When he straightened up again, there were six Harry Potters gasping and panting in front of him. Fred and George turned to each other and said together, "Wow -- we're identical!

In truth, I never consider the audience for whom I'm writing. I just write what I want to write.

... you could claim that anything's real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody's proved it doesn't exist!

No, there's no University for Wizards. At the moment I'm only planning to write seven Harry Potter books. I won't say "never," but I have no plans to write an eighth book.

You know, I don’t get why Fred and George only got three O.W.L.s each,” said Harry, watching as Fred, George, and Lee collected gold from the eager crowd. “They really know their stuff. . . .” “Oh, they only know flashy stuff that’s no real use to anyone,” said Hermione disparagingly. “No real use?” said Ron in a strained voice. “Hermione, they’ve got about twenty-six Galleons already. . . .

You are the true master of death, because the true master does not seek to run away from Death. He accepts that be must die, and understands that there are far, far worse things in the living world than dying.

A tiny little wooden man [was] slowly ascending the steps to a real set of gallows, both perched on a box that read: Reusable Hangman — Spell It Or He’ll Swing!