The Observer Effect

      Preparing for the operation codenamed ‘Squib’ took two days. It might’ve taken less than that, but Harry talked Tom into one more exchange of memories. Actually, Harry forced him by guile, acting like a true Slytherin (being Salazar’s heir turned out easier than he feared).       They had to somehow make the old woman take Tom in her hands and hold him for as long as he would be draining magic from her. Which, incidentally, wouldn’t be such a pleasant sensation—Harry had experienced a mild version of this first-hand and had a rough idea what it was like. Ideally, of course, she would agree voluntarily and stoically endure it all, but that was beyond all hope.       Harry felt not a glimmer of sympathy for Mrs Figg. On the contrary, the longer he thought about it, the more right and beautiful this solution seemed to him. The useless old woman had, to use Tom’s metaphor, piles of gold she could never use, since she’d been born without the key to her own magic. Tom, conversely, had the key, but his ‘bank vault’ was completely empty, without a single stray coin. Depriving Figg of magic would do her no harm—she didn’t possess it anyway. For Tom it would bring untold benefit. However you looked at it, it all added up.       And besides—though Harry sincerely believed his original suggestion had nothing to do with this—the old hag owed him. Yes, he definitely had a score to settle with her for all those ten years when the little wizard was dumped in her sitting room, like a puppy or a kitten, and she could take a good look at him—his clothes, his thinness, his bruises, his glasses held together with tape, all of him—but chose to see nothing and do nothing, and Harry intended to settle this score with her.       So, in the absence of voluntary consent, they had to think of a way to force the old woman to go through the necessary procedure. Should they break into her house while she was sleeping? Drug her? Stun her? How best to get close to her at all?       Tom began by extracting from Harry every possible detail about Mrs Figg. How her house was arranged, how many rooms, which way the windows faced, whether there were several floors, what her daily routine was, what habits Harry knew her to have, who she communicated with—and so on and so forth. Harry, to his own disappointment and Tom’s irritation, couldn’t properly answer a single question. Finally, he lost his temper and suggested:       ‘Look, maybe you could look at my memories? Since you showed me yours, presumably it should work the other way round too? You can see for yourself that I’m no use, but maybe we can squeeze more out of my memory when we study it together? If anyone’s capable of such a thing, it’s you!’       The idea aroused Tom’s scepticism.       ‘Clumsy flattery, though I appreciate the attempt. However, I’m against new sessions of Legilimency with you—your tendency towards self-destruction makes them too dangerous. Last time you brought yourself to magical exhaustion, remember? What if something similar were to happen again?’       Harry sulked.       ‘I’ll be more careful now, I promise! As soon as I feel something’s wrong, I’ll tell you immediately. And before I didn’t know what to pay attention to, but now I do. Please, Tom, let’s just try! Maybe nothing will work anyway, and here we are arguing.’       Tom was predictably stung by his ‘nothing will work’:       ‘Your mind, child, is a fortress without gates; any mind-reader can penetrate it, and I most certainly can. Of course it will work; the question is rationality.’       Nevertheless, after another dozen assorted questions—questions Harry answered even more uselessly than the previous ones, quite unintentionally—Tom gave up and changed his mind.       Well, that is, he didn’t say outright, ‘All right, I think you’re right,’ but that was precisely the meaning.       ‘Perhaps I really should read you directly. You seem quite incapable of accessing your own memories properly. An unfortunate limitation, but we’ll return to discussing it another time. For now, prepare to open your consciousness to me. You remember what to do, don’t you?’       Get comfortable, relax, and think of nothing. Harry was especially good at the last part. The main thing was not to fall asleep accidentally. He shifted in his chair. Seemed all right.       ‘Yes. I’m basically ready; you may begin.’       The diary’s pages stirred. Harry peered into their accelerating flicker and prepared to step into the darkness at the right moment, but this time everything was different. The darkness itself splashed out to meet him—splashed out, overwhelmed and dragged him along.       