"Are you still awake?"
For a moment there, I think I'm hearing voices again, but no. It must be Harper, standing outside the attic door.
"Tom?"
"Alohomora!" I whisper from the bed.
As much as I hate to admit it, Yorick was right about that. It is quite convenient to not get up for things like that all the time …
As Harper enters the attic, it immediately crosses my mind how it's not at all a good idea to have her here, in her much too loose pajamas, well past midnight.
On the other hand, we are often alone, together. She regularly drags me along to watch Quidditch. We often study at the Black Lake or in the library, or go eat in the Great Hall with as much distance from everyone else as possible. Harper at the Slytherin table … No one dares to complain, and the Professors have found us sweet as pie for years anyway – they deliberately overlook it. The only advantage of bizarre rumors.
Yet we're rarely ever together without the usual suspicious looks from others. Glances that testify to mixed feelings.
Suspicion. That's what I see in the faces of those who are concerned about Harper's well-being in my presence. I no longer live up to my unsouled reputation around her, yet those who already know me can hardly believe it. The Raymonds of this world … They're aware that I can be reckless, either because they have already seen it or felt it first hand. How ironic it must be to them that I, of all people, act as a Prefect, a student of trust.
And as paradoxical as it may be, the dirtiest looks come from the very same people who, fearing possible consequences, remain silent about their concerns. They just stand by and make room as I'm walking through the cold castle corridors late at night, unmistakably radiating that I have far better things to do …
Envy. That's what Harper sees in the faces of many girls who completely lack awareness of the fact that the gloom surrounding me is by no means just a brooding facade – and as a result also weighs heavily on her. But the eye sees what it wants to see. And as chance would have it, the most obvious heritage I have from my family, completely strange to me, is one thing in particular – even facial features on flawless skin, prominent cheekbones and dark green, proud eyes, as cold as my childhood.
I know exactly what a smile can do for me. How a charming glance can work wonders ... And yet no smile, no glance, nor attraction, however obvious, ever had an effect on me.
Until one day I wanted to salt my breakfast, and as time went on I realized that in Harper I might have found a head as prosaic and cynical as my own …
That I am, however, exclusively, and to the absolute extreme. She, on the other hand, as it soon became apparent, is considerably more than that, to both our benefit, and moreover very moderate in all consequence.
So, as much as I hate it – I don't want to miss her anymore. Especially not now that she's stealing to me like a thief in the night, right under the sloping roof on her way.
It may not be too appropriate in this day and age to be in the same bed without a ring on our finger, but time and time again her presence is proving her unwavering trust in me. I may not have any inhibitions about cursing unpleasant company right into the underworld, but I would protect Harper from just that at any given time. And thus, of course, from all else as well – whether we share a bed or not …
"Was it too much today?" she asks as she's sitting down on the bed. "Too much love and laughter?"
"And you're the one insinuating that I read minds …"
"Seriously, Tom, I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"That you're being quizzed."
"Harper," I sigh, "I don't mean to be rude, but this family happiness –"
"Is repugnant to you," she finishes my sentence, with quite some certainty.
I let her words sink to the bottom of my consciousness, wondering if she's right. Then I slowly shake my head. "No. Not repugnant, just … strange." Before she can say anything, I follow up, "Don't worry about it."
"So you weren't secretly going to disapparate today?"
I grin smugly, caught off guard.
She nods, soon just looking out the triangular window of the attic while playing with the bedspread, lost in thought. Is this not typical for Ravenclaws? That innocent mind wandering right before the salt in the wound?
"You know," she begins, moving into a cross-legged position and inching closer to me, "last year and the year before, I was sitting here, too, and …"
"And what?"
"Well." She smiles bleakly. "I was wondering what it would be like. Here. With you."
I sit up as well, directly looking at her. "And how is it?"
"Different than I thought," she admits. "Worse."
"Worse?" I shrug. "That's unfortunate then, I gather ..."
"Not in the sense of bad," she firmly adds. "But because you're much more important to me than I ever thought."
She has never said it like that before, but I've known it for a long time.
The world has always been completely indifferent to me – perhaps that's why I want to teach it to fear me. But Harper, as the most unexpected exception to this rule, steadfastly refuses to let go of me. She cares, and in the end, that may be one of the best turns my life has ever taken.
