The Patronus of Tom Riddle

“Did you see that? Quite a prize, eh? A fine attempt, Tom, a fine one,” Miles mocked, mimicking her voice as they made their way to the Great Hall. Everyone was talking about the new professor. The girls twittered about her hair, her dress, and her jewellery. Tom merely shrugged. Lady Aola had stung his pride… but she had praised him too, had she not? At the time, he didn’t yet realise that such a dynamic would become the norm between them. She hadn’t burdened them with new material during her first lesson; instead, she had taken her time getting to know everyone, asking about their interests and favourite spells. She made mental notes about each of them, yet revealed almost nothing about herself. No, she hadn’t attended Hogwarts. She had graduated from a school of witchcraft and wizardry far from here, in the East. Consequently, she would teach them rare spells and practices, showing them how to defend against magic and creatures never encountered in Europe. “Why should we learn things that might never be of use?” asked Nigel, a well-fed and good-natured Hufflepuff. “If Divination is your favourite subject, and you are absolutely certain that fate will never whisk you far from home… then indeed, there is no reason,” she shrugged and smiled. The class laughed. Nigel did, in fact, adore Divination and still carried his crystal ball around like some sainted old crone. Tom, however, had always been drawn to the prospect of gaining rare, exceptional knowledge. He headed to the next lesson intrigued, anticipating something unusual—both from the lesson itself and from the teacher, about whom a mountain of speculation and gossip was already circulating through Hogwarts. Whispers claimed she was a duchess, or perhaps even a crown princess of a European royal house, born to noble Muggles. To avoid compromising the family, she had been sent away to study in India. Or Iran. Or perhaps Japan? No, others countered—she was a pure-blood witch of ancient lineage: her father was either Swedish or French, but her mother was a Romani. Or Polish, or perhaps Russian? Or even an Afghan woman, whom he had snatched from the hands of ignorant Muggles about to stone the unusual girl in a tiny mountain village, taking her as his wife thereafter. “Nonsense!” others interjected. “Look at her eyes! Her mother wasn’t human at all; she’s likely a nymph.” The truth likely lay somewhere nearby, or perhaps they were all entirely mistaken. But the thought that Lady Meroving’s mother might be some magical creature felt extraordinarily stirring to Tom for some reason. The slant of her eyes, set slightly almond-shaped so that the outer corners tilted toward her temples; the prominent cheekbones; the slightly pointed ears… those dark tresses with a golden sheen. Why not a nymph? Many, many years later, the mad, frenzied Bellatrix Lestrange would remind him of Aola—a distant echo. And that echo would grant her more privileges and a greater degree of trust than any of his other followers. Their next meeting did not disappoint Tom. Professor Meroving seemed even more attractive to him than the last time. He watched her fluid movements with secret fascination, admiring the stray curls at the nape of her elegant neck that had escaped her intricate hairstyle. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he truly noticed feminine beauty. Indeed, where would he have had the chance to admire it before? He had no mother, no sisters. No one had ever told him—look, my boy, how beautiful our mother is! The matrons of the orphanage, which he loathed, were exhausted, irritable hags produced by the late Victorian era. The Hogwarts faculty consisted entirely of ladies of a significantly 'certain age'. Only Gloria McGregor was young enough, but good heavens, she possessed no more sensuality or allure than a Potions textbook. His peers? Pff… He was grateful if they didn’t irritate him with their chatter too often. Quite clearly, Aola had opened a whole terra incognita to young Tom Riddle, and even his first steps into this uncharted territory filled him with delight, wonder, and… a devilish amount of embarrassment. “I believe you are all sufficiently mature and well-prepared young people,” Lady Aola began her lesson after greeting them, “and there is not much time left before the end of the school year. Therefore, I do not intend to go easy on you. We shall begin with one of the most dangerous creatures inhabiting the Middle East, Central Asia, and Siberia.” She clapped her hands, and the fabric covering a box on a dais in the middle of the classroom slid away. The box proved to be an ancient stone coffin, securely bound with thick, rusted