The Observer Effect

      The need for rapid communication was becoming urgent. Draco was easy enough—he was usually loitering nearby anyway—but Hermione? And Tom, first and foremost—Tom.       Older students usually relied on charmed notes. Paper birds and aeroplanes—some of them minor masterpieces of origami—often shot along the corridors between lessons, and prefects were sometimes mobbed by a whole flock of messengers with parchment wings. Handy, no doubt, but the system had drawbacks. First, it was neither instant nor even especially quick. Farley’s little crane—Harry had asked her specifically—took about a quarter of an hour to travel from the Astronomy Tower to the Slytherin common room. His fingers itched to experiment and pin down the notes’ speed, but it was obvious that it wouldn’t do. A lot could happen in that time. Second, the circumstances were, to put it mildly, not always conducive to picking up a quill. In truth, none of the scrapes Harry had got into left either the time or the conditions for penmanship.       Adult wizards, in such cases, used the Patronus Charm. Strictly speaking, it was meant to defend against Dementors, but some nameless genius had once hit upon an alternative use. One could send a Patronus to a person who one knew by sight, and the bodiless shape—it looked like a figure made of silvery vapour, and was, in essence, woven from the caster’s happiest memories—would find the addressee up to a mile away (sometimes a touch more, if the caster was particularly powerful). A Patronus travelled instantly, which was a point in its favour, but it could not speak—the Head of House’s Patronus was the lone exception, and however Harry pressed, no one could explain the phenomenon. He had to conclude Snape possessed some particular variant of the spell. It looked promising on the whole, and Harry meant to master the charm as soon as possible; besides, it seemed useful in itself. The fact it was classed as advanced magic was no real obstacle—Harry could cast a proper Stunning Spell, typically a fourth-year topic, so he had excellent reasons to distrust standard timetables. That, however, was for the future, and not a far one at that; the problem needed a here-and-now solution.       The method Harry had devised for speaking to Granger wasn’t any use for anyone else. He intended to buy her a two-way mirror or a Protean parchment—the latter was even better, especially if bound up as a diary or a notebook (yes, the diary had given him the idea). Protean Charms, as he had read in Witchcraft that Changed the World: The Most Astonishing Magical Breakthroughs of All Time, carried across any change from one item to its paired twin—write, for instance, ‘Hullo, how are you?’ on one sheet, and your correspondent would see it appear on theirs. Ideal for unobtrusive chatter with a Gryffindor girl, but it suffered the same drawbacks as the paper birds—you needed a quill, ink, a reasonably flat surface, and a reasonably calm setting, and, besides, there was no telling when a message might arrive; you couldn’t be checking the parchment every blessed minute.       Ghost messengers were no answer either. They drew far too much attention, and would inevitably provoke unhealthy interest.       Such were Harry’s thoughts as he sat on the floor of the abandoned classroom, facing the door with his back to the enchanted mirror. To do Tom justice, his favourite torture had cleared Harry’s head nicely. Without it—who knew how long he would have stood before the bewitching bit of glass? Cruel magic—it was like teasing a starving man with bread. And above all—could one trust what one saw? Were those images dreams, or scenes from the future? Harry meant to find out at once, and even a short wait was intolerable—and it was dragging on.       Tom paced, wand twirling between his fingers. Unlike Harry, he had the will not to fall into a trance at the sight of the visions. Even so, his gaze slid that way now and then, and he would give a slight shake of his head, as if shaking off a glamour. His face was dark, nearly grim, and taut with focus. He appeared to be raking through that astonishing magpie’s nest he called a memory, though he had at once declared he had never even heard of such artefacts.       