Nobby: A buddy of mine saw Vetinari take his shirt off in the shower, and he said that his lordship had an eight pack; that Vetinari was shredded.
Colon: What?! Your friend’s a liar, mate. Vetinari is a punk bitch. That guy looks like he weighs thirty pounds soaking wet underneath that little black dress.

The most intriguing and terrifying part of this submission is the implication that Nobby Nobbs is Vetinari in disguise.

reeve-of-caerwyn:

Would You Fuck Your Clone: Discworld Edition

Nobby:Yes

Vetinari:No

Ridcully: I don’t want to fuck my clone because it would be gay sex and I’m not gay.

Angua:I’m not gay but I would totally fuck my clone.

Cheery Littlebottom: I’m gay but I still don’t want to fuck my clone, that’s gross and weird.

Rincewind: I don’t want to fuck my clone because my self-loathing is THAT strong.

Moist: I’d fuck my clone because who would know better how to fuck ME than ME?

Glenda: I’d totally do all sorts of weird things to my clone I’d be embarrassed to ask somebody else to do.

Sally: To be honest, fucking my clone has always been my fantasy.

Fred Colon: It’s basically the same as masturbating, right? So no big deal.

Carrot: It’s not the same as masturbating; it’d be like having sex with your twin. Wrong and bad!

Sam Vimes: I would not have sex with my clone because what if my clone is evil.

Nanny Ogg: Not only would I have sex with my clone, I’d probably make a bunch of clones and just get it on with all of them at once because that’s how pro-clone fucking I am.

nobby: you know what? we’re clever too, smartypants

angua: ok, what’s the difference between a gamete and a zygote?

colon, narrowing his eyes: don’t fall for it, nobby. she’s just making up words.

And Sergeant Colon looked up and into a growing, greenish, expanding-

The melon exploded, and so did the audience, but both their laughter and the humor was slightly lost on Colon as he scraped over-ripe pith out of his ears.

The survival instinct cut in again. Stagger around backward, it said. So he staggered around backward, waving his legs in the air. Fall down heavily, it said. So he sat down, and almost squashed a chicken. Lose your dignity, it said; of all the things you’ve got, it’s the one you can most afford to lose.

Lord Vetinari helped him up. “Our very lives depend on your appearing to be a stupid fat idiot,” he hissed, putting Colon’s fez back on his head.

“I ain’t very good at acting, sir–”

“Good!”

“Yessir.”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

“To me, please… Al,” said the Patrician, nodding.

Colon tossed him the knives, slowly and gingerly. He’s going to try to stab the guards, he thought. It’s a ruse. And then everyone’s going to tear us apart.

Now the circling blur glinted in the sunlight. There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.

“Yet somehow dull,” said the Patrician.

And his hands moved in a complex pattern that suggested that his wrists must have moved through one another at least twice.

The tangled ball of hurtling fruit and cutlery leapt into the air. Three melons dropped to the ground, cut cleanly in two. Three knives thudded into the dust a few inches from their owner’s sandals.

And Sergeant Colon looked up and into a growing, greenish, expanding-

The melon exploded, and so did the audience, but both their laughter and the humor was slightly lost on Colon as he scraped over-ripe pith out of his ears.

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

“Beti?” said Nobby, glowering under his veils.

Three fruits arced gently out of the green whirl and thumped on to Al-jibla’s tray.

The guards looked carefully, and to Colon’s mind nervously, at the cross-dressed figure of the cross corporal.

“She’s not going to do any kind of dance, is she?” one of them ventured.

“No!” snapped Beti.

“Promise?”

Nobby grabbed three of the knives and tugged them out of the man’s belt.

“I’ll give them to his lor- to him, shall I, Beti?” said Colon, suddenly quite sure that keeping the Patrician alive was almost certainly the only way to avoid a brief cigarette in the sunshine. He was also aware that other people were drifting over to watch the show.

“To me, please… Al,” said the Patrician, nodding.

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

A couple of armed men had drifted over to them. Sergeant Colon’s heart sank. In those bearded faces he saw himself and Nobby, who at home would always saunter over to anything on the street that looked interesting.

“You are jugglers, are you?” said one of them. “Let’s see you juggle, then.”

Lord Vetinari gave them a blank look and then glanced down at the tray around Al-jibla’s neck. Among the more identifiable foodstuffs were a number of green melons.

“Very well,” he said, and picked up three of them.

Sergeant Colon shut his eyes.

After a few seconds he opened them again because a guard had said, “All right, but anyone can do it with three.”

“In that case perhaps Mr. Al-jibla will throw me a few more?” said the Patrician, as the balls spun through his hands.

Sergeant Colon shut his eyes again.

After a short while a guard said, “Seven is pretty good. But it’s just melons.”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

Lord Vetinari strode on ahead. The streets were already filling up. Al-Khali liked to get the business of the day started in the cool of dawn, before full day flamethrowered the landscape. No one paid the newcomers any attention, although a few people did turn round to watch Corporal Nobbs. Goats and chickens ambled out of the way as they passed.

[…]

“Good morning, sultan!” said a cheerful and somehow familiar voice. “New in town, are we?”

All three of them turned to a figure that had magically appeared from the mouth of an alleyway.

“Indeed, yes,” said the Patrician.

“I could see you were! Everyone is, these days. And it is your lucky day, shah! I am here to help, right? You want something, I got it!”

Sergeant Colon had been staring at the newcomer. He said, in a faraway voice, “Your name’s going to be something like… Al-jibla or something, right?”

“Heard about me, have you?” said the trader jovially.

“Sort of, yeah,” said Colon slowly. “You’re amazingly… familiar.”

Lord Vetinari pushed him aside.

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

“Very well.” Vetinari pushed his paperwork aside. “If there is more suitable clothing in your bag, I will get changed and we can take a look at Al-Khali.”

“Oh, gods…”

“Sorry, sergeant?”

“Oh, good, sir.”

