The Patronus of Tom Riddle

"I... I do not know, milady," Tom stammered, the question catching him entirely off guard. "Twenty... two? Or perhaps three?" Inwardly, he frantically subtracted the date on the label from 1943 and felt his heart skip a beat. Forty-nine? And she remembered that year vividly? Certainly, wizards enjoyed long lives... and there were potions, likely, for preserving one’s beauty. But to look like a young girl at fifty-five? That would make her a contemporary of Professor Dumbledore, who was already silver-haired and etched with wrinkles. Aola laughed. "How many then?" the stunned youth asked, completely forgetting that such questions were considered ill-mannered to pose to a lady. Though, in his defense, she had started it. "A great many more than you, Tom. A great many," she smiled mischievously. "I shall not give you a figure; you look frightened enough as it is, as if you fear you’ve stolen a kiss from an old crone." Little devils danced in her amber eyes. Was she jesting? He was utterly lost, and then, suddenly, indignant. "Nonsense! Your age is of no consequence to me; you are the most beautiful, the most tender..." He cut himself off mid-sentence. He had spoken far too loudly. Hurriedly, he took a gulp of wine, bit his lip, and stared at his own fingers, which were gripping the stem of the glass so tightly he risked snapping its neck. What manner of person was she? Was she even human? He loved her so... and she... she seemed to live only to tease him and delight in his reaction. Was this how one spoke of love—to be coerced into it as Aola was doing to him? Suddenly, the girl touched his tense hand, her fingertips stroking him gently. Tom shuddered. Sweet shivers raced up his forearms. "Do not dare to pout again, please. I find myself terribly bored while you nurse yet another of your grievances." Again, her words were a double-edged sword—a reproach, yet the sentiment behind them was almost sweet. "You can be quite insufferable," he countered. Aola laughed softly, and Tom seized the moment to take her cool fingers in his own. He stroked them. In this secluded corner of the tavern, shielded from the other patrons by a rack of dusty clay pots and dishes, they were relatively safe from prying eyes. "And you are very sweet, Tommy..." she replied, sincerely and without a trace of mockery. Tommy. Even his wretched Muggle name—a name fit for a common cat—did not sound paltry when she spoke it. A warmth spread through his chest, as if a hearth full of coals had been lit there. Did it truly matter how long ago his beloved had come into the world? Perhaps she knew the secret of eternal youth? All the better... it meant she could wait a few years without fear of the biological clock, while he finished school, made his fortune... and could ask for her hand. The thought struck Tom with such audacity that he frightened himself. The ducal coronet on one of her rings left no doubt as to her status. A Duchess and a penniless half-blood... He imagined her high-born kin and a formidable father—perhaps two hundred years old himself—staring at a sniveling, low-born suitor through a monocle, much like a spinster looking at a man's bare legs, with disgusted revulsion. "You ask WHAT, you scoundrel? The hand of my exquisite, noble, only daughter? Throw this upstart out! And release the dragon!" The horrors of this imagined courtship must have been written plainly on his face, for Aola asked with concern if he were quite well. Was the wine too strong? Tom blinked, realizing he had stopped breathing. "Yes, yes," he assured her hastily, forcing a smile. He would think of that later, in his leisure. For now, she was a Miss, not a Mistress; she wore no rings that looked like wedding bands. There was no fiancé, either, or he surely would have visited her today. At least, it was easier to believe that. Tom was not yet ready to be jealous of a grown, blue-blooded rival. Suddenly, Aola withdrew her hand and made a show of adjusting her hair. Alas... his position and her office did not allow for a public display of affection. Tom sighed. If only he could finish school sooner... these conventions and prejudices were such folly! The innkeeper approached them then, unbidden, pretending to be concerned with the cleanliness of their table. After dragging a none-too-fresh rag across the wood, he leaned toward Lady Meroving and muttered under his breath, ignoring Tom as if he were a piece of furniture: "You should not place such trust in the one you rely upon, milady!" Aola’s eyes widened in astonishment. "What do you mean by that?" she asked quietly. "Exactly what I said," he spat, and walked away. "Do you know that man?" Tom asked, intrigued and suspicious. "No," Aola shook her head. "And you?" "Gossip says he is the brother of Professor Dumbledore, but they do not speak, it seems." "Is that so..." she mused, her expression shifting further. "What was he talking about? Whom should you not trust?" Tom did not like the way this surly man had intruded upon their conversation, upsetting milady before walking off. "I am afraid I cannot say anything certain," she snapped. "Perhaps the proprietor mistook me for someone else? Let us change the subject." "Are you in danger?" He had no intention of obeying. Young Riddle possessed a formidable mind and could scent the wind better than