Hogwarts was the first and best home he had known. He and Voldemort and Snape, the abandoned boys, had all found home here.

Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

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. . . .

Who's Kreacher?" "The house-elf who lives here," said Ron. "Nutter. Never met one like him." "He is not a nutter," said Hermione. "His life's ambition is to have his head cut off and stuck up on a plaque like his mother", said Ron. "Is that normal, Hermione?

The mistake ninety-nine percent of humanity made, as far as Fats could see, was being ashamed of what they were; lying about it, trying to be somebody else.

He sounds exactly like Moody," said Harry quietly, tucking the letter away again inside his robes. "'Constant vigilance!' You'd think I walk around with my eyes shut, banging off the walls.

It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This, thought Harry, was surely the only way to travel - past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartment.