The Patronus of Tom Riddle

Tom emerged from the black, hot well of unconsciousness only a week later. His hair was shorn short — ice had been applied to his head — and he was thin, weak as an infant. His temperature had dropped, but not at all from the medicines prescribed by the doctor. Simply, the young body fought against its owner’s unwillingness to live. And it won. In the first seconds, he did not understand where he was, then realized it was a hospital. He tried to rise, but his exhausted organism refused to obey. Then he remembered everything. Merciless memory collapsed the terrible truth upon him, and he groaned, burying his face in the flat, institutional pillow. Why had he not burned to death?! He remembered how the pain tearing from his heart had overflowed, flowed down his hands as fire, and set the hated room ablaze. Like in childhood… when magic did not need a wand. Like Aola knew how… The sound of her name echoed with a searing pain behind his breastbone, and he groaned again. “Doing poorly, lad?” someone wheezed from the next cot. “Want a drink, maybe?” Tom shook his head violently. He did not want to drink. And he did not want to live. His heart was shattered into pieces, and no magic in the world was capable of gluing those shards back together. He was discharged a week later — a pale shadow of the Tom who had arrived for the holidays. The director met him with a dissatisfied look but remained silent, encountering the cold emptiness in his blue eyes. Indifferent to everything, he lay for hours on the bed in the room with hastily whitewashed soot on the walls, or wandered in the stunted orphanage garden. The pain of loss had stunned him, deprived him of will. If he had even a little strength, he would have tried to kill himself again. But there was none. The fever had burned away all emotions, all desires, except for one feeling — an endless, aching pain within. Only one action during all this time did he perform consciously and purposefully — he took his wand, which had survived the fire along with his other things thanks to a spell, and returned to the hospital. He did nothing unforgivable, oh no… But the orderly who had been on duty during his hospital stay grew glazed in the eyes that had started to dart about, and submissively handed over milady’s medallion. Tom put it around his neck and left, leaving the thief to drool. He was found in this stupor and spent about three days in it until the magic wore off. The orderly remained “strange” forever, and other people’s property no longer stuck to his hands. Tom did not even bother to cover his tracks, but the Ministry never learned of his deed. One day he looked at his pale reflection in the dull old mirror above the washbasin. He mechanically ran a hand over the stubble of his short hair. He felt the emerging beard. He looked like heaven knows what… she would not have approved. Having shaved calmly, Tom put on his best suit, picked flowers in the garden, and went to the director’s office. There he imperturbably stated that he wanted to leave for several days. And when the woman tried to object, saying that his permission was required — which is usually asked for, not presented as a fait accompli — he measured her with an icy gaze and asked in the same tone what exactly would prevent him from obtaining it? And she was frightened. He saw fear in her darting eyes. It seemed the director regretted that this madman had not roasted to a crisp and left her blessed establishment forever. He did not care. Nodding, Tom exited and Apparated right in the corridor. The spatial distortion threw the youth onto a white dirt road surrounded by ancient trees. If war was thundering in Europe, it clearly had not touched this area. He felt powerful protective spells even before he reached the driveway, strewn with snow-white marble chips. The Merovingians did not approve of vulgar asphalt. The closer Tom approached the ancient castle draped in ivy, the sharper the pain flared, the tighter his heart constricted. He had to clench his fists and jaws to keep himself in check. Unaccustomed to demonstrating his true feelings to anyone, having opened up only to Aola, he now returned to his usual cocoon. Crossing the drawbridge over the moat, Tom touched his hand to the heavy bronze knocker in the shape of a falcon’s head on the gates decorated with the family crest, and knocked. And he was not at all surprised that a real genie opened the door for him. Apparently, not as fierce as the one from King Solomon’s jar, but quite tamed. Politely introducing himself, Tom asked if the Duke could receive him? Nodding, the fire spirit told Tom to follow him. They crossed a courtyard paved with stone slabs and climbed steps worn by time. The ancient building had been remodeled and modernized as much as possible, but it was clearly at least fifteen hundred years old. Leaving him to wait on a velvet-covered sofa in the living room, the genie disappeared. Tom pressed a hand to his chest, trying to still his painfully thumping heart. He was in HER house… in hers… which could have become his home too. She walked here, on these plush carpets… touched these things… gave this place a reason to exist. Now they were all orphaned. The unusual majordomo returned and invited the guest into the Duke’s office. The large room was furnished in an oriental style, with a pile of curious trifles and magical items decorating the bookshelves and the heavy desk with a silver-rimmed top. Tapestries and paintings hung on the walls. Seeing Tom, the dignified ladies and gentlemen in them began to whisper. And then his gaze hit her portrait, hanging to the side, above the desk… the lad nearly collapsed. The painting had been made long before they met, and the image could not know Tom. And yet, his beloved smiled warmly at him. The poor fellow clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his palms to the quick. It was monstrous… Monstrous! The curly-haired beauty moved as if alive, smiled, perhaps could even speak… but his Aola, the real one, the beloved and loving one, lay in a coffin. And still, Tom could not tear his eyes from the painting. It was her, HER! Her