Title: The Proper Ingredients Needed for a Love Potion
Author: Raja-nime
Pairings: Lily/Snape, one-sided Snape/Harry love-hate thing. ...*fails* XP
Rating: PG
Word Count: 667
Warnings: Possible disturbing content--nothing sexual, but it DOES depict Snape having some sort of fixiation with Harry's eyes.
Genre: General, Angst
Notes: Takes place during second year sometime, possibly around the Valentine's Day incident.
Disclaimer: JKR owns this world. I just play/spork there.


Dedicated to guardians_song for having the bravery to spork a truly creepy fanfic. May this help speed you along in your recovery.

Why did I write this? I don't know. Because I could. Because I need to keep writing in order to retain this stuff. Because I wrote something in deleterius and it got me thinking what it would look like if Snape got something like a fixiation on Harry's eyes. They are, after all, the one reminder of Lily he has left.

After reading the spork of "Little Miss Mary," I decided to try and see what it would be like if I wrote a canon-version of it, of Snape having an attraction to Harry, or at least his eyes, and this is what resulted. This is the first draft--I may go back and revise it. Or I may not. I don't know yet.

I don't expect many people to like this story--I certainly find it creepy, and I wrote the damn thing. Just keep in mind that this is FICTION, and that NOTHING sexual goes on--fuck, Snape doesn't even get a boner. Just...something faded and withered and dead.

My anon comments are screened, so don't try anything cute.

Cut-quote inspired by "Spanish Eyes" by Backstreet Boys.



It was as though Lily and James Potter had been placed on a balance scale, and certainly this boy would be the center over which the two weighing plates were hung.

Snape pursed his lips, but they did not curl.

Perfect, perfect Little Potter. Youngest Quidditch team member, The Boy-Who-Lived, the child of that—

Something like a snarl flared, flailed and died in his throat. But he could not look away.

Potter’s face was turned away from his, and right now looked like a lovechild between frustrated determination and preadolescent dreaminess, thin lips slightly parted, and—

Those eyes.

(Sev, do you think she had been so bright that day, that day so white and cold that I could make a love potion? I wonder what I would put in it….)

He could have, should have hated Potter. And something deep within him screamed yes, yes, and the hand was wavering over the ingredients trying to choose something and—

He could have, should have hated the boy.

But right then he looked up and the dark light of the dungeons gave his irises a wet, gleaming look that made them seem to—

(she had been)

And the rage within him withered and died.

(so bright that day)

(…and I think I’d put some cinnamon into it too, and cloves. ‘Cause Mama says that love’s sweet, but sometimes it has to be a bit spicy, too, to make it stay interesting. And roses, maybe…?)

It was not hate. It was not love.

It was his own beetle-black eyes that found the will to break from those eyes and follow the arm down, down the rabbit hole to one hand, pale and thin and he wondered what it would feel like to hold that hand

(just like we did on that day oh Lily oh Lily)

and fuck, what was he thinking?

“Professor?�

“What?� His voice was a flat, snappish monotone licking out and crushing the boy’s questioning with its powerful jaws.

Their eyes met…and oh, how he wanted to hate the boy.

But it was as if the hate he harbored had been sedated. A sleepy, sluggish thing struggling on its own.

“I…oh, there it is…�

The arm elongated, stretching itself in a vain attempt to reach the ebony in the middle of the table.

“Just like your father. I imagine he, too, would risk pouring his cauldron and possibly injuring others to reach for a simple ingredient.� This, now this was something he could do, this taunting, jeering jester that—

His arm shot out and plucked the ebony off the table, shoving it into Potter’s hands. Their hands met, brushed—and the pads were not quite silky, rather calloused and rough, but it still emanated the warmth of that person that person oh my Lily—

(…and then you’d heat it up and drink it together, I think. Yes, together. It has to be that way, Sev—I don’t know why, maybe it’ll make it stronger! …no, of COURSE I’m not going to put EVERYTHING in it, Sev, don’t be daft…)

Potter’s eyes looked into his, both still as statues, frozen in that moment when Severus felt a rush of something, something rushing up and out towards the boy, no not the boy the eyes, the eyes that held everything and warmth and LILY—

Severus whirled around, snatching his hand to himself as if burnt. “Ten points from Gryffindor,� he muttered, turning away. “For reckless behavior.� His robes billowed around him as he walked into his office.

Somehow it was easier to resent Potter’s complaints when he could not see that face—lovely and young, unlovable except for—

(You can’t have tears of sadness in it, Severus. It’ll ruin the whole thing.)

He had seen, but never comforted. Never. Always, always the lingering regret, the butterfly that fluttered from his sullied fingertips, up and into the sun to never come back down.

“Have you seen the boy, Severus? He has Lily’s eyes….�

The beast hung its head and wept.

Title: What Albus Saw
Author/Artist: halflight007
Rating: PG
Pairing or Character(s): GrindelDore!
Disclaimer: I own neither the books nor the songs; kudos to Rowling and Stone Sour for their brilliance.
Warnings: The canon has risen. Dumbledore is gay. Fandom is coming.
Author's Note: “Professor, what do you see when you look in the mirror?� Inspired by “Through the Glass� by Stone Sour.

