The Patronus of Tom Riddle

Of course, Tom pulled himself together. What else was left for him to do? He returned to the festivities and was polite and attentive to Walburga to the point of nausea. He danced a dozen cursed dances with her and escorted her, as was proper, to the dormitory door. The only thing he could not bring himself to do was kiss the lips so carefully pursed for that very act. Even to spite Aola. No matter how she had hurt him, he had no desire to kiss Miss Black. Therefore, Tom pretended not to take the hint, ceremoniously pecked her hand, and bowed out. It seemed Walburga took offence. He did not care. Only after reaching his bed and pulling the hangings shut did Tom give vent to his emotions and allow himself to suffer: sublimely, with feeling, and at great length. The night was long, and so he had time to sift through dozens of options for revenge against the heartless aristocrat, ranging from a total ignore of her and her lessons to an immediate marriage to Walburga. Some options looked like pure idiocy. For instance, heading off to that Muggle war she was so concerned about and dying heroically there. Let her bite her elbows and weep then! His own pale brow upon a deathbed, in the halo of a martyr’s end, seemed to Tom an uncommonly powerful and soul-stirring sight. Fortunately, by dawn, he was so sated with imaginary revenge that all the eccentric options fell away of their own accord, leaving the simplest and most accessible: total ignore. Having reached a final decision, Tom calmed down and finally fell into a deep sleep, embracing his damp pillow. So deeply did he sleep that he missed both the departure of his classmates and breakfast. Both circumstances pleased him. If Aola had not yet left, they would certainly have met there. Seeing her now was the last thing he wanted. Determined to rip the thistle of love from his heart by the root over the Easter holidays, he armed himself with a thick book and went out for a walk. There was so much of this resolve that Tom felt quite decent. He even exchanged a couple of words with the Gryffindor ghost, who was seeing his charges home and now loitered in the foyer with nothing to do. “Good morning, Sir Nicholas,” the boy greeted as he descended the stairs. Nearly Headless Nick’s temperament was far better than that of the Bloody Baron, whom no one would dream of chatting with just for the sake of it. “Oh, young man, a most excellent morning! Out for a stroll? A fine idea. You, as always, do not wish to leave us?” “Let us not break tradition,” Tom smiled in response. “I cannot very well leave you to be bored alone, can I?” Of course, Nearly Headless Nick knew perfectly well that the boy had nowhere to go, but over Tom’s years of study, they had developed their own special ceremonial which afforded pleasure to them both. After all, they both loved Hogwarts. And there was no one waiting for the ghost anywhere either. Subconsciously, Tom felt more kinship with him than with the living inhabitants of the school, though he would likely never admit as much to himself. The weather was indeed wonderful: rare, light clouds drifted across the sky, promising no rain, the sun was warm, and waves lazily licked the shore. It was too early for swimming; even in midsummer, the water in the deep mountain lake was bracing. So Tom simply wandered along the shore, chose a cozy spot, sat on a sun-warmed stone, and opened a book: 'Applied Occlumency: How to Protect Your Mind'. The exorcism of Lady Aola was to begin with a resolute defence of his intellect against that yellow-eyed harpy. What a woman she was! It served her right that he would stop loving her. She deserved it! Using his inexperience, his sincere feelings, just to amuse herself… Foul. One might think… such a beauty… Surely there were those both more beautiful and wiser! And with a kind heart. And besides… she does not even keep her word, and she calls herself an aristocrat! Unnoticeably, Tom’s thoughts drifted from the book’s content to the person of his offender, and he sank into a masochistically sweet world of her denunciation. And from denunciation, as is well known, it is not far to regret. And from regret, it is only a tiny bit further, a couple of hundred yards, then a left turn at the large rock — and there you go, doubt is within reach. Doubt, as is well known, never travels alone… After all, Aola had not reported him, keeping both her suspicions and their conversation to herself? They couldn’t have proven anything, of course, for he had covered his tracks well, but they would have frayed his nerves. Covered in poultices, Weasley had departed for home that morning to finish his recovery, yet Tom was still at Hogwarts, and he had not been summoned to the Headmaster’s office. And, it seemed, he would not be. In short, by midday, the boy had cooled down, and his resolve, which had shone so brightly in the morning, had faded somewhat. By lunch, he felt melancholic. By evening, Mr. Riddle was pining. To dinner, he dragged himself like a beaten dog, while the scruffy resolve, born to sear a certain milady from his heart with a red-hot iron, tucked its tail and retreated to the Astronomy Tower to howl at the moon in