At last the door opened.       ‘Potter, are you in here?’       ‘Harry?’       His two knights had contrived to arrive almost together, and their presence made it a little easier to breathe. Harry managed a smile.       ‘Right,’ he said briskly, pushing up his glasses, trying to pull himself together—one didn’t fall to bits before one’s subordinates—‘I have a task for you both. First, over there, the pair of you.’ He pointed to the corner of the room from which the mirror’s reflection could not be seen. ‘Good. Now listen. Behind me is an artefact that shows… interesting pictures. On my say-so, come up and look. I’ll keep an eye to make sure it doesn’t… catch you too hard. Then you’ll tell us what you saw. But first, promise…’       ‘To Mordred with promises—let them swear an oath,’ Tom cut in. He had stopped by the window, peering into the lightless pane. Harry winced, but dutifully corrected himself. ‘…first, swear you won’t lie.’       Malfoy, who had been eyeing the mirror with strained longing, lifted his brows.       ‘Another Unbreakable Vow?’ he drawled. ‘Mind your Mudbl— Mind Miss Granger doesn’t get herself tangled in those by accident, or she’ll be left wandless, and dead for two Knuts.’       ‘Mind you don’t get tangled… Mr Malfoy,’ the girl snapped back, tossing her curls with an air of fierce independence. ‘I’m ready, my lord.’       ‘Mind your wording,’ Harry advised, acid-dry. ‘Repeat after me.’       ‘…I swear by my magic that I shall, without concealment, recount all I have seen in this mirror to those, and only those, who are presently in this room with me, and that I shall not lie, neither in word, nor by gesture, nor by omission…’       When they finished the oath, summoning one another and their magic to witness, Harry added, by way of explanation, ‘This is in the interest of objectivity. Malfoy, you first, go on.’       Draco walked over and stopped in front of Harry. Harry hugged his knees tighter—he was in no hurry to get up. The pull to turn around was still unbearable, but he knew perfectly well that, if he did, he would be stuck in the mirror’s web again.       Malfoy lifted his eyes from the floor, stared past Harry—and flinched. A greedy, wretched look flickered across his face—the image of a starving man came to Harry once more. Draco screwed his eyes shut, then forced them open again.       ‘What is it?’ Hermione burst out. She was all but hopping with impatience, but, thank Merlin, she did not attempt to break orders. ‘Well? Out with it!’       ‘I see…’ Malfoy began slowly, swallowed, and said, ‘I see… my lord, give me five minutes, I beg you…’       Harry sighed.       ‘Stupefy. Wingardium Leviosa.’       Draco’s senseless body floated aside and thumped onto the floor. Tom glanced back over his shoulder with a curl of amusement, but said nothing. Harry shot him a surreptitious, irritated look—yes, yes, they were all weak-minded fools but His Highness, even Slytherin’s second heir.       ‘Hermione, your turn.’       She had been waiting only for the word; she sprang up, all but skipping to the glass. Harry could tell the instant she saw. She stumbled and stopped. Her mouth fell open, her brows knit so fiercely they met. Her curls trembled.       ‘Hermione?’ Harry prompted. ‘Don’t go quiet.’       She let out a sharp breath and bit the inside of her cheek.       ‘Please turn it off,’ she said softly. ‘And it wouldn’t be fair if I learnt Malfoy’s secret, and he didn’t learn mine, so wake him first, will you?’       Hermione’s passion for fairness could be maddening, but there was something rather likeable about it too. Silly, Gryffindorish nobility. Harry decided to oblige—all the more as he had fewer and fewer reserves left to fight his own temptation.       ‘All right,’ he nodded magnanimously. ‘Can you pull away yourself, or do you need help?’       Hermione wrung her hands. ‘Yes, I will… just a second…’       Harry got to his feet, gripped her shoulders, and turned her firmly towards the door.       ‘Thought as much. Off you go. No, wait. Finite. Right, you take the other side, and don’t you dare turn round.’       