The Observer Effect

      Mundungus Fletcher was one of the first to notice the Dark Mark hovering above the neatly trimmed crowns of the ash trees. Or rather, he noticed several Muggles who were staring upwards somewhere, talking excitedly amongst themselves, and pointing things out to each other. Mundungus shifted his gaze in the same direction—and was stunned.       His consciousness, as he ran without feeling the ground beneath his feet towards the familiar cottage, seemed unable to choose between two thoughts, each equally terrible. Forgotten fear, rising from the depths of consciousness like nausea, competed with fresh, poisonous, and sharp fear, biting beneath his ribs.       There was a Dark Mark in the sky.       It was above Figgy’s house.       Mrs Figg, ‘Figgy’ as he called her, a Squib and a great cat lover, had been collaborating with Fletcher for a good ten years now, and in that time they’d rubbed along so well with each other’s shortcomings that they’d become the closest of companions, if not friends. Had either of them been younger and more spirited—perhaps there would even have been an office romance, like something out of a spy novel—but reality had put paid to any such development in their relationship. Mundungus took poor care of himself—his appearance, well described by the words ‘unkempt’ and ‘suspicious’, was just right for illustrating leaflets with headlines like ‘Beware the Pervert!’ or ‘Children, Be Careful!’. Mrs Figg, having been widowed once, was no longer interested in members of the male sex—except, naturally, for cats. They were both real spies, but romance—of the espionage variety, or any other—had completely passed them by.       Fletcher reached his destination quite out of breath. His side was stabbing. He glanced up briefly and shuddered just as briefly—there was no mistake: the skull in the sky was sticking out its snake’s tongue as if teasing and mocking. He noted, just as briefly, the absence of visible signs of destruction outside, and threw open the cottage door—it wasn’t locked. Inside he discovered exactly what he’d expected but had fervently hoped he wouldn’t see.       ‘Figgy,’ Mundungus said plaintively, understanding perfectly clearly that she wouldn’t hear. ‘Figgy, how could this happen…?’       Mrs Figg lay on her back on the floor of her hall. Her raised arms were bent like the claws of a dead bird, her face frozen in a grimace of grotesque amazement. Her eyes remained half-open, and Fletcher couldn’t bear it—he lowered her eyelids, though he remembered that until the Aurors arrived, no one should touch anything here.       He didn’t want to leave—as if by staying nearby he could still help somehow, fix something—didn’t want to, but had to, because there were things more important than his personal grief.       Mundungus burst out of the door and strode quickly along the street—he had no strength left for running, and he didn’t risk Apparating in sight of the ever-growing crowd of gawpers. Fletcher knew where he needed to hurry next, and his heart grew cold at the thought that here too he might already be too late.       Number Four, Privet Drive, looked as usual—neat, respectable, sleepy. The rose bushes were fragrant, a solitary bee circled above them. The sun glittered in the windows. Fletcher, glancing about furtively, got out his wand. A detection spell cast through the hedge confirmed his worst fears.       Inside the cottage were a woman, a Muggle, and a child, also a Muggle. The wizard boy wasn’t with them.       Ignoring secrecy, Mundungus spun on his heel. Let them see—the Obliviators would have plenty to sort out anyway, and he’d somehow survive a reprimand from Ministry officials. Fletcher Apparated home.       ‘Owl or Floo?’ he thought feverishly. Floo was faster; an owl was more reliable. Hoping for luck, Mundungus ignited a fire with a wave of his wand and threw in a pinch of Floo powder. Then he stuck his head in the grate.       ‘Hogwarts, Headmaster’s office!’       Alas, luck failed him—the Headmaster was apparently not in. Fletcher tried again, but he wasn’t in either. Swearing irritably, Mundungus called over an owl that was dozing with the air of a stuffed bird on top of the sideboard.       The note to the head of the Order of the Phoenix, in which the secret agent, out of habitual caution, dispensed with any greetings or a signature (you never know exactly into whose hands your message might fall), was short:       ‘A. F. is over. Noon today, the Dark Mark. The boy has disappeared.’       ‘Take this to Albus Dumbledore, and get a move on, you pest!’       The owl, unceremoniously thrown out of the window, flapped its wings frantically and flew away.

