In A Novel You Have

You Can Exist Without Your Soul, You Know, As Long As Your Brain And Heart Are Still Working. But You’ll Have No Sense Of Self Anymore, No Memory, No . . . Anything. There’s No Chance At All Of Recovery. You’ll Just — Exist. As An Empty Shell. And Your Soul Is Gone Forever . . . Lost.

I Knew No One Who'd Ever Been In The Public Eye.

He Was About To Go Home, About To Return To The Place Where He Had Had A Family. It Was In Godric’s Hollow That, But For Voldemort, He Would Have Grown Up And Spent Every School Holiday. He Could Have Invited Friends To His House. . . . He Might Even Have Had Brothers And Sisters. . . . It Would Have Been His Mother Who Had Made His Seventeenth Birthday Cake. The Life He Had Lost Had Hardly Ever Seemed So Real To Him As At This Moment, When He Knew He Was About To See The Place Where It Had Been Taken From Him.

You Place Too Much Importance... On The So-called Purity Of Blood! You Fail To Recognize That It Matters Not What Someone Is Born, But What They Grow To Be!

No Story Lives Unless Someone Wants To Listen. So Thank You, All Of You.