It sort of floated toward me,” said Ron, illustrating the movement with his free index finger, “right to my chest, and then — it just went straight through. It was here,” he touched a point close to his heart, “I could feel it, it was hot. And once it was inside me I knew what I was supposed to do, I knew it would take me where I needed to go. So I Disapparated and came out on the side of a hill. There was snow everywhere. . . .

As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters. I wish you all very good lives.

How awful it was, thought Tessa, remembering Fats the toddler, the way tiny ghosts of your living children haunted your heart; they could never know, and would hate it if they did, how their growing was a constant bereavement.

I've laid my friends bare.

... you could claim that anything's real if the only basis for believing in it is that nobody's proved it doesn't exist!

The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.

And the idea of just wandering off to a cafe with a notebook and writing and seeing where that takes me for awhile is just bliss.