winnifreddirective

Title: Mythology
Fandom: Grimm/Harry Potter
Rating: G
Length: Drabble




Nick Burkhardt caught his girlfriend’s eye. “This mission is going rather well.”

Juliette Silverton agreed. “Considering we live a tortuous fiction, it’s remarkable we haven’t been discovered.

“When we’re working so hard to hide the fact that I’m a Grimm tracking down centuries-old German mythology in modern-day Portland…”

“…no one is going to suspect you’re an English wizard tracking down centuries-old German mythology in modern-day Portland.”

“Your idea was brilliant, Ginny. I’m happy the Ministry let you help with the assignment.”

“Hey! No “G” name. Do you want to slip in front of someone?”

“Right. Sorry. 10 points from Gryffindor.”

Title: Role Reversal
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: G
Length: Drabble
Artist notes: Maybe I will just write melancholy Sherlock short-fics forever.



He has never really understood going to cemeteries. There is nothing there but expensive monuments, neatly manicured lawns, and wilting floral arrangements.

So he does not go to the cemetery.

Instead he looks through his microscope with no one there to pass him a pen.

He opens the refrigerator and no one sighs at its gory contents.

He checks the unchanging blog for the 52nd consecutive day.

And he thinks this must all be some mistake. If he died, Sherlock would be sure to have faked it.

But nothing John Watson was or did could be anything less than genuine.

I am opening the paper and glimpse the date.

He is 11 today.

He is 11, and I am here - pulling the week’s Prophets from the bins of an alley in Cheapside. There are few Wizarding folks in this area of town, but surely all of them must know that today he is 11.

Does the monster know? Is there time where he is? There are certainly few papers or bins.

I guess none of it matters. Because the monster is in his cage and I am in an alley and that boy is 11 without either of us.



“Thank you, Uncle Remus.”

Harry smiles politely, smoothes the cover, and sets the gift aside to reach for the next.

“A book, Moony?” Padfoot looks skeptical but the telltale twitch of his lips betrays a secret smile. Then his eyes are on Harry again.

The boy lights up. “New Quidditch gloves! And chocolate frogs, too! Oh thanks, Uncle Sirius!”

“Show off.”

“You love it.”

Maybe I do. Anyway, Harry is beaming up at his parents and gushing about his fantastic uncles. Fantastic.

At least, I think that’s how it goes. The full moon is near, so the fantasy is foggy.




“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jennings.”

“You look glum, love. What’s your trouble?”

My friend’s son is having one of the most important birthdays of his life. He’s a wizard. So am I. Today that matters. But he’s also an orphan. So he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anyone. He doesn’t know you because I shouldn’t know you either. None of us is where we belong.

“Just the moon, Mrs. Jennings. Shall I make tea?”

I can tell you it’s the moon because…well, why not? Your world is blind to magic. Is that sad?

Let’s have Earl Grey instead of feelings.




The moon is rising. I am not sure I care.

I am not normally this way. Please understand. I mind. I attend. Just not today.

But it is not a changing night. I can sit in my rented room plucking at the threads of my afghan. I can mindlessly review all of the inane things that I did today. All of the things that were not smiling at my love or ruffling my friend’s son’s hair.

Can you see the moon at all where you are? Do you count them anymore?

He is 11. And we are all at sea.