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Ginny looked up into Harry's face, took a deep breath, and said, "Happy seventeenth."
"Yeah. . . thanks."
She was looking at him steadily; he, however, found it difficult to look back at her; it was like gazing into a brilliant light.
"Nice view," he said feebly, pointing toward the window.
She ignored this. He could not blame her, "I couldn't think what to get you," she said.
"You didn't have to get me anything." She disregarded this too.
"I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn't be able to take it with you."
He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny, she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that having six brother must have toughened her up. She took a step closer to him.
"So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you meet some veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing."
"I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground, to be honest."
"There's the silver lining I've been looking for," she whispered, and then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair.

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I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.

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He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy's parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.

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It may happen that one may write some messy and useless things (this happens often) without realizing it or without wanting to realize it, which is quite possible, because paper is a far too tolerant material. You can write over it any vastness, and it doesn't protest: it isn't like the wood in the armours of mine shafts, that creaks when it's overloaded.

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Only dead fishes go with the stream.

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As he lay there, he became aware suddenly
that the grounds were silent. Fawkes had stopped singing. And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that ilie phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just as Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world...had left Harry.

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Harry Potter : "Dumbledore's man, til the end".

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The green eyes found the black, but after a second, something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape moved no more.

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I love him better than myself Ellen; and I know it by this: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him better than myself.

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"You really haven't read any of these books?" He asked.
"Books are boring"
"Books are mirrors: they reflect what we have within".