"He was startled out of his thoughts when the clock on the mantle had chimed out the three quarter hour." –seann-triubhas, "The Vile Nine"

"My Lord?"

"Oh!" Voldemort jumped. "Oh… ah… Wormtail, yes. I'm sorry, I was just pondering which of Dumbledore's vital organs I should tear out first, when I have the chance."

Wormtail nodded. "Of course, yes, My Lord," he said. "But I was just thinking, isn't it about time we Flooed to the Manor to help set up Narcissa's surprise party?"

"Oh, no, that's not necessary," said Voldemort. "Lucius isn't expecting us until half past three, and right now it's only a quarter to. You see?" He took off his mantle, and showed Wormtail the elaborate steam clock attached to the hood. "A quarter to, exactly. It chimed just before you came in."

Wormtail bowed acquiescently; in the back of his mind, though, was the thought that his master's mantle clock always had a tendency to run rather slow, on account of the difficulty of keeping it wound. (Why he didn't just wear a watch, like normal people… But that was the sort of remark one did not make to Lord Voldemort.)

"The boy needed to be melded into a weapon." –Ebenbild, "Family Secrets"

"He Vanished it?" said Harry, incredulous.

"It was his only chance," said Dumbledore. "He'd long since deduced my holding, and knew that the set of three jacks on the table was my surest weapon against him; by melding the jack of hearts into it and then removing the jack of spades, I could go out on the next play. Somehow, he must have looked into the stock and seen where the dangerous card lay; when it came up, he simply cast a wordless spell under the table, and…" He waved his hand expressively.

"The crook!" Harry exclaimed fervently.

Dumbledore shrugged philosophically. "Well, he is still Lord Voldemort, after all," he said. "And so now, in order to defeat him, we must replace that jack atop the stock. But the difficulty is that playing cards, because of their age-old magical significations, cannot be transfigured out of just anything; the material must be symbolised by the card it becomes. And the jack of hearts, traditionally, symbolises a young man with a noble spirit and an immense capacity for love – so, Harry, if you don't mind…?"

"Oh, no, go ahead, Professor," said Harry. "I'm just sorry you got roped into it to begin with; the whole thing's a pretty filthy business, if you ask me."

Dumbledore smiled grimly. "Yes, people say that wizards' chess is a rough game," he said, "but it is, as the old saying goes, not a patch on wizards' rummy."

"But his family has a notorious history for holding onto grudges and being rather viscous." –Carumati, "The Lexicon: Plot Snorkacks"*

"Remember me, Fortie?"

Fortunatus Schneider whirled around, and stared at the dark-haired young woman behind him. "Why… yes, of course, Bellatrix Black!" he said. "Good heavens, it's been a while, hasn't it? What brings you to Cape Town?"

Bellatrix laughed harshly. "Oh, come now, Fortie," she said. "Surely you haven't forgotten. Potions class? Third year? 6 December? You joggled my elbow reaching for a beaker, and made me spill an extra slosh of frogspawn into my cauldron; it spoiled my whole Yodeling Draught, and brought my grade average down so far that Mother revoked my Hogsmeade privileges for the rest of the winter. And now, at last, here we are – thousands of miles from Hogwarts, without any teachers or protective enchantments to interfere; now, at last, you'll get what's coming to you."

Fortunatus blinked. "What? Bellatrix, you don't mean… that was…"

"You should have known better, Fortie," said Bellatrix, her skin already beginning to liquefy. "You should have known that a Black never forgets an injury; when once we're wronged, we don't rest until we've settled the score – and our distant kinship with the Blobwights of Ambergate ensures that we can."

"No!" Fortunatus yelped. "No, Bellatrix, wait, it wasn't… I didn't… I'll… Bellatrix, please!"

But there was no Bellatrix anymore – only an immense, viscous, gelatinous thing, blotched with diseased and evil grey, with hot and vengeful wrath shining through the white holes that had been her eyes. Then Fortunatus's nerve broke entirely, and he screamed and ran – but not, of course, fast enough.

"Hermione stuck her head out into the hallway, and heard what sounded like a [S]cottish bur." –Topshoteffect, "Harry Potter: Slytherin Heir"†

She glanced down at the floor; yes, there old Angus was, cursing with all the richness of his Gaelic vocabulary as his tiny thorns latched onto one tuft of carpeting after another. With a giggle, she reached down and lifted him between her thumb and forefinger. "Going my way, old blossom?" she said.

"Aye, if ye're a-goin' to the kitchen for the Order meetin'," the little thistle bur grumbled. "Sure and I've been tellin' Molly many a day now, there's nae a lick o' sense in coverin' up good stone with wool this way. 'Tis naught but sinful vanity, and that I'll maintain to me dyin' breath."

"You breathe?" said Hermione, surprised.

"'Tis but a manner o' speakin'," Angus snapped. "Dinna be makin' a pest o' yourself, lassie."

*Sorting-Head tip to Albertasteinthe21st .genius‡ for locating this passage.

†Interestingly, this one wouldn't be correct even if the spelling was fixed. A burr, I find, is not a Scottish phonetic habit at all; it's the gutturalized R sound one hears in France and Northumberland, as opposed to the trilled R characteristic of the Gaels.

‡See first footnote of chapter 15.