I "Why, what’s wrong with it?" said Harry, grabbing a spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection.
"Well, of course, we both know how these stories get distorted … all these whispers of a prophecy …. of you being ’the Chosen One’…." They were getting near it now, Harry thought, the reason Scrim-geour was here.
It was as though his features had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that Harry knew they would become.