Eillene "Ellie" Hufflepuff was, in every way, a true Hufflepuff.
A direct descendant of Helga Hufflepuff herself, she embodied everything her house stood for-kindness, loyalty, patience, and a quiet yet unwavering strength. Ellie was not just a Hufflepuff by blood but by heart, a living symbol of the house's virtues. She believed in hard work, fairness, and the power of healing, not just in magic but in the way she treated others.
The House of Hufflepuff held many ancient secrets, one of the most treasured being the Ars Antiqua—a legendary tome rumored to have been written by Helga Hufflepuff herself. Said to contain powerful ancient magic, the book had been passed down through generations of Hufflepuff heirs, its true purpose known only to those chosen to wield it. On the day Ellie was accepted into Hogwarts, the tome became hers.
From the moment she first laid hands on it, the Ars Antiqua spoke to her. It was more than just an old artifact; it was a guide, a whisper of forgotten wisdom. Ellie dedicated herself to understanding its pages, uncovering spells and knowledge lost to time. Among them, she discovered something extraordinary—wandless healing magic, unlike anything taught at Hogwarts. A magic so pure, so powerful, that it was said to mend even the minds shattered by the Cruciatus Curse.
But great magic often comes at a cost. And for Ellie Hufflepuff, the price would be far greater than she could have ever imagined.
Eillene “Ellie” Hufflepuff arrived at Hogwarts with a warmth that seemed to radiate from her very being. She was not the loudest in the Great Hall during the Sorting Ceremony, nor the most striking in appearance, but there was something about her—an undeniable presence, a quiet, golden glow that made people feel at ease.
The moment the Sorting Hat touched her head, it barely hesitated.
"Ah… a true Hufflepuff through and through. Kind, diligent, and with a heart too big for this world. But there’s more, isn’t there? A thirst for knowledge… an old soul who carries the weight of a legacy. You, child, are meant to heal, but beware—healers often suffer the deepest wounds. Yes… it must be HUFFLEPUFF!"
As the Hufflepuff table erupted into cheers, Ellie made her way to them with a bright yet bashful smile. She was home.
Unlike other houses that prided themselves on ambition, intellect, or bravery, Hufflepuff was a place of quiet resilience. The warmth of the underground common room, with its golden sunlight filtering through enchanted windows, made it feel like a second home. The scent of freshly baked bread from the nearby kitchens, the soft hum of laughter, the understanding nods of housemates who believed in teamwork rather than competition—it was perfect.
Ellie thrived in this environment. She was never the loudest in a room, nor the most attention-seeking, but she was the one people turned to when they needed comfort. She was the student who stayed behind after class to help a struggling first-year, the one who carried extra quills in case someone forgot theirs, and the one who brewed Wiggenweld Potion in secret for her friends who pushed themselves too hard in exams.
And then there was the Ars Antiqua.
The moment she received the tome, it was as if a piece of her fell into place. The old, leather-bound book had been passed down through her family, but it wasn’t just an heirloom—it was a legacy. Written in an ancient, flowing script, the tome contained lost knowledge from the earliest days of magic, rumored to have been written by Helga Hufflepuff herself. Many generations had failed to fully understand its secrets. But Ellie? She could hear it calling to her.
She spent countless nights in the Hufflepuff common room, curled up in a chair by the enchanted fireplace, tracing her fingers over the delicate pages. The ink shifted sometimes, revealing words only when she was ready to understand them. The book did not teach her spells in the way textbooks did; instead, it whispered forgotten wisdom, urging her to feel the magic rather than simply cast it.
And that was how she discovered wandless healing.
Her first true test came in her third year.
It was an accident—an older Ravenclaw had been experimenting with Stinging Jinxes in the library, and it had backfired horribly. The girl collapsed, struggling to breathe, her skin swelling at an alarming rate. A small crowd formed, whispers of panic spreading. The professors were nowhere in sight, and no one knew what to do.
Ellie did not hesitate.
She knelt beside the girl, her hands steady as she pressed them gently against her chest. Closing her eyes, she focused—not on incantations, not on wands, but on the flow of magic within her. The Ars Antiqua had taught her that healing was not about power, but about understanding. She let her magic flow through her fingertips, reaching out like a warm embrace.
A golden glow surrounded her hands, soft and pulsing like a heartbeat. The swelling faded. The girl gasped as her airways cleared, her body relaxing. When she looked up at Ellie, there was nothing but awe in her eyes.
The watching students murmured in shock. No one at Hogwarts could perform wandless healing, not even the most skilled professors.
Ellie simply smiled. “You’ll be alright now.”
It wasn’t long before her reputation spread.
Students sought her out for minor injuries, and even some professors took notice. Madam Pomfrey once caught her mending a Gryffindor’s broken wrist without a single spell and demanded to know how. But Ellie only smiled, the same quiet way she always did, and simply said, “I just listen to the magic.”
She never asked for recognition, nor did she boast about her abilities. She simply helped.
But not everyone was pleased with her growing influence.
"Who is that girl?" Tom Riddle asked, his voice calm yet laced with curiosity as his sharp eyes followed the Hufflepuff across the courtyard.
She was laughing—her head tilted back slightly, golden strands of hair catching the afternoon light, a warmth in her expression that seemed almost otherworldly. There was something effortless about the way she carried herself, as if she belonged not to the rigid hierarchy of Hogwarts but to something far older, something deeper.
A nearby classmate followed his gaze and scoffed. "Oh, her? That’s Eillene Hufflepuff. Helga Hufflepuff’s descendant."
Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. Hufflepuff. He had never thought much of the house, dismissing its members as soft-hearted fools who lacked ambition. And yet, this girl—Ellie—held herself with an air that didn’t quite fit that mold.
The classmate continued, lowering his voice as if sharing something conspiratorial. "She has quite the reputation around here. Apparently, she can heal without a wand."
That caught Tom’s full attention.
His fingers stilled against the book he had been holding, and for a brief moment, the noise of the courtyard faded. Wandless healing? That was ancient magic, lost to time—something only spoken of in dusty old tomes. Even the most skilled Healers required wands, potions, incantations.
Yet, there she was. Laughing, unassuming, unaware that she had just drawn the interest of someone who did not take kindly to mysteries left unsolved.
Tom’s gaze lingered on her, analytical and calculating. Power. That’s what it was. A quiet, gentle kind of power—one that did not demand attention but was undeniably there. He had seen many things at Hogwarts, but never someone like her.
And Tom Riddle did not like things he could not understand.
From that moment on, Tom Riddle began to watch her.
At first, it was merely curiosity. He had no interest in Hufflepuffs-they were insignificant, content with mediocrity. Yet Ellie Hufflepuff stood apart from the rest. She did not seek attention, nor did she flaunt her abilities. If anything, she seemed almost unaware of the way people spoke about her, of the awe and whispers that followed when she healed minor injuries with nothing but a touch.
Tom observed from the shadows, never approaching, always calculating. She was kind-not in the shallow, naive way most were, but in a way that made people gravitate toward her. He saw how she treated others, how she listened, how she helped without hesitation. She had no ulterior motives. No hunger for power.
It baffled him.
And perhaps, in some small, forgotten part of himself, it unsettled him.
The first time Ellie noticed Tom Riddle, it was purely by chance.
She had been studying in the library, tucked away in a quiet corner with the Ars Antiqua spread open before her. The book's ancient script shimmered faintly under the candlelight, revealing words only she could understand. She was tracing a passage on wandless healing, lost in thought, when she felt it-a presence.
Looking up, her gaze met piercing dark eyes watching her from across the room.
For a fleeting moment, she held his stare. There was something unreadable about him, something cold and distant, yet intensely focused. Then, as if realizing he had been caught, Tom looked away and returned to his book as though nothing had happened.
