"What else did she tell you?" Harper asks as soon as I join her at the gate again.

The winter wind is guiding us harshly as we follow our own footsteps back. The ones that led us to the orphanage about an hour ago, when I knew what I know now.
Only that I thought differently about it …

My name might be a vital clue. And I realise I'm at a crossroads now.

I could keep the information from Harper and do all further research on my own.
But I could also stop telling myself that's what I want.

"She told me that my mother insisted I'd be named what I'm called."

It's just that one sentence that gets her on board, but I feel like a weight is lifted off my shoulders after voicing those words nevertheless. A shared secret is, as they say, supposedly no longer one, yet I'm oddly certain that her initiation is the one exception to that rule.

"Your name," Harper mumbles, looking like she's solving complicated algebra in her head. Until she glares at me. "Tom – it was the only thing that she could pass on to you …"

I nod. "Either it's nothing, pure coincidence –"

"Or it's everything," she says, grabbing my hand in excitement. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. She could only leave you that – like a trace! Something that would stay with you forever, a key to everything, if you recognise it as such. That's … brilliant. Brilliant like her son." Her same old warmth is radiating through her every touch, and I'll hardly ever get used to. "We'll look into that, won't we? I mean, if you even want to. I could just as well never mention it again and leave you alone with it?"

"No, it's fine," I claim, then I remember the black market goods I'm carrying for her. "You know what else Mrs Cole said?"

She shakes her head.

"That I should give you these." I point to the nylons in the inside pocket of my dark coat.

Quite moved, she moans, "The woman is an angel!"

"Ah ah, I wouldn't go that far," I mildly protest. My mind, however, is already wandering back to my mother when Harper links her arm into mine. "Quite ironic that I don't even know her name …"

"Mh," Harper ponders, "the last name Riddle sounds so much like this world, but Marvolo … Tom, I've never heard that among No-Majs, neither in America nor here. And that foreign language Mrs Cole mentioned – surely it was Parseltongue, wasn't it? Because if so, your mother was –"

"A witch." I nod. "I told Mrs Cole about a dialect and let her hear Parsel – she confirmed it was just that."

"That's it!" Harper rejoices. "That means we might find something about her family or herself in the Hogwarts archives then!" I can practically see an idea forming in her head. "Well, my middle name is May, named after my Grams. Following that rather common pattern, your grandfather might've been called Marvolo."

"He was indeed, according to Mrs Cole," I confirm. "She said my mother wanted me to be named after my father and hers. So checking the archives, we'd have to look for a Marvolo. And with him, we might be able to find my mother …"

"Nice!" Harper beams. "This is promising, don't you think?"

"Well, at least it excites you."

"It does," she admits, slowing down a bit. "You've avoided all of this since forever, but it's a part of you. And whatever I know of you so far, I like a lot. Who knows how much more likable that piece of the puzzle will make you."

"You're being too optimistic", I warn her. "Something tells me that the opposite might be proved."

"Don't say that," she quietly protests. "You shouldn't count the chickens before they're hatched."

"I have a bad feeling, Harper. And my gut is rarely ever wrong. She had magic in her blood, but of all places, she chose a Muggle orphanage. She held me for an hour instead of using her wand to buy us all the time in the world. But why the hell?"

Harper bites her lip. "Good question."

The air is cold, probably just as cold as when my mother took a deep breath of it back then. Something about her story is off, I can sense it.

"The fact that she barely said a thing," Harper thinks aloud, "Mrs Cole sounded like your mother knew exactly what she was doing."

"It sounded as though she was on the run, yes."

"But from what …"

"See?" I sigh. "That's why I have a bad feeling, Harper May. We're obviously about to open Pandora's box."

Almost tiptoeing, she's breathing a kiss onto my cheek. "Whatever monsters we set free – let the storm rage. We can handle it, Tom Marvolo."

The way she so casually speaks in plural form is irritatingly comforting. That I'm not alone in this. And how irritatingly warm I feel although it's bloody cold in London.

"There you are, young folks!" Edwin comes towards us, slowly but surely.

"Did you find any tobacco?"

"Why yes!" He nods at Harper. "Plenty. Still, I'd suggest we take another little detour to Diagon Alley. What do you say?"

"Sure, and maybe we can get the rest of the ingredients for our project in Knockturn Alley," Harper adds. She looks at me as though I had to agree as well.

"While we're at it …"

Though the non-magical part of London seemed like a Ghost Town, Diagon Alley is just as busy as ever. Not least because of that, we're sooner than later drawn to the other side of the sun.

"Kids," Edwin mutters, "where exactly are we getting lost right now?"

"We want to brew Polyjuice Potion," Harper says. "To buy some missing ingredients, we need to go astray. A bit at least."

"I see," Edwin sighs. "So I guess I'm not exactly a good shepard for you two little lambs right now?"

"Who's to say we're not wolves?" Harper chuckles. "And since when do you draw a line between black and white?"

"I don't know the area, sweetheart, that's all. Other than that, I'm up for any shenanigans, as long as I can manage to follow you …"

"We're already there anyway, sir," I reassure him as we come to a halt. Borgin and Burkes. "If any shop has what we need, it's this one."

"An antiques and rarities shop?" Edwin peeks through the fully glazed front with quite some expectation, then he even moves in before us. "On we go. Why didn't you mention that this place would be interesting?"

Harper and I merely exchange an amused glance before we follow him into the dark, dusty shop, making the bell above the door ring yet again.

"Beware," Edwin soon mumbles, much more attentively, "there's black magic in the air. Can you feel it, children?"

Harper nods, even faster than I can.

She looks like an angel, and yet, because of me, she's let a darkness into her life that makes her heart heavy. To this day, I don't know what she saw in me. Why she thinks she can keep her virtues and maxims and me in her life.

