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It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, ¡®Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless ¡ª discuss.¡¯

¡°We mustn't, I keep telling you ¡ª¡±

Harry put his face to his knees, his hands gripping his hair. Fred grabbed his shoulder and shook it roughly.

¡°Yes,¡± said Harry. He hesitated, and then the question he had to ask burst from him before he could stop himself. ¡°Why? Why do they affect me like that? Am I just ¡ª?¡±

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