Chapter 2 The Scar

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. He had awoken from a vivid dream with his hands pressed over his face. The old scar on his forehead, which was shaped like a bolt of lightning, was burning beneath his fingers as though someone had just pressed a white-hot wire to his skin.

He sat up, one hand still on his scar, the other hand reaching out in the darkness for his glasses, which were on the bedside table. He put them on and his bedroom came into clearer focus, lit by a faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside the window.

Harry ran his fingers over the scar again. It was still painful. He turned on the lamp beside him, scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened his wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. A skinny boy of fourteen looked back at him, his bright green eyes puzzled under his untidy black hair. He examined the lightning-bolt scar of his reflection more closely. It looked normal, but it was still stinging.

Harry tried to recall what he had been dreaming about before he had awoken. It had seemed so real…There had been two people he knew and one he didn't…He concentrated hard, frowning, trying to remember…

The dim picture of a darkened room came to him…There had been a snake on a hearth rug…a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail…and a cold, high voice…the voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into his stomach at the very thought…

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to remember what Voldemort had looked like, but it was impossible…All Harry knew was that at the moment when Voldemort's chair had swung around, and he, Harry, had seen what was sitting in it, he had felt a spasm of horror, which had awoken him…or had that been the pain in his scar?

And who had the old man been? For there had definitely been an old man; Harry had watched him fall to the ground. It was all becoming confused. Harry put his face into his hands, blocking out his bedroom, trying to hold on to the picture of that dimly lit room, but it was like trying to keep water in his cupped hands; the details were now trickling away as fast as he tried to hold on to them…Voldemort and Wormtail had been talking about someone they had killed, though Harry could not remember the name…and they had been plotting to kill someone else…him!

Harry took his face out of his hands, opened his eyes, and stared around his bedroom as though expecting to see something unusual there. As it happened, there was an extraordinary number of unusual things in this room. A large wooden trunk stood open at the foot of his bed, revealing a cauldron, broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks. Rolls of parchment littered that part of his desk that was not taken up by the large, empty cage in which his snowy owl, Hedwig, usually perched. On the floor beside his bed a book lay open; Harry had been reading it before he fell asleep last night. The pictures in this book were all moving. Men in bright orange robes were zooming in and out of sight on broomsticks, throwing a red ball to one another.

Harry walked over to the book, picked it up, and watched one of the wizards score a spectacular goal by putting the ball through a fifty-foot-high hoop. Then he snapped the book shut. Even Quidditch - in Harry's opinion, the best sport in the world - couldn't distract him at the moment. He placed Flying with the Cannons on his bedside table, crossed to the window, and drew back the curtains to survey the street below.

Privet Drive looked exactly as a respectable suburban street would be expected to look in the early hours of Saturday morning. All the curtains were closed. As far as Harry could see through the darkness, there wasn't a living creature in sight, not even a cat.

And yet…and yet…Harry went restlessly back to the bed and sat down on it, running a finger over his scar again. It wasn't the pain that bothered him; Harry was no stranger to pain and injury. He had lost all the bones from his right arm once and had them painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had been pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long afterward. Only last year Harry had fallen fifty feet from an airborne broomstick. He was used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.

No, the thing that was bothering Harry was the last time his scar had hurt him, it had been because Voldemort had been close by…But Voldemort couldn't be here, now…The idea of Voldemort lurking in Privet Drive was absurd, impossible…

Harry listened closely to the silence around him. Was he half expecting to hear the creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? And then he jumped slightly as he heard his cousin Dudley give a tremendous grunting snore from the next room.

Harry shook himself mentally; he was being stupid. There was no one in the house with him except Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley, and they were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.

Asleep was the way Harry liked the Dursleys best; it wasn't as though they were ever any help to him awake. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were Harry's only living relatives. They were Muggles who hated and despised magic in any form, which meant that Harry was about as welcome in their house as dry rot. They had explained away Harry's long absences at Hogwarts over the last three years by telling everyone that he went to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. They knew perfectly well that, as an underage wizard, Harry wasn't allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts, but they were still apt to blame him for anything that went wrong about the house. Harry had never been able to confide in them or tell them anything about his life in the wizarding world. The very idea of going to them when they awoke, and telling them about his scar hurting him, and about his worries about Voldemort, was laughable.

