"And Harry saw very clearly as he sat there under the hot sun how people who cared about him had stood in front of him one by one, his mother, his father, his godfather, and finally Dumbledore, all determined to protect him; but now that was over. He could not let anybody else stand between him and Voldemort; he must abandon forever the illusion he ought to have lost at the age of one, that the shelter a parent’s arm meant that nothing could hurt him. There was no walking from the nightmare, no comforting whisper in the dark that he was safe really, that it was all his imagination; the last and greatest of his protectors had died, and he was more alone than he had ever been before."

"Dear me,” said Dumbledore, shaking his head, his long silver mustache quivering. “Impaled upon your own sword, Gilderoy!” “Sword?” said Lockhart dimly. “Haven’t got a sword. That boy does though.” He said pointing at Harry. “He’ll lend you one."