"[R]ight, well, basically, it is a spell that requires there to be a mental connection between the targe and the caster." –Finbar, "The Power the Dark Lord Knows Of"

As Harry lifted the small, round, leather-covered shield, he felt an inexplicable certainty: this was the moment. He had practiced with the targe day and night for five months, and each cast had brought him that much closer to that perfect psychic union of weapon and wielder that was so crucial to the Metastratiotes spell's fulfillment; now, at last, he was sure – irrationally, unquestionably sure – that that fulfillment was at hand.

With a wordless cry, he flung the targe toward the nearest of the Room of Requirement's pillars. Its embossed Union Jack vibrated with the force of impact as it rebounded unerringly off all seven columns and soared back toward its caster; serenely, Harry raised his hand and caught it in the midst of its flight, as deftly as though he had merely plucked a flower off a tree.

At that same moment, he felt a surge of power run through his body; his eye level, high as it already was, shot upward a good three inches, and his robes began to tighten and tear as his slender frame reshaped itself into the chiseled musculature of a Grecian effigy. Even his eyesight had repaired itself, moving him to tear off his glasses and toss them aside – a bit harder than he had meant, in fact, being unused to his newly superhuman strength; they sailed through the air and shattered against the Room's farther wall.

A delighted cry echoed from the doorway; Harry turned and grinned at his Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, inspiring the latter to yet greater effusions. "It is done!" he cried. "After three hundred years, the legend is reborn! To think that I – I, Francis Murray Childers – should have lived to see this day!" His voice caught momentarily, and he wiped away a not unmanly tear. "Ah, it is well, it is well. Welcome back – Captain Britannia."


"Miss Vane, you've been missing with some powerful magic." –HP Slash Luv, "When in Doubt"

"Don't come any closer!" Romilda shrieked to the advancing phalanx of Death Eaters. "I warn you, I've spent the past year mastering the most ancient and potent spells known to wizardry; if you even think about… No, I'm warning you, you'll be sorry… all right, then, you asked for it! Nihilomorpho!"

A violet surge of magic burst from her wand; the Death Eaters watched, bemused, as it sailed over their heads and struck the nearby statue of Devorgilla the Disturbed, which promptly shattered with a sickening howl into a throbbing vortex of faintly luminous nothingness.

"Oops," said Romilda. "Okay, then: Nagabusa! Oh, fewmets! Ting Yung Han! Fewmets! Og'throd ai'f geb'l ee'h… oh, no, no, wait… no, don't, please! AAAIIIEEE! Potter! Professor McGonagall! HELP!"

But no help was forthcoming, and Romilda Vane was carried off to a fate of which this chronicler will not speak – except to observe that, as those wise in magic have always said, even the most powerful spells do a person little good if she keeps missing with them.


"' . . . Each pear will name the child and take care of it for six months,' Professor McGonagall announced as she stood in front of the class." –babygrocks2000, "Harry Potter and the Crazy Homework"

"Why?" one of the students in the back asked curiously.

Professor McGonagall cocked her head. "Why what?"

"Why does the child have to be renamed every six months?"

"Oh, that." McGonagall's face cleared. "Merely a precaution. Until about age five, a magical child is particularly vulnerable to spells of enthrallment, and I trust we can all imagine how many Dark wizards would like to control the mind of Albus Dumbledore's child – so, since spells of enthrallment require the use of the victim's name, constant re-christening is the safest choice. It involves psychological hazards, of course, but Chi-ko and her sisters know how to avert those."

"I'd think it would cause psychological problems anyway, being raised by fruit," said Lily Evans dryly. "You're not at all concerned about that, Professor? After all, it's your baby as much as the Headmaster's."

Professor McGonagall's hand stole to her midriff, and a quiet smile crossed her face. "No, Miss Evans," she said, "I can't say that I am. I know the Pao-li Orchard well, and I don't believe any witch's child could receive wiser or tenderer care than that of its enchanted pears."

Then the familiar mask of stern discipline fell over her features again, and she added, "But my domestic arrangements are scarcely this class's major concern. I only wanted to inform you, so that you won't be unduly alarmed if I should have to dash off to Taiwan just as your end-of-term exams are approaching. But now, if we might carry on with today's lesson…"


"He activated the mirror and saw James's pale taunt face." –HorsesRuby, "Raised by a Lord"

"What's up, Snivellus?" James sneered. "Didn't think you'd have the nerve to call again, after the last time we… oh, Padfoot, it's you." He blinked and rearranged his features, and the blood flowed abruptly back into his cheeks. "Sorry, I didn't… um… what are you doing with Snape's mirror?"

"He left it on his desk after Divination," said Sirius with a smirk, "and I decided to borrow it for a little while. Shall I bring it up to the Tower, and let you and the other two play with it a bit?"

James's face lit up. "Sirius, you're brilliant!" he said. "Yes, absolutely bring it up here! If we can reverse-engineer his secret out of it, and make four new ones on the same pattern, each of us will have free access to the view from every reflective surface in the castle; what more could a Marauder ask for?"

"My thoughts exactly," said Sirius. "And, even if we can't, it was worth nicking it just to see your expression when you thought I was Snape. Tell me, Prongs, honestly: why is your taunt face so much paler than your usual countenance?"

"Oh, I don't know." James shrugged. "Some inbred genetic defect, probably; I am a pureblood, after all. Never mind that, just get up here."