Professor Snape was forcing them to research antidotes. They took this one seriously, as he had hinted that he might be poisoning one of them before Christmas to see if their antidote worked.

She can't keep writing about what a tragic little hero I am, it'll get boring.

And Harry, with the unerring skill of the Seeker, caught the wand in his free hand as Voldemort fell backward, arms splayed, the slit pupils of the scarlet eyes rolling upward. Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort was dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hands, staring down at his enemy's shell.

But Colin's only understanding of love was of limitless loyalty, boundless tolerance.

He's a werewolf! That's why he's been missing classes!

Clever as I am, I remain just as big a fool as anyone else.

You don't know what I'm capable of, you don't know what I've done!