The Observer Effect

      ‘If only the entrance would open wherever you fancied as well, and not just the exit,’ Harry grumbled inwardly, waiting for the only staircase from the sixth to the seventh floor to see fit to slide back into place. They’d learnt the trick of getting out of the Room of Hidden Things from Draco—by a string of chance remarks Harry had guessed that even Tom hadn’t known of this feature. For a while they had a curious parity: they held the secret of entry; Malfoy, the secret of exit. But Tom wouldn’t be Tom if he didn’t make Harry quiz Draco to the point of exhaustion. Where he stood, where he looked, which hand he used on the handle, what he said, what he thought—and it turned out to be disarmingly simple. Opening the door and not burning with desire to spend ages threading the maze back down to the dungeons, Malfoy had longed hard to be at his destination at once; and at that moment he also thought of Harry—he was itching to brag of his success, and of his discovery. In the end Draco got exactly what he wanted—he stepped out of the door in the dungeons, right by Harry.       Magic. Will and intent, as Tom never tired of saying.       Alas, the entrance wasn’t so obliging—it really did open only in one place, opposite that daft tapestry of trolls attempting ballet. Which, to Harry’s mind, was bloody unfair.       At last reaching his destination, Harry called the Room—he was so used to the procedure by now that it felt almost routine—and went in. Tom wasn’t there, so Harry reached into their diary‑cache—they kept it in a mother‑of‑pearl‑inlaid chest of drawers, under a bundle of letters from some ‘G. G.’ to ‘dear A.’, a drift of spoilt parchments, and an ink‑spattered map of Europe. Harry opened the diary and put a full stop on the first page—their signal inviting Tom to drop his Dark‑Lordly pursuits and pop into Headquarters.       Tom arrived within a minute—materialising somewhere in the lanes of Junk‑Town and picking his way out of the heaps, noticeably reining in his usual long stride. Harry waved from the sofa—then remembered what was looming, and his face fell.       ‘Tom! We’re starting flying tomorrow,’ he announced sourly. ‘And I can’t do a thing… Everyone’ll twig at once I wasn’t brought up in a wizarding family, won’t they?’       Tom snorted and sank into the armchair, crossing his legs and laying his hands on the arms—every inch a prince upon his throne, with the fitting expression—condescending and amused.       ‘Don’t work yourself into a state,’ he advised. ‘There are wizards who consider broom‑flying a foolish and dangerous pastime. If it comes to it—you’re one of them, full stop. And for what it’s worth, I agree. It’s a skill worth acquiring, of course—but it would be reckless to rely seriously on a broom when you need to take to the air. I’m sure it’s perfectly possible to devise a levitation charm dependent only on the wizard himself, not on an enchanted piece of cleaning equipment.’       He spoke those last words with particular disdain, as if the very idea of cutting through the heavens astride so lowly an object insulted him. Harry couldn’t help but grin.       ‘You’ve already tried to invent it, haven’t you?’ he asked. ‘The charm?’       ‘I’m working on it,’ came one of Tom’s classic, misty answers—meaning: success so far, nil. To be fair, they wrote that Death Eaters really could fly without brooms—trailing a wake of black smoke like a stricken fighter—but still. So he had invented something. A pity he now had to reinvent it from scratch.       Doubtless there really were wizards who disliked flying—but among his House’s first‑years there weren’t any. Right up to lights‑out that evening, and long after, Harry had the doubtful pleasure of listening to a non‑stop babble about Quidditch—for, as it turned out, to most wizards flying existed solely for Quidditch, and the very notions of flight and that game had merged to the point of near synonymy—‘he flies quite well’ automatically meant at least an attempt to make the House team; whether that attempt had succeeded was almost beside the point.       