Maybe he murdered Myrtle; that would’ve done everyone a favor. . . .
Warrington’s aim’s so pathetic I’d be more worried if he was aiming for the person next to me.
Sometimes ideas just come to me. Other times I have to sweat and almost bleed to make ideas come. It's a mysterious process, but I hope I never find out exactly how it works.
It's our choices, more than anything, that show who we really are.
Here lies Dobby, a free elf.
Vot is the point of being an international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?