Chapter Text
Gravel crunched under Hermione’s boots as she stepped up the winding pathway, the sound swallowed by the heavy mist that clung to the grounds of Riddle Manor. The air smelled of wet stone and rotting leaves, the sharp tang of decay that no amount of autumn rain could wash away. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stared up at the house—a looming corpse of a property silhouetted against the bruised-gray sky.
The manor was larger than she’d expected, its Gothic spires and blackened brick clawing upward as though trying to escape the earth. It dwarfed all other houses in Little Hangleton, even to this day, set on a hill overlooking the rest of the village. Ivy and weeds suffocated the entire structure, growing from every nook and cranny.
The door was open, hanging from a single hinge and swaying. The blackness beyond the door gave Hermione pause, unease prickling her skin like static. She cast a Hominum Revelio. Nothing. It seems the dark legacy of this manor warded away even the most desperate; the manor was completely deserted.
She shook off her unease and sheathed her wand, reminding herself that Voldemort had been dead for years now, the original inhabitants even longer. There was no one in that house.
Her only goals were belongings, possessions connected to the infamous Dark Lord that the ministry could catalog away.
Inside, the air was thick, stale, and impossibly still. Dust clung to the edges of every surface, broken only by faint, deliberate pathways—as if something had been moving through the house, clearing its own trails. Her wand was back in her hand before she’d consciously decided to draw it.
It’s just a house. Just another bloody house.
Hermione took a deep breath and moved forward, every scuff of her boots echoing through the silent ruin. A grand staircase stretched upward in a sweeping arc, its mahogany banister fractured by time. At its foot, the remnants of a chandelier lay scattered in thousands of tiny pieces, jagged shards of glass catching the weak light filtering through the filthy windows.
“Lumos,” she whispered.
The blue light from her wand illuminated the grand hallway, throwing flickering shadows against the walls. One of the shadows didn’t move when the others did.
She stopped.
It was faint, almost imperceptible—just a black sliver near the far end of the corridor. But it was there. Her wandlight swept toward it, her pulse quickening as her eyes adjusted. The shadow stretched upward, resolving into a tall, narrow shape: a door, barely visible beneath layers of peeling wallpaper.
The Ministry’s records had mentioned no hidden rooms.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the latch. The door groaned open to reveal a study, untouched by the decay that infected the rest of the house. The air here was cleaner, drier, though it carried the faint smell of something burnt.
Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents undisturbed, and a heavy oak desk stood in the center of the room. But it was the portrait above the fireplace that caught her attention.
It was larger than life, the figure painted with unsettling precision. A young man with black hair and high cheekbones. His dark, glittering eyes gazed down at her. His lips were curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile, the kind that didn’t reach the eyes. Even in oil, there was something alive about his expression. The whole thing was framed in ornate silver moulding, each corner baring an intricate coiling snake that blended in with the filigree of the rest of the frame.
For a moment, Hermione couldn’t breathe. She knew that face. She had seen it before, in grainy photographs from decades past, in memories shared by Harry. Handsome. Personable. Aristocratic with just a hint of rakishness that sharpened the edges of his charm.
“Tom Riddle,” she said aloud, her voice barely above a whisper.
The fire in the hearth flared suddenly, filling the room with a dull roar. She stumbled back, her wand snapping up instinctively, but the flames receded into a low flicker, bathing the room in a gentle heat.
And then, faintly, she heard it.
A voice. Low and smooth, curling like smoke around her mind.
“Hello, welcome to my home.” the painting said.
She froze, her wandlight trembling against the portrait. The painted eyes were fixed on her now, unmistakably watching. Her pulse thundered in her ears as the voice came again, a silky-smooth voice that seemed to slide beneath her skin.
“It seems you already know who I am, who are you?”
A lance of fear pierced her chest, rooting her in place as she stared, aghast, at the portrait. She had never heard of Tom Riddle commissioning a portrait. Could it have been sitting here, untouched, all this time? Magical portraits usually knew only what their creators had known about their subjects, their knowledge limited by the painter’s skill and the strength of their enchantments. And Tom Riddle—secretive, controlling, meticulous—was not the kind of man to leave such vulnerabilities behind.
