The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

He pushed the door open, as he always did — a door he knew by its every minute roughness, every tiny crack in its old paint. He knew what lay behind it: a room with no exit, his solitary cell with poorly whitewashed traces of fire and a crucifix hanging above the head of the bed. He had torn it down and hurled it against the wall so many times that he had lost count. There is no God. There never was! There are only one’s own desires and the mistakes everyone makes, hindering themselves from reaching their goal. But something had changed. He felt it just before something suddenly pushed from within, commanding him to get out of bed and go to the door. Even as it swung open, he saw that finally, the cursed room was gone. It had vanished. Instead of the sickening dungeon, a pitch-black, impenetrable darkness swirled right beyond the threshold. It was so dense it felt tangible. He stretched out a dry, scaly hand, and his fingers sank into the gloom as if into a fog. He felt nothing. There was nothing there — no sound, no movement, not a single landmark. He inhaled through the vertical slits that remained of his nose and smirked, crookedly and joyfully. A scent. He caught a scent — thin, barely perceptible… The fragrance of a woman. Without hesitating for a second, he stepped into the darkness gaping beneath his feet. If there was one thing he no longer feared, it was the dark. Oh, men… This morning he could barely speak, and now, where did this strength come from? Tom was already insistently pulling off her blouse, showering her bared skin with kisses, while milady’s mind raced between the desire for love, in which she wanted to dissolve, and the cold command to “stop.” She wanted and feared this at the same time, not understanding why. This was her Tommy… and his touches were just as impulsive and tender as three-quarters of a century ago, and he purred with pleasure just as amusingly and sweetly… Why, then, was she afraid? A deliberately loud throat-clearing by Abu at the entrance and his words: “Mistress, the old witch is calling for you,” saved Aola from the need to decide. “I must go…” she said in an apologetic tone, freeing herself from his embrace. “Can’t it wait?” he whispered heatedly, unwilling to let go. His gaze darted over her face, trying to read her mood. He was pleading. “I will be back soon…” She straightened her clothes and went out, throwing back the flap of the tent. Fresh air, filled with the scents of the steppe, flowed inside. Tom, groaning with frustration through clenched teeth, rolled onto his back. His worst fears were beginning to be justified… if she wanted to stay, she would have. She only says she loves him, but she is probably just waiting for him to turn into a monster. The enclosed space suddenly felt stifling. He wanted to leave the tent, to look at the sky — to see the first stars lighting up, to listen to what the dry grasses whispered. He tried to get up. His head spun, and his legs refused to hold him properly. He had to sit and wait until the space before his eyes stopped swimming and swaying. The second attempt proved more successful — Tom hobbled to the ottoman and, besides her tiny dress, found a set of wide trousers and some shapeless thing with sleeves. Thank goodness it had a hood, otherwise he would have spent an hour looking for the front. It looked like pajamas… Merlin knows, maybe this is how people go out in public now? The fabric was soft and pleasant; he dressed slowly and prepared for the second march towards the exit. He remembered the shoes. They were found under the ottoman — a pair of cloth shoes with elastic bands on thick white soles. Comfortable… and they fit. Imagine that, how milady guessed his foot size… Or had she not forgotten after all these years? No, any way you look at it, everything she told him felt more like a grand practical joke… The ability to feel and control his body returned with every movement, every step. A fire burned a short distance from the tent; a man, bare-chested with a powerful torso, sat cross-legged by it, stirring something in a cauldron. The brew smelled so delicious — mutton soup with wild garlic — that Tom’s stomach cramped instantly, and his mouth watered. Some “hero-lover” he was… Aola was right; he should have eaten first. A few dozen yards from the fire stood another tent, not pointed like the peri’s, but rounded, like half an egg. A fire burned near it as well, and someone was busy at the hearth. This must be the dwelling of the shaman who brought him back to life? Etiquette and a basic sense of gratitude dictated that he should at least thank her verbally, but perhaps it was better to consult milady first? He did not want to violate local etiquette and look foolish or unworthy. Further beyond the tent, in the steppe, there seemed to be a pen for livestock — Tom saw dark silhouettes against the deep blue sky, and then the breeze brought the characteristic animal scent. The cattle dozed, huddled together, sighing and snorting sleepily. Tom approached the fire, and when the man turned around, he realized it was not a man at all, but a real genie. Large fangs protruded from a wide maw, black eyes looked sullen and defiant, and thick gold rings hung from his nose and pointed ears. So, he hadn’t imagined it… The teenager felt a bit intimidated. He had only encountered a genie once before, during field classes, and that creature had been quite unpleasant… but back then, Tom had his wand. “Are you up already, master?” the fire spirit asked, rising into the air without changing his posture and bowing slightly, palms