Hermione learns the hard way that war puts certain things into perspective. Things like love. Things like murder.

A new killer causes a worldwide media sensation by committing crimes so depraved, that they're creating a global panic. Only Special Agent and Consulter Hermione Granger can stop the killer—if she can solve his most complex and terrifying puzzle. Will she see through his game before her time runs out? Or will she lose herself in his maze of terror?

This is a collection of drabbles and ficlets about different pairings and characters, originally written on tumblr. Most of them are short, with a couple of longer ones.

When Hermione Granger asked photography student Draco Malfoy to help her investigate the recent case of missing Cedric Diggory, she expected him to say no. She didn't expect to end up modelling for him. And she definitely didn't expect to do this naked.

Time is a fluent thing. It bends and flows and pours with the slight disturbances and waves, like a river that lies sleeping until you start throwing rocks into it. Time can bend and turn and sometimes twist - but never break. She clutches the golden turner around her neck and turns the hourglass between her shaking fingers.

"Do you love me, Ginevra?" Her eyes narrow. Tom watches her curiously, the dark of his eyes strangely blown and hungry, almost as if he tries to swallow Ginny whole. Her throat goes dry. Tom smiles but it's not a sad smile nor is it happy;it's dark around the edges,spiked and horrific and the white of his teeth glimmers like clean bones. "Do you love me enough to pull the trigger?"

People try and flee their houses - others smash furniture on the walls of soldiers. Gunfire. Bombs. Screams and screeches fill the air, thin with an audible waft of burning flesh. Fred screams and bleeds and there's red so much red- People cry. People die. The next day she packs a duffel bag with some clothes and enrolls in military school. Under her eyes, the city burns.

Something strange is happening in London. A mess of hybrid bodies start to turn up all over the city; half-animal, half-human. Rumour has it that the killer travels through time. For student Ginny Weasley the murders are the work of a twisted monster. Her investigations sink her deeper into London's seedy underbelly - sending her straight into the web of a manic stalker.

It all starts on the roof of the Slytherin fraternity house - with Tom Marvolo Riddle leaning against the brittle handrail, a dark grin in the corners of his mouth when he asks, "Do you want to play a game?"

There is nothing more seductive—and dangerous—than being listened to.

When Ron Weasley calls Neville Longbottom one Saturday night to ask him, to hack into horcruxporn . com because his monthly access ran out, the first thing Longbottom says is "No."

Someone brushes her hand. The name on her wrist stings, itches, burns. She looks up. And suddenly she stops.

/Immortality AU/ They kiss on his third visit. She tastes of parchment and lemons and saltwater and her taste lingers even hours later on his tongue, rich and succulent. He doesn't regret it.

"You should fight for the people Ms. Granger. The people and the world." A sardonic laugh leaves her lips while she tugs the bandana down under her chin and when she answers the words sound hollow in her ears, without any trace of emotions left. "The world's not safe anymore." He doesn't object.

She never knew the stars had a flavour until she kissed him. (they taste like self-destruction and ancient fire, ambitions and ambrosia and she savours it, licks salt crystals of her lips)

"You could be immortal, you know?", he murmurs over the rim of his espresso cup but she retorts amused, almost playful, "Now, why would I want that?"

"What's your name?", the girl with the bushy hair asks again, her voice severe and rough without any emotion at all and he spits between blood-bitten lips, rasps his voice like emery paper, "Voldemort." She pushes a button and his world descends into darkness again.

"I won't let you die," he murmurs reassuring against the shell of her ear but his voice splits when he shapes the syllables, almost as if the fear paralyzes him, terrified that he won't find a solution, that he can't keep his promise. She still doesn't believe him but she's too tired to fight against it so she keeps silent and watches dust corns and particles floating in the air.

"She's the third girl within three months." Hermione pricks a leaf of lettuce with her white plastic fork and dabs it in her yoghurt dressing, watches how the oil and the herbs coil around the green before she replies a tad too cool, "She won't be the last."

She's twenty-one years old. There's a body at her feet and a puddle of blood touches the soles of her white Chucks, flows around them like a thick, pasty cream while the knife in her hand gets heaver with each passing second. Far away the Big Ben clock chimes midnight.