Cunning Tom Riddle
The following Friday, Hermione met her fourth-year and fifth-year students over the course of the afternoon. The sky had cleared, so she decided to spend her morning outside. Unable to clear a path through the snow with magic anymore, her feet kept sinking into the drifts, forcing her to take long, exhausting strides. A wave of nostalgia swept over her as she remembered making lopsided snowmen in her parents’ garden before dozing off in front of the television.
She arrived at her classroom half an hour before her next lesson. Inside, as outside, January made its presence known: it was so cold that her teeth chattered. As she crossed the room, her reflection flitted from one crystal ball to another. Hermione wrapped herself in a large plum-colored shawl she found on a coat rack behind her desk, straightened up the sagging poufs, rotated some threadbare armchairs, drew the curtains, smoothed out the fraying tablecloths, and set a kettle to boil.
Finally, with a hint of enthusiasm, she picked up the attendance sheet: Arnold Goodseed. She scanned the list thoroughly, turned it over, checked her desk drawer for any missing pages, looked under her chair, shuffled through her lesson notes, and eventually had to accept the truth: only one fourth-year student was enrolled in Divination. Arnold Goodseed.
So, when the small Hufflepuff arrived, he was surprised to find his professor sitting at one of the student tables, patiently waiting for him with two cups of tea.
“Hello, Arnold!”
“Hello, Professor!”
“It’s very cold today, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Professor.”
He settled onto a pouf beside her, took out his books, and they sipped their tea together before exchanging cups. For once, the heat was welcome, and Hermione clasped her hands tightly around the warm porcelain to thaw her fingers.
When their eyes met briefly, she felt a pang of discomfort. She wouldn’t have minded a colleague reading her future, but Arnold wasn’t a colleague—he was a student.
It was too late now, anyway. Who else could he have worked with? You weren’t supposed to read your own omens.
“Would you like to go first?” she suggested.
“All right, Professor.”
Arnold placed Hermione’s teacup between them. As concentration replaced the timidity on his face, she noticed a flicker of determination—the same kind of determination Ron wore when he talked about Quidditch. Could someone really be passionate about Divination, the way others were about broomsticks?
Skeptical, Hermione pondered this as Arnold pulled a small manual from beneath his textbook. The title read Guide for Foresighted Wizards by Namor Foriou.
It wasn’t on the recommended reading list. Hermione had her answer.
“At the bottom,” Arnold began, “the leaves form a square. This means you’ll achieve rapid and complete success in your field, but it will put you in great danger.”
He turned the cup a quarter.
“The demon symbolizes an enemy hiding behind a mask of friendship. Alternatively, the demon could represent a falcon or a pitchfork. The falcon is a mortal enemy, while the pitchfork signifies an enticing proposal. I think both interpretations apply here: a dangerous individual is trying to get close to you with a smile, and they themselves have a mortal enemy. Judging by the pitchfork, one of them is highly manipulative. Or maybe both are…”
He turned the cup another quarter.
“Next to the demon—or the falcon and the pitchfork—there’s something like a head. A wolf’s head, or perhaps a dog’s. I believe it provides information about your enemies. The wolf suggests it’s someone who lives far away, while the dog indicates it’s a dark-haired man. Since the head slopes slightly toward the handle, it might be a source of danger but also of happiness.”
Hermione was stunned. Had he memorized all the symbols? He hadn’t even glanced at the glossary! And how was he managing to see anything in this mess of soggy leaves?
“I’m using Namor Foriou’s divination method,” Arnold said as if sensing her unspoken question. “It’s quite controversial, but I personally think his work is groundbreaking. It’s a very modern take on Divination, and it’s no wonder the old-fashioned seers who cling to tradition can’t stand it. What’s your opinion? Do you mind me using his method?”
Hermione shook her head slowly. It was better not to interrupt him.
Final quarter turn.
“The pierced circle is a bad omen, as it foretells major upheavals. But here, since it rises slightly toward the rim of the cup—it’s both strange and obvious: these upheavals appear as opportunities to seize. Alternatively, the pierced circle could also be seen as an apple, which would signify an illicit and dangerous romantic relationship, but one with potential benefits.”
He concluded with this, scooted his pouf back slightly, and lowered his head, his timidity returning. A heavy silence filled the room. What was it about the people here that left Hermione in such a state? Since her arrival at Hogwarts, people either seemed intent on giving her a heart attack—her mind wandered to Riddle and Bulby, who had a habit of appearing suddenly and without warning—or on making her feel ignorant—though she thought less of Arnold in this regard and more of Kelsi Brown, with her smug attitude.
“That was excellent,” Hermione finally said. “Ten points to Hufflepuff. Well… with such enthusiasm, how about you read the other teacup? You seem to know Noma Foriou’s method quite well, so I’ll let you present it in your way.”
“Namor Foriou, Professor,” the student quietly corrected her. “As for the teacup, I don’t mind, but isn’t it generally discouraged to read your own omens?”
“Perhaps,” Hermione admitted. “Let’s call it my own groundbreaking method. Onward, Arnold! Do as I say, and think of all the points you’ll win for your house!”
“I—Yes, Professor!”
At three o’clock, Hermione welcomed the fifth-year students. After serving tea, she had to prod several groups to begin their work. No one raised their hand to her rare questions, nor did anyone venture to fetch an extra book from the library shelf. At best, they exchanged a few words with their partners during the session. It wasn’t until the end of class that Hermione understood the reason for their lethargy—most of them had their Transfiguration textbooks hidden on their laps, sneaking in revision whenever her back was turned.
