The Patronus of Tom Riddle

“I believe you now know enough about the morphology of an Ubyr… Any ideas?” Lady Aola asked, her playful gaze sweeping across the classroom. Sunbeams danced in her amber eyes. She was issuing a challenge—nothing less! Tom could have sworn it was directed primarily at him, for she stopped by his desk and once again let her fingers trail thoughtfully along its edge. Just like that first time. “Apply Stupefy?” someone ventured. “I see… what else?” Aola nodded. From all sides, stopping, repelling, and shielding charms were showered upon her. The culprit of the 'festivities' hissed spitefully beneath the energy field maintained by Lady Aola, casting hungry, quite unmistakable glances at the students. Waiting until the stream of brilliant ideas from his classmates had run dry, Tom put on an innocent expression and spoke quietly, fixing his eyes on the professor: “I should think Avada Kedavra is capable of liquidating even the oldest and most bloodthirsty Ubyr?” That wretched letter 'y'—so uncharacteristic of the English tongue—had been difficult to master. And yet, Tom did not falter. “Mr. Riddle?” she asked, her voice tinged with surprise. A surge of hot joy flooded his chest. “Milady?” he countered innocently, betraying nothing. “Hmm… I was under the impression that spells of that order were not introduced until the sixth year at the earliest,” Aola explained, looking intently at the precocious student. “I am slightly ahead of the curriculum; I study independently,” Tom clarified. “All cleared with the Headmaster.” “What on earth is a 'Kedavra'?” the Muggle-borns whispered. In the families of pure-blood wizards, children tended to learn about 'spells of that order' somewhat earlier. Aola lowered her long black lashes, and her gaze remained hidden from Tom for a full half-minute—she was lost in her own thoughts, contemplating her well-tended, small hands. Tom grew bold and attempted to touch her memory. Just a mere brush. And he met with such a rebuff that his ears rang. It was as if he had touched live electrical wires! The pain stole his breath. He had never encountered such an aggressive barrier! Lady Aola raised her eyes to him and made a slight gesture with her fingertips. IMPUDENT—a tiny inscription flared and dissolved into orange sparks on his desk. “A blunder, sir,” she said, shaking her beautiful head. “Do not forget the dual nature of the Ubyr: it cannot be considered fully living nor fully dead. That which affects the host will likely have no effect on the Ubyr itself. You cannot kill what is not alive.” Two stinging slaps in the last minute, and in public… Tom bit his lip, hoping with every fibre of his soul that he wouldn’t turn as red as a boiled lobster. “I shall teach you how to destroy an Ubyr later. Lest you accidentally finish him off for me… Acquiring such an old and vicious specimen in this day and age is no simple feat, I assure you. Nor shall we go flinging Avadas about within these walls for the sake of experiment… However, one may repel this creature swiftly and surely with a Patronus. Would you care to try, Mr. Riddle?” Once again, a ripple of whispering swept through the ranks of the fifth-years. Of course, how was the new professor to know about Tom’s particular… condition? Gripping his wand in his long fingers, he rose from his seat and answered, looking somewhere ahead, past her: “Alas, I have no Patronus, Professor Meroving.” “No Patronus?” the beauty asked, genuinely surprised. “None. Simply… none.” “Tom, stay behind a moment, please,” Lady Aola said when the lesson ended, the Ubyr was locked back in its coffin, and the students began to clamour, sharing their fresh impressions. He had fully redeemed himself: successfully knocking the Ubyr from its shell, forcing it to transform into a pig, and blocking it with a charm for subduing the undead. If you were brilliant, you could manage without a wretched Patronus… And yet, his heart broke into a gallop at the thought that he was about to be left alone with her. Would she scold him for the Legilimency attempt? Would she be caustic about it? She was excellent at being caustic… doing so lightly and almost imperceptibly to an outsider, but every barb intended for him hit its mark with precision. She sat at her desk: heavy, dark wood with a leather-bound top. This furniture and the office… they did not suit her; she was too light, too small, too delicate. He remained standing, as the rules of etiquette dictated. “Milady?” “I did ask you to call me simply Miss Aola…” She winced with annoyance and waved her hand dismissively. “Do come closer; I am not an Ubyr, and I do not bite… at least, not on Thursdays. You aren’t afraid of me, I hope?” “No, not at all. Whatever gave you that idea, Miss Aola?” Tom protested, because, truth be told… being alone with her was an agitating business. He took a few steps toward the desk and stopped, waiting for what she would say. Clasping her fingers together, Professor Meroving surveyed his neat, slender figure and asked: “Tom, do you understand the gravity of lacking a Patronus?” “I don’t believe it is so critical. You saw for yourself just now—I manage perfectly well without it.” At first, the professors and the Headmaster had been quite troubled by this circumstance, and for hours they had exhausted both the boy and themselves, attempting to conjure the cursed Patronus by every conceivable means. Later, they had given up and resigned themselves to it, advising him not to loiter around Azkaban in the future and generally to take care. Naturally, in the depths of his soul, Tom considered himself little more than a cripple, cursing the wretched Muggle blood flowing in his veins, which he assumed was the cause of such a strange deformity. But he would rather have given himself alive into the clutches of Dementors than voice these torments to anyone. For his classmates and teachers, he had turned his flaw into a unique trait, never missing a chance to flaunt it. Lady Aola shook her head, and a strand of hair that had escaped her coiffure uncoiled like a glossy spring at her temple. She adjusted it mechanically: “It isn’t only about Dementors… A Patronus is necessary to defend against a multitude of dark, foul things… But that isn’t the point.” She rose and walked around the desk, approaching the student. Her gown rustled softly, and Tom was enveloped in a light cloud of her delicate perfume. His heart beat faster still, and his throat went dry as her lovely face drew so near… And her lips… especially the lower one… seemingly swollen and so tender to the sight, likely pure silk to the touch, if one were to graze them… “Do you truly not have a single genuinely happy memory, Tom?” she asked. And a sharp thought pierced his entire being faster than lightning—if those wonderful lips were to touch him now, then he would have it: that very happiest of memories. Immediately, the voice of reason shrieked and began to construct defences, while his mouth habitually delivered a haughty reply: “Perhaps there are too many for me to choose just one?” “In that case, it is my duty as a teacher to help you decide,” Aola replied with a touch of irony. A second ago, her wild fox-like eyes had been full of compassion. Now, they held a flicker of curiosity mixed with mischief. Oh, no… was she, too, intending to burden him with after-hours training? Exercises that felt more like torture, where foul things of all sorts and sizes were set upon him while others stared greedily at his wand, waiting for some blue rat to crawl from its tip? And yet, why not? What did it matter how he spent his time… if it were alone with her? Rocking from his heels to his toes with a click of her heels, she turned and walked back to the monumental desk of her predecessor. She gave him a slight nod: “You may go, Tom. I shall think of a way to help you… Thank you for giving me your time. You were excellent today; your techniques impressed me.” With a polite nod in return, he said his farewells and gathered his books. With a straight back, he stepped out into the corridor, quietly closing the door behind him. Once there, he nearly slid down the dark, polished wood to the floor. His knees were buckling. He felt something… something so… soul-wrenching. He did not yet understand what it was—something so beautiful and terrifying at the same time. It was so good, so exquisite, and… painful? Moreover, he felt slightly nauseous for some reason. It felt as though his heart might leap from his chest and dance through the corridors of Hogwarts, heedless of propriety and its master alike. Heedless even of the caretaker’s indignant bellows. Never had Tom felt anything like it. Never.