"Here's our magical boundary." I don't have to be very loud – she knows it herself as we reach the foot of the tower's spiral staircase.

For her common room and its view, Rowena truly chose a sublime, yet strategic location all these centuries ago. To this day, the green Highlands contrast a majestic sight into the sky, even more so now, whenever lightning flashes. The view from the common room must be even more imposing.

"I wish I could fall asleep next to you," Harper says under her breath. "Like in my parents' attic."

As before, that night's steady rain throbs against the old window panes around us, and the air, cleansed by heavy drops from above, smells of stone and the blood of the world.

But there's also a certain scent of cinnamon and amber that surrounds me. More so in Harper's sudden embrace, right when she looks up at me with a smile. At least until I don't want to hold back any longer and simply kiss her.

I cup her face in my cold hands as though I had to protect her from the night, possibly from dangers worse, so I keep her close for a few more heartbeats.

Yet I see the question that troubles her clouding her pretty features.

Why the hasty departure from the bathroom earlier?

I can't answer that.

I can't present her with a conjecture that might be fatal. If I'm right in my assumptions about the Chamber, about the Basilisk – then she must never know.

Wasn't it Salazar's declared aim to keep students just like her away from this very place we both call home? To poach the school from their talent for fear of being betrayed by the other of our worlds?

If there really is a centuries old serpent living within the school's complex, and if worse comes to worst, and Harper investigates further for my sake, there's no doubt she'll be unsafe.

Whatever she feels for me must inevitably turn into the opposite if I'm right with my theories.

A muggle-born witch in love with an Heir of Slytherin?
The thought itself seems all absurd.

But still, she wants to know it. Why the hasty departure from the bathroom?

Yet there can be no answer, she suspects it, and hence she doesn't even bother to utter the question.

In silence I send my fervent wish out into the darkness. May she never think about it again. It's as naive as wishes get …

With her eyes taking in every glimpse of life in my face, I just can't help but think of Kafka.

He's said to have written in a letter:
When you stand before me and look at me, what do you know of the pain in me and what do I know of yours. And if I were to prostrate before you and weep and tell you, what would you know more of me than of hell when someone tells you it is burning and dreadful? For this reason alone we all ought to stand before each other as reverently, as thoughtfully, as lovingly as before the gates of hell.

What's the use of sharing my thoughts? Why worry her when I'm not sure myself …

"You know what," she soon whispers, startling me out of my reveries, "I'll go through the Ravenclaw books and try to find something about the Gaunts."

I shake my head. "You need to sleep, Harper."

She gives me a nonchalant glance of resignation. "As though you were going to sleep …"

I nod, and I lie. "I'll check the books in the dungeon."

"Good night then, Tom." She steals one last, fleeting kiss from me, then her swift steps follow the tower stairs.

And mine soon carry me to the hallway where our evening after the Slug Club began. Because in the middle of the night, shortly before dawn, only in the case of extremely unfavourable stars will anyone be in the girls' bathroom – so it's now or never.

I look around one last time, then I enter, walking into the interior. At first, I pass an old cupboard in the corridor, then the way leads me into the round lavatory again.

The voice has never been louder than here.
Never closer.
And still I pause to ask myself what I'm actually doing, I almost feel like a murderer returning to the scene of a crime that hasn't even been committed yet.

To my right, candles burn in small glass caskets above the restrooms, illuminating nothing but cobwebs. From the braced windows on all sides, however, pale light shines onto the rows of white basins in the main room.
For a moment, my thoughts linger right where Harper was standing tonight. And as if on impulse, I slowly walk towards that spot myself. At the basin next to it I come to a halt, until the metallic grate beneath the old marble groans beneath me.

I can only wonder what one might have seen in that tarnished mirror throughout the years. Right now, I only see myself in it. But do I see madness? In the end, I might really be making all this up, getting lost in myths and legends about Basilisks and ancient gossip …

But while I'm here, I might as well wash the dust off Dippet's yellowed files from my hands.

I open the tap. Nothing happens.
No water's running.
With a raised brow, I try the next sink, the one I pulled Harper away from a few hours ago, and this is where I get to wash my hands.

Then I walk in circles, literally, pacing back and forth, looking up at the high ceiling, even peeking into a restroom or two, as if secretly expecting deadly eyes to seal my fate at any moment.
But what do I expect? Shed snake skin, bones of rats?

I see nothing. None of it.

A raw impulse wants me to just speak Parsel. I could probably call it, the old snake. And not to do it, to remain silent instead, burns in my soul, but what would happen next? Am I prepared?