And yet it was because of Voldemort that Harry had come to live with the Dursleys in the first place. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Harry would not have had the lightning scar on his forehead. If it hadn't been for Voldemort, Harry would still have had parents.…

Harry had been a year old the night that Voldemort - the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard who had been gaining power steadily for eleven years - arrived at his house and killed his father and mother. Voldemort had then turned his wand on Harry; he had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady rise to power - and, incredibly, it had not worked. Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort. Harry had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead, and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted, Voldemort's followers had disbanded, and Harry Potter had become famous.

It had been enough of a shock for Harry to discover, on his eleventh birthday, that he was a wizard; it had been even more disconcerting to find out that everyone in the hidden wizarding world knew his name. Harry had arrived at Hogwarts to find that heads turned and whispers followed him wherever he went. But he was used to it now: At the end of this summer, he would be starting his fourth year at Hogwarts, and Harry was already counting the days until he would be back at the castle again.

But there was still a fortnight to go before he went back to school. He looked hopelessly around his room again, and his eye paused on the birthday cards his two best friends had sent him at the end of July. What would they say if Harry wrote to them and told them about his scar hurting?

At once, Hermione Granger's voice seemed to fill his head, shrill and panicky.

“Your scar hurt? Harry, that's really serious…Write to Professor Dumbledore! nd I'll go and check Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions…Maybe there's something in there about curse scars.…”

Yes, that would be Hermione's advice: Go straight to the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, consult a book. Harry stared out of the window at the inky blue-black sky. He doubted very much whether a book could help him now. As far as he knew, he was the only living person to have survived a curse like Voldemort's; it was highly unlikely, therefore, that he would find his symptoms listed in Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. As for informing the headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, full length wizard's robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. Wherever Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that Hedwig would be able to find him; Harry's owl had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without an address. But what would he write?

Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Harry Potter.

Even inside his head the words sounded stupid.

And so he tried to imagine his other best friend, Ron Weasley's, reaction, and in a moment, Ron's red hair and long-nosed, freckled face seemed to swim before Harry, wearing a bemused expression.

“Your scar hurt? But…but You-Know-Who can't be near you now, can he? I mean…you'd know, wouldn't you? He'd be trying to do you in again, wouldn't be? I dunno, Harry, maybe curse scars always twinge a bit…I'll ask Dad…”

Mr. Weasley was a fully qualified wizard who worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, but he didn't have any particular expertise in the matter of curses, as far as Harry knew. In any case, Harry didn't like the idea of the whole Weasley family knowing that he, Harry, was getting jumpy about a few moments’ pain. Mrs. Weasley would fuss worse than Hermione, and Fred and George, Ron's sixteen year old twin brothers, might think Harry was losing his nerve. The Weasleys were Harry's favorite family in the world; he was hoping that they might invite him to stay any time now (Ron had mentioned something about the Quidditch World Cup), and he somehow didn't want his visit punctuated with anxious inquiries about his scar.

Harry kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. What he really wanted (and it felt almost shameful to admit it to himself) was someone like - someone like a parent: an adult wizard whose advice he could ask without feeling stupid, someone who cared about him, who had had experience with Dark Magic.…

And then the solution came to him. It was so simple, and so obvious, that he couldn't believe it had taken so long - Sirius.

Harry leapt up from the bed, hurried across the room, and sat down at his desk; he pulled a piece of parchment toward him, loaded his eagle-feather quill with ink, wrote Dear Sirius, then paused, wondering how best to phrase his problem, still marveling at the fact that he hadn't thought of Sirius straight away. But then, perhaps it wasn't so surprising - after all, he had only found out that Sirius was his godfather two months ago.

There was a simple reason for Sirius's complete absence from Harry's life until then - Sirius had been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard jail guarded by creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-sucking fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts when he had escaped. Yet Sirius had been innocent - the murders for which he had been convicted had been committed by Wormtail, Voldemort's supporter, whom nearly everybody now believed dead. Harry, Ron, and Hermione knew otherwise, however; they had come face-to-face with Wormtail only the previous year, though only Professor Dumbledore had believed their story.

