Hi you beautiful people,

thanks for being here, and before you read on, I need to add a little note regarding the lower half of this chapter (even though nothing's going to be explicit).
But just to be on the safe side – please don't ever rely on temperature alone these days. Natural Birth Control (I'm referring to a method described in great detail by Toni Weschler) properly applied is tried and tested, while just a thermometer is obviously critical. But for the 1940s of this story I think it's at least something :')
That being said, let's enjoy sane Tom while we still can, I guess …

xx
Dalia

"The Hanged Man," Harper mutters while shaking her head. "How can you call a pub The Hanged Man."

"It's, after all, located in a place called Little Hangleton –"

"I know, Tom," she sighs. "But … still. How?"

"As far as I'm concerned, this place could be called the Gates of Hell – I'd much rather be down there than here right now."

She rolls her eyes, her mouth twitching. "Bess just wanted to cook for you because you looked much too hungry by her standards."

"I'm always pale and moody," I retort, "that has nothing to do with hunger."

Harper grins. "You really don't have to tell me that."

When I asked Bess for directions to the pub after checking in earlier, the old lady was immediately offended. She and Abigail insisted on cooking dinner for us – which entirely cemented putting my plans for first observations aside.

"We couldn't have said no," Harper almost whispers. At any moment, the two women could return with their menu to the otherwise deserted dining room. "We're lucky we got a room here."

"Lucky?" I must sound indignant by the very idea. "Harper, we're her only guests. This place can't exactly be short of capacity –"

"Oh, we're surely hungry, look what we bring!" Bess exclaims as she awkwardly pushes the door open with her knee. And closely followed by Abigail, she immediately serves us … Yorkshire pudding with roasted vegetables. It smells a little of last week, but we both smile in all politeness and thank them for their hospitality.

Abigail and Bess continue to provide for more or less stimulating topics of conversation throughout our dinner, but I'm afraid we can hardly get up and leave before our plates are empty.
My very core wishes to impatiently announce that Harper and I are excusing ourselves, and just as I'm about to do so after the main course, Abigail excitedly informs us that there's also Apple Pie we need to try.
This results in another good hour of dull chit-chat. And just when I think the moment has finally come, Bess – completely unaware of how much she's already vexing me – insists on a little drink. To celebrate the evening … Hence she rushes into the kitchen with Abigail to fetch a bottle and glasses.

"If I have to hear one more story about the neighbours and their alleged lack of gardening, I'm going to strangle them both with the tablecloth."

"Tom, come on," Harper giggles, "we're almost done …"

"Here we are again," Abigail sings, handing out shot glasses.

Normally I'd decline – but I'm almost certain that after our anything but fragrant meal, a disinfection from the inside might be beneficial …

"Thank you for taking good care of us," Harper toasts, I just nod phlegmatically.

"To our guests!" Bess exclaims.

Then her eyes widen as I quickly set my glass down on the table with a heavy clink, stand up and say, "Thank you for your kindness, Bess, we appreciate it – but I'm afraid one should move on when things are at their best." I turn around to Harper and offer her my hand. "And in our case, that would be now …"

"Already?" Bess asks, unable to hide her disappointment. "I thought we were playing another round of cards?"

"Please excuse us," Harper says, "we're exhausted from the trip, you know?"

"Oh, sure, of course … Then I'll bring you to your room right away!"

"Don't bother, I suppose we just have to go upstairs and –"

She interrupts me, chuckling. "Oh Mr Sullivan, it's no trouble at all! Come on!"

"Surely she's mistaken you for your father," Harper thinks aloud. She's pacing up and down our tiny old room in pyjamas as she tries to untie her French braid in vain. Meanwhile I'm sitting on our even tinier bed and stare at the opposite wall, lost in thought. "It can't be a coincidence," she continues, "I mean, the last name and the same face? Do you remember what Mrs Cole told us in London? Your mother's last words were about her hope that one day you'd look like your father. Isn't that surreal? We actually seem to be coming full circle here!"

