The Observer Effect

      The first day of the summer holidays—the day Harry discovered Mrs Figg’s true, sly nature—turned out to be the last day of the Prisoner of the Cupboard’s confinement. While Harry was trapped at the batty old cat‑woman’s, his aunt was dragging his cousin round the shops, and by Monday evening, the Dursleys were immersed in a pleasant task: ensuring Porky’s new school uniform was ready. Fatso was so delighted with his progeny that he actually shed a tear, while Harry was already savouring how he’d describe the cane and the boater to Tom: to his eye, Porky looked remarkably foolish in that get-up (though Harry prudently kept that opinion to himself).       The next morning began with Aunt Petunia fiddling with some of Dudley’s cast-offs in the kitchen. For some reason, she believed that plenty of dirty water and an even larger quantity of stench would somehow transform these sorry-looking rags into an acceptable school uniform for Harry. To be fair, this plan aroused Harry’s scepticism, but Aunt Petunia was determined to see it through, despite the protests of her son and husband (mostly about the smell—they weren’t bothered about the outcome). Harry refrained from protesting; Muggles could amuse themselves as they pleased; in his future school, no one wore anything of the kind anyway.       And speaking of school, that same morning Harry received a most curious letter.       It arrived by ordinary Muggle post, along with the usual rubbish—bills and postcards—but the letter itself was anything but ordinary. It came in an unstamped parchment envelope, addressed in bright green ink, and sealed with sealing wax; by its appearance alone, it all but screamed whom it was meant for—and that’s without the trouble of reading the address; the latter left no doubt at all.       ‘Mr H J Potter,       The Cupboard under the Stairs,       4 Privet Drive,       Little Whinging, Surrey’       Well, it looked splendid at first sight, but there must be something wrong: Harry had, generally speaking, expected a personal visit from a member of staff. Stuffing the letter into the waistband of his old jeans and smoothing his T-shirt over it, he went back to the kitchen.       Breakfast seemed to drag on for an eternity, and then he had to do the washing-up afterwards—and scrub the floor, the table, the sink, and every other surface remotely involved in the preparation and consumption of food. Harry solemnly swore to himself that, once he walked out of here for good, he would never again touch a rag or a sponge. That work could and should be done by magic, or by house-elves, if you happened to have any. Harry was curious to see even one; he had no doubt he would one day.       He desperately wished he could perform magic this very minute. How glorious it would be to wave a wand and make the things around him do exactly what he wanted! Accidental magic was all very well in its fashion, but it was limited—mere crumbs from the table of real, complex, varied magic. Before Tom, Harry hadn’t realised precisely what he’d been deprived of since childhood; now he did, all too clearly. The need for magic, once a mosquito-bite itch at the edge of his consciousness, shapeless and unrecognised, had turned into twitching phantom pains, into a nagging sense of loss and incompleteness. There was a way to make absolutely everything better with magic—and Harry, stuck with Muggles, was cut off from that entirely. He needed Cleaning Charms, and Mending Charms, and Concealment Charms, and—oh, Morgana, what a useful thing—Muggle-Repelling Charms, perfect for the diary, and Healing Charms, and Water-Repelling Charms, and all the other charms too.       ‘Soon,’ Harry told himself, ‘very soon I’ll have them. I just have to wait a little.’       In the privacy of his cupboard he switched on his torch and hurried to pull out the stiff, crackling envelope.       ‘Dear Mr Potter,       We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.       Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.       Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl no later than 31 July.       Yours sincerely,       Minerva McGonagall       Deputy Headmistress’       Adorned at the top with the Hogwarts crest and printed on ornate headed paper (the heading, on closer inspection, turned out to be a laughably long list of the Headmaster’s name and titles), the message was the very model of brevity. Harry felt a degree of bewilderment.       Where was the date of the visit? Was no one going to come at all? Had this Minerva McGonagall even realised that Harry lived with Muggles? She must have, since the letter hadn’t come by owl. Yet she expected a reply by magical post—what nonsense! It was lucky there was still nearly a week before the deadline. But never mind the reply—what about his school purchases? The list on the second sheet looked ominously extensive, and Harry hadn’t the faintest idea where he was supposed to get money even for a wand, let alone everything else.       