The Patronus of Tom Riddle

“Terrible!” Lady Aola looked helplessly at Dumbledore and Frost, who were attempting to assist Weasley, covered from head to foot in a frightening-looking rash. “What could it be?!” The face, neck, and hands of her cavalier had swollen and were covered in a magnificent crimson eruption. Sharp bumps broke out in entire colonies upon his pale skin, causing 'Fox' to groan and scratch. Speech had utterly failed him. “It looks like an allergy,” Mrs. Frost pronounced grimly. “Help me take him to the hospital wing.” “Is it contagious?!” someone asked hesitantly. Without hesitation, Tom pushed through the onlookers and stepped toward his luckless rival, straining to maintain an expression of concern. He, for one, knew certainly that it was not contagious, and readily offered his shoulder to 'Fox'. Another point for his 'good guy' image — why not? “An allergy to songs. Septy’s fine musical ear could not endure the trial,” Miles remarked darkly and brayed with laughter. Miss Aola shot the jester a sharp look. “Now then! Nothing terrible has happened; Mr. Weasley merely has an allergy to flowers. Such things occur. Continue dancing, if you please,” Headmaster Dippet clapped his hands, dispersing the curious. To the botanist’s great chagrin, her pride and joy was carried out of the hall just in case. Tom and Professor Dumbledore hauled Septimus to the hospital and entrusted him to the care of Mrs. Frost and Professor Slughorn. Tom’s triumph did not last long. It suddenly dawned on him that the girl would likely begin to pity the sufferer! And while in the hall they had both been in plain sight, in the hospital, they would be face to face. True, 'Fox' looked hideous now… yuck… But women were so inconsistent and unpredictable! Damn it! Aola was fussing over the redhead as if he were made of pure gold! “Go on, Tom, go on. Your date is waiting. Weasley will be fine, do not fret,” Dumbledore assured him, ushering him out. From the cot came a long groan and a furious scratch-scratch-scratch against skin. “Immobilise him at once, or he will scratch himself until he bleeds!” Aola exclaimed. Stepping outside the door, Tom paused in hesitation, unsure of what to do next. He had succeeded, and succeeded brilliantly! No one, it seemed, had even considered that the sudden malady had any cause other than natural ones. True, it had not returned Lady Aola’s attention to Tom… but if she found that 'pimple' more necessary and interesting… well, fine! Let her fan him with a towel and bring him drops! He would go and enjoy himself. Angrily tossing his head, Tom returned to the hall. The unpleasantness with Weasley was already forgotten there — youth is egotistical. Candles glowed, flowers were fragrant, and couples whirled. Even the herring-like Miss McGregor looked almost pretty in this setting, dancing with the Astronomy professor. Tom brought Walburga a lemonade. He danced. He found neither peace nor any particular satisfaction from his revenge. Only upon noticing that Aola had also returned did the boy’s spirits rise. He was ready to kiss the Ravenclaw who had snatched Miss Black away from him. There was no time for manoeuvres. He was not the only one casting interested glances toward the beautiful young teacher left without a partner. Taking a deep breath to manage his nerves, Tom went straight to Miss Meroving. “May I have this dance?” he asked with a slight bow. “The Charleston? Let us skip it. The next dance is yours — any you wish,” her golden eyes swept over Tom with such a piercing gaze that he felt flustered. Just in case, he erected a veritable Great Wall of China around his consciousness. “Would you like anything?” he asked. “Some champagne, perhaps?” “Champagne? Yes, please,” she did not seem particularly upset. “How is Weasley?” Tom enquired politely, handing her a misted glass. “Asleep. Mrs. Frost gave him a host of potions and a sleeping draught. Poor boy! I have never seen such a terrible allergy.” “The shrieking of that bush could cause more than just a rash in those unaccustomed to it,” he smirked. “You will go fa-a-ar, Mr. Riddle… with such ways,” Aola remarked suddenly, with a strange mixture of condemnation and satisfaction. His heart did a somersault and began to leap like a ball. “I beg your pardon, I don’t follow?” he asked as calmly as possible. Miss Meroving set aside her glass, took Tom by the hand, and resolutely pulled him away from the dancing, buzzing crowd toward a wall niche hidden from prying eyes by a waterfall of flowers. He didn’t even have time to be surprised; he only rejoiced — she had touched him! First… “You follow