Chapter Text
“Professor?”
Hermione stepped into the empty classroom. Dust drifted languidly through the air, dancing in sunbeams spilling through the tall glass windows.
It felt surreal being here alone in an empty classroom, like she didn’t quite belong, even though she’d occupied the same space barely an hour ago. But then it had been filled with Gryffindors and Slytherins, the air thick with tension. The desks hadn’t been aligned as they were now; instead, they’d been shrunk and stacked neatly beside the professor’s desk, the floor cleared so students could duel freely.
Hermione bit at her lip, wondering what spell he’d used to restore everything so precisely. It seemed like such a trivial task for someone like him.
She stepped closer, stopping before his desk, turning on her heel. In her mind, she imagined every seat filled again, only this time, they were hers to command. A quiet hope bloomed in her chest.
Professor Granger.
She would be strict, undoubtedly—but fair. Her students would excel, Hogwarts’ best shaped by her own mind. She would sit at the staff table during meals.
Would he sit beside her?
Would students glare, whispering at her audacity for daring to sit so close to the handsome Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?
“Miss Granger?”
She turned too quickly, nearly tripping over her own feet.
“Professor Riddle—hello, I—”
He was perched at the edge of his desk, both hands gripping the wood, watching her.
“Do you need something from me?”
He smiled kindly. Hermione noticed he was dressed casually a fitted black long sleeve with black trousers, his robe hung behind him over his chair.
“Yes—um—I came because—” She paused, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.
Why had she come?
He tilted his head, patiently waiting. A defiant curl dropped against his forehead.
“I’m sorry, Professor. I seem to have forgotten why. How silly of me. Forgive me for bothering you during your free period.”
She rushed toward the door, opening it slightly.
A hand pressed against it, stopping her. She felt the warmth of him behind her as he pushed gently. The door shut with a quiet click.
“Since you’re here,” he murmured, voice close, “I could use your help.”
Her throat dried. Something twisted low in her stomach. She turned, and he didn’t move—so she backed into the door instead.
“Help? I don’t know what I can help you with, Professor—” Her head felt fuzzy. The clouds shifted outside, sunlight spilling brighter across the room, catching in his eyes and making them warm. Inviting. “But I’ll do what I can.”
His lip curved.
“I’d appreciate it,” he said softly. “Very much.”
Professor Riddle was brilliant.
In her early years at Hogwarts, Hermione had admired all her professors—thought them skilled, knowledgeable. But Professor Riddle far surpassed expectations.
During her fifth year, the previous Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had died of a heart attack. She didn’t think anything of it but apparently it was rare in the wizarding world. A replacement had been hired swiftly.
Tom Riddle.
He was young—not yet thirty. Ordinarily, someone his age wouldn’t have been considered for a Hogwarts post, but need outweighed experience. Also, Professor Slughorn had put in a good word. Or several, if gossip was to be believed.
Rumours spread quickly, whispers of favors exchanged, influence bought. All of it died within the first week of lessons.
He was exceptional.
No student complained. Defence scores soared higher than ever recorded.
It also helped with attendance that he was attractive. Incredibly so. Eyes followed him everywhere—boys, girls, women, men.
At meals, there was always a different female staff member leaning too close, laughing too loudly, fingers brushing his arm. Dolts. Hermione doubted he’d ever said anything amusing enough to warrant such theatrics.
Was she jealous?
No. Why would she be? Did it bother her so much that she would fidget restlessly in bed thinking he had one of those women in his? No. Absolutely not!
… Who was she kidding?
She understood the pull of his attention intimately. She had impressed him early—her knowledge, her precision. He’d told her she was clever. That she surpassed wizards twice her age in understanding the Dark Arts.
He’d also told her she relied too heavily on theory. That spellwork required instinct as much as intellect.
She remembered the embarrassment, her gaze fixed downward—until he’d lifted her chin, dark eyes steady on hers.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Now she stood in his office—though it resembled a laboratory more than a study. Strange apparatus lined the walls. Half-finished potions simmered quietly. This wasn’t the first time she’d helped him here. She couldn’t clearly remember what they’d worked on before. She only knew she’d been here.
That her cheeks warmed at the memory of how close he stood. In class, he was proper—distant, composed. Here, he guided her hands to correct wand movements, resting his palm against her shoulder in praise.
At the center of the room stood a stone slab. Atop it sat a golden chalice, a silvery liquid swirling within.
“That’s the Hufflepuff Cup,” she exclaimed.
“The very one.”
He followed as she stepped closer. She could have sworn she felt a faint tug at her hair before he spoke again.
“What do you know about it?” he asked.
“Helga Hufflepuff crafted it centuries ago. One of the founders’ objects,” she said, fingers grazing the finely wrought handles. A tingling spread beneath her skin. “It’s rumored to fill with whatever liquid the bearer desires. What’s inside it?”
“A potion of my own making. That’s why I needed your help… We’re going to test it.”
“What?” she asked, just as he flicked his fingers over the cup, adding a final ingredient. The liquid hissed, shifting into a rich golden hue.
“Interesting,” he murmured, lifting it.
“You’ll help me, won’t you—” A finger tipped her chin upward. “—Hermione.”
“O-of course, Professor, but is it safe?”
“You think I would ever let harm come to you?”
“No… I suppose not.”
“Drink it.” His voice was low as he brought the cup to her lips.
Their eyes remained locked as he tilted it. The potion coated her tongue—sweet, then bitter dry like parchment—as she swallowed. He tipped it further.
“All of it,” he whispered. “That’s a good girl.”
She swallowed one last time before she gagged, stumbling back as heat bloomed in her belly, spreading outward.
“Professor?” she cried, clutching her throat.
“Shh. You’re fine, my girl,” he said, catching her as she fell. He lifted her easily, carrying her into the adjoining room.
His sleeping quarters.
She barely registered it before he laid her on the bed, wiping cold sweat from her brow with a warm cloth.
“It will pass. This is supposed to happen.”
“What’s happening to me?”
Pain lanced through her spine, ice cold. She curled inward, screaming as it felt like she was being torn apart.
He’s poisoned me.
A chuckle.
“You think I’d poison my favorite girl?” he said calmly. “You’re about to find out how wrong you are.”
Her vision blurred. Her body froze—then jerked forward as the pain vanished instantly.
“See?” he said. “You’re fine.”
He moved around the bed.
“Professor—what was that?” she whispered, exhausted.
“You’ve heard of the Geminio Charm. I strengthened it. Removed its reliance on inanimate objects.”
He trailed off.
Hermione turned to lay flat on her back—and froze.
A familiar naked figure sat at the edge of the bed, its back to her. Untamed curls spilled down its shoulders as the professor ran a hand through them.
“Professor?” Her voice trembled. “What did you do?”
“I made it my own.”