Knocking The Shrieking Goblins Aside Like Skittles

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.

Imagination Is The Power That Enables Us To Empathize With Humans Whose Experiences We Have Never Shared.

What’s Comin’ Will Come, An’ We’ll Meet It When It Does.

Are — You — Insane?” Said Hermione In A Hushed Voice. 'i Don't Think So,' Said Harry, Shrugging.

Your Great Puddin' Of A Son Don' Need Fattin' Anymore Dursley, Don't Worry