Why Spellcheckers Are Not Proofreaders, Part Too

• I didn't cry; without the presence of the corpse, my tears were repressed against, replaced not by numbness but a cold anger...
  Repressed against... what?
  
  
• I turned as they passed by, and went back to my room, relived but chilled.
  Hey, better than going back to your room redied and chilled.
  
  
• His chest was cut. Not scared like mine...
  Actually, his chest was terrified.
  
  
• ...of doing anything much more than just keeping my arms around his back, my lips coving his face
  ?
  
  
• He'd bring in the newspaper and we'd poor over Quidditch scores...
  Don't bet on the Chudley Cannons, people.
  
  
• This time, it was Hermione collapsed, crumpled and convoluting just inside the door.
  Poor Hermione. Nobody understands her convolutions.
  
  
• And for the first time, fingers tugging at my hair and muscles taught beneath my hands...
  Inquiring minds want to know exactly what your hands taught his muscles!
  
  
• I had stopped reading potions books all together.
  Sweetie, you're supposed to read them one at a time.
  
  
• Even his hair seemed falter than usual.
  Some days my hair seems hesitate than usual.
  
  
• ...and while I continued to pour through books for him...
  Waterlogged-books everywhere. Fellas, next time you're confronted with written material, how about you just read it?
  
  
• Bags under his eyes and unwashed hair growing think with dust.
  ::collapses:: ::and convolutes::
  
  
• ...if you really wanted to give me a present, you'd come town to Christmas dinner today...
  I'd rather come village to Christmas dinner. More homey.
  
  
• What I remember is this: darkness and dust in my eyes and the sweet sent of wine...
  But he forgot the sweet received of wine. ::sigh::
  
  
• I knew that after eleven the kitchen normally cleared, and that's what a wanted.
  And that's what a got.