"Professor Merrythought, gentlemen," I say and take a seat, even though I'd rather drop dead than choke on my own nausea while toasting with those present …
"This kind of indulgence won't get us expelled, will it?" one of the Hufflepuffs chuckles, pointing at his glass.
Dumbledore is so keen on watching me that I can't even roll my eyes at these uninspired badger attempts at clarification.
"Cole," Dippet already cackles, "what happens at the Slug Club –"
"Never stays there, Armando," Merrythought cuts him off, "after about one day, all of Hogwarts knows …"
"Oh, my dear Galatea, is our reputation really preceding us like that?" Slughorn asks.
Of course it is, heavens! "I'm afraid so, sir."
"And Tom must know," Dippet adds, nodding in amusement.
"But let's not forget that for Tom," Professor Merrythought chimes in, "Witch Weekly was also partly to blame for some whispering in the corridors."
"Ah." Dumbledore nods like a generous priest and still manages to glance at me in an almost scrutinising way. "The picture taken at the Yule Ball, right?"
"You should have made a friendlier face, Mr Riddle," Merrythought finds, "you might have won the award for the most charming smile."
"No, ma'am," I'm quick to reply, "not that evening. Neither with Rouvenia nor with Harper next to me I would've had the slightest chance."
Merrythought leans back a bit. "Don't be coy, Riddle, I'm sure the ladies also asked you to put on a smile for the press."
"If they couldn't succeed in that endeavor, maybe no one ever can," Dumbledore agrees ever so reverently, but I've been hearing that reprimanding undertone for years and am allergic to it.
So I hold his gaze – the silent indictment of human's wrong above me, and yet I wonder what I ever did to him to deserve such tedious suspicion.
"Tell me, Tom," Dippet startles me out of my gloomy thoughts, "speaking of her – where did you leave Ms Sullivan tonight?"
"Oh – she's likely writing the same essay that kept me from arriving on time as well," I claim, not having the faintest idea where she is though.
"She was so sad when you were absent after the holidays," Slughorn informs me. "I'm glad you're feeling better now."
"I'm just as glad, sir," I affirm, barely managing to prevent myself from gasping.
Suddenly, breathing seems so hard. My body hates me …
"A sore throat – I recommend tobacco," Dippet laughs it off, offering me a cigarette from the case that was placed right next to the card game until now.
It's undoubtedly the worst possible idea, but then again, how could I feel any worse …
"You smoke, Tom?" Dumbledore asks, just like a walking guilty conscience.
"And suddenly you drink, too," Merrythought cheerfully adds, winking at my glas.
"Exceptions are said to prove the rules," I all but reply and let the headmaster light my cigarette. "And I suppose …" I nod to the cards. "Neither could I deny a round of blackjack if I'm interested in becoming Head Boy next year."
"Indeed, Tom, that's the way it goes," Dippet confirms in boyish mischief and begins to shuffle the cards while we are at it.
"You know the game, Riddle?" Cole asks in honest surprise, his grin as stupid as expected. "I had no idea! Thought you pureblooded Slytherins hated all Muggle matters."
Of course he thinks I'm a pureblood. And why correct what can be part of the myth …
"Cole, aren't you Hufflepuffs excellent finders?" I ask a counter-question, taking a deep drag of my cigarette in naive hopes that it might actually help me open up my lungs again.
"Yeah, we are," he claims. "Why?"
"Because," I proceed, drawing one of the ashtrays closer, "you may discard your generalisations and continue searching for the truth about Slytherin and pureblood matters."
"That's right!" Slughorn even claps his hands before pointing around the room. "Look, Mr Cole, do you see how many Slytherins are dancing to the Muggle swing? We are entirely unbiased!"
"As are ravens, and now there's one arriving at last," Merrythought rejoices, but I've already seen Harper myself.
The gramophone makes Louis Jordan start singing Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby, all while my already heavy breathing is joined by an unhealthy mixture of anger and childish obsession.
Because why the hell is Raymond, of all people, by her side? As soon as I put Dean in his place, the next moron follows? After a last drag I stub out the cigarette with unnecessary force because … how can she wear that outrageous burgundy red dress looking as ravishing as Persephone in spring?
"She's even more tardy than you, Mr Riddle," Dippet jokes, ensuring I put on a good-humoured smile again as well.
I got a gal who's always late
Any time we have a date
But I love her
Yes, I love her …
"Sir, whatever I think I can do – she's doing it better."
Merrythought chuckles and, for once, Dumbledore also seems to support a realisation of mine in an unusually unbiased way …
I'm gonna walk right up to her gate
And see if I can get it straight
'Cause I want her
I'm gonna ask her …
"Ms Sullivan, here we are!" Merrythought calls out to her until she catches sight of us despite the loud music. She seems to apologise to Raymond before approaching us.
