Yeah,' said Ron. 'Could've been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?' 'I still haven't ruled it out,' came Hermione's muffled voice from beneath her blankets, but Harry saw Ron smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out of his rucksack.

Dumbledore raised his finger for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.

The ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.

Hang on. This Lord Voldything's back you say?... and now he's sending dismembers after you?... I see. Well that settles it, YOU CAN GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE BOY!

Look . . . at . . . me. . . .

I think what is probably hard for people to imagine is how wrapped up the 17 years' work on Harry Potter is with what was going on in my life at the time. I was mourning the loss of this world that I had written for so long and loved so much. I was also mourning the retreat it had been from - from ordinary life, which it has been. And it forced me to look back at 17 years of my life and remember things.

He's only silent because he's too thick to string two words together.