SUMMARY: As you realise why McGonagall told you to take up Ancient Runes, Hogwarts is filled with students again after break ends.
WORD COUNT: 3.9k
CONTENT WARNING: I found out on HPwiki that apparently McGonagall did not teach transfiguration and that Merrythought was a teacher for DADA, in Tom Riddle's time, oops? So I made changes throughout the entire series, I'm going to follow this list of professors incase you were wondering, though some professors are not stated, so I'll be using them from Hogwarts Legacy.
UPDATED : JUNE SECOND, 2026 GO HERE FOR TAGLIST
You glance at Shadow, who watches you with knowing eyes far too intelligent for an ordinary cat. He blinks once, deliberately, then settles his chin on his paws.
You look back down at the page. Maybe Ancient Runes isn't about learning something new. Maybe it's about remembering what the world has tried very hard to forget. And for the first time sine McGonagall spoke to you, you feel something steadier than confusion.
Resolve
You reach for the Diary in your bag without quite knowing why.
It feels familiar in your hands in the way a memory does, intimate, faintly unsettling. You set it down beside your notes, and only then do you take a breath.
“Alright,” you murmur. “Let’s see what you have to say.”
You open the runes’ book. The pages are nothing out of the ordinary. No dramatics. No magic announcing itself. Just dense, precise, and impossibly old ink. Diagrams fill the pages: angular symbols, circles intersecting lines, runes nested within runes. You recognise some of them immediately.
And you begin to read.
Ancient runes, the text explains, were never meant to be universal. That was their purpose and their protection. Unlike modern spellwork, runes were designed to exclude as much as they revealed. Older witches and wizards used them not simply to record information, but to communicate indirectly. To leave behind messages that would only unfold for the right mind, the right magic, the right moment.
Every recorded rune tells a story, but never the same one twice.
A rune inscribed by a healer might speak of balance and restoration. The same rune, etched by a warrior, could explain of sacrifice and endurance. The meaning was not fixed; it was relational. Dependent on the reader. Dependent on what they carried within themselves. But most of all, dependent on the maker.
You feel something click into place. That is the beauty of using symbols to communicate. The diary and the runes are two halves of the same truth: one preserving memory, the other teaching you how to read what should not exist anymore. Together, they don’t just give information, they give context.
You lean back in your chair, breath shallow and your mind racing.
McGonagall wasn’t suggesting Ancient Runes for academic curiosity. She was giving you a lifeline. Or at least, that’s what it felt like.
Shadow jumps onto the table, tail flicking across your parchment, and you laugh softly despite yourself. You scratch behind his ears, grounding yourself in the simple, familiar motion. “Alright,” you whisper again, breath steadier now. “I guess we should go.”
The stack of books in your arms is slightly ridiculous, and you know it. Ancient Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, a Charms reference guide, and the Diary of Hogwarts are tucked safely between them all. At this point, you’re fairly certain you’re carrying more parchment than some professors.
The library doors swing shut behind you with a soft creak. “Seems we always meet at the library.” You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear those words. A familiar blond-haired Slytherin is leaning casually against the wall nearby, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too amused by your reaction.
“Merlin—”
Abraxas grins in response, “Good afternoon to you too.”
You shift the books higher in your arms, “Malfoy.”
“L/n.”
And for a moment neither of you says anything. Then he pushes away from the wall. “Seems we always meet at the library,” he repeats as if you hadn’t heard him clearly the first time. You shrug, “Uh, I guess.”
“The exception being Hogsmeade.”
“Yeah,” you trail off slightly, not sure what to reply. A group of third years passed at the far end of the corridor, their laughter echoing faintly against the stone walls. Merlin, you wish your friends were here so you could disappear from this conversation. His gaze lingered on the stack of books balanced against your chest before he looked back at you, a thoughtful expression settling over his features. For once, he didn’t seem interested in teasing you. If anything, he looked genuinely curious. “Why are you always here anyway?”
You blinked at the question, caught off guard by its randomness. For a moment, you weren’t even sure what he meant.
“The library?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder as though there might be another location hidden somewhere nearby.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, the library.” You stared at him some more before shifting your books into a more comfortable position, “Mainly to study.”
Abraxas’ expression suggested he found that answer deeply unsatisfactory. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked you over, as though trying to determine wether you were joking, “All the time?” A laugh escaped through your nose,
“That’s generally how studying works.”
“You study more than some Ravenclaws.”
“Thank you.”
He lifted his eyebrows immediately, “I didn’t think that was a compliment.”
“Then you should’ve phrased it differently.”
For a brief moment, amusement flickered across his face, and you found yourself resisting the urge to roll your eyes. It was strange how easily he seemed able to start conversations that went absolutely nowhere while somehow keeping you standing there listening. “Let me guess,” you said, deciding to turn the attention back on him. “You’re here to be loud with your friends again?”
The reaction was small enough that most people would’ve missed it. Abraxas’ head tilted ever so slightly, and something unreadable crossed his face at the word ‘friends’ before disappearing just as quickly. The moment passed so fast that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it. “You shouldn’t worry about it,” he said. You frowned at his words in confusion, “Worry about what?”
“If we’re loud.”
There was something absurdly confident about the way he said it, as though he were offering a perfectly reasonable solution to a perfectly reasonable problem.
“You can always ask us to be quiet.”