I can barely hear myself think. Ever since Bess and Abigail stopped bothering us with their trivialities, I was basically left to sort myself out. And I've been feeling empty ever since.

I'm so close to my past. I've never found a more promising trace of my roots … Not in five eons I expected to ever even meet my father. The man who's been like a phantom to me all my life – everyone and no one at the same time.

But who is he?
The Gaunts can be traced back to Salazar Slytherin – pure blooded, at any cost – but who's my father? Whose blood is running through his veins?

He's never had anything to do with Bess, although she's run her Bed & Breakfast for many years. Perhaps his world view, like that of Gormlaith, the old scarecrow, doesn't allow him to interact with Muggles? Or should he simply be a reclusive Muggle in the end?

"Tom?"

I finally look up at Harper, she must have said my name at least three times already.

"What's on your mind?"

I point at her braid, even though she knows I'm lying. "That you'll never untangle this Gordian knot."

"Maybe I just need some help," she suggests, a little desperately at that, right before I take the hairbrush from her hand and gesture for her to sit down next to me.

And as I start combing the ends of her hair, working upwards, she asks again, "What's really on your mind?"

I take a deep breath and shrug my shoulders indecisively. "Let's just say … I didn't expect us to find something right away. And certainly not something within reach."

She bends to look at me. "The Riddle family, you mean?"

"Yeah," I say, turning her around to continue with her hair again. With a bit of patience, the braid loosens into gentle waves – a bit like magic … "And bloody hell, why must there be talk of a supposed lunatic scaring the entire village with snakes in his hands?" I mumble. "I mean, we're here. This is it. This is what we've been looking for, for so long. This is where it all comes together. And it's nothing but madness already …"

I run my fingers through her now separated strands of hair and then hand her the brush.

"Thanks to me, you won't have to cut it off," I inform her.

She smiles as she completely turns back around, her eyes never leaving my face because she can likely sense that I have so much more to say.

"And it …", I begin, just to hesitate and roll my eyes. It seems useless to voice it, but she promptly nods for me to go on, and she just listens, so in the end, I do continue. "It's odd. A few days ago, I had no idea if I'd ever find a single living person in this world who was related to me. And suddenly the threads of fate are coming together sequentially here, in Little Hangleton, in the middle of nowhere, the smallest, most dreary place ever. And as unexpected and beneficial as that should be, once I know them … I can't go back. It'll shape me whether I like it or not. Defiance against factuality is almost impossible, but until now, I could be anything. My sense of identity could never be the same again."

"No." She gently shakes her head. "Regardless of who we meet or what we experience here, you are who you have always been. And you always will be."

"And who'd that be?"

"You are Mr Sullivan." She gives me a soft grin. "You are the impossibly gifted and eerie Tom Marvolo Riddle. Handsome as the heavens, cunning as hell. The one who masters spells and curses on all levels like no other our age. The one who just about every Professor believes to have an unparalleled career in the Ministry one day. You're the clever remark in a sea of gossip. The boy who fought loneliness with books on philosophy, art and mythology. The one who's always been far too intelligent to get caught. The one who built a reputation by force of talent – not by force of birth. You are Hogwarts' model student. Primus inter pares. Slytherin's pride, Tom."

She has no idea how literal that is …

"And let's not forget," she continues, "you were almost winning the Witch Weekly award for the most charming smile." She smirks while taking my hand, and yet I can only shake my head.

"You have a completely distorted view of the facts, Harper. You only see what you want to see."

"I don't," she sternly retorts, holding my gaze. "You're also the most manipulative person I've ever met. Your charming smile helps you to demagogy in its purest form, you are someone who could walk over dead bodies and get away with it. Who on earth practices Fiendfyres that young, right after researching necromancy? You could do great things, Tom. But also terrible things. You are arrogant and cruel and cold enough for it."