Thus ended Hermione’s first week of teaching. She walked to the Great Hall for dinner feeling as though she’d been at it for ten weeks instead of one, and craving some quiet, she seated herself at the far end of the table. Slughorn looked mildly disappointed by her distance—he likely had a joke to share—but Dumbledore offered her an almost understanding smile. She barely returned it—let him get trampled by a Hippogriff for all she cared; it was his subject the students had been studying during her Divination class! Miranda Bones gave her a brief greeting before retreating into her thoughts.
It was late. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall shimmered with stars, and the temperature had dipped below ten degrees. Students arrived in small groups, wrapped in thick woolen sweaters, dark circles under their eyes. Most were quieter than usual—the cold seemed to drain their energy.
Hermione had just begun her dessert when Riddle entered, flanked by the three Slytherins she had seen in the library. She froze, but to her relief, they paid her no attention, settling at their table. Rosier served his companions, and they began their meal together. Avery held his cutlery delicately, his lips pursed in irritation as he watched the other Slytherin—whom Hermione didn’t recognize—eating with his hands. Meanwhile, Riddle spoke between bites. From her spot at the staff table, Hermione couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she could see his companions listening intently, nodding or shaking their heads in agreement or disagreement.
Riddle seemed so normal. Slightly reserved, but polite, well-mannered, and sociable. How could this seemingly composed boy have become the monster she had known? The monster who had killed enough people to fill an entire lake with Inferi? When had he transformed from a model student into a bloodthirsty tyrant? Hermione recalled that he had already killed four people: his father, his grandparents, and a Muggle-born girl who now haunted the third-floor girls’ bathroom. His metamorphosis had begun last year.
No, she corrected herself. The murders he had committed so far were different in nature from those he would commit in the future. Moaning Myrtle had died because Salazar Slytherin’s will required it—Tom had followed his ancestor’s path fervently, but he was only a pawn in that game. As for his father and grandparents, they had abandoned him; those killings were almost crimes of passion, she thought. But murdering Harry’s parents? That would be cold, swift, and efficient. Lord Voldemort knew no guilt. And what about Tom Riddle? Had he been born without it, or had he shed it somewhere along the way?
A few meters away, the future Dark Lord was serving himself vegetables, spilling half the contents of each spoonful beside his plate without noticing. It was so mundane it reminded Hermione of Ron.
Two things were certain: first, Tom Riddle hadn’t become Voldemort overnight, and second, the goal of her journey was to save Fred. With all the distractions, she had nearly forgotten. Overcome with shame, Hermione suddenly felt like digging herself a burrow in the snow and hiding there for the rest of her life. She had to save Fred, but she had no idea how. Everything seemed to revolve around Riddle, but how could she approach him? What would be the point? She had lost her magic. And what could she possibly say?
“Hello, Tom, I have a favor to ask: could you maybe not target Muggles? Yes, I know you’ve suffered, but the world would run so much smoother if you stopped trying to show off.”
Madman or not, Tom Riddle was still a murderer recruiting followers for his eventual campaign. A lecture on peace, love, and tolerance wasn’t likely to sway him.
Suddenly, Riddle’s dark eyes locked onto Hermione’s. Realizing he had her full attention, he gave her a polite nod before resuming his meal. Hermione startled, dropping her cutlery, which clattered noisily against her plate.
No matter how distinctly she separated Riddle from Voldemort in her mind with each passing day, his greetings always felt hollow. He might not yet be a full-fledged Dark Lord, but he was already adept at bending others to his will with unnerving boldness. A snake—not yet venomous, but sly nonetheless.
Hermione didn’t realize it yet, but in the absence of a tangible threat, her fear was gradually giving way to a dangerous mix of apprehension and curiosity. If courage was a virtue, reckless bravado was far from admirable. She had learned this the hard way from Harry—boldness could lead to her fall.
Done with her meal, Hermione pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and left the Great Hall. As she climbed the grand marble staircase, a sob echoed behind her.
Minerva McGonagall was walking silently back to her dormitory, arms crossed and head bowed. Her black hair was pulled back into a bun, but a few strands had escaped, falling sorrowfully across her pale forehead. Her eyes, usually bright and piercing, were misted with tears. Hermione quickly averted her gaze, resolved to ignore her. Crying students was nothing new, and the reasons could vary: bad grades, arguments with housemates, teasing…
Another sob. At the top of the stairs, they turned right. McGonagall was still crying, and Hermione felt terribly uncomfortable—this was the woman who had come to her Muggle town to reveal she was a witch, the one who had guided her down Diagon Alley and handed her her first wand under the amazed gaze of her parents. She was also the woman who had steadfastly supported Hermione throughout her schooling.
Hermione wanted to help her, but she couldn’t—because, in this timeline, she only knew McGonagall as a student. A student who didn’t even attend her classes. In this world, Hermione wasn’t Hermione Granger, the model student, but Hermione Grizzly, the Divination professor. And that made all the difference.
“Minerva? Can I help you?”
Kinship overcame reason.
McGonagall shot her a dark look. “With what? A crystal ball or tea leaves?” she muttered.
At least, it wasn’t an outright no. Hermione slowed her pace.
“Before being a professor, I am a woman, and barely older than you,” she said gently. “My life doesn’t revolve entirely around my classroom. If you need to talk, you’re welcome to come to my office anytime. It might help. And I promise you, none of your secrets will reach your classmates’ ears.”
No response.
“You’ll always be welcome. Don’t forget that.”
This time, McGonagall straightened up, frowning deeply.
“Do you know what Professor Dormouse, your predecessor, told me? He wanted nothing to do with me. He said I’d have a long and unhappy life, living among other people’s children because I wouldn’t be able to have my own. That I’d disappoint my father and die a spinster.
