The sensation of falling was beyond wretched. When it came to broom-riding, one of her biggest fears was that she'd fall and plummet to her death. Everyone liked to describe the sensation of falling as butterflies in their stomach, but to her, she imagined the sensation was like a black hole, a collapsing vacuum.
But this was all in her head. Out in the real world, she was fully grounded. Her panic subsided. She knew she could handle this.
It was like magic. Her descent into oblivion didn't result in excruciating pain and broken limbs. It was as if one moment, she was falling, and the next, she was sitting safely on the cold ground.
Opening her eyes, she realized she was in the middle of a hallway. Portraits and dimly lit lamps adorned the walls. She climbed to her feet and started walking down the hall full of closed doors. A feeling of dread slowly crawled up her spine when she realized that the faces depicted in the portraits have all been crudely scratched out. She briefly noted that they were otherwise normal portraits — that is to say, unmoving. The people in them wore elegant, old-fashioned attire, but were distinctly muggle.
With her hand clasped tightly around her wand, she moved slowly, her footfall muted. She pressed her ear close against every door before carefully trying the door handle. Most were locked, until she came upon one with double doors.
She had no idea what she was expecting to find, but she was in an unfamiliar place and determined to explore the world the Horcrux had sucked her into. Turning the door handle, she was surprised that it granted her access.
Even before she could see inside, she knew what kind of room she had stepped into.
The exquisite smell of leather and old books assaulted her senses.
A fireplace roared to life as the lamps lining the walls dimly lit up the large room. Additional light suddenly flashed through the room, and that was when she noticed the large window on the opposite side. It was late at night, and a storm was raging. She looked out the window at the tall tree swaying and trembling in the rain and wind, casting moving shadows into the room.
Unable to help herself, she took a few hesitant steps into the room, and slowly spun around in a circle, immediately taking in the dark wooden bookshelves lining every wall of the room.
Click.
She whirled around and stared at the closed door, which had shut gently on its own. In a panic, she rushed up to it and yanked the door handle. Locked.
How peculiar.
She pointed her wand at it and attempted a succession of progressively more powerful unlocking spells, but they all bounced off.
She wasn't about to panic just yet. It was as if the Diadem had granted her a wish instead.
Hermione was precisely the kind of girl who fantasized about being trapped in a library. This was fine. All was well. There was nothing to fear.
One of her greatest pleasures was having the privilege to browse leisurely among books. Just being next to them, touching their spines, marveling at the different colors, textures, and sizes always brought her a moment of serenity. The smell of books was always one of the most comforting things she could imagine. When she said she smelled parchment in her Amortentia as a student, she recognized what she really smelled was old books, and how on a deeply magical and chemical level, they drew her in.
Her heart constricted with both envy and avarice as she breathed deeply. Whoever was the owner of this library had impeccable taste. The warm, comforting glow from the fireplace, with the sound of the rain against the glass of the window, made the room longingly cozy.
Was this Rowena Ravenclaw's personal library? It wasn't quite what she had imagined, but it was beautiful all the same.
Knowing that the owner of this library shared her reverence for books made her feel very close to them.
Hermione always dreamed of having her own library someday, when she was established and content with her life. Her very own personal collection to reflect the type of reader she was, with books she can revisit time and time again. She had a modest collection in her old flat in her timeline, with the rarer texts in her trusty beaded bag, but the collection was paltry compared to this one.
Even though she was aware that she was in some type of pocket dimension and didn't fully exist in the manner that she was used to, everything appeared to be highly realistic.
Hermione took her time walking around the room, noting the desk in front of the window, complete with a beautiful vintage globe, a giant hourglass, and numerous inkpots and quills. In the corner sat a luxurious Wingback armchair upholstered in a green velvet so dark, it was almost black. Next to the armchair stood a small table stacked with books.
Wondering if the books here were real in this strange dimension, she walked up to a shelf, and scanned the titles.
Eyes widening, she realized all the titles she could see, from top to bottom, linked to the Dark Arts in some way — books on Necromancy, Mysticism, Black Magic, Blood Magic, Dark Creatures, Poisons, Destructive Magic…the subjects were endless.
She pulled out a random book and gently flipped through the pages. They were indeed real books, full of text. But that couldn't be right. Rowena Ravenclaw didn't dabble in the Dark Arts, did she?