Ellie blinked, momentarily confused.
She knew of him, of course-everyone did. Tom Riddle, the perfect Slytherin. Brilliant. Charismatic. Untouchable. But why had he been watching her?
Brushing off the thought, she turned back to her book. If she had known then what kind of interest she had piqued, she might have been more cautious.
Their first conversation happened by accident.
It was late, and the halls of Hogwarts were nearly empty. Ellie had just finished helping a second-year who had burned his hands in Herbology-a simple injury, but one that had left the boy shaken. She had placed her hands over his, letting the warm golden glow of her magic soothe the pain. When the burns vanished, he had looked at her like she was something out of legend.
Ellie had merely smiled and told him to get some rest.
She was on her way back to the Hufflepuff common room when she sensed it again-that presence.
Turning a corner, she nearly collided with someone. Tom Riddle.
For a brief second, neither of them spoke. His expression was unreadable, though his sharp gaze flickered to her hands. "You healed him." It was not a question.
Ellie hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden encounter. "He was hurt."
Tom studied her, his posture composed yet strangely intense. "Without a wand."
Ellie frowned slightly. "Does it matter?"
Tom did not answer. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if searching for something beneath her calm exterior. Most people would have been intimidated by his presence. But Ellie? She simply met his gaze with quiet curiosity, her own expression open and unreadable in a different way.
Finally, he spoke again, his voice smooth and deliberate. "Magic like that—it is rare. Where did you learn it?"
Ellie hesitated. Should she tell him about Ars Antiqua? About the ancient magic whispered through its pages? Something in her gut told her no.
So instead, she simply said, "I listen."
Tom's lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smirk but held the ghost of one. "Listen?"
Ellie shrugged. "Magic isn't just spells and incantations. It's... alive. If you listen closely enough, it speaks to you."
Tom Riddle had heard many theories about magic. He had read more books than most professors, studied spells far beyond his age. Yet he had never heard anyone speak about magic the way she did-as if it were something to be understood, rather than controlled.
That was the moment Tom realized—Ellie Hufflepuff was unlike anyone he had ever met.
And perhaps, just for a moment, he looked at her with something that was not calculation or intrigue.
Something almost kind.
"I guess being a direct descendant of a Hogwarts founder has its own prestige," Tom remarked, his voice smooth, calculated.
Ellie stiffened slightly, though she quickly masked it with a practiced ease. She had heard variations of that statement too many times before—from professors, from students, from those who saw her lineage as something grander than it truly was.
Yet, coming from Tom Riddle, the words felt heavier, as if laced with an unspoken meaning.
She forced a small, polite smile. "I suppose it does. But prestige means little if you don't do anything with it."
Tom tilted his head slightly, studying her reaction with interest. "And what exactly do you plan to do with it?"
Ellie hesitated, then looked away, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric of her robes. "Help people."
Tom hummed, his expression unreadable. "How very... Hufflepuff of you."
This time, Ellie let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "And what of you, Riddle? You have talent, intelligence, charm—you must have grand plans for yourself."
There was a flicker in his dark eyes, something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. But his lips only curved into a polite, almost disarming smile.
"I do," he said simply.
Ellie didn't press further. Perhaps some part of her knew—whatever it was that Tom Riddle wanted, it would not be small. It would not be kind.
That night, Ellie couldn't shake the feeling that she had just stepped too close to something dangerous.
Tom Riddle was charming, polite, and brilliant—too brilliant. He had a way of making people feel as if they were the only ones in the room, of drawing them in without them even realizing it. But Ellie had always been perceptive in a different way. She wasn't easily dazzled by charm, nor was she intimidated by intelligence.
She had seen the way he looked at her—not with admiration, nor friendship, but with calculated interest. As if she were a puzzle waiting to be solved, a curiosity he couldn't yet explain.
And yet, despite the unease curling in her stomach, she couldn't deny her own curiosity.
Ellie was kind, but not naive. She believed in the goodness of people, but she was not blind to the shadows lurking behind their smiles. She had spent years tending to others, reading between the lines of their pain and weariness. Tom Riddle, however, was unlike anyone she had ever encountered.
Their paths began crossing more often after that.
At first, Ellie thought nothing of it. Tom Riddle was a model student, a Prefect—of course their schedules would align at times. But soon, she started noticing patterns.
How he always seemed to appear in the library when she was there, though he never approached. How he lingered in conversations just long enough to overhear, his sharp gaze always flickering toward her when healing magic was mentioned.
How, one evening, as she walked back to the Hufflepuff common room, she sensed that familiar presence behind her again.
"Are you following me now, Riddle?" she asked without turning around.
A soft chuckle echoed behind her. "I didn't realize walking the same halls as you constituted following, Hufflepuff."
Ellie rolled her eyes before finally glancing over her shoulder. There he was, dressed in immaculate robes, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Hufflepuffs were taught patience, fairness. But Ellie had also learned caution.
"What do you want?" she asked, stopping in her tracks.
Tom stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "Your magic interests me."
Ellie sighed. She should have known. "Of course it does."
"Wandless healing is incredibly rare," he continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "It isn't taught here, nor is it recorded in any of Hogwarts' standard texts. And yet, you-" he tilted his head slightly, voice laced with curiosity "-use it so effortlessly. As if it's second nature to you."
Ellie tilted her head, her warm brown eyes studying him in turn. People rarely took an interest in her magic out of pure curiosity. There was always something they wanted—a favor, a secret, a lesson.
She could feel it, the hunger lurking beneath Tom's words, the way his gaze held no admiration, only calculation.
A mischievous thought flickered through her mind.
"Then you ought to be checking the Restricted Section," she said lightly, knowing full well he wouldn't dare.
At least, that's what she believed.
She did not yet know that Tom Riddle never let curiosity rest. That he would always search for answers, no matter the cost.
She did not know that a simple, careless jest had just set something terrible in motion.
Ellie sat on a stone bench in the courtyard, exhaustion settling deep in her bones and Ars Antiqua lay beside her. The late afternoon sun cast golden hues over the castle grounds, but she hardly noticed. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap, the aftereffects of her magic still clinging to her like a second skin. Wandless healing took its toll—it gave life, but at a cost. And today, she had pushed herself too far.
She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself, when a familiar voice cut through the stillness.
“Does it hurt?”
Ellie tensed before turning her head. Tom Riddle.
His gaze was sharp, assessing. He wasn’t asking out of concern—she knew that much. Tom Riddle was not a boy who cared for others unless it served his own interests.
“What hurts?” she asked, masking her discomfort behind an easy smile.
His head tilted slightly, as if considering her. “Does it hurt you when you heal them?”
Ellie’s smile didn’t waver, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she countered, “Why would I tell you?”
Tom studied her, then, unexpectedly, he said, “I’ll tell you a secret in exchange.”
Ellie raised a brow, amused despite herself. “A secret? That’s hardly fair. How do I know it’s worth anything?”
Something flickered in his eyes before he spoke, voice even, deliberate.
“I am Salazar Slytherin’s descendant.”
Ellie stilled, absorbing the weight of his words.
Then, she shrugged. “So that makes two of us, then. Descendants of Hogwarts founders.”
She stood, stretching, preparing to leave, but before she could take a step, a hand caught her wrist. Tom’s grip was firm, not forceful, but enough to make her pause.
“What?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
“The answer to my question,” he reminded her, unyielding.
Ellie hesitated, then sighed, knowing he wouldn’t let it go. “Ah.” She glanced at his hand on her wrist, and after a beat, he released her. “Yes, the healing magic I use drains its user.”
Tom’s brows furrowed slightly. “But why?”
A slow smile spread across her lips.
“I’ll answer for a secret in exchange,” she said, mirroring his words from earlier.
Then, before he could stop her, she turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the courtyard.
