I read this fanfic some time back where Harry inherits the Potter fortune and find that there is a trust being run in his mother's name. This trust supports an orphanage run by Tracey Davis and her family. The orphanage is struggling and tracey decides to ask for people to volunteer and help.

I'm trying to find a fic that I forgot to bookmark ages ago.

It was Harry/Hermione where they had a one-off while Ron was missing and after the battle of Hogwarts Hermione finds out that she is pregnant and both of them decide to give it a go and live with Andromeda, Ted and Teddy while getting their own lives in order.

If anyone knows the name of it, that would be great

I dunno if this can be classified as a rant or an observation.

I know that Wrong Boy/Girl Who Lived stories are much maligned in the HP Fanfiction community. However there is one thing that bothered me about those stories. Usually, the arrogant Potter is depicted like a mini-Malfoy, flaunting their wealth and status around. In those cases, why would they be friends with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger and have Ginny as their girlfriend?, some people who the Potter child should normally consider as beneath their station? Ron is usually someone who is self-conscious about his poverty. Additionally, Hermione would definitely be someone who the arrogant Potter would bully.

Wouldn't it make more sense for the likes of Ron and Hermione to befriend the main character?

I'm really keen to write an original character who grew up in Tom Riddle's environment and is perhaps somewhat close to him (or perhaps they hate each other). I'd love to hear your thoughts on what you think would change about Tom if he'd grown up with a sister maybe two years older or so, or a younger one! I'm still undecided

i want you to help me find a harry potter story from wattpad in this story i only remember one thing where teacher of care of magical creatures gave same kind of fairy growing pot or something i am not sure what and when fairy grows from it it's personality and looks are like kind of are like the person who grow them like they are there child and I think it is harry × Hermione and in this there both 🧚‍♀️ fary fall in love and may be the teacher was Hagrid please someone help me find it please .

PART 1: THE SCRIPTORIUM LESSON (Part 1) : r/HPfanfiction

PART 2: THE SCRIPTORIUM LESSON (Part 2) : r/HPfanfiction

PART 3: THE SCRIPTORIUM LESSON (Part 3) : r/HPfanfiction

If Hermione had approached the table like a scholar, and Harry like someone about to attempt a dangerous sporting manoeuvre, Neville approached it like a condemned man. Riddle watched him closely, recognising the nervous wreck before him. With cool reassurance he said, “Let go of your anxiety, Mr Longbottom.” Neville nodded, far too quickly, unable to shake the tremor in his hands or the swarm of thoughts whispering impending failure and embarrassment. Riddle saw this, of course. He regarded Neville for another moment and added, with dry humour, “I am not your grandmother.” Harry snorted. Hermione pressed her lips together, fighting laughter. Draco let out a loud “Ha!”

Neville stared at the professor, so startled by the remark, that for one precious moment, he forgot to be afraid. It was enough. He raised his hand over the glass goblet and screwed his eyes shut. Almost immediately, the glass softened and its bowl narrowed into a stem. Colour spread through it like ink in clear water, lush shades of green deepening along the base whilst delicate leaves began to bud. At the top, the rim of the glass unfolded into layer upon layer of perfect red petals. A rose now lay on the table. Neville’s eyes remained shut, his hand was still hovering over it, unaware of the fact that the transfiguration had already been completed.

Riddle then looked at the flower. Then at Neville. Then back at the flower. “Mr Longbottom?” Neville was so deeply focused that he didn’t hear the first call. “Mr Longbottom!” Riddle said again, louder, more emphatically. “Please stop squinting and open your eyes.” Neville finally obeyed. His mouth fell open. The rose was exquisite. Even Hermione, who had seen Professor McGonagall perform transformations of astonishing complexity, could not find an obvious flaw.

Neville stared at his own hand.

“I… I did that?”

“Apparently.” said Riddle.

“You clearly possess ability, Mr Longbottom. Why else would you have received my invitation to the Slug Club?”

Neville looked at him. Something shifted in his expression then. It was the first fragile spark of belief in himself. Riddle seemed to recognise it and, uncharacteristically, did not immediately move on. He allowed Neville a few more seconds to gaze at the perfect rose he had conjured. For the first time in his years at Hogwarts, he was not the embarrassment but the astonishment, and he had achieved it in the presence of the school’s strictest, most exacting professor. The other students were equally stupefied, having just watched their would‑be clumsy classmate execute a difficult form of Transfiguration with effortless grace.

“Well done, Mr Longbottom. Please return to your seat,” said Riddle.

Neville returned to his place, his eyes fixed on his hands, still unable to believe what he had just accomplished.

“Now then. I think we have seen enough of our esteemed Gryffindor rivals.” Said Riddle “Someone from my own House now. Miss Parkinson.”

Pansy rose with the controlled grace of someone who had spent the previous hours pretending that nothing she had witnessed was particularly remarkable. The others had noticed her pretence beginning to fray. Pansy’s chin remained high as she approached the table, but her fingers twitched when she lifted her hand. Riddle saw it, and his scrutiny changed subtly. He had expected much from Hermione and Harry because they had surprised him before. With Pansy there was something different: a proprietary expectation, the stern pride of a Head of House who wished his own student to justify his attention.