“Good.” Vetinari began to pull other items out of the liberated sack. There was a set of juggler’s clubs, a bag of colored balls and finally a placard, such as might be placed to one side of the stage during an artist’s performance.

“‘Gulli, Gulli and Beti,’” he read. “‘Exotic tricks and dances.’ Hmm,” he added. “It would seem there was a lady among the owners of this sack.”

The watchmen looked at the gauzy material that came out of the sack next. Nobby’s eyes bulged.

“What are them?”

“I believe they are called harem pants, corporal.”

“They’re very-”

“Curiously, the purpose of the clothing of the nautch girl or exotic dancer has always been less to reveal and more to suggest the imminence of revelation,” said the Patrician.

Nobby looked down at his costume, and then at Sergeant Al-Colon in his costume, and said cheerfully, “Well, I ain’t sure it’s going to suit you, sir.”

He regretted the words immediately.

“I hadn’t intended that they should suit me ,” said the Patrician calmly. “Please pass me your fez, Corporal Beti.”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

“Er… what is it we’re going to do, sir?”

“We will reconnoiter initially.”

“Ah, right. Yes. Very important.”

“And then seek out the Klatchian high command. Thanks to Leonard I have a little… package to deliver. I hope it will end the war very quickly.”

Sergeant Colon looked blank. At some point in the last few seconds the conversation had run away with him.

“Sorry, sir… you said high command, sir.”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Like… the top brass, or turbans or whatever… all surrounded by crack troops, sir. That’s where you always put the best troops, around the top brass.”

“I expect this will be the case, yes. In fact, I rather hope it is.”

Sergeant Colon, once again, tried to keep up.

“Ah. Right. And we’ll go and look for them, will we, sir?”

“I can hardly ask them to come to us, sergeant.”

“Right, sir. I can see that. It could get a bit crowded.”

At last, Lord Vetinari looked up. “Is there some problem, sergeant?”

And Sergeant Colon once again knew a secret about bravery. It was arguably a kind of enhanced cowardice - the knowledge that while death may await you if you advance it will be a picnic compared to the certain living hell that awaits should you retreat.

“Er… not as such, sir,” he said.

“Very well.”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

The bit of [water] that was immediately below them bubbled for a moment, and then the hull of the Boat rose a few inches above the surface. The lid unscrewed and Leonard’s worried face appeared.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. “We were getting concerned…”

They lowered themselves down into the fetid interior of the vessel.

Lord Vetinari was sitting with a pad of paper across his knees, writing carefully. He glanced up briefly. “Report.”

Nobby fidgeted while Sergeant Colon delivered a more or less accurate account, although there was some witty repartee with the Klatchian guards that the corporal had not hitherto recalled.

Vetinari did not look up. Still writing, he said, “Sergeant, Ur is an old country Rimward of the kingdom of Djelibeybi, whose occupants are a byword for bucolic stupidity. For some reason, I cannot think why, the guard must have assumed you were from there. And Morporkian is something of a lingua franca even in the Klatchian empire. When someone from Hersheba needs to trade with someone from Istanzia, they will undoubtedly haggle in Morporkian. This will serve us well, of course. The force that is being assembled here must mean that practically every man is a distant stranger with outlandish ways. Provided we do not act too foreign, we should pass muster. This means not asking for curry with swede and currants in it and refraining from ordering pints of Winkle’s Old Peculiar, do I make myself clear?”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

Fred Colon managed to get a foothold on the greasy wood. It was, in theory, quite a heroic enterprise. He and Nobby Nobbs, the bold warriors, were venturing forth in hostile territory. Unfortunately, he knew they were doing it because Lord Vetinari was sitting in the Boat and would raise his eyebrows in no uncertain manner if they refused.

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

“Excuse me, your lordship?” Sergeant Colon raised his voice. The Patrician looked up from a conversation with Leonard.

“Yes, sergeant?”

“What do they do to spies in Klatch, sir?”

“Er… let me see…” said Leonard. “Oh, yes… I believe they give you to the women.”

Nobby brightened up. “Oh, well, that doesn’t sound too bad-”

[…]

Colon leaned forward and whispered in Nobby’s ear. The corporal’s expression changed, slowly.

“They really-”

“Yes, Nobby.”

“Theyreally-”

“Yes, Nobby.”

“They don’t do that at home.”

“We ain’t at home, Nobby. I wish we was.”

“Although you hear stories about the Agony Aunts, sarge.”

“Gentlemen,” said Lord Vetinari. “I am afraid Leonard is being rather fanciful. That may apply to some of the mountain tribes, but Klatch is an ancient civilization and that sort of thing is not done officially. I should imagine they’d give you a cigarette.”

“A cigarette?” said Fred.

“Yes, sergeant. And a nice sunny wall to stand in front of.”

Sergeant Colon examined this for any downside. “A nice roll-up and a wall to lean against?” he said.

“I think they prefer you to stand up straight, sergeant.”

“Fair enough. No need to be sloppy just because you’re a prisoner. Oh, well. I don’t mind risking it, then.”

“Well done,” said the Patrician calmly. “Tell me, sergeant… in your long military career, did anyone ever consider promoting you to an officer?”

“Nossir!”

“I cannot think why.”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

What was riding at anchor before the city of Al-Khali wasn’t a fleet. It was a fleet of fleets. The masts looked like a floating forest.

Down below, Lord Vetinari took his turn to peer through the pipe.

“So many ships,” he said. “In such a short time, too. How very well organized. Very well organized. One might almost say… astonishingly well organized. As they say, ‘If you would seek war, prepare for war.’”

“I believe, my lord, the saying is ‘If you would seek peace, prepare for war,’” Leonard ventured.

Vetinari put his head on one side and his lips moved as he repeated the phrase to himself. Finally he said, “No, no. I just don’t see that one at all.”

He ducked back into his seat.

“Let us proceed with care,” he said. “We can go ashore under cover of darkness.”

“Er… can we maybe go ashore under cover of cover?” said Sergeant Colon.

