You Know, I Sometimes Think We Sort

Hello, Harry" Said George, Beaming At Him. "we Thought We Heard Your Dulcet Tones." "you Don't Want To Bottle Up Your Anger Like That, Harry, Let It All Out," Said Fred, Also Beaming. "there Might Be A Couple Of People Fifty Miles Away Who Didn't Hear You.

Anyone Can Speak Troll. All You Have To Do Is Point And Grunt.

Every Second He Breathed, The Smell Of The Grass, The Cool Air On His Face, Was So Precious: To Think That People Had Years And Years, Time To Waste, So Much Time It Dragged, And He Was Clinging To Each Second.

Well?" Ron Said Finally, Looking Up At Harry. "how Was It?" Harry Considered It For A Moment. "wet," He Said Truthfully. Ron Made A Noise That Might Have Indicated Jubilation Or Disgust, It Was Hard To Tell. "because She Was Crying," Harry Continued Heavily. "oh," Said Ron, His Smile Faded Slightly. "are You That Bad At Kissing?" "dunno," Said Harry, Who Hadn't Considered This, And Immediately Felt Rather Worried. "maybe I Am.

I've Got Two Daughters Who Will Have To Make Their Way In This Skinny-obsessed World, And It Worries Me, Because I Don't Want Them To Be Empty-headed, Self-obsessed, Emaciated Clones; I'd Rather They Were Independent, Interesting, Idealistic, Kind, Opinionated, Original, Funny – A Thousand Things, Before 'thin'. And Frankly, I'd Rather They Didn't Give A Gust Of Stinking Chihuahua Flatulence Whether The Woman Standing Next To Them Has Fleshier Knees Than They Do. Let My Girls Be Hermiones, Rather Than Pansy Parkinsons. Let Them Never Be Stupid Girls.