It was a day like any other for the second years. Hermione had just left the common room to look for Harry and Ron, and now the three of them were headed for history of magic class.
"Do you know to whom this belongs?" Hermione asked suddenly. After thumbing briefly through her satchel, she produced a notebook.
"Blimey, Hermione!" muttered Ron upon seeing it. "I thought you'd have found something more interesting! Like my missing chess set, for instance."
Hermione huffed. "Sorry to disappoint, Ronald!" she snipped. "But whoever dropped their notebook should be blamed for not putting more of an effort into your personal entertainment!"
"She's right, you know," said Harry, grinning. "I recon the owner will be looking for it."
"Let me see." Ron took the book for closer examination. "The owner being… T. M. Riddle." He frowned to himself. "Never heard of the bloke. Is he really a gryffindor?"
"Let me take another look," said Hermione impatiently, snatching the notebook back from Ron.
Indeed, engraved in a golden lettering at the front cover, the letters T. M. Riddle stood out clearly. Hermione brushed her hand over the black leather. She loved the smell of old books, and this one clearly fell into that category.
"What are you sniffing it for?" Ron asked bemusedly. "Trying to catch the owner's trail?"
Blushing, Hermione swatted him on the shoulder. "I just like the smell!" she defended cagily.
"Right…" Ron and Harry chorused, exchanging one of those looks that said clearly they'd never understand her.
Hermione, on her part, huffed, feeling the need to switch topics. "Let's go, you two, or we'll be late to history of magic."
"What a tragedy," she heard Harry mutter. Hermione shot him a look, but neither of the boys seemed concerned about cutting a few minutes of the class. Fine. Well Hermione could fend for her own, thanks.
"You really think Bins would notice?" Ron called after her. But she had already stormed off.
Indeed, Bins did not notice when she stalked into the classroom a minute later. However, he was already mid-lecture, and Hermione worriedly realized that until she managed to find her writing supplies, the statistics he was droning on about regarding witch-hunts across Europe and their cultural differences would have left her head.
Viciously, Hermione brandished a pen she'd stashed behind her ear for emergency notes and grabbed the first thing on hand. That is, T. M. Riddle's notebook. She opened it at a random page and began scribbling the statistics she was keeping in her short-term memory at a furious pace. Just to be safe, she added adjacent notes about her thoughts and conclusions at the margins, which by now she had learned Profesor Bins never provided.
But suddenly, the impossible happened. Hermione's breath stopped. The ink was vanishing! Her precious notes! Gone!
As if that weren't unnerving enough, an annoyingly pretentious script with ostentatious capitals appeared instead.
Please refrain from tearing the pages apart.
Hermione stared at the book open-mouthed. A talking book. Impossible. Suddenly she realized that this must be a prank someone was trying to pull on her.
The insolence…!
Whoever you are, Hermione replied briskly (her writing as scratchy as before), I will report you to Profesor Bins right this instant. I don't have time for your pranks. She had half a mind of adding "Fred and George Weasley" but decided not to jump the gun. Yet. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.
I assume you can read, replied the book testily.
Hermione didn't let it finish. Of course I can. The other girls in my dormitory sometimes even complain because of all the books I levitate over their heads.
Didn't anyone comprehend the concept of space management? The book ignored her comment.
Then you should know already that my name is stated in the cover of this jornal. A journal, which I can assure you, is most definitely not a "prank".
Hermione pursed her lips.
Geendlingh the eager, 1598, she added quickly. This was a name she absolutely had to recall about the witch hunts. And don't erase that.
The book took a moment to reply. As you wish, it said finally.
Hermione kept taking notes, but used a brief pause to add "thanks" underlined. She felt a little rude now, but the fool was the one who tried to interfere with her studies.
When class was over, Hermione excitedly showed Harry and Ron the talking book.
"No way!" said Ron. "Are you serious?"
Harry was looking at it curiously too, but surprisingly, it was Ron who cautioned them against it.
"Do you reckon it's safe?" he asked. "Dad always says to watch out about objects who can think on their own. 'If you can't see its brain, stay away from it' he always says."
Hermione frowned, and even Harry looked worried.
"I just took some notes in it," said Hermione worriedly. "You don't think I'm cursed now, do you?"
Both looked at her with frowns.
