IN-PROGRESS: She had then gone straight to muggle London and bought a dress—bright white and backless, the sort of dress one might wear to a society function when one is single and sorry and bitter; the sort of dress designed to stand out and cause a scandal. PP/HP.

COMPLETE: Because her voice is light and airy and musical and the only thing he can come up with to compare it to is a cloud—which is crazy. Voices aren't clouds. Clouds aren't voices. Clouds are…clouds. They float and they're filled with rain and they cover up the sun. Luna's voice isn't like that all. Luna's voice might as well be the sun. MF/LL. (Companion to 'Bite Marks').

IN-PROGRESS: I started in surprise, head snapping up—and my mouth went dry. Because the man standing in the doorway, posture perfectly imperious and sleek black suit perfectly fitted—there was something different about him, something about his presence that defied proper description and made my tonsils tighten reflexively around my next breath. PP/TR.

ONE-SHOT: And there's music pulsing in bass-heavy shockwaves up the notches of her spine and there's salt on the insides of her thighs and the hollows of her hips and she isn't Pansy Parkinson anymore, no, she isn't a girl who hides or runs or escapes, no, she's someone else she's someone new she's someone who's breathing and fighting and alive. PP/CW.

IN-PROGRESS: She wakes up at exactly midnight on the eve of her nineteenth birthday; she screams. HG/DM.

THREE-SHOT: Once upon a time, there was a House. HG/FG.

ONE-SHOT: "Well, aren't you precious," he remarks, tongue darting out to flick at his bottom lip. "Do I need to put a towel down on the front seat before you'll get in the car?" She lifts her chin. "That depends. Do I need to Febreze you before we share an enclosed space?" HG/Scabior.

ONE-SHOT: He'd seen a photograph of Pansy Parkinson in the Prophet, printed the morning after her trial, and he could recall the basic impression that he'd had of her—young and reasonably pretty, groomed for tea parties and cotillion balls, a potent, visceral reminder of the life he'd loathed and lost and left behind. The girl in the pub is very much not that girl. PP/SB.

ONE-SHOT: Theo's like if Bill Nye and Ryan Gosling somehow defied all the genetic odds and just fused together via osmosis and went on to create their own fancy subspecies of the human race. BZ/TN.

ONE-SHOT: He spends most of his morning elbow-deep in the guts of a Hagrid-sized pumpkin, sifting through stringy orange pulp for the tear-shaped ivory seeds—he has to owl his mum for detailed instructions on how to roast the bastards, and even goes to an out-of-the-way backwoods apothecary to procure a last-minute bulk-order of ground cinnamon. CL/LL.

TWO-SHOT: "So—you're upset," he says with a nonchalant nod and discreet adjustment of his slightly too-tight khaki corduroys. She blinks at him, her expression alternating between indignation and incredulity and flat-out fury. He had been right about her being pretty beneath the intimidation tactics. HG/DM. (Companion to 'Punch Drunk').

ONE-SHOT: On her twelfth day, she's standing next to a bank of stainless steel wire bird cages and clasping a shrink-wrapped package of pine wood shavings to her chest and legitimately praying for strength when Harry pauses in the doorway for no readily apparent reason other than to scowl disapprovingly in her general direction and that just. No. That's it. PP/HP.

ONE-SHOT: The year he turned thirteen, he picked up a kitchen knife and fell in love. He relished the stinging caress of polished steel as it sliced through flesh that wasn't his own—he watched blood trickle and smear, dribble and crust, and he thought it was beautiful. He was enthralled. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: She's buying a box of condoms when she meets him. HG/TR.

IN-PROGRESS: She learns that it's hopelessly rare for someone to be born without an Other, that humans aren't meant to be alone, are unequivocally better when they're grounded and challenged and balanced by their missing halves—soul mates. She hates the words. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: Hermione Jean Granger is a good girl—until Tom Riddle comes to town. HG/TR.

IN-PROGRESS: I smoothed my hands over my lower abdomen; his past and my present and our history, together—they were converging. There was no going back. There was no forgetting. There wasn't any room for secrets. And I had been wrong. "I trust you," I said, soft and slow. "But I don't trust that." HG/TR. (Sequel to 'Nightmare')

ONE-SHOT: "Can I get a small, hot, quad quarter-sweet tres leches latte, ristretto, with three pumps of vanilla and a drizzle of cinnamon?" Edmond Lestrange asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. She clenches her jaw. "And you, Tom?" she says, ballpoint pen poised over a to-go cup. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: Tamsin Riddle had never understood Leontes Granger. HG/TR.

IN-PROGRESS: "Lucius Malfoy didn't escape," he says. "He disappeared. The two across the hall—Lestrange and Dolohov—they said he was lying on his bed, presumably sleeping, and then he—wasn't. He didn't have a wand, he didn't have magic—he wasn't even wearing a shirt, just some Ministry-issued trousers and his wedding ring." She glances around the cell. There isn't a window. HG/TR.