Having Dick in the Fortress makes the name seem less strange. It's still a place to be alone, but his presence validates that. He is invited, accepted.

Clark doesn't have to say, "Make yourself at home." Not to Robin.

Every time he thinks that name, he's grateful that superspeed means Dick doesn't have to see him wince and remember.

Dick relaxes as readily in Clark's space as he did in Clark's arms on the flight south. Perhaps he knows it's safe to be Dick, here, instead of Robin. In this place, Clark Kent would be overwhelmed, and Superman would be overkill.

The problem is that Dick hasn't got anyone else to be. Yet.

vain

You loved the boy's mother once. Is it so hard for you to find any sort of affection within you for her child?" 

"Lily is gone, Albus."

"Yet she lives on . . . I know you see her within Harry, Severus. You may lie to yourself, but you could never lie to me."

Sirius yelled that Remus was treating him like a child, and Remus shouted that he was acting like one and he wasn’t the only one who hated it here and Sirius demanded why didn’t he just leave since he wasn’t the one who was trapped here and he was awfully good at leaving wasn’t he and Remus snarled that he hadn’t been the one gone for thirteen years and Sirius screamed that it was hardly his fault and Remus informed him that it certainly was because if he hadn’t always been such crap at keeping his mouth shut then he’d have been Secret Keeper in the first place.

Sirius’ hand came up so fast that Harry barely saw it, but he certainly heard the crack and saw the red palmprint that blossomed across Remus’ cheek. There was a moment of silence before Remus’ shock twisted into a snarl.

“Want to hit me back?” Sirius taunted. “Why not, you afraid? Go on!”

Remus gave Sirius a sudden shove powerful enough to push him into the wall. When Sirius tried to advance, Remus seized two fistfuls of his shirt and slammed him into the wall again. They stared at each other, nose to nose, Remus’ low growl audible to Harry across the room.

“Something you want?” Sirius sneered. “You used to just take what you wanted.”

Dudley pursed his lips. "I can't believe I'm about to ask this, but are you, ah, you and this Percy…"

"What? No! He's not much older than you."

Dudley shrugged. "He seemed sort of protective, is all. And believe it or not, I've had some opportunity to see couples meet and talk, at work. It wouldn't be…" He shrugged again. "I know about Dad and the girls and whatnot--he always says I should take what I can get--so, if you were, I mean. Anyway."

She shook her head. "He's been my guide, at the Ministry, introducing me around and such. Besides, we've a lot in common, is how we got started talking. He's been a good friend. Actually, maybe my first good friend that had nothing to do with location or anything someone wanted of me--not to belittle Arabella. He was estranged from his family for a long time."

"Estranged?"

"He didn't agree with them, politically. He's come to believe he was wrong." Petunia looked Dudley in the eye. "You see why that would be familiar." She opened her mouth to speak again when there was a rap at the kitchen window. She jumped, far more startled than she thought she'd really reason to be, but Dudley could see more clearly than she, and he set his big hand on her arm.

"I think it's your friend now. Ginger hair, and he's a tall one."

Petunia relaxed and went through the mud room to the back door.

"Authorities are gone, I hope?"

"A little while ago. Come in. I want you to meet Dudley more properly."

Percy came in and moved past her, holding out his hand. "Percy Weasley. At the moment, I'm the temporary special assistant for Remembrance and Rebuilding, under the Minister, which essentially means I do anything that helps toward the memorial, the museum, and whatever else the Minister deems relevant, which, for the time being, also includes revamping Muggle relations and creating an education and cross-cultural center."

"Dudley Dursley. Uh, bouncer, pub on the corner."

Ron had thought until then that Harry was just being nice when he had talked about having no presents and wearing old clothes. The clothes Ron could see for himself and he understood, because Ron had always worn hand-me-downs. But everybody got presents, surely, even if they were just a pair of Charlie’s old Quidditch gauntlets, mended and polished, or a miniature broomstick made out of twigs and charmed to fly by Fred and George.

Horrible, Harry had said.

He hadn’t said they hit me or they starve me, sometimes or they lock me up for days. Those revelations came in the weeks and months that followed, in the dark, quiet hours after lights out, curled up together in the one bed, talking in whispers, holding hands for comfort. They never talked about it in daylight hours, though the understanding was always there, in looks and gestures.

Horrible didn’t even begin to cover it, in Ron’s opinion.

"That toad," Snape said. "I remember it. Where is it now?"

"I think he got burned in my Gran's house," Neville confessed, feeling terribly guilty that he hadn't kept Trevor with him at the Gryffinpuff camp. He'd thought his Gran's house was the safest place in the world.