Silence falls between us, then she says, "I saw how uncomfortable you were today. And I just wonder if it can ever be any other way."
She is so matter-of-factly melancholic that I sincerely introspect. I think about it, asking myself the same question. And verbalizing my answer doesn't come easy. Nevertheless, when I finally lift her chin, I say it as though it was a secret.
"Isn't it already …"
Her eyes glitter in the pale cone of light from the window until she nods. Then she slides up to me for good.
"Harper …"
"Move over, my father won't shoot you."
"We can't possibly sleep in the same bed, you –"
She puts her index finger to my lips in amusement. "Would you rather be alone?"
My head is shaking in denial before I've even consciously made my decision. As much as I try to convince myself that I want to avoid her closeness, and the weakness that inevitably comes with it, there's nothing in this world I'd rather feel.
It seems ridiculously forbidden, her warmth against me as she lies down in my arm. As if the impossible had suddenly become reality.
"I always thought you'd come visit me in the common room one day," she whispers as she rests her head on my shoulder. "But I'm still waiting …"
"Do you think I'll voluntarily go near Myrtle?" I'd like to give her a serious look, but that fails miserably when her mouth curves into a smile.
"Sometimes you have to make sacrifices, Tom."
Like a silent elegy, she lets her fingers wander over my collarbone, with dark red painted nails. She's barely touching me, but her skin leaves invisible marks on mine.
"How come you've never visited me in the dungeon?" I ask the counter question, honestly trying for a casual tone.
Her hand pauses as she softly laughs. "Because that already sounds eerie …"
"Good point," I admit.
"Besides," she then whispers, looking at me reproachfully as if it were all my fault, "I'm sure your doorstep is covered with curses that turn mudbloods like me to dust as soon as we take one step into Salazar's holy halls."
"Don't call yourself that," I say sternly, even when my fingers have already taken on a life of their own as well, playing with a strand of hair from her loose braid. Her blonde always reminds me of honey and cinnamon, but as it often is the case, it's a mess … Lost in thought, I add, "You're lucky with your blood and family. Believe me – I'm alone."
She props her chin on my ribcage and eagerly protests. "You're not. Am I a ghost?"
"No, not at all," I reply almost too quickly, to my own displeasure at that.
Yet her happy face in return, quite out of the blue, sends a wave of crushing warmth through my entire body before she settles back into my arm and her breathing becomes more regular.
My shoulder is numb before long, but I do pay that price – and may I get shot for it tomorrow, for all I care. If Hogwarts gave us the chance, today would probably not be the first time we came to quiet rest like this.
And it is rest.
Harper knows fully well that I'm not a stupid schoolboy driven by thoughts of physicality. That's probably the very reason she's here, and I appreciate it. Because we're escaping the circumstances of our time right now. It's not 1943 at this moment, much rather a piece of eternity that only we share.
I'm glad she snuck into my life. And up to the attic.
I only can't help but think of Edwin's words again. What would life be without well-chosen responsibility? The fact that Harper has taken me into her heart certainly results in responsibility. I don't know how it could happen, but here we are.
Saints don't know me. But she knows me. Better every day, and maybe I'm not what she thinks I am.
Maybe, though, I might be.
At some point I mumble into her hair, "I could get used to this."
"To a paralyzed shoulder?"
"To that, too, inevitably …"
With her eyes closed she smiles, turning around so that she releases my arm. It soon begins to tingle again, but I wrap my other one around her right away – it's like raw intuition to tuck her in.
"Hope it's worth it," she mumbles. "You might be full of scatter tomorrow, you know. The consequences a missing salt shaker can lead to …"
"You'll never stop reminding me of it, will you?"
"I'll always remind you of that, Tom Riddle … Merry Christmas."
"Yeah, yeah, never mind."
She quietly cackles, then she interlocks her fingers in mine, pulling our hands to the center of her body so we're even closer.
"You're awfully warm," I soon realize.
"And you're freezing cold. Together, we're lukewarm."
"Indeed," I reply, "could be worse."
"But hardly better."
Right she is. She doesn't let go of me until dawn, and I don't even want to fall asleep – in a fleeting attempt to stop the world. But then again, for the first time in weeks, I'm relaxed enough to renounce my insomnia, just for a brief eternity.