The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

It was a mistake. He shouldn’t have drunk that water raw — Tom knew that with absolute certainty now. It didn’t matter whether his newborn stomach, not yet populated with the necessary microflora, was acting up, or if the mineral composition was wrong, or if a wild donkey had simply relieved itself in the lake — the result was the same, and insultingly banal. Spasms continued to twist his wretched stomach periodically, but Tom had the sense to chew on some wormwood, a common ingredient in anti-diarrheal potions. An abysmal taste was added to the pain — pure quinine — but at least he stopped losing fluids. The sun was high and baking noticeably. He had been trudging through this cursed steppe for three hours and saw no sign of a camp in the distance. If Aola returned for him now, he would have strangled her with pleasure. A sharp pain in his abdomen forced Tom to stop. He doubled over, waiting for the spasm to pass. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and temples. He mechanically wiped them away with his sleeve and sat on the dry, warm earth, stretching out his aching legs. He pulled off his shoes. He had blisters, of course, out of habit. It had been a hundred years since he had to walk this much on foot. Dammit, a Dark Lord with blisters! Argh! Existing as a lich* after his first resurrection had been much more convenient — he felt neither cold, nor hunger, nor pain. Granted, he hadn’t felt any other human passions either, and he had looked so ghastly that Aola would have been terrified. To desire her physically again was painfully pleasant; it was this half-forgotten sensation that had gone to his head so much that he had lost control… “Enough being angry with me, eh?” he suggested to the blue, cloudless abyss above. “After all these years and two near-deaths, to pull me out of purgatory only to throw a tantrum over a couple of wretched wizards and worthless Muggles who are everywhere like cockroaches in the Hog’s Head? Seriously? I waited for you so long… Dragon’s milk, how I waited for you!” The abyss was silent. Only a lone predator soared there on rising air currents, scouting for prey. “Fine then! Go to hell, Mademoiselle Perfection! I’ll manage on my own! As I’ve managed all my life…” His feet, burning with fire, did not want to return to the sweat-moist maws of his shoes. But walking barefoot would be even more painful, and dangerous too — the grass was crawling with insects and snakes devoid of any respect. Tom checked his direction by the sun and slowly trudged toward the camp. “I think I’ve fallen in love. I’ve never felt anything like this. An incredible sensation… So good and so painful at the same time. I see her and my chest burns… She is lovely — true perfection! They gossip that she is a duchess. Beautiful as an angel — such posture! Her lips… full and so beautifully defined… And her eyes are like molten gold! She looks at me, and my breath catches and my hands shake. And her manners! Though she has been poking at me from the first minute of our acquaintance, so easily… but quite stingingly. It seems I am definitely of interest to her. Today I worked up the courage to invite her to the ball. She said she would think about it… She’ll agree, of course. Who else would she go with? Surely not that red-haired scarecrow Weasley?” “Aola. Miss Aola. Lady Aola. A-O-L-A. Music, not a name…” “She’s going to the ball with Weasley! With that fox-face!!! He’s uglier than the Bloody Baron! Pureblood… from a decent family… of course, and I… I hate them! Both of them!” “…milady is in her usual form — she snapped at my nose again in front of all the houses, and then smiled, as pleased as a cat…” “We made up — Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! …we walked, were in Hogsmeade. The best day of my life! I walked milady to her door, and then… she kissed me. On the cheek. No one had ever kissed me before… It’s so strange… and pleasant… such a gentle touch, her lips like rose petals…” Stunned, Harry flipped through the pages of the old notebook, immersed in the world of the first romantic feelings of a teenager who seemed ordinary at first glance. Everything was like everyone else — hopes, jealousy, quarrels, the first kiss… Vanity and a sense of his own superiority were already slipping through, of course, but who would have believed that Voldemort had once written these lines? Sketches of her head in the margins, carefully preserved notes… Was Dumbledore wrong, and did Tom actually know what love was? Though what did it matter now? It was all over, long ago and irrevocably. For both Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. Further on came such revelations that it became uncomfortable to read them in the presence of the one they were about. Hermione, greedily peering over his shoulder, snatched the diary from him and began flipping through it herself. Milady, as Riddle called her, looked at the visitors with a slight smile. Harry suddenly felt as if he were peeking through a keyhole; he took the notebook back from his friend and snapped it shut. She shot him an indignant look, then came to her senses and pursed her lips, pointedly looking past the mistress of the house. “Is this all you found in the grave?” Harry asked. The attempt at Legilimency had failed miserably in its infancy; the beauty’s mind was wrapped in a dense cocoon. Then again, Potter had never been particularly strong in that art. He could only hope for her honesty. “Everything,” Aola replied, looking him straight in the eyes. “We must take the diary and your lock of hair, I hope you understand?” “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Mr. Potter,” the girl replied, smiling just as graciously. “A seizure warrant, a representative of our ministry — and you may take whatever you wish from this house.” “You violated the law by trespassing on territory protected by special spells! A warrant can be obtained retroactively,” Hermione flared up. Harry raised a warning hand. It was unknown what she intended to do, but milady smiled even more warmly and replied: “Do not be mistaken, Mrs. Weasley. I