Her mother's house had once been a most magnificent sight. Resting upon the dreary edge of a small canyon, the clay home had been enigmatic yet warmly inviting. Sometimes when Lola would squint her eyes on a sunset heading up through the steep, undulating rocky road that led to the structure, it would almost look like it had once been. It could almost be beautiful and warmly inviting as it had been meant to be.
However, in the stillness of the afternoon, it was as it had become ever since her mother moved in: lifeless, bitter and frozen. Its shutters were no longer lively red but had been ignored into a scraped, russet color. The lights that used to set a majestic mood in the evenings were burnt out and never replaced. The garden and grounds were kept well enough but there were no flowers or bushes to create any sort of welcoming feeling. Even the air seemed colder and uninviting here. While the weather was warm and bursting in late spring liveliness the house was cold and practically shivering in its own sorrow.
Lola swallowed her uneasiness and put on a neutral face. She would wait to see what mood her mother was in, and then and only then, she herself would reveal any emotion to their situation. It was a necessary task and game they played and it was never fun. Lydia grudgingly dragged her bags into the home as Lola followed. She didn't even bother offering Lydia a hand, she would only scoff and ignore her.
The interior of the house was as it had been last time Lola had visited. She had expected as much. Faded, velvet, plushy seating was scattered upon the large welcoming room. Portraits of people and events she and her mother did not know hung carelessly on the walls. They used to follow her with their painted eyes when Lola was young, but now they barely looked at her. The space was quiet and filled with ridiculously pompous looking lamps and accessories. The high ceilings were dark without proper lighting but she could still feel the immenseness of the room surrounding her. Lola stood at the doorway, unwilling to close the rusted door behind her. It was her only escape and her only source of usable light. Lydia flew past her and shut it for her.
Realizing she looked awkward in the doorway, Lola grudgingly settled herself on the dusty couch closest to her. There she could see the spiral stairway and hallways that led to other parts of the home. There she could catch her mother entering the room. Lydia disappeared as Lola raised her hand and opened her small mouth to question her on her mother's location. Typical but Lola waited patiently in the silence. She wondered when she would see her dad again. He was usually all she ever pondered on when she was here. He was all she could think of to keep herself sane and calm among the madness. She heard Lydia whispering in the darkness.
"What could you possibly be thinking of?" her mother's voice said rather than asked. A silhouette of a frail woman traveled elegantly down the stair. Dressed in satin and clad in jewels, her mother's black eyes found hers and never looked away as she descended slowly in a failed attempt to stir Lola. Her mother's graying black hair was twisted and pinned cleanly to her head with a crystal comb. All in all it was an impressive attempt to wow her. The most her mother had ever done really.
She stood at the end of the stair, watching Lola silently with those dark eyes. Lola watched her back just as silent. Time had not helped her mother. She stood a measly 5'2 and her ragged nature had left her once bountiful body tired and transparent. If it wasn't her fancy clothes Lola would have never noticed her. And those eyes…they were the only resilience left in her.
"I asked you a question," her mother said without moving or looking away.
"My father,"
"Ha! Your father, your, he belongs to you now, does he? Might as well, you two are nothing without each other." She said, playing with her jewels.
"Yes, my father, the one whose money bought you this house." Lola said defiantly.
Her mother forced a smile, "you have grown,"
"Yes, that happens as time passes without you."
There was silence. Even as the words left her lips the harshness they spit tasted sour and lethal. Her mother laughed meekly to herself. It was a deep, hurtful sound. Lola lowered her eyes; she had lost the game yet again, her emotions got the best of her. Her mother's silent form stepped closer to the couches, almost 5 feet away… the closest she had been to Lola in two years.
"Without me? Oh no, without you. Without you or your father time passes indeed. Your things are in the guest room. I will see you at dinner, then." Her mother's form began to ascend the stairs slowly and seemingly painfully. Lola almost felt sorry for her; almost saw a bit of pain and remorse on her mother's face. She stopped at the top of the stair. Lola could only see her mother's mouth in their eternal forced, mocking smile. The rest of her was obscured by the way and the lighting.
"Try not to be a plague upon my home," her mother said. Lola bit her tongue but her mother's smile grew long and bright with glee. She ascended the rest of the stair and let a livid Lola alone in the silent mansion.