You stopped walking altogether and looked at him, then you laughed. Not politely, not kindly, but the sort of laugh that escaped before you could stop it.
“As if that would work.”
Abraxas looked genuinely offended by that, “I can be reasonable.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything. You simply looked at him, waiting for the joke, while he looked back at you as though the importance of the discussion should have been obvious.
Finally, you sighed. That was apparently enough to break whatever composure he was attempting to maintain. A grin spread across his face, transforming him from the polished heir to an ancient pure-blood family into a sixteen-year-old boy who was far too pleased with himself.
“I mean... you never know unless you try.”
A few days pass in what feels like the blink of an eye and the castle slowly begins to wake up again.
At first it’s subtle: an extra trunk left in the corridor, distant laughter echoing through the staircases, owls swooping in through open windows carrying late Christmas letters and forgotten scarves. Then, all at once, Hogwarts is alive again. Students return in waves, bringing with them cold cheeks, snow-dusted cloaks, and an unbearable amount of noise.
You hadn’t realised just how quiet things had been until now, and strangely enough… it’s nice. The loneliness of Christmas break settles somewhere softer in your chest, no longer an ache but a memory. You survived your first holiday alone.
Mostly by studying and nearly spiralling over magical time books. Not your most glamorous winter break. But still... a break.
Now, you’re curled up in one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackling warmly nearby. The room is lively again—golden light spilling across the rugs, students chatting over card games, unpacking sweets, or loudly recounting family drama no one asked for. Your group has fully reclaimed a section near the fireplace. Lucas is sprawled dramatically across the sofa, one leg hanging over the armrest as though he owns the furniture.
Maeve sits cross-legged on the floor, enthusiastically unpacking an alarming amount of sweets from a festive tin. Whilst Alicia is leaning against the couch, holding up a scarf with a deeply offended expression. “My great aunt knitted me this,” she says, staring at the aggressively orange garment. “And before anyone says anything—yes, she is legally blind.”
Lucas bursts into laughter. “That is tragic,” he says, wiping fake tears from his eyes. “That scarf could blind other people.”
“Oh, shut up,” Alicia says, throwing it at him. He catches it with a grin. “No, no, you’re keeping this. This is amazing.”
Lilith, who was curled into the armchair opposite you, quietly unwraps a small box of chocolates and offers one to Cressida, who you snuck in with Ben, accepts it with a shy smile. Ben, sitting on the rug beside the coffee table, carefully inspects something what looks like a brand-new quill set. “My mother sent these from Diagon Alley,” he says. “Apparently they’re self-correcting.”
Lucas leans forward. “That sounds almost illegal for schoolwork.”
“I suppose… but it’s practical,” Ben replies when Maeve suddenly gasps, “Merlin, wait... I forgot!” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a knitted pair of mittens. “My mother made these for me!”
“They’re adorable,” you say honestly.
“One of them is bigger than the other,” Alicia points out with a grin. Maeve looks down, “…well now I can have asymmetrical warmth.” You laugh softly, leaning back further into your chair.
A warmth from being surrounded again by your friends. Well… your friends here. It’s different from before. Different from Harry and Hermione and Ron. Different from your real life. But not lesser, just different.
Shadow is curled in your lap now, half-asleep as your fingers absentmindedly scratch behind his ears. Lucas glances over at you, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “So,” he says. “What did you do all break?”
You freeze for exactly half a second.
What did you do?
Well, you discovered a magical sentient diary. Learned you may eventually be erased from existence. Considered Ancient Runes as a lifeline. Had several emotionally compromising interactions with Tom Riddle. Had McGonagall give you a surprisingly helpful elective recommendations. All while Dumbledore was barely any help for you.
You pause, it is not as if you can say all of this. So, you settled with saying you: “Studied,” you nod. Lucas stares blankly while Alicia groans. “That is so deeply disappointing.”
“You mean to tell me,” Lucas says dramatically, sitting upright, “that while the rest of us were suffering through awkward family dinners and forced socialisation, you were here voluntarily doing essays?”
“Yes.”
Maeve shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re insane.” You shrug. “I had a very thrilling Christmas with books about Graphorns.”
Lilith snorts quietly into her tea as Lucas points accusingly. “See? This is what happens when you spend too much time with Cressida and Ben.” Cressida stifled a laugh and Ben looks up, mildly offended. “Excuse me?”
“Academic corruption,” Lucas says gravely, “said what I said.”
You laugh, a real one this time, until Lucas suddenly snaps his fingers. “Oh! Speaking of horrifying academic choices,” he says, turning to you. “Timetable changes. Did anyone else get elective recommendations?”
Your heart skips. Ancient Runes. Right. Back to reality. You shift slightly in your chair. “Actually, McGonagall spoke to me before break ended.” That gets their attention quickly. Ben looks up first. “About what?”
“She wants me to consider taking another new elective.”
Maeve’s eyes widen. “Wait, seriously?” You nod, trying to sound far less pleased than you secretly are. “Apparently I’m doing well enough.”
“Well enough?” Alicia repeats. “You literally live in the library.”
“Did she mention which one?”
You nod, stirring your hot chocolate absentmindedly, “Ancient Runes.” That earns a more mixed reaction. Lilith tilts her head, “Ancient Runes?” Ben raises a brow, “Certainly interesting.”
