"Tom, marvelous – you brought Ms Sullivan." Slughorn swiftly opens the door to his lofty office and, with his ever so high spirits, asks us to enter. "A new arrival, and such a creative one at that!"

And the only one so far – there's nobody here but us …

"Not at all, Professor," Harper firmly protests, "you are at least as creative a mind."

"Well, that might be so, maybe it is why I'm so looking forward to our first games evening!" He beams, proceeding to offer, "Something to drink?"

"Thank you, no," we say with one voice, but this, of course, causes the Professor to chuckle.

"You want to keep your wits about you, I see."

"That might be so, sir." Harper circles his drinks cabinet and watches him pour himself a whisky. "But don't let us stop you."

"Well …" He looks up at her indecisively. "How old are you again, my dear?"

"Still sixteen, sir," she replies.

"Well, well," he hums aloud, "that means you're almost of age in our wizarding circles, doesn't it?"

"Almost, sir."

Now irrevocably apodictic in his actions, he pours her a whisky, too – and insists. "Ms Sullivan, have a toast with me, then! For once, at least, since you are new to our club." He winks. "After all, Tom denies me that each and every time."

"He can be quite stoic, can't he?"

"Oh yes, you speak a true word."

"I was very surprised by your invitation, though," she admits as she accepts the glass. "I feel very honored to be here."

"Yes, yes … I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner, my dear," he quips, almost caught off guard.

He knows it perfectly well. I know it as well as she knows it.
She simply lacks a headline-grabbing, long-established family ….

"But when Tom mentioned that the games evening was your idea …" Slughorn waves it off casually. "Frankly, by then my invitation had practically been sent."

Games were the most efficient hook to get chirpy Slughorn to send out an invitation – however only even more reluctantly I'll be attending the club from now on.

"To games then," she replies, raising her glass. Her pretty little fingers would be quite suitable for playing the piano, it intrusively crosses my mind. If they weren't so intuitive, at least. "And to freedom? That's what my father likes to drink to."

"Oh, is it possible I know your father?" Slughorn asks, immediately hungry for sensation.

"I don't think so, sir, no. My parents live very reclusive lives."

"Ah, that's wise, of course," he claims.

Except for this conversation, it remains pleasantly quiet. Far too quiet, and there must be a reason for that …

"Sir," I therefore begin when the two have toppled their glasses, "where have you hidden the other guests?"

"Oh, they'll be here in a minute, Tom," Slughorn assures. "I had asked the others to come a little later."

"And for what reason, may I ask?"

"Oh, Tom, to be perfectly honest – I was hoping to find out whether, after our Amortentia lesson the other day, you and Ms Sullivan might have become … well, a little more than –"

"Friends?" Harper gives him a nonchalant smile. "No, sir."

Slughorn looks to me now, perplexed, as though he'd better have it confirmed again.

"We are friends, Professor," I tell him.

That's what we'd discussed, right from the start. No talk, no fuss. We just want the password to Dippet's office, with as little gossip and as few traces of the truth as possible …

"That's quite sobering," Slughorn finally comments. The old mole surely wants to dig – I expect it, yet it's maddening unhelpful … "Ever since all of Hogwarts saw you two dancing at our Yule Ball a year ago, I've honestly kept hoping for tender bonds between you."

"Really? Oh well!" Harper laughs softly, as though she could hardly believe it, and I channel acted surprise as well.

"Yes, yes, and just think of your photograph Ms Blishwick put into her article – Tom had told Witch Weekly about inter-house friendships, after all," Slughorn adds. Like in light of that, the tide might turn.

I all but smile. "Professor, I thought it wise to reuse the wording from our Headmaster's speech – that's all."

"I see," Slughorn sighs, giving us one last nod. "But rumour has it that you did spend the Christmas holidays together after all?"

"We did, sir," Harper confirms, "as friends."

"Well, let's just not count the chickens before they are hatched. What is not, may yet be …"

We are lucky this conversation ends at that point, as other guests finally also knock on the old wooden door.

"Oh, we've got company!" Slughorn rejoices, opening to a cheerful bunch of pure-blooded faces at once.

It's like indirect proportionality to me. One would think that those born with ideal prerequisites for success in life – wealth, a surname of reputation, a family – would seize their opportunities. But the opposite is the case. Those who have nothing want more from life. And those who have everything early on seem completely satiated.

But not when it comes to Slughorn's whisky. Harper and I finally exchange tired glances after about half an hour of nerve-racking rambling here and there.

"You were right," she whispers to me once we managed to move aside. We're both watching the room at a barely perceptible distance. She continues to smile demonstratively when she admits, "It's not at all desirable to be here …"

"It's yet to get worse," I retort. "But the more confusion there is, the more chances are left for us."

She nods, mischief gleaming in her eyes, and I know she would love to take my hand right now. Even I would love to touch hers …

But then someone is knocking on the door again.

"That must be Mr Black and Greene!" Slughorn joyfully informs us all, magically opening the door from afar.

"Orion and Raymond?" Harper mumbles to me. "Either one would be a disaster, but both in a bunch? Goodness – shoot me, Tom …"

"Your father would only shoot me in return," I wanly reply as Orion and Raymond already think it to be a good idea to approach us equipped with glasses.

