Sometimes human places breed inhuman monsters.
Stephen King

Everyone has a conscience.
The threshold that no one should cross.
Your moral judgement that shows you right from wrong and good from bad.
Something, that derives from values or norms and that leads to feelings of remorse when a human commits actions that go against their morals. Social norms that chain and prevent us from reaching our full potential.

Guilt.
Shame.
Regret.
Sorrow.

The so-called "voice within" that paralyses you as soon as you go astray. It's lurking, always, right under the surface, waiting to interfere with your everyday life.

You can never escape. You can never break out.

An oppressive feeling, isn't it?

MI5 Headquarters, Conference Room B7
Friday, 5th September
11:12 a.m
19 days until the next murder

A neatly folded file slapped down on the desk in front of Hermione. She glanced at the brown folder holding a couple of papers in place, before her eyes found their way back to the whiteboard at the end of the room. There was no need to open the file.

When Dumbledore gave her the badge, inducting her as an official secret member of the Order of the Phoenix, Hermione hadn't known what would be expected of her. Now, sitting in a room with over twenty officers of different ranks, sweating in the early September sun that pushed unyieldingly through giant windows, she was certain it had not been this. The meeting had been going on for over an hour, with no new evidence coming forth to catch her interest. Everyone was becoming more and more frustrated, the frowns on their brows and tension in their shoulders a clear sign to read. Sirius and James were counting the few details and pieces of evidence that the forensics had found at the crime scene of the Lupin household days ago - pictures of the rooms, the chairs, the blood splatters. None of it added anything new to Hermione's pre-existing profile so far.

James drew a perfect black circle around the general area where the Lupins lived, as well as four other similar circles in different parts of London. Including the MI5 bombing, all the victims were found between three to ten miles apart.

"Previously, we thought Voldemort only attacked in London. The last murder negates that theory, however."

"He shifted out of his comfort zone, which means he's getting bolder," Sirius added. "Another indicator of this is the time between the bomb and Ted— ... Edward's time of death." His hand stopped hovering over the whiteboard. Knuckles white, he pushed the pen down with more force than necessary as he wrote the approximate timings of their deaths.

Nymphadora - 7:40 a.m.

Edward - 8:15 a.m.

Remus - 9:00 a.m.

"I don't think so," Draco said, before Hermione could object, fingers toying with the bottle top of his Perrier bottle. He leaned back until his long legs were stretched out in front of him, as if they had done something to offend him. "The bold part I mean."

"How so?"

"Aunt Dora and Teddy were collateral damage, nothing more. His target had always been the MI5."

Hermione couldn't help but agree with him, eyes rigid, nod short.

Draco's right. Compared to the other murders Remus died somewhat peacefully. He didn't care about his death as much as he did with the first victims. The bomb was a message. For us. It said 'You cannot stop me. You are vulnerable and you're only alive because I want it'. He only killed Edward and Nymphadora to hurt the people left behind. - Wait. Aunt Dora?

"You have no right to call her that!" Sirius spat immediately. James shot him a hard look. His hand on Sirius' shoulder tensed subtly before he steered him back into his chair.

"Believe it or not, Black, but you're not the only one who lost someone that day," Draco countered dryly. Draco didn't mourn, not exactly, but a certain kind of sadness rested amidst the hard lines of his cheekbones; his teeth were clenched too hard. Out of the corners of her eyes, Hermione could see how Sirius snarled at Draco's comment. She was not sure how much of Draco's grief was real and how much was just pretence.

Sirius shook James' hand off his shoulder, violently.

Draco was unfazed. He fell silent again and wore a carefully chosen mask of boredom. Hermione couldn't hold it against him.

The following minutes were heavy with people agreeing to disagree, facts that were chewed up and spit out a dozen times until no one could stomach them anymore. The forensics hadn't found anything useful at the Lupin household and the interrogation of the neighbours came to nothing as well. The dreadful feeling that time was running out on them sat between their tensed shoulders. Nineteen more days. A clock counting down to the next murder.

Neville, their IT-specialist, was the last one to report. But neither surveillance cameras nor their archives could bring some light to the darkness. It was like picking crumbs in a chicken barn. Lord Voldemort was a ghost. It seemed he could materialise out of thin air, leave a body behind and vanish before any authority could get their hands on him. It was utterly frustrating.

