I Kept Arguing That 'love Is The

Sirius — It’s Me . . . It’s Peter . . . Your Friend . . . You Wouldn’t . . .” Black Kicked Out And Pettigrew Recoiled. “there’s Enough Filth On My Robes Without You Touching Them,” Said Black.

Talent And Intelligence Never Yet Inoculated Anyone Against The Caprice Of The Fates.

You Might Belong In Hufflepuff, Where They Are Just And Loyal, Those Patient Hufflepuffs Are True, And Unafraid Of Toil.

And Harry, With The Unerring Skill Of The Seeker, Caught The Wand In His Free Hand As Voldemort Fell Backward, Arms Splayed, The Slit Pupils Of The Scarlet Eyes Rolling Upward. Tom Riddle Hit The Floor With A Mundane Finality, His Body Feeble And Shrunken, The White Hands Empty, The Snakelike Face Vacant And Unknowing. Voldemort Was Dead, Killed By His Own Rebounding Curse, And Harry Stood With Two Wands In His Hands, Staring Down At His Enemy's Shell.

Depression Isn't Just Being A Bit Sad. It's Feeling Nothing. It's Not Wanting To Be Alive Anymore.