Chapter Text
The Great Hall buzzed with a restless energy, a mix of anticipation and exhaustion that came with the waning days before the holidays. Flickering candles hung overhead, casting pools of soft golden light onto the long tables laden with half-eaten meals and scattered parchment. Most students had already finished their last lessons, their minds drifting away from spellwork and potions to the warmth of home and the rare comfort of family. Yet amidst the chatter and laughter, Harry Potter sat quietly at the Ravenclaw table, the green trim on his robes a stark reminder of the house that had claimed him—much to the astonishment of many.
The air was thick with whispers. Some curious, some judgmental. Harry had long since grown accustomed to the sideways glances and the surprised murmurs that followed him wherever he went. To most, the boy with the lightning-shaped scar—the legendary Boy Who Lived—belonged to Gryffindor. His parents had been proud Gryffindors. Yet Harry had been Sorted into Slytherin, a house synonymous with cunning, ambition, and, often, dark whispers.
The memory of those first days at Hogwarts, when the Gryffindor table had collectively gasped and the Slytherin table had exchanged calculating glances, remained vivid. The weight of those expectations, both welcoming and suspicious, had settled over Harry like an invisible cloak. But here he was, sitting with his Ravenclaw friends, caught in the gentle hum of the holiday season, trying to push away the unease that clung stubbornly to his thoughts.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice was soft but insistent, drawing him back from the depths of his contemplation.
He looked up, meeting her familiar, searching eyes.
“Yeah?” he answered, his voice a little quieter than usual.
“Are you spending Christmas with your godparents?” Hermione asked, a flicker of curiosity—or was it concern?—in her tone.
Harry’s brow furrowed slightly, the question stirring a knot of conflict inside him. He swallowed before replying, “We celebrate Yule, not Christmas.” His voice softened as he added, “But yeah, I suppose you could say that.”
Hermione nodded thoughtfully, her gaze drifting back to the bustling hall. The faint clinking of cutlery and bursts of laughter filled the air, a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts in Harry’s mind.
Before Harry could respond, Draco Malfoy leaned over from the adjacent table, his pale face marked by a rare flicker of uncertainty. “My father’s debating whether we’ll spend Yule at the family’s cottage in France or here at Malfoy Manor,” Draco confessed, his voice low, almost hesitant. “Mother wants to save France for the summer, but Father is insistent.” His frown deepened, and Harry reached out, patting Draco’s shoulder with surprising gentleness.
“What about you, Neville?” Harry turned to the soft-spoken Hufflepuff sitting nearby.
Neville smiled shyly, cheeks pink with warmth. “Gran and I were planning to visit my aunt and uncle during Yule. I think it’ll be good to get away for a while.”
The conversation shifted then, moving from holiday plans to school matters, a familiar ritual among friends.
“I still can’t believe Harry got the highest marks in dueling,” Hermione muttered, a proud sparkle in her eye as she looked at Harry. He felt heat rise in his cheeks and smirked.
“It’s those private lessons with Riddle, isn’t it?” Hermione teased, eyes twinkling with mischief.
Harry’s face flushed even deeper. “Not as many as before,” he mumbled.
The truth was complicated.
After a tense and unsettling argument months ago, Tom Riddle—the enigmatic, brilliant prefect with a reputation for both charm and menace—had unexpectedly approached Harry the very next day. He’d offered to tutor Harry in Defense Against the Dark Arts, promising lessons strictly in legal defensive spells. No curses, no cruel magic. Just the art of protecting oneself.
Harry had hesitated. He didn’t trust Tom, not fully. But Tom’s face had been so desolate, so earnest, that Harry had found himself agreeing. It was a chance to learn from the brightest student in the school, to stand a better chance against the dangers lurking in the shadows.
Tom was a mystery wrapped in charm and menace. He kept to a small circle in Slytherin, rarely revealing anything personal. When he wasn’t buried in ancient, leather-bound books, he was perfectly composed, his every movement deliberate and smooth. He was elegant, as though magic itself bent effortlessly around him.
