The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

Harry was helping Ginny set the table for dinner when her brother—and his best friend—emerged from the living room fireplace without warning, followed by Hermione. Harry had seen her at the Ministry earlier that day, but she hadn’t mentioned she was planning to drop by. However, friends were welcome in this house at any time of day or night, so he simply shouted to his wife to grab a couple more plates and sets of cutlery from the kitchen. The young, progressive generation made it a point of principle not to exploit house-elves. Relentless time had added a touch of ruggedness to Harry’s appearance, turning the boy into a venerable father of a family, but the expression in his eyes behind those still-ridiculous glasses remained the same—kind and pure. He gave Ron a firm handshake and only then noticed that his friend was troubled by something. “Where are the kids?” Hermione asked instead of a greeting. “In the same place as yours—staying with Arthur and Molly, I told you…” She nodded and said, “Something has happened, and we need to discuss it without extra ears.” “Something serious?” he asked, alarmed. Ginny looked out from the kitchen. Having become a mother to three little Potters, she had filled out slightly, but it didn’t detract from her looks. She waved cheerfully to her brother and sister-in-law, then froze on the threshold, seeing the expressions on their faces. “Drop those plates, Ginny!” Hermione exclaimed, and immediately snapped at her husband, who had already dipped his fingers into a bowl of sliced fish. Ron looked at her resentfully but obeyed. “Maybe you’ll finally tell us what happened?” Harry asked. “Well, this morning a girl about twenty years old walked into Ron’s shop. She said she was looking for an old friend… guess who she was looking for?” Ron, who had managed to shove a piece of smoked cod into his mouth, made his eyes round and pulled a face, hinting desperately at the correct answer. “One of us?” Harry suggested logically. Hermione fixed him with a meaningful look. “She was looking for Tom Marvolo Riddle.” And she sank into an armchair, savoring the effect produced. The Potters stared at the Weasleys in silent astonishment. “A stupid prank?” Ginny asked. “Ron thought so too. But she said she taught his grandfather, Septimus!” “And then some squeaky thing in her bag promised to rip my guts out!” Ron added after swallowing. “I’m sure it’s just a silly joke,” Ginny said, wiping her hands on her apron. But the expression on her face spoke for itself—the name of the Dark Lord, dead for twenty years, still sent shivers down the spines of those who knew it. “Wait… Ron, let’s take this step by step,” Harry commanded. “She specifically said Tom Marvolo Riddle? Not Voldemort?” “That’s exactly what she said, word for word!” Mr. Weasley confirmed and vividly described the strange visit, not forgetting to add that the girl was a real beauty, with eyes like pure honey. “And you told me at first they were like a goat’s!” Hermione protested. “And he forgot her name, even though she gave it! Harry, can you take a look?” “What about you?” “Well, what about me? How can I go rummaging through my own husband’s head?” she huffed. “Oh, right…” “As if you’ve never done it before…” Ron countered. Hermione gave him a killing look. “Break it up!” Ginny commanded both of them. “May I?” Harry asked before setting off on a voyage through Mr. Weasley’s memory. Ron shrugged—if it had to be done, it had to be done. Translucent images floated before Harry’s mind’s eye, unrolling in reverse order: Ron disappearing from his living room, appearing in the shop, opening it, opening the till… Customers taking their money, giving back merchandise, and disappearing backward through the door. And there she was, the mysterious stranger. The girl really was very attractive, with a look untypical for a European—ears slightly pointed, eyes set a bit slanted… He noticed not a hint of mockery in her speech—she asked about Riddle simply and naturally, as if she truly were trying to find an old friend. “Aola. Her name is Aola Meroving,” he informed the women, who were watching him greedily. He slipped out of Ron’s consciousness and immediately shared the image with them. Weasley winced. “How is it that it was all there in my head, and I couldn’t remember it?” “She’s pretty…” Ginny remarked reservedly. “Some beauty!” Hermione huffed and began to mutter. “Meroving… Meroving. Wait, the Merovingians were the sorcerer-kings who ruled the Frankish state in the first millennium AD!” “Do you think that’s her real name?” Harry asked. “Do you have a directory of European magical families?” she asked hungrily instead of answering. He shook his head. “I’ll be right back!” Hermione dashed to the fireplace, threw a handful of powder into it, and vanished. “And it’s been like this for twenty years,” commented Ron, left unsupervised, as he reached for the fish plate again. “Hungry?” his sister asked. “Mmhmm…” “Maybe we should sit down for dinner?” But Hermione returned swiftly, like a fuming harpy, and triumphantly slammed a thick tome onto the table. “Look! Here is the Merovingian tree; it’s one of the oldest and most powerful magical lineages in Europe. Here is her grandfather… Here is her father. And here is Aola Brigitta Zerin Augustina herself.” She pointed her finger at a portrait painted according to all the rules of heraldry. And although the girl wore an antique dress and her hair was styled in an intricate tower of curls, her face was exactly like the visitor to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. “That’s impossible,” Ginny said. “Look at the dates. She died in nineteen forty-three! Even if she had lived to this day, she’d be a gray-haired old woman, not a girl!” “Some