“Not at all up to your usual standard, Hermione. Only one out of three, I’m afraid. I have not been helping Sirius get into the castle and I certainly don’t want Harry dead. But I won’t deny that I am a werewolf.”

“You mean the Prophet won’t print it because Fudge won’t let them,” said Hermione irritably.Rita gave Hermione a long, hard look. Then, leaning forward across the table toward her, she said in a businesslike tone, “All right, Fudge is leaning on the Prophet, but it comes to the same thing. They won’t print a story that shows Harry in a good light. Nobody wants to read it. It’s against the public mood. This last Azkaban breakout has got people quite worried enough. People just don’t want to believe You-Know-Who’s back.”“So the Daily Prophet exists to tell people what they want to hear, does it?” said Hermione scathingly.Rita sat up straight again, her eyebrows raised, and drained her glass of firewhisky.“The Prophet exists to sell itself, you silly girl,” she said coldly.”

“Harry and Hermione are very platonic friends. But I won't answer for anyone else, nudge-nudge wink-wink!”

“I love you, Hermione,” said Ron.”

“For future reference, Harry, it is raspberry...although of course, if I were a Death Eater, I would have been sure to research my own jam preferences before impersonating myself.”

“Harry, Cedric, I suggest you both go up to bed," said Dumbledore, smiling at both of them. "I am sure Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.”

“The spells are made up. I have met people who assure me, very seriously, that they are trying to do them, and I can assure them, just as seriously, that they don’t work.”