"The -- the prophecy . . . the prediction . . . Trelawney . . ." "Ah, yes. How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?" "Everything -- everything I heard! That is why -- it is for that reason -- he thinks it means Lily Evans!" "The prophecy did not refer to a woman. It spoke of a boy born at the end of July --" "You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down -- kill them all --" "If she means so much to you, surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?" "I have -- I have asked him --" "You disgust me."
The thought of her gave me such a continual anguish that I could no more forget her than an aching tooth. It was involuntary, hopeless, compulsive. For years she had been the first thing I remembered when I woke up, the last thing that drifted through my mind as I went to sleep, and during the day she came to me obtrusively, obsessively, always with a painful shock.
He walked down the corridor, lined with his soldiers, who looked at him with love, with awe, with trust. Except Bean, who looked at him with anguish. Ender Wiggin was not larger than life, Bean knew. He was exactly life-sized, and so his larger-than-life burden was too much for him. And yet he was bearing it. So far.