Chamber Of Secrets Best Quotes

You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.

Which only goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words,' Dumbledore went on, smiling.

But Dobby shouted, "You shall not harm Harry Potter! ... He got up, face livid, and pulled out his wand, but Dobby raised a long, threatening finger. "You shall go now," he said fiercely, pointing down at Mr. Malfoy. "You shall not touch Harry Potter. You shall go now.

I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if you broke any more school rules,” said Dumbledore. Ron opened his mouth in horror. “Which goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words,” Dumbledore went on, smiling.

I'm not going anywhere!" said Harry fiercely. "One of my best friends is Muggle-born; she'll be first in line if the Chamber really has been opened...

What makes us want to know the worst? Is it that we tire of preferring to know the best? Does curiosity always hurdle self-interest? Or is it, more simply, that wanting to know the worst is love’s favourite perversion? … I loved Ellen, and i wanted to know the worst. I never provoked her; I was cautious and defensive, as is my habit; I didn’t even ask questions; but I wanted to know the worst. Ellen never returned this caress. She was fond of me - she would automatically agree, as if the matter weren’t worth of discussing, that she loved me - but she unquestioningly believed the best about me. That’s the difference. She didn’t ever search for that sliding panel which opens the secret chamber of the heart, the chamber where the memory and corpses are kept. Sometimes you find the panel but it doesn’t open; sometimes it opens, and your gaze meets nothing but a mouse skeleton. But at least you’ve looked. That’s the real distinction between people: not between those who have secrets and those who don’t, but between those who want to know everything and those who don’t. This search is a sign of love, I maintain.

Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?” It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines. “We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were going to — to go and see —” “Hermione,” said Harry. Ron and Professor McGonagall both looked at him. “We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry —” Professor McGonagall was still staring at him, and for a moment, Harry thought she was going to explode, but when she spoke, it was in a strangely croaky voice. “Of course,” she said, and Harry, amazed, saw a tear glistening in her beady eye. “Of course, I realize this has all been hardest on the friends of those who have been … I quite understand. Yes, Potter, of course you may visit Miss Granger. I will inform Professor Binns where you’ve gone. Tell Madam Pomfrey I have given my permission.” Harry and Ron walked away, hardly daring to believe that they’d avoided detention. As they turned the corner, they distinctly heard Professor McGonagall blow her nose. “That,” said Ron fervently, “was the best story you’ve ever come up with.

Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.” “I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Malfoy coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant —” “Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Malfoy, more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for —” “It’s not my fault,” retorted Draco. “The teachers all have favorites, that Hermione Granger —” “I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam,” snapped Mr. Malfoy. “Ha!” said Harry under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry.

No," Foyle roared. "Let them hear this. Let them hear everything." "You're insane, man. You've handed a loaded gun to children." "Stop treating them like children and they'll stop behaving like children. Who the hell are you to play monitor?" "What are you talking about?" "Stop treating them like children. Explain the loaded gun to them. Bring it all out into the open." Foyle laughed savagely. "I've ended the last star-chamber conference in the world. I've blown that last secret wide open. No more secrets from now on.... No more telling the children what's best for them to know.... Let 'em all grow up. It's about time." "Christ, he is insane." "Am I? I've handed life and death back to the people who do the living and the dying. The common man's been whipped and led long enough by driven men like us.... Compulsive men... Tiger men who can't help lashing the world before them. We're all tigers, the three of us, but who the hell are we to make decisions for the world just because we're compulsive? Let the world make its own choice between life and death. Why should we be saddled with the responsibility?" "We're not saddled," Y'ang-Yeovil said quietly. "We're driven. We're forced to seize responsibility that the average man shirks." "Then let him stop shirking it. Let him stop tossing his duty and guilt onto the shoulders of the first freak who comes along grabbing at it. Are we to be scapegoats for the world forever?" "Damn you!" Dagenham raged. "Don't you realize that you can't trust people? They don't know enough for their own good." "Then let them learn or die. We're all in this together. Let's live together or die together." "D'you want to die in their ignorance? You've got to figure out how to get those slugs back without blowing everything wide open." "No. I believe in them. I was one of them before I turned tiger. They can all turn uncommon if they're kicked awake like I was.

