Tangled in Time

There was still a part of her that refused to yield. A fragile, flickering ember buried beneath the weight of his will, a final, desperate whisper of defiance. It screamed at her to move, to fight, to run, even as her body trembled under the crushing weight of his presence. The instinct to resist was woven into her very bones, a deeply ingrained refusal to submit to the inevitable, no matter how dire the circumstances.

Yet, inevitability was precisely what loomed before her now.

She didn’t know how long she had been on the floor, knees pressed against cold stone, her fingers curled into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. Seconds? Minutes? Time had lost meaning, dissolved into nothing in the wake of his triumph. The realization sat heavy on her chest, suffocating, like iron chains wrapped around her ribs, tightening with every breath. The weight of it was unbearable, pressing down on her like an immovable force—one she wasn’t certain she had the strength to fight against any longer.

But Hermione Granger had never been one to surrender.

With a ragged breath, she forced her limbs to obey, pushing against the unyielding ground beneath her. Her muscles ached with the effort, screaming in protest, but she gritted her teeth and shoved past the pain. It took everything she had to lift herself up, to stand on shaking legs, as if reclaiming her footing might somehow erase the moment of weakness he had already seen, already claimed.

Tom Riddle watched her.

He did not move to stop her. Did not reach for his wand. He made no effort to restrain her, no attempt to intervene. Because he didn’t need to.

He stood there, poised and composed, his presence stretching to fill every inch of the space between them. He was the very image of controlled amusement, his dark eyes gleaming with something far more dangerous than mere cruelty—certainty. It radiated from him, an unshakable assurance that no matter what she did, no matter how hard she fought, the outcome had already been decided.

“You still think you have a choice,” he murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly. His voice was soft, patient, as though indulging her in a game whose rules he had written, whose ending he had already seen.

Hermione swallowed against the thick knot of fear in her throat, forcing herself to meet his gaze. She had to. She would not let him see her cower.

“I do,” she whispered, though the words felt like glass against her tongue, fragile and brittle, as if they might shatter under the weight of the truth.

His smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, curling at the edges like the beginnings of a dark promise.

“Then fight me.”

The challenge slid between them, insidious, inevitable.

Magic crackled at her fingertips before she could think, before she could even hesitate. Instinct took over, raw and desperate, pushing her into action before rationality had a chance to stop her. Her wand was already in her grip, her body moving on pure survival, her instincts screaming at her to fight.

She did the only thing she could do.

She cast.

"Expulso!"

The incantation ripped from her throat, fuelled by sheer force of will. Magic exploded from her wand, a violent burst of energy that shattered the fragile stillness between them. It surged forward like an unstoppable force, colliding with the very air itself, tearing through the space between them with enough power to make the walls tremble. The sheer magnitude of it sent tremors rippling outward, the impact like a shockwave rolling through the stone beneath their feet. The floor cracked, fractures splintering out like jagged veins, dust and debris scattering in the wake of her unleashed fury. The very foundation of the room trembled beneath the weight of her spell.

And yet—

Tom did not move.

He did not flinch. He did not so much as blink.

There was no fear in his expression, no tension in his posture. No sign of alarm, no flicker of wariness. Just a quiet, detached amusement lurking in the depths of his gaze, as though he were indulging a child in a tantrum rather than facing an opponent.

Then, with nothing more than a flick of his fingers—

The magic bent.

Twisted.

Broke.

Her power unravelled before it could even reach him, dissipating into the air like smoke, like an illusion, like an empty threat that had never truly existed. The force of it, the raw desperation behind it—none of it mattered. Her spell, the spell that should have been powerful enough to break stone, to kill if aimed properly—had simply been unmade.

Just like that.

Like nothing.

Hermione’s heart pounded violently against her ribs. No. No, no, no—

She gritted her teeth, tightening her grip on her wand until her knuckles ached. She refused to accept that. She refused to let it be over.

Again. She had to try again.

Before hesitation could creep in, before doubt could wrap its cold fingers around her throat, she slashed her wand through the air, her voice sharp, desperate, unwavering.

"Stupefy!"

A flash of red light shot toward him, streaking through the dim chamber like a bolt of fire. It was fast, precise, but she didn’t stop there. She barely waited to see the outcome before she was already moving, already casting.

"Confringo!"

Flames erupted at the tip of her wand, an explosion of heat and destruction roaring to life, tearing toward him with the promise of obliteration. The very air around it shimmered from the intensity of the magic, the walls vibrating from the sheer force—

"Incarcerous!"

Thick, enchanted ropes shot forward in the wake of her last attack, streaking through the smoke and fire, winding through the chaos like vipers searching for their prey. They twisted, coiling, their trajectory sharp and precise, aiming to bind him before he had the chance to counter—

But it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

Tom sighed.