"I had a rat in school," Snape said, and to Neville's great surprise, he told a story about himself and the rat, who was called Paracelcus. This was when Dumbledore was the Transfigurations teacher at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore sent Snape and Lucius Malfoy to Headmaster Dippet's office after Lucius put an enragio charm on Paracelcus and dropped him in Lily Evans' school satchel.

"What happened to him?" Neville asked, breathless.

"He emerged quite unscathed, but somebody poisoned him in my fourth year."

"Oh," Neville said. "Sorry."

"Such are the traumas of childhood," Snape said, with a tired wave of his hand. Their chairs had moved a bit closer as they talked, and Snape's hand fell on Neville's hair.

"You need a haircut," Snape said. Neville figured anything that kept Snape awake was a good thing, so he fetched scissors and sat on the carpet, concentrating very hard on identifying all the pink flowers woven into it, while Snape trimmed his hair. When Snape was done, Neville nervously offered to cut Snape's hair for him, but Snape snorted loudly and banished the scissors back to the kitchen.

Then, to his utter shock, Snape pulled him up to face him, and kissed him very softly, right on the mouth. Neville jumped back and stared at him.

"That was an offer," Snape said, very calm as if he did that sort of thing all the time. "War has made for stranger partnerships than ours, and you can be quite sure that the other Gryffindors are rutting like beasts in their camps at night."

Neville knew about Harry and Alicia, Ron and Parvati, but himself and Snape seemed totally barmy. He wondered if Snape was already sleepwalking, and having a terrible nightmare that he was kissing his least favourite student.

"Are you awake?" he demanded. "How can I tell if you're really awake?"

"Yes, I'm awake, you collossal fool," Snape said crossly. "And I assure you, I do know that yours is not the most desirable companionship in the wizarding world. But people like us take our comfort where we can."

"Comfort," Neville echoed, feeling hollow.

There was a strange light in Snape's eyes, as if in another lifetime, he might be smiling. "And we appreciate comfort when we find it."

Neville didn't understand what was happening, but he was too scared to stop it. Snape took his hand and led him into a bedroom that had fairies showing through the thinning illusion of green wallpaper on the walls. Snape kissed him again, and it was weird and horrible. Neville wondered if maybe he was asleep himself, and having a terrible nightmare. Snape unlaced Neville's robes, and pushed them off his shoulders.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," he said.

Neville nodded, dumb. Snape kissed him again, and Neville wondered, panicked, if he was supposed to kiss him back. Eventually, Snape drew back, frowning.

"Is this something you want to do?" he asked, very softly.

Neville shook his head, quaking in fear.

Snape exploded. "Get out!" he roared. "Get out!"

"Sorry!" Neville cried. "I'll do it, I'm sorry, I'll do it!"

Snape leaped back, angrier than Neville had ever seen him. "Whatever lies the Gryffindors whisper to each other at night, I am not in the business of molesting young men against their will, and I never will be!" He picked up Neville by both arms and threw him into the hallway, where he crashed into the wall. Then he slammed his bedroom door so loudly that Neville's teeth vibrated.

Neville picked himself up and ran into his own room and slammed the door, shaking all over. Oh, he hated Snape! It wasn't fair! He'd done his very best and it was never good enough. Every time he thought he understood things, Snape changed the rules on him. He never got the answers right, and now he was stuck with Snape and a thousand new rules he didn't understand and he didn't have Hermione to help him, or anyone, to help him with anything.

He walked back and forth in the room until he was too tired and confused and miserable to do it any longer, and then threw himself on the bed. He was too angry to sleep, and he hated Snape and he missed his Gran and he wished this horrid war could be over so he could go somewhere and never have to see Snape ever again!

"I can't tell them yet. Vol-- the Dark-- if I tell the Order you've been helping me, you're as good as dead."

"I know." And Severus does know. His choices are to run, to die, or to rot in Azkaban. None are appealing. He wonders if the Killing Curse can be used on oneself.

"Go to Azkaban," Potter says, and Severus props himself on his elbow and looks down with the most repressive look in his repertoire.

"Excuse me?"

Potter goes red, but doesn't look away. "Go to Azkaban," he says again, more firmly. "The Dementors aren't there, and I'll come get you out as soon as I can. You won't be in there for long, and at least you'll be safe." He wraps his hand, hard, around Severus' left forearm. His grip hurts, and his green gaze stings just as much. "Just go quietly, Snape. Please."

Mud and leaves trail the body like guilt.

