Snowflakes dancing like airy feathers on Christmas Eve, yet the wind keeps swirling them through the darkness with no mercy.

The cold is embracing me like the family I've never had. My day is the night, the orange streetlights might just as well quit their service. What a difference can a single ray of light make when shadows swallow the world?

I close my eyes, breathing in icy air until my lungs refuse to stretch any further.

What was Harper thinking when she dragged me into her perfect world? A bubble in the middle of nowhere, in Brimington – in the end nothing but a grotesque dream bursting between wishes and realities.

If you have a lot, you lose a lot.
Why would anyone voluntarily entangle themselves in this social construct? Life certainly didn't teach me how to be alone from birth only for me to exit solitude now.

I'm feverishly thinking of the most polite way to announce that I'm leaving, just as the front door is being pulled open behind me.

"After all that family time, I really need a cigarette." Edwin leisurely strolls toward me, leaning on his walking stick, and although I would prefer to be in complete silence in the front yard right now, he of all is the company I don't mind.

"Do you smoke, Tom?" He's already flipping open his polished case, holding it out to me.

"No, sir, thank you …"

"Never mind, saves you money." He winks, stowing the silver case back in the inside pocket of his tweed suit. "Tom, you'll have to forgive my following you ... Tobacco doesn't taste as good without good company, you know?"

"You consider me to be good company?"

"By far the best tonight, yes," he says, his eyes still holding that glint of youthful daring charm despite some wrinkles in his face. He's handing me a match to light his cigarette, then he takes one deep drag and lets the smoke escape his lungs slowly. "You're an interesting mystery, young Mr Riddle – if I may say so."

"In what way?"

He shrugs, staring into the night.

"Not many can ever, let alone already at your age, handle magic like that with the power of their will alone. Without a wand, that is."

"Well, it obviously doesn't always work like I intend it to," I say, alluding to the involuntary flicker of lights.

"Either way, you've proven the extraordinary in you today."

"That was nothing." I merely shrug. "I could do it when I was a kid."

"See, and that's my point." He's watching me as though he's searching for signposts on my face. "That's highly unusual …"

"Sir?"

"A considerable amount of magic is surrounding you. How did you learn that you're a wizard?"

"Dumbledore … He came to London to the orphanage to invite me to Hogwarts. I thought he was a doctor trying to sedate me at first, but after he's set my wardrobe ablaze with cold flames, I certainly realized that neither of us was in need of anesthetics – or at least the both of us."

"He likes a dramatic entrance, I'll give him that."

"One has to, I guess."

"You're not good friends?"

I don't know why I'm so open with Edwin. I usually avoid that by all means, but there's something about him that just makes me speak. "He's keeping a close watch on me," I plainly say, looking up.

Edwin balks for a brief moment, then he smiles. "He's suspicious? What reason does he have to mistrust you?"

"You tell me." I hold his gaze. "In the absence of family support from birth, am I predestined to be a threat? Or just supposedly misunderstood?"

"Well, my boy," Edwin sighs, "a little bit of both, I suppose. Society has always been fearful of independent minds. Unattached individuals who follow their own moral code cannot be reduced to any common norm. And remarkable history can be made depending on the choices they make. I think Dumbledore just wants to make sure you use your talents for good."

"But then again, isn't that already prejudging and wrong in itself?"

"A cynic would answer Yes to that." Edwin laughs softly, but I'm in no mood to laugh. He notices that, too, and simply adds, "An optimist would probably just call it benevolent concern …"

But that's not good enough for me. "What do you say, as a realist?"

I don't want to react so brashly – that usually just makes people wonder. But at the same time I have the impression that Edwin is a free spirit. Someone who doesn't think in black and white and good and evil, and hence might give new impulses to my tired thoughts …

He thinks before he speaks – always a good sign, and the reason for my features to relax a little in recognition of it.

Soon, he gravely says, "I say that you're wronged by this, my boy." He nods to reinforce his statement, but I don't quite trust him yet. "On our car ride I earlier claimed that control is better than trust," Edwin begins his explanation, "but as it is with sweeping generalizations – that's not always true. Sometimes a spark of trust can create wonderful things. And a hint of distrust the exact opposite …"

I had never consciously thought about this pattern, but it feels oddly intuitive.

Looking into the night, he further philosophizes, "Especially since almost nothing could be harder than growing up in an orphanage without any love and care. It's a grim and cruel fate."

