Despair
January 6, 2026 at 6:21 AM
The front door slammed. Ron heard the jingle of keys and the sigh of relief as his wife kicked off her shoes. He hurried into the hallway, leaving an empty glass on the table. He hadn’t waited for the end of the working day; he had closed Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes earlier than usual. The stunt pulled by that strange visitor had completely unraveled his peace of mind. Everything in the shop reminded him of his brother: Fred was at its core, he was the spirit and the idea of the place… What kind of nerve did someone have to come there, of all places, with such a stupid, cruel prank?! As luck would have it, George was away on business, and Ron himself was covering for a sick shop assistant. There was no one to share his outrage with! But he found no solace within the walls of his and Hermione’s cozy home in the London suburbs either. He’d had to pour himself a little firewhisky just to steady his nerves.
“Hi, are you home already? That’s early for today,” Hermione said, surprised. “Weren’t you supposed to cover for Kelly?”
Over the years, the serious, know-it-all girl had transformed into a beautiful young woman who dressed strictly but elegantly. Only a faint line between her brows hinted that she was approaching forty, and that the years lived had perhaps not been entirely cloudless. She leaned in habitually to kiss her husband on the cheek and caught the scent of alcohol.
“Did something happen?” she asked dryly. It wasn’t that Ron had a particular problem with it… It wasn’t that they had any particular problems… They were like everyone else, but… Once the euphoria of the victory, the wedding, the birth of children, and their first words and steps had faded, and the offspring had grown, a measured family life began with all its inevitable routine. The proverbial glass started appearing between them more and more often. And usually without any special reason. It was good the children were visiting their grandparents… High time they had a serious talk about this.
Ron, consumed by his own experiences, didn’t catch the disapproval in her tone.
“You bet something happened!” he snorted, not even bothering to ask how his wife’s day had gone.
“Did Bunny McPhie finally manage to steal the recipe for the Sneezing Marmalades?” she asked with a hint of irony, walking into the living room. Ron hurried after her, his fair brows knit. Honestly, what could possibly go wrong in a joke shop?
“Imagine this: a girl shows up today, all trendy, with a haircut like this,” Ron gestured the shape of the cut. “I ask her—want something? And she goes—interesting shop, blah-blah, but I’m looking for an Old Friend,” Ron emphasized those two words and looked at Hermione significantly.
“And?” The woman sank into an armchair. “Who was she looking for?”
“Voldemort!” Ron blurted out. She flinched and leaned forward. The exhaustion vanished from her eyes instantly.
“Who?!” she repeated, hoping she had misheard.
“Voldemort, curse him!”
“What, she just… asked like that?”
“Yes, just like that! Says, do you happen to know a Mr. Tom Marvolo Riddle?” Ron grimaced, as if he’d bitten into something bitter and foul-smelling at the same time. “And she’s staring at me with those goat-like eyes of hers.”
“And what did you do?”
“Threw her out, told her I’d call the Aurors! She was talking complete gibberish, saying she taught my grandfather, can you believe it? And she looks barely a couple of years older than Teddy! Insane… Or maybe she decided to play a joke? People should be put in Azkaban for jokes like that! And then something started squeaking from her bag, promising to rip my guts out, imagine! I just lost it then…”
Leaving her husband to huff and puff, Hermione fell into deep thought. Of course, a whole post-war generation had grown up now, knowing no fear of the Dark Lord… Some kids might allow themselves quite liberal jokes at the expense of defeated Death Eaters. The bravado of youth… they had been like that themselves once. But for someone to pull such a stupid and cruel prank, knowing the Weasleys had lost a brother in the Battle of Hogwarts? For what? To see Ron boil over? Wasn’t that a bit childish for a grown woman of twenty?
“Did she give her name?”
“She did. A short one… and a surname too,” Ron wrinkled his forehead… then looked helplessly at his wife. “I can’t remember it for the life of me! I was so angry it just slipped out of my head. Besides, what’s the point? I’m certainly not inviting her for Christmas dinner!”
Hermione was silent for a moment, then said, “I think you should tell Harry about this.”
“You think so?” Ron finished his second portion of the strong drink and felt a bit of relief.
“I’m sure. And then we’ll decide whether to inform the Ministry.”
“You think it’s something serious? Not just a dumb prank?”
“Who knows… The Dark Lord might have new admirers… We should go to Harry’s immediately. And don’t forget to change your shoes; you’re in your slippers.”
A few minutes later, the Weasley-Granger living room was empty. Only an old clock ticked on the mantelpiece, and a pungent whiff of Floo powder hung in the air.
“Why can’t I see his grave?” Aola looked at Hagrid so helplessly that he was completely at a loss. “Is it forbidden?”
“Well… sort of… it’s…” the giant mumbled, avoiding her eyes.
