((Note: the non-Middle Earth swearing and the Grelvish name in this piece are both intentional, because I had hoped this would be funny...))

"You have some explaining to do."

To say that Legolas was angry was probably the understatement of the Age. 'Perfectly livid,' was probably a bit more accurate, and 'murderous,' even more so. However, in order to do complete justice to the Wood Elf's rage, Elrohir suspected he would have to remembered the Ancient Quenya lessons that his grandmother had hammered into his head centuries before, and he couldn't even do that in a good moment.

And, given the fact that the best reply he could come up with was a startled blink and an incoherent gurgle, this was most decidedly *not* a good moment. Though, to his defense, the gurgle was due to the fact that Legolas currently had him pressed up against one outer wall of the last Homely House, with one slender hand throttling his windpipe.

After a moment of choking, Elrohir managed a strained "Dunno...what...talkin' 'bout."

Legolas bared his teeth in a sick parody of a smile, and released Elrohir's throat. Elrohir fell into a sitting position on the ground, gasping for air and rubbing at his neck.

"Of *course* you don't know what I'm talking about," Thranduilion continued calmly, a slight twitch of his left eyelid being (temporarily) the only visible sign of his outrage. "The young groom who batted his eyes at you? Who agreed to a midnight tryst in the garden with you two months ago? Any of this sound familiar?"

Actually, none of it did. Elrohir had no memory of encountering flirtatious young grooms, and even if he had, he would have turned down any advances. In fact, just before Legolas's sudden interruption, he had been composing a love-letter to a lovely Galadrim maiden, whom he had met on a long-ago trip to Grandma's and whom he intended to propose to on the next trip to Grandma's. But, bruised as his throat was, he didn't get a chance to explain that situation before Legolas hauled him to his feet again, gripping his shirt by the lapel and shaking him senseless.

"That 'groom' is my little sister, you idiot!" shouted the Prince of Mirkwood, all calm completely renounced.

Elrohir's face contorted in confusion. "Sister? You have a sister?" It was the first time *he* had heard of it...

"Yes! A stupid, hormonal little sister who decided to be rebellious and run away from home disguised as my groom!"

The pieces were starting to come together. "Blonde, fair-skinned, only about twenty-six years old, and introduces herself as Mirkwoodelf?"

"YES! That's Tinawiel, trying to be Eowyn without knowing Rohirric." Legolas paused a little, his hands shaking violently, before continuing. "And now, not only is she pregnant with your child, she's FADING, you INCONSIDERATE JACKASS!"

A strangled gulp came from the dark-haired Elf. "But...I didn't...it was..."

"And YOU are going to MARRY her, RIGHT NOW, before she DIES, or SO HELP ME, I will DRAG YOUR BACKSIDE OVER TO MIRKWOOD AND FEED YOU TO THE SPIDERS!"

The first thing that popped into Elrohir's mind at this pronouncement was a Sindarin variant of "oh crap."

The second thing was "DAMN YOU, ELLADAN!"

Invasive, that's what it was.

Hermione stared up at the ceiling, and her thoughts drifted. Back and across, to those halcyon summer days, of pretend outrage and speaking her mind. So many afternoons she had left them, to stalk back to his dingy office in high dudgeon, ostensibly complaining about a poor grade.

If only they'd known.

They would have stopped her. They would have complained, and objected, and flailed in their sweet little teenage boy way. And then maybe she wouldn't be here now, following the cracks with one eye, desperately pretending she was anywhere but here, trying to ignore the authoritative voice telling her to lie back and think of England.

She flinched.

When she ruled the wizarding world, it'd be the first thing she'd change. Proper research, and proper procedures, and no more of this damned internal scaffolding. Barbaric, it was. Damn Snape and his treacherously appealing greasy hooded looks!

Hermione sighed, and followed the path of a cobweb with her eyes. Two feet away, procedures of a delicate nature occurred. She tried to ignore them. She mostly succeeded, until the Muggle doctor said the dread word. However would she tell Severus?

