The Observer Effect

      Draco realised almost at once this was no ordinary diary. Yes, he was only partly a Black, and as for being a maiden—well, not in the least, but a few crumbs of the family’s sixth sense had fallen to him all the same. The thing… itched in his fingers—there was no better word for it. It felt heavier than it ought. Most unsettling of all was the irrational urge to open it at once and write something in it.       To be perfectly honest, Malfoy did open it in the end. A rash move—but not a wasted one: what he saw on the inside cover made his stomach go cold. Most of the boys and girls getting ready for bed in the neighbouring rooms would likely not have twigged whose name stood there, neatly penned in ink gone brown with age. But Grandfather Abraxas had been in the inner circle, and after him Father and his godfather had entered it too; so Draco—knew. It was His. Taken together with Potter’s recent bragging… Mordred—he really hadn’t lied a jot, had he? And Harry had been absolutely right: this must not be found on them. Not in their things, not in their dorm, not in the Slytherin dungeons.       Potter had bolted as if a herd of Thestrals were after him—which meant Draco had best hurry as well. He cast a furtive glance round the empty dormitory, fastened his shirt, pulled his jumper and robe back on. Suppressing an involuntary shiver, he tucked the diary inside his robes. Then he slipped out, padded softly along the corridor, and peeped into the common room with one eye. No one—older years not yet back from the feast, youngsters all in their dorms, no prefects in sight. Excellent. Sending up a brief, unprintable but very heartfelt prayer to Salazar, Draco scuttled across the room and shot out through the door.       Breaking school rules on his very first night at Hogwarts was both exhilarating and alarming. Mostly alarming, of course—but Malfoy told himself firmly that this was an Adventure—a proper one at that. He’d been short on those so far: the one cosseted son of a damned old house—he had spent most of his eleven years as if shut in a glass cabinet like Mother’s Meissen—Merlin forbid he be broken. But Draco had no wish to be a fragile, useless figurine. And he knew that sooner or later his time would come to be drawn into very serious games—and no, not Quidditch. Well, the time had come—a bit sooner than he’d thought and hoped, but there it was.       He hurried along an empty, half‑lit corridor, glancing back again and again. Where to make a cache? No—he had to get further away—out of the dungeons altogether. Hide the diary in a suit of armour? Behind a painting? In a vase? Not one spot looked right. What if a house‑elf came across it? Or the caretaker? The task suddenly seemed monstrously difficult.       What Malfoy had not reckoned with was the perverse temper of the staircases. There were a hundred and forty‑two in Hogwarts, each with a fancy of its own—and at least two took against Draco on sight. The one he stepped onto, meaning to go up to the first floor, swung a quarter‑turn to the left and purposefully set off upwards—higher and higher. At first Draco was too nonplussed to jump—and now he could only watch as the floors rushed away beneath him—second, third, fourth, fifth… Only on the sixth did the staircase deign to stop, but the moment he hopped off and tried a milder‑looking flight, that one too spirited him briskly up to the seventh—under the very roof—then, with a jaunty pirouette, threw its rider, slipped into the well, and was gone. Draco cast a hopeful look at the runaway’s sisters drifting lazily below—but they ignored his silent plea. He pulled a face—and at last turned round.       Before him stretched a bare corridor, curving gently. On the left hung a lone, large tapestry where a gang of trolls, for some reason in ballet tutus and brandishing cudgels, were chasing a sweat‑soaked wizard in an old‑fashioned curled periwig that had slid over one ear, white knee‑breeches, and shoes with bows. On the right—a row of windows and a painted Chinese vase taller than Draco himself. Not a single door, not even into some cupboard or abandoned classroom—which, as Malfoy knew, the school had in droves, what with many subjects, like music, handwriting, and domestic spells, having long since become optional or vanished altogether. The place, though clearly seldom visited, didn’t look at all suitable for his purposes. Draco grew glum.       In gloom and irritation, he paced up and down—and, to crown it all, the corridor turned out to be a ring, so he couldn’t descend from the other side, as he’d first hoped. There was nothing for it but to wait for the capricious staircase that had brought him—and the wait dragged on.       The hunt for a hiding place—somewhere no search, however zealous, would reach—was filling his mind when Draco suddenly realised that something about his surroundings had changed. Opposite the daft tapestry—the trolls, exhausted, were sitting on the ground with doltish expressions while the bewigged wizard, twirling a ribboned cane, performed the third arabesque over and over—there had appeared a door that most assuredly hadn’t been there before.       An uncommon occurrence—even for an ancient, fancifully built magical castle like Hogwarts. Intrigued, Malfoy stepped up, took hold of the bright, round handle, and pulled. It wasn’t locked. He peered in—and very nearly laughed with relief. He had at last found exactly what he had been looking for all this time.

