Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hermione stepped into the Great Hall, her eyes briefly scanning the familiar walls and enchanted ceiling. Memories of her past life—of friendships, laughter, and pain—flashed like lightning behind her eyes. She steadied herself, forcing her emotions under control. She couldn't afford to falter now.

At the High Table, Headmaster Dippet rose to his feet and cleared his throat. His voice carried across the hall with its usual commanding authority.
"As of today, we welcome a new transfer student. Please extend your courtesy to Miss Hermione Vicetamore."

Dozens of eyes turned toward her as she walked forward, every step measured, every breath deliberate. The Sorting Hat was placed gently on her head, and at once, a voice whispered in her mind.

"Reincarnation? Interesting... I haven't seen such a soul in centuries. You carry wisdom far beyond your years—and shadows, too. Yes, I see ambition, discipline, a hunger for truth. You will do well where serpents thrive."

Before she could argue, the Hat shouted aloud,
"SLYTHERIN!"

The Slytherin table erupted in polite applause, though a few students only clapped out of habit. Hermione removed the Hat and moved to sit at the long, emerald-draped table.

Her gaze flicked across the table and froze.

Tom Riddle.

He was watching her with sharp, calculating curiosity. His dark eyes lingered on her as though trying to peel back her layers, to uncover what made her unusual. Yet there was no recognition in them—not of her soul, not of who she had once been to him.

That absence cut deeper than she expected. A sharp pain gripped her chest, but she forced her face into calm indifference.

As she sat, she caught the faintest sneer from a girl across the table—Walburga Black.

Walburga leaned closer to her friend and whispered just loud enough for Hermione to hear, "Of course he looks at her. Tom always notices the odd ones. But it won't last."

Hermione arched a brow, her tone cool and unbothered.
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, Miss Black. Careful—it shows."

Walburga's cheeks flushed, her eyes narrowing like daggers.
"Don't presume you know anything about me," she hissed.

Tom, however, smirked faintly, his gaze darting between the two girls.
"Now, now. No claws at the dinner table," he drawled smoothly. Then, turning to Hermione, his voice dropped with a soft intrigue. "Vicetamore, is it? I don't recall hearing that name before."

Hermione met his eyes steadily, her voice calm, even as her heart ached.
"Perhaps because it isn't meant to be easily remembered."

His lips curved into the faintest smile, as though her answer amused him.
"Mysterious," he said quietly. "I like that."

Walburga's scowl deepened.

Hermione looked away, her expression serene. But inside, the ache of his unknowing burned. He didn't recognize her—not yet.

And that hurt more than anything.

❖

Professor Slughorn waddled toward them, his round face shining with good-natured cheer as he handed Hermione a neatly folded piece of parchment.

"Ah, Miss Vicetamore, here's your class schedule," he said warmly, his mustache twitching as he smiled. "You'll do just fine here, I'm certain of it. Now, Hogwarts can be a rather confusing place for new students—staircases that like to move, doors that don't open unless you tickle them in just the right spot..."

Hermione gave a polite nod, though her grip on the parchment tightened.

Slughorn's gaze shifted to the tall boy standing beside her.

"Tom, my boy," he said with a chuckle, "why don't you give Miss Vicetamore a proper tour? You know these halls better than anyone."

Tom inclined his head smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Of course, Professor. It would be my pleasure."

Slughorn beamed. "Splendid! I'll leave you to it, then." With that, the professor bustled off, humming under his breath.

For a moment, Hermione and Tom stood in silence, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her.

"So," Tom said at last, voice low and deliberate, "Miss Vicetamore... shall we?" He gestured toward the towering doors that led deeper into the castle.

Hermione drew in a steadying breath, forcing her emotions under control. "Lead the way, Riddle."

From across the hall, Walburga's eyes followed them, her expression darkening as she muttered under her breath, "Of course he'd be the one to show her around..."

Hermione rose, her hands tightening around the parchment as she followed him out of the Great Hall. The moment the doors closed behind them, the murmur of voices fading, her chest tightened. The silence between them was heavy, aching with memories only she carried.

Tom finally broke it.
"So. Durmstrang." His tone was smooth, detached, but curiosity edged each syllable. "Not many transfer out of there. Why come here for your final years?"

Hermione forced her face into composure. "Circumstances changed. My family thought Hogwarts was... better for me now."

He glanced at her sidelong, eyes sharp and assessing. "You speak as though this is familiar to you. As though you already know these halls."

Her heart clenched. Of course I do. I dreamed of them with you when we were children. Instead she only said, "I adapt quickly."

They reached the base of a staircase. Tom stopped, studying her face with unnerving precision. "There's something about you... You feel familiar, and yet I can't place it."

Hermione's breath caught. She wanted to scream, It's me, Tom. Don't you remember? The girl you shared secrets with in the orphanage? The one who sat with you when you thought no one else cared?

Instead, she met his eyes, her voice steady despite the sharp pain in her chest.
"Perhaps you're simply imagining it."

For a moment, his gaze softened, almost thoughtful, almost as if a buried memory stirred. Then his expression shuttered, replaced with his usual smirk.
"Imagination or not, I find you... intriguing, Miss Vicetamore. Not many manage that."

From a distance, Walburga's eyes narrowed, jealousy flashing hot. To her, Tom's attention was precious, and the new girl's calm poise was an unwelcome threat.

❖

Tom led her through the stone corridors, his stride confident, his words clipped and precise as he explained the castle.
"The dungeons are where Potions lessons are held. You'll want to be early—Slughorn favors punctuality. The library is up on the fourth floor. The Restricted Section requires permission, but... rules bend if you know how to bend them."

