Author's Notes: Well, here it is, as promised—the sequel. Here's Milo's latest character sheet: ?sheetid=553596
However, Milo's build is undergoing some substantial behind-the-scenes modifications, and it's not quite done yet. Nothing mentioned in the chapter will be altered, but his stats, feats, spells, and gear are subject to change without warning. I decided it would be ridiculous to hold back the next chapter after I'd finished writing it just because I hadn't finished picking spells and sorting through Milo's skills. Also, for those of you wondering about Milo's choice of PrC, I have one answer to you: text trumps table. I couldn't believe it either.
Chapter One: Dynamic Entry
"Gah!" Milo said, the sphere growing to reach his neck. "What did you—how did—I won Initiative, damnit! This isn't fair!"
Wellby watched, horrified, as a sphere of darkness flickering with green lightning spread to envelop his young companion. What in Yondolla's cornucopia was that? Ironically, Milo was the only one in the party with any significant ranks in Spellcraft but he was far too busy being swallowed by the mysterious void to identify the unknown spell. As a Rogue, Wellby had far more important things to do with his Skill Ranks, plentiful as they were.
"You... you... " Wellby was speechless. Sure, sometimes PCs were killed—or worse—by villains, but... in the surprise round? That broke the code.
"No, I didn't—" Thamior the Thaumaturge protested, backing away in fear from the ball of darkness. Milo was now nowhere to be seen.
Wellby glanced at Gerard, their heavily armed-and-armoured Fighter, who nodded silently.
"Have at thee, thou villain!" Gerard shouted, brandishing his greatsword, and charged Thamior, who still seemed too surprised—a careful act, no doubt—to act. If Gerard could land the swing, the fight would be effectively over. At third level, there were few forces more feared than an 18 Strength, Power Attacking Fighter armed with a Masterwork Greatsword making an unimpeded charge—especially to a target as squishy as Thamior, who, despite his title, seemed to be a Wizard.
Mid-swing, a brilliant green flash temporarily blinded Wellby, who was setting himself up for a flank attack behind Thamior. If by poor rolls or unexpected circumstance modifiers Gerard failed to finish off the Wizard that killed Milo, Wellby would be perfectly positioned to make a Sneak Attack with each of his swords for, frankly, ludicrous damage.
When Wellby's vision returned, Gerard lay on the ground, unmoving. A quick Spot check confirmed the worst: somehow, on his own turn, Gerard was killed.
"Save-or-Die!" Zook, their gnome Cleric, shouted from the back of the room. Wellby went cold with fear. The majority of instant death spells out there, to his knowledge, targeted Fortitude, which was Gerard's highest save. If he couldn't make the DC, Wellby wouldn't have a lantern archon's chance in Ba'ator if he were hit as well.
Thamior, evidently making a similar conclusion, stepped back and raised a black-gloved hand. "Dark Way!" he shouted. Thamior had used this spell before. Dark Way was supposedly invented for bridging gaps, but the unbreakable magical bridge saw far more use employed as an ad hoc wall. A night-black, steeply slanted wall of magic appeared between Thamior and the dark sphere, which had finally stopped growing, with a diameter around seven feet across. Though thin, the wall was impenetrable to anyone without about a tonne of weight to drop on it or the ability to cast Dispel Magic.
Wellby dived behind the body of his fallen comrade, Gerard, and put his massive Hide bonus to good use—his high Dexterity, skill ranks, and Halfling size bonus made him all but invisible. "Nightshield," he heard Zook cast across the room. Wellby's position prevented him from being able to see his Cleric companion, but he had a clear view of Thamior, who appeared to be focussing his attention on the dark sphere.
"Avada Kedavra!" Another green flash appeared. Wellby clearly saw a green bolt of magic fly through the Dark Way wall—impossible as that was—and collide with Thamior in the chest. Their recurring villain slumped to the floor, landing with a soft thud. He was facing Wellby, who was presented with a clear view of his blank, dead eyes.
Wellby dropped his swords and began throwing daggers into the void as quickly as he could—which, for a Two-Weapon-Fighting Rogue, is pretty quick. He didn't know what lay at the centre of the thing, but enough Sneak Attack-augmented daggers would kill most anything—except for Undead, Constructs, Oozes, Plants, Elementals...
"Protego." A pair of daggers collided with a solid, invisible obstacle and fell to the ground.