* * *

      Mrs Vernon Dursley, née Petunia Evans, bustled about the kitchen in the most pleasant frame of mind. She was, one might say, even happy—happy for the first time in ten long years. Nothing could cloud her sunny mood—neither Diddy’s tantrums at breakfast, nor her husband’s grumbling about falling prices in the drill market. These were all trifles, beautiful in their ordinariness. In their normality. The most important thing was finally in order—the devilish boy had disappeared.       He’d disappeared in exactly the same way he’d appeared one wicked morning on the front step of their hitherto prosperous home—mysteriously, inexplicably, and abnormally.       Petunia still distinctly remembered her shock when she’d opened the door slightly to put out the empty milk bottles—and discovered something was preventing the door from opening. This something turned out to be an unconscious child, apparently Diddy’s age, but for some reason swaddled in a blanket like a baby. Petunia was truly terrified, thinking the child was dead, but he was warm, even hot. On his forehead a disgusting-looking wound blazed in a zigzag. When she took him in her arms, the child stirred feebly and sneezed.       The next few days became a veritable nightmare for Petunia and all her family. The child turned out to be a boy—a boy without a birth certificate, without an NHS number, or GP registration, without (without? who knows—since there were no medical records!) the vaccinations required for his age, without a whole heap of things necessary for a normal little boy—nappies, a cot, and a pram at least, not to mention clothes and toys. He had only a name—Harry James Potter.       The name became known from a note someone had tucked into the folds of the blanket—and this too was abnormal: no one acts like this while in their right mind, since this is life, not a Victorian sentimental novel. The note, containing less useful information than a souvenir postcard, reported that the child named Harry James Potter was henceforth Petunia’s responsibility.       Had Petunia been a godless witch like her horrible younger sister, she would have cursed the deceased to eternal torments in hell—but the Lord, in His immeasurable mercy, preserved Mrs Dursley from this, and Lily had provided herself amply with torments in hell through her own efforts. Children, as Petunia decided with a sigh, don’t answer for their fathers’ sins, even ones as disgusting as James. Since God had sent her such a cross, it meant — she should accept it, and bear it patiently, as befits a good Christian woman.       But the cross proved heavier than Petunia had thought at first. No sooner had the necessary formalities been settled (and this had been an enormous strain, since explaining the appearance from nowhere of a year-old child without documents, let alone obtaining custody of him, was by no means simple), than the little brat immediately showed his character.       At first this wasn’t so noticeable. He was far too quiet—Petunia had never thought she’d ever want a child to cry, but this one didn’t cry at all, and there was something eerie in his silently gleaming bright green eyes. His first word was not ‘gee!’ (‘give’), like Diddy’s, or ‘mum’, ‘dad’, ‘mo’ (‘more’), or anything else equally sweet and spontaneous. No, looking at the Christmas tree in the sitting room, he’d said quietly and distinctly, ‘illumination’. This became his first word.       He developed abnormally quickly in general, especially compared to Diddy—for instance, they could both walk already, but this one didn’t walk like that, like her little son, charmingly stomping and waddling, no, he held himself straight and confidently, like an adult, and he did much else not as he should—for example, he’d somehow, mysteriously, taught himself to read. At three and a half—whereas Dudley had only got his letters down properly at five, and that was in reception. The witch’s spawn, it seemed, had no need to be taught anything at all, and that was grotesquely unnatural in a child.       Diddy loved cartoons, sweets, video games, and running about with his mates. He liked bright toys. This boy loved nothing except ever more books, often quite beyond his years. He only ran if Diddy specifically dragged him out to play, literally forcing him to socialise with the neighbourhood children. He liked to huddle in tight, dark corners and sit there silently, sullenly, dreaming of goodness knows what. Diddy adored his food and easily put on weight. The foundling remained thin—whether he ate much or little, it seemed to make no difference to him. Diddy preferred T-shirts with pictures and couldn’t stand tights—would raise a terrible shriek when they had to be put on for warmth on winter walks. Lily’s son accepted any clothing indifferently—even the scratchiest woollen jumpers didn’t make him whine and scratch. He accepted everything indifferently in general, showing neither complaint nor gratitude.       