The Patronus of Tom Riddle

Had Tom not been utterly drained by the day’s ordeals, he would have gasped aloud; stepping into the pavilion behind milady was like walking into an Eastern fairy tale. There were plush carpets, mounds of silken cushions, and hangings of the finest diaphanous fabric. A low table stood by a divan, with painted chests lining the walls. Tall, chased vases held peacock feathers, and an exquisite hookah sat upon the table amidst ornate lamps. Heavily bound books lay scattered directly upon the floor and cushions. The entire space was lush, vibrant, and redolent with something incredibly spicy and sweet. It was so potent it made Tom’s nose prickle. Aola unshadowed her feet—shedding her shoes with a groan of relief—and Tom followed suit. He did not groan or toss his shoes, of course, but as his bare feet sank into the soft pile of the carpet, he inwardly shared her delight. “Sit,” she invited, gesturing toward the divan. “Or better yet—lie down. I shall fetch water for you to wash…” Vanishing behind a carved screen that partitioned the tent, Aola spent some time clattering with basins and pouring water. Tom dispensed with ceremony and lay back, careful not to disturb his aching shoulder. When the girl returned, carrying a basin and a towel, he nearly gasped again. She had washed, brushed her hair, and exchanged her scorched dress for billowing harem trousers and a short, loose-fitting blouse embroidered with beads and sequins. The fabric was as translucent as the curtains, leaving very little of her exquisite form to the imagination. Tom found himself at a loss for where to look when he noticed the dark points of her nipples beneath the thin silk. “Undress, then,” she commanded, setting the basin on the table before retreating once more behind the screen. She returned with a tray laden with small boxes, jars, and flasks. Tom had managed to remove his jacket and was now fumbling with his shirt buttons, lingering over each one as if he were seeing it for the first time. Aola took this for weakness following the battle and began to assist him, plunging him into a state of total stupor. “Oh, dear…” she exhaled when Tom finally pulled the shirt off. Large bruises were blossoming like dark fruit on his shoulder and ribs. On his back, where the curse had struck, was a nasty burn. Well, he thought, at least it looks manly. Perhaps like this, he wouldn’t seem too thin or unattractive to her. “Raise your arm,” she requested. Tom tried, grimacing painfully halfway through. Thin but strong fingers immediately and deftly probed the joint. “No dislocation… merely a sprain and deep bruising,” Aola commented. Wetting the corner of a towel, she wiped the grime from his face, then moved gently over his injuries. The cool water, scented with roses, chilled his skin and dulled the pain. He was embarrassed that she was fussing over him so, yet at the same time, it was profoundly pleasant. “I can do it myself…” he offered timidly, but Miss Meroving cut him off, telling her 'hero' to simply sit still. “Here, drink this for now,” she poured a liquid into a cup—it tasted as tart and spicy as the pavilion smelled—while she scooped a thick salve from a silver box and began to coat his bruises, murmuring softly. Her slender fingers touched him with such tenderness that the pain began to recede. “Tell me everything, milady,” Tom demanded, tired of fighting the sweet shivers her touch provoked. “Who were those men? What did they want from you? The one I killed… he demanded an object.” “Tommy… the less you know, the safer your life remains, surely you understand…” she sighed. “I killed for you!” he replied sharply, pulling his arm away from her caring hand. “Now I wish to know whom I killed, and why!” “I have already dragged you into enough trouble! I have been unforgivably foolish!” Aola sprang up and paced across the patterned carpet, her fingers laced nervously. “It is entirely my fault… forgive me, Tom…” “I forgive you. Now, tell me,” he insisted, and the girl yielded, sitting beside him once more to attend to his burn. “Do you remember what I told you of the war? And the man who started it?” Tom nodded. “Several dark wizards from ancient families have defected to his side. He promised them a share of power over a conquered world… if they helped him. And these traitors spoke of rare, incredibly powerful artifacts capable of raising even an ordinary Muggle to a world ruler. He has sought them everywhere… in the ancient tombs of conquerors, in Tibet, in Nepal. In some searches, he has succeeded… But we—my father, myself, and a few other initiates—managed to snatch this thing from under his very nose. What it is and where it is hidden, I would not tell you even under Cruciatus, so do not ask. The man you killed—Tanimus Ragmudin—was one of them. A sorcerer of incredible power. Greed-driven and profoundly cruel. You might say you did humanity a great service today, Tom… a very great service.” The teenager sat there, unable to believe his ears. Wizards betraying the secrets of their race to some wretched Muggle upstart? For the sake of power? How was it possible? “I can hardly believe it…” “Alas, I do not lie to you.” “Is that why you came to Hogwarts?” he guessed. “To a wilderness protected by every known ward against the Dark Arts…” “Yes. Exactly so. And I covered my tracks well… or so I thought. I truly did not expect an ambush. Otherwise, I would never have put you in peril…” “Perhaps someone betrayed you, milady?!” Tom turned sharply, nearly knocking the jar of ointment from her hand. “Was that what the master of The Hog’s Head warned you about? Whom did you trust? Think.” Then, a realization struck