Chapter Text
"I just want to talk..."
She abruptly reached the chair in front of him. Drunk and desperate.
He didn’t say a word. He let her be.
She was the allegory of chaos. Her hair was messy and tangled, her mascara smeared down her cheeks.
She had been crying. Badly.
But there she was, sitting across from him, completely oblivious to the man in the dark suit standing next to the table, uncomfortable and uncertain.
He looked at the black-haired man with a raised eyebrow, unsure what to do with her.
The seated man, the one annoyed by this lovely fury, raised his hand as if it meant nothing. The man in the dark suit stepped back, into the shadows.
She didn’t notice any of this.
She ordered another butterbeer while he drank his firewhiskey.
The waiter arrived soon after and looked at them. He pouted, concerned for the young lady’s well-being.
"Are you sure, my dear, it’s a good idea?" he asked, putting the drink down in front of her.
She shook her head, unable—or pretending not—to see the danger.
The waiter looked at the black-haired man, like the man in the dark suit had, and lowered his head respectfully.
"My lord."
Again, the seated man raised his hand and said nothing.
"Soooo, what do you want to talk about?" asked the little nymph, resting her chin on her hand.
He raised an eyebrow.
Even through blurred vision, she knew he was a handsome man.
Like a Greek statue. Or some shit like that.
"I thought... it was you who wanted to talk, Miss...?" His tone was measured and calm.
She blinked. Something felt off.
"I’ve seen you before..." she murmured, closing her eyes.
"You surely have."
She opened her eyes, surprised by the flicker of amusement in his voice.
"Where then?!" she asked, sipping her beer.
"Everywhere."
She sighed, disappointed.
"Ah..."
He slightly frowned.
"Is there something not to your liking, Miss...?" Again, he tried to get her name.
But even drunk, she was clever. She had always been.
"Yes."
He looked at her, mildly surprised, before becoming impassive again.
"You know, usually, people lie to me."
She frowned.
"Why’s that?"
"Why not?"
She sighed again, disappointed.
"Ah..."
He clenched his jaw.
"Why the disappointing ah again?" he asked coldly.
"Oh... It’s just that I thought you and me..." She pointed a finger at him. "We could have sex, but you’re too mysterious for me."
A short laugh echoed from the shadows, quickly suppressed—where the man in the dark suit stood watchfully.
She giggled too, before sighing.
Then she became serious (as serious as a drunk woman could be).
"You’re the kind of guy who thinks sooo highly of himself. You think you're perfect, and that your mysterious aura keeps people away. But here’s a scoop for you: it only attracts them..." she murmured, suddenly on the verge of tears. "You're just playing a fucking drama, and you break hearts. Hearts that didn’t ask for it... It’s what I do too. But it doesn’t work for me."
"For someone who's drunk... you have plenty to say." he observed, raising an eyebrow.
"I'd rather not..." She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Knowing is poison. When you're ignorant, life is easier."
He found her... interesting. He looked at her closely in the dim light of the silent pub.
She had long, curly hair—like someone he once knew—wide, dark chocolate eyes, mixed-race skin with rosy cheeks, a small upturned nose, and full lips.
She was pretty.
But when he saw the tears tracing down her cheeks, the hidden anger in the corner of her eyes, he found her beautiful—radiant in the darkness.
He desired her, and that surprised him.
He wasn’t the kind of man to feel such emotion in a pub. For a drunk woman. A lost one.
"I'm not lost, you know."
He stopped staring. Could she read minds?
"You probably think I'm pathetic. Drunk. Sitting next to a stranger. Asking for sex..."
She sneered as tears streamed down her face.
"If I were you, I’d find myself pathetic. People say I don’t have a heart, and they’re right... because it’s broken."
He watched her in silence, then after a moment, said almost gently:
"I cannot pretend not to find you pathetic in some way, Miss... but it suits you."
She burst into laughter.
Something sad. Something dead inside. His interest—and his desire—deepened.
It took her a while to calm down. But when she did, she stopped laughing. She stopped smiling.
She was cold, but still drunk. And silent.
