Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling.
A/N: Written for Tomione Secret Santa 2018, hosted by Tomione Fanfics group. Thank you to Wild Kitsune for moderating!
This is an exchange gift fic for PenelopeGrace. Thanks for the lovely prompt--I hope you like what I wrote for it!
Trigger Warning: Muggle AU. Hermione and Tom are physicians, so there is death here, but no major character death. Also, a teensy bit of lemons.
Death is not violent.
The cause of death can be dramatic. Guttural screams and sickening crunch of metal in a car collision. Or the heady, smoky scent and high-pitched ringing in the ears from a gunshot. All a cacophony, a shock to the senses.
In contrast, death is...subtle. The heart stops pumping blood, quits bringing oxygen to vital organs. Within minutes, the cells begin to self-destruct, and the body ceases to produce heat. There's no fanfare to death.
Just silence. Stillness where there was life.
Years of training should have made her immune; should have built a callused shell over her soul. From her first cadaver, she was taught to look at the body—not the person.
Most of the time, she can fake it. Act cool, detached as she is grilled by her attendings. Spout knowledge in front of the other residents. Calmly deal with frightened patients and their demanding family.
As Hermione steps away from the motionless body on the hospital bed, her soul fractures.
Another death; a young teenager with a timid smile and kind, exhausted eyes. She had been sitting up little more than an hour ago laughing quietly at something her mother said. And now she's gone, and all that's left of the girl is a rapidly cooling body and the weight of her death on Hermione's soul.
"Time of death, two-forty-three," states Dr. Gorman, her superior. Beyond the privacy curtains, Mrs. Charles chokes on wet sobs. Dr. Gorman nudges his chin toward the sound and gives Hermione a pointed look.
Hermione opens the curtains and murmurs a few sentiments to the grieving mother...tried their best...couldn't rescuscitate...too ill. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Charles."
She and Dr. Gorman leave her in the room to say goodbye to her only child. Hermione receives a few clipped instructions before her attending marches away. She needs to get the patient's chart, needs to document every millileter of epinephrine given, every zap of the electric paddles, every minute of cardiac compression. But she passes the nurses' station and barrels into the heavy door marked "Employees Only." Runs between the stacks of lockers into the bathroom; falls to her knees in front of porcelain that reeks of bleach.
It's been nearly twelve hours since she had anything to eat, so when her body tries to purge its stomach, it comes out as a dry heave. For minutes, she's bent over, knuckles blanched as she grips the edges of the toilet seat. Then she gets up, shuddering from head to toe, and stumbles to the sink.
She rubs her hands under scalding water—not to rid herself of germs but to wash away that feeling of the girl's frail, lifeless chest. Ribs stiff at first, hard to compress; and then later too pliant after her failed attempt to bring it back to life. When Hermione's hands feel raw, she splashes water over her face, her pale cheeks flushing on contact with the hot water.
Deep, slow breaths.
She dries herself, tucks in the loose curls that escaped her low bun.
Another patient gone, but many more in need of her attention. They must be attended; she'll deal with the newest fissure in her soul later. She consoles herself with this thought as she walks calmly back to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.
It is afternoon by the time he bothers her—a record for him.
He lounges on the black rolling chair next to her, ignoring the busy nurses around the station as he releases a drawn-out sigh. "You're off your game today, Granger." Hermione glances up from her charting to find a smug grin on his face. "Not knowing the course of treatment for tuberculosis? Did they not cover that at your sham of a school?"
Hermione tuts. "Hogwarts might not be one of the top medical schools in the UK," she says, "not like your posh alma mater. But we both ended up in the same residency program, so my level of education must be just as good." She leans back in her seat, glaring at him squarely. "Perhaps even better. After all, my last name isn't plastered all over the bloody hospital." She taps the end of her pen on the badge hanging from her neck, emblazoned with the words "Riddle Medical Center."
Tom Riddle's expression shutters. He plants his elbows on the armrests and steeples his fingers in front of him. "I earned my place here, just like you."
"I'm sure Mummy had nothing to do with it."
