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Chapter Text

Hermione ran—ran as fast as she could, fleeing from the Death Eaters. It had all become too much. Ron had died saving her from Nagini. Harry was locked in a desperate duel with Voldemort, but he was losing—badly. She had lost so many friends, so many people she loved: Tonks, Remus, Fred, Ron, Neville, Sirius, Kingsley, Moody, Cedric, Seamus... and countless others. The war had taken nearly everything from her.

Hermione narrowly dodged the deadly spells hurled in her direction. She was badly injured—critically, even—but she kept moving. As she sprinted down a crumbling staircase, her foot caught, and she fell hard. Pain shot through her leg, but she forced herself up. Her arm throbbed where the "Mudblood" scar still burned, but she didn't have time to care. She couldn't afford to slow down. She needed a plan. She couldn't die—not yet.

She stumbled upon the Headmaster's office, her heart pounding with a flicker of hope. Just as she reached for the door, a sudden force blasted her backward. She was thrown through the air, slamming into the stone wall behind her. Pain exploded in her skull as blood began to trickle down her scalp. Gritting her teeth, she winced—but forced herself to lift her head and look forward.

It was Bellatrix Lestrange—née Black. The deranged, sadistic woman who had once tortured Hermione and carved that lifelong scar into her skin. The sight of her sent a fresh wave of fear and fury through Hermione's battered body.

"Well, well... look who it is—the filthy little Mudblood, skulking around like a rat," Bellatrix sneered, eyes wild with glee. "Tell me, why did you break into my vault? What did you steal, hmm? Didn't learn your lesson the first time, did you, Mudblood?"

"No, I didn't break in, and I didn't steal anything," Hermione said flatly—a lie, but one she delivered without hesitation.

"You're lying, Mudblood! CRUTIO!!" roared the insane woman, her eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.

Hermione screamed in agony, her body feeling as if it were being torn apart from the inside. The pain was unbearable—worse than she remembered. In that moment, she would've welcomed death over enduring the Cruciatus Curse a second time.

When the curse finally lifted, Hermione summoned every ounce of strength she had left. Too weak to raise her wand, she cast spell after spell wandlessly, driven by sheer desperation and pain. Her arm was limp, her body screaming—but her will refused to break.

"You should die for what you've done bitch—PROTEGO!!" Hermione cried out, her voice hoarse with rage and pain. But her shield faltered, weak and unstable. She was struggling—failing—and she knew it.

She remembered a spell she had once found in the Black Library at Number 12, Grimmauld Place—a spell that allowed the caster to travel back in time to escape danger. What she hadn't known then was how perilous the spell truly was; it often ended in death for those who tried it. And she had no idea which time period it would send her to.

"Tempus Revertum, Facta Corrigenda, Iterum Vita Rescribenda," Hermione whispered, her voice trembling. But before the spell could fully take hold, a curse struck her chest, and she struggled to breathe. Her head spun and throbbed painfully as the world around her began to collapse into darkness. Everything went black.

❖

Hermione could feel her breath coming easier—no longer burdened by pain, though her tiny body still felt weak. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The surroundings were blurred, and a bright, golden light nearly blinded her. Faint, muffled voices reached her ears, distant and indistinct.

"She's so beautiful, my love," a man whispered softly, his voice tender but wary.

"Indeed, she is," a woman replied. "But we need to protect her from him. We can't let him know she's your daughter."

Questions swirled in Hermione's mind: Who was he? Why was he a danger? And who were these people?

"She's... strange," the woman said quietly, almost to herself. "Newborns usually cry—why isn't she crying?"

Then, suddenly, realization struck Hermione like a spark. She had been given a second chance. She was... 

REINCARNATED!!!

She could hear the couple—her parents—whispering things she couldn't quite make out. Words like door, alert, dark floated faintly through the haze, hints of a dangerous world she was now part of.

"Emily, we should keep your maiden name for her," the man—her father—said quietly, a note of urgency in his voice. "We both know she won't be safe if I give her my last name."

Emily's voice was firm yet gentle. "Let's go to Gringotts. The goblins can help us. They'll make sure she's protected."

Gringotts? Hermione's small mind struggled to comprehend. Her new parents were wizards—this time, she wasn't a Muggleborn.

"We'll name her Hermione Vicetamore," her mother whispered softly, brushing a lock of hair from her tiny forehead.

The irony made Hermione giggle quietly—reborn into another timeline, yet her name remained the same. Her parents smiled when they heard her laughter.

"Sunshine, look how cute she is!" her father cooed, lifting her gently into his arms. He tickled her tiny sides, and her laughter filled the room like a warm breeze.

For the first time, Hermione felt truly happy, embraced in the safety and love of her new parents. But shadows lingered just beyond the light. She didn't know yet that this fragile happiness would soon be tested, and the world she had been born into this time carried dangers far greater than she could imagine.

❖

Hermione watched as her parents approached the towering, ornate entrance of Gringotts. The gleaming white marble and intricate carvings reflected the sun, giving the fortress an almost otherworldly glow—a place of magic, wealth, and whispered secrets. As they stepped inside, the cool air carried the scent of ancient stone and old enchantments, making Hermione shiver with a mixture of awe and unease.

Ahead, a group of goblins waited—small, sharp-eyed creatures with glinting silver jewelry and finely tailored garments. Their pointed features and calculating eyes assessed Hermione's parents with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

"Good day," her father said, bowing slightly. "We seek your assistance to protect our daughter."

One goblin, taller than the rest and wearing a finely crafted waistcoat, stepped forward. His eyes flickered with interest—and caution. "Protection comes at a price," he said, his voice sharp, precise, and tinged with authority. "But if your cause is just, perhaps we can find a way."

Her mother nodded firmly. "She is in grave danger. We will pay whatever is necessary."

The goblins exchanged glances, their murmurs faint but tense, before their leader inclined his head. "Very well. Let us discuss terms."

Hermione felt a curious mix of hope and unease tighten in her chest—a fragile thread of safety in a world shadowed by threats she didn't yet understand.

"Do not keep keys to her vault," her mother insisted firmly. "Let her blood be the only key."

The goblin's expression remained stoic. "Very well. But be warned—should she ever undergo an inheritance test, she will discover her true parents and identity."

Her parents nodded solemnly, acknowledging the warning without flinching.

The goblin then asked, "The father's name?"

"Jake Vicetamore," her mother replied smoothly, her voice calm and practiced.

Hermione's mind raced. She sensed the deception—both her parents were carefully hiding their true identities. When the goblin asked for her mother's name, her mother answered without hesitation: "Lily Vicetamore, née Williams."

Hermione made a mental note: the moment she was old enough to take her inheritance test, she would uncover the truth. Every deception her parents wove now was a layer over her real history.

The goblin scribbled the false names into a ledger, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, as if he sensed the deceit but chose to let it slide. "Very well. The protections will be bound to the Vicetamore bloodline. No one outside of it will gain access."

Her father exhaled slowly, a mixture of relief and lingering fear evident in his posture. "Thank you. We only want her to be safe."

As they turned to leave, Hermione felt a strange weight settle over her shoulders—a mixture of relief, hope, and a gnawing uncertainty. She was hidden. She was protected. Yet even now, her true past lay buried beneath layers of carefully constructed lies.

And she knew... one day, she would have to unearth it all.

Chapter Text

After finishing all the tasks at Gringotts, Hermione's new parents took her home. Her new father looked strikingly familiar—she felt as if she had seen his face somewhere in her future.

"Welcome home, Hermione," her father said softly, lifting her gently into his arms. "I know this is all very sudden... but we will keep you safe."

Hermione's tiny mind buzzed. She didn't yet have the words to speak, but memories flickered behind her eyes—memories of things she shouldn't know yet. She studied him intently, as if silently asking, Who are you?

Her mother, Emily, smiled and brushed a lock of hair from Hermione's forehead. "You've had a long day, little one. Let's get you settled."

Hermione wriggled slightly, her green eyes narrowing in recognition of shapes, words, and intentions she remembered from her past life. She tried to coo, to communicate her thoughts, though only faint gurgles escaped.

"You feel it too, don't you?" her father murmured, glancing down at her with a mixture of curiosity and awe. "I could swear you're... aware of more than a baby should be."

Emily chuckled softly. "Perhaps she's just clever, like her father," she teased, and her father's lips twitched into a small smile.

Hermione felt a flutter of amusement—memories of past frustrations, lessons learned, dangers faced—swimming in her tiny chest. She couldn't speak yet, but her eyes followed them, registering every gesture, every word.

"You've already seen so much," her father whispered. "I can only imagine what your little mind is holding."

Hermione tried to smile, a small curl of her lips. She didn't know why, but she wanted to reassure them—somehow. She wanted to tell them, I remember. I understand. I will be ready.

Emily leaned closer, her voice soft and melodic. "Rest now, darling. Home is safe. You're ours, and we will protect you."

Hermione's eyelids fluttered, heavy with the weight of new beginnings, but her mind lingered on fleeting images—shadows of danger, whispers of secrets, glimpses of a life she had already lived. For a moment, she let herself relax, knowing that for now, she was under their care.

And even as a baby, Hermione understood one thing: home wasn't just a place. Home was warmth, protection... and perhaps, the first step toward discovering the truth about herself.

❖

Her father cradled her gently in his arms, whispering soft reassurances meant to soothe both her and himself.

"Say 'Dad,'" he murmured, hope threading his voice, barely above a whisper.

Hermione parted her lips, straining to form the word, but no sound came out. Her voice betrayed her—her mind was fully grown, sharp and burdened with purpose, but her body remained fragile and infantile.

It was strange, being so small again, trapped in the delicate form of a newborn, while her mind carried all the weight of her previous life. She couldn't even see her real face beneath the glamour spell, cast hastily to hide her identity. Not that it mattered—for now, she would remain hidden, observing the world through wide, knowing eyes, silently waiting and planning.

Her mother—Emily—entered quietly, a soft smile on her face, radiating maternal warmth. She reached for the tiny bundle in her husband's arms, cradling Hermione against her chest as she prepared to nurse her.

For Hermione, the experience was... awkward, to say the least.

She tried to remind herself that this was natural: infants were supposed to nurse, cry, and be helpless. But knowing exactly who she was—knowing her mind, her skills, her history—made it nearly impossible to endure. And, of course, her tiny body betrayed her again. The uncomfortable warmth reminded her, yet again, that she was utterly dependent.

Moments later, her father returned, cooing softly as he cleaned her up and changed her napkin with precise, practiced ease. Hermione felt a pang of humiliation.

Utter humiliation.

What could she do? She was trapped in a body that couldn't walk, talk, or even control basic functions. A fully grown witch—once brilliant, capable, and feared by enemies—now reduced to being cleaned, cradled, and treated like a newborn.

Hermione sighed internally. Blame the baby body, she thought bitterly. And the mature mind that makes it all so unbearable.

Even so, she couldn't help but notice the love in her parents' eyes. Gellert's gaze was patient, protective, and endlessly gentle, while Emily's warmth wrapped around her like a soft cloak. It was humiliating... and strangely comforting.

She decided, somewhere deep in that sharp little mind of hers, that this—being a baby again—was temporary. One day, she would reclaim her body, her voice, her power... and everything she had lost. Until then, she would endure.

❖

Hermione lay in her crib, swaddled snugly, her green eyes wide and attentive. Every small movement her parents made was recorded in her mind with astonishing clarity. To them, she was just a curious, quiet baby—but in her head, she was taking notes.

Emily hummed softly as she adjusted the blanket. "Look at her little hands... always moving. Such energy for a newborn."

Her father chuckled, leaning over the crib. "Indeed. I think she's going to be quite the handful."

Hermione's tiny fingers curled and unclenched, not randomly, but deliberately. She reached toward her mother's face just as Emily leaned closer. Emily smiled. "Oh, she's trying to touch me! How sweet."

Hermione's lips curved into a small, knowing smile—a gesture far too purposeful for a normal baby. Emily cooed and thought it was just her little personality shining through.

When her father returned from fetching a small toy, Hermione's eyes tracked his every step. She batted at the toy with surprising precision, making it wobble just slightly so he would notice. Gellert chuckled. "She already knows how to play... clever little thing."

Hermione let out a soft, deliberate coo—longer than usual—timed perfectly to make her parents smile. Emily leaned in, whispering, "Such a happy little girl. You're going to be charming everyone in no time."

All the while, Hermione's mind was cataloging everything: the voices, the gestures, the subtle clues in their expressions. Yet to them, she was just a baby cooing, reaching, and responding normally.

Even as she yawned and closed her eyes, drifting toward sleep, her sharp mind remained alert. Every flicker of light, every sound, every movement was stored, analyzed, and remembered.

To her parents, she was just a sweet, quiet baby. To Hermione, she was already planning, observing, and waiting—her awareness hidden behind the perfect mask of infancy.

❖

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting soft patterns across the nursery. Emily hummed quietly as she prepared Hermione's breakfast—warm milk in a tiny bottle—while the man she only vaguely recognized adjusted the blankets and straightened the crib.

Hermione lay swaddled, eyes wide and alert, tracking every motion. As Emily lifted the bottle, Hermione's tiny arms shot out just in time, brushing it slightly. Emily smiled, mistaking it for an eager baby trying to reach her meal.

"You're so quick today, aren't you?" Emily cooed, laughing softly.

Hermione made a small, deliberate noise—half coo, half squeak—timed to make her mother glance at her with delight. In her mind, she cataloged every movement, every word, every subtle gesture... and silently noted that she still didn't even know this man's name.

He stepped forward, pretending to adjust the blanket, and Hermione shifted slightly, making him chuckle as he misjudged her tiny movements.

"You're already smarter than you look," he teased, thinking it was just her natural baby reflexes.

Hermione's mind hummed with quiet amusement. If only they knew, she thought, that I'm fully aware of everything... yet I don't even know your name.

When Emily lifted her to burp her, Hermione tilted her head at exactly the right moment, making the burp come out perfectly and causing both parents to laugh. They thought it was adorable timing; she thought of it as a carefully executed gesture, all while mentally labeling him as "the tall one who smells faintly of old parchment and worry."

After breakfast, he played with a small rattle, shaking it near her ears. Hermione's eyes tracked it with precision, and she batted it at exactly the right angle to make it wobble in a way that delighted him. He laughed heartily, lifting her slightly higher.

"You're going to be the cleverest little girl in the world," Emily said, hugging Hermione close.

Hermione let out a soft, satisfied coo, her tiny hands pressing gently against their chests. To them, it was a sweet, normal reaction. To her, it was an affirmation: I can plan, I can observe, I can manipulate the small details... and they'll never know. Even if I don't know your name yet.

Even as she drifted off for her morning nap, her eyes half-closed but ever alert, Hermione's mind continued to record, calculate, and prepare. A baby in body, a strategist in mind, hidden perfectly behind the innocent mask of infancy.

❖

A year passed in the blink of an eye. The days blurred into each other—nights filled with lullabies, mornings brightened by her giggles, and quiet afternoons spent reading softly to her in sun-drenched corners of the house. Hermione had grown swiftly, and though she couldn't yet walk, she had already claimed the hearts of her parents completely.

"They grow up so fast," Emily whispered one morning, brushing a curl from Hermione's forehead as the baby babbled in delight. "I can hardly believe it's been a year already."

Gellert leaned over, adjusting the blanket around her tiny shoulders. "I know. One moment she's swaddled in our arms, and the next... she's already trying to talk, to explore. It's... remarkable."

Her first word came shortly before her first birthday. They had been showing her a book with magical illustrations—beasts that leapt from the pages in harmless puffs of light. One such creature, a tiger, caught her wide-eyed attention. She reached out, babbling excitedly, and then, with a proud grin on her tiny face, declared, "Igah!"

Emily gasped and laughed. "She said something! Did you hear that? That's her first word!"

Gellert chuckled, scooping her up. "Igah, huh? Well, we'll take it! It's perfect in her own way."

It wasn't perfect—but to her parents, it was more precious than any spell ever cast. They chuckled, overwhelmed by the joy of witnessing her growth, and the simplicity of that moment carved itself into their memory forever.

When her birthday finally arrived, they decided to mark it with something more meaningful than toys or sweets. A photograph was taken—just the three of them, caught in a rare moment of peace and happiness.

Emily held Hermione gently. "Smile, darling. Say cheese!"

Hermione gurgled and waved her tiny arms. Gellert pressed the camera, and the photograph captured their laughter, their warmth, their love.

"That's it," Gellert said, holding the image close. "This moment... it's ours. Always."

The photograph was enchanted into a small, elegant locket, which they gently placed around Hermione's neck.

Emily whispered, "It's more than just a keepsake. It'll keep her safe."

Gellert nodded solemnly. "Only she will ever be able to see or open it. No one else—no matter how powerful—will touch it."

Hermione cooed, her tiny hands resting on the locket as if understanding the love and protection woven into it.

Emily kissed her forehead softly. "You are our little miracle. We'll always protect you."

Gellert leaned close, voice barely above a whisper. "Wherever danger lurks, we'll be the shield that keeps you safe. Nothing will harm you while we breathe."

Somewhere out there, the enemy still watched, waited, hunted. But for now, wrapped in love and magic, Hermione was safe. And in their eyes, she was already everything they had ever dreamed of—a daughter, a treasure, and a promise.

❖

But love alone could not shield them forever.

A few days after Hermione's first birthday, the atmosphere around their home began to change. Subtly at first—barely noticeable, like a faint whisper in the wind—but it was there.

Gellert shivered, tightening his robe around his shoulders. "Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

Emily glanced at him, eyes narrowing. "It's... nothing. Just the wind?"

Gellert shook his head. "No. It's more than that. The wards—they're thinning. Something's coming."

The lights inside the house dimmed briefly, flickering like candle flames. Emily's hand went to her chest. "The owls... they're gone," she whispered. "They always perch outside the nursery. Always."

Gellert's jaw tightened. "We need to act. Now."

Without hesitation, they reinforced every protection. Windows were etched with ancient runes, doors double-charmed. Spells of concealment, misdirection, and detection wove tightly together, until the house vanished from magical sight. From the outside, it simply... ceased to exist.

Even so, dread lingered in their hearts.

Still, they tried to keep things normal—for Hermione's sake. They played with her in the garden when the sun allowed, watching her chase enchanted butterflies. At night, they projected glowing constellations across her nursery ceiling, their voices soft and soothing as they told stories passed down through generations.

Hermione giggled, clapping her tiny hands. Blissful. Innocent.

But then, one evening, the warning became real.

It started with silence. Too perfect. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

A sudden, violent crash—the front door slammed open.

Gellert sprang up instantly, voice sharp. "Emily! Take her. Now! There's a portkey in the basement!"

Emily froze, clutching Hermione. "Gellert... what—?"

"No time. Go! Now!"

Hermione's small hands gripped her mother's cloak. She didn't understand the words, but she felt the fear radiating from them both.

Emily bolted toward the hidden floorboard, Hermione pressed tightly against her chest. "Hold on, darling... it'll be alright," she whispered, though her own voice trembled.

Hermione's tiny mind buzzed with fragments of understanding. Gellert? That's... her father's real name? A name from stories she'd never fully trusted. A name that once darkened history.

He's... supposed to be the Dark Lord? But... he... loves us?

Her thoughts were interrupted by another crash—someone else had entered the house.

Emily pushed open the basement door, revealing a faint blue glow surrounding a single object hovering in the center: a silver spoon humming with portkey magic.

"Quickly!" Emily urged. "Step onto it, Hermione. Now!"

Hermione's wide eyes scanned the room. Who was coming for them? Who was the real Dark Lord?

She didn't yet know the answers—but one thing was clear: her life was about to change forever.

Gellert's voice echoed from above, calm but commanding, "Go. Be safe. I will hold them off."

Emily hesitated, looking back at him. "I can't leave you—"

"Go! Now!"

With a deep breath, she pressed Hermione's tiny hands onto the portkey.

The blue glow of the portkey wrapped around Hermione, her tiny body trembling slightly in Emily's arms. To anyone else, it would look like a normal baby afraid of sudden light and movement. But inside, Hermione's mind raced faster than most adults could follow.

Danger. Something is wrong. Someone is here. Focus.

Her little fingers clenched tightly around Emily's cloak, but she didn't squirm or cry. Instead, she tilted her head, following every shadow, every sound. The faint echo of footsteps from above registered clearly in her sharp mind.

Emily noticed the grip. "You feel it too, don't you, darling?" she whispered, stroking Hermione's hair, thinking it was just the baby sensing a strange noise.

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the angle of the light, the rhythm of movement. She could tell—without knowing how—that they were being watched, even now. Her tiny lips pursed as if she were thinking, evaluating, planning.

When the portkey jolted, making the air around them ripple, Hermione stiffened deliberately. Her body moved almost perfectly in sync with Emily's—leaning, tilting, adjusting to the magic—but her mind was fully aware of the trajectory, the shift, the subtle pull of the spell.

Emily smiled down at her. "You're so brave, little one. Such a brave girl."

Hermione let out a soft coo—not of fear, but of calculation, testing the environment, gauging their escape. To her parents, it was cute, typical baby behavior. To Hermione, it was reconnaissance.

As the light intensified, she pressed her tiny forehead against Emily's chest, listening. The hum of magic, the faint tremor in the air—it all spoke to her. We're not safe yet. We're being followed.

And yet, she didn't panic. Her mind, still fully grown in cognition, began to formulate options for later: escape routes, safe houses, contingency spells. All stored, all ready, hidden behind the innocent mask of infancy.

Emily adjusted the portkey again, murmuring, "Almost there, darling... hold on tight."

Hermione's tiny hands clung tighter—not just instinct, but intentional. Every movement, every gesture was precise. Every look she gave was an assessment.

They vanished from the house, leaving behind the threat that had forced them into motion.

And Hermione—small, fragile, seemingly ordinary—had already begun the silent, careful work of understanding the danger, noting the unknown assailants, and preparing.

Even as a baby, she was already plotting, watching, surviving.

Chapter Text

Emily Grindelwald, née Vicetamore, landed with a harsh thud against the cold pavement of an unfamiliar street. The air was damp, and a light fog clung to the quiet city. She blinked rapidly, disoriented, her heart pounding in her chest. London—it had to be London. The buildings, the architecture, the subtle chill in the air gave it away. But something was wrong. The streets were unnaturally empty, eerily silent.

Her arms trembled as she clutched her daughter to her chest—Hermione Vicetamore, barely a year old, soft and warm against the chaos inside her mother's mind.

"She's safe, she must be safe," Emily muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "I can't... I won't let him—"

Fear surged through her like a living thing, icy and sharp, but she pushed forward. He would come. It was only a matter of time. And when he did... there would be no mercy.

She ran.

Boots pounded against the stone streets, breath ragged, heart hammering. She twisted and turned down alleyways, ducked behind corners, scanning constantly for any sign of pursuit. Finally, in the haze of fog and panic, she saw it: an old, grey building, weathered and unassuming.

Wool's Orphanage.

Her heart clenched. It wasn't ideal, far from it—but it was her only option.

Inside, the orphanage was dimly lit, silent except for the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock. Emily stopped for a moment, leaning against the wall, catching her breath. She looked down at Hermione's tiny face—so innocent, so unaware of the danger that now enveloped them.

The baby sensed her mother's fear and began to cry.

"Oh, my sweet baby," Emily whispered, tears streaking her cheeks as she pressed her lips to Hermione's forehead. "Mama loves you. Papa loves you. We'll always be with you. Be strong, my darling. Never bow to anyone. Live like the queen you are meant to be."

Hermione's wide, tearful eyes seemed to respond, shimmering with something deeper than normal infant curiosity. Something awakened.

For this child was no ordinary girl. She remembered. In this lifetime, Hermione Vicetamore had been born with her memories intact—memories from another life, another world. She knew who she was. She knew what had to be done.

Emily's whisper continued, almost a chant: "Survive. Protect. Be clever. Be brave..."

And Hermione, nestled in her mother's arms, felt it all. Each word etched itself into her young soul, intertwining with memories she had brought with her across time.

The man who had destroyed her family would pay.

This was no timid, rule-bound girl from a previous life. No, this was someone forged in fire and blood, reborn for a purpose.

The world had no idea what was coming.

Hermione Vicetamore would not merely survive. She would rise. She would conquer.

And one day, every shadow that had touched her life would tremble before her.

❖

Emily stepped inside the orphanage, the heavy wooden door creaking shut behind her. The dim corridor smelled faintly of old paper, dust, and something sour. Holding Hermione close, she made her way toward the office where the matron sat, scribbling in an old ledger.

The matron—a stern-looking woman in her forties—glanced up, eyes narrowing at the sudden visitor.

Emily forced a calm smile. "Hello," she said softly, keeping her voice low and steady. "I found this child while out for a run. Please... take her in. She's not safe with me."

It was a lie. A carefully crafted one. But necessary.

The matron's gaze lingered. "She's not yours?"

Emily's hands tightened instinctively around Hermione. "No... just... someone I couldn't leave behind."

"What's her name?" the matron asked, stepping closer and crouching to look at the baby.

"You can call her... Hermione Andrea Vicetamore," Emily whispered. The name burned on her tongue—family, legacy, love, and tragedy intertwined.

The matron raised an eyebrow. "Nice name. She's cute."

Emily reached into her coat and pulled out a small, enchanted pouch, its contents jingling with hidden weight. "Here," she said, pressing it into the matron's hands. "Please... take this. Use it to care for her."

The matron frowned, feeling its heft. "You're giving away a fortune—for a child you claim isn't yours?"

Emily lowered her gaze. "Because I... won't live long. Maybe a day or two. I just want her to be safe."

Hermione, though only a year old in body, felt a storm stir inside. Tiny fists curled instinctively. Her magic, latent but alive, shifted ever so slightly. Memories of another life—of war, of love, of loss—swirled inside her infant mind. She understood more than anyone in the room could imagine.

Emily pressed her lips to Hermione's forehead, her voice trembling. "Be brave, Mia. Be strong. We'll be with you... always."

Hermione cried, a long, piercing wail that shook her small body. The matron, startled, picked her up and hummed a gentle lullaby.

"Shhh... it's alright now," she whispered, rocking the child.

