The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

Maître Fabre, seasoned by experience and silver-haired, had worked for Aola’s father and could therefore afford a certain level of familiarity. “Well, dearie, more inheritance problems?” he asked, ceremoniously pressing his lips to her hand in the old-fashioned way. “No, no, Maître, no problems there. I’m afraid I have a much more difficult puzzle for you… Would you care for a glass of absinthe?” “Is it that complicated?” the lawyer squinted. “Then I won’t refuse. Neat, please, without that… sugar water. Diluting absinthe could only occur to schoolgirls!” Aola gave a knowing smile, opened the bar, and took out a heavy, faceted bottle. The lush green liquid flowed into a crystal glass, followed by a tiny creature resembling a dragonfly—an absinthe fairy. She perched on the rim of the glass and giggled thinly. Milady blew gently on her, shooing the mischievous thing away, and handed the drink to her guest. The Maître downed the glass in one gulp and closed his eyes, grunting with pleasure. The fairy circled the man and tickled his nostril. The Maître sneezed deafeningly. She giggled again, darted into the bottle, and began making faces from within. “Gr-reat…” he growled, staring at the girl with watery eyes. “Now, out with it—what have you done?” “Conducted unauthorized archaeological excavations,” she smirked. When the Maître departed, promising his client that the British legal system—"as dreary as Queen Vicky’s widow’s weeds"—would only get her over his dead body, Aola went down to the laboratory. She took out a flat bronze bowl, splashed some water into it, and added a few drops of a silvery liquid resembling mercury. Biting her lip, she pricked her finger with a thin stylus and shook the droplets of blood into the bowl. The surface rippled slightly. Milady passed her palm over it, whispering an incantation in Farsi. When the water smoothed out, the wrinkled face of the shaman slowly emerged from the depths. “Greetings, Tseren-Shulam.” “And may you be well, daughter of a peri.” “How is Tom? Is he behaving very badly?” “Not anymore,” the shaman replied. “He made a noise—I drove him away, and at night the wolves ate him by the spring. The dogs found only a single gutal*.” Aola’s heart stopped with horror; she gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling, but the shaman was already giggling, pleased with another successful prank. “You’ll play your jokes once too often, chavgants**!” milady snapped, her elongated eyes flashing dangerously. “Ay, don’t be angry at an old woman, daughter of a peri! You are beautiful, young—you have many amusements, probably. Can’t I have a little joke? Your durtay*** is alive; what would happen to him? He’s sitting by the fire. Headstrong—ooh! Worse than a camel in heat.” “Don’t go easy on him…” “I don’t, don’t worry. Today he collected dung and vomited afterward; Sugar said he is such a softie!” the old woman giggled again. “He knows nothing, like an infant without his power. Only anger, he looks unkindly. Black thoughts in his head—his eyes give everything away.” “I know, Tseren-Shulam… I know…” “If you miss him, come at night when he’s asleep and have a look. He shouldn’t see you yet,” the shaman said quite seriously now, and Aola nodded obediently. “Darling, what is going on with you? Maybe you’ll tell me? And don’t try to brush it off; that trick won’t work…” Ginny wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and pecked him on the cheek. Then she walked around the chair and sat down, taking Harry’s hand and looking into his eyes. He pulled his wife toward him and sat her on his lap. “It’s just… problems at work. Nothing serious, really,” he answered distractedly. Before his eyes were the tongues of flame dancing in the belly of the opened grave. The remains of the Dark Lord had flared up like parchment and burned in seconds, leaving only a bit of gray ash. The commission led by the Minister had thoroughly inspected the grave and the entire island and sealed the cave, collapsing the rocks at the entrance. They should have done that right away! Why hadn’t they? Wasn’t it logical to erase every trace of him, both physical and spiritual? Harry searched for the answer within himself and found none. Lines from Riddle’s teenage diary were now stuck in his mind like splinters, shaking his absolute, long-standing certainty that there had never been anything human in Voldemort. “Har-ry-y-y…” Ginny drawled, demanding an answer. She didn’t even need Legilimency to see right through him. He listened to see if Lily was in her room or wandering the house. He applied a muffling charm just in case and told his wife everything as it was. By evening, Tom—exhausted like a dog from the endless work—realized that he was breaking into sweats not just from disgust, but because he had caught a cold in the most vulgar fashion. The cold nights had taken their toll, or perhaps the stress of his unusually humiliating position. Pride would not let him ask the shaman for medicine, and after barely eating dinner, he wrapped himself tightly in a blanket and lay down by the dying fire. The girls had gone into the yurt to sleep; his only company were the wolfhounds lying with their muzzles toward the embers on the other side of the fire pit. If he even moved, the pack leader would raise his large shaggy head and give a low, guttural growl. What was he supposed to do if he needed the toilet? Throw burning logs at the dogs? The minor, nasty shivering passed quite quickly, replaced by fever. His bones ached, his skin was tender to the touch as if it were all scraped. His thoughts floated and tangled. When was the last time he had been sick like this? He couldn’t remember… He suddenly imagined Aola sitting beside him, placing a cool palm on his forehead… bringing him something to drink. He immediately banished that cowardly thought. She had condemned him to humiliation—that was worse than condemning him to death! He was being bossed around by semi-wild Muggle brats! Today, the one who molded those vomit-inducing dung patties had tried to find out his name. She pointed at herself: “Sugar! Miniy ner Sugar! Tany ner khen be? ****” “To you—My Lord!” he grunted maliciously. “Malerde?” she asked in surprise, and Tom