Petunia tried—God knows she tried—to love them equally. But this proved beyond her strength.       First she gave the best bits to her son, and to the foundling—what remained. Then she stopped buying him clothes—he’d make do with Diddy’s hand-me-downs; he was thinner and shorter anyway. Toys soon shared the fate of clothes—the strange child could play quite peacefully with a deflated old ball, or even with some sticks and pebbles picked up from the street, and they occupied him perfectly well. The further this went, the more it seemed to Petunia that the alien boy was drinking, draining something from her son—something impossible even to explain, taking it and appropriating it for himself.       Diddy grew up an ordinary, sweet little boy, a wonderful child, like other children his age, but still the very best of them, since he was hers, her own dear boy. So why did he constantly seem stupid, fat, lazy, and capricious next to Harry? Harry, like a crooked mirror, distorted her Diddy by his very presence, and Petunia’s love, already forced, kept withering, gradually dwindling to nothing.       And then, at three years and eight months, this began.       The curtains in the sitting room burst into flames first. Petunia in a panic—Diddy could be hurt! —tore them down and somehow stamped out the fire, irreparably ruining the carpet. Harry was sent to think about his behaviour in the cupboard under the stairs—and soon moved there permanently, since the next thing to catch fire was Diddy’s cot.       Petunia would have been glad to write off what was happening as an incredible coincidence, some unfortunate but natural cause, but she’d already been through all this once and knew too well what to expect.       Now the nightmare was returning.       A plate might start crawling across the table or simply split in two when the little demon thought his morning porridge wasn’t tasty enough. Spoons would fly up and bend, breadcrumbs would march across the tablecloth like a column of ants. Soap suds would escape from the sink and spread across the entire kitchen. Absolutely everything burned, even things that in principle couldn’t burn—like the porcelain soap dish and the sponge soaked right through with water. Vernon’s sister Marge’s bulldog, a cheerful and active dog, at some point began to fear the boy in a panic. The neighbour’s cats—Mrs Figg’s—would hide from him under the furniture, howling and hissing. The foundling’s hair, eternally untidy, couldn’t be tamed—after a haircut it would grow back in exactly one night. The schoolteacher’s hair turned out to be dyed blue—permanently, irreversibly; no henna helped. Children complained that during their games the boy also got up to all sorts of strange things.       What frightened Petunia most was the disappearance of that very deflated ball. Right before her eyes, it vanished goodness knows where and never returned. What else could disappear without a trace with similar ease? Or perhaps not what, but who?       Everything was as it had been then, nearly a quarter of a century ago, only worse. With Lily, at least, this had started around the age of nine. Her disgusting son wasn’t going to spare Petunia for so long.       She tried to find some control over him. She loaded him with housework, hoping to distract and at least physically tire out the little troublemaker. She locked him in the cupboard, hoping to calm the devilry bursting from him. She scolded him. She explained that abnormal abilities were of the Devil, that he should not resort to them for his own sake and the salvation of his soul, if not for others’.       And it all seemed to help, but not completely, and there was always the possibility that suddenly, out of nowhere, without any warning or visible cause, this would happen again. On Diddy’s very birthday the son of Satan had set a huge snake on him and his friend Piers. Petunia didn’t die of a heart attack only because she understood crystal clearly—she couldn’t allow herself to abandon Diddy alone with the horror being wrought.       She awaited the boy’s eleventh birthday as deliverance. Around this age Lily had been taken by other sorcerers to where they belonged—as far as possible from normal God-fearing people. The same thing, Petunia supposed, should happen to Harry.       And finally, her prayers were answered.       Last Friday she was baking cakes for tea when she suddenly heard someone ring their doorbell. Petunia asked the boy to answer—who knew who’d come, neighbours, or perhaps Marge had suddenly arrived, having recovered from her recent poisoning. For about five minutes she calmly occupied herself with icing for the cakes, but then the silence alarmed her.       No voices. No sound of footsteps. The door hadn’t slammed shut. Only the quiet whistle of the wind blowing through the wide-open door.       Petunia came out to the threshold, wiping her hands on her apron. The mysterious visitor had vanished without showing himself to her. And with him, the boy had evaporated without a trace.       