Draco/Blaise: studying for a test about goblin rebellions (274 words, PG-13)
"And then they stormed the castle."
Draco pulled up Blaise's robe and slid his hand up his leg. "Like this?"
Blaise scrambled further up the bed, shaking his head. "No, they had flaming torches and spears."
Draco tossed his History of Magic textbook onto his own bed and moved to sit in front of Blaise. "Spears, say you?"
Blaise rolled his eyes. "Crabbe or Goyle could walk in at any moment, Malfoy, are you sure you want to go there?"
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Go where? It's a simple question." He put his hands on Blaise's legs, pushing them apart. He moved even closer and leant to whisper in Blaise's ear. "Besides, they're both thick enough to believe any story we sell them."
Blaise threaded his fingers through Draco's hair and sighed. "If anyone finds out, we're in--"
"--deep shit, I know. Live a little, Zabini." Draco took Blaise's earlobe between his teeth and bit down gently, eliciting a sharp intake of breath.
"You want to write this test for me tomorrow?"
"Sure. You can write mine, we shouldn't do too badly." Draco braced himself against the headboard and faced Blaise, their mouth barely an inch apart.
Blaise licked his lips. "You really ought to look up 'restraint', Malfoy."
The door banged open, followed by a confused "Um?" Quick as a flash, Blaise released Draco and Draco sprang back, assuming a look of complete innocence. "Haven't you heard of knocking, Crabbe? Now our secret rite of evil will remain incomplete forever."
Crabbe scratched his head, blinking. "You were -- rite?"
Draco shook his head. Sometimes, there was much to be said for broom cupboards.
James/Sirius: the trenches, WWI (156 words, G)
They collapse against the freshly mown grass behind the Gryffindor stands, panting. James kicks his broomstick further away and flops onto his back, taking great lungfuls of air. He squints into the impossibly blue sky and glances over at Sirius, who's on his back as well, his eyes closed, a serene smile playing across his lips.
"Sometimes I wonder about those people in Moony's books. Those soldiers, you know, during the big Muggle war," says James.
Sirius opens one eye and turns to look at him. "What brought that on?"
James gestures at the sky. "They'd spend days burrowed into the ground, and all they could see was grey - from the explosions and dust and smoke."
Sirius shrugs, and closes his eyes again. "They're Muggles, what'd you expect?" His smile is back again, only this time he's sort of stretching on the grass -- and James forgets about Moony and Muggles and their stupid wars.
Pansy/Hermione: Victorian England (183 words, PG)
"I don't see why you have to lace it up so tightly," complained Pansy.
Hermione smiled inwardly and gave another vicious tug to the laces on Pansy's corset. "Because we're supposed to experience Victorian women's life up close and personal."
Pansy rose to her feet swiftly and turned to face her. "Look, Granger. Just because McGonagall decided it would be fun to pair us up for this pointless exercise doesn't mean you get to physically abuse me."
Hermione matched Pansy's glare perfectly, and pulled on the lace that was still in her hand, so that Pansy stumbled forward, bumping their foreheads together painfully. "Don't I?" asked Hermione.
Pansy's glare was replaced by a shrewd, knowing look. "So you've heard about my little problem."
Hermione placed a hand on Pansy's waist, squeezing a bit, pulling her closer. "Oh, yes. I've heard about your little problem." She pressed her lips experimentally to Pansy's, and when the other girl didn't protest, she--
Hermione straightened up, knocking her head painfully against the headboard and glaring at Ron.
What a fucking waste of a Patented Daydream Charm.
Harry/Draco: The British vs. The French (187 words, PG)
"I bet the French don't have Firewhisky," mumbled Harry, squinting. He wasn't sure if he was talking to Malfoy or the table leg. From this angle, the difference was unremarkable.
"The French have better things than Firewhisky," countered Malfoy. He made a movement, which was a bit too sudden for Harry's tastes, because suddenly he was under the impression that there was a hand on his leg. A hand which did not belong to Harry. He pushed his glasses further up his nose, leaving a smear on the left lens. "Malfoy?"
"Means 'bad faith' in French. Or 'ill faith', depending on interpretation," said Malfoy. That wasn't Malfoy's hand sliding up Harry's thigh. Nope. Harry threw his head back against the wall, bumping it painfully against the hard wood. "So that means I shouldn't trust you?"
"The British have never trusted the French."
"Oh. So you are French?"
That wasn't Malfoy's face an inch from Harry's. Not at all. It was still that damned table leg. If only Harry could see properly.
"I'm not French. But this is."
Fuck. That was definitely not Malfoy's tongue in Harry's mouth.