"'Mr Clifford Reynolds'[,] Harry had told her, was a charming man from the Aurora office where Harry worked." –corrinebuckley, "Make Me Forget"

"Hello, Aurora Office," said Clifford Reynolds in his most oleaginous tone. "Why, yes, Mrs MacHeath, what can I do for you? –A full-spectrum curtain effect over Glasgow for your daughter's birthday? Well, that's a bit southerly for us, but not to worry; I'm sure I can pull a few strings for my most beautiful client. –Oh, don't be silly, Mrs MacHeath, it's only the simple truth. –Not at all. Thank you, Mrs MacHeath."

Harry rolled his eyes as his colleague hung up the phone. "Honestly, Cliff," he said, "one of these days, that wanton charm of yours is going to break the heart of some poor woman who thinks you actually mean it."

Reynolds just laughed callously. "Well, naturally," he said. "The lords of the Aurora have always been heartbreakers; just ask Lindu. Who am I to spoil a fine old workplace tradition?"

"How about an honourable man?" Harry suggested.

"Oh, no, no," said Reynolds. "You must be thinking of someone else."

"When she was 30, she looked back at the innocence she had as a child. The thought of the goods guys always winning, never having to think of the consequences of their actions." –The Mad Otter, "Pure Feeling"

"The Wealth of Nations?" said George, taking a book off his sister-in-law's shelf. "Seriously, Hermione?"

Hermione coloured. "Oh, George, give me a break," she said. "I was only eight years old; the neat simplicity of Smith's thought was reassuring to my juvenile mind. It's nice to be able to believe that the fellows who produce and exchange goods, just by doing what they're naturally inclined to do, inevitably work without conscious moral effort toward the greater health and prosperity of their societies."

"Mm," said George. "And I suppose you'd never heard about the instinct of monopoly, or globalisation, or any of the other things that mess with the Invisible Hand's coordination?"

"Never," said Hermione. "I was an appallingly innocent child in some ways, George."

"After all, the circumstances of her awful condition were well hidden, bullet-proof [against] the infallible and cruel Rita Seeker…" –jss-as, "Six Feet Under"

"Can't we just go home, Draco?" Crabbe whined.

"No!" Draco snapped. "I know Hermione Granger is out there somewhere; if you think I'm going to rest before I've proved to the world that I've made her pregnant with her own sister, you are sadly mistaken!" He thrust a thumb toward the Rita Seeker, where it stood humming in the corner of the lorry. "That device is completely infallible, and utterly ruthless in its workings; it must find Rita Granger, just as it must reveal the whereabouts of any person of that name! It cannot fail!"

Crabbe scowled. "You keep saying that," he said, "but what's the use? Thing's been working for three days now, and it hasn't come up with her. Couldn't Granger have found some way of beating it?"

"If she could, it wouldn't be infallible, would it?" Draco retorted. "Merlin's beard, you're dense, Crabbe. Come on, play the man; it can't be much longer now – there's no way Granger's hideout can be too very far away."

And about this, at least, he was right. In point of fact, Hermione, heavily disguised, was at that moment watching them from a third-story window on the other side of the street, smiling to herself and reflecting how empowering a bit of linguistic knowledge could sometimes be. Had Malfoy elected to build a Margaret Seeker, she would have been doomed – but evidently he hadn't realised that Rita was just a nickname, and therefore even the most infallible Rita Seeker couldn't find a Rita who was being consistently addressed by a different diminutive of her Christian name.

"Don't you worry, Peggy," she whispered, stroking her swollen abdomen. "Just hold tight and have faith in your big sister, and this'll all be over soon."

"Ash[-]face had risen from his bed and looked right at me, the skull of the most horrific skeleton adoring [the place] where his head had once been." –Sora Keyes, "Padma Patil and the Elemental Magi"

"Sorry about that, Miss Patil," he said with a yawn. "Dreadfully late I was up last night. Anyway, to business; I see no objection to your borrowing the Cloak of Invisibility for your alchemy presentation, but, by the laws of Hallows mastery, I'm going to have to insist on your returning it within three turnings of the sun. Will that suit you?"

I didn't answer immediately; my attention was still fixed on the gorgonopsid skull that was prostrating itself devoutly before the depression on his pillow. He followed my gaze, and laughed. "Oh, don't mind Aleksey," he said. "I made the mistake of walking through a natural-history museum a few months ago, and he's been following me about with religious zeal ever since. That's one of the nuisances about being Master of Death; the longer things have been dead, the more zealously they revere anything even associated with you." His ash-coated face creased in an ironic grin. "I daresay that the Ediacaran fauna spend their days rapt in mystic ecstasy just because the wind in the Hills has passed through my lungs at some point."

I managed a shaky laugh. "Right, okay. So, um… three days, you said? Yes, that's… that's fine."