"You said..." he began, a finger resting on his lips, "that it is better to be ignorant than informed... Do you truly believe that?"
She shrugged, her eyes on him.
"Yes."
"Why?" He squinted. "Why would you choose ignorance when you clearly know so much... about so many things?"
She paused, lost in thought.
"Because it hurts. What you don’t know can’t hurt you."
"That is a naive way to see the world, Miss. Knowledge is power. And power is the only thing that matters in this world. Either you take it and survive, or you stay naive and die for it."
She stayed silent again. Her mind was foggy. She tried to analyse his words—his careful, deliberate words.
She took a sip of beer.
"I work as a Surgical Healer at Saint Mungo’s."
He finally got something out of her. He listened.
"I see people on my table every day. I repair shoulders, hearts, stomachs—with magic. My job is to save them, and I do. I'm the first woman to direct my department. But here I am, drunk, overwhelmed by my emotions... and by a patient I lost this morning."
Her eyebrows furrowed.
"During training, we’re prepared for this. But living it... is something else entirely."
Tom said nothing, then asked softly:
"So, it was your first time losing a patient?"
"No." she said abruptly. She frowned and looked at her beer. "Like I said, we’re trained for it. But this time... it was different."
"Why different?"
He was guiding her now. There was more than grief.
"Because..." she met his eyes, "I knew him." She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Someone I deeply care asked me to supervise the operation. Then to perform it. I accepted. I was arrogant. I never thought I could lose him. But I did."
Tom tilted his head.
"If you’re this confident about your work... then perhaps something else caused it."
She slowly shook her head. She refused to accept it.
"I have a question for you," she said.
"I’m listening."
"Where do you work?"
He paused.
"I’m an authoritarian bureaucrat."
In the obscurity, a slight giggle escaped.
She pouted, unconvinced, but didn’t ask for more.
"Alright, so what do you do when you screw up at work?"
He took a sip of his firewhiskey.
"I never ‘screw up’ at work, Miss."
"Liar," she muttered.
"Do not be so impolite, Miss. It is the truth."
"I don’t trust you. Everyone makes mistakes. In love, at work... just by living."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"Perhaps that is my problem. I do not live as you do."
A flicker of surprise passed through her eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you seem to be the kind of extra-lucid woman. Cerebral, yet ruled by emotions. You try to appear loveless, but it requires a certain... strength. It’s not natural. You close your heart to others because you are forced to. Mine is closed by choice."
"Why would you do that?" she muttered, slightly afraid.
"Why not."
He dismissed her question again.
"No, no, no. You can’t say ‘why not’ every time a question doesn’t suit you. Answer me."
She stared at him, determined.
"Please," she added, as if it made her plea worthier.
Silence fell between them.
After a brief glance at her, he spoke—surprisingly softly.
"Because I navigate in dark waters. You do not, Miss."
She sighed, disappointed.
"You don’t want to talk about yourself, do you..."
She had only wanted to talk about trivial things, and ended up discussing philosophy with a mystery man.
"No. I’m impressed—you figured it out so quickly," he said sarcastically.
She gritted her teeth.
"If I’m a nuisance to you, why do you let me stay?"
"Why—"
"
If you say ‘why not’ again, I swear I’m going to hex you."
He smiled slowly, unimpressed but entertained.
"I would love to see that."
"Don’t tempt me," she groaned. "I was the most brilliant witch at Hogwarts," she shouted, pointing a finger in his face.
He remained unimpressed, but raised an eyebrow.
"What is your name?" he asked.
She frowned.
"Why do you want my name? Give me yours first, Mister-I'm-So-Mysterious."
She took one last sip of her beer.
"Because I like moaning my partner’s name during sex."
She spat out her beer and coughed violently.
"Sorry, um..." She wiped her mess on the table, suddenly sober.
"You do not need to worry, Miss," he said, laconically, slightly annoyed.
He didn’t move, didn’t help. He just watched her closely, as if she were a wrench thrown into well-oiled machinery.
She wiped her hands.
"Were you serious?"
"About what, Miss?"
She rolled her eyes.
