The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

Aola tried to read a book, but her thoughts kept returning to the morning visit. She had, of course, carried herself properly and knew her rights, but how much had the relations between the Ministries of different countries changed during her absence? What trouble had she invited upon herself by opening the grave of the Dark Lord? “Act first, think later—nothing ever changes…” she sighed, tossing the book onto the table. Naturally, milady had counted on the crypt of a defeated enemy not being so dear to Mr. Potter that he would visit it with a bouquet of daisies every week. As they say, buried and forgotten… She wondered if the check had been routine or if something had alarmed Potter. Before, when he was Voldemort’s Horcrux, he had felt his resurrection, his approach… At least, that’s what they say on the Internet. And now? She wasn’t afraid for herself—she had already summoned the family lawyer for a consultation. She was afraid that Tom would be discovered and killed… Or locked away in Azkaban. She hadn’t brought him back just to throw him to his enemies. Tom… Oh, Tom… How was he faring? She would need to contact the shaman and find out how things were going. Lord, let him become even a little more sensible! Let him learn to control himself. Let him feel regret for what he had done… And then they could move forward, try to start life anew. To pass the time until the lawyer’s arrival, milady went online. No sooner had she logged into Witchbook than an animated scops owl with an envelope in its beak started hopping across the screen—unread messages. “Hey, beautiful, where did you disappear to? Off to Latin America again?” a familiar voice asked from the speaker. Teddy… The redhead from the ferry. “Hello… well, where are you, Aola?” “:( Silence… Do beautiful witches have no time for the web and the losers caught in it?” After hesitating, milady opened the chat window and typed: “Traveling :) How is Mari-Victoire?” Teddy was online and replied instantly: “Mari has gone to Hogwarts to finish gnawing on the granite of science—she’s in her graduating year. Tell me instead, where were you and what were you up to?))” Aola gave a bleak smile. If she told the truth, the charming redhead with the amazing avatar—where he changes faces in fractions of a second—would lose all desire to communicate. He would hand her over to the Aurors immediately… “Attaining Zen in a place far removed from civilization.” “And how was it?” “With varying success :)” “Do you like nature, solitude?” “Yes, but I think I’ve had an overdose. I wouldn’t mind talking to people, going to a concert.” “What kind of music do you like? Fly to London, let’s go somewhere together.” Aola laughed—he was quick! In the old days, one would have had to be introduced to the parents of a girl one liked first, and only then ask permission to take her to the theater or a concert. At least, that was how it was done in her circles. How the world had changed… One had to learn and learn again, even just how to communicate properly. Hunger breaks stone walls—Tom had to confirm the truth of the proverb on his own brand-new skin. He sat by the spring until sunset, never finding the courage to leave. Another night in the open air did not appeal to him; his only option was to wait for nightfall and try to steal a horse under its cover. The plan would have been fine if he had some kind of weapon, but as it was, the attempt failed miserably—the damned wolfhounds, nearly the size of lionesses, started barking at him from the corral. He had to run for his life and spend the night on a bed of dry chee grass, pulled out by the roots, shivering from the cold like a toy dog. Meanwhile, his nose and cheeks, burnt during the day, stung mercilessly. He had the sense to dig up some clay, wet it, and smear the slurry over his burning skin. It was a good thing there were no blood-sucking insects left; in the spring, they would probably have eaten him alive. By morning, an ingenious idea entered his sleep-deprived head: to take the girl who came for water hostage. But the shrewd Muggle appeared at the spring accompanied by one of the vicious hounds—he had to abandon that plan as well. The watering hole for the livestock was situated further downstream where the creek widened, but dogs likewise accompanied the shepherdess and her charges, and Tom had no desire to be bitten. The hounds sensed the stranger’s intentions perfectly and felt not the slightest sympathy for him. By evening, hunger and common sense finally prevailed over pride. He needed to eat something, sleep somewhere. And most importantly—he needed to regain his power, and for that, he would have to be very polite to the damn old woman. Tom was absolutely certain—the shaman had done this on purpose, at Aola’s request. Pulled the venomous fangs of the snake, so to speak… Now he was like a neutered cat—just as sweet, but he doesn’t mark, doesn’t howl, and doesn’t scratch the furniture. To hell with the old woman—she was just fulfilling an order. But milady… to say “I love you” and do this… She was a naive fool if she thought she could domesticate him this way! Long ago, he had known how to please women… middle-aged ones included. Why not play the charming youth again? Putting on a pleadingly humble face, Tom trudged toward the yurt, cupping his hands and lowering his eyes as he approached. Alas, the shaman was completely untainted by the manners of civilized society, unlike the late Hepzibah, and had no need for a young admirer. Her expanding household had a much greater need for firewood and dung. The boy was allowed to stay, having a couple of sheepskins and a blanket tossed to him by the fire. Their strong scent stung his nose, but he was so exhausted that, once warmed, he fell fast asleep. The next day, he was woken before dawn. One of the girls brought a bowl of sour milk and a piece of flatbread, which Tom swallowed greedily. The new body was that of a teenager—it was growing and demanded food. Then he was given his work