He had a vague idea he had heard the name before, but he could not think where. "I dunno, do I? You were the one saying it." Harry was not wearing his glasses Ron's face appeared slightly blurred. 'Gregorovitch.' You kept saying 'Gregorovitch.'" The scar on Harry's forehead was prickling. Pigwidgeon was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron's dingy attic room. Was the man he sought down there, the man he needed so badly he could think of little else, the man who held the answer, the answer to his problem.? Far below, swathed in mist, was the shadow of a small town. He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn.
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