Can't run from time

Abducted

He paused.

Then struck her. Open palm, across the face. Her head snapped to the side, and blood filled her mouth.

Silence.

He stepped back. Watching.

Waiting.

She lifted her head slowly — swollen lip, cracked cheek, but her eyes... still burned.

"He will find me," she whispered.

-------

She woke in the dark. Again.

The walls around her were smooth, seamless stone — no corners, no light. Time didn't exist here, just the echo of her own breath and the way her heartbeat sped up when his magic pressed against her skin. It wasn't always there, but she could feel it now — like the air itself was holding its breath.

Then the door opened.

There was no sound. Just a flicker — shadow separating from shadow — and then he was there.He didn't need to speak. His presence alone bent the room around him like gravity, warping the air and the thoughts in her head.

Voldemort.

But not just  Voldemort.

He wore Tom's face sometimes — or at least what she remembered of it.

Sharper now. Older. More cruel. But there were moments... flickers in his expression, in the way he looked at her...

Like he remembered her.

"Kitten."

Her stomach turned at the word — not because of what it meant, but because her body responded before her mind could stop it.

He said it softly, gently. Almost lovingly. He sat beside her, robes whispering against the floor."I missed you," he said, brushing her hair behind her ear. "You know I waited for you. Fifty years. A lifetime. And not once did I stop thinking of you."

"Tom—" The name left her lips like a mistake, and he smiled.

There it was. That twisted smile. Not warm. Not kind. Possessive. Deep down, part of her had memorized that smile — craved it.

"No one calls me that anymore," he whispered. "But you can. You always could."

She turned her face away, tears burning at the back of her eyes. "You're not him."

"Mm. Maybe not." He leaned in. "But you still want me, don't you?"

Her hands shook. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. She wanted to say no. She should say no. But all she could feel was the pressure of memory — the way Tom had looked at her in the past, that boy with dark eyes and dark dreams. The one who made her laugh. The one who made her think.

"You remember what we were," he said softly, as though they were old lovers reuniting.