Behind her, she could feel his gaze lingering—calculating, intrigued, and perhaps, just a little frustrated.
Ellie knew she had just walked a dangerous line.
And yet, she couldn’t deny the brewing tension between them—like a game neither of them had agreed to play, yet neither could walk away from.
Ellie had expected Tom Riddle to drop the subject after their conversation in the courtyard. He never pushed too hard—not openly, anyway. He had a way of making people feel at ease, of lulling them into a false sense of control. But Ellie knew better.
And yet, she wasn’t prepared for how relentless he could be.
The next time their paths crossed, it was in the library.
Ellie had been tucked away in a quiet corner, flipping through a book on ancient magical remedies and Ars Antiqua lay just beside her, when a shadow fell over her page. She looked up, unsurprised.
“Looking for another secret to trade, Riddle?” she asked, arching a brow.
Tom merely smiled. “I’ve already given you one. It’s only fair that you return the favor.”
Ellie leaned back in her chair, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t recall making a promise.”
His fingers drummed lightly against the table. “You did, in a way. An unspoken agreement.”
She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You really don’t like losing, do you?”
His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes darkened just slightly. “No, I don’t.”
Something about the way he said it sent a chill down her spine.
Tom Riddle was methodical, patient—but there was an edge to him, something lurking beneath the surface, coiled and waiting. He wasn’t used to people denying him, and Ellie wondered if she was playing with fire.
Still, she had never been one to back down easily.
She tapped her fingers against the open pages of her book before finally saying, “The reason healing magic drains me is simple. It requires more than just spellwork—it takes intent, energy, and something deeper.”
Tom didn’t move, but she could feel his focus sharpen.
“Emotion,” she added after a pause. “Magic that heals doesn’t just mend the body—it demands something in return. If you don’t give enough of yourself, it won’t work. And if you give too much…”
She trailed off, watching him carefully.
Tom hummed, tilting his head slightly. “Fascinating.”
Ellie expected him to press further, to ask more questions. Instead, he studied her, silent for a long moment before saying, “It’s a dangerous thing, to give too much of yourself, Ellie.”
She didn’t flinch at the way he said her name this time.
But as he turned and walked away, leaving her with her thoughts, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just revealed something far more valuable than she intended.
And that Tom Riddle never asked a question without already knowing how he would use the answer.
Ellie knew she should have been more careful.
Tom Riddle had a way of turning words into weapons, of taking small truths and twisting them into something he could use. And yet, she had given him an answer—not because he forced it from her, but because a part of her had wanted to.
Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the thrill of holding his attention, of knowing that for all his brilliance, for all his secrets, he wanted something from her.
But she knew better than to mistake his interest for anything other than what it was.
That was why, when she saw him approaching her at the greenhouse the next day, she pretended not to notice.
Professor Sprout had asked her to tend to the newly potted Moondew plants, their delicate petals shimmering under the sunlight filtering through the glass. Ellie loved moments like this—quiet, steady work, something to focus on that wasn’t riddles and games.
But Tom was not one to be ignored.
“You’re avoiding me, Hufflepuff,” he said, stepping closer.
Ellie didn’t look up. “No, I’m working.”
She felt him watching her, the weight of his gaze as heavy as the humidity in the greenhouse. “You didn’t ask for a secret in return.”
Ellie exhaled through her nose. “I figured you’d tell me one when it benefited you.”
Tom chuckled, a soft, knowing sound. “You’re learning.”
She finally glanced at him then, narrowing her eyes. “I was never naïve, Riddle.”
“No,” he agreed. “You weren’t.”
Something flickered between them—a silent acknowledgment, an understanding neither of them wanted to name.
Ellie wasn’t blind to what Tom Riddle was. He was dangerous in ways most people couldn’t see, in ways he kept hidden behind polite smiles and perfect manners. But she was also beginning to realize that he saw her in a way most didn’t.
She was Hufflepuff through and through—loyal, steady, compassionate. People thought that made her predictable. Easy to read. Easy to manipulate.
But Tom… he saw the pieces others missed.
He saw the sharp mind behind her kindness, the way she didn’t flinch away from him the way others did. And that intrigued him.
Ellie didn’t know if that should worry her.
“I do owe you a secret,” he said after a moment, his voice smooth, deliberate. “I believe in fairness.”
Ellie scoffed. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
He ignored the remark. Instead, he leaned against the table beside her, his fingers brushing over the petals of a Moondew plant. “Do you know why I dislike healing magic?”
Ellie stilled. Of all the things she expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.
She considered him carefully before answering. “Because it’s not power in the way you seek it.”
A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “Precisely.”
He pushed off the table, stepping closer—not enough to crowd her, but enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.
“Healing magic is selfless,” he continued, voice quiet but sharp. “It demands sacrifice. It is power, yes, but power that serves others, not oneself.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting with something unreadable. “And that is why I could never wield it the way you do.”
Ellie’s grip tightened around the pot in her hands. She wasn’t sure if it was the honesty in his words that unsettled her, or the fact that for the first time, he had given her something real.
No lies. No manipulation. Just the truth.
And somehow, that was far more dangerous.
Ellie should have let the conversation die there.
She should have turned back to her work, ignored the way Tom Riddle’s words lingered in her mind like an echo she couldn’t silence. But something about his honesty—his admission—unsettled her.
Tom never gave away truths so easily. And yet, he had given her one now.
Ellie placed the Moondew plant back on the table, brushing the soil from her hands as she finally met his gaze. “Then why are you so interested in it?”
Tom studied her for a moment before answering. “Because I don’t like not understanding something.”
Ellie almost laughed. Of course. It wasn’t about the magic itself—it was about control. Tom Riddle did not like mysteries he couldn’t solve.
She tilted her head, considering him. “You’re afraid of what you can’t control.”
Tom’s expression didn’t change, but she saw it—the brief flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement? Annoyance? Perhaps both.
“I don’t fear anything, Hufflepuff,” he said smoothly.
Ellie smiled—not mocking, not challenging, but knowing. “Everyone fears something, Riddle.”
His jaw tensed, just slightly, before the smirk returned. “And what do you fear?”
Ellie hesitated. That was the problem with conversations like this. With him. He had a way of twisting her words back on her, of making her feel like she was walking a tightrope.
But Ellie had never been afraid of falling.
She took a slow breath before answering, her voice steady. “Losing myself.”
For a second—just a second—Tom looked at her like she had surprised him.
Then, just as quickly, his mask slid back into place. “Interesting.”
Ellie exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true,” he replied, stepping away. “You’re interesting, Ellie.”
The use of her name—the way he said it so deliberately, as if testing the weight of it on his tongue—sent a shiver down her spine.
She wasn’t sure if it was a warning or something else entirely.
Before she could decide, Tom turned, his robes billowing slightly as he walked toward the exit of the greenhouse. He had won this round, and he knew it.
But just as he reached the doorway, Ellie called after him. “Riddle.”
He stopped, glancing at her over his shoulder.
She held his gaze. Unyielding. “Careful with the secrets you collect.”
A slow smirk curled at the corner of his lips.
“Careful with the ones you give away, Hufflepuff.”
And with that, he disappeared into the castle, leaving Ellie alone with the growing weight of a truth she wasn’t ready to face.
She had stepped too close. And Tom Riddle never let go of things that interested him.
Days passed, but Tom Riddle did not fade from Ellie’s periphery.
She saw him everywhere.
In the corridors, where his gaze lingered a fraction too long. In the library, where he occupied a table just close enough for her to feel his presence. In the Great Hall, where she caught him watching her over the rim of his goblet, expression unreadable.
And yet, he never spoke first. Never approached outright.
But Ellie was no fool—Tom Riddle never did anything without purpose.
