I Am The Freest Author In The

Hedwig Didn't Return Until The End Of The Easter Holidays. Percy's Letter Was Enclosed In A Package Of Easter Eggs That Mrs. Weasley Had Sent. Both Harry's And Ron's Were The Size Of Dragon Eggs, And Full Of Home-made Toffee. Hermione's, However, Was Smaller Than A Chicken's Egg. Her Face Fell When She Saw It. "your Mum Doesn't Read Witch's Weekly, By Any Chance, Does She, Ron?" She Asked Quietly. "yeah," Said Ron, Whose Mouth Was Full Of Toffee. "gets It For The Recipes." Hermione Looked Sadly At Her Tiny Egg.

It Is Impossible To Manufacture Or Imitate Love.

I Hope You're Pleased With Yourselves. We Could All Have Been Killed - Or Worse, Expelled. Now If You Don't Mind, I'm Going To Bed.

I'll Be Writing Until I Can't Write Anymore. It's A Compulsion With Me. I Love Writing.

Poverty Entails Fear And Stress And Sometimes Depression. It Meets A Thousand Petty Humiliations And Hardships. Climbing Out Of Poverty By Your Own Efforts That Is Something On Which To Pride Yourself But Poverty Itself Is Romanticized By Fools.