Still, this was Voldemort she was talking about; she would need to keep her guard up.
Her colleagues at the ministry were going to freak. Maybe she would finally get some worthwhile tasks instead of being sent on errands cataloging abandoned derelict estates.
“You are a witch, aren’t you?” Came the smooth voice again, snapping Hermione back to reality.
“What?”
“You have a wand, so I assume you’re a witch, but you are looking at me like you’ve never seen a painting before.”
“Yes, I have. I just didn’t expect to find one here. I thought this was a Muggle estate.”
He smiled knowingly, dimples bracketing his mouth. Harry definitely understated how good-looking Tom Riddle was; she had never seen him so close and so well-detailed. It was hard to reconcile the man in the painting with the creature he became. She wondered how old he was when he had this painted. He looked no older than twenty-five.
“No, I don’t expect you did.” He agreed. “What is your name.”
“Hermione Granger.” There was no harm in telling him this, it was just a painting.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Granger, what brings you to my home?”
He sounded so sincere. She didn’t trust him for a moment.
“I’m just looking around.”
“I can see that much. Is there something specific you are looking for? Maybe I can help you find it.”
Things like you. She thought but didn’t say.
“No, thank you. I will look around on my own.”
“Suit yourself, I will be here if you change your mind.” His tone was light, even affable.
Hermione tore her eyes away from the portrait, her breathing shallow. She needed to focus. This wasn’t the time to stand gawking at a relic of the Dark Lord’s youth, no matter how unsettling its presence. There could be other artifacts here, and she needed to complete her assignment before this place got under her skin any more than it already had.
The study was oddly well-preserved compared to the rest of the house. The shelves were lined with dusty tomes, some of which bore titles Hermione didn’t recognize. The heavy oak desk in the center was littered with brittle parchment and an ink bottle long dried to a crust. She approached it cautiously, her wandlight sweeping over the papers.
Letters, half-written, their content illegible beneath the curling decay of time. The handwriting, sharp and precise, sent a shiver down her spine. She picked the first letter up and turned it over in her hand, inspecting the degraded surface.
“It’s not polite to touch other people’s things.”
Hermione’s head snapped up, her hand closing instinctively around the letter, clutching it to her chest. Tom was watching her, his painted head tilted slightly, his expression a blend of mild amusement and reproach. She reminded herself that it was just a portrait—an enchanted image, nothing more.
“I wasn’t aware the dead had much use for things,” she replied, setting it back down on the desk.
His mouth quirked into a faint smile. “The dead?” He tilted his head, curious. “A fair point, Miss Granger. Though I must confess, I’m curious what interest you have in the property of a dead man.”
“That’s none of your concern.” It’s just a painting. Stop talking with it.
“Since this is my home, it is my concern.”
Hermione ignored it and continued her perusal of the desk. She carefully tucked the letters in her beaded bag where they wouldn’t get damaged—the ministry may be able to reconstruct them with the right spells—and moved onto the books.
Unsurprisingly, they were almost all books about dark magic. The bookshelves were full of them, more than any she’d ever seen before, even in the ministry’s sparse collections on the subject. She never would have thought that he would have hidden all of this here, in the home of the father he despised so much.
Effective, I suppose. No one had found it until now. I should probably take all of this with me.
Her hand hovered over the spine of a particularly old-looking tome, doing her best to ignore the fact the Tom’s portrait was watching her with keen interest as she searched his study. The spine was embossed with runes. But she hesitated.
The order probably mattered. Riddle was an obsessive-compulsive man; by all accounts, his need for control extended to all facets of his life. He would have his secret dark arts collection ordered in a way that was meaningful to him. She should do her best to preserve that.
She thought for a moment, then retrieved a roll of parchment and a quill from her bag.
“That is an impressive extension charm.” Said the painting as she began to document each book's titles, authors, and physical appearances.
