Perception
Hermione wandered through the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, her footsteps echoing faintly in the vast emptiness. It was the dead of night, the castle shrouded in silence, save for the occasional creak of the ancient stone walls. She did not know why she was here—why she had ventured so far from the safety of Gryffindor Tower—but something unseen, something primal, seemed to pull her forward.
The further she walked, the darker it became.
A thick, suffocating gloom wrapped itself around her like an unseen mist, clinging to her skin, settling in her lungs, weighing down her every step. The torches that should have lined the walls had vanished into the blackness, swallowed whole by the creeping void.
Then—a whisper.
A low murmur, faint and distant, slithered through the silence.
Her breath hitched.
The sound was uncomfortably familiar.
The whispering grew stronger, layered, like a chorus of unseen voices speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Some words she thought she recognized; others were unintelligible—distorted syllables dripping from unseen lips.
And then, beneath the whispers—a hiss.
Not the simple sound of shifting air, nor the rustling of fabric against stone.
No.
It was speech.
She knew that sound. She had heard it before.
A language ancient and forbidden, crawling through the air like a serpent in the dark.
Hermione’s grip tightened around her wand, her knuckles white. "Lumos", she whispered. A soft glow flared at the tip of her wand, pushing the darkness back just enough for her to see ahead.
That was when she saw it.
A door.
A door she had never seen before.
There was something profoundly wrong about it, something forbidden. The very air around it seemed to pulse with unseen energy, whispering its own silent warnings.
Then she felt it.
A chill—deep and unnatural—crawled along her spine, seeping into her bones like the touch of something long dead.
It was dark magic.
And yet—Hermione recognized it.
How?
Her mind screamed at her to turn back. To run. To forget she had ever seen this door.
But she didn’t.
She had to know.
She reached for the handle, her fingers brushing against the cold metal—
The whispering stopped.
The silence was worse.
The door creaked open, revealing a chamber swallowed in darkness. The light of her wand flickered uncertainly as she stepped inside, casting long, quivering shadows on the walls.
Then she saw it.
A mirror.
No—a room filled with mirrors.
They lined the walls, stretching infinitely in every direction, reflecting her image over and over again. But something was wrong. The further the reflections were, the slower they moved.
As if they were watching her.
Studying her.
Holding back.
Hermione’s breath came shallow as she stepped closer, drawn forward by an unshakable force.
She reached out.
The tip of her fingers met the mirror’s surface—ice-cold.
A shudder ran through her. It wasn’t just cold. It was wrong.
Something shifted.
A thin layer of frost spread beneath her fingertips, creeping outward like veins of crystallized ice.
She gasped as an unnatural chill snaked up her arm, burrowing into her skin, sinking into her very marrow. The temperature in the room plummeted. Her breath curled in the air before her—white, fragile, fleeting.
And then, from the depths of the mirror—a shadow moved.
A figure.
Cloaked in darkness deeper than the void itself.
Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears as the figure loomed closer. It had no face, no features—only absence.
Except for the eyes.
Burning.
Red. Slitted. Unmistakably inhuman.
A low, rattling whisper coiled around her like a serpent, sending a violent shiver through her body.
She wanted to move, to pull away, but she was frozen—her fingers still pressed against the ice-slick surface of the mirror, trapped in its grip.
Then—
The figure reached for her.
It lifted a hand from the darkness, moving with slow, deliberate intent.
Her breath caught in her throat as her fingers trembled just inches away from the figure’s own.
The air was thick with shadow, a suffocating storm of unseen energy swirling around her, pressing against her skin, clawing at her thoughts.
Then—their fingertips met.
A shockwave of bitter, agonizing cold surged through her body, searing her veins with frost. It was as if liquid ice had replaced her blood, spreading like a sickness, crawling through her limbs, locking her muscles in place.
Her reflection returned.
But she wasn’t alone.
The shadow remained—lurking just behind her own image.
Watching.
Waiting.
And then—
A hand grasped her shoulder.
She gasped—a human touch. Cold but familiar.
Her trance shattered.
She tore her fingers away from the mirror.
Everything exploded.
The mirror shattered, a deafening crack ripping through the chamber as glass splintered into a thousand jagged shards.
The room howled with untamed magic, whipping through the air like a living storm. The temperature dropped to a deadly, unbearable chill as the very air thickened, pressing in on her, suffocating—
Hermione barely had time to shield herself before she was yanked backward.
Her wand slipped from her grasp.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
And then—
She woke up.
Hermione sat at the breakfast table, listlessly pushing her food around her plate. She had little appetite and felt only an overwhelming fatigue.
Her friends, noticing her low spirits and the dark circles under her eyes, exchanged worried glances. Eventually, Ron could hold back no longer and spoke up, “Hermione? Is something wrong? You already looked unwell yesterday... Maybe you should drop by the hospital wing.”
