The Lost Prophecy

           Harry’sfeethitsolidground;hiskneesbuckledalittleandthegoldenwizard’sheadfellwitharesoundingclunktothefloor.HelookedaroundandsawthathehadarrivedinDumbledore’soffice.

           EverythingseemedtohaverepaireditselfduringtheHeadmastersabsence.Thedelicatesilverinstrumentsstoodoncemoreonthespindle-leggedtables,puffingandwhirringserenely.Theportraitsoftheheadmastersandheadmistressesweresnoozingintheirframes,headslollingbackinarmchairsoragainsttheedgeofthepicture.Harrylookedthroughthewindow.Therewasacoollineofpalegreenalongthehorizon:dawnwasapproaching.

           Thesilenceandthestillness,brokenonlybytheoccasionalgruntorsnuffleofasleepingportrait,wasunbearabletohim.Ifhissurroundingscouldhavereflectedthefeelingsinsidehim,thepictureswouldhavebeenscreaminginpain.Hewalkedaroundthequiet,beautifuloffice,breathingquickly,tryingnottothink.Buthehadtothink...therewasnoescape...

           ItwashisfaultSiriushaddied;itwasallhisfault.Ifhe,Harry,hadnotbeenstupidenoughtofallforVoldemort’strick,ifhehadnotbeensoconvincedthatwhathehadseeninhisdreamwasreal,ifhehadonlyopenedhismindtothepossibilitythatVoldemortwas,asHermionehadsaid,bankingonHarry’sloveofplayingthehero...

           Itwasunbearable,hewouldnotthinkaboutit,hecouldnotstandit...

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