Charity Flopsy-and-Drawble-fest, 12/2006
First Posted 12/28/2006

All right, here are the final, finished products from the Charity Flopsyfest I ran on copperbadge from December 16 - 21, 2006. The short fics are interspersed with "drawbles", brief sketches offered by waccawheels and celestialsoda on a limited-request basis. Please don't use the artwork without permission!

These fics range in rating from G to R though no actual ratings are specified on each story. You're big boys and girls, you can cope.

Enjoy! And thank you to everyone who participated and made someone's midwinter a little brighter. :)

For: carnadosa; "Snape and a Cat"
By: waccawheels

---

HOUSE MD

thewlisian_afer

Wilson leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Sometimes he imagined what life would be like without House in it, and while in some ways it was too horrible to contemplate, at least he would never have had to learn the value of Taking A Moment.

"How is he?" he asked Cameron.

"Fine, now," she replied. "That sock to the gut from the patient's mom is going to hurt in the morning."

"It always does," Wilson sighed.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, and he opened his eyes.

"Of course," he replied.

"You want to go out for a drink?"

He blinked at her. "What?"

"A drink. Something really alcoholic," she added.

"You don't think that might be a little...perilous?" he asked carefully. She smiled and straightened his tie.

"No," she said, fingers lingering on the knot. "I don't."

---

sanura

"Do you know how Christmas came to be?" House asked Wilson, who was sitting next to him on the sofa, eating take-away Chinese. Wilson, well-acquainted with the ritual of Chinese Food On The 24th, frowned.

"As I understand it, with my vague Jewish grasp of things, the saviour of the world was born in a manger and things went from there," he said.

"No," House replied. "Christmas is based on a Mithradic celebration of birth and flame meant to stave off the darkness during the time when the nights were longest and it got really fucking cold. Then they stole the Christmas Tree from the Celts when the Romans really got going on it, and Santa Claus was a nordic paedophile."

"Merry Christmas, House," Wilson said with a smile.

"Fuck you, Bob Cratchet."

Wilson slid closer and took away House's take-away carton, putting it on the coffee table.

"Well, we could always commit a grevious sexual sin on Christ's birthday. That ought to piss off whoever you really want to annoy," he said softly.

House grinned. "I'll get the frankincense, you get the myrrh."

---

For: a_is_for_amy; "Good Omens, Crowley and Aziraphale"
By: celestialsoda

---

STUDIO 60

kit_maxel

"So? What's wrong with him?" Danny asked anxiously.

"Might be his funnybone," the doctor replied, examining Danny's pupils.

"I'm sorry, was that a joke?" Danny demanded. "My co-exec passed out in the middle of the show and you think that's funny?"

The doctor, whose name was something like House or Harse, looked up at him with piercing blue eyes.

"Do I ask you to write comedy while you're at the doctor's office?" he asked.

"What? No -- "

"But you're asking me to be a doctor when all I wanted to do was see a funny comedy show," House replied. "If I'm going to do double duty I want a cut of the action."

"You volunteered!"

"She volunteered me," House replied, jerking his head at the slim, pretty young woman who was taking Matt's pulse.

"Just -- tell me what's wrong with him?" Danny pleaded. The doctor gave him a level look and put the flashlight down on the table.

"Low blood sugar," he replied. "Slap him awake and give him a big glass of orange juice, and get him a blood-glucose test in the morning."

"That's all?"

"Well, I could give you a diagnosis of cancer if that'd be more entertaining."

Next week, Danny asked Matt to write a script about a really brilliant, sarcastic, cold-hearted doctor who abused his patients mercilessly. A few months later, NBS decided to pick it up as a drama. And the rest, as they say, is history.

---

crazedcrusader

"Okay, let me just pitch this," Tom said, holding up his hands almost defensively.

"It's stupid," Simon said from the other end of the room.

"It's obvious," Harrie added.

"I like it already. Go," Matt pointed at Tom, who looked pleased. He'd only been on the show three weeks, not counting the two stand-in stints he'd done when Mikey got sick, and he was eager to impress the man who was clearly the head writer's golden boy.

Tom didn't even remember what the pitch was now, only that Matt had said it had potential, and had then taken it, spent three hours on a computer, and turned around to give him something that only barely resembled his original idea but was much, much funnier. And he'd put Tom's name on it with his own.

Tom knew that Matt was chasing Harrie, everyone knew that but Harrie. At the same time, however, Matt was not averse to charming anyone who crossed his path and bedding members of the cast if it suited his mood. Tom never expected to be so easy that a six-page script would do the trick, but looking back he wasn't ashamed at how easily he'd fallen for Matt's wit. After all, it had slung him headlong into the confidences of Simon and Harrie, who made him one of the Big Three when he was really just the small funny kid from the midwest who occasionally went home with Matt Albie at the end of the night.

---

lilychick

Danny was a man who thought in weeks, rather than hours or years. A half-season was fourteen weeks long; there were two weeks off for Christmas, then another half-season with a big push for spring sweeps. It was no great adjustment to him to think in terms of pregnancy weeks, though it bewildered Matt (who'd never been very good at math).

"So here's my thought," he said to Jordan, as they sat in the diner and she put away an enormous salad plus most of his garlic bread.

"What's that?" she asked.

"You have forty weeks of pregnancy less thirteen, which is twenty-seven weeks. That's enough time for at least fifty-four dates."

"You're scheduling our dates twenty-seven weeks in advance?"

"Not counting childbirth classes and stuff," he said vaguely.

"Oh, screw natural childbirth," Jordan said. "I'm having lots of drugs."

"Well, that frees up a third date a week," he said. "I'm not unfamiliar with subconscious fear of commitment, so I think we should schedule them now. I've got a whole week free during the mid-February break, I want to take you to Boston."