He stood in Mrs Figg’s sitting room and looked at his younger self.       A thin, ragged boy in broken glasses entered the room and sat in the deep armchair, sinking into its cushions. Again, again, and again. The boy grew older, details changed, but not the essence. Harry watched as if riveted, though the picture was distressing.       Tom, meanwhile, circled the sitting room, looked out of the windows, for some reason rummaged among the things on the shelf behind the chair, then went into the next room. His robes billowed and fluttered as he walked. Harry could hear him wandering through the house, opening doors in a proprietorial manner. The boy in the armchair drank tea. Mrs Figg showed him photographs of cats. It made Harry’s stomach turn.       Tom returned, briskly crossed the sitting room, opened the front door, looked out into the street. The boy with the scar on his forehead sat in the armchair. Before him a cup of tea grew cold. The old woman held out a photo album to him. Exhausted, full of anger, Harry closed his eyes for a second.       ‘No!’ screamed a woman’s voice, breaking. ‘Please, no! Not Harry!’       Darkness struck his eyes like a flash.       ‘Please, not Harry!’ the unknown woman continued to plead through her sobs. ‘Kill me instead, me!’       ‘I’ve heard this somewhere before,’ Harry thought, dissolving into the darkness; he was part of it, a dispassionate observer not even feeling curious, ‘as if it were something familiar.’       ‘Stand aside, foolish girl,’ commanded another voice, high, cold, inhuman.       ‘Not Harry… Have mercy…’       The darkness was torn to shreds by blinding green light.       With a jerk, as if someone had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, Harry came to himself.       Blood was seeping from his nose in thick, slow drops—directly onto the diary. Harry feebly tried to wipe them away, but they’d already been absorbed—fortunately, without a trace. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Strangely enough, otherwise he felt fine—no dizziness, no nausea. But he still felt like a puppy that had misbehaved. Something had clearly gone wrong, though he didn’t understand what.       Tom didn’t even scold him, contrary to expectation; he only wrote:       ‘You really don’t know where to stop, do you?’       Harry had nothing to say to that.       And yet the benefit brought by viewing the memories couldn’t be denied. Tom didn’t elaborate, only remarked that he’d learned all the details he needed.       However, they didn’t devote all their time to planning the scheme with the old woman. They had much to discuss between themselves.       ‘Tom, listen, I don’t want to insist, of course, but there’s one question you still haven’t answered. What happened to your, as you called it, “main self”? Well, to the person you were before ending up in the diary. You said he was in mortal danger—so did he die in the end? Don’t you know?’       Actually, yes, Harry suspected Tom didn’t know—what else could explain such silence? Tom expressed himself evasively, which only confirmed Harry’s suspicions:       ‘There’s a question you haven’t answered either, and it’s directly connected to yours. How did my diary come to you? My first assumptions about this proved far from the truth—since you, as it turned out, were living with Muggles then and had no contact with the wizarding world at all. So how?’       Harry snorted. Once, a few weeks ago—though it felt like an eternity—he’d been too embarrassed to admit it; now it wasn’t a problem at all.       ‘I stole it. From a second-hand bookseller, a Muggle one, I think—he’d hardly keep a shop in Little Whinging if he were a wizard. So he’s a Muggle; I’m practically certain. And the shop’s quite ordinary—old books, nothing extremely rare or valuable. He doesn’t even have display cases; everything lies right on the counter and shelves. There was a pile of ancient expired diaries, sort of like a sale, and yours was lying among them, on top. I saw it and just couldn’t resist.’       Which, looking back, was a little strange, but impulsive theft was a shortcoming Harry knew and accepted in himself. Accepting yourself is very important, after all, everyone knows that.       ‘Most curious. The thing is, I intended to leave this phylactery with one close person—a devoted vassal, as I considered him then. I don’t know whether that other me acted differently in the end, or that person turned out to be other than I thought of him. Naturally, he was (or rather, is still, since he should still be alive and not even that old) a wizard. As you see, it all looks confused and not very good.       