The Observer Effect

      ‘Welcome! Welcome to Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. Here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank all!’       Harry, braced for a fairly lengthy address—‘a few words’ being exactly what adults usually said when they meant the opposite—was taken aback. There was method in the madness—the bells in the beard and the ridiculous fez were not the limit of the Headmaster’s efforts; he’d gone all out on the image of a dotty old duffer.       ‘I see right through you,’ Harry thought smugly, and reached for the roast potatoes. The food that had appeared on the table looked and smelt so tempting that he realised at once just how ravenous he was. And there was everything: bacon and sausages, chops and Yorkshire pudding, and roast chickens and boiled carrots—his eyes fairly crossed. A month ago he’d not have left the table until he’d tried absolutely everything, at least a bite, but during his hermit spell at Grimmauld Place, Kreacher had quite spoilt him. He sloshed the potatoes with ketchup and eyed the peppermint humbugs, thoughtful. What were you meant to eat those with—chops, perhaps? There was such a thing as mint sauce, after all…       His culinary musings were cut off by the nondescript blonde opposite—who somehow put him in mind of a well‑fed moth.       ‘The Hat must have been wrong,’ she said, chasing a lone pea round a puddle of gravy on her plate. ‘You, Potter, plainly don’t belong here. You’re not wanted—so get that into your head.’       Feeling a spasm of déjà vu, Harry set down his cutlery with care. He’d known he wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms. They’d change their minds soon enough. That was exactly how it had been with Tom.       ‘I may be a half‑blood…’ he began his carefully prepared speech—but Draco wouldn’t have been Draco if he hadn’t dived straight in.       ‘What a prehistoric notion,’ he cut across. ‘No one in their right mind would call a wizard like you a half‑blood these days. You’re a first‑generation pure‑blood. And we’ve only one half‑blood here—and that’s our Head of House.’ Malfoy arched a pale brow and finished, meaningfully, ‘But his case is exceptional, you understand. The Hat wouldn’t have sent a half‑blood to us.’       Harry rubbed his forehead. The smoothly lined‑up phrases were falling to bits before his eyes.       ‘Thanks,’ he said drily. ‘Anyway… by the way, would you introduce yourself, please?’       ‘Daphne Greengrass.’ The girl tipped up her chin, looking down her nose at him.       ‘Oho, Sacred Twenty‑Eight,’ Harry noted to himself—though after Draco’s indignant set‑to and, especially, the encounter with Ron, a good deal of his faith in that anonymous book had gone begging. Still, at least this one looked the part of a witch, even if she was free with the lip.       Aloud he went on, ‘Greengrass, allow me to assure you there’s been no mistake. What’s more, I believe that by Christmas you’ll have reason to agree with me.’       If I don’t make a dog’s breakfast of the Chamber of Secrets business, he added privately, smiling charmingly. And if I do, you’ll be the least of my worries.       Though he’d addressed only Daphne, he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that those nearby were all ears—the heavily built girl with curls stuck to her sweaty brow; the goggle‑eyed blond with sticky‑out ears and a triangular face; the swarthy, distinctly Italian‑looking boy; and, of course, Draco and his hangers‑on.       ‘I’m not asking for indulgence,’ he said, letting his gaze take them all in to show he had clocked their attention. ‘I know indulgence isn’t the Slytherin way. I’m asking for a chance. Let me show you what I can do.’       Just as objections from the unpersuaded audience were to be expected, Malfoy cut in again.       ‘Yes—one or two things I saw today did impress me,’ he remarked offhand, and returned to the steak he’d abandoned. ‘Potter isn’t what he looks like, my friends. He’s no enemy of ours.’       That earned a chorus of snorts and vague muttering, though no one yet pressed him with proper questions.       At that point Tom, still loitering by the staff table, suddenly turned and strode quickly along the rows. Harry, watching him sidelong and itching for a word of praise—he had, after all, made Slytherin—saw that there wasn’t the slightest trace of pride or satisfaction on Tom’s face. If anything, he’d darkened.       ‘You’re about to be summoned to the Headmaster,’ he said, drawing level with Greengrass, towering over her as a mast‑pine over a shrub. ‘When the prefects come to collect you, find any excuse to slip away and stash the diary. They mustn’t find the phylactery on you.’       ‘Think they’ll search me?’ Harry tried to ask with his face. Strangely, Tom seemed to understand—his nostrils flared, his eyes widened a touch—‘No idea what to expect’. Harry raised a hand as if to rub his brow and, under cover of his palm, blinked assent and dipped his head the slightest fraction. Tom, for his part, gave a tiny nod, turned on his heel—and his robes snapped behind him. Harry sighed—he didn’t like being left on his own all the time, but he knew his wishes weren’t the priority just now. And in any case, a proper talk wasn’t possible yet.       ‘Is it true Dumbledore brought you up?’ said a snub‑nosed girl diagonally to his left, with sleek dark hair cut just below the jawline—alas, the stylish bob did little to hide the chief defect of her appearance: plump hamster cheeks.       ‘Pansy!’ Draco hissed—but Harry answered calmly, ‘Rubbish. I set eyes on him today for the first time in my life.’       ‘And is it true you’ve got a scar?’ asked the fat curly‑haired girl, coquettishly nibbling the tip of her fork.       ‘Have you?’ Harry raised a brow. ‘Got one? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’       ‘I… er…’ the fatty faltered.       The goggle‑eyed blond promptly announced eagerly, ‘I have. Look!’       He yanked up the right sleeve of his robe, unfastening his shirt cuff. The scar really was something—long and winding, all the way to the elbow. ‘A Manticore clawed me.’       Harry silently pushed his fringe aside and showed his mark—a wide, dented zigzag on his forehead. The blond whistled, ‘Morgana’s dirty vests!’       Evidently the intimacy called for introductions, because he stuck his still half‑bare arm across the table.       ‘Pike—Llewelyn Pike—at your service.’       ‘Potter—Harry James Potter—pleased to meet you,’ Harry answered in kind.       This started a little wave of name‑swapping.       ‘Millicent Bulstrode.’       ‘A pleasure.’       ‘Theodore Nott.’       ‘A pleasure.’       ‘Blaise Zabini.’       ‘Surely the Black Widow’s son?’ the cheeky Greengrass drawled.       Blaise—the swarthy boy—drew himself up with dignity.       ‘Vile calumny,’ he declared, thrusting out his lower lip. ‘Acquitted all eight times.’       ‘Cor—bagsy sit next to you in Potions!’       The mood at their end of the table lightened markedly—helped along by the arrival of pudding, every bit as varied as the courses before. Harry took a little treacle tart—he preferred that homely dish to the rest of the sweets.       ‘Odd there are no ghosts about,’ Malfoy mused. ‘The Bloody Baron always comes to greet the newcomers. He’s our House ghost,’ he explained, for Harry.       ‘I know,’ Harry said—and stifled a yawn into his fist; the late hour and the hearty meal were telling.       ‘I wonder,’ Draco went on, artistically smearing the last of his ice cream round the plate, ‘what gave them such a fright today.’       Harry shifted on the bench—but the Headmaster spared him the need to answer. Rising once more from his throne—and yes, calling that seat a ‘chair’ was absurdly modest; it was a throne—he cleared his throat loudly and began, ‘Now that we are all fed and watered, I must say a few words before term begins. First‑years should note that the forest on the school grounds is forbidden to all students. And a few of our older students would do well to remember it too. Mr Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to remind you that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes. Quidditch trials will take place in a week; anyone who wishes to play for their House teams should see Madam Hooch. And finally, I must tell you that this year the corridor on the third floor, on the right‑hand side, is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.’       The last bit sounded like a spectacularly dim joke, but no one laughed—including Harry; moreover, he suspected it wasn’t a joke at all.       The Headmaster, however, as cheery as you please, called, ‘And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song! Everyone pick their favourite tune! A‑a-and—off we go!’       Most of the staff were smiling as if every last tooth had suddenly started aching (most—because who could tell what expression the one‑armed patchwork man was wearing, and Professor Snape wasn’t smiling at all). Harry suspected he was wearing a similar grimace himself. Was this—real?       