Hermione continued to look through the titles, and realized that she recognized a number of them.
They were books that he had given her to study.
Everything made sense now. The effaced muggle portraits, the numerous titles on the Dark Arts, the way the fireplace and lamps lit magically when she entered even though the house was clearly muggle in origin, and the blackest green of the armchair — this was...
Hermione went completely still.
Through the silence, punctured only by the rain and thunder, music had begun to play. The sound of a piano floated in from outside the door, from another room nearby in the house.
Stepping closer to the door, her eyes drifted shut. A dark edge accompanied every exquisite note. The song held so much torment and passion, it was impossible to resist. It was performed in such a way that compelled her to feel the percussive strikes in her very heart as the pianist continued to play without inhibition — vivacity tinged with heartache. But there were moments where it was soft, slow, and melancholic, as if it flowed directly from the performer's fingertips.
Her hand instinctively clenched into a fist, and she pressed it against her heart. Her lips parted as she exhaled, and heat seared her eyes.
If what she suspected was true, then it was difficult for her to wrap her thoughts around the image of someone so cold and callous playing the piano with such excruciating passion.
Tom Riddle.
This was Tom Riddle's library. Tom Riddle's residence. The one that belonged to the affluent muggle father he despised and murdered.
He was here. At least, a fraction of his soul was. That was unsurprising, of course. She had just gotten momentarily distracted, but what else could she have done? She didn't know how to leave. How much time had elapsed out in the real world since she arrived here?
How was he able to create this place? Was it the same as the Chamber of Secrets in Tom Riddle's Diary Horcrux?
Hermione stared warily at the door. As long as the music continued to play, she was safe. Even he couldn't be in two places at once.
And even if he came, she knew she could deal with him. She'd spent the better part of her life battling Voldemort. More so now, because she knew him. She even knew what his genuine smile, directed at her, looked like. Tom Riddle from the past, who was likely in his twenties or thirties, will be easy in comparison.
There was nothing to fear.
More than anything, this was an opportunity.
Hermione immediately stalked to the bookshelves and quickly skimmed the titles. There was something she specifically needed. Quickly pulling out books on defensive magic, she flipped through them swiftly, but delicately, as some were extremely aged and fragile.
She opened and glanced through a book titled Arcane Shield Magicks. Then she came to a halt. When she found what she was looking for, she grinned.
On the page was a sketch of an enormous, swirling ball of magic.
The Singularity.
Voldemort never provided her with the text. It had bothered her ever since — failing at something, especially when she had tried so hard to succeed. It was a fault of her character — she knew this, but she couldn't let it go. She was aware she had other priorities, but this was important to her.
The successful casting of the spell must have required background knowledge. The last time he showed her how to cast the spell, she wasn't able to, because something was lacking. She had initially assumed it was because she was mentally and magically drained after he forced her to experience his wretched spell. But subsequent attempts in her own room at Hogwarts also yielded zero results. He had withheld critical information from her.
With the book clutched tightly in her hand, she strode to the desk, and sat down on the elegant wooden chair. She quickly read through the chapter. There was a special state of mind she had to place herself in before the spell could take hold. Even with the correct wand movements and incantation, the spell would never take effect without it. She'd have to test it somewhere else. There was no way she could know how a potential large burst of magic would manifest in this strange setting.
Her eyes darted to the door, and she listened intently for the sounds of the piano. Above all, she didn't want a burst of magical energy bringing Riddle to the door.
Interestingly enough, she wasn't sure if it was because time moved differently here, but she believed she absorbed the knowledge more efficiently.
Hermione prided herself on being a skilled and fast reader, but this was unusual even for her. The way her eyes flew across the text, the ease with which she could analyze and sort the information in her head, suggested that perhaps this was the boost from the magic of Rowena's Diadem.
She returned the book to its proper place on its shelf. As she moved along, looking at the titles above eye level, one unmarked book caught her eye. It was a slim, leather-bound journal, tinted blood-red. Tiny, faded letters at the bottom of the cover spelled out the word Resurrection. The book felt different from the others. Extremely dark.
She cast a few diagnostic spells to determine if it was safe for her to read, and proceeded to open the text once she deemed it so.