Once Hermione calmed, the matron carried her upstairs to the nursery. Rows of cribs lined the walls, each holding a small, sleeping child.

She placed Hermione gently into a crib meant for two, adjusting the blanket and smoothing her dark curls.

Beside her, asleep, lay a boy no older than Hermione. Pale-skinned, dark hair curling slightly over his forehead, his face serene in sleep—but somehow... unsettling.

The small card above the crib read:

TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

Hermione's wide eyes followed him, noting the stillness, the quiet energy he gave off even in sleep. So this is him... she thought. The one the stories called the Dark Lord?

She pressed her tiny hands together, already forming a plan in her infant mind. She didn't understand fully, not yet—but she understood enough:

I will survive. I will grow. And I will change everything.

Unaware of the histories that bound them—or the fates that would entwine them—Hermione Vicetamore and Tom Riddle now slept side by side. One, the boy destined to become a legend of fear. The other, the girl who had already lived twice.

But this time, she would not be a passive player. This time, she would write her own story.

❖

Emily staggered out through the rusted iron gates of Wool's Orphanage, her heart heavy, her hands still warm from holding her daughter. The night air hit like a wall—cold and sharp—but she didn't stop. She couldn't.

With a trembling hand, she reached into the folds of her cloak and Apparated, vanishing with a faint crack.

When she reappeared, she was deep within a forest—dense, shadowed, and ancient. Trees loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches tangled in moonlight. She ran through underbrush, stumbling over roots and low-hanging vines, until her legs could carry her no further.

Breath ragged, hair matted, robes torn and smeared with mud and ash, Emily dropped to her knees in a small, secluded clearing.

This would be the place.

She pulled her wand from her sleeve and whispered an ancient enchantment—older than most dared speak. A golden light shimmered in the air, coalescing slowly into the form of an infant cradled in invisible arms. The clone was perfect, but unfamiliar, a deliberate deception.

She gathered the false child into her arms, rocking it gently as if it were Hermione herself.

Then—CRACK.

The clearing trembled. A powerful explosion shattered the silence, shaking the ground beneath her.

"He's here."

A cold, cruel voice echoed through the trees. "Well, well... Emily. You didn't think you could run from me forever, did you?"

A tall, dark figure stepped from the shadows, hooded and silent, malice radiating from every movement.

"I can't let you and your precious daughter live," he drawled, almost mockingly. "After all, if I let you live... who's to say you won't make another child with him?"

Emily's eyes widened. "G-Gellert... Gellert's alive?"

A low, sadistic chuckle answered her.

"Indeed. He can't die—not while I have use for him."

Her chest tightened at the mention of her husband, the man she loved—the father of her child. And he was in this monster's grasp.

"But you," the man continued, stepping forward, wand raised, "you must die. And your child with you."

Emily pressed the false infant closer, shielding it with her body.

"No... please. Not my child," she whispered, voice breaking. "Take me. Kill me if you must... but let her live. She's innocent. Please!"

The man didn't flinch. His wand rose steadily.

"No exceptions."

The words "Avada Kedavra" cut through the night.

A blinding green light erupted, striking Emily square in the chest. She collapsed backward with a soft gasp, eyes wide, chest heaving... and then still.

The clone tumbled from her arms, unharmed.

Silence fell. The man stepped closer, examining the motionless figure. Unmoving, eerily lifelike—but not alive.

A sneer twisted his face. "Pity."

With a flick of his cloak, he vanished into the darkness.

And there she lay—Emily Grindelwald, née Vicetamore—warrior, mother, martyr. Dead in a forgotten clearing.

But her sacrifice had not been in vain.

Hermione Andrea Vicetamore still lived.

And one day, she would remember.

One day, she would return.

And when she did, she would burn the world down to avenge them all.

Chapter Text

Hermione had never felt so helpless. Once sharp, capable, independent—she now found herself trapped in a tiny, clumsy body that refused to obey her thoughts. Her limbs were short and uncoordinated, her voice barely a whisper, and everything around her seemed impossibly large. The bed was too wide, the room too cold, the gray walls closing in like a suffocating cage.

She was stuck in a toddler's body. A body that couldn't keep up with her mind. And worst of all, she was surrounded by other babies. Babies who cried. Babies who smelled like milk and despair. Babies who couldn't hold a conversation.

Hermione groaned inwardly, fists pounding the mattress in frustration. Her movements were clumsy, like a puppet with tangled strings. She wanted to punch something—someone—but all she could do was thrash, working out the steam rising inside her.

Then her fist collided with something soft. Something warm. Something screaming.

Hermione froze. With dawning horror, she realized she'd struck the baby beside her—the one now wailing like a siren, red-faced and blotchy.

The boy's cries grated on her, high-pitched and relentless. She had never liked babies; now, trapped in this absurdly small form, she hated them. And this one—this one was particularly insufferable.

"Tom never cries," the matron muttered, rushing over, eyes wide. "Not a single tear, not since the day he was born—"

Hermione's mind snapped.

Tom? Tom Riddle? The future Dark Lord? Reduced to a bawling, red-faced infant?

Her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. Sharing a room with Moldyshorts. The absurdity made it almost bearable.

As the matron fussed over the crying child, Hermione felt a strange, petty satisfaction. She pressed her chubby little hands to her mouth, muffling a giggle.

He was crying. Because of me.

The wail grew, desperate and frantic, until Hermione's headache throbbed. She flopped back onto the bed, groaning. Trapped in a baby's body, sharing a room with the future Dark Lord—not exactly her idea of a fun time.

"Will you just—shut up already," she tried, but her tiny voice was inaudible.

The crying continued. With a resigned sigh—and a touch of pity—Hermione reached out, placing her small hand gently on Tom's round little belly.

To her shock, the crying stopped.

Silence fell, thick and sudden. The baby boy blinked at her, dark eyes intense, suspicion lingering in his gaze. He didn't scream. He didn't whine. He just stared.

Hermione felt... calm. Not peaceful—definitely not—but the quiet, the lack of noise, was soothing.

It was like magic. Not her usual spells, but something deeper, something unspoken. A quiet connection.

Her stomach twisted. Was this my chance? To stop him before it all—the horcruxes, the murders, the terror?

No. It couldn't be that simple. Tom Riddle was already set on his path. But...

What if I could?

Hermione clenched her tiny fists, studying him. He was still glaring, small fingers curling into fists, dark eyes narrowed. Then, without warning, he reached over, grabbed a strand of her hair, and yanked.

Hermione squealed, prying his surprisingly strong fingers off her hair. But Tom only giggled—dark, tiny, and undeniably entertained.

Hermione blinked. He just... laughed?

This timeline was ridiculous. But as much as she wanted to resent him, dismiss him as a future monster, she couldn't help wondering. Maybe—just maybe—there was still a chance to stop him.

Her mission wasn't escape. It wasn't survival. It was bigger. She couldn't let him grow into the Voldemort he was destined to become.

It was time.

Operation: De-Voldify Tom Riddle had officially begun.

❖

The nursery was dimly lit, the soft glow of lanterns throwing shadows across the cribs. Hermione lay in hers, watching Tom Riddle with wide, knowing eyes. The matron hummed a lullaby from the doorway, convinced both children were asleep.

But Hermione was awake. Very awake.

Tiny fingers flexed subtly, testing the air around her, feeling the faint thrum of latent magic in the room. Her toddler body couldn't walk or talk properly, but her mind could manipulate things in ways no ordinary baby could.

Tom shifted in his crib, dark eyes flicking toward her. Hermione sensed his curiosity, the first sparks of cunning already forming in him. Interesting, she thought. He's already calculating. Dangerous. But manageable.

A rattle lay on the floor just beyond the cribs. Hermione reached out her hand and willed it toward her crib. The toy floated slowly, sliding across the floor until it tapped lightly against her mattress. Tom's eyes widened.

The matron glanced down. "Oh! Did you manage to... pick that up yourself?" she asked, but before Hermione could respond, she hummed softly, distracted by another task.

Hermione smirked inwardly. They have no idea.

She tossed the rattle gently toward Tom's crib. He caught it, frowning as if suspicious of the object's movement. Hermione giggled silently, testing another small trick. A tiny stream of air pushed his hair aside, nudging the rattle closer to him. He frowned harder, blinked, and then tentatively reached out.

Yes. Curiosity. Feed it. Guide it.

Hermione focused on him, letting her mind reach for his smallest impulses. Not to harm, not yet—but to teach. To shape. She guided the rattle, nudging his hand until he batted it once, then twice, then hesitated. A flash of comprehension crossed his small face.

Hermione chuckled silently. Good. That's how it begins.

She leaned slightly in her crib, lifting one tiny hand toward him. A faint warmth sparked along her fingers, almost imperceptible, brushing against his. He froze, staring at her. His dark eyes searched hers, sensing the connection but unable to name it.

"Shhh... it's okay," she whispered, her tiny voice barely more than a breath. Not too much, not yet.

Tom blinked, the tension in his small body easing. He let the rattle drop, eyes still locked on hers. A flicker of trust—or at least hesitation—was there.

Hermione grinned inside. One step closer.

Hours passed like this, the two infants silently testing boundaries, nudging each other with curiosity, fascination, and subtle magical whispers neither adult could perceive. Hermione learned the strength of his mind, his reactions to fear, joy, and surprise. And Tom—unknowingly—began responding to her guidance, shaped in tiny, imperceptible ways.

By the time the matron returned to check on them, the nursery appeared calm. Both children were quiet, lying in their cribs. The faint glow of magic had faded.

"Good," the matron murmured, smoothing Hermione's blanket. "All is well."

But Hermione's mind was alive, plotting, testing. She watched Tom carefully. One day, you'll try to rise, to take control. But I'll be ready. I'll shape the path you walk. I'll redirect it.

She flexed her tiny fingers, imagining the future she had to rewrite.

Step by step, baby Tom. Step by step.

And somewhere deep inside, the tiniest smile formed on her lips. Operation: De-Voldify Tom Riddle had begun—and this time, she had the advantage of foresight, memory, and a mind far beyond her tiny body.

❖

The nursery was quiet, but Hermione's mind was anything but. Her tiny body rested in the crib, but inside, her thoughts raced at full speed. She was a full-grown witch trapped in a toddler's form—and that gave her a dangerous advantage.

The other babies slept, their soft snores punctuating the room. Tom Riddle was awake again, dark eyes following her every movement. Hermione smirked inside. Patience, little monster. You'll learn your place soon enough.

Her fingers twitched. A small wooden block lay on the floor beside her crib. She willed it upward, and it floated just a few inches above the floor. Tom's gaze flickered, curiosity pricking at him. He reached out, and the block rolled slightly toward him—but she stopped it, holding it just out of reach.

Yes. Test him. Let him wonder.

The matron stepped into the nursery, humming softly. She adjusted a blanket on another crib, oblivious to the faint shimmer of magic surrounding Hermione.

"All is quiet tonight," she murmured. "I hope these little ones sleep well."

Hermione suppressed a grin. Quiet? Maybe. But only because she willed it.

She glanced at Tom, eyes narrowed. Let's see how clever you really are.

Another toy—a small, enchanted rattle—began to float slowly across the floor. Tom's eyebrows knitted in confusion, and for the first time, his tiny fingers twitched as if he might reach for it. Hermione gently nudged the rattle upward with a flick of her focus. He leapt forward, eyes wide, and she allowed him to touch it briefly before lifting it again.

Patience, patience... he's learning.

Then she tried something bolder. A faint gust of air brushed the back of his neck, causing him to glance around nervously. Hermione concentrated, sending a tiny spark of warmth to his hand as he reached for a wooden block. The spark wasn't harmful—just enough to make him hesitate.

His dark eyes met hers, suspicion flashing. Hermione suppressed a laugh. Good. He senses me. That's what I want.

The matron returned to check on the cribs. "All asleep?" she whispered, scanning the room. Hermione froze, letting the floating block drop harmlessly to the floor. Tom blinked, eyes wide, as though he hadn't noticed anything at all.

"Yes, yes..." she murmured to herself, flexing her tiny fingers. They'll never suspect a thing.

Hermione then turned her attention to the other children in the nursery. A few were reaching for toys or trying to crawl toward each other. With subtle guidance—tiny nudges of magic—they moved exactly where she wanted. One tripped gently on a pillow, another crawled into the exact spot she had intended. Small chaos, perfectly controlled.

Tom watched, dark eyes assessing, his little mind processing every movement. Hermione grinned inwardly. Shape the room, shape the boy. Subtle. No one can see it.

By the time the matron finished her rounds and left, Hermione had ensured: Tom was curious but confused. The other babies moved exactly where she wanted. No one suspected the slightest magical interference.

She leaned back in her crib, tiny chest heaving from effort. Step by step. Influence, test, guide.

And as she watched Tom glance at the floating rattle one last time, her tiny grin widened. One day, you'll thank me. Or curse me. But I'll be the one holding the pieces.

The nursery was quiet again. To the matron, nothing had happened. But Hermione knew the truth: she was no ordinary toddler. And the lessons had already begun.

❖

When Tom and Hermione were five, the matron who had originally taken them in passed away. The woman had been a kind, steady presence in their lives—always firm but fair, providing the stability the children desperately needed. Though she wasn't the most affectionate, her quiet care had been a reassuring constant in their world.

The day she died, the orphanage felt different. The air was heavy, thick with sorrow, and even the walls seemed to mourn. Children whispered softly to one another, and the usual clatter of play was subdued.

Hermione sat on the edge of her bed, small hands clutching the edge tightly. "Tom..." she whispered. "Do you... think she's gone for good?"

Tom, sitting cross-legged across from her, didn't answer immediately. He stared at the floor, dark eyes reflecting a rare uncertainty. "I... I think so," he said quietly. "But... she always knew things. Maybe she... watches us still?"

Hermione shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I just... I'm going to miss her. She was the only one who... who didn't make me feel like I had to be perfect all the time."

Tom looked up at her, the first real flicker of emotion in his young face. "I... I'll miss her too. She never... yelled at me for talking to the snakes." He paused, as if realizing he'd said too much. "Not... too much."

Hermione smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I liked that too. She made it feel... normal. Safe."

A younger child approached, trembling. "Do... do you think she's in heaven?" the boy asked in a tiny voice. "Or... the sky?"

Hermione put a small hand on his shoulder. "I... I don't know," she admitted honestly. "But... I think she's somewhere... where she can still look out for us."

Tom scoffed softly, though it wasn't mean—it was just his way. "Sky... maybe. But... she was here too, wasn't she? Right here. That's enough."

Hermione nodded, squeezing his hand. "Yeah... that's enough."

Even in the quiet grief, there was a strange comfort in their shared understanding. The matron had been more than just a caretaker; she had been their anchor in a world that often felt harsh and unyielding. Without her, the orphanage seemed emptier, the walls colder. But in that emptiness, the bond between Tom and Hermione deepened. They had each other—and for now, that had to be enough.

The arrival of the new matron was like a storm rolling in. From the moment she stepped through the orphanage doors, the air seemed to stiffen. Her black dress was perfectly pressed, her hair tied tightly at the back of her head, and her eyes—sharp, calculating, and cold—swept across the room as if measuring every child, every misstep, every secret.

"Quiet!" Her voice sliced through the chatter in the hallway. The children froze mid-step, eyes wide. "Line up. Now."

Hermione exchanged a glance with Tom, who was already standing stiffly beside her. Both of them instinctively straightened, though they weren't sure what the new matron would notice first: their posture or the faint glimmer of unease in their eyes.

The matron's gaze landed on Hermione first. "You. Tiny one. Move properly. Hands at your sides. Not like that."

Hermione obeyed, though inwardly she rolled her eyes. She had spent years mastering patience—and the child's body she now inhabited refused to stand perfectly still.

Tom, standing beside her, muttered under his breath, "She's... terrifying."

Hermione's tiny lips twitched into a subtle grin. "You think that's terrifying? Wait until she notices the way you wiggle your fingers when you're nervous."

The matron's ears, however, seemed to have the reach of a hawk. She pivoted sharply, eyes narrowing. "What did you say?"

Tom's mouth snapped shut instantly. Hermione froze, her mind calculating. Not a word—just a glance, a tiny nod. He understood.

"Talking back?" the matron hissed, stepping closer. Her shoes clicked sharply against the stone floor. "In this orphanage, we respect authority. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," Tom whispered, voice small and careful. Hermione echoed it, "Yes, ma'am," though she barely hid her inward smirk.

"Good," the matron said, glancing over the other children. "And you all," she continued, her voice rising like a whip crack, "will follow the schedule precisely. No wandering, no dawdling, no exceptions. Breakfast at seven, lessons at eight, nap at twelve, dinner at six. Any deviation will be reported—and punished."

Hermione tilted her head slightly. Her mind, still sharp and fully grown despite the toddler body, noted the rigidity of her rules. Punishments for deviation? That wasn't just control—it was fear.

One little boy dared to whisper to his neighbor, "But... the old matron let us play after lessons..."

The matron's head snapped around. "What did you say?" Her eyes blazed. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do you think you are clever, boy? You will learn respect—or you will regret it."

The boy shrank back, nodding quickly, his earlier bravado vanished.

Hermione leaned slightly toward Tom, whispering in the smallest voice possible, "She's a storm. But every storm has a weakness."

Tom's dark eyes flickered toward her. "You're insane. She'll—"

"Shhh," Hermione cautioned, her tiny finger to her lips. "Not here. Not now."

The new matron turned sharply at that moment, sweeping the children with a glare that promised discipline at the slightest infraction. "Move to your rooms. Now. And keep silent on the way."

Hermione and Tom exchanged a look, a silent agreement forming between them. The orphanage had changed. It was colder, stricter, harsher—but they had each other. And that was a weapon the new matron could never understand.

As they filed down the hallway, Hermione whispered to herself, "Patience. Observe. Learn. And someday... we'll bend the rules, just a little."

Chapter Text

Hermione and Tom felt the change almost immediately. The orphanage, once a place of relative comfort and predictability, now felt stifling, suffocating even. The coldness of the new matron spread like a shadow, settling over the hallways and creeping into every room.

During breakfast, the children shuffled nervously along the long, wooden tables. Hermione clutched her spoon tightly, eyes flicking toward Tom, who sat rigidly beside her.

The matron's voice cut through the chatter like a knife. "Sit properly! Elbows off the table! If I see one more child slouching, there will be consequences!"

A smaller child whimpered. "B-but I... I didn't..."

"Silence!" she barked. "Excuses are not tolerated here. Eat, or face the punishment."

Hermione leaned toward Tom, whispering under her breath, "She's insane. Did the old matron talk to anyone like that?"

Tom's dark eyes glinted with barely contained frustration. "No. She's... terrifying. I hate it here now."

Hermione sighed, resting her chin on her tiny hands. "We'll survive. Just... quietly. For now."

Later, in the playroom, Hermione tried to cheer up Tom with a small, enchanted wooden block floating just out of his reach. The matron's sharp voice immediately pierced the air.

"Riddle! Sit still! You will not play until you have learned respect!"

Tom froze mid-step, glaring at her. "But she—"

"No arguing!" the matron snapped, pointing a strict finger at him. "You will obey."

Hermione crouched beside him, whispering, "Ignore her. Watch. Learn. We can still play, quietly."

Tom's lips pressed into a thin line. "Quietly. Always quietly."

By nighttime, as they lay in their cribs, Hermione's tiny hand brushed against Tom's. "She's cruel," she whispered softly, almost to herself.

Tom's voice was barely audible, but it carried weight. "Yeah... but we've survived worse. Together."

Hermione nodded internally, determination settling like armor in her young mind. "Together," she echoed.

Though the orphanage now felt like a prison, the two of them shared a silent understanding: no matter how harsh the rules, no matter how cold the matron, they had each other—and that bond would be their shield.

❖

The other children huddled together in corners, whispering nervously whenever the matron's sharp eyes swept across the room. Most had learned quickly that even the smallest mistake could earn a harsh scolding—or worse. Fear had woven itself into their daily lives like a dark thread.

But not Hermione and Tom.

During one quiet afternoon in the nursery, Hermione spotted Tom staring glumly at his empty plate. The matron was busy checking another crib, muttering curses under her breath. Hermione leaned over, whispering conspiratorially:

"Tom... psst. Here, take this."

She slipped him a small piece of bread, hiding it in her chubby little hand.

Tom glanced around nervously. "We'll get caught."

Hermione shook her head, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "No one's looking. Trust me. Just... eat."

Tom hesitated, then accepted it, nibbling quietly. "Thanks... Hermione."

Later, while the other children huddled silently under the matron's watchful gaze, Hermione pulled a small, worn book from under her blanket. She crept toward Tom's crib, keeping low.

"Look," she whispered, opening the pages to a colorful illustration of a dragon curling around a castle. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Tom's dark eyes lit up despite the gloom. "It... it's... amazing."

Hermione smiled, softly narrating the story in whispers. "And the brave little knight..." Her voice rose and fell, weaving a tale of courage and cleverness. "...he didn't give up, even when the shadows seemed to swallow the whole kingdom."

Tom's lips curled into a faint smile. "Like... like us?"

Hermione nodded. "Exactly. Like us."

As the days wore on, she continued—sneaking snacks, sharing stories, and quietly shaping his imagination. One night, when Tom's face was clouded with worry, she whispered:

"Don't let her scare you, Tom. We've survived worse before, haven't we?"

Tom's small hand reached across the crib, brushing hers. "We have... thanks to you, Hermione. You... you make it bearable."

She squeezed his hand gently. "Always. We have to stick together, okay? No matter what."

Tom nodded solemnly, his eyes reflecting the faint flicker of hope Hermione had ignited. Even in the oppressive shadow of the new matron, they found solace in each other—two tiny lights refusing to be extinguished.

❖

Tom often sat alone in the corner of the nursery, his dark eyes fixed on the small terrarium the matron allowed for the snakes. He traced the slithering movements with a mixture of fascination and calm. Hermione, sensing his withdrawal, crawled over quietly and perched beside him.

"You always talk to them, huh?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the faint hissing.

Tom didn't answer at first, his gaze never leaving the snakes.

"You can talk to me too, you know," Hermione continued, nudging his hand gently. "I won't judge. Promise."

Finally, Tom's voice broke the silence, low and careful. "They... they understand. They don't... make me feel like I'm wrong for... for being me."

Hermione nodded solemnly. "I get that. I know what it's like to feel... different. But even when they don't, you've got me. Always."

Tom turned toward her, a faint shadow of a smile tugging at his lips. "You... you really mean that?"

"Of course," she said firmly. "No matter what she says, or does, or how scary it gets... we've got each other. Deal?"

"Deal," he murmured, reaching out his small hand. Hermione took it immediately, squeezing gently.

"You know," she whispered conspiratorially, "one day we're going to make her regret ever being this mean."

Tom's dark eyes sparkled, a flicker of mischief and agreement lighting them. "Yeah... we'll show her. And then... maybe I can stop feeling so... alone."

Hermione leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "You're never alone, Tom. Not while I'm here."

For a long moment, they simply sat together, hands intertwined, watching the snakes. In the quiet, unspoken connection, Tom found a sense of grounding, a fragile anchor to the world outside his mind. And for Hermione, it was another reminder: even the smallest acts of comfort could hold back the shadows.

❖

The new matron's sharp voice echoed down the hallway, booming even through the thick nursery door.

"Quiet, all of you! I will not tolerate noise! You think this is a playground? This is discipline!"

Hermione flinched but looked at Tom, who was crouched in the corner, his small fingers tracing patterns in the dust.

"Don't let her scare you," she whispered, nudging his hand gently. "It's just noise. We know better."

Tom's dark eyes flicked toward her, and for the first time that day, a faint smile curved his lips. "You... always know what to do, don't you?"

"I just watch," Hermione said with a shrug that seemed impossibly grown-up for her tiny shoulders. "And I've got your back. Always."

He hesitated, then whispered, "I... I've got yours too."

A loud crash from another room startled them both, and Tom instinctively moved to stand in front of Hermione, tiny but determined.

"Hey!" he hissed under his breath. "She's going to—"

"Shh," Hermione interrupted, pressing a small hand against his arm. "Not yet. Watch, learn. Wait for the right moment."

Hours later, in the quiet aftermath of the matron's inspections, Hermione leaned closer to Tom.

"See? Nothing happened. You're safe. Because we're smart. We watch each other."

Tom nodded slowly. "I like... having you here. When she yells, I... I feel less alone."

Hermione smiled softly. "You're never alone, Tom. Not with me around. We'll figure this out together, okay?"

"Together," he echoed, eyes glimmering with trust.

Later, when a scolding was misdirected toward Hermione by mistake, Tom stepped forward without hesitation.

"Don't!" he exclaimed, tiny fists clenched. "She didn't do anything!"

Hermione blinked, surprised at the sudden defense, then smiled. "Thanks," she whispered.

"You'd do the same for me," Tom said quietly, voice firm despite his small stature.

"And I will," Hermione replied, tilting her head with an almost adult seriousness. "Every single time."

In those whispered promises, shared glances, and tiny acts of protection, a bond formed that went far beyond words. They understood each other instinctively, their friendship a lifeline in the cold, oppressive orphanage. And even as the world around them tried to crush their spirits, they held onto one another, quietly shaping a trust and loyalty that would endure far beyond their childhood.

5 YEARS LATER

The orphanage garden was bathed in late afternoon sunlight, the shadows of the high walls stretching long across the grass. Hermione perched on the edge of the fountain, her legs swinging idly, while Tom sat nearby, carefully arranging small pebbles into a precise pattern.

"You really like symmetry, don't you?" Hermione asked, tilting her head, a small smirk playing on her lips.

Tom didn't look up immediately. "Patterns... make sense. People don't," he muttered, finally glancing at her with a faint, crooked smile. "They're chaotic. Unpredictable. But this"—he gestured to the neat arrangement of stones—"this I can control."

Hermione nudged a pebble slightly out of place, watching his reaction closely.

"You'd better not yell at me," she teased. "I'm five years older than I was when you first learned not to scream at me."

Tom's dark eyes followed the movement, narrowing slightly. "You're still small enough to get away with it," he said dryly. Then, after a pause: "I... I don't want to yell. Not at you."

