the scene shifts violently, dragging him from his battlefield triumph into a cold, mist-laden wilderness. towering trees loom around him, their twisted branches interlocking overhead, casting a gloom so thick it feels oppressive. there is no sound here, only the stillness of ancient woods, untouched and indifferent. on the ground between you both lies the shattered remnants of the time turner, broken gears glinting faintly in the scattered moonlight, offering a stark reminder of the irreversible.

tom’s gaze snaps to you, his youthful features twisted in fury. without hesitation, he raises his wand, aiming it at you, and you mirror the movement, fueled by the same searing anger. spells collide silently in the air—only, they don’t. there is no crackle of magic, no rush of power. the wands remain lifeless, unresponsive, as if cut off from the very force that once made them potent. a flicker of disbelief flashes in his eyes, quickly overtaken by rage.

“what have you done?” he hisses, voice sharp with venom. he glances at the shattered time turner, realization dawning in his expression—a grim, terrifying possibility. if this thing is broken, then they could be anywhere. any time. his fingers tighten around his useless wand, as if struggling to accept the horror of being stripped of the power he’s always relied upon.

then something else—a strange weightlessness in his limbs, an unfamiliar ease of movement. his gaze drops to his hands, younger and unmarred, no longer the pale, serpentine shadows of lord voldemort. his breath sharpens as his fingers brush against his face—no slits for a nose, no waxy, hollow skin. a wave of rage and disgust crashes over him as he realizes the time turner hasn’t just displaced him—it’s rewound him, stripped him of everything he’d become.

“what have you done you filthy creature?” his voice rises, cracking through the oppressive silence of the forest. he advances toward you, his fury overwhelming any pain from his own injuries.