New Professor
"You will not escape your destiny..."
The words hissed through her mind like venom, mocking and cold. Hermione’s breath came in shallow, frantic gasps, her chest heaving with the effort of running. She didn’t know how long she’d been fleeing—minutes? Hours? Time seemed to lose meaning. Her legs burned, her entire body trembled, and all she wanted was to collapse onto the forest floor and surrender to exhaustion. But fear drove her onward.
She was deep in the Forbidden Forest, its shadows darker and denser than she’d ever seen before. The towering trees closed in around her, the moonlight choked by their canopy. For a fleeting moment, she thought of her third year—of that night she and Harry had fled from the werewolf, Professor Lupin, wild and transformed. But this was different. This time, she was alone.. and somehow she couldn’t remember what was chasing her—only that it was there.
Her instincts screamed at her to keep moving, to not look back. She didn’t dare. She could feel it—something dark, something malevolent. It wasn’t just following her; it was reaching for her. Tendrils of oppressive magic slithered unseen through the air, brushing against her skin like cold fingers, taunting her. Whatever it was, she knew instinctively that if she turned to face it, it would consume her entirely.
The further she ran, the more the forest seemed to close in around her, as though it were conspiring to trap her. The darkness grew thicker, colder, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Hermione thought she saw shadows moving at the edge of her vision—something watching her, something hunting her.
Her feet stumbled over roots, and she nearly collapsed. But no. She couldn’t fall. She had to keep running. Had to keep moving forward. Fear gripped her, clawing at her chest, tightening with every step.
Suddenly, it was there. Magic. Dark, suffocating magic that coiled around her wrist like an invisible serpent, cold and suffocating. It slithered over her skin, sending a violent shiver through her body. She froze, paralyzed by the sensation. The magic wasn’t harming her—not yet—but its intent was unmistakable. This was no ordinary spell. It was ancient, malevolent, and utterly merciless.
The air grew heavier, the very atmosphere pressing against her, suffocating her. Her heart hammered in her chest, the thudding in her ears drowning out everything else. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move—she was frozen, caught in its unyielding grip.
Then, from behind her, came the unmistakable sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, and approaching.
Her breath hitched. She dared not look back, but every fiber of her being told her that whatever was chasing her was right there. She could almost hear its presence, its power, and her fear twisted tighter. What if it was a creature? A monster, something horrible she could never have imagined? Her mind raced, but nothing, no explanation, could quell the terror that seized her heart. She couldn’t turn.
The magic around her wrist grew colder, tighter. It was like a physical force, binding her in place. She tried to pull away, but it only seemed to hold her tighter, a whispering force, cold and relentless, dragging her back into the shadows. The footsteps came closer, the air thickening with each echo. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.
And then, with a shock that froze her to the bone, she felt it—a hand.
Cold. Soft, but with the strength of iron. Fingers—human fingers—wrapped around her wrist, where the dark magic had a hold of her. She gasped, a jolt of fear surging through her. A human hand, but the coldness of it—unnatural, chilling to the core.
Her heart skipped a beat, her mind racing. The hand didn’t belong to any creature she knew. It didn’t feel like the touch of a friend, or even an enemy. It was too cold, too... dead. And the whispers, the murmurs, the dark magic that had surrounded her? They seemed to fade, replaced by something more sinister.
But the hand didn’t move.
It just held her.
For a long, agonizing moment, the hand remained still, unyielding. Hermione couldn’t even think. Her mind was a whirl of panic, her heart pounding so loudly she thought it would drown out everything. Behind her, the whispers grew louder, turning into a hiss that sent chills down her spine. The dark magic that had first reached for her was now alive, swirling in the air around her, drawn to the man’s touch. And that hiss—it was becoming clearer, more distinct.
"You will not escape your destiny..."
The voice was low, resonant, chilling. It wasn’t just magic speaking to her. It was something more.
And as she stood frozen, helpless, a flicker of recognition stirred in the depths of her mind.
She knew this magic. She had felt it before. But where? When?
Before she could grasp the thought, the hand around her wrist tightened—painfully.
Hermione gasped, her knees threatening to buckle as the dark magic surged, its oppressive weight growing heavier. The shadows around her seemed to ripple, alive with malevolence. The cold seeped deeper into her skin, her very core, as though the darkness itself was trying to claim her.
It wasn’t just surrounding her anymore. It was pulling her in.
Desperation flared within her. She struggled, twisting and pulling against the icy grip, but it was useless. The magic was too strong, too overwhelming. She was powerless against it, her strength no match for the ancient force that sought to consume her.
And as the darkness began to close in, as the cold seeped into every corner of her soul, she thought, this is the end.