Hermione laughed softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Good. I'd hate to have to teach you lessons in... well, patience again."

Tom tilted his head, studying her seriously. "You always know what to do, don't you? Even when I... mess up. Or think too much."

Hermione's expression softened. "I pay attention," she said. "Someone has to. And besides"—she nudged his shoulder lightly with hers—"I've got your back. Always. You know that, right?"

"I... know," Tom admitted, his voice quiet but steady. "And I've got yours. Always."

Hermione smiled, letting a moment of silence settle over them. The garden was warm, peaceful, but the unspoken understanding between them carried weight far heavier than the sun's rays.

After a pause, she leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Remember the first time I stopped you from crying in the nursery?"

Tom's lips twitched. "You... reached out, and I... didn't know what it was. But I remember. I remember feeling... calm. Even when the world was loud."

"That's because I'm brilliant," Hermione teased lightly, though her eyes held seriousness. "But mostly because I care about you. You'd do the same for me?"

Tom nodded, dark eyes locking with hers. "Always. Even when... it's hard."

Hermione chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Hard? You mean, like now? Counting pebbles instead of talking to other kids?"

Tom shrugged. "Other kids don't understand. But you... you do. That's enough."

Hermione leaned back, letting the warmth of the sun wash over her. "Then we're a team," she said softly. "No one can tell us otherwise."

"And... we'll always look out for each other," Tom added, carefully placing the final pebble in line, perfectly symmetrical.

"Yes," Hermione agreed, a smile spreading across her face. "Always."

And in that moment, despite the orphanage's cold walls and the harshness of the world outside, they both felt—truly—unbreakable. Their bond, forged in childhood and sharpened by trials, had grown into something neither time nor circumstance could undo.

❖

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the orphanage garden in soft orange and pink. Hermione leaned against the low stone wall, watching Tom carefully guide a small snake along the edge of the fountain.

"You know," Hermione began, a teasing note in her voice, "if you spent as much time making friends as you do teaching snakes to follow your every command, maybe you wouldn't be the only kid no one talks to."

Tom's dark eyes flicked toward her, a mixture of irritation and amusement crossing his small face. "And if you spent as much time minding your own business as you do teasing me, maybe you wouldn't be... so... noisy," he shot back, his words deliberate and measured, though the faintest curve of a smile betrayed him.

Hermione laughed, a bright, ringing sound that made the corners of his mouth twitch upward despite himself. "Noisy? Me? Oh, please. I'm the perfect amount of noise. You're just too... serious."

Tom's fingers tightened slightly around the snake, guiding it gently. "I'm... focused. That's different."

"Focused is boring," Hermione said with mock exasperation, shaking her head. She leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to make it conspiratorial. "Come on, admit it. You like that I tease you."

Tom looked away, but his dark eyes betrayed him. "It's... tolerable," he muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching into a near-smile.

Hermione grinned, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. "Tolerable? That's the best you can give me? I expect more gratitude, Mr. Riddle."

Before Tom could reply, a group of older children appeared at the edge of the garden. One of them, a boy with a mocking grin, sneered at Tom. "Look at Riddle over here, playing with his snakes again. What's next? Gonna start talking to them?"

Tom stiffened, dark eyes narrowing, and the snake hissed softly.

Hermione stepped forward, planting herself between Tom and the group. "Leave him alone," she said firmly, her voice carrying an authority far beyond her small frame. "Or you'll regret it."

The older boy scoffed. "And what are you gonna do, huh? Fight us with... rattle rattles?"

Hermione's grin was sharp. "You wanna find out?" she said, pointing at him with exaggerated seriousness. "Because if you touch him... I promise you, you'll wish you hadn't been born."

The boy faltered, clearly unnerved by her fierce expression, and the group muttered excuses before retreating.

Tom blinked at her, a mixture of awe and gratitude in his dark eyes. "You... always..."

"Always," Hermione said simply, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "You're mine to protect, Riddle. Don't get any ideas about surviving without me."

Tom's lips twitched into a rare, almost shy smile. "I... appreciate it. Even if I don't always show it."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Good. That's my job. And yes, you will learn to show it eventually."

Tom glanced at her, dark eyes softening. "I... I will try."

"You'd better," she said, nudging him gently again. "Or I'll start telling everyone about your snake obsession. Starting tomorrow."

A faint laugh escaped him, dark but genuine, and for a moment, the orphanage garden felt warmer, safer. Hermione's teasing, her protective presence, had done more than shield him from the bullies—it had given him a reason to trust, a reason to belong.

And he knew, deep down, that no matter what, she would always be by his side.

Chapter Text

Tom sat on the edge of the garden fountain, fingers idly tracing the edge of the stone, eyes dark with thought. A group of older children had cornered him earlier, laughing and jeering at his Parseltongue ability.

Hermione crouched beside him, her small hands gripping her knees, eyes narrowing as she followed his gaze. "Ignore them," she said softly, though there was fire in her tone. "They don't understand. And honestly, they don't deserve your attention."

Tom's jaw tightened. "They... they think it's a curse."

Hermione's eyes flared with indignation. She jabbed a tiny finger toward him, her voice firm but gentle. "It's not a curse, Tom! It's... it's a gift. Something that makes you... you. Do you understand? You're not broken because of it. You're... extraordinary. And don't you forget it."

Tom's dark eyes flicked toward her, a flicker of vulnerability showing in the shadowed depths. "Extraordinary... you really think so?"

"Of course I do," Hermione said, leaning closer, her tone softening. "You can talk to snakes, Riddle. You can understand things most people can't. You're... different. That doesn't mean worse. It means better—if you learn to use it the right way."

He looked away, fiddling with a pebble at his feet. "What if... what if I can't? What if I just... end up like them? Alone?"

Hermione shook her head firmly. "You won't be alone. Not while I'm here. Not while I exist in your world. And I'll remind you every single day that you're not inferior—ever. You have a power they'll never understand. A power they'll never have."

Tom's lips twitched, almost like a smile, though it was carefully guarded. "You... always know what to say."

"That's my job," Hermione said, her voice brightening just a touch. "To keep you from thinking you're anything less than brilliant. And don't you dare forget it."

He glanced up at her, a shadow of appreciation and trust in his eyes. "I... I won't. I promise."

Hermione nudged him playfully with her shoulder. "Good. And remember, the next time they mock you? I'll make sure they regret it. Every. Single. Time."

Tom's gaze darkened, but it was a calculating darkness—one that now carried a small spark of confidence. "I'll... try to remember that."

Hermione grinned, standing tall despite her small frame. "You better. Because I'll never let anyone make you feel inferior. Not now. Not ever. You hear me, Riddle?"

Tom nodded slowly, a rare flicker of warmth in his expression. "I hear you... Hermione."

Her smile softened. "Good. Now let's get back inside before someone else notices us out here."

As they walked back toward the orphanage, their hands brushing slightly, Tom felt a rare sense of reassurance. With Hermione by his side, even the darkest thoughts seemed a little less heavy. Even the ridicule, the loneliness, the fear... it all became bearable.

Hermione's lips curled into a soft smile. She reached over and lightly brushed his shoulder with her tiny hand. "They're idiots. You've got me, Tom. And that's enough. We'll figure it out together. Always."

Tom blinked, a quiet sense of relief washing over him. "Together," he whispered, repeating the word as if saying it out loud made it true.

"And remember," Hermione added, a mischievous glint in her eye, "if anyone tries to make you feel bad for it... they'll have me to answer to. And trust me, you do not want that."

Tom let out a small, shaky laugh, the first genuine one that day. "I... I'm glad you're here, Hermione."

"And I'm not going anywhere," she said firmly. "Ever."

In that small, dim nursery, two children—one aware of a destiny dark and terrible, the other brilliant beyond her years—found solace in each other. And for Tom Riddle, that moment, that bond, would linger far longer than he realized.

Because she reminded him that he was not a mistake. That he was remarkable. And that, for the first time in his life, someone believed in him unconditionally.

❖

Though they were the same age, something had subtly shifted between them over the years. Perhaps it was the way they had grown to understand each other's complexities—Hermione's intelligence and boundless curiosity, Tom's quiet intensity and the dark secrets he kept hidden. But there was no mistaking it: they weren't just children anymore. They were two souls who had spent nearly their entire lives together, learning to survive a world that didn't always treat them kindly.

Hermione tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve, glancing up at Tom with a teasing smirk. "You're frowning again. That's your 'thinking about something dark and mysterious' face, isn't it?"

Tom's dark eyes flicked to her, unamused yet intrigued. "Maybe it is," he said quietly. "Or maybe I'm just noticing how much trouble we're constantly surrounded by."

Hermione huffed, placing her hands on her hips. "Trouble seems to find you, Riddle. I'm just along for the ride."

"I could manage without it," Tom said softly, almost to himself. Then, noticing her raised eyebrows, he added, "But you... you make it easier. Somehow."

Hermione's smirk softened into a small, genuine smile. "That's... new," she said, teasing but curious. "You never say something like that out loud. Are you trying to be... sentimental?"

"Don't mock me," Tom warned, though the edge in his voice had softened. "I mean it. You've been with me through everything. You make the darkness... less lonely."

Hermione tilted her head, studying him for a moment. "Well, someone has to keep you from turning into a full-blown brooding monster," she said lightly, though her voice carried warmth. "And someone has to remind you that not everything is about power or fear."

Tom's lips quirked in a faint, reluctant smile. "I suppose I... rely on you more than I realized."

Hermione leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Good. You should. Because I rely on you too, Tom. Always. You know that, right?"

He met her gaze steadily, the shadows in his eyes deep but softened by trust. "I do. And... I promise, I'll always protect you, Hermione. Just as you protect me."

She grinned, a flash of mischief returning. "Then it's a deal. Partners in crime, Riddle. You handle the dark and mysterious, I'll handle the bright and brilliant. Together, we balance the universe—or at least this orphanage."

Tom chuckled softly, a rare, light sound that Hermione treasured. "Partners," he agreed, the word carrying more weight than any child should have to bear.

And in that quiet moment, amidst the shadows of the orphanage walls, they both understood: their bond had grown far deeper than mere friendship. It was trust, it was loyalty, and perhaps—though neither dared to say it aloud yet—it was something more.

❖

It was a quiet afternoon in the orphanage garden. The sun filtered through the high trees, casting warm, dappled patterns on the stone paths. Hermione was busy reading a small, tattered book she had smuggled from the library, while Tom sat nearby, unusually fidgety, tracing lines in the dirt with a stick.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Hermione... can I... ask you something?" His voice was quieter than usual, hesitant, almost vulnerable.

Hermione looked up from her book, noticing the serious tone. "Of course, Tom. What is it?"

He swallowed hard, his dark eyes flicking to hers. "Would... would you be... my... girlfriend?" The words came out awkwardly, clumsy with the weight of emotion neither of them had properly navigated before.

Hermione froze, the book slipping slightly in her lap. Her cheeks turned a faint pink as she fumbled for words. "G-girlfriend?" she whispered, almost laughing nervously at the concept. "Tom... we're... we're only ten."

Tom's shoulders slumped, a shadow passing over his normally composed expression. "I... I know," he said quietly, looking down at the dirt. "I just... I wanted to ask. I—" He hesitated, then looked up at her with those dark, intense eyes. "I like you. I've... I've liked you for a long time."

Hermione's heart fluttered. She had known—of course she had—but hearing it spoken aloud made her stomach twist with nerves. She reached out, placing a small hand on his arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Tom... I like you too. You know I do. But... I think... maybe we should wait. Let's... let's see the world a bit more first. I'll... I'll be your girlfriend when we're sixteen. Okay?"

Tom blinked, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. "Sixteen..." he murmured. There was disappointment in his voice, but also understanding. "I... I can wait. For you, I can wait."

Hermione nodded, relieved. "Good. Because I want us to... enjoy being kids for now. And when we're sixteen... then I'll be all yours. Promise."

Tom's expression softened, and though a quiet melancholy lingered in his eyes, he leaned closer and rested his forehead against hers. "I promise, Hermione. I'll wait. And when the time comes... I'll make sure you never regret it."

Hermione's lips curved into a small, confident smile. "And I'll make sure you don't either. Deal?"

"Deal," Tom whispered, the words firm, solemn, and filled with a promise that only they understood.

For the rest of the afternoon, they played like any two children would—running through the garden, chasing shadows, and teasing each other endlessly. But beneath the laughter and sunlight, there was an unspoken bond forming: a pact of loyalty, patience, and something tender that would grow stronger with every passing year.

❖

ONE YEAR LATER

The orphanage garden was quieter now, the sun lower in the sky. Hermione and Tom had grown slightly taller, their movements more coordinated, but the familiarity between them remained. They no longer needed words to communicate fully—glances, gestures, and small quirks of body language sufficed.

Hermione had just climbed up a low tree branch, dangling a small scrap of parchment above Tom's head.

"You'll have to jump if you want it," she teased, her grin bright and mischievous.

Tom narrowed his eyes, a flicker of determination in his gaze. "You're enjoying this a little too much, you know," he muttered, crouching as if preparing to leap.

"I am," Hermione admitted cheerfully, dangling the parchment higher. "You promised me you'd catch it."

Tom huffed, trying to reach it but missing by a hair. "You're impossible," he grumbled, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

"Impossible?" Hermione gasped, mock offense in her tone. "I'm perfectly reasonable, Riddle. You just need to try harder!"

They laughed, a shared, carefree sound that seemed to make the oppressive orphanage walls fade into nothing.

Later that evening, in the dim nursery room, Hermione noticed Tom sitting quietly by the window, staring at the moonlight reflecting on the floor. She padded over, tiny feet barely making a sound on the worn floorboards.

"You're quiet tonight," she said softly, sitting beside him.

Tom didn't look at her immediately. "I... I was thinking about the promise," he murmured, voice low. "Sixteen. You said sixteen."

Hermione tucked her hair behind her ear, a faint blush on her cheeks. "I know," she said quietly. "I meant it. You know I meant it."

"I—" Tom hesitated, then finally turned to her, eyes serious but gentle. "I think... it makes me feel better, knowing there's something to wait for. Something... ours. Even if we're still kids, even if everything else is... chaotic."

Hermione nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. "It does feel nice, doesn't it? Like there's a future we control, even when nothing else is certain."

Tom's lips twitched in the faintest smile. "Yeah... it does."

Hermione nudged him playfully with her shoulder. "See? That wasn't so hard to admit, was it?"

He let out a soft, reluctant laugh. "Maybe not... but don't think I'll go easy on you just because of that promise."

"You wouldn't dare," Hermione said with a grin. "And you know it."

Over the next few years, their interactions became a careful balance of playful teasing, quiet support, and subtle protection.

Even as their personalities grew more defined—Hermione fiercely independent and witty, Tom quiet, calculating, and intense—the thread connecting them remained unbroken. Every glance, every word, every small act of protection reinforced the pact they had made in that innocent garden years ago: the promise that, no matter what, they would belong to each other when the time was right.

And deep down, both of them knew: this childhood promise wasn't just a game. It was a seed, planted carefully in their hearts, growing slowly toward something far more powerful than either could yet understand.

Chapter Text

Everything had been going well for both Hermione and Tom. Life at Wool's Orphanage was far from perfect, but they had each other, and that was enough. For as long as either of them could remember, they had been inseparable—more than just friends, more like fragments of the same soul. They understood each other in ways no one else could.

But everything changed the day the owl arrived.

It swooped down suddenly through the orphanage window, elegant and otherworldly, drawing gasps from the children and confused murmurs from the staff. In its talons was a single letter—thick parchment, sealed with red wax.

The letter landed in front of Tom.

The matron's shrill voice cut through the room immediately. "Oi! What's that? Pick it up this instant! I don't have time to watch you dawdle!"

Tom scrambled forward, knees scraping against the floor. "Y-yes, ma'am!"

Hermione had watched, heart pounding, as Tom picked it up. His name was scrawled in emerald green ink: Mr. T. Riddle, Wool's Orphanage, London.

It was his Hogwarts letter.

She tried to hide her reaction, forcing a small smile as she clutched her hands in her lap. "That's... great for him," she said softly, though the words felt hollow. Her stomach twisted in confusion and rising panic. Where was her letter?

At first, she told herself it must be a mistake. Perhaps the owl had gotten lost, delayed, or misdirected. But days passed. No owl came. No parchment arrived.

Her name was never called.

Then came the day that crushed her fragile hope entirely.

Professor Dumbledore arrived at the orphanage. He moved with the quiet authority of someone used to being listened to, his blue eyes sharp but kind. He knelt beside Tom, speaking in hushed, commanding tones. Hermione watched from behind a column, heart pounding in her chest, ears straining to catch the words.

"Tom... you are a wizard. A special one," Dumbledore said softly. "The world has a place for you, a destiny that begins at Hogwarts. You must not squander it."

Tom's eyes widened, a thrill lighting them. "I... I'm a wizard?" he whispered.

"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed, placing a hand on Tom's shoulder. "And you must learn, control, and grow."

Hermione's chest constricted. She had known. She had felt it—the fire of magic under her skin, the subtle nudges of power she could wield. And yet... Dumbledore hadn't so much as glanced in her direction.

Her stomach sank as the cruel truth settled over her like a stone: she hadn't been chosen. To the world, she wasn't magical. She wasn't special.

Was she... a Squib? 

Or something the world simply failed to notice?

She bit her lip to keep from crying, trying to focus as the matron's harsh voice cut across the room.

"Vicetamore! Stop fidgeting and sit properly!"

Hermione flinched, curling her fingers tightly around her knees. The matron had no idea that her trembling hands could bend small objects to her will, that her eyes could sense the faint threads of magic weaving through the room. She had learned to suppress her power whenever adults were near, timing each flick of magic to happen when no one was watching, each object nudged subtly so it looked like coincidence. No one could ever suspect Hermione's hand.

For years, she had practiced wandless magic in secret—subtle things at first. A coin flipping in midair, a small gust of wind nudging a door closed, a whispered warmth easing the pain of a scraped knee. She had taught herself control, discipline. She had protected herself and Tom from cruel caretakers and older children who preyed on the weak. She had silenced threats without leaving a mark, mended bruises, and even coaxed a stubborn lock open when it would have been disastrous to call for help.

No one had ever seen her do it—except Tom. He had glimpsed it, tiny things only: the way coins might flutter unnaturally, doors closing on their own—but he didn't yet know what magic really was, or how to name it.

And still... Hogwarts had not called.

Why? Why had Dumbledore not felt her magic?

Night after night, she lay awake on the narrow bed in the dim nursery, staring at the cracked ceiling, replaying every moment of her life as though a single mistake had erased her from the magical world. Had the time travel broken something? Had her tampering with fate left her outside the lines of recognition, an invisible girl in a world that should have known her? Or worse—had she altered the course of her own destiny so completely that the world no longer saw her as she was meant to be?

She had done everything right. Hidden the magic from the matron, trained herself in silence, saved lives when no one was watching. Yet the world had ignored her.

And yet... she could feel it. The magic was still there, a steady pulse beneath her skin, a coiled fire that refused to die. Alive. Waiting. Patient.

Her mind spun with possibilities, none of them comforting. If the wizarding world refused to acknowledge her, then what was she? A Squib? A mistake? Or something... else entirely?

Hermione clenched her small fists, nails digging into the palms of her hands, and whispered under her breath:
"Then I'll show them. I'll make them see."

Even if the matron's sharp eyes swept the room every second, even if the world had turned its back, Hermione knew one thing with absolute certainty: she was not powerless. Not truly.

She would find a way.

Because magic, real magic, was hers.

And no one—not Dumbledore, not the matron, not fate itself—would stop her from proving it.

❖

Days turned into weeks, but Hermione's thoughts remained clouded with doubt and quiet heartbreak. The question still haunted her: Why hadn't she received a letter? Why had the magical world called to Tom... and not to her?

But there was no more time to dwell on it. Today, Tom was leaving.

Dumbledore had come for him that morning. The matron had fussed over his collar and polished his shoes with a sharp, almost smug precision, clearly pleased to be rid of him for something better than mere care. The other children whispered, envious and curious, while Hermione stood silently near the doorway, her chest tight with emotions she wasn't allowed to show.

He approached her with a softness she had rarely seen—a fleeting crack in the armor he always wore.

"I promise I'll write to you," Tom said, his voice low and serious, trembling just slightly beneath the surface. "I'll come back for Christmas... and summer, if they let me."

Hermione nodded, but her throat was tight, constricting her words. Her small hands clenched at her sides, willing herself not to cry. She didn't want to make this harder than it already was.

"Don't forget me," she whispered finally, her voice almost nothing, a quiver betraying the strength she tried so desperately to hold on to.

Tom's dark eyes met hers, lingering longer than they had any right to. Something unreadable passed across his expression—hesitation, guilt, and something softer, a quiet acknowledgment of their bond. Then, with his usual careful composure, he buried it beneath the calm mask he always wore.

"I won't," he said, and there was a weight to the words that went far beyond their sound.

The carriage wheels creaked. Tom climbed aboard, and Dumbledore gave a reassuring nod. Hermione's heart twisted as she watched him step into a world she could not touch, a world that had recognized him and ignored her.

A faint gust of wind tugged at her hair, brushing against her cheeks. She froze, realizing that she had not called it. Not aloud. The matron's sharp eyes swept the yard, oblivious to the small shimmer of power that lingered around Hermione, unacknowledged by anyone else.

The carriage began to roll. She watched, powerless to stop it, as the silhouette of her only friend disappeared down the street, swallowed by the horizon. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive, almost suffocating.

She had protected him. She had guided him. She had bent time and fate to be here—for him.

And now, she was left behind.

Her fists clenched. Her nails dug into her palms, and she whispered, barely audible even to herself:
"Then I'll show them. I'll make them see."

Even if the matron's eyes never softened, even if the world turned its back, Hermione knew one thing with absolute certainty: she was not powerless. Not truly. Magic burned beneath her skin, alive and waiting. Patient.

She straightened her small shoulders, lifting her chin. One day, she would step into the world that ignored her. One day, she would prove her power. One day, they would all see.

And when that day came, nothing—not Dumbledore, not the matron, not fate itself—would stop her.

Because magic was hers. And she would claim it.

❖

Days turned into weeks, and still, no letter came from Tom.

At first, Hermione told herself that maybe the owl had gotten lost. Maybe Tom was busy settling in, learning the ropes of Hogwarts life. Maybe first-year students weren't allowed to write during the first few weeks. She clung to every excuse she could think of, repeating them like a mantra to keep hope alive.

But as the days stretched into weeks, the silence grew heavier, more oppressive. Hermione became quieter, more withdrawn. The other children barely noticed—she had always been a little different—but inside, she felt as if she were slowly fading, swallowed by a world that moved on without her.

She wrote letter after letter, each one painstakingly composed with trembling hands. She folded them carefully, sealed them with bits of ribbon or the faint imprint of her small fingers, and sent them off with silent prayers whispered into the cold air.

Dear Tom...
I hope Hogwarts is as amazing as you dreamed. I hope you're happy. I hope you're safe...

Each envelope carried a little piece of her heart.

Most of them went unanswered.

Days became weeks, weeks became months, and still, there was nothing. No owl, no reply. Just the empty air that seemed to mock her hope.

Yet she kept trying. Every night, under the thin blanket in her narrow bed, she would whisper into the darkness:

"I will not give up. I will not fade. I will find my place."

Even if no one else acknowledged her, even if the magical world had turned away, Hermione felt a quiet fire burning inside her. A determination that could not be silenced.

Because she knew—somehow, some day—she would show them all.

────୨ৎ────

ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴛᴏᴍ, 

ʜᴏᴡ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ?
ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴡᴇʟʟ ᴀᴛ ʜᴏɢᴡᴀʀᴛꜱ.
ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ...
ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ᴍʏ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ?
ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴡʟ ɢᴏᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴜꜱᴇᴅ.
ɪᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ. Qᴜɪᴇᴛ. ᴛᴏᴏ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ. 
ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ, ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ?

 —ʜᴇʀᴍɪᴏɴᴇ

────୨ৎ────

She sealed the envelope with trembling fingers, folded it carefully, and sent it off with one of the orphanage's few trusted pigeons—enchanted just enough to find Tom if the magic still lingered around him.

But deep down, Hermione already knew what would happen. The same thing that had happened with the last three letters.

Nothing.

No reply. No sign that he even remembered her.

And that silence hurt more than she expected. Because Tom had promised.

He had promised to write. To come back for Christmas. To not forget her.

But promises made before Hogwarts, it seemed, didn't always survive the magic that came after.

❖

Days stretched into nights, and the silence from Tom became a weight Hermione carried everywhere. Each morning, she would rush to the window, peering down the street as if expecting a figure in black robes—or even just a familiar silhouette—to appear. The pigeon never returned.

She whispered to herself, sometimes under her breath, sometimes aloud when she thought she was alone:
"Maybe he's busy... maybe he hasn't received it... maybe..." Her voice would trail off as her hope faltered.

By candlelight, she tried small, careful magic—things she had learned over the years: a quill hovering just long enough to write letters faster, the candle flame bending slightly toward the parchment as if encouraging the words to reach him. Each attempt left her drained, but she refused to stop. "He has to know I'm here... I have to reach him somehow," she muttered, rubbing her temples.

Some nights, she would press her palm to the window, tracing the streets in her mind, imagining him walking there, imagining Hogwarts' towering spires in the distance. "I'll find you," she whispered into the darkness, a quiet vow that gave her a flicker of strength in the loneliness.

Yet the orphanage demanded her attention, and the matron's shrill voice often cut through her daydreams:
"Vicetamore! Stop daydreaming and sweep that floor properly!"

Hermione clenched her jaw and nodded, obeying, while inside, her mind flew far away—to Tom, to letters unanswered, to a magical world that seemed to have forgotten her.

The truth she couldn't speak aloud lingered like a ghost: I am magic. I exist. And if the world won't see me, I'll make sure he does.

And so she waited. Day after day. Letter after letter. Whispered promises to herself. Quiet magic hidden behind trembling hands. The silence around her grew louder, but Hermione's determination burned brighter. She would not give up—not on him. Not on herself.

Even if Hogwarts—and the world beyond—refused to acknowledge her, she knew this one truth: Tom could never be allowed to forget her.

