"Tom! Finally!"
So close to midnight, I expected Harper to be in her pyjamas. But the way she's running out into the front yard just to reach me, wearing them, turns out to oddly move me.
No one has ever been waiting for me.
Not a soul but her has ever been so euphoric to see me.
And halfway there, I catch her in my arms – as though she were the cure for all my doubts and inadequacies in life. We embrace each other like we often do, yet we're aware that her parents are watching us in the doorway. Especially her father …
"Good night, Happy Easter!" William calls out just when we're probably taking a bit too long for his liking.
"Happy Easter, sir," I reply, pulling Harper along. With rather pink cheeks, she stays behind me as I greet her parents.
"Excuse me for showing up in the middle of the night …"
"Oh, Tom," Polly at once says, "we're glad you're back!" She squeezes me tightly, then William, trying to suppress a yawn, invites me into the house after a firm handshake and a wink.
"Harper mentioned you had some unfinished business. Were you successful?"
"Yes, sir." I wave it off immediately, hoping to avoid any further questions about it. "Yet none of it's worth mentioning, to be frank, and I can't possibly keep you from your night's rest any longer."
"Never mind, we can sleep when we're dead." Polly giggles before eyeing me warmly again. "But you seem rather tired, Tom. You know what? Leave your luggage here, we'll take care of it tomorrow. Harper has everything prepared for you in the attic, just go on up. I'll make you some tea and Harp can bring it up there and –"
"And then she'll go back to her own room, right," William adds ever so nonchalantly while Polly just rolls her eyes.
Harper, pinker than ever, all but sighs. "Sounds wonderful. Let's go then, shall we!"
"No cause for alarm, darling," I whisper right after apparating into her room.
When she brought up the tea to the attic, we knew well that William would continue to watch our every step. But an hour later, in the middle of the night and with no audible noise on the stairs, I'd gather we're unlikely to worry him.
She sits up in her bed at once, beaming at me in her wand's dim light.
"Colloportus!" she proceeds to close the door in a whisper before following it up with an Imperturbatio.
I can't help it – as she beckons me to her bedside, I simply smile because I'm suddenly more balanced than I was in days. As if the world were a good place. As if my roots, my heritage, were indifferent and my life had not long been predetermined by the turmoil of my ancestors.
"I've missed you," she whispers.
As did I, more than can be good … Yet her pretty, calming sight makes me all silent when I pull her into my arms, and when I glance at her lips, I can't help but kiss her – it's like an inner imperative.
We let ourselves drop onto the bed, she closes her eyes in my arms and I just know that tonight, after all the noise in my head, I, too, can find peace of mind beside her.
Her warm body against my skin is like my connection to solid ground. She grounds me. And I know my discoveries in the Nott archives and at Hogwarts could turn everything upside down. But right now, for this moment in time, I just want to forget who I think I'm supposed to be – to be who I actually am with her.
"Did you jinx your parents after breakfast?"
"Because we get to be in my room together with the door open?" She grins. "I don't know what they imagine we'd do anyway …"
"We both know that," I retort. "I for one haven't yet been able to forget the wildly unpleasant conversation with your father regarding unplanned conception …"
She buries her face in her hands as I let my fingers hover over various spines of books on the shelf in her room.
"Dorian Gray," I eventually say, taking the book out to flick through it. "What do you think of it?"
"What I think of handsome Dorian, who's willing to give up his soul for immortality? What might I think of such a character, Tom, huh? If it comes with the mordant cynicism of a certain Lord named Henry, I might even work up a crush on him after the exchange of initial hostilities and a salt shaker …"
My smile is wry when I read aloud, "Conscience and cowardice are really the same things, Basil. Conscience is the trade-name of the firm. That is all."
"Lord Henry is but a consummate hedonist – don't believe him, Dorian," Harper warns. "I prefer having a conscience and acting on it – that's victory over cowardice. For the right path requires courage."
"Have you a recently converted to Gryffindor?"
"Ravenclaws can be brave, too," she chuckles in protest. "Just like Slytherins …"
"You're forgetting a house."
"No." Winking she claims, "Hufflepuffs rarely have to be brave. No one would ever harm a badger. Who could bring themselves to threaten such friendly creatures?"
"An altogether lost one," I reply with conviction. Then I read out again, "Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. Oscar Wilde must know …"
"I guess so," Harper says. "He was sentenced to two years hard labour for loving whom he loved."
"Fate can be grim …" I join her, dropping onto the bed only to end up staring at the ceiling.
Everything is so easy with her. So bright and warm and ridiculously normal.
But without her … Without her I'm alone in the darkness of my world.
She lies right next to me, staring up as well, and soon she says, "On the train, Dean Hornby tried to explain to me – and in great detail at that – how I have to beware of you."
As much as I hate to admit it, Dean is apparently the voice of reason. And he's not alone in his opinion.
"What did you tell him?"
"That he'd better beware of me."
I grin in sheer surprise and turn to face her. "Neat."
"Show some teeth," she gravely says. "You taught me that."
"You have beautiful teeth," I almost whisper, "but do you know what you taught me?"
She's shaking her head.
"That I don't always have to use mine."
Her face lighting up is like a spark of hope in heavy fog. Little by little I'm drawn in towards it, as though I could still find my way.