Do I really want to awaken the very monster that was so keen on finding me?

No sound passes my lips. It would be foolish now.

Maybe I wasn't lying earlier.
Maybe I'll indeed just read books in the dungeon to see if there's anything more in there about supposed catacombs that likely house a Basilisk.

Until I know all about it – and exactly who I am – I won't wake sleeping dogs. And certainly not sleeping snakes …

There was not even a glimpse of information to be found in the dungeon, neither on the Gaunts nor on any other open subject, and Harper's research was no better in the tower.

Hence, as so often, there was nothing left to do but visit Madam Pince in her realm. But even the library – and Harper and me in there for days – soon proved to be equally unhelpful. The hallowed halls of Hogwarts literature were getting us nowhere. No clues – just plenty of frustration.

That's unlikely to change today, yet Harper seems in good spirits. Even much too early in the morning when I have but little tolerance for conversation … But I can hardly be mad at her when she's pouting for once.

"So there I was, way past midnight, sitting on the floor", she babbles over breakfast. We're far away from everyone else at the Slytherin table, and Elliott probably hasn't even made it out of bed yet. "Between countless books, stacked on top of each other, manically skimming through pages in the middle of a futile genealogy research on the Gaunts – and what of all things does she ask?"

I nudge her flow of words with a 'Huh?' as I let a toast float my way.

"Harper," she imitates Myrtle's voice, "tell me, is it possible that Tom Riddle kissed you the other day? I could swear it was him."

"So?" I give her a weary look. "Was it me?"

She crosses her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes while I just chuckle to myself and continue reading bits and pieces of the Daily Prophet. Between headlines about Grindelwald, pumpkin recipes and made up stories about infamous pure-blood families – groundbreaking – I ask, "So what did you answer?"

"I wanted to know whether she was still comfortable in the Prefects' bathroom." She takes a dramatic bite off her honey toast.

"Very probate, darling, subtle blackmail …" I nod, soon again lost in thought, when suddenly Elliott throws himself on the bench beside me.

I wouldn't have expected him anytime soon, and for good reason. He yawns extensively.

"Your hand," I moan, "use it …"

He couldn't care less and simply lets his gaze wander from Harper to me. "Why?"

"I was just involuntarily examining the inside of your stomach, Ell."

"Oh, don't be such a cynic, you morning person," he all but quips, jerking the Daily Prophet out of my hands ever so casually. "Are you two even aware that you look like an old married couple?" There goes his grin. "He tries to read the news, she won't stop talking …"

"Apparently you're taking over both these roles now," Harper aptly states, already getting up with a wink. "See you in the library this afternoon, Riddle?"

"Where else would our witty model student ever be?" Elliott answers after my nod.

I watch her leave the Great Hall, meanwhile Elliott has fully woken up, chattering incessantly about the contents of the newspaper.

"Oh, and rumour has it Slughorn missed you at the club party last night."

"What?" I listen up for once. "But I was there …"

"Yeah, but suddenly you weren't anymore. And do you know who else went missing?"

"Spare me," I groan.

"I'd love to, but that still won't stop the others from talking." Elliott wiggles his eyebrows. "Since you two were photographed for Witch Weekly, everyone knows anyway …"

"Knows what?"

He who asks leads, Elliott knows the game.

And therefore, unfortunately, doesn't play along as motivated as I'd wish anymore. "You know what everyone knows. I know it. You know it …"

"Myriads of potential topics, issues and dichotomies and that's what people care about?"

"I don't even know what myriads are," Elliott informs me without any concern, "so yeah – people are interested in shallow waters. You'll have to think through your heavy topics including dichotomies on your own."

Not quite. At least Harper also likes to do that, and that makes two of us …
Which, again, is apparently exactly what four houses and a faculty of Professors whisper about.

Nevertheless, my gaze soon lingers on a certain headline. "Could've thought about that myself," I mutter, pointing to the relevant passage.

Elliott eyes the paragraph in the Daily Prophet, too, he reads a few lines and then looks up with questions all over his face. "What?"

"Azkaban … They ought to have archives, don't they?"

"I … think so?" Elliott shrugs. "A prison needs to have some, right?"

"Indeed, and where would you inevitably end up if you were known for multiple acts of malicious violence, animal cruelty and vulgar insults even while still a minor …"

He grins at me. "Are you that annoyed so early in the morning? Already contemplating countless deaths again?"

I wanly smile. "Nah, the reaper will have to wait – I'm busy."

Azkaban. Time to write some charming prose …