J.K. Rowling · 341 pages
Rating: (2.1M votes)
“It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”
“Oh well... I'd just been thinking, if you had died, you'd have been welcome to share my toilet.”
“Of all the trees we could've hit, we had to get one that hits back.”
“Honestly, if you were any slower, you’d be going backward.”
“Ginny!" said Mr. Weasley, flabbergasted. "Haven't I taught you anything? What have I always told you? Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain?”
“Well, you're expelling us aren't you?" said Ron.
"Not today, Mr. Weasley."
Snape looked as though Christmas had been canceled.”
“I'll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I'm not there.”
“Harry — I think I've just understood something! I've got to go to the library!”
And she sprinted away, up the stairs.
“What does she understand?” said Harry distractedly, still looking around, trying to tell where the voice had come from.
“Loads more than I do,” said Ron, shaking his head.
“But why’s she got to go to the library?”
“Because that’s what Hermione does,” said Ron, shrugging. “When in doubt, go to the library.”
“When in doubt, go to the library.”
“You will find that I will only truly have left this school when none here are loyal to me.”
“Your aunt and uncle will be proud, though, won't they?" said Hermione as they got off the train and joined the crowd thronging toward the enchanted barrier. "When they hear what you did this year?"
"Proud?" said Harry. "Are you crazy? All those times I could've died, and I didn't manage it? They'll be furious...”
“Lockhart'll sign anything if it stands still long enough.”
“Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the wizarding world.”
“Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of
their way to march ahead of Harry down the corridors, shouting, "Make way for
the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through ......
Percy was deeply disapproving of this behavior.
"It is not a laughing matter," he said coldly.
"Oh, get out of the way, Percy," said Fred. "Harry's in a hurry."
"Yeah, he's off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cup of tea with his fanged
servant," said George, chortling.
Ginny didn't find it amusing either.
"Oh, don't," she wailed every time Fred asked Harry loudly who he was
planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Harry off with a large
clove of garlic when they met.”
“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair is as dark as a blackboard.
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.”
“Do I look stupid?" snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache.”
“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know," Harry told Ron as they crossed the lawn.
"Yeah, I've seen those things they think are gnomes," said Ron, bent double with his head in a peony bush, "like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods...”
“If he doesn't stop trying to save your life he's going to kill you.”
“The three of them fell silent. After a long pause, Hermione voiced the knottiest question of all in a hesitant voice.
“Do you think we should go and ask Hagrid about it all?”
“That’d be a cheerful visit,” said Ron, “ ‘Hello, Hagrid. Tell us, have you been setting anything mad and hairy loose in the castle lately?”
“Beds empty! No note! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my mind with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy —"
"Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.
“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your father his job —”
It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Harry, who backed away.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she said.”
“I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”
“What exactly is the function of a rubber duck?”
“You will also find that help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.”
“Hang on . . .” Harry muttered to Ron. “There’s an empty chair at the staff table. . . . Where’s Snape?”
"Maybe he's ill!" said Ron hopefully.
“Maybe he’s left,” said Harry, “because he missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again!”
“Or he might have been sacked!” said Ron enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates him —”
“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, “he’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.”
Harry spun around. There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape.”
“Azkaban - the wizard prison, Goyle." said Malfoy, looking at him in disbelief. "Honestly, if you were any slower, you'd be going backward.”
“It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are far more than our abilities.”
“And I must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet, too,' he added thoughtfully. 'We'll be needing a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.... Dear me, we do seem to run through them, don't we?”
“Famous Harry Potter," said Malfoy. "Can't even go to a bookshop without making the front page.”
“The poor things keep calling in those – those pumbles, I think they're called – you know, the ones who mend pipes and things – "
"Plumbers?"
" – exactly, yes, but of course they're flummoxed.”
“Oh, Potter, you rotter, oh, what have you done,
You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun — ”
“Everything he had planted that spring was blooming like a garden. Why, he could just hear the potatoes grow!”
“The heart knows no logic, and rarely corresponds with the brain.”
“When I was first aware that I had been laid low by the disease, I felt a need, among other things, to register a strong protest against the word "depression." Depression, most people know, used to be termed "melancholia," a word which appears in English as the year 1303 and crops up more than once in Chaucer, who in his usage seemed to be aware of its pathological nuances. "Melancholia" would still appear to be a far more apt and evocative word for the blacker forms of the disorder, but it was usurped by a noun with a blank tonality and lacking any magisterial presence, used indifferently to describe an economic decline or a rut in the ground, a true wimp of a word for such a major illness.
It may be that the scientist generally held responsible for its currency in modern times, a Johns Hopkins Medical School faculty member justly venerated -- the Swiss-born psychiatrist Adolf Meyer -- had a tin ear for the finer rhythms of English and therefore was unaware of the semantic damage he had inflicted for such a dreadful and raging disease. Nonetheless, for over seventy-five years the word has slithered innocuously through the language like a slug, leaving little trace of its intrinsic malevolence and preventing, by its insipidity, a general awareness of the horrible intensity of the disease when out of control.”
“Those we love, we can grow to hate. And life...life can be perfect one minute and in shambles the next.”
“No, Daemon,” Jaenelle said gently, looking up at him with her ancient, wistful, haunted eyes. “Everyone knows I’m different. It just doesn’t matter to some—and it matters a lot to others.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Why am I different?” Daemon looked away. Oh, child. How could he explain that she was dreams made flesh? That for some of them, she made the blood in their veins sing? That she was a kind of magic the Blood hadn’t seen in so very, very long? “What does the Priest say?” Jaenelle sniffed. “He says growing up is hard work.” Daemon smiled sympathetically. “It is that.”
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