Ha! Ha! He was right! He was right!
“I… I don’t quite agree with him,” Hermione replied, striving to comfort her. “I believe there are many possible paths for every person. Professor Dormouse may have shown you the one you’re currently on, but you can choose another.”
“And you think you can help? The right path is written in the stars, is it?”
Hermione decided not to rise to the bait.
“Again, don’t hesitate to visit my office.”
They reached the spiral staircase leading to the sixth and seventh floors. This was where they parted. Hermione’s quarters lay two corridors away, facing south. The portrait of the Fat Lady loomed at the upper levels.
“Thank you, Professor,” McGonagall finally said with surprising politeness. “Have a good evening.”
“Good evening, Minerva.”
Her eyes were still red and swollen, but she seemed to be gradually regaining her composure. Hermione listened to her footsteps ascending the stairs, pondering.
McGonagall had always been somewhat like her—in intelligence, her dedication to rules, or her deep sense of loyalty. Hermione couldn’t imagine her crying over a trivial matter. And above all, she couldn’t imagine her brushing off a professor—even a Divination professor—if she were in her right mind.
What could have left her in such a state? Was she struggling with other Gryffindor students? Was she being teased the way Hermione had once been?
For now, Hermione had no answers. And her theories fell far short of the truth…
The weekend passed in a blur. On Saturday morning, Hermione went to the library and encountered the librarian, a small grey-haired woman who looked down at her and tried to make her leave.
“We don’t have a lot of Divination books, here! Don’t borrow too many; think of the students!”
“Tell me, did you happen to hide your personal reading in the legal history section of Magical Studies, assuming no one would look there?” Hermione retorted sharply.
The librarian’s face turned ghostly pale.
“Don’t feel like you have to answer me—just let me borrow whatever I want,” Hermione added dryly before walking away.
That afternoon, she crossed paths with the Hufflepuff Quidditch team returning from the pitch after their training in preparation for the match against Slytherin. The third-year twins from her Divination class, who played as Beaters, greeted her before hurrying off to their dormitories, drenched and shivering.
On Sunday, Hermione stayed in her quarters to finish studying her Divination books. Only one remained: ‘Divination for Doxies’ by Summer Sault. A wave of relief washed over her as she finished the last chapter at nightfall. Now, she could truly teach her subject! She still needed to read ‘Guide for Foresighted Wizards ‘by Namor Foriou to keep up with Arnold, but once that was done, everything would fall into place.
Determined to borrow the book immediately, Hermione left her quarters and headed to the library. She quickly noticed the students’ strange behavior.
On the stairs, three Ravenclaws turned to stare as she passed. On the fourth floor, whispers rose behind her. Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest. Around the corner, a group of Slytherins huddled around an issue of Magic to the Bone, a pro-blood purity publication that no longer existed in her time. Its publisher had been convicted of crimes against the Wizarding community during the 1982 trials. As Hermione walked by, one of the students turned away from the paper and discreetly pointed a finger at her.
People were whispering and staring. It was unnerving. Why were they all looking at her? Hermione tightened her shawl around her shoulders and pushed open the oak doors of the library. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows on the shelves, heightening her uneasy feeling of being watched.
Connor and his friend Wendy emerged from between the stacks. They greeted her with their usual cheerfulness and walked out into the hallway, laughing behind their hands. That’s when Hermione understood.
The young professor’s heart sank. Out of shame and a need to reassure herself, Hermione had convinced herself that the Slytherins would forget the incident. What a mistake! Naturally, such a story spread like wildfire—just as the Black Plague had in the Middle Ages.
Farther into the library, her three seventh-year students sat at the same table. They glanced at her before leaning toward each other to whisper rapidly. Hermione kept her head down and headed straight for the Divination section.
Once she found the book, she hurried back to the entrance. The librarian was sorting books behind the counter. At Hermione’s approach, she looked up and replaced her usual haughty expression with an interested smile. So, she had brushed Hermione off yesterday, and now she wanted to chat?
“I’m here to borrow a book,” Hermione muttered, sliding ‘Guide for Foresighted Wizards’ onto the counter.
“You’re interested in Namor Foriou’s studies?”
“Quite.”
“I think his approach to dream interpretation is groundbreaking, don’t you?”
“Quite.”
“Are you planning to teach it in class?”
“Quite.”
The librarian raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. She tapped her wand on the book, which glowed briefly before returning to its usual appearance. Hermione grabbed it and left the library under the relentless buzz of whispers.
She ate dinner on the cedar coffee table in her living room. Eating in the Great Hall was out of the question. Bulby brought her a small starter and a modest dish, and Hermione was starting to think he was a bit tight when he came back with dessert—a chocolate pie almost bigger than him. He pranced around, the pie above his head, when a deep voice exclaimed from the corridor:
“Bulby, faster!” the voice said with a heavy Spanish accent.
Hermione startled. Who was that?
“Bulby is doing what he can!” the House-elf replied.
He placed the pie on the coffee table, and another House-elf walked in. His skin was darker than Bulby’s, and he had two warm, brown eyes, unusually narrow for a House-elf, framed by long, black eyelashes. A shiny tuft of hair stood in a crest between his bat-like ears. He wore the same toga as Bulby, but instead of the Hogwarts crest, it featured the Spanish flag.
Hermione stared, her astonishment growing, as he set down an entire bag of wiggling Chocolate Frogs beside her. Then, the two companions sat on the armchairs facing the couch, clearly waiting for her reaction.
“Um—Hi,” she finally said to the unknown House-elf after a minute of silence. “Who are you?”
