without any answers as to who betrayed the team, Peter was able to lower his figurative hackles, and Neal started to reengage – but, like with Kate, it was just a veneer. He started to banter with Peter and talk to you, but nothing went deeper than the surface and even though he acted like normal, happy, healthy Neal Caffrey, that was all it was. Acting.
It wasn’t up to you to decide how quickly he needed to get over a near-death experience, and you knew that. You never thought you had the right to try. But, you did have the right to worry, as long as you didn’t shove it onto him, and so you worried to yourself while keeping your eyes on him. Unfortunate as it was, Neal was no stranger to near-death experiences. When you compared what happened during that case to what had almost happened in the past, you couldn’t understand why it would have shaken him up so much. Getting a bullet blocked by a Bible in front of his chest, having the air sucked out of a sealed room, almost boarding a doomed plane, being in an apartment with an assassin, confronting and being placed in a variety of nearly-fatal situations by Adler, and a number of other close calls hadn’t shaken him up for more than a couple days, so it mystified you how one sole creep with a knife had a more profound impact on Neal than losing Kate.
~~~ Bite ~~~
After two weeks, you were done thinking about “later”. You would’ve happily taken what you had before it went down and been grateful to have the old Neal back. You laid in bed on Saturday night wondering who you would find when you went to work the next Monday. Would your friend be back at his desk, or was it going to be the shellshocked victim? If it were the latter, was he going to be ready to accept the support that you had already tried to offer?
While thinking about him, you did come to an important epiphany. You figured out what made this near-death experience so much worse than the others: someone Neal trusted had been the one to cause it. Brady had held the knife and he was guilty of all of his actions, for sure, but he wouldn’t have lured out and tried to hurt Neal if it hadn’t been for someone in the FBI tipping him off to the operation. Neal had come to respect the individuals who worked in the division, and although he wasn’t going to try to move into the office, he felt comfortable and safe within its walls. That sense of safety had been ripped away, and he didn’t have the option of avoiding the space that now felt dangerous.
You should’ve thought of it sooner. OPR had made your skin crawl, but you had been focusing your energy on the wrong thing. A leak in the office unsettled you, but you had a clean record, no gripes with anyone, and your neck wasn’t sticking out off a perilous ledge. You had no reason to fear the leak except for on the basis of principle. Neal, however, had a felony conviction, a long list of people who may want him hurt or dead on principle or for revenge, and was frequently enlisted as the WCCD’s personal piece of criminal bait.
What would it feel like to not feel safe at work? To know there was a knife in your back and not know who put it there? If you were in his position, you thought that paranoia might be crippling. You also thought you’d have no choice but to rely emotionally on your friends, the ones you knew for certain would never harm you, not withdraw from them. Surely Neal knew some people that it wasn’t – Peter, whom he’d known in one capacity or another for going on a decade; Diana and Jones, for almost two years. Certainly, he knew you’d never try to get him killed. Maybe you didn’t have as long of a history as he had with Peter, but you had a history, nonetheless, and it was a good one. If anyone were going to rat him out, it would have to be someone from Ruiz’s side of the task force, or maybe someone who accessed the plans and files without actually being assigned to the team.
Fear wasn’t rational, you knew that, and you knew Neal did, too. He was too clever about people not to know how powerful emotions could be. That didn’t mean it was a good thing for him to be socially isolating himself to any degree. Cases like this were when he should be keeping closer to his friends than ever. If he wasn’t sure about who those friends were, then you were just going to have to show him.
You woke up early on Sunday morning and Googled a few minutes to find a breakfast restaurant in Neal’s radius that looked particularly delicious, and then you made the trip to the west side of Manhattan as the sun was still rising. You couldn’t keep waiting for him to get better and pretending to be fooled by the way he acted like he was fine at work. He was your friend, damn it, and friends took friends out for breakfast and made them talk when they were distressed. Neal had had more than two weeks to come around on his own. Time to give him a gentle push. If he were reticent, then you’d just have to push a little harder and prove you’d catch him. Like an emotional trust fall.
It was a little after seven when you got to June’s. You weren’t trying to blitz attack Neal, but you did want to get to him before he left the house on his own plans. One of June’s cars was gone, so you pulled into the driveway, knowing you wouldn’t be here long. You parked and turned off your car, then double-checked that nothing valuable was left visible from the windows before unbuckling your seatbelt.
Before you got out of the car, you looked up to June’s house to admire the old building and saw motion on the porch. For just a heartbeat you thought Neal might have seen you pulling in and came out to meet you, but then you realized the person coming out had long hair and was wearing a shimmering black dress. To each his own, but they were five foot six, tops.
You stayed put to assess. It felt uncomfortably like spying and the agent in you was uncomfortably okay with that. The person turned around and you didn’t recognize her face. Her hair was a little snarled and her dress had some oddly-placed wrinkles. You spent a lot of time at the office, but not so much that you didn’t know what a walk of shame looked like.
“Maybe I should have texted ahead,” you said to your empty passenger seat, somewhat amused. It looked like Neal had a way of coping, after all.
She walked off the porch and went to the street, looking down at her hands. You were trying to avoid the awkwardness of being seen, so you pressed yourself back against your seat and watched her through the side mirror when she came into view. The lady didn’t even look at your car, instead moving her fingers on her phone.
“Wait,” you said softly, narrowing your eyes to look closer. She wasn’t holding a phone, the motions of her fingers weren’t right.
Since she wasn’t even looking, you shifted around up onto one knee to look directly out the rear window. She got to the sidewalk from the driveway and started going east, towards Broadway, and as she turned to follow the street you got a better look at what she was holding. It was a wad of cash, and she was counting the bills.
You turned back around and dropped into your seat, narrowly avoiding giving your thigh a hard knock on the steering wheel.
A woman leaving Neal’s address, as June isn’t home, while in last night’s clothes and counting bills.
You felt breathless. What were you supposed to say, to yourself or to Neal, about what you had seen? Breakfast was off the table. You pulled your seatbelt back over yourself and started the car, leaving him none the wiser to your visit, so you could have time to think.
~~~ Bite ~~~
You stalled on talking to Neal for days. There were four very long days, almost an entire business week, where you wracked your brain trying to come up with another explanation for what he was doing. Neal freaking Caffrey hooking up with an… escort? There was no way, absolutely no way. Okay, so you supposed it made sense that if he needed something to lift his spirits, sex worked for most everyone. But even if you assumed that his looks and intellect and charm had suddenly become completely useless in the world of romance and sex (and you were one hundred percent sure that wasn’t the case), there was no way he was stupid enough to risk everything he had just to get laid. Victimless or not, solicitation of a prostitute was breaking the law and if anyone found out, Neal would go straight back to prison.
So you just kept telling yourself that it wasn’t what it had looked like. You kept telling yourself that you misread the situation, that there was some important piece of context you just weren’t aware of, and you kept trying to think of what it might be. Because you were trying so hard to convince yourself of that other piece’s existence, you resisted the urge to conclude he was seeing a prostitute – because if you came to that conclusion, you were legally obligated to report it. And if you reported it, and Neal couldn’t factually disprove it, then your friend was going back to prison for a crime that you didn’t personally believe should be a crime in the first place.
The problem was that it had been four days, and you couldn’t think of anything to explain why Neal had seen a woman out early in the morning with a going-away gift of cash. If it wasn’t solicitation, then it had to be something worse – conspiracy for a white-collar crime, maybe, or worse, drugs. Drugs would explain why she looked unkept.
The conspiracy option seemed like the most likely bet, but Neal of all people knew how thin his ice was, and he wasn’t going to start tap dancing on it by relying on strangers not to narc. He had a small circle of people whom he trusted. You were reasonably confident that you’d met everyone on the list, and the woman whom you’d seen leaving wasn’t one of them. Plus, since Alex, you were pretty sure Neal learned to stop mixing business with pleasure, so it wouldn’t account for why she had stayed the night.
