Tangled in Time

Hermione’s heart raced, the steady rhythm of her pulse echoing in her ears as she moved swiftly through the darkened alleyways of this unfamiliar London. The streets were quieter than she had expected, the city’s usual hum muted, as if even the air itself was holding its breath. The cold, damp breeze swept through the narrow passages between the old buildings, carrying with it the scent of coal smoke and something older, a faint tang of rust and decay that seemed to permeate everything. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her, feeling the weight of the situation settle deeper into her chest.

Each step felt too loud, too deliberate, like the very act of moving was a violation of the time she had stumbled into. The buildings around her, worn and scarred by the war, rose like silent sentinels on either side of the alley, their jagged outlines barely visible in the low light. Their windows were dark and uninviting, staring back at her with the cold, lifeless eyes of a city that had borne witness to too much destruction. There were remnants of the war everywhere—the crumbling facades, the boarded-up windows, the occasional, faint smell of smoke still lingering in the air from a fire long extinguished.

She had been expecting something different—something more familiar—but this place, this time, was alien. The cobblestones beneath her feet felt uneven, worn down by years of foot traffic, as though she were walking over memories, each stone holding the echoes of a past she couldn’t quite touch. Every corner, every shadow, seemed to conceal something just beyond her reach, as if the very essence of this era was hidden from view, waiting for her to make a misstep.

But what made her pulse quicken, what made her movements slow to a halt as she rounded a corner, was a feeling she couldn’t shake—a sensation that crept up her spine like an invisible hand, icy and insistent. It was the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

She stopped in her tracks, every muscle in her body tensing, and for a long moment, she stood there, her breath shallow and uneven. She scanned the alley behind her, her eyes darting back and forth, but there was nothing. No sign of movement, no footsteps or distant voices. Yet, the feeling lingered—like a weight pressing against her chest, a quiet, ever-present awareness that she was not alone.

Her fingers twitched towards her wand, still hidden beneath her sleeve, but she fought the instinct to draw it. Drawing attention to herself now would be disastrous. Her grip tightened, but only enough to reassure herself that it was there if she needed it. She forced herself to breathe slowly, trying to calm the rising panic that bubbled in her chest. This was ridiculous. She had faced much worse, after all. Death Eaters, Dark Lords, cursed objects, and dark magic. But something about this felt different—more insidious. It wasn’t just the surroundings. It wasn’t just the unfamiliarity of the world around her.

It was the feeling of being studied, of being observed by someone with the kind of intent that she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t the casual glance of a passerby, nor was it the curiosity of a stranger. No, this was something far more unsettling—something deliberate. A sense that someone, or something, was aware of her in a way that wasn’t just about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It felt personal.

She turned, her eyes darting to the mouth of the alleyway ahead of her. It was just a street, as quiet as the rest, but her instincts screamed that something was wrong. A soft rustling sound caught her attention, barely audible above the beat of her own heart, and she stiffened, trying to identify the source. Was it the wind? Or... something else?

Her gaze shifted, narrowing. No, she wasn’t alone.

A figure stepped from the shadows at the far end of the alley—tall, lean, and impossibly composed. The figure’s features were obscured by the dim light, but there was something about him, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight.

For a moment, Hermione thought it was nothing more than a trick of the light, a shadow that had slipped through the cracks of her perception, or perhaps her mind was simply playing cruel tricks on her. She had been through so much, after all, and the strain of it all could easily blur reality. But then the figure shifted. It wasn’t a trick.

Tom Riddle.

The realization hit her like a sharp jolt, causing her breath to catch in her throat. There, in front of her, was the man who would go on to become the darkest wizard of all time, but in this moment—this time—he was still just a man. A man in his mid-twenties, tall and lean, with features that were so sharply defined they seemed carved from stone. His dark hair, neatly combed, framed his angular face, and his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—glinted in the dim light with a depth of intellect and ambition that both unnerved and captivated her.

The faint, flickering glow of the nearby streetlamps bathed him in a soft, almost ethereal light, highlighting the lines of his face that were both youthful and yet prematurely hardened by the weight of his own hunger for power. This wasn’t the boy she had known at Hogwarts, or the teenage version of him she had read about in the history books. This man—this Riddle—was something else entirely. He stood there like he owned the very air around him, his presence commanding attention even in the darkness of this alley. It was magnetic, suffocating, as if the world itself bowed to his will. He was already a force to be reckoned with, and Hermione felt the coldness of it deep in her bones.

Her hand instinctively tightened around her wand, which was tucked safely beneath her sleeve. But it did little to quell the sudden surge of panic rising in her chest. She hadn’t planned for this. She hadn’t prepared for this. Tom Riddle. She had studied him, read about him, heard the warnings in the wizarding world. But she had never expected to see him in the flesh, standing so close, exuding that air of quiet yet undeniable power. She had never thought she would feel this vulnerable, this exposed, standing alone in an alley with no escape, no idea what his intentions were. What was he capable of now, in this time? She had no way of knowing. The man she was looking at was still a puzzle, still unfinished, but she knew what he would become, and the knowledge of that future made her feel as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing that the fall would be inevitable.

Her pulse hammered in her ears, drowning out everything else, and for the briefest of moments, Hermione considered running. She should run. She should flee as far as possible, as fast as she could, get out of sight before he had any chance to connect her to the present. The timeline—her presence here—was fragile. One slip, one mistake, and it could be ruined.

But her feet felt like they were made of stone, her body frozen as if held in place by an invisible force. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. The stillness of the moment, the way the air seemed to thicken between them, felt almost tangible, as if time itself had bent under the weight of their shared space. The longer she stood there, the more she realized it wasn’t just the overwhelming nature of his presence that held her in place. It was the way his eyes—sharp and calculating—seemed to pierce right through her, stripping her bare in a way no one had ever done before. He wasn’t just looking at her; he was seeing her.

