Hello, Minister!" bellowed Percy, sending a neat jinx straight at Thicknesse, who dropped his wand and clawed at the front of his robes, apparently in awful discomfort. "Did I mention I'm resigning?

All we do is read the stupid textbook," said Ron.

I'll be writing until I can't write anymore. It's a compulsion with me. I love writing.

Voldemort’s fury at the fall of his last, best lieutenant exploded with the force of a bomb.

I'm not a billionaire, what a tragedy.

You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you’ll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no . . . anything. There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just — exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever . . . lost.

You'd better hurry up, they'll be waiting for 'the Chosen Captain' — 'The Boy Who Scored'— whatever they call you these days.