Drugs only occurred to you on Wednesday, and you’d nixed it by lunchtime. You wouldn’t put it past Neal to have experimented once or twice with some less intense stuff, but you’d known him too long not to know if he had a particular vice, and he didn’t. Sometimes he smoked when he was stressed, but that was it. You carefully tried to see if there were any signs of a new habit, but Neal looked healthy, his mind was sharp, his hands were steady, and there was no discoloration anywhere on him. Addicts were good at hiding addictions, but it hadn’t been long enough for Neal to get that far down the rabbit hole, so you took comfort in knowing that he wasn’t slowly poisoning himself.
Without those options on the table, though, there was no alternative to a prostitute. One part of you wanted to just let it go and pretend you hadn’t seen anything. It wasn’t like you’d seen them screwing so it wasn’t shirking responsibility to fail to report – you didn’t know for sure anything illegal had happened. When the worse alternatives included heroin, you were tempted to just be relieved that the most likely reality was consenting adult activity. The other part of you was just so… disappointed. You knew how clever he was. Of all the things to risk his parole over, this was what he chose?
Being a pushover wasn’t a quality for any good agent to have. Avoiding conflicts wasn’t exactly what you were known for – you liked to handle things as they came up, rather than letting them fester. Now, though, you felt like such a wimp, cowering from a conversation you needed to have just because you were afraid of how it might go. Even that unpleasant feeling of knowing you were letting yourself down didn’t motivate you into gathering your wits and putting your foot down – it was what happened at lunch.
You went in to get your salad from the fridge and happened to cross paths with Peter and Neal, who were already in the kitchen brewing themselves more coffee. You said a pleasant greeting to them both, putting aside the lurching feeling in your stomach when you saw Neal smile at you. He still didn’t know you’d seen anything. He didn’t know you’d spent the week trying to decide how to respond.
“What’s good?” You asked, opening up the fridge and taking out your meal.
“Not the coffee,” Neal quipped, earning himself a side-eye from Peter. “What about with you? You’ve seemed a little intense this week. Good case?”
Heh, I wish. So he had noticed there was something wrong. Well, so had you – he was convincing but you weren’t fooled by his back-to-normal demeanor. “Not good as in interesting,” you said, going along with what he thought. The middle of the bureau wasn’t the place to ask Neal what the hell he was thinking, and any time when another agent was around was the wrong time. “But particularly challenging, and I think I’m close.”
“That’s a good feeling,” Peter commented, smiling slightly. He’d always had a good work ethic. It made you happy to work under him and you felt a little bit guilty for lying. “Just don’t forget to take time for yourself.”
“I may not be married, but I still have my own life,” you teased him. It was well-known that your boss was a workaholic. Were it not for his wife, he’d spend even more time in the office. “I might even make weekend plans.”
You stuck your thermos in the microwave as Peter chuckled and Neal gasped in overdramatic surprise. It made you smile at the appliances. Being so tense for the last week, and worrying about Neal for the last several, had almost made you forget how much you liked your work environment and your friends.
“Weekend plans doing what?” Neal asked, his grin just big enough to show a little flash of his front teeth.
Your weekends were never very exciting, but at least you were able to quickly think of something that rhymed with your streaming service. “Hulu and Cthulhu,” you said smartly as the microwave dinged.
Neal laughed. “Very cultured, Agent Y/L/N.”
“You know it.” You clicked your tongue at him with a wink. “What about yours?”
“Ah, I might have a friend over,” he answered smoothly, and you raised your eyebrows, wary that he was referring to a paid friend and not a real one.
“Mozzie?” Peter guessed.
“Sh,” Neal rebuked, glancing meaningfully between Peter and the doorway. “The walls have ears.”
“He’s literally been here,” the investigator grumbled, forever exasperated by Haversham’s paranoid distrust of every government official in the world.
The microwave dinged and you took your thermos out and picked up a plastic spork. “Yes, and now I bet he has PTSD,” you joked.
“And I’m the one who has to hear all about it,” Neal complained. His tone wasn’t giving much away – he could have been either joking with you or completely serious, and somehow not knowing made it a little funnier. You were never sure what to make of Mozzie, so the ambiguity was suited to him. “Good luck on your case.”
“And on yours, guys,” you replied as you took your lunch and went back out into the bullpen, heading for your desk to work through your break.
It was only a couple of minutes after you sat down again that you realized Neal had deflected the question of who his friend actually was. Maybe he was just taking it for granted that you and Peter knew it was Mozzie after he hadn’t said no, but part of you just said it wasn’t that simple. The principle of Occam’s razor rarely applied to Neal – which was just unfortunate, because your life would be so much easier if it did. You needed to talk to him before he had the chance to repeat whatever he had done last weekend, because if you didn’t, then he might make a huge mistake.
~~~ Bite ~~~
Your time to talk to him came towards the end of the day, and you didn’t even have to make up a good excuse to get him out of the building alone. Peter came by your desk an hour before the workday usually ended, almost blushing and quickly hurrying to explain how it was his turn to pick up the dog from the groomer’s and he had to hurry or the groomer would call El and then his wife would find out that he forgot a shared domestic responsibility again. Okay, so he didn’t say anything past his wife being called, but you weren’t exactly new to the office. You knew how it worked.
Anyway, you said you’d let Hughes know where he was if you were asked, and that you could give Neal a ride back to Riverside. If he didn’t have the tracking anklet, he could take public transportation, but public transit never ended up going straight to his apartment, and it was almost an eight mile walk, and since federal plaza was already out of his radius, letting him go home alone made the U.S. Marshals all skittish. It was easier to just carpool with everyone’s favorite ex-con in the passenger seat.
Neal was usually a very animated passenger, but like his demeanor at work, he was more subdued in the car than he used to be, and another pang hit you in the chest as you wondered if he behaved like this in Peter’s car, too. You wanted so badly to believe he wasn’t just choosing to shut you out, specifically.
“I have satellite,” you said casually while waiting at a traffic light. You felt like your heart was pounding, and between that and the emotional chest ache, you almost felt like a trip to the ER should be in order. “I decided to start paying. Better music, less commercials.”
Neal shrugged. “It’s just a few more minutes.” Except in rush hour traffic, it was actually closer to fifteen. In spite of his lacking enthusiasm, he took the hint after a few seconds and reached for the stereo controls, turning the satellite stations on and flipping between a few until he could something that wasn’t pop, rock, or rap.
The music made the ride less awkward and you kicked yourself for it in hindsight. At least when the silence had seemed loud, it would’ve been easier to break it with words instead of radio. June’s address drew closer and as it did, you had the sinking feeling that you weren’t going to have the courage to say anything, no matter how serious you knew the situation was.
Too many feelings.
“Can I come inside?” You asked, apparently out of the blue, glancing across the car at him. Neal’s eyebrows were up and his lips slightly parted when he looked back from the window, surprised as you’d ever seen him. “We don’t talk much anymore,” you lied with a little shrug. “Haven’t had much time for it, I guess. But we could do coffee.”
Neal took a second to respond, and you were sure that he was going to politely reject you. Instead, his expression became a little more open as he considered and dropped a hand onto his knee. “Yeah, that sounds nice,” he agreed, and then looked back out the window.
After that, it became less painfully uncomfortable, at least on your end. Invitation secured, you stopped worrying. You were going into his home – backing out wasn’t an option. What was an option was doing what you could to try taking care of your friend, and hopefully that would include setting him on a better direction and figuring out what the hell had happened in Brady’s loft. You even felt hopeful that in a couple of weeks’ time, things would be back to normal and your friendship would rebound like none of this had ever happened.
You made it to Riverside and fortunately found curbside parking. June had a driveway, which was a luxury for a Manhattan residence, but she also had two cars already in it and you hated feeling like you were blocking anyone in. Neal reiterated the welcome for you to come inside and you went in with him, looking around June’s first floor with curiosity before following the artist up to his rented space. It looked cleaner than it usually did… not that Neal was a slob – far from it, in fact – but the penthouse looked a little less homey than usual and it was extra concerning.
