Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Book 7)

Tears were sliding down from behind the half-moon spectacles into the long silver beard, and the pride and the gratitude emanating from him filled Harry with the same balm as phoenix song.

‘It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts. We are the guardians of fabulous treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our care, which were, so often, wrought by our fingers.’

he imagined Voldemort, a hundred yards above them as they spoke, looking for a way to penetrate what Harry visualised as a great, transparent bubble.

to accept that he had not been told everything that he wanted to know, but simply to trust.

Even You-Know-Who can’t split himself into seven.’ Harry caught Hermione’s eye and looked away at once.

Hearing familiar, friendly voices was an extraordinary tonic;

refusing to acknowledge its pain or its invitation.

They gazed at each other; Harry felt that the answer was dangling invisibly in the air above them, tantalisingly close.

‘Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?’