Escape Attempt
The thought of running had consumed Hermione for days, gnawing at her like a hunger she couldn’t satisfy. The realization that she was trapped in a gilded cage—her every move under Tom’s watchful eye, her every decision carefully guided, and every thought weighed—had grown too suffocating to ignore any longer. She had thought of escape before, but each time, his chilling presence, his words that crawled under her skin like poison, had drawn her back in, tightening the invisible chains that held her.
But this time… something was different. The weight of her surrender had become unbearable. She felt it pressing down on her chest, a suffocating pressure, like a hundred invisible hands slowly tightening their grip. Her body, weary from resisting, had reached its limit. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to try—no matter the cost.
The plan had been simple in theory: slip away in the dead of night, vanish into the maze of London’s streets, where Tom’s reach would seem less absolute. She wouldn’t be truly free, of course. Not entirely. She knew he would find her eventually, but for just a few hours, she could escape his watchful gaze. She could breathe again.
Hermione had gathered the few belongings she could take—her wand, a satchel with clothes and the few personal items she had left, things that made her feel like herself, even if just for a moment. She moved silently, like a ghost, through the grand halls of the estate Tom had kept for her, the opulence of the place no longer holding any allure. It was suffocating in its beauty, a prison disguised as luxury. The silence between its walls had become unbearable, too thick with his expectations, too thick with his presence, even when he wasn’t there.
She had slipped through the door, her heart pounding in her chest. The night air hit her like a slap, but it was a relief, a cooling balm to the heat of the room she had just left. She took a deep breath as she moved quickly through the narrow alleyway, the darkened streets of London opening up in front of her. For a fleeting moment, she felt like she might just make it—like there was still a sliver of hope left. The cool night air cleared her head, sharpening her senses, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, she felt something she hadn’t dared to feel in days: freedom.
There was power in London, in the hidden corners of the city, in the magical streets that sprawled beyond the reach of Tom’s influence. She knew, deep down, that there was a chance, however slim, to find sanctuary in this vast, complicated city—if only for a moment. She could feel the magic around her, humming with a life of its own, and for the first time in a long while, she believed she might slip from his grasp.
But the sensation of freedom, of relief, was short-lived. The familiar, nagging feeling returned—the one that had haunted her every moment of her flight. A sensation that crept down her spine, whispering that something was wrong. Her breath quickened as she moved faster, her eyes darting around, every shadow now feeling like a potential threat.
And then, she turned a corner.
Her feet faltered as she almost collided with a figure standing in the shadows, perfectly still as if he had been waiting for her, knowing she would come. Her heart leapt in her chest, a momentary surge of hope blooming—a foolish, desperate thought that maybe, just maybe, she had stumbled upon someone who could help her. Someone who could pull her from this nightmare.
But she knew, deep down, it was a lie.
The figure in front of her was not a saviour. Not an ally. It was him.
Tom Riddle.
The sight of him stole the breath from her lungs, the familiar chill of his presence sinking into her bones like ice. He stood just a few feet away, his figure draped in the shadows, his face half obscured in the dim light of the streetlamp. But his eyes… those eyes… they burned through the darkness, gleaming with that unnerving intensity that made her skin crawl. His expression was calm, too calm—eerily composed, as always, as though he knew exactly what she had been trying to do. And in his gaze, there was no surprise, no anger, just cold, absolute knowing.
Hermione opened her mouth to speak—to say anything, to plead, to argue—but the words died in her throat. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her voice betrayed her, silent as if it had been stolen away by his mere presence. There was no point in speaking, no point in trying to explain herself. Tom had already won. She had always known this moment would come; she just hadn’t realized how inevitable it would feel.
He took a small step toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. She couldn’t move. Her feet felt glued to the cobblestone beneath her, her legs shaking with the weight of his gaze. Every instinct in her screamed to run—to flee, to escape—but her body betrayed her, locking her in place, rooted to the spot like a statue.
“You truly thought you could leave?” His voice was soft, almost gentle, yet it carried the weight of finality, sending a shiver down her spine. There was no anger, no fury in his words, just that cold, deadly calm that had always been his signature. His gaze flickered over her, taking in the hurried way she was dressed, the desperate look in her eyes. But his expression remained unchanged.
Hermione couldn’t bring herself to speak. Her chest felt tight, as if some invisible hand had wrapped itself around her lungs, making it hard to breathe. Her heart pounded in her throat, each beat thundering like an accusation. Her entire body screamed for her to run, to turn and flee, to say something—anything—but no words came. She could feel the words burning at the back of her throat, but they remained stuck there, heavy and useless, lodged in a place she couldn’t reach.
She wanted to deny it. To fight him. To scream at him that she had every right to leave, that she wasn’t his to keep, that she had done nothing wrong. She was justified in wanting to escape this suffocating nightmare. But deep down, in the hollow pit of her stomach, she knew better.
The truth was inescapable: her defiance, her attempt at freedom, was nothing more than a fleeting illusion, a brief moment of delusion she had allowed herself to believe in. She had wanted to prove to herself that she could run, that she could break free, but she knew, standing here in the darkened streets of London, that there was no escaping him. Not now. Not ever.