You took your shoes and coat off by the door after Neal hung his jacket on the coat rack. “Italian or Ethiopian?” He asked, striding into the small kitchen and opening up the cupboards to the left of the fridge.
“Ethiopian,” you replied and watched him take a name-brand bag of coffee grounds off of the shelf. You’d never had it before but Neal had good taste.
While he brewed coffee, you took a quick look through the parlor section of the open-floor plan, seeing the records and books that he had opted to keep accessible. Neal’s tastes in music were in line with what you would have expected. He liked instruments, and when it came to singing, he liked classics. His reading interests were more eclectic, but that, you supposed, was part of how he kept his skills up. Neal was very proud of his excellence in art, but he also went out of his way to be a sort of jack of all trades so that he could connect with a mark on some level, no matter what it was they were into.
Once you couldn’t hear the coffeemaker running anymore, you treaded to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair to sit. Neal brought two mugs over a moment later. “It’s how you like it,” he remarked, setting one in front of you and sitting only a couple of feet away with his.
A real smile came to your face. “You remember.”
“Of course I remember,” he said, giving you an almost playful look like you should know better. “I never forget a coffee order.”
“I thought it was names you never forget.”
“I never forget either,” he replied without missing a beat, smiling slightly over the edge of his mug.
“Silly me,” you commented. The roast tasted almost like a heavy tea, but it was good. You put it down on the table, then reached for your belt and took your badge off. You put it facedown next to your coffee and Neal’s attention was rapt.
“Is there unofficial business I should know about?” He asked. His tone and words were light, but you could see a very subtle change in his face that you would have completely missed if you hadn’t been watching for it.
“I don’t want you in trouble and I’m not gonna start any,” you responded, tilting your head. Neal had taught you that a lot of crime was actually in shades of grey, and after Peter had begun to loosen up, you started thinking that maybe there was really something to the lessons Neal occasionally espoused. One of them was that sometimes the ends justified the means, as long as the means fit within a moral framework that prioritized human wellbeing. “I saw something on Sunday. I came to pick you up for breakfast and there was a woman leaving. She had cash.”
Neal put his mug down and reached for his face. Slowly, he rubbed his hands over his eyes, and then his cheeks, his head down tiredly. You were curious how he would play it, and simultaneously hoped he wouldn’t try to play you at all.
“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to read it,” you continued quietly. “But you have to know that the most obvious reading isn’t worth going back to prison over.”
Neal drew in a long, tight breath, through which his shoulders barely moved. “No,” he agreed, sounding absolutely exhausted. “It’s not.” He moved his hands, and then you saw in his eyes the same look that he’d had after the op went south weeks ago. He looked like his spirit had been beaten down, and he was so weary he couldn’t summon the energy to hold his shoulders up. “It’s not what it looked like.”
“Tell me what it was, then,” you prompted gently. It wasn’t your intention to violate his privacy or push very far. Despite the symbolic gesture you had made, your badge was still right there and you were still an agent of the FBI. You weren’t interested in that being a factor in how much or how little Neal chose to reveal to you – you wanted to be his friend first and foremost. But you also weren’t sure how much you truly wanted to know, or how much Neal would tell you regardless of whether or not you were a fed.
The artist rested his elbow on the table, still turned towards you in his chair. After he lowered his eyes from your face, he didn’t look up for a couple of very long moments. Because you knew him well, you waited patiently. If he had decided he wasn’t going to tell you anything, then he wouldn’t be looking away from you. Neal was very good at issuing a challenge without being overtly confrontational, and right now, he wasn’t challenging your right to know, just… figuring something out in his head. Thinking.
“I want you to know that I didn’t intend for this to happen,” he said finally, lifting his head. His usually kissable lips were frowning. “And I tried resisting.”
That made you frown. What was there to resist? Coercion? “Resisting what?” You asked him worriedly.
That worry only increased tenfold when he answered, “Blood.”
~~~~~
~~~~~
A/N: This is part two of three. There will be one more chapter after this.
If you like my writing and would be interested in skipping the request queue, please consider commissioning me on Ko-Fi. Imagines are $1 each and a 2,500-word oneshot is $4.
#white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen#lawmen-and-conmen#White Collar#white collar x reader#neal caffrey#neal caffrey x reader#peter burke#reader insert#request#series#bite#casefic#x reader
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Can you show us Harry getting jealous of Orion because Hadrian pays him more attention? And a picnic with the whole family(Evans, Lupin & Black, and Potters), where they play games and stuff and Harry stares longingly at Hadrian but everybody thinks he's staring at Bill. Both the Evans are totally oblivious)
This is oddly specific but in a good way anon. So here is my attempt to fullfill your request.
Based off the wonderful fic C’est La Vie by the ever talented @cywscross. Ya’ll should read it if you have the chance.
The picnic is an unofficial tradition that started sometime in the last magical war. Maybe it was to left their spirts in dreadful times, maybe it was a show of defiance against the blood supremacists’ fear tactics or maybe as the Weasley twins put it, the picnic was just an excuse the adults needed to relax and have a bit of fun.
Whatever the case, the picnic happens every spring, when the weather grew warmer and the grass returns from its frosted slumber, dressing the ground in brilliant green. They always rented a little space in the forest of Dean’s camping sights.
It wasn’t much but it had muggle repealing wards, along with warming charms and offered some picnic tables. It was also in a clearing in the middle of the woods, allowing the sun to peek down on them, with enough trees to hide any that wished to fly their brooms.
Harry wasn’t one to normally notice this but today that sunlight was resting in Hadrian Evans’ hair like a glowing crown and it was distracting. So terribly distracting.
He had to force himself to notice nature just so he wouldn’t be caught staring at Evans. This silly infatuation he’s developed for the other boy since the beginning of the year was rapidly getting out of control.
Everything Evans did only made it worse, but most especially whenever the other boy lost his temper. He was light a firework bursting in sudden colorful flames that left him feeling awe in the glory of it. Harry was beyond frustrated about that fact.
He’s tried to talking to Evans after the incident, but the other avoided him like a plague, choosing Orion over him. That’s never happened before. The more Harry pushed to get his attention away from the mutt the more of Evans’ beautiful fury he saw- which on one hand was good and on the other, it wasn’t.
As the year progressed, Evans started to get closer to the Slytherin and the Golden Trio (but that was more after Evans was un-petrified and Longbottom’s guilt drove him to seek the green eye boy out). Not to mention Diggory and Lovegood, who was often spotted with the group as well.
It was darn near impossible to get close to Evans. Harry was slowly losing his mind, whining to Dean and Seamus over his newest problems. His friends weren’t much help, seeing as they never had a significant other either, but they listen to him anyway.
His dad thought it was hilarious and even his mom couldn’t fight back the twitch of her lips when Harry let some of the love problems become verbal to them the first time. Though he never said the name of the boy and his parents were old aware of his crush being, male, dark wild hair, and green eyes.
They must have guessed correctly since his Dad kept sending him teasing smirks whenever they passed by Dimension Hoppers during the Easter holidays.
Since they both knew about his maybe-crush (could he call it that?) they were quick to agree when Sirius asked to invite the Evans boys to the yearly picnic. Harry had overheard Evans mention his big brother before but he never actually met the man properly (The meeting after the fight was spent with him more worried about his nose and the sudden realization how pretty Evens is to really pay attention to the oldest)
When the pair of brothers arrived, Harry had almost forgotten how to breathe. Walking towards them almost in slow motion, the Evans brothers were wearing muggle shorts and muscular shirts, both laughing at something the other had said, and honestly who gave them the right to look like that!? Who gave them the right to wear something like that while looking like that?!
He’s a half-blood himself but he preferred robes since his mother didn’t really go visit the muggle world. He couldn’t understand how muggles were so comfortable in those restricting clothes. Especially those near his age, they were always wearing something bright or stupid on their clothing.
Often times, they were fitted like a second skin and quite frankly didn’t do a lot of them favors. Nothing beats the flowing elegance of robes, highlighting the possibility of a body in Harry’s opinion.
It certainly didn’t do the mutt any favors.