pressed together: “Call me Abu. I serve Lady Aola and the House of Meroving.” “Tom Marvolo Riddle,” the lad introduced himself, placing a hand on his chest and bowing, flattered by the address. How was he to know that Aola had given the genie a good scolding beforehand — the genie had no desire to call this newborn cadaver “master,” especially when Allah only knew what mischief to expect from him. “You must be hungry?” Abu asked, returning to his place. “Sit down, the food will be ready in a moment.” “And where is Miss Aola?” Tom asked, lowering himself onto a blanket spread by the fire. “With the old ubyr…” the genie grumbled. “A sick man was brought to her, and things are looking quite bad for him.” He pulled a voluminous waterskin toward him, poured some liquid into a large bowl, and handed it to Tom. “What is this?” he asked, inhaling the sharp, sour smell. “Kumis — fermented mare’s milk. Drink it, it restores strength quickly.” Tom took a cautious sip and almost spat it back out. The sour, sharp-stinging liquid hit his taste buds so hard that for a second the poor Briton thought his eyes would pop out of their sockets. The genie, watching his reaction closely, smirked and commanded without any shred of respect: “Drink, drink. The mistress ordered it.” Tom did not risk arguing with the fanged demon — the expression on his face was far too grim as he watched over the execution of Aola’s will. Choking, he drained the foul drink under the heavy gaze of the Meroving servant and forestalled a second helping by assuring him he had had enough. And then he suddenly thought gloomily that they probably wouldn’t dare treat that Voldemort this way. Fortunately, Aola soon returned, delighted that Tom was already up and had reached the fire on his own. He informed her of his wish to thank the shaman. “Nothing simpler… just say: 'Ta bukhend bayarlalaa, Tseren-Shulam' and that will be enough,” the girl smiled. “She is a simple person.” “The way the mistress thanked her, I doubt she feels short-changed…” Abu muttered, stirring the brew with a large wooden ladle. It was much gloomier in the yurt than in the tent, and Tom did not immediately see the shaman’s wrinkled face in a heap of rags. Folding his hands as Aola had taught him, he spoke the words of gratitude and bowed his head to the old woman. She walked around him exactly like a Christmas tree, clicked her tongue, unceremoniously poked his bicep, and said something to milady in her own language. The girl snickered in response. “What did she say?” Tom whispered. “That you turned out excellent — a sturdy lad, it’s plain to see. Just not handsome.” “Why not handsome?!” the offended Mr. Riddle exclaimed. “Because you are long as an uurga — a pole for catching livestock — and your eyes are like a calf’s. You don’t fit the local standards of beauty, what can you do? Neither do I, for that matter, so don’t be upset,” the girl answered cheerfully. They said goodbye to the old woman and returned to their fire, where Abu was already pouring the fragrant soup into large bowls, and a fluffy golden flatbread lay broken on a flat dish. Unlike the foul kumis, the soup was delicious, and Tom ate every last drop, nearly licking the bowl clean. He would have eaten more but feared he might burst. After tea with a heap of sweets that milady loved so much, she said that, in general, they had nothing more to do here and could go anywhere. “Do you think I’ll be able to Apparate?” Tom asked. The fiasco with Legilimency had frightened him. “I’m not sure yet… So I suggest moving the tent a bit further away and living in the steppe for a while longer until you get stronger.” “There’s a great spot to the south — a lake, even trees grow there,” noted the genie, clearing the improvised table after dinner. Mr. Riddle did not object. Abu produced a rather worn carpet from nowhere, Aola clapped her hands, sending her belongings to the “damned peri.” The three of them sat in the middle of the carpet, and it suddenly became rigid, holding its shape, and began to rise as if a powerful stream of air were blowing from below. “Not even a hundred years have passed, and you kept your word,” Tom smirked. “You promised me a ride on one of these things.” “Oh, I recognize my boy!” she laughed, hugging him. “Only 'born' this morning, and already being snarky?” The seizure seized Tom just before landing. He suddenly gasped, arching his back in her embracing arms, his eyes rolled back, and convulsions began to shake his body. Aola was terrified… She summoned the tent to the first available flat spot; the genie carried the unconscious lad to the ottoman. With trembling fingers, the girl wiped his face with a wet towel, calling his name incessantly. The convulsions suddenly ceased. He took a sharp, rattling breath, as if for the first time, and opened his eyes. He focused a hazy gaze on milady and smirked, crookedly and joyfully. His sky-blue iris seemed to have washed out, becoming a milky-bluish color like an Inferius, and his pupils, stretched into vertical slits, glowed crimson. Lady Meroving recoiled, pressing the towel to her chest, and spoke in a voice as dry as autumn grass: “Well, hello, Monsieur Voldemort. Or shall I address you as 'Your Grace'?” Many, many miles from the Mongolian steppe, in London that night, Mr. Potter had a nightmare for the first time in many years. It was a heavy, sticky dream that made him wake up in a cold sweat and instinctively reach for the old scar on his forehead. It didn’t hurt, and it couldn’t hurt anymore. But the dream had been so vivid and bright… Mr. Potter had dreamed that the Dark Lord had returned. *Thank You (Mongolian).