“Is it awful?” you ask Ben who answers with, “Depends, do you enjoy staring at symbols for several hours and slowly losing your mind?”
Lucas turns to look at him. “I thought you took Ancient Runes?”
Ben nods with a smile. “I love to study it, not learn about it.”
You stare at him, “…Encouraging.” Cressida, who has been quietly listening until now, finally speaks up from her armchair. “I take Arithmancy,” she says, smoothing down the sleeve of her jumper. “And honestly, people make it sound worse than it is.”
Lucas looks horrified. “Numbers with magic sounds like a personal attack.”
“It’s pattern recognition,” Cressida replies simply. “Predictive systems. Magical equations.” Alicia groans at what Cressida said, “You lost me immediately.” The other girl smiles faintly. “Though, it’s useful.”
Lilith tucks a curl behind her ear. “I still think Divination is worse.” Ben lets out a dramatic sigh at her words, “Thank you.”
“Oh, come on,” Maeve says. “Divination sounds kind of fun.”
Alicia scoffs at her, “It’s fun until you’re asked deeply personal questions disguised as coursework.” Lucas points at the group at Alicia’s words, “See? Exactly why I try to avoid it.”
“Don’t be so daft, Lucas. Personally, I chose divination and I quite like it,” Maeve turned towards you, “maybe you’ll be surprised to see you like ancient runes more.” Lucas stares at her, mind blank as he spurts out, “Wait, you willingly chose Divination?”
Laughter ripples through the group again, easy and warm. You let yourself relax fully into the cushions, into the noise of your friends and the firelight and the beautiful normalcy of discussing electives like your entire existence isn’t hanging together by ancient potions and questionable destiny. Just for tonight, you can pretend things are simple.
⋆｡⋆˙⟡ Defence against the Dark Arts class
Defense Against the Dark Arts was usually loud before class properly started.
Not severely loud, but layered with murmured conversations, the scrape of chairs, the occasional sharp laugh from the Slytherin corner where Tom Riddle sat with his usual circle. They tended to occupy the middle left side of the classroom like they owned it, speaking in low voices that still somehow carried.
Today, though, something felt off. You noticed it almost immediately as you slid into your seat beside Lucas. The room felt heavier, dimmer, somehow, despite the candles floating steadily overhead. Lucas dropped into the chair next to you with a sigh, shoving his bag beneath the desk. “Please tell me you did the reading,” he muttered. “Because if someone asks me about defensive structures again, I may simply pass away.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, pulling out your parchment. “You say that every lesson.”
“And one day I’ll mean it.”
Normally, that would’ve been enough to settle you into the familiar rhythm of class. But your attention kept drifting. Toward the left corner. Toward him. The difference was subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you did. The small cluster of Slytherins around him weren’t acting like they usually did. No smug commentary. No effortless confidence spilling across the room and no amused looks aimed at other students.
Instead, they sat close together, speaking quietly amongst themselves, almost cautiously. One of the boys leaned toward Riddle, whispering something too low to hear. Another glanced briefly over his shoulder before looking away again. Even Avery, who normally looked unbearably self-satisfied at all times, seemed tense.
And he himself… looked calm. Perfectly composed, as always. Which somehow made it worse. His fingers tapped once against the desk before stilling completely, dark eyes fixed ahead like he already knew something no one else did.
You realised you’d been staring when Lucas nudged your elbow lightly. “What are you looking at?” Your gaze flicked back to the front of the classroom. “Nothing.”
Lucas followed your earlier line of sight anyway, brows faintly furrowing. “Huh.”
“What?”
“Them,” he said quietly. “They’re being weirdly quiet.”
You resisted the urge to look again immediately. “I noticed.” For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, from somewhere behind you, a chair scraped sharply across stone. The both of you jumped in your seat.
Riddle slowly turned his head toward the noise, expression unreadable, before his eyes shifted briefly and landed on you. The room suddenly felt much colder than it had a second ago.
Professor Merrythought swept into the classroom a few minutes later, robes billowing sharply behind her, and the low conversations immediately died out.
“Wands away until instructed,” she said crisply. “Considering the quality of practical work before Christmas, I’ve no interest in rebuilding my classroom today.”
A few people groaned quietly. Lucas leaned toward you, “That’s aimed at the Hufflepuffs who set the tapestry on fire last time.”
“Wasn’t it just one tapestry?”
“It was three.” You hid a smile as Merrythought began writing the lesson topic across the board with a flick of her wand.
COUNTER-CURSES & DEFENSIVE REVERSALS.
The lecture started quickly after that, parchment scratching around the room as students copied notes. Merrythought spoke briskly, pacing between rows while explaining the difference between reversing minor hexes and breaking intentionally layered dark magic.
Beside you, Lucas lasted approximately eight minutes before getting distracted again. “I still think staying at Hogwarts over Christmas would’ve been brilliant,” he whispered, doodling absently in the corner of his notes. “No family dinners, no obnoxiously loud cousins and no aunt asking if I’ve ‘met any lovely girls yet’ as if I am into girls.”
You glanced sideways at him, “You say that now, until you’re actually here.”
“No, genuinely,” he grinned. “You could’ve had the entire castle basically to yourself.”
“It wasn’t empty,” you murmured.
But it had felt different, more quieter. The corridors colder somehow, the castle echoing in a way it usually didn’t when students filled it. Snow piled against the windows for days while the remaining handful of students wandered around half aimlessly, untethered from the usual chaos of term-time. Lucas rested his chin in his hand. “Still, better than my holiday.”