“Remember, Miss Parkinson. Control, not rigidity.” Pansy swallowed. “Let the magic breathe.”

She approached the rose with practiced grace, lifting her chin and hovering her hand above the bloom. As she focused her magic, she realised at once that channelling power without wand or incantation was entirely different - far more difficult. This is harder than I thought, she told herself. For several long seconds, nothing happened. Her magic poured into the delicate rose, but it was directionless and unfocused. Riddle’s voice cut through her concentration.

“It requires intuition, Miss Parkinson. You’re overthinking it. As I’ve stated before: allow the magic to breathe.”

Pansy listened. She forced herself to loosen her thoughts, to stop analysing every movement of magic, and instead allow instinct rise to the surface. Almost immediately, the rose’s petals began to curl inward - too sharply at first - and Pansy tensed. The transformation was faltering. She exhaled, long and steady, and the spell began to settle with her. The flower elongated; its petals smoothed and fused into glass. The stem thickened, curved, and reshaped itself into an elegant base. A slender perfume bottle emerged, adorned with fine rose‑etched engravings that caught the firelight. Pansy then opened her eyes.

A surge of joy struck her like a bolt of lightning, but she suppressed it, reminding herself to remain composed. Professor Riddle approached the table and lifted the bottle, bringing it close to his face as he examined it.

“Hmm…” he murmured. “It isn’t animated, Miss Parkinson.”

Pansy’s heart dropped.

“However,” Riddle continued.

Her spirits rose at once.

“Neither was Mr Longbottom’s. Although one could argue that plants are alive,” he added lightly. “I am curious to see whether the perfume inside is scented.”

Pansy’s carefully choreographed indifference had all but evaporated; she now stood visibly tense.

“Altering a rose into a glass bottle is one thing,” Riddle went on. “Altering the liquid inside and turning it into actual perfume is quite another. If the contents are scented, you will have impressed me, Miss Parkinson.”

He removed the cap and pressed the spray. A seductive, intoxicating fragrance of rose, lavender, and lilac drifted through the air.

“Aesthetic instinct,” he said. “The liquid has been transfigured into perfume. Impressive.”

Pansy’s shoulders relaxed, relief washing over her in a warm, overwhelming wave.

“You have discipline, Miss Parkinson. That is valuable. But do not mistake discipline for perfection. It is a tool, not a destination.”

Pansy nodded, solemn and intent.

“Now please, return to your seat.” said Riddle.

When she walked back to her place, she was no longer pretending indifference to Professor Riddle’s opinion. Draco watched her sit down, his expression flickering rapidly between envy and impending dread. Only he and Luna remained. Riddle turned toward him.

“Mr Malfoy.”

Draco rose at once. Harry had known him for six years and recognised the particular expression Draco wore whenever he was frightened yet determined that no one should suspect it. He approached Pansy’s perfume bottle, and there was something almost painful in the way he squared his shoulders. Riddle said nothing; he simply observed. Like the others before him, Draco lifted his hand above the object - now a delicate perfume bottle.

Invasive thoughts of insecurity swept through his mind, clouding every attempt at focus. The others are watching, he told himself. Even that blasted Longbottom fool managed to succeed. I can’t fail now. What would Father think? What would Professor Riddle think?

“Mr Malfoy!” Riddle interjected sharply.

“Snap out of it. Focus.”

Draco tried to obey, but the thoughts of impending failure only grew louder, pressing against him like a rising tide. Burdened by them, he stepped closer to the perfume bottle regardless, raising his hand above it and closing his eyes, desperate to stifle the flood of invasive thoughts.

Hermione succeeded, he told himself as the bottle’s neck began to twist.

Potter conjured a living glass serpent – the bottle’s body warped and buckled.

Longbottom’s attempt was effortless – something metallic protruded from the glass.

Pansy produced something elegant – The lower half clouded to a sickly grey.

My father – the object shuddered.

Draco forced more magic into it. That was the moment the transformation failed. The bottle collapsed into an ugly hybrid of half‑glass, half‑metal forms: one warped edge, an unfinished protrusion, a body that seemed to be attempting three different shapes at once. Draco lowered his hand. The fire cracked sharply in the silence. Professor Riddle looked at the object for a long, assessing moment.

“Alas,” he finally said.

Draco’s jaw tightened.

“A disappointing outcome.”

There was no ridicule in Riddle’s voice, which somehow made the words land harder. He regarded Draco with the detached concentration he might have given a damaged magical artefact.

“Mr Malfoy… magic cannot converge when intent is polluted by thoughts of vanity and desperation. You attempted to impress rather than transform.”

Draco stared at the malformed object.

“That is why you failed.”

He nodded stiffly. Riddle clasped his hands behind his back.

“There is ability here, Draco.”

Draco looked up.

“But it is mired in your ego.”

