ONE-SHOT: He was charmed by her ignorance, liked to sprawl out in their bed—wherever they were, Bolivia, Beijing, Brisbane—and run his fingers down the ridges of her spine, lecture her about warlocks and incubi and werewolves—his knowledge was clinical, irrefutably scientific, and she could never quite decide if she was entranced or entrenched. Captivated or simply captive. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: Because you knew me, and I did not know you, and while those circumstances were hardly strange, there was something unsettling about your recognition, something about the barely-there tilt of your chin that felt mocking and predatory, like a hunter staring down its prey through the unforgiving barrel of a rifle. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: The first time they speak, the conversation ends in an overturned Erlenmeyer flask and a creatively weaponized Bunsen burner; his butter-soft, Italian-leather satchel is covered in scorch marks, and the collar of her lavender cashmere cardigan has been eaten through by a particularly virulent form of benzilic acid. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: It had been unprecedented, and their courtship had consisted of almost nothing but thinly-veiled threats and coldly-delivered insults—there had been screaming matches in the Transfiguration corridor, a rather memorable month of increasingly creative hexes over breakfast, and a peculiarly understated admission of mutual attraction on Christmas morning. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: He reached out, ran a single fingertip along the notches of her spine, from the base of her neck to the valley between her shoulder blades. She shivered. "You aren't anything like anyone," he admitted. HG/TR.

COMPLETE: It was small, slim, about the length of her hand; the leather cover was soft, the sewn-in binding was crisp, and the thick vellum pages were empty. 'Tom Marvolo Riddle' was printed in ancient, flaking gold leaf across the front. He had been a Slytherin, a prefect, and head boy in 1944. She had checked. HG/TR.

COMPLETE: A broken time turner shouldn't have sent me back so far. It was unprecedented. Stepping on it-smashing it-nothing should have happened. At most, I should have lost a week. At worst, I should have disappeared altogether. I shouldn't have traveled back fifty-two years; half a bloody century. This should not have happened. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: Albus Dumbledore had been wrong about Voldemort's horcruxes. There had never been just seven—or eight, technically, if Harry's scar was being counted. There had been seven hundred and seventy-seven. HG/DM.

COMPLETE: When I finally came, it felt as if I had been flayed open, spine exposed, a cachet of fireworks set off in half-second increments along my vertebrae as he murmured my name so reverently I could not help but think that there must be some magic to it, to me, to him. HG/DM.

COMPLETE: "I should," I repeated. "But I don't want to." And then he smiled, and I was wrecked. D/Hr.

COMPLETE: Hermione Granger falls in love with the harshly realistic words written on a small scrap of paper she finds on her way to Potions. She loses it, only to have fate play a part in making her the victim of Draco Malfoy's deception. DHr.

COMPLETE: My whole life had been leading up to this moment, this second of tragedy. I couldn’t imagine anything less of a disaster, less of a letdown. There was nothing anticlimactic about the wrenching of my gut, the roaring of my blood. DHr.

COMPLETE: It was exquisite, the way his face fell, the way his eyes grew round, the way his mouth dropped open: he was a study in disappointment, his dashed hopes cluttering the space that loomed large and noticeable in between us. DHr.

COMPLETE: That clutching, awful, cold, hot, flashing, clawing, cluttering sensation curling its way through my stomach, tearing its way down my vertebrae, winding and trailing and ending up somewhere in my throat. D/Hr.