Tangled in Time

The days following the gruesome display of power in the library blurred into one another, and Hermione found herself trapped in a haze of dread and unease. The faces of the students she passed in the hallways seemed like distant memories, flickering as if they were part of another world—one she no longer inhabited. She could no longer tell where the real world ended and Tom’s influence began. Every corner she turned felt colder, darker, as if she were slipping deeper into a shadow she could never escape. She could still see the image of the man’s broken body, twisted beyond recognition, his final moments etched in her mind with unbearable clarity. No matter how hard she tried to push those thoughts away, they kept clawing their way back to the forefront of her consciousness, haunting her every step, every breath.

The hollow sound of her boots striking the cold stone floor seemed unnaturally loud, like a constant reminder that she couldn’t outrun the inevitable. Tom’s presence hung over her like a dark cloud, always just beyond her line of sight, but never far enough to make her feel safe. He was everywhere. His eyes, his voice, his carefully constructed words—she couldn’t escape them, no matter how hard she tried. And the worst part? She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Her heart raced as she walked toward the one place she dreaded more than any other—Tom's private quarters. It was a room she had avoided with every ounce of her being, knowing that entering it would be like stepping into the eye of the storm. But there was no avoiding it now. She had been summoned, her name slipping from his lips like a command, and she knew, deep down, there was no excuse she could offer to delay the inevitable.

The door to his room creaked open, and as soon as she stepped inside, the chill hit her like a physical force. The room was just as dark and suffocating as she had imagined—no warmth, no comfort. The only light came from the flickering candles, their weak flames casting long, unnatural shadows that danced along the stone walls. Every corner of the room seemed to close in on her, pressing against her chest, suffocating her. She couldn’t escape the feeling that the air itself was thick with tension, heavy with something she could neither name nor understand.

Tom stood near the fireplace, his back to her, but she could feel his awareness, as if every inch of the room was an extension of his senses. There was no welcoming gesture, no invitation to sit or speak. Just the coldness of his presence filling the space between them. He didn’t move when she entered, didn’t acknowledge her, but the stillness was more unsettling than any action could have been. He was watching her. She could feel his eyes on her, even if they were not yet visible. The silence stretched, taut and unyielding, wrapping around her like a noose.

Finally, he spoke, and the words cut through the silence like a knife. His voice was low, almost too calm—deadly calm. “Sit.”

The command was simple, but it held a weight that was impossible to ignore. There was no question in his tone, no room for hesitation. It was a statement of authority, a demand that she obey without question. Hermione’s breath hitched, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. She fought the instinct to resist, but her body moved on its own accord, compelled by the strength of his presence. She sank into the chair near the hearth, her legs feeling weak beneath her, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear. Her gaze remained fixed on his back, unwilling to look away, unwilling to show any sign of weakness. But inside, a storm was raging. She had no idea what he wanted from her, but deep down, she knew it wasn’t going to be anything good. And that terrified her more than anything.

The silence returned, heavier this time, thick with the promise of something dark. The tension between them crackled in the air, wrapping itself around her, making her feel as though she were trapped in a cage of her own mind. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a reminder that she was at his mercy, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold onto the pretense of control.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Tom turned.

When he faced her, his expression was calm, almost too composed, as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time. His eyes, dark and unreadable, held a glint—an unsettling gleam—that made her pulse quicken in response. It was a dangerous look, one that held no warmth, no empathy. Just a cold calculation, as if he were assessing her like a scientist examining a specimen under a microscope. He looked at her with the kind of intensity that made her feel small, insignificant, like a piece of furniture in the room that simply existed to be observed.

The way he stood—slightly poised, his posture unnaturally perfect—only added to the sense that he was in complete control. His presence filled the room, suffocating, overwhelming. Every movement, every gesture seemed deliberate, planned. He was a predator, and she was his prey.

“I’ve been patient with you, Hermione,” Tom’s voice was smooth, almost too calm, a soft rumble that seemed to echo through the darkened room. “I’ve given you time. Time to think. Time to understand. But now… I believe the time for decisions has come.”

Her breath caught in her throat, the weight of his words pressing down on her chest. Her mind raced, but she couldn’t gather her thoughts fast enough to counter what was coming. She knew this wasn’t going to be a simple conversation. The unease that had been growing inside her for days was now a thick, suffocating fog in her chest. She couldn’t see a way out anymore.

His footsteps were measured, deliberate as he stepped closer. She could hear the crackling fire in the corner, the flames casting eerie shadows across his sharp features. The dim light illuminated his face, accentuating the cool, calculating expression he wore like a mask, yet his eyes… they were alive with something darker. Something that had been slowly creeping in over time.

He stopped just in front of her, and she instinctively leaned back, though she quickly reminded herself to remain still. His gaze never left her face, pinning her in place, as if she were trapped under the weight of it.