“Ezequiel, Señorita!” he replied, lifting his chin proudly. “Ezequiel brought Chocolate Frogs por la Señorita!”
“Yes, I noticed. I’m grateful but—”
“Bulby had no choice,” Bulby apologized, pulling his ears forward as if to hide his face. “Miss Professor seemed sad, so Bulby wanted to bring her lots of chocolate. But Bulby couldn’t carry everything, so Ezequiel offered to help. Bulby is ashamed, Miss Professor. Bulby thinks he should disappear, so he won’t bother Miss Professor anymore with his incompetence.”
Suicidal alert!
“No, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!” Hermione said quickly. “You did very well, really! I’m touched you brought me chocolate—I love it. Now, why don’t you introduce me to Ezequiel? Is he a friend of yours?”
Bulby nodded meekly, and Ezequiel answered for him, “Bulby y Ezequiel clean the Slytherin dormitory together. Even when students are there, Bulby y Ezequiel have to go. So, Bulby y Ezequiel stick together!”
You don’t say.
“Bulby y Ezequiel are the bravest House-elves in the cocina!” Ezequiel proclaimed. “And if the Señorita reveals why she is sad, Ezequiel will give an earful to the groseros culprits.”
“And if the culprits are masters?” Bulby asked in his high-pitched voice.
Ezequiel frowned. “Then Ezequiel can’t do anything.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Hermione said with a faint smile. “You’re very nice, but I’ll be okay. I just—”
She hesitated but continued.
“All the students think I’m interested in tonics,” she admitted with a sigh. “Four Slytherins thought they saw me reading a book on the topic in the library. Of course, I wasn’t, but now the whole school knows about it. People are staring and whispering behind my back.”
The two eyes exchanged a look.
“Poor Miss Professor,” Bulby whispered. “But—”
He abruptly stopped and looked down at the carpet.
“Yes?” Hermione prompted gently.
“Bulby thinks the Señorita is wrong, but doesn’t dare say so,” Ezequiel revealed.
Bulby blushed furiously, his ears turning crimson. “Bulby would never dare contradict the Miss Professor!” he protested.
“And what do you think I’m wrong about?” Hermione asked curiously, leaning toward him.
He immediately looked down and answered nervously, “Bulby knows the Slytherins who saw Miss Professor reading the book. Bulby heard them talk about Miss Professor in the boy’s dormitory.”
“They were talking about me?” Hermione exclaimed, leaning forward even more.
“Yes, but Bulby wasn’t supposed to be listening!”
“I mean… Of course, you could… That’s fine,” Hermione stammered impatiently. “What did they say?”
“Mr. Riddle, Rosier, Avery, and Adams came back to the dormitory together after dinner,” he explained. “Mr. Lestrange and Meery, the other dormmates, had finished eating earlier and were playing chess on the rug. While Mr. Riddle was in the bathroom, Mr. Avery went over to Mr. Lestrange and Meery to tell them that Miss Professor Hermione Grizzly was interested in Aphrodite Madlove’s potions. Mr. Lestrange and Meery didn’t believe him, so he asked Mr. Rosier and Mr. Adams to confirm it, and they all laughed.
“At that moment, Mr. Riddle came out of the bathroom. He was very angry and said that if he heard any more mention of this story, he would Crucio them until they forgot their surnames.”
Bulby finished his tirade with a deep gulp of air. Hermione leaned forward again—she was about to fall off the couch if she kept going.
“Did they say anything else?”
“Mr. Riddle also said that even if it were a Gryffindor who brought it up, the Slytherins in the dormitory would pay the price. Then, young Mr. Malfoy knocked on the door to ask Mr. Riddle to come deal with the first years playing snake and mouse in the common room,” Bulby continued. “Mr. Rosier and Mr. Adams went over to the window to talk about a vixen that Mr. Rosier wanted to tame. Mr. Avery waited until Mr. Riddle had left before saying that Miss Professor Hermione Grizzly was a hell of a vixen, and that he couldn’t wait for Divination class to show her his wand and crystal balls—”
“Thank you, Bulby, that’s enough!” Hermione interrupted, sitting up abruptly.
In 1943, Death Eaters brimming with hormones roamed freely through Hogwarts’ halls. It was a troubled time. Fortunately, the future Lord Voldemort was there to keep them in check with the threat of a Crucio. How reassuring. Under different circumstances, Hermione might have found it funny.
“Do you think they’ll listen to Riddle?”
“El maestro Riddle has much influence,” Ezequiel replied.
“The Slytherins always listen to Mr. Riddle,” Bulby confirmed.
Hermione let herself fall back into the soft cushions of the couch.
“Then why are the students whispering and pointing at me?”
“Bulby y Ezequiel don’t know,” Ezequiel said.
“But it’s definitely not about the book,” Bulby concluded.
On Monday afternoon, Hermione had a class with the third years. It was a little warmer than the day before, but not enough for her to remove her shawl. At three o'clock, the ladder crashed down into the hallway. The students began to flood into the classroom, and she realized that she didn't know half of them.
Before she had a chance to think further, the newcomers were lined up in front of her desk, looking at her with hope. A boy with honey eyes took the lead and asked, “Good afternoon, Professor, may we attend your class, please?”
“Well… Yes, of course,” Hermione replied.
They didn’t give her a chance to reconsider, quickly rushing to sit down. But the students already enrolled in the class had already claimed the best spots. And here we go again…
“I want to sit in the front!”
“I’m going to complain to the Head Girl!”
“Stop pushing me, squid-head!”
“We’d rather you sit in the back!”
“I’ll tell Professor Bones!”
“I can’t sit in the back, I’ve got bad eyesight!”