“In fact these extra ships will make our plan that much easier,” said the Patrician, ignoring him.

“Our plan?” said Colon.

“People within the Klatchian hegemony come in every shape and color.” Vetinari glanced at Nobby. “Practically every shape and color,” he added. “So our appearance on the streets should not cause undue comment.” He glanced at Nobby again. “To any great extent.”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

Sergeant Colon peered into the tube.

Inside of the darkness he was half expecting, he saw the sea’s surface, bubbling like a boiling saucepan. Green and yellow flashes of lightning danced across the water, illuminating a distant wall that seemed practically a horizon.

The tube squeaked around. If this was a cave, it was at least a couple of miles across.

“How long, do you think?” said Lord Vetinari, behind him.

“Well, the rock has a large proportion of tufa and pumice, very light, and once floated up the build-up of gas starts to escape very rapidly because of the swell,” said Leonard. “I don’t know… perhaps another week… and then I think it takes a very long time for a sufficient bubble to build up again…”

“What’re they saying, sarge?” said Nobby. “This pace floats?”

“A most unusual natural phenomenon,” Leonard went on. “I’d have thought it was just a legend had I not seen it for myself…”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

Far below Solid Jackson’s feet, the Boat surfaced. Sergeant Colon reached automatically for the screws that held the lid shut.

“Don’t open it, sergeant!” shouted Leonard, rising from his seat.

“The air’s getting pretty lived-in, sir-”

“It’s worse outside.”

“Worse than in here?”

“I’m almost certain.”

“But we’re on the surface!”

“A surface, sergeant,” said Lord Vetinari. Beside him, Nobby uncorked the seeing device and peered through it.

“We’re in a cave?” said Colon.

“Er… sarge…” said Nobby.

“Capital! Well worked out,” said Lord Vetinari. “Yes. A cave. You could say that.”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

Nobby nudged him. “What’re we doing down here, sarge? I mean, what’s it all about? Poking around, looking at weird marks on the rocks, going in and out of caves… and the smell… well…”

“It’s not me,” said Sergeant Colon.

“Smells like… sulfur…”

Little bubbles streamed past the window.

“It stunk up on the surface, too,” Nobby went on.

“Nearly finished, gentlemen,” said Lord Vetinari, putting the papers aside. “One last little venture and then we can surface. Very well, Leonard… take us underneath.”

“Er… aren’t we underneath already, sir?” said Colon.

“Only underneath the sea, sergeant.”

“Ah. Right.” Colon gave this due consideration. “Is there anything else to be under, then, sir?”

“Yes, sergeant. Now we’re going under the land.”

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

The Boat squeaked through the mysterious depths of the oceans. Leonard spent a lot of time looking out of the tiny windows, particularly interested in pieces of seaweed which, to Sergeant Colon, looked like pieces of seaweed.

“Do you note the fine strands of Dropley’s Etoliated Bladderwrack?” said Leonard. “That’s the brown stuff. A marvelous growth which, of course, you will see as significant.”

“Could we just assume for the moment that I have neglected my seaweed studies in recent years?” said the Patrician.

“Really? Oh, the loss is entirely yours, I assure you. The point is, of course, that the Etoliated Bladderwrack is never usually found growing above thirty fathoms, and it’s only ten here.”

“Ah.” The Patrician flicked through a stack of Leonard’s drawings. “And the hieroglyphs - as alphabet of signs and colors. Colors as a language… what a fascinating idea…”

“Anemotional intensifier,” said Leonard. “But of course we ourselves use something like that. Red for danger and so on. I never did succeed in translating it, though.”

“Colors as a language…” murmured Lord Vetinari.

Sergeant Colon cleared his throat. “I know something about seaweed, sir.”

“Yes, sergeant?”

“Yessir! If it’s wet, sir, it means it’s going to rain.”

“Well done, sergeant,” said Lord Vetinari, without turning his head. “I think it is quite possible that I will never forget you said that.”

Sergeant Colon beamed. He had Made A Contribution.

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

When [Colon] awoke at one point there were faint voices coming from the other end of the vessel.

“-don’t quite understand, my lord. Whythem?”

“They do what they’re told, they tend to believe the last thing they heard, they’re not bright enough to ask questions, and they have that certain  unshakable loyalty available to those unencumbered by too much intelligence.”

“I suppose so, my lord.”

“Such men are valuable, believe me.”

Sergeant Colon turned over and tried to make himself comfortable. Glad I’m not like those poor bastards, he thought as he drifted off to sleep on the bosom of the deep. I’m a man with special qualities.

-Jingo, Terry Pratchett

discworldtour:

Sergeant Colon knew he was facing one of the most dangerous moments in his career.
There was nothing for it. He was out of options.
“Er… if I add this A and this O and this I and this D,” he said, the sweat pouring down his pink cheeks, “then I can use that V to make ‘avoid.’ Er… and that gets me, er, a… what d’you cal these blue squares, Len?”
“A ‘Three Times Ye Value of Thee Letter’ score,” said Leonard of Quirm.
“Well done, sergeant,” said Lord Vetinari. “I do believe that puts you in the lead.”
“Er… I do believe it does, sir,” squeaked Sergeant Colon.
“However, I find that you have left me the use of my U, N, and A, B, L, E,” the Patrician went on, “which incidentally lands me on this Three Times the Whole Worde square and, I rather suspect, wins me the game.”
Sergeant Colon sagged with relief.
“A capital game, Leonard,” said Vetinari. “What did you say it was called?”
“I call it the ‘Make Words With Letters That Have All Been Mixed Up Game,’ my lord.”
“Ah. Yes. Obviously. Well done.”
“Huh, an’ I got three points,” mumbled Nobby. “They was perfectly good words that you wouldn’t let me have, too.”
“I’m sure the gentlemen don’t want to know those words,” said Colon severely.
“I’d have got ten points for that X.”

