The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

“One day, someone will hug you so tightly that all your broken pieces will fit back together.”

“Give me the map,” the man demanded irritably. He was driving a weathered family car down a backroad somewhere in the European countryside. The middle-aged blonde in the passenger seat curled her lips. “What do you need a map for? You have the GPS.” “Can’t you see it’s glitching in this wilderness!” “Your brain is what’s glitching,” the woman snapped. “You’ve driven us into the middle of nowhere!” Judging by the bickering, they were a long-married couple on a “wonderful” family vacation. The man rolled his eyes and reached for the glove compartment, taking his eyes off the road for just a second. Instantly, his wife shrieked, “A girl! Rene-e-e!” He jerked back, caught a glimpse through the dusty windshield, and slammed on the brakes with all his might while swerving. The car’s tires let out a wild scream, the nose plunged into some roadside bushes, and everything went still. The wife nearly hit her head on the open glove box, saved only by her seatbelt. It wouldn’t have hurt to knock some sense into that fool! He’d almost hit someone because of her! When he looked back, there was no girl on the deserted road. “Did we hit her?! Where did she go?!” the woman wailed. “Be a man, get out and look!” “You get out and look! This is all because of you!” Rene barked. His hands, gripping the wheel, were shaking violently. The woman immediately burst into tears. Cursing, the unlucky driver and even less happy husband climbed out and cautiously circled the car. He peered into the bushes, then walked back to where the tires had scorched zigzags into the white dust. Not a drop of blood, not a scrap of clothing—nothing. The car was perfectly fine, save for a few scratches from branches. “Mademoiselle? Er… Miss? Fraulein?” Rene tried every greeting he knew, but the only response was a woodpecker in the distance drumming against a dry trunk. Emboldened, his wife hopped out and inspected the road herself, clearly not trusting her bumbling husband who had almost led them into real trouble. “But I saw her myself, with my own eyes… curly hair, in a long dress!” “Wings… Did you notice wings?” Rene asked cautiously, half-expecting another round of insults. “Like… this big…” He gestured with his arms and looked at his wife. She nodded. Her eyes were so wide they looked ready to pop out. “And the light? She was glowing like a sunbeam! An angel… It was an angel of the Lord!” she suddenly realized. “Just as the angel blocked the path of Balaam’s donkey, she has blocked ours!” “You think so?” the downtrodden Rene asked. “Are angels even female?” “Of course they are! Haven’t you seen any movies?! We can’t stay on this road. We have to turn back! This is a sign from above!” Standing just two steps away, the girl giggled. She didn’t bother to hide it; they wouldn’t have heard her anyway. “Sure, I’m an angel… who else? By the way, his name wasn’t Balaam, it was Bilam ben-Beor.” Stunned to their core, the couple scrambled into the car and began a hasty U-turn. The girl narrowed her unusual amber eyes, pointed a dainty finger at the vehicle, and whispered something. The scratches on the hood vanished as if they had never existed. She paused for a second, then snapped her fingers. “Enjoy at least one day of peace and respect, you poor man… Still, I need to be more careful. It seems there are significantly more cars in the world now.” She turned in the opposite direction from the bickering pair and began a leisurely walk down the road. Neither the driveway, nor the bridge over the moat, nor the crested gates, nor the castle itself had changed a bit during her long absence. Her heart, which had been pounding mercilessly, ached and tightened as she reached for the bronze knocker. Home… was she finally home? A surly djinni opened the door and spent a few seconds frowning at the guest. Then, a smile stretched his fanged maw from one pointed ear to the other, and with a cry of “My Mistress!”, the fire spirit collapsed to his knees and pressed his forehead to her bare, dusty feet. “Abu… Stand up, my dear!” She grabbed his massive arm, forced him up, and hugged him. “My Mistress, my bright peri, you have returned!” he wailed, smelling of heat, sulfur, and ambergris. “The Master told us you had perished, and we all mourned you terribly.” “Father… is Father alive?” she asked with desperate hope. Stepping back, the djinni lowered his eyes and shook his head. “How long ago?” she asked, her voice tight. Expecting the loss didn’t make the pain any duller. “Almost immediately after you… after you disappeared. Where have you been, Mistress, for all these years? Why didn’t you let us know?” “I couldn’t. I didn’t have the right… I was bound by an oath. Have I been gone a very long time?” “By human standards—a lifetime. By ours…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his turbaned head. “What year is it, Abu?” “I only know the Suleiman calendar.” “Fine, let’s use the Suleiman date…” she agreed, her full lips moving as she calculated the difference in her head. “Seventy-five… Yes, that’s about what I thought. Time flows differently there, as you know…” The djinni nodded solemnly. Aola looked up at the castle’s squat tower and asked, “Who is running the