That was all she needed to see of her mother. Lola would admit a part of her, miniscule but persistent had been allowed to wonder about the mystery of that woman but that was all. No more wondering. No more longing, even if it was miniscule. All that bothered Lola now was the loss of the game. The incessant game, the repulsive, revolting game had been lost yet again. She had hoped she had grown stronger in the two years of absence but no, Lola had only grown weaker. As she stalked to the dusty guest room, she sulked in her thoughts. The room was simple. A bed, a wardrobe, a desk and a full length mirror. She fell on the hard bed and breathed in its musky, ancient smell. She did not even have her own room. There were rooms, many, but her mother refused to have a room for her own daughter. It was a miracle that her father got her to agree to even see Lola.
She did not cry however. Lola had run out of tears for her mother long ago. Now she only lounged frustrated and defeated. She went to her personal bag to find her notebook but found herself caught by her own pathetic reflection. She was her mother's clone. Angrily she pulled at her dark hair and scratched at her tanned skin. Why, why was she forced to look like her? Why did she have this constant reminder of all she would never have? If she looked like her father, regal and sincere, she would never think of her mother. She would never be reminded of being abandoned by that wretched woman.
Lola tore the frilly dress off and sank into her own embrace, cradling her knees. Scars and bumps from past adventures on those knees slowly began to calm her restless mind. A new bump was forming on her right knee. She had bumped it that morning. The incident at the beach flashed by her mind; she had a task to do here. Her mother's attitudes and games would not distract her again. She gathered herself of the floor and dressed quickly into shorts, sneakers and a blue hoodie. Throwing the dress aside and onto the floor she grabbed her journal and began writing and adding to the list all she knew about Lord Voldemort…Tom Riddle.
She knew it was odd. It was odd to have such consecutive dreams. It was odd to have such consecutive dreams so often. It was terrifyingly odd to have had these dreams so young. Ever since she could remember they had plagued her nights and her father's. She could tell. On nights he forgot to take his medicines he would toss and turn so violently that it would sound as if he was flying and crashing all over the room. Lola would go to his side and caress him but Sebastian Harlow would still be lost in his nightmares. He called her name but Lola could never wake him. He called Lola but it seemed it was not her voice that he searched for but her mother's. They even had the same name.
Sometimes when he allowed her to talk about the dreams to him he would comment on the characters as if he knew something about them…something she did not know. He never admitted to it however, and when Lola would insist it would lead to an argument. They both very much did not like to argue with each other so Lola rarely insisted. Dr. Stanford had been treating Lola's father for years. But when it was evident Lola was plagued with a similar disorder, the doctor's medicines did not help at first. The three of them, Sebastian and his Lolas, for her mother had not left them yet, searched the world over trying many different things to no avail. It was only when Dr. Stanford had created a new drug that the family had settled. By then her parent's marriage had fallen apart.
Mr. Harlow always told Lola that her mother had left out of jealousy. He had ignored many of her needs to address Lola and, in turn, he lost her but Lola knew the truth. She saw it in her mother's eyes; the fear was more prevalent than the hatred. Something about them scared her mother to a frail and pathetic state. Something about them was just odd and wrong.
Her journal was full of sketches and observations. How had Tom Riddle, a handsome man, turned into the creature Lord Voldemort? It was the only question that mattered. She would research his name in the orphanage records of London, of all of England if she had to. If she found his name…well, if she were to find his name then he would be real. Then, it would all be real. It could not be but it had to. There was no other explanation. Why did animals follow her, why did vases move without force, why did strangers fear her gaze and her father's appearance? Who was she? She had a weekend to figure it all out. If she found his name… then she would really let herself believe.
She closed the notebook and went to dinner silently. Her mother sat at the other end of twenty seat table and watched her without speaking the whole meal. This time, Lola did not stare back.
Lola Harlow awoke to the sight of the rising sun through the shutters of the neglected room. She did not rise with it. Lola stared at almost pretty image of the light hitting the shutters, making horizontal shadows on the bedspread upon her. She twisted under it to see the bars wiggle a bit but remain solid. She was still locked up in her mother's empty home but the thought did not murder her anymore. Not now that she had a task. Her mother never took her out of the home but she was allowed to wonder around alone the still neighborhood as long as she did not say where she was staying. She donned her sneakers, t-shirt and jeans and left the home without alerting anyone.
