Hermione walked into the Headmaster's office, the heavy, magical door sealing quietly behind her. The ancestral portraits of former Headmasters lined the walls, and she could feel their silent, judging gazes following her every move. She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at them.
Dumbledore sat at his desk, staring deeply at the charred, pierced, and utterly ruined black diary resting before him. The atmosphere was solemn, heavy with the weight of ancient secrets and recent carnage.
"Good morning, and welcome back, Headmaster," Hermione said, her voice a calm, polite interruption of his thoughts.
"Good morning, Miss Granger," Dumbledore replied, looking up. He gestured to the diary. "I believe you recognize this."
Hermione walked closer, picking up the ruined book. "A Horcrux," she confirmed, her voice utterly devoid of shock or judgment. "It contains a fragment of Lord Voldemort's soul, infused with a dark, pervasive magical residue."
Dumbledore nodded slowly, seemingly unfazed by her casual use of the forbidden term. "It appears we both underestimated Professor Lockhart's capabilities. He was able to defeat the Basilisk and, more surprisingly, a young Lord Voldemort. And he did so all by himself."
Hermione shrugged, giving the diary a contemptuous flick. "He was acting, Headmaster. And badly. His 'courage' was a combination of my instruction and sheer, blind terror. You know as well as I do that it was my charm that froze the pixie swarm and my potion that saved the petrified students. And I was the one who was forced to throw a highly important, emotionally damaged asset at a Dark Lord to defeat him."
She paused, looking him directly in the eye. "I don't want to be targeted every year by some vengeful Death Eater or another one of his cursed objects. I've already cleaned up two of his messes now. I am not Harry Potter. I am not the designated hero. I'm tired of doing Voldemort's laundry."
"And so," Dumbledore murmured, a familiar, knowing twinkle returning to his eye, "you decided to let Professor Lockhart take the credit and the spotlight for you."
"Exactly," Hermione confirmed. "Doesn't he enjoy the feeling of being the center of attention? Besides," she added, her mind already running on a dark, satirical tangent, "if I keep destroying his Horcruxes, the whole series will become predictable. Voldemort and the Chamber of Secrets: Voldemort Surrenders. Then what? Voldemort and the Prisoner of Azkaban: Voldemort is Truly Frightened. We need some buildup, Headmaster. He needs time to prepare his grand return so he's worth the trouble."
Dumbledore watched her with an amused, inscrutable expression. He didn't care about the plot's pacing, only the result. The Horcrux was destroyed.
He changed the subject. "Tell me, Miss Granger, the Forbidden Forest. Was it Voldemort's doing that it turned into a world of ice?"
Hermione blinked, her face shifting to one of wide-eyed innocence. "It must have been, Headmaster," she said, her voice filled with feigned indignation. "Damn Voldemort. He has no respect for the ecosystem. He doesn't even let the little spiders live."
Dumbledore let out a soft sigh, accepting the blatant lie with a weariness that suggested he was already used to her bizarre fabrications.
The rest of the school year was, mercifully, quiet. Hermione's intervention had effectively shut down the primary conflict much earlier than canon. Adhering to the principle that Hogwarts could only handle one major existential crisis per year, the rest of the academic calendar proceeded without incident.
Hermione spent her days in the Room of Requirement, blissfully practicing advanced magic, alchemy, and biological transformation on the flora and fauna she had collected. Lockhart continued to teach his self-aggrandizing lessons, though Hermione ensured he had enough material to keep his students occupied. She hadn't let him resign his post; she was determined that he, and he alone, would serve out the full year and absorb the brunt of the DADA curse, just to be safe.
In the depths of her private chamber, a battle was raging.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The sickly green light shot across the room. Hermione's figure, shimmering and distorting, vanished a moment before the curse hit the stone wall behind her.
"Oh, honestly, Tom!" her voice echoed from the far corner. "I taught you that Illusion Charm last week! Why are you still falling for it?"
Tom Riddle's handsome, solid form stood in the center of the arena. He was breathing heavily, his wand lowered, a frustrated scowl on his face. He had failed to kill his own assistant. Again.
"You win, Granger," he grumbled, his voice thick with annoyance. "You are faster. Your cursed Levicorpus makes it impossible to focus on the incantation."
Hermione shimmered back into existence behind him, pointing her wand at the back of his neck. "I win because you're predictable," she said calmly. "You prioritize the Killing Curse. You need to expand your repertoire. Again."
The two were conducting a full-contact, high-level magical sparring session. With the infusion of the massive soul energy from the Frost Giants, Tom Riddle had returned to the peak of his sixteen-year-old self. He was a powerful, genius wizard, and he was currently the only person who could force Hermione to push her own limits.
"You still haven't won with the Avada Kedavra," Tom pointed out stubbornly.
"I don't need to," Hermione countered. "I need to be faster than yours. If I can fire my incapacitating spell before you can finish your killing incantation, then the duel is mine." She tapped his neck with her wand. "You are a weapon I am training, Tom. You need to be efficient, not dramatic."
Tom let out a heavy sigh, defeated, and turned to face her. Despite his frustration, he knew she was right. He was currently the most talented research assistant the Dark Arts had ever seen, and he was, completely and utterly, under her thumb.
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