I Don't Feel I Owe My Readers

Whenever He Was In Company He Wanted To Get Away, And Whenever He Was Alone He Wanted Company.

Harry Had The Impression That Even The Barman Was Listening In. He Was Wiping The Same Glass With The Filthy Rag; It Was Becoming Steadily Dirtier.

He Was About To Go Home, About To Return To The Place Where He Had Had A Family. It Was In Godric’s Hollow That, But For Voldemort, He Would Have Grown Up And Spent Every School Holiday. He Could Have Invited Friends To His House. . . . He Might Even Have Had Brothers And Sisters. . . . It Would Have Been His Mother Who Had Made His Seventeenth Birthday Cake. The Life He Had Lost Had Hardly Ever Seemed So Real To Him As At This Moment, When He Knew He Was About To See The Place Where It Had Been Taken From Him.

It Was His Own Grief Turned Magically To Song.

Bad News, Harry. I've Just Been To See Professor Mcgonagall About The Firebolt. She – Er, Got A Bit Shirty With Me. Told Me I'd Got My Priorities Wrong. Seemed To Think I Cared More About Winning The Cup Than I Do About Staying Alive. Just Because I Told Her I Didn't Care If It Threw You Off, As Long As You Caught The Snitch First.