rudely refused to continue the introduction. The girl shook her head with its thick black braids and continued her work, likely considering the white-faced softie a hopeless creature. But the name stuck! By evening, all three were calling him that, including the snide shaman. Bring this, fetch that, catch the goat, hold the hoof—it seems she’s gone lame. Tom couldn’t understand—did the old witch really only know how to heal and resurrect, and in daily life everything had to be done by hand? Or was this a sophisticated way of tormenting him and the Muggle assistants? And what exactly was he so wrong about? Being a Muggle was disgusting! Better to die… than to drag out this pathetic, beastly existence! Perhaps he would die… who knows how seriously ill he was? Sniffling with a stuffed nose, Tom thought spitefully that in such a case, it served Aola right. It was her own fault! Let her cry afterward, the harpy… There were no more Horcruxes; no one could yank him out of his purgatory for their own amusement. So, pitying himself and angry at the whole world, he fell asleep. In the morning, he was woken at the crack of dawn again. The first thing he did was try a simple spell—nothing. No-thing, may a basilisk devour them all! He crawled out from under the thick cotton blanket, sweaty and weak, and trudged to the toilet. This three-walled clay structure with no hint of a door, only waist-high, was another culture shock. The head of someone meditating on the meaning of life invariably stuck out above the wall, removing the need to shout “occupied.” The cold morning wind immediately chilled Tom, making him shiver and think that he needed warmer clothes. And these needed washing. And he himself—needed a wash. He pulled the collar of his sweater and sniffed. Ugh… sheep fat, smoke, dung… He immediately gagged, a few steps from the toilet, fortunately his stomach was already empty. Waiting for the painful spasms to stop squeezing his ribs, he trudged to the washstand. He had to find out where the shower or something like it was. And give his clothes to Sugar for laundry. When he used his fingers to explain what he wanted, the girl snorted and pointed toward the spring. “Vermin…” Tom grumbled and decided that hygiene could wait—he truly felt unwell. At breakfast, he was so lethargic and his nose was so runny that the shaman realized he wasn’t faking. She gave him some kind of herbal brew and allowed him to rest. Freed from the duty of the dung sack, Tom lay by the fire and watched the livestock leave for the pasture, the hooves kicking up yellow flying dust, and thought that hiding in a tree hollow after his first disembodiment had been more pleasant than this. The shaman was right—if Aola had seen him like this, pitifully sniffling with a peeling nose, her loving heart might not have held out and might have forced her to remove the Dark Lord from the process of educational labor therapy much earlier than planned. By lunchtime, he felt better. By evening, Tom felt great, and the next day he was fully harnessed into the usual household chores. After a few more days filled with collecting dung, catching goats, and other exquisite entertainments, he decided that Tseren-Shulam would likely not lift a finger to help him. The old witch quickly made it clear that he would achieve nothing by violence—all attempts at disobedience were suppressed quickly and extremely painfully, and the household items that could be used as weapons were all charmed—without special permission, he couldn’t even take a spoon. He couldn’t even enter the yurt until invited. Tom tried to persuade her… using the meager arsenal of learned Mongolian words, among which “please” sounded disgustingly frequent. He humiliated himself. He promised all the treasures of the world. The old woman only laughed and sent him to gather firewood. Only one way out remained—to steal a horse and get out of this wilderness. The dogs were already somewhat used to him—he had fed them while the girls weren’t looking. He had to reach people. He would say he was a tourist—robbed, documents taken… he’d figure the rest out as the play progressed. Afterward, he’d probably be deported to Europe? Generally, he had a vague idea of how Muggles handled such problems. Sooner or later, he would reach Aola and then… he would find a way to make her help! Waiting until everyone in the yurt was asleep, Tom crawled out from under his blanket, rolled it up tightly with the skins he slept on, and tied it with a piece of rope he had scavenged during the day. He grabbed a waterskin. The shaggy leader named Khargis***** rose after him but did not growl. Murmuring, “Good dog… good, you bastard…” Tom tossed him a piece of meat he had hidden at dinner. The gentle gelding that the second girl rode to herd the livestock was tied by the yurt, separate from the other horses so she wouldn’t have to catch him every morning. For several nights in a row, the horse thief had been bribing him with dry flatbread, and the gelding met the man with a huff, nuzzling his velvet muzzle into his palm—demanding a treat. “Here, you glutton…” Tom whispered, handing over a piece of bread. While the horse chewed thoughtfully, the boy carefully placed the saddle that lay nearby onto its back and tightened the cinch firmly. The Mongolian girls certainly took him for a moron, but he was nothing of the sort. He had observed how the girl saddled the horse and mounted, and decided it wasn’t a great science—he’d manage. He did. After tying the roll and the waterskin to the pommel, he put his foot in the stirrup and easily climbed into the saddle. Anyone who had flown a broom could do more than this… “Go,” he softly nudged the horse’s round sides with his heels and tugged the reins. The animal moved obediently in the direction from which the relatives of the sick shepherd—whom the shaman had finally put on his feet—usually came. The sky above was clear; Tom knew astronomy well and navigated by the stars perfectly. He wouldn’t lose his chosen course even at night. “I’d burn this whole place down… but maybe you’ll still be of use,” he grumbled instead of a farewell. *Footwear (Mongolian). **Old woman (Mongolian). ***Beloved (Mongolian). ****Sugar! My name is Sugar! What is your name? (Mongolian). *****Fierce (Mongolian).