Right after that miserable Herbology class, I'm quick to stagger out of the greenhouse. Finally without anyone following me, and breathing air again that isn't tainted by the smell of wet, rotten earth. And despite that, despite the clear blue sky above me, I'm suffocating. I can't shake that wretched anxiety off, I keep losing my ground – but I have to focus.
I can't be buried just yet, not before the next set of classes. To make matters worse, those are led by none other than Albus Dumbledore.
I'm the first to enter his classroom, even he isn't here yet, and while the other students gradually arrive, I long stare at the wardrobe in the centre of the room.
In our third year, we found a boggart in there.
This year – today – it's unlikely to be different.
I don't deserve this …
Then, the boggart would turn into appropriate fears for everyone. Spiders, snakes, darkness, vampires, werewolves. Rouvenia saw the cousin she's to marry one day. Nott met his own stern grandfather.
The classics …
My boggart, on the other hand, took on the haunting form of the cave corpse I saw during that bizarre orphanage summer trip to the coast. The visuals created an outcry in class back then, the sight of the bloody, protruding bones and the burst face was quite much for the majority of those present.
I didn't like it either. And to my utter surprise, I wouldn't stare into the face of the corpse I'd found in front of the cave entrance, no. It were my own features – albeit disfigured beyond recognition.
Harper and I hadn't known each other then, and hadn't yet fought over a salt shaker. I'm not too keen to find out what the boggart would use against me today …
What am I afraid of? Death?
No. By now, death almost seems to promise peace.
Gellert Grindelwald? Hardly.
And if so, at least Dumbledore's shocked face would be the last thing I got to see. It'd almost be worth it.
"Tom, my boy," I suddenly hear Professor Slughorn say – and I'm perplexed to find his hand already placed on my shoulder.
Why didn't I feel his touch before I saw it? Why can't I feel my shoulder?
My body is nothing but ashes at this point …
"Sir, you're … here?" I stupidly hear myself.
If I didn't feel so dizzy, I could at least try for the good old model student facade, but Slughorn's just talking on about this class being the honouring of Dumbledore's 'gambling debt' anyway – and how Professor Dippet and him couldn't miss a spectacle like this.
Dippet …
Dippet's here?
I whirl around to directly look into his amused face, while in the background I notice Harper entering the classroom with a few others as well.
"You strolled straight past me, Tom," our headmaster chuckles, moving right next to Slughorn. "Always in your head, aren't you?"
"I must apologize, Professor," I barely manage to mumble, "I really haven't noticed you …"
"Yes, you seem a bit tired," Dippet finds with latent concern, lowering his voice. "I gather you should rest a bit more so soon after your dragon pox infection. Keep in mind, Tom – it's a really insidious disease. You need to listen to your body!"
I force a weary smile before I nod my head and assure, "Thank you, sir, I will, please do not worry about me."
Dippet confidently winks. "A little sleep and the world usually looks brighter already, doesn't it?"
"Indeed, it does," I pretend.
Oh, he has absolutely no idea …
"The Headmaster and our Potions Expert!" Dumbledore shouts as he, too, finally enters the centre of the room behind the last of the class, strolling ever so casually towards the wardrobe. "We have noble guests today, as I'm sure you've already noticed as well. You probably remember this particular lesson from your third year?" His gaze is wandering until it lingers briefly, very briefly, on me.
I have to admit that this maneuver of his is quite remarkable. He could have repeated this lesson with any class. But he's far too interested in my fears for that, as legilimency and his mocking questions never get much out of me …
"We're very curious," Dippet confirms to the group, "whether you've overcome or even intensified your former fears!"
"That's always very fascinating, yes it is," Slughorn adds.
"Does everybody feel comfortable proceeding?" Dumbledore is looking around expectantly.
And there's no one cheering with enthusiasm, obviously, but most others at least manage to put on a good face.
Not me.
"Tom – you seem rather unhappy," Dumbledore asserts. "As a Prefect of House Slytherin, surely soon to be Head Boy – don't you trust that all your fears will stay in this room?"
I nod as nonchalantly as I can. "Of course I do – as do you, sir?"
He smiles, but that question irritates him. "Why do you ask?"
