"Edwin and you look for tobacco," I repeat for the third time, "while I –"
"Why can't I come with you?" She won't take her eyes off me, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Simply because," I repeat, then I try to shift all attention away from the real issue again. "Darling, you need to wear something warm underneath that skirt, you'll freeze to death."
"Darling?" she asks. "Honey, nylons are sold out. Most women buy them on the black market or just paint a line on their leg, so no – like too many others, I don't wear stockings. But, as you can see, at least high lace-up boots. That'll have to do ... Apart from that, don't think that I don't have any more questions just because of a nice pet name. Even if ... you can keep using it."
It was just as predictable that she would go back to the issue at hand as she looks beautiful with her faint smile.
The dark red midi skirt doesn't really look like her at all, but knowing her, she must've already guessed that, if anything, she'll have to mime a real innocent for our purpose today.
No one would give Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow any information.
Only I'm not taking my Bonnie with me ...
"Come on!" she gently says though, putting her hands in mine. "Why do you suddenly want to go to London, where you happened to grow up? It's not like we didn't have tobacco in Derby ..."
"Harper, your great-uncle simply wants to visit the capital and be accompanied by you – that's all."
No doubt Edwin will correct that and prove me a liar at the first opportunity, but by then I'll hopefully be gone on my own.
"You're hiding something." Her index finger taps on my chest. "And it's surely linked to the fact that you can talk to snakes. You need Edwin and Edwin alone to apparate, so … why should I even come with you?" I want to make something up, but she's already explaining it to us herself. "I'll tell you. Simply because Edwin thinks I should come along. But certainly not with him ... You know you can't get to London without lengthly discussions if I don't join you, but you obviously want to get rid of me on the spot. Now pray tell: Why?"
If only she were a little dumber ...
"Harper –"
"No," she cuts me off right away, "I borrowed another book on magical talents from Yorick's suitcase last night and did a little research – because Parsel is presumably hereditary, you suddenly do want to know more about your family and visit the orphanage again, don't you?"
"Great theory, Sherlock, but no. I'm afraid you've been researching in vain."
She smiles wanly. "You're lying, and unfortunately I can feel it." Much quieter, she adds, "Let me go with you, Tom. You don't have to do this alone."
"I want to."
"But it won't be easy," she asserts, "because if there were obvious clues, you'd have had them long ago. You'll have to be subtle, yet persistent ... But, knowing you, you'll get angry and impatient and then you leave without any usable information because you realise you can't even curse them."
If only she wasn't so right …
"You know that. As well as I do. And I'm sure Edwin knows it, too." She gives me a content nod. "So just take some extra sensitivity with you. Take me with you."
"Well, well, children," Edwin groans as he's opening the attic door with his walking stick. He's already wearing his tweed suit, complete with a hat, and winks as he's trying to catch his breath. "Thanks to me, William and Polly are discussing American Prohibition with Tilda and Yorick, so we should have bought ourselves some time. Are you kids ready?"
I exchange a quick glance with Harper. She promptly adjusts the collar of her blouse underneath her long coat, knowing fully well that she was the persuasive one this time.
I simply sigh and nod to Edwin.
"Yes, sir – we are."
As though Wool's fate seemed particularly worthy of protection, each and every stone is still left upon another – quite absurd in the midst of ruins. The whole capital degenerated into a silent witness of the World War, and yet so far, not a bomb has struck the orphanage.
When I left this very summer, I thought I'd never have to return to this place again. Mrs Cole was as relieved as myself – and now here I am.
"You weren't lying, it's really bleak," Harper admits whispering to me as we follow the empty, snowy road leading directly to the orphanage.
I take her hand, it's quite intuitive. "Wait until we get inside, it gets a lot better ..."
"You're being sarcastic, aren't you?"
"Of course I am."
She bites her lip. "Thought so."
No living soul can be seen in the streets, but oddly tired pairs of eyes are watching us from the windows of the residential buildings as we make our way to the old familiar fence and gate in front of the entrance.
