The Patronus of Tom Riddle

A fiancé?! A fi-ancé?!!! Had a steam engine struck him right in the middle of his own dormitory, the boy could not have been more shattered. His breath hitched, stopping dead in the middle of an inhale, and refused to return for so long that Tom feared he might die without drawing another atom of air into his lungs. But as a burning sensation rose in the pit of his stomach and his heart began to hammer like a trip-hammer against his temples, his body jolted into a convulsive gasp. His mind, however, remained crushed and leveled by the monstrous news… SHE had a FIANCÉ. And she had him all this time; surely she hadn’t ordered him along with the broom this morning?! All this damned time while he was agonizing, pining after her, hoping, confessing his love!!! She had been amused by his pathetic attempts, knowing full well that he had nothing to count on… It was unbearably painful. No one had ever inflicted such pain upon him. A twelve on a scale of ten. Bravo, Milady! Staring into a cup of cooling tea, Tom somehow endured until the end and then bolted, nearly at a run, toward the showers. He tore off his clothes, locked the bolt with trembling hands, and jerked the tap. A hail of cold droplets erupted from the showerhead, gaining strength until they turned into taut, icy jets. The teenager threw himself under them, shuddering as gooseflesh prickled his skin, his teeth clenched tight. A chill racked his body, his soul was being torn to pieces… and yet he could not even cry. When his muscles began to cramp, his fingers turned blue, and the goosebumps felt the size of mammoths, Tom finally turned the second tap. The water warmed, allowing him to relax slightly… and then he suddenly snapped, slamming his fist into the stone wall with a groan. Again and again, until the water swirling down the drain was tinted pink. Pain shot through his arm all the way to his shoulder, pulling the agony away from his heart just a little. Yes… that was better. It was better already. This way, he could compose himself and do nothing… neither to himself nor to her. Viper… unprincipled and soulless. He did not want to see her again, and he could not. Aola caught Tom after a History of Magic lesson. He had stopped attending her classes, avoiding any chance encounters as best he could. In the Great Hall, he tried to sit so he wouldn’t have to see her, and he had ignored a note requesting his presence in her office. Milady had been forced to mount a proper hunt for her former admirer. “Mr. Riddle, we must speak,” Aola said, stepping into his path, heedless of the curious glances of students filing out of the classroom. “There is nothing to speak of,” Tom cut her off rudely, attempting to bypass the girl. Her delicate scent always sent a sweet tremor through him and stripped him of his will, so he even held his breath, just in case. “There most certainly is!” she countered sharply. “You are not attending classes. Either we settle this matter between us, or you will be explaining your behavior in the Headmaster’s office.” Damn it… To stand before Dippet’s stern eyes and weave tall tales to justify his truancy was something Tom wanted even less than speaking to this scoundrel. Nor did he wish to attract unnecessary attention from his housemates. He was already having to lie to Miles, claiming their class schedules overlapped and that he urgently needed to catch up on non-existent “backlogs” in Study of Ancient Runes. “I cannot right now; I have Transfiguration,” he tried to slip off the hook. “The break has only just begun; you shall make it,” Aola snapped, gesturing for Tom to walk ahead of her. He gritted his teeth and trudged along, already anticipating the biting tirades directed his way… The windows in her office were wide open, a gentle breeze wandering through the room and playing with the papers on the massive desk. A lush bouquet bloomed fragrantly in a vase. The little fiancé sent them, no doubt… jealousy stung him sharply. The white gyrfalcon sat atop a cabinet, preening its feathers. Upon seeing Tom, it let out a sharp cry and flapped its wings. “Payam, this is Mr. Riddle,” Miss Meroving said without a trace of humor, nodding toward Tom. “Mr. Riddle, this is Payam, a bird of rare intelligence and courage.” “A pleasure…” he grunted. “Do have a seat,” she offered. “I’ll stand, thank you,” Tom cut in, staring past her and out the window. “Very well…” Aola remained on her feet as well, leaning her hip against the edge of the desk and crossing her arms over her chest. “Why are you not attending my classes?” “You know why,” he answered coldly. “I can guess… But does it not strike you as entirely foolish and childish? You are offended by me personally—fine! Do not speak to me, do not spend time with me… personal time, after hours. But what do the classes have to do with it? You are only hurting yourself, losing out on knowledge.” Tom remained silent. Too many words had accumulated, words he wanted to hurl at her… rather crude words. Aola swayed forward, pushing off the desk, and approached him, trying to catch his eye. “Tom…” Great Merlin, how wonderful she smelled… His heart began to throb painfully, defying every command of his reason. “I cannot bear to look at you, don’t you understand?!” he nearly sobbed, suddenly losing all his carefully gathered self-control. “You lied… And not just to me, but to him, to this… fiancé of yours, in short!” “Lied?” the girl asked, astonished. “Did you ever ask if I had a husband or a fiancé?” “You concealed it then, and that is no less vile!” Tom shot back, though the argument was fair. “How could you allow me… encourage me… knowing you were not free?” Aola suddenly took a deep breath and looked at Tom with a gaze so sorrowful that he faltered and fell silent, even though he had been about