Never try to understand the students. They hate it. They would much rather be tragically misunderstood, wallow in self-pity, stew in their own —” “That’s enough, Phineas,” said Dumbledore.
You should write a book," Ron told Hermione as he cut up his potatoes, "translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them.
Amazing, how much more difficult it was to extend his arm twelve inches and touch her hand than it was to snatch a speeding Snitch from midair ...
I see a light in the kitchen. Let us not deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are.
Rita looked as though she would have liked nothing better than to seize the paper umbrella sticking out of Hermione's drink and thrust it up her nose.
Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak people, in other words...
There are plenty of eyewitness accounts, just because you're so narrow-minded you need to have everything shoved under your nose before you-
Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?" "Yes." "You called her a liar?" "Yes." "You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?" "Yes." "Have a biscuit, Potter.
The thing about growing up with Fred and George," said Ginny thoughtfully, "is that you sort of start thinking anything's possible if you've got enough nerve.
From this point forth, we shall be leaving the firm foundation of fact and journeying together through the murky marshes of memory into thickets of wildest guesswork.
Every mystery ever solved had been a puzzle from the dawn of the human species right up until someone solved it.
I'm lazy! I hate work! Hate hard work in all its forms! Clever shortcuts, that's all I'm about!
One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.
He hurried to car and set off home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.
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.
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.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.
Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground.
I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed - or worse, expelled. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to bed.
What's a dementor?" I mean, I can't even. "Nora, you are no longer my sister." "So it's some Harry Potter thing," she says.
When loneliness is a constant state of being, it harkens back to a childhood wherein neglect and abandonment were the landscape of life.
