Nanny Ogg: I said I’ve got an “acute angina”! Granny Weatherwax: DON’T BE SO DISGUSTIN’ Nanny: You’re not listenin’ to me! Granny: No, I DON’T want to HEAR IT Nanny: No, ACUTE-
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.
You just… you just know good and god damned well that Terry Pratchett either was a witch or or had a very intimate knowledge of witches. Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg, Magrat Garlick, Agnes Nitt, Tiffany Aching… they are all very real characters who each practise very real brands of witchcraft.
“‘I don’t mind criticism,’ said Granny. ‘You know me. I’ve never been one to take offence at criticism. No-one could say I’m the sort to take offence at criticism -’
[Text ID: ‘It’s daft, locking us up,’ said Nanny. ‘I’d have had us killed.’ / ‘That’s because you’re basically good,’ said Magrat. ‘The good are innocent and create justice. The bad are guilty, which is why they invent mercy.’/End ID]
“Even I was once a rather shy girl who had difficulty meeting young men. But it wore off by mid-morning when I realised what I was doing wrong.” - Nanny Ogg’s Cookbook
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)
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.
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)
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?’
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.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
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)
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.
The Discworld.com Facebook page posted this quote from Witches Abroad:
“He’ll miss his mummy if he’s left behind, won’t he,” crooned Nanny Ogg, picking up Greebo. He hung limply, like a bag of water gripped around the middle.
My re-listen of the Discworld series in order of publication has yielded some art. Wyrd Sisters is when the trio witches start and I love them. Can’t wait for all the next books. It just keeps getting better!
i keep trying to reread wyrd sisters but i can’t get further than this cause every time i see it i have to turn my phone off and close my eyes for twenty minutes…..this is SO funny. you just know there’s a little recipe book in goodie maysherestinpeace whemper’s old cottage with an entry that says RECIPE FOR HOT LEAD BONES: step one you get some lead step two you put it in their bones
[id: “Witches just aren’t like that,” said Magrat. “We live in harmony with the great cycles of Nature, and do no harm to anyone, and it’s wicked of them to say we don’t. We ought to fill their bones with hot lead.”
The other two looked at her with a certain amount of surprised admiration. She blushed, although not greenly, and looked at her knees.
“Goodie Whemper did a recipe,” she confessed. “It’s quite easy. What you do is, you get some lead, and you-” / end id]
“And I don’t hold with all this giving things funny names so people don’t know what they’re eating,’ said Granny, determined to explore the drawbacks of international cookery to the full. ‘I like stuff that tells you plain what it is, like … well … Bubble and Squeak, or … or…’
I tried to make a full oneshot out of this for Discworld fan works week, but in the end the only thing that really worked was the conversation that first came to me. (If anyone else can see more of what happens around this conversation, they’re welcome to have at it.)
Those who do good works will not be forgotten.
“I thought about holdin’ the sign, you know. Just to see what’d happen.”
THEY WOULD HAVE BELIEVED IT. YOU WOULD HAVE ROTTED TO A SKELETON BEFORE THEY WOULD DOUBT IT. EVEN THEN, THEY WOULD QUESTION.
“Heard Gytha tellin’ the little princesses that I could be watchin’ em from the rabbits an’ deers and suchlike, to make sure they’d be good. Those girls get enough fanciful notions from Magrat without Gytha fillin’ their heads with more fluff.”
WILL YOU, OF ALL PEOPLE, DOUBT THE POWER THAT STORY MIGHT HAVE?
“Hmph. Don’t see why they’re so keen to keep me around, watchin’ ‘em. Didn’t much like watchin’ ‘em when I was alive.”
BUT YOU DID SO. YOU DID WHAT WAS NEEDFUL.
“’Spose you’d understand all about that, eh?”
YOU HAVE DONE GOOD WORKS.
“…You always this praiseful?”
I SIMPLY BELIEVE THAT CREDIT IS OWED WHERE IT IS DUE.
“Well, I suppose we all need somethin’ to believe in.”
QUITE SO. WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN, ESMERELDA WEATHERWAX?
“Me. Always have. And I don’t believe in mopin’, so shall we be getting on?”