“He doesn’t have a grave?” she guessed. “The body was burned?”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. Of course, it was burned… and the ashes thrown into some cesspool… Did he deserve any other fate? He who lived like a mad dog should be buried like one. She felt such despair… such helplessness. There wasn’t even a patch of earth left where something of the man she loved—and continued to love—remained. She had nowhere even to ask his forgiveness. Nowhere to weep…
“Aye. That’s how it was,” Hagrid nodded hastily, and she felt it immediately—he was lying. Lying diligently and clumsily. She gently touched the giant’s memory. She didn’t even have to travel through layers and corners of recollections—Rubeus was thinking about the moment when he, a lean, middle-aged woman, and the aged owner of the Hog’s Head were deciding what to do with the corpse of their defeated enemy. Then a lad in silly glasses joined them. She already knew—it was Harry. It was he who had disarmed Tom… or rather, the creature he had become. And the Elder Wand had killed him with his own spell.
She felt nothing toward the boy—no hostility, no sympathy, no liking. She herself would have killed what Tom Riddle had become without hesitation. But she simply had no emotional strength left for Harry right now. Perhaps later… When she had sorted everything out in her aching head, analyzed it, and tried to come to terms with what had happened… perhaps then. For now, Harry was merely a source of information. And she had found out what she wanted.
Good-natured Hagrid only shook his head, taking her interference for the effects of the vodka. While treating the Lady, he hadn’t forgotten to help himself to a cup. One the size of half a bucket.
Aola felt hollowed out, broken, ill… Thanking the giant for his hospitality and detailed story, she prepared to head for the inn. She couldn’t refuse the cake—Hagrid wrapped a substantial piece in brown paper and almost forced it into her hands. She didn’t resist. Maybe the fanged Abu will manage to chew through this culinary marvel? she thought and couldn’t suppress a nervous giggle.
As a farewell, she wanted to hug the giant, but pressing her nose into someone’s navel hardly felt like a hug. Aola unfolded her wings and, taking flight, threw her arms tightly around his massive neck.
“Ooh, blimey!” he marveled. “I didn’t know yeh could do that. A proper angel.”
“You are the angel, Ruby… I’ve never met anyone kinder than you… Thank you for everything. And forgive me… forgive me for everything.”
She pecked him on the whiskered cheek and beat her wings, gaining height. Fang barked after her, but Hagrid hushed the dog.
“Come back an' visit, I’d be glad to have yeh!” he shouted after her. After all, he hadn’t shown her his garden, which he was so proud of… or the forest pets. Drat it, they’d spent the whole time wagging their tongues about that Lord, curse him, wherever he might be now…
The giant watched as her figure grew smaller, receding toward the Black Lake, and suddenly muttered to himself:
“Well, look at that… An' what if she hadn’t vanished back then? That means… everythin' could’ve turned out different? Eh…”
He stood there a moment longer, reflecting on the distant past that had so unexpectedly reminded him of its existence. Then he realized the sun was setting and the garden was still untreated for those slimy invaders! And he trudged, sighing, back into the hut for the jug of poison.
Aola had intended to fly to Hogsmeade, but then she couldn’t help herself—she turned toward the northern shore of the lake, found the Blue Stone, and wept there for a long time, embracing the warm boulder. She didn’t dare look into the school.
She returned to the village when the sun had half-disappeared behind the jagged edge of the forest. Abu was waiting for her at the Three Broomsticks and, though bursting with curiosity, didn’t ask her a single question. He frowned, of course, at the sight of her tear-stained eyes, but kept silent, immediately ushering the maid to get hot water. A few minutes later, the antique brass bathtub on lion paws was steaming, full of fragrant foam, and Aola sank into it, regretting only that she couldn’t order another one—for her soiled, aching soul.
After the bath, she felt slightly better, and the Lady tried to access the Internet via her smartphone. Unsuccessfully—there wasn’t even a whiff of cellular signal in Hogsmeade. Swearing quite unladylike in Farsi, she called Abu, told him to throw on a hooded cloak so as not to attract unnecessary attention, and set off in his company to the Hog’s Head. The chatty maid had assured her that Mr. Dumbledore was still running everything there, just like in the old days.
If almost everything in the wizarding world had undergone little change over the last three-quarters of a century, then the Hog’s Head could easily take the top prize for steadfast tradition in the “Fly in Amber” category. Or perhaps, a fly in the mud… The same not-too-clean windows, the same boar’s head on the wall opposite the bar surrounded by smoking torches, and the same owner, only more somber and completely gray. He sat at the bar and granted the guests only a fleeting glance, gesturing to the waiter. The Lady could have sworn that even the group slapping cards onto the table in the corner was the same one from the day she and Tom had visited for the first and last time.
She and Abu moved to a table by the window, and as a young lad approached to wipe it and ask what the guests desired, Aola was already slipping into the old wizard’s consciousness, like mist through a crack under a wooden door.
