The Observer Effect

      The clock on the tower of King’s Cross showed half past ten in the morning when Harry, mustering his courage, stepped beneath its high, arched vaults. From the front, the building looked like a surviving fragment of a Roman aqueduct—or else a medieval bridge with two spans that had, quite suddenly, lost both its banks and the river beneath. Inside, the impression shifted: the glass roof, divided into an endless grid of square panes, suggested a colossal, truly gigantic greenhouse; Harry had seen one like it at Kew Gardens, where they’d once—about a million years ago, in some entirely different life—been taken on a school trip.       After a month shut away in the Grimmauld Place town house, the swarming, humming throng inside the station was overwhelming. Dozens of people were streaming rapidly in every direction, dragging wheeled suitcases, carrying rucksacks, leading children by the hand, shoving luggage trolleys and prams, and carrying armfuls of flowers and befuddled dogs. All of them were, at once, shuffling, coughing, stamping, laughing, and talking very loudly. Harry felt as though several currents of a river were washing over him at once; it made his head spin. Disorientated, he clung with his eyes to Tom, striding unseen by anyone else at his side.       Behind them, now this passenger, now that, hurrying about their business, suddenly checked, stumbled, or wobbled, then began peering about in puzzlement, casting suspicious looks at the floor, their own feet, other people’s luggage trolleys, or someone’s dachshund on a lead. By the time the longed‑for pillar between platforms Nine and Ten hove into view ahead, the peculiar wake trailing behind Harry and Tom had already spawned two blazing rows (someone had been splashed with coffee, and someone else had had a wheel snapped off their suitcase) and one potential romantic introduction (a girl who had tripped, flinging out her arms, fell straight onto a bespectacled blond studying the departures board—and he, to his own astonishment, managed to catch her). The cause of all this confusion, of course, was Trunk.       Hidden under an invisibility charm of Tom’s casting, Trunk trotted faithfully after Harry—but unlike Tom, it was by no means incorporeal, and so kept shouldering people out of the way or jabbing them with a corner, and now and then even tripping them with one of its clawed spider‑legs. Perhaps—just perhaps—they ought to have disguised it as an ordinary suitcase, but Tom knew no suitable glamour for the illusion, and neither of them had bothered to track one down. Others had to pay for their carelessness now, but neither Harry nor Tom was plagued by conscience—one was focused on cleaving a path to Platform Nine and Three‑Quarters, and as for the other’s capacity for remorse, the entire wizarding world could have told a tale or two.       Harry’s nerves peaked right before the pillar. Tom had said he had to keep his stride firm and not doubt he would pass through. Magic—any magic, not only this business with the barrier—rested on will and intent; hesitation was death to it.       ‘There’s a door there,’ Harry told himself firmly, screwing his eyes shut for safety’s sake. ‘There’s a door, and I’m walking through it now.’       He took a step forward, felt no resistance at all, took another, bolder—and…       The noise around him changed. He distinctly heard an owl hoot. Something whisked by his feet, brushing him with a soft, woolly flank. A child laughed nearby and an indignant voice yelled, ‘Oh, Mu‑um!’ Harry opened his eyes.       ‘There it is,’ Tom said cheerfully, and Harry looked round, hungry for the sight. ‘Platform Nine and Three‑Quarters.’       A bright scarlet locomotive was snorting steam like a kettle boiled dry. The carriages behind it looked as though they’d run away from a museum; they were so boxy and ungainly. All along the platform, wherever you looked, grown‑ups in robes of the most outlandish colours were milling, while children of all ages, dressed in anything that came to hand, darted to and fro. Overhead, owls wheeled—so the hooting hadn’t been his imagination—and at his feet cats twined, every one the spit of Mrs Figg’s pets, even down to the ear‑tufts. Harry breathed out in delight.       ‘Finite.’ Drawing his wand from his sleeve, he tapped Trunk, cancelling the invisibility. Trunk shook itself like a big dog. Harry set off along the train, not without difficulty, threading his way through the crush.       He found an empty compartment in the fourth carriage. Harry sank with satisfaction onto a plump, old‑fashioned seat, suppressing the urge to bounce on it. Trunk nimbly scrambled onto the luggage rack and went still there, tucking its legs under itself.       ‘I think I’ll leave you for a bit,’ Tom said, shoving his hands into his robe pockets. ‘I want to have a look round.’       ‘Won’t you get your fill at Hogwarts?’ Harry protested; he didn’t much fancy being left on his own just now. ‘They all go to the terminus, I promise you!’       ‘It won’t be the same,’ Tom smiled, enigmatically, hitched a shoulder and whistled out through the open compartment door—gone in a flash.       ‘Off to the prefects’ carriage to wallow in nostalgia,’ Harry thought crossly, and slid the door shut. It was almost quiet.       He watched through the window as the crowd on the platform slowly thinned, as those staying behind waved and those departing gave them hasty kisses; then the train jerked, swayed, and began to move off, slowly and smoothly gathering speed. A strange feeling came over Harry—the feeling you have when you’re leaving somewhere for good and you know it. He imagined what lay ahead and, at the same time, couldn’t imagine it; he felt glad, sad, and anxious, all jumbled together, and his heart seemed to pause in his chest, gripped by excitement, as though in someone’s invisible fist.       He wasn’t allowed to meditate on the view for long. The compartment door slid open without a knock, and a shock of carroty hair poked in. The nose beneath it bore a dirty smudge; freckles were scattered thickly over the cheeks.       ‘Is this seat free?’ its owner asked, nodding at the place opposite Harry. ‘There’s nowhere at all in the others.’       Harry hesitated, then nodded, and the unknown fellow‑traveller squeezed in. He was about Harry’s age—thin, big‑handed, and gawky—wearing tracksuit bottoms, a checked jacket, and a bright red jumper which, in combination with his flame‑coloured hair, made you want to rub your eyes. He sat down quickly, shot Harry a sidelong look, and at once looked away, pretending to be riveted by something outside. Harry looked, too—there wasn’t much to see yet; the train was creeping past a line of sheds and brick walls, and every so often, adjacent tracks with goods trains on them flashed by.       ‘Oi, Ron!’ Two absolutely identical, slightly older lads—ginger and freckled as well—poked their heads round the door again. ‘We’re off… Lee Jordan’s two carriages along… he’s brought a giant tarantula,’ they said, rather comically finishing each other’s sentences, like actors reading a well‑rehearsed two‑hander. So that, Harry supposed, was what magical twins looked like; Tom had mentioned them before.       ‘All right, go on,’ mumbled the boy called Ron, and darted another glance at Harry.       ‘Hullo,’ the twins said to Harry, in turn, and smiled identical smiles. ‘We’re Fred… and George Weasley… and this is our brother Ron.’       Feeling very awkward, Harry half‑rose and nodded.       ‘Harry James Potter,’ he said, introducing himself.       ‘Wicked,’ breathed the twin on the right (Harry thought that was George), and the one on the left clicked his tongue. ‘Pleasure, Harry. See you later.’       They vanished, and Ron blurted, at once, ‘Are you really Harry Potter?!’       Harry bristled. ‘Here we go,’ he thought—and Ron obliged.       ‘D’you really have—?’ He jabbed a finger at Harry’s face.       ‘Have what?’ Harry asked, rather sharply, fighting the urge to rap that impertinently pointing finger.       ‘Well, you know… the scar?’       ‘Yes,’ said Harry. His new acquaintance stared at him expectantly; Harry hadn’t the faintest idea what he wanted.       ‘And do you remember how—?’ Ron persisted—but at least he lowered his finger.       ‘I don’t,’ Harry demurred.       ‘Not anything at all?’ Ron looked disappointed. The conversation was threatening to fizzle out just as it began, so Harry asked—knowing the answer already, but desperate to shift the focus from himself to anything else, ‘So those were your brothers… is everyone in your family a witch or wizard?’       ‘Er… yeah. I reckon so,’ Ron decided, after a moment’s thought.       Of course they were—the Weasleys had cropped up in the very first genealogical compendium Harry had read, in the Sacred Twenty‑Eight. But this wasn’t quite how he’d imagined the offspring of a venerable pure‑blood line. Ron’s jumper cuffs were frayed; his jacket was patched at the elbows; his tracksuit bottoms were rumpled; and his entirely mismatched boots were in sore need of a proper clean. Not to mention the black smear on his nose.       ‘’Spose,’ Ron went on, ‘Mum’s got a cousin who’s a Muggle, but we never talk about him. He’s an accountant.’ Ron sniffed his grubby nose.       ‘A Squib,’ Harry guessed; aloud, purely to keep things going, he said, ‘I wouldn’t have minded an older wizard brother.’ He was thinking, of course, of Tom.       ‘I’ve got five,’ Ron said with disgust. ‘I’m the sixth. When you’ve five brothers you never get anything new. So I’m off to school with everything second‑hand…’ He launched into a long complaint about life, and Harry—who had, at first, felt a twinge of sympathy, knowing all too well what it meant to wear other people’s cast‑offs—ended up thoroughly downcast.       ‘Everyone expects me to do no worse than my brothers…’ Ron was confiding, and Harry couldn’t help wondering whether he was really this frank with everyone after five minutes’ acquaintance. Meanwhile, Ron fished from the inner pocket of his jacket a greasy, grey‑brown rat. The rat was sleeping serenely. One toe was missing from one paw; its pelt was mottled with bald patches and unhealthy‑looking scabs.       ‘He’s called Scabbers, and he’s absolutely useless.’ Harry, mentally comparing Scabbers with sleek, elegant, anthracite‑glossy Hole, could scarcely disagree with that assessment.       ‘They gave Percy an owl when they found out he was going to be a prefect, and I wanted one too, only Mum and Dad haven’t the mon—’ Ron broke off, flushed, and finished, lamely: ‘I mean, I got a rat instead.’ He went an even deeper red and finally shut up.       The awkward silence was broken by a knock at the compartment door.       ‘Anything off the trolley, dears?’ smiled a witch with dimples. She wore a severe, floor‑length robe; her hair was twisted into an elaborate knot atop her head; and she was pushing a trolley like a stewardess (Harry had only ever seen such things in films—and then only in snatches, since his sole way of watching telly had been peering through a crack in the door). ‘Let’s sweeten life a little, shall we?’       Harry rubbed his hands, delighted. Wizarding sweets interested him less for their taste than for the mere fact they were wizarding sweets; so he piled up a bit of everything: Chocolate Frogs, Cauldron Cakes, Liquorice Wands, Pumpkin Pasties, Exploding Chewing Gum, Every‑Flavour Beans (these looked especially promising—the label proclaimed: ‘Bertie Bott’s Every‑Flavour Beans—Really every flavour!’), and whatever else the trolley offered.       ‘Blimey! Are you that hungry?’ Ron goggled, and Harry rolled his eyes. Even his own notions of etiquette—unceasingly criticised by Tom—were sufficient to keep him from commenting on someone else’s appetite out loud.       ‘No—I’m that curious,’ he said, dumping the sweets onto the seat beside him.       ‘And I’ve only got corned beef sandwiches…’ Ron whinged. Harry frowned—he hadn’t factored in a scrounger when he’d been stocking up.       ‘D’you want one?’ After a moment’s hesitation, he parted with a packet of Sugar Quills. The redhead brightened at once, tore open the wrapping and stuffed into his mouth a queer, fluffy lolly—indeed the spitting image of a feather.       ‘Fanks,’ he gurgled—and, mercifully, refrained from further conversation with his mouth full.       Harry unwrapped a Chocolate Frog. Eating a sweet that kicked its legs was odd—but fun, on the whole. Inside the box he found a collector’s card. Right—Tom had told him about them; Harry had already managed to forget. ‘Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore,’ the caption read. The card was empty—the super‑villain version of Professor X was off gallivanting on some other card.       ‘What if these can spy like the portraits do?’ Harry thought, alarmed, and thrust the insert at Ron, quickly.       ‘You don’t, by any chance, collect these? Here—have it.’       Ron crunched up the remains of his Sugar Quill.       ‘Don’t you? I’ll take it, then. I’ve got him already, mind—but I might trade. If only I got Agrippa…’ He tried his luck; Harry, the second time round, didn’t bite.       There was another knock at the door.       ‘Come in,’ Harry called, and the door slid aside.       On the threshold stood a fair‑haired, light‑eyed boy, taller than Harry (almost all his contemporaries were taller than Harry—even the weedy Ron), but just as narrow in the shoulders and fine‑boned. His pale face looked crafty, like a ferret’s. Behind him, in the corridor, two dark‑haired lumps shifted from foot to foot—thickset lads with simple, not to say dull, faces; one wider and heavier than the other. Typical henchmen—of the sort Harry had seen a hundred times at his Muggle school, not least among his odious cousin’s crowd. Their mere presence announced the pecking order—this fair ferret fancied himself a power.       Sweeping the compartment with a quick, appraising glance, he drawled, oddly stretching the words, almost singing them: ‘The whole train is abuzz with the news that the hero of magical Britain is travelling in this compartment.’       He suddenly winked at Harry with his left eye, and the ‘hero’—whose past with school ‘top lads’ was a doleful chronicle—perked up a touch.       ‘So I hastened to pay my respects to a national celebrity. Draco Lucius Malfoy’—the blond inclined his head in a neat, measured nod—‘at your service. And these’—he flicked a languid hand over his shoulder—‘are Crabbe and Goyle. They’re with me.’       ‘Malfoy! So this is Lady Narcissa’s son,’ Harry’s mental cogs whirred at top speed. ‘Doesn’t look in a rush to bite my nose off—good start. I ought to build bridges, carefully—especially as he’s walked straight in…’       He didn’t get to finish the thought.       ‘Clear off, Draco Lucius Malfoy,’ Ron grated, in a tone of utmost unfriendliness; his face was slowly flushing again. ‘You’re not welcome here, got it?’       Harry was taken aback.       ‘Why not welcome?’ he snapped.       ‘Because he’s a Malfoy,’ Ron explained with great ‘clarity’, by now the colour of a tomato. ‘A stinking slug. Best not even talk to them, Harry. You don’t know what sort they are.’       Not that Harry could exactly dispute the last statement—but he took a dim view of being told what to do.       ‘I’ll decide for myself whom I’m glad to see, and whom I’ll talk to—and whom I won’t.’ He caught himself finishing with a smirk—and he knew perfectly well whose repertoire he’d borrowed that particular smirk from.       Ron sprang up, fists clenched.       ‘I thought you—!’ he accused, incoherently. ‘And you—!’       ‘And I thought it was just a heap of rags in the corner,’ Malfoy cut in, eager to join the squabble. ‘Turns out it’s a Weasley—you just can’t tell which by number. Seventeenth? Fifty‑sixth? Sorry—so easy to lose count.’ There was so little regret in that ‘sorry’ you’d not have found it with a magnifying glass. ‘If you don’t like the company—off with you then,’ he finished, tilting his nose. Goyle grunted, approvingly, and ostentatiously flexed his knuckles; Crabbe rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck.       ‘Fisticuffs incoming,’ Harry thought. Ron, it seemed, had come to the same conclusion.       ‘Oh, sod off!’ he shouted hotly, then rounded on Harry. ‘Harry—come on!’       ‘Not a chance,’ Harry said, burrowing deeper into his corner by the window.       ‘Oh, is that how it is—!’ For a second it seemed Ron might spit at him; instead, he merely twitched his shoulders and, aggressively shoving past the boys in the doorway, actually stormed off. Harry let out a breath. Physical showdowns had never been his element.       ‘Sorry about the scene,’ Harry said to the three remaining lads. ‘He seemed reasonable at first. I hardly need to introduce myself, do I?’ He managed a wan smile. ‘Looks like every dog knows me…’       ‘Harry James Potter… also known as Fomalhaut Black, if I’m not mistaken,’ Malfoy piped up at once, with such a nasty little smirk that Harry realised at once—Lady Narcissa was not in the dark about the self‑styled Black heir.       