The Patronus of Tom Riddle

A flat pebble flew from slender fingers, ricocheted awkwardly, described a strange arc, and sank. “Well, there…” Aola was upset like a little child. She pouted. Nothing could be simpler — enchant the pebble, and it would fly where intended. But she wanted it to happen by itself, without magic. “You are holding your hand slightly wrong, milady…” Tom picked up a suitable stone, rolled it between his fingers, taking aim, drew back his elbow… Splash-splash-splash! It hopped five or six times for certain before sinking to the bottom of the Black Lake. “Is this innate in men?!” she admired, and began looking for the next one. “It is a trifle compared to feminine talents,” Tom replied imperturbably. “For example?” Aola turned to him, raising an eyebrow inquiringly. “For example, turning words upside down and using them against the one who said them.” She laughed, tossing a pebble on her palm: “It seems you are beginning to understand something about women, Tom. That is good.” And she took aim again. “No, milady… You will achieve nothing like that.” “Then teach me,” she requested, granting her companion such a look that he was immediately thrown into a heat. An interesting thought… Why not, indeed, change roles, if he too could teach her something? Alcohol — the source of unrestrained courage, it seemed, had just reached the right concentration in his blood — and Tom, without much hesitation, stepped behind her and, taking her hand, began to show her how to swing correctly. It was almost like an embrace… But had she not asked for it herself? “Do not squeeze too hard… only enough so it does not slip out prematurely. And do not tense your wrist. The plane must be parallel to the water,” he explained, holding back his excitement. Aola obediently repeated the movement he set. He felt the warmth of her body, standing so close that he could have touched her sweet-smelling hair with his lips… or kissed her temple, where a vein pulsed gently beneath the thin skin. Or her cheek… For a second, it seemed to him that he would do just that… right now… The stone flew from her hand and hopped briskly several times upon the water’s surface. “Hurrah! It worked!” Aola jumped up and clapped her hands. The moment was lost. The magic of her attraction released him slightly. Tom moved away, frightened by what he had almost just done. For such insolence, one might well receive a slap… Who knew what he had imagined for himself? In truth, Miss Meroving had said nothing that could be interpreted as a hint… or had she? Oh, how difficult and incomprehensible it all was, and there was absolutely no one to ask! One gropes about like a blind kitten… “It seems you are a much better teacher than I. It worked on the first try,” Aola praised him. She launched a few more pebbles with varying success and suddenly laughed: “We are amusing ourselves here, while stones are falling on someone’s head down there. Oh dear.” “Do not worry; the merpeople live in the depths, far from the shore,” Tom reassured her. If only he could somehow reassure the heart hammering in his chest… “Who knows, perhaps they are strolling now, just as we are? By the way, look, what a lovely spot for a picnic,” she pointed to several large, moss-covered boulders that overhung the lake like an observation deck. Tom climbed onto them first and gave the girl his hand. Having ascended, she sat down, pulling her knees to her chin and covering her legs with the hem of her long dress. He wondered how those short dresses, just below the knee, worn by Muggle women would look on her? Did she have any like that? So far, Tom had seen only long and very exquisite ones. It would probably be wonderful… with her beauty… In addition to the sweets, they had stocked up on elderberry cider in wicker-covered bottles at 'The Sleepy Salmon'. The boy made haste to uncork one of them, for his throat was as dry as an old well. To be so close, alone, and still have no right… or perhaps, no courage, to touch her… Aola, meanwhile, opened the boxes of dates and Turkish delight, popped a powdered pink cube into her mouth, and closed her eyes happily. “Dragon’s milk… how delicious it is,” she purred, unceremoniously licking the powder from her fingers. “Childhood, sweet childhood…” Tom smiled. One might think it had been so long ago. “Dragon’s milk?” he repeated, fishing a sticky, dark-purple date from the box. “Ah-hah, that is a favourite saying of my tutor, Monsieur Grunkel. He was a funny old man. I did not only go to school; I had plenty of private tutors as well — classical subjects, languages, Western magic, music, drawing. Father took care to give me a well-rounded education. Alas, one only begins to truly appreciate and understand it when one grows up. Back then… my poor teachers had to endure my pranks.” “Indeed?” Tom doubted, biting into the date. The taste was exactly as he had felt it that morning on the other side of