"Syphillis, Ms Granger."

got any more? I only know a few of the canons and couldn't come up with anything

Deorwine rubbed his face and tried to think of something that alliterated with “Lady.” The Rohirrim were having a feast tonight—the harp would be passed around, and everyone would recite poetry in turn. He wanted to compose something to make Lady Eowyn smile, as she had not done since Theoden King’s … illness began. He tried again:

Leaping lightly onto horse Lady Eowyn rides, lovely
And mightier than many men on Meare mounted
Sword swinging at her side swiftly—

That was no good, he decided, “Swinging” –-had she lost control of it? Poetry was harder than he had thought.

------------------------------------------------------------

Meare is (I think) the dative singular form of Mearas.

I tried to have extra spaces to indicate the caesura, but the post kept eating them; you'll have to imagine it's there.

1. 50 Reasons by fearblank
50 reasons to 'do it' starring Lily and Draco.

(Very AU, but so what? It'll still be better than the original...)


"Now, Mister Malfoy."

Gritting his teeth, Draco forced himself to move slowly - casually - as he turned in his comfortable seat to face this year's DADA teacher. Professor Potter looked annoyed. She would have looked annoyed anyway, standing as she was with her fists on her hips, but the addition of having her long red hair standing up in all directions, stiff as dry spaghetti, doubled the effect.

Two rows behind him, Harry 'The Git' Potter smothered laughter. His mother didn't so much as spare him a glance before saying, "You too, Harry. Now."

The laughter abruptly ceased, ending it what sounded like a strangled rasp.

Draco, determined to be more dignified, continued to face The Git's teacher mother. "Professor Potter," he began in a languid, airy tone, "I simply don't understand why."

She raised her eyebrows. Inwardly, Draco was certain she had meant to only raise one eyebrow, but of course not everyone was capable of that particular feat - not everyone was born with it. He raised one brow of his own just to prove the point, but unfortunately, she wasn't interested. Folding her arms as though she weren't at risk of blinding other students with her red, spaghetti-like spears, she asked lightly, "You need a reason, Mister Malfoy?"

For just a moment, Draco faltered. That tone... that tone was dangerous. He'd heard it before, and the memory was enough to cause a slight waver in his voice as he replied, "Yes..."

There was a fractional pause in which Professor Potter's lip twitched, very slightly, as if she were hiding a grin, and then in one swift move she pointed her wand at Draco's desk.

He suddenly found himself facing a stack of at least fifty books. Old, musty, dirty books. Books he didn't want to lay a fingernail on if he could possibly avoid it. On top of that, they reeked - the sort of old, half-damp stench that could probably kill on its own.

His controlled, calm expression must have faltered, because Professor Potter then explained, "These texts have been in storage under the library for about three hundred years; Madam Pince discovered them last week and is desperate to have them cleaned of all that mould - every last crease and crack."

Draco blanched.

Sweetly, Lily told him, "So you have a choice, Draco - and Harry," she added over his shoulder; "Do as you're told, or this will be your detention. Is that clear?"

Gritting his teeth, but now for an entirely different reason, Draco swallowed his twelve-year-old's pride and nodded. Professor Potter briefly glance behind him at her son, who apparently did the same. "Good," she said, flicking back a strand of stiff hair. "Now do it."

With muffled and not-so-muffled sighs, the boys stood up from their desks and gathered the five or six crumpled paper balls they had been magically flinging at each other's heads before shuffling to the back of the room. Glaring sideways at each other, they took positions on the large muggle 'crash-mat' Professor Potter had brought in for 'martial arts' practice.

"Now," she said lightly, "which of you would like to demonstrate the headlock first?"


~


Hmm, not the ending I was planning on, but I'm short on time so this'll have to do. Ah, well.

3. Bad Grade by Sugarplumjellygum
Hermione goes to Snape's office to get him to change her Bad Grade and leaves with something worse.

"Absolutely disgraceful, Miss Granger. I expect this kind of tripe from Potter and Weasley, but..." Snape let a ladleful of Brawler's Broth trickle back into the cauldron and gaver Hermione a sneer. "I suppose we must make allowances for those of us with... less background... in the Arts."

Cue sniggers from the other side of the Potions Dungeon and outraged growls from the Gryffindors, mainly Ron and Harry. Hermione said nothing as Professor Snape scribbled a mark on her paper and let it fall back to the desk.

"He can't do that to you, Hermione! Your potion was loads better than Greengrass's or Zabini's, and they both got full marks!" Ron's outrage carried over onto the Grounds, where Hermione had accompanied him and Harry for the afternoon.