The occupants of the boat play the Make Words With Letters That Have All Been Mixed Up Game | Terry Pratchett, Jingo

headcanonsandmore:

Summary: In the bustling city of Ankh-Morpork, a murder has taken place. Not especially unusual, but such a case happens to be the first for a new recruit to the City Watch; a working-class boy from the Ramtops called Ron Weasley.

(This is my first time writing for Discworld characters and my last writing for HP characters, so hopefully I haven’t messed up any characterisations too badly)

Tagging:@thefandompixie

~~~~~~~~~~~~

                       Read on FFN.                                       Read on AO3.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night had always been a time to be afraid of.

It was ingrained into humanity, a distant memory from the time where a fire in a cave was the only safe harbour from the things that lurked beyond. Things with teeth and instincts that came canine-in-canine with them.

Ankh-Morpork at night was roughly similar. Except the creatures in the dark took your wallet as well.

Keep reading

Summary: In the bustling city of Ankh-Morpork, a murder has taken place. Not especially unusual, but such a case happens to be the first for a new recruit to the City Watch; a working-class boy from the Ramtops called Ron Weasley.

(This is my first time writing for Discworld characters and my last writing for HP characters, so hopefully I haven’t messed up any characterisations too badly)

Tagging:@thefandompixie

~~~~~~~~~~~~

                       Read on FFN.                                       Read on AO3.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night had always been a time to be afraid of.

It was ingrained into humanity, a distant memory from the time where a fire in a cave was the only safe harbour from the things that lurked beyond. Things with teeth and instincts that came canine-in-canine with them.

Ankh-Morpork at night was roughly similar. Except the creatures in the dark took your wallet as well.

It was that sort of cold winter night that encouraged all sane people to stay inside in their bed, cosy or otherwise. The sort of night that made you feel sorry for the poor buggers working out in it.

The care-taker at the prestigious Mrs Chuttington-Warbley’s Finishing School For Young Ladies* was not one of these poor buggers. In fact, he was of the opinion that any outdoor activity should only be conducted by stout men who’d been brought up for that sort of thing.

The care-taker did have a name but, after so many years of being referred to as “caretaker” by those around him, had just decided to accept the majority vote and go by that title instead. His first name was ‘care’, his surname was ‘taker’ and his middle name was ‘dash’. Which made him rather dull company at parties.

As the new academic year was due to start within the week, the care-taker was making his usual preparations around the school. The sort of things that people only complain about if they go wrong. Staircases without wormwood. Windows that didn’t creak. And doormats that didn’t complain when you stepped on them**.

He was just about to turn in for the night, when he heard a noise from within one of the teachers offices.

The care-taker sighed, put down his broom, and trudged over to the door in question.

‘Bloody rats get everywhere,’ he muttered, opening the door. ‘Oh, sorry, Ms Smith, I heard a noise and I wondered if it were… were…’

He trailed off, noticing that Ms Smith, the new form tutor, was lying on the ground. And that a small pool of red liquid was slowly growing around her.

‘Oh, dear…’ the care-taker said, taking off his hat. ‘Oh, dear-oh-dear…’

‘How rude of them!’

The spirit of Ms Smith was glaring over at the open window, her hands on her hips. She was the sort of practical-minded person who wasn’t impressed by people making themselves out to be smarter than they actually were. And that included the person who had just ended her life.

The care-taker couldn’t see her, of course. In fact, he turned on his heel and left the room.

IN MY VIEW, RUDENESS IS ONE WAY OF READING IT.

Ms Smith turned. A large, cloaked figure was stood nearby. Very thin sort of chap. Almost skeletal, in fact.

‘It’s the principle of the matter!’ She continued, fussing with the sleeve of her cardigan***. ‘I hadn’t finished my lesson plans; how can a substitute continue without me if they don’t know what curriculum I had laid out?’

USUALLY, replied the figure, PEOPLE DO NOT WORRY ABOUT THOSE THINGS IN THESE CIRCUMSTANCES.

‘Not worry?’ Ms Smith repeated, as if offended by the very thought. ‘Well, maybe some people might, but I have my students to think about! I can’t have their education disrupted just because of a small thing like this.’

MS SMITH?

‘Yes, young man?’

ARE YOU, PERHAPS… AWARE THAT YOU ARE DEAD?

Ms Smith stared at Death.

‘Really?’

I’M AFRAID SO.

‘But I have so much to do! We have new students arriving within the week, and they’ll all need to sorted into classes and dormitories…’

Ms Smith’s form began to fade.

I’M SURE THAT WILL BE TAKEN CARE OF.

‘I really wish they’d just left it a week,’ Ms Smith continued. ‘There’s nothing I hate more than leaving without a proper goodbye.’

IF IT MAKES YOU FEEL ANY BETTER, I’M SURE YOUR STUDENTS WILL NOT BE OFFENDED.

Ms Smith smiled.

‘So… where do I go from here?’

Death couldn’t smile, but the eye sockets of his skull seem to round slightly. He reached out and took Ms Smiths’ hand.

ONWARDS.

                                                           *

* Known to its students by a variety of aliases including “the warblers”, “the finishers”, and -to a few of the more frank-minded girls- “a complete bloody waste of my time”.

** That last one was due to a rather unfortunate incident involving a travelling con-man, one very naïve housemaid and several sentient objects obtained “semi-legally” from within Unseen University. The care-taker would never forget the time he had stepped through the kitchen door, only to be told by the doormat that his left boot was smelling strongly of bird mess and would he kindly get his dirty great feet off my face-.

*** Well, technically it was the spirit of her cardigan, but it was a very good cardigan, after all.

                                                            *

For the moment, let us pan away from the sprawling streets of Ankh-Morpork (over which the sun was now dimly rising) and out over the Sto Plains, where the only things sprawling were the cabbages and their farmers who did not mind a) a strong smell of cabbages attached permanently to their person and b) having no friends.

A carriage was making steady progress down the long dirt road from the Ramtop mountains.

