That year, Harry and Neville celebrated their birthdays together. The Leaky Cauldron was packed; every seat, counter, and potted plant was taken. At 11:59 PM, Ron raised his butterbeer, joined by forty others in the crowd. “To the new king of Gryffindor!” He slapped Neville’s shoulder, and the brass crown slipped off the grinning birthday man’s head slightly. The announcement had arrived yesterday: Neville was the new Gryffindor Head of House.
The mechanical dragon on the clock pendulum roared, signaling midnight. Ginny pushed Harry up onto the raised hearth, next to Neville. Dean and Seamus was hoisting a goalpost-sized treacle tart through the crowd as Neville raised a new toast. “And to Harry! Still saving the world!”
Harry protested the statement, but no one heard him over the cheers. Ron handed him a new mug. “Just take it, mate. Honestly, youngest Head Auror in Ministry history. I reckon you’re doomed to make the rest of us look bad.”
My happiest hours are those in which I think nothing, want nothing, when I do not even dream, but lose myself in some spurious vegetable torpor, moss growing on the surface of life. Without a trace of bitterness I savour my absurd awareness of being nothing, a mere foretaste of death and extinction.
I love how Snape’s just standing there like what
and slughorn is just like oh dear what should i do like he just seems so distressed
my favorite is Dumbledore… he looks like his favorite program just came on
Dumbledore ships Romione!