For another couple of days Petunia couldn’t believe it. She cautiously applied her new joy to herself, turning it from all sides like a long-awaited new outfit—what if it wasn’t everything yet, what if he’d return, what if this wasn’t what it seemed. She dimly remembered that Lily’s departure had been arranged somehow differently. It seemed some letter had come first, both to her and to that sullen son of an alcoholic she’d associated with. But perhaps Petunia was mixing something up after so many years.       Saturday passed, Sunday, and Monday went by, and finally Petunia was certain—the trial sent by the Lord was over. She seemed to have grown wings behind her back.       It seemed even the whole house had somehow shaken itself, throwing off the heavy shroud of a grim curse. Clean plates were clean in a new way, washed windows sparkled anew, and cut flowers were fragrant anew. The scrubbed bath shone with a new, welcoming gleam. The breakfast bacon smelt more tempting than ever before, and its rind browned in a new way. Peace and quiet descended on Number Four, Privet Drive, and Petunia enjoyed them with all her heart.       She was making shepherd’s pie when the doorbell rang. Rinsing her hands and drying them with a towel, Petunia went to the hall and unlocked the door. Her heart sank.       On the threshold stood one of them. Abnormal. A sorcerer. There was no mistaking it—velvet fez, peculiar spectacles, long grey beard into which bells were woven, bizarre clothing resembling an oriental robe, shoes with curved toes. Petunia shrieked and tried to slam the door. Not a chance.       ‘Where is Harry?’ asked the demon-worshipper, easily holding the door with his bony, unexpectedly strong hand. He evidently didn’t consider it necessary to say hello. However, Petunia wasn’t in the mood for polite conversation either.       ‘Go away! Get out!’ She tugged at the door. In vain.       ‘Where is Harry, Petunia?’ Somehow he knew her name, but she was seeing him for the first time in her life—and very much hoped it would be the last.       ‘I don’t know! And I don’t want to know!’ she exclaimed with vexation. ‘Look for him yourselves over there, if it’s so necessary—one of your lot took him away.’       The bearded man’s face contorted as if his stomach had suddenly begun to ache. He pulled a wand from the pocket of his robe—yes, thanks to Lily, she knew what this object was and what it was terrible for—pointed it at the pale Petunia and said quietly, ‘Legilimens.’

* * *

      Severus Snape, sitting in the living room of his ramshackle house in Cokeworth, was enjoying a cup of Irish coffee in which whiskey predominated over the titular ingredient—the coffee itself—in a ratio of seven to five. Precisely such a dosage Severus personally considered optimal for the current time of day, calendar season, and the position of the heavenly bodies.       Someone—Minerva, for instance—reproached him for incipient alcoholism, but Severus found alcohol the lesser evil—at his disposal, he always had both the skill and the possibility to concoct stupefying potions whose destructive effect on the psyche would be far deeper, more thorough, and faster. Considering all circumstances, namely Severus’s past, present, and supposed future, alcohol was a good compromise between the narcotic coma he dreamed of falling into and the soul-rending sobriety in which he was supposed to remain. Snape took another sip of his drink—and then the flame in the fireplace roared.       ‘Severus,’ said Dumbledore’s head, appearing among the tongues of green fire with concern, ‘come urgently; I need you.’       The head disappeared. Severus delivered a string of oaths after it—a problematic childhood isn’t so easily struck from one’s biography—and finished the remaining coffee in a couple of gulps. He got no pleasure from it. The Headmaster’s manner of jerking him about like a little dog on a lead for any reason worth having or not worth having was incredibly irritating.       Severus was ready to bet a Galleon against a Knut that ‘need’ in this case meant some trifling question, like coordinating supplies of Pepperup Potion for the hospital wing—because the Headmaster liked reminding Severus of his power over him, because he valued his own time but not Severus’s time, and simply because he was so accustomed and found no reason to act otherwise. His own submissiveness infuriated Snape to the point of a nervous tic, but the network of oaths and vows that enwrapped him from head to foot like an Acromantula’s web didn’t allow him to rebel once more. Snape threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace with disgust and transported himself to the office—not an office, but a jumble or cabinet of curiosities, Minerva was thrice right—of the Headmaster of Hogwarts.       The room turned out to be unexpectedly crowded, and the composition of those present couldn’t fail to cause surprise.       