Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The morning of the first September was crisp and golden as an apple.

Every writer must have a chip of ice in his heart.

You should write a book," Ron told Hermione as he cut up his potatoes, "translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them.

Don't call me Nymphadora, Remus.

I am very frustrated by fear of imagination, I don’t think that’s healthy.

I think the willfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

But who could bear to know which stars were already dead, she thought, blinking up at the night sky; could anybody stand to know that they all were?