The Promise
The Transfiguration classroom was awash with the thick, acrid smell of smoke. Neville Longbottom stood in the middle of it, his round face streaked with soot, looking as though on the verge of tears. His rock had somehow exploded instead of transforming into a clock, drawing snickers from the Slytherins seated at the back of the room.
At any other time, Hermione would feel pity for poor Neville; but this was not any other time.
Her mind was somewhere else entirely. She stared blankly at her half-transfigured clock, her thoughts lingering on a certain diary she had discovered days ago—a thin, black leather book that seemed to have a mind of its own.
After a particularly rough week in the Slytherin common room, where she was constantly tormented by her housemates, the mystery of the diary had become a curious distraction. Malfoy and Parkinson were relentless in their bullying. Just that morning, Pansy had “accidentally” spilled pumpkin juice all over Hermione’s homework, while Malfoy taunted her with slurs about her Muggle-born heritage.
When she had first opened the diary, the name T.M. Riddle written in elegant script at the top of the first page, she had almost thrown it away, suspecting it was another cruel prank orchestrated by her housemates. But then, to her astonishment, the diary had written back. It claimed to be Tom Riddle, and it seemed to know things—things no ordinary book should. Terrified, she had shoved it into the darkest corner of her trunk, determined to forget it.
But Hermione Granger was nothing if not curious. The diary’s cryptic nature nagged at her, and within days, her resolve to ignore it crumbled. She had to know more about this mysterious Tom Riddle.
Diving into her research, she begged Professor Flitwick for a chance to witness the legendary Quill of Acceptance and the Book of Admittance in action, claiming an interest in the school's history. In reality, it was a ploy to find any trace of Tom Riddle among Hogwarts' records. Sure enough, she found him: Tom Marvolo Riddle, officially accepted into Hogwarts in the late 1920s, although he had not been set to attend the school until 1938.
The Trophy Room proved to be another trove of information. Hermione had spent hours squinting at the gleaming plaques and awards lining the shelves, her heart racing when she finally spotted his name. Tom Riddle, Head Boy, 1944. His name was engraved on a Medal for Magical Merit—an honour so prestigious, it was only awarded to students of the very highest calibre.
This discovery left her puzzled. Why would someone so accomplished, someone who had clearly been at the top of their class, bother with a schoolgirl like her? Was this diary a way for an old man to reminisce about his glory days? Or was there perhaps something more sinister at play?
As the day drew on, her questions only multiplied. She needed answers. That evening, after the last class, Hermione slipped away to her favourite corner of the library, hidden among the towering shelves. The usually bustling library had fallen quiet as the night grew darker, students trickling out to make curfew. Only the soft rustle of parchment and the occasional flicker of candlelight remained, casting long shadows across the time-battered tomes.
Hermione sat alone at a small table, the flickering candle casting a warm glow on her determined face. The library seemed to breathe around her, the whispers of turning pages and distant footsteps the only sounds in the vast, dim space. She opened the diary once more, her quill poised above the blank page, her heart pounding in her chest.
Taking a deep breath, she wrote:
Hello, Tom.
The ink vanished into the parchment as if it had been swallowed. Hermione's heart thudded in her chest as she waited, the silence of the library pressing in around her. Then, the ink began to reappear, curling into elegant letters.
Hello, Pansy. How did you come by my diary, again?
Hermione’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected it to remember their last conversation. She hesitated, biting her lip. Should she admit she had no idea how the book had come to her? Or would that seem suspicious?
I don’t know, she wrote, her handwriting shakier than she intended. It randomly appeared in my bag.
There was a pause. Then, the ink flowed back onto the page.
I see. I suppose you’ve been doing research on me, haven’t you? Trying to uncover the truth?
Hermione hesitated, then decided to be honest. I have. And I found quite a lot. You won a Medal for Magical Merit, became Head Boy… you must have been quite talented.
There was only a brief pause before the reply appeared. What year is it exactly? I only remember up until my fifth year, so I assume it’s not 1943?
Hermione’s eyes widened. It’s 1992. How does the magic on this book work? Are you like a portrait, only an imitation? Because I already cast the Betracht Charm on you, and it didn’t react when it should have if you were similar to a portrait.
I’m not a portrait, the diary responded swiftly. I’m a complex creation far beyond a mere reflection. Consider me more like the Sorting Hat, able to learn new information and interact with it in varied ways depending on the circumstances.
Hermione’s curiosity flared. And how did a schoolboy enchant an object on the level of the Sorting Hat? I know you’re talented, but that seems a bit ridiculous.
It isn’t ridiculous at all. I’ve always been quite skilled with magic, you see. I even scored beyond the scale in my first year Charms final exam—as well as in all my other subjects.
Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. Such an achievement was nothing short of legendary. According to Hogwarts: A History , only the most exceptional students received such honours, demonstrating not just mastery over their coursework but also advanced, extracurricular magical prowess.
Throughout the rest of the evening, Hermione conversed with the diary, even as the library grew emptier. When a sneering older Slytherin tried to trip her on her way back to the common room, she casually cast a Softening Charm on the floor, cushioning her fall without missing a beat in her conversation with Riddle. The diary was turning out to be more than just a clever enchantment; it was, without a doubt, the most knowledgeable conversational partner she’d ever had—even more so than Percy Weasley.
The conversation turned to academic matters, and Hermione found herself swept into a deep discussion on the theory behind the Back-and-Forth Charm, which was their first foray into animation in Charms class. Riddle’s explanations were insightful, challenging her in ways even her professors hadn’t managed. For once, she felt intellectually matched.
You are truly the most intelligent first year I've ever met. Your knowledge and understanding of Quillile's Component was astounding, and I thought you caught on to Ngobean enchantments quicker than even I did. The question is, why are you writing in a random diary instead of already being crowned queen of Ravenclaw?
Hermione rolled her eyes at the obvious flattery, but she couldn't help the slight quirk of her lips.
I'm not a Ravenclaw. I'm a Slytherin. Anyway, do you have any good book recommendations for deeper theory on the Ngobean enchantments or some primers on triggered transfigurations?
I know Parkinsons mainly are Slytherins, but I thought you'd be the exception. I'm a Slytherin myself though, so I suppose those of great intellect can be found in any House. What did the Sorting Hat tell you, then? It told me I had a hunger for greatness that would propel me further than the Ravenclaw-like love for all knowledge would. As for your request, these may be out of date, but Duval's Philosophy of Imbuement series and Triggered Transformations by Edward Spunkle are good reads for a student on your level.
Hermione hesitated, recalling the Sorting Hat's words to her, before answering. I told the Sorting Hat I wanted to be just like Dumbledore, so no one would question my strength or intellect. It quickly determined I wasn't humble or patient enough for Hufflepuff, and too ambitious for Gryffindor or Ravenclaw.
The diary took only a second to begin its response. You wanted to be like Dumbledore? Aren't Parkinsons usually against his politics? And besides, isn't he just a schoolteacher in the end - albeit an extremely powerful one? Why not look up to any other professor?
Hermione frowned deeply. She knew which politics Riddle was speaking about. I wanted to have his power, not his politics. After all, the only wizard more powerful than him was You-Know-Who, but he's dead. And Dumbledore isn't just any schoolteacher- he's the Headmaster, the Supreme Mugwump, and the Chief Warlock.
No, I don't know who. Are you talking about Grindelwald? When was he defeated?
Hermione sighed. She wanted to use the diary as a tutor, not as a friend. Befriending a literal book was a tad too desperate, even for her. I'm talking about Voldemort. Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald ages ago, in 1945. That's why he's so politically powerful now.
Who defeated Voldemort?
An infant named Harry Potter, on October 31, 1981. Hermione wrote, giggling at how ridiculous that must seem to Riddle. He's in my year, actually, although we don't get along very well. I thought we did, but after I helped him and his friend, Ron, in Transfiguration class, I overheard them gossipping about me. Funnily enough, it’d been Hallowe’en then, too.
Hermione waited for the diary's reaction, eager to read his undoubtedly surprised thoughts on the vanquisher of the Dark Lord. But, to her surprise, there was no response, even after a few minutes. After a while, Hermione set the diary down, focusing on homework instead.
But as she waited for his reaction, the pages remained blank. Frowning, she set the diary aside and turned to her Charms essay, expecting the reply to appear any moment.
When she finally glanced back, every page of the diary was as blank as it had been when she first found it.
The weeks following her altercation with Malfoy had been nothing short of miserable for Hermione. The Slytherins, still incensed by her audacity in standing up to their golden boy, had made it their mission to make her life at Hogwarts a living nightmare. Pansy Parkinson led the charge, ensuring Hermione was the target of cruel jinxes, whispered taunts, and nasty tricks at every turn. The girls in her dormitory had taken to jinxing her belongings, or even outright snatching them away. In the common room, there was no respite—her attempts to study were often interrupted by hexes that sent her books flying or parchment shredding itself to bits.
But amidst the chaos, Hermione had found an unlikely ally: Tom Riddle’s enchanted diary. The mysterious book, which had appeared in her bag without explanation, quickly became her refuge. At first, she had approached it with caution, wary of its strange magic. But soon, it became a constant in her life, a friend who was always there to listen, to guide, and most importantly, to understand.
Almost every free moment was spent with the diary in her lap, her quill darting across its pages as she wrote to Tom. When she wasn’t in the library pouring over advanced spellwork or dodging the cruel barbs of her Slytherin housemates, she could be found tucked away in a secluded corner of the castle, eagerly writing her thoughts, questions, and discoveries to the mysterious boy from the past.
Tom was everything her peers were not: patient, encouraging, and endlessly complimentary. He never mocked her for her eagerness to learn, never belittled her for asking questions. Instead, he praised her intellect, often marvelling at how quickly she grasped complex magical theories.
You're incredibly bright, Pansy, he wrote one evening after Hermione had successfully disseminated a few particularly tricky magical formulae he’d set for her. I’ve never met someone so young who has such a grasp on the intricacies of magic. You’re a rare talent, truly.
Hermione couldn’t help but blush at his words, even if she knew they were just ink on a page. It felt silly, forming a connection with a diary, but Tom’s praise was intoxicating. He liked her for her brains, for her ambition, for the qualities that her housemates derided. Where they saw a know-it-all, Tom saw brilliance. What they tore down, he uplifted.
And he taught her so much. With Tom Riddle’s guidance, Hermione wasn’t just getting ahead of next year’s coursework; she was delving into a depth of magical theory that she hadn’t even known existed. It was as if a door had been opened to a new realm of possibilities, a deeper understanding that eluded even the brightest students in her year. Tom’s explanations were always so precise, so insightful. They went beyond what was in her textbooks, taking her understanding to a whole new level. Take the Fire-Making Charm, for example:
I don’t know why I have so much trouble with Incendio, she had written to him one evening, frustrated after a practice session. I can cast it, but not nearly as well as with all my other spells. What am I missing?
Ah, the Fire-Making Charm, came his elegant, flowing response. The trick isn’t just in the wand movement or the incantation, but in understanding fire’s nature. What do you know of it?
Fire is the element of change, Hermione easily responded. It is symbolic of flux, as the basic stuff which changes or moves the most. Fire is the force of motion and will, and thus is the force invoked when trying to give objects life (or at least a semblance of it), which is why the element of fire is called upon in all animation charms.
Iffire is the element of change, then why does transfiguration not call upon its power, then?
Hermione bit her lip, confused for once. Well, I suppose…transfiguration doesn’t call upon any of the classical elements, does it? That’s why one need not summon up any particular emotion or mindset for each transfiguration - besides a great deal of will and concentration, of course. The only power it relies upon is that of the non-being - the realm of concepts and ideals, which perpetually yields fresh materials from which everything we can perceive is derived.
So, then, what is fire?
Fire is its physical manifestation, isn’t it? questioned Hermione eagerly, her quill scratching upon the pages with a fury. The ideal world is the substratum for the natural world, each one of its ideals corresponding to a variety of physical objects; why wouldn’t there be a physical reflection of the ideal world itself?
There was a pause in which the ink on the page shimmered and faded, as if Tom were considering her words. Then, his handwriting reappeared, elegant and steady as ever:
An excellent deduction, Pansy. You see, the Fire-Making Charm does not merely conjure flames; it draws upon the very essence of the ideal of change itself. That’s why it’s more than just a simple spell. Now, let’s look at its spell model again, and you’ll understand why the flames wavered for you before.
With his patient guidance, Tom walked her through the intricate nuances of the spell, explaining how it tapped into the elemental magic connected to the realm of ideals, rather than just summoning physical fire. By the time their conversation ended, Hermione felt as if a fog had been lifted from her understanding. She practised it the very next day, and the results were astounding. Her flames were no longer unpredictable; they were controlled, precise, a testament to her newfound mastery.