So she buried herself in her work, pouring every ounce of energy into her responsibilities. She tended to injured students, assisted in the greenhouses, and tutored first-years who were struggling to keep up. She embraced the warmth of her Hufflepuff housemates, the camaraderie that came with being part of a house built on loyalty and hard work.
She reminded herself that this was who she was—someone who healed, someone who helped, someone who did not get tangled in the webs of people like Tom Riddle.
And yet…
In the quiet moments, when exhaustion settled deep into her bones, her thoughts wandered back to him.
She hated that.
The next time they spoke, it was Tom who sought her out.
It was an autumn afternoon, the air crisp with the scent of fallen leaves. Ellie had retreated to the Black Lake, letting the cool breeze soothe her aching muscles after another draining use of wandless healing.
She heard him before she saw him. The deliberate sound of footsteps against the earth.
“You look like you’re about to pass out, Hufflepuff.”
Ellie closed her eyes briefly before exhaling. Of course.
She didn’t bother turning around. “Is that concern, Riddle? Didn’t think you were capable of that.”
A quiet chuckle. “You’re deflecting.”
She sighed, finally glancing at him. Tom stood just beyond her bench, every inch of him composed—immaculate uniform, effortless confidence, not a single trace of exhaustion. His dark eyes flickered to her hands, sharp with observation.
“You’ve been using that magic again.”
Ellie flexed her fingers absently. They still tingled, the aftershocks of power spent. “What’s it to you?”
Tom tilted his head. “Magic should never come at a cost.”
Ellie frowned. “It’s not a cost. It’s—” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “It’s a choice. A responsibility.”
Tom studied her intently, his gaze unnervingly piercing. “You don’t think power should be painless?”
Ellie shook her head. “No. And if you do, then you don’t understand it at all.”
Something flickered in Tom’s expression. It was gone before she could name it.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re wasting it.”
Ellie’s breath hitched. “Excuse me?”
“That magic—your magic.” His tone was calm, but there was something almost… frustrated beneath it. “It’s powerful. More powerful than you realize. And yet, you squander it on people who wouldn’t think twice about doing the same for you.”
Ellie’s fingers curled into fists. “That’s what makes it worth it.”
Tom exhaled slowly, as if she had disappointed him. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t understand. He would never understand.
To him, magic was meant to be wielded—to be controlled, sharpened into something untouchable. To her, magic was meant to heal.
And yet, despite everything—despite the fundamental difference in how they saw the world—Ellie could feel it.
The pull.
Not friendship. Not trust.
Something far more dangerous.
Tom took a step back, his expression unreadable once more. “You intrigue me, Ellie.”
She swallowed the unease rising in her throat. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” His smirk was sharp, but his eyes… his eyes were searching.
Ellie wasn’t sure what he was looking for.
She wasn’t sure what she would do if he found it.
Then, softly, Tom spoke again. “I will never understand that magic.”
Ellie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If it’s meant to heal, why does it hurt the user?”
Ellie did not answer right away. She turned toward the Black Lake, watching the way the water shimmered under the fading autumn sun.
“Will you give me a secret in return if I answer?” she asked.
Tom was silent.
She sighed. “The magic I use requires mastery. And one cannot master it without the Four Books of the Ancients.”
Tom’s gaze sharpened. “Four?”
“Four makes it whole,” Ellie murmured. “One can still wield it without them, but it destroys and consumes the user.”
Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken.
Ellie knew what he was thinking. Tom Riddle did not believe in limitations.
And she had just told him there was a way to surpass them.
A chill crawled down her spine.
She had given him something dangerous. A key to something he should never unlock.
And from the way Tom’s eyes gleamed, she knew—he would not let this go.
"Then why do you still use it?"
Tom’s voice was quieter now, edged with something unreadable.
Ellie turned fully to face him, her expression steady. “Because the magic of the books chooses its owner. It holds power far beyond anyone’s understanding.” She tilted her head slightly, watching him. “I believe it chose me because it was meant to be mine. I am meant to share its knowledge, and if healing magic is the first step to unlocking it, then I see no reason not to.”
Tom’s eyes darkened. “Even if it destroys you?”
Ellie smiled, small and tired. “It costs nothing to be kind, Riddle.”
She was wrong.
It cost her her life.
Ellie had hoped that would be the end of it.
She should have known better.
Tom Riddle was persistent. He did not allow things to remain unresolved—especially not people who intrigued him.
Days passed, then weeks. The chill of autumn deepened, giving way to the first frost of winter. Ellie buried herself in her duties, focusing on healing, tutoring, and her studies. She ignored the exhaustion creeping into her bones, the warning signs her magic left behind.
But she could not ignore Tom.
He was always there. Watching. Waiting.
Sometimes, she’d catch him lingering in the library, pretending to be absorbed in a book but glancing at her from beneath long lashes. Other times, she’d turn a corner and find him already there, as if he’d been expecting her.
He never confronted her outright. He never demanded answers.
But she could feel it—the weight of his curiosity pressing against her like an unseen force.
Then, one evening, as she left the infirmary after tending to a second-year with a nasty hex wound, she found him waiting for her outside.
Ellie stopped in her tracks. “Are you following me now?”
Tom leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re exhausted.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s what happens when you actually care about people, Riddle.”
“You call it caring. I call it self-destruction.”
Ellie huffed, pushing past him. “Good night, Tom.”
She had barely taken two steps when his voice stopped her.
“I found one of the books.”
Ellie froze.
Slowly, she turned back to him, her heart pounding. “What?”
Tom’s smirk widened, his eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight. “The books of ancient magic. You said there were four, didn’t you?”
Her stomach twisted.
No, no, no.
This was exactly what she didn’t want. She had spent years keeping those books a secret, protecting them from people who would twist their magic into something unrecognizable.
People like Tom Riddle.
“You’re lying,” she said, but her voice was quieter than she intended.
Tom stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Am I?”
Ellie clenched her fists. “Where is it?”
“Now, now, Ellie,” he murmured, tilting his head. “That would be telling.”
Her breath hitched. She should walk away. She should not let him bait her into whatever game he was playing.
But if he really had found one of the books…
“I need to see it.”
Tom smiled—slow, victorious.
“Then you’ll have to play my game, Hufflepuff.”
Ellie stiffened.
She had been expecting manipulation, half-truths, or riddles laced with hidden intent—but not this.
Her fingers twitched at her sides as she leveled him with a wary stare. "What are you playing at, Riddle?"
Tom only smiled, the kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes. "A simple exchange. You want to see the book? I want to see something in return."
Ellie crossed her arms, heart pounding. "And what exactly do you expect to see?"
Tom's gaze darkened, amusement flickering behind something deeper. "I wonder," he mused, "what people would say if a cherished little Hufflepuff like you was seen entertaining the company of someone like me."
Ellie scoffed. "You think dating rumors will bother me?"
"Not at all," Tom admitted smoothly. "But it would certainly bother those who think you’re untouchable."
Understanding settled in her chest like ice.
"Dumbledore," she said flatly.
Tom's smirk sharpened. "You are one of his favorites, aren’t you? And I am—" he spread his hands, feigning innocence, "not."
Ellie inhaled slowly. "You want to use me to get to him."
Tom leaned in just slightly, just enough to remind her of the weight of his presence. "I want to test something. And you, Ellie, are going to help me."
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken tension.
Ellie was many things—loyal, compassionate, resilient. But she was not stupid. She knew exactly what Tom Riddle was doing.
And yet, despite every warning bell screaming in her mind, she couldn't ignore the pull of the book. If he really had it, if she could get to it before he twisted its knowledge for himself…
"Fine," she said, voice firm.
Tom blinked, just once. He had expected more resistance.
Ellie tilted her chin up. "But if you’re lying about the book, this deal is over. And you will regret wasting my time."