She stared at him.

"How do you know we'll still be together in February? We're not even together now," she said.

Danny grinned.

"Don't worry about it," he said, and kissed her.

---

aimsleydale

"Tunes party tonight," Tom whispered to Harrie, who looked up at him and beamed.

"Really?" she asked, then leaned over to Jeannie. "Tunes party tonight."

"Awesome," Jeannie replied. "Someone tell Matt and Danny?"

"Got it," Tom said, sitting down at his makeup table. "Simon and me decided. The cast party tonight's going to be at La Casa, it'll be lame."

"I hate La Casa! Why are we partying there?" Samantha said.

"Some Network bigwigs are coming, Jordan wants to woo them," Tom said.

"Cool," Samantha said. "I love blowing off the cast parties."

If anyone had lingered at Studio Sixty after the show, they would have seen a flurry of peculiar activity: Cal and Suzanne lowering a big white sheet from the flyspace, Simon wheeling out an old popcorn cart he'd scavenged from somewhere, Tom working with a laptop and a small projector while Matt and Danny and the other actors rolled an enormous washtub full of ice and beer bottles out from the catering room. As everyone settled into the audience with bowls of buttered popcorn and bottles of beer, Tom nodded at Cal and Cal shouted to Suzanne.

"HIT THE LIGHTS!"

The studio went dark for a second, and then Tom pressed a key on the laptop. The projector hummed to life and the screen was illuminated with the twenty-foot-tall image of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck.

"We will be starting tonight's showing of the Looney Tunes ouevre with a classic personal favourite of mine," Tom announced. "Remember to turn off all cellphones and pagers..."

---

elucreh

"What's going on here?" Danny asked, putting his head in the doorway.

"Mockin' the hat," Matt replied. Danny nodded and disappeared. Suzanne, sitting on Matt's couch with a PDA in her hand, rolled her eyes.

"Now, where were we?" Matt asked, leaning on his desk.

"You were about to make some pithy remarks on the stylish qualities of felt," she replied. "And probably a couple of jokes about Blossom."

She casually adjusted the tilt of the broad-brimmed bucket hat on her head. Matt crossed his arms.

"Mockery is serious business," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Comedy isn't funny, you know."

"No, Mr. Albie."

Matt shuddered. "Don't call me that. Is Danny gone?"

Suzanne leaned back and looked out the door. "Looks like."

"Awesome."

In one swift movement Suzanne stood, cast aside the hat, and closed the self-locking door. Matt caught her around the waist and kissed the side of her neck.

"So, what's next week's decoy?" she asked, giggling as he pinned her tight against him.

"I was thinking you could wear some funny shoes," he answered.

---

For: setissma; "Draco with a book"
By: waccawheels

---

LORD PETER WIMSEY and SHERLOCK HOLMES

celtmama

"Mr. Bunter to see you, your grace," said the Duchess's personal attendant, curtseying.

"Show him in, Miranda," the Duchess replied, curiously. Mr. Bunter was shown into her sitting-room, and she laid down her book. Two of her cats immediately leapt up and began twining themselves around Bunter's ankles.

"I thought it was your day off," she said.

"So it is, your grace," he answered. "I thought it best not to mix personal...grievances and the business off the house."

"What is it?" she asked, concerned. "Are you unhappy here? Please don't say you're resigning -- Peter is so much better since you've arrived, it's miraculous."

"Your grace, I feel..." Bunter cleared his throat. "I feel that the staff perhaps do not welcome my presence here. Normally I would have no trouble, as my duty is to see to Lord Peter, but there comes a time where my duties and theirs intersect, and I cannot do for his lordship all that should be done."

"I see."

"And there does come a time, your grace, when a man must..." Bunter looked agonised. "A man must feel he is living for himself, if you take my meaning."

"Peter must leave the house," she interpreted.

"Just so," Bunter said, looking relieved. "I've taken the liberty of locating an excellent flat in town..."

The Duchess smiled. "Bunter, these days you are the keeper of my son's soul. Do as you see fit. Consult me on the furnishings only, and Peter on the bookshelves."

Bunter smiled. "Thank you, your grace. I -- " he reddened, then swallowed. "I am completely devoted to your son and only wish to see to his well-being."

The Duchess took his hand in hers and patted it gently. "I know you are, Mr. Bunter. I would not trust my child to anyone less."

When Peter, with childlike glee, gave his first dinner-party in his new flat, only the Duke noticed that his wife had the audacity to wink at Bunter as he served the wine.

---

ooktavia

"Mr. Fell," said Lord Peter Wimsey, rising from his chair and shaking hands with his lunch companion. "Pleased to meet you."

"Yes! Finally," Mr. Fell replied, beaming. He seated himself and shook out the fine white linen napkin, filling his plate with finger sandwiches. Lord Peter sipped his tea. "Tell me, which side are we rooting for?"

"I'm officially neutral in this particular match," Lord Peter replied, as the batsman in the nearby cricket game hit the ball neatly between two of the fielders. "Yourself?"

Fell smiled to himself. "I always choose a side. These are ripping sandwiches."

"They do a proper tea here," Lord Peter agreed. "I thought it might put you in a good mood. Woo you into sellin' me that book you're so fond of not-quite-selling."

"Me, not sell a book? Lord Peter, I am a bookseller," Mr. Fell said, looking hurt.

"That's what you claim," said a new voice, and a dark-haired man seated himself at their table without asking. "AJ Crowley, Esquire," he continued, offering his hand to Lord Peter. "I'm an old friend of Mr. Fell's."

"Solicitor, eh?" Peter inquired, gesturing for Mr. Crowley to help himself to some sandwiches. "Going to take my case? Help me win that pre-Gutenberg poetry book I must have for my collection?"

