The Dementors Send Their Love, Potter!

But The Idea Of The Dark Lord In Possesion Of The Deathstick Is, I Must Admit, Formidable.

The Sky Was A Cold Iron-grey, Like The Underside Of A Shield. A Sharp Breeze Lifted The Hems Of Skirts And Rattled The Leaves On The Immature Trees; A Spiteful, Chill Wind That Sought Out Your Weakest Places, The Nape Of Your Neck And Your Knees, And Which Denied You The Comfort Of Dreaming, Of Retreating A Little From Reality.

Imagine Losing Fingernails, Harry! That Really Puts Our Sufferings Into Perspective, Doesn't It?

What's The Worst That Could Happen? Everyone Turned Me Down; Big Deal.

Parminder Kept Her Unwept Tears Locked Tightly Inside Where They Seemed To Undergo An Alchemical Transformation, Returning To The Outer World As Lava Slides Of Rage.