Abruptly, the sphere vanished, revealing, not as Wellby has assumed, an eldritch Abomination from the Far Lands, but a woman. Her long, wild black hair was tangled about her head, and her ragged black robes hung loosely on her emaciated frame. Wherever she'd come from, it hadn't treated her well. She held a slender walnut wand just over a foot long loosely in her right hand, twirling it about idly. Wellby attempted a Sense Motive, and immediately regretted it. Her heavy-lidded eyes seemed to flash between emotions seemingly at random, with dull boredom being replaced by excitement, rage, sadness, and a degree of bloodlust he usually associated with Barbarians without any apparent impetus.
"Avada Kedavra." There was another brilliant flash, and Wellby heard a heavy metal-on-stone clank. He didn't have to be able to see Zook to know what had happened.
A primary caster with the ability to spam high-DC Save-or-Die spells? Wellby thought rapidly. Two options: either she's well beyond our ECL, or she's min-maxed to the Outer Planes and back. If so, she probably doesn't have the Hit Points or Base Attack Bonus to back up that kind of magic. Either option shattered convention—NPCs were not traditionally optimized, and it was practically unheard-of for one high enough level to cast that many death spells in a day to interfere with a third-level party. Either way, Wellby's best chance lay in closing the distance and engaging in melee. He might be able to break her concentration with Attacks of Opportunity—maybe. If he could last a few rounds, he might—might—be able to finish her off. Gerard could likely do it, but without surprise or an ally to flank with, Wellby was unable to Sneak Attack, making him barely more powerful than a caster of his level.
Nothing for it. Wellby eased his twin swords out of their sheathes, took a deep breath, and leapt out from over Gerard's body. The woman let out a mad scream of laughter, simultaneously condescending and contemptuous.
Eleven months later, Milo lay on his back in the grass outside the Burrow enjoying a cool breeze. His modified Hogwarts uniform could protect him from the heat of a burning building, meaning that even the normally-blistering July heat passed him by completely. Mordy, Milo's rat familiar, was putting his modest swim speed to good use splashing about in a nearby pond. A few of the Weasley's resident gnomes had thought Mordy might make a decent light brunch a few days before. The familiar remained evasive as to what, exactly, went down, but nobody had seen nor heard from the gnomes—or any gnome, for that matter—since.
Without a home to return to, Milo had tried to convince Dumbledore to allow him to stay at Hogwarts over the summer. In addition to the obvious perks—free food and solid stone walls—it would give him ample time to explore and discover some of the castle's secrets before his next adventure. Also, though Milo was somewhat hesitant to admit it even to himself, he'd been increasingly thinking of the school as his new home. He must have failed his Diplomacy check pretty severely, because the normally lenient Headmaster put his foot down. Apparently, it was standard procedure to refuse students' requests to stay over the summer, as Harry had also been sent home. Milo tried not to feel bitter about the whole matter and make the most of his between-adventure downtime. Right now, though it didn't look like it, Milo was actually (in a manner of speaking) hard at work crafting magical gear.
In a relatively unused part of the Burrow's grounds, Cog was putting the finishing touches on an Anklet of Translocation. The Dedicated Wright was, with the single-minded focus only found in Constructs and undergrads during finals, busy grinding salt next to his miniature forge. The tiny clay automaton was tasked with creating Milo's magic items eight hours every day, and spending the other sixteen hammering out mastercraft-quality mundane equipment. By the forge was a veritable mountain of road salt, purchased with British pounds from Gringotts. Despite the fact that the Gringotts exchange rate appeared to have been last updated in 1867, Milo was still getting an enormously superior amount of gold piece value this way than using Harry's galleons and sickles directly. He had to get Hermione to handle the Muggle end of the business (Muggles were clueless as to why they were paid to dump tonnes of salt at the end of a seemingly abandoned road), but for 3 pounds sterling and some change per 10 kilos of road salt (Milo still couldn't believe that they poured the stuff on their roads in winter when it would be vastly cheaper to animate an army of skeletons to shovel snow manually), Milo was making 110 gp. Considering that Gringotts offered 5 pounds per galleon and that a galleon weighed in at around 6 and a third gp, Milo was using his borrowed money approximately 3000% more efficiently than last year. He drooled a little at the thought. And that was just the beginning. Hermione seemed to think that the exchange rate offered by Gringotts was deeply exploitative, and was, according to a recent owl letter, currently investigating the value of the precious metal weight of wizarding currency in pounds sterling and the possibility of bypassing the goblin bank altogether. This baffled Milo (and Mister Weasley, an expert in the field of all things Muggle-related), who grew up in a world where the value of currency was the weight of the metals it was stamped from. Assuming Milo maintained his rate of experience-point gathering next year, it would—possibly—become viable for him to start selling his world's magic items to local wizards (in extremely limited quantities, of course). He'd had Cog crank out a few Amulets of Protection from Evil for that very purpose.