Answering your question, I have grounds to suppose that the other me is dead. Were it otherwise, I wouldn’t have allowed such an important and valuable thing to end up where it ended up. Perhaps that vassal of mine is also dead—killed, for instance—and that would explain something. I need to know more, and rest assured, I’ll find out as soon as I can act more freely.’       Yes, evidently the idea of getting out of the diary had captivated Tom no less than Harry by this point. They returned to developing their plan.       The first step would be getting back to Little Whinging at all. Without needing to drag Trunk along and somehow hide it, this looked simpler, but still not as simple as a magical method—poof, and you’re already there. No, Harry would have to find his way using Muggle transport, and he had no idea how to approach this.       The result of a small brainstorming session was a trip to the bookshop neighbouring the Leaky Cauldron on the non-magical side, where Harry, to his satisfaction, discovered for sale a travel guide to London and the suburbs, including a map of trains, buses, and the Tube. This useful little book he appropriated without pangs of conscience—too lazy to go to the bank again and work out the ins and outs of exchanging wizarding money for pounds sterling, though Tom had mentioned earlier that such a service was available at Gringotts.       With the guidebook, things went smoothly. Harry plotted a route according to which he needed to use the Tube, a suburban train, and his own legs. Then he still had to make another visit to Gringotts—he needed money for tickets; Harry didn’t want to travel without paying and risk being thrown off.       The second stage was developing a method for immobilising the target. Harry acknowledged, with self-criticism, that he was unlikely to have the strength to overcome an adult in a purely physical confrontation, even an old and weak one. Fortunately, there was no need for such Muggle methods.       ‘Stupefy! Blast it. Sorry, not you. Wait a second, I’m out of breath… All right, once more. Stupefy!’       The rat squeaked and fell on its side. Harry wiped sweat from his face with his palm, but then remembered he was now a grown-up, respectable wizard, and reached for his handkerchief.       Harry had acquired the rat at the Magical Menagerie, along with a cage, a bag of food, and a packet of treats—the last was bought not out of a desire to spoil his new pet, but from a sense of repentance, since Harry intended the rodent for quite a specific purpose that promised the rat few pleasant experiences in the near future. And yes, he felt sorry for the rat, unlike Mrs Figg.       The rat, which was given the name Hole (for no particular reason, Harry just liked how it sounded), was jet-black in colour and, according to the seller’s assurances, distinguished by great intelligence, like all familiars. The latter was even believable—Harry gave a little speech intended to explain to Hole the concept of higher necessity, and noted with some surprise that the rat really didn’t try to dodge the red beam flying at it. To avoid unfortunate misunderstandings, Hole nevertheless remained in her cage—Harry planned to set her free or give her to someone when he finished, but not before. A premature escape would spoil his entire training.       ‘Finite. How are you there? Good; have a biscuit. I’ll rest for a bit. This is harder than it looks, isn’t it? Right, let’s go. Stupefy!’       Tom had taught him the spell, naturally. It was a bit unusual working out the wand‑movement pattern he’d drawn, but overall the theoretical part presented no difficulty for Harry. The practical side was worse—it worked, at least at first, every other time.       However, persistence and hard work, as is usually the case, overcame everything—gradually Harry became more and more confident at knocking out the rat. He stopped only when at least five out of six attempts succeeded, rather than just every third. Harry felt he was still far from perfection, but his legs simply wouldn’t hold him up. Magic took a surprising amount of strength.       Having fortified himself with the pub landlord’s bounty (he was, alas, unable to trudge somewhere with better food), Harry settled down with his diary.       ‘28 July, around three in the afternoon.       Dear Tom!       