"Tom at the Professors' table?" She beams and – I'll need to thank her for this – parades us just like they wish to see our duo, even beyond Dumbledore's doubts. "Planning for the seventh year to become Head Boy, huh?"
"Bravo, you two must have conspired to both mention it – that's how politics works," Dippet laughs with Slughorn.
"Oh, no conspiracy at all," Harper is quick to comment, "but it would certainly be an honour for him to fulfill this responsibility for Hogwarts as Slytherin's Prefect. Wouldn't it, Tom?"
I nod, a little sourly. "I couldn't have put it better."
She lets her hands rest on my shoulders and leans forward a little to glance at the table. Then she advises the group, "I'm warning you, though! Do not gamble with Tom Riddle – he grew up in Soho and certainly knows a trick or two."
I struggle not to let my irritation show.
"Soho?" Slughorn repeats at once. "Tom, your accent can't deny London, but I didn't know any more than that!"
"Nomen est omen, Professor, I suppose my surname demands a certain enigmatic reticence."
"Fortunately, mine doesn't," Harper adds with utmost satisfaction.
Visibly pleased by my suppressed anger, she pats me on the back again, telling the table, "Excuse me – Tom isn't too fond of dancing, but Raymond and I are ever since before the holidays …"
"Due to our bottle game, perhaps?" Slughorn asks in awe.
"Yes, sir – exactly."
She's fully aware that her angelic appearance, the mention of Soho and the fact that she's now even using Raymond will draw me to her tonight. She knows when she leaves me to the table and the cards again, and that's what makes it so incredibly pretentious.
"Well then," I hear Dippet cackle, "who dares to play?"
"Albus," Slughorn says, "are you playing with Tom and me? Armando as croupier?"
"How could I deny you such a wish, Horace."
"Your bets then, gentlemen," Dippet demands, "if you please …"
"The good Whisky," Slughorn says with a heavy heart.
"Albus?" Dippet asks, winking.
"What will it be, Armando? The piano in my classroom that hasn't been used in years?"
"I couldn't even play that, I have something much better in mind! Boggarts – you hate them, I know, but it's such an funny lesson each time!"
I can't stand Dumbledore, yet boggarts I hate even more …
"Tom," I hear the former say and see an enquiring glance on his face, "what do you think your boggart would look like by now?"
"Who knows, maybe it'd be a rabbit?" I ponder aloud, looking at him with the same supposed amusement like him. "What would yours be, sir?"
I know what it would be. And yet he's lying to my face.
"I have a certain aversion to fire. It might be because my phoenix keeps dying in it … But you don't seem entirely sincere, Tom."
I raise my eyebrows in anticipation because playing cat and mouse with Albus Dumbledore never gets old …
"You're much more afraid of the idea of dancing, aren't you?"
He needn't read my mind to assume that, I can only imagine that I practically drip with agony whenever I glance into the direction of the cheerful Slug Club guests …
"Armando," Dumbledore says, "as far as I'm concerned – a boggart lesson. And clearly Mr Riddle has to dance in case the house wins."
"Your chances are good," I tell Professor Dippet in quite some lethargy, "they say the house will always win. Lucky at cards –"
"Unlucky in love," Dumbledore gravely completes, and he seems to be speaking from experience.
I never wanted to allow that thought because it was never part of my life. But maybe I have to start admitting to myself that the power of love is not to be underestimated when it cuts wounds so deep, even for a man like Dumbledore.
Meanwhile, Dippet reshuffles the cards, three decks in total, and begins to fulfill his role as croupier.
Slughorn is dealt a Queen of Hearts, Dumbledore a 4 of Diamonds, I a 9 of Spades, Dippet as croupier gets a 7 of Clubs.
Now another round of cards is dealt face up to each of us.
Slughorn receives a 3 of Clubs, Dumbledore an Ace an of Diamonds.
"Horace," Dippet says, "hit or stand?"
"Hit."
"Brave," Dippet approves, dealing another card. An 8 of Spades. Dippet shrugs his shoulders. "Bust, my friend."
Slughorn lets out a sigh and vows to bring the bottle of Whisky to the headmaster's office tomorrow, but first, he pours us all a generous refill and lights another cigarette for Dippet and me.
The headmaster soon proceeds to scrutinise Dumbledore. "Well, Albus? Shall it be a 1 or an 11, your Ace?"
"A 1," Dumbledore firmly replies. "Let's play."
"Good, good …" Dippet proceeds to reveal a 9 of Diamonds – which adds up to 14. "Do you still wish to play?"
I'm eyeing Dumbledore just as intently as everyone else around the table.
"Maybe I'll be luckier than our Potions Master," he finally says, leaning back all relaxed. "Hit."