Hermione was sure that something was still hiding in the archives. But without the faint glimmer of a clue, they wouldn't get around to find what they were looking for.

"Thank you, Neville," James said, resigned, shoulders slouched. The morning light played tricks on his dark skin and his cheeks seemed to sag due to of lack of sleep.

Pessimism was slowly drowning the room and Hermione could feel their hope dropping like sand in an hourglass. When Dumbledore turned around to face her, she could feel a lot of other eyes shift to her as well. It was an unnerving feeling, like spider legs tickling her nape.

"Miss Granger, I think it's time to hear the profile," Chief Dumbledore said. There was a curious glint in his periwinkle eyes and Hermione felt strangely tense, almost as if she were being tested.

She gave a short nod, picked up her satchel and rose, her chair screeching across the linoleum. All eyes were set on her when she took James' place at the whiteboard and she felt a sudden rush of dizziness. Almost as if the ground under her feet had shifted and she was free-falling. She hesitated. She searched for a fixed point and found Draco's eyes, calm but frozen like a lake in winter. She took a breath, and looked away, back to the other officers.

"To understand Lord Voldemort we need to understand the man who wears his name. What was his environment? What made him think like this? What is his social background? Why did he choose these victims?"

She opened her satchel and pulled out a few sheets of paper and a couple of pictures that she put on top of the crime scene ones, almost completely covering all the gruesome scenes. The pictures were from the victims, all taken shortly before they had been murdered. All of them wore happy faces: a slight smile on Lavender's profile, a goofy one on Cedric's. Even Gregorovitch, who usually looked grim and grumpy, had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"All of these victims were people before they became bodies. We, as officers and agents, tend to forget that. But Voldemort didn't. There's a certain kind of fascination that Voldemort nurtures for people who tell a story."

The words snagged slightly in her throat—she was surprised by the emotion in her own voice.

Admiration. A reflection of his nature. A God playing with inferiors.

Hermione could see how some of them perked up - above all James, and even Snape. Dumbledore, however, was still as unreadable as ever. His eyes were worn, with dark bags under his glasses, and he looked more tired than the last time she had seen him hunched behind his office. The Voldemort case seemed to be taking a toll on everyone these days.

"What you're saying Miss Granger, is that Voldemort acts according to his social environment—„

"Or perhaps he just really likes to kill happy people," Sirius interrupted Snape.

"Nonsense, a sociopath doesn't care about people's feelings."

"Well, perhaps he's a sociopath who does care—"

"That's even more absurd, Black. For God's sake would you for once read the papers—"

"Voldemort is no sociopath," Hermione blurted and winced as the room immediately fell silent. The ticking of the clock on the wall sounded unusually loud in the room, almost taunting. James stopped fidgeting with the papers in his hands. Dumbledore arched a grey eyebrow, and Hermione was sure she saw the flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips.

Snape rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. Hermione's hackles rose.

"I don't know if you haven't read the files either Miss Granger, but Dr Moody already diagnosed Voldemort as sociopathic in his last profile."

"Yeah, and he paid for it. He died, didn't he?" Hermione's temper was rising, her blood raging in her veins, and she could feel the colour in her cheeks intensifying. Moody might have been a great psychologist with an almost zero error rate, who had reformed the field of profiling single-handedly—but he had been wrong about Voldemort.

"I'm still not convinced that Voldemort didn't kill him—and yes, Snape," she said, putting a stop to the objection that was already on his lips, "I know that the reports say suicide, but we all know that for Voldemort it would have been a piece of cake to make it seem like one. Oh, and just for your information, I read all the files. That doesn't mean they were accurate. Voldemort is not a sociopath. He never was."

Snape's mouth snapped shut. Everyone else in the room watched her with growing interest, even Sirius. Dumbledore gave a small half-praising nod in her direction; she felt strangely angry.

If he knew this already, why didn't he say anything? Is he aware that lives are at stake?

But it was not her place to question her superiors. Not yet.