to lay out exactly what he thought of this cynical coquette. “Why do you think so poorly of people, Tom? And of yourself? Do you truly believe I would give myself to just anyone, out of profligacy or a desire for amusement?” The boy blinked in silence, not yet realizing where she was leading. To be honest, that was exactly what he thought. “Believe me, if I desired sex that much, it would not have been difficult to find a more experienced partner and obtain physical pleasure,” Aola added harshly, and the reminder stung Tom once again. “Then why?..” the teenager murmured, once more disoriented by her words. “Has it never occurred to you that one might become truly fascinated by you? In earnest. So much so that one loses control. So that all other obligations and circumstances become unimportant,” she said, looking into his eyes tenderly and intently, her beautifully styled head tilted slightly to the side. “Well… I suppose it’s possible…” Tom was utterly at a loss. “Only… who are you and who am I to believe that?” “You are a man, I am a woman. Is that not enough?” What did this mean—did she actually like him? Could Aola even be in love with him?! Tom didn’t have time to finish this staggering thought—the bell rang. “I shall not detain you any longer,” she said, lightly touching his shoulder. “Milady…” “Go, Mr. Riddle… Or you will be late for your Transfiguration. You may continue to be offended and think me the ultimate wretch, just come to the lessons, all right? You are, after all, my best student.” And Tom went, once again shaken and having lost his direction for resentment and aggression. She had disarmed him again, as she always did… By evening, young Mr. Riddle’s spirits had risen so much and he had gained such confidence that he decided—if he didn’t act like a moron, it was entirely possible the little fiancé would be sent packing. It was perfectly obvious that Milady did not love the man. An engagement of convenience? Perhaps her father had forced her? While Muggles had almost outgrown the tradition of marrying off children without their consent, in wizarding families, this archaism was in full bloom. Let him come… We shall see who wins. Weasley’s face was still spotted like a reed cat’s, heh-heh… Tom knew how to compete, and he embarked on his next operation to win back Lady Meroving with zest—he immediately raided one of Mrs. Frost’s greenhouses. He earned a few burns from the spitting nettles planted at the entrance for security, of course. But it was worth it—his prize was a stunning set of purple and lilac “Lady’s Slippers.” The ribbon was a trickier matter; it wasn’t a tie, after all… and he certainly didn’t know any spells for tying them. But Tom managed that as well—he bound the thin stems with a ribbon swiped from the scatterbrained Irga Vince and, after dinner, sent the bouquet through Milady’s window along with a flock of conjured canaries. Who would have thought this trivial little spell could be so useful at a turning point in fate? She replied immediately—a note with dragonfly wings purred that “these are the most lovely flowers in the world” and wished him the sweetest of dreams. Tom fell asleep holding the slip of thick cream paper in his palms. In his sleep, he was smiling. The following day was a weekend, and Tom set out early for Hogsmeade to collect the broom that had been waiting for him at the post office for nearly a week. Receiving the parcel wrapped in brown paper, he opened it right there on the porch. The broom was brand new, the very latest model… He could only hope no one would pay it much mind. Tom stroked the polished handle with pleasure. A gift. A real one. It was nice… Of course, he tested his new transport immediately, flying to his heart’s content over the lake. The wind whipped his face and ruffled the hem of his robes. Speed had always filled Tom with delight, and now it was joined by stirring memories of that evening, of the chase… Adrenaline turned out to be a curious thing! Had they been flying such a broom back then, the thugs would hardly have caught them. It obeyed the slightest touch, was perfectly balanced, and its gyroscope was superb. Perhaps he should invite Aola to join him? And thank her at the same time… By the way, she had promised him a ride on a flying carpet. Upon his return, a rather unpleasant sight awaited Tom in the Slytherin common room—the winged note was dodging spells with indignant squeaks as Reggie and Miles fired at it together, trying to catch it. Without ceremony or hesitation, Riddle slammed a “Freezing Charm” into both of them. A pair of younger girls who had been watching the seniors' antics immediately scurried off to their dormitory in fright. Tom held out his hand. The note landed on his palm, its thin wings fluttering. He sank into an armchair and waited for the fools to come to their senses, tapping his fingers against the carved armrest. The knuckles he had broken in the shower were healing, covered over with fresh pink skin. After five minutes, both idiots began to show signs of life—stirring and groaning. “Riddle, have you gone mad?!” Miles mumbled, trying to pull his limbs together. Reggie’s speech was even less coherent. Tom lifted the note by the corner with two fingers and asked calmly: “Was this letter intended for you, Mr. Lestrange?” The latter shook his head as best he could. “For you?” he asked Miles. “No…” “And since it isn’t yours, why the devil were you both chasing it?” “We weren’t going to read it, what are you—” “Get this through your heads—never touch my correspondence,” Tom said in an icy tone. “If I see anything like this again, I shall arrange for something far worse than a Freezing Charm.” Truly, after the Avada, it was such a trifle. Tom rose and went to his dormitory to read Milady’s note in peace. *Harbinger (Farsi).