He knew one thing only, and it was beyond fear or reason: He was not going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die kneeling at Voldemort’s feet . . . he was going to die upright like his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defense was possible. . . .

Hide them all, then. Keep her – them – safe. Please.' And what will you give me in return, Severus?' In – in return? Anything.

Parminder kept her unwept tears locked tightly inside where they seemed to undergo an alchemical transformation, returning to the outer world as lava slides of rage.

Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, but Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything.

Power was my weakness and my temptation.

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

Depression isn't just being a bit sad. It's feeling nothing. It's not wanting to be alive anymore.