As Harry and Ron rounded the clump of trees behind which Harry had first heard the dragons roar, a witch leapt out from behind them. It was Rita Skeeter. She was wearing acid-green robes today; the Quick-Quotes Quill in her hand blended perfectly against them. "Congratulations, Harry!' she said beaming at him. "I wonder if you could give me a quick word? How you felt facing that dragon? How do you feel now about the fairness of the scoring?" "Yeah, you can have a word," said Harry savagely. "Goodbye!

There is no part of me that feels that I represented myself as your children’s babysitter or their teacher. I was always, I think, completely honest. I’m a writer, and I will write what I want to write.

You are nearly there," said James. "Very close. We are...so proud of you.

Harry: This book belongs to Harry Potter. Ron: Shared by Ron Weasley, because his fell apart. Hermione: Why don't you buy a new one then? Ron: Write on your own book, Hermione. Hermione: You bought all those dungbombs on Saturday. You could have bought a new book instead. Ron: Dungbombs rule.

You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.

You've got to appreciate what the worst is. You don't want to find yourself in a situation where you're facing it.

If you're holding out for universal popularity, I'm afraid you will be in this cabin for a very long time.