Every other person felt bound to tell how they’d barely been off a broom since infancy. Every single one (Draco included, alas) bragged of unrivalled skills and the makings of a star player. By the end of an especially heartfelt tale of aerial races with a hang‑glider, Harry had pulled a pillow over his head and wished the whole lot a torrid love life with Hippogriffs—but, of course, it did nothing to silence the future Quidditch greats.       The degree of madness to which Slytherin’s first‑years worked themselves up, awaiting their first flying lesson, could be neatly summed up by one fact. Gregory Goyle—whom Harry had at first taken for a mute, who never spoke at all outside lessons—in which he only answered teachers briefly—opened his mouth and said, ‘I fly fairly well.’       Accordingly, over breakfast, nibbling the chocolate Draco had given him—Malfoy got parcels from home almost daily by the family owl (a very tangible sign of parents pining for their boy), and shared generously with his year—Harry found the treat cheered him rather less than usual.       The day’s lessons did nothing to lift his mood. Charms went so‑so, but in Transfiguration they did their first practical, and only Granger managed the set task—turning a match into a needle—with any success; at least hers took on a silvery sheen and sharpened at the tip. The rest of them didn’t manage even that—and though Harry’s failure didn’t stand out among those of his pure‑blooded classmates, he smarted all the same—apparently Tom’s constant refrain about the Heir of Slytherin being ashamed not to know or be able to do this or that had had an effect; not quite the intended one—Harry was genuinely ashamed, but the match remained a match. Worse: he couldn’t grasp what the problem was—and so couldn’t see how to fix it.       Defence Against the Dark Arts—or DADA—was worse still. Professor Quirrell treated the class to another mad yarn about his African adventures; and, as usual, the room was so stuffy and reeked so much of garlic that Harry’s head began to ache again. The pain—a tug that answered in his scar—was becoming a near‑constant companion in those lessons; coupled with the man’s obvious helplessness, it made them hard to bear.       History of Magic, which some unknown sadist had placed after lunch, was a separate lament in Hogwarts’ tablet of woes. It was taught by a real ghost, which seemed a lark—but it quickly turned out there was nothing entertaining on offer beyond the teacher’s lack of a body. Professor Binns—that was the spectre’s name—had a voice so dreary, so monotonous, and soporific that listening to him and staying conscious was a trial even on an empty stomach; after a hearty school meal it was sheer torture. What was more, Binns was hopelessly unmethodical—each following lesson seemed to find him having forgotten the previous one entirely. Harry even made a mental note to ask Tom whether being a ghost damaged the memory. Judging by Tom, it did not—which led Harry to conclude that Binns had gone gaga before he died.       Astronomy perked him up a touch: they were deep into the moons of Jupiter—the theory in class, and the practical had dragged them out of bed at midnight the previous Wednesday, to freeze on the windswept platform of the Astronomy Tower, peering into telescopes. Alas, Jupiter and his moons didn’t hold him long; the bell had barely rung before the old fears returned—bringing along a couple of new ones for company.       What if Harry couldn’t get off the ground at all? What if the broom sensed an uncertain hand and dumped him for everyone’s amusement? And by ‘everyone’ he had to mean not only kind‑hearted Greengrass or sharp‑tongued Zabini, but the Gryffers too—the lesson was with them. And yes—special thanks were due to whoever had stuffed the timetable with paired classes with Gryffindor—which was to say, all of them bar Defence and History. Plainly this well‑meaning soul hoped to improve attainment by inter‑House competition; the result was predictable and far from what was wished: proximity to Godric’s brood led more often to scuffles and lost points than to healthy rivalry.       On the way to the flying pitch Harry’s head was already crammed with vivid visions of Granger soaring like a bird into the blue while he remained earthbound, haring after a broom that was trying to scuttle away from him in panic. Luckily, his forebodings proved false.       