For one glorious hour, Harry had believed that he was leaving the Dursleys at last, because Sirius had offered him a home once his name had been cleared. But the chance had been snatched away from him - Wormtail had escaped before they could take him to the Ministry of Magic, and Sirius had had to flee for his life. Harry had helped him escape on the back of a hippogriff called Buckbeak, and since then, Sirius had been on the run. The home Harry might have had if Wormtail had not escaped had been haunting him all summer. It had been doubly hard to return to the Dursleys knowing that he had so nearly escaped them forever.

Nevertheless, Sirius had been of some help to Harry, even if he couldn't be with him. It was due to Sirius that Harry now had all his school things in his bedroom with him. The Dursleys had never allowed this before; their general wish of keeping Harry as miserable as possible, coupled with their fear of his powers, had led them to lock his school trunk in the cupboard under the stairs every summer prior to this. But their attitude had changed since they had found out that Harry had a dangerous murderer for a godfather - for Harry had conveniently forgotten to tell them that Sirius was innocent.

Harry had received two letters from Sirius since he had been back at Privet Drive. Both had been delivered, not by owls (as was usual with wizards), but by large, brightly colored tropical birds. Hedwig had not approved of these flashy intruders; she had been most reluctant to allow them to drink from her water tray before flying off again. Harry, on the other hand, had liked them; they put him in mind of palm trees and white sand, and he hoped that, wherever Sirius was (Sirius never said, in case the letters were intercepted), he was enjoying himself. Somehow, Harry found it hard to imaging dementors surviving for long in bright sunlight, perhaps that was why Sirius had gone South. Sirius's letters, which were now hidden beneath the highly useful loose floorboards under Harry's bed, sounded cheerful, and in both of them he had reminded Harry to call on him if ever Harry needed to. Well, he needed to right now, all right.…

Harry's lamp seemed to grow dimmer as the cold gray light that precedes sunrise slowly crept into the room. Finally, when the sun had risen, when his bedroom walls had turned gold, and when sounds of movement could be heard from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's room, Harry cleared his desk of crumpled pieces of parchment and reread his finished letter.

Dear Sirius,
Thanks for your last letter. That bird was enormous; it could hardly get through my window. Things are the same as usual here. Dudley's diet isn't going too well. My aunt found him smuggling doughnuts into his room yesterday. They told him they'd have to cut his pocket money if he keeps doing it, so he got really angry and chucked his PlayStation out of the window. That's a sort of computer thing you can play games on. Bit stupid really, now he hasn't even got Mega-Mutilation Part Three to take his mind off things.
I'm okay, mainly because the Dursleys are terrified you might turn up and turn them all into bats if I ask you to.
A weird thing happened this morning, though. My scar hurt again. Last time that happened it was because Voldemort was at Hogwarts. But I don't reckon he can be anywhere near me now, can he? Do you know if curse scars sometimes hurt years afterward?
I'll send this with Hedwig when she gets back; she's off hunting at the moment. Say hello to Buckbeak for me.
Harry
Yes, thought Harry, that looked all right. There was no point putting in the dream; he didn't want it to look as though he was too worried. He folded up the parchment and laid it aside on his desk, ready for when Hedwig returned. Then he got to his feet, stretched, and opened his wardrobe once more. Without glancing at his reflection he started to get dressed before going down to breakfast.

　哈利平平地仰卧着，呼吸艰难，好像他在奔跑似的。一个逼真的梦把他唤醒，他用手捂住脸。额头上的那条像霹雳一样的旧疤形，在手指下面灼烧，仿佛有人用烧得红红的铁丝按在他的皮肤上。

　　他坐起身来，一手按着伤疤，在黑暗中用另一只手去抓眼镜，眼镜就放在床边的桌上。他戴上眼镜，卧室看得清楚些了，因为微弱得像雾一样的橙黄的灯光透过窗帘照在房间里。

　　哈利用手指摸过伤痕，还在疼，他开亮身旁的灯，一骨碌从床上爬起来，走到房间另一头，打开衣柜，朝柜门里面的镜子里看去：一个清瘦的十四岁男孩看着他，黑黑的头发已凌乱不堪，一对绿色明亮大眼露出迷惑不解的神色。他靠近一点衣镜审视霹雳形伤痕。它看起来很正常，但还是有一种火辣辣的感觉。

