Harry Potter is an Unspeakable. Draco Malfoy is the wizard who shagged him. Adventure! Intrigue! Secret identities, celebrities, spies! It's all right here, folks.

While Draco holds Rosmerta under a spell, there is more to her relationship with another Malfoy than meets the eye.

Draco has convinced the Auror department to test his new messaging charm for secure communications. Harry really would have preferred that he not find out through messages like, 'Yeah, tonight you're going to beg me for it,' that the system wasn't as secure as they thought.

The owner of the elite BDSM club M. had not gained his reputation as the most coveted Dominant on the scene by taking on just any riff-raff submissive who asked. It would take an unexpected letter to convince him to accept a new client, but it might turn out to be the biggest mistake he ever made.

He tells himself he’s healing because it sounds healthy and well-adjusted and like him, and James has stopped showing up to contradict him.

Draco owns a café in the city. Harry's a MP who comes in every morning, newspapers in one hand, BlackBerry in the other, and orders a triple espresso macchiato.

"You've always been obsessed with Malfoy, Harry. That should probably tell you something."

When Harry starts to have erotic dreams about his godfather, he questions his sexual preference. The real issue turns out to be even more complicated and disruptive. Then there's Draco.

It's terribly bad form, sleeping with your ex when you're still half in love with the bastard.

The affair starts on a Thursday.

In the course of Harry's job, numerous reports and files come across his desk. He's never adapted to the paperwork in this job and delegates to his secretary as much as possible, but some things have to be reviewed and signed by him personally.

So, one Wednesday, he gets a form requesting permission for a former known Death Eater to leave the country for a holiday.

He lights a cigarette across the pub, his hand cupped to his mouth as the tip sparks to life in a faint orange flare, and my breath catches.

It was always the same excuse.

Harry wished he didn't respond to Malfoy this way, wished his self-control wasn't reduced to nothing the second Malfoy touched him.

Harry returns from vacation with an unfortunate case of vampirism and must learn to cope with blood, Malfoy, and recalcitrant secretaries. And if that doesn't tell you everything about the plot you need to know, you haven't read enough badfic.

Harry Potter has only ever had two goals in life: to defeat Voldemort and to bring his followers to justice. One, he's done. The other is in progress. It should be simple, except there's one former Death Eater who doesn't meet the right criteria.

In which Sirius Black knows more than he ever wanted to.

He raised the Elder Wand up to touch his temple. Carefully, with a sobriety usually reserved for death and its cousins, he drew out a long string of silvery, wispy memories and deposited them just as carefully into the stone basin. Phineas Nigellus narrowed his eyes, trying to see what now swirled in the ancient basin. It was no use; all he could make out was a flash of golden curls and a wide, confident smile.

He held the drill up to Draco’s forehead, and then pressed until it bit into flesh.

"We've just found out that the greatest wizard in history is a gigantic bum-burglar. And he's a tart. He came on to us."

George returns to 93 Diagon Alley for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts.

She still carries a slight limp from the war, which makes it harder to get around Hogwarts. She spends most of her time in her office, marking student work and enjoying the occasional tea with Hooch. Sometimes someone sweeps past her office and she thinks she sees Severus, but there has been no sign of his ghost around the castle. She is sure that he, of anyone, would have gone gladly to death.

She never noticed all the empty spaces in her life until they started to fill up with memories.

Walden Macnair lounged against the back wall, polishing his wand with a fold of his sleeve and looking rather bored. And sprawled on the floor at Macnair's feet, looking as if he'd been run over by the Hogwarts Express, was Sirius Black.

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.

It is jarring, then, to find a woman lying in a pool of red in the upstairs bathtub. Disturbing, to see the blood protection of the Boy-Who-Lived slowly and very literally drip down the bathroom drain.

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.

The Inferi are the worst when it's someone they once knew.

Neville knew something was not quite right with him. Other wizards his age awaited racing brooms. He awaited his mother’s gum wrappers.

"Winky saw Professor Snape killing Harry Potter and then - hic! - bringing him back to life!"

You truly notice him for the first time that day, and you aren't ready for it.

It is a full moon on the night of October thirty-first, nineteen eighty-one, and therefore Remus has the best Halloween costume in most of England.

To Nicolas Flamel, living is little more than a bad habit. He has been trying to break it for several years now, with little success.

When the war is over, its survivors learn to live with the people they've become.

The war had given them all new and unexpected skills: Neville had learned how to break a man’s arm in three places, and Draco had learned kindness, and Ron, himself, had learned not to take unconsidered action. Almost.