"It's not that bad, Ron. I mean, he always gives the Slytherins better marks than us. It's useless to get upset about it at this point, really, and it's only a P..."

Harry snorted, glancing up from his own Potions paper, which he'd been absently shredding from the corners in the whole walk, having gotten a P as well. "What's wrong with you, Hermione? Since when do you let Snape push you around like that? I mean, he as good as said right out that you're less of a witch because you're Muggle-born!"

Ron nodded furiously. "That's just-- that's not even a bad grade, that's... that's a Bad Grade!"

She frowned for a moment, then abruptly turned back to the castle.

"Wait-- Hermione! Where are you going?"

"Where do you think, Ron?" she called over her shoulder. "I'm going to get that grade fixed!"

Harry and Ron stared at each other for a second, shrugged, and turned back to the lake.

She paused at the Potions Dungeon. Why the panic? She'd done this in Charms at least three times, asked for a clearer explanation on an essay, talked to Professor Sprout about practical grades' weights against writing and theory... just because this was Potions, and Professor Snape, and... and...

Unable to finish the thought in a way that didn't involve leaving, immediately, Hermione took a deep breath and rapped sharply on the door.

"Come in," drawled the Professor. How does he manage to make his -voice- sneer? She grimaced and walked into the dungeon, determined not to let him upset her.

He glanced up for about a millisecond, and then returned to his desk. "Ah, Miss Granger. Here, of course, to complain that you are undeserving of ever being graded as less than perfect."

Hermione took a deep breath. "Well, sir, I really just wondered why my potion received a lower grade than anyone else's, even though there were other potions far less like the finished product, and it didn't seem like mine was that far off..." She trailed off. Snape hadn't looked up once, and continued to write on his parchment without pause. There was a long silence. Finally, he finished writing.

"Untrue, Miss Granger. Neville Longbottom received a D for his potion, and three Hufflepuffs from the period before yours-- ah, but you are a high and mighty Gryffindor, and no doubt inquiring as to the grades of the lower Houses is beneath you."

"Professor, we don't have ti--"

"As I was saying, Miss Granger," he continued, with a look that might have been a glare, if there had been any actual emotion in it, "Your main problem seems to be that you received a lower mark than any of the students in your own class-- any Slytherins."

There was a bit of a pause, as Hermione struggled to find the right words to answer this, without using words like 'favoritism' or 'unfair' or 'slimy git.'

"You may not have noticed this, Miss Granger, but your potions are not always deserving of full marks, despite the fact that you are a Gryffindor, and, therefore, can apparently do no wrong."

"I wasn't asking for full marks, Professor, just--"

"However, (and if you keep interrupting me, Miss Granger, you will receive a detention), if you had paid attention to anything I said in the beginning of the class, rather than scolding your friends for their juvenile doodles, you would have understood the theory of what I was saying, as Zabini did. Your potion may have looked the part of a Brawler's Broth more than his, but his was closer to the meaning of the potion itself."

"...Oh." She started to speak again, but Snape motioned for the paper, and she handed it to him.

"Now get out of my classroom, and next time you bother me outside of class, you will simply receive a detention." She glanced at the paper. The P had been revised to a T. "I do not have to explain my motives to you, Miss Granger. Goodbye."

She fled.

"So, did you get that grade changed, Hermione?"

She shot Harry a glare and swept past him up to the Girls' Dormitory. He looked back at Ron, bemused. "What'd I say?"

1. Nighttime Thoughts by kissesdarling - Stargate: Universe
   Chloe's thoughts on a mad Scotsman. One shot.
   
   Chloe was alone in her room. It was late and she hadn't been able to sleep. Her dreams had been invaded by a mad Scotsman and she had to do something about it. She crossed the room to her favorite chair and got herself ready. A few deep, calming breaths and she was ready.
   
   She started out slowly, getting in the zone. She could almost see her Scottish tormentor; strong and black with a kilt and an eye patch. She began to move faster. She could feel that she was close to her goal. Finally, with one twitch of her finger... Boom! Headshot!
   
   She sat back and looked at her computer screen. She had done well. She had killed the Demoman with just one shot. Now it was time for bed.

Can I call the last one?