The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

A piercing female scream shattered the silence of the old castle. Narcissa’s body arched on the stone floor. Kicking her heels against the ground and clenching her fists until they cracked, she collapsed onto her side. The scream turned into a rasp; foam appeared on her pale, withered lips. “My Lord!” Lucius pleaded. The gaze of his light eyes in a face white as chalk darted from his convulsing wife to Tom, who sat in the armchair. The latter winced with distaste. “Did I give you permission to speak? Crucio!” Tom spat out, and Malfoy twisted in agony alongside his spouse. However, to his own surprise, Tom did not find much pleasure in it. But traitors had to be punished properly, did they not? They were his vassals, his property forever, no matter how many years had passed! He could kill them both and be done with it… but for now, they were more useful alive. If only Bellatrix were here… She knew a thing or two about torture. Waiting for the trap of pain to loosen, Tom asked the same question again: where was the precious heir of the lineage—the blonde Draco? He could easily enter both of their minds and take whatever he needed from their memories. But he wanted to demonstrate power, strength, and might. He enjoyed watching their futile attempts to understand why he no longer needed a wand. “I swear, my Lord… he and his wife are traveling…” Lucius rasped. Narcissa was shaking with fine tremors, biting her lips until they bled to keep from moaning—the foam on them turned pink. Pride and breeding… well, you couldn’t take that away from them. “Pain is wonderful for refreshing the memory,” Tom smirked. “You have remembered who your master is.” “We never forgot, Master…” Lucius fawned, panting from his suffering like a dog in the heat. “Is that why your wife betrayed me?! Lied that the cursed boy was dead?! You wanted so badly to save your cowardly pup and your own skins? Now you will have to watch as I kill him. And your grandson too. Nothing of value could be born from such filth.” Tom fell silent, admiring the terror that overwhelmed his former subordinates. Oh, how displeased Lady Merovingian would be if she knew how he was spending his first evening in Britain! But then, what did she know of betrayal? She had no right to judge him! “But before that, Lucius, you will tell me where Potter is now and what he is doing. Which of the Death Eaters are still alive and loyal to me—unlike you?” A couple of hours later, stunned by the Imperius Curse, tormented, and with their memories turned inside out, the Malfoys were sent to their own cellar. It contained a well-equipped dungeon where a crowd of prisoners could languish for decades without much trouble. Tom finally sat down to dinner. He merely ordered the vomit and other by-products of the interrogation under duress to be cleaned from the floor. If Lucius had been less pompous and more observant, he would have realized why the servants were not very quick. By the time he arrived, all of them were already under a spell that stripped them of their will. Tasting the soup, Tom suddenly remembered Sugar and her simple cooking. How was she doing? It was already late at night in Mongolia… He had done enough to ensure the girl wouldn’t even have scars. She still had to get married. He wondered if she was considered beautiful by their standards. Perhaps he should bring the girl here? And order Malfoy to marry his grandson to her. Tom smiled; the idea seemed amusing. How old was their brat—twelve, he thought? Good enough for an engagement. Arrogant Lucius would have a stroke… Marrying his only grandson and heir to some Muggle savage! A punishment worse than death. Tom would enjoy watching them writhe; he could always kill them later… This would certainly be more entertaining than the Cruciatus. Or perhaps he should gift the whole family to Tseren-Shulam for about ten years? It seemed that along with the Merovingian blood, Aola’s sense of humor had been passed to him as well… Aola… Retiring after dinner to a luxurious bed with crisp, starched sheets and soft pillows—nothing like the cotton quilts and sheepskins he had slept on recently—Tom sadly noted how weak a human is. Having vented the anger and steam accumulated during a month of constant humiliation onto the Malfoys, he suddenly felt an emptiness inside and a sharp longing for milady. Two disparate fragments of a soul, completely polar, had fused within him, and this nascent real soul ached incessantly, deprived of her company. If only her gentle hands embraced him now… If she said: “Tom, let’s forget everything. The past is dead. I love you. Let’s forget and start over,” he would stop. He would stop right now, and to hell with Potter… let him live. Neither power over wizarding Britain nor triumph over enemies—he wanted none of it as much as before. Beside her, none of it had any value. But the further he went down the path of revenge, the wider the abyss between them became. Perhaps soon it would become impassable. Aola could not be near Tom, even if she wanted to. She was descending a slippery spiral staircase, lower and lower, deeper underground. It seemed the worn steps were countless, but she kept going… His voice haunted her from down there, from a black hole smelling of mold and decay. The stale air made her head spin; it pressed against her chest… He was calling her. Asking for help. How did he end up there, in this terrifyingly deep cellar? “T-o-m…” she wanted to scream, to call him with all the strength of her lungs, but instead, only a quiet, drawn-out sound like a sigh escaped her lips. “Miss Merovingian,” someone touched her shoulder, and she woke up, not immediately realizing where she was. Stone walls… a green-eyed man in ridiculous glasses leaning over her. She was in the interrogation room; it was already late at night. She had fallen asleep with her head on her arms, right at the table. “I beg your pardon,” she said, rubbing her stiff neck. “I hope you have good news for me? Just tell me you’re letting me go—I desperately