Harry dropped his gaze to the floor. Pansy coughed into her hand. Riddle was not joking. “You will improve when you have learned to quiet your mind. But that is something I cannot teach. It is a discipline that depends entirely on you. Now please, be seated.”

Draco returned to his chair. Nobody laughed. The ruined object sat on the stone between them, and Hermione had the uncomfortable sense that Riddle had somehow made Draco’s entire inner life visible.

I want to read the tears of darkness but I can't find the story anywhere anybody has it downloaded please 🥺 can you share the link

So I have read fics where people bring up the rise of cameras in public places and how that might be an issue for the Statue of Secrecy.

I just had the thought that given what AI can do now in the late 2020s, that would actually make it easier for Ministries around the world to brush off magic in the muggle world. They just have to say that it is AI and everyone shrugs and moves on.

Compared to before when the rise of the cell phone, and later cameras on said phones greatly increased the odds of magic being captured on film in the muggle world.

PART 1: THE SCRIPTORIUM LESSON (Part 1) : r/HPfanfiction

PART 2: THE SCRIPTORIUM LESSON (Part 2) : r/HPfanfiction

“Everyone, please be seated.”

As the six students made their way to the seats around the stone table, Professor Riddle reached into one of his pockets and withdrew a small brass cube, roughly the size of a plum.

“Tonight we shall attempt something a bit more interesting than what your ordinary syllabus permits.”

Draco leaned forward, as did Hermione. Riddle gently placed the cube at the centre of the stone table.

“I shall teach you a method of Transfiguration of my own design. It requires neither wand nor spoken incantation.”

As soon as he said those words, every trace of colour had drained from the students’ faces. They stared at Professor Riddle with expressions ranging from alarm to outright dread. Riddle looked quietly delighted by their reactions.

“Why the long faces? You have all performed wandless magic before, have you not?”

“Accidental magic!” blurted Hermione.

“Precisely, Miss Granger.”, Riddle said emphatically. “Which proves the relevant point.”

The professor then began circling the table, hands clasped behind his back.

“A wand channels and directs magic. An incantation assists in imposing order through intention. But neither produces the magic itself. Strip them away, and one discovers how much control truly belongs to the witch or wizard.” His gaze settled upon Hermione. “Miss Granger.” Her stomach dropped. “It is my understanding that you possess a natural affinity to Transfiguration. You go first.” Hermione rose with a jolt. “Please be so kind as to transfigure this brass cube into something animated.” Hermione glanced at him with a look of timid apprehension.

“W-with no wand?”

Riddle gave her a disapproving look. She wisely decided not to ask about the incantation. Hermione then gathered her spirits and lifted her right hand over the brass cube. For several long seconds, nothing happened. The other students faded from her awareness as she focused on the cube’s mass and geometry. She recalled passages from her usual Transfiguration texts, whilst simultaneously remembering Riddle’s addendums on transitional structure. She tried to feel for the magic rather than merely think about it.

The cube then slowly began to tremble beneath the pressure of her raw, unfiltered magic. Hermione’s breath shortened. The brass corners softened at first, then the entire shape loosened, flowing inward as though it were melting. A narrow beak pushed free from the reshaping mass, as chaos yielded to her will. Two delicate wings then unfurled from either side, feathers overlapping with astonishing intricacy, glistening in the warm firelight.

A bird! It gave one mechanical twitch, stretched its wings, and began to fly. Pansy gasped. Harry ducked as the creature swept over his head, circling beneath the vaulted ceiling, gleaming each time it crossed the firelight, before finally descending and perching itself neatly onto the back of Professor Riddle’s chair. Hermione then lowered her hand. Riddle approached the bird, staring at it intently, and for a brief moment his expression shifted. Behind his eyes you could see a glint of amazement - an almost possessive satisfaction at seeing a difficult piece of magic executed well. Then the familiar composure returned.

“A worthy facsimile of my silver sparrows, well done Miss Granger.”

A succinct laude. Hermione had received far more effusive praise from other teachers, yet somehow Professor Riddle’s rare approval carried much greater weight.

“You see?” said Riddle. “There’s no need for tools or incantations to channel magic. With a bit of effort and dedication, you can control it independently. Miss Granger, please return to your seat.”

Hermione could scarcely believe what had just happened. She slipped quietly back into her seat, her gaze still fixed on the brass bird she had conjured with nothing but the sheer force of her own magical will. Riddle then looked at the others.

“An impressive display, but it can be matched.”

With a casual wave of his hand, he transfigured the bird back into an inert brass cube, which plopped onto his chair with a dull thud. “Accio!” The cube shot neatly into his palm, and he gently placed it once more at the centre of the table.

“Who wishes to go next?” Riddle asked.

He waited for someone to volunteer, and Harry became increasingly aware that the professor’s gaze had settled on him.

“What about you, Mr Potter?”

Harry sighed audibly and stood up.

“No need to be intimidated, Mr Potter. Did you know that your grandfather, Fleamont, was one of my colleagues back in my old school days? He excelled at potions. Surely you must have inherited some of his daring and magical skill? Please step forward.”