Hermione ignored the comment, focusing instead on the first book. She noted the spine’s title, Magia Mortem: The Anatomy of Death Spells, and its author—or rather the lack of one—the name was obscured by centuries of wear. Her quill scratched across the parchment, each stroke deliberate. She wouldn’t give the portrait the satisfaction of a response.
Silence passed between them as Hermione worked; she documented nearly a dozen more books before he spoke again.
“That is an impressive extension charm,” Tom said again, his tone smooth, unhurried, as though they were engaging in idle conversation over tea and she just didn’t hear him the first time. “The bag, I mean. Ingenious, really. Did you enchant it yourself?”
“I’m busy,” Hermione muttered, not looking up.
“You seem capable of multitasking.” There was a faint smirk in his voice, even if she refused to glance at his face. “What is it you are doing?”
“I’m cataloging.”
“Cataloging.” He let the word hang in the air, his amusement palpable. “You’re taking inventory of incredibly rare tomes no one has touched in decades, and you call that cataloging? Miss Granger, you wound me.”
Her quill stilled for a moment, the air between them taut with silence. She exhaled sharply and forced herself to continue, her voice clipped as she replied, “This is standard Ministry procedure.”
“Ah, yes, the Ministry. That bastion of inefficiency and bureaucracy.” Tom’s tone turned condescending, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight. “They send you to rummage through an old house instead of putting your talents to better use. Remarkable.”
Hermione clenched her jaw and kept writing. Don’t engage him, she thought. That’s exactly what he wants.
But as she moved to the next book, the nagging truth of his words prickled at her. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt like her skills were being wasted, sent on mundane tasks while the Ministry’s upper echelons pursued their own agendas. Still, she refused to let a painting of Voldemort plant seeds of doubt in her mind.
“I suppose it’s fortunate for me that they don’t recognize your worth,” Tom continued, his voice softening, almost sympathetic. “If they did, you wouldn’t be here, and I’d still be gathering dust in silence.”
She slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the quiet study. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Do you?” he asked, his smirk deepening. “Enlighten me.”
“You’re trying to manipulate me. To distract me. It won’t work.”
Tom chuckled, the sound low and warm, but there was an edge to it that made the hair on the back of Hermione’s neck stand up. “Manipulate you? Miss Granger, I am a painting. I have been abandoned here for years, with no one to talk to.” There was a pregnant pause before he added, softer this time, “I’m lonely.”
Hermione stilled, her hand resting on the spine of the next book she’d intended to document. The words caught her off guard, their simplicity disarming. She glanced at him warily, expecting some telltale smirk or glint of mischief in his painted expression, but he looked composed, almost… sincere.
“Lonely,” she repeated, skepticism lacing her tone.
“Do you find that hard to believe?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “I can tell I am a painting of someone you despise, but even I can feel the passage of time. Decades trapped in silence, in darkness—it can wear on the mind.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You don’t have a mind. You’re a magical imprint, a facsimile of the real Tom Riddle.”
“True,” he admitted, his voice soft. “But even a facsimile remembers what it’s like to be human. To think, to feel.” He leaned forward slightly in his painted chair, his dark eyes searching hers. “You’ve spent the last hour cataloging every corner of this room, meticulously preserving my collection. That is hardly the work of someone without empathy.”
“I’m not doing this for you,” Hermione shot back, though her voice lacked the venom she’d intended. “It’s my job.”
“Ah, yes, the Ministry.” He smiled faintly. “Always so methodical, so detached. But you’re not like them, are you? I imagine they’ve sent plenty of witches and wizards to clear out derelict homes, yet here you are, taking the time to preserve the order of a dead man’s library.”
Hermione flushed, turning back to the bookshelf. This was no ordinary dead man’s home, but she couldn't be sure how much this painting knew. “I’m just being thorough.”
“Thoroughness is admirable,” he said lightly. “But I think it’s more than that. You value knowledge, Miss Granger. You understand its power. Even in the wrong hands.”