He groaned.       ‘Please, please, don’t. I just… gossip is the most ghastly thing in the world, isn’t it?’       ‘You know,’ Malfoy came into the compartment and sat down opposite Harry, looking pleased with himself; Crabbe and Goyle silently dropped onto the seats either side of him. ‘Maman is now simply dying to make your acquaintance.’ He curved his lips into a serpent’s smile; if Tom showed all his teeth before taking a bite, Malfoy, it seemed, preferred to keep his fangs sheathed till the last. ‘And although you do not, in fact, bear the Black family name, you are our kin, and therefore a Black of sorts.’       Well—Malfoy was hardly discovering America for Harry there.       ‘Yes, yes, my grandmother…’ he began—but Malfoy cut in again, ‘Yes—and besides, Sirius is your godfather.’       Harry’s mouth fell open.       ‘What? I didn’t know,’ he muttered, stunned.       ‘I see there’s a lot you don’t know,’ Malfoy drawled, swinging his legs. ‘How, for Mordred’s sake, did you end up knocking about with a blood traitor?’       Harry stared at him in horror.       ‘Hang on—what? No…’ Oh, Morgana’s tits! No wonder the ginger had struck him as an exceptionally unpleasant specimen.       ‘Yes, yes. Everyone knows what the Weasleys are. Where’s Bumbledore been keeping you all this time—under a Fidelius, that you’re so cut off?’       Harry tensed. ‘Bumbledore’? That was Dumbledore, surely. But why did Malfoy think he’d been hiding him? And—‘under a Fidelius’? He set the unfamiliar word aside for later and chose to answer the part he understood.       ‘But in the Sacred Twenty‑Eight…’       Malfoy threw up his hands.       ‘Ah, that loathsome libel,’ he pronounced. ‘Potter, you can’t believe absolutely everything you read. Everyone knows that nasty booklet was scribbled by our Nott’s great‑grandfather, settling personal scores. The Malfoys aren’t in it at all—and do you know why? Envy, that’s why! He accused my family of being related to Veela. I am, of course, divinely handsome and irresistibly attractive’—he ran his fingers through his fair locks, slicking them back like a model on a photo shoot—‘but I assure you, no dalliances with non‑humans were involved.’       ‘Merlin,’ was all Harry could manage.       ‘So—yes, it’s plain you’ve yet to get the lie of the land here,’ Malfoy said, eyes narrowing lazily. ‘And I daresay a bit of help wouldn’t go amiss.’       He pushed himself up a touch on the little table and held out his hand.       ‘How do you fancy becoming my friend, Harry James Potter?’       Harry stared at the offered palm. A friend. Until now, he’d had just the one—Tom. And yet…       ‘Upon mature consideration, I’ve no objection to your becoming my friend, Draco Lucius Malfoy,’ he said, solemnly, and shook the thin, pale hand.       Draco burst out laughing.       ‘Merlin, the key word in that whole sentence, for you, is ‘my’, isn’t it? Maman will be absolutely taken with you!’ He cocked his head, smirking; then pulled a wheedling face.       ‘Listen—I’ve been dying to ask: where—?’       ‘Over there,’ Harry caught his meaning. Trunk scuttled down the wall from the luggage rack, pattered over to him, and settled, tucking its legs back under its base.       Crabbe and Goyle sighed in unison with admiration. Malfoy’s eyes lit up.       ‘Mordred and Morgana! That’s cool!’       Harry, shocked by the phrasing, gave a little giggle.       ‘Wash your mouth out with soap, ugh,’ he couldn’t help saying. ‘Looks like a Muggle word’s got stuck to you.’       Draco stuck out his tongue with an obscenely mischievous look.       ‘Clean, look! Merlin, you’re a bore. Seriously—who are your guardians? Surely not Bumbledore himself—he’s a proper Muggle‑lover. So who did he foist you onto? We’ve had all sorts of rumours flying about.’       Malfoy’s minions, meanwhile, weren’t wasting time—Goyle, on Harry’s right, dug a packet of Every‑Flavour Beans out of his robe pocket and began picking through them with fussy care. Crabbe followed suit not a heartbeat later. The effect was rather like popcorn in a cinema—the audience, though silent, was clearly enjoying the show.       Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. To tell—or not? And if so—what?       ‘The truth,’ he decided. ‘Only presented properly.’       ‘All right—since we’re friends now, I’ll tell you. But you must promise not to blab—it isn’t for everyone.’       Malfoy sobered and sat up straighter.       ‘An oath?’       ‘Praise Merlin for Tom,’ Harry thought for the umpteenth time. Without him he’d not even have known what oath Draco meant.       ‘No—your word will do. And you two,’ he addressed Crabbe and Goyle, ‘keep quiet as well—agreed?’       ‘Mum’s the word!’ Draco promised for them. The henchmen nodded solemnly, still munching sweets.       Harry drew a breath. The others held theirs, expectant.       ‘I was raised… by the Dark Lord.’       Goyle’s sweet packet slipped from his hand and thumped to the floor. Malfoy’s eyes went glassy. Crabbe gave a soft whistle.       ‘How…?’ Malfoy came to. ‘What…? Is he… is he alive?!’       ‘Now that,’ Harry said, shaking his head weightily, savouring their bewildered faces, ‘really does take an oath. Not my secret to tell.’       ‘My father,’ Draco burst out, ‘has to know about this!’       ‘He knows—rest assured,’ Harry checked him. ‘And if he doesn’t—then that’s how it was meant to be. Don’t get in the way, Malfoy.’       Before he could answer, the compartment door slid open again—this time without a knock.       ‘What is this, a public thoroughfare?’ Harry fumed inwardly, taking in the new arrival—a sharp‑nosed, wide‑mouthed girl with an incredible mane of curly hair; it billowed round her head like a thundercloud and seemed to move of its own accord. She wore school robes, under which jeans and trainers stuck out.       ‘Have you seen a toad?’ she asked severely, without so much as a hello.       ‘There’s one sitting right there, puffed up—my compliments,’ Harry said, pointing at Draco, who had, in fact, scowled and puffed his cheeks a little.       The visitor frowned in reproof, and Harry smiled at her, shrugging: ‘I’m joking. No toads here—but we’ve got Chocolate Frogs. Want one?’       The girl’s eyes lit with desire.       ‘Sweets are bad for your teeth,’ she said, swallowing. ‘My parents are dentists—I know all about it! Give me one, please.’       ‘Muggle‑born,’ Harry realised. Alas, from a networking standpoint that meant ‘useless’. The Frog was wasted.       ‘What d’you want a toad for?’ he asked, despite himself. Merlin—had the Mudblood really chosen a toad as a familiar?       ‘A boy called Neville’s lost his, and I’m helping look for it.’ She unwrapped the Frog, watched with interest as it tried to hop out of her hands, then bit down decisively. She spoke very fast, almost gabbling, as if afraid her mouth wouldn’t keep up with her thoughts.       ‘You might at least introduce yourself, fair stranger,’ Draco sang out, wrinkling his nose. ‘I’m Malfoy; opposite me, Potter; and these are Goyle and Crabbe.’       ‘Hermione Granger.’ In three bites the girl finished the chocolate and blissfully licked her lips. ‘Are you really Harry Potter?’ She examined Harry very closely. ‘I’ve read about you. Your name’s in Modern Magical History, and in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and in Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.’       ‘Is it indeed,’ Harry said sardonically.       ‘Good heavens—don’t you know?’ she marvelled. ‘In your place I’d have read everything there is about me. Oh—do you know which House you’ll be in yet? I’ve looked into it, and I do hope for Gryffindor. Seems the best option. I’ve heard Dumbledore himself was in that House once. Mind you, I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be bad either…’       ‘Granger…’ Harry cut in. ‘Hermione—if you’ll allow me to call you that?’ She nodded and opened her mouth again, but he didn’t let her slip another word in, ‘Excellent. Hermione—tell me: do you like pain?’       She was taken aback. ‘No?’       ‘How lovely!’ Harry beamed. ‘Because I very much don’t want to have to curse you.’       She seemed struck dumb—at last. Buoyed by success, Harry went on: ‘Or rather—don’t get me wrong—I do want to; but I’ve no experience, you see, and I’m nervous, and I really believe a first time ought to be with someone special, and we scarcely know each other yet.’       