Don't, Ginny, We'll Send You Loads Of

No, Thanks," Said Harry. "the Toilet's Never Had Anything As Horrible As Your Head Down It— It Might Be Sick." Then He Ran, Before Dudley Could Work Out What He'd Said.

The Poor Things Keep Calling In Those – Those Pumbles, I Think They're Called – You Know, The Ones Who Mend Pipes And Things – " "plumbers?" " – Exactly, Yes, But Of Course They're Flummoxed.

I Heard From My Dear Friend Tiberius Ogden, That You Can Produce A Patronus? For A Bonus Point...? Harry Raised His Wand, Looked Directly At Umbridge, And Imagined Her Being Sacked. Expecto Patronum! The Silver Stag Erupted From The End Of His Wand And Cantered The Length Of The Hall.

He Put His Foot On One Pedal, Scooted A Few Yards And Swung His Other Leg Over The Saddle. He Soared Left Into The Vertiginously Sloping Hillside Road And Sped, Without Touching His Brakes ... The Hedgerows And Sky Blurred; He Imagined Himself In A Velodrome As The Wind Whipped His Hair Clean...

I Don't Read 'chick Lit,' Fantasy Or Science Fiction But I'll Give Any Book A Chance If It's Lying There And I've Got Half An Hour To Kill.