The Patronus of Tom Riddle

Yes! She had said yes! Well, strictly speaking, she had said: “Thank you, that is very kind of you, Tom; I shall think on it and give you my answer later” — but surely that was as good as a hundred percent “yes”? Having thanked Aola with formal ceremony, Tom slipped out into the corridor and gave a leap, tossing his textbook toward the ceiling. In a nearby portrait, a stout woman in an archaic dress recoiled in fright, lamenting the lack of breeding in modern youth. Tom stuck his tongue out at her. The orphanage boy had triumphed over the disciplined Slytherin student, and that boy was happy. He was so happy, in fact, that there seemed to be no room left inside him for the feelings that swelled within. Lacking close friends with whom to share his joy, Tom climbed onto his bed after curfew, drew his feet up, and opened a hitherto blank, leather-bound notebook. After a moment’s thought, he began to record everything that so agitated him. Lady Aola, of course… and the small marks of attention she bestowed upon him alone. She had not yet given her consent, but Tom was already picturing the looks they would receive when he entered the Great Hall of Hogwarts with the most beautiful woman in the school on his arm… indeed, in all of Britain. Perhaps even the world. Personally, he had never encountered anyone lovelier. Only one circumstance clouded his joy — the lack of a decent suit to match his companion. Surely she would wear a magnificent gown and jewels. He had only his school uniform, his robes, a couple of respectable shirts, and some casual wear. The modest funds the school allocated for his education from a special foundation were spent with the utmost care. To indulge, or even to allow himself anything beyond the bare necessities, was impossible. Gnawing the tip of his quill, Tom drifted into thought. He loathed asking for things or borrowing, whatever it might be — money included. What a nuisance that it could not be transfigured! Nor could fabric. He thought with irritation that the lion’s share of such spells was utter, impractical nonsense — cheap tricks for the amusement of Muggles. What use was a flock of canaries? Who needed a bunch of brainless birds or a cluster of petunias when one couldn’t conjure a wretched sandwich? Unless, perhaps, one taught the canaries to filch coins from street beggars? Tom smirked. That would likely be the longest and most tedious path to riches. “Composing your memoirs?” Reggie Lestrange yawned and collapsed onto his bed, arms outspread. “I’m dead on my feet today… but you, Riddle, you seem made of iron. Asked anyone to the ball yet?” “Perhaps,” Tom replied evasively, wishing to avoid conversation, and bit his quill again. “Writing out a list of candidates, are you?” Reggie raised his head to look at him. “Ask anyone. The girls melt for your manners.” Tom knew that well enough without being told. He knew how to be liked; he knew how to mask the contempt and irritation his peers inspired in him. Their attention flattered his pride, though they themselves were of no interest to him. “Better yet — invite two at once and let’s watch the little cats claw each other,” piped up Miles from his armchair, giving a nasal meow and bursting into laughter. “Zelemikus, that country oaf, is probably coaxing the Ghoul to keep him company,” Miles continued to jeer. “With a date like that, there’d be nothing left of him by the end of the night,” Lestrange chuckled. Miles looked at the pensive Riddle, who was tracing something with his quill in his notebook, and added: “And I heard 'Fox' Weasley boasting that he wants to invite our mysterious Miss East to the ball.” What?! It took a Herculean effort for Tom to maintain a dispassionate expression. Septimus Weasley was in his final year and was considered nearly a graduate. Tall, bright-haired, a scion of an ancient magical lineage, and a self-assured layabout. He was the life of the party, with a silver tongue to match. Girls flocked to him like bees to flowering lime. Tom had, of course, allowed for the possibility that Miss Aola interested others besides himself… but to encounter it like this? He was not prepared for such competition. This was not a contest of academics… this was a sphere where all one’s efforts could be reduced to zero by the foul mood of a girl who had slept poorly or broken a heel. “Miss Meroving is young and… attractive; why shouldn’t he invite her?” Tom replied as composedly as he could. 