　　哈利努力地去回忆醒来前梦里的事情，这一切好像如此真实，……有两个人，他认识的，还有一个，他不认识。他拼命地集中精力，努力地去记起……

　　阴暗房间的暗淡画面向他走来，在炉前地毯上有一条蛇，有一个矮子叫彼得，绰号温太尔，还有一个冰冷高音，是福尔得摩特的声音。想到这里，他感到好像吞了一大块冰……

　　他紧闭双眼，努力地去想福尔得摩特的样子，但这是不可能的，所有哈利能记起的，就是当福尔得摩特的椅子转动时，他感觉到的恐惧、抽搐弄醒了脑……，或许是伤疤的疼痛弄醒了他？。

　　那老人是谁？因为肯定有那么一个老人。哈利看见他倒在地上。这一切变得模糊不清，哈利用双手捂住脸，用他的房子作构图，努力地去抓住那阴暗房间的画面，但这样做就像用合成杯形的手去勺水一样，当他想记起那些细节时，它们反而都溜之大吉了……福尔得摩特与温太尔在谈论他们已经杀了的人，那人的名字却怎么也记不起来……而且他们在计划再杀某人……他……

　　哈利拿开双手，睁开眼睛，环顾房间四周，好像想看到有什么不同寻常的东西。是的，他的房间里真的有许多不同寻常的东西。

　　床脚边的一个大箱子打开着，露出一只大汽锅、扫帚，黑施子，不同种类的拼写课本。一卷卷羊皮纸散乱在他的书桌上，没有放进那个又大又空的笼子，笼子是他那雪白猫头鹰栖息的地方。床边地板匕有一本书，打开着，昨天晚上入睡前他还读过。书本里的图画都在动。身着鲜橙色长袍的人骑在扫帚上飞驰，一会儿看得见，一会儿看不见，相互间投看一个红色的球。

　　哈利朝这本书走去，拿起来，看到一个巫师在给一个好球打分，办法是把球抛过一个五十英尺高的环架。他猛地把书合上。在哈利看来，甚至快迪斯世界杯赛中最好的运动在此刻都不能吸引他。他把《驾着大炮飞翔》放到床边的桌子上，走到窗子前，拉开窗帘，看下面的街道。

　　在星期六早上，普里怀特街仍像一条不错的郊区大街。所有的窗帘紧闭，黑暗中哈利目之所及的地方，没有一个人，甚至连一只猫也没有。

　　可是……可是……哈利烦躁不安地走回床边，坐下来，用手指摸头上伤痕。不是疼痛让他烦恼，哈利对伤痛、疼痛并不陌生，曾经右臂的骨头全没有了，而且还得忍受一夜间再长出来的巨痛。过后不久同样又是右臂遭到几乎一尺长的毒牙刺穿。仅仅去年又从五十英尺高的正在飞行的扫帚上掉下来。他已习惯于古里古怪的事故和伤痛。只要你进了霍格瓦彻的巫师学校，就有办法惹麻烦，这些事情都是不可避免的。

　　不是，让哈利心烦的是最近这次，伤痕在刺痛他。也许福尔得磨特曾经就在附近……但福尔得摩特现在不可能在这里……想想福尔得摩特就走在普里怀特街，这种想法真荒谬，完全不可能……

　　哈利在一片静寂中仔细地听着。他盼望听到楼梯的吱咯声音，他盼望听到外套的沙沙声。接着当他听到邻房里达德里表兄的大鼾声时微微跳了一下。

　　哈利生气地摇晃了一下身子，刚才太蠢了，房屋里除了维能姨丈，帕尤妮亚姨妈，达德里表兄外并无他人，他们都还在睡觉，不受干扰，没有痛苦。

　　哈利最喜欢他们的时候就是他们睡着的时候，即使他们醒了也不会对他有任何帮助，他们三人是哈利世上唯一的亲人。他们都不是巫师，他们憎恨魔法的，藐视魔法，哈利在他们家当然可想而知。哈利前三年不在这里，去霍格瓦彻上学，他们解释给街邻说哈利去圣莫多的少管所。他们十分清楚一个未成年的巫师，是不允许在霍格瓦彻外使用魔法，但一旦这房子有什么问题，他们都会责备他。哈利从来不会相信他们，也不会把他在巫师世界里的生活经历讲给他们听，至于等他们睡醒后到他们那儿去，告诉他们伤痕的事以及担心福尔得库特的事，都是荒唐可笑的。

