Tangled in Time

Hermione’s life had become a delicate dance, a balancing act between evading Tom Riddle’s insistent scrutiny and trying to find some fragment of information that would lead her back to her own time. Each day felt like it brought her closer to unravelling, closer to a breaking point she wasn’t sure she could handle. Time slipped through her fingers with every passing hour, every failed attempt to uncover the secret that had tethered her to a past that was never meant to be hers. No matter how much she pored over old books or obscure magical texts, no matter how desperately she combed through forgotten archives and whispered inquiries to those who might know more, she couldn’t stop the gnawing sensation that everything she had known—her world, her future—was drifting farther and farther away.

The more she searched for answers, the more she realized how precarious her position truly was. This was an era still reeling from war, a world trying to mend itself from the devastation left in Grindelwald’s wake. But there was something else, something darker, lurking beneath the surface of this already fragile time—a force more insidious, one that coiled itself around her, suffocating and inescapable.

And it wore the face of Tom Riddle.

At first, she had dismissed it as coincidence. The way he would appear just as she was about to leave a room, his gaze lingering on her a second too long. The way his questions always skirted the edges of her secrets, pressing just hard enough to make her uneasy but never enough to warrant outright confrontation. He was a man who observed everything, who left nothing to chance, and Hermione had the chilling realization that she had become the latest subject of his scrutiny.

But then the coincidences became something more.

He was always there. Lurking in the periphery of her life, a shadow that seemed to stretch farther than it should, reaching into moments that should have belonged only to her. He did not just stumble upon her anymore—he sought her out. He was in the places she visited, always waiting, watching with that keen, unsettling curiosity that felt like the edge of a knife pressed against her throat. Sometimes, he wouldn’t even speak; he would merely exist within her space, his presence like a weight she couldn’t shake.

It was suffocating.

At first, she had convinced herself that she could ignore it, that she could withstand the quiet pressure he exerted on her life. But Tom Riddle did not forget, nor did he let go. And now, more than ever, she could feel him tightening his hold, his patience wearing thin.

It had been a quiet evening in a tucked-away café, nestled in a narrow alley in Muggle London, when he had truly forced her to acknowledge it.

She had been sifting through a shelf of books near the back, the dim light casting long shadows against the walls. The smell of aged paper and freshly brewed coffee filled the air, a momentary comfort in a life that had become a labyrinth of uncertainty. And then, without a sound, he was there.

His voice was like silk, slipping between the cracks of her focus before she even had the chance to steel herself.

“Do you always wear that look of quiet determination?”

Hermione’s breath hitched. She turned, pulse quickening as she found him standing just a fraction too close, his presence pressing into her space with an ease that made her stomach twist.

Tom Riddle was a master of controlled menace. He never raised his voice, never showed his hand too quickly—but the weight of his attention was enough to unsettle even the most hardened of minds. And now, that piercing gaze was locked onto her, studying, dissecting.

She forced herself to hold his stare, to swallow down the discomfort curling in her chest. “What do you want, Riddle?” she asked, voice cool, measured.

His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile—something sharper, something dangerous. “I was merely curious,” he said smoothly. “You’re an enigma, Hermione. Most people crumble under pressure, but you…” His eyes flickered, assessing. “You resist. It’s almost admirable.”

A chill ran through her, but she kept her face neutral. “And that bothers you?”

“Oh, no,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he regarded her. “It fascinates me.”

The air between them felt charged, an unspoken battle playing out in the silence.

She wanted to leave. She needed to leave.

But before she could step away, he spoke again, his voice dropping just slightly—enough to make it feel like a secret meant only for her.

“Is it because you’re hiding something, Hermione? Or are you simply a woman of purpose?”

Her stomach twisted into knots. The words weren’t just idle curiosity—they were a challenge. A calculated prod meant to force her into revealing something she wasn’t ready to share. He knew she was different. He knew she didn’t belong. And he was inching closer and closer to tearing down the fragile walls she had built between them.

Hermione forced herself to smile, though it felt brittle on her lips. “I’m just a woman trying to find her way home.”

Tom let the words settle between them, his eyes searching hers as if he could sift through her soul and find the truth buried beneath. And then, after a moment, he exhaled a quiet laugh—low, dark, and far too knowing.

“Home,” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue as if he were tasting it, weighing it. “Yes, I suppose everyone has one.”

Something flickered behind his gaze then—something unreadable. And yet, Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever it was, it was dangerous.