Mr. Crowley grinned at Mr. Fell. "Well, I suppose it would be rather entertaining to play Devil's Advocate this once..."

---

senneci

Harriet Vane sighed.

She was at a cricket match, and she didn't know why; her housemates had said it would be a scream, but she preferred studying to screaming. The company was good, but the crowd was less than ideal.

The supposed reason that it was going to be a "scream" was that this was the annual Old Boys Match, where the current Oxford team went up against a scattered handful of alumni players from yesteryear. No doubt some of them were in good condition, like the shockheaded underfed batsman for the Old Boys, but others were pushing fifty and not playing quite up to their prime. She had heard someone mention to someone else that the blond man was Lord Peter someoneorother; shock-headed Peter, she thought with a smile.

Just as she was drifting off into her own imagination, there was a loud crack and a startled shriek; Harriet ducked aside as the ball flew through the air and whistled past one ear. The golden blond boy of the Old Boys ran up, bat still in one hand.

"That was a lovely foul, I don't think! Are you quite all right?" he called.

"Just fine, thank you," Harriet replied, as one of the other young women fished out the ball and threw it back. The young man -- well, older than her, but he couldn't be thirty-five yet -- caught it one handed, almost without looking. He was looking at her, instead, and Harriet became conscious of her wild windblown hair and the fact that she was the plain girl amongst the pretty ones. She had a brief glimpse of an unfortunately long nose and pale blue eyes, locked disconcertingly on hers, before he threw off a salute.

"Sorry!" he called, and jogged back to the field amidst shouts of "Stop flirting, Wimsey!" and "He hits them foul on purpose into the womens' seats!"

When questioned, years later, Peter still denied hitting the ball foul on purpose, but he did remember vividly a dark-browed, wild-haired young woman with an extremely good dodge-reflex.

---

bright_weavings

Lord Peter Wimsey was a peer and as such had a peer's systematic distaste for trade and business. He was an expert book-keeper and his interest in detective work kept him quite busy, but he could no more have been a shop clerk than he could have flown to the moon. It was not snobbery in Peter, as it was in so many; it was merely a consciousness that class boundaries existed, like them or not, and crossing them in such a manner would only bring pain down upon all concerned. In the course of his duties it was well and good, but why take a paying job from someone who really needed the money?

He was not certain, however, where he stood on the idea of craftsmanship or artistry. He liked art, though he was certainly no painter, nor a sculptor. He liked the theatre and the ballet, though he only attended when they were worth attending. And he loved music, which was what was currently causing him such pangs.

"If Shakespeare didn't write his own ruddy plays it's because Bacon had the same problem I have," he complained, head bent over his notations-book, to Bunter. "I wonder if one can hire a Shakespeare type to pose as one and thus deflect attention."

"If I may venture to say so, my lord, the compositions are quite adequate," Bunter replied.

"Adequate. Hah! Never mind it; I don't know why I feel I ought to publish," Lord Peter replied. The sheet music lay before him, taunting him. He'd written the cantata and knew it to be good, but he was --

Well, in his deepest heart, he was afraid that it was not, and Lord Peter Wimsey never affixed his name to work that was not good.

Bunter, sensing his master's distress, quietly bundled up the music that night and sold it to a publisher of popular instrumental music, who himself sold a hundred copies in a week. Peter's pleasure at Death Bredon's fame as a composer knew no bounds, and Bunter was a happy man once more.

---

busaikko

Saint-George Wimsey, the Viscount of Duke's Denver and the heir to a sixteenth-generation peerage, tried to tell himself that this was just a phase. Lots of young men, who lived primarily in the company of other young men, had urges that it only seemed sensible to satisfy within, as it were, the community.

Besides, you could do worse for company than Digory Kirke, who was clearly going to take a first in History and become a professor. He was quiet, discreet, kind, and understood Saint-George's distractable temper. Half the time Digory himself seemed to live in a different world, always scribbling his childrens' stories about some fantasy land where animals could talk.

Sometimes, when they lay in bed together, Saint-George's pale gold head cradled against Digory's chest, Digory told him stories too -- stories about a fair-haired prince and his adoring horse-groom. Saint-George always rewarded Digory's stories with kisses, as was proper.

"Do you ever think you'll publish those stories you showed me, the nursery ones?" Saint-George asked him once.

"I shouldn't think so," Digory replied. "They're much too important to show to just anyone."

Saint-George, who would one day become Professor Kirke's welcome guest at his home in the country, was always pleased to hear some new story of Narnia.

---

polaris_starz

Good king Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen --

In those days it was not uncommon for charitable groups, bands of young poor children, and jolly-minded folk to go caroling at Christmastime, and Baker Street was no exception. Indeed, it seemed as though our fair lane was frequented often, as it boasted several generous landladies and had well-swept pavements. Our rooms were warmed by a bright fire and tea was laid on; there could have been nothing cosier.

Page and monarch, forth they went,
Forth they went together...

"I declare, Holmes, those voices sound rather familiar," I observed, rising to cross to the window. "Aren't those your Irregulars?"

"Is it?" Holmes asked, rising to stand behind me. "So it is. we had better have them up, don't you think?"

"Indeed. Can't have the rank and file dissatisfied," I replied with a laugh.

Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,
You who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.

Holmes stopped me at the door as I went to summon Mrs. Hudson to let the Irregular inside and bring up tea and biscuits for them.

"Happy Christmas, Watson," he said, warmly. I smiled.

"Happy Christmas, Holmes," I replied.

And all was well, if rather overrun with Irregulars, on Baker Street that day.

---

For: marilla82; "Remus/Sirius"
By: waccawheels

---

HARRY POTTER

pinkfinity

Regulus threw himself down all in a heap in one of the library chairs, the way he often did -- loose-limbed, carelessly handsome, apt to bruise anyone who was casually in his way.

