You See What You Expect To See,

It Is Impossible To Manufacture Or Imitate Love.

And Harry, With The Unerring Skill Of The Seeker, Caught The Wand In His Free Hand As Voldemort Fell Backward, Arms Splayed, The Slit Pupils Of The Scarlet Eyes Rolling Upward. Tom Riddle Hit The Floor With A Mundane Finality, His Body Feeble And Shrunken, The White Hands Empty, The Snakelike Face Vacant And Unknowing. Voldemort Was Dead, Killed By His Own Rebounding Curse, And Harry Stood With Two Wands In His Hands, Staring Down At His Enemy's Shell.

Perfection Is Not Necessary To Make A Real And Lasting Difference To Other People's Lives.

The Spells Are Made Up. I Have Met People Who Assure Me, Very Seriously, That They Are Trying To Do Them, And I Can Assure Them, Just As Seriously, That They Don’t Work.

No, Thanks," Said Harry. "the Toilet's Never Had Anything As Horrible As Your Head Down It— It Might Be Sick." Then He Ran, Before Dudley Could Work Out What He'd Said.