|Harry’s wand emits a lot of red-gold swooshy stuff|
Harry’s wand gave out a big swooshy flash of golden red, with a side helping of glitter, and it was then that he finally understood. The sword of Gryffindor. The giant snake. And all this complicated business of the wands that you needed some sort of flow chart to follow – this wand belonged to that fellow, but that wand was waiting for this master to grab it, but in the meantime that other wand wasn’t working properly because it was being handled by the wrong owner. It all added up to one thing, or maybe several things – it was hard to tell. According to Hermione’s Dictionary of Slang, wands, swords, snakes were all slang terms for penis. This entire eighth and final film had degenerated into one big slithering mass of phallic symbolism, and by the time the swooshy flashes cleared, there would be only one male wizard left standing.
|Walking Penis-Face strokes his wand suggestively, prior to pointing it at Harry|
It all made sense now. The entire Harry Potter saga had turned into a gigantic pissing contest as the blokes competed with each other for wands, snakes, swords, broomsticks, seats on the Hogwarts Express and anything else vaguely long and suggestively pointy. It had become a burning obsession with the wizard formerly known as He-who-must-not-be-named, now known as Voldemort, no doubt to compensate for his unfortunate noselessness, which had even his most faithful followers wondering if he was similarly underendowed in the nether regions. And in the case of Nagini, it was clear he had overcompensated, allowed the public to feast their eyes upon his giant snake once too often, and now Neville Longbottom had gone and lopped its head off, leaving its owner even more unmanned than before. Now Voldemort needed to win the wand wars more than ever. Harry almost felt sorry for the balding old queen in his black dress; once upon a time it had probably seemed le dernier cri in chic-est cocktail wear; now it was just a flappity rag festooned with shreds of shattered horcrux, and its wearer looked like a walking dick.
|Neville Longbottom’s sword is so big and long he can hardly lift it|
And now Harry understood, too, why the excursion into Bellatrix Lestrange’s vault had been so fraught with peril (no sooner had they penetrated its innermost recesses than her baubles had multiplied and threatened to crush them), why Hermione and Ron had found that secret Slytherin chamber lined with rampant serpents so arousing, and why Voldemort, with all those marvellous magic powers at his disposal, had insisted on a full frontal infantry charge on Hogwarts, followed by one-on-one wand-fu, instead of simply taking off and nuking the site from orbit. At all costs, he had to preserve the wands, find out which was the biggest and then wave it in everyone’s faces. Only that way could he get his own back on Neville for lopping the head off his snake.
|Badass Maggie Smith looks taken aback to find herself holding a wand|
Harry’s musings were suddenly interrupted by a fresh swooshy flash of evil green spurting from the tip of Voldemort’s wand. Harry immediately countered by spurting out another big swooshy flash of golden red from his own wand, and for a while, the red and green swooshes mingled and danced a magical cha-cha-cha as their owners scrunched up their eyes and swooned. And then… and then… Harry couldn’t believe his eyes. Voldemort’s wand was starting to droop! Voldemort strained and strained to keep it hard, but he clearly had no staying power, whereas he, Harry, felt able to carry on spurting swooshy stuff till the cows came home. He was the Wand Master! All was well.
|Harry forces Voldemort to his knees in the Battle of the Wands|