As the days passed, Hermione found herself more and more drawn to the diary. It was becoming a habit, almost like a ritual. Every spare moment she had—between classes, during meals, or late into the night after curfew—she would write to Tom. At first, it had felt strange, almost embarrassing to pour out her thoughts and questions to a book, even one that responded so thoughtfully. But Tom was different. He was not like her peers, who mocked her for her thirst for knowledge or dismissed her as a know-it-all.
Tom was genuinely interested in her studies, in her theories, and most surprisingly, in her .
You're truly exceptional, Pansy, he had written one afternoon after she had explained her latest theory on the properties of enchanted ink. You have a mind that many older wizards would envy. I suspect you’re destined for greatness, far beyond the confines of this school.
She had blushed at his words, her heart swelling with pride. It felt good—no, it felt incredible —to be appreciated for her intellect, to be seen as something more than just the ‘Mudblood’ her Slytherin housemates cruelly branded her as. Where Malfoy and his gang sought to tear her down, Tom was there to build her up, to encourage her to reach new heights.
Their conversations were not just about magic. They talked about everything from the complexities of wizarding history to the ethics of certain spells. Sometimes, Tom would ask her about her day, and she found herself confessing her frustrations—the bullying from the other Slytherins, the loneliness she felt even among her classmates.
Of course, she still hadn’t told him her true identity - although she wanted to trust Tom, he still was just an object. In H ogwarts: A History , there’d been a story told - of a Squib boy, snuck in by his older wizard brother. Once he’d gotten to the Sorting, though, he’d been exposed - by none other than the Sorting Hat, Hermione could surmise. And Hermione, despite her distaste for the ratty old piece of useless headwear, didn’t really blame it; upholding its duty to Sort wizards eligible for Hogwarts into their proper Houses was the Sorting Hat’s purpose - every object enchanted with some degree of intelligence had one. But what was Tom’s?
As long as Hermione was unaware of this, she refused to share anything too personal to Tom. To his knowledge, she was Pansy Parkinson, bullied solely for her studiousness and general unlikeability, and not her Muggle-born status.
Hermione knew she shouldn’t feel guilty - this was just the smart thing to do. After all, he was just a diary, a relic of the past, not a real friend. It wouldn’t seem awfully prudent if she told an oddly intelligent enchanted object too much about herself - she’d read stories, of true names, of curses, and of so much more. But his words were so comforting, so affirming, that she found herself relying on them more and more. With Tom’s encouragement, she began to hold her head higher, to push herself even harder in her studies. Tom was - without doubt - the closest thing she’d ever had to a friend, even if he was just made of ink and parchment.
In Charms class, Hermione and Tracey Davis sat at the back, their heads bent close together. They were supposed to be practising the Fire-Making Charm, but instead, they were whispering furiously, trying to strategize their next move against the Slytherins who were making their lives miserable.
"We need to be smart about this," Hermione muttered, her brow furrowed in concentration. "We can't just hex everyone who looks at us funny. We need leverage, something to make them back off for good."
Tracey smirked, clearly enjoying this game more than Hermione had hoped. “Leverage, huh? Well, I’ve got plenty of dirt on our dear housemates. Did you know that Nott’s been cheating on his Charms assignments? Or that Calix Parkinson is - allegedly - cheating on Hall with Way? And, oh! Elaine Hislop’s parents almost disowned her when they found out she was—”
"I don't care who's cheating or who's shagging who!" Hermione snapped, cutting Tracey off. "I just want them to leave me alone. We need something that will actually make a difference, not schoolyard gossip."
Tracey rolled her eyes, her tone turning slightly mocking. “Well, excuse me for trying to help. If you want something that’ll really make them squirm, we’ll need to dig deeper. Everyone has secrets, Granger. Just because yours may not be terribly interesting doesn’t mean that others’ aren’t.”
Hermione shot Tracey a glare, but before she could retort, Professor Flitwick trotted over, his face the picture of cheerful reproach. “Miss Granger, Miss Davis! If you’re quite finished chatting, perhaps you could join the rest of us in actually performing the Fire-Making Charm?”