Releasing me, he backs up and strips off his shirt then shucks his jeans. I burst into laughter. “If you think you’re going to Slytherin to my bed with those on, you’re wrong. I only allow full-fledged Hufflepuffs in there.” Zach glances down at his underwear and hangs his head. “Why did I have to wear this pair today? Why?” “What? I think they’re hot.” “You think my Harry Potter underwear are hot?” I nod. “You are my dream girl.” I grin and shake my head as I make my way to my bed. I do my best to straighten the covers before pulling back my side and climbing in. “I think you were right earlier.” “About?” he asks, standing on the other side. “This bed isn’t big enough for two. I think we’ll have to snuggle.” He smirks as he slides in, getting as close to me as possible. I don’t hesitate to match his movements—though I probably should. I should be weirded out that Zach’s in my bed. I shouldn’t gravitate toward him like I do. But I can’t help it. Zach makes me feel…comfortable. Safe. Warm. Wanted. We’re lying face to face in the middle of the bed, the blanket draped over our waists, grinning at each other like fools. “What?” I whisper. “I made it in.” “What?” I ask again, confused. “Your special Hufflepuff-only chamber of secrets.” “Did you really just…” Laughter consumes me and I’m rolling to my back and covering my face in embarrassment…for him. “You are such a nerd, Zach.

I love you, Mommy,” Marah said. To the world at large, perhaps this was an ordinary moment in an ordinary day, but to Kate it was extraordinary. This was the reason she’d chosen to stay home instead of work. She judged the meaning of her life in nanoseconds, perhaps, but she wouldn’t trade this instant for anything. “I love you, too. That’s why we’re playing hooky for the rest of the day. We’re going to go to a matinee of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.” Marah slid out of the booth, grinning. “You’re the best mommy ever.” Kate laughed. “I just hope you remember that when you’re a teenager.

No cards, no presents, and he would be spending the evening pretending not to exist. He gazed miserably into the hedge. He had never felt so lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts, more even than playing Quidditch, Harry missed his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They, however, didn’t seem to be missing him at all. Neither of them had written to him all summer, even though Ron had said he was going to ask Harry to come and stay.

It's a bit small,' said Ron quickly. 'Not like that room you had with the Muggles. And I'm right underneath the ghoul in the attic, he's always banging on the pipes and groaning ...' But Harry, grinning widely, said, 'This is the best house I've ever been in.' Ron's ears went pink.

Rose was patently a degenerate. Nature, in scheduling his characteristics, had pruned all superlatives. The rude armour of the flesh, under which the spiritual, like a hide-bound chrysalis, should develop secret and self-contained, was perished in his case, as it were, to a semi-opaque suit, through which his soul gazed dimly and fearfully on its monstrous arbitrary surroundings. Not the mantle of the poet, philosopher, or artist fallen upon such, can still its shiverings, or give the comfort that Nature denies. Yet he was a little bit of each - poet, philosopher, and artist; a nerveless and self-deprecatory stalker of ideals, in the pursuit of which he would wear patent leather shoes and all the apologetic graces. The grandson of a 'three-bottle' J.P., who had upheld the dignity of the State constitution while abusing his own in the best spirit of squirearchy; the son of a petulant dyspeptic, who alternated seizures of long moroseness with fits of abject moral helplessnes, Amos found his inheritance in the reversion of a dissipated constitution, and an imagination as sensitive as an exposed nerve. Before he was thirty he was a neurasthenic so practised, as to have learned a sense of luxury in the very consciousness of his own suffering. It was a negative evolution from the instinct of self-protection - self-protection, as designed in this case, against the attacks of the unspeakable. ("The Accursed Cordonnier")

I could have been someone from the book if you’d told me in advance.” “Yes, well, today you’d make a really great Moaning Myrtle.” Peter gives me a blank look, and disbelieving, I say, “Wait a minute…have you never read Harry Potter?” “I’ve read the first two.” “Then you should know who Moaning Myrtle is!” “It was a really long time ago,” Peter says. “Was she one of those people in the paintings?” “No! And how could you stop after Chamber of Secrets? The third one’s the best out of the whole series. I mean, that’s literally crazy to me.” I peer at his face. “Do you not have a soul?

