CHAPTER THIRTEEN
growing dark. When he looked back at the diary, he saw fresh
words forming.
“Let me show you.”
Harry paused for a fraction of a second and then wrote two
letters.
“OK.”
The pages of the diary began to blow as though caught in a high
wind, stopping halfway through the month of June. Mouth hang-
ing open, Harry saw that the little square for June thirteenth
seemed to have turned into a minuscule television screen. His
hands trembling slightly, he raised the book to press his eye against
the little window, and before he knew what was happening, he was
tilting forward; the window was widening, he felt his body leave his
bed, and he was pitched headfirst through the opening in the page,
into a whirl of color and shadow.
He felt his feet hit solid ground, and stood, shaking, as the
blurred shapes around him came suddenly into focus.
He knew immediately where he was. This circular room with the
sleeping portraits was Dumbledore’s office — but it wasn’t
Dumbledore who was sitting behind the desk. A wizened, frail-
looking wizard, bald except for a few wisps of white hair, was read-
ing a letter by candlelight. Harry had never seen this man before.
“I’m sorry,” he said shakily. “I didn’t mean to butt in —”
But the wizard didn’t look up. He continued to read, frowning
slightly. Harry drew nearer to his desk and stammered, “Er — I’ll
just go, shall I?”
Still the wizard ignored him. He didn’t seem even to have heard
him. Thinking that the wizard might be deaf, Harry raised his
voice.
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