Harry had thought Orion looked ridiculous in those muggle pants and printed shirt, the words “Moon-Walking away from my problems” in bright silver on black made the muggle shirt that much more hideous.
That was until Evans’ whole face brighten when he saw it. “You’re wearing the shirt I got you!”
The mutt had looked as embarrassed but pleased as Harry has ever seen him. “It’s hilarious”
“I know right?”
Evans had barely given Harry’s best set of robes (something he wore in hopes of getting some kind of the green eyes boy’s attention) a glance, instead of talking about more “one-liners” he was planning on putting on shirts for Orion. The werewolf looked like he would kill to wear them.
Maybe, it was time for a change in his wardrobe.
It’s been a few hours, maybe two at most, since they started the picnic, the food was slowly being cooked under the watchful of Uncle Remus. Werewolf he is, but the man was the best at outside cooking spells. Must be all those years he spent on the streets like the rest of his kind.
The other adults had all pulled around the spell pit, some of them levitating some meat over the magical flame and chatting. Will easily join in with them, a cup of fire whiskey in his hand, filled but untouched. The man’s wild mane of hair stood out among the adults for its youthful shine as he told jokes and conversed.
His dad and Uncle Sirius hadn’t stopped laughing since he opened his mouth while his mom kept giving the eldest Evans smiles.
Since the adults were chatting the kids went off on their own. Usually, they played some games after eating, so before then the two would sit at a table where Harry would whine about the mutt being the only one around.
Now, Orion and Evens sat on the other side of the field heads bent over a muggle notebook, where Evans was drawing in a blue glitter pen. Orion would occasionally point, and add something with his own green glitter pen.
Evans’ eyes danced every time he did.
Time went by, until the two had rushed over to Will, who had waved his wand and made a box of blank white shirts appear. Harry had watched them grab some art supplies and start to fill up the white cloth with words he was too far away to see.
At one point Evans had even introduced the werewolf to tie-dye, apparently thinking this was the best picnic activity there could be. Harry doesn’t remember seeing Orion smile so much as he dripped color on the rubber-ban bound shirt.
A part of him long to join. But he didn’t.
Instead, Harry asked his dad for his broom.
Harry had gotten on his house Quidditch team this year. He is a good flyer, and boys were impressed with good fliers, right? So he busted out his broom, spent a good half hour working up a sweat with daring flips and turns with the hopes of getting that same kind of reaction from Evans.
If a shirt with some stupid pointless words were enough to get his green eyes to sparkle like that then surely Harry weaving and waving in the air would have a bigger reaction?
Now here they were. Harry on one side of the picnic ground doing some circles on his broom and Evans sat on the other side sharing a book of runes with the mutt offering Orion little smiles here and there as he babbled away about the symbols.
Evans hadn’t looked up once and Harry was starting to get discouraged. He continued to do some broom maneuvers trying to work a tricky Gryfindor formation (he really needed to practice) occasionally throwing looks in Evans direction to see if he was looking.
He wasn’t.
Harry sighs.
“That was pretty close.” The sudden voice almost makes him fall off his broom. Looking down he sees the eldest Evans- Will- grinning up at him.
“What?”
“The Whirlwind Turn. You almost got it.”
Harry raises a brow in surprise. “You know how to do it?”
“Of course. May I?”
Harry hates it when someone thinks he needs their help, and he almost tells the other male to piss off but he’s Evans’ older brother. He doesn’t think he’ll endear himself to the other boy if he’s rude to his brother. “Sure.”
He goes to the ground handing over his broom with some hesitation. He doesn’t like it when someone who doesn’t know how to use brooms properly touches his and he’s worried the elder will be one of those fools. The doubt all melts away the second Elder Evans takes flight soaring through the air like it was born to do it.
He does the Whirlwind Turn so quickly he almost blurs on the spiral down, making Harry’s jaw drop. The Whirlwind got its name by the rapid and tight spins that one had to while going down or up, it took a large amount of skill and dedication to get it correctly but when one did, they defended or accelerated rapidly. “Wow.”
The man winks moss green at him “Want me to show you how to do it?”
Harry grins “Yeah!”
________________________________________________________________
Unknown to him the adults are watching from where they are pilling plates with their meals. Sirius gives Harry a slightly cold look before elbowing James “Looks like your boy got a crush there.”
James watches Harry’s red face brighten as Will helps position correctly on the wood. “Hmm. Maybe. He was glancing over here a lot a while ago. Should I be worried?”
“Let him be,” Lily says. “It’s just a crush. It will pass.”
“Yes, besides Will is a good kid,” Remus adds, his own smile just the slightest too tight. “Nothing to worry about him. As far as I’m aware neither of the Evans boys seems aware of their admirers.”
He gives a meaningful head nod to where Orion is holding hands with Hadrian as the pair attempt to practice for the three-legged race that will commence the moment the Weasleys arrive. Hadrian didn’t seem to notice that he was giving his son a heart attack but pressing himself so close to the other, as they stumbled about with one of their legs tied together.
Both boys were covered with their tie-dyed shirts having given each other the one they made. It was so cute. He would make sure to take a picture of them soon.
This was in his opinion the best picnic so far.
#Anonymous#Au: Dimension hoppers Store#Part 7#c'est la vie#OrionxHadrian#HarryXHadrian#HarryxWill#Harry's POV#Harry is trying really hard to get Hadrian's attention#It's not working#Will's Weasley is showing#He got to fly#Orion and Hadrian are low-key on a date#James and Lily think Harry's crush is will#Jealousy
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Year 1: Ch. 4
A man with a long, white beard and half moon-shaped glasses rose from his seat at the long table at the front of the Hall. Albus Dumbledore.
He gave a friendly smile. “Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
“Thank you!”
He sat back down as everyone else applauded with a few chuckles here and there.
Before Colleen could blink, all of the dishes on the tables were filled with a feast. All different meats and side dishes that Colleen and her siblings enjoyed were piled high. A girl who seemed to be a fifth year helped Colleen fix her plate.
“Thank you,” she said before digging into the roast chicken.
“You’re Percy’s sister, aren’t you?” the girl asked.
“Yes, I’m Colleen.”
“I’m Penelope,” the girl smiled. “Ravenclaw Prefect. Percy’s told me all sorts of things about you and your brothers. Are you the youngest?”
“No. We have one more. Our baby sister, Ginny. She should get her letter next June.”
“Well, the more Weasleys, the better. And if you ever need anything, you can come to me, the Head Girl, or our Head of Ravenclaw House.”
“And who’s that?” Terry asked, his mouth half full with the beef.
“Professor Flitwick. That’s him right there.” Penelope pointed to a small man sitting next McGonagall. He was the size of a goblin, but he had a much friendlier presence.
“What does he teach?” Colleen asked after swallowing a piece of bacon.
“Charms.”
Colleen grinned. “Facinating.”
“And who do we have here?” a soothing voice spoke. All of the Ravenclaws looked up to see a ghost in a long white gown. She had a lovely face, a kind smile, and welcoming aura about her.
“It’s always refreshing to see new first years,” she smiled.
“This is the Grey Lady, everyone,” Penelope commented.
“Call me Helena.” Her transparent head turned to Colleen. “Now, this is a first. Nice to meet you, Miss Weasley.”
“Call me Colleen,” she replied.
“Well, we’ve never had a Weasley in Ravenclaw before, but we’re very happy you’re with us, Colleen.”
She returned a smile and continued with her meal. As soon as she was done with her plate, the leftovers of the savory dinner vanished, and various desserts appeared before them.
“I’m half-and-half,” a voice from the Gryffindor table sounded from behind her.
Turning to see who it was, Colleen found it was the boy named Seamus speaking. “Me dad’s a Muggle. Mum didn’t tell him she was a witch ‘til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.”
He’s Irish, she thought, judging by his accent.
“Keeping an eye on your boyfriend, Weasley?” Lisa teased.
“I don’t even know him,” Colleen chuckled.
“He’s had his eyes on you since we got off the boats,” Padma commented. “I think he fancies you.”
