“Get up, John,” Sherlock says, in a tone that has John jerking upright in bed, immediately, and grappling for his gun in his bedside drawer, even as he says, “Sherlock, what is it?”

Incomprehensibly, Sherlock simply says, “Voldemort.”

If Regulus hadn't snitched, he should be fine, whether they were in or not. He could not, of course, tell from across the square. For all he really knew, the house had burned to a cinder while he was in Azkaban. No one would have told him if it had. Keeping prisoners informed about family gossip wasn't a top priority.

After the eventful Christmas in Harry Potter's fifth year at Hogwarts, his godfather gave him a badly wrapped package. Inside was something Harry could use it to get in contact should the need arise, Sirius said. Harry resolved never to use whatever it was -- he would not put Sirius in danger. When later that year Harry was shown Sirius in terrible danger, he did not think of using Sirius's last-minute gift. Hermione, however, did. This is the story of what happened after that.

Her lips press against his cheek, warm and smooth and all the things that lips are supposed to be, and in that moment, Remus knows that he’s fucked.

Lupin sometimes leaves meetings, too, but usually on some pretext -- an urgent call to a mission, or checking on the children (Harry and his friends are still The Children, which rankles him deeply).

But when she eventually comes chasing after you, begging you to father her multicolored werewolf babies, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

A Christmas, a memory, a wake, and a firelit evening that may or may not have happened to and/or involved one Sirius Black, self-described cat hater.

Discovering just who Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs are brings up even more questions for Fred -- and when fate takes another of them away, it's time to go back to the source for some answers.

Arthur Weasley discovers that no matter how limited the choices, the cost of using the enemy's techniques is too high.

In the days after Sirius dies, everyone avoids talking to Remus. It's almost like they don't know what to say, and don't want to risk saying something wrong. Or perhaps they just find it inconvenient to talk to a grieving man. Yes. That could be it.

Nymphadora Tonks was a clothes-horse. She had to be, to some extent, given her career as Auror, specialising in concealment (and therefore quite a bit of domestic espionage). Even if she hadn't been a metamorphmagus, however, even if she had been a librarian or a teacher or one of the other position she'd considered, she decided she probably would have been obsessed by clothing.

For all his supposed genius, Sirius Black had always had rather a blind spot for the patently obvious.

"There is only one truly effective and permanent love potion, Miss Black. You won't find it in books, because it is difficult, deeply personal, and useless."

How do I always get myself into these muddles? That’s what I want to know. Oh, I see you trying not to laugh, you old bugger, but I’ve got a real problem here, and I don’t even think your brother could come up with the answers. He’d probably go off on one of his lectures on love, but that’s what got me into this mess, isn’t it? Love for the both of them, though apparently not the same degree of love, or anything remotely like the love they had for each other, which was…ugh. Complicated. Why does everything always have to get so bloody complicated, anyway? It was the perfect solution, in my book. It was supposed to be simple, right?

History has a funny way of repeating itself. A really, really funny way of repeating itself.

"Never knew werewolves were such fiends for tea."

War is coming, and Narcissa is scared for Draco. So she turns to the only person she can think of – Sirius Black.

"Mother will be most displeased. But not at me. It's not my room that's going to be covered in mostly unclad Muggle women. It's Sirius. And he deserves it, after what he said."