Fractured Reflections
Hermione ran.
Through the endless corridors of Hogwarts, her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. The air around her was thick with an unnatural chill, curling around her wrists and ankles like spectral chains. The torches that lined the walls flickered uncertainly, their flames casting jagged shadows that seemed to move of their own accord.
Something was chasing her.
She didn’t know what it was, but she could feel it. A presence. Watching. Waiting. Pulling her in.
She turned a corner and came face to face with a towering mirror.
Unlike the Mirror of Erised, its surface did not shimmer with longing but with something far more sinister. Hermione’s reflection stood within it, but it was not her. The reflection was paler, its eyes darker, almost hollow. And behind it—behind her—stood a shadowed figure, its outline blurred, but unmistakably human.
Hermione tried to step back, but her body would not obey.
The reflection lifted a hand, and Hermione gasped as an icy touch ghosted over her wrist. Frost bloomed across her skin, spreading like a curse. The cold burrowed into her bones, deeper, deeper—
She couldn’t breathe.
The shadow moved.
It reached for her, and the moment its fingers brushed her shoulder—
Darkness erupted.
A swirling void of shadow consumed her vision, cold and suffocating, swallowing all light. The very fabric of the dream seemed to twist and shatter as an overwhelming force dragged her downward, deeper into an abyss of nothingness.
She was falling.
Falling into something far worse than fear.
And then she woke.
Hermione bolted upright in bed, her heart hammering against her ribs. Sweat clung to her skin, her breath coming in ragged gulps.
She curled her fingers into the sheets, trying to ground herself, but then—
A sharp, piercing pain on her wrist.
She yanked back her sleeve, and her stomach twisted in horror.
A faint, icy imprint circled her wrist like a frostbitten brand. The skin was pale, tinged with an unnatural blue, as if something had truly gripped her there in the dream…
But it hadn’t been just a dream, had it?
Her breath came quicker, panic rising like a tide, but she swallowed it down. This wasn’t the time. She needed to think. To analyze. To—
Her gaze flickered to the window. The first light of dawn was creeping over the horizon.
Breakfast.
She needed to compose herself.
The Great Hall was alive with noise. Students laughed, chattered, and clattered plates together as they filled them with steaming eggs and toast. The scent of pumpkin juice and fresh bread filled the air, but Hermione barely noticed.
She sat at the Gryffindor table, pushing her food around her plate, exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin.
Her head throbbed. Every muscle in her body screamed for rest, yet her mind refused to settle.
“Hermione, are you even listening?”
Ron’s voice dragged her from her thoughts. She blinked, realizing she had been staring blankly at her untouched meal.
“Sorry,” she murmured, shaking herself. “What were you saying?”
Ron huffed, waving a piece of toast in the air. “I was saying, this is going to be the best match of the season! Slytherin’s got that new Beater, but Ginny’s been practicing non-stop. We’re going to crush them!”
Harry grinned, but Hermione barely registered the excitement in their voices.
Something prickled at the back of her neck.
A presence.
Slowly, cautiously, she lifted her gaze.
At the far end of the Great Hall, at the staff table, sat Professor Riddle.
He hadn’t been there the previous mornings. He rarely came to breakfast, preferring, it seemed, to keep himself an enigma even among the staff.
Yet there he was, speaking in hushed tones with another professor, his posture elegant and unbothered. His dark eyes flickered across the hall with sharp precision, missing nothing.
And for a brief, horrifying moment, Hermione thought his gaze locked onto hers.
Her fingers twitched. Instinctively, she pulled her sleeve down over her wrist.
That evening, Hermione found herself drawn to the library. It was the only place that ever offered any solace.
She needed answers. To the dreams. To the frostbite. To him.
She combed through books on magical ailments, ancient curses, anything that might explain what was happening. The hours slipped by unnoticed as she searched, flipping through pages, absorbing every detail.
Then, just as she reached the far end of the library, her gaze flickered toward the Restricted Section.
A shadow moved.
She froze.
Had she imagined it? The dim candlelight could play tricks on the eyes, but for a moment, she could have sworn—
“Hermione?”
Madam Pince’s voice cut through the silence, making her jump.
“You shouldn’t be here so late. It’s nearly curfew.”
Hermione swallowed, nodding quickly. “Right. Of course.”
With a final glance at the darkened shelves, she gathered her things and left.
The corridors were colder than she remembered.
Hermione quickened her pace, wrapping her arms around herself as she walked. Her thoughts raced—had she truly seen something in the Restricted Section? Or had it been nothing more than paranoia, brought on by exhaustion and the weight of her unanswered questions?
She turned a corner, only to nearly collide with a group of Slytherins.
“Well, well,” drawled Draco Malfoy, his pale features twisting into a smirk. “Out late, Granger? What, finally embracing your inner rule-breaker?”
Pansy Parkinson let out a mock gasp. “Or maybe she’s lurking in the shadows for someone special.”
“Maybe she’s gotten tired of playing Gryffindor’s perfect little Mudblood,” Draco said, voice dripping with venom.
Hermione’s stomach twisted, but she forced herself to keep her face blank. “Move, Malfoy.”
Draco stepped closer, his smirk deepening. “Or what? You’ll cry to Potter?”
“Or maybe she’ll hex us,” Theodore Nott added with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t want to lose that flawless reputation, would you?”
Pansy leaned in, eyes gleaming with malice. “Tell me, Granger, does it get exhausting pretending you belong here?”
Hermione clenched her fists. “At least I earned my place.”
Draco’s smirk faltered for just a second, before twisting into something sharper. “You don’t belong here, Granger. You never will.”
Before she could retort, the air around them shifted.
A new presence. Cold, controlled, watching.
Professor Riddle stood a few meters away, his expression unreadable.