But despite the Secret Service–like behavior, and the regal nomenclature, there’s nothing hierarchical about the way an ant colony does its thinking. “Although queen is a term that reminds us of human political systems,” Gordon explains, “the queen is not an authority figure. She lays eggs and is fed and cared for by the workers. She does not decide which worker does what. In a harvester ant colony, many feet of intricate tunnels and chambers and thousands of ants separate the queen, surrounded by interior workers, from the ants working outside the nest and using only the chambers near the surface. It would be physically impossible for the queen to direct every worker’s decision about which task to perform and when.” The harvester ants that carry the queen off to her escape hatch do so not because they’ve been ordered to by their leader; they do it because the queen ant is responsible for giving birth to all the members of the colony, and so it’s in the colony’s best interest—and the colony’s gene pool—to keep the queen safe. Their genes instruct them to protect their mother, the same way their genes instruct them to forage for food. In other words, the matriarch doesn’t train her servants to protect her, evolution does. Popular culture trades in Stalinist ant stereotypes—witness the authoritarian colony regime in the animated film Antz—but in fact, colonies are the exact opposite of command economies. While they are capable of remarkably coordinated feats of task allocation, there are no Five-Year Plans in the ant kingdom. The colonies that Gordon studies display some of nature’s most mesmerizing decentralized behavior: intelligence and personality and learning that emerges from the bottom up.

I could have been someone from the book if you’d told me in advance.” “Yes, well, today you’d make a really great Moaning Myrtle.” Peter gives me a blank look, and disbelieving, I say, “Wait a minute…have you never read Harry Potter?” “I’ve read the first two.” “Then you should know who Moaning Myrtle is!” “It was a really long time ago,” Peter says. “Was she one of those people in the paintings?” “No! And how could you stop after Chamber of Secrets? The third one’s the best out of the whole series. I mean, that’s literally crazy to me.” I peer at his face. “Do you not have a soul?” “Sorry if I haven’t read every single Harry Potter book! Sorry I have a life and I’m not in the Final Fantasy club or whatever that geek club is called--” I snatch my wand back from him and wave it in his face. “Silencio!” Peter crosses his arms. Smirking, he says, “Whatever spell you just tried to cast on me, it didn’t work, so I think you need to go back to Hogwarts.” He’s so proud of himself for the Hogwarts reference, it’s kind of endearing. Quick like a cat I pull down his mask, and then I put one hand over his mouth. With my other hand I wave my wand again. “Silencio!” Peter tries to say something, but I press my hand harder. “What? What was that? I can’t hear you, Peter Parker.” Peter reaches out and tickles me, and I laugh so hard I almost drop my wand. I dart away from him but he pounces after me, pretend shooting webs at my feet. Giggling, I run away from him, further down the hall, dodging groups of people. He gives chase all the way to chem class. A teacher screams at us to slow down, and we do, but as soon as we’re around the corner, I’m running again and so is he. I’m breathless by the time I’m in my seat. He turns around and shoots a web in my direction, and I explode into giggles again and Mr. Meyers glares at me. “Settle down,” he says, and I nod obediently. As soon as his back is turned, I giggle into my robe. I want to still be mad at Peter, but it’s just no use. Halfway through class he sends me a note. He’s drawn spiderwebs around the edges. It says, I’ll be on time tomorrow. I smile as I read it. Then I put it in my backpack, in my French textbook so the page won’t crease or crumble. I want to keep it so when this is over, I can have something to look at and remember what it was like to be Peter Kavinsky’s girlfriend. Even if it was all just pretend.