Augusta Longbottom sat regally in the chair opposite the Headmaster’s desk (this time without her famous hat, but the ghostly image of a stuffed vulture could still be made out above her crown, like some sort of obsessive hallucination). To the right of the venerable lady stuck out the grey head of Elphias Doge, resembling a ruffled dandelion, to the left—Dedalus Diggle’s invariable top hat.       Both had apparently perched on conjured chairs—there was usually only one armchair for visitors here, but selected with taste: sitting in it, said visitor sank almost to the floor, and the strange semi-recumbent pose in which it seemed the knees were higher than the head usually produced a total demoralising effect. Especially in combination with the fact that the Headmaster behind his desk towered over his interlocutor like a stern judge behind his throne. Augusta, as Severus noted with satisfaction, had transfigured this obscenity into the most ordinary chair with a high back.       Snape conjured another chair for himself with a casual wave of his wand, sat down, and stared at Albus expectantly.       The Headmaster ceremoniously stroked his beard. The idiotic bells clicked, and Snape’s eyelid twitched involuntarily in response. Someone sighed quietly—Diggle, it seemed.       ‘My friends,’ Albus proclaimed pompously. His spectacles gleamed with light from the fireplace, making the eyes behind them almost invisible. ‘We have gathered here because I am forced to inform you of terrible but not unexpected news.’       He paused. Everyone waited patiently for the continuation. This was typical Albus—first announce urgency, then drag out time, and stage a cheap spectacle. Having waited for complete and undivided attention to his words, the Headmaster weightily concluded, ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned.’       Snape let out a protesting exclamation. Of course, he had immediately informed Albus about the changes occurring with the Dark Mark, but this alone wasn’t yet reason enough to…       With an imperious gesture the Headmaster stopped any words preparing to burst from him.       ‘This afternoon,’ he continued grimly, and the reflection of the fireplace flames swirled in his half-moon spectacles, ‘Arabella Figg was killed, our long-time comrade-in-arms. The nature of the spell is not yet clear—it wasn’t Avada Kedavra—but undoubtedly the blackest magic was used. The Dark Mark was seen above the house where the murder was committed. At this moment it has also become known that three days ago Harry Potter, our little hero, was abducted from his own home by persons unknown. So that’s how matters stand. My dears, I would like to be mistaken, but there can be no mistake, alas. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned—and has already struck the first blow.’       The silence that thickened in the Headmaster’s office after these words seemed not to be disturbed even by the sound of breathing.       ‘Albus,’ old lady Longbottom finally creaked, ‘so what does this mean…?’       ‘Yes,’ he readily picked up. ‘We’re back in service, my friends. The Order of the Phoenix returns to life. Today Alastor isn’t here—he’s carrying out a special assignment—nor are Emmeline and another of our friends, Mundungus, who departed to organise the funeral. I understand there are few of us left, and life has roughed us up properly, but there’s nothing to be done. Duty calls. Think who might become new members of the Order, whom we should call to our banners, but be careful, since the enemy has surely learned his lesson and will try to infiltrate his agents into our ranks, as we once did to him.’       ‘They’ll get bugger all if they do that,’ thought the ‘once-infiltrated agent’, and aloud he just snorted sceptically.       ‘In a grandmaster game between two of the strongest mind-readers, only someone like me could become a double agent,’ he thought, ‘and I don’t see any worthy competition among the younger generation.’       Immediately after that Snape was visited by some vague bad premonition—Albus wasn’t planning to use him in such a capacity again, was he? He wasn’t planning to, really…?       Because, for Severus—considering the oaths hanging on him—this would be almost guaranteed to kill him. But, as Snape understood in the same second, and an unbearable bitterness rose to his throat from within, for the greater good—why not, indeed.       ‘Severus, my boy,’ the Headmaster continued, having decided, apparently, to finish him off completely, ‘tell me, when you visited Harry, did you notice anything suspicious? How did everything go in general? By all accounts, you were the last to meet the poor child.’       However much his earlier thoughts had softened him, Snape snapped back into himself instantly—old habits from the Dark Lord’s school; you don’t unlearn it so easily.       ‘Absolutely normally,’ he lied without batting an eyelid. ‘Met, quarrelled, handed over the key, quarrelled again, went home. The boy keeps his own counsel and harbours some strange prejudice against Muggles.’       ‘And against me too, though he met me for the first time in his life. Did Petunia set him against me, perhaps? The little prude never liked me,’ Snape could have added, but didn’t. The life of a double agent had taught him to keep most of the information he’d gathered to himself. It was time to restore this thrice-cursed skill.       The Headmaster sighed disappointedly and tugged his beard. The bells responded with a sad rustling chime.       ‘And did he actually visit Diagon Alley at all?’       ‘I don’t know,’ Severus said, gazing at the Headmaster devotedly. His mental barriers were stronger than ever. Not that he expected a sudden attempt from Albus to forcibly extract the needed memories—that was more the Dark Lord’s style—but there are overly cautious spies, and there are dead ones. Snape was still alive for now.       ‘But he was planning to, wasn’t he?’ the Headmaster continued probing.       ‘I had the impression that he was.’       ‘Albus,’ Augusta interjected, having listened silently but attentively to their dialogue until this moment, ‘now can you say where you’ve been hiding him all this time? Or is it still a secret?’       The old codgers sitting beside her mumbled something agreeable. They were curious too.       ‘No, unfortunately, it’s no longer a secret at all,’ Albus sighed again. ‘Half the Ministry is now helping the Obliviators cope with the consequences of the Dark Mark’s appearance, so what secrecy is there now? Harry lives with relatives on his mother’s side in one of London’s suburbs. Quite a respectable family. There’s a second child there, also a boy; they’re the same age.’       ‘On his mother’s side,’ Lady Longbottom repeated, scandalised. ‘Albus, kick you with a Billywig, did you put him with Muggles?’       The further conversation moved away from the question dangerous to Severus, and instead descended into a sluggish row about the proper maintenance and upbringing of young heroes. The head-butting was conducted mainly between Albus and Augusta, of course—Diggle entered the conversation only once, to report that he’d once accidentally encountered Potter in the street (what use this information was to everyone else remained unclear). Doge only listened and nodded, maintaining his usual mild, apologetic facial expression. Severus from time to time helped each side with arguments—he didn’t want the argument to die down too quickly. He needed to think.       When the odious gathering—that is, the meeting of the recreated Order of the Phoenix, of course—came to an end, Severus already had a more or less ready plan of action. He knew for certain that no one had abducted the boy, and knew no less certainly where to begin searching for him—searches that should outpace all other searchers, if he hurried.       Only one thing remained unclear—to which of the two lords, dark or light, should he ultimately hand over his prey. Unfortunately, the option ‘split along the axial line’ wasn’t under consideration in this case. And how tempting it was.

* * *

      ‘Most curious rumours are going about,’ Narcissa announced, carelessly dropping her cloak to the floor (the house-elf would pick it up) and settling into the armchair by the fireplace. ‘Dobby, tea! No, I’ve changed my mind—bring sherry instead. And cheese with biscuits. And my cigarillos. So then… Luce, spare a minute, listen—you’ll like this.’       Lucius, frozen in the pose of Rodin’s ‘Thinker’ in the other chair, reluctantly came to. Rumours didn’t interest him greatly, but clever Narci wouldn’t have bothered him over a trifle. So it was worthwhile business, he really needed to pay attention and listen. Besides, there was little benefit from Lucius’s brooding—he’d been chasing a phantom shadow for over a month, all the old ideas had long exhausted themselves, and somehow no new ones were coming.       ‘So then,’ Narcissa repeated, having achieved full attention, ‘they’re telling the following. There’s a boy walking about Diagon—not very tall, black hair, eyes as green as Avada Kedavra, dressed primly, carrying himself like a Slytherin among Slytherins. And with the boy walks a trunk on legs—daft cow Malkin calls it “a horrible dark artefact”. I became curious and made enquiries. The artefact isn’t horrible, of course, and not exactly dark—but, for instance, before a Ministry search I’d hide such a thing with friends, or they might not return it afterwards.’       Lucius settled more comfortably and also sipped his sherry—Dobby, though distinguished by his foolishness, had at least had the sense to bring two glasses, not one. Light from the fireplace refracted on the crystal decanter’s facets, lighting the wine inside alternately with white, crimson, and gold.       ‘Interesting? So. Next—more interesting. He was seen in Knockturn too, right in Shaiveretche’s apothecary—recognised by the trunk, the lad was trying to disguise himself, but he lacked experience. At the same time, everyone’s firmly convinced the boy walks with his parents, and that their family have stopped at the Leaky Cauldron—that’s where he was encountered most often. But here’s the thing—no one has ever actually laid eyes on these parents.’       