And that was what terrified her most. He knew.

In that long, stretched-out moment of silence, Hermione felt an odd pull in her chest, a sense of inevitability that gnawed at her insides. Every second that passed brought her closer to him, closer to the confrontation she knew was coming. The question wasn’t if he would find her. It was when, and how she would respond.

And then, just as she thought she might implode from the tension, his voice shattered the silence.

"Excuse me," he said, the words coming out smoothly, his voice rich and cold, yet impossibly calm. It was the kind of voice that wrapped itself around you like silk, but with an underlying chill that made your skin prickle. The tone was casual, as if he had all the time in the world, but the way his gaze never left hers—unwavering, almost hungry—sent a shiver down her spine. "Are you lost?"

It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, a probing, a test. Hermione’s mind raced. He knew. There was no other explanation. He could sense something was wrong, something out of place. But what exactly? Did he know she wasn’t from this time? Did he know that she was a threat? Or was this just a simple question, posed with all the careful calm of a man used to getting what he wanted?

Hermione’s mouth went dry, and a chill ran down her spine. Her heartbeat seemed to echo loudly in her ears, each thump a reminder of how close she was to the edge of disaster. She forced herself to breathe, slow and measured, as if doing so could help her regain control over her racing thoughts. Every second in his presence felt like a weight pressing down on her chest, and her mind raced, searching for the right words. This was no time for mistakes.

"I—" she began, her voice cracking before she could stop it. She cleared her throat, pushing the dryness away. "I… I think I’ve taken a wrong turn. I’m looking for…" Her mind scrambled for a reasonable excuse, something that would make sense in this strange, unfamiliar place. She could feel his eyes on her, like a burn on her skin, making every attempt to speak seem impossibly difficult. "I’m just trying to find my way back."

It was a weak response, flimsy and shallow, but it was all she could muster in the face of his unyielding gaze. She had to play this carefully. If she gave him even the slightest clue that something was off, that she was out of place, it would be over. She couldn’t afford to make him suspicious.

But Tom Riddle wasn’t fooled. Of course he wasn’t. He was too clever, too perceptive. He could see through the half-hearted lie as easily as one might slice through butter. He stepped closer, his movements smooth and deliberate, as if the very air around him bent to his will. There was no hurry, no sense of panic in his approach—only an unshakable confidence, a calm assurance that made Hermione’s skin crawl. He was in control here, and she was just a piece in his game.

"How curious," Riddle murmured, his voice almost too soft, as if savouring the moment. He narrowed his eyes, scanning her face with an intensity that sent a cold shiver through her. "A young woman, lost in the streets at this hour… alone. And yet, you don’t quite look like you’re from here. Are you?"

The words were spoken so casually, but they carried the weight of something much deeper. He was testing her, poking and prodding, trying to see how much he could pull from her before she cracked. Hermione could feel her breath hitch in her chest as he closed the gap between them, his steps silent and measured, like a predator sizing up its prey. The distance between them was shrinking, and the tension in the air thickened with every step.

She backed up a step, instinctively trying to put more space between them, but he wasn’t in a rush. He was enjoying this—enjoying the game, the power he had over her in this moment. His presence was overwhelming, and Hermione couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that her every move was being analysed, dissected.

"You’ve travelled far, haven’t you?" he asked, his voice lower now, almost intimate, as if the words were meant for only her. His tone was chilling, as if he already knew the answer, as if he had already decided that she was no ordinary lost traveller. The way he said it wasn’t a question—it was a knowing statement, a fact. It wasn’t curiosity anymore; it was certainty, like he had already pieced together the puzzle of her presence here, and he was just waiting for her to confirm it.

The hairs on the back of Hermione’s neck stood on end. She was trapped, cornered in a way she had never felt before, and the air between them seemed to hum with the weight of his scrutiny. His eyes locked onto hers with unnerving precision, gleaming with an intensity that felt like it was burrowing into her very soul.

How could he possibly know?

But the way he was looking at her—it was as if he could already see the truth. He could sense the dissonance, the difference in her. She didn’t belong here, not in this time, not in this moment.

"What are you running from, I wonder?" His voice was a soft rasp now, and the question hung in the air like a heavy weight, pregnant with meaning. It wasn’t just idle curiosity—it was an accusation, a probing, a way to unearth what was buried deep beneath the surface.

The words wrapped around Hermione like a vice, suffocating her. He wasn’t just asking; he was challenging her, daring her to admit something she hadn’t even acknowledged herself. In that moment, Hermione felt as though he could see through her, see every crack, every weakness she hadn’t even realized she was hiding. Her thoughts scrambled in her head, desperately trying to grasp onto something solid, something that could protect her, but it was no use. She was in the presence of someone far too dangerous, someone who had already begun to peel away the layers of her facade.

His eyes never left hers, glinting with something cold, dark—a curiosity that bordered on obsession. He wasn’t just interested in her as a lost woman in the streets. He was trying to figure out her story, to understand her, to decide if she was worth his time—or a threat he needed to eliminate.

Hermione felt her heart race as she took another step back, but the distance between them remained dangerously small. She could almost feel his breath on her skin now, and the oppressive weight of his gaze made it impossible to think clearly. Every fibre of her being screamed at her to run, to flee from this terrifying man, but her feet were frozen. Her body refused to cooperate, as if it too recognized the danger in staying, yet could not force her to move.

Then came the realization. The cold grip of fear wrapped tighter around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She had made her first mistake.