"Oh[,] well[,] yes, a Timer-Turner, Severus. Like the one she had back in her 3rd year." –Serpentina, "A Little of Your Time"

The clouds roiled tumultuously within the gilded frame; the brushwork that John Ruskin had so eloquently praised rattled and howled as though it were true wind and very rain. For fully twenty minutes, J. M. W. Turner's Storm upon Lesser-Hog's-Wart Firth echoed through the Gryffindor common room; then, with a single climactic thunderclap, all fell still, and Hermione Granger clapped her book shut with a sigh. "All right, that's my Arithmancy period over," she said. "Professor McGonagall was right; committing myself to a concrete study schedule makes this course load so much more manageable."

Her two best friends gazed thoughtfully at the 200-year-old landscape above her head. "You know," Ron commented, "until this year, I didn't even know there were Turners that doubled as timers."

"I didn't even know Turner was a wizard," said Harry.

"Well, that's what you get for not paying attention in History of Magic," said Hermione briefly, and drew her copy of Introductory Muggle Studies toward her. "Set it for half an hour for me, would you?"

"But he stopped when he saw Bellatrix kneeling next to the body of her victim that had sarcoma to her spell." –KasyWolski27, "Life as a Snape"

"Bellatrix," said Snape with a sigh, "our associates are expecting us at the Manor in fifteen minutes. Will you come away from there, and let Mrs Longbottom get her sleep?"

"Just a moment, Severus," said Bellatrix. "I'm almost finished with my obeisance."

"Obeisance?"

"Yes, didn't you hear?" said Bellatrix. "Alice Longbottom was diagnosed with sarcoma of the breast last Saturday – so, naturally, she merits the utmost homage that this poor frame of mine can supply. You know that, surely."

Snape bit his tongue. He did, indeed, know about the obligation Bellatrix believed herself under to venerate anyone whose diseases compared favourably in severity to the recurrent fainting spell that had afflicted her since childhood – and, like all Death Eaters, he was under strict orders never to suggest to her in any way that this was idiotic. ("I have a use for her delusion, Severus," the Dark Lord had said. "How could I retain that unswerving devotion of hers, if not for my sad but reverend affliction with the dreaded Snake-Face Syndrome?" And he had winked broadly at his trusted spy.)

"'Sir Arthur Canon Doyle, he wrote Sherlock Holmes,' he replied." –Angel Nat-Chan, "Circus, Part Five"

"A thousand congratulations on your knighthood, Canon," said the Dean of the University of Edinburgh's College of Medicine. "Most deserved, too, if I may say so. The lustre of your recent mission work in South Africa can scarcely have been paralleled in the history of this college's chapter."

"Much obliged, I'm sure," the new Sir Arthur Doyle replied vaguely, his attention focussed on a motley heap of yellowed papers he was busily paging through. "Come on, lad, I know you're in here somewhere…"

The Dean arched an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

Doyle sighed. "During my sojourn in Bloemfontein," he said, "an old Afrikaner woman approached me, withdrew a slim wand of acacia wood from the tatterdemalion robes she wore, and transformed me into an aardvark for the space of half an hour. When at last I recovered my native form, she informed me that there were thousands of men and women throughout Great Britain who shared her powers, many of whom were as desolate as she that I should have killed Sherlock Holmes eight years before. She said no more, but the inference was plain."

"Ah." The Dean nodded in comprehension. "And so you've decided that it may, after all, be time to start working on that 'Empty House' tale of yours?"

Doyle smiled ruefully. "I daresay it does little enough credit to my cloth, to be intimidated by witches," he said. "But, if it comes to that, I've often thought that it was misjudgment in me to take holy orders – that I was meant to be a physician and author, indeed, but no sort of clergyman, much less a collegiate canon."

"Now Harry has to joggle eight Weasley women and girls." –Lordhellfire434, summary to "The Weasley Women Challenge"

"Gah!" Muriel Weasley cried, as Harry seized her shoulders and shook her back and forth with a succession of short, jerky movements. "Unhand me at once, young man! How dare you take such liberties with me? I'm a hundred and…"

"Sorry, ma'am," said Harry, "but unless I do this to five more female members of your family before nightfall, I'll be sold as a tackling dummy to the University of Ohio's American-football team. It's all right, just a little more… there. Ron, who's next?"

"Let's see," said Ron, as his great-aunt austerely rearranged her hairdo. "You've already done Mum, Ginny, and Aunt Isabel, so… how about Cousin Raquel? She could always use a good joggle…"