"We have to deal with a psychopath of the worst kind," McGonagall said short and crisp, her lips pursed and eyes sharp. It was the first time Hermione had heard her speak today. She looked the same as that time in Dumbledore's office. Her shoulders stuck out under the navy blazer and made her look even more intimidating than usual.

"A high-functioning one, yes. While I agree that there are a lot of sociopathic symptoms, I firmly believe that Voldemort only wanted us to think he's a sociopath. It is all part of his game. There are simply too many clues pointing to his psychopathy to miss." She cleared her throat and turned around to the whiteboard to start writing her notes. "The essential feature of a psychopath is a pervasive, obsessive-compulsive desire to force their delusions on others. Hervey Cleckley lists sixteen different psychopathic symptoms, while Robert Hare lists four more. They overlap and clash a couple of times, but if we're going with these two, we can clearly see how many apply to Voldemort."

The pen screeched loudly over the white surface. Everyone was watching her with interest, shoulders strained; even Snape and Black had stopped bickering to listen to her. She wrote all of Cleckley's points on one side, and Hare's on the other. Then she started to cross out which ones didn't apply until the words that remained on Cleckley's list read: superficial charm, absence of anxiety, pathological egocentricity, general poverty of lasting emotions, lack of any true insight, ingratitude for any kindness, no history of suicide attempts. On Hare's list, it read: superficial charm, grandiose self-worth, proneness to boredom, pathological lying, manipulativeness, lack of remorse, shallow affect, lack of empathy, early behaviour problems, juvenile delinquency, criminal versatility.

"These are the symptoms that fit Voldemort's character. Please notice how I crossed out every symptom that even vaguely talked about antisocial behaviour or poor judgement of his environment." She turned around again and started to write some of the symptoms she crossed out before and started a new list including from Cleckley and Hare. It read: No sense of responsibility, quick mood shifts, impersonal sex life, poor behavioural controls, promiscuous sexual behaviour, many short-term relationships. "For these parameters, we don't have enough data yet. We cannot confirm that the lack of rape in both female victims was indeed coming from his lack of sexual desire, but rather intended to present the victim. Same goes for the other points."

She watched as some people took notes.

"Voldemort has no sense of morality in a human way. For him, there is no right or wrong. Only what is convenient." Hermione turned around, the black pen almost painfully gripped between her hands. "He views the world in a deeply cynical, distrustful and self-centred way. He mocks what we call common sense and seeks entertainment in his actions. For him, humanity is a resource to be milked and individual humans are to be used and discarded when no longer needed."

"Bloody psycho," murmured Neville, toying with the ribbon of his leather wristband.

"I think he prefers creative," countered Draco dismissively.

"Didn't you say that we shouldn't call him by pronouns so as to not set him off?", another officer asked while she was taking notes on an iPad. Hermione recognized her as Emmeline Vance, a special agent of the MI5 and a legend who had already worked on numerous older cases. Hermione had read about her success, above all else, in the Crouch case. She was a plain woman, without any makeup to cover her proud face. Her nose was slightly bigger and broke the symmetry—it added to her charm and elegance.

"I did. However, that was mostly for the press, because I didn't want Voldemort to know we have a lead on him."

"You think Voldemort is male?"

"Yes," Hermione answered, without hesitation. It was not only a feeling anymore; a lot of little clues indicated that the murderer was indeed male. "The decisive factor is the name he gives himself. Lord Voldemort. Not only Voldemort. But he adds the Lord, and not only to give himself some kind of authority or nobility. This might have been to set us on the wrong track, but I don't think so. He's boastful, arrogant and cocksure of himself. There's no way he would have slipped with the name. He even wants us to know his gender. And he wants us to know that he's far ahead of us, therefore he left the oil barrel in the Lupin house. He knows we have nothing on him, yet."

"But shouldn't we tell the people?" Neville asked.

"It would only give him recognition. He wants to put fear into London's heart, and we can't let that happen. Best if we don't react upon that and try to catch him without media coverage."

Neville nodded and even James agreed silently, flattening the papers on his desk. The only thing that was still unknown was his age. She couldn't quite pinpoint when he was born, there was a gap stretching from the mid-twenties up to the early fifties. Sadly, she simply needed more data.

