word count: 100x2
summary: Snape's retiring, and Harry shows his usual lack of tact.

Harry stood in the doorway, his hair standing a little on end, and the smell of ozone coursing around him.
Snape reclined in a battered leather chair behind his desk, lazily flicking his wand to send a dozen or so robes of varying degrees of black into a haphazard stack in a trunk.
"I suppose you heard from Minerva, then."
Harry turned a wild gaze upon Snape, and stalked into the room. Before Harry's shadow emcompassed him, Snape flicked his wand pointedly at the door, and it closed behind him.
"Why didn't you tell me you were resigning?" Harry snarled.

--------------------------

"You've been everyone's professor," Harry said, his bottom on Snape's lap, and his too-long legs perched upon the chair's arms. "Hell, you were my professor."
"Don't remind me."
"You've been here for years, Severus - you're practically a tourist attraction."
Snape's eyebrows disappeared into the curtain of his greying hair.
"All the more reason to leave, Potter. You sound as if I'm on par with Binns."
Harry coughed.
"Minerva's been here longer than I have!"
"I'm just saying ... it's the end of an era," Harry said morosely.
Snape pushed him out of the chair, and Harry fell with a yelp.

Word Count: 100x2

When Potter and Malfoy were children, they dueled. Nature simply compelled them to. They were irreconcilably different at that age.

Their hatred had become formality as adults. They were repulsed by each other, but came together in such perfect cohesion, it startled Draco. However, they couldn't touch - couldn't kiss, couldn't fuck without an insult. They couldn't occupy the same space without the memory of their adolesence hovering over them. Ten years together, and they still referred to each other by their surnames.

While Potter has Draco sitting atop of their kitchen counter - legs wrapped around Potter's skinny torso, pale arms laced around his tanned neck, and fingers buried in his black hair, Draco says it. It's abashedly thrilling when it slips out easily between Potter's skilled kisses, and the smooth, maddening way Potter pumps Draco's cock.

Harry. The sound of it lingers, twisting its vibrations sinuously through the air just long enough for Draco to begin to regret it.

Potter pauses, eyes widening. His breath is harsh and warm against their parted mouths.
 
"What did you just say?"

"Your name, Harry." Draco manages to drawl, nervousness and abandoned erection aside.

As if by some miracle, slowly, Harry grins.

I dunno, man.
I couldn't think of anything, so it was like BABIES.
Shut up, I'm tired. 
 

Summary: Hermione and Ron leave their daughter with her godfather and his loving partner.

"...simply dreadful. You're soaking in your own filth. It seems as if you've inherited the Weasley complexion, but never you mind, I know a charm that might rid you of those despicable spots. You know, lest you try cursing your unsightly visage like that trollish Hufflepuff, Midgeon.

Don't pout at me! It's Weasley’s fault you got your unfortunate condition."

“Malfoy?” Potter tries cautiously, “May I have her back now? I think it’s time for her diaper change.”

“Back to you?” Draco snarls, “I think not. I knew Gryffindors were stupid, but to let you take care of their child – inconceivable.”

I feel like I haven’t written anythings in months.
At least, nothing that hasn't been school related.
Which is sort of true.
GODDAMN YOU, FINALS.

-

A look of contentment lingers on Draco’s face before his pointed features twist in disgust. Moisture glistens on his lips as he jerks away from Potter’s embrace.

He draws back and flings a white fist to punch stupid Potter in his stupid nose and to smash his stupid spectacles.

"What are you playing at, you bloody savage?”

Potter shrugs insolently, eying Draco with an odd sort of hunger as he wipes his bleeding nose.

“I thought you might enjoy it, you know - mistletoe, and all.”

“You’re a sick man, Potter.”

“I have to be, to fancy a git like you.”

 Summary: Why Harry is a Gryffindor.
  
“Malfoy – a word, please.” 

Harry is surprised his voice is as clear and assertive as it is; he might be able to pull this off. Nonetheless, he fingers the tip of his wand warily as Malfoy turns to stare.

“Wee Potty wishes to speak to me? How…disturbing.”

“I need to speak to you privately.”