"Still studying?" he asked, tossing curly black hair out of his eyes. Barty looked up at him and sighed.

"Civil service entry to the Ministry requires either five NEWTS or two years' service with MLE. Father's made it perfectly clear what he expects."

"Civil service," Regulus sneered.

"Father's a civil servant."

"Barty, come out with me tonight. I've been invited to a party."

"I'm studying."

Regulus leaned forward. "Crouch, listen up. You and I, we're a cut above the ordinary and you know it. We could lick the rest of the school combined on pure cunning. Why do you want to spend the rest of your life pandering to halfbreeds and licking the soles of mudbloods? I'm offering you a chance to join a revolution."

Barty looked up slowly. "Who's going to be at this party of yours, Regulus?"

Reg's eyes sparkled. "Well, the man who superintends the NEWT exams, just as a start. But I expect other and more exalted guests before the night is through."

Later, Barty would admit that at least Voldemort had this: he was an expert recruiter, and knew exactly what would lure the young, the disaffected, and the power-hungry to his side.

---

sophie_spence

Some nights Hermione and Severus went to bed and left Harry and Remus sitting up in the kitchen, heads bent together, speaking quietly. -- Three Galleons

"I don't think she's any good for you, Harry," Remus said. "And I certainly don't think you ought to give her any money."

Harry sighed and toyed with the remains of his dessert, pushing it around the plate with his fork. "No?"

"Harry, let me understand correctly," Remus said. "She's telling you that unless you make her a loan, she won't see you anymore?"

"That's right."

"Why would you want to spend your life with someone who predicates affection upon cash amount?"

Harry tilted his head at him. "But I think I'm in love with her."

Remus smiled gently. "Harry, this is a hard lesson to learn, but sometimes you're going to have to break your own heart, for your own good. This may be one of those times."

"Are you certain?"

"Well, don't do it on my say-so, that's no better. But you might do it for your own sake. In the end, we all have to decide for ourselves," Remus said. "Your dad would have told you to drop her like a handful of hot sickles."

"Dad died when he was younger than I am," Harry sighed. "I don't want to know what he would have told me. I want to know what you think."

Remus looked at him warily. Harry smiled.

"If you want the job, father-figure's up for grabs," he said quietly. "So far you're the only acceptable candidate."

Remus smiled back, rubbing his short, bristling hair.

"I'd like nothing better," he said.

---

naatz

"Okay, no, wait, I've really got it this time," Sirius said, holding his fists ready at his sides. The wind across the rolling hills of Hogwarts' grounds ruffled his hair.

"Sirius, you've never even read a book on the martial arts in your life," Remus sighed, sitting on the bench nearby. Sirius scowled at him.

"I saw about a hundred kung-fu films with James this summer," he announced, and kicked a shrubbery. Remus snickered. "Well, if you're such a grand master, you show me how it's done."

"Watch and learn, Grasshopper," Remus replied. He closed his book, stood up, and with a well-aimed kick snapped one of the boards on the bench in half, barefoot. Sirius stared.

"Control is important," Remus said, looking uneasy. "I had to learn to control my body somehow."

Sirius licked his lips. Remus frowned.

"That was, uh, neat," Sirius said breathlessly.

"It's easy if you have someone to show you how," Remus answered. "Just takes practice. Here, like this."

He grabbed Sirius' left thigh and went to position it, but found that it was rigid with tension. He looked up into Sirius' face, and found Sirius kissing him before he knew what was happening. His hand, still on the other boy's thigh, edged upwards.

"If I'd known karate was going to impress you that much," he said, "I would have kicked that bench around months ago."

---

bicrim

They met under less than ideal circumstances, that must be said. Harry was tired and his arm was broken; Draco was a fugitive and additionally had no wand. When Draco walked into the abandoned building where Harry was hiding, they eyed each other for a moment.

"Do you want to try to kill me now, or wait until later?" Draco said tiredly.

"If it's all the same to you, let's wait," Harry replied. Draco sat down facing him.

"Good. I've run off, by the way; hadn't the stomach for what I was told to do. Broke Mum's heart," Draco added carelessly. He tugged Harry's broken arm away from his body and held out his hand for Harry's wand. Harry, sighing, offered it up. "Anyway, you know what I realised?"

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"We're fucking seventeen. Even the bloody Muggles wait till their kids are eighteen before they send them off to die. So I figure, I don't owe anyone anything anymore."

"I haven't got that luxury," Harry muttered. The pain in his arm faded and died, and he sighed in relief. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Draco replied. Then he smiled. "See? I'm learning manners."

Then he tipped Harry's chin up and kissed him gently on the lips, almost a benediction.

"And I'm learning about how to say I'm sorry," Draco added. "So if you'd rather not kill me, I could spend a few years making things up to you. I'd like that."

Harry stared at him, curiously.

"All right," he said. "I could deal with that."

---

jiapa

(normally I'm not into BDSM at all, but I found this remarkably hot while I was writing it.)

Severus Snape gasped and tried not to wriggle, but it was difficult. Three parallel lines seemed burned into his back, and the sting of the third had not yet faded before a fourth was laid on. The swift whistle of the thin cane through the air was a warning, but when that fourth hit landed, perfectly parallel and very close to the third, he lurched forward before regaining his head.

"Four," he counted breathlessly.

"What do you say?" asked a gentle voice -- far too gentle for what its owner was inflicting on him. He felt endorphines rush through his system as he contemplated that voice.

"May I please have another, Professor?" he asked. The cane whistled through the air and a fifth stroke hit, not where he was expecting but across the seat of his trousers. He jumped and squirmed.

"Five."

"Do you need six?" the voice asked.

"No, professor," he answered, gritting his teeth.

