The Last Chance Of Tom Riddle

“Scum!” A seemingly small palm lashed across her face with such force that Aola staggered. Someone gasped — it sounded like good-natured Hagrid. Not a single muscle had twitched on Ginny’s stony face as she approached, so no one had time to react, not even her husband. Unlike the others, milady was not surprised by Mrs. Potter’s outburst. She had read that intention the moment she saw the mother of the boys Tom had stolen, who had arrived a few minutes ago surrounded by her equally red-haired brothers. She understood Ginny’s feelings and therefore did not defend herself. However, the instinctive urge to slam Harry’s wife into the ground in return was difficult to suppress. This was only the second slap in her long life. The one who had dared to strike milady for the first time had been killed by Tom mere seconds later. It was a blessing she had sent Abu away… He wouldn’t have tolerated it either. “Ginny!” Potter exclaimed, grabbing his wife’s arm and pulling her away from Aola. Milady, ignoring the wands instantly aimed at her, mechanically touched her cheek and was surprised to find blood on the back of her hand — the woman’s well-manicured nails had scratched her skin. Hagrid coughed guiltily — the poor fellow was torn between genuine sympathy for Miss Merovingian and anger at her actions. Ron looked away. Hermione, however, couldn’t hide a smirk. Then again, she didn’t particularly try to. “She brought him back to life!” the redhead screamed, her face contorting, her lips trembling. Harry began whispering something in her ear, likely explaining that the Lady had volunteered to help. “And you believe her?! After everything she’s done?!” Ginny cried out. “You don’t have a choice,” Aola replied coldly. “You will have to trust me. Harry, may I speak with you in private?” “Of course,” Potter nodded, entrusting his wife to the care of her relatives. They stepped aside, under a sprawling century-old oak. “This entire strike battalion… you aren’t going to let Tom go, are you?” she asked point-blank, nodding toward the group of Harry’s friends and family gathered at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. They had all been combing the area around Hogwarts in hopes of finding traces of the missing boys, but so far without success. “It’s insurance. We are talking about the lives of my children. Voldemort is a liar and a murderer!” he replied sharply. “I know. Only, he isn’t Voldemort anymore. Or rather, not quite him.” “Oh? And what exactly is he, in your opinion?” In response, Aola rolled up her sleeve and passed her palm over her wrist several times until the Non-Disclosure Mark appeared on her white skin. It hissed as it evaporated, and it was agonizingly painful — the girl turned pale and swayed. Harry held her by the elbow. “Thank you…” she caught her breath and continued: “My medallion — that is what I found in his grave. It preserved the purest, best part of his soul. And it was in him, I assure you, though it may be hard for you to believe. The medallion gave Tom a new life. Yes, the fragment of the soul remaining after disembodiment found him… But it did not consume him. Tom wants to rescue me, that’s all. He is completely alone now… I don’t think he wants a new war.” “I’m not so sure,” Harry smirked. “Draco Malfoy and his wife have vanished into thin air, and his parents are swearing in unison that the children are traveling.” “As far as I know the history of wizarding wars, the Malfoy family is far from the most reliable support for a Dark Lord,” milady countered. “Harry, listen… I understand your feelings, and I hope you will at least try to understand mine.” “Suppose I do. What are you getting at?” “Do as he demands. Exchange me for your boys and let us go. Please, Harry…” her small hand touched his arm. “Give him this chance. He has caused a lot of evil, a terrible amount, I know! But this is his last chance at redemption. I will look after him myself, I promise. If he wanted to kill, he would be killing already. He has plenty of power… But he is no longer a lich, and he has no Horcruxes.” “How do you know? Neville still hasn’t been found,” Harry replied, struggling to contain himself. The fresh scratch on milady’s eastern cheekbone contrasting with her flawless skin, those elongated eyes looking at him with entreaty… An angelic appearance, aristocratic manners — but what was inside, behind this lovely facade? A woman madly in love or a cunning, cold, calculating monster? He couldn’t tell and felt a helpless rage. Ultimately, regardless of the motives, Aola had brought absolute evil back into this world. “I would know if he had killed. My blood flows in him now too. Tom is not hopeless… he saved a girl. The assistant to the witch who resurrected him. He saved her from death, restored her health and beauty. On his own, no one asked him to. Do you understand?” Aola looked hopefully into the face of the man on whom Tom’s fate had depended for years, and now — depended again. Harry shrugged: “He always seemed to treat good servants well enough.” “Sugar is not a servant to him,” Aola shook her head. “He was a servant to the witch himself until his magic returned to him.” “I cannot risk us all being dragged into a war again, why don’t you understand!” Potter exclaimed, shaking milady’s hand off his shoulder. The Peri charm was working on him; he felt it and grew even angrier — at her, and at himself. “If you had children, you would understand me. And one can repent in Azkaban just as well.” He made a gesture with his hand, ending the conversation and suggesting milady return to the others. In Azkaban… As if Tom would ever surrender alive! Aola let out a quiet moan, covering her face with her palms. Her heart was breaking into pieces. The pain from the slap still burning her face and from the Mark was nothing compared to the emotional pain. “Why, tell me, why didn’t you stay with him?! Why didn’t you keep him