The Patronus of Tom Riddle

Tom returned from his forced stroll with reddened eyes and a small bouquet of primroses. Having lied to a curious Miles about an allergy, he unhesitatingly presented the flowers to Walburga Black, one of the most high-bred sixth-year girls, and invited her to the ball. She accepted. Walburga was the scion of a most pure-blood lineage, and it was only by some miracle that she did not resemble a cross between a scarecrow and a racehorse. It had to be admitted that, due to forced interbreeding within the family, the pure-bloods could no longer boast of the beauty of their women. Tom had never seen a single photograph of his late mother, but according to the accounts of those who knew her, Merope Gaunt had been far from a radiant beauty. Having washed his face thoroughly and waited for the pink halo around his nose to fade, he devised a pretext and headed to Professor Slughorn’s office for permission to access the Restricted Section. “Professor?” Tom knocked politely and peered into the office. Lessons had just ended, and Horace was standing by a wide-open window, airing out the scents of the successful (and not-so-successful) experiments of the third-years. It must be said that a correctly brewed potion sometimes stinks a hundred times worse than an incorrect one. “Tom?” Slughorn made a gesture with his hand, waving away clouds of smoke from his face, and winced. “By Merlin’s beard, the hands of some of my students seem to grow from a place not intended by nature… Fortunately, that does not apply to you.” Tom smiled graciously. “Was there something you wanted? Or did you just drop by for a chat?” “You see, Professor… Lady Meroving promised to arrange field lessons with a real combat Djinn after the holidays. And I would like to prepare properly, to study rare oriental spells… I wouldn’t want to ask Miss Aola for a pass, you understand?” “Ah, you want to make a good impression?” Slughorn smiled and wagged an index finger in the air. “Commendable, Tom, commendable. Such zeal for study is a rarity in today’s youth, alas. A Djinn, hmm… A serious task, indeed.” Horace Slughorn returned to his desk to write out the pass. “Lady Meroving, Tom, comes from a very ancient, influential family… I have, by the way, invited her to our little gatherings… Our society lacks refinement, don’t you find? Such connections and a good rapport could be very useful for a young man like you in the future. I hope you won’t forget your humble Potions Master then?” “How could I, sir?” Tom replied with almost sincere indignation, while thinking to himself: 'You old toadstool, you want Lady Aola’s company too?! Fine… Live. For now.' Having thanked the good-natured epicurean, who was concerned above all else with his own comfort, Tom looked at the desk clock and calculated how much time remained until the end of lessons and the self-study break. He ought not to skip classes or behave in any strange or unusual manner. The library was quite crowded — first-years were running about, while fifth and seventh-years were poring over supplementary literature in preparation for exams. Tom walked between the towering shelves that reached toward the vaulted ceiling of the hall and placed the pass before the shrivelled, time-withered Mr. Archivarious. His tiny stature and hooked nose suggested a kinship with goblins. 'He probably remembers the Founders. Personally, ' Tom thought. Wizards lived much longer than Muggles. In their first year, they had amused themselves by trying to guess the real age of one or another of the Hogwarts veterans. Rumour had it the librarian was well past a hundred and fifty. Surveying Tom with a look of disapproval, the old man rattled a monumental ring of keys and shuffled toward the iron gate. 'People coming and going, all of them curious, locking and unlocking doors, treating me like a porter' — resentment at such disrespect for age and the merits of a venerable librarian was written in every movement of his dry little figure. Tom rolled his eyes. If they’d just give him the key, no one would have to be disturbed. However, such a level of trust remained only a dream. “When you’re finished — ring the bell!” the old man wheezed, throwing his whole weight against the gate to heave it open. Tom hurried to assist him. Taking books out of this section was forbidden. A heavy oak table and a high, antique chair stood directly in the aisle between the shelves. Writing materials and a copper bell, green with age — what more was needed for working with books? “Shall I help you find something?” the old man asked, looking up at the boy. “Thank you, sir, I know where it stands. I have worked with this book before. I shall ring,” Riddle waited until the gate slammed shut behind the librarian and walked between the shelves, selecting the necessary volume. The echo of his footsteps bounced off the vaulted ceiling, multiplying the sound as if Tom were not the only one wandering the Restricted Section. 