I knew I could do it all this time,” said Harry, “Because I'd already done it... does that make sense?

Every writer prefers good reviews over bad ones, and every writer wants to have lots of readers. But if it doesn't happen, that's fine too. Perhaps I won't throw a party then; I'll simply go home and keep writing.

Does it hurt?" The childish question had escaped Harry's lips before he could stop it. "Dying? Not at all," said Sirius. "Quicker and easier than falling asleep.

Young people are so infernally convinced that they are absolutely right about everything.

I’ll make Goyle do lines, it’ll kill him, he hates writing,” said Ron happily. He lowered his voice to Goyle’s low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look of pained concentration, mimed writing in midair. “I... must... not... look... like... a... baboon’s... backside.

We did it, we bashed them wee Potter's the one, and Voldy's gone moldy, so now let's have fun!

It is my baby and if I want to bring it out to play again, I will.