"You have breakfast to make! If Vermont's late because of you, you'll get an extra beating for the day!" –relyks1333, "Lord Raven"

"What was that I heard you shouting about just now, Mrs. Dursley?" William T. Doyle inquired, as the proprietress of the little bed-and-breakfast emerged from the kitchen.

"Oh, nothing, Senator, nothing," said Petunia, her voice (still perfectly English after nearly seven years in New Orleans) dripping with faux sweetness. "Only my nephew was shirking his responsibilities a bit, and I had to remind him that you and your colleagues have a convention to prepare for. We mustn't have your delegation showing up late for the vote, after all; I'm sure Mr. Bush would be dreadfully disappointed not to receive your state's support for his nomination."

Doyle chuckled. "Well, I wouldn't worry too much about that," he said. "That's one nice thing about coming from a state at the end of the alphabet: you can waltz in practically at the end of the roll call and still take your proper place. If we were Alaskans, now, that might be another story, but, being Vermonters, I think we're all right."

"Well, naturally," said Petunia, in her most honeyed tones. "Whoever heard of Vermonters not being all right? All those green mountains, all that noble history – I'm sure it's the finest state in all the Union for an American to be from." She pumped a fist in the air. "Live free or die!"

"That's New Hampshire," said Doyle through his teeth.

"Oh." Petunia coloured. "Yes… yes, of course. Um… why don't I go see how your eggs are doing, then?"

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, borne to those who have thrice defied him, borne as the seventh month dies…" –BluC1026, "Harry Potter and the Loss of the Prophecy"

James arched an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Indeed," said Sibyll, her voice breathier than ever as she savoured the distinction of heralding the Overmind. "Behold! His slaves approach even now, bearing our deliverer between them!"

And, indeed, no sooner had she spoken than a sound of heavy footsteps was heard on the road, and four huge robots appeared, carrying a metal litter on their shoulders. On this litter lay a glass cylinder, festooned with coiled tubes through which coursed strange liquids of varying colours – and within this cylinder (the Potters' stomachs turned in unison), there rested a huge, naked brain, featureless save for two long stalks tipped with coldly calculating eyes. It was, to all appearances, as helpless as a baby, unable even to move about unless borne by its mechanical slaves – yet this, the Potters had been assured, was the final apex of human evolution, and its emergence out of the distant future into late July of 1980 guaranteed victory for the 20th-Century wizards it had deigned to honour with its assistance.

The robots came steadily forward until they reached the cottage; then they halted abruptly, and their cerebral master studied the Potters for a moment (its gaze lingering briefly, and with unmistakable revulsion, on Lily's heavily pregnant belly). "So," it said at length, its telepathic "voice" as cold as its gaze. "Let's get this over with, then. On my way here, I thought of thirty-seven different ways to dispatch this Dark Lord of yours; do you want the full list, or shall I just choose the one that you primitive brutes are most likely to be able to handle?"

"The French Ministry was quite willing to take Harry of Britain's hands." –Johnsmitish, "An In-Depth Look at Harry Potter's Life Leading Up to the Attack"

"So where's the rest of him?" the French Minister inquired, staring down at the Duke of Sussex's severed hands as they pawed aimlessly across his desktop.

"Oh, in various places," said Percy Weasley. "That's the point of the game, you see: the players are given a series of clues, each of which points to the hiding place of one piece of His Royal Highness. Whoever finds the most pieces wins, and then we reassemble him and take him out for ice cream. Bit childish, really," he added reflectively, "but it's an old tradition whenever a member of the royal house comes of age; maintains intimacy between the Ministry and the Muggle government, you know."

"Ah," said the Minister ironically. "Yes, of course, dismembering relatives of the monarch maintains intimacy with the royal house. How foolish of us in this country not to have understood that."

Percy glanced at him uncertainly. "Well… anyway, would you be willing to take them and put them somewhere?" he said. "They don't have to be hidden with any great care; just slipping them in your desk drawer would be fine."

The Minister sighed. "Yes, very well, M. Weasley," he said. "The French Ministry of Magic would be honoured, I'm sure, to be entrusted with the hands of Prince Harry of Britain."

"Oh, good show," said Percy. "Glad to see you so much more reasonable about this than the Americans were. You've never heard such a fuss as they made; even the Prince's head itself was disgusted."

"Let me go over the rules of the Dulling [C]lub before we begin." –Kurinoone, "The Darkness Within"

"Aw, who needs rules?" said Crabbe. "It's a club, isn't it? You just pick it up and clobber someone with it; how hard can it be?"

Before Professor June could stop him, he reached forward and snatched up the heavy wooden cudgel. Then, as soon as it was in his hands, his eyes went suddenly glassy, and he stared at it as though he had never seen such a thing before; he gave it a couple of curious sniffs, and then, as though in a spirit of experiment, struck himself full-force on the forehead with it. Those of his fellow students who happened to be standing behind him hastily moved aside as he fell, and his unconscious body hit the stone floor with a wet, heavy thud!

There was a moment's impressed silence; then Professor June cleared her throat. "As I was going to say," she said, "the main rule of the Dulling Club is that, as its name implies, it dulls the wits of its wielder by a factor proportionate to that wielder's pre-existing dullness. So a very smart person will lose only the faintest degree of keenness of mind, while an ordinary person will descend to about the level of the average house-elf." She glanced at Draco, and enquired, "Tell me, Mr Malfoy – just how stupid was your friend here to start out with?"

Draco shook his head. "Trust me, Professor," he said, "you don't want to know."