"And you were right in other ways," Harper reluctantly adds as a gust of snowy wind hits us, bringing my childhood's eerie smell of iron and dust to our noses. "It's cold indeed ..."
"See?" I loosen my hand and put my arm around her to pull her closer, then I promise, "The ladies are heating all the time, you'll be warmer in a minute."
We pass the huge gate, its sound as dull and rusty as ever, then we take the few steps up to the entrance.
My entire being is reluctant to knock on that dark wood for what is supposed to be the last time yet again, but Harper is shivering by now, so I do what I need to do and keep on holding her in hopes of warming her.
"Women's fashion hates women," she whimpers, but I can barely stifle an amused glance at her silhouette.
"But it loves us," I retort. "If that helps – you'd make a really pretty ice corpse."
"Why, thank you," she giggles, jittery, before looking back to the door again. It sounds a bit more urgent when she asks, "Isn't anyone there?"
I knock again, more firmly so, fearing that the December wind is about to carry us away indeed, then the entrance does open a tiny bit.
"Who's this?"
We don't find anyone at our eye level, instead a small, black-haired girl is standing in the crack of the door, not yet quite sure whether to let us in or not.
"Are you ... Tom?" Her immediately wide eyes reflect a mixture of fear and curiosity as she promptly adds, "You're the boy in the photo taken on the trip to the sea! Tom Riddle, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I am. Listen, we're freezing to death, would you –"
I don't have to carry on. She's already taking a step back as though we're allowed to come in, yet she still looks up at us rather anxiously.
"Well, fantastic," Harper laughs to herself as she's the first to enter at my hand gesture. Quietly she adds, only for me to hear, "Your reputation is preceding you, Riddle."
"My bad, should've warned you," I retort indifferently, looking around the otherwise empty foyer. Behind a battered counter, two circular staircases lead to the dormitories on the left and the right, and the glass dome high above us still is the most distinguished feature of the whole complex.
In malicious irony, it allows a view up into the heavens, as if those could only be tangible in an orphan's wildest dreams … Apart from that, only the large windows behind us bathe the spartan interior in pale, grey light. In other words, everything's as dispiriting as it was during my whole childhood.
With one exception, though. It's astonishingly quiet in here.
Still a mop and bucket and a bottle of bleach can be seen behind the counter – so presumably the children aren't allowed to play in the foyer because of the freshly cleaned floor.
"And who are you?" I hear the little girl ask Harper in the background. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her intuitively move closer to her than to me.
She bends down to the girl with a smile. "I'm Harper. Nice to meet you, sweetie, I would've likely passed out from the cold in a minute without you."
"Aren't you wearing stockings?" the girl asks, squinting at her calves in disbelief. "Oh, that's really cold!" Her concern for the unexpected guest makes her think aloud. "Mrs Cole has lots of stockings, she buys them as well as her liquor at the –" She pauses. "Oh, I don't think I'm supposed to tell ..."
"It's okay, Snow White," Harper is quick to say, winking at her following, straight-up lie. "I can hardly remember anything anyway."
The girl giggles, then asks, "Why Snow White? My name is actually Susan."
"But you're pretty just like Princess Snow White, Susan," Harper replies. "Do you know her fairy tale?"
"Yes," the girl confirms. "You mean because I have such pitch black hair?"
Harper nods.
"Mrs Cole says I got it from my father. He died two years ago. In the war, you know?"
It touches Harper to the core, I can see her run out of breath for a second.
And I don't even blink. I grew up with stories like this, and worse ...
"I'm terribly sorry, Susan," Harper finally says, trying for a firm voice.
"It's all right," the girl says. "You know, he warned me that he wouldn't come back. But he also told me he loved me, and that everything in life has a purpose."
Harper's eyes are already glittering, but to me, what's really heartbreaking about this is how sentimental she gets right away – while I can't feel a thing.