They hauled Malfoy out by the armpits—he blinked groggily after being Stunned. Curiously, having someone else to think of steadied Hermione; her face grew more focused. Merlin, did Harry look just soppy? Mortifying. Draco found his feet and shook free of their grasp, tugging his robe straight. The door banged shut behind them of its own accord. Tom, who had slipped out a moment earlier, raised his wand.       ‘You asked me about dark artefacts, I recall,’ he said, crisp and dry, casting a spell, and added, ‘There you have one. This requires extreme caution.’       Two more wards settled into the lock. Harry was already drawing his own wand. It would have been better to go up to the hidden headquarters, but would they manage before curfew?       ‘Malfoy, what time is it?’       ‘Ten to nine,’ he said, casting Tempus.       ‘Oh, show me that again,’ Granger chimed in at once. Harry snorted. The girl was herself—hit her with an Avada Kedavra, and she’d gasp, ‘Teach me that!’       ‘Alohomora.’ On the second try, Harry forced the next door. ‘In here,’ he called, stepping into the newly opened classroom. ‘Don’t loiter in plain sight.’       Unlike the previous one, this room was still in use. Harry recognised the Arithmancy classroom by a Pythagoras square chalked across the board. He perched on the nearest desktop; Draco and Hermione dropped nearby—Malfoy, following Harry’s example, sat astride the desk, while Hermione sat primly on the bench, hands folded like a model student. Tom, unseen by the other two, took the teacher’s chair, and the sight felt like a dull needle under Harry’s ribs—so like the mirror’s image, only missing the most important parts. He cleared his throat.       ‘Well? Interesting, wasn’t it?’ he said, with a sharp edge to his voice. ‘Hermione, tell us what you saw.’       She shivered, rubbed her forearms, pushed the hair off her forehead, and only then met his eyes.       ‘The future. At least, it seemed so to me,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘The Great Hall, a celebration, the End-of-Year Feast. I got twelve Outstandings—I saw my certificate at one point. Then Professor McGonagall presented me with a cup engraved “The Highest Final Mark in Hogwarts History”.’       A sceptical noise came from the teacher’s table. Well, yes; Harry already knew whose name that honour currently bore.       ‘And that was it?’ he asked. Hermione shrugged.       ‘Yes. Then you pulled me away.’       ‘Why did you ask me to stop it?’ Harry couldn’t see what had upset her. Hermione chewed at her lip.       ‘Because now I’ll keep wondering whether it’s true,’ she got out at last. ‘It’s hard to explain… What if I try less hard than I could, knowing my marks in advance, and end up with poor grades…? Or not poor, but worse than I would have got…’ She frowned, searching for the right words, but Harry thought he caught her meaning. ‘Or perhaps it’s only one possible future, or…’       ‘It isn’t the future,’ Malfoy cut in. He dangled his legs, glumly flaking paint off the desk with his fingernail. ‘What I saw was, first, in the past, and second, impossible.’       He fell silent at the good bit, but Harry hadn’t time to prod him. Draco licked his lips and went on, looking at Hermione. ‘Bear in mind, Granger, this isn’t a secret. You won’t be able to blackmail me with it. Everyone knows. Our family is under a curse. Old and strong. Only one child is born in each generation. So it’s always a boy—we need an heir. And no Malfoy lives to old age.’ His voice shook on the last sentence. Draco wrinkled his nose, and Harry realised he was fighting tears. ‘My father… won’t live to old age either. He knows it. I know it. And Mother. And in the mirror…’       He swallowed, straightened suddenly, and threw his fair head up, wiping all expression off his expressive face. Half-lowered lids, a haughty set to the mouth—Harry knew that mask. Lord Malfoy had worn the same at their first meeting.       ‘In the mirror, I saw that I had a brother, and Grandfather Abraxas was alive. Mundane family scenes, my lord; nothing of interest. It’s the participants that mattered,’ Draco finished coolly.       Now it was Harry’s turn to choke down a furious, disappointed sob. He had suspected; he had guessed; but—       Was this truly never going to come to pass? Never, ever?       ‘I saw that someone important to me was alive,’ he said, seized by an obscure urge to share. Perhaps it was Hermione’s silly logic—a secret for a secret. ‘And I’ve no idea how possible that really is.’       Something new struck him—if he failed to bring Tom back, if all soul anchors were destroyed, Harry would die. Breaking the Unbreakable Vow would kill him. The thought brought a strange, unhealthy relief. Better that than—       Oh yes, he would die whatever happened. He was a Horcrux himself. A last resort to pull Tom out, if everything went completely to pot.       ‘Harry!’ Hermione cried, flinging back the froth of curls from her face. ‘I’ve worked it out! The mirror—I know what it is!’       That drew everyone’s attention—even Tom, who had been sitting with his arms folded, exuding irritation and boredom, leant forward with interest.       ‘How did I not see it at once…’       ‘Get to the point, Granger,’ Malfoy snapped, a heartbeat ahead of Harry’s identical retort.       ‘It says so!’ Hermione tipped up her nose. Her voice took on the familiar tone of a prize swot. ‘“I show you the desire of your heart.” That’s what each of us is seeing.’       Harry rubbed his scar. Draco grimaced. They both spoke at once, talking over each other.       ‘It only says “muiredised”, or something…’       ‘Utter rubbish, what you’ve just said…’       ‘No, not like that,’ the girl said stubbornly. ‘Didn’t it occur to you to read it right to left? Like in a mirror. “Desiderium”—“desire”—at the bottom of the frame, and at the top, “ego ostendam desiderium cordis tui”. I’d like to know why you two can’t see what’s right in front of you,’ she finished loftily.

* * *

      Snow came down in the small hours between Saturday and Sunday. Wind-blown white flakes billowed like clouds, curled spirals, gathered into shifting, fanciful shapes, each existing for no more than a heartbeat. The blizzard smothered everything—balconies and sloping roofs, front steps and greenhouses, the Whomping Willow and the reeds by the shore, the boathouses and the covered footbridges, the broomstick practice pitch and the kitchen-garden beds. The Forbidden Forest hushed and hid itself beneath a white fur coat, and only the dark waters of the Black Lake swallowed snowflakes without a trace as they sank into its greedy depths.       Three shadows skimmed across the sky, pushing on through the thickening fall. A keen-eyed—or simply well-equipped with a charmed pair of binoculars—observer would have seen postal owls. A big mercury-grey eagle owl beat his wings with measured power, peering into the snowy churn. A mottled brown tawny owl ploughed on doggedly; the pale crescents around her beak gave her the look of an old dear in enormous spectacles. A barn owl, white and gold, melted almost into the landscape, and the heart-shaped disc of her face made her resemble a long-nosed ghost hurrying away from the growing day.       They met over Hogsmeade—and then parted. The tawny bore off to the south-west, the barn owl to the south, and the eagle owl headed for the cliff-edge castle.       Had Hogwarts practised censorship of student post (despite persistent rumour, it never had, though perhaps that was an error), a censor would have been most intrigued by the letters carried on the wing.       ‘My darling son,’ read the first, ‘es-tu fou, l’idiot imprudent? Next time, ask your godfather for help! We cannot afford to bungle even the smallest task, not now. I trust I make myself clear?       Cerberus at school, only fancy! Ce vieux salaud has cast off the last tatters of his conscience. It is dangerous! Don’t you dare go near it, dearest—you may look at its corpse later, if it comes to that.       And, by Merlin thrice the greatest, confirm once more that F. has agreed to come. Ton père is on the brink of losing his wits from strain.       A thousand kisses, and the tightest of hugs. How I miss you! I long for your holiday to begin.       With love,       Mother.’       ‘My honoured Aunt Narcissa,’ the second said, ‘may I beg a favour of a delicate kind. If you refuse, I shall understand, but, should you consent, you would lay me under an immense obligation.       Might you recommend a specialist in magical bloodlines? I need a dependable, tried-and-true person, skilled at drawing the right conclusions from indirect and incomplete data.       