She didn’t respond, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much what he was saying intrigued her. But his words lingered, intertwining with her own thoughts. He was right, in a way—she did value knowledge. It was why she’d spent years meticulously reconstructing Hogwarts’ libraries after the war, why she spent hours combing through archives for answers others might overlook.
“That is why you intrigue me,” Tom continued, his voice dropping to a gentler register. “You’re not here out of fear or duty alone. You’re here because you want to know.”
Hermione sighed, forcing herself to focus on the book in front of her. “You’re reading too much into it.”
“You’re probably right.” He leaned back again, his expression faintly amused. “Or perhaps you’re reluctant to admit it. After all, curiosity is what brought you into this room, isn’t it? You are the first to discover it.”
“Curiosity,” she repeated, finally looking at him. “And you’re what? The cat?”
He laughed softly, the sound rich and strangely human. “Of course not, I’m just a painting.”
Hermione suppressed an eye roll, returning to her work. “You’re awfully smug for a man trapped in a frame.”
“And you’re awfully smart for a witch working for the Ministry.” He smiled, his dimples deepening.
Cataloging the books took hours, each carefully documented and safely floated into her bag. She checked every volume for curses, but they appeared perfectly mundane—the exteriors, anyway. The knowledge within likely held all kinds of dangers, but she would deal with that later. Like the dark arts themselves, even reading books on dark magic usually exacted some sort of toll.
Tom watched her the entire time, his gaze unwavering. Occasionally, he broke the silence with idle conversation, throwing out comments about her technique, her persistence, even the way she handled certain volumes. She did her best not to engage, keeping her responses curt and professional, but he was persistent and hard to ignore.
Maybe he really is lonely.
She reached for a thin, unmarked book nestled among the larger tomes. It had no title, no author—nondescript in every way. Yet, as she held it, a strange heaviness settled over her, as though the book carried more weight than its size suggested. Her fingers tingled faintly against the cover, and she hesitated before flipping it open. Inside, the pages were filled with lettering she didn’t recognize—intricate symbols and swirling script that felt both ancient and deliberate.
“Do you know what this is?” she asked, glancing at the portrait despite herself.
Tom tilted his head slightly, his painted brow furrowing. “A cipher, I believe.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “A cipher for what?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. Something I suspect only the real Tom Riddle knew.”
She narrowed her eyes at the painting, but his expression remained placid. Reluctantly, she closed the book and tucked it into her bag, her thoughts lingering on the strange cipher long after she moved on to the next shelf.
After cataloging the books, Hermione turned her attention to the rest of the manor. The study had been the most intact room she’d found so far, but the house was enormous, its labyrinthine corridors stretching endlessly in every direction. Each room she entered seemed more decrepit than the last, the weight of decades pressing against every surface.
The air was damp and heavy, thick with the scent of rot and mildew. Wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips, exposing the crumbling plaster beneath. Mold speckled the corners of ceilings, its dark tendrils creeping down the walls like veins. In some rooms, where the windows had shattered completely, the outside world had begun to reclaim the space. Shoots of green sprouted from cracks in the stone floor, their leaves dusty but tenacious.
She found a drawing room with a grand piano standing in one corner, its keys warped and yellowed with age. When she brushed her fingers across them, a faint, discordant note rang out, the sound startlingly loud in the silence. The ornate furniture was covered in moth-eaten upholstery, the intricate carvings of the armrests barely visible beneath a layer of grime. A glass-fronted cabinet held rows of crystal decanters, all empty but coated in a fine film of dust.
In a bedroom on the second floor, she discovered a small collection of letters tucked inside a mahogany writing desk. They bore the Riddle family crest and appeared to have belonged to Tom Riddle Senior. They were mundane—correspondence about estate finances, invitations to local gatherings—but Hermione folded them up anyway and tucked them into her bag.
The farther she ventured into the manor, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. The air grew colder in rooms that had been sealed for decades, their windows grimy and their curtains tattered.
In what she assumed had been the dining room, a massive table dominated the space, its surface warped and splintered from years of neglect. A faded tapestry hung crookedly on one wall, depicting a scene of rolling hills and a lone black tower in the distance. The image unsettled her, though she couldn’t pinpoint why.