The girls swooned. Harry had heard whispers of a fan club in Ravenclaw dedicated solely to Tom’s effortless grace and intellect. It was strange—and a little unsettling.
But Harry saw the darkness beneath the surface.
Tom’s interests were not those of a typical student. His free time was consumed by the Dark Arts. Harry had glimpsed the titles of the forbidden books in Tom’s dormitory—their spines cracked and worn, whispering secrets of ancient and dangerous magic. One book, The Secrets of the Darkest Art, had a faint but unmistakable aura of dark power. Harry hadn’t dared touch it, only felt its presence press against his skin like a chill.
He had also witnessed Tom’s temper. When angered, Tom would unleash curses without a word. The red light of a Crucio would streak through the air, a reminder that beneath his calm veneer was a deadly force. Harry was the only first-year who truly understood what those curses meant. His godfather had taught him well.
Tom was a danger—not just to others, but to himself.
Harry often wondered how someone so brilliant and poised could be so deeply consumed by darkness.
He had tried to warn himself not to get too close. But the pull was magnetic. Tom was charismatic and intelligent, and despite the dangers, Harry found himself drawn into his orbit.
When Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by Neville’s announcement that he had to return to the dorm to pack, he felt the faint sting of loneliness. Hermione whispered in his ear, “Riddle at twelve o’clock,” before disappearing into the crowd.
Harry sighed, his mind replaying the dream he had months ago—the one where Tom was not the boy he knew, but a darker figure cloaked in shadows and menace.
How could this charming, enigmatic Tom be the same as the one in his nightmares?
Before he could dwell on it further, a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Harry.”
He looked up to see Tom approaching, his deep blue eyes locking onto Harry’s. The perfect posture, the slight smirk—the boy seemed unbothered by the bustle around them.
“Hey, Tom,” Harry greeted with a small smile. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been?”
Tom sat down beside him smoothly, robes immaculate despite the day’s activities. “Busy. But today, I have some free time.”
Harry noticed Tom was alone, no usual entourage trailing behind.
“Why aren’t you with your friends?” Harry asked, curiosity pricking at him.
Tom’s expression shifted, eyes darkening with a shadow of disdain. “I’d rather not waste time with them when I could spend it with someone who understands me.”
Harry’s heart fluttered uneasily at those words. Understands me. But did he? Tom never shared anything truly personal. Their conversations were guarded, a constant dance around the truth.
Harry certainly didn’t share Tom’s fascination with the Dark Arts. He frowned, and Tom caught it immediately.
“Harry?”
“Yes?”
“What are your plans for Yule?” Tom’s gaze bore into him, sharp and unrelenting.
Harry swallowed nervously. Tom’s stare was like a weight pressing down on him, heavy and cold. “I’ll be with my godfathers.”
Tom’s eyes darkened, the light in them fading. “I’ll be at Malfoy Manor. The Malfoys hold a Yule Ball every year. I’ve been invited—as well as your godfathers.”
Harry blinked, confused. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a burden... Can you even invite them? Do you have permission?”
Tom’s hand brushed gently against Harry’s cheek, warm and steady. “You are never a burden to me.” His voice was soft, but there was an edge beneath the warmth that unsettled Harry. “Yes, I’m one of the hosts. Lucius trusts me enough to let me do as I please in his house.”
Harry’s lips twitched in a hesitant smile, but Tom pulled his hand away, leaving a cold space on Harry’s skin.
“I’ll have to ask,” Harry whispered, looking away.
Tom’s patience snapped. “I’m growing tired of this attitude. It’s disrespectful—to me, and to your friends.”
Harry’s throat tightened, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Tom’s hand came up, gently brushing away a tear. “There is nothing wrong with you.”
He tipped Harry’s chin up, locking their eyes.
“Keep this.” Tom pressed a small gold ring into Harry’s palm.
“It’s a way to contact me.”
Harry stared at the ring in disbelief.
“Go to the common room. I’ll join you soon, I promise.”
Tom stood, a serene smile curving his lips as he strode out of the Great Hall with an effortless grace.
Harry was left alone at the Ravenclaw table, nervously twisting the ring on his finger, the glow faint but insistent against his skin. The noise of the hall swirled around him, but his thoughts were distant, tangled in shadows and secrets.
