The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

After lunch, Aola hinted to her aunt that since she, the Duke's direct heir, was alive, it wouldn't hurt to call a notary to restore her proper status and legal rights. In the meantime, she wanted to review her father's documents and records. "Of course, dear, of course... The study is at your disposal. I've already informed Romuald. I think you understand that we had given up hope... We were certain you had perished..." Gringualda pursed her lips. "And there were plenty of people eager to carve up my dear brother's inheritance. You know how many relatives you and Romi have." "I don't doubt that you took excellent care of everything, Auntie," Aola smiled, "and I'm very grateful to you for that." The girl wasn't being insincere. Gringualda was much younger than her father - born from her grandfather's second marriage - but she had possessed more than enough business savvy, strictness, and management skill since a very young age. She wouldn't have allowed the fortune to be squandered, even by her beloved but somewhat flighty son. Even Abu had remained in his place... despite the fact that her aunt disliked and slightly feared him. She clearly valued the djinni's efficiency for the household over her personal likes and dislikes. Sorting through the papers, Aola saw proof of this. The house ledger and bank accounts were in perfect order, and not a single valuable item had gone missing from the castle, including the ancient artifacts. Among the other documents, she found her own will. The parchment had yellowed slightly with time, though it was enchanted against decay. Next to the paragraph containing instructions regarding Tom Marvolo Riddle, a student at Hogwarts School in Scotland, her father's firm hand had written "Executed." The word was underlined twice. The emotional pain, which had subsided slightly, returned to torment her with renewed force. A cursed coincidence... Could things have turned out differently? Of course. But it happened as it happened... and she had fallen out of her own life for a monstrously long seventy-five years. The world had changed infinitely... Those she knew had grown old or died. Not a single feather remained of her clever Payam... while she remained an eternal girl. A beautiful dragonfly in amber. Aola traced her fingertips over the name written three-quarters of a century ago. "What became of you, my boy? Are you alive? Are you happy? Do you remember your peri even occasionally?" she whispered, struggling to hold back tears. At that moment, the door swung open, and a tall, dark-eyed man, no longer young and with silver threads in his magnificent hair, swept into the study. Aola quickly brushed away a stray tear and stood up to meet him. "Little sister!" he exclaimed. "Great Merovee! Hilderic's bees* in my... I thought Mother was playing a trick on me!" He crushed her in an embrace and lifted her off the floor. "Romi!" Having survived her brother's attack with her ribs mostly intact—his Northern Merovingian temperament enlivened by their father's Italian-Spanish blood—Aola was finally released and could breathe normally again. "Older sister, actually, not 'little sister'," she smiled, looking him over. The last time they had seen each other, he was a bronzed, cheerful, and extraordinarily vibrant young man. Aola's Eastern blood and temperament made them feel more like kin to each other than to the rest of the family. And now, it seemed her brother was genuinely happy to see her. Aola even felt ashamed for having harbored less-than-kind thoughts about him. "What 'older' sister!" Romi unceremoniously turned her toward the window, inspecting her flawlessly smooth skin. "You're just a girl! It's like we parted yesterday. I don't believe it... I just don't believe it." He stepped back a few paces and suddenly asked quite seriously: "Is it really you? Come on... prove it." Aola shrugged, turned her back to her brother, and lifted the hair flowing over her shoulders. At the very base of her neck, a cross-shaped birthmark glowed gold on her skin. Every true Merovingian had one. "Eh, no! An illusion or a doppelganger could have that," Romuald rejected her attempt. "You'd better tell me what you gave me secretly for my sixteenth birthday. And what came of it." Aola turned back to her brother and giggled: "A bottle of male contraceptive potion... Auntie was extremely worried about your temperament; she feared you'd sire a brood of dark-skinned bastards." The man gave a delighted chuckle: "All right. And then?" "And then, instead of hiding it in your room, you hid it in the pantry! Toward morning, Uncle Goff, who'd had too much at the party, was rummaging around in the dark looking for something to ease his suffering. He mistook the potion for wine and drank it to the last drop! And he and Margravine Martha-Antonia couldn't manage to produce another heir for a good five years." Romuald laughed heartily, slapping his thigh: "Another female heir, you mean. He should thank us that they only had five daughters and one long-awaited heir, rather than a dozen girls. They only managed a son because of that potion." Aola laughed and suddenly asked: "Do you remember how you almost drowned on the beach at Saint-Tropez? You and Dagobert were carried away in a boat that accidentally came untied, and you tried to row and fell into the water. Auntie was in a panic and couldn't find her wand in her beach bag." "I remember. That was the first time I saw you fly." "Aolya, show me your wings!" she mimicked him affectionately. "You wouldn't leave me alone after