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.

You can't give a Dementor the old one-two!

Anything's possible if you've got enough nerve.

When in doubt, go to the library.

I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by luck and chance, those wreckers of all but the best laid plans.

I am proud of having done what I've done. Very proud.

You might belong in Hufflepuff, Where they are just and loyal, Those patient Hufflepuffs are true, And unafraid of toil.