"My mother just sits on the Board." His tone is casual, as though he is speaking of something mundane like the weather. "It's more or less a hobby for her. Something to occupy her time so she doesn't dwell on the fact that my bastard father ran off to America with his secretary." The corners of his lips pull up, but the smile doesn't reach his cold, dark eyes. "She didn't even know that I applied here until my first day of work."
"Right," Hermione says flatly. She turns back to her thick stack of papers, silently dismissing him.
Tom lets a minute pass before he speaks again. "Granger."
"Go away, Tom. I've been on for nearly,"—her gaze flicks up to the wall clock—"thirty-six hours. My patience ran out on hour three ."
The nib of her pen scratches along. Her handwriting, much neater than the average doctor's, is now a series of jagged lines that swim in her vision. She hopes that it's at least legible, though she's too exhausted to care.
Tom remains at her side, not speaking. She swivels her chair, turning her back to him in a pointed effort to ignore him.
"I heard about what happened with the Charles girl," he says quietly.
The pen stills in her hand.
"I thought she was on the mend. She'd been responding to her antibiotics—her bloodwork the day before was nearing normal—"
Hermione slams her pen on the countertop and whips around. "It's none of your fucking business." She jumps to her feet, clutching the bulky chart in her arms. "She wasn't your patient, Doctor Riddle. Have some respect for patient privacy."
She stalks away, the look on his face making her blood boil. Tom Riddle is an insufferable prick, and she's often the target of his sneers—that combination of smug superiority and utter contempt. It usually gets under her skin. As she walks away, though, she realizes it's not the worst thing he could do.
His haughty scowl was a far cry better than the look he had given her as she turned around.
He had gazed at her with pity.
Hermione trudges up the fourth floor landing. The muscles of her thighs, already exhausted from nearly two days with little rest, burns and complains. An insistent rapping of fist against wood echoes. She heads towards her flat, the sound getting louder with each step.
She rounds the corner and halts. The paper bag of groceries fumbles in her grasp as she sees the figure standing at her door. Dark hair, artfully tousled. Black leather jacket framing wide shoulders. Grim determination settled on a strong brow. His large fist still tapping on her front door.
"Tom?" She takes a hesitant step towards him.
He jumps, whipping to the side and greeting her with a startled expression. "Fuck!" His wide eyes take in the grocery bag in her grasp, and he blinks his shock away. "Ah. I...thought you were inside your flat."
"Obviously." Having recovered from her initial surprise, she breezes past him and makes quick work of the locks. She steps inside her flat, leaving the door open behind her—yet refraining from explicitly inviting him in.
Hermione bustles around her kitchen for a full minute before she hears him enter the living room. While she puts away vegetables, milk, and a loaf of bread, she keeps an ear out for his slow, even footsteps. They pause for short intervals before moving again, making the floorboard creak. Checking out her simple decor, perhaps, or looking at the sparse photo frames on her mantle.
By the time she walks into the living room, she finds him holding up a small, silver frame. Hermione clears her throat, and he glances at her, lifting the frame in her direction.
"Your parents?"
She sucks in her bottom lip and nods once.
He gazes around the small flat, eyebrows pursed. "Where are they? They're not spending the evening with you?"
"Why would they?"
Tom tilts his head, regarding her with curiosity. Then, his face breaks out into a slow, indulgent smile. "Because it's Christmas , Granger."
Her mouth opens to protest, but it quickly snaps shut. December 25th. She'd been writing it mindlessly on her notes all day at the hospital. It never occurred to her, between the heavy workload, the busy emergency department, and…her heart squeezes tighter for Mrs. Charles.
"Oh," she says numbly.
"' Oh.' Well, then me being here just got more awkward." He replaces the frame and peers into the others, his eyes dismissing the images quickly.
Hermione folds her arms over her chest. "Why are you here?"
He lifts his broad shoulders and drops them theatrically. "To wish you a Merry Christmas."
A disbelieving huff escapes from her lips. "We're not the kind of friends to drop in unannounced just for a season's greetings. We're not any kind of friends at all, last time I checked."
