The Patronus of Tom Riddle

It was a mistake, oh, a terrible mistake… at a most ill-fated hour had the idea come to Tom to read that cursed Mistletoe Bough! Having awakened his imagination, he utterly lost what little peace he had left. In the library, he had become so engrossed that only the meaningful, angry throat-clearing of the old Archivarious forced him to tear himself away from the book, only to discover with astonishment that he should have been back in his dormitory long ago. Hastily slamming the treatise shut and returning it to its place, he apologised for the delay and inwardly blessed whoever had made robes a mandatory attribute for Hogwarts students. He found himself sending silent thanks to that person more than once over the following week. Not only did the boy almost cease to sleep, but his own body refused to obey him, reacting now to every appearance of Lady Aola in the most shameless fashion! During her lessons, he did not raise his eyes from his textbooks or stared intently at whatever monstrosity they were meant to be defending against. He was forced to move further back, for even the scent of her perfume threw him from heat to cold. Aola, evidently deciding he was sulking over her refusal, became more attentive toward him, only intensifying his suffering. Indeed, had the girl begun to ignore him, Tom would have simply drowned in it. Such are the contradictions of love… On the evening before the Spring Ball, this tension reached a critical peak. Firstly, Tom had doubts about the spell. It was complex, combined with a rare potion that included petals of that very same singing gardenia. What it had cost him to obtain them… he could not say. He had to sneak into the greenhouse at night when this botanical marvel was asleep, its buds tightly closed. However, the fanged geranium, the beastly thing, had not been slumbering and had taken a painful nip at his shoulder. Having brewed the necessary potion, Tom decided, not without cause, that Professor Slughorn might be proud of him: it turned out flawless. Getting it into the drink of Weasley, who was in Gryffindor, was an epic in itself. He had to place a minor hex on one of the boy’s brainless admirers and then neatly scrub her memory of the surplus recollection. The delay spell itself Tom placed directly upon the potion. He believed he had done everything perfectly. And yet he fretted — would it all work on time and as intended? And then there was Aola… she had called him to the front in their last lesson and proceeded to grill him on all the material covered throughout the year. She paced to and fro before him, enveloping him in the delicate scent of her perfume, her full skirt brushing against him as she asked cunning questions; he answered automatically, while thinking only of how tender her skin must be, right there, behind her dainty ear… In his mind, Tom understood that Miss Meroving was, after all, a teacher and would surely not allow Weasley any liberties, but it was impossible to convince a heart bursting with jealousy. In short, a veritable nuclear reaction was seething inside Tom, and it began to seem to him that he would simply explode if he did not let off a little steam. Nature and the naughty treatise suggested a way. In the shower, under the hot, steaming jets of water, he released the tension in a manner as old as the world — biblical, one might say. He had never done this before. Previously, there had been no need. Closing his eyes and biting his lip to keep from moaning, the future Dark Lord clumsily caressed himself, discovering his own sensuality with amazement, getting to know it. Getting to know himself — new, matured. He imagined her, of course… That magnetic gaze from beneath long lashes. Tender pink lips. A curl that had come loose at her temple. The hollow of her chest where a thin gold chain with an amulet vanished. It seemed he could even smell her scent. His heart was tearing to pieces. Breathing became harder. It was inexpressibly good. When the electric discharge pierced his lower abdomen, Tom exhaled: “Aola…” — barely standing on his buckling legs. Sparks danced behind his tightly shut eyelids. Water streamed down his burning face, over his bitten lips. Sweet tremors washed over him, one after another, and his whole body shuddered as he leaned his palm against the stone wall of the shower until he calmed. His knees had turned to jelly. He felt a vast relief and an extraordinary lightness. Smiling like a madman, Tom washed himself unhurriedly. Later, when the remarkable euphoria had faded somewhat, the boy felt a twinge of shame. But not too much. Reaching his bed, he collapsed onto it and simply blacked out. He slept like the dead. Morning found Tom fresh, calm, and rested for the first time in a long while. It seemed his usual confidence had returned. He even ate calmly and with appetite. At breakfast, Walburga was radiant, casting meaningful glances his way, and Tom decided she would be very striking in a fine ballroom gown. He hoped this would, after all, pique Aola… in addition to what would happen to her ginger admirer. Weasley had become so bold as to approach Lady Meroving immediately after breakfast, right in the Great Hall, speaking to her in a low voice while she smiled and nodded in response. Tom clenched his fists, maintaining a dispassionate expression. 