"Very good," said the professor behind him, and he heard the clatter of the cane being placed in the umbrella-stand near the door. Hands grasped his shoulders, careful of the cane-marks there, and gently peeled away the Hogwarts shirt he'd put on for the occasion.

"Now you've had your punishment," he said calmly. "You won't be rude at dinner again, will you, Severus?"

"No," Severus said. The hands caressed his back, admiring their handiwork. Four even welts stood out red against his pale skin. A jar on the table was picked up and opened, and cool balm was rubbed into the welts, soothing away the pain.

"Good boy," Remus Lupin murmured in his ear. "I might even reward you for taking your strokes so manfully."

Severus smiled and bowed his head, studying the grain of the desk in Lupin's study. "I'd like that...professor."

---

terrierhead

Severus was twenty-eight, a Professor at Hogwarts, head of Slytherin House, a respected member of the academic community, and absolutely miserable.

Chiefly, at the moment, his misery derived from a long cold climb up one of the higher peaks that surrounded the little valley of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. The bundle of firewood and the pack on his hip also contributed significantly, as did the rain.

When he reached the peak, however, it was only eleven-thirty; plenty of time to kindle the fire and perhaps even make a cup of tea. He piled the firewood on top of the tinder, lit it with a flint and steel, and sat back on his heels as the flame began to leap skyward. The air up here was cool and calm; he could see the stars, could almost feel them wheeling around above him. Below, only a few windows were lit in Hogwarts -- the Headmaster's study, and the Ravenclaw common room.

He took a pocketwatch out and checked the time. Twenty seconds to midnight.

"Happy new year, Severus," Albus Dumbledore said, and Snape closed the watch with a startled snap.

"I didn't expect you to come up here for the New Year," Severus said.

"Oh yes. Well, someone has to first-foot the castle," Dumbledore said, holding up a bottle of wine. He took another out of his volumnous pockets and offered it to Severus, who smiled.

"Care to come with me?" Albus asked.

"I should like nothing better," Severus replied.

Note: First footing traditions in Great Britain.

---

hapendfro

Ron felt it was the ultimate irony that a man who couldn't see, who lived in perpetual darkness, should suffer from insomnia.

Oh, he knew that he was lucky to have survived the war at all, and the Healers assured him that the blindness was temporary. They were working on a countercurse all the time, and would no doubt have one soon.

That did little to balm his exhausted impatience with a world gone black, an impatience which spilled over onto Hermione and made him shout angrily at her and shove her away (sometimes physically) when she tried to help. The war was over and she wasn't blind, she was just fine. It wasn't fair. Besides, what did she want with a poor, blind, war-traumatised Weasley? Soon enough she'd stop trying.

But then there was one night, three months after the war had ended, when she came to him and wouldn't let him push her but instead grabbed his wrists and forced him to hold still until he relaxed his arms. Then she took his questing fingers and pressed them to warm, taut skin. At first he didn't understand what he was feeling -- it was all the wrong shape -- but then he realised what Hermione was showing him.

As understanding dawned, so did an odd sort of light; the realisation that Hermione was holding his hands to her slightly swollen belly, pressing his fingers over the place where a baby was growing, seemed to brighten the darkness and after a few minutes he could see a red-and-brown blur that turned out to be a jumper Molly had knitted for the mother of her first grandchild.

Ron lifted his eyes to Hermione's smiling face.

"Miracle," he breathed.

---

gershwhen

They weren't very conspicuous at all, those two; a black-haired boy and a giant black dog, walking along in the park, not doing much of anything but ambling. Occasionally the dog dashed forward to investigate something, but if the boy whistled he dashed back eagerly, dancing around his boy.

Harry, hands in pockets, felt at peace with the world. He was walking in the sunshine with Sirius, face turned up to the dappled light through the trees.

Padfoot dashed away once more, disappearing through a hedge, and Harry called out in concern. He didn't like Sirius getting too far away. Even here in the sunlit forest, the anxiety of the war couldn't fade fully.

It could fade enough though, and Harry laughed as Sirius reached through the hedge and pulled Harry in after him, tumbling them both together into the lake.

"Sirius!" Harry shouted, outraged. "What on earth?"

Sirius, soaking wet and laughing, pointed at him.

"Gotcha," he said.

Harry, his hair plastered to his head, seaweed in his trousers and fish nibbling his socks, had never been happier.

---

For: ladylark77; "HP/Dark-is-Rising crossover: Bran and Hedwig"
By: celestialsoda

---

STEALING HARRY and LAOCOON'S CHILDREN

brightly_woven

Andromeda knew that Severus Snape was a prickly, proud, and stubborn man by nature, enhanced by many years of solitude amongst schoolchildren. He was not easily befriended, which made his friendship with her and Ted all the more pleasing. Nor was he easily wooed -- she couldn't remember ever having met a girlfriend (or boyfriend) or even having heard of one.

She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, considering all this while Ted whistlingly washed dishes in the background. Neville, lying on his stomach on the floor, was working ardently on a glue-together plastic model of the Hogwarts Express. Nymphadora was sitting on the couch reading a book, and she was so closely curled up against Severus that if the poor man had wanted to get up, he couldn't have.

He was reading too, or at least pretending; he hadn't turned the page of the newspaper in a good twenty minutes.

Andromeda craned her neck a little and managed to catch a glimpse of his profile; the look on his face told her all she needed to know. Severus was only that terrified when he was blissfully happy, because he never knew when said happiness would be ruthlessly taken from him. So there he sat, unmoving, afraid to move in case Nymphadora moved too. It was sweet, in a very neurotic way.

"Neville looks like he's having fun," Ted whispered in her ear, moving to stand just behind her and wrap his arm around her waist.

"I do so love my family," she replied, feeling as if her heart might swell itself right out of her ribcage.