“You have a choice to make,” he continued, his voice lowering just enough to make her feel like he was whispering directly to her soul. “A simple one, but one that will shape everything from here on out.”

The words hung in the air, thick with the implication that this choice was more than just an option. It was a decision that would change the very fabric of her existence, and somehow, deep down, she already knew it wasn’t truly a choice at all.

He took another step closer, and the faint heat from the fire reached her skin, but it didn’t comfort her. It only made the air around her feel heavier, more oppressive. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, louder than the crackling fire. “You can stay,” he said, each word carefully measured, like a man making an offer he knew could not be refused. “Stay by my side, and I will ensure that you never need to worry about anything again. Your future, your safety, your position in this world—all of it will be taken care of.” His voice dropped, smooth as silk, pulling her deeper into his orbit. “Everything you could ever want, Hermione. All of it, yours. Security. Power. Respect.”

Hermione’s throat tightened, the words forming a noose around her neck, suffocating her. She could already feel the weight of his words pressing down on her, crushing her resolve. Her eyes flickered to his hand, poised at his side, ready to move—ready to strike if needed. She didn’t need to be reminded that with Tom Riddle, power and promises were never simple, never innocent.

He moved a fraction closer, invading her space, his eyes still locked on hers, as if measuring her every reaction. His voice dropped even lower, now almost a murmur, as if sharing a secret only meant for her ears. “Or…” His lips curled slightly, but it was not a smile—it was a sliver of something far darker. “You can leave. But I promise you, the consequences will be severe. You will not find refuge anywhere, Hermione. Not from me. Not from anyone. I will ensure that you will regret that choice every moment of your life.”

The threat was cold, precise, and utterly devoid of mercy. It was as if he were handing her an ultimatum she couldn’t escape from. A choice between what he offered, and the punishment he would deliver should she dare refuse. She could already feel the pull of his words, the gravity of the situation sinking deep into her bones. There was no escape from him—not really. Not after everything he had done, everything he had shown her.

Her breath quickened, her chest rising and falling with the weight of his words, but she couldn’t form a coherent response. She wanted to scream. To tell him she refused to be a pawn. To refuse the game he was playing with her life. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized—there was no real choice.

“I—” she tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, tangled and broken, unwilling to emerge. She swallowed, trying to steady herself. “You don’t give me a choice,” she finally forced out, her voice thick with a mixture of fear and disbelief. It was an accusation. A plea.

Tom’s smile deepened—cruel and satisfied. His eyes gleamed with dark amusement, as though he were enjoying her confusion, her helplessness. “No, Hermione,” he replied, his tone too soft, too intimate, as if he were explaining something simple. “I’m offering you a choice. I don’t force people to stay. They choose. But don’t fool yourself.” He leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath warm on her skin, his words now barely a whisper. “You already know which path you’ll take.”

His words were not just a statement—they were a certainty, as if he had already mapped out her future, already decided what her answer would be.

The tension in the room thickened, suffocating her as she sat there, frozen. She had no retort, no argument to make. Because deep down, she understood. The truth hit her with an icy clarity.

Tom had already broken her down.

She was already his.

Her mind screamed for freedom, for defiance, but her body was paralyzed by his control. She had tried to fight him, to resist his pull, but every step she took away from him only seemed to draw her closer. His power, his manipulations, they had worked. She was tangled in his web, and there was no way out.

“Stop,” she whispered, her voice cracking under the strain. She didn’t know if she was speaking to him, to herself, or to the growing realization that had taken root in her heart.

Tom chuckled softly, almost affectionately. “You think too much, Hermione,” he teased, his voice almost playful now, as though this were all just a game. “The decision isn’t difficult. You can have power, respect, security. You can have everything you’ve ever wanted—if you stay. Or you can have nothing at all.” He paused, as if waiting for her to respond, but he already knew what would happen.

Hermione’s eyes stung with unshed tears, and she tried to keep her emotions in check, but it was becoming impossible. The panic and fear rose in her chest, but no matter how hard she fought it, the truth remained.

She wasn’t free.

“I—” Her voice cracked again, and she clenched her fists tightly, trying to steady herself against the crushing weight of the moment. “I don’t know what to choose anymore.”

Tom’s smile widened, the look in his eyes growing darker, more predatory. He stepped closer, his movements fluid, almost effortless, as though he had been circling her this whole time, waiting for her to make the inevitable decision. His fingers brushed her cheek with a touch so light, so intimate, it sent a jolt of something through her skin.

“That’s the thing about choices, Hermione,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, the words heavy with meaning. “Sometimes, the choice isn’t really yours at all.”

And in that moment, the truth hit her with such force that it nearly knocked the wind out of her.

She had no choice. Not anymore.

Tom Riddle had already won.