Tom’s gaze remained fixed on her, and Hermione could feel the weight of it like an anchor, pulling her deeper into the depths of despair. He didn’t look angry—not in the way she had imagined. No, his expression was colder than that, more calculated, like he was disassembling her piece by piece with just a look. There was no fury in him, just an icy detachment, as if he were assessing her like a prized object, something to be studied, manipulated, and ultimately claimed.
He took a step closer, and Hermione’s breath caught in her chest. His presence was overwhelming, suffocating, and her body involuntarily took a step back, even though she knew it was futile. She was trapped. There was nowhere to go, no way to escape.
“You think you can escape me?” His voice was soft, but it had an underlying menace, a dangerous calmness that sent a chill crawling down her spine. There was a thread of amusement in his tone, as if he found her attempt at escape laughable. “You think you can leave me behind?”
Hermione’s pulse hammered in her ears, but she tried to summon whatever courage she had left. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him that she wasn’t his—she wasn’t anyone’s—but the words faltered before they left her lips. It was as if something invisible was choking her, silencing her. The moment her voice finally broke through, it was weak, unsteady.
“I’m not yours, Tom. I’m not—”
She was cut off by a soft laugh—a sound that was both cruel and intimate. It made her stomach churn with unease, and her skin prickled with discomfort. “You’re right, Hermione,” he said, his voice soft and smooth like the caress of a blade against bare skin. “You’re not.” He stepped closer still, his presence swallowing the space between them. His face was inches from hers now, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling mixture of admiration and something darker, more possessive. “But you will be.”
His words were like a whisper of poison, dripping into her mind, sliding under her skin. The coldness in his voice deepened, turning darker with each passing second. “The fact that you think you can run from me only proves how little you understand.” He stepped even closer, his voice growing more insidious, as though his words themselves were a weapon. “This isn’t something you can escape, Hermione. This is something you’re going to embrace.”
She could feel his power pulling at her, trying to weave its way into her thoughts, to twist and manipulate her until she had no choice but to submit. It wasn’t violence that he wielded—not yet. No, Tom Riddle’s cruelty was far more subtle, far more insidious. He didn’t need to strike her with his wand or use physical force. His words, his presence, his ability to invade her mind—that was where his true power lay. It was far worse than anything physical could ever be. It was psychological warfare.
Hermione fought it, she tried to hold onto something—anything—that made her who she was, but the longer she stood there in front of him, the more she felt herself slipping. He was worming his way into her mind, pulling at her thoughts, eroding her resolve. She wasn’t just resisting his physical dominance now. He was trying to take her very sense of self, to make her believe that there was nothing left for her but him. His voice slithered through her mind, like a serpent wrapping around her thoughts, tightening with every word.
“I could have you back in my grasp in an instant, Hermione,” he said, his voice like velvet, smooth and suffocating. “You think you can resist me, but you can’t. Not now. Not ever.”
The weight of his words pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She wanted to reject him, to deny the truth of what he was saying, but she couldn’t find the strength to do it. The panic that had been rising in her chest now bloomed into a full-blown storm. She managed to push out a response, even if it was shaky, even if it was hollow.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she managed to say, but her voice trembled, and the words felt like a lie, even to her own ears. Her defiance was an illusion, and she could hear the uncertainty in her own tone. She wasn’t convincing anyone—least of all herself.
Tom raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a cruel smile, and for a moment, there was something almost affectionate in his gaze, something cold and mocking. “No? You should be,” he replied, his voice a low purr that reverberated in her chest.
There was a long pause, thick with tension, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire, ready to snap at any moment. Hermione’s mind was racing, trying desperately to find some way out, some way to fight him. But deep down, she knew she was losing. She had already lost.
Tom’s smile widened, and his voice dropped to a chilling whisper. “You will never leave me, Hermione. Not in body, and certainly not in mind. Your heart belongs to me. Whether you acknowledge it or not.”
His words sank into her chest, cold and suffocating. She could feel them, heavy and dark, pressing against her ribs. She wanted to scream, to shout at him to stop, to tell him that he was wrong. But deep within her, in the hollow spaces where she had tried to keep herself intact, she felt the truth of his words settle in. He had already taken more from her than she had realized. Not just her body, not just her will—but her sense of self. He had wormed his way into every part of her, until there was nothing left to resist.
Without another word, Tom turned, his cloak sweeping around him like a shadow, his movements graceful and deliberate. He left her standing there, alone, in the darkened street, the cool night air brushing against her skin like a cruel reminder of the freedom she would never taste.
But even as his presence disappeared, it lingered. Not in the air, not in the cold wind, but in her mind, in her bones. His voice echoed in her head, his words vibrating through her very soul. There was nowhere she could go that he wouldn’t find her. No place where his shadow couldn’t reach.
And as the silence of the night settled around her, Hermione realized the truth she had been fighting against for so long: there was no escape from Tom Riddle. Not now. Not ever.