“But tell me,” he continued, voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to leave everything behind? To live in a world of your own making?”

The way he said it made her stomach drop.

This was no simple question.

This was an invitation. A glimpse into the mind of a man who saw the world not as it was, but as it could be—reshaped, remade, bent to his will. And in that moment, as she stared into the abyss of his ambition, she realized something with chilling certainty.

Tom Riddle wasn’t just testing her.

He was unravelling her. Piece by piece.

And worst of all—she could feel herself slipping.

There was a tension now that lay heavy between them, thick and inescapable, an unspoken understanding that neither dared voice. No matter how hard Hermione tried to escape him, no matter how carefully she planned her movements, Tom Riddle was always there, waiting in the shadows of her life like a force of inevitability.

There was no sanctuary in this time—nowhere she could exist without the weight of his presence pressing in on her. He lingered in the periphery of her world, always watching, always calculating.

At first, she had convinced herself it was coincidence. The way he materialized in the libraries she frequented, his long fingers idly flipping through books that barely held his interest. The way his sharp gaze followed her movements with a quiet intensity, as if she were a particularly fascinating puzzle waiting to be solved. But coincidence did not explain the way he always seemed to know precisely where she would be before even she had decided it.

It was calculated.

And worse—it was deliberate.

It wasn’t long before she noticed the subtle ways he tested her.

It started small. A casual remark, a knowing smirk, a question that felt like an intrusion rather than an innocent inquiry. The questions were always pointed, unsettlingly specific. He asked about magic she had never spoken of aloud, about the way she carried herself, the way she thought. It was as though he was peeling back her layers, one by one, with nothing more than careful observation.

And then, one afternoon, he spoke words that sent an unmistakable chill down her spine.

"You’ve got an affinity for Transfiguration, haven’t you?"

The words were so casual, so effortless, yet they cut through the quiet of the library like a blade. Hermione stiffened, her fingers curling tightly around the spine of the book she had been reaching for.

She turned to find him standing just a few feet away, leaning against a nearby shelf, his posture deceptively relaxed.

His dark eyes, however, were anything but.

"The way you move your hands when you concentrate…" He tilted his head, studying her with that unnerving, knowing gaze. "It’s quite remarkable, really."

The comment sent a slow chill down her spine.

Transfiguration had always been second nature to her, an art she had mastered through instinct as much as skill. It was an extension of herself, something deeply personal, something she had never spoken about aloud.

"How do you know that?" she asked, her voice careful, controlled.

Tom only smiled, the curve of his lips slow and deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey.

"Oh, it’s not hard to notice, Hermione. You’re not the average witch, are you?" His voice dipped lower, smooth and coaxing, as if offering a dangerous truth. "Your magic… it’s something more. Something dangerous. Don’t you know that by now?"

And that was the moment she realized that this wasn’t just curiosity. This wasn’t an innocent inquiry into her skills. This was study. This was him gathering information, slowly unravelling her, one question at a time, like a scientist examining a specimen under a microscope. He was probing, testing her defences, seeing how far he could push her before she cracked.

The thought sent a chill down her spine. She had never been more aware of how vulnerable she was.

But the more he watched her, the more she realized something else. Something terrifying.

Tom Riddle was beginning to see her as a challenge. To him, this was a game. And she wasn’t just the pawn in his game—she was the prize. He wanted to know everything about her, and in doing so, he was forcing her to reveal parts of herself she’d never intended to expose.

But worse, much worse, was the way it made her feel. The closer he got to her, the more she realized that he wasn’t the only one fascinated by her. Something about his presence, his cold intelligence, his raw ambition—it was intoxicating. It made her feel alive in ways she didn’t fully understand.

And that, in turn, made her more afraid than anything else.

She needed to get out. She needed to get back to her time before the pull of this strange, twisted reality made her forget everything she had ever known.

But Tom wasn’t going to make that easy.

Every time she thought she had escaped, every time she thought she’d found a way to continue her search for answers, he would be there. Waiting. Watching.

And in the back of her mind, a terrifying thought took root: What if she couldn’t escape him?

It wasn’t just that Tom Riddle was a dangerous wizard. It was that he had become her obsession too. And in a game where he held all the cards, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to resist for much longer.

Time, it seemed, was no longer just slipping through her fingers—it was being controlled by a man who was determined to make her his study, his subject. And in the process, she was starting to wonder whether she would ever truly be free again.