　　然而，正是因为福尔得库特，哈利才来这里与达德里住在一起，如果不是因为福尔得摩特，哈利还不会有前额上的伤痕，如果不是因为福尔得摩特，哈利的双亲将仍然还在世上……

　　那天晚上福尔得摩特，本世纪最强大的黑暗巫师，执政十一年，到了他家里杀害了他的父亲、母亲，那时哈利才一岁。最后福尔得摩特把魔杖指向哈利，福尔得摩特要施那种曾毁掉了许多成年男女巫师的咒语，这曾使他一步一步迈向了权利的顶端，但难以置信的是，咒语没有起作用。不仅没有杀掉哈利且福尔得摩特还因此遭到报应。哈利除了额头上有一道霹雳样的伤痕以外活下来了，而福尔得摩特却几乎被消灭了。他的力量消失了，他的精神几乎全部崩溃，他逃走了。巫师群体中的恐惧也因此不在，福尔得摩特的追随者们作鸟兽散。哈利·波特因此一举成名。

　　十一岁那年生日时，哈利发现他是一个巫师，这已经够令他吃惊的了，更令他吃惊的是，他发现在隐秘的巫师世界里，人人都知道他的名字。哈利曾到过霍格瓦彻，发现无论他去到哪里人人都转过头去，在他后面窃窃私语。但现在已经习惯了，今年夏天一完，在霍格瓦彻的第四学年将要开始，返回城堡的日子屈指可数了。

　　但是还有两周才开学。他渺望了一下四周，眼睛停留在生日卡上，那是他两个最好的朋友七月底送来的。如果写信去告诉他们伤痕的事，他们会怎么说呢？

　　马上，荷米恩。格林佐的声音在他脑子里响起，声音刺耳又有些惊慌。

　　“你的伤痕疼吗？哈利，那真的很严重。给丹伯多教授写信。

　　我将去普通魔病科一下，也许那里可以治符咒留下来的伤痕……“

　　对，那确实会是荷米恩的建议，直接去找霍格瓦彻校长，同时找书看看。哈利望了望外面蓝黑的天，他很怀疑有没有这样一本书可以帮他。据他所知，他是在福尔得摩特的诅咒下唯一逃生的巫师。所以几乎没有可能在普通魔病科那里找到列出的疼痛症状。至于要告诉校长，放假后就不知道他去了哪里自娱自乐了。他为校长勾勒出一幅画面：长白胡子，长长巫师袍，尖顶帽子，躺在海滩的某处正把防晒露擦到他那又长又弯的鼻子。不论他在哪里，哈利确信海维能找到他，哈利的猫头鹰还没有失败过，它总是可以准确地把信交给任何人，哪怕没有地址也一样。但是他写些什么呢？

　　亲爱的丹伯多教授，很抱歉打扰您，但今天早上我的伤痕刺痛。您忠实的，哈利·波特。

　　甚至在他大脑里，这些词听起来愚蠢可笑。

　　于是他努力地去想另外一位最好的朋友罗恩。威斯里的反应，一会儿，罗恩那长鼻子，布满麻斑的脸好像向地漂过来，一副呆呆的，迷惑的表情。

　　“你的伤痕疼吗？但是……但‘那个人’不是靠近不了你了吗？

　　我是说……你知道的，不是吗？他可能又想杀死你，不是吗？我不知道，哈利，也许诅咒伤痕总会疼一下……我会问爸爸……“

　　威斯里先生是一个完全合格的巫师，在魔法部办公室工作，但在诅咒事务方面没有专门经验。不管怎样，哈利不想让威斯里全家都为了他几分钟的刺痛而到处折腾。威斯里夫人将会比荷米恩说得更糟糕，还有弗来德，乔治，罗恩的十六岁的孪生兄弟，可能认为哈利发神经。威斯里家是哈利最喜爱的一家。他希望他们会邀请他去待些时间，（罗恩已经提及关于快迪斯世界杯赛），不管怎样，他不想他拜访他们时他们因为担心而问这问那。