Or, at least, that was the case until two passengers decided that the carriage should stop by the side of the road so they could have a look around. For the seventeenth time.

‘C’mon, gel,’ replied the shorter of the two passengers in question, to a young redheaded girl sat on the seat opposite. ‘You go with Mistress Weatherwax while she looks for herbs.’

The girl let out a sigh, but followed the aforementioned Mistress Weatherwax out of the carriage.

The short lady then turned to the young man sat next to her.

‘Oh, don’t look so serious, lad!’

‘Sorry, nanny.’

She wasn’t actually his grandma, of course. Like many people in the small kingdom of Lacre and its surrounding countryside, Ron Weasley was (in some way he wasn’t sure how) related to Gytha Ogg. He had given up trying to understand the complicated familial relationships, vendettas and petty squabbles that went on within the Ogg clan. All that mattered was that Ron had far too many relatives for his own liking; all of them determined to elbow into each-others’ lives whether the person liked it or not.

Mercifully, Ron was -at most- a distant cousin of the Oggs. Somewhere on his mum’s side, through marriage, apparently. He never was much good at family history. Ron didn’t think he was good at much, to be honest. And his older twin brothers had encouraged this assessment at every opportunity.

Ron had been the odd-job man in his family for as long as he could remember (which, since he was sixteen, wasn’t that long, admittedly). He was the resident boot-maker, cook, baker, carpenter and snow-clearer.

He was also bitterly fed up with his lot.

His parents could tell. The youngest boy of seven children, Ron had always found it difficult to make his own place. To Fred and George, Ron’s place was “off the end of the bench”. Ron didn’t particularly like that place either, so he had asked his parents if he could do something that didn’t involve the jobs no-one else wanted to do at home.

Actually, Ron didn’t mind helping out. He often worked with his second-oldest brother Charlie with hauling carts up to Copperhead. Ron liked this because Charlie didn’t chuck wood chippings at his head like the twins did, and also because the dwarfs were a very straightforward sort of people.

Ron had also started to notice that, after several months of hauling carts up to the mine entrance, the twins had started to avoid chucking things at him. And that his shirts didn’t fit properly anymore.

His parents had seen that it was time for Ron to make his own way in the world, hopefully somewhere he wouldn’t be stuck with half a dozen brothers crowding his style.

So, Ron was being sent to join the Ankh-Morpork City Watch. A sensible profession, he had been told.

‘Now,’ Nanny Ogg said, grinning knowingly. ‘I heard you get a decent bit of money in the Watch. But I don’t want to hear that you’ve been spending half your pay packet over at the Guild of Seamstresses.’

‘Oh, you won’t need to worry, nanny,’ Ron replied. ‘I already know how to darn my socks.’

Nanny chuckled, although Ron wasn’t really sure why. But Ron could feel his mood improve already, which was a good sign. While he was looking forward to seeing the big city, he had also been a little nervous. After all, coming from such a small place as Lacre to city of over a million inhabitants was a big step.

Ginny, on the other hand, was not in such a good mood. She was being sent to a young ladies finishing school. Ron wasn’t entirely sure what a finishing school was, or why a place for young ladies would want Ginny, but he didn’t enquire further. He had spent most of his childhood learning from the twins that asking questions got wood chippings thrown at your head.

‘Oy, Esme!’ Nanny Ogg called out the window. ‘Let me have a talk with Ginny, will you?’

Nanny grinned again at Ron, before leaving the carriage. Ron instantly felt himself sit up straighter as Mistress Weatherwax climbed back into the carriage. Ron had a sneaking suspicion that Nanny was going to be talking to Ginny about the sort of potions that women back in Lancre only alluded to with hushed voices.

‘You packed everything you need, lad?’

‘Yes, Mistress Weatherwax,’ Ron replied, politely.

‘You aren’t going to ignore Ginerva when you’re in the Watch, are you?’

‘No, Mistress Weatherwax. She’s my sister; I’ll make sure to watch out for her.’

Like everyone in the Ramtops, Ron knew that being polite was very important to Mistress Weatherwax. It was a trait that she thought very highly of. Not for herself, but for everyone else to have, of course.

Mistress Weatherwax didn’t smile, but the sides of her mouth did raise slightly. Ron took this as a good sign.

‘I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I was a gel,’ Mistress Weatherwax said. ‘I’m sure Ginerva will too; she’s a bright one.’

Ron nodded.

He hadn’t been expecting for Mistress Weatherwax to give him any advice, but he did wonder whether what she had said was more for his benefit. After all, he knew that he didn’t want to do anything that his brothers had done. Or claimed not to have done, in the twins case.

‘C’mon,’ Nanny Ogg said, as she and Ginny climbed back into the coach. ‘Time to get going, driver!’

To the audible relief of the other passengers, the coach pulled away.

                                                           *

Ankh-Morpork was a sign for sore eyes. And sore ears too. Generally speaking, it was a place for soreness.

The city seemed to grip the surrounding area like a limpet. Ron had imagined wide towers and walls, elegant avenues made of marble. But Ankh-Morpork looked more like what a city spat out. Houses awkwardly cobbled together in a slapdash fashion, streets that seems to cling to the earth beneath like a limpet. A city that looked like it was constantly on guard, just in case someone tried to tell it that it was loitering.

The city seemed to thrive in the outdoors. On every street, people were jostling for position, as well as carts, animals and goodness-knew-what-else. And the smell…

Ginny gagged slightly.

‘Winds in the wrong direction,’ Nanny said, cheerfully. ‘That’s the river for you.’

Ron nodded, patting Ginny softly on the shoulder. She smiled queasily at him.

Eventually, the coach stopped and the two Weasleys followed their guides out of the coach and into a bustling open area. A dirty sign nearby labelled the place as ‘Sator Square’. Ron was already feeling wary, as if someone would make a ploy for his wallet at any moment. Which, given that he hadn’t paid the Thieves Guild rate for that financial year, was very accurate.

