Tangled in Time

Hermione had always known that Tom Riddle was dangerous, that his charm and intellect masked something far darker beneath the surface. She had heard the stories—the whispers of his future, the fear that clung to his name like a shadow, the tales of his cruelty and ambition. But despite her growing unease, despite the hints he had dropped about his intentions, she had never truly seen him as the monster he would become. Until tonight.

It happened in a narrow, dimly lit corridor at the edge of the library, a place where few ventured unless they knew what they were looking for. The stone walls were lined with shelves of ancient, forgotten tomes, their spines cracked with age, their covers gathering dust. Tom had invited her here under the guise of showing her something important—another book, another thread in the web he had woven around her. But as she stepped into the small, almost forgotten alcove, the air felt thicker, charged with a tension she couldn’t quite explain. A deep, almost suffocating silence enveloped her, broken only by the echo of her own footsteps as they reverberated against the stone.

There, in the farthest corner of the room, stood a man—dishevelled, trembling, his face pale. He looked like he had been waiting here for hours, maybe days. Hermione didn’t recognize him at first, but the look of raw fear in his eyes sent a chill through her. He was practically cringing before Tom, like a dog awaiting its master’s punishment, his body cowering as though he were already preparing for the inevitable blow.

“I— I didn’t mean to—” The man stammered, his voice high-pitched with desperation, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably as he wrung them together, as if he were trying to find the right words, to say something that would make all of this go away.

Tom stood before him, tall and imposing, his posture straight, his dark eyes piercing. His expression was cold, unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t speak. He simply observed the man, like a predator sizing up its prey, studying every twitch of his victim's nervous body, every flicker of his fear.

“I told you there would be consequences,” Tom said, his voice deceptively calm, though there was a sharp edge to it that made the air crackle with tension. “And yet, you chose to cross me.”

The man’s eyes darted nervously to Hermione, his panic palpable, as though pleading for her to intervene, to help him, to make sense of what was happening. “Please, I never meant to—” he begged, his voice trembling, his words falling on deaf ears.

“You did mean to,” Tom interrupted, his voice darkening, the words laced with an unmistakable venom. His eyes narrowed, and the subtle menace in his tone was now undeniable. “You betrayed me. And betrayal has consequences, as you well know.”

Hermione felt a tightening in her chest, the familiar pang of panic creeping into her bones. She knew something was coming, something bad. Her pulse quickened, her instincts screaming at her to leave, to run, to flee from this place before it was too late. But she was frozen. Her feet felt glued to the floor, her body refusing to obey her mind. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear her eyes from the unfolding nightmare before her.

Tom’s expression shifted then, and for the first time, Hermione saw something in his eyes that made her stomach churn—a coldness, a hunger, an eagerness. It was the look of someone who didn’t just want to hurt his prey; he wanted to break it, savour it, relish in the fear and the suffering. He took a slow step closer to the man, who recoiled instinctively, his breath coming in shallow gasps as though trying to retreat into himself.

“I gave you a chance,” Tom murmured, his voice almost affectionate, like a lover’s last whisper before the final kiss. His tone was soft, almost soothing, but it carried an undercurrent of something darker, something that made Hermione’s skin crawl. “But you couldn’t keep your place.” His hand twitched, as though in anticipation, as if he were readying himself to strike.

Before Hermione could react, before she could even think to speak, Tom raised his wand. The motion was so swift, so precise, that the man didn’t even have time to scream. The spell wasn’t a typical curse—nothing so simple. No, it was far worse than that. It was something that twisted the air around them, a pulse of dark magic that struck with agonizing force. The energy it released felt oppressive, pressing down on Hermione’s chest, making her stomach churn as if the very air were being sucked out of her lungs.

The man’s body jerked violently, his limbs contorting in unnatural angles as if his very bones were being snapped one by one. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his eyes wide with terror, but no sound escaped. The only sound was the sickening crack of his bones breaking and the hollow, anguished gurgle from his throat. His body shook like a ragdoll caught in the grip of an unseen force, every muscle spasming, every tendon tearing.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering in her chest. She couldn’t look away. She watched, horrified, as the man crumpled to the floor, twitching and writhing, his eyes still wide and staring, frozen in terror. His limbs were twisted beyond recognition, his body a grotesque mockery of life. And yet, somehow, he was still breathing—still clinging to whatever fragile thread of life remained, though it was clear that death had already taken him.

Then, in a final, gruesome motion, he was still. His body lay in a twisted heap on the cold stone floor, lifeless, yet still oozing with the residue of dark magic—black veins of energy snaking across his skin like oil seeping into the earth. The room was silent, save for the faint crackling of the magical residue still hanging in the air, and the soft hiss of Hermione’s own breath, as she struggled to comprehend what had just occurred.

She stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest, the sickening weight of what she had just witnessed pressing down on her like an invisible hand. Her mind couldn’t process the horror—couldn’t fathom how a man who had been pleading for his life just moments ago could now lie lifeless, a casualty of Tom’s wrath. She couldn’t grasp how he could have so easily snuffed out a life, without a second thought, without a shred of remorse. The man had been alive just moments ago—just begging for mercy—and now… now he was nothing more than a corpse, discarded like a broken toy, a mere casualty of Tom’s hunger for power.