"Professor, I can't remember ever seeing the shape of your boggart. But that's … obviously just curiosity, forgive me …"
"Oh, no, that's all right, Tom – you mean I should reveal my fears as well? It's no secret. Unfortunately, my boggart would take the form of a deceased person."
He was talking about fire during the Slug Club, he's lying –
"A person who died in a fire," he adds, as though he could smell my mistrust … "Well," he continues, "but after the boggart represented a corpse for you, we'd all seen enough to digest back then, haven't we?"
"A corpse, Tom?" Dippet anxiously asks.
"The war leaves its mark, sir," I'm quick to lie – and only Albus Dumbledore suspects it.
"Would the horrors of war also be your current boggart, Mr Riddle?"
Why can't Dumbledore have somebody else on his radar for a change? Is that really too much to ask on a day when I feel like dying?
I shouldn't have provoked him with my hypocritical smile …
"I believe so," I finally reply, but I can see he'll wish me to prove it in a heartbeat.
He's about to open his mouth just when Harper calls out to my unmistakable rescue, "Professor, you put a record on your gramophone last time. Wouldn't some music be nice today as well?"
"Why yes, Ms Sullivan," Dumbledore acts along after only a split second of hesitation, knowing full well that she's just trying to stall so he must stop interrogating me like that. "As a member of our school choir, it's good you think of music. What should it be? Swing, as Professor Slughorn likes to play lately?"
"Sir, perhaps 'La Campanella' to begin with?"
Dumbledore is visibly startled. "Excuse me, Ms Sullivan, I'm afraid Paganini and Liszt are not part of my record collection."
She points to the dusty piano in the far corner of the classroom like innocence personified. It's been back there for years, as part of the inventory, so wonderfully unobtrusive in the background. "Tom plays really well. He never talks about it –" Elliott's jaw drops at these words … "But it'd be a shame to listen to records if we could just as well have live music, wouldn't it?"
"Oh, indeed!" Slughorn merrily exclaims, Dippet also marvels, Rouvenia and a few others nod in excitement as well.
Meanwhile, I take a deep breath. I could kiss Harper and curse her at the same time. Bloody hell.
Yes, she might prevent me from having to reveal my boggart to Dumbledore today. But at the same time, the way in which this is achieved is the most horrible of all.
I hate performing in front of an audience. And I hate this happy piece even more …
"Let's hear you out, Riddle," Eric also urges, "but don't play too loud, and please play softly – you know … the headache …"
"I never play quiet, or soft," I inform him, genuinely regretting that myself.
Even amused by this turn of events, Dumbledore shrugs now. "Tom, be so kind then, you've heard Ms Sullivan's request."
I have no choice and resign to my fate.
Still. Anything's better than the boggart…
Dumbledore lets the piano slide closer, sweeping the dust off the keys with a skillful flick of his wand before I'm seated in front of it.
Harper has cast Beelzebub out with the devil, and she knows it as well as I do. I escape the wardrobe, but hardly alive I now have to chase my fingers over the out-of-tune piano …
I can hardly think straight.
What was it Harper wanted to hear?
"La Campanella", she repeats, she can see that I'm completely out of it.
From what I told her after our visit to the orphanage she knows that I had to practise this supposedly cheerful piece ad nauseam for Mrs Cole, I still know how to play it after all these years. I just never really liked to do so …
I begin with the first notes under the eager eyes of the class, until Dumbledore finally calls out, "Let's not keep the boggart waiting – who would like to begin?"
"May I?" Rouvenia promptly steps forward.
Slytherin's pride – she always lives up to it. We're the first ones to volunteer because we can be sure of our abilities.
I really mustn't forget to wish her a happy birthday …
She still gets rid of her cousin with ease, next Leonora hexes her scolding father to oblivion. Eric chases a siren of the Black Lake away, Myrtle has found her boggart in Olive, who's also standing next to her in person. It's a bit awkward, to be frank …
Meanwhile, Harper wanders back to me and the piano, as does Elliott, his look as reproachful as it gets.
When the last notes fade away, he mumbles, "How come you never told me you could do that?"
"Never seemed important to mention it."
"Always so secretive …"
"That was shrill and annoying," is Eric's conclusion from afar.
"I know," I reply, pointing at Harper. "You have her to thank."