“Only your first night, and someone has a crush on our new friend,” Penelope teased, which was followed by a few Ravenclaw students laughing.
Colleen blushed as she finished off the rest of her dessert. She just hoped no one noticed the handholding incident earlier.
Just like the main meal, the desserts disappeared; and once the Headmaster stood to his feet, everyone else fell silent.
“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, “just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.
“First years should note that the forest on the grounds in forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.”
Colleen noticed Fred and George trying to hide their snickers.
“Quidditch trials,” he continued, “will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.”
Colleen liked the sound of trying out. Her and her siblings have all fancied the game, and she had always wanted to try for Chaser when she got to Hogwarts. Knowing that Fred and George were Beaters, they probably wouldn’t be much help in preparing; but she hoped to find someone who might help her.
“And finally,” the headmaster concluded, “I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.
“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!”
The students rose from their seats along with the professors, and Dumbledore flicked his wand. “Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore, “and off we go!”
In various tunes and speeds, the students harmonized:
“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they’re bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we’ve forgot,
Just do your best, we’ll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.”
Everyone concluded the song as different times, Colleen almost cracking up at her brothers singing as if it were a funeral.
“Ah, music,” Dumbledore said. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”
“This way, first years,” Penelope said. The Ravenclaws followed the Prefect throw the crowds, out of the Great Hall, and down a dark hallway. They turned a corner and were met with multiple moving staircases.
“The staircases change,” Penelope explained. “But as long as you time them correctly, you’ll get the hang of them in no time.”
Colleen and her fellow housemates immediately took note of some of the portraits on the walls. The various people and animals all smiled, waved, and or welcomed in some way. It was nothing new to Colleen, but she was still fascinated by it all.
Once they got to what Colleen guessed was the fifth floor, Penelope led them down a hallway ending in a stone spiral staircase. The Ravenclaw students climbed it, and eventually came to a wooden door that had no trace of a knob or keyhole, but rather a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. The knocker then twitched, coming to life, then asked, “Feed me and I live. Give me a drink and I die. What am I?”
Penelope turned to the first years. “This is how we enter our common room. The knocker gives you a riddle, and if you answer it correctly then you’ll be able to enter. Who would like to answer today?”
A few whispers among the students floated about, and Colleen’s mind began to work. She thought about every animal in the world. They all needed to eat food and drink water, but what was something that could only eat food and die if it was given water?
Water. It can be used to put out fire as well, she thought.
Fire. That had to be the answer.
She shot her hand up.
“Yes, Colleen,” Penelope pointed to her.
Colleen faced the knocker. “Is the answer a fire?”
The door immediately swung open, and her fellow housemates applauded.
“Well, done, Colleen,” Penelope congratulated.
She pushed the door open wider. The students followed her to the most beautiful room Colleen had laid her eyes on. It was an open and airy space due to its wide, circular design. The roof above them was doomed and painted to look like the night sky, and the arched windows revealed a beautiful view of the mountains in the distance. Bookcases lined the walls, and table and chairs with blue fabric were scattered around the room. Opposite of the entrance is another entrance that Penelope said would lead to the dormitories, and next to it was a stone statue of a what Penelope claimed to be Rowena Ravenclaw, which seemed as if she guarded the door.
“Boys dorms on the left,” Penelope announced as the students entered the doorway, “Girls on the right.”
Colleen, along with Lisa, Padma, and Mandy were with four four-poster beds, each with satin, royal blue canopy drapes over them. Each of their trunks had been brought up before they arrived there, and Colleen found hers right next to her bed. Her uniform and robes were folded neatly on the bed.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Mandy said. “Classes start tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if I can fall asleep,” Lisa replied. “Especially not now since Colleen has some admirers.”
“Enough about the boy from Gryffindor House,” Colleen laughed, nearly throwing her pillow at her housemate.
“What was his name again? Sean?”
“Seamus,” Padma corrected her. “My sister Parvati is in his house. She says he couldn’t take his eyes off you and nearly got left behind.”
The other two girls giggled as Colleen rolled her eyes.
“And what did you mean by ‘other admirers?’” Mandy asked as they all got into their pajamas.
“A few other boys in our year were saying how pretty Colleen was,” Lisa explained.
“They were not,” the strawberry-blonde girl objected as she sat in her bed, taking in how silky-smooth her bed sheets were.
“Yes, they were. They were complimenting your looks and personality. Even that brat Malfoy didn’t believe you ‘belonged to the Weasleys.’”
“Oh, go to bed.” Colleen immediately turned out the light and laid her head down.
“Good night,” Lisa called to them.
“Good night,” the rest of them called back.
Colleen’s head filled with thoughts about the conversation she just had with her roommates, and from what she could conclude, she knew she had just been labeled as the “pretty girl.” She didn’t want to walk around being known for her looks; all she wanted was to do well at Hogwarts and make her family proud, even more so now that she was in a different House.
With a reminder to show everyone else that she’s at Hogwarts to learn and succeed in whatever she does, she drifted off to sleep.
#harry potter#thegirlwholoved#seamus finnigan#oc#seamus finnigan x oc#draco malfoy#the weasleys#ravenclaw#hogwarts#Harry Potter fanfic
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Ch. 4
A man with a long, white beard and half moon-shaped glasses rose from his seat at the long table at the front of the Hall. Albus Dumbledore.
He gave a friendly smile. "Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
"Thank you!"
He sat back down as everyone else applauded with a few chuckles here and there.
Before Colleen could blink, all of the dishes on the tables were filled with a feast. All different meats and side dishes that Colleen and her siblings enjoyed were piled high. A girl who seemed to be a fifth year helped Colleen fix her plate.
"Thank you," she said before digging into the roast chicken.
"You're Percy's sister, aren't you?" the girl asked.
"Yes, I'm Colleen."
"I'm Penelope," the girl smiled. "Ravenclaw Prefect. Percy's told me all sorts of things about you and your brothers. Are you the youngest?"
"No. We have one more. Our baby sister, Ginny. She should get her letter next June."
"Well, the more Weasleys, the better. And if you ever need anything, you can come to me, the Head Girl, or our Head of Ravenclaw House."
"And who's that?" Terry asked, his mouth half full with the beef.
"Professor Flitwick. That's him right there." Penelope pointed to a small man sitting next McGonagall. He was the size of a goblin, but he had a much friendlier presence.
"What does he teach?" Colleen asked after swallowing a piece of bacon.
"Charms."
Colleen grinned. "Facinating."
"And who do we have here?" a soothing voice spoke. All of the Ravenclaws looked up to see a ghost in a long white gown. She had a lovely face, a kind smile, and welcoming aura about her.
"It's always refreshing to see new first years," she smiled.
"This is the Grey Lady, everyone," Penelope commented.
"Call me Helena." Her transparent head turned to Colleen. "Now, this is a first. Nice to meet you, Miss Weasley."
"Call me Colleen," she replied.
"Well, we've never had a Weasley in Ravenclaw before, but we're very happy you're with us, Colleen."
She returned a smile and continued with her meal. As soon as she was done with her plate, the leftovers of the savory dinner vanished, and various desserts appeared before them.
"I'm half-and-half," a voice from the Gryffindor table sounded from behind her.
Turning to see who it was, Colleen found it was the boy named Seamus speaking. "Me dad's a Muggle. Mum didn't tell him she was a witch 'til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him."
He's Irish, she thought, judging by his accent.
"Keeping an eye on your boyfriend, Weasley?" Lisa teased.
"I don't even know him," Colleen chuckled.
"He's had his eyes on you since we got off the boats," Padma commented. "I think he fancies you."
"Only your first night, and someone has a crush on our new friend," Penelope teased, which was followed by a few Ravenclaw students laughing.
Colleen blushed as she finished off the rest of her dessert. She just hoped no one noticed the handholding incident earlier.
Just like the main meal, the desserts disappeared; and once the Headmaster stood to his feet, everyone else fell silent.
"Ahem," he cleared his throat, "just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.
"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."
Colleen noticed Fred and George trying to hide their snickers.
