I was fifteen, thinking about unzipping my veins.
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 as dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.
This scene always makes me cry seriously
petition to make young adult authors stop writing about girls whose lives change when they meet a boy
When she saw him time slowed to a stop. He was so perfect and she knew her life would never be the same because she had finally found him. The one. The first boy she would ever kill.