Get up, you useless lump, get up!

You’d think a bit of kissing would cheer her up.

Whatever happens to your body, your soul will survive, untouched.

Think your little jokes'll help you on your deathbed?" she jeered. "Jokes? No,no, these are manners," replied Dumbledore.

Howard was almost as fond of this hall as he was of his own shop. The Brownies used it on Tuesdays, and the Women's Institute on Wednesdays. It had hosted jumble sales and Jubilee celebrations, wedding receptions and wakes, and it smelled of all of these things: of stale clothes and coffee urns, and the ghosts of home-baked cakes and meat salads; of dust and human bodies; but primarily of aged wood and stone.

She picked up the book and then walked back past him into the tent, but as she did so, she brushed the top of his head lightly with her hand. He closed his eyes at her touch, and hated himself for wishing that what she said was true: that Dumbledore had really cared.

Turn to page three hundred and ninety-four.