A friend of mine suffers from a frankly shocking degree of misunderstanding about her blood status. I should like to remedy such blatant unfairness.       Please send your reply by way of Draco. He is aware of the matter.       Yours sincerely,       Fomalhaut.’       The third envelope held several messages at once. Given the slapdash presentation and their brevity, ‘letters’ was generous; ‘notes’ would be nearer the mark.       ‘Mum,       have you really invited Potter to ours for the hols?! If he comes, I’m running away. Not joking. He’s worse than Mordred.       I don’t want a red jumper for Christmas. I’d rather have a Chocolate Frog, just one, please!       Ron’       ‘Dearest Mother,       don’t listen to Ronnikins, he’s a pillock. Do make sure Potter comes. We’ll have a smashing time, you’ll see!       And don’t give in to the baby’s whingeing—chocolate makes you fat and spotty, and he’s no oil painting as it is.       Kisses on both cheeks,       Dred and Forge’       ‘Dear Mummy,       I shall remain at school for the holidays. Exams are round the corner, and with my prefect duties there’s simply no time to revise. I shall Floo in on Christmas; the Head of House and I are agreed.       Your loving son,       Percy.       P.S. I’ve seen what Pixies and Hamster wrote. Has anyone bothered to tell you that Potter is in Slytherin? One would think not.’       By the time the winter sun, sheepish behind cloud, peeped over the mountain ridge, the post owls were long gone. Only snow kept falling from the sky in fluffy white feathers.

* * *

      Crossing the threshold of the Room of Hidden Things, Hermione went straight to the cauldron. Then she ticked off a square in the little homemade calendar pinned up on the worktop. Operation Prophet was going full steam ahead—the Lacewing fly infusion had two days left to steep. Others waited alongside; Granger checked and rechecked them as jealously as if anyone could possibly break in and nick her treasure. Malfoy had already finished his brew, a shade ahead of schedule. The trip to the corridor with the Cerberus was set for the last day before the holidays, by their original reckoning that, on a feast day, the staff would have better things to do than keep an eye on students.       This morning, however, started with a council of war on ‘How to Survive a Fortnight Next Door to a Possessed Man Without Quietly Dying’.       First, Harry had to brief his two accomplices. He sat them both down on the sofa, settled himself on the coffee table amid precarious stacks of books (it felt wrong to take Tom’s chair, even when Tom was absent), and laid out the truth about the Defence professor’s state. He could no longer bring himself to call him Quirrell—the host had not vanished, but Harry suspected someone else was now at the wheel.       ‘So it is, after all…’ Malfoy began, and cut himself off. ‘Bloody…’       He blew out through his nose and pressed his lips together. Were the girl not present, he would probably have sworn like a trooper, but Draco’s upbringing made him balk at swearing in a lady’s presence, even when the ‘lady’ was not blessed with sterling birth.       ‘Oh,’ Hermione echoed, pale. ‘That explains a lot. And here’s why… Harry, that means Professor Quirrell is possessed by a spirit who wants to hurt you?’       Harry nodded glumly.       ‘Kill. Call things by their proper names. Yes. I think the spirit only took him under control recently. Otherwise, he would have tried long since—there have been plenty of opportunities.’       ‘Kill?!’ Hermione frowned. ‘But… who can this spirit be? I’d have said it was You-Know—’       ‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ Draco interrupted, sharp as a whip. ‘Obviously not the Dark Lord, he’s… In short, anyone but him!’       ‘I said I would have, earlier,’ Hermione sniffed. ‘If you, Mr Malfoy, had let me—’       ‘Stop snapping,’ Harry clicked his tongue. ‘Ideas—not bickering. Who?’       Malfoy and Granger exchanged a look.       ‘No.’       ‘Mmm… no.’       ‘Nor do I,’ Harry summed up. ‘Anyone fallen from the Order of the Phoenix, including my own parents—yes, Hermione, don’t give me that look. If they were here now, they’d be no fonder of me than I am of them. All things considered. I say this so you understand—we’ve no chance of guessing. It doesn’t much matter anyway.’       ‘Are we not going to try to exorcise it?’ Hermione ventured. Harry smiled thinly.       ‘I thought you’d ask whether we were going to tell the staff.’       Hermione’s face darkened.       ‘I won’t ask,’ she said crisply. ‘They’re no use.’       Hard to argue; even so, the firmness of it pleased Harry.       Draco sighed. ‘My father…’       ‘Would help,’ Harry agreed, ‘but how long will it take him to arrange an inspection by the governors? Even if he believes us at once, and they believe him?’       Draco shrugged, uncertain. ‘Three days? Last time a few hours did it, but the Headmaster wriggled out, and it won’t be as easy now.’       ‘Write to him anyway,’ Harry decided. ‘We’ll see what comes of it.’       ‘Exorcism…?’ Hermione reminded them.       ‘Impractical,’ Harry said shortly. ‘Think how to neutralise him, not save him.’       ‘Slip him a dose,’ Draco brightened. ‘The potion’s ready! A couple of drops over the recommended amount—’       ‘What potion?’ Hermione pricked up at once. Draco sent her an irritable look.       ‘Pepperup Potion!’       ‘Of course…’ the girl drawled—it sounded so like Draco’s own way of pronouncing words that he snorted with indignation. ‘I only meant—will that really look like an accidental overdose?’       ‘Your criminal propensities again, Miss Granger,’ Draco put on a condemnatory air. ‘A truly felonious mind. What are you doing in Godric’s House?’       ‘Hermione’s right,’ Harry cut across the fresh squabble. ‘Unless we decant it into a phial of Dreamless Sleep. Not bad, but let’s think further.’       And think they did. And again. And again. So, purely by accident and with no such intention, the Defence professor might:       mistake a harmless draught for poison,       trip on the stairs,       slip on ice,       fall from a window while star-gazing,       overdo the Firewhisky and freeze outside at night,       drown while walking by the lake,       get lost in the Forest and fall into a pit,       inhale some toxic powder,       venture too close to the Cerberus,       wander into Myrtle’s bathroom and meet the basilisk.       By the end of the brainstorming, Harry had to admit Draco’s assessment—most suggestions had come from Hermione. When he said so, she ducked her head, embarrassed.       ‘I just like detective stories, that’s all,’ she tried to excuse herself, over Draco’s nasty little titter, but it rang feebly. Harry had opened his mouth for a fresh tease when her eyes widened.       ‘Harry,’ she breathed, ‘Harry, there’s a book floating behind you. Is that what you…?’       Harry leaned forward quickly and clapped a hand over her mouth. Draco, thank Merlin, shut up on his own. Harry glanced around quickly, seized his parchment notes, flipped them over, and, splattering ink in his nervous haste, scrawled on the back: ‘OUT. NOW.’       ‘Er, I’ve just remembered I need to finish a Herbology essay,’ Hermione said, in a voice as convincing as a three-Galleon note. ‘I’ll go. See you in the library.’       She sprang up as if the sofa spring had jabbed her, and tugged her skirt straight with an awkward pat. Draco stood as well.       ‘I could do with the library too. I wonder if the December Quidditch Today has arrived yet.’       His line sounded far better—had Harry not known, he would have believed it completely.       ‘Wait for me just outside,’ he told them, and his two accomplices slipped through the door, wisely resisting the urge to glance back.       Harry, on the other hand, did look. Tom sat in his chair with a book in hand, and the smile on his face could only be called sadistic.       ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Did I frighten them? My apologies.’       Harry smiled back. ‘Oh, come on. You enjoy their fear. Planning to show yourself to them?’       ‘Not yet… but perhaps soon,’ Tom said, imprecise as a promise. Harry nodded, rose, and stepped into the corridor where Draco and Hermione were waiting, almost glued together. Harry shook his head at the touching show of unity.       ‘If only you were always like this,’ he sighed.       ‘What was that?’ Hermione asked. ‘Not a ghost… not a poltergeist… someone invisible, then?’       Draco held his peace, only cocked an eyebrow, expectant. Harry smiled at them both—just as he smiled at his brother—making no attempt to soften it into politeness or anything recognisably human. Hermione gave a visible shudder; Draco only narrowed his eyes—you wouldn’t put him off his stride so easily. Harry glanced up and down the corridor from habit—empty; only a tapestry picture moved, where trolls were pounding their dance-master to mince, and the Bloody Baron floated a little way off, like a forgotten sentinel on the edge of Eternity.       ‘Remember, in the Chamber of Secrets, you saw someone next to me?’ Harry began, rather obliquely. ‘Do you know who it was?’       ‘One of the Death Eaters?’ Hermione hazarded.       ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’ Malfoy had worked it out, though he had had more to go on.       ‘Quite right. For you, Hermione—that was the Dark Lord. And a moment ago, he was in the room with you again. Invisible.’       Now Draco goggled too. Harry savoured their stunned faces.       ‘And… and where is he now?’ Hermione managed. She was clearly tying herself in knots.       ‘Behind you,’ Harry couldn’t resist. To his surprise, she didn’t squeal, but her whole body jerked, and she scalded him with a furious look.       ‘Hilarious,’ she said, sour as lemons. Harry adjusted his glasses and shook his head. ‘I’m serious. Always behave as if he were behind you—because he may well be. Especially in this room.’       Malfoy nodded solemnly. ‘I understand, my lord. Ought we go back and apologise for our lack of respect?’ he asked, very earnest.       ‘No. Next time, be scrupulously polite, and don’t stare. When the time’s right, he’ll speak to you himself.’       Hermione’s expression changed. Fear melted off it like sun off a snowbank, and showed a sort of dreamy speculation.       ‘So that’s what he looks like? I didn’t get a good look then; you were too far away, but…’ she murmured. Harry and Draco stared at her, jointly baffled.       ‘Like what?’       ‘He’s handsome,’ Hermione pronounced after a tiny pause.       ‘Well—yes? So what?’ Harry couldn’t see what this obvious fact had to do with anything. Hermione sighed long and low.       ‘Nothing,’ she said, and smiled a little, mysteriously.       Girls—may Mordred take them!

* * *

      Despite his own words, Harry did decide to speak to one teacher—the one who was slightly less incompetent than the rest, and who had, besides, told him explicitly to come ‘in case of acute situations’.       The Head of House received him into his office and, as was his habit, sat him down by the fire and listened with an air of attention. Alas, he was not impressed.       ‘Are you addressing me in your own name, Mr Potter, or on behalf of the owner of that item known to you?’ he asked, frowning, once Harry had finished his somewhat tangled account.       Harry hesitated. It was ever so tempting to shelter behind an order, but…       ‘In my own, sir,’ he said at last. Snape gave a non-committal hum and leaned back.       ‘In that case, may I recommend fewer books on the Dark Arts at bedtime. They are bad for impressionable young minds,’ he said, the sarcasm unmistakable, his fingertips steepled. Harry clenched his jaw. The man’s naked scepticism was an insult.       ‘What about the dead unicorn, sir?’ he pressed.       ‘It certainly warrants attention,’ came the cool reply, ‘but proves nothing.’       ‘And the… the fact Professor Quirrell was talking to himself?’ Harry persisted.       ‘Plenty of us have that habit.’ Snape’s calm face made Harry angrier by the minute.       ‘Yes, but few of us do it in two different voices. Was he rehearsing a play, do you think?’       ‘Mr Potter…’       ‘He’s rotting away! You dine at the same table every day—don’t you smell it?’       ‘Mr Potter!’ Snape snapped, and Harry fell silent, breathing hard through his nose. ‘Do not twist the facts to fit a theory, do you understand? Even when the theory seems elegant—which yours, for the record, is not. I do not deny that my colleague… suffers from a complaint caused by Dark magic. However, the rest—forgive me—is far-fetched.’       