by your side if he’s so dear to you?!” Harry growled, leaning close to her face. “Because you cannot force someone into paradise! You cannot save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. He had to make his own choice,” she replied passionately. “Well, he made it,” Harry snapped. He checked his wristwatch and shouted: “Time!” “I’ve made mine too,” Aola said quietly. She lunged at Potter like a cat and Apparated with him, leaving the stunned squad without a leader or the coordinates for the upcoming deal. Tom sat on a fallen tree trunk, about twenty meters from where the stream flowed into the Black Lake. From here, the shore where he had once killed for the first time in his life — protecting her, he had killed — was in plain view. Albus, stunned by an Imperius, stood silently beside him, not breaking the pleasant silence of the autumn forest. To lure the boys out of the school, Tom had spun them a story about a cave and a secret youth organization to fight the resurrected Dark Lord. Youth is trusting… especially if you are the offspring of a hero. They came on their own, hid, and patiently waited for Uncle Neville while he finished some business. Enough of this… both the teaching and that disgusting potion seasoned with Longbottom’s hair. Yuck. The day was overcast, and the gloom in the shadow of the trees had grown thick like evening. Checking his watch, Tom rose. The traditional British five o’clock was approaching. Potter couldn’t possibly fail to show up; the only question was whether he would play fair or drag fifty Aurors along with him. Tom would have dragged them if he were in his place. Telling the boy not to move, he walked toward the lake, stepping with cat-like softness on the carpet of withered grass and moss — being in his own young, obedient body was much more pleasant. When the pebbles crunched under his boots, Tom stopped and looked at the leaden-gray sky, against which the carved towers of the school rose in the distance. It was clear. Just like the lake, across which a light wind drove small waves, lazily licking the shore. Returning to the boy, Tom turned him into a stone and put it in his pocket. A “pop” behind his back, with a characteristic suction sound like a cork being pulled from a barrel, made him spin around sharply. Two figures literally tumbled out of the Apparition channel; momentum carried them several more meters along the shore before they stopped — a man and a woman, just as he had demanded. Harry had not expected such agility from milady, and her action caught him off guard. But as soon as his feet touched the ground and her hands released him, he immediately grabbed the girl and pulled her close, pressing his wand to her temple. “Foolish,” he spat, quickly scanning the place where they had been thrown by Aola’s will. He was wearing a tracker, and soon the Aurors would be here, surrounding the area — not even a mouse would get through. Forest… a stream flowing into a lake. No, the place was unfamiliar; he hadn’t been here before. “It was worth a try,” the girl replied calmly, not attempting to break free. “Riddle! We are here, as agreed, just her and me! Give me back the children and you can take your girlfriend!” Harry shouted, peering into the wall of trees pressing against the water. He expected to see the Dark Lord as he had become after his first resurrection — a hideous, snake-like lich. He was genuinely surprised when a teenager stepped onto the shore, looking little older than his firstborn, dressed as youth dress today. He had seen this Tom in the Pensieve, in Slughorn’s memories. For a moment, Riddle’s handsome face lit up, but no malice or greed flickered in his blue eyes — it was the joy of meeting his beloved. Sincere joy. “My lady,” he smiled, giving his beloved a slight bow. She shivered; Harry felt her lean toward him and held her tighter. The surprisingly human expression on Tom’s face was immediately replaced by a contemptuously cold mask. “Hello, Harry,” he said calmly. “You please me, as always. Honesty is your strong suit.” The hands of the resurrected Voldemort were empty — there was no wand in them. His sons were not with the Dark Lord either. “Where are James and Albus?!” Potter asked, having no intention of making polite conversation. He certainly hadn’t missed Voldemort. Instead of answering, Tom reached into the pocket of his short, trendy hoodie. Harry tensed, ready to repel any attack. But Riddle only pulled out a small stone, tossed it in his palm, and threw it in front of him. It landed with a dull thud and immediately transformed into a boy. Al shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked around in confusion. “Dad? What are you doing here?! And where is Uncle Neville?” “Albus, come here, now!” the man commanded. The boy rose, frightened by his father’s tone, and obediently walked toward him. Tom watched his movement indifferently, his head tilted slightly to the side. “Where is James?” Potter asked demandingly, hiding his son behind his back. “What did you do with Neville?” “Lady Merovingian — let her go. As soon as she is beside me, I will tell you where your firstborn is. Everything fair, Harry… And there was no agreement regarding Neville. Find your friend yourself,” Tom replied. “Fine…” he agreed with a heavy heart. “Go,” he nudged milady toward the Dark Lord. Tom waited calmly for the girl to approach, touched her cheek with his palm, asked something quietly — and again, the intimacy, warmth, and humanity of the gesture struck Harry. And then, the characteristic crackling and flashes — left, right, high overhead — distracted his attention for a second. “Dad, what’s happening?! Who are these people?” his son clutched his hand, demanding an answer. The Aurors had discovered Harry’s location and were covering it with an anti-Apparition net. Riddle grimaced as if from a toothache and smirked: “Yes, it’s getting interesting now, Harry… much more interesting.”