As Milo lay thinking about all the money he was saving and the exorbitant rates he could charge for a simple charm that would provide 100% protection against the (debatably) second-most feared curse in this world and idly watching the Weasley kids play Quidditch, he realized something disconcerting.
He was bored.
Milo had been bored in the past—occasionally. It was a rare occurrence, and nothing particularly concerning on its own. More worryingly, however, was that at some point he'd dropped out of a timeskip. Milo's awareness of the weather confirmed it. There were only two reasons for such an occurrence: flavour and drama. Were the first option the case, the timeskip immediately would have resumed after some humorous or character-establishing moment, followed by another—say, at dinner, where the NPCs would discuss foreshadowing. But Milo was still experiencing time at a one-to-one ratio, barring this from being the case.
Something was awry.
He glanced at Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny in the sky on their broomsticks. Ginny, as usual, had the Quaffle (confusingly, the term for this appeared to be 'in possession,' a phrase that made Milo itch to cast Protection from Evil) while Ron was desperately trying to defend the yew trees they were using as a stand-in for hoops. In short, everything seemed to check out. Milo pinched his own right thigh—a prearranged signal to Mordy via empathic bond meaning 'possible danger, cause unknown'—and, with an exaggerated false yawn, got to his feet. His familiar, meanwhile, hopped out of the water and into the once-gnome-infested tall grass to scout.
Milo fought down his recently-acquired instinct to reach for a weapon—his new Lesser Crystal of Return, which allowed him to draw one in the blink of an eye made that unnecessary—and, trying to watch everything simultaneously, entered the Burrow itself. Mordy would be most effective checking the grounds, but in the house, his Scent ability would be hindered by the aroma of Molly Weasley's famed home cooking.
"Detect Thoughts," Milo muttered under his breath. Of all the different Divination spells to detect another creature's presence, this one had proven the most reliable so far. Ironically, See Invisibility was only effective on Harry's Invisibility Cloak, as it was the only local magic he'd yet seen capable of rendering its wearer perfectly invisible. While there were dozens of ways of concealing one's appearance, preventing oneself from thinking altogether was much more difficult—although, like everything else, even Detect Thoughts could be fooled. Milo was all too aware of the unpredictable nature of the interactions between his magic and the denizens of this world.
His Divination registered one sapient mind, though that did not rule out creatures of animal-level intelligence, or creatures immune to mind-affecting spells. As he walked through the living room towards the kitchen, he activated the Augment Crystal. Out of one of the pockets of his Belt of Hidden Pouches flew a sword into Milo's ready hand.
As you may have surmised, Milo being an adventurer—and a PC on top—this was no ordinary sword. Adventurers after a certain level, regardless of class, are never content to simply write 'long sword' on their character sheets and leave it at that. This sword was magical. This sword was three feet long and shone like a mirror. This sword was slender in much the same way that the hope of a one-armed man hanging from a tuft of grass on the edge of a cliff was slender. This sword had a twisted, gold-decorated basket hilt wrapped around a crystal the colour of a cloudless sky. Four purple glass eyes of Boccob encircled the pommel, each facing in a different direction. Sometimes, in the flickering light of a dying candle or summer rain, it almost seemed as if they were watching you—which was perfectly sensible, because that's exactly what they were doing.
This sword was, for the technically inclined, a +1 Elven Thinblade of Warning, and it was never meant to be used. As long as Milo held it, he was granted a +5 bonus to Initiative that stacked with Nerveskitter and Improved Initiative. Milo had realized that, despite his best efforts, he frequently found himself thrown directly into the fray without bigger, stronger allies to cover him. He'd also realized that, despite being pathetic by the standards he was accustomed to, he'd somehow become superior to most wanded wizards in melee combat. So he'd adapted, and made the sword before retraining Craft Magic Arms and Armour out for Uncanny Forethought. He was still a Wizard through and through, and therefore incalculably more useless in hand-to-hand than he was with magic, but he had absolutely no intention of being trounced by a Redcap again.
This sword was one-half of that intention made manifest. Nevertheless, it was strictly a last resort, to be used primarily for its bonus to Initiative.
Milo carefully pushed open the door to the kitchen with his left hand and listened.
