As Hermione made her way through the dark corridors of Hogwarts towards the seventh floor, she recalled the conversation she had with Professor McGonagall. She had tried to push it to the back of her mind, but in truth, she was terrified. The professor had said those few words— “The kind used by the Faerie Courts.”

  It was like something else had risen inside her—something cold, something sharp. For a fleeting moment, she had not been Hermione Granger. She had been something else entirely. And in that moment, she had considered ending the professor where she stood. That terrified her more than anything.

  When the professor had made that vow, a vow that wasn't done in Hermione's name, nor bound by a wand oath, when she simply offered Hermione her word, the magic had accepted it—instantly, effortlessly. No spell, no wand, no formal oath. The magic simply took hold, binding itself without question. Hermione wasn't stupid. Perhaps she had been deluding herself, but the professor had confirmed it to her shortly afterward—she had changed, as had her magic. Whatever she did to break her limits, as the Fae had said, had changed her fundamentally. She was no longer just a witch. She was now, a Fae.

  She hadn't believed it. Not truly. Not until McGonagall had pced a simple iron nail in her palm. The pain had been immediate, searing up her arm like white-hot fire. Her fingers had spasmed, the metal cttering to the floor as she gasped for breath. The raw, blistered skin on her palm had told her everything she needed to know.

  Then there was the strength, the intoxicating power that came with her other self. When her Fae nature surfaced, she didn't feel like Hermione Granger anymore—she felt like she was more. It completely changed her magic. Before, her magic had burned—tight, contained, a hot core buried deep in her chest. But since the solstice, it was no longer contained. It flowed through her, in every inch of her body, a constant, unrelenting presence. And when her other self rose, it did not burn.

  It froze.

  Her blood felt like ice, her magic no longer something she called upon but something that coiled and writhed with her fury. Beneath it, she could feel it—stagnation, the heavy weight of something unnatural, something that did not belong in the world of the living. And then, just beyond the edge of her awareness, she felt it. The ambient magic shifting, bending in response to her will. It curled at the edges of reality, bending the world around her, drawn to her fury like a breath of winter into a dying fme.

  And with it, she brought the Everfrost.

  The tundras of the Feywild, cold and absolute, stretching into the world at her command.

  Now that she had distanced herself from the moment, she felt her control return. But the truth was gringly obvious—she had never been in control at all. Not really. The Fae she had encountered in the Munros had exercised absolute restraint in her presence. She had thought herself disciplined, thought her Occlumency had mastered her emotions, but now… now she saw it for the illusion it was.

  This had been one of the reasons for looking into automating the protection spells on herself using enchanting and better gemstones—if someone clipped her with a spell in css, even by accident, how would she react? Would they be able to stop her? She was confident she could have taken the professor—not with her own magic, but with the Tundra? With the Reserve from her Anchor Stone? Pusible. Would she have survived the aftermath, however? No.

  Headmaster Dumbledore might py the genial grandfather, but she had no illusions about what he truly was. If she became a threat to his students, he would not hesitate. She could feel it—the power humming beneath the very foundations of the castle, the wards interwoven into the stone itself. The leylines fed him, made sure that while he stood on Hogwarts grounds, he would always be the most powerful being in the castle.

  No matter how much power she had at her disposal, she did not fancy that fight.

  But something gnawed at her memory, something the Fae had said during their altercation. "You cannot be..." She had assumed it was a reaction to her magic, to the chaotic force she had twisted into shape—but no. That wasn’t it.

  She had missed something.

  When she had twisted the magic to her will, the air had changed.

  The temperature had dropped.

  Had she called upon the Everfrost of the Tundra's even then? Is that what shocked the Fae? Because it didn't seem like something your average Fae could do based on the look of shock but she had looked at Hermione like she recognised her. She needed answers but there was no way to contact the Fae from Hogwarts, there were no fairy Circles here to approach the boundary. Another bloody mystery and no means to get answers.

  As she neared her destination she considered her actions, was going into the room now the best idea? Yes she needed to advance, she needed the resources, yes the room was probably the only practical means to obtain this. All of those were compelling reasons to proceed, however, the Horcrux was there and it posed a serious risk, especially now. She wasn't able to control herself, she realised that now, her recklessness when confronted with a danger always overpowered her Occlumency, she had lost all control to her Fae nature when her secrets were threatened, and she was going to put herself in proximity to that parasite?

  She stopped just before she got to the corridor.

  Her logical mind warred with her nature, her mind telling her this was suicidal at best, and at worst she could become the monster she feared herself to be. But her nature reared in defiance of this, it would not bow to anyone, it would not be controlled. Wait, there was no way it was that simple.

  She stared at the door and completed the necessary ritual to open it, repeating I need the Room of Lost Things three times as she walked past the dancing trolls. The door did not appear immediately. Instead, the castle hesitated. As though considering her request, weighing something unseen. Then, at st, the stone shimmered, twisting, stretching into an archway.

  Beyond it, shadows curled between towering piles of forgotten relics. The air inside felt different—charged, waiting. Her prize would not be so easily found.