The morning gave the neighborhood a rising feeling and although the few neighbors out and about ignored her and she them, it was the nicest the place had ever felt. It was probably just the determined mood she was in. She passed through the neighborhood quickly and the suburban outlets that were just a few streets down. People eyed her strangely, wondering who she was. Her mother lived around very nosy people. Finally, she found a library and there, a computer. After rather inscrutable methods of research she came upon a database for orphanages in London. This was it! The search box blinked impatiently for her inquiry. She typed slowly, breathing heavily.
Tom Riddle.
It searched…nothing. Unexpectedly, her heart sank. She typed it again with the same result. Lola thought for a moment, drumming her long, slender fingers. She almost fell back off her chair when the answer came to her, it had been so simple! She typed again, this time more excitedly.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
It searched. How could she have forgotten something so obvious? Who knew how many Tom Riddle's there were in the world, the name sounded simple enough. It searched…nothing. She tried Thomas and many different spellings but there was nothing. An unexplainable sadness filled her. She should be relieved but instead it only confirmed she and her father were indeed mental. She closed the orphanage search engine and opened a general one. An afterthought struck her and she typed in the name defeated.
Jane…Harlow. It searched. She was just being ridiculous now. Her father rarely spoke of his parents or grandparents but then again, the conversation had rarely come up. It was a stupid search. She almost canceled it when the little beep from the computer stopped her. There was a match.
Coldness wrapped around her heart and Lola bit her lip as she clicked on the article. It was a paper on the death of a local nurse overseas. Her hospital was the scene of a terrorist attack in the mid 1960s. Jane Harlow, there was her picture. It was the same Jane. Lola stared at the screen but did not stir. It couldn't be. She had been wrong; it hadn't been world war two it had been a terrorist attack. But Tom said he could have stopped it. What war had he been talking about? She researched the area where the hospital had been but there was nothing. It had been in London.
He had wanted to take her away. There had been loud sirens. What kind of terrorist attack announces itself? It must have been a magical attack and it must have been covered up by the muggle government as a terrorist-
She stopped herself. What was wrong with her? The picture was faded and old; it could have been any Jane Harlow with dark hair and blue eyes. With a smile so bright it could bring warm even Lola's confused heart. She printed the story and the picture. A local Arizona girl died. It made front page of the newspaper. The town was her father's home town. She died the year her father was born.
It was all too real. There she was, her possible grandmother, her possible link to this madness in her brain but it didn't feel right to know these things not even to suspect them. If she was her father's mother and, in turn, Tom riddle's only known lover, then her father's similar appearance to Tom Riddle was more than a coincidence. It was his inheritance from his father. Her father was born 1965. In her dream Tom Riddle looked about thirty five to forty years old with most of his soul still intact. This Jane had died at 30 years old. It was plausible. It was incredible but plausible.
If they were her father's parents than they were her grandparents. And she was not Lola Harlow but Lola Riddle. Her father had told Lola once that Harlow had been his mother's maiden name. He had not known his father's family and therefore never taken their name. He had been raised by his mother's family down here in Arizona where he met Lola's mother and married her. They died before he was married. She searched the article for any mention of Jane Harlow's parents. They had refused to comment. Why had Jane ventured to London to work in a hospital? Why was there no mention of a baby or a pregnancy in the article?
She knew why. Because it was ridiculous. There was no Tom Riddle. This was just an unfortunate Harlow with coincidental timing. She was losing herself in her madness again and this time she had gone too far. She turned off the computer and packed her things. Still, she could not part with the article and the image of Jane Harlow who looked so similar to the Jane of her dreams. The only difference was that this Jane in the photo was happy.
As she walked back to her mother's dreary house she wondered. What had become of her real grandparents? She knew her mother's side had died long before her birth too. But they weren't as interesting as her father's side. Why did Tom Riddle appear to her in her dreams to look like her father? There must be some sort of psychological explanation. But why all this detail about some fantastic magical life? As she walked she never noticed the cloaked figures that followed her.