About ten minutes later, they managed to break through the crowds and crossed the Bridge of Size, passing across the river (Ginny and Ron making sure to breath only through their mouths and, when that failed, their ears) and into the more respectable Rimward side of the river. Ron really wasn’t sure what made it more respectable, but at least the air didn’t smell so bad.

The four of them headed across Hen and Chicken Field and into a smaller road, eventually coming to a stop outside a large gated building. Sure enough, a well-polished sign on the wall indicated this to be Mrs Chuttington-Warbley’s Finishing School For Young Ladies. A few girls of Ginny’s age were leaning out of windows and eyeing the younger redhead with slightly wary expressions.

‘Bye, Gin,’ Ron said, turning to his sister. ‘I’ll come and see you after my shift finishes tomorrow.’

Ginny smiled. She didn’t hug him, but Ron hadn’t expected her to. He knew she wanted to appear confident and cool in front of any other students that might be watching.

‘Thanks, Ron; see you later, then.’

Ron nodded, and waved as she walked in with Nanny Ogg, who had the letter written by Mrs Weasley addressed to the headmistress.

Feeling as awkward as he always did around Mistress Weatherwax, Ron stood in the road. Mistress Weatherwax didn’t say anything, but muttered something under her breath about ‘city people’.

A few minutes later, Nanny reappeared, grinning.

‘All settled in,’ she said, slapping Ron cheerfully on the arm. ‘C’mon, lad; let’s get you over to the Watch.’

Ron nodded, swallowing nervously.

He followed the two witches down a large avenue, passing several huge mansions and houses of the rich. There were less people here, and Ron got the distinct impression that, if he was ever caught here alone, he would have been asked to move along by some indignant butler*.

Eventually, this avenue ended and the two witches (for whom everyone dodged out of the way, including many who seemed surprised at having done so) veered left onto a large road that stretched back towards the river. Looking behind him, Ron could see that the road stretched all the way to the city wall in the far distance. Judging from the various cartloads of onions clattering along beside him, the road eventually led to Quirm**.

About ten minutes later, the witches and Ron emerged into another huge square, this one having the centrepiece of the Ankh-Morpork Opera House. Skirting around the impressive structure (albeit one which seemed to be missing parts of its roof), the two witches led Ron over to a building nearby. It wasn’t nearly as imposing, but it had a distinct earthiness to it. Like it had more important things to worry about than grandness.

“Watch House”

Ron swallowed, clutching the strap of his small satchel.

‘That’s the Watch house, lad,’ Nanny said, patting Ron cheerfully on the shoulder. ‘In you go.’

‘Oh, right…er…’ Ron said, turning to the two witches. ‘Thank you, Mrs Ogg and Mistress Weatherwax. For bringing me and Ginny down to the city. I really appreciate it.’

Mistress Weatherwax didn’t smile but nodded in reply. Nanny grinned, showing why Lacre was not known for its large index of dentists.

‘You’ll do fine, Ronnie,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry.’

Ron smiled, before turning and entering the Watch House.

He was immediately met by a mass of noise. Everywhere he looked, people were yelling and running back and forth. Representatives of every race on the Disc seemed to be represented, none in a “we are all together” way but instead in more of a “when does our bloody shift finish” situation.

Ron approached a set of desks. A dwarf was sat behind the moth-eaten wood, looking very bored as an irate vampire tried to submit a complaint.

‘I tell you, it’s a disvase,’ the vampire said, hotly. ‘Anyone vould think the place didn’t vant a vampire vorking there. I can work verever I vont!’

‘Yes,’ replied the dwarf. ‘But at Stronginthearm’s Garlic Wholesalers?’

‘That’s discrimination!’

‘What can I do you for, lad?’

Ron jumped slightly. The sergeant sat behind the desk next to the dwarf had a large red face and kind, albeit somewhat dim, eyes that stared over at the young redhead.

‘Er… Acting Constable Weasley,’ Ron said, quickly throwing up a salute. ‘Reporting for duty, sir!’

‘Ah, you’d be that lad down from the mountains,’ the sergeant replied, realisation dawning on his face. ‘Lacre, yes?’

‘Yessir!’

‘Okay… er-’

‘I’ll field this one, Fred.’

A captain had appeared behind the desk. He was enormously tall, and about as wide across the shoulders. He had short red hair and was wearing armour that Ron could see himself reflected in. Ron knew exactly who this was; he was a living legend back in the Ramtops.

‘Okay, Captain Carrot.’

Ron saluted again, feeling just as awkward as he had done the first time.

‘That’s alright, Acting Constable,’ Captain Carrot said, walking round the desk. ‘Please follow me this way for your orientation.’

Ron hurried after him up a staircase and into a room.

‘Tell me,’ the captain said, brightly as he gestured Ron towards a seat and taking the other. ‘How is shaft nine coming along in Copperhead?’

‘Er… I think they’ve almost completed it,’ Ron said, putting his satchel down next to him. ‘My brother Charlie was helping them with the final preparations earlier this week.’

‘Carrot, stop asking him about home.’

Ron felt the temperature of the room drop suddenly. A woman had entered through the door. She was short, with long blonde hair. He knew instinctively that this sergeant was not someone to be trifled with.

Ron swallowed, and stood up again, before saluting.

‘Constable, this is Sergeant Angua,’ Captain Carrot said, smiling.

‘Sergeant Angua is a werewolf, yeah?’

There was silence in the room for a second.

Ron felt a shiver go up his spine as Sergeant Angua turned to look at him. Bollocks. Why couldn’t he have kept his big mouth shut?  

However, at that moment, Carrot leaned forward.

‘Care to explain how you noticed, Acting Constable?’

‘Er…’ Ron said, feeling very awkward. He had never felt all that comfortable talking about his thoughts. Generally because the twins usually made sure he felt uncomfortable after doing so. ‘The collar she wears; it’s a type of leather that can expand and retract easily under pressure without breaking, isn’t it? Perfect for having to change between forms on short notice.’

Angua stared at him.