　　哈利用手指关节操揉前额，他真正需要的是某个像父母一样的人（他觉得有点害羞），需要一个成年巫师，可以问他，请教他，而不会感到愚蠢，需要一个真正关心他，而在黑魔法方面又有经验好啦，有了办法啦，太简单，太明显，他简直不相信花了那么久才搞掂——找西里斯。

　　哈利从床上跳下来，走到房间的那边去，拿出一张羊皮纸，将羽毛笔注满墨水，写道，“亲爱的西里渐”然后停止了，不知道如何写出他的问题，他仍然对为什么没有直接想到西里斯而感到惊奇，但是，也许这并不是那么让人吃惊的，毕竟他两个月前才发现西里斯是他的教父。

　　西里斯直到现在才露面，原因很简单。他去了阿兹克班这个令人害怕的巫师监狱。当西里斯逃跑后，那些看不见的，吸人灵魂的敌人，来霍格瓦彻搜寻西里斯，可是西里斯是无辜的，他所被诬告的谋杀实际上是温太尔干的。但人人都相信温太尔已经死了，哈利、罗恩、荷米恩却知道他没死，因为，前年他们曾面对面见过，但这点只有丹伯多教授相信。

　　有那么一时，哈利相信他终于要离开了达德里家。一旦西里斯的名声昭雪了，他答应给哈利一个家。但机会又失去了，温太尔逃跑了，没有能够押送到魔法部。西里斯不得不再度逃命。哈利曾经帮助西里斯逃跑。如果不是温太尔逃跑，哈利就会在自己家里过暑假。既然以为自己可以永远离开了达德里家了，又要回来真是让他更加难受。

　　但是，西里斯对哈利很有帮助，即使他们不在一起。正是因为西里斯，他的书箱才会和他在一起。达德里家以前从来不允许这样。他们总的愿望是尽量让哈利觉得痛苦。而且他们害怕哈利的力量，今年夏天来这之前，他的书箱总是被锁在楼梯下面的茶柜里。

　　自从他们知道哈利有一个危险的杀人犯做教父，他们的态度完全改变了。哈利忘记告诉他们西里斯是无辜的。

　　哈利自从回到普里怀特街，已从西里斯那接到两封信。两封都不是猫头鹰带来的（巫师通常用猫头鹰），而是用又大，又色彩鲜艳的热带鸟传递。海维还没有认可这些虚有其表的外来者。她极不情愿地让它们在飞走前喝她水盘里的水。哈利却已喜欢上了它们。

　　他希望西里斯快乐，无论他在哪里，其实对他来说，万一信件被截获就麻烦了。不知怎的，哈利发现很难想象得蒙特可以在阳光下活很久，也许正是这个原因，西里斯去了南方。西里斯的信件隐藏在床下地板下面，地板是松动。信中言辞恳切，两封信都提醒哈利有问题时要找他。哦，现在就是需要的时候……

　　灰冷的光线慢慢爬进房间，哈利的灯好像暗了一些。最后，太阳升起，卧室的墙壁都变得金黄，听见了维能姨丈和帕尤妮亚姨妈的动静，哈利清醒了，把桌子上羊皮纸清理好，把写完的信件又看了遍：亲爱的西里斯谢谢你最近的来信，那鸟很大，几乎飞不进窗来。

　　情况同以前差不多。达德里的伙食不太好。姨妈发现他昨天把油炸圈饼弄进房间，他们说如果他不改，他们将削减他的零用钱，因此，达德里大怒，把游戏机抛出窗外。那是一种可以玩游戏的计算机，真的有点蠢，现在他不再专心做事。

　　我没事，主要因为达德里一家很害怕，担心你会出现或者我会叫你把他们揍一顿。

　　但今天早上发生了件怪事。我的伤痕又痛了。上次痛是因为福尔得摩特在霍格瓦彻，但我认为他现在不在我附近。你知不知道诅咒伤痕以后还会疼吗？

　　我将用海维发送这封信，现在她去捕食去了还未回来。请代我问比克贝好。

　　哈利是的，哈利想，那样看上去很好。没有提梦里的事，他不想让他自己看起来很担忧。他把羊皮纸折好，放在一边，好等海维回来发。接着他站起身来，伸了个懒腰，又打开衣柜，这次没看镜子，他开始穿衣准备下去吃早餐。