Chapter Text

Hours turned into days, days into weeks, and weeks into months—still no word from Tom. He hadn't replied to any of Hermione's letters. He hadn't returned to the orphanage, not even for Christmas or the summer holidays.

Hermione found it strange. According to Harry, Tom always came back for the summer. He hated the orphanage, made no secret of it, but he still returned like clockwork.

So what had changed?
What went wrong?

She sat quietly by the cracked window, holding the small silver pendant her parents had given her on her first birthday—the only thing she had left of them. She opened it gently, revealing the tiny faded photograph inside: her parents, smiling and young, frozen in time.

They'd be proud of me, wouldn't they? she wondered. Even if the world doesn't see it... they'd know I'm not nothing.

She missed them more than words could say. Sometimes, she let herself wonder what life would have been like if they had stayed together—even for just one more year. One more memory. One more goodbye.

Today was her twelfth birthday.
But it didn't feel special.

There were no cakes or presents, no candles or songs.
Just silence.

A single tear traced her cheek before she quickly wiped it away, trying to hide it from the matron's ever-watchful gaze.

Lately, the sadness weighed so heavily on her that she no longer had the strength to defend herself. The other children called her names—freak, weirdo, witch.
And she let them.

"Vicetamore! Stop sitting there like a daft fool!" the matron barked from across the room, her tone sharp enough to cut. "You think moping around will feed you? Scram to the kitchen! And don't even think about sneaking another scrap."

Hermione flinched, forcing herself to obey, her hands trembling slightly. She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms, but no one could see the sparks that trembled just beneath her skin, tiny flashes of heat she could barely control. The matron didn't know. She must never know.

All because Hermione was... different.

Alone in a world that didn't understand her, Hermione clung to the memory of kindness, of magic, of the boy who once told her she wasn't a freak.

Tom... where are you? she whispered under her breath, almost as if saying it out loud might pull him back to her.

But even Tom had disappeared.

And that hurt most of all.

She pressed the pendant to her chest, letting the faint warmth of memory soothe her. A slow, dangerous thought crept into her mind, wrapped in a simmering determination:

If the world won't acknowledge me... if Dumbledore won't see me... then I'll make them notice. I'll find a way. I'll show them what I'm capable of.

A faint tremor stirred in the air around her—unseen, unmeasured. A tiny flicker of power, just enough to rattle the windowpane. Hermione blinked rapidly, hiding it, but the thrill ran through her like wildfire.

Magic, real magic, was hers.
And no one—not the matron, not Hogwarts, not even fate itself—would stop her from proving it.

❖

The cracked window overlooked the street below, where the world carried on without her. Cars passed. A woman pushed a pram. Somewhere, a dog barked, chasing pigeons into the grey August sky. Life moved forward—unbothered, unbroken. But Hermione felt like she was standing still, a forgotten bookmark in someone else's story.

She closed the pendant and clutched it tightly in her palm, as if the pressure might press her parents' memory deeper into her skin, make it stay longer. Their smiles in the photograph were small but certain. There had been love there. Once.

And Tom... Tom had seen her when no one else did.

They had shared books, ideas, secrets. Sometimes, he would talk about strange things—places and people that felt almost like fantasy. But the way he spoke made them feel real. He never told her everything, and she never asked. Part of her had been afraid to.

And then, he was gone.

Hermione had written letters. At first every week, then every month. She'd hidden them under the loose floorboard beneath her bed when she had no address to send them to. Every now and then, she'd read them back, trying to find the exact moment her words had stopped mattering.

She sniffed and blinked against the tears that threatened again. No one remembered her birthday. Maybe they never had. Maybe it only mattered to her.

Her stomach ached—not just from hunger, but from the hollow space grief had carved inside her. The ache of being unwanted. Forgotten.

And somewhere deep inside, where no name-calling or silence could reach, a quiet ember still burned. The same ember that had flared when a flower bloomed from the cracks in the concrete, or when her anger made lights flicker and books fly from shelves.

Tonight, as her tears fell, the flame within whispered back. The silver pendant in her hand shimmered faintly, though she couldn't tell if it was real—or if her mind was imagining it. A page of her journal fluttered, turning over as if nudged by some unseen hand. The curtain lifted slightly, despite the still air in the room. Small things, subtle things—but undeniable.

She didn't understand it yet, but she felt it.

Something in her was waiting to wake up.

Maybe Tom was gone. Maybe he had forgotten her, too.

But magic hadn't.

And someday, when the world stopped pretending she was nothing, she would show them all that she was not a freak.

She was something else entirely.

❖

Hermione rubbed her tired eyes with the edge of her sleeve, the morning light streaming weakly through the orphanage's grimy windows. She had made up her mind—today, she would go to Gringotts.

It had taken weeks to gather the courage. Questions had built up like storm clouds in her chest, questions no one here could answer. Questions about her past, her future, and the strange, ancient magic that had begun to stir beneath her skin. If there was any place that might hold those answers, it was Gringotts.

She waited until the orphanage was empty. The children had been herded out for a picnic in the park, and the matron—thankfully—had gone with them. The building was still, hollow, echoing with silence. It felt like it was holding its breath.

Hermione slipped out the back door, careful not to let it creak. Her footsteps were soft against the cracked stone path as she made her way to the narrow alley behind the orphanage. There, hidden from view by a sagging wooden fence, she stood alone in the shade.

She took a shaky breath and reached into the pocket of her cardigan, fingers brushing against the small twig she'd found weeks ago—her makeshift wand. It wasn't real, not in the way wands at Hogwarts were. But it helped her focus. Helped her believe.

Closing her eyes, Hermione summoned every ounce of magic she could feel inside her, every spark that had ever flickered when she was afraid or angry or brave. She raised her hand and thrust it into the air.

BANG.

With a thunderous crack and a blur of purple, the Knight Bus materialized out of thin air, screeching to a halt inches from her toes. Its brass lanterns glowed faintly in the daylight, and the door swung open with a hiss.

A conductor leaned out, squinting at her.

"Where to, then?"

Hermione stepped forward, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart.

"Diagon Alley. I need to get to Gringotts."

The Knight Bus lurched violently as it sped through London, weaving between traffic, squeezing through impossibly narrow gaps, and occasionally vanishing from one street only to reappear on another. Hermione clung to a bedpost near the back, her knuckles white, her stomach flipping with every jolt.

She had barely spoken during the ride, afraid that if she opened her mouth, the lump in her throat might escape. The conductor had given her a strange look—young witches didn't usually travel alone. But he hadn't asked questions, and for that, she was grateful.

Eventually, the bus screeched to a halt with another thunderous BANG, sending a stack of teacups flying across the floor.

"Diagon Alley!" the conductor called out.

Hermione stepped off the bus, blinking as the cobbled street unfolded before her. It was quieter than she remembered. Maybe it was still early, or maybe she had imagined it being louder the first time she came.

Hermione walked slowly until she stood before the towering white facade of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The marble steps stretched upward like the entrance to another world—one that had never truly felt like hers.

She hesitated at the bottom, clutching the sleeves of her jumper, before forcing herself to climb.

Inside, the grand hall was cavernous and cold, filled with the quiet scratch of quills on parchment and the occasional jingle of coins. Goblins sat behind tall counters, their sharp eyes glinting as they sorted ledgers and weighed jewels. The walls seemed to hum with quiet magic, ancient and watchful.

Hermione approached one of the desks, her footsteps echoing too loudly on the polished floor. A goblin with thin spectacles and long, ink-stained fingers looked up, arching a brow at the sight of her.

She swallowed and straightened her back, trying to steady her voice.

"Excuse me," she said politely, though her voice wavered just slightly. "I'd like to request an inheritance test, please."

The goblin studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

"And your name, miss?" he asked, his quill already poised.

"Hermione Vicetamore," she replied.

Her name sounded small in that vast, echoing place.

But what came next might change everything.

The goblin gave a curt nod, then reached beneath the counter and retrieved a parchment and a small, silver dagger with an ornate hilt.

"Place three drops of blood on the parchment," he instructed, sliding the items toward her. "The dagger is enchanted. It won't harm you."

Hermione stared at the blade for a moment, her heart quickening. She hesitated—not out of fear, but because this moment felt far too big for someone so small and so alone. Still, she took the dagger with steady hands.

With a shallow breath, she pricked her fingertip. The sting was brief.

One drop.
Two.
Three.

As the third drop soaked into the parchment, the blood shimmered faintly, as if absorbing magic from the ink itself. Then, slowly, letters began to curl and form across the page—black and bold, written in a script that seemed far older than it should have been.

Hermione leaned in to read.

And her breath caught.

Her eyes widened, scanning the parchment again and again, as if reading it one more time might make it say something different.

But the names didn't change.

The truth didn't vanish.

It was impossible—and yet there it was.

Her hand trembled as she lowered the parchment, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"...This can't be right."

But the goblin only gave her a knowing look.

Gringotts didn't make mistakes.

The letters whispered something she could barely hear, a secret meant only for her: Not all magic is called. Not all legacies are revealed. You are... something else.

Hermione's eyes widened. She was no ordinary child. Not a Squib. Not forgotten. Something else entirely.

And for the first time, she felt the weight of possibility—terrifying, thrilling, and utterly hers.

Because magic had not abandoned her.

It had been waiting.

Chapter Text

Gringotts did not make mistakes.

Hermione's breath caught as she stared down at the parchment, the black ink burning into her mind. Not a muggleborn. Not even half-blood. Pureblood. And not just any pureblood—her mother, Emily Vicetamore, had been the granddaughter of Armando Dippet, a former Headmaster of Hogwarts. And her father...

Her hands trembled slightly, though her face remained composed. She already suspected. She had always suspected. The Gringotts inheritance test simply confirmed it.

Gellert Grindelwald.

The Dark Lord of history. The man who had once shaken the magical world to its core. The man who had been locked away in Nurmengard, thought broken, thought defeated.

Her father.

Hermione drew in a long breath, steadying herself. She turned to the goblins with quiet authority.
"Is it possible for you to summon Headmaster Dippet... discreetly? I don't want anyone else to know—not yet."

The goblins exchanged looks—sharp, calculating—but nodded.

❖

Half an hour later, Armando Dippet entered Gringotts. Age had carved deep lines into his face, yet his presence remained formidable, commanding respect even from the goblins.

He said nothing at first. He simply took the parchment, read it, and as he did, the flicker of emotions across his face betrayed him—shock, confusion, guilt, sorrow.

Hermione waited. The silence was unbearable, so she finally spoke.
"I'm thirteen. I haven't received a Hogwarts letter in the last three years. That's why I came here. I needed answers."

Dippet's gaze snapped to her, troubled.
"The letters... they're overseen by Albus Dumbledore. If you have magic—and you do—then your absence is no oversight. He kept you away on purpose."

Hermione's lips pressed together. "Why?"

"Because of who your father is," Dippet said, his voice heavy. "Because he feared what you might become if you knew the truth too soon."

Her heart pounded in her chest.
"You mean... Grindelwald."

Dippet closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. "Yes. But don't think of yourself as cursed. Your father was feared because he dreamed too far, reached too high. But he was not without love. And he loved your mother. He loved you."

Hermione's throat tightened, but she forced herself to remain still.

Dippet's tone hardened. "You cannot stay hidden any longer. You'll go to Durmstrang. It's safer than Hogwarts now, with Dumbledore watching every corridor. There, you'll train—properly. When the time is right, you will return to Britain. But until then... you must learn everything you can."

Dippet's expression darkened as he continued.
"There's more. Andrew Lamarck—once Grindelwald's most trusted ally. He vanished after the war, escaped Azkaban by burying his name in shadow. But he's resurfaced."

Hermione frowned. "Where?"

"At Durmstrang. He teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts. Brilliant, dangerous, seductive in his logic. If anyone knows the truth of what happened to your mother... it's him."

Her hands clenched into fists.
"You think he was involved?"

"I think," Dippet said grimly, "that your mother's murder was not Grindelwald's doing. And if Lamarck knows who ordered it, he'll let it slip. Watch him. Gain his trust if you must. But do not reveal who you truly are."

Hermione's jaw tightened. "Then I'll go to Durmstrang. And I'll find out what happened to her."

❖

Durmstrang was carved into the side of a frozen mountain, its stone towers jutting into the sky like spears. Its halls were lit by torches that flickered against ice-cold stone. There was no warmth here—only tradition, discipline, and power.

Hermione adapted quickly. She sharpened her duelling until she could outmatch older students. She wrote essays that left professors stunned. She learned the rhythms of the school: who was loyal, who was afraid, who whispered behind Lamarck's back.

And always, she watched him.

Tall, silver-haired, with a voice that demanded attention, Lamarck was magnetic. His lessons weren't about defence. They were about dominance. Anticipating, manipulating, breaking your opponent before they cast a spell. His words wrapped students in a net of logic that was both terrifying and brilliant.

He never mentioned Grindelwald. But his gaze lingered on Hermione more often than chance allowed.

❖

It took five months.

Five months of silence, observation, and discipline. Five months of proving herself—outduelling rivals, dismantling magical theory, taking on private assignments Lamarck gave only her. Forbidden texts. Old war records.

And finally, one snowy evening in his office, Lamarck asked,
"Why did you truly come here, Hermione?"

Her heart pounded, but her voice was steady.
"To understand what happened to my mother. Emily Vicetamore."

Lamarck's eyes sharpened. He leaned back slowly, steepling his fingers.
"I wondered when you'd say her name."

"You knew her?"

A pause. Then, quietly, "I knew of her. And I suspected who you were the moment I saw you."

Hermione leaned forward. "Everyone says Grindelwald killed her. But he didn't, did he?"

For the first time, Lamarck turned to the window, his voice low.
"No. Your father loved her. That much was real. But he wasn't in control by then."

Her breath caught. "Then who—?"

He turned, his eyes cold.
"Dumbledore."

The world tilted.

Lamarck continued, each word sharp as steel.
"He placed your father under the Imperius Curse after the so-called 'defeat.' For years, Grindelwald was his puppet. Emily discovered the truth. And so Dumbledore killed her with his own hand—and framed your father for it. He made himself the saviour of the wizarding world. No one ever questioned him. Who would dare?"

Hermione's nails dug into her palms. Her chest burned with fury, grief, disbelief.

"Why tell me this?" she whispered.

"Because you're the only one who has his blood... and the will to stand against him," Lamarck said softly. "The daughter of Emily Vicetamore and Gellert Grindelwald. You are the weapon Dumbledore never wanted born."

Hermione rose slowly, her voice trembling not with fear, but with resolve.
"Then teach me. Teach me everything. Because I'll burn his lies to the ground."

Lamarck smiled faintly. A teacher, seeing his most dangerous pupil finally awaken.
"It has already begun."

❖

The goblins had said nothing about it. They had simply slid a small, rune-etched vial across the table after her inheritance test, explaining in clipped tones that it had been placed in her vault thirteen years ago—sealed with wards keyed to her blood. And an old wooden box wrapped in protective wards

That night, alone in her room, Hermione uncorked the vial.

The silver mist within swirled, then spilled into the air, forming a hazy figure. A man—tall, sharp-featured, with hair the colour of pale ash and eyes that burned with both brilliance and sorrow.

Gellert Grindelwald.

Hermione froze, her breath shallow. She had seen pictures in history books, sketches in old wizarding journals. But this was different. This was him—alive, speaking directly to her.

"If you are watching this," his voice said, deep and resonant, "then I am long gone. Or worse, imprisoned in silence. And you, meine Tochter, are old enough to know who you are."

Her throat tightened. Meine Tochter. My daughter.

"They will tell you I was a tyrant. A monster. That I dreamed of conquest and blood. Some of that... is true. But not all. They will never speak of the dreams that began it—the dream of a world where magic could rise, not hide. Where no child would live in fear of their gift. Your mother believed in that dream. She believed in me, even when the world cursed my name."

His eyes softened, and for a moment the great Gellert Grindelwald looked like nothing more than a man—tired, aching, yet fiercely protective.

"Emily was the light I did not deserve. She gave me you. And for that, I was truly the most powerful man alive—not because of the armies that followed me, but because of the family I held in my arms."

Hermione's chest ached, hot tears pressing at the corners of her eyes.

"I know what the world will teach you. That I was evil. That I loved only power. But if you remember only one thing, remember this: I loved you. I love you still. Whatever they say, whatever they do, that truth cannot be erased."

The figure wavered, his form breaking into fragments of mist.

"Be strong, Hermione. Stronger than me. Take the world in your hands and shape it—but never let them make you bow. You are a Vicetamore. You are an Eldrin. You are my daughter."

And then he was gone.

The room was silent again. But Hermione's heart was not.

For the first time, she understood: Grindelwald was not just a shadow from history. He was her father. And the war she was stepping into was not just hers—it was his unfinished legacy.

❖

Hermione took and opened the wooden box. Tucked deep inside an old wooden box wrapped in protective wards, hidden beneath stacks of sealed parchments and obscure tomes, lay a folded piece of parchment tied with a faded ribbon. The handwriting on the outside was delicate, almost fragile:

For my daughter, when she is ready.

Hermione's hands shook as she untied the ribbon. The parchment crackled softly as she unfolded it.

The ink was faded but still legible, each stroke filled with care.

My dearest Hermione,

If you are reading this, then I am no longer there to hold you. I wish I could have been beside you for every laugh, every tear, every step. But fate had other plans for us.

Your father—yes, the man the world fears—he loved you. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise. But his love was fierce, burning, dangerous. Mine is gentler, quieter, but no less strong. Between the two, I pray you will find balance.

You will grow up hearing stories of power, of destiny, of bloodlines and legacies. Remember, my little star, that none of those matter as much as the choices you make. Kindness is not weakness. Mercy is not defeat. There will come a day when you stand at a crossroads—when the path of power tempts you, and the path of compassion calls you. In that moment, remember me. Remember that the greatest magic is not domination, but love.

I believe in you, Hermione. I always will.

At the bottom, a small charm was pressed into the parchment—a simple protective rune, glowing faintly as Hermione's fingers brushed it. The warmth that spread through her chest was unlike any spell she had ever felt. It was her mother's magic, lingering, protecting.

For a long time, Hermione sat in silence, clutching the letter to her chest. Between her father's burning conviction and her mother's tender wisdom, she felt the pull of two legacies—opposites, yet both hers.

Chapter Text

Hermione's arrival at Durmstrang had promised power—an unrelenting, unforgiving kind of power. She had been trained, shaped, and refined into something no longer fragile. No longer the orphan girl who had clung to the hope that Tom would come back, or the girl who had wondered whether magic could truly be hers. No, she had learned to guard her heart as tightly as her magic, but the cracks in her walls remained.

There were times when the weight of everything pressed against her, threatening to break through. But in those moments, she reminded herself that power wasn't just a gift—it was a responsibility. And so, she stood unyielding in the face of the storm, her hands steady, her gaze resolute.

The winter night was bitterly cold, a chill that sank into the marrow of her bones. The castle, carved into the side of a frozen mountain, seemed to echo with an emptiness that was as sharp as the ice outside. The halls were darkened, the torches sputtering with faint, dying flames, and she had hoped for some peace before another training session. But peace was a luxury she could never afford—not here.

She heard them before she saw them.

Laughter echoed down the hall, cruel and taunting. It was a sound that made her skin crawl. The footsteps that followed were deliberate, slow, heavy. Four boys—older students, dressed in the dark robes of Durmstrang's elite. They were the kind who carried the arrogance of privilege and the weight of their unchecked power. They thought themselves untouchable. And they made the fatal mistake of believing that Hermione Vicetamore would be their prey.

She could hear them clearly now, their voices mocking her.

"You know, she doesn't even belong here," one of them said, his voice a sneer. "A girl like her, at Durmstrang? She's barely more than a whisper in the wind. Pathetic."

Hermione didn't flinch. She didn't even glance behind her as the group neared. Her steps remained steady, controlled, even though her heart began to beat faster—not with fear, but with something else. Something sharper.

"She's a freak," another boy added, his voice filled with contempt. "No family, no power. Just a scared little girl hiding behind her books."

She stopped walking, then, her back still turned to them. It was deliberate. Her hands remained at her sides, her fingers twitching ever so slightly as the familiar hum of magic began to surge inside her. She had learned long ago to feel the pulse of it, the way it thrummed beneath her skin—alive and waiting.

"You're wrong," she said softly, the words barely more than a breath.

One of them stepped forward, his face twisted with amusement. "Oh, really? And what are you going to do about it, Vicetamore? We were just having a little fun."

Hermione turned slowly, her eyes locking with his. There was no fear in her gaze—only the cold, unyielding determination that had burned inside her since the day she learned of her true legacy.

"Fun?" she repeated, her voice like ice. "You think this is fun?"

The boy grinned, taking another step closer. "Yeah, that's right, little witch. Let's see what you're really made of."

His friends laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls, but Hermione's expression remained unchanged. Her fingers curled into fists, the magic swirling like a storm inside her, rising to meet the challenge. She had no intention of running. She wasn't afraid. Not anymore.

"I warned you," she whispered.

The boy didn't have a chance to react before Hermione raised her hand. It wasn't a grand, dramatic gesture—it didn't need to be. Magic didn't need to be shouted or made to look impressive. It simply was, and she had learned to command it as though it were an extension of herself.

In that instant, the air seemed to shift, thickening as if the world itself held its breath. She felt the magic surge through her, gathering in her fingertips like a force of nature. And then—without any more warning—she released it.

The first boy crumpled, his body jerking violently as though struck by invisible lightning. A strangled scream tore from his throat as he fell to the ground, unable to move, his body convulsing. His friends froze, eyes wide with shock, fear creeping into their faces as they realized the situation had shifted beyond their control.

Hermione didn't flinch. She didn't look away. She wasn't sorry.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly, her voice mocking. "You don't seem so tough now."

One of the others reached for his wand, but Hermione was faster. She flicked her wrist, and the boy was thrown back, his body slamming against the wall with a sickening thud. His wand fell to the ground, useless, as he collapsed into unconsciousness.

The remaining two hesitated, glancing at each other, uncertainty creeping into their expressions.

"Do you think this is a game?" Hermione's voice rang out, low and cold. "I'm not some scared little girl you can push around."

They backed away, but it was too late. Her next move was quick—an unspoken incantation, a wave of force that swept over them. They gasped in terror as invisible chains wrapped around their limbs, rendering them immobile. Their eyes widened in horror as they struggled against the magical restraints that held them in place, unable to break free.

"You should've left me alone," Hermione said, her voice quieter now, but still icy with control.

For a moment, she stood there, watching the boys struggle on the cold stone floor, her gaze unwavering. They weren't dead. They were simply broken—defeated by the magic they had underestimated. And they would live with the reminder of that moment, the reminder that Hermione Vicetamore was not someone to be trifled with.

She turned on her heel, her steps echoing down the hallway as she walked away from the scene she had left behind.

"Remember this," she called over her shoulder. "Remember who I am."

❖

The boys never dared approach her again. Word spread quickly through the halls of Durmstrang, and the whispers followed her wherever she went. Some feared her, some admired her, but all knew that Hermione Vicetamore was no ordinary student. She wasn't just the daughter of Grindelwald and Emily Vicetamore. She was something else entirely—a force unto herself, untouchable, unstoppable.

But even as the respect of her peers grew, Hermione didn't feel the sense of triumph that might have come with such a victory. No, the truth was, she had crossed a line that couldn't be undone. She had given herself over to her power, fully and completely, and she had proven to herself—once and for all—that she would never again be a victim.

As she walked the halls of Durmstrang, the echoes of her past faded into the distance. She no longer sought validation or safety from anyone. She didn't need to. She had become her own protector.

And the wizarding world would learn soon enough who Hermione Vicetamore truly was.

❖

Hermione's violent defense of herself at Durmstrang did not go unnoticed. Whispers traveled faster than magic, and the story of the young witch who had taken down four older, stronger students spread like wildfire. In the beginning, the murmurs had been skeptical, laced with disbelief. But as days passed, the respect grew, and so did the fear.

It wasn't just her skill with magic—though that was certainly impressive. No, it was the sheer force of will behind it. The cold, methodical way in which she had subdued her attackers without hesitation or remorse. The magic had flowed from her like an extension of her being, sharp and controlled, leaving no room for weakness. The students at Durmstrang were used to power, but the kind of power Hermione wielded was unlike anything they had ever seen.

Even Lamarck had noticed. He had given her a knowing nod after the incident, his gaze sharp and calculating. He had seen the fire in her, the same fire that had burned in her father—and perhaps that was why he never once questioned her right to the power she now displayed. But there was a price to all of this.

The target on her back grew larger with each passing day. It wasn't just the students now. Some of the professors whispered about her in the shadows, curious about what she was capable of, whether she would become a force for the Light—or if, like her father, she would fall prey to the darkness.

It was inevitable that some would want to test her. They had to know where she stood. They had to know how dangerous she truly was.

But Hermione didn't care. She had no use for their approval.

She was a weapon, yes. But she was one tempered with the wisdom of Emily Vicetamore—the quiet love, the nurturing magic, the kind that shaped Hermione into the woman she had become—and with the raw fury of Gellert Grindelwald, a fire that could burn down mountains if provoked.

Weeks passed, each one brimming with whispers and challenges. She trained, she learned, and she grew—stronger with every passing moment.

And then, one morning, an owl arrived.

Hermione sat alone in her dormitory, staring out the frosted window at the mountains that surrounded Durmstrang. The day was overcast, snow swirling in the air like a dance of silent ghosts. She was lost in thought, contemplating everything she had learned since her arrival: her heritage, the lies surrounding her mother's death, and the secrets that even Lamarck had yet to fully reveal.

When the owl flew through the window, it startled her. It was large, its wings flapping with quiet grace, and it landed with a soft flutter on her desk. Hermione blinked as the bird extended its leg, offering the letter attached there.

She untied the scroll, the wax seal imprinting a familiar crest—one she had never expected to see again.

"Hogwarts?"

Hermione stared at the letter, her breath shallow as the realization settled into her bones. This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't an oversight. This was by design.

She had known it would come. She had always known that her return to Hogwarts was part of the plan, crafted in secret with Dippet.