"When everything has a purpose, absolute moral condemnation becomes impossible," I think aloud. It probably sounded more snide than I intended it to, and I earn an indignant look from Harper right away ...
"Your father was a wise man, Susan," she claims, "and he gave you important answers ahead of time." And as if she could smell my impatience now, despite all her pity, she also promptly asks, "And we're looking for answers too, frankly. We want to know more about Tom's mother. So … could you perhaps tell us where Mrs Cole is?"
"Would you like me to find her for you?" Susan asks.
Harper nods. "That would be very kind of you."
Snow White hurries at once, Harper, however, gets up to come over to me. "Tom, I'm a bit worried –"
"Every kid here has a story like that," I immediately cut her off. "Don't worry about it."
"I was going to say she could've opened the door to any stranger." She gulps. "And no one would have noticed."
"True." I nod after I give it a thought. "And here, the paint on the walls." Scribbles wherever there aren't those horrible dark green tiles. "The ladies seem to be a bit overwhelmed, don't they?"
Harper looks around. "The war is hard on everyone I guess ..."
All of a sudden we hear a door slam, then a loud laugh, right before an angry woman shouts, "Stop the running! The foyer's finally clean!"
A little boy with muddy shoes is running past us and off anyway, and the fact that this place has only just been mopped is actually of little concern to him.
"Wait!" Mrs Cole shouts after the boy, not noticing us at all. "Just wait when I get my hands on you!" She closes her eyes, running her hand over her face in lethargic despair, knowing fully well that nothing at all is going to happen once she gets her hands on him. She draws a deep breath in and mumbles a mantra of calmness to herself just when Harper looks at me for direction.
So I clear my throat in an attempt to not startle Mrs Cole too much. Then I say her name.
Despite my good intentions, she's very startled.
"Tom, you ... what ... what are you doing here?" she stammers. "When did you get here?"
"We've only just arrived. I know my presence is not a particularly pleasant surprise for you, but –"
"Oh, Tom," she sighs, casual as ever. I can tell she's not sober, but as always she's dressed neatly and smells as though she's coming freshly out of a laundry, complete with her self-imposed everyday uniform. "You know that you can always come back here. That's the promise I made to your mother back then." She groans a little manically. "It's just a lot going on, I don't have much time for you. Do tell, who did you bring with you?"
"Harper," she introduces herself. "I'm a friend of Tom's."
"A friend?" Mrs Cole obviously notices how we are far too close for her to believe in mere friendship. Nevertheless, she says, "I see. It's nice to meet you, Harper. Keep talking, I'm just going to mop here again." She grabs the tool, but Harper stops her.
"Ma'am, if I may ..." She smiles at Mrs Cole, and it needn't be mentioned how tired she looks.
"You're a godsend," Mrs Cole mumbles as Harper already starts mopping. "Don't think ill of me, Ms Harper, but some colleagues are travelling at the moment. Or attend funerals. I give my best, but I'm on my own with all the kids right now."
"Is Martha not here either?" I ask.
She shakes her head in silence.
No wonder she's overwhelmed. Without further ado, I whip out a handkerchief and wet it with some bleach to make myself useful, too – fighting against the childish paintings on the walls.
"Oh, children," Mrs Cole soon whines, "you didn't come here to clean – stop it, you shouldn't."
"It's no trouble," Harper assures her, "you can just sit down for a minute."
She's so worn that she even does as she's told. I never thought I'd see this person that conscious of her limits, but as Harper said – the war is hard on everyone ...
"Tell me," Mrs Cole prompts us as she makes herself comfortable at the foot of the left staircase – next to the paintings and me. "What are you here for? I know it's not a nice place to grow up at, but why return? Tom, I thought you never wanted to come back?"
"I just missed you."
She shakes her head in incredulous amusement. "I wouldn't believe you even after two more teacups with lacing, Tom Riddle. I remember, as if it were yesterday, how full of hate you were staring at me when I led that Professor to you at the time."