She didn’t worry that she was boring him, as Old Jane would’ve done. It didn’t matter, she reminded herself. He was paid to listen to her and make her feel like the most interesting person in the world, and so, by George, she would be. His lips pressed into a small smile that stayed. A very small smile. Sometimes almost imaginary. Jane wished that it might be bigger, that it might beam at her, but she supposed that wasn’t the Nobley way. Then when she’d decided that his smile was a figment, Mr. Nobley said--or whispered, rather-- “Let’s go look at your paintings.” What a delight, this man. How he kept surprising her, tossing aside his uptight propriety for her sake, murmuring plans for meeting in secret, fibbing to the others that he would withdraw early, then waiting upstairs for her to do the same. With a thrill to look around for watchers and scramble into her chamber, shutting the door behind them. Jane stood with her back to the door, her hands still on the knob, breathing hard and trying to laugh quietly. He was leaning against the wall, smiling. The moment was giddily awkward as she waited to see what he had in mind, if he would suddenly shed Mr. Nobley and become some other man entirely. If he would break any other rules. The wait was agonizing. She realized she didn’t know what she wanted him to do. “I would love to see those paintings,” he said, his voice still proper. “Of course,” she said. Of course he was still Mr. Nobley, of course the man, the actor, was not falling in love with her. And a relief it was, too, as she realized she wasn’t ready to let go of Pembrook Park yet. Somehow she had to be by the day after tomorrow. She presented the first painting, and he held it at arm’s length for some time before saying, “This is you,” though the portrayal was not photo-realistic. “I couldn’t quite get the eyes,” she said. “You got them just right.” He didn’t look away from the painting when he said, “They are beautiful.” Jane didn’t know whether to thank him or clear her throat, so she did neither and instead handed him the second painting or her window and the tree. “Ah,” was all he said for some time. He glanced back and forth between both paintings. “I like this second one best. Beside it, the portrait looks stiff, as though you were too cautious, measuring everything, taking away the spontaneity. The fearlessness of this window scene is a better style for you. I think, Miss Erstwhile, that you do very well when you loosen up and let the color fly.” He was right, and it felt good to admit it. Her next painting would be better. “I should let you retire.” He held the self-portrait a minute longer, gazing at it as she had sometimes felt him look at her--unblinking, curious, even urgent. She peeped through the keyhole to make sure no one was in the corridor before opening the door and letting him slip out. After a moment, she peered again and could see nothing, then Mr. Nobley’s face dropped into view. He was crouching outside her door, looking back. “Miss Erstwhile?” he whispered. “Yes, Mr. Nobley?” “Tomorrow evening, will you reserve for me the first two dances?” “Yes, Mr. Nobley.” She could hear how her voice was full of smile.

David started up the wheeled stairs to the upper floors with his sword at the ready. He expected to encounter Blackadder warriors, protecting the lady of the castle. But there were none on the stairs and none guarding the door on the first floor. Damn it. She must have escaped. He gritted his teeth as he envisioned the lady’s guards leading her through the tunnel. He was about to open the chamber door to make sure it was empty when Brian, one of his best men, came down the stairs. “Laird, I checked all the chambers while ye were in the hall,” he said. David’s jaw ached from clenching it. “There’s one door on the floor just above us that wouldn’t open with the latch,” Brian said. “Shall I break it down?” David waved him aside and pulled the ax from his belt as he raced up the stairs. “Open it!” he shouted and pounded on the door. He did not wait. She could be escaping through a secret door this very moment. Three hard whacks with his ax, and the door split. He kicked it until it swung open, then stepped through. At his first sight of the woman, his feet became fixed to the floor. He felt strange, and his vision was distorted, as if as if he had swallowed a magical potion that narrowed his sight. He could see nothing in the room but her. She was extraordinarily lovely, with violet eyes, pale skin, and shining black hair. But there was something about her, something beyond her beauty, that held him captive. She was young, much younger than he expected, and her features and form were delicate, in marked contrast to the violent emotion in her eyes. David knew to the depths of his soul that a brute like him should not be the man to claim this fragile flower, even while the word mine beat in his head like a drum. He had no notion of how long he stood staring at her before he became aware that she held a sword. It was longer still before he noticed the two wee lasses peeking out from behind her like frightened kittens. Anger boiled up in his chest. Every Blackadder man in the castle who could still draw breath should have been here, standing between him and their lady. Instead, she faced him alone with a sword she could barely lift with both hands. It was a brave, but ridiculous gesture. There was no defense against him.