The truth that had shaped her entire journey—why she had been excluded from the first letters, why she had spent years at Durmstrang—was now unfolding before her like the final pieces of a long-constructed puzzle. Dumbledore had known her bloodline, known her potential, and feared what she might become.

But now, Hermione was ready. Ready to face the lies. Ready to uncover what truly happened to her mother, to confront the darkness of her heritage, and, most importantly, to claim her rightful place in the world—at Hogwarts, where everything had begun for her and where it would end.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she stood, folding the letter and placing it into her pocket. It felt heavy. Like a promise. She would return to Hogwarts, but not as the girl who had left. She would return as Hermione Vicetamore, daughter of Emily Vicetamore and Gellert Grindelwald. She would return with purpose.

Her journey was far from over.

The letter had come. And now, the final chapter was about to begin.

❖

The air was cold, biting as it wrapped around her like an old, familiar cloak. Hermione stood on the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, the Forbidden Forest looming darkly to one side, the castle stretching out before her in all its ancient glory. This wasn't how she'd imagined it—the way it had once felt like home. The towering spires, the weathered stone, the flickering torches in the windows—it all seemed so distant now, as if she was an intruder on a stage that had long been set for someone else.

Her gaze swept over the grounds—familiar, yet foreign. The black lake shimmered under a pale sky, and a light mist clung to the earth. The Hogwarts Express, now behind her, was already a distant memory, its engine's faint whistle still echoing in her ears.

Hermione hadn't expected to feel like this. A part of her thought that this return would be a victory. She had gone through so much to get here—her power, her heritage, the truth of her mother's death—but now, as she stepped foot on the same path that had once felt like destiny, all she felt was the weight of it all. The weight of the lies, the secrets, and the burden of the blood that ran in her veins.

Her fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the parchment from the Headmaster, still tucked safely in her pocket, like the promise of everything that was to come. She was no longer the little girl who had left this place. She had grown. She had learned. And now, there was nothing left but the truth.

As the wind whispered through the trees, Hermione's first steps were slow. Heavy. They carried with them not just her past, but the future she had been thrust into. She wasn't sure what awaited her here—whether it would be the familiar faces of her old friends or the cold, calculated eyes of the professors who had watched her from afar.

But she was ready. Ready to face everything—Dumbledore, her heritage, her father's shadow. The fire within her simmered, a reminder of the legacy that had been thrust upon her. The legacy of Grindelwald.

She didn't know what she was supposed to be, but she knew this: She would no longer be hidden. She would no longer be forgotten.

And she would no longer be afraid.

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.

Chapter Text

Flashes of green light. Screams echoing through smoke-filled air.
And Bellatrix's voice—shrill, triumphant—as the knife carved cruelly into her flesh. Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood. The word burned, seared into her skin, into her very soul.

Hermione woke up with a sharp gasp, clutching at her chest as the last fragments of the nightmare slipped away. It had been years—since she was reborn as Hermione Vicetamore—that she'd dreamed of Hermione Granger, of the war, of that cursed word carved into her flesh.

Her arms itched, burning as though the memory itself had seeped back into her skin. She pushed up her sleeves with trembling fingers. The skin was raw and flushed red, exactly where her mudblood scar had once been in her past life.

But there was no scar here. No jagged letters. Just angry redness, as though the past was trying to bleed into the present.

Hermione let out a shaky breath. "Not again..." she whispered to herself, clutching her arms.

Thankfully, she had placed a silencing charm around her bed before falling asleep. No one would hear her sudden gasp or the sharp breaths that followed. The last thing she wanted was curious questions she couldn't answer.

Or so she thought.

Across the dormitory, another pair of eyes gleamed in the darkness. Walburga Black had been awake, restless and brooding as usual. She sat up on her own bed, glaring at the faint golden shimmer of Hermione's silencing charm. She couldn't hear, but she could see—the way Hermione's face twisted with pain, the way her arms glowed red in the moonlight.

Walburga's lips curled into a cold, satisfied smirk. So the perfect Miss Vicetamore has secrets. How interesting.

She swung her legs over the side of her bed, her voice low and cutting.
"Couldn't sleep, Vicetamore?"

Hermione startled, her head snapping toward Walburga. For a split second, panic flashed across her face before she smoothed it away.
"I'm fine. Just a bad dream," she said quickly, tugging her sleeves back down.

Walburga tilted her head, studying her like a predator would prey.
"Strange. You don't look fine. And Tom doesn't seem to waste his time on people who wake up screaming at night."

Hermione stiffened at the deliberate mention of Tom. Of course. That's what this was about. Walburga's dislike of her had nothing to do with bad dreams—it was about Tom Riddle. He had shown an interest in Hermione, and Walburga Black didn't share.

Hermione forced a steady tone. "Maybe Tom chooses his company based on more than appearances."

Walburga's eyes narrowed, a flash of fury breaking through her mask. "Careful, Vicetamore. You may have caught his attention, but you won't keep it." She slid back beneath her covers, her voice soft and venomous. "Boys like Tom always come back to their own kind."

Hermione clenched her fists under the blankets, her heart still pounding from the dream—and now from Walburga's threat. She knew one thing for certain: Walburga Black wasn't just watching her. She was waiting for the perfect chance to strike.

❖

Hermione wore full sleeves that morning, tugging the fabric tight against her wrists as though it could hide more than skin. Her eyes were shadowed, her steps slower than usual.

From across the hall, Walburga Black watched with hawk-like precision, every detail feeding her resentment. When she spotted Tom standing near the entrance, she wasted no time. She drifted to his side with calculated ease, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Look at her," Walburga murmured, her lips curving in a false smile. "Our new Vicetamore looks... exhausted, doesn't she? She sneaks out of the dormitory at night, vanishes for hours, then returns just before dawn."

Tom's eyes flickered briefly toward Hermione, though his expression remained unreadable. "And how do you know this?"

Walburga's smirk widened. "Because I don't sleep as soundly as the rest. And this morning, when she crept back into bed, she reeked of perfume and smoke... and something else." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a silky hiss. "The smell of sex clung to her. Be careful, Tom. Some girls use mystery to lure, but there's always a price."

Tom tilted his head, studying Walburga with cool detachment. "You're very observant."

"I look after my own," she said sweetly, though her eyes gleamed with poison. "And you, Tom... you deserve better than some restless girl who hides her nights behind silencing charms."

For a long moment, Tom said nothing. His gaze slid once more toward Hermione—her tired face, the way she kept her sleeves too tight. Then his lips curved into that faint, unreadable smile.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "or perhaps the price is worth paying."

Walburga's smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, before she masked it again. But inside, her fury simmered. She had planted the seed. Now she just had to wait and see if it grew.

❖

By lunchtime, the whisper had spread like wildfire.

Hermione moved through the crowded corridors, her arms still fully covered, her robes pulled tight, head held high despite the heaviness in her chest. But she could feel it—every glance, every smirk, every subtle tilt of a head. Whispers followed her like shadows, curling through the air in a way that made her skin crawl. Slytherin—or perhaps the entire school—had caught Walburga's carefully planted words.

"She really does look... different today," a first-year whispered to his friend, eyes darting toward Hermione's sleeves.

"Did you hear?" another boy said, barely suppressing a laugh. "Vicetamore... sneaking around at night? And this morning? Hah! The smell of... well..." He trailed off, leaving the implication hanging.

Hermione's stomach knotted, her cheeks warming. She forced herself to keep walking, chin high, but the laughter and whispers followed her like ghosts.

From across the hall, Walburga sat with her usual sly smirk, pretending to sip from her goblet while her eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction. Every glance toward Hermione was calculated, deliberate, as though each movement pulled invisible strings.

Hermione clenched her fists under the folds of her robes, jaw tight. She knew better than to confront them—not yet. She would not give Walburga the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Careful, Vicetamore," someone murmured behind her back, the words dripping with feigned concern. "Rumors travel fast here. And some things... well, they stick."

Her breath hitched. Rumors? What rumors? Hermione's steps faltered slightly. She needed answers.

Near a cluster of Slytherin girls, she paused, hoping to catch someone discreetly. One of them, a fourth-year with sharp eyes and a sly smile, leaned against the wall, pretending to adjust her robes. Hermione took a steadying breath and approached her.

"Excuse me," Hermione said carefully, keeping her voice low. "Could you... tell me what people are talking about? I... I don't understand."

The girl's smile widened, faintly amused. "Oh, Vicetamore... you really don't know?" She glanced around, ensuring no one was listening too closely. "Well... they say you've been sneaking out at night. And... apparently, you came back smelling... different. Let's just say some things people don't usually share."

Hermione's stomach twisted. "...Different? Smelling... different?" She blinked, trying to keep her composure. "I don't understand. What... what do you mean?"

The girl's smile turned mischievous, almost cruel. "I don't make the rumors, Miss Vicetamore. I just... hear them. But everyone seems to have their own version. You might want to... be careful where you walk."

Hermione nodded slowly, forcing her face into calm neutrality. Inside, anger and humiliation churned. She didn't know what Walburga had whispered or how far the rumor had spread—but one thing was painfully clear: she had become a target, and the thought that Tom might see her the same way made her chest tighten with unease, a cold knot of dread forming where hope had been.

❖

Tom was nowhere to be seen during breakfast. When he finally appeared, his gaze didn't meet hers. The absence of recognition—or even acknowledgment—hit her like a physical blow. Her chest tightened painfully, and the fork she held trembled in her hand.

She couldn't eat a bite. Every nerve in her body screamed, still raw from the nightmare, still drained from the restless night. Without thinking, she pushed her plate aside and rushed after him as he left the hall.

"Tom!!" she called, her voice breaking slightly, her legs hurrying to catch up.

He stopped abruptly and turned, his expression sharp and cold. "What?"

Hermione's chest heaved with heavy breaths. "Do you... do you believe these rumors?"

Tom's dark eyes narrowed, his tone icy. "Don't act innocent, Vicetamore. Mulciber confirmed it. He said you did... the deed with him."

Her stomach dropped, nausea rising. "Mulciber? What... what, Tom? How could you believe him? I—I'm not... I'm not a slut. Please, you have to—"

Tom laughed, but it was harsh, cruel, edged with something she hadn't expected. "A slut trying to get my attention," he said, smirking, his voice mocking. "And you're ugly, to top it all off."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Pain, disbelief, and a flicker of something darker—rage—coursed through her. She had known Walburga's whispers would spread, but not like this. Not with Tom.

Her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms. She forced herself to meet his gaze, her voice trembling but defiant. "You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I am. Don't you dare believe lies fed to you by someone like Mulciber!"

Tom's smirk didn't falter. His eyes glinted with cold amusement, as if her protest only entertained him.

❖

Hermione didn't appear for lunch, nor for dinner. Usually, she would have flared—hexing anyone foolish enough to cross her—but after Tom's words, something inside her shattered. The sharp edges of her anger dulled, replaced by a hollow ache that gnawed at her from the inside.

She had escaped to the Room of Requirement, the walls shifting to a quiet, dimly lit sanctuary. There, she collapsed onto the floor, the weight of betrayal pressing down on her. Tears streamed unchecked, carving tracks through the exhaustion and humiliation that had built all day.

She thought of Tom—future Dark Lord, ruthless and cold—but also the boy she had known for ten years at Wool's Orphanage. The boy who had trusted her, confided in her, even asked her to be his girlfriend, believing in a bond that now seemed like a ghost of the past.

This hurt more than his ignoring her letters, more than the fact that he didn't remember her. That connection, that trust... it had been everything. And now it had been shattered, twisted by lies and rumors.

She clenched her fists so tightly the knuckles turned white. Her mind sharpened into cold focus. It has to be Dumbledore. He's behind this. He altered everything... my letter, Tom, my life. And now... he must pay.

A dark resolve settled over her like armor. Tears still streaked her face, but her eyes glinted with lethal determination. I need to kill him. And I will. Fast.

The Room of Requirement seemed to pulse around her, reflecting the storm inside. Hermione Vicetamore, reborn, scarred, and fueled by betrayal, was no longer the girl who had fled Wool's orphanage. She was something far more dangerous.

❖

Hermione returned to the dormitory in near silence, every step measured. The weight of the day pressed down on her, but she welcomed it—it was fuel, a reminder of the fire she had to carry forward.

She stripped off her robes and stepped into the bath, letting the warm water wash over her like a cleansing spell. Steam curled around her, masking the traces of tears and exhaustion. Her arms, still flushed from the rumors and the nightmares, tingled as though reminding her that pain could be transformed into power.

For a long moment, she simply let herself sink beneath the surface, eyes closed, breathing deep, letting her body and mind restore themselves.

When she finally rose, Hermione Vicetamore felt sharper, stronger. Every bruise, every sting, every humiliation had been stored, analyzed, and converted into resolve.

Tomorrow, she would return to the world outside these walls not as the girl who cried in the Room of Requirement, but as someone dangerous, unstoppable.

Tomorrow, I will be powerful again.

And with that thought, she wrapped herself in a robe, her gaze lingering on her reflection in the mirror. The shadows beneath her eyes whispered of battles fought and battles to come—but also of a will that refused to break.

❖

The first light of dawn seeped through the tall dormitory windows, casting long, pale beams across the room. Hermione Vicetamore rose from her bed with quiet precision, her robes immaculate, her hair perfectly in place. Gone was the trembling, exhausted girl from yesterday. In her place stood someone sharper, colder, and infinitely more dangerous.

She dressed quickly, choosing dark green robes that clung to her frame, sleeves pulled down to cover her arms, yet giving nothing away. Her wand rested at her hip, a familiar weight she found comforting.

As she stepped into the corridor, the castle seemed to notice the shift in her presence. Whispers paused mid-air, eyes lingered just a second too long, and even the shadows felt sharper around her. Hermione moved with purpose, each step measured, each breath steady.

In the Great Hall, breakfast was already underway. Tom Riddle was there, seated at the Slytherin table, his posture perfect, his dark eyes scanning the room. Hermione's chest tightened for the briefest moment—but she forced her expression into calm neutrality. Today, she would not allow him to see the storm beneath her skin.

She slid into a seat nearby, keeping her gaze level, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Whispers rose again—some startled, some cruel—but she ignored them. She was untouchable now, or at least, she projected that illusion perfectly.

From across the hall, Walburga's eyes met hers. The smirk was still there, but Hermione met it with an icy calm that made the girl flinch almost imperceptibly.

Tom's gaze flicked toward her as well, and for a moment, his expression wavered—curiosity, caution, and something unplaceable flickered across his dark eyes. But Hermione held his stare without a tremor.

Inside, her mind raced with plans: what to observe, what to test, what to uncover. Every interaction today would be a step toward reclaiming control—over her life, over Tom, over the truth Dumbledore had twisted.

Today, she told herself, I am no longer the girl who trembles. Today, I am power. And nothing—not rumors, not lies, not even Tom Riddle himself—will shake me.

She sipped her pumpkin juice slowly, deliberately, letting the hall feel her calm, deliberate presence. Every student who thought to mock her would think twice. Every step she took was a challenge, every glance a reminder: Hermione Vicetamore had returned, and she was far from defeated.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat cross-legged in the Room of Requirement, parchments spread before her as she scribbled down plans and ideas with quick, precise strokes of her quill. The room, ever-adaptive, had given her a quiet corner surrounded by high shelves, a glowing fireplace, and a large oak desk that seemed to belong to a strategist's chamber.

Suddenly, with a sharp pop, a small figure appeared in front of her.

"Tinky!" Hermione exclaimed, blinking in surprise.

The house-elf bowed deeply, his enormous ears flopping forward. "Miss, Tinky has made sure to come to you when you is in this room," he said in his squeaky voice, his eyes shining with importance.

Hermione's stern focus softened into a smile. "Thank you, Tinky. That was very thoughtful of you."

With a solemn nod, Tinky stretched out his tiny hands, holding out a sealed letter and a small glass vial filled with a faintly glowing liquid. "Master said Tinky to deliver these to Miss Herms," the elf declared proudly.

Hermione carefully took them. "Thank you again, Tinky. Please tell your master I received them safely."

Tinky's wide eyes brimmed with pride before he gave another deep bow. "Yes, miss!" With another pop, he vanished.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, then broke the wax seal on the letter. Her eyes scanned the familiar, slightly chaotic handwriting:

Dear my lovely God-daughter,

How are you doing? Is everything alright there? Is anyone bullying you? If anyone does—kill them!

Now, coming to business. After years of research, I have finally been able to make an antidote potion that can revive memory, or counter any dark curse that controls a person. It was made by combining muggle medicine with wizarding potions.

I mixed cholinesterase inhibitors (donepezil, rivastigmine, galantamine) and memantine with Lethe River water, mistletoe berries, valerian sprigs, and phoenix tears. Difficult, yes—but not impossible.

The vial Tinky delivered contains the potion. Remember, it takes me three months to make a final dose, so use it wisely. Give it to your Tommy boy.

Also—today Dumbledore will be busy with his "counseling sessions." That will give me the chance to rescue your father and administer the potion.

P.S. — REMEMBER, NO DATING UNTIL YOU ARE AT LEAST FIFTY!

Your loving godfather,
Andrew Lamarck

Hermione sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. "Honestly, Uncle Andrew," she muttered, shaking her head at the postscript. "As if I don't have enough rules already."

Still, her chest warmed with affection. She set the letter aside, then glanced at the vial resting in her hand. The potion shimmered faintly in the firelight—golden at one angle, silver at another—radiating a quiet, strange power.

"This could be the key," she whispered, clutching it tightly.

Determined to protect it, Hermione drew her wand and tapped the letter. With a quick transfiguration spell, the parchment folded and twisted until it reshaped into a small, sturdy box. She placed the vial inside, then layered it with protective charms: locking spells, anti-theft wards, anti-summoning barriers, even a blood-recognition seal that would allow only her to open it.

"There," she murmured, satisfied.

Next, she stood, unfastened her skirt, and carefully opened a seam in the inner lining. Whispering the incantation, she cast the Undetectable Extension Charm onto the pocket, creating a hidden, spacious compartment.

"Perfect," she said softly, sliding the box securely inside. After fastening her skirt once more, she patted the pocket, ensuring it was safely concealed.

"Safe and sound," she whispered, as though reassuring herself.

Yet as she sat back down, her fingers drummed nervously on the desk. Her godfather's words lingered in her mind: Give it to your Tommy boy.

Hermione bit her lip. "Tom..." she whispered, almost guiltily.

Part of her longed to believe—believe that beneath all the ambition, the hunger for control, and the shadows that seemed to curl around him, there was still a boy who could be saved. A boy who might laugh, who might be free of the darkness strangling him.

"If this potion can break whatever binds him," she murmured, staring at the fire, "would he... would he see the world differently? Would he finally... choose differently?"

The thought made her chest ache. And yet another part of her whispered of danger. What if it freed him only to make him stronger? What if he resented her for it?

Hermione pressed her hand against her skirt pocket, feeling the faint weight of the hidden vial. "I'll decide when the time comes," she said firmly, though her voice trembled just slightly. "Not before."

The firelight flickered, shadows dancing across her face, mirroring the turmoil within her.

❖

Hermione's mind bled with possibilities she couldn't let herself follow. How do you force a potion down someone's throat? How do you change a life—perhaps a soul—forever? The questions looped until her head throbbed.

She sighed and left the Room of Requirement. The castle felt colder; each corridor seemed lined with small betrayals and quieter plans. A free period stretched before her—an opening for action, or for darker imaginings.

She pictured Walburga—smug, cruel, sharpening her tongue for the next rumor. A bloodless thought crossed Hermione's mind: wait until Sirius and Regulus are born, then stage Walburga's death as an accident. The image unsettled her; it felt like a rusted key turning a door she'd sworn never to open.

And Tom. The memory of his laughter, of the childish request that once tangled their ten‑year‑old hearts, then the venom of his words—slut—ignited something hotter. Maybe I could choke him to death? she wondered, horror at the clarity of the fantasy. Maybe I could cut his balls off? The thoughts recoiled as quickly as they came. To become a murderer for revenge would turn her into what she feared.

A colder plan formed: not blind violence, but control. If she could strip him of the ability to sire successors to his cruelty, perhaps the world would be safer. The line between justice and monstrosity looked perilously thin.

She pressed her palms to her temples and forced herself to breathe. Logic. Strategy. Proof. Not impulse.

A movement beside her snapped her out of the swirling darkness. A boy had sat down on the bench, casual as if the castle itself had seated him there. He looked oddly familiar—like a portrait half-remembered. Then the recognition landed, bright and small and cruelly sweet: Charles Potter. Harry's grandfather.

He regarded her a moment, eyes gentle, then offered a small, slow smile. "Hello. I'm Charles Potter," he said. His voice carried that easy, unassuming patience that made you think of late-night conversations by firelight. "I know the rumours aren't true. I don't feel that sort of—" he faltered, searching for the polite word, "—vibe from you."

Hermione felt something she hadn't expected—her chest a pressure of relief and astonishment—and for a second her composure cracked. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, voice small.

Charles looked at her with a softness that made the memory of Tom feel further away, if only for a heartbeat. "If there's anything I can do—look into things, hear you out—"

She swallowed. The offer felt like an anchor, a reminder that she didn't have to move through this alone. Yet the part of her hardened, the part that had already begun stocking spells and wards and contingency plans. Help was useful. Help could be weaponized. Help had to be chosen carefully.

"Later," she said, voice steadying. "For now... thank you, Charles." She gave him a tight, grateful smile and wiped at her face with the back of her hand, suddenly ashamed of how close she'd come to giving in to the darker fantasies.

Charles nodded, the understanding in his face plain but unintrusive. "All right. I'll be around."

As he left, Hermione pressed a hand to her sternum and exhaled. She could still feel the metallic tang of anger on her tongue. She still wanted—oh, she still wanted retribution, a correcting of wrongs. But the encounter with Charles had shifted something: where a moment ago the path had been all jagged edges and immediate blood, now there was a sliver of time, and with time came other options.

She folded her hands over her skirt pocket where the vial waited—unchanged, humming with possibility. The potion still held the promise and the peril of choice. For the first time that day, Hermione let herself plan around something other than how to destroy.

She would be careful. She would be ruthless in her intelligence. She would be patient.

But she would not yet let herself be the thing she feared most.

❖

Tom watched her from the shadow of a pillar as she folded herself onto the bench, shoulders rounded, eyes hollow with something that looked dangerously like surrender. 

The Great Hall's noise shrank to a dull hum at the edges of his awareness; all the petty chatter and carved faces of his house blurred into an indifferent backdrop. Hermione — Vicetamore — looked undone in a way that made him pause.

He was about to step away, to do what he always did when things got messy: retreat behind coolness and calculation. Then the other boy appeared. 

Charles Potter moved with an easy, unobtrusive kindness, sat down beside her, and began to speak in a low, quiet way that had none of the showy concern Tom despised. Charles' words were simple — an offer of belief, a refusal to join the laughter — but they landed like small, steady stones in still water. Hermione's lips trembled; she blinked hard as if trying to stop the spill of tears. Her face, for a breath, lost the composure she wore like armor.

Tom felt something tighten in his chest that he had never expected. This isn't supposed to happen, he thought, because hearts were for others, for the weak, for those outside the order he kept himself to.

 Anger budded at the edges first — at Potter, at the world for allowing an easy, soft sympathy — but beneath it was a different ache. A hollow of recognition and a stupid, intrusive ache that refused to be catalogued and dismissed. He could not name it, only that it sat there, stubborn and unwelcome.

For a moment he found himself studying the curve of her jaw, the way the normally composed mouth had softened, the tiny catch at the corner of her eye. Each detail was a small betrayal of his own indifference. He felt exposed as if someone had found the thin seam of fabric he used to hold himself together and tugged. 

The realization annoyed him more than it should have. He hated that Charles' gentle words had worked. He hated that Hermione's almost-tears had unsettled him. He hated, even more, that he noticed the way her vulnerability made her smaller and, absurdly, more immediate.

He turned his face away with effort, forcing his expression into the familiar mask — amused, bored, superior. He told himself this was distraction, nothing more: pity, a foolish human reaction he could exploit if he chose. 

But as he walked on, the image of Hermione's fragile face lingered like a splinter under his skin, impossible to ignore. The hurt — whatever shape it wanted to take — pulsed there, and Tom, who had never planned to feel it at all, realized he did not know what to do with it.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke up with yet another nightmare—this time it dragged her back to her first year at school, when she was still Hermione Granger.

In her dream, she was a child again, curled up in her parents' silent house. Both of them were workaholics, consumed by their patients, leaving her with rooms full of shadows and unanswered questions. At her Muggle school, strange things always happened around her—pencils snapping, ink bottles bursting, books toppling without warning. The other children mocked her mercilessly.
"She's a freak," they whispered.
"She's cursed."

Then the scene shifted, and she was in Hogwarts. At first, her heart swelled with hope—she was magical, she belonged. But the dream twisted cruelly. Students sneered, their voices sharp as knives.
"Goody two-shoes."
"Know-it-all."
And the worst of all, hissed from every corner:
"Mudblood."

The word echoed until it drowned everything else. The laughter, the stone walls, even the air. She felt herself shrinking, crying, clutching her books as they slipped away and caught fire at her feet. She had never felt smaller, more unwanted.

Hermione jerked awake, gasping, her skin clammy with sweat. Her arm throbbed in searing pain, and she winced. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she pushed up her sleeve. Her breath caught.

Only a single letter—M—was carved into her flesh, raw and glowing faintly in the darkness.

"No..." she whispered, her voice breaking. "What's happening?"

Her heart twisted with confusion. She was not Hermione Granger anymore. She had been born into this time, this world. Hermione Vicetamore. A pure-blood. She was not a time-meddler, not an intruder in this era. Then why—why were the scars of her past life bleeding into her present? Why were the nightmares clawing their way back into her mind?

Shaken, she rose from bed and tiptoed across the Slytherin girls' dormitory. The room was silent, the heavy green drapes drawn tight, shadows clinging to the corners. She slipped into the bathroom, her bare feet silent on the cold stone floor.

Turning the tap, she let icy water spill into the basin. She lowered her arms, hissing softly as the chill kissed her skin. The ache dulled. For a moment, the burning memories quieted.

