Tonight, he wanted to be ordinary. He wanted to be a boy lying on a rug, listening to the crackle of a fire, pretending his destiny was a forgotten footnote.
He was lying on his back on the hearthrug, his head resting on a copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi , staring at the enchanted ceiling. The ceiling reflected the sky outside: bruised purple and deep navy, with a single, fat star winking near the tattered edge of a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to ballet.
The flames twisted inward, forming a column. And from that column stepped a figure. It was not a ghost—ghosts were pearlescent and sad. This was something else. It was a tall, gaunt man with hair so white it looked like spun ice, and eyes that were two different colors: one a piercing blue, the other a dark, empty brown. He wore travelling robes of deep grey, dusted with soot and starlight.
The fire returned to orange behind him, as if embarrassed. harry potter audiobook original
The last of the October sunlight bled like spilt marmalade over the Hogwarts grounds, casting long, skeletal shadows from the Forbidden Forest. Within the confines of the Gryffindor common room, a fire crackled with a warmth that seemed almost aggressive against the creeping chill of the dungeon stone. The fat, armchair-shaped cushions sighed as students shifted, and the only sounds were the scratch of quills and the occasional pop of a log collapsing into embers.
“I’m absorbing knowledge through osmosis,” Harry said, his voice muffled by the book.
“That’s not normal,” she whispered. Tonight, he wanted to be ordinary
The man smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who had seen empires fall and had wept for none of them.
Harry closed his eyes. He could feel the phantom ache in his scar, not the sharp pain of Lord Voldemort’s rage, but a dull throb, like a bruise that had forgotten how to heal. He had not told Ron or Hermione. He was tired of being the bearer of bad omens. He was tired of the way their faces fell, the way Hermione’s lips would compress into a thin line of determined dread, the way Ron would crack a joke that landed with a dull, hollow thud.
It happened without sound. One moment it was a robust orange, the next it was a silent, icy azure. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Ron’s breath fogged in front of his face. Hermione froze, her quill hovering mid-stroke. The ceiling reflected the sky outside: bruised purple
Ron drew his wand with a clumsy thwack . “Who the bloody hell are you?”
The man ignored him. He reached into his robes and pulled out a small, glass sphere. It was not a Prophecy orb—Harry had seen those in the Department of Mysteries. This was smaller, more personal. Inside it swirled a silver smoke that formed shapes: a stag, a flash of green light, a pair of round glasses.
Harry looked at Ron. Looked at Hermione. Then back at the sphere, where the silver stag was bowing its head.