the lake, having visited Aola’s memories. For the umpteenth time today, she spoke of her childhood and recalled only her father or grandmother. He wondered what had become of her mother? “Imagine it,” she replied cheerfully. “I was intimidated by British primness and manners before coming to Hogwarts, so I am trying to conform.” “You are succeeding well. Too well, perhaps,” escaped him, and he immediately checked himself, looking away. “Perhaps you, too, are too serious for your years,” she smiled and, reaching out, ruffled his hair. “Be a child for a while. Childhood passes so quickly.” From frustration, Tom nearly swallowed the pit. He did not want to be a child at all! On the contrary, he wanted to become a man as soon as possible… for her, at least. Having walked enough along the shore, they wandered further through the shops of Hogsmeade, buying all sorts of trifles like self-hiding Easter eggs, capable of not only hiding cleverly but also re-hiding themselves while shouting “hot” or “cold” to the seeker. And, as promised, they returned to the school by dinner. Tom escorted Miss Meroving to her room in the Ravenclaw tower and kissed her cool fingers in farewell, holding them in his hand perhaps slightly longer than propriety dictated. “Good night. Thank you for a wonderful day… Aola.” “It is I who should thank you, Tom…” she looked at him affectionately, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I hope you will keep me company on Sunday as well?” “Yes, of course, milady…” he murmured, struck down by this tender touch. No one, ever in his entire life, had kissed Tom Marvolo Riddle. Not once. Not on the cheek, nor on the crown of the head as loving but eternally busy mothers do, catching their restless rascal at dinner or lessons. Certainly not on the lips. There had been no one to do it. The simple kindness so stunned him that Aola had long since vanished behind the heavy door with the eagle’s head, yet he still stood there, transfixed, replaying this intoxicating moment in his mind. He even pressed his hand to his cheek, as if the kiss might flutter away like a butterfly. His heart beat as if mad. Blood rushed to his face. “Tom and Aola, sitting in a tree!” squeaked a teenage girl in lace from a painting behind his back, bringing the boy out of his trance. “If you blab to anyone — I will use your frame to kindle the fireplace!” he threatened. The girl shrieked and hid behind a marble gazebo. “Brute!” “Spy!” Avada Kedavra take all these eyes and ears planted at every step in the castle! What people would think of him personally, Tom no longer cared. But milady’s honour must not suffer. “I have warned you,” he repeated sternly and headed for the stairs. The girl waited a little, poked her heavily powdered face out from behind the gazebo, and stuck her tongue out at him. It seemed she was some thrice-removed grand-niece of Rowena Ravenclaw. Tom failed to occupy himself with anything at all that evening. Everything fell from his hands; books seemed boring, stupid, tedious… His thoughts kept returning to the events of the past day. The reconciliation with Aola, the walk to the village… The farewell kiss, quick but so tender… The boy pined, lounging in a chair in the common room almost upside down. Not only his soul but his body demanded proximity to her, with her… Unable to endure it, he went to wander the school until he found a suitable window from which the light in her window was visible. And he sat there, bathing it in a gaze full of adoration and remembering how Aola had entered his life. “Breathing the fresh air, Tom?” he heard Dumbledore’s sympathetic voice behind him and murmured something in response that was expected in such cases — that the weather was wonderful and so on. He wondered what the Professor would say if he knew that for Aola to leave Hogwarts now was not just undesirable, but even dangerous? But he and Dumbledore simply exchanged a few words on how the walk with Lady Meroving had gone, and that was all. Riddle politely offered the professor some Bertie Bott’s beans. “Would you care to risk it, sir?” he asked, holding out the bag. Aola had fished out a garlic-flavoured bean during the day, winced painfully, and refused further experiments. “Risk it, indeed,” the former smirked. “A bad experience?” “One could hardly call it successful,” Dumbledore replied, thought for a moment, and chose a pale blue bean. He popped it into his mouth. Anguish distorted the professor’s face, and he sighed heavily, spitting the sweet into a handkerchief. “Sardines. Rotten, I believe. It is late. You should go and rest, Tom…” “Good night, sir,” the boy replied, bowing. He popped the first bean he came across into his mouth and grunted with satisfaction — raspberry. And then he remembered her handkerchief, still lying in his pocket. Thus, with the lace square pressed in his palm, smelling faintly of greenery and her perfume, he fell asleep.