Harry was not entirely sure what his grandfather had to do with anything, but something in Professor Riddle’s expression suggested that family legacy, to him, was less a compliment and more an expectation - an obligation to greatness.

Harry clenched his teeth and stepped toward the brass cube, hovering his right hand above it. His magic answered far more quickly than Hermione’s, yet it seemed to have no idea what it was answering. The cube jerked violently as a thin brass tendril protruded from one side and quickly vanished. Another tendril emerged moments later. Harry tried to force its shape into something coherent, but it only shuddered harder. The second tendril then collapsed back into the cube, and it became unmistakably clear that Harry was struggling.

Riddle stepped closer and murmured into his ear: “Do not think of the result, Mr Potter.” Harry gritted his teeth. “Imagine instead the flow of magic through the cube. Like a gale whistling through the branches of a great tree.”

The mental image clicked something into place. Harry stopped trying to picture an animal. He stopped thinking about Hermione’s bird. He stopped thinking about Draco and the others watching, or about Riddle judging every twitch of metal beneath his hand. Instead, he focused on the movement of magic through the cube’s atomic lattice, altering its structure with every ripple, like a pebble dropped into still water. He had only to guide those ripples with his will, and the transfiguration would manifest.

Something began to push through and around the object. The cube stretched and elongated, and a narrow head forced its way free. Then a body - scaly and coiled. The brass brightened and lost its opacity, becoming translucent molten‑looking glass pierced by a faint golden light at its heart. As the glass serpent lifted its head, Harry felt a sharp thrill of triumph. Then it launched itself at Neville.

Everything happened all at once. Neville yelped, Hermione half rose, and Pansy cried out. Riddle moved with uncanny speed, raising one hand toward the serpent, his voice slipping into a low, disturbing hiss.

“Ssssaaaai haaaassssss ieeeeeeeth!”

The serpent froze in mid-air. No spell had been cast and wand had been drawn - the creature simply obeyed. For one extraordinary moment it hung there, inches away from Neville’s face. Its luminous body curved into a striking arc, whilst every student stared at Professor Riddle in stunned silence. They had heard the stories. Everyone knew of his descent from Salazar Slytherin. Everyone knew that he could speak to snakes, but none of them had ever witnessed it. Parseltongue flowed from him with terrifying naturalness: fluid and without the slightest hesitation.

Riddle seemed entirely unaware of their astonishment, however. He was instead staring at Harry’s conjured serpent, fascination gleaming in his eyes. With a relaxed movement of one hand, he folded the creature back upon itself until it settled into a flawless glass goblet on the table. Then he looked at Harry with a smirk.

“Not Slytherin, eh, Mr Potter? It seems the Sorting Hat knew you better than you know yourself.”

Harry’s face grew hot, mortified that he had nearly sent a glass serpent into Neville’s skull. Riddle tapped the goblet lightly.

“You succeeded in your transfiguration, Mr Potter, however you lost control of the animated construct. Sloppy. But with practice and dedication you will master it. Now please, return to your seat.”

Harry returned to his place with the uncomfortable sensation of having been simultaneously criticised and complimented more thoroughly than ever before. The Slytherins were looking at him differently now - less dismissive. Neville, having narrowly avoided a glass serpent to the face, seemed relieved when Riddle finally stopped discussing Harry’s attempt. His relief lasted only a few seconds.

“Mr Longbottom,” said Professor Riddle.

Neville froze.

“Your turn.”

In many fics, Harry ends up creating either items or company that brings something new to the wizarding world. The most common is Harry selling the charmed mirrors his father and Sirius used.

What is the most creative company/service/item that Harry brings to the wizarding world that you have read? I personally love the dark magic detector lamp him and Hermione invent in “with you by my side” by HermiHugs and the memory projector Harry creates in Thrown Back by ProfessorQuill.

Figur3d I'd start asking around because I've went through an embarrassing amount of my fanfiction history and can't find it. Anyone know of a fanfic, fleurmione, they date in 4th year and then when they split hermione enchants two pieces of paper so they can write to each other once a month???? The last chapter i remember was just after malfoy manor's events

To my Draco and Slytherin girlies…

“Almost yours” a love triangle harry potter fanfic between draco malfoy and mattheo riddle (fanon character)

𝙎𝙒𝙀𝙀𝙏 𝙏𝙀𝙈𝙋𝙏𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙎 & 𝘼𝙉𝘾𝙄𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙎𝙀𝘾𝙍𝙀𝙏𝙎

some promises are whispered in quiet library corners, while others are sealed beneath cold snow. Catherine Lestrange finds herself caught between them, with two boys pulling her in opposite directions and a past that refuses to stay buried.

🗝️ : caught between the boy who holds her hand and the boy who won't let go.

𝙖 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙤𝙮 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙤 𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙡𝙚

On Ao3 and wattpad by cathlestrange !! Please check it out xx 🤭

Hello it my first time joining a subreddit and its cuz I'm getting desperate to find a fic I read.

