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Never once had he imagined Dumbledore’s childhood or youth; it was as though he had sprung into being as Harry had known him, venerable and silver-haired and old. The idea of a teenage Dumbledore was simply odd, like trying to imagine a stupid Hermione or a friendly Blast-Ended Skrewt.
“How do you feel, Georgie?” whispered Mrs. Weasley. George’s fingers groped for the side of his head. “Saintlike,” he murmured. “What’s wrong with him?” croaked Fred, looking terrified. “Is his mind affected?” “Saintlike,” repeated George, opening his eyes and looking up at his brother. “You see . . . I’m holy. Holey, Fred, geddit?”
“Seventeen, eh!” said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred. “Six years ter the day since we met, Harry, d’yeh remember it?” “Vaguely,” said Harry, grinning up at him. “Didn’t you smash down the front door, give Dudley a pig’s tail, and tell me I was a wizard?”
Ah the good times
the same, we should get to bed,” whispered Hermione. “It wouldn’t do to oversleep tomorrow.” “No,” agreed Ron. “A brutal triple murder by the bridegroom’s mother might put a bit of a damper on the wedding.
Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t, but the fact remains he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to,
“Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.
“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
Oh great I'm not going insane <3
Somewhere in the distance they could hear Peeves zooming through the corridors singing a victory song of his own composition: We did it, we bashed them, wee Potter’s the one, And Voldy’s gone moldy, so now let’s have fun! “Really gives a feeling for the scope and tragedy of the thing, doesn’t it?” said Ron,
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.
