Chapter Text
It's quite common for vampires to have only one familiar. Familiars are humans who swear loyalty and service to their masters in exchange for one day becoming a vampire for their master. Of course, it's very rare for a familiar to actually become a vampire. About one in a million. Most die because their master gets tired of them and kills them. Or of old age. But Wormtail never stopped dreaming. His friend Remus was related to a vampire, Sirius, and was turned a few years ago. Now the two of them were living in a beautiful romance. Why couldn't Wormtail?
Perhaps he should insist that his master stop calling him Wormtail, it's a rather degrading nickname. Perhaps if he put his foot down and said: "My name is Peter, that's my name, call me that!", his master would respect him a little more and his chances of one day becoming a handsome vampire would become more credible. But Peter, Wormtail, whatever, was a very fearful familiar.
Or his master was too scary.
Tom Riddle was one of the oldest vampires in London. Not even Wormtail, who was extremely loyal and always in touch with Riddle's personal papers, could tell his exact age. From every book in Riddle's library that he'd ever cleared out, every piece of paper he'd ever had to keep, Peter estimated that his master had arrived when the Romans were expelled from Britannia island¦ That was many centuries ago.
His master was extremely respected by the vampire community all over the world. He was the leader of the Vampire Council of Europe, one of the most influential in the UK. Although there were richer or even older vampires, Riddle became extremely feared and powerful. His physical strength was unusual, he could withstand a few hours of sunlight and he could even manipulate the minds of other vampires. Wormtail was very proud to be his familiar. He knew that this made him respected among the other familiars of the vampire community. It was a privilege to be his bridge between the world of the living and the dead. And, of course, to be responsible for choosing their hunts.
Unlike other vampires, Tom Riddle liked to conquer his prey. Wormtail kept a stock of blood bags in the refrigerator of the Riddle manor, sometimes bought illegally directly from hospitals and sometimes drained by himself from people he had to kill to feed his master. Tom Riddle was always fed and always argued that all vampires should be fed a little every hour to stay strong. But what gave him genuine pleasure in his dying days was conquering victims, pre-selected by his familiar, in various ways.
Tom Riddle didn't have a physical standard of victim to conquer, although every vampire loves the blood of virgins. He liked a challenge, in other words, his pattern lay in the personality of his victims. Women who are bitter about life and don't want to give men another chance. Men who say they're too straight. Intelligent, workaholic women with no time for relationships. Men who couldn't make friends with anyone. Any kind of staunch virgin, be it for silly reasons like "waiting for the right person" or for religious reasons. He loved priests, by the way.
Many vampires in the 21st century no longer have the willpower to hunt or conquer their victims, they think it's outdated. The world has already passed the billion-human mark, why bother hunting? Riddle disagreed. He thought it was vampire nature to go to that kind of trouble, a primitive feeling of the race. He thought that non-hunting vampires were lazy and that it was remarkable that their minds slowed down. And Riddle was a lover of thought, knowledge and wisdom. He would never allow his brain to stop creating and reflecting, which the other stupid vampires had long since stopped doing.
Deep down, he even thought it was useful for the vampire community to become so mentally slow, it made it easier for him to control them, maintaining his status quo as leader of the Vampire Council. He's just indignant at being so similar and having to share a community with so many idiots.
Today, the pleasure of vampires is to find omega humans. There was a very old legend that there were humans who were resistant to the venom of a vampire's bite and could become a source of fresh blood in the long term. The normal thing was that when a human was bitten, they either died automatically or suffered while being drained. Those who suffer are the best in Riddle's opinion, to hear their moans and cries of anguish and despair, to feel their lives draining away as the poison acts and the blood is gone. Why find a source of fresh blood? Why keep that human alive when the best part is when they die?
There was a lot of buzz about these omega humans. They say that not only do they not die from the poison, it also seems that the poison has a reverse effect and makes them feel a lot of pleasure from the bite, almost like an orgasm. They say that their blood tastes different in general, much sweeter and tastier than any virgin's blood.
Tom Riddle was over a thousand years old and had never experienced an "omega human". He really never had the “luck” to find one of his interests, when he was choosing his prey. Of course, he had seen vampires from the same aristocratic background as him showing off their pet omega humans, humans with totally different profiles, pointing out how it was almost genetic luck to be resistant to poison and there was no phenotypic pattern to such "ability". They were always well dressed and with exposed bite marks, proving just how resistant to poison they could be.
However, quite frankly, he was never interested in trying it. As well as not having the same thrill of conquest that he enjoys so much, Riddle also didn't want to get into trouble with his peers, knowing that vampires are territorial. If it's supposedly such delicious blood, they wouldn't share it with anyone. Many of these types of humans didn't last long, because no matter how resistant they were to poison, they still needed blood circulating in their bodies to survive. As well as being territorial, vampires don't know how to hold their own.