* * *

      ‘Where did you stash the diary?’ Tom asked suddenly, glancing about in an odd way. They had just come down from the first floor and were crossing the hall, heading for the passage that led to Slytherin’s slice of the dungeons. ‘It’s in the castle—I can feel that—but…’ He broke off, frowning.       ‘Ah,’ Harry said wearily, nudging his glasses straight. ‘I didn’t hide it myself. I thought—what if the Headmaster slipped me Veritaserum or rifled through my head—so I, well, delegated the task. I’ve no idea where it is now, sorry.’       ‘Delegated?’ Tom raised a brow.       ‘Asked Draco to help. Malfoy. We met on the train. He’s sort of my friend now, you know.’       Tom did not bridle at the breach of exclusivity in their comradeship, as Harry had half feared. On the contrary, he nodded, approving.       ‘Abraxas was one of my first knights. He was the one I meant to trust with the diary in the first place. If the grandson takes after the grandsire, you chose well.’       ‘By the way—how far can you go from… what did you call it—the phylactery?’       ‘No further than a quarter of a mile. I timed it more or less as they ferried you across the Black Lake. That’s the size of my cage now—a half‑mile in diameter. A fine kingdom, is it not?’ Tom smiled, thin and bitter.       ‘Hogwarts isn’t a cage!’ Harry protested.       ‘Everything becomes a cage when there’s no way out.’       ‘What exactly is a phylactery?’ Harry asked—hoping to steer Tom from the black mood. The ploy worked—Tom seemed to like explaining things to Harry almost as much as Harry liked hearing them.       ‘A vessel for a piece of the soul,’ he said. ‘It forms an anchor to which the part that remains binds itself after the destruction of the physical shell. That bond keeps the soul from leaving the mortal world.’       Harry actually missed a step.       ‘Your soul is in the diary?’ he said, sceptical.       ‘A part of it, as I said. And an imprint of my personality that it sustains.’ Tom shot Harry an enigmatic look from his greater height and twitched the corner of his mouth—but had no time to add more.       One of the doors they were passing—by now, in the course of their talk, they had gone deeper into the dungeons and, by Harry’s reckoning, were near the cul‑de‑sac with the false arch that hid Slytherin’s entrance—suddenly swung open, and out of it tumbled none other than the aforesaid Malfoy. He gawped about and muttered, ‘How does that even—Merlin’s bollocks!’       ‘Draco!’ Harry cried, delighted, dashing to him. ‘Did it work?’       Malfoy beamed. ‘Yes! You won’t believe what just… Oh—’ he caught himself—‘you asked me not to say. Worried they’ll rummage in your head, eh? By the by—where were you?’       ‘With the Headmaster,’ Harry reported, and Malfoy gave a knowing whistle.       ‘Right—no wonder you’re wary.’       ‘Let him tell it,’ Tom put in—and Harry added quickly, ‘It’s fine now—go on!’       ‘You sure?’ Draco wavered—and Harry shot Tom a sidelong look, trying not to make it obvious.       ‘I’ll wipe your memory if need be,’ Tom said soothingly. Harry confirmed, ‘Yes—it’s all right.’ Malfoy grinned and waggled his brows.       ‘It’s a corker! Picture it—I found a sort of storeroom under the very roof—huge, Mordred only knows how huge. A colossal junk‑hoard—there’s everything there. And that’s not all—the door wasn’t visible at first, and when I wanted to leave, I came out not where I’d gone in but straight out here. Brilliant, isn’t it?’       ‘Amazing!’ Harry agreed. Magic was, after all, inexhaustibly wonderful.       ‘Ah.’ Tom smiled—and Harry could plainly feel his mood lift. ‘Your nosy friend has managed to discover an excellent repository. I know the room—I was going to recommend it to you, in fact. I called it the Room of Hidden Things.’       Of course, Tom knew—Harry was not in the least surprised. He had already thought that if anyone knew every last secret of the castle, it was Tom.       But at that moment their three‑cornered conversation (one corner blissfully unaware of its nature) was cut off, in the rudest possible way.       From the nearest corner, Professor Snape himself swung into view, all nose and disdain, and looked Harry and Draco over as if they were baked‑on grime on his favourite cauldron.       ‘Mr Potter—you’re precisely the one I require,’ he said in a tone anything but friendly. ‘And you, Mr Malfoy, will proceed to your dormitory at once. It is forbidden to be in the corridors after lights‑out; unlike Potter, you do not, I think, have a summons from the Headmaster—so you’ve no excuse whatsoever.’       ‘Godfather!’ Draco protested, wounded, arranging the most woebegone face in the world. Malfoy’s talent for pulling faces, as Harry had already noticed, was the sort any actor would sell his soul for.       ‘Here I am not your godfather but your professor—and your Head of House.’ Snape did not budge. ‘Kindly conduct yourself accordingly.’       A sorrowful Draco departed, looking back over his shoulder, and Snape, in turn, took Harry by the shoulder. He plainly wanted to take him by the scruff, as Farley had done earlier, but restrained himself—though no judge, however lenient, would have called his grip gentle.       ‘We shall go to my office,’ he said, and Harry, instantly recalling what—by Selwyn’s indelicate phrasing—they were going to do to him in that office, grew more downcast than Malfoy. He glanced at Tom and tried, without words, to convey: how do I wriggle out of this?       Snape reacted at once: ‘Stop writhing, Potter! Have you got fleas?’       ‘This man is my Head of House,’ Harry remembered with a shudder—a detail that had somehow evaded his full appreciation earlier. ‘Salazar—why? Save me!’       He was still only a child—and quite worn out by the evening.       ‘Yes, sir!’ he said aloud. ‘No fleas, sir! I’m not contagious!’       Tom gave the Head of Slytherin a measured look, and smiled a cold, sharp smile.       ‘I’ve just had an idea,’ he said.

* * *

      When Severus, having prodded along his over‑lingering colleagues, returned from the interminable feast, he was in no mood for sleep. What he wanted was murder—preferably beginning with the Hat. His humour only worsened when it turned out Potter was absent from the Slytherin dungeons.       ‘Have you already killed and buried him, or what?’ he nearly snapped, but Selwyn, the newly appointed fifth‑year prefect, forestalled the unspoken gibe.       ‘The Headmaster sent for him, sir.’       ‘Curly‑headed fool,’ Severus fumed inwardly. Couldn’t be bothered to send a note to his Head of House, could he?       Aloud he said only, ‘Very well. Off with you—you’re dismissed.’       As he strode towards the Headmaster’s office, Severus reflected that the Headmaster, too, was a piece of work. Why had he needed a tête‑à‑tête with Potter? Severus expected nothing but nastiness to come of their talk—precisely because it was being conducted without him.       Alas, he was too late to intrude upon their privacy. The boy came around the nearest corner—already on his way back. And for some reason Draco was with him. The indefatigable godson had, it seemed, already come to terms with the hero on the train—Severus had as good as jinxed it, prophesying instant friendship. He dispatched the godson, brought Potter to his office, sat him down in an armchair by the fire, and took the one opposite. The hero looked beaten but not broken—glowering at Severus through round specs and picking at the upholstery with a forefinger.       Severus crossed his legs, laced his fingers together on his knee, and began, ‘Well then—out with it, Potter.’       ‘What, sir?’ The boy decided to play the fool.       ‘Everything,’ Severus said, bright as you please. ‘Where in Mordred’s name have you been for the last month?’       The Headmaster had surely asked the same question. It would be very interesting to compare the answers he and Albus received.       ‘I was in a safe place, sir. The Headmaster has already informed me that my life is in danger, and explained the particulars. I apologise for any distress caused.’ Potter dipped his head in exemplary contrition.       ‘Oh?’ thought Severus. ‘Albus has chosen to play openly. Unexpected.’       ‘It may be we got off on the wrong foot,’ he said when it became clear the boy did not intend to continue. ‘And that you don’t feel kindly towards me. You are mistaken. Owing to circumstances you are far too young to understand, I have pledged myself—by any means—you hear me, by any means—to keep you whole. At this moment I am your best friend in all Hogwarts—remember that, Potter. I suspect you have not yet grasped where you have landed. Slytherin House is not pleased to see you in our ranks.’       ‘Slytherin House will change its opinion soon, sir. I promise you that,’ Potter assured him, without so much as a nod to the rest of Severus’s speech. Severus shrugged inwardly—he had tried.       ‘I know the diary is with you,’ he said bluntly—and savoured the instant of bewilderment and panic on the boy’s part. ‘Caught you,’ Snape thought, ‘you little bastard.’       ‘I don’t quite follow, sir,’ the boy denied—but it was too late. Severus shook his head.       ‘Do stop. What you apparently do not understand is that the artefact cannot remain with you. It was entrusted to another party and came to you by chance. You ought to return it.’       The boy thought—but not for long.       ‘Firstly, sir, the diary is not with me. That’s the truth. If you like, I’ll have a swig of Veritaserum here and now—the Headmaster’s already treated me. And secondly—what if… the owner considers the diary ought to remain exactly where it is? Evidently the previous custodian was… careless.’       Severus barely kept his composure. The mention of truth‑potion was a surprise—but that could be dealt with later. What seized all his attention was the mention of the item’s owner.       ‘You mean—you know who owns it?’ Severus could not believe it.       The boy smiled brazenly.       ‘It’s signed, sir. And—yes, I know who he is. You see, he… has also stood surety for my safety. But your solicitude is, of course, appreciated. Sir.’       Severus’s worst suspicions were coming true—strangely. He found it very difficult to picture a world in which the Dark Lord would stand surety for Potter’s safety.       ‘You’re raving, I think,’ he hissed, no longer able to keep an even tone. ‘Where is the diary?’       ‘Its present whereabouts are unknown to me, sir.’ The boy was plainly mocking him; Severus had had enough. He tried to read him—and found on the surface only a swarm of images he already knew too well: a carnival of cruelty and petty tyranny laid on for Potter by the Headmaster’s tireless care. Unprepared for resistance and intrigued, Severus prodded deeper—and fell into an endless, empty dark. The dark opened a thousand eyes with bright scarlet pupils—and looked back. Severus blinked. In his stomach lodged the sensation of having swallowed a fist‑sized lump of ice.       ‘Who taught you Occlumency?’ he forced out.       ‘Have a guess,’ the boy suggested cheerfully—and crossed his legs too. ‘My Head of House, sir,’ he added—with not a grain of deference.       Occlumency—even crude—in someone his age was accounted impossible. Exceptions were vanishingly rare. Severus had once been on close terms with one.       That unimaginable world, it seemed, was reality. This… in truth, changed a great deal.       It changed everything.       ‘What next, sir? Veritaserum after all?’ the boy enquired, polite as you please. ‘Or will you shake the dust off the old days? Do draw your wand—don’t be shy! My godfather’s a Death Eater too—I quite understand. Want me to remind you of the incantation?’       Severus was taken aback.       ‘I do not torture children,’ he said curtly. ‘And Sirius was never a Death Eater.’       ‘Too right!’ Potter threw up his hands. ‘And he’s in Azkaban, of course, for absolutely nothing—and, in fact, he was framed.’       Severus found no ready answer.       ‘Do stop being impertinent, Potter,’ was all he managed.       ‘My apologies, sir! Forgot myself, sir! Might I suggest we concentrate, Professor, on academic matters? The danger our worthy Headmaster speaks of does not exist. The diary is where it ought to be. Its owner and I have… a special relationship, which does not admit of outside interference. Let us simply—refrain from biting each other’s tails, sir. Please?’       ‘Gryffindor,’ Severus thought, with a flash of hysterical humour. ‘I’d expected this one for Gryffindor.’       ‘I’m getting old,’ he concluded.       ‘I shall have to inform… the previous custodian of the artefact’s fate. He will, I am sure, wish to speak with you as well,’ Severus warned.       The boy nodded.       ‘You’re within your rights, sir. But, as you understand, it must not go beyond him.’       Severus nodded too, and they fell silent. The embers crackled in the grate; there was no other sound—stone walls and the weight of the lake above swallowed the rest. Severus felt his weariness anew. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.       ‘I won’t detain you further,’ he said acidly. ‘Off you go. Try not to be taken to pieces for souvenirs overnight.’       ‘I shall do my utmost,’ Potter answered in kind, rising. ‘Good night, sir.’       ‘Potter!’ Severus called after him. ‘My words still stand. In… acute situations—come straight to me.’       ‘Of course, sir,’ the boy agreed politely—in a tone that plainly meant: of course not.       In the light of the new circumstances, Severus had expected nothing else.