Finally, he faces her. He places a hand over his heart and mocks a wounded look. "Ouch, Granger. And here I thought our two years together made us chums."
Hermione sighs, shaking her head. "Two years trying to outdo and outmaneuver each other does not make us chums." She waves a hand towards the door. "If you want company for Christmas, why don't you go back to the hospital and torture the interns?"
"They give up far too easily." Tom clicks his tongue. "Not worth the effort. I like my company to be a bit more,"—his dark gaze pins her in place—"engaging."
Her heart responds with a quickening pace; but, as she stands in her living room after a long shift, clad in blue jeans and a ratty Hogwarts sweatshirt, she is overcome with exhaustion.
"I don't have the energy for you tonight, Tom," she says wearily. "Really. If you just want a distraction for the night, you won't find it here." She plods to the couch and slumps down.
Tom glances between her and the front door. With a growing frown, he stalks to the couch and sits next to her. "You really didn't know that it's Christmas?" He leans back, stretching his legs out in front him and crossing one ankle over the other. "Or you just didn't care?"
"Both," she answers after a pause.
Tom scoffs. "I didn't peg you as a heathen," he teases.
She glances at him sidelong. "Not everyone celebrates Christmas. To some people, the twenty-fifth is no more special than any other day of the year."
He faces her fully. "So you don't do Christmas. Do you celebrate any other holiday? New Year's? Valentine's?"
Hermione shakes her head at each suggestion.
"What about your birthday? Surely , you celebrate your birthday?"
"Not since I was sixteen," she notes, longing seeping into her tone.
Tom blinks; swipes his gaze around her cozy flat once again. His eyes settle on the details that bare her situation—the few photos scattered throughout the room. Of her parents; of the three of them as a family, the most recent of the photos depicting her as a young teenager. There are no photos in which her parents sport grey hair; no photos with them at her graduation from Hogwarts.
When his gaze returns to her, his dark eyes are filled with knowledge, understanding, and—
"Stop." Hermione jumps to her feet, putting space between them. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" He follows her slowly, his hands open, placating.
"Stop... looking at me like that," she growls.
Tom stops several feet away from her. He peers at her from under his thick lashes. "Like how?"
"Like you're bloody pitying me!" She wraps her hands on each opposite elbow. "I don't need your pity, Tom Riddle."
He stares at her, jaws slack and eyes as round as she'd ever seen them. "Granger. Hermione," he starts. "I don't fucking pity you." He takes a deliberate step towards her and halts. When she doesn't back away, he takes slow steps until she's within reach. "There's nothing about you that fosters pity. Nothing."
"You did it to me at the hospital, when we were talking about...and you just did it now—about my parents—"
Violently, Tom shakes his head. "It's not pity. It's,"—he looks over her shoulder, peering into an unseen distance as if searching for the right words to say—"simpatico. Congruence."
She must have telegraphed her confusion; he takes advantage of her pause and closes the distance between them.
"In the time I've known you, Hermione, you've been this stone-cold doctor, always on top of her cases, never faltering on an answer. It's,"—a corner of his lips pulls up—"alluring in its own way. A strong, intelligent, capable woman has a certain magnetic pull." He raises his hand to the side of her face; skims the tips of his fingers on her cheekbone so lightly that she questions whether she truly feels his touch. "But, today, I saw something else in you. I saw...cracks in your armor."
Her face hardens even as her cheeks burn. To be so utterly exposed, so easily read like a simple book—the fissures in her soul, each one made by the losses she's borne through life—and to be found out by Tom Riddle, of all people! She turns away, mortified, but he snatches her wrist and holds her in place.
"You don't have to do that," he says as he stares at his fingers wrapped around her wrist. "Hermione, I'm not here to belittle you or lord it over you. I'm here to say I know. And I understand." His gaze travels slowly up her arm, her neck, and finally meets her eyes. The intensity in them makes breath catch in her throat. "And I'm here to see if the cracks in your armor match mine."
She gasps. Tom Riddle—detached, cold, and perpetually self-serving—has a broken soul like hers.
"Impossible," she whispers.
