Harry blinked down at the tome in his hands, not realising that he had chosen, at random, a book he'd never remembered seeing before. Or at least, he was quite sure he would have remembered a book as distinct as this. It was thick, approximately a thousand, thin pages, perhaps more; the worn, bound leather suggested age by faded red, and many little tears along the borders. A unique spine, enclosed in gold similar to tarnished treasures, was the only other detail. There was no title, or author.
'Really,' Harry pondered, 'if I had, at any point in my life, purchased a book such as this, surely, surely, I would have remembered.'
And there was something strange (well, as strange as a book could possibly get) about it - Harry felt a chill run up his own spine, yet it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Perhaps it was a tingle, yet it didn't feel entirely good either. It felt similar to a prickle one would get before facing something daunting, like standing at the foot of a mountain just before taking the first step.
Biting his lip, Harry stopped his scrutiny of his book, and carefully opened the cover...