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Slash and Yaoi Fiction
This is a collection of Harry Potter drabbles. Various pairings (all Snape/someone, various ratings)


Snape/Dumbledore, PG, written for Skuf


He knows he has lost, even as he still argues, sputtering, his words heated and jumbled as always under the twinkling gaze of those gentle blue eyes. He doesn't want to do it, Albus cannot demand it from him.

But Severus already knows, with a throbbing pain in his temples, that it is no use to resist.

"I shall do it," he says dully. Defeat tastes bitter in his mouth, and the familiar sight of his own room seems alien, invaded. "If it is indeed my duty."

"Thank you," Albus says softly, and Severus feels anger and disappointment at his own weakness swell in him. Then Albus reaches and takes his hand - Severus' potion-stained fingers into his cool, withered ones - and kisses it. "Thank you, my child."

And Severus shivers and flushes, his breath taken, and there are no more arguments in him, no anger, no fight.

Just this question again that he asks all the time but never aloud - and will never hear an answer to. Do you care for me?

Albus smiles and leaves, letting his hand go, and Severus stares at the book on his table, brought by Albus, open on the Wolfsbane potion recipe.



Harry/Snape, Harry/others, R, hints of non-cons, written for Tekalynn


He wanted to get out of there. And for that he had to stay alive. He decided that he would do anything for it - and he *did* everything. Lied, pretended that he liked what they were doing, that he was in love with them. Just for them to slacken their relentless attention, to trust him and remove the bonds. And then he would run.

He repeated it so many times that these words became the only ones whose meaning he knew.

But the most difficult was not even that - not smiling, not bucking willingly towards their thrusts, not gasping in pleasure and leaning into their hands. The most difficult was not to forget that he was pretending, even as his body answered to their touches. The most difficult was to remember that he wanted to run - even when some of them were gentle to him and whispered endearments to him, not curses.

The most difficult was not to forgive. Not to accept and dissolve into the joy of belonging.

He went free at last. And you know, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger - so he'd become strong, stronger than ever. And when he made a promise, nothing would be able to make him break it. He would never let anyone touch him in his life, not in a caress, not in an act of kindness. He would never trust a gentle word, a kind smile again.

He kept this promise until he again met the one who had never tried to be kind to him, who had never wanted to touch him and whose only endearment for him always was "Mr. Potter" and only sometimes "our new celebrity".

And the ice started to break.



Snape/Filch, G, written for Ntamara


The glow on the tip of his wand is faint and blue, unwavering, as Snape walks along the corridor slowly. The shadows seem even deeper just outside the moving circle of light, but Snape barely needs illumination at all: he has learned the path to every tiny detail for his many years - decades - of repeating it every night.

On the walls, undisturbed by his steps, portraits snore softly. Snape wonders, once again, how long it is till he'll stay here only as a portrait as well - hidden somewhere in a dark corner not to put the brats out of their cheerful mood by his acidic temper.

There is a noise behind him, in the end of the corridor, and Snape says, without turning his head:

"Mr. Filch, would you please check..."

No one answers him.

Snape stops, the light of his wand faltering for the first time. His voice sounds strange in the empty corridor, addressing to the silence.

"Ah. Yes, right. I've forgotten."

He shakes his head, limp hair falling over his eyes, and for a moment there is a wry, almost rueful smile on his lips. Should get used to it; no one to keep him company in patrolling the corridors at night any more.

Almost soundlessly a small shape emerges from the shadows, soft treading of the paws on the floor barely audible.

She is so skinny you can count every vertebra on her back and her fur is patchy and has turned dirty grey. Huge yellow eyes look at Snape with distaste and reproach.

"I've forgotten," he repeats.

She doesn't like him. But she comes up to him, arching her back, and presses herself to his shins, the sound she's making not quite purring but some low, reluctant grumble.

Snape doesn't like her either. But he stoops, slowly, and runs his palm over her bony back.

Then he straightens and continues his way, and behind him, she follows, noiseless and shadowy.

He might have a company, after all.



Snape/Draco, PG-13, written for Harvest_Blue


"He put my father into prison, how could you let him have all those points!"

He says it without turning, his voice thin, indignant and breaking, and it is amazing how even his back manages to look displeased and spiteful - shoulders raised high and deliberately straight, hands stuffed in his pockets. Under the expensive robe Snape can see his sharp, still boyish shoulder-blades twitch. The boy is frail - like his father always was - only his father learned how to intimidate, despite his moderate height and pointy face. This one hasn't yet.

He looks coldly, at the point between those tense shoulder-blades, and finally Draco can't stand it, turns, and there is so much naked emotion in his face that Snape thinks, don't talk so openly with your face, boy. Don't you know how much you can give away to your enemies like that.

But it is not Snape's place to coach Draco in such things, and Draco wouldn't listen anyway. His eyes are red and narrowed, lip bitten.

"If only my father was free, they would never dare! You had to..."

There is utter coldness in Snape's face - and enough of it in his tone to penetrate even Draco's never-too-sharp perception.

"I will not tolerate reproaches from you, Mr. Malfoy."

The boy blinks and gnaws his lip and it seems he might start crying again. Please not now, Snape thinks, not in front of me.

There are things he should say, hint somehow that Lucius will be free soon, thanks to their Lord - not saying it directly, of course, but implying so that Draco understood. It is what Draco expects from him, obviously. But he can't bring himself to doing it.

"Pull yourself together, Mr. Malfoy," he says instead - and is startled with how evident the disappointment in Draco's eyes is. The boy wants to be reassured, wants it so much.

This vulnerability angers Snape - how is he going to become a Death Eater in a year or two if he cannot even take a little distress? Anger makes him say things he hasn't intended to, things that are cruel and can be dangerous.

"Your father is in prison. Or is so far. Live with it - because I don't see how you can change that."

Draco looks stricken, face so pale that his blond eyelashes and brows become invisible, and his thin lips compress in a pitiful, turned down curve.

He looks as if he hasn't expected it. Not from Snape, anyway, his protector, his Head of the House, his all-time supporter.

And then understanding lights up in Draco's eyes and he says in his high-pitched, resentful, disbelieving voice:

"You hate me."

I'm tired of you, Snape thinks. Tired of playing my role, of trying to please Lucius through you, to prove my loyalty. I'm tired of seeing you turning into Lucius even more with every year.

He's barely learned how not to love Lucius any more - after twenty years of doubts and jealousy - twenty years torn out of his life. How dare Draco to demand anything from him?

"You... you never cared for me at all! I thought..."

There is accusation in Draco's voice, and tears spring from his eyes, and Snape thinks, the boy is so spoiled he can't bear that there is someone who might not adore him.

"You... you just pretended to care for me, because of my father!"

"Mr. Malfoy," he says, his voice dark and warning.

And Draco breaks, his breath hitching, and spurts to the door - and then... Snape reaches his arm and stops him - and feels the boy struggle against him, Draco's face streaked with tears and unpretty, little sobs breaking from his lips.

Draco struggles - but shouldn't he already be able to break away, if he really wanted to?

And Snape holds him, and the resistance subsides finally, and turns into leaning, the boy's hot, skinny body pressing to him, tired and despaired, his blond head falling against Snape's robe.

He holds him, with a feeling of a cold, dark stone in his chest.

I wish I didn't care for you, he thinks. But it won't change anything.


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