"He would still be sitting there, his two croons on his left, Crabbe and Goyle, and the lovesick Pansy on his right, a grin surely reserved for the Malfoys alone plastered onto his pointed face." –TheCrazyFanGirl23, "The Boy Who Couldn't Be Saved"

"Don't let that sway you, Draco!" his ace implores him on his right. "You've done the right thing, turning your back on the Dark Lord; if it's lost you friends, romance, and uncomplicated family pride, it's a sacrifice worth making."

"Indeed," his four of hearts murmurs silkily behind him. "And there are consolations, you know. The way things are going, Dumbledore's seal of approval will be a valuable thing to have in a few years; a wizard who can claim to actually have been in his inner circle will be positively on velvet…"

"Which," his four of clubs declares in front of him, "has, of course, no bearing whatever on a Malfoy's choice of actions. You are above that sort of thing, Draco; your soul is finer than such sordid considerations, is it not?"

"Fool!" his seven shrills atop his head. "Devil's bed-posts, in very truth! Would you drive out the evil of avarice only to instill the supreme evil of pride? Draco forsook the Dark Lord, not because he's any fine fellow, but out of a simple love of humanity, magical or otherwise."

"Well, let's not get too high-minded, now," his king drawls beneath his foot. "That sight he caught of the Granger girl skinny-dipping probably had something to do with it, too."

That opens the floodgates, and forty-six other voices all try to make themselves heard at once. With a groan, Draco covers his ears and dashes from the room, sparing a withering scowl on the way for the bright red label on his recently purchased card-case: "Try Dr. Oheck's Unspoken-Motivation Playing Cards! Complete self-understanding is only one game of 52-Card Pickup away!"

"Were lacewig flies implemented to enhance [P]olyjuice in 1784 or 1847 again?" –Savannah5555, "And What about James?"

"It would have to be 1784, wouldn't it?" said Mary. "People in 1847 weren't even wearing lace wigs anymore, so they couldn't very well pioneer the use of the flies infesting them as potion ingredients."

"Muggles in 1847 weren't wearing lace wigs," Lily corrected her. "Wizards are still wearing them today; didn't you see Professor Silver all decked out for the Halloween feast?"

"Oh." Mary blinked. "Yes, that's right, isn't it?"

Lily nodded, and pulled out Entomochemy in the Modern Era and flipped it open to one of several marked pages. "Yes, here we are," she said with satisfaction. "'The efficacy of linen fibre in the diet of potion flies was discovered serendipitously by the house-elf Droamy, then in service to Antipholus S. 'Periwig' Popham, when, in the course of cleaning the house for Minister Deminuit's visit, she dropped a nest of maggots she had dug out of her master's trademark headgear into an open cauldron of Polyjuice Potion.' Luther-Baruch Deminuit was the French Minister of Magic under Louis-Philippe, wasn't he?"

"I don't know," Mary muttered, looking a little green. "I stopped listening when you said 'nest of maggots'."

"Oh, Mary, honestly," said Lily tartly. "If you're going to be so fastidious about this, I might as well not even ask you when live tarantulas were added to the Calming Draught."

"Harry joined in and soon snowballs flew in every direction, though none hit the pregnant blonde. 'Arrêt! Arrêt!' Fleur cried after some time." –GryffindorHealer, "Prank and Be Pranked"

Arthur Weasley poured himself a hot cup of tea and glanced inquisitively about the Burrow. "Where's everyone got to, Mollywobbles?" he enquired.

"Out back," said Molly with a vague wave of her hand. "They wanted to play Quidditch, but the weather wasn't good enough, so Fleur's teaching them a French game they can play in the snow."

"In her condition?" said Arthur, surprised. "Seems a tad on the reckless side."

"Oh, she's not playing herself," said Molly. "She's refereeing. The idea, as I understand it, is that one person stands in a circle in the middle of the field; everyone else divides up into two teams on opposite sides, and each team selects one person to be what's called their chèvre. Then you enchant the falling snow to form balls, of whatever size you like, and send them flying toward the other team to knock the chèvre off his feet – without passing them through the referee's circle, which is apparently a very serious foul. When either of the chèvres gets knocked down, the referee declares a tackle – in French, of course – and the other team gets 15 points; game is 90, unless it stops snowing before then."

"Well, now fancy that," said Arthur, and cast a speculative look at the back door. "You don't suppose either of their teams needs an alternate, do you? I know my knees aren't what they used to be, but I'm still pretty spry for…"

"Don't even think about it, Arthur," said Molly. "You promised to help me clean out the attic this afternoon, not to play exotic winter sports all day. Come on, now, finish your tea and let's get cracking."

"The useless old geyser should join the army or something." –October Jones, "The Witch Elm"

Pansy gave her companion a weird look. "Geysers don't join armies, Draco."

"Of course not," said Draco. "Because they're a bunch of lazy sods who don't want to do anything but sit around spouting pointlessly into the air. Can you imagine how much destructive potential that thing squanders with each eruption? Just think of the military applications…"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Just ignore him, Old Faithful," she called down the blowhole. "He's still sore because the Dark Lord didn't take his advice and recruit Vesuvius as a Death Eater."