Why’re you staring at the hedge?” he said suspiciously. “I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said Harry. Dudley stumbled backward at once, a look of panic on his fat face. “You c-can’t — Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic — he said he’ll chuck you out of the house — and you haven’t got anywhere else to go — you haven’t got any friends to take you —” “Jiggery pokery!” said Harry in a fierce voice. “Hocus pocus — squiggly wiggly —

That,’ said Ron fervently, ‘was the best story you’ve ever come up with.

I seem to remember telling you both that I would have to expel you if you broke any more school rules,’ said Dumbledore. Ron opened his mouth in horror. ‘Which goes to show that the best of us must sometimes eat our words,’ Dumbledore went on, smiling. ‘You will both receive Special Awards for Services to the School and – let me see – yes, I think two hundred points apiece for Gryffindor.

Harry had been to several Hogwarts feasts, but never one quite like this. Everybody was in their pyjamas, and the celebrations lasted all night. Harry didn’t know whether the best bit was Hermione running towards him, screaming, ‘You solved it! You solved it!’ or Justin hurrying over from the Hufflepuff table to wring his hand and apologise endlessly for suspecting him, or Hagrid turning up at half past three, cuffing Harry and Ron so hard on the shoulders that they were knocked into their plates of trifle, or his and Ron’s four hundred points securing Gryffindor the House Cup for the second year running, or Professor McGonagall standing up to tell them all that the exams had been cancelled as a school treat (‘Oh, no!’ said Hermione), or Dumbledore announcing that, unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would be unable to return next year, owing to the fact that he needed to go away and get his memory back. Quite a few of the teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news. ‘Shame,

Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ron’s old Shooting

Kill me, friends, for in my killing is my life. My death is in my life; my life is in my death. Annihilation of my essence is the noblest of my glories. And my attributes remaining is the foulest of my crimes. 5 My spirit tires of my life amid its lingering traces, So kill me, burn me in these fading bones, And later pass my dust in ruined tombs— You will find my lover’s secret folded into my remains. *** I was a mighty patriarch of lofty rank, 10 Then I became a child in wet nurses’ chambers, Living in a grave’s niche, in marshy grounds. My mother bore her father— that’s one of my marvels— Then my daughters, after they were daughters, were my sisters. This was no deed of time, nor act of adultery. *** 15 So gather all my parts together from burning bodies, From air and fire, and next from water pure, Then plant it all in earth whose soil is fallow, And swear to water it from cups passed round By running waitresses with running waters— 20 When you finish seven, the best of plants will bloom.

Dear Harry, Happy birthday! Think you might find this useful for next year. Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you. Hope the Muggles are treating you right. All the best, Hagrid   It

Nearly Headless Nick shook his letter open and read furiously: “‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with the greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill our requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore.

Bin wonderin’ when you’d come ter see me – come in, come in – thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again.’ Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the threshold, into the one-roomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in another. Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ron’s slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a chair. ‘Better out than in,’ he said cheerfully, plonking a large copper basin in front of him. ‘Get ’em all up, Ron.’ ‘I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it to stop,’ said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. ‘That’s a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand …’ Hagrid was bustling around, making them tea. His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Harry.

the kind of penetrating stare Harry knew so well. “Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since . . .” He sighed heavily, bade Riddle good night, and strode off. Riddle watched him walk out of sight and then, moving quickly, headed straight down the stone steps to the dungeons, with Harry in hot pursuit. But to Harry’s disappointment, Riddle led him not into a hidden passageway or a secret tunnel but to the very dungeon in which Harry had Potions with Snape.