---

slice254

Every week, Meredith Wynne worked the Friday-night shift at the one ethnic-food restaurant in Betwys Beddau, a combination Chinese-Indian-Italian diner called the World Cafe. Every week, on Friday night, Mr. Black and Mr. Lupin brought their little boy to the World Cafe and sat at one of Meredith's tables, and every week Mr. Black overtipped.

Meredith was immensely fond of the little family. Her friend Bethany babysat for wee Harry and the two girls had spent many an hour speculating about Mr. Lupin and Mr. Black and whether they were really cousins, because from the viewpoint of their Friday-night waitress and their erstwhile babysitter they were clearly in love.

Little Harry never seemed to order the same thing twice, though Mr. Black usually had the pasta and Mr. Lupin never deviated from his order of Orange-Chicken-and-a-side-of-naan.

"Why don't you order something different?" Meredith once overheard Mr. Black say to Mr. Lupin.

"I like it," Mr. Lupin had replied.

"Yeah, but there's all this variety out there in the world and every bloody time you get the Orange Chicken."

Meredith loved the way Mr. Lupin smiled. "I suppose I'm just a constant sort of man, Sirius. It's hard to sway my affection once it's fixed."

Mr. Black had blushed and tried to hide it behind his menu.

"Well, I suppose you can order it if you like," he'd replied.

Every week, Meredith brought something new for Harry and often something new for Mr. Black, but for the constant Mr. Lupin she always brought an extra-large helping of Orange Chicken, with a side of naan.

---

lilian_cho

Harry knew he shouldn't be annoyed, for any number of reasons; first and foremost, he was sitting outside of Florian Fortescue's ice-cream parlour eating ice-cream with Remus. Secondly, Sirius was his godfather all the time, even when he was at school; Sirius wrote to him and sent him packages. Thirdly, Draco's parents were certifiable and Draco had never known a father at all.

Still, he watched in irritation as Sirius and Draco walked away down Diagon, Sirius with one large hand resting paternally on Draco's shoulder. They stopped to look in the front window of Flourish & Blotts, and Draco grinned up as Sirius bent to point out a particularly nice inkpot to Draco.

"Harry," Remus said, and Harry looked up at him. Remus smiled at him as he ate a spoonful of ice cream. "There's no gain from being jealous."

"Was it obvious?" Harry asked.

"Not to Draco. Probably not to Sirius." Remus leaned across the table and brushed a lock of hair out of Harry's eyes. "It's not easy to not feel something, I know, but try to remember -- Draco's just borrowing him for a while, like borrowing a favourite pen."

"It's the borrowing that's annoying," Harry sulked.

"Harry, Sirius is always going to come back," Remus said. "You mean more to him than anyone. Including me."

Harry turned to stare at him, agog. Remus smiled.

"You're his child, Harry. Draco is just his son's best friend who needs a dad once in a while."

Sirius glanced up from the window and waved at them. Remus grinned and waved his spoon in return. Harry smiled shyly, feeling suddenly warm and jealous, and made a shooing motion to send them off.

---

moonysmine

"Minerva! Hey, McGonagall!"

Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts Head Girl, Prefect, and president of the Chess Club, turned in the corridor. Bolting towards her, his black Hogwarts robes flying out behind him, was Tom Riddle, a handsome fifth-year Slytherin and easy shoo-in for Head Boy in two years' time. He skidded to a stop in front of her, his hair still sleek and perfect (she envied him briefly; hers always escaped her braid in wild flyaways). He gave her a rakish grin.

"Minerva, can I pick your brain?" he asked, adjusting the strap on his bag.

"Hello to you too, Tom," she replied.

"Sorry! Slughorn's given us a paper on Deadly Distillations and I know you're ripping in distilling," he said. "Please, Minerva?"

"All right -- when can you meet?"

"Saturday, in Hogsmeade," he said promptly. Minerva flushed.

"Are you sure that's quite -- "

"Brilliant! I'll see you then," he replied, and to her shock he kissed her on the cheek before dashing off again. Tom was always running somewhere.

She touched her cheek lightly and watched him go. Tom Riddle was smart, disciplined, and unutterably handsome. He was cunning, though, and sometimes hard to fathom.

Then again, Minerva could be cunning too. That Saturday, she accidentally forgot her notes on distillation and also to button the top button on her out-of-school robes.

---

luxanebulis

That summer, the summer after the Basilisk, Severus stayed at Hogwarts for many weeks after school ended. They were dismantling the basilisk and studying it, and he wanted to be right in the middle of the action. So there was no dreary Spinner's End for him, not for a few weeks at least, and the water of the lake was an excellent temperature for bathing.

One morning he reached the hot springs on the far side of the lake only to find it occupied; a slim figure lay on the rock that rose out of the middle. He caught a flash of pink hair and knew it was Dora; she barely batted an eye when he lifted himself up onto the rock and flicked water at her.

"You're in my spot," he said.

"There's room for two," she replied.

"Oh?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

"Well, if we work at it," she said. She stretched, and the strain on her bathing suit was nothing to the strain on Severus' self-control. He kissed her, dripping water onto her cheeks.

"Hot springs are extremely romantic," she said.

"I've found them so," he answered, and was fervently glad that the forest and surrounding rocks made it difficult for students to reach them.

---

mapani_worms

Neville looked down at the Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper with a sort of distant sadness.

"I didn't mean to," Draco said. "It's just, I was looking for a quill and there were about a thousand of them in your trunk. Do you collect them?"

"No," Neville said reluctantly. "Not really. When I visit mum and dad they...um, Mum always gives me one or two."

"Your real mum and dad?" Draco asked.

"Yeah."

"Neville..." Draco started, then waited until Neville looked up at him. "Is it better or worse? Getting to see them, I mean."

Neville shrugged. "Dunno. Why do you ask?"

