I Am The Freest Author In The

On And On They Flew, Over The Countryside Parceled Out In Patches Of Green And Brown, Over Roads And Rivers Winding Through The Landscapes Like Strips Of Matte And Glossy Ribbon.

Dumbledore Paused, And Although His Voice Remained Light And Calm, And He Gave No Obvious Sign Of Anger, Harry Felt A Kind Of Chill Emanating From Him And Noticed That The Dursleys Drew Very Slightly Closer Together. “you Did Not Do As I Asked. You Have Never Treated Harry As A Son. He Has Known Nothing But Neglect And Often Cruelty At Your Hands. The Best That Can Be Said Is That He Has At Least Escaped The Appalling Damage You Have Inflicted Upon The Unfortunate Boy Sitting Between You.

Every Writer Prefers Good Reviews Over Bad Ones, And Every Writer Wants To Have Lots Of Readers. But If It Doesn't Happen, That's Fine Too. Perhaps I Won't Throw A Party Then; I'll Simply Go Home And Keep Writing.

It Is Not About Striving For Immortality, But About Accepting Mortality.

And Now A Chill Settled Over Them Where They Stood, And Harry Heard The Rasping Breath Of The Dementors That Patrolled The Outer Trees. They Would Not Affect Him Now. The Fact Of His Own Survival Burned Inside Him, A Talisman Against Them, As Though His Father's Stag Kept Guardian In His Heart.