Victory, too he sensed. Mastery. But laced with something else…what was it?He couldn't see it, quite. Always in motion, the future; difficult to see. Itsapparitions tantalized him, swirling specters, always changing. Smoky was hisfuture, thunderous with conquest and destruction.
A few moments later he was breakfasting at the very table at which Jean Valjean had sat on the previous evening.
Thought is the toil of the intelligence, revery its voluptuousness. To replace thought with revery is to confound a poison with a food.
Mrs. Weasley closed the door behind Harry with a sharp snap. The bedroom looked, if anything, even danker and gloomier than it had on first sight. The blank picture on the wall was now breathing very slowly and deeply, as though its invisible occupant was asleep. Harry put on his pyjamas, took off his glasses, and climbed into his chilly bed while Ron threw Owl Treats up on top of the wardrobe to pacify Hedwig and Pigwidgeon, who were clattering around and rustling their wings restlessly.
Everybody was wearing new sweaters when they all sat down for Christmas lunch, everyone except Fleur (on whom, it appeared, Mrs. Weasley had not wanted to waste one) and Mrs. Weasley herself, who was sporting a brand-new midnight blue witch's hat glittering with what looked like tiny starlike diamonds, and a spectacular golden necklace.
“Could you possibly be feeling sorry for Lord Voldemort?”