• It was a soulmate au with harry/tom in ao3
• I think lupin/sirius was a pairing but idk if the author tagged it
• It was set in the triwizard tournament
• Only harry and fleur were part of the tournament, cedric and krum graduated
• Harry wasn't close to ron, but he was close to theo
• It had a scene where theo and hermione had a debate on how wizarding culture was being erased in the school to accomodate for muggleborns, and how wizarding history was being censored by the school
• Harry can talk to tom while asleep, harry knows tom is his soulmate but tom doesn't know that harry is his.
• Dumbledore and harry aren't on good terms, harry doesn't like dumbledore, I don't remember why tho, I believe it's cuz harry thinks dumbledore is a scheming and shady guy but I'm not sure
• If I remember correctly it was an unfinished fic, it had around 20 chapters

I think the author set the fic to private but this is only a theory of mine, im still not sure if this really is the case. I remember reading it but idk if i was logged in my ao3 account or not

Can you guys recommend a draco x female oc that follows the original plot like first year to 7th year to 19 years later​ something like that, ​ or something similar to "Wish upon a star" by Emekasign? 🥹🙏🙏 (or one of the marauders x female oc(no Peter Pettigrew​​​ pls) or Regulus x female oc??)

“Tools and incantations are not necessary to channel magic. With concerted effort and disciplined willpower, a witch or wizard may learn to control it independently.”
- T. M. Riddle, “On the Discipline of Magical Intent”

The silver sparrow was watching Hermione sleep.

She gradually became aware of it, as one does of a dream dissolving. At first it was only a faint glimmer perched atop her bedframe, no more than a trickle of dawnlight. But as the sun climbed, its rays pierced the red velvet curtains of the Gryffindor common room windows, striking the tiny creature and making it blaze with a warm, reddish glow. The brightness pricked at Hermione’s eyelids until she blinked awake.

Two beady eyes stared back at her from the wooden rail overhead. Hermione slowly grabbed her wand from the bedside table and inched closer. The bird tilted its head, as though mildly curious about her reaction. It was no larger than a hatchling, and fashioned entirely from silver. Each minute feather gleamed with the lustre of polished sterling, overlapping the next with jeweller’s precision. And yet the little creature breathed. Its tiny breast rose and fell; its claws tightened delicately around the rail. Hermione stared at it, her mind still fuzzy from last night’s deep sleep, until realisation struck with a jolt. She knew what it was! Everyone at Hogwarts knew what the silver birds meant.

Stories about Professor Riddle’s invitations had circulated for generations, accumulating embellishment and nonsense in the way all good Hogwarts rumours do. Some students claimed the birds appeared only to those capable of performing seventh‑year magic before their O.W.L.s. Others insisted they could slip through walls, locked trunks, and even the protective curtains around dormitory beds. A particularly excitable second‑year student had once told Hermione that the birds attacked anyone foolish enough to open a letter meant for somebody else.

Hermione had previously dismissed such tales as utter nonsense. Yet here she was, confronted with the undeniable reality of a silver bird perched atop her bedside, waiting, unmistakeably, for her. The sparrow regarded her with patience; its tiny metal head tilted as though encouraging her to hurry. Hermione pushed aside her blankets and extended her hand. The creature stepped onto her palm. It was unexpectedly cold, like moonlight made solid. In the warmth of her palm, the bird began to change. Its wings flattened and widened beneath her fingers; its breast folded inward with a soft metallic sigh. Feathers melted into flowing lines of mercury‑bright ink, shimmering and shifting as though alive. Within seconds the creature had collapsed into a single object: a thick black parchment envelope with edges bordering narrow gleams of silver. Her name was written across the front. The handwriting was narrow and elegant, each stroke placed with deliberate, surgical precision. Her heart pounded with anticipation as she broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The message inside consisted of just three lines:

“Your presence is required at eight o’clock this evening, near the archway bordering the Slytherin dungeons. Come alone. Bring only your wand.”

There was neither an explanation nor a hint of purpose. Only the stark instruction, followed by a signature.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle”

The final stroke of his surname swept outward, then curled back upon itself in the unmistakable shape of a serpent, as though the ink itself remembered to whom it belonged. Hermione read the letter once. Then again. Then twice more, slower each time. By breakfast she had hidden it safely between two advanced Transfiguration volumes in her trunk, although she soon discovered that behaving normally was quite impossible. Harry noticed before she had finished her porridge.

“You got one too, didn’t you?”

Hermione froze. Harry’s expression hovered somewhere between excitement and dread. Neville, sitting opposite, looked up sharply. For half a second all three of them simply stared at one another. Then Neville whispered, barely audibly.

“Silver bird?”

Hermione stared at him.

“You too?”

Neville nodded, looking faintly queasy. The odd thing was that by supper they had learned absolutely nothing more. Harry had attempted to pry information from several Slytherins during Charms class, receiving only blank stares and looks of contemptuous indifference. Hermione had spent most of her lunch break wondering whether she had imagined the entire incident. Neville had spent most of his lunch break looking as though he desperately hoped he had.