A soft, almost disappointed sound.

The sheer audacity of it made her breath hitch, a fresh wave of fury surging through her, burning through her veins like acid. He was bored.

He wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t even engaged.

He was bored.

And then—

With a flick of his wrist, the entire chamber seemed to shift.

Magic rippled through the space around them, an invisible force curling through the air like a whisper of inevitability. The spells she had cast—spells that should have at least forced him to react—simply…collapsed.

The stunning spell? Gone. Snuffed out before it reached him, as if it had never been cast in the first place.

The explosion? Silenced. The fire extinguished in an instant, the heat vanishing like a candle snuffed by the wind.

The ropes? Torn apart mid-air, unravelling into useless fibres before they could so much as graze the hem of his robes.

It was effortless. Effortless.

And that was when the full weight of it crashed down on her.

A subtle flick of his wrist, and her magic crumbled. Every spell unravelled mid-air, breaking apart as if the very fabric of reality refused to carry out her will. He didn’t even need his wand. He dismantled her magic like it was nothing, reduced her efforts to ash before they even had the chance to reach him.

Futility bled into her bones.

A shuddering breath tore from her lungs.

She was nothing against him.

The realization coiled around her ribs, constricting, suffocating. She couldn’t touch him. She couldn’t fight him. She was a mere echo of what she had once been, standing before a force far greater than anything she had ever faced.

And Tom knew.

That was the worst part—the way he looked at her, the way his gaze flickered with something between amusement and inevitability. As if this moment had always been meant to happen, as if this final stand of hers had been nothing more than an amusing spectacle, a performance for his own entertainment.

He took a step forward, slow, unhurried, the movement almost lazy, as though he were growing bored of the game. There was no urgency in his approach, no need for haste—because he already knew how this would end. He had known from the moment she picked up her wand, from the moment she dared to fight him despite the certainty of her failure.

Hermione stumbled back, her breaths shallow and uneven, heart pounding against the walls of her ribs. Panic clawed its way up her throat, thick and suffocating. The room around her seemed to shift, the shadows pressing in, the walls inching closer, the air thinning. No. No, no, no—

She swung her wand again, desperate, frantic. But before she could even voice the incantation, the atmosphere around her shifted.

A pulse of energy—dark and unseen, swift and merciless—ripped through the space between them. It struck her like a silent explosion, a cold, crushing force slamming into her chest. The breath was torn from her lungs, stolen before she could even gasp, and then—

She was airborne.

The world blurred, her body weightless for a fraction of a second before impact. Her back hit the stone wall with brutal force, pain detonating through her limbs like a lightning strike. A strangled gasp escaped her lips as she crumpled against the unyielding surface, vision swimming, disoriented, the sheer force of it leaving her momentarily dazed.

Something clattered against the floor—distant, disconnected. It took her a second too long to realize.

Her wand.

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog from her mind, trying to force her limbs to move, but her body refused to obey. A sharp ache throbbed along her spine, her nerves burning from the aftershock of whatever he had done to her. She wanted to reach for her wand, to scramble toward it, to do something, but she couldn’t seem to breathe, let alone move.

And then—

Silence.

A single heartbeat, heavy and deafening.

Then—his voice.

"Enough."

The single word was not shouted. It was not whispered. It did not carry the weight of fury or the sharp edges of cruelty. It was spoken with the kind of quiet, effortless certainty that did not demand obedience—it commanded it, simply by existing. There was no room for defiance in the face of such finality, no space left for struggle.

Not a warning.

Not a threat.

A verdict.

A sentence passed down with cold, unwavering assurance, as inevitable as the passage of time.

And just like that, the fight bled from her limbs.

It wasn’t the pain that held her still. It wasn’t the absence of her wand, now lying somewhere uselessly out of reach, abandoned like a relic of a battle long lost. It wasn’t even exhaustion, though it pressed against her bones like lead, weighing her down, turning her body sluggish and slow.

It was him.

The weight of his presence, the sheer, overwhelming force of his will. It crashed over her in silent, suffocating waves, pressing into her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. There was something deeper than magic at work here—something ancient, something she couldn’t fight.

Tom moved toward her.

Not in haste. Not with the urgency of someone who had anything to prove.

But slowly.

With the measured, deliberate grace of a man who knew—knew—that victory had always belonged to him. His steps were unhurried, each one drawn out, each one tightening the invisible noose wrapped around her throat. There was no gloating in the way he walked, no arrogance, only the steady, calm confidence of a ruler surveying his kingdom.

And Hermione—Hermione could do nothing but watch.

She was trapped.

Not by chains.

Not by magic.

But by something far worse.

By herself.