“What happened?”
“My older brother tried to demonstrate apparition inside the house.”
You blinked, “…Why?”
“He said he was ‘practising precision.’”
“That sounds ominous.”
“He splinched himself into Mother’s hydrangeas.”
You snorted loudly enough that a few people turned. Merrythought paused mid-sentence and Lucas immediately sat up straighter, pretending to copy notes with intense focus. After a moment, she continued. You shook your head slightly, still fighting a smile, before your attention drifted toward the front of the room again.
At the front of the classroom, Merrythought demonstrated a counter-curse with a clean flick of her wand, sending a practice hex unraveling midair in a burst of silver sparks.
Across the room, Riddle still hadn’t spoken much. One of the boys near him muttered something low. He answered without looking away from the front. And for the briefest moment, you caught the expression on his face. Not distracted, nor bored, just intensely focused. Like whatever had settled over that group before class still hadn’t left.
Lucas leaned toward you and whispered, “Has he said anything yet?”
You stop scribbling in your DADA book and turn to face him. “Who?”
The boy next to you nods his and mouths ‘Riddle’, to which you nod your head. “Believe it or not, but he helped with my essay for History of Magic.”
Lucas gaped at your words. “What? I need all the details.”
By lunchtime, the strange tension from Defence Against the Dark Arts had faded into the usual chaos of Hogwarts conversation. The Great Hall buzzed with noise, cutlery clinking against plates, students shouting across tables, owls swooping very occasionally overhead despite several professors’ visible irritation about it.
You sat next to Lucas with Lilith and Alicia in front of you, absently tearing apart a piece of bread while the conversation around you bounced between classes, Christmas disasters, and the increasingly dramatic debate over the new Transfiguration arrangement.
Cressida, Ben, and Maeve had disappeared somewhere after class. “Probably the library,” Alicia guessed, spearing potatoes onto her plate. “Or they’re having a gossip sesh.”
“Both equally likely,” Lucas said.
You smiled faintly, gaze drifting toward the staff table. Dumbledore sat near the centre, speaking to another professor with that calm, unreadable expression he always seemed to wear.
You really needed to do some new research about the potion and figure Tom Riddle out.
After lunch, the castle settled into that strange mid-afternoon lull where everyone was technically supposed to be productive. Students drifted toward lessons, common rooms, or the library with stacks of books balanced precariously in their arms.
The corridors echoed softly with distant footsteps and muffled conversation. You headed toward the library alone. Well, ‘alone’.
The Diary sat tucked carefully between your books inside your bag, heavier than it should’ve been. You’d told Lucas you needed to “catch up on studies,” which wasn’t technically a lie. You did have assignments to finish. But the pull toward The Diary had become impossible to ignore, Veritas Tempus, even thinking the words made something tighten faintly in your chest.
You still didn’t fully understand what it was. Or why The Diary responded the way it did. Every interaction only seemed to raise more questions instead of answering them.
The library doors creaked open quietly as you stepped inside. Instant silence swallowed you whole. Madam Pince glanced up from her desk immediately, eyes narrowing with suspicion that seemed permanently etched into her face. Once she determined you weren’t about to commit a crime against literature, she looked back down.
Then you moved deeper between the shelves until you found a quieter corner near the back windows. Snow pressed softly against the glass outside, pale winter light spilling across the table as you sat down. For a few minutes, you genuinely tried to work, opened your Transfiguration essay, read the first paragraph and wrote half a sentence and sighed, you really weren’t in the mood to study.
You shoved The Diary carefully back into your bag alongside your parchment, gathering your books with far less care than usual. The chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood. You’d barely taken two steps away from the table when a voice drifted from somewhere between the shelves.
“Leaving so soon?”
You nearly jumped out of your skin, “Merlin—” You turned sharply and saw Tom Riddle leaning lightly against the edge of a nearby bookshelf, arms folded loosely across his chest.
The dim library light caught against the sharp lines of his face, dark eyes fixed steadily on you with that infuriatingly calm expression he always wore. You hadn’t even heard him approach and your pulse still hadn’t settled, “Riddle,” you said flatly. “It’s none of your business.”
One corner of his mouth tilted faintly.
“Maybe.”
The silence stretched for a second too long.
You adjusted your grip on your books. “Were you lurking there intentionally, or is that just a hobby now?”
“I was reading.”
“In the dark?”
“It’s a library,” he said smoothly. “The lighting is unfortunate everywhere.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. There was something off about him today too. Not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice probably, but beneath the composed expression sat the same strange tension you’d caught earlier during Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Riddle’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag, “You looked frustrated.” Your fingers tightened instinctively around the strap. “Congratulations on your observational skills.”
“That bad?”
You hesitated. The logical thing would’ve been to brush him off completely. Walk away and pretend none of this bothered you. Instead, before you could stop yourself, you exhaled sharply, “I’m tired.” The honesty surprised even you.
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Not softer, just… more attentive. “Tired of studying?” he asked wondering.
“No,” though that would’ve been easier. You looked away briefly toward the frost-covered windows lining the far side of the library. “Tired of not understanding things.”