Tom Riddle himself doesn't know how to hold back. And he didn't want to.
Wormtail was glad that his master wasn't interested in the idea of omega humans. Imagine having to share a house with yet another human, wanting his master's attention? Familiars were always in touch, and several had already told Wormtail how the omegas became almost like drug addicts, crawling around their masters' houses begging for a pleasurable bite (which usually ended in sex in any room of the house and it was up to the familiar to clean up). Freedom from this addiction was death, being sucked in or becoming a vampire. Peter couldn't bear to see a human who had arrived after him at his master's death become a vampire before him. It would be maddening.
Wormtail was tidying up his master's folders, he would be leaving home in a few minutes for his evening duty. Tom Riddle was a highly respected doctor in London. Sometimes the familiar chuckled at the irony of a vampire being a doctor. Many vampires considered the human mask that Riddle maintained to be pointless. But it was part of his performance for the hunt. No one could resist a successful, handsome and wealthy doctor. This was already the first hurdle in the challenge of winning over his emotionally unavailable victims. And Riddle loved being in contact with his patients' pain, the smell of fresh blood was wonderful. He always managed to collect at least a teacup of blood in the emergency room and it was one of the highlights of his evening.
"Wormtail, did you wash my white coat?" Of course, he didn't even say good night. But that didn't matter to Peter, just seeing Tom Riddle's chiseled face was the equivalent of a thousand compliments.
"Good evening, my Lord. Your bloody coat from the motorcycle accident is already clean, ironed and folded in your bag," Peter replied with a small smile and handed over Riddle's extremely organized black leather bag.
"You don't have to tell me why my lab coat is dirty, I know very well what happened at the hospital yesterday," said Tom, in a bored tone, taking the bag and putting it on his right shoulder. Peter tried to be discreet as he watched, charmed by his beauty, he never got tired of watching him.
It wasn't the norm for all vampires to be beautiful, but it was part of the magic of being a vampire to become a little more beautiful and attractive than you already were. Just as peacocks have feathers to attract females, vampires seem forever to have a face made for movies or television. It obviously didn't pass Riddle by, and he gave a debauched snort of laughter "You never tire of admiring me, do you, little Worm?"
"You're very handsome, Master. No wonder you always win over your victims," Peter admitted, turning away and going to the fridge to get the bottle of cold blood for his master.
"Speaking of victims, I want you to go out more to collect new profiles for me. It's been a month since I..." Tom took the bottle from Wormtail's hand and took a good swig of the blood. "I had fun with little Ginny Weasley."
"Of course, master. I'll go out today and check it out." Wormtail nodded in readiness. Tom, who was smiling at the thought of the red-haired Weasley screaming, denied Peter's words and took another sip from the bottle.
"Not today. I'd rather you clean your quarters and then organize the Council's paperwork in my office. Tomorrow you'll go out and walk around the city, especially the offices. I think I want a businessman now…Changing the airs" ordered Tom Riddle, closing his bottle and heading for the door. Riddle nodded in agreement and walked after him.
"Yes, my master, as you wish," Wormtail motioned to Tom's favorite black overcoat, which, although vampires don't feel cold, he wore out of English habit. He dressed his master and closed the overcoat, which made him look even more beautiful, if that was possible.
"I'll be back at the usual time," and with that, Riddle left the house. It was always the last thing he said before leaving, never a "good night" or "thank you Peter". But it was all right. Wormtail loved serving his master.
It was Hermione Granger's first day at work. Finally, after years of struggle, late bills, studying and hard work: she was in a large hospital and working at what she loved, emergency surgery. The starting salary was good and she could pay off her student debts. Maybe give her parents a new house. It would be nice to be able to buy all the toys for her cat Crookshanks.
She did and re-did the bun on her head out of anxiety. She arrived three hours early for her shift at the emergency room. She wanted to get to know every detail, the people, the rooms, the materials. After touring almost the entire hospital, being stopped in some places by security guards, she went over her notes from the residency, which she kept in a purple notebook in the pocket of her lab coat. She didn't want to forget anything important for a risky procedure. Nothing might even happen that night, after all, it was the emergency room, which is a place of ups and downs. But she would be prepared. She always is. At least for the things that depend on her intelligence…
Her unruly curls loosened the last messy bun she'd made. The memory of Ginny teaching her how to make more stable and beautiful buns came instantly to mind. I can't cry at work, Hermione thought as she repeated her late friend's ritual of pinning her hair on top of her head in layers.