Hermione sighed when she saw the concern in their eyes, but before she could respond, Ron continued, “Don’t tell me you were up late studying again...” He cast her a reproachful look.
“But there aren’t any tests this week,” Harry interjected, sounding confused.
Ron observed her thoughtfully. All of a sudden, something seemed to click. “Hold on… Don’t tell me you’re anxious about today’s Defense Against the Dark Arts class. True, this new Professor Riddle didn’t leave the best impression, but I’m sure you’ll manage just fine. Don’t tell me our resident know-it-all is suddenly scared she won’t earn ‘Outstanding’ again in Defense?” Ron teased, prompting Harry to shoot him a reprimanding glare. It was obvious that Hermione was not quite herself.
She merely rolled her eyes at him and, remembering they did indeed have that class today, felt a flicker of unease. Under normal circumstances, she would never have forgotten such an important detail, but her recurring nightmares had left her drained and forgetful. She had to admit she was grateful they had no exams at the moment—exhaustion and persistent headaches would surely have affected her grades. Perhaps she really should visit the hospital wing and ask for a potion for dreamless sleep. Still, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she decided to hold off. What if these dreams were more than they seemed? Why had they started all of a sudden? She wanted answers first—and would seek help only as a last resort.
Unconsciously, she glanced toward the far end of the Great Hall, where the staff table stood. Most of the professors were already there—most, but not all: Dumbledore was absent, as was Snape… and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was nowhere to be seen. Given the dark, brooding aura Professor Riddle exuded the previous day, it was hardly surprising that he might avoid social gatherings. Perhaps it was just as well.
Snapping back to the present, Hermione pushed a few more bites of breakfast past her lips before speaking, “I’m fine, honestly. You don’t need to worry about me,” she assured them with a small, reassuring smile, carefully masking her lingering doubts.
“If you say so…” Ron murmured, sounding unconvinced.
That afternoon, Hermione walked toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Okay… maybe Ron had been right. Yes, she cared about her grades, but that wasn’t what was really bothering her. It was the professor himself—there was something unsettling about him. And after everything they had been through with defense teachers in the past…
Still, no matter how strict or demanding he turned out to be, she wouldn’t be facing it alone. She had her friends. With that comforting thought, she adjusted her grip on her books, made sure her wand was secured in her robe pocket, and stepped into the familiar classroom.
She let out a quiet breath of relief upon realizing that, for now, only students were present. They were slowly finding their seats, and, unsurprisingly, they were sharing this lesson with Slytherin.
Scanning the room, she spotted Ron and Harry already sitting in one of the back rows—like most students. Hermione, however, preferred a spot closer to the center. But just as she was about to sit down, two Slytherin boys shoved past her, nearly knocking her books from her hands.
“Oops—sorry, Mudblood,” Malfoy sneered, throwing her a contemptuous glance before sliding into the seat she had been aiming for.
Hermione clenched her books tighter, rolling her eyes in irritation, but said nothing. Instead, she took the only remaining seat—unfortunately, next to a Slytherin in the very front row.
Suppressing a sigh, she sat down, setting her books and quill in place. Normally, she would have already reviewed the material, but strangely enough, she wasn’t entirely sure what the syllabus for their sixth-year Defense class entailed. Well… she’d find out soon enough. Would it be more theory, or would Riddle focus on practical defense?
The clock struck the hour, and at that precise moment, the door to the professor’s office opened.
Out stepped their new professor.
Professor Riddle moved with purpose, descending the short flight of stairs with measured steps until he stood at the center of the classroom. The moment he entered, every conversation in the room died instantly.
He scanned the class in complete silence, his sharp gaze sweeping across every student. There was no warmth in his expression—no trace of emotion at all.
And then he spoke.
“I do not tolerate ignorance,” he said, his voice smooth, quiet—but no less commanding. “If you do not intend to take my subject seriously, I suggest you leave now.”
A heavy silence followed. No one moved.
Riddle inclined his head slightly. “If you have any questions or concerns regarding this course, now is the time to voice them.”
The classroom remained tense and still. Hermione, feeling another sharp throb in her head, grimaced involuntarily. Riddle’s eyes flicked toward her, but before he could say anything, another student in the back raised a hesitant hand.
Riddle turned his gaze on him, his piercing stare enough to make the boy hesitate. He cleared his throat before finally asking, “W-will we be practicing dueling this year?”
As the question hung in the air his expression remained unreadable, but there was something almost calculating in the way he studied the boy. After a moment, he tilted his head slightly, as if considering his response carefully.
“Dueling?” he repeated, his voice smooth yet devoid of any real emotion. “A common expectation.”
His words were slow, deliberate. The silence in the room stretched uncomfortably. Then, with almost eerie ease, he continued,
“Many of you, I suspect, equate dueling with skill. Reflexes. Precision. You assume that knowing how to cast a spell faster than your opponent is what determines victory.”