face, her eyes of a sly fox… A tall, silver-haired old man watching him rose from a carved chair to meet him. With a great effort of will, Tom tore his gaze from the portrait and looked at the master of the house. If Aola resembled her father, it was only in stature and the ability to carry herself regally. “Mr. Riddle,” said the very voice from that last cursed letter… The same light accent and authoritative notes as hers. “Milord,” Tom bowed politely. They exchanged handshakes. Not letting go of his hand, the Duke suddenly touched Tom’s memory; the latter did not even have time to close it. He simply forgot that this skill had been passed to Aola with her father’s blood. And the old Duke saw enough… before the lad erected a barrier around his consciousness. The expression on his face did not change one iota. Neither did Tom’s. Here he did not have to hide his love and his grief, for Aola’s father felt the same. But he could not allow even a Duke to dig around in his head. “I am grateful to you for coming, Tom. May I call you that?” He nodded silently, although the sound of his own name cut his ears. Only in her mouth did it sound like music… “I no longer hoped to see you. You were very dear to my girl; she told me much about you.” Tom offered milord his condolences and explained that he could not visit sooner due to a sudden illness. The Duke politely expressed hope that nothing else threatened the youth’s health and invited him to sit. The teenager clenched his fingers until they cracked and tried not to turn his head, so as not to encounter her gentle and beckoning gaze. “You see, my daughter left something for you… as if she felt it, poor girl, she gave instructions.” “Something” turned out to be not only excellent ancient books and artifacts useful to a young wizard — for which Tom would previously have sold his soul without hesitation — but also a substantial sum of money, which the old Duke transferred to a Gringotts account with a stroke of a pen right before the eyes of the new owner. Previously, having obtained such treasures, Riddle would have jumped for joy to the heavens. Now he felt nothing but a raw pain that seemed to have neither end nor limit. What was all the gold in the world worth without her? Tom, of course, politely thanked the host and asked the very question, the terrible and only important one — could he see her grave? A shadow fell over the Duke’s face. “Of course…” They descended one of the countless staircases into the inner courtyard of the castle, passed under an arch, and found themselves in a magnificent, though slightly neglected, garden. Tom walked in some semi-faint fog. He would surely have lost his mind had he spent another minute in the office opposite her portrait. At the end of the extensive garden, near the fortress wall, stood the white Merovingian tomb decorated with exquisite sculptures. Countless ancestors of hers rested here. Tom followed the Duke down into the coolness of the stone crypt. He had never encountered the death of loved ones, for his mother had died when he was an infant. And now he had to realize that the love of his life, the whole meaning of his existence, rested in a stone coffin, cold and immobile flesh, forever and ever. On the carved stone lid of her tomb lay a heap of fresh flowers. She had loved flowers so much… Tom approached on trembling legs and read the tombstone inscription: Aola Brigitta Zaerin Augustina, Duchess Meroving Rest in peace, my little peri And the dates of birth and death. She turned out to be much older than he thought. Another painful blow to the heart… She had lived so much, and should have lived forever! It was unfair, why, oh why her, and not someone else?! Laying the flowers with trembling fingers, Tom pushed down the lump in his throat and asked stifledly if he could be alone with her for a while? “Alas, my boy, you can be alone with Aola anywhere in this castle. Or anywhere on earth. Her body is not here,” the Duke answered, and suppressed grief broke through with these words, making his voice tremble brokenly. “Not here?!” Tom was astonished. “Where is she?!” “A direct bomb hit. Not a trace of my girl remained… I had nothing to put in this coffin but her shorn hair,” milord said with bitterness and climbed the steps. Stunned by the revelation collapsing upon him, Tom touched the slab. How could it be?! An ordinary bomb! How could it kill her, who perfectly mastered defense against the darkest magic, let alone primitive Muggle weapons?! Tom received the answer to the question tormenting him at lunch — the old Duke persuaded him to stay. Neither could swallow a bite, and the sad house-elves serving the meal were all tearful and constantly sniffled. Tom was grateful that at least her portrait did not hang in the dining hall. “Aola was far from here, in the East, where the most terrible battles are now taking place. She was looking for a man who had an artifact we needed. He himself did not realize its value and carried it with him as a trifle, for luck. But this thing was needed not only by us… Ragmudin’s associates came for it at the same time as my daughter and her partner. A fight broke out… and then the bombing of the territory began. Aola could have left… simply Apparated and saved her own life. But she stayed to cover the infirmary with the wounded. She simply did not have the strength for everything at once…” the Duke paused and added: “The partner was seriously wounded but survived. He told me about my daughter’s last minutes. You know what she was like…” “Their names. Do you know their names? Tell me them, milord,” Tom demanded. “Do you want revenge, my boy? Leave that to me. I have nothing left to lose. And you still have to live.” “There is no life for me without her!” it burst out of him. “And I am no longer a boy. Tell me, what are their names?” To the all-consuming pain and emptiness was added a searing hatred for everyone at once. For the scum who killed her, for the filthy Muggles whose pathetic lives she protected by sacrificing her own. For himself, for not being there, not protecting, not saving her. Duke Meroving thought and told Tom what he wanted to hear.