The Patronus of Tom Riddle

The evening mist descended upon the Black Lake like a velvet curtain. In the sky, bright, clear stars ignited one by one, reflected in the impenetrable mirror of the water. Soon they would strew the entire firmament from horizon to horizon, for tonight there wasn't a single cloud. The weather was far too fine for early spring. Far too… Night insects chirped their simple songs, warming themselves on the courtyard flagstones that still held the day’s heat. A dampness drifted from the lake, carrying the scent of salt and weeds. Frogs called to one another, weaving their voices into the monotonous chorus of crickets. A handsome, very young man sitting on a wide stone windowsill drew a ragged breath and looked once more toward one of the windows in the West Tower. The light smouldering behind the stained glass seemed so… warm? Technically, he wasn't supposed to be out at such an hour. But tonight, his House common room—which had always seemed so refined, so elite—brought only a sense of stifling gloom. The mass of the lake water, beneath which the Slytherin common room lay, suddenly seemed to press down on him with all its weight, constricting his breath. Besides, there were no windows there… not a single one. Yes, he was certainly not supposed to be loitering here at this time. However, it was unlikely to trouble anyone now. It was the Easter holidays; nearly all the students had gone home. He had always both anticipated and hated this time. He anticipated it because the pupils cleared out of the school, leaving him almost its sole master. He despised them—nearly all of them. On the other hand, it served as a painful reminder of his orphanhood. He had nowhere to go. No one, anywhere, awaited his arrival. No one would clasp their hands, gasp, or rush to embrace him, exclaiming—how you’ve grown! No, he had some relatives on his father’s side, but they were wretched Muggles—cripples, in his view—and to acknowledge kin with them would be much like claiming kinship with garden slugs. His father himself, whom he had never met, inspired only one desire: to blast the bastard into molecules. For everything he had done to his mother… to him. Perhaps, one day, he would do just that. Who would dare judge him? But for now, he reigned over a deserted Hogwarts. And… these holidays… they had become special. For now, not only was the entire library, even the Restricted Section, at his disposal, but in this vast, ancient castle, another strange creature lived alongside him—one who, for some reason, had not followed the others. He no longer felt alone. It had begun at winter’s end, when their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had suddenly fallen gravely ill. The young man leaned his shoulder against the window frame, settling himself more comfortably. His blue eyes, framed by thick lashes, clouded with memory. A pleasant memory, but one that provoked such complicated emotions, damn it all… "Tom, have you finished that dreadful Potions essay? The exams aren't far off, and I’m stuck on these… Oh, come on, Tom!" He jerked his shoulder in irritation. That brat Miles had every advantage for study: wealthy parents, a mountain of pocket money, the ability to buy any necessary books. And a wagonload of laziness to boot. Miles knew Tom far too well and long enough to realise the conversation was over. Always maintaining a polite and somewhat haughty air, Riddle was the finest student at Hogwarts; for excessive pestering, he might well bestow an unpleasant jinx, like an 'Inverted Hiccup' or a 'Jelly-Finger Curse.' After grumbling for the sake of appearances, Miles switched his attention to Smyrna Bowles, a far more soft-hearted young witch. Perhaps too soft-hearted for a Slytherin. Tom, meanwhile, sat quietly in his usual place at the front desk and began to leaf through his textbook. What had they covered last time? How to resist a subconscious attack and prevent Dark wizards from reading one's memories? Well, well… Ha. The classroom door opened again with a heavy creak, but instead of their professor, the young Miss McGregor entered. "I must tell the caretaker; the hinges are in a shocking state. Surely they could be oiled?" she commented irritably, and immediately fired a spell at them to get their attention. The creaking hinges held little interest for Tom, but the person McGregor had brought with her… her appearance made the boy lift his head from the yellowed pages. "A moment of your attention, please!" the woman demanded. "Professor Galatea Merrythought is ill. Yes, seriously so. She is