Can't run from time

Hermione hadn't stopped running. Her heart pounded in her chest, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins as she burst through the heavy wooden doors of the castle. She found herself in the entrance hall, hands shaking, cold sweat dripping down her neck. She could barely catch her breath.

 He wasn't Tom Riddle anymore—he was vol-..volde- Voldemort now. The coldness in his eyes when he declared his new name had been terrifying. The way his smile had curled when he revealed it to her, as if daring her to flinch.

Hermione shuddered, still replaying his words. She remembered how his eyes had studied her too closely, searching for cracks in her composure.

*Voldemort.* The name echoed in her mind. This was it. The shift she had feared was happening before her eyes. He was becoming the Dark Lord, and she was standing at his side, pretending not to be horrified by it.

Panic surged within her, a suffocating dread. Her mind whirled. Why hadn't I seen it coming sooner? She knew it was coming, had always known, but somehow the reality of his transformation into Lord Voldemort felt even worse than the nightmare she had imagined.

She leaned against the stone wall, trying to calm her breathing. He's testing me, she thought, trying to rationalize her fear. He's pushing boundaries to see how far I'll go before breaking.

She thought she could stop this. But it clearly wasn't enough.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and Hermione stiffened. She turned her head quickly to see Tom entering the castle behind her, moving with that eerie grace he always carried. His hood was down now, his features sharp and calculating. He caught her eye, and for a moment, the hall seemed to close in on them.

"Running off so quickly?" His voice was low, almost teasing, though there was a dark edge to it. "Surely, my Lady wouldn't abandon me in front of our followers?"

Hermione swallowed, forcing her expression into something neutral. "I needed air."

Voldemort stepped closer, his gaze piercing as he studied her. "Air?" His lips twitched in amusement. "I thought you enjoyed these little gatherings." His voice dripped with mockery. "Or perhaps I misjudged how well you're adjusting to your new position."

She could feel his eyes trying to pierce through her defenses, searching for any sign of weakness. He was always watching her too closely, always suspecting. She straightened her posture, determined not to let him see her fear.

"No," she said evenly, "I'm fine."

He raised an eyebrow, his pale fingers reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was cold, and the intimacy of it made her shiver. "You know," he murmured, his voice lowering, "I could make things easier for you. All you need to do is trust me... after all, your my equal"

"You don't want an equal, Tom. You want a puppet, someone to validate every twisted thing you do."

His eyes darkened at her words, and for a split second, she thought she'd gone too far. But then he smirked, that cold, calculating smirk that sent chills down her spine.

"You're wrong," he said softly. "I want a queen. Someone strong enough to stand beside me, to rule this world with me." His hand gripped her chin, tilting her face toward his. "But perhaps you're not as strong as I thought."

Hermione's heart pounded, her pulse quickening at his words. "You're wrong," she whispered, her voice filled with defiance.

His eyes glittered dangerously, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Prove it." Then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he stepped back, his dark cloak sweeping behind him as he turned to leave. "I'll be waiting, Hermione."