"Yes, but Harry," she said, "at what cost?"

Luna nearly forgot to breathe for the beauty of it, completely enraptured by their movements.

The painting he'd fallen through sat propped against the wall, several others behind it, and the stars winked at him innocently.

"Hermione was the daughter of King Menelaus and Helen of Troy in Greek mythology," Hermione said, impatiently. "Is, dear."

"There is only one entrance to that room, and I was near it the whole time," she insisted.

It was misting out, the middle of winter in London, and all he was wearing was what he'd gone down to dinner in: a royal purple leotard, and nothing else.

Draco licked his lips, stretched out his trembling hand, and reached through the bars again to touch the card.

Ron's not happy about the latest 'house unity' project. At least, not at first.

How exactly he had gotten trapped beneath his tent wasn't really the first question she had. Luna/Krum

Greg couldn't peel his eyes from the door, foolishly expecting the lumbering form of Crabbe to somehow appear.

All Percy could ever rely on were the rules.

Hermione stared at the two little words stamped on the form with burning eyes.

"No, there is not a spell to change the weather patterns of Britain," said Hermione, adding mournfully, "At least, not a legal one."

She knew she should get help. She wouldn't be able to get by like this forever. WARNING for implied/referenced sexual assault.

"It had damned better be you reading this, Potter."