skoosiepants | Diagon City: Part One

Hmmmm... Scooby Do anyone? Not sure how I feel about this part, the darker backdrop was giving me trouble with their voices, and I still don't think it's spot on, but eh *shrugs* It's crack. I also know fuck-all about architecture, but I like giving Harry descriptive hobbies, don't I?

Oh, and happy birthday

littleleggylulu!! *dances* *does The Robot* *flips disco switch* *summons sparkly boys*

And on one more note: Dudes, Robert Pattinson is a fox *licks* but he's totally a crack muppet. Oh,

nunshavingfun, I shall be forever grateful to you for that! Best. Description. Evah!

Diagon City: Prologue

Diagon City
Part One

One year earlier…

The gothic castle rose out of the clean lines of Diagon City like an anomaly; sharp, black spires atop narrow towers and deep, jewel-toned shards of glass making the sleekly angled chrome high-rises seem dull and flat. Harry gaped a bit in awe as they wound their way up the zigzagging road, and a flash of lightning spliced the night sky in half, sending a pleasant buzz past his jaw and down his spine.

The windshield wipers squeaked along the glass, catching and smearing half-frozen droplets of rain.

“Creepy.” Ron flexed his fingers on the warm vinyl of the steering wheel. Old Bessie was a trooper on the steep hill, engine protesting with a thready whine, but gears catching with the reliability Ron loved about the junky boat of an auto. Ugly to look at, but solid as a tank and loyal as a setter.

“It’s fascinating,” Hermione countered. She leant forward from her position in the back, resting her elbows on the tops of Harry and Ron’s seats. “I mean, it’s been six months. How in the world could something like this be built in just six months?”

Ron eyed her through the rearview mirror, one red brow arched. “Creepy,” he repeated. “Remind me again why we’re doing this?”

“Because for some strange reason he’s going to let me look at the papers,” Harry said, “and--”

“See,” Ron cut in, “it’s the ‘strange reason’ part that worries me. This bloke is scary as shit, Harry.”

Hermione smacked his shoulder. “Aren’t you the least bit curious? Six months!”

Ron snorted. She seemed a bit stuck on that part. “I’d rather be curious from somewhere safe. Some place, say, without a fucking dungeon.”

“Technically, it’s an oubliette,” Harry pointed out absently, as if that made any difference at all.

Ron slanted Harry an incredulous look. “Who the fuck cares? It’s a dungeon!”

“It’s actually a hole in the ground with,” he made grabby motions with one hand, “a hatch as the only entrance.”

“Impossible to escape,” Hermione added. “Can you imagine the claustrophobia and sensory deprevation involved?”

“Oh wow, now I’m ten times more excited to see this place,” Ron enthused with a roll of his eyes. “Maybe Riddle’ll give us a hands-on look at it. I’ve always wanted to die in a bloody hole.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculously melodramatic, Ron,” Hermione chastened, although it wasn’t surprising. Ron was often ridiculously melodramatic. He insisted it was part of his charm.

Another slash of lightning coaxed a distant crack of thunder from the thick, moist air, and Harry breathed, “Damn,” reverently, pressing into the dash and angling his head up as they drew close to the front gates. They were immense, heavy, with thick bars of wrought iron, wicked spears topping each rung. “Ring the bell, would you?”

Ron scowled. The entire estate gave him the willies, but he rolled down his window and pressed the callbox. Then the gate gave a loud groan and slid back on itself, parting down the middle to admit them onto the sweeping curve of a circular drive.

“I thought this was a big party, Harry,” Ron grumbled, even more apprehension coiling in his guts. The place looked empty. And, oh yeah, creepy. The redhead was rarely cold, his body heat often scorching enough to set dry paper aflame, but a chill settled at his fingertips in the open air and he rubbed them on the rough wool of his trousers as he tentatively accelerated past the gate.

“It is. I imagine they’ve just got the autos hid away. Look,” he gestured at the massive wooden doors caged by gray-gold buttresses, a sliver of light arcing into the night as they swung slowly inward, “valet, I’ll bet you.”

Hermione took a deep breath, stirring a few curls of hair. The bushy locks had been pulled back in a knot at her nape, but they were curling free in the humidity, stray strands fluffing out around her face. “Well. Are we ready?”

“Now or never,” Harry said, and Ron shifted into an idle park at the top of the drive, waiting as the assumed valet made his way stone-faced down the steps towards them.

