Tangled in Time

The sound of his laughter still clung to the air like the lingering remnants of a spell gone terribly wrong. It was thick, suffocating, wrapping around Hermione’s throat like invisible hands, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Every inch of her skin crawled with the awareness of his presence, an unseen force pressing down on her, digging into her like claws sinking into soft flesh. Her heart pounded in her chest, an erratic rhythm that mocked her futile resistance. She knelt on the floor, her knees aching, her fingers trembling where they had clutched her wand in vain. But her magic—her once vibrant, fiery magic—felt distant, sluggish, as though it no longer belonged to her. It refused to obey her call, whispering that she had already lost. That she was nothing here.

And then—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate. The rhythmic click of boots against polished marble echoed through the vast chamber, each step sending icy tendrils of dread creeping down her spine. It was not the sound of someone approaching in haste, nor of a man filled with anger or desperation. No, it was the measured stride of someone who had already won. The pace of a ruler. A conqueror. The certainty in the sound made her stomach twist violently, her breath hitching in her throat, because she knew.

She knew exactly who it was.

A part of her wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, to will herself into blindness, to pretend that if she didn’t see him, he wouldn’t be real. That this was some terrible nightmare she would wake from, gasping and reaching for the past, for a timeline that had not yet been rewritten. But reality had never been so kind to her. And deep down, she knew she had no choice but to face it. Face him.

With great effort, Hermione forced herself to lift her head, her curls falling in a tangled, disheveled mess around her face. Her muscles ached with the movement, as though gravity itself was heavier in his presence, pressing her down, trying to keep her on her knees where she belonged. The dim candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows across the vast chamber, and when her gaze finally found him, the world seemed to warp and contract, as though struggling to contain the sheer weight of the presence standing before her.

Tom Riddle stood there, watching her.

But this was not the Tom she had known.

This was not the boy who had prowled the halls of Hogwarts, cloaked in secrets and ambition, nor the shadowed enigma she had spent months evading, fighting, fearing. This was not the half-formed nightmare of history she had tried so escape. No, this was something far worse.

He was older now. No longer just the brilliant, twisted man with too much hunger in his eyes. He was still young, still impossibly beautiful in that devastating, otherworldly way that sent shivers down her spine, but there was a new weight to him now. Something heavier, something inevitable. His presence commanded the room, the air itself bending to accommodate him. His robes, once simple, once belonging to a student, were now exquisitely tailored—deep obsidian with silver threading, the fabric moving like liquid shadow with every calculated motion. The fine embroidery at his cuffs gleamed under the dim candlelight, an insignia woven so delicately into the fabric that it might have been missed had it not sent a spear of ice plunging into Hermione’s veins.

The sigil of the Minister of Magic.

Her stomach lurched. Her breath caught painfully in her throat, but she could not tear her gaze away. No. No, that wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. And yet—there it was. Woven into his robes like a taunt, like a declaration that the world as she had known it no longer existed.

The puppet master had claimed his throne.

Tom watched her, his head tilting ever so slightly, as though savoring every flicker of realization that crossed her face. His lips curled into something between a smirk and a knowing smile, the kind of expression worn by an artist admiring a masterpiece they had meticulously crafted, stroke by careful stroke. His eyes gleamed in the dim candlelight, alight with the satisfaction of a predator watching its prey come to terms with the inescapable.

“Surprised?” he murmured, his voice smooth, unhurried, dripping with amusement that coiled around her like a serpent. “You shouldn’t be.”

Hermione’s world tilted. It felt as if the very ground beneath her had shifted, as though reality itself was crumbling at the edges, unravelling thread by thread. Her mind raced to catch up, to grasp at the pieces of logic that should have held this world together. But the pieces didn’t fit. None of it fit. This wasn’t the world she had left behind.

When she had run—when she had fled him in desperation, believing she had finally torn herself free—Kingsley Shacklebolt had been Minister. The wizarding world had been healing, slowly, painstakingly stitching itself back together from the ruins of war. The Order had survived. Resistance had remained. Hope had remained.

And yet—standing before her, draped in the very title that should have belonged to someone else, was him.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven.

Something was wrong. Something was so, so wrong.

Tom’s smirk deepened, his amusement simmering just beneath the surface, a cat toying with its wounded prey. He took a step closer, his presence pressing against her like an invisible weight, suffocating, oppressive. Even the air in the room seemed thinner now, warping under the force of his power.

“You’re starting to understand now, aren’t you?” His voice was velvet-wrapped steel, smooth but unyielding, laced with the satisfaction of a puppeteer watching his marionette dance on tangled strings. He took another step forward, deliberately slow, savouring every moment, every flicker of realization that crossed her face. “I didn’t just follow you through time, Hermione. I rewrote it.”

The words crashed over her like a tidal wave, drowning her in a revelation so dark, so all-consuming, that for a moment she could scarcely breathe. Her lungs burned with the effort, her mind reeling, scrambling for an anchor in the chaos.

No.

She shook her head, her voice barely a whisper, the word slipping through trembling lips. “No.”

Tom chuckled, low and indulgent, as if her denial was nothing more than an amusing formality. “Oh, yes.”

His voice was silk—dark, rich, and terrifyingly certain. The room around them seemed to contract, the very walls pressing in as if bending to his will. The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows across his face, sharpening the cruel curve of his mouth, the glint in his fathomless eyes.