Narcissa sipped her wine, smiled slyly, and bit into a biscuit. Today’s sky-blue dress, offset like clouds by white lace, turned her into a real fairy, especially combined with this smile.       ‘And the most interesting bit—for dessert. It turns out I have a new relative. Because the little boy is called—Fomalhaut. Black.’       Lucius’s eyebrows climbed of their own accord. An impostor? Who was this daredevil?       ‘Now, darling, solve the riddle,’ Narcissa said, enjoying his amazement. ‘Looks like a Black, walks like a Black, talks like a Black, introduced himself to everyone as a Black—but isn’t a Black. Who is it?’       Lucius smiled involuntarily.       ‘A suicide?’       ‘Wrong! It’s a Black. One-quarter. My second cousin once removed, through Dorea. Harry James Potter in person.’       ‘Merlin…!’ was all Lucius could say. Of course! And how had he forgotten—his own son wasn’t the only one about to enter Hogwarts as a first year.       ‘I find it delightful,’ Narcissa chirped enthusiastically. ‘I’m very eager to make his acquaintance now. I even thought perhaps I’d be lucky enough to encounter such a marvel personally, but today in particular he’s nowhere to be seen. Never mind, still…’       Here the fireplace blazed green, interrupting her speech. Severus’s face appeared in the flames, looking as always like a sad Pierrot mask, only missing a teardrop in the corner of his eye.       ‘Lucius,’ he greeted grimly. ‘Lady Narcissa, my compliments. Lucius, may I come through for a minute?’       Having received permission, he stepped into the fire and with a meagre gesture brushed soot from his robes. Narcissa rose.       ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen alone, I think. Lovely to see you, Severus. Do visit us more often; Draco misses you.’       ‘No, my lady,’ Snape said hollowly. ‘Please stay. My news concerns you too.’       ‘What news?’ Narcissa perked up, sitting down again and elegantly arranging her skirt. ‘Dobby! Whisky for our guest, quickly.’       ‘I’m only here for a minute,’ Snape repeated, but accepted the glass. ‘I wanted to inform you that Potter has slipped away from Dumbledore.’       ‘We know…!’ the Malfoys said in unison and exchanged glances. Severus raised an eyebrow and snorted.       ‘Really? And do you know about the Dark Mark?’       At first Lucius didn’t understand.       ‘You mean…’ he pointed meaningfully at his forearm, but this clearly wasn’t it: this news could no longer be considered news.       ‘No,’ Severus replied with relish between sips of Firewhisky, ‘I mean…’ and he pointed his finger upward, at the ceiling.       Narcissa’s lips formed the shape of a perfect ‘O.’ Lucius’s jaw dropped.       ‘Today around noon they took out an old woman from the Order of the Phoenix. And hung up the Dark Mark, all proper and correct. The granny was a Squib, true enough, and Merlin knows what she was even doing with them, but the very fact. After all, it’s one of ours who did it, I’d stake my hand on it,’ Severus said, smiling grimly at his own joke. ‘No one came by to boast?’       The Malfoys exchanged glances again.       ‘No,’ Narcissa answered thoughtfully. ‘But why? After all this time… It’s a meaningless gesture. Unless…’       Here she paled and pressed her hands to her cheeks. Lucius thought he probably hadn’t a drop of blood in his face either.       ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Now I understand. You think—so that’s it.’       ‘That’s exactly what Dumbledore thinks too,’ Snape confirmed, setting his empty glass on the little table, which immediately filled again. ‘He’s just gathered everyone he could—and that’s precious little, truth be told, just old folk and invalids—and made a speech about how he’d returned.’       ‘We’ve known for ages,’ Narcissa snapped, rubbing her hands as if they’d grown cold. ‘But where is he? Why hasn’t he summoned anyone yet?’       ‘What makes you think he hasn’t summoned anyone?’ Severus smirked; it seemed the more he drank, the gloomier he became. ‘Would you—confess? Well, neither would I. Even to one’s own—I’m not sure.’       They sat in silence for a few minutes. Narcissa knocked back her glass of sherry like water. Snape glowered sullenly, staring fixedly at the fire dancing in the grate. Lucius watched him, biting his lip, and barely restraining himself from starting to gnaw his nails. Finally he decided.       ‘Severus,’ he groaned, ‘help me. I’ll owe you a life debt if you do.’       ‘What’s happened?’ Snape frowned even more deeply.       ‘The Dark Lord left something with me for safekeeping,’ Lucius confessed, looking at the floor, and raised his eyes to Snape almost in tears, ‘and I managed to lose it.’       ‘We’ll remember you young and handsome. Those who survive, of course,’ Snape quipped, but then shook his head. ‘Forgive me, my lady. Don’t take it to heart—everything will be fine. Now then,’ he turned to Lucius, ‘tell me everything.’