Two minutes before eight o’clock that evening, the three Gryffindors arrived at the seldom‑used corridor near the archway to the dungeons, and discovered that they were not alone. Draco Malfoy stood against one wall with Pansy Parkinson beside him, both wearing expressions of determined unsurprise, as though they had been expecting this moment all term. Luna Lovegood was also there, gazing serenely at a damp patch on the ceiling, as if it were the most fascinating thing in the castle. There was little time for pleasantries, however. Professor Riddle appeared at the far end of the corridor at the exact moment the clock struck eight, and conversation died instantly. Riddle possessed the peculiar ability of silencing groups of students without ever seeming to notice they had been speaking. It was not exactly intimidation, but rather the natural consequence of his presence, which demanded attention the way fire demands oxygen.

He was nearing the age of seventy, though there was hardly any frailty about him. Tall and gaunt, he carried himself with a dignity that had only sharpened with age. His face was finely cut and his long dark hair was now generously threaded with white at the temples. His bright green eyes bore the piercing look of steadfast determination. Age had not softened him, it had refined him. Every unnecessary gesture seemed to have been stripped away over the years, leaving only a man of unnerving economy: precise movement, precise speech, and precise attention.

His reputation most certainly did not encourage informality. In the early years of his career at Hogwarts he had taught Potions for a decade, before moving to Defence Against the Dark Arts - a post he had held for so long that most students could not imagine anyone else occupying it. For just as long, he served as the Head of Slytherin House. Beyond the walls of Hogwarts he was known as Professor Riddle the Experimentalist, Professor Riddle the Theoretician, and Professor Riddle whose research appeared in standard Auror training manuals, and whose dauntingly difficult books had caused generations of NEWT students to question their life choices. Hermione owned three of those books, although she could only understand one and a half.

The Ministry had attempted, repeatedly and with increasing desperation, to lure him into public office, however Riddle had deflected their requests on every single occasion. The most widely accepted explanation, one that Hermione suspects had originated with Professor McGonagall, was that Riddle regarded Ministry politics as “a particularly tedious branch of the Dark Arts.”

Tonight he greeted the six assembled students with a brief inclination of his head:

“Good evening, students. Please follow me.”

I remember it was a one-shot on AO3; Harry had a twin who was a Squib—something only discovered when the acceptance letter didn't arrive. At the end of the chapter, it’s revealed that Harry was adopted by the Lestranges.

I just read the fic and can't seem to find it again. It's in the perspective of a young muggle woman living in the town of Ottery St and works in the pub. Its set post war with a grieving george and her noticing his coming and goings before they have a relationship. It's not really romantic. It reminds me of some of the other muggle one-shot I've read of the person realizing what how isolated they are once married to a magical person.

PART 1: THE SCRIPTORIUM LESSON (Part 1) : r/HPfanfiction

Professor Riddle turned and walked away. They followed. He led them farther beneath Hogwarts than they had ever ventured. The familiar dungeon corridors soon gave way to narrower passages where the stone grew darker, the air colder, and the torches fewer and farther in between. At last, he stopped before a blank stretch of wall. Harry glanced at Hermione. Hermione shrugged. Riddle placed his palm against the masonry and something began to shift beneath it. A serpent slid out of the brickwork - its carved head rising beneath his fingers as though waking from centuries of sleep. A second serpent emerged, then a third; their stone bodies winding around one another until an archway took shape where no doorway had existed moments prior. A low, grinding rumble echoed through the corridor as the wall withdrew and warm amber light spilled outward. No one spoke. The chamber beyond was much older than any classroom they had ever seen.

Great stone pillars climbed toward a vaulted ceiling half‑lost in shadow, serpent engravings coiling around their bases and disappearing among inscriptions too ancient to decipher at a glance. Bookshelves had been carved directly into the stone walls and filled so completely that parchment and leather seemed to have fused with the architecture itself. Ancient manuscripts rested inside crystal vitrines, and chained tomes occupied entire shelves. Instruments of brass, silver, bone, and lacquered wood gleamed from alcoves between the books, each one humming faintly with purpose.

Yet the room possessed none of the clammy severity associated with the lower dungeons. A broad fireplace burned along one of the lateral walls, filling the chamber with warmth and the comforting scent of crackling firewood. Deep, sumptuous chairs upholstered in black leather tapestry stood nearby. Silver enchanted lamps floated lazily above long worktables, casting soft pools of light onto them. At the room’s centre stood a monolithic circular table of grey stone; its surface marked by centuries of scratches and ink stains. On a smaller table beside the fire rested a silver tea service. Beside it lay a large crystal tray piled to the brim with delicate cakes, crunchy biscuits, fresh fruit, and crystallised pineapple.

Luna could barely contain her excitement. Draco and Pansy, remembering themselves, attempted expressions of cool indifference, as though secret thousand‑year‑old magical libraries were something they encountered every day. Harry and Neville were completely awestruck. Riddle waited until all six students had stepped inside. Then the wall sealed behind them with a soft, final whisper of stone.