perfectly well… Mr. Riddle,” she said, practically thrusting him into the niche, away from listening ears. “Do not try to appear stupider than you truly are! I do not know how you did it… but I am certain it was your doing.” “Why is that?” Tom asked, checking his defences. But Lady Meroving did not seem intent on entering his head. “Quid prodest?” as the Romans used to say! And it is only profitable to you, Tom. You were offended… and you do not know how to endure an insult. You are not used to it. Nor to forgiving, it seems. It is quite surprising that I wasn’t 'decorated' in the same fashion, for company and as a lesson,” Aola replied angrily. Her last words cut so painfully into his heart that Tom lost his self-control. How could she think such a thing?! “I would never cause you harm!” he cried, and the carefully sculpted artificial mask shattered, revealing his true face — that of a tormented, lovestruck teenager who didn’t know what to do. “So, it was you?” the girl smiled, in a way that was strange, ambiguous… She had been looking so angry just a moment ago… He couldn’t understand — did she actually like it? His heart beat with such force that it was painful to breathe. Tom looked down. “It means that I would NEVER do ANYTHING that could cause you even the slightest harm, Miss Aola… Please, here is my wand, you may check the last spell. You may tell the Headmaster of your suspicions. I do not care.” Her finger touched his chin, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Why did you do it, Tom?” “And you?!” he retorted. “Do you like Weasley? Did you truly wish to spend the evening in his company?” Her eyes darkened, filling with deep amber. “Does it not occur to you, Mr. Riddle, that this is none of your business? It is dangerous to confuse fantasy and reality.” Tom bit his lip, his nostrils flaring as he breathed like a hunted deer. He feared he would burst into tears this very second, right before her eyes. He was utterly lost. She was simply leading him by the nose, back and forth like a clueless infant, now hinting that he, Tom, interested her, now putting him in his place. Parting the thick, flower-laden stems, Aola moved to leave. The scent of that wretched flora, her proximity, her contradictory actions and words made his head spin. “You promised me a dance!” Tom clung to the last hope. She paused. Turned. Beautiful dark brows arched in astonishment. “What impudence!” she admired. “The victors are not judged,” the descendant of the Gaunts countered defiantly, even to his own surprise, lifting his chin. “You consider yourself a victor?” Tom remained silent, not looking away. At the very least, he had no intention of surrendering. Let her tattle to the Headmaster. Let her say whatever she wished. He wouldn’t be expelled from school; he had done nothing irreparable to Weasley. He would itch for a couple of days and that would be it. Would he be barred from the Restricted Section? Sent to the orphanage for the holidays? He would survive that. But first, he would have what he was promised. “Would you like to know why I gave preference to Septimus?” she asked, returning. “Because he is a senior and from a good family?” Tom enquired with a challenge. His voice trembled, but he no longer noticed that he lacked self-control. “What nonsense! Of course not. I wanted to see how you would behave.” Tom blinked in confusion. What?! It turned out he had been the subject of an experiment, like some frog or rat? She had deliberately instilled hope that he was special, somehow different from the rest. And then… Resentment choked his throat; he barely managed to say: “So… you did it on purpose… using me like a toy?! I hope you are satisfied with the result? Did I not disappoint?!” “You have misunderstood, Tom. Wait before you take offence.” Aola unexpectedly stroked his cheek as one would a child’s, soothing him, but he recoiled as if something foul had touched him. “I dare not waste any more of your precious time, milady,” he said in a strangled voice and slipped past her toward the exit. “Tom!” He did not turn around or stop until he reached some dead end in a dusty corridor on the first floor and pressed his burning forehead against the cold stone, gasping with resentment. His hands shook, and he placed them against the wall, involuntarily repeating the pose of a man under arrest. Everything inside him burned with fire. What did you expect, half-blood? The descendants of Frankish kings are like that. Lovestruck boy-wizards are merely puppets to them. Perhaps, right now, he was ready to apologise to Weasley. They had both been played with equally.