Failure Is Not Fun. It Can Be

The Idea Of Dumbledore's Corpse Frightened Harry Much Less Than The Possibility That He Might Have Misunderstood The Living Dumbledore's Intentions.

They Heard The Click Of The Mail Slot And Flop Of Letters On The Doormat. "get The Mail, Dudley," Said Uncle Vernon From Behind His Paper. "make Harry Get It." "get The Mail, Harry." "make Dudley Get It." "poke Him With Your Smelting Stick, Dudley.

During The First Five Years That I Was Writing The Series, I Made Plans And Wrote Small Pieces Of All The Books. I Concentrate On One Book At A Time, Though Occasionally I Will Get An Idea For A Future Book And Scribble It Down For Future Reference.

Yeah You Can Have A Word," Said Harry Savagely. "good-bye.

And Harry, With The Unerring Skill Of The Seeker, Caught The Wand In His Free Hand As Voldemort Fell Backward, Arms Splayed, The Slit Pupils Of The Scarlet Eyes Rolling Upward. Tom Riddle Hit The Floor With A Mundane Finality, His Body Feeble And Shrunken, The White Hands Empty, The Snakelike Face Vacant And Unknowing. Voldemort Was Dead, Killed By His Own Rebounding Curse, And Harry Stood With Two Wands In His Hands, Staring Down At His Enemy's Shell.