“Welcome!” he said, “to my ancestor’s Scriptorium.”

The effect on Draco was almost comical. His spine straightened at once, as though someone had yanked an invisible cord. Riddle’s gaze travelled slowly around the group, resting for a fraction longer on each student than was comfortable. “I trust you appreciate the gravitas of being in this room. Very few students have entered it across these many years… Fewer still have been invited here for private instruction.” Harry looked at Hermione. She knew exactly what he was thinking: Three Gryffindors? In Salazar Slytherin’s secret Scriptorium?

Riddle continued.

“Your presence here indicates that I have observed in each of you an unusual degree of magical potential. Do not mistake that observation for praise, however. Potential is common enough. Fulfilled potential is considerably rarer.” His gaze settled briefly upon Draco. “It is the latter which interests me.” Then, as though he had not just made all six of them feel like they were sitting an examination before the lesson had even begun, Riddle gestured lightly toward the tea table.

“But first, tea. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

No one dared to move first. Luna did. She picked a raspberry jam cupcake from the tea tray and drifted into one of the leather chairs near the fire with serene delight. The others followed suite, albeit more cautiously, helping themselves to refreshments along the way. Professor Riddle poured himself a generous helping of tea in a brilliant white ceramic cup and placed two pieces of crystallised pineapple neatly on his saucer. He then gathered his robe and sat opposite the students, gazing at them with a look of conniving expectancy. After a short while, it was Harry who finally voiced the question which had been festering in everyone’s heads:

“Professor… is this the Slug Club?”

Draco shot him a contemptuous look, as though the answer were obvious, though his expression suggested he had been wondering the same thing. Riddle lowered his teacup.

“It is.”

He took another sip; his gaze drifting toward the fire. Above it hung a large portrait of Horace Slughorn.

“Professor Horace Slughorn began the tradition long before I was a student at Hogwarts. He had an eye for talent…”

Riddle selected another piece of pineapple from his saucer.

“Although occasionally his vision was clouded by prominent surnames.”

Pansy smothered a laugh. Riddle’s expression did not flicker. He continued.

“I was one of his most favoured pupils, you see. Years later, after he retired, I succeeded him as Head of Slytherin House and elected to continue the tradition of his Club.”

He glanced around at them.

“My principles differ slightly from my former mentor’s, however.”

Riddle took another sip from his teacup before continuing.

“Exceptional students benefit from being exposed to exceptional peers, and magic beyond the ordinary curriculum.”

Hermione found herself leaning forward. Riddle continued.

“I have, however, revised Professor Slughorn’s admissions policy.”

There was something very dry in his tone now.

“Influential relatives are no longer sufficient for qualification.”

Harry looked immediately at Draco. Draco noticed. Hermione kicked Harry under the table before he could smirk. Riddle continued as though nothing at all had occurred.

“House loyalty is similarly insufficient. And pureblood status, although not entirely without merit, is often times a poor substitute for ability.”

His eyes firmly rested on Hermione, narrowing slightly with a mixture of expectation and curiosity. Then he continued.

“If extraordinary magic appears somewhere inconvenient, it is still extraordinary magic.”

Hermione understood perfectly. Coming from Professor Riddle, a Slytherin traditionalist who made no secret of his pride in old wizarding families, it was perhaps the closest thing to a declaration of principle she was ever likely to hear. As the tea break neared its end, Professor Riddle placed his empty cup on the table and tapped it twice in quick succession, producing a pleasant chiming sound.

“Now then,” he said, “allow me to give you a tour of the Scriptorium.”

He rose from his chair, arranging his black cloak and emerald‑green tie with habitual precision.

For the first time, Hermione saw Professor Riddle surrounded entirely by things he valued. And whilst his demeanour was not warmer, he was visibly more alive than before. His stride gained a subtle, eager gait as he moved toward a shelf to the right. His pale hand lingered over glass cases containing ancient manuscripts. When he explained an instrument capable of measuring fluctuations in magical intent before spellcasting, his voice quickened almost imperceptibly. He then showed them a collection of pre‑Ministry defensive devices, fragments of experimental counter‑curses, as well as several artefacts he had recovered and restored himself. Hermione was practically salivating over the artefacts, unsure which one to inspect first. She stopped abruptly before one of the glass cases. Inside lay an old book bound in faded brown leather.

“Professor?” said Hermione.

Riddle turned. Hermione stepped closer, scarcely believing her eyes.

“Is that an original De Structura Mutationis?”

“Yes.” said Riddle.

“But there are only three surviving copies.” said Hermione.

“Four.” said Riddle.

Hermione looked at him. Professor Riddle winked. Of course, he had the fourth!

“A rare find indeed, Miss Granger. Although do keep in mind, that academic knowledge cannot be improved by rehearsing obsolete books.”

“Yes, Professor.” Said Hermione.

Harry rolled his eyes, knowing that Hermione had just mentally added the title to her private catalogue of books she intended to read before she died.

They moved on.

