Happiness
January 6, 2026 at 6:41 AM
The walls. Walls-walls-walls… Four walls and a ceiling with traces of hastily whitewashed soot. A creaky iron cot. A window through which a piece of the dreary orphanage courtyard, always empty, could be seen. A wardrobe. Sometimes something would start rattling inside it. He knew by heart every item that lay there. But he would still rise from the hard bed, fling open the door, and stare-stare-stare… There were many of them. A cup, for instance. A ring. A diary. He could not take them in his hands, could not move them even with the help of magic—he was now stripped of his main power. He could only watch.
There was also a door in the room. Sometimes the voices of children or Mrs. Cole, calling his name, would drift from behind it. He would shudder with hatred and disgust, and he would fling that door open with force to punish the foul Muggle for her insolence, to shake out her filthy little soul… But beyond the threshold, the same room with poorly whitewashed walls would appear, and he would drag himself back to the loathsome cot to stare at the loathsome ceiling, listening to the cursed trophies rattling in the wardrobe and the hated voice calling and calling his name. It was always twilight here.
They did not come to him—those he had killed. Not once. They did not even appear in his dreams.
She did not come either.
He was alone with an ugly fragment of himself, doomed day after day to drown in his own hatred and loneliness. It seemed there would be no end to this. But one day, something infinitesimally changed in this maddening recursion.
Tom poorly understood where he was and felt very weak, as if after a long, severe illness—he could neither speak nor stand. It was wet for some reason… Were they washing him? In a blurred haze, he saw only her beautiful face, full of joy and anxiety at once. Perhaps he had died, and they had met in the heavens, which did exist after all? Then why the anxiety; shouldn’t all sorrows leave them after death? Then someone strong, with a fanged face like a jinni’s, scooped him up in his arms and carried him into a familiar tent.
Aola busied herself around him, trying to make Tom as comfortable as possible. She wiped him down with a towel scented with rose water, covered him, and tucked another pillow under his head. Is the sun cold? Maybe hot? Maybe he wants a drink? Hungry? She ran off somewhere and returned with a bowl of rich, hot broth. She fed him from a spoon. Next, she gave him some herbal infusion. He swallowed the bitterness obediently, without flinching, gathered his strength, reached for her hand, kissed her fingers, and pressed his cheek to them. Her wonderful scent… her gentle hands… She is alive… ALIVE! They are both alive. Her father was mistaken… Or he lied… It doesn’t matter. She is alive. Beloved… The only one. Life has meaning again!
Aola, who had been holding on with her last bit of strength, broke down… She burst into tears, showering Tom with kisses, as if only now realizing that it was truly him. Her Tommy, real down to every tiny mole on his body, to every line of his face! With a soul still pure, not yet mutilated. At that moment when he learned of his beloved’s death and did not want to live with it, he had split his soul for the first time, without even realizing it. He could kill himself. He could not kill his love for her. Everything that was best in him, that had bloomed thanks to Aola, had fused into her locket and remained there, in purity, unstained and undefiled. It was not a Horcrux; it was something else. Perhaps he had not realized it, but he had guarded the locket as the apple of his eye. As it turned out, not in vain.
“I… knew… it was a mistake… You are alive…” he whispered, trying to embrace the weeping girl. “My dear… Don’t cry… I was… ill, wasn’t I?”
“Yes, my dear,” the Lady lied. “You were very, very ill… You gave me such a fright.”
Of course, she would have to tell him the whole truth, but not now. Let him regain at least a little strength.
“I remember a letter… then… nothing.”
“Don’t speak yet. You need to save your strength, Tommy…” she stroked him, her wet cheek pressed to his chest. “I love you… God, I love you so much!”
Tom felt infinitely happy… He had never heard such words from his beloved before. It was worth falling seriously ill to have someone stop saving the world for you and shower you with tenderness.
“You… won’t leave?” he asked, fearing that when he woke up, she would not be by his side again.
“No, never again,” Aola assured him fervently. She entwined herself around him like a vine and quietly caressed him until the young man’s breathing became quiet and even, and he fell asleep. Rising cautiously, she adjusted the coverlet, looked at the sleeping man with tenderness, and slipped out of the tent. She gave several instructions to the jinni waiting for her outside and went to the shaman’s yurt. The old woman was again preparing some brew, and on the bed, an emaciated shepherd was wheezing with illness—his terrified kin had brought him the day before.
“Satisfied?” the old woman asked the Duchess snidely. “Is everything as it was? Or haven’t you checked yet?”
Aola, already accustomed to her manner of joking, only smiled in response, and then took the withered hand in her elegant palms and kissed it.
“Too early for thanks,” the woman snorted. “Remember—you gave an oath on your blood.”
“I remember, Tseren-Shulam,” the daughter of the Merovings replied firmly.
