From This Point Forth, We Shall Be

Howard Was Almost As Fond Of This Hall As He Was Of His Own Shop. The Brownies Used It On Tuesdays, And The Women's Institute On Wednesdays. It Had Hosted Jumble Sales And Jubilee Celebrations, Wedding Receptions And Wakes, And It Smelled Of All Of These Things: Of Stale Clothes And Coffee Urns, And The Ghosts Of Home-baked Cakes And Meat Salads; Of Dust And Human Bodies; But Primarily Of Aged Wood And Stone.

And Hermione Was Struggling To Her Feet In The Wreckage, And Three Red-headed Men Were Grouped On The Ground Where The Wall Had Blasted Apart. Harry Grabbed Hermione's Hand As They Staggered And Stumbled Over Stone And Wood. 'no - No - No!' Someone Was Shouting. 'no! Fred! No!' And Percy Was Shaking His Brother, And Ron Was Kneeling Beside Them, And Fred's Eyes Stared Without Seeing, The Ghost Of His Last Laugh Still Etched Upon His Face.

The Middle Class Is So Funny, It's The Class I Know Best, And It's The Class Where You Find The Most Pretension, So That's What Makes The Middle Classes So Funny.

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.

I've Laid My Friends Bare.