* * *

      When Tom took his wand away from Snape’s temple and it became clear the man had swallowed the imitation Occlumency shield whole, Harry felt such inexpressible relief he nearly burst into tears. Again. The evening had been a rich one for tears—and for emotions in general; there were so many of them now that Harry felt like a balloon—intolerably light and very, very empty inside. He suspected he’d cheeked his Head of House more than was wise, but he truly had nothing left to give. Still, they’d parted on a relatively civil note. Snape’s caustic hostility, Harry concluded, wasn’t aimed at him personally; the man simply seemed to regard it as the only way of dealing with the world.       ‘Good lad, Harry,’ Tom said, carelessly slipping his hands into his pockets. Harry felt an irrational stab of envy at how fresh and lively he looked. ‘By the way—I’m curious: how exactly did you try to fend off the intrusion into your mind? I didn’t quite catch that—I was busy crafting the necessary effect. And earlier—with the Headmaster—you tried something similar then as well, didn’t you?’       ‘Well… look, can we talk in the common room at least? It’s probably empty by now—everyone’ll be asleep.’ Harry glanced round and shivered. A bare corridor in the dungeons was not the cosiest spot. ‘It’s cold here.’       ‘Unlikely we’ll have it to ourselves,’ Tom countered. ‘You’re probably expected. Best say it now.’       Harry sighed heavily and tried to set out his tactic plainly.       ‘Er… I panicked at first—and then I remembered what you’d told me about how mind‑reading works. You know—how it isn’t like a book, more like a heap of spliced film, or a room in utter chaos. So I just… started dragging up all sorts—stuff about my Muggles, and the nastier the better—and hauling it into a pile as near the surface as I could. I tried like mad to think only of that—and of nothing else at all. At first it didn’t go so well—I kept slipping—but towards the end… it got easier, and seemed to start working rather nicely. That’s about it,’ he finished, unsure.       Tom looked Harry over very intently. It was an odd look—the way a proud collector would examine a new acquisition, a specimen of value—one he’d got for a song from someone who didn’t know the worth of their treasure.       ‘Exquisite,’ he said softly. ‘You really never cease to surprise. What you’ve described is a variety of Occlumency shield—fairly primitive, but perfectly serviceable. And you arrived at it on your own.’       Harry shrugged, abashed. It was clearly praise, though not wholly intelligible to him.       ‘Well—yes?’       ‘Exquisite,’ Tom repeated, and his curiosity, it seemed, was satisfied, for he turned and at last led Harry to the familiar arch with the crack down the side.       And of course—naturally—Tom was, as usual, right. They were waiting for Harry in the common room.       ‘I can’t take any more—sorry,’ he explained politely to the six prefects—a full quorum, fancy that—settled in the armchairs by the fire like a ruling family in an old oil painting; the only thing missing was a brace of greyhounds at their feet. ‘Could you possibly take your first dibs tomorrow instead? Honestly—there isn’t a sound inch of me left.’       ‘Me, I’d take first dibs on doing you in outright—spare you the suffering,’ said the blonde with the thick plait—she looked older than the rest, a seventh‑year prefect, no doubt—wearily. ‘You do realise why the Thestrals aren’t already picking you clean in their stables?’       ‘Don’t get caught,’ Harry answered automatically. ‘Loads of people will swear they last saw me right here.’       The girl with the plait snorted.       ‘I’m Euphemia Rowle,’ she said, introducing herself. ‘This is Robin Blishwick, my partner. Those two you know—and, besides them, Bletchley and Edgecombe. And we all want to know what in Mordred’s name Saint Potter is doing in Slytherin.’       Harry had a powerful urge to lie on the floor and scream. By way of compromise, he folded his legs under him and sat down where he stood—on the plush green‑and‑grey rug.       ‘There is a reason,’ he managed. ‘But if I just say it, you won’t believe me. You’ll think I’m bragging. I’ll have to show you. And that means I need a bit of time. Till Hallowe’en at least.’       ‘I’m prepared to believe any bloody thing at this point, lad,’ Blishwick—huge, flat‑nosed, with a scar from the corner of his mouth to his left ear—said dourly. ‘You’ll be amazed. Spin your yarn.’       Harry flicked a glance at Tom, who’d taken up an easy perch by the fire with the prefects, their armchairs turned with their backs to the flames so they could watch the entrance in comfort. Standing there against the blaze, Tom looked so much in his element—so alive—that it felt odd no one turned to ask his opinion.       ‘Cast the line.’ Tom nodded. ‘Let’s see how they bite.’       ‘I am the Heir of Salazar Slytherin,’ Harry announced. He’d imagined the scene rather more solemnly; as it was, it sounded so matter‑of‑fact he could scarcely believe he’d finally said it.       Rowle covered her face in silence; someone tittered. Selwyn bit his lip, plainly fighting a laugh; Farley rolled her eyes. Blishwick raised his brows and nodded, full of sympathy—for a lunatic.       ‘Best of British with the proof,’ said the dark‑haired boy with a budding moustache—Edgecombe—baring his teeth.       ‘Why are you even listening to him?’ spat Bletchley—red‑haired, with a flat, unremarkable face where her too‑pale brows and lashes got lost entirely. ‘Your mother’s a Mudblood, you know that, “Heir”?’       ‘He hasn’t got a mother,’ Rowle decreed—and snorted, dropping her hand at last. ‘Mordred hatched him out of his left bollock, to be the bane of us all.’       ‘Let him have an “accidental” tumble off the Astronomy Tower,’ Farley suggested, bloodthirsty. ‘Or fall off his broomstick. There was a Potter—and there isn’t. Such a tragic mischance!’       ‘Ah!’ Selwyn brightened. ‘So that’s what that silly corridor’s for—I’d always wondered!’       The prefects laughed.       ‘Well then, hero,’ Blishwick said—with a predatory grin that didn’t suit his rough features in the least—‘what do you think we ought to do with you?’       ‘I’m wondering whether Professor Snape has really gone to bed—or is listening in,’ Harry replied without a tremor. For all the blatant intimidation, the mood didn’t feel truly threatening. Perhaps it was Tom—his toothy grin hadn’t left his face throughout. Or perhaps it was that, in the last couple of hours, Harry had drastically revised his concept of ‘threatening’. ‘As for what to do—obvious, isn’t it: give me till Hallowe’en; if I’m lying, I’ll tumble off myself—wherever you say.’       Blishwick grunted, approving; Rowle’s mouth twitched. The rest listened with varying degrees of scepticism and mockery, but the only one who truly disliked him was Bletchley—Harry could see that. Heartened, he loosed a parting shot: ‘And you’re all daft to think I killed the Dark Lord. Falling for propaganda like toddlers.’       From his mouth it ought to have sounded a fine joke—and it did. The prefects—bar Bletchley—snorted.       ‘All right then, hero,’ Blishwick said, and he and Rowle exchanged a glance. ‘Be it so—live for now.’       ‘And shove off to bed,’ Rowle added.       Harry was unspeakably glad of the verdict—or rather, of the latter half of it. He sprang up—Merlin knew where the strength came from—and rattled off, ‘Thank you, Mr Prefect, Miss Prefect. A very good night to you all!’       ‘Oi—Holy Infant,’ Bletchley called as Harry all but bolted from the room. ‘Mind how you open that gob. D’you know who calls him the Dark Lord?’       ‘Of course I do,’ Harry answered, sweet as sugar. ‘Death Eaters. And me.’       The dormitory was dark as pitch; Harry whispered, ‘Lumos,’ and clapped a hand over it at once. Tom didn’t follow—he’d stayed in the common room, and Harry found himself wondering again how he’d amuse himself all night. Reading, probably. He needn’t even leave the room—Harry had seen the bookcases along the walls. He wondered whether their contents were as delightful as those in Grimmauld Place—though probably not; this was a school, after all.       Harry fetched his pyjamas, shushed Trunk, crept to the bathroom, crawled into bed, drew the curtains, tucked his wand under the pillow—and had only just about fallen asleep when the hangings stirred and in wriggled Malfoy—sleepy but resolute—like a ferret into a granary.       ‘Potter—don’t sleep! Don’t sleep! Don’t you dare sleep—do you hear!’ He shook the half‑senseless Harry. ‘Who promised to explain everything later? Go on then—explain!’       ‘Malfoy—off it,’ Harry coaxed, tongue thick. ‘Please—let’s do it tomorrow? I can’t think any more…’       ‘Merlin—will you two shut it, lovebirds!’ drifted in from beyond the curtain, and at once a high voice—Crabbe’s—shot back, ‘Zabini—keep your gob shut before you lose it!’       ‘I do beg your pardon, my lords. Would you be so kind as to postpone your diversions until morning?’       ‘Silence, the lot of you! Any of you know Silencio? No? What a pity.’       ‘You twits! I’ve been quiet for ages!’ Draco sang out—and only when satisfied the last word was his did he creep back to his own bed. Harry didn’t notice—he fell asleep mid‑bicker.       He dreamt of a bright, warm fire—the fire in the grate—and of someone’s cries for mercy turning into a funny hiccupping squeal.