The Conqueror's Smile
The shadows in the room seemed to lengthen, stretching like serpents, crawling along the walls, curling around her limbs with an almost tangible weight. Hermione could feel them tightening, constricting around her as if they were reaching for her, hungry for the warmth of her presence. It was as though the very room itself had come alive, alive with the oppressive, inescapable sense of something dark, something suffocating that hovered just behind her.
Her skin prickled with the awareness that something—someone—was close. She couldn’t see it, couldn’t put her finger on it, but the air was thick, pulsating, as though it were pregnant with an unseen force. Every breath she took felt heavy, like inhaling smoke, like pulling in darkness instead of air. Her heart hammered in her chest, loud and insistent, drowning out every other sound in the room. The rhythm of it—dull, threatening—was the only thing that felt real.
And then, from the deepest recesses of that heavy silence, it came.
A low, seething laugh, dark and cold. It cut through the stillness like a blade, reverberating in the very air around her, vibrating through her bones and deep into her marrow. It was like something poisonous being poured slowly into her veins, spreading with every heartbeat, making her pulse quicken, her breath hitch. She didn’t need to see him, feel his touch, or even hear his footsteps. The laugh alone was enough. She knew exactly who it was.
Her breath faltered, catching in her throat, her body a stone statue as every nerve in her skin screamed in warning. Her hands, clammy and trembling, balled into fists, nails biting painfully into her palms. The weight of the magic—his magic—pressed down on her, pulling at her, digging into her very soul. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to escape, but her legs felt like they were locked in place, weighed down by the dark presence filling the air around her. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
His voice, smooth like velvet and yet razor-sharp, slithered into her mind.
“You left,” he murmured, the words laced with a dark amusement, a cruelty that was almost palpable. The words were deceptively calm, but the venom that dripped from them was undeniable. “You really thought you could leave me behind, didn’t you, Hermione?”
Each syllable was like a wound being carved into her psyche, the sound of his voice a weapon he wielded expertly. It twisted through her thoughts, pulling them apart, unraveling the fragile thread of control she had desperately tried to maintain. The darkness of his presence seeped deeper, like ink blotting out the light, staining her mind. His words sliced through her, digging under her skin, twisting the knife deeper with every syllable.
Hermione clenched her fists tighter, nails biting into her skin until the sting grounded her, if only slightly, in the present. There was a fire inside her, burning hot, swirling with the raw power of her magic. It was still there, still hers—or it should have been. She could feel it, latent and ready. But now, it felt distant, out of reach. As if his dark influence had drained it, siphoned it away, leaving her weak, hollow. A shell of herself.
He was patient. Too patient.
Tom had always been the master of manipulation, of control. He could twist the truth, break it, reshape it into something that suited him. And in that moment, Hermione realized with sickening clarity that he had been waiting for this. For her. For the moment she would return, the moment she would walk back into his grasp.
“You think you’re free,” he crooned, his voice growing thicker with venom. “You think you’ve escaped. You think you’ve outgrown me. How quaint.”
The words slithered through her mind, crawling into the spaces where her doubts lingered, where her fears lived. They pushed at the walls of her resolve, threatening to break them down. Every word was a hammer, pounding, breaking, shattering the fragile shield of defiance she had tried to build around herself. His voice wrapped around her like a noose, constricting tighter with every passing moment. The more she resisted, the more she fought, the more she felt the weight of his presence pressing on her chest.
The room around her seemed to respond, bending and shifting, distorting with his every word. She could feel the magic in the air, the very atmosphere heavy with it. The darkness had a life of its own, crawling over her skin like insects, wriggling, itching, pressing against her from all sides. The walls seemed to close in on her, compressing, tightening. Her pulse raced as she struggled to breathe, but the air felt like it was made of stone—solid, unyielding.
“You thought you could outrun me,” he purred, his voice dripping with mockery. “You thought I would let you go. But you’re mine, Hermione. You always have been.”
The words wrapped around her like a thick chain, coiling tighter, anchoring her to the very place she had tried to escape. She wanted to scream, to deny him, but the weight of his power was suffocating, choking the air from her lungs. She knew it was true. She could feel it in her bones. The bond they had shared, forged in blood, sweat, and pain, had never been broken. She had tried to sever it. She had tried to walk away, to leave him behind, but it had always followed her, trailing her steps like a shadow she could never outrun.
Tom’s presence seemed to swell, pressing against her chest with such force that it was as though the very air was being squeezed from her lungs. The power he wielded was overwhelming, suffocating. It was as if he had become the room, the walls, the air itself. She couldn’t escape it. No matter where she turned, he was there. He had been waiting for her. He had always known she would return.
The truth hit her with brutal clarity: there was no running from him. There never had been.
“You left me,” he whispered, his voice now soft, almost tender. “But you never really escaped, Hermione. I’ve always been with you. Waiting.”
Her stomach twisted in knots. She knew it was true. The bond they shared—the magic, the darkness, the shared moments of pain and power—was never fully severed. It had always lingered, like a shadow that couldn’t be chased away. He had never let go, and now she saw it for what it was: a slow, insidious trap, a cage she had willingly walked into.
Tom’s presence seemed to grow, pressing against her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She couldn’t escape it, couldn’t run, couldn’t fight it. The moment she had stepped into this office, the moment she had come back to the Ministry, he had been waiting. He had known.
