Ducks are a-drabbling, up tails all.

Hp, 100 word drabble, vaguely Snape/Draco.
Severus Snape belongs to J.K. Rowling and the huge number of persons who have paid her for the right to create/sell/market based on her works.

Autumn winds swirl robes around the youths crossing greensward toward Herbology. They appear a flock of ravens to Severus Snape, a black bird himself with hook nose and glossy wings of black hair. He won’t step into the sunlight, feeling it threatening to his composure.

He watches from shadow, natural to him. Laughter echoes like rough cries. One white head bobs in that black cloud of students, like a dove fallen amongst the crows. Snape would swoop upon the crowd and carry off that one pale creature. But his hands are merely talons, and his grasp might make it bleed.

Live journal fairy, I <3 you.

Night, cold, streets mostly empty with a few lonely people of indeterminate age and gender wheeling ancient shopping carts in invisible cocoons. Inside the apartment the shadows creep from under the sofa and pool in the hallway, and the computer sheds its bluish light ineffectually over the keyboard. The ticking of a clock vies with the tapping of the keys for background noises. My feet are growing cold.
Meanwhile, somewhere there are gay penguins raising the eggs of other, straight penguins. Or maybe bisexual penguins. Nowhere, however, are there any penguins petitioning to disallow the happy gay penguins their parenting rights.
Huh.