"I’ll make Goyle do lines, it’ll kill him, he hates writing,” said Ron happily. He lowered his voice to Goyle’s low grunt and, screwing up his face in a look of pained concentration, mimed writing in midair. “I... must... not... look... like... a... baboon’s... backside."
"I am not forgotten, you know, no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail.. . . Gladys Gudgeon writes weekly. . . . I just wish I knew why. . . .”He paused, looking faintly puzzled, then beamed again and returned to his signing with renewed vigor. “I suspect it is simply my good looks. . . ."
"Just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have."
"My Head of House said I lacked certain necessary qualities...like the ability to behave myself."
"From now on, I don't care if my tea leaves spell 'Die, Ron, Die,' I'm chucking them in the bin where they belong."
"Why were you lurking under our window?""Yes - yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our windows, boy?""Listening to the news,"said Harry in a resigned voice.His aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage."Listening to the news! Again?""Well, it changes every day, you see,"said Harry."