Post-war. In the name of the impossible, they survived. What was the cost of this survival?

Hell, they were just kids, playing the game the grown-ups spread before them. They played their games and they failed.

You get used to silence, when that's all you have. And silence, hexes, rolled up skirts and broken pride are all you have left when you wanted to trade Harry Potter to the Dark Lord. COMPLETE.

A giant of a man trying to take as less space as he could, trying to let her pass in the doorway and she herself felt like she was taking too much space – too much of him already.

She is lace underwear and oversized t-shirts. A walking paradox.

What if a quick brush with death is all it takes for them to feel alive?

"Live a little, Rowle" was what she said to him, when he was tied down to a pier and alone in a mass of Death Eaters, with masks broken and trampled at his feet. She had been dangerous then. Later on, when they met again, he remembered why.

Born to exhaust fumes, to the perfume of oil cans and grease on her clothes. She knew exactly what she was asking to Rowle when she dared to race him. He didn't know a thing, the poor kitten.

Four months alone with firewhiskey and vodka and drunken shenanigans - or how Granger created an illegal, drunken portkey and sent it to men she'd all but forgotten about.

They try to heal, every week, by standing in the Room of Requirement, by ignoring House prejudice. They try to ignore the searing pain of loss and sorrow by holding a microphone in their hands. [Multi-pairing, Slytherins x Gryffindors]