Dippet nods, revealing a Jack despite a confident poker face.
"That makes two unlucky fellows!" And Dippet isn't one bit mad about it.
"Now you, Tom." He leans quite a bit over the table as though we were about to start a rebellion. "Sixteen out of 21 – hit or stand?"
"Hit," I hear myself say.
Dippet smirks. "Are you sure?"
"Always."
He nods – and hands me a 3 of Hearts.
That was luck.
That's 19 …
"All right," Dippet says, clearly entertained. "And now what? Hit or stand?"
This time it would be foolish. "Stand."
Now it's out of my hands – the outcome of the game depends entirely on what Dippet uncovers next.
He exposes a 4 of Spades.
That makes 11.
As a croupier, he has to draw until he reaches at least 16 and is no longer allowed to do so once he has passed 17.
If he draws too low and needs another card, it is quite likely that he'll exceed 21 and loses. However, if he draws between 7 and 10, he wins.
He eagerly picks up the next card and looks at it, only to immediately groan with laughter, putting a 6 of Diamonds onto the table.
That makes 17, and he's no longer allowed to draw.
My sum is 19 – with that, I win.
"So Ms Sullivan was right about your knack for cards," Merrythought states, winking at me. "But perhaps you still ought to also mingle with the younger crowds, despite your win …"
I should sleep for four days straight and not push my aching body to its limits, but instead, yes … I'd better use my best opportunity to get away from that table and talk to Harper.
So, seemingly hesitant, I stub out my cigarette and thank Slughorn and the other players. Tapping my imaginary hat, I do my very best not to let on that every step from there seems almost impossible given the dizzy state I'm in.
Basically, only Raymond's stupid face keeps me going. I detest the way he's looking at Harper, he's going to feel that in due time – unless she kills me first …
Because as soon as she notices me, her eyes narrow.
Slughorn, that blind bat, doesn't see this, of course, and instead of staying out of it, he's reaching deep into the trick box as master of the gramophone. So Tired, breathed by Kay Starr, is apparently supposed to help Harper and me to a tender moment – but far from it.
"You," she hisses as soon as I'm within earshot, right before turning to Raymond. "Would you give us a minute, please?"
So tired of waiting for you.
So tired of longing for you.
Tired of waiting,
Saving my love for you.
Raymond takes a deep breath and graciously nods, I wish I could just curse him out.
"If you please," I say to Harper, our only option for a reasonably well-disguised conversation is, indeed, a dance.
She wraps her arms around my shoulders with a grim look on her face, but she has no idea how much that touch, just for a brief moment there, feels like salvation. Like a break from absolutely everything between heaven and hell. As though my soul were untouched, not torn or symbolically bleeding out, drop by drop …
Almost glad to be able to hold on to her, I put my hands around her hips, and immediately she's startled.
My hands are ice-cold, colder than usual – perhaps I should've warned her.
"Are you clinically dead now?" she acidly asks, however sorrow is written all over her face.
"A little, I suppose," I reply, holding her gaze.
I know her inside out – that's the only reason I see the concern for me she tries so hard to hide. I also know how, despite her anger, she's hurt above all else.
Hurt because we could be perfect – and yet I'm running away, even if my arguments for that seem to be utterly invalid right now.
So tired of dreaming daydreams.
So tired of only play schemes.
Why don't you call me,
Call me tonight my dear.
"I've got a bone to pick with you," she informs me after a few moments in which we both wish things were entirely different again.
"Start picking …" I invite her, my voice sounding gruff – I try to fill my lungs in vain, it seems, and it clearly worries her.
"Tom," she says under her breath, "you look like you're about to faint – what are you doing?"
"All is well," I claim, forcing myself to smile for her. Her touch alone gives me chills, the sight of her pretty face makes the piercing pain in my soul immediately more bearable. "What's upset you?"
"Pretty much everything you've done in the last few weeks, especially all the things I don't even know about," she hisses, "but for now, let's talk about Leonora and Dean!"
Oh, I could have seen that coming …
"How could you read her mind and go after him with an Unforgivable? That's unacceptable and you know it!"
"I told you what it takes in the Room of Requirement – you have to want it –"
"But why would you want that? I told you not to curse in my name!" She shakes her head in utmost dismay. "I just don't get you! You run away from me, but then you manipulate my every interaction? That's manic, Tom, you can't have it all!"
"Might be," I admit, feeling a suffocating warmth bubble up inside me simply because I can't take my eyes off her pretty lips.
"You're pushing me away and pull me back, all at the same time," she whispers, making my eyes meet hers with honest regret. "And you claim you cannot love me, but you look at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"The same way you always do, Tom! You're clearly overestimating the information from Little Hangleton!"