She closed her eyes, whispering to herself, almost like a prayer.
"It's just a nightmare... I'll wake up soon. I'll wake up."

The water trickled down, soothing her body, but her mind remained restless. Because deep down, Hermione knew—if the scars of Hermione Granger had begun to surface again, the past she thought she had escaped was not finished with her.

Hermione lingered in the bathroom longer than she needed to, watching droplets race down her arm, tracing the faint glow of the cursed letter. When the sting dulled to a deep ache, she finally turned off the tap. The silence that followed pressed against her ears like a weight.

She wrapped her arms around herself and crept back into the dormitory. The other girls slept soundly, their breathing even and untroubled. The green glow of the enchanted lanterns painted their faces serene, untouched by nightmares. Hermione slid beneath her own covers, pulling them up to her chin, but the comfort of the blankets did nothing to still the storm in her chest.

She lay on her side, staring into the darkness. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw fire licking at her books, heard the voices chanting, felt the shame carving itself into her skin. She pressed her hand against the mark on her arm, willing it to fade, but the raised lines were still there, mocking her.

Her breath trembled as she whispered into the stillness, "I'm not her anymore. I'm not Granger. I'm not."

But no matter how many times she repeated it, doubt lingered like poison on her tongue.

The dormitory remained quiet, but in her mind the echoes of Mudblood would not leave her. She turned restlessly, sleepless, her body rigid beneath the sheets. Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes—time lost meaning as her thoughts looped in circles, clawing her from within.

By the time her eyes finally grew heavy, dawn was already creeping toward the horizon. And though her body surrendered to exhaustion, Hermione did not find rest—only the fragile silence before another nightmare.

❖

Hermione couldn't sleep. Her mind raced, spinning with the plan she had to make work, every detail replaying over and over, every possible failure haunting her thoughts. She changed into her skirt—the one she had charmed with the illegal, undetectable extension spell—letting the familiar weight of the enchantment settle around her. She took a deep, steadying breath, willing her hands to stop trembling.

The Slytherin common room was silent as she tiptoed toward the boys' dormitory. The only sound was the distant hum of the enchanted lanterns, their green light spilling in soft patches across the stone floor. Everyone was asleep. Even Tom. Her pulse quickened with a mixture of fear and determination.

Carefully, she cast a silencing charm over his bed, muttering the incantation under her breath. A faint shimmer spread across the mattress, swallowing any possibility of sound. She stepped closer, whispering the spells she had practiced endlessly, "Confundus," "Petrificus Totalus."

Tom's body stiffened instantly. Hermione's hands shook violently as she opened the heavy, warded box, revealing the potion inside. She gritted her teeth and forced it down his throat, the bitter liquid burning as it slid past his lips. She knew that once the potion started working, her Confundus and Petrificus Totalus spells would wear off—but there was no turning back now.

Tom jerked awake, eyes wide with fury, his voice venomous. "What are you doing?"

His head spun, his wand rising in a blur. "What did you do to me, Crutio?"

Hermione's chest constricted. The nightmare she had woken from flooded back in a torrent, bringing with it the shame, the fear, the helplessness. She whimpered softly, clutching her stomach as her heart pounded painfully in her chest, and sank to her knees. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to hide—but there was nowhere to go.

Before Tom could launch another Cruciatus curse, his body went limp. He collapsed onto his bed, unconscious. Hermione's chest heaved as she stared at him, shaking, her hands trembling. Slowly, she gathered enough strength to stand. Every movement sent waves of pain through her muscles, reminding her of the strain she had just endured.

She carefully tucked him in, smoothing the blankets over his rigid form, making sure he was safe. Her work was done—for now—but the adrenaline had left her exhausted and fragile. Each step back to the door was agony, her limbs heavy and aching, every joint and muscle screaming in protest.

Finally, she made it to the bathroom, her bare feet silent against the cold stone floor. She sank into the warm water, letting the heat seep into her tired muscles. The bath was a balm, a temporary relief that washed away some of the tension, though a dull ache still lingered beneath the surface.

Hermione leaned back, letting the water cover her shoulders, closing her eyes and drawing in the steam. Her mind still raced, memories and fears swirling, but for the first time in hours, she allowed herself a moment of fragile peace. The warmth wrapped around her like a soft, protective cloak. She let herself breathe, let herself feel her heart slow, even if only slightly.

Her muscles relaxed gradually, the tension in her body melting into the bathwater. Yet even as her limbs softened and the ache dulled, the weight of everything she had done pressed down on her mind. She could rest her body, but her thoughts refused to quiet. Every heartbeat reminded her that the danger wasn't over—and that the consequences of this night would follow her long after she stepped out of the water.

For the first time in hours, she whispered aloud, letting the sound fill the warm, steamy bathroom, "It's done... it's done... I just need a moment."

And for a fleeting, precious moment, she allowed herself to believe it.

❖

Hermione lingered in the bath a moment longer, letting the warmth seep into her sore muscles, before finally stepping out. Steam clung to her skin, and her hair stuck to her damp shoulders. Every step to the changing area sent tiny jolts of pain through her legs and back, the aftermath of the night's effort making her movements stiff and deliberate.

She wrapped herself in a towel and moved to her wardrobe, pulling out her uniform with careful hands. Her mind raced—every detail of the day ahead, every interaction, felt magnified now that her mark had resurfaced and her encounter with Tom had left her physically drained.

She paused, staring at her arm. The glowing "M" was faint now, but the lines were still etched into her skin, a silent reminder of both the past and the dangerous path she had chosen tonight. She murmured under her breath, "No one can see this... no one can know."

With trembling fingers, she slipped on her uniform, long sleeves covering the mark as best they could. Each motion reminded her of the aches in her shoulders, arms, and legs. By the time she pulled the final piece into place, she felt like she had run a marathon, her body protesting every step.

Hermione moved quietly back to the dormitory, glancing at the sleeping Slytherin girls. Their peaceful breathing, their untroubled faces, contrasted sharply with the storm in her mind. She eased back into her bed, curling beneath the covers, careful not to make a sound. Her muscles screamed in protest, but exhaustion and lingering adrenaline kept her rooted in place.

Minutes passed. Then, hearing the soft creak of the first early risers in the castle, Hermione forced herself out of bed. Every step down the staircase was an ordeal; she gritted her teeth against the ache in her calves and lower back. The familiar green lanterns cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, and she kept her head low, hooded eyes avoiding every possible witness.

By the time she reached the Great Hall, she was practically limping, every movement a quiet battle against her body. Students chatted and laughed, oblivious to the night she had endured. She kept her sleeves down, her posture tense, scanning the room for any sign of Tom—or anyone who might notice the faint remnants of her mark.

Sitting at the Slytherin table, she pulled her robes tightly around herself and took a shaky breath. Breakfast passed in a blur, the conversation around her a muffled hum. Every glance at her arm reminded her that the world outside the bathroom was unforgiving, that her choices had consequences, and that the past she had tried to bury was clawing its way back into her present.

Even as she ate, a plan began to form in her mind. Tonight's action had been only the beginning. The potion had worked, but it had not solved the larger problem. She would need more than spells and potions to face what was coming. Hermione knew that whatever lay ahead, it would test her body, her magic, and her resolve in ways she had never imagined.

And for the first time that day, she allowed herself a small, grim smile. Pain and fear could not stop her. She had survived worse, and she would survive this too.

❖

Tom woke up with a violent jerk, his body taut with tension. Sweat clung to his forehead, soaking his hair, and his chest heaved as if he had run a marathon in his sleep. For a moment, he looked around in confusion—the dormitory was empty. The boys had already left for breakfast, leaving the room eerily quiet.

Then it hit him. Every memory, every terrible choice, came crashing back with brutal clarity. Hermione—his Hermione. The girl he had tormented, the one he had thoughtlessly hurt, the one whose trust he had shattered.

He groaned, a raw, strangled sound that echoed through the empty room. His eyes, usually so cold and guarded, brimmed with tears for the first time since he had arrived at Hogwarts. His hands trembled as he pressed them to his face, trying to block out the relentless images of her frightened eyes, the screams of pain from the Cruciatus curse, the venomous words he had spat—calling her a slut, mocking her, breaking her spirit.

"Oh no... no, no, no..." he whispered, voice shaking. His knees buckled as he sank onto the edge of the bed. "What... what have I done?"

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. "Hermione... I—" His voice broke, a ragged gasp escaping him. "I used the Cruciatus... I hurt you... I called you names... I—God, how could I be so cruel?!"

The tears finally spilled over, warm and unstoppable, streaking his face. His body shook with the weight of regret, every heartbeat pounding with the knowledge of the pain he had caused. "I—I can't undo it... I can't... I can't make it right!"

For the first time in his life, Tom felt the full weight of guilt and helplessness crush him. He had always been feared, untouchable, in control. But now, staring at the empty dormitory, alone with his shame, he realized the depth of the damage he had done—and that some things could never be undone.

Yet, even in the midst of his despair, a spark of determination ignited within him. It wasn't enough to wallow in guilt—he had to fix this. He had to make things right, somehow, with Hermione.

"No..." he whispered, voice trembling but resolute. "It's not over. I—I can't lose her. I won't. I'll do whatever it takes—I'll win her back."

His fists clenched at his sides as he imagined the path ahead—difficult, uncertain, and fraught with danger. Every wrong he had done would need to be faced, every hurt he had caused would need to be mended, and every barrier she had built around herself would need to be broken.

"I'll make her see—she has to trust me again. Somehow, she has to believe in me," he muttered, jaw tight, eyes blazing with fierce determination. The shame and regret still pressed against him, but now they were fuel, not chains. But beneath the vow, another truth stirred—a darker one. If she would not believe willingly, then he would find a way. Tom Riddle always got what he wanted.

For the first time, Tom felt a shift within himself: the boy who had once relied on fear and cruelty would have to rely on patience, care, and strategy. To win Hermione back, he would need more than magic—he would need her heart. And he swore to himself, silently and fiercely, that he would not fail.

Chapter Text

Hermione didn't feel like eating. The smell of food—eggs, toast, even pumpkin juice—made her stomach churn. Her body felt hollow, her veins heavy with exhaustion.

She pushed her plate away, trying to ignore the faint tremor in her hands. Every breath sent dull pain through her ribs, a lingering echo of the Cruciatus curse. Her skin was pale, almost translucent under the Great Hall's enchanted light.

Her mind screamed for rest, but her instincts whispered something else—there was still work to be done.

"The spell..." she murmured under her breath, her voice barely a sound. "There must be a loophole."

The rebirth incantation she had once used—back when she was still Hermione Granger—had brought her here, into this new life. But lately, cracks were beginning to show. The nightmares. The mark on her arm. The sudden surges of pain that didn't belong to this body.

Maybe I didn't seal it completely. Maybe the past is still trying to claim me.

Her heart fluttered with unease. She rose to her feet, her legs trembling. For a moment, she had to grip the table to steady herself, drawing a slow breath to suppress the dizziness.

"I'll... I'll skip class today," she whispered. "I need to check the library. I need to know what went wrong."

Without another word, she turned and began walking toward the doors. Her steps were unsteady, but her resolve was firm.

❖

Tom was just entering the Great Hall when he saw her.

Hermione.

Her plate was untouched, her head bowed slightly, as if every breath took effort. And when she finally stood, her hand brushed the edge of the table for balance—just enough for something inside his chest to twist painfully. Guilt. Raw and unfiltered.

He froze mid-step, his hand curling into a fist at his side. He could still hear her choked cries from the night before, the sound of his own voice echoing through his memory—Crucio.
The word clung to him like a brand.

I did that to her.

Before he could move, before he could even think of what to say, she was already gone. Her robes whispered against the floor as she slipped through the heavy doors of the Great Hall, not once looking back.

"Tom!"

The sharp, imperious voice broke through his trance. Walburga Black was waving at him from the Slytherin table, a forced sweetness curving her lips. "There you are! Sit down already—you've been skipping meals again."

His jaw tightened. Of all people, Walburga's concern grated on him most. She didn't care—she never did. It was all pretense, a way to flaunt her closeness to him, to keep others watching.

He forced a thin smile and crossed the room with practiced grace, sliding into the seat beside her. She immediately launched into idle talk—who was dueling whom, what Slughorn had said about her potion, which girl had embarrassed herself in Charms—but Tom barely heard her.

His eyes kept flicking toward the doors Hermione had disappeared through. The noise around him dulled, words melting into meaningless chatter.

All he could think of was the way she had looked—pale, withdrawn, distant.

You did this, his mind hissed.

And as he picked up his fork, his grip white-knuckled and trembling with restraint, he made a silent promise to himself:

I'll fix this. No matter what it takes.

❖

The corridors were empty when Hermione slipped out of the Great Hall, each footstep echoing softly against the cold stone. The chill of early morning bit through her robes, but she hardly noticed. Her mind raced too fast, too urgently, for discomfort to matter. She needed the library. She needed answers.

The heavy oak doors loomed before her. She pressed a hand to the worn surface, whispering the incantation to unlock the Restricted Section. The lock clicked open. Silence greeted her inside, dense and expectant, almost alive. Shadows clung to the high shelves, and the smell of old parchment and ink wrapped around her like a cloak.

Hermione made her way to the far corner, hidden from view, where the oldest, dustiest tomes lay stacked. Her fingers brushed over the spines until one stood out—"Soul Tethering and the Price of Spell-Bound Rebirth."

Her hands trembled as she opened it, the pages brittle and yellowed. The words seemed to shimmer in the dim light, heavy with truth.

She read, "Nature requires balance. A soul reborn naturally carries no consequence; the cycle remains unbroken. A soul forcibly displaced or returned via magical incantation, however, draws upon its current vessel to compensate. The tether grows stronger with every echo, every memory resurfaced. The living body of the caster suffers. Weakness, nausea, pain, and scars are but symptoms of the imbalance. Prolonged displacement accelerates decay. Ultimately, the vessel currently inhabited cannot survive. Life is borrowed, and the debt is absolute."

Her breath caught. Her fingers flew to her chest, pressing against the faint pulse beneath her skin. She felt it—Vicetamore's body, trembling and aching, slowly eroding under the weight of the unnatural rebirth.

So that's why...

The nausea, the trembling, the nightmares, the glowing letter burned into her arm—all of it was a warning. The past she had forced herself to reclaim through magic was clawing its way back, consuming the present.

Hermione's throat tightened. She read on, each line sharpening the terror that had been gnawing at her for days, "A soul tethered by suffering cannot exist in two bodies indefinitely. If the displacement is not corrected, the vessel currently inhabited will succumb, fading into nothing as the previous incarnation reclaims its life."

Her hands fell to the table, and her head bent low. The words pressed on her chest like a physical weight. If I don't fix this... if I can't find the loophole in the incantation... I will die. Vicetamore will die.

The room seemed to shrink around her. Candlelight flickered, casting grotesque shadows across the stacks of books. Every heartbeat was a reminder of the debt, every shallow breath a countdown.

Her mind spun. She had thought rebirth was a solution, a clean slate. She had thought she could escape the nightmares, escape the past. But the past was not done with her. The spell had forced a bargain with nature, and nature always collected its due.

Hermione pressed a hand to her forehead, shivering. "I... I have to fix it," she whispered, her voice barely audible, quivering with panic and determination. "I have to... before it's too late."

She closed the book gently, as though afraid to break the fragile knowledge it contained. Every muscle in her body ached. Her mark burned faintly beneath her sleeve. The library, once a sanctuary, now felt like a tomb.

She rose unsteadily, gripping the edge of the table for balance. The hallway outside called her, a faint glimmer of possibility. If she could uncover the loophole—if she could manipulate the incantation safely—she might survive. She might protect Vicetamore from the slow, inevitable decay the spell had cursed her with.

But the thought chilled her to the bone: if she failed.. the body, the life she had built, would vanish. And with it, everything she had fought to become.

Every step toward the door felt like walking across a knife's edge. The silence of the library pressed against her ears, heavy and expectant, as if even the walls were holding their breath. Hermione forced herself forward, the book clutched to her chest, determination flaring through the fear:

I won't let this happen. I can't. I will survive...

But deep in the shadows, the truth lingered, patient and merciless: time, nature, and magic were waiting for their due.

❖

Tom barely tasted his food. Walburga's chatter scraped at him like sandpaper, but he barely heard it; his eyes kept flicking to the doorway Hermione had vanished through. A small absence had become a splinter beneath his skin.

There was a cold knot of dread in his stomach—not simple regret, but a warning. He had always known how to read people, how to bend a room with a look; now something at the edges of his perception felt wrong.

"Excuse me," he said, pushing his plate away. Walburga frowned but made no objection. He left the hall with the practiced calm of someone who never appeared hurried, though his pulse thudded against his ribs.

The corridor air hit him sharp and clean. He drifted, unthinking, until the silhouette of Hermione framed the dim library doors. She looked smaller than he remembered, clutching something to her chest. For a moment he nearly called her name, but he didn't. She wasn't merely frightened—there was a hard line to her, something resolved.

Memories of last night crashed over him: her screams, the Cruciatus, the way he had spoken to her. Shame flared hot and awful, but beneath it burned something fierce and protective.

He should have stayed away. He should have let her be. But the thought of her dying because of anything he had done felt like a crack in the world he'd built. He could not be the cause of her end.

Tom slipped into the library behind her, silent and careful. He kept to the shadows, not wanting to startle her, cataloguing small details instead—the low-slung sleeve, the way she folded herself over a book, the clench of her jaw. He didn't approach; he would learn first. He would see what she had found, what she feared.

If she was in danger—if the threat was something he could stop—he would act. He didn't know how he would fix what he'd broken, but he knew he would try. For the first time since he had raised the curse, guilt and determination braided together into something like hope.

Tom moved between the stacks, watching, waiting, and for the first time in a long while, he wondered whether he could be better than his worst self.

Tom stayed pressed against the shadowed shelves, careful not to make a sound. His eyes followed her every movement, noting the faint glow on her arm and the way she pressed a hand to the book she carried.

Hermione whispered softly, almost to herself, as she read a passage aloud:

"A soul tethered by suffering cannot exist in two bodies indefinitely. If the displacement is not corrected, the vessel currently inhabited will succumb, fading into nothing as the previous incarnation reclaims its life."

The words hit Tom like a physical blow. He froze, heart hammering, the echo of her voice drilling into him. Every instinct screamed that she was in danger—not from some outside enemy, but from the very magic she had forced herself into.

He took a step closer, straining to hear, his mind racing. The tether... the rebirth... Vicetamore's life was being drained. If she can't undo it, she'll die.

For the first time, fear—not guilt, not strategy, but raw, sharp fear—cut through him. He realized that whatever Hermione was planning, whatever reckoning she had in mind, the spell she had cast was far more dangerous than even she knew. And now, he could not stay back.

Tom's jaw tightened. He would act—but carefully. One wrong step, one misjudgment, and the girl he cared for could be lost to the past she had reclaimed.

He took a slow breath, letting the weight of the revelation settle in. I have to protect her. I can't let this happen—not to her, not to anyone.

And with that, he moved forward, silent and deliberate, keeping her in sight as the dim library shadows swallowed him.

❖

Hermione's fingers lingered over the book's page, tracing the words as her voice whispered the truth aloud. The flicker of candlelight caught the faint glow on her arm, and a shiver ran down her spine—not from cold, but from the sense of being watched.

She froze mid-breath, every muscle tightening. Something was off. The library was empty—or at least it should have been—but the shadows seemed to shift with intent, stretching toward her, curling just beyond the edge of her vision.

A small, instinctive voice inside her whispered, He's here.

She didn't turn immediately. Her pulse thrummed loud enough that she could hear it in her ears, but she forced herself to breathe slowly, carefully. No sudden moves. He won't see me if I don't give him reason.

From the shadows, Tom stayed still, barely daring to breathe. Every instinct told him to move forward, to reach her, but he froze under the weight of her awareness. He could feel it—the sharp, razor-edge intuition of Hermione Vicetamore, a warning that someone was close.

Hermione shifted slightly, the soft rustle of her robes the only clue. Her senses flared, her eyes narrowing. Someone's here. I can feel them.

Tom's muscles tensed. He had been discovered without a sound, merely by the force of her presence. He didn't move. He couldn't—she'd sense it immediately.

"Who's there?" Hermione's voice was quiet, controlled, but there was steel beneath it. Her gaze swept the stacks, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through shadows as though she could see him even without looking.

Hermione's patience snapped. She raised her wand sharply, her eyes flashing with controlled fury.

"Expelliarmus!" she shouted, the spell aimed not to harm, but to unmask.

A sudden tug in the shadows, a displaced cloak, and Tom stepped forward, hands raised slightly in surrender. He didn't argue.

Hermione's wand stayed trained on him, her chest heaving. "What are you doing here, Tom?" Her voice was low, trembling with anger. "Do you think I don't notice you skulking around like some coward?!"

Tom's expression was sober, guilt and caution mixing in his dark eyes. "I... I wasn't going to interfere. I just..."

"You just what?" Hermione snapped, stepping closer, the book clutched to her chest. "You have no right! No right to follow me, to watch me, to—" She stopped, taking a harsh breath. "You've done enough already."

Tom flinched under the force of her words, but he remained where he was, knowing she was right. Her anger was justified, and the cold edge in her voice reminded him that this wasn't the time for excuses.

Hermione lowered her wand slightly, though her glare didn't waver. "If you value your life, Tom... don't ever do that again. Do you understand?"

"I... I understand," he murmured, voice barely audible, the weight of her fury pressing down on him like a physical force.

Hermione turned back to the book, still seething, but her wand stayed at the ready. Every nerve in her body was taut, every thought sharp. She wouldn't let him—or anyone—distract her from the truth she had just uncovered.

Chapter Text

Hermione jolted awake, heart hammering, breath shallow. For a moment, she didn't know where she was—only that her body burned. Her arm seared with pain.

She threw back the sheets and stared.

Two glowing letters—MU—were carved into her skin, faint but alive, pulsing like a curse that remembered her better than she remembered herself.

Her chest constricted.
The MU of Mudblood.

The air felt colder now, heavier.
She knew what this meant. The letters were returning, one by one. And the day the word was complete... would be the day she died.

She swallowed hard. "Not yet," she whispered to the empty dorm, voice trembling. "Not until I finish this."

Her hands shook as she buttoned her robe. She felt sick, hollow, drained of magic and color. But she couldn't stay in bed—not when time itself was carving warnings into her flesh.

She needed to act.
She needed control.

❖

The Great Hall buzzed with the low hum of morning chatter, silverware clinking against plates. Hermione stepped in, head bowed, hoping to blend in.

She didn't even make it three steps before a familiar, maddening voice drawled behind her.

"Good morning, Hermione."

She froze. Of course.

Tom Riddle leaned lazily against a pillar, sunlight glinting off his dark hair. His smile was sharp enough to draw blood.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Riddle?"

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "We're sixteen now."

She blinked once, unimpressed. "And that's supposed to mean something?"

Tom's grin deepened, all smooth charm and arrogance. "You promised to be my girlfriend, remember?"

Hermione gave a dry, biting laugh. "That was before I learned you had the emotional range of a teaspoon and the moral depth of a puddle."

His smirk didn't falter. "Careful, love. You might make me fall harder."

"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped.

Tom shrugged, that glint of mischief darkening into challenge. "Maybe I'll announce it right now. Tell the whole Hall you're mine. I'm sure Dippet would be thrilled."

Her blood turned to ice. No.
If Dumbledore saw him act out of character—show emotion—her entire plan could unravel.

In one swift motion, she shoved him against the stone wall, the sound echoing through the corridor.

Tom froze, startled, as Hermione's wand pressed against his chest.

"You'll do no such thing," she hissed. "Not one word, Riddle. You hear me?"

His smirk faltered. "Hermione—"

"One wrong move," she cut him off, her voice trembling with fury, "and Dumbledore will slip right through my fingers. You stay cold. You stay ruthless. Be the perfect monster he expects you to be."

Her eyes blazed with something wild, desperate. "Because that manipulative old man tampered with your memory. He killed my mother. He used my father. Every move he makes is poison—and I will see him pay for it."

For once, Tom had no words.

The arrogance drained from his face, replaced by something quieter—something almost human.

"You've... you've been through too much," he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. "Let me help you, Hermione. Please. Let me make it right."

Her grip on his robes loosened, but her gaze stayed sharp.

Tom swallowed, guilt clouding his usually perfect composure. "You don't know how much I hate myself—for the things I did, for the things I said. For not being there when you needed me most." His eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I'm sorry. I truly am."

Hermione's breath hitched, her anger wavering for just a heartbeat.

She looked away, jaw tight. "You want forgiveness? Earn it."

A weak, watery laugh escaped him. "Playing hard to get, are we?"

Hermione smirked faintly, but there was no warmth in it. "Something like that."

She stepped back, tucking her wand away. "Now move. I have better things to do than argue with a boy who thinks he can charm his way out of guilt."

As she walked toward the Great Hall, her hair caught the light—a fleeting glimmer before she disappeared through the doors.

Tom stayed behind, hand pressed to the spot where her wand had rested. His heart was pounding, and for once, it wasn't from pride or power.

It was fear.
Fear that the girl he'd once hurt beyond measure was slipping through his fingers again—this time, for good.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they gleamed with cold resolve. "If she won't trust me willingly," he murmured, "then I'll make her."

❖

As promised, Tom Riddle remained the perfect image of composure—cold, calculating, untouchable.
No one at Hogwarts suspected a thing. He was the same feared prefect, the same brilliant prodigy with eyes too sharp to meet for long.

But behind that mask, his orders were clear.

"Anyone who dares to gossip about Hermione Vicetamore," he told Abraxas one evening, voice smooth and deadly, "make sure they regret ever opening their mouth."

Abraxas Malfoy had simply bowed, hiding a knowing smile.
He understood perfectly well—Hermione wasn't just another girl. She was his Lord's redemption.

And though Abraxas would never admit it aloud, he was genuinely glad. If anyone could soften Tom Riddle's edges, it was her.

❖

That night, Tom stood in the Room of Requirement, surveying his work with a proud, self-satisfied grin.
The chamber had transformed into something... unexpected.