  With one st breath, she stepped forward. The stone groaned as the door sealed behind her, shutting out the world. There would be no turning back now. Into the fray once again.

  As Hermione moved deeper into the Room of Lost Things, the air grew heavy, thick with centuries of forgotten magic. Dust swirled in the dim light, catching in her throat, but it was not the dust that made her uneasy. It was the presence. The rot. A weight clung to the air, something ancient and defiled, something waiting.

  She could feel it—the miasma that drifted from the Diadem of Rowena Ravencw, a stain of magic that seeped into the very walls. It was subtle, but to her sharpened senses, it was unmistakable. She did not search for the Diadem by sight—she followed the sickness, the taint of something long corrupted.

  The deeper she went, the more the magic whispered. Not in words, not yet, but in sensation. A slow, crawling pressure along her skin, a presence that slithered along the edges of her mind, pressing, probing. But it would find nothing. Her Occlumency held firm, an iron fortress behind her eyes. It would not read her. It would not see her.

  But it could still speak.

  A voice, low and inviting, curled through the stagnant air. A whisper woven from honey and rot.

  "Little seeker… what is it you desire?"

  It spoke in hisses, in Parseltongue.

  Hermione’s lips parted before she could think, before logic could caution restraint. She answered in kind.

  "Protection."

  A pause. A shift in the air, as if the thing inside the Diadem had not expected this response. But she could not lie.

  "Ah… a clever girl. And who would you protect, little one?"

  Hermione lowered her gaze, willing her body to shrink, to appear uncertain. She was a child again, a girl who had been weak, desperate, powerless. Let the Wraith see what it wanted to see.

  "My family," she whispered, voice small. "They are in danger."

  The whispering presence circled her, unseen but felt, a slow current of intrigue coiling around her thoughts. It did not know her, but it wanted to.

  "You are wise to seek strength. The world is cruel to those who cannot wield power." A pause. Then, soft and indulgent: "And I can give you power."

  Hermione let her hands tremble, let hesitation flicker across her face as though considering the offer. Not yet. Let it think she was unsure. Let it believe she was afraid.

  "Power?" she whispered. "How?"

  The Diadem hummed with anticipation. The Wraith had pyed this game before, had lured in ambitious minds with the promise of greatness. It would do so again.

  "A trade. A small offering, in exchange for what you desire most."

  She lowered her gaze, feigned submission. Let it draw closer, let it believe she was already in its grasp.

  Then, with careful innocence, she asked, "May I have your name before we continue?"

  The Wraith chuckled, a sound of indulgence, of condescension. It had pyed this game for centuries. It thought it knew the rules.

  "I was once called Tom Riddle."

  The moment the name left him, the magic shifted.

  Hermione felt it, the threads of an unbreakable truth tightening like a noose around the Wraith. He had given his name freely—and in doing so, had surrendered his power.

  Her smile sharpened.

  "Then, Tom Riddle," she whispered, voice like silk over steel, "I offer you freedom."

  The Wraith ughed, delighted.

  "At st, a witch who understands power. I agree to your terms"

  "Oh, yes," Hermione said, her Fae magic curling around the words. "I free you from this prison, from your bindings, from the Diadem that holds you. You are free from this mortal coil."

  The Wraith realized the trap too te.

  The moment she spoke, the Diadem shuddered, rejecting him, casting him out.

  His form twisted, wrenched from its anchor, cwing at the air—trying to hold on, but there was nothing left to grasp.

  "You—" he snarled, voice warping into something thin and broken.

  But his name was w.

  And Hermione had set him free.

  With one final, ragged scream, Voldemort’s st tether to the world was severed. The Wraith unraveled, dissipating into nothing, fading into a void from which there was no return.

  But he did not go without consequence.

  In his death throes, the Wraith lunged, desperate, cwing for a new vessel. Shadowed tendrils of tainted magic shed toward Hermione, seeking purchase, seeking a new host. Seeking her.

  A sharp, unnatural cold shot through her, but it was not fear. It was rage.

  The instinct to fight, to defend, to devour surged through her, something ancient and absolute rearing its head within her soul.

  I am not prey. I am the hunter.

  A pulse of pure will, something deeper than magic, something raw and unforgiving, tore through her. The wraith’s attempt to take her was met with a wall of cold, a force that did not yield, did not bow.

  It screamed again, but this time, in fear.

  Hermione’s eyes burned silver-white, her very presence rejecting the abomination that sought to make her its vessel. The Wraith could not take her, because she was not something to be taken.

  With one st shriek, it shattered, scattering into the void, lost forever.

  The Diadem stilled.

  For the first time in centuries, it was silent.

  Hermione exhaled, lifting it gently. A relic restored, purged of its corruption.

  But a chill ran through her bones—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from understanding. She had cimed his name, and now it was hers.

  The bargain had been sealed. That power, that method, was spent.

  The next time she faced a piece of him, she would not have the luxury of tricks. She would have to destroy him the old-fashioned way. She tilted her head slightly, contempting the implications of what she had just done.

  "Well," she murmured, already considering her next move. "That went rather well."