'Rare and Complex Delayed Spells and Curses' — the ornate lettering on the cover had darkened with time. Tom pulled the book out cautiously, knowing from his own experience and Slughorn’s tales that some editions here could bite, spit venom, cast glamours, or simply scream bloody murder. Setting the moderately thick volume carefully on the table, he drew his wand, stepped back a few paces, flicked it, and commanded: “Open!” The metal corners of the cover clattered against the tabletop. Phew… Nothing terrible happened. Just a book. Settling into the rather comfortable chair, Tom pulled the paper and quill closer and flipped through several pages, searching for the table of contents. Oh, yes! The book proved to be a true treasure! His eyes roved over such a selection. Naturally, he had no intention of killing, maiming, or cursing that red-headed brat. One could end up in Azkaban for that. The main thing for Tom was to understand the principle of delay… how to cast a spell now and get the result in a few days. Having worked for about an hour, Tom sighed with satisfaction, folded the scribbled sheet several times, and tucked it into his pocket. He seemed to have figured it out… he would try it on some triviality first. And then, he would plague 'Fox' with all his heart. Resting for a couple of minutes, he closed the book, put it back in its place, and reached for the bell… but his hand froze halfway. Since he was already in the Restricted Section — why not leaf through some literature that hadn’t held much interest for him before? Well, just in case… To reach the necessary books, he had to use a ladder. Tom read the titles one after another until he stumbled upon a massive folio that required both hands to lift. Judging by the absence of dust, 'The Mistletoe Bough: A Treatise on Love Among Muggles and Wizards' with illustrations interested more than just himself. Tom thudded the book onto the table. Of course, educational-moral literature in the form of a pair of encyclopaedias, 'The Young Wizard: Physical Development' separately for boys and girls, was freely available in the main section of the library. But it was written in such dry, bureaucratic language, and the anatomical illustrations were so inhibited — shamefully covering themselves with their hands and shrieking the moment you turned the page — that it was practically impossible to glean any worthwhile information regarding the relationship between a man and a woman. Tom had grown up in an orphanage and had, of course, learned of the physical side of love from older residents earlier than he should have, and in such terms that it inspired more bewilderment mixed with revulsion than interest. By the time his own body began to change, he was already at Hogwarts, and he was far more occupied with broomstick flights and Transfiguration lessons than with his voice breaking or hair growing in places other than his head. His female peers had not awakened a sexual interest in him. Only the sensual lips, graceful neck, and enticing décolletage of Lady Meroving had set everything in its proper place: the youth had finally fallen in love, and although his fantasies as yet barely reached the most modest of kisses, becoming 'armoured' at least in the theory of the science of love was not merely useful, but necessary. Taking a deep breath, as if before plunging into water, Tom opened the treasury of sensual knowledge… and within a minute, he broke out in crimson blotches. “Whoso stands beneath the mistletoe — him shall I kiss,” read the playful epilogue. And if only it were just 'kiss'… 'The Mistletoe Bough' bore no resemblance to a dull, semi-medical encyclopaedia. The treatise spoke of pleasures and a hundred ways to achieve them: alone, in pairs, in threes, and so on. It was all written so explicitly, with such detailed and playful illustrations, that the poor scholar turned red from his ears to his very heels. The naked people in the pictures moaned, sighed, assumed unthinkable poses, and did incredible things, while the girls even gave Tom playful winks. Recollecting himself, he applied the Muffliato spell. It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear what books the best student in Hogwarts was poring over! The technical side of love for wizards and Muggles, as it turned out, did not differ substantially. In this regard, they were constructed quite identically, whichever way you looked at it… The only difference was that wizards could use additional stimulating spells, drinks, and potions that heightened sensuality and made pleasure more acute. Tom decided not to venture into those woods for now and confined himself to studying the naked theory — in every sense of the word. In the process, he could not, of course, help but imagine Lady Aola in the place of one of the girls. And himself as her partner… It was likely the height of impudence on his part… but, damn it all, even just thinking about it was so pleasant and exciting… The result was not long in coming.