The Slytherins tensed, the confidence draining from their faces. Malfoy straightened, schooling his features into something more neutral.
“Professor,” he greeted smoothly, stepping back.
Riddle’s gaze flicked over them, sharp as a blade. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but laced with something unspoken. “Do you not have somewhere else to be?”
The weight of his words settled heavily in the air.
Malfoy hesitated, then, with a stiff nod, turned on his heel. The others followed without another word, their previous bravado gone.
Hermione let out a slow breath, her heart still hammering.
Riddle regarded her for a moment, his dark eyes lingering on her expression.
“Curfew, Miss Granger,” he said quietly. “Do not make a habit of breaking it.”
She nodded mutely, unable to shake the feeling that he had seen everything, analyzed every flicker of emotion she had tried to conceal.
Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving her standing alone in the dimly lit corridor, cold and unsettled.
The next day’s Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson felt different.
Riddle’s presence at the front of the classroom was more imposing than ever. The usual murmur before class was absent; an unsettling silence had taken its place.
“Fear,” Riddle began, his voice smooth, controlled. “It clouds judgment. It weakens the mind. It makes you predictable.”
He strode to the blackboard and, in fluid script, wrote one word: Anticipation.
“To control fear,” he continued, turning back to face them, “one must first recognize its source before it takes root.”
With a flick of his wand, the torches in the room dimmed, casting long shadows over the students.
“Today, we will test your ability to act under fear.”
Murmurs of unease rippled through the class.
Riddle lifted his wand once more, and the very air in the classroom seemed to pulse with unseen energy. Slowly, a shimmering barrier began forming around them, enclosing the space in something far more suffocating than mere walls.
“This is not about dueling. Nor is it about brute strength,” he continued, his voice low and deliberate. “It is about perception. Instinct. The ability to control your fear before it controls you.”
At his words, something shifted. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, stretching toward the students like ink spilling across parchment. The temperature dropped, an eerie silence settling as the classroom darkened further.
“Each of you will be presented with an illusion,” Riddle stated. “A fear made manifest. It will feel real, but it is not.”
One by one, the students faced their fears.
Theodore Nott let out a choked gasp as his illusion formed—his father, his face twisted with fury, wand raised. Nott’s hands trembled as he tried to step back, but his father’s shadow loomed larger, his voice booming accusations of failure. His wand slipped from his grasp. Riddle merely watched as the boy crumbled, until with a quiet command, the illusion dissipated.
Pansy Parkinson’s face turned pale as a swarm of acromantulas erupted from the floor, their long legs clicking against the stone as they advanced. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she raised her wand with shaking hands, but the spiders moved too fast, encircling her, their hairy bodies pressing against her skin. She shrieked and collapsed to the ground before the spell faded away.
Draco Malfoy stood rigid, his grey eyes wide as he faced… himself. An older version, standing in tattered robes, a dark mark burned into his arm. The older Malfoy sneered, the disappointment in his gaze more cutting than words. “You were never strong enough,” the reflection whispered. Draco’s jaw clenched, but his wand hand remained limp at his side. Only when Riddle dismissed the illusion did he stagger back, blinking rapidly.
Hermione’s breath caught as she felt something reaching into her mind. Not forcefully, not like Legilimency—but something far more insidious, more subtle, like an echo of her own thoughts being turned against her.
The shadows thickened around her, twisting like sentient smoke, slithering into the corners of her consciousness. At first, flashes of old fears surfaced—failing her exams, standing alone while her friends turned away. But these were things she had already faced, already rationalized.
The illusion wasn’t interested in them.
It dug deeper.
Into something fresh. Something raw.
A flicker of darkness coalesced in front of her, forming a mirror, but this was no ordinary mirror. Its surface rippled like disturbed water, refusing to settle. Then, gradually, it cleared.
She saw herself.
But the longer she looked, the more the reflection changed. The eyes darkened, their warmth replaced by something unfamiliar, something calculating. Her lips curved—not a smile, but something close to one, something knowing. A subtle shift in posture, a quiet command in the way the reflection tilted its head.
And behind her reflection, the shadow stood.
Not faceless anymore. Not a blur.
It had form now, tall, poised, its presence weaving into her own like a whisper in the back of her mind. It reached for her, just as in her dreams, and the moment its hand hovered above her shoulder, the light around her dimmed. Coldness seeped into her bones, not an attack, not a threat—
A claim.
She gasped, stumbling back, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Her breath came too fast, too shallow. The fear wasn’t like before. It wasn’t blind terror. It was quiet. Insidious.
It was the fear of knowing.
Knowing that something was watching. Knowing that the darkness in her dreams was becoming clearer. Knowing that whatever this was—it wasn’t finished with her yet.
The air in the room pressed down on her, suffocating. The shadow did not move closer, but she could feel it waiting.
Not forcing her.
Inviting her.
She clenched her jaw, forcing her trembling hands to still. No. She was not weak. She would not let this fear own her.
Her wand snapped up, her voice steady despite the way her heart pounded in her chest. “Finite Incantatem.”
The illusion shattered. The shadow dissolved into smoke. The mirror cracked and fell away like dust.
Silence reigned.
Then—
Riddle’s gaze met hers, cold and unreadable. His expression did not shift, nor did he offer any praise. Instead, he studied her with the same analytical detachment he had given the others, his dark eyes revealing nothing.
For a long moment, Hermione felt as if he were peeling back her thoughts, assessing something only he could see. Then, without a word, he turned away.
“Class dismissed.”
The tension broke as students scrambled to gather their things, whispering in hushed voices. Hermione stood frozen for a moment longer, staring at the place where the illusion had stood.
The shadow was gone.
But the weight of its presence lingered.
And she knew, without a doubt, that it would return.
“Some fears,”she thought, “do not disappear when the illusion fades.”