The layer of dust on the lacquered wood is proving that no one has played for a long time. The few keys I press before I even sit down sound quite out of tune.

This piano is years overdue, which is why the room suddenly seems more like a saloon in the Wild West than an orphanage in London.

Neither did I want to return here, nor did I ever want to play again.

Countless hours I've spent in front of this instrument as a child, giving Mrs Cole a bit of calm before and after my many storms. I soon knew most of the pieces by heart, but now I wonder whether my fingers will still remember them without sheets.

What a waste of time.

Magic makes learning such skills completely obsolete, I could just wave my wand and the result would be the same.

But lamenting won't help now, there are already too many tense pairs of eyes on me. So I bend my fingers in and out, let my head wander cracking from left to right and then sit down on the old piano stool to accept my fate.

"What are you playing for us?" Susan asks, joining me on the stool with newfound confidence – Harper's company likely makes me seem more approachable, as so often.

"Please, not a scary Toccata," Mrs Cole admonishes me in a firm whisper. "The children are already frightened enough by the world …"

I'm only a little disappointed by that request, but I eventually nod while Susan is still looking at me with utmost expectation.

"Well," I mutter, shrugging my shoulders, "we'll just play Beethoven's 'For Susan' then …"

"That exists?" she asks.

"Today it does."

Harper, who's taken a seat next to Mrs Cole with the other children, can't help but grin at these words.

By the first couple of notes, everybody including Susan falls completely silent.

My fingers wandering over black and white in fact still know exactly where to go, even without sheets. It must have passed into flesh and blood in the end, but who would have known? Perhaps, in contrary to my initial prejudice, the interplay of body and mind is still a valid form of worldly magic …

At some point, Susan will learn that this piece was written for a lady called Elise, but she will surely be pleased rather than disappointed.

And as simple as the melody may seem, as much as it may be the song that every student learns first – there is a reason. The inherent, understated grace of sheer simplicity in each of the notes.

"That was beautiful, did this Beethoven write anything else?" Susan finally asks as the last tones echo through the room. "Maybe something that sounds like this place?"

"Something that sounds like this place?" I repeat.

"Yes … What did it feel like for you?"

"Well," I sigh and do some soul-searching, "might be the Moonlight Sonata. Bleak, but a refuge nonetheless."

Mrs Cole nods at these words, she knows it's true. But it was the best she could help with, and after all these years I think I understand that.

"Will you play that piece for us then?" asks Susan. "Pretty please?"

"Do you hear that?" Harper winks. "She's using the magic word. You can't say no, Tom."

Susan giggles. "Is 'please' the magic word?"

"Yes," I confirm, looking at Harper in particular. "In this world, I guess it is …"

I begin to play the Moonlight Sonata so that this unexpected concert may come to an end, but the children become so devoutly reverent that I'm forced to play something 'cheerful' afterwards yet again.

So, why not cheerfully make use of the underworld? I move on to Offenbach's Cancan to end the spectacle.

In between, however, I truly have to revise my bitter opinion.

It's not a waste of time at all. Maybe magic could cause the same sounds, but the calmness that now lingers within me after playing myself can't be conjured up with the help of a wand. Just as Polly's knitted scarf means all the more to me because she created it out of nothing with her bare hands.

The easy way is not always the right way … How strange to admit that.

Finally, as Susan cheers along with the others after the last, fading note, I ask her, "Do you know the mythological background to that piece from Offenbach's persiflage?"

She shakes her head, her eyes wide and questioning.

"Tom, don't speak scholarly jargon with us," Mrs Cole complains. "You're the only one who's ever read the dusty books outside the kitchen!"

I add, "Offenbach was making fun of a Greek myth."

"And which one?" Susan asks.

"The one about singer Orpheus and nymph Eurydice," I tell her, "but unfortunately Eurydice dies after a snakebite." At these words, I look up at Harper just as she smiles herself. "And Orpheus," I continue, "therefore tries to rescue her from the underworld of the dead. He bribes Hades with art, and it actually works. Among other things, his lyre calms the hellhound Kerberos … He'd been given the instrument by Apollo himself, the god of music, so I suppose you can expect a bit of effect."

"What exactly is a lyre?" Susan asks.

"It's an instrument similar to a harp," my companion answers her.

"Yes, and Harper ought to know," I affirm.

Susan gives me an euphoric smile and I explain further, "So Orpheus is allowed to ascend to the upper world – but on the condition that he goes ahead and doesn't look back to Eurydice."

Susan gulps. "Does he look back?"

"Yes, when Jupiter throws a thunderbolt hitting the gate of the underworld. That's why he loses Eurydice."

Susan's smile fades at once. "But the song sounded much funnier …"

"Look at it this way," Harper says, joining us at the piano, "thanks to his love, Orpheus almost conquered death, even if he did eventually lose to it because of his feelings. That's tragic, but bittersweet, isn't it?"

