The Observer Effect

      Lucius Abraxas Malfoy—or, to put it simply, Lord Malfoy (and in all the world only three people called him anything else: one said ‘Papa’, another ‘Luce’, and the third was missing)—was stalking down the corridor at the Ministry of Magic in a mood that Tony Dolohov, in his unforgettably delicate manner, had described as ‘raspidorasilo’ (which was roughly equivalent to ‘absolutely buggered up’, although Tony had insisted it fell short of conveying the full nuances).       For a start, the illustrious lord had a hangover. The previous evening he’d indulged with reckless abandon—namely, he’d polished off an entire bottle of Ogden’s Old on his own. Even the finest firewhisky, knocked back in so barbarous a manner, takes its toll, and Lucius had learnt this to his cost.       Secondly, Lord Malfoy had had a reason for such dissipation—and a very good one.       On Monday, he’d woken up itching and sore, which at first he put down to eczema. Alas, that comforting illusion expired within ten minutes, and the self-deception that followed barely lasted the day, though Lucius gave it his best. He had the house-elf throw out every feather mattress, blaming bedbugs. He ordered every bouquet in the house to be destroyed and solemnly renounced strawberries for breakfast, in case it was an allergy. He banished his new woollen pyjamas on the grounds that the fabric irritated his sensitive skin. He even swapped his exquisite hand cream for a jar of plain petroleum jelly.       The effect, predictably, was nil.       The trouble was that the itching, prickling, and red blotches were clustered around a certain notorious tattoo on Malfoy’s left forearm. After a day, the blotches vanished, but the tattoo itself itched abominably. By the third day, the itch had become a tugging pain and the Mark had clearly darkened. Today was the fourth day, and matters looked no better. Lucius had even put on a doublet under his cloak—something he usually avoided—for he had a strong impression that his Dark Mark, swollen and sore like a gouty limb, showed through his shirt and drew the eyes of passers-by like a magnet.       Lucius was, it must be said, a suggestible and anxious soul.       So: a hangover, a gloomy Malfoy itching for a row—and he knew exactly where to go in such a temper. This year, the illustrious lord had joined the Hogwarts Board of Governors—how could he not, with his beloved son about to start school? But Draco wasn’t the only new student this year, and even if he had been, he certainly didn’t need cosseting.       There was, however, another pure-blood family who, alas, not only desperately needed the governors’ patronage but habitually came cap in hand: yes, the Weasleys. And Lucius had planned a fine blazing row with Arthur on precisely that subject today.       It was not to be. Providence was already steering him towards another encounter—one that would prove truly fateful and shape the face of the wizarding world for years to come.       Rufus Scrimgeour, newly appointed Head of the Auror Office, also had a hangover. Unlike Malfoy, he hadn’t been drinking alone, and his reason was much cheerier. Everyone knew that if the new top man couldn’t, on the night of his appointment, drink every last one of his subordinates under the table, the Auror Office would spit him out—and, in such a case, he might as well turn his wand on himself and have done with it, rather than live with the disgrace. So the bout with John Barleycorn had been a fight to the death—and Rufus had won—but at what cost?       What he needed now was the hair of the dog. Failing that, a row—anything to make the world a touch grimmer and more uncomfortable for someone else.       And then, as if on cue, a spill of long, pallid hair caught his eye. The illustrious Lord Malfoy was sweeping down the corridor like a stray Kneazle on a rooftop, wearing his usual haughty expression and flourishing his silver-topped walking stick. The stick particularly irritated Rufus today. He pounced on his prey like a hawk.       ‘Ah, my dear Lord Malfoy! What are the Death Eaters up to at the Ministry today? Buying or selling?’       Malfoy shot Scrimgeour a glacial look and hissed between his teeth, ‘I don’t know what you’re insinuating; there are no Death Eaters here.’       ‘None at all?’ purred Rufus, all friendly reproach. ‘And that little mark of yours?’       ‘I was under the Imperius Curse!’       ‘They all say that… I’d rather you proved it properly. In person.’       Lucius’s lips thinned and his face went pale. Rufus watched with relish as Malfoy’s features twisted with fury.       ‘I am clean in the eyes of the law, Mr Auror!’ He even made ‘Mr’ sound like an insult.       ‘And if I were to check?’ Rufus grinned. He loved a set-to; it kept him sharp.       ‘Tu ferais mieux d’inspecter ton cul,’ Lucius snapped. ‘Go and rummage in your own arse. Ten years have passed and you still cannot let it rest. Adieu!’       He wheeled, swirled his cloak about him, and swept away.       In a crisis, Lucius could move quickly and think even quicker. Turning the corner, he tucked his walking stick under his arm, broke into a trot, wedged himself into a lift as the doors were sliding shut, and reached the public Floo grate almost at once. But it was no longer a matter of minutes but of seconds. The flames flared green and died, and Lucius stepped out of the Ministry Atrium and into his own sitting room.       As fortune would have it, Narcissa was having tea, idly leafing through Twilfitt and Tatting’s fashion catalogue. She looked up in surprise—Lucius’s entrance was anything but ordinary.       Brushing the soot off his shoulders, he said quickly, ‘Darling, the Aurors will be here any second now—you must hold them off for at least five minutes, at all costs, d’accord?’       Without a word, Narcissa rose and vanished her simple, elegant morning-at-home ensemble down to the last stitch. Then, stark naked save for her wand, she summoned from the bedroom—through three rooms and down a corridor (one of the perks of an ancient and noble house)—a silk negligee. Lucius caught all this only out of the corner of his eye (the negligee, floating like a ghost through the air, was particularly fetching); he had no intention of wasting a precious second.       The fireplace whooshed, and he heard Narcissa scream, ‘Get out! You filthy brutes! I’m not decent!’       He had never loved her more than in that moment.       He sprinted to his study, tugged a chain with a pin-sized key from beneath his shirt—the safe was goblin-made and the lock just as tiny. He rifled through the documents and ledgers, feverishly hunting—where was it? An album of ‘French postcards’, the Algerian passport, the folder containing the will… ah, here! With shaking hands, he drew from the depths the one thing that must never, under any circumstances, fall into Auror hands.       Especially in the light of… well, of everything.       It looked like an old diary, but only its owner knew what it truly was. It had to be hidden at once and hidden well. Only one hero could carry out such a mission: modest, lacking in outward charm, but upon whom they would all have to rely. Lucius took a steadying breath.       ‘Dobby!’       Dobby was not the house-elf of anyone’s dreams.       Indeed, Dobby was so far from the house-elf of dreams that only the utterly unmanageable Kreacher—who, happily, had been palmed off on Sirius—was worse. These days, the poor creature lived like a hermit somewhere in Grimmauld Place, awaiting his master’s release from a life sentence—a pitiless and pointless undertaking, but such is the nature of house-elf loyalty. Rumour had it that the late elf of Lucius’s sister-in-law had been even madder than Kreacher, but Narcissa had once declared that rank nonsense, and Lucius was accustomed to believing his wife.       Back to Dobby: entrusting him with anything requiring the slightest imagination was, on the whole, a fool’s errand. Dobby had an excess of imagination for a house-elf, and every ounce of it ran in the wrong direction.       Still, Lucius had no alternative—and not a second to spare.       ‘Dobby! Dobby! Get here at once!’       No sooner had the big-eared misfit appeared—every finger bandaged yet again: what had the little wretch done to earn such punishment this time?—than Lucius thrust the diary into his hands and ordered, ‘Quick! Hide this somewhere no one would ever think to look!’       Dobby squeaked, bowed, and vanished. Two seconds later, the Aurors burst into the study, flushed and out of breath—but they were already too late.       Fate—this time wearing Dobby’s modest mask—had made its move.