First, the broom lying on the grass, which, at the teacher’s command—the same mannish‑faced woman who’d sat by Hagrid at the Welcoming Feast—they were trying to make leap up into their outstretched hands, refused to obey the chattering swot. For all her ‘Up! Up!’, the broom only rolled about on the ground and showed no inclination to rise. And second, once astride his own ‘piece of cleaning equipment’, Harry found there was something he liked almost as much as Potions: just as in Professor Snape’s illustrious lesson, he was plainly in the instructor’s good books; better, in fact—Madam Hooch actually praised him, whereas Draco earned a rebuke for supposedly sitting wrong. It got only funnier when the toad‑owner Longbottom, unable to master his broomstick, hit the ground like a sack of potatoes—which, in essence, is what he was.       The groaning failure was led off to the Hospital Wing by the teacher, and Malfoy—keen, it seemed, to make up for her offensive doubts about his flying—at once found himself some entertainment.       ‘Look—the idiot’s dropped something,’ he cried, stepped forward, bent, and scrabbled in the grass. ‘Oho—this is a Sneakoscope!’       A clear glass marble lay in Malfoy’s palm; it instantly dulled and began to spin, giving a thin, high whistle.       Harry burst out laughing. ‘It’s reacting to you! Smells the truth on you, look!’       A Sneakoscope was a little gadget that warned you of danger—or of trouble in general. As you couldn’t get any further information out of it—what sort of danger, whence it threatened, and so on—Harry considered the thing a fairly useless toy. Still, it was fun to look at; he stepped closer and said, ‘Hand it here!’—at which point the aggressive git Weasley barged in.       ‘That’s not yours!’ he announced, bouncing up to Draco and Harry with fists clenched and face gone puce. ‘Don’t you touch it!’       ‘Yours, is it?’ Malfoy enquired in mock amazement, drawing out his words more than usual.       ‘You said yourself—it’s Neville’s! Give it back!’ Weasley huffed. Draco shrugged loftily, and tossed the still‑whistling marble on his palm.       ‘Maybe I want to return it—what are you worked up for? He’s always losing something—his toad, now his Sneakoscope—how he hasn’t lost his head… although, come to think of it, in Potions that’s exactly what happened.’       He accompanied this with such a nasty little smile that it blew every fuse Weasley had left. He didn’t bother to continue the discussion in words—he shoved Malfoy in the chest with both hands so hard he nearly went over. Somewhere in the background Granger shrieked, ‘Boys! Ron! Stop this instant!’—but Harry had no time for her.       ‘Hands off,’ he said coldly, stepping between a nonplussed Draco and a crimson, raging Weasley.       ‘Make him give it back!’ the latter demanded, sizing up his new opponent.       ‘I won’t!’ Malfoy said, on principle, but prudently skipped back out of reach.       Harry folded his arms. ‘Weasley—back off nicely,’ he warned. ‘None of your business.’       ‘So you’ve thrown in your lot with the slugs, have you?’ Ron spat, contemptuous. ‘You’re a slug yourself—someone ought to chuck you on the compost!’       ‘Says the Muggle‑lover,’ Harry shot back. ‘As for you—what are you fit to be pitched on—the rubbish tip, perhaps?’       Weasley went an even deeper shade of beetroot—though you’d hardly have thought there was room—and, wasting no more breath on insults, swung a freckled fist into Harry’s nose.       The punch was nothing to write home about—Harry had comparisons to hand; his glasses didn’t even fly off—but it was quite enough to make him see red.       ‘Worthy of a true wizard,’ he said—and booted his opponent in the knee, then opened the distance smartly—Weasley’s reach was longer than his. He wanted badly to clamp a hand to his nose—his left nostril was oozing unpleasantly, and it hurt like the blazes—but he couldn’t spare the attention; besides, it would have looked anything but cool. Crabbe and Goyle lumbered up—looming on either side of Harry, cracking their knuckles. At sight of them Ron calmed down smartly—though his tongue went on wagging, worse than ever.       ‘Brave when you’re in a pack!’ he shouted.       ‘I’ll take you on one‑on‑one, Morgana’s bastard!’ Draco piped up—but Harry had already taken the bit between his teeth.       ‘Malfoy—be quiet,’ said the part of him that could think coldly and very fast—the very same that dosed teachers with Confusing Concoction and sent Stunning Spells into old Squib women. ‘I’m at your service, Weasley. Tonight, if you like. But no fists—we’ll settle it like wizards. A magical duel—or do you not even know what that is?’       ‘I do, actually!’ Ron snorted. ‘Done! Who’s your second?’       ‘Malfoy,’ said Harry—without a moment’s doubt. ‘And yours?’       Ron cast a hunted look round. ‘Thomas!’ he decided.       Harry laughed, ‘Bravo! Between the pair of you, have you enough knowledge for a duel? You’d better get a third to advise—a Flobberworm would do nicely! It understands more magic than a half‑blood and a blood‑traitor!’       Thomas didn’t care for the mention of his lamentable status—he snorted and made to have at Harry, and they would have had themselves a nice ordinary Muggle scrap—but Madam Hooch came back.       ‘What’s the meaning of this!’ she flared, taking in the clamouring students around the plainly quarrelsome five—and blew the whistle that hung on her chest. ‘Line up—at once!’       They lined up—Weasley, Harry noted with satisfaction, was limping a touch. Seeing his glance, Ron covertly made a rude gesture.       ‘Midnight tonight,’ Malfoy hissed ominously. ‘Trophy Room—it’s never locked.’       ‘Midnight,’ Thomas whispered back, pulling a face. ‘You’re a dead man, Potter.’       Harry did not consider a reply necessary.       The hardest decision was not telling Tom. For the first time he had a secret from his best friend—but Harry was grimly certain Tom wouldn’t let him take part in so daft an escapade—and yes, Harry fully realised that, with his lack of practice, getting himself into a magical duel wasn’t the cleverest idea. But this was a matter of standing—and he couldn’t let the attack on Draco pass. Draco was Harry’s friend too—his second friend, of course; not in the same league as Tom, not by a long chalk, but his, all the same. No one was to lay a hand on Draco—especially so brazenly, right under Harry’s nose.       In the end it was Draco who, in great haste, took it upon himself to teach Harry everything he knew of combat magic.       To Harry’s enormous surprise, Draco advised against using Stupefy. ‘That’s for the very last resort,’ he warned. It turned out you weren’t meant to show your whole arsenal in such bouts—you had to keep something up your sleeve; not least because duels were often started to find out what precisely the other chap could do in a fight.       So Harry was left with three spells in his repertoire—and he pinned particular hopes on one of them. Of course, none would cause harm—in the best case, inconvenience—but he and Weasley were first‑years, not grown wizards. To his surprise, Harry also learnt that Professor Flitwick was a superb duellist—which didn’t quite fit his appearance, but, by Draco’s assurance, was gospel.       Lights‑out came; the dorm went dark—and Harry, of course, couldn’t sleep a wink. He lay staring at the curtains of his bed and letting his mind wander in odd, choppy thoughts, in which Weasley’s sneering, scrunched‑up face kept bobbing, until Draco—who could cast Tempus and was therefore keeping time—tapped on the headboard.       ‘Time,’ he announced.       By the light of a faint Lumos—Harry had lately learnt to control its strength, so there was no need to smother the glow in his palm—they dressed and sneaked out of the dorm, full of steady snoring. Crabbe and Goyle, clumsy with sleep like two bears—those two had no trouble catching a nap for a couple of hours before the appointed time—trudged after them. The rest kept flattening their cheeks on pillows—the lack of House support stung now more than ever. No one seemed to care that Harry was off to (near) mortal combat for his own honour and his friend’s.       The way to the Trophy Room was danger enough—they could be caught by prefects, who patrolled the castle at night precisely to prevent such escapades; or by the caretaker, who did the same out of sheer spite; or by his cat. The cat, mind you, was no Dark creature—just a dusty, grey, scruffy thing—but for some reason it was the done thing to be afraid of it. Harry could never get why—everything he got out of Draco by way of explanation was a shrug and, ‘It’s Tradition.’       