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

by J.K. Rowling

could find something to value in anyone, however apparently insignificant or wretched,

“he must’ve known I’d run out on you.” “No,” Harry corrected him. “He must’ve known you’d always want to come back.”

can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to,

“Brilliant. I’ll go and get one of our other ancient goblin-made swords and you can gift wrap it.”

“They’re supposed to be, you blithering idiot!” shouted McGonagall. “Now go and do something constructive! Find Peeves!”

“Hello, Minister!” bellowed Percy, sending a neat jinx straight at Thicknesse, who dropped his wand and clawed at the front of his robes, apparently in awful discomfort. “Did I mention I’m resigning?”

He felt his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. How strange that in his dread of death, it pumped all the harder, valiantly keeping him alive.

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

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.