"Well, look who's here!" Raymond couldn't frown any worse. "You two really are as thick as thieves, eh?"

"Raymond, how nice to see you breathing again." I give him a dark smirk. "But perhaps some choking has clouded your mind. Black right next to you is wearing wicked green, in case you've missed it …"

"For a community of interest, I'll put up with Slytherin," he claims, probably wanting to break my nose right now.

"You hear that, Black?" I ask in obvious mock excitement. "In case of need, Gryffindor will graciously put up with our house. You must have made quite an impression on Raymond if you've got him into such a conflict of loyalties."

"Let's just say we have some things in common – for instance, we dislike the same people," Orion explains, eyeing me extensively.

And I can't help but grin. "How interesting, but do you really want to tell me of all people more about that?"

"Harper, why don't you tell us something." Orion turns away from me on that cue. "How did you make it here?"

"To the Slug Club?" She bats her eyelashes. "I'm a little offended by the mere question. When you yourself are here thanks to nothing but your surname …"

"Let's call a spade a spade," Raymond suggests. "You little Jezebel are only here because you let Riddle –"

"Oscausi!" I promptly curse his mouth away – which is why, unfortunately, he can't continue. "Ray, we've been over this before," I then say as he's grabbing his face in horror. "You'd really do well to choose your words wisely, that is, if it's ever possible for you again after tonight …"

"Undo that immediately!" Orion hisses, though he's quite pale around the nose. "Or I'll call for Slughorn!"

"Oh – I quiver with fear."

"Leave it." Harper wearily smiles, tapping her wand at Raymond's now receding mouth. "As impertinent as he may be, he's Leonora's brother. He has yet to reconcile with her with that mouth …"

Relieved to be unharmed, but still visibly angry at the mere suggestion, Raymond rubs his lips, shaking his head.

"You don't even mind what he tried to insinuate about the two of you," Orion snorts, looking down at Harper. "So it must be the truth."

"You know what really bothers me?" she retorts. "That the two of you are ignorant enough to assume I care one bit about your opinions."

Raymond gives us a gloomy frown yet again before he finally seems convinced enough to move out of our way.

Orion, on the other hand, keeps on testing our patience. "You haven't changed," he whispers to Harper, "you're just as pretentious as you were at the ball."

"Please don't mention it," she shoots back, "I'm still desperately trying to forget where your hands were going that night."

Orion immediately points at me. "And Riddle's hands don't bother you?"

"Orion …" I give him a stern gaze. "Don't forget who you're talking to. And you'll hardly want to imply that I, unlike you, am incapable of keeping my hands to myself."

"My dears!" Slughorn's voice cuts through his high office ever so merrily, "let us gather round the table! Instead of dinner we're playing tonight! But fear not, one tradition we keep: Later we'll have some dessert!"

"What?" Raymond groans, now standing near the other end of the room. "Why not a complete dinner? Just dessert?"

"Fresh win, er … wind, young friend," Slughorn shouts with a slightly drunk wink, beckoning us to join him. "I have recently discovered a most extraordinarily fun game from the Muggle world. Come, come!"

This can only get worse.
And obviously the time has come for my Imperius …

"Oh, Orion, one more thing," I hence say, making him turn around again.

"Stop, wait!" Harper shouts, suddenly holding me by the arm. She stares at me as though she has just had some heavenly or hellish revelation.

Orion and I pause in irritation.

"Excuse me, just a thought," she says, vigorously shooing Black away. "Orion, go to the table already, will you?"

"What's wrong with you both?" he asks, walking over to the others muttering disgruntledly.

"Harper, what was that?" I stare at her. "I was just about to –"

"I know," she whispers, "but I just thought of something because of Slughorn, it might make your Imperius obsolete! Something I read last year, for one thing, in Witch Weekly –"

"Witch Weekly?" I frown. "Are you out of your mind? Why does everyone keep mentioning bloody Witch Weekly?"

"Listen to me! Dippet told Blishwick back at the Yule Ball that his favourite dessert was Crema Catalana. That was even printed as a direct quote! And back when we hardly knew each other and were reading the same book in the library – remember? There was that weird, cryptic note with the keywords 'gargoyle, access, favourite dessert'!"

I think it's too crazy to even be a possibility for a moment.
But then I envision it, too – the gargoyle at the entrance to Dippet's office.
Hogwarts always demands trivial passwords, even with its four houses.
I gradually nod and as I look at Harper, contentment settles in.

"Maybe you're right, that's good," I murmur. "You're right to be a raven."

She shrugs her shoulders. "Others might have faced the challenge of getting into the headmaster's office before. If my assumption is right, we shouldn't risk anything today. And if not … then we'll just repeat this evening."

"We will anyway, you won't make it out of the Slug Club again," I whisper as we finally make our way towards the table like the others.

She quietly says, "I guess a little mud between so much pure blood won't hurt." She winks. "But don't tell anyone."

"That you call yourself mud?"

She smiles at my reproving glance.

"Let's play!" Slughorn interrupts all conversations around the table, beaming joyfully at the group.

Sure.
Let's play …