Harry pulls the man into the main room and lays him out by the fireplace. Unthinking he stirs the fire to flame and sets the lights on the wall ablaze. His hands strip cloth and sponge dirt: a bucket has appeared by his left elbow, and although the sponge comes away from skin black with mud the water remains clear.

There is a point at which he realises that he recognises the body under his hands and the magic in his mind, which he has absorbed, soaked up like a sponge.

There is a point at which he realises this is Snape.

"You're mending the books? I could," Harry says slowly, "charm them for you."

"Minerva has already tried."

"So what are you doing? Is this - I don't know - all the page ones or something?"

"Paper type."

"What?"

"I am sorting the scraps by the type of paper, Potter. One has to start somewhere."

"Yes, but - paper types?"

Snape sighs. "Take a piece of paper."

"Any one?"

"Yes. Any one. No, not that one-"

"Tell me next time. Here."

"No, you hold it. Rub it between your fingers. Note how thick it is, and also the roughness of the surface. Note too that the cut edge is slightly fibrous."

"Yes. Yes."

"It is a wood pulp paper. Nineteenth century and most probably made from Eastern European pine, with a size of soda ash." Snape frowns. He glances down at his second brandy, considers, and sinks the shot with a flick of his wrist. Leans back in his chair. "Note that we have already eliminated three quarters of what was my library. Now look at the print and observe the way it depresses the paper. This piece was printed on a press, Potter, not a roller or a digital copier, and that means it was printed at the time it was made. Put it on the pile nearest the door."

"What about the words?"

"The typeface? Later. At the moment my categorisation is purely physical. Once done, I will consider breaking the set down by font."

"Actually, I was thinking of the text," Harry says.

"Maybe later," Snape says. "If there is time."

"I have time," Harry Potter says. In his mind Snape's magic warms, the first glow of a new lit fire.

Scorpius is seven and Richard is five when Draco catches them playing at being Death Eaters.

At the far end of Diagon stood the black marble edifice of Gringotts. Sheltered in a doorway nearby, he withdrew a little from the bulk of it. A huge black block with a bronze door like a mouth in the centre, inside was only meagre torchlight and tunnels. It must take a special sort of endurance to work with goblins. His eyes mapped out, beneath the surface, where the vaults would be. The basements of the neighbouring businesses would have to go down close to them. Around the back was King’s Cross and the powerful magic that kept the Muggles out. The only other access would be from the left side where Knockturn Close wound its way up from the alley towards the station.

How would you protect a fortress like this? Harry’s mind leapt with the possibilities. Policing every inch of such a labyrinth was impossible. You’d need a range of different spells, constantly innovating, changing daily. Access to each vault, he knew, was personalized to one or two individual Clankers, and he guessed that nobody apart from the Chief Goblin had access to them all. All sorts of hostile magic would have to line the vaults’ exposed side and, inside, trace charms to detect spellcasting. Even under the protection of the goblins’ devious and unexpected security measures, the place had not been impregnable. The pointed glares of the managers never let him forget that he’d been the one to prove it. Rumour said that, since the rebuilding, security had been upscaled several times over, courting the shaken confidence of investors. His breath misting in the air in front of him, Harry’s mind raced. How would you get into it? How would you get into it? The underbelly might be vulnerable, if you could go down deep enough. Otherwise, brute force – an army of dragons this time – would be required.

Standing in front of the huge bronze doors, Harry itched to have a reason to try. His blood pounded for action, his organs primed subconsciously for the thrill of danger. He had to admit, he’d forgotten how good the sensation felt, his body lifting itself to a higher state of being, ready to throw itself into action, ready to bend itself around whatever hazards lay ahead.

The first thing he noticed was that the paper was cream, and thick, almost like parchment.

The second thing he noticed, holding the letter in his hands, was that the strokes of the pen were thick and black and italic, deeply elegant, as if written with a quill.

The third thing he noticed was that the writer possessed that old-fashioned, demanding courtesy that people who work in bookshops meet on a daily basis.

"Dear Sirs,"

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I am interested in pursuing a course in (word crossed out) English Literature. I would be most obliged if you could facilitate the delivery of suitable texts, not less than ten, not more than twelve, to the above address. Remuneration will follow promptly on receipt.

Yours sincerely,

Professor S. Snape Drg (Praha) MPMA (Lon) Hgw (Rtd.)"

