Two Harry Potter Drabbles
So for the snape100 comm over on IJ, I'm supposed to drabble about snitches and/or cauldrons. So of course, mine was utter word count failure. Muther fucker!
Lucky Shot: 162 words
Plonk.
"I advise you to stop."
Plonk.
"Really, Harry," Snape said, looking at the other man from across the Potions lab. "That's not wise."
Harry caught the snitch and shrugged. "Work faster," he chirped. "You said you'd be done fifteen minutes ago."
Plonk.
Snape watched the compact ball sail into one of the empty cauldrons, hit it with a, well a plonk, and shoot back out, over the rim of the cast iron, only to fly back into its owner's hand.
"I'd be done sooner if you'd stop distracting-"
The snitch overshot the cauldron, arcing over the table and landing in a simmering potion. Its wings flapped uselessly, showering Snape with Felix Felicis.
Snape froze. Harry froze. The potion was rather tingly and most of all, still hot. But when Harry ran to him with a towel and began to apologize and fuss, his face red with embarrassment and concern, Snape knew he didn't even have to worry about manufactured luck.
Then, success!
Happy Birthday, 100 words.
"Whatever you want," his mother says weakly, her smile worn and tired.
There are many things in the second hand shop: brooms, skulls, old bowls and even old wands. A tray of old bludgers. A rack of weak, flapping snitches, their ragged wings straining against the display pincers.
"Severus, we can't keep your father waiting."
His fingers trace the folded lip. He pulls it to him, almost too heavy to even lift himself, but he wants it, he wants the smell of it, the greasy scum inside.
Severus holds his first cauldron out to the shopkeeper. "This. I want this."
Lucky Shot: 162 words
Plonk.
"I advise you to stop."
Plonk.
"Really, Harry," Snape said, looking at the other man from across the Potions lab. "That's not wise."
Harry caught the snitch and shrugged. "Work faster," he chirped. "You said you'd be done fifteen minutes ago."
Plonk.
Snape watched the compact ball sail into one of the empty cauldrons, hit it with a, well a plonk, and shoot back out, over the rim of the cast iron, only to fly back into its owner's hand.
"I'd be done sooner if you'd stop distracting-"
The snitch overshot the cauldron, arcing over the table and landing in a simmering potion. Its wings flapped uselessly, showering Snape with Felix Felicis.
Snape froze. Harry froze. The potion was rather tingly and most of all, still hot. But when Harry ran to him with a towel and began to apologize and fuss, his face red with embarrassment and concern, Snape knew he didn't even have to worry about manufactured luck.
Then, success!
Happy Birthday, 100 words.
"Whatever you want," his mother says weakly, her smile worn and tired.
There are many things in the second hand shop: brooms, skulls, old bowls and even old wands. A tray of old bludgers. A rack of weak, flapping snitches, their ragged wings straining against the display pincers.
"Severus, we can't keep your father waiting."
His fingers trace the folded lip. He pulls it to him, almost too heavy to even lift himself, but he wants it, he wants the smell of it, the greasy scum inside.
Severus holds his first cauldron out to the shopkeeper. "This. I want this."