The Ritual
The final piece of her research fell into place with a quiet certainty that sent a tremor through Hermione’s fingers. It had taken months—endless, gruelling nights spent poring over brittle, ancient tomes, tracing the thin, elusive thread of theoretical magic through the labyrinth of time. The calculations had been painstaking. The risk was incalculable.
But it was possible.
And she had only one chance.
The room was silent, save for the low flickering of candlelight against stone, shadows stretching long and thin across the walls, twisting with each subtle movement. The scent of burning wax and aged parchment clung to the air, thick with the residue of old magic.
Hermione moved with measured precision, careful not to let her hands tremble as she placed the last sigil into the intricate pattern carved into the floor. The runes gleamed faintly in the dim light, their edges sharp and perfect, as if demanding reverence.
She had prepared for this moment down to the last meticulous detail. Every symbol had been inscribed with painstaking care, every ingredient gathered through stolen hours and whispered trades. The spell was delicate—dangerous—but it would work. It had to.
There was no room for error.
She could not afford hesitation.
Her fingers curled tightly around a small vial, the fine opalescent powder inside shimmering with an otherworldly glow. She exhaled, carefully tilting it, watching as the crushed gemstone dust settled into the grooves of the carved sigils. The reaction was immediate—a faint pulse of magic thrummed through the room, the symbols absorbing the energy, waiting.
One final step remained.
A silver dagger lay at the edge of the circle, its blade gleaming even in the dim candlelight. It was old—far older than she was—etched with spells she dared not name. Blood would be the key. A single drop, a final offering to tear open the fabric of time, to send her back to where she belonged.
Hermione’s breath hitched as she reached for the dagger, her fingers barely brushing the hilt—
And then a shadow moved across the room.
A breath of wind that did not belong.
Her heart lurched violently.
Tom.
He stood in the doorway, unmoving. Watching.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The air in the room shifted, thickening like a storm about to break. It crackled with something unspoken—something dangerous. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp angles of his face, casting his features in half-shadow, making the darkness in his eyes seem endless.
He had known.
Of course he had known. Perhaps he had always known.
Perhaps he had simply been waiting for her to make a move.
His presence was suffocating, an oppressive weight that threatened to crush her where she stood. He did not need to raise his wand. He did not need to utter a curse. His silence alone was enough.
The dagger in her hand felt suddenly too light. Too fragile.
And then, finally—he spoke.
"Going somewhere, darling?"
His voice was soft. Too soft. The kind of softness that sent ice slithering down her spine, that promised something far more dangerous than rage.
Hermione swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing down on her chest. She refused to let her breath catch, forcing herself to stand tall, unwavering, meeting Tom’s dark gaze with quiet defiance. There was no fear in her stance, no tremor in her limbs. She couldn’t afford to show fear—not now, when she was so close. When everything depended on her keeping her resolve.
“I’m going home,” she said, her voice steady, her words sharp as a blade, cutting through the tension in the air.
A thick, pregnant pause filled the space between them. The silence was suffocating, wrapping around her like a tightening noose.
Then—laughter.
It was low, soft, almost too soft, but there was an unmistakable edge to it. A sinister, mocking undertone that sliced through the air like a cruel whisper. Beneath the amusement in his voice, there was something darker. Something that made the blood in her veins turn cold.
“Home,” he echoed, his voice low and silky, yet thick with something venomous. He tilted his head slightly, studying her with that unnerving, all-knowing gaze. “You still believe you have one?”
His words were like daggers, each one aimed to wound. But Hermione refused to let them land. She clenched her fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood, but it was a small price to pay to maintain her composure. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
“You can’t stop me,” she said, the words thick with determination. They were more than a declaration—they were a promise. A truth she would make reality no matter what.
His smile was slow, deliberate—almost as if he were savouring the moment. “Can’t I?”
The flick of his wand was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. The sound of the door behind him slamming shut rang through the room, as though sealing her fate. The candles flickered violently, their flames twisting and writhing as though struggling against some unseen force. The air in the room grew heavier—charged, like the very atmosphere was being pressed down by the weight of his magic. It pressed against her skin, suffocating, until every breath felt as though it were being drawn through thickened air.
Tom stepped forward, his movements measured and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. The click of his boots against the stone echoed in the room, an ominous metronome marking his approach. His gaze never left her as he crossed the threshold, moving closer—closer than she’d ever allowed him to come before. Each step was slow and calculated, like a serpent coiling tighter around its victim, forcing her into the corner of the room with every passing moment.
Hermione didn’t move.
She couldn’t move. Not yet.
The ritual was incomplete. The moment was slipping through her fingers, a fleeting opportunity, the last one she would get to escape. If she faltered—if she gave him even a second to distract her—everything would be lost. The portal she had worked so hard to create, so carefully constructed, would collapse. And she would be stuck here forever.
Tom stopped just shy of the ritual circle. His gaze swept over the delicate runes she had painstakingly etched into the stone, his dark eyes lingering over the intricate symbols as though they were nothing more than a curiosity—an artwork to be admired before the inevitable destruction.
Hermione knew he understood the complexity of what she had done. He was impressed—infuriatingly impressed.
But there was more. Beneath his calm demeanour, behind the cold calculation of his every move, there was an unmistakable spark of something else. Fury. The kind of fury that came from someone who had been outsmarted, who had been denied control.
