Tangled in Time

Hermione’s every step echoed in the narrow streets of London, each footfall a reminder of how much she had lost and how much was slipping from her grasp. The weight of time, and her inability to control it, felt heavier with every passing moment. She had to find a way home—somehow. Time wasn’t just slipping away; it was unravelling, threatening to twist itself into an impossible knot. She couldn’t stay here, in 1947, lost to a past she didn’t belong to. But every attempt to return felt futile, like trying to hold water in her hands. She had no idea how long she’d been here, but every second felt like a fragment of reality slipping further from her reach.

Her mind kept returning to Tom Riddle—the chilling sharpness of his gaze, the slyness of his words. Every encounter with him left her with more questions than answers. He was dangerous, far more dangerous than she had ever expected. The way he observed her, the way he seemed to know just how to push her buttons, how to get under her skin—it was as if he were playing a game, and she was the pawn. His curiosity was unnerving, but it wasn’t just his curiosity that made her wary. It was the cold precision with which he handled everything, the way he calculated every move he made as if he were the one holding all the cards.

But despite her wariness, she couldn’t afford to let him distract her. There were bigger problems at hand. She had a mission: she had to find a way to return home. And yet, every turn she made seemed to lead her back to the same inescapable truth—Tom Riddle was too close. His shadow was always there, watching her every step.

The city around her seemed to be holding its breath, caught between the scars of the war and the fragile hope of a new beginning. It was the kind of atmosphere that made everything feel tense—unsettled. The post-war era had left its mark, both in the Muggle world and the wizarding community. The streets, the buildings, everything felt bruised. There were signs of healing, yes, but they were faint, barely visible to anyone not paying close attention. In the wizarding world, many of its brightest minds were still reeling from the defeat of Grindelwald, and the political and magical landscape was still in flux. There were whispers of dark things to come, but no one could know for certain. No one, perhaps, except Tom Riddle.

Hermione had done what she could to study the era, to learn as much as she could about the magical landscape of this time, but the resources available were limited. The books and journals she needed—texts on time magic, theories about temporal anomalies—were either buried in private collections or simply didn’t exist in this time. The war had fractured magical society, leaving behind a collective scar of fear and suspicion. The scholars she’d sought out had been few, and none had the kind of expertise she needed to understand the time-turner mishap that had brought her here. She needed someone who knew more than the basics—someone who had worked on experimental magic, someone who had access to the kind of knowledge that wasn’t shared with the general public.

That was why she had come to The Golden Quill, a small, inconspicuous bookstore tucked away on the edge of London’s Diagon Alley. It wasn’t much to look at from the outside—a modest building, its windows slightly fogged by the passing years, and a faded sign that hung above the door. But as Hermione stepped inside, the air changed. The scent of old parchment, of time-worn tomes, immediately filled her senses. The shelves that lined the walls were crammed with books, their spines cracked and yellowed with age, some so old that they felt like relics from another era. It was the kind of place where secrets lingered, where whispers of forgotten knowledge could still be found—if one knew where to look.

Her eyes scanned the shelves hungrily. She needed answers. The time-turner had malfunctioned, and now she was stuck in a time she shouldn’t be in. She couldn’t afford to waste time in this strange, unfamiliar version of London. There had to be something here—some reference to time magic, some old journal that might explain what had gone wrong. She didn’t know who in this era could help her, but surely someone had studied the magic of time, the intricacies of the magic that could unravel and twist the very fabric of reality. She couldn’t afford to be picky. She needed information, and this was her best chance.

Her fingers brushed over the spines of books as she moved deeper into the store. There were familiar titles from her own time, books she had read and reread in her search for knowledge, but there was something about the place that felt suffocating. The silence of the shop was thick with centuries of accumulated knowledge, but it also felt like a warning, like she was intruding on something long forgotten. She tried to push the unease down. She had no choice. She had to find something—anything—that could help her get back to her own time.