Chop. Chop. Chop-chop-chop.
Images of a demon butcher, Weasley blood dripping down his already bloodstained apron and wielding a bloodstained cleaver filled Milo's imagination.
"WAAAAAAAAGH!" he shouted, charging into the room.
"Oh!" Molly Weasley gasped in surprise, stepping back from the door and setting down her kitchen knife. A small pile of chopped carrots lay on the table. "Frightened me half to death! What did I tell you boys about playing indoors? Especially with toys like that—you could poke somebody's eye out!"
Milo groaned, and dismissed Detect Thoughts.
"Sorry, Miss Weasley," he said, feeling slightly ashamed. "It won't happen again."
"Oh, I don't blame you, dear. I'm sure it was Fred or George that put you up to it."
Milo felt his face heat up, and slowly tried to back his way out of the kitchen.
"I'll just be leaving, now—"
"Don't think you'll get away that easily!" she scolded. Milo froze.
Milo had thought that his draw speed with his Crystal of Return was fast, but he had nothing on Molly Weasley. In a flash—almost literally—his weapon was on the table, and there was a plate piled high with carrots, thick, buttered toast, and potatoes. At first, he thought she'd used magic—except that her wand lay on the kitchen table beside his sword. As the stack of food rose to almost touch the tip of his nose, she seemed apparently satisfied.
Somehow, Milo's thin build—a symptom of his poor Strength and Constitution, as well as how the dice rolled for his height and weight, something which he had no control over—made Molly almost personally offended. The redheaded whirlwind of a woman seemed to believe, somehow, that there was a correlation between eating habits and weight (a fact consistently disproven by the Coastal Collegiate of Theoretical Arcanists, Azel's main academic body that experimented with the laws of the universe in order to update the Rules periodically for accuracy).
As Milo stumbled out of the kitchen, still slightly unsure of what, exactly, just happened, he became aware of just how hungry he was. Eating was still something that was relatively new to him—until fairly recently, he'd eaten the required 'about a pound' of food per day from his Everlasting Rations and ignored the matter entirely. It was not until he'd been practically forced to eat a handful of Every-Flavoured Beans that he'd realized what he'd been missing.
Milo sat down on the steps outside of the Burrow and began munching on his toast while he waited for Mordy to return and report. Almost as an afterthought, he activated the Crystal of Return once more, and the sword re-appeared in Milo's hand in an instant. He'd had to pay extra for that feature—it had come out to almost 9 pounds worth of salt—but, knowing the universe's DM (Diabolical Meddling), he figured it might come up. Knowing the way things went last year, I'll probably end up hanging upside down in a Yeti's cave or something and out of magic, with my sword lying on the floor just out of reach and horrible growling growing ever louder...
Milo's experiences as a first year student had honed the paranoid instincts he'd learned as an adventurer to a razor's edge.
Milo was contemplating casting a barrage of defensive spells when Mordy came scurrying up to him.
"Nothing out there," his familiar said in their secret language. "Though, we both know my scouting abilities—and yours, without magic—will become increasingly ineffective as our ECL increases. So, I didn't smell anything, but that doesn't necessarily mean that there isn't an invisible Hezrou about to rip your face off."
"Right," Milo said. Once again, he found himself missing his party, and wondering what Wellby, Zook, and Gerard were up to—especially Wellby, who had the highest Spot and Listen modifiers. Scouting was usually his job. On the other hand, maybe there really was nothing wrong. Maybe the entire encounter with Molly was simply for flavour (Milo resisted making a pun involving the deliciousness of the homemade toast he was munching on—barely).
But... it felt wrong. If that were the case, why was he still here, thinking about it? The timeskip should have resumed.
Setting his plate aside, Milo strode over to the makeshift Quidditch pitch.
"Oi!" he shouted up at the players.
"What's up?" Ron shouted back down, from atop his broomstick. Ginny, seizing the opportunity provided by his momentary distraction, scored a goal.
"Something's awry! Get down here." One by one, Ron, his younger sister, and the twins descended to the grass.
"What's going on?" Ron asked. "And what's with the sword?"
"I've got a bad feeling," Milo admitted. "It's hard to explain—but before you ask, yes, it's reliable."
"Nah, I wasn't going to," Ron shrugged. "You've got me confused with Hermione. Can you get any specifics?"
"It's sort of vague, but..." Milo struggled to come up with words to explain his position. "You see, from where I'm from, people sometimes get a... sense... that something significant is about to happen."
