The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

Mr. Riddle missed Mr. Potter by a matter of minutes. Barely had the leaves, stirred up by his Apparition, settled back onto the road when men in sharp suits and robes with Ministry insignia stepped onto it one after another. Judging by the expressions on their faces, they had not come for a social visit. Abu found his mistress in the laboratory. She was hurriedly preparing a basin to contact the shaman. Milady’s hands were shaking. Distracted by the jinni, she cut herself too deeply. Blood splashed into the water, and she instinctively put her injured finger in her mouth. She was in such a rush that there was no time to stop the bleeding. “Mistress, they have come for you. Those… from the Ministry! They say they have a warrant for your arrest!” Abu growled, licking his large fangs with a blue, forked tongue. “Just give the word, and I will send these sons of jackals to hell!” “Why hell? No need,” she replied absently. “Offer them a drink… Let the esteemed officials wait. I will be there soon… I must contact Tseren-Shulam…” She whispered incantations, staring into the depths of the basin. “What happened, Mistress?” “Tom was here.” “When?!” “Just now… He has already left… The shaman is not answering!” “How did that mangy dog sneak into the castle?!” the shocked butler roared. “Do not call him that… his magic has returned. Abu, go to Shulam. I must know what happened there!” “Who am I to tell her about it if they take you away, Mistress?! They came to arrest you!” Her amber eyes stared reproachfully into the spirit’s eyes, which were as black as olives. “Abu! You volunteered to serve me.” The jinni snorted angrily, furrowing his brows until smoke drifted from his nostrils. If, in his mind, the mistress’s order was to her own detriment, failing to fulfill it was not such a great sin. It was enough that he had allowed her to create this construct, which brought nothing but trouble to her pretty but predictably flighty head. Aola hissed like an angry cat and darted toward the cabinet of vials. She found the right one, uncorked it, and downed half of it in one gulp. She winced. “Let’s go, Abu… I hope you at least won’t refuse to call a lawyer?” The jinni rolled his eyes theatrically and bolted up the stairs. Tom had always been indifferent to strong alcohol — he valued a clear mind. Nor was he fond of wine or beer. But after the conversation with Aola, he suddenly wanted to get away from it all… at least for a while. Away from everything that had happened during this endless, dreary month. And from the words she had spoken. It had been a long time since he felt anything like this… Knockturn Alley looked almost the same as it had twenty years ago. Perhaps it was a bit more deserted. Some shops were boarded up entirely. Dark magic was clearly out of favor lately… And the White Wyvern was just as dim and sparsely populated. Here, no one would try to look under a stranger’s low-pulled hood or ask about their age when selling a drink. He remembered they used to serve things here that were much stronger and more serious in terms of health consequences than firewhisky… The one-eyed bartender, wiping glasses, offered the new customer a standard selection of drinks while simultaneously assessing the cost and quality of his clothes. Evidently, Tom seemed solvent enough, and leaning over the bar, the man asked in a low, conspiratorial voice: “Perhaps you’d like some manticore tincture? Or a cocktail with dragon blood and fire-crab secretion?” “Firewhisky,” Tom replied curtly, with a smirk. Good traditions were hard to kill. However, one could “trip” so far on a tincture of venomous manticore stinger… all the way back to an orphanage room… if the dosage was wrong. Death had never been part of his plans. Especially not now. Clenching the cool, heavy glass, Tom fumbled in his cloak pocket and tossed a coin onto the counter. Its previous owner was currently taking a relaxed nap in one of Knockturn’s dark corners and was unlikely to remember where he had lost his wallet when he woke up. Tom had not intended to come to London… not at all. And yet here he was. He was drawn to the sites of his “former glory,” like any hardened criminal, against his will. Taking his drink, he moved away from the bar to the darkest corner of the establishment. He sat so that he could see the entire room and the entrance. He took a sip. The dark amber liquid seared his mouth and scorched his throat, tracing a flaming path to his stomach. Heat spread through his veins instantly, pulsing and warming his cold fingers. Why could he not just vent his anger as before? Why did he even leave that idiot alive? Nothing could be simpler — just two words, and in the morning a cold body would be dismissed as a drunken death. If he had to convince an outsider, Tom would have said he was being cautious, that was all. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t it. Had the shaman really done something to him? How could he test it? He had never dealt with such magic. To simply cut a man — a wizard! — off from his roots! He had spent his whole life being so proud of being the heir of Slytherin! And now — he was no longer a Gaunt! Neutered like a cat, indeed… And yet, he couldn’t even punish Aola for everything she had done to him! He just pushed her away and slunk off with his tail between his legs… Tom gritted his teeth and sent another large gulp of alcohol down his throat. He was no longer a child and could not love her as before — without reservation, with his whole being… absolutely and trustingly. Too much had come between them since then. An abyss… over which she was trying to build her own bridge, while simultaneously rejecting who he had become. And what about him? What was he trying to do? “My dear, who are all these gentlemen and what do they want in our house?” The aunt held herself properly, but a dangerous note rang in the noble Gringualda’s tone. “They are here for me, from the Ministry. You have nothing to worry about.” “Aola Brigitta Zerin Augustina, Duchess Merovingian?” a high-ranking official from the United European Ministry inquired in a dry, official tone, unfurling a parchment. The girl nodded, confirming her identity. “By this document, I notify you that you are detained for questioning regarding the opening of the Dark Lord’s burial site. You are ordered to accompany these gentlemen to the British Ministry of Magic,” the official nodded toward Harry Potter and Hermione Weasley, whom Aola already recognized, and several other Britons. “We also have a warrant to search the premises and seize Tom Riddle’s diary.” “What?! How dare you?! On what grounds?! My dear, I will immediately inform Romy and your uncle…” “There is no need to trouble anyone,” Aola touched her aunt’s shoulder, calming her. “They will just ask me a few questions, that’s all. It is standard procedure, you understand? These are representatives of another state; such matters are not settled without paperwork anymore.” “But they will rummage through our things!” Gringualda was on the verge of fainting at this monstrous news. The wings of her noble Merovingian nose quivered, promising a storm. “They will not. I will hand it over myself,” milady cut in, then turned to the officials: “May I change my clothes?” “After you hand over your wand. Your jinni by the name of… Abu Kasim Amir ibn…” he took a breath and continued, “Abdullah al-Rabi is also detained. Please summon him here.” “Alas, I lost it on the Eastern Front at the Kursk Bulge back in 1943, and I never acquired a new one.” The Ministry gentlemen exchanged bewildered looks. “Then how do you perform magic?” Mrs. Weasley inquired skeptically. An expression of ill-concealed triumph shone through her official sternness. Instead of an answer, Aola twisted a fireball in her fingers and tossed it into the fireplace. The logs prepared by the elves flared up, crackling. The bewilderment on the officials' faces became absolute. “The Eastern school of sorcery where I studied does not require the concentration of energy through external tools,” the Duchess explained calmly. “In that case… we will be forced to use handcuffs. Please understand our position,” Mr. Potter spoke up. His face was inscrutable. God, with those ridiculous glasses, he looks so much like Himmler, milady thought with sudden irritation. “You would put handcuffs on a girl? On a Lady?!” Gringualda was outraged. A European Auror coughed embarrassedly: “Mr. Potter, ahem… This measure seems excessive. The Lady is cooperating and does not intend to resist,” he added, turning to Aola in an apologetic tone, “I am sorry… We did all we could.” “It is quite all right, thank you very much, gentlemen,” the girl nodded. It seemed he was some sort of distant relative of hers? She knew that for a full month the Ministries had been bickering over her detention and extradition — Maitre Fabre had been putting up significant obstacles on his end. The Britons had finally insisted on their way… “Mr. Potter, would my word of honor not suffice? If I wanted to, I would have Apparated from where I stand long ago.” Mr. Potter hesitated. “Harry!” hissed Hermione, who did not trust the copper-eyed girl one bit. “You may change, Lady Aola, and we will not conduct a search if you hand over the diary.” “Very well,” Aola nodded and turned to go to her room. “I’ll watch her,” Hermione muttered, pointing her wand at the Duchess’s back. Ten minutes later, dressed in a sharp trouser suit, Aola left the castle accompanied by the Aurors. In a sealed lamp carried by Harry, an infuriated Abu was swearing in every dead language he knew. In the empty living room, a shocked Gringualda swallowed calming drops, thoughtfully brought by a house-elf. There was always more trouble from Aola and her father than anything else! The second portion of whisky followed the first unnoticed, almost of its own accord. His body warmed up, but his soul felt even drearier. Thinking about Aola and their relationship was painful. Not thinking about it was impossible. He had lied when he said he hoped never to see her again — he was already being drawn back with unimaginable force. Now her blood was in his veins too… Ha, incest was one thing that had not appeared on his extensive record yet. Although, the Gaunts did not seem to mind it. The face of his late uncle suggested as much, at any rate… Aola… Aola. She always had some monstrous power over him, and she still did. No, to hell with it all, to hell with it! Right now he needed information, as much and as detailed as possible. Where was Potter? What was he doing? Did he have a family — that Achilles' heel of any normal person? Surely he did… probably married that Mudblood know-it-all Bellatrix had such a lovely chat with back then. Pushing away the empty glass, Tom scanned the room, which was slowly filling with patrons, looking for a head he could rummage through for his own benefit without interference.