It was on Saturday midafternoon that Tom had found himself facing a rather handsome manor house, which was a few yards away. With his least favorite Hogwarts professor at his side. No doubt this was an estate owned by some Lord or any other person with a title. Maybe Hermione had lived in such a house, for she never elaborated how well off her family was.

Perhaps a bit too well off, he thinks. Either this was a result of Dumbledore's snooping and fishing for answers where he shouldn't be or Hermione interfering by writing to her family about it; deep down, he resented this decision. Tom had only accepted the offer to visit this family as to feel them out. To give himself more reason why he'd want nothing to do with them apart from his father's selfish decision to leave his mother and not check up on his existence.

After this, he had hoped to be rid of them. To want nothing to do with them as they had wanted to do with him. He and Professor Dumbledore had walked up the drive to a set of double doors. Of which Dumbledore knocked on the door using one of the huge brass knockers.

"Now, follow my cue," he had said. "Do you still want to do this, Tom? You may change your mind if you like?"

Tom had shaken his head. It was pretty rich for Dumbledore to ask him when they were here. When they were at the front doors. Which at the moment were opened and were greeted by what appeared to be a maid that had to be a decade older than Mrs. Cole.

"May I help you?" she had asked coldly before her eyes drifted to Tom. After which, her eyes widened, and her face paled. Almost as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"I apologize for the unannounced visit," Professor Dumbledore apologized. "I was wondering if Sir Riddle is home."

The woman paused, and Tom wondered if she was considering slamming the door on their faces when she glanced at him again. "Alright," she said softly, opening the door wider to gain them entry. Tom takes in the gilded, wood-paneled walls as the door closes behind them. He thought he could hear a couple children laughing in another room.

"Sir Riddle is in the drawing-room with the older head of house and his wife," their host puts sternly before gazing at him. "And about the…."

"Right now, I must speak with Sir Riddle and his family alone," he said before gazing at Tom. Smiling as he continued. "I'll send for him when I'm ready."

"Alright." The maid softens as she gazes at Tom. "The parlor is the next door down to your left. Yes, that's right, dear."

He had only been here once, and one of the help had seemed to take a liking to him over his professor. Tom could say that Mrs. Cole wasn't here to recite any disparaging tales, though it would just be his luck if Professor Dumbledore ruined it all with the stories that Mrs. Cole no doubted passed to him.

Stepping into the parlor, Tom had stopped in his tracks at the sight before him. He even had to shake his head before realizing that he was not hallucinating seeing marbles levitating in the air. A girl with golden, reddish curls beaming at the sight of the levitating marbles, while a boy with brown hair a few shades lighter is giggling at the floating marbles. The former being probably a couple years younger than him, and the boy possibly being six.

"Which of you is doing that?" he couldn't help but ask.

His question alerted them to his presence. The marbles dropped as soon as they both made eye contact with him. Both of their eyes widened in surprise at the sight of an intruder in their home.

"How did you get in here?" the girl had asked him as the boy gaped at him stupidly. Reminding him of Dennis Bishop when he was too dim to see what was in front of him.

Stupid little boy, Tom thinks.

"I was sent in here," Tom answers as he goes over to the sofa. Plopping down on the nearest chair. "What trick was that? Was it like magic?"

Is one of them like me? Tom thinks. Hermione's family never had wizards and witches, but Hermione had become a witch anyway. Perhaps there was a witch or wizard in their family tree somewhere. It would only make sense.

"Why not give me a quid, first?" the little girl had asked, her voice lofty.

"Why should I give you money?" he had asked. "I don't have a coin on me."

"Maybe I should give you one, just so you can pay me back," she retorts, beaming infuriatingly. "What's your name anyway?"

"If I said my name was Tom Riddle, you might think I'm lying," he answers as he sees the maid from before opening the parlor door a crack. This time with another maid who was older than she. The latter's eyes widened as she gazed at him.

"Oh, how he did look like the young master when he was that age," he could hear her saying. Who? Maybe his father, because he had heard that it's what his mother wished for. That she was no beauty.

"That's my name!" pipes up the little boy in the room.

"We call you 'Tommy,' Thomas!" the girl exclaimed.

"Grandma calls me 'Tom' sometimes, Louisa," he insists.

So, this boy's name was also Tom. Except his full first name was Thomas, whereas he himself was just Tom. Depending on what was going to happen after this visit, he would do something with him. There can't be two Tom Riddles after his pitiful father.

Finally, Louisa looks towards the door, where three maids – the one who greeted him at the door now absent – were now standing there. Gazing at him as if he was the most recent attraction of the Zoological Society Zoo. "Constance, Beth, and Rita are staring at you," she said.