"And you're getting it right now?" Fred asked.
"Yeah. Only, it doesn't look like anything that important is happening."
"I dunno about that," Ginny said. "Me and George were stomping those two by eight-nothing."
Ron coloured slightly. "I think," he said, "that we should try to focus on the matter at hand. So you think there's something 'significant' happening to you?"
"Yeah, see—" Milo paused. No, it didn't mean something significant was happening to him. Now that he thought about it, time could slow in this manner if anyone in the party was in an encounter. And the party was split halfway across the country... "It could also be Harry or Hermione."
"You don't think—"
"Yeah. I do." Harry was the obvious first choice, being the PC with the most connection to the main plot—and the one that Voldemort's goons had the most incentive to target. Any old Death Eater or Death Eater-wannabe could score major points with the Dark Lord by bagging the Boy-Who-Lived. "I think Harry's in danger."
"Right," George said. "I'll get the car, and—"
"—Ginny," Fred continued seamlessly, "you—"
"Run interference," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "Got it. I'll tell mum you lot are chasing gnomes, trying to test out Lockhart's new, 'improved' methods." Milo didn't think he'd ever heard anyone pour quite so much sarcasm into a single word before.
"Wait, George—a carriage or chariot?" Milo asked. He couldn't see how either of those would help very much—surely, broomstick travel would be faster, especially in the hilly terrain.
"Oh, you'll see," George winked, striding off to an old shed.
"Boccob, Lord of All Magic, Archmage of the Gods, hear my prayer and reach Your Uncaring hand from the Concordant Domain of the Outlands and save Your faithful servant—" Milo muttered frantically, hanging on for dear life in the back of the Ford Anglia as it soared with the grace of a cinderblock across Great Britain. While he knew, rationally speaking, that this death trap was held up by magic—even if he couldn't detect it—it was beyond unnerving. Further, he knew that if he fell out, he could simply Feather Fall or Fly to the surface safely. It was, however, somewhat more difficult to convince his hindbrain that he was perfectly safe being held up in the sky by what appeared to be a non-magical horseless carriage—that he couldn't see. He couldn't even see his own hands. For the sake of science, however, Milo knew what he must do. There was, really, only one option.
"Detect Invisibility," he muttered, managing to scrape past the Concentration DC—barely. Nothing happened, however. Another point for their magic, he thought sourly, and dismissed the spell.
"Where'd he go?" George, who was driving, asked suddenly, causing Milo to dive into another bout of prayer. Not, of course, that he really expected Boccob to do anything—deities tended to act through their Clerics, Paladins, and Favoured Souls (of which, Boccob had none, save for the occasional Mystic Theurge. They didn't call him the 'Uncaring One' for nothing). It just seemed vaguely appropriate to Milo, who was still new to this whole 'roleplaying' thing.
"Little to the left," Ron said over the roar of the engine.
Seeing as how none of them actually knew where Harry's house was, they'd, at Ginny's suggestion, released their owl Errol with a letter addressed for Harry and followed it. Wanded wizards' owl familiars, or whatever they were called, seemed to have magically-enhanced locating skills. They could find just about anyone, anywhere in the world.
The problem, of course, was that Errol and Scabbers were in many ways a matched set. The elderly owl seemed to fall asleep occasionally mid-flight, plummeting to the earth for a few seconds, before waking up and continuing his flight, often mere inches from the roof of a house or the tip of a tree.
"Wait!" Fred said. "Is that the one?"
Errol had made a sudden dive—not uncommon, but this one seemed slightly more deliberate than the previous ones.
"Nah," George said, "Harry wouldn't be caught dead in a place like that."
Number Four, Privet Drive fell neatly into the uncanny valley of houses. Its gardens were too perfectly laid-out, its grass too green, its whitewashed fence too clean—it simply didn't look real. It was like an Illusion of a house cast by someone who had only read about them. It was the abstract ideal of a house. It had never been lived in—either literally or figuratively, Milo couldn't tell. Anyone who did live in that house very clearly had no life at all worth speaking of.
"It's the place," Ron said, and Milo was compelled to agree. Harry rarely spoke of his adopted family—they were usually referred to as 'the Muggles,' who were 'horrible,' and left at that. But, the tiny amount of information Milo knew about Harry's life outside of Hogwarts fit this place to a T. Little Whinging, Milo decided, is where souls come to die.
"Right," Milo said, pulling himself together with effort. This could be an encounter, he reminded himself. The only fear you can feel is from a Fear effect. "Everyone know their places?"
