It's the smell of it. Chemical. Bitter and sharp as a raw edge on metal. Just a hint of it as she passes him at breakfast — but enough to stop her dead, mid-step. There is Wolfsbane in his tea. SIXTH-YEAR WEREWOLF AU.

For a moment, she's almost giddy. Because Draco Malfoy's been ruined by this war and he's as out of place as she is and — yes, he has scars too. He's got an even bigger one. She wonders whether one day they'll compare sizes. Draco/Hermione, EWE, Eighth Year.

"You can't do it, can you?" And she hears, rather than sees him stop dead. The rough squeak of his shoes. She doesn't turn to face him, even as she twists the knife. "You can't conjure a Patronus." Dramione. Post-Hogwarts. Three-shot.

No one sees Myrtle Warren. No one, except the Riddle boy. When a spell of her own creation catches his interest, she is swept up into his web, much like a fly. She has no way of knowing he is the spider. No way of knowing she'll end up dead. RATED M. EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT / VIOLENCE / CHARACTER DEATH.

No one sees Myrtle Warren. No one, except the Riddle boy. When a spell of her own creation catches his interest, she is swept up into his web, much like a fly. She has no way of knowing he is the spider. No way of knowing she'll end up dead. RATED M. EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT / VIOLENCE / CHARACTER DEATH.