A locked door near the end of a narrow corridor caught her attention. She tried a few unlocking charms, but the door remained stubbornly shut. The faint runes etched along its frame suggested that it was sealed with magic far older than anything she’d encountered before. She made a note to return to it later.
Hours passed, and exhaustion began to settle over Hermione like a weight. She had explored dozens of rooms, uncovering little of immediate significance beyond the rather exciting discovery of the hidden study and Tom’s unnerving portrait. Her boots left faint trails in the dust as she retraced her steps, her path inevitably drifting back to the study.
“You’re still here,” Tom observed as she re-entered. There was a faint edge of relief in his tone.
Hermione looked up sharply, startled by his voice cutting through the silence. “Of course I’m still here. There’s a lot to do.”
“There’s always a lot to do,” he said, his tone almost wistful, like he was reminiscing on days long past. “But surely even you need rest.”
She frowned, glancing at her watch. She hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. Her shoulders ached, and a dull throb pulsed at her temples. “I had no plans tonight. I’ll rest when I’m finished.”
“You’re relentless,” he said, the faintest note of admiration in his voice. “It’s commendable, really. But you can’t shoulder everything alone.”
“I’m not alone,” Hermione replied automatically, though even as the words left her lips, she realized how hollow they sounded. The Ministry had sent her here alone. And now, standing in this cold, empty house with only the portrait for company, she couldn’t deny the pang of isolation creeping into her chest.
The painting seemed to sense it. “Perhaps not,” he said quietly, his voice softening. “But I imagine it feels that way.”
She moved around the desk again, her eyes drifting over the now-empty bookshelves. He was right, but she’d never admit it. The air in the study felt warmer than the rest of the manor, as if the crackling fire in the hearth was trying its best to hold the creeping chill at bay.
“I want to take you with me to the Ministry,” she said abruptly, changing the subject.
Tom’s painted expression shifted subtly, his eyes hardening with something unreadable. They seemed darker, pulling, yet his smile remained as placid as ever. “You can’t.”
Hermione bristled, indignation flickering to life. “I will. It is my job.”
“You misunderstand me,” he said smoothly. “You can’t because I am bound to this house. I cannot be removed.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes and drew her wand as she approached the portrait, noting the steep drop in temperature as she drew near. Tom’s gaze followed her, sharp and calculating, yet his expression remained frustratingly calm. She searched his face for any sign of duplicity, but his features betrayed nothing. As she cast a diagnostic spell, the answer became clear: there was a complex binding enchantment woven into the very frame of the painting, its magic ancient and unyielding. The portrait was anchored to the wall, as much a part of the house as its foundation.
Her wand lowered slightly, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Of course you’re bound. Convenient, isn’t it?”
Tom chuckled softly. “Not particularly. Do you think I enjoy being tethered to a crumbling ruin?” He gestured faintly to the room around him. “If I could leave, don’t you think I would have by now?”
Hermione’s lips thinned as her mind raced. The enchantment was intricate, layered with magic she hadn’t encountered before. Removing the portrait without unraveling the spell would likely destroy it—and whatever knowledge it contained.
Maybe I can take the whole wall with me, she thought, though the idea seemed absurd even as it crossed her mind. There had to be a way to break the enchantment. If anyone could figure it out, it was her.
Her thoughts turned to the ciphered book she had found earlier. Could it hold the key? Or perhaps the mysterious locked door she had encountered in one of the upper corridors? Both seemed tied to the manor’s secrets, and she had a nagging feeling that they were far from the only mysteries this place harbored.
“You’re thinking,” Tom said lightly, his voice interrupting her thoughts. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re clever, Miss Granger. You’ll find a way—if you don’t exhaust yourself first.”
She ignored him, slipping her wand back into her pocket. “If you’re truly as eager to leave as you claim, you won’t get in my way.”
Tom’s smile widened, but there was something unsettling in the ease of it. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
Somehow, the offer didn’t reassure her.