For the first time since the conversation started, Riddle went completely still, not casual-still, but the kind that made it feel like every word suddenly mattered far more than before. When you looked back at him, his eyes hadn’t left your face once. “And yet,” he said softly, “you keep trying anyway.” It wasn’t really a question, and somehow, that made your chest tighten more than if it had been.
“If you ever want help, you know where to find me,” and with that he left, leaving you standing confused.
SUMMARY: Despite what you hear and think, Tom Riddle feels both dangerous but sweet—your soulmate. Struggling to find answers you find Dumbledore, who only gives you cryptic hints. Which leaves you searching for answers. With Tom Riddle, apparently.
WORD COUNT: +3.8k
CONTENT WARNING: /
The library smelled faintly of parchment and dust, the kind of air that seemed to hum with all the secrets tucked into its shelves. You sat at a long wooden table, quill scratching across parchment, while Lilith, Alicia, and Maeve leaned over their own assignments.
Lucas had dramatically announced he was “catching up on his most important subject: sleep” and vanished into the Gryffindor dorms. Ben and Cressida had gone to Hogsmeade.
So, it was just the four of you, books piled high around your elbows, ink stains smudged on your hands.
“Ugh,” Maeve groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “If I have to read one more page about the wing curvature of Norwegian Ridgebacks, I’m going to scream.”
“Be grateful we’re not actually handling dragons,” Alicia said, twirling her quill. “Can you imagine? Fire breath, tails knocking people flat—I’ll take textbooks over being flambéed alive any time.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “And Hippogriffs are apparently worse if you don’t bow right.”
“I’d bow,” Lilith murmured, eyes still scanning her neat notes. “anything with talons that sharp deserves respect.”
For a while, you all scribbled and muttered about scales, feeding habits, and bowing protocols.
Until Alicia groaned again. “Alright, let’s switch. I can’t with dragons anymore. What about divination? Didn’t we have that essay due?”
You stiffened slightly, this assignment wasn’t one you could whisper about or pass notes on.
Professor Onai had been very clear:
“Soulmate work is sacred. Your answers must be your own. To share them would be to weaken their truth.”
“Oh, right,” Maeve said, flipping to another roll of parchment. “We’re supposed to answer those soulmate questions Professor Onai gave us.”
You read the first question:
What is the difference between love and a soulmate bond?
Your hand trembled slightly as you pulled back, staring at the ink.
The last question was somehow even worse.
What do you believe your soulmate would bring you—peace, or ruin?
You froze. The candlelight flickered against the parchment, casting shadows that seemed sharper than before.
Peace. That’s what everyone wanted. What Onai had promised—clarity, inevitability, the soul’s ultimate calm.
But ruin was what you feared. What clung to you when you thought of him.
You set the quill down, pressing your fingers against your temple.
Because how could you answer honestly, when both felt true?
When just thinking of Tom Riddle made your stomach twist in contradiction—danger and inevitability, sharp edges wrapped in something you couldn’t name?
Your mind kept drifting back to the corridor.
To the Ravenclaw girls.
To his easy agreement to tutor them, when the boy you’d been told about was supposed to be cold, friendless and feared.
But he wasn’t.
He wasn’t the way your parents and friends had described him. How your professors said he behaved when he was younger.
Not yet.
And that unsettled you more than any answer you could put on parchment.
You questioned the way people seemed drawn to him without hesitation.
Why?
Why did they trust him so easily?
Why did they laugh at his jokes, lean closer when he spoke, follow him like it was the most natural thing in the world?
Dumbledore had told you he was different.
That he was a loner, feared more than liked.
That his brilliance was edged with cruelty,
that he made his hunger for power clear to anyone who crossed him.
But here—none of that was true.
Here, you saw him surrounded. Not warm, never soft—but never truly alone.
Not in the way you were told.
Because yes, he was arrogant, calculating, terrifying, even. You could feel the ambition burn in him, sharp as a blade.
But he wasn’t the person they’d described.
And worst of all—you weren’t sure who to believe anymore.
Them.
Or your own mind.
Your chest ached with the thought.
What if they had been wrong?
In the end, you picked up your quill again. You might not know what to do, but at least one thing was clear.
Then you sat back, staring at the words like they might burn a hole through the page.
The next morning, the castle felt… different. Not just quieter—something more deliberate, as if the walls themselves were leaning in, listening.
You could almost swear the portraits followed you longer than usual, their painted eyes lingering as you passed, whispering to one another when they thought you weren’t paying attention.
You wrapped your scarf tighter, your breath misting faintly in the drafty corridor as you made your way up toward the Transfiguration classroom. Except before you reached it, you saw him—Professor Dumbledore—stepping inside, his glasses catching the early morning light. You hesitated, meaning to turn back, but his voice floated out before you could retreat.
“Miss L/n,” he said warmly, though it carried the weight of something more. “A word, if you please.”
You swallowed, nerves tangling in your stomach, and pushed the door open. The room was empty save for him, perched casually against a desk, hands folded neatly in front of him. He gestured for you to sit, his gaze kind but unbearably sharp all at once.
“I take it you’ve been thinking,” Dumbledore said. “About your return.”
Your lips pressed together. “I have.” You hesitated, fiddling with your sleeve before admitting, “And I don’t know. I… I want to go back, but I don’t know what it would mean. What it would change. And I don’t want to mess up everything by leaving the way I will.”