do not use a wand at all, so I am far from unarmed. Taking anything by force will not work.” She rose, signaling that the audience was over. “All the best, gentlemen.” Harry placed the diary into her outstretched palm. “We will be back soon,” Hermione promised dryly. “I will be glad to see you in my home at any time,” milady replied with a hint of irony and called for her strange majordomo to see the guests out. “A viper with a sugary smile!” Hermione exclaimed when they were on the white dirt road outside the castle gates. “No wonder Voldemort fell in love with her — two peas in a pod! She’ll hide the diary, and we won’t get anything later!” “You’re being too harsh; she’s a very lovely girl, in my opinion.” “A lovely girl?! She’s old enough to be your great-great-great…great-grandmother! You men completely lose your brains at the sight of a pretty face! She just kicked us out, refusing to return Voldemort’s things which could cause Merlin knows what kind of harm!” “I checked — they aren’t Horcruxes. I understand her — there are very intimate entries in that diary; would you want something like that about yourself falling into the wrong hands?” “It would never occur to me to start an affair with my own student, and such a young one at that! Disgusting,” her friend cut her off with indignation. “Pervert. She probably chose an orphan on purpose!” “Are you feeling sorry for him?” “Not at all! It’s just indecent. Just imagine that happening to your James.” “She was born in a time when even sixteen-year-olds could already have children. It’s a pity we didn’t have teachers like that…” Harry made a dreamy face and Apparated before Hermione’s fist could slam into his shoulder. Thirst became unbearable: his mouth was dry, his tongue barely moving. His legs ached, every step was a struggle. He had to admit — he had lost his way or chosen the wrong direction from the start. Cupping his palms, he tried to conjure water, but just like with the fire the previous evening, nothing happened. Fear slid like a cold snake somewhere between his empty stomach and pounding heart. What if this was the end? How long can a person go without water? About three days? If the wolves didn’t eat him first. And then he would die and find himself back in that cursed orphanage room, throwing the loathsome crucifix against the wall and opening the hated door over and over, endlessly. No. No, no, no, not that!!! Maybe turn back? Return to the lake? There was water there, at least; he could try to make fire, catch a fish… Tom suddenly realized how much he wanted to live. Like never before. It was one thing for death to be hypothetical, somewhere over the horizon, held back by Horcruxes. It was another thing if the Reaper was looming right in front of his nose at the very moment when his beloved had finally returned and his new body was young and beautiful. “And helpless…” he grunted, turning a hundred and eighty degrees. And after a couple of steps, he heard a muffled, canine “woof” from behind him! A young assistant to the shaman was grazing livestock in the steppe, not far from the camp. She drove away the wolfhounds that had started to charge. Tom managed to explain with gestures that he was lost and asked for a drink. The girl, though she looked at him fearfully, gave him water and led him to Tseren-Shulam’s yurt. The old witch was eating. Seeing her handiwork, she snickered as if she had been waiting for him. She grabbed him by the sleeve and turned his face toward the light pouring through the hole in the ceiling. She clicked her tongue. What was wrong with his face? It seemed fine yesterday… or had the returning piece of soul disfigured his features? Tom tried to explain: I — horsey — trot away from here, I’ll reward you later, and he even added a polite “uu.” And a meal wouldn’t hurt. At the smell of fresh mutton soup, a waterfall of gastric juice gurgled sadly in his stomach. The shaman seemed to understand; she nodded and pulled him outside. There, she first poked a gnarled finger at two large leather buckets, then at a path beaten somewhere behind the yurt. “Bring water?” he guessed. He glanced at the second girl busy by the fire. “Tiym ee, us avchirdag**. Us!” “Old woman, have you lost your mind?! I am a wizard, not a house-elf! I’ve been trudging here since dawn! Send the girl for water!” But the shaman demanded “us” and unequivocally pushed him toward the source. “To hell with you! But give me a horse afterward!” Tom didn’t know how to ride, but he figured it couldn’t be harder than flying a broom. He’d manage. He took the buckets and trudged on legs strained to the point of ringing toward the spring. Had he known how many trips milady’s elegant legs had made along this path, perhaps he would have grumbled less. Had he his wand, he wouldn’t have stood on ceremony with the shaman, of course! But there was no wand. And the desire to get out of here was growing exponentially. Alas, Tom received no horse for a couple of buckets of water. He was only given food, allowed to rest a bit from the journey, and then offered to go… collect fresh dung! Insulted to the depths of his meager soul, the Dark Lord flew into a rage… However, the old woman quickly tamed his outburst of fury by aiming a long, sharp knife at him and muttering something. A fit of hellish pain twisted the disobedient man into a knot, and when the darkness in his eyes cleared slightly and the ringing in his ears subsided, the shaman pointed a finger at the steppe and told Tom to get out. Stumbling to his feet, he brushed the yellow dust from his trembling hands and clothes, cursed, and trudged away. Voldemort had never experienced such humiliation in his entire life. *Lich — in modern fantasy, a necromancer wizard who has become undead, according to some versions — after death, according to others — instead of death. There is also such a concept as the “Ritual of Eternal Night,” during which a wizard (most often a necromancer) makes a human sacrifice (or several, depending on the wizard’s strength), imprisons their soul in a phylactery, after which they die and are reborn as a full-fledged lich. **Yes, bring water (Mongolian).