"Perhaps it has to do with the fact that I share the same name as your brother," he said.

"Or perhaps it was because you look so much like the Earl's son when he was that age," said the first maid as she strode in holding a silver tray that was carrying glasses of milk and plates that contained what looked like jam sandwiches. "Would you like something to eat and drink, dear?" he was asked when the tray was offered to him.

Tom gives the maid the same charming smile he gives to all the Hogwarts professors bar Dumbledore as he answers, "Yes, please, thank you," as he takes one of the plates and the cup.

For a half-hour, he stays in the parlor. Having to hear Louisa's questions: where he was all this time if he was related to them and what school he goes to.

"If you're related to us, why didn't daddy go to London and look for you?" she had asked him.

Tom had thought about telling them that their father was a naughty man. How had he left their mummy before they got hitched for his mother. That his father left his mother to die and had no desire to find him. Coming to think of it, maybe it was best not to rock the boat.

At least not yet.

"I suppose that it was because he had a lot on his plate," was the answer that Tom had given as the parlor door opened. That was the appropriate answer for the moment.

"They are ready for you, dear," he's prompted.

Tom wonders what Dumbledore said that made them be even interested in talking to him.

"It was nice speaking with you," Louisa called after him as he followed the maid from the parlor. It took one flight of stairs and a half a corridor to be led to his destination.

"Even if you're right in the head compared to the kooks living just outside the village, it's still insanity, I tell you," he could hear an older man declare. "Insanity."

The maid gives a few taps on the door before a stern, "Come in," was issued from the other side. One of the double doors opens, and she nods to let him know that he can enter. At that point, five pairs of eyes turned to him.

The older couple – who he'd assumed to be his grandparents – gazed with him in disbelief. Their eyes were wide as if someone had come out of a picture. The man who'd he assumes could be his father swallowed. Almost as if he was facing a ravenous lion. The younger woman – his stepmother, no doubt – clasped her hands over her mouth. Dumbledore, on the other hand, smiles at him pleasantly. As if he never seemed to have misgivings towards him

. His stepmother looked both at his father and his grandparents. As if waiting for their input on the matter. At that time, they seemed to get over their apparent shock. His grandmother was smiling at him. "Oh, he does look so much like you when you were at that age, Tom."

"Come over and have a seat, my boy," his grandfather prompted. "No need to be shy."

As Tom obliged, he could see that his father seemed to be debating whether to excuse himself from the room or not. He could see no hatred there, though if there was, his father was doing an excellent job at concealing it.

Just as Tom himself was doing a good job at showing his resentment of these people. Well, maybe his half-sister would be an exception, as she seemed to be like him. To possess magical powers.

The next time Hermione had seen Tom was an hour after he had come back from the Riddles. Tom appeared as if he had finished a dreaded lesson that he had managed to come out unscathed.

"How did it go?" Hermione couldn't help but ask him.

"He resents me, and my stepmother doesn't know what to make of me," was his answer.

"Who resents you? Your father?" Hermione had asked.

"He wouldn't look at me or speak to me unless he had to," he answered. "You would think a ravenous lion had entered the room, the way he looked at me when I entered the drawing-room. He wishes he never met my mother. I know he does."

This visit never endeared him to his father, and Hermione had the feeling that Tom never would like him. Any assurances would have sounded hollow.

"What about your grandparents?" she had asked.

"They seem to adore me in spite of what they think is my insanity," Tom had answered. "I think that Louisa is magical. I saw marbles levitating when I entered the parlor, and she wanted to give me a quid if I wanted to see it happen again. Do you know that my half-brother was also named after my father? Except they call him Tommy."

Hermione raised her eyebrow. She didn't entirely pay attention to see if the same strange things had happened about Louisa like they did her. If they did, Eleanor was good at keeping secrets.

September had passed by, and unfortunately, it concluded with Hitler signing the Munich Agreement to seize the Sudetenland of Czechoslovakia. One of the Gryffindors thought to move their secondary radio to the common room, where they all sat around in apprehension as they listened to the BBC.

"One of my uncles was at Grindlewald's rally in the Lestrange Mausoleum in 1927," one of the older Gryffindors said. "He managed to get out before the skirmish. Said Grindelwald warned that this could happen."

"Sod off, Bertram," said his friend. "You have to be daft to take Gellert's side in this."

"Besides, it's the Muggle's problem and not ours."

"You can say that when the Germans drop a bomb near Diagon Alley," said the first one. "I'm not one to hate Muggles, but one would be an idiot to think that it won't affect us."

Judith was particularly grim that night.

"I have an uncle and aunt who still live in Germany," she had divulged as they prepared for bed. "My aunt didn't want to leave Germany. She thinks she and the family can ride it out. That Hitler will be out of power soon."