"You seem fine," muttered Harry.
"I dunno," said Ron, looking unsure. "Maybe we should go to the hospital wing, just to check."
Hermione nodded. "Yeah, let's. It's better to be safe than sorry."
It was the former, apparently, for Madam Pomfrey assured them she was in perfect health.
"You think the book is safe, then?" muttered Ron eagerly. "I really want to ask this bloke some questions." And he snatched a quill to do just that.
Hermione, however, held him back.
"Wait, Ron!" she cautioned. "Let me write. It's best – in case this is really a dark object – that only one of us gets into direct contact with it."
Ron looked like he was about to argue, but eventually acquiesced.
"Right. Can you ask it what's it like to be a book?"
Curiously, Hermione went to the first page of the journal, which was blank.
What's it like to be a book? she wrote finally.
Like the first time, the ink vanished without a trace.
Who says I'm a book? came the reply.
"Ask him what he is," Harry urged.
Do enlighten me, Hermione wrote.
Ron laughed. "Do you write like that in your essays?"
Hermione blushed. She did like to sound academic when she wrote essays, but it somehow felt different when talking – even if it was to a book.
I'm a person, said the book. A person inside a book. I was a student here, just like you.
Hermione couldn't resist to ask: Who – no, how were you made? Is someone controlling you? Protean charm? She would've kept theorizing if the previously written ink hadn't vanished, as if to say: stop right there. The book replied:
Why, I made myself of course. Hence why, no; no one is controlling me. Similarly, no protean charms are involved. What year are you, if I may ask? I'm supposing sixth or above since you know about protean charms.
Hermione grinned. Score!
"Blimey, Hermione!" Ron exclaimed. "I didn't know you were that up ahead!"
"Hey," said Harry. "Let's tell him you're a sixth year. It's best if he doesn't know who you are in case the book is cursed after all."
Before Hermione could get a word in edgewise, Ron exclaimed at the idea. "Sounds interesting, mate! You reckon we could pass her off as Percy?" Both snickered. "Tell him you're Perce, 'mione!"
Grumpily, Hermione had to agree that the idea wasn't without its merit – specially because Percy was the only sixth year that they knew and also had a tendency of talking academically.
Indeed, I'm a sixth year, Hermione wrote pompously, in order to keep up with the charade. Percy, to my close acquaintances.
Harry and Ron giggled. Madam Pince shot them a poisonous look.
Curious, said the diary. I'd have pegged you a girl. Didn't you say so earlier?
Hermione nearly froze. Ron and Harry stared at her in alarm.
"You told him you're a girl?" Ron hissed. "That's half of the school population discarded!"
"I said something about the girls in my dorm," Hermione recalled with horror. She could've facepalmed.
"Say Percy's a nickname!" Harry suggested.
It's a nickname.
Is that so? I could've sworn Percy was an abbreviation for Percival, which is male.
Hermione gritted her teeth. No. It stands for Persephone. It was seriously the only female name she could think of.
Harry and Ron looked at her oddly.
"Isn't that some kind of Greek goddess?" Harry ventured.
Hermione nodded. "Yeah. From the underworld. Kind of unfortunate name choice."
The two others laughed. "Who names their kid like that?" Ron asked. "You think this Riddle bloke will swallow it?"
Whether he did or not, Riddle didn't inquire further.
A pleasure to meet you then, Persephone.
Hermione picked up the quill again. You too, she wrote dubiously. Riddle, correct?
Yes. I happen to be a sixth year as well, on that note.
Hermione frowned. A sixth year is able to make a book like this? Somehow she doubted it.
I didn't say 'every' sixth year. The curriculum may also have changed since I studied here.
Hermione frowned to herself. Something told her that this Riddle was no slouch at academics. Something also told her that she should heed Ron's warning. What she hadn't realized, however, was that she'd completely forgotten her intentions to look for the book's previous owner. What she hadn't realized was that there might be another reason why she hadn't let Ron touch the book. What she hadn't realized, was that she was in deep trouble.
A/N
Alors? I'm trying to decide whether to continue this or not? I was thinking of either making Hermione temporarily buy into Tom's act with Harry and Ron saving her at the end or making it a spin off which would end with a darker Hermione. Hence, Persephone.
Opinions?