The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

“Is the world in crisis again? Why are they so stingy with fabric?” Tom wondered, turning in front of a massive floor-length mirror. Everything was incredibly tight — the trousers, the jacket, the shirt. However, on his lean frame, even this looked perfect. “Shall I show you something else, Monsieur?” the Muggle lisped with a glazed look, holding a pile of hangers. Ninety-nine to one, if Tom had not hit him with the Imperius Curse the moment he walked in, the man would have been drooling over his handsome client, wringing his skinny hands and swearing that everything from a potato sack to a fig leaf would look magnificent on such a body. Tom decided to steer clear of the wizarding districts for now. While the chance of meeting someone who remembered him young was slim, all the modern youth walked around with their faces buried in gadgets just like Aola’s. Who knew if his portrait or a photo from his youth was floating around on this “Internet”? Of course, he could use a Disillusionment Charm or something else… but it was better not to risk it yet. He was not entirely sure of the abilities that had suddenly crashed down on him all at once. The temptation to show up at the Merovingian ancestral castle as he was — and take the Duchess without even changing out of clothes that stank of smoke and sheep — was great. To share his “impressions,” so to speak. But his upbringing and pride won out. He would look like a Lord, and she should not think she had made him bend even an inch! He had not killed anyone yet. Yet. Because he chose not to, not out of fear of being in eternal disgrace. After reaching Europe via a series of Apparition jumps, not without some trouble, Tom checked into a Muggle hotel and immediately filled a bathtub with hot water. Sinking into the fragrant foam, he could not hold back a groan of pleasure. What a delight it was simply to wash properly! To scrub away the dirt, the sweat, and that entire stench of the steppes. Lying in the bath, he tested various trivial spells — practicing. His fingers replaced a wand perfectly, and the result was just as good. This new sense of power was staggering. It was practically omnipotence! He was no longer dependent on a stupid piece of wood with a brainless bird’s feather inside. If only he had this skill twenty years ago! Potter simply would not have been able to disarm him! He would already be ruling the world, and the stubborn Merovingian daughter, upon her return, would have sat obediently at his right hand on the throne. A wife with the blood of ancient sorcerer-kings in her veins — what an elegant touch that would have been to his image as the Dark Lord! And now… Tom did not even know what he wanted anymore, besides a simple rematch? To see Potter defeated, humiliated… dead, finally! And then? Unable to decide, he brushed these thoughts aside. He would decide what comes next later. But first, he had to see her. And for that, he needed to pull himself together. He hurried to wash, shave, and acquire some decent clothes. When the mirror reflected a perfectly modern, stylish young man, Tom smiled with satisfaction. He pulled up the hood of a short, knee-length cloak — a style fashionable even among Muggles now — and pointed a finger with a neatly polished nail at the lisping clerk’s forehead, erasing every memory of himself. The White Road had not changed much since Tom last saw it. Autumn had generously showered the ancient trees with gold and crimson leaves, which crunched mournfully under his thick soles as he walked up the driveway. The cool air was heavy with moisture and the scents of the forest, far more familiar to him than the smells of the plains. His heart quickened with every step; the closer the heavy gates became, the harder it pounded. He felt the protective magic — ancient and powerful. It seemed it would not let even a shadow of evil intent pass into this house. For a moment, he imagined the same genie would open the gates, only Aola would not be in the castle. The fire spirit would lead him to the old Duke’s study, and the man would rise from his desk to lead the guest to his daughter’s grave. A chill ran down his spine, and Tom shook his shoulders, warding off the unpleasant memory. He did not intend to knock or wait for an invitation this time. Dumbledore had been wrong to accuse his former student of crude, blunt magic. When Tom wanted to be, he was as precise as a neurosurgeon. Feeling out the protective spells, he did not try to smash through the defenses; instead, he found a weak spot and slipped through a tiny breach that a less experienced mage would not have noticed. A few minutes later, hidden by a Concealment Charm, he was already standing on the castle’s grand staircase. The alarm spells remained silent, meaning he had done everything flawlessly. Listening closely, Tom heard a melody drifting from above and followed the sound, passing a row of his beloved’s high-born ancestors. The closer he got, the clearer he heard the raspy, strained shouting of a vocalist and music that sounded like banging on pots and pans. Milady was clearly making up for lost time. “Amusing herself…” he thought with irritation, “while I was back there shoveling cow dung and sleeping on the ground like a dog.” Tom had no idea how close he was to the truth. The thick carpet muffled his steps, and he reached Aola’s bedroom unnoticed. The door was slightly ajar. The so-called music was coming from a flat square box with an open lid, and the little mistress of the old castle… was dancing on the rug in front of a huge bed. Well, “dancing” was a stretch — it looked nothing like the dance at the foot of the pyramid or those at the ball. The movements were sharp, aggressively sexual, and assertive. Her short curls bounced and fell, framing a flushed face. She sang along with the raspy vocalist, her eyes closed, completely losing herself in what she was doing. Half-forgotten jealousy, admiration, anger, and a craving to possess her — it all hit him at once the moment the sweet scent of her lightly perspiring body reached his nostrils. Tom clenched his fists, suppressing the tremors that seized him, and watched her graceful palms fly, her small bare feet beat the rhythm, and her firm chest heave under a loose top with a wide neckline that had slipped off one shoulder. The