Hermione couldn't believe her luck. It was a book on Horcruxes. But not on what a Horcrux was or how to create one.
Instead, it detailed how to resurrect someone if the physical body had been killed and a Horcrux existed.
After reading and memorizing the method, she realized it was a different method from what Voldemort in her time used to come back to life. His resurrection didn't directly involve any Horcruxes — only a sinister ritual and potion. This method required the physical presence of any and all Hocruxes made, and the destruction of at least one physical Horcrux, allowing the soul to be released to aid in the formation of a new body.
She found it intriguing that the book's unknown author didn't exclude the possibility that more than one Horcrux had been made. Perhaps they had a better understanding of the malevolent, greedy hearts of ambitious dark wizards. The method was intricate and grisly. But she wondered why Voldemort didn't try this method instead, as it seemed more straightforward than the one he ended up utilizing.
Perhaps he didn't want to lose even a single Horcrux?
She tucked this information away for later. Now wasn't the time, but a plan was taking shape in her mind.
Hermione returned the book and stepped back for a moment.
Perhaps in this library, she will find the answer to her time-traveling problem. A library like this was more likely to have information on her dark artifact — an object that utilized wicked soul magic to become active.
She took a moment to listen to the music of the piano again, reassured that he wasn't going to disturb her any time soon.
Hermione couldn't stop herself from imagining Riddle's elegant, long fingers moving over the keys of the piano. Every time she concentrated on the sounds, it was overwhelming, and unbearably lovely.
She walked to the corner where the ladder stood, and climbed it. She'll begin from here. She didn't want to overlook anything potentially helpful.
When she reached the top, she stared, perplexed, at the collection of books in front of her.
The books in the upper corner of the room had nothing to do with magic. It was a small section, but critical.
There were books on philosophy and many of the great classics. Some were not even translated into English, and appeared in the original Russian, German, and French languages.
Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Camus, Gide, Wittgenstein, Kafka, and numerous works from Nietzsche.
Perhaps these books belonged to Tom Riddle Sr., and Voldemort decided to keep them? Why else were they relegated to this nearly inaccessible nook?
Hermione just never imagined Voldemort diving deep into the works of muggle philosophers. Shaking her head gently, she continued onto the next few shelves and gathered books on soul magic, and carried them over to the armchair. She placed her modest stack next to the existing one, and sat down.
The fireplace crackled. The window rattled from the heavy wind as thunder rumbled forth.
The book at the top of the existing stack caught her attention. It was Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil, and it was translated into English.
Unbearably curious, she took the book in hand, and opened it. A plain, green woven silk bookmark allowed it to open to a specific page full of aphorisms.
Her gaze was drawn to two of the ones in the middle of the page, one after the other.
152
"Paradise is wherever the tree of knowledge stands": that is what the oldest and youngest serpents say.
153
Whatever is done out of love takes place beyond good and evil.
Hermione blinked.
The music had come to an end. There was nothing but silence save for the pounding storm outside. Wand gripped tightly, she fixed her gaze on the door. Immediately, she sprang out of the chair and quickly returned all the books she had collected into their proper places.
She glanced around the library, silently cursing at the dim lighting that must be streaming out from under the door into the dark hallway. More than anything, she wished she had Ron's Deluminator with her, but it was in her beaded bag in her room.
Methodical, foreboding footsteps creaked closer and closer to the door to the library.
The steps had come to a halt, right outside the door.
The door handle started to turn.
She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated intently on the Room of Hidden Things. She was wrong. She wasn't prepared for him at all. Will she ever be?
Return. Return. Return.
Then she was falling into darkness, but this time, it felt like ascension.
Hermione found herself on the cold ground again, back in the Room of Hidden Things. She instantly cast a spell to check the time and relief flooded her. Almost no time had passed at all here in the real world, when she was sure she had been gone for hours.
But now she realized that she didn't have much of a choice. She had to go back and try to get answers to her little time-traveling conundrum.
Hermione would prefer to avoid it if possible, but if she must meet Diadem Riddle for the sake of knowledge, she will.
A/N: I hope you all imagined a cruelly beautiful Tom Riddle playing the piano with his long pianist fingers. Hope you guys enjoyed it. Thanks for reading!