Both girls hastily picked up their wands. For Hermione, this was a trivial exercise. She’d mastered Incendio ages ago, and with Tom’s help, she had gone far beyond the basics. Tom had pushed her to explore every aspect of fire magic—the Fireball Charm, the Coloured-Flames Charm, even the notoriously difficult Firestorm Charm. She had practised them all obsessively, driven by a need to prove herself and to unlock the deeper secrets Tom hinted at in his guidance.
Now, Hermione was able to twist and manipulate fire magic in ways that most adult wizards would find astonishing. It wasn’t just about casting the spell; it was about understanding its very essence, the elemental power it drew upon.
With a deep breath, Hermione focused her mind. She needed to summon both the warmth of a hearth and the untamed fury of a wildfire, a delicate balance that required both control and raw emotion. She gave her wand a precise flick, muttering the incantation under her breath.
" Incendio. "
An enormous ball of violet flames erupted from the tip of her wand, hanging in mid-air like a miniature sun. The fire twisted and warped, coalescing into a humanoid figure that hovered for a moment before breaking apart with another flick of her wand. Hermione wasn’t finished. A sliver of the violet flames leapt off and expanded rapidly, rushing across the room in a controlled wave. The enchanted flames enveloped a desk, which let out a high-pitched, almost comical scream, but did not burn.
Hermione had willed the flames to be harmless, and they obeyed her command, dissipating into harmless wisps of smoke that left the desk untouched.
Professor Flitwick’s eyes sparkled with amazement as he clapped his hands together. “Marvellous showing as usual, Miss Granger! Ten points to Slytherin! And truly, it would have been thirty if it’d been any other student!”
Tracey leaned in, her voice a low whisper. “You know, not everyone has to be dazzled by your little tricks. You’re not exactly winning any friends with that.”
Hermione shot her a sharp look, annoyance flickering in her eyes. “I’m not trying to win friends, Tracey. I’m trying to make sure I’m not at the mercy of a bunch of arrogant purebloods.”
Tracey shrugged, turning away with a sigh. “Whatever you say. But if you keep this up, you’re going to find yourself as alone as ever. Nobody likes a know-it-all, you know.”
Hermione bristled at the comment but said nothing, turning her attention back to her notes. She didn’t need Tracey’s approval. She didn’t need anyone’s approval, really. Tom was the only one who understood her, who truly appreciated her brilliance.
Tom! Hermione had never had such a lapse of judgement ever before, at least in her memory; All this time, she could’ve just written to Tom! Tom would have ideas—he always did.
That evening, the frustration from her conversation with Tracey still simmering beneath the surface, Hermione sought solace in the one being who truly understood her. Hidden away in an unused classroom, she fished Tom’s diary out of her bag and flipped it open, her quill poised to write.
Hello, Tom.
Hello, Pansy, the elegant script appeared almost instantly, comforting in its familiarity.
Hermione hesitated for a moment, then scribbled quickly. I want you to tell me how you dealt with bullies.
For a moment, the page remained blank, as if Tom were contemplating her question. Then, the words began to form, smooth and confident. A Parkinson’s getting bullied? Back in my day, Slytherin would have never stood for this! Who's doing this to you?
Hermione felt a small thrill at his protective tone. Many are. I suppose I'm a bit too much of a know-it-all, and that Granger girl loves to stoke the fires.
The diary absorbed her words, the ink disappearing as if being swallowed by the page. There was a pause, longer than usual, and Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. But finally, the elegant script returned. Why do you think I got bullied?
Hermione's quill hovered uncertainly. You're a Muggle-born, aren't you? Tom Riddle isn't exactly a common name for a wizard. You bought this diary from a store on Vauxhall Road in London, which doesn’t exactly scream pureblood heritage. Perhaps you're a half-blood, but even then, you'd face some resistance in Slytherin. And I doubt someone like you would ever allow that.
The diary responded almost immediately, the ink blotting slightly as if written with a more forceful hand. I could show you, if you like. I can take you into my memories.
Hermione gasped, her quill clattering to the floor. Take me into your memories? What do you mean?
I can show you the past. You would see it through my eyes, the diary promised, the ink taking on a darker hue, almost gleaming on the page. Would you like that, Hermione?
Her mind raced. This was magic far beyond anything she had ever read about. Despite the small voice in her head warning her to be cautious, curiosity overwhelmed her. She picked up her quill with a trembling hand and wrote back: I'd love that.