He admired the way her mouth rounded in fright. Malfoy and his back‑ups, praise Merlin, didn’t spoil the performance—sat quiet as mice; Crabbe and Goyle even stopped chewing.       Alas, the Mudblood came round quickly. She could take a knock.       ‘You talk like a Dark wizard,’ she declared, frowning till her brows met.       Harry shrugged.       ‘Well—yes? You know, I’m set on Slytherin, and all its lot are by default taken for terribly evil sorcerers,’ he explained, patiently. ‘If I can’t avoid the label, why should I act otherwise? Why not be a Dark wizard, if I’m branded one without a thought? Being a Dark wizard is fun.’       Granger narrowed her eyes, sceptical.       ‘What makes you think that?’       ‘You’re Muggle‑born and, by the look of it, you like books—have you read about Raistlin Majere?’       She had—Harry could see her thinking.       ‘Elric of Melniboné? Sauron?’       ‘You’re strange,’ Granger said quietly. A smear of chocolate lingered by her lip. Her front teeth, Harry noted, were a touch large, which made her look a bit like some sort of rodent. ‘And I’m not sure I like you. In any case, I’d better go on looking for Neville’s toad.’       She turned and went—almost bolted—from the compartment. She didn’t thank him for the treat—but in her world, it seemed, saying ‘thank you’ to Dark wizards counted as bad manners.       The door hadn’t even slid shut when Draco was already laughing—so hard he had to clutch his stomach.       ‘Merlin,’ he gasped, scarcely breathing, ‘Potter…’       Crabbe and Goyle backed him up with muffled grunts. Harry, flattered, grinned and reached for the sweets.       ‘Argument beyond praise,’ Draco pronounced, once he’d recovered the power of speech. ‘I particularly liked the offer to curse her.’       ‘Well, if he was telling the truth…’ Crabbe ventured. It was the first time Harry had heard his voice; till now the Malfoy minion had kept quiet—either trying to look grimmer, or simply shy; the voice turned out high and thin, quite at odds with the burly frame.       ‘There was never any doubt Potter wasn’t lying,’ Malfoy cut him off. ‘And now, less than ever. Isn’t that right, lads?’       Crabbe shut up, and he and Goyle both nodded. Harry unwrapped a Cauldron Cake, looked it over fondly, and took a bite. Inside was a runny caramel filling. Draco surveyed the company, all with their mouths full, sighed sorrowfully and plunged a hand into Goyle’s packet.       ‘Oh,’ he said as soon as he tried a bean, pulling a suffering face and breathing through his mouth. ‘Got pepper!’       Yes—turns out the legend about ‘really every’ flavour was gospel truth; the barmy manufacturer had stuffed his beans with every twisted filling imaginable. Just the sort of thing Harry had expected of wizarding treats. He got into the swing of it quickly, and he and Draco had a good laugh at each other’s faces after the next bean that tasted of broccoli, earwax, or offal. Over the sweets their talk drifted into lighter chatter.       ‘Listen,’ Harry said to Draco, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask—why do you talk so oddly? Be‑e‑e so‑o‑o kind,’ he mimicked.       Draco rubbed the back of his head, embarrassed.       ‘Keep this under your hat,’ he asked, ‘but I’ll tell you. When I was little I stammered horribly. And a stammering wizard, as you can imagine, is a walking joke. In real life—and in a fight especially—it’s practically a disability. So a mediwizard worked with me, and this is what we ended up with.’       Harry felt guilty at once.       ‘Oh, pack it in,’ he mumbled, clapping Draco on the shoulder in apology. ‘It’s even rather handsome. Stylish, sort of.’       Malfoy rolled his eyes and made it clear what he thought of that ‘stylish’.       The views outside were changing. The endless fields of typical countryside had given way to sheer cliffs and thick forest. They had been travelling for hours; dusk was falling. Harry realised, with amazement, that he was having a perfectly decent time—for the first time he could remember, a decent time in company not of a book but of other children (Tom belonged to his own, separate category; there was simply nothing to compare being with him to).       