She wakes up in my arms, but not even in her wildest dreams she could understand just how calm and content her sight makes me ever since dawn. Her cheeks are flushed with life this morning, and my pale hand beside her seems like that of death itself.

Dust keeps flickering past old curtains in the glare of the morning light, making particles dance – and if I wasn't still considerably enraptured, I'd probably find it peculiar.

Instead, however, the only thing that puzzles me is the golden shimmer of her blonde hair. It has never occurred to me to think that way. I've never cared too much for her full lips. I was only attracted to her mind – or so I thought … And yet I can't help but notice that her pretty appearance has probably always been quite a flanker of my interest in her.

How shallow to be that thrilled about her earthly shell's aesthetic appeal, to want to touch her …

And I wish to regret what we have done. I sincerely want to look in the mirror with all signs of disgust on my face, but it's impossible.
How could it be a sin when it was committed so intuitively? I feel claims of eternity within me – claims of never losing her. What could be wrong with that when we'll never let go of each other?

A momentum of exhausted contentment doesn't seem to go against all good morals. There must be some form of conciliation for all of this, even if it only takes shape in silence about it …

She draws in a deep breath before opening her eyes to lock them into mine. Chuckling, she says, "You don't even try to pretend not to stare at me anymore …"

"You know anyway."

She wraps herself even more into the blanket, asking, "Do you think differently about me because of last night?"

"You're blushing," I state, earning a reprimanding glance. "I think even better of you," I say and let my fingers reverently glide over her back. "And I've changed my mind about myself as well. What you said yesterday. I think I also …"

One word. Four letters. Famous. Notorious.
And yet I can't bring myself to voice it – even if it couldn't be anything but the truth.

I hold my breath, annoyed with myself. I just can't say what I'm supposed to let her know.

"You think you also …" She repeats as though I had finished my sentence. And yet she smiles because she knows fully well that, despite all my good intentions, I can't help it. "You're probably also thinking about breakfast." She winks.

"No, food's only constantly on your mind …"

"Food and family," she confirms. "The key to my Patronus, however now … we've unlocked a new memory."

"Have we now."

"Don't you think?"

"I do," I whisper, tucking a blonde lock of hair behind her ear. "I feel like you woke me up. From a long delirium, very far away."

"Guess that makes you the Sleeping Beauty of our duo."

"Despite insomnia – fascinating, huh?" I tease, leaning over until she pulls me to her lips to kiss me.

"We could just stay here," I eventually say, resting my head on her shoulder.

She runs her hand through my hair and lets the fingers of the other rest on my shoulder.

"We could," she then confirms. "But we won't. We have a lot to do today. After breakfast we have to find some people. The man with the snakes, for example, your father … Tom, why does that bother you?"

"Can you tell by my breathing?"

"And your aura, yes."

"I hate surprises," I admit. "I hate not knowing what to expect."

"I know," she whispers. "But there's no other way. We've come this far – we're not giving up now."

"No," I groan, getting up to smile at her. "Damn it, let's go."

"So that's the flower shop over there." Harper lets her gaze wander over what seems to be but the only alleyway with traces of life in Little Hangleton. We've already passed by the pub and it's apparent from a distance that also the local café is surprisingly busy. As we come to a halt right in front of the flower shop, Harper mumbles, "The hyacinths are pretty, don't you think?"

"What for though?" I watch bees buzzing around the blossoms and feel nothing but vanity. "Flowers are pointless."

"Many people enjoy them," she protests, sounding almost as happy as the chirping birds. "Come on, the shopkeeper might know something."

"Likely she's only interested in botany," I sigh, following Harper inside the shop nevertheless.

The old lady at the other end of the room immediately looks up from her flowers. "Young lady, can I help you?"

"Good morning." Harper nods at the old woman that now eyes her in her stained apron until she walks straight up to her as I continue to inspect the goods in the shop window. Harper clears her throat, then says, "You have really beautiful flowers in here …"

"Thank you, dear, but I hardly sell anything, it's never busy at this time of year. You must be a guest of the village?"

"We arrived yesterday, yes. And now we thought we'd have a look around."

"You should have a coffee, opposite the street," the lady recommends. "Not least because there is no other café here. It's the heart of the place."

"Thank you for the recommendation. And ma'am, I have a question. You don't happen to sell … rose thorns, petals and peppermint here?"

What the hell does Harper want that for? We hardly need to brew amortentia anymore …

"Rose thorns, petals and peppermint?" the lady repeats, a little taken aback. "Dear, I've only ever been asked that once before, about seventeen years ago."

This statement, the tone of her voice, the astonishment in her words – all of it makes me approach them at last.

But the old woman in her colourful apron and white updo exchanges a mere glance with me and her eyes widen in surprise. Almost like those of Bess last night.

"Well, look at that," she then marvels, "a Riddle in my shop."

"Ma'am, with all due respect, you don't know me." I frown. "What makes you think that's my last name?"

"Come, come!" The old lady impatiently waves it off. "Thomas can't deny you. The posture, the way you walk, even that smug expression …"

Harper looks at me with suppressed excitement, then the shopkeeper demands, "Come closer – come now! Don't be rude. Anyone with well-behaved company like yours can't possibly be that moody."

I hesitate, but maybe she knows more, after all … So I walk on and let her stare at me.

"Interesting," the old woman soon hums, shaking her head in bewilderment. "You're the spitting image of your father. I often watch him in the café from the shop window – but how come I've never seen you here before?"

"He grew up in London," Harper is quick to reply – she can probably tell I'm not in a chatty mood.

"Private schools, huh?" the shopkeeper speculates. "That's what the rich people all do …"

Harper gives her a nonchalant smile, then the old woman proceeds to watch my every move. "But those eyes … Dark green, you'd almost think they're black. Quite unique."