Luck, however, was with them—for the time being. They reached the Trophy Room first; Harry even had time to fear the crafty foe wouldn’t turn up at all, or would set one of the night‑prowling lot on the universally disliked Slytherins—but Thomas and Weasley did come. And not alone.       ‘Why’s he brought the Mudblood?’ Harry thought, looking over a very disgruntled Hermione, oddly arrayed in a pink dressing gown over her pyjamas, as if she meant to have a nap while the duel went on. ‘Longbottom I can see—in the end it was his toy that kicked this off.’       Hermione, in her usual fashion, didn’t hold her tongue and explained for herself, ‘You’ll be punished as well if you’re caught. And I shall say I tried to stop you all—and you’ll confirm it—and nothing will happen to me. And really—this is disgraceful. You only ever think of yourselves; whereas I, for one, have lessons in the morning—thanks to you I shan’t get my sleep, and I’ll answer worse than I could, and the House will earn fewer points—for I seem to be the only one who bothers about them at all.’       ‘Too right,’ Harry muttered under his breath; aloud, he asked, ‘What was that about packs, Weasley? Take a look at your own. Why not fetch the whole class while you’re at it, instead of just half?’       ‘You’ve brought backup yourself,’ Weasley shot back nasally. ‘Scared, are you?’       ‘They’re here to clap when I flatten you.’ Harry didn’t rise to it. ‘Shall we begin? Seconds, if you please!’       Thomas and Malfoy, trading frosty looks, briskly chalked out a duelling piste—an elongated oval with lines across both ends behind which the combatants were to stand. In an adult bout the marking would be covered by a Protego Maxima dome to protect the onlookers—throwing up the shield being among the seconds’ duties. Alas, Draco—let alone Dean—couldn’t manage that yet. Harry only prayed some ricocheting spell wouldn’t blast the trophy cabinets to smithereens.       They took their places, drew their wands, and saluted. Say what you like, Weasley knew the code after a fashion—or had crammed it in haste; he didn’t need prompting as they went along. In a tight voice Malfoy called, ‘Ready?’ and, once both had nodded, Thomas barked, ‘Begin!’       Harry had feared the first spell would be Expelliarmus—and breathed easier when he realised Ron didn’t know it either. Instead of Disarming came the Jelly‑Legs. Harry dodged—and snapped back with a Tickling Jinx, and hot on its heels, a Dancing Jinx. No luck either time. Ron was nimble as you please. Harry tried his little combo twice more, barely keeping up—springing and ducking as the endless Jelly‑Legs kept coming—then decided to change tack.       ‘Lingua Cornuta!’ he cried—the horned‑tongue hex would hobble an opponent nearly as well as a Silencio—but, wretchedly, he missed again—and then Ron, doubtless from sheer fright, managed what he couldn’t pull off in Quirrell’s lessons.       ‘Mucus ad nosem!’ He slashed his wand—and a violent chill ran through Harry. His nose clogged; a sneeze clawed at him—he faltered, and it cost him another hit.       ‘Tarantallegra!’ Ron spat.       ‘Finite!’ Harry flailed with his wand—but landing it on his legs that were scribbling wild arabesques wasn’t easy. ‘Finite! Finite, I said!’       Ron laughed. ‘Give up, Potter!’ he crowed.       Harry couldn’t—just not like this. He couldn’t lose—couldn’t afford it—not in front of the Mudblood swot and Draco, and not to Weasley.       ‘Finite!’ he cried again, despairing—and then the familiar icy calm took him. He didn’t have to aim for the legs. He pointed his wand at his own brow—‘Finite Incantatem!’—and, without breaking the motion, traced a new figure and levelled at the floor before him.       ‘Serpensortia!’       Technically, it wasn’t a combat spell. The effect on the opponent suggested otherwise.       A long black snake burst from his wand‑tip and flopped onto the floor. The chorus of screams from the onlookers—Harry could have sworn Draco’s voice was in it—was his reward. Ron went as white as dough—his freckles stood out like spatter—and dropped his wand. The snake coiled in an irritable knot—and then slid silk‑smooth towards Harry.       ‘Who? What?’ it muttered. ‘Who attacks? Two‑legs?’       ‘Harry,’ Draco called, low and urgent. ‘Stand very still—let me…’       ‘Not at me, you silly thing!’ Harry hissed. ‘Over there—at the ginger one!’       The snake froze, raised its head, and tasted the air—its forked tongue flickered.       ‘Speaker? Speaker. Which of them is ginger?’       Snakes, Harry realised with a thud, really did see poorly—especially when things kept still.       ‘That one—behind you!’       Ron’s voice came back at last—and it would have been better if it hadn’t.       ‘Parselmouth!’ he blurted—horror and disgust in equal parts.       ‘Vipera Evanesca!’ Malfoy flicked his wand, and the snake—still short of Weasley—vanished in a puff of black smoke.       But it was too late—Ron finished, ‘You’re a Parselmouth! You’re Slytherin’s Heir!’       Harry might have said any number of things—but a tangle of oaths jammed on his tongue and he couldn’t pick the filthiest, most intricate. He realised what a fool he’d been—carried away by the bout. Conjuring a snake was poor form in itself—though it would have passed; in their House everyone and his Kneazle knew that spell. Quite another matter—chatting with it.       ‘What’s a Parselmouth?’ Granger asked curiously; her fright had evaporated—she was the calmest person in the room now.       ‘A very, very bad wizard,’ Thomas half‑whispered.       ‘But why bad?’ The girl raised her eyebrow.       ‘Because he can talk to snakes! Haven’t you heard?’ Ron broke in—his voice shaking.       ‘I heard Harry hissing.’ Granger shook her curls. ‘Nothing else. So he was speaking to the snake? Harry—what did you tell it?’       ‘He set it on me!’ Ron exploded. ‘Are you blind? Merlin—you’re even worse than I thought, Potter!’       ‘I’ve no interest in what you thought, Weasley,’ Harry said, steady now, tightening his grip on his wand. ‘Shall we carry on?’       ‘To Mordred with you!’ Ron suddenly remembered his wand on the floor and snatched it up. ‘I’m not fighting you! What next—Avada?’ And he stepped out of the chalked space.       ‘Come on, Dean! Stinking slugs don’t know how to fight fair!’       ‘You’ve lost, Weasley!’ Harry called after him. ‘Fair or not—you’ve lost!’       Ron didn’t even turn his head. He and Thomas made for the door; Hermione, after a moment’s hesitation, followed—she was the one who kept looking back, as if she expected more marvels. Only Neville stayed—apparently paralysed; he shook like a jelly and blinked his big cow’s eyes. With a heavy sigh Malfoy walked over—Longbottom trembled harder—and fished something out of his robe.       ‘Your Sneakoscope. Here you are, scatterbrain,’ he said matter‑of‑factly.       ‘K‑keep it.’ Neville found his voice, turned, nearly fell, and scuttled after the others, flapping his arms. ‘G-guys! Wait! Wait for me!’       ‘Brilliant,’ Malfoy approved—and, as before, flipped his prize on his palm. ‘So—a Parselmouth, eh, Potter? And why didn’t you say?’       Harry faltered over his excuses.       ‘I meant to—honestly,’ he got out at last. ‘There just wasn’t a right moment.’       Crabbe and Goyle were staring at him in open fright—and that rankled. Harry liked frightening people in principle—but not these two, and not like this. At least Malfoy no longer looked scared—though he didn’t look pleased either.       ‘Are you really Slytherin’s Heir?’ he asked—colder than he’d ever spoken to Harry. ‘Don’t answer if this isn’t the moment.’       ‘Malfoy…’ Harry felt wretched. He stepped closer and looked his friend in the face—then grabbed his shoulders, as if he meant to stop him bolting; and he did fear Draco might try something of the sort. ‘Draco… I—I meant to tell you, I swear. You—first of all. Yes—I’m the Heir. That’s how it is. I just… didn’t want to brag till I could show proof, you see?’       Draco gave him a dark once‑over, as if assessing the depth of remorse—then twitched a brow and managed a slight smirk—a pale echo of his usual one, but a smirk nonetheless.       ‘All right, belt up. I get it. The Heir,’ he went on, perking up—and clapped Harry on the shoulder. ‘By Merlin, everyone around us is a right idiot! Only I’m clever—well done, me. No, don’t answer—you’re an idiot too. Look who you chose to out yourself in front of!’       ‘Hard to disagree—that was a touch short‑sighted,’ another voice put in—and Harry very nearly groaned aloud.       Toying with his wand, Tom was standing behind Draco.