Narcissa knows exactly what death tastes like. [Narcissa kills five people. One shot. Dark.]

Twenty facts about Bellatrix Lestrange that she would never speak aloud.

They could all go to a bar and forget the past. They could reread the book, rewind the film. It would be so easy. [Harry, post war. One shot.]

Twenty somewhat related facts about the Marauders. And Lily.

Loving him was courting heartbreak. [DG. One shot.]

Sirius's descent into madness, in thirteen steps. [One shot.]

Obsession turns to madness turns to weakness. Tom Riddle. One shot. [If salvation is beyond his reach, then fantastic, glorious damnation is all that's left.]

Once upon a time, Bella liked being a sadist. Once upon a time.

Sirius picked a bad night to run away from home. [He’s got a horrible, deep, sinking feeling that he’s just like the rest of his family. They’re all a bit insane, and he feels insane right now.] Rating for language and situation. Oneshot.

Andromeda, on Sirius before and after Azkaban. Because people change over time. Oneshot.

[Ginny. Oneshot. Dark. Rating for situation and mild cursing.] But she knows she saw him standing there.

Seven steps to writing yet another cliched Harry Potter fanfiction.

She's a mass of contradictions, and she's not sure what to think. Adventures don't start on muggy, unstarred, weepy, summer nights. It's too much like Purgatory. It's too still. [Andromeda's last night at home. Oneshot.]

Andromeda takes a walk through the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black after her husband dies, finding nothing but dust and nostalgia and a few unburied ghosts.

The room is dark enough, he supposes, to hide the sin. Oneshot. Draco Malfoy.

Merope Gaunt's final hours, as she thinks about blood purity and how very wrong she's been. Oneshot.

My name is Lily Evans and I hate a lot of things. In fact, my friends have compiled a detailed list of all the things I hate, but they pay special attention to James Potter and relieving me of my hatred of him. Over my dead body. [better summary inside]

She made paper hearts. They were small and lined and imperfect, but on each she wrote a name, a number and a date, and dropped them into the empty grate. She'd burn them when they meant something.

Regulus Black's last days. The one thing he had discovered was that everything, in a last, feeble attempt to leave a mark, will at least attempt to give off a vivid flash and do something earth shattering right before the end.

[And so it is, the shorter story, no love, no glory] “I wanted to be whatever she couldn’t be, and that was normal. So I went for normality. And over time, I guess I simply forgot my dreams and fantasies and set about being respectable.” Petunia reflects.