'We’ll see how you’re giggling this evening…' In honour of the ball, afternoon lessons were cancelled so that students might prepare for the festivities. The younger years were already departing for their homes for the Easter holidays. The seniors were preening themselves. The weather was wonderful. Tom took a stroll and turned into the greenhouse to procure an exotic flower for Walburga, so she might adorn her hair or the bodice of her dress. He was so charming when he wished to be… Evening arrived almost too quickly. Overdressed girls dashed from dormitories to the common room, scurried through corridors, and squealed desperately if they happened to catch the eye of their cavaliers. They insisted they could not be seen half-dressed and unready. Oh, women… Tom’s morning composure slowly deserted him, and when he — perfectly groomed, scented with expensive cologne, tie flawlessly knotted, as high-bred as a crown prince — went to collect Walburga to escort her to the hall, his heart was leaping like a rabbit’s tail. “You are magnificent, Miss Black,” he informed his companion as she fluttered out of the Slytherin girls' dormitory in a magnificent floor-length gown, an oriflamme lily in her high-piled hair, and he ceremoniously pressed his lips to her silk-gloved fingers. Damn it, yes, perhaps she truly could be called a beauty… Tom thought so exactly until the moment Lady Aola floated into the Hogwarts ballroom — filled with flowers, glowing candles, soft music, and chatting couples — on the arm of that ginger beanpole. He was struck dumb… A translucent white gown, light as a cloud, flowed to her feet. Sparkling with tiny gold glints, it complemented the unusual colour of its wearer’s eyes. Light makeup highlighted the beauty of her face. Her hair, pinned up at the temples, cascaded down her back in large ringlets and was adorned with white flowers. Skillfully enchanted, they would not wither the whole evening. Milady was barefoot. She resembled a true wood nymph. Even the prettiest girls looked mediocre beside her. Did everyone see it thus, or only a Tom who was head over heels in love? Did it even matter? He saw a goddess. And beside his deity, like an irritating ginger accessory, dangled that cursed Weasley! Tom turned away, composing a face of utmost indifference and nodding absently at Walburga’s chatter as she discussed the outfits of others. Ah, Great Merlin, how nervous he was! Headmaster Dippet, who had adorned the venerable silver of his beard with violets for the occasion, requested a moment of silence and attention. He delivered a congratulatory speech: about spring, the birth of new life, beauty, and other pleasantries. He reminded the graduates that exams were looming and they ought to apply themselves. And other such “blah-blah-blah” expected on such occasions, which no one truly listens to, yet everyone applauds fiercely at the end, rejoicing that the speech is finally over. Next, a beaming Mrs. Frost took the floor, looking like a birthday girl. She spoke of the singing gardenia, which blooms only very rarely, just before some major event in the magical world. The guest of honour stood on a dais under a dark veil, like a talkative parrot. Having earned her applause, Mrs. Frost whipped the cloth from the flower. It was just a flower — a smallish bush, covered in pale orange buds. Tom had seen it already. Briskly unfurling its orange petals, the gardenia began to sing… Cornish pixies take its crown! Had Tom only known, he would have ripped it from the pot with his own hands and shredded it into noodles with a Diffindo. It wasn’t clear if all gardenias sang thus, or if they had simply been stuck with a specimen utterly devoid of ear or voice, but no one could have called this nasal feline caterwauling even remotely melodious! Not even a deaf man. Except, perhaps, for Professor Frost, who beamed even more brightly. 'Appreciate my little darling, how do you like it, eh? ' — she radiated maternal pride, while the faces of everyone else present lengthened in bewilderment. Walburga quite rudely covered her ears with her palms: “This is worse than a Mandrake’s cry!” she groaned. “Delightful, simply delightful, you are a true mistress of your craft!” the Headmaster rejoiced feignedly and waved to the orchestra, which promptly struck up a waltz. Professor Dumbledore took Mrs. Frost by the arm, inviting her to dance, and Dippet quickly threw the veil back over the songstress. Stunned by the foul singing, Tom almost forgot that it was this very sound that was meant to serve as the trigger for his spell. Inviting his partner for a turn of the waltz, Riddle sought out Lady Aola with his eyes. She and 'Fox' were already circling in the centre of the hall… one turn… a second… had it not worked?! What a blow to his hopes and his pride… And then, Lady Aola cried out, calling for help.