Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter, #5)

by J.K. Rowling

“About You-Know-Who. He said, ‘His gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust —’” “How do you remember stuff like that?” asked Ron, looking at her in admiration. “I listen, Ron,” said Hermione with a touch of asperity.

“For heaven’s sake, Potter!” said Professor McGonagall, straightening her glasses angrily (she had winced horribly when he had used Voldemort’s name). “Do you really think this is about truth or lies? It’s about keeping your head down and your temper under control!”

Ron moaned and for some reason glanced up at the ceiling. “And it looks like it’s going to rain.” “What’s that got to do with our homework?” said Hermione, her eyebrows raised. “Nothing,” said Ron at once, his ears reddening.

“You know what?” Ron murmured, looking over at the bar with enthusiasm. “We could order anything we liked in here, I bet that bloke would sell us anything, he wouldn’t care. I’ve always wanted to try firewhisky —” “You — are — a — prefect,” snarled Hermione. “Oh,” said Ron, the smile fading from his face. “Yeah . .

“The Defense Association?” said Cho. “The D.A. for short, so nobody knows what we’re talking about?” “Yeah, the D.A.’s good,” said Ginny. “Only let’s make it stand for Dumbledore’s Army because that’s the Ministry’s worst fear, isn’t it?”

“Just because you’ve got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn’t mean we all have,” said Hermione nastily, picking up her quill again.

“Only Muggles talk of ‘mind reading.’ The mind is not a book, to be opened at will and examined at leisure. Thoughts are not etched on the inside of skulls, to be perused by any invader. The mind is a complex and many-layered thing, Potter . . . or at least, most minds are

She was waiting for him a little to the side of the oak front doors, looking very pretty with her hair tied back in a long ponytail. Harry’s feet seemed to be too big for his body as he walked toward her, and he was suddenly horribly aware of his arms and how stupid they looked swinging at his sides.

judging from what he had just seen, his father had been every bit as arrogant as Snape had always told him.

“I know how you are feeling, Harry,” said Dumbledore very quietly. “No, you don’t,” said Harry, and his voice was suddenly loud and strong. White-hot anger leapt inside him. Dumbledore knew nothing about his feelings. “You see, Dumbledore?” said Phineas Nigellus slyly. “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.

“There is no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,” said Dumbledore’s voice. “On the contrary . . . the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.”

Youth cannot know how age thinks and feels. But old men are guilty if they forget what it was to be young

Indifference and neglect often do much more damage than outright dislike.

“The end of the prophecy . . . it was something about . . . ‘neither can live . . . ’” “‘ . . . while the other survives,’” said Dumbledore. “So,” said Harry, dredging up the words from what felt like a deep well of despair inside him, “so does that mean that . . . that one of us has got to kill the other one . . . in the end?” “Yes,” said Dumbledore.