For the first time, something close to intrigue flickered in Tom’s expression—real intrigue, not the carefully crafted performance he wore like a mask.
Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
"Then it's settled," he said, offering his hand.
Ellie hesitated for only a second before grasping it.
Tom’s fingers curled around hers, cool and steady.
"Try not to fall for me, Hufflepuff," he murmured.
Ellie squeezed his hand just a little too tightly. "Try not to underestimate me, Riddle."
Ellie regretted agreeing the moment word got out.
It started subtly—whispers in the corridors, lingering glances from classmates who usually had nothing to do with her. Then, it escalated. A few Slytherins sneered at her in passing, some Hufflepuffs eyed her warily, and even Professor Sprout had given her a concerned look after class.
She hadn't done anything, and yet the rumors had already taken root.
Ellie had been prepared for this, had known Tom wouldn't let her get what she wanted without consequences. But she hadn't expected how much it would weigh on her.
She was a Hufflepuff. Her house prided itself on loyalty, on trust, on standing by one another. Now, there was doubt.
And Tom? Tom was enjoying it.
"You look tense, Ellie," he mused one afternoon, falling into step beside her. His voice was smooth, casual, but she could hear the amusement beneath it. "Rumors getting to you?"
Ellie didn't bother looking at him. "You knew this would happen."
"Of course," he admitted easily. "People fear what they don't understand. And right now, they don’t understand us."
She stopped walking. "There is no us."
Tom tilted his head, considering her. "No? Then why do you keep seeking me out?"
Ellie clenched her fists. "Because you have something I want."
Tom smiled. "And yet, it seems you also have something I want."
Ellie inhaled sharply. "And what is that?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Your name lingers on their lips. Your presence unsettles them. Your loyalty—to your house, to Dumbledore—has made you untouchable. But now? Now, they question it."
Ellie’s stomach twisted. "You wanted to isolate me."
Tom exhaled, as if she had just said something mildly disappointing. "Isolation isn't always a curse. Sometimes, it’s clarity."
She held his gaze, searching for the lie, the angle, the trap. But Tom Riddle didn't lie outright. He told the truth in ways that led people exactly where he wanted them to go.
Ellie took a steadying breath. "The book, Riddle. I want to see it."
Tom studied her for a long moment, then smiled. "Very well. Tonight. The usual place."
And with that, he walked away, leaving Ellie standing there—uncertain whether she had won a small victory or walked even deeper into his game.
The library was nearly silent at this hour, save for the occasional rustle of parchment and the flicker of candlelight against the stone walls. Ellie found Tom exactly where she expected him—seated at their usual spot in the farthest corner, a thick tome resting on the table in front of him.
"You’re late," he said without looking up.
"You didn’t give me a time." Ellie slid into the seat across from him.
Tom hummed in amusement, but there was something sharp in his gaze when he finally met hers. He pushed the book toward her. "The ancient texts you wanted to see."
Ellie hesitated before running her fingers across the worn leather cover. She had spent years trying to track down pieces of this knowledge, following whispers of magic that most dismissed as myth. Yet here it was, freely given—no, offered—by Tom Riddle.
"Why are you really helping me?" she asked quietly.
Tom leaned back in his chair, regarding her as though she were a puzzle he had yet to solve. "Because you intrigue me."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it remains true."
Ellie exhaled slowly, opening the book. She skimmed the first few pages, the ancient runes blurring slightly from exhaustion. Tom watched her, silent and assessing.
After a long moment, he spoke again. "You shouldn’t trust me, you know."
Ellie didn’t look up. "I don’t."
"Then why are you here?"
She hesitated, then turned a page. "Because I think you don’t trust yourself either."
Silence.
Ellie finally glanced up, and for the first time, she saw it—the briefest flicker of something in his expression. Surprise? Annoyance? She couldn’t tell.
Then, it was gone, replaced by his usual unreadable mask. "That’s a foolish thing to assume."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe. But I’m a Hufflepuff, remember? We tend to believe in people."
Tom scoffed, shaking his head. "Naïve."
"Maybe. Or maybe you don’t like that I see through you."
His fingers tapped lightly against the table. "And what exactly do you think you see, Ellie?"
She held his gaze, unflinching. "Someone who acts like they don’t care what people think, but still watches how they react. Someone who claims power is all that matters, but hesitates when it comes to things that feel real. Someone who—despite everything—doesn’t push me away completely."
Tom’s jaw tightened. For a second, she thought he might stand up and leave.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice, when he spoke, was softer than she had ever heard it. "You assume too much, Hufflepuff."
Ellie tilted her head. "And you let me."
The tension between them was tangible, like a thread pulled taut. Neither moved. Neither spoke. The library felt smaller, the space between them impossibly close.
Then, finally, Tom smirked—but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was something else entirely. "You really are insufferable."
Ellie just smiled. "And yet, here you are."
Their moments together became more frequent. Not planned, not spoken of—just happening.
Ellie would find herself seated beside him in the library, neither speaking for long stretches of time, yet feeling no need to fill the silence. She would catch him watching her, his gaze lingering not with suspicion but with something softer, something almost hesitant.
And Tom… Tom stopped hiding the way he gravitated toward her.
It was in the way he sat a fraction closer than necessary, in how his hand would brush against hers when he passed her a book, in the rare, fleeting moments when his mask slipped just enough for her to see him.
One evening, it was raining—soft, steady droplets against the high windows of the castle. Ellie was curled up in one of the lesser-used study alcoves, a blanket draped over her shoulders, an untouched book in her lap. She was exhausted. Healing magic had drained her again, leaving her limbs heavy and her mind sluggish.
Tom found her like that, tucked away in the quiet.
"You push yourself too hard," he murmured as he sat beside her.
Ellie exhaled, tilting her head against the wall. "Someone has to."
Tom studied her, expression unreadable. "It doesn't have to be you."
Ellie huffed a tired laugh. "That’s what makes us different, Riddle. You think power is something you take. I think it’s something you give."
He was quiet for a long time. Then, so softly she almost didn’t hear it—
"I don’t understand you."
Ellie turned her head toward him, their faces closer than they’d ever been. His expression wasn’t cold, wasn’t calculating. It was… searching.
She offered a small, tired smile. "That’s okay. I think you want to."
Tom didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away, either.
Another time, they were walking side by side in the empty corridors after curfew, their footsteps echoing against the stone. Ellie had been returning from the infirmary, her healing magic once again leaving her drained. Tom had been waiting. He never said as much, but she knew.
"You shouldn’t waste yourself on them," he said quietly, hands in his pockets. "None of them would do the same for you."
Ellie glanced at him. "You always say that."
"Because it’s true."
She sighed, rolling her shoulders. "It’s not about expecting something in return, Tom. It’s about being someone who cares. Who does what’s right."
Tom looked at her, something conflicted flashing in his gaze. "That’s going to destroy you one day."
Ellie smiled, tired but unwavering. "Then at least I’ll have lived for something worth it."
They stopped walking. For the first time, Tom looked… lost. Like he wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.
Ellie reached out—not grabbing him, not forcing anything, just… a simple touch. Her fingers barely brushed his wrist.
"I see you, Tom," she whispered.
His breath hitched. Not visible, not obvious—but she felt it.
He stared at her, expression unreadable, but his pulse was racing under her fingertips.
Ellie squeezed his wrist lightly before letting go. "You’re not as untouchable as you think you are."
For once, Tom didn’t argue.
For once, he didn’t pull away.
The shift between them was quiet, almost imperceptible.
Tom no longer kept his distance—not completely. He was still sharp-tongued, still guarded, but there were moments now. Moments when the weight of his mask wavered, when his walls thinned just enough for Ellie to catch glimpses of something raw underneath.
Like now.