"I'd say it was the pot calling the kettle black, Granger. But I think you already know that."

Draco had touched it first. Potter's hand had reached out a second after his, and Potter's fingers had curled around it a second after his. Potter had pulled at it, trying to yank it away from him. Draco had tightened his hold on it, but Potter's fingers were longer, and he had had a better grip. As Potter had flown off with his arm raised, Draco had looked down to see the wing of the snitch, fluttering weakly in his hand.

Well, term started today, and it seems the pressing issue this year is how Harry, Hermione, and Ron will pair off.

"I understand your father likes the Muggles. Do you know anything about their blasted copy papering machines? Every time I put a roll of parchment in the tray it tells me I'm making jam."

Some people press their memories between pages of scrapbooks; others have fancy photographs that wave and dance. Sirius has music.

Harry acquires some new photos of the Marauders, and with them more information than he’d counted on.

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

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).

Bypassing his teacup altogether, the spoon also avoided Snape’s mouth, the only other positive location one might stick a spoon, and continued up to affix itself to Snape’s nose.

The following morning he was awake when the news owl came, and opened the Daily Prophet right on his front porch, dressing gown and all. It was on the very first page: MALFOYS TO STAND TRIAL slathered in enormous black letters at the top, and below that a photograph of the family, standing on the steps of the Ministry. They were surrounded by Aurors, lawyers, and general bustle: every so often the picture would bleach white from a news camera's flash.

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.

You said you wanted to hear from me every three days and Hedwig was getting restless anyhow, stuck in her cage, so I threatened Uncle Vernon and he let me let her out, so I can send this letter to you, because you told me to keep in touch.

Remus wasn't sure what he'd expected, but perpetual Padfoot wasn't it.

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

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.

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?

All men kill the thing they hate, too, unless, of course, it kills them first.

From the moment he saw her, Arthur knew there was something special about Molly Prewett.

"I realise this may come as a shock to you, but our investigations have been going on for some time, and we’re quite sure. Your mother Lily Evans was not, as we had all previously believed, of pure Muggle stock. One of her ancestors was a Veela."

No matter how fast he runs, he can't run away from himself.

In which Hermione finds herself again following her divorce, becomes re-acquainted with old enemies, and nearly everyone takes their clothes off.

Remus isn't a very good story teller, but there are things Harry wants to be told. Then again, there are some things Remus can never say, things that burn to think about. Betrayals and other things he keeps to himself. Secrets from when it all fell apart.

I'll tell you a story, believe every word,
It's quite unique, nothing like you've ever heard,
In case you believed that, shame on you,
This rhymes, yes, but truthfully, it's nothing new.

"Gran!" Neville exclaimed. "Do you realize this means you're married?" He paused as the situation sank in. "To Professor McGonagall?" he added, just in case either was befuddled as he was. "Gran?"

After his father casts a mysterious curse on Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy is forced to try to make things right.

"There's no need for being so glum. Twenty-nine's the new nineteen, they say."

The lives they settle for are not sufficient.

It has been a long time since anyone asked Ginny Weasley what she wanted.

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

Voldemort has just placed himself on the side of the Muggleborns.

It is, as Ron has discovered, almost unmentionably nasty being in love with your best friend. Especially if you’re not sure if you’re really in love. Or what love is.

Luna says it was Cho who started it all, yes, indeed, but this game is all Luna’s idea.

"The same goes for you, Albus. This may not go to the Ministry, but I don't think it will show you best-placed to care for your sister - or your brother."

The last thing Harry wants is to lose his kids.

"What? Like girls don’t wonder about these things also?"

She shouted at him for being a dirty boy, told him to see if this didn't teach him, and cast something at him that gave him that forgotten familiar sensation, and slammed the door on her way out, leaving him with his trousers around his ankles and his hand grasping for himself even if he wasn't still interested in--

From what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold.

She couldn't have been giving them to him for no reason.

A traumatised war hero and a convicted criminal under the roof of an eccentric journalist make for a rather odd ensemble, but Luna has never had a problem with oddities as long as they make sense.

He wondered what it would taste like. Potter would know. Draco grimaced, still remembering so clearly the fury, confusion, and disappointment when Slughorn had handed Potter that small bottle, so similar to this one. What had Potter got on his perfect day? The Snitch? The front page of the Prophet? The entirety of the wizarding world falling down at his feet in worship? But then that was an average day for Potter, wasn't it?

It takes a few years for the magic to settle in. It's a complicated process, this replication of life, and when Harry Potter finally blinks for the first time he has been dead for six years.

Over the course of twenty years, Draco must find room to carry the things he loves best.