chains. A padlock of monstrous proportions crowned the arrangement like a heavy chord of finality. Aola surveyed the whispering students. “Did she bring us Count Dracula, then?” Miles snickered. “Dracula lived in Transylvania,” Tom cut him off irritably. “That is Eastern Europe.” He was bursting with curiosity and a desire to test his strength against something new and unknown. “You are right, in a way,” she nodded to Miles, and with a swift flick of her wand, she sprang the lock. The chains slid from the marble, which was cracked with age. “Before you is a form of the undead. One of the very worst forms… An undead Dark sorcerer.” The coffin lid groaned as it shifted aside. In the resulting gap, long, withered, clawed fingers appeared, groping along the dusty edge like spider legs. One of the girls shrieked. Tom gripped his wand. Aola waved hers, and a protective field of blue electrical discharges rippled around the box. Then, for some reason, she looked directly at Tom, as if checking—was he afraid? The boy tilted his chin even higher than usual and met her gaze with a steady, unruffled stare. She smiled almost imperceptibly and continued: “Eastern magical practices differ significantly from European ones. Specifically, in the East—and in Africa as well—wizards and Muggles coexist quite openly. Magic users are respected, they are sought out for help… and, of course, they are feared. Among them are many elemental mages born of ordinary, non-magical families, and there is a widespread tradition of self-study and the passing of accumulated knowledge to only one or two apprentices.” Meanwhile, a gaunt, grey arm followed the withered spider-like hand out of the coffin. The lid groaned again, sliding further. “Eastern magic is more powerful than the academic magic you are taught,” Aola continued composedly. “Why?” Tom asked, surprised. “It is, shall we say… more elemental, more primal. It cannot be mastered through rote learning and dull repetition. It requires a spiritual merging with what you do. Not all Dark wizards of the East turn into ghosts upon their death to go where all those who have finished their earthly term must go. In some, the desire to exist on earth in bodily form is so great, and the weight of their crimes so heavy, that a certain transformation occurs…” Following the gaunt arm, a revolting head emerged from the stone box, with thin, matted locks hanging over its face; then a twisted torso and crooked legs with knees turned out at an impossible angle. The creature leapt from the pedestal, springing on its clawed paws, and glared at the hushed class with massive, fiery eyes. Then it threw open its maw, bristling with sharp teeth, and hissed. Impressionable Cynthia from Gryffindor moaned that she was about to be sick. “It is called an Ubyr. Write it down if you cannot remember. As a result of a specific transformation, the sorcerer’s spirit remains to dwell in its grave, or else becomes a wanderer. By day, it requires sanctuary. It is capable of manifesting as a fireball, a wheel, a cat, or a pig. It can take the form of a human lacking flesh on its back. It is extremely dangerous, both to Muggles and to inexperienced wizards. It can possess a person, displacing their soul from their body. It feeds on brains—both cerebral and spinal. After the host’s death, it seeks new flesh. Before you is a Muggle long since afflicted by an Ubyr… He can no longer be saved; the spirit was severed from this body long ago, and the central nervous system has perished. The shell exists only because the Ubyr keeps it nominally alive…” Characteristic sounds behind him and a waft of acrid scent made Tom grimace in disgust. Weakling Cynthia had made good on her threat. Lady Aola shook her head sympathetically and walked toward the faint-hearted girl’s desk, pulling a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her elegant green dress as she went. Having restored order, she returned to her place and continued firmly: “The Ubyr emerges from its host at night. It abducts infants, drinks blood, and eats human flesh. It can influence the weather, the health of livestock, and can cause local solar and lunar eclipses, whirlwinds, and torrential rains. There are several ways to stop it, to banish it, or to lay it to rest forever. We shall attempt all of them in practice, and at the end of your training, one of you will lay it to rest for good.” “God, what must one do to turn into THAT?” someone asked in the hanging silence. Even the outwardly calm, restrained, and entirely fearless Tom Marvolo Riddle shuddered inwardly. That thing sitting hideously hunched behind the blue barrier had once been a wizard, too. It had been his equal.