place?” “Lady Gringualda and her son.” The girl nodded and smiled. “Immortal relatives are a rather unpleasant surprise for potential heirs, aren’t they, Abu?” The fire spirit roared with laughter, belching a small flame. “Did they mistreat you?” “I am not easily offended, Mistress. But by the Seal of King Suleiman, I am glad you are back to be the mistress here again. The house-elves will be so happy!” “And I am so happy too, Abu…” She hugged him tightly again and whispered, “I’ll visit Father first. Don’t tell my aunt yet; I’ll do it myself.” The djinni hesitated. “You… over there… Don’t be startled. I’ll clear it away, if you say so…” “What?” she asked, confused. “Well… your coffin.” “Coffin?” she said, surprised. “What did you put in there?” The djinni made a circular motion with two fingers around his head. “Ah… I see. Well, no matter. I’m not superstitious. I’ll just live longer,” she said with a bitter smile, heading across the sun-drenched courtyard toward the archway leading to the garden. The djinni waited until his mistress was out of sight, then flew into the air, did a couple of boyish somersaults, and raced into the castle to spread the news to the staff. The stone coffin of the Duke Merovingian stood next to her own. Aola read the dates on both, the epitaphs, and touched her father’s tomb with her hand. “Daddy… forgive me. And forgive Mama. I’m alive… Your little peri didn’t die. I couldn’t return before my time… But I thought of you every day. I remembered our talks, our arguments… and I missed you so much. God, how I missed you…” Her fragile shoulders shook; she sobbed and buried her face in her hands. Her soul felt so heavy with grief. When the tears finally ran dry, Aola took a shaky breath and wiped her cheeks with the hem of her dress, her nose turning a soft pink. Even suffering couldn’t strip the beauty from her perfect features; it only made her look more endearing. After composing herself, she said her goodbyes to her father, promising to visit more often, and headed for the castle. Alerted by Abu, the house-elves were scurrying about like mad, polishing the already spotless house until it gleamed. Seeing Aola, they threw themselves at her feet with cries of joy, and it took her quite a while to pet each one and offer a few kind words. Startled by the commotion, her aunt emerged from the study that once belonged to the Duke and nearly fainted right on the threshold. She had aged considerably compared to her niece, but she was still quite spirited. “Aola?!” “Auntie!” The girl stepped toward her, reaching out. “I’m alive.” “B-b-but how?!” The lady opened her arms for a relative’s embrace, squeezing Aola so hard her ribs practically cracked. It was hard to tell if she was genuinely happy about the unexpected resurrection or if she was checking to see if this was a ghost or a clever illusion. “Romuald will be so delighted!” Lady Gringualda exclaimed, though a hint of insincerity slipped into her voice, no matter how hard she tried to mask it. Aola gave a quiet snort… she could understand her relatives, of course. Her cousin was likely already making full use of their money and the various Merovingian treasures. He might have even changed his last name to ensure the title didn’t go to waste. He was only a Merovingian through his mother. And then, a surprise—hello, I’m alive, scoot your butt off the ducal throne. Besides, the family had never approved of her father’s progressive views, his free-spirited behavior, or his strange Eastern habits. And they certainly hadn’t approved of his choice of a wife. With some effort, Aola freed herself from her aunt’s grip and suggested they go to the study to discuss everything properly. Regardless of the circumstances, she was happy to be home and to see familiar faces. After explaining what had happened to her and why she couldn’t reach out sooner, the girl showered her aunt with the questions that were burning inside her: How did the war end? What is happening in the world of wizards and Muggles now? What happened to the men who tried to kill her? Her hunger for information was so intense that Gringualda, after talking a blue streak, sighed and suggested her niece look up modern history on their new invention—the In-ter-net. Meanwhile, the happy house-elves had piled the dining table high with delicacies and were sweetly inviting the young mistress to eat after her long journey. Over lunch, while tucking a napkin into her collar in the old-fashioned way, the aunt suddenly turned pale. She told Aola that about six months after her “death,” a very attractive young man had come looking for her. “Tom?!” the Lady asked hungrily, leaning forward and searching her aunt’s face. “Tom Riddle?!” “And imagine this—he didn’t even introduce himself,” the aunt spat. “He didn’t believe you were dead. He kept demanding to know if the funeral had been a fake.” Even though Tom had wiped the unpleasant parts of his visit from Gringualda’s memory, a vague sense of anxiety and dislike for the visitor remained. After all, she wasn’t a Muggle; she was a fairly powerful witch. “Give me his image…” Aola requested. Gazing into the searching, cold blue eyes of the memory, Aola bit her lip and clenched her hands, nearly bursting into tears once more. Tommy… Her sweet boy. Of course, it was him. Great Merovee, what has become of him?