A wry chuckle fills her living room. "No. Not impossible. We're two people with no one else in the world—no one to trust—who chose punishing careers in a futile effort to keep others from feeling as broken as we do." He waves his free hand between them. "You and I—just two sides of the same coin."
Each word lands on her ear, and she hears the truth in all of it. Childhood friends had come and gone, losing touch when she first withdrew into herself after her parents' deaths and continued on as university and medical school took over her life. Her colleagues at the hospital treated her with respect, but Tom Riddle—he had been there every day at her side, meeting her as an equal, challenging her to become better.
Tom Riddle, with his father's wealth and his mother's connections, also lives as friendless and loveless as she.
She lifts a hand; carefully, she presses her palm along his sharp jaw. The muscles under her fingertips tense and release. He parts his lips—perhaps to say something else, to provide more evidence of their compatibility—but she doesn't give him a chance. She raises herself on the balls of her feet and claims his lips.
He kisses her back. Takes control quickly, digging his fingers on her hips and grinding her entire body against his. With little effort, he lifts her up, and her legs latch around him.
With the higher vantage, Hermione deepens the kiss. Her eager fingers slide over his shoulders, tracing the cool, smooth leather jacket before shoving it down. It lands on the floor with a dull thud, but she is already working on his slim, dark tie, and then that, too, joins the jacket on the bare floor.
She's already halfway done with the buttons of his shirt when she realizes he has walked them to the couch. He all but tosses her on the wide cushion, ripping the rest of his buttons in a hurry to tear off his shirt.
Hermione, too, divests her sweatshirt and top; slides out of her jeans. She's left in plain cotton underwear and bra. Glances up to find him watching.
She licks her lips from excitement and nervousness. "Well?" she asks, managing to keep the trembling from her voice.
His gaze darkens as it rakes up and down her body. "Show me," he rasps. "Show me everything."
Hermione blinks up at him; bites the insides of her cheeks. But she plants her knees on the couch and straightens up, her eyes at the level of his collarbones. Slowly, she reaches behind her and undoes the clasp of her bra. Meeting his gaze, she pauses for only a moment longer before the straps slide down her arms.
His eyes doesn't leave hers.
Not yet.
So she hooks her thumbs at the sides of her panties and peels them slowly down her thighs. Shifts from one leg to another to free herself of it completely.
Yet, his gaze remains fixed on her face. A moment passes, and insecure thoughts nag at the back of her mind.
Tom shakes his head. "Show me." His words are half-growled. "Show me all of you."
Understanding dawning on her, Hermione lays down on the couch; places an arm over her head, her hand buried in her curls. Parts her legs, her wet folds exposed to the night-kissed air.
As she displays herself for him, his gaze finally rips from her face and languorously follows the curves and lines of her body. His hands clutch at his belt, the muscles of his arms and shoulders tensing with each movement.
He does nothing but devour her with his eyes. Her skin sings with anticipation.
Finally, he moves as if to join her on the couch, but she holds out her hand. He freezes.
"Show me," she echoes. "Show me all of you."
A grin grows on his face, and he removes his belt. Unbuttons and unzips his pants and removes it and his boxers at the same time. His broad member springs out from the cloth. He holds his arms out to his sides. Slowly, he turns in place, giving her a view of the lines of muscle over his abdomen; the muscles bunching at his back; the high curve of his arse. He turns back around, a smug grin on his face.
"Do I pass inspection?" he asks roughly.
"You'll do," she replies, grabbing his arm and pulling him on top of her.
When she comes down from her high, she is aware of fingers tracing the silvery skin on her chest. A scar that formed a line under her left breast.
A permanent reminder of the night a drunk driver named Dolohov crashed into their car, injuring her and killing her parents. It was the night her soul cracked for the first time; it was fitting that her body held a physical remnant of it, too.
As Tom strokes the scar with the tips of his fingers, hers finds one on his body. A linear scar that begins from the tip of his shoulder blade to the middle of his back. She has no idea what had caused it.
Not yet.
She strokes the puckered skin, and Tom sighs in her ear.
"See?" he says, running his finger along her scar. "You and I. We match."
A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated.
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