---
Harry sat stiffly in the cramped train compartment, the faded green velvet bench barely cushioning his restless nerves. The rhythmic clatter of the Hogwarts Express wheels against the tracks filled the silence between his thoughts, punctuated only by the occasional murmur from his friends. Neville had excused himself to the restroom moments ago, and Hermione’s voice had risen again, this time engaged in another of their frequent, low-voiced debates about schoolwork or some trivial disagreement Harry found himself unable to latch onto.
He tried to focus on their words, but it was like trying to catch smoke in his fingers—every thought was fleeting, his mind occupied with heavier, darker things.
Tom Riddle had broken his promise.
The memory of Tom’s smile—so smooth, so carefully crafted—haunted him. The invitation to the Malfoy Manor Yule Ball had felt like a tentative thread of hope, a chance to step out of the shadow that Tom so often cast over his days. But that hope had been shattered the moment Tom failed to show up in the common room as promised. Not just once, but without explanation, without apology.
Harry’s chest tightened with humiliation. He had trusted that promise—not out of blind faith, but because promises were sacred to him. They were the rare, solid things in a world full of shifting shadows and half-truths. His godfather had promised to rescue him from the bleak and lonely years at the Dursleys—and he had kept that promise. Ever since, Harry had clung to the belief that promises were more than words; they were bonds.
And yet here he was, alone in this compartment, nursing the sting of a broken one.
He hadn’t even gone to the ball. Harry had told Draco Malfoy, who was privy to the invitation, that he wouldn’t be attending. He claimed he’d be busy with his godfathers, and Draco had accepted the excuse with a disappointed but understanding nod. The blond was perceptive—he sensed Harry’s real feelings—and so Harry’s half-truth spared the confrontation he wasn’t ready to face.
Because, truth be told, Harry hadn’t wanted to go—not really. Part of him had wanted to be petty, to deny Tom the satisfaction of seeing him there, mingling under the chandeliers in the grand Malfoy Manor. Part of him wanted to withdraw into his own bitterness, to nurse the bruised pride of a boy who had been left waiting.
Hermione’s voice grew sharper, laced with frustration as she argued about something Harry couldn’t quite follow, but he barely heard her. His thoughts churned and burned with the betrayal.
He promised.
He lied.
He left me.
That cold, empty ache inside him was a cruel contrast to the warmth that should have filled him during the holidays. Instead of feeling safe or celebrated, Harry felt exposed—like a ghost drifting on the edge of the world he wanted to belong to.
He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, grounding himself in the physical pain to keep his emotions in check. He wasn’t sure when his expression had hardened into something like steel, but the eyes staring out the window at the blur of trees and hills were distant, guarded.
No one in the compartment noticed. Neville returned, cheeks flushed, asking where he had been, but Harry only managed a distracted nod. Hermione paused mid-argument, glancing at him with concern flickering behind her own worries, but she didn’t press. She knew when to give him space, even if it frustrated her.
For Harry, this petty silence was a shield. A way to say, without words, that he was angry. More than angry—he was hurt. And he wouldn’t apologize for that.
Because, after all, promises were everything.
And Tom’s had meant nothing.
---
“We’re here!” Neville’s voice burst through the quiet compartment, filled with an uncontrollable excitement that made him practically vibrate in his seat. His whole body shook as if the news itself had electrified him.
Hermione flinched at the sudden volume, eyes wide with surprise, but she quickly composed herself, shooting Neville a brief, exasperated look that held more affection than annoyance.
Harry smiled faintly at the scene—the innocent joy that Neville radiated was almost contagious, if only for a moment. The train had been rattling steadily for hours now, and the thought of arriving back at Hogwarts—the towering castle perched on the cliffs, the familiar scents of enchanted forests, and the bustling life of the school—stirred a strange mix of relief and melancholy inside him.
“Well,” Harry began, his voice low and measured as he shifted his weight against the worn seat, “I guess I’ll see you guys... in two weeks?”
