“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.”

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.

“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.”

He held out the sphere.

“Of course it is,” muttered Ron. He stretched, his long legs nudging Harry’s ribs. “Move over, you’re like a horizontal wardrobe.”

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.