"I thought he was a neurologist," I say. "I already pictured myself delirious for the rest of my days."
"Did you really think I'd let you be sedated?"
I shrug. "I wasn't exactly easy to bring up, after all."
"No, certainly not." She looks up at me, skepticism written all over her features. "That's why I hardly recognise you right now, Tom. See, there's another ugly flower ..."
I nod, turning my attention to the yellow-green drawing a little further to our left.
"I mean, is everything alright with you?" she asks.
I nod, but she clearly still doubts it.
"We've just celebrated Christmas together with my family," Harper provides for a little more context. "Ma'am, how was your Christmas? Oh well – exhausting, I guess?"
"Sad faces due to the lack of presents, as always." She expresses her regret with a groan from the bottom of her heart. "For the children here, the hardships of life begin far too early. So it's all the nicer to see a former protege so well-balanced of late ..."
Harper chuckles, I can clearly hear it.
"I can't find her anywhere!" we suddenly hear Susan. Out of breath, she arrives in the foyer again, only to exclaim in surprise, "Oh there she is! Mrs Cole!"
"She's found us in the meantime," Harper explains. "But thank you very much, dear!"
"It's lunchtime, Susan, go join the others," Mrs Cole demands. "And tell Henry you'll have a double serving of potatoes, you're getting lean. And my regards to Richard – if he ruins this floor with dirty shoes again, he won't get any potatoes at all!"
"Yes, ma'am." She looks back at my company. "Goodbye, Harper!"
"Nice meeting you, Susan," she calls after her.
"Did she let you in?" Mrs Cole frowns just as we nod. "I always tell them to not open the door – I'll have to have a word with her later ..."
"She recognised me," I say as I continue to scrub the old handkerchief against the wall. "From the photo that is apparently still pinned to the board next to the dining room."
"The one we took by the sea?" Mrs Cole gives me a mirthless smile. "I don't know why I've never removed it. That was the most exhausting week of my life. Dennis and Amy never spoke about that trip again. They've generally been suspiciously quiet since then." Reproach in her eyes, yet there's nothing she can do. Neither to fathom what their silence might be about, nor to prove that it had anything to do with me. A bit tired she continues, "Billy didn't like that group photo either. He still swears that you were responsible for the death of his rabbit, but that's impossible. You were far too small to hang it up there …"
I hear how Harper stops mopping for a moment at these words, but she immediately carries on.
"You only think it's impossible because I was too small?" I ask Mrs Cole. "Otherwise you would've thought it was my fault?"
Mrs Cole merely raises a brow. "Oh, there's no need for that question. You were a child of cold rage."
"Quite so, yes," I admit. "And you successfully passed the resulting suspicions of me on to the Professor at the time."
"I did what I thought was best, Tom."
"Even when my mother arrived here? It was New Year's Eve sixteen years ago, right?"
Her eyes widen. "That's why you're here, isn't it? You have questions."
Harper and I confirm that, almost simultaneously.
"The children are having lunch now anyway," Mrs Cole says. "We can go to my office. But please, Tom, first you play something for them."
"No. Not a chance."
"No?" Mrs Cole purses her lips. "Why not, Tom? It makes them so happy, and you haven't played for us in ages!"
"I don't play anymore."
"But it was the only thing besides literature that kept you busy for a while," she moans. "Your clever mind was saturated then, at least for the moment ..."
"That's probably why I associate it with occupational therapy."
"What?" Harper's suddenly standing right beside me, grinning. "Music?"
"Tom can play the piano," Mrs Cole confirms. "And very well, too. I'm proud to this day that I was able to organise a teacher who didn't charge us anything."
"I don't play," I repeat anyway.
"For Susan!" Harper now chimes in. "And for me – come on!"
Mrs Cole won't stop staring either. "You don't owe me anything else, but it's really the least you can do for all the –"
"Fine!" I give in, rolling my eyes. "No need to list all my sins one by one ..."