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“Harry — you’re a great wizard, you know.” “I’m not as good as you,” said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him. “Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There are more important things — friendship and bravery and — oh Harry — be careful!”
There was already someone there — but it wasn’t Snape. It wasn’t even Voldemort.
“Yes, Severus does seem the type, doesn’t he? So useful to have him swooping around like an overgrown bat.
There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.
Where there should have been a back to Quirrell’s head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.
After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.
“Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”
“I’ve met him and I’m calling him by his name.
“It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.”