"It's in the twilight that you usually find the gold that glitters most," Edwin claims as he lets his eyes wander over the ancient goods displayed in dusty glass cases and on the walls.

Even I have to admit that some of the rarities here seem grotesque. The latent smell of decay reinforces the impression, possibly stemming from the skulls and other rotting mortal remains, some of which are still covered in skin, and moving in their glass caskets. In the midst of it, jewelry of inestimable value can be found. Antique statues and pottery, and works of art that might rather have to be exhibited in museums.
And I can't tell whether Borgin and Burke, in view of the ridiculously low prices, are selling crude forgeries of the Da Vinci sketches I'm currently examining, or whether they're simply unaware of what they might be dealing with. Interesting nevertheless …

"There's a shop just like that in New York, just a bit more spacious," Edwin whispers, "however the prices are exorbitant."

"That's different here, sir," we hear a raspy voice from behind the counter. The old man looks like a shadow himself in the pale light he's stepping into. He seems as sly as his voice sounds, and his mimic hardly holds traces of well-intentioned hospitality. "I'd be happy to heat the fireplace for you," he says, casting a silent Incendio already. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Well," Edwin ponders aloud and, admiring the exhibits, continues his way until an opal necklace catches his eye. He's taking a close look at it, then gives us a bitter smile. "I might have considered this a piece of jewelry for our dear Tilda …"

"As a burial gift, you mean?" the man chuckles. His golden name tag identifies him as Mr Burke.

"It kills whoever dares to put it on, doesn't it?" Edwin verbalises his assumption.

Burke nods, not ceasing to look at me as he slowly says, "Some things are truly beautiful to behold, but at times appearances are deceiving. Shiny on the outside, nothing but death if you look closer."

He keeps staring at me so intently that I almost assume he's merely reporting the things he sees in me that very moment.

Why can he call out right away what Harper couldn't imagine in her worst nightmares?

Because he himself knows darkness? And she's blinded by light?

In larmoyant irony, Harper now tells Burke, "Do you perhaps think the convergence of your shop's sinister appearance and selling deathly merchandise is more honest?"

It's as though Little Red Riding Hood wanted to defend her wolf from the huntsman.

"A neat appearance is a start, after all," she continues. "The idea and the knowledge of what people need …"

"Oh, is it?" Burke laughs, eyeing her far too long for my liking. "And what do you need, sweet child?"

"We," I point out with a smile fake enough so he immediately gets it, "could use shredded boomslang skin. Do you have any?"

"But of course," Burke replies. Far too quickly for me to believe him, though. Boomslang skin is terribly rare and hard to come by – so it would almost be too easy and good to be true … He disappears into the back room for a moment, then, as he returns with a canning jar, its brown and green contents are gleaming far too obviously.

"Here you are, young friend." Burke shoves the jar towards me with a complacent smile. "Feel free to examine it."

"Thank you." I step up to his counter, not only to look at it, but to open the glass as well. Clearly displeased, Burke is watching me. It may seem like I'm smelling the contents of the jar, but I'm much rather trying to listen. Traces of life I would hear, I know that, but I can't. Hence it must be of quite bad quality.

I smirk no less wryly at him now as I close the jar and push it back. "We'll look around a bit more …"

"Not satisfied?"

"Just picky," I reply.

"Cunning, eh?" Burke grins by now. "Have you ever considered a career in the rarity trade?"

"No, not so far," I say, causing him to lean over the counter towards me as though he was about to share a conspiracy.

"With that face – the shiny appearance, so to speak – you could take twice as much as I do from old witches that have a soft spot for sought–after artifacts."

"With trading, however, there wouldn't be much in it for myself," I eventually reply. "But thank you for the offer …"

"See that customer by the shop window? With the blonde wig and all the colour on her face?"

I turn around – and I know who he's referring to at once. Even if Knockturn Alley was more crowded than Oxford Street – I would know immediately …

"Hepzibah Smith, she's like a magpie," Burke whispers to me, "I'm sure you'd have her wrapped around your finger in no time. You could sell her an ordinary branch as a famous magic wand."

As rude as Burke is, the thought actually causes me to give him a half-smile until we hear the bell above the shop door ring again.

"Madame Smith!" All of a sudden, he turns into the most charming gentleman. "Come in, come in!"

Filthy rich at first glance, and equally well-fed. She's dressed up in bold patterns, and fashion is definitely not about functionality for her – otherwise she'd hardly wear a hat with countless feathers awkwardly falling into her face now and again. I can only imagine that the dusty piece was expensive and rare and thus had to be in her possession.

"Mr Burke," she sings, "its good to see you!"

"May I show you what's new in?" We can hear Burke's slightly sour undertone – meant for Edwin and us, those that are unlikely to buy anything at all …

"Yes, please, I'd like to see all the new collectibles!"

"Why yes, of course," he cheers, "do follow me!"

As she passes Harper, the old quail is giving her a rather discontented look – youth can't be bought, after all. But as soon as she sees me, she purrs, "Oh, who are you? A young enthusiast of art?"

"I'm sure that's in the eye of the beholder," I all but reply.

She doesn't notice that I have to concentrate on answering in a way she can understand because of the locket around her neck …

Burke winks at me as though his hypothesis of a moment ago is clearly proven, then he disappears into the back room with what likely is his best customer.

Meanwhile, Edwin is approaching Harper and me, he can't help but chuckle. "Well, it's become quite the show of horrors with the new addition, hasn't it?"

Harper tries not to laugh, I simply nod.

"But did you notice her locket?" Edwin whispers.

"I almost answered her in Parseltongue due to the serpent on it."

Edwin chuckles. "Well then, enough said and time to go, children. Your limping shepherd craves Polly's pastries and coffee, it's the last day of the year, after all …"