want to sleep.” “Alas, I must disappoint you, milady. The decision has been made to detain you until morning.” “But why?” The girl’s heart hammered anxiously, but she didn’t show it. “Did something happen? I took the serum and answered all your questions.” “A simple formality. We will repeat the procedure in the morning, and you’ll be free to go.” Ah, so that was it… They had guessed, then, that she had managed to swallow an antidote… Well… Morning it is. She had already begun to relax after the Minister’s visit. Mr. Shacklebolt had been very kind and promised to settle all formalities as soon as possible. She had almost succeeded in befuddling Harry… But Mrs. Weasley, damn her, had the instincts of a bloodhound! She’d be better off tending to her own family… Her husband was taking to the bottle more and more often. She should take him to a family psychologist or something. As for Tom, Aola would deal with him herself somehow… “At least let Abu go,” she requested. “He won’t tell you anything anyway. Jinni are special beings; it is very difficult to compel them to do anything.” “I have already realized that,” Harry smiled. He seemed like a good man… How he would hate her if he found out what she had done. Or rather—when he found out? A stone box without windows, with a massive door in the Ministry’s basement—this was the Duchess’s bedroom for the night. Where was Tom? What was he doing? Her soul was uneasy, oh, so uneasy… She had spent the evening on pins and needles while the lawyer rushed back and forth, trying to secure her release. Her chest ached… Not from fear for herself, but because something was happening to Tom… something not very good. Aola began pacing the cell. Exactly four steps from the door to the wall. And exactly four steps back. Thank goodness they didn’t put her in shackles; with her magical abilities, it was the logical thing to do… The door creaked open—they brought her a blanket. It really was damp and cold here… Waiting until the footsteps behind the massive door faded, the girl transfigured the hard bunk into a soft sofa and climbed onto it, tucking her feet in and wrapping herself in the blanket. Perhaps she should take advantage of the freedom to cast spells so recklessly left to her before it was too late? Tom woke at dawn—a habit instilled by Mongolian labor therapy. With all his meager soul, he rejoiced that he didn’t have to wait in line for a horrific toilet, wash with cold water, and trek into the steppe to collect dung. A nimble house-elf brought the new master hot tea, and while he was dressing, breakfast was ready. After visiting the defeated masters of Malfoy Manor and being satisfied with their semi-vegetative state, Tom left the estate for the place that had inexorably drawn him for many, many years. Did he feel nervous, Apparating into the village by the Black Lake and heading along the old road to Hogwarts? You bet! This place was sacred to him. The home where he had been happy, and where he had suffered his most crushing defeat. Naturally, he applied a Disillusionment Charm. He visited the white tomb first. Not out of sentimentality, of course, but out of innate practicality. The fate of the Elder Wand interested him. It was not in the tomb, which did not surprise Tom. Looking at the face, untouched by decay and only slightly withered, of the man who had invited him long ago, in another life, into the world of magic, Tom suddenly felt something vaguely resembling a prick of conscience. Brushing off the strange sensation, he sealed the tomb and moved quickly toward the school. Students were already waking up, filling the washrooms with their voices and laughter. His death and rebirth in a human body had canceled everything—all previous bans and spells. He entered the doors calmly, unnoticed by anyone. The school, destroyed by the Death Eaters, had been fully restored; even the stained-glass windows were exactly as they had been during his student years. Tom noticed with amazement how his heart was pounding… So loudly that it seemed anyone passing by would hear it. “Calm down…” he told himself. He needed to find one person. Only one. He had a rather interesting plan… The cursed bunk turned back into itself a couple of times during the night, waking milady with its coldness and hardness. She would mutter a spell without opening her eyes and sink back into a restless, shallow sleep. In the morning, Mr. Potter came for her personally, and she, blushing, asked permission to use a proper Ministry restroom instead of the stone tub in the corner of the cell. Perhaps those who built the cell feared that detainees would leak through the sewage system? Aola could find no other explanation for the absence of a toilet and the presence of that horrific thing. Naturally, she was assigned a vigilant, though sleep-deprived, Mrs. Weasley. The Duchess had never experienced such restrictions on her freedom, and all this nonsense was beginning to get on her nerves. Maitre Fabre, grim as a thundercloud, was gulping hot coffee from a paper cup. “I hope the morning is good, my dear… I brought you coffee, but that Furious Madame confiscated it,” he grumbled in French. Hermione, who had learned French in her spare time out of boredom, shot the lawyer an angry look and sent a young, curious clerk hovering at the door for fresh coffee. Aola had to use that coffee to wash down another portion of Veritaserum. She knew the potion she had taken in the lab had long since worn off. But she had another ace up her sleeve… When Harry reached the question of what exactly Miss Merovingian had removed from the Dark Lord’s grave, milady began to gasp for breath and lost consciousness. “Stop this at once!” the lawyer roared, rushing to his client. However, both Harry and Hermione were seriously alarmed themselves. Only after unbuttoning the collar of her sharp blouse to allow the girl to breathe freely did they notice a mark appearing on her skin. Its power was stronger than the Serum. Taking advantage of the freedom granted to her, Aola had placed a Non-Disclosure Charm upon herself.