Hermione’s breath came in shallow gasps as she fought to steady herself, to make sense of the horror he had just unveiled. Rewriting time—no, it wasn’t possible. Time was fragile, dangerous to tamper with. It had rules. Paradoxes. Limits. Even the most reckless, brilliant minds knew that.

Didn’t they?

Her hands clenched into fists against the cold stone floor, her nails digging into her palms as if grounding herself would somehow make this nightmare less real. “That’s—” Her voice cracked, weak and disbelieving. “That’s impossible.”

Tom let out a quiet, almost affectionate laugh—if not for the dark amusement curling at the edges of it. “Is it?” He spread his arms slightly, a slow, almost lazy gesture, as if presenting the world itself as evidence of his triumph. His voice dipped lower, rich with condescension. “You, of all people, should know better.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint, almost imperceptible glow of magic pulsing beneath his skin, power woven into his very being. “Time is malleable. The past is not as fixed as you believed.” His eyes darkened, his voice turning to something heavier, something absolute. “Not when someone with the will to shape it bends it to their desire.”

Hermione’s stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in her throat.

This wasn’t a bluff. This wasn’t an empty threat meant to frighten her into submission. It was the truth.

He had done it.

She had thought she had escaped. She had thought she had run far enough, hidden well enough, carved out a new path beyond his reach. But the truth was so much worse than anything she could have imagined.

Tom hadn’t just followed her through time.

He had unmade it.

He had rewritten history itself.

And she had no idea how far the damage went.

Her chest constricted, panic rising as the sheer weight of it all pressed down on her. The past, the present—everything she had once known, once fought for—was now his. His to shape. His to control. His to rule.

“What… what did you change?”

Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a breath, raw from the weight of the truth pressing down on her. But she forced herself to ask. She had to know. She had to hear it from him, no matter how much it might tear her apart.

Tom’s expression remained composed, a mask of effortless control, but something flickered in his gaze—pleasure. A deep, quiet satisfaction, as though he had been waiting for this moment, savouring every second of her unravelling.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself to his knees before her, his movements measured, precise, as though he had all the time in the world. His presence was overwhelming, a force of gravity pulling her downward, suffocating, inescapable.

Then—his fingers brushed against her jaw.

Featherlight. Deceptively gentle. But the touch burned like a brand, searing into her skin, coiling around her throat like unseen chains. Hermione shuddered, every instinct screaming at her to pull away, to recoil, but she couldn’t. He had rooted her in place, bound her without a single spell.

“I corrected the flaws,” he said simply.

The words slithered down her spine like ice, chilling her to the marrow.

Hermione’s stomach twisted violently, nausea rising so swiftly she thought she might be sick. Flaws. He had called them flaws.

“The war?” she forced out, her voice barely more than a whisper. The words clawed their way up her throat, jagged and raw. She already knew the answer. She felt it, in the very foundation of this world, in the quiet, insidious wrongness that lay beneath everything. But she needed to hear it. Needed him to say it.

Tom chuckled. A soft, amused sound. He tilted his head, considering her with something akin to curiosity, as if entertained by the sheer futility of her resistance.

“The war?” he echoed, his tone almost thoughtful, as though she had asked about something insignificant. Then he exhaled, a sigh touched with indulgence, and his smirk deepened. “Ah. You mean that messy little rebellion?”

Her blood ran cold.

Tom’s fingers curled slightly against her skin, his touch lingering, possessive. “I won,” he murmured.

The words slammed into her like a curse.

Hermione’s breath hitched. She was shaking now, visibly, her body betraying her. “No,” she whispered, but it was useless. The truth was right there in front of her—written in the way he carried himself, in the robes he wore, in the power that radiated from him like an undeniable force of nature.

“Voldemort never rose,” Tom continued, his voice smooth, unhurried. He said the name as if it were an afterthought, a relic of a past that had never come to be. “There was no crude, fractured shadow of my greatness. No clumsy mistakes. No unnecessary bloodshed.”

Hermione’s heart pounded so violently it hurt.

He leaned in ever so slightly, his fingers tracing down her jaw with unbearable slowness, tilting her chin up just enough to force her to look at him. “I was patient,” he murmured. “I took my time. I built my empire properly.”

Her breath came in short, shallow gasps.

The war hadn’t been fought. It had never happened.

Because he had been the one to take control first.

Tom had never been forced into the shadows. He had never split his soul, never become the abomination that history had known as Voldemort. He had played the long game. He had learned. He had waited. And in the end, he had seized everything without resistance, without opposition. He had reshaped the world in his image before anyone had even realized what he was doing.

She couldn’t breathe.

“You see, Hermione,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against her cheek, his touch deceptively tender, “I never lost.”

Her stomach clenched, nausea rolling through her in waves.

Tom had won.

Not just a battle. Not just her.

Everything.

Every desperate sacrifice, every victory that had been paid for in blood, every inch of ground that had been fought for—the world she had known, the world they had bled to protect—it was gone.

Rewritten.

And the worst part?

She had walked straight back into his hands.

Tom’s fingers lingered against her skin before he finally pulled away, slow and deliberate, as if imprinting the sensation onto her, as if reminding her that he had no need to hold her in place—because she wasn’t going anywhere. His gaze was heavy, knowing. Certain.

“Welcome home,” he whispered.

The words settled over her like a death sentence.