“All right, then.” She shot Harry and Ron a nearly electric grin, then bounded out of the auto, flashing a level of enthusiasm she hardly ever showed outside of a library. There was something odd and off about the castle, something inherently wrong, and she was determined to figure out exactly what it was.

Harry slid out of the passenger seat and tugged at his tie, eyeing the domed vestibule overhanging the front steps with something akin to lust. God, he loved architecture; loved the melding of curved lines and sharp points, the echo of exterior trappings throughout interiors, the play of form and function. He loved the clever mixtures of periods, the stamp of time visible in the aesthetics of ancient structures… the revival of the old to blend with new innovations. And the castle looming above them was especially interesting, the chambers inside rumored to be precise replicas of the Riddles’ ancestral keep.

Ron handed over Old Bessie to the waiting valet with a wry, apologetic quirk of his mouth, and trudged reluctantly after his two clearly barmy friends. Loud barks of laughter and amused voices floated out from the open door, though, and the heavenly scent of food wafted past him when they stepped inside, relaxing a good many of his reservations. Crab. He definitely smelled crab. And something garlicky.

Food had the amazing effect of always boosting Ron’s mood.

“Brilliant,” he crowed, clapping his hands together. Then he hooked a thumb over his shoulder with a grin. “I’ll be over by the buffet if you need me.”

“Honestly, Ron, can’t you at least wait ‘til we’ve said hello to Mr. Riddle?”

He cocked his head, giving Hermione a mock-quizzical frown. “I see your lips moving, but it’s a shame I can’t hear you.” His grin broke free again when Harry failed to stifle a chuckle. “The siren call of crab puffs and toast points are drowning you out.”

“Ron.” She tapped her foot, hands resting on her hips, lips pursed.

“Seafood waits for no man,” he said. If there was any sort of pie at all, he’d do a Scottish jig. Dungeon? Who’s scared of a little oubli-what’sitsname when there was all manner of tarts to eat?

Ron pivoted on his heel, sniffing out the refreshments like a bloodhound, and with a long-suffering sigh Hermione trailed after him, leaving Harry to make excuses to their host. Ron’s mouth – hands, feet, brain (or lack there-of) - tended to get him into trouble. By unspoken agreement, they tried not to let the redhead out of their sight in public.

There was a healthy crowd of people. Not a huge crush, but enough to warrant a line or two in the daily press. Although, according to her boss, anything at all about the mysterious castle was fodder for the newspaper. Hermione was keen on finding a real story, though, and kept an eye out for anything especially intriguing as she made her way towards the buffet table that lined one entire wall.

Predictably, Ron’s mouth was already full, a butter cracker at his lips and free hand reaching for a wedge of cheese. His grin was full of crumbs, and Hermione pinked a bit in embarrassment, fighting the urge to cover her face and pretend she didn’t know the large, brown-suited redhead with appalling social etiquette. It was Ron. He’d once gotten his hand stuck in a honey jar ala one jolly, round yellow bear.

Only small smatterings of guests were milling around the spread, picking like birds, and Hermione murmured, “What a complete waste.” She could swear there was a mass of shelled shrimp that weighed more than her and Ron put together.

“I’m sure Mr. Riddle wouldn’t mind wrapping it up for you after we’re through,” an amused voice drawled, and Hermione narrowed her eyes on a slim, dark man with tilted eyes and rather pretty lips.

“Excuse me?”

Those lips curved upward in a closemouthed grin, dimples flashing below high, nicely rounded cheekbones. “The food,” he went on, gesturing towards the table. “If you don’t want it wasted, I’m certain we can convince Mr. Riddle you’d put the leftovers to good use in the city. Homeless shelter, perhaps?”

Hermione got the distinct impression the man was laughing at her, though she didn’t think the subject matter was particularly funny. Still, she took the offer at face value and swallowed her suspicions. “I think that would be much appreciated,” she said stiffly.

“Indeed.” His black-brown eyes shone brightly. “Blaise Zabini,” he introduced himself, outstretching a hand.

“Hermione.” She slid her palm against his, the pen callous along her middle finger rough against his strangely soft skin. “Hermione Granger.”

TBC...

Current Mood: pensive

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From:

mierette.livejournal.com

“Seafood waits for no man,” he said. If there was any sort of pie at all, he’d do a Scottish jig. Dungeon? Who’s scared of a little oubli-what’sitsname when there was all manner of tarts to eat?

Ron + pie = OTP :)

Scooby Do anyone?

Are you going to make Seamus the dog again?!

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Skoosie has fancy plans... and pants to match

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