* * *

      Severus left the Malfoys much later than intended, slightly more drunk than he’d have liked, and thoughtful to the extreme. There was something in this whole story, as if some hook kept catching and slipping away again and again, impossible to grasp.       According to Lucius’s account, it went like this. The thing—it had the appearance of an old diary, but Severus, familiar with the Lord’s habits, immediately clarified, ‘Did he tell you what it was?’       To which he received the answer, ‘He said, and I quote: “An old experiment of mine, essentially—a trinket.”’       And since with such a description the ‘diary’ could be absolutely anything, including but not limited to a weapon of mass destruction, Severus decided to call it ‘the thing’ in his mind to avoid bias in his reasoning. So then, the thing had been handed to Dobby for this peculiar house-elf to hide it, another quote, ‘Somewhere no one would ever think to look.’       Snape knew a couple of purely Muggle words that described such a course of action with perfect accuracy. Putting it more delicately, Dobby’s inventiveness had taken after his master, that was for sure.       The aforementioned house-elf had carried out the order very diligently, but exactly to the extent of his understanding. He’d Apparated to a Muggle bookshop somewhere on the outskirts of London, found a group of externally similar objects there, and hidden the thing among them. On what principle exactly London and exactly this shop had been chosen, Dobby hadn’t been able to explain. When asked to return the thing—nothing came of it, because it had disappeared from there.       Lucius, learning of such a mishap, had arrived on the scene personally and interrogated the shopkeeper with all thoroughness. Alas, he couldn’t say anything useful—he’d seen neither the thing’s appearance nor its disappearance. It was a complete dead end.       Since that very time, that is, for over a month now, Lucius had been trying to come across any traces of the thing, using both search spells and more elaborate methods, up to and including advertisements in Muggle newspapers, but had achieved no success so far.       ‘It’ll surface, one way or another,’ was all Severus could console him with after hearing Lucius’s sad tale. ‘I’ll never believe that an artefact made by him could simply disappear forever in such a stupid way. I don’t even rule out that some magic built into this contraption worked.’ And he really did think so, so it remained only to wait—but the trouble was, it was unknown how much time was allotted for waiting, so Malfoy’s nervousness was quite understandable.       In such thoughts Severus arrived at the Leaky Cauldron—by Floo, for variety. The establishment, which couldn’t boast an abundant clientele on a weekday and at a relatively early hour—it was about six in the evening—was completely deserted. ‘Fortunate,’ Snape told himself, and went straight to the bar.       The pub’s proprietor, when asked about the child staying with him, provided a surprise—he went into complete denial and declared he’d never seen any Potter in his life, especially not in his establishment. He had to resort to a session of forced mind-reading—a procedure that provided little pleasure to either participant—and then to wipe the old fool’s memory as well. Because of all this, and also because he was performing such mental gymnastics while not entirely sober, Severus developed a real migraine. Therefore, when he climbed the creaky stairs to the pub’s first floor, where the guests’ rooms were located, the desire to tear the runaway boy to pieces almost prevailed, despite the absolutely unacceptable side effect of such a course of action, that is, guaranteed death from violating an Unbreakable Vow.       Severus staged his appearance dramatically. He kicked the door open and roared, ‘Potter!’ in the signature terrifying manner of the Terror of the Dungeons. The little wretch, who’d been lounging on the bed surrounded by a heap of books, was properly impressed—he cried out, jumped up, tripped over his own ankle, fell on all fours, and finally rolled off the bed right under Severus’s feet.       ‘Professor Snape,’ he babbled, getting up and taking another step forward out of sheer momentum. ‘What are you doing—’       But the end of the phrase escaped Severus, since the boy’s hand suddenly darted forward like a snake, and Severus’s skin was touched by the weightless, caressing mist of particles sprayed into the air. Snape hastily held his breath, but either it was too late, or the substance worked on contact—in short, it didn’t help.       ‘Poisoned,’ Severus thought sadly. ‘What a humiliation.’       Then his thoughts became completely muddled, and everything sank into darkness.