Professor Trelawney: "everything Went Pitch-black And The

I Wasn't Paying Attention," Said Myrtle Dramatically. "peeves Upset Me So Much I Came In Here And Tried To Kill Myself. Then, Of Course, I Remembered That I'm -- That I'm --" "already Dead," Said Ron Hopefully. Myrtle Gave A Tragic Sob, Rose Up In The Air, Turned Over, And Dived Headfirst Into The Toilet, Splashing Water All Over Them And Vanishing From Sight, Although From The Direction Of Her Muffled Sobs, She Had Come To Rest Somewhere In The U-bend.

Somewhere Out In The Darkness, A Phoenix Was Singing In A Way Harry Had Never Heard Before: A Stricken Lament Of Terrible Beauty. And Harry Felt, As He Had Felt About Phoenix Song Before, That The Music Was Inside Him, Not Without: It Was His Own Grief Turned Magically To Song.

I Don't Need To Publish To Make A Living.

Don't, Ginny, We'll Send You Loads Of Owls. We'll Send You A Hogwarts Toilet Seat. George! Only Joking, Mum.

I've Got Two Daughters Who Will Have To Make Their Way In This Skinny-obsessed World, And It Worries Me, Because I Don't Want Them To Be Empty-headed, Self-obsessed, Emaciated Clones; I'd Rather They Were Independent, Interesting, Idealistic, Kind, Opinionated, Original, Funny – A Thousand Things, Before 'thin'. And Frankly, I'd Rather They Didn't Give A Gust Of Stinking Chihuahua Flatulence Whether The Woman Standing Next To Them Has Fleshier Knees Than They Do. Let My Girls Be Hermiones, Rather Than Pansy Parkinsons. Let Them Never Be Stupid Girls.