“Tell me, darling,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, but edged with steel. “After everything, do you truly think you can leave me behind?”
His words wrapped around her like a vice, their weight suffocating, drowning her in his presence. They were a challenge, a subtle threat. And still, Hermione refused to let her resolve waver.
“I have to,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. It was the truth, and she would not apologize for it.
For a moment, his expression shifted. There was a flicker—a flash of something almost imperceptible in his eyes. His lips parted, as if he had something to say, but he swallowed it back. The briefest crack in his perfect composure was all she needed. It was enough.
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. His eyes narrowed slightly, and the cold, calculating mask returned.
“You won’t succeed,” he said, but there was something beneath the certainty in his voice. A hint of doubt.
For the first time, Hermione saw it—the slightest tremor in his unshakable confidence. For the first time, Tom Riddle was unsure. And she seized it.
In a single, fluid motion, Hermione snatched the silver dagger from the altar, feeling its cold weight in her hand, knowing that it was the key to everything. The final step. The blood that would make the ritual whole.
She dragged the blade across her palm in a swift, practiced motion. The pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the weight of the moment. Blood welled up, dark and thick, pooling in her palm and dripping onto the circle below.
The reaction was immediate. The runes flared to life, their faint glow suddenly exploding into a brilliant, searing light. The magic surged through the room like a living thing, crackling and pulsing in the air around them. The ancient power of the ritual stirred to life, responding to the blood, the sacrifice, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place.
The very air hummed with power, vibrating as though the world itself was shaking. The floor beneath her feet trembled, the room quaking in response to the surge of magic she had just unleashed.
Tom’s expression darkened in an instant. His lips thinned, his jaw clenched tight as his dark eyes flickered between her and the ritual circle, watching the magic take hold with the knowledge that he could no longer stop it.
“Hermione,” he whispered, his voice low but dangerous, like a warning.
Hermione lifted her chin, her heart pounding in her chest, but there was no fear. Only the weight of finality. “Goodbye, Tom.”
Her words were sharp, the quiet strength of them standing in stark contrast to the chaos of the moment. As soon as they left her lips, she stepped forward, crossing the boundary of the circle with a deliberate, unwavering motion. Her heart thudded with the force of what she was about to do, but she never hesitated.
And then, the world exploded.
Light erupted from the runes at her feet, blinding and furious, so intense that it seemed to swallow her whole. The air was filled with a high-pitched hum, like the ringing of a bell, and the sheer force of the magic reached into her very bones. It tore through her body, racing along every nerve ending, an all-consuming torrent of power. It felt like fire and ice battling inside her at once, tearing her apart and stitching her back together in a thousand different ways. The sensation was so overwhelming, so violent, that for a moment, she couldn’t remember where she was, who she was.
Her body was nothing but raw sensation, a vessel for the surge of ancient magic that was unravelling her from the inside out, pulling her through time, through space, through everything.
She heard Tom’s voice, a shout—his words lost in the roar of the magic. And then, his presence behind her, too late.
She felt the briefest brush of his fingers against her wrist, a final attempt to stop her, to claim her one last time. But even that was swallowed by the maelstrom of magic surrounding her. His grip never tightened, never had a chance. The force of the spell had already taken hold, a brutal, unstoppable force that wrenched her from the fabric of reality itself.
The last image she saw was his face. His eyes—dark, furious, desperate, and yet there was something unreadable behind them, something raw and vulnerable. She couldn’t quite place it. And for the briefest moment, her heart clenched, but there was no time for regret.
Before she could even make sense of the emotion, the world shattered around her.
The air was different when she gasped her first breath.
It was a sharp contrast to the suffocating magic that had threatened to tear her apart. Here, it was cooler, the air somehow clearer, though it carried a faint hum—a hum of magic, vast and overwhelming, like the pulse of the universe itself. The magic was more subtle here, but still present. Still alive, almost as if the very walls of this place were infused with it.
She blinked rapidly, trying to steady herself, to make sense of what had just happened.
It was then that she recognized the scent—the faint, distinctive smell of parchment—old, well-worn parchment, mixed with something else. Something heavier. The scent of dust. Of history. Of a place where time itself seemed to hang suspended.
Her heart stilled in her chest as she slowly turned her head, her gaze landing on the familiar stone walls, the shelves filled with ancient, carefully guarded tomes. The vast, dimly lit space stretched before her, endless rows of mysterious objects, glassy orbs, and arcane instruments filling the room.
She had been here before.
The Department of Mysteries.
The realization hit her like a wave, the force of it knocking the breath from her lungs. She had made it. She had returned.
Her fingers trembled as she took a shaky step forward, the echoes of her footsteps ringing out in the cold, silent room. It was quiet here, impossibly quiet, save for the soft hum of magic that vibrated through the air. It was the kind of place where secrets lived—where time itself seemed to bend and stretch, where nothing was as it seemed, and everything was tied to forces beyond comprehension.
She had crossed the boundary between worlds—between times. She had been ripped from one reality and placed firmly back in another, the place where it had all begun. The place where the Ministry had locked away the mysteries of magic that could not be explained or understood.
But Hermione didn’t need to understand it all. Not right now.
What mattered was that she was here. She had returned.
She had made it home.