Yeah, I Get A Death Scene, But

I’ll Make Goyle Do Lines, It’ll Kill Him, He Hates Writing,” Said Ron Happily. He Lowered His Voice To Goyle’s Low Grunt And, Screwing Up His Face In A Look Of Pained Concentration, Mimed Writing In Midair. “i... Must... Not... Look... Like... A... Baboon’s... Backside.

Then He Heard A Terrible Cry That Pulled At His Insides, That Expressed Agony Of A Kind That Neither Flame Nor Curse Could Cause, And He Stood Up, Swaying, More Frightened Than He Had Been That Day, More Frightened, Perhaps, Than He Had Been In His Whole Life.

He Can Run Faster Than Severus Snape Confronted With Shampoo.

It Was Important, Dumbledore Said, To Fight, And Fight Again, And Keep Fighting, For Only Then Could Evil Be Kept At Bay, Though Never Quite Eradicated. . . .

The Trouble Is, The Other Side Can Do Magic Too, Prime Minister.