The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

“I hope you have not signed anything yet, my dear? This arrest is unlawful, especially regarding a jinni! I have already appealed to the International High Court,” Maitre Fabre’s final sentence was addressed to Harry. The old man slammed a plump dragon-hide briefcase onto the table, took a seat, and stared sternly at Potter. “Now then, young man, ask your questions. Time is money.” Aola could barely keep herself from snickering, even though the British Auror interrogation room, with its atmosphere, hardly invited laughter. Bare stone walls covered in protective enchantments and sparse furniture — it was a stone box, any way you looked at it. She immediately checked herself — Tom was out there somewhere, who knew what he had already done, she and Abu were under arrest, and here she was, finding it funny… “Miss Merovingian, is it true that from February to June 1943, you replaced Professor Galatea Merrythought as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts?” Harry asked. “It is true.” “During that period, Tom Marvolo Riddle was a student there, and he also attended your classes?” “Yes. When he wasn’t sulking at me, he attended.” “During that period, did you develop… a special relationship?” Harry skirted around the delicate subject of a teacher-student affair. “Formulate your questions more precisely,” Maitre Fabre snorted. “What is a 'special relationship' supposed to mean?” “Yes, from our very first meeting, a mutual liking was born, which over time grew into something more. We were lovers, Mr. Potter, if that is what you meant,” Aola rushed to the aid of her own interrogator. She smiled sweetly and meekly, as if to say — don’t be offended, Maitre Fabre is just doing his job. “Were you aware that Mr. Riddle kept a diary where he described his experiences?” Harry covered the notebook lying before him with his hand. A strange, dual feeling wouldn’t let him go… he had always seen the Dark Lord as nothing but a soulless monster and couldn’t get used to the thought that the beauty sitting before him was once loved by him. “No, I was not.” “So, you did not know of its location either?” “Of course not. Moreover, for seventy-five years, I had not the slightest clue where its owner was.” Again, a faint smile, more in her stunning eyes than on her lips. I can count on your understanding, sir, can’t I? — that was the look in her eyes. And… Merlin’s beard, only a stone could fail to feel a sense of liking for this creature! Well, and Hermione… While Mr. Potter questioned his charming detainee under the lawyer’s watchful eye, in the next office, the former Miss Granger was trying by all means to get Abu to talk. But to do that, she first had to lure him out of the lamp. The jinni, however, flatly refused to come out without Lady Aola’s command. “Mr… Abu Kasim Amir ibn Abdullah al-Rabi, you have nothing to fear. Your mistress is not here, and if she has threatened you, just say so. It is my duty to protect the rights of beings like yourself, oppressed by wizards, and we — our Ministry — can provide you with a safe haven,” Mrs. Weasley spoke in the most trusting tone she could muster. Abu remained silent. After half an hour of fruitless persuasion, a frazzled Hermione burst out of the room, which had been sealed with Solomon’s seals against jinn, to catch her breath and have a coffee. She peeked in on Harry. He rose from the table and, leaving Lady Merovingian with her lawyer, stepped out to his friend. “How is it going?” Harry asked. She only snorted in response, dropping a coin into a seemingly ordinary coffee machine. In reality, it was her father-in-law’s “pet”; it could prepare twenty varieties of tea, play music, and bake muffins itself. “Not a chance… he won’t even come out of the lamp. You?” Harry ran a hand over his face, as if shaking off a spell. “No problems, really… She answered all the questions. Explained why she opened the grave — said she felt the energy from the diary, that her own old notes were there, blah, blah…” “Do you think she’s lying?” Hermione asked. “We’ll have to use Veritaserum…” “You say that like you don’t want to.” Harry stared at his friend in surprise. “You’re right — I don’t! I’d rather invite her to a restaurant! Listen, I have this constant feeling that she has made it her goal to make me like her. And I can’t say she hasn’t succeeded…” Hermione laughed. “Let’s trade places, my dear, before you decide to propose to her. Her tricks don’t work on me… I warned you — her mother is a Peri, and they are the closest relatives to Veelas. You see, their magnetism is an evolutionary trait because they have no men of their own. They either have to take a chosen one to their realm for a time or marry here — and a human lifespan is terribly short compared to theirs. Plus, tribal customs forbid them from settling among mortals for long. A Peri cannot be rejected; each one must bear a child, or the tribe will die out. But they have no need to be liked by women, so their charms don’t affect us at all.” “You know, that explains a lot. I never believed, and never will, that Voldemort could truly love anyone. Even as a teenager.” “I cannot judge how sincere the feeling caused by a Peri is… most likely, it is just a form of glamour.” After finishing their coffee, they returned to their respective offices. Maitre Fabre immediately protested the use of Veritaserum, but Lady Merovingian stopped him. She calmly drank the clear liquid and began answering the questions of a very surprised Hermione. Had her intuition failed her, and did Aola have nothing to hide? Meanwhile, Harry didn’t waste time on persuasion. He simply rubbed the lamp three times, as the Eastern fairy tales dictated, and the jinni was dragged from his refuge against his will. Hurrying to plug the spout of the vessel with a crumpled piece of paper, Potter watched as the grim Merovingian butler materialized and hovered above the interrogation room floor in a circle of special spells that prevented him from leaving. “Mr. Abu, I only want to ask you a couple of questions. Answer them, and you may go,” Harry promised. Scanning the room with bloodshot eyes, the jinni cursed in some dead language, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at the wall, making it clear there would be no conversation. “Your loyalty does you credit,” Potter remarked, “but your mistress is not refusing to cooperate. Why harm her with your stubbornness?” “Me no understand you,” Abu stated insolently. “You’re lying… you speak French, English, and German perfectly. Jinn have access to all human knowledge, including all languages — everyone knows that.” “Fine, you caught me, human,” Abu growled. “The Earth is round, the number Pi is 3,1415926535 8979323846 2643383279 5028841971 6939937510 5820974944 5923078164 0628620899 8628034825 3421170679 8214808651 3282306647 0938446095 5058223172 5359408128 4811174502 8410270193 8521105559 6446229489 5493038196 4428810975 6659334461 2847564823 3786783165 2712019091 4564856692 3460348610 4543266482 1339360726 0249141273 7245870066 0631558817 4881520920 9628292540 9171536436 7892590360 0113305305 4882046652 1384146951 9415116094 3305727036 5759591953 0921861173 8193261179 3105118548 0744623799 6274956735 1885752724 8912279381 8301194912 9833673362 4406566430 8602139494 6395224737 1907021798 6094370277 0539217176 2931767523 8467481846 7669405132 0005681271 4526356082 7785771342 7577896091 7363717872 1468440901 2249534301 4654958537 1050792279 6892589235 4201995611 2129021960 8640344181 5981362977 4771309960 5187072113 4999999837 2978049951 0597317328 1609631859 5024459455 3469083026 4252230825 3344685035 2619311881 7101000313 7838752886 5875332083 8142061717 7669147303 5982534904 2875546873 1159562863 8823537875 9375195778 1857780532 1712268066 1300192787 6611195909 2164201989 …and I can tell you to go to the devil in every known and forgotten language in the world!” Harry took off his glasses and tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wondered if he used some special spell for jinn, like the “Scourge of Solomon,” would Maitre Fabre — and more importantly, Hermione — leave anything of him, or would they immediately tear him into a thousand pieces? Half an hour later, the friends met again during another break. Hermione brought out a signed protocol — under the influence of the serum, Lady Merovingian had answered all the questions exactly as she had before. The result of Harry’s efforts, unlike the number Pi, equaled an absolute zero — Abu hadn’t said another word. “That lawyer is some kind of brain-sucking leech!” Hermione groaned. “He’s already slipped away to the Minister with a complaint!” “So it turns out she isn’t lying,” Harry said with relief. He didn’t know what he had expected from this interrogation, but now a weight had been lifted from his chest. “Let’s hold her for at least another couple of hours. Ideally, a full day.” “Why?” “She could have taken something… some kind of antidote to Veritaserum. Her family has accumulated knowledge for centuries that many wouldn’t even dream of. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is still leading us by the nose.” But Minister Kingsley was already hurrying down the corridor, accompanied by the seemingly ubiquitous Maitre Fabre. “But… he was just sitting in the interrogation room! You can’t Apparate from there!” Hermione whispered, stunned. “Maybe there are two of them?” Harry suggested. The Minister took him by the elbow and led him into the interrogation room, egged on by the tireless lawyer. Malfoy Manor was dark and majestic. The past twenty years had not affected the centuries-old estate — here, order reigned and traditions were honored… as much as modern views and social requirements allowed. Its master did not like scurrying through fireplaces like some commoner. He Apparated directly into the hall and, to his displeasure, had to wait nearly a full minute for a house-elf to take his cane and damp cloak. And yet, one couldn’t even snap at these lazybones anymore! That Mudblood Granger-Weasley had created a whole union for them. Now any house-elf could file a grievance against their master, go on strike, or pull some other nasty trick. They had already been fined several times for improper treatment of domestic staff. Therefore, the master of the castle did not voice his dissatisfaction aloud; he only grimaced and hurried into the main hall. His solitary footsteps echoed under the high vaults. Even in that sound, irritation was clearly audible. The fireplace was lit, huge logs blazed, sending waves of heat into the hall. The table was set for a late supper — his wife was waiting for him. “My dear, I was delayed. Just imagine, that fool Amishwood…” he trailed off, never finishing what the aforementioned fool had done. Someone was sitting in the armchair turned halfway toward the fire. Someone who looked nothing like his wife — wearing a cloak with a hood pulled tightly over their face. The guest’s posture was completely relaxed, as if they were resting before their own fireplace. Long fingers, visible from narrow sleeves, touched at the tips in a gesture of deep contemplation. “Hello, Lucius,” the person said, and horror washed over the master of Malfoy Manor in an icy wave of chills. The voice was clear, with a youthful ring, but he recognized it immediately. Those intonations… That cold confidence in his own superiority and the threat hidden behind it could not be forgotten even after a thousand years! Lucius froze, unable to take a step — neither forward nor backward. The guest threw back the hood and smiled at the master with an incredibly charming smile. Young Tom Marvolo Riddle himself was sitting in his chair, his clear blue eyes shining as if he were a family friend who had decided to drop by on a whim… to see his grandson Scorpius, for instance. The blonde clutched his throat as if suffocating and backed away. “Impossible… It’s a glamour!” he rasped. “Narcissa!” “She is resting,” the young Dark Lord smirked, standing up. “Don’t,” he reproached, noticing Lucius’s fingers dart toward his wand, and the man was instantly paralyzed. “The only thing impossible here, my dear friend,” the teenager drawled, maliciously articulating every word as he approached his old follower, eyeing the wrinkles etched into his face, “is the fact that you and your family are somehow not in Azkaban with the rest… It seems I have accumulated too many questions for you, Lucius.”