A professor had come to Tom. Offered help and an escort. Brought a bursary from the school’s Board of Governors—barely enough, but it had covered the essentials.       To Harry, they’d sent… this.       Abashed, he hitched up his shirt, rolled up his T-shirt, pulled back the elasticated bandage, and drew out the precious diary.       ‘23 July       Dear Tom!       You won’t believe what just happened…’       The explanation took a while. Harry had to copy out almost the whole letter into the diary—never had he so wished he could simply show Tom a thing. The perfunctory standard letter—there was no other honest word for it—from the Hogwarts administration didn’t appeal to him either. Tom, however, immediately spotted the solution to the owl problem.       ‘Life with Muggles is doing you no good,’ Tom delivered his verdict without mercy as soon as Harry had finished pouring out his troubles. ‘Your brain shrivels by the day; now your memory is failing too. Tell me, forgetful child, where might one find the nearest owl? ’       Er…       ‘Hint: the same place as the Kneazles.’       Blimey, what a dunce Harry was.       ‘…don’t go on, I’ve got it. A witch or a Squib—if Mrs Figg keeps Kneazles, she either has an owl of her own or can summon one,’ Harry scratched his nose under his glasses. ‘I’ll wangle another visit round hers. The perfect chance for a heart-to-heart.’       And settle once and for all whether the old bag was merely a liar or a thoroughgoing piece of filth who couldn’t care less about the fates of small wizards. Over the previous night, Harry had turned the information over in his mind about a million times, and if before Mrs Figg had earned his dislike, now antipathy became full hatred. Harry scowled.       ‘Tom? Will you help me write a reply? To this McGonagall.’       Minerva McGonagall, the frustratingly careless Deputy Headmistress, had not, as yet, merited any special thanks for her efforts either. The reply intended for her was rather brief, in the style of her own epistle:       ‘Dear Professor McGonagall,       I am a complete orphan and have no funds for the items on the list.       Would you, as the school’s Deputy Headmistress, please inform the Board of Governors of my problem?       Awaiting your owl as soon as possible.       Yours sincerely,       Harry James Potter’       Harry had no parchment—and he had to tear off the lower third of the letter of acceptance carefully. There was no envelope either—but Tom explained how to fold the letter into a cunning double-triangle with the text hidden inside. He mentioned in passing that a friend had taught him that trick. The result looked pitiful enough to make you weep—but Tom insisted the parchment was enchanted and ordinary paper simply wouldn’t be accepted by an owl. At least he approved of the pen—Harry now had a new, decent one, out of respect for Tom.       He’d nicked it from school as well, this time from the staffroom desk—a farewell keepsake for a long, bad memory, so to speak. A wizard was supposed to write with a quill and ink (in class too—Harry didn’t like that), but it was still better than a pencil. He addressed it to ‘Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Hogwarts’ and slipped the little triangle into his pocket.       Old Mrs Figg, it seemed, wasn’t expecting callers. She opened the door in a faded calico dressing gown, her head stuffed with pink rollers—so many that it looked like a brain bulging out, like something out of a comic strip. The cats—all four—yowled in chorus behind her, hoping, no doubt, for an unscheduled dinner. Harry lowered his gaze and smiled modestly.       ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Figg,’ he said sweetly, looking down at his trainers (formerly Dudley’s trainers, which had seen much better days). ‘I really need your help. Please, may I come in? ’       In a cluttered sitting room smelling of cats and cabbage, they sipped weak, nasty tea while Harry pondered the neatest way to crack the horrid old fraud wide open.       ‘Mrs Figg,’ he began, ‘your cats have always seemed cleverer than usual to me. And those tufts on their ears give them such a distinctive look! But I’ve forgotten the name of the breed. If I’m not mistaken… Kneazles? ’ He held his breath.       ‘Maine Coons, dear.’ The crone poured milk into her cup with an unflinching hand; Harry had the impression the milk had gone off, though perhaps it was something else stinking—cat sick in a corner, say. ‘The breed is called Maine Coon. You said you wanted to ask me a favour? ’       ‘I’ll never make a spy,’ thought Harry.       ‘I need an owl.’       ‘An owl? What an extraordinary wish. And what has that to do with me? ’       This charade had gone on long enough.       ‘Mrs Figg. Please. I need an owl. I’ve had a letter from school, and there’s very little time left to reply.’       In the background, a cat (a Maine Coon—or perhaps a Kneazle after all) was struggling desperately to bring up a hairball.       ‘Ah, Harry.’ The cup clinked against cheap crockery and the old woman’s face, like a crumpled apricot, took on a particularly tearful look. ‘So you know everything? ’       ‘Ah, you cow,’ thought Harry, angry, ‘so you know everything. Just you wait. I’ll get to you one day.’       ‘Yes. I already know everything. So—about the owl? ’       ‘I haven’t got one.’       He blinked.       ‘I’m not a witch, dear.’ Mrs Figg hid behind her cup. ‘Mm, it’s awkward to talk about, isn’t it? I’m from a magical family, but I can’t do magic myself. That’s how it is. You’ll understand such things when you’re older.’       Fury kept the tears from coming, but Harry made an effort.       ‘But, Mrs Figg! I really need one,’ he whinged. ‘What am I going to do? ’       ‘Well, dear,’ mumbled Mrs Figg, ‘why don’t you, er… why not send it from Diagon Alley? There’s certainly a Public Owl Office there. Or… I’m sure Tom would be happy to help you.’       Something must have flashed across Harry’s face, because the old woman hastened to explain, ‘Oh—the landlord of the Leaky Cauldron. His name’s Tom.’       Harry exhaled—and was genuinely indignant, at that. ‘But how am I supposed to get there?! On my own? I’m only a child! And I’ve got absolutely no money! ’       It came out rather shrilly. The cats set up a thin, keening wail like a choir of castrati.       Mrs Figg broke.       ‘I—I… all right! Let’s go! ’       Having picked their way through Mrs Figg’s dwelling—every bit as eccentric and slovenly as the lady herself—the old woman and Harry found themselves on a skewed back doorstep. The back garden beyond, scarcely larger than a pocket handkerchief, was choked with elder, with only a gigantic crop of nettles—like Christmas trees—disputing the space. Mrs Figg, casting furtive glances about, plunged a hand down the front of her bodice. After a quick rummage she fished out a long silver whistle on a thin chain. When she blew it—in perfect silence, one might note—an owl swooped down on her.       It was the most ordinary of owls—not that Harry had seen many in his life, but this was exactly the kind that illustrated the article ‘Owls’ in the Encyclopaedia Britannica. A long-eared owl, Asio otus. Brown, mottled plumage, feather tufts—indeed, like long ears—on its head, and round honey‑yellow eyes. It looked not at all magical, but very put out. Mrs Figg transferred it to her shoulder and the owl began pecking at her rollers.       ‘Dear, where’s your letter? Give it here.’       At the sight of the pathetic triangle, the old woman raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. The owl, when the missive was thrust into its beak, squirmed crossly and began to flap—first gingerly, then faster, wider, and higher, like an irritated bat. In broad daylight, the spectacle was particularly dismal. At last it heaved itself off—only the nettle tops swayed—and flew away. Harry wished it a safe journey with all his heart.       Before leaving, he had to drink another cup of vile tea and listen once more to the story of how Mr Tibbles caught a frog, brought it indoors, and then lost it. The tale was, in principle, amusing—the first three times. Harry did his best to behave properly and even praised the old woman’s chocolate cake—though, warned by bitter past experience, he did not eat it.       Home welcomed Harry as usual—with warmth and tenderness—that is, with a shrill ‘Boy! Where, for God’s sake, have you been? ’ and a list of jobs. Harry hoovered, peeled potatoes, and scrubbed tiles like a robot. His thoughts were far away—drifting among the clouds with the owl, sliding back like snakes to Mrs Figg’s house. He couldn’t have said exactly what he wanted to do to her, for she never helped him in anything anyway—today barely counted and even then she’d had to be wheedled into that small effort—but he certainly wanted to do something nasty. She deserved it.       Before dinner, Harry had a shower—and nearly brained himself, because he managed to fall asleep on his feet under the warm spray. The lack of adequate sleep was becoming increasingly apparent, but Harry preferred not to notice. The closer night came, the more tightly his nerves were strung—he didn’t feel lively, but he wasn’t the least bit sleepy either. And tonight, the moment he was shut up in the shell of his cupboard and pulled out the diary, the exhaustion ebbed to the back of his mind and stopped mattering.       ‘Still 23 July.       Dear Tom,…’       For success in sending the reply to school, Harry earned praise—Tom appreciated the performance he’d staged. They reviewed the plan again and agreed that if no one had turned up by Friday—not even an owl with another letter—then he’d have to make his own way to Diagon Alley. Harry thanked his lucky stars for Tom with all his heart—Tom knew what was where, understood school procedures, navigated the wizarding world effortlessly—Harry couldn’t imagine, and didn’t want to, how he’d be extricating himself from this mess without him.       