I Feel 80% Of My Life Is

Harry Felt Winded, As Though He Had Just Walked Into Something Heavy. He Had Last Seen Those Cool Gray Eyes Through Slits In A Death Eater’s Hood, And Last Heard That Man’s Voice Jeering In A Dark Graveyard While Lord Voldemort Tortured Him. He Could Not Believe That Lucius Malfoy Dared Look Him In The Face; He Could Not Believe That He Was Here, In The Ministry Of Magic, Or That Cornelius Fudge Was Talking To Him, When Harry Had Told Fudge Mere Weeks Ago That Malfoy Was A Death Eater.

Their Reward For Enduring The Awful Experience Was The Right To Tell People About It.

There Was A Lot More To Magic, As Harry Quickly Found Out, Than Waving Your Wand And Saying A Few Funny Words.

The Fame Thing Is Interesting Because I Never Wanted To Be Famous, And I Never Dreamt I Would Be Famous. You Know, My Fantasy Of Being A Famous Writer, And Again There's A Slight Disconnect With Reality Which Happens A Lot With Me. I Imagined Being A Famous Writer Would Be Like Being Like Jane Austen.

As The Sun Fell Below The Horizon, Sir Luckless Emerged From The Waters With The Glory Of His Triumph Upon Him, And Flung Himself In His Rusted Armor At The Feet Of Amata, Who Was The Kindest And Most Beautiful Woman He Had Ever Beheld. Flushed With Success, He Begged For Her Hand And Her Heart, And Amata, No Less Delighted, Realized That She Had Found A Man Worthy Of Them.