great-granddaughter having fun?” Harry suggested. “Aola was not married and had no children, otherwise it would be marked on the tree,” Hermione cut in. “Maybe a glamour? Polyjuice Potion?” “Someone else used her identity… but for what purpose?” The four friends looked at each other helplessly. “The Lord is long dead anyway; she won’t hear anything else in response to her question, whoever she might be,” Ron noted philosophically. “But some of his supporters are still alive in Azkaban,” Hermione reminded him. “Though it’s quite stupid to start a campaign to free them with a stunt like this…” “Forty-three… She said she taught your grandfather Septimus,” Harry looked at the Weasley siblings. “That’s right; that was exactly the year he graduated from Hogwarts,” Ginny confirmed. “And it was in forty-three that Tom Riddle killed his relatives, Moaning Myrtle, and created his first Horcruxes… Maybe it’s some kind of code?” Harry suggested. “Maybe we should start by asking your grandfather?” Hermione suggested. “He should remember his teachers! For instance, I’ve never come across her name in all my years of study, I can guarantee that.” “Yeah, he went off on a cruise a month ago and has only sent one letter. Where are we supposed to find him?” Ron argued. “Then let’s ask Hagrid! If anyone knows anything about this Aola, it’s him.” The proposal to head to the Gamekeeper’s immediately was only opposed by Ron. He appealed to his relatives' common sense, begging them to at least eat before the journey, reminding them of the kind half-giant’s total lack of culinary talent. His kin were remorseless. He managed to snatch a sandwich from the table before his wife grabbed his hand with her steel fingers, and they Apparated onto the road near Hogsmeade. The famous quartet missed Lady Meroving, who had intrigued them so, by a mere fifteen minutes. Accompanied by her cloaked jinni, she had left the village with her belongings immediately after returning from the Hog’s Head. Madam Rosmerta was pleased with the guests—they hadn’t stayed long but had paid generously. She wished she had more guests like that. The smell of the sea reached her consciousness before all her other senses. A salty, resilient veil struck her face… like on the ferry this morning. This morning? Was it only this morning? It felt as if a whole lifetime had passed since then—such a weight now lay upon her soul. Aola opened her eyes. She and Abu stood atop a lonely cliff rising amidst foamy waves that crashed with a roar against its base. It was already dark, and the coastline, consisting of a steep rocky wall, was hidden in blue gloom. “There,” the jinni said. He could see perfectly in the dark and pointed toward the entrance of a cave, black amidst sharp rocky fangs. The Lady unfurled her wings, and they quickly covered the distance. At the entrance, Abu lit a couple of resinous torches and moved forward, lighting her way. “Watch your step, Mistress; it’s full of rocks,” he advised. Hagrid had not been here and hadn’t participated in the burial. Harry Potter, Minerva McGonagall, and Aberforth Dumbledore had done everything themselves. The Boy-Who-Lived had deemed it a fitting punishment for the Dark Lord, who feared death more than anything in the world. To be buried on an island in the middle of a lake in eternal darkness, surrounded by Inferi created by his own magic from the people he had killed… What could be worse? That which Tom feared so much in life became his guardian after death. Clever, Harry… Clever. And just. But it didn’t make things easier for Aola. The closer she and Abu got to the burial site, the heavier her heart became. The magical locks and barriers on the way to the goal didn’t cause her much trouble—Albus’s brother had shared all the necessary details with her without even knowing it, and her power and skills were more than enough to overcome them. The cave was pitch-black and damp; water dripped somewhere monotonically, and her footsteps echoed so slowly that she couldn’t even imagine the true size of this somber tomb. The water was as smooth as glass, but Aola knew who lurked beneath it, and a light shiver of dread ran down her spine, despite the fact that the fire-breathing jinni—whom the Inferi feared so much—was right beside her. “The island is there, my Mistress,” he said, holding the torches higher. “Can you fly? I can carry you.” “I can… Thank you, Abu.” In the orange, dancing light of the torches, the rectangular pile of stones in the center of the islet seemed blacker than the gloom creeping behind the flickering circle of light. Aola took a few steps toward the grave and sank to her knees. “Hello, my boy…” she whispered. The tears that had dried up returned, crawling down her pale cheeks… No matter how much of a wretch a person might be in life, there will always be at least one living soul to mourn their death. Voldemort had no such soul. For Tom Marvolo Riddle, one was found. She spoke and spoke in a low whisper: how she loved him, where she had been all these years, how she had pined in their separation, counting the days and hours… She asked for forgiveness. She scolded him for what he had done to himself and others. She placed her hand on the pile of stones, cold as ice, as if trying to feel anything in response… There was a splash in the middle of the lake, as if a large animal had jumped out of the water, and the jinni spat a long tongue of flame like a fakir at an Eastern bazaar, driving the undead away. And suddenly, something nudged her palm… From below, from beneath the dead stone, like a groan breaking from underground—a tiny clump of energy, warm, alive! Something that had been waiting for her for many, many long years! “Abu, help me!” Aola cried out and began to mutter spells, trying to move the tomb stones.