"What symptoms were crucial for your profile?" Vance asked, but it was without venom. Curiosity peaked in her words and Hermione was glad to offer some insight on her thoughts.

"As I said, there were a lot of common symptoms that raised my suspicion from the start: outstanding intelligence, notable charm, no indications of irrational thinking, considerable self-consciousness and an absence of fear or nervosity. Following the so-called red thread of his murders, it was obvious that Voldemort manipulated his victims in a brilliant and slick manner." Hermione earned a few second glances, but those were mostly because all of this information was nothing new. Her fingers flexed around the pen. "As officers and agents, we tend to forget that sometimes these murderers are cleverer than us. Faster. More reckless. We start to think because we're on the good side, justice triumphs. But here's the deal. We are not better. We are not fast enough to catch him. And if we continue like this, we will fail." She paused to emphasise her words, and wet her lips. Only when she was sure she had their complete attention, she continued. "Voldemort is always ten steps ahead of us. He's never speechless. He's never shy or inhibited. He fakes empathy while searching for vulnerability in his victims. Pathological egocentrism. No sign of remorse or shame. Indulgence of deep emotions. Hunger for experience and a need for stimulation. Excessively searching for risks to push his limits. It was all right in front of us, but we couldn't see it."

"I don't want to interrupt, Hermione," Draco suddenly said, and sat straight in his chair until his hair was completely illuminated by the sun rays that shone through the large windows, "but how can it be that he acts with such careful planning? Aren't psychopaths known for being impulsive and lacking the patience to plan their murders to the tiniest details?"

Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Neville get up and open one of the large windows to let some fresh air into the room. The sticky scent of too many people crammed in a small space slowly cleared. Draco opened up a second bottle of Perrier water and refilled her glass too. She nodded thankfully.

"And therein lies the clue. As I said, almost every brick fits with sociopathy—but not all. I don't think he fits that category. And I think that's what made Dr Moody think he was a sociopath." Her hands were steady, but her heart was beating frantically. She inhaled like she was preparing to dive into deep waters. "Voldemort plays us. He's a highly-functioning psychopath, able to control not only his emotions but also his life. In fact, I'll even go a step further. My profile says he not only has a stable job, but is also excelling in his career. Voldemort is a manipulator who knows exactly what makes us tick, and knows how to influence and exploit our feelings. He epitomises the dark triad in perfect balance: narcissism, Machiavellianism, psychopathy."

An awkward silence fell over the room again. Dumbledore was the one to address Hermione first. His voice was careful as if it would be the bane of their existence.

"What do we have to look for Miss Granger?"

Her eyes started to burn as excitement curled through her veins.

This is it. My first real profile.

"Look into doctors. Any people in white-collar jobs that studied any subject in the medical field during the last forty years. Also look into double majors. Into medicine minors. Look into their sons and nephews. Their sons-in-law. Look out for prodigies in any of the aforementioned fields. There's a big chance his intelligence has been noticed and perhaps even advertised by his parents."

Everyone in the room started taking notes simultaneously, even Draco. Dumbledore stared at her knowingly. He had a kind of way of looking at her. So deeply like he could see right into her soul. Worry knotted inside of her and she couldn't quite pinpoint why. She could vaguely remember a flicker of something, like a lit matchstick, fluttering before it vanished, as if it had never been there. When she caught herself profiling the man, she stopped and turned her face away.

"What else can you tell us?"

"As I said: Male. Probably white. Fit, lean built. Charming. Remember, when you go out there you're not looking for Voldemort. You're looking for a man who wears a perfectly crafted mask. People will love this guy. Men will fall over their feet to be his friend. Popular with the ladies. Single. There's no special someone in his life. Many acquaintances. He has little to no real friends. Perhaps one or two, but I doubt that they would know anything about his second life—even if he lets them in, they'll only see what he wants to show them. Or what he wants them to know. He lives big and spends his money mostly on things that will show his wealth. Clothes, a luxury car, Italian leather shoes, expensive restaurants. Either an owner-occupied flat or his own house already. He lives here in London. London is his patch, London is his playground. If any of these features fit someone, please report back to Neville, so we can check on him. Never go after him on your own. You will come in the range of this man's interests, and believe me, that is a risk. No one can guarantee your life after that."