Then, the door creaked open. Hermione’s body tensed, her heart leaping in her chest. She didn’t need to turn around. She knew exactly who it was. She had felt the subtle shift in the air, the magnetic pull of his presence. Tom Riddle.

“Fancy running into you again,” he said smoothly, his voice a low, silky drawl that sent a chill down her spine. He was here, in this quiet place, where she had hoped to find refuge from the complexities of the world she found herself trapped in. His words were a dark reminder of the game he was playing—a game she hadn’t agreed to, but was already in the thick of.

Hermione’s breath quickened, her pulse racing as she froze, unable to mask the slight panic that curled within her chest. She hadn’t heard him approach, but there was no denying that he was now standing mere feet away from her. She could feel his presence like a shadow against the edges of her mind, suffocating, unyielding. His charisma was inescapable, a quiet but overwhelming force. She didn’t even have to look at him to know that his eyes were on her, studying her every move.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice tight, though she did her best to keep the edge of fear out of it.

Tom’s reply was as smooth as ever. “I could ask you the same question.” His footsteps were almost imperceptible as they echoed softly against the wooden floor. He wasn’t in a hurry. He never was. He stepped beside her with an air of effortless confidence, his gaze sweeping over the shelves for a moment before settling back on her with that unnerving, knowing smile. “I’m just browsing. But you… you seem to be looking for something rather specific.”

Hermione’s heart pounded. She didn’t have to turn around to know that his eyes were on her, seeing through every guard she put up. She could feel it, like an invisible pressure on her chest. She wasn’t the one in control here. He knew it, and deep down, so did she. His presence was a weight she couldn’t escape. She couldn’t let him see how desperate she truly was.

“I’m not looking for anything you need to concern yourself with,” she said, keeping her tone dismissive, even though every instinct screamed at her to run.

Riddle’s lips curled into a smile that was far too knowing, as though he had already won some unspoken victory. “Of course not,” he said, his voice a quiet mockery of politeness. He took another step closer, the space between them growing dangerously narrow. “But I have to admit, your search intrigues me. A woman from out of time, with magic beyond what should be possible for someone in this era…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as they scanned her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “What exactly are you looking for, Miss…?”

“Hermione,” she answered sharply, though she didn’t offer any further information. She felt the familiar weight of her wand hidden in her sleeve, the comforting presence of it, but it felt almost useless against him.

Tom seemed to savour the moment, his gaze still locked on her. “Ah, Hermione. A name with a bit of a mystery to it.” His smile widened, and for the briefest moment, Hermione felt the unease in her gut deepen. She knew what he was doing—he was peeling her apart, layer by layer, until all her defences crumbled. “So, what is it that you’re searching for? Surely a woman like you doesn’t frequent this kind of establishment just to browse?”

The words settled around her like a trap, closing in with every syllable. Hermione held his gaze, refusing to let him see how rattled she was. She needed to remain calm, to keep her composure, even as the tension in the room grew suffocating.

“I’m looking for answers,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm swirling inside her. “Answers to something that doesn’t concern you.”

The look on his face was a mix of amusement and curiosity, but there was something else there, something darker that flickered in his eyes. He took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his presence a suffocating weight against her chest. He wasn’t just intrigued anymore. This wasn’t just about curiosity. This was something more.

"I think it does concern me," Tom Riddle murmured, his voice a slow, deliberate purr, laced with quiet menace. There was an almost imperceptible shift in the air, a subtle change that made Hermione’s heart stutter in her chest. “You’re asking for something you cannot understand, something that may be far beyond your reach. And yet, here you are—still trying, still searching. Don’t you realize? I have the power to help you, Hermione.”

His words weren’t just cryptic riddles anymore. There was an underlying certainty, a chilling promise, woven into the fabric of his tone. It wasn’t the kind of offer that invited acceptance—it was the kind that demanded it. His gaze never wavered from her, his piercing eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. There was no denying the dangerous allure in his words, the way he made her feel both small and important at the same time. He was toying with her, pushing her toward a precipice, daring her to take the leap.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she tried to steady herself, clinging to the words she had rehearsed in her mind for this very moment. No matter how tempting his offer sounded, no matter how much his presence made her feel like she was teetering on the edge of something she couldn’t quite grasp, she knew she couldn’t afford to fall into his trap. Not now. Not ever.

