Lord Voldermort Has Risen Again.

Harry Felt Winded, As Though He Had Just Walked Into Something Heavy. He Had Last Seen Those Cool Gray Eyes Through Slits In A Death Eater’s Hood, And Last Heard That Man’s Voice Jeering In A Dark Graveyard While Lord Voldemort Tortured Him. He Could Not Believe That Lucius Malfoy Dared Look Him In The Face; He Could Not Believe That He Was Here, In The Ministry Of Magic, Or That Cornelius Fudge Was Talking To Him, When Harry Had Told Fudge Mere Weeks Ago That Malfoy Was A Death Eater.

She Picked Up The Book And Then Walked Back Past Him Into The Tent, But As She Did So, She Brushed The Top Of His Head Lightly With Her Hand. He Closed His Eyes At Her Touch, And Hated Himself For Wishing That What She Said Was True: That Dumbledore Had Really Cared.

Harry, Suffering Like This Proves You Are Still A Man! This Pain Is Part Of Being Human —” “then — I — Don’t — Want — To — Be — Human!” Harry Roared.

I Hope That Even If You Remember Not A Single Word Of Mine, You Remember Those Of Seneca, Another Of Those Old Romans I Met When I Fled Down The Classics Corridor, In Retreat From Career Ladders, In Search Of Ancient Wisdom: As Is A Tale, So Is Life: Not How Long It Is, But How Good It Is, Is What Matters.

The Knowledge That You Have Emerged Wiser And Stronger From Setbacks Means That You Are, Ever After, Secure In Your Ability To Survive.