"So anyone can still be in danger," James said matter-of-factly, and Hermione could only agree silently.

"He chooses his victims randomly, according to how much they appeal to him—as soon as you cross his path you're in his story too."

"What about his age?"

Hermione bit her lip and drooped, feeling ashamed. Something she didn't know.

"I can't pinpoint the age yet. There are too many variables. Anything from the mid-twenties up to the early sixties." Surprisingly no one attacked her for it. Everyone was too glad to finally have a starting point to nitpick at her profile.

"Okay," James said when it was clear that Hermione wouldn't add any more details. He put his pen down. "We should talk about how much we will tell the population—„

"We cannot give any of this information out. Voldemort stages everything—from Gregorovitch's head to the way we found Edward on the chair in the Lupin household. Voldemort is too intelligent, too deceitful and cunning—either it will uplift him or it'll encourage imitators who are just waiting for a chance to let their own beast out."

People are monsters if you let them. Better not to urge them on.

"Miss Granger is right," Dumbledore said and looked over to McGonagall, who was already typing feverishly on her iPad. "We will publish an official statement that we still can't give any information out. It will give us time to hopefully catch Voldemort during the next twenty days."

James grimaced, but gave in. He slouched back in his chair and looked dissatisfied, and, beyond that, terrified. Hermione could practically feel his terror, a fiercer version of the radar-like ripples caused by stress. She understood him all too well. She wasn't keen on leaving people in the dark either. But a national panic would only help Voldemort.

"This new information will hopefully be what we'll need to find and catch Voldemort. I think we should all go back to work now. Minerva will send you a note as to when we will meet again." Dumbledore rose from his chair and everyone else followed, even Draco. The room was suddenly bright and bursting with energy. Everyone was in a good mood leaving the room and Hermione could almost feel her bones pulsating with their vigour. She grabbed her papers and was stuffing them back into her satchel when Sirius interrupted her and asked why she hadn't been at the funeral days ago.

"I… I'm sorry, I was doing some research for the case—" Hermione was caught off-guard. Dread made itself at home between her bones. Her chest tightened. Breathing got harder.

He stared right at her for a long moment before finally saying, "Everyone was there. Even Snape."

And Hermione, who was so good at picking things apart, at understanding how they worked—how people worked—looked at the man and felt... conflicted. Because she didn't have to pick Sirius apart to see what was so obviously raging inside of him. Grief, as Hermione knew, was something quite violent. It had done something to Sirius that twisted his once handsome face into a cruel mask.

When no enemy is around you start to lash out at your allies.

She wasn't surprised that he asked her now, of all things. Agony needed days to nestle in your heart. When they had met in James' office some days ago Sirius had yet to realize that Remus was, indeed, gone. Now, nearly twenty days without the man at his side, despair had finally taken over.

Someone suddenly brushed by her side and it took her a moment to realise it was Draco.

"She went and consulted an expert, Dr Riddle. He's a known specialist in many medical fields and brought certain details into consideration that helped to make the profile of today. The one that should help find Remus' killer—isn't that worth enough?" He was standing at her side, one foot slightly in front of her, almost as if he wanted to shield her. It was the most she had heard him speak today, even if every word dripped scorn.

"Of course it is. Good job Hermione," James said soothingly, and put a hand on Sirius' shoulder, to guide him out of the room. Dumbledore stood nearby and his face was unreadable once more. He left the room with a last glance at their direction, face solemn and stoic. Sirius didn't look back. His head was hanging and James was murmuring to him. Hermione watched them go, Sirius' man-bun bobbing as he followed James out.

Draco considered her for a moment too long and smirked enough for dimples to appear at the corners of his mouth.

"Lucky I was around."

"So you think I wouldn't have been able to handle that myself?"

He looked at her strangely, almost curiously, a glint of something in his gaze. For a moment, Draco didn't seem ruthless or uncaring at all. She could see the carefully layered mask that years as a Malfoy heir had created, glinting in the grey of his eyes. Then he blinked and it was gone.

"I think," he said, sounding honest, "You can handle anything, with that thick head of yours."