unison with the Bloody Baron. At dinner in the empty Great Hall, Tom’s only company consisted of a couple of fellow rootless unfortunates from the lower years, Headmaster Dippet, and several professors who had grown into Hogwarts like roots, such as the Archivarious. The other lucky ones had scattered to their homes to paint eggs and hide them in bushes, celebrating what Muggles took for the greatest miracle — the 'resurrection' of one of the greatest Jewish mages of antiquity. However, even among wizards, there was still no consensus as to what had actually happened: a trial of a rare potion, a spell, or perhaps the use of the Resurrection Stone? Scientific and pseudo-scientific debates on the matter were so fierce that wands nearly snapped, but wizards still painted eggs once a year and remembered Jesus of Nazareth just in case. Well, one never knows… Thus, meeting Lady Aola at the evening meal was a true shock for Tom. How?! Had she not left that morning?! He nearly made a disgraceful dash from the threshold of the dining hall back to his common room. But self-respect and a healthy young appetite, multiplied by two days of serious suffering, prevailed. With a face of stone and his will gathered into his fists, Tom proceeded to his place at the Slytherin table. He put something on his plate, some food. Poured some juice. Changed his mind. Poured tea. Dropped a spoon under the table. Apologised, though no one, in truth, cared. Then he could not help but glance her way. Quietly and with dignity eating her meal, Lady Meroving noticed his manoeuvre and smiled sweetly. So sweetly, so sunnily, as only she in the whole wide world could. Somewhere high above, in the Astronomy Tower, the pale shadow of his morning resolve gave a final shriek that turned into ultrasound and died. She had not left because of him?! She had stayed to explain? To make peace? And what if not? His poor young heart hammered, his fingers shook, nearly sending his spoon into another somersault. Having somehow finished his dinner, Tom hurried to leave the hall. It was a situation where one both wanted to and feared to. He spent the rest of the evening in contradictory expectations, but Lady Meroving did not visit the Slytherin common room. Needless to say, this night too was spent inventing, savouring, and rejecting every conceivable and inconceivable scene of reconciliation. By morning, the boy decided that Aola had not stayed because of him after all; he had rejoiced too soon and flattered himself too much. Tom overslept breakfast again. To avoid an accidental meeting with his beloved, he reached the castle exit in short dashes and headed for his favourite secluded spot on the shore. He noticed her curls, which the wind was playing with, only when he had come too close. That’s why it was a secluded spot. But how?! Had she been watching him yesterday?! “Mr. Riddle! Please, wait!” the girl requested, turning at the sound of footsteps and seeing him leaving. 'Don’t be a fool! ' — resolve suddenly spoke up from the afterlife. 'Don’t believe her, she just wants her toy back.' Tom did not stop, though his legs had turned to jelly at the sound of her voice. Of course, it was terribly rude of him… But to surrender like that, right away?! Too humiliating. “Do not force me to use charms!” there were metallic notes in her tender voice. Oh! Even so? Setting his face to as much indifference as possible, Tom stayed to wait until Aola herself approached him. “How touchy and stubborn you are! And how long do you intend to keep running from me?” she shook her head as she approached, enveloping him in her dizzying scent. “As long as it takes…” he muttered, looking away. The desire to resist was melting like ice cream under the June sun. “You said you would never harm me. Yet your behaviour causes me pain. Does that mean you lied?” Aola took a small step to look Tom in the eyes. Oh, how cleverly she had twisted his own words! Are women born with this gift? He barely suppressed a groan of frustration and forced out: “No…” Everything inside him was trembling. Love, resentment, and hope were intertwined in his heart like a knot of venomous snakes, but Tom did not speak their language. “Will you listen to me?” He only nodded. “It so happens that I see through people,” she sighed unexpectedly. “It is hereditary. An innate ability to enter the memory of any person without trouble, even if they are trying hard to defend themselves. I did not have to learn it. You know… it is quite difficult to live with, seeing people as they truly are. But you… You are a different matter. You are a dark horse. A closed book. I have never encountered anything like it. Your thoughts, feelings, emotions — they are a complete mystery to me.” “Truly?” Tom asked, not yet believing his ears. She nodded. “You are bright, and very capable. You know how to be liked. You enjoy holding your nose a bit high. And you wear a host of masks. But who are you truly, Tom? I wanted so much to find out. Yes, I provoked you. But not to tease or offend. I simply wanted to see the real you.” While he blinked, trying to process and settle in his head all that he had heard, Lady Aola held out her pinky finger and asked: “Peace?”