But then—
...Hermione woke with a jolt, her breath quick and shallow, the remnants of a disturbing nightmare clinging to her mind. The memory of it clung to her like a shadow, lingering through breakfast and following her into class, making concentration almost impossible. She couldn’t help but wonder why her mind had conjured such a strange and unsettling vision. Surely, she’d had her share of peculiar dreams before, but none like this—none that left her feeling so utterly vulnerable.
Since her first year at Hogwarts, alongside her best friends, Harry and Ron, Hermione had faced countless challenges, battling forces of darkness that seemed to loom endlessly over them. Yet, even in the direst of circumstances, she had never felt the kind of helplessness that her dream had evoked. What unsettled her most was how utterly alone she had been in it.
With Harry and Ron by her side, she always felt as though they could overcome anything, no matter how formidable the foe. But in this dream, their reassuring presence was absent. She was alone—entirely alone—facing a threat that seemed more personal and more menacing than anything she had encountered before.
Perhaps she was overanalyzing, as she often tended to do, but the questions refused to leave her mind. Who was it that haunted her dream? Was it someone she had already faced, an enemy she had battled before? Or was this a glimpse of something yet to come? And if so, why now? The uncertainty gnawed at her, leaving her restless and uneasy.
So many questions, and so few answers… Hermione’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a nudge. Oh, right—she was at lunch, and she hadn’t touched a single bite.
“Hermione, is something wrong?” Ron asked through a mouthful of food, chewing loudly as always, completely unbothered by his lack of table manners. Harry, too, glanced at her with a curious expression.
“Uh… no, everything’s fine. I just… got lost in thought,” she replied, managing a faint smile before finally beginning to pile food onto her plate. The boys quickly resumed their conversation, giving her a brief moment of reprieve.
“So… I figured you might’ve heard something from Dumbledore. You know, being his favorite student and all. Well, at least before he suddenly vanished from Hogwarts,” Ron said, his voice dripping with casual curiosity.
At the mention of Dumbledore, Harry visibly tensed.
“No,” he said shortly, his tone unusually tight. “I know as much as you do. I haven’t had any contact with him since he left Hogwarts on some… important matter.” It was clear he didn’t want to elaborate, but Ron, as tactless as ever, didn’t hesitate to pivot.
“What about you, Hermione?” Ron asked, turning his inquisitive gaze toward her.
“Me?” she replied, caught off guard. Having missed the beginning of their conversation, she wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking.
“Don’t play dumb, Hermione,” Ron said, a teasing edge creeping into his voice. “Everyone knows you’re a know-it-all. You know practically everything about the professors. Most of them adore you, anyway. Surely you’ve heard something about who’s going to be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”
Ah, right, Hermione thought. The new teacher. Last year, it had been Dolores Umbridge. Before her, briefly, Snape… When Dumbledore left Hogwarts, the position had been left vacant, with Snape’s role as deputy headmaster taking up most of his time. To her own surprise, however, Hermione had to admit that she… knew nothing. She hadn’t heard a single concrete detail about the new teacher or even when they might arrive.
Of course, there had been plenty of speculation among the students, but no rumors seemed reliable, and the staff remained tight-lipped. It wasn’t surprising, really. Finding a qualified professor for such a demanding subject was no easy task. And this time, they couldn’t afford to fail—the school had received enough complaints from parents over the years about their less-than-stellar track record with Defense teachers. Besides, it was already October, well into the school year, and the position was still vacant. They seemed to be delaying it until the very last moment.
“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted thoughtfully. “But they can’t delay it forever. Sooner or later, it’ll all become clear.” Her tone was calm and matter-of-fact, as it so often was.
“I hope you’re right,” Harry muttered, his expression distant. “Let’s just hope this one’s… normal.” His voice lowered slightly, and a flicker of unease crossed his face.
Hermione exhaled softly, sensing the tension behind his words. Clearly, Harry hadn’t fully shaken off the memories of Umbridge and her bizarre, oppressive methods. The mere thought of that dreadful woman made Hermione shudder. Her saccharine smile, her obnoxious pink outfits—it was enough to make anyone feel uneasy.
After a long day of classes, dinner time finally arrived. Hermione expected it to be nothing out of the ordinary—just another evening in the Great Hall. Yet as she approached the towering double doors, the bustling crowd of students gathered outside immediately set her on edge. Something was different tonight.
The hallway was packed, and the excited murmur of speculation hung in the air. Hermione stayed close to Harry and Ron as they squeezed through the throng and entered the Great Hall. Just as her foot crossed the threshold, an odd sensation washed over her—a strange wave of dizziness that made her head spin. Instinctively, she reached out and steadied herself by grabbing Ron’s arm.
“Merlin, Hermione!” Ron exclaimed, looking down at her with a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “What’s wrong with you now? Skipped lunch again?”
“It’s not that,” Hermione muttered, shaking her head slightly as if to clear it. “It’s just… the crowd. And all this noise.”