him: “The students! Surely they wrote home about the new mistress! Someone among their kin must have blabbed! Or… are you not Aola Meroving at all?” “No, the name is real,” she smiled. “There was no sense in hiding it; many pure-blood British families know my face. The Weasleys, for instance… I was on an archaeological expedition with Septimus’s grandfather. Besides, no one knew of my involvement in this matter… practically no one. Ragmudin could never have guessed the artifact was with me on his own.” “And yet, he found you!” Aola fell into deep thought, biting her lip. “And does Professor Dumbledore know? Why was it his brother who warned you?” “Enough, Tom! In my view, you have already learned more than enough! Do not clutter your head with other people’s problems. Rest now… and I shall think of what to feed you to restore your strength. Is it a bargain?” milady changed the subject, and Tom felt once again that he had struck a nerve. Could that polite, well-bred, 'perfect' Transfiguration professor be a traitor? “Your problems are not 'other people’s' to me…” he replied. Suddenly, he reached out and did what he had dreamed of for a month—he ran his palm over her large, glossy curls, gasping at the surge of admiration and sudden desire. Aola was so close… maddeningly attractive, smelling seductively, barely veiled by her translucent clothing. He saw the vein throbbing in her neck beneath the tender skin… the silhouette of her breasts… the curve of her hips. Everything was made for caressing… even the fresh bruise on her bare shoulder demanded to be kissed. Tom brushed a lock of hair aside and pressed his lips gently to her skin. “Tommy…” she exhaled, a warning in her voice. But his common sense had already surrendered to the onslaught of hormones. The first kiss… the first kill. Why not the first time as a man? His lips touched her neck, then covered hers in a ravenous kiss. His hands slipped to her waist, crushing the weightless fabric, drawing her closer. His heart hammered; heat flared through his veins. He wanted her with his entire being. As fiercely as he had wanted to destroy the man who struck her an hour ago… no, even more so. Yes, sex and violence often walk hand-in-hand. But again, Tom had no room for such reflections. Perhaps she felt something similar, for she no longer tried to stay him. Yielding to his clumsy but fervent caresses, Aola sank from the narrow divan onto a bed of many rugs and pillows strewn upon the floor. Casting her arms above her head, she allowed the boy to do with her as he pleased. Showering her face and neck with kisses, he finally touched the firmness of her breast, squeezing lightly. Fragments of advice from some illicit treatise whirled through his mind like confetti. Breasts require a gentle touch—that he remembered. The sensation was sublime! A groan of delight and impatience escaped his lips. He slid his hand beneath the fabric, stroking her soft, rounded belly, and pulled the blouse upward, discovering with surprise a dark, lush floral pattern traced upon her skin. A tattoo? Who would have thought… To his eyes, her breasts were even more wondrous: not too large, but not small either, with pale golden haloes around the nipples. In a word—perfect. Trembling in every limb, Tom touched one with his tongue, then circled it with his lips, feeling with triumph as she shuddered and gasped. The nipple hardened under his ministrations… did she truly enjoy what he was doing? Hardly believing his luck, Tom looked into Aola’s face. He wanted to be certain she desired him too… her sudden submissiveness unnerved him. But her amber eyes glowed hotly beneath trembling lashes, and her breath had grown ragged. He kissed her parted lips hungrily, and her palms finally slid over his shoulders and back, caressing him, sending ripples of pleasure through his skin. She arched beneath him, pressing her body to his, her thighs parting… This finally drove Tom past the point of reason. The heat in his lower belly had long since become a familiar, pulsing weight demanding release. His pain was gone; his shoulder only reminded him of itself once, as he helped her remove her blouse. Then came her trousers… Tom showered her magnificent thighs with kisses, inhaling the intoxicating scent of a woman’s body, his eyes closed in a mix of passion and shame. He grew frightened. Pictures—even animated ones—were one thing… a living, breathtakingly beautiful woman about to give herself to you was quite another. What if he failed? Had she even had a man before him, or was he the first? The thought terrified him. He wanted to ask, but as he searched for a tactful way to put it, her hands had already reached his trousers, and before Tom could blink, he was entirely naked. Aola lay back, drawing him down, caressing… He braced himself on his arms so as not to crush her, lowering himself onto that yielding, supple, burning body. It was madness, it was impossible bliss… he had never felt anything like it; self-pleasure was but a pale shadow of love. He was on fire, shaking… he felt her soft skin beneath his desire, the silken hair at the base of her belly… and suddenly, a sweet convulsion pierced him, stealing his breath, forcing a groan from his throat as he shuddered, spending himself upon her stomach. No, no, no!!! Not this! He wanted to pull away, mortified by what had happened, but Aola unexpectedly held him tight, wrapping her arms and legs around him, stroking him and whispering something tender and soothing until the very last of his love was spent upon her. Tom shuddered one last time and went still, hiding his burning face against her shoulder, afraid to meet her eyes. It was a catastrophe.