The Monster in the Present
The air in Hermione’s office was suffocating. It wasn’t the usual warmth that filled the room, that quiet comfort of parchment, dust, and magic that had once been her sanctuary. No, today, the atmosphere was thick—almost oppressive. It clung to her skin like oil, a tangible weight, as if the very air itself had turned against her. She could feel it pressing against her chest, making it harder to breathe. Every inhalation felt shallow, strained, like she wasn’t drawing in enough air.
It was as if the room itself was steeped in something darker, something that had seeped into the very walls and floor, coiling around her with a sinister grip. The flickering candlelight seemed dimmer, casting long, warped shadows that seemed to stretch and twist like dark fingers reaching for her. She had hoped, when she’d returned to the Ministry, that it would provide some semblance of normalcy, that the familiar routines of her work would help her push aside the whispers, the feeling of being hunted, the presence that she couldn’t escape.
But nothing had prepared her for this.
The silence in her office was suffocating. It wasn’t the usual quiet of a solitary workspace, where she could hear the occasional rustle of papers or the hum of magical instruments. No, this was a silence that gnawed at the edges of her sanity. It pressed on her from all sides, thick and unrelenting, until every breath she took seemed to make the air more oppressive. The familiar comfort of her office, the smell of old parchment, books, and magic that had once been a balm for her weary soul, now only made her feel more isolated.
She glanced around, her gaze skimming over the worn shelves that once held comfort, now appearing foreign in their stillness. The tall bookshelves that had once been filled with ancient tomes—her companions in years of study—now loomed like towering sentinels. Their presence felt more like a threat than the refuge it had always been. The instruments scattered around the room, the faint hum of magical energy from the devices that had once fascinated her, now lay dormant, as if drained of life, their purpose no longer clear.
The walls seemed to pulse with an unnatural stillness, as though they were holding their breath—waiting. The air itself felt thick, charged with an invisible force, and Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that something was in the room with her, something just out of sight, lurking in the shadows.
Her hand, already trembling, hovered over her desk, and she instinctively reached for the small vial of calming draught she kept there—her usual antidote to stress, the soothing remedy she had relied on during long nights of research. But as she uncorked the vial, the scent of the potion seemed to vanish in the air before it could reach her nose. A sharp chill raced down her spine. The potion, like everything else in this room, felt foreign now, as if it had lost its potency.
The silence pressed in harder, the weight of it unbearable.
A soft rustling sound broke the stillness, and her eyes darted to the far corner of the room, where the shadows had thickened, gathering like a storm cloud on the horizon. Hermione could feel the presence before she saw it. A subtle shift in the air—a wrongness in the fabric of the room itself. Her pulse quickened, and she felt a cold sweat break out along the back of her neck.
She wasn’t alone. She hadn’t been alone since she’d stepped through the door.
It started as a soft rustling, like the whisper of fabric, a subtle movement just out of her line of sight. It wasn’t the sound of wind—it wasn’t natural. It was deliberate, as if something—or someone—was moving in the dark corners of her office, just beyond the reach of the light.
Her body tensed, muscles coiling in instinctive fear as she clenched her hands into fists at her sides, willing herself to stay still, to not give in to the panic that rose in her chest. But it was harder than it should have been. The cold sweat on her skin, the tightness in her throat, the rapid beat of her heart—it all worked against her.
He’s here.
The thought slithered through her mind like a snake, poisoning her thoughts. Her hands trembled, fingers brushing against the smooth surface of the desk, but her mind was elsewhere—on the shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally across the floor, curling in on themselves, twisting into grotesque shapes. She had thought that coming back to her office, to this familiar space, would offer some form of solace. But it was the opposite. The room felt like a trap.
She tried to convince herself it was nothing, that her nerves were playing tricks on her, that the atmosphere of the Ministry, the lingering effects of the magic she had experienced before, were causing her to be jumpy. But the air was too thick. The whispers too loud. The pressure building around her too palpable. This wasn’t just nerves.
The air crackled.
It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible—just a flicker in the room, like the moment before lightning strikes, when the atmosphere hums with energy. But as the sensation grew, so did the suffocating presence that clung to her, drawing her closer into its grip. Her stomach churned, a sickening sense of dread settling in her gut. It was happening again. The same feeling she had tried so desperately to outrun, the presence that had haunted her, that had never truly left her.
And then, with a suddenness that made her blood freeze, the temperature dropped.
The chill in the room was sharp, biting. It felt like ice was creeping across her skin, winding its way through her limbs, stealing the warmth from her body, leaving her frozen in place. She opened her mouth, but her breath came out in shallow, panicked gasps, her lips trembling as the cold rushed in, filling the room like a suffocating fog.
She looked around frantically, her eyes darting to the shadows, to the corners of the room, to the edges of her vision where the light struggled to reach.
Nothing.
Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat as the air around her thickened, becoming suffocating, as if it were filled with a heavy, unseen force. The silence of her office had deepened into something almost tangible—unnatural. Her heart beat faster, a drum in her chest, a frantic rhythm that seemed to echo in every corner of the room. The faint flicker of candlelight cast unsettling shadows across the space, dancing in a way that felt wrong, like something was stirring just beyond the edges of her vision.
