I've been asked this question so many times, do you feel you need to write a book for adults? No, I don't need to write a book for adults.

Depression isn't just being a bit sad. It's feeling nothing. It's not wanting to be alive anymore.

On and on they flew, over the countryside parceled out in patches of green and brown, over roads and rivers winding through the landscapes like strips of matte and glossy ribbon.

The Chamber Of Secrets had been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware.

Oh, get out of the way, Percy,” said Fred. “Harry’s in a hurry.” “Yeah, he’s off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with his fanged servant,” said George, chortling.

He was slumped in the back, gazing out of the window, as though his parents were two people who had picked him up hitchhiking, connected to him merely by chance and proximity.

Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?