Tom’s gaze lingered on the body for a moment, studying it with an almost clinical interest, before he turned slowly, as if the act he had just committed were nothing more than an inconvenience to him. His eyes met Hermione’s, and she felt a shudder run through her, a cold wave of dread washing over her at the sheer emptiness in his stare. It was a look that held no guilt, no remorse, no humanity—just a cold, calculating indifference.

“You see, Hermione,” Tom said softly, his voice carrying that same calmness, as though they had simply been discussing an interesting topic, “this is what happens when someone crosses me.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and her legs felt weak, as though they might give out beneath her. She couldn’t look away from the man’s lifeless form, from the twisted remnants of his life, and she could feel a sickness rising in her throat, threatening to choke her.

Tom raised an eyebrow, almost as if he were amused by her shock. “Is it really such a surprise?” he asked, his tone almost too casual, as if he were explaining something as simple as the weather. “You’ve known, Hermione. Deep down, you’ve always known. Power requires sacrifice. To reshape the world, one must sometimes be willing to break it.”

Hermione’s mind was reeling, the horrific scene she had just witnessed replaying over and over in her mind like an unending nightmare. She shook her head, her chest tightening, the words stumbling from her lips with a rawness that surprised even her. “I didn’t think you were this… this cruel.”

Tom’s smile was thin, sharp—a cold thing that didn’t reach his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, as if the statement amused him. “Cruelty is a matter of perspective, isn’t it? Some might say I’m merely efficient.”

The words struck her like a physical blow. She could barely breathe as the horror of the moment sank deeper into her skin, into her bones. Efficiency. That was how he saw it. But Hermione knew better—she wasn’t fooled by the calm, measured words or the empty, calculated smile. Efficiency didn’t look like that. Efficiency didn’t leave bodies twisted and broken, contorted in grotesque shapes on cold, stone floors. Efficiency didn’t strip the soul from a person, leaving nothing but a hollow shell behind.

Her stomach churned, bile rising in her throat, but it wasn’t just the gruesome scene that made her sick—it was the coldness of his demeanour. The absolute lack of remorse in his eyes. It was as if he saw nothing wrong in what he had done, as if this was simply another step in the grand design he had set for himself. A pawn removed from the board.

She wanted to flee. She wanted to run as fast and as far as she could from him, from this place, from everything he represented. Her feet itched to turn and carry her away from this nightmare, from the darkness that seemed to pour from Tom in waves. But the horrifying realization gripped her like a vice, tightening around her chest with suffocating force. She wasn’t just dealing with a man who sought power—she was dealing with something far worse. A man who was willing to destroy anyone in his path, without hesitation or guilt, to claim that power. And that included her.

Her breathing became shallow, her heartbeat erratic as the walls of the alcove seemed to close in around her. She could still smell the lingering stench of dark magic in the air, the metallic scent of death that hung like a cloud over the room.

“Don’t look so horrified, Hermione,” Tom said, his voice low and soothing, as if trying to calm her, to lull her into a false sense of safety. His words were a dangerous balm, smoothing over the jagged edges of the truth with practiced ease.

His words were like a spell, seeping into her mind, whispering dark promises of a future she had no desire to see. But the chilling truth was that she had already seen it. She had already glimpsed the monster he would become, and the monster who was standing before her now. He wasn’t just someone she had to fear. He was someone who could break her—body, mind, and soul—and he would do it with ease, because he saw her not as an equal, but as a tool. A means to an end.

Tom took a slow, deliberate step toward her, his presence overwhelming, his eyes never leaving hers. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the crushing intensity of it, pressing down on her. He was closing the space between them with every step, his power radiating out in waves. The air seemed to crackle, the temperature rising as he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear.

Hermione’s pulse thundered in her ears, and for the first time in a long time, she truly understood the depth of his words. She had heard him speak of ambition, of power, of reshaping the world, but now she understood the true cost of that vision. He would destroy anyone and anything that stood in his way, and he would do so with a cold, calculating precision. She was no different to him than the man whose life had just been extinguished with a flick of his wrist.

Her body trembled, her skin cold with fear and disgust, but beneath it all, there was something even more terrifying—a sense of helplessness that was spreading through her like a poison. She knew she needed to leave. She couldn’t stay here. Not with him. Not with the man who had just ripped away a life without a second thought, who had twisted the very fabric of existence to suit his desires.

But she also knew something else.

Tom Riddle would never let her go.

No matter how much she tried to escape. No matter how far she ran—he would always find her. He would always bring her back into his orbit, into the darkness that had claimed him long ago. He would never let her slip away from his grasp. Because she wasn’t just a casualty of his ambitions. No, Hermione Granger was something much more valuable to him. She was a prize, a pawn, and, worst of all, a willing participant in the game he was playing.

She had seen the monster now. She had witnessed it in its most raw, brutal form. And the worst part? She realized, with a sinking feeling in her stomach, that it wasn’t just a glimpse. It was a promise. A promise of what Tom would do to get what he wanted, and of what he would do to her if she ever threatened his plans.

And now, the monster had seen her. He knew her every weakness, every hesitation, every flicker of doubt. He had her right where he wanted her, and there was no escaping him.

Hermione stood there, unable to move, her body frozen in place as she absorbed the crushing weight of his presence. She could feel the cruel certainty of his intentions bearing down on her, suffocating her. The air between them seemed to thicken, like the world itself was closing in, pressing in from all sides. Tom’s eyes never wavered, never softened. He saw through her, past her defences, into the very heart of her fears.