Four drabbles (2 HP, 1 Vorkosigan saga, 1 A2A)
Written for attilatehbun's Multifandom Drabble Tree. All are rated roughly PG-13.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling, Lois McMaster Bujold and Kudos Productions own their respective 'verses and everything they encompass. These are works of fan fiction, and thus derive no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Living in London was like living in a foreign country, Ginny thought. She hadn't realized how sheltered her upbringing had been until she moved into a flat with some mates from school three Tube stops from the Leaky Cauldron. There'd been the Tube to contend with, for starters, and being careful around her nosy Muggle landlady.
But they had a schedule for doing chores and buying groceries, and they all agreed that boys could stay over, but guest toothbrushes in the bathroom they all shared were forbidden.
Ginny solved that problem by keeping her spare toothbrush at Harry's place.
Way at the back of the cellar, hidden behind a stack of crates, Hannah found a cask covered thickly in dust. There was no mention of it in any of Tom's inventory records. Given the state of his records, that was no surprise. Still, without any label or note indicating what it held, she had no choice but to tap into it.
It turned out to be a deliciously mellow and well-aged rum with a powerful, slow-acting kick to it, which Hannah discovered when she woke up naked in bed with Neville and the mother of all hangovers the next morning.
"Collar straight?"
Miles lifted his chin so Ekaterin could make sure his collar sat evenly above his tunic, with no bunching. He felt a tug as she made an adjustment.
"There," she said, smoothing his tunic over his shoulders, then coming around to check the alignment of his placket. He trusted the two kilos he'd gained over Winterfair - between Ekaterin and Ma Kosti, he needed to start an exercise regimen soon, or else his trousers would soon be too snug - wouldn't be noticeable in his profile.
Ekaterin smiled, then leaned down to kiss him. "Knock 'em dead, love."
He grinned back. "Yes, m'lady."
"Professional standards of conduct?" Gene threw the memo across his desk. "What the bloody hell does that mean?"
"It means you can't go barging in without a warrant, or leave a suspect alone with Ray, or plant evidence, or--" Alex trailed off at the cold look in Gene's eyes. "It means you're supposed to be above the law, not under it, not even beside it."
"I AM the law!" was his predictable retort.
"Of course you are," she murmured. "The sheriff of Fenchurch East."
"Don't you forget it, Bolls. I'm the law around here. I decide what the poncy 'professional standards of conduct' are."
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling, Lois McMaster Bujold and Kudos Productions own their respective 'verses and everything they encompass. These are works of fan fiction, and thus derive no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Living in London was like living in a foreign country, Ginny thought. She hadn't realized how sheltered her upbringing had been until she moved into a flat with some mates from school three Tube stops from the Leaky Cauldron. There'd been the Tube to contend with, for starters, and being careful around her nosy Muggle landlady.
But they had a schedule for doing chores and buying groceries, and they all agreed that boys could stay over, but guest toothbrushes in the bathroom they all shared were forbidden.
Ginny solved that problem by keeping her spare toothbrush at Harry's place.
Way at the back of the cellar, hidden behind a stack of crates, Hannah found a cask covered thickly in dust. There was no mention of it in any of Tom's inventory records. Given the state of his records, that was no surprise. Still, without any label or note indicating what it held, she had no choice but to tap into it.
It turned out to be a deliciously mellow and well-aged rum with a powerful, slow-acting kick to it, which Hannah discovered when she woke up naked in bed with Neville and the mother of all hangovers the next morning.
"Collar straight?"
Miles lifted his chin so Ekaterin could make sure his collar sat evenly above his tunic, with no bunching. He felt a tug as she made an adjustment.
"There," she said, smoothing his tunic over his shoulders, then coming around to check the alignment of his placket. He trusted the two kilos he'd gained over Winterfair - between Ekaterin and Ma Kosti, he needed to start an exercise regimen soon, or else his trousers would soon be too snug - wouldn't be noticeable in his profile.
Ekaterin smiled, then leaned down to kiss him. "Knock 'em dead, love."
He grinned back. "Yes, m'lady."
"Professional standards of conduct?" Gene threw the memo across his desk. "What the bloody hell does that mean?"
"It means you can't go barging in without a warrant, or leave a suspect alone with Ray, or plant evidence, or--" Alex trailed off at the cold look in Gene's eyes. "It means you're supposed to be above the law, not under it, not even beside it."
"I AM the law!" was his predictable retort.
"Of course you are," she murmured. "The sheriff of Fenchurch East."
"Don't you forget it, Bolls. I'm the law around here. I decide what the poncy 'professional standards of conduct' are."