"I'll be round front, ready to drive the getaway car in case of emergency," George said.
"And I'll be with Ron, searching the upper storeys for Harry," Fred said.
"What about you?" Ron asked.
Milo smiled. "Dynamic entry."
"And you?" said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.
"I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he said.
"Too right you will," said Uncle Vernon forcefully. "The Masons don't know anything about you and it's going to stay that way. When dinner's over, you take Mrs Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I'll bring the subject round to drills..."
Harry zoned out as Uncle Vernon went over the plan again. They'd been through this seven times. While the Dursleys had locked up Hedwig, he was still receiving occasional mail from the wizarding world—and could always send a return letter using the same owl. The truth was, his bedroom was exactly where he wanted to be. He had no desire whatsoever to meet the Masons, or to spend any more time around the Dursleys than was strictly necessary. Who knows, if I'm lucky, there could be a birthday letter from Ron in there, waiting for me. Post from Hermione was more problematic, as she didn't have an owl and had to rely on Muggle post. The Dursleys, who specialized in making Harry's life as miserable as possible, threw any letters they could find addressed to him into the oven (Uncle Vernon tried the fireplace first, before Aunt Petunia reminded him that it was boarded up). Still, Harry managed to snatch the odd letter from her before the Dursleys could burn them. Hermione had mitigated the problem somewhat by sending each letter in triplicate on different days, increasing Harry's chance to get at least one.
"They're here!" Dudley shouted in grotesque excitement from the window.
Harry didn't wait to be told off, and bolted up the stairs. The trouble he would get in if the Masons learned of his existence would outweigh any fleeting enjoyment he would feel for causing problems for them.
"May I take your coats, Mr and Mrs Mason?" Harry heard from the floor below as he closed the door on his new bedroom behind him. The Dursleys had given him the spare bedroom in the vain hope that Hogwarts' letters (which were addressed to 'the Cupboard under the Stairs') would be unable to find him. Harry, who rather enjoyed his upgraded quarters, had no intention of disabusing them of this notion.
Harry's spirits fell somewhat as he noticed the distinct lack of cards and presents by the window. He'd even left it open, with a small bowl of owl feed nearby, for that very purpose.
It was then that he heard the crash.
Milo dived from the Anglia into the clouds. In midair, he readied an action. He'd discovered from overhearing conversations between the Weasley's about Quidditch that, in this plane of existence, people had a hard time hitting moving targets for some reason—the faster the target, the harder the shot. Milo had no such restriction (in fact, it was significantly easier to hit a running target), which did not stop him from exploiting this quirk of the local rules. While falling, he adopted an aerodynamic posture to maximise his velocity.
As he came within an inch of the roof, his Readied Action triggered.
"Dimension Door." Milo's view of the Dursleys' roof was suddenly replaced by a view of the Dursleys' tasteless dining room and Petunia's tasteless cooking. Like all Teleportation spells, Dimension Door placed the target on the nearest solid surface, in this case, the dining room table. Dimension Door, however, does not modify the target's momentum.
"Feather Fall," Milo cast the instant—literally—he re-appeared, sword in hand, standing on the table—still moving at terminal velocity. Feather Fall, contrary to popular opinion, did more than simply slow a falling creature, because if it did, the sudden deceleration would kill anyone targeted by it. In addition, it explicitly made the target immune to falling damage. It is this effect that Milo required. Milo appeared on the table loaded with an enormous amount of momentum, but, thanks to Feather Fall, the sudden impact had no effect on him. The table, not being a target of Feather Fall, had no such magical protection, and had to deal with Milo's sudden change of velocity in a manner more in line with the laws of physics, as if he had crashed into it at a high speed.
The table exploded the moment Milo's feet touched it, filling the room with splinters, while Milo—now immune to falling damage, thanks to Feather Fall—slowly floated down to touch the floor. Wizards one, physics zero, Milo thought smugly amid the devastation.
Chunks of table and fine china had smashed through the Dursleys' front window, shattering it and covering the floor with glass shards. Petunia threw herself over Dudley protectively, knocking them both to the floor, while Vernon's chair was knocked backwards. The Masons, who were sitting next to Vernon, were both blasted to the floor as well.
Milo didn't really know, or much care, who these people were. He knew that Harry was very probably in danger, and that any or all of the apparent Muggles surrounding him could be dark wizards in disguise, or, more likely, under the effects of the Imperius curse.
"Right," Milo said authoritatively. "Where's Harry?"