Listen. The Sinspire is nearly sixty yards high, one thick Elderglass cylinder. You know those, you tried to jump off one about two months ago. Goes down another hundred feet or so into a glass hill. It’s got one door at street level, and exactly one door into the vault beneath the tower. One. No secrets, no side entrances. The ground is pristine Elderglass; no tunneling through it, not in a thousand years.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “Requin’s got at least four dozen attendants on each floor at any given time, plus dozens of table minders, card dealers, and waiters. There’s a lounge on the third floor where he keeps more out of sight. So figure, at minimum, fifty or sixty loyal workers on duty with another twenty to thirty he can call out. Lots of nasty brutes, too. He likes to recruit from ex-soldiers, mercenaries, city thieves, and such. He gives cushy positions to his Right People for jobs well done, and he pays them like he was their doting mother. Plus, there are stories of dealers getting a year’s wages in tips from lucky blue bloods in just a night or two. Bribery won’t be likely to work on anyone.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “He’s got three layers of vault doors, all of them ironshod witchwood, three or four inches thick. Last set of doors is supposedly backed with blackened steel, so even if you had a week to chop through the other two, you’d never get past the third. All of them have clockwork mechanisms, the best and most expensive Verrari stuff, private designs from masters of the Artificers’ Guild. The standing orders are, not one set of doors opens unless he’s there himself to see it; he watches every deposit and every withdrawal. Opens the door a couple times per day at most. Behind the first set of doors are four to eight guards, in rooms with cots, food, and water. They can hold out there for a week under siege.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “The inner sets of doors don’t open except for a key he keeps around his neck. The outer doors won’t open except for a key he always gives to his majordomo. So you’d need both to get anywhere.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “And the traps…they’re demented, or at least the rumors are. Pressure plates, counterweights, crossbows in the walls and ceilings. Contact poisons, sprays of acid, chambers full of venomous serpents or spiders…One fellow even said that there’s a chamber before the last door that fills up with a cloud of powdered strangler’s orchid petals, and while you’re choking to death on that, a bit of twistmatch falls out and lights the whole mess on fire, so then you burn to a crisp. Insult to injury.” “Mmmm-hmmmm.” “Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon attended by fifty naked women armed with poison spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin’s service. All redheads.” “You’re making that up, Jean.” “I wanted to see if you were listening. But what I’m saying is, I don’t care if he’s got a million solari in there, packed in bags for easy hauling. I’m inclined to the idea that this vault might not be breakable, not unless you’ve got three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about.” “Right.” “Do you have three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about?” “No, I’ve got you, me, the contents of our coin purses, this carriage, and a deck of cards.

Well, I’m sure no one will mind me giving the best student of the year a little extra help,” said Lockhart warmly, and he pulled out an enormous peacock quill. “Yes, nice, isn’t it?” he said, misreading the revolted look on Ron’s face. “I usually save it for book signings.

One person who did that extraordinarily well all his life was Rahul Dravid, who combined work ethic with great ability. He believes it is always better to set challenging goals even if that means occasionally falling slightly short, rather than set simple goals which could lead to dissatisfaction and leave you wondering if they were too easy. Often people are inclined to set rather simple goals for themselves, and in the process they forget that the kind of goals one sets tells the world what kind of person you are. This is perhaps best highlighted in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets when Dumbledore tells the young Harry Potter, ‘It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.’ This applies to young students, sales executives, opening batsmen and leaders of giant corporations equally.

Why’re you staring at the hedge?’ he said suspiciously. ‘I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,’ said Harry. Dudley stumbled backwards at once, a look of panic on his fat face. ‘You c-can’t – Dad told you you’re not to do m-magic – he said he’ll chuck you out of the house – and you haven’t got anywhere else to go – you haven’t got any friends to take you –’ ‘Jiggery pokery!’ said Harry in a fierce voice. ‘Hocus pocus … squiggly wiggly …’ ‘MUUUUUUM!’ howled Dudley, tripping over his feet as he dashed back towards the house. ‘MUUUUM! He’s doing you know what!’ Harry paid dearly for his moment of fun. As neither Dudley nor the hedge was in any way hurt, Aunt Petunia knew he hadn’t really done magic, but he still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at his head with the soapy frying pan. Then she gave him work to do, with the promise he wouldn’t eat again until he’d finished.