Hermione nodded, her eyes bright and soft as she smiled warmly at him. There was a gentle comfort in her gaze, a steady reassurance that no matter how tangled the world around them might become, there were still safe places and people to count on.
“Two weeks,” she echoed, her tone sincere and kind.
Harry’s chest felt a little lighter hearing that, like a small island of peace amid the chaos. He returned the smile, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through him.
Neville, too, was already on his feet, brimming with enthusiasm. “Two weeks! Gran’s waiting for me,” he said, a grin stretching from ear to ear. His green eyes sparkled with anticipation. “I can’t keep her waiting.”
Without another word, he grabbed his bag, gave a quick wave, and was out of the compartment, the door sliding shut behind him before Harry or Hermione could say goodbye.
Hermione’s eyes lingered on the closing door for a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face, then she turned back to Harry.
“Two weeks,” Harry repeated quietly to himself, feeling the words settle deep within him like a soft promise.
He rose, brushing imaginary dust from his robes as he made his way toward the compartment door. The corridor outside was filled with the low murmur of students gathering their things, voices buzzing with excitement and nervous energy about the holidays ahead. Some were already saying their final farewells, others were peeking out the windows to catch their first glimpse of the grounds below.
Harry took a slow, deep breath. The fresh scent of pine and earth seemed to seep through the glass, carrying with it memories of past years—both good and bad.
His footsteps echoed lightly as he stepped onto the platform where the Hogwarts Express had come to a gentle halt. The castle loomed in the distance, dark and magnificent against the setting sun, its towers and spires promising adventure and mystery for the months to come.
Harry's heart tightened. Two weeks felt like an eternity. Yet it was enough time—time to breathe, to gather strength, and maybe, just maybe, to come to terms with everything that had happened.
He glanced back toward the train, catching sight of Hermione’s familiar figure waving goodbye before disappearing into the crowd.
“See you in two weeks,” he whispered to the wind, feeling the bittersweet weight of parting settle around him.
And with that, Harry stepped forward, ready to face whatever awaited him back at the castle—and beyond.
---
“Harry!”
The shout cut through the murmurs and clatter of the crowded platform like a beacon. Harry’s head snapped toward the voice without hesitation, and instantly, a pure, unfiltered smile broke across his face.
“Sirius!”
Before the words had even fully escaped his lips, Harry was running—legs pumping, heart soaring—as he closed the distance between them. With a sudden leap, he threw himself into his godfather’s arms, wrapping his legs tightly around Sirius’s waist as if he never wanted to let go.
Sirius caught him effortlessly, arms encircling the boy in a fierce, protective embrace. The warmth of the familiar presence washed over Harry like a balm to a raw wound. He could feel the heat of Sirius’s breath, the steady beat of his heart beneath his cheek, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he allowed himself to exhale completely.
Tears brimmed in Sirius’s eyes, glistening with a mixture of relief and joy. He gently lowered Harry back to the platform, keeping a firm but tender hold on his shoulders. His hand moved up to ruffle Harry’s wild, untamed hair, fingers threading through the dark locks with a fondness that made Harry’s chest ache.
“I missed you, kiddo,” Sirius murmured, voice thick with emotion.
Harry’s eyes searched Sirius’s face, memorizing every line, every flicker of feeling. It was the first time in a long while he had felt truly seen—safe.
Sirius sighed contentedly, kneeling down to meet Harry’s gaze eye-to-eye. “I’m so glad you’re okay. The news… well, it’s been everywhere. What’s been happening at Hogwarts…” He shook his head, his tone heavy with concern.
“They tried to put Aurors on the case. Remus wanted me to go there, to make sure you were safe, but no one’s allowed to enter from outside. Not unless it’s the Minister himself.” Sirius’s lips curled into a bitter sneer as he added, “Fudge insists there’s nothing to worry about—says the Aurors have better things to do than get involved in school rivalries.” His voice was thick with disbelief and frustration.
Harry frowned but said nothing. He had learned not to expect much from the Ministry these days.
“Anyway!” Sirius jumped to his feet suddenly, shaking off the heavy mood. “Let’s get your trunk. Remus made your favorite for dinner tonight.” He wiggled his eyebrows with a mischievous grin, a playful light returning to his eyes.
