A Game of Masks
Hermione’s mind raced as she stood before him, desperately searching for an escape. Her fingers curled tighter around her wand, the only comfort in her hand. The air around her seemed to grow colder with each passing second, the shadows stretching unnaturally long as Tom Riddle closed the space between them. His dark, piercing eyes never wavered, as if he could see into the very core of her.
"You're not just lost, are you?" Riddle's voice was smooth, deceptively calm. It was a tone that suggested he already knew everything, that he held the cards and was merely waiting for her to fold. "I doubt someone like you would get lost in a place like this—alone, in the middle of the night, with that kind of magic at your fingertips."
His gaze flicked to the place where Hermione’s wand was tucked into her sleeve, and the insinuation in his words made her pulse spike. He wasn’t wrong; she had powerful magic—more than enough to defend herself, to fight back if need be. But she couldn’t use it. Not yet. Every spell, every movement, had to be calculated with perfect precision. If she gave anything away, it could be the end of her.
"You’re observant," she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, but she refused to show fear. Don’t react, she reminded herself. Keep him guessing.
"More observant than you might expect," Riddle murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous undertone. "And more interested in you than you could possibly know." He paused, eyes still narrowing as he studied her with unnerving intensity. "You don’t belong here. Not just in time… but in this world." He took another deliberate step forward. "And yet, you’re standing in front of me, hiding secrets that even I am not yet privy to."
Hermione stiffened, but she masked the slight tremor in her hands. His words were too close to the truth. He had no idea how much, but the suspicion in his tone made it clear he would keep pushing, digging until he unearthed every shred of information he could.
"I don’t know what you're talking about," she said, voice cool, even though her insides were in turmoil. She couldn't allow him to see any crack in her composure. "I’m just a woman who took a wrong turn, nothing more."
Tom Riddle tilted his head slightly, as if savouring the tension between them. "A wrong turn?" His lips curved in a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "You don’t look like someone who’s lost, not at all. A woman of your caliber doesn’t just wander. You have purpose. And I’m willing to bet your purpose isn’t just to stand in front of me and act like you're lost in London."
His words were a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at her feet. He was testing her, trying to peel away the layers she had so carefully built around herself. It was a game—a dangerous one—and Hermione knew that if she played it wrong, she would be lost. But if she played it right, if she could keep him uncertain, she might survive.
"Perhaps I just wanted to enjoy the sights," Hermione said with a small shrug, forcing a casual air to her tone. "Is that so hard to believe?"
Riddle didn’t seem convinced. His eyes glimmered with dark amusement as he stepped closer again, his movements calculated and controlled, as if he were measuring her every reaction. There was no rush to him, no sign of impatience—he was playing with her, and he was good at it. He could read people, she knew that much. He was like a predator who savoured the slow pursuit, the way the chase stretched out before the kill.
"You enjoy the sights?" His smile was thin, razor-sharp, and it didn’t reach his eyes. "Do you expect me to believe that? You’re too... precise for that. Everything about you tells me you’ve walked into this moment with purpose. You just haven't decided whether you’ll show your cards yet."
Hermione’s breath hitched ever so slightly. It wasn’t a sign of fear—she wouldn’t give him that—but there was a shift in the air, a subtle tension that only she could feel. This was a game of masks, of deception, and if she made even one wrong move, she could lose everything.
"You assume a lot," Hermione replied evenly, her voice steady, though her thoughts raced faster than she could keep up with. The line between truth and lie was so fine here. She couldn’t afford to let him see through her. "Maybe I don’t feel like playing the game your way."
For the briefest moment, Tom’s eyes flickered—just the slightest hint of a shift in his calculated demeanor. But it was enough. He was intrigued. She had gotten under his skin, just enough for him to stop thinking she was just another clueless stranger. He recognized her as something else now. Something more.
"Very well," he said, his voice smooth, almost pleased with her response. "I’m sure we’ll both enjoy this game, then."
And with that, he backed off slightly, his expression softening to one of studied neutrality. But Hermione knew better than to trust that expression. Beneath it, there was calculation. The wheels in his mind were turning, analyzing her every move. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her as if he were trying to strip her bare, to see everything she was hiding—and he wasn’t going to stop until he succeeded.
"You know," he continued, his voice dropping to a more contemplative tone, "I find it… fascinating. You’re not just out of place in time. You're out of place here, in this world. You don’t feel like you belong in 1947. Not just in the sense of fashion, or mannerisms, but something deeper."
His gaze lingered on her, probing, as if he could sense the magic swirling around her, the deep well of knowledge she carried. The weight of history in her heart, the magic that she had been forced to wield over the years. "I wonder, if I dig deep enough," he mused, a spark of dangerous curiosity igniting in his eyes, "what I might find."
Hermione tensed but forced herself to remain calm. She wasn’t going to let him rattle her. Not now, not when she had no plan, no backup. She would play his game—for now—and keep him at arm’s length. She just had to be smarter than him, faster than him.
She tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to let him see even the slightest crack in her armour. "If you think you can figure me out, Riddle," she said, her voice low but firm, "you’re mistaken."
His lips curled into a smile that wasn’t quite a smile. "Oh, I know I’m not mistaken. I never am."
And with that, he turned away, disappearing back into the shadows, leaving Hermione standing there in the quiet, oppressive stillness of the street. She breathed out slowly, her heart still pounding. The game had just begun, and she had no idea where it would lead. But one thing was certain—Tom Riddle was watching her. And he wasn’t going to let her slip away so easily.