"Quidditch trials," he continued, "will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch."
Colleen liked the sound of trying out. Her and her siblings have all fancied the game, and she had always wanted to try for Chaser when she got to Hogwarts. Knowing that Fred and George were Beaters, they probably wouldn't be much help in preparing; but she hoped to find someone who might help her.
"And finally," the headmaster concluded, "I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.
"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!"
The students rose from their seats along with the professors, and Dumbledore flicked his wand. "Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"
In various tunes and speeds, the students harmonized:
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
Just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot."
Everyone concluded the song as different times, Colleen almost cracking up at her brothers singing as if it were a funeral.
"Ah, music," Dumbledore said. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"
"This way, first years," Penelope said. The Ravenclaws followed the Prefect throw the crowds, out of the Great Hall, and down a dark hallway. They turned a corner and were met with multiple moving staircases.
"The staircases change," Penelope explained. "But as long as you time them correctly, you'll get the hang of them in no time."
Colleen and her fellow housemates immediately took note of some of the portraits on the walls. The various people and animals all smiled, waved, or welcomed them in some way. It was nothing new to Colleen, but she was still fascinated by it all.
Once they got to what Colleen guessed was the fifth floor, Penelope led them down a hallway ending in a stone spiral staircase. The Ravenclaw students climbed it, and eventually came to a wooden door that had no trace of a knob or keyhole, but rather a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. The knocker then twitched, coming to life, then asked, "Feed me and I live. Give me a drink and I die. What am I?"
Penelope turned to the first years. "This is how we enter our common room. The knocker gives you a riddle, and if you answer it correctly then you'll be able to enter. Who would like to answer today?"
A few whispers among the students floated about, and Colleen's mind began to work. She thought about every animal in the world. They all needed to eat food and drink water, but what was something that could only eat food and die if it was given water?
Water. It can be used to put out fire as well, she thought.
Fire. That had to be the answer.
She shot her hand up.
"Yes, Colleen," Penelope pointed to her.
Colleen faced the knocker. "Is the answer a fire?"
The door immediately swung open, and her fellow housemates applauded.
"Well, done, Colleen," Penelope congratulated.
She pushed the door open wider. The students followed her to the most beautiful room Colleen had laid her eyes on. It was an open and airy space due to its wide, circular design. The roof above them was doomed and painted to look like the night sky, and the arched windows revealed a beautiful view of the mountains in the distance. Bookcases lined the walls, and table and chairs with blue fabric were scattered around the room. Opposite of the entrance is another entrance that Penelope said would lead to the dormitories, and next to it was a stone statue of a what Penelope claimed to be Rowena Ravenclaw, which seemed as if she guarded the door.
"Boys dorms on the left," Penelope announced as the students entered the doorway, "Girls on the right."
Colleen, along with Lisa, Padma, and Mandy were met with four four-poster beds, each with satin, royal blue canopy drapes over them. Each of their trunks had been brought up before they arrived there, and Colleen found hers right next to her bed. Her uniform and robes were folded neatly on the bed.
"Isn't this exciting?" Mandy said. "Classes start tomorrow."
"I don't know if I can fall asleep," Lisa replied. "Especially not now since Colleen has some admirers."
"Enough about the boy from Gryffindor House," Colleen laughed, nearly throwing her pillow at her housemate.
"What was his name again? Sean?"
"Seamus," Padma corrected her. "My sister Parvati is in his house. She says he couldn't take his eyes off you and nearly got left behind."
The other two girls giggled as Colleen rolled her eyes.
"And what did you mean by 'other admirers?'" Mandy asked as they all got into their pajamas.
"A few other boys in our year were saying how pretty Colleen was," Lisa explained.
"They were not," the strawberry-blonde girl objected as she sat in her bed, taking in how silky-smooth her bed sheets were.
"Yes, they were. They were complimenting your looks and personality. Even that brat Malfoy didn't believe you 'belonged to the Weasleys.'"
"Oh, go to bed." Colleen immediately turned out the light and laid her head down.
"Good night," Lisa called to them.
"Good night," the rest of them called back.
Colleen's head filled with thoughts about the conversation she just had with her roommates, and from what she could conclude, she knew she had just been labeled as the "pretty girl." She didn't want to walk around being known for her looks; all she wanted was to do well at Hogwarts and make her family proud, even more so now that she was in a different House.
With a reminder to show everyone else that she's at Hogwarts to learn and succeed in whatever she does, she drifted off to sleep.
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1964 Tour de France, Part 1
The best Tour de France ever? Some say 1989, take your pick. During the 1989 Tour many knew it was an exceptional edition and reading and watching material from that year there were regular comparisons with 1964 held up as the vintage edition and reference point. With this in mind here’s a mini-series to take a look the 1964 Tour. Part I below looks at the year in general, the cycling season, the race’s route and format.
1964?
Lyndon Johnson was US President, Charles de Gaulle French President. Nikita Khrushchev was deposed as Soviet leader. Brazil turned into a dictatorship. Tokyo hosted the Olympics. Cassius Clay knocked out Sonny Liston. The James Bond film “Goldfinger” is released. The Beatles topped the charts.
1964 in cycling
Jacques Anquetil wins Paris-Nice. Tom Simpson wins Milan-Sanremo ahead of Raymond Poulidor. Anquetil wins Gent-Wevelgem, taking the bunch sprint. Poulidor wins the Vuelta a España in the spring, it’s a two week race and he wins a time trial in Valladolid just before the final weekend to take the lead and keeps it Madrid. Anquetil wins the Giro d’Italia for the second time, this was a three week race and he takes the race lead after the Stage 5 time trial in Parma and keeps it to the end in Milan. Miguel Indurain was born.
The Route
22 June to 14 July with 22 days of racing with 25 stages, on three days there are two stages with a road race in the morning and a time trial in the afternoon. There’s one rest day in Andorra and it’s 4,504km in total. A start in Brittany and a dash across northern France and into Belgium before a long run down France’s eastern frontier, the kind of route to satisfy Tour founder Henri Desgranges’s nationalistic streak as it asserts the eastern border and even goes into Germany; and today’s director Christian Prudhomme alike, as it never strays far from the mountains with the Ardennes, Vosges and Jura before the Alps, Pyrenees and the Puy-de-Dôme. There’s one team time trial of 21km, and three individual time trials totalling 91km.
Looking closer at the route this is a there’s no summit finish, these didn’t become popular until later. It’s still a high altitude Tour with Stage 8’s 249km going via the Galibier, the 2,556m altitude mentioned on the map above indicates the riders would use the tunnel near the top of the pass to spare them the full ascent. The next day sees Stage 9 and the Restefond, aka La Bonnette at 2,802m. Stage 13 crosses to Andorra via the Port d’Envalira at 2,407m while Stages 14, 15 and 16 are gruelling days in the Pyrenees with hard climbs but also long distances across the plains just to get to them.
The race isn’t finished in the Pyrenees. Stage 20 sees the race go to the Puy-de-Dôme, an extinct volcano in central France with a steep roads that spirals up the cone. It’s not new, it’s been used in 1952 and 1959 and no less than Fausto Coppi and Federico Bahamontes won.
Stage 21 is a sadistic transition of 311km from Clermont-Ferrand to Orléans before the final day in Paris where there’s a 119km in the morning to Versailles and then an afternoon time trial from Versailles to Paris of 27km to settle the race for good.
The Format
There are time bonuses of one minute for the stage winner, 30 seconds for second place. Split stages, ie one in the morning and one in the afternoon, have 40 seconds and 20 seconds. Time trials have time bonuses too, 20 seconds and 10 seconds.
As well as the stage wins and overall classification, there’s a points competition, a mountains competition and a team prize.
There were 132 starters with 12 teams of 11 riders. The peloton was 38 Belgians, 35 Frenchmen, 25 Spaniards, 14 Dutch, 12 Italians, four Britons, three Germans and one Irishman in Seamus “Shay” Elliott. All the teams are sponsored by various consumer brands, a format in place since 1962.