The air shimmered with floating memories—silver wisps of light replaying their shared moments in loops.
Hermione laughing softly in the library. Hermione reading by the window, hair falling over her face. Hermione glaring at him after one of his infamous smirks.

Each vision hung in the air like a fragile spell, glowing gently.
And around them—thousands of parchment notes, each charmed to float like petals. Every one of them carried Tom's handwriting: clumsy, heartfelt apologies written in words he'd never dare say aloud.

"I'm sorry."
"You didn't deserve that."
"I was cruel. I know."
"Please, let me fix it."

Even Abraxas, who had seen his Lord hex without blinking, looked slightly horrified.

He coughed delicately. "My Lord... aren't these arrangements a bit—" he hesitated, struggling to find the right word, "—cheesy?"

Tom shot him a glare, too proud to notice the irony. "Shut up, Abraxas. Even if it is, maybe it'll work?"

Abraxas grimaced, muttering under his breath, "Maybe—for someone who isn't you."

❖

When Tom finally found Hermione, she was alone, walking through a secluded corridor, lost in thought. Without a word, he caught her wrist and dragged her—gently but firmly—toward the Room of Requirement.

"Riddle—what—let go of me!" she snapped, but he only smirked and pulled her inside.

The door sealed shut behind them.

Hermione's eyes widened as she took in the glowing memories, the floating apologies, the ridiculous romantic haze of it all.
Then... she laughed.

Not a polite laugh. Not even a mocking one.
A full, genuine, unstoppable burst of laughter that echoed off the enchanted walls.

Tom blinked, caught completely off guard. "What? Why are you—this isn't—"

Hermione wiped a tear of laughter from her eye, shaking her head. "Oh, Merlin, Riddle. You're really unromantic."

"Unromantic?" he repeated, half-offended, half-baffled. "I filled the room with our memories!"

"That's exactly the problem," she said between laughs. "It looks like you're confessing to yourself."

And before he could respond, she turned and walked out, still chuckling under her breath.

The door closed softly behind her, leaving Tom standing there—frozen, indignant, and maybe a little wounded.

Abraxas, leaning in the corner, crossed his arms with a smirk.
"I did warn you, my Lord."

Tom shot him a glare, pouting despite himself. "Shut up, Abraxas."

Abraxas arched a pale brow. "Of course, my Lord."

But when Tom turned away, trying (and failing) to look unbothered, Abraxas couldn't help the small grin tugging at his mouth.
Because for the first time in years, Tom Riddle looked human.

❖

The Room of Requirement was quiet now. The glowing memories had dimmed, drifting like faint ghosts in the dark. Most of the parchment notes had fallen to the floor, their ink fading slightly with time.

Tom had stopped coming here after Hermione's laughter.
Or maybe he came when no one could see—because sometimes, the air still smelled faintly of his cologne and smoke.

Hermione hesitated outside the door, her hand hovering near the handle. She told herself she was only here to see what he'd done. To make sure he hadn't hidden any dangerous enchantments.

That was all. Purely practical. Nothing sentimental. But it was.

But when she finally stepped inside, her breath caught.

The room greeted her like a memory of a memory—soft, haunting, and impossibly tender. A few of the silvery wisps floated still, shimmering faintly. And among the scattered parchments, one note rested in the center of the floor, its ink still warm.

Hermione bent down and picked it up. It read, in Tom's sharp, elegant handwriting, "You once said I don't understand love. Maybe you're right. But I'm learning. And I started with you."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the words.
Something in her chest twisted—an ache that was not entirely pain.

"Idiot," she whispered softly, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. But her eyes glistened.

She looked up at the memories dancing above her. In one of them, Tom was staring at her during Potions class, pretending to be focused on his cauldron but watching her with quiet fascination.

In another, he was handing her a quill after she dropped hers—expression unreadable, jaw tight, as if the act itself cost him pride.

Hermione's throat tightened. For a boy who claimed not to feel, he had filled this room with feeling.

She sighed and sat down on the floor, the letter still in her hand. "I hate you," she said quietly, though her voice betrayed her. "I really, really do." The words echoed softly through the room, and she laughed—a quiet, broken sound.

Her fingers brushed against another parchment nearby, and she picked it up. "You make me human. And I don't know if I should thank you or curse you for that."

Her heart clenched. This wasn't manipulation. Not this time.
This was something raw, messy, and heartbreakingly real.

Hermione looked around once more, her expression softening despite herself. "You really don't know how to do things halfway, do you, Riddle?"

Then, with a sigh, she flicked her wand. The parchments rose gently from the floor, rearranging themselves into a neat pile on the table. She couldn't destroy them—not yet.

"Just until the war is over," she murmured. "Then I'll forget this ever happened."

But as she turned to leave, the door closing behind her, a faint glimmer pulsed through the room. The parchment she had first picked up floated back into the air, unfolding itself.

On the back, a second line of handwriting appeared—one Tom hadn't written before. The castle's magic had answered for him.

"You can't forget what's already written into your soul."

Hermione froze outside the door, feeling a sudden, inexplicable chill. Somewhere deep down, she knew—it wasn't over.

And maybe, just maybe, a part of her didn't want it to be.

❖

Tom Riddle didn't sleep much anymore.

It wasn't nightmares that kept him awake—it was her. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Hermione's expression when she laughed at his so-called 'romantic' attempt. That soft, mocking smile—the one that had wounded his pride far more than any hex could.

He told himself he didn't care.
He told himself she'd come around eventually.
He told himself that emotions were weakness.

But the Room of Requirement still lingered in his mind like an unhealed scar.

So, when the enchanted quill he had charmed to monitor magical activity in that room flickered to life late that night, Tom's heart stuttered.

He froze.
Someone had entered.

He didn't need to guess who. He knew. He felt it.

Within seconds, he was up—robes half-done, hair unkempt, moving with silent precision through the corridors of Hogwarts. The castle bent to him, opening doors and shifting staircases as if it, too, wanted him to see.

By the time he reached the Room of Requirement, the magic had already gone still. But something in the air had changed.

He stepped inside.

The room was quieter than he'd left it. The candles had burned low, the floating memories dimmed to faint, glowing embers. But everything felt... touched. Softer somehow.

And then he saw it.

The pile of parchment on the table—neatly stacked. Organized. The kind of order she would leave behind.

Tom's breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he picked up the top parchment. It was one of his own notes, written in a rare moment of honesty.
But there was something new—a faint smudge near the edge.

Her fingerprint.

He smiled, small and dangerous. "She came."

Behind him, the door creaked open. Abraxas stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

"I assume it worked?" Abraxas asked dryly.

Tom didn't answer immediately. He kept staring at the parchment, running his thumb over the faint print. "She laughed the first time," he murmured, his tone unreadable. "Mocked me. Left without a second glance."

Abraxas sighed. "Yes, well, women tend to do that when you drag them into rooms filled with floating memories and bad handwriting."

Tom shot him a look sharp enough to cut. But instead of retaliating, he smiled faintly—too calm, too deliberate. "But she came back."

Abraxas blinked. "What?"

"She came back," Tom repeated, setting the parchment down gently. "She touched everything. Rearranged the notes. She read them."

"Are you sure—"

"I felt it." His voice was a low whisper now, laced with that strange, obsessive certainty only Tom Riddle could carry. "She couldn't destroy them. She couldn't walk away completely. That's all I needed to know."

Abraxas exhaled slowly. "You sound uncomfortably hopeful, my lord."

Tom turned, eyes glinting in the dim light. "Hope?" He tilted his head. "No, Abraxas. This isn't hope."

His lips curved into a dark, knowing smile. "It's inevitability."

Abraxas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Merlin help us all."

But Tom wasn't listening anymore. He was already staring at the faint shimmer of magic still hanging in the air, the trace of her.

"Next time," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent, "she won't walk out that door."

His expression softened, almost tender—almost.
Then, colder again, "Not until she admits she's mine. Not until she forgives me"

The room pulsed faintly in response, as if the castle itself was listening.

And in that moment, under the dim flicker of candlelight, it was hard to tell where love ended and obsession began.

❖

Hermione sat by the window in the Slytherin common room, watching the first streaks of sunlight glint off the Black Lake. The world outside seemed calm, serene, almost indifferent to the storm raging inside her.

Her thoughts were consumed by him—Tom. The boy who had haunted her dreams, the boy who had tortured her, the boy who had somehow become the axis of her every heartbeat. She loved him. God, how much she loved him.

But love, in her world, was dangerous. Love was pain. Every memory of his hands, once cruel and merciless, haunted her still. Forgiving him would be an act of mercy... for him, not for herself.

And mercy meant hope.

Hope meant a future.

And she couldn't give him a future with her—not when she didn't even know how many days she had left. The cursed letters—the MUDBLOOD scar returning—etched a countdown on her skin, a warning carved into her very flesh. One by one, the letters would appear, and the day they were complete... would be her last.

She clenched her fists under the table, nails biting into her palms. The ache in her chest wasn't from magic or fatigue—it was the ache of knowing she couldn't reach for him, couldn't allow herself to love freely. To forgive would be selfish, a betrayal to the truth she had to hold onto: survival.

Her breath hitched, and she whispered into the dim light of the morning, "I can't. I can't give him hope. Not when I can't even promise myself tomorrow."

She pressed her hand to her arm, feeling the faint, pulsing glow beneath her sleeve. The letters were cruel reminders that time was a thief, and she had no power to stop it. Every plan she made, every spell she cast, every ounce of strength she gathered... it was all to buy herself a little control in a world that had already marked her for death.

And yet, even as she forced herself to stay cold, to stay distant, her mind betrayed her. Thoughts of him—the way he looked at her when he thought no one was watching, the fleeting cracks in his armor—filled her with longing she couldn't allow herself to feel.

Hermione closed her eyes, forcing the tears back, forcing the memories away. She loved him too much to give him more pain. And maybe, she told herself bitterly, that was the cruelest form of love she could offer.

She didn't know how many days remained, but she knew this much: every moment with him, every stolen glance, every unspoken word, would have to carry the weight of a lifetime.

Because she couldn't promise the future. And she couldn't forgive

Chapter Text

Tom sat in the dim light of the Room of Requirement, replaying every moment with her in his mind. Her laugh—the rare, genuine one that pierced his carefully built walls. Her scowl—the one that could make him tremble. Her sharp words—the ones that cut through his arrogance and left him... wanting.

He had been cold in front of everyone, ruthless, untouchable, the perfect monster Hogwarts expected him to be. But the mask slipped whenever she was near. Every smile, every glance, every subtle twitch of her fingers made his heart betray him. He wanted to hold her, to apologize properly, to make up for every cruelty he had inflicted—but she remained just out of reach, a fire he could see but never touch.

"Why won't she forgive me?" he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, the shadows of the room swallowing his words. He knew he deserved her wrath, her silence, her fury. Every Cruciatus curse he had cast, every venomous word he had spat—he felt it now, like knives against his chest.

And yet... hope burned stubbornly.

He had charmed the Room of Requirement with memories of her, with apologies he wasn't sure were enough, with reminders of all the small moments he had stolen—moments of laughter, moments of vulnerability, moments that belonged only to them. And still, she had left, storming out with that incredulous laugh, calling him unromantic, leaving him to stew in his pride and his failure.

Tom ran his hands through his dark hair, frustration twisting his features. "She doesn't see it yet," he whispered, voice low and dangerous. "She doesn't see what I'm willing to do... what I will do... to make this right."

His gaze hardened. Every ounce of control, every ounce of power he had, would be wielded for her. He would wait. He would plan. He would bend the world if he had to. She was his—somehow, some way. And he would make her understand that, even if it took a lifetime.

Yet beneath the resolve, a darker thought stirred. If patience failed... if she refused him, if she would not give him hope willingly... Tom would find another way. He always did.

Because Hermione Vicetamore, was the axis of his existence. And no curse, no pride, no magic, no mortal limit could stop him from claiming what he wanted.

He leaned back, eyes closing for a moment, imagining her—laughing, angry, defiant. The girl who had become his obsession. The girl who was both his torment and his salvation.

"I'll win her back," he whispered, a vow that was part promise, part threat, part prophecy. "No matter the cost. No matter the pain. No matter the time left... she's mine."

❖

Tom waited in the Room of Requirement, the air thick with enchantment. The walls shimmered with memories of Hermione: her laughter like sunlight, her sharp words that had once cut him to the core, her quiet moments of vulnerability. Each memory reflected back at him, unforgiving yet sacred.

When Hermione appeared, his chest heaved, and for the first time, he didn't approach her with power or pride—he approached her with all of himself, raw and exposed.

"Hermione..." His voice cracked, trembling, deeper than anyone had ever heard it. "I... I have been... a shadow. A cruel, terrible shadow over your life. I tormented you. I humiliated you. I... I made you bleed—not just on the outside, but in your heart, in your soul. And for every single moment... I am sorry. I am so deeply sorry that words feel hollow, but they are all I have. All I have to offer is this truth."

He dropped to his knees, not in submission to her, but in surrender to the weight of his own remorse. Tears streaked his face, catching the golden light of the room. "I don't expect forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But I could not—could not leave the memory of your pain unacknowledged. Every curse I cast, every word I spat... I lived with the echoes of your suffering in my mind every day. I cannot erase it. I cannot undo it. But I cannot keep this silence either. I had to tell you. I had to—"

He paused, voice breaking, raw with honesty, "—I had to tell you that I see you, Hermione. I see all of you—the fierce, the brilliant, the unbreakable. And I am sorry... for all of it."

Hermione's breath caught. She stared at him, at the boy who had been feared, revered, and ruthless, now standing bare before her with the weight of regret carved into his very being. She could feel it—every word, every heartbeat, every tremor of sincerity.

Slowly, she lifted her hand, brushing it against his cheek, and whispered, "Tom... I hear you. I forgive you."

His head snapped up, eyes wide, searching hers as if seeing her for the first time in years. "You... you mean it?" His voice was almost inaudible, trembling under the weight of disbelief and relief.

"Yes," she said, softly, firmly. "I forgive you. That is enough."

For a moment, the world held its breath. No words, no promises, no grand gestures were needed. In that room, in that shared silence, forgiveness itself became monumental—a testament to pain survived, mistakes confronted, and a bond both broken and unbroken, raw and eternal.

Tom rose slowly, tears still streaking his face, and for the first time, he did not try to be feared. He simply existed, vulnerable and human, standing before the girl who had been everything—and would always be everything—to him.

Then, as if drawn together by the gravity of everything unsaid, everything endured, he reached out and cupped her face in his hands. Hermione's eyes widened for a heartbeat before she leaned into his touch, trembling.

"I won't hurt you again," he whispered, voice rough but steady, a vow etched in every syllable.

Hermione closed the last inch between them. Their lips met in a kiss that was fierce and tender all at once—a kiss of apologies and forgiveness, of love and heartbreak, of fear and desire.

It wasn't gentle; it was raw, messy, consuming. Every emotion they had buried, every longing they had denied, poured into that single, aching moment. Hermione clung to him as if letting go meant losing everything, and Tom held her as if this kiss could somehow rewrite the past, heal the wounds, and anchor them both to the fragile hope of now.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and trembling, their foreheads rested together, eyes closed, hearts hammering in unison. Words were no longer necessary. The weight of all their pain, guilt, love, and longing was carried silently between them.

For the first time in years, Tom and Hermione simply existed together—flawed, human, and achingly real—knowing that for this fleeting, fragile moment, nothing else in the world mattered.

❖

The first light of dawn spilled into the Room of Requirement, soft and golden, cutting through the shadows of the night. Hermione stirred under the thin blanket, her hair tangled, eyes heavy but awake. The warmth of Tom's body beside her—the closeness, the undeniable proof of last night's confession—made her chest ache with a mixture of longing and dread.

Tom shifted slightly, groaning softly, his face buried in the crook of her neck. For a fleeting moment, his usual arrogance was gone. There was only the boy she had glimpsed last night—raw, broken, desperate to make amends.

Hermione's fingers trailed lightly over his arm, careful not to wake him fully. She wanted to savor this, the closeness, the kiss, the words that had been spoken. But reality clawed at the edges of her mind. Every time she remembered the glowing letters on her arm, the ticking clock of her fate, her chest tightened.

She pulled away gently, sitting up and wrapping her arms around her knees. "I can't..." she whispered to herself, voice trembling. "I can't let this—"

Tom stirred then, eyes fluttering open. When he saw her awake and tense, his brow furrowed. "Hermione... you're awake," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Are you... okay?"

"I'm... fine," she lied, though her stomach twisted with guilt and longing. She couldn't let herself admit the truth—not now. Not when every heartbeat reminded her that time was not on their side.

Tom's gaze softened, searching her face as if trying to read every hidden thought. "Last night... I know I don't deserve it, but... thank you. For listening. For forgiving me," he said quietly, almost reverently.

Hermione's throat tightened. She wanted to believe in a future with him, wanted to let herself rest in that fragile hope. But every glance at her arm, the memory of the glowing letters, reminded her of the cruel truth. She couldn't promise him tomorrow. She couldn't promise herself.

"I... I can't, Tom," she said finally, her voice breaking. "I can't give you a future. Not one I can guarantee."

His hand hovered in the air for a heartbeat, then settled lightly on hers. "Then I'll take today," he whispered, voice low, fierce. "I'll take this moment, these hours, whatever I can have. Because you're here. And that's enough."

Hermione swallowed hard, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. She wanted to argue, to push him away, but she couldn't. She leaned into his hand, letting the small comfort anchor her.

For a few stolen minutes, the world outside—the warnings carved into her skin, the impending danger—faded. There was only this fragile, fleeting connection. The warmth, the brush of fingertips, the echo of their kiss. A promise not of forever, but of right now.

Tom's eyes searched hers again, unrelenting, silent. "No games, no pretending," he said softly. "I see you. All of you. Every scar, every shadow... and I'm here. I'm not leaving."

Hermione pressed her forehead to his, breath mingling, hearts pounding in tandem. She could feel the gravity of what they shared—a mixture of hope, fear, and inevitability—but for this moment, the future could wait.

And in that quiet, stolen morning, they existed together—bound by choice, by forgiveness, and by a fragile, dangerous love that neither time nor fate could yet sever.

❖

Before they could step out of the Room of Requirement, Hermione's hand shot out and gripped Tom's sleeve. Her fingers trembled, but her eyes burned with a quiet, desperate resolve.

"Tom," she whispered, her voice softer than the flickering candlelight, "you need to know something."

Tom turned, confusion flickering across his face. "What is it?"

Hermione drew in a sharp breath, bracing herself. "You need to know about my past. You need to know who I was—who Hermione Granger is."

She didn't wait for him to answer. Her words spilled out, steady but trembling, like a dam breaking.

"Hermione Granger was my past self. A girl with buckteeth and wild, frizzy hair. A know-it-all. A Muggleborn. A girl who... hasn't even been born yet."

Tom froze, his brow furrowing. "What are you saying?"

Hermione met his gaze, eyes glistening. "I'm saying that the life I'm living now—it isn't my first. I was Hermione Granger, Tom. And you..." her voice faltered, but she forced it out, "...you were Lord Voldemort."

His eyes widened sharply, his composure cracking for the briefest second. "How do you—?"

Hermione gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Tom, you were the Dark Lord. You killed. You killed my parents—Hermione Granger's parents. Being a Muggleborn was never easy. Your most loyal follower, Bellatrix Lestrange, tortured me with the Cruciatus Curse. She carved the word 'Mudblood' into my arm. I was running for my life when I cast a spell to escape—but instead, I was reborn. Reborn as Hermione Vicetamore..." she hesitated, voice breaking, "...or perhaps I should say Hermione Grindelwald."

The name struck him like a thunderclap. "Grindelwald?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "I'm Gellert Grindelwald's daughter. And my father... he was never truly dark. It was always Dumbledore. After I was reborn, I began to see the truth. You weren't born a monster, Tom. You were turned into one. Dumbledore shaped the story. He always did."

Tom stared at her, struggling to absorb the weight of her words, his pulse roaring in his ears.

But Hermione wasn't done. Her voice softened, but the next words felt like a blade between them.

"Rebirth comes with consequences," she whispered. Slowly, she rolled up her sleeve. The glowing letters—MU—burned on her skin like a brand. "My mudblood scar is returning. The day the full word carves itself into my arm..." she swallowed, "...is the day I die."

Tom's face crumpled. For once, there was no mask, no charm, no walls. Just raw, unguarded anguish. "No," he rasped. "No, there must be some way. Some loophole, some spell—Hermione, we'll find it."

She shook her head, tears gathering in her lashes. "There isn't. I've checked. I've looked everywhere. There's nothing."

Tom took a step closer, his hand hovering near hers but not quite daring to touch. His voice cracked, hoarse with desperation. "Then I'll make one. I don't care what it takes. I'll rewrite the rules of magic itself if I have to. You're not going to die, Hermione. Not while I breathe."

Hermione's lips trembled. The hope in his voice was like a blade—it warmed her, but it cut her just as deeply.

❖

Days passed like fragile glass, each one sharper than the last. Hermione moved through her classes with forced calm, the faint glow of the letters on her arm hidden beneath long sleeves. Every moment felt like walking on a blade's edge—every heartbeat, every step closer to the day when the full word would carve itself into her flesh.

Tom never left her side. He remained outwardly cold and composed in front of others, the perfect image of the Dark Lord-in-training—but in the shadows, in stolen corridors and abandoned classrooms, he was frantic, obsessive, vulnerable. Every time Hermione flinched or winced, he froze, guilt and fear warring in his eyes.

"Tell me if it hurts," he'd whisper, brushing her sleeve lightly to check the faint glowing lines, his voice almost trembling. "Please... don't hide anything from me."

Hermione wanted to pull back, to protect him from the truth, but each time she looked at him, the intensity in his gaze made her heart ache. How could she not? He was the boy she loved—the boy she had feared and loathed, the boy who had once tormented her and now would have given anything to undo it.

But the curse was relentless. Each night, the letters crept further, burning and pulsating as if they had a mind of their own. She could feel the MU of Mudblood spreading subtly, the faint glow climbing inch by inch.

One evening, in the empty Room of Requirement, Hermione sat on the floor, arms around her knees, breathing shallow. Tom knelt beside her, pressing his hands over hers.

"Don't," he whispered, "don't make me watch you suffer in silence."

"I can't stop it," she said quietly, voice breaking. "I don't even know how many days I have left, Tom. Every spell, every potion... nothing works. The letters—they're coming back, and when the word is complete... I'll—"

"You won't die," he cut her off, his tone desperate, raw. "I swear to you... I will find a way. If it's the last thing I do, I'll fight whatever magic, whatever curse, whatever fate it is, and I'll save you."

Hermione shook her head, tears spilling freely. "You can't. I've checked everything. There isn't a loophole, Tom. There isn't a—"

Before she could finish, Tom grabbed her face gently, forcing her to look at him. "Then I'll make a loophole," he said fiercely, jaw tight, eyes burning. "I don't care if it's impossible. I don't care if the whole world says no. You survive. You live. You and me—we figure the rest out later. But I won't let this... I won't let you die. Not you."

Something broke inside her then—the layers of fear and despair, the resignation to a fate she had long believed unavoidable. And in that raw, shattering moment, she pressed herself against him, clinging to the warmth and desperation in his embrace.

Their lips met in a kiss that was different this time—more urgent, more confessional. Each movement, each sigh, each trembling press of their foreheads together spoke of promises they could not yet fulfill but desperately wanted to. The world around them vanished, leaving only their shared heartbeat, the glow of the cursed letters faintly illuminating their entwined forms.

Pulling back slightly, Hermione whispered, "Tom... if I—if it happens, you have to promise me something."

He cupped her cheek, thumb stroking her skin softly. "Anything," he said without hesitation.

"Promise me you'll survive. Promise me you won't fall into what I could never escape. You're not the Dark Lord you think you are, Tom. You can't—can't let my fate take you too."

"I promise," he said, voice breaking as he pressed his lips to her forehead. "I promise, Hermione. I'll survive. I'll fight. And I'll never let anyone—anything—take you from me, not even fate itself."

Hermione let herself rest against him, feeling the weight of her fear and the warmth of his determination, knowing that the next days would test them beyond anything they had faced before. But for this stolen, fleeting moment, they could simply exist—together, defiant, alive.

Chapter Text

Hermione sat in the Room of Requirement, her back against the soft cushions, but sleep wouldn't come. Her eyes were wide, haunted, tracing the faint glow of the MU still etched into her arm. Tom knelt beside her, his hand lightly brushing hers, trying to offer comfort.

But then it began.

A cold shiver ran down her spine, and the air thickened around her. Hermione's vision blurred, the room fading into darkness. Shapes twisted and warped into the horrors of her past, her body trembling as she whispered, "Not again... please, not again."

The nightmare hit harder than ever before. She was a child again, terrified, her books burning at her feet, the words Mudblood echoing like knives in her ears. But this time, something new appeared. A letter—D—burned itself alongside the MU on her arms, glowing faintly yet ominously.

"No... no, no, no!" she gasped, clutching her arm as the pain seared through her, the letters pulsing like living fire.

Tom's eyes widened, panic breaking through his usual composure. "Hermione! Look at me! Stay with me, please!"

She shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face. "It's... it's starting... the D... the word is coming! The day it's complete... I'll—"

"Stop!" he shouted, gripping her shoulders firmly. "I won't let it! Whatever this is—whatever curse—whatever nightmare—I'll end it. I swear, Hermione. You're not going anywhere. Not on my watch!"

Hermione's breaths came in short, painful gasps. "Tom... I've seen it... I've felt it... it's unstoppable. Every night it comes back stronger, and now..." Her voice trembled, barely audible. "Now it's growing faster... the D... it's next..."

Tom pulled her close, holding her tightly as though his arms could shield her from fate itself. "Then we fight it together," he whispered fiercely. "No vision, no curse, no past—nothing will take you from me. Do you hear me? Nothing!"

Hermione pressed her forehead against his chest, her tears soaking his robes, but for the first time that night, she felt a small thread of hope. Maybe it wasn't over yet. Maybe... just maybe... they could face it together.

And as the faint glow of MU and the emerging D pulsed against her skin, Tom kissed the top of her head, his voice soft but determined:

"I don't care how impossible it is... I will protect you. I will not fail you."

