Anyway, they cornered Black in the middle of a street full of Muggles an' Black took out 'is wand and 'e blasted 'alf the street apart, an' a wizard got it, an' so did a dozen Muggles what got in the way.

'Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em ... maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Hallowe'en ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an' - an' -'
...'You-Know-Who killed em'. An' then this is the real myst'ry of the thing - he tried to kill you, too....Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. Thats what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh - took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house even - but it didn't work on you, an' thats why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you...

Sir Nicholas De Mimsy-Porpington
died 31st October, 1492

Finally, in our fifth year, they managed it. They could each turn into a different animal at will.

...He helped himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the newsreader on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict.
'... the public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hotline has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately.'
'No need to tell us he's no good,' snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. 'Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!'

The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high wind, stopping halfway through the month of June. Mouth hanging open, Harry saw that the little square for June thirteenth seemed to have turned into a miniscule television screen. His hands trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye against the little window, and before he knew what was happening, he was tilting forward; the window was widening, he felt his body leave his bed, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page, into a whirl of color and shadow.

I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen-year-old self in its pages

I remember it clear as anything because I'd just started here myself. New Year's Eve and bitter cold, snowing, you know. Nasty night. And this girl, not much older than I was myself at the time, came staggering up the front steps. Well, she wasn't the first. We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.