And then, she heard it.
A soft chuckle, low and intimate, but it carried with it a chill that went straight to her bones. The sound lingered in the room, twisting, curling around her senses like a serpent, squeezing tighter and tighter. It was unmistakable—poisonous, familiar, a sound that had haunted her nightmares. She froze. Her legs felt weak, her knees trembling as though her body refused to support her.
The chuckle deepened, and the voice followed—dark, dripping with a cruel amusement, an intimate mockery of her very existence. “Did you think you could run from me?”
The words slid into her mind like venom, curling through her thoughts, digging deep into her psyche, as though the very essence of her being were being manipulated by his will. It felt like the whisper came from all around her, filling every corner of the room, sinking into the walls, into her skin, like it had always been there, waiting.
Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight, couldn’t move.
“You thought you could escape,” the voice continued, now more pronounced, thick with mockery. The tone had shifted, becoming almost a lullaby, a twisted thing designed to lull her into submission. “You thought you could outrun me, but I’ve always been here, Hermione. I’ve always been waiting.”
A cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Her heart skipped erratically, and she could feel her pulse hammering in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the voice, but it only seemed to grow louder, more suffocating. It wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t an illusion. He was here.
She couldn’t shake the feeling—couldn’t ignore the horrifying reality creeping through the air like an insidious fog. The presence that had once lurked at the edges of her life was now right here, in this very room, suffusing the air with dark magic. Her breath felt shallow, as if the very act of inhaling was pulling the darkness deeper into her lungs. She wanted to scream, wanted to flee, but her body was paralyzed, her limbs refusing to obey.
Tom.
The name echoed in her mind like a curse, cold and unyielding. The bond between them had never truly disappeared, not the way she had thought. She had severed the connection, forced herself to leave him behind—but she hadn’t been able to completely rid herself of him. It had festered, this dark magic, buried deep within her, twisting and shaping her life in ways she hadn’t understood until now.
Her fingers clenched into fists as she fought the overwhelming sensation of suffocating despair. She wasn’t the same woman who had left him behind, she wasn’t the same Hermione who had walked away from that monster, from the dark embrace of his influence. But she hadn’t left him behind. He had always been there, pulling at the threads of her existence, manipulating her from the shadows.
And now he was in her office, in her sanctuary.
“You can feel me, can’t you?” The voice was almost too sweet now, each word a caress that slid into her skin, across her mind, seeping into the very air she breathed. “You can feel how close I am. I’ve been waiting for you, Hermione. Always waiting.”
She could feel it now—the air heavy with magic, thick with the presence of the man who had never truly left. It was all around her, pressing in on her from every angle, crawling beneath her skin like insects. The room—the space that had always been her refuge, her haven from the world—was now a prison. The walls felt like they were closing in on her, tightening, squeezing her with each passing second. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet as if the very foundation of her sanctuary were shifting, warping, distorting.
He was here.
The door behind her slammed shut with a deafening crash that reverberated in the silence, a jarring sound that made her stomach lurch. The room seemed to contract even further, the walls pressing in as though they were collapsing toward her, pushing her into the centre of the darkness. She spun around, her hands shaking as they reached for her wand—her only defence, her only hope—but the familiar weight of it felt wrong. Heavier than it should have been. The magic that had once been hers, the strength she’d relied on, was slipping through her fingers, draining away, leaving her weaker with every breath.
No. No, no—this can’t be happening.
Her mind screamed in protest, but her body betrayed her. She could barely keep her balance, the shadows clawing at the edges of her vision, dark and insistent. Every breath came in shallow gasps, her chest tight as if the very air had turned to stone. She tried to summon a shield, anything, but the words of the incantation felt foreign on her tongue, as if the very essence of magic had turned its back on her.
“Don’t bother,” the voice purred, rich with dark amusement. “I’ve already taken care of that.”
Her heart stuttered in her chest, panic rising like bile in her throat. She spun around, wide-eyed, frantically searching the room for any sign of him, but all she could see were shadows—long, twisted, unnatural—moving along the edges of the room, curling around the furniture, reaching for her with long, gnarled fingers.
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. The world had become a nightmare.
“You thought I wouldn’t be here, didn’t you?” The voice was louder now, filling the space entirely, its presence omnipresent. It wasn’t in her mind anymore, it wasn’t just a haunting whisper—it was the room, the walls, the very air she was suffocating in. “You left me, Hermione. You tried to escape, but I’m here with you. Waiting for you.”
The realization hit her like a blow to the stomach, stealing the air from her lungs. He had never left. Not fully. He had always been with her, lurking just out of sight, wrapped around the edges of her life. The magic he had placed inside her, the bond they shared, had only grown stronger, festering in the dark recesses of her mind. Every choice she had made, every step she had taken, had been influenced by him—subtly, imperceptibly—until she had been nothing more than a puppet on his strings.
His influence had been there, in every decision, in every moment of doubt, in every second of fear she had felt.
He was the monster in the present, the one who had never truly left, the one who had always been there—hidden behind every smile, every moment of weakness, every flicker of uncertainty she had ever experienced.
And now, as she stood in the centre of her office, trembling under the weight of his presence, Hermione knew the worst truth of all:
He was here.
And there was nowhere to hide.