Whispers in the Dark
The days stretched on in a blur of uncertainty, every moment weighed down by the unspoken agreement she had made with Tom. Hermione had hoped that she could remain distant, detached, that she could use him, keep him at arm's length and work toward her own goal. But Tom was a shadow, and no matter how hard she tried to distance herself, he crept closer and closer into the corners of her life, slipping through the cracks she thought were hidden.
It began subtly, almost imperceptibly. At first, there were small, almost meaningless moments—an unexpected encounter in a narrow alley, a conversation at a café where she least expected it. He would appear without warning, always calm, always composed, like he had been waiting for her, as though he knew she would be there before she did. His presence was uninvited but persistent, a constant hum in the background of her life that she couldn’t quite shake.
His words were always carefully chosen, dipped in sweetness and venom. He never outright threatened her, not in any overt way. No, Tom was far more dangerous than that. He spoke in riddles, half-truths wrapped in layers of honey-laced poison, each word slipping into her mind like a slow-acting toxin. There was always a sense of something left unsaid, some piece of the puzzle that only he had. Every sentence felt like a challenge, an invitation to play a game she didn’t want to be part of, but had no choice but to accept.
“You know, Hermione,” Tom’s voice broke through her thoughts one evening as they sat together in a dimly lit room in the back of a small café, “the world has a funny way of bending to those who understand it. Some of us see the strings that others cannot. It’s all about knowing which thread to pull, isn’t it?”
Hermione’s fingers tightened around the handle of her coffee cup, but she didn’t respond immediately. She knew better than to give in to the urge to challenge him. For now, she was pretending to play along, pretending to care about his words, pretending that the game was still in her hands.
“Sometimes,” she replied slowly, choosing her words carefully, “it’s about knowing which threads to leave alone.”
Tom’s smile was slow, calculated, the kind of smile that made her feel exposed, like he could see through her. “Ah, but isn’t that the real trick, Hermione? Knowing when to leave things alone, and when to seize them. The key is control. The key is understanding the forces that shape us, that guide us.”
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intensifying. “You, more than anyone, should understand that, shouldn’t you? After all, you’ve seen what happens when the wrong forces are set into motion. You know better than most what a small twist in time can do.”
The words sent a chill through her. Time. It always came back to time. She had no choice but to acknowledge the truth in his words—she had crossed a line when she had used the time-turner, and now she was adrift, unsure of how to fix the damage she had caused.
But that was exactly why she had agreed to his deal. To find a way back. To find a way home. To undo the mistakes she had made.
"I know exactly what you're talking about," Hermione said, her voice steady despite the unease that clung to her like a second skin. "But that doesn't mean I have to agree with everything you say."
Tom chuckled softly, the sound sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. “Of course not. You’re far too clever for that. But perhaps you’ll come to realize, in time, that you don’t really have a choice.”
His words lingered in the air, heavy and foreboding, as if they were more than just a casual remark. They felt like a promise, or perhaps a threat, wrapped up in the guise of a simple conversation.
Over the days that followed, Tom’s presence in her life became harder and harder to ignore. He found his way into every conversation, every study session, every quiet moment she had to herself. He would appear at her door, always at the most inopportune times, always knowing exactly what she needed—or wanted—before she did. If she needed information about magic from a certain era, he already had it. If she needed a book on ancient runes, he had the rarest editions ready for her, his smile as calculated as ever.
She tried to convince herself that she was the one in control—that she was using him for her own purposes, that she could manage the situation. But the truth was, she was beginning to lose herself in the games he played. His words, his quiet manipulations, were seeping into her thoughts, twisting her perceptions.
He was too clever, too perceptive. And no matter how hard she tried to keep her guard up, he was always a step ahead. Always just one word away from exposing the cracks she had been hiding.
One night, as they sat together in the library, the firelight casting flickering shadows on the walls, Tom’s voice broke the silence again, low and deliberate.
“You’re a fascinating creature, Hermione,” he said softly. “So much potential. So many secrets, waiting to be uncovered.” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. “But you’re not the only one with secrets. What about yours? What are you hiding, really? What do you fear the most?”
Hermione froze. The words felt like a weight on her chest, pressing down on her, suffocating her. She forced herself to remain calm, to breathe.
“I’m not hiding anything,” she replied, the lie falling from her lips so easily it scared her.
Tom’s smile widened, his gaze never wavering. “Oh, Hermione. We both know that’s not true. But I’m patient. I have time. And eventually, you’ll tell me everything. Everything you’ve worked so hard to bury.”
He stood then, the movement fluid and predatory. "After all, what are the darkest secrets, if not the ones you fear the most?"
Hermione watched him walk away, her heart pounding in her chest. He was right. She was hiding something—something that she was terrified to confront, terrified to let him see. The truth was, she was afraid of what would happen if Tom Riddle ever truly uncovered all of her secrets.
And she was beginning to realize that he already knew more than she was willing to admit.
She wasn’t using him.
Tom Riddle was using her.