That’s what death did, it treated you like a child, like everything you had ever thought and done and cared about was just a child’s game, to be crumpled up and thrown away when it was over. It didn’t matter. Death didn’t respect you. Death thought you were bullshit, and it wanted to make sure you knew it.

Magic is wild, dangerous stuff. You never realize how useful limitations are until it's much too late.

Maybe this was one of those times when being a hero didn’t involve looking particularly brave. It was just doing what you should.

I have spent many, many hours reading J.K. Rowling's work. I am a known 'Harry Potter' fan.

I think for a long time, I was paralyzed by some of my hopes and ideals for what my life was going to be like. I had this perfect vision of how my life should go, but it seemed - it was - impossible to realize, so I sat around for a long, long time doing almost nothing at all.

The process of learning is a nonstop orgy of wonderment.

In a way fighting was just like using magic. You said the words, and they altered the universe. By merely speaking you could create damage and pain, cause tears to fall, drive people away, make yourself feel better, make your life worse.