Trapped

A Half blood ... what?

"There is no universe in which I will entertain this lunatic," Isadora said coolly, stepping away from Tom. Her voice, precise and unflinching, sliced through the corridor like a blade.

The words hung in the air with surgical finality, reverberating through the silent stone halls and causing a ripple of tension to spread through the onlookers watching from the viewing room. Her calm, almost dispassionate delivery stunned the crowd into silence.

Lily Potter gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Euphemia Potter straightened where she stood, the lines on her face deepening into furrows of dread.

Sirius Black's jaw clenched. His fists curled, knuckles white, as he stared at the screen, caught between protectiveness and helpless fury. Remus Lupin remained still, but his eyes sharpened with wary concern. Narcissa Malfoy leaned forward ever so slightly—her usual mask of indifference shifting into something else: surprise. Maybe even admiration.

Barty Crouch Jr.'s mouth twitched, intrigued, his gaze flicking toward Riddle. Regulus Black and Severus Snape exchanged a brief, unreadable glance, both uneasy. Bellatrix Lestrange tilted her head, lips parting in an amused smirk, but even she was listening now.

Isadora turned on her heel. Her departure was unhurried, deliberate, almost regal. Her spine remained straight, chin high, her expression eerily composed. She moved like someone raised not just in defiance, but in dominance.

She had made a promise to Harry once—a promise that when this place became intolerable, she would walk away. Now, it was time to do just that. With or without him.

But as she neared her quarters, fingers like steel clamped around her upper arm.

She turned slowly, her expression unchanging, gaze lifting to meet the eyes of Tom Riddle.

His hand gripped her cruelly, fingers digging into skin already bruised from past encounters. The pain was sharp, but she neither winced nor gasped.

"What did you say?" he hissed, voice dangerously low. "You think I'll keep forgiving you for calling me a moron, a half-blood bastard... a lunatic?"

The words echoed louder than intended. Gasps rippled through the hall.

People turned, and recognition bloomed on their faces. Tom Riddle. Lord Voldemort. The whispers started as a murmur and spread like fire. Some scrambled away. Others stood frozen in fear. Even among the Dark families, confusion reigned.

The Potters paled. The Marauders stared in stunned silence.

"You heard me," Isadora replied evenly.

Another collective intake of breath. Her voice was detached—free of fear or regret. A sovereign addressing a nuisance, not a prisoner rebuking her captor.

Riddle's eyes flared with fury. Her indifference was intolerable.

He yanked her through the hall. She didn't stumble. She allowed herself to be pulled with poise, refusing to offer him the satisfaction of resistance. When he shoved her into his room and she landed on the bed, she rose without flinching, as though she had simply sat for a moment too long.

Viewers stared in horror at the screen. Every movement of Riddle's was laced with menace, but Isadora's presence remained crystalline—calm, precise, and controlled.

"You think you can escape me?" he asked, stepping forward, his tone venomous.

"No," she said. "I know I will."

Riddle's face twitched. Her words struck a strange chord in him. He leaned in, his shadow stretching across her, his anger barely leashed.

He grabbed her chin, fingers like iron. "You belong to me. There is no hiding from me."

There was a beat of silence.

"I belong to no one," she whispered, and though her voice was quiet, it was carved from granite.

For the first time, Riddle faltered.

He looked at her—truly looked. This wasn't fear in her eyes. It wasn't desperation or bravado. It was defiance, chilling and pure. And it wasn't the girl who unnerved him—it was what she represented. Resistance without theatrics. Rebellion without noise. A quiet, icy refusal to be broken.

Outside the room, Lily looked away, tears brimming. Euphemia pressed her hand over her heart. Sirius paced violently, breath ragged. Narcissa stared with pale lips parted. Bellatrix's smirk faded into something far more cautious.

Blood began to well from Isadora's arm where his grip reopened her cuts. Crimson blossomed against her sleeve, but she did not react. Her silence was not weakness—it was power restrained. And everyone watching could feel it.

Riddle released her chin slowly, as though touching something sacred or toxic. His eyes scanning her, in remorse. His fingers drifted to the place on her neck where the cursed mark pulsed faintly. She didn't flinch, even as the air chilled with his proximity.

"You cannot escape me," he said again, more softly now. "You are mine."

"Then chase me," she replied. Her eyes were winter—unmoving, unfazed.

He stared at her, startled by the clarity in her defiance. For a flicker of a second, he saw not a girl, but an equal—a person he could admire.

With a flick of his wand, he cast Expelliarmus. Her wand flew to him. She did not reach for it. Did not react. Her arms remained at her sides.

"I'll return in a few days," he said at the threshold, voice sharp with frustration. "If you're not here, you'll wish you were."

And with a final, cold glare, he slammed the door behind him.

Silence fell like a shroud.

In the hallway, onlookers exchanged hushed, fearful glances. Even the most loyal among the Dark families struggled to understand what they'd just witnessed. Why would the future Dark Lord speak—reason—with a girl who had defied him so publicly? Why was she still breathing?

Tom Riddle himself stood still in the hall, gaze distant. There was fury, yes. But there was also something else. Curiosity. Disbelief. As though even he could not understand why he had not yet killed her.

Inside the room, Isadora remained motionless. Her breathing was steady. Her knuckles were white, curled at her sides—but not from fear. From restraint.

She stared at the door as if studying a chessboard.

She wasn't thinking about escape.

She was thinking about strategy.

Somewhere beyond, Death leaned closer. Not out of pity. But interest.