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A la 1984 (Lucius/Harry, warning: violence, mutilation)

Pain is like claws tearing his body. Pain is like a shroud swaying in front of his eyes. Lucius' voice came from this shroud, as if from afar but so persistent.

"How many fingers do you see, Potter?"

He barely can see anything at all - but Lucius' aristocratic hand is brought right to his face: four slim fingers decorated with expensive rings.

"Four," Harry whispers and knows that it is a wrong answer.

Lucius' lips curve in a smile.

"There are five fingers. Your recalcitrance will be your undoing. Crucio!"

I hate you... I hate you... I don't know how many stupid fingers there are, stop it, oh God, it hurts, stop it...

"How many fingers are there?"

* * *

Lucius rocks sitting on the chair, deathly pale. There is blood on his cheek - and much more blood, a whole wide stream of it, runs to the floor from his hand.

"How many fingers do you see, Mr. Malfoy?"

He doesn't raise his head - it seems he can't stop looking at four thin, white fingers on the table. Lucius' lips tremble so much that he barely can say:

"Four."

"It's a wrong answer."

The knife slides easily, through the resistance of the bone - and one more bloody stump falls onto the table.

"There are five fingers."

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Cowardice (Snape/Lupin, PG-13)

COWARDICE

Severus didn't really want to write this letter. But when all the means to delay this process were exhausted - tea drunk, essays marked, a quill and a parchment prepared - he knew there was no other way. He had to do it. Even if his body still ached pleasantly in a sweet, intimate way that he hadn't felt for ages. It didn't mean anything.

"Lupin,

What happened between us is nothing. I want to disabuse you of the notion that it might change something between us. It is too late for that. We are two people who hate each other. Sex isn't enough..."

It wasn't. Really. Except that in a way it was.

And the night had been wild and disastrously pleasant, two naked bodies hungry for each other, striving to join in such a mad, self-abandoned way as if it was the only point of living. Instinct, Severus smiled sardonically, the basic wish to be with someone else. They both simply hadn't had sex for years and that was all.

"Sex isn't..."

He had to write it. Because who could know what might come to Lupin's mind. What if he decided that Severus would be his lover now - or, Merlin forbid, his friend?

Write it, he reminded himself.

A rumpled post-office owl squeezed itself through the flue and cleaned its feathers in annoyance after he'd taken the letter from its paw. A parchment was covered in a narrow, firm handwriting.

"Dear Severus,

I suppose there is no gentle way to say that. And you are probably right to call me a coward since I couldn't bring myself to say it in your face. I'm sorry it happened like that. I miss Sirius. And at one moment I thought that two lonely people could be happy together. But it doesn't work like that. At night, when bodies talk, there are no regrets; but in the morning one sees it better.

I will understand if you hate me even more.

Remus Lupin"

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A kind of a sequel to my story Closure (Harry/Draco, PG)

The sun casts bright squares on the floor, pillows and his chest in the unbuttoned shirt. He lies in the bed at the wall - the bed that I used to refer to as "our bed" - although I'm sure he doesn't call it in any way at all. He's taken off his glasses but not his boots.

I see him reach for his wand as he hears the door opening.

"Waiting for someone, Potter?"

His hand falls down lazily. It's too hot to move... and he trusts me. As funny as it sounds, after ten months he trusts me.

"Not any more, Malfoy."

"Too bad."

I come up and throw my present onto his chest.

You should see how he jerks up - and hisses with pain when tiny claws stick into his chest.

"Malfoy, damn you..."

"It's for you," I say. "Happy birthday."

"My birthday was three days ago," he mutters. His hands are put together, holding the kitten; his thumb finds the warm fluffy head and strokes it.

"But it was not Friday," I say reasonably.

Potter's mouth quivers a little, as if he's about to smile - but he doesn't smile. The kitten pushes its wet nose into his ribs.

"Of course, I never hoped you'd thank me," I say.

"Of course. You're an idiot. And your presents are idiotic."

I shrug. He doesn't stop patting the kitten, titling his head as if he's listening to something - maybe to the loud purring.

"What color is it?" he asks suddenly.

"Striped," I say. "He's striped."

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Christmas drabble (Snape/Lucius, G)

The house smells with apples, cinnamon and ginger - exactly as it should smell two days before Christmas. A pile of cards on the table grows bigger. Those of them signed by the most important names are put on the top, to be visible.

On the walls, apart from holly and mistletoe, there are silver decorations on the long chains. Stars and angels reflect in Draco's eyes - he opens his toothless mouth happily and reaches for them. Narcissa holds him more comfortably and smiles proudly.

Everything in her house is perfect.

And Snape is the only one who clashes with this perfection. Narcissa frowns. A dark gloomy figure in the armchair, only his sharp knees stick out - and from time to time his thin hand turns the pages of a thick book. The book is old and expensive, from Lucius' library. Oh sure. He's reading Lucius' books. Drinking Lucius' cognac. Why wouldn't he use Lucius' shampoo while at that? But no, it is not for Severus Snape. He prefers to leave greasy stains on the silk upholstery of the armchairs.

"You surely have some plans for Christmas, Severus, don't you?" Narcissa asks. Her voice is exceptionally civil, just with a tiny stress on the world 'surely'.

Snape flinches and looks up - seeming for a moment very young and lost. Like a dog thrown out of the house.

"He *surely* has plans for Christmas," Lucius says coming in with a gust of icy air. His eyes are icy too. "We have invited him."

Snape's eyes flash with gratitude briefly, and this gratitude is also pathetic, dog-like. Narcissa kisses the top of Draco's head to hide her compressed mouth.

Let it be. She will endure it. Her time will come.

THE END