--
The truth had always been a foundation for Hermione Granger—a steady, unwavering force that defined her. She was Muggle-born. She was logical. She was a Gryffindor who prided herself on knowledge and reason.
But the truth, it seemed, was not what she thought it was.
It began with a locked drawer in the Granger household.
The summer before her seventh year at Hogwarts, Hermione had been reorganizing her parents' study when her magic reacted—wild and untamed. The air crackled, books tumbled from shelves, and a long-forgotten wooden drawer, sealed for years, burst open with an ominous click.
Inside, beneath a pile of old photographs, lay an envelope.
Her name was written on it in dark ink, in a handwriting unfamiliar yet oddly… intimate.
This isn't right.
Her parents had never hidden anything from her. They were dentists—practical people with no secrets, no mysteries. And yet, Hermione could feel the weight of something monumental resting in her trembling fingers.
She unfolded the parchment.
--
Dearest Hermione
If you are reading this, it means the enchantments have weakened, and the truth can no longer be concealed.
You are not who you believe yourself to be.
You were never meant to live as a Muggle-born. You were never meant to be hidden from your legacy. But war forced our hands, and the price was your identity.
You are of ancient blood, a lineage long thought lost to time. You are the last descendant of one of the greatest sorcerers to ever walk this earth.
You are my daughter. And you are the heir of Merlin.
--
The words blurred before her eyes.
Her breath came short, shallow, as her heart pounded in her ears.
No. No, this isn't possible.
Merlin? Merlin? The Merlin—the greatest sorcerer in history? The one who had shaped magic itself, who had walked among kings and built the foundations of the magical world?
Hermione's hands trembled as she flipped the letter over, desperate for more. There were no names of her birth parents, no explanation of how she had ended up with the Grangers. Only a cryptic message at the bottom.
--
"You are in danger. The blood of Merlin carries power beyond comprehension. Many have sought it. Many will kill for it. Protect yourself.
And if the time comes, seek the one who was foretold. He must be stopped before the darkness takes hold."
--
Darkness.
She didn't need to wonder who they meant.
There had only ever been one wizard whose darkness had nearly consumed the world. One name that sent shivers down every witch and wizard's spine.
Tom Riddle.
Hermione slammed the letter down, pressing her fingers against her temples.
It was ridiculous. Impossible. She had spent her entire life fighting against pureblood supremacy, proving that lineage didn't matter. And now, she found out she was not only a pureblood but _the_ purest of them all?
Her magic thrummed beneath her skin, stronger than she had ever felt before. Had it always been there, suppressed under layers of falsehoods?
A part of her wanted to ignore it. Burn the letter. Pretend none of this had happened.
But another part—the part that had spent years seeking knowledge, uncovering secrets, and challenging fate—knew she couldn't.
She had to know more.
And if the letter was true… if Tom Riddle was truly the one she had to stop…
Then she would do what had to be done.
Even if it meant facing the Devil himself.
It took weeks of research.
Hidden deep in the Hogwarts library, Hermione scoured ancient texts, searching for answers. Time-Turners were useless—restricted to hours, not decades. She needed something older, something forbidden.
And she found it.
The ritual was ancient, older than even the Founders. The runes carved into the brittle pages pulsed with power.
It required blood. A sacrifice. And an incantation that had not been spoken in over a thousand years.
"tempus franguitur; iterum redi; fatum rescribe ."
(time is broken; come back again; rewrite the fate.)
Her hand hovered over the dagger. The candlelight flickered.
The name Tom Riddle burned in her mind.
She had read about him in books, heard stories of his rise to power, seen the devastation he had left in his wake. But she had never _met_ him.
Now, she would.
She pressed the blade to her palm and whispered the incantation.
The world shattered.
1944 — The Hogwarts of the Past
Pain. Cold. A rushing force pulling her through time itself.
When Hermione's eyes snapped open, she was lying on the stone floor of a deserted corridor. The walls were familiar, yet… different. The torches flickered with an older magic, the scent of parchment and candle wax thicker than in her time.
She had made it.
She was in 1944.
Her fingers curled against the stone as she pushed herself up, heart hammering. She had prepared for this, rehearsed her story—Hermione St. Clair, a pureblood witch from a distant magical family, transferred from Beauxbatons. It was a fragile lie, but a necessary one.
Footsteps echoed.
She turned just in time to see him.
Tom Riddle.
He stood at the far end of the corridor, dark eyes locked onto hers with sharp, predatory intensity. His school robes were immaculate, his Prefect badge gleaming, his posture exuding effortless power.
And then he smiled—a slow, knowing curve of his lips that sent a chill down her spine.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said, voice as smooth as silk, as dangerous as a blade.
Hermione steadied herself.
Neither are you, she thought.
But instead, she smiled back. "Neither are you."
His eyes flashed with interest.
The game had begun.
And Hermione Granger was playing for keeps.
--
End of Chapter 1
Let me know what you think! I'll start on Chapter 2.