The Scar

           Harrylayflatonhisback,breathinghardasthoughhehadbeenrunning.Hehadawokenfromavividdreamwithhishandspressedoverhisface.Theoldscaronhisforehead,whichwasshapedlikeaboltoflightning,wasburningbeneathhisfingersasthoughsomeonehadjustpressedawhite-hotwiretohisskin.

           Hesatup,onehandstillonhisscar,theotherhandreachingoutinthedarknessforhisglasses,whichwereonthebedsidetable.Heputthemonandhisbedroomcameintoclearerfocus,litbyafaint,mistyorangelightthatwasfilteringthroughthecurtainsfromthestreetlampoutsidethewindow.

           Harryranhisfingersoverthescaragain.Itwasstillpainful.Heturnedonthelampbesidehim,scrambledoutofbed,crossedtheroom,openedhiswardrobe,andpeeredintothemirrorontheinsideofthedoor.Askinnyboyoffourteenlookedbackathim,hisbrightgreeneyespuzzledunderhisuntidyblackhair.Heexaminedthelightning-boltscarofhisreflectionmoreclosely.Itlookednormal,butitwasstillstinging.

           Harrytriedtorecallwhathehadbeendreamingaboutbeforehehadawoken.Ithadseemedsoreal...Therehadbeentwopeopleheknewandonehedidn’t...Heconcentratedhard,frowning,tryingtoremember...

           Thedimpictureofadarkenedroomcametohim...Therehadbeenasnakeonahearthrug...asmallmancalledPeter,nicknamedWormtail...andacold,highvoice...thevoiceofLordVoldemort.Harryfeltasthoughanicecubehadslippeddownintohisstomachattheverythought...

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