"Hi, I'm trying to find a specific Ron/Hermione pic, and any help would be appreciated!" –sugarmotta3, summary to "Please Help!"

"You have it, then?" said the voice from the shadows.

Dennis Creevey nodded nervously. "Colin meant to destroy the negative," he said, "but I snuck into his darkroom before he could and replaced it with one from our holiday in Cannes."

"Clever boy," said the voice approvingly. "May I see?"

Dennis withdrew a photograph from his robes, and slid it gingerly across the counter. It disappeared into the gloom, and silence fell for a moment upon the seamy little room, which Dennis eventually broke with an awkward cough. "So… is it the one you wanted, then?"

"Oh, yes, this is the pic all right," said the voice. "You've been very helpful, Mr Creevey. Here, take a token of our appreciation."

There was a clink of silver, and Dennis caught a little bag of Sickles as it soared out from the shadows. "Thank you, ma'a… si… thank you," he said awkwardly.

The voice didn't reply, and Dennis, sensing that he was no longer wanted, excused himself vaguely and hurried out of the shop. A satisfied chuckle echoed behind him, and a gloved hand reached out to caress the picture of the two Gryffindor prefects surprised in a highly compromising position. "Very helpful, indeed," sugarmotta3 murmured silkily. "Miss Skeeter will be most pleased."

"Warnings: Nothing much, unacceptable behavior for a roll model, but nothing more." –P.L.S, author's note to "Get over It"

"Not long now, Mesdemoiselles," said the little baker-cum-fashion designer, buzzing irrepressibly about the flour-strewn studio. "Only a few hours before we knock both the culinary and fashion worlds of magical Paris about the ears with the revelation of my new wearable baked goods. Your fortunes will all be made, and the name of Pepin de Givenchy will go down in…"

Then he broke off, and uttered a cry of dismay as he caught sight of a small pile of crumbs beneath an empty hanger. "Sacré bleu!" he wailed. "My rolls! My beautiful sari of crusty rolls, which was to be the crowning glory of tonight's show! What has befallen it?"

Fleur Delacour glanced up, and frowned vaguely. "Oh, pardon, M'sieu," she said. "I got a bit hungry waiting for the photographers to arrive, and I suppose I must have gotten carried away. We part-veela have voracious appetites, you know."

"Out, Mademoiselle!" Givenchy thundered. "I cannot employ a model who eats her own clothes on the night of a major promenade! Out of my studio, on the instant!"

Fleur laughed lightly. "Oh, relax, M'sieu," she said. "It isn't as though I, of all people, need to be fully clothed to make an impression on the haut monde. Send me out in my puff-paste slip, and my grandmother and I will do the rest."

"And if you get hungry again between the curtain and the catwalk?" Givenchy demanded. "No, Mademoiselle, there are some behaviours that simply cannot be accepted in a roll model. It is back to Beauxbatons with you, and no discussion. –Gaston! Heat the oven again, quickly, and find me another forty kilos of flour!"

"He is protected by blood words." –Read and Fly, "A Different Story"

The cloaked figure eased open the cupboard door, and smiled maliciously at the little boy sleeping within. Now, at last, the Dark Lord would be avenged; all he had to do was speak the spell.

He withdrew a wand from the folds of his robes, and raised his arm and drew in a deep breath – and then, from nowhere and everywhere, there came a voice of bell-like purity that intoned, with thunderous solemnity, "Hæmoglobin."

The cloaked figure staggered backward, and dropped his wand. "Aaagghh!" he cried. "What… how… no!"

"Erythrocyte."

"No!" gasped the figure. "Please, no more! I can't… I won't, I swear…"

"Leucocyte," said the voice inexorably. "Platelet. Plasma. Capillary…"

The figure screamed and ran from the house, never to be seen in Little Whinging again. And Harry Potter, all unknowing, shifted peacefully in his sleep; not for many years to come would he learn how much he owed to the mysterious voice and its protective blood words.

"You never questioned where I would disappear to after scrimmages." –SlytherinLovesAGryffindor, "Family in a Time of War"

Hermione swallowed the last mouthful of Titanium-Bone Potion, and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jersey. It was strictly cheating, of course, but then the whole notion of a girls' U.S.-football team at Hogwarts was, in her considered opinion, another classic bit of Ministry imbecility; if she had foolishly let herself be roped into it, at least she was going to make sure of coming out of it without a fractured tibia.

She glanced at the clock. Yes, it had been a full minute since the last scrimmage had ended; her teammates would be asking about her any second now. With a sigh, she Apparated back onto the field, provoking an outraged squawk from Lavender Brown. "There, Coach!" the latter exclaimed. "You see? She did it again!"

"Oh, well, I'm sure she had her reasons," said Kingsley laconically. "Now, Pansy, I want you here behind the receiver…"