“Do you take me for a fool, Potter?”

“If you insist.”

Harry lunges forward – too agile for either Crabbe or Goyle to react – seizes Malfoy by his collar, and kisses him roughly.

-

Upon sprinting down the empty corridor, Harry realizes that Malfoy was kissing him back.

On account of reading Kristen's entry today - in which I totally forgot -

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY POTTER. YOU'RE LIKE, 28.

Potter’s hands are attractive - slim white fingers, unassuming, but reflexive. His palms are wide, nails square and unbitten.

Potter’s hands are heinous at chopping roots, and are less than enthused to pick up a book.

They’re hands that make thumbing the length of a wand look like pure sex. They’re hands adept at clutching a broomstick.

Especially Draco’s broomstick.

In the broom closet, where Potter kisses Draco feverishly while stroking Draco’s cock, Potter pants that Draco is a smarmy git, and that he still hates him.

Draco’s reply comes back, slow and patronizing.

“Of course you do.”

At dinner, Hermione likes to sit opposite of Ron – never on his side. She loves eye contact during conversation.

Tonight, she’s giving him an intense look, one reserved for pouring over textbooks.

Ron nods vaguely in response to Harry’s spirited rant against the Montrose Magpies and shifts in his chair uncomfortably. His ears are burning, and he’s trying not to moan into his treacle pudding.

“Ron? Ron –” Harry waves a hand in front of him, “You’re looking a bit overheated, mate.”

“No! No – I’m fine.”

Hermione rewards him under the table with more pressure from her talented, stockinged feet.

The nape of her neck is exposed, revealing pale skin and darling freckles. Harry loves the feel of the red buzz against his fingers. It reminds him of Ron.

“Mum cried when she saw me,” Ginny said. “Ron just laughed.”

It’s easier now, Harry supposes, moving against her in the dark.

When he collapses against her breast, breathing cool air on her nipple, she whispers that she doesn’t know if she can live without him. She sounds regretful and sad.

Harry kisses her thoughtfully, and wonders if she knows.

I've made my first ever wallpaper. 
Of Bjork.
Yeah...

My mother is extremely disagreeable, and I'd like to shoot her in the face.
Unfortunately, I don't have a gun.

Preview:

Holy fuck, dude.
It's only when I'm awake [and alone] for long periods of time when I'm like...really doing shit.
I designed several things, joined a few communities, wrote, got excited about plot bunnies, made icons, a few banners, and listened to Björk for about six hours straight - which then became my banner.
I'm tired, and I can't go to sleep.
It's the fucking coffee.
I made it black with little sugar.
It was delicious.
And only two cups of it.
Maybe that's it.
I can never stay up for quite this long with anyone else around me.
Fucking crazy, man.
I'm going to watch Mad Men.

...and for kicks and giggles, the other banner.

postscript;
I love look of fresh new reviews on my drabbles. They've quite attractive.

Freckled fists rose triumphantly into the air, framing his vibrant red hair and face as he roared triumphantly.

“Oh ho! You’ve lost, woman! You’ve been bested by the abominable Ron Weasley, Wizard’s Chess Extraordinaire!”

Hermione knotted her brows quizzically, and settled back into her chair. Ron sat back as well, crossing his arms confidently.

“Noted, though I don’t find you nearly as detestable as you think you are,” she said warmly.

“Wait, what?”

“I think you meant indomitable, Ron. Meaning unconquerable?”

“Oh. Really?”

Hermione rose primly.

“Yes, really. Well, I’m off to bed.”

“Right, then. G’night.”

Indomitable… write that down.

Ron doesn't like silence.

Silence is uncomfortable, it signifies the words he fails to grasp, and the painful nothingness after one of Dennis Creevey's puns. Silence to Ron feels a bit like the disappointment of blowing into a sea shell, and his whistle coming back at him, devoid of the chamber music merpeople make - or as Fred and George told him Merpeople make. He can appreciate it, you know, for what it is - just like he can appreciate the rain that makes the earth flourish, he just doesn't want to go mucking about in it.