Harry looked around quickly, glancing toward the compartments and aisles. But one familiar face was nowhere to be seen—Tom Riddle’s curly head was absent from the crowd.
He swallowed down the uneasy feeling curling in his stomach. Whatever was coming next, Harry knew this journey was far from over.
---
"Harry!" Harry's eyes widened as they pulled in him to a tight hug, my Remus, who then proved to push him towards the kitchen where he made dinner.
"It's a delight to have you back home! I missed you, and I was worried about you. Wait, are you okay?? Did you get hurt at Hogwarts? I know the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor isn't pretty." Remus patted his hands over Harry's body as a voice sighed behind them.
"Moony, I think you should leave the boy alone. We should just let him eat dinner and have time to himself, to get used to being home, then we can have all the family time we could ever want. Sirius rubbed Remus's shoulders, who's then sighed in relief before pressing a kiss to Sirius' cheek.
"You're right, surprisingly." He muttered, turning to Harry with a smile, "we'll leave you to get comfortable, you know where to find us." Remus smiled warmly at Harry, who grinned back.
"Thanks Sirius, Remus." He levitated his dinner to his room as he began getting settled it.
---
As the days slipped by, the week seemed to vanish in a blur for Harry. Each morning blended into the next, marked by the steady rhythm of life with his godparents. He found himself immersed in a strange, comforting routine that was worlds away from the chaos of Hogwarts—a cocoon of sorts where the weight of the outside world felt a little lighter.
Most days were a mix of laughter and bickering, playful disputes over the simplest things that quickly dissolved into shared smiles. Whether it was heated arguments over the rules of a Muggle game Remus had picked up from a tiny shop in London, or the quiet moments spent cooking in the cozy kitchen, the days were filled with a warmth Harry hadn’t realized he’d missed so deeply. Remus had a natural flair for baking, and Sirius was endlessly patient, guiding Harry through each step of their culinary experiments with a grin that never quite left his face.
But amidst the laughter and the ordinary joys, Harry’s thoughts often drifted back to Hogwarts—and the people he’d left behind. He’d spoken with his godparents just days ago about inviting Hermione over for Yule Eve. Both Sirius and Remus had been delighted by the idea, eager to meet the brilliant girl who’d become such an important part of Harry’s first year. Hermione, for her part, hadn’t hesitated to accept the invitation, her excitement palpable even through their letters.
Yet, there were those he hadn’t reached out to. Draco was off-limits for now, tangled up with his family’s preparations for the Malfoy manor’s Yule Ball—a grand affair held every year on Yule Eve itself. Harry and Draco hadn’t spoken much lately, the silence between them stretching longer with each passing day. Neville, too, was away at his aunt and uncle’s house in Ireland, enjoying a reprieve from the tension that seemed to grip Hogwarts these days.
Harry’s lips curled in a small, wistful smile as he thought of the coming night.
Yule Eve.
He loved Yule. The very mention of it brought warmth to his chest—the flicker of candlelight, the crisp winter air, the ancient magic of a holiday steeped in tradition and old, whispered stories. It was a time of peace, of gathering with those you cared for most. But this year, it carried a heavier weight.
He still held to the resolution he’d made a week ago: he would not attend the Yule Ball. The very thought churned a storm of emotions within him. There was a deep, gnawing certainty that he did not belong there—no matter how much he tried to tell himself otherwise. To the purebloods, and many of the other students, he was a traitor. The Boy Who Lived, yes—but also the boy who’d chosen Slytherin, the boy who was different. Dangerous. Unwelcome.
And more than that, he couldn’t risk bringing harm to his family—his godparents, the only people who’d ever truly taken him in. He refused to put them in danger just to satisfy some desperate need to belong.
Still, beneath that, simmering quietly but stubbornly, was a growing streak of petty rebellion.
Tom.
The boy had broken his promise—the one fragile thread of connection Harry had clung to in these dark times. And Tom’s recent coldness, the distance that stretched wider with each passing day, only fanned the embers of Harry’s frustration.
