"[W]hile hunting at night in the Restricted Section for anything on Nicolas Flamel he found a slim volume simply called 'Magicae Mors'." –LondonsWhereMyHeartIs, "Twinkleteeth"

Trembling, fearing discovery by his fellow Slytherins at any moment, Frederic Eggles tiptoed through the stacks of the Restricted Section, gingerly reaching out his wand from time to time to see if there was a few inches' extra room on this or that shelf. (Not his finger, as he didn't want it bitten off.)

At length, he found a shelf where the uncanny grimoires slid just far enough aside, and, breathing heavily, reached under his robes and withdrew the small, slender sketchbook into which he had so unwisely poured his heart. It pained him, even now, to have to hide it away – apart from his pride in the Latin dialogue and the scrupulously Barks-esque drawings that filled every panel, the story he had composed of the death of Magica de Spell had touched a chord in him, and he would willingly have read it over again a hundred times – but he had no choice. Slytherin House in 1964 was no place to leave evidence lying around of one's love for Muggle comics about talking anthropoid ducks.

So Magicae Mors was slipped between two volumes of reminiscences by Morgana's paramours, and Frederic, after one last wistful look, turned and left it behind. He never saw it again, and, after his untimely death in 1972, nobody in the world even knew it existed – except, of course, for the occasional young hooligan who stumbled across it while invisibly searching the Restricted Section for something else. (And even he didn't take much notice of it. A hand-drawn Uncle Scrooge pastiche in Latin might have been Hermione's thing; it wasn't Harry's.)


"Since the Dark Lord had been vanquished by Harry Potter and the werewolf laws repelled, Remus could now find work." –MrsRemusLupinVampire, "My Enemy, My Love"

"I hear you're a sub-editor at the Hogsmeade Gazette now, Remus," said Lycaon Goldman.

"That's right," said his fellow werewolf. "It's good to be doing something besides Order business again; I hadn't realised how much of my time the struggle against Voldemort was taking up. Another reason to be grateful to you and Harry for vanquishing him, I suppose – another reason out of many."

"Well, if you're really so grateful," said Goldman, "maybe you could consider not getting into animated discussions with Miss Granger about protective house-elf legislation while I'm sitting right across the table? It ruined last night's dinner for me, I tell you; it took all my respect for Molly's cooking to keep from excusing myself and vomiting up my whole portion."

Lupin chuckled. "All right, Lyc, fair enough," he said. "I don't suppose I'll ever understand why laws repel you so, but I suppose great heroes are entitled to their little quirks. I can't speak for Hermione, but I'll try to be more considerate myself in the future."

"Much obliged," said Goldman. "But as I was saying, does that sub-editorship of yours give you any power to get rid of the nut who does the Gazette crossword? Anyone who writes clues like 'Dear Pele: Confusion rang out once more' shouldn't be allowed at large."


"Of course, he knows that it could be something else. He [doesn't] think it is but there is Vela blood in his veins, making it possible . . ." –Lily272, "Baby on Board"

"Wands at the ready, everyone," said Dumbledore to his fellow teachers, his eyes fixed on the all-devouring shaft of darkness at the centre of the Great Hall. "Be prepared to use any spells you can, up to and including the Unforgivable…"

"It's no good, Professor," came a familiar drawling voice, and Draco Malfoy stepped into the Great Hall, his pointed face even paler than usual. "No human magic will have any effect on it. I'm the only one who can do anything about this."

"You, Mr Malfoy?" said McGonagall.

Draco nodded. "I tried to persuade myself otherwise, when I first heard," he said, "but there's no hiding from it now. Back in the Eighth Century, you see, one of my father's ancestors married what he thought was a woman of far Cathay, but was actually the last survivor of the ruling race of the galaxy NGC 2845, in the constellation Vela. And one of the things she told him was that, during their flight to the Milky Way, she and her fellow refugees had somehow thwarted the dread Shadewrights of Messier 77, who had sworn eternal vengeance on all those of the old Vela blood. She didn't think they had the right sorts of minds to master intergalactic travel, but she warned him that, if they ever did, no merely human power would be able to protect his and her descendants against them." He glanced grimly at the shadowy pillar, and added, "And it looks as though they have. So there's only one thing left to do."

There was a note in his voice that Snape didn't like to hear. "Mr Malfoy…" he began sternly.

Draco raised a hand. "Please, Professor," he said. "I know what you're going to say, but I can't let you and the others get yourselves killed for my sake. It's all right, honestly. My ancestress left an engram in her descendants' minds, imbuing us with all the defensive arts of her people – and, if the Shadewrights have learned a few new tricks in the past twelve centuries… well, they'll find that the Malfoys have, too."

And, with a wild cry that none of his hearers' throats could possibly have replicated, he ran forward and flung himself head-first into the stygian column. There was a moment's uncanny throbbing and crackling as he vanished; then the blackness abruptly evaporated, leaving only the debris of the Ravenclaw table to mark its passing.

Sinistra was the first to break the ensuing silence. "Messier 77," she mused. "That's in Cetus, isn't it?"

"You'd know that best, Gudrun," said Snape curtly.

"Yes, I think it is." Sinistra laughed faintly. "Appropriate, isn't it? First Mr Malfoy declares himself our Jonah; then he throws himself to the Whale."


"Chuckling[,] Tom removed Harry's boxer and his own boxer followed soon after." –ShadowElf16, "Good Morning, Love"

"Wormtail," said Voldemort, in the almost-human tone he reserved for truly special occasions, "I am pleased to announce that, in the wee hours of this morning, your master won a supreme victory over his enemies."

"Wonderful, My Lord!" said Pettigrew. "What was it? Did you kill Dumbledore? Take over the Ministry?"

"What?" said Voldemort. "No, of course not. I successfully kidnapped Harry Potter's prize show dog!" He gestured proudly to a large cage in the corner of the room, in which a handsome boxer bitch sat morosely licking her genitals. "Now she can't possibly beat out my own faithful Dishlicker for Best in Breed at the Surrey Dog Show – and, after so signal a humiliation, it won't be long before Potter and his friends yield themselves unconditionally to my… wait, why are you rolling your eyes? Don't you roll your eyes at me, you little rat!"