The doubt was evident in her tone. Even if Hitler were ousted from power in a few years, there would be no guarantee that her extended family would survive under the regime.

October had greeted them with a chill in the weather, and the leaves were starting to blanket the lawns outside the school. The school's groundskeeper, Reginald Hornbeam, would be seen allocating all the fallen leaves into one pile from outside one of the castle windows.

One Halloween afternoon found the first-year Gryffindors going to Defense Against the Dark Arts class to see a violently shaking trunk in the middle of the classroom.

"To start off with today's lesson, may any of you tell me what a Boggart is?" asked Professor Merrythought.

Remembering what she read in Chapter 3 of Defence, Hermione raises her hand.

"Little show off," she thought she heard Kathleen mutter in apparent disdain. With Gladys appreciatively giggling in response.

"Yes, Miss Granger," addressed Professor Merrythought, pointing towards Hermione.

"It's a shape-shifter," Hermione had answered promptly. "It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most."

"Correct, Miss Granger," said Professor Merrythought with a nod. "Truth be told, your Boggart will not always be the same as you grow older. What you are frightened of the most might in the next few years could be different than what frightens you the most now. Take note that a Boggart is shaped by our experiences." She turns to the violently shaking trunk. "From what we see here, Boggarts prefer the darkest and smallest of spaces. Grandfather clocks, kitchen cupboards, and chests such as this. This Boggart had snuck in the North Tower, and Miss Comstock displayed no hesitation to have it be brought down here.

"Now," she turns her attention to the Gryffindors before her. Most of whom pale as a sheet. "Miss Emerson, may you tell us what your greatest fear is?"

Frances swallows. Her knuckles turn white as she clenches her fists. "I'm afraid of heights," she answers. Some of the others around them giggled in response.

"Settle down now," Professor Merrythought said firmly. "Heights isn't an unusual fear. Now, what do you want to picture in place of that?"

"Hmm." Frances scratches her head. "A rug or something?"

"There you go," replied Professor Merrythought. "Now, the incantation to transform your Boggart is Riddikulus. Now repeat it after me: Riddikulus!"

"Riddikulus!" they repeated all in unison.

"Very good. Now, Miss Emerson, if you can step up, please," she prompted. "And will the rest of the class stand back? For the Boggart to form properly, only one person has to be near the vicinity. Otherwise, it wouldn't be so frightening if it came out with the lot of you near."

Hermione patted Frances's shoulder in encouragement as she stepped forward. The wand shook in her friend's hand as she stepped towards the trunk. Which Professor Merrythought had opened, and they all watched as a long staircase stretched out from the bottom of the chest.

All Hermione had seen was a regular set of stairs, except for Frances; the sight of it seemed to cause her to tremble slightly. As evident as she lifted her wand and shouted, "Riddikulus!"

Poof!

The stairs transformed itself into what looked like that clown you'd see from a Jack-In-The-Box. Most of them laughed, though a few paled.

A few people in this class seemed to be afraid of clowns.

"Bravo! Excellent!" Professor Merrythought beams as she claps her hands. "Now, Mr. McLaggen."

Felix didn't hide his hesitation as he approached the spot where Frances once stood. The jack-in-the-box clown replaced an odd-looking woman who did nothing but scream. A banshee.

"Riddikulus!"

Poof!

The banshee's fierce screams grow hoarse. Clutching her neck.

"Miss Granger!"

Hermione swallowed. The blood drains from her face as she grips her wand. What was her greatest fear? What was she afraid of the most? Failure. Expulsion. Not being good enough.

The blood pounds in her ears as the hoarse banshee transforms into Madam Lavinia Engle. One of the teachers from her primary school. Her bespectacled eyes appearing cross as they normally would when one of her students didn't do well on a examination or assignment.

"I don't have words to express how disappointed I am in you," she said. "May you explain how you failed your Maths?"

"I-" Hermione had managed to choke out. Unable to find the rest of her words. Forgetting for a moment that the rest of her class was there until she felt a hand touch her shoulder.

"Step aside, Miss Granger," Galatea Merrythought had said softly. Hermione nods, still shaking as she joins the rest of the class. "You don't have to conquer your boggarts today. Sometimes it takes time to muster the courage to vanquish them. No need to feel bad about it, for there are adults who still have a hard time defeating their boggarts.

Hermione had still felt bad about it as class was dismissed for the day. She couldn't quite shake the feeling that this was the first time around that she wasn't on top of.

When she stepped into the Great Hall, though, and saw all of the floating pumpkins and the tables laden with the gold plates and goblets, did her disappointment ebb away.