The death of Ginny Weasley, not only her friend but also the sister of her fiancée, Ronald, was still very recent. The one-month anniversary would be that same week that Hermione was starting her dream job. Conflicting feelings of grief and victory filled her body. Hermione had never been good with emotions. She was good with numbers, medicine and books. Practical things were great for her, but understanding death? Even though she was a doctor and a fan of science, Hermione questioned death a lot. There had been sleepless nights thinking about the obvious path of everything that sets foot on the planet: death.
She was a bit morbid, yes. Perhaps that's why she was fascinated by the emergency area of medicine, where death was always lurking and could be turned around. Hermione wanted to save each and every patient who came across her operating table.
The doctor checked her bun in the mirror of the doctors' break room. A sad smile adorned her lips. She was so happy, finally in her medical clothes, finally in her life's work... But she had lost Ginny. Ginny who taught him how to do a bun, about feelings, about boys and friendship. She was a year younger than Hermione, but much wiser than anyone the doctor had ever met.
It didn't seem fair that someone like her, so beautiful, young and loving, loving her great friend Harry, should have to go so soon. One day alive and finishing college, thinking of getting married, another day found dead in a forest in Ireland. Why had her friends abandoned her in the forest? Why take a trip to the bloody forest?
Hermione shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. Reasoning like that would only lead her down a path of anger that she wouldn't know how to get out of. She even thought about taking her calming medication, Hermione had been taking it since she was young because of her minor anger and anxiety problems. She thought it best not to take any because she wanted to be completely conscious on duty. No patient deserved a doctor who was almost doped up.
She sat down in the room's mahogany chair and picked up her cell phone. The photo on the cover was of her high school graduation: she, Ron and Harry in their gowns and Ginny in a pretty green dress. Sighing, she opened her cell phone and found her latest messages with Ron:
"Today is my first shift! Wish me luck :)" 11:34
"Uh... Congrats. You're brilliant, it's going to be great." 15:58
Hermione has tried to be understanding. To be a good bride and support her partner at such a delicate time. But, damn it, she was suffering too. Couldn't they support each other? Ron has only become more and more isolated. He's always been an outgoing guy with few social connections, probably because he thinks his large family of many siblings is enough. Now that his youngest sister is gone, you can see the Weasleys shining less brightly and Ron going down a hole. Hermione wasn't a psychiatrist but a surgeon. How do you deal with that? The worst thing is not being able to talk to Harry, who is just as shaken by losing his girlfriend. He's gone to spend some time to relax his mind, with a friend of the Potter family in Scotland, a certain Sirius.
The sound of the door opening brought her out of her vortex of thoughts. Raising her head just a little, she saw two doctors enter: Blaise Zabini, the doctor who had done her interview, and another she didn't know. They were in some fervent debate about the hospital's decision to separate those who had health insurance from those who were there on government assistance. Hermione didn't want to interfere, even though she had her own opinions on the matter. She always has opinions on a lot of things, especially when it comes to politics. However, it was her first day at work and she didn't want her colleagues to see what a convinced speaker she was.
"Doctor Granger, I didn't see you sitting there," Blaise called out to her, and that made her look at the two men who shared the room with her. The doctor froze for a moment when she saw the man next to Blaise. It wasn't that Doctor Zabini himself wasn't handsome, he had such dark, glowing skin, Hermione bet he must make his patients look silly. But the man next to him. He was shocking. He was surreal. "Good evening, excited for your first day?"
Gathering strength she didn't even know she had, she looked away from the man next to Blaise and stood up. She smiled contently at the doctor she knew, and shook his hand:
"My first night, isn't it, Zabini?"
"Of course, Granger" Blaise Zabini smiled with all his teeth and returned the shake. As soon as they released hands, Zabini's body leaned to the side of the other man, the disturbingly handsome one, and he pointed his index finger at Hermione. "Doctor Riddle, meet our newest emergency surgeon, Hermione Granger."
Hermione had to turn to him, to his face. Doctor Riddle's whole ensemble was striking, but his face was intoxicating. How could anyone be so beautiful? His eyes so gray, his jaw set, his skin perfect? He looked as if he had been made in a laboratory to be the model of masculinity.
Doctor Riddle raised his right hand and Hermione's gaze went down to his hands: such fine fingers, so beautiful. Was he a pianist? He should be. Hermione prayed that the heat she was feeling from looking at that man wasn't showing. It was so embarrassing.
He smiled, an ambiguous smile, malicious or receptive, Hermione didn't know. She also noticed something in his eyes, his eyes were clear enough for her to see his pupils dilate as he said:
"My name is Tom Riddle. It's a pleasure to meet you, Hermione Granger".