Read the desc; Harry’s p**is was vibrating as though an electric charge was surging through it... 'Your p**is, Lucius. I require your p**is.' Voldemort drew out his own p**is and compared the lengths. 'You talk about p**ises like they’ve got feelings,' said Harry, 'like they can think for themselves.' Harry's p**is had still been in his hand when he’d jumped — it had gone straight up one of the troll's nostrils. Draco’s sleek, black p**is. Identical to his father’s p**is as far as Harry could remember. Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany p**is. Eleven inches. There was a moment, in the graveyard, where Voldemort's p**is and mine sort of...connected. Snape lay panting on the ground. James and Sirius advanced on him, p**ises raised… There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your p**is and saying a few funny words. 'Your p**is, Harry! Use your p**is!' Hermione shouted. There will be no foolish p**is-waving or silly incantations in this class.
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