She tried to brush it off, but the truth was, her explanation felt hollow even to herself. The dizziness had been brief but unnervingly intense. She wasn’t the type to get lightheaded, not even in the midst of chaos. Trying to ignore the unsettling feeling, she followed Harry and Ron to the Gryffindor table, where they finally found seats.
As she settled in, Hermione couldn’t help but notice the unusual atmosphere. Whispers and glances were being exchanged across the hall, with many students directing their attention toward the staff table. Hermione turned to see what the fuss was about—and immediately understood.
An unfamiliar figure sat at the table, occupying the chair that had been empty for weeks. It was the same chair where Professors Lupin, Moody, and, most recently, the universally despised Dolores Umbridge had once sat.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she examined the stranger. He had neatly styled black hair, parted to the side and subtly wavy at the ends. His posture was upright, almost regal, and he carried an air of precision and discipline..so flawless. Although relatively young for a professor, his expression was cold and distant, as if he were entirely detached from the lively chatter of the hall. His eyes, framed by thick lashes, were unreadable, fixed somewhere ahead of him, and his tailored robes only added to his imposing presence.
Yet what struck her most was the aura he exuded. Though she couldn’t explain it, she felt an inexplicable pressure in his presence, as though the very air around him was heavy with power. It was subtle but undeniable. Hermione didn’t know why, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her earlier dizziness had something to do with him.
“Who’s that?” Ron asked, his mouth half-full of bread as usual.
“Must be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” Harry said quietly, his tone cautious.
Before Hermione could say anything, Snape rose from his seat at the center of the staff table. The hall immediately fell silent, as his black robes swept around him with his usual theatrical flair.
“Allow me to introduce the newest member of our faculty,” Snape began, his voice cold and measured. “Your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—Tom Riddle.”
A ripple of murmurs spread through the students, but it quickly died down when Professor Riddle rose to his feet.
The man moved with deliberate precision, his movements calm yet commanding. The applause that greeted him was scattered and hesitant, and as his eyes scanned the tables, a tense silence descended once again. He didn’t speak, nor did he smile or acknowledge the students in any way. Instead, he let his gaze sweep slowly across the room, his eyes cold and assessing.
Hermione felt her breath hitch as his gaze passed over the Gryffindor table. There was nothing overtly hostile in his expression, but his piercing stare carried a weight that was almost suffocating. It was as though he could see right through her, peeling back layers of thought and feeling with just a glance.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Hermione noticed her heart pounding in her chest, a strange mix of unease and fascination gripping her. There was something almost magnetic about him—something that demanded attention, even though he did nothing to invite it.
After what felt like an eternity, Riddle gave the faintest nod, an acknowledgment so subtle it was almost dismissive. Then he sat back down, once again appearing indifferent to the sea of students before him.
As soon as he did, the tension in the room broke, and the usual hum of conversation and clinking cutlery returned.
“Well, he’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, is he?” Ron quipped, already piling more food onto his plate.
Hermione didn’t respond. She exchanged a glance with Harry, who seemed equally unsettled, before turning back to her untouched plate. Her earlier dizziness hadn’t entirely faded, leaving her with a faint, lingering headache.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur. By the time Hermione returned to the Gryffindor common room, she still couldn’t shake the events of the evening.
There was something about Professor Riddle that set him apart from the others who had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was just his way of being—or rather, his personality. Not every professor needed to be warm or friendly, and she had certainly grown accustomed to Snape’s cutting sarcasm and aloof nature over the years. Maybe this Riddle would be similar—strict, but competent. That’s what mattered, right?
At the very least, she thought, he couldn’t possibly be worse than Umbridge. Surely, as long as he focused on teaching and didn’t waste their time with pointless rules or tyrannical punishments, they could manage.
..But no matter how much Hermione tried to rationalize, something about him still gnawed at her. Unlike Snape, who relied on his biting words and domineering presence to intimidate, Riddle didn’t seem to need to do anything at all. He didn’t sneer, he didn’t scowl—yet his mere presence had silenced an entire hall of students. It was as though his magic itself exuded authority, commanding attention without effort. It wasn’t just his cold demeanor or even the aura of power she had felt when she first saw him. It was the way he seemed to command respect and silence without so much as a word. He hadn’t done anything—he didn’t need to.
“Maybe it’s his magic,” she thought as she climbed into bed. That would explain the strange pressure she had felt earlier, the sense of being overwhelmed for just a moment. Perhaps his magic was so strong, so refined, that it unconsciously affected those around him.
Still, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. It wasn’t fear, exactly, but something close to it. Something about him felt… different.
With a sigh, Hermione pulled the blankets over herself. “I’ll figure it out in class,” she decided. The first lesson with Professor Riddle would surely reveal more about the man who had made such a striking first impression.
Yet as she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts remained restless, filled with the cold, calculating gaze of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.