Suddenly the diary pages started rapidly turning, as if blown in the wind, until quickly stopping at a page marked with September dates. The square for October 23 looked as if it was a miniature television screen. She picked up the book, looking closer at the square, but she was suddenly pitched into it. A maelstrom of colours surrounded her while she fell, not knowing where she was going or what was happening.
Her feet hit steady ground, and she nearly collapsed with relief. Shakily looking around, it appeared to be..her dorm? There were the same bed arrangements, the same decorations, although looking closer, it was both less feminine and gaudy. The flowery smell that always pervaded throughout her room was absent, replaced with a somewhat foul odour Hermione couldn't recognize. There were different posters on the walls as well- instead of Greengrass' Knockturn Boyz and Davis' Witch Weekly cutouts and collages, there were only Quidditch banners and one imposing poster of a blond, square-jawed man with piercing blue eyes giving an impassioned speech to a crowd of adoring followers, their wands raised and lit in agreement.
This was the Slytherin boys' dorm.
Just as Hermione was about to hurriedly leave, the dormitory door burst open, and a group of boys spilled into the room, laughing and jeering. Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat. She darted behind one of the beds, shrinking down as much as she could. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she peeked out from her hiding spot.
A lanky blond boy, his face - which bore a startling resemblance to Draco Malfoy’s own - twisted into a sneer, strode toward her hiding place. “Nott!” he called out, turning to a dark-haired boy behind him. “Did you see that pathetic mudblood trying to find his things? Absolutely priceless!”
The boy came so close that Hermione could see the freckles on his nose. Instinctively, she lashed out with her foot, trying to trip him, but her leg passed right through him like he was made of smoke. She gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. The boy hadn’t noticed her at all.
She truly was in Tom’s memories.
The boys continued to talk, completely oblivious to her presence. They were laughing about someone — a boy they called “the mudblood”. About how they messed with his stuff, how they tripped him down the steps, made him perform menial tasks for them…
Although she knew it was about Tom Riddle, it felt as if they were talking about Hermione herself.
The curtains around the bed nearest to the exit (just like hers, Hermione noted) were suddenly flung open, revealing a dark-haired boy. He was tall and handsome, with pale porcelain skin, neatly-styled ink-black hair, long eyelashes, and eyes so dark they almost appeared to be pure black. A sigh escaped Hermione without her notice. Without her bushy hair and buck teeth, it would be hard to remember Hermione's appearance much. She wasn't horrible-looking, just very plain and forgettable - as if every little girl in Britain were mashed together into one. Although it was shallow, she was somewhat irritated that Riddle was so much more beautiful in comparison.
The beautiful boy glared at the other Slytherins, anger marring his features. "Don't call me 'the mudblood'. I have a name, and you all will use it. Tom Riddle."
The blond boy from earlier, clearly a young Malfoy, sneered back. “Tom Riddle? Such a filthy, common name. Don’t you agree, Avery?”
The red-haired boy next to him nodded, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “Absolutely. ‘Mudblood’ suits him much better.”
" Creui ignis! " Riddle incanted angrily, and Hermione gasped. It was the Firestorm Charm. She had mastered it herself, but using the spell against humans? That was just barbaric.
Flames erupted around the boys, roaring to life in a swirling inferno. They shrieked in terror, casting feeble spells that did nothing to stop the blaze. Malfoy bolted for the door, tugging frantically at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Tom’s magic had sealed them in.
Tom began to smile, raising his wand once more.
“ Stop it! Stop it, please! ” Hermione screamed, waving her hands in desperation. But no one heard her. She was merely a spectator, powerless to intervene.
The room tilted, the ground falling away beneath her feet, and she was flung into a whirlpool of darkness. When she landed again, it was in a trashed classroom. There were objects of all types thrown around, books in unsteady piles, and the rough stones of the walls were painted all sorts of colours. Tom was there, a bit older this time, his face set in a mask of concentration. Hermione was about to scream at him for his awful behaviour, but quickly remembered he wouldn't hear her - these were all just memories.
He tapped a wooden block with his wand, no incantation spoken, and it transformed seamlessly into a gleaming sword. Another flick, and the sword became a marble bust, a perfect likeness of himself.
Hermione’s breath hitched. She had seen Transfiguration, but never like this — silent, wordless, and with such precision — from anyone, bar Professor McGonagall herself .