Neville had fallen behind. He stood before a cabinet of preserved magical plants, frowning at a shrivelled specimen suspended beneath a glass bauble.

“P-Professor?” said Neville. The hesitation in his voice made Riddle turn.

“I think this label might be wrong.” Neville pointed.

Draco exhaled sharply through his nose with a quiet scoff of disapproval. Riddle ignored him.

“And why would it be wrong, Mr Longbottom?” he asked.

Neville swallowed, but once he started speaking, the nervousness began to slip away from his mind like water.

“Well, the specimen is labelled Mediterranean, but the wrinkled veining along the leaves, and the unusual thickening at the root suggests it’s a Carpathian variety.”

Professor Riddle hunched over to examine it more closely. The silence stretched long enough for Neville to begin looking nervous again. Then the professor lifted one finger and corrected the label with a small flick of magic. “Well spotted, Mr Longbottom. Ten points to Gryffindor.” Neville’s face lit up. Professor Riddle rarely gave house points, and rarer still to students from other houses. He felt as though he had accomplished an impossible task.

Luna, meanwhile, seemed far more interested in the room itself than its contents. She spent much of the tour trailing her fingertips close to the serpentine carvings without quite touching them. At last she stopped beside one pillar.

“Professor Riddle?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Lovegood?”

“Does the Scriptorium remember the people who enter it?”

Riddle glanced at the pillar, then back at Luna.

“That it does, Miss Lovegood.”

Luna smiled. “I thought it did.”

Hermione had no idea whether Luna had just asked an extraordinarily perceptive magical question or an extraordinarily Luna‑ish one. She suspected the two were not mutually exclusive. At the far end of the chamber stood an old, ancient-looking desk. Unlike the crowded worktables surrounding it, this one had been left entirely bare. Riddle stopped beside it.

“This belonged to Salazar Slytherin.”

The atmosphere shifted. Even Harry felt it. There was a hint of pride in Riddle’s voice. The table was not merely an antique to him, it was his inheritance – his birthright. Yet when his fingers brushed the ancient, darkened wood, his expression remained sombre and thoughtful rather than reverent. “Some of the earliest works on magical concealment, defensive architecture, and enchantment were developed here. Much of it was brilliant.” He paused. “And much of it was not. Salazar was one of the greatest sorcerers of his age, but he was at times - for lack of a better word - misguided.” Hermione looked at him before she could stop herself. Riddle caught the glance; his bright green eyes rested on hers for the briefest of moments. Then, he said: “An idea does not automatically become correct simply because a great historical figure believed it.” Hermione had not dared to ask about Slytherin’s hostility toward Muggle‑borns. She understood from Riddle’s implication that although he held certain prejudices, he valued magical prowess above all else.

“Now then. Enough reminiscing. Shall we begin?”

Riddle slowly walked away from the ancient desk and approached the round stone table in the middle of the Scriptorium. With a single wave of his hand, the tea leftovers had vanished, though the dish of crystallised pineapple floated loyally towards his side, resting near his elbow at arms-length.

Just saw the Order Fest opened up for prompting. It’s a fest centered around the Order of the Phoenix members, both fics and fan art.

https://www.tumblr.com/theorderfest/826141906134286336/prompting-is-now-open

After the raid at the ministry happens Fudge is all too eager to bend over backwards just to get Harry to deal with Volde"thingy" to the point Harry outright asks for political immunity for himself and his friends for all the deatheaters they're about to kill including use of unforgivables. Dumbledor tries to object but get shut up. What follows is Harry, Ron and Hermione with help from Dobby staging a 4 person war against the deatheaters with them dropping like flies. Fudge and Umbridge try to protest this at one point before they're reminded of the deal that was struck with the teens. At one point Hermione even beheads Bellatrix and the dark witch's head is mounted on a pike outside the ministry which the goblins critique as amature work but rather good for a first attempt.

It’s just been a lot of Drarry/Dramione lately (which we love!).

I read Blood and Gold a short while ago and thought it was fantastic, which makes sense given the sheer number of Kudos on AO3.

What are some of your favourite unconventional pairings/fics?

I don't know if there's a issue on wattpad​ or the author deleted their account but i can't find the account of "Emekasign" because i've been searching for it on wattpad but i can't find it, it's either showing that the users not found or something but then i search on google if wattpad deletes inactive accounts and it's a yes but you have to wait 5 years to get your account deleted or what ,but it's just been 3 years that the account is inactive on wattpad, i'm really sad​ because their stories is amazing i reread them so many times especially the story "Wish upon a star" ,it is the first story that i read from their account and i mean​ they have an account on ao3 but it's not complete, it's not the completed story because it has​ many missing chapters from​ wattpad(completed doon yung story)😭😭 i'm sorry if my english is not good it is my second language i hope you understand this post

PS. If the author​​ is reading this plss bring back your account or put the missing chapters on ao3 plss with cherry on top🥹🥹 and continue the story "Run Away"?? 🙏🙏

PSS. Plsss it is the only I need to get through college 🥹🙏🙏

PSSS. ​New to Reddit hope you guys understand my english