The Patronus of Tom Riddle

“Hold on!” Tom managed to shout. The broom dived, jerked… and leveled out. An orange bolt of lightning hissed just above their heads. Aola gasped, crying out an incantation. In that same heartbeat, a bluish shimmer of protection enveloped them like a vast soap bubble. A second discharge slammed into it instantly; Tom heard the shield buckle and hiss under the strain. The hand of his beloved slipped from his waist. He spun around and saw fire literally pouring from her fingertips. With a sharp motion, twisting the flames into a sphere, milady hurled it at the head of one of their pursuers. There were four or five of them—Tom had no time for a precise count. Snatching his wand, he fired a Stupefy at the nearest shadow. “I have this! Keep the shield steady!” Aola commanded. She did not panic, and he hadn’t even found the time to be afraid—it all unfolded in mere seconds. If they could only reach Hogwarts, those bastards would pay… the school’s defenses were formidable. But the broom, burdened by two riders, could not fly any faster, no matter how much he willed it. Moreover, it was not the latest model; such a luxury was beyond Tom’s means. They were being boxed in, the air thick with the scent of ozone and sulfur as orange bolts lashed relentlessly against their shield. The wind howled in his ears. Tom’s knuckles were white as he gripped the broom, straining every fiber of his being to keep the protection from shattering. Aola was chanting one spell after another in some ancient, dead tongue Tom did not recognize. She struck one of the attackers, who plummeted from his broom with a shriek, blazing like a torch. Far below, the water splashed, followed by a hissing cloud of steam. The pale face of one of the bandits—the leader, it seemed—twisted into a malicious smirk. He veered across their path and hurled rapidly expanding crimson rings directly at Tom’s face. Riddle didn’t know the spell, but he sensed it was lethal. He threw the broom into a near-vertical dive, praying Aola wouldn’t fall. But she held fast, using the maneuver to strike another of the wretches. Tom didn’t see what she hit him with—the body in the black cloak simply whistled past like a cannonball and crashed into the lake. Two down! Nearly skimming the water’s surface, Tom yanked the handle back at the last possible yard, leveling the broom and banking toward the shore. Then came a violent jolt—the shield vanished… a wave of heat washed over them as the twigs of the broom caught fire. Suddenly, he felt Aola’s arms tighten around him. “Jump!” He obeyed without a second thought. Tucking his limbs, he braced for an impact with the water that, at such speed, should have felt like concrete. But unexpectedly, something unfurled behind them with a heavy flap, like giant wings. They were carried toward the shore in surges, now soaring, now dipping to the very surface to evade spells, until one last curse caught them… and he and Aola went tumbling across the pebble-strewn bank. The world became a frantic kaleidoscope—sky, earth, limbs… a searing pain in his shoulder… a fog before his eyes. Shaking his head like a dazed hound, the lad pushed himself up on all fours. Aola! Milady was already rising a few yards away. The hem of her dress was smoldering… as were the tips of the enormous dark wings at her back! She clapped her hands, extinguishing the flames; the wings spread to their full breadth, snapping nervously, kicking up fountains of gravel. The sharp scent of scorched fur filled the air. “Teger as sahem!” she hissed, thrusting both palms forward, magnificent in her wrath like a goddess of war. Tom was struck dumb, forgetting the bandits and the biting pain in his shoulder alike. Something dark, like a tattered shroud, tore from her hands and smothered the approaching villains. Then she turned and rushed toward him. “Are you whole?!” she began to feel his limbs, fussing over him. It was then he noticed that her pupils had stretched into predatory, vertical slits. Great Merlin… whom had he fallen in love with? She was exquisite… and terrifying. “I’m fine, I’m fine…” he muttered, rising and holding her hands. His wand! He checked—it was intact. He gripped it tight. The dark mist Aola had unleashed was dissipating. Only two emerged alive and conscious—the leader and one other—and, enraged, they attacked again. “Stupefy!” Tom roared, gathering his strength, and knocked the scoundrel from his broom. He felt a surge of triumph! His insides seethed with fury. He wanted to annihilate anyone who dared lay a hand on him or his woman. His hands shook with exhaustion, but the thought of retreating never even crossed his mind. This was a fight to the death. A brief, fierce exchange followed with the leader. He seemed an experienced, old dark wizard. Neither Aola’s art nor Tom’s precision could land a clean hit. Moreover, Miss Meroving was fretting over the boy as if he were a child, constantly trying to shove him behind her winged back. In the heat of the fray, Tom lost sight of the man he had downed. He didn’t notice when the wretch regained consciousness… and then it felt as if a locomotive had hit him. Fire blossomed in his solar plexus, circles spun before his eyes, and he slipped into the dark. Consciousness returned slowly; first came the sounds—muffled, fragmented phrases drifting from the side. Then his sight returned. Parting his lashes, Tom tried to focus, but a thick haze swam before