"The supposed ambivalence of emotions," I say, nodding. "Strength and weakness at the same time. Theoretically …"

"And practically, too, if you ask me," Harper retorts.

"Children …" Mrs Cole claps her hands, standing up. "The moral of the story is that music is never wrong. Which of you would like to learn the piano, too?"

A surprising high number of hands shoot up, and Mrs Cole gives me a side-glance to be sure I do realise just how lucky I got.

"I'll see what I can do," she promises loudly, "and now say goodbye, then off to lunch!"

Voices of all ages shout gratitude and farewell before the kids rush into the dining room next door.

Susan looks up at me one last time, and now she wishes me 'goodbye', too.

"Bye, Snow White," I say as fondly as I can manage before she rushes off with Richard – who's been waiting for her.

"Thank you, Tom." Mrs Cole finally gets to join Harper and me. "It gives the children hope to see you playing. Generally to see you here, with a nice friend, as if to prove that there can be a life after all of this …"

"Mrs Cole," I hear me say, "we're running slightly out of time – and you're also very busy …"

"Of course." She nods, motioning us to follow her next. "Let's go straight to my office."

As she opens the door and gestures for us to enter, Mrs Cole tells me with a heavy heart, "You know, I knew this day would come."

"The day I start asking questions about my mother again?"

"Yes," she confirms and sits down behind her desk after pointing us to the two chairs in front of it. She places a half-empty gin bottle in a deep drawer of the table, moderately caught, and then shrugs. "It's a vicious circle. But I have to function, you know?"

Harper smiles, a bit of anxiety is visible nevertheless. "You have to look after yourself, too, though, ma'am. The kids only have you …"

"I know, I know," she mumbles, "but that adds to the pressure."

"Mrs Cole, we all have our vices," I assure her, "I was just hoping you could tell me all you remember again."

"Yes, certainly. However, it's really not much to tell …"

"You've said that many times," I remark. "But surely you know more than I do. She died the night I was born. Other than that, I don't have her first name, I don't know how old she was, why she came here or who my father is."

She looks at me with the same concern as back in the days whenever I did something she had to excuse. "Well, Tom, the thing is … I don't know any of that either. For instance, she's never mentioned her name."

I shake my head in wary disbelief. "But did no one ask?"

"Of course we did." She seems to think back, looking quite troubled. "But she wouldn't answer."

"She wouldn't?" Harper repeats. "Or, in other words, she might have had reason not to tell her name …"

"Sweetheart, how would I know?" Mrs Cole, breathing heavily, looks up at the flickering lamp above us and shakes her head in irritation. "Oh, Tom, the light only ever does that when you're around. Must be the infamous demonstration effect."

She doesn't even consider that it's me, never did. Harper looks straight at me, however, smiling vaguely, and I guess it's indeed best if she asks the next questions.

"Mrs Cole," she begins, "in many crime novels the investigators claim that every detail can be important. So perhaps you could just tell us everything you still remember from that night again?"

"Of course, if you like," she agrees, "let's try. But be so good, get me something from the teapot on the dresser behind you." She massages her temples. "For that I need … a tea. Would you like some as well?"

"No, but thank you." Harper immediately hands her a filled cup.

Mrs Cole takes a sip, then takes heart.

"I wasn't here for long back then," she tells us, looking at the opposite wall as if she could remember better that way. "And I was maybe a few years older than you two are now. It was New Year's Eve, 1926, so the mood was festive even after dark."

"You'd been drinking," I translate.

"Tom!" Harper growls, just to smile at Mrs Cole next. "Who doesn't drink on New Year's Eve?"

"Well, he's right, I shouldn't have, I was on duty. But believe me, I wasn't drunk. I remember everything!"

"That's good," Harper encourages her again.

"Yeah, you know … I don't think I'll ever forget. Tom, you're old enough to hear this now, but your young mother was … tired. To say the least. It was bitterly cold, and her old clothes certainly didn't keep her warm. She was pregnant to term and all alone in the dark for God knows how long. Her poor body was battered and emaciated, and it must have been a struggle to reach our gate with the last of her strength. I was about to share a cigarette with our cook Henry at the entrance when I noticed her. We immediately rushed towards her, she could hardly stand on her feet anymore – also because of the contractions … Anyway, Henry and I took her to one of the beds and despite all the circumstances, she was incredibly brave. It was less than an hour before you were born, Tom. She didn't scream once. I've never seen anything like it, in all the births before and since. You know, she may have looked delicate and weak, but she wasn't. Quite the opposite. Her will was strong. And she must have been clever. I saw it in her. It's the same look I often noticed on you later, Tom. You know more than you say."

"Since you've already picked up on the cue yourself," Harper chimes in, "did she say anything at all?"

