The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

“Bitch…” he whispered, shell-shocked. “What a bitch! That curly-haired harpy!” He began pacing the shore in a fit of helpless rage, kicking at the grass and stones. If he had his wand, he would have burned the whole place to hell! The stupid grass, the wretched trees, and he would have evaporated the lake! The Gaunt blood boiled within him, making him lash out and shout every curse that came to mind in every language he knew. Awakened by the unusual noise, a copperhead snake that had been dozing under a rock crawled out and threatened to bite the madman if he didn’t shut up. “I was having such a sleep, and here you are shouting…” “I’ll kill you!” Voldemort roared in a fury, and then it hit him — he had nothing to kill the brazen reptile with. The snake, however, could very well sink its venomous fangs into him. “We shall see about that…” the snake hissed. “Do you have any idea who I am?!” the Dark Lord bellowed. “Of course — an ugly brute interrupting my sleep!” And the copperhead made a threatening lunge in his direction. Cursing, Tom decided it was best to get away. This was no loyal Nagini, indeed… The threat sobered the enraged man slightly and forced him to think about the situation he was in. Choosing a spot on the shore, he sat down, wrapping his arms around his knees. Dampness rose from the water, and it would become quite cold at night. He needed to light a fire, but how? He couldn’t conjure Fiendfyre — he couldn’t even summon a pathetic flicker of flame right now. He didn’t even have simple matches. He decided to try anyway — Aola could perform magic without a wand, and he had managed perfectly well without one in his childhood… He still remembered Parseltongue, didn’t he? Tearing out several clumps of dry grass, he piled them up and commanded: “Incendio!” Nothing. Not a spark, not a wisp of smoke. He repeated it again and again, changing his intonation, imagining the hot tongues of flame in the smallest detail. The grass lay there, unmoving. He growled in frustration. He, the greatest Dark Wizard, before whom all of Britain trembled, and before whom the whole world would have trembled if not for that cursed, bespectacled Potter brat — was now a pathetic Squib! And what if this was permanent? What if the damn witch had done something wrong? Last time, when Wormtail returned his body, all his strength and skills had returned instantly. He felt so sad and so sorry for himself that, following his favorite Nagini, another memory surfaced — Bellatrix. She reminded him slightly of Aola… Of course, he had felt nothing for Lestrange like what he felt for milady. Bella had openly trembled before him, had been his lapdog, loyal to the point of total self-oblivion, and that flattered him, but nothing more. She would never have left her master helpless! But the Duchess Meroving — without a second thought. “I am no longer your teacher” — oh, certainly! And yet she continues to discipline him as if he were a sniveling student and not a man who had lived a full life! “Lived it like a bastard,” his inner voice tactlessly reminded him, and Tom scattered the failed campfire in annoyance. However, sitting on the hard, cold ground was not very pleasant. After some thought, he decided to at least break off some fir branches to make a bed. To last until morning, and then… maybe Aola would come back for him after all? Surely she loved him, since she had pulled him back from the other world! What had he done that was so bad? Well, he had crudely tried to take what he had been waiting for for three-quarters of a century. But he had apologized! And for that matter, for just a moment, he had been faithful to her all this time! The fir branches flatly refused to break by hand. Especially without the practice and skill, of which Mr. Voldemort had zero point zero percent. Finally, after a full hour of titanic effort and Tantalus-like torment, with his head and shirt full of dry needles and his fingers scraped and sticky with resin, he managed to construct a flimsy bedding from a few semi-dry branches; tearing off fresh ones was practically impossible. Tearing grass for softness and completely slashing his hands in the process, Tom finally lay down, curling into a ball to stay warmer. Only his stomach felt warmer; a cold wind that had picked up roamed over his back. The wretched branches dug into his side, his scraped palms burned, and his bruises ached. But he was so exhausted by the first day of his new life that he drifted off unnoticed and would have slept until dawn if he hadn’t been awakened by someone’s distant, long-drawn-out howl. Sleep vanished instantly. A wolf? One or several? How did they even live — in pairs, in packs? He knew far more about werewolves than about ordinary wolves. Hungry, probably… Such trifles hadn’t bothered him before — predators themselves would have given the Dark Lord a wide berth. But after being insulted by a common snake, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Thinking it over, Tom stood up and gathered several large stones. He picked up a dry, gnarled branch and weighed it in his hand. Great Merlin, how pathetic he was, preparing to fend off predators with stones and sticks! It was a good thing no one could see his humiliation, especially that cursed Potter! Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had thrown a stone. Had he ever? Even in early childhood, such silly, senseless activities had not interested him. As life had shown — that was a mistake. It could have been very useful now. Tom returned to his meager bed, listening to the voices of the night. The howling was repeated a bit closer, and it was answered from the opposite side of the lake. A few minutes later, the chorus became many-voiced; likely a pair of wolves and their summer brood were communicating. Tom lay with bated breath, his sweaty palms gripping the improvised club. He suddenly clearly imagined sharp fangs sinking into his flesh, tearing apart his newly regained body. For the first time in many, many years, he was afraid. The dawn seemed like a true miracle to the exhausted Riddle — the sleepless, weary night was finally behind him. He greeted the sun like a long-lost friend. The wolves had not come close, but he didn’t close his eyes again and felt shattered. Toward morning, someone began splashing loudly and snorting in the lake, but Tom had no desire to find out