Alas, it was entirely real. Conducting with his wand, the Headmaster sang; golden lines of text fluttered round the hall like magical karaoke—and three hundred students bellowed along manfully to a song that made the Hat’s uneven ditty sound like Shakespeare.       Draco jabbed Harry with an elbow. Sing, Harry read on his lips. It’s Tradition. Harry shuddered—but obediently opened his mouth. He could only hope for Tom’s future help—surely Tom would be kind enough to erase this disgrace from his memory for good.       ‘Ah, music!’ exclaimed the Headmaster, dabbing away crocodile tears, when at last they finished. ‘A magic beyond anything we do here! And now—off to bed!’       At this, a tall girl with long, freely flowing chestnut hair—about Tom’s age by the look of her—rose from a bench halfway down the table.       ‘First‑years—over here!’ she ordered, formed them up, and led them out of the hall. Remembering Tom’s instructions, Harry looked about for a way to slip off. Ask to go to the loo, perhaps? But he was afraid of losing the queue, which was moving smartly through the entrance hall and already turning into a side corridor off the great marble staircase.       ‘Memorise the route,’ the girl was instructing as she went. ‘For the first week you’ll be escorted; after that, you’d best manage on your own. Tardiness will cost the whole House points—so if you’re not sure of yourselves, set off early. What else? My name’s Gemma Farley; I’m a fifth‑year prefect and your new school mum. Which means any and all questions come straight to me; I’m the one who’ll wipe your noses and tan your backsides. It’s in your interests that I do the latter as seldom as possible. Our Head of House is monstrously busy—and besides, trust me, you don’t want him dealing with you personally, clear? But really, we’re one big, happy family here, kids. Welcome to Slytherin House!’       And at that she stopped before a nondescript stretch of wall. Having long since lost count of the turns in the maze of passages, Harry gazed at her with trepidation.       ‘This arch—don’t muddle it; there’s a similar one in the cul‑de‑sac next door. Ours has that rather noticeable crack down the side—see it? Good. Passwords change every fortnight. Keep a close eye on the noticeboard just inside the entrance. Do not bring students from other Houses into our common room, and do not disclose the password. No outsider has entered here for over seven centuries—and if that changes, I’ll know to look for the culprit among you. Understood? Excellent. Now repeat after me: “Non scholae, sed vitae discimus”.’       At those words the false arch in what had looked like a blank wall melted into air, revealing the door into the House’s common room.       The low, somewhat gloomy chamber beyond put Harry in mind of the Blacks’ townhouse. Black leather sofas ran along the walls between massive bookcases. A vast fireplace burned cheerily, its glow falling over deep armchairs upholstered in emerald‑green. The House crest, over the mantelpiece, shone in silver and green; the tapestries between the great windows—beyond which murky dark water swirled—glimmered silver and green as well. The diffused light of numerous ceiling lamps fell on square tables set out for quiet work. High‑backed chairs and thick, square rugs completed the effect. To either side of the fireplace, identical half‑round doors could be seen.       ‘Left are the boys’ dormitories; right—the girls’. Which year is which—you’ll manage; it’s on the doors. That’s it—tour’s over. Off you go—wash and bed. Except you.’ Gemma neatly caught Harry by the collar. ‘You, I’m going to have words with—once my partner gets here.’       ‘Do join the queue, my dear,’ a youthful voice sang out mockingly from the common room door. Harry turned—Gemma still hoisting him up by the scruff like a kitten—and saw a slight, elegant boy with soft, rounded features and dark curls down to his shoulders. Whether it was the hair, the fang‑shaped earring in his left ear, or simply his general air—there was, at any rate, something about him that unmistakably suggested young ladies were in no danger whatsoever in his company.       ‘You know what “precedence” means, don’t you? First the Head of House gets first dibs on the hero. And before even that—the Headmaster. Come along then, hero,’ he added to Harry—and Harry felt it was now or never.       ‘Please—give me one minute!’ he begged, pressing his palms together for added pathos. ‘Just one, please!’       ‘No minutes at all,’ Farley said, stern as you please—but her fellow prefect’s face was far less strict, and Harry pressed his advantage.       ‘I’ve got to use the loo!’ he wailed.       ‘You’ll hold it!’ Gemma did not yield. Her partner was now openly sniggering, and Harry pinned his hopes on him.       ‘I’ll wet myself on the way!’ he threatened. ‘Prefect Farley, Miss! Truly—just a minute! Let me go!’       ‘Do let the hero change his trousers—look at him; he’s on the brink,’ the as‑yet‑nameless second prefect did, in fact, intercede, and Gemma, at last, relented.       ‘Oh, go on then. One minute—have you got that?’       ‘Yes, Miss.’ Harry shot for the boys’ door like a greyhound. As luck would have it, he really did need it—but first there was something more urgent to do.       He loped down the narrow passage, eyes flicking over the plaques on the doors—seventh‑years, fifth‑years… The first‑years’ dormitory was at the far end. He burst in, gawped round to make sure no one was there but a half‑dressed Draco (the other five classmates, it seemed, had already gone to wash), grabbed him by the shoulders, and hissed, fierce and low, ‘I need you to hide something for a bit—desperately! It’s dead important! Only—don’t tell me where. I’ll explain everything later, I swear!’       ‘All right,’ Draco whispered back, and Harry, ripping his clothes open at the chest like Clark Kent about to spin into Superman, whipped out the diary.       ‘Here! Not a word to anyone! Not to me, either!’ he added, for safety—and jigged on the spot. ‘Mordred—where’s the loo?’       Draco silently pointed at a door tucked behind a wardrobe in the corner.       Not a minute—no more than five—later, Harry was already marching, escorted by the curly‑haired prefect—‘Edgar Selwyn,’ he’d introduced himself, dimples showing—towards the Headmaster’s office.       ‘Where’s Tom?’ Harry mourned inwardly, fingers stealthily checking the buttons of the shirt under his jumper—one of them felt close to coming off. ‘Where is he when he’s needed?’       He was there by the entrance. A stone gargoyle—carved with unnervingly precise detail—guarded the arched way, and beside it, propped against the wall with studied nonchalance and rolling his wand between his fingers, stood Tom. At the sight of him, the weight fell from Harry’s heart so completely he nearly floated off the floor.       ‘Sherbet Lemon,’ Selwyn said to the gargoyle—mysterious words, plainly a password, for the thing shifted aside, revealing steps that rose away in a shallow spiral.       ‘Don’t look him in the eye. Don’t eat or drink. Don’t touch anything. Say as little as you can. Don’t mention me—or Parseltongue,’ Tom murmured, low and clipped, as the moving spiral staircase—like a looped‑round escalator—carried them up towards the door of the Headmaster’s lair. There was something odd in his tone—and Harry suddenly realised that Tom, for all his calm, collected look, was… afraid. ‘This man is very dangerous,’ came back to him, and he whispered, ‘Yes—I remember.’       They reached the door—and it swung open of its own accord.       The Headmaster’s office was truly a sight. Furnished in the style of a man seriously devoted to collecting curious but useless objects, crammed with odd instruments whose purpose, at first glance (second, third, tenth), was wholly obscure, crowded with tall stands, display cases, and tables (one plainly for alchemical work; another wholly taken up by an ordinary‑looking block of stone), hung so thick with portraits that there wasn’t an inch of bare wall—it was like a museum, a cabinet of curiosities, a junk shop, or that very establishment, Borgin and Burkes, which Tom had allowed him to peer into only from the street through the window. Even the phoenix—like a flowing tongue of fire—dozing on its perch at the window, somehow got lost against the general background.       He’s worked the legend up properly, the sly devil; Harry couldn’t help admiring. A discreet cough came from behind a third desk—beside the phoenix—and an old voice called, ‘Harry? Come in, my boy, come in!’       The fire in the grate threw its glow over Dumbledore’s face; reflected in his spectacles, it masked his eyes entirely. ‘Don’t,’ Harry remembered—and fixed his gaze on the tip of the Headmaster’s hooked nose. Tom had taught him this trick—look at the bridge, the nose, a brow, a cheek—anywhere but the eyes. If you look near enough, no one generally notices the difference. Until, of course, they choose to read you.       ‘Headmaster, sir,’ Harry said, aiming for Perfectly Good Boy; he smiled, dropped his gaze, smiled again, and raised naïvely wide eyes to the bridge of the stranger’s spectacles. He thought of pursing his lips prettily, then decided that would be overdoing it. ‘Good evening. You sent for me?’       ‘Good evening, Harry. Do sit down. Will you take a little tea? I know you’ve just come from the table, but a cup of excellent Ceylon is never amiss—don’t you think?’       On the desk before Dumbledore there was indeed a tray laid for tea: a pot, a milk jug, a sugar bowl, lemon sliced into rounds, silver tongs, and two cups and saucers with spoons. All exceedingly smart, elegant—and magical even to look at. One half‑expected to lift the pot’s lid and find a Dormouse curled up inside.       ‘Thank you—I’d be delighted,’ Harry said politely, and took from the Headmaster’s hands a teacup as thin as an eggshell, on a saucer enamelled with Hogwarts arms.       Sitting down proved a job and a half—the guest chair before the Headmaster’s desk was an odd shape, and when Harry tried to perch neatly on the edge he unexpectedly slid all the way back, nearly slopping his tea and leaving his legs dangling above the floor. He felt about five years old; had he actually spilt the tea (from which, it seemed, Salazar himself had preserved his heir), he’d have felt like a five‑year‑old who’d wet himself. Coincidence? Hardly.       ‘Don’t drink,’ Tom snapped at once, pacing restlessly along the windowed wall—practically at Harry’s back. Harry kept expecting him to trip over a table leg or clip the celestial globe in the corner and send it crashing down in a din. He ignored the order—answering was out of the question, and he had no intention of obeying. A plan had already crystallised in his head.       ‘Nothing you want to tell me, Harry?’ the Headmaster asked gently, his own cup chiming on the saucer. He took his tea without milk, with lemon—at least five spoonfuls of sugar, by the look of it.       ‘Such as what, sir?’ Harry kept smiling. To keep it from looking forced, he did his level best to think of other things.       ‘Such as where you spent the last month.’ Harry faltered, dropped his eyes, and stared at the cup in his hands. Steam curled up from it.       ‘Mordred,’ Tom hissed, coming to a halt behind him. Harry had to agree—someone besides Snape they’d neutralised had been watching. They’d been sloppy.       ‘With my relatives,’ Harry said evasively.       ‘We both know that isn’t true,’ Dumbledore softly chided. ‘Your aunt and uncle are very upset and worried about you, Harry. It wasn’t kind of you to leave them like that.’       ‘You old git,’ Harry thought.       Tom, cold over his shoulder, said, ‘Provocation. He’s needling you. Stay calm.’       ‘We both know that isn’t true,’ Harry said, as evenly as he could—and went on the offensive. ‘Sir—what’s in the tea? Veritaserum? You needn’t have; I’ve nothing to hide.’       He made a point of taking several swallows. The tea was, in truth, excellent.       Tom let out an exclamation whose precise sense, Harry decided, he would ask Tom to explain later.       Harry smiled politely, ignoring the cramp tightening his jaw, and informed the bridge of the Headmaster’s spectacles, ‘Perhaps we don’t mean the same relatives. Sir, why do you care in the first place? I’m just another student—what does it matter where I lived?’       There was another reason to think of other things. Harry didn’t know Occlumency—Tom had promised to teach him one day, but that day had yet to dawn. Anyway, what could a child, set against a grown wizard, do when there wasn’t even a befuddling brew to hand to spray in his face? Harry had no intention of resisting a mental probe. His tactic was the very opposite: to present any intruder with a multitude of vivid memories. Drown him in them, with luck.       Dumbledore sighed reproachfully, like a kindly old grandfather tired out by a favourite grandson’s sulks.       ‘You’re not quite an ordinary student, Harry. And I do worry about you rather more than the rest. You see, you’re in serious danger. We have all been genuinely concerned for you here at Hogwarts. Now that you’re our student, responsibility for you lies with us—and with me most of all.’       Harry, laying out in his mind a collage—a flagged path for the intruder, call it what you will—of the most telling memories of life with the relatives, said, distantly curious, ‘Danger, sir? What kind?’       ‘The murderer of your parents—your own would‑be murderer—is alive, Harry. I mean Voldemort.’ Harry noted, automatically, the missing ‘Lord’. ‘That night when, thanks to you, he vanished from this world—he did not, in fact, die. And a month ago we learnt he had found a way to return. That is the danger I speak of—and now you can see why we feared for your life. None of us has the slightest doubt he will want to finish what he once began.’ The Headmaster stroked his beard, solemn in conclusion.       ‘A lie,’ Tom said, with disgust.       Harry very nearly laughed aloud. Ah—that danger. The ‘danger’ was huffing crossly by his ear. Whatever the Headmaster’s sources were, they had failed him. Harry caught himself—thinking about Tom was out. Better to think… of Dudley. Yes—Dudley warranted very careful thought.       ‘Well, how fortunate I was due to start school this year in any case,’ Harry observed indifferently. ‘As far as I know, there’s no safer place in magical Britain than Hogwarts. So it seems I’ve nothing to worry about. Sir.’       He set the cup on his lap. Through the saucer it still warmed his hands—the tea didn’t cool. Enchanted crockery, clearly, he mused. He didn’t push away stray thoughts—he welcomed them; they were useful now.       ‘Ask to go. Say it’s past lights‑out,’ Tom urged. ‘Quickly! If there was Veritaserum, it will take hold any moment.’       ‘Is that all, sir? May I go? I’m not sure, but I think lights‑out was some time ago.’       ‘Just one minute more.’ The beard stirred in a kindly smile.       Harry broke a sweat. Now came the main act—he could feel it. The worst part was—not thinking. Not of Draco, nor the diary, nor Tom, nor Grimmauld Place. He needed to think of Dudley. Of him alone. Aunt and uncle too—but the cousin was best.       ‘You see, at your home we found traces of a Dark magical artefact, Harry. Do you know anything about that?’       ‘No, sir.’       The truth—pure and simple. He didn’t know what they’d found, or how. With a wave of scorching pity for Harry came an illumination—why Tom never lied. He drowned the thought in a bath of bloody water, watched the pink suds, and forced himself to concentrate on Dudley’s laughter beyond the door.       ‘Did you bring anything of the sort home, Harry?’       ‘Yes, sir.’       Tom, peeling himself off the back of Harry’s chair, began pacing again behind him. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Tom said very coldly—which boded nothing good. But there was no time, and thinking of Tom was forbidden. The cast‑iron frying pan was coming down on Harry’s hand, and the shriek rang, ‘You ligger!’       ‘Where did you get it?’       ‘Found it, sir.’       For first he had found it, and only then stolen it, hadn’t he? Of course, he had.       ‘Do you know what it is?’       ‘No, sir.’       Indeed, how could he? Such intricate magic was beyond him as yet.       ‘Do you still have it?’       ‘No, sir.’       The urge to hand it over rather than hide it had been inspiration from above; Salazar himself, no doubt, whispering.       ‘Where is it?’       ‘I don’t know, sir.’       He had asked, expressly, not to be told.       ‘Did you run away from home because of it?’       Some part of Harry—the part not taken up with examining the blood‑swollen blisters from Aunt Petunia’s gardening—was properly surprised.       ‘No, sir.’       ‘Then why?’       ‘I don’t like Muggles, sir.’       The cupboard door closed; the light went out.       Dumbledore grunted, sorrowful, tugged his beard—and fell silent.       ‘Are we finished, sir? May I go?’ Harry repeated.       To tell the truth, just now he almost didn’t care. He’d reached something—clarity, a rapture of the mind, some perverse form of trance; it was extraordinarily easy to think only the right thoughts and not at all the wrong ones. In his head Uncle Vernon was folding his thick belt double and patting it lovingly against his palm, ‘Now then, you nasty little maggot, we’ll have a man‑to‑man talk.’ The scene played and replayed, like a stuck bit of film.       ‘Yes, Harry. Off you go. Get a proper rest—you’ve had a hard day.’ Dumbledore unclasped his talons with a sigh. It took Harry a good half minute to extract himself from the ghastly guest chair without upending what was left in his cup.       ‘Best of luck with your studies. I think you’ll soon find your feet at Hogwarts.’       ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’       Hand already on the door handle, he hesitated.       ‘So—what was in the tea, Headmaster?’ he asked, glancing back over his shoulder.       ‘Exactly what ought to be in tea, my boy.’ Calmly and sadly, Dumbledore smiled at him. ‘Tea.’

