I Would Always Want Printed Books.

Well, [bad] Times Like That Bring Out The Best In Some People And The Worst In Others.

These Girls... They're Going To Kill Me, Harry.

The Poor Things Keep Calling In Those – Those Pumbles, I Think They're Called – You Know, The Ones Who Mend Pipes And Things – " "plumbers?" " – Exactly, Yes, But Of Course They're Flummoxed.

Dumbledore Was On His Feet Again, Pale As Any Of The Surrounding Inferi, But Taller Than Any Too, The Fire Dancing In His Eyes; His Wand Was Raised Like A Torch And From Its Tip Emanated The Flames, Like A Vast Lasso, Encircling Them All With Warmth.

We Must Try Not To Sink Beneath Our Anguish, Harry, But Battle On.