music reached its climax and cut off. “Yes!” she threw her hands up in a triumphant gesture and skipped toward the box, likely to find the next track. Breathing heavily and licking her lips, she began tapping buttons. Then she suddenly froze and sniffed the air. Like a hound, she sniffed — drawing in the air loudly and sharply through her finely sculpted nostrils, turning her head unerringly toward where her invisible guest stood. “Tom?” she said, half-inquiringly, with a smile that was not exactly joyful — it was a bit crooked. He unclenched his whitened fingers and clapped a few times. “Bravo, my lady.” The Duchess waited for him to drop the charm, looked him over carefully, and then smiled more warmly. “You did not used to enter without knocking,” she said. “I did not used to be sold into slavery to a damn unwashed witch.” “If you want to sneak past me next time, take the trouble to mask your scent…” “It seems I wasted my effort sparing your sensitive nose — a couple of hours ago, I stank worse than a homeless Muggle,” he smirked. She remained standing by the vanity, not approaching, so Tom moved toward her with a soft, cat-like stride. “Can I congratulate you? Has your power returned?” the girl asked, switching on her “Lady” persona to the fullest. Just a moment ago, she was jumping around like a street girl from a poor neighborhood, and now she stood there — spine straight, chin up, engaging in polite conversation. Her amber eyes looked at her guest directly and calmly; it was impossible to tell if she was hiding her nerves or if she was not nervous at all. However, perfect self-control was the bare minimum any mage who had long passed the century-and-a-half mark should have mastered. “No… I just trekked eight thousand kilometers on a camel. The poor beast dropped dead at your gates,” Tom quipped. “You did not exactly leave me a choice, my dear.” “As you did not leave me one,” she parried elegantly. “You are not even trying to pretend you are glad to see me…” he hissed, stepping close and looking down at her. “Did you think I would never make it out of there?” “My joy will depend directly on how you made it out of there,” Aola replied with dignity. “Over corpses,” he threw the words in her face and smirked. “How else?” And that was when she turned pale. The color drained from her cheeks right before his eyes, making them whiter than chalk. “Then… I will be forced to fulfill my oath,” she said softly, but she did not lower her eyes. “What oath?” “I swore that I would kill you if you went back to your old ways…” “Seriously?!” His fingers brushed her neck, his forehead almost pressed against hers, so close that looking into those wide, questioning eyes became painful. “You would kill me over a couple of savages and a dry old steppe witch? You would kill me?” “I swore it on blood. It is an unbreakable vow.” Tom felt her body tense, but Aola made no attempt to break free. She just stood there, looking into his eyes, which had turned a shade bluer, though crimson sparks still flickered hungrily in his dilated pupils. The proximity made him shiver. He abruptly let go of the girl and recoiled, grimacing. “I knew it… I always knew it! You do not love me. You never did. Does not love forgive everything? Is it not patient? Is it not kind?” Tom mockingly quoted the Gospel that had been hammered into his orphan head by a dull but diligent parish priest. She gasped and clenched her fingers. Her voice trembled betrayingly as she answered: “There are things higher than personal attachment, Mr. Riddle… Duty, for example, to those who are weaker, more defenseless. And love does not mean permissiveness or indulgence.” “You would not call Tseren-Shulam helpless or weak. It took some effort. Well… thank you at least for the honesty, a trait so uncharacteristic of you,” he smirked. “For God’s sake, Tom! Did you really kill them?!” Her full lips trembled, and she immediately bit the lower one. Her gaze searched his face, trying to read the answer there. He had closed his mind before he even entered the castle. He remembered her habits too well. “Go and check for yourself,” he chuckled, thinking: Who is it you really pity, my peri? Them, or after all, me? “Tommy…” her tone shifted to a tender, pleading one. She stepped toward him and took his hands. “You could not have done it. You just want to spite me, do you not?” He could have crushed her now, like a flower… taken her by force. Killed her. Torn her apart. For all her skill, he had far more experience in combat dark magic. “Why could I not? Killing is the one thing I have mastered to perfection.” “You could not… I would have felt it…” She turned his hands palms up and stroked his calluses with her thumbs. A warm current from that touch flowed upward, reaching his chest… “My blood is in you now, Tommy. It was necessary for the oath. But then Tseren-Shulam performed another ritual… She cut you off from your lineage and joined you to mine. Now you belong to the Merovingians.” “What?! How is that even possible?!” he exclaimed, stunned. “But I still remember Parseltongue! Are you playing tricks on me again?!” “Your skills remain with you; new ones have even been added. I do not see your wand, Tom. That means you cast without it, just as I do. But your ancestors — the Gaunts — will no longer crowd behind your shoulders, rejoicing in the atrocities you committed and pushing you toward new ones.” “Well, of all the…” Tom gasped, wrenching his hands from her fingers to break the intoxicating contact. Damn it all, he felt like a snot-nosed fifth-year again, and this honey-eyed harpy was making a fool of him once more! “Go to hell!…” he growled. “I did not ask you to resurrect me, I did not ask you to save my soul, and I certainly did not ask you to meddle in my relationship with my ancestors!!!” She sighed and shrugged. “Yes, I am headstrong… I thought you had realized that long ago.” “I am not your toy!” he snapped. “How many times do I have to repeat that, or shall I just wring your neck already?!” “Tommy…” She stepped after him, not frightened at all, clearly intending to hug him, but he threw his hand forward, and she hit an invisible barrier. She gasped in pain and froze with her arms outstretched, not resisting. “Do not come near me. Better if you do not. I have had enough, Lady Merovingian. Farewell. I sincerely hope we never meet again.”