"Well -- my dad's mad too, isn't he?" Draco said. "But I never get to see him. I just want to know if it's...better that way."

Neville bit his lip. "Might be. It might be. It's awfully depressing. But you know...every time Andromeda says I needn't go if I don't want to, and every time I go. I guess...at least this way I know what they look like. And I know they care," he said, clenching his fist around the bubble-gum wrapper.

"Oh," Draco said in a small voice, and they were silent for some long time.

---

bare_bear

"Mmh," Sirius grunted, stretching and throwing himself down into a chair in the attic flat above Tonks&Tonks. "Harry's off to school and everything's unpacked and you and I haven't a care in the world."

Remus smiled where he was straightening the last of the photos on the wall.

"So," Sirius said, studiously casual, "What do you want to do?"

"Me?" Remus asked.

"Sure. Today I am the genie. One wish for Mr. Lupin," Sirius replied.

"You know what I want, Sirius?" Remus said, moving towards the couch.

"What's that?" Sirius asked.

Remus rested one hand on Sirius' knee and leaned forward. "What I really want?"

Sirius licked his lips. "What?"

"I want a big cup of cocoa with whiskey, and a book, and a blanket, and the couch," Remus said. Sirius looked crestfallen. "And someone to be my pillow."

Sirius beamed. "You big girl!"

Remus beamed back. "And if you're a particularly good pillow, tonight I might grant you one wish."

Sirius kissed him. "Such a girl. I'll get the whiskey."

Remus kissed back. "You're a good genie."

---

glass_icarus

Remus was tired. The fifth years had put him through hell for half the day and the sevenths, while better behaved, were hungry for NEWTs help and had finished the job, Friday afternoon or not. All he really wanted to do was get some dinner from the kitchens, curl up on the bed in his rooms in Hogwarts, and sleep until Sunday.

There was a student waiting in one of the chairs in his office when he got there to drop off his briefcase, and he felt a little like weeping. Please, let it not be Percy Weasley --

Then the "boy" raised his head and turned out to be Sirius. Remus sighed with relief.

"Where on earth did you get that uniform?" Remus asked, but Sirius didn't even smile.

"I'm here for my detention," he said, looking anxious. Remus raised an eyebrow.

"Mr. Black, have you been making trouble again?" he asked.

"Yes, Professor."

Remus smiled a wicked, wicked smile. The evening was looking up after all....

---

For: jme1374; "Baby Harry with a book"
By: waccawheels

---

DISCWORLD

vimeslady

Havelock Vetinari found his way around Pseudopolis Yard with uncanny intuition. He seemed to know where everything was, though he couldn't have been in the building more than two or three times. He made his way without instruction to the basement hospital where His Grace was propped up in bed, his face and lips pale white but his voice animated as he read to the infant child sitting on his lap. Vetinari sat calmly at the foot of the bed and did paperwork until Vimes finished, and the child was fast asleep.

"Good evening, Commander," he said, still looking at a sheet of paper. "I see William de Worde has chronicled your exploits with his usual...flair."

"Rot, all of it," Vimes said. He scratched the bandage on the side of his neck.

"Commander, I really must begin to protest," Vetinari said, shuffling his papers into a single pile. "Sybil is most insistent that you cease these near-misses with death -- "

"Listen, they shot me instead of you, I should think you would bloody well be grateful," Vimes said, scowling. Vetinari cocked his head.

"I have at no point asked you to take a crossbow bolt for me, Commander Vimes."

"You never had to. The point of paying a Commander of the Watch is that you don't have to ask someone. You just pay them to do it," Vimes retorted.

"If I pay you, I have no call to be grateful," Vetinari pointed out smoothly.

"Are you even -- satisfied I'm alive? I won't bid you up to happy," Vimes growled.

"Most satisfied," Vetinari said, standing and walking to where Vimes lay on the pillows. "One might almost say pleased."

Vimes snorted, but Vetinari silenced his indignation with a cool, brief kiss on his forehead.

"You and I understand each other, Sir Samuel," he said quietly. Vimes looked up at him, keen eyes burning in his pale face. "We both know that you would have stood in front of those crossbows for no pay at all, and that the callow thanks of a politician would never be enough for you. Not from my lips."

Vimes smiled, then, and closed his eyes. "That's all right, then," he murmured.

"As it always is, Sir Samuel. When you are well, we will speak again," Vetinari promised, but Vimes was already asleep.

---

For: thecolourclear; "Remus and Lily at Hogwarts"
By: waccawheels

---

ELLIS GRAVEWORTHY

metallumai

"All right," Ellis said with a weary sigh. "Time to gird for the fray."

Sirius caught him in a sidelong hug around the neck. "Where do you get your ideas?" he asked innocently.

"Oh no, that's at readings. I never mind that," Ellis said. "I love talking to people who like my books. It's these writers' luncheons. Whole new kinds of questions. You'd better go doggo."

When Ellis entered the reception room, trailed by an enormous black dog, nobody said anything; by now the dog was a famous trademark, nearly a celebrity in his own right. The very first question was, "How is Padfoot?" but the second question, Sirius saw with an amused doggy grin, was "What are you writing now?"

Sirius snorted when Ellis answered the first time with, "Nursery rhymes for children," and wagged his tail against Ellis' leg when his second answer was "A sequel to Hamlet". He couldn't help himself, though, when on the fifth or sixth time he had the question Ellis, with a completely straight face, answered, "Homoerotic pornography. It's very neo-modernist."

When the luncheon was finally over, however, a young publisher slipped up to Ellis and handed him a card for an erotic-novel publisher. Ellis and Sirius laughed themselves red-faced over dinner, and then went on to commit a little homoerotic pornography of the non-literary kind.