They were sitting by the Black Lake again, the autumn chill settling into the air. Ellie had been tracing absentminded circles in the dirt beside her, her fingers still tingling from a healing session earlier that day. Tom sat beside her, uncharacteristically silent.
"You always look at the water like you're thinking of drowning in it," Ellie mused, glancing at him.
Tom snorted, shaking his head. "Morbid, even for you."
She smirked. "Maybe. But I'm right, aren't I?"
Tom didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at the rippling surface of the lake, watching as the giant squid’s tentacle broke through for a brief moment before vanishing again.
"Have you ever thought about what it would be like?" he asked suddenly.
Ellie frowned. "What?"
"To be completely free. To belong to no one, to owe no one anything." His voice was soft, almost distant. "To never be at anyone's mercy."
She exhaled, leaning back on her palms. "That’s not freedom, Tom. That’s loneliness."
He turned his head toward her, his dark eyes searching. "And what would you know about loneliness, Hufflepuff?"
Ellie gave a small, sad smile. "More than you think."
For a moment, the air between them was still. Then, barely above a whisper, Tom said, "I don't believe you."
Ellie didn't argue. Instead, she shifted closer, her knee brushing against his. "You don’t have to. But I see you, you know."
Tom went very, very still.
Ellie continued, voice gentle but firm. "You pretend like you don’t need anyone, but you keep finding your way back to me. You push people away, but you watch them like you’re waiting for them to leave first."
He clenched his jaw, turning his gaze back to the lake. "You're imagining things."
Ellie tilted her head. "Am I?"
He didn’t answer.
A breeze rolled through, rustling the leaves around them. Ellie shivered slightly, and before she could react, Tom shrugged off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders.
She blinked at him. "Oh?"
Tom rolled his eyes. "You're freezing. I don't want to listen to you whine about it later."
Ellie chuckled but pulled the cloak tighter around herself. "Right. How terribly inconvenient for you."
He huffed but didn’t deny it.
The silence between them stretched—not tense, not uncomfortable. Just... there.
Ellie broke it first. "You can be kind, you know. When you want to be."
Tom’s lips quirked into something almost amused. "And here I thought kindness cost nothing."
Ellie’s smile faltered just slightly. "It does. But sometimes, it costs everything, too."
Tom studied her again, the way he always did—like she was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve.
"You're a fool," he murmured.
Ellie just smiled. "I know."
And for the first time, Tom didn’t say anything back.
For the first time, he just stayed.
The days that followed were filled with more moments like these—small, unspoken understandings woven into their every interaction.
Tom still carried his sharpness, his arrogance, his ambition that burned too brightly, but Ellie saw through him. She always had.
And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to let her.
One evening, after curfew, Ellie found herself in the library. She was curled up in a corner, candlelight flickering over the pages of a worn book on magical healing. Her fingers traced the delicate illustrations, her mind absorbing every detail.
“You’ll ruin your eyes like that.”
She didn’t even startle at the voice.
Tom.
Ellie didn’t look up. “If I do, I suppose I’ll just heal them.”
A shadow fell over her book. She finally lifted her gaze to find him standing there, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised in mild disapproval.
“You do know the library closes at nine, don’t you?” he said, tilting his head.
She smirked. “Funny, I could say the same to you.”
Tom’s lips curled into something resembling amusement, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he sat down across from her, his eyes flicking to the book in her hands.
“Still obsessing over magic that drains you?”
Ellie shut the book gently, resting her chin on her palm. “Still obsessing over things that don’t concern you?”
Tom hummed, tapping his fingers against the wooden table. “You concern me.”
Ellie froze for half a second. He said it so casually, as if it wasn’t the most absurd thing to come out of his mouth.
She cleared her throat. “That’s a rather dramatic statement, Riddle.”
“I’m not dramatic,” he said simply.
Ellie rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t ignore the way her heart stuttered just slightly.
There was something different about tonight. Tom’s presence felt heavier—not in the way it usually did, filled with sharp intellect and quiet calculation, but in a way that felt almost… vulnerable.
She leaned forward slightly. “Something on your mind?”
He didn’t answer right away. His fingers continued their rhythmic tapping, his eyes studying her as if debating whether to speak.
Finally, he said, “Do you think people can change?”
Ellie blinked at him. “What kind of question is that?”
“A simple one.”
She considered him, trying to gauge what he was really asking. “Change in what way?”
Tom tilted his head slightly. “In the way that matters.”
Ellie exhaled, searching his face for any hint of what he was thinking. But Tom Riddle was an enigma, even when he let his walls down.
Still, she answered honestly.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I think people can change. I think they do it all the time. But only if they want to.”
Tom’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes flickered.
“And if they don’t?” he asked.
Ellie’s lips pressed together. “Then they don’t.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Tom leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple,” Ellie said gently. “You’re the one who makes it complicated.”
His gaze locked onto hers, and for the first time, she thought she saw it—that thread of doubt, of something uncertain.
“Maybe,” he admitted, so softly she almost missed it.
Ellie’s breath caught.
She knew better than to expect more from him. Tom Riddle did not bare his soul. He did not trust. He did not change.
But for tonight, just for this fleeting moment, he let her see him.
And that was enough.
For now.
The days blurred into weeks, and Ellie found herself diving deeper—too deep—into the magic that had chosen her.
Her body ached constantly now. The exhaustion never truly left her, settling in her bones like an old wound. But it wasn’t enough to stop her. If anything, it pushed her further.
She spent late nights buried in texts no one should have been reading, her hands shaking as she traced the ancient runes of the Ars Antiqua—the lost magic of the founders.
It was dangerous. It was powerful. And it was consuming her.
She told herself it was worth it. That it was all for something greater.
That was, until Tom noticed.
“You’re getting reckless.”
Ellie barely looked up from the tome spread across the desk in front of her. The library was silent, save for the soft scratching of her quill and the flickering of candlelight.
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Riddle.”
Tom exhaled sharply. “You don’t have to. It’s written all over you.”
She finally glanced at him, unimpressed. “Oh? And what exactly is written all over me?”
His jaw tightened. “You’re pale. You’ve lost weight. You flinch when you move your hands. And—” he reached forward before she could react, catching her wrist in his grip, “—this.”
Ellie’s breath hitched.
A thin, jagged line of darkened veins trailed along her skin, barely visible beneath the candlelight.
She yanked her hand back, shoving her sleeve down. “It’s nothing.”
Tom’s expression darkened. “That’s not nothing. That’s magic poisoning.”
Ellie forced a laugh, though it came out weaker than she intended. “Oh, please. Don’t act like you care.”
Tom didn’t rise to the taunt. His gaze never wavered from hers, sharp and piercing. “What are you doing, Ellie?”
She turned back to her book. “What I have to.”
“Even if it destroys you?”
She smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It costs nothing to be kind.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “You know that isn’t true.”
She didn’t answer.
Tom took a slow step forward. “What is it you’re really looking for?”
Ellie hesitated, fingers tightening around the pages of her book.
She shouldn’t tell him.
But somewhere, deep down, she knew he already understood.
“Something greater,” she whispered.
Tom studied her for a long moment.
Then, so quietly it was almost a whisper, he said, “And what happens when you lose yourself trying to find it?”
Ellie swallowed. She didn’t have an answer.
Because maybe, just maybe—she already had.
Ellie knew she was slipping.
The Ars Antiqua was not meant to be studied lightly. The texts whispered to her in ways other books never had. The magic seeped into her veins, filling her with something ancient and untamed. It felt like power. It felt like purpose.
But it also felt like a slow unraveling.
She should have stopped.
She didn’t.
The next time Tom confronted her, it wasn’t in the library or some shadowed corridor. It was in the Room of Requirement—a place that had shifted to accommodate her growing obsession.
Tall, spiraling bookshelves towered around them, filled with forbidden knowledge. At the center of it all, Ellie stood over an open tome, candlelight flickering across her pale face. The dark veins on her hands had spread.