I raise a brow. "What do you mean?"

"You didn't get them from Thomas," she says. "The last time I saw such a colour was also almost seventeen years ago as well. The first time I sold rose thorns, petals and peppermint. What a strange coincidence …"

"Are you trying to imply –"

"I'm not implying anything," she immediately clarifies. "I'm just saying that the last young woman who asked about that had your eye colour." Slyly, she adds, "Soon afterwards, I never saw her again. And Thomas Riddle had also disappeared for a while. Her father walked past my window once before he finally died. Now there's only her crazy brother left …"

"What was the name of those people?" Harper asks. "Do you happen to remember, ma'am?"

"Of course – the Gaunts," she says, speaking on more quietly. "Everyone here knows them. Old Marvolo was a sinister devil, he wasn't much mourned. And his son, as I said, is absolutely crazy. Merope was a quiet girl, but she carried a lot of restlessness in her soul. I wonder what has become of her."

"She's dead," I inform her, lowering my voice. "Died sixteen years ago. Impoverished and alone. In London."

"So you are her son," the flower lady says under her breath. "The Riddles and the old Gaunt wouldn't have scared the poor thing away, would they?"

"Do you know where I can find the Gaunt son?"

"You shouldn't be looking for him. He's a loose cannon, if you ask me."

"Where can I find him?" I repeat.

"You can't possibly take your girl to see him, he –"

"Where do I find him?" I acidly repeat.

She's hesitant, I can tell she contemplates not answering, and Harper is just as tense. But I need to know.

"A good hour from here," the old lady reluctantly admits. "In the north. Into the forest, through the valley and up again. If you follow the path, you'll pass an old water mill, and then at some point there's a shack where basically no one could live. But that's where you'll find him, if he's not scaring young women by the riverside. And by scaring them, I actually mean –"

"Sure," Harper talks over her. "We can guess."

"You hardly can," the shopkeeper whispers. "A snake phobia has stayed with all of them, among other afflictions." She shudders. "The girls won't tell the tale for fear of their reputation, but …" With a warning gleaming in her eyes, she looks right at me. "If what they say is true, you mustn't go looking for him." She wipes her hands off on her apron and nods. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to check something in the back room."

Harper forces a smile as she leaves us for a moment, but I just hold my breath, shaking my head.

"Harper, she's right," I finally whisper, "let's just get out of here. Everyone thinks my father is as arrogant as I am, my mother apparently bought ingredients for Amortentia before I was born, her brother probably acts worse than a deranged side character of Marquis de Sade –"

"Tom, don't lose your nerve," she demands, taking my hands. "I know this is a whole lot, but –"

"It's more than a whole lot, Harper, it's downright ridiculous!"

"What exactly is Amortentia?" the shopkeeper asks, returning as if from nowhere.

"Few pharmacies could answer that for you," I reply in annoyance. "So don't even bother …"

I'm about to grab my wand to erase her memory when Harper holds my arm back and gives me a stern look.

"We thank you for your time," she says to the old lady. "Would you kindly not tell anyone about us? We don't want to cause a stir."

"Of course. I promise."

"Could you swear that, too?"

"Quite the father," she retorts. Shaking her head, she crosses her arms over her chest. "You know what? Why not. I swear. Satisfied?"

"Not really," I reply, addressing Harper in particular, but she shakes her head again, barely to notice.

And then she's already pulling me along with her. "Thanks again, ma'am."

"Are you serious?" I grumble as we walk away from the shop and I decide to pull her into one of the side streets. "What do we get out of a vain and verbal vow?"

"You're not going to delete her memory, Tom, she helped you! She doesn't deserve to spend years completely confused just because of meeting you for a minute!"

"There's more than one form of the Forgetfulness Charm," I murmur, "you'd just have to trust me."

"Oh, don't act like a sheep", she hisses. "From the way you stared at her, you'd have taken her complete –"

"Yeah, probably," I admit.

She blows out her cheeks. "At least you're honest … And what form of Obliviate is supposed to ensure a limitation? I've never read about that before."

"Neither have I, but it works," I say. "Your own great-uncle showed me when he took only certain memories from Tilda. One addition and a little concentration and all is well."

"Interesting," Harper says, however almost offended. "I suppose you've discussed quite a number of things without me, huh?"

"What are you kids talking about?"

At once our heads turn right back to the old lady from the flower shop.

"You followed us?" Harper asks. "But you have just sworn –"

"May I now?" I sigh to Harper.

"Only with the limitation." She scowls, but still gestures for me to continue as she walks past the old woman to make sure no one can see us from the street.

And before the old hag can run off, in sudden realisation that her curiosity does her no good, I'm already pointing my wand at her, causing her to freeze in irritation.

"I knew it," she groans, "a witch. Your mother really was a witch!"

"Obliviate circumcisus!"

A moment of silence, then a doubtful glance at the old woman.

Emptiness in her gaze until she tilts her head as though she was confused. "Who are you?" she ask. "And what are you doing here with me? Your face … you could easily be Thomas Riddle's son …"

"You just fell, ma'am," I tell her with a polite smile. "I helped you up, are you alright?"

She quickly nods. "Oh, thank you, I … I don't remember anything."

"Nothing at all?"

"Bloody hell!" Harper already mumbles.

"What's your last memory?" I ask the old woman.

"How I got up this morning."

"Well, there you go." Triumphantly I smirk at Harper. "Ma'am, don't worry, I'm sure nothing else tragic happened."

"You own the flower shop, don't you?" Harper asks. "Come on, let's get you back there."

"That's very nice of you, child." Coming closer to her, she examines her trousers. "You should wear a skirt, though, if you don't mind my saying so."

"You may say anything," Harper claims as she helps her back into the street. "I might just not listen."