Tangled in Time

The days bled into one another, and with each passing moment, Hermione felt herself becoming less and less of the person she once was. The quiet battles she had fought against Tom’s influence, the moments when she had clung to her will with the strength of a hundred lifetimes, began to fade. They were slipping away from her grasp, as though they had never existed at all.

It was subtle at first—a shift in her thoughts, an occasional flicker of doubt, the smallest concession to the idea that maybe Tom’s world wasn’t so bad after all. But those small moments grew, and soon, they became a flood, drowning her in a sea of confusion and despair.

Every time she awoke, his voice echoed in her mind, as if it were woven into the very fabric of her thoughts. His cold, calculated words, wrapped in velvet, whispered to her from the edges of her consciousness, guiding her, pulling her closer. There was no escape from him, not even in sleep. She dreamt of him—always him. His hands, his eyes, his voice, everything about him was seared into her mind like an indelible mark. Every dream felt real, every touch too tangible, too overwhelming to dismiss as just a dream. They were his, even when she was not awake. And in the waking world, he was always there.

She had tried to distance herself, tried to push back, tried to convince herself that she was still Hermione Granger, the woman who had defied him so many times before. But with every passing day, it became harder to remember that woman. The woman who fought, the woman who resisted. That part of her was slipping away, like sand through her fingers.

It wasn’t that she wanted to give in. It wasn’t that she was looking for peace or comfort in his presence. No, it was something more insidious, more insufferable. It was as if her mind was slowly surrendering, piece by piece, without her even realizing it. Tom had never been the type to force his will upon her in obvious ways. He didn’t need to. Instead, he had learned how to manipulate her thoughts, how to slowly reshape her reality until it was no longer hers. He had turned every quiet moment into a battlefield, every glance into a challenge.

She no longer fought him with the same fire she had once had. There was no defiance in her actions, no rebellion in her thoughts. Her world had become a twisted reflection of what it used to be, a distorted version of reality where Tom’s presence was not only inevitable but also strangely comforting. He had offered her everything, everything she could have ever wanted. The power, the safety, the security. A world where she no longer had to fight for anything. But that comfort had a cost.

Each day, she found herself leaning more into it. She didn't want to. She didn't consciously seek his approval or affection, but it had become so easy to slip into that role—the obedient, the compliant, the one who no longer questioned his every move. The woman who had once been so fierce, so independent, was slipping away, disappearing into the shadow of the man who had claimed her.

There were moments, fleeting seconds of clarity, when Hermione would catch herself and try to fight against the pull of his influence. She would see her reflection in the mirror, her eyes dull, her face pale, and she would feel a brief surge of panic, of desperation. She had to resist. She couldn’t let him win.

But those moments were becoming fewer and farther between. The more time she spent in his presence, the more she started to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was her life now. Maybe this was what it meant to be hers—what it meant to belong to him. There was no escape, no escape from his mind, his gaze, his voice. It was in every corner of the room, in every word spoken, in every fleeting moment of quiet.

One evening, as she sat in the dimly lit drawing room of the estate, her hands trembling slightly as she folded the pages of a book in front of her, she realized she had stopped resisting. There were no more angry thoughts, no more feelings of betrayal. It was as if she had let go of everything, as if she had allowed herself to sink into the comfort of his control. It was easier this way. It was less painful.

A soft rustling behind her caught her attention, and she turned to find Tom standing in the doorway. He didn’t need to say anything. His presence alone was enough to fill the room with his dark energy, with that knowing, omnipresent gaze that always made her heart race in ways she couldn't quite explain.

“Do you know what I’ve been thinking, Hermione?” Tom’s voice slithered through the air like silk, soft and smooth, but beneath it was a razor-sharp edge. His words were heavy with a darkness that she had come to recognize all too well, and yet, this time, they carried a certain satisfaction, as though he had already won and he was now savouring the moment.

Hermione didn’t respond. She had learned by now that no response was the safest course of action. No defiance, no argument, no protest—it only gave him more ammunition. And right now, in the hollow silence of the room, it felt easier to say nothing.

Tom moved closer, and with each step, Hermione felt the weight of his presence press down on her chest. He was like gravity, impossible to escape.

“I think you’ve finally learned, darling,” he murmured, his voice softening as he reached her side. There was something almost affectionate in the way he said it, but the mocking quality of it—like a pet name, but one laden with superiority—made her stomach churn. Darling. A term of endearment that was anything but tender. It was a quiet reminder of his control, his ownership of her. “You’ve learned that resistance is futile.”

Her heart clenched, but she refused to look at him. She knew what he meant. She knew it.

“You’ve learned that there’s no point in fighting something that is already yours. That you’re mine. In every way.” His words sank into her like a vice, tightening slowly around the fragile remnants of her will.

Hermione’s chest tightened painfully, but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She had no argument left. Not anymore. She could no longer cling to the ideal of escape, of freedom. The thought of fighting him had become something distant, something that felt like a lifetime ago.

Tom’s gaze never wavered, watching her as though he were enjoying the way she had fallen silent. He was enjoying her surrender, her brokenness.

He took a step closer, and before she could react, his hand was at her cheek, his fingers cool against her skin. She flinched instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. His touch was gentle, deceptively soft, as if he were trying to coax a response from her.

“You’re not fighting anymore,” he continued, his voice now a low murmur, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “You don’t need to, darling. You’ve surrendered. I’ve broken you down, little by little, until there’s nothing left to resist.”

Her breath hitched in her throat, a part of her wanting to scream at him—No, I’m not yours. I’m not!—but the words never came. They never did anymore. She had tried, so many times. But now... now she didn’t even know if she had the strength left to form the words.

The truth was too heavy to bear.

She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his hand on her cheek, and in the silence that enveloped them, it felt like a suffocating blanket—a heavy, comforting pressure that she had grown far too used to. She had spent so long running from it, resisting it, but now it felt like the only thing that anchored her. She didn’t want to admit it to herself, but in that moment, she knew it was true.

She had broken.

Not all at once, but piece by piece. Each day had chipped away at her until the woman who had once fought with every ounce of her strength was barely a whisper of the person she had been.

And now, there was nothing left of that woman. Nothing except the shattered fragments of someone who had surrendered to him, who had surrendered to her fate.

She could feel it now—deep inside her. The part of her that had once resisted, once fought so fiercely, was slipping further away, fading into the darkness of her submission. She was becoming someone else. Someone who had learned that submission was easier than resistance. Someone who no longer had the strength to fight.

And that realization—the acceptance of it—was what truly broke her.

Tom watched her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. “You’ll always be mine, darling,” he whispered softly, his voice like honey, soothing but deadly. “In every way. Whether you choose to fight or not.”

The words slid into her like poison, slow and suffocating, and for the first time, Hermione felt no desire to resist them. She was already his, wasn’t she?

Her heart ached with the weight of the truth, the crushing realization that she had long since been lost to him. She had fought and struggled for so long, but in the end, it had been so much easier to give in than to keep fighting. And in that quiet, devastating moment, Hermione understood that there was no turning back.

Tom Riddle had won.

And she had lost.

With one final, lingering touch to her cheek, Tom stepped away, his smile curling at the edges of his lips. “You’re so much more than you realize, darling. I’ll never let you go.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but there was no more fight left in her. Not anymore. She had surrendered. And he had won.

And so, in the silence of her own defeat, Hermione knew that she was his. Completely. Unquestionably. Forever.