'Damn! ' — his quill jerked, leaving a thick blot at the end of the line. But he had invited her first, had he not? Weasley was only planning to do so. Or had she deceived him merely to give him hope, only to… Did she not enjoy knocking the pride out of him? “What are you scribbling there?” Miles asked. “Would you like to read it?” Tom enquired coldly, though he was seething with jealousy. Without waiting for an answer, he slammed the notebook shut and flung it at his classmate. Miles caught it, tried to open it, and let out a howl of pain — the enchanted stationery bit fiercely into his finger with sharp, tiny teeth. “Oh, you swine!” Miles’s long, horse-like face contorted; he shook his bitten finger, tossing Tom’s diary to the floor. Riddle smirked and waved his wand, lifting the notebook into the air. Before stowing it in his bedside table, he placed another charm upon it. Now, any intruder, even if they bypassed the biting lock, would find only blank pages inside. He slept poorly that night. The following morning, Tom fussed before the mirror over the washbasin for so long that he was late for breakfast. He had decisively parted ways with the adolescent fuzz above his upper lip months ago, deeming it unseemly rather than masculine. He now shaved quite regularly. The older boys often complained that it was tedious; many preferred to grow moustaches or use a potion to eradicate them. But Tom enjoyed the process; the touch of the razor, sharp beyond measure, prickled his nerves and soothed him at the same time. Running his palm over the surface misted by hot water, he studied his finely featured face in the mirror: well-shaped brows, thick lashes, a neat nose, and moderately full lips. His blue eyes looked back steadily. Mrs. Pipe from the orphanage had once remarked that he showed every promise of growing into a young man of exceptional beauty. Nor was height an issue — he had shot up quickly, reaching a full six feet without turning into a lanky beanpole. Could 'Fox' Weasley — ginger as a mushroom-covered stump and tall as a cart-pole — truly seem more attractive to Aola? And those teeth of his… they were dominoes, not teeth. Tom’s were incomparably straighter and whiter. No… nonsense. Recollecting himself, he ran a brush through his perfectly styled hair once more and hurried to the Great Hall. The students and faculty were already in their places, a steady hum of voices and rhythmic chewing hanging over the hall. Straining not to stare in Aola’s direction, Tom made his way to his seat. “Oh, Riddle’s late for breakfast; expect a rain of live frogs,” a Ravenclaw quipped at his back. Although Lady Aola had not attended Hogwarts, of all the available rooms she had chosen a chamber in the tower belonging to that house, and was now formally considered a Ravenclaw. Likely she simply enjoyed the height and the view from the window. Sitting down, Tom placed the first thing that came to hand onto his plate without looking. He had no intention of eating it anyway; anxiety had stripped him of his appetite. Picking at a plum pudding with his spoon, he stole glances at Aola as she ate and conversed with the Head of Ravenclaw. How beautiful she was… and how graceful. In the morning sun streaming through the stained-glass windows, even her flawless skin seemed to glow with gold. Feeling his gaze, the girl glanced his way, gave a small smile, and he took it as a sign of approval and consent. But after the morning lessons, during the lunch break, having put as much distance as possible between himself and the school — right to the edge of the Forbidden Forest — Tom slumped onto the still-cool earth and gave vent to his feelings… and to tears. Bitter tears, full of resentment and disappointment. She had refused him. Politely, with a sweet smile — saying he was so young, that he should rather make some girl of his own age happy. It was like a razor across his heart… but judging by the way that red-headed bastard Weasley was beaming, she had simply preferred the scion of a noble family to him, an orphan. And she had the nerve to say how foul it was to divide wizards into pure-bloods and second-rate Muggle-borns! Hypocrite. Choking on sobs and sniffling with a reddened nose, Tom wiped heavy tears across his cheeks. He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. Perhaps in early infancy, before he was even self-aware. He hadn’t expected such a reaction from himself. He had to admit — he was reacting like the most ordinary teenager, rejected by the object of his adoration. It proved too painful and galling. Inside, he felt a burning sting, as if he had swallowed a pepper imp from one of those ridiculous 'every flavour' sets. In a fit of pique, Tom tore up several of the first flowers to have reached for the sun and crushed the delicate, thin petals with his fingers. Their cold scent, for some reason, made him feel better. Having calmed himself somewhat, he wiped his face and hands with a handkerchief and began to devise a plan of action. He would not leave it at this… and let the redhead not imagine that Tom would allow him to flaunt himself at the ball with his girl… well, almost his.