The flames twisted inward, forming a column. And from that column stepped a figure. It was not a ghost—ghosts were pearlescent and sad. This was something else. It was a tall, gaunt man with hair so white it looked like spun ice, and eyes that were two different colors: one a piercing blue, the other a dark, empty brown. He wore travelling robes of deep grey, dusted with soot and starlight.

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.

He was lying on his back on the hearthrug, his head resting on a copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi , staring at the enchanted ceiling. The ceiling reflected the sky outside: bruised purple and deep navy, with a single, fat star winking near the tattered edge of a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to ballet.

“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.

“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.”