Dumbledore nodded slowly, as though he’d expected that. “A wise hesitation. The temptation of certainty is powerful—but in matters such as these, certainty rarely exists.”
You let out a small, frustrated laugh. “So I stay, then. At least for now.”
His eyes softened. “Begrudgingly, yes.”
But he didn’t dismiss you. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying you in that unnerving way that always made you feel like your thoughts weren’t quite your own.
“There is something else troubling you, is there not?”
Your throat went tight, but you forced the words out. “How come there’s no family of mine?”
His silence told you he’d anticipated the question.
You pressed on, your voice quickening. “My entire bloodline went to Hogwarts. My aunt was nearly disowned just for going to Beauxbatons. Traditions are everything in my family. So why—why am I here without anyone? Why don’t they exist in this time?”
Dumbledore sighed softly, moving to the window where the pale winter light spilled in, outlining his silhouette in gold.
“Ah. Bloodlines. Curious things, aren’t they? One might think them iron-clad, but they are far more fragile than most care to admit.”
“What does that mean?” you asked, sharper than you intended.
He turned back to you, expression unreadable. “Some things, Miss L/n, are best discovered on one’s own terms. Truths revealed too soon… they rarely take root in the way they must.”
Your jaw tightened. “So you’re not going to tell me.”
He gave the faintest smile, but his eyes carried a shadow. “I will give you this. The name.”
You blinked. “A name?”
“The potion,” he said, “is called Veritas Tempus. It weaves threads of time and blood. It may answer your question, though only when you are ready to ask it properly.”
“And where am I supposed to find this?”
“In the library, of course.” Dumbledore’s gaze flicked toward the door as though the answer were already waiting for you there. “Once you open yourself to it, it will find you. Until then, it will remain hidden.”
You stared at him, mouth opening—then closing again. “That’s not an answer,” you muttered.
He chuckled softly. “No, it isn’t. But you’ll find one nonetheless.”
You scoured the library until your elbows ached and your quill was chewed to a nub. The stacks had offered nothing but familiar spines and dusty margins—the catalogue was teasing, the card catalogue unhelpful, and every useful-sounding title led to a dead end. Veritas Tempus remained a rumor on Dumbledore’s lips and a ghost in your head.
By the time you sank down at a long table under a high window, your fingers were raw from riffling through pages. Tears prickled hot and useless behind your eyes; you could feel them there, heavy and furious, but you wouldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not where anyone might see.
You slammed a book closed with more force than necessary and breathed out, sharp and hot.
Anger rose up—at the cold unfairness of being plucked from your life, at the cruel irony that you’d begged for a chance to fix things and now the one slim thread Dumbledore offered felt like a riddle wrapped in a promise.
You missed your friends, your parents, the stupid little routines that had anchored you.
You had complained about them a hundred times before, taken them for granted.
You’d give anything to have them back.
Anything.
If that meant learning to play along with Dumbledore’s cryptic instructions—if that meant pretending to fall for someone you were supposed to stop—then you’d grit your teeth and do it. You would do whatever it took.
You pressed your palms to your eyes, fighting back the burn of tears. Crying in the library wasn’t exactly part of the plan. Neither was screaming into the nearest pillow, which was unfortunately back in your dorm.
Your jaw was clenched so tight it hurt when someone’s shadow fell across your open page. You looked up, expecting a librarian’s approach.
Instead, Tom Riddle was standing there.
For a heartbeat your breath stopped.
Of course it was him, of course he was here when you were raw and exposed. You felt like a small thing on display. You wanted to bolt—to run so fast the castle’s stones would blur—but you were sick of running.
Sick of being moved by other people’s motions.
So you didn’t.
He didn’t say anything at first. He simply looked, then sat down beside you as if he’d been planning to sit there all along. His movement was smooth, unhurried; nothing about him betrayed curiosity, only the kind of calm that made everyone else a little off-balance.
You blink because you have no idea why he’s there. Why he’s watching. Why he’s wasting time on you. But when you glance down at the table you’re surrounded by, there’s a small fortress of books:
Forgotten Draughts of the British Isles
Compendium of Timewoven Potions
Veritaserum: Theory & Trials
The Archivist’s Guide to Obscure Elixirs
Remedies and Reversals: Antidotes for the Curious
Bindings & Unbinds: Temporal Counter-Charms
The Alchemist’s Ledger: Notes on Rare Reagents
Modern Draughtcraft and Its Discontents
Ethical Potioncraft: Essays and Arguments
An Index of Living Potions and Their Makers
You had read half the titles already; the rest you hadn’t even dared to look at until now. Somehow he’d pulled more relevant volumes into your orbit without explanation.
Riddle sits down; he doesn’t ask who or what hurt you, doesn’t pretend to be tender. He arranges himself beside you with the same quiet efficiency he applies to everything.
His fingers trail across the spine of Veritaserum: Theory & Trials and for a beat he simply looks at the pile, not at you.
His presence should’ve made your stomach twist with unease. But instead, it steadied you. Maybe because he wasn’t asking why. Maybe because he wasn’t prying.
“Professor Dumbledore’s been… asking questions,” you said finally, words tumbling out before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t entirely a lie, but not the truth either. “About potions that are, um, less common. He thinks I should consider teaching one day. Herbology, maybe.”
Riddle glanced up at that, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. “And you agreed?”