Tom was awakened by some strange sounds—the trampling of many feet, snorting, noisy sighs, bleating. He felt better; perhaps that bitter brew had helped? His vision had become clearer, and his sense of himself in space too; his body obeyed more readily. He tried to lift his arm, to move his fingers. Then his leg. I wonder what could have struck him down so? Aola was not nearby, and it upset him—she had promised not to leave… How he had yearned for her, how he had feared losing her again! The terrible words about her death had almost torn his heart to pieces! He must have fallen ill from grief; perhaps he had something like brain fever? Just one black void after that cursed letter. Although… Wait. Wait-wait! Flames! Tom suddenly clearly saw the hated piece of paper flare up in his fingers, fall to the floor, and then fire flowing and flowing from his hands. From fear, a flush hit him—had he been burned?! Perhaps that’s why she cried so much—was he now more hideous than a corpse?!
Throwing off the coverlet, Tom examined himself as best he could: not a trace of burns—no scars, no spots. His face?! He hastily felt it—absolutely smooth skin, a bit of stubble emerging above his lip, even his eyebrows and eyelashes were in place. He crossed his eyes toward the bridge of his nose—his nose was perfectly fine. He exhaled in relief. Even if he had been burned, it seemed they had healed him well, and not a trace remained.
The flash of activity drained the young man’s strength, and he leaned back on the pillow, catching his breath. He wondered where the Lady had gone and how soon she would return. If he could have reached the flap and peered outside, he would have been surprised. The previously deserted area near the shaman’s yurt was filled with livestock of all kinds and breeds. There were black-headed sheep overgrown over the summer, curly-horned fluffy goats, stocky little horses, and shaggy cows. Several shaggy wolfhounds skillfully managed the herd, preventing the animals from scattering. Majestic camels, decorated with patterns clipped into their wool and in rich red harnesses with silver bells and woolen tassels, looked down disdainfully at the bustle from their height. On the lead camel, the tallest and most well-groomed, sat the jinni with his face covered in the Berber fashion. Only his dark eyes sparkled as he surveyed the livestock. Abu had brought the payment for “treating” Mr. Riddle.
The shaman looked out at the noise and froze on the threshold, her mouth agape.
“Khyeokh, what do I need with so much?!” she threw up her hands. “Who will look after all this?!”
Aola smiled—the caravan was brought up by a pair of people on horseback. Two red-cheeked girls with spirited, slanted eyes dismounted and bowed respectfully before Tseren-Shulam.
“Good girls,” Abu reported, “they will help with the household. They volunteered themselves when they found out whom I was buying the livestock for. You saved their grandfather from death.”
“When the time comes, you will give them in marriage. They will settle nearby and not leave your old age destitute,” Aola said. “My gratitude is immense, and if you wish for anything else, say it. I will give everything… except Tom and the firstborn.”
The shaman only waved her hand—as if to say, oh you, the daughter of a pairika has gone quite mad—and went into the yurt to treat a patient, muttering under her breath that even if she had fashioned this boy out of pure gold, he still wouldn’t be worth this much. Abu began to unload the baggage from the camels—flour, salt, grain, tea, dried fruits, nuts. The Lady thanked him for his promptness and decided to look into the tent—had Tom perhaps already woken up? She was afraid of missing the moment when his soul would merge as one…
Mr. Riddle was just then bewilderedly examining a smartphone, trying to understand what kind of thing it was and for what purposes it was intended. He had wanted to get dressed and stand up, but he hadn’t found his clothes. Instead, he had found this object next to the bed. What is it—a magical mirror? And what are the buttons on the side for? He didn’t dare press them; you never know… The saying “don’t dive into the water without knowing the ford” fits magical items perfectly. On the other hand, he managed quite well to see his own face in the black matte surface, and everything was indeed fine with it.
“Are you awake, Tommy?” Aola cooed gently, kissing him on the forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better,” he said, immediately taking possession of her hand, beginning to kiss finger after finger and rubbing his cheek against her palm like a kitten. Tenderness, and delight, and happiness… he was just bursting with the most exquisite feelings. How he had missed her. This stupid weakness! He would have made love to her with such pleasure…
“The letter… Aola, why did your father write that you had died?”
“Papa was misled, not intentionally. It just happened. I… Apparated and couldn’t return or send word for a while.”
She helped Tom sit up, placing a couple of pillows behind his back, and looked at her newly regained lover with a mixed feeling of infinite happiness and equal anxiety.
“Are you upset about something? Because of me?” the young man asked, already subtly catching the changes in her mood. “Did I do something?”
She sighed, gathering her courage. She was obliged to tell this innocent lamb at least something before he met himself face to face.
“I burned the orphanage…” he guessed. “I remember that I set that letter on fire… But I didn’t do it on purpose! I didn’t even have a wand. It just happened on its own, like in childhood… Probably like how you suddenly succeeded… And after that, I don’t remember anything…”
“Your orphanage is intact, don’t worry. You didn’t even have time to get burned, fortunately. You have simply been… ill for a very long time… And I couldn’t return for a very long time.”
“Long—how long is that? A whole month?” Tom naively suggested. Those clear blue eyes looked at her so expectantly and with such adoration…
“A bit longer,” Aola sighed convulsively again and made up her mind: “Seventy-five years.”