But before she could fully absorb what she was seeing, the scene dissolved, and she was thrown into yet another memory.\
The Slytherin Common Room was almost exactly as it was in modern day, Hermione immediately noticed. The second thing was that Tom Riddle, who was sitting at the prime seat near the fireplace, looked extremely different. Whereas before he had been a boy around Hermione's age, now he was a teenager, at least a fifth year judging by the golden Prefect badge fastened onto his robes. The boy had the same basic physical traits as before, but puberty had clearly favoured him. He looked almost like a sculpture, every feature so defined and perfect. He had sprouted even more in height and now his shoulders seemed to be sprouting outwards. Instinctively, Hermione started patting down her hair, not used to being in the presence of someone so pretty. Even Daphne Greengrass or Tracey Davis couldn't hold a candle to him in beauty,
A group of boys sat solemnly in a semicircle around Riddle, their postures tense and leaning forward as if hanging on his every word. The arrangement felt deliberate, a stage set for his command. Hermione squinted at their faces—familiar in a way that made her stomach churn. They looked older, rougher versions of the boys from the earlier memory.
“Malfoy!” Riddle barked, his eyes flashing dangerously. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
The blond boy—who had once scrambled to the door, terrified, when Riddle burned them—was a shadow of his former bravado. He stammered, shrinking under the weight of Riddle’s gaze. “I-I’m sorry, Riddle! It won’t happen again, I swear!”
Hermione stared, baffled. Tom had turned his childhood rivals into obedient followers. How had he done it?
“You will not attend today’s meeting,” Riddle declared coldly, his tone final. His eyes shifted toward another boy. “Nott, you’ll take over Malfoy’s duties for now.”
Nott perked up, practically vibrating with excitement, but before he could respond—
“Pansy!” Riddle’s voice softened, his lips curling into a smile. “Come here.”
Hermione froze. This was a memory. How was Tom interacting with her?
The room seemed to hold its breath as she stepped toward him, her movements slow and hesitant. “I—uh—hello, Tom,” she said awkwardly, her voice small.
Riddle’s smile widened, radiant and unnerving. “What did you think of my memories?”
“Well…” Hermione hesitated, a flash of defiance rising in her chest. “I thought the first one was awfully violent, Tom! You set them on fire!”
“I did.” He frowned faintly, as if the act had been a mild inconvenience. “But it was necessary, Pansy. Surely you understand that. You do believe me, don’t you?”
His dark eyes widened, their intensity morphing into something pleading and innocent. He looked almost vulnerable—an angel with a shadow of doubt. Hermione felt herself falter, berating her own wavering judgment. “I—of course, I believe you,” she said, voice faltering. “It’s just… I don’t think violence is very useful to me. I don’t stomach it well.”
Tom sighed, his hand brushing a lock of her wild hair. His touch was gentle, but his words held steel. “You’ll have to, Pansy. To survive in Slytherin, you need more than cleverness. You need power. And sometimes, power requires force.”
Hermione stilled, her momentary ease vanishing. “I don’t need to prove myself with blood purity, Tom,” she said sharply. “I’m bullied for other reasons.”
“Of course,” he said smoothly, waving the point away with a faint smile. “I forget myself sometimes. Still, the principle holds. Your social maneuvering has been impressive, but it won’t be enough. Not in the long term. Fear… fear can evolve into awe, and awe brings control. You’ve already taken a step by standing up to Malfoy. Now you need to show them why they should fear and follow you.”
Her heart pounded as she gripped his hand, desperate for guidance. “How, Tom? How do I make them listen?”
“With me by your side,” he said, his voice low and magnetic, “you can do anything, Pansy. You’ve seen what I’ve accomplished—how I mastered transfiguration so young, my Medal of Magical Merit, the enchanted artifact I created before seventeen. Together, we could surpass even that. I can teach you everything.”
Hermione’s eyes locked onto his, the depth of their darkness drawing her in. A vision of herself surfaced—powerful, untouchable, with the Slytherins vying for her approval. She hated the thought of violence, but if it was necessary...
“Alright, Tom,” she breathed, still trembling but resolute. “I want to learn. Teach me how to rise. Teach me to be powerful.”
Tom’s grip on her hand tightened, a triumphant gleam in his gaze. “That’s my Pansy. Together, we’ll make them see—I promise.”