assignment. Alas, without magic, Mr. Riddle was completely inept. Even a Mongolian preschooler knew more. Therefore, he was entrusted with the simplest task—collecting dung. Armed with a coarse, foul-smelling sack, the Dark Lord hobbled out to the pasture on legs aching from blisters. He wasn’t given any gloves or tongs. He had to pick up the filth with his bare hands. When he first touched a cow patty, he nearly gagged. He broke into a sweat and his vision blurred. What a revolting thing! Closing his eyes tight and clenching his teeth, Tom quickly shoved the prize into the bag and thought that the yellow-eyed bitch would pay for every second of his humiliation. Only thoughts of inevitable, sweet revenge on everyone responsible for his current situation allowed him to keep going. When he saw the chubby-cheeked Sugar deftly scooping up handfuls of semi-liquid dung, molding the substance into patties and laying them out to dry in the sun, he finally vomited. The girl snickered and said something in Mongolian. Something insulting, surely. “Forgive me, miss, we weren’t taught to make mud pies out of shit at Hogwarts…” he spat out, wiping away stringy saliva. He spent the next hour washing his hands in the stream, sniffing his own fingers like a hound, and thinking he would never be able to swallow another bite. By lunchtime, that delusion had passed. “Harry, come in, take a seat,” Kingsley Shacklebolt invited Potter with a wide gesture. A shadow of concern lay on the Minister’s usually welcoming face, and before him on the desk was a report. Harry recognized it at first glance—he had written it himself, after all. “I have read your report…” Kingsley boomed, slapping his palm down on the unrolled scroll of parchment. “Naturally, your fears are justified, and the proposal to extradite Lady Meroving for questioning is quite reasonable, but… I’m afraid it won’t be that simple, if only because the clan is extraordinarily influential on the continent, and half the ministers are Merovings, if not by direct line, then from collateral branches. That is the first thing. And secondly…” “What is the second thing?” Harry pressed the silent Kingsley. It seemed she hadn’t been acting so self-assured for nothing? “The clan, in the person of Lady Aola and her late father, rendered a great service not only to the magical but also to the Muggle community during the Second World War.” “Can the scale of this service be so great and significant for Britain that it can negate her actions? I am certain—the lady did not provide us with all the items removed from the Dark Lord’s grave!” “On what do you base your certainty, Harry? She didn’t just refrain from denying anything; she let you read the diary, didn’t she?” “Half-truths are the best way to mask a lie,” Potter replied, starting to get nervous. “I have no direct proof, sir… But I saw… a dream in which Voldemort returned. Moreover, reports from Azkaban say the Death Eaters are acting agitated; Fenrir Greyback tried to attack a guard. It seems to me these are all links in the same chain.” “Dreams are a murky substance,” the Minister grimaced, “try telling a simple one from a prophetic one… you are no longer his Horcrux, right? Naturally, I am not personally acquainted with the lady, as you understand, but I have studied some documents, the memories of Leonard Spencer-Moon, and found only the highest praise for her personal qualities.” The Honorable Spencer-Moon nodded importantly from his portrait, confirming his successor’s words. “Sir, Lady Meroving was in an intimate relationship with the young Riddle while she was his teacher,” Harry countered, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “The attachment proved so great that she was not afraid to break the seals, and she spared no effort to do so—not just anyone can break them, I assure you!” The Minister gave a heavy sigh: “We should have burned him to hell… There wouldn’t be any problems! Did you find out how she obtained the information about the burial?” “She stayed in Hogsmeade and could have used Legilimency on Aberforth Dumbledore. Hagrid said her mental intrusions are almost imperceptible—they cause neither pain nor discomfort.” Kingsley drummed his fingers on the desk, pondering, and promised: “Very well, I will send an inquiry to the European Ministry. But I can promise nothing.” Harry nodded, standing up, then stopped and asked: “Minister, what was the service Lady Aola rendered to Britain?” “That is classified information, Mr. Potter. But I will tell you… you have the right to know. Naturally, under a Non-Disclosure spell, if you agree.” “I agree,” Harry replied without hesitation and rolled up his sleeve. The Mark of Non-Disclosure burned his arm, flashing with pain all the way to his shoulder, echoing in his chest, breaking out in sweat on his temples. He had to lean on the desk to stay on his feet. Gritting his teeth, Harry waited for the golden inscription to sink into his skin. “Lady Meroving intercepted an artifact from a group of dark wizards who had violated the Statute, an artifact capable of turning the most untalented commander into a military genius. Had it fallen into Hitler’s hands, world history would have followed a completely different path. I’m afraid a much sadder one. The consequences could have been catastrophic. Unlike the Elder Wand, the effect of this artifact extends to Muggles as well.” “What is the item, sir?” The Minister looked at Harry significantly and said: “The Spear of Longinus.*” Harry didn’t immediately understand what was being discussed, and when he did, he was very surprised. “I thought that was just a legend!” “Everyone thought that about the Deathly Hallows, too… And look how that turned out.” *The Spear of Longinus (Spear of Destiny, Spear of Christ) — according to the Gospel of John, one of the Instruments of the Passion, the pike that the Roman soldier Longinus thrust into the side of Jesus Christ, crucified on the Cross. Like all Instruments of the Passion, the spear is considered one of the greatest relics of Christianity.