“No, thank you,” she said, the words steady and cold, though they felt like lead in her mouth. She could feel the storm brewing inside her, a whirlwind of fear, frustration, and anger threatening to spill over. But she refused to let it show. She had to stay composed. She had to keep control. "I can handle it on my own."

The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, before Tom responded. His expression didn’t shift—he remained a picture of calm and control. There was no surprise, no offense at her rejection. Instead, he took a small, deliberate step closer to her, closing the distance between them like a predator circling its prey. His eyes, cold and calculating, never left hers. He was studying her, reading her, waiting for the slightest crack in her facade.

“That’s a pity,” he said softly, the words slipping from his lips like honey, sweet but with an underlying sting. “Because I don’t think you can handle it on your own, Hermione. Not anymore. You need help, whether you admit it or not. And I think you’ll find that I’m quite good at giving it.”

Her breath hitched at the subtle implication in his words. His voice was so smooth, so assured, it was as if he were outlining her fate before her very eyes. His proximity was suffocating, his presence overwhelming, and Hermione could feel the edges of her composure beginning to crack under the weight of it. The slightest movement, the subtlest shift in his posture, told her he was already anticipating her response.

But she wasn’t ready to let him see that. She wasn’t going to let him in. Not now, not ever.

"I don’t need you," she bit out, the words sharp and cold, though they trembled slightly on her tongue. She refused to look away from him, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as she could muster. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his presence rattled her. She couldn’t afford to.

Tom’s lips curled into a smile that was more a slow, deliberate unveiling of his teeth than a true expression of amusement. He leaned in just slightly, closing the gap even further, his breath warm against her skin as he whispered in her ear, his voice low and silky.

"You will," he murmured, his words a promise. A warning. "Eventually. We all need someone, Hermione. Even you."

Her skin prickled at his proximity, every nerve in her body screaming to step back, to flee. But she couldn’t. She had nowhere to run. Not from him. Not from the way he seemed to slip inside her mind, unravelling her defences piece by piece. She wanted to shout at him, to demand that he leave her alone, but his voice, his very presence, made her feel like any reaction she gave him would be a victory for him. And that was the last thing she could allow.

Before she could muster any more words, he was already pulling away, his figure moving with a fluid grace, his dark silhouette drifting into the shadows of the bookstore. He didn’t look back as he walked, but Hermione felt the weight of his gaze lingering on her, as if he could still see her in the dim light. She remained frozen for a long moment, every muscle in her body tense, her breath coming in shallow, rapid gasps.

The silence that followed was deafening. It felt as though the entire room was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, something to break the stillness that seemed to settle around her like a thick fog. But nothing did. Nothing except the fading echo of his footsteps as he disappeared into the depths of the shop, leaving her alone with her thoughts—and with the gnawing certainty that the game had only just begun.

Her heart was still pounding in her chest, the sound of it loud in her ears. She could feel the lingering weight of his words, the sting of his presence still sharp in her mind. He hadn’t just threatened her. He hadn’t just offered help. He had planted a seed of doubt in her. He had made her wonder whether she could truly survive on her own, without his help. Without him.

Hermione’s breath hitched again, and she clenched her fists by her sides, determined not to give in to the fear rising within her. No, she couldn’t let him control her, not now, not ever. She had to focus. She had to find a way back to her own time. And she had to do it without him.

But as she turned and looked around the bookstore, the quiet shelves offering no answers, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Tom Riddle was already three steps ahead of her. The game was on. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was already playing.

For now, she had no choice but to keep moving forward—though every step felt like it was leading her deeper into the labyrinth of his manipulation, his control, and his inevitable pull. She would never be free of his shadow. She had no way of knowing whether she could escape it, or if she ever would.