The Final Revelation
Hermione hadn’t even flinched when Tom entered the room. Not anymore. Once, his presence had been enough to send a shudder down her spine, to make her fists clench, her jaw tighten in stubborn defiance. But that woman—the one who had met his gaze with fire in her eyes, who had spat sharp words like daggers—was gone.
The fight in her was gone.
And Tom had known it.
He had known it for days now—perhaps even longer. He had watched it happen, watched as her will eroded under the weight of his presence, his voice, his touch. It had been slow, agonizingly so, but that was what had made it all the more satisfying. Breaking her had not been a single, shattering moment of defeat; it had been a gradual unravelling, thread by thread, until there was nothing left but quiet submission.
Her silence had been proof enough. The way she no longer flinched when he reached for her, the way her shoulders no longer went rigid under his touch. Once, she would have drawn away, teeth bared, a last stand against the inevitable. Now? Now, she barely reacted at all. And that, more than anything, had been how he had known he had won.
But there had been something more. Something that had lingered just beneath the surface, flickering at the edges of his awareness like a whisper he couldn’t quite hear. It had been in the way her breath had hitched, the way her gaze had flickered—not in fear, not in defiance, but in something else. Something unknown. And Tom Riddle had never liked the unknown.
Secrets had always been a currency to him, a means to power, a way to control. He had collected them, hoarded them, carved them out of others with precision. And yet, here she had sat, the girl he had broken, and there had still been something she had kept from him. Something buried deep, something locked away.
It had been unacceptable.
Tom had knelt before her, moving with the same slow, deliberate grace he always had—like a predator in no hurry to pounce, like a man who had known he already had his prey exactly where he wanted it. His dark eyes had drunk her in, studying every shift in her expression, every flicker of something she hadn’t quite buried deep enough.
“Darling,” he had murmured, the word rolling off his tongue like silk, though there had been an edge to it—mocking, possessive, entirely his. His thumb had ghosted over the curve of her jaw, slow, measured, searching for the slightest reaction. Once, she would have stiffened at the name, at his touch. Now, she had barely reacted at all. The most he had gotten had been the barest flutter of her lashes, a breath just a little too shallow.
She had been close. So very close.
“Tell me,” he had continued, tilting his head as though merely indulging a passing curiosity. “What is it you’ve been hiding from me all this time?”
Hermione had said nothing.
But she hadn’t needed to.
Tom had felt it then, hovering in the air between them like something alive. It had not been resistance—not anymore. No, this had been different. This had been something carefully, deliberately concealed, something she had fought to keep from him even as the rest of her had crumbled. A truth buried so deep, so well-guarded, that even then, she had refused to let it surface.
Ah.
So there had been something left inside her after all.
His lips had curled in the faintest smile, and he had leaned in closer, his fingers tracing an idle path along her jaw, up to her temple. His touch had been gentle, deceptively so—a mockery of tenderness.
“I wonder,” he had mused, his voice a low, thoughtful hum. “Now that you’ve finally stopped fighting me… will you finally let me inside?”
And before she had even thought to recoil, he had pushed.
The pressure had been sharp, immediate—Legilimency had slammed into her mind like a tidal wave, an icy flood that had crashed through the fragile walls she had left. Hermione’s body had seized under the force of it, her breath stuttering as she had gripped the arms of the chair, fingers digging in, knuckles turning white. It had been too much. Too fast.
She had let out a soft, broken gasp, but Tom had not eased up. If anything, he had delved deeper, prying open every locked door, every hidden corridor of her mind, peeling back the layers she had so carefully built over time.
And then—he had seen.
Memories had spilled forth in a violent rush, too many, too fast, bleeding into one another like ink smudged across parchment. Fractured images had flashed before his eyes, distorted voices echoing in the background, overlapping in a cacophony of things that should not have existed. There had been moments from her childhood—libraries, bookshelves, the scent of old parchment. A boy with glasses. A red-haired friend. A castle familiar yet foreign, alive with whispers of magic.
And then, he had seen himself.
Not as he had been then, but older. Darker. A man wreathed in shadow, standing tall amidst legions of robed figures. A name spoken in hushed, terrified whispers. A war waged in his name. Blood spilled at his command. A reign built on fear.
Lord Voldemort.
The name had struck him like a blade, sharp and undeniable.
A low, dark thrill had curled through him, mixing with something deeper, something more insidious. He had watched as Hermione had gasped beneath him, as she had tried to pull away, her body jerking against his grip, but it had been far too late. He had her now. His fingers had tightened on her chin, nails pressing into soft skin, anchoring her in place as he had held her still, forcing her mind open wider.
She had known.
All this time, she had known.
She had known what he would become, what he was destined to be, long before they had ever met. She had read about him in books—his rise, his conquests, his hunger for power, his inevitable dominance over the weak. He had watched as she had stood against him in that distant future, as she had fought alongside others who had dared to defy him, as she had spoken his name not with reverence, but with defiance.
A spark of fury had ignited in his chest, but it had been drowned out by something far greater.
Fascination.
Hermione Granger had not merely been a girl with a clever mind. Not merely a stubborn thing who had fought against him longer than she should have.
No.
She had been a piece of the future itself. A girl who had walked through time. A girl who had already seen what he would become.
Tom had ripped himself from her mind with a sharp inhale, his pulse hammering in his ears. The connection had snapped like a stretched thread, and Hermione had slumped forward with a trembling gasp, her body wracked with shivers from the force of it.
For a long moment, he had simply stared at her.
And then—he had laughed.
The sound had been soft at first, almost thoughtful, curling around them like smoke. But there had been something unhinged about it, something sharp and gleaming beneath the surface.
He had reached forward, brushing a stray curl from her damp cheek with a touch so gentle it had been almost reverent.
“You,” he had murmured, his voice smooth, almost awed. “You knew what I would become. And yet you thought you could run from me?”
His darling, his little time traveller.
The thought had made something dark coil in his chest, slow and hungry.
Oh, this had changed everything.