"Sir, don't pity me –"

"Nothing would be further from my mind, Tom," he affirms. "I'm correcting myself anyway." He eyes me for a moment, then he smiles. "It's even worse to blame the resulting consequences on said child – and possibly create a self-fulfilling prophecy by that."

"You mean …" I reply, somewhat perplexed in the face of this unexpected wave of understanding, "that one has, in a sense – often without realizing it – the habit of living up to the role ascribed?"

"For better or worse," Edwin replies, nodding. "That's the way it is, Tom. If the world can only see the bad in us, we'll eventually believe it to be right about it." He chuckles again, though pleased this time. "Your intellectual reflectiveness makes any conversation more stimulating than all I've ever discussed with Yorick."

I shrug my shoulders in capitulation as he follows up, "And Dumbledore – by no means a saint – doesn't know everything either, believe me." The ashes that come off his cigarette here and there are lost in the night, Edwin, however, continues unperturbed. "I'm glad the stars were right and lead you here with Harper. She likes you, Tom, I can see that. She trusts you."

"And however kind that may be – it has a suffocating effect at times."

"It entails a certain obligation," he agrees in amusement. "Why do you think bonds like marriages are so scary? Commitments are ballast, at least when viewed soberly."

"Then why make any?" I ask, genuinely interested in his answer.

"Mhm." He smiles. "Our days gain weight and meaning through death, don't they? And ergo, what would life be without a well-chosen responsibility or two? If nothing has a price, everything is worthless."

I slowly nod.

"I'm sorry Yorick was as rude as usual," he's abruptly changing the subject and takes another draw on his cigarette. "Tilda thought your questioning too exciting, too. The family always tries to make me think she's out of her mind, but if you ask me, she still likes to shake the dust way too much for that."

"It's fine," I say stoically. "The more I reveal, the more questions I get. I'm used to that."

"But …" He smirks. "Now I'm just like them, too, kid, but … do you really not care about your background at all?"

"No."

He nods. "Well, that's a word. Not everyone could look at it so matter-of-factly, but I'm sure you've got a great future ahead of you – whether you decipher the past or not." He points to the flowerpot behind us. "Be so kind, pass me that." He stubs out his cigarette and winks. "Don't tell Polly I just did that."

"I can keep a secret, sir."

"What's the name of that area in the Hogwarts library that Harper and you are always sneaking around in?"

"The Restricted Section?"

"That, yes." He chuckles. "To be young again, that would be nice … But instead, I'm limping back to the living room on my cane now. I suppose I should've considered a Horcrux when I had the time."

My heart skips a beat – as if my soul knew at the mere word that I still intend to separate it one day. I don't let it show. But I look up at Edwin and smile wanly. "Doesn't the process irritate you, sir?"

"Yes, yes." He gives a wave of his hand in amusement. "But actually, you shouldn't know of these things yet, Tom. If I mention black magic like that in front of Harper, will she know about it, too?"

I nod.

"Of course … I was always curious, too," he reminisces. "I couldn't learn enough, I didn't care about classification. But whether you're doing your soul and mind a favor to be burdened with it … I could never quite decide that for myself." He pats me on the shoulder and says, "Anyway – thanks for letting me join you."

"It's not worth mentioning."

"Oh yes." He smiles. "I mean it. And if you ever need the advice of an old, limping American, let me know."

"I will."

I look after him for a moment, then I find myself facing a dilemma.

Do I go my way? On my own, as usual, back into the lethargy of my cold arrogance that helps me best ignore what I lack in life …
Or do I follow Edwin back into this strange, overwhelming cordiality, which is a matter of course for everyone but me, as it's innocently strangling my throat?

I dully stare into the flowerpot with the gray ashes.

What is it worth breathing for if I leave now, and if nothing makes me feel alive?
Wouldn't I rather choke on the flood of kindness in the living room with my heart pounding?

"Sir, wait." Edwin turns back to me suspiciously quickly – as though he was only waiting for this to happen. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to say, "I'm coming back with you."

He tries to hide a triumphant smile in vain, I can tell. "I'm glad to hear that, Tom. I really am."

As I catch up to him, he quips, "You see, I was a bit afraid I'd have to talk politics with Tilda all alone for the rest of the holidays …"

At this notion, even I can barely stifle a grin.