Harry flushed.       ‘And the Bludger?’ he asked, fighting down the helpless fury. ‘You were there. Will you say that too was a coincidence?’       Snape remained unflappable. ‘The Bludger was spelled, true. Who spelled it remains an open question.’       ‘Granger saw it with her own eyes!’ Harry flared again.       ‘Miss Granger may be mistaken. She is only human.’ Snape gave him a mocking look. ‘Do curb your flights of fancy. I understand Professor Quirrell is not popular. I do not care for him either—I won’t pretend otherwise. Nevertheless, we shall have to endure him till the end of the year—both you and I. I can offer you an excellent calming draught; I brewed it myself. Will you have some? For your nerves.’       ‘This is why Tom preferred me to the lot of you,’ Harry thought, savouring his own anger. ‘Blind and deaf… What was the phrase? Ossified minds, that was it. With all the prejudices in full possession. That’s you to a T.’       ‘I must decline, sir,’ he said aloud. ‘Thank you for your concern. And for hearing me out. I apologise for wasting your time. May I go?’       ‘Go on, Potter,’ Snape said indifferently. His thoughts already seemed far away.       ‘Good day, sir.’       Out in the corridor, Harry ducked into an unused wing of the dungeons, found an empty room, and, there, with only a ghost for company (yes, that ‘tail’ was a separate irritation), he kicked the furniture about for a long time, swearing himself hoarse. It wasn’t the lack of support that fanned his rage—Mordred take it, they’d manage—but the contempt. As though his words were wind, and he himself, without the Dark Lord behind him, a nobody. The Head of House thought him a child—a simple child with childish fantasies. Harry saw himself quite differently—and Tom had never treated him as a little one, unless he meant to humiliate him deliberately, which had happened only once or twice.       At last the fit ebbed, and the familiar icy calculation returned. Harry welcomed it.       So—they underestimated him. Good. Children could avoid many suspicions simply by being children. He could use that. He would. Smiling to himself, Harry spun on his heel.       ‘Boo,’ he said in the Bloody Baron’s face, and the ghost recoiled, flickering at the edges.       The chance to implement one of their ‘natural causes’ for the Defence professor’s departure arose the same day.       When the blizzard eased, half the school poured outside and, forgetting age and year, flung themselves into the fresh snow. Hufflepuffs, in a show of unity, were building a fort. Ravenclaws were making snow-figures—though very few of their creations bore any resemblance to the standard stack of three balls. Slytherins and Gryffindors opted for a snowball fight—mostly against each other, or, more precisely, House versus House. Harry, hanging back with the Slytherin lot (he was there out of solidarity), took several hits. Picking slush out of his collar, he began to sneeze—he’d be taking a Pepperup Potion this evening for certain. Madam Pomfrey kept a stock; she knew where she worked.       He had only just scooped up a fresh handful and was choosing a red-and-gold target when he saw the unhinged Weasley twins charming a pile of snowballs. Never a good sign. He reached for his wand at once. To his surprise, the missiles did not fly at him—one after another, they shot into the air and smacked into… the Defence professor’s perennial purple turban. Well, well.       Harry took careful aim and murmured, ‘Glacio Maxima.’       The delighted yells of the playing children drowned his words.       They couldn’t drown the sound of the Defence professor’s head striking ice as he slipped and fell flat—a sound like an eggshell splitting.       ‘Aha,’ Harry thought. But he rejoiced too soon. Twitching horribly, the professor stood. He adjusted the turban, dusted snow off his robe, and wagged his finger.       ‘M-minus t-ten p-points from Gryffindor!’ he stuttered.       A fresh snowball burst on Harry’s chest, but he hardly noticed.       ‘This will be harder than we thought,’ he mused, watching the shambling figure ploughing a path across the white.       The professor was heading towards the Forbidden Forest.