I’ve almost (almost almost) mastered the spell. I had to take a break for now—can’t go on, my hands are shaking. Are all spells this difficult? I’m rather scared about my performance at Hogwarts now… Is it because I’m a half-blood?’ he wrote.       ‘Clever boy, I never doubted you.’       Harry, greedy for praise, especially from Tom, bloomed, but what followed made him snort indignantly:       ‘Nonsense, you’re no weaker than others. It’s just that this is a fourth-year spell.’       ‘Oh, you sly, secretive snake!’ Harry wrote in reply, spattering ink from his quill. ‘What stopped you from mentioning this immediately? What if I’d failed completely?’       ‘But it worked, didn’t it?’ Tom was hard to shame. ‘We could have tried “Petrificus Totalus”, but it’s weaker and less suitable for our purpose. And besides, you’re Salazar’s heir; expecting less of you would be strange.’       Well, how could Harry argue with that?       ‘Fine. What about the back-up plan? You mentioned potions, but I don’t understand the first thing about them—at least, not yet.’       Tom, as usual, was only too happy to play teacher.       ‘I think in this case Confusing Concoction or Dreamless Sleep would suit best. The first brings the drinker’s mind into a state of bewilderment and confusion, similar to the Confundus Charm, and you can guess the second’s effect from its name. Of these two, Confusing Concoction is better, since its effect is almost instantaneous and it is excellently absorbed through the skin. As for Dreamless Sleep, it needs some time to take effect, and moreover must definitely get onto the mucous membranes of the nose or mouth. So the choice is fairly obvious. I could write down recipes for both from memory, but you’re unlikely to succeed in brewing them—certain skills in working with ingredients are required, and all the subtleties can’t be explained in one evening. And there’s no need; it’s simpler to acquire a ready-made potion.’       Harry nodded thoughtfully. There was definitely an apothecary in Diagon Alley—he’d already been to it—and it seemed there was more than one.       ‘Sounds logical. So—I arrive, she opens the door, I cast, if it works—hooray, if not—I spray the potion in her face and try again until it works. Is that right?’       Because yes, such was the plan. Of course, the old bat wouldn’t calmly watch Harry mix something suspicious into her tea, and certainly wouldn’t sit quietly while he poured potion directly down her throat. Harry, with his Muggle background, was familiar with the concept of pepper spray, and he gladly shared it with Tom, resulting in the acquisition at a haberdashery of a perfume atomiser—an old‑fashioned crystal bottle with a rubber tube and bulb, creating a fine cloud of tiny droplets. Here, as with pepper spray, the main thing was to jump aside quickly, or it would be awkward.       ‘Except for the word choice—everything’s correct. Are your hands steady now, child? I think it’s time to return to training.’       Harry rose with a martyred groan and took up his wand again. Hole stopped cleaning her whiskers and stared at him reproachfully.       ‘It’s necessary,’ Harry declared to her sternly, raising his wand. ‘Do you think I enjoy this? Hmm, well, actually—yes! Stupefy!’       For Confusing Concoction, Tom sent Harry not to Diagon Alley but to the alley neighbouring it—called, for some reason, Knockturn Alley.       ‘They won’t sell it,’ he explained laconically. ‘The potion’s not one an ordinary first-year might need, don’t you agree? Respectable traders won’t deal with you. You’ll have to look to the less law-abiding.’       It turned out the wizarding world had its own black market. And, as Harry began to suspect, its own drugs trade, but that was a concern for another day, if it was his concern at all. Harry walked past the shop Thistle and Sword and, before reaching the public owlery (the very one Mrs Figg had once mentioned, Mordred bless her pathetic soul), turned into an archway between these two buildings.       The entrance to Knockturn Alley was hidden behind a barred gate, beyond which stone steps rose steeply. The conservatism of the wizarding world once again played into Harry’s hands—the apothecary was located exactly where Tom remembered it: two doors down from Borgin and Burkes, opposite an establishment trading, according to its sign, in giant spiders (Harry marvelled in passing at such a narrowly specialised trade niche). The apothecary’s window, dirty and frightful as mortal sin, was decorated with a solitary dark glass phial and a bundle of some unidentifiable plants lying beside it, dry and bleached by light. The sign read: ‘Shaiveretche’s Poisons and Potions to Suit All Tastes.’ Harry pulled the door handle.       The apothecary, a thin, hunched old man whose appearance suggested misuse of some forbidden substances, glanced with interest at Trunk and grinned in what he probably considered a welcoming smile.       ‘Good day to you, si-i-ir,’ he sang unctuously. ‘How may we serve you? What do you desire?’       ‘Three ounces of Confusing Concoction, and be quick about it, you swindler,’ Harry replied. His flagrant rudeness was quite deliberate.       ‘Reputation,’ Tom had said, ‘runs far ahead of a person. And appearance is half of reputation.’ Harry had applied maximum effort to creating his appearance. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, which in this case meant: being in Knockturn, act like a complete villain. For this visit he’d even specially acquired a concealing hooded cloak, which he’d pulled almost to his nose. It didn’t add height, of course, but he hoped he’d at least somewhat managed to disguise his true age. You never know: for example, goblins aren’t tall either.       The apothecary chuckled but obediently rummaged under the counter and rattled the scales.       ‘Three Galleons from you, sir. Yes—and I see they speak truly. The Most Ancient and Noble House hasn’t withered after all, hasn’t died out. Gratifying, gratifying…’       ‘Cut the chatter,’ Harry advised him, counting out coins. The ‘Most Ancient and Noble’ was what the Black family was called, and it was strange even to hear this epithet and the word ‘died out’ in one sentence. The apothecary broke into his disgusting smirk again and held out a heavy cut-glass bottle.       ‘Mum’s the word, sir! Do visit us again; we’re always delighted, sir…’       Harry only swept his cloak in response and departed without farewells. He’d even rehearsed this sweep earlier that day, and was quite proud that in practice he’d managed to execute it without mishap.       Acquiring the potion was a point of no return of sorts. From this moment no obstacles to implementing the plan remained.       The plan itself was straightforward and foolproof. Harry would go to Mrs Figg’s on Tuesday afternoon, no earlier than eleven but no later than two o’clock—no creeping about in the darkness of night and suchlike. No attempts to outwit—direct attack. A quick strike—get in fast, finish the job, get out fast. Harry was desperately nervous, but Tom seemed not to doubt success in the slightest, and this was somewhat calming.       All day Monday, Harry practised stunning the rat and corresponded with Tom, mainly about completely unrelated things, like whether there were books written in Parseltongue, or how to get permission to visit the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts library, and then—then Tuesday came, which meant it was time to act.       Harry set off wearing the very outfit that was gradually beginning to feel like his usual one—trousers, shirt, jumper, and tie. Essentially, if you removed the robes, he looked almost like an ordinary little Muggle in school uniform. It was the holidays now, but still this didn’t seem like something that could attract attention. The atomiser with the potion weighed heavily in his left pocket. In the right lay money for the journey. Harry had bandaged his wand to his left forearm under his shirt—self-fastening elastic bandages were one of the few unconditionally useful things Muggles had invented, and for which he’d found no analogue yet in the wizarding world. He’d practised drawing the wand quickly—well, Harry didn’t need to put it back quickly.       The journey passed without incident. The train from Paddington Station brought him to Little Whinging at ten past eleven in the morning; another twenty minutes were spent getting to Mrs Figg’s house. The closer Harry was to his goal, the more his steps slowed. He was shaking with excitement. Finally, he almost forced himself to climb onto the familiar porch and ring the doorbell. He didn’t know what he wanted more—for Mrs Figg to be home, or to be absent.       She was home.       She was wearing that chintz dressing gown again, once blue with clouds but now completely faded. Curlers clung to her head like large pink caterpillars.       ‘Oh, Harry, is that you?’ said Mrs Figg.       ‘Stupefy,’ said Harry.       