“Sure,” you lied, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “Though honestly, I think he just enjoys giving me impossible assignments. So here I am. Drowning in antidotes and alchemical theory.”
He studied you for a long moment, then turned another page. “There are worse ways to drown.”
You let out a short laugh, leaning back in your chair. “Easy for you to say. You probably already have everything memorized.”
“Not memorized,” he corrected calmly, tracing a line of text with his fingertip. “Catalogued.”
You tried to keep your head down, quill scratching across parchment, but you could feel him watching you still. Not staring, exactly—it was subtler than that.
Finally, he spoke again.
“Beauxbatons,” he said lightly, almost as if it were casual conversation. “What was it like there? I’ve heard their teaching is… softer. More focused on charms and etiquette than the… practical rigor of Hogwarts.”
Your grip on the quill tightened. “It’s different,” you admitted carefully. “Less… competitive. More emphasis on finesse.” You allowed a tiny smile, though your pulse quickened. “Not that Hogwarts isn’t charming in its own way.”
Riddle raised his eyebrows, considering you. “And yet you transferred here. If finesse is what you prefer, surely you’d have stayed.”
“I wanted a difference,” you replied smoothly, praying your voice didn’t shake. “Beauxbatons has its strengths, but Hogwarts has history. Depth. I thought it might… sharpen me.”
Something flickered in his expression—satisfaction, maybe, though you weren’t sure why. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“And your family allowed it?” he asked. “They must be very progressive, letting their daughter cross the water alone. Unless, of course, they didn’t have much of a say.”
Your throat tightened. You swallowed and forced out a shrug. “They trust me.”
“Mm,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced but not pressing further. He tapped one of the open books in front of you, the leather cover cracked with age. Poisons and Their Remedies, Volume II.
“Odd reading for someone who claims to want to teach Herbology,” he said. His tone wasn’t accusing, but the sharpness in his eyes made your heart stumble anyway.
You forced a smile. “Knowledge is power. Plants, potions—most of it overlap. Any decent professor should understand both.”
His lips curved faintly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “You’re clever,” he said softly. “Too clever to be satisfied with just planting roots.”
You shifted in your chair, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’d leaned without actually closing the distance. “Maybe I just like options,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Keeps life… less predictable.”
He sat back slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Predictability is for people who are content to follow.”
“And you don’t follow anyone,” you said before you could stop yourself.
His eyes glinted at that—pleased, maybe, or amused. But he didn’t answer. He simply turned back to the book in his hands, flipping a page with deliberate care, leaving the weight of his silence to settle over you again.
For a moment, you almost wished he would press further—at least then you’d know where you stood.
The common room was buzzing with chatter, students dragging trunks behind them and owls swooping in with last-minute letters. It was the kind of cheerful energy that made Hogwarts feel alive and warm, even in the coldest months.
Lucas dropped into the armchair beside you, his curls damp from the snow outside. “So, Y/n, are you heading home for the holidays too?” he asked casually, tugging at the sleeve of his jumper.
You froze for half a second. Home. Right. “No, I’m… staying here,” you said quickly, tucking your book deeper into your lap.
Alicia, curled up on the rug with a mug of cocoa, tilted her head at you. “Ah, is France too far to go?” she asked, her freckles catching the firelight.
Your stomach lurched—you’d almost forgotten about the Beauxbatons exchange lie. “Uh, yes,” you stammered, forcing a smile. “Too far. And expensive.”
Lucas perked up. “You could come spend Christmas with me, Y/n. My mum always hosts these big dinners—loads of food, way too much mulled cider, the whole family gathered. There’s always enough space.”
His words tugged you straight back into memory:
Molly Weasley bustling around the kitchen with her apron dusted in flour, waving her wand at pans that clattered all at once. You, elbow-deep in potatoes, laughing as Ginny begged you to braid her hair before bed.
Fred and George sneaking sugar quills into your pocket only to hex them so they exploded with glitter when you bit in. Ron muttering about Hermione being a know-it-all while still asking to copy her notes, Harry trying to ease the tension with bad jokes, all of you pretending not to hear the low whispers about Voldemort’s next move.
Your chest ached.
“That’s… kind of you, Lucas,” you said softly, shaking your head. “but it’s okay.”
He frowned. “Are you sure? There’s plenty of space, I promise.”
You managed a small, grim smile. “Really, it’s fine. Besides…” your gaze drifted to the fire. “I usually don’t spend Christmas at home anyway.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than you intended. Silence pressed in for a moment, your friends exchanging glances, but you kept your eyes fixed on the flames, the echo of old laughter haunting you like a ghost.
In the next few days, the dormitory was still and quiet. Almost everyone left for the holidays.
There was a kind of silence that reminded you just how empty the castle felt over the holidays. You sat cross-legged on your bed, parchment scattered around you, ink smudges staining your fingertips.
Maeve’s handwriting had come first—large and loopy, even across a cramped page. She’d told you about her mother’s cooking, how her nephews were already fighting over exploding snap cards, and how boring it was without you.
In her words:
“Write back soon or I’ll hex you the moment I’m back.”
Alicia’s letter was next—perfect but scrawled like she’d been writing in a rush.
“My mum keeps asking if you sleep enough. She thinks you’re too tired based on the picture I showed her. I told her you basically snore like a Hippogriff, so she can relax.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Lucas’ letter made you laugh out loud—it was practically a monologue, detailing his “desperate struggle” to survive the holidays with nosy relatives and an endless line of cousins who wanted to hear about Hogwarts.
