Every Writer Must Have A Chip Of

Perhaps Just One More, Master Harry, For Luck?

Sirius's Gaunt Face Broke Out Into The First True Smile Harry Had Seen Upon It. The Difference It Made Was Startling, As Though A Person Ten Years Younger Were Shining Through The Starved Mask; For A Moment He Was Recognizable As The Man Who Had Laughed At Harry's Parents' Wedding.

Dumbledore Would Have Been Happier Than Anybody To Think That There Was A Little More Love In The World.

Every Hour That Passed Added To Her Grief, Because It Bore Her Further Away From The Living Man, And Because It Was A Tiny Foretaste Of The Eternity She Would Have To Spend Without Him.

It Was, He Thought, The Difference Between Being Dragged Into The Arena To Face A Battle To The Death And Walking Into The Arena With Your Head Held High. Some People, Perhaps, Would Say That There Was Little To Choose Between The Two Ways, But Dumbledore Knew - And So Do I, Thought Harry, With A Rush Of Fierce Pride, And So Did My Parents - That There Was All The Difference In The World.