Isn't Hepzibah Smith living proof that I can choose to do the classically right thing despite my heritage? Doesn't the Queen of Snakes testify to the fact that violence and hunger alone lead nowhere? Conscience and cowardice can't be the same thing, no. Such an utterly nihilistic view would otherwise stain any good endeavour in it's beginning.
Yet I soon say, "Harper, everyone at Hogwarts knows."
"What does everyone know?"
"That it's you and me." I bite my lips, then add, "And that I'm bad for you, while you're good for me."
She rolls her eyes while shaking her head. "What are you talking about?"
"Dean's right – there is dark magic surrounding me, Harper. I'm not good for you."
"You don't have to be good for me. I'm good for myself."
"Good enough for both of us?" I raise a brow.
"You wish, Riddle! No, I don't take responsibility for any of your misdeeds. And now tell me something I don't already know …"
"Well, sure. Ever since I saw your perfume here, I've been questioning my intellect. I always thought you just smelled like that."
"What?" she giggles. "Come on, seriously? That's what you thought?"
"I'm not proud of it either. What are you going to tell me about yourself in return?"
She thinks about it for a moment, then admits, "I'm allergic. Raw apples are really bad for me, and forget about intellect – every year I try to eat them again. And every year I almost choke to death."
"Why do you want to eat apples so badly?"
"The allure of the forbidden fruit, I guess …"
"Is that why you have Viper and Jeannie Harlow as pets? Because you're allergic to fur, too?"
She winks. "I'd actually be a classic cat person, wouldn't I?"
"An insolent Persian cat would be an excellent match for you."
"Quite the shame, yes. Good thing I at least have an insolent Tom Riddle around."
I'm just about to draw her closer to me to ruffle her hair when we hear Polly calling from downstairs.
"Children! Time for art!"
I mumble to Harper, "I've had plenty of art recently."
"Oh, stop it," she moans, "just don't mention it if you're not going to come clean about where you've been. Why am I doomed to constant guesswork with you?"
"You know what my name means."
She leans over me and taps the tip of my nose, it's utterly reproving. "Just because my name is Harper doesn't mean I have to play the harp until you lose your mind, does it?"
"Nothing's stopping you from trying …"
"What?"
"Nothing at all," Harper claims, stifling a laugh.
"I'm practicing solidarity," I say, continuing to devote myself to cleaning shotguns – just like William.
"It's just so bizarre," Polly adds, clearly amused. "We paint Easter eggs while you two clean guns."
"Men can do the cleaning, too – isn't that what you always say?" William asks his Polly with a wink.
"Yes, indeed, and you both do it beautifully."
Harper just shakes her head before mixing her colours. Polly has long since picked up her paintbrush, and there are also plenty of sandwiches in the middle of the dining table.
"Tom, why don't you eat something," Polly keeps encouraging me. "You could really put on a little more weight."
William replies, "How, though, with all that heavy thinking?"
Harper just closes her eyes in embarrassment, but she fails to realise that it's just this kind of terse humour from fathers that I've never known before. I can hardly help but smirk.
"Your cleaning could actually improve, Tom," Harper soon finds. "You should watch me paint less or paint an egg yourself."
"Thank you, I'm good," I hear myself say. And yet there's something almost meditative about watching the movements of her painting.
"Did you know that Easter eggs on the Feast of Resurrection have absolutely nothing to do with Christianity –"
"No, don't take away our illusions," Harper sighs. "But yeah, I also read once that it's actually a pagan symbol for fertility."
"Also for rebirth," I add.
"To celebrate the equinox, colourful eggs were hung up and given away in ancient times." She nods, lost in thought, as she's painting the last dots on her egg. "Do you know who I'll be giving mine to?"
"I don't need one, Harper."
"Not you, silly," she softly laughs.
"So my daughter is giving me her artwork," William triumphs.
"Sorry, no," she denies as well, "it's for Jeannie. She'll be thrilled to see such an exotic egg!"
"Tom, an owl is chosen over us," William concludes. "It's a good thing we're already getting the shotguns ready – we can remedy this right away when we take aim at the featherball."
"William!" Polly can't stop herself from laughing. "You can't shoot Jean Harlow!"
"If she doesn't fly away fast enough …"
"You couldn't bear to see me crying," Harper retorts, blissfully calm. "Jeannie keeps all her feathers."
And when there's a knock on the window pane in the living room, we all exchange surprised glances indeed.
"No way," William murmurs. "Speaking of the devil."
He gets up and strides over to the window to let Jeannie in, a letter in her beak.
"We were just talking about you, birdie," he says, stroking her feathers as she hops onto his shoulder and then lets him take the letter.
"Children, this is from … Azkaban?" He looks up, all perplexed. "What's Azkaban?"
"Oh, it's a charity," Harper responds, much quicker than I ever could have, smiling as she takes the letter from her father.
"Tom, shall we read it in the garden?" she then hastily asks, grabbing her painted egg. "I have to hang my Easter creation somewhere in the tree anyway …"
She nods promptly and I instantly force myself to put aside my irritated surprise at receiving mail from Azkaban.
"Sure." I start to move as she's already going ahead. To William and Polly I say, "We'll be right back …"