And then he smiled and laughed lightly, the sound low and deep and colourful enough that it almost hurt between Hermione's breaths. The smile was like a symphony that carried through the harsh wind—a beautiful sound that fought against the howling and whistling with its simplistic perfection.

Her heart stuttered. Muscle memory.

"Come on, Granger," Draco said, and started walking. "I need a big cup of coffee now and I think you can do with one too. My treat."

He turned and left the room without waiting for her to follow. She stared at his retreating back wondering since when she had been holding her breath without noticing.

Florean Fortescue's
Friday, 5th September
02:34 p.m.
19 days until the next murder

Surprisingly, when they arrived at Florean Fortescue's, the shop was almost empty. Afternoons were usually a busy time with lots of chatter and people gathering en masse to order ice frappés or their famous Florean's Three-Scoops-Surprise. Not this afternoon, however.

There were two men standing with their backs to the entrance, wearing expensive suits, while waiting for the barista to wrap up their order. A little boy was eating a double chocolate parfait with white crisps, while his grandma sipped a cappuccino on ice. A handful of boys and girls—obviously students—wearing big headphones were spreading their laptops and some grey-coloured study books over the tables, using the free Wi-Fi to work on their essays, which were most likely due at the start of the new term.

Draco was in the middle of a story about Blaise and Pansy and how he had to bail them both out of a French jail - after she had slapped an officer for staring at her breasts too long - when it happened. Hermione had got distracted for a moment watching at Draco's face, which had looked easy-going and open a minute before, but reminded her of a perfect Greek statue now. Closed off. Cold and unmoving.

Like marble.

He faltered and stepped back, putting more space between them. Hermione's gaze focused.

"Draco?"

Hermione turned to the direction of the voice, the bun of wild hair feeling awfully like an untameable mess on her head. She froze to the ground. The two men standing in the queue a minute before were slowly coming their way, each holding a large cup of Florean's best coffee in their hands.

"I thought you said you had a super important conference to be at. Looks super important to me, huh?" One of them said, raising his cup at Hermione's direction. The man was as blond as Draco, with an undercut hairstyle that was slicked back with a lot of styling gel. Tall. Handsome. Energetic. Athletic. There was something cute and sweet and harmless about him. The resemblance to Draco was striking; the same sharp bone-structure, same straight nose, same grey eyes—they even had the same shade, between grey and green. The only difference was the clothes. While Draco swore on Henleys and his leather jacket, this man was clearly born to wear a Westwood suit. There were few men who could wear a suit without the suit wearing them, and this one was definitely one of them.

But it wasn't for him that Hermione's steps faltered and her breath caught behind her row of perfect teeth. The second man was approaching her with a lightness of step, lips curled up into an amused grin—Tom. There was pleased interest behind his grey eyes and Hermione felt suddenly drawn back into the centre of his gravitation. Her lips tingled with anticipation. Her mind flashed vividly with the pictures of their kiss. When he leaned forward to press a dry kiss on her cheeks she stood perfectly still. Her skin flared up an instant later.

"Hermione," Tom said and his velvety voice sent shivers down her spine. That bone-deep kind of shiver that had less to do with cold and more to do with desire. The space between them had dwindled into nothing. His gaze was intense. It was an electrifying feeling, as if every fibre of her body had been waiting for him to breathe life into her.

"Tom," she smiled and tried to hold onto the warmth that his name left inside her mouth. Her voice was more certain now than it had been days before. Less she wished and more she wanted. She felt the sudden urge to adjust the mess of hair on her head.

Draco on her left side clenched his fists until the veins stood out in blue. He was silent as a grave and glared daggers in Riddle's direction.

"Care to introduce us, Tom?" The man accompanying Tom seemed, obviously, to not be expecting any answer from Draco soon, so he turned to Tom with raised eyebrows and a curious glint behind his eyes.

"Forgive my manners. Abraxas. This is Special Agent Hermione Granger. Hermione, this is Abraxas Malfoy. A good friend."

A Malfoy. Of course.

Hermione took Abraxas' outstretched hand slowly. The skin looked pristine and soft, the kind you only had from a life predestined in wealth, without having to endure hard labour.