departing for the Dragon Springs. Until the end of the school year, she will be replaced by Professor Meroving. I ask that you conduct yourselves appropriately… Lady Aola is a highly experienced specialist and will be pleased to share her knowledge with you. Please, make her welcome…" "Thank you, Gloria." She tilted her elegant head, her dark hair intricately braided into a crown, and stepped forward, surveying the students. Lady Aola? A real Lady? Tom began to study the new teacher with interest. Was she not far too young for such a position? Riddle tried to maintain his dignity, but when her gaze settled on him, searching, his heart suddenly leapt in his chest and broke into a gallop, sending a flush to his pale cheeks. Her eyes… what an extraordinary shade of pale amber. Animals… foxes or wolves had eyes like those. Or dragons. And it seemed that in this moment, Tom was stuck in that amber like some wretched prehistoric insect, unable to lower his gaze, turn away, or even blink. To look further into that liquid gold was increasingly unsettling… her gaze was so piercing, looking into his very soul. Mechanically, internally, Tom began to construct an Occlumency barrier. Finally, the Lady took pity and allowed her gaze to slide further along the rows of actively whispering fifth-years. Tom surreptitiously continued to observe her—her slight but stately figure, her exquisite floor-length navy blue dress with fanciful sleeves, and her slender white fingers, adorned with rings, lightly holding a delicate wand. "You may call me simply Miss Aola. Shall we introduce ourselves?" she said in a pleasant, throaty voice, her gaze returning to Tom. A slight accent marked her as a foreigner. "A fine attempt… Tom?" she smiled, and he felt that dizziness again, a slight wave of nausea, as if he had suddenly inhaled a sharp, unfamiliar spice… "Only a fine one?" he asked, genuinely surprised, unable to hide his disappointment and irritation. Tom was not used to such reviews of his abilities. Though she had managed to fish his name from his memory in a matter of seconds—he had to admit that. The boy rose from his seat and, with a slight bow of his head, introduced himself: "Tom Marvolo Riddle, milady." Well… if his Occlumency had failed to impress her, he would at least ensure she could not doubt the flawlessness of his manners. He tried to close his mind more firmly; the last thing he wanted was for this golden-eyed lady to learn of his shameful heritage. And later… he would try to touch her memories. "A fine one, Tom," she repeated. "But you are still so young, are you not?" "As, it seems, are you, Lady Aola?" he countered as politely as possible. She chuckled, so ironically… Truly, how old was she? Twenty? Twenty-five? Hardly more. Taking a step toward his desk, she looked even more intently into his eyes. Her pupils narrowed; the golden irises shone harder. She even tilted her head to the side, studying him. Tom mirrored her with one of his most charming smiles, trying not to betray the agitation that had seized him. She drummed her fingers lightly against the edge of the desk and nodded—sit down. From that moment on, Tom had lost his peace. Suddenly, the window he had been watching swung open. The light behind it went out. Tom started and leaned forward. First, a broomstick emerged from the window frame and hovered parallel to the wall, like a faithful steed awaiting its rider. Then, from the wide sill, legs in stockings and heeled shoes dangled out. They began to swing back and forth, carelessly, as if their mistress were some reckless young girl. What was she doing? Admiring the stars, as he was? Why didn't she fly off at once? Where was she going? He had no answers. A sweet ache settled in the pit of his stomach. After sitting like that for a few minutes, Aola gestured for the broom to come closer and straddled it with a swift motion. It was risky… Tom’s heart faltered, and his fingers darted to his wand to arrest her fall, should it happen… But nothing went wrong. Curls scattered over her shoulders, the silhouette of her long dress flashed around the tower and vanished, dissolving into the deep blue. If he had only known! He would have flown after her… "Taking the night air, Tom?" he heard Albus Dumbledore’s solicitous voice behind him and jumped in surprise. "Yes, sir. Splendid weather, you know," he said, sliding off the sill and trying to fix his face into its usual polite mask. Behind him, high in the dark sky, a small figure performed a daring loop-the-loop, scattered a silver laugh, and flew away toward the east.