that," she said, and opened her mind to him. "I must have been about two and a half. It's definitely you..." her brother said. They embraced again. There was a knock at the door, and a beaming house-elf announced that the notary had arrived. "Are you going to leave me with nothing?" the man asked nonchalantly. "Romi..." she replied reproachfully, "there is Papa's will and his wishes, after all." "Almost everything was left to you. He didn't write a new one. He didn't have time." "Then we split the money half-and-half, taking into account profit, losses, and inflation over seventy-five years. The castle is mine, but you can live here as long as you like. I'd be more than happy. Deal?" "Deal, as my youngest says," the deposed heir agreed cheerfully. "Today's youth have a remarkably crude but expressive language." "Youngest son?" "Youngest grandson." "Oh, my God..." The speed and lack of trouble with which all matters of property and rights were resolved actually upset Aola. It wasn't that she was dying to sue her relatives or foam at the mouth proving she was real... It was just that the absence of other tasks pushed the last and most important problem right under her nose, and she could no longer turn away or postpone its solution. And the name of that problem was Tom Marvolo Riddle. Hesitating and not knowing how to occupy herself, the Duchess purchased a masterpiece of modern Muggle technology—a laptop. She mastered it quite quickly and immersed herself in studying contemporary history, literature, and art. She even met a couple of handsome Muggle guys online; she had to learn the modern language of communication, didn't she? New trends, morals, and habits were sometimes outright shocking; occasionally, she stumbled upon things on the World Wide Web that made her blush from head to toe, thankful that no one could see her at that moment. It was a distraction... for a while. Still, the Sword of Damocles of her unresolved dilemma hung over her golden head and showed no sign of vanishing. Of course, Aola wanted to see him... with her whole being, more than anything in the world... while realizing that Tom had likely not spent all these years hoping and waiting for her. He was surely long married, with children and grandchildren, and had built a good career. With his abilities... Was it worth disturbing him after all these years, dropping in like a ghost from a half-forgotten past? When the pain had long since faded and been let go? "Hello, I didn't happen to die after all. Thought I'd drop by for five o'clock tea, see how you're doing..." Right. At the same time, her relatives' tales of the past Wizarding Wars and a mysterious Dark Lord filled her soul with anxiety. Active combat between light and dark wizards had unfolded in Britain, but the continent hadn't remained sidelined. Both sides had actively recruited supporters, promising generous rewards here, persuading there, or intimidating potential candidates elsewhere. The Merovingians hadn't been directly affected by this scramble for power. The clan considered Aola's death and her father's untimely passing a sufficient contribution to the struggle for peace, withdrawing from such affairs after her killers were caught. Therefore, her relatives could tell her little beyond the most general information. The Dark Lord had been killed in the final battle about twenty years ago; a lot of other people had perished then too, but since that time, only peace and prosperity had reigned among European wizards. What if Tom had also participated in that war? What if he had died? The thought that he might not be alive was even more painful than learning of her father's death. Papa had lived a long and interesting life. After all, it was the law of nature—the elderly go first. She had walked away from Robert consciously... It had been her choice, and she was rightfully reaping the fruits of her decision. But Tom... Tom had been taken from her by a fatal coincidence... She remembered him that way—a young man in love, looking at her with beautiful blue eyes full of adoration. And every day spent apart, those eyes stood filled with tears before her inner gaze, and a breaking voice pleaded: "Don't leave me... I love you so much!" Of course, it was his first love... and it might even be for the best if he had forgotten her... But Aola had had more than enough time to realize that on her part, it wasn't just a brief infatuation. She wouldn't have allowed them both so much if her feeling had been something fleeting. Young Tom Riddle had seriously captured her heart and mind. His inquisitive intellect, his pride, his desire to be the best, and his readiness to learn appealed to her. At the same time, deep down, he remained so touching and somewhat naive. Unloved, uncherished, he had reached out to her. And when he opened up and trusted her, she loved him for everything he was. Even for the parts that seemed not so good. Finding herself crying once again, Aola pushed the laptop away, snapped the lid shut, and paced the study. What was wrong with her? She had never been a coward or a crybaby, and she didn't intend to start now! She would set off for Great Britain this very day. And she would find out everything she could about Tom. If he was alive, she would simply look at him from afar, without intruding on his life. If not... she would find his grave and honor his memory. In any case, it was better than being endlessly tormented by doubt. *one of the ancestral symbols of the Merovingians. In the tomb of Childeric I, a brocade cloak was found embroidered with three hundred gold bees with garnet wings.