Author has written 2 stories for Harry Potter.
"I want you to listen to me very carefully, Harry. You're not a bad person. You're a very good person, who bad things have happened to. Besides, the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That's who we really are."
"I am not an object and I belong to no one.
I need to know the person I'm with is able to take care of themselves when I can't be there, they need to have the guts to stop me taking over their lives.
I need someone who is my equal, not my inferior or my superior. Someone willing to fight with me not for me. Most of all I need someone that will listen to me when I tell them I can handle it. Can you do that?"
"He was home to the creatures that took shelter in his shade, he gave safety and expected nothing, being pecked by the beaks, gnawed at, eaten, cut down, destroyed, it mattered not, what the others did, he still gave, withholding nothing, expecting even less.
He gave fruit to the man who turned around and burned him to the ground; he gave shelter to the couple, who carved words with a sharp knife into his skin, he gave everything peacefully.. And watched with no malice, no hate, no need for revenge or lamentations as man destroyed his brethren clear-cutting over night what had taken centuries to grow."
She nodded sagely, gazing off in the distance as she processed the information. “Have you said you’re sorry?” she asked at last, focusing again.
“Umm... No. This isn’t something I can fix by saying ‘sorry,’ Myrtle.”
She made a face. “Oh. So NOT apologizing will fix it?”
He had no answer for that, and sputtered a bit. “Well, no, not exactly. I mean, it might help, a little anyway, but—”
“But what?” she interrupted. “But it won’t be enough? Maybe not, but it’s a good place to start, don’t you think? Because if you don’t start somewhere, you’ll never finish it, that’s for sure.”
...History is written by the winners...
...How can we believe in truth?...What is right, who is wrong?...
"Peter: There's no one here but us.
Beaver: There are in the trees. They're always listening."
To have lived so long and to have seen so much, if trees could speak, oh what a conversation they would have.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing out the plant.
“Oh, it’s just a reflecting plant.” She ran a finger over the leaves and I watched as it seemed to split and blossom into a flower, bright yellow on the inside with flecks of gold and white spreading from the center like a strange looking lily. “Really quite pretty.” She said proudly.
“What does it do?” I stared at it in wonder.
“It reflects the people who touch it.” She stepped away from the plant and the flower closed and the plant took on a generic look. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
Curiously, I stepped up to the plant and raised my hand to hover over one of the leaves. Before I even came into contact, I watched as the green deepened into jagged black leaves, curling inward. I flinched back a little, frowning when the blackened leaves continued to twist into scraggly stems with deep purple thorns and curling vines. In the very center of the plant was a large black oval-like pod, dark as pitch and looking a little worse for wear.
“Harry,” Helga whispered. I hardly heard her. Was that really a reflection of me? A dark, ugly, thorny, dying thing? Merlin, I would have rather not known. “Harry,” she said a little louder.
“What?” I snapped, roughly. God, what a disappointment. I didn’t think I’d have anything as beautiful as Helga’s, but damn it, this was just awful.
“Harry, it’s not done.”
Her hand pulled mine back to the plant and the black vines and stems held a tint of green, but that all disappeared when her hand pulled away, and only blackness remained. I bit my lip and decided I may as well let the stupid plant finish, removing any doubt from our minds that I reflected such a horrid thing.
As my fingers brushed against the leaves, there was a soft sound as the oval pod split and soft white and violet petals bloomed from its center. They seemed to glow, their translucent material so thin I thought if anyone touched it they would certainly fall apart.
“See,” Helga sounded satisfied, “your heart is beautiful.”
“But why is the rest so black and all over the place? Why is the rest of me so ugly?”
“You’re mistaken Harry.” She placed a hand on my shoulder in reassurance and I watched the fragile flower and black vines slowly change back into a healthy green plant. “What the plant reflects is our thoughts and feelings, our intentions, and sense of self. What I saw wasn’t wretchedness. You have a beautiful heart Harry. The biggest and most beautiful I’ve seen, but also the most fragile. I don’t think even you realize how much you dislike who you are.”
“But why is it black?” I closed my eyes. “Am I evil? Am I a horrible person?”
“Not at all. It was black because you are afraid and anxious. Black is fear and unpredictability.”
“But it was dying. The leaves were-,”
“Black and glossy. It did not look like it was dying to me.” She said with conviction.
“Harry, I want to know what happened. All of it. From beginning to end.”
“But it’s not the end yet,” he murmured quietly. She sighed.
“I know. So tell me to now. I’ll see the end myself.”
The Goblet of Fire- Third task-
Cedric-"For a moment, i thought you were going to let it get me." Harry-"For a moment, so did I." Cedric-" Some game, huh?" Harry-"Yeah, some game."
"Should I feel flattered your contacts find me so cold?"
"No. You should feel flattered my contacts find you so sturdy."
"Yes, but where is my famed strength now when I have been skinned, and the foundations kicked out from under my feet? I fear they shall not grow back."
“Enough. We are not at a damn tea party. Just get the hell out. I helped you, you’re welcome, have a nice life, hopefully a nice death, now leave me the hell alone!”
Dory: Please. I don't want to forget. Marlin: I'm sorry Dory. But I ... do.
Sure, portraits are more than mere decorations. They tell a story, the story of a great, old, bigger than life family, a story that would make many proud and others embarrassed, but a story nonetheless. Paint is the medium. Colour is the language. And it was colour that spoke to me. Sometimes I wish I could be like colour. All that potential for transformation, for change. Sometimes I wish I could change.