“Give me my bag right now, troll dung!”
“The Bloody Baron will hear about this!”
“I don’t care, go fix your glasses!”
“Leave me alone, or I’ll hex you!”
“You stink just like your parents!”
“My bag! Give me my bag back!”
“Professor, she insulted me!”
“Professor, he just pinched me!”
“Professor, she’s trying to rip my bag!”
“FROM NOW ON, I’LL TAKE FIFTY POINTS OFF FOR EVERY WORD AND PERSON!” Hermione shouted.
Silence.
“Excellent,” she said, her tone sharp. “Take a seat quietly, wherever you can. I’ll do a round of the class, anyway.”
She went back to her desk to grab the kettle. Behind her, some quiet “Ouch!” echoed, but when Hermione turned around, all the students had already sat down in pairs around the round tables. Only a few undone ties and disheveled hair hinted at the earlier chaos.
Some teachers might have thrown the troublemakers out, but Hermione thought her authority crisis had passed. She simply wanted to start the lesson—and understand why so many new students were fighting to attend her class.
“For the new faces, we’ll be doing tea-leaf reading. I’ll ask the returning students to share a book with a partner and lend their other book to the newcomers.”
Luckily for Hermione, she always boiled more water than necessary. By filling the cups modestly, she managed to serve everyone. The students immediately started working with an enthusiasm that was beyond her. Whispers filled the room. Eyes were on her. The two Gryffindor girls from the previous week now reminded her even more of Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil: they were staring at her, wide-eyed, in unabashed admiration.
Throughout the lesson, some students kept raising their hands. Several times, Hermione pretended not to notice. She spent most of her time at Connor Wilmoor and Wendy Wardrobe’s table, where their behavior was, at least, somewhat normal. They laughed a lot, but Hermione had started to get used to it. While they didn’t struggle much with recognizing the signs, they often interpreted them in… very personal ways.
“Look, Connor. The club means a ‘sudden and violent attack’.”
“We’re going to be attacked by Grindelwald and we’re all gonna die.”
“Unless we kill Grindelwald before he gets to the castle!”
“I know the Disarming Charm. I can teach you,” Connor offered.
“Yeah! And after, we can still swipe Minerva’s Cleansweep!” she replied enthusiastically.
At the other end of the room, Abraxas Malfoy, too, had his own unique way of reading his future.
“Look. A flower means a ‘blonde woman around you.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Douglas responded, uninterested.
“I’m probably going to impress a very pretty blonde because I’m a Pureblood. She’ll fall madly in love with me and chase me around the hallways, shouting her undying love for me.”
“A blond woman around you… Don’t you think it might be your sister?”
Abraxas scoffed. “My sister can’t fall in love with me. Don't be stupid!”
Facing Hermione’s desk, Kelsi Brown and her friend were deep in thought.
“The boat means a ‘successful venture’.
“Probably our presentation in Charms,” Kelsi shrugged.
“But that’s not Divination! Of course, our presentation will be way better than the others. We don’t need tea leaves for that!”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Kelsi sighed. “This class is pointless.”
“Tell me about it. At least the teacher is a real seer, so that makes it worth it.”
A real seer? Hermione moved closer to their table, but the two Ravenclaws were already looking for more signs. Hermione ignored the raised hand of one of the Gryffindor girls—she had already visited their table eight times, and each time they fought over who would speak first—and sat back down at her desk.
She tried reading the omens in her own teacup, but… A real seer? What had she said or done to make them think that?
Hermione got the answer to her question the very next day. Sitting at her desk, she heard the ladder clatter to the floor in the hallway, five minutes before class was due to start. Sixth-year students poured into the room, even more than in the previous lesson, and Gallina Malfoy rushed up to Hermione, her blond hair bouncing with excitement.
“Professor! Professor!”
“Hello, Gallina,” Hermione said with a puzzled smile. “What can I do for you?”
The girl slapped an issue of Magic to the Bone onto her desk. It was the same magazine the Slytherins had been reading in the library a few days earlier… On the front page was a photo of a stout blonde woman, heavily made up and wearing a greenish pointed hat. She clung to the arm of a frail, elderly wizard, who gave a weak wave to the camera. Both wore broad smiles—hers was predatory, his toothless.
Several headlines ran down the side of the page: “Julius Gibbon’s Muggle Grandparent: The Shocking Truth!” and “Maureen Wilkes Resigns from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!” But Gallina was eagerly pointing to the banner headline above the couple: “Love Strikes in Britain!” Below it was a smaller caption: “Following the tragic death of his wife last year, the wealthy centenarian Sullivan Selwyn has found love in the arms of Noctea Malfoy. Their wedding is set to take place next summer at the Selwyn family’s French estate.”
Hermione read the last sentence several times. A wedding. A wedding? No, that couldn’t be—
“You were right!” Gallina cried out. “My aunt just turned fifty, she’s never been married, and no one thought she ever would! I told my parents all about you—they’re dying to meet you! And so are Walburga’s parents!”
To Hermione’s left, Sirius Black’s mother nodded vigorously.
“It’s incredible!” Gallina went on. “Their marriage will unite the Sacred Houses of Selwyn and Malfoy. We’re all so proud!”
“I thought your prediction about the wedding was made up,” Walburga admitted. “I owe you an apology. I’m so glad Hogwarts finally has a competent Divination professor. It’s about time.”
“Some of our friends want to join your class,” Gallina added excitedly. “Is that allowed?”
Indeed, five girls stood behind her, looking hopeful.
“Of course, anyone who wants to join is welcome,” Hermione stammered, still reeling. “Er… Take a seat, and I’ll… pour the tea.”
