No Witch Has Ever Claimed To Own

I Think Mum's Got A Second Cousin Who's An Accountant, But We Never Talk About Him.

A Lemon Drop. They're A Kind Of Muggle Sweet I'm Rather Fond Of.

Hermione: You! You Foul, Loathsome, Evil Little Cocroach! Ron: Hermione, No! He's No Worth It.

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.

You Are Here To Learn The Subtle Science And Exact Art Of Potion-making. As There Is Little Foolish Wand-waving Here, Many Of You Will Hardly Believe This Is Magic. I Don't Expect You Will Really Understand The Beauty Of The Softly Simmering Cauldron With Its Shimmering Fumes, The Delicate Power Of Liquids That Creep Through Human Veins, Bewitching The Mind, Ensnaring The Senses. . . I Can Teach You How To Bottle Fame, Brew Glory, Even Stopper Death — If You Aren't As Big A Bunch Of Dunderheads As I Usually Have To Teach.