COMPLETE: Because her voice is light and airy and musical and the only thing he can come up with to compare it to is a cloud—which is crazy. Voices aren't clouds. Clouds aren't voices. Clouds are…clouds. They float and they're filled with rain and they cover up the sun. Luna's voice isn't like that all. Luna's voice might as well be the sun. MF/LL. (Companion to 'Bite Marks').

ONE-SHOT: And there's music pulsing in bass-heavy shockwaves up the notches of her spine and there's salt on the insides of her thighs and the hollows of her hips and she isn't Pansy Parkinson anymore, no, she isn't a girl who hides or runs or escapes, no, she's someone else she's someone new she's someone who's breathing and fighting and alive. PP/CW.

ONE-SHOT: "Well, aren't you precious," he remarks, tongue darting out to flick at his bottom lip. "Do I need to put a towel down on the front seat before you'll get in the car?" She lifts her chin. "That depends. Do I need to Febreze you before we share an enclosed space?" HG/Scabior.

ONE-SHOT: He'd seen a photograph of Pansy Parkinson in the Prophet, printed the morning after her trial, and he could recall the basic impression that he'd had of her—young and reasonably pretty, groomed for tea parties and cotillion balls, a potent, visceral reminder of the life he'd loathed and lost and left behind. The girl in the pub is very much not that girl. PP/SB.

ONE-SHOT: He spends most of his morning elbow-deep in the guts of a Hagrid-sized pumpkin, sifting through stringy orange pulp for the tear-shaped ivory seeds—he has to owl his mum for detailed instructions on how to roast the bastards, and even goes to an out-of-the-way backwoods apothecary to procure a last-minute bulk-order of ground cinnamon. CM/LL.

TWO-SHOT: "So—you're upset," he says with a nonchalant nod and discreet adjustment of his slightly too-tight khaki corduroys. She blinks at him, her expression alternating between indignation and incredulity and flat-out fury. He had been right about her being pretty beneath the intimidation tactics. HG/DM. (Companion to 'Punch Drunk').

ONE-SHOT: On her twelfth day, she's standing next to a bank of stainless steel wire bird cages and clasping a shrink-wrapped package of pine wood shavings to her chest and legitimately praying for strength when Harry pauses in the doorway for no readily apparent reason other than to scowl disapprovingly in her general direction and that just. No. That's it. PP/HP.

ONE-SHOT: She's buying a box of condoms when she meets him. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: Hermione Jean Granger is a good girl—until Tom Riddle comes to town. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: "Can I get a small, hot, quad quarter-sweet tres leches latte, ristretto, with three pumps of vanilla and a drizzle of cinnamon?" Edmond Lestrange asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. She clenches her jaw. "And you, Tom?" she says, ballpoint pen poised over a to-go cup. 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.

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. HG/DM.