"You’re doing it again!" she snapped.
He laughed softly.
It surprised her—and the man in the dark suit standing in the shadows.
"Were you serious when you said you wanted to have sex with me?" he asked, returning the question with amusement.
She bit her lip, thinking.
She didn’t know why, but something in her sensed that sleeping with this man might change her.
She wasn’t drunk enough to pretend she didn’t understand—or didn’t care.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good."
He stood, and she looked at him, surprised.
"Come with me, Miss." He extended his hand.
She hesitated. A small, fleeting thought crossed her mind:
And what if I’m about to sleep with the devil himself?
Foolish girl, she mocked herself.
She took his hand, and they disappeared together in a loud silence.
━━━━━━━━━━━━
They appeared elsewhere—in a vast room, with a bed and black sheets.
She didn’t care about the man’s identity, or the place, or anything else.
She just wanted to feel something other than sorrow, guilt, and grief.
She didn’t need to say it aloud—he already understood.
"What is your name?" he asked, stroking her cheek.
She bowed her head.
"I don’t want you to moan my name."
"Why is that?" he asked slowly, playing with her hair.
"Because I don’t care if you enjoy having sex with me. I just want to be the one moaning."
For the first time that evening, he smiled—truly.
It was sincere... and terrifying.
"Your desires... are my commands, my queen."
━━━━━━━━━━━━
It had been two days since she slept with a complete stranger.
She remembered waking up—naked, tired… no exhausted—but completely filled with pleasure.
No one was at her side, but she remembered a dark-haired man. A handsome man.
She got scared, dressed quickly, and Apparated back to her flat.
No note. No thank you. Nothing.
It had been a mistake. She’d put herself in danger, and despite a night of intense, delightful sex, she couldn’t act like that every time she drank.
New resolution: no more alcohol.
She nodded to herself as she re-read a patient’s vital signs for the third time.
Someone cleared their throat softly.
She lifted her eyes to the patient’s wife, sitting beside him, waiting for her verdict.
"Everything is fine, Mr. and Mrs. Hallow. You’ll be discharged very soon."
Mrs. Hallow smiled and leaned over her husband.
"You hear that, Bernie? You’re coming home soon!"
Bernie smiled awkwardly at the healer.
Mrs. Hallow stood and hugged her.
Many thanks to you, Miss!"
She smiled faintly, still feeling empty.
"Chief Healer?"
She turned. An intern handed her a scroll. Her superior wanted to see her immediately.
"Thank you, Healer Luther," she said.
She left the hospital room and went directly to her superior’s office.
She was afraid.
Since the incident, she’d been waiting—waiting for disciplinary action, or dismissal...
She still couldn’t understand that it hadn’t been her fault.
She climbed the stairs, walked through the corridors, and passed her boss’s secretary’s office.
She opened the door abruptly, forgetting her manners.
And froze.
A man with distinctive dark hair was sitting with his back to her, facing the director’s desk at St. Mungo’s.
She flinched.
"Ah! Chief Healer Granger, please, come in."
She obeyed, a knot forming in her stomach.
She approached the man she had slept with—and slowly turned her head toward him.
He was even more handsome than she remembered.
He watched her with a serene, half-smile.
She opened her mouth, suddenly realising who he was.
"You obviously know the Prime Minister, Lord Riddle!" said her superior cheerfully.
Tom stood and placed a delicate kiss on her hand.
Hermione swallowed hard and nodded, her grimace failing to pass as a smile.
"As I was telling your superior, Miss Granger," Tom said, "you were of great help to me two nights ago. I wanted to thank you… in person."
She couldn’t breathe.
He was smiling again—devouring her with his eyes.
He leaned toward her ear and whispered, his voice like silk and venom.
"You disappeared while I was in the shower. No note." She trembled. "You're mine now, Hermione. You should have thought of that before you decided to sleep with me."
And in front of her superior, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.
A kiss filled with honey, milk, and blood.
She had been wrong.
The devil is handsome.
He speaks well.
He is gentle.
And above all,
He makes naïve souls believe that he does not exist.