I nod, slowly, it's like a relief. She finally gets it.

"And I admit that scares me sometimes," she proceeds much more quietly, "but I also know that you had to be all of those things. Otherwise you wouldn't have made it this far. You'd have perished in the orphanage …"

"Did you look around when we visited Mrs Cole?" I ask her. "Did all those children seem arrogant and cruel and cold enough to cause great and terrible history? Does every orphan become what I am? Cold rage and furious ambition?"

"No," she replies. "But in your absolute and resigned self-judgment, you fail to realise that unlike you, these children didn't also have magical abilities that their world couldn't understand. You couldn't belong. They sensed that you were different. That they should fear you. And that shapes …"

"One would think you speak from experience," I say matter-of-factly.

"I know what it's like to grow up among No-Majs and be the odd one out. But I had a home that protected me. And a great-uncle who could answer all my questions. As a mudblood, I also know exactly how it feels to be misjudged as inferior. For fear of the collective opinion of my status, I've hardly ever told anyone. And for fear of weakness, I can't absolve myself of arrogance either, Tom. We all build walls to not get hurt. Your walls just had to be stronger than mine … You can't enjoy the present without understanding it, and you can't understand it without knowing the past. We're on the right path here, I think …"

It's almost a smile she causes. "You're really referring to Sigmund Freud now? Seriously?"

She just waves it off with a wink. "A lot of things have been bad so far." She keeps staring at my hand. She still hasn't let go of it. "But what we have now is good. We are good." She looks up. "And what's to come … Well, you know, I think you can be anything. Anything you want. But then neither the Gaunts nor the Riddles have something to do with that. You became who you are without them. What influence could they have on you now? You made it here all by yourself."

"We," I correct her.

"Alright. We." She lets out a harsh breath. "See? I know exactly who you are. And still I'm in love with you."

That kitschy, worn word – it sounds like a heavenly revelation from her mouth. That old empty promise. Yet given by, it's like a vow.

She blushes, still she nods in affirmation, and to fight all my obvious doubts and the confusion, she quietly repeats, "Yes. I love you."

I'm clinging to her lips. And yet I'm unable to reply a thing.

I was sure that these words could never touch me – so how irritating is it that they very much do.

As if on impulse, I cup her warm face in my cold hands, and I look at her for quite a while. As if I needed answers. As if I wanted to be inside her mind to verify an assertion that is, after all, beyond doubt.

"Come on, do it," she whispers, fully aware of what's on my mind. "I want you to believe me."

"Legilimens," I thus say under my breath.

My spell collides with no occlumency whatsoever, and it's neatly calculated how she doesn't resist. It's conscious. She's completely calm and lets her memories pass us by – quickly and in fragments, in constant change, but that's enough …

I see my ever so faint smile in various memories, her hands in mine, all the embraces and glimpses of the hours she made me feel like I belonged somewhere.
With her.

So suddenly I know. That it's true, that she loves me …

She watches me, in all seriousness and yet with the utmost excitement. And for the first time ever, I notice not only that she smells of cinnamon and honey – no, in addition to it, the subsequent sensation of how tempting that actually is kicks in. For the first time ever since I know her I consciously recognise how pretty her legs are. How her pyjamas slip a little because she's sitting next to me so comfortably. I notice everything, her dark eyelashes, the red nails, her lips …

I've kissed them often. But never before was I that hungry …
So almost erratically, I draw closer to her – my hands shove her hair back away from her face all while she lets her nails trail up and down my spine, quite absently.

I never knew desire, it always seemed too redundant and impulsive to me. But right now it's crushing through my veins and there's not a thing I could do about it. It almost feels as though I finally woke up from an endless sleep – and I can never go back. I kiss her, I lose my ground, and like in ecstasy, we let ourselves fall into the pillows. Full of courage and yet so lost. Doomed to eternal wandering the worlds even though we feel like we've already arrived.
Right here, at the end of the world, where there's just the two of us.