most. Some called it intuition. "Nothing serious," she assured him, "You shouldn't trouble your head with it, Tom." She smiled sweetly, hoping, no doubt, to bewitch his common sense. But Tom knew his question had struck the mark. This woman was full of secrets... He feigned submission, but resolved to return to the subject again and again until he knew everything. One way or another. "Shall we go for a stroll?" Aola suggested. "Shall we dance? Since I promised. I have long wanted to try a reel or a jig." Nearby, quite conveniently, a set of bagpipes began to drone and a drum began to thump. "Milady, have you ever seen a Scottish reel performed?" "Mmm... no," she admitted. "I have only seen the Irish variety." "Once you see it, you may change your mind," Tom smirked. Neither of them noticed the man sitting alone at a distant corner table. His face was almost entirely hidden by a hood; a glass and half a bottle of bitter tincture stood before him. He watched the Lady and her companion depart, cursed softly in a foreign tongue, and tossed several dark, ancient coins onto the rough-hewn boards. Contrary to Tom's expectations, the wild dance of the proud sons and daughters of Scotland did not daunt Aola. At first, she watched the simple steps with surprise, then giggled and whispered into Tom’s ear that it looked more like a threat to thrash Anglo-Saxon oppressors than a dance. Then she joined in herself, handing Tom the bundles and the half-empty bottle. To stand and watch the beauty you had been lucky enough to kiss today—now flushed from the energetic movement—leaping about hand-in-hand with some bearded stranger? This was not part of the arrangement! Fortunately, Hagrid appeared near the makeshift dance floor, dazed from his adventures, and began to rumble about how grateful and happy Snowball was, sending his bows and thanks... "Hold these," Tom thrust the bundles at the teenager, strictly forbidding him from tasting the wine, and wedged himself into the circle of dancing wizards. Through a series of maneuvers, he reached Aola and boldly claimed her from her partner. Milady smiled graciously, pleased by his boldness. He would have preferred a slower, more intimate dance, but this would do. Her rosy cheeks, the stray curls escaping her hair, her quickened breath and her small hands in his... The sun, the spring, music everywhere—both outside and in his soul. They danced until they were exhausted, then dined at The Sleepy Salmon with Professors Dumbledore and Archivarius, whom they met on the way. Hagrid shifted in his seat as if sitting on a hedgehog—he was dying to tell Aola exactly how their incomparable unicorn had settled into the wild. Then the four o'clock train from London arrived, bringing the students back from the holidays; classes were to resume tomorrow. The village turned into a festive bedlam. Every latecomer was eager to visit the menagerie, passing along rumors—now grown into tall tales—about pixies releasing harpies, a unicorn, and a manticore to boot. Honeydukes was bursting at the seams with young patrons. The blissful solitude of Tom and Aola was at an end. Ahead lay long hours of classes where he would have to wear a mask of indifference, hours of separation, and the strict adherence to school rank... At six o'clock, Headmaster Dippet announced the general assembly and led the clamoring crowd of students back to the school under faculty escort. "Let us stay a moment longer. Please..." Tom pleaded, looking at Miss Meroving with the eyes of a puppy. For the first time in his life, he did not want to return to Hogwarts. "I have my broom here. We can fly there in five minutes later." And she agreed! They slipped away quietly, hand-in-hand like true lovers—simply falling behind the herd of schoolboys—and then giggled at how cleverly they had fooled everyone. They went to dance, of course... though Tom already had a vague, cunning plan: to lure his lady to the boulders by the lake and kiss her there until the sky was thick with stars. His confidence had reached unprecedented heights today. They prepared to head home as dusk began to fall. Tom found his broom at the town hall parking area without trouble. Aola pressed trustingly against him, sitting behind, and the lad felt himself the happiest man on earth. The strangers caught them over the mouth of the stream that flowed into the Black Lake. Tom was flying slowly along the shoreline—Aola wanted to admire the eastern bank and the mountains. The view from above was breathtaking: the last rays of the setting sun painted the sky and the snow-capped peaks in soft shades of pink, lilac, and grey. Her hands were wrapped tenderly around him... the world was absolute perfection. A fairy tale. Riddle didn't think to worry—someone else was flying behind them, likely folk heading home after the festivities. But that unconscious, almost animalistic instinct—the very thing that would later make him one of the most dangerous Dark Wizards in history—compelled him to turn... Just in time to see a snaking orange bolt of a combat curse flying from someone's wand directly toward them. Tom did everything well... and he flew a broom like a god. It was only because of this that, jerking the handle down and to the side, he miraculously pulled the Aola sitting behind him out of the line of fire and kept their craft in the air.