Albus supposed his answer had bemused the boy, who stared at him as what would appear to be a floating head, the rest of his body wrapped in the invisible embrace of Ignotus Perevall. “….Oh. Okay then. Goodnight, Professor.�

“Goodnight, Harry.�

And then the boy completely vanished; a beat, and soft, childishly slow footsteps told him he was finally gone.

Something that might have been a smile crooked at his mouth. “Socks, indeed,� he murmured to himself, and moved to touch the surface of the glass.

What stared back was not an ancient, wizened man made old by time and wiser by growing year—what stared back at him was nothing at all.

The two figures in the glass were far too embroiled with one another to notice an old fart like him.

As Dumbledore watched, the boy with the bobbed blonde hair dipped his head so that his curls brushed the very top of the redhead’s half-moon glasses; whatever it was must have amused the other youth, because he threw his head back and laughed for a beat, even white teeth flashing even in the dark, before surrendering his already kiss-bruised lips to the blonde for another round of excruciatingly pleasant abuse.

The thing on Dumbledore’s lips grows bitter and his hand slips from the glass. And as Albus smiles into the other’s lips, slender fingers knotting in the lowly glistening gold, his own knobby fingers curl into a fist and he whirls away, head bent, eyes cast to the ground.

For Dumbledore’s dreams now, socks would have to suffice.

Title: Let’s Wait
Author/Artist: halflight007
Rating: PG
Pairing or Character(s): GrindelDore
Disclaimer: IZ ROWLING’Z, IZ NOT MEIN.
Warnings: Break out the fluoride and the sealants, folks. Expect rushes of fluff and sweet. Also, suspension of belief is required.
Author's Note: Did I type that above fr rlz? …*laughs* Well, I never like to call anything of mine anything specific.
Summary: “It’ll come, Gellert, we just have to wait.�

Harry’s image flickers and is finally gone, and for a beat more the Headmaster stands there, too-blue eyes fixiated on the spot with his head tilted down a bit.

A beat. “You can come out now, Gellert.�

“I don’t understand why you wanted me to hide in the first place,� and Grindelwald steps outside of the shadows; for a beat he is the moth-eaten, tattered doll he was in Numengard, but when his foot touches the floor he would be as Dumbledore would fondly recall; young, spritely, with that crop of gold atop his head that was so soft-looking.

“I wanted to speak with him alone,� says Dumbledore. He pauses, turns, and suddenly Albus is as Gellert remembers him; long auburn hair, a clean shave, the robes fitting loosely to his body. The only difference is that his eyes no longer have the wild abandon of youthful ambition, and in its place is the knowledge of many, many years.

“King’s Cross? Well if there’s one thing I must commend you for, Albus, it’s the imagination you gave the boy,� Gellert continues, striding towards his old friend (were they ever friends to begin with? Something less, something more—what?). And Albus tilts his head back a little as he laughs, each one separate and as clear as the last, a clarion rumble that tickles Gellert’s bones pleasantly.

“I’m afraid imagination was YOUR department, old friend,� Albus says, taking a seat and inviting his friend to sit next to him. “Need I remind you?�

The younger of the two huffs—an action that draws another chuckle from Albus—and sits down beside him.

“So what now?�

“We wait.�

“For the boy’s train?�

“I suppose.�

The silence that fills the area between them is neutral and warm. Energy is between them—but not the energy that excited and inflamed them both all those years ago.

“It sure is taking it’s time, Albus.�

“It’s that attitude that led to our fiasco before. What’s the problem with waiting?�

Silence, then a low grumble of admittance. A breathy chuckle.

“…I will say, however, I hope it comes soon. I’m quite tired.� He punctuates his sentence with a sigh and a tilt of the head forward, eyes cast down towards the ground and lips parted to permit the air to flow.

Gellert pauses, then one hand reaches up and cups around the opposite side of Albus’s face. Pulling him gently down and relishing the small, soft sound of surprise his companion makes.

“Go to sleep then, idiot.�

Even with his head turned away he hears the small sound of gratitude Albus breathes and he knows the bastard’s smiling his smug, smarmy smile. But when he looks back Albus is curled on the bench and his hand is a loose fist beside his slightly parted lips, just above Gellert’s and his eyes are half-lidded, losing focus. He looks as though there were no more comfortable place he’d rather be—and even if there was, perhaps he’d just stay right were he was, monopolizing Gellert’s lap. (He regrets it—he wanted to see Albus smile, to feel the part of his heart that has so long remained untouched stir and grow warm.)

“You are unexpectedly kind, Gellert.�

“Bastard.�

Albus’s eyes are closed now. “Wake me when it gets here?� he breathes (endearing, Gellert thinks).

His white fingers lance themselves through auburn hair. “Of course.�

It does not take long for Albus to drop off to sleep and lose total awareness of the world around him. It does not take long for his breaths to even out into deep, warm things that slightly dampen Gellert’s robes.

Gellert’s hand glides across the glossy auburn hair, pausing only to remove the half-moon spectacles perched on the tip of Albus’s misshapen nose—misshapen, even in death—and tuck them in the neck of his own robes. He will return them when the train arrives to take them away.

He thinks he hears the faint, faint howl of a steam train’s horn and hopes, suddenly, that they can wait a little longer.