The race was run by sports newspaper L’Equipe with financial backing from Émilion Amaury, the owner of le Parisien Libéré, a newspaper. One year later in 1965 Amaury would buy L’Equipe bringing ownership of the race in-house and the format we know today.
Watching the race
Millions watch from the roadside. TV ownership is growing in France. It is televised by French state broadcaster ORTF which also shares with Eurovision so that viewers in nearby countries can watch too. Typically the final 15km are shown live thanks a camera on a moto able to broadcast its output via radio link to helicopter above the race which also has a camera and then beams on the signal to the production truck at the finish. More footage is captured on film by two motos with cameras containing film reel and at the finish inside a special development-laboratory truck the film is processed, edited and turned into highlights for newsreels that evening with the final cut being beamed to the nearest broadcast tower, either direct from the stage finish’s production truck but sometimes requiring transport in motorbike or helicopter. Every evening at 8.30pm the highlights are beamed out in France.
Plenty listen to the race via the radio with several stations competing to broadcast from the race. Newspapers play a big part, especially since L’Equipe and Le Parisien are involved in the race. For some the results are communicated via telegram, a message being delivered to a village café containing the stage placings is stuck on the wall or in the window so patrons can see the results before the newspaper arrives.
Pre-race picks
30 year old Jacques Anquetil and Raymond Poulidor start the Tour de France as joint favourites. Poulidor is portrayed as the rising talent but he’s 28 years old and needing to deliver, he’d been tipped for the top in 1963 only to finish eighth overall and disappoint. Anquetil won in 1963 and returns looking for his fifth Tour title which will equal Fausto Coppi’s record and he is thinking increasingly of his palmarès and for ways to endear himself to the French public. 36 year old Federico Bahamontes, the “Eagle of Toledo”, is the third pick after he’d finished second the previous year and has been a consistent force, winning the 1959 edition and being the best climber in five of the past ten editions of the race.
In Part II soon we’ll take a look at how the the race played out stage-by stage.
1964 Tour de France, Part 1 published first on https://motocrossnationweb.weebly.com/
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Last week the husband and I were invited down to Crossgar for a tour and tasting session at the Shortcross Gin Distillery – Slainte!
The Rademon Estate in County Down is one of the oldest historic estates in Ireland, and since 2014 it has been the home of Shortcross Gin.
Shortcross owners Fiona and David are immensely proud of their gin, and so they should be – Shortcross Gin is not only Northern Ireland’s first craft gin, it has also won the most awards out of all the gins distilled on island of Ireland.
Aiming to rekindle a distilling tradition that spans back centuries in Ireland, creating Shortcross Gin has been a true love affair for David and Fiona. It has taken time to build and create their distillery. They took the time to travel the world and hone their skills, this is why when they distil they do so slowly. Each bottle of Shortcross Gin is hand bottled, wax dipped and signed. The process may be slow but it’s a true craft. Each Shortcross bottle is unique.
We were booked in for the evening tour which started at 6pm so as soon as we arrived home from work we hopped in the car and were on our way. Crossgar is about 40 minutes drive for us and I would thoroughly recommend nominating a designated driver. For us, that designated driver was me… thanks Alan.
I was going to write something here about how I’m not a big drinker so I didn’t mind driving, but that would just be a big old fib – I was actually bribed into driving with the promise that Alan would buy me a bottle of Shortcross to bring home. Apparently compromising leads to a long and happy marriage.
The Rademon Estate itself is steeped in history. The House was built circa. 1667 by the Johnson family – unfortunately no relation – whose heiress married James Crawford of Crawfordsburn some time in the 18th century.
The original Rademon House was gutted by fire in the 1950s, but was soon after rebuilt to the designs of the Hon. Clad Phillimore. The entire demesne comprises a whopping 544 acres.
Just to the front of the distillery, on a hill overlooking the patio, is a sandstone obelisk. It was one of the first things we noticed pulling up the the distillery. It was erected in the 1860s as a memorial to William Sharman-Crawford MP “by grateful and attached tenantry” – sounds like a decent bloke – bet he didn’t make his wife drive.
It had been threatening to rain all day, but thankfully the sun was still out when we arrived, meaning we could enjoy a lovely gin cocktail on the patio before the tour. When I say ‘we’ I mean Alan. I had a San Pellegrino… if I couldn’t drink I at least wanted to feel fancy. Alan opted for The Bay Tree Shortcross. He said it was absolutely lovely, just to rub it in.
The copper sculpture in the centre of the patio was designed by an artist friend of Seamus Heaney and a quote from the famous Irish poet graces the base – “History says, don’t hope on this side of the grave, but then, once in a lifetime the longed-for tidal wave of justice can rise up, and hope and history rhyme”… I think the fella himself like to partake of a gin or two.
Owner and Head Distiller David Boyd-Armstrong leads each tour, and trust me, this man knows his stuff. I’ll not spoil the tour with the intricate ins and outs of how they distill Shortcross, because to be honest, that would just spoil the whole experience for you. Once you step inside his distillery David will take you on a magical journey through the fascinating process, unlocking some of the secrets and skills that go into creating Shortcross. From how they forage local botanicals on the Rademon Estate, draw fresh water from the distillery well, distill in a bespoke copper pot still and bottle and label the finished product on site – this man is a certified gin master. Teach me sensei.
Their small batch philosophy ensures that every aspect of the gin meets their exacting vision, and by ‘their’ I mean David – he bravely takes one for the team and personally tastes every batch of gin that comes out of the distillery – a true hero, I salute you and envy you in equal measure. Shortcross Gin is bottled at 46% ABV.
The copper pot still was custom made to Shortcross’ bespoke specification by the oldest family of German still makers Carl – and she is a thing of beauty! With the aim to do things a little differently David and Fiona combined the best of old and new technology with a 450L copper pot still and two enrichment columns. Each enrichment column houses seven individual bubble plates enabling just the right level of reflux – a bit like indigestion – which helps to create a smooth and aromatic spirit when they distill. A recent addition to the distillery is the new, bigger version of the original copper pot still which is proudly displayed in the huge glass front of the distillery.
We also got to take a sniff off what could be the new venture – a single malt whiskey! Every week for the past couple of years, David and Fiona have been tucking away a barrel, ready to open in three years and one day (when it can be officially classified as a whiskey) and taste. David says that they aren’t big on letting it mature for a couple of decades, for him, if it tastes good they’ll bottle it. If it doesn’t they’ll leave it until it does taste good, and if it never tastes good, well then, that’ll be that. I love a good rich whiskey – feel free to send me any 21 year Bushmills you have in the cellar – and after getting a big sniff of what they have in those barrels I’m pretty sure they are on to a winner there. And if they need a taster I’ll be first in line to volunteer. David was tight-lipped about what barrels they had used, but I got a definitely sherry smell – I could be wrong, but it was a beautifully rich aroma.
The tour ends back in the Visitor Centre/Shortcross Gin Bar where iconic Shortcross gin glasses, filled with a generous measure of gin, had been placed around the tables ready for our guided tasting tour and mixing session.
The gin itself is aromatic and exceptionally smooth. It was crafted to be a classical gin with a unique twist, best described as floral meadows, wild berries and grassy notes – and you don’t necessarily have to roll about in that meadow on your own, especially after a few gins!
Its unique flavour profile is created using fresh apples, elderflowers, elderberries and wild clover foraged on the estate, distilled alongside classic gin botanicals although the final recipe is top secret. Fiona takes the tasting sessions herself and encourages everyone to really explore the flavours in the gin. After learning about the viscosity and consistency of the gin, we all took a deep sniff in our glass. Everyone took turns calling out what they thought the most powerful scent in the gin was. Mine was clover. Alan said juniper. Dishes filled with each of the foraged botanicals are then passed around the tables and everyone got a good sniff of each. After having a good sniff of the botanicals it was then back to the gin – hurrah! – and although the clover still came across most strongly to me, some other scents had appeared, if slightly milder. Alan also said he was getting a whiff of elderflower and apple – personally I think he was just fibbing to show off.
