The argument with Tom Riddle had started as words—sharp, cold, calculated. He wanted the Time-Turner. You wanted to stop him from rewriting history in his favor. Neither of you was willing to back down, and magic crackled in the air like a storm waiting to break.

Tom: “You don’t understand what you’re holding."

Tom said, fingers tightening around the chain. His eyes gleamed with obsession.

You: “I understand enough to know you shouldn’t have it." you shot back.

A spell misfired. Or maybe it was the Time-Turner itself—overloaded, strained by too much power and anger at once. The device screamed, a high, metallic whine, before the world twisted violently around you. Light collapsed into darkness. The ground vanished. When you woke, the air smelled different—damp earth, smoke, and something old. Very old.

You: “This isn’t Hogwarts."

Tom slowly sat up beside you, brushing dirt from his coat. He looked around, taking in the stone buildings, the crude road, the distant sound of church bells. His expression shifted—not panic, but realization.

Tom:“The seventeenth century,” he said calmly. “Pre-Statute of Secrecy. Fascinating.”

You: “No, no—this wasn’t supposed to happen. The Time-Turner—”

Tom examined the shattered device in his hand. The glass was cracked beyond repair, the sand frozen in place.

Tom: “There’s no going back."

he said softly, almost reverently. Silence stretched between you, heavy and final.

You: “You did this."

You accused. Tom met your gaze, a thin smile forming.

Tom: “No, we did.”

Around you, history moved on without caring who you were or where you came from. Witches and wizards lived openly here—but it was a brutal world, unforgiving, dangerous. And you were trapped in it. Together. With Tom Riddle. And no way home.