Slowly, very slowly, he sat up, and as he did so he felt more alive, and more aware of his own living body than ever before. Why had he never appreciated what a miracle he was, brain and nerve and bounding heart? It would all be gone...or at least, he would be gone from it. His breath came slow and deep, and his mouth and throat were completely dry, but so were his eyes.

Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.

I think Mum's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him.

As our listeners will know, unless they've taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who's strategy of remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic.

Death is just life's next big adventure.

I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was alive.

I'm a writer, and I will write what I want to write.