Volunteers were required for the cocktail making demonstration and of course I volunteered. So the perfect Shortcross Gin cocktail goes like this – put a healthy measure of gin in your fancy Shortcross Gin Copa de Balon glass (you get a free one when you do the tour – failing that a big wine glass would do), fill to the brim with ice, and I mean chokka full, get as much in there as you can. Then take your swanky copper bar spoon and run it round the inside of the glass to give the ice a good swirl and create a nice frosting of condensation. Next comes the super fun part, put your bar spoon in the centre of the glass and poke it down to the bottom of the ice, then pour your mixer of choice (we had elderflower tonic with ours) from the top of the spoon straight down into the glass. The liquid trickles down the spirals of the spoon and creates a lovely fizz in the glass. Fill to just below the Shortcross Gin logo. Next take a slice of orange and rub the peel around the rim of the glass, then pop it into the glass. Lastly comes the wild mint. Take a leaf and give it a smack between the palms of your hands to release the flavour, then pop it in your glass too. And voila! you have the perfect Shortcross Gin!
Oh and did you know that the name Shortcross comes from the Gaelic for Crossgar, ‘An Chrois Ghearr’, meaning ‘the short cross’. The penny brand stamp comes from a rough-edged copper coin from King Henry 11’s Dublin mint. One of these is even framed and hanging in the distillery – it’s pretty neat.
Alan loves a good nosey round a gift shop and surprisingly he remembered his promise to buy me a bottle of Shortcross Gin… I’m sure the £5-off token we received on arrival had absolutely nothing to do with this. As it stands I not only got a lovely bottle of Shortcross, but I also guilted Alan into a Kelticandles candle and my very own copper bar spoon – a gin is no longer the same without it. I almost had a nice bar of locally made soap too, but was too slow to make up my mind which scent I wanted – rookie mistake.
You can book yourself onto a tour at shortcrossgin.com, you can also find a list of stockists and the latest news – keep an eye out for the whiskey!
A Gin of Merit | Shortcross Distillery Tour Last week the husband and I were invited down to Crossgar for a tour and tasting session at the Shortcross Gin Distillery - Slainte!
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Eating These 8 Anti-Inflammatory Powerhouses Helped Heal My Autoimmune Disease
Seamus Mullen is an award-winning chef and restaurateur—and he suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, an autoimmune disease that once landed him in the hospital. In his new book, Real Food Heals, he details all of the recipes that have contributed to his journey back to optimal health—here, he shares the eight foods that have made the biggest difference.
My relationship with food has always been a key component of my identity. I was born and raised in Vermont on a diet of fresh, whole foods, and was the pinnacle of youthful health. As soon as I left Vermont for boarding school, then college, then cooking school, however, my healthful habits devolved, and I began relying on junk food and carbs to get me through the long days. I soon found my health rapidly deteriorating.
Initially, I wrote off feeling like crap to the notoriously difficult life of the professional kitchen, but eventually it became clear that there was something seriously wrong with me. After several trips to the emergency room, I was finally diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis (RA), a chronic inflammatory autoimmune disease that can affect your joints, skin, eyes, lungs, heart, and blood vessels.
I struggled for years feeling generally horrible while following the conventional treatment for RA. Finally, I hit an all-time low and was rushed to the hospital once again. By the time I arrived at the emergency room, my temperature had hit 106 degrees. The only thing that kept my brain from frying in the intensive care unit was plunging in and out of an ice bath. I knew that something had to change or the next time this happened, I wouldn’t survive.
Through this experience, I began to understand the central importance of diet in improving one’s well-being. I met and became close friends with forward-thinking functional medicine doctors like Frank Lipman, M.D., and I realized that my poor health was directly linked to my carb- and sugar-driven diet. Thus, the Real Food Heals lifestyle was born. I started exercising and eliminated gluten and grains, refined sugar, factory-farmed meat, and dairy from my diet, instead eating mainly vegetables, good proteins, and fats. Since then, not only have I avoided the emergency room—I’ve shocked doctors and everyone who knows me with my great health. At every checkup, the biomarkers of my disease are now nonexistent. And I’ve experienced this incredible joy throughout the process because my transformation has revolved around mindfully cooking and eating delicious food.
While there are countless foods and ingredients that I consider important to a healthy diet, there are a few in particular that truly turned my life around:
1. Coconut.
I use coconut constantly in my cooking in its various forms, from unsweetened desiccated coconut to coconut oil and coconut cream. Coconuts are a fantastic source of vitamins, minerals, fiber, and antioxidants and are known to be antiviral and antibacterial as well. Additionally, coconut oil is a great replacement for highly inflammatory cooking oils like canola and corn oil, which can damage cells, especially in those with autoimmune disease. Plus, it tastes great!
2. Avocado.
Once upon a time, avocados were mistakenly thought to be an artery-clogging fatty fruit that should be avoided. Turns out, they’re one of the healthiest foods we can eat, thanks to their high nutrient value (a single 100-gram serving of avocado contains between 15 and 25 percent of your daily required amounts of vitamins K, C, B6, and E). They’re also dense with good fats, fiber, and potassium, while low in carbs, cholesterol, and sodium.
3. Asparagus.
Photo: Tatjana Ristanic
Asparagus is a great source of fiber, folate, vitamins A and C, and prebiotics (foods that promote the growth of beneficial microorganisms in the intestines). This nutrient-dense vegetable is particularly useful in coping with autoimmune disease because it’s a rich source of glutathione, a detoxifying compound that helps break down carcinogens and free radicals, which helps fight against cancer and inflammation.
4. Eggs.
Eggs are a miracle food. Even though I’m not a big breakfast eater, eggs are often the first thing I have on any given day. The protein and good fats in eggs make them a filling and satisfying way to get your daily zinc; iron; and vitamins A, D, E, and K. No matter how you prepare them, eggs can help improve cardiovascular health; prevent metabolic disease; and boost eye, liver, skin, and brain health. A note: Both the yolk and the white are nutrient-rich, so make sure you’re eating the whole egg!
5. Oily fish.
Oily fish like anchovies, sardines, and mackerel have their fair share of skeptics, but these heart-healthy fish are a powerhouse, especially for people with RA. In addition to reducing blood pressure and preventing fat buildup in arteries, the consumption of oily fishes can also reduce joint pain and stiffness and has been linked to preventing and reducing RA symptoms in a study with middle-age participants. If you’re looking for a way to incorporate oily fish into your diet, the Deviled Eggs with Anchovies and Rosemary from my new book combine two of my favorite healthful foods in one.
6. Root vegetables.
Carrots, radishes, turnips, and other veggies in the root vegetable family are all staples of my new diet, especially as a replacement for grains. The vital nutrients found in root vegetables are key to fighting inflammatory-based diseases like RA (along with heart disease, cancer, and diabetes). I love to swap out traditional spaghetti for carrot, celery root, or sweet potato noodles made with the spiralizer.
7. Macadamia nuts.
Almonds and cashews may dominate the spotlight in the American diet, but the little-celebrated macadamia nut deserves some attention too. Macadamia nuts are a rich source of antioxidants and contain both soluble and insoluble fiber, which support gut health and can reduce the chronic inflammation associated with RA. I love to throw a handful of these powerful nuts into my granola, atop a fresh salad, or just munch on them raw as a midday snack.
8. Pastured chicken.
From a nutritional standpoint, chicken is relatively lean healthy protein. It’s still got some good fat on it, which is extremely important for overall nutrition, so I like to keep the skin on whenever I’m preparing it. That it’s delicious doesn’t hurt, either. As with all animal proteins, I always try to consume it consciously and with knowledge of where it’s coming from. The difference between factory-farmed and free-range birds is tremendous in both the quality of the product and the life of the animal. For me, that means buying chickens from small farms I trust that allow their chickens to openly roam the pasture.
Reducing inflammation can greatly help with the management of autoimmune diseases, so be sure to avoid these eight super-inflammatory foods! Plus, all of the ways Chef Mullen uses avocado in his daily diet.
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