January 11th, 2007
|03:35 pm - Ficlet offer/request: deathfics|
I have a feeling that NO ONE is going to take me up on this, but I am bored out of my skull right now, so I might as well ask. :-)
Give me a character, and a cause-of-death (anything from dagger to poison to illnes to old age to another character), and I will write you a little ficlet. Yes, I am in a slightly odd mood.
No promises made as to the seriousness (or hilarity) of said death. I like to switch things up.
Allowable fandoms include anything on my interests (except LotR). I'll make a stab at others, if you know I've seen some episodes (for instance, Law&Order:CI, or Supernatural).
Current Location: work, where else?
Current Mood: bored
|Date:||January 12th, 2007 11:46 pm (UTC)|| |
By the Manner of His Death
note: this is probably nothing like what you expected, but my brain would go nowhere else!
Ron had his suspicions.
Not because Percy had died. A lot of people, good, bad, and some who were neither, had been dying lately. Usually the blame could be laid at Voldemort’s feet, one way or another.
But because Percy had died in public.
Because he had taken a drink from his goblet (of water, no less) and choked. On a goldfish.
Most especially because Fred and George had said precisely nothing about Percy since the news had come. They had patted Mum consolingly, closed their shop up for the funeral, and changed from their brilliant dragon-skin jackets to somber black wool for the week.
They had not said that it was good riddance, or that only a stiff-necked prat could actually choke on a fish. Both had been uncharacteristically quiet, and to Ron, that spoke volumes.
Hermione said he was being silly, but Harry lent him his invisibility cloak, just for one evening, and Ron followed his brothers back to their flat above the shop.
He watched Fred wash up two goblets, and George pour out plain whiskey. They sat at the tiny table and drank in silence.
After two full goblets, Fred solemnly filled a glass bowl with water and set it in the exact center of the table. George laid a hand across the top--dropping something in, Ron was certain, though he couldn’t see from his seat in a far corner of the room. In a flash the bowl was swimming with miniscule goldfish that grew until there was barely room for them all.
George poured each of them a third drink. “To Percy Ignatius Weasley,” he said, raising his goblet.
Fred mirrored him. “Who redeemed a boring life by the manner of his death.”
Ron swallowed his own tears, and waited until his brothers were far too drunk to notice before slipping out the door. Maybe Hermione was right, and some suspicions should just be left alone.