Hermione whispered into the warmth of his chest, "I don't want to lose you... not too."

The night stretched on, filled with fear and unspoken dread, but for now, in the Room of Requirement, they had each other.

❖

The next night, Hermione barely slept. Her body ached from the previous day, and her mind was on fire with the visions that had plagued her for weeks. She tried to steel herself, but as soon as she closed her eyes in the Room of Requirement, darkness swallowed her whole.

This time, the vision was worse. The letters had grown—MUDB now glowed across her arm, the "B" jagged and raw, like fire had been carved into her flesh. Each pulse sent waves of pain through her nerves, a cruel reminder that time was slipping through her fingers.

Tom was already there, pacing in silent panic as he watched her struggle against the shadows. His usual composure was gone, replaced by raw, exposed fear and anger.

"Hermione, stay with me!" he shouted, kneeling beside her as she cried out in pain. "Talk to me! Fight it with me!"

She shook her head, tears streaking down her face. "It's too fast, Tom... I don't... I can't—"

He grabbed her hands, his fingers burning against her icy skin. "Yes, you can! You're stronger than any of this! I know you are! And I'll be with you every second—every second—until the last letter is gone. I swear it."

Her sobs shook her whole body, and for a moment, the shadows seemed to close in, threatening to drag her under. Tom's hands tightened around hers, pulling her upright, forcing her to focus on him.

"You hear me? Look at me, Hermione!" he barked, his voice raw with desperation. "No matter what Dumbledore—or this curse—thinks it's doing, it won't win. Not while I'm here. I'll face the darkness with you. I'll carry it if I have to. Just don't give up on yourself, or me!"

Hermione's trembling gaze met his, and in that moment, she saw everything—his guilt, his fear, his unshakable determination. And she realized, with a pang that nearly broke her heart, that he was more vulnerable than anyone she had ever known.

Without thinking, she threw herself into his arms. "I'm scared, Tom... I can't lose you too..."

"You won't," he whispered, holding her so tightly it was as if he could shield her from the curse itself. "I can't lose you. Not now, not ever. I don't care what it takes, what magic, what pain—I'll fight it all for you."

The Room of Requirement seemed to respond to their emotions, the shadows twisting and flickering as the glow of the letters pulsed in time with their hearts. And then, with the intensity of their fear and longing, Tom pressed his lips to hers.

It was no longer just a kiss—it was an oath, a promise, a defiance of fate itself. His lips moved against hers with desperation and reverence, carrying every apology, every vow, every heartbeat he had yet to give her. Hermione clung to him, letting herself be enveloped in the only safety she had left.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads pressed together, Tom's hands still cupping her face, both of them gasping for breath, he whispered, "We'll find a way. I swear it. Even if the world is against us, we'll find a way."

Hermione nodded, tears spilling freely, but this time mingled with a spark of hope. "Together," she murmured.

And though the letters still glowed, fierce and cruel, in that moment, they were not alone in facing them. Together, they were stronger than the curse, stronger than fate—and the first real step toward defiance had begun.

❖

They were still in the Room of Requirement when Tinky — Andrew's small, nervous house‑elf — appeared in a puff of dust and quiet apology.

"Miss Hermione, Master asked you to deliver this letter," Tinky whispered, holding out a folded parchment on trembling hands. Then, with a tiny curtsey, she popped away as suddenly as she had come.

Hermione frowned, took the paper, and slit it open with a fingertip. Tom watched her every move, the storm behind his eyes belying the calm he showed the world.

The letter read in neat, familiar handwriting:

Dear Goddaughter,

How are you?

After three days, Dumbledore will duel Gellert publicly. I have perfected another potion—a truth serum whose effects last for three hours.

You will need to spike his drink before the duel. If he confesses his crimes under the serum, your father will be cleared.

Thank you,
Your loving Godfather.

Tom's jaw tightened; the paper fluttered between Hermione's fingers. He couldn't help the bitter sound that escaped him. "She's not fine," he muttered, low and fierce.

Hermione shot him a look — equal parts warning and apology — and kept reading as if the words themselves might change. Her face shifted through something like hope, then hardness. The plan laid out in the letter was simple and brutal: a public duel, a truth potion, an unspeakable risk.

"They want me to poison a drink," she said finally, voice very quiet. "Spike his cup before the duel. Make him confess."

Tom's hand found her's and closed around it, fingers like iron. "We do not let him stand alone with that chance," he said, voice tight. "We plan. We watch. We control every angle."

Hermione looked up at him, eyes full of a thousand calculations and a memory of the letters pulsing under her sleeve. "If this works," she whispered, "it could free my father. It could turn everything."

"And if it doesn't?" Tom asked, the question a hard thing between them.

She swallowed. "Then we burn the bridge behind us." Her mouth curved once, bitterly. "We don't have the luxury of clean choices."

Tom drew a slow breath, the mask of composure slipping for an instant to reveal something far more dangerous: resolve. "Then we make it work."

They both understood the stakes—Dumbledore against Grindelwald in the open, a truth serum that bought three hours of honesty, and a plot that tasted of victory and poison in the same breath. Whatever they chose next, it would be irreversible.

Outside, the castle kept moving, ignorant of the conspiracies forming in its secret room. Inside, Hermione folded the letter and slid it into her robe. Together, they began to plan.

❖

They spread the letter between them on the low table, candlelight throwing quick shadows across Tom's jaw and Hermione's trembling hands. Outside, the castle moved on in oblivion; inside the Room of Requirement, the world narrowed to a single, dangerous plan.

"We have three days," Hermione said. She counted on her fingers as if each day might be stolen. "Truth serum lasts three hours. The duel is public — the whole school will be there. That gives us a window, and a crowd."

Tom's eyes were flat ice and molten intent. "We control the scene. We control the cup. We control who touches it." He folded his hands, already mapping contingencies. "Who can help without raising suspicion?"

Hermione thought of faces: Abraxas — loyal, silent, useful. Tinky — a house‑elf who could move where wizards can't. A handful of allies who owed Tom favors, or who respected Hermione enough to risk a little. "Abraxas," she said finally. "And Tinky. Abraxas can keep watch, make sure Dumbledore doesn't notice small changes to the ceremony. Tinky can be our courier — get the serum near the cup."

Tom nodded. "And I will be the shadow. I will arrange the distraction if anyone is too close. If Dumbledore suspects foul play, I will take the heat. No public trail back to you."

Hermione's stomach knotted. "If he confesses publicly, there will be consequences — for all of us. We must plan every fallback. If the cup cannot be touched, we need Plan B: an object Dumbledore will use or drink from, or a brief moment where the potion can be introduced — a steward's goblet, a ceremonial cup, something ritualistic."

Tom's mouth tightened. "If the cup is too guarded, we force the moment. We manufacture the necessity for an aide to fetch him a draught. Abraxas can stage a scuffle in the crowd." He paused, and for the first time the threat in his voice was not theatrical but deadly serious: "If anyone tries to expose us mid‑duel, I will make them regret it."

Hermione swallowed. "We also need a clean exit. If Dumbledore speaks truth for three hours, that's a window — but we cannot be bound to that room. Prepare to whisk my father away, or at least ensure the confession is recorded by witnesses who will carry it beyond the duel." Her eyes hardened. "And if Dumbledore manages to avoid the serum, there has to be a Plan C: public pressure, witnesses who will force the moment."

Tom stood and moved to the map of the Great Hall in his mind. "Timing: potion must be in the cup no later than the moment before the duel — ideally during the processional when the cup is set. Abraxas will stall the steward. Tinky will slip the vial in as the steward turns. I will control anyone who looks too close." He looked at Hermione, voice softer: "You won't have to touch this. You will stand aside. This is for your father."

Hermione steadied herself with a small, brittle smile. "And the serum itself — how secure is it? Dumbledore's aurors could sense enchantments if he's suspicious." She tapped the folded letter. "Godfather says it lasts three hours. We need it disguised, shielded from detection — a simple concealment charm around the vial, and the drink charmed to accept it as ordinary."

Tom's expression hardened into something glorious and terrible. "I will shield it. I will make the vial unreadable to any casual inspection. Abraxas will place it. Tinky will deliver. We will time it, down to breaths." He let his hand close around hers for a bare second. "We do this cleanly. No needless cruelty. Quick in—quick out."

Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "And witnesses," she added. "Not just students. A few trusted professors — those who won't immediately hand everything back to Dumbledore. If he confesses, we need people who can keep the truth alive."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "I will plant those witnesses," he said. "Quiet favors call in. People who owe me or who can be made to owe me." He said the last word with neither shame nor apology.

They made lists, silent and deadly: who to recruit, who to brief, where the steward's route would pass, the exact three‑minute window when the cup would change hands. Each contingency had a counter: detection → diversion; interrupted spiking → substitute cup; public exposure before confession → immediate withdrawal and damage control.

When they finished, the Room of Requirement felt too small for the weight of what they had decided. Hermione folded the letter and slid it into the inner pocket of her robe.

"One last thing," she whispered. "If this fails, you must promise me something."

Tom's face went entirely still. "Anything."

Hermione's voice was a thin thread. "If it fails... or if I—if I am taken—don't let me become the reason you lose your soul. Remember who you are underneath all of this. Promise."

He caught her hand and crushed it once to his face. "I promise. I will not become him."

They sealed the plan with a last, desperate look, each knowing the other had placed something precious on the line.

Chapter Text

Hermione woke with a start, her chest tight, breath trembling. She knew before looking—the scar had finished its cruel work.

Her arm glowed faintly in the dim morning light. She threw back the sleeve of her robes.

MUDBLOO — every letter burned into her flesh, raw, alive, throbbing with a dark power.

She pressed a hand to the mark, swallowing back a gasp. The last letter had appeared overnight. The word that had haunted her dreams, that had clawed its way into her present, was complete.

Tom was already in the Room of Requirement, pacing with hands clenched into fists. His eyes went wide when he saw her arm.

"No... no, no, no," he whispered, voice trembling. "It's complete... the last letter."

Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line. "Tomorrow is the tournament," she said quietly, her voice almost broken. "I don't know how much time I have. Not just from the tournament... from this."

Tom froze, taking a slow step toward her. His usual arrogance, his carefully maintained composure, had vanished. "I won't let it—" he began, then faltered. "I can't... I can't lose you, Hermione. Not now. Not ever."

Her eyes met his, weary but unyielding. "You don't understand, Tom," she whispered. "Even if I survive tomorrow, the curse... it doesn't stop. The last letter is here. I don't know how many days I have left. I don't know if I can ever be free of it."

Tom's hands shook as he reached for her, brushing the sleeve of her robe down, careful not to touch the glowing scar. "Then we'll face it together," he said, voice raw and desperate. "Whatever comes, we face it together. You're not alone, Hermione. Not now. Not ever."

For a brief moment, the world outside the Room of Requirement ceased to exist. The tournament, the danger, the ticking clock of the scar—it didn't matter. There was only her, and him, and the fragile promise that they would survive this, whatever it took.

Hermione nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. Tom pressed a hand to her shoulder, steadying her. Then, before the weight of the day could crush them both, he leaned closer, and their lips met in a desperate, lingering kiss—part solace, part promise, part defiance against the fate that sought to tear them apart.

❖

The morning air in Berlin was crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked cobblestones. Tom, Hermione, and Abraxas stepped out of the portkey, the city's chaos around them fading into the tense calm of the arena where the duel would take place.

Gellert Grindelwald's eyes widened the moment he saw Hermione. His little princess—once so small, so fragile—had grown into a formidable young witch. For a fleeting heartbeat, he looked lost in memories, emotion flickering across his usually impassive face. What he didn't know—and would never have guessed—was how fragile her future was, how the scar she bore whispered the countdown of her life.

Hermione's arm brushed against Tom's, and he gave her a subtle, protective squeeze. Every second mattered.

Then Lamarck appeared, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on Hermione. "And what is this? You're with him?" His voice was sharp, edged with disbelief and thinly veiled threat.

Hermione didn't flinch. "Yes. He's my boyfriend," she said firmly, meeting Lamarck's gaze.

The man's lips twisted into a snarl. "You dare—"

But before he could continue, Tom stepped forward, his presence a wall of cold authority. "Careful. Don't test me."

Lamarck's words faltered under Tom's gaze, but the threat lingered. Hermione felt her pulse spike, tension coiling in her chest.

Abraxas, leaning casually in the shadowed corner, chuckled softly. "Oh, this is delightful," he murmured, eyes glinting. "You boys always so dramatic when she's involved."

Tom's hand found Hermione's again, a silent reassurance. "Focus," he muttered, lips close to her ear. "The duel is the priority. Nothing else matters right now."

Hermione nodded, drawing a steadying breath, feeling the weight of her purpose and the ticking curse on her arm. The world had narrowed to the three of them, the duel, and the fragile hope that this plan—this dangerous, daring plan—would save her father... and maybe, just maybe, buy her a little time.

❖

The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of robes and the muted clink of glass. Abraxas crouched near the table, wand poised, while Tinky fluttered nervously above, his tiny hands trembling.

"Miss Hermione, are you sure about this?" the house-elf whispered, his wide eyes darting between the potion and the unsuspecting target.

"I don't have a choice," Hermione replied, her voice low and steady. Her fingers brushed the vial in Abraxas' hands. "This has to work. For my father, for the truth... for time."

Abraxas let out a soft, exasperated sigh. "Difficult, delicate, and dangerous. Exactly how I like it," he muttered, trying to lighten the tension, though his eyes betrayed the strain.

With precision born from countless hours of preparation, they maneuvered around the unsuspecting Dumbledore. The truth serum shimmered faintly in the dim light as Abraxas slipped it into Dumbledore's drink. Tinky hovered, ready to intervene if anything went wrong.

Hermione's heart pounded in her chest as the seconds stretched unbearably. Every tremor in the potion, every twitch from the old wizard, sent a jolt of fear through her.

Finally, with a soft exhale, Abraxas stepped back. "Done. And not a moment too soon," he murmured, eyes glinting with satisfaction.

Tinky gave a tiny, triumphant squeak and darted away, disappearing into the shadows. Hermione watched Dumbledore carefully, knowing that within moments, the potion would take hold—and the confession that could free her father would begin.

Tom's hand found hers, gripping tightly, a silent reassurance in the storm of nerves and anticipation. "Now," he whispered, his voice low and firm, "we watch and wait."

❖

During the duel, Gellert stepped forward, eyes sharp with suspicion. "Tell me, Dumbledore," he demanded, voice echoing through the hall, "who imperiused me to commit all those awful deeds?"

Dumbledore's jaw tightened, and a ripple of shock ran through the crowd. "Me," he said, the single word falling like a stone. Gasps erupted, murmurs rippling through the assembled wizards.

Gellert's eyes darkened. "Did you... kill my wife and daughter?"

Dumbledore's face twisted, but the truth spilled from his lips unwillingly. "Yes."

"Why?" Gellert's voice cracked, a mixture of anger and disbelief.

"Because I loved you," Dumbledore admitted, his voice low and trembling, "and you opposed the... killing of Muggle-borns. And then... you married Emily Vicetamore. And she had a child... your child."

Gellert's mouth opened, but before he could utter a word, Dumbledore's wand flicked, and a Killing Curse shot from its tip. Gellert collapsed instantly, lifeless, the hall freezing in horrified silence.

Hermione's chest heaved. Fury and grief burned in her veins. She raised her wand, her voice sharp, trembling with raw emotion. "You filthy old man. This... this is for killing my father. Avada Kedavra!"

The spell hit Dumbledore squarely. His body crumpled, lifeless. The room was deathly quiet for a heartbeat.

The Aurors didn't intervene. They had long suspected Dumbledore's corruption, and now the truth was undeniable. The man the world had revered as wise and just was revealed as a manipulator, a murderer, a monster.

Hermione sank to her knees, tears streaming down her face, clutching her father's lifeless body. Tom knelt beside her, his hand on hers, silent but steady. Abraxas stood a little apart, eyes watching but unmoving, ever loyal.

And Lamarck... Lamarck couldn't bear it. The sight of his fallen friend, the weight of truth, the horror of betrayal—it was too much. Without a word, he drew his wand and ended his own life.

Silence fell over the hall. The world now knew the truth about Dumbledore, and the price of power and betrayal had been paid in blood.

Hermione held her father tighter, sobs wracking her body. And for the first time in years, there was no pretense, no masks—just raw, unyielding grief, tempered only by the presence of the two people who would remain by her side, whatever came next.

❖

The sky over Berlin hung heavy and mournful, clouds swollen with rain that refused to fall. The world itself seemed to hold its breath as the funeral of Gellert Grindelwald and Lamarck began.

Wizards and witches from across Europe gathered, cloaked in black, their faces pale with shock and sorrow. Two great men had fallen—but for Hermione, this was not a ceremony. It was the end of everything she had fought for.

She stood near the graves, her hands clasped tightly, her heart pounding against her ribs. Tom was beside her, Abraxas behind. The silence stretched long and aching.

Then, it began.

Hermione stiffened, gasping. Her body trembled violently, her knees giving way.

"Hermione?" Tom caught her just before she fell, his voice shaking with panic.

She clutched her left arm. The letters—MUDBLOO—were already carved deep, raw and glowing. Before their horrified eyes, the final D seared itself into her skin, bright and burning.

The air filled with the smell of magic and blood. Hermione's scream tore through the air, silencing the entire crowd.

Tom held her tighter, his eyes wide with terror. "No... no, no, Hermione, stay with me, please—stay."

Her breathing faltered, every exhale weaker than the last. Her eyes found his, soft and knowing.

"Destroy... your... Hor...cruxes," she whispered, her voice breaking mid-sentence. Her lips curved into a faint, trembling smile. "Promise me, Tom..."

And then she went still.

Tom froze. The world blurred. For a heartbeat, there was only silence—and then the sound of something inside him shattering.

"Hermione!" His scream echoed through the valley, raw and broken. He cradled her body to his chest, rocking back and forth, his tears soaking her lifeless hair. "Please, wake up... I can't—I can't lose you too—"

He was no longer Lord Voldemort, nor the Heir of Slytherin. He was just a boy, broken beyond repair.

Abraxas turned away, his own tears falling freely. Even Walburga—cold, proud Walburga Black—couldn't bear it. She knelt beside Tom, trembling as she covered her face with her hands.

"I hated her once," she whispered hoarsely. "Because she was brave, and kind, and everything I wasn't." Her voice cracked. "But she didn't deserve this."

She looked up at Hermione's still face, tears streaking her cheeks. "I see it now. Power without mercy... pride without heart... it destroys everything. Just like Dumbledore."

She clenched her fists, trembling with conviction.
"I won't become like him. I won't be another Dumbledore."

The words felt like a vow, raw and desperate—a promise to the dead, and to herself.

Tom didn't speak. He just held Hermione, silent sobs wracking his chest, as if her body were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

❖

Within hours, the world mourned.

Hogwarts itself went still. Black drapes hung from the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall; the candles dimmed to embers. Hermione's silverwood casket rested in the center, her wand laid gently across her heart.

Students filled the room, eyes red and swollen.

Minerva McGonagall, a mere fifth-year, stood among them, trembling. Hermione Vicetamore had been her idol, her role model—the girl who had stood up to power and loved despite pain.

"She was everything I wanted to be," Minerva whispered, her tears falling unchecked.

Tom stood apart from them all. His face was pale, empty, his hands clenched until they bled. Abraxas lingered near him, silent, helpless.

For the first time, the great Tom Riddle looked utterly human. Utterly broken.

Because Hermione's death hadn't just ended her story.
It had ended his hope of salvation.

And in the cold, echoing stillness of the Great Hall, as the candles flickered low, a whisper seemed to float through the air—her voice, her last wish:

"Destroy your Horcruxes."

Chapter Text

Rain fell without mercy over Hogwarts.
It had been three days since Hermione's funeral, and yet, the castle still felt draped in mourning. The Great Hall was silent. The corridors whispered her name. Even the portraits seemed to bow their heads when Tom Riddle passed.

He hadn't eaten. He hadn't slept.
He barely existed.

Tom sat in the Room of Requirement — the same room where she'd kissed him last.
The same room where she'd smiled and said "Earn it."
Now, it was filled with nothing but echoes of his own torment.

Her scent lingered faintly on his coat — jasmine and parchment.
Her laughter haunted the air like a ghost refusing to leave.

He stared at the floor, his wand lying useless beside him.
Abraxas had tried to visit. Walburga had tried to speak. Even Dippet had come searching once.
But Tom refused them all.

All he could see — all he could feel — was her last breath, her whisper, her trembling smile.

Destroy your Horcruxes.

He'd thought he understood power. Thought he'd conquered death. But now...
Now death had taken the only person who had ever truly seen him.

A tear slipped down his cheek — silent, burning.
He hated himself for it.

"Are you happy now?" he whispered bitterly to the air.
"Is this what you wanted, Hermione? Me — broken and begging the universe for you?"

His voice cracked. He laughed — hollow and trembling.
"Of course it is. You always loved fixing what was broken."

He looked at the ring on his finger — the first Horcrux. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.
He had made them to cheat death. To rule over it.
But now, they felt like chains — each one a reminder of what he had destroyed to make them.

Tom stood, his eyes dark and wet. He pulled the ring off his finger and threw it to the floor.
It clinked once — a small, metallic sound that echoed like thunder in the quiet room.

"Fine," he rasped. "You win."

He raised his wand. "Fiendfyre."

The ring erupted in a blaze of cursed fire — a living, writhing inferno that clawed at the air. Tom didn't flinch. He watched until the Horcrux screamed — a high, piercing wail — and shattered into ash.

When the fire died, he fell to his knees.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Could only whisper her name over and over.

"Hermione... Hermione..."

Abraxas found him there hours later — surrounded by smoke and ash, his face streaked with tears, his voice gone hoarse.

"Tom—"

"She told me to destroy them," Tom whispered without looking up. "And I will. Every last one."

Abraxas hesitated, watching the raw, unmasked grief in his lord's eyes.
For the first time, he didn't see a dark wizard.
He saw a boy — lost, grieving, trying to atone for every sin he'd ever committed.

"Riddle..." Abraxas said softly, almost gently. "You loved her, didn't you?"

Tom looked at him, and for a moment, the cold mask slipped completely.
"I didn't know how to," he said. "Until it was too late."

He turned away, his hand trembling as he pocketed Hermione's broken enchanted necklace — the last thing she'd ever touched.
"I couldn't save her, Abraxas," he whispered. "But maybe I can save myself."

As he left the room, the ashes of the first Horcrux swirled faintly behind him, glowing gold for just a heartbeat — as if a piece of Hermione's light still lingered there, watching, forgiving.

❖

The night was cold, and the castle slept under a veil of silence.
Tom Riddle walked through the empty corridors like a ghost wearing a boy's face.

Every shadow whispered her name.
Every torch flicker felt like her touch.

He had destroyed one Horcrux.
One.
But six still bound his soul — and her death would never mean peace while they existed.

He reached the Astronomy Tower and stood beneath the stars.
The sky was cruelly beautiful — vast, infinite, untouched. The kind of beauty Hermione used to love.

He closed his eyes, whispering her name.
And for a moment, he could almost hear her voice — soft, tender, teasing.

"You always wanted control, Tom. Now, can you control yourself?"

He smiled faintly, bitterly. "You never stop, do you?"

"You promised me, remember?"

His throat tightened. "I don't break my promises."

"Then prove it."

He opened his eyes. The world around him shimmered — the wind colder, sharper, almost alive.
He knew what he had to do.

❖

By dawn, he was gone.

Abraxas found only a note left on Tom's desk — written in his clean, elegant script, "I am not who I was. The Dark Lord dies with her. Don't follow me."

❖

Tom traveled for days — through forests, ruins, and hidden catacombs — chasing the pieces of his own cursed soul.

The locket, the diary, the cup, the diadem... each one waited, steeped in sin, whispering in voices that used to tempt him.

But this time, when the Horcruxes spoke, he heard something else between their taunts — Hermione's voice, cutting through the dark.

"You are better than your monsters."

The locket screamed as he destroyed it — the sound so human, so filled with agony, that it almost broke him.
But when the echo faded, Tom swore he felt something warm brush against his cheek — like fingers made of light.

Hermione.

Each Horcrux took more out of him. His magic bled. His strength faltered. But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.

By the fifth one, he could barely stand.
By the sixth, he was trembling, pale and feverish.
And yet, when he reached for the last fragment of his soul — the diary — he smiled.

"This is for you," he whispered, holding it close like a relic of a lost faith.

The flames devoured the pages.
And when the last one burned to ash, Tom Riddle felt something he hadn't felt since she died — peace.

❖

He collapsed in the ruins of an old chapel, the stars bright above him.
The night was quiet, the air strangely soft.

And then — he heard it. Her voice.
Clear. Warm. Real.

"You did it, Tom."

His eyes snapped open. She was there — not in body, but in light. Hermione. Smiling. Whole. Beautiful.

He couldn't speak. He just stared, tears falling freely now.

"You kept your promise."

He laughed through the tears. "You never stopped haunting me."

"Someone had to keep you in line," she teased, and for a heartbeat, everything felt like before — the laughter, the banter, the warmth.

But as she began to fade, Tom's smile trembled. "Don't go."

"I was never really gone."

Her light brushed against his cheek, and his breath hitched.

"You redeemed us both."

And with that, she was gone — leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of jasmine, and a whisper that lingered in the night:

"Goodbye, my Tom."

❖

When morning came, they found Tom Riddle's dead body lying quietly in the ruins. His eyes were closed, his expression calm — almost human. For the first time, he looked at peace.

Hermione had wanted him to live. She had begged him to destroy the Horcruxes, to start again, to choose life over obsession. But Tom didn't know how to live without her. He had built his entire world around her light, and when it went out, he followed it.

He had once sworn he would never die for anyone.
And yet, in the end, he did — not out of defeat, but out of love.

The sun rose over the broken battlefield, washing everything in gold. People would speak of them for years — the brilliant witch who lived a lifetimes of pain, and the boy who tried to change for her.

They thought it was the end.
But it wasn't.

Because somewhere, deep within the silence, something shifted — something small, faint... alive.
Their story wasn't over.
It was only beginning again.

𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐎𝐍𝐄