The glance in her dark eyes is like a silent invitation, and I can't help but accept it. I want her.
I bend over to kiss her again, demanding more than ever, and yet, to complete the paradox of it all, I mainly feel ethereal serenity.

The sensation of her breath on my skin becomes unbearably intense, as does each touch and every sigh, and yet our raw intuition convinces us that what we do is right. It's like hysteria when we finally glance at each other and laugh between kisses.

In the end, I guess even my grey soul is capable of love.
There's no other way to explain why in this physicality I feel more redeemed than ever.

She's like my bridge to the universe.
The salvation of my soul and the downfall of all I thought I knew.

My hands on her body is the most accurate convergence I ever experienced. Her warmth on my skin, her love in my heart – as if a drop of her innocent blood could cure me of all my striving's sacrilege.

Any indecent thought should let inhibitions arise within me, if only for her sake, but untouched as she is – having her close is all too familiar to me anyway. The consequence of our time together seems entirely logical now.

I want more. I want everything. I want to look at her, touch her, make sure she's safe and sound, and most of all, I never want to let her go again. My pulse begins to rush, my breathing gets heavier – and I can feel her heartbeat like my own when I let my hand slide over her skin while her lips touch mine.

I'm surprised at my own dark voice when I say, "We shouldn't be doing this, Harper."

And yet I kiss the curve of her neck, over and over again and ever so lightly, until we both irrevocably feel incomplete without each other.

She shakes her head in wild euphoria at first, then she won't even flinch while saying, "In the Room of Requirement you demonstrated the difference between what we can do, and what we want. Wouldn't the end of the world be fitting for the discrepancy between what we want and what we should?"

"What's left of my good intentions won't survive a discussion," I inform her, holding her as close as I can also while trying to resist the temptation. "Know that before you start one …"

"We could be dead by tomorrow." She's all sober, and I can hardly think clearly. "That being said, everything in my head screams that I can't, under any circumstances, make myself what everyone already thinks me to be. But then again …" She shrugs her shoulders and smirks. "I fundamentally refuse to let others' thoughts shape my actions – because I've yet been condemned for something I haven't done. Just like you, all your life. So in the face of the world, it obviously makes no difference at all. And therefore I'm even less willing to let conventions dictate my path in life."

She bites her lip as she always does. And I want more than I ever have.

Still the possible consequences –

"I can tell," she whispers as she breathes a kiss onto my lips again, so fleetingly, full of soul, "you're thinking ahead, of consequences."

"As we both should," I barely manage to say while watching her unbutton her pyjamas. I'm left with admiring the ever so innocent, yet infinitely self-righteous, pretty sight of her.

"I also do," she then promises. "And there won't be consequences tonight. You see, there was this Dutch doctor, Theodoor Hendrik van de Velde, and he first discovered a connection between the basal body temperature and the female cycle in his book in 1927. The title was –"

"Ideal Marriage," I say before she does, obviously surprising her. "I know the book. Mrs Cole got it from the black market."

Harper chuckles. "And you read it after her?"

"I read everything I could get my hands on. But I honestly expected a bit more respect for authority from you – that title is on the Roman Catholic Index librorum prohibitorum."

"I suppose we both like to read forbidden books."

"Lucky you, free spirit," I almost whisper, gently hugging her tighter to me. "Are you sure this is what you want, witty raven?"

"I am." She nods. "We do whatever we want because we can, don't we? If we like. And I do."

"Couldn't care less about conventions, then," I agree, more intrigued than ever.

No, by no means is she fragile. She's just not covered with cracks like me. And no matter what we do, we are no less and no more. Ephemerality does not devalue. And the value she carries within herself will remain untouched forever anyway.

And maybe I, too, am no longer just ice and ash, but flesh and blood, as my lips brush against hers, as we laugh and continue to do what we shouldn't – but what we want.