A pause. His dark eyes flickered over the classroom, sweeping across the students, lingering momentarily on Hermione before settling back on the boy who had asked the question.
“But that is a child's understanding of combat.”
A subtle shift in the atmosphere. The weight of his words pressed down on the room. No one dared to speak.
“True mastery,” he went on, voice quieter now, yet somehow even more intense, “has nothing to do with speed or reflexes alone. It is not about who casts first—but who ensures their opponent does not cast at all.”
A slow, deliberate step forward.
“Dueling, as you think of it, is merely a sport. A game of etiquette, with rules designed to keep participants alive.” A slight smirk played at the corner of his lips. “But true encounters? The kind that matter? They are decided before a single spell is cast.”
Malfoy, clearly intrigued, leaned forward slightly. “So then… what will you teach us?”
Riddle exhaled softly, something that might have been amusement flickering in his gaze.
“I will teach you to see beyond the surface,” he said simply. “To recognize a fight before it begins. To manipulate the battlefield—whether it be a duel, a negotiation, or a war. I will teach you to control the inevitable… rather than react to it.”
Another pause.
“And yes,” he added smoothly, “you will duel. But by the time we are finished, you will no longer view it as a contest.”
There was something unsettling in the way he spoke, something that sent an unspoken message through the room. This was no ordinary Defense Against the Dark Arts class. And Riddle was no ordinary professor.
Hermione, despite herself, felt a shiver crawl up her spine.
For the first time, she realized—
This was not just another lesson.
This was something far more dangerous.
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension. No one dared to speak, to challenge what had just been said. It wasn’t like other Defense classes—there were no words of encouragement, no reassurances that they would be safe, that they would learn to protect themselves.
Instead, Riddle spoke as if survival was an equation, a game of foresight and control. And he spoke as if only a few in this room would be capable of mastering it.
Hermione’s grip on her quill tightened. There was something deeply unsettling about the way he framed it, the way he reduced combat to a matter of inevitability. Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been about protecting oneself, defending against threats. But Riddle made it sound as if the only way to win was to ensure that a battle never even began in the first place.
Or worse—if it did, that you were the one in control from the very start.
His words left a lingering unease in the air. Even Malfoy, who had moments ago looked intrigued, now seemed more cautious.
Finally, Riddle turned away from them and moved toward the blackboard. He picked up a piece of chalk and, in his precise, elegant handwriting, wrote a single word:
Perception.
He turned back to the class.
“This is where we begin,” he said smoothly. “Many of you assume that defending yourself in a duel starts with your wand. That is incorrect. Your defense begins the moment you step into a room. Before a word is spoken, before a spell is cast, before a single movement is made. If you do not recognize the threat before it manifests, you have already lost.”
A hush had fallen over the class.
“I do not expect all of you to grasp this immediately,” he continued. “Most of you have spent your years learning how to react, rather than how to predict. That will change.”
He scanned the room again, his gaze sharp, assessing. Then, abruptly, he raised his wand and flicked it once.
The classroom lights dimmed ever so slightly. Shadows stretched across the walls, lengthening unnaturally.
“Your first lesson,” Riddle said, his voice lower now, forcing them all to listen more carefully, “is to see what others do not.”
With another flick of his wand, a parchment appeared on each student’s desk.
Hermione looked down at hers and saw, to her surprise, that there was no text. Just a blank sheet.
She glanced up, frowning. She wasn’t the only one confused. Ron and Harry were both looking at their parchments in frustration, as were the rest of the students.
“You will all write down,” Riddle continued, watching them carefully, “what you observed when I entered this classroom.”
A few students exchanged uncertain looks.
“What do you mean, sir?” Theodore Nott finally asked, hesitantly.
Riddle leaned slightly against the desk at the front of the room, as if he had expected the question.
“Your perception is your first and greatest weapon,” he said. “You must train yourselves to notice what others dismiss. What did I do when I entered this room? Where did I look? What did I not do? Who among you did I observe the longest? What details did you overlook because you assumed they were unimportant?”
Silence.
Hermione’s heartbeat quickened.
This was… unexpected.
No professor had ever taught them this way before. It was almost unnerving, the way he spoke, the way he made them question even the simplest details.
“You have five minutes,” Riddle said smoothly. “Begin.”
Hermione hesitated only for a moment before lowering her quill to the parchment.
She forced herself to replay everything that had happened since he walked in—the measured way he had descended the stairs, the slow sweep of his gaze across the room, the way he had looked at her, specifically, before answering Malfoy’s question.
She bit her lip.
Had that been deliberate? Or was she imagining things?
Still, she noted it down. Every movement, every pause, every shift in his tone.
She knew this was a test. But a test of what?
What exactly was Riddle trying to teach them?