"Not much," Mrs Cole sighs. "In the two hours I've had the pleasure of meeting her, she's barely spoken. Whispered, yes, with Tom, but we didn't understand a word. Must have been a different language. It sounded to us somehow, well … a bit scary? Foreign. But also very loving …" She smiles at me, but Harper and I surely think the whispering to be quite the detail … "She basically only used her voice to tell us that you were to be called Tom Marvolo Riddle. When we handed you over to her wrapped in cloths, it was as though no air was left in the room. I can't describe it properly, it was out of this world. Tom, you didn't cry, you were just as still as she was when she brought you into the world in silent pain. But when you were in her arms and she looked at you, it seemed …" Mrs Cole sniffles – something I haven't seen all these years. It makes her emotional indeed, just like Harper … "It seemed," Mrs Cole starts again, "as if she wanted to put the love of a lifetime into that one look. As if she wanted to give you warmth for your entire life with that one embrace."

However emotionally she tells the tale, I can only shake my head. "That obviously didn't work."

"I know, Tom," Mrs Cole regrets. "I know. But she tried. Believe me. She did … She held you for about an hour, she looked so blissful and happy with you, but her body couldn't take it anymore. I'm sure she wasn't even twenty years old, yet her life was just over." She swallows. "You know, the only other thing she had said, her last words basically, were about her hope that you would look like your father. And maybe you do because I don't recognise her in you at all. Except for the dark eyes. You'd almost think they're black, but they are dark green …"

"What happened to her?" I ask, not nearly as touched as the two. "After she died, to be precise?"

"We were going to have her buried in the cemetery by the church nearby," Mrs Cole says. "But as is often the case with institutional charity … it requires a lot of paperwork first. But we had no papers or records that could have identified her. She wasn't a missing person who would have been reported to the police in London and the surrounding area, and the church … it was too dicey for them."

"Too dicey to bury a distraught mother?" asks Harper, pure indignation lacing her every word.

"To bury an unknown woman that no one knew and was like smoke," I correct. "You can hardly blame them."

Harper still disapproves, clearly, I can see it written all over her face at these words.

Yet I only ask, "Was she cremated?"

Mrs Cole nods. "Yes. We said our prayers for her beforehand, and the heaven in which I believe in will certainly not deny opening its gate for her because she wasn't buried properly."

"No belongings?"

Not really surprised by my cold reaction after raising me, Mrs Cole shakes her head. "Nothing at all."

"And that is all you know?"

"Yes, Tom, I'm afraid so. Listen, I wish –"

"It's all right," I claim, but still the light is flickering again, I simply can't suppress it.

"Bloody electricity," Mrs Cole grumbles, right before I unceremoniously get up and nod at her.

"Mrs Cole, I'm afraid we're all running late already, but thank you for your time."

"Thank you, yes," Harper, too, says, shaking Mrs Cole's hand before striding towards me and the door.

"Of course, you're welcome." Mrs Cole gets up as well and nods goodbye.

She waits for Harper to leave her office, and before I can do the same, she almost whispers, "Tom? Could you stay for another second?"

"Look," I'm already sighing as I walk back to her desk, "if this is about the rabbit again –"

"Oh, I don't care anymore," she quickly says, beckoning me closer. We can hear Harper's heels clicking in the distant foyer already, yet Mrs Cole speaks quietly still. "Tom, I thought I should point something else out. While you're here, while we're at it …"

"You weren't going to say it in front of Harper, though?"

She shrugs. "Your mother stressed it that night like it was a secret. That's why, you see. Even though, well … You've carried that secret with you all your life … We all couldn't quite figure it out."

I think about it for a moment, then I tilt my head. "My name."

"Yes," she confirms, "she urgently wanted you to be named after your father. And your middle name was to be her father's. She was adamant about it and made us swear we would call you accordingly."

I nod, a bit puzzled, though. "Thank you, Mrs Cole."

"Never mind. Oh, and Tom?"

"Yes?"

"I like the young lady. She's good for you, I think."

"Yes, by now I … think so, too."

"You can give her these," she then says, pulling out two pairs of nylons from her drawer and handing them to me in their original packaging. "The child is freezing, but these are only available on the black market currently."

I even smile a bit. "Thank you, that's …"

"Nice?" She laughs. "We both surprised each other today."

"Looks like it." I take heart, then look up again. "Mrs Cole, that whisper in another language you briefly mentioned …"

"Yeah?"

"Did it … sound like a hiss? Possibly just like this?"

She looks at me as if shivers just ran down her spine. "It sounded exactly like that! What is it?"

"Some Catalan dialect from Andorra, I think," I casually lie to reassure her. "Your descriptions sounded like it to me."

"Ah." She quickly nods. "I see … Perhaps that'll give you a clue to find her origins?"

"It could," I reply, striding back towards the door. "Thanks, Ma'am."

"Goodbye?"

I smile wanly as I look around again. "Who knows, maybe. Until then?"

"Until then, Tom Marvolo Riddle."