Somewhere out in the darkness, a phoenix was singing in a way Harry had never heard before: a stricken lament of terrible beauty. And Harry felt, as he had felt about phoenix song before, that the music was inside him, not without: It was his own grief turned magically to song.

Her voice was now so shrill only bats would be able to hear it soon, but she had reached a level of indignation that rendered her temporarily speechless.

No, Harry, you listen," said Hermione. "We're coming with you. That was decided months ago - years, really.

Stone dead," said Howard, as though there were degrees of deadness, and the kind that Barry Fairbrother had contracted was particularly sordid.

Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the fates.

I am very frustrated by fear of imagination, I don’t think that’s healthy.

Harry: "And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?” Ron: “Throw it away and punch him on the nose.