Chapter Text
The click of Hermione’s heels echoed through the polished stone corridor of Level 10 from deep within the Ministry. The sound bounced off the walls, announcing her arrival like a metronome counting down to… well, an execution. Her grip tightened around the case files she was clutching to her chest as she passed the regular courtrooms, continuing briskly toward the holding cells. She pretended not to notice the mixture of pity and morbid curiosity in her colleagues’ expressions.
Why would the Wizengamot send Hermione Granger for this ?
Why would she agree ?
The brightest witch of her age, indeed .
Perhaps she shouldn’t have volunteered for something no other student would even think about subjecting themselves to. But she liked to think that she had something to offer the wizarding world when it came to magical law—that the rules designed for witches and wizards to live by could use the input from someone like her. So when she returned to Hogwarts only months after the dust had settled from the battle, she tucked away her love of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes and selected a specialization that would allow her to make a difference.
Her eighth year at Hogwarts was a strange amalgamation of abbreviated seventh-year subjects, career training and counseling, and working on interhouse unity by rebuilding the castle. Most Slytherins did not return. The sons remained home and took over running their family businesses for their imprisoned fathers. The daughters were married off. There were more Ravenclaws returning than any other house, because unfettered access to the Hogwarts library, which had miraculously not suffered much damage, wasn’t something they were ready to give up. And then there were a handful of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.
Harry and Ron had decidedly not returned. They had Auror jobs lined up and waiting for them, and for a couple months, everything was fine. Hermione attended classes, while the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio began training. They met on Fridays at the Leaky Cauldron and talked about… well, that was the crux of the problem. They didn’t really have much to talk about anymore. Not as a trio, anyway. Hermione had always felt out of place in life, and as her boys grew closer and closer as they began to build their lives and careers, she felt like she was doing nothing but orbiting around them.
She started making excuses as to why she couldn’t make it to the Leaky anymore. Neither Harry nor Ron tried very hard to convince her to come.
She tried to bury that thought, but it was persistent. It had been at least half a year since she had seen either of them, even though her work-study assignments from the Wizengamot had her at the Ministry three to four times a week. Six months since she had seen Harry or Ron, and ten months since the Battle of Hogwarts. Less than a year from when Harry had literally died, only to choose to return from that liminal space between life and death to finally be able to kill Voldemort.
Only, nothing had gone according to plan.
By some dark twist in the magic that no one saw coming, Voldemort didn’t die. Everyone had assumed as much. His body had crumpled and he collapsed where he stood, which led the Death Eaters to turn tail and flee.
Hagrid had then slowly approached the still form of the Dark Lord, trembling as he used his foot to turn the body over. Then he stumbled backward so violently he nearly fell, a raspy cry escaping his throat.
In Voldemort’s place lay a boy. He was no longer the serpentine monster his horcruxes had turned him into, but the young, dark, and brilliant boy who had yet to make any horcruxes at all. A sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle.
She slowed to a stop before entering the hall and took a deep breath.
The hallway stretched endlessly before her, lit only by flickering sconces that cast erratic shadows along the stone walls. It was unnaturally silent, which Hermione found odd, because she knew for a fact that every single cell was occupied. In the distance, someone was leaning against their bars, arms hanging into the corridor, hands clasped tightly.
She approached those pale, thin arms and stopped, turning her head slightly to the prisoner they belonged to. He raised an eyebrow at her, his mouth twisted into the haughty sneer she knew so well.
“Malfoy,” she nodded toward him in greeting.
“Granger.”
He scoffed at what must have been a look of concern crossing her face. “Don’t look too upset. Mother has already delivered the news that I’m to be freed. Thanks entirely to your testimony. It wasn’t all for nothing, so… thanks for that.”
She was quiet for almost an entire minute before she answered. “Of course, Malfoy. You don’t deserve to be held responsible for the crimes of your—”
“Father, right. I know.” He pulled his arms back and ran a hand through his dirty hair.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For the manor. I haven’t gotten a chance to say it properly, to your face.”
His already pale complexion turned ashen. “I… don’t think I deserve thanks for that.” His eyes flicked down to where her blouse covered her forearm. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”
Without looking away, she slowly shook her head. “I meant what I said at your trial. Without your hesitation. Without you pretending not to know us, it all would have ended that night. We would have lost.” She held out her hand to him, and he slowly reached forward. Squeezing his hand through the bars, she swallowed thickly. “Thank you for giving us the chance we needed. It could be argued that you, and your mother by the way, won the war as much as we did.”
Draco Malfoy seemed unable to respond. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and his mouth pulled into a grimace. He returned the slight pressure she was applying to his hand, then pulled it away and slipped backward into the darkness of his cell. She was about to keep walking, but Draco cleared his throat.
“I know what you’re doing here. Who you’re going to see.”
Hermione toed the stone floor, bracing herself for another onslaught of judgement.
“You’re too much for this world, Granger. Not sure any of us deserve you.”
“Someone has to stand for what’s right. What’s fair.” She said it mechanically, just as she had dozens of other times before.
The hinges of Draco’s cot groaned as he sat down, lowering his face to his hands. “Will it always have to be you?”
“That remains to be seen, Draco. I’ll let you know.”
Hermione continued down the corridor. The temperature seemed to drop with each step, and as she approached the last cell on the right, she fought the urge to cast a warming charm.