Yes—the only downer was that Tom still hadn’t come back; otherwise, everything was, on the whole, fine. Harry wondered where Tom could be now—roaming the train? Still holed up in the prefects’ carriage? Parked in the driver’s cab? Why had he needed to vanish for so long?       ‘Looks like we’re nearly there,’ Malfoy remarked, brushing crumbs from his robe (Harry had been generous and broken bread—or rather, a Pumpkin Pasty—with his new friend); and right on cue, the train began to slow.       ‘We’ll be arriving at Hogwarts in five minutes,’ a loud voice announced, and Harry craned about, trying to work out where it was coming from. ‘Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be brought up to the school separately.’       Trunk, which had been lying still, stirred, gave a hop and flexed its legs. Harry shooed it back up onto the luggage rack.       He slipped the last Chocolate Frog into his pocket; on the table and seats only empty wrappers and Ron’s half‑finished packet of Sugar Quills were left strewn about. The four boys stepped out into the corridor, already heaving with people. At last the train braked, and after a couple of minutes of confused jostling, Harry spilled out of the carriage with relief.       He found himself on a small, completely unlit platform. Other pupils were bustling and chattering all around, their robes merging with the rapidly thickening darkness so they looked like a gathering of shadows. The air was rather fresh; a damp wind was blowing, smelling of open water. Suddenly, at the far end of the platform, a great paraffin lamp flared.       ‘Firs’-years! Firs’-years, this way!’ boomed a powerful, deep voice from somewhere above—like a sound out of a barrel—and the dancing light, for a moment, picked out an enormous beard with small, widely spaced eyes glinting over it. ‘Oi, you lot—over ’ere!’       ‘A giant,’ Harry realised, seized by a mixture of terror and awe. ‘By Merlin—an actual one!’       ‘Right then—are we all ’ere?’ the giant—perhaps not a full‑blooded one; he looked, at a guess, ten or eleven feet tall, no more, but formidable enough—said briskly. ‘Good. Stick close an’ follow me—min’ yer step!’       How one was meant to mind one’s step when you couldn’t see a thing, Harry didn’t know; but he dutifully trailed after the others, slipping and stumbling along a narrow path that plunged steeply down. Trees rustled invisibly to either side; overhead the sky stretched like a black tent stitched with sequins—and with every second it grew blacker, while the sequins above grew more and more. The pupils fell quiet; only concentrated puffing could be heard, and someone behind let loose a few hefty sneezes in succession.       ‘Careful now! Everyone over ’ere! Look sharp—have a gander—there she is—Hogwarts!’ the giant proclaimed. A collective gasp of wonder answered him, rippling through the dark.       Harry gasped no less rapturously himself. Mouth agape, he stared ahead—stared and could not drink his fill.       He had probably asked Tom a dozen times to show him a memory of Hogwarts. Tom had always refused. ‘I don’t want to spoil your first impression,’ he’d said—and now Harry understood why.       He was standing at the very edge of a lake that stretched left and right as far as the eye could see—the shoreline’s outline drowned in the dark, and only the ripple on the water, visible by the gleam of starlight alone, hinted at its bounds. And on the far side, atop a cliff, rose a castle straight out of a fairy‑tale.       Slender towers—Harry counted five—with steeply pointed roofs pierced the sky. A multitude of lancet windows studded the walls, all lit with a trembling golden fire. Curving galleries twined aloft, vying in their caprice with the sweeps of the flying buttresses. Delicate crenellations crowned each curtain wall.       Shining like a vision filled with supernal light, lovely as a dream fulfilled, and beckoning like a dream unattainable—Hogwarts seemed to sail towards him, cleaving the starry dark: a phantom ship, the very opposite of the Flying Dutchman, a ship laden to the gunwales with warmth and happiness.       And as he looked at it, tears in his eyes and not the least ashamed of them, Harry could think only one thing.       ‘At last, I’m home.’