Exploding Poohsticks

Title: The Way Things Grow
Author: Mnemonsyne (reposted here with her permission)
Rest of header information in Part One

( Staring at Draco's profile, Neville felt his heart turn over. )

A few days ago, I received a plea from a Crack Broom reader for a copy of this story. Syne has graciously granted me permission to repost it.

Title: The Way Things Grow
Author: Mnemonsyne
Pairings: Neville/Draco (and unrequited Neville/Harry)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 17,429
Beta: the awesome rufus who has been a trooper though multiple word counts as the fic grew. . . and grew. . . and grew. . .
Summary: Neville's life is quiet after the war, and he's content in his greenhouses. Until one day...
Author's Notes: for suntzu_s, as requested by coffee_n_cocoa - this was meant to be a few hundred word gift ficlet for that fun little meme that went around. Obviously my muse had different ideas. Original prompt was Neville/Draco, Fanged Geraniums.

( Neville stared down at his arm and sighed. The Fanged Geranium had taken a real chunk out his right forearm, and there was nothing more awkward than trying to cast healing spells with your left hand. )

For thermidor. Happy birthday, gal, and may the Force of Well-Wrought Clawses be with you always.

[100 words, G, Snape/Lupin, Draco/Charlie.]


“It looks like a giant lobster,” Lupin mildly observed.

Draco hid his mortification by demanding, “Since when was lobster ever in your budget?

Lupin’s pleasant expression didn’t change. “As it happens, tomalley’s an essential ingredient in Wolfsbane.”

Snape was eyeing the hybrid dragon speculatively. “We could experiment…”

Draco groaned. “Do you ever look at anything without seeing it as a prospective ingredient?”

Lupin murmured, “If it’s not an ingredient, it’s usually target practice.”

Snape shot him an “Is not!” look. Lupin slyly added, “I’m often one or the other.”

“Fine, Lupin. You measure the creature for its jumper from Molly.”

Title: Like No Other
Rating: PG
Words: ~3,700, plus 400 and a bit for the postscript
Pairings: Snape/Lupin, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Draco
Summary: The Trio, the werewolf, a turtledove, and a looking-glass.
Beta: The ever-fabulous catrinella.
Notes: For _lore, for dearsanta 2005. The postscript was written for pixychelle, who originated turtledove!Snape and then egged me on (so to speak)...


( A year like no other this was… )

( Postscript )

For: le Fic-a-Feast chez les dames_magique.
Why: I pickled seven pounds of garlic this morning, and the peppercorn jar gave me fits.
Grouping: Draco/Bella/Luna. I blame catrinella.
Backstory: The war continues beyond year seven -- long enough for revised alliances and liaisons...
Rating: R. A bit of femmeslash and bloodplay, and implied incest if you squint.
Words: 250-ish


When Draco lets himself think about it, it shouldn’t be a surprise that his aunt Bella gets along so well with Luna – they both have a marked predisposition for uncritical devotion to older male figures, what with Bella’s unwavering allegiance to the Dark Lord and Luna’s faithfulness to her father’s daft convictions. In any case, he wouldn’t swear there isn’t a blood connection somewhere back in the upper branches of the family tree: bent over a simmering cauldron of garlic and vinegar, Luna doesn’t directly resemble his mother, especially not in the messy way she knots her hair out of the way, but there is a cool arrogance in the tilt of her head that he finds extremely familiar, comforting, and spooky.

Unlike his mother, but very much like his aunt, Luna doesn’t mind getting hands-on and dirty. Sure, they could have charmed the ten pounds’ worth of cloves apart within second, and loosened the stubborn seals of spice jars with simple spells instead of smashing them open with mallets, but Bella adores the sound of breaking glass and the sight of its remains. The night Luna dropped a bottle of wine, his aunt hit him with a Petrificus before the banishment spell could leave his mouth. When he remembers how she trailed the shards over Luna’s breasts -- how she streaked the pale flesh with scarlet, her tongue chasing both the lacework of long-cellared wine and the sweet pin-spots of fresh blood –- when he revisits that long, unbearably lush evening, the taste that invariably blooms at the back of his throat is both soft and sour.


( the recipe: Persian Sugar-Pickled Garlic )