Gallina retrieved her copy of Magic to the Bone Wizard, flashed Hermione a warm smile, and went to sit with her friends. They chattered and giggled among themselves, punctuating their conversation with excited gestures and occasional high-pitched squeals.
Merlin’s pants.
So it wasn’t the rumors about her interest in tonics that had spread through the school—it was news of her “fulfilled” prediction. By now, the most superstitious students must believe she was a genuine seer. But was that a good thing?
On one hand, Hermione no longer had to worry about her credibility. On the other, an unsettling sense of foreboding crept over her. Arnold’s earlier omen came back to her: “You will achieve rapid and complete success in your field, but it will put you in great danger.”
What if he was right?
Hermione picked up the kettle and began filling the students’ cups. That Gallina’s aunt had found a wealthy Pureblood to marry just a week after Hermione’s supposed “vision” was pure dumb luck. And Arnold’s prediction of her success? Also a coincidence. She needed to stay rational. This situation wasn’t a real threat—there was no Grim lurking outside her classroom or her quarters!
And anyway, Hermione didn’t believe in those silly omens. She never had.
As if the future could be written in tea leaves!
The first half-hour flew by. The two Ravenclaw girls who had joined the class were nothing like the third-year Ravenclaw students she was used to dealing with.
“Professor!” the first exclaimed, her voice trembling. “I see a rat at the bottom of my cup!”
“A rat, Professor!” the second echoed, her eyes wide with panic. "That means sickness, maybe even death!"
Hermione hurried over, her patience already wearing thin. She’d never been fond of theatrics, and her time in the Gryffindor dormitory had been more than enough of that—hence why her two best friends had always been boys.
“Let me see,” she said.
“Right there, at the bottom—it’s a rat!”
“No, it isn’t,” Hermione said firmly. “It’s a lizard.”
She handed the cup back to the two girls, who squinted at it with renewed scrutiny. The second girl nodded, but the first still looked doubtful.
“But, Professor, what if it is a rat?”
"Then you might fall ill," Hermione replied coolly, before adding, with a flourish worthy of a true seer, "but…"
If they were determined to see her as a real Divination master, she might as well play her part.
"My third eye reveals nothing dire in your immediate future," she concluded dramatically. "You can rest easy."
"Thank you, Professor," the first girl said, visibly relieved.
With the two girls reassured, Hermione started another round of the class. No one seemed to need her assistance, so she returned to her desk. But just as she was about to sit, a whisper reached her ears. If it had been any other name, she might not have noticed, but some names—no matter how softly spoken—always seemed to echo louder than the rest.
Riddle.
The sound came from near the window, where Marius Avery and Adrian Rosier were seated. Hermione approached quietly, pretending to glance outside. Rosier was speaking so softly that she couldn’t make out the words.
Then Avery spoke, his tone sharper, allowing her to catch snippets of their conversation:
"…meeting… seventh… right after… Divination… Slytherin… secret."
Hermione’s brow furrowed. A Death Eater meeting?
Rosier responded, but his voice was so low that she couldn’t discern anything. She crept closer, and closer still, until she was standing just behind them. They didn’t notice her. Emboldened, she leaned in a fraction more—
“Professor?”
Both boys had turned, their gazes locking onto her. Rosier’s icy blue eyes were filled with suspicion.
Hermione straightened, clearing her throat. Not her finest moment.
"What are you doing?" Rosier asked coolly.
At fifteen, she’d concocted an elaborate lie on the spot to save Harry from being tortured by a raving lunatic Umbridge and her loads of followers. She wasn’t about to let two teenagers—no matter their houses—intimidate her.
Rosier’s gaze grew increasingly suspicious, while Avery’s eyes roved over her in a way that made her sick.
Thinking fast, she said, "I was observing your tea leaves. They seemed… intriguing. May I?"
Rosier moved aside, and Hermione stared for a beat until she realized he was making room for her. She picked up the cup, peering into it, and finding nothing, but a shapeless mass of damp, clumped leaves. Wonderful. What a day.
Avery’s gaze, meanwhile, was fixed on her chest. He really needed a trip to the hospital wing.
Suppressing a shudder of disgust, she forced herself to focus. She needed to make the leaves seem interesting, to justify her prying. Only then she could leave—running.
“I see… a heart. And there, a sun—or perhaps it’s a nest,” she said with a tone of certainty.
The Slytherins frowned, clearly not seeing what she described, but that was to be expected.
“This is an excellent reading,” Hermione declared. “It suggests happiness, a romantic opportunity, and success in your personal life. Since the signs rise toward the handle, it indicates these things will come without danger or complication. See the full heart here? Very promising!”
And, before they could question her further, she turned on her heel and strode briskly toward her desk under the stunned gaze of the Slytherins, muttering something about needing to retrieve an object that didn’t exist.
At the end of the lesson, the students slowly packed up their belongings. Some were complaining about the snow falling again outside the frosted windows. Others were giving Hermione admiring smiles. She didn’t respond; her attention was fixed on Avery and Rosier as they silently closed their bags.
Perhaps they were about to meet with Riddle. Perhaps they were going to study dark magic. And perhaps Hermione had a chance to catch Riddle red-handed...
But she had a class with the seventh-year students.
Rosier murmured something to Avery, and Hermione’s thoughts drifted back to the tea leaves. Predicting his success in love had been a safe bet—he was undeniably handsome. His sharp blue eyes stood out against his smooth, velvety skin. Soft brown locks, tinged with copper, framed his neck. Add to that his status as a member of a wealthy Pure-blood family and an apparent sharp wit—qualities that likely made him very appealing to many girls at the school.
