Stories by provocative envy

IN-PROGRESS: She had then gone straight to muggle London and bought a dress—bright white and backless, the sort of dress one might wear to a society function when one is single and sorry and bitter; the sort of dress designed to stand out and cause a scandal. PP/HP.

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').

IN-PROGRESS: I started in surprise, head snapping up—and my mouth went dry. Because the man standing in the doorway, posture perfectly imperious and sleek black suit perfectly fitted—there was something different about him, something about his presence that defied proper description and made my tonsils tighten reflexively around my next breath. PP/TR.

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.

IN-PROGRESS: She wakes up at exactly midnight on the eve of her nineteenth birthday; she screams. HG/DM.

THREE-SHOT: Once upon a time, there was a House. HG/FG.

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: Theo's like if Bill Nye and Ryan Gosling somehow defied all the genetic odds and just fused together via osmosis and went on to create their own fancy subspecies of the human race. BZ/TN.

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: The year he turned thirteen, he picked up a kitchen knife and fell in love. He relished the stinging caress of polished steel as it sliced through flesh that wasn't his own—he watched blood trickle and smear, dribble and crust, and he thought it was beautiful. He was enthralled. HG/TR.

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

IN-PROGRESS: She learns that it's hopelessly rare for someone to be born without an Other, that humans aren't meant to be alone, are unequivocally better when they're grounded and challenged and balanced by their missing halves—soul mates. She hates the words. HG/TR.

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

IN-PROGRESS: I smoothed my hands over my lower abdomen; his past and my present and our history, together—they were converging. There was no going back. There was no forgetting. There wasn't any room for secrets. And I had been wrong. "I trust you," I said, soft and slow. "But I don't trust that." HG/TR. (Sequel to 'Nightmare').

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: Tamsin Riddle had never understood Leontes Granger. HG/TR.

ONE-SHOT: He was charmed by her ignorance, liked to sprawl out in their bed—wherever they were, Bolivia, Beijing, Brisbane—and run his fingers down the ridges of her spine, lecture her about warlocks and incubi and werewolves—his knowledge was clinical, irrefutably scientific, and she could never quite decide if she was entranced or entrenched. Captivated or simply captive. 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.

ONE-SHOT: He reached out, ran a single fingertip along the notches of her spine, from the base of her neck to the valley between her shoulder blades. She shivered. "You aren't anything like anyone," he admitted. 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: Because you knew me, and I did not know you, and while those circumstances were hardly strange, there was something unsettling about your recognition, something about the barely-there tilt of your chin that felt mocking and predatory, like a hunter staring down its prey through the unforgiving barrel of a rifle. 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.

ONE-SHOT: I'd wanted the rest of the world to know, the same way I did—elementally, with every last scrap of blood and plasma and grey matter that called my brain its home—that she was mine, that I'd managed to dislodge my head from my arse long enough to recognize that perfection personified had a name, and it was Hermione. HG/DM.

COMPLETE: "I should," I repeated. "But I don't want to." And then he smiled, and I was wrecked. HG/DM.

COMPLETE: That clutching, awful, cold, hot, flashing, clawing, cluttering sensation curling its way through my stomach, tearing its way down my vertebrae, winding and trailing and ending up somewhere in my throat. HG/DM.

ON PERMANENT HIATUS: I remembered the times he'd made me cry, warned me not to, the times our bare legs had entwined themselves in his bed sheets, and all the while I'd felt ashamed, disgusted, atrophied, in the aftermath. HG/DM.

COMPLETE: It was exquisite, the way his face fell, the way his eyes grew round, the way his mouth dropped open: he was a study in disappointment, his dashed hopes cluttering the space that loomed large and noticeable in between us. HG/DM.

COMPLETE: My whole life had been leading up to this moment, this second of tragedy. I couldn't imagine anything less of a disaster, less of a letdown. There was nothing anticlimactic about the wrenching of my gut, the roaring of my blood. HG/DM.

COMPLETE: Hermione Granger falls in love with the harshly realistic words written on a small scrap of paper she finds on her way to Potions. She loses it, only to have fate play a part in making her the victim of Draco Malfoy's deception. HG/DM.

COMPLETE: A mandatory correspondence with a foreign wizarding school and a chance encounter with two Gryffindors start a chain of events that leaves Draco Malfoy reaching an inevitable conclusion: he is madly in love with Hermione Granger. HG/DM.