‘Yes…’ she said. ‘That’s right. You’re very perceptive, constable.’

‘Thank you, Sergeant. Er… sorry, I wasn’t trying to be rude.’

Carrot stared down at a piece of note paper that he had pulled from somewhere.

‘You say you’ve got experience with herbs?’

‘Er, yeah,’ Ron said, still feeling Sergeant Angua’s steely gaze on him. ‘I used to help Mistress Weatherwax with collecting things around the countryside.’

Carrot looked up and smiled at him.

‘In that case, I think our forensic division could use you very well. Report to Forensics, and ask for Cheery Littlebottom.’

‘Forensics is a couple of floors up,’ Angua continued. ‘In the old privy.’

Ron awkwardly saluted. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to doing this whenever he had to leave a room.

                                                               *

*This is what is often referred to a “class memory”. It doesn’t have much to do with class, although the people clamouring to use the whips often like to believe themselves to be men of it.

**Ankh-Morpork does use onions in many recipes, but all of them are labelled as “foreign food”, being just foreign enough for the rich to enjoy.

                                                               *

Ron headed up the rickety stairs, until he eventually began to smell something like an old latrine mixed with chemicals. He followed the corridor along, and slowed to a stop before a door labelled ‘Privy’. He was just about to knock when the door swung open.

‘GET DOWN!’

Ron got a brief flash of a bearded face, before he crashed backwards onto the floor. There was a colossal explosion.

Ron waited for the ringing in his ears to fade, before reopening his eyes.

There was now a dwarf lying on his chest.

‘Er…’ Ron said, saluting. ‘Acting Constable Weasley, reporting.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ said the dwarf, before climbing off Ron and helping him to his feet. ‘Experiment went a bit wrong.’

‘No problem,’ Ron replied, as they headed back inside the room. Which did indeed appear to be an out-of-order toilet. ‘Er… are you… Cheery Littlebottom?’

‘That’s me!’ Cheery said, grinning. Ron was suddenly aware that the dwarf was wearing lipstick and eyeliner. ‘I take it you’re the new recruit? I’m not bothered by the title, so you can just call me Cheery, if that’s okay with you?’

Cute.

Ron felt his cheeks flush.

‘S-sure,’ he said.

‘Now, I’m sure Captain Carrot’s explained a few things,’ Cheery said, not seeming to realise Ron’s flustered expression. She pulled a tube of paper out of a pocket on her belt. ‘Used to dealing with herbs in the mountains, by the sounds of it. That’s why you’ve been put with me. Just between us, I’ve never had to manage anyone before; forensics isn’t something most Watchmen know much about.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Ron said.

Cheery smiled, patting him on the arm. Ron felt goosebumps raise up his arm.

‘So, how’s Copperhead doing nowadays?’ Cheery asked, climbing up and onto a rickety stool nearby. ‘I imagine you probably got grilled by Carrot about it; he’s always enquiring after news of the old place.’

‘Y-yeah,’ Ron replied, sitting down next to Cheery. ‘He’s a bit of a legend back home; we’re pretty caught up with what happens in Ankh-Morpork.’

‘I take it that’s why you didn’t say anything about me being a woman?’

Ron felt his face turn red. Copperhead dwarfs were generally a lot more progressive than some of their contemporaries over in Uberwald, but… well, Charlie had said that the subject of dwarf gender was something of a private matter still.

‘I… I don’t mind!’ he said, quickly. ‘Really! I think it’s brilliant!’

Thelast thing he wanted was his commanding officer seeing him as some backwards idiot from the countryside. Gender was something Ron had never really understood anyway, so who was he to say what was correct and what wasn’t? This was the century of the anchovy, after all. Or would be, once the astronomers had finally agreed.

‘That’s lovely of you to say; I appreciate it,’ Cheery replied, smiling. ‘Now, new recruits are scheduled to do patrols a few times a week during their orientation period. Get your bags unpacked in the dormitories upstairs and then head over to Uniforms; you need to receive your armour and helmet. I’ve got a few things to finish up here, but I’ll meet you downstairs in the main reception in twenty minutes ’

Ron nodded, before saluting and leaving.

There wasn’t anyone in the dormitory, but he found a bunk with ‘Weezely’ engraved above it*.

Ron packed his scant possessions (a change of clothes and a nightshirt) under the bed and headed downstairs to Uniforms. Mercifully, they had one in his size. It wasn’t very well polished and smelled vaguely of radishes, but Ron didn’t complain. Anything was better than wearing Percy’s old trousers.

Ron was just heading down to the main reception when he rounded a corner and walked straight into someone. Who promptly crashed to the floor.

‘Ow. Lad, you mind watching where you’re going?’

‘S-sorry!’ Ron exclaimed, hurrying forward and helping the man to his feet. He was short, with the bearing of someone who had previously had an awful diet but had finally started eating properly. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine, lad,’ said the man, wearily. ‘You new here, then?’

‘Er, yes,’ Ron said, before hurriedly saluting. ‘Acting Constable Weasley, sir!’

‘No need to salute,’ said the man, waving his hand. ‘I’m not a lord. You need to go on patrol, I take it? C’mon, I could do with a walk.’

‘But Cheery said-’

‘I’ll leave a note for her,’ said the sergeant, already writing a note and sending it into the pneumatic tubes that seemed to be used as a form of messaging within the Watch House. ‘Don’t worry, lad; I’ll show you the ropes.’

Ron followed the old sergeant out of the Watch house and into the sprawling city streets. Coming from the Ramtops, Ron still felt very shocked by the sights and sounds (not to mention smells) of a city that over a million inhabitants called “home”**.

They crossed Bronze Bridge and into Sheer Street, on the hubwards side of the river. This unfortunately meant that the air smelt of the river, but Ron was already finding that he was growing used to it.

‘No gagging, then?’

Ron shrugged.