Avery climbed down the ladder. Rosier followed. Hermione hesitated. The seventh-year students would be arriving any moment... She had to choose between spying on Riddle and teaching her class.
Deciding in a split second, she pulled off her shawl and stepped out after them, ignoring the students who lingered in the room.
When Hermione reached the top of the ladder, there was no one there. “Seventh…” Could they have been talking about the seventh floor? But she was already on the seventh floor. Which way had Avery and Rosier gone? She needed to hurry if she wanted to catch up.
The figures in the paintings gave her annoyed looks, clearly unaccustomed to someone lingering around like this. Further down, Hermione heard the stairs creak. It couldn’t be them—someone was coming. She had to leave.
“Excuse me,” she whispered to the nearest painting.
The artwork showed a laboratory engulfed in flames, with a witch frantically trying to douse the fire with her wand. The witch turned sharply to Hermione.
“No time!” she cried out. “I have to put out the fire!”
“Sorry to disturb you, but did you see two boys?”
The witch pointed toward the hall of tapestries. Hermione thanked her quickly and darted silently in the indicated direction.
“Hello, Miss Grizzly…” came a smooth voice to her right.
She stopped dead. Apollo Picott stood on the landing, broom in hand.
“Hello, Apollo,” she replied, her voice brisk. “Listen, I—”
“Don’t you have a class?” he asked with a wink.
“Uh…”
So, he knew her schedule by heart? And what was with all the winking?
“I’m looking for a student to return something,” she lied smoothly.
But Apollo wasn’t listening anymore. He was enthralled by the painting Hermione had just spoken to. The flames seemed to dance in his gaze.
“I’ve never noticed this painting before,” he murmured, almost in awe.
“Er… Apollo?”
He snapped back to attention, looking dazed.
“You’d be doing me a big favor if you could head to my classroom and wait for the seventh years,” Hermione added quickly. “Would you mind?”
“No, not at all—”
“Thank you, Apollo! The ladder’s just over there!” she said, already moving away. “See you soon!”
Hermione forced herself to walk at a normal pace until she turned the corner into the tapestry hall. The moment she was out of the caretaker’s sight, she broke into a run.
In the end, finding Avery and Rosier wasn’t as hard as Hermione had anticipated. The corridor led into a neglected part of the castle. Dust coated the oak floor, and faint footprints stood out in the dim light.
Breathing heavily, Hermione stayed close to the wall to avoid creaking the wooden boards beneath her feet. These narrow, winding passages deep within the castle were lit only by the flickering flames of torches mounted along the walls. As she moved cautiously, she passed a moth-eaten broom cupboard—the first piece of furniture she’d encountered in ages—and came to a corridor lined with windows. It was then that she heard Rosier’s low voice.
A careful glance around the corner revealed Avery and Rosier a little farther down. Rosier stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the wall, while Avery paced back and forth.
Hermione quickly stepped back and pressed herself against the wooden paneling, ensuring she wouldn’t be seen.
“Now I don’t even know what to do anymore,” Rosier admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “I’d follow Rigel’s advice, but—”
“Rigel’s the son of a Muggle,” Avery interrupted coldly.
“Stop being so dismissive of him. He’s a Slytherin!”
“And I never understood why,” Avery retorted. “We used to agree on this! Has that bitch messed with your head or something?”
“Of course not. I’ve just stopped blindly following whatever I’m told! Rigel’s a rather skilled wizard. Even if his mother is a Mudblood, his father comes from a distinguished lineage, and I think that counts for something. He was raised like us.”
“Maybe, but his blood—”
“Shut up!”
“What—”
“I said, shut it!”
Silence fell. What was happening? Hermione froze as the sound of footsteps grew louder. Her heart sank. She quickly retreated to the broom cupboard. The door creaked noisily as she opened it. For Godric’s sake!
Sliding inside, she accidentally knocked over a pile of clutter precariously balanced on a rickety shelf. Scrambling to catch the items before they fell, she managed to pull the door shut. A bucket toppled onto her head, plunging her into complete darkness.
“Is something wrong?” Avery asked, his voice drawing nearer.
“I thought I heard something,” Rosier replied. “Wait—”
There was a rustle.
“I know a spell to—”
“What’s going on?” came a third voice.
Hermione didn’t need to hear it again to recognize it. It was Riddle's. A sense of dread washed over her. Avery, Rosier, and Riddle were now mere meters from the cupboard where she was hiding, a bucket jammed on her head. Please don’t open it, she prayed silently.
Her breathing sounded deafeningly loud, magnified by the bucket. She desperately wanted to remove it, but the awkwardly balanced objects pressing against her arms and back held her completely immobilized.
“No, no,” Rosier said hurriedly. “I just thought I heard—”
“Then perhaps we should confirm we’re alone,” Riddle suggested coolly. “Isn’t that what you were about to do?”
“Yes… of course—” Rosier stammered. “Hominum Revelio!”
Hermione knew this spell all too well. Life was truly unfair. The moment they realized someone else was nearby, they’d search for her. Her only hope was that Rosier botched the spell and mistook the lack of results for the absence of intruders.
A faint, eerie draft swept into the cupboard, brushing against Hermione’s skin. Her heart raced wildly. She held her breath, waiting for their reaction. Finally—
“There’s no one here,” Rosier concluded.
“Are you sure?” Riddle asked.
“Positive.”
“Mind if I verify that myself?”
Yes, he does mind!
“Go ahead,” Rosier mumbled, sounding slightly offended.
Hermione’s pulse quickened. She was doomed.
“Hominum Revelio!” Riddle cast the spell this time.