“By the time you read this, I’ll be a skeleton. Tell Shadow to mourn me properly. Dramatic meows are required.”
Ben and Cressida had written together, a polite, neat letter from Cressida with little interjections scratched in by Ben that made you grin.
“She won’t admit it, but Cressida misses you too. Also, can you believe I’m voluntarily studying during break? Please clap.”
You replied to each of them carefully, balancing humor with reassurance, promising you’d be fine, that Hogwarts wasn’t that lonely.
Folding each letter neatly, you carried them to the Owlery.
Shadow trotting close at your heels. The smell of birds and paper mixed with the strong scent of rain and snow, wrapped around you as you tied the letters to a patient school owl, whispering for them to fly safely after you give him a treat.
By the time you made it down to the Great Hall, your stomach was growling.
The space was sparse, only a handful of students dotting the long tables. Most had gone home, leaving the hall feeling cavernous, almost echoey.
Your eyes flicked automatically to the Slytherin table—and froze.
Only Riddle sat there among a scattering of seventh years at the far end, their conversation hushed and serious.
His posture was relaxed, but there was something about the way his head tilted, the way his gaze lingered on whoever was speaking, that made it clear he was the one in control.
For once, he wasn’t surrounded by the usual crowd of eager followers. Just him, and a few of the oldest students in the school.
The Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and a few Gryffindors filled in the other tables, chatting quietly, occasionally glancing around.
You hesitated in the doorway, clutching your book to your chest.
There was plenty of space—you could sit anywhere.
And yet, something about the sight of him there, dark eyes flicking up for just a fraction of a second, catching yours before sliding away, made your heart pound harder than it should have.
You forced yourself to move, the echo of your footsteps sounding louder than you wanted as you crossed the hall to the Gryffindor table.
Snow crunched softly beneath your boots as you wandered down the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade.
The air was crisp, the kind that stung your nose but smelled faintly of pine and smoke. Shops glowed with warm lights and wreaths, and laughter spilled out from the three broomsticks in bursts of holiday cheer.
Shadow padded along faithfully at your side, his black fur dotted with snowflakes. He looked up at you with those unblinking eyes, tail curling lazily behind him.
“Alright, alright,” you muttered with a small smile, ducking into Honeydukes. “I didn’t forget about you.”
A few minutes later, you emerged with a small paper bag filled with candied mouse tails and fish-flavored biscuits. Shadow sniffed it immediately, earning a quiet laugh from you as you held it out of reach. “Patience. You’ll get them later.”
Deciding to take advantage of the rare freedom, you strolled further down the street, glancing into the shop windows. A bookstore tempted you, a cluster of enchanted snow globes caught your eye, and you were halfway considering a stop for Butterbeer when the air shifted.
Just outside the Three Broomsticks, three boys stood as though they’d stepped out of a shadow together—Malfoy, Rosier, and Nott. Their uniforms were traded for dark cloaks, but their presence felt as distinct as ever.
Malfoy was the first to notice you, his sharp profile turning, eyes narrowing ever so slightly before flicking down to shadow at your feet.
Rosier caught your gaze as you passed, his brow lifting like he found the whole thing mildly amusing.
Nott, though—his smile stretched too wide, a fraction too slow, like he was waiting for a secret you didn’t know you’d already told.
You stiffened, giving them a tight, dismissive look, and kept walking. If they expected you to stop, to acknowledge them—they’d be disappointed.
But then, the sound of crunching snow behind you made your chest tighten.
You turned—Shadow wasn’t by your side anymore.
Instead, he was padding, deliberate and unhurried, straight toward them.
His golden eyes fixed not on you, but on them.
Shadow’s paws barely made a sound in the snow as he reached them. Nott crouched easily, one knee sinking into the snow, holding out a gloved hand.
To your surprise—Shadow didn’t hesitate. He brushed past Rosier’s boots, ignored Malfoy entirely, and leapt lightly onto Nott’s knee.
Nott’s grin sharpened, but he didn’t pet him. Instead, he leaned closer, studying shadow with a strange intensity, like he was waiting—expecting—the sleek black fur to ripple into something else entirely.
Rosier’s brows rose in faint amusement.
Malfoy’s lip curled as if the sight of it all irritated him.
But Nott? He just stared, unblinking.
Your pulse skipped, heat pricking the back of your neck.
“Shadow,” you called, sharper than you meant.
The cat’s golden eyes flicked toward you, but he didn’t move.
You took a steadying breath, marched over, and ignored the smirk tugging at Rosier’s mouth as you bent to scoop shadow neatly out of Nott’s hands.
Nott let go easily enough, though his gaze lingered, his smile far too knowing.
“Yours?” he asked casually, as if you were sharing small talk instead of…whatever it was.
“Obviously,” you muttered, brushing snow off shadow’s fur, clutching him closer, holding his treats close in your hand. “Come on.”
You turned on your heel, cloak swirling around you, and strode back toward the castle. You could feel their eyes on your back the whole way, heavy as falling snow.
Shadow purred against your arm, utterly unbothered.
SUMMARY: Everything changes for you when Snape gives you a certain memory. will you be able to do the task that Dumbledore has given you?
CONTENT WARNING: Soulmate au! (soulbound), time travel au!,
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