He clenched his fists, pushing those thoughts aside. They were a distraction he couldn’t afford.
His friends were here. Hermione was coming tonight. And in this small circle, maybe, just maybe, he could find a moment of peace.
---
“Hermione!”
The sound of her name broke through the quiet carriage as Harry’s heart leapt. He turned sharply, a wide smile breaking across his face as he caught sight of her familiar figure stepping through the train compartment doorway.
“Harry!” Hermione’s voice was bright with relief and excitement, and before either could think twice, the boy was rushing forward, enveloping her in a tight embrace. Their laughter mingled, warm and light, a rare bright moment in the tense world Harry had been living in lately.
But the moment was broken by a cautious voice drifting closer.
“Who’s at the door, Harry?” Remus Lupin’s calm, measured tone was laced with curiosity as he approached down the aisle.
“It’s Hermione!” Harry called back cheerfully, stepping aside to welcome the visitor. As the light from the corridor spilled into the compartment, Hermione’s parents appeared behind her, faces warm but tinged with the politeness of first meetings.
Harry straightened quickly, extending a hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, it’s truly wonderful to meet you,” he said carefully, aware of the weight the moment held.
Mrs. Granger smiled warmly, stepping forward. “It’s wonderful to meet you too, Harry. Hermione has spoken so often about you in her letters. It’s quite amusing,” she added with a gentle chuckle before lightly pinching Harry’s cheek in an affectionate gesture that made the boy flinch slightly.
“Mom!” Hermione’s cheeks flushed a rosy red as she swatted her mother’s hand away, cheeks warming further. Her father chuckled quietly in the background, watching the exchange with an amused gleam.
Mr. Granger stepped forward next. “We’re glad Hermione has such a good friend. And it’s comforting to know she’s in good company.”
Remus, who had now come fully into the compartment, nodded. “I’m Remus Lupin—Harry’s guardian. My husband is away at work tonight, but I assure you, Hermione has nothing to worry about. Harry is well looked after.”
As the adults continued their polite conversation, Harry gently tugged Hermione by the sleeve and led her away, laughter bubbling between them as they escaped into the safety of his private compartment.
They settled down, sitting cross-legged across from each other in the confined space, the hum of the train a distant backdrop. For a moment, silence hung between them, comfortable but filled with unspoken thoughts.
“So,” Harry finally broke the quiet, “did you do anything fun this week?”
Hermione shrugged, a wistful sigh escaping her lips. “Not much… mostly reading. I kind of miss Hogwarts.”
Harry nodded in agreement, a pang tightening his chest. Hogwarts did feel like home—chaotic, dangerous, but home nonetheless.
“Definitely don’t miss potions,” Hermione added with a smirk. “Snape’s a—well, you know.”
Before Harry could reply, Hermione playfully smacked him on the head with one of the well-worn comics he’d brought along.
“Harry James Potter!”
“Sorry!” Harry laughed, trying to dodge her playful swat as he backed toward the corner of the compartment.
Just then, Hermione’s eyes caught a glint—something shimmering faintly on Harry’s finger. Her brow furrowed, curiosity sharpening her expression.
Harry paused, his retreat halted by her gaze.
“Hey, Harry,” she asked, voice low and curious, “where did you get that ring? It’s beautiful, but it definitely doesn’t look like something from your family.”
She was right. The ring was unfamiliar to him too. It wasn’t the heirloom his parents had passed down. It was… different.
“I got it from Tom,” Harry admitted, watching her reaction carefully.
“Him? Riddle?” Hermione’s voice dropped to a cautious whisper. Harry nodded slowly.
“He gave it to me, said it was a way to contact him,” Harry explained.
Hermione reached out, gently taking his hand and lifting it to examine the ring more closely. Her eyes widened as her fingertips brushed the cold gold surface, which shimmered faintly—not with ordinary light, but with something darker, an almost imperceptible aura that seemed to pulse beneath the surface.
Hermione gasped softly, drawing back her hand.
“There’s something… strange about this ring. It feels… heavy, like it’s soaked in magic that’s not quite right. Dark magic, Harry.”