Harry read the letter again, this time paying more attention to the list of books and equipment: ‘Standard size two pewter cauldron? Are there non-standard ones? Why are the scales specifically copper? A pointed hat, seriously? Did you wear one? And what—does anyone truly choose a toad as a familiar? ’ He turned over the ticket for the Hogwarts Express: ‘They nicked WHAT? You’re joking? How do you steal an entire train? ’ He admired the blob of wax with the Hogwarts seal: ‘But why a badger? I mean—it’s just odd, isn’t it? ’ Tom didn’t seem to mind answering Harry’s questions—on the contrary, he appeared to be genuinely amused, making frequent comments about his correspondent’s mental capacities. Tom, truth be told, was a terrible tease—but Harry liked that about him too.       Tom even told him something amusing about McGonagall—he’d known her as a girl, it turned out; she’d been two or three years younger and in Gryffindor House. Tom remembered her as a lively, cocksure lass who poured herself into Quidditch—a magical sport with convoluted rules and a preposterously high injury rate. It was odd to think about—odd, but funny. Now she was Deputy Headmistress.       But when the conversation turned to the Headmaster himself (formerly the Transfiguration professor), Tom went deathly serious. The chap with the name like a dog’s pedigree and a title longer than Merlin’s beard was no simple customer.       ‘Harry,’ wrote Tom, and every curl of his handwriting seemed to exude an unease that made you shiver, ‘listen to me with the utmost attention.       This man is VERY DANGEROUS.’       From there it went straight into fairy‑tale territory—the ‘scarier and scarier’ bit. The titled old codger—Albus the Great and Terrible, Knight of This and That, Chief Warlock (chief over whom? Harry would have to ask), in short, that chap—could read minds. Which, in itself, wasn’t a big deal; plenty could, including Tom, but the devil was in the detail. The old man was better at Legilimency than most—and, crucially:       ‘He can do it without your consent, on the sly.       So under no circumstances look him in the eyes—don’t make it easier for him to creep into your mind.’       And Tom, it seemed, considered the Wizard of Oz—i.e. Albus—either a paedophile or a die‑hard prankster, or both at once:       ‘Don’t eat or drink anything he offers.       Try not to be alone with him. If you end up alone—find an excuse to leave as soon as you can.’       And suspected him of working for MI5:       ‘Don’t tell him anything without thinking three times.       Under no circumstances mention that you speak Parseltongue.       Best not to tell him anything about yourself at all—answer only direct questions, and as briefly as possible.’       Taken together… downright sinister.       ‘When I was about your age, I was foolish enough to blab something about my abilities to him. The one conversation in which I was careless. After that, he hounded me for YEARS, watched my every move, wore me down with his suspicions.’       Blimey.       ‘You’re describing him as—I don’t know—some properly evil version of Professor Xavier. Is he really that bad? ’       ‘Much WORSE.’       Tom underlined ‘worse’.       Harry wondered if he truly understood the comparison. As with the word ‘computer’—and a few similar cases—Harry wouldn’t have sworn that Tom somehow knew the meaning (theoretically impossible, and yet—Tom), or merely guessed from context. Harry had the impression Tom would rather bite his tongue off (metaphorically) than admit he hadn’t understood something.       ‘Harry, he will hate you too if you give him the slightest pretext!       Be cautious. Do you understand? ’       So—a super‑evil Professor X. Brilliant. Harry was in for it, clearly. Well. He’d rather liked Magneto anyway.       ‘All right. I’ve got it. I’ll try.’       ‘Good lad’, Tom thawed and abruptly changed the subject. ‘Would you like me to show you one of my memories? ’       Harry nearly jumped—but contented himself in the end with rolling quickly onto his stomach and clapping his hands over his mouth.       ‘!!!       Do you even have to ask!       Of course I do—very much!       You can do that?       Why didn’t you before?       What do you need for it? ’       Tom waited until Harry ran down a little and wrote back:       ‘In that case, let’s try.       I can, but there are limits. You’ll see.       For this I’ll have to… take a sliver of your life-force. I haven’t any magic of my own—only what you choose to share with me.       It doesn’t hurt. You won’t feel anything special, but for the next few days you’d best not try any magic; you should sleep and eat more than usual. You may feel a little irritable and drowsy. In short, the risks are small, but it isn’t something to do often.       Well—do you agree? ’       Harry most definitely agreed, and confirmed it as ardently as he could.       ‘Good. Get comfortable, relax, look straight ahead, and try not to think of anything. Let me know when you’re ready.’       Harry wriggled on his stomach and decided he was as comfortable as he was going to get—nothing on this wretched pallet would allow for better. He propped his head on his left hand, adjusted his glasses, and firmly wrote ‘ready’, then honestly tried to relax and think of nothing.       For a second or two, nothing happened; then the diary’s pages stirred as if in a draught—only there was no draught. The diary began to turn its own pages—faster, faster still, the leaves flickering by—and suddenly Harry realised that these weren’t pages—they were the spokes of a gigantic wheel spinning before him—and he also realised that somehow he could make out the gaps between the spokes, and that one could step into those gaps, and beyond them—darkness.       Harry stepped, and went in, into the darkness.       He dropped from a height of about a foot and a half, nearly fell, staggered—but kept his feet. The darkness gave way to bright sunlight.       Looking round, Harry saw a bustling city street. He didn’t know for certain where he was—London, perhaps?—but one thing was beyond doubt: this was the past. Old‑fashioned folk were going about their business without paying him the slightest heed; a boxy old tram rattled along the rails, and the milkman’s cart was pulled by a real, live horse—a small, skinny, dun-coloured mare.       ‘Come on,’ someone said imperiously right beside him, and Harry turned.       He wasn’t warm. Neither his voice nor he himself: tall, handsome, arrogant, dangerous—anything but warm. And yet, in some unfathomable way, Tom looked and sounded exactly like an elder brother. Harry found he couldn’t move.       Tom, who had already taken a step, stopped, turned, and gave Harry a thoughtful once‑over. All Harry could do was stare back. His glasses steamed up. Tom’s face took on a look of quiet amusement with a small sadistic streak hidden in it. He raised an eyebrow.       ‘You do keep surprising me, don’t you? You know, many can recognise perfection when they see it, but you really are the first to cry.’       It was… so very Tom that Harry’s heart broke. Again.       ‘May I touch you? ’ he managed.       He longed to hug Tom—but Tom shook his head, still smiling lightly.       ‘You can’t. We’re inside a memory—neither of us is really here. And I’m nowhere at all. I’m not even a ghost.’       Harry made an inarticulate, protesting noise; he hadn’t the strength for more. He’d meant something else—permission—because Tom was definitely not the sort to encourage being grabbed without prior, explicit consent. Tom either hadn’t understood him, or had understood only too well—and had answered about what was possible. What wasn’t. Harry would rather have been told no.       ‘Follow me,’ Tom repeated. ‘I’ll show you something.’       ‘Tall’ didn’t cover even half of it—he literally blocked out the sun. Harry had to take two steps for every one of his, which meant not walking but practically trotting, like a short‑legged little dog, a Spitz, or the like. His cloak—long, black, flowing—flared as he moved. His trousers had razor-sharp creases; a neatly tied knot showed at the V-neck of his jumper; his polished Oxford shoes gleamed. The wavy lock falling on his brow bounced as he walked. He looked perfect—better than Harry had imagined—better than anyone.       ‘And stop snivelling.’       They passed through rust‑eaten iron gates into a bare, empty yard before a rather dreary building with a square grey façade surrounded by high railings. The heavy front door swung open to them; a flustered girl in a stiffly starched apron crossed their path. Tom skirted her without a glance, as though she were furniture, crossed a hall tiled in black and white, and plunged into a narrow, ill‑lit corridor—confident and purposeful, like Virgil leading Dante down into the depths of Hell. Harry could barely keep up with his swift stride. They climbed the stairs, passed another corridor, gloomier than the last, and came to the door at the corner, the last in a monotonous row. It stood half‑open.       The room beyond was like a coffin—both in atmosphere and in size. A high, grimy window seemed to swallow any light that came near it. A table and chair, pressed up against the windowsill, were squeezed between two narrow beds. The wallpaper hung in strips. A cupboard loomed like a monolith in the corner. A nasty smell rose from between the floorboards. On the left-hand bed, on a soldier‑grey blanket, a boy sat reading a book.       Harry recognised him at once.       He was Harry’s age, at least to look at. Dark‑haired, thin, sullen. Dangerous. Not yet perfect, but it would come. The older Tom observed from the corner, cold eyes boring into Harry with curiosity, a gaze crawling across his face like a fly—Harry longed to brush it off.       ‘Like it? Cosy, isn’t it? ’       Harry swallowed.       ‘No—sorry. What is this place, anyway? ’       Not that he had no idea at all, but…       ‘An orphanage. I live here.’ Tom smiled very broadly, and for some reason Harry shuddered. ‘I said I understood your circumstances—well then. Now you can see with your own eyes—it’s true.’       Harry had no answer ready. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps the Dursleys hadn’t been all that bad. Appalling, no question—but… Here the very notion of ‘bad’ acquired a new meaning and depth.       Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and a thin, tinkling woman’s voice said, ‘We’ve come.’ The boy looked up and put his book aside. Tom seemed to gather himself, and anticipation flickered on his face, replaced by a mask of detached, cold amusement.       ‘I brought you here for this, in fact. Watch closely; don’t miss anything.’       And Harry watched.       He saw eyes glittering with a mysterious sheen behind half-moon spectacles.       He saw sternness and reproach in those eyes—and remembered eyes that had looked at him with stern reproof.       He saw the cupboard go up in flames—and broke into a cold sweat, imagining flames swallowing another cupboard, the one whose inner wall bore the crooked scrawl ‘Hary’s Rum’.       He saw the sad pile of stolen tat dumped on the blanket—and pictured being forced to return, with apologies, the pens and rubbers, the exercise books and pencils, the torch and batteries, the bent tin horsemen, and the headless He‑Man action figure.       Being forced to hand over Tom.       ‘And mind you, Hogwarts will not tolerate theft,’ the man in half‑moon spectacles was already telling him, and the long name and odd set of titles no longer seemed funny.       ‘Yes, sir,’ said Harry. He was cold. His head swam. He’d missed lunch—wanted to read. The corridor smelt of gin—Mrs Cole was listening. She was always listening.       ‘The Ministry punishes offenders severely,’ declaimed the clownishly dressed man in spectacles. He had bad teeth. Too many sweets. Harry didn’t like sweets.       ‘Yes, sir.’       ‘See you at Hogwarts, Tom,’ said the man who had robbed him in broad daylight and set his cupboard on fire.       ‘I can talk to snakes,’ Harry answered—and only then remembered he wasn’t supposed to.       No one must learn his secret.       ‘That’s quite enough,’ came a voice suddenly above Harry’s head.       It was Tom’s voice—serious, worried. Harry screwed his eyes shut as hard as he could. He wanted desperately to cry.       ‘Tom, Tom,’ he shouted, ‘wait—just a minute.’       ‘What now, you insufferable child? ’       Harry opened his eyes and found Tom—right in front of him. He had to tilt his head back—and back again; that’s how tall Tom was. The wizard in spectacles had gone. The sullen boy sat on the blanket, kicking the bed leg. Children squealed, sobbed, and laughed beyond the door. The place smelt of boiled cabbage. Tom regarded him from above with concern.       ‘I know I’ve asked before. But I’ll ask again—and this time will you please answer properly? Please.’ Harry was trembling. The dizziness hadn’t gone—if anything, it was worse; the floor seemed to sway. ‘What happens to you when the diary is shut? ’       ‘I know I’ve answered before,’ Tom said coolly, a polite, empty expression dropping over his face like a mask. ‘But I’ll answer again—just this once—and you mustn’t ask me again. Nothing happens to me. When the diary is shut—I cease to exist. Every time.’       Harry nodded slowly.       ‘Sorry. I understand. I won’t ask again. But…’       He drew a breath. The room now swayed, rocked, and spun like a broken merry‑go‑round. Harry clenched his fists and lifted his chin higher.       ‘…I promise—no, I swear—that I’ll find a way to get you out of here.’       Tom smirked.       ‘No need to fall to pieces. That’s not worth such ridiculous agitation.’       Harry didn’t like that answer.       ‘Tom! ’ he protested—but Tom only flashed him a contemptuous look.       ‘Harry! Don’t say things you don’t mean. Let Muggles say “I swear” and then do nothing. It’s beneath a wizard. Don’t disgrace me—or yourself.’       ‘But I do mean it,’ Harry insisted, fighting the wave of nausea. ‘I do. I’ll get you out of here. I don’t know how—but whatever it takes. I don’t care. By any means.’       ‘Really? ’ Tom seemed surprised—in a good way. Harry thought he liked that look on Tom’s face.       ‘Definitely really.’       Tom’s grin widened:       ‘Then promise as a wizard, not as a Muggle.’       ‘I don’t know how…’       ‘Repeat after me: “I, Harry James Potter…”       “…by my soul, my magic, and the breath of my mouth, do swear…”       “…to help Tom Marvolo Riddle…”       “…to return to life, whatever it costs.”       “And may magic bear witness to this.”’       Tom still looked pleasantly surprised. And doubtful. And by the tiniest drop—as though he were happy. Harry loved him so much in that moment.       He flashed Tom a radiant, triumphant smile. And fainted.