This is a drabble-but-not-a-drabble-ficlet I've had for a few months on my computer - so, no, this isn't the official story I'm going to write between Hermione and Hannibal. I'm going to consider this a drabble since it's barely a 100 words over a thousand, so it's close enough. I hope?
Not really a romantic fanfic; in fact if I continued it, it'd probably be a completely one-sided relationship...
Also sorta Bitter!Hermione, which is best Hermione. ;v;/
Hermione Granger is in love with a muggle.
A rather unfeeling muggle, at that; a muggle with a taste for the beautiful things in life; he's meticulous in his appearance and surroundings, and Hermione appreciates that in a person. She appreciates that in him a lot.
He speaks in precise refined tongues, dressed in only the finest fabrics, as the world crumbles as his feet and she knows – Hermione didn't survive a war by being a blind fool – that he does not care for the world or its destruction at his hand. He is forever an impartial observer. He is in possession of impeccable wit, which is truly a breath of fresh air, an astonishing intellect; it leaves Hermione gaping and forcing away the blush that rises to her cheeks; the exposed skin of his wrist and neck scream at her to try and touch, she forces herself to remain professional as possible every visit. As professional as one can be when their doctor can cause their flesh to slowly melt away under the sensual weight and touch of his stare alone.
And Hermione hates him for it.
She, also, hates the utter expressionless look on his face. She hates it so much.
Hermione wants to steal his blankness and see fury and biterbitterbitterness written upon the aging lines of his face; she wants to break – no, fucking shatter; she shouldn't be the only one so broken – his composure and his cheeky-not-fucking-caring.
Hermione is jealous of the thin layer of professionalism he can so easily hide behind; she is not used to not-caring, not like he is. The wrath and animosity, much like her wild mess of curls, are a part of her and none of her fits together right away. She is used to always caring too much, incapable of simply letting go of the frustration and adoration.
She loves and hates too hard to simply move on.
Why can no one see that?
She is twenty-four years old and much too bitter for her milky complexion and coffee curls to hide; yet, no one notices. Hermione is harsh in her viciousness, trying for kind and almost getting there before coming up short - sharpness out of nowhere with forced evenness and great frustration. She is neither gentle nor caring, except in the most terrible of ways.
But it is not her fault; she wishes she was sweet like candy, like cough syrup, but it's hard. She still loves her friends; she still plays and raises Teddy like her own; she still fights for the rights of the "lesser beings" of society.
Yet, she emerged from the battlefield not with peace, but with rage, unbridled tension and passion hiding deep beneath her skin; such power that would shake the world to its very core if she had the energy or the desire to act upon it.
The anger flows in her blood; she has lived through every ribcage-hollowing loss and newfangled desperation that was never actually new at all – Hermione is lost, suffocating in nothing and breathing bitterness for everything life never was.
Hermione hates him for making her feel like this.
Hates him for making her feel jealous and love sick; hates him for chaining her to him without even trying. She hates him for being so desirable and so not at the same time.
She hates that he so easily drags up these buried emotions with every visit; yet, she keeps coming back for another fix.
Yes, Hermione Jean Granger hates her doctor very, very much.
She pauses and smiles, like something stabbing through water – pointless frustration, she needs help, she knows – and lets the door finally close behind her as she slides to her chair across from the aged therapist.
There is no such thing as a magical shrink. It's a pity, really; due to the magical world's idiocy, she now has to come up with new creative, believable ways to twist the truth in the least drastic ways possible at a moment's notice.
She's not that good of a liar.
Regardless, she is not surprised by the lack of foresight on the Ministry's behalf, typical Wizarding behavior; the thought is depressing, but is true through and through.
When he at last looks up, Hermione smiles again, too sweet this time and with the strangeness glinting in her eyes that makes people uneasy. Dr. Lecter is the exception.
Tilting her head the left, Hermione allows the cloyingly sweet smile slip from her painted lips; she never liked red lipstick, it always reminded her of blood that accidentally made it onto her cheeks as her wiped away traitorous tears. She did like, however, to leave bright lip prints on things, it was fun and made her feel younger, well, made her feel her age.
She actually liked pink lip gloss more, but as Ron had pointed out: made her look like a girl. Hermione hadn't been a girl in a long time – funny, for Ron she had been a girl for even less time; she became a woman much earlier than she should have.
Instead she stares at him with a straight face until he nods in her in acknowledgement finally.
"Ms. Granger," he says.
Hermione recognizes the glint in the back of his eyes; she's seen it before. It causes her pause and her logical, pure mind screams: What are you doing? This is an extremely bad idea – like Harry-level bad.
If she had to call Dr. Lecter anything, it'd be Lucifer or perhaps a God: she's not quite sure which is which anymore.
He has the holy fire burning in the marrow of her bones and ambrosia boiling in his bloodstream, she can tell; there is a violent grace in him, in the movements of limbs, in his soul; his face is gaunt, hollowed out and filled with light of her own making. The divine is not nice; it is not humane; it will eat a mortal from the inside out. He is both flesh and not-flesh; light and dark; half mad and half the sanest person she has ever met. He can never be anything less than awful; than terrible; than cruel; not because he is malicious, per say, but simply because no human can hold all that power and exert it upon the world and not leave scars as deep as an abyss upon said world.
So of course he is violent; of course he is a monster, but he is all the more beautiful for it.
Perhaps, she muses, I have simply lost my mind; about time too.
Disregarding her musings, Hermione allows a genuine smile to slip onto her lips, "Hello, Dr. Lecter."