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.

I know what you are known as . . . but to me, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget their charges’ youthful beginnings.

I mean, is 'fat' really the worst thing a human being can be? Is 'fat' worse than 'vindictive', 'jealous', 'shallow', 'vain', 'boring' or 'cruel'? Not to me I'd rather [my daughters] were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny - a thousand things, before 'thin'. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons.

Lockhart'll sign anything if it stands still long enough.

I think you have a moral responsibility when you've been given far more than you need, to do wise things with it and give intelligently.

You'd better hurry up, they'll be waiting for 'the Chosen Captain' — 'The Boy Who Scored'— whatever they call you these days.

I'm a what?" gasped Harry. "A wizard, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be?