him. Finally, his sense of touch woke. There was no pain, only a body that felt vast, alien, and numb. With a groan, he rolled onto his side, wiping his face to clear the fog. Aola lay on the sand, spread out like a great bird brought down by a shot. The leader of the attackers was pinning her shoulders with his knees, literally sitting on the girl’s chest. Gripping her disheveled curls, he yanked her head up and hissed into her face: “Caught you, didn’t I, you bitch? Nowhere left to run. Tell me! Where is it? Speak, or I’ll gut the whelp first, then you!” Gathering her strength, she spat in his face. The brute struck her across the cheek with the back of his hand. In the ringing silence, the slap sounded like a pistol shot. Rage hit Tom’s brain like a thick, crimson wave. Everything else—sound, sensation—faded away. There remained only an all-consuming desire to kill this man, to tear him to pieces. It flooded every cell of the future Dark Lord’s being. Tom felt for his wand—still whole, to his surprise—and rose slowly, swaying. He leveled it at the villain’s blonde head. “Avada Kedavra!” he spat, pouring all the loathing seething within him into those two words. The wizard didn’t even have time to turn his head. He simply jerked, arched his back, and slumped over like a sack of flour. That was that. No one dared strike the woman he loved. A profound sense of relief and emptiness replaced the frantic tension. Had Tom been capable of analysis, he might have noticed it felt somewhat like a sexual release. Sex and violence often intertwine in the dark depths of the human subconscious. But he was beyond such conclusions. Exhaustion crashed over him; he barely managed to crawl to the sobbing girl, collapsing beside her and stroking her pale cheeks. “Aola… my dear…” Love, tenderness, and an aching pity flowed into the void in his soul. At first, he thought she was weeping, but she was laughing softly, arms outspread as she gathered her strength. “It’s alright, my boy… everything is alright,” she whispered. Tom helped her sit. She embraced him, stroking his shoulders and head, then pulled back to look into his eyes. “Does it hurt? Are you injured?” she asked anxiously. He shook his head. She rose with a groan, swaying until she caught her balance with her wings. She turned to the dead man and nudged him with the toe of her shoe. “You killed him,” she stated calmly. “Killed him. You have no idea whom you have killed, Tom.” “Who was he?” he asked, unperturbed. But Aola didn’t answer. She seemed to freeze for a few seconds, then murmured: “Avada Kedavra… how soon will your Dementors be here?” “I don’t know,” Tom replied honestly. The Ministry had its ways of detecting forbidden curses, but he had no idea what they were. “Are we to blame? We were only defending ourselves! They attacked us first!” “Your wand! Quickly!” Tom handed it over without protest. She hadn’t even reached for her own; it was clear she viewed it as nothing more than a pretty trinket. Aola snatched his wand, pressed it tightly against hers, clasping both in her palms, and began to mutter, swaying from side to side. A flash of light… the girl wiped the sweat from her brow and returned his weapon. “I killed him… that is what you will say. Understood?” “But why?” “Because nothing will happen to me. The Merovings care nothing for Ministries, least of all foreign ones. We have our own rules of life, death, and retribution. But they would drag you before commissions… they would ask treacherous questions—are you certain these fine gentlemen fired first? Are you quite sure you hadn’t been drinking? It is a great, filthy game, Tom… of a scale you cannot imagine.” “Then tell me!” he demanded. He felt he had the right to know everything! He had nearly been killed, after all. But Aola merely pressed a finger to her lips, silencing him. God knows what she heard. He heard nothing but the lapping of the waves and his own ragged breath. Milady seized his hands, told him to take a deep breath… and then space collapsed with a sickening pop. Tom squeezed his eyes shut. A second later, a fresh breeze hit his face, carrying the scent of feather grass. He opened his eyes. All around him, a spring steppe swayed in the dark. High above, great stars glittered. They had Apparated… but where? “Where are we?” he asked, bewildered. “I don’t know. Mongolia, perhaps… or Kara-Kirghizia,” Aola replied, sinking exhausted to the ground. “What does it matter?” To Tom’s disappointment, her wings were gone. The journey had drained her last strength, and his as well. A wretched trembling turned his body to jelly. He hadn’t even had time to be frightened. They lay in the grass in silence for a good half-hour. Gradually, the pain returned, biting into his bruised shoulder with renewed spite. What now? Tom didn’t know. His head felt empty and light. The only thing that mattered was that he was with her. Gathering herself, Aola rose, chose a level spot, and clapped her hands several times, murmuring in that same hissing tongue. Now, Tom could have sworn it was Ancient Aramaic, or perhaps Sumerian. To his amazement, right out of the steppe grass, a large, vibrant pavilion grew of its own accord, a welcoming light already flickering within. “My mother’s legacy,” Aola explained, pulling back the flap with practiced ease. “I can use it anytime, anywhere. Quite convenient for travel, you know, when there is nowhere else to sleep… Come in. Don’t be shy.”