who exactly — as long as it didn’t notice the person huddled on the homemade bed and passed by… After stretching his stiff body, he washed and, after some hesitation, drank from the lake. Whether he should drink this water unboiled or not — there was no choice, and thirst was hard to endure. It would be good to take some water with him… It would surely get hot during the day, and it would take him at least three or four hours to get to the camp, provided he didn’t lose his way. But no matter how much Tom wandered along the shore, he found no suitable container, though Muggles usually generously leave traces of their wretched existence in the form of tin cans, for example. Apparently, he was in some real backwater… He had to drink his fill, so much that his stomach felt bloated. Finding his bearings, Tom decided on a direction and set off. He expected the shaman to give him a horse and a guide, and he would reward her as soon as he regained his power. And that bratty milady too… Lady Meroving turned out to be an astonishingly beautiful woman. Neither the heraldic portrait nor even memories conveyed a tenth of her charm. Her flawless skin seemed to glow from within. The shape of her ears, the slant and color of her eyes hinted at the presence of non-human blood in her veins. Born in the century before last, she simply could not look so young… and yet the fact remained. She was short in stature but possessed such posture, sense of dignity, and confidence in every movement that Harry, who had been quite determined, felt slightly flustered. To interrogate someone like her? One felt more like asking permission to ask a question. Yes, Riddle, who strove for everything aristocratic, could have become infatuated with her. Aola received him and Hermione in her drawing room, greeting them politely and thanking the genie who had escorted them. She invited them to sit, gesturing toward a luxurious sofa. Her voice was simply enchanting… The meticulous Hermione had dug up that Lady Meroving’s mother was a peri. Harry reminded himself not to relax — someone like her would charm you in an instant, and you’d forget why you came. “Abu, make us some tea, please,” the mistress of the castle asked, and then inquired of her guests: “Or perhaps some wine?” “No, no,” Hermione cut her off sharply, looking at milady with tightly pressed lips, “we are here on business.” Fortunately, the peri’s charm worked less on her. Or perhaps not at all. Unlike Harry, she was skeptical and openly held her wand in her hands, not ruling out the possibility of a fight. “To what do I owe the honor, gentlemen?” Aola asked, sitting down and folding her elegant hands on her knees, though she surely recognized them and guessed why they had come. “Lady Meroving, I believe you know perfectly well who we are,” Harry began. “In mid-July, you visited your former student and our friend Rubeus Hagrid and asked him questions regarding the fate of Tom Riddle.” “Quite right,” she nodded. Not a shadow of anxiety flickered in her golden-amber eyes. “You also asked about the location of his burial.” “Yes, that is true,” she confirmed. “Ruby told me the body had been cremated. He lied to me, protecting me from unnecessary distress.” “How did you find out where he was buried? Why did you break the seals, and what were you looking for in the grave?” Hermione asked point-blank, surprised that the Duchess didn’t even think of denying it. “Voldemort’s burial place is restricted information, and as you can understand, for good reason!” “Oh, nothing illegal, I assure you,” milady smiled. “I did not use any Unforgivable spells from your Ministry’s perspective.” “What were you looking for in the grave?” Harry repeated forcefully. “Is this an official interrogation, or are you inquiring privately?” milady asked, smiling just as sweetly. “Privately, for now,” Harry was forced to admit. “It would not be difficult for us to give the matter an official course,” Hermione flared up. “And there are ways to make you tell the truth!” “I know that, Mrs. Weasley,” Aola nodded. “And you know that I am not under your jurisdiction.” “We can request extradition,” Harry replied. “Voldemort is a recognized international criminal, and a document regarding the surrender of his accomplices has been signed.” “Mr. Potter, I am no accomplice to Tom. We parted ways in 1943, and I have not seen him since. I believe Ruby told you that… But if you are so interested in what I found in his grave — I will show you.” At that moment, the genie flew into the drawing room with a tray laden with cups and small bowls of oriental sweets. “Abu, would you be so kind as to bring me the leather-bound notebook from my study? It is in the top left drawer of the desk.” The genie set the tray on the table, bowed, and flew out. Hermione watched him go and thought that it had never occurred to her before to include these creatures on the list of unfairly exploited beings. Milady poured green tea into the cups and graciously offered it to her guests. Not an ounce of agitation, as if she were receiving old friends who had dropped in for afternoon tea. Abu soon returned, handing his mistress an ordinary school notebook for young wizards, quite an old one. Harry and Hermione exchanged anxious glances. Another Horcrux?! But HOW?! Aola passed her palm over it, opened it, extracted an envelope, and handed the notebook to Harry. Both visitors stared greedily inside. On the first page, the owner’s name appeared in clear, beautiful handwriting: Tom Marvolo Riddle. The first entry was dated late February 1943. “Is this… a diary?” “Precisely, Mr. Potter. The boy fell in love, but he had absolutely no one to share his feelings with, you see?” Aola sighed. “I understand it is hard to believe now, but… that’s how it was. These are very intimate entries and… they concern me directly. But you may read them. This notebook is not a Horcrux; you have no need to worry. You may verify this.” “What is in the envelope?” Hermione asked greedily. “A lock of my hair,” the Duchess replied, demonstrating a golden curl tied with a ribbon. “It, too, is absolutely clean.” “You are lying, Lady,” Harry replied harshly, looking sternly at the girl through his glasses. “I personally took part in the funeral! These items were not with Voldemort!” She looked at Potter without any anger, even with pity, and replied: “They were inside him, right here,” and she pressed her palm to her heart.