Hermione listened, but her mind wandered. Every flicker of his hand, every inflection in his voice, every sharp tilt of his head—it was all so achingly familiar. The boy walking beside her wasn't just Tom Riddle, prefect of Slytherin. He was the boy who used to sit on the orphanage steps with her, whispering dreams of escape. The boy who, at nine years old, had told her in a rare moment of softness, "If you leave me, I'll have no one."

Now he walked as if those years had never happened.

"Is something wrong?" Tom asked suddenly, noticing her silence.

Hermione forced a small smile. "No. Just... taking it all in."

He studied her, eyes dark and unreadable. For a second—just a second—something flickered there, like a shadow of recognition. But then it was gone. He turned away smoothly, continuing the tour.

"You'll find Hogwarts is not as... forgiving as Durmstrang. People here watch. They talk. They pry. If you value your secrets, guard them well."

Hermione's hands curled into fists at her sides. Secrets. He speaks of them as if he hadn't once poured all of his into my ears. As if I don't still carry them, like scars.

She said only, "I'll keep that in mind."

Tom smirked faintly, glancing back at her. "Good. You'll need to, Miss Vicetamore."

Behind them, unseen, Walburga trailed at a distance, her jealousy sharpening with every step Tom took beside the new girl.

They had reached the entrance to the library when Hermione slowed her steps, watching him carefully. She couldn't stop herself—the question slipped out before she could tame it.

"Where do you live in the summers, Tom?"

He glanced at her, expression smooth as glass. "With a foster family. They're... adequate."

Hermione's chest tightened. That wasn't true. She knew the truth—the dingy walls of Wool's Orphanage, the cracked windows, the way the matron barked at them both. She remembered sitting with him under the single dying tree in the courtyard, their shoulders pressed together as they plotted escapes into worlds of magic.

Her voice wavered, just slightly. "And before that? Which orphanage was it?"

Tom's gaze didn't flicker. His answer came cool, effortless.
"St. Bartholomew's Home for Boys. A wretched place."

The lie stabbed into her like a blade. No. That's not where you were. You were at Wool's. With me.

She forced her expression to remain neutral, though her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her bag. "I see."

Tom arched a brow, almost amused by her scrutiny. "Why the sudden interest in my childhood?"

Hermione swallowed down the truth—the years of shared loneliness, the nights spent whispering secrets in the dark, the bond they'd forged that he had somehow forgotten. Instead, she gave him a calm, practiced smile.
"Just curious. Everyone has a past."

He studied her in silence for a moment longer, his dark eyes unreadable, then smirked faintly.
"Yes. But not everyone's past is worth telling."

Hermione turned her face away, hiding the storm of emotions threatening to crack her composure. To him, the past was a shadow he denied. To her, it was the very thing that bound them.

Hermione's steps slowed, her thoughts spinning. A foster family? St. Bartholomew's? None of this fit.

In her other life, Harry had told her clearly: Tom Riddle grew up in Wool's Orphanage. He never had foster parents. He never left. That was where Dumbledore had first found him, where he had first revealed his magic. That was the story. That was the truth.

So why was Tom Riddle standing here, calmly telling her otherwise?

Her chest tightened painfully. This isn't right. He was supposed to stay at Wool's. He was supposed to be there with me. Why... why did it change?

"Strange," she said softly, masking the shake in her voice. "I'd have thought you were the kind of person who wouldn't let others decide your fate—foster family or not."

Tom's lips quirked in the faintest smirk, though his eyes were sharp. "You assume much, Miss Vicetamore. Not every cage is worth fighting to stay in. Some are better left forgotten."

Hermione looked down, her heart aching. But we shared that cage. And I never forgot.

As they resumed walking, her mind churned. Did Dumbledore do this? Did someone change his past? Or did my presence—the me from another life—alter everything when I was sent away to Durmstrang?

One thing was clear: Tom Riddle's life was not as Harry had described. Something—or someone—had shifted his path. And Hermione intended to find out who, and why.

❖

Later that night, Hermione lay in her dormitory, the flickering moonlight casting pale shadows across the walls. Her fingers traced the edge of her book, but she wasn't reading. Her mind refused to focus. All she could think about was him—Tom.

The boy she had known. The boy who had once been her closest friend in the orphanage. And now... this stranger, this boy who called himself her friend yet spoke of foster families and St. Bartholomew's.

None of this makes sense, she whispered, her voice trembling. He was supposed to stay at Wool's. We grew up together there. How... how did this change?

Her mind drifted back to Harry, her other life. The stories he had told her about Tom Riddle—the lonely orphanage, the nights spent whispering to himself, the moments when he first discovered his power. Every detail she remembered clashed with the boy in front of her now.

Did someone... interfere? she murmured.

Hermione hugged her knees closer to her chest, the mattress creaking beneath her. She thought of Dippet, who had told her that he personally ensured she received her Hogwarts letter. If he hadn't said that... she paused. I never would have suspected Dumbledore. I would have just thought it was an oversight. But now... the pieces don't fit. My letter never came. He knows why. He's involved.

Her voice dropped to a near whisper, eyes scanning the shadows in the room. He knew about Tom. He knew what he could become. Maybe he changed where Tom lived... made him forget... twisted his past to control him. Was it really for our safety—or for his own agenda?

She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. And if that's true... what else did he lie about? My Hogwarts letter, my mother... everything?

A cold determination settled over her. I won't confront him—not yet. Not until I know more. I need proof. I need understanding. Every move, every secret, every lie... I'll uncover it. And when the time comes, I'll act.

Hermione pressed her forehead against the pillow, letting the moonlight wash over her. Silence filled the room, but inside her, thoughts churned like a storm. She wasn't powerless. She never had been. And now, more than ever, she had a reason to fight—not just for herself, but for the truth.