Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Harry Potter, #7)

by J.K. Rowling

An odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around his neck.

His will to live had always been so much stronger than his fear of death.

Why had he never appreciated what a miracle he was, brain and nerve and bounding heart?

It was not, after all, so easy to die. Every second he breathed, the smell of the grass, the cool air on his face, was so precious: To think that people had years and years, time to waste, so much time it dragged, and he was clinging to each second.

It is a curious thing, Harry, but perhaps those who are best suited to power are those who have never sought it. Those who, like you, have leadership thrust upon them, and take up the mantle because they must, and find to their own surprise that they wear it well.

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”