Do Not Pity The Dead, Harry.

Get Off Me,” Harry Spat, Throwing Pettigrew’s Hands Off Him In Disgust. “i’m Not Doing This For You. I’m Doing It Because — I Don’t Reckon My Dad Would’ve Wanted Them To Become Killers — Just For You.

But As He Reached The Ground And Sprinted Towards The Dais, Lupin Grabbed Harry Around The Chest, Holding Him Back. There's Nothing You Can Do, Harry -' Get Him, Save Him, He's Only Just Gone Through!' - It's Too Late, Harry.' We Can Still Reach Him -' Harry Struggled Hard And Viciously, But Lupin Would Not Let Go... There's Nothing You Can Do, Harry...nothing...he's Gone.

Facing This Stuff, In Real Life Is Not Like School, In School, If You Make A Mistake You Can Just Try Again Tomorrow, But Out There...when Your A Second Away From Being Murdered Or Watching A Friend Die Right Before Your Eyes...you Don't Know What That's Like.

Everything Had Shattered. The Fact That It Was All Still There — The Walls And The Chairs And The Children’s Pictures On The Walls — Meant Nothing. Every Atom Of It Had Been Blasted Apart And Reconstituted In An Instant, And Its Appearance Of Permanence And Solidity Was Laughable; It Would Dissolve At A Touch, For Everything Was Suddenly Tissue-thin And Friable.

Deliberately Causing Mayhem In Snape's Potions Class Was About As Safe As Poking A Sleeping Dragon In The Eye.