Chapter 480: Waking up in the Night

In fact, Harry has been staying at home since he last saw Fanlin and Hermione.

However, this was not a pleasant experience for him. That strange and damn dream haunted him like a nightmare, which made his mental state very bad.

…

Harry lay flat on his back, breathing hard, as if he were running. A very vivid dream woke him up, and he covered his face with his hands. The old scar on his forehead, shaped like a thunderbolt, burned under his fingers, as if someone were pressing red-hot wire against his skin.

He sat up, pressed the scar with one hand, and used the other hand to grab his glasses in the dark. The glasses were placed on the table next to the bed. He put on his glasses and could see the bedroom more clearly, because the orange light, as weak as fog, shone through the curtains in the room.

This is the smallest bedroom in the Dursley's house. It was originally Dally's storage room, but it now belongs to him.

After going to Hogwarts, the Dursley family's dislike of him became more explicit, but it was undeniable that his life had changed a lot because of this.

They fear magic, unknown powers.

Harry touched the scar with his fingers, and it still hurt. He turned on the light next to him, climbed out of bed, walked to the other end of the room, opened the closet, and looked in the mirror inside the closet door: a thin fourteenth-year-old The 19-year-old boy looked at him, his black hair was messy, and his big green eyes looked puzzled. He moved closer to the mirror to examine the thunderbolt-shaped scar. It looked normal, but there was still a burning sensation.

Harry tried hard to recall what happened in his dream before waking up. It all seemed so real... There were two people, but he didn't know either of them. He didn't understand why this scene only appeared in his mind. .

He tried desperately to concentrate all his energy, he wanted to remember something...

The dim picture of the dark room came towards him. It was a very old house, like a noble manor, but it looked like it had not been repaired for a long time.

The wooden floors of the house were very worn, which reminded him of the Shrieking Shack, but it was not that dirty.

After a while, as the scene progressed, a snake crawled along the stairs, with black and green patterns mixed together. The snake was very big, just like the Brazilian python he released from the zoo.

This looks very aggressive.

The snake crawled slowly and bypassed the door panel. The light in the room was not bright, but even very cold.

Through the crack in the door, Harry saw a man kneeling in front of a sofa seat.

This man was wearing a black leather coat, and the green stubble and stubble on his face looked like they hadn't been cleaned for a long time. At least, his face wasn't that good-looking.

"My master, your most faithful servant..."

Owner? servant?

This kind of vocabulary is still used among nobles. Of course, house elves also call it this. Fanlin has given up correcting Dobby.

That nervous little elf.

There was also a man in a cloak in the room. His face was very pale, as if he had never seen the sun all day long, but his eyes were indeed dark red and looked a little cloudy.

Harry had never seen pupils like this before.

This man stood aside very respectfully, but this gave Fan Lin a very dangerous feeling.

But what made Harry feel even worse next was that he actually heard Voldemort's voice.

It was like swallowing a large piece of ice alive. Harry swore that he had never felt so cold even when he was hit by Fanlin's spell.

"You did well, my servant." Voldemort's voice was very hoarse, but it was very calm.

"With Trevor's help, I already have a temporary body, but as you can see, I am still very weak now."

Trevor? Is this the name of the silent man?

But what concerned Harry even more was that Voldemort actually had his own body. This was not good news. Voldemort was resurrected?

Harry wanted to continue listening, but the snake climbed onto the sofa.

A faint whisper of snake language rang out, and before Harry could think about it, Voldemort spoke.

"Nagini told me that the Muggle caretaker of the house was standing outside the door listening."

Immediately afterwards, Trevor stood at the door in an instant, and his movements were very fast.

"Let me personally welcome our guest, Trevor," Voldemort said, turning the chair he was sitting on toward the door.

Harry closed his eyes tightly, trying hard to imagine what Voldemort looked like, but it was impossible. All Harry could remember was the fear and twitching he felt when Voldemort's chair turned, waking up his mind... ..., maybe it was the pain from the scar that woke him up?

Who is that old man? Because there must be such an old man. Harry saw him fall to the ground. It all became blurry, and Harry covered his face with his hands, using his house as a frame, trying to capture the dark room, but doing so was like scooping water with synthetically cupped hands. When he tried to remember those details, they all slipped away... Voldemort and his two followers were talking about the person they had killed, but the name of the person could not be remembered... and they were planning to kill more. someone...he...

Harry took his hands away, opened his eyes, and looked around the room as if he wanted to see anything unusual. Yes, there were many unusual things in his room.

A large trunk at the foot of the bed was open, revealing a large steam boiler, brooms, black scythes, and different kinds of spelling books. Rolls of parchment were scattered on his desk, not put away in the large, empty cage that was the roost of his snowy white owl. On the floor beside the bed was a book, open, that he had read the night before before going to sleep. The pictures in the book were moving. Figures in bright orange robes were riding on broomsticks, sometimes visible and sometimes invisible, throwing a red ball at each other.

Harry walked towards the book, picked it up, and saw a wizard scoring a good shot by throwing the ball through a hoop fifty feet high. He slammed the book shut. It seemed to Harry that even the best action in the Quidditch World Cup could not attract him at this moment.

He put Flying Cannon on the bedside table, walked to the window, drew back the curtains, and looked out at the street below.

This was a terrible night, at least for Harry. (To be continued)