We sway to Kay's voice, but when she's replaced by Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps, Harper's instantly mad at the cursed lyrics.
"Like I asked," she grumbles, forcing herself to smile right when the Professors glance our way.
You won't admit you love me,
And so how am I ever to know?
You always tell me,
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps …
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she hisses, I just grimace.
"Don't you remind me of the incestuous Gaunts –"
"But you're acting like a Marvolo!" she retorts. "You'll never read Leonora's mind again! You won't touch Dean again! And you won't think about hurting Raymond either, you won't hurt anyone, you –"
"I don't give a damn about Raymond," I claim, "as though you'd seriously consider getting involved with someone as simple-minded –"
"But with Dean?" she lets her voice cut across mine. "You think with Dean I'd –"
"As a Ravenclaw, he'd at least use his brain now and then."
"Maybe I'd just rather have company that won't think through absolutely everything up to the point of unconsciousness!"
"Don't be ridiculous, darling," I sigh, "you need someone to challenge you like that."
"Darling," she mumbles, shaking her head. "You're so cruel, Tom … You're not challenging me for the better, you're encouraging the insanity in me!"
"I've been told that for as long as I can remember," I admit, "and that's exactly what I was trying to save you from."
"You'd better trust her to make her own informed choices – weren't those your words to Dean? You'll also have to leave it up to me to decide what I want to be protected from. Apart from that, ever since you've been back here, you keep getting in my way …"
"We run into each other all the time!"
"Tom, you asked me for this dance," she shoots back and, while turning, manoeuvres us into an alcove where we can finally stop our charade because no one is watching anymore. "You wish to talk to me every time we see each other, but apparently, you've made a decision to the contrary a few weeks ago," she whispers. "But then, for heaven's sake, stay the hell out of my business!"
So if you really love me, say yes.
But if you don't dear, confess.
And please don't tell me,
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps …
"To be quite honest, I thought it'd be easier," I state, surprising myself by that amount of transparency. "Avoiding you."
"Oh did you now?" I really wish anger didn't suit her so well … "You know what seemed to be easy for you? Leaving me all alone after the most beautiful night and the most traumatic day of my entire life, as if I'd never even meant anything to you!"
"Harper –"
"You've just disappeared!" she hisses. "You won't let me be there for you! The uncertainty of whether you were alright has literally torn me apart, Tom! Can you even imagine that?"
I know that feeling terribly well by now …
"You lifted me up to heaven and glorified me as your Freudian Madonna," she mumbles in a mixture of courage and despair. "Only to then realise that my supposed holiness, that only ever existed in your brillant stupid head anyway, was too pure for any blemish! I'm no better than you are, and yet you have the audacity to claim that you're a bad influence! Or …" She narrows her eyes. "Or was it the fact that I was suddenly the exact opposite of the Madonna for you? Do you think I'm tainted now and –"
"Of course not, you're perfect, don't act as though you believed that for one second," I demand, inching much closer and finally – finally! After all this coldness, her body warmth literally radiates through me again. "Of all my earthly sins, that one I will never regret."
She looks at me with her familiar, searching gaze, and my hand moves to cup her cheek out of sheer reflex.
She almost stops breathing, closing her eyes in obvious frustration for a moment there, until she feels me lean my forehead against hers.
"I wanted to, but I can't regret it either," she whispers, sternly looking up at me. "But everything that followed was so confusing."
I know it was, but at that very moment I'm hit by an unexpectedly intense wave of nerve pain. My body seems to want to die in darkness for good, and I force myself to lean against the wall behind us just in time to avoid losing my balance.
"Tom, look at me," she whispers, and before I can even realise it, she's already turning my face to hers herself, literally staring into my eyes. "Your irides," she says under her breath. "I could swear your irides were red like blood for a second …"
"What are you talking about," I moan and likely grimace at the migraine aura that makes my guts churn.
"You belong in the Hospital Wing –"
"No!" I shake my head immediately. "I'm fine, Harper, I –"
"You're not! You're lying again." She eyes me in dismay, then she tries her luck with Legilimency in vain …
"Don't you dare, Harper! Occlumency was practically put in my cradle, spare us such clumsy attempts!"
"You're right, actually," she snaps back, "I can hardly bear watching what I already see."
She leaves me to go back to Raymond, her quick glance back giving testament to her anger and fear for me – but nothing was ever more wasted than that …
Quick confession of guilt:
The song Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby by Louis Jordan is actually from 1944, and Charley My Boy in the last chapter was published in 1924, but the version by Louis Prima & Keely Smith wasn't released until 1949. But I like the songs :D Just like Kay Starr's So Tired from 1948 and Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps from 1947 – sorry, Hogwarts must have been playing around with Time-Turners …