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

by J.K. Rowling

“Does it make a difference, being Muggle-born?” Snape hesitated. His black eyes, eager in the greenish gloom, moved over the pale face, the dark red hair. “No,” he said. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

Sobbing

“And are you tempted to join him?” “No,” said Snape, his black eyes on Fleur’s and Roger’s retreating figures. “I am not such a coward.” “No,” agreed Dumbledore. “You are a braver man by far than Igor Karkaroff. You know, I sometimes think we Sort too soon. . . .”

Ultimately, of course, there is only one thing to be done if we are to save him from Lord Voldemort’s wrath.” Snape raised his eyebrows and his tone was sardonic as he asked, “Are you intending to let him kill you?” “Certainly not. You must kill me.” There was a long silence,

“If you don’t mind dying,” said Snape roughly, “why not let Draco do it?” “That boy’s soul is not yet so damaged,” said Dumbledore. “I would not have it ripped apart on my account.”

“Voldemort fears that connection,” said Dumbledore. “Not so long ago he had one small taste of what truly sharing Harry’s mind means to him. It was pain such as he has never experienced. He will not try to possess Harry again, I am sure of it. Not in that way.”

“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Potter’s son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter —”

From the tip of his wand burst the silver doe: She landed on the office floor, bounded once across the office, and soared out of the window. Dumbledore watched her fly away, and as her silvery glow faded he turned back to Snape, and his eyes were full of tears. “After all this time?” “Always,” said Snape.

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

He felt he would have given all the time remaining to him for just one last look at them; but then, would he ever have the strength to stop looking? It was better like this.

But he was home. Hogwarts was the first and best home he had known. He and Voldemort and Snape, the abandoned boys, had all found home here. . . .

A long time later, or maybe no time at all, it came to him that he must exist, must be more than disembodied thought, because he was lying, definitely lying, on some surface.

In opening them, he discovered that he had eyes.

“Then . . . I’m dead too?” “Ah,” said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly. “That is the question, isn’t it? On the whole, dear boy, I think not.”

Your wand now contained the power of your enormous courage and of Voldemort’s own deadly skill: What chance did that poor stick of Lucius Malfoy’s stand?”

“I loved them. I loved my parents, I loved my brother and my sister, but I was selfish, Harry, more selfish than you, who are a remarkably selfless person, could possibly imagine.

I, meanwhile, was offered the post of Minister of Magic, not once, but several times. Naturally, I refused. I had learned that I was not to be trusted with power.”

“Tell me one last thing,” said Harry. “Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?” Dumbledore beamed at him, and his voice sounded loud and strong in Harry’s ears even though the bright mist was descending again, obscuring his figure. “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

“My Lord . . . my Lord . . .” It was Bellatrix’s voice, and she spoke as if to a lover.

“NO!” The scream was the more terrible because he had never expected or dreamed that Professor McGonagall could make such a sound.

“No!” “Harry! HARRY!” Ron’s, Hermione’s, and Ginny’s voices were worse than McGonagall’s;

With a single stroke Neville sliced off the great snake’s head, which spun high into the air,

The house-elves of Hogwarts swarmed into the entrance hall, screaming and waving carving knives and cleavers, and at their head, the locket of Regulus Black bouncing on his chest, was Kreacher, his bullfrog’s voice audible even above this din: “Fight!

Voldemort was now dueling McGonagall, Slughorn, and Kingsley all at once,

“The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been named temporary Minister of Magic. . . .

McGonagall had replaced the House tables, but nobody was sitting according to House anymore: All were jumbled together,

All around the walls, the headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving him a standing ovation;

He laid the broken wand upon the headmaster’s desk, touched it with the very tip of the Elder Wand, and said, “Reparo.” As his wand resealed, red sparks flew out of its end. Harry knew that he had succeeded.

Draco Malfoy was standing there with his wife and son, a dark coat buttoned up to his throat. His hair was receding somewhat,

Professor Longbottom,