Harry’s face paled.
“What do you mean?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Hermione hesitated, her eyes darting to meet his. “I don’t know exactly, but it’s dangerous. Whatever spell or curse is on that ring, it’s not something you want to keep close.”
A heavy silence fell between them.
“Harry,” Hermione’s voice broke through the quiet, sharp with concern, “did Riddle tell you what this ring really is?”
“No,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “He just said it was a way to reach him. That’s all.”
Hermione’s gaze lingered on the ring, then returned to Harry’s face, her expression serious.
“Harry, you need to be careful around him. Riddle isn’t like other students. He’s… obsessed. With the dark arts. With power. And this ring—it’s part of that obsession.”
Harry swallowed hard, memories flooding back. “When we met for our dueling lessons—Fridays in his dorm—he left me waiting alone sometimes. And while I waited, I saw the books he kept. Not the usual school textbooks. Dark, old books, full of dangerous knowledge. There was one I accidentally glimpsed the title of: ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art.’”
Hermione’s eyes widened in horror.
“Do you think he uses magic to hide the titles?” she asked.
“Exactly. I think he charms the covers so no one knows what they really are,” Harry said.
For a long moment, Hermione said nothing. Harry’s chest tightened with anxiety under her intense scrutiny.
“Hermione?”
“Harry,” she said softly, reaching across the small space to squeeze his hand, “please promise me you’ll be careful. When we’re not there, when it’s just you and him—watch yourself. Don’t trust him.”
Harry’s eyes widened at her plea, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He thought back to the warnings he’d received before—from Draco, oddly enough—and now he understood them all too well.
He looked into Hermione’s honey-colored eyes and nodded, swallowing the knot of fear tightening in his throat.
Hermione gave a small, relieved smile and lowered her gaze, noticing the way Harry’s focus kept drifting back to the ring, his fingers unconsciously tracing its cool surface.
The darkness it held was subtle but undeniable—a silent reminder of the dangerous path he was treading, entangled with Tom Riddle’s secrets.
---
Harry sat cross-legged on his narrow bed, the soft light of the evening casting long shadows across the small dormitory room. His fingers carefully combed through Hedwig’s pristine white feathers, gently disentangling the tiny pinecone branches that had somehow caught in her plumage during their last flight outside the castle grounds. The owl preened contentedly, blinking her large amber eyes at him with quiet trust.
As Harry worked, he suddenly became aware of a subtle warmth spreading across his skin. His gaze flickered down to his left hand, where the gold ring rested on his slender finger. It was faint at first—like the gentle heat of sunlight on a cool morning—but almost instantly the warmth deepened, becoming more insistent.
Curious, Harry paused, letting his fingers brush lightly against the ring. The warmth grew steadily, spreading like wildfire beneath his skin until it scorched like a sudden flame licking at his flesh. Panic prickled at the edges of his mind. His breath hitched, a sharp yelp escaping his lips as the ring flared unbearably hot.
Frantically, he gripped the band and twisted, desperate to pull it free. His skin reddened instantly, the burning sting sharpening with every moment the ring remained. His heart thundered in his chest as he struggled, sweat gathering on his brow.
With a final, trembling yank, the ring slipped off his finger and clattered onto the wooden floor with a soft thud. Harry fell back on the bed, letting out a shaky breath, relief washing over him in heavy waves.
His fingers instinctively reached to rub the irritated skin, which now glowed faintly pink, the heat lingering as an uncomfortable reminder. His eyes drifted downward to the ring lying just beyond the edge of his bed.
What he saw made his breath catch.
The ring pulsed with a golden light that seemed to shimmer and ripple, as if it held a living flame trapped beneath its polished surface. The glow ebbed and flowed rhythmically, casting flickering patterns of light and shadow onto the floorboards.
Harry’s heart hammered in confusion and unease. This was no ordinary ring. Something ancient, something alive with magic—and dark magic—throbbed inside it. It whispered to him through the heat and light, tugging at something deep within his mind.
For a long moment, Harry simply stared, torn between fascination and fear.
The ring was more than a gift. It was a warning.