The draft returned, caressing her skin and teasing the edge of the precariously balanced items. Something crawled up her arm—probably a spider. Hermione didn’t like spiders, but now was hardly the time to panic. If they decided to search for her, she could only hope they wouldn’t think to open this decrepit old cupboard or that they’d choose to start at the far end of the corridor, giving her a chance to flee. Her classroom wasn’t far.
The draft subsided.
“There’s truly no one here,” Riddle murmured.
Hermione was so startled by his words that she nearly dropped a small broom balancing on her left wrist. That would’ve been just great.
“I could have sworn…” Riddle mused. “I—Well, no matter. Let’s go.”
Although he didn’t seem entirely convinced, their footsteps receded down the corridor, followed by the sharp slam of a door in the distance. Silence fell once again.
Hermione exhaled deeply, relief flooding her chest. So, Riddle wasn’t as skilled in magic as people claimed! If he couldn’t even perform a basic spell like Hominum Revelio, she had little to fear. Still... It was peculiar that his professors thought so highly of him if he lacked such precision. Something didn’t add up.
But now wasn’t the time to dwell on it.
She lowered her arms carefully, letting the objects drop one by one onto the wooden floor with dull thuds and faint clinks. Pulling the bucket off her head, she dropped it to the ground and rolled her aching shoulders. One broom wobbled precariously before falling forward, pushing the cupboard door ajar as it clattered to the floor.
Coughing softly, Hermione stepped out of the cramped space, shaking dust from her hair. All the risks she’d taken had accomplished nothing except confirming that the Slytherins were indeed meeting after class.
She felt uneasy. Had it all been for nothing? The seventh-year students were surely wondering why their professor hadn’t shown up yet. Apollo Picott was probably fretting, eager to get back to his cleaning.
Still, she couldn’t give up so easily. She knew the direction the Slytherins had gone. If there was even the slightest chance of finding out what Riddle was scheming, she had to take it.
Resolute, she dusted off her robes and hastily shoved the fallen objects back into the cupboard. Decision made: she would press on.
Although she couldn’t help but think how much safer she’d feel with a functional wand in her hand.
The corridor stretched wide and eerily silent before her. The tall windows overlooked the Quidditch pitch, where winter flags flapped noisily in the biting wind. A few of the windows stood open, allowing a frigid breeze to snake through, carrying snowflakes that settled into her clothes, making her shiver violently. Why hadn’t she brought her shawl?
Keeping close to the wall—not out of fear, but for the slight comfort it offered—she crossed the corridor and came to a junction. To the left, three doors marked the end of a cul-de-sac. To the right, the dim passage of flickering torchlight awaited. She chose the right.
A staircase. A corridor. A door. Another corridor. A tapestry. Another corridor. An armor stand. Another corridor. A mirror. Yet another corridor. How in Merlin’s name was she supposed to track the Slytherins in this labyrinth?
She was pacing down a dim corridor devoid of paintings, lined instead with ancient doors and shadowy pipes, when a voice behind her broke the stillness.
“Hello, Miss Grizzly.”
Regretfully, Hermione couldn’t stop the startled cry that escaped her throat.
Tom Riddle stood just behind her, arms folded, his expression impossible to read. Behind him, a shadowy corridor stretched into darkness.
“Good afternoon,” Hermione managed, her voice pitching unnaturally high.
“My apologies for startling you,” Riddle said, his tone smooth, almost soothing.
Hermione’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, words failing her before she finally settled for, “Don’t you have class?”
“I don’t,” he replied lightly. “Do you?”
“No—yes—I mean…”
She hesitated, her mind racing. She needed an excuse—and not another fabricated vision.
“I was looking for Adrian Rosier,” she lied hastily. “Do you know where he is?”
“I’m afraid not. I haven’t seen him since Charms this morning.”
Liar.
“And why, may I ask, were you looking for him?” Riddle inquired, his voice carrying an edge of curiosity that felt far too sharp.
“Um… his tea leaves,” Hermione replied, grasping at the first thing that came to mind. “I wanted to discuss them with him.”
“I’ll be sure to pass along the message,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
“Well… Thank you,” Hermione said, her voice tight.
A heavy silence hung between them. Hermione cast a nervous glance at their surroundings, trying to keep her composure. Riddle smiled then, a smile so unnervingly like Harry’s that it made her breath hitch.
“It’s your first time teaching, yet from what I hear, you’ve all the poise of a seasoned professor,” Riddle remarked. His voice was soft, almost admiring. “My friends tell me you can command silence in a classroom within minutes. Even the third-year Slytherins say you don’t lack… authority.”
The third-year Slytherins—Abraxas Malfoy and his creepy sidekick—were probably not singing her praise.
“Oh… thank you,” Hermione stammered. “I—I suppose I’m determined. That’s likely what they’ve noticed. Because I truly don’t have any experience. But, um, their words are kind. Flattering, even. I—I should get back to my class. Your seventh-year classmates are waiting for me. Even if there are only three of them.”
“With the rumors circulating about you,” Riddle murmured, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone, “I wouldn’t be surprised if more show up.”
If Hermione hadn’t been so tightly wound, she might have caught the faint crease that appeared in his brow, or the way his head tilted ever so slightly, as though assessing her every reaction.
“Have a pleasant evening, Miss Grizzly,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk.
“Thank you, Tom. You too,” Hermione replied, her tone faltering as she nodded stiffly.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing softly in the dim corridor. Hermione waited, reluctant to turn her back on him, until his figure disappeared into the shadows.
And yet, as she finally hurried off, her nerves taut as bowstrings, the feeling of being watched clung to her like a chill in the air, refusing to leave until she reached the sanctuary of the main hall.