She had prepared herself for many things when she volunteered to be acting junior counsel to Tom Riddle. Either a broken shell of someone who had tried to take everything and failed spectacularly, or perhaps a raging madman.
She had not prepared for the hauntingly beautiful young man before her.
He was sitting perfectly still on the edge of his cot. Even in the dim light, she could make out his high cheekbones, his strong jaw, and his perfectly formed lips. At her appearance, his head turned slightly toward her, a half smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He said nothing, only raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for her to speak.
“Hello, Mr. Riddle.”
Still, he said nothing. He only looked at her, his eyes so dark Hermione would have sworn they were black. She kept herself from fidgeting as those dark eyes studied her with such intensity that it felt like a physical touch. She swallowed.
Something in his posture shifted as he rose. He took careful, deliberate steps toward her, each movement measured and purposeful. He moved with a powerful grace that someone so young shouldn’t have.
He stood in front of her, separated only by the cell bars. Even though he was three years younger, he was several inches taller than her, and he seemed to enjoy watching her crane her neck to look up at him.
“Hello,” he said softly. “What’s your name?”
Hermione’s brows snapped together. “My name? Y-you know my name, Mr. Riddle.”
He tilted his head at her, his half smile growing wider. “I assure you, I do not.” There was something playful in his gaze and Hermioned felt breathless for a moment. “Oh. They didn’t tell you before they sent you down into this…” He moved his head back and forth slightly, like he was casting around for the right word. “Snake pit?”
“Tell me what?”
“Figures.” He stepped closer and leaned forward slightly. He cupped his hand to the side of his mouth like he was going to tell her a secret, then, in a stage whisper, said, “Between you and me, I don’t think they believe me.”
“Believe you in regards to what ?”
He straightened back to his full height and looked down at her, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t know exactly why I’m in here,” he said, his voice carrying the refined cadence of someone well-educated. “I’ve been called some rather interesting names as well. Very rude names.”
His smile seemed less amused now and more cold. “I’ve also had some, er, questionable things done to me while being held here. Veritaserum, Legilimency attempts, various other… interrogation techniques.” He paused, his bottomless eyes studying her face. “But I’m afraid that, unfortunately, I do not remember doing any of the things I’ve allegedly done to warrant such treatment.”
Hermione had in fact been told that Riddle claimed to know nothing, it was really the only thing that had drawn her interest when cases were being presented for them to volunteer on. But pulling the information out of him was something she needed to do. She needed to understand how he felt about being thrust into a world he didn’t know. She pursed her lips as she thought that his words—what he said—would have been convincing, but Hermione could swear there was a cool, calculating intelligence behind his eyes. There was something almost performative about what he was saying, as though he were testing how she would respond to such a claim.
“The last clear memory I have,” he continued, his voice dropping to something softer, more intimate, “is…writing in my diary. Then, nothing. Waking up in this cell and hosting a revolving door of people demanding answers for crimes I know nothing of.”
Hermione forced herself to breathe normally as she considered what he said. Obviously, he was not to be trusted. Tom Riddle has always been a master at manipulating people to get what he wanted, even as a young boy. But … wouldn’t that make sense?
There was undeniably strange magic at work when he fell in battle. Magic unlike anything she’d ever read about or researched. If he wasn’t killed outright by Harry’s attack, if the destruction of the Horcruxes had somehow unraveled the dark magic that had sustained him, couldn’t he have been… reverted back to what he was? Almost like Harry had been when he chose to not cross over and return to life?
The possibility sent a chill through Hermione’s entire body that had nothing to do with the temperature of the corridor. If Tom Riddle truly didn’t remember his decades as Voldemort, if he was genuinely the sixteen-year-old boy he appeared to be, then what did that mean for justice? For the wizarding world’s desperate need for closure?
Hermione studied his face, searching for any trace of deception. She found a charming smile, a patient expression, but also… there . Just a flicker of vulnerability behind his eyes.
“Hmm. Okay, Mr. Riddle. You don’t remember anything you’ve done to find yourself in this cell?”
Triumph flashed in his expression and he shook his head. “No, Miss…?”
“Granger.”
“Miss Granger, then. No, not a thing.”
“Nothing at all after you… simply wrote in your diary?”
He shook his head solemnly and slowly, tilting his face down and looking at her through thick, dark lashes.
She shuffled back a step and drew in a steadying breath. “Right, then.” She made a show of flipping through the case file she still held. “Tell me everything you know about Myrtle Warren.”
The change in him was immediate but subtle—a barely perceptible shift in his expression, like a mask sliding into place. The surprise that flickered across his features was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Myrtle Warren,” he repeated slowly, drawing out the name. That cold, calculating look returned to his eyes. “Should I know that name?”
But Hermione had been watching him carefully, and she was certain she’d caught it: recognition.
“Well, Mr. Riddle, she was a student at Hogwarts,” Hermione said carefully, watching his reaction. “A Ravenclaw. She died.”
“How tragic,” he said, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “A Ravenclaw, you say?”
Hermione nodded. “Yes, a Ravenclaw. A muggleborn. She was murdered back in 1943.”
He furrowed his brows at the way she emphasized the year, and she could practically see the realization creeping up on him.
“1943,” she repeated, slower this time. “Over fifty years ago.”
His mouth dropped open and he paled. The charming, controlled mask he’d been wearing cracked completely, replaced by the most genuine expression she had seen on him since arriving - a look of utter confusion and dawning horror.