The fire returned to orange behind him, as if embarrassed.
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 Potter,” said the man. His voice was low, dry, and carried the weight of old libraries and older secrets. “You are not easy to find when you wish to be left alone.”
Harry Potter, however, was not studying. harry potter audiobook original
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.
“Give me one reason,” Harry said, his voice a stranger’s, “I should trust you.”
Harry’s scar seared. White-hot. He staggered, and Ron caught his arm. The fire returned to orange behind him, as if embarrassed
Harry sat up slowly, rubbing his neck. The common room was thinning out. Older students were trudging up the spiral staircases to their dorms, their faces slack with exhaustion from a double Potions session. Seamus Finnigan was having a heated, whispered argument with his homework—a piece of parchment that kept smoking at the edges. Dean Thomas was sketching a moving picture of West Ham United’s goalie making a save, over and over, like a loop of desperate hope.
“Because I am the one who hid you on that doorstep,” he said. “My name is Alistair Urquart. And I am the Keeper of the Unwritten Hour—the time between the killing curse and the morning. The hour no one remembers.”
“D’you reckon Peeves ever sleeps?” Ron asked, abandoning the levitating card. It fell onto his knee, and the warlock gave him a rude gesture before the magic faded. It was not a Prophecy orb—Harry had seen
“This,” said the man, holding it up so the firelight shone through, “is the memory you lost. The night Voldemort came to Godric’s Hollow. Your mother’s final word. Your father’s last spell. You have never remembered it because a child’s mind is merciful. But mercy, Mr. Potter, is a luxury you can no longer afford.”
“Peeves doesn’t sleep,” Hermione said. “He runs on chaos and stale treacle. It’s in Hogwarts: A History , chapter sixteen, on poltergeist energetics.”
“Of course it is,” muttered Ron. He stretched, his long legs nudging Harry’s ribs. “Move over, you’re like a horizontal wardrobe.”