Tom didn’t speak right away. He simply looked at her, gaze unreadable.
“You’re past the point of recklessness now,” he finally said.
Ellie didn’t glance up. “You’re one to talk.”
“This is different.”
She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “How? Because I’m not using it for control?”
“Because it’s using you.”
That made her pause.
She met his eyes then, and for the first time, she saw something she hadn’t expected—concern.
Not curiosity. Not amusement.
Real, genuine concern.
Ellie forced herself to smile. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me, Riddle.”
Tom stepped closer. “You should be.”
His voice was quieter now, lower. Not a warning—something else.
Ellie exhaled, closing the book in front of her. “You don’t get it.”
“Then make me understand.”
She hesitated. She shouldn’t. She couldn’t.
But she did.
“This magic—this—it’s not just healing, Tom. It’s something more. Something forgotten. It chose me.” Her voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “And I have to see it through.”
Tom studied her for a long moment.
“You think it chose you,” he said, “or you think it’s the only thing that makes you matter?”
The words hit something raw.
Ellie’s breath caught, and she turned away. “It’s not like that.”
Tom exhaled through his nose. “It’s exactly like that.”
Silence settled between them.
Then, softer than she had ever heard him—softer than she thought he was even capable of—he said,
“I don’t want to watch you destroy yourself.”
Ellie swallowed hard.
Because she knew, in the end—
That’s exactly what she was going to do.
The magic was eating her alive.
Ellie knew it from the moment she spoke the first word—the syllables slipping from her lips like a whispered death sentence, ancient and terrible. The air thickened, charged with something too powerful for mortal hands to wield. It slithered into her bones, wrapped around her ribs, coiled in her veins like a serpent whispering promises of salvation.
She should have stopped.
She should have run.
But she had come too far, and there was no turning back.
The spell demanded something in return.
Pain.
And so, Ellie let herself fall into the Cruciatus Curse.
Pain unlike anything she had ever known exploded through her body, white-hot and unrelenting. It tore through her muscles, set her nerves ablaze, threatened to break her apart piece by piece. Every breath felt like knives in her lungs, every heartbeat a reminder that she was still alive—still suffering.
But she didn’t scream.
Instead, she reached deep within herself, beyond the agony, beyond the human instinct to break. And with a shaking, desperate gasp, she called upon the healing magic.
It answered.
Gold light surged from her hands, wrapping around her like a cocoon. It tried to mend what was broken, to soothe the raw, frayed edges of her pain. But the magic was unstable, shifting and writhing as if uncertain whether to heal or consume.
Because she was not meant to do this.
Not alone.
Not without all four books of the Ars Antiqua to make her whole.
The price was too high.
The magic was unraveling her, eating away at her very being even as it worked. She could feel it slipping through her grasp, slipping into her, burrowing deep beneath her skin, demanding more, more, more.
And still, she held on.
Tom had never run faster in his life.
The pulse of magic—wild, raw, and unnatural—had been like a shockwave through the castle. He had felt it in his bones, heard it in the silent scream of the air itself. The moment he recognized what it was, he knew.
Ellie.
She was doing something reckless. Something she could never take back.
The corridors blurred past him as he ran, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. When he reached the Room of Requirement, the sight that greeted him made something inside him go still.
The room was a storm of magic.
Golden light flickered and curled through the air, clashing violently with the unnatural darkness that laced it. The book—Ars Antiqua—hovered beside Ellie, its pages turning in a frenzy, the ink shifting like it was alive.
And at the center of it all—
Ellie knelt on the stone floor, her body trembling. Her hands were outstretched, shaking as veins of dark energy spread up her arms like cracks in fragile porcelain. She was pale, soaked in sweat, but her expression—
Her expression was calm. Determined.
Like she had accepted whatever end was coming.
“Ellie,” Tom’s voice was sharp, urgent, but she did not look at him.
She couldn’t.
She was too deep now, too far gone into the magic.
He took a step forward, then another, forcing himself closer despite the suffocating energy swirling around her. His mind was working fast, piecing things together even as dread curled in his stomach.
She was healing herself.
She had willingly let the Cruciatus Curse consume her and was using healing magic to fight it back.
But that wasn’t all.
The magic was devouring her.
She was dying.
“What have you done?” Tom’s voice was sharper now, edged with something close to fury.
Ellie exhaled, her breaths shallow. Slowly, finally, she looked up at him.
"You came," she murmured.
Tom’s hands twitched at his sides, torn between reaching for her and stopping himself. Her face was paler than he had ever seen, her lips bloodless, but her eyes—
Her eyes were still the same.
Still full of something soft, something kind, something stupidly selfless.
He clenched his jaw. "You reckless fool," he spat, his voice quieter now.
Ellie only smiled.
"Not all things are meant to be fixed," she whispered.
His breath hitched, his fingers curling into fists. "You should be fixed."
She laughed then, but it was weak, barely a breath. "Not all souls are meant to be saved, Tom."
Her voice was fading.
Something ugly twisted in his chest. A feeling he couldn't name, one he refused to name.
His mind raced for solutions. There had to be something. Some way to reverse this. Some way to stop this.
But Ellie’s body was trembling harder now, the magic around her flickering—collapsing.
The golden glow in her eyes dimmed.
Her fingers twitched, reaching out—not touching, but close.
Tom’s breath stilled.
She wanted to tell him more. He could see it, the words caught in her throat, the thoughts left unsaid.
But there was no time.
Instead, she did the only thing she could.
She smiled.
Soft. Tired.
One last, haunting kindness before the magic consumed her whole.
Light erupted, golden and blinding. For one terrible, breathtaking moment, it was beautiful.
And then—
She was gone.
The magic fell silent.
The room was empty.
Tom Riddle stood alone, staring at the space where Ellie had been, where she had smiled at him even as she died.
And for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to lose.
The skies wept the day they buried Ellie.
A soft, steady rain drizzled over the cemetery, the kind that soaked into the earth without a sound, the kind that blurred the edges of the world until everything felt distant, unreal. The Hufflepuffs stood closest to the casket, their faces pale, their shoulders trembling as they clung to one another for warmth, for comfort, for answers that would never come.
Professor Dumbledore stood among them, his blue eyes dimmed with sorrow, his hands clasped tightly before him. Even the ever-stern Professor McGonagall looked shaken, her lips pressed into a thin line, as though holding back words she knew would never be enough.
No one spoke.
Not at first.
Not when Ellie’s casket was lowered into the ground, not when the golden crest of Hufflepuff was gently laid atop the wood, a final mark of the house that had loved her, of the people she had saved, of the life she had given away.
It was only when the eulogy began that the silence was finally broken.
"Ellie was light," one of the older Hufflepuffs whispered, voice trembling. "She was warmth. She was the kind of person who never let anyone suffer alone. The kind of person who saw the best in people, even when they couldn't see it in themselves."
A quiet sob. Someone stifled a cry.
"She never asked for anything in return," another voice added, softer this time. "She never hesitated, never second-guessed. She just… gave. She gave everything."
A pause.
And then—
"Even when it cost her."
The rain fell harder.
Tom Riddle stood at the edge of the crowd, silent. Unmoving.
He had not been invited.
No one had expected him to come.
He had watched from the shadows as they wept for her, as they spoke of her like she was something pure, something golden, something untouchable even in death.
It was almost laughable.
They called her a light. But light was fragile. Light could be snuffed out.
Tom’s gaze flickered to the casket, to the dirt that would soon swallow it whole, and something cold coiled in his chest.
Ellie had been so stupidly human. So painfully soft, so terribly kind. She had spent her life trying to fix the world, to heal what was broken, to save what was lost.
And in the end, it had killed her.