The wand in his hand was warm, and his hand didn’t tremble. The flawless red beam, paid for by Hole’s long torments, burst from the tip. The old woman toppled backwards—mouth still half-open, eyes stuck mid-blink. In the depths of the house, a cat mewed; others answered it. Harry stepped over the body, grabbed the faded clouds and dragged her, straining with all his might. He needed to shift her at least two feet to close the door.       He had to struggle—she was heavy. Having shut the door, Harry didn’t allow himself even to catch his breath. He crashed to his knees, pulled up his jumper, unbuttoned his shirt at the chest, pulled away the elastic bandages, and extracted Tom. He seized Mrs Figg’s hand, stiff and rigid under the spell’s effect, and pressed it to the diary’s open pages. For a second or two it seemed nothing was happening, but then a faint golden radiance enveloped both the diary and the figure lying on the floor, now resembling either a mannequin or a very large, ugly doll.       It seemed to last forever. Harry’s heart was pounding frantically. There was ringing in his ears. His mouth went dry. He waited. And waited. And waited.       And then it was over.       The golden glow faded. Harry, after hesitating, closed the diary and returned it to its place. He buttoned his shirt, smoothed his jumper, and straightened his tie. Smoothed his hair. Looked around for his wand—he’d thrown it aside when dragging the old woman across the floor, and it should be somewhere nearby. But the wand wasn’t there.       ‘She won’t wake up,’ a calm, cold voice pronounced, and a wave of goose pimples ran down Harry’s spine.       He gasped, ‘Tom!…’       ‘Until someone cancels the spell,’ Tom continued.       He stood leaning against the wall, tall, commanding, composed—exactly as Harry remembered him, only even better, even more perfect, since now they weren’t inside a memory but in actual reality. A strange smile wandered across his face. In his hands he was twirling Harry’s wand.       ‘Thank you,’ Harry rejoiced and held out his hand.       ‘You won’t need it any more,’ Tom responded, continuing to lazily rotate the wand in his pale fingers. ‘I’ll do everything myself. Stand back.’       ‘Do what?’ Harry was surprised. This wasn’t in the plan. Actually, the plan ended with taking magic from the old woman.       He nevertheless rose, took a step aside, and stared at Tom expectantly. Tom peeled himself from the wall.       ‘Revive her,’ he explained, ‘and erase her memory. You don’t know that spell yet.’       ‘Finite,’ he pronounced, already directing the wand towards the motionless Mrs Figg.       Contrary to expectation, nothing happened. Tom frowned almost imperceptibly.       ‘Rennervate!’—and again, nothing.       Tom frowned more deeply. With quick wand movements he cast several other spells at the old woman.       ‘Anapneo!’       ‘Inspectio Cordis!’       ‘She’s dead,’ he concluded coldly. ‘Her heart couldn’t take it. Or she simply reached the end of her time—Squibs live longer than Muggles because magic nourishes and strengthens them. Take away that sustenance, and this is the result. Let’s go; we have nothing more to do here.’       Harry felt sick. Well. It couldn’t be said he wasn’t prepared for something like this at all, and yet…       ‘All right,’ he mumbled, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers—he should have used his handkerchief, he automatically remembered, then immediately dismissed the thought—this wasn’t the time for manners. ‘All right, fine. Just give me back my wand, please. I feel strange without it somehow.’       ‘One more minute,’ Tom responded, concentrating. He went out onto the porch, turned round, waited for Harry to follow, closed the door, and pointed the wand at the sky.       ‘Morsmordre!’       A stream of black smoke rose into the air, slowly forming into a strange image: a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth like a grotesque tongue.       ‘Take it.’ Tom held out Harry’s wand, handle first, as one would hand over a knife. ‘And don’t treat it so carelessly in future. A wand is part of a wizard; treat it with respect.’       ‘I know.’ Harry accepted the wand from his hand with relief. ‘I will, honestly. I just got a bit flustered.’       He began shoving the wand up his sleeve, under the bandages. Tom strode away from Mrs Figg’s house, and Harry, as before, had to almost run to keep up.       ‘What did you do?’ he panted, nodding at the symbol hovering in the sky.       ‘Something that will completely divert all suspicion from you,’ Tom answered with a fleeting smile. ‘Come on, it’s going to get very crowded here very soon.’       Harry nodded and quickened his pace as much as he could.