"My pleasure Miss Granger," Abraxas said and flashed her a smile to shame the sun. It was honest and pure and, most importantly, open to any kind of vulnerability—which was even more rare to find in a Malfoy. There was something else lingering at the corners, almost something mischievous and knowing. "Tom speaks of you in the highest of praises. I must admit I've never seen him quite so fond of a girl before." A spark lightened his eyes; he seemed to recognize her. From where or when Hermione didn't quite remember. He winked at her, "It's a shame Draco never introduced us before. He speaks of you as highly as Tom does."

Slowly, flashes of long forgotten memories returned to her. She remembered Abraxas, vaguely, waiting in a black Mercedes Cabriolet in the parking lot of Oxford to pick Draco up for the weekend. Back then she had thought Draco a snob. He still was, but there's always more than meets the eye.

Abraxas' phone started chiming with the discreet default music, but he put the call on hold.

"We're actually running late, but I'd love to continue this conversation another time."

Hermione could see that he was dwelling on something before he made up his mind. His eyes lit up and did a strange thing to his face; it became younger, more playful. Comparing it to Draco's, it was a miracle how brothers could look so much alike and at the same time so different from each other.

"I'd love to invite you to my exhibition this Sunday. It's nothing big, just a couple of new age artists I'm presenting in one of our cottages outside of London. There will be friends of the family and art lovers."

"I… feel honoured, thank you." Hermione had never been invited to one of these parties before. It would be a good place to do some research on their social circle. Do some nosing and digging around. Perhaps, Voldemort would be around, too.

If my profile's right, this will be exactly the kind of company he searches for.

"We could go together," Tom suggested casually, but his tone implied something else. It was more than just a casual question. There was a hint of desire lingering at the edges. A peculiar tingling sensation crawled over her body. They hadn't had the time to talk about their last date. Work had interfered with both of their lives, and so they had been too busy, except for superficial texts and the common how are you - fine, you? - me too. Tom was still smiling at her; his rich, dark hair caught the too bright sun, bringing out different shades of brown. He was like a magnet and Hermione could feel herself drifting towards him.

She felt dazed and distant.

"I'd like that," she said, a blush creeping up her skin. The blood under her cheeks felt searing hot. Somewhere in the room, someone's chair scraped back an inch, but no one stood up.

Hermione's attention was dragged back to the brothers that looked so alike and were anything but.

"It's a date then," Abraxas glanced down at his watch and tapped Tom's shoulder shortly before his eyes found Draco's again, "I'll see you tomorrow at dinner?"

"Yeah, see you tomorrow."

Curiously, she watched how Draco pulled himself apart and put himself back together, then forced his lips into the smoothest, coldest smile he could manage. It looked fake. Almost painful. He tipped his chin up as soon as he saw his brother make his way around them, already talking on the phone.

Something about medical attention. Abraxas was twisting his voice in a deep, commanding baritone, but his face, even in the blur that was his expression, was composed and cold. Riddle gave her an apologetic smile and leaned forward to brush his lips against her cheek once more. His breath was warm and inviting as he whispered his goodbyes. It smelled of fresh mint. She shivered.

There was something defiant in Draco's eyes and dangerous in the lines of his jaw.

Hermione risked a glance over her shoulder to look at Abraxas' reaction—but he was already gone.

Draco's forced smile, however, stayed for the rest of the day.

Imagine a life without a conscience.

No guilt.
No shame.
No remorse.
No limiting emotions, for whatever immoral action you have taken.
A world without a second wasted on thinking about the wellbeing of family members. Or friends. Or strangers.
No ballast. No internal restraints, whatever you do.

A life without constraint.

You're not held back from any of your desires. Pure creativity flows through your veins and shows you a twisted tale of ambition and imagination. People think conscience is universal amongst human beings—let them accept their burden without question.

Fools.

Hide the fact that you are conscience-free with charm and good humour. No one will ever confront you for your ruthlessness. The cold blood in your veins is so bizarre, so completely unlike their personal experience, that they will never suspect you to be different.

To be better.

You can do anything you want.
No chains.
Complete and utter freedom.

Welcome to my life.