Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

The Spells Are Made Up. I Have Met People Who Assure Me, Very Seriously, That They Are Trying To Do Them, And I Can Assure Them, Just As Seriously, That They Don’t Work.

He Knew One Thing Only, And It Was Beyond Fear Or Reason: He Was Not Going To Die Crouching Here Like A Child Playing Hide-and-seek; He Was Not Going To Die Kneeling At Voldemort’s Feet . . . He Was Going To Die Upright Like His Father, And He Was Going To Die Trying To Defend Himself, Even If No Defense Was Possible. . . .

There Aren't That Many People Who Have Written Seven-book Series, Taken Them 17 Years. Actually Finishing Was (the) Most Remarkable Feeling I've Ever Had. (i) Couldn't Tell You Which Was Uppermost - Euphoria Or Feeling Devastated.

He Read The Letter Again, But Could Not Take In Any More Meaning Than He Had Done The First Time And Was Reduced To Staring At The Handwriting Itself. She Had Made Her G's The Same Way He Did : He Searched Through The Letter For Every One Of Them, And Each Felt Like A Friendly Little Wave Glimpsed From Behind A Veil. The Letter Was An Incredible Treasure, Proof That Lily Potter Had Lived, Really Lived, That Her Warm Hand Had Once Moved Across This Parchment, Tracing Ink Into These Letters, These Words, Words About Him, Harry, Her Son.

They Heard The Click Of The Mail Slot And Flop Of Letters On The Doormat. "get The Mail, Dudley," Said Uncle Vernon From Behind His Paper. "make Harry Get It." "get The Mail, Harry." "make Dudley Get It." "poke Him With Your Smelting Stick, Dudley.