‘And before your first day in the city is even finished?’ The old sergeant clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nice going.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Gotta learn to read the streets, son,’ said the sergeant, now lighting a horrible-smelling cigar and taking a deep draw on it. ‘It’s a dirty old slagheap, but we’re here to keep the peace.’

Ron nodded.

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

‘That’s all any of us can do, lad. Well, that and learn to use your elbow in a fight.’

Ron nodded again.

‘Not a talkative one, are you.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Where you from, lad?’

‘Lacre, sir.’

‘Huh,’ replied the sergeant. ‘That kingdom in the Ramtops you can spit across?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t worry; Captain Carrot comes from those parts too. Funnily enough, you even look a bit like him.’

Ron nodded, not sure what to say.

As they continued through the streets, Ron became aware that many of the passers-by seemed to recognise the old sergeant, and a few even darted away from him as he passed. Must be a proper old Watchman, then.

‘Is… is Commander Vimes tough?’ Ron asked, hesitantly as the two of them slowed to a stop to stare out over the river. ‘To work for, I mean?’

The sergeant stared at Ron, drawing on his cigar in apparent thought.

‘Hmmm. Yeah, I guess he is, a bit. Mind, between you and me, he’s a bit of a miserable old bastard. But you’ll do fine. You’ve just got to get some experience under your belt.’

‘Thank you. I… I just don’t want to let everyone down.’

The sergeant smiled at him. It wasn’t a particularly cheerful smile, but Ron could tell the sentiment was positive.

‘Excuse me?’ came a voice from somewhere near Ron’s right elbow. He turned.

A girl was glaring up at him. She was roughly Ron’s age, and about half his height, with an enormous mane of bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth.

‘I’m very sorry, Miss…er…’

‘Granger,’ said the girl, quickly. ‘Listen, the Dwarf Bread Museum has been closed for most of the past two weeks; how am I supposed to organise an educational excursion if it never seems to be open anymore?’

Ron stared behind her. Sure enough, a sign labelled “Dwarf Bread Museum” pointed to a small, slightly musty looking building.

‘Miss Granger,’ Ron said, sighing. ‘Have you tried sending a Clacks to Captain Carrot? I believe he often looks after the place on his days off. I’m sure he’d been thrilled to help organise this excursion with you.’

‘I…’ Miss Granger replied, her mouth opening and shutting. ‘I… I didn’t think of that.’

‘Well, there you go.’

The bushy-haired young woman smiled, apologetically.

‘My apologies, I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m a student teacher and I need this exertion to be a success.’

‘No problem,’ Ron said, tapping the side of his helmet and feeling immensely glad that Charlie had once mentioned that fact about Captain Carrot. ‘Happy to help.’

‘Thank you, Constable… er…’

‘Weasley.’

The girl smiled shyly up at him.

‘Constable Weasley, then. Thank you very much.’

‘It’s what I’m here for, Miss Granger.’

The young woman smiled once more and walked away. Ron felt strangely cheerful all of a sudden.

He turned back, to find the old sergeant giving him a very knowing look. This particular look could have held multiple degrees and at least twelve school leaving certificates.

‘What?’ Ron said, his ears turning pink.

The old sergeant grinned.

‘Nothing, just admiring how well you diffused that situation. You really are sure this is your first day?’

‘Er, yeah-’

‘Unlicensed thief!’

The cry had come from just across the street, where a woman was pointing towards a figure who was darting into an alley, holding a handbag that was clearly not their own.

‘Sidney Pickens!’ Exclaimed the Sergeant, throwing the remainder of his cigar into the river***. ‘You get back here right now!’

The sergeant sprinted off after the thief, putting on a burst of speed that wouldn’t have seemed natural coming from a man his age. Ron was just about to follow, when a hand patted him on the arm.

It was Cheery.

‘I see you’ve met Commander Vimes,’ she said, smiling up at Ron. ‘He’s alright. Bit weird but alright. Don’t worry; he’ll catch up with Pickens. C’mon; we’ve had a clacks come through, we’re needed over in Hen and Chickens Field-Ron? Ron, whatever’s the matter?’

Ron’s mouth had fallen open. He was now staring in horror after where the older Watchman had sprinted off.

‘You’re telling me that was… Commander Sir Samuel Vimes?’

‘Yes,’ Cheery replied, looking concerned. ‘Why? What’s wrong?’

Ron shook his head.

It was his first day and he’d already let slip all his worries about joining the Watch to the leader of the entire bloody organisation. Oh, he was never going to live this down…

                                                              *

* Captain Carrot’s doing. Although a very good captain and able to recognise every resident of Ankh-Morpork by name and tax details, the finer points of spelling had always eluded him.

** Actually, most of them referred to it as “a stinking heap”, but it meant the same thing in the end.

*** For any environmentally-minded readers, please rest assured that the river suffered no ill-effects from this. While the cigar did eventually sink through the yellow crust covering the river Ankh, it was quickly dissolved by the lifeless miasma of grease, silt and faeces below.  

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Thanks for reading, everyone! If you enjoyed it, please like, reblog and comment. If you want to be added to the tag list, please let me know.

headcanonsandmore:

Summary: In the bustling city of Ankh-Morpork, a murder has taken place. Not especially unusual, but such a case happens to be the first for a new recruit to the City Watch; a working-class boy from the Ramtops called Ron Weasley.

(This is my first time writing for Discworld characters and my last writing for HP characters, so hopefully I haven’t messed up any characterisations too badly)

Tagging:@thefandompixie

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The night had always been a time to be afraid of.

It was ingrained into humanity, a distant memory from the time where a fire in a cave was the only safe harbour from the things that lurked beyond. Things with teeth and instincts that came canine-in-canine with them.

Ankh-Morpork at night was roughly similar. Except the creatures in the dark took your wallet as well.

Keep reading

Colon had always thought that heroes had some special kind of clockwork that made them go out and die famously for god, country and apple pie, or whatever particular delicacy their mother made. It had never occurred to him that they might do it because they’d get yelled at if they didn’t.

Terry Pratchett, Jingo