Not all things were meant to be fixed. Not all souls were meant to be saved.
Ellie had told him that.
And yet—
Yet, she had still tried to save him.
She had still smiled at him as she died.
Tom's fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palm, deep enough to draw blood.
It was not grief that burned in his throat. It was something worse.
Something he could not name.
Something he refused to name.
The Hufflepuffs were crying now, clutching each other like they could hold themselves together through sheer force of will.
Tom turned away.
The rain soaked into his skin, cold and relentless.
He walked away without a word.
And as he left, he realized something with startling, terrifying clarity—
No matter how much time passed, no matter how many lifetimes stretched between then and now—
He would never forget that final smile.
Time had swallowed her name.
The halls of Hogwarts no longer echoed with the sound of Ellie’s laughter. Her presence had faded into a whisper, a memory that only a few still carried. The students who once knew her had moved on, their grief softened by the years, their lives continuing in the way that life always does.
But not for him.
Not for Tom Riddle.
He never spoke of her. Not once. Not even in passing.
Yet, she lingered.
She lingered in the quiet moments when the rain drummed against the castle windows, when the scent of old parchment filled the library, when the flickering candlelight cast soft shadows against the stone walls.
She lingered in the questions he never asked and the ones he never answered.
Why had she smiled at him like that?
Why had she looked at him—him, of all people—with understanding in her eyes?
She had known who he was. She had known what he was becoming.
And still, she had tried to save him.
She had died trying.
The first time Tom visited her grave, it was not planned.
He had not set out with the intention of coming here, of standing before the carved headstone where her name was etched into eternity.
And yet, here he was.
The cemetery was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves in the wind. Autumn had begun to settle over the land, painting the trees in shades of amber and crimson—the same colors that had surrounded her the day she sat by the Black Lake, the day she had told him that magic always came with a price.
A soft gust of wind carried the scent of damp earth and dying leaves, and for the first time in a long time, Tom felt something he could not explain.
Regret?
No.
He did not regret things.
Regret was for the weak. Regret was for people who felt.
And yet—
Yet, as he stared down at her name, something clawed at his chest, something that felt an awful lot like emptiness.
Tom Riddle did not believe in grief. He did not believe in love, in kindness, in the foolish ideals that Ellie had once clung to.
But he did believe in power.
And Ellie had been powerful.
More powerful than she had ever realized.
Her magic had been bound to something ancient, something that demanded a price. She had given everything to it—her strength, her body, her very life.
And for what?
For the people who stood over her casket and wept?
For a world that had moved on without her?
For him?
Tom’s jaw clenched.
She had been wrong.
Magic was not meant to heal. It was meant to be wielded. Controlled. Bent to one's will.
It was not meant to destroy its wielder.
And yet, Ellie had let it consume her.
She had chosen to die for others.
She had chosen to leave him behind.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
He hated her for that.
Hated her for making him feel something he could not name.
Hated her for leaving a scar on his soul that would never heal.
The wind howled through the trees, carrying dead leaves across the graveyard.
He did not say goodbye.
He did not whisper her name.
He turned, his robes billowing behind him, and walked away.
But as he left, one thought remained, buried deep within the parts of him he refused to acknowledge.
Perhaps Ellie had been right about one thing.
Not all things were meant to be fixed.
Not all souls were meant to be saved.
And perhaps, just perhaps—
That included him, too.
Tom Riddle did not mourn. He did not grieve.
To grieve was to acknowledge loss, and he did not lose things. He claimed them. Controlled them. Bent them to his will.
And yet, she remained.
Not in the way others might remember their dead—with flowers on a grave, with whispered prayers in the dark. No, he would not give her that. He would not give her the satisfaction of haunting him.
But she was there.
In the flicker of candlelight against stone walls.
In the scent of rain-soaked earth after a storm.
In the sound of rustling pages in the quiet of the library.
A ghost, not in form, but in memory.
And oh, how he hated it.
He had buried her name, just as time had buried her existence. He had ensured that no record of her remained. Not in Hogwarts. Not in history. Not in him.
And yet, when he closed his eyes, he could still see the way she had looked at him.
That final smile. That last, haunting kindness.
It was maddening.
He had spent years unraveling the mysteries of magic—pushing past the limits of life and death itself. But hers was the one mystery he could never solve.
Why had she tried to save him?
Why had she looked at him, knowing what he was, and still seen something worth saving?
It was a question he would never ask.
A question he would never answer.
And so, he moved forward. He became more. Became greater.
Lord Voldemort did not remember Ellie.
But Tom Riddle could never forget her.
When Harry Potter fell into the Pensieve, when he sank into the swirling silver of Riddle’s past, he saw many things.
He saw the cold, sharp-eyed boy in the orphanage. The ambitious student at Hogwarts. The monster in the making.
And yet, in the spaces between—where shadows softened, where cruelty had not yet carved itself into permanence—he saw her.
A girl with warm eyes and a quiet strength.
A girl who stood beside Riddle, unafraid.
A girl who smiled at him, even when he did not smile back.
Harry did not know her name. There were no records, no mentions of her existence.
She had been erased.
And yet, as he watched the flickering memory of a boy and a girl sitting by the Black Lake, as he saw the briefest moment of something almost human in Riddle’s gaze—
He knew.
Once, long ago, before the world had called him Voldemort—
Tom Riddle had been loved.
"Who was that, Professor?" Harry asked, his brow furrowed as the memory faded into silver mist.
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on the Pensieve, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "A girl lost to time," he murmured. Then, with a knowing glance at Harry, he added, "Perhaps your friend, Harleigh Granger, might uncover that answer for you."
Harleigh Granger was the keeper of four ancient tomes, each filled with secrets she had spent years unraveling. She sought answers buried in time, lost to history—answers that had always eluded her grasp.
And then it clicked.
Harry’s breath caught as the realization settled. The book—the same weathered tome Ellie had always been seen clutching in Tom Riddle’s memory—was the very one Harleigh had spent her life studying. The puzzle pieces, scattered across decades, were finally aligning.
Harleigh Granger was the keeper of four ancient tomes, each brimming with secrets she had yet to unravel. She had spent years chasing fragments of knowledge, lost spells, and whispers of forgotten magic. And in that moment, it clicked for Harry—those very same books were the ones the girl in Tom Riddle’s memory had always carried, the ones that never left her hands.
"Surely, Professor, you know who she is," Harry pressed, his voice quieter now, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile truth lingering in the air.
Dumbledore did not answer.
Perhaps he chose not to. Or perhaps some names were too painful to speak aloud.
After all, in a sea of muted figures, blurred and indistinct, the girl had been the only one who glowed in Tom Riddle’s memory. A quiet, enduring light in a world that had long since snuffed her out.
Harry never asked Harleigh about it.
He wanted to. The question sat heavy on his tongue, unspoken. But something held him back—an unshakable fear that if she dug too deep, if she chased this truth too far, she might follow the same path. And he had seen how that path ended.
But fate has a way of circling back.
Years later, Harleigh Granger did uncover the truth. And she did not keep it buried.
She published a book—one that chronicled the lives of two souls bound by legacy yet torn apart by destiny. The descendants of two Hogwarts founders whose paths converged but whose fates never aligned.
One was lost to time.
The other became the darkest name in history.
And so, history, which had long erased her name, finally whispered it once more.
The girl who once softened the heart of a monster—the only warmth in the cold abyss of his soul—was finally remembered.
Harleigh Granger’s book ensured that she would not remain just a fleeting ghost in the memories of a boy who became a monster. No longer just a forgotten shadow in the echoes of the past.
Her kindness, her defiance, her unwavering belief that some things were worth saving—even when it destroyed her—were now etched into history.
She had once been the light in Tom Riddle’s darkness.
And now, at last, the world knew her name.
Not lost in time.