When a person grows up with eight other people in his midst, some, if not all of them, are bound to make noise. Whether it's the odd clacking of silverware against Ginny's teeth when eating her mashed potatoes, and the following swat from Molly Weasley about her horrendous table manners, or the constant banging from Fred and George's room, there's always noise at the Burrow.

When Bill had gotten an eklecktic guitar from some shop in muggle London in his sixth year, it screeched a terrible rendition of Mary Had a Little Lamb. At night, Ron would listen to muted curses between the melody and go to sleep, and he missed it inexplicably when Fred and George eventually blew the instrument up, though he liked the bright sparks it made.

Ron harbours chaos. It is also the reason Ron is the friend of Harry Potter. There's always chaos with Harry. Everything about Harry himself is chaotic, from the ill fit of his clothes, down to the last strand of wild black hair trickling down his brow. Harry is charismatic in his own way, regardless of his fame, Harry is pleasant without being too nice, Harry has his pride but he's not a prat, Harry always means well but there's always anger underlining it. Ron is somehow drawn to that - one of the proverbial moths to the flame. Sometimes Ron wishes he could burn as bright as Harry.

But Ron likes the quiet when Hermione is beside him on the squashy Gryffindor sofa in front of the fire. He's not one to be poetic, but he likes that scarlet color in her cheeks when the shadows from the flames hit her face just right, and he likes the reflection of the fire in her eyes. Like her personality, like his hair, and like his temperament.

She's reading a book and she's not paying attention to him, but he admires the pleats of her practical muggle skirt against his worn not-quite-black robes. He can see the bare silk of her upper thigh, and he'd just like for her to let him touch it - just once. But the intimacy of the silence and his arm on the sofa ledge, resting just inches from her narrow shoulders have to suffice. He stifles a yawn as his head falls back, so he's looking at the ceiling.

"D'you know what time it is? My arse is hot."

Hermione looks up sharply, her expression caught between something like disgust and incredulity. It settles into a reproving glare.

"It's ten – Harry!"

Ron raises a finger to point out that he is not Harry, and he sort of resents that. He sits up, however, and there's Harry climbing through the portrait hole, raking a shaky hand through his cowlicky hair.

"Hullo," he says dully, and both Ron and Hermione know that he's had a bad lesson with Snape.

Hermione sounds a little breathless as she rises swiftly, and Ron thanks the Almighty Powers of the Universe for making her skirt billow upward so that he caught a glimpse of the pretty blue panties she's wearing underneath it.

A small, regretful thing inside him makes Ron wish that she got that excited look whenever she saw him.

She's saying, "Harry, are you all right?" Ron notes that Harry doesn't look all right, and somehow her question sounds out of place.

He looks directly at her, and not at Ron, he looks like he'd rather look at anything else in the room rather than Ron, and he lies between his teeth that he's fine, and Occlumency is taking a lot out of him and he'd just like to go to bed. He smiles weakly at Hermione's put-out expression, Ron can't really argue with that, he's tired as well. Ron stands, wincing a bit at the rush of pinpricks in his legs and steps over to Harry. "Let's go to bed, shall we?" Ron says, clapping Harry on the shoulder in what he hopes is in a reassuring way. What remains of Harry's smile disappears, and he simply looks pained, stiffening under Ron's touch like a rock. Hermione frowns.

"Have your lessons been discontinued?" 

Harry shakes his head.

"Hermione, Harry's been stuck in a room with the git for two hours, give him room."

She glares at Ron for a long second, and he can feel the flush working its way past his shirt collar. Hermione’s gaze shifts to Harry, with an earnest, maternal expression before she kisses his cheek goodnight.

A surge of hot jealousy courses through Ron, poisonous, unyielding, and all he wants to do is make it go away. Harry doesn't seem to register the kiss, he just keeps shooting furtive glances away from Ron, and Ron figures too right he should, much to his horror.

Then on tip-toes, Hermione cups Ron’s cheek and kisses it as well – soft and sweet. His ears burn delightedly.

“Goodnight, you two. Clear your mind, Harry, no matter how tired you are.”

Ron sighs happily, his arm slung around Harry's shoulder, and steers them both up the staircase.