Harry sat down, rather heavily, on the nearest flat surface, which turned out to be the packing case. Thirteen stone, rugby playing, treacle pudding eating bookshop managers and cardboard boxes - even reinforced cardboard boxes with padded upholstery - are not designed to occupy the same space simultaneously. The box broke. Polystyrene chips scattered like rice at a wedding. Harry Potter (thump!) found himself on the floor with three books in one hand and his ex-teacher's letter in the other.

"It's..." he began.

"Complicated. I know; you said." Something about the unblinking stare reminded him of being back in school and not having done his homework. "You are a pretty young man," the snake went on. "You should have a clutch of eggs by now."

Parseltongue, Harry reflected, was an imprecise language when dealing with fundamentally human concepts. He shoved away from the table and poured himself some more cold pumpkin juice. It was lots cooler inside the stone hut than outside, but it was still warm inside.

"It just doesn't work that way for humans," Harry said, looking back at the table. The snake, despite its questions, looked sleepy and still. "Do snakes...?" He thought about how to phrase his question carefully. "Are there any snakes who don't mate with other snakes?"

The black triangle tilted thoughtfully. "Of course. The slow ones usually get eaten."

Harry blinked, then laughed again. "That's me, the slow one." He set the cup down on the counter. "I've got to get some work done. You're welcome to stay for dinner."

Harry climbed inside. It was darker now. He walked over to the others. Neville had fallen asleep leaning against the couch, and Hermione and Ron seemed to be playing a game that involved a lot of tickling and slapping. Ron looked up. "Harry! How did it go?"

"Snape was there." Harry rubbed at the back of his neck. His mouth felt a bit sore when he talked.

"Oh, no!" Hermione looked worried. "What happened? Did he give you detention?"

"No," Harry said. "I'm going to bed."

He turned and went towards the stairs. "Yeah, okay," Ron said behind his back, sounding a bit confused. Hermione whispered something that Harry couldn't hear.

Harry went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth for twenty minutes. His Marvellous Mint toothpaste seemed to taste pale green, somehow. Harry rinsed and spat and squeezed out more toothpaste. "Careful, there," the mirror said. "Your gums are bleeding."

"Oh, good," Harry said, and brushed some more. The mirror hmfed and made him look all wavery and pale.

In his Sixth year, Harry Potter took to not sleeping.

He was warm. That was the first thing Harry Potter noticed when he started to wake up. It wasn't the stifling, oppressive heat that filled his cupboard in the summer. This was pleasant, like the heat in Dudley's room in the winter months when Harry's cupboard would be freezing.

Something else wasn't right. There were no metal slats digging through his cot's thin mattress into his back. To the contrary, the mattress he was on was thick and cushiony. Maybe he'd fallen asleep on Dudley's bed, or, God forbid, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's? If that were the case, he'd better get out of it right away.

Panic spreading through him, Harry's eyes snapped open. The room around him was blurry, but it was definitely too big to be his cupboard.

Instinctively, he groped around for the milk crate he kept as a night table at the left side of his cot. That was where he usually left his glasses.

Sure enough, his fingers touched their cool metal frames. Relaxing, Harry put them on. Only, they were too big. As soon as he put the glasses on the bridge of his nose, they tried to slide down. If he'd broken them again, Aunt Petunia would murder him. He fiddled with the sides and finally managed to get them to stay up on his face. If they were broken . . . .

The thought trailed off as he stared in shock at his surroundings. He was in a huge four-poster bed. It was fully three times as wide as his cupboard. And the rest of the
room . . . .

Harry gulped. The walls were made of huge grey stone blocks, the floor between the area rugs was flagstone, and the windows were long, wide affairs with bevelled glass casements. He'd never seen a fireplace as huge as the one across the room from the bed. And the heavy wooden furniture looked like something that belonged in a king's room.

He jumped at a sound to his right. There beside the window stood an open birdcage. A huge white owl sat watching him out of curious golden eyes from its perch within. The bird gave a twitter that sounded like a question.

Harry swallowed hard, trying not to panic.

Title: A Limited Life
Author: isiscolo
Characters: Harry
Rating: Tame

This is exactly what a drabble should be.

"Moony," he said softly.

"Padfoot," Remus answered, swallowing nervously.

"Why the fuck are you a girl?"

"Because you - um, because you like girls."

desdmona

Excerpt:

So.  I think I'll track down this Zacharias Smith and..."

Her embarrassment didn't keep Hermione down long, it seemed.  "Snog him?  Shove him against a wall and show him Harry Potter isn't afraid of a little action?"  She giggled.

He looked at her blandly.  "I was going to say 'talk to him.'"  He let himself break into a grin of his own.  "But your idea sounds so much better."