Her limbs felt impossibly heavy, weighted by something unseen, something more potent than a spell. Her muscles refused to respond, her body sluggish and uncooperative, as though she were submerged in deep, unyielding water. She wanted to move, to lash out, to claw her way toward something—but the resistance was too much. Her magic—her essence—was a flickering ember, barely glowing, barely there. It was slipping through her fingers like grains of sand, draining from her with every passing second.

Something inside her recoiled at the sensation, shrieking in protest, desperate to keep fighting, to keep resisting. But it was slipping away.

And he knew it.

Tom stopped before her, standing so close that she could feel the heat radiating from him.

He was unshaken. Untouched. The battle—if it could even be called that—hadn’t left a mark on him. He had not been challenged, not even tested. The stark contrast between them sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her stomach.

Her body trembled. Her fingers twitched, aching to reach for a wand she no longer had.

Somehow, impossibly, she forced herself to move.

Just a little.

Just enough to lift her gaze, to meet his eyes despite the suffocating dread curling around her ribs, despite the way her very instincts screamed at her to look away.

Tom Riddle did not bow.

Tom Riddle did not lose.

And he had not lost here.

She wanted to speak. To spit venom from her tongue, to strike at him with the only weapons she had left. She wanted to curse him, to scream, to force some last, sharp retort from her throat—something to make him feel the fire still burning inside her. But the words would not come. Her lips refused to part, her breath caught in her lungs. The silence was deafening.

Then, he reached out.

She stiffened, every muscle in her body tensing with the instinct to pull away—but she couldn’t.

Her body refused to move.

Her betrayal was absolute.

His fingers brushed against her face, featherlight, deceptively tender. A single stray curl had fallen loose from the mess of her hair, and with slow, deliberate precision, he tucked it behind her ear. The movement was not rushed. It was careful. Calculated. Lingering.

And it sent a violent shiver down her spine.

Because it was not soft.

It was possession.

The touch lingered, just enough to make its meaning clear, just enough to sink beneath her skin, to brand itself into her very being. He did not need to tighten his grip. He did not need to restrain her. The weight of his hand alone was enough to remind her of what she already knew—

She belonged to him.

His fingers ghosted along her jaw, dragging the moment out for far too long before he finally, finally, pulled away. But the absence of his touch did nothing to ease the sensation.

It lingered.

Branded her.

"You’re only hurting yourself."

The words drifted through the air between them, slow and deliberate, each syllable settling over her like a carefully placed weight, pressing down, smothering. They were spoken with a softness that made her stomach twist, a quietness that was more insidious than any shout, more suffocating than any demand. There was no urgency, no forcefulness—only patience. An unshakable, immovable patience.

It would have been easier if he had mocked her, if he had wielded his words like a blade, carving into her with cruel amusement. But he didn’t.

Because he didn’t need to.

There was no gloating in his voice. No taunting lilt. No sharpened malice curled into the edges of his smirk.

There was only certainty.

A dark, inescapable truth that wound itself around her ribs, tightening with every passing second.

Hermione’s breath hitched in her throat, and she swallowed hard, trying to shove the words away, trying to stop them from taking root inside her. But they already had. They were already there, sitting in the deepest, most hidden part of her mind, a seed planted long before this moment.

A part of her had always known.

A part of her had seen the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he pulled at the strings of the world as though it had never belonged to anyone but him. And yet, she had still fought. She had still tried. Because what else could she do?

What else was there, except resistance?

"You knew from the beginning that this was inevitable."

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms, grounding her in something—pain, desperation, something real. She shook her head before she could stop herself, a feeble, instinctual act of defiance, but the motion was weak. Hollow. Unconvincing even to herself.

Tom exhaled softly, as though pitying her. The weight of it was worse than any curse he could have cast.

"I don’t need to use force, Hermione." His voice was quiet, composed, his gaze piercing as he studied her with something that looked dangerously close to satisfaction. "I never did."

The words sent a fresh wave of dread crashing through her.

Because she knew.

She knew.

She clenched her jaw, fighting the tremor threatening to break across her expression. She would not let the words take root, would not let them settle in her bones and make a home there.

But Tom only smiled.

Not a smirk, not the sharp-edged amusement he so often wielded as a weapon—but something softer. Something worse.

"Fighting me is futile," he said simply.

The words echoed through her mind, reverberating through every fibre of her being, laced with something insidious.

Because somewhere, deep down, beneath the panic, beneath the defiance, beneath the fragile remains of her resistance—

A part of her already knew it was true.

Her breath hitched.

No.

No.

She wanted to deny it, to rip herself from the suffocating grasp of the certainty pressing in around her, but the truth was a poison already seeping into her veins, already wrapping its tendrils around her heart.