* * *

      A long, long time ago, Albus had already met a boy for whom no one clapped at the Sorting.       He was not Headmaster then. He did not wear robes, favouring provocatively Muggle jackets; his beard was shorter, his hair redder, and his conscience cleaner by several lifetimes. He had not yet learnt the hard lesson that the one price of victory is always what you love most in the world. He was younger, sharper, more foolish, less far‑sighted.       That boy he let slip.       Later there came a time—so much time, and so useless—for picking over guilt and error, for tracing how self‑confidence bred carelessness, carelessness bred stupidity, and stupidity brought real calamity. If there had been a Time‑Turner capable of winding back not hours or days, but years—if it were possible to turn the river of time—this boy would have figured among Albus’s personal cases. Not second or first, perhaps—but certainly in the top five. And not for the greater good—for the boy himself.       And precisely because of that, at some point this evening Albus grew afraid. Not even then, in the unnatural hush of the Great Hall, but later, in the cosy quiet of his own office. He started at each turn of the head, at the unduly adult restraint of the gestures, at the face, solemn, verging on sullen. At the gaze his eyes could not catch. At the way the boy said ‘sir’. The round bicycle‑wheel spectacles helped a little, reminding him that time had not in fact reversed its course, but the feeling that a ghost stood in the room would not quite go.       Twice during their talk Albus barely checked his tongue—already turned to say, ‘Tom.’       They were so alike—and inwardly far more than outwardly. The way of a wild creature, ready to bite the hand. Suspicion. Accusation. An obsequiousness that slid in a heartbeat into insolence—and back again just as easily, when the child sensed the tactic was ill‑chosen. The very existence of a tactic in a conversation—how many children his age plan in advance how they will lie?       This one did. He was expecting truth‑potion—indeed, more than that: he thought he had drunk truth‑potion, and Albus would have sworn he framed his answers so as not to lie. Which, of course, was as far from candour as the earth from the stars.       Again and again Albus asked himself—does fate exist? If not, why did he seem condemned to commit the same mistakes? Why did this boy, too, look at him like a wild cub, look at him as at an enemy, baring teeth that were still half milk? This boy on whom a truly dreadful, grand stake had been laid; the boy of the prophecy, the boy destined to grow powerful enough to meet, as an equal, his predecessor and foe. What had warped him, like a face in a hall of mirrors—what had gone wrong, again?       Fawkes, sensing his master’s inward turmoil, fluttered down to his shoulder with a soft warble, and Albus stroked the weightless warm feathers. At times the phoenix was the only thing that reminded him he could still tell good from evil. His heart had not rotted in his chest, eaten through by endless sacrifices and compromises. The phoenix inspired the hope that perhaps—only perhaps—he, Chief Warlock, the keeper of the Elder Wand and betrayer of his best friend, was not, in essence, so very bad.       In the dancing firelight Albus Dumbledore beheld the ghostly faces of all the boys and girls he would never bring back. Frank and Alice, Gideon and Fabian, Marlene and Dorcas, Edgar, Lily, and James… There were many—so very many.       This boy, Albus decided, he would not lose for anything.       Fawkes sang a sweet, sorrowing note, rose back to his perch, and Albus refreshed the pot. He added five spoonfuls of sugar, took a sherbet lemon from his desk.       But the tea tasted bitter all the same.

* * *

      Only once he was back on the moving steps—truth be told, that staircase made him queasy in a way he didn’t at all expect, for usually Harry liked any magic at all precisely because it was magic—did he realise he’d been soaked like a drowned rat all through that short conversation. His hands were shaking. His legs were shaking too—and buckling, besides. He came out into the corridor—the gargoyle leapt back into place with a grind of stone on stone—and set off at a plod, disorientated and none too sure how to find his way back to Slytherin. Tom was silent—and that clearly meant he was on edge. Harry could feel they were going to have a row, and he hadn’t the strength for one.       ‘This way,’ Tom said suddenly—and Harry was surprised. They were passing some office with no plaque on the door. But it was unlocked, and Tom steered Harry inside. The lamps flared along the walls, reacting to human presence.       It was an empty, near‑abandoned classroom, desks piled in a high heap at the far end by the grubby windows, bare walls, a blackboard marked with chalky streaks. The door clicked shut; the lock clacked; and Tom circled Harry, coming to face him. His cold stare seemed to go right to the bone.       ‘I am very much at fault,’ he said—the last words Harry expected—and Harry’s mouth dropped open at such a beginning. ‘I should have laid down the rules at once—clearly and unequivocally—but I’ve plainly let my edge rust. We shall have to make up for it now.’       Somehow his wand was in his hand again—and once more Harry had not seen him draw it. Harry tried to make sense of what he’d heard.       ‘What are you—’ he began; his tired brain was in no state for fresh riddles—he needed things spelt out, but Tom—very calmly, in the tone one uses for ‘pass the salt, would you?’—said, ‘Crucio.’       The floor leapt up and smacked Harry under the knees. An atrocious pain—ten times worse than a dog’s jaws gnawing through, a hundred times worse than a broken wrist; a pain like being plunged into a bath of molten metal—seized all of him. His skin seemed aflame; his insides, on the contrary, were ice. He saw before his face boards scuffed and burnished with polish—and understood he was lying on the floor, but the knowledge was distant and useless. The pain took his breath and scoured his mind clean. When it stopped—like a knife‑cut—he felt as if he had slipped out of his body, out of himself.       And in the strange clarity that followed he heard, very distinctly, ‘Rule one. When I give an order—you obey. Rule two—if you ignore an order, you get this.’       Harry couldn’t help himself—he burst into tears. Tom sat down beside him, right on the floor, legs crossed, left hand braced on his knee. He still held the wand in his right.       ‘But I—I…’ Harry choked. Hurt and misery strangled him. He had thought Tom trusted him—no, he knew Tom trusted him—and then this. ‘I did it—I managed! Didn’t you—didn’t you like it…?’       He hiccupped—once, twice. Tom sighed and conjured a glass of water.       ‘You managed impeccably,’ he said quietly, and the cold, hard mask was gone from his face—it was calm, not to say sad. ‘Your only mistake—you disobeyed my order. You cannot disobey my orders. Do you understand?’       Harry did not understand. He rolled over, pushed himself up on an elbow, and got both hands round the glass somehow. The hiccups stopped; the tears did not. He took off his glasses and fumbled in his pockets. A handkerchief nudged into his hand, as if alive, and Harry scrubbed at his burning face.       ‘One day we may need… No—let me put it differently. One day we shall certainly need you to do exactly as I say—quickly and without thinking. In truth, it won’t be just the once. So you must get used to obeying me. Always. Even if, at some moment, you think you know better. Like… like in the army.’       The analogy was one Harry recognised. He stopped polishing his lenses and thought.       ‘I trained you to need no orders at all. So here the fault is mine as well—and I regret it. And I dislike hurting you—but only thus will you learn what I am telling you now. And you must learn—down at reflex level. Think back to how we handled Professor Snape.’       Harry remembered. And, Mordred and Morgana, he truly hadn’t spent even a second weighing Tom’s words that time. He thought about how—but not whether; not whether to do it at all; and certainly didn’t counter‑propose plans—least of all in the very midst of the operation. Had it been otherwise, he would surely have botched the whole business—the element of surprise had been their lone advantage then. Well—and Tom’s invisibility, to be fair.       ‘That was because you obeyed,’ Tom said, as if hearing every thought. ‘He’s an adult, powerful wizard—a seasoned mind‑mage; you’re a child; I’m barely more than a shade—and yet we beat him without breaking sweat, and now he walks about with his memory wiped and hasn’t twigged a thing. We are strong when we are together—when you do as I say.’       ‘And I…’ Harry began, timidly—and faltered. He tried again, ‘And if…’ but the words wouldn’t come. Tom sat very close, bent towards him, his face inches from Harry’s own.       ‘Of course you’ll manage,’ he said—and smiled at last; for the first time that evening he smiled—joyfully and proudly, exactly as Harry had wanted. ‘You’re a clever boy—you’ll do splendidly. And I’ll help you.’       Harry was frightened by what stood behind that ‘help’. The pain had been monstrous—but worse than the pain was…       ‘I’m afraid of disappointing you,’ he admitted, gazing into the dark, deep eyes level with his own.       ‘That will not happen,’ Tom said firmly, and in his voice there was an all‑embracing certainty such as plants have in the sun, iron in the magnet, and stone in the pull of the earth. And Harry wanted, very much, to believe too.       ‘We’ll practise,’ Tom said, rising with an ease Harry envied. ‘But another time. Now we’ve got to go—the last thing we need is people starting to look for you. Up you get.’       Harry managed to hoist himself onto all fours, then, at last, to his feet. Tom gave him a critical once‑over and flicked his wand: ‘Tergeo! Planarum!’       It was as though there’d been no rolling about on the floor—his clothes cleaned and smoothed themselves, crisp and tidy again.       ‘Come along,’ Tom said softly, turning for the door—and Harry stepped too, without thinking, only then admitting, ‘I… don’t remember where to go.’       ‘Nonsense,’ Tom replied with a chuckle. ‘I know the way perfectly well.’       He unlocked the door with a spell, stepped out, and Harry followed.       Two corridors later, when a thought struck Harry that amused him so much he almost cried again, he giggled for so long he nearly set himself off. To Tom, who watched the whole fit with patience, he explained, ‘I did say the first time ought to be with someone special. And so it was, you see?’       To Harry’s complete astonishment, Tom answered that half‑coherent nonsense quite seriously, ‘Thank you, Harry. I think I do.’