"You're all welcome – Rachmaninoff next, please," Harper demands, delighting in my visible displeasure. "Prelude in G." She whispers, "I'm sure Mrs Cole loved how you were properly distracted by that one."
I shake my head in disbelief. "Do you have the slightest idea how much concentration those damn pieces require –"
"Would you rather reveal your fears?" she hisses. "You certainly won't entertain anyone for the whole hour with lame, slow classics!"
To my greatest regret, she's likely right. So I play. With a lot of anger in my stomach, as though she'd sensed that a piece like that would be ideal to let off steam.
"Bravo, Mr Riddle," Dumbledore applauds walking past me just when I finish. Only with utmost restraint I can stop myself from rolling my eyes. "Hardly a wrong note. And that last chord really wasn't quiet or soft at all."
"Sir," I impatiently reply, "I haven't played in ages, and actually, Rachmaninoff himself is said to have –"
"Closed this piece with a loud bang – I know, Tom. In fact I was praising you, not criticising. You should not always assume the bad."
"He of all people in this universe is the one to say that," I mumble once he can no longer hear it.
His nonchalance makes me much too mad.
"I want ballet for facing my boggart," Cassia suddenly calls out to me.
Just as I'm about to flatly refuse, Dippet cheers, "A nice idea, Tom, you heard the lady!"
Why can't I just be struck by Zeus' lightning bolts …
After a hypocritical smile to the headmaster, I do as I'm told and with each successive piece I play I begin to think my chances of not having to reveal my boggart myself are becoming more realistic.
Once again, I owe Harper for that, even if she garnished this support with a maximum of discomfort for me …
But I'm clearly rejoicing too soon, as so often.
Of course, Dumbledore won't miss the opportunity to feel us out.
"Ms Sullivan?" he calls her, just before I myself can manage to hurry out into the corridors along with most others, "would you be so kind – you and Tom … Stay for another minute, will you?"
It's perfidious that I hadn't even considered how much more revealing Harper's fears might be compared to my own …
The others, including Dippet and Slughorn, are reluctant to leave the classroom, but when it's actually just Harper and I left with Dumbledore, he beckons us over. Leaning against his desk and watching us closely through his half-moon glasses.
"Is there anything you'd like to tell me today?"
She gulps and shakes her head, as do I.
"What makes you think that, Professor?" I ask.
"Getting rid of a boggart is no challenge for either of you. And yet you both wouldn't come forward today."
"Sir, Tom was playing the piano –"
"Because you conveniently wanted him to, Ms Sullivan. But you two hardly have anything to hide, do you?"
It's unmistakably a Gryffindor that is standing in front of us. He makes no secret of his thoughts – quite unlike us.
"No, sir, not at all, do you wish to see my boggart?" Harper asks ever so innocently, but I know her – she's irritated as hell.
"What about Tom's boggart?"
"Sir, last time, mine was quite macabre," I'm quick to retort, "as you said yourself –"
"Yet now, it's only just us. And as much as I may regret it, I'm used to macabre."
"Oh fine, then." I shrug impatiently. "Let's go ahead and open the wardrobe!"
He takes a deep breath and shakes his head – to my surprise. "If you like, Tom. But I won't be present for that. You should just know that I'm always ready to listen. I remember well how Mrs Cole led me to you back then. The look in her eyes made it unmistakably clear to me that you had ambitious aims. We encourage that in Hogwarts, of course. Since the holidays, however, I believe to see a change in you – one I cannot interpret. It is up to both of you when you speak – and when you remain silent." He emphasises the latter to Harper in particular as he strolls past us for good. "You may stay or leave, as you please – just enjoy the nice weather this afternoon, if you can," we hear him say before he closes the door behind him.
"That man …" I grumble in exasperation and breathe a sigh of relief.
Harper just shakes her head. "He's watching you. And he's creating an emotional dilemma for me in the hopes of me coming forward to save you if needed."
"He doesn't care about either of us," I say. "He just hates to feel his control slip and not being ahead of the curve."
"Like you?" she wearily replies. "So … what do we do now?"
"What we do?" I ask.
She points to the wardrobe. "You know what you're afraid of? Or do you wish to find out?"
"What about you?"
"I don't have anything to hide," she retorts, already opening the wardrobe in the centre of the room with a wave of her wand.