And why did she have the unsettling feeling that he was watching her closer than the rest?
The steady scratching of quills filled the room, but Hermione barely noticed. Her mind was working through every detail of Riddle’s entrance—the calculated way he moved, his unnerving stillness, the way he seemed to command attention without effort. It was unlike any professor she had encountered before.
But it wasn’t just what he did that unsettled her. It was something else, something she couldn’t quite define. A feeling that sat at the edges of her awareness, just out of reach.
She clenched her quill a little tighter, forcing herself to focus on the parchment in front of her.
Five minutes passed in silence.
Then, with a single, deliberate tap of his wand, Riddle ended the exercise.
“Time’s up.”
The parchments vanished from their desks. A few students blinked in surprise, but no one dared to react aloud. Hermione felt a flicker of unease watching her notes disappear. It wasn’t rational—she knew the professor would return them later—but something about the way he had taken them left her unsettled.
Riddle regarded them for a moment before he spoke again, his voice smooth and impassive.
“Some of you will have written down nothing of value. Others will have noted the obvious.” His gaze swept over the room, lingering momentarily on a few students before continuing. “And a very few among you may have understood what was truly important.”
A quiet tension settled over the class.
“Perception,” he continued, “is more than simply seeing.”
He stepped forward, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“Most people believe that strength or speed determines the victor in a confrontation. They assume that the more powerful wizard, the more experienced duelist, will always win.”
He paused. Then, very deliberately, he said, “They are not wrong.”
Hermione felt herself straighten slightly in surprise.
Unlike most Defense professors, who always insisted that strategy, cleverness, and preparation were more valuable than raw power, Riddle did not dismiss talent or strength so easily.
“They do matter,” he continued, as if reading her thoughts. “Power matters. Skill matters. Do not mistake me—there is no substitute for ability. But talent alone is not enough.”
The intensity of his words made Hermione’s pulse quicken.
“To be strong is an advantage,” Riddle went on, his tone smooth, confident, “but an advantage is meaningless if it is not used correctly.”
He stopped in front of the blackboard, picking up a piece of chalk with an absent flick of his fingers.
“The difference between those who win and those who lose,” he said, “is not always power. It is understanding.”
With one swift motion, he wrote on the board:
Control.
Silence stretched in the room.
“The one who controls the fight before it begins is the one who wins,” he said simply. “Whether through skill, strategy, or power—control is everything.”
A murmur of unease ran through the students.
Hermione felt something shift inside her. The way he spoke—so assured, so certain—made it sound undeniably true. But there was something beneath his words, something she couldn’t quite grasp.
It wasn’t wrong, not exactly.
Just… off.
As if there was more to what he was saying than he was letting on.
A subtle prickle ran down the back of her neck, but she pushed it aside.
“This,” Riddle continued, tapping the board lightly, “is the principle we will build upon in this class. You will learn how to recognize control. How to take it. How to prevent others from taking it from you.”
Another flick of his wand, and the parchments reappeared in his hand.
“I will review your observations later,” he said. “For now, consider this: Strength and intelligence will give you an advantage. But an advantage is only useful if you understand how to wield it.”
He let the words settle for a moment before speaking again.
“Before we conclude, I have one last question for you all.”
The room tensed.
“What,” Riddle said, his voice quiet yet carrying unmistakable weight, “do you fear?”
A hush fell over the class.
Some students fidgeted in their seats. Others went completely still.
“The answer to that question,” Riddle said, his gaze sweeping over them, “determines whether you will survive..”
The air felt heavy, and Hermione, for reasons she couldn’t explain, found herself gripping the edge of her desk just a little tighter.
It wasn’t fear. Not exactly.
But there was something about him—something she felt in the spaces between his words, in the way the room itself seemed to listen to him.
It was subtle. Barely noticeable.
But it was there.
Lingering just beneath the surface.
Something in her warned her not to ignore it.
And yet, when Riddle’s gaze passed over her, she kept her expression calm, her posture straight.
She would not give him any reason to notice her more than he already did.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke again.
“Class dismissed.”
The words broke the spell, and students scrambled to gather their things, eager to escape the suffocating tension of the room.
Hermione stood, forcing herself to move normally.
“That was…” Ron muttered, trailing off as if unsure how to finish the sentence.
“Strange,” Harry said. His expression was unreadable, but Hermione could tell he had felt it too—that something about this lesson had been different.
Hermione nodded absently, barely hearing them.
As they made their way to the door, she hesitated for just a second.
And when she glanced back, she found Riddle’s eyes already on her.
There was nothing outwardly unusual in his expression—nothing threatening, nothing unkind.
But something deep inside her stirred.
It wasn’t fear. Not yet.
But it was something.
Something quiet. Something waiting.
And for the first time, Hermione had the distinct feeling that this was the beginning of something else entirely.