The sky was a cold iron-grey, like the underside of a shield. A sharp breeze lifted the hems of skirts and rattled the leaves on the immature trees; a spiteful, chill wind that sought out your weakest places, the nape of your neck and your knees, and which denied you the comfort of dreaming, of retreating a little from reality.

He might have crawled up into the airing cupboard and died, but I mustn't get my hopes up.

I loved writing for kids, I loved talking to children about what I'd written, I don't want to leave that behind.

Harry - you're a great wizard, you know." "I'm not as good as you," said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him. "Me!" said Hermione. "Books! And cleverness! There are more important things - friendship and bravery and - oh Harry - be careful!

What would your head have been doing in Hogsmeade, Potter?" said Snape softly. "Your head is not allowed in Hogsmeade. No part of your body has permission to be in Hogsmeade.

Ron," said Hermione in a dignified voice, "you are the most insensitive wart I have ever had the misfortune to meet.

The thing about fantasy - there are certain things you just don't do in fantasy.