I'm intrigued, admittedly, but not surprised, when suddenly a mighty basilisk fills the room.
Harper is frozen, but she doesn't seem to be sure of her own fear. What she is most afraid of.
The basilisk begins to wrap itself around her and, unlike Echidna's yellow eyes, there's a gleaming red shimmer.
"That's what your eyes looked like the other day," she whispers, goose bumps all over her arms beneath those loosely rolled-up sleeves.
And suddenly the huge snake turns into nothing but green smoke, becoming darker and darker in colour until it forms a black robe. We still don't recognise the face under the hood, but my pale skin – streaked with black veins – soon glows out from underneath. Deep red irides on my face and nothing but emptiness in my gaze.
Harper covers her mouth with a hand, her heart obviously breaking.
I can barely watch her desperation. Not least because of that, and driven by my own curiosity, I step in front of her as if to protect her from the sight of myself.
But when the boggart suddenly takes on her form, and reaches out for me, I'm utterly confused.
Her gaze seems so lost as invisible teeth sink into her forearm that reaches out for me. The real Harper intuitively backs away before holding on to me.
Blood runs down the boggart's arm in streams as the invisible bite marks soon cover her whole body – until not even her face is spared anymore and I banish the boggart into the wardrobe with a heavy gust of wind.
For a moment there, we're both too shocked to say a word. But Harper catches her breath before I can.
"Tom, those weren't snake bites. Not like in Little Hangleton."
"No," I whisper, still staring at the wardrobe.
Those were the sharp fangs of two Rottweilers …
"You're most afraid of something happening to me?" she asks, indecisively moving in front of me.
"You're afraid of my perdition," I quickly change the subject. "Quite predictable, don't you think?"
"You're hardly able to breathe," she notices. "That little blast of air cost you strength. Since when does such magic cost you strength, huh? You used to control fiendfyres without your wand at ease if you wished to."
I actually feel so dizzy that I have to lean against the piano for a moment indeed. Just to concentrate, just for a second –
"You're barely standing on your feet …" Harper gently touches my arm, and I'm startled because I can't feel it.
I can't feel her hand on my body …
"What's wrong with you, Tom?"
"What's wrong?"
"You look like a ghost! You do remind me of my boggart – and you've got red eyes again, too. That's not normal!"
I shake my head, trying to stay calm. "Well, what even is normal?"
"Arrogant, cruel and cold," she sighs. "I always knew you can be all of those things, but still I don't recognise you ever since you've been back …"
If I wasn't so miserable, I would probably be more patient, but I just groan at these words. "Maybe you just never really knew me, has that thought ever crossed your mind?"
"Occasionally." She gives me a bitter smile. "And maybe once too often."
"Then why are we still talking to each other?"
"You push me away, but I won't let you, I –"
"You can't have the version of me that you wish for. Not the one you deserve. Only the bitter truth, only what I really am."
"You're wrong in your self-perception, you –"
"Don't you have eyes and ears? What is so challenging to understand about the last few weeks? Haven't you realised where I come from? The circumstances – who I am?"
"I know exactly who you are. And I miss the Tom you were before all those revelations! What has really changed?"
"Everything, Harper. Absolutely everything."
"No, that's just an illusion, but everything will change if you don't come to your senses. Stop creating a Horcrux –"
She doesn't continue, I don't even have to interrupt her – the glare on my dark features seem to speak volumes.
"Your eyes, Tom – I've read it in a few sources," she explains due to my silent urge. But her pleading gaze doesn't change a thing. "Your soul is bleeding. Isn't it? That only happens with a certain type of black magic. And what else would it be … You want a Horcrux … Where are you performing the ritual? In the chamber? How do you know what you have to do? No matter where I tried to look, I couldn't find –"
"Stay the hell away," I almost whisper, finally at the end of my patience. "I'm serious, Harper, don't you dare to follow me! You're afraid I'll hurt myself? Trust your initial instinct! Be afraid of the ancient serpent thirsty for blood down there, because trust me, my control over her is but limited."
She's watching me leave in tears, I just know it, but I need to get away from this room, away from her and that cursed piano – as well as from the life I'd have loved to lead.
All in exchange for agony while finally performing the third ritual at night …