#weasley writes

Anon, why do you make me feel such FEEEEEELIIIINGS?!?

I can't begin to describe how much your message means to me. I would have responded sooner, but I honestly felt too emotional over it to begin typing a response. 😅 I don't even know what to say now, other than thank you for your kind words from the bottom of my heart. It seems so surreal to me that anything I've written could make an impact on someone, I never hoped for a minute that I could, but I'm so happy I have because I love telling stories more than anything (as much to myself as anyone else!). So thank you again, lovely anon. I hope you're having a wonderful life wherever you are in the world. I'm raising a glass to you in my rainy corner of Scotland! ❤️

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"Well isn't this a riot. Blimey, if I wasn't dead already, I'd die of boredom."

"Mum made me swear not to put any firecrackers in your coffin," said George.

"Travesty." Fred shook his head, solemnly. "What about the dungbombs?"

"Of course. I'm not an animal."

"Excellent." He stiffened as he caught sight of the plump hourglass figure of a familiar witch heading their way. "Oi, heads up. Mrs Crannock, 12 o'clock."

"Oh bloody he- hi Mrs Crannock."

"Oh George!" the elderly witch sniffed wetly, enveloping him in a smothering hug before he could duck away. "Just seeing your face, your poor dear face- just like Fred- oh you soul, you sweet, sweet boy."

George patted her back awkwardly. "There, there Mrs Crannock."

Fred's silvery transparent face floated beside him looking gleeful. "Never knew she was so fond of me. Remember that time we used one of her bras as a parachute for her pet chihuahua?"

"Such sweet innocent boys!"

"I still have a scar on my bum where she hexed me," Fred added musingly, scratching his rear.

Biting his lip to keep from laughing, George hissed, "You promised you wouldn't do this."

"Oh come on. You can't blame a dead guy for giving up the chance to roast his own funeral."

"Oh my poor boy, you're trembling!" Mrs Crannock wailed.

"Err, yes. Just.. Hard keeping it together, you know?"

She laid a hand on his cheek and gave him a long, serious look. "Real men cry, George my boy. Real men cry."

"Yes, George," Fred placed an icy cold hand on twin's shoulder and squeezed. "Don't hold back. Let it out, let it aaall out."

When the old witch was out of earshot, George rounded on him.

"Stop enjoying this."

"Stop laughing through my funeral!"

"Stop making me laugh!"

A wicked glint lit Fred's eyes. "Keep it together, Forge old boy, you've still gotta get through the eulogy."

"You wouldn't dare-"

"And don't be afraid to make it a real weepy. If you get stuck, I'll be riiiight over there in the front row, cheering you on."

George gave him a stony smile. "Why there's Angelina. Doesn't she look positively ravishing. Who knows, maybe we'll bond over shared grief, get a little closer, see where the night takes--oh bloody hell!" he squawked as Fred's ghostly hand plunged out of his chest to flip him the finger.

"Unless you want me to haunt all of your dates from now on, you'll keep your wand in your trousers when it concerns my ex, Georgiekins."

Suddenly the room fell quiet. George felt his brother stiffen as the rest of the Weasley family plodded in, Ginny with her red rimmed eyes clutching onto Harry, whose haunted face was deathly pale, mirroring Ron's vacant gaze on his other side. Finally, their parents came in. Molly barely seemed able to put one foot in front of the other. The sight of her hit them like a gut punch, the fierce tiger of a woman they'd loved as much as they feared her sharp tongue, reduced to shambling wreck in their father's trembling arms.

Suddenly their jokes didn't feel so funny. Fred looked at his brother's stricken face beside him. The hand that held his notes was shaking. Fred reached out and gave it a quick icy squeeze. George looked at him, the horror in his eyes briefly visible.

Fred gave him a shaky smile. "On with the show, mate."

The muscles in George's face relaxed a little, returning the smile with a nod. Show was right. From now on, it seemed as if his life would be one grand performance. Not for the first time George wondered if the ghostly apparition of his twin was a fragment of his imagination, a manifestation of his inability to conceive of a world without his brother and best friend joined at the hip. He looked at the notes in his hand and took a deep breath.

He stepped to the podium overlooking the grieving faces of their loved ones, and began.

"Dearly beloved... Did I ever tell you about the time Fred transfigured Ron's Teddy bear into a spider?"

"Oi, that was you, you complete git!" Fred hissed.

Quick doodle of Gideon Stark, Tintin’s unwelcome adventure sidekick in my fic, The Seal of Cagliostro. I do love this asshole.

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‘He was a tall man and elegantly dressed in ivory tails and matching trousers, with a gold embroidered waistcoat and red cravat. His copper coloured hair was slicked back with too much pencil pomade and his thin moustache and goatee gave him an almost comical look of villainy.

Tintin could not pinpoint why, but he felt an immediate and visceral dislike of the man. Perhaps it was something in the way he smiled at the room as if he was in on a private joke and only he knew the punchline. He carried an air of carefree flamboyancy, the sort Tintin had become accustomed to when dealing with the very rich, but it was almost too practised, too showy, to strike him as the genuine article. Beneath the thin façade was a fox spying on a chicken coup, sharp eyes darting through the crowds, seeking out a weakness in the fence.

“I say, could it really be Tintin? The intrepid little reporter from Brussels?” he asked eagerly, staring in obvious surprise.

Tintin bristled in irritation and glanced wildly around for the Captain, but it seemed his sly old friend had made himself scarce.

“Gideon Stark,” the man introduced himself brightly, offering a hand. Noting Tintin’s hesitation, Gideon grinned and cocked an eyebrow, cheekily. “I’d offer to kiss your hand too if I didn’t think you’d be even less inclined to accept than Madame Baudelaire was.”

Reluctantly, Tintin shook the man’s handwith a tight smile. "A pleasure, Mr Stark,” he bit out.

Gideon grinned and tightened his grip. “All mine, I assure you.”