---

alaranth_88

WHAT ARE YOU WRITING NOW
(clearly based on the above passage :D)
by Ellis Graveworthy

They ask their questions as if I could say,
Sagelike, the mysteries of all the skies,
Attendant galaxies and distant stars.
I never mind, though acting very wise
Can wear a man towards the end of day.
And then some hardy soul stands in the rear
Asking what I cannot always know:
"What are you writing now?" they wish to hear.
What am I writing now. Words, words, and words!
For every ten that reach the published book
A hundred kept back out of guilty shame
Not good enough to warrant second look.
A novel on a Roman soldier's wife,
The story of a boy and how he's grown,
A sonnet on an actress whom I saw
Last night onstage performing as Saint Joan.
A play about a man who lives in Kent,
An elegy for singing when I die,
Another sad attempt to write free-verse,
An ode to sing while I am yet alive.
And now this poem, sir, written on you,
Who innocent asks that -- as if I knew.

---

nakki

THE OLD CEMETERY
by Ellis Graveworthy

Where once the nodding mourning-horses trod
Between the gravestone and the wooden cross
There still extends the ceremental sod
The physical embodiment of loss.
But now no black-plumed horses draw the hearse
Nor stamp and snort in chill October frost
And though we still could dig up frozen ground
With great machines, its usefulness is lost.
The yard is full; admit no more the dead,
The new grounds 'cross the town are where they lie
Beneath such unremarkable plain plaques
That make a great man frightened when he dies
No beauty shall attend his grave, no stones;
Merely a plate to guard his mortal bones.

Through an amusing and peculiar twist of fate, I ended up with two Ellis poems for nakki...

THE ARCHAEOLOGIST'S CREED
by Ellis Graveworthy

All history is puzzle, all the space
Between the written lines, behind the stones
Who knows what stories slip through ready hands
Interr'd, like good deeds are, deep with mens' bones.
Nor is it storyteller's place to weep
For those lost tales, dead with their heroes' death;
There's quite enough to fill our narrow books
Between first cry and final dying breath.
Why now regret the stories never known,
when there are riches waiting for our ears
When we have Troy, Thermopylae, and Rome
The legends that fill up our empty years.
Why quest for what's forgot through history?
A simple answer: love of mystery.

---

intriguing47

FUGUE, KEYED FOR SNOW AND WIND
by Ellis Graveworthy

And now the snow has fallen, and the trees
Strike nakedly against the winter sky --
But that's not new. THe seasons always turn
And on time burns, all this in poets' eyes
So often seen and writ. So what's to say?
The ground' s froze shut. Too cold to sow or reap,
Though in this day and age there's still a crop
Grown somewhere in the world. Thus, easy sleep
Ye will not starve if you have ready wits
And two good hands, and solid thick-soled boots
And in the chill can walk your easy way
Delighting in the deep drumbeat of roots
The struggle with the wind, the frozen sun
That dryly burns above in the embrace
Of clouds that break apart and form again
This the inheritance of all men's race.
Thus though all round is death and winter's sting,
Strive not for spring, but for the joy of things.

---

mint_green

VERNAL EQUINOX
by Ellis Graveworthy

The deepwoodsfolk once worshipped Robin-Puck,
A heady fellow clothed in brown and green.
Not dead-brown but the living, breathing bark
That came from under snowdrifts in the spring.
And why should they not still? The ground is lush
The sky a carpet of the rustling leaves
No time for books (and much I love my books)
But time to come from underneath the eaves.
A time to rove, a time to make your peace
With imps and curses of the winter gone
And therefore come to meet the summer gold
With all your sins forgiven in the sun.
Oh yes, though every God has his own day,
In spring, go to the poplar grove to pray.

---

OURAN HIGH SCHOOL HOST CLUB

aura218

"Do you think Mori-senpai is enjoying the cosplay?" Haruhi asked, setting out a new tray of biscuits for Tamaki and his guests.

"Of course he is! Who wouldn't?" Tamaki asked, tickling one of her (for the moment, very pointy) ears.

Across the room, Hunny and Mori were entertaining their guests, Hunny in pointy-ears like Haruhi and a red shirt with a little gold insignia on it. Tamaki, armed with a toy laser-gun, pointed it at Mori and pulled the trigger. A little red light appeared on the back of Mori's head.

Mori turned around, glowering, the ridges on his forehead turning the light into a spatter of bright red.

"Klingons are immune to lasers," he said implacably. Hunny giggled and leapt onto Mori's lap.

"So are Volcanos!" he added.

"Vulcans," Tamaki muttered under his breath.

"Probably both," Haruhi said comfortingly, patting Tamaki's hand as Mori returned to glowering in-character and scratching at his makeup.

---

kannnichtfranz

Kyouya was not having a good day.

He pushed a key, and his computer went bloop. He had programmed it, on the first day he owned it, never to go bloop. He had programmed it never to make any noise at all unless an email had arrived or his stocks were dropping. And now it was going bloop.

He tried to think of what could have happened to crash it, but nothing came to mind. He scrupulously ran adware detectors every week, defragged the hard drive once a month, and never downloaded anything from anyone he didn't know.

He rebooted the computer and tried again to open the internet browser; again he was met with the dread bloop. Finally, he opened the file manager and began to look around, ignoring the error messages that cropped up every three minutes like clockwork.

There, in a folder innocently labeled "documents", he found the problem. Two dozen video games, a handful of naughty internet movies, and three pirated copies of O Holy Night.

"HIKARU! KAORU!" he yelled, and the twins popped their heads over the back of a couch. "You like games, eh?" he demanded, picking up a nearby grapefruit. "How about dodgeball?"

Later that night, the twins still agreed that playing Tetris and Frogger on Kyouya's superfast computer was totally worth smelling like citrus for the rest of the week.

---

First Posted 12/28/06.