The silence was suffocating. Hermione’s senses screamed for her to move, to act, but her body betrayed her, frozen in place as a cold breath, soft and chilling, brushed against her ear. It was almost gentle, the way it lingered on her skin, but there was nothing gentle about it. The breath was cold, like the hand of death itself, sliding over her skin and sending a shiver of dread down her spine.
Her heart hammered in her chest, pounding harder with every second that passed. She whirled around, every instinct screaming at her to fight, to defend herself. But when she looked, when her frantic gaze searched the darkened room, there was nothing. No figure, no shadow, nothing but the twisted embrace of the gloom that surrounded her. Yet, he was there, everywhere. His presence pressed in on her from every corner, curling through the air like an insidious mist. His voice, like velvet dipped in poison, coiled around her thoughts, seeping into her bones, making every fiber of her being ache with recognition.
“Do you feel it?” The words whispered through her mind, caressing her thoughts with a smooth, intoxicating rhythm. “That’s me, Hermione. I am in you, and you are in me. I own every part of you. You can’t run from me.”
Each syllable sent a wave of ice-cold terror crashing over her, and her knees buckled beneath her. She fell to the floor, the impact soft, but the weight of her helplessness more excruciating than any physical pain. Her hands trembled as they scraped the cold stone floor beneath her. She could feel the warmth of her magic, her strength, slipping away from her, like sand trickling through her fingers. It wasn’t just the power, though—it was her very core, her very will that he was draining, leaving her empty, vulnerable.
Tom wasn’t just taking her magic. He was taking her self.
“I will break you if I must,” his voice purred again, this time with a sinister satisfaction that made the hair on her neck stand on end. “I will make you see that you were never meant to escape. You were never meant to be free. You were meant to be mine.”
The words hit her like a storm. The finality in his tone, the certainty with which he spoke, lodged itself deep into her chest, a weight that suffocated her. The shadows around her deepened, twisting and curling, as if the very darkness in the room was an extension of him. She could feel them pressing in on her, pulling tighter with every breath, wrapping around her like chains, like a vice. Every inch of the air seemed thick, suffocating, making it impossible to move or think clearly. It was like being trapped inside a nightmare that she couldn’t escape. She could feel the cold sweat trickling down her neck, her hands slick with fear, her heart a rapid, unsteady drum in her chest.
But it wasn’t just the darkness closing in around her. It was the sensation of being watched, the unnerving feeling of being examined. She could sense him, hovering just outside her reach, savouring her fear, relishing every moment of her discomfort. He was enjoying this. The way her body trembled, the way her breath came quicker, the way her magic felt so distant, so unreachable. He was watching her break, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Hermione’s chest constricted as the weight of it all began to bear down on her. She didn’t want to give in, didn’t want to show him her weakness, but with every second that passed, she felt herself slipping further into the abyss. The darkness felt familiar now, like an old lover, an embrace that suffocated yet soothed at the same time. The terror gnawed at her, but a part of her—one that was too exhausted to fight—wanted to lean into it, to let it swallow her whole.
“You think you can fight me?” His voice was suddenly so close, so personal, that it felt like a caress against her skin. The words slid over her like ice, sharp and biting, sinking deep into her thoughts. “You think you can stand against me? You’re already mine, Hermione. You were always mine.”
The words were like chains, wrapping around her mind, around her heart, squeezing tighter, tighter, until she couldn’t breathe. He was right. She had fought so long to escape him, to break free of the hold he had on her, but all the while, he had been waiting. Watching. Pulling the strings from behind the scenes, subtly, invisibly, until there was no part of her that hadn’t been touched by his influence. She had always belonged to him. She had always been his, from the very first moment their paths had crossed.
And then, like the echo of a nightmare come to life, his laugh returned. It was low, dangerous, full of dark delight. It echoed in the room, vibrating through the walls, reverberating through her mind. A laugh that was triumphant, cruel, full of a conqueror’s satisfaction.
“You’ll learn, Hermione,” he whispered, his voice dripping with cold tenderness. “You’ll learn what it truly means to belong to me. You’ll learn that there is no escape. Not now. Not ever.”
The words rang in her ears, louder and louder, until they were all she could hear, until they were all that existed in the world. There was nothing else. No hope. No way out. No escape. Just him. And the conqueror’s smile, the one she couldn’t see but could feel in every breath she took, in every moment of weakness, in every shred of doubt he had planted in her mind.
It was an insidious thing, that smile. It wrapped itself around her, suffocating her. It was the smile of someone who knew they had won, who had claimed victory without ever needing to raise a hand. The smile of someone who had already broken her, piece by piece, long before she had even realized it.
Hermione gasped for breath, her fingers trembling as they reached for her wand once more. She had to do something. She had to fight. But when her fingers closed around the familiar wood, it felt as though it were weighted down with lead, as though the very magic within it had abandoned her, too. She tried to cast a spell, tried to call on the power that had always been within her. But it felt hollow. Weak. Like she was screaming into an empty void.
Her body shook with fear and frustration. Every breath was a struggle. His magic pressed against her, smothering her, and she was powerless to fight it.
And Tom knew it.
His laughter filled the room again, this time louder, more triumphant. The sound of a conqueror who had taken his prize, savouring every second of his victory.
“You’ll learn